Upsetting Day: Abba Alabanza (Patreon)

Let’s talk about a dreamer.

And bury his dream.

Abba Alabanza is a minstrel artist with Jamaican ambitions. He insulted folk music until he was bitten by a radioactive crab, and now he insults reggae. I’d call him the whitest Abba in music if he made music, but he’s more of a Lonely Island bit without intent or worth. And the pop group’s in enough samples for a Source Award.

In fact, I like Swedish Abba. For the rest of the day, we’ll call our star Alabanza. Like everyone without talent, Alabanza has a message.

That’s the song title. And chorus.

The music’s much lazier than the graphics. The strong, foundational father on the left back-kicks black power fists offscreen once every ten seconds or so, saving his reggae-loving family from black contagion. The madness gets me smiling–like a bird body-slamming a window–and it’s the only reason to finish the lyric video. Save the unicorn vomit raining from above.

Though this Stick Patriarch’s making his own job harder. His wife could hold the straight-power umbrella, while he freely pummels the culture Alabanza robs. Or vice-versa, to get freaky with it. Why add loneliness to Kipling’s burden?

Right, I forgot.

The audio’s an experience. Alabanza’s pet producer, Dub Ross, seems to be a nose-breather. He knows what the tabs in FL Studio do. But Dub doesn’t quite care about saving birthrates, and sells Alabanza Reggae_Template_4(EditLater) every time.

I can see why Dub punts it.

You might assume that’s half a line, or patois. Instead, it’s a full bar in idiot. Alabanza makes Chet Hanks sound like a diplomat. His blaccent adapts a rumor of Jamaica, passed down by monks for centuries. Less an impression of Sebastian’s voice, and more an interpretation of Sebastian’s subtitles.

But I shouldn’t start with the music. First, Abba wants you to know he needs money.

Badly.

YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok staff don’t dig Juh’s wisdom, and Alabanza’s alts demonetize in days. I thought Alabanza would cite Jah, but he keeps talking about someone named Juh. A friend from Tate Academy, I guess. Juh dislikes women, men, Jews, gays, moody blacks, OB/GYNs, unburnt clinics, Jews again, and yeah Alabanza’s basically a Pokemon called Jews. I don’t think he hears it anymore. It’s a good thing he doesn’t really get ad-libs, or he’d end every line like an Aryan Waka Flocka.

If you dig Juh’s message, you can support Abba on Cashapp. Or Venmo. There’s a referral link for minerals (expensive water, not drugs). He’ll meet you in the mall and take a paper bag, if that’s more your thing. Unless you’re a likely reggae fan. Or a likely reggae critic.

While we’re not dealing with a reliable narrator, his homepage hints at pandemic madness:

I’d sympathize, if it weren’t for the rest of the article. Lockdown tested everyone, and everyone failed. It’s more a question of degree. Some traders thought that baking was their dream, until they learned ovens were slow and cokeless. Some bakers thought that Wall Street was their dream, until they learned the SEC only exists for poor people. Alabanza went from bad music to anti-music, and we live in the wake.

I’m a Jamaican artist, which gives me nothing here. It’s anti-data. A Texan surgeon would reject Alabanza twice as violently, since it might reflect on them. For my part, it’s more relevant that I eat poison. Finding Abba was like visiting Cracker Barrel—all the racism and food poisoning I can handle.

But hey, “Feminism is a Problem” is a pop single. Watered-down bubblegum begging podcasts to step on him, with a lyric video and everything. As a critic, I should engage Alabanza’s deeper cuts. The real slurs.

This track sounds worse than it looks. While most reggae sets gay panic attacks to time and melody, Alabanza has other priorities. All of his ki goes to holding his crab voice. Which, somehow, drags these lyrics down:

Lord, I miss Hatenanny.

I’m not fucking around. There’s some distance covering nazis buried before you could talk. Abba hates with slang and icons born in my lifetime, down to spamming degenerate and a vintage r/fatpeoplehate fixation. The dogshit’s traveled from my sidewalk to my carpet.

After this, I should bump some gay propaganda. Half the producers that could save this verse craft virtuoso gay propaganda. Alabanza would make a great wink-nudge sample if he could finish a thought. Alas.

A natural turn from fast food. As a leading nazi music critic: the Reich should learn to focus. If you can’t stick to one undesirable for an entire verse, you can’t run shit. Kids rapping about one fake robbery for three minutes have better attention spans than Alabanza’s entire movement.

Adding braindead homophobia to reggae goes against fuck cribbing Beanie Man twenty years later is goddamn it Alabanza is much less talented than rival bigots. He read “Stop Murder Music” and saw an opening. No one’s taking him up on it, but there’s a little market instinct.

Then again, “Gay Propaganda” is another stunt single. A rock lobbed into the river, in case some money splashes out. Here’s “Sheep’s Clothing,” a song buried in the middle of the album Family.

I’m more worried about maniac biodiversity. Birthrate nutters flood the ecosystem, recruiting the unfucked before they even hear about UFOs or sorcery. It’s the worst maniac supply crisis since gamers learned about breakups.

Alabanza’s a buffet-style nutter. He defies the obese transgender jewish BLM obgyns controlling your mind. And knows mixing music, like clans, is a jewish conspiracy. Only muddling your voice under the bass pleases Juh.

Sounds like a naked wolf, though this poetry’s beyond me. Processing Alabanza’s writing requires sharing his language or form, so I’m doomed. Ask a Vogon.

The worst part? Objectively? The nanotech bonus is horseshit. Objectively. I’ve spread centuries of anti-family propaganda without one free augment. Objectively. This conspiracy sucks ass. Subjectively.

