Try to remember the first time you heard Rihanna and didn’t get her confused with a “Mickey Mouse” house manufactured, American transplant pop star (whether or not you have working ears and a halfway decent taste in music is beside the point, but I will judge you regardless). What was she doing? Singing – I guess - and you could either choose to shake your skinny ass at the club to her millions of unidentifiable, electronically produced and synthesized remixes or smarten up and find a better place to party.
Even if you didn’t like Rihanna – and honestly, who, other than Jay-Z, Justin Bieber, and some ghetto club trash did? – even I have to admit that she was a bit different in a semi-tolerable way (like a bad karaoke version of Bob Marley, but from a different island). Sure, she ripped off the whole lace-and-leather shtick from rocker chicks who are way out of her league, but she did it better than Lady (…or not) Gaga and was lightyears ahead of Disney-starlet-turned-harlot Miley Cyrus.
But to call Rihanna a singer these days is a DISGRACE to the music industry. Now she’s only known for her ridiculous and completely unoriginal Instagram feed – topless selfies, busted strippers and more blunts than a tour bus at Coachella – and her designing debut at New York Fashion Week, which anyone with eyes could see was inspired by the aforementioned strippers she keeps company with.
And the whole Chris Brown thing? Don’t EVEN get me started. Not only is she NOT a singer, she’s a walking episode of Law and Order SVU with a bad weave and a MAC deal that makes Nicki Minaj’s face paint look downright classy.