You know, I really try with you, guy. I really do. I don’t take issue with you choosing to do songs that are deemed “softer.” I just heard your new single, “Hold On, We’re Going Home.” It sounds like you stole it from a George Michael recording session in 1989, but hey, more than likely it’ll be drained into my skull by next Tuesday—so you win regardless. I never want to be the guy that tries to make you seem as though you’re less than one because you are public with your shower singing of sad songs, so kudos to you even if it your style of “slit wrist music” isn’t always my thing.
I’ve ignored other things, too. Say, your creepy 2012 GQ interview in which you asked your interviewer, Claire Hoffman, if she wanted to sleep with you after the two of you drank white wine spritzers and watched Sixteen Candles. And while I still wouldn’t be mad if Aaliyah haunts you in your sleep, I’d move past you taking her vocals to record a song that disses Chris Brown and is seemingly all about manipulating women’s emotions.
But, what I cannot get past – because you refuse to let me – are those obnoxious anthems of delusion that you insist on releasing.
First, it was “No New Friends” and now it’s “All Me.” Dude, how much longer do I have to bear with your delusional, self-involved 'revenge of the nerds' rap? Yes, I realize that the former is a DJ Khaled track on paper, but you wrote the words of the hook and sing it loudly, so still guilty, Jimmy.
I cringe each and every time I hear someone sing, caption their Instagram shots, or lie on social media about the desire for “No new friends. No new friends. No new friends.”
First of all, there’s nothing wrong with making new friends and I know you probably watched Sesame Street. Just because you’re big stuff now doesn’t mean you should let the lessons Big Bird instilled in all of us pass you by. Besides, you’d think a guy you’d who clearly benefited from fame in varying ways – particularly when it comes to his interpersonal relationships – would sound a lot less anti-social in his songs.
Worse are the people singing these asinine tracks the loudest. As in, those folks exposing everything about themselves – metaphorically and literally speaking – in search of obvious attention and undoubtedly friendship and/or companionship. Y’all don’t want friends? Okay, sis. Whatever you say.
On a scale from one to 10, I put all of y’all at 17 on my personal hate meter. But if that song wasn’t bad enough, you give the world “All Me.”
The head scratching, self-awareness defying hook goes:
Got everything, I got everything/I cannot complain, I cannot I don't even know how much I really made, I forgot, it's a lot/ Fuck that, never mind what I got, nigga don't watch that cause I/Came up, that's all me, stay true, that's all me/No help, that's all me, all me for real/Came up, that's all me, stay true, that's all me/No help, that's all me, all me for real
Were you drunk off some moscato spritzers when you recorded this? You owe part of your fame to the city of Houston for bopping the hell out of our sound and accents on occasion. While I salute you for generating wild success of a single mixtape, it wasn’t your first and you had lots of help in that department. And wait a minute, let me go back: Dude, you owe the entire Southside of Houston a crawfish platter from Pappadeaux’s. For the inspiration of your hip-hop life, and ugh, I hate the word but there’s no appropriate replacement for it, swag.
I will say this, though: You are truly the voice of a generation rapper and quite the millennial rapper. You embody every bit of the “me-me-me” mentality many people within my age group have placed a death grip on. Yes, you have some great songs, but I despise every single one of them that helps perpetuates this cancer soiling the minds of my generation.
Continue making millions off of it, but just like them, you’re a narcissist who wouldn’t know the truth about yourself if it appeared to you in a dream sequence dressed like Aaliyah and told you to rock the boat and work the middle.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go yell at the universe ‘cause the more self-involved rhymes you drop for the “selfie generation,” the more I hate that the Aubrey with a booming music career isn’t homegirl from Danity Kane.
P.S. For real, dude, leave Aaliyah’s music the hell alone. You don't know who's side she would have took in your foolish feud with Chris Brown and both of y'all are creeps for dragging her out the grave to choose.
Michael Arceneaux is the author of the “The Weekly Read,” where tough love is served with just a touch of shade. Tweet him at @youngsinick.