Me and popular music have had a peaceful truce as of the recent. It can go in the corner and roll around in its own crap as much as it wants, so long as it didn't do it in my corner of the room. It was going well until this man...thing decided to hurl some of his crap my way:
That's right, I'm talking about Flo Rida (geddit, because he's from Florida? LOLLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLLOLOLOLOLOL!).
For the sake of padding out this post with pointless exposition, Flo (or is it pronounced 'FLEEEERRRRRRRRRRRR!'?) released a song recently called Low. Imagine any mainstream r&b/rap song you've heard in the past - seriously, any song; they all sound the same in the end. Now imagine said song being 'performed' by a man living without the burden of a functional knowledge of the English language. And imagine if this man had got a hold of a set of those phonetic flash cards they use to teach young children how to speak. It's something like that. Don't believe me just take a sample of some lyrics:
I ain't never [sic] seen nuthin [sic] that'll make me go,
this crazy all night spendin [sic] my dough
Had a million dollar vibe and a bottle to go
Dem [sic] birthday cakes, they stole the show
So sexual, she was flexible
Professional, drinkin [sic] X [sic] and ooo [sic]
...
Work the pole, I got the bank roll
Imma [sic] say that I prefer them no clothes
I'm into that, I love women exposed
She threw it back at me, I gave her more
Cash ain't a problem, I know where it goes
I'm guessing there's supposed to be some semblance of storyline in this thing. Here goes: Our hero, Flo, is currently at his local exotic dancery (by himself, I'm presuming (maybe all his MySpazz friends lost their invites in the mail)). He's pontificating about the quality of the fair maidens (I don't know why, though. It's a Tuesday arvo, you're not exactly going to get the club's A-team performing) and applauding their performances with alms.
"Shawty [sic] what I gotta [sic] do to get you home
My jeans full of gwap [sic]
And they ready for Shones [sic]
Cadillacs Maybachs [sic] for the sexy grown [sic]
Patrone [sic] on the rocks that'll make you moan"
Our hero's attention has been captured by one fair lady in particular: A damsel who, despite a height deficiency, more than makes up for it with her beauty. He's already begun celebrating her presence, in his pants, and he's ready for...uhm...I'm confused. Shones? Maybachs?
As Winston Churchill once said, "What the f*** is this man saying?"
Whoa
Shawty [sic]
Yea she was worth the money
Lil [sic] mama took my cash,
and I ain't [sic] want it back,
The way she bit that rag,
got her them paper stacks,
Tattoo above her crack,
I had to handle that,
Hmm, so the horny loner finally got the midget hooker he wanted. And he got one who seems to have a fetish for stacks of newspapers. It''s a classic fairy tale ending.
All happy endings aside, I hear kids on the streets and in the clubs shouty-singing the (just as incomprehensible) chorus. And amidst their wailing, they don't realise that THE MAN IS SINGING ABOUT HIRING A PROSTITUTE, and the children don't seem to care. Which may explain why it seems that Wayne Carey just got paid about $180,000 for (allegedly) beating up his partner, and no one bats an eyelid (although Wayne Carey may or may not have allegedly batted his girlfriend's eyelid that night (Antisocial Rant does not condone assault in any way shape or form)).
And the delivery, my goodness the delivery. With his slurred syllables and general disregard of proper pronunciation conventions, he sounds like a drunk caveman halfway during a stroke. One could almost say he's the modern r&b/rap equivalent of nickelback or hinder, only slightly more turned on by Verne Troyer and a daily broadsheet. Slightly.
The whole package is so bad, I'm guessing if Mr. Blonde was playing this song instead of Stuck in the Middle With You, he wouldn't have had to do any work - the officer's ears would've just plopped themselves right off to escape the agony of having to listen to one more second of Flo Rida's inane ramblings.
In short, this is horrible stuff from a man who doesn't at all sound like he's overcompensating for (a lack of) something. Low is devoid of originality, quality and any semblance of goodness, which would explain why it's flying up the charts. I may have edited out certain lyrics, but trust me: You're Not. Missing Out. On. Anything! In fact, you're better out missing out on everything, so that the rest of your days won't be brought down by the knowledge that you have wasted 3:50 on this insipid crap.
Now if you don't mind, I'll be back in my corner, putting on a tarp.