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Future – “Where Ya At” ft. Drake – Review

OKAY! Guys! Guys! Alright, so I’m going to just be up front about it right now. This might not be the most professional music review. I write game and film reviews decently enough because I know the terminology of those two mediums. I have no idea what “chord progression,” “tempo,” “age of consent,” “stop you’re hurting me” or “melody” mean.  All of those, I hear them, and the brain just goes to  autopilot. That being said, what I need to say today goes beyond musical knowledge. This is important, guys (and otherkin)! After listening to this song a few times now, I have considerable reason to believe that Future is suffering from some sort of rare, degenerative brain disorder, and I am SICKENED by the fact that we are touting around someone afflicted with a gross cerebral impairment for our own enjoyment.

At first, when I heard this song in passing, I was utterly appalled. “Oh my word, did he just suffer a recent head trauma?” I asked this to no one in particular, as I so often do. Then I took the time to really let the sound of the music and the lyrics soak, and my concern quickly turned to shock and anger. The poor man’s voice is the vocal equivalent of a runny stool passed through autotune. How no one else is picking up on this glaringly obvious red flag is beyond me. I mean, is someone really going to try and tell me that he’s actually a properly functioning human being? Let’s just try and think about that for a second so I can debunk your cruel ass.

Now, I’m not the most well-versed critic of modern American rap music, but I have noticed a recent trend where artists simply let their lyrics dribble past their lazily flapping lips. Normally, it adds a gravitas of luxury – like a morbidly obese Roman cartoon character nonchalantly eating grapes lowered into his mouth by a nude beauty (male or female, your choice). When a rapper expends so little energy in his annunciation, he’s subconsciously saying “I don’t even need to put a modicum of effort into my shit cuz I’m just that golden, son.” Whether or not this makes for good music is a subject of debate that I believe goes case-by-case, but I digress. With Where Ya At, I am not going to accept this all-too-easy explanation for Future. His performance is neither indicative of any swagger nor artistic liberty. Nobody with all the cortices of their brain intact speaks like they have a mouth full of marbles. I mean, seriously, the hook of the song sounds like gibberish from a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.  And I swear, when he gets to the 1:15 mark in the song, all I hear is a drowned Fred Flintstone trying to speak through a waterboarding.

And since we all know that you couldn’t make out the lyrics to this atrocity, I’ve taken the initiative to provide an excerpt from that part of the song (you can thank me right now):

Had to rent that on the dick ass jocking
Running through the pussy like a nigga going jogging
Fuck a little Louis, put it in a bitch pocket
Put a pic with me on the gram now you popping
Where your ass was at when I was trapping in the stove?
Had to scrub to get where I’m at or sell dope
Jackie Chan moves got game in the choke
Gas rolling up and the blunt from the coast
12 jumpers came in the spot to open up the dope
Carlo, Bob, Joe gotta young nigga coughing
Janet out the stove and we still raised honest
Blowing on the O ho we call it full onion

Now, can we say it is a fair and balanced assessment to say that these lyrics would be f*cking indecipherable to anthropologists regardless  of who were speaking them? There are asylum inmates with wall scrawlings written in fecal matter that are more coherent than this. If this is what rap has come to in order to find a rhyme nowadays (which it isn’t, because Future is very, very sick and needs help) well then just jock on muh dick ho and choke me in the stove.

Come now. Where yo grammar was at, Future? Just stop pretending. This charade is fooling no one. We all know that underneath those bitchin’ shades that your eyes are actually looking off in two different directions. The jig is up, homie. (I can call him homie, right? Right? Cuz I’m a thuggish-ruggish bone now, right?)

Actually, come to think of it… is it possible that English is Future’s 4th or 5th language? Because that’s just about the strongest and only remaining argument for the brain bubble deniers at this point. What’s worse is the featured artist on the track. I honestly can’t believe Drake, the blessed, Canadian sweetheart of the music industry. To stoop down to this level shows a real lack of character. What do you stand to gain from rapping alongside someone with severe mental handicaps? Like, way to go, Drizzy, you want to have a foot race with a paraplegic now? (i.e. yourself circa the early 00’s) Would that make you feel good? Would it?

In closing, I sincerely believe that everyone who enjoys this song unironically needs to have an intervention with themselves in the mirror. Seriously, if the word “fire” came to mind at any point while listening to this track and you weren’t referring to what you want to toss this single into – then nothing short of staring at yourself in the mirror and repeatedly asking “who am I” and “what have I become” for at least one full hour can hope to return you to decency. That’s just my unlicensed, professional prescription. (Trust me, I’m a gynecologist.) Regardless of whether or not I’m proven wrong, and my theory on Future’s state of being turns out to be a lot of hot air, then this is still a lifeless, by-the-numbers rap song bereft of any energy or soul.  Future and Drake are just going through the motions with this track, but ultimately will still see plenty of radio play simply because Drake is the Coca-Cola of rap.  And I like some of Drake’s songs. (Over, 0 to 100, and The Motto have some very catchy hooks) but there’s a line separating those who jam out to stupid unintelligible trash  and the rest of humanity. That line’s name is Future.

No hyperbole, full onion.

Obligatory Number at the End: -4.20/10