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Recognize
6.30.2005
Outtie...
Chi Town, stand up! ...ghost, in other words, gone/But the beat goes--uh-uh--on...
I'll be in the Chi for the weekend, so enjoy these links and the weekend. Payce.
- Bush's Africa agenda does not include anything about Darfur or contraception. What a compassionate conservative.
- If you ever wonder why the underclass populations left behind in America's cities can feel so frustrated and abused, consider that while Detroit's atrophy persists, Oakland County in Michigan is the third wealthiest county in the world. FHA + highways + racism = declining urban America and a polarized electorate.
1. What's THE critical game of the season on the national scene? We're looking for the one that will influence the most outcomes in a single span of sixty minutes. Please try to diversify your answers and think of something other than Ohio State-Texas, for example. 2.What's the most critical matchup for your team? Again, we know we'll hear OSU-Michigan from you Wolverines, but we ask you to think in terms of multiple scenarios here. 3. What's your wingnut upset prediction of year? No hedging (or common sense) wanted here; we know everyone has a paint-chip eating, lunatic pick lurking somewhere in their brain. Go ahead and fess up on the record so you can gloat with pride later.
Here're my answers: 1) The only coach in America whose shit probably smells sweeter than Charlie Weis' is Urban Meyer. Ever since last season, all college football analysts and Lee Corso (take it easy; I'm just joking around) have told us how great Urban Meyer is. His offense is aggressive and varied and places so many demands on opposing defenses; his coaching pedigree assures future success; he chops, dices, and juliennes; he's a Catholic, so Pope Sidious and God, him/her/itself, take an interest in the fortunes of his teams. We get it. And so far, he's warranted the hype: Since arriving at Florida, Meyer hasn't lost a game (!) and he's text messaging his ass off so that every recruit in the country commits to Florida in February, forcing the Gators to endure the enviable plight of having 200 five-star recruits.
I am not one who has succumbed to the knee-jerk, envy-induced reaction that Meyer isn't all that; he may very well be. However, I don't think we'll know until October 15th when the Gators travel to Death Valley and play LSU. Given the dearth of intersectional match-ups that feature two elite-level teams, the UF-LSU is the one that could most significantly alter the national scene because the SEC will be deep and also home to several title contenders. In a micro sense, this game could be the catapult that propels (is that a Corso-style mixed metaphor?) UF to the Rose Bowl and the Meyer hype into the stratosphere (or into the next galaxy). Florida doesn't have the friendliest schedule (Tennessee, FSU, Georgia; at Alabama, at LSU, at Spurrierville), but it can reasonably expect to roll into the LSU game at 6-0 so long as it handles business against Fat Phil in the Swamp. A win in Baton Rouge would likely fortify the collective psyche of the team and make it a frontrunner for the Rose Bowl given the SEC-aided strength of schedule. After the LSU game, those games against Georgia, the Gamecocks, and FSU loom, but beating the Bayou Bengals would likely erase any doubt that Florida could run the table. And in that macro sense that I know you were waiting for, a Gator win would make Florida the only team other than USC getting relentless nation-wide coverage (sorry, Charlie) and would perhaps alter the landscape, making Gainesville the most important place outside of California: hot coach, hot team, hot Heisman contender (Chris Leak), etc. It's enough to make you vomit, but it could happen.
LSU would have an even clearer path to the Rose Bowl if it came into and left the Florida game undefeated. LSU has a number of early-season tests (it hosts Arizona State and Tennessee) but should be able to pass both if the roster is as laden with talent as everyone trips over himself to tell us. Surviving the Florida visit would send LSU on its way toward the SEC title game and, potentially, the Rose Bowl, with just trips to Tuscaloosa and Oxford remaining as the real tests (sorry, Arkansas).
Whoever wins will likely come out of this game on the Rose Bowl short list, and so long as both enter undefeated--a possibility that seems reasonable if not even likely--the loser will remain at the periphery of the title picture because these teams could likely meet again in the SEC title game, perhaps with only one loss among them.
2) Like Brian, I don't really want to write this, but also like him, I can't not write it: Ohio State is the game for Michigan. We Wolverines, with our better educations, better table manners, and better voting processes like to think that even we are above this obsessiveness. Ohio State only cares about beating Michigan, but Michigan has other, bigger things on its mind. That may be true in some years, but not when Ohio State has won a national title more recently, has a better coach who probably owns ours, beat us last year with a wack roster and a quarterback who can't throw for shit, and is benefiting from some resurgence that seems like a sign of the apocalypse. Michigan has to win this game this season, or else a notorious grump is going to need to start looking at properties in other states. At least, as far as I'm concerned; I've already started to help him pack. (And yes, I'm in the minority among Wolverine fans. What can I say? It's hard being right and hated for it.)
If you want another game that Michigan has to win, how about the one against the Nittany Lions. Everyone, say it with me: We own...Penn State. Own 'em. And that shouldn't change since JoePa just heard about this awesome thing called the forward pass and is hoping that his two- and three-star recruits can implement it effectively. Michigan has been taking top talent from Pennsylvania for a while, and a win will only help that recruiting. Also, after losing Justin King to the Nits, it would be nice to show him just how stupid he is. And best of all, PSU has the second-most obnoxious fan base in the Big Ten (take a guess as to which yahoos are number one), and nothing will shut them up like a Michigan W.
3) Upsets? Here's the most upsetting one: Notre Dame 31, Michigan 28. Four touchdowns aren't enough at home as Charlie Weis eats Jim Herrmann (figuratively and literally) for lunch in a game that means everything to Notre Dame and its new coach. It's hard being the measuring stick for greatness; sometimes we take a beating. It's also hard playing with a secondary that is pedestrian and without a go-to receiver in the second game of the year.
The next movement has gone too far. Expect a barrage of posts from me today; a lot has been going on. Here’s the lineup: - Now - a review of last night’s Save the Rhinos shitty-ass suckfest featuring humidity, the worst hip-hop crowd ever, and the band we used to call the Roots. - Later - College Football Blogging Roundtable Answer #2 - And after that - Some news and linkatricity - Annnnnd deeeeeen - Whatever the fuck else I want
Sorry for the profanity above, but I have never been as underwhelmed (and pissed off) by a rap concert as I was by last night’s Marc Ecko-sponsored show in Central Park that was supposed to be my joint. I mean, the lineup was unreal: Roots, De La, and MF Doom. That’s two of my five favorite groups ever (and two acts I worship) and an MC whose latest record I can’t stop spinning (“…sit in the court and be they own star witness…”). Come the fuck on; how could such a show not be fantastic?! Well, here’s how:
To start, outdoor concerts aren’t fun when the air weighs a ton (keep these words in mind…) and you sweat every time you even think about blinking. I mean, one move and you would up with another sweat stain on your shirt. The notion of a warm summer evening spent imbibing alcohol, eating meats (no homo), and listening to hip-hop is seductive and exciting, but only if the weather isn’t oppressive. I love the warm weather, but the tropical, sweltering late-June air is not conducive to a great show. So that stunk.
But that was only the beginning. I have never seen a worse hip-hop crowd in my life. There was no energy (the weather wasn’t helping); there was no knowledge; and there was no fun. DJ Premier was the house DJ for last night’s event--DJ PREMIER, he of the hip-hop essence--and the crowd treated him as though he were trying to parlay a guest spot on some crappy Hot 97 late-night show into a full-time hip-hop gig. This dude gave classic shit to everyone and people treated him like some new jack. Hello? Have you heard of Gang Starr? I think they’ve got to be the sure shot or something, but I could be wrong. Jesus eff-ing Christ! If the man’s asking you if you’re down with hip-hop, say yes, do it with enthusiasm, and show some respect.
Even worse, though, no one knew any of the music. Premo threw on some Roy Ayers, and about ten people among the several thousand knew when to scream out “Sunshine.” Even fewer seemed to actually enjoy hearing some older music. Rick James loves Mary Jane? Never heard of her. I give the crowd a little credit because when Premier dropped some Jeru, it was roused into a modest cheer, so maybe all those people knew that one; although they might have just thought they were about to hear some remix of that one song in which the guys whisper and say all that naughty sex stuff.
When MF Doom came out, a few hundred people in the front rows started going crazy because all of them will tell you that Madvillainy is one of the best records ever and blah-bitty blah-bitty blah. Shut up, and no. It is a good record, and Madlib is super creative. But don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining. These are the same people who, later, when De La came out, acted as though "Stakes Is High" were some filler material in between more of that awesome Stones Throw stuff. I have nothing against Madlib or MF Doom (it should be evident that I like both) or anyone else from that label, but if you can’t get excited about De La fucking Soul and are instead fixated on how underground MF is, you’re missing something.
And those backpacks! Are you kidding me? I felt like I was the only one without a bag. Are there so many itinerant hip-hop fans who travel aimlessly that so many must show up with a backpack on? I’ve never liked the term “backpacker” because it’s almost obsolete at this point (what am I? I go see the Roots, Kanye, Jay, and anyone else I like), but last night, it really made sense. Fuck a backpacker. Look, unless you’ve been traveling, you’re carrying audio-visual equipment, or you’re on your way to or from class, you don’t need a backpack. It was six-trillion degrees anyway, so it’s not like these people needed to carry layers just in case a breeze picked up.
Because the crowd had some of the worse taste ever (I’m sure tons of people went home to throw on that new SA Smash), there was no energy drawn from the artists as they ran through their great catalogues. Even Doom couldn’t get the crowd going. Again, the heat was really stifling, but I think that general lack of enthusiasm and that cohesive, invigorating, shared warmth that stems from the realization that you and all these other people are rockin’ with a great artist owed to people who weren’t really into the music. It was really disappointing. I mean, there were three girls next to me who spent the entire De La set talking about who had hooked up with which boys at the sorority formal this past year. (I’m not joking.)
Part of the blame for this general suckiness lies with the Roots. I mean, I think that’s what we used to call them. You know, back when they were cool, and good, and fun. It hurts me to write this because I adore the Legendary, and their first four albums are fantastic. But starting with Phrenology--a record that I really liked--something changed. It’s like ?uestlove decided that the Roots didn’t want to make hip-hop records anymore and instead wanted to become the black Grateful Dead, a group that is endlessly touring and jamming, a facsimile of its former self playing re-worked versions of cherished songs, but mostly doing dumb shit like letting Martin Luther rock out for twenty self-indulgent minutes at a time. Did you hear The Tipping Point? Garbage. Hot mess. Whatever.
Sadly, this “creative” movement away from what the Roots used to be about--making hip-hop that emphasized instrumentation and musicianship but wasn’t overwhelmed by either--has dovetailed with the credibility that the group has always had with mainstream audiences that disingenuously proclaim themselves to be counterculture while they file into large venues to see artists who appear on MTV (like Dave Matthews). As a result, your typical Roots crowd is now overwhelmed by fans who are there because they think they’re supposed to like the Roots (it became a cool thing at some point); fans who want to smoke weed; and fans who just want to hear a good jam band.
The Roots (sadly) happily oblige. They basically don’t play any of their music in recognizable ways anymore, and that’s when they actually play their own music. I am all for an artist flipping a track and using some other hot beat--like performing a track with the beat from “Grindin’”--as a concert gimmick, but when your set devolves into some free-form studio-session-on-stage that features the same songs ("Break You Off," "Next Movement," "Seed 2.0," "You Got Me") and covers ("Planet Rock," "Good Times," "Nothin’") every time, it gets really bland. And how many times in the last three years has a Roots show started with Black Thought saying, “And it weighs a ton”?! Like, 650?
