Wrestling is this magnificent soap opera that’s all catchphrases and stupid jokes and insults and backflips and literal fireworks. It forces you to pick favorites, where you just point at someone and say “I like that one” because they’re funny, they have a ridiculous entrance, or they’re into the same kind of music as you are. Music plays a big role in wrestling—many of the best in the WWE build their characters on the aesthetics of music. CM Punk invoked the politics of straight edge. Sasha Banks wears shutter shades and calls herself the Boss. Sami Zayn’s whole schtick is “a great wrestler who enjoys ska.” But all of these people are something else, too—well-rounded personas with passion, motivation, and mic skills. Music fanaticism is right at the surface, but it’s decidedly second fiddle to strong, nuanced storytelling.
Shinsuke Nakamura is a perfect example of this. He’s the champion of WWE’s NXT—the company’s “minor leagues,” where international and developing talent get the chance to show what they’ve got before getting a shot at the majors. If you don’t watch wrestling, all you need to know is that Nakamura is pretty evidently the G.O.A.T. He’s this slinky Japanese megastar with a side-shave, who oozes confidence while throwing elbows and knees in red leather pants. He’s called “the King of Strong Style,” and he’s insanely fun to watch. The guy takes pop cultural megastar influences—he’s cited Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson as heroes—and funnels them into this enigmatic but goofy badass of a character. He’s the sort of dude who looks into the camera knowingly, like Jim Halpert or some shit, and then knees the other guy in the face. It’s amazing.
In this elaborate world of pyro and ladder matches and finishing moves, there are also half-formed, disposable characters—people who don’t get much time on the microphone, and when they do, their words are boilerplate: “I’m tired of hearing you talk. How about we fight right now?” Their entire character is a job description, a regional stereotype, or worse, a person who already exists in the real world. These people are, at times, infuriating to watch.
Case in point: On October 19, Nakamura was confronted by another wrestler who modeled himself after a music legend, but Patrick Clark’s character isn’t just inspired by Prince—his character is, pretty much, Prince. (And who can really be Prince besides Prince?) Clark walked out to faux-’80s synthesizer, his chest exposed through an open blouse. “NXT universe,” he began, “we are gathered here today to get to this thing called NXT TakeOver: Toronto.” As if the guy hadn’t telegraphed his role as Fake Wrestling Prince hard enough, he sealed the deal with a groan-worthy rework of the “Let’s Go Crazy” monologue. The crowd hated this, and their boos were loud enough to ensure that this character will probably return; in the wrestling business, any loud reaction—positive or negative—is usually met with “OK, this is working.” He called himself “your velveteen dream—the Patrick Clark experience,” and was swiftly knocked out.
In short, this guy decided to pay homage to a recently deceased icon by doing a bad impression. In the best case scenario, he eventually manages to make this funny. Worst case: He uses the memory of Prince to exacerbate a wrestling stereotype where androgynous or foppish characters are derided by audiences and positioned as the easily collapsible foil to bulky, hulking “hero” types.
Another guy on the roster, Angelo Dawkins, had a similar problem. A beat rode as Dawkins walked out wearing two headbands (which read “the curse of greatness”), before the sound of his own voice boomed on the speaker: “Y’all are now about to witness the curse of greatness.” He then emphatically delivered Lil B’s cooking dance. Granted, Dawkins didn’t model his in-ring attire after Lil B’s distinct wardrobe, and the stirring on its own isn’t outright gimmick infringement—the dance is a mainstay of sportscelebrations, after all. But Dawkins combined B’s trademark dance with an allusion to his widely reported curse. Yet beyond the entrance, Dawkins’ Lil B persona was woefully underdeveloped (as in, non-existent), which is really a disservice to one of the most fascinating cult-hero rappers in the game. Put it this way: Lil B’s wrestling mixtape is way better than Dawkins’ whole thing. (Perhaps the Based God’s curse has quietly taken effect—the guy pretty much never wins.)
The #CurseOfGreatness@AngeloDawkins is ready to stir it up against @AndradeCienWWE! #WWENXTpic.twitter.com/Vd3kxPpEsL
— WWE NXT (@WWENXT) August 11, 2016
The purpose for both of these guys is clear. They show up, get the crowd to hate them, make the other guy look good, and get kicked in the head. It’s not a bad formula! Thing is, I derive no joy from seeing Clark or Dawkins get beat up. They haven’t done any real work to make me dislike them. The best heels are absolute shitheads who play up their arrogance to a cartoonish degree, put an opponent’s family member in the hospital, and troll fans on Twitter. It’s hard to get up in arms about a wrestler whose whole thing is, “I’m not quite the famous person I remind you of—pretty irritating, right?” And yet, I am.
Next to guys like Nakamura, dudes positioning themselves as dollar-store versions of actual icons make for miserable television. Consider the source material. Prince was nothing but layers. He built worlds, shifted aesthetics constantly, was a genius composer, and a brilliantly burning star. The mythology of Lil B is insurmountable—an endless discography, a strong army of followers, messages of love, social media-born curses, endlessly quotable lectures, an internet famous cat, a genuine presence in NBA playoff discussions, and so much more magnetism. Meanwhile, wrasslin’s budget-Prince is the equivalent of the effects button on a cheap Casio keyboard. Dawkins’ Based God knock-off is an invisible whisk and a dumb nickname.
U Come 2 Me With A Threat?
— Icon Påtrick Cłårk (@PatrickClarkWWE) October 3, 2016
U Don't Know Me Yet
Boy, U A Youngin
But Baby, I'm A Vet
It’s still early in both guys’ careers. “Not Prince” isn’t even Clark’s first gimmick this year—he made headlines for debuting a Trump supporter gimmick who drew easy heat by saying sexist stuff to the women in the audience. (Somebody higher up in the company clearly saw this and shut it down, probably because the Republican presidential nominee is also a WWE Hall of Famer.) Clark might figure out how to build out his “velveteen dream” character beyond cheap pastiche dressed up in spangly clip-on earrings. Maybe Dawkins will elaborate on how he’s cursed or why he wears two headbands. A lot of the wrestling greats started out with stupidgimmicks and eventually became better performers, as they let their real-life personality and sense of humor come through. Others started doing the best work of their career when they dove headlong into absurdity. Let’s see more of that and less of this disrespectful “Prince but not really” nonsense.