The Rundown: T-Pain
Wednesday, February 20, 2008 by Dwayne Branson
The Rundown is a weekly feature written by Dwayne "Iconoclast" Branson, in which he lends his valuable insight to (none of) the biggest issues facing our society today.
Every once in a while, a band comes along that simply makes amazing music. The Rolling Stone would point to the Beatles or Led Zeppelin to exemplify this category, but, then again, The Rolling Stone also doesn't know shit, so who can know? Then you have the one hit wonders: bands like Switchfoot who have one solid, even if not spectacular, outing that would seem to whet your appetite for things to come. Unfortunately for you, they follow it up with an album so bad that even Michael Jackson wouldn't listen to it in an attempt to seduce a 12-year-old with a fetish for a group of unkempt grown men whose one unique attribute is their audacity to play the same three chords ad-nauseum and call them, "music (see also, "Nickelback")."
So then, you could say that music has a hierarchy. You might notice that, as you move down this hierarchy of music-quality, the music you encounter becomes reminiscent of Dante's famous journey into the depths of Hell (in other words, it gets worse). Even the fiery demons themselves, however, inflict only marginally more torture upon the soul than some of the music you'll encounter. As you continue along the downward way, you progressively meet the categories of "Catchy but Sucks," "Bad," "Really Bad," "Like Testicular Cancer Superimposed Upon AIDS," "Britney Spears," and, should you possess the fortitude of mind and foolish strength of will to endure until the end, "Hip-Hop/R&B."
While lengthy, this extensive introduction is necessary when inviting to the grand-stand one of the men who has single-handedly helped change America from a World Superpower to an Alzheimers elderly gentleman who shits his pants more often than he does anything of use. Behold, "T-Pain," a man who clearly understood the importance of a pseudonym when faced with a birthname like "Faheem Najm." While clueless white people have for some time desired to be black, T-Pain can largely take credit for finally popularizing "Hip-Hop/R&B" to this generation of plus-size-yet-edgy Abercrombie castaways. In other words, he can claim a legacy that holds equal infamy to popularizing 70's/80's glam-hair-girl-metal bands. When, inevitably, 20 years from now, our current generation looks back upon today, they'll be able to point directly at T-Pain and thank him for the oppressive shame they feel. As their young children ask them, "Did you really wear your pants around your knees?" T-Pain can look up from his place in Hell and proudly say, "Yes."
Now, of course, there is indeed a veritable plethora of terrible music out there: more than you could fit into the belle-of-the-ball at your local prison. Piece for piece, I wouldn't venture that T-Pain is worse than the other despicable, worthless music out there; he only increases its quantity. No, what sets apart T-Pain and his cronies who aren't worth mentioning is their endearing ability to package the same shit in a new (w)rapper. So unlike other music, where both good and bad extremes exist, T-Pain and Co. allow no hope for something better. It's a lot like eating a dough-nut made completely from shit: the idea of an empty, vacant, and void hole in the middle becomes the height of your desires and longings. You don't finish your shit dough-nut and think, "I want some good food now." You want to vomit and distance yourself from the entire concept of food. And so it is with music. While Britney Spears and Paris Hilton can each only come out with one album a year with which to make us desire the heavenly, orgasmic state of silence, T-Pain and Co. has the ability to release at least one a month. And since each of these will unmeritedly reach Top-10 status, they are assured limitless radio playtime. It also means that you will never reach that highly-sought-after nirvana of silence. That is, unless, of course, you're an insecure white jackass who creams himself because of how "gangsterr" listening to this "music" makes him, or an insincere black jackass who pretends like he can relate to its sentiments (test: do you own a "G-Unit" t-shirt? You do!? Congratulations, you're a douche!).
As far as T-Pain's music's qualities are concerned, there's really not much to be critical about. While seemingly shocking, this occurs in the same field of thought where you can't really say much negative about your prostitute-sister since your family disowned her. It's not that you wouldn't be able to if pressed, it's just that it's not polite. Every single line in T-Pain's lyrics is the exact same as the one which came before, consisting of rhyming "Fuck," "shit", "bitch," and "dick," and making unintelligent references to how "pimp" "dis nigga is" and/or how nobly willing he would be to "fuck you up."