Some of my disenchantment owes to the fact that I see the Roots too often; I’ve probably seen them more than ten times in the past five years. But I think most of it is their fault. No one wants to see some hip-hop jam band. We want to hear “Ultimate.” We want to hear “Essaywhuman.” We want to hear “Concerto of the Desperado.” Christ, just give us “What They Do” without some reggaeton remix that interpolates everything from Led Zeppelin to Kula Shaker. (As I ponder all this, I guess that the Roots can’t do a lot of the catalogue the way it should be done now that Malik B. is effectively dead, Rahzel has been excommunicated, and Scratch is trying to turn his niche skill into a career. Fuck.)
Anyway, the show let me down. The crowd was horrible. The humidity was an impediment. And the Roots blew. De La was alright, although their set wasn’t all that long and the absent crowd energy did little to entice the Plugs to give their best effort, either. Seeing them perform "Rock Co.Kane" with Doom was great, though. And Doom was fine, although his stage show and performance flair are both zero. No "Rap Snitch Knish," either. Oh well.
Back like frozen crack New York City suffers from a dearth of good, local college football. There is no such problem with regard to basketball: St. John’s was good for years, and Syracuse, UConn, and a host of other “area” teams remain compelling and engaging. But that’s not the case in football, and as a result, I grew up rooting for Michigan because it was the team that was always on television. Notre Dame was on, too, but I didn’t like the players or the uniforms as much upon my initial contact with the team, and given that the Domers were a Michigan rival, I soon grew to detest the Irish. I was also enamored of the Fab Five as a youth. Who could resist a brash, stylish team that played an exciting brand of basketball? (It also helped that I was ten and eleven when CWebb and them were killin’ it.) All in all, it was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy when I matriculated at the University of Michigan.
The sickness, the addiction that is my sports obsession was only encouraged by Michigan athletics once I was living in Ann Arbor. Really, it was like buying a house in Colombia for Tony Montana; an addict was being led to the source. Suddenly, not only could I follow the team in print, on television, and on the internets, but I could be immersed in the culture, attending every home game. No rain was too wet or cold weather too frigid to keep me out of the Big House or away from Crisler Arena. I had my Michigan-sports game on lock! And then, it got even stronger when I found websites like TheWolverine.com and GoBlueWolverine.com that cater to the lunatics of my ilk. Instead of Wolverines Anonymous, the group I had joined was something that you might call Wolverines Anomalous: We were proud to be the most obsessed of all the Michigan-sports fans, frothing at the mouth as information emerged about which whimsical sixteen-year-old football players from places like The Colony, TX or Jacksonville, FL had once worn Michigan t-shirts while riding bikes or going to school, and what that may portend with regard to their impending college choices in eighteen months. No one on those sites is trying to “get better.” No; we’re all trying to get worse.
In fact, we try to outdo each other, making the sickness worse and worse. GoBlueJohnny87 will spend hours making his own list of which recruits he thinks are coming to UM based upon reports he’s cobbled together from the Michigan-focused websites and the websites that serve sports-obsessed lunatics who care about other schools. And the reward for all of his toil? Fifty people he’s never met but whose cyber personas he’s come to know and perhaps respect will tear apart his list because each of them has made his or her own, and here’s why it’s better. And don’t forget our community’s endless debates about which method of disembowelment is most appropriate for our shithead defensive coordinator; or the ten reasons why we’re so glad that we aren’t as insufferable as the Penn State fan base (that list is totally legitimate); or the best nickname for the receiving corps; etc. All in all, people like me are so proud to be so sick; it’s like accosting strangers on the street because you’ve never felt better about your herpes.
I’d now like to make a vain attempt at asserting the should-inspire-awe-and-fear extent of my irrationality: I woke up at least four times last night because I was having a nightmare in which Michigan lost its season-opening game against (the) Ohio State (joke of a) University. The score was 51-44. Michigan lost at home. It was tied at 44 with a few minutes left, and Troy Smith broke a tackle that would have been a sack, sprinted to the other side of the field, and then found a wide-open Tedd Ginn fifty yards down the field. I was in the stands, and I had lost my voice from screaming obscenities at Lloyd Carr.
Why was The Game the first one of the season? I have no idea, although the Freud in me says that since early-season losses are always submarining Michigan football, and beating Ohio State can often validate a season that might otherwise seem horribly disappointing (like 1995), I was suffering from the ultimate horror of UM both ruining (yet another) season and also blowing its sole chance for redemption. Even worse, this imagined loss was the fourth in five years suffered against (t)OS(joa)U and its cheating, lying, duplicitous scumbag of a coach, Jim Tressel. And it was Tressel’s second win in Ann Arbor, a place UM almost never loses this decade. (And my head is about to explode just typing all of this.) And even worse, in the dream, I logged onto a Michigan-sports message board to complain about Lloyd Carr always losing important games, and always allowing his teams to succumb to serial flaws that he doesn’t know how to fix (like bad tackling and a bad defensive coordinator and bad play calling in pressure-filled situations), and I was met not with commiseration but opprobrium. People were calling me unrealistic and overly negative. I was told to be happy that the team had scored 44 points against a good defense. It’s ok because next year will be better. It was horrible.
The dream was so bad that I woke up this morning and immediately rushed to the computer to make sure it was all imagined. My sickness has manifested itself in this way before, but last night was a new low for me. I was hoping to write a Michigan preview post over the weekend, but that didn’t happen. I’ll try for that again tonight, perhaps. But in the meantime, suffice it to say that Lloyd Carr remains someone I view as problematic.
Also kinda crazy: - As has become the case for the last few summers, I am once again addicted (that's the word of the day, huh?) to Fla.Vor.Ice. I can eat thirty of those ice pops in one sitting. And that pink--my god! Once it hits your lips.... My teeth will probably fall out of my head, and I will probably give myself diabetes or something, but it will all be worth it.
So please start addressing me as appropriate when you leave comments. That's Dr. Bangin.
- I got a new website (again)! Amar of the Cavalier Attitude and I are [Cam'ron] tellin' yall, What's Really Good[/Camron]. Each week, Amar and I will be discussing the most important isht from the NBA. Our discussions will be back-and-forth, conducted over Instant Messenger, and we're hoping to have a PTI-style rapport (to the extent possible when voice inflection, facial expressions, and actually knowing each other are not possible). I am excited about this venture, although I am also a little leery about it since Amar is a Buckeye. While he has no hope of redeeming the Minimum Security Prison and Home for the Mentally Challenged's entire yahoo fan base, he might emerge as that rare Buckeye who's actually cool. Kid knows his shit.
Put your phone on vibrate I have to admit that the novelty of "Trapped in the Closet" was what I found most engaging about the series until I saw the mini film that accompanies all five parts of the saga. (I probably hadn't thought about the lyrics enough.) As songs, the series was alright but nothing that was blowing my mind in the way that it was other people's. Really, I thought it was kind of creepy, almost, because, at this point, R. Kelly is buggin'. But then I watched the videos, and all I can say is that this shit rocks. R. Kelly might be out of his mind and partying with the J.V. field hockey team, but the dude has always taken creative risks, and I like that.
Don't step to him with that weak-ass psychiatry game. He knows the ledge history.
Not that you thought otherwise, but Tom Cruise really is fucking nuts:
Tom Cruise criticized NBC "Today" show host Matt Lauer on Friday when Lauer mentioned Cruise's earlier criticism of Brooke Shields for taking anti-depressants. Cruise told Lauer he didn't know what he was talking about. "You don't know the history of psychiatry. I do," Cruise said.
The interview became more heated when Lauer, who said he knew people who had been helped by the attention-deficit disorder drug Ritalin asked Cruise about the effects of the drug.
"Matt, Matt, you don't even--you're glib," Cruise responded. "You don't even know what Ritalin is. If you start talking about chemical imbalance, you have to evaluate and read the research papers on how they came up with these theories, Matt, OK. That's what I've done."
Yeah, Matt, not so glib. Psssh.
The actor, whose marriages to Mimi Rogers and Nicole Kidman ended in divorce, declined to say what Holmes has brought to his life that wasn't there in the past.
"I don't want to compare things," Cruise said. "It's that thing where you just--in life when it just happens....You meet someone. And it's--I can't even describe it."
Red Stripe, Reggae, and Me: Helping White People Dance
White rap? If your friends don't dance, fuck 'em Just in case you've missed this: Rappers love 80s rock and roll. This isn't a new phenomenon, and I've written about this trend before. Whether it's been Jadakiss ripping off R.E.O. Speedwagon, DMX and others "paying homage" to Bon Jovi, Nas bumpin' Toto, or the Diplomats pumping out enough material for their own "I Love the 80s" mixtape (recognize: Journey, Bon Jovi, Jefferson Starship, Billy Joel, and Cyndi Lauper), rappers are obsessed with the 80s. In previous discussions inspired by this circumstance, some have suggested that these repackaged 80s hits are deliberately selected to draw in a white audience. I find this notion somewhat plausible (and if it is, then that new Scram Jones-produced, Who-sampling N.O.R.E. track has huge potential), so today I thought I'd help out white people by offering up some other 80s hits that might lend themselves to catchy rap songs. Then, we could all rush out to the mall, cop the newest gangsta shit, and stay down. Cam, Swizzle, and everyone else should take notes on this. (And given my 80s style, it's only right that I shout out Lost in the 80s. On point.)
- Men Without Hats, "Safety Dance" - If for no other reason, this needs to be sampled just so that we can all be reminded of the ridiculous video that accompanied this song (you know, dancing in fields, midgets little people, and maypoles). It could even be re-created with Bushwick Bill, Insert-name-of-generic-female-rapper-here, and whichever MC is fortunate enough to get this heatrock. Also, the maypole scenes would afford anyone's crew with enough air time for all of the weed carriers. I think that someone like Swizz could easily master the strong synthesizer element of this melody and flip it over some bubbling drums. This beat would have Cam written all over it, although it would need to be a little grimier than it is just now; no straight jack move would suffice. (Buy)
- John Parr, "Man in Motion" - Cut up those opening keyboard notes; loop that first, lonely guitar chord; chipmunk John Parr screaming "sometime" or "someway"; and you've got a classic. Even that surging bass line could host an unrelenting flow while the falsetto vocals could add a dramatic flair to the track. (Buy)
- Heart, "What About Love" - Are you kidding me? That epic introduction? I can already hear someone shouting out his block, his crew, his producer, his engineer, and his label. This song could be some beautiful, let's-go-get-'em, cinematic-type magnum opus. And then, once the melody kicks in, just cut out those Wilson vocals and you have the perfect backdrop for some serious shit--someone's girl has an abortion; someone's man gets clapped; someone's grind on the come up gets detailed. Are you kidding me? (Buy)
- Split Enz, "I Got You" - Another angst-ridden track, this joint could easily be cut up in a minimalist, A-Trak-like fashion to showcase the lyrics and flow while lending the track a subtle, nearly menacing energy. (Buy)
Either coke or hoops, and my jump shot ain't shit: - I am totally shook today: I actually agree with Scalia, Thomas, and Rehnquist on something?! Fucking pinch me. This is a real identity crisis for me. The Supreme Court ruled that corporate giveaways eminent domain condemnation can continue, unimpeded. I realize that a lot of economic-development programs are often shrouded by the empty though soaring rhetoric of common good, and that this sinister dogma helps to sway the public, but my experience working in the land-use and development industry is that municipalities usually render "economic development" and "corporate subsidy" synonymous. Sure, the new steel-and-glass tower will "provide" 2,500 jobs and also result in a pretty new park (with a fence around it), but what you're not told is that PILOT remuneration, tax absolution, myriad growth-driving financing programs, and corporate down-sizing will result in a net loss of jobs and a forfeiture of maximum potential revenue. And just wait until the company a city or town has bent over backwards to accommodate decides that it's moving without satisfying its financial and civic responsibilities. Kind of makes the misleading colloquialism of "economic development" all the more insidious, huh?
