A post in our ongoing series from haywirehiphop.com
Music is inherently designed to surprise us, to acknowledge our existing expectations and then surpass them, thus guiding us as listeners toward the next song and making us yearn for further advancement of the musical product at hand. Think about that for a second: music would be nothing if we didn’t listen to it, and—in theory—we wouldn’t waste our time listening to a song or an album if we already knew exactly what it would sound like. A “sure thing” is not necessarily welcome to the critical listener because in music the sure thing is boring. We demand that our artists develop, to take the material they release and move forward—that’s the sentiment that ultimately makes new music new.
With that in mind, I offer this disclaimer: I tried. I tried to channel my intellectual, thoughtful, critical listener when Birdman released “Y.U. Mad” featuring YMCMB militia members Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj earlier this month. The first official single off Baby’s upcoming album Bigga Than Life, which is set for a November 22 release, “Y.U. Mad” was, well, quite beyond maddening. (You can grab it on iTunes here if you so desire). It was the type of music about which I struggle to say anything remotely constructive, which, sadly, seems to place it in the same category as the overwhelming majority of Birdman songs. Allow me to clarify that statement: this is not a generic “Birdman sure fell off!” piece; it is a piece that, as part of its underlying argument, rests on the assumption that Birdman was never particularly good at all.
So what’s wrong with that? There are plenty of rappers who, quite frankly, just aren’t very good (hey Soulja Boy!). But even those hip hop artists—a term I use loosely here in reference to the creator of this masterpiece—can point clearly to the source of their relevance or make a reasonable case for that relevance. To put it simply, Soulja Boy had hundreds of millions of people around the world doing some wack-ass dance four years ago and is thus ingrained, rightfully or not, into hip hop’s cultural fabric.
But all of this begs the question: what exactly was Birdman’s big hit song again? Sure, “Money to Blow” and “Pop Bottles” were good songs but were solidified not by Birdman’s bumbling verses but rather by the guest appearances of his Young Money label mates—Drake’s hook and verse shine on “Money to Blow,” and Stunna actually declares on the Weezy-assisted “Pop Bottles” that “junior is the best.” Going way back, Baby did help deliver the Grammy-nominated (yes, you read that right) “Still Fly” as a part of the duo Big Tymers with Mannie Fresh, but the Big Tymers’ hits were few and far between, and the duo failed to gain much more than a regional foothold. (The video for “Still Fly,” however, does feature a legitimately Lil Lil Wayne and is thus worth posting below.)
That, then, is Birdman’s résumé. A solid but not spectacular stint as part of Big Tymers, a stint that was over by 2005. The founding of Cash Money Records. A handful of Young-Money-aided hits since 2007. No number one solo albums, although his collaboration album with Lil Wayne, Like Father Like Son, did top the charts. And, oh yeah, he’s 42 years old.
The unpacking of Baby’s, uh, achievements begs a much bigger question: what the hell is he still doing here? Jay-Z and Dr. Dre are still relevant after 40 because they’re hip hop legends (and because we’re still waiting on Detox, but that’s a different story). Birdman is no legend, and his pathetic lyrical attempts to anoint Wayne as the king and pass a torch of sorts that he most certainly didn’t have in the first place prove as much. Funny that, in an industry where braggadocio and swagger reign supreme, Birdman rarely drops the “I’m the best” routine on tracks like the vast majority of his peers do. Instead, his musical content drifts back to pretty much the best thing Baby has going for him: his nine-figure fortune. Where the fuck did this man get $100 million? Lord knows. And why does a man of such wealth tweet like a 12-year-old girl? Kidding aside, has this rapper actually made any real dent in the rap game over the course of his 15 year career? Why the hell does Birdman matter?
Many of the above questions are far beyond the scope of my own understanding. Moreover, I’m certainly not one to sit at my computer screen bitching about Birdman’s unseemly fortune—that’s called hating, and I see no reason to hate on a man who made it. The bewildering piece of Birdman’s puzzle is just exactly how he made it. He can’t rap. Let that settle in. Go listen to one of the aforementioned songs if you must. But trust me, he can’t rap. If anything, Birdman is a hanger-on who formed a couple of partnerships that were either very shrewd or very lucky, depending on how you choose to view the man’s business insights. For over a decade he’s been practically a father figure to Lil Wayne, a veritable hip hop cash cow and, perhaps more importantly here, a rapper who is all about his team, his crew, his family. And, while we don’t quite know Birdman’s role in the day-to-day operations of the YMCMB machine, the group has signed some strong artists and does hold its place at hip hop’s forefront.
Yet YMCMB’s other-worldly commercial success only complicates the already strange flight path that represents Birdman’s career. If anything, he stands as hip hop’s Horatio Alger figure, perpetuating a myth that you can make it in hip hop without actually being good at hip hop. If Birdman can rap poorly and without enthusiasm and make nine figures, then why can’t we all? Perhaps Baby money is far more attainable than it appears.
But on the other hand, perhaps Birdman is merely rap’s richest and most famous hanger-on, the creepy uncle at the YMCMB family barbeque who forever insists he’s the right age to play wiffle ball with the kids—and forever strikes out. But at this point, the strike outs are beside the point; Birdman clings to hip hop relevance in spite of his music, latching on to the more successful acts around him and trying desperately to live the Miami high life with a team of young, flashy black men in a way that puts even Nevin Shapiro to shame. Diamond-studded YMCMB shirts, courtside seats for Heat games, that “Pop Bottles” lifestyle—it’s all there for Birdman, and it shows no signs of going away no matter what music he puts out.
With all of that in mind, I pledge to listen to Bigga Than Life as a critic of music, and to listen with an open mind. But at the end of the day, the musical content of that album—or of any of Baby’s work for that matter—is inconsequential. Birdman’s music doesn’t matter, but Birdman does. Maybe that’s why we’re all mad.
