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Girl rap's burden

If you think about the vocal work of the prominent female rappers of the past 15 years (all two of them: Lauryn Hill and Missy Elliott), something should leap out immediately: they aren't just rappers. Both have sung extensively over the course of their (cooled) careers as hit-makers. Sound-wise, they have little in common beyond genre association, but when it comes to the use of their natural instruments, they're as familiar as mirror images (Missy's more a rapper, Lauryn's more a singer, but they're both impressively ambidextrous). I don't believe this is a coincidence -- I think it's a living example of the old adage that women have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition as men.

Missy and Lauryn they aren't the only ones: Queen Latifah sang her hooks from the start. Lil' Kim sings (albeit embarrassingly). The terminally ignored Smooth wove together singing and rapping to create a matrix perhaps too complex and disorienting to causal listeners. Mary J. Blige memorably rhymed during the title track of her first album, What's the 411?, and then recommenced spitting via her "Brooklyn" persona over a decade later. M.I.A. and Me'Shell NdegeOcello have spent much of their recorded time nestled somewhere between the two forms, in the land of sing-song. Georgia Anne Muldrow last month released her sophomore full-length, Umsindo, on which she mostly sings, but also bursts into MCing without warning. Her rapping adds a jagged texture to this stew of an album, which is so dense that I'm still trying to wrap my head (or tongue?) around it. Flavors flow in and out of a thick, sun-drenched base, which is present enough to make the album feel almost too samey. But maybe it's ultimately cohesive in its anarchy? See? I don't fucking know. Amanda Blank, who just released her debut, I Love You, also vacillates between singing and rapping, but she does neither particularly well. She's a sexed-up descendant of Peaches who seems to prioritize provocation way over craft. Her sound is less skillful ambidexterity and more flailing shit to see what sticks.

(And I acknowledge that plenty of men do the singing/rapping thing -- it's just a greater of concentration of noted female rappers do it since, duh, there aren't a lot of noted female rappers.)

And then there's the much-hyped Lil' Wayne/Drake/Amber Rose (/Kanye?) cohort Nicki Minaj, whose work falls somewhere between Muldrow's and Blank's ways of multitasking. She opens her latest mixtape, Beam Me Up Scotty (released earlier this year), by announcing her desperation for fame: "I know in the end, it's not going to be about my talent, it's not going to be about my connections, it's not going to be about my looks. It's going to be about who wants it the most. And I want it the most." I think she has to believe that because of the three categories, only her connections are truly impressive. For all the big talk, Minaj has very little to say whether she's rapping or singing. And she seems to be no songstress either, as the only Scotty tracks that really stick out are covers of existing hits (although a collection of polished, original compositions is perhaps too tall an order for a mixtape). Minaj won't wow you with her flow, though her rapping voice sounds natural and shows no signs of the underlying desperation. She is competent in metaphor ("I get more head than a pigtail"), but she's also prone to nonsense catchphrases: she refers to herself as Nicki Lewinsky (after, I presume, Monica, means that she wears opportunism on her sleeve right next to the semen, I guess?), and even more often, calls herself "Harajuku Barbie." She never explains the latter (as far as I can tell), which makes me wonder if she knows what the fuck she's even talking about, since she looks neither particularly Harajuku nor Barbie-like.

One thing is clear: she happily submits to the man. In another interlude (and note that you're not doing your job as an MC when your spoken interludes say more about you than your rhymes), Minaj breaks down her dual modes: "They wanna hear me sing. You know, behind every bad bitch, there's a really sweet girlie girl. There's a really sweet Harajuku Barbie. And, now it's time for them to hear me get all nice and soft and moist." I wonder why she's showing her hand like this, but at least there's genuine insight on Minaj's general motivation. She isn't singing because she's happy, she isn't singing because she's free. Her eye is not on the sparrow, it's higher, into that nebulous territory where mega-fame exists that so few get to see. It's all about appeasing "them" and rounding out an image. It's as though this self-styled Barbie is so invested in gender norms, she's embracing the "work twice as hard" thing as an angle, not a lament. You can't knock her hustle, but you can't quite admire it as empowerment, either. She's so hungry, she's eating out of both sides of her mouth.

Do you remember the time? (I don't!)

I'm sifting through a bunch of old La Toya Jackson TV footage (for a reason that, like Janet's ex-husband's old group used to sing, time will reveal), and I came across this clip from a 1989 episode of The Phil Donahue Show that blew my mind. In it, Phil enthuses that the Jacksons:

• Haven't been rocked with scandal
• Aren't on drugs
• Have Joseph to thank for their good fortune

I cannot believe there was a time when these statements seemed more or less true. (It is post-Elephant Man bones, though, so the no-scandals thing isn't entirely true.) I cannot believe that there was a time when Joseph seemed like anything but a giant cockroach made out of leather and opportunism. This is some alternate-reality shit.

