What follows is a little of what I’ve seen and heard over the last few days, and a little of what I thought about it. Enjoy; opine; delight in my words.
If you follow my facebook page, you know I stumbled upon Beyonce’s Party last Thursday. Upon further investigation, I found out that I was just mad late. The song had been leaked weeks before I discovered it. However, when I found it matters not. Since I found it, there is no longer country for y’alls lofty critiques of Bey’s efforts. Sure, the album doesn’t hit nearly as hard as B’Day or whatever the last one was called. But who the fuck cares? All I know is that I am a slave to the groove, and very little of what I’ve heard in the last several months has come close to what she does there. Yes, I know Jill Scott’s and Ledisi’s albums were also recently released. And no, I don’t take it back. That 80s slow jam, synthesizer, harmony thing, coupled with “I told my girls you can GETIT!” on Party is indeed greater than absolutely everything. It’s one of those songs you tip your fedora to, and raise your glass to, leaving aside everything else that isn’t the pure, unadulterated boogie!
Also, it’s always a treat to get some fresh Andre 3000 in your system. That brotha may be argyle and buster brown’s out this mug, but he’s also Atlanta, Gawjuh all day long. He muses in defiance of convention, “I ain’t stuttin the beat… talkin ta me? girl, why you fuckin with me? move on, aint nuttin ta see!” Oh, 3 Stacks. Thou art the lovely holy grail of i’mma do this my way.
And finally, I don’t think folk would argue that this is Beyonce’s “best” work, but it’ll definitely do until something else comes along. And by something else, I mean until she thrusts her hips again this way and that, sayin something country and femininity-affirming backed by a solid bass and a catchy chorus. Mind you, I’m not an artist apologist, nor am I a Beyonce “stan,” but in Bey’s defense, I do feel like I get more of a sense of her in 4 as opposed to what we think or wish or want her to be. That notwithstanding, Party is my summer jam. And I don’t mind one bit if y’all sit this one out; your absence on the dance floor leaves more room for my drink and two-step. Here’s the song if you haven’t heard it.
Look at her. Just, look at her.
In The Club: “I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants and take their greasy hair – ew – and cover it up with a backwards cap and we’re supposed to swoon?”
On Saturday night, we celebrated a good friend’s birthday, and her forthcoming voyage to the Republic of Zambia, where she will do the people’s work with the Peace Corps for the next twenty-seven months. I shudder to think of the comforts she is giving up over the next two years, but I know she is uniquely qualified to do it. I wish Miss Nia well, and I am incredibly proud and awed by the work she’s about to do. I am positive that she will leave her mark Zambia, and that the people she will serve will be better having met her. Good luck, babygirl! We love you!
Now that that’s out of the way… there was some shit I saw Saturday that I’ve seen for years but never really had the platform to discuss. Lucky for you, I has that now. Here we go:
Ladies, y’all are way too thirsty for the less than minimal effort these dudes put into wooing you. From attire to attitude, reciprocity is virtually invisible. Ladies get dressed up to go out, dudes just get dressed. I mean, cats aren’t even wearing their flyest fitted cap anymore, or their cleanest white tee! They don’t even dance with you! You drop it like it’s hot in 6 inch pumps, and he stands there with his feet planted and his shirt untucked. Mouth open and shit.
Y’all chase these cats all over the club for them to just stand there. And look atcha. Which, I admit, wouldn’t be so bad — I’m given to voyeurism on occasion. But fuck your roaming eyes if your mouth doesn’t close, and you look like and smell like eighth grade. Sistas, raise your fucking standards. Brothas, step your fucking game up.
I am 3 seasons late on this joint. But in my view, it is a completely absurd, debauched, and delicious way to spend your Sunday evenings.
That is all. As you were.