About a million years ago, or maybe it was five or six, I came home from work and walked into my husband’s office. “Are you listening to Nina Simone?” He replied, “Guess again.” His eyes looked like he’d hacked down a pollen field. I listened for a moment and was convinced no one in the history of ever had delivered such an honest prose. Then it hit me that the timeline didn’t work. I knew those words like the emo scarred back of my hand. This was The Poet Dylan. Nina couldn’t cover Dylan. “Who?” He turned from his chair and said, “You should sit down, Babe. You’re not going to like this.”
That’s how it happened for me, and this is how I think it should happen for you. Kesha, who has worked her ass off to make a name for herself speaking vapid lyrics about party girl ethos, can sing. She can, and she doesn’t, and to this day it angers me. This version also makes me cry ugly because if everyone supported talent the way metal heads do, she’d never have to wake up feeling like P-Diddy again.