James Gallagher’s Songs About Fucking: Profane Meets Profound in Marc Rebillet Music Doc

This documentary is aptly named.

Songs About Fucking—the ballad of bathrobe-clad musician/performance artist Marc Rebillet, directed by James Gallagher—premiered to cheering crowds at Tribeca 2023 ... crowds so enthused that they returned for multiple screenings, trading favorite moments before seeing the film again.  Won over by side-splitting laughs and unexpected vulnerability, this dedicated fanbase is a testament to a pair of artists and their impeccable collaboration.  While best not to overanalyze, Songs transcends its ostensible purpose and becomes something deeper—laced with rich streaks of genuine fun. 

Now watch me overanalyze it. 

Gallagher’s uproarious and surprisingly moving documentary follows songwriter-turned-showman Marc Rebillet on his cross-country “Third Dose Tour.”  Rebillet—a gifted musician with a knack for goofy antics who often performs in his underwear—developed a substantial following on social media that swelled to new highs during Covid.  Currently, he has amassed 2.2 Million subscribers on YouTube, 2.2 Million followers on Instagram and 1.4 Million followers on TikTok.

Rebillet’s burst into fame at the height of the pandemic was no accident:  like a fine wine, his art pairs well with existential dread.  For those not familiar with his improvisational jams, Rebillet (aka “Loop Daddy”) records catchy, silly, and sometimes insightful melodies right on the spot.  Listening to his nimble keyboard, snappy beats and spontaneous vocals—indeed, often about fucking—one can see why he struck a chord with quarantined folks yearning for contact.  The world is so often heavy; Rebillet’s touch is light.   

Plus, his music genuinely slaps.  Even pre-pandemic, Billboard recognized him as a 2019 Emerging Artist, citing his “sexy hooks,” “sensual R&B burners,” “hip-hop-tinged funk creations” and “hysterical edge.”  The Dublin Gazette called Rebillet "a man who’s thoughtful far beyond his output.  A considered artist, having fun."  YouTube commenter “Rich1889” called Rebillet’s work “Sesame Street for Adults.”  Rebillet speaks to our basic desire to connect.  His puckish behavior has a disarming effect:  breaking audience barriers so he can hit them with heavier topics.  Still, often about fucking. 

None of this is lost on Gallagher.  Songs About Fucking is an extended music video character study, as freewheeling and thoughtful as its subject; as the film progresses, meaning crystallizes.  Where Julian Schnabel’s At Eternity’s Gate places viewers inside van Gogh’s eye, Songs About Fucking immerses us in Rebillet’s instincts.

As for Gallagher—a gifted filmmaker with an eye for composition—he too is good at capturing moods that suggest greater depth.  The same way Rebillet delivers playful lyrics with irresistible instrumentals, Gallagher’s artful choices elevate sophomoric humor; his sincere, more lyrical moments feel properly earned.  

Together—with a certain amount of doubt along the way—they wound up with an intimate portrait of a quintessentially 2020’s artist, a hilarious sonic poem about life and death.  Never has pee pee and poo poo felt so operatic. 

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Marc Rebillet and James Gallagher.

Rebillet and Gallagher first met thanks to the film’s producers: Gus Deardoff and Lizzie Shapiro correctly predicted synergy ... and the project took off.  The secret sauce?  An innate mix of connective tissue—and creative contrasts. 

At first, R&G seem like an odd match.  Although close in age, 34-year old Rebillet’s colorful Sunday-morning swagger clashes with 33-year old Gallagher’s suave monochrome.  Hugh Hefner at an 80’s concert vs. Pierce Brosnan Bond at the Musée D’Orsay.  Even their art serves cross-purposes:  Rebillet’s improvised bits thrive in the moment; Gallagher’s visuals preserve ephemeral loss—everything from break-ups to funerals.  But then they talk.  Their chemistry is undeniable:  candid, discerning.  Quick to laugh.  Like Daniels, these two seem just as eager to leap into spiritual parley as they are to make a fart joke. 

