An Open Letter to Lil Wayne
You disappoint me, Weezy. I had such fuckin’ hopes for us.
I know what you’re thinking: “Whoa, a new PLS post? I totally thought those dudes were down for the count! Now, where’d I put my bong?” And it’s true–this blog has been quiet for a long time, and it may be quiet well into the future. Today, though, PLS is back, because today is a special occasion: The official release of your “rock” album, Rebirth.
I’ve been waiting for this day to come, Wayne. I’ve been waiting for a very long time.
I’ve been waiting ever since I heard the first Rebirth leaks, ever since I first heard you drunkenly quote Green Day in “Hot Revolver.” I’ve been waiting with bated breath, not because I’m a fan or because I thought that this album had any chance of being good, but because I thought that your ill-fated crossover attempt would finally shut up those misguided scenesters who were treating you like the second coming of Tupac. I’m talking about the people who proclaimed you to be the best rapper alive, compared your work to early-20th-century art movements, and said things like “Weezy is pre-Copernicus and Weezy is the earth.” Ugh.
Look, maybe the problem was on my end. Maybe I just have bad taste. All I know is that I felt like the main character from They Live, except that everyone else thought you were an alien and I was the only one who could see that you were really just a better-than-average rapper. I was sure that Rebirth would change all that. Your proponents might not be able to recognize that you had almost nothing new to say, or that (despite your admittedly respectable flow) your main stylistic innovation was making your voice sound like Gollum’s, but no one–NO ONE–would be able to deny the shittiness of songs like “Prom Queen.” A whole CD of such material would make 808s & Heartbreak look like Sgt. Pepper’s. All I had to do was wait until–let’s see, what was that first release date?–until April 7, 2009, when I would at last be able to sit down at my computer and let loose with a golden shower of Haterade.
But sometimes things just don’t go according to plan.
Don’t get me wrong; the album is awful, now that it’s here. I could’ve produced it myself by giving an angry 12-year-old a tape recorder, some AutoTune software and a CD of rejected Limp Bizkit instrumentals. (And yes, I’ve listened to the whole thing.) The hilarity of the awfulness, however, has been diminished by the seemingly endless delays in the record’s release schedule. Back in the summer I was psyched to write a scathing review, but at some point I realized that all of the points I’d be making were moot because even your most hardcore fans knew that this album would be terrible, and were just waiting around sheepishly for the other shoe to drop. Amazon accidentally shipping 500 copies two months early was kind of amusing, but this whole situation has become more sad than funny. It’s like I was expecting to see Rebirth slip on a banana peel, and instead I had to watch it die slowly from brain cancer.
And just to make matters worse for both of us, you’re probably going to jail next week! So not only am I criticizing an album that nobody likes, I’m also making fun of a rapper who for the next several months will have no access to microphones outside of the ones in the visiting room partition. That’s pretty much the definition of kicking a man while he’s down–which I’m obviously still willing to do, but it just isn’t as much fun this way.
So I’ve got a proposition for you, Lil: Spend every moment of your prison term on creating the best rap album ever. Look deep inside yourself, think about the lessons life has taught you, and then write lyrics until your fingers fall off. (I know, you don’t write shit ’cause you ain’t got time, but you’ll sure have plenty of time now, right?) Throw out all the bullshit, keep the hip-hop gold, and then, as soon as your sentence is up, head over to the closest studio and put that shit on wax. If what you come up with really justifies all of the hype that people have thrown at you over the past few years, then I will personally write an apology post entitled “I Am a Foolish Monkey with Lint for Brains.”
And in return for my forthright honesty, I want you to record a polka album. Or at least a single? Please? It’s not easy coming up with topics for these posts, you know.
P.S. Oh boy, I cannot wait to see what shows up in the Comments section.