Like most people, I love Pharrell and attempt to look past his ‘Blurred Lines’ error. While trying to comprehend why he would want to lay an addictive beat on something so horrific, I can feel my body shudder. Nonetheless, I like his stupid hats and perfect skin. Somehow this has given him a ‘pass’. The horrible double negative of life.
While I do adhere to the trap that talking as if you’re on the internet, when you’re on the internet is fine; ‘bae’ IRL is a bit awks. BUT like the clever bastard he is, Pharrell sings it to sound like ‘baby’, so never mind with the spelling guys YOU GET IT. Thanks Pharrell for helping those who don’t know what an internet is. I can hear my mother now, sitting in her living room, accidentally turning on a music channel and wondering where this ‘bay’ is and why a mutant woman/baby hybrid is causing her breakfast to move into her mouth.
As usual, it’s catchy, he’s catchy, the girls are catchy, the location is fucking catchy, the chorus is a catchy extravaganza…and so on.
So why am I writing this? Especially a music review post by Peatree Bojangles? What’s happening? Has the world gone topsy turvy? No. Again, I am fueling my hatred of society through the form of Miley Cyrus.
Here she comes, hide your world, here she comes again.
Wearing cut off jeans, which, in my eyes is THE WORST THING TO HAPPEN TO FASHION SINCE BUMBAGS. Nonetheless, she can dress as she wants, what she can’t do is interrupt my happiness with her presence. I don’t know if you’ve noticed the news lately with all the things happening, signifying Armageddon, but there was a story about a woman who sued a cigarette company for letting her husband get addicted to their cigarettes and eventually die, without HELPING HIM OVERCOME HIS ADDICTION. She won $23.6 BILLION.
Our possibilities our endless. Let’s not stop there. Fuck you cigarette company for killing my husband. Fuck you Miley for destroying any hope I had on life. Stop the disease before it spreads.
She throws herself into our view, tongue protruding from her mouth into our consciousness, licking up all our hope, devouring our happiness. Replacing it with seedy uncomfortable visions of your dad wearing his cap backwards and thinking he’s now cool; talking to black people at work while chewing gum.
I find myself thinking of that moment when you drop acid and you have that split second of an out of body, as you realise you’re getting high and you’re not sure if you only think that because you’re high and your mind stops working and your eyes turn inwards as you examine these thoughts. Seeing Miley’s hair gave me the same feeling.
‘There’s something…no…what is it?’ I squint, move my head into my shoulders and feel myself falling into my own body. ‘It’s a hair…it’s a hairstyle’, I eventually mumble. I look away from the screen and out the window. There’s a tree outside. It nods in the wind, agreeing with me. ‘Help me, tree’, I feel the words escape me. Turning back to the screen, she’s not there anymore.
Did it happen? I play it again.
Yes, it did.
This isn’t a music review. This is a scathing review of Miley’s hair.
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