Disclaimer: Song is not safe for work. Or brain cells. Proceed with caution and headphones if on the job.
As soon as I hear the beat of this song I instantly get the urge to get up, twirk, and shake what my mama didn’t give me but the Stairmaster helped provide.
This song, like many of the songs I like to dance to, is full of all types of wrong. It’s materialistic and if judging by the bird standard set prior, should probably come with a side of Cajun fries and a buttery biscuit. Of course, these traits tend to make me like a song even more.
I know, I know: Why would I like a song called “Independent Bitches?” I’m a sucker for a beat and a hot hook, ya’ll. I’m not perfect.
But as I give the song a few additional listens (because of course one jig is not enough) I started paying more attention to some of the lines.
“Ricky Bobby, Stanky Legg, Jig Get It Big…”
Alright, I’m with you. That line could go in my official bio.
“My man ain’t here, got a babysitter for my kids…”
Shout out to your cousin for helping the club cause.
“The oils on my eyes, Gucci on my body, shoes is a fool I do a Roberto Cavalli…”
If you like it, I love it, though I wonder if you’re a renter or owner.
“I’m with the gutter mamis, we looking at the brothers like, ‘Why the hell is all these niggas dancing with each other?’”
At this point I’m wondering did she show up to the club on gay night. Babysitters don’t give refunds. But, Candi Red makes her opinions very clear:
“In 2009 that nigga ain’t my man if he rocking a purse and wear the same size pants.”
At this point my reaction was, “She ain’t talking ‘bout me.” I mean, it’s not like I’m walking around like this every day:
At the same time, the song is called “Independent Bitches.” I’m a grown ass man enjoying a song called “Independent Bitches.” Chances are she would likely lump me into that category regardless of whether or not I walk like my wrist just suffered a stroke.
Then it hit me: Oh shit, I sound like black women from circa 1991 to now.
Ya’ll know what I mean. When the word bitch suddenly became the only acceptable way to identify someone with a vagina. And then lyrics that talked about sex in the most vile and vulgar of ways flew as fast from the lips of women as “I’m Every Woman.”
Damn, I am becoming one of them, aren’t I?
“These lame ass niggas independent bitches, too. They get on the flo’ more than independent bitches do. These new breed niggas make me wonder, fag you want my digits but that ain’t my number.”
And as it were with women supporting so many of these rappers, “Independent Bitches” is the sort of song gay men will gravitate to. Well, a certain type of gay man anyway. The type of gay man that likely wouldn’t ask for her number, but that’s not the point.
So for a second, I debated whether or not I’m supposed to stop listening to the song. The beat is so catchy, though. You listened to the beat. Did you not want to jig?! What to do?
She clearly has a point of view about gay men. Yet, she also seems to have a certain view about herself as a woman. She calls herself a bitch boastfully so evidently she’s bought into a mindset men created and instead of challenging it has passed it on to a group arguably viewed similarly like women.
But, wait, wait, wait. The song is called “Independent Bitches” by a woman who calls herself Candi Red. Why look into this any deeper than need be? It’s obvious she has about as much insight as a rock. Should I just appreciate the song for what it is or should I not repeat the mistakes of the women who enabled these disrespectful rappers and created the monsters we have to day?
To jig or not to jig. That is the question, folk.
Now before you get to answering, I do have one thing to note:
“I’m sick of watching niggas switch they hips like bitches. Hit that booty dew and dip like bitches. Then ya know it’s perms and wearing flips like bitches. Then they gon’ get on the flo’ and get tips like bitches.”
Men already are doing that. After a long overdue visit back to New York this summer, after a few extra Long Islands kick it some go-go boy got a tip from me.
My lap, my choice.