I Played Pat McAfee’s Album For Another Frequently Red-Faced, Sleeveless Baby
If in the future my daughter develops some kind of Pavlovian response to the musical stylings of Pat McAfee, I'll blame the editors who "assigned" this review. But this outcome is unlikely. I almost wish it were a little more plausible. McAfee's debut album, though enticingly titled Diary of a Polarizing Figure, was not powerful enough to polarize any part of my household. If only it had been more stupid, or ugly, or idiosyncratic enough to spark emotion, because in the end it was the musical equivalent of A.J. Hawk's uncannily smooth face. In the same way that McAfee the ESPN commentator has risen to meet the exact needs of the cultural moment—reddish men yapping indefinitely about sports, gambling, and vaccines, to the detriment of traditional journalism and neurons nationwide—McAfee the musician also meets listeners right where they are. Though the former NFL player has claimed that the album he released earlier this month was culled from 20 years of songwriting in private, it is music perfectly matched to the sound of the moment: a congealed country-trap, with skittering snares, gospel touches and autotuned vocals—the soundtrack of Reels America. Sharp critics have tried to understand the genesis of this ubiquitous new genre, but thinking too hard about it makes me feel ill. I tend to see it as the algorithmic stream carving out the path of least resistance. It's music that does barely anything for anybody, but harmlessly rolls off everybody, and can be played anywhere across the land. It's the sound of getting heat stroke on someone's rented boat. It's the reason you know Jelly Roll as anything but a bakery treat. It's the music that's on in your pickup truck, but also at the pump where you stopped to get gas, and again inside the convenience store you entered to restock on Zyn, and then again as you resume driving on the interstate while swiping through short-form vertical video and betting the spread.
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