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Recognize
6.30.2006
Digest
A flurry of recent posts has me concerned that you might miss something. So welcome, and have a look around:
- Reincarcerate Yayo The movement is about to commence. Get your shirts now...
Sizes 3XL-10XL only, of course As I was making my way down an escalator in high school (yeah, we had those in my high school, OK?) after some unmemorable math class one day during senior year, I remember seeing some kid with whom I shared a meeting point at the intersection of the peripheries of our respective social galaxies talking to his closer friends rather loudly about some new Eminem album, The Slim Shady LP. Of course, I had heard "My Name Is," as the song was inescapable, but I remember finding it fairly boring, and the rhyming style a little too knowingly matter-of-fact for my liking. I also didn't really trust that this rapping white guy was anything more than a gimmick for MTV to pimp. So I initially passed on Eminem.
And as I am wont to do, I assumed that my opinion--that he was some pop star destined for momentary fame and fleeting relevance--was the correct one and that everyone else would eventually see the light. Well, I guess I can finally say it: Oops, my bad.
Yeah, I wasn't originally down with Eminem, and I missed the initial tide of fascination and appreciation in which so many people got swept up. Later, during college, as I further immersed myself in my tastes, I developed an appreciation for Eminem but it took three albums and a lot of compensating for lost time.
But like any discerning hip-hop fan, I was always uneasy about Marshall Mathers. I could not deny his writing ability, nor his lyrical prowess. He was funny and insightful and articulate of a cool sort of rebellious anger. The guy could even flow really well. But despite all of those admirable qualities, he relied on a transparent and condescending media machine to become a ubiquitous cultural presence, and the deliberate exploitation of the media industry, the simple taste of most people, and racial politics was all bothersome. But beyond the more serious and more complicated issues, worst of all was that Eminem was the guy who made it so that any weed carrier could (and still can) go gold and get his singles on MTV and radio just because.
Don't get me wrong, Eminem was obviously not the first weed owner. Nor was he the most musically influential. As we've decided elsewhere, that was likely the RZA or Eazy-E. But Eminem is the best-selling, most well-known rapper of all time, and he is the one that ushered in the contemporary hip-hop era in which you're nobody until somebody kills you some weed carrier gets a plaque on his wall while wearing your clothes, swigging your drink, and repping your production company. Furthermore, though Eminem used to have some interesting shit to say (before he got repetitive and boring), he's the reason that dudes like 50 have ascended while further elevating studio gangsterism and mindless opulence.
I hadn't completely understood the consequences of Eminem's come-up until I was in college, when Eminem got 50 put on and coalesced preeminent industry power at Interscope. In 2003, 50 dropped Get Rich or Die Tryin', a record that launched him and cemented Eminem (maybe Jimmy Iovine?) as the most powerful person in hip-hop (maybe that's changed now since Jay became a CEO and Em receded into the background to make shitty beats and act). It also introduced the world at large to the G-Unit, and that, my friends, is what this post is ultimately about.
With the commercial validation (a symbolic coronation of Eminem and Iovine) of the Shady/Interscope Plantation came the freedom to promote whatever mindless, forgettable, bullshit hip-hop Em and 50 were into or owed their friends. The significance of this phenomenon fully emerged at the Grammys that year when Eminem performed wearing a "Free Yayo" shirt. Suddenly, no-account G-Unit member and 50 Cent Assistant Secretary for Rolling Papers Tony Yayo was a household name. Kids who didn't know any better were duped into thinking that Yayo had been wrongly imprisoned; that he needed our support; that he was a legendary rapper who only needed that deserved chance to shine. It was horrible.
D-Block is calling his name, and I'm not talking about the Lox right now. And it still is. 50, thanks to Eminem, has made "the game" (not to be confused with Big Meat) about songs for the clubs and fake thug bluster; about mediocre rappers crowding the talented out of the market; about weed carriers fronting like they own. Perhaps worse than any of these symptoms that have collectively come to define the failing state of hip-hop is that we have done nothing to stop the sorry trends. We blog about how mediocre some of these southerners are; we rip New York for getting stale; we use Yayo as a punchline. But we don't buy Little Brother tapes; we don't make Ghostface the King of New York; we don't keep the Yung Jocs of the world from hitting the airwaves and selling 500,000 ringtones.
Well I've had enough. Hopefully you have too. Enough passivity; enough loose objections; enough mediocrity passing for quality. The day that something like a Lil' Wayne becomes a highly touted record is the day that we, hip-hop fans, should know that something has gone wrong. And as we know, that day has arrived.
So the solution starts here and now: Reincarcerate Yayo. That's the message. Reincarcerate Yayo. That's the symbol. Let's leverage the slogan into something powerful, a means of expressing our frustration with the status quo. Reincarcerate Yayo!
Who's with me? If you are, start by letting me know in the comments section. And if you'd be interested in a t-shirt, let me know that too. Be sure to include your email address so that I can follow up with you. If enough people want one, I will get them made up and shipped out so that the movement can commence.
Go with what you know When I was about ten years old, my mother used to come retrieve Mark Ronson-hatingBuckets and me from school every Monday and take us to the movies before going home. It was the Monday Movie Club. Other kids were probably being shuttled off to piano lessons or to soccer or to their homes so that their parents babysitters could spend time with them, but not the Straight Bangin' kids. We were off to the movies, where no rating was too inappropriate, no junk food too junky.
My dad was usually working so he didn't participate, but it really didn't matter, anyway, that he had elsewhere to be and elsethings (?) to do because he has about 1,000 rules that usually preclude him from seeing anything in a cinema other than: foreign-made histories; American documentaries about how horrible George Bush is; Spike Lee joints. He doesn't like movies in which Americans put on foreign accents; movies with flashback sequences; movies with supernatural powers; movies featuring Ralph Fiennes; etc. He'll watch nearly anything on cable--like the same 30 minutes of Starsky and Hutch over and over again--but he does not pay for a ticket unless a movie meets his rigid criteria.
(Interesting sidenote that may only interest those who have met the man: In a move designed to honor his heritage as a street-ball legend who done came up during the years of Bill Russell's incomparable Celtics, my dad has started to again wear low, black Chuck Taylor Converse. Taken in concert with his khaki pants, vintage-style button-down short-sleeve shirts, and proclivity for movies that are only shown in East Village art houses, the shoes have made the man something of an inadvertent hipster. I am still working through my issues stemming from this revelation. If he won't give up the shoes or the khakis, I am hoping to convince him to trade in his short-sleeves for wife beaters underneath flannels buttoned only at the top. Throw a hair net on him and he could pass for some character out of Training Day or Falling Down or some other living-in-LA-is-a-nightmare movie. And I could call him "homes" and "esse.")
Anyway, I believe that the point of these remembrances and semi-personal disclosures is that I have been shelling out far too much money to go to the movies all my life. Not to make it sound like my home smells of rich mahogany or that I have many leather-bound books, but I see more movies than anyone who I know. It's generally an ignominious distinction, and it's an affliction that has led me to see more garbage than I'd like to admit. Oddly, though, it hasn't translated into a bevy of movie reviews on the Bangin'.
Today is different though, as I saw two films this week that warrant some recap and discussion.
Amidst the Monday movies, the absent bed times, the eat-what-you-want wonder diet, the running jokes about schticky shrinks vacationing on Cape Cod, and the conflicting messages that television was great but that I was earning myself a scholarship to St. John's by not reading enough fiction, I developed an odd sense of humor as I grew up. Again, not to make it sound like people know me since I wear suits that make Sinatra look like a hobo, but I'd say this sense of humor is pretty good. I'd say it's also pretty distinct, appreciative of the standard but more inclined toward the absurd. No fondness of mine is more emblematic of this sense of humor than that which I have long harbored for Strangers with Candy, a short-lived Comedy Central sitcom about a 46-year-old ambivalently reformed boozer, user, and loser who goes back to Flatpoint High School after years in prison to receive instruction and guidance from a corrupt principal and two unwittingly idiotic teachers on the not-so-down-low. After way too many delays, SWC finally came out in its movie form this week (in New York, that is). It opens nationwide next week. I know; New York is sweet.
If you watched the show and loved it, you'll love the movie, for the most part. True to its TV origins, SWC is not all that concerned with a coherent plot and instead invests its allotted time and the creativity of its creators into lampooning social conventions, common wisdom, and the syrupy nature of after-school specials. For instance, rather than reconcile with her stepbrother, protagonist Jerri Blank stabs him with a fork as their animosity escalates. Similarly, Jerri routinely acts as some kind of disgustingly adorable sexual predator with no remorse and no traditional lessons learned. And of course, this is all fucking hilarious.
As is the over-the-top self-reverence with which so many of the authority figures--Principal Onyx Blackman, science teacher Chuck Noblet, art teach Geoffrey Jellineck--deliver their sardonic material. Honestly, the worst part of the movie was that it was a movie at all, and thus had to commit itself to carrying out various story arcs over the course of the hour-and-a-half that it ran for. I think it would have been much better had it been less plot oriented, as it drags a little bit in the second half as the traditional demands of movie making take over.
The movie is also a fairly faithful adaptation. Most of the original cast appears on screen, and the characters are the same dysfunctional group that made the show so memorable. Even the meat man, Stew (who likely helped author my most memorable moment in TV history when he came to the Blank's door and was asked, "You gotta beef, Stew?" Maybe you had to see it...), gets to be in it. Sadly, there was no Poppy Downs, but she is dead, technically speaking.
I'd write more, but I don't really know how else to explain SWC to people who haven't seen it or who don't "go for" the humor it peddles. As written before, if youliked the show, you need to see this. And more importantly, you'll need to own it on DVD so that, like with Nacho Libre, you can watch it 100 times and memorize all the funny shit.
"I be/On that, all night/Man I be on that (day) all day/Straight up, Pimp if you want me/You can find me..." "Time and time again I gotta turn back round and tell these hoes..." Alright, enough "Kryptonite" references.
As much as I am a sucker for big-screen adaptations of my favorite television shows (see here, for instance), I am also a sucker for the summer-movie spectacle, and no genre delivers the thrills like the recently resuscitated comic-book films. I was never a huge comic-book head as a youth, but I was obsessed with cartoons and spent hours watching Spiderman, X-Men, and the like. (In fact, I once got made fun of by a random on the streets of Paris when she heard me singing the French version of the theme song from Fox's Spiderman cartoon. Good times.) I also had some friends who were really, really, really into comics, so I knew much of the folklore. And really, no non-Amish American grows up without encountering the references to and images of iconic superheroes like Superman.
Naturally, then, I had to check out Superman Returns, which promised to not only revivify a great franchise to begin with, but to also render another cherished comic property a platform for Bryan Singer's well-tuned, satisfying pop-culture visions. Singer and Superman don't disappoint.
When I waked out of the movie, I was perplexed by bummer reviews like this one from The New York Times' Manohla Dargis, as I thought Superman was really well done. There are moments when the Christian iconography is gratingly obvious; when the acting is a little too forced; when the CGI is not exactly Peter Jackson-quality; and when the story takes too long to play out (it could probably be about 15 minutes shorter). But otherwise, Superman Returns is an incredibly rewarding movie, as it delivers on the potential of the protagonist and the promise of the story. Bullets to the eye are compacted by the impervious Man of Steel; falling objects are prevented from turning into mechanisms of death by the fellow who's faster than a speeding bullet; and medical diagnoses are made thanks to the x-ray vision. Superman's entire arsenal of innate abilities is on display to a satisfying extent. And you get a madman bent on world domination, a fatal flaw, and all that other good stuff.
And as is characteristic of Singer's comic book movies, he demonstrates an obvious and mollifying respect for the original stories and character relationships, taking the requisite time to flesh out motivations and create an engaging emotional resonance, both with regard to the characters and with regard to the plot. Unlike the hollow, careless, brisk, amateurish X3, Superman takes its time so that you understand what's been going on and why it matters.
Best of all, though, is that the movie is an exercise in fun. Parker Posey, as Luthor's girlfriend Kitty, steals nearly every scene she's in, adding humor and creating a welcomed ambivalence in the audience: you want to know what's about to happen, but you also wouldn't mind just dwelling on the mundane for a little while longer so that you could continue watching colorful characters. The weakest acting link was Brandon Routh as Superman, but the at-times wooden portrayal of Clark Kent and Superman is likely deliberate, as it reinforces his alien origins and honors the enduring legacy of Christopher Reeves.
Other great stuff: the posthumous appearance of Marlon Brando; the fact that Superman's name still really is "Kal-El"; Kal Penn's appearance in the movie; the fact that they kept the original score intact.
And finally, though the movies that I recently saw were great, nothing in a movie theater this summer has been better than the Spiderman 3 trailer. FUCKING VENOM!
Now Read This: - Peep game: A Balanced Negro Perspective. I know what you're thinking, and the answer is that this is not, in fact, a black gymnast blog. It's Nate's newest internets creation, a site that will likely host many nuanced and engaging discussions about race and other social concerns. Sign up for the RSS feed, bookmark it, whatever. Most of all, participate!
Rudy Gay... ...and gayer. (Come on, that's funny.)
Back when I was all excited about sonning NBA Draft coverage this week, I was going to answer the five questions found below in a fashion that was authoritative and all fancy-pantsy and shit. But we all know what happened instead. *Sigh*...
Anyway, I will still answer the five questions, but will now also provide you, the reader, with some additional semi-coherent thoughts. Let's just say that I may or may not have made a number of angry phone calls last night.
Oh, and don't forget: Now that my mans 'an 'em MJ has his soccer blog on and poppin', he felt it was also time that he flex his basketball knowledge, which is considerable. Though he may obscure his insights underneath a persistent stream of ridiculous fantasy-trade proposals like just-picked-up-off-waivers-and-fallaciously-represented-as-top-ten Joe Smith for legitimate fantasy star Kevin Garnett, MJ follows the Association with vigor. See for yourself here and here; he answered the questions below and provided a recap. And if youfeelcompelledtotakeacrack at the questions foryourself, feel free to hit me up on your own site or in the comments section. Away we go into the madness that was a sort-of wild night...
1) What do you make of the Duke players that went in the first round? Were teams reaching by taking Shelden Williams in the top ten and J.J. Redick in the lottery at all? I need to have an Allen Iverson moment here for a minute: what are we talking about here? Shelden Williams? We're talking about the Shelden Williams who went to Duke and looks like he's from some place that isn't generally known as "Earth," right? What am I missing? Ever since Dwyane Wade and the Miami Referees won the title, I was reading mock draft after mock draft that had Shelden Williams as a lock for the top ten if not the top five. It perplexed me.
In college, I thought that Williams was a mixed bag. His post game was strong, although so many of his baskets seemed to result from simply outworking an opponent; his jumper was decent, but his range was limited and he was inconsistent; his defense was exceptional, but he got in foul trouble too often. In the NBA, working hard can't be discounted, repetition can lead to better shooting, and greater discipline on defense can be learned. But something didn't fully add up to me with Williams; I kept and still keep envisioning a better version of Udonis Haslem--sort of undersized, good rebounder, decent jumper. I might be way off on this one, but Williams doesn't strike me as a franchise player, something I tend to think can be realistically expected to come from the fifth pick in a given draft.
Maybe Williams was the perfect fifth pick in this draft, though, because overall, the field was weak. Going in, I thought that "the board" should have been ordered as such: Brandon Roy; then Marcus Williams, Adam Morrison, and Hilton Armstrong (more on him below); then Tyrus Thomas; then LaMarcus Aldridge and Rudy Gay. Michigan's Graham Brown and J.J. Redick were not on said board in the lottery portion. Williams wasn't really, either, but I can certainly understand taking him early given his size, his defense, and the other options--Andrea Bocelli and Sanaa Lathan, actual top-ten picks (#1 and #10 respectively), weren't doing it for me.
