Rebecca Black’s Song Friday Isn’t Too Bad

Dude, your face.

Within the past few weeks, roughly 30 million people have listened to Rebecca Black’s song Friday. If you’re not familiar with Friday, it’s an inspired composition about a teenage girl who confesses her love for a certain day of the week while encountering typical adolescent dilemmas such as having to decide what seat to sit in when being driven to school by friends.

It’s crap, admittedly, but then again, I think pretty much everything is crap. Other, less bitter people, on the other hand, tend to have a much higher tolerance for crap, hence why Akon has managed to succeed in the music industry despite looking and sounding like a constipated chipmunk that’s just received a dirty sanchez, which is partly why I’m surprised people seem dislike Friday so much.

Perhaps I’m missing something, but why is Friday more ridiculous than, say, Jessie J’s Do it Like a Dude or anything The Black Eyed Peas have released in the past 8 or so years? Why have people suddenly developed standards? And why are people berating a 13-year-old girl when they could be ridiculing this:

Or this turgid, wannabe ’80s shit that Sony have spent stupid amounts of money promoting:

Or, more to the point, anything by Soulja Boy, the delusional, illiterate peanut-head, whose efforts to write mindless party anthems have somehow ended up sounding unintentionally avant-garde. How is Friday any worse than the Fruity Loop balls that he constantly spews out?

Are people not familiar with his video for Gucci Bandanna, a video so paralysingly shit that while watching it I had to physically stop my brain from attempting to abort itself?

The video for Gucci Bandanna opens with Soulja and a gormless friend sat in a red convertible. Soulja is on the phone, trying to convince people to come to his party.

“Chowder,” says Soulja, greeting the person on the other end. “What’s up, man? What’s up, ma–eh! Be-be-be-be! We throwing, welcome home Soulja Boy, welcome home Gucciman party, man.” He pauses for a moment. “YEAH! At the park! Yah! Yah! Bring ya Gucci bandanna, man. Bick.”

Now, it’s difficult to know if this is scripted or whether Soulja’s improvising here, but either way, it’s awful. Although, perhaps not quite as awful as the song that kicks in moments later, MIDI piano and all.

Ecstatic at the possibility of Sean bringing his Gucci bandanna to the party, Soulja boy begins to drive around in his red convertible, his eyes fixed on anything but the road, waving the tasteless, golden shit that’s suspended around his neck for all to see. And just in case you weren’t sure who to direct your hatred towards, Soulja Boy’s gaudy cluster of offensive bling spells out his name.

Yes, very good.

"But I made this badge..."

In a vain attempt to seem cooler than he actually is, Soulja’s friend appears to have fastened a child’s sheriff badge around his neck.

“Eh? Gucci bandanna, gucci-gucci bandanna,” sings Soulja Boy, over and over and over and over and over again for what seems like forever, occasionally stopping to rap lines like, “Gucci Shades, but they still can’t hide me. Hit the club, eighteen with no ID.”

"Y'all look at me! I'm Soulja Boy! Everbody do the Soulja Boy!"

"Ya'll, did anybody order a Soulja Boy!? No?"

Now brimming with confidence, Soulja and his friend arrive at a car park where annoyed onlookers have assembled. Clearly pissed off at the bandanna waving imbecile, they’ve gathered around in a semi-circle, ready to unleash their Soulja Boy induced fury upon him. But, of course, being the delusional peanut-headed tit that he is, Soulja Boy steps out of the car and starts flailing his arms around.

God, you douche.

Suddenly the crowd transform into small 9-year-old girls, and Soulja Boy leads a mass dance off and tribute to a Gucci bandanna — or Sean, possibly.

These are scenes that leave me with some very dark thoughts. On the one hand, I find the image of Soulja waving his hands around like a dying otter amusing, but I’m also aware that Soulja Boy sells a lot of records and that a lot of people have no doubt watched the video for Gucci Bandanna and thought, “Wow, this guy’s pretty good!”

I would have presumed that this would have received the same treatment as Friday has, but the online response to Gucci Bandanna has largely been positive. Sure there will always be negative comments like, for example, “GO AND DIE! PEANUT-HEADED TIT BAG FUCK!” and “One day you’ll pay for what you’ve done, you talentless, peanut-headed sack of crap,” but Soulja, for whatever reason, hasn’t received the same level of criticism as Rebecca Black.

Now watch his video for Donk and tell me why that’s the case.

It’s inexcusable, surely? “She’s gotta donk” he’s singing there, while he does a stupid little dance. She’s got a donk. How can anybody possibly defend this?

Well, one of Soulja’s many followers, Youtube user woodstockroxx, who’s comment is currently rated second highest on the Gucci Bandanna video, does defend it, saying: “If you cant play [Soulja’s music] in the car full blast your life sucks. quit wasting time hating fun songs. not every song is a lennon/mccartney masterpiece. SWAG”

And actually, to be honest, I think that is a good point. Not every song can be a masterpiece, so why not listen to a repetitive collection of annoying noises? Let’s all put on Soulja Boy’s latest offering in which he raps about his latest bowel movement over a looped sample of a chorus of crying babies? Hey, not everything can be Dylan.

I can’t even begin to comprehend how embarrassing it would be to have Gucci Bandanna or Donk blaring out of my car stereo, driving around feeling like a shamed sex offender. And chances are that having the mechanised voice of Rebecca Black coming out of my speakers wouldn’t be that much less embarrassing either. But at least Friday is marginally more profound that “She gotta donk.”

Rebecca’s only 13. If people want to laugh at crap music then stick on any mainstream radio station. Earlier today I heard a song with the chorus, “She’s got nothing on but the radio.” I mean, can you not work with that? That’s pretty horrendous, right?

Peace, y’all! SWAG. Bick.

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