- Duh. Onyx was all over this issue, like, ten years ago. Remember "Bichasbootleguz"?
- I thought Wyatt Sexton's life was the Bonnaroo journal: 8:00 AM - Did drugs (continual); 9:00 AM - Drank alcohol (continual); 10:00 AM - Wore tie-dye clothes (continuous); 11:00 AM - Played bongo drums in circle (intermittent); 12:00 PM-10:00 PM - Listened to music (continuous); 4:00 AM - Rolled around on the street proclaiming myself to be God until police arrested me (episodic).
Hey friends, I just wanted to thank everyone, again. Straight Bangin' pushed past the 15,000-visits mark today, one month to the day after it hit 10,000. Or, in other words, this site, in its lifetime, has now gotten as much traffic as BC dot C gets in about an hour. Seriously, I appreciate the support. I'll keep writing if y'all keep reading and leaving comments.
It's great...to be...a Michigan Wolverine Michigan has its third verbal commitment for the football recruiting class of 2006. On the heels of the Michigan summer football camp, Cincinnati (OH) Colerain High School linebacker Cobrani Mixon has decided (sub. req.'d) decided that he wants to don the maize and blue, run out of that tunnel, jump up and smack that banner, put a beatdown on most of the teams he plays, and lose his first road game of the season. Every season (is Lloyd hodophobic?).
I am pretty happy that Mixon will be in this class. He's fast (4.6 forty) and has had a Michigan offer for a long time, indicating that he is a real player. (LSU and the Minimum Security Prison have also offered him a scholarship, respectively.) Mixon is not highly ranked by most of the recruiting services, but that likely owes to an ACL tear that he sustained last season (and note: he played ten games with it torn.) I expect that his ranking will rise if he puts in a successful senior campaign. It's also nice to keep plucking players from Ohio, and Mixon is yet another player from his high school (B.J. Askew, Mister Simpson) to travel up north.
On the whole, the Michigan recruiting class is starting to emerge as a good one. Early in the process, it appeared as though Michigan could be poised for an incredible talent haul, as the Wolverines were listed as a favorite by a number of the best 100 kids in the country. Some of that interest appears to be waning among many of these kids (for various reasons, most of them unavoidable when you have to recruit nationally and lure kids to a cold, northern place), but UM will still land its fair share of the elite players. Mixon, though not considered one now, could join that group if he successfully comes back from his injury in the fall. (And for more, as always, check out MGoBlog.)
Now UM needs to get some safeties who can play, because those already on the roster need to be concentrating on their studies, if you know what I mean.
Also, below, please take a look at the new location of Tennessee's Neyland Stadium now that half the team needs to be in prison. I love it (spotted by Every Day Should Be Saturday). The Horseshoe would fit there nicely, also.
(Like what you've heard? Support the artists here and here.)
Update: I was able to glue my head back together after it exploded this morning when I read that the Knicks are going to be acquiring another undersized swingman. I'm attempting to convalesce at the End of the Bench.
Can't truss it - Congress to the First Amendment: Fuck You! I can't even summon the will to post some rant about how bad this country is becoming. Just know that it is, and I'm right.
- Nothing from Bellymade the list? What about Newsies?* Ok, Colors? Um, Scarface--"I'll crush those cock-a-roaches"? White Men Can't Jump? I say "Billy, you so stupid" in my best Rosie Perez accent more often than I ever expected I would when I first saw that movie as a youth.
- Maybe I am not reading about this enough or am just too stupid, but doesn't this mean that we could have a filibuster fight again? And, the better question: What deal did Frist and Bush cut? With McCain already trying to bury his nose in Bush's ass before 2008, this adds an interesting wrinkle, doesn't it? Frist always looks like he just took a bad bite of egg salad and could feel some shell crunching around.
- Two of my favorite bad things: the slow death march of the American auto company (which is quickly joining the American airline company as an organization without a way) and the sustained atrophy of the Rustbelt as the Sunbelt shines. Nothing like cheap land and non-union labor.
- For all the college football peeps, here's a question to ponder: What is the sound of a football game in the forest between Tennessee and the Minimum Security Prison and Home for the Mentally Challenged if all of the players are in jail? Does the tree still fall?
Wu-Tang mathematics While I collect myself in the wake of Detroit's rousing Game Six victory, peep the End of the Bench, where I'm breaking down what the union needs to ask for in the next collective bargaining agreement. Let's just say that it includes Kobe getting punked and John Tesh making a comeback.
Also, get your day started right with some hotness:
Just for Stacey Some news and views (my apologies to Larry King): - David at So Sinsurr posted a great little screed about critics overrating Common and overhating Mike Jones. (I have his number if anyone wants to give him a call.) I'd agree that the Common record, though good, is hugely overrated. It's great in concert, and certain tracks really stand out, but once you get past the initial "I'm actually hearing new music from the good version of Common" phase, Be seems a little less awesome, and certainly not so classic. I'd also agree that too often, people just mindlessly apply an accepted "truth" to someone or something based upon previous endeavors. For instance, Kobe probably won't rape anyone else. (I need to retire those jokes; I know. Afford me this last indulgence.) But Mike Jones? His record is too lame, and his vaunted charisma, though present, is mitigated and ultimately obscured by his boring rhymes. I can't listen to that record because even if I were all about this whole Houston-sound zeitgeist (which I am not), the rhymes would be so corny and boring that I would yearn for something at least more entertaining, if not actually interesting. (Slim Thug and Paul Wall, for instance, both have better flows and seem a little smarter on the mic, even if they aren't saying much, themselves.) Really, I think Mike Jones would be a better reality-TV star or host than MC.
David makes another salient point, as well: In pop culture, the how can usually be more interesting than the what, and even in the case of a great MC like Common (and let's be honest: Common can still rhyme with the best), the music becomes uninspiring and bland if it's all content, absent style. Just ask Canibus, a great lyricist who just never figured out how to make a whole record and is missing 99-percent of his fans, if you believe James Smith. (But, as we saw on Electric Circus, there is such a thing as too much style.) Sometimes, you just love a track because of a rambunctious flow or a captivating beat or a comically ridiculous element. I am always bemoaning the absence of intelligence and the relentless propagation of stupidity in hip-hop, so don't think that I'm trying to have it both ways; we would all be better off with more dudes like Common. But we also need the court jesters and the party music and the fun. I mean, I can't stop rocking the Dip Set's "What's Really Good" right now, but I also was hit so hard by a Phonte verse on the subway this morning. There are no absolutes in hip-hop, and the packaging can often be more fun than what's inside.
"One GI had to help Saddam back to his cell, while another carried his underwear."
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- Why is Bush so wedded to Doc Cochran? Is he trying to prove how big his dick is? Has he committed too much time and too many resources to turn back at this point? Why not find someone more agreeable?
- I totally forgot to mention this during the Eastern Conference Finals, but did anyone else notice that Clarence Clemons was sitting courtside at every game in Miami? Maybe I'm just not enough of an E Street Band fan, but how the hell is Clemons getting those seats? Is he that cool?
Looking to get deaded, I guess Um, you can't be saying these things unless you: live in a bunker; are impervious to bullet wounds; or want to get shot. I don't remember which internet had this, but whoever it was, good look. Game is going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy (unless this is all being orchestrated on the low).
This is what it has come to in hip-hop? You're only real if you incessantly beef with someone? You have to stay hot by remaining embroiled in some bullshit? Fuck the Game; fuck 50; and fuck everyone who makes this dumb shit the prevailing culture. That Little Brother, a real rap group with real rhymes and real tracks that son anything from the Gorilla Unit, can't get real shine but this moron can be a star is just a joke. Sometimes I just get so frustrated by this idiocy. You want to rhyme about Impalas and slangin' and whatever? Fine, but shut up with this gangsterism. It's self-defeating, tired, and a waste.
Tag team, back again. The new Bushwhackers? Bushwankers?
I hadn't seen this posted anywhere, so I thought I'd throw it up for discussion. Honestly, I am almost speechless; they still want to carry on about Terri Fucking Schiavo?! As this Times article shows, the President's support might really be eroding, so perhaps the thinking is that Bushie can get back some of his domestic-issues strength and supposed moral authority by basking in reflected glory created by Jebby pushing the hot button and polarizing people some more. I think that the country is sick of this and was disappointed (maybe even disgusted) by the way that Republicans manipulated this situation the first time around. Kind of like the post-hysteria assessments of the Clinton impeachment. Anyone else?
On Saturday, I swung by the first annual Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, and the event was (what's) really good. Before I get to the performances and a description, I gotta shout out some friends who either put the shit together or ran through that place. First, I gotta big up Wes, the Swift Chancellor, for putting together a fantastic event. Second, I gotta send a huge "thank you" to Ian over at Different Kitchen; without him, I would have driven to Williamsburg for no reason. Third, the event wouldn't have happened without the Room Service Productions and Seven Heads Enterprises crews, so thanks to them (especially my girl Kim), too. And fourth, I want to dap up my new friends James and Taj, the creators of new hotness for your asses (nh), Dork Magazine (it is now on the sidebar). Anyone who thinks that hip-hop is just a bunch of uneducated thugs running around talkin' about gats in they raps needs to meet these two dudes, the collective epitome of intelligent realness. From the Detroit-San Antonio series to education policy discussions to a Prince Markie D sighting (!), we had everything on lock. Brrrt, stick 'em/Ha ha ha, stick 'em...
The festival was, in my opinion, hugely successful. A really diverse crowd converged on the Brooklyn Brewery's parking lot/rear yard for a day of barbecue, XBox, Virgin Mobile-provided free popcorn, sneakers intended to engender admiration and longing in the hearts of other collectors, and, of course, hip-hop music. The lineup for the show was strong: Brand Nubian, Little Brother, Rhymefest, Leela James, Medina Green, and some notable DJs (Language, Ge-ology). I didn't really pay attention to the technical specifics of the pre-performance spinning (I was busy talking, eating, and drinking), but the house music was great.
I was mostly up in that piece for LB, Brand Nu, and Rhymefest, but I thought Medina Green's set, though short, was very entertaining. It also accomplished the necessary task of getting the crowd--many of whom were probably more with the "conscious" or "organic" set than the "gully" set--appropriately prepared for the ensuing music. Nothing having to do with Mos Def was going to let this crowd down. Leela James, meanwhile, was just a revelation. I have heard a lot of positive buzz about her but I hadn't listened to her record or seen her perform. The woman can sing, flat out. She can belt it out, and while it's probably an imperfect and trite comparison, she is very much like a modern-day, more-mobile Aretha Franklin. James put together a great set that was filled with mid-tempo R&B that seems perfect for Eddie Love, Vaughn Harper, and the whole WBLS, heavy-breathing, we-made-it-through-another-work-week thing. She even did a few interpolations, first covering my favorite James Brown song, "Doing It to Death," and then Rick James's "Give It to Me, Baby."
