Today The Observer has a piece on—wait, no, I’m not going to name him, if you want to find out who it is you can just click the link, but suffice it to say that it’s another later-generation famous name who fancies himself a potential hip-hop star, like that actor’s son who jumped on the “Black And Yellow” beat earlier this year to much giggling from the general population, or the rapping grandson of that rock and roll bard. Would the burgeoning careers of these rappers be worthy of hundreds-of-words profiles if not for the famous names attached? Perhaps; the Observer profilee has a co-sign from the much-blogged about Torontonian Abel “The Weeknd” Tesfaye, who apparently has amassed enough Cobain-like influence over next-big-thing-crazed A&R guys to get his pal signed to Warner. But would Tesfaye know who this young man is if he’d had a father not known for hawking polo shirts and cologne? Oh, the burning questions of our time!
You may not be surprised that there is a point at which the Observer story refers to “haters”—Gawker, specifically, which of course relishes the traffic that jumping on the “ooh, privileged people rap!” bandwagon provides. Let’s just pause for a moment and talk about how without “haters” (ooh, does that word burn me up inside) these scions of privilege gone street would be even more of a footnote than they already are; chalk the outsized attention they receive in comparison to any other musician who might not have as much branding up to incipient class war and/or those people who still have office jobs to go to being really really bored and in need of channeling their vague, if ever-simmering, dissatisfaction with their lives into rage at something, anything. What better way to do that than to get pissed off at someone who’s completely unaware of the machinations of privilege that got him to a point where he can get away with idly fantasizing about acquiring security-camera footage of him trashing a studio—he “peed in workers’ coffee cups, pushed over bookshelves, ‘drew dicks everywhere’ and drizzled honey on keyboards”—for the purposes of making a bad-ass music video? You don’t even have to know his music to say he sucks!
Of course, this beleaguered up-and-comer can give just as he can get. To wit:
“Fuck those people, you know?” he said, leaning into The Observer’s recorder. “Fuck y’all, like, suck my dick. Literally. They know who they are.” He says he makes music for three people–himself, his fiancée and his father, “a groupie,” to whom he sends a Zip file of 20 new songs every other week.
Alone this enticing offer would be just your boilerplate “wahh, not everyone loves me” lament, but in a story where the subject also notes that alcohol and coke are “kind of for faggots,” but he’s not homophobic because “Mad people in my family are gay”? It’s gold. Whoever writes the next profile of an American titan’s rapper scion (because you know there will be more, because this is the sort of world we live in now) better step up their quote-eliciting game.