The Worst "Song"... ever?

Just a day after announcing the best song of 2010, it pains me to focus on the worst. The first time I heard this song, I was certain that I would never have to hear it again. I figured it would get one shot at radio airplay, the DJ would immediately realize it was unfit for aural consumption, and toss the demo in the trash.

"Blowin’ Money Fast" by Rick Ross is not a song. I get so angry just thinking about it that I'm tempted to just let readers listen to it themselves. But since you are already suffering through my blog, I can't be so heartless as to recommend that you endure any further torture.

It is my duty, therefore, to raise awareness of this terrible waste of four minutes so that the powers that be can rip the track from circulation and make sure it is never heard again.

The casualty who heard the noise from my passenger seat may have summed it up best:
“The lyrics are bad. There's no beat. He's basically just talking. There's no singing or rapping. I can't think of any reason why you would want to hear it. It won't pump you up or put you in a good mood. You can't dance to it. It has no redeeming qualities."

The refrain goes as follows:
I think I'm Big Meech Larry Hoover, whipping work, halleluiah,
One nation under god, real n****s getting money from the f***ing start.
I think I'm Big Meech Larry Hoover, whipping work, hallelujah,
One nation under god, real n****s getting money from the f***ing start.

Ross, whose real name is William Leonard Roberts II, faces a ten million dollar lawsuit for stealing the name from convicted felon, “Freeway” Rick Ross. Roberts seems to have a strange obsession with convicts.

Larry Hoover is a convicted murderer serving a 150-200 year sentence in prison, where he has continued to give orders as leader of the Gangster Disciples gang since 1974. Demetrius "Big Meech" Flenory began his rise in crime by selling $50 bags of crack cocaine on the streets of Southwest Detroit and eventually founded the Black Mafia Family drug cartel before his nationwide drug trafficking won him a 30-year prison sentence.

The song’s title, “Blowin’ Money Fast” or “B.M.F.” is likely a nod to the Black Mafia Family. If you search the lyrics to the song online, the first two results yield the following lyrics:
Stunt so hard make them come and night [sic] me
I think im [sic] big miche[sic] look at my time peace[sic].

Despite the fact that one of the lyrics is probably, “make them come indict me” this is a frightening representation of Roberts’ audience. Whoever posted those lyrics should be just as ashamed of their illiteracy as of their taste in music. No wonder these kids have no interest in learning how to spell when their music teaches them to idolize murderers and drug dealers. Now, I’m not about to call Tipper Gore and stir up the Parents Music Resource Center. After all, Tipper has her own problems at the moment.

Every new wave of music is sure to offend hypocritical, out-of-touch parents who swear music of their generation was completely innocent compared to the filth they hear today. For the most part, these claims are bogus. But to be honest, the FCC is pretty lenient with our generation considering that Elvis the pelvis’ dancing was once too suggestive, the Beatles made too many drug references and the Rolling Stones request to spend the night together was once too explicit.

I’m not too big on censorship of any kind. I remember when my Jay-Z Vol. 2… Hard Knock Life was condemned by parents for its explicit content, but I was permitted to keep it with the understanding that those lyrics and lifestyles shouldn’t be emulated. I’m not going to make excuses for Ross’s audience and suggest that other kids might not know any better. All consumers of music should be responsible enough to use discretion when taking in lyrics. But Roberts’ should also be held accountable for his lyrics.

I can’t think of many songs with lines as explicit as, “Cocaine running in my big vain.” The chorus, if that’s what he wants to call it, is both sacrilegious and treasonous. I’m sure this may seem a little hyperbolic. But how can Roberts justify praising god with a “hallelujah” while glorifying drug dealers and murderers? And to what nation is he pledging allegiance when he promotes this anarchy? People like Roberts who promote violence and glorify the gangster lifestyle may not be solely responsible for the decay of our cities, but they certainly aren't helping matters.

The didactic message and failed rhythmic composition seem to be in competition with each other as each aspect sinks to lower levels. Alone they are both terrible. Together, they make for the worst track of the year.

Nothing Comes Close...

Katy Perry featuring Snoop Dogg - California Gurls (feat. Snoop Dogg)
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“California Gurls” is the best song of 2010. There may be four months left, but Katy Perry’s infectious summer anthem has already produced more joy than any subsequent song possibly can this year. Yes, joy can be measured (see John Stuart Mill), and as the days get shorter so too does the potential for greatest-happiness. This potential increases again during the holiday season, but at this point any new song must yield to Christmas songs… but I digress.