The headline hip-hop performers were also great. Rhymefest's set was an exuberant, confident presentation that served as a perfect example of how an artist can engage an audience even if it has only heard a little of his music and is mostly hoping that he'll bring out celebrity friends like Kanye West. Most heads in the crowd had heard of Fest, had probably heard his "lost" verse from "Jesus Walks," and had likely heard his new track with Kanye, "Brand New." But beyond that, Rhymefest is just a dude with some good punch lines and a funny voice that is kind of reminiscent of Chubb Rock's. However, his relative anonymity didn't stop Fest from rocking the crowd; he was emotive and playful, giving the crowd plenty to like and dance to. (Also, "Brand New" is just so infectious, and everyone can sing the hook. And it has that dude who wears all the Polo on it.) My personal highlight was when Rhymefest brought out Chicago-based spoken-word artist Malik Yusef ("Yo baby momma know the name..."); it was nice to see dude get some work. Also, the food backstage was free, so that was probably nice for Malik, too.
Rhymefest was strolling through the crowd after he performed, and I chatted with him for a little while. The guy seemed nice enough, but he was wearing some ridiculous, reflective, superfluous sunglasses (the sun wasn't shining) that made it impossible to make eye contact and really see how he was reacting as we spoke. It was almost like talking to someone who was on drugs, because no matter what I said, he just kind of smiled and replied, and I had no idea what else was going on with him. (I also spotted (and briefly met) Fest's imprint boss, Mark Ronson, hanging out in the crowd. The guy seemed cool, and I have always liked that one song he did with Ghostface, "Ooh Wee.")
Next up was Little Brother, and as always, they just murdered it, Cassidy style. Throughout these internets, Ghostface and MF Doom and Common and Kanye and (insert name here) get a lot of love, and all are present on a ton of favorite-MCs lists, but no list should be complete without Phonte Coleman. Tay is just a crazy MC. He can freestyle; his charisma is always evident; his flow is irresistible; he's really smart; and his vocabulary is broad without being on some pretentious, meaningless "scientific" tip. Nome sane? Needless to say, he was great. And while Pooh is a little less skilled and little less likable, the dude more than holds his own, and he gives LB a certain grimy component; Pooh ain't no nice guy, and he's far less engaging that Phonte, but that's cool with him. The only bad part of the LB set was Joe Scudda, a guy who is just awful. But we've covered this before.
I'd also add that after the Roots, who have a built-in advantage since they play instruments and tour 250 days each year, Little Brother is arguably the second-best live act in hip-hop right now. They have a ton of energy and their showmanship is always impressive; you should have heard the crowd when they flipped "Whatever You Say" and spit it over the beat from Mobb Deep's "The Realest." Damn! There aren't enervating lulls; there aren't too many guys with microphones; and there aren't repetitive bits. One minute we might see Phonte, Pooh, and 9th Wonder line dancing; the next, we might see Phonte and DJ Flash having a push-up contest. You never know with LB, and the joy that they derive from performing is evident. Plus, "Nobody Like Me" from the Chitlin Circuit 1.5 (droppin' tomorrow) is my joint right now. Just ask James and Taj: neither had seen LB perform before and both seemed shook off the realness.
Brand Nubian wrapped up the show, and they were great, too. Brand Nu did all the hits--"Slow Down," "Punks Jump Up to Get Beat Down," "Don't Let It Go to Your Head," etc.--and the crowd was just so happy to be rockin' with such an essential hip-hop group too frequently ignored or obscured. It was a little depressing seeing these hip-hop luminaries who probably don't have much else to do but perform songs that haven't been popular in nearly a decade (if not longer), but I got over it. Also, because Wes hooked me up, I got a VIP pass, and it was cool getting to meet Grand Puba, an MC whose 2000 kept me company during many late nights spent slaving away over high-school homework. Brand Nubian even performed Puba's "I Like It."
So overall, the event was fantastic. The people were nice; the food and drinks were plentiful; and the music was dope.
Yeah, this Rasheed, Portland Rasheed, was in effect last night. I won't sleep all night because of the moron pictured above. I love Roscoe, but cot'damn motherfucker! More sulking and analysis at the End of the Bench... ...
This here's for the grown and sexy (nh) Middle America is a funny place. For most of we East Coasters, the term "Middle America" tends to conjures pejorative images of people from Kentucky or Missouri or the like who ride around in pick-up trucks, relax with a Bud and a NASCAR race, listen to country music, and vote for Bushie. But in actuality, Middle America--that is, non-urban and pastoral communities with a lower level of cultural sophistication--is never too far from you. For instance, New York is a state replete with Middle Americans in places like Rensselaer County, and New York City is not terribly far from Sayreville, New Jersey, the site of Friday's John Legend concert.
The Johnny L show went down at the Starland Ballroom, a cavernous concert hall and wanna-be-upscale bar in, for all intents and purposes, the middle of nowhere. Starland is located on a street without other commercial entities, across some railroad tracks, adjacent to a lot that seemed to serve as a repository for used and/or damaged cars, and across from some kind of military union hall and museum that closely resembles the Fratelli's restaurant from Goonies. The street that led to the street on which Starland is located was a single-lane joint that boasted a number of modest ranch houses, a few nearly antiquated gas stations, and nothing else. Not exactly a mecca.
Legend, himself, was pretty good; he has mastered performing all of the songs from his excellent debut album, Get Lifted. No piano-based soul crooner is ever going to work a crowd into a state of crunked-up hysteria, and the absence of that enveloping energy was notable given that I (foolishly) approached the show with hip-hop-concert expectations. However, it wasn't really John's fault; he can only do so much with his material. (And I'd prefer to see a professional, enthusiastic presentation instead of some contrived spectacle like those R. Kelly usually creates.) But almost more entertaining than the show were the people there and the accoutrements that accompanied a platinum-selling artist's appearance in a relatively "small" town.
For starters, I genuinely loved seeing such a diverse audience. Middle-aged white women; Indian families of four; Asian-Black interracial couples; white teenagers; professionally dressed urban-dwellers; Abercrombie-loving suburbanites--Legend attracted people from all walks of life. And seeing the earnest, universal joy on people's smiling faces as they danced to (some better than others) and belted out every word of "Used to Love U" was a welcomed moment of idealized unity. There was also this funny sense of pride engendered in the area's residents that resulted from John Legend playing there; one girl told her friend while we were all waiting in line, "I can't belive that he's playing at Starland."
To be far less kind, and far more supercilious (because you know how we New Yorkers are), there were also some unintentionally hilarious routines going on:
- To my right for most of the night was a throng of white kids who probably weren't older than eighteen or younger than fifteen, and each person was clad in either a trucker hat or a baseball cap that was purposely bought with holes in the top and rips along the brim; some collared shirt with its collar popped; and the usual assortment of New Balance, Nike, and even Bape kicks. This group didn't seem to know many of Legend's lyrics (although the kids did know every word to all five of the G-Unit songs that the house DJ kept looping at every interval between or before acts) and actually pushed up their lighters during "Ordinary People." I think they had meant to see "Dave" but had gotten lost and had to settle for that one R&B dude who it's cool to like. They kept yelling for Kanye to come out, forgetting that it's hard to have guests when you don't even know where you're playing.
- On my left, there was a black guy who seemed in desperate need of a more pronounced local hip-hop culture. His presentation was straight textbook: Oversized polo shirt with sleeves almost down to his wrists; baggy white chinos with an Aladdin aesthetic given that the bottoms were tucked into a pair of khaki-colored Timbs; a white hand towel that was either resting on his shoulder, waived above his head, or used to corral dude's girlfriend by lassoing it around the back of her neck. Have you ever watched someone try to freak a girl and make "Ordinary People" into a club banger? How about someone, during "So High," using all of those rhythmic hand gestures rappers often trot out while they flow? It was painful, and I felt sorry for dude as he herked and jerked his way up and down his girlfriend's torso all night. At one point, he almost put her into a sleeper hold. Luckily, she made it to the ropes and the official made him break the hold before getting hit in the head with a "foreign object."
- The best new feature in the concert industry is the pre-performance text-message screen. You know what this is, right? A wireless phone company will invariably sponsor the show (and, usually, the tour), and to get its brand-recognition game going strong, it will implore the audience to send text messages to some weird five-digit number so that the messages can then be displayed on a big screen. This is a fun gimmick because people will say crazy things (all of the following quotations are actual messages from Friday): Inside jokes ("To my boo, We R the team, and IFLY"); witticisms ("My neck...my back...both hurt from standing, so let's go!"); trite hip-hoppery ("Monmouth County, stand up!); testimonials ("John, I love you and think you're the best singer in the world!"); butchered expressions ("The Rock is in the building"); text-message Tourettes ("Hey--It's ow ow donkey reggaeton really really good!")--it's an endless procession of funny shit.
On the whole, it was a good time. The music was great, the crowd was into it (although composed of many sorts of people), and I always like a good foray into the New Jersey hinterland. My only regret was that I got off the Garden State Parkway one exit before the awesome and awesomely titled Cheesequake rest area. Next time... ...
Given the dope strikingly simple synthesizer riff that helps comprise this melody, Swizzle must have produced this new DMX joint, right? Ian?
Don't worry kids, you can work this off as you bike to school...If you go to school in Siberia. - If you're like me, you get made fun of all the time for being the world's slowest eater and for suffering from a perpetual fear of choking.* I've heard all the jokes, exhortations, and snide comments: Wow, you actually finished before me; Gee, you actually cleaned your plate; Eat, don't talk. Well, all I've got to say is, How you like me now? At least someone else recognizes the importance of moderated pace when consuming.
- Does anyone else have that one friend who you just can't ever get in touch with? For me, it's my friend Louisa. Neither one of us is ever available to take the other's call. If she's free, I'm in a meeting; If I'm free, she's at the movies. It's always something. I swear, I haven't talked to her in a few months, and yet she's the person whom I call the most.
- No Frontin' got down with his/hers/its top-ten rock albums of the year (so far). I don't know much about contemporary rock music, so someone (Jigs? Zwigs?) will have to let me know if it's a good list. I'm mentioning it mostly to be provocative, and I mean that in the good way.
- If only I still ate Taco Bell (spotted by Tom). Remember when Shaq and Hakeem were enlisted to roll out the double-decker taco? That thing is perhaps the greatest incarnation of sustenance that the world has every seen.
- Peep game: iBlog for Cookies. I have no idea who this guy is or what he does, but he can follow Michigan football with the best of them, and dude knows his shit. I am humbled. (And iBFC is now on the blogroll.)
- America, land of the free and home of the self-defeating, leveraged-into-debt homeowner. And you want to know why groups from the socioeconomic heath think that the government hatches plots to widen the gaps between the haves and the have-nots? Because our "leaders" know this sort of information and still choose to take money from credit-card companies who, in effect, buy the bankruptcy system and make it harder for anyone to ever get a second chance.
- Are training wheels included or do you need to super size it? Also:
"In addition to outdoor play equipment, new products will include a video series that promotes physical activity as well as a young adult (sic) clothing line inspired by vintage McDonald's logos, the companies said."
Is there anything more annoying and condescending than a major corporation acting like it's doing good things for you while it also kills you? There are forty-eight grams of fat in a double quarter pounder with cheese! Putting Grimace in a few videos won't change that. - Reuters:
Said Dan Bartlett, counselor to the president: "On the war, the president will being (sic) speaking out more often in the coming weeks and will explain how Iraq is a central front in the war on terror and our strategy for victory."
