Dear T-Pain’s Vocoder:
If I could pry you away from your owner’s grasp I would stomp you out the way those LA cops did Rodney King in 1991. Yes, I’d tape it with my camera phone and post it on YouTube for the whole world to see that I slayed America’s favorite most annoying music device.
This is not a joke. I have a sincere hatred for you. I know it’s not good to hate people. But you’re clearly an inanimate object. So my disdain is warranted.
Why do I abhor you so? Because your owner has used you to build his career although he only has one-sixteenth of the vocal ability of one William Hung. OK, I’ll admit it: Teddy “Ruxpin” Pain can hold a note. But he also sings out of tune quite often, which is why he crutches on to aid of Auto-Tune non-stop.
I understand it’s not your fault. Still, I have a question or two that I know you can’t answer: Why did you allow him to record “In Love Wit a Stripper” through you? Why didn’t you malfunction when you first heard him phrasing together the lyrics?
Oh, that’s right. You weren’t warned. He doesn’t write (and neither do I … sure). He just aimlessly freestyles. And you allow him to perpetuate that garbage?
Don’t get me wrong. Some of his garbage smells like filet mignon — all thanks to your ability to enhance a voice that should otherwise be nowhere near a mic. Take “Buy U A Drank” or “Bartender.” They’re catchy tunes that were cool to groove to a few years back. There’s a reason people want him on their singles. They want the popular sound. That still doesn’t mean what Teddy Pain spits is a fine steak dinner. No, it’s more like a Hardee’s Thick Burger or Chipotle burrito. They taste good, but also cause irreparable damage to your life — best known as “The Itis” — for a period lasting up to 24 hours.
Still, biter after biter has grabbed a hold of one of your voice-altering cousins. Kanye West, Jamie Foxx and Britney Spears have taken this route. Kanye is one of the best rappers in the game. Foxx’s vocals are impeccable at times. Britney is …… she just is. But even stars that big have succumbed to you because you’re the “it” thing.
This is baffling. Even our music is fake these days.
I mean, you were cool when Roger Troutman and Zapp recorded “I Wanna Be Your Man,” “More Bounce to the Ounce” and “Computer Love.” (I can still make the beat to “Computer Love” with my hands, chest and mouth.)
That was the 1980s, though. Cancer sticks, Jheri curls, big hair, spandex, biking shorts and mullets we’re still cool then, too. Not so much now (I don’t care what you think, Kanye).
So why don’t you do us all a huge favor: Go back to the time capsule we put you in 1992, and don’t come again until we celebrate Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America for the 600th time (2092). Seeing as how you’re an inanimate object, I know you can’t oblige my request. That still doesn’t mean I have to like you or your owner. Again, I don’t like him.
And I currently hate you so much that I pray you find your way underneath the bottom of my size 10 1/2 Tims Kenneth Cole’s or the clear heels of the woman Teddy Pain fell in love with at the start of his career.