Scene: 7:30 AM, Eastern Time; I am planted at my desk and patiently waiting for my roommate to head out to work. I have coffee breath. On the lowest volume possible, without totally losing the song, I begin to play G-Eazy, City Girls, and Juvenile’s “Throw Fits,” produced by the venerable London On Da Track. I whisper the words to myself with a smirk on my face.
I do this every morning the moment my roommate walks out the door. She works at a corporate office and does not have the luxury of listening to “Throw Fits” in sweatpants and an Audiomack tall tee. I am lucky enough to be alive at a time where my profession mandates that I must—in sweatpants—listen to “Throw Fits” and turn it into internet content.
The volume never goes too high, but not out of shame. I do not wish to wake my other roommate, who finds himself asleep at 7:30, who is inevitably missing out on this, the best of morning rituals. I listen to “Throw Fits” once, then twice. I answer emails. I then listen to “Throw Fits” a third time. I write in my journal while “Throw Fits” plays. I love this song; it is my song of the summer. G-Eazy is “flagrant,” he’s in “lil’ baby’s ear.” Yung Miami vies for a GRAMMY. Juvenile likes women to resemble the flavor of spiced crawfish. The horns are blaring; London On Da Track does New Orleans proud. Truly, this is immaculate work.
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It is now 8:30 AM, and I’m eating plain oatmeal. Once more, I listen to “Throw Fits.” My other roommate wakes up. I put on “Throw Fits” at full volume and dance around my office-living room. I feel nothing short of pure bliss as G-Eazy banishes all women who won’t suck dick to the shadow realm. I recall a time in high school when I wrote a paper on absurdism, the philosophy, and now here I am, listening to “Throw Fits”: absurdism, the song—the Myth of Sisyphus in real-time.
Words cannot begin to explain my infatuation with this single. There is no science to prove I do not make up at least one million of the song’s streams across all DSPs. On paper, “Throw Fits” makes no sense. G-Eazy, Yung Miami, and Juvenile have no business working together. What brought them together, I wonder. It must have been the universe conspiring to both confound and thrill me. It worked. The music video is a color-bomb tour of NOLA, a twerk fest, and a quick guide to G-Eazy’s vacation wardrobe. There’s a split-second cameo from Spitta himself. He’s smoking weed. “Throw Fits” feels so right.
It’s 3:00 PM. I am having my afternoon tea—Estate Tea, as it says on the box. I play “Throw Fits” once more because no tea time is complete without this ridiculous song. I quickly realize that it matters not this song makes next to no sense on paper. It matters not that this song has no business existing. What matters is that it makes me oddly, though wonderfully, giddy. “Throw Fits” is in an elite club, eluding my critical ear. The truth is, I could not tell you if “Throw Fits” is a good or bad song. I could only tell you that I love this song for all it is worth.
Who cares if “Throw Fits” is a critically acclaimed track, streaming fodder, or a white girl anthem I have fallen victim to? The record exists to bring some light into my life. “Throw Fits” transcends qualifications of “good” and “bad.” “Throw Fits” simply is, and I celebrate that fact. Sometimes, we take ourselves too seriously as music fans and critics. But this is not a piece where I declare “Throw Fits” my guilty pleasure. I bask in my truth. “Throw Fits” is a gem.
I am not here to tell you “Throw Fits” is a technical marvel of hip-hop brilliance. I am here to tell you that over oatmeal, while drinking tea, and through summer morning heat, this song fucking goes. Sometimes, that is all we need. “Throw Fits” is my song of the summer because it brings the summertime blithe to my speakers; because I went on a date this weekend and mumbled the words to myself while waiting for the subway; because in an era where music is abundant, “Throw Fits” managed to stick. Because after I finish writing this piece, I am going to press play on “Throw Fits.” That’s something to write home about.