If Lil Wayne’s new ode to American rock ‘n’ roll is a joke, I’m not laughing.
OK, maybe I’m laughing a little. Like when he “listens to his own voice in his black Rolls Royce” on “American Star.” (His gals of choice wear cutoffs and blouses; Wayne wears trousers. Aw yeah.) Or the part where he literally announces “Bridge!” before delving into said shit-rock staple. It’s a projectile vomit of an interlude, Wayne screaming “Born and raised in the USA!” until his perma-croak goes so raw his eyes shoot slime. And the inhuman noises raping the guitar cavity can only be explained as Wayne himself gnawing at the strings with his diamond canines — apparently built more for glint.
I guess it’s just hard to laugh when, by all appearances, Wayne isn’t. Small moments of earnestness leave all illusion of parody half-mast and awkward. This wiry little dude has always been downtrodden, but now he’s stretching into the caverns of an Axl Rose country heart, without a hint of signature wit or gravity bong to make it all a hilarious game. I mean, all I really wanna do is get crunk and do Creed impressions. But my main man sets his Auto Tune on heartfelt and quacks some shit like:
“The sun don’t shine forever, and everything that glitter ain’t gold.”
Or, “It feels like I’m runnin’, and life is the miles.”
No, really. What a fucking buzz kill. The only kind of depressed Weezy I care about is the one horning after girls who’re “down like the economy” and grinding out Martian fantasies on your granny’s bed-rocks.
Wayne’s made a lot of questionable choices — the bindi tattoo, to begin — but Feb. 2’s Rebirth is a monster UFO-sized cowpie to potentially outstink the lingering charms of all nerdy hiccups past. Ever wonder what Kid Rock would sound like with a mouthful of pokey grillpieces and Auto Tune on lock? Lust no longer, for the abominable white-trash blackman has been unleashed.
Worst part is, now he’s stuck in jail for a year, and this closet log of glam-fetish feces is all he left us to chew on.
Yes, Wayne singlehandedly revived modern hip-hop — by playing X-treme scrabble (sexy edition) all over it — but he also killed it, by making everyone think all they had to do was fart out the first thing that came to mind, and catch it in a vocoder. But whether or not you like the cash-jingling, “suck my clip,” fuck-you-and-your-fine-ho-too schtick on which he’s founded new group Young Money, you’ve got to admit, shit’s catchy.
Rebirth, on the other hand, makes me feel terrible about all music, ever, ruined in one burp by my cherished Weez-bird here, kind of making me hate life in general — without even being able to go ape-shit on the living-room couch.
Though it’s hard to remember a time when the world wasn’t wrapped in Wayne’s dread tentacle, turns out it was only two years ago that Tha Carter III obliterated frat houses and Pitchfork (richdork) cubicles alike. Maybe this horrific new album is to prove that nothing — not even swallowing a sloppy Joe whole and wiping the other end with the star-spangled banner — could de-throne Weezy at this point. But he should be careful: Jay-Z (on his game lately, if mostly still irrelevant) has declared the death of Auto-Tune with a sneer that smells of beef, and Eminem blasts Wayne in dragon’s breath on Rebirth’s only reprieve, “Drop the World.”
So, I guess I was about to say, “fall of Lil Wayne,” but — fuck no. It takes some agile balls to stoop this low. Damn if it isn’t killing me softly though.
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