I don’t even what. Doin’ Numbers has changed me from a V-Nasty spectator to a full-fledged cesspool of wrath and scorn against everything she holds near and dear. While she and her White Girl Mob seemingly had tons of fun rolling blunts and lazily mocking up hooks for the next rote song, I writhed in agony at the final outcome, a 14-track bludgeon of bargain-basement instrumentals and rhythmically structured degenerate nonsense beating on my eardrums until there was pink ooze spewing from the sides of my cranium when I removed the headphones.
And the thing that hurts the most is that I was hoping for that exact level of skill from V-Nasty. I DOWNLOADED THE DAMN THING AND PUT IT ON A PLAYLIST. And I never even laughed once, not a chuckle, not even a slight “smh” moment, unless you count the entire project. Anyways, might as well review this black plague of a project while its still fresh in my memory… fuck.
V-Nasty can be summed up as what Angelica from the Rugrats would be if her mom dropped her off to be raised by a random guest on The Maury Show. Racial stereotypes aside, V-Nasty has the characteristics of a “hood nigga” inherently flowing from her at all times, and needs the listener to know that at all times. We all now that it does not immediately translate into poor intentions, or even poor music (see: Illmatic, The Infamous, Ready to Die). The major problem with V-Nasty stems from her need to show off her ghetto-tastic tendencies and pseudo-gangsta stylings, but she’s more compositionally distraught than the Brundlefly while doing so. Her voice is always high-pitched like a broken dog’s whistle, and even though she’s talking, she sounds off pitch. She sounds off pitch while talking; I know that probably makes no sense in real life but I’m reviewing a V-Nasty mixtape.
When it comes to her rhyming, there’s less hope than in escaping hell. She finds this suitable for the opening verse on “Two Rings“: “Said I’m hotter dan a flame comin’ outta dat BIC/and I’m hotter dan the AIDS burnin’ on dat boy dick,” and she only worsens the situation by claiming to “kill instrumentals.” Sure, she stays on beat more than Lil B, but I can enjoy a proper song from him way more for his playful nature. V-Nasty thinks she’s swobbin’, or whatever the hell that means, and if a person says otherwise, she’ll get red in the face while rhyming about how many guns and bitches she has.
Her guest features don’t seem to help the situation much either. Gucci Mane drops a fairly safe verse on the opening track, but Country makes pimping sound extremely boring on the next, and the hook on “Three’s Up” sung by DB Tha General nearly made me piss my pants for how shockingly horrible it was. Kreayshawn doesn’t do anything with her verse either, but her otherwise pleasing nature outside of rap just makes me feel sad for her. (Oh my gosh, is this review over yet? No? FUUUU-)
And if anyone though male rappers were misogynistic, then they clearly haven’t listened to V-Nasty’s rhymes about needing “more bitches” and avoiding “hoes” and how she herself is a “real bitch” and how to further treat said bitches and hoes with as much respect as a dung heap. There have been many female rappers who’ve empowered themselves by turning ignorant themes around, but she just straight raps like she’s a filthy man. It’s so uncanny and uncomfortable to comprehend, like a black person selling slaves. And by the time she gets to the elegiac “Pray For My City,” no one can really see why she mourns for the deceased in Oakland after all the frivolous nonsense she delights in before that.
To put it blankly, Doin’ Numbers has nothing to offer; not to her fans and not to her career. It is a black hole of not only consciousness, but sentient life period, and exists only to remind us humans that our lowest point can certainly get lower if we try our hardest… or our leastest? (Don’t listen to this mixtape, please.)