Really, then, the moral of the story is this: if you enjoy the same line of music repeated over without ceasing every month of the year, you might just have a shot at making it in the music industry after all.
Every once in a while, a band comes along that simply makes amazing music. The Rolling Stone would point to the Beatles or Led Zeppelin to exemplify this category, but, then again, The Rolling Stone also doesn't know shit, so who can know? Then you have the one hit wonders: bands like Switchfoot who have one solid, even if not spectacular, outing that would seem to whet your appetite for things to come. Unfortunately for you, they follow it up with an album so bad that even Michael Jackson wouldn't listen to it in an attempt to seduce a 12-year-old with a fetish for a group of unkempt grown men whose one unique attribute is their audacity to play the same three chords ad-nauseum and call them, "music (see also, "Nickelback")."
So then, you could say that music has a hierarchy. You might notice that, as you move down this hierarchy of music-quality, the music you encounter becomes reminiscent of Dante's famous journey into the depths of Hell (in other words, it gets worse). Even the fiery demons themselves, however, inflict only marginally more torture upon the soul than some of the music you'll encounter. As you continue along the downward way, you progressively meet the categories of "Catchy but Sucks," "Bad," "Really Bad," "Like Testicular Cancer Superimposed Upon AIDS," "Britney Spears," and, should you possess the fortitude of mind and foolish strength of will to endure until the end, "Hip-Hop/R&B."
While lengthy, this extensive introduction is necessary when inviting to the grand-stand one of the men who has single-handedly helped change America from a World Superpower to an Alzheimers elderly gentleman who shits his pants more often than he does anything of use. Behold, "T-Pain," a man who clearly understood the importance of a pseudonym when faced with a birthname like "Faheem Najm." While clueless white people have for some time desired to be black, T-Pain can largely take credit for finally popularizing "Hip-Hop/R&B" to this generation of plus-size-yet-edgy Abercrombie castaways. In other words, he can claim a legacy that holds equal infamy to popularizing 70's/80's glam-hair-girl-metal bands. When, inevitably, 20 years from now, our current generation looks back upon today, they'll be able to point directly at T-Pain and thank him for the oppressive shame they feel. As their young children ask them, "Did you really wear your pants around your knees?" T-Pain can look up from his place in Hell and proudly say, "Yes."
Now, of course, there is indeed a veritable plethora of terrible music out there: more than you could fit into the belle-of-the-ball at your local prison. Piece for piece, I wouldn't venture that T-Pain is worse than the other despicable, worthless music out there; he only increases its quantity. No, what sets apart T-Pain and his cronies who aren't worth mentioning is their endearing ability to package the same shit in a new (w)rapper. So unlike other music, where both good and bad extremes exist, T-Pain and Co. allow no hope for something better. It's a lot like eating a dough-nut made completely from shit: the idea of an empty, vacant, and void hole in the middle becomes the height of your desires and longings. You don't finish your shit dough-nut and think, "I want some good food now." You want to vomit and distance yourself from the entire concept of food. And so it is with music. While Britney Spears and Paris Hilton can each only come out with one album a year with which to make us desire the heavenly, orgasmic state of silence, T-Pain and Co. has the ability to release at least one a month. And since each of these will unmeritedly reach Top-10 status, they are assured limitless radio playtime. It also means that you will never reach that highly-sought-after nirvana of silence. That is, unless, of course, you're an insecure white jackass who creams himself because of how "gangsterr" listening to this "music" makes him, or an insincere black jackass who pretends like he can relate to its sentiments (test: do you own a "G-Unit" t-shirt? You do!? Congratulations, you're a douche!).
As far as T-Pain's music's qualities are concerned, there's really not much to be critical about. While seemingly shocking, this occurs in the same field of thought where you can't really say much negative about your prostitute-sister since your family disowned her. It's not that you wouldn't be able to if pressed, it's just that it's not polite. Every single line in T-Pain's lyrics is the exact same as the one which came before, consisting of rhyming "Fuck," "shit", "bitch," and "dick," and making unintelligent references to how "pimp" "dis nigga is" and/or how nobly willing he would be to "fuck you up."
Really, then, the moral of the story is this: if you enjoy the same line of music repeated over without ceasing every month of the year, you might just have a shot at making it in the music industry after all.