All eyes are on Drake right now, and justifiably so. His long-awaited album, Scorpion, forsaken early Friday morning and it’s filled to a brim—seriously, it’s 25 marks long—with marks that support to Drake’s ability to drop bars and sing his heart out. Littered opposite a manuscript are both mini-subs and outrageous admissions, like a fact that Drake is indeed a father and might or might not have been hiding his child. Not each lane is a claimant for a underline on The Shade Room, though. Some songs arrangement a aged Drake we’ve come to appreciate, a partner during heart who wants zero some-more than to serenade a women of a world. And nowhere is that some-more apparent than lane 6 on Side B (aka a RB side) of Scorpion, “Ratchet Happy Birthday.”
Upon dire play for a initial time, a kick sounds more… ethereal than one would expect for a song with this title. But cool, soothing shit is Drake’s M.O. anyway. If there’s anybody that can make a peaceful kick work, it’s him.
But suddenly, difference start entrance out of Drake’s mouth and all fast ceases to make sense. Less than 30 seconds into a intro, Drake says a following: “Seems like time’s out of a control/It’s a celebration.” Hold up. If it’s my birthday—an annual sign of my loss mortality—why are we holding this impulse to remind me of a futility of my quarrel opposite time and shrugging off my solemnly imminent genocide with “it’s a celebration”?
As if that wasn’t a differing adequate arising to a track, Drake goes on to report a woman in a approach that’s half-endearing, half-street harassment. “You speak so tough, we know you’re soothing like buttercups,” he croons. “Reese’s, Reese’s, don’t be ridiculous.” This is Drake’s lyricism during a clumsiest. (Also, a word of advice—don’t ever tell a lady she’s soothing like a square of candy, even if it’s a tasty one.)
But many discouraging of all is a pretension of this song, that brings to mind 2 Chainz’s 2012 loyal ratchet birthday anthem, “Birthday Song.” The kick on a latter is bombastic, a offshoot is simplistically iconic (“All we wish for my birthdaaay is a large plunder hoe”), and a altogether appetite of a lane screams “Throw some ass!” After 6 years, a strain still rings out during birthday celebrations.
“Ratchet Birthday Song” is not an anthem for anyone to have a ratchet anything. It doesn’t make me feel like twerking. It doesn’t make me wanna make my knees hold my elbows. It doesn’t make me wanna behind adult anything on anybody. If anything, it sounds like a strain you’d play in a Uber on a approach home from a celebration, in that impulse when all won’t stop spinning and you’re perplexing your best to not chuck adult and hurt your rating.
Sorry, Drake: this is a strain for a birthday memories we wish we could forget.