The fourth novel in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City series, in which Jon, Michael's lover, has died of AIDS, and the rest of them are trying to cope with it. Mary Ann meets a British Brian lookalike who defects from the Royal Yacht during the Queen's visit to San Francisco, and Mrs Madrigal sends the grieving Michael off for an apartment swap with the Brit. In England, Michael makes friends with a young gay aborigine, and finds Mona, who's taken a rather interesting job. Meanwhile, Mary Ann and Brian become parents, in a roundabout kind of way..
Hilarious and touching.

Quite frankly the worst song I have ever heard in my life. Any semblance of shiteness emanating from the Fast Food Rockers, in all their fattening corpo-whore glory, is immediately overshadowed by Three Of A Kind's magnum opus, a song known to drive more infants to a desperate desire to kill themselves than a bowl of Seroxat. There are many reasons why it is so freakin' godawful, chief among them being the fact that none of Three of a Kind can sing, rap or indeed profess any kind of actual musical talent whatsoever. They consist of one white man, one black man and a decidedly uncomfortable looking woman, who all go by the names of Marky, Devine and Tipzta respectively. If all this sounds bad, bear in mind that you most likely haven't heard this song yet.

The reason Three Of A Kind have utterly failed to break America is that the only way they can possibly break America is by breaking its eardrums with this awful, awful song. Imagine every single tacky one hit artist you've ever heard rolled into one, made into cookie cutter "MCs" and singing a song written by the illiterate. Imagine iio without any semblance of talent. Imagine three British "chavs" attempting to make a go of a song which is almost universally despised by everyone with good hearing, and sadly having it played everywhere and anywhere. You're still nowhere near the abject horror of Babycakes.

The song starts off with a simple, repetitive xylophone riff. This riff continues throughout the entire song. It IS the entire song. The sheet music must be a few bars of notes and several pages of repeats. Then the "singing" starts. Only the "female" sings. She sounds like Thom Yorke in the Hail To The Thief era, if for the previous 5 years he had smoked 100 fags a day and lost all singing talent whatsoever. She looks like an amalgam of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, just ugly. And then, she screeches:

Baby cakes
You just don't know, know
How I I
How I like it down low low
And I just want you to know
That I think our love will grow
We'll take it step by step
Because I'm not something you own

Distilled into its essential parts, it basically means the following, which makes for a shorter, yet somewhat more efficient and satisfying "song".

You can't give me an orgasm, you small-penised dunce
But I have a fucking stupid nickname for you, so s'cool.

Then the "boys" start. The "boys" make the girl sound competent, happily crooning out quite frankly the most meaningless lyrics ever in the worst singing voice on the face of the earth. It's supposed to be some kind of ballad, I guess, although any ballad which uses the phrase "the real shit" doesn't deserve to be classed as such. This new notion of townie-love is heart-warming, but ear-destroying. Needless to say, it's about as entertaining as stabbing yourself in the genitals with a flathead screwdriver.

Then again, it's at least promoting commitment and not just lust.

Er, fuck.

Our bodies together
Under the cover
Soft kisses
With ya hands all over
If I have to cry
Then ya cry on my shoulder
Can't get enough
When you loosen my neck
Goes down to my belly
And caress my breast

Here we go. Babycakes could have had promise if it wasn't so unendingly shit in every other aspects; the lyrics could have saved it. But this is not to be.

The video communicates this feel well. Objectification of women, taken to a whole new and frankly worrying extreme. If you think of the robots at a car factory, replace the robots with black women with afros, replace the cars with cakes and replace the factory with a kitchen. Then intersperse these images with some chavs, filmed with dodgy camera work. I can't see why they haven't won an award yet, as I'm sure you'll agree.

Thus, Babycakes is truly the Manos: The Hands Of Fate of music. Any Americans/Australians/Canadians/whatever should be damn thankful that this travesty has not infested their shores.

Now I wonder how many people will download it from P2P because of this writeup. In fact, I encourage it: every copy downloaded is a copy not actually bought...so long as you don't actually play it :)

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