When it comes to aural pleasure, my musical preference knows no bounds of age or genre. On any given day, you could easily catch me goosestepping to Aqua, crooning along with jingly 50’s barbershop quartets like Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers, wearing excessive denim to Tears for Fears or trampling strangers in a mosh pit to Prodigy.
But I recently dealt with an inconveniently malfunctioning CD player in my car, my only other recourse to mid-drive entertainment was the unpredictable stylings of the radio. Almost immediately I was overwhelmed with catchily depressing tales of pree-teen angst and incomprehensible rap lyrics, the likes of which left me painfully puzzled, concerned, questionably thrilled and ready to yell things like, “Ride or die!”
To the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present a few of the lyrical excerpts I had the bewildering displeasure of hearing. The following is real, and modified only slightly for modesty’s sake, so some reader discretion advised.
Exhibit A: When I hit da dance floor, you know I’m doin’ da stanky leg! Sauce on my ring and then rub it across ya head! You a ace boon coon chick, you can do it too, snap ya fingers in the air and shake yo micros too! Now you can lean wit it, and you can drop wit it! You can switch the other leg and you can stop wit it! Now get it, get it (x4) – G Spot Boyz, Stanky Leg
Exhibit B: That’s my best friend, that’s best friend. Bless them big ol’ booty misses, from Texas! What’s Nexus? Imma skeet off lil n* come catch me, catch me, that’s my bestie…my best friend – Young Thug, Bestfriend (This went platinum over two hundred times…blame it on spherical instrumentals?)
Exhibit C: Ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass stop. – Big Sean, Dance (A$$ Remix)
Exhibit D: Aye Dis Soulja Boy Mane Wut U Gone Do U Tell Me Im A Tell U Wut U Gone Do Uon Even Kno Pull Up On Scene 24’s Stack On Deck Check My Neck Wut U Gone Do Im A Do Dat Head To To Da Mall Den Mall Rims Flex Riding Read Clean Bubble Out Flex Im Do Dis Im Do Dat – Soulja Boy, What Chu Gon Do Mane
Exhibit E: Ridin’ in the cutlass same colour as a bumble bee. I had to man I brought the flip flop jag through. Paint the Chevy sad blue, you know my devi sad blue. Ride straight pass you, my choppas will outlast you. I promise ima smash you, 30 us sixes blast you. CHORUS: Rubber band banks (boing yoing yoing yoing) Tokyo Diamonds (joing yoing yoing yoing) Grand Hustle ice (it be glowing yoing yoing yoing) When we in the club (they think it’s snowing yoing yoing yoing) – You Dro, Rubber Band Banks
If this is the kind of debris we find synonymous with “modern music”, then I can’t wait for the hot mess that I will inevitably have to stop my future children from being exposed to and playing at unreasonable volumes in their own pre-teen angst.
With the current musical industry forecast looking so bleak, so brainless, and with originality at a seemingly all time low in what’s mainstream and popular in peoples’ earbuds….I’m boycotting music. PERIOD. No longer will I play victim to mindlessly shallow dribble no matter how badly I just want to embrace my inner Estefan.
– A former slave to the rhythm (Eddie Starship Pain / Murphy Brown Reincarnate)