Dear Quincy Jones:
The guy who once considered you the greatest producer of all time.
I was raised on your music. I was nursed at the teat of your discography. You never did any wrong in my book. You were the driving force behind the greatest selling album in the known universe. You helped to cement the legacy of the greatest performer that mankind has ever known.You produced two beautiful daughters, one of whom I still sweat to this day. Countless albums. Countless awards. A track record unparalleled by anyone in the modern music era.
And you fucked it all up.
Fuck you for that.
I feel like the altar boy who just received the proverbial thumb up the ass from a man that I trusted more than life itself. That’s what your music meant to me – more than life-it-fucking-self.
I was already mad about this:
That “We Are The World” bullshit killed a part of my soul. I felt spiritually raped. I know you weren’t alone, but I blame you because your work meant the most to me. I’ve never forgiven you for that.
And now this?
Please tell me it’s not about the money. I would have been more than willing to divert my 401k contribution to you if it meant keeping a roof over your head. T-Pain? T – Fucking – Pain? The dude is like an inside joke to people who really care about music. We like him, but in a “I know it’s bad though” kinda way. You took one of the greatest songs ever and satirized it for no reason. There is nothing about that sonic abomination that improves on the original. You might as well have dug up MJ’s grave and fingered his rotted (but probably well-preserved) corpse. T-Pain???
I understand about reaching back to the younger generation. Robin Thicke, I could accept. Even Justin Timbercake. Even Chris Brown with bloody knuckles. Dude… I would have taken Bobby Valentino over T-Pain.
I’ve deleted all your music files from my hard drive. I’ll burn all of your records that are worth less than $20. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and i’m not that much of a fool.
My head is reeling right now. I had to wait until I got home from work to write this. Even now, I can’t get all of the words out because my heart is constipated with hate.
Here are some comments from a couple of people that I know:
“Let’s start by confiscating all those damn Grammys”
“Butchered track. MJ is cussin in his grave.”
“This is what happens when great artists live too long. They start making really poor choices.”
And with that said, I no longer want to meet you. I don’t want to acknowledge your existence.
If I meet Rashida, i’ll tell her how fine she is, then implore that she commit you immediately.
Rest In Piss.