Things That Go Krump in the Night – Part 2

28Nov11

‘Cheers (Drink to That)’ by Rihanna. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: “Another idiotic floor filler from the vacuous queen of sex-pop whose last meaningful emotional connection was with Chris Brown’s angry brown first. So what.”

Well not only are you a misogynist, you’re also wrong. As Nate Dogg’s husky hustler voice orders on Dr. Dre’s ‘The Next Episode’, “Hold up, heyyyyyy”. The above song contains subtle hints towards an emotional, spiritual connection Rihanna entered into in the not-so-distant past; a connection that didn’t involve whips, chains, the disgusting smell of sex in an airport, or having Jameson whiskey sink into any of her orifices. Take my hand as I lead you deep into the rabbit hole.

Believe it or not, Rihanna’s top 20 smash single ‘Cheers (Drink to That)’ includes this oft-overlooked lyric:

“Got my Ray-Bans on and I’m feeling Helen Keller tonight, yeah”

You’ve probably heard this song about ten or twenty times over the past few months, but I bet you never picked up on that line. In your defence, it does sound like she’s saying “feelin’ hella cool tonight”. That’s studio wizardry for you. Ignore what the so-called indie press and alternative singer-songwriter types tell you: Auto-Tune isn’t used solely to make squawking starlings sound like choirs of harmonious angels; it is implemented to subliminally sneak controversial opinions and statements into honeyed, glazed, easy to consume chart hits.

But, Rihanna? Helen Keller? Ray-Bans? What can it all mean? Well, having carried out an in-depth analysis of the song’s lyrics, and having studied Rihanna’s behaviour on recent trips to Northern Ireland¹ and Barbados², I have formed the following believable hypothesis:

Rihanna and a harem of close buddies have a few too many drinks from those red plastic cups that Americans use to consume liquor. They drunkenly decide to break out the Ouija board. Not having all the letters of the alphabet – or a pangram – handy, they cut the letters from various glossy magazines that are scattered around Rihanna’s penthouse apartment. (She’s a compulsive subscriber; they get their required 26 letters from issues of Bimonthly Horse Breeder, Pogs Pogs Pogs, Knitting with Nubs, and Aga-Knee Aunt (“Slow Cooking with Slow Aching Joints”.)

Gathered round this hastily assembled DIY Ouija board, they summon the spirit of Helen Keller. (They were actually attempting to reach the soul of ex-Leicester City goalkeeper Kasey Keller, but as he is still alive, the spirit world operator granted them access to Helen instead.) She immediately appears. Her hovering spectre is bright and blinding, like a strikingly white t-shirt that’s just passed the Daz Doorstep Challenge.

"Barkeep, make mine a Jameson and white. And point me in the direction of this so-called 'Pinball Wizard'."

Rihanna instinctively reaches out for her Ray-Bans, but Helen’s radiance has forced her eyes shut. She squints and gropes wildly for them, accidentally knocking over a half full tumbler of Jameson in the process. The Irish whiskey drips off the fine oak table and slowly sinks into her fine Persian rug. She ignores the spillage, and without hesitation, announces matter-of-factly that she is about to switch on the lights.

Her friends and Helen instantaneously berate her. Helen threatens to leave. Bumping around, covering her eyes with a tiny waxed forearm – her own forearm – Rihanna finally locates them, protruding from one of the red plastic cups. (Thankfully the cup was empty.)

They provide her eyes with dutiful shade. Now she can clearly see Helen for the first time. Helen and her glass eyeballs. Rihanna struggles with empathy; she can’t stop herself staring at Helen’s spherical glass bauble peepers.

“Would you like me to take a photograph with a pinhole camera? It will last a considerable while longer,” says Helen haughtily. Despite having now been berated twice by a spirit, the situation fails to overwhelm Rihanna; in fact the situation barely registers. This is a woman who was physically assaulted by a man who dances called Chris Brown. She has performed and writhed for mass audiences worldwide wearing nothing more than some clothes. Being belittled by a translucent, levitating, deafblind American author? Small cheese. No big deal. A piece of a cake.

Rihanna is an automaton. She is a pop music prisoner of war, aloof and devoid of emotion thanks to sexualisation, exploitation and 5-star hotel room service. Still, the evening will conclude with Rihanna cradling that intelligent spectre, both of them silently weeping.

And just how did the evening – so full of promise and wonder – descend into this sappy Kleenex romcom scene? Will Rihanna’s pals sell their stories to the tabloids? Will James Randi give Rihanna a hard debunking? Has Rihanna uploaded the pinhole camera shots to Facebook and tagged an empty chair as ‘my shawty Helen Kella’?

Alas, you’ll have to fill in those blanks yourself. Because this story has run its course.

^{1 Displayed blasphemous behaviour.}

^{2 Displayed sun-drenched show pony traits.}

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Filed under: 2011, Chris Brown, Helen Keller, James Randi, Rihanna, Spooky   |  Leave a Comment