In The Devil's Hands Are Idle Playthings, the season four finale and the-then last episode of Futrama, Bender contemplates the differences between irony and coincidence. The musical climax of the episode sees Bender reciting the true definition of irony in song: "The use of words expressing something other than their literal intention. Now that is irony!"
Good Time, the return single of Paris Hilton who is now signed to Cash Money Records, is the kind of song that falls under the coincidental bracket. There is no intentional irony here. If the track was drenched in irony, it'd be one of the greatest comeback tunes in pop music - reviled by the majority, but for those in the know who can see and listen to the perfected trolling (i.e Kanye West's Bound 2 music video), it'd be a masterpiece of the art form.The unfortunate case for us all is that Good Time isn't an ironic look at the factory-produced club themed tracks that are drummed into the earlobes of the defenseless public. No, my friends - not in the slightest. It's a catastrophic disaster of epic pop proportions and a defining showcase of how far following the trends of the now can take you.
To add to the obnoxious beat, an ear-grinding Chipmunk-like vocal is unleashed on the already overwhelmingly horrendous mixture, which is actually Paris singing about how tipsy she is, while asking for people to not hate on her.
What the fuck is up with the shout-outs to the haters, or the assumption of people constantly hating, anyway? I like you Paris, I really do, but when you sing for me not to hate on you, my mind is inclined to think the opposite, particularly if you have accompanied your passionate plea to your haters, who are totes killin' da vibe, with this. You've put your six-inch heeled shoe deep in that pile of shit.
Regardless of how Stars Are Blind, Paris' debut single from her 2006 album, is a carbon copy of every other puppy love song of the time without an inch of sincerity, at least it had something going for it. Sure it is a tedious effort and whiffs of that same old trite stink of pop, but it is nowhere near the banality scale of Good Time. In Stars Are Blind, Paris comes across as slightly interested in her effort to talk about her paramour. As said, it isn't necessarily sincere, but it's innocent enough and a bit stupid and that's totally okay. It's not loathsome as I am sure many others have said, it's just not very good.
Good Time is another shade of Paris. Reduced to some coked-up haze, she desperately tries to convince herself of how much fun she is having, repeating the same tired lyrics over and over again which ends up feeling like the song is on an infinite loop because it's still going and will someone make it stop soon? Please? And if things couldn't get any worse, in enters Lil Wayne - the king of the feature and the ever-questionable lyricist.
"I'm fucked up/I can't tell what's, what", Lil Wayne raps; the first line in his mildly short and confusing verse where he rhymes suck and fuck together because what good would come of it if he tried to widen his vocabulary?
While Lil Wayne's fucked up quip can be associated with the track so far, it is rather fitting to what is taking place now that Paris has stepped into the background to let her Cash Money counterpart take the brief lead. He does sound fucked up - completely-off-his-balls-fucked-up - with not an inkling in his vocally-wheezing tone of how much his verse has strayed off course (and into another dimension) with the beat. I mean what the actual shit, dude? I know it is probably too much of me to ask for an inch of quality from someone who put his name on this, but man, Wayne you've never been this off point.
Mate, seriously - I'm talking to you on a level. What. The. Actual. Shit. Dude?
Through the uncomfortable sexual banter that has become a key component to Lil Wayne's back catalogue, he tries to be amusing - or something of that ilk - since his rhyming skills aren't exactly in his favour, by asking Paris, "do you speak French?"
An interlude before I carry on:
Alright, I'm good, I'm good. Let's carry on.
With that, it's safe to say that I have nothing left in me anymore. Even typing about this abysmal concentrated-shite is driving me into a maddening spiral of craziness that I feel I will never come back from, so let me draw this final curtain to a close so I can keep whatever bit of sanity I have left, shall we?
Good Time is a truely, utterly hideous abomination. If I can scramble together something slightly positive about anything - whether art or otherwise - I'll do my very best to. I can't here and I know I should feel sorry about that, but I don't. Everyone involved should be ashamed of themselves, that's right - ashamed. You heard me.
But why let this bad experience be a negative one, amiright? There is always the possibility of learning something worthwhile from a torturous moment of my life, such as this musical shamble that is continually sending wave after wave of shivers down my spine.
What did I get out of this adventure (or more appropriately titled, nightmare), do you ask? Well, if I hadn't searched up on Paris' bilingual abilities, than I wouldn't have been aware of her naturally curly hair. I think we can all collectively agree how much of a better, wiser person I am now thanks to that vital, life-altering information.
It's a hard knock life, babes.