Beyonce fan? Guess what: you’re basic.
There’s no quicker way to tell someone that you’re white than to say you’re a Beyonce fan.
I mean sure: you could wear Uggs during the summer, you could have a Starbucks order more complicated than your last relationship, or you could watch Real Housewives ironically.
especially Atlanta
But if you truly want to reaffirm your whiteness, you will publicly state your support for “queen bey”.
dress like the monarch who ransomed slaves!
Beyonce is the number one artist white people can come up with to pretend that they’re not racist.
At Taco Bell, to the drive-thru employee: “oh no, I’m not racist, I listen to Beyonce”.
To the Target cashier in the ethnic hair aisle: “you must mistake me for a racist, I promise, I’ve listened to “Drunk in Love” thousands of times”.
To a co-workers who says that Black Lives Matter: “I actually PAID for a TIDAL subscription, okay?”
WWJTSD? (what would joanne the scammer do?)
With her middling vocals, mediocre dance moves, and barely-noticeable work ethic, Beyonce is the “hot sauce in my purse” of music artists.
Being a member of the “Beyhive” absolves you of all responsibility and guilt of being white. It allows you to be on the hashtag right side of the hashtag struggle, signaling that you too were shocked when they replaced Aunt Viv on Fresh Prince. You’re buying indulgences quicker than Donald Sterling was buying up awards from black organizations.
v stiviano still got better dance moves than beyonce tho
But look at you. You sat there and watched Lemonade (or at least pretended to). You clapped like a seal, barked “YASSSS QUEEN” accompanied by a slew of indecipherable emoji, and you’d done your good deed for the day.
what all you basics look like
Good for you! You supported the passion project of the second-most-talented member of Destiny’s Child.
most-talented
You did what was asked of you by the media. You genuflected to manufactured greatness, manufactured diva quality, manufactured shade.
“Ooh…she really told Jay-Z!” you said, about the production available exclusively on Jay-Z’s struggling TIDAL service that would probably be quietly shuttered in a month if Prince didn’t die this week.
Everything about Beyonce, from her achingly bad Super Bowl performance, to her failed attempt to upstage the legendary Tina Turner at the Grammys, is unremarkably average.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yp2C-Se1ys8
remember that time a 68-year-old outdanced and outsang a 27-year-old
There’s no depth to Beyonce.
She has no soul, no passion, no emotion.
She postures a little, she throws out a couple notes, she wears braids and you all hail her as the second coming of Aaliyah.
She’s the white girl who goes to Jamaica for Spring Break and comes back looking like Erykah Badu.
Speaking of Jamaica — Beyonce wouldn’t last one second in Jamaica, Queens. If she gets any lighter you’ll call her Lil’ Kim.
lil kim still got more talent in her pinky than beyonce does in her whole body
Beyonce tried to start a career based on the idea of: “what if Diana Ross left the Supremes earlier? And couldn’t sing?”
When you hear Beyonce, you don’t hear a generation of powerful female vocalists like Aretha, Diana, Cissy, Whitney, Natalie, Tina.
You hear Katy Perry with a MysticTan.
The true inheritors of the gospel, R&B, and pop legacies of the past are extraordinarily talented innovators like Janelle Monae, Azealia Banks, Crystal Nicole.
They’re not gonna be singing about “getting in formation” or their man who’s financing their work cheating on them while slowly dribbling out hashtags to grow their gay fanbases.
They’re going to be singing, powerfully.
They’re going to be activists, loudly.
They’re going to be snatching weaves through success instead of limply floating along with the tide.
Solange cute tho.
all bow to the true queen
This took a turn.
Ok we’re back to upbeat!
I don’t care what people say, I don’t care how “problematic” it is, I will stan Azealia Banks until the day I “die” (or are lowered into a -196°C chamber).
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve blasted this down Sunset Blvd. It’s such a damn good song, and it makes me want a 1970 Cadillac DeVille convertible like Mischa Barton, cigarette in hand. I can just imagine her, headed towards the coast, casting her career worries in the back seat, racing towards summer.
