Dylan Scott is a genuine, authentic, corn-fed, down home, Southern-raised, good-ol’ classic American dickhead my friends, and he’s looking to abscond with more than his fair share of the American dream by dropping the zipper on his $1,200 fashion-ripped jeans and rubbing his nutsack all over everything true country music fans celebrate and hold dear just so he can afford a really bad ass truck and screw hot Vandy chicks he Svengali’s in the douchiest bars in Nashville into thinking he deserves to be a star.
Heretofore, Dylan Scott’s biggest claim to fame was the dubious, ill-begotten decision to invite Chewbacca Mom into the hallowed circle at center stage of the Grand Ole Opry to “perform”—a place supposed to be reserved only for the most pure and talented in country music. Now his label Curb Records has gone and bought him a #1 song on country radio called “My Girl.” And no, we couldn’t be lucky enough for this to be a rendition of the old Temptations tune.
Is “My Girl” the worst country song we’ve ever heard? No, it’s not. And it’s not even really close. But what makes “My Girl” so offense is the fact that they’re not trying to market this thing as a flighty “hands in the air” summer song that yeah is pretty shallow, but whatever because it’s just feel good music so roll the windows down and have some fun to stuffy S.O.B’s, country music needs to evolve yo!
No, “My Girl” is what passes these days for mainstream country music depth and introspection. Corporate country blogs are fawning all over this piece of shit all, “Oh, the vulnerability Dylan Scott exudes in this heartfelt etude speaks to the maturation process of this budding star of substance,” and “The empowerment Dylan Scott bestows to the object of his desire is both Chivalrous and sweet.”
Yeah bullshit. This is a formulaic, Mad Lib-style, paint-by-the-numbers, women as a possession truck rap with fake piano imposed on a generic pop song, propped up solely by the perfectitude of Dylan Scott’s pectoral muscles and the come hither sturdiness of his jaw. The only reason anyone is paying attention to “My Girl” is because dumb chicks want to screw him. This is like a dreamy, daytime television version of “country.” Yet mark my words, come CMA time, Curb Records will be spending their political capital on Music Row to get this thing Single of the Year and Song of the Year nominations due to its “depth.”
Just listen to these lyrics.
“I love it when she raps to an Eminem song…”
Wait, did this asshole really just issue a line about rapping to Eminem in a country song? That’s even more egregious than the Chewbacca Mom incident. If Hammaurabi’s Code was still enforced, Dylan Scott would have his hands lopped off for the high crime of his culturally-appropriated urban gesticulations, and his vocal chords would be removed for the mental well-being of the public and misdemeanors against our eardrums.
I’m embarrassed for streaming this thing on Spotify and allowing 1/10th of $0.00002 cents to go to this son-of-a-biscuit. I pray all of the original members of The Temptations are dead so they don’t have to endure witnessing such an iconic song title be sullied by this tool. Otis Williams is still alive you say? Well hopefully his hearing sucks.
And I don’t care that you met Dylan Scott at a meet-and-greet one time and oh my gosh he was so nice to you. That’s because he wants your fucking money. Who knew Curb Record had it in them to actually launch another artist, but see what money can buy? Why didn’t Curb put out a similar effort with Mo Pitney?
Dylan Scott’s got nothing. He’s a two-bit singer being propped up my image consultants and personal trainers, perpetuating an image Music Row wants to sell you with music as the excuse to pay attention. Mainstream country is no longer about the music, it’s about lifestyle branding. Artists like Dylan Scott are the true reason there’s no women on radio, because marginalized females feel like Dylan Scott is singing to them.
And ladies, no matter how cute they are, no matter how charming they may be, no matter how ravishing they may look in a lycra-blended super thin cotton tee spray-painted on by some Hollywood image designer and have every hair on their head expertly coiffed, if a guy ever tells you how how good you look in his truck, and calls you “baby girl,” then for the love of all things holy and the imperative preservation of the gene pool, don’t, and I mean never, no matter how large temptation looms, ever ever under any circumstances fuck them.
This song is absolute garbage.