That's funny. I could have sworn that the President said he did that years ago.
*N.B.: I have received medical attention twice for choking incidents. In both cases, it was probably all in my head. Yes, I'm crazy. No, I don't know what's wrong with me. Yes, it is probably linked to my low-level OCD and general neurosis.
End of the Bench is hosting the eleventh Carnival of the NBA, a compendium of NBA-related content on les internettes. Check it out; there are some great writers out there. And while you're at the EotB, please chime in; we're discussing whether the Pistons are really back in this series, the great role players of all time, and other NBA happenings. One.
Less smiling, more tackling. MGoBlog has debuted one of the ancillary (and enticing) facets of its blogger’s poll: BlogPoll bickering. Routinely, the same college-football zealots who will be ranking the teams will also be asked to indulge themselves and create a pan-internet dialogue that addresses provocative questions without definite answers. The inaugural question:
“Based on this compilation of the top 25 as the Internet pundits and preseason rags see it, who looks flagrantly overrated? Why? Who looks underrated? What team in the high teens or lower could end up in the Rose Bowl?"
As noted, I have been granted membership in this band of bloggers, and rarely one to decline an invitation to an intellectual and verbal pissing contest, here’s what I got:
Preseason rankings are tricky things. Are they offering a predicted order of finish? Are they assessing which roster has the most talent? Are they merely meant to reflect an honest assessment of which teams would win head-to-head, neutral-site match-ups with the others? Are they handicapping each team’s chance of running the table? Are they using a hypothetical model for perfection, or “best-ness” and then measuring actual teams relative to the perfect control? It can be confusing. I generally believe that the preseason rankings created by the various media outlets are composites of these many possibilities; the contributors would likely cite differing methodologies used to create these subjective indexes, yet the unifying notion would be that all selectors were intent on establishing the order in which teams could be considered “best."
This season’s preseason top-ranked team is USC, a team that has won two consecutive national championships. By all accounts, the Trojans are the best team. But why? Well, USC has the most talent on its roster; at seemingly every position, it trots out superb and lauded athletes. So that’s one distinction that immediately separates USC from most other teams. But USC isn’t only so highly regarded because of its talent. The Trojans also boast a coaching staff that has gotten over every hurdle set in its path and is regarded as a collection of men who understand football and how to exploit the weaknesses of opponents. The coaches know how to win and how to teach winning football. So that’s another facet of the team that sets USC apart. The Trojans also play in a conference, the Pac-10, which has traditionally been the home of no-defense-playing paper tigers that score a lot of points and struggle against complete teams that can excel in all three phases of the game. Thus, relative to most of its competition, USC seems assured of success, and these seemingly predictable outcomes argue on USC’s behalf that the Trojans are very likely to emerge from the regular season unscathed. In totality, all of these attributes that I just enumerated work in concert with several others to make Southern Cal seem like the best (there’s that amorphous distinction again).
So, ranking which teams are the closest to being the best can be a slightly fruitless endeavor because until actual competition starts, it’s hard to know which assumptions will pan out and which will make those who hold them seem like idiots. I tend to approach rankings with one simple question: If any two teams played each other at a neutral site, who would win? This allows me to account for things like talent, coaching, intangibles, etc. And that’s how I am going to assess the compiled top twenty-five.
The team that strikes me as most overrated, sadly, is Michigan. In theory, Michigan has the players needed to beat almost anyone in the country; the Wolverines may actually have the most talent of any team not from L.A. But having the players is only one part of the equation for success. Preparing them and then using them are the other important components, and in these areas, Michigan serially underperforms. Lloyd Carr has proven himself as many things in his decade as the most important person in the state of Michigan: He’s principled; he’s compassionate; he’s a great recruiter; he’s a great guy. One thing he’s not, though, is a great coach. Michigan has usually been plagued by errors of preparation and coaching: some years, it’s terrible special teams, from blown assignments to horrible formations; other years, like last season, it’s undisciplined defense, replete with lazy tackling, poor conditioning, failure to understand pursuit angles, and out of position defenders who have been asked to process too much information before making a play. And when it’s not those things, it’s faulty, scared, or conservative play calling in big games. How often will Michigan stubbornly and unsuccessfully run the ball up the middle instead of trying to find new ways to exploit the strengths of its quarterbacks and receivers? How often will Michigan relent too early when playing with a lead, often allowing its opponent to come back instead of continuing to employ what has worked all game?
The roster may change from year to year, but the coach doesn’t, and since you can’t spell Lloyd without two L’s (and, in the last five years, it’s been “Llloyd”), Michigan is a team that likely has an artificial ceiling over it before play even begins. And this year’s roster does have some holes. While Braylon Edwards’ departure will be noticeable, the Wolverines have a stable of explosive and reliable receivers who will likely ensure that the passing attack remains strong. The absences of David Baas and Kevin Dudley at center and fullback, respectively, will be far more glaring. As will the holes in the defensive back seven. Michigan does not have one safety on its roster who has established himself as dependable, to say nothing of having established himself as a star. And the cornerbacks are reliable but unspectacular. The secondary’s weaknesses could be compensated for by a defensive line that has the potential to dominate games, but again, the coaching staff has yet to turn the talented linemen into a forceful line. And while the roster has changed, the linebackers remain athletic, underperforming enigmas.Michigan has too many question marks to be considered capable of beating all but four teams in the nation.
The most underrated team appears to be Miami. No team that recruits like the Hurricanes will ever be without the players needed to win a national championship. The Canes will be putting former prep sensation Kyle Wright on the field as the replacement for QB Brock Berlin, and Wright will have plenty of weapons around him, notably RBs Tyrone Moss and Charlie Jones, and WRs Lance Leggett and Ryan Moore. Berlin struggled to make the right read throughout college, although he was a true competitor, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat a few memorable times. Wright is purported to be a smarter, better player, and I think that this Miami team will play with more attitude coming off a three-loss season and no longer saddled with Berlin and all the drama that came with him. The defense should be fantastic, as always, and the Hurricanes--like USC, OhioState, and Iowa--have routinely demonstrated what a great defensive line can do for your back seven. I know that Miami has to go to Tallahassee and Blacksburg, and that asking Kyle Wright to win his first start in Doak Campbell might be too much, but I think Miami will be in a BCS game this season and I think that they have the talent and the coaching to beat almost anyone.
The team in the high teens or lower that could end up in the Rose Bowl is perhaps Purdue. The Boilermakers don’t play Michigan or Ohio State and get to host the Hawkeyes and MichiganState. With eighteen returning starters and a good defense, Purdue has a chance to go undefeated if it can handle its business at home and win at PennState. There have been harder schedules. If not Purdue, maybe BoiseState. The Broncos return sixteen starters and will likely still be on their BCS-or-bust mission. BSU opens in Athens against the Dawgs, and while I won’t predict an upset, a win there would set the team up for an undefeated dream season.
Eat yo' salad, no dessert... No news is good news right now, so instead of delving into quotidian political happenings, I thought I'd cobble together some odds and ends that were on my mind and precluding any real productivity:
- I am pretty unfamiliar with the etiquette that governs how or when I can deploy the wealth of information harvested from the premium Michigan-sports message boards to which I subscribe, but my new rule of thumb regarding Michigan-sports blogging is that if Brian has done it, I can do it without fear of recourse. (Why? Because Brian is running things over at the MGoBlog.)
Perpetual pessimists like me were given new fodder to fuel our fears and dread, founded or (often) exaggerated, when news of a Gabe Watson suspension surfaced yesterday. Apparently, a lax attitude toward conditioning, the weight room, and just weight (Gabe is a bigger guy if you didn't know) got Gabe suspended from summer football. I don't really know what a summertime suspension entails, because it's not like the team is conducting practice or playing games. Maybe Gabe can't get protein powder from the team or can't eat in South Quad or can only receive an entire wardrobe's worth of apparel as opposed to the multiple wardrobes' worth of clothing that the athletes usually enjoy. I have no idea. I think that incurring a suspension in the offseason is like earning a public rebuke or an official censure.
I'm glad that Gabe got his ass suspended. Brian posted an excellent, facts-based analysis of the Michigan run defense from last season--Cliff Notes: Gabe and the defensive line were not primarily responsible for the DeAndra Cobbs and Vince Youngs of the world and have received undue criticism--and while it reinforced that things weren't that bad on defense until the end of the year, the Michigan defense is not a unit that can be enjoying even relative offseason nonchalance. Lest anyone forget (and I'm sure most haven't), the UM defense (taken as a whole and ignoring assignments because you win as a team and lose as a team): Made (the) Ohio State (joke of a) University's pedestrian Troy Smith look like a Heisman candidate; squandered an impressive thirty-seven-point performance from the Michigan offense by allowing the One-Man Gang (Vince Young) to win the Rose Bowl; needed an injury sustained by Drew Stanton before it could beat a wildly inconsistent and significantly less talented MSU team; etc. It wasn't pretty. The UM defense also featured an embarrassingly anemic pass rush and horrifying linebacker play. Bad angles, poor pressure, and missed tackles abounded as a Michigan team that should have beaten Ohio State and should have won the Rose Bowl instead limped away from the season a disappointing 9-3 and not even outright Big Ten champions.
Thus, every single defender should be taking this offseason very seriously, and nothing sends that message more clearly than suspendingcensuring whatever-ing suspending (I guess) a likely first-team All American. Kudos to Lloyd. I hope that Gabe and his Wolverine-defender cohorts get their minds right.
Is that the law quad? Having heard "Diamonds" and "Brand New" (and assuming that both will be on the record and represent its overall sonic style), I expect Kanye to come back with a less playful record, one on which the beats are a little more mature and the "album tracks" are a little more focused. There probably won't be as many skits or exercise instructions.
Tom Cruise ain't got shit on Batman The first hour of the latest Batman incarnation, Batman Begins, accomplishes the oxymoronic feat of being expeditiously tedious. I suppose that I shouldn't have been surprised that a movie with such an ambitious goal--establishing the historical origins of a fantasy character who exists in a fictional universe--would suffer from plodding exposition. However the big disappointment of the opening forty minutes was that it was all surreal; the rapid plot progression and establishment of an emotional framework unfolded too quickly but also took far too long.
There was just so much ground to cover (some spoilers sort of ensue)--Bruce's childhood-born fear of bats; Bruce's parents' deaths; Bruce's feelings of guilt and anger; Bruce's (tepid) love affair with whatever Katie Holmes' character is named (she sucked, so I wasn't really paying attention to that information); Bruce's martial-arts training in some remote Japanese (I think) mountain-top dojo and home for good actors playing bad parts--that nothing felt earnest. At no point did director Christopher Nolan establish any real emotional momentum: Bruce is in prison; Bruce is a little boy; Bruce's dad seems cool; Bruce's dad seems dead; Bruce and Liam Neeson are fighting on top of a sheet of ice; Bruce has killed Ken Watanabe. Far too much information was crammed into the opening act of the film, and the absent depth and rapid tempo was strung along for too many minutes. In fact, forty minutes into Batman, I was stewing in my seat (and not just because the theater was hot), pissed off that a movie I was dying to see had been so thoroughly ruined.
But, as my man B.I.G. would say (I know he watchin' me from above), things done changed. The happy ending to this story is that Batman Begins is much more enjoyable once it gets over itself. Done exorcising demons, growing a beard (how else would we know that Bruce was away from home and slumming?) and wearing frumpy clothes, Bruce comes back from, as the Buckets would say, the Orient ready to help Chicago Gotham, and he does so in entertaining fashion.
