ICE, ICE BABY as interpreted by the Red Pen of Doom

If you like music — and who doesn’t? — you have to love music videos.

Last time, I took apart ELECTRIC AVENUE, one of the first music vids ever, and interesting stuff. Click here with your mousity mouse to read that post, watch the video and see the lyrics get all deconstructed.

You’d think there’d be a market for music videos, some kind of channel on the Glowing Tube where you played music vids — which the artists produce and hand to you, for free, just to get the publicity — while you charge GEICO and Miller Lite many, many dollars to run ads in between Lady Gaga freakouts and AC/DC classics.

I mean, the Glowing Tube only has 45,982 cable channels right now. There’s a market for this stuff, right? The last thing we need is more reality shows.

HOWEVER: let’s get on with dissecting ICE, ICE BABY by Vanilla Ice.

Here’s the video. Watch it.

He can dance, can’t he?

Now, let’s find our red pen and interpret the lyrics.

ICE, ICE BABY

Yo, VIP, let’s kick it!

(Hello, my listeners of high status. Should we start?)

Ice ice baby, ice ice baby

(The first part of my  nickname is relevant, sweet-hearted stranger. My real name is not necessary information, although repetition may boost both my name recognition and my record sales.)

All right stop, collaborate and listen

(Halt whatever you’re doing and do your job, which is paying attention to me.)

Ice is back with my brand new invention

(I don’t want you to think that I’m a one-hit wonder. Think this song is good? I have many, many other creative rhymes and melodies that spring forth from my brain all the time.)

Something grabs a hold of me tightly

(When I get inspired by an idea, it consumes me.)

Then I flow that a harpoon daily and nightly

(After an idea for lyrics come to me, I practice 25 hours a day, just like Ahab and the whale or whatever.)

Will it ever stop? Yo, I don’t know

(Will I ever cease to be a creative and successful rapper, with loads of cash and girlfriends, and instead retire from the spotlight to Florida, where I remodel McMansions in hopes of turning a quick profit? That hypothetical situation is too ridiculous to even consider.)

Turn off the lights and I’ll glow

(I’m such a star, I create my own light)

To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal

(My singing and rhymes are so out of the ordinary, you should compare me to the barbarians who sacked Rome)

Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle

(I can bring excitement to a stage while beating up other men who don’t have my talents, although this may be a metaphor, or a simile, or some other literary term that I can’t be bothered to pinpoint)

Dance, bum rush the speaker that booms

(My fans should gyrate with excitement and gather around the large black boxes that amplify my rhymes and backup band)

I’m killin’ your brain like a poisonous mushroom

(Though my songs are not literally poisonous, they do possess powerful addictive and paralyzing properties)

Deadly, when I play a dope melody, anything less that the best is a felony

(Like I said, potentially fatal poisonous mushrooms that should send me to prison)

Love it or leave it, you better gain way

(It’s advisable to retreat from my path, because I am so talented, tough and unstoppable)

You better hit bull’s eye, the kid don’t play

(If you try to stop me, it should be a fatal blow or shot, because my tolerance for non-fatal blows and bullets is quite low)

Chorus:

If there was a problem, yo, I’ll solve it

(Nothing is beyond my grasp)

Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

(This is a recurrent portion of my song that I stole from rock stars in the 1970s, and I want you to pay attention to how I’ve incorporated it into my rhymes)

Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla
Ice ice baby Vanilla

Now that the party is jumping, with the bass kicked in, the Vegas are pumpin’

(The lowest registers of my song motivate people to dance)

Quick to the point, to the point no faking

(My lyrics go straight to the heart of the matter, as there’s no point in misdirection)

I’m cooking MC’s like a pound of bacon

(I beat competing lyricists so quickly and thoroughly, it’s as if they are healthy measure of pork bellies, fried on a skillet)

Burning them if they’re not quick and nimble

(Other rappers lose to me unless they possess exceptional speed and wits)

I go crazy when I hear a cymbal, and a hi hat with a souped up tempo

(The metal instruments of percussionists motivate me to dance and rhyme)

I’m on a roll and it’s time to go solo

(Though I don’t apparently have a band, my success is such that I should sing on my own)

Rollin in my 5.0, with my ragtop down so my hair can blow

(When I drive, I remove the top to my vehicle so the air currents can touch my blond locks)

The girlies on standby, waving just to say hi

(Women who see me try to get my attention because they would like to bear my children)

Did you stop? No, I just drove by, kept on pursuing to the next stop

(However, I don’t stop my vehicle, because such things are not unusual for me)

I busted a left and I’m heading to the next block

(So I will seek better opportunities in a different part of the city)

That block was dead, yo so I continued to A1A Beachfront Ave

(A square section of the city was not entertaining, so I went to where the ocean meets the land)

Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis, rock man lovers driving Lamborghini

(The women near the ocean  were more attractive and wore fewer clothes, while successful men drove expensive Italian vehicles) 

Jealous ’cause I’m out getting mine, Shay with a gauge and Vanilla with a Nine

(Other men of jealous of my prowess with women, so when I travel, my friend carries a shotgun and I bring a nine-millimeter pistol)

Ready for the chumps on the wall, the chumps are acting ill because they’re so full of eight balls

(Young males leaning against structures are dangerous, as they are intoxicated by a mixture of cocaine and heroin)

Gunshots ranged out like a bell, I grabbed my nine, all I heard were shells

(When young males used their weapons, I fired mine and listened to the casings hit the asphalt) 

Fallin’ on the concrete real fast, jumped in my car, slammed on the gas

(Many bullets were expended, so I re-entered my vehicle and put my foot on the accelerator rather roughly) 

Bumper to bumper the avenue’s packed, I’m tryin’ to get away before the jackers jack

(Though traffic was impossibly bad, I attempted to escape car hijackers before they could get to me and my expensive vehicle)

Police on the scene, you know what I mean, they passed me up, confronted all the dope fiends

(The authorities ignored me and instead confronted the young, intoxicated hooligans)

(Chorus)

Take heed, ’cause I’m a lyrical poet, Miami’s on the scene just in case you didn’t know it

(Pay attention to my rhymes and remember that the city of Miami, Florida is also a worthy center for musicians)

My town, that created all the bass sound, Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground

(Miami is well-known for music with low tones of such power that they make the ground and create cavities in the earth)

‘Cause my style’s like a chemical spill, Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel

(The way I sing is as powerful as a toxic leak, and my words make you see and feel the things that I speak of)

Conducted and formed, this is a hell of a concept, We make it hype and you want to step with this

(Also, you will want to happily gyrate to the rhythm)

Shay plays on the fade, slice it like a ninja, Cut like a razor blade so fast, other DJ’s say, “damn”

(My partner also assists by appropriating pieces of music from other artists, and this causes intense jealousy)

If my rhyme was a drug, I’d sell it by the gram, Keep my composure when it’s time to get loose

(My songs are as addictive as the illegal narcotics sold on the street using a basic unit of weight from the metric system)

Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice

(You will be hypnotized by the words amplified by an electric device that I sing into while performing a synchronized dance that will later be appropriated by the Back Street Boys) 

(Chorus)

Yo man, let’s get out of here

(Friend, we should depart and end this song)

Word to your mother

(Please tell your maternal parent that I send my greetings and wish her well)

Ice ice baby
Too cold
Ice ice baby 
Too cold too cold 
Ice ice baby 
Too cold
Ice ice baby 
Too cold too cold

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