Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Dear John Legend,

 Dear John Legend,

Hey girl.

I know you've fashioned yourself to be some sort of genre-wandering soul singer, fooling women with rusty gaydars from Philly to Barcelona. That's fantastic. I applaud your ambition. Really, I do. That you offer a testosterone-lite alternative to the lesbianic wailings of Adultress Keys does not go unnoticed. Your love for sparse, piano-backed production certainly provides you a lane in which you are free to roam without the worries of choreography, sex appeal, and vocal training. Cheers to you, little man.

Whether you are aware or not, society generally appreciates your offerings to the musical landscape. One piano-humping songstress is enough, so thanks for knowing your limits.

Your latest release, Wake Up: John Legend and the Roots, your joint venture with Questo and Co. should have been a fool-proof affair. Eliminating songwriting from the equation to revisit soul classics should have been a hip-switching walk in the park, right? In theory, yes. Execution is an entirely different situation. (Original song fail: "Shine", performed on Leno, HERE)

I'll just come out and say it: You, little man, have gotten beside yourself. Somewhere along the way, one of your breasted arm accessories has gassed up the space beneath your mini-fro and lead you to believe you were a formidable, real vocalist. If you want to beat on keys and bless crowds with your throaty, oldmanconstipationvoice and churn out self-written tunes for the ladies, go for it. Skip to your motherfucking loo, darling, and knock yourself out.

Hell, continue down the path left by Alexander Adultress Keys' manfeet and give us white-woman-world-pop if it makes your ovaries tingle.

What you should never attempt, little man, is to even liken yourself to legends like, oh, say...Mr. Donny Edward Hathway.

After his pear-clutching rendition of "Earth Song", one thing is clear: you and Usher have been getting lifted in the powder room. Again.

We know the Roots can generally do no wrong. Any band that can support Jill Scott's king-sized voice and ego must be talented. But you don't have that problem. Your issue: someone has it out for you.

Someone wants you to fail. Obviously. To suggest that you can do more than cast your Maybelline-rimmed eyes upon a Hathaway record--inside its sleeve--is an insult to the music community, me, and gayfaced entertainers worldwide.

That nobody hit you with a flying leg drop while you recorded "Little Ghetto Boy" is further proof of a conspiracy. Hearing it today, I was tempted to consult Google for a direct line to Homeland Security. Fuck Osama, Obama needs to be on the lookout for shit like this.

The Original:

The Offense:

Heaux. Please.

The spirit of Wyclef's epic slave cry lives on through you.

Donny Hathaway: legend.

you: second-rate diva who can't sustain

Please realize that your range can fit inside your favorite tube of L'Oreal.

You've got some nerve, little man. My suggestions:

1. Cut the hormone dosage in half.
2. Treat yourself to a Brazillian wax.
3. Sit the fuck down.

I need a zebra cake to calm my damn nerves. If I had Nene "Nethaniel" Leakes' beeper number, I would call him up to come stomp on your head.
Judgmentally Yours,


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