Okay, well thanks to Printz-award-winning YA author John Green, I now know the pure excellence that is George Watsky. I don’t think I can overstate how much rappers, or slam poets impress me. Good ones can mesh beats with lyrics in a way that fills me with envy, because I am still trying to master talking without tripping over my words.
I haven’t had the chance to listen to all of his stuff, but from what I gather, Watsky writes like a white kid from the suburbs (wait, is that being racist?) who occasionally enjoys clubs and fucking. And yeah, he may be sitting in the back of a limo, women draped on either side of him and playing with a real-life, actual snake in his videos, but he’s still rapping about his sub-par car and comparing himself to One Tree Hill. Which is refreshing and endearing and a whole lot more relatable than the rap I listen to, although I guess that’s because the only rap and R&B I tend to listen to is on the Top 40, or whatever blasts out of my brother’s room and catches my ear as I walk by.