Hood Metal Tells The Grammys to Get Fucked

Adele 2012 Grammy Awards

Sure. You can take a row of Pantera fans, rev ’em up with enough liquor and red bull to fuel a jet fighter, and match ’em off against each other in an “Over the Top” style arm wrestling tournament to determine which confederate flag waving, unemployment check collecting asset to society is the mightiest of all, but what about music? How can an artist receive an award based on the execution of something that is inherently subjective? What justifies being recognized as a superior musician to your peers? How can a single board of members collectively evaluate a medium that extends far beyond the radio airwaves we were once all restricted to?

If you’re smart enough to be asking yourself such questions:

A. Your intellectual curiosity challenges you to see the world differently.
B. You already don’t give a shit about the Grammy Awards.
C. You ain’t Hood Metal for shit.

Contemplating such lofty ideas only gets in the way of working game on tattoo-skanks. True BROs know that the best move is to avoid assembling anything that could be considered a take… just let shit play out. Then, when some band of crunchy groovin’ opponents of hygiene (that the one member of your crew who actually reads spotted on Pitchfork) win Best New Artist, you can blow that shit up in everyone’s face like Roy Williams every time he makes some mediocre catch. YOU WERE THERE SINCE DAY ONE, BRO.

Aside from opportunities to let everyone know how tightly cupped your ear is to the streets, The Grammy Awards are fucking worthless. It’s a calculated television entertainment/marketing event designed to wire your perception of music culture in order to dictate your spending. Are you going to listen to a bunch of golf cart cruising douche bags in suits tell you what good music is? What do those fucks at the country club know about blunts, breakdowns and nuttin’ in the pit? These gray-hairs are sittin’ on fat stacks and don’t even own a vaporizer. Clearly, they do not subscribe to the sophisticated ideals of hood.

Even the non-BROs among us have to tire of being annually reminded of who the “Legends of Music” are considered to be, as if we weren’t already aware from having the shit shoved down our throats for decades. Every fucking year they prop the dinosaurs of rock’n’roll up there like clammy, lifeless exhibits at a museum. Stick The Boss up there to uncomfortably gyrate and gargle through some shit about the flag waving majestically in the breeze. Dust off Paul McCartney and stick him in front of a piano for some shallow, by-the-numbers romantic tune. THWACK THWACK! Television fucking history. “PET SOUNDS IS ONE OF THE GREATEST RECORDS EVAR, YO!” Eat shit, sir. If you need to be reminded of who these people are, or think you have refined taste because you consistently regurgitate common knowledge amongst those uninterested in stroking their egos, GET FUCKED.

What’s even worse than watching the Dance of the Dead every fuck year, is when some fresh face emerges with some actual talent. Watching those mouth-breathers climb over each other to get a piece of Adele’s shit last night was nauseating. I’ll tell ya what, sister’s got talent and a shit-ton of soul, no doubt, but worthy of the praise she’s receiving right now? Maybe. Time will tell. Unfortunately, we’re all so desperate for something real and so accustomed to the dog and pony show that when a real artist gets put in front of us, as marginal as their talent may be, we completely lose our shit. We’re too busy trying to figure out who sang the song originally or where the fucking dubstep break comes in to be distracted by the talents (or lack thereof) of those involved.

Speaking of which, when the fuck did the Foo Fighters become this generation’s fucking Led Zeppelin? I’m sure Dream Theater & Mastodon could give two shits and a fuck about getting snubbed, they know the drill with this retarded dance, but if I have to watch you sheep carry Dave Grohl around on your shoulders for the rest of my life, I’m blowing my brains out right now. Apparently, all you have to do is be in a band leading the charge of one of the shittiest music trends in mainstream rock and your shit doesn’t stink for the rest of forever. Don’t get me wrong, Dave Grohl is a legit as shit dood, but our generation’s rock god? These are depressing times.

As for the rest of the show, Bruno Mars was hood as fuck, busting moves so sweet I had to remove my pants and shake my ass on the linoleum. Katy Perry had every dood in the place uncomfortably shifting in their seats as they attempted to hide their massive erections. Katy bounced her perky tots all over the stage in what could only be interpreted as a monumental “fuck you, I do what I want” to Russell Brand. Chris Brown, reppin’ hard for the Hood Metal faithful with his strong ‘bitches speak when spoken to‘ policy, did what Chris Brown does and danced his dick off. Even the Whitney talk was kept to a tolerable and tasteful level. By the way, if you don’t respect Whitney Houston and that timeless, angelic voice of hers, fuck yourself. Bitch was as die-hard as they come.

Bottom line: The Grammy Awards are an event specifically programmed for entertainment purposes. An event that means fuck-all in the grand scheme of the music landscape. Keep that shit in mind next year, that way I won’t have to endure all your butt-hurt bullshit on social media.

Corporate music culling the herd, dinosaurs propped up on stage playing caricatures of their once-great selves, generic rock peddled as greatness… HOOD STATUS DENIED.


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Author: Juice View all posts by

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