As Gallagher puts it, both of them use humor to reach less digestible truths.  “Marc’s humor gets people in a light-hearted place where they're ready—although they don’t know it yet—to confront heavier, deeper themes.  All because they've been tickled.”  Comedic foreplay leads to emotional heft.  Even the most serious viewers are surprised into laughter ... and beyond. 

When Gallagher discusses his friend’s craft, he’s indirectly analyzing his own.

Like Rebillet, he embraces spontaneity; unlike Rebillet, he feels compelled to preserve it.  For some, it might seem odd to make a documentary about improvised songs:  doesn’t this defeat the purpose of something meant to exist in the moment?  Gallagher defends his approach by admitting weakness.

“I have a real fear of things going away,” he confesses.  “I keep elaborate journals.  I photograph all the most emotional moments … to the chagrin of my loved ones.  For me, filmmaking can be a balm against the feeling of passing.  At least there will be some evidence of what happened.”

That statement doesn’t do him justice.  His photos capture painful immediacy and stirred emotions.  His short films communicate desire, loss and memory in existential vignettes.  In Paulette, he documents his grandmother’s passing, and the art she leaves behind; in Love, he weaves a father-son relationship into the mind game of competitive tennis.  Loosely structured but rhythmic, they’re all driven by striking images.  And he’s got range:  in 2014, he won an award for directing comedy at the New York Television Festival.

“Everything I’ve ever done has begun the same way,” he reveals.  “I get drawn to an image or a voice, without knowing why.  Then the whole process becomes about articulating that initial instinct, identifying that truth.  Making sure every single frame serves it.”

How did that translate into Songs?  Raising an eyebrow, Rebillet turns to his newfound pal:  “I’m curious about that too.”

Gallagher gives a wry nod.  “It wasn’t easy at first.  Because there wasn't any obvious tension on tour, nothing majorly dramatic, there wasn’t a clear way to structure the film.  Then we realized--  You can build meaning by getting to know someone.”  Suddenly, everything fell into place.  “I kept thinking of this movie as a Russian doll,” he explains. “We have the top layer, our present.  Then YouTube videos, the backstory.  And then Marc’s home videos, his internal life.  Making the film was allowing those three levels to communicate.”

Gallagher’s portrait of Rebillet is his first feature-length doc.  During production, he was a one-man-show of his own:  boldly choosing to man three separate cameras and record sound all by himself—largely out of practicality.  You wouldn’t know Songs was so DIY while watching; it looks and sounds completely polished.

Gallagher credits his camera work on countless union projects as preparation for this bare-bones approach.  Previous gigs taught him standards he stills adheres to:  marking used camera cards, empty batteries, prepping next-day details...  Beyond workflow, this also informed his flexibility as a storyteller. 

Songs About Fucking may be eccentric in content, but its structure is solid:  a progression that feels organic but never obvious.  Part tour footage, part archival flashback, part YouTube highlight reel, this triptych builds on unexpected connections:  recurring cuts from a concert to a view through the geometry of a tour bus window; a shot of Rebillet scootering off into the night, hair flowing like plumage; a glimpse of a stray kitten through a chain-link fence. 

It’s a lot like the unbridled flow of Rebillet’s humor.  He pantomimes childbirth in front of a crowd; stages theatrically affectionate goodnights to his fellow tour boys; at one point, in between gigs and storm-drenched, he quips, “I think it might rain.”  Most jokes are goofy and unrehearsed; some are intentionally provocative.  Unapologetic irreverence is the film’s currency—but even so, Songs lets its audience feel in on the joke.  Like part of the team.   

For Gallagher, this was intentional.  “I wanted to articulate the feeling of being on tour, of getting to know the boys on the bus.  Mark being the main boy on the bus.” 

Gallagher’s relationship to Rebillet became his throughline—and the conduit for his audience.  “I tried to give them the experience that I’d had, starting as strangers, gradually growing closer.”  The film begins with a candid chat between Gallagher, offscreen, and Rebillet, onscreen, as he packs up gear for tour.  Then, we see Marc as the crowd sees him, then in his less personal, more performative YouTube videos.  “And then,” Gallagher turns to Rebillet with a smile, “as I got to know you better in real life, the story deepened.  My editors and I called it an ‘escalation of intimacy.’”