The song’s melody has that elusive, indefinable feel of a hit track. It’s the rare sound that studio producers long to hear, but know they’ve got a surefire hit on their hands the moment they hear it. The keyboards and drums establish an enchanting rhythm, and by the time the guitar and bass enter full swing at the chorus, head-bobbing is unavoidable. The hook is so catchy that even those of us who are neither Californian, nor gurls feel the urge to sing along. The lyrics invoke summer fun imagery in ways that only the Beach Boys previously could. The tempo lends itself to choreographed dancing, and the order to represent the west coast and put your hands up must be obeyed by all regardless of coastal loyalties.

The lyrics, always the primary concern here, are just as solid— although with music this much fun it’d be nearly impossible to screw up this song. Arnold Schwarzenegger can stop recruiting celebrities for California tourism spots. This song makes Cali more appealing than any star-studded commercial ever could. Everything about hanging out and partying there sounds awesome. The setting and the girls discussed are both tempting, and Snoop Dogg even makes the electropop sing-a-long seem chill.

Perry and Snoop make amusing allusions to each other as Perry sings about “sipping gin and juice” and Snoop mentions that “she drives a jeep.” It’s not the annoying kind of self-promotion we hear in so many rap songs, wherein each participant is announced ad nauseam throughout their songs. Perry’s and Snoop’s playful mentions of each other are merely flirtatious acknowledgments. It’s the kind of lively flirtation that audiences have come to expect on the golden coast.

In the lyric, “…so hot, we’ll melt your Popsicle,” Perry makes the best phallic reference since Lady Gaga’s “I want to take a ride on your disco stick.” Snoop Dogg’s rap is so on point that he makes the juxtaposition of martinis and bikinis seem kindred with zucchinis (another phallic symbol?). He even uses the word “weenies” with aplomb. If a guy can say the word “weenie” with a straight face while dressed as a character from a board game for kids ages 3-6 and still command respect, that’s pretty bad ass.

Perry doesn’t employ the dazzling vocals she utilizes in “I Kissed a Girl” and “Hot ’N Cold”, but in this song she doesn’t need to. Unlike Mariah Carey and Christina Aguilera, Perry understands that not all of her songs need to be an exhibition of her vocal range. She grasps the concept of pop for pop’s sake, “l’pop pour l’pop”, and for that we should be grateful.

The song was written in response to the Jay-Z and Alicia Keys song, “Empire State of Mind,” and even though my upbringing and allegiance is purely east coast, this information makes me want to put my hands up for the west coast even more. Katy might be under the misconception that “Empire State of Mind” is embraced by all on the east coast—-a belief that residents of any eastern city other than New York will take great exception to. Philadelphians, for example, recognize the song for what it truly is: garbage. The refrain, “concrete jungle where dreams are made of” makes absolutely no sense and inexplicably contains the ear-splitting and unnecessary preposition, “of” at the end of a sentence where none is needed. Moreover, Jay-Z’s claim that he made the yankees hat more famous than a yankee did is utterly ridiculous. Even after making such a libelous assertion, Jay-Z had the audacity try and perform the song at game one of the World Series. Mother Nature and Phillies pitcher Cliff Lee made sure New Yorkers had nothing to sing about that night, but the Jay-Z dirge still reminds Americans of the tragic fall classic in which a collection of steroid-abusing, free-agent prima donnas stole a World Series that rightfully belonged to a band of homegrown, hard-working athletes from Philadelphia.

With the joyous anthem, “California Gurls”, Katy Perry and Snoop Dogg have delivered us from the miserable requiem, “Empire State of Mind.” They have saved east coast audiences from New York’s sins, and reminded us of the fun that summer holds. And greatest of all, they have given us a video in which a sun-kissed Katy Perry lies naked on a cloud and shoots whipped cream from her chest. What more could you ever want in a song?

Off the Charts Avarice

Remember when a million dollars was a lot of money? It could solve all your problems and secure you for life. The Barenaked Ladies once sold quite a few records by imagining the possibilities of being a millionaire. And while many of their silly ideas were written just for laughs, the message was clear: A million dollars can get you pretty much anything.

Now, in what is either an alarming commentary on inflation or a gross display of greed, Travie McCoy and Bruno Mars yearn for a whopping billion dollars in the hit song, “Billionaire.” Not just two or three, or even a hundred million dollars, but 1,000 times more than BNL's modest request. Talk about ambitious. The only songwriter with that kind of paper stack is Sir Paul McCartney. And he got there by singing about how he didn’t care too much for money.

Mars even admits to seeing his name in shining lights every time he closes his eyes. Again, this is pretty ambitious for a couple of guys whose names I had to look up just a paragraph ago.

I have to give the kids some credit. They do have some noble plans. Adopting poor kids, giving away luxury cars and helping hurricane victims is all well and good. But when he starts each proposal with “I’d probably,” his conviction seems less sincere than a common campaign promise. His pledge to “probably pull an Angelina and Brad Pitt” is even less believable than the idea that Obama would probably end the war.

