Every once in a while, we here at Paste are going to try to slough off the lens of irony through which so much modern entertainment is viewed. We’re going to give the so-bad-it’s-goods their sincere due and take an earnest look at the things you might think can only be enjoyed ironically. It’s Irony-Free Friday.
There’s an old philosopher; his name is Kant. He came up with a pretty brilliant thing that he called the Categorical Imperative, which, to paraphrase, roughly translates to “you should only do something if you think the rest of the world should also be able to do that thing.” (“Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law without contradiction.”) Kant thought that a being could only claim worth, or be fully human, if he/she could articulate the Categorical Imperative. Kant, mind you, has been dead for over 200 years.
This brings me to Pitbull. If we were to apply the Categorical Imperative to Pitbull, which is to say, if we were to take Pitbull’s lyrics, or at least the ones that could be interpreted as being morally prescriptive, and live by them, what kind of world would it be? That’s what we’re here to answer this week, focusing on the totally ubiquitous pop-hit “Timber,” a tune that’s enormous fun to liquor up and dance to, which we decided could use a close reading.
[lyrics cut-and-pasted from A-Z Lyrics
[Kesha]
It’s going down, I’m yelling timber?
You better move, you better dance?
Let’s make a night you won’t remember?
I’ll be the one you won’t forget
??Wooooah (timber), wooooah (timber), wooooah (it’s going down)?
Wooooah (timber), wooooah (timber), wooooah (it’s going down)??
[Pitbull]?
The bigger they are, the harder they fall?
These big-iddy boys are dig-gidy dogs?
I have ‘em like Miley Cyrus, clothes off?
Twerking in their bras and thongs, timber?
Face down, booty up, timber?
That’s the way we like to-what?-timber?
I’m slicker than an oil spill?
She say she won’t, but I bet she will, timber
The first part is Kesha (finally free of her dollar sign), inserting the only lyric with any cleverness at all into the song, there at the beginning. She addresses the narrator, telling him that he is going to end this night so (to use the parlance of our time) turnt that he won’t remember anything about it save for the physics-breaking sensuality of Kesha herself.
Pitbull, for his part, spouts a couple of size-of-the-dog-in-the-fight grade aphorisms, before dispensing with the pleasantries and getting straight to what is essentially his thesis statement: Pitbull is swarthy enough that women who don’t think they want to have sex with him are mistaken. This idea stretches back to the song “Give Me Everything,” where Mr. Bull suggests a world wherein if you see someone sexy on the street, your appropriate reaction is to grab them, tell them “hey,” and demand literally everything from them (in his defense, the idea that this is built on, that we “might not get tomorrow,” is totally valid, if awkwardly worded).
If we’re applying Kant to the lyrics, Pitbull is prescribing a world where every sentient being has the right to accost every other sentient being, provided they are sexy. A similar application to the lyrics of “Timber” suggests that an interaction between man and woman that doesn’t end in the woman accepting the man’s advances is an issue of said man’s “slickness,” not the woman in question’s agency. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, here meaning that the more fight a woman puts up, the more gratifying it is when the walls of her self-respect come tumbling down.