As a result, Rebillet’s YouTube videos are introduced in reverse chronology:  Songs moves deeper and deeper into the past, peeling back layers to the lesser-known Rebillet.  We discover that Loop Daddy was not only a showman but also a serious artist.  We’re privy to music mentorship from his French-born Papa, Gilbert; together, they practice classical piano.  Nerds.  Seeing le petit Rebillet, a prodigy-in-the-making, juxtaposed with his modern-day self, shirtless and sinewy, a superhero onstage, it starts to feel like an origin story.  

Rebillet calls it "a lovingly constructed time capsule.”

“There were so many cuts of Songs,” Gallagher half-laughs, half-sighs. “The whole thing really came down to quiet instincts that I had to believe in.  Like if I had a gut reaction about a specific cut, I couldn’t always explain it, but I had to trust myself.  The more we honor our internal voice, the more coherent it becomes—and that applies to every stage of the filmmaking process.”

Without feeling too heady or experimental, Songs About Fucking gives us space to think ... and Rebillet gives us plenty to think about. 

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How exactly did Rebillet go from his hometown of Dallas, playing Chopin at performing arts school—to New York, recording YouTube livestreams in his modest apartment—to Austin City Limits Music Festival, crowd-surfing in a bra? 

Wisely, Songs gives you just enough to piece together your own version of the story.  And Rebillet’s answer feels equally coy: “Making music just happened to be the particular format that made me money, so I’m leaning into that,” he shrugs.  “My only guiding thesis is relying on instinct.  Doing what uses my strengths and makes me feel satisfied.  Sometimes I feel like I’m stumbling my way through, hoping that it continues to work.”

He gives a brief laugh:  a honeyed timbre that echoes his musical compositions.  His style is offbeat but soulful, an emulation of artists whom he grew up admiring:  underground hip hop producers like Madlib, MF Grimm and J. Dilla.  Seductive, funky R&B jams by D’Angelo.  His lyrics, however, come from his own personal vault—much of which he distilled from his beloved (and equally offbeat) Papa.

The surprising end-product?  Repetition.  Think Monet’s hay bales, but with pithy flashes of wit.  Rebillet repeats sounds over and over like a monk chanting prayers, harmonizing with himself as meaning evolves. Initially innocent off-the-cuff songs often turn raunchy, then circle back into purer territory, then veer back toward ribald—giving “Loop Daddy” new meaning.  One of his improvised ditties progresses from a question of what comes after death to a refrain about orgies in Heaven.  Profane and profound are sides of the same coin. 

How does Rebillet navigate his own pulpit?  Patience ... plus a bit of compromise.   

According to Gallagher, entitled fans can be a problem:  at one concert—not featured in the film—a hammered guy climbed onstage and tried to grab the mic. 

“Marc’s response was so impressive,” Gallagher marvels. “He said ‘No, man, you can’t take the mic.’  Then he paused; you felt the whole room take a breath.  And then he put the mic to the guy’s face and asked, ‘What’s your name?’  Marc took charge, he set the terms—and it was such a generous choice.”  

Rebillet downplays the compliment.  “Part of the show is learning how to manipulate less desirable interactions, to redirect that energy to a productive place without upsetting either the person or the audience.  It’s delicate, you know?  But I like to think I've become better at that.”

Comedy can be risky, artistically and otherwise.  Rebillet’s spur-of-the-moment compositions sometimes take on meaning he can’t control.  “I had a song called ‘Stop That Rape.’  Pretty clear title.  And a clear message that the song states over and over.  Yet somehow people misunderstood it to be either a pro-rape song or making light of rape.  It was right around the time Harvey Weinstein was finally going down; he was one of those guys who you thought was above the law, so I wanted to contribute to the conversation as a dude, to make a repeatable, catchy anthem that says ‘Guys we should know this by now.’  I wasn’t ever trying to make light of sexual violence.”  He shakes his head, sighs. “Now I just don’t perform that song anymore.”

Don’t get it twisted. Rebillet doesn’t feel a shred of pity for himself, quite the opposite:  if an experiment doesn’t work, he’ll try to learn from it, but he won’t stop creating.

