The good news is this: the kids who like this band will not have the mental capacity to sit at their computers and read a few paragraphs attempting to describe just what is wrong with BrokeNCYDE, and every single soulless cunt that was and still is involved in their continued existence. That’s just as well, because as ‘da kidz on da streetz’ might say, “shit’s about to get nasty, dawg.”
I’m Not A Fan… covers a vast amount of social activities that the members of BrokeNCYDE particularly enjoy participating in. Namely, getting crunk (‘Freaxxx’), getting drunk (‘Get Crunk’), allowing girls to suck upon their dick (‘Booty Call’), anal sex (‘Get Up’), flashing their cash (‘Poppin’’) and of course regular hard drug usage (‘Schitzo’). You know, just your average day in the life of a group of borderline 20-year-olds growing up in suburban America with their parents.
Despite the band’s clear aspirations to be seen as controversial and shocking, going so far as to laughably compare themselves to the likes of Black Sabbath and N.W.A. in their press material, anyone with at least three brain cells will see right through it. BrokeNCYDE couldn’t possibly be a more mathematically calculated product, clearly devised by some sick, money hungry, depraved psychopath that has no interest in music, society, or anything other than how the money he makes validates the probable fact that some girl laughed at his dick the first time he got it out.
I don’t even know if it’s worth explaining how nonsensical the comparisons to the likes of N.W.A. are. Here we’ve got a group of mindless, vacuous tools with so little shame that they’re happy to present themselves as utterly deplorable humans, whilst N.W.A. were only shocking because their music called attention to the troubles faced by young black people growing up in a culture that seemingly only had room for white people. It would appear that BrokeNCYDE have confused boasting about their apparent lifestyles of excess as a comparable lyrical muse to racial oppression, police brutality and poverty.
But it’s worthless, getting so wound up by this piece of utter garbage. The sick PR suits that are happy to market this for a pay cheque know full well that no-one over the age of eighteen is going to fall for this. So, rather cleverly, self-deprecating humour has been rolled out in an attempt to limit the universal negative feedback from anyone who actually listens to music. Meanwhile, those that do fawn over it are impressionable, confused tweens who have learnt in this day and age to idolise those that glamorise the worlds of drugs and sex. They can’t help it, they’re told to like it.
Originally published on Sonic Dice.