As much as we all rightly criticize singers who have no business opening their mouths to blow into any instrument besides a..uh, never mind, I’ve got to say, there’s something super ballsy about trying to sing onstage knowing damn well you’re unqualified to do so.
Nicki Minaj’s “Save Me” was one of the better tracks from Pink Friday. No matter what some of your cousins think, Nicki is pretty versatile and very much capable of creating solid R&B and/or pop tracks. When I first got the album I wore “Save Me” out only to later forget its existence until seven minutes ago. What can I say? I prefer Nicki when she’s reading someone for filth or putting her pussy on someone’s sideburns and chipped tooth.
Still, I’m happy to see she’s included it into her set list on her European tour. And not just including it, she is “singing” her heart out. Bless that heart, though, ’cause she sounds like a Chippette with a cold. On a Nyquil high to boot. In spite of all that, I enjoyed this.
I wish I had her courage, or if you’re a knit-picker, delusion.
Before puberty became a dream-slashing punk ass bitch, I could actually sing. I would write fake ass Babyface songs in my room then sing them to people I felt comfortable enough sharing them with. All were encouraging. Then puberty happened and I started to sound like a damn fool whenever I tried to sing something. I may have mentioned it once, thrice, a thousand times on here before, but whatever, it takes some longer than others to recover from their losses.
I could’ve been Jerome! I already had the curly hair, y’all. I would’ve saved Puffy a run to the beauty supply store. Life can be so unfair.
Every now and then I may sing something out loud and sound decent enough for Simon Cowell to tell me, “That wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life, but you should probably run back to your computer ’cause ain’t shit popping for you here.” Technically, that remains enough to make it in today’s market, but it’s just not enough to get me to spam Frank Ocean on Twitter for a better life.
Nicki doesn’t a give damn, though. Just look at her on stage. You can tell she loves the song and you can’t tell Nicki in this moment that she isn’t Anita Baker. Then again, if I walked around on stage looking like Krusty the Clown’s mistress I’d carry on as if I had nothing else to lose, too.
Either way, I’m envious.