In this version of Batman, Wayne Enterprises is a family business that grows into a bloated international conglomerate manufacturing everything from the Chica, er, Gotham train system to military prototypes, all while also planning Chicago's growth. (Imagine the pension- and health care-related debt the corporation will suffer as its baby boomers grow older but live longer!) While he's been away learning ninja craft and enduring Liam Neeson's faux-profound maxims, Bruce has been relegated to Wayne's management periphery, an apparition whose time never really came and has since certainly passed. (Bruce doesn't even know what the company produces.) So unassuming is Bruce that Rutger Hauer can telegraph his predictably damning avarice and condescension and Bruce doesn't even worry. He just goes to the basement of his company's building and takes all of the cool shit that Morgan Freeman designed but never got to roll out beyond the prototype stage.
Batman then starts to clean up Gotham by eliminating crime along the Navy pier; driving his H5-style Batmobile along Lake Shore Drive; and stopping the Scarecrow, who didn't bring enough dudes from the Legion of Doom. I won't ruin the ending or the plot twists, but let's just say that Batman does well enough to ensure that a sequel will be made. We even get to meet old friends like not-yet-Commissioner Gordon and Alfred (of course).
I liked Batman because, much like Star Wars: Episode III, it is very gratifying getting to see the genesis of the characters and stories to which I attach a certain nostalgia. Also, the action was well choreographed and Batman is the cool, thoughtful, intelligent superhero that the audience wants: A dude who doesn't use guns, can't slash his way around the world thanks to adamantium, and won't kill anyone needs to be pretty perspicacious and deliberate if he's going to beat the lowest and most resourceful scum on the planet.
The acting and the script were the worst parts of this movie, perhaps in reverse order. Neeson's part is fairly standard and, as I mentioned, the aphorisms and dogma he piles high become annoying, forced, trite, non-sensical, or some combination of all four. Freeman does better with his lines, but his role is so limited that an actor of his caliber is wasted. Drew Carey or Tom Arnold probably could have had the same effect on this movie. Michael Caine is Alfred, and he wears his role like a cloak, mostly because anyone could write for Alfred, and Caine has played this kind of role in about, oh, I don't know, maybe seventy-nine straight movies, now.
Christian Bale will not make anyone forget Michael Keaton or even George Clooney, but he has his moments. Ironically, Bale is worse at being Batman than he is at being Bruce Wayne; generally, one might think that acquitting oneself as the former is more important. Bale is not really a Dark Knight: The dispassionate, terse, pithy dialogue always written for Batman is better delivered by an actor whose face and entire demeanor is more relaxed. Bale, meanwhile, has always had a supercilious and almost menacing air about him; one always gets the sense that something very unsettling and hurtfully sardonic is lying beneath a chiseled and straight-from-central-casting facade. This trait serves him well as Wayne, though; he is perfect for the role of quietly judgmental, sarcastic rich person.
Sadly, the movie was almost ruined by Katie Holmes. She didn't pull a Portman-as-Padme, but she gave it a solid effort. Holmes, a district attorney and one of the many black-or-white figures in Batman Begin's binary morality, is never believable. She has no gravitas, she delivers her lines as though she were reading on the toilet, and she does nothing to make anyone care at all about her character's well being. I was actually hoping that she'd die so that in the next one, Sienna Miller could join the cast and get some major face time. Alas, life disappointed me again.
Two other things that bothered me: 1) My man, the awesome Ken Watanabe, was wasted, and I'd like some money back since I entered the theater thinking I was going to see Katsumoto for a few hours. 2) The action scenes were pretty good, but the camera work was nearly bush league at times. There were too many quick cuts, and sometimes, it was hard to place the action in spatial and narrative contexts.
Overall, I'd recommend Batman Begins, but it is not the rollicking this-movie-fucking-rocked good time for which I was hoping. ...
"During this Finals of true teams and pure basketball, nothing is more appropriate than acknowledging and honoring one of the game’s great elements so often overlooked and so rarely absent on winning teams. Robert Horry may not have been dealt the best genetic hand in life, but whatever he’s holding is probably going to beat whatever you’ve got." Want to know more about the best role player of all time? Peep the End of the Bench. And while you're there, help me wonder about what has happened to David Stern and what will happen as Kobe and Pheel (spelled like Scottie would say it) embark upon their second marriage. ...
Wyatt Sexton is available for parties, bar mitzvahs, and moments of divine inspiration. Weatherford or Lee, come on down!
I'll be spending Saturday at the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, and I encourage all my New York-based readers to join me there. For more information, peep the Festival's website and read Ian's authoritative preview. Jyeah. (And Mike from Jesus Piece should make the trip if he can; LB's gonna be there, and I don't mean no Larry Brown.)
Despierta Boricua Saturday night was an exciting night in boxing. Idiots stupid enough to believe that Mike Tyson can still fight and will still do something crazy (and to be fair to these aforesaid dimwits, crazy comes in degrees, from head butting all the way to ear biting) got to see Mike...quit on his stool after six rounds and numerous attempts (the butting, locking up Kevin McBride's arm so that it could be broken) to earn a disqualification. Much has been said and written about Tyson since the fight and, in a larger context, since he descended into lunacy and pathetic self-destruction upon his release from prison. I have always harbored disbelief, disdain, and pity for Tyson; I think he is an excellent example of the broken American social system, from his dysfunctional childhood to his reckless celebrity to his current perverse sensationalism. First he was essentially abandoned because nothing proven to be effective is ever really done to help poor folks in bad neighborhoods; and then he was figuratively (and, I suppose, literally) adopted when he displayed a prodigious talent that could entertain and even frighten us. I think that had Tyson received more nurture, better education, and more constructive socialization, he could have been a contributor to something good; his intelligence and redeeming morality are always apparent. However, he has no impulse control and is so angry that his words and actions can so often be scary and ugly. I'm not giving him a pass; he should always be held accountable for his actions, some of them reprehensible, like rape. I'm just saying that Tyson is not without some of the human qualities those of us with intact homes, good educations, and smart friends have applied in healthy(ier?) environments like college and the traditional workplace.
I was in a Miami on Saturday, so I didn't get to see the Tyson fight (not that I would have paid for it had I been home), but I did get to see the WBO light welterweight title fight between Miguel Cotto and Mohamad Abdulaev. I don't write about boxing much because I don't follow it with the characteristic fervor I maintain for my true interests, however I have always enjoyed watching it and will give almost any fight on HBO a chance. Despite the usual empty grandiloquence and anachronistic sensibilities of the annoying Larry Merchant, I really liked the fight because two tough fighters stood toe to toe and didn't stop hitting each other until one was forced to stop. Cotto won after closing Abdulaev's eye, and the victory cemented Cotto's status as a rising star who will likely put on more weight (light welterweights weigh in at 140 pounds) and challenge some of the established champions in higher weight classes. Cotto certainly seems to have the frame for more weight, and his punching power was evident on Saturday. Time and again, he would work his way onto the ropes and endure the unrelenting, tactical Abdulaev assault before knocking his opponent back into this middle of the ring behind solid left hooks to the body, straight rights to the head, and a number of combinations that augur well for future success and precision. Cotto hits so hard that he was able to stop Abdulaev despite rarely landing a clean blow, one whose full force wasn't mitigated by an Abdulaev glove, elbow, shoulder, or forearm.
Cotto seems destined to find fame (at least) and success as a welterweight, and Saturday night was just the latest example of how boxing works this day: The heavyweights give us hype and disappointment; the other classes give us real boxing and real stars.
Switchin' my steez but the grind stays the same... I recently joined the mgoblog association of college-football bloggers (not exactly the title that Brian has created, but let's go with it). We'll be coming up with a poll each week during the college football season. It should be fun. And hopefully I won't be the only Michigan blogger who keeps the Wolverines out of the top ten until they prove something.
My membership was tenuous at first because Straight Bangin' was not regarded as a site that regularly covers sports. Much of that owes to my unhealthy obsession with all things NBA and the fact that those thoughts are now stored over at the End of the Bench. But some of it also owes to the nature of most of my posts--updates that feature a focus topic and then a number of links with limited comments.
Some readers, like the Buckets and Xplicit, have noted that sometimes, trolling through the posts can become tedious because there are just so many words. I recognize this as a shortcoming, and that's why shit is gonna be changing around here. From now on, I am going to try and break up my posts. There will be more each day (and there will still be linkage, because I'm contractually obligated to feature my favorite links; it's in the blogger manual), but they will also be shorter and more focused. That way, people who don't care about my seersucker sartorialism can jump down the page to the part when I write about hip-hop; those disinterested in my flaming liberalism can scroll up to the parts when I destroy Tommy Amaker and his third-grade offense. I think this should work better for everyone and allow me a chance to trot out more ruminations that may or may not interest others. I'll try this and see how it works. If it's no good, then I'll get back to what I do best--ramble.
Cue the Jodeci... So perhaps I don't stay at enough hotels, or perhaps I don't stay enough at the right hotels, but I have to say that I was a little surprised when I found an "intimacy kit" next to my hotel room's mini bar. Has an intimacy kit become a standard item in hotel rooms? Also, if they've gone out of their way to make it a truly romantic evening (hooray, mints!), where are the cigarettes and matches? What about a Jodeci CD?
South Beach rules: great weather; beautiful architecture; black seersucker pants (!); attractive women. I even saw a Roscoe jersey hanging next to a Dwyane Wade joint. Maybe I should move here...
Where the Boots Is Tied Tight and the Jackets Is Thick
Leaders and best It was a collegiate-softball season of firsts that culminated with Michigan's first national championship last evening. No northern team had ever been ranked number one before; no Eastern-time-zone team had ever appeared in the national-championship series before; and no one I know had ever cared about college softball before. Like most Michigan alumni and fans, I was following your 2005 national champions since their first game of the season of the Women's College World Series; I couldn't resist the novelty appeal of a Michigan team that was reputed to have a legitimate shot at a national championship. (I mean, thanks to Lloyd Carr, Brian Ellerbe, Tommy Amaker, and a series of hockey teams that treat Frozen Four success like kryptonite, Ann Arbor hasn't exactly been title town this decade.) And there was much that distinguished these UM softballers: They played their first thirty-three (!) games on the road; they were ranked number one for the first time in school history, and they were basically the best team in America for the past three months; they had won more games in a season than any of their predecessors; they were only the fifth college softball team to ever hit at least 100 homeruns in a season; and their best hitter was a freshman.
I can be something of a dismissive sports observer (I don't fuck with racing, cars or horses; I think baseball is generally a waste of time; I have no use for hockey and am pissed off that it's coming back), but I also am something of a sports fanatic who will get both proud and defensive of anything Michigan, so following the Wolverines as they fought for a title in Oklahoma City was pretty much a no-brainer, especially since the entire thing was on Disney channels. Seeing as how I don't know shit about softball (although, it seems like you're pretty good if you can bunt well), I thought I'd commemorate the UM victory with some thoughts that cropped up over the past few weeks of my immersion in the collegiate softball culture. There is almost zero credible sports thinking that follows:
- I was conflicted while I watched the event. Was it good for women that so much attention was lavished on this capstone event, a theoretical advance for the sport and for women's sports, in general? Or, was it a sad affirmation that inertia is more comfortable than change as message boards and casual conversations focused on which players were hot, which "bigger girls weren't that bad looking," and how silly it was that a sport could count grade-school-like cheers as an integral component of its culture? (An element of the sport not nearly as refined as the juvenile locker-room antics of a football team like the San Francisco 49ers, for instance.) I am generally of the opinion that female athletes continue to only succeed on men's terms (see: Danica Patrick) unless they're named Annika Sorenstam, a singular force who is just ridiculously talented and prepared. I am not going to embark on some diatribe about women's lib and empowerment, but I think we can all agree that women have a long way to go before they're respected just for their athletic accomplishments.
