So Chris Brown has joined some little rapper dude for a duet in which the former decides to sprinkle a little light contempt on all of his non-famous listeners for being inept losers who ‘wait their turn’ while he – being the assertive woman-beating, rent-a-sneer rapper-type-singer-thing that he is – proceeds to ascend so stratospherically high that he “can’t even see down” – which must be annoying for him, because from all the way up their he can’t be sure whether or not his contemptuous spit has connected with our stupid unfamous faces. Hence why, I suppose, he’s teamed up with some little rapper dude, who can presumably see down pretty easily, since he’s only about four feet high.
But though Brown might be taller than a child, he can still spend an entire music video frowning with the same intensity of wounded petulance as could even the most spoilt of spoilt six year olds. When not doing this, he jumps around hyper-actively like someone who’s just had a cattle prod thrust up his arse and been asked to make the consequent electrified spasms look as much like dancing as possible. It becomes apparent that Brown is not a happy chappy: in fact, this uppity malcontent is singing this song to show us here haters that though he might have blithely beat up a woman he’s still better than all of us losers because he can, like, sing songs and shit. But singing songs isn’t enough for old Christ-complex Brown. No: he’s tired of being reminded of his wife-beating wankerdom by us nobodies. Christ-complex Brown raps that “I’d be lying if I say it aint get to me, but I’m a champion, a legend, HISTORY”. Fittingly, this last word is contorted by effects to sound demonic – maybe the producer subtly trying to tell Brown that to claim oneself as a champion, a legend and an integral part of history all within the same breath makes one sound a little bit like a man possessed by the evil spirit of Narcissistic Delusion.
But though Brown might be taller than a child, he can still spend an entire music video frowning with the same intensity of wounded petulance as could even the most spoilt of spoilt six year olds. When not doing this, he jumps around hyper-actively like someone who’s just had a cattle prod thrust up his arse and been asked to make the consequent electrified spasms look as much like dancing as possible. It becomes apparent that Brown is not a happy chappy: in fact, this uppity malcontent is singing this song to show us here haters that though he might have blithely beat up a woman he’s still better than all of us losers because he can, like, sing songs and shit. But singing songs isn’t enough for old Christ-complex Brown. No: he’s tired of being reminded of his wife-beating wankerdom by us nobodies. Christ-complex Brown raps that “I’d be lying if I say it aint get to me, but I’m a champion, a legend, HISTORY”. Fittingly, this last word is contorted by effects to sound demonic – maybe the producer subtly trying to tell Brown that to claim oneself as a champion, a legend and an integral part of history all within the same breath makes one sound a little bit like a man possessed by the evil spirit of Narcissistic Delusion.
