For Clutch Magazine on Tuesday I penned a piece on the new season of Love and Hip Hop Atlanta and how terrible/good it is, in the sense it is a trashy dime store romance, masqurading as "All My Non-Rappers" in a nice casserole made with nothing but Velveeta, it's so cheesy. Here's a snippet:
Dubious pregnancies? Scheming family matriarchs? Love quadrangles? Torrid affairs? All familiar territory for a soap. Heck, there isn’t any even real “hip hop” in the Atlanta version unless you count Rasheeda’s stalled rap career or Chris Brown’s DJ fighting with his baby’s mother as an “insider” look at hip hop. Nothing is hip hop. The show is the Velveeta of hip hop in that Velveeta is distinctly not cheese but a cheese-like “food product.” Love & Hip Hop Atlanta has just enough sprinkling of “urban” flavor that it marginally passes as something maybe a rapper watches on a day when he or she is home with the flu, but later denies it to friends because it’s too embarrassing to admit one in hip hop watched something that had nothing to do with the genre.