Rýnt í nýtt myndband Gucci Mane á bókmenntalegan hátt


There he sat, the Guwop, perched regally upon a white throne, between two rows of Ionic columns, flanked by a pair of whitewashed Asian women, who flicked their wrists and bobbed their heads in rhythm to the Dionysian music.

Upon flaunting his Rolex watch, he must of been reminded – by the remarkable allure of its yellowish sheen – of one of his Asiatic vixen, for he proceeded to remark upon the fact rather bluntly: 

"Yellow Rollie on my wrist /
Same color (as) my yellow bi#%h /

He spoke eloquently of many things, among them his preference for voluptuous women, all the while prefacing his declaration with a democratic caveat of sorts: 

"I have no type," he proclaimed, inclusively.

Upon saying this, a Caucasian woman gyrated in the fashion of the Indians in the background, and this – coupled with the Ionic columns and the Asian women – made me think that this was some sort of grotesque celebration of Guwop's cosmopolitanism. 

My intuition was immediately confirmed with the God's commendation of "foreign" cars, which makes sense in light of Gucci's nationality: The United States have long since celebrated diversity and welcomed immigrants, although, one would not necessarily be able to tell, these days.

After the conclusion of his verse, Guwop's esteemed associate – the Autotune extraordinaire, T-Pain – leaped from behind a piece of furniture and into clear view, while announcing, somewhat paradoxically, that some mysterious "they" had not see him. 

I suspect that he was rejoicing his victory in an unannounced game of Hide-N-Seek, for, admittedly – he had concealed himself rather masterfully between Steve Aoki's turntable table throughout the great Guwap's verse. 

His appearance marked the beginning of the chorus, which consisted mainly of an assurance, on T-Pain's behalf, of the fawning adoration that he enjoyed from female devotees; apparently, women habitually employ gravity-defying gestures to express their worship of him (such as raising their hands to the ceiling, while allowing their undergarments to succumb to the force of gravity – letting them drop to the floor).

A drop.

Following further guarantee of T-Pain's own admirable excellence and intoxication, a strange cacophony of electric sounds rained down as if from the Heavens to indicate THE DROP, and a young woman – dressed in a gold-colored onesie – contorted her limbs so as to assume the most unexpected postures. I am not entirely certain, but this may have been a commentary, by way of clever symbolism, on mankind's modern enthusiasm for "bending over backward" for currency.

During the drop, T-Pain pretended to fire an invisible rifle in my direction, which frightened me (he is rather fascinated by the unseen, that one).

Guwap's second verse was less delightful than the first, for it consisted of a repetition of eight bars, wherein he performed a kind of ode to his natural talent for making large sums of money disappear through extravagant consumption (it seems like a rather commonplace skill).

Honestly, I left the Guwap's Bacchanalia feeling disappointed and underwhelmed (my head throbbing from Aoki's dissonant symphony) for the quality of the performance greatly undermined its central premise; the whole thing was rather like a painter announcing his own excellence by squatting down and defecating on the canvas.

Although, I rather enjoyed T-Pain's Hide-N-Seek shenanigans. 

Words: Reggie Noble