50 Never Sounded So Good

Remix of the year:

Charles Barkley Pwns Religious Right and Wolf Blitzer

(HT: Breitbart)

Charles Barkley is a smart dude, so it's almost a non-sequitur that I am asking this question, but at this point, is there anyone who doesn't make Wolf Blitzer look like an idiot? Have you seen a more humorless, reverent fool? Chuckles gives him that priceless real talk and Blitzer's best response is a timid, nervous "But Charles...." I am embarrassed for the Blitzer family and, of course, for CNN, where nothing is fun and the race to the bottom can't happen fast enough. The two-row, eight-person, in-studio Super Tuesday pundit panel was almost a self-parody, but this may have that beat.

Music for a Monday: Ignorance Is Bliss in Vegas

Grab around your ankles.

Amidst the gyrating silicone and the frosted-tipped douche bags in shirts that weren't buttoned up quite enough, one enduring truth emerged this weekend in Vegas: the Ying Yang Twins' "Salt Shaker" is among the greatest club records ever made. And it gets short shrift.

Spend a weekend night in a typical club, packed with liquored-up floozies and jerkoffs, and you'll hear all kinds of music: a Timbaland hit du jour; Justin Timberlake and the Clipse; 50; "Lean Back"; rock songs "remixed" over hip-hop drums; hits of the 80s; some of that generic fringe-of-the-Top-40 electonica; a Biggie verse thrown over a "random" beat that the DJ is proud of himself for thinking of; etc. You're also assured of the Lil' Jon catalogue, replete with a roster of his known associates. Invariably, this means you'll hear "Get Low"--either in its original form or remixed with Elephant Man spouting off in gibberish--and some other songs that always make me think I'm hearing "Snap Yo Fingers." And this is good for the Ying Yang Twins, who need drunk people to continue favoring that southern club shit. After all, it is fun to dance to.

But in its lofty status as a stock club record that makes people jump around, with men happily mean mugging and women feigning incredulity at the invocation of the word "skeet," "Get Low" has placed a glass ceiling on other Ying Yang offerings. Yes, you might serendipitously enjoy a spinning of "Wait," although that record's shelf life appears to have abruptly ended. Even fewer and farther between are the times when you'll get "Badd" in all its lowest-common-denominator glory (You want this money? Then you gotta be a bad bitch....) And "Shalt Shaker"? Largely ignored, commonly left to collect dust.

This is a travesty, a loss for the common culture of bacchanalia. For starters, it has everything you'd want from a song best enjoyed around 2 AM: a heavy bounce loop, courtesy of some keyboardist's left hand; bubbling filler; flute flourishes; easily exaggerated ad libs (haaaaaahhhhh!); Lil' Jon yelling; and a tempo that is ideal for everything from a simple two-step to a more involved double-time routine. Second, it's unabashedly sexual, with the unembarrassed rhymes and similes serving to defuse the meaning of the content even as the words are deployed specifically to amplify the mood. It's a wonderful paradox enjoyed by only a select group of songs, with "Back That Azz Up," fueled by a widespread fraternity conspiracy, standing as another notable example. And third, the song is differentiated by its exceptional utility, as "Salt Shaker" is incredibly instructive. Is there anything ambiguous about "Face the wall, shorty/Put your hands on it/Bounce that ass up and down/Make a n***a want it"? Like Short said, let Bruce Bruce hit it, indeed.

This is all information to keep in mind the next time you're preparing for a Saturday night out.

Some other things about Las Vegas:

- Seriously, more cleavage than this season's Survivor cast. It's weird.

- I'd never done it before, but I can now report that there is, indeed, something very cool about attending a big boxing match in person.

- It felt good to look at a dude in his Notre Dame fleece and dismissively say, "Hey, 3-9. Nice." Even better to walk away and leave him to simply mutter "fucker" under his breath.

- I met Rafer Alston, who was pleased that I knew him as "Skip" and unimpressed by Jason Kapono's victory in the three-point shootout.

- Ying Yang Twins, "Salt Shaker"

Evolution, Now in High-School Curricula and Still Photos

And one video (which is just about obligatory):



Skeets got it right, btw: the Superman is an iconic image, but that backboard tap dunk was the most amazing.

Year Three Is in the Books

I was traveling all day, but uh, yeah...Straight Bangin' is now a three-year-old.

Who Fucking Cares?

FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO WRITE ABOUT.

Music for a Monday: Inside My Mind, Couldn't Find a Place to Rest

An all-time great.

