Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).
Me and My Brother
Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).