What does a shadow see when it looks in the mirror?
on Playboi Carti & Paradise Lost & the wicked allure of a man-made-archetype
After Harmony Holiday
Enthralled by an unreleased Playboi Carti song, “Kill One of You” (also embedded above), in which he rambles beneath a huge and relentless bass lead, snarling about his viciousness, his willingness to destroy one of his own, the weapons he keeps on his person, all building his own myth in this pseudo-fictional way, (for who are we to know what’s real and what’s fake?) and of crafting the character of himself, aligning with the violence of a proud lion, a don with underlings and admirers and enemies abound. He speaks like a bloodthirsty assassin but sounds like a teenager singing in the shower, wearing headphones and unsure of the lyrics. I’m entranced and addled at it, because what are we doing with this? How does this pattern of super-aggression benefit any of us, what kind of role model is this, an elusive man with blood on his hands? As if any of us could be fearsome enough to intimidate ourselves into behaving better, or be so violent we secure world peace, or bully our communities into working together in this time of global war and inequity, as we’ve been conned into making rich someone who styles himself a sort of collective shadow, who calls himself a narcissist, who steals from and lies to his fans, who attacks and then abandons the women who fawn over him, who bear his children. He babbles under the beat like a child before swerving back into threats, regressing, oscillating between fear and flex and furious frenzy. It could be that he’s courting the interest of men, impressionable youth who need someone to look up to, someone like them (malnourished, unstable, drug addicted, socially inept) whom they could also never be (universally known, wealthy, immune to criticism, objectively attractive).
Heavy on that last bit. Carti is pretty much objectively hot (6’1”, strong bone structure, transgressive style, tattooed, hunter’s eyes, confident disaffected aura). If he were a better man, a man with more depth, there’d be something to learn from his bending of gender and sexual expectations, his embrace of androgynous avant-garde fashion, and his refusal to confirm or explain such deviances from the norm. But he gives us nothing to work with, either in his media appearances or his sound; he simply is, and happens to be different. Vague. It’s easy to project onto a blank canvas. Certainly thousands of youths worldwide feel empowered by his nonchalant eccentricities. As it stands, to me, he uses his aesthetic power as a bludgeon, a weapon, might makes right, meaning, he does whatever he wants and gets away with it because he looks cool, because you want to be him or you want him (or both). It’s no secret that the most popular villains tend to be hot. Beauty is a power that can be abused like any other, a power which he uses to hide, avoid, and attract.1
And I’m thinking of my brother and his big white teeth. His smile is blinding, I’ve seen him charm women just by giving them his attention. I don’t want to air his business out on here, but I’ve seen him do women dirty as well, lying to them, using them then tossing them aside, generally not respecting them. I’ve told him about the problems with this behavior (and I don’t model it) but he doesn’t listen. He has the power so he uses it as he wishes. Power, so intoxicating, and also the power of intimidation. The issue of my brother’s sharp teeth, the metaphorical chops he likes to bare, and how bucking up against the system gets you imprisoned and punished if you’re too loud or too independent or too effective or not skilled enough at being desirable. Carti might be onto something here, then, spreading his art and his narrative in such a secretive way via “leaks” that no label can exalt or suppress him, but the fans do, and the streets hear, it keeps him safe or at least makes him into another kind of spectacle, one he has more control over.
And my ears are still ringing from another leak of his, the popular “DOCTOR”, all abrasive breathless admission of woozy weakness, confession of being controlled by pills and power. I can relate to this too. I know the sweetness of giving into the urge for pleasure, dissociation, and the ambrosia of between a woman’s legs. It really is intoxicating to let go of your humanity. There’s no high quite like it, one can easily disappear into it. And no one can pull you back from the abyss. “I need a doctor,” he rasps, but it’s more likely he’ll continue working with documented abusers and rapists and fringe personalities instead of seeking help. (There is a larger conversation to be had, as well, regarding the preponderance of unwell people with influence in creative spaces.) None of us can help Carti because he’s untouchable and he doesn’t want to be helped, he wants to be seen but only when he allows it, you’re supposed to froth at the mouth wondering where he is and what he’ll do next, you’re supposed to keep bobbing your head even at his funeral. If someone like him can ever die. He already sounds withered in this song, sucked dry of his vitality and locomoting around on pure intoxication like a puppet on strings. Some kind of a lich that can’t stop spouting how rich and popular and dangerous he is. Of course it comes across like he’s trying to convince himself the most. “Bitch I’m a genius,” he croaks. Yet he’s dragging himself along. He’s trapped and he knows it. “Welcome to the concrete box.” Maybe this was too on the nose, as for whatever reason Carti chose to keep this off his recent album “I AM MUSIC”, in which he parodied himself and his idols, often on the same track, and succeeded in completely anonymizing himself into the craft, the image, the sound rather than the fury. On many of the songs he barely speaks more than a few words; there’s a track on there in which he’s completely missing. He might as well have called it “I AM ARCHETYPE”, for all the lack of specificity and rhetorical meaning.
