By Carolina de Busto
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Steve Brennan
By Joseph Hess
By Allsion Babka
By Kelsey McClure
By RFT Music
By Christian Schaeffer
Blue October, "Hate Me": This song must've been written by someone who did a half-assed job of completing an anger-management/substance-abuse program. Vocalist Justin Furstenfeld half-talks and half-sings, à la Eminem, but he sounds way worse. "The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won't touch again/In a sick way I want to thank you," Furstenfeld moans to (presumably) an old girlfriend. He goes on to guilt-trip her: "So I'll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind." Could we get that in writing? If only musicwas the one thing Blue October promised they wouldn't touch again.
Fort Minor, "Where'd You Go":For four interminable minutes, a pathetic excuse of a man whines about his woman working long hours. He reminds her repeatedly that he's "had it with you and your career" and laments bygone times barbecuing burgers and ribs. Oh, waaaah. Here's an idea, chump: Fix up some Hamburger Helper for dinner, entertain the kids yourself, and look for a job that doesn't involve recording crappy songs. Please.
Trace Adkins, "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk":Rappers usually get odes to asses right just look at the staying power of "Rump Shaker" and "Baby Got Back," both of which encourage healthy posteriors. But this hayseed's got it all wrong. It's an insult, even, to say that the chick in question has "got it goin' on like Donkey Kong." Wait. Wasn't that the videogame in which a hell-raising monkey threw barrels down upon a wee Mario? If there's a compliment in there, we're at a loss as to what it might be. And then there's the creepy recurring command: "Whoo-hee, shut my mouth, slap your Grandma." We'll keep eating the red beans and rice for Mix-A-Lot. Leave Grammy out of it. Kristie McClanahan