- That said, softball may not be the best proving ground for feminine athleticism. Sports fans likely won't be rendered amazed by athletes who can perform at the highest level of competition in their sport while taking breaks in the heat of the moment to tie pretty bows in their hair (something that actually happened) and wearing mascara. I mean, make up for a sporting event? In basketball, the only guys who play with gel in their hair are those soft, white shooters who quickly buy property on the end of the bench. (And by the way, how isCasey Jacobsen?) Also, when your playing field is so small that you can't even try to score from second base on a well-hit single, the average sports fan is not going to be rushing back to the television for a steady diet of softball. It's not exciting unless your team is winning. Period. The WCWS was essentially an endless procession of strikeouts with the occasional single or bunt thrown in.
I don't want to diminish the accomplishments of these women, because a lot of them are probably better at their sport than I am at anything, but I don't buy into the notion that softball is emerging as a sport with great competition and an increasingly rabid fan base.
- I'm not down with that slapper move, the one where a batter can make it halfway to first base before making contact with the ball.
- This girl here, Samantha Findlay, is going to be really good for a really long time. Again, I don't know anything about softball, but she can really hit, she is clutch, and she does a good job at first base. I was more impressed by her ability to stretch out from the bag and manufacture outs than I was by her championship-winning power and apparent good eye. What a cool player.
- Michigan should learn to bunt by next season.
- Lisa Fernandez is such a bummer. Her typical color analysis was something negative like, "Yeah, you really can't do that. I certainly wouldn't have, and I would have snapped the neck of any teammate who did something like that. You simply can't foul off a bunt. What's wrong with these broads?" And when she wasn't saying that, she was busy saying things like, "That girl is a good pitcher, but I am way better." Awesome. She really enhanced the experience.
- So who has a better resume, Lloyd Carr or Carol Hutchins? I know that Hutch has been coaching at UM longer than Carr has, but she also didn't inherit the best program in the history of her sport. Rather, she had to coach a warm-weather sport in a cold-weather state without a heritage of winning or a name brand to sell recruits. Discuss...
We can kick it for free: - Now that there is almost an anthology's worth of Diplomats arena rock-inspired tracks, can we characterize that clique as hair-hoppers? I found this on one of the internets (sorry that I've forgotten the exact one) and when I saw the title, I was praying that I wouldn't hear Steve Perry's voice. Sadly, no such luck; it's a Journey beat. Somewhere, white people just died with euphoria--Journey and studio gangsterism combined? Update the jukebox ASAP!
- Hashim posted a provocative essay about two disparate groups that help comprise hip-hop's following. Thoughts?
- Only at the Minimum Security Prison and Home for the Mentally Challenged can a football coach have a steroids suspension on his resume. ... Some of you may recall that I used to post a series of music features, notably the Justus League profile series and the greatest posse-cut beats of all time series. Those fizzled (obviously), but I thought I'd start a new one today that will be low maintenance but perhaps foster some engaging dialogue. It's called "Better Than Yours" (Not like Young Rome) and it's gonna be a weekly contest between songs with substantially similar beats. All I'm interested in knowing is which track is better and why.
The inaugural contest is a quasi-underground wet dream. Which beat is better?
Keep your voice down, woman! I ain't got not problems with a good meme, so peep my leg of the race now that Del, he of the intelligent hip-hop perspective, has passed the baton to me:
Total volume of music files on my computer: 12.5 GB of music currently reside on my hard drive. There are 2,255 songs on my iPod, however the number has been fluctuating as I try to get rid of music I always skip past when the joint is on shuffle (The Massacre, Justus League affiliates like Eye + Eye, Alexander O'Neal, etc.) and import new joints I'm feelin' (Blueprint's 1988), classic material (I just added Black Sheep's A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing) or niche music for which I harbor cheesy nostalgia (A Flock of Seagulls, Tears for Fears, etc.).
Last CD I bought was: Common's BE. Leaked or not, there was no doubt that I was going to support my man Com, and I'd say the investment has been well worth it, although I don't know why I couldn't have gotten a sterling studio version of "The Food." Also, I made a note on the store's copy of the receipt that I didn't want any portion of the proceeds from my transaction going to John Mayer.
Song playing right now: Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, "Love Land" - Just a quintessential, smooth summertime groove.
Five songs I listen to a lot these days: - Common, "It's Your World" - Everyone's talking about Kanye lacing this album with bangers, but the best track belongs to Jay Dilla, and the Pride of Detroit's sweeping stroll through melancholy soul provides the perfect context for Common's ambivalent reflections and trenchant urban examination.
- The Diplomats, "Don't Fool with the Dips" - Not only is the Dip Set Byrd Gang in the building, but they're the landlords on a throwback track that showcases A-Trak's infectious cutting. Objectively, the Dips offer little, but within the contemporary hip-hop realm of self-indulgence and blissful ignorance, the Diplomats stand out for their vainglory and irresistible absurdity.
- 'Til Tuesday, "Voices Carry" - John over at Lost in the '80s will have to pardon me encroaching upon his turf with this pick, but I have had Aimee Mann's voice stuck in my head for more than a week. I think it's all the news about Bob Geldof. I wouldn't say that most pop hits of the '80s carry with them real emotional resonance, but "Voices Carry" is bizarrely haunting in a way.
- Ike Turner & the Kings of Rhythm, "Getting Nasty" - Jurassic 5 popularized the piano riff from "Nasty" with their fantastic "Concrete Schoolyards," and the original track was worthy of the renewed appreciation because the rollicking piano is just sublime.
- Pearl Jam, "Crown of Thorns" - Alright, so this is a Mother Love Bone song, but MLB was founded by Jammers Stone Gossard and Jeff Ament, so deal with it. I only heard "Crown of Thorns" after MLB front man Andrew Wood had passed, so I (like many, I'd imagine) find the song to have an added appeal because P.J. performs it as a tribute. That said, it's fantastic, sprawling rock and roll that is simultaneously energizing and agonizing.
And now I pass it off to: Stacey - Do not cross her. Ian - The Illadelph's southern emissary. DJ Xplicit - I gotta read some funny insights. Jon - British at heart and reformed hip-hopper who might never return to the fold. Robbie - The dean of hip-hop examination.
(I'd pass it to Mr. Kamoji, but his radio blog--the best one I've seen in a while--says it all.)
- MGoBlog is an authoritative source for all Michigan sports information. And while you're there, follow the link to Every Day Should Be Saturday, a spot-on and endlessly amusing college-football site.
- That famous (and self-defeating?) Howard Dean passion is getting him in trouble again. Want to hear what he said? Honestly, who cares? He might have chosen an unfortunately pithy summary of his ideas, but his message is correct.
- Wait, does the fact that they blog mean that Buckeyes actually know how to read?
This Boricua can't rap/Dude's just full of crap/And, I wish he'd fade away/Fall back/Fall back/Fall back/Fall back Just in case you were wondering, the new Fat Joe album, All or Nothing, is terrible. Everyone who's surprised, please raise your hands...
That's what I thought; no one. As I regularly say, here's Fat Joe's problem: He's horribly corny. All of the phony thug bluster that he regurgitates is not only without any credibility, but it's boring, and even worse, Joe's entire routine--the incessant assertions that he's so real; the notion that he's honoring Pun by theoretically rapping well; the generic beats and rhymes--always feels so desperate. It's sort of like he's invested in this notion that he's a rap star but deep down, he knows that his entire career has been a charade, so he is constantly cooking up these half-baked ideas that are just rip-offs of other people who do this stuff better. I feel like Joe races home at night to hear what people are saying on Hot 97 and then he tries to emulate it. Yeah, Joe might make a media splash every now and then, and yeah, he gets some spins on New York radio stations, but Fat Joe is kind of like a c-list actor who makes pleasantly forgettable, formulaic movies and then pretends as though he's just waiting to accept his Academy Award; the manic desire to matter, to be relevant, becomes fairly transparent and annoying rather quickly.
There isn't a single original idea on this record, from the rhymes to the rhetoric to the beats. I mean Jesus, does Joey Crack really think that any old chipmunked sample with a drum beat is gonna be that heat for the streets? Isn't that style already tired? The dude pretends like he's at the vanguard of something. Also, everyone has already heard half of the record and one of the best tracks is the out-of-rotation "Lean Back" remix. Come on Joe, including a repackaged version of a hit from eighteen months ago? That's just slummin'. (And by the way, the dude makes at least three references to "Lean Back" on various tracks. Act like you've been there before, dun. Damn.)
Really, the beats would be better if they weren't getting kilt (and not in the good way) by some self-conscious rapper who says the same stuff over and over again: "It's hard being the only real n*gga in this shit"; "Cops come in the streets harassin'"; "T.S., we incredibly credible"; etc. And I don't know how I feel about this Puerto Rican dude always using the n-word as though it were listed just after "niggardly" in the OED. I don't even think black people should be using that word.
The best parts of this album are the beat from Just Blaze ("Safe 2 Say") and the continued revival of Swizz Beats ("Listen Baby"), although Swizzle's beat is a component of a horrible song that may actually kill the movement's momentum. Someone needs to get Swizz a Jay-Z record, stat! The worst parts are everything else, especially the collabo with J. Lo. Talk about a fugazi...
Moderate-height Israelis runnin' this rap shit... Ian spotted a bewildered Trickology story disclosing the nominations for this year's BET Awards. Hit the link if you want to see the full list, but I have a couple of my own questions: What exactly does a category like "Best Female Hip-Hop" mean, and what does one have to do to merit consideration for the award? Is it the best hip-hop music for women? Made by women? If it's the latter, don't you need to actually make music? Miri Ben-Ari didn't put out a hip-hop record, did she? Can you win the award just for contributing to some songs? If so, that makes it a studio technicians' award, and someone like Young Guru should get nominated for Best Male Hip-Hop. Can Ari win just for hanging out with Kanye West? If that's the case, shouldn't John Mayer be nominated for Best Female Hip-Hop, also?
I was also disappointed to see that BET, long a bastion of idiocy and a custodian of the lowest common denominator, didn't go for the gusto and fully commit to honoring disposable hip-hop by creating categories that actually represent the hip-hop culture in which BET gets in where it fits in. How about Best Meaningless Regional Beef? T.I. and Lil' Flip, Young Jeezy and Gucci Mane, 50 Cent and that one guy who cut the Dunkin' Donuts line this morning--there would be a lot of qualified candidates. Or how about Rapper Most Desperate to Seem Relevant? Fat Joe probably has the category on lock (can you say lifetime achievement?), but Ja Rule (appearing at the dinner club concert hall B.B. King's this month, and don't worry, plenty of tickets are still available), Memphis Bleek, and a host of others would likely warrant inclusion as nominees. Just for (the other) Ian, they could even have a Best Swizz Beats Song with a Jay-Z Sample category. Really, the possibilities were endless and BET dropped the ball.