Pardon the dramatics but all this has had me thinking of Lucifer from Paradise Lost, the first fallen angel, that legendary literary anti-hero. He who bristled at being declared less than Man, rallied an army of angels and waged a war against God and all creation, eventually embracing his descent into the depths of Hell, as “[b]etter to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven”2. Back then it would have been crude for him to say “I need to see a doctor,” at least in such words, but there were plenty of moments of reflection in the story which only served to solidify Lucifer’s resolve. He knew he was disobeying divinity but chose free will instead, bringing with it the right to err and to dominate and to corrupt. He welcomed all the harm to others that came too; he seduced angelic followers with his impressive oration and passionate delivery. And at the same time he convinced Eve to commit the very first human sin with a smooth, human plea. And in all depictions of this story, Lucifer is shown as very handsome, enticing, attractive. Doesn’t all this sound familiar?
I doubt Playboi Carti was cast down from Heaven to lead the masses into devil worship or whatever kind of crackpot theories people like to run with based on a surface level understanding of his image. Instead I think he’s an awful lot like me, or my brother, or millions of other men, if his streaming numbers are any indication, for better or for worse. He’s only 9 months older than I am. As a boy in Atlanta he saw the allure fame and fortune and the commodification of culture and notoriety had to offer a Black man and he sacrificed everything to attain it. Are we all that different? I can’t know if he sought to escape an upbringing in the suburbs or ingratiate himself into the violent world of poverty he now dresses in the style of. Nor can I tell you why my brother joined a gang of his own volition.
What I see is that there is no coincidence this person has grown to such fame, and that he happens to make somewhat interesting and unique music is probably just a pleasant side effect. As a whole we are drawn to the allure of someone who confidently walks off the deep end of the world we know it, embracing hedonistic behaviors. We want to root for the underdog, the rebel. It doesn’t matter if they harm themselves or others. We hunger for the change they bring. Somewhere deep inside we relate to their struggles and their vices, whether real or not, and it’s some kind of satisfying to see our inner (dark) desires made manifest and material.
For years I’ve been reflecting on my affinity with Carti. As I do with Future, on whom I could write a whole other essay about. It’s true that I’m guilty of using my image to help sell my art. And yes, I’ve been guilty of reckless substance use before. But it’s my job to grapple with such complexities and reflect on myself; what about all the other youth, the impressionable ones, the closeted gay kids, the kids in search of a male role model, the Black kids who don’t know a single other Black kid in their neighborhood? If it wasn’t for Carti they would just find someone else to align with. Perhaps the problem is eternal. And also problematic perhaps is our cultural economy that yearns for a martyr for music, or movies, or whatever we’re into at the moment, another head of the imperial multi-hydra that’s all too eager to swallow up a dreamer and spit out a sacrificer. We should fear our heroes I think as well as feel for them, they’re as broken and scared and small as all of us, only difference is we’re looking up at them, idolizing them, cheering them on, even aligning with them, only to then condemn and exile them as soon as they (inevitably) tip over the invisible scale of public opinion.
I’m not a psychiatrist, I can’t prescribe any solutions, only reflect back to the world what it shows me. But what does a shadow see when it looks in the mirror?
PS: Happy birthday to (Me)tropolia, which has been running for 3 years now. If you’re a subscriber, you received an email earlier this week about a 6 month paid subscription giveaway I’m running. Basically, all you have to do is send me a message or email detailing your favorite article of mine in order to be considered for the giveaway. Your reasoning is optional, though I’d love to see it of course :) Act fast, as I’ll be announcing the three winners this time tomorrow, 08/08!
It isn’t necessarily relevant to this piece, but in this vein I’m thinking of the recent plagiarism controversy happening here on Substack, the perpetrator of which I have seen has become the center of aesthetic criticisms that wholly miss the point of her intellectual crime(s). Here is a great piece on that subject.
Paradise Lost, Book I
The Milton reference made me smile.