First and foremost, it needs to be said that the music of Mickey
Avalon is an absolute atrocity—the single worst thing to happen
to hiphop since someone put four bullets in the body of Tupac Shakur.
The Jesse Camp of hiphop (but without the 8th Street Kidz), Avalon is
an overnight sensation of worthless hype and clumsy raps which stay
loyal to a single topic: his dick. Granted, the bulge in an emcee’s
pants might be a common lyrical subject, but Avalon’s rhymes lack all
semblance of structure or flow, and come off as just plain awkward. A
far cry from Blowfly, the master of X-rated rap, Avalon’s juvenile
wordplay is akin to the rhymes of a couple teenage Juggalos on a Faygo
bender in mom’s basement.
Despite all this, Avalon has a booming fanbase: celebrities. His
cumbersome rhymes act as soundtrack to the vapid existence of pals
Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, and various other soulless trust-funders
the world over. When a drunken celebutante wraps her car around a tree,
you can bet she had Avalon bumping on the Benz speakers. It’s hiphop
for those who hate hiphop, a glossed-over, ironic, empty gesture that
plays up Avalon’s good looks more than his mic skills, or lack
thereof.
But, you have to give Avalon a shred of credit, since his life story
is unique, to say the least. Long before his Blackberry was overflowing
with rich folks’ digits, Avalon was a street urchin in our very own
town. In just a few short years, he went from a handjob hustler in
Vaseline Alley (PDX represent!) to a Sunset Strip celeb-rapper (MySpace
Records, holla!) with a life straight out of Entourage.
Of course, the end of the Mickey Avalon story has already been
written. It’s basically the tale of Vanilla Ice, but swap “Ice, Ice
Baby” for Avalon’s pseudo-hit “Jane Fonda,” Madonna for some D-list
actress Avalon has bedded, and Surreal Life: Season 2 for
Surreal Life: Season 12. Keep that chin up, Avalon. At least
Suge Knight will (probably) never dangle you from a window.
Mickey Avalon performs at Dante’s on Saturday, August 25.