One upside: Abba sucks too much to spread his thoughts. While Stormfront on 4chan did damage, Abba on YouTube is a punt. In the white power rankings, Abba’s between a CBS janitor and Charlie Kirk’s bodyguard.

He’s right! That’s why I tried the rest of Family.

Ever pinched a nerve in your spine? I did once, despite years of protective breakdancing. It’s like hell, if hell were real and tied your spine in a knot. And I still marched through brand deadlines like a zombie. Each second of bedridden typing was more fun than Family.

One last bit about the voice. Step past hate and shellfish. Go Tabula Rasa.

Why’s alt-reggae need an accent?

Do morons do this in any other genre? Would he avoid the sun for six months to make black metal? Would he pick up student debt to make jazz? Would he sell his groundwater to Sam Altman to make country? Would he sell his groundwater to Sam Altman to make hip-hop? Would he sell his groundwater to Sam Altman to make shamisen-driven dancepunk? Sorry, one human evil at a time. Alabanza’s blaccent is dumb.

One reason to keep trying: you can sink lower. Always. Last year, Alabanza jumped the shark. Based Reggae shows the downfall of a man with nothing.

The series runs AI beats over AI video, with a troll verse sung by the tormented dead. Combining Alabanza’s lyrical gift with AI’s creative spark. It’s the first reggae to convince me man’s headed for perdition.

Though I have typing disease, so that explanation’s overwrought. I’ll let Alabanza explain in the people’s tongue. He has a spark: every piece of this screenshot tells a story:

There we go. Now I’ll play it, so that I can see the world beyond the gate.

The world beyond the gate should give up on art.

A small, indestructible spark of light in me expected a second joke. Not a better one, but a second layer of hate. Maybe a few ad-libs about them, or a guest verse from Majestic 12. Instead, I got the title, sung by Bob Marley’s soul in a jar.

Time for more.

Promising.

It’s easy for Alabanza to stay skinny. He was born without taste.

Think “Get Up, Stand Up” over a bikini montage. A secondary motive for Bigger Naturals might occur to some, but I’ll focus on the lyrics. Is this the best fat joke generations of bullying can produce? A horny robot’s Wailers impression? Based or not, dig a micron deeper. Give a bulimic poet five dollars to punch Claude’s work up. Add a second reggae artist to the Gemini prompt. Try.

The other Based Reggae standout is “It’s Okay To Be White.” We’ve been at this for a while. We’ve reviewed decades of klan art shows. “It’s Okay to be White” holds no surprises for us. We can skip “It’s Okay To Be White.”

As if I’d carry this alone.

Writers live to share pain. Everyone else can go on about their dad. You and I have “Based Reggae–It’s Okay To Be White.” When Alabanza’s hate becomes rote.

The song reaches for a dated /b/ provocation, and grasps humiliation. Passive-aggression demands fluency in a human language, and Alabanza thinks patois is part of a house. But with technology’s help, he can fail harder and faster than before.

Alabanza clicked for me outside the music. Remember this?

It’s Alabanza wailing about left-wing censorship in 2026. The spark of a sci-fi visionary. Alabanza should drop Marley’s coattails, and grab Jemisin’s. His painful loop of virality and deletion could make a nice time-travel story. Yet he spends this video mourning perfect raw material.

Alabanza also whines in his default rice-on-bread voice. A true virtuoso would have kept his “Gay Propaganda” blaccent. But Alabanza’s less interested in being Clifford Irving, and more in hosting Talk Tuah. Since God is a cadaver, that flaw, rather than all the hate and ineptitude, is his anchor.

Regular employment’s out. Alabanza needs to cash out, and can’t figure out how.

No one deserves that, except for him.

I hope Family gets ten sequels. I hope Based Reggae gets enough views to keep him going, but too few to feed him. I hope he’s recognized during each job interview, and nowhere else. I hope Alabanza never matters enough for me to learn his real name.

Abba Alabanza, forever. I’m his biggest fan.

Still here? Cool. Here's a sidequest I took.

After writing the above, Alabanza still felt like an enigma. I understood him as a failed influencer, worse troll, and abyssal artist. But I didn't understand why Jah or Juh let this happen. So I decided to reach out.

One problem: I'm the wrong shade for a conversation. My answer: resurrecting Laura Kelly, the alt-poet star of the Society of Classical Poets. And Alabanza's newest fan.

To be clear: Laura doesn't exist. She's a parody I used to defraud an alt-right poetry journal. Her name's two TV blondes smashed together, so anyone that replies is less of a person and more of a fungus.

Shit.

Sure, I thought I wanted a reply. But now I had to deliver, with my ten minutes of daily free time. I have more jobs than limbs.

To keep things simple, I built a fake alt-right poetry journal.

On Substack, because where else? Armed and dangerous, I returned to valuable research.

Here’s Laura’s new Vogon poetry, written just for Abba:

Far, far too thick. Subtlety doesn’t mix well with 5 AM madness.

That sounded like the end of it. No one's dim enough to here's his answer:

Is he just being nice? Is he nurturing young white talent? Does he hope alt-groupies exist? You decide. It's the third one.

Which led to my opportunity, and my point. I asked what's up with his stupid voice. I can’t get over his stupid voice. What the fuck is up with that voice?

Worthless. I both gave up and tried again in the next email, which is all you learn at Princeton. Enjoy the free elite education! I used it for this.

Another educator! Who knew Abba Alabanza had wisdom for other artists? Could something be brewing between us? A friendship? Love?

Nah, Alabanza can go taste-test glass. But isn't it wild how people see themselves? Or don't? I'm off to enjoy some gay propaganda.

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