Many critics attempt to preemptively stave off accusations of pretension - accusations that they subsist in the ivory tower or revel in the world of the forms - by extending undue courtesy to the artistically bankrupt fodder that the so-called "masses" consume in droves. These critics cannot reveal their true, informed opinions, otherwise their credibility might disappear!
Let's not do that. Let's not pretend that this Drake record even qualifies as the "candy floss entertainment" that Adorno and Horkheimer famously despised. It's worse than that. It's a simulacrum of candy floss. It's music for cretins. All popular music, and some unpopular music, is also for cretins. But this music is especially cretinous. Beauvoir and Sartre tell us that the “essence does not precede existence”; a human being is neither more nor less than the sum total of their acts. Wasting time on this record is a stupid act, so you are more likely a stupid person for doing it.
But you're going to do it anyway. You're going to invite Aubrey "Drake" Graham's thick cock into your most private space. "Yes!" you'll scream, as his hot jizz splatters your insides. Because you know the second he's finished is the second you've begun. Deep down, you want to be one of those pregnant and dead-eyed emojis on the cover. It doesn't matter whether you're a critic, a cretin, or even another so-called "artist." You want to look like everyone else, only different - just like them. And I bet you already do. Because if you're reading this, it's too late. He's already cum inside of you, and you're carrying his next child.
