Now that Kevin Federline has risen to the unassailable position of total obscurity, the universe has delivered a new shithead to kick around: SPENCER PRATT, one of the vacuous props on MTV's realityesque moron drama The Hills, has his beady eyes set on a rap career. He's just released a track called "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here," titled after the show on which he now appears. It is, like the very life of the man, a ludicrous pantomime of human endeavor. Do you ever look at your dog and experience a strange moment of defamiliarization, like, "Why does this hairy carnivore live in my home?" I feel the same wonder when watching the uncanny face of this manlike vessel contort itself through the motions of human speech. His rapping is like a dog's attempt at music: without the capacity to understand our art, he can only yap a laughable parody.
Grotesque as the thing is, though, I suppose it would be a whole lot worse for everyone if Spencer Pratt released a rap single and it didn't suck at all.
Tween-punk hitmakers PARAMORE are committing mass career suicide this week: in an interview with Billboard, their drummer attempted to distance the band from the Twilight movie franchise, whose soundtrack propelled them to higher fame. "We don't want to be, like, the vampire house band," he said, expertly flourishing a "like" to hit the target demo. "It was really fun to be a part of that, and great exposure, but I think Twilight [the first film] was it for us." A band like Paramore rejecting Twilight is akin to Young Jeezy turning his back on the block.
If you're dying to see YANNI's extravagant live show but you've spent all your money on healing crystals and paintings of space dolphins, boy howdy, I've got some news for you: "Traveling from city to city, I have become keenly aware of the current economic challenges affecting so many families these days," said the pianist in a press release, his mustache furrowed with concern for the everyman. In response, he'll be offering select tickets to his upcoming tour for just 10 bucks. You've probably got a chuckle halfway out your craw at the mere mention of Yanni, but guess what? His concerts are going to be pleasant as fuck and make tons of old people happy. Consider that and be shamed, hipster.
A new book by rock roadie James "Tappy" Wright makes the shocking allegation that JIMI HENDRIX was actually murdered by Michael Jeffrey, his manager. Jeffrey — who is now dead and probably in no position to sue anyone — is said to have confessed the murder to Wright in a fit of inadvisable candor. The tale is that Jeffrey suspected that Hendrix was going to fire him, so he took out a huge life insurance policy on him and stuffed his windpipe full of pills and wine. One wonders why this terrible confession wasn't brought to light sooner, when Jeffrey was still alive to answer for his deeds — I know roadies are stereotyped as slow, but could it really have taken this dude almost 40 years to figure out how to make money off the tale?