Stop and observe the typical college party: Smokers swarm on the front porch. Drunk girls who are usually opposed to cigarettes suck the nicotine right into their pretty, pink lungs. An owner of the house helplessly and angrily urges everyone to go inside. Step inside: The room overheats and faces redden as a beat drops. Guys who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to KDUK get down to Shakira – and like it… a lot.
Be honest you indie-snobs: There is a time and place for music with degrading, morally base and materially inspired lyrics. I too listen to Radiohead and make cryptic remarks about the meaning of life. But goddamnit, as an American I will listen to Nelly on a Friday night and I will love it. On an ethical level, feel free to disagree with pop-culture’s infatuation with sexuality and money, especially as a gauge for measuring success. It’s clearly absurd. But getting angry because Chingy has never touched a music theory notebook in his entire hip-hop career won’t improve the classical standards of top-40 music. Getting angry makes you the loser in the corner carving “XO” into your shoulder.
If you’re going to hate on anyone, hate on Clay Aiken. Mainstream rappers may describe their sexual relations in blunt, degrading lyrics, but at least they don’t beat around the bush. Stalkerish pop singer Clay Aiken subtlety describes his dating techniques:
“If I was invisible / then I could just watch you in your room / If I was invincible / I’d make you mine tonight. ” Clay can fool 12-year-old girls into falling in love, (which is significantly creepy) but he can’t fool me. At least the Black Eyed Peas inspire my inner-hoochie mama, which allows an otherwise impossible exploration of the self.
If you’re still skeptical about where I’m going with this, take a closer look at the mastery of Nelly’s lyricism in his hit song “My Grillz”: “Open up my mouth and you see mo’ carrots than a salad / My teeth are mind blowin’ givin’ everybody chillz / Call me George Foreman cuz I’m sellin’ everybody grillz. ” Yes, he has mastered the art of being incredibly materialistic. But at least he’s mastered something. I mean, we’re talking about a man who raps about his shoes and keeps a straight face. Try and tell me that’s not admirable.
I’m not excusing the immorality of this blindly neoliberal sect of popular culture. I’m trying to laugh at it to avoid crying. I fear for the intellectual growth in the minds of children, whose main idols in pop-culture are binge-drinking, anorexic performers who make tabloids more than they make music. Still, it’s time as a generation we face the reality of our childhood. We weren’t marked emotionally by the Yugoslavian Wars or genocide in Rwanda. Instead, we cried watching Free Willy majestically breech over a rocky barrier into the limitless ocean. Let’s be honest about our guilty pleasures, my fellow ’90s-era children. Relax, close your eyes and move your hips. They don’t lie, at least according to Shakira.
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