“Galileo, Galileo Figaro…”
[Video][Website]
[3.50]
Anthony Easton: I do not believe that you are in the murder business. I do not believe that you are capable of killing anything, with the possible exception of a wallaby that is eating some of the plants near the houses your parents made of mud bricks. In fact, that house, and that it is near the town of Mullumbimby, is much more interesting that you trying to convince us that you are in any business related to murder.
[2]
Iain Mew: The fact that not only the opening shutter barrage but also the flashbulb whirs seem to be sampled from Hipstamatic has me picturing Iggy going round the clubs killing people’s pride by taking terrible faux-vintage phone camera shots of them. This reading has added a fun factor that makes up for her overly straight-faced and simplistic approach and a beat that’s decent but lacking in personality. I just wish that I could work out a coherent way to fit T.I.’s 9-11/holoco’/genocide into it.
[6]
John Seroff: Azalea’s cewebrity route to success and Jessica Rabbit silhouette easily recalls Nicki, but where Minaj had undeniably unique flow and some genuine talent, Iggy has a jacked “Marilyn Monroe” cadence and an accent so affected you can still hear the effort. The skill in Tip’s single verse towers so far above the rest of the song as to be comical.
[3]
Alfred Soto: Once over my disappointment that it wasn’t a Wilburys-esque adventure involving Iggy Pop, Azealia Banks, and T.I., I dug into this slinky, murderous track. While T.I. sticks to his post-2008 tried-and-true, the star attraction relies on attitude to lift her over seriously clunky lines.
[6]
Katherine St Asaph: T.I.’s response to Iggy Azalea’s chorus, transcribed: “uh-huh. What? OK. Uh-huh. Yeah.” Iggy must be short for “ignorable.”
[2]
Brad Shoup: It’s going to take me an age to unpack the biographical context, so it’d be best if I pulled a Merritt. I will note that after trading high on the misery index, murder has now been downgraded to lost pride and hurt feelings. Probably a bit more real for the demo. Everything else is a bit lazier (even Bei Maejor’s low-end half-asses it), with the kinds of pauses between clauses that give T.I. hives. But there’s technical cred, and associative cred, and Iggy’s taking it one at a time.
[4]
Jonathan Bradley: “Nowadays, in the era of James Frey and the confessional memoir, there’s some misguided idea that we all have to be ‘true’ in order to be valid,” Mike Powell recently mused on the subject of authenticity. Amethyst Kelly is a girl from country New South Wales who, like so many of us on the opposite side of the world from the South Bronx, feels an affinity for rap music. And, in her Los Angeles–forged guise of Iggy Azalea, she is certainly not “true.” Her Aussie accent has ameliorated somewhat, but only on wax has it turned into a Southern drawl complete with a UGK-perfect pronunciation of “thang.” But does it matter? What is an Australian meant to do to stay properly within her cultural bounds? Cold Chisel covers? In some ways, Azalea’s artistic immigration was the smartest possible move available to her; after all, Hilltop Hoods aren’t getting T.I. co-signs. And yet there’s something deeply unsettling that Azalea’s interpretation of a predominantly African American music form boiled down to uncultivated aggression and ludicrously over-stressed syllables. (Performers whose participation in the culture isn’t so contested — due to gender, race, or nationality — permit it more nuance.) She has a fine enough ear to come up with a satisfyingly concise hook like “Hit the scene, kill shit; we in the murda bizness” — and to rap it over a marvellous stew of snaps, electronic skwerks, and grabs of The Mohawks’ “The Champ.” She does not, however, have the requisite sensitivity to negotiate the complex cultural contortions into which she’s been forced. It’s not that she’s not real; it’s that she hasn’t dreamed up a character complete enough to escape the uncanny valley.
[4]
Jonathan Bogart: I feel gross for having even listened to it. The one point is for T.I., smooth as if despite himself.
[1]