Upon reflection, we usually like our rap music to have meant something. Colleges hold symposiums about Public Enemy records. Students quote NWA lyrics to demonstrate rebellion in pop culture. We hail Run-DMC for introducing hard-rock guitars to popular hip-hop. Rakim is cited not just for the inherent value of his music but for the enduring impact he has made on verse construction. And so forth.

There's nothing wrong with this, of course. It's natural; everything needs context. Superlatives like "greatest" or "best" or "most" are fun to consider, and they're hard to confer without quasi-objective criteria. And so we talk about political impact, cultural embodiment, musical innovation. You can trace hip-hop quotables.

It's harder to capture emotion, of course. How can you accurately attribute smiles, or measure head nods? There is no metric for "it just makes me feel good" or "that's my favorite shit to throw on as I lounge around my home." And these limitations to the methods we commonly employ to chart music in some way speak to the excellence of James Yancey's contribution to hip-hop. Fair or not, he usually isn't discussed among the historic titans of the genre, and some part of that owes to an inability to demonstrate his meaning using the regular rap metrics. But to pretend as though he wasn't and still isn't a towering figure, to neglect his transcendence, is to accept a lazy failure of imagination and comprehension.

Above all else, Jay Dee meant something. His music meant something. It still does. And, it means something unique.

It was two years ago yesterday that Yancey, whom we all call Jay Dee or J Dilla, passed away, leaving behind both a void and a bounty. There was no one who made beats like Dilla could. He was adept at everything from gritty, understated bass and drums to intricate, loud electronic collages. And though there were traits common enough to his work to have forged a true Detroit sound since extended by cats like Black Milk, Jay's singular place in music remains unfilled. But that circumstance may not be tragic. His passing was, of course, but the inability of anyone to assume his position is a fitting reminder of just how distinct he was, and his music, which I still count among my favorite, is further proof.

Jay's music was timeless and worthy of inclusion in discussions of rap's best. No description of its elements can do it justice because so often, there were nuances that made his beats personal, engaging, and different in a way that a clean sample or a perfect synth just are not. And most important, Dilla enabled great hip-hop. You can take a great producer, have him throw together a stellar beat, and wind up with a horrible song if the rapping sounds bad or the MC can't catch the beat. But you can also get something distinct that makes the rappers lucky enough to rhyme over it better. It can inspire them, it can suit them, it can complement their strengths in a way that makes the whole far greater than the sum of its parts. That, to me, is a testament to great production, and as previously noted, I'm not sure we have calibrated anything that will measure such an important quality.

But it exists, and Dilla commanded it. Q-Tip, Common, Busta, De La, Slum, the Roots, Talib--so many MCs have sounded extraordinary over Dilla beats. And accordingly, so many works that emanated from this slight cat out of Detroit--the one whose favorite raps were about everyday shit and who always sounded like he was just having fun--became classics. Slum Village's Fantastic, Vol. 2 is an entire album of that magic. And if we want to pigeonhole Dilla using our conventional measurements, here's one: that Slum record is among the five best rap records of this millennium.

But it seems foolish to write something so declarative, no matter how right it is, because as I noted, Dilla's music is not about an easy ordering or evaluation. It is about moments--the way your mouth drops with excitement when you hear the piano that opens "Thelonius"; the satisfied nods of affirmation as Dave and Pos work through "Stakes Is High" and you realize just how incredible that song is; the playful, exaggerated mean-mugging that comes with a spacey Frank-n-Dank track. It's about throwing on Dilla in your car as you ride around, or in your house as you clear up, or on the subway as you settle in for a 30-minute ride, and suddenly realizing that the music is so captivating and colorful. It's about the ineffable something that pulses through your body as you bob along to the beats giddy with the satisfaction that you're listening to real hip-hop.

That is the Dilla legacy: the man made the truest rap music. And, more than that, his music made you feel good. That's why his passing was tragic. A genius of rap was taken from us, and with him went too much of that ol' boom bap. Not a day goes by when I don't smile in appreciation of his music but also pause to acknowledge that I miss him. Jay Dee was not political like Public Enemy, not a cultural symbol like NWA, not a landmark style originator like Run-DMC, and not a hip-hop forbearer like Rakim. But he was no less great, because Jay Dee made the real rap music that real rap fans will always cherish. That feeling defies our systems of measure, but it is no less significant.

RIP, James Yancey. We are diminished in your absence.

- Slum Village, "Keep it On"

- Slum Village, "CB4"

- Common, "It's Your World"

Choose Something Better

Make this happen.

Full disclosure: I was going to vote for John Edwards. Had he not dropped out, I was going to vote for a man whom I think is decent; whom I admire for admitting mistakes (though Russell Feingold makes a strong case against the Edwards method of contrition); and whom rightly stands up for the helpless and demands that we do more for people whom we've failed thanks to our horrible schools, lazy economic practices, and broken health care system. There should be nothing wrong with speaking those truths.

