Paris – Paris Hilton

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Paris Hilton is truly a Renaissance woman. Having stared in movies and television shows, authored a best selling book and smooched pole the world around, it was only a matter of time before she unleashed Paris the recording artist on us. And really, why not? The public eats up her every move, hangs on every misspelled word, marvels over each successive drunken tryst; we simply cannot get enough. As a result, we only have ourselves to blame for her continued presence in the media and her ever expanding resume. Regrettably, she has become an entertainment mogul. If we’re to believe anything out of her mouth, music is what she really wants to do. It’s her true calling. “I have always had a voice and always known I could sing, but I was too shy to let it come out,” she told Prestige. “I think that is the hardest thing you can do, to sing in front of people. When I finally let go and did it, I realized it is what I am most talented at and what I love to do the most.” Not that I imagine it took any real convincing to get a narcissistic twat like Hilton to cut a record, but let’s pretend for a second it did. I bet the conversation went something like this…

Shrewd Music Exec: Hi, Paris! You looks fabulous!

Paris: I know. I’m like, a fuckn’ gagillionare.

Shrewd Music Exec: So, we want to be in the Paris Hilton business. We think you’re an enormous talent and have the potential to sell a ton of records. How about it?

Paris: (looking up from her Blackberry) Huh?

Shrewd Music Exec: (shifting gears) Have you seen Britney, recently? She’s gotten FAT! And Kelly Clarkson? It looks like she ate Ruben Stoddard.

Paris: I know! That’s so not hot. I’m way skinnier than either of them. Look, look! You can actually see the edge of my spleen through my skin. THAT’S HOT!

Shrewd Music Exec: Yes, we hear spleen cleavage is going to be the next big thing. If only we had someone who was a little more emaciated on our roster of artists….

Paris: Emaci-what?

Shrewd Music Exec: What I’m saying is, I wish we had someone who was a bit skinnier to cut a record…

Paris: Wait! I know! I’ll text Nicole. Her dad is totally famous for singing I think. And he’s black, so she can totally sing.

Shrewd Music Exec: Isn’t she in rehab?

Paris: Yeah, I forgot. Who can keep track of these things anymore? Hmmmm… well, how about me? I’ve never sung before, but when I was little my parents, my nannies and the teachers who were handsomely paid to give me passing grades all told me I can do anything I want. And now I want to sing. That’s it! I want to make record.

Shrewd Music Exec: Paris, you’re a genius! I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I’ll a have contract drawn up and we can put this baby to bed. What do you say?

Paris: Baby? Is Britney pregnant again?

So Paris is ushered in to the nearest studio, given a recording budget that exceeds the GNP of several small countries, coached through the whole thing by an army of producers and song writers–including Scott Storch, who is responsible for more hits than Bobby Brown got in on Whitney Houston throughout their marriage–resulting in the cleverly titled album Paris. And as much as I can’t stomach the fact I’m about to say it, she could have done a lot worse. Given the resources she had available to her, that isn’t saying much. From a production stand point the album is top notch, without a smidgeon of credit going to Hilton on that account. All Paris had to do was show up, give someone a couple pages of poorly worded poetry and wait to be told how to sing it. And sing it she did. Sort of.

Can Paris Hilton sing? Maybe. Who knows? On top of the aforementioned stellar production, Hilton layers whisper, upon whisper, upon whisper, upon sigh, upon whisper, stacking vocal tracks higher than the pile of credit card receipts in her purse. I’m sure she would like to think it comes across as sultry, maybe having a smoky, seductive quality, but like every answer to every math test she ever took, she is wrong. The fact of the matter is, the vocals for every track on this record sound exactly the same, like she’s whispering to her tycoon boyfriend to do it a little slower so her mom won’t hear them having sex in the next room. Showcasing a range slightly narrower than her vocabulary, Paris doesn’t come off as someone who is excited to be making music, or the least bit confident in what she is doing. Rather, she is hiding behind the studio magic that so many sub-par vocalists rely on. For anyone who has never been in a vocal booth, or even a recording studio before, here is the dirty little secret your favorite pop-tart doesn’t want you to know: anyone–and I mean anyone–will sound half decent if their voice is recorded and layered over itself enough. With a Pro Tools set up and about 20 tracks, I could get a series of farts to sound like one of the Three Tenors.

Frustrated Producer: Okay, Paris, that was good. Let’s do it again.

Paris: Oh my God! That was like the 28ish time I did it.

Frustrated Producer: 28ish?

Paris: Well can I at least bring my phone in here in case someone calls?

Can Paris Hilton sing? All signs point to a resounding, albeit whispered, no.

Who wouldn’t want to be born with a Silver coke spoon in their nose and have everything they ever wanted thrown in their lap? Who in their right mind would say no to a life of privilege and luxury, with the ability to have any scheme they dreamed up -no matter how hair-brained, be it writing, recording etc.- come to fruition, based on nothing more than the fact that they were shit into the world on a mountain of money and might have at one point or another been dumb enough to let someone film them having sex? The clear answer is no one. We all wish we could have what she does and she’d better believe we’re jealous. Lots of people were born with those same credentials; Paris just doesn’t make it hard to resent her.

With a stint in the big house behind her, maybe the Paris to emerge from all this will be a new and improved one; a kinder, gentler, more humble Hilton. Of course, we all know better than that. She’ll be back to her old ways before the nail polish on her first mani-pedi dries. But there could be a bright side; now Paris has some mutha fuckn’ street cred.! Bitch has done time, yo! And if music is her passion, as she claims, album number two can’t be far off. If whoever is in charge this time is smart, Paris will go gangsta. Duets with 50 Cent. Rolling bunts with Busta Rhymes. Gang fights with Vanilla Ice. Songs like “Shankn’ Bitches In Cell Block B” and “Cavity Search Disco” are sure fire hits. Come on, P.Hil, let’s turn this mother out.

Often times a name can set someone’s path in life. No one named Eugene ever became a hit man and no one named Mad Dog ever became a dentist. Just having the surname Hilton and all that goes with it is probably enough to set a person on a collision course with disaster. Given the historical significance of the name Paris, should we be surprised at what we are witnessing? The city of Troy stood for thousands or years until a spoiled brat named Paris decided the rules did not apply to him. An entire civilization burned, because of one person’s arrogance, greed and sense of entitlement. While the only burning Paris Hilton is responsible for comes from the venereal disease she’s spreading around, she may want to read The Illiad and think about her namesake and what can happen when someone with no regard for anything but their own desires goes too far. Of course, she’ll probably just watch the movie with Brad Pitt. He’s so hot.