Before we begin: we forgot someone. Kayne?

M.I.A.

Melting pot futurism has landed and it looks and whines like this. Are you having an arulpragasam yet? M.I.A. is the 30-something Marie Antoinette of the Internet, and it’d be really cool if Paper Rad did the honors and constructed a guillotine. Listening to Kala is like being strapped to a chair and forced to stare at a disjointed, crawling collage of drum-and-bass imagery and exotic kids wearing baggie nylon pants accentuated with drawstrings dragging in the dirt like tendrils of dogshit. She pushed the whole “my daddy was a terrorist, no he wasn’t” hype turd through the American press with her last album, but even when she's ranting about hairdressers it turns into a fucking politikal call-to-arms. She’s like the Clash for toddlers. Here she compares the rise of American hip hop to her ascension up the pop-cult ladder, informing stoned 20somethings everywhere that America had to have “a slavery and a war” for P. Diddy to drive Bentleys, whereas she “came from a mud hut and to be here and shouting in front of a disco, it took me 15 years. And that's all I represent. Everything boiled down is that, that's all it is. If I get it back to Africa, this is what I've accomplished.” STFU. She also referred to all American women as “puppets,” which might fly amongst the skiied-out trollops at McCarren Pool, but considering she married into money, not outside the Rotten Apple. Now she's just another rich, fashion-obsessed twat who wouldn't think twice about not tipping a waitress. Oh and have you ever been ordered to pay for an album by magazines, bloggers and trend consultants more so than with Kala? There are a million lil' hipsters in America riding this girl’s Cosby-sweatered coattails. "Paper Planes" did not issue her a black Am-Ex for everything she's said before and after.

Lily Allen

From the daughter of a Tamil Tiger who samples “Straight to Hell” to the goddaughter of Joe Strummer. Known for her strange pear-shaped outfits that could hide three midgets like mutant seeds, Lily Allen is the best example of our modern day desiccated and inebriated stage performer. After her visa was rejected, she threatened to never visit the States again—ooh, right up to the plane and dissed U.S. Her album, Alright, Still, has aged like stale bubblegum or a cheerleader's corpse, and we can’t get the tween-y cover image out —summery dress-on-a-bike, rocking Sketchers. Was there a gang sign? At least it's fading. She jokes that she’s spoiled, but she is. She’s like a less fun, much younger, popular Bijou Phillips. Pop out some dude's chuds and overdose already.

Lady Sovereign

One of the biggest fads ever diddled by Cornerstone (and that's saying a fair amount), the S.O.V's middling reception was met like a FUBU firesale. If she didn’t bitch about visa issues, quit shows with a thunderous tantrum, and look like the only person in the world with the Reebok logo tattooed on her butt cheek, we’d skip her altogether. Can you imagine her at 30? 40? Next year? She’s lint in Jay-Z’s pocket, but to the rest of us, she’s the meanest, most annoying lezzie Langolier of the oughts: munching away, talking shit, munching away, talking shit, fainting, remixing, munching, shit-talking. She looks like Wilson from Cast Away if Wilson was a rapping cunt floating angrily out to a dead, post-Grime sea.