Yet there apparently is, and Edwards is gone. We Democrats are instead left with Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, but I will stop short of calling this a "choice to make" because that implies that there is a significant reason to choose one only after considering his or her merits relative to the other. That's misleading, as there is no choice. If you're a Democrat and you want to see this country move forward, move back to something better, you should only be thinking about Barry O.

In the plainest terms possible, here's why Hillary Clinton is not an option for any progressive: she offers no promise of progress. Hilary Clinton is an exiled oligarch awaiting return from political purgatory. Yes, she chose (the path of least resistance required) to become a senator, and yes, she has "served" (herself) in the interim since her husband left the White House. But from the moment she sought elected office, everyone who knows anything about politics has counted down the days until she formed an exploratory committee. Christ, in these intervening years, she and her husband have happily presided over a fracturing of the party, with their beloved DLC always at the center of some nuanced intra-party squabbling. And everything about her candidacy smacks of a retread. Hillary is running for President while fighting old fights using old tactics and relying on old allies. Were she to be sworn in as our next chief executive, she'd be bringing with her a cast of characters that believes it left under ignominy and has unfairly suffered through nearly a decade of revisionist history and the undoing of its legacy. Voting for Hillary is like voting for the 90s to come back.

A popular retort is that she's changed. And she has. She conspicuously started wearing a cross at times when the prevailing political wisdom said that "values voters" were the critical faction deciding America's governors. She changed when she started hedging on abortion, emphasizing what a hard choice it is. She changed her demeanor and publicly cried twice in advance of crucial votes when she felt that it would drum up sympathy votes. Hillary does change, but not due to better education or honest reflection. She changes when polls tell her she should, and she has allowed that sort of wisdom to dominate her decision making because she and her husband care about their own well being to the exclusion of seemingly everything else. Hillary Clinton can execute those carefully scripted guffaws and those honest-sounding promises all she wants, but no keen observer can possibly trust her.

Let's say it again: she will not remain committed to change. Bill didn't, either. Give him credit for the economy and whatever else you will, but do not overlook that Bill, with Hillary in lockstep, got to the White House riding a tide of liberal promise, took a moment to find his footing, and then made a mad dash toward the center. With that move came some positives, like expanded trade agreements. But the price that liberals, that progressives, that Democrats paid was high. Can anyone recall the last time Democrats stood up for something? Can anyone remember when Democrats last used their power to convince America of something? To champion a cause? To defend Liberal values? If you can't, you're not alone, and it owes in large part to a leadership that has spent so many recent years having things taken from it and calling that compromise. Bill Clinton would piss in your ear, tell you it was raining, and bang your wife so long as he remained in charge. Hillary would watch, nodding in approval. She'd then do something like authorize a failed war and never admit to having committed an error. That's the kind of person she is, and that's what people think augurs for change?

Barack is not a perfect candidate. He won't commit to universal health care; he talks about religion an awful lot for a lawyer who should better understand the Establishment Clause; he seems proud of his willingness to look past genuine misdeeds of the Republicans for which they should be held accountable. That's troubling. But not as troubling as Hillary Clinton's transparent pandering, obvious manipulations, and frustrating record of failure to stand up for principles she espouses when around the right audiences. Not as troubling as Hillary's baggage. And depictions of Barack, unlike Hillary, are drawn from a seemingly bottomless well of grassroots anecdotes that validate his commitment to progressive values, to altruism, to change.

And that's why there is no choice for Democrats today. It's Barry O or bust.

Let's get it!

Bucket Blogging: An Emotionally Difficult Day for Us Both

Buckets say: not not gay.

N.B: The following is courtesy of erstwhile Straight Bangin' contributor The Buckets, my sister. She dug herself out of the Midwest winter to get worked up and slap off a kufi. Enjoy. - Joey

This is really hard for me.

I was once one of “Sports Guy” Bill Simmons’s biggest fans. I was there from the start, even remembering when he was still known through the site www.bostonsportsguy.net. My support persisted despite taunts from naysayers who would deride him with things like, “He says basketball is his favorite sport and he doesn’t know anything about it!” I loved the Friday posts and lived for mid-week mailbags. (Peep my personal all-time favorite mailbag from July 25, 2003.) Running diaries--regardless of the event--were always a treat. (My favorite running diary can be found here: ; and a close second.) Bill and I even shared some of the greatest moments of television history together: we relished the first seven episodes of The OC back in August 2003, and we lived through the Coral-Mike (a.k.a. Miz) Real World/Road Rules Challenge dynasty together. (Let’s also not forget the wonderful Rachel-Veronica duo! Oh, the days....) It was a glorious era. I even stuck by him when he became a writer for the Jimmy Kimmel Show back when it started. We were a match made in heaven. At least we were in 2003.

