Playing with Mopes

OK, I just put the headphones on. Yes, my Kevin Federline record arrived over the weekend and I’m just getting around to listening to it. K-Fed ain’t in no hurry. I am one of the 6,500 humans that bought this record.

Yikes, the reviews are awful. On Metacritic.com, the record only gets a total score of 15. That’s pretty low all right. It’s called “Playing With Fire.” Haters just can’t play with Kevin’s fire.

Alls I have to ask is, why all the haters? This album is pure genius. Pure genius, in fact, has been Federline’s life, lifestyle, and M.O. He is a top-tier conceptual artist. And amen for him. Who else could do this? This record (and subsequent divorce) is testament to his art. It’s his defining moment.

Seriously, growing up on the streets of Fresno, you have to aspire to something, right? You could aspire to be a policeman, an astronaut, the president, a rock and roll star, [hold on, I’m laughing aloud here because this record is pretty fucking bad – oh shit!] a baller, etc. You live so you aspire. I wanted to be a symphonic percussionist or a psychologist. But, I didn’t have the skills of K-Fed. Think about that for a minute.

Mr. Federline’s skills are incredible. It appears he can do whatever he wants: marry and force America’s sweetheart to have two of his children (to add to his collection of seed-spread). Sure he fancies himself a rapper. Don’t we all really? But, he did what any wannabe, suburban, rhyme happy white boy does: he made a CD. But, instead of using Garage Band, he had fantasy camp at a real studio with real engineers and producers. Good for him. Does he owe anyone any advance money? Nope. Brittney paid for it all.

Am I the only person to see this “lifestyle art” for what it is?

So bad that it’s incredible. Reminds me a bit of Dread Zeppelin or when Anthrax rapped with Public Enemy (or when Aerosmith rapped with Run-D.M.C.). Sure, it’s off. Sure, it’s quite bad. But, fuck ain’t it dripping with chocolate, Maraschino cherries, and syphilis.

Federline is the epitome of the American dream. Rags to riches. The “you can do it” spirit. Fame is fleeting. Fame is splendid. Fame carries with it a huge responsibility. The best thing he can do with this responsibility is to ignore it, squander it, and spit all over it. I mean, look at Axl Rose. Look at D’Angelo. Look at Easy E. Okay, sure they have all produced and sold incredible records. But, why work hard when you don’t have to? He didn’t land on a pile of cash. A pile of cash landed on him.

Genius. Terrible album. But, genius.