FLO RIDA'S MASTERPIECE
Is it dance music? Yes.
Is it Spring Break nonsense? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
But it’s also like wine and caviar. Something to savor. Something that sooths, uplifts—and yet, magically, gives pause.
Most people assume Flo Rida is an empty jet-setting, ladies man partier. A bigger and tougher and more swollen and ebony version of that annoying Pit Bull. Most people also assume that his music’s only suited for raw, Spring Break let-loosers mindlessly abandoning themselves to catchy tunes, adrenaline and desire.
But they would be wrong because if you listen closely to his masterpiece, “Club Can’t Handle Me,” you will see that he is the real deal, a modern day Philosopher-Knight wrestling with the harsh limits of a vicious and voracious universe (time, nature, etc). And that he is doing this, God-like, by channeling female energy.
***excuse me for second, I'm on the line with Versace talking about how many versions of a white T-shirt we can sell for $100/$200/$500/$5,000/etc etc..... AND NOT NOW, KIM, NOT NOW !!!! Let "the enigma" create. And we'll mate when I'm ready! Ready to create!
[ Flo Rida, the name, is not a play, I say, on the great state of Florida but is drawn instead from his intimate and respectful relationship with women: ie, his Riding the Flo. ]
NOT NOW, KIM, NOT NOW !!!! ... ok, Kim, in the bathroom. On the sink. Yeah, hold on a second while I jot down some lyrics. got my babe by the faucet/and smack that corset/Till I come hard with the shower/I am all the power/Like Jesus on the cross/my fluids are golden/ Golden! (and, really, I've had enough of that Franz Ferdinand shit!!!!)
A quick look at the lyrics of “Club Can’t Handle Me” reveals a shallow self-absorbed star, looking to be as big a deal as possible, and squeezing the center of attention for all it’s worth in comparing itself to Scarface and invoking Paparazzi, ladies and confetti: “You ready? You ready?”. I mean, c’mon! This is macho puffery at its worst. Loud and ridiculous. But if you bear with it, and dig a bit more, you will find an eager, complicated and vibrant intelligence that knows it needs to embrace and cede to its female side.
KIM! ok, yeah, sure, we'll make another motorcycle video! All those haters are probably masturbating to us right now. I bet even the original Jesus didn't have so many haters. And I bet he wishes he was hitting a girl with an ass like yours. Not some flat idiot backside like Taylor Swift! Lou Reed, yes, I am genius. And I will scream them as you scream me. Easy now, Kim. Easy now. Mmmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
And to see the fruits of this compassionate thinker at play let’s take a close look at the careful interaction of male and female voices in “Club Can’t Handle Me:”
Okay, so Flo’s voice (the male voice, the macho) dominates the song, but only if you’re looking at things mathematically (ie, it’s the lion’s share of the voice time, singing most of the lyrics, etc) because, critically, in the song’s cuddly and well-measured heart the female voice seductively and knowingly croons “watchin’ you watchin’ me, I go all out.”
Yeah, she is no mere object of attention, no mere object of the male’s lazy gaze. She is the real power, the light and the fuel, the essential and vital flowing force needed to break the club’s power structure.
And she knows this. And Flo knows. Because “she” is Flo.
.............when I'm inside Kim, and she is my vessel, like I am God's, and I'm pushing her, into new extremes, I feel like I'm Flash Gordon flying with the BirdMen right-bent at Ming's Imperial Fleet. Kim! Kim! You are like the Stations of my Cross!!! My Gucci purse quivers, bubbling, when you come near me, Kim. It's religion and science, my girl!
And, so then, under Flo’s deft guidance (like God’s hand reaching toward Adam’s on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel) male and female voices merge in the title line “Club Can’t Handle Me Right Now” and (as in sex or chromosomes crossing within the cell-club) the great tyrant limits of the club (the universe, nature, time, etc) are smashed into shards of raining music and sweat and glorious club-confetti pieces.
The Kardashians are my disciples. They feed me bread. They call me "Steve" and they "Job" me till I'm collapsed in a fashionable heap. And they feed me grapes, whispering "tastemaker" over and over, as theyd tickle me behind the ears while I'm teaching Kim a new Jesus Flesh move. A gaggle of sheep purring.
But to do this Flo knows it takes two, not just being macho, and that, really, the female is predominant. He is just Riding the Flo. No, he is more so. He is taken into and is actually the real Flo.
Time is a strange thing. Kim is my timepiece. My clock. My perfect clock. The most beautiful woman of all time. Arguably. And who's gonna argue with me??? No matter what kinda jacket you got on. Because I'm too busy writing history! Yeah! And the "real" truth is like Milk Ticking. And I'm the Cyclops walking into eternity, triumphant, adjusting my glasses. And bubbling.
Yes, even in the throes of his greatest and most epic triumph Flo, great and humble, as evidenced by use of the great qualifier “right now,” knows what Andrew Marvell, T.S. Eliot, Homer and all great poets know: namely that “at (his) back (he) can hear/ Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.”
Our Flo Rida is an heroic and tragic player of the highest order. And O, God, so, when he’s in the groove, Riding the Flo. One of our greatest, indeed.
I will help multiply these Kardashians like salt through the sky!
Something to boast to the kids and grandkids about. Bow down all of us. And bend into the Flo.
Kanye West doesn't need any bio. You all know who he is. A God shining among you.