When Nicki Minaj first broke onto the scene, I had a soft spot for her; her flow and lyrical arrangements were totally off the wall, and no one else sounded like her. But as she emptied out her bag of tricks throughout the course of her full-lengths, all was revealed. Aside from an occasional catchy pop tune, she is a one trick pony, and her voice and presence in pop music and hip-hop has just become an eye-rolling nuisance. Along with a couple interviews I saw and that useless reality TV show she had for a minute, we learned that she is a shallow ego-maniac, and her lyrics are just a bunch of absurd, self-doting commercials about herself. So why on earth would I want to review The Pinkprint? Well, there are a couple of reasons: 1. I love hearing and catching up with over-produced, mainstream pop/hip-hop and what mainstream producers are yanking from the underground these days, and 2. writing bad reviews is super fun. BUT, I always give everything an honest listen, and the review goes like this…
I went into The Pinkprint ready to shred it into confetti, but five songs in and I found myself liking it. These tracks were slower jams akin to the Weeknd, and she wasn’t doing her usual corny raps. The lyrics were mostly about relationship turmoil and opening up emotionally. For a split second there, it seemed like Minaj was beginning to evolve as an artist, and I was putting my feet in my mouth. Then track seven, “Want Some More” came on, and Minaj put the clown shoes right back on and started juggling poodles. AsThe Pinkprint progressed, the shenanigans, nonsensical lyrics and songs about her money, her millions, her ass, “bitch niggas,” “real niggas,” “bad bitches,” “thick bitches,” materialism, body shaming, classism, and how no bitches can ever be her began to fill up this 22 track clown car.
Somewhere among all of these tracks, I was hoping that the number-one-selling and seemingly only mainstream female black rapper, Minaj, would have a “ripping-a-picture-of-the-pope-in-half” moment. Your music is on every radio station and television, meaning your voice has the ability to be heard in every home and car in America, and with all the horrifying race issues, rape cases and domestic violence, this was your opportunity to voice the concerns of young black women; instead you’re the voice of rich white suburban club girls. I am totally ok with the majority of your pop album being your “Anaconda” or “Feeling Myself,” but can you get over yourself for a fucking second??? It’s sad that the torch of such pivotal, mainstream female rappers such as MC Lyte, Missy Elliot, and Salt n Peppa had to be extinguished on this idiot. The song “Only,”featuring Drake’s nasally grandma flow and America’s favorite wife beater Chris Brown, is so heinously vile that it actually made me uncomfortable. This song is the equivalent to having Stevie Wonder perform “Living for the City” with Daniel Pantaleo doing back up vocals and David Duke on tambourine. Maybe it was the record industry censoring any form of activism or social commentary on The Pinkprint, but I highly doubt it in this case.
Oh, how is the music you ask? Mediocre, uneventful, run-of-the-mill beats that go in one ear and out the other; it all just blends together…my money blah blah blah…these bitches can’t do what I do blah blah blah…real niggas blah blah blah…my ass blah blah blah…everyone wants to fuck me blah blah blah…with some lazy sampling and keyboards. Minus the first few tracks, it’s a laborious journey through Minaj’s inflated ass and ego. Another trash bag full of minutia to drop in the landfill of mainstream pop and hip-hop.
(2 out of 6 Doves) Prince had always stayed away from drugs until he heard this record; it was so unremarkable that it caused him to smoke rock through a daisy. After a dip in the waters of Minnetonka, he forgotThe Pinkprint like a morning piss and was too tired to have his team of lawyers prison fuck Minaj’s career and life.