all this makes me wanna say is: “whats ya dick like homie what are you into?”
for those of you who aren’t blissfully aware of Azealia Banks’ lewd, crude bordering on obscene tune ‘212’ this is my most favourite line from it.
we all know that the world loves a hot black chick with attitude: macy gray, lauryn hill , M.I.A, beyonce, santigold and the newest member of this genetically blessed, overly talented group…Azealia Banks are just a few. whats not to love? they’re sassy, sexy and just so fuckin’ cool that they’re allowed to say ‘cunt’ more than 26 times in the space of 4 minutes. i’m not sure whether to bow down in thanks or punch myself in the face. us white girls, notorious as ever for being the biggest culprits of perpetuating the idea of ‘wanting what we can’t have’ make no exception in trying to imitate the ultra-cool-as-fuck look that these babes carry off so well.
denim shorts, boys kappa jeans (remember those?!), vintage basket ball singlets, chuckie taylors, oversized hoodies, genie pants, bandanas, adidas trackies and threadbare tees with rasta slogans on them get paired, no rhyme or rhythm with clashing garish tribal prints, hoop earrings, patches of glitter, flat brimmed hats and diamond encrusted bling teeth to create a look thats perfectly constructed yet looks more like it was haphazardly thrown together after priscilla got in fight with 50 cent. (my bad. fiddy.)
in her clip for 212 azalea looks like she’s rolled outta bed and on the way down to the local ball court to kick it with her homies has thrown on her shortest denim cut offs, favourite mickey mouse knit from kindergarten and high top nikes.
(picture from www.laurajul.dk)
aside from gwen stefani, though, i don’t know many white gals who can carry this look off without looking like a tom-boy drowning in their big brother’s basketball kit, or britney spears impersonating lil’ kim..in other words, white trash.
perhaps ooli knew that a white girl stepping into the sass boots of a black girl was treading a fine line between being mothafuckin’ dope asssss or being buried but never one to shy away from a challenge she promptly changed her name to ooli-eeesha, snapped her fingers and got her ‘ooh run run’ on with the full fervour of snoop sippin’ gin & juice.
i like to think that 212 homegirl ooli developed before my very eyes in europe while we were clutching at fashion angel straws desperately attempting to construct some sort of original/borrowed/painted/stolen version of an outfit we’d been wearing for 3 months already. i was already vaguely aware of ooli’s bizarre penchant for flat brimmed hats but it really peaked when she dragged all of us into a surf shop, very inebriated, at 1am to painstakingly try on and then purchase a hat bearing the slogan ‘girls sk8’, or something similarly as ‘original’.
and, don’t even question why said shop was open at 1am, everything is upside down in Lagos, or, perhaps it was a sort of ooli type secret wardrobe shop which opens for precisely 47 minutes following the consumption of exactly 3 tequila shots, a nibble of a smurf, 3 sickly pink drinks and 12 high kicks then promptly disappears in a puff of smoke several minutes after her exit. with the flat brimmed cap as a sort of secret ghetto weapon, ooli’s outfits, dancing and whole demeanour steadily became more ghetto until ‘the 212’ was a fully fledged, rude, crude, poppin, crip walkin, crunkin, grinding new addition to ooli’s repertoire. behold.
i don’t know about you but i get a very gwen stefani feeling from this. at the time of the ooli-gwen-212 debut i was too drunk to fully appreciate the gloriousness of this outfit. its only with the beauty of hindsight that i realise that this is where ghetto fab ooli really booty popped her way into the world. the best bit about this whole outfit is the gym bra/crop top which looks like it should belong to scuba steve. moreover, i have NO fucking clue where this top came from. clearly ooli had a private moment where she rubbed her paws together and prayed for biggy to fed ex it to her via ‘dope ass express’ cuz i sure as shit never laid eyes on it before.
as ooli-esha grew more bold she proved to the world that an inner tinkerbell can blossom into an inner tupac. she took her home girl staples of chuckie t’s, the flat brim caps and oversized bling and married them with denim overalls, tye dye bikini tops, superman undies, suspenders, cheerleader socks and bandanas crip walked around town and perfected the ‘hey, boys can we kick it?’ look with just the elements of sassy and sex chucked into the mix.
now she sits balanced perfectly on the very small platform of gwen-stefani-esque ghetto chic where most white girls never make it dressed in a midriff bearing t-shirt with the words ‘we cool‘ doodled haphazardly across the chest in gold sequinned cursive writing and yelling out to the rest of the world “bring ya doo rag too son?!”
peace out homies,