beat it, Dracula!

what is the root of my unreasonable fear for the future of music? thing a: r. kelly is a pop superstar and he has the gall to produce songs like “pregnant” [youtube link--because aint no r. kelly gonna sue me for hosting his piece of shit song on my site] and call it “the new secret garden.” thing b: the average fan of music hears his lightly-modulated croon and some sexified tyrese beat and, for some dumb reason, melts into a puddle of mirth. thing a plus thing b equals the self-perpetuating problem with music.

why do you think pregnant (to be included on r. kelly’s forthcoming album entitled “untitled”–presumably for lack of awareness that nas did the same thing last year) is going to be an international hit? i’ll tell you: because there was a slightly less dumb song that preceded it, which was also preceded by a slightly less dumb song, which was preceded … continue ad infinitum and you get a chain of banalities that may connect to a respectable pop song somewhere down the line. but the fact that chodes like r. kelly have slowly popularized a bunch of progressively worse donkey shit songs means that the trend will continue. and the people eat it up, scraping dirty sanchez’ onto their upper lips and giving the stink face to the kind of music we listen to here: good shit, quality shit, thoughtful shit and interesting shit.

anyway, he wrote this particular trough of slop in less than thirty minutes and came up with little flashes of brilliance along the lines of the following: “telling myself I’m a playa so i keep tryna shake it off, But I keep on seeing this big old house with a picket fence and a dog, Never felt nothing like this, Shes more than a mistress enough to handle my buisness, Now put that girl in my kitchen.” really? new secret garden, huh.

anyway, how a person can take this kind of nonsense seriously is beyond me. how you can listen to it and not find it slightly offensive to an ordinary expectation of artistic integrity is yet farther along that same path. i fear for all the chumps who will fall to the false sense of allure this song confers. you know: they got the cool water and leopard sheets; a fancy blue-led stereo with mini-tower speakers shaped like ufo’s; a big mirror and a boudoir stuffed full of sub-classy untailored suits. they bring a girl home and, reaching around her body-stuffed, frumpy dress along the line of her underpinnings, touches a sleek remote and here it comes: the openin synth lines of “pregnant.” and she likes it. jesus.