Also, Game and 50 had better win the Best Collabo category. That would likely lead to the first-ever live execution and would help hip-hop answer the critics who claim that it has lost its political way: What would be more political than reigniting the debate about capital punishment by televising someone getting deaded?
- Did you know that Hillary Clinton is probably running for President? If you didn't, the New York Times will not let you forget it for even one day, as the paper is now well into its second month of a years-long daily article series focusing on Mrs. Duplicitous. In today's episode, Hillary (justifiably) lashes out at the Washington Republicans and the chicken-shit mainstream media. I actually can't hate on Hillary too much because she pretty much hit every nail on the head, although she's such a panderer and so unbelievable that my enthusiasm is tempered by my sadly warranted, unfortunately well-attuned cynicism. I liked this quotation, though: "I know it's frustrating for many of you; it's frustrating for me. Why can't the Democrats do more to stop them? I can tell you this: It's very hard to stop people who have no shame about what they're doing."
And before all of us, the disenchanted, tether our political enmity to John McCain's "maverick" bandwagon and hope that it leads us to the promised land where truth, transparency, and these pesky things called rules govern behavior, we should all read Connie Bruck's excellent profile of Mr. McCain from the May 30th issue of the New Yorker. (Sadly, it's not available online, although this Q&A with the author hints at its content.) Far from the poised, honorable, seductively subversive moderate many believe him to be, McCain instead appears to be a shrewd and perspicacious conservative who, though intelligent and principled, seems ultimately motivated solely by his political ambition to become President. Read the entire article (if they're still even funded and open, libraries will have the New Yorker) and tell me then if McCain really "isn't that bad" or "is pretty likable."
And the current President continues to be painted as an out-of-touch and embattled lame duck.
- (Please pardon a second consecutive day relying upon an epistolary style):
Dear World,
Please stop spending your time and wasting your money trying to trot out these "facts" and this stuff you call "science" when addressing our President. It doesn't work on him. He's immune to your "experiments," your "logic," and your "arguments based upon demonstrable phenomena." Please, just stop; you're wasting postage and oxygen. Take your global warming concerns to someone who cares. And while we're airing our grievances (Festivus appears to have arrived early this year), shut up with your whole "help Africa" thing too. We don't care about that either. In fact, just for that, we're all burning a barrel of diesel fuel in our yards tonight.
TO: Jayceon “The Game” Taylor FROM: Me DATE: Monday, June 6, 2005 RE: Beef
Dear Mr. Taylor:
At the time of this memorandum’s issuance, you are (again) embroiled in a synthetic and self-immolating “feud” (if that word won’t lose a modicum of its significance or suffer from an irreversible redefinition following my reluctant invocation of the term in this hackneyed context). As best as I can deduce (I have no intimate knowledge of your situation--some would find the verbal punctuation “no homo” appropriate at this moment--nor do I purport to fully comprehend your psychological profile), this conflict arose following a workplace dispute with your former employer, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson (also known as “Fiddy” among middle-aged journalists and white teenagers, all of whom would appreciate being considered both culturally informed and worthy of admiration for this supposed perceptiveness), and the ex-colleagues who continue to populate the organization, the Gorilla Unit (“G-Unit”), and remain loyal to the man in whose employment you are no longer.
Following a period of escalating tension and hostility that resulted in violence and innumerable sensationalized accounts of the vituperation’s manifestations, Mr. Cent and you relented and entered into a compact for peace, capitulating to the demands of a vocal chorus whose ire and dread were elicited by your apparent willingness to embrace a rap-music culture predicated upon the violence, lawlessness, and anger lucratively and disingenuously glorified in your music. (I believe that you are commonly perceived as a “studio gangster” in some social networks comprised of hip-hop-music followers.) It was agreed that Mr. Cent and you would each desist from further provocation, and that you would each independently pursue musical and business ventures within the hip-hop industry. At a press conference convened to disseminate knowledge of this accord, Mr. Cent and you acknowledged that violence and the culture of “beef” in the hip-hop industry were both worthless pastimes.
You are now in receipt of this memorandum because, I am sad to report, you knowingly violated the terms of the aforementioned agreement when you chose to antagonize Mr. Cent at the Hot 97 Summer Jam concert held last evening. By choosing to disregard the agreement, you have demonstrated abhorrent stupidity, and I am now forced to ask you to leave. Yes, please stop rapping; you will not be missed. Hip-hop does not need you given that you have only proven yourself to be adept at riding coattails and selecting good beats. Even worse, you have nothing to say and are now perpetuating a destructive culture: Your banal and woefully repetitive rhymes have already demonstrated a keen knowledge (something that might really qualify as a pathetic, discouraging, and jejune preoccupation) of hip-hop’s unfortunately morbid legacy, effectively betraying any opportunities you may have otherwise enjoyed to credibly claim ignorance regarding previous episodes of worthless and externally irrelevant violence. Instead, I am left to conclude that you are just regrettably ignorant and generally worthless.
Should you choose to comply with this request, your cooperation will be appreciated and you will not be missed. Should you choose against compliance, you may get killed by 50 Cent. I am enclosing information about caskets with this memorandum so that you are properly prepared for what seems like the inevitable end you are inviting. (I am also enclosing information about condominium-purchase opportunities in Afghanistan, a country where the real estate market is undervalued and property is likely to emerge as a robust investment once the nation is reconstructed.) Should you choose against compliance, you may also continue to make music, but I will not purchase it, and I will encourage my friends, colleagues, and anonymous cohorts on the various internets on which I spend time to engage in analogous boycotts. I just cannot, in good conscience, support (or tacitly support through inaction) such vacuous music and such an imbecilic presence.
I hope that you arrive at a decision regarding your planned course of action in an expeditious fashion. I await your reply.
What was it that X was gon' give to us? As I engaged in the ritualistic parking-spot search tonight, I heard DJ Kay Slay (the Drama King, who spent, literally, the first five minutes of his radio program shouting out every prison and neighborhood that he's ever heard of, only omitting Oswald and the eighth arrondissement) spin a new DMX track that I think is called "Industry." (Guess what it's about. Yeah, that's right-- the music industry. It took me a minute, too. And if anyone has it, holla atcha boy boy.) Anyway, the track contains a horrible chipmunked version of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive," and listening to it reminded me of that Beanie/Cam'ron collabo, and that led me to a question with which I always struggle: Who loves Slippery When Wet more, rappers or drunken white people out at the bar? I mean, this one is too close to call, isn't it? Also worth a thought or two: Do said drunken white people like "Living on a Prayer" or Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" more? When 3 AM strikes, which is that one song they're just dying to hear on the jukebox?
- I'm always railing against Hillary Clinton, and yet she's always doing more and more to piss me off. I didn't vote for her when she first ran for Senate because I wasn't sure, exactly, why she was qualified to serve as a U.S. Senator, and I certainly didn't understand why she was running in New York. Since entering office, she's done next to nothing for the state, and that pattern seems like it's persisting. Isn't it just perfect that on a day when New York politicians are justifiably incensed that the Bush Administration would revoke 9/11 aid, Hillary's name is nowhere to be found in this article about the story. And at the same time, we get yet another piece about her perspective presidential candidacy.
- Um, it's "Steve Jobs", not NBA referee "Steve Javie," who had a team of designers inventinvented the iPod.
- Sonja Blade Valentine spotted a hilarious list of the Ten Most Harmful Books from the past 200 years. I think that most can stand alone in their absurd inclusion, however I am particularly affronted (though not surprised) by the mention of The Feminine Mystique. God forbid that anyone call out suburban conventions as the oppressive, socially destructive norms that most are. The people who made this list probably have The Bell Curve autographed and displayed in a case somewhere.
- The Times says: "Bush S.E.C. Pick Is Seen as Friend to Corporations." No way! What's next, warm weather expected during the summer? BZwig known as a hipster? Get out...
- Oh, those self-defeating Democrats. They'll have to order more rungs for the ladder if they ever hope to make it up to the moral high ground.
Raj and I are rooting for this guy (I think) Summertime television is a pop-culture wasteland. Rotting reruns lay strewn about the landscape (does the second and thoroughly underwhelming season of The O.C. really need more airtime?); new and inadequate programs destined for cancellation crop up like weeds (I’m looking at you, ubiquitously promoted The Closer); and hackneyed, ill-advised tripe (is there any more appropriate description for a program like I Want to Be a Hilton?) pollutes the air, contributing an odious odor. Much like Yoda in the Dagobah system, though, there are some things of value, and before consuming my regular diet of Pardon the Interruption last night, I checked out a few minutes of Beauty & the Geek. (Full disclosure: “Model chicks” aficionado and Kanye West-like medical-procedures consultant Raj Gupta encouraged my viewership since he knows one of the contestants.) I didn’t watch the entire episode (there was an Amare Stoudemire coronation to attend), but I liked what I saw, and this program show--to the extent that any patently exploitative and transparently contrived show can--seemed pretty good. Perhaps the pop-culture morass is simply dulling my senses, though. (And I think we can all agree that no program is going to be more entertaining than Being Bobby Brown, but that doesn’t debut for another month.) Did anyone else catch Beauty? Aside from another season of Survivor, P. Diddy’s Russell Simmons stick upBad Boys of Comedy, and Reno 911, I can’t think of any other programs I’m looking forward to watching. NorthShore would really hit the spot right now, but that went the way of every Rakim album on Aftermath ages ago.
I ain't heard of that: - Trickology has a lengthy interview with Big Pooh. I've tried to get into Sleepers more, but I find it impenetrable to some extent. It's good but not great.
- A friend emailed this link to me. I think people have probably seen it already, but if not, check out Bush United Nations-delegate nominee Doc Cochran as he rails against the United Nations. So long as Swearengen isn't passing kidney stones, I think he'll work well with the other delegates.
-With his political bulwark crumbling, falling down on top of him, isn’t it nice to see that George can retreat to his happy place, the fortress of galling deceit and startling nonchalance? You know, the place where oil flows like a mighty stream, Jesus tucks you in at night, the Texas Rangers never lose, My Pet Goat lines the bookshelves, everyone is reaping the benefits of an elaborate executive compensation package, and the word of the day is always an invented one? At the fortress, frowns get turned upside down. Hooray!
That awful Washington Postsays that Bush’s political capital has been spent, but back at the fortress, no one ever has to “worry about anything [t]here in Washington, D.C.” At the fortress, “Our economy is strong, but we need to work together to make sure we continue to have a prosperous economy so people can find jobs.” Silly George, don’t you know that those nasty liberals who run CNNare reporting that people can’t find jobs because the jobs are disappearing? It must be nice not having to care about that. And even though violence may be on the rise in Iraq, the fortress has allowed George the positive clairvoyance of truth: “[I’m] pleased with the progress” he says. Phew, I thought things were looking bad.
- Wow, a great idea spoiled. I can only hope that Akimbo will soon feature a Chuck Woolery subscription package that will allow all viewers the chance to watch reruns of the slept on Scrabble. That would probably drive sales. The real question is, when will TiVo and other digital-video-recorder providers begin offering content portablility: the capability to upload saved programs onto a USB-supported memory stick so that I can take stored episodes of Real World/Road Rules Inferno II over to a friend's house? That would be a fantastic innovation.
My girl Sonja has a blog worth reading. Peep Celandyne.
Also, the End of the Bench is the place to be for Pistons-Heat thoughts following a game four that had me sitting with my teeth and fists clenched from tip off until the final buzzer. No lead felt safe against Dwyane and his officials.
