Patrice Wilson, the man who made "Friday" -- that endlessly ire-raising yet somehow completely inescapable viral hit from teenage star Rebecca Black -- has found his new muse: Lexi St. George.
Naturally, some people are calling her the new Rebecca Black -- despite the fact that Wilson told Gawker, "I don't want people comparing and saying she's the next Rebecca Black." (Because, it seems from the quote, he doesn't want people to write her off with the same fervor Black received.)
Well, fine. "Dancing to the Rhythm (with Me)" is no "Friday." But that's not a good thing.
We may never forget the popocalypse that was "Friday," with its finger-wagging insistence on reminding us of the order of the days of the week, its post-lobotomy vocal delivery, and its more-cookie-cutter-than-cookie-cutter synth-pop backing track.
Sure, "Friday" was a gallery of failure -- but it was a hilarious and inherently memorable one. You couldn't escape it -- kinda sorta because you didn't want to. We won't go as far as saying we liked what's now remembered by many as the Worst Song Ever -- but it did seem to cater to some previously unfulfilled need. You must admit: It was deeply amusing to listen to for a while. Especially on, y'know, Fridays. Why the hell else would everyone squeal so loudly when it was temporarily taken off of YouTube?
Lexi St. George, on the other hand, used Wilson's Ark Music Factory to put out a song that grabs about as much attention as a slab of linoleum. It's not funny. It's not memorable. "Dancing to the Rhythm"? The chorus revelation might as well be "eating fries with ketchup" or "going to sleep with my head on a pillow" or "brushing my teeth with a toothbrush" for all its obviousness.
And while you could argue that St. George wears the role of teenage popstar more convincingly than Black did, that only works to her detriment. There was a thrill in wondering just when Black's idol impersonation would slide off the rails. If her inadequacy was obvious, so was her humanity. But St. George here seems like a cyborg, the sort of Type-A busybody who would tattle on you for passing flirty notes in class. The fact that she's not plainly horrible at doing this only makes you want to dislike her more. In the end, though, this song so lacks for any grab -- good or bad -- that we're left too bored to even bother disliking it.
Wilson was right: St. George is no Rebecca Black. That might be too bad for him.