My son and I share a lengthy hip-hop playlist. It’s called ALL MIZZOULA FLY, and it features 121 songs that extend eight hours and 18 minutes. It’s a wide-ranging fiesta of rap through the ages; an ever-changing and shifting document ranging from Dr. Dre and A$AO Rocky to MC White Owl and PM Dawn.
Anyone, one of the tunes we both like is Broccoli by D.R.A.M. It’s a fun song that, at this point, Emmett doesn’t fully understand. Which is good, right? Because it’s bouncy and kicky and great to play on a 75-degree day, with the windows down and the car rolling up the freeway to 70 mph.
But I also have a problem with Broccoli; a singular line that—in my opinion—kills an otherwise blissful effort. It’s not about drugs, it’s not about sex, it’s not about stupid boasts. No, it’s this …
I know, at 45, I’m not the target audience here. But “turn this shit to Columbine”? Really?
I just … no. No,no, no. There are an endless number of ways to write a song, to pen lyrics, to express yourself. But rapping, joyfully, about two kids shooting up a high school and murdering their classmates doesn’t really strike me as a good one. Those were real kids. With real parents. And real friends. Their lives ended, and it wasn’t all that long ago.
I just dunno.