The following sentence is the “First off, f*ck your bitch and the clique you claim/West side when we ride, come equipped with game” of old white men bitching about hipping and hopping and ripping and rapping.
POOR fellow our modern music.
The shots, they have been fired. Not from a glock, but from a well preserved musket, wrapped in a Confederate Flag. You see, guys, the Examiner’s Barry Prismall, a.k.a. Barry Smalls, has a lot to say about rap music. You may think you like your Practitioner Dre and E-Mine-Mike & Ike and Woot Tang Klan, but you don’t.
Canned crap from rap flunkies who can’t sing as they mutter away to a thumping beat – chattering a useless, deviant monologue of prose with an obligatory video of lecherous beauties fastened to the performer, and partying like there’s no tomorrow. For them and their careers, there’s probably no tomorrow.
Pink is one of the few contemporary artists worth listening to, in a vacuous era of music and various hybrid versions, because she can actually sing.
Barry really relates to “Stupid Girls.” He, too, hates women. Except Pink. She gets the wine cooler party started. It’s also worth noting that he’s insinuating all rappers are criminals and will eventually get shot.
But even Pink is trapped in a dim twilight of orthodox melodies and old-fashioned conventional passion.
Man, I hope he brings up U2 soon. Articles like these don’t count if the middle-aged man doesn’t mention U2.
My young daughter can’t stand modern music, but loves U2. Her family’s very proud.
Thank the father, the son, and the holy Bono, he did. Peter King, meet Barry. Barry, meet Peter King.
I don’t care that the Beatles’ era did whole crops of drugs while penning brilliance like Long and Winding Road and Come Together.
It’s actually “The Long and Winding Road,” but hey, it’s just like John Lennon said, “Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess/Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl/You let your knickers down,” which is certainly more poignant than “Beyond the walls of intelligence, life is defined/I think of crime when I’m in a New York state of mind.” Barry knows all about New York; it’s the home of his favorite restaurant, Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.
Today’s studio of wannabe rock stars simply learn a Michael Jackson dance routine, dial up a song on auto-tune, and later add voice-overs to a shemozzle of prefabricated sound; like a fault- ridden bongo organ, thumbing over programmed rifts of beats and notes.
It all makes sense now: Barry Smalls doesn’t like rap because he hasn’t been introduced to the world of Yiddish rappers. He’s gonna plotz the first time he hears “Suck a Shmendick” by Kibbitz N’ Bitz. Also, the process he’s describing above, it doesn’t sound all that dissimilar from what Phil Spector was doing in the 1960s.
The rap raiders replaced song with such mindless drivel they ought to hide the lyrics, if there are any. They call it rap because that’s what you want them to do – wrap it up.
Barry logic: it’s called country because it’s only played by c*unts. Jazz? More like Badz. Pop? POOP. He’s got a million of them, each more hilarious than the one before it.
Rap chatter-boxes managed to side-step contests like The Voice and American/Australian Idol, to gatecrash the charts with the phenomenon of some fast talking. Once they signed a recording contract they produced at will a deafening, staccato speech about vomit, violence, blood, sex, and dark depression.
That last sentence could also apply to the Velvet Underground, who wrote songs about heroin, transvestites, prostitutes, BDSM, and a crazy dude getting his head sliced open by a sheet metal cutter because he literally mailed himself to his ex-girlfriend. But that’s acceptable because it’s not scary when white people do it.
Rap is the biggest con in the history of music. Rap killed the tune. Imagine Bing Crosby stammering and stuttering White Christmas or True Love. Imagine Stevie Nicks reciting Rhiannon in a droll monotone. Imagine Stairway to Heaven with no chorus and no air guitar.
In rock, playing a recorder and doubleneck guitar in a song inspired by a book called Magic Arts in Celtic Britain is charming and unpretentious; in rap, simply talking is the “biggest con in the history of music.”
In the 1980s, modern music – let’s call it M’n M – hijacked the world’s sweet melodies and lay siege to song. Generations of cashed-up, lost teens are using their iPods to block out the truth while they throw away good money after bad. Thank God for the last vestige of Pink.
Barry Smalls has been blocking out the truth ever since 1964, when THE BLACKS got their consarn rights.
Rap is an asylum for slightly agitated nobodies, getting restless with their limbs and getting intense and rich on a one-sided, egotistical conversation. Since when did a heavily choreographed troupe with a provocative dance routine and a heavily tattooed commentator ever properly illustrate a song?
Rap is as bad as lip sync, and, just as dishonest.
Meanwhile, in Bristol, an ESPN producer’s racist spidey sense is tingling. “HIRE THIS MAN,” he yells to no one.