Winston's brush with celebrity

Recently, Megan Hauserman (of 5,000 VH1 reality shows including her own Megan Wants a Millionaire) was in New York and she helped make a dream of mine come true: a play date for Winston and her own runty chihuahua, Lily. Lily is my favorite dog in the world, mostly because she isn't like a dog at all: she's more like a guinea pig on stilts with an overly long tongue and a completely zonked out disposition. Like Winston, everything about her screams: NOT OF THIS WORLD.

Above are some selects from the meeting of Winston and Lily. I know it's not tremendously eventful, but I really feel like getting the two together is an event in itself. In my head, this is epic. And if nothing else, at least it proves that Winston is far bitchier than any female dog.

10-second review - G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra

A child playing with action figures would have been more convincingly lifelike.

(Channing Tatum? Seriously, America? He's not even fuckable: I guarantee you he has the smooth crotch area to match his plastic personality.)

Put one hand in the air

Today's Whitney Houston will sit you down and tell you all about her regrets and the winter storms she's suffered and how she's not built to break and why you should take her back like she never left, but nothing we've heard so far in advance of I Look to You has sold the theme of triumphant return as well as "Million Dollar Bill." Telling is one thing (a thing that often feels like dwelling), but "Million Dollar Bill" instead shows Whitney moving on to joy. It's like a sonic handkerchief to blot up the weepy ballads that have leaked in recent months.

It's also perfect. Clearly what Clive Davis, producer Swizz Beatz, writer Alicia Keys and Whitney are going for here is crafting her her own "Just Fine": an age-appropriate uptempo song that the kids can enjoy, too. It could work in a car commercial or at the end of some Tyler Perry movie when everything works out and the family gets down to dance themselves off-screen. "Just Fine" struck me as wishy-washy, though. It was a disco track that was kind of embarrassed about itself, forgoing the heavy orchestration and 4/4 beats it begged for and settling for something hand-clapped and relatively minimal. By borrowing heavily from Loleatta Holloway's "We're Getting Stronger," Swizz has crafted a jam for Whitney that falls right between the Philadelphia sound and disco. The flamboyance is at a surprising minimum. The source material is as unobvious as having a diva like Whitney sing over a track that stomps so forcefully is a no-brainer.

And about that singing, look: her voice is different than it was in her prime. It sounds reedy and weary with age, like sore bones in the morning. The marrow is still there, but what's around it is brittle and splintered. It's probably never again going to flip and soar through the air for us, but that's OK. It sounds lived-in. It sounds human. Back in the day, Whitney didn't have to do so much as part her lips to sound like a million bucks; after all she's been through, that she can feel that way at all is indeed something to sing about.

What's funny about this project is that before it's sold even a copy, its angle is success. Others wait for people to comment on their arrival; Whitney explicitly announces her comeback. If you can stomach the self-celebration, there's something worth admiring in defining success by means other than numbers. (It's also probably wise, considering the state of record sales in '09.) Whether Whitney making music worth listening to again signals an achievement probably depends on how much you care about her in the first place. But I'll tell you what: after all that shit -- the divorce, the crack den, the seemingly destroyed voice, the Ray J -- if even a tenth of the exuberance she projects on "Million Dollar Bill" is sincere, this is all the comeback that she needs.

I'm still standing

"...A blog can’t survive on just one post a day." - Jennifer Senior in this week's New York.

Pfft. Four+ years strong and I'm not getting ready to die any time soon. (Unless, of course, I up my pace to more than one post a day -- then I'd die of exhaustion.)

Small-town pride

Even if it's ultimately impossible to achieve, objective reporting is a noble goal, and I applaud brothers Bill and Turner Ross for at least attempting it in 45365, a documentary portrait of Sidney, Ohio. Perhaps it was the only suitable approach -- they both grew up in the tiny town, and nostalgia can be a game-altering bitch. Besides whatever is inherent in the framing of any portrait, there's little sentimentality to be found here -- the brothers' camera drifts to and from various situations that would seem inconsequential on their own, but as a whole, help define how this town breathes. I'm not sure that there's a message to take away from this besides, "This is how these people live," and I get the feeling that the lack of a didactic point is the point, indeed. There has to be some Frederick Wiseman inspiration going on here, except this is a lot more visually poetic than any of his stuff that I've seen.

Some ridiculous things happen in 45365 -- we see DUIs, a mother-son duo with a drug-buddy rapport arguing over Xanax, a kid getting cuffed after being sentenced to jail time, a couple with matching fried hair dancing to Air Supply, a public-school football team praying the "Our Father" before a game -- but it never feels particularly sensationalized. Stuff happens, the gaze moves on. We may see the subject of the last scene pop up again, we may not. It's a film with no real distinction between what is b-roll and what isn't, and it has the effect of watching a nature documentary without narration. I found myself mesmerized.

