To call myself a Bobby Brown fan would do a disservice to the many years I’ve fought for Don’t Be Cruel’s recognition as one of the greatest R&B albums of all time. The album is damn near flawless. The WORST song on the album is “Take It Slow” and it’s not even a bad song. It’s just not as good as “Every Little Step”, “Don’t Be Cruel”, “Roni”, “My Prerogative”, “Rock Witcha”, “I’ll Be Good To You”, “All Day All Night” or “I Really Love You Girl”.
Point is, in my life, Bobby Brown is the man. Or was. Was is definitely a more accurate descriptor even if I’m still a fan. His life, or at least what we knew of it, was full of all kinds of shit. From his marriage to Whitney Houston to his drug habits and on-again-off-again membership as part of New Edition, etc. There were reality shows and terrible interviews full of perspiration. Bobby Brown was everybody’s favorite crack/cokehead for a while.
Then tragedy struck. Whitney died. Then Bobbi Kristina died. I genuinely felt bad for him. For whatever he and Whitney were going through, at some point in life I always thought of one when I thought of the other. Then came the terrible Lifetime movie, Whitney, which was really more of a positive PR stunt for Bobby Brown’s camp.
Bobby Brown is just one of those guys who seems to have lived life to the fullest extent available to him. I have always thought he’d have to write a book one day, just to set the record truly straight on whether or not he turned Whitney onto coke or if she turned him onto coke – the receipts, if you will.
There’s the time he fucked Janet Jackson, Madonna, midgets, and ghosts. There’s the fact that he cooked a motherfucking COCAINE CHICKEN at age 10.
Look, I don’t give a shit what you say, cocaine chicken should not be a thing, but because of Bobby Brown, from here on out, henceforth and forever more, cocaine chicken is a thing. It is entirely possible that the next time I go to Popeye’s and order me a box set of chicken, I’ll make sure to ask if they can not put any cocaine on it, because Bobby Brown put cocaine on his chicken and ain’t nobody got time for that.
Plus, ghost, b.
I’ve watched enough television in life to know that there are people out there who have been sexually assaulted by the netherworld, typically in their sleep. There are people who have been anally probed by aliens. The movie Independence Day pretty much proved that all of those people aren’t making shit up. Because it happened to Bobby Brown in a mansion in Atlanta. And it terrified him.
Because it should. But if Bobby Brown said it happened, hell, it happened because why would little Bobby Brown from Orchard Park who made it big have to lie about such things.
I don’t have the book yet. But you better believe that if there’s one book that I will be copping, it is this one. I’m a bit of a junkie for Black musician biographies. To this day, I will contend that Quincy Jones autobiography, entitled Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones, might be one of the most impressive, inspirational books I’ve ever read. Quincy Jones has literally done it all and it made me feel that my life was minuscule. I inhaled Jermaine Dupri’s biography and one day I’ll have to write about how I feel he might be the most under-appreciated and underrated music producer ever, especially in the urban landscape. I even copped 50 Cent’s book. I like to read about the lives of people who’ve made it and their own perspective on their upbringing and success.
But none of them dudes were out here fucking ghosts. I’m not saying that’s the new bar for “interesting”, I’m also NOT not saying it either.
I realize I wrote an entire screed about a book that I’ve yet to purchase and could end up being a colossal disappointment. But I’m excited for it anyway. Even if it ends up not being everything I hope it could be, its alright…
…because J. Cole went platinum with no features.