Linguistic Anomalies Of Popular Hip Hop: A Bailout For T-Pain?

March 9th, 2009  |  Published in Hip Hop

Have you ever been in the VIP room
of your favorite street club (club-club)?
And you got a shawty on you
kissing on your neck
making you feel like she so in love (love-love)?
Now you done grabbed you a couple a drinks
And you feeling like its about time to cuddle up (up-up)
And you said shawty whats really up
And she takes big sip out yo cup
And she said it’ll be 60 bucks—
Now you’ve officially been chopped and screwed

Apparently, T-Pain doesn’t quite understand the economics of strip clubs: Male patrons typically pay female dancers for their time and their nigh-physical/pseudo-amorous attentions.

Likewise, patrons pay too much to drink liquor; the liquor boost confidence, restores a sense of manly dominance in men who could otherwise be described as submissive to the wiles of well-paid, bouncer-protected women.

Granted, perhaps T-Pain has been lucky enough to go home with a stripper every now and again. (Perhaps T-Pain doesn’t always wear the tophat…) But he certainly could’ve written a much sharper/less economically clueless second verse for such a big single.

It’s as if Wu-Tang had dropped a reference in “Protect Ya Neck” to cable-knit scarves: Should I be worried about my neck, I might have wondered, because it’s cold out? Or because some cold-ass motherfucker’s going to swoop down and cut my neck off with a motherfucking Chinese broadsword? Wu-Tang make their case (my second hypothetical) quite clear via any number of rhetorical strategies.

Put another way, via their collective ellusion of the cable-knit scarf (and ruff, and ascot), Wu-Tang provide adequate negative space for their listeners to envision the proper number and tang of broadswords.

T-Pain, on the other hand, confuses me both as to his ability to impress random women at their job-sites (an ability apparently lacking) and as to his understanding of the workings of his “favorite” club(s). He might have gone the absurdist route of R. Kelly and thrown in a dwarfish bouncer, at least—or a huge country belle with a pie.

But my confusion doesn’t end with T-Pain’s relationship to the idee of a strip club; I’m also confused as to why such a baller, such a rich-ass pop start can’t just pay the sixty bucks, continue to charm his sighted quarry, and convince her to go home with him at a later (perhaps not very much later) hour.

T-Pain, thus, comes off as an ineffective rake, a naive buyer in a commonplace (if seedy) flesh-market, and a quitter.

And yet… It’s a damn catchy song.

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