“I just finished watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Are you going to buy Lawrence’s album?”
My friend asked me this late last night after consuming what I assume was her third class of wine. I responded accordingly: “Fuck no.”
I’m sure that response doesn’t surprise anyone who reads this site regularly.
It’s not that I have anything against Lawrence personally. Actually, he seems quite nice so I’m glad that he’s able to live out his singing dreams outside of the occasional solo in the gospel choir. At the same time, though, he didn’t give me much of a reason to take him seriously as a singer during his first televised performance on Bravo’s Watch What Happens.
Instead of actually singing the song, Lawrence kind of just stood there, posed, and then waved his arms like he was directing the landing of Soul Plan as Andy Cohen eagerly cheered him on. And once you factor into the costume he wore it’s no wonder why more people found themselves curious about his duct tape game than his artistry.
His antics reminded me of those drag shows I used to see at certain gay clubs in Houston. For those of you unaware, just picture men in 1980s themed prom gowns doing karaoke to Patti Labelle’s version of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” and/or some some gospel song for singles in a “hot sweaty black club.”
This was often the part of the night where I peaced out and rolled on to Whataburger for a fish sandwich and chicken strips. Sometimes those shows can be entertaining, but often I just find myself confused and uninspired. It was easy for me to pretty much ready to dismiss him based off that.
Then I heard his single in full.
I have to say, this is actually catchy.
You can tell that this little ditty was penned by Kandi Burruss. The thing about her songs is that no matter what you actually think of the song itself, the shit will be stuck in your head and haunt you all the same. That’s why for the last half hour I’ve been walking around my room and going, “I’m not your closet freak! I’m not your closet freak!”
Burruss has beaten me again.
I still tend to cringe a little when Lawrence asks that he be referred to as “Miss Lawrence.” Generally speaking, I’m so exhausted by the whole down-low hysteria. I definitely hate to hear Andy Cohen say things like, “All the gay men in Atlanta wear heels” — a sentiment kind of encouraged.
Still, at least Lawrence can actually sing. That’s more than I can say about half these R&B singers out now who sound like their vocal chords were molded in a running garbage disposal. Plus, he doesn’t treat the idea of launching a singing career as something you merely do while waiting for your assistant to finish your wine run the way Kim Zolciak does. That’s something. Oh and he’s like nice. Wait, I already said that, didn’t I?
Okay, I’m running out of compliments. Basically are far as gimmicks go, males with vagina envy disclosing information regarding secret dick downs isn’t particularly stepping outside of the box as some (that being Kandi on the season finale of The Real Housewives of Atlanta) would have you believe. But, I suppose if you’re going to go that route the least you could do is execute it well. Lawrence along with Kandi and co. did just that.
They’re still not getting my $9.99, though. Yeah, that’s pushing it. But, if Lawrence goes far with this Sasah Franks meets Lady Gaggy gimmick then gon’ head. It was only a matter of time before we got another “Supermodel (You Better Work)” anyway.