Bill did so much more for sports life than turn me into an avid Sports Guy reader. I became obsessed with the Daily Quickie; I was pretty familiar with the Page 2 columnists from 2002-2005; and his basketball commentary really helped my Virtual GM game. He helped propel me into becoming, what I like to believe was, a legitimate sports fan. Because he did so much for me (not to mention TOTALLY boosting my street cred with my brother’s older friends and my own high-school-aged male friends), nearly vomiting from reading his Super Bowl XLII column was disturbing to say the least.

Looking back, I suppose we all knew, on some level, that Sports Guy was over in 2005 when, in typical ESPN overdoing-it fashion (e.g., 90-minute SportsCenter), his domain on Page 2 was expanded from the twice-a-week system to the “Sports Guy’s World” I’ve come to know and disdain. His increased production resulted in recycled jokes and mediocre articles. As he became a brand name with a book tour, his humorous, smart voice lost its warm authenticity. He became a shell of his former clever, irreverent self.

(I’d also like to note that had the Red Sox remained World Series-less, Sports Guy could have remained a force for longer. Who is he if not a brooding Red Sox fan?)

In the name of full disclosure, I should tell you that my Sports Guy reading has really waned over the last two years. Partially for lack of interest because I no longer play fantasy sports, but more so because I can't let my warm feelings for Bill be completely erased by the modern era of low-level mediocrity. I read him occasionally, but definitely not regularly. However, today was a special occasion. One of his beloved teams endured a horrible defeat. How could I not read what he had to say?

Well, I went to his column and was greeted with more of the same. None of it was too noteworthy. Then, I came to #2 on his cute little list of eight things he will forever remember about yesterday’s game(emphasis added):

2. Speaking of Brady, if the Patriots had finished 19-0, I planned to start my column with a scene from the Patriots' postgame party. Through some mutual friends (people I forced to talk to me), I had arranged to hang out with Brady's crew for what promised to be a laid-back celebration in somebody's hotel room, probably no more than 15-20 people since Brady's circle is surprisingly and refreshingly small because everyone was horrified when Mitt Romney gave him a personal shout out pre-Super Bowl. Because it was a rare chance to catch Brady in an unguarded moment -- and an important moment at that in which I could blow him-- I spent most of Friday and Saturday thinking about that first paragraph and all the different ways it could start how I could steal him from Gisele. I kept seeing Brady sitting in a chair with his right ankle encased in ice, quietly sipping a bottle of champagne with a satisfied smile on his face…

WHAT THE FUCK????????????????????

Okay, a lot of people love Tom Brady. He is the undeniably greatest dreamboat to end all dreamboats. My two roommates and I spent at least five minutes per quarter of the Super Bowl discussing how incredibly hot he is, especially in football pants and when he's all sweaty. But Bill Simmons is staging a gay out for him. Where is the cheeky irreverence, SG? Bill completely gives up his trademark voice, instead becoming a sycophant. But moreover, have you ever heard a grown man and generally respected sports writer sound more like a high-school freshman girl about to attend a cool senior guy’s party? (A party at which she’d probably be taken advantage of, possibly drugged.) Sports Guy has not only lost his voice, but has done so in effort to gain the favor and approval of a sports icon. Sports Guy is more like Sports Boy. Next thing we know, he’ll be the bat boy for the Red Sox’s opening day in 2008!

Sports Guy, you are not the writer I once knew, and therefore it is time for me to give you up. February 4, 2008: a heartbreaking day, indeed.

JD for President?

Recognize.

See You in August. Er, April. OK, fine, the Combine.

The actual MVP of the Super Bowl

A few thoughts from what we just witnessed:
- What would be more poetic now: Justin Tuck raising Tom Brady's son as his own, or Justin Tuck dating Gisele?

- In case you forgot: Eli Manning, from struggling to read to Super Bowl-winning mama's boy.

- Remember a few years ago when people made a big deal about Danica Patrick because...uh....well...um.... Well, tonight we saw ultimate validation that any sportswriter who wasted our time hyping up someone who's never won anything should be ashamed to have done so. For a long time, we were told that Patrick had the talent to compete with men (as though you need a lot of athleticism to sit in a car and turn left endlessly), and that she wanted to be accepted as a driver, not as a female driver. Well, how's that working out? By my count, she's made more commercials about her "beaver" (1) than she's won races (0). So why don't we all move on and talk about her when she's actually relevant. Or when she gets buried next to Barbaro, who might as well have died on September 11th.

