If you haven’t heard Mickey Avalon yet, please allow me to ruin your day. Where to start? The crimes against rap that he commits every time he opens his mouth? The fact that he’s on MySpace Records? The is-he-or-isn’t-he-serious vibe surrounding his whole music-image thing, which fails both as a joke and as an attempt at “art”? I don’t know who he’s trying to sell on his “street narrative” schtick, but given his Camel-sponsored promo tour and the comments by his biggest fans, he’s doing a kick-ass job — if his target market is gullible corporate execs and small-town chicks with slutty MySpace profiles. Honestly, this shit is so tiresome that listening to it right now is literally making me tired. Every time he says “cocaine” or something about fucking someone’s sister, my brain shuts down a little bit more. I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t some defense mechanism he created in order to dull the mental faculties of any music critics trying to come up with sharp burns to throw at him.
But before I pass out, let me say that Mickey Avalon is the Lou Reed of Steve Aoki’s Los Angeles. If that comes off as a compliment to you, reading this is probably cutting into the time you should be spending taking bra shots in your Rusttown, Ohio, bathroom mirror. Get back to work.
A note to aspiring sex rappers: here is the new gold standard.