March 16, 201115 yr I think it should be "which one should I EAT" because bears like to om nom nom on silly little girls
March 17, 201115 yr i think if we all try our worst, and i mean our ABSOLUTE WORST, we could collectively make a song just as terrible as this. :D
March 17, 201115 yr I actually disagree, I think it's so bad it's genius. If I were to try and write a song as bad as this I'd fail because it would be obvious I'm trying to make it bad, this is just on the cusp of that, it appears to be trying to be a good song and it's subtle enough to believe it.
March 17, 201115 yr I normally can tolerate songs with somewhat bad lyrics, but this song is on a whole other level.
March 17, 201115 yr yeah... also I find most songs, the lyrics are the last thing I pay attention to, but the lyrics are so out there and forward that I can't not pay attention to them.
March 17, 201115 yr It's got 3 million more views since yesterday? :freak: I think I'm actually starting to like this song. :|
March 17, 201115 yr wat Escapism and Existentialistm: Rebecca Black’s Friday as a Neo-Marxist Vision of Post-modern American Life (Yeah, Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ark) Oo-ooh-ooh, hoo yeah, yeah Yeah, yeah Yeah-ah-ah Yeah-ah-ah Yeah-ah-ah Yeah-ah-ah Yeah, yeah, yeah Black’s first verse marks the narrator’s birth and entrance into society. The beginning of the song ambitiously represents the violent act of being born - the breathy, LaMaz-esque delivery of “yeah-ah-ah” and “yeah, yeah, yeah” cleverly alludes to the ejection of the narrator from the warmth of mother’s womb and into the cold world. As the verse kicks in, it is time for the narrator to wake up, literally and figuratively, and begin the process of socialization into Black’s drab depiction of American economic life. 7am, waking up in the morning Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal Seein’ everything, the time is goin’ Tickin’ on and on, everybody’s rushin’ Gotta get down to the bus stop Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends) The narrator’s world, from here on out, is dictated by time, Black’s metaphor for the relentless sense of urgency to conform to the demands of her consumerist, suburban surroundings. The lines, “Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs | gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal” mimic the repetition of messages of material desire perpetuated within the suburban middle class, in which, for Black, each member inhabits his or her own private liminal state of constant, unfulfilling desire in the face of utterly futile competition. In this frenzied rat race, we see that the stakes are quickly becoming more and more dire for the narrator. Kickin’ in the front seat Sittin’ in the back seat Gotta make my mind up Which seat can I take? As she waits, the narrator finds that she must quickly choose a seat in her friends’ car - a concrete representation of each individual’s role as a passive economic passenger within the larger consumerist machine. The narrator’s existential doubt is expressed as a question in the song’s chorus - “which seat can I take?” This question is Black’s elegant summation of the modern condition, in which the narrator’s destination has already been determined (death); yet, by contemplating her eventual role as an economic producer, if only for a moment, she truly believes in the illusion of choice and personal agency within a system that will never allow her to become more than a mere passenger. It’s Friday, Friday Gotta get down on Friday Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend, weekend Friday, Friday Gettin’ down on Friday Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah) Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah) Fun, fun, fun, fun Lookin’ forward to the weekend What then, is the narrator’s reaction to the crushing reality of her powerlessness? The only answer is escapism. For the narrator, the weekend, though brief, represents her only respite from the crippling banality of her existence. By partying (we can only assume the narrator intends to engage in lascivious orgies of the flesh), the narrator is able to create a temporal framework to view the world - the narrator dichotomizes the weekday from the weekend, mortality from immortality, in order to give herself the illusion of control over time: Fast lanes, switchin’ lanes Wit’ a car up on my side (Woo!) (C’mon) Passin’ by is a school bus in front of me Makes tick tock, tick tock, wanna scream Check my time, it’s Friday, it’s a weekend We gonna have fun, c’mon, c’mon, y’all Try as she might, the narrator cannot outrun the constant “tick tock” of time, its infuriating and unrelenting march signaling the narrator’s eventual death in her mind. The cyclical and repetitive nature of the rest of the song serve to sonically highlight the tragedy and meaninglessness of narrator’s cyclical ‘danse macabre’ - as much as she never “wants this weekend to end,” we know that her attempts to carve out a permanent, authentic experience for herself are fruitless. She will remain trapped within her mundane, temporal prison on earth, only able to sing and dream of her true escape until it actually arrives – her demise.
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