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Silentó – “Watch Me (Whip / Nae Nae)”
TurnUp Records / Capitol – 2015
1.6

By the time Silentó commands us to “watch me whip,” a full seven seconds into the track, you already know you’ve boarded a train bound for post-ironic oblivion. What follows is not so much a song as it is an unrelenting instructional video, powered by algorithmic momentum and the spiritual energy of every PTA meeting gone wrong.

“Watch Me (Whip / Nae Nae)” is a cultural time capsule from the year when viral dance moves replaced actual communication. The song does not evolve, it loops — a sonic ouroboros eating its own tail while flossing. Silentó doesn’t rap so much as list. The whip. The nae nae. The stanky leg. The Superman. Each phrase arrives with the emotional depth of a CAPTCHA test. You are not here to feel. You are here to comply.

Production-wise, the beat is sparse and synthetic, sounding like a default loop from a software demo titled Trap for Toddlers. It’s relentlessly clean and completely unbothered by things like tension, resolution, or dynamics. You get the sense it could play forever, looping in the background of a minor YouTube channel dedicated to slime tutorials.

But the real feat here is how the track weaponized meme culture for mass consumption. This was not music for listening. It was music for doing, specifically, for middle school talent shows, wedding receptions, and nightmare-inducing brand activations. It’s pop music at its most transactional: perform the motion, feel the endorphins, scroll on.

And yet, its success was undeniable. Silentó, a teenager at the time, effectively cracked the code to going viral — and in doing so, accidentally delivered a song so devoid of soul it somehow became the center of attention for millions. It was hypnotic in the way fire drills are: repetitive, disorienting, and strangely hard to ignore.

There’s a version of this story where Silentó is a misunderstood genius, crafting minimalist social commentary on performative culture. This is not that version.

Best track: [Silence]
RIYL: Being yelled at by a dance instructor through a megaphone at a kid’s birthday party.

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Kelly Osbourne: “Papa Don’t Preach”
Epic Records, 2002
Pitchfork Rating: 3.7

In a move that can only be described as “aggressively Y2K,” Kelly Osbourne—daughter of Ozzy, wearer of neon hair, and survivor of MTV’s The Osbournes—emerged from the reality-TV fog of war to drop her cover of Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach.” A bold choice, given that Madonna’s version is iconic, controversial, and, crucially, good. Kelly’s version? It exists.

Let’s be clear: this is not so much a cover as it is a hostage situation. The song has been taken, tied to a chair in a Hot Topic changing room, and forced to watch early-2000s nu-metal music videos on loop. Guitars are over-distorted. The vocals sound like they were recorded on a Motorola Razr during a family argument. The production is less “punk rebellion” and more “GarageBand preset titled ‘Mall Goth.’”

Osbourne’s voice, while not the worst thing to ever emerge from a celebrity lineage (looking at you, The Return of Bruno), delivers the lyrics with all the emotional depth of a mildly annoyed barista. When she pleads, “I’m keeping my baby,” it sounds less like defiance and more like someone refusing to return a damaged Forever 21 item without a receipt.

That said, there’s a perverse charm to it. Like a can of expired Monster Energy found under a car seat, it’s a little gross, vaguely threatening, and very much a product of its time. There’s even something punk in the audacity of it all—less “fight the system” and more “I dared my label to let me do this and they blinked.”

Ultimately, Kelly Osbourne’s “Papa Don’t Preach” is the kind of cover that reminds you of how great the original was, mainly because halfway through, you’ll probably stop and listen to Madonna’s instead. And maybe that’s the point. Or maybe it’s just a vibe. A crunchy, chaotic, eyeliner-smeared vibe.

Best Track: The 1986 original
RIYL: Watching VH1 at 2 am, burning your ex’s hoodie, riding in the backseat of a PT Cruiser.

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Matchbox Twenty – "Unwell"
Atlantic; 2003
3.2

By: Dax Mumberson, Pitchfork Contributor

There are songs that define an era, and then there’s “Unwell” by Matchbox Twenty—a song that limply gestured at defining something before retreating back into a GAP sweater of its own design. Released in 2003, but spiritually 1998, “Unwell” is a murky broth of acoustic sincerity, radio-safe angst, and the sonic equivalent of a lukewarm Sprite left on the counter at your divorced dad’s condo.

Frontman Rob Thomas—America’s reigning monarch of bland competence—delivers a performance that screams, “I’m sad, but like, in a relatable, post-TRL way.” His voice trembles with a vague vulnerability that makes you think, “This man has probably stared out a rainy window, but only during a sponsored VH1 special.” The lyrics read like therapy Mad Libs: “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell” is the kind of line that makes your aunt nod solemnly and say, “That’s deep,” while clipping coupons for gluten-free Oreos.

Musically, the track is as adventurous as a mayonnaise sandwich. A plodding acoustic guitar trudges along next to a drumbeat that sounds like it was generated by a coffee machine having an existential crisis. The whole thing feels like it was designed by a focus group of 36-year-olds who just discovered feelings and are very tired.

It’s not that “Unwell” is bad in the way that, say, an active crime scene is bad—it’s more that it’s aggressively beige. It is the sonic equivalent of that one IKEA lamp you forget you own until it catches fire. It’s a musical shrug. A warm sigh in cargo shorts. A song that says, “Hey, we might not be okay, but at least we’re doing it in khaki.”

And yet, somehow, this song slaps. But only if you’re in a dentist’s chair, high on nitrous, pondering every life choice that brought you to this point.

TL;DR: If adult contemporary were a medical condition, “Unwell” would be the symptom, the diagnosis, and the follow-up email confirming your next appointment.

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