Redick at #11 seems crazy. I very much believe that the dude will have an NBA career because there is always a place for a shooter of his caliber in basketball, and he did well against ACC defenders in college. I mean, if Craig Hodges and Billy Thomas and all them could make it in the Association, Redick will be able to. But many great shooters from big-time conferences without size who couldn't put the ball on the floor also had great college careers and went on to serve as role players in the Lig. And that's what J.J. seems destined for. My memory might be a little too hazy to accurately draw this comparison, but why is Redick going to be better than Shawn Respert, a player who's seen as an unequivocal bust, in part, because he was taken earlier than his skill set should have dictated?
Dwight Howard and Darko (for real) drawing people inside; Jameer Nelson spreading the perimeter--I get all of the supposed reasons why Redick was a good pick for the Magic. But those are rationalizations that get thrown out all the time about every move made. If these decisions couldn't be rationalized--like when we all said that Brent Barry as the difference-maker San Antonio needed, for instance--they wouldn't go through.
2) Which lottery team started off Thursday most improved relative to where it was on Wednesday? My first instinct is to say Portland because that's who got Brandon Roy. But that's no fun.
My second instinct is to say Portland because it got 80% of a potentially exciting, winning starting nucleus (Aldridge, P.J. Tucker, James White, Roy--not a bad group). But that group didn't stay intact.
My third instinct is to say Portland because it was so active and seemed to own the rights to every single player in the draft at some point. But one should never mistake activity for accomplishment, as John Wooden used to teach us.
My fourth instinct is to say Chicago because it got a guy who [Dick Vitale] I truly believe [/Dick Vitale] will become a good player (Tyrus Thomas), a guy who might be able to improve the perimeter defense (Thabo Sefolosha), and a guy who, as Henry Abbot says, has size and doesn't make mistakes (Viktor Khryapa). But that's an obvious answer and the Bulls weren't really a lottery team anyway.
So I'll go with my fifth instinct and say the New Orleans Hornets of Oklahoma City because Hilton Armstrong was one of my favorite players in this draft. During his four years in Storrs, he improved significantly, demonstrating that he can be coached up. And this past season, he emerged as an excellent defender with a decent jump shot, decent passing skills from the high post, and a few reliable post moves. Plus, he catches the ball well enough and can finish at the rim, unlike bust-in-the-making Josh Boone. The Hornets were competitive all of last season, and Armstrong seems well equipped to come in, contribute to positive morale, and smartly thrive by helping to make Chris Paul look good. I don't see why Armstrong can't duplicate the production that Andrew Bogut gave Milwaukee last season, and Bogut was the top pick. Armstrong, to me, is the second- (or third-, depending on Adam Morrison) leading contender for rookie of the year.
3) Draft-time rumors were swirling above the heads of some prominent NBA stars, including KG and Jermaine O'Neal. Did any of the rumored moves make sense? Is there a move we haven't heard about that would make sense? What would have made the most sense would have been if Minnesota had kept Brandon Roy and paired him with Garnett. You don't think Roy would have been with the program from Day One? He would have been a happy second-leading leader in that clubhouse. And I love Kevin Garnett. I wrote a fucking encomium about him last year. That would have made me so happy.
Regardless, the draft-time rumor that made the most sense to me and still does is anything involving Allen Iverson. I have a lot of friends from the Illadelph who have grown up watching and admiring AI for his fearlessness. I am not one to disagree with that. Iverson has been a singular presence in the league for a decade, and he is likely the greatest small scorer of all time. He's a wonder to behold. But the entire 76er organization has this eerie feeling of moribundness that it can't seem to shake, the prevailing dynamics of the team will remain inert until the alpha figure who needs the ball has departed. Maybe the Knicks could get him so that he could line up alongside Marbury, Francis, Crawford, and Rose. The spectacle of that lineup would easily be worth an 0-82 campaign.
4) Who was the best player in this draft? Brandon R.O.Y. Duh.
5) Describe Isiah Thomas's Wednesday night and Thursday. Torturous. Is that sufficient? From what I could tell--and admittedly, it was hard to piece together anything resembling reality amidst the blood-curdling shrieks of horror that emanated throughout New York--the Knicks used two first-round draft picks to select a 6'5" PF and a combo guard with a decent-at-best jumpshot. The former probably has a great attitude and is probably a wonderful guy, but it's not good when ESPN lists "offensive skill" in the Must Improve category. Put it this way: in golf, it's important that a player be able to walk, but that is usually trumped by a need to strike the ball well. Thus, you wouldn't be so excited about drafting a guy who needed to improve his ability to make contact, right? Maybe Renaldo Balkman (whose name sounds like it couldn't decide if it were going to be Brazilian, Jewish, or Balkan) will develop into a Bruce Bowen-like niche player; we're told that Balkman is an excellent defender with a great motor. So that means that he's either a super sleeper that the Knicks are lucky to have or that Isiah drafted a white defensive tackle who overachieved while at some place like Penn State.
Mardy Collins is another guy with a weird name and a redundant game. Which overpaid baby will be sitting so that Mardy can get some burn?
And did I mention that Marcus Williams was still on the board? You now KNOW that he will emerge as a superstar once the Nets move to Brooklyn. Sometimes, I hate my life.
Other draft notes: - Who was happier about Redick going #11--Redick or Vitale?
- Before the Knicks picked at #29, Mark Jones interviewed some Knicks fan in the crowd who killed Isiah. Immediately after that, Jones kicked it back over to the panelists, and Jay Bilas called the boisterous Knicks fan "Eminem." And thus, the most embarrassing moment in human history was recorded.
- Again, about Marcus Williams: maybe he was a little too aggressive in seeking out access to the internets and maybe he needs to be in better shape, but have you people seen this kid play? His vision is incredible, he hits his free throws, and he is fearless in crunch time. Great get for the Nets.
- On the other hand, taking Josh Boone was ridiculous. This dude peaked as a sophomore. He has horrible hands, he NEVER finishes, he can't shoot free throws, and he probably had the worst braids in the draft.
- I really like that Houston got Sugar Shane Battier. Not only will he play defense and help make TMac and Yao look good, but he immediately becomes Jeff Van Gundy's favorite player. And whatever makes Jeff happy makes me happy.
- When Cedric Simmons got picked, among his strengths listed by Bilas was "second-jump ability." What the fuck is that? I know what he was trying to say--that Simmons gets off the floor for his second jump quickly while fighting for rebounds and such, but...what the fuck? Can't Bilas pretend that he knows English? I'd like to be nice and blame ESPN since they probably told him to use that phrase while going over the pre-draft talking points that were to be repeated constantly, but still, that kind of talk does a disservice to Duke University. And that school has an otherwise sterling reputati--never mind.
- As my dad rightly wondered at dinner tonight, "Where in Boston is Sebastian Telfair going to live?" Newton? Needham? This is not good.
- Rajon Rondo is overrated. Jay Bilas got that one right.
- Watching James White get drafted in the second round reminded me that the NCAA should give out an award named for Felipe Lopez every year immediately after the draft. The award would go to the college player who had lost the most by matriculating in the first place.
It's funny when guys try to score on Tyrus Thomas in the paint. I had all kinds of shit planned for this week (like my own version of this) and then work kind of got crazy and threw everything into flux. That leaves us here: an NBA Draft open thread. Deposit thoughts, if you have any, here. Maybe we can discuss as the day and the night progresses. Surely Isiah Thomas is revving up for a big day. He's likely already committed one of his kidneys to bad-hands-having, never-around-the-rim-finishing Josh Boone. And maybe for good measure--you know, to stockpile assets that will net him Dwyane Wade and Kevin Garnett--he will draft a shoot-first point guard if he can find one.
The French call it a certain "I don't know what." One of the most important commodities in hip-hop is personality. It's a part of what makes Jay-Z more celebrated than Nas, Kanye more famous than Common, and Lil' Wayne more employed than Young Turk. And don't even get me started on contemporary R&B, the hows and whys of what resonates so seemingly whimsical that it's not even worth the time trying to figure it out.
Evaluating personality is, of course, subjective. The same way that some people actually want to spend time around Paris Hilton and her herped-out vagina (a sexual equivalent of "draped up"?), others actually want to listen to Pimp C. Why? The oft-cited and fairly amorphous "personality": maybe you're someone who likes getting venereal disease while listening to an idiot whine about bullshit; maybe you're someone who likes listening to crappy raps about getting head in the turning lane while convincing yourself that Pimp C's freedom has restored order to the hip-hop universe. (And look for the new movement sure to sweep hip-hop later this week. Two word hint: "Reincarcerate Yayo." A t-shirt, a movement, a lifestyle. Coming to a Straight Bangin' near you by week's end...) The point is that personalities and opinions about those of others are all like embarrassing CDs bought when you were 12: everyone's got them.
And this is an important point--everyone has a personality. Even Mike Breen, Captain Turner from Deadwood, and Styles P. Sure, some are bland (see the immediately preceding list), some are annoying, and some are idiotic, but everyone has a personality.
One of the most important commodities in hip-hop is personality. I wrote that before and I am writing it again because it brings us back to my main point. While some might argue that a rapper should be judged solely on technical merits such as his lyrical prowess, ability to synchronize his flow with a given beat, and ear for music (ask Canibus if picking out beats is important), that seems like a hopelessly myopic viewpoint. The critical filter through which we evaluate hip-hop music has changed, irrevocably incorporating non-musical elements that have developed as hip-hop has become a dominant musical form and a marketing force. Perceptions of authenticity, judgments of character, sartorial style--these and many other "extracurriculars" all inform our opinions of MCs, and personality, however we are to define it, is as valid, if not more so as an umbrella term, a category for appraisal.
Additionally, it may well be antithetical to a purist's--to say nothing of a top-40 head who loves his snap music because he totally felt up some girl's ass while dancing to Dem Franchize Boyz at the club--notion of hip-hop to eliminate personality from the critical equation. Was not nascent hip-hop a means for cold rocking a party? Do we not reverently reflect upon the contributions of foundational figures such as Afrika Bambaataa because they helped develop hip-hop's original block-party culture? And is that process not, in some way, reliant upon the nebulous "personality"? Most people could play records on a record player. Many could scratch and mix. But it is those who we dutifully cite with appreciation who crafted a style and a skill set that made the music memorable. And those ideas, those contributions, those signature sounds reflected personality.
For an MC, it is much the same. Vanilla Ice could string together lines that rhymed, but in the final analysis, his general presentation and character--his personality--were wack. Juelz Santana plays with words in a style akin to Cam'ron's, yet we are far more willing to accept the latter than the former thanks to Cam's personal stylings. You get the picture, right? Personality matters in hip-hop, particularly today when a focus on radio hits has reduced an appreciation for lyricism and made the differentiation afforded by the emergence of personality paramount.
So it is that the best rappers, and the best music, blend elemental hip-hop components--lyrics worthy of attention, tight beats, an organic fusion with the tempo--with distinct, respective personalities. GZA is a precision wordsmith whose gifts are commonly lost on those who care not for his lyrical mastery (and on the flip side, those who love his music would readily tell you that such prowess is, precisely, his personality manifest). Nelly, meanwhile, makes party records and affects a style so thoroughly steeped in a certain personality that resonates with mass audiences that he's rich for having rapped about nursery rhymes, gold grillz, and pimp juice.
Come now, as we further explore the phenomenon of personality that inescapably informs taste:
- De La Soul, "Voodoo Circus" First things first I Poppa, freaks all the honeys: De La Soul, to me, is the greatest rap group of all time. There are so many ways to measure this commonly bandied about distinction, so obviously such a claim deserves a more thorough defense. But for now I'm just gonna put that out there. Since the late 80s, these dudes have been making creative hip-hop with pitch-perfect production, engaging lyrics, and an incredible collective personality that has rendered listening to them rhyme as relaxing and exciting as talking to a close friend. When Dave, Maseo (sometimes), and Posdnuos get on the mic, who doesn't enjoy a feeling of welcomed familiarity?
And both their preeminence and longevity are testaments to the strength of their music and the resounding appeal of their personality. They just always have had so much to say, such an on-point perspective, and such an unassuming mechanism for delivery. They ride beats so well and speak of everyday things in a manner than makes you think that you'd probably want to be friends with them had they gone to your high school. A De La Soul record is an ongoing dialogue that you can join at any time.
As was common on Grind Date, De La uses most of this track to call out the bullshit zeitgeist rap culture that all the wannabe dope boys run around glorifying. And they have steadily emerged in recent years as veterans who will not suffer bullshit and are happy to skewer the absurd. Who's gonna argue with cats who have made no fewer than five--FIVE--records that son the shit out of 90% of the rap albums ever made? Really, De La now peddles in a unique brand of reflective, grown-person hip-hop, eschewing the immature preoccupation with the romanticized street culture of which a critic's vicarious fantasies are made and instead serving as a mouthpiece for a generation of hip-hop fans who feel somewhat disenfranchised by the turn toward vapidity that has recently intensified.
And De La still does skits better than just about anyone.
- De La Soul, "Freestyle (Dat Shit) 2006" Reminiscent of the first classic De La style, this is one of those rambunctious, playful, loose tracks that capitalized on the seemingly endless creative energy that informed the sonic arcs of Three Feet High and Rising and De La Soul Is Dead.
Though not the ultimate showcase for his skills, Posdnuos reminds you why he's perhaps the most underrated rapper of all time. He flows so well over nearly any beat, and his catalogue is chockablock with quotables and tight verses. Also overlooked is that few have ever done as good a job maintaining a narrative flow while simultaneously dropping witty, inventive punch lines and references. So many rappers--especially the great battle rappers--bounce from set-up to set-up stringing together distinct bars that might make a crowd scream out "Oh!" but few do it while going from point A to point B, or even C, D, and E.
You also have to credit De La for consistently picking an array of beats that complement the rhymes, never overwhelming them. Even something as timeless as "Ego Trippin, (Part Two)" is as much Pos and Dave as it is that unforgettable Al Hirt sample. Just ask the Roots, whose "Stay Cool" was great but still can't come on without launching the erudite fan into a quick "Yup, yup big trucker man's rollin' in town."
- Ludacris, "War with God" Henry offered an appropriate appreciative lamentation, but it bears repeating: Ludacris is a fantastic success when you stop to consider that his periodic summoning of exceptionalism has yet to translate into an episode lengthy enough to yield a truly great album. Instead, it's usually a cycle of a few catchy songs, some enticing guest work, and then a boring, sonically cluttered, mediocre record. Even Back for the First Time, a fairly pedestrian album that remains 'Cris's magnum opus, has its fair share of regrettable moments and forgettable tracks. But yet, Ludacris remains a popular MC, lauded for his ability to fashion a playful, pithy verse every few months and for the fleeting moments of lyrical mastery that sadly stand in contradistinction to the general mediocrity across the South. I mean, on this track, the guys sounds rightfully indignant as he goes gunning for T.I., and Ludacris is a reliable disappointment.
In many ways, this track is also the perfect epitome of Luda's force of personality. The grand, boastful rhetoric; the varied cadence; the gusto and ferocity with which he drops punch lines like fists; the way that he distorts his voice for dramatic effect--it all paints a colorful collage of an MC whose best work, certainly adequate and memorable in some ways, disproportionately obscures his middling catalogue. And even Ludacris tacitly acknowledges this, routinely calibrating success in terms of sales and money, rarely seeking to claim preeminence as a lyricist or a pure hip-hop practitioner. In sum, Ludacris regularly emerges as a likable rascal, a southern rogue who you root for because he's kind of cool and smart, even if he's not the best rapper. And he always seems better than he is. To borrow Ian's most famous blog idea and to perhaps raise his ire, Ludacris is like Virginia football.
I happen to really like this joint. Not so much because it's an "Ether"-level ethering of T.I. (it's mostly just about who has more money), but because the beat is a somber context that distorts the severity of the song and allows Ludacris's innate energy to command attention. This track is really more of a stiff rebuke than a declaration of war, despite the title.
- Dre ft. Rick Ross, "Chevy Ridin' High" Somedudes who I like () were "talking" about this track recently and it reminded me of the thesis advanced above. Personality is easy to observe and hard to judge in the absolute: I suppose that Rick Ross--who I consider to be the worst rapper of recent vintage--can carry an inherent appeal if you see the humor that shrouds his professional existence at all times and subsequently rejoice in his unaware contributions to the pool of unintentionally hilarious culture. Listening to him rap is kind of funny since you usually can't genuinely believe someone unleashed him upon this world in earnest. You keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out or for the dude to pull his beard off while the music gets creepy, as it would happen on Lost. But sadly, those moments never come, and you're left wondering how you fucked up and this jerkoff wound up on Def Jam and MTV.
For his part, Ross is a pretty odd rapper. His slow flow's not remarkable, and he raps about coke like Tony Montana sniffs the yayo. No big deal, right? Who doesn't rap about coke? The problem is that Ross doesn't rhyme all that well and seems insistent upon trafficking in trite banality. Sadly for him (and really, for us too), this means that you catch every single one of his idiotic couplets: "Known as the boss, I swerve two lanes/Bitch I'm Ricky Ross, me and Dre do thangs." Say that out loud and then marvel that it takes Ross 6 FULL SECONDS to get that out of his stupid fucking mouth.
In the aggregate, his stunningly unwitting brand of worthlessness may, in fact, offer observers an opportunity for wholesome condescension that we usually can only enjoy when talking to someone like Dark Milicic, who is a hopeless cultural alien. And this appeal may, therefore, amount to Ross's on-mic personality--he's pleasantly moronic. Set that to some snappy drums and well-orchestrated synths, and you have a hit in today's environment. Again, personality (of a kind) makes the man. Sort of.
- Ray Cash, "Livin' My Life" No style of hip-hop is driven by personality like that of the South. The Clipse are lauded for the gritty narratives they craft and impart viscerally; Young Jeezy is cited as a master ad-libber, his groans not a waste of time but an expression of an attractive world weariness; Lil' Wayne is credited with commanding a pathos previously unseen in the universe. It's all really quite a spectacular display of communication and intimate repartee...Unless, of course, you aren't into bullshit. If, in fact, you aren't, then you hear this music and you wonder what the big deal is. And that inquiry, of course, takes you back to the idea that charisma on the microphone, however this quality is identified, oftentimes counts for more than the words one speaks into it.
Ironically, though, to find the year's best "southern rap" album (Little Brother's Separate but Equal Gangsta Grillz mixtape is a sonic anomaly), you'll need to go to Cleveland. That's where Ray Cash stays, and on his joint Cash on Delivery, he so perfectly channels the southern staples--the drawl, the simplistic production style, the hedonism and gangster fantasies, the truncated syllables--that you routinely must stop the album to wonder if it is an authentic work or a biting, well-informed imitation. And if obsessing about drugs and the like is your thing, you'll probably be into Cash, who at times sounds like a better version of T.I., with a crisper flow and, to be honest, more consistent, if not as ambitious, production.
Whether it's a good thing or a bad thing that an entire sub-genre can be so easily imitated and mass produced I'll leave for you to decide.
Do not weep for Isiah if things don't work out. He's still got a popcorn business to ruin. Isiah has one year. Suddenly, I may become the biggest Knicks hater in the universe. 0-82, Greg Oden, new coach, new GM--here we come!
Where you at, dog? We got the whole city behind you! (WMP. And Carl is AMAZING in this one.) - Your boy Jeff threw together an excellent edition of the the Carnival of the NBA. Peep game.
- Yourboy Henry threw together an excellent interview with ?uestlove about the Roots, their upcoming album Game Theory, and a whole bunch of other shit. I think this is one of the better interviews I can remember--without pretense or some ostentatious display, Henry gets so much engaging, important information from ?uesto while hitting on important topics: the Roots' internal dynamics, the direction in which they're going, the influence of Jay Dee, the influence of Jay-Z, and so much more. Bow down. (HT: Pablo Dorkiega, the real Big Meats)
Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival: Representin' BK to the Fullest
Rhymefest:
Big Daddy Kane:
Sleepy Brown:
When you're a recovering sneaker addict, picking out the right shoes can be a daily trauma. Working a corporate job makes that easier, of course, because the only sneakers you need to wear are no sneakers. But life's other circumstances don't always make things so simple. What, for instance, is one to wear on a rainy Saturday afternoon in June when scheduled to spend all day at a hip-hop festival? Do you sacrifice functionality for style and resign yourself to discomfort? Style for functionality and resign yourself to unseemliness? I chose some kind of happy medium and managed to keep my feet relatively dry and my sneaker game fairly strong as I hobbled around Brooklyn Bridge Park in DUMBO in my NikeiD Air Max runners, regularly walking on my heels to avoid the puddles.
I can't think of a better way to frame my fond remembrance of the 2nd annual Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, as the event is a celebration of hip-hop music and the best of the concomitant culture that comes with it. Thus, the focus on my sneakers. And despite a persistent cloud cover that yielded rain throughout the day and forced we hip-hop revelers underneath a gigantic tent, the event was once again a success. What this year's festival lacked in sunshine and the excitement inherent to any inaugural event, it made up for in content, setting, and execution. The acts were endless and good to see, even if some didn't deliver on their full promise; Brooklyn Bridge Park is a wonderful setting with an Old-West character; and the concert was smartly planned and never dragged, a key for a hip-hop event. And as always, the atmosphere was inviting, a testament to the fine people who organized and attended.
Big up to the whole Room Service Group for putting the festival together. Wes and his crew have made this thing an annual party to check for and plan around. Big up, as well, to the blog fam that came through. It's always nice to trade opinions and stories and jokes with goodpeople. Check out the videos above for some sense of what went down. And also...
Some key takeaways from the event: - The event was dedicated to Jay Dee, as every fucking thing in hip-hop should be.
- At one point, The Buckets pointed to some dude in the crowd who was wearing super-tight tapered jeans, high-top Air Forces unlaced, and a tight t-shirt that read "Jewish by Nature" in the Naughty font and asked, with the appropriate disdain, "Uchk, who is that hipster?" It was Mark Ronson.
- CL Smooth is a Republican. Or at least a neocon. Ian and I were scratching our heads when special guest CL came out, did verses from "Straighten It Out" and "Down with the King" (an underrated favorite from my childhood) and then introduced new material from his forthcoming American Me record by launching into some diatribe about preemptive aggression and America remaining ever vigilant as a worldwide underdog. He stopped short of explicitly advocating the bombing of Iran and North Korea, but that was clearly the direction in which he was moving before he remembered that everyone wanted to hear "T.R.O.Y."
- It's still odd to see Pete Rock without CL and CL without Pete. CL has many more lines to spit, and dude only needs a record player to perform, whereas Pete Rock has to chop up or chop off lots and lots of records to stay true to his animosity and refusal to acknowledge CL. But still, they both need to just get over it.
- Older MCs > younger MCs. Still. On a weekend when chancleta-wearing, 30+ CEO Jay-Z threw himself an "I'm Still the Best MC Out and I'm Not Even Out" party, it was appropriate that Big Daddy Kane was the concert's best artist and that highlights included Craig G and Just-Ice performing. The older cats just seem to control a stage better, rarely losing themselves in the experience or appearing overwhelmed, and regularly eschewing bullshit to simply meet the crowd's needs. There are a lot of reasons for this--younger artists have less experience, have marketing experts helping to make their set lists, have more schtick to self-indulge, whatever. I get all of it, but there really are few younger acts who offer as exciting a set as Kane, for instance, who even manages to make his token RIP session something more like a party and less like an annoying contrivance.
- Talib Kweli, Craig G, and a Craig G weed carrier did a nice little freestyle over Rick Ross's "Hustlin'" and it was inarguably the single most rewarding thing we've heard from Kweli since "Get By" or "Get 'Em High." I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. (Maybe Talib knows the real Big Meat?)
- Be concerned about Rhymefest. As you may know, I love dude and think he's lyrically and personally appealing (). On the mic, he flows, plus he's funny and has great energy. But as Wes said recently, "This is where he was last year at this time." And by "this" he meant scrapping to find as many shows as possible, peddling the same music (now a year older), and without an obvious single. The crowd at the BHF didn't really seem to know what to make of him, intermittently missing the jokes or applauding with only tepid enthusiasm. And as you might be able to hear in the video above, Rhymefest just can't seem to shake the association with Kanye, which suddenly seems to be a bad thing.
- 'Fest puts on a nice show. Thanks to some mixtapes, he has enough concert-quality music to run through comfortably, and he is inventive and courageous, always seeking to entertain. Like Common, Rhymefest embraces the freestyle, something more MCs should consider since it remains an exciting display of talent when executed well. Room Service was smart to bring back 'Fest.
- Conversely, Lupe Fiasco is not good in concert. His record is solid, and he is a gifted writer. But for the second straight time, Lupe seemed to get a little lost within the context of his set, failing to engage the crowd and allowing for too many lulls in the music, a major concert no-no. He spends more time talking to his DJ and weed carrier than to the audience. It would also help if his album had officially dropped (it's now been bumped until August 29th, but which time no one will still be checking for "Kick Push" and Def Jam will be all about the new Roots album) and a larger swath of the population were familiar with his music. But in the absence of that recognition, he is instead left to try to win over fans with a loose, bland stage show consisting of a hip-hop iteration that is not especially radio or concert friendly. Not a good look.
- Everyone in hip-hop has a weed carrier. Even Sleepy Brown, who has three. All of whom sing. Sleepy's set was odd--he really doesn't have music people know (despite that solo album/mixtape he put out a year or two ago), so he does what you might expect: he dick rides OutKast. Dude came out and basically sang his parts from songs like "The Way You Move" before trotting out some of his own music, which is forgettable and mostly boring. Even his new track, "Margarita," is the kind of track that you don't mind hearing but can't focus on. It's background music.
- The Procussions are better in concert than on record. On the stage, they worked really hard to please the crowd, trotting out coordinated dances and an engaging set list that was fast-paced and complimentary, featuring stronger tracks like "Shabach" and "The Storm." Now they just need to fade the one dude who has the nasal voice and the ugly mohawk.
- The Strange Fruit Project has a future if they can assemble a record that jumps out as something other than a well-intentioned Native Tongues derivative. Like Little Brother, they have an obvious target audience. Now they need a break through album and some promotion. But I liked their sound and presentation, even without fully knowing all of their music.
I didn't get a chance to catch this show last night and couldn't get tickets for the Reasonable Doubt show tonight. I am still kind of pissed since I was at his "retirement" show at Madison Square Garden that turned out to not be anything close to a retirement. Whatever.
Glad to see Memphis Bleek find something to do with himself on a Saturday night. His knees must get sore, though. Also, what percentage of a given artist's lyrics do you think you need to memorize before you can try out to be one of his weed carriers? I feel like working for Jay could be a decent gig since he is constantly making "once-in-a-lifetime" appearances. Dude is rapidly ascending to U2-like levels of availability.
Do you think any Def Jam artists get tired of being shown up by their CEO? Just a question.
Take this man first! Among the indelible images that were authored this past March during the NCAA Tournament, that which will emerge as perhaps most important when we reflect on this most recent staging of The Madness in ten years will be of Brandon Roy calmly holding the ball somewhere on the perimeter and assessing the helpless defense in front of him. Though not a snapshot of the visceral and, therefore, not an image that we commonly celebrate--a departure from the embodiment of emphatic enthusiasm, like a Joakim Noah dunk; the personification of excruciating disappointment, like Adam Morrison crying; the exemplar of exquisite Cinderelladom, like George Mason--Roy peacefully surveying the on-court scene will likely come to be celebrated because it is a perfect encapsulation of the player who should have been the NCAA Tournament's MVP and who should be the top pick in next week's NBA draft.
"Should," of course, is a normative word reflecting a judgment. And in sports, it's commonly a mournful word, one deployed in the aftermath of heartbreak or, less dramatically, a simple error. For instance, we all know, now, that the stories of the Tournament and the draft go as follows: the player recognized as the most outstanding is usually the one who scores the most or gets the most press for the winning team; the player taken with the top pick is usually the one who is tall enough and athletic enough to be envisioned as a big-man savior. That's just how it is, and that just leads to errors.
Take the Tournament, for instance. Coming into it, the Washington Huskies were seen as a soft team that had run up an impressive record by playing in a disappointingly mediocre PAC-10. And ominously seeded fifth in its region, Washington was considered one of the teams most likely to be upset in the first round. Of course, Roy made sure that didn't happen. In the Huskies' opening game against Utah State--touted as a potential field-of-32 participant--he scored an efficient 28 points on 11-19 shooting that included four three-pointers. He also handed out five assists and grabbed three rebounds. But his impact on the game, like every game, went far beyond the numbers. Every time the Aggies tried to get within striking distance of Washington so that the final minutes could offer the specter of the ignominy that comes with an upset, Roy made a play. An assist, a big shot, drawing a key foul, chasing down a loose ball, disrupting a play while on defense--Roy was cool when it mattered, and he demonstrated the preternatural understanding of the game that often distinguishes the great players from the good ones.
It happened again two days later against Illinois. Down 11 in the second half of a game that it ultimately won, Washington furiously rallied to tie it up in the closing minutes, and it was Roy and his efficient style leading the charge. One of the ways you can always tell that a basketball player is great is if you grow to fear him as you root against his team. Well, I had picked Illinois, and I was scared of Roy. Sure, there were dangerous players on every squad that you might have worried about; you didn't want to leave someone like UConn's Denham Brown open, for instance. But few demonstrated the transcendent will required to inspire genuine fear--Denham Brown was not going to carry a team or be in every spot at every crucial moment. You weren't terrified of him. But Roy fit the description.
Against Connecticut, Roy's dazzling style was again apparent, if not a little less obvious. Though he had his worst shooting game and point-production effort of the Tournament, he again brought his palpable resolve to the match-up, and his teammates took notice. It's not fair to characterize the other Huskies as having been Roy's +7 on the guest list, but against UConn, as they had for the first weekend of the Tournament, the U-Dub Huskies were greater than the scouting report might have indicated, each teammate emboldened by the quiet, assured style of do-it-all Roy. Connecticut got far more than it had wanted from Washington in a thrilling regional semifinal.
Connecticut ended Washington's season, Florida won the national title, and we all can fill in the other details. But what seems to have been unfairly written out of the official history is that Brandon Roy was the most outstanding player of the tournament. There were better athletes (Rudy Gay) on better teams (Noah) with bigger reps (J.J. Redick), but none better demonstrated the panoply of skills, nor the perceptible though ill-defined ability that enables the special players to control a game and inspire teammates.
During the Tournament, the player of whom Roy was most reminiscent was Dwyane Wade, a timely comparison, now, given what Wade has just accomplished. They are surely not identical players, Wade a more explosive leaper in possession of a devastating first step and in control of an aerial arsenal nearly unmatched. But like Dwyane, Brandon Roy is a two-guard who can terrorize opponents and exert his will for an entire game merely by being himself. A deft and willing passer; a fearless and graceful rebounder; a reliable and courageous scorer, Brandon Roy is a quintessential guard who will literally do it all. But most like Wade, Roy is an unrelenting competitor who can hurt an opponent from any spot on the floor, all the while galvanizing teammates. When you use a word like "relentless" it immediately conjures notions of aggressive drives to the basket. But Roy is more than that, relentless like Kobe and Wade, both of whom make plays all over the court because they are constantly seeking a way to provide their respective teams with an advantage. And they do it with a deceptive grace that makes the rare look common.
There are flashier players with more athletic potential eligible for next week's draft. But only Roy has demonstrated a peerless effectiveness in the ultimate crucible of competition. And as the Tournament should have demonstrated, you do not want to bet against this man, lest you live in fear.
Poor Larry. No one lives, let alone plays, the right way, huh? I mean, wow. This is just vicious. But amidst the warranted storm of criticism that has developed in the wake of the announcement that Isiah Thomas and James Dolan are soldiering on toward the end goal of making the Knicks something like basketball's Kansas City Royals, let's not forget that Larry Brown has, in effect, been the highest paid drama king in sports for about two-and-a-half straight years. The constant on-camera martyrdom; mistreating his players; whining; complaining; speaking in that self-conscious, affected, lugubrious tone--give me a break. And yes, he was terrible with Team USA (imagine the indignity of having to coach LeBron, Wade, Amare, Duncan, et al.); he railroaded the Pistons during the playoffs; and he was a complete disaster with the Knicks. (HT: Henry)
Moses and Aaron. Dastardly and Mutley. James and Isiah.
"And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch forth mine hand upon Egypt, and bring out the children of Israel from among them." - (Exodus, 7:5) If you've come here for an explanation, you will find none. Just take your crazy pills and accept that this is the bizarro world, OK?
I mean, there is NO OTHER WAY to explain how it has come to be that Isiah Thomas is again a coach in the NBA. This man has accomplished absolutely NOTHING since he stopped playing basketball, and yet he has suddenly gotten himself another undeserved job without relinquishing the fifth one which he already had. And I just want to go on reco--
Actually, I want to amend that statement. There is one way to explain what has happened: this being the bizarro world and all, we've obviously been operating under false pretenses that we should now rightly recognize as grossly inaccurate.
The common logic that permeates our sports universe dictates that when a basketball team has the league's highest payroll and practically the fewest wins; when it has a bleak outlook and few high-worth assets; when it is perpetually being led in baffling directions, it has unfairly subjected its fans to anguish caused by poor management. To remedy this situation and to reward the faith of the fans, the management is supposed to be replaced. It is a given that the owner wants nothing but the highest levels of sustainable success.
Your New York Knicks Well guess what? Woe unto thee who blindly follows the axiomatic into the sinful land of assumption. We've all be wrong. In the bizarro world--a place with boundaries that encapsulate Madison Square Garden--it is the owner and his managers who have long suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fan sentiment. And now, justly, their faith is being rewarded as their God leads them out of the bondage of expectation and toward the promised land of alienation and inadequacy.
For those of you who can't keep up, who are "religious," or who simply prefer to understand things with a Cecil B. DeMille perspective, let me put this all into terms that you will understand:
- Knicks Owner James Dolan is Moses, the savior of an enslaved people who is so pure in his intentions that he is aided by the will of God. Long have Dolan's people (mainly his family) been held hostage by fans who would ask the impossible of their team: turn hay (improvement) and mud (competitiveness) into bricks (a championship).
- Knicks President and Coach (excuse me, I just vomited in my mouth a little) Isiah Thomas is Aaron, a perceptive character who delivers the Lord's word and assists his (in this case, mentally) handicapped brother Moses. Aaron is not really cracked up to be a leader to begin with, though.
- Knicks fans, of course, are modern-day Egyptians, a vainglorious and cruel people who have enslaved Moses and the Hebrews while demanding the impossible.
(NB: I think that Anucha Browne Sanders would be Nefretiri, but I'm not certain how she fits in yet. Anyway...)
We all know what happens next, either because we've read the Old Testament, seen The Ten Commandments, or are Knicks fans. The Egyptians, behind Pharaoh's hardened heart, fail to heed God's warnings as ten plagues descend upon Egypt, all delivered by Moses, God's messenger. Don't buy into this analogy? Well then how else are we to explain what seems like an endless torrent of plagues unleashed upon Knicks fans by none other than the Almighy? Bloated salaries, sloppy play, inept crunch-time execution, locker room discord, wasted draft picks, malignant superstars. I mean, if I wake up with boils tomorrow and there's a dead cow in my living room, I won't be surprised. Christ, I think it actually is supposed to hail in New York!
All in all, life sucks as an Egyptian right now, and it will likely get worse before it gets better. I can only hope that after what will surely be a season spent submerged in the depths of a suddenly no-longer-parted sea, enough of us survive and rise up to the surface, catch up to the Hebrews (I believe that they're slated to be in the desert for a while lugging around some stone tablets), and overthrow the Moses-Aaron regime.
But really, that's the only possible way to explain why Thomas, who has been an unmitigated disaster as team president--and was a failure as a coach, executive, and broadcaster before that--is suddenly the coach. Unless, of course, you're buying what ESPN's Chris Sheridan is selling: Isiah's assumption of coaching duties is part of Dolan's insidious plot to get rid of Thomas (as though there isn't cause already). Given the preeminence of self-preservation in the minds and instincts of humans, I wouldn't be surprised if Sheridan were right. But that is not an end to the story, as Dolan must ultimately be held accountable for allowing the Knicks to atrophy into what they've now become: freak show basketball designed for the tabloids and nothing much else.
But don't worry, Knicks fans, Josh Boone is likely on the way.
Ugh. I am a first-born son, so maybe you should just kill me now.
Nasty Hey kids, do you like candy? Well I certainly do, especially anything that combines peanut butter and chocolate. And that's why, if you scroll down the page and keep your eyes fixed on the left-hand sidebar content, you will come across an ad for Twix. Twix is giving away some kind of "Ultimate Sports Party Package" that includes a 42" flat-panel HD television, a surround-sound audio system, a cooler, a grill, and $1,000 cash (which you could use for your dice game, bail bondsman, or the party itself). Oddly enough, they are advertising this offer with the rhetorical question "want to host the big game this year," which in America means the Super Bowl (and the answer, of course, is a resounding maybe so long as a number of conditions are met and certain people don't come), yet the Package also includes the logical...baseball memorabilia? My head hurts, so I'll leave that to Twix to figure out.
Anyway, why am I advertising this, why do you care, and what about the peanut butter and chocolate? In order: because they asked me for some help and said I could get some free candy (which, if you'll recall from an earlier paragraph, I like); because maybe you want to win this Ultimate Sports Part Pack since you don't have nice shit like that which they're giving away; and, pursuant to my answer to the first question, I am hoping to get a lot of peanut butter Twix, something that I have written about before and love.
Here's where you come in: click on the Twix ad and register for the giveaway before July 9th. If you help me out, I'll help you--you can share my Twix.
And before you run your cyber mouths about how I have sold out and all that, just keep these things in mind: none of you offered me candy; this site is subject to the whims of its author; who fucking cares?
- Nas, "Where Y'all At" Nas just flows on this FOREVER. The beat is dark and sparse, and though it's limited in and of itself (I like it but don't love it), I'd like to think that in the context of a new Nas album on a new label fueled by a renewed hunger, it's excitingly ominous and tantalizingly foreboding. How great will this song sound on a record of classic QB street music? Is it fair to expect that? Probably not, but please allow me this persistent dream.
Fletch has you covered on the lyrics. Like him, I'm lovin' this:
"And still see presidents No matter who paid Cause you ain't take the last dollar made Long as they keep printing it, there's chances of getting it Money's my bitch, and we stay intimate"
This beat is just perfect for a Jaylib track. The sample orchestration is classic. Have people yet fully grasped what we lost back in February? This is a year of inarguable tragedy.
- Buff(1), "You're the One for Me" (prod. by Jay Dee) From Ann Arbor native and Athletic Mic League member Buff, who is unquestionably a smart, perceptive, thoughtful dude. He's got one of those playful cadences and dense flows that usually hit the mark. This track feels like it's missing something--is it just poorly mixed vocals?
- Kool Keith, "Trees" On this one, I'll bow down to the master. I've always liked Kool Keith but wouldn't say that I celebrate his catalogue the way that some celebrate Michael Bolton's. The beat would have easily fit on The Coup's Pick a Bigger Weapon.
- Tha Dogg Pound, "Kushn N' Pushn" I still don't know what to make of this song or the DPG album on which you can find it. I'm sort of feeling the lazy nature of the flutes and guitars and drums. This thing meanders without getting stale, in part because the flows confer the track with some energy.
- Strange Fruit Project, "You" I've always thought of Strange Fruit as a poor man's Little Brother--it's a similar style of production and rhyming, although SFP's beats are a little less interesting than what 9th puts together when he's doing good work. And no one is touching Phonte. Illmind made this beat, and the rhyming is that fairly standard inter-gender, paean-like hip-hop. I don't offer that as a pejorative, as though this track would be enhanced by an infusion of gully and a liberal invocation of the word "bitch." Rather, there is no new ground being broken here, even lyrically from bar to bar. Just a solid, unassuming mellow hip-hop album.
- Big Sty, "U Ain't Heard" I like Big Sty almost solely because he wasn't afraid to call out 50 Cent on "Still a Problem" and because he was right there on Bush's ass after Hurricane Katrina. His album drops on July 11th and I will be checking for it because he seems to have something to say, although you wouldn't know that from this track. It's always a disappointment when a rapper with some promise falls back on archetypes and cliches. That said, this is a harmless track.
It's a new sheriff in town, and it ain't Reggie Hammond The curious tragedy of these playoffs--on balance, a towering success for the NBA and the genesis of numerous exciting storylines--for this blogger was that I had a hard time writing about them. The panoply of media that now oversaturates our airwaves and internets with on-demand, nearly real-time analysis made me often feel as though my thoughts would be redundant. People have called out the L for giving Wade all the calls; have identified that Wade and James are the new era of basketball; have come to appreciate Mark Cuban as the gully, admirable genius that he is; have realized that the Orlando game during which Ben Wallace freaked out and started beefing with Flip Saunders was the functional end of the Pistons' wannabe "dynasty"; and so forth.
It was dispiriting each night to watch the games and then fail to write about them due to a sense that the effort would have been a frivolous replication of something else somewhere else. I usually write just for me, just for catharsis, and just for the individualized community that the internets now afford each of us to create for ourselves. I don't write explicitly to be a thought leader (which I'm not--well, not on anything other than intolerance for flip-flops) or explicitly to make waves. But I also have this hang up about consistency and authenticity--after a few nights passed without Bangin' commentary the next day, it started to feel as though getting back into NBA blogging would be inauthentic and non-contextual.
But last night provided me with the chance to get "back in the game," and it feels good to be home, so to speak.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am that the Heat won. Pat Riley's betrayal of the Knicks was an epochal moment of my lifetime, and one of those rare instances during which I immediately knew just how significant it would become. I never developed a personal affinity for Riley like that which I would later enjoy with Jeff Van Gundy, but I was also always so happy that the Knicks had a smart, aggressive, tactically savvy coach who got so much out of the team. I was even proud that the Knicks were playing a unique, though ugly, brand of ball. When Riley left for Miami, he spent all of the positive capital he had accrued while in New York. I hate that motherfucker.
So you can imagine my horror last night as Riley's decade-long experiment in Miami proved to be ultimately more successful than his tenure in New York. When we had Riles, we were up 3-2 in the Finals, also, and we all know what John Starks did with that. Today is torture.
I think we can all agree that Dwyane Wade is, in fact, the sublime movement that many have portended for the past two years. It helps when the referees don't let anyone look at you, let alone touch you, in the fourth quarter, but that shouldn't overshadow that Wade is a shot maker and the most relentlessly aggressive player in the Association. Not just aggressive going to the hoop, but aggressive for the full 94 feet--poking away loose dribbles, blocking shots from the weak side, driving toward and suddenly away from the hoop to draw defenders and set up assists. He attacks from all points for every minute that he's on the floor. It's wonderful to behold.
Other quick thoughts: - The Heat still doesn't strike me as the better team than the Mavericks or the Pistons. It has Wade, and that's that.
- Dirk, who played reasonably well but shot poorly, is not in the Wade/James category. Notions that he was the best in the league seem silly. I love me some Dirk, but let's be honest.
- I can't say that I'm happy for Alonzo Mourning. Not with the obnoxious, demonstrative freak-outs after every play.
- Jerry Stackhouse is so unfairly undervalued. And he's a good guy. I really wanted him to win a ring. In fact, I think that the Pistons should have made one for him a few years ago. He is the player who got Detroit going in the right direction.
I'm gonna be honest about something because no relationship can remain healthy without trust, and I love you, the readers: I get a lot of emails from record imprints you've never heard of and marketing firms you've never heard of with links to songs that you probably won't like. This isn't anyone's fault--the people who send out the emails are good people who are just doing their jobs. Lots of them will write back to you if you reply with questions or witticisms (and you know that your boy's got those for days. I mean, isn't that evident from the superlative writing on the Bangin'?). They don't make the music. Nor do they make the decisions about which artists are going to make the music and get promoted. Most of them don't play "the game" and are pretty honest about what they're doing and the products they're pushing.
Sometimes I get especially good emails with music that makes a person want to listen more than once. That happened today, so watch the Spec Boogie video above and know that I'm looking out for everyone since I'm one magnanimous motherfucker. Kind of a fresh video, no? Very New York. Maybe a little too New York; a little too "inside," as my man Bobby Goulet would say.
- Peep game: World Soccer Blogger. Your boy MJ is quite the wordsmith, quite the sports fan, and quite the humorist. Dude us just starting, so give him a minute to figure out this whole "blogging" thing and find his voice. You will not be disappointed.
- Don't forget about the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, poppin' off this Saturday. The event is free-ninety-nine, BUT YOU MUST HAVE A TICKET. Don't think that your procrastinating ass is just gonna walk up and get in; this is not like meeting Borat's sister. Peep the official word:
"As we countdown to the spectacular event known as the Brooklyn Hip Hop Festival, your good friends from the Brooklyn Bodega wanted to send out a last minute reminder to everyone on the procedure for registering and picking up tickets because we would hate for anyone to miss this dope event! Even though the Brooklyn Hip Hop Festival is a free event, you MUST HAVE A TICKET TO ENTER! Once you register at www.brooklynbodega.com you should be on the lookout for an email from us explaining when and where you can pick up your ticket. We are releasing tickets in rounds, and there is LIMITED SPACE in the Festival Grounds, so just keep checking your inbox. If you receive an email with pickup information, you’ll only have a limited amount of time to pick up your tickets so get there as soon as you can. We’re taking special consideration for you out-of-towners, and we’ll be contacting you as well with ticket pick-up information. This information is very important, because you must have a physical ticket to enter the festival. Registering is just the first step. Thanks for working with us as the BHF grows in leaps and bounds - we know you want to be there as much as we do on June 24! Oh yeah, check those Emails! One!"
Citing a rapper's improvement seems like the critic's "he speaks so well," doesn't it? (NB: Please note that this is getting posted so late because The Jesus and D'Brickashawn were in town over the weekend, and I got worn out from the usual array of late nights and bizarre circumstances. And also know this: if you're a girl and you're cute and you're sarcastic, do NOT wait until we've been flirting for 2 hours--grabbing my shirt, palming my back, pulling me over when any other dude steps to you, parlez vous francais, mi amor, merci, oui oui, bon bonsand all that good stuff--to tell me that you have a boyfriend with whom you've been beefing a lot lately. That doesn't get anybody anywhere.)
- Lil' Wayne, "They Still Like Me" You know how some hip-hop critics complain that too many hip-hop fans moan and groan about the mid-90s and how shitty hip-hop is now? Theoretically, the functionally anachronistic dissidents wrongly and myopically carry on about a bygone era, dwelling in the past to the extent that they neglect the present, unfairly limiting the genre as they glorify the pedantic (Little Brother often gets cited in this slot) and sleep on the revelatory. Well guess what? Too many of these fucking critics either: secretly come from New Orleans; started listening to rap music in 1998; aspire to nothing more than to vicariously live out romanticized notions of drug dealing and weapons possession; have lost touch with reality; get sauced WAY too hard, evidenced by the frequent and, frankly, galling assertion that Lil' Wayne is a great rapper. If you read music websites and magazines and blogs enough, you see this vulgar absurdity packaged as esoteric, ennui-laden insight far too frequently.
The latest maddeningly laughable attempt to elevate Lil' Wayne comes from Evan McGarvey of Stylus Magazine (HT: Ian), who actually wrote (and which I emphasized):
"The album is the second in a mix-tape series with the ever-evolving, Oedipal djinn Lil’ Wayne. His Cash Money shtick behind him, Wayne has gone though a tight cycle of mutation recently—the dying CM fires on 2002’s 500 Degreez, cackling, witty, 8-bit bloodbaths on 2004’s Tha Carter, and the best of the bunch, last year’s feral, image-driven Tha Carter II—that’s made his increasing demands for a place at the table with Jay-Z, Marshall Mathers-era Eminem, Ghostface, and Mos Def seem cautiously reasonable."
I. Shit. You. Not. That's the future of music journalism in this country (and yes, you're right--we're effed.) Even worse, McGarvey goes to (went to?) the University of Michigan, and this bullshit claim now ascends to the Pantheon of All-Time Embarrassing Michigan Moments, alongside Ann Coulter's graduation from the Law School, the University scheduling some Xerox repairman as a graduation speaker, any football game in which Michigan has a narrow lead in the fourth quarter with Lloyd Carr in command, and Ed Martin's involvement with the basketball program. Kudos, then, to Evan. It's a rare moment when one man can author a timeless legacy of stupidity and douche-baggery that recasts rich University lore.
What we're always told by Lil' Wayne's small but vocal legion of misguided fans (they all seem to be writers who probably have secret meetings at which they make group decisions about how to ruin taste--can't wait for that new Jeezy, huh guys?) is that to hate on Wayne is to foolishly disregard the marked improvement he's made as an MC since he first appeared in the late 90s with Cash Money. That might be the stupidest fucking argument I've ever heard given the context. Think about it this way: The Knicks won 23 games this season. If they win 30 next year and 38 the year after that, they will have gone through a "tight cycle of mutation," leaving behind the cackling bloodbath of ineptitude that was 2005-2006 and channeling their feral basketball tenacity and grandiloquence-driven whateverness to command a seat at the table with...the Orlando Magic and Boston Celtics and the Golden State Warriors. Going from 23 wins to 38 doesn't make the Knicks championship contenders; it makes them decent at best. And if anything, you'd like to think that as they played more, they'd naturally get better: repetition breeds mastery and immersion in the field would help the players add new skills thanks to experience and wisdom. Why are we celebrating mediocrity and giving out verbal hand jobs as though they were party favors?
Just listen to the song above. "Test me when I'm chillin' and I kill you from my patio"? Oh yeah, tell Rakim and Kane and all them to slide down a seat so that Lil' Wayne can get situated. That sounds like the kind of rhyme that a teenager--this ABOMINATION of a human--would write while trailing his parents through a Home Depot.
Generally, it's great to be a Wolverine. Maybe not today. And if you've come here to praise Lil' Wayne, buy some real rap records and get back to me.
- Little Brother ft. Legacy, "The Olio" (Prod. by 9th Wonder) Legacy is grimy. It doesn't matter what he's rhyming over: he just sounds tough and gritty and angry. Maybe not angry in a physically menacing fashion, but rather in that threatening intelligent fashion--he doesn't want to slow down to fully explain how badly you've pissed him off, and he's just gonna come at you with a torrent of informed thought. Phonte, who has yet to record a wasted verse, doesn't fully marshal the totality of his wit and humor, but he's reliably solid. Pooh, who tends to sound better over the harder beats, does, in fact, "attack the rap." His flow really matches up well with the 9th Wonder soundscape. And 9th, for his part, puts together a serious, moving collection of strings that possesses more energy than some of the blander Minstrel Show beats. Also, the adlibs on the track make me think it was originally intended for Minstrel Show. I wish it had made the record; it would have lent it some sonic diversity.
- Camp Lo, "Milky Lowa" (Prod. by 9th Wonder) Does it even matter what they rhyme over? The way that they play with words and sounds; the invocation of that decadent, distorted imagery; those memorable voices--it's all just Camp Lo. No one could possibly care that 9th Wonder made this track. Right?
- Papoose, "Play Ya Cards Right" At the risk of getting told to go back to Atlanta and cut my dreadlocks or whatever the fuck Kay Slay threatens people with when he's getting ignorant, I want to just put this out there: Papoose is getting worse and worse by the minute. When he first came out, he was really impressive: he was flipping metaphors, dropping assonance bombs, carving out some sort of oddly credible niche as this gully philosopher type who was street but was also gonna treat his woman like he'd want a man to treat his daughter. It was all somewhere between intriguing and genuinely exciting. And he rhymed with such irrepressible fury, a true verbal assault. But then his mixtapes got weirder and increasingly boring; his stage show was sloppy and underwhelming; and his flow emerged as a novelty since he can't ride a beat, he just does his cyborg rapper thing. When he finally got put on for real--that track he does with Busta, "Get Right"--he trotted some of the lamest verses in his catalogue. "Even the sun gotta go down so we can see the moon shine"? "These boys can't mess with me on my worst day/So how they gonna mess with me on my birthday"? "I'm the son of song"? Excuse me? Lame, lame, lame. Oh, and let's not forget, "Now I got the club on me like a steering wheel." That still makes me cringe.
Pap's latest mixtape, Boyz in the Hood, is loaded with these tracks on which he just jacks some famous beat and gets all Papoose over them. Sadly, this is the song on which he comes closest to matching up his cadence and delivery with the music. On another one, "Russian Roulette," he steals Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana" and it sets the genre back about twenty years. It is literally a miscarriage of music.
- Nashawn, "Write Your Name" The latest Nas weed-carrying relative destined for failure and widely held contempt, Nashawn's track "Write Your Name" is emblematic of his entire record, Napalm. It might have a few good ideas on it, but it's so generic and executed so poorly that you just want it to end.
- MC Travel (a.k.a. Jamie Radford), "Dumb Steps" If you'll recall, MC Travel is an Athens, GA music legend, an independent voice in the hip-hop community who crafts these electronic soundscapes that wouldn't strike you as especially hip-hop were it not for his rhyming over them and the southern-rap name checking. But if Mobb Deep can get away with not rhyming at all and Kanye West can rap over pop songs, who are we to tell Travel that he's mischaracterized his music? I mean, does De La's "Me, Myself, and I" sound anything like Rick Ross's "Hustlin'"?
On his debut album, appropriately titled Athens, Travel uses all 12 tracks to showcase a singular vision for hip-hop that is less about traditional boom-bap formulas or emulation of contemporary popular styles and more about the admirable pursuit of a unique, eclectic sound. Blending acoustic guitars, drum patterns, haunting background vocals, and a host of synthesizer chords, Travel constructs a multipart musical collage that smacks of varied influences, from house to hip-hop to rock to that ambient shit that Enya makes.
And as a rapper, Travel is an earnest fellow who sounds relieved to have found both an outlet and an audience for his relatable stories and endearing celebration of everyday life--break ups, going to college, quitting a job. For whatever reasons, Travel is one of those MCs who sounds like he's yelling a little too much when he rhymes: though not fully nasal, his voice lacks the lucid bass that some other rappers command. This gives many of his songs a tinge of manic urgency that enhances the emotional appeal of the music but also makes the rhyming a little tedious at times. Some of this also owes to the shitty microphones with which struggling musicians must work when they record their own shit.
Athens will not be for everyone, and it sadly does not contain the coke raps that characterize the great hip-hop of this age (I don't think there are many images on this record that the Hughes Brothers could put into a movie, and as many internets critics will tell you, that's what you need for great rap). But it is a different, engaging style of hip-hop that is brave, and therefore rewarding for listeners. It's refreshing to listen to an album that is so transparent and proud of this honesty.
- Gucci Mane, "745" I know that you were worried, but stop that fretting, you nattering nabobs of negativity: Gucci Mane is back! And better yet, he's "the ghetto trophy"; he's rich; he doesn't smell pussy, he just smells Jeezy; he loves beef and that's why he's looking for Shawn Carter at the 40/40 club; and the guy must have gone to Prodigy's Academy for MCs Who Don't Rhyme Good, rhyming "beef" with "streets" and "n***a" with "mirror." Thank God he's out of jail.
- Tiffany Affair ft. Jody Breeze "Start a Fire" (Stream) As far as those generic R&B/rap collabos with a tweaked version of a known beat go, this one's not bad. An easy listen on a Saturday night.
The best golfer to have never won a major U.S. Open Glasses for seeing from distance: $150
27" television: $300
Digital cable: $100
Digital video recorder: $8
Rewinding the coverage over and over again so that you can see Phil Mickelson fall apart on the 72nd hole of the U.S. Open, blowing any chance to potentially complete a Tiger Slam and get that much closer to a career grand slam: Priceless
There are some things that money can't buy, for everything else, there's MasterCard.
Now rocking with the best? Before you get too worked up about the title or the contents of this post, I just want to turn the beat off and remind you of a few things:
1) I don't give a shit if you disagree. I'd love to hear why I'm wrong, but you're not gonna get me to listen to Automatic for the People or some shitty Tom Petty record. This is pretty much non-negotiable. And don't even think about mentioning Aerosmith, or I will track you down using your IP address and have you arrested for treason or some shit. Not scared? Well remember: ever since 9/11, that's the kind of charge that even a project chick or a hot girl might not take. Woadie!
2) I have an odd working knowledge of rock and roll. Thanks to a mother who went to Woodstock and knows way too many Beatles and Rolling Stones songs; a father who can pick out 60s and 70s hits of all genres after just one or two notes; summers spent in music captivity while at sleep-away camp, forced to endure an endless procession of Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, and Ween with the occasional Toad the Wet Sprocket or Rusted Root song thrown in; collegefriendsobsessed with various forms of rock, from Journey to Wilco to Oasis; a misguided pre-teen dalliance into the pop-rock of Jesus Jones and EMF; a lifetime of mostly fruitless searching for friends as interested in hip-hop as I am; and a general interest in music that has (in some cases sadly) made me the owner of records including Gord's Gold, Harlem World's The Movement, and the Tremeloes' greatest hits, I am fairly conversant in rock-music basics. But I also have gaping holes in my knowledge and experience that some music zealots would consider sacrilegious. For instance, I haven't listened to records by Cream, Black Sabbath, or the Sex Pistols. I like the Ramones but hate the Clash. I find the Grateful Dead to be useless. The Pixies, Fugazi, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds--none of them have meaning for me. Dave Matthews Band has always been dead to me. Same with the Gin Blossoms and those soft-rock 90's groups. And so forth.
3) Most popular rock and roll bores me. I was never into Guns n' Roses or Metallica, even when their videos were unavoidable on MTV. Not since the 80s, when hair metal and weird shit like Heart's "These Dreams" were poppin' off, has there been a consistent stream of rock and roll that I can sit down and enjoy without doing anything else.
4) Even though you like singing their songs for karaoke, Journey blows.
5) I owned Slippery When Wet on vinyl and was really into it, but drunken white people in bars across this country have forever ruined Bon Jovi and Def Leppard and arena-rock acts of that vintage thanks to jukebox malaise and awkward late-night screaming. Pick some new songs to lose your shit to at 3 AM, OK?!
Anyway, back to business: A few weeks ago, some friends and I saw Pearl Jam in concert twice, the shows serving as bookends for a bachelor-party weekend that took us on an America Undercover-like trip to Atlantic City and the dark places of the world (where there are fouler things than orcs).
To be honest, I wasn't terribly excited, initially, about the prospect of driving out to New Jersey to see Pearl Jam. It just seemed like a chore, there was other stuff coming up for which I was harboring greater anticipation, and I just wasn't feeling it. As noted above, I became a top-tier Pearl Jam fan almost accidentally, and some of the charm had been wearing off recently as listening to rock music as an end in and of itself became even less palatable than usual.
Before I proceed: if you were to rank Pearl Jam fans, I think I'd score an 8 on a ten-point scale, enumerated as follows:
1) Owns Ten. Pretty much anyone who doesn't explicitly hate the band.
2) Owns Ten, Vs., and Vitalogy; cares not for anything Pearl Jam related since then. This is Bill Simmons.
3) Owns the first three albums and vaguely remembers everything since then; open to the idea that the band fell off beginning with No Code. Probably doesn't think much for him- or herself, but follows music generally. (This might actually be Simmons, what with the musical-taste group-think.)
4) Owns all the albums; relishes the first three; occasionally listens to the second four; bought the latest record, Pearl Jam. Would sing along to "Daughter," "Betterman," and "Alive" in concert but isn't losing sleep over ticket availability. A reformed grunge enthusiast who has moved on to other nuanced taste.
5) Owns every studio album and Live on Two Legs; goes to see Pearl Jam when they come to town. A nostalgic fan who maintains an interest but isn't putting in any extra effort.
6) Owns every studio album and multiple concert bootlegs; goes to see Pearl Jam when they come to town. An active fan who loves the band but maintains some perspective.
7) Owns every studio album; has at least one bootleg from each tour; likely contributed to the demise of Napster by downloading most live-show rarities (like Eddie Vedder's respective performances with Neil Finn and Pete Townshend) but didn't care that so many were mislabeled; dreams of traveling for a concert; belongs to the Ten Club fan club because it seems cool and he or she heard it was the right thing to do; knows that Pearl Jam covers some songs but doesn't always care about which ones. There are more of these people than you think.
8) Owns every studio album; collects bootlegs so that he or she has every song ever performed; likely contributed to the demise of Napster by downloading all live-show rarities (like Eddie Vedder's respective performances with Neil Finn and Pete Townshend) but eventually gave up trying to keep up; will travel within reason for concerts; belongs to the Ten Club fan club because membership has its privileges (like a free Christmas single and priority concert seating); will seek out originals after he or she hears Pearl Jam cover a song. This is me.
9) Owns every studio album; collects bootlegs so that he or she has every song ever performed; likely contributed to the demise of Napster by downloading all live-show rarities (like Eddie Vedder's respective performances with Neil Finn and Pete Townshend) and will never stop; will travel up to three or four hours for concerts; belongs to the Ten Club because it's the right thing to do; listens to most of what Eddie Vedder listens to. Huge Pearl Jam fans who may or may not care that the band is likely only still relevant to its core audience.
10) Owns every studio album; collects bootlegs so that he or she has every song ever performed; likely contributed to the demise of Napster by downloading all live-show rarities (like Eddie Vedder's respective performances with Neil Finn and Pete Townshend) and now uses fan sites for the officially sanctioned bootleg recordings of new songs added to the catalogue; will travel hundreds (and maybe even thousands) of miles for concerts; belongs to the Ten Club fan club because that's a part of his or her identity; will wait in lines at record stores to win free tickets or memorabilia; has to get a shirt from every tour; cancels all other plans that may conflict with a Pearl Jam function; reads (and posts on?) the message boards for esoteric gossip and concert set lists as they're posted; listens to everything that Eddie Vedder listens to. The true devotees; I am friends with at least two of them.
11) Travels with the band; may be named Vedder, Gossard, Ament, McCready, or Cameron. This one goes to eleven.
If you read this site on the regular, you're likely wondering, "How did you become an 8 in the first place?" Good question. The answer is simple: Camp. Those who have been likely understand what I mean. When you go to summer camp, everything is insanely intense. You eat, sleep, work, and play () with your friends for all of the 24 hours every day during a two-month time period. It's why everyone who's been to camp has all those obnoxious hang-ups about camp friends and camp rituals. While we were out there among the pine trees, we were not only having fun, but we were convinced that it was the most important time of our lives. This quickly builds, among other things, strong bonds and deeply felt nostalgia, even if the latter is latent, or subconscious, and isn't expressed until the day that camp ends and you have to get on the bus, leaving your friends and memories and summertime identity and summertime carelessness (and damp towels) behind. Needless to say, once you've experienced this phenomenon, say during and after your first summer, you quickly come to savor your subsequent time at the camp and you attach greater to significance to much of what goes on there.
So it was that for years, after comfortably existing as a 1 mostly because one day I was ten-years-old, had just gotten a CD player, wasn't yet allowed to buy CDs with explicit lyrics, and wanted something to play on this new device, I gradually grew into an 8 after countless Saturday-night campfires featuring songs like "Elderly Woman" and car trips scored by what used to be rare covers, like Mother Love Bone's "Crown of Thorns" (a great fucking song). The culmination of my emergent Pearl Jam adoration came during my junior year of college, a time when I was sonning the internets by using Napster to get any and every song that popped into my head. Much like the cumulative amount of world information that someone from the first or second century could have learned, there were a finite number of songs in the Pearl Jam universe, and I owned every single one of them in some form. I had come to appreciate the harder stuff, like "Animal"; the softer stuff, like the incomparable "Footsteps"; and every in between, from "Wash" of the early years to more experimental later works like "Soon Forget."
But my enthusiasm for PJ had been waning recently, first underwhelmed by Riot Act, later disappointed by a few mediocre concerts, and most recently preoccupied with other music. That changed a few weeks ago, though, because Pearl Jam was great in concert.
A Pearl Jam show is always an enterprise in managing expectations for fans who exist in the upper echelons of fandom. The band is famously indulgent of its audience, trotting out rarities and breaking curfew rules, so at literally any show, anything can happen. You might get 45 songs; you might hear something that hasn't been played in a decade; you might witness a song never before played. You never know what to expect (well, aside from them ending with boring-ass "Yellow Ledbetter" because they ALWAYS END WITH IT and it's the single greatest problem for the band) save for something special.
The rumors I had heard--and by rumors, I mean the accounts provided by friends who had seen earlier shows from this most recent tour--were that the band was back to rocking out, playing rarities, and having a great time after a mildly stale few years during which every show was implicitly an anti-war, anti-Bush demonstration. I won't ever argue with those politics, but they didn't exactly make for the most enthralling concerts; you can only hear the same catalogue of protest songs so many times before wondering if the band has anything else to say.
Luckily, this was true. On both nights, Pearl Jam ditched "Bushleaguer" and forsook "Fortunate Son" to instead trot out...well, everything. The catalyst for the return to form was their really-good-though-not-spectacular, stylistically varied new eponymous record. Thank god for it. While showcasing the new album and playing all of it (some songs twice) over the course of twonights, PJ also ran through underrated album tracks ("Hail Hail"), unfairly neglected quasi-classics ("Porch"), slept-on gems ("Dissident"), canonical material ("State of Love and Trust"), and, of course, a slew of beloved rarities and mega-hits that, literally, can individually make entire concerts worthwhile ("Footsteps," "Hard to Imagine").
Aside from the content, the presentation also distinguished these shows and reminded me and everyone else why Pearl Jam can credibly claim to be among the finest live acts in the world, perhaps of all time. From Mike McCready's one-handed, over-the-head guitar solos; to Stone Gossard doing one of those endearing, mildly awkward, painfully self-conscious renditions of one of the few songs he actually sings ("Don't Give Me No Lip"); to these surprisingly enhancing laser lights about which I was initially skeptical and ready to make jokes; to Eddie Vedder drinking entire bottles of wine while on stage (a signature) and then twisting an ankle as he stumbled around during the second encore, falling everywhere while amazingly never missing a beat, ruining a lyric, or allowing his singing to slip, Pearl Jam was in fine form. More than any other live act I've ever seen, Pearl Jam seems to really understand what its audience wants, and it spend the hours that it's on stage trying to meet these demands through funny banter, impressive if simple theatrics, and, of course, a usually great set list. I mean, the band even performed "Leash," a track that fans had been craving and Pearl Jam had been scared to play for years because it makes people go so completely insane.
On the night of the second show, I stood around the parking lot of the Meadowlands barbecuing after the concert. As I stood there with the friends--the camp friends--who had foisted this interest in Pearl Jam upon me in the first place, I could sense the two-bit nostalgia that one might have expected. But unlike some empty, desperate attempt to grasp onto the past and vainly cling to it as it slipped away like a fistful of sand, this was different. This was better; this was substantial. We weren't there celebrating a memory, or celebrating a facsimile, or celebrating the no-longer attainable. We were instead celebrating the very real, very present revival of what is inarguably the greatest American rock band of all time. And the nostalgia was not the sad sentimentality that comes with the end of things. It was, rather, the happy realization that we hadn't been wrong for all those summers on Cape Cod. Pearl Jam still rocked.
All the way live/From the...718. As Funkmaster Flex might say-scream: Yeah, that's right! It's going down! Next Saturday! June 24th! The Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival will be live and the place to be! Don't miss exclusive performances by Big Daddy Kane, Lupe Fiasco, Rhymefest, Sleepy Brown, special guests, and more! Don't forget, admissions is free! There will be food! Drinks! Lugz driving shoes! And, of course, hip-hop!
Greatest owner of all time? - Yeah, so at this point, if you're not down with Mark Cuban, you're a jerk. Sure, he's a self-promoter and he's made some questionable choices in the past. But he's smart; he works hard; he cares about the right things; and he's creative.
- No single group of people is more homophobic than the hip-hop community, and no hip-hopper is more homophobic than Busta Rhymes. I suppose I should be lauding the dude for flexing some knowledge of history, but you know that he mostly knows this because it has to do with homosexuality. I'd be much more inclined to give Busta the benefit of the doubt had he not been a completely ignorant-ass asshole in that hip-hop documentary I caught last month.
So I got all bent out of shape in a good way yesterday when I received a YouTube link to the trailer for the Borat movie coming out in the Fall. But then the video got removed from YouTube and I cried. Wept, in fact. Uncontrollably. Don't know why? Look at the video above for some idea.
The good news, though, is that the trailer was posted (in a shitty smaller format) somewhere else, and it can be found here. This movie will likely ascend to cinematic heights that only a handful of others--Boyz in the Hood, Scarface, Newsies, Goonies, Anchorman, Shawshank Redemption, and the animated version of The Hobbit--ever have before.
- Masta Killa ft. Raekwon and Ghostface Killah, "It's What It Is" Let it be said right now: While non-snitching studio thug Busta Rhymes engages in fugazi theatrics about the succession of the New York rap monarchy and the Breihans of this world ruin hip-hop by glorifying stupidity, the Wu-Tang HOLD DOWN NEW YORK like no one else. If the new Masta Killa joint and the new Cuban Linx are even just good, that will be six strong efforts from the Wu in the last three years. And the new Method Man, so far, seems like 2/3 of it will be solid, judging by the ridiculous "Nah'Mean" beat, the introspective (though emo-rap-ish) duet with Lauryn Hill, and that bogus Dr. Dre beat for "Take the Heat." As Ol' Dirty once exclaimed, "Wu-Tang is forever, motherfuckers!"
Memorandum To: Women, ages 25-40 From: Men, ages 25-40 Re: The nagging
Please don't do it next July. We will not be paying attention, anyway, because there will be a Transformers movie to see. Just internalize this now, prepare accordingly, and deal with it, OK? There is going to be a lot going on, some of it seemingly silly, immature, and/or beyond comprehension. In fact, there will be more than meets the eye, if you will. But what can we say? This Transformers stuff is important. So let us have this moment. Christ, you can share it with us if you want: we'll buy you popcorn if you come with us, but NO QUESTIONS during the movie. We'll need to be focusing on important matters, like the availability of energon. The live-action Transformers movie has a website. And already, they're fucking the shit up. Read about all the ways here.
Music for a Monday: Unintended Consequences Edition
Obviously comes from the Rick Ross school of rhyming. Jay-Z is probably this guy's biggest fan. I am all for the Dallas Mavericks succeeding because:
- their owner is the gulliest in the NBA; - their best player has never voted, refuses to use the internets, and sings David Hasselhoff songs to himself at the free throw line in order to relax; - I've always liked Jerry Stackhouse and feel as though he has admirably transformed himself from a ball hog with an inconsistent jumper into a guy who might still have an undeserved reputation as a malignant narcissist (and he was arguably the single player most responsible for what became the Detroit Pistons renaissance); - DeSagana Diop was awesome when his Oak Hill team was featured on ESPN's The Season or The Life or whichever other poorly made, sporadically aired, clearly derivative reality show served as the stage for his oddly refreshing brand of stupidity; - Keith Van Horn has successfully pulled off the hard-to-define-but-always-perceptible career move whereby a highly touted player who is ultimately deemed to be overrated and in possession of too many flaws (in Keith case, he's soft. Put another way, he is one of the worst fourth-quarter players I can ever remember, as he'd kill teams on the boards and from behind the arc for 36 minutes before getting weak and going cold) inexplicably hangs around for so long that you somehow start feeling sorry for him and almost start to like him when he appears on some random team ten years later, a palpably chastened, partially defeated man; - they seem to have pioneered the whole let's-cram-60-guys-behind-the-bench routine, the basketball analog of a Papoose concert; - Pat Riley, despite seeming like a decent, caring, sensible man during the end credits of Glory Road, will forever be dead to me after he punked the Knicks, fled for Miami, and unleashed the obnoxiously demonstrative, never-as-good-as-they-said-he-was Alonzo Mourning on the world; - Miami dispatched the falling-apart, totally unhappy Pistons, and you know I'm mad at that; - nothing will be better than Cuban getting up on stage with David Stern to accept the Larry O'Brien trophy.
All of those and a variety of others are good reasons to be rooting for the Mavericks in the NBA finals, as I am. Sadly, though, Dallas's surge toward the Finals--and the general improvement we've witnessed for the better part of a decade since Cuban took over--has not gone unnoticed in hip-hop precincts. Now that the Mavericks are on the cusp of historic triumph, we are all treated to complete pieces of shit like this:
- Big Tuck, "Welcome to Dallas" This song isn't even funny in a "wow, this is so fucking horrible" kind of way. It's just bad. Period.
- Ice Cube, "Stop Snitchin'" To the growing list of once cherished rappers who must now stop rapping immediately, we must sadly add Ice Cube. His new album is mind blowingly horrible, and this song might be the worst of the year. Think about that. *Shakes his head* Damn...
- Daz Dillinger ft. Kurupt, "Daz Thang" Jermaine Dupri has the production credit for this track, but that strikes me as mildly dishonest since literally any hip-hop fan could have made this beat since it's a damn near foundational sample, courtesy of Tyrone Thomas and the Whole Darn Family. Just ask EPMD. Or Kurtis Blow. Or Mad Lion. Or Jay-Z. Or.... Daz and Kurupt rap about what it is that they rap about: DPG's, the West, how they rhyme, smoking drugs, guns. There is, literally, nothing that is memorable about this song except for the beat, and that's because you already know it. A ringing endorsement, huh?
- Chaundon, "Let's Go" I think that of any so-called underground rapper right now, Chaundon is my favorite. He spits funny punch lines that make you want to listen to them over and over, and he comes across on the mic as very likable. He's funny and confident without being an asshole, and he's probably a better rapper than most of the dudes you hear on the radio. This track comes from some random-ass mixtape, but I wanted to throw it up because I spend way too much time worrying about Papoose to not be promoting a rapper who I unconditionally support.
- Rampage, "No Love in the Room" - Little Brother ft. Legacy and Chaundon, "Boondock Saints" A Better Than Yours throwback: Who uses this beat better? I can't imagine that my pick is hard to figure out. The Rampage joint is from some new mixtape of his, Have You Seen? I never understood why Rampage didn't have a better career. As I listen to him now, he seems like a little grimier, little less witty, New York version of Rhymefest, but that might just be because their voices sound similar to me. I don't know if that means anything.
The tracks above are probably my favorite from what is overall a bland record that carries with it all the predictable elements one might expect to hear. Made by hip-hop fans who obviously grew up listening to the music that most of us consider to be good if not canonical--everything from Tribe to Pharcyde to the Roots to Jurassic 5 before they fell the fuck off--Sparrows is simultaneously a decent-at-best homage to the Procussions' musical influences and a clumsy attempt to carve out a niche somewhere in the "progressive" hip-hop universe. This album is loaded with all of the hallmarks one would get from rappers who would gladly spend a half hour telling you how commercialism has ruined hip-hop and how this album was an effort to take it back to "the essence" or "the roots" or whatever else they'd want to say: active soundscapes loaded with instrumentation and chopped-up shit; soft drums of the 9th Wonder variety; dense, quasi-scientific flows; Talib Kweli.
I can't regularly indict the coke rap of the South and the vacuous gangsterism of the North and then fail to acknowledge the admirable intentions that surely informed Sparrows. The Procussions deserve credit for trying to make relatable, real music, opting against the empty, nihilistic fantasies and generally grating production that gets Tom Breihan's underwear soiled as he dreams of the alien street life that he and other critics of his ilk have shamefully glorified. This album's problems are in execution, not motivation, production style, or lyrical substance. Really, at the end of the day, the biggest problem is that the record is a transparent attempt to create something that most of us have heard before, and that feels insincere, self-conscious, and amateurish. This is a demo that you might hear, smile about, and then conclude that these dudes need to hone their craft some more. And they really, really need to dump the MC with the annoying voice that sounds like a lame impersonation of the Beastie Boys or Zach de la Rocha or both.
- Yo Gotti ft. La Chat, "Shawty Violating (Wup That Hoe)" First of all, bow down when you're in the presence of the unique greatness that goes by the name "La Chat." Second of all, if you like generic southern rap music, then this is for you. The Casio drums, the cheesy synth chords, the stupid lyrics, the album art with diamond-encrusted letters--it's all here. Best of all, the song names and guest artists on this record might, collectively, represent the all-time greatest collection of misspelled, phonetically constructed words. I know that this practice is supposed to be some quaint southern ritual that the mainstream has gradually embraced and has led to 50-year-old suburban parents accepting things like "Back That Azz Up" as English, but Yo Gotti's Back 2 Da Basics admirably raises (lowers? raises? lowers? I can't tell) the bar. Witness: the song above; "U a Gangsta Rite?"; "Spend It Cuz U Got It (ft. AllStar)"; "That's What They Made It Foe"; "Shawty (ft. D'Nero from BlockBurnaz)."
Don't ask. This was the third image result when I sought out "hard living." I'm not gonna front: this blog has fallen off during the last two weeks. Save for a dynamite reappearance by soon-to-be-weekly(?)-collaborator Buckets (the weekend editor?) and a quiz that has exposed my friends and I as American jerk-offs, Straight Bangin' has blown. But lest you get it twisted, the dereliction of duty has been a direct result of the hard living in which I've engaged for roughly two weeks. Traveling, drinking, going to New Jersey twice to see Pearl Jam, being thoroughly disappointed by X3, using Dip Set lines in everyday conversation while interrogating prostitutes in Atlantic City ("I've got an A-rab hittin' me with coke")--it's been a lot. But this week, I'll get myself and this site healthy.
In the meantime, let's peep some music, hold hands and pray read/pontificate together: Music for a Monday - Brenton Wood, "Gimme Little Sign" Thanks to Jay Dilla for this one.
- Busta Rhymes ft. Nas, "Don't Get Carried Away" I don't like the 50 Cent-style hook or the cluttered choral "enhancements." And honestly, I was watching the video for "Just Another Case of the P.T.A." over the weekend and suddenly can't really take this thugged-out shit from Busta very seriously. That said, Dre produced this (I think), so you should probably listen to it, although it's really not his finest moment. There's too much going on--this could be kind of nasty if it didn't have the swelling chorus. I think Dre's been hanging out with the riff-raff he unleashed upon us for too long. I mean, this smacks of a Lloyd Banks album track.
- Large Professor, "Tribe Called Quest" On the "Midnight" (the song, not a nickname for Midnight Marauders) tip, no? Makes you yearn for some real hip-hop, doesn't it? I caught an episode of The Bridge, a video show hosted by Uncle Ralph McDaniels and Tiffani Webb (easily the hottest person with a Ph.D. that I've ever seen), that was featuring Native Tongues music the other night. I couldn't believe how different the hip-hop landscape was. Now, it seems like every song that comes out fits into one of four or five categories. Back then, you had the Jungle Brothers experimenting with house music (and to be fair, it didn't always work); De La making fun of Run-DMC and defining their own jazzy, playful sound; Tribe rapping about sex and trips to Mexico as though they were telling stories to their friends; etc. It just seemed so much more vibrant and calm. Everyone wasn't running around flossing, rapping about their guns, and ice grillin' it while trying to synthesize the next club hit using formulas. I don't mean to be one of those guys, but the contrast between then and now was startling.
- Jim Jones, "We Fly High" In how many cot'damn songs is this dude gonna rap about drinking in a club and then retreating to his car? This is like the soundtrack from a vapid hip-hop sequel to Groundhog Day: Every night our protagonist represses sexual desires for Cam'ron and Juelz Santana while buying drinks at the bar, interacting with women in degrading fashion, and ultimately going to his car. And... - The Pistons are fucking pathetic. Who peaks in January and plays three weeks of playoff basketball as though it were the preseason? Rasheed Wallace has more god-given talent than anyone not named James, Bryant, or Wade and yet he chooses to do...what? Not show up? Chuck up too many threes? Deprive his team of a needed post presence? And if I see Chauncey Billups dribbling away a possession while everyone watches one more time, my head will explode. FUCK! Ben Wallace, hit some free throws; you are paid to play basketball. And Flip, put the training wheels back on that bike of yours. Otherwise, the real coaches will take it and your lunch money. Wait, too late for that...
- If there were any doubt about Jay-Z as CEO of Def Jam, let the remix of Rick Ross's sadly ubiquitous "Hustlin'" end all confusion: the dude sucks at his job. Jeezy and Ross? That's who you're riding with? Anyone who says these guys can rap should have his blog taken away. And that Jay-Z verse is an affront to anything he ever made before he was "retired."
- Schembechler Hall is finna take things to a ho' 'nother level. Don't sleep.
- Lostpedia - Do people know about this? I could spend about a week reading everything about Lost on Wikipedia.
- Ambidextrous Sports Illustrated gives simultaneous hand jobs to Charlie Weis and Pete Carroll. See for yourself, and I promise that the picture is safe for work. Greatest play of all time?!?!?!?!?!? When did "all time" start? Last October?
When you grow up without rules that govern television watching, you merrily recall this kind of shit. The answer key for the London trip quiz (answers in bold):
1) You're going to London and your plane is delayed for an hour in the airport. You and your friend should: A) Read The New Yorker B) Watch the Pistons feebly attempt to pretend as though they still deserve to be in the playoffs C) Order too many drinks (paid for by others), get drunk, and lie to some girls from Michigan, telling them that you're from Holland, MI; went to Holland Christian for high school; and love tulips D) All of the above E) B and C 2) You're walking along the Thames and arrive at the Tate Modern. You smell something best described as "sticky" and "icky." You see a man in the bushes with a two-year-old. You conclude that: A) He is the best father ever B) He is the worst father ever C) His glaucoma must get really bad when he has to watch his son D) He has already helped to make your trip somewhat ridiculous--the stated top priority for the experience--and you've only been in England for a few hours
3a) You are visiting an American friend stationed abroad and he is briefing you about his British friends and coworkers. He mentions that he is intrigued by one woman, 25, and would perhaps be interested in her were she not: A) Already married B) Estranged from her husband C) Sleeping with another coworker D) Impossibly elusive E) All of the above 3b) Your immediate reaction upon hearing all of this information is: A) Yes, drama will surely ensue, and that's what I came for! B) No, I like it when things aren't complicated. Please pass the tea. 4) You and your friends plan to check out the dog races in Wimbledon before meeting up with the drama-causing coworker. Your tickets cost the equivalent of $4 and admission includes two beers and two $4 bets. You will not be surprised to see: A) A baby strapped into an obedience harness B) A haircut that can be best described as "completely fucking disgusting" C) A 7-to-1 dog named "Oklahoma Pat" win the first race of the night and net roughly $28 for bettors like you, who chose it to win because you secretly kinda like Bob Stoops D) Evidence that America isn't that bad E) All of the above
5) It's time to hang out with the infidelitous coworker about whom you have been briefed. What will you do? A) Amiably engage her in innocent banter. B) Tell her that you've heard nice things about her and ask her some tame, facetious questions about your mutual friend meant to elicit a few laughs. C) Do the whole annoying-American thing and make a number of insipid comparisons between American and British cultures. D) Ask ostensibly tame questions like "Do you live alone?" hoping that the answers will confirm the information you previously received and open up the scandalous topics for further conversation. 6) While dancing with a British woman in a club that you call "Club Opus Dei" because you can't remember the real name, which Ghostface line will you invoke most commonly while charming said British bird with a fully developed American knowledge of hip-hop? A) "I'm a lot like Ghostface Killah--no girl can freak me; I'm just too nasty." B) "You seem to really like this song; I hope that your water doesn't break." C) "I gave you earth lessons. I came to you as a blessin'." D) "Oh Lord, I told you not to move you dumb broad" E) Under no circumstance are any of these lines appropriate. F) All of the above. 7) If you find yourself suddenly surrounded by a swarm of attractive American girls from the University of Illinois, what is the best way to interact with them? A) Decline an unembarrassed request meant to force you into buying one of them a drink. B) Inexplicably earn the trust of another by singing along to Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." C) Spurn their overtures and instead dance with a separate, soon-to-be-31-year-old who also works with the friend whom you are visiting. D) Forlorn after getting shut down by some foolish Indian girls and a plastic-looking brunette who may or may not have had fake hair, fake breasts, and jaundice, dance aimlessly and hope to avoid getting hit on by men, a common occurrence despite your confirmed heterosexuality. E) All of the above.
8) The supposed end of the night has arrived and you need to eventually get home. You haven't slept in about 48 hours and are still worked up from the anticipatory enthusiasm for ridiculousness that has so far been rewarded; the adrenaline that has been flowing since you got the first British beer in you twelve hours ago; and a literally constant desire to sing karaoke versions of your favorite cheesy songs. From the following three groups of answers, please choose the best possible end-of-evening combination, taking one choice from each group.
I) Politely inquire about karaoke options. II) Attempt to persuade your friends and the extended social network that has developed throughout the night that karaoke is the right choice. III) Manically and regrettably racistly work your way through Chinatown, stopping in every establishment with the lights on to inquire about the availability of a machine that will play songs to which you can obnoxiously, loudly sing along. Find your inquiry to fall short of success.
a) Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You persuade him that it's not worth the drama and ensuing social discomfort. b)Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You try to buy him some time with her by ducking into the British equivalent of a bodega without saying anything. c)Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You blurt out "Can't you see that he wants to go home with you"; steal the apartment key that seems to open every lock in London; sprint off down the street because you're so mature. 1) Figure out the bus system for yourself. 2) Ask for help from two of your friend's mostly lame coworkers while trying to figure out the bus system. 3) Take a taxi with said coworkers and get them to tacitly admit to an interest in hooking up with the friend whom you are visiting.
A) III, c, 3
9) One of your friends falls asleep on the bus ride home and winds up a half-hour away from his stop. Surprisingly Because he's drunk, he goes back to sleep in a bus stop, eventually waking up and making it back to the apartment. When he buzzes up: A) You ignore it, resenting that it woke you B) You ignore it, assuming that it's a homeless person C) You answer it begrudgingly
10) You embark upon a pub crawl. Which of these things, which you may or may not have been expecting, does not actually occur? A) Vomiting B) You receive a free t-shirt just because C) You're joined by a bunch of Michigan State alumni visiting their friend, Ray J, who works with your friend D) You make a bet with the poor-choices-making coworker that she'll get your name tattooed on her back if you drink more than her, a bet born of the knowledge that she got her husband's name, Ian, sloppily tattooed on her back so that it looked like it said "Jan." E) You are privvy to the revelation that a member of your party had been involved in an air-high-five situation with one of his friend's and two of their female acquaintances in one of their childhood homes F) You meet a posse of British guys who had spent time in Cheboygan, MI G) You meet British FBI-agent analogs who knew every word to songs like Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" and Snoop's "Ain't No Fun" H) You hear from the British coworker who was twisting out the aforementioned decision-making-challenged British coworker that he had been at a strip club the previous evening and had received a lap dance from yet another coworker of seemingly compromised decision-making ability 11) You are out for the night in a British neighborhood that sort of looks and mostly feels like something out of Pinocchio. The second of the three venues in which you spend some time and drop some coin is one of those lame bars that aspires to be much classier than it and its clientele really are. When you walk in, a member of your party is quickly roped into a circle of comely but clearly ill-intentioned women who immediately begin taking dude's clothes off. What happens next? A) The rest of the group joins in the action, quickly initiating an orgy. B) The rest of the group proceeds to the bar to strawpedo Bacardi Silvers while the lone fellow seized upon by the Weird Sisters receives the functional equivalent of legal rape: his jacket, button-down shirt, and belt torn off; his t-shirt untucked; and his pants unbuttoned while he is left in a haze, paralyzed both by the aggressive tactics and the murky cognitive state created as his mind, knowing that what was happening was probably not good but conditioned to think that any instances of female-driven undressing are to be welcomed, tussles internally. He will never get his belt back. C) The dude proclaims, "No means no," and he shoves the girls aside so that he can get to the bar for a strawpedo of his own. D) The three women turn out to be transvestites who need more costume material and offer the gentleman the GBP equivalent of $300 for the merchandise taken. 12) While at a much ballyhooed and completely trashy night club, which of the following does NOT take place? A) A thoroughly drunken D'BrickaShawn freaks out and claims that, "Some people might have run afoul of the law--we need to go." He cannot, of course, explain what may or may not have happened and why he thinks he's in trouble. B) Captain Drunk Tank sleeps on a couch in a crowded, loud club for about two hours. C) The Jesus pioneers a new dance move that combines the delusional malaise of being drunk, the delicate hand waves common to many Indian videos, and the thunder clap into one unseemly, disorienting routine that he executes while staring off into the distance and vacantly smiling. D) The shagging British coworkers functionally fornicate on the dance floor. E) Robbie Williams's "Millennium" gets played twice. F) Everyone manages to get lost at some point.
BONUS: The dance move in question:
13) Imagine that Cosmo Kramer is traveling with you in London. Of the following episodes, all of them real, which would he be most likely to wind up involved in? A) While dashing for a bus that he desperately needs to get home, Kramer still manages to stop and take a picture of a group of girls posing on the side of the street and in need of some assistance so that they can all be in the picture. B) Kramer initiates a number of so-called "side conversations" throughout the trip during which he speaks with his host's friends and culls an impressive body of knowledge, unbeknownst to the host or the other travelers until this information is deployed at various times. C) Kramer takes an immediate liking to a Michigan State graduate named Mikey who seems to be a sarcastic, drunken rabble rouser but who will later go on to be seen as a phony who incites no controversy and drinks water while claiming it to be straight vodka.
14) You visit the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, and some surrounding sites, and you come away with an idea for a documentary about British people called "The Desecration of Antiquity." Which incident most directly leads you to conjure this notion? A) The little children whose parents happily watch and photograph them as they climb all over Egyptian artifacts from thousands of years ago. B) The curious tale of Lord Elgin--something presented proudly by British curators through wall text that says things akin to, "Like other affluent adventurers of his time..."--that includes him effectively stealing half of the Parthenon (before being kidnapped by the French) in the name of cultural preservation. C) The British children whose parents allow them to gleefully stampede across a Canadian war memorial that explicitly asks observers to not walk on a monument meant to honor the million Canadians who died for the British cause during World War I and World War II. D) All of the above. 15) You want to be an ugly American while sober, so you take the opportunity to do so while at the British Museum by: A) Realizing that a trip across the pond was required for you to fully grasp just how little you've been taught to care about what the white man did to the indigenous populations of the Americas, particularly North America. B) Jokingly declaring, as you enter a room dedicated to the country, that Mexico is a place with a "bankrupt culture" while within earshot of a Mexican-American woman who hears what you say and is taken aback. C) Talking too loudly. D) Singing R. Kelly's "Thoia Thoing" when you see the word "Oriental" written on a wall. E) None of the above. F) All of the above. The soon-to-be-31-year-old is finally 31, and she is having a birthday party to celebrate. She works with the friend whom you are visiting, and she has a big crush on him, a crush which, sadly for her, is unrequited. Over the first few days of your trip, she has emerged as an always-dour, ennui-loving malcontent with a thing for either The Jesus or D'BrickaShawn or both.
16) How do you arrive at her party? A) Early. B) Late. C) Late, and with four pints waiting for you since you've called ahead. D) None of the above. 17) The party moves from a pub to the birthday girl's woman's apartment. Once there, you start to flirt with one of the Michigan State graduates, all of whom are in attendance. At one point, the object of your fleeting affection offers a jarring non sequitur when she asks, "Is this some kind of a bet?" What happens next? A) You wittily retort, "No. What is this, some kind of a wannabe John Hughes movie?" B) You charmingly retort, "Baby girl, if this were a bet, I'd have hit the jackpot." C) You feel a sudden pang of discomfort as you realize something is amiss and someone has besmirched your reputation. D) You stumble around to find the right words as you feel the situation slipping away from you. E) Both C and D.
18) After some unnecessary drama, you and your friends isolate the genesis of the MSU grad's misgivings: calumny spread by Ray J. You now must confront him to find out what he said and why he said it. How do you do that? A) You dangle Ray J off of the side of the apartment's balcony, holding him by his ankles. B) You ask Ray J to come clean about a number of things in addition to what he said (for instance, his likely though unannounced homosexuality). C) You unleash a complicated Socratic inquisition hoping to catch Ray J in a lie that will shame him into an admission of guilt. D) You convene a de facto "men's conference" in the vestibule of the apartment that is ultimately attended by all American men at the party--those from Michigan and Michigan State.
19) Nearly everything having to do with the men's conference--the precipitating factors, the outcome, and the conference itself--is ultimately insignificant, but the drunken birthday woman loses sight of this as she is carried away by the potent tide of alcohol and the disappointment that she may not get to lay with anyone on this night. As a result, she begins to cry. She cries even more as she entertains the absurd, fallacious notion that a Jets-vs.-Sharks situation is emerging among the Michigan graduates the graduates from the cow college. You console her by offering: A) A condolence B) The refrain, "It's your party, and you can cry if you want to" C) A slap. D) A proverbial shoulder to cry on that takes the forms of a nighttime kiss and a willingness to sleep over at her place. E) B and then D. 20) You wake up the next day and realize that you have chosen to not only kiss, but also to sleep with (though not in the colloquial way meant to connote having had relations) a depressing and lugubrious woman. You cannot possibly be all that pleased about this. What do you do? A) Wait until she wakes up to share a platonic goodbye. B) Wake her up to talk about the previous evening's events and then extricate yourself from the situation. C) Steal her cell phone so that you can call your friend and find out how to get to his home, dashing off without saying goodbye. D) Decide that you owe it to her to move to London and get married.
What Can I Say About the London Trip That Hasn't Already Been Said About Afghanistan?
As New Jersey's Poet Laureate Carl Brutananadilewski would say, "Frickin' bad-ass!" If you'll recall, I spent Memorial Day weekend in London attempting to do what even the Nazis couldn't: shut the shit down forever. Much like a lone Constructicon, I would have merely been some green and purple front-load shovel had I ventured off to London in solitude. However by combining with D'BrickaShawn, The Jesus, Captain Drunk Tank, and our old friend drunkenness, we were able to disregard the grating self-aggrandizement of Starscream and transform into Devastator.
To get an accurate sense of my time abroad, please take the following multiple choice quiz. Also, please brush up onsomeskitsfromChappelle'sShow, as they figured into the weekend prominently, mostly because we watched them before departing and clung to some choice quotations as though they were running out. At nearly every moment possible, someone found a way to say something like:
- "What can I say about you/it/her/him/they that hasn't already been said about Afghanistan? You/It/She/He/They look(s) bombed out and depleted." - "She wears underwear with dick holes in them." - "Did I miss the free-crack giveaway?" - "They was setting fruity picks" - "A chickenhead--you can find one anywhere: in the hood, on the block. That's a bird that you take home and wear out." - "Bought this baby cash!" - "Hot hand in a dice game. Six hours straight, talkin' 'bout clackity clackity clackity clack." - "Charlie Murph-ay!" - "Cold Blooded!"
Everything depicted below occurred, usually precipitated by one of us. And remember, like on the SATs, the goal is to choose the best possible answer, not necessarily the right one. Once you've completed the quiz, I encourage you to read some more about the trip:
1) You're going to London and your plane is delayed for an hour in the airport. You and your friend should: A) Read The New Yorker B) Watch the Pistons feebly attempt to pretend as though they still deserve to be in the playoffs C) Order too many drinks (paid for by others), get drunk, and lie to some girls from Michigan, telling them that you're from Holland, MI; went to Holland Christian for high school; and love tulips D) All of the above E) B and C
2) You're walking along the Thames and arrive at the Tate Modern. You smell something best described as "sticky" and "icky." You see a man in the bushes with a two-year-old. You conclude that: A) He is the best father ever B) He is the worst father ever C) His glaucoma must get really bad when he has to watch his son D) He has already helped to make your trip somewhat ridiculous--the stated top priority for the experience--and you've only been in England for a few hours
3a) You are visiting an American friend stationed abroad and he is briefing you about his British friends and coworkers. He mentions that he is intrigued by one woman, 25, and would perhaps be interested in her were she not: A) Already married B) Estranged from her husband C) Sleeping with another coworker D) Impossibly elusive E) All of the above
3b) Your immediate reaction upon hearing all of this information is: A) Yes, drama will surely ensue, and that's what I came for! B) No, I like it when things aren't complicated. Please pass the tea.
4) You and your friends plan to check out the dog races in Wimbledon before meeting up with the drama-causing coworker. Your tickets cost the equivalent of $4 and admission includes two beers and two $4 bets. You will not be surprised to see: A) A baby strapped into an obedience harness B) A haircut that can be best described as "completely fucking disgusting" C) A 7-to-1 dog named "Oklahoma Pat" win the first race of the night and net roughly $28 for bettors like you, who chose it to win because you secretly kinda like Bob Stoops D) Evidence that America isn't that bad E) All of the above
5) It's time to hang out with the infidelitous coworker about whom you have been briefed. What will you do? A) Amiably engage her in innocent banter. B) Tell her that you've heard nice things about her and ask her some tame, facetious questions about your mutual friend meant to elicit a few laughs. C) Do the whole annoying-American thing and make a number of insipid comparisons between American and British cultures. D) Ask ostensibly tame questions like "Do you live alone?" hoping that the answers will confirm the information you previously received and open up the scandalous topics for further conversation.
6) While dancing with a British woman in a club that you call "Club Opus Dei" because you can't remember the real name, which Ghostface line will you invoke most commonly while charming said British bird with a fully developed American knowledge of hip-hop? A) "I'm a lot like Ghostface Killah--no girl can freak me; I'm just too nasty." B) "You seem to really like this song; I hope that your water doesn't break." C) "I gave you earth lessons. I came to you as a blessin'." D) "Oh Lord, I told you not to move you dumb broad" E) Under no circumstance are any of these lines appropriate. F) All of the above.
7) If you find yourself suddenly surrounded by a swarm of attractive American girls from the University of Illinois, what is the best way to interact with them? A) Decline an unembarrassed request meant to force you into buying one of them a drink. B) Inexplicably earn the trust of another by singing along to Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." C) Spurn their overtures and instead dance with a separate, soon-to-be-31-year-old who also works with the friend whom you are visiting. D) Forlorn after getting shut down by some foolish Indian girls and a plastic-looking brunette who may or may not have had fake hair, fake breasts, and jaundice, dance aimlessly and hope to avoid getting hit on by men, a common occurrence despite your confirmed heterosexuality. E) All of the above.
8) The supposed end of the night has arrived and you need to eventually get home. You haven't slept in about 48 hours and are still worked up from the anticipatory enthusiasm for ridiculousness that has so far been rewarded; the adrenaline that has been flowing since you got the first British beer in you twelve hours ago; and a literally constant desire to sing karaoke versions of your favorite cheesy songs. From the following three groups of answers, please choose the best possible end-of-evening combination, taking one choice from each group.
I) Politely inquire about karaoke options. II) Attempt to persuade your friends and the extended social network that has developed throughout the night that karaoke is the right choice. III) Manically and regrettably racistly work your way through Chinatown, stopping in every establishment with the lights on to inquire about the availability of a machine that will play songs to which you can obnoxiously, loudly sing along. Find your inquiry to fall short of success.
a) Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You persuade him that it's not worth the drama and ensuing social discomfort. b)Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You try to buy him some time with her by ducking into the British equivalent of a bodega without saying anything. c)Your friend might want to hook up with the married coworker of questionable decision-making ability. You blurt out "Can't you see that he wants to go home with you"; steal the apartment key that seems to open every lock in London; sprint off down the street because you're so mature. 1) Figure out the bus system for yourself. 2) Ask for help from two of your friend's mostly lame coworkers while trying to figure out the bus system. 3) Take a taxi with said coworkers and get them to tacitly admit to an interest in hooking up with the friend whom you are visiting.
A) III, c, 3
9) One of your friends falls asleep on the bus ride home and winds up a half-hour away from his stop. Surprisingly Because he's drunk, he goes back to sleep in a bus stop, eventually waking up and making it back to the apartment. When he buzzes up: A) You ignore it, resenting that it woke you B) You ignore it, assuming that it's a homeless person C) You answer it begrudgingly
10) You embark upon a pub crawl. Which of these things, which you may or may not have been expecting, does not actually occur? A) Vomiting B) You receive a free t-shirt just because C) You're joined by a bunch of Michigan State alumni visiting their friend, Ray J, who works with your friend D) You make a bet with the poor-choices-making coworker that she'll get your name tattooed on her back if you drink more than her, a bet born of the knowledge that she got her husband's name, Ian, sloppily tattooed on her back so that it looked like it said "Jan." E) You are privvy to the revelation that a member of your party had been involved in an air-high-five situation with one of his friend's and two of their female acquaintances in one of their childhood homes F) You meet a posse of British guys who had spent time in Cheboygan, MI G) You meet British FBI-agent analogs who knew every word to songs like Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" and Snoop's "Ain't No Fun" H) You hear from the British coworker who was twisting out the aforementioned decision-making-challenged British coworker that he had been at a strip club the previous evening and had received a lap dance from yet another coworker of seemingly compromised decision-making ability
(Note: Due to a scoring anomaly, we are required to let you know that the answer is A. And A was the only thing expected, as well.)
11) You are out for the night in a British neighborhood that sort of looks and mostly feels like something out of Pinocchio. The second of the three venues in which you spend some time and drop some coin is one of those lame bars that aspires to be much classier than it and its clientele really are. When you walk in, a member of your party is quickly roped into a circle of comely but clearly ill-intentioned women who immediately begin taking dude's clothes off. What happens next? A) The rest of the group joins in the action, quickly initiating an orgy. B) The rest of the group proceeds to the bar to strawpedo Bacardi Silvers while the lone fellow seized upon by the Weird Sisters receives the functional equivalent of legal rape: his jacket, button-down shirt, and belt torn off; his t-shirt untucked; and his pants unbuttoned while he is left in a haze, paralyzed both by the aggressive tactics and the murky cognitive state created as his mind, knowing that what was happening was probably not good but conditioned to think that any instances of female-driven undressing are to be welcomed, tussles internally. He will never get his belt back. C) The dude proclaims, "No means no," and he shoves the girls aside so that he can get to the bar for a strawpedo of his own. D) The three women turn out to be transvestites who need more costume material and offer the gentleman the GBP equivalent of $300 for the merchandise taken.
12) While at a much ballyhooed and completely trashy night club, which of the following does NOT take place? A) A thoroughly drunken D'BrickaShawn freaks out and claims that, "Some people might have run afoul of the law--we need to go." He cannot, of course, explain what may or may not have happened and why he thinks he's in trouble. B) Captain Drunk Tank sleeps on a couch in a crowded, loud club for about two hours. C) The Jesus pioneers a new dance move that combines the delusional malaise of being drunk, the delicate hand waves common to many Indian videos, and the thunder clap into one unseemly, disorienting routine that he executes while staring off into the distance and vacantly smiling. D) The shagging British coworkers functionally fornicate on the dance floor. E) Robbie Williams's "Millennium" gets played twice. F) Everyone manages to get lost at some point.
13) Imagine that Cosmo Kramer is traveling with you in London. Of the following episodes, all of them real, which would he be most likely to wind up involved in? A) While dashing for a bus that he desperately needs to get home, Kramer still manages to stop and take a picture of a group of girls posing on the side of the street and in need of some assistance so that they can all be in the picture. B) Kramer initiates a number of so-called "side conversations" throughout the trip during which he speaks with his host's friends and culls an impressive body of knowledge, unbeknownst to the host or the other travelers until this information is deployed at various times. C) Kramer takes an immediate liking to a Michigan State graduate named Mikey who seems to be a sarcastic, drunken rabble rouser but who will later go on to be seen as a phony who incites no controversy and drinks water while claiming it to be straight vodka.
14) You visit the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, and some surrounding sites, and you come away with an idea for a documentary about British people called "The Desecration of Antiquity." Which incident most directly leads you to conjure this notion? A) The little children whose parents happily watch and photograph them as they climb all over Egyptian artifacts from thousands of years ago. B) The curious tale of Lord Elgin--something presented proudly by British curators through wall text that says things akin to, "Like other affluent adventurers of his time..."--that includes him effectively stealing half of the Parthenon (before being kidnapped by the French) in the name of cultural preservation. C) The British children whose parents allow them to gleefully stampede across a Canadian war memorial that explicitly asks observers to not walk on a monument meant to honor the million Canadians who died for the British cause during World War I and World War II. D) All of the above.
15) You want to be an ugly American while sober, so you take the opportunity to do so while at the British Museum by: A) Realizing that a trip across the pond was required for you to fully grasp just how little you've been taught to care about what the white man did to the indigenous populations of the Americas, particularly North America. B) Jokingly declaring, as you enter a room dedicated to the country, that Mexico is a place with a "bankrupt culture" while within earshot of a Mexican-American woman who hears what you say and is taken aback. C) Talking too loudly. D) Singing R. Kelly's "Thoia Thoing" when you see the word "Oriental" written on a wall. E) None of the above. F) All of the above.
The following scenario contains information required by questions 16-20:
The soon-to-be-31-year-old is finally 31, and she is having a birthday party to celebrate. She works with the friend whom you are visiting, and she has a big crush on him, a crush which, sadly for her, is unrequited. Over the first few days of your trip, she has emerged as an always-dour, ennui-loving malcontent with a thing for either The Jesus or D'BrickaShawn or both.
16) How do you arrive at her party? A) Early. B) Late. C) Late, and with four pints waiting for you since you've called ahead. D) None of the above.
17) The party moves from a pub to the birthday girl's woman's apartment. Once there, you start to flirt with one of the Michigan State graduates, all of whom are in attendance. At one point, the object of your fleeting affection offers a jarring non sequitur when she asks, "Is this some kind of a bet?" What happens next? A) You wittily retort, "No. What is this, some kind of a wannabe John Hughes movie?" B) You charmingly retort, "Baby girl, if this were a bet, I'd have hit the jackpot." C) You feel a sudden pang of discomfort as you realize something is amiss and someone has besmirched your reputation. D) You stumble around to find the right words as you feel the situation slipping away from you. E) Both C and D.
18) After some unnecessary drama, you and your friends isolate the genesis of the MSU grad's misgivings: calumny spread by Ray J. You now must confront him to find out what he said and why he said it. How do you do that? A) You dangle Ray J off of the side of the apartment's balcony, holding him by his ankles. B) You ask Ray J to come clean about a number of things in addition to what he said (for instance, his likely though unannounced homosexuality). C) You unleash a complicated Socratic inquisition hoping to catch Ray J in a lie that will shame him into an admission of guilt. D) You convene a de facto "men's conference" in the vestibule of the apartment that is ultimately attended by all American men at the party--those from Michigan and Michigan State.
19) Nearly everything having to do with the men's conference--the precipitating factors, the outcome, and the conference itself--is ultimately insignificant, but the drunken birthday woman loses sight of this as she is carried away by the potent tide of alcohol and the disappointment that she may not get to lay with anyone on this night. As a result, she begins to cry. She cries even more as she entertains the absurd, fallacious notion that a Jets-vs.-Sharks situation is emerging among the Michigan graduates the graduates from the cow college. You console her by offering: A) A condolence B) The refrain, "It's your party, and you can cry if you want to" C) A slap. D) A proverbial shoulder to cry on that takes the forms of a nighttime kiss and a willingness to sleep over at her place. E) B and then D.
20) You wake up the next day and realize that you have chosen to not only kiss, but also to sleep with (though not in the colloquial way meant to connote having had relations) a depressing and lugubrious woman. You cannot possibly be all that pleased about this. What do you do? A) Wait until she wakes up to share a platonic goodbye. B) Wake her up to talk about the previous evening's events and then extricate yourself from the situation. C) Steal her cell phone so that you can call your friend and find out how to get to his home, dashing off without saying goodbye. D) Decide that you owe it to her to move to London and get married.