One of the more imaginative lyrics of the song is when Mars shares that wants to be on the cover of Forbes magazine, “smiling next to Oprah and the Queen.” I imagine this would be Forbes’ attempt to find the world’s strangest triumvirate of billionaires. Perhaps it would appear in a three-part series showcasing diverse tycoons and starry-eyed singers. This month: Mark Cuban, Warren Buffet and Lil Wayne. Next: J.K. Rowling, Steve Jobs, and La Roux.

McCoy would hardly feel out of place with business magnates either. He is so confident in his ability to handle financial matters that he even offers to take a crack at saving the economy from recession. But considering that his plans include tossing “a couple milli in the air just for the heck of it,” I’m not so enthused about the prospect of him fixing the nation’s deficit.

After saving New Orleans from ruin and balancing the budget, McCoy
turns his attention to the White House:
I'll be playing basketball with the president.
Dunking on his delegates.
Then I compliment on his political etiquette.

First of all, Travie, the president does not have delegates; states and parties do. I'm not sure what his idea of political etiquette is, but I can't imagine constituents would approve of elected officials spending their time in Washington playing pickup games against one-hit wonders. Moreover, who the hell does this washed-up gym class hero think he is that the leader of the free world needs his approval? Is McCoy so delusional that he 1.) thinks he knows anything about politics, let alone is in a position to tell the President that he is getting the hang of it; or 2) believes that the President gives a shit what he thinks?

Before writing this entry, I toyed with the idea that the song was written merely to draw attention to the diminishing value of the U.S. dollar. Maybe a million dollars just isn't enough to make one's dreams come true anymore. But now I realize that these dreamers are far too out of touch with reality to be concerned with inflation. Their motives are not altruism, political reform or creating awareness of financial issues. These guys want a billion dollars and they want it bad. How bad, you ask? So bad, it drives them to swearing. McCoy and Mars should be careful. Using such foul language might hurt their chances of securing their billion(s).The only other thing holding them back is talent.

My First Kiss went nothing like this

I like to think that I’m an adequate kisser. I’m sure most people do. But unlike shooting a jump shot or writing a column, it’s a little more difficult to get honest feedback on kissing technique. I found at a young age that the best ways to learn anything are to imitate what people do on television, and to follow whatever your friends start doing. If everyone else is doing something differently, there’s a good chance you’re doing it wrong.
I came to such a realization recently when listening to the insufferable “My First Kiss” by bad ass Denver Rap Duo 3OH!3 and everyone’s favorite wasted mess, Ke$ha. The chorus goes… a little like this:
My first kiss went a little like this,
[smooch sound] And twist,
[smooch, smooch]And twist
I immediately went red with shame. My first kiss was nothing like that at all. Apparently, I’ve been kissing incorrectly for over a decade. What is this twist, and why was I never told about it? To my knowledge, there is no official guide for kissing instructions. The singers in this song, however, make it sound like the steps to a dance that everyone knows. Everyone but me, it would seem. I was always under the impression that once you went in for the kiss you were supposed to stay there for a while. The best I can surmise from this song is that after making the initial lip contact, each party must stop do “The Twist” a la Chubby Checker, return for two more kisses, then stop and twist again.
The song gives us no further instruction, but if we are to continue the sequence, we must assume it continues like this: one kiss, twist, two kisses, twist, three kisses, twist, and so forth. This requires quite a bit of movement, but might explain why make out sessions leave people looking so disheveled. I love doing the twist as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t think of it as an ideal make out song.
Both Kesha and the lads remind us that this was how their first kiss went, which implies that they no longer follow this method. If they were incorrect in their ways before, we can chalk it up to a rookie mistake. That still leaves a bit of a strange coincidence. While it’s very possible that 3OH!3’s Sean Foreman and Nathianal Motte shared their first kiss, it seems unlikely that these boys from Boulder, Colorado would have the same exact technique as a girl in Nashville, Tennessee. I doubt kissing styles change very much from region to region, but I suppose kissing styles do change over time.
If we’re to discount innocent childhood pecks on the lips, the first kisses among most of my peers took place between 7th and 9th grade and contained very little lip action. Ever the gentlemen, most of the guys I hung out with would approach a girl during a slow song at a school dance and simply ask, “Wanna hookup?” Hooking up consisted of locking lips, opening wide and guiding your tongue into a battle of figure eights. Ideally, this was to last until the end of the song but was invariably broken up by a tap on the shoulder from a chaperoning parent. As years went by, make outs featured more lip action and less interruption from friends’ parents, but still no twisting.
The first verse of “My First Kiss” begins innocently enough. The singer talks about teachers, books, bleachers and candy before making the outrageous request, “Excuse me miss but can I get you out your panties?” I don’t know how they do things in Colorado, but that’s a pretty bold question for an adolescent boy to be asking in his first make out. Unless, of course the gents from 3OH!3 didn’t experience their first kiss until very recently. This idea would explain why they go on to mention cars, tattoos, and bars—things that most kissing novices have little to experience with. While I can understand how 3OH!3 reached the legal drinking age before experiencing their first kiss, I refuse to believe that the same could be said of Miss Ke$ha. She seems like the kind of “fast” girl that young boys are warned about. I don’t know what is meant by the lyric “No more sailors and no more soldiers,” but I’m pretty sure it’s not Ke$ha’s mantra.
Considering the individuals involved in the song, I now care very little about their first kiss. In fact, I’m relieved that my kissing never was or is anything like theirs. I have neither 3OH!3’s undue mien of accomplishment nor Ke$ha’s appearance of a stumbling STD. And perhaps most importantly, I have no punctuation or symbols in the spelling of my name. So the next time I hear “My First Kiss” on the radio, my only twist will be to turn on a different station.

A Pea in My Bonnet

The Black Eyed Peas have long been among the most creative and influential songwriters of our time. Classics like "My Humps" and "Let's get Retarded" captivate audiences not just with their catchy hooks and upbeat rhythms, but through the crafting of thought-provoking lyrics. Perhaps none of their songs are as worthy of lyrical analysis as their latest hit, "I'm a Bee" from the album “The E.N.D.” I haven't gotten a chance to review the written lyrics, but the song is ostensibly the band's imaginative effort to personify the experience of insects thriving in the music industry. The song's chorus echoes the assertion that the singer is a bee, and the verses offer make-believe situations of how said bee is "living that good life".

Curiously absent from the lyrics are any references to traditional bee life. Pollination is never mentioned. Words like sting and buzz are not employed. Fergie even resists the temptation to call herself the Queen Bee. (Although this could simply be out of respect for Lil Kim).
Jerry Seinfeld’s “Bee Movie” lived up to its title by delivering plenty of bee-themed hive-jinks. (See Taboo, even I can write a bee pun). It remains curious then why these artists attribute only human desires like fame and fortune on these Apoidean creates. Aside from Fergie's cursory mention that she's spreading her wings, a feature bees aren't particularly known for, there is no further evidence throughout the song that any of the speakers posses any qualities of Apis mellifera or the like.

Clearly these creative geniuses posses the song writing ability to capture the life of a drone. This is, after all, the same group that provided us with such unforgettable lines as "And all those things we use to use to use to do", and "beats so big I'm stepping on Leprechauns"-- a feat that's admittedly cruel and less impressive considering their diminutive nature. Still, the words heard in “I'm a bee” leave much to be desired from lyricists of their caliber.
I must admit I did smile at the humorous mental picture of a bee up on that stage. What's that little bee going to do up there, I wondered to myself and imagined an out of place little bugger fluttering around, performing his little heart out to thousands of people who can barely see him. But this bee character became considerably less endearing when I learned of his other pursuits. “I'm a bee up in the club doing whatever I like,” “I'm a bee poppin' that bubbly.” Clearly this is not a worker bee.

In this piece the band opens their song writing up for discussion by suggesting, "Why don't you put it on a blog?” which I've elected to do here. This is a daring step for a song-writing team who once wrote a song almost completely in onomatopoeia (Boom Boom Pow) and is eager to incorporate Geography into music whenever possible. (We get it William, you've heard of the seven seas!)

The Black Eyed Peas surely had some reason for ignoring bee type references and puns. Let us once again consider the line, "I'm a bee up on that stage". Perhaps the song is not about the hymenopterous insect, but about the communal competition sort of bee. i.e., a spelling bee. Or in the Pea's case, a rapping bee. There is even less evidence for this kind of bee, however, and it seems unlikely the group could be writing from personal experience. Despite Fergie’s proven ability to spell her own name in “Fergalicious”, I doubt her band mate’s spelling of tasty (T, to the A, to the S-T-E-Y) would have been acceptable at Scripps.

I must admit the possibility that I misheard the lyrics and song title altogether. But what other bee could there be? That’s it! The verb “to be”! But that lyric seems to make the least sense of all, especially considering the copula that precedes it is just another form of that same verb. Let us ponder the claim, “I am a be.” Now the Peas seem to be making a philosophical claim reminiscent of Descartes. Only the Blacked Eyed Peas’ assertion is an even bolder commentary on solipsism. Their assertion is simple yet profound: I am, therefore I am. Phunk logic, phunk any claims to the contrary. They exist because they say so. End of Discussion. “The E.N.D.” End. Or is it?

We may never get to the bottom of these enigmatic lyrics here at logophiladelphia. But long after other music fans cease to be abuzz with curiosity, I know I’m going to be.