More on That

Now that I've presented the evidence, I'll make a statement.

At one time, I was a fan of the Bad Boy Rocker in question. His Debut Solo Album was quite lovely. I thought his songs were well put-together, heartfelt, and well-sung. I listened to that record incessantly.

Then, something changed. First, I got a vicious tummy flu. I was listening to that record on my discman on the subway when I was struck with an imminent need to projectile vomit. I nearly fainted from trying to keep it down. I managed to hold it till I got home, but I never could listen to that record again.

That pretty much suffices as my reaction to all of Bad Boy's subsequent work.

It's not that he grosses me out by being 'cake-in-the-rain' bad, 'songbird' snoozy, smoove, power-ballady, or mean. It's that he's banal with smarts. His second record felt fast and easy. A song was there to play a role. "This is the gospel song. This is where the organ comes in. This is where the black backup singers come in." The song worked in the most basic sense, but I felt I'd been had.

Yeah. I guess it's personal. I demand more. I want surprises. I want excellence, or at the very least, a hint of dignity.

So when a writer calls an artist on the carpet for letting a show spin out, good for him. We should stop rewarding the clown for taking over the class.

On the other hand, everyone paid to see the clown do his clowning. Which can be quite good at times.

So I feel caught between being the parent and child. "Honey, we know you're capable of doing good work if you just put some effort into it." "Oh, Mom! Girls just wanna have fun . . . "