Looking back on my pre-high-school excursion to my friends’ rural, middle-Michigan cottage, a weekend theme of “Ghetto Supastar” seems somewhat amiss. I mean we were 13-year-old suburbanites being chaperoned to a two-story cabin, for Pete’s sake. There was nothing ghetto about it.
But, music is music, no matter what the title suggests, and occasionally it can transcend into something much more than song.
With the fresh-out-the-cardboard sleeve CD single getting a summer’s worth of burn to, fro, and every second in between the four-hour treks, it’s no coincidence that Pras’ only US solo hit will forever go hand-in-hand with that momentous trip that united and ignited a few life-long friendships.
Upon the first strum of that Wyclef-assisted bass-line crescendo, I’m immediately brought back to missing teeth, marshmallow-infused sibling rivalries and my mans’ prized Tommy sandals floating off into a fresh-water oblivion. When I hear ODB wailing the echoes of the first refrain, I can remember John, who will be on his second tour of Iraq in September as an Airman, falling asleep on the car ride to the cabin, banging “Supastar” on repeat from his disc-man at max volume, then denying it when we called him out on it. When I hear Mýa hypothetically trying to reel me away from reality with her super-catchy hook, I’m reminded of my un-tit-touching mind frame falling in love with the newcomer’s innocent voice, as I optimistically hoped, “God, this chick is going to be huge.”
And, then she was. Essentially, because of this song. Read the rest of this entry »
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