Robin Thicke and Miley Cyrus (Neilson Barnard/Getty Images)
Look. I would be lying to you if I told you that the sight of a White man publicly debasing himself at the heels of a Black woman doesn’t put a little rooter in my tooter (I don’t even know what that means), but this shit has got to stop.
If you haven’t heard, Robin Thicke is terrible.
Not just because of his rapey and soul-siphoning White Coon Tunes, but on a molecular level. All the way down to his Dax pomade-coated White privilege.
A man that can show his face in public in the daytime after his infamous shit show extravaganza ho-down at the 2013 MTV VMAs alongside Lil’ Scoundrel (Miley Cyrus) is a dangerous man of Robert Kelly-esque character. But that’s not why we’re gathered here today.
Continuing his Wrong and Strong World Tour, Mr. Robin Thicke has decided to name his forthcoming assemblage of decently produced, Black-cosigned incohesion Paula after his estranged wife, the light skinnedly famous Paula Patton.
It’s a shame-free occasion, y’all.
Let me catch you up. Well. Hm. I was about to say that he fucked up after he ditched the Rap Hands Jesus vibe from his first—and immeasurably superior—album, A Beautiful World. I was going to say that it has all been a Black-gazing free-fall from there. But this piece isn’t about that and that’s not my business.
Now, where was I?
Ah, yes. After growing sick, sick, sick of Robin’s shit, Paula has decided to call it quits, saying kind and vague things about him to Vanity Fair of their breakup. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but swirling rumors of Robin’s indiscretions on top of Robin being unable to keep his hands to himself at parties on top of this latest mea culpa give us a few hints.
That he released a song called
“Baby Please: Heartbreak Ho Tales” “Get Her Back” just days after the split should tell you something.
In an attempt to put a band-aid on an axe wound, Sir Convenient WhiteBlackness has dedicated his next project to the mending of his shattered relationship with his high school sweetheart, out in the open, in front of company. It’s like an integrated Tyler Perry stage play based on a Maury episode, scored by Pharrell and other indiscriminate lenders of soul.
Robin Thicke is having A David Ruffin Moment. He is crying, begging and pleading to get his woman back through song and on stage dramatics. And while this immolation of one’s dignity makes for hilarious Vines and Tumblr gif sets, Paula is now unable to move past this split in peace.
Unless someone grants Robin the gift of dude-maybe-this-isn’t-such-a-good-idea and convinces him to rename his album, his wife will heretofore be the story around this new release. Expect 10 songs of shoulda, coulda, woulda marinated in faux soul, infused with a retro sorry-I-got-caught kind of vibe. Overall, if his discography is any indicator, it won’t be good, but it will be smooth. Like a Naked Juice. Every interview through the life of this project will feature a well-intentioned interviewer prodding for the latest status update on his Fix-a-Marriage attempt.
“That’s great, Robin. So…your single title begs the question: Did you…’get her back’ yet?!”
You can bet your favorite Beetlejuice-inspired douchebag uniform that she will now hear, “So Paula…have you heard…Paula yet?” on every red carpet from L.A. to Dru Hill. This stylish White man, armed with a charming poor showmanship and a Black soundtrack, has thrust his ex-lady back into the spotlight, almost demanding some public response from her.
Fans, romantics, and People Magazine would love nothing more than to watch a fairy tale reconciliation unfold. Robin has now placed the onus on Paula to appease the waiting public. If she breaks the heart of this repenting wrongdoer, after he wrote a whole damn album about her, she becomes the villain.
Just look at how panties and sympathy rained down after he dedicated a mopey performance of “Lost Without You” to Paula days after the split. “I’m going to need you guys to help me get through this,” he asked a fawning, awwwwwwwing audience.
You know what is worse than divorcing your son’s father, who happens to be your first love? Him making an album about your divorce as it plays out publicly. Her request for privacy was ignored, not by a prying journalist, but by her husband, Sir Convenient WhiteBlackness.
You know what is better than singing about being a better man? Being a better man. Robin is behaving like the absentee father who tries to patch things up with a few $50 bills and a hug. Instead of falsettoing about how he should have kissed her more and abstained from Bad Husbandship, he should work his woes out in private, with
castration honesty and action (or without action, in Robin’s case), not on wax.