It’s a rap song, hip-hop as the kids say. This bar plays the music loud, which is fine by me. When I got here it was good ‘ol AC/DC, and I was rockin’. It moved on to Cher, her overproduced later work, a bit of a letdown after the shameless guitars and lyrical shouting. I didn’t notice the music that came on next; it just wasn’t memorable.
Next came this. Let’s get it right out there that I don’t consider rap to be music. Music has to have music in it. Rap is a poetry recital. I’ve got nothing against poetry. In fact, I like the stuff. Sometimes.
Our modern urban poets don’t do much for me, at least not the ones represented by major record labels. Maybe it’s a language thing. Maybe I just don’t have the vocabulary to feel the nuances of the lyrics. I suspect, however, that it is they who lack the vocabulary. Instead they use the few words they own for shock value.
The bit playing when I started writing this episode is a case in point. The woman chanting has found her niche, and it is sexually explicit. I can see how the marketing of this crap would be pretty easy, young masturbators would eat it up. Musical porn. Rather sick porn at that. I’m in a bar in a mall, people coming and going, and blaring from this place are descriptions of acts I will never, ever, do. The place is emptier now, so perhaps I’m not the only one who could understand the lyrics.
As I am packing up to leave, the music has changed. It sucks less now, but I think I’ll be going anyway.