It's up on Hulu until Thursday, so if you're going to watch it, watch it now. I tried to embed it here (it worked in preview and everything), but for some reason it's not letting me. See what happens when you follow the Internet broadcast rules? You get screwed. Anyway, if you want a quick taste, check out my favorite scene. It starts at 52:40. Notice how the conversation quickly veers off course and into sex talk, even though the person steering looks to be about 80. Love her.

Best friends for never

Two awesome things happened on last night's season finale of Paris Hilton's My New BFF:

1. Despite having been eliminated last week because he's a boy (even though he's had that penis at lest since the first episode annnd even though Paris picked a boy, Sam, to be her British Best Friend), Stephen won!

 

(I think in addition to being her new BFF, he's also in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Tim Gunn.)

He didn't rejoin the competition or anything: when Stefanie and Tiniecia were standing in front of Paris at the final elimination ceremony, she called out his name instead. Her rationale was, "Although he’s a boy, he’s sweet, kind, cute, funny and real." I'm glad that a little thing like external genitalia didn't hold him back. Since boys are to this show what plus-size models are to ANTM, I found Stephen's win to be particularly triumphant. We should all eat some ice cream and wear (at least) clear mascara in his honor.

But really, I totally queened out and gasped in a room by myself last week when Paris eliminated him, so clearly, I was emotionally invested.

2. When it was down to (what they thought was) the Final 2, Tiniecia attempted the old reality trick of throwing her competitor under the bus via rationale I've never before witnessed: she accused Stefanie of smelling bad.

 

That was seriously the long and short of her explanation as to why Stefanie would make a bad friend. And it was mostly long, as she said it over and over and over again, each time more hilariously:

"She don't bathe a lot. It's not a good smell."

"Instead of saying, 'Stef, you funky, you stanky,' I just was like, 'Stef go ahead and get dressed while you take a bath...you know, you go ahead take a bath and I'll get your stuff ironed.' And she was like, 'No.'"

"I always was throwing her hints like, 'I'll get your clothes ready, you go take a shower.' That's a clue that you have a smell."

"She don't bathe and I throw hints in a nice way all the time. You know, 'I'll get your stuff together and you go take a bath.' She couldn't even take the hints. I wasn't about to be like, 'Stefanie, you funky, come on now.' I wasn't about to do that. I threw nice hints and if she can't take them, that's her being funky."

I love all the self-administered back-pats here. Clearly, Tiniecia is the Gandhi of restraint. This lack of self-awareness is almost good as that in this other quote from Tiniecia:

"Stefanie said I was inconsiderate. I went the fuck off on Stefanie." Yeah, there's no better way to prove your consideration than by going off on people.

Is it any wonder this chick didn't win?

And Steven or no Steven, I think we all (well, all four of us who follow this shit) know who the real winner was:

That's all the time the straight-dude competitor's name was mentioned in a single episode (I think the fifth). They were obsessed with him and he totally gave them something to do. Not that they appreciated it!

Disappointed

Here's me:

 

The reason is I just listened to the new Bad Lieutenant commentary on the movie's special edition rerelease and director Abel Ferrara sounds shockingly lucid. I don't mean to wish substance abuse on anyone, but anyone who knows Ferrara commentaries knows how amazing they can be when he's utterly dissociated (I'm a big fan of The Driller Killer's). There's some nonsense ("Harvey’s one of the great driving actors," he notes early on), but it's mostly straightforward. Bad Lieutenant is really a great movie, which is maybe why he takes this one particularly seriously. Seriously, if you need an excuse to take a shower give this one a spin.

I also watched the Beyoncé thriller Obsessed with full plans to laugh throughout. I could barely pay attention to it. It's like Fatal Attraction, but unattractive. Beyoncé's character is a boring shrew and her husband is as cocky as he is bland. There would be no reason to follow people like this if something remarkable didn't happen to them. Instead of getting all vexed, Scooby and Shaggy-style, they should have thanked his blonde temp...tress (Ali Larter doing a bargain basement impression of Sharon Stone at her most bargain basement) for adding some excitement to their lives.

Even the oft-referenced final showdown between Bey and Ali is surprisingly lame. (Sorry if that's a spoiler, but if you see this movie, you're kind of spoiling your life, so just take it as me doing you a favor.) I remember some review saying that it was totally YouTube-bound when Obsessed landed on DVD, but I found it barely gif-able. I only came up with two:

 

 

Beyoncé is such a monotonous actress that she makes Madonna seem like Sasha Fierce. Seriously, she's the fucking worst and I don't think enough people acknowledge that. Remember when there was Oscar buzz for Dreamgirls? Were people just seduced by her giant ass or what?

Yeah, so that movie's no fun. The most hilarious thing about it is that it ends on a freeze frame:

 

And the reason I find that lingering image funny must be Pavlovian, as I'm used to the canned laughter that usually comes with freeze frames on sitcoms.

I mean, really, there is absolutely no intrigue here at all. This is the most suspenseful scene:

Complete and utter fail.