“I was born like this, since one like this, immaculate conception.
I transform like this, perform like this, was Yeshua’s new weapon.
I don’t contemplate, I meditate, then off your fucking head.”

This song is garbage.


All those who suggest it is a great song by a great artist, a testament of lived experience, are wrong.

It’s garbage.

7-11 taquitos.

Worse, maybe, the music is an annoying, ear-swatting, repetitive screech from some keyboard pressed play then left on repeat.

The lyrics a reflection of a culture, debased.

No — a culture debased, swallowed whole, regurgitated, then re-packaged for consumption.

The world should not be this.

Pop music form has regressed, like so much else. Deconstruction has set us backwards, not revealed fuller truths. Pop music reached its zenith in the late 1960s, rock music in the 1970s, rap in the 1980s and we’ve tried so hard to find the next, failed, but kept trying, and we had our punk and rage and metal and the many nonsensical iterations of metal and country rock and country pop and rap soul and pop soul and grunge and old school but they all kept slamming up against one another, all trying to sound new, and failing, because the form itself can’t be made greater, there can only be something to replace it, except the machine that is commerce refuses to let go, fearful of losing any money and so just as painting was doomed to never reach greater heights in the 20th century — after photography and literal moving pictures were born — so too is pop music likewise now just poses, winks, nods and fuck yous to the establishment, to the fans, the believers.

No, Taylor Swift is the equivalent of your dad starting a conversation with you by discussing the most recent favorable outcome of your favorite sports team. Comforting, possibly inviting, but not the point.

We know we must go forward and we have no idea what that means.

Pop music was a gift by and from and, sadly, to the 20th century.

All we’re doing now is pretending garbage like “DNA” is listenable. Art.

“See, you’s a, you’s a, you’s a—
Bitch, your hormones prolly switch inside your DNA
Problem is, all that sucker shit inside your DNA
Daddy prolly snitched, heritage inside your DNA.”

A front, a pose, playacting, the “artist,” as fully realized, human wrecking crew, manifesting ripples in the force, all the world pays attention.

It’s false. It’s shit. Don’t give it any part of you.

“I don’t contemplate, I meditate, then off your fucking head
This that put-the-kids-to-bed
This that I got, I got, I got, I got
Realness, I just kill shit ’cause it’s in my DNA
I got millions, I got riches buildin’ in my DNA.”

Everybody chasing money, whole world in debt.

This is what we’ve allowed our world to become.

Debased, violent, greedy.

And still can’t come up with a way out.

Lamar’s talent is to feast on this shit and puke gold. Yours is not. You fool yourself to think otherwise.

Lamar excels in this world, bad as it is, rotten as he knows it is, and you are welcome to embrace that rottenness, to try and be like Lamar, except fail miserably at it. Or, you can take another path, a path that leaves this rot behind.

Lamar has a gift. The word flow, punctured beat, syncopated rap, the phrases, the rhythms, the repeats, all coming so fast, so strong, you hear his beauty poking out from beneath all the excess, and all of it wasted in the flesh, in the cash, in the now, with all that anger

This won’t take us forward.

Create something beautiful.

But if you can’t create something beautiful, probably that’s because this reality won’t allow it to come to life.

We’ll have to change this reality.

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