- And that's a good segue into this: everything you need to know about mainstream American culture was depressingly reinforced when FOX took five minutes before the Super Bowl to show us NFL luminaries reciting the Declaration of Independence alongside old men in wigs. That's what this country wants? Contrived, gimmicky jingoism that has absolutely nothing to do with a game? The ethos of our nation is the Super Bowl? We consider it to be a contemporary embodiment of our values just as the Declaration of Independence was a mission statement for this emerging nation hundreds of years ago? Come on. The only thing that could have made it worse while also being even more FOX-like would have been if Mitt Romney and John McCain had been holding hands with Peyton Manning, or if an image of Barack Obama in a turban had "accidentally" been slipped into the montage. But of course, you know that there were lots of drunk people who cheered.

And why was Tony Dungy talking about equality? He proudly hates gay people. That's so America!

- Given that Eli Manning just won a Super Bowl in which Tom Brady was also playing, is there any greater reminder that to succeed in football, you probably want to have a great defensive line? It's been true in college for years, and it won the Giants an NFL championship tonight. I really can't find any other way to account for how New York just beat the Patriots.

- The next time that the NFL wants to have someone like Tom Petty perform at halftime of the Super Bowl, it should save itself some money and just broadcast 20 minutes of dead air. I would have preferred that. I now feel like I'm 45 years old. What will next year bring? Air Supply?

- You all now owe it to the NBA to pay attention.

UPDATE: I forgot one point I wanted to make. Bill Belichick leaving the field early was on some Pistons-storm-off-the-court-against-the-Bulls-in-1991 bullshit. That's just immature and petulant. I like it when he does stuff like recklessly throwing his arms around someone for two seconds before running away, or grudgingly shaking hands as he turns in another direction. That stuff passes as a crude, unintentionally hilarious hallmark of his personality. But storming off the field early, even if he did speak with Tom Coughlin, just seems bush league.

If You Root for Tiger, You Probably Want the Pats to Win

Like FDR playing a round with Jesus.

Not sure if anyone else saw this (or cares), but...have you seen this?! Un-effing believable. Do you realize that Tiger Woods could conceivably tie or break the career majors record by the end of next season? When, oh by the way, he'll only be 34 years old?

Lots of people whose interests otherwise mesh with mine regularly roll their eyes when I get worked up like this about Woods. They don't understand how I could possibly choose to spend a weekend afternoon actively watching golf (as opposed to inactively watching it and using the soothing sounds of a Jim Nantz whisper to fall asleep on the couch). They certainly don't get why I get that excited when the CBS golf music comes on. Or why you're liable to hear me screaming at the TV on a spring Saturday as Woods makes a move up the leaderboard or sinks an unmakable birdie. Golf just isn't that interesting to most people.

To be honest, it wasn't always that interesting to me. I was someone who derided it as slow and stodgy and white and boring. I was happy to dismiss it and had come to regard it with mild contempt. But that changed with Tiger. The numbers are staggering. The excess of the praise he earns from people who understand his sport inspires near disbelief. And to watch him amidst a context of singularity, of indelible history, is transfixing. How can you not love golf?

Now, objectively, Tiger Woods isn't really that great. At least, as a human. He's charitable, and he works hard. I greatly admire those things. But he is apolitical; he doesn't say anything all that interesting; and his sense of humor, to whatever extent it would amuse someone, is largely reserved for his inner circle. Further, he's divorced himself from any discussion or even identity related to race, something which I find disappointing. I realize that just because he has dark skin and excels at a sport he need not inherit an obligation to serve as a vehicle for racial discussions or change. But to deny his unique circumstance--as he does through his exaltation of consumerism above all else--seems, to be kind, dishonest. People said similar things about Michael Jordan, and they weren't without merit, but for this man, with his background, dominating this sport--it is something different.

Oddly, you might say that Tiger Woods's shortcomings make his success and popularity even greater. Personally, I think of it as such: knowing what I know about him, and feeling as I do about his personality, that I continue to rapturously consume anything having to do with his exploits on the golf course only affirms his transcendence. And that is why he changed golf. To watch Tiger Wood is to witness history, and as a sports fan, I have yet to find any circumstance as enthralling.

Guided by an endless fascination with the historic, I run into problems when that passion conflicts with countervailing values. We've already covered the Woods dilemma. I was in a similar circumstance with Barry Bonds, a sports figure whose Herculean feats were so mesmerizing that I was undoubtedly the last person to accept that he was using steroids. He's