Future's "Turn On The Lights": Why This Song Is Amazing
[Editor's note: Why This Song Sucks determines why particular tracks blow using science. It appears on West Coast Sound every Wednesday. However, this week we're utilizing science to explain why a song is goddamn amazing.]
Song: Future's "Turn On The Lights"
History: history? History? HISTORY? Don't be absurd. For there to be history would imply that the time-space continuum holds the Atlanta rapper Future in its grasp, that he is bound by the same physics that governs rove beetles and plums and mailmen. Future is no mortal. Future is the GODKING. Future is the Earth and the air and the cosmos and everything and nothing. Future is the alpha and the omega. Future is the father of Chaos and the son of Chaos at the same damn time. History? Please. Your face is history. (Also, Future plays at Key Club tonight.)
Atmospherics: Like what it sounds like when God orgasms; like when Jordan hit that jumper over Russell; like what Toy Caldwell must've been feeling like when he wrote The Marshall Tucker Band's "Can't You See"; like what Tupac's eyelashes looked like; like Johnny Depp's eyes in Cry-Baby.
Analysis: These are the great questions of our time:
Is there a God?
What is reality?
Do we possess free will?
Is there a right and a wrong?
They've been posed and pondered by history's greatest thinkers. They are unanswerable (or, at the very least, endlessly arguable), and certainly among the greatest questions every posed. But they are not the greatest question ever posed.
Nearly. Because HERE IT IS IN THE VERY FIRST LINE OF ""TURN ON THE LIGHTS":
Is that her in the VIP line?
Seemingly innocuous, sure, but expand on it: Is it? Is it her? How can one tell? Take a few steps closer to gain a better view? NO WAY, CHILLBRO. What's more, how does one even take steps toward anything? This is like that philosophical dilemma about never being able to arrive to a destination because numbers are infinite so no matter how close you get you're always an unfathomable amount of numbers away, except Future's just replaced numbers with boobs.
Exactly 30 lines later he says to let the girl know that he's been looking for with a flashlight.
From there, the commentary only becomes more astute (and possibly even more simple, which means it's even more brilliantly byzantine). To wit:
She a hood girl, but she a good girl.
Transcendent. No finer juxtaposition has ever occurred in nature. More: