“Bawitdaba” by Kid Rock
Empire fakes you out, pretends to arrive ex nihlo. How does empire end? Bent into a question.
First the apocalyptic herald of 1000 jacked dirtbikes in approach, then the muffled “get ready,” then “my name,” staggering between human and instrumental. It opens, like a lot of stuff, with a sustained, barbaric “kid.”
We have seen the ghostly pyrotechnics, the spectral smoke machines. We have known what enters and exists with “rock.”
Where does empire come from? Theft, transmutation, amnesia. The foundational chants of hip-hop filched, spliced, remarketed as neo-gregorian drone of white dialect interlarded with Whitmanic list.
Kid is the interrogative dreamer here. He dedicates the song to “the questions which don’t have any answers.” These are outlaw: a grabbag of lumpen aspect, festering contradiction. Kid’s riddle is a population. And answers, he tells us, “ain’t fun.”
Do you hear that sound approaching? That’s Kid’s last word: “war.”
Questions, compliments, (hopefully not) complaints? Contact Jackie Clark: jackie [at] coldfrontmag [dot] com.
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