“If you're upsetting people, that either means that your jokes aren't landing, or you're talking about shit that’s actually offensive.  It means that you deserve to have less tickets bought to your shows because what you're doing sucks.  The public will decide if what you're doing is funny or not.  And it's not because everyone has pitchforks and they're out to get you, it's because your set sucks.  So just do what you feel, do what you feel ... and read the room.”

As Rebillet’s fame has increased, so has the pressure—both external and internal.  He admits that balancing his personal life and online expectations has been a challenge.

“I just started therapy a few months ago, in part to tackle that.  This job has provided me with extraordinary opportunities, everything you’d think and more.  But it also comes with this feeling I’ve never had before. You feel it in your stomach and go, what is that?  Why am I feeling that?  Well, it's because I have 60 unanswered emails, and I have to edit this video, and I don't know if I even have anything worth editing, and I'm not even sure that this will do well online.”

Rebillet, is of course, talking about anxiety—at the extreme register of a career in content creation. “It’s a deep, fundamental, existential anxiety.  The constant never-ending-ness of the job, the need to continually produce work lest you be forgotten and left in the annals of Instagram and TikTok and never engaged with again.  You can't just keep creating the same shit.”

On some level, we all feel it:  the stress of stimulae, the built-in addictions, the attention economy capitalism, the dopamine vacuum between personal taste and public appeal.  What writer Barett Swanson calls “marinating in the jacuzzi of personalized algorithms.”

Rebillet calls it part of the job. 

“I've been learning how to cope with those feelings and make friends with them.  What I've realized is that they will kind of always be there in one way or another.  So instead of trying to sweep them under the rug or distract yourself, it's best to look directly at them.  Once you externalize that cloud inside you, it suddenly loses a ton of power and becomes a lot easier to digest.”

Rebillet pauses, considering.  “I'm not trying to paint this as some horrifying, debilitating thing, because it's not, I'm mostly happy. But yeah, the problems with this job and my digital life are real.”

One of his more difficult moments?  The first time he watched Songs About Fucking.

Gallagher winces.  “The very first time we showed the movie to Marc it was in a screening room with probably 25 people, 18 of them were some of your closest friends.” 

“Turns out that was a bad idea,” Rebillet laugh-shudders.  “I just felt very exposed.  Pressured to react appropriately in front of everybody, basically watching myself done by someone else, when I’m used to doing everything myself.  So the whole thing was very bizarre and unfortunately much, much less joyful than I thought it was going to be.”

After the screening, Rebillet told Gallagher that he needed to rewatch the film, alone. 

“As soon as I did that, I immediately felt better—and now I adore the film.”  He laughs.  “It was the shock of seeing so much of myself up there, in a way that I would never present to the world.  But now I'm very glad we did, you know?”

As Songs tells it, the only way to preserve joy is to share it with someone else—and that’s Rebillet’s key ingredient. 

Audience is everything for him.  “My shit is very performative, meant to play off of people.  I don’t know if it could even exist without them.”  He looks into the distance, thinking about what he just said.  “There’s a version of me that would like to make more introspective, quieter, thoughtful stuff, that is a little closer to the chest.  There’s a time for that, maybe.”

Some say that all writing is autobiographical.  Songs About Fucking proves that all writing is about fucking.  Ok, maybe not.  More accurately, this film encapsulates something even more universal:  the feelings we cling to when life gets hard, the sweet songs we create from sour notes.  The bliss of connection in an increasingly separate world.  Letting out that inner-cloud of anxiety. Rebillet and Gallagher remind us that not everything has to feel precious and deep, that sometimes it’s about letting go—of self-seriousness, of inhibitions, of pain, of fear and regret.  And even joy, which can’t always headline our collective tour around the sun.

“If I were to die tomorrow, I’d want my legacy to be that I encounter people with love,” Gallagher exhales.  Rebillet concurs, smiling.  “Bringing some sort of joy, some positivity into the world, because it’s so scarce—that would be a dope legacy.  Yeah, that’s all I would want.”

The performer pauses again:  one last thought.

“Also, thick dick.”

The duality of man.