Some Thoughts from the Posting Abyss

The sneering face of unconfrontable evil?

Reading Seymour Hersh's military missives in The New Yorker has become a complicated endeavor. Surely an intrepid reporter, Hersh crafts intricate, probing stories that unearth new information and can set the agenda in foreign policy discussions thanks to his tireless mining of intelligence sources. A Hersh piece is ambitious in scope and thorough in execution--you get a vast context when receiving new information, whether it be an efficient re-telling of Iran Contra or an exposition regarding Balkan politics.

You may not get a full picture, though. Increasingly, his articles are a vigilant liberal's fetish fodder, an endless procession of alarming realized fears, appalling contraventions of constitutional order, and shameful moral equivocations. And as important as it is to forever hold this administration accountable for its manifold and enduring crimes, errors, and deceptions, at a certain point, the political alarmism and conjecture regarding international intrigue becomes tedious and disappointing because it is always delivered through a shroud. Few sources are named, many assertions taken as fact are just opinion (though often well informed), and the articles can come off as containing a little too much vitriol. Again, that's not to say that they are wrongly intentioned or factually inaccurate--the dude gets a lot of stuff right, and now more than ever, we need a circumspect press corps--but they can skew a reader's perceptions.

And perhaps worse, they contribute to the emerging sense--either actual or dictated by agenda-setting media--that the lone Democratic idea in circulation is opposition. This is something that gets hammered home when you hop across the ideological aisle and read election coverage in The Economist. Written with an arm's-length, economics perspective, The Economist has routinely painted the Democratic gains in the House and Senate as potentially worrisome political repudiations, rightly punishing misguided wartime and social policies but potential imperiling globalization and free trade, replacing everything with a resolute general antipathy. To only read The Economist would leave an audience assured that though President Bush has screwed up, and though troubling commodities issues threaten the American economy and energy supply, they and everything else aren't likely to improve now that the party of politically maladroit John Kerry has assumed control with its bankruptcy of innovation.

This is something for Democrats to ponder, because it is not enough to simply not be Bush. And at some point, there has to be more to the story than alarmism from unnamed sources.

- One side note: In Hersh's latest story, he writes:

...Gates was a member of the Iraq Study Group—headed by former Secretary of State James Baker and Lee Hamilton, a former Democratic congressman—which has been charged with examining new approaches to Iraq, and he has publicly urged for more than a year that the U.S. begin direct talks with Iran. President Bush’s decision to turn to Gates was a sign of the White House’s “desperation,” a former high-level C.I.A. official, who worked with the White House after September 11th, told me. Cheney’s relationship with Rumsfeld was among the closest inside the Administration, and Gates’s nomination was seen by some Republicans as a clear signal that the Vice-President’s influence in the White House could be challenged. The only reason Gates would take the job, after turning down an earlier offer to serve as the new Director of National Intelligence, the former high-level C.I.A. official said, was that “the President’s father, Brent Scowcroft, and James Baker”—former aides of the first President Bush—“piled on, and the President finally had to accept adult supervision.”

Critical decisions will be made in the next few months, the former C.I.A. official said. “Bush has followed Cheney’s advice for six years, and the story line will be: ‘Will he continue to choose Cheney over his father?’ We’ll know soon.” (The White House and the Pentagon declined to respond to detailed requests for comment about this article, other than to say that there were unspecified inaccuracies.)

A retired four-star general who worked closely with the first Bush Administration told me that the Gates nomination means that Scowcroft, Baker, the elder Bush, and his son “are saying that winning the election in 2008 is more important than the individual. The issue for them is how to preserve the Republican agenda. The Old Guard wants to isolate Cheney and give their girl, Condoleezza Rice”—the Secretary of State—“a chance to perform.” The combination of Scowcroft, Baker, and the senior Bush working together is, the general added, “tough enough to take on Cheney. One guy can’t do it.”

...Once Gates is installed at the Pentagon, he will have to contend with Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, the Rumsfeld legacy—and Dick Cheney. A former senior Bush Administration official, who has also worked with Gates, told me that Gates was well aware of the difficulties of his new job. He added that Gates would not simply endorse the Administration’s policies and say, “with a flag waving, ‘Go, go’ ”—especially at the cost of his own reputation. “He does not want to see thirty-five years of government service go out the window,” the former official said. However, on the question of whether Gates would actively stand up to Cheney, the former official said, after a pause, “I don’t know.”

Yo hold on--turn the beat off: WHY IS EVERYONE SO FUCKING SCARED OF DICK CHENEY? (Aside from the fact that he will shoot his friends in the face.) Seriously, why is everyone terrified of some aging white dude with a bad heart? Is he so mean in meetings? Does he roll his eyes when opponents talk? Does he pass nasty notes? Sleep with their boyfriends? I don't get this!

Music for a Monday: New York's in the Building

Had I gotten a Tribe tattoo as a kid, could I run around calling myself a Native Tongue today?

I'm back. Let's go...

- Nas ft. The Game, "Hustlers"
Can we assume that this will be on Hip-Hop Is Dead? And that it was produced by Dre? This sounds better than most of the Dre beats I've heard this year. Nas's second verse--standard in its subject matter but nonetheless engaging thanks to the flow--is stronger than his first, something that sounds like he wasn't fully there when he started rhyming.

Game's verse is something else. We all know what he's about: he is a black, modern incarnation of the classical Greek orator--almost like a hip-hop Homer--relaying the same stories over and over but always with new wrinkles, each tale intended to link the past to the future and venerate the heroes of the past to whom he would now like to be logically linked. He effectively synthesizes a context for his own presumed greatness by personalizing the past. Are people with me on that?

Using this narrative framework, The Game tells yet another new tale of hip-hop antiquity. Constructing a vivid personal history of musical awakening that highlights the simultaneous ascendancy of Illmatic and The Chronic, Game ambles along this fond, self-serving remembrance praising Nas throughout the verse while establishing a personal connection to the music that influenced--and, if we can infer, given our familiarity with Game and his transparent M.O., enabled--his contemporary emergence. His method is not especially fresh, and the detailed "recall," though vivid, is no longer surprising. However, he constructs his rhymes so that he consistently invokes Nas's works and career, a nifty little trick that not only helps carry the verse without too much straining to adhere to the gimmick, but also helps a listener conjure the image of an overproduced television tribute: This is sort of like a star of yesteryear, Nas, sitting on a throne and being saluted by the stars of today, either through covers or original music meant to honor the night's focus. I can only hope that these dudes were wearing tuxedos in the studio when the mic was on.

- Jim Jones ft. Cam'ron, Juelz Santana, and Max B, "Pin the Tail"
Ignoring the rampant self-loathing homophobia, the glorification of the mindless, and the prideful celebration of the hurtful, want to know why people can't embrace the Diplomats without hesitation? Too many terrible songs like this one. Sometimes, it sounds like these guys make songs as though they had to meet a quota.

First, lay off the computers and synthesizers if you're "amelodic" and "in possession of bad taste." Second, tell Max B to stop whatever whine-singing genre he's attempting to define. Third, stop rhyming the same words with themselves all the time, and consider writing rhymes that are actually interesting. Fourth, there are limits to the extent that corny ideas will be celebrated as jokes. Fifth, stop repeating gimmicks.

Start with all that and see how it goes from there...

- Saigon, "Dreamz"
I think that in nearly every Saigon song, there is a period of time between thirty seconds and two minutes when I get very excited about his potential because he seems intelligent and perceptive and funny. But he then usually tempers that enthusiasm thanks to a bad chorus, silly adlibs, or something else that winds up being irksome. This time, it's the looped vocal sample in the background. Not only does it partially obscure the rhymes, but it sounds amateurish, something you'd hope that 9th Wonder would have gotten beyond.

Scheduling Note

The Bangin' will be on hiatus for the rest of the week, as I am off to London for the holiday.

It shouldn't be as crazy as last time, but you never know...

Start Thinking of All the Bad Words You Know

Contrary to popular belief, this is not my grandmother. It's Bilbo. She's Belle-bo. Seriously.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

You're not going to let Peter Jackson create Smaug?

Lake Town?

Mirkwood?

Chip the glasses, crack the plates?

The goblins?

Next thing you know, they'll cast Hayden Christensen.

Fuck a New Line.

Me Name Is James Bond. James Bond.

Life is so fucking good that he can taste it in his spit

You know how there are some men about whom it might be said that "women want him and men want to be him"? Me, for instance. Well, there has never been an exercise in such idolatry as when Ian Fleming came up with James Bond. He is the ultimate male fantasy piece, and you can't help but be reminded of it every time you hear that dope-ass theme song and wind up losing yourself in the timeless escapism. Who doesn't want to participate in a war of ideology, equipped with cool gadgets and endless wit, all the while twisting out hot broads without really making it look all that hard?

This is why even the worst Bond movies are fun on some level, and why the truly well-made installments arouse so much enthusiasm--not a single person in the theater isn't totally caught up. Casino Royale can likely be counted among the latter and not the former, thankfully.

Dispensing with a lengthy plot synopsis--James plays cards against yet another eccentric villain with that oh-so-Euro aesthetic while simultaneously pitching in as the Western world fights its latest crusade, this one against terrorism--I think we should just get to the most important stuff.

First, this is a self-conscious Bond movie that simultaneously respects the past without mindlessly recycling too many conventions, ultimately serving as a worthwhile addition to the franchise. There was a certain rhythm to the classic Bond movies that contributed to their appeal: the plots could be meandering, the true villains obscured for some time as James made his way around the world fighting criminal apparatchiks, piecing together stories, and competing with Wilt Chamberlain. Casino Royale has that on lock, running for about 150 minutes and taking James from Africa to the Caribbean to Europe. So, too, does it give the audience those wonderful vignettes during which we can appreciate the breadth of Bond's knowledge and sophistication. And, of course, also present are the PP7, the Aston Martin, the ridiculous bathing suit, and several other stylistic choices that create continuity in the character. Gone, though, is the overemphasis on gadgets, the ever escalating needless complexity of the villain's plan, and the over-the-top script that had bogged down some of the Pierce Brosnan Bond movies. There were, for example, too many instances in some recent films in which the writers, preoccupied with making Brosnan into Bond, threw in too many quips. To be certain, there are some awkward moments in Casino Royale that surely arose due to concerns about honoring the franchise's heritage, but when Bond runs through a wall without remark, and when his most elaborate toy is a defibrillator, you know that the script was not assembled using a checklist. And that's refreshing.

It's also emancipating. Opting for an origin story in lieu of a fairly innocuous sequel, Casino Royale is freed from the hum-drum Bond mechanics one might have expected at certain moments, something Brosnan's movies could never attempt. Stripped of a few pleasant distractions that were far from essential elements, the movie gives us a more creative, balanced take on why James Bond is the character we all love. There are no you'll-never-get-him flirtations with Ms. Moneypenny or visits to see Q, but that's the point--the endless coquetry and the playful mischief are symptoms of Bond, not causes. Casino Royale endeavors to explain why that's the Bond we all know. Chastened by emotional attachment and grudgingly admired if not celebrated for his purposeful, witty obstinance, Bond learns his stylized craft through trial and error, a process that plays out as the movie plays on.

This helps to make clear that to varying extents, the recent Bond movies have all suffered from formulaic assembly--there's nothing horribly wrong with any of them, but it's also not a coincidence that you could probably call any one of the four something like "Tomorrow Is Golden Enough to Die" without anyone really noticing.

Noticeable is Daniel Craig, a guy whose acting and physical presence are perfect for Bond's formative years. (Quickly: you must see Layer Cake. It is completely slept on. What an endlessly enjoyable movie. And talk about a likable drug dealer--were Craig's character in that movie a rapper, he'd be celebrated on the internets and praised as a hip-hop savior, a lyrical genius whose pathos-filled coke raps were the perfect antidote to boring, "underground" shit like Little Brother. Fuck, they'd give him Pitchfork stock. It would be great for all the wannabe thugs and white people. Anyway....) As you've likely read, the young Bond of Casino Royale is called a "blunt instrument" at one point, and that's what Craig does well. Combining a matter-of-fact pragmatism with a hint of nihilism and a healthy appreciation for the behaviors, styles, and mores of the wealthy, Craig's Bond is determined and generally refined, though still a tad bit rough around the edges. It's something that Craig's physique matches (), as his face can be telling but effectively cold, and his body looks like there is too much muscle mass crammed onto too small of a frame. It all--the demeanor and the physical presence--gives off the sense that below the refined surface and appreciated recklessness, there is a feral volatility.

And, of course, there's the small matter that Bond gets gully. Gone are the off-camera fatalities, the accidental deaths that come when someone drives a cement truck into a laser beam, the simple over-the-shoulder judo flips, and any attempts to catch the falling bad guy. Instead, we see a Bond who seems to almost enjoy a good old-fashioned stabbing, a chance to end someone's face, a choking, and some effective firearms deployment. Were his look not somewhat off, Charles Bronson could have been Bond. It is sort of jarring, but it also fits in well with the story's intentions. And Bronson's British accent blows.

The other important facet of the movie is the feminine presence. James has romantic explosions in just two women in Casino Royale, but they're both up to Bill Clinton's standards (though maybe not so well portrayed above--not the best photo). One of them, Eva Green, has an actual part, too, and she is sort of like a prettier, better acting, less man-ish version of Jennifer Garner. Green's character is Vesper Lynd (the daughter of Jose "Chico" Lind), a treasury accountant who can match wits and psychological profiling with James. In recent iterations, the Bond movies have attempted to create more substantial roles for women, and this latest effort is relatively successful. It's always hard to come up with something terribly exciting for these characters when the top criteria for them is that they must fill out a dress and succumb to the hero's charm (see: Christmas Jones) or speak in an accent and succumb to the hero's charm (see: Inga Bergstrom), but Daughter of Chico is somewhat interesting and has a little depth.

Also, I hadn't heard of or seen Green before, but I have been told that she was in that movie The Dreamers. And just like the reason Jerry cites to George when lamenting that he never saw Last Tango in Paris on Seinfeld, the reason to see The Dreamers is simple: "it was erotic."

As I come to the end of this review, I realize that it has been almost fawning. So, I need to temper that to some extent. Casino Royale is far from a perfect movie, and it is not as good as Goldfinger, You Only Live Twice, or Thunderball (three of the best). There are some moments that feel a little contrived, some moments when the seams of the Bond franchise show, and some moments when the action doesn't fully match the character. But, it's also mostly entertaining, and among the better long movies I've seen in a while.

Oh, and Felix Leiter is black in this one. I guess that in the fictional world from whence he comes, he has developed an unannounced and full-blown case of whatever skin disease Michael Jackson has by the time of Dr. No. Whatever.

Below, some assorted Bond stuffs:

Classic Bond Intro


Most famous Bond quotation?


Shirley Bassey - Get Familiar


Homer at Casino Royale?


Me Names Is Ali G. Ali G.


Inside the Live and Let Die Crocodile Jump

Five for Sunday

- One of the most amazing plays you'll ever see:



- If you ever run a company, and you let shit like this take place, you should consider drinking cyanide, because it would be a public service:



- This has not been talked about nearly enough:



- You need to get your life together:



- The last line, a declarative affirmation that failing to prepare is "what's up," is pretty much a perfect embodiment of 99% of hip-hop interviews:



- Oh, and peep game: HM. Ill!

Judgment Day Has Arrived

Let's Go Blue!

NBA League Pass: Week 2

What's worse: his hair, or the bra strap he uses to hold it in place?

Again, sorry for the delay. It's been a rough week. Kids, when you grow up, don't get jobs. Marry rich people.

- Amidst the NBA's expansive everynight landscape, it's easy to miss the quirkier elements of a given game that you can't see on highlights or in a boxscore. Among my favorite of these overlooked elements is the high preponderance of players who play in a manner that betrays their true level of ability.

You find these guys everywhere, at all levels of competency and of stardom. The phenomenon is not bounded by some of our conventional classifications. And to be clear, I am not talking about a guy who gets hot or a guy who had potential to be something else. Ben Gordon gets hot; Dwight Howard has potential. Nor am I talking about a tragedy like Baron Davis, a player with so much apparent skill--just watch him with the ball when he's healthy, even if he's simply messing around after a whistle--and so little, relatively speaking, to show for it.

I'm talking about guys who don't move as you'd expect. I'm talking about someone like Chucky Atkins. Have you ever seen a guy who takes as many awkward shots and lay ups? Maybe Paul Pierce, who takes awkward shots. So does Allen Iverson. However, both have demonstrated command of basketball skills to an extent that we find reassuring: of course you're not supposed to shoot it as you're coming down and hemmed in between three guys, but the Truth and AI are so talented that the audacity demanded by those attempts is far less than that required to say some of the shit that comes out of Jim Jones and Cam'ron's mouths. It looks weird, but if someone's gonna try it, why not them?

Not Chucky Atkins. He isn't that talented. But yet, he moves as though he thought he were, and he makes decisions as though he thought he were. You can almost see his mind at work as he dashes into the paint and just flings something toward the rim as he hopes to get hit. He attempts to make plays and move in a fashion much more common to the titans of the Lig. And he's not the only one.

Trevor Ariza--with his almost constant insistence on trying to dunk--has long been a player who moves and makes decisions as though he were far greater than he is. Don't get me wrong--he's a great athlete, and I love him, but he isn't a refined basketball practitioner like a Dwyane Wade. And even Ron Artest, an all-star-caliber player, is guilty of this grandiosity. His herky jerky spins into the paint would be far less awkward were he as big and as skillful as the moves he'd like to pull off require. Ditto for Corliss Williamson. And Ben Wallace. And Chris Kaman. And Richard Jefferson. And a slew of others.

There is nothing horribly, alarmingly wrong with this, by the way. RJ can continue his can't-see-the-rim backdowns and Ben can keep trying to palm the ball and dunk as much as they'd like. It's colorful and amusing. But it also warrants mentioning, no?

- With Samuel Dalembert and Steven Hunter, the Sixers have the best all-potential center tandem in the Lig. I've long been a Hunter fan, as he's active and passionate, but the unintentional hilarity that stems from the fact that the Sixers must choose between him and Dalembert at center is almost too much. Almost.

- Tracy McGrady needs: a) better hair; b) to stop shooting so many jump shots. Houston is winning with Yao emerging and Alston stepping up, so I am not trying to sound all that critical of the Select List captain and future Straight Bangin' Hall of Fame member. If this is how Houston can consistently win, so be it. But every time I watch the Rockets, I feel like McGrady is biding his time and passively shooting from the perimeter. Until last year, when he started driving more in crucial situations, LeBron James pissed me off for the same reason--both guys can get to the rim on just about anyone, and yet they're taking fadeaways? I've always said that this different mentality, common to McGrady and James, and in stark contrast to the attack-at-all-times approach of Kobe and Wade is what rendered TMac and LeBron less effective. I am ready to remove that label from LeBron, but I am still not sold on Tracy. I'd like to see him attacking the rim for four quarters, especially since the guy finishes with his left so well.

- Did you see that Hilton Armstrong finally got his shit together and gave the Hornets a good game? If he can get some consistent minutes and reward that trust with decent production, he will remain my darkhorse ROY candidate. I always thought that his defensive presence, decent hands, work ethic, intelligence, and receptiveness to coaching would make him immediately valuable in the Association. We'll see...

- MVP candidates of the first two weeks: Michael Redd, Joe Johnson, Yao, LeBron, Chris Paul.

- Another guy I really like: Paul Millsap. Dude can really assert himself as a rebounder, weak-side defender, and tertiary scorer. Plus, he will run with the suddenly revivified and lethal Utah attack. Loved his games against the Bucks and the Clippers. And underrated leaper, among other things.

- The enduring image of Corey Maggette's career will be of him standing at the free throw line. No one was really calling for that when he was a freshman at Duke talking about going pro in December of that year.

- Does anyone else think that Stephon Marbury looks quasi-done? He's not gonna be out of the NBA in the next year or two, but have you seen him this year? He looks like a shell of his former self. He's lethargic, he isn't getting into the lane as much, he is happy to make a pass to initiate the "offense" and then run away from the play, and most of the time he's scowling and looking unhappy and defeated. It's depressing.

- Mickael Pietrus, a year later than expected, is on the verge of cracking the Select List.

I Got It 4 Cheap

Better to be Sosa than Tony? Where's the fun in that?

First, sorry that this has been such a shitty week in blogging. Work has sort of run a train on me.

Moving on...

Is it sacrilegious to say that I don't love this new Clipse album? I've listened to it three times--half of it works for me, the rest of it falls somewhere between so-so and boring. Kwis, don't hate me....It's just that whatever Pharrell is doing on the boards isn't really working for me. But that's always been the case--even when at his best, he's yet to assemble a full album without a few beats that didn't strike me as corny or worse. As for Malice and Pusha, they are undeniably cool in their street bravado. And their rhymes are creative. But that can only sustain me for so long. And I don't mind that the world in which they dwell--on wax if not in person, as Jeff points out--is so grim. My favorite show is The Wire; I can handle it. It's just that it becomes a little stale. Give me four really strong Clipse songs and I am pretty good. I'll come back to them again and again--"Hello New World" is, er, straight crushin' it, for instance. Beyond that, I don't know that I need so much more from them, though. Again, I'm sorry. Take away my hip-hop pass if you must.

- Clipse, "We Got It for Cheap"
- Clipse, "Momma, I'm Sorry"

Also, can someone please save Jay from himself? I am not gonna put him on O.J.'s level, but please, just stop him. He really is the Mike Jordan of recordin': he doesn't know when to stop and is now running around in teal looking like a sad, desperate, lesser version of a legend. Don't body yourself, Jay.

- Jay-Z, "Brooklyn" (Jim Jones Diss) (Stream from XXL)

And also, look: Rah Digga and Busta made Dilla's "Last Donut of the Night" into a song. With a funny title, given that we all know: a) Digga; b) Busta; c) this beat; d) that Digga is a weed carrier first, artist second.

- Rah Digga ft. Busta Rhymes and Young Zee, "A Name for Myself"

I Had Crazy Visions

Watch the above video. And then watch it again. And again. And again. It's that good. At least, if you're a hip-hop fan. Shouts to my mans an' 'em for passing it along. What's especially funny is that I remember watching this when it first aired, years ago, and thinking to myself that it was the kind of thing that I would always cherish. And I was right.

There is just so much to love about the video: the sportacious feeling of the house; the Wu using the pool table to gamble...on dice; U-God's blowy shirts; Nia Long being mentioned in the same breath as Shaq and Kobe; and everything that Raekwon says.

Music for a Monday

Which one of these heads doesn't belong here?

Something funny has happened to hip-hop music. Or maybe something funny has happened to me. I can't tell. Either way, the taste is off.

I don't know when it happened, but at some point, the music became a little bland. Sloppy metaphor, you say? Well, in a genre so fixated for so long upon the simultaneously amorphous yet well defined concept of "flavor," it's only appropriate that the language of the epicure would provide the best vernacular to describe this affliction. Again, I don't know if the music is less piquant or if my palate is simply dull, but something is awry. And to fully complicate this paragraph and turn it into something that a clumsy undergraduate might compose and then flaunt under the misguided illusion that he had marshaled an impressive blend of verbal dexterity and classical learning, let's say this: something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

By Denmark, I of course mean Queensbridge. And Bedford Stuyvesant. And Compton. And, even I am willing to begrudgingly admit, HoustonandAtlantaandMemphis. (I "said" it quickly so as to avoid the full experience, like when you funnel something foul--Brussels sprouts?--to the back of your mouth and then swallow it whole to help it bypass the taste buds.) I mean all precincts in which hip-hop, and hip-hop taste, is made. Here is the problem: Nearly all new music is boring on some level.

Before we proceed, let's note the cover-your-ass qualifiers I threw into the preceding declaration--"nearly," as in much but not all; and "on some level," as in to some kind of an extent, varying in magnitude from almost insignificant to great. Don't flip out on me.

But back it up (wait, easy, back it up)--below is a tasting menu's worth of new music from artists that you, John Q. Hip-Hop Head, know and love. Jay-Z. Raekwon. Kool G Rap. AZ. Snoop Dogg. That's some kind of a starting five, you know? A lot of classic material there. A lot of signature flows and hip-hop quotables and cherished memories. And yet, it's not what it once was. Jay's routine is stale; Snoop is a personality first, rapper second; Rae's shit all sounds recycled since he's been in career limbo. A new Jay-Z record becomes a task to digest since you have to have an opinion even though the beats are mostly proven formulas, the lyrics sort of stale, and the personality something that's almost become a nuisance. Same with Snoop Dogg, whose music just isn't fresh and whose records feel like little more than the price he pays to stay relevant in his celebrity. A Raekwon mixtape is hardly even news, as it is half composed of songs that have been on internets for about a year, and then filled in with actual, old album tracks and quasi freestyles.

The grand sum is painfully tasteless--whatever happened to the reliability of your favorite courses? And even worse, it's not just them. Nas is forced to change his style up, making promises about taking his sound to the club since what once was searing, grimy fare has been lost or watered down by the abundance of derivatives. Others, like a C.L. Smooth, erode the sanctity of a legacy by transparently grasping at the new and functionally begging for validation. And someone like Ice Cube ultimately becomes your grandmother's soup, something that you used to love but just don't have the appetite for any longer.

This process--I believe that some call it aging--wouldn't be so difficult to endure were the older tastes being naturally replaced by appealing newer variations and previously unseen ingredients. But in a commercial hip-hop landscape in which imitation of what sells is not flattery but the widespread business model, we're left going from one mediocre restaurant to another and being served the same food with a different name. And no matter where we sit down, we're left dissatisfied. People move to cities like New York because of the variety, something seen in the myriad eating options. No one would ever argue that it's better to only have five governing styles that effectively force us to eat one of them at all times, but sadly, that's sort of what newjack hip-hop has become: you might call your rice one thing or another, but at the end of the day, it's only gonna be brown (studio thuggery), white (minimalism), fried (Southern synthesizer rap), wild (West Coast throwbacks), or basmati (Northeast street-hop). Only poor Asian farmers can eat that much rice for so long.

But, I could also be wrong. It might just be me. Perhaps I am expecting too much, spoiled to the point that I demand to be blown away lest I find the nourishment to be inadequate. It's possible that I wrongly cling to the sensations of tasting A Tribe Called Quest for the first time, of walking down the street harmlessly mean-mugging while devouring a Wu-Tang track, of lounging around and savoring the intricacies of a Jay Dee beat construction. Or maybe I have been beaten into submission by the endless procession of shit that mainstream radio passes off as good music. Pardon me for not being excited about Cassie and Young Buck. Maybe the fine dining has wrongly skewed what I'll accept as adequate. But, The Listening, College Dropout, Fishscale, Game Theory--I was really into all of these. It's not like the thrill is permanently gone.

And yet, I can't help but think that it is mostly hard to find. Lots of what I consume is notable, or good enough, or interesting enough, but so rarely these days do you get your hands on something that just makes you elated and awed. But again, maybe that's just me.

- Jay-Z, "30 Something"
I think that this song epitomizes why I dislike this current incarnation of Jay-Z. The beat is lazy, innocuous but boring; the rhymes are again about how he's become a CEO, the usual array of high-class references and imagery; and the flow is ultra-cool, something that isn't his fault but is nonetheless grating. Promote some fucking artists and stop rapping! Oh you have a black card? You smoke Cubans and own a nightclub? Wow, haven't heard that shit before. The repetition wouldn't be so bad if this were his second album, but it's not. And rhyming "ice grill" and "nice girls" is a candidate for lamest rhyme of the year. For real.

I gave this album a cursory listen, so I don't think I have a real sense of it yet. But from what I heard, I was unimpressed by the beats. Not Dre's or Kanye's or Just's best work. And I think that at this point, with her grating tone, transparent career moves, unengaging music, and horrible enunciation, Beyonce is effectively dead to me.

- Snoop Dogg ft. Dr. Dre and D'Angelo "Imagine"
Another album I've only listened to once.

This is a song that should be ending Detox, because if Detox ever comes out and ever turns out to be a worthy successor to the Chronic records, this would be a fitting conclusion to a trilogy. I think I am projecting, but I like this introspective, almost mournful Dre--it reflects all of the drama that has left him a legend and a recluse. And the enduring youthfulness and smoothness of Snoop's voice, juxtaposed with Dre's simple flow and heavy voice, leave Snoop sounding like the apprentice that he started as, a compelling G-Funk interpolation of the Greek rhetorical circle.

- Raekwon, "Hard to Tell"
As stated above, I don't even know how to classify this Raekwon Heroin Only mixtape. I mean, is it "new"? It doesn't sound like it. It sounds like every other mixtape we've heard from Rae during the endless purgatory of the impending Cuban Linx II release. Free the Chef!

The image of Raekwon "lampin' in the Hamptons" while selling drugs is an amusing one. I see dude in billowing white linens, waking up at noon, ambling down to the end of his driveway, making a few transactions disguised as pounds with passers-by on the street, and then strolling back to his house while reading the newspaper. I think this means that I watch Sopranos too much.

- Papoose ft. AZ and Kool G Rap, "Thug Connection"
So what if the beat is like a Terminator version of the A-Team theme song? It's kind of fun to just listen to these dudes play with language. And Kool G Rap, much like Big Daddy Kane, remains so much better than nearly everyone else. He kind of sons Papoose, something worthy of comment given that Papoose is the dude currently trying to wow crowds with the unrelenting, thugged-out, G Rap New York flow.

- KRS-One, "My Life"
Another MC from the Time That Man Forgot. KRS stopped being cool about a decade ago and basically became the pedantic butt of numerous jokes at some point since his fall off. But the Doom-sounding beat and the easy reminiscence both make this shit the sort of song you don't mind rocking as you ride the subway, passing in an out of thought as you plow through The New Yorker.

- AZ ft. Fresh, "Make Me"
You know how Bun B basically laces any and every song with a guest verse? Well, when he can't, this dude Fresh fills in. Don't they kind of sound similar? This beat is the epitome of the AZ sound--an easy-to-listen-to, repetitive sample that keeps the song moving along and nicely complements AZ's always sharp flow. It can't ever be said enough: dude is so seriously deserving of true success. I thought Henry did a nice job of reviewing the new AZ record.

It's Ohio State Week

And that means that Schembechler Hall will be on and poppin'. It also means that the many manifestations of Buckeye stupidity will be in wide circulation. Witness:

Too Good to Be Made Up

Looks like a real WASP-out

In this week's Sports Illustrated, the Golf Plus section, as is customary, conducted a Top-100 poll in which it asked Golf Magazine's Top-100 teachers a pressing question about the PGA Tour. This week, it was, "Did Tiger Woods have an obligation to play in the Tour Championship?" 57% said yes, 43% said no. But who cares about that? The interesting thing was the sample quotation offered along with the survey:

"I can't believe Tiger put himself in Phil's class, which is not a good one to be in." -- Mike Perpich, Riverpines Golf

Murked.

Are you kdding me?! That is ridiculous. Some no-name club teacher had no problem saying that about Phil Mickelson in the most-read sports magazine in the country? SO phenomenal.

Sometimes life just skips the lemons and serves up lemonade, a lounge chair, and an hj.

It's Morning in America

The first Indian-American to win a U.S. Senate campaign

I realize that I'm writing this about a day later than I should be, but that's just how it goes when your job pwns the rest of your life.

Anyway...the title above says it all, even if it is stolen from the rhetoric of one of the most despicable people in American history (not an overstatement). I woke up yesterday and read the news without an uncomfortable sense of dread for the first time in about six years. I called my mother, the embodiment of uncorrupted liberalism, and discussed politics with earnest glee, not the bemused schadenfreude facsimile that we had to salvage from the cavalcade of Congressional embarrassments which arose amidst the constant dismay. I, at least for a little while, wasn't horribly cynical. Americans can do stuff now!

The best result, of course, is the defeat of George Allen. I'd put Rick Santorum's ouster in that rarified space as well, because both are instances in which the public rejected hate-mongers. But unlike Santorum, George Allen was sort of funny in his ignorance, and now that he's unemployed, he can finally launch the talk show I've been advocating that he pursue since he referred to an Indian-American with a racial slur invented for black people by the French. That kind of jumbled hatred and idiocy needs a home on cable television, where one's whims can't lead to laws that affect everyone's lives. Thank you, S.R. Sidarth, for being so macaca-ish. You derailed a presidential aspirant, won an election for the Democrats, and unintentionally created one of the most indelible moments in recent political history. Kudos.

I don't know how long this happy relief will last--I mean, I'm already worried that the Democrats took back Congressional power simply by not being Warlord George Walter Bush and will now accomplish little. And I am not naive or partisan enough to look past the fact that with power come scrutiny and opportunities to fail in ways that will allows journalists to frame the next election cycle. I get all that, and I get that this new ruling majority is not the ruling majority I would have picked in a fantasy league. I mean, gun-loving, crusty-ass Jim Webb is not the kind of guy I want to ride with. Abortion-hating Bob Casey is not my homeboy. And we already have established just how much I dislike do-everything, say-anything Gary Payton Hillary Clinton.

But it's a start. And it's hope. It's hope that we can get back to being a country in which the shades of gray are explored on our journey away from the myopic, binary nature of recent black-and-white political discourse; that we can again follow sensible economic policies that don't freely drive up debt that gets bought by competitor states; that we start to make the right choices about energy and the environment, looking to create more of the former and protect more of the latter; that we protect the Constitution; that we demonstrate collective compassion for those who need help.

In less abstract terms, let's talk about what a realistic goal in the Middle East should be, instead of just shouting down anyone who doesn't agree with our bumbling President. And let us not immediately congregate around the ideological pole that would suggest an immediate pull-out; that's a disaster waiting to happen. Let's finally start to tackle healthcare issues and figure out a way to insure people--is the Massachusetts system something with national implications? Let's do away with mandatory testing if it is handicapping teachers--I've yet to talk to a single one who thinks No Child Left Behind is a good idea. Let's invest in renewable energy, eliminate tax incentives for gas-guzzling cars, enforce clean-air laws that punish egregious polluters. Let's follow Chuck Schumer's lead and pay renewed attention to job-training programs that might empower the poor and the rehabilitated. Let's get back to seeking ways to keep automatic weapons out of circulation.

There is so much to do.

And most importantly, let us not rest upon the fleeting joy of a victory. The Democrats finally won something, now they have to demonstrate why it was a good outcome for the country.

Consider Me Impressed

Not bad, huh?

Brief Election Day Miscellany

Please repudiate this man's war of terror and all of his other horribly misguided ideas today:


- The Game ft. Jim Jones, Snoop Dogg, Nas, T.I., Fat Joe, Lil' Wayne, Nore, Jadakiss, Styles P, Fabolous, Juelz Santana, Rick Ross, Twista, Kurupt, Daz, WC, E-40, Bun B, Chamillionaire, Slim Thug, Young Dro, Clipse, Ja Rule, "One Blood (Remix)"
What. The. Fuck. This isn't even a good song, but are you kidding me?!

- This was Steve Francis in the first quarter last night:


By the fourth quarter, as the Knicks tried to come back against the Spurs, he was in the crowd, wearing his street clothes, cheering. Had he not twisted his ankle, he could have run to the showers even faster. Knicks basketball, the feel good story of the year!

- Nothing in recent times was more hurtful than Peyton Manning beating Tom Brady on Sunday night. After a Knicks championship, a Michigan championship, and a Tiger major victory, the things I most root for in sports are a Peyton Manning failure, a Phil Mickelson failure, and for a meteor to crash into the state of Ohio and wipe it off the face of the earth.

- Isn't it kind of ironic that a program entitled Prison Break has been much better since it stopped having anything to do with prison?

Music for a Monday

Dre, this is just like that one Cube song--"...lookin' in mirror, not a jacker in sight." Oh, that was my jam!

- The Game ft. Kanye West, "Wouldn't Get Far"

Do you know what the last thing The Game says on his new album is? It's this:

"Make me wanna call 50 and let him know what's on my mind
But I just hold back, 'cuz we ain't beefin' like that
He ain't Big, I ain't Pac
And we just eatin' off rap.
One love."

If an artist has ever better summed up his entire professional essence in four lines, I haven't seen it: He is seriously introspective about that which has past yet simultaneously so concerned with external perception that he knows better than to believe his own hype. He links himself to the titans of hip-hop whom star as the objects of veneration in nearly every one of his verses and again relents before attempting to earnestly take a seat at their table. He reflects upon the bitter vituperation of true rivalry but mocks the beef in which he invested so much of himself and to which he tethered so much of his identity. He elevates the emotional significance of his public life only to tellingly declare it a mere profession.

Really, it's a perfectly absurd blend of the engaging and the pathetic, the humorous and the infuriating, the smart and the idiotic. And that's Game, a misguided talent who is not nearly as great as he'd like to think; not nearly as bad as you'd like to think; and, at his core, an overgrown child who never figured out how to leave behind his heroes and define himself.

His new album, Doctor's Advocate, is a sonic cathedral which he erects so that he can worship the musical deities to whom Game has devoted the piece of his life that we all know. He even says it at the opening of the record, declaring himself to be "the motherfucking messiah of gangsta rap" by the end of the second couplet. You don't say that unless you've studied your theology and are living the spiritual principles. Obviously, Game is both in the throes of an identity crisis and also a manipulative name-dropper at the same time. He doesn't seem to really know who he is, yet he does know how to make an audience talk and grin with fleeting delight as its gets let in on the references he's making. His schtick would be even more curiously intriguing were it not already wholly predictable, as unforeseen as an ill-advised Marbury jumper. You always know what you're getting in a Game verse; it's enduring, limited appeal is that of a formulaic sitcom: it's not fresh, but whatever amusement it provides stems from a proven formula.

And so you listen as The Game invokes the D.O.C. and Ice Cube; Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg; Eazy-E and NWA; an assortment of other notable hip-hop names, labels, trends, places, and topics, all the while picturing some grown-ass man waking up every day in a bedroom adorned with posters of black men wearing Raiders hats and standing in front of vintage convertibles. You might even see this guy putting on some undershirt and a flannel buttoned only at the top before standing at the mirror, running through a recitation of "Straight Outta Compton" or "Real Muthaphukkkin' G's," and then "bouncing" off to some concrete backyard to play dominoes with a jheri-curled, pacifier-sucking, wheelchair-bound dude named Chris. That would be a great day in whichever realm The Game inhabits--perhaps the set of Falling Down.


Probably my favorite beef record ever. This is goin' out to you studio gangsters.

And when everyday in your world is pretty much Los Angeles circa 1992, you can't help but make the music of your time: The album's most interesting stroke of creativity--which you can assume to be either an unintended quirk, as I have, or, more generously, a subtly cool homage to the past--is that it is sequenced and produced to sound like a classic West Coast album. Reality intrudes upon Game's blissful Anachronisma, Population: Him long enough for some of the sounds to be updated (and for the producer names to change to things like "Kanye West"), but it really is a remarkable throwback in some ways. There's the prickling, slightly off-set opening track that blends warm-up raps with breezy vocals; the synth-driven melodies and accompanying choruses sung in harmony; the slow-paced, electronic homages to Parliament; Tha Dogg Pound; and even Nate Dogg.

Were that not enough, the newer stuff and the decidedly "East Coast" songs can't really outrun the past, either: We have a Public Enemy rip-off; a Will.i.am-produced collabo that sounds like a bastardized collage of "Mama Said Know You Out" and "Stakes Is High"; and a Swizz Beatz track that sounds like everything else he's made for about five years, at least.

What's funny is that though not the widely appealing production showpiece that was his debut, The Documentary, Game's new joint is worth a listen or two for even the biggest haters (like me). The Kanye track knocks; there are songs to ride around to; and Game, of course, does his thing.

A notable facet of Game's lyrical, er, game is that he is not only extremely proficient at lacing together customized interpolations of standard hip-hop topics and rhymes (gang banging, slutting, brand-driven aesthetic descriptions, etc.), but the guy is also smart in his own way. Game is able to string along topical references that indicate a level of external cognition that you rarely hear from someone like Young Jeezy, who is too busy finding ways to rhyme about crack.

The Game also flows well, though uniquely--he unleashes this macho, slightly clumsy, bludgeoning lyrical wave that serves to construct a facade of supremacy. As he flows, The Game would have you believe that he is a god-body MC and gang-banger, and he seems to believe it as he rips through tracks. Sometimes, you almost stop listening to the actual words and just behold this emerging personality--you project all that you know about Game and his bullshit beefs and manic mood swings onto this rapping template that presents itself. And it's fun for a moment. But then it goes away, not least of all because he really suffers when he has to slow things down. That's when the narratives get corny and he loses some of the energy that makes his verses palatable. That's also when you remember that he isn't spitting much more than self-indulgent grandiosity and falls back on the functional equivalent of listing his favorite records when he runs out of ideas.

Doctor's Advocate is both distinguished and generic, inviting and boring--but an oxymoronic description is exactly what you'd expect for a Game record, no? I mean, the guy has yet to figure out if he's succeeding his idols or just sweatin' them, you know?

- Nas, "The N"
Is this gonna be on his new album? The one he says he's taking to the clubs? It sounds like he took this track to the high-school band concert.

I will never tire of hearing Nas flow, but I gotta say that the dude is teetering on the verge of lyrical annoyance--these days, he spits a lot of verses about what he consumes and still being good at the rap.

- The Clipse ft. Pharrell, "New World"
Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon always say of certain athletes that they are best seen, not heard. That's how I feel about Pharrell at this point. He needs to stay behind the boards and, uh, shut up. This singing shit was cute about three or four years ago. Not now.

There aren't many rappers who could make this dreary, distorted beat work, but Malice and Pusha T are the two leading candidates. When your entire construct is about the most bleak shit possible--crack as "diet coke," prison--it just sort of makes sense.

Really feelin' this.

NBA League Pass: Week One

What's smoother than silk?

- Dirk's hair is in an awkward transition phase, not short enough for him to symbolize wide-eyed German youth, an iconic look of his earlier years (rock that earring, yo!), and not long enough to run with Karl as a member of the Hans Gruber crew:


Better hair, worse jumper

- "Speaking" of Dallas, Dee Brown and Kiki Vandeweghe used Saturday's NBA Fastbreak as a platform from which they launched a potential ESPN Stupid Meme of the Week: Is it panic time for Dallas? They're 0-2! They've lost six games in a row dating back to last season! Mark Cuban can't join the huddle! People are upset with President Bush! The Cowboys lost in bizarre, last-second fashion! It's a state of emergency in Dallas! Or maybe they've lost to the best team in the Lig (San Antonio) and one of the ten best on the road (Houston). And maybe Jason Terry and Devin Harris have given them nothing so far. 80--EIGHTY!--games to go, though.

- The Bucks are on the cusp of becoming my third favorite team, behind just the Brickers (no explanation required) and the Rockets (TMac + Jeff = Love). Redd's release; Bogut's bra-strap head gear; Villanueva's versatility; the fast pace; Ruben Patterson's nightly demonstrative emotional rollercoaster--just an entertaining outfit.

- Joe Johnson is gonna have a huge year, as he's become, arguably, one of the five or six most complete offensive players in the NBA. He has range; he has the intermediate pull-up jumper; he has the penetration; he has the handle; he has the size; and he has the vision. Kobe and LeBron have more skills, but after that, you'd have a hard time making a strong argument that someone else is as lethal as Johnson. Wade is more explosive and a crunch-time superstar; Vince has more talent and hops; and Pierce is better at the off-balance shots and the runners. But whom else can put it all together like Johnson can? His long-range shooting is more consistent than Dwyane's, his mid-range game is better than Vince's, and he forces much less than Pierce. Only Arenas comes to mind, and he's significantly smaller than Johnson. Joe has also become incredibly patient--he slices up defenses without forcing much. Against the Knicks and the Magic, he just methodically picked the spots when he would assert himself while penetrating and dishing, posting up on the wing to run the offense, and keeping his teammates involved. Plus, he makes it all look effortless and he's been great at marauding in the passing lanes.

- The Knicks cannot defend a pick-and-roll--nor much else, really--to save their lives. And Stephon looks lost on offense. Although, the whole offense looks lost on offense. It's like Tommy Amaker is coaching them.

- Welcome back, Carlos Boozer.

- I saw my two favorite local-area commercials while watching Dallas vs. Houston on DVR today: one for Tylock LASIK eye surgery, featuring an empowering and emotional little ditty; and another for Taco Bueno, some wannabe Taco Bell chain that doesn't exist anywhere that I've ever been. In the Bueno spot, some Rex Kwon Do-style goofball squirts salsa in his eye and freaks out thanks to the searing pain. It sound idiotic and lame, but that's the origin of its appeal--it's so stupid and perfectly emblematic of the derivative "creativity" that is celebrated by the local feeds that NBA League Pass affords us. Talk about your all-time great inventions. And to be fair to the Taco Bueno marketing staff, this is their clientele:



- What's the over/under on Roscoe technicals this year? I'll say 35. It's a shame that he's such a mess, too, because he remains sublimely gifted. In the fourth quarter against Memphis, he was sonning people in the paint, where he needs to be more often. Overall, the Pistons look OK so far, but it's jarring not seeing Ben Wallace out there with them. After getting lit up by Milwaukee, they held Boston and Memphis under 90, so the defense may not be all that broken, but Wallace was the symbol of the organization, and more literally, he was always easy to find on the floor. As a new-jack Pistons fan who got into them when he went to college and the franchise was divorcing itself from the Grant Hill era and building toward a title, first with Stack and then with the group we now all know, I was always a Wallace fan. The Pistons whom I know are the Wallace Pistons. It will take some time to adjust.

- Kevin Martin looks like a child who just wandered out of the stands and onto the floor. I don't know why, but it's hard to take him seriously.

- This may owe to the 55-odd games that he missed last year, but Larry Hughes doesn't look comfortable (yet?) playing with LeBron James. James can dominate possession of the ball, either driving, shooting, or dishing. And he use a lot of his touches to kick out to Donyell Marshall and Damon Jones, or to set up Z and Varejao for lay-ups, or to drive and create open space for Drew Gooden, either inside or in the intermediate space. This doesn't seem to work for Hughes, who isn't a spot-up shooter and usually needs the ball in his hands if he's gonna score. There are too many possessions when he seems lost running around the perimeter, forgotten standing in a corner, or useless staring out at the action from the wing. Even worse, he'll often bring the ball up the floor, hand it off to James or a PG, and then go on to nothing. There is so little purpose in his activity.

Some of this is Hughes's fault, as he rarely cuts through the middle without the ball and usually looks for a clear-out. It's pretty lazy, to be honest, and it hurts to write that since I love Hughes. But I also don't understand what Mike Brown thinks he's doing--why doesn't he have plays for Hughes? Why hasn't he tried to figure out what Hughes and LeBron can do together? I think it owes to the fact that they're fundamentally incompatable players. LeBron, unquestionably, has great vision and is a wonderful passer. But he's also a god-body scorer whose passing skills are so pronounced because they augment an unstoppable offensive array. Were he a smaller, lesser athlete, his passing would be no less valuable but far easier to defend. Hughes just isn't LeBron, though: he can't be a lead scorer. His jumper is streaky, he doesn't finish in the lane consistently enough, and he can't score in such a variety of ways. In Washington, he had many opportunities to penetrate because he and Arenas shared turns handling the ball, and the constant motion made it hard for a defense to fixate on his drives. This success, of course, emboldened him when shooting his jumper, which he'd hit while hanging and while pulling up as he drove into the middle around the free-throw line. In Cleveland, where the offense is much more stagnant and LeBron is such a dominant presence, Hughes looks lost. And wasted.

I don't know what the remedy is. Something as simple as a regular give-and-go with James might get Hughes into the paint and to the free-throw line more often. Maybe LeBron backing a man down and drawing a double team that Hughes could exploit by crashing into the paint might also make sense. At least he'd start to find a rhythm. Maybe Larry just has to get in the gym and become a better shooter. Whatever it is, Cleveland has to do something, because they need a true second scorer on the outside, and Hughes is the only man on that roster who could ever dream of filling that role. It's a test that Brown and Hughes and, more importantly, James all have to pass.

The Ancillary Benefits Are Great

It's not just the basketball that's back--it's the commercials: