My lover purchased what he calls his “first white album”—a CD by the group Foster the People. I’ve lived with the gold tooth wearing thug for over 10 years, and with the exception of the singer Adele, he has never expressed interest in music by white people.
At the beginning of our relationship when my lover was unemployed, he spent his days attempting to be the 97th caller to a radio station that was giving out tickets to the album release party for Jay-Z’s “Blue Print” album. My lover won the contest and invited me to attend the invitation only affair that was held in a small bar in midtown Manhattan. We were an early show to the concert, and were the only two people standing on the dance floor below the stage from which Jay-Z performed. By the time the second song was sung, the dance floor was crowded, but B and I had the best seats in the house, just inches away from the rapper’s swinging dick.
Now that I am unemployed with nothing to do all day, I have found myself addicted to the second song on the Foster the People record—“Pumped Up Kicks”. I cannot get the bass from that song out of my head. Every time I hear it, I feel so relaxed. The song has an irresistible Belinda Carlisle feel to it, similar to the way songs by Michael Jackson once touched all our hearts.
My lover informed me yesterday that the song was banned from the radio. It seems the lyrics are about a kid who, upon growing tired of being bullied, pulls out a gun and starts shooting all the kids in their “pumped up kicks”.
“So what?” I asked to my black lover, “How many times has Jay-Z threatened to bust a cap in someone’s ass?”
I realized while putting the song on repeat again, that perhaps the best songs in the world are poems that are sung in a way that are not easily understood by the listener—like “Our Lips Our Sealed” by the Go Go’s which I though for years was called “Alex the Seal”.