It’s a well established fact that the best music videos are literal visual interpretations of the songs that they’re for. Get in, shoot some stuff that you sing about in your song, get out, collect your VMA, as the the old saying goes. Simple. With that in mind, I could’t have been more pumped to see a new music video for some song with Danny Brown on it called “The Black Brad Pitt”.
I imagine the casting director for this video scouring the country for weeks to find some black dude who looked like Brad Pitt, only to fly him out to wherever they shot this and have Danny Brown be like, “Nah. I’ve got my friend Barry here. His body is made of noodles. He’s gonna wear this beret and dance around the Rihanna jungle while I rap about my dick. Got it?”
The director steps in, “Ok, Mr. Brown, I see where you’re going here, but I’ve been directing music videos for a long time. Perhaps we could could compromise. Your friend Barry can dance for half the video, and the other half will be a black man named Bradley Pitt staring into the camera, smiling out at the audience.”
“Nope,” says Danny Brown. “Fuck that. Less black guys named Bradley Pitt, more Swarovski Crystal pineapples”.
“But, Mr. Brown, if you could just hear me out here, I do have a closet full of MTV moon men after all… Ok picture this: an all black rendition of Legends of the Fall! We could get Chris Tucker! We open on Chris, atop a horse, galloping into frame, his long flowing Brad Pitt wig flying in the wind..”
“A crocodile head. Made of gold. At the end we’re gonna light it on fire,” says Danny Brown, unwavering in his conviction.
“But what does that…”
“Get me some lady with a buzzed head and wrap her in pink silk!” Danny Brown orders the crew, stepping forward and brushing past the music video director without even an acknowledgment. “And find me an angry African dictator!”
I could listen to Danny Brown rap about gross sex stuff all day as it is. “Bitch pussy smell like a penguin” is an actual line he raps on “1Train”. This video tho. Number 2 on my Top 5 Ways I’d Like to Die list is now as an eccentric billionaire, holed up for months in my enormous master bedroom, dirty suede robe flapping behind me as I pace manically back and forth, back and forth because I’ve been railing lines of blow off a copper plated bust of Joseph Stalin while a projector plays this video on a non-stop loop on the wall behind me. My heart, shrunken and malnourished, finally collapses. I fall to the floor, eyes scanning past jars of my own urine and crumpled up $100 dollar bills for a final image to fixate on before I pass to the other side. I look up. The jaws of the golden crocodile are engulfed in a minor flame. My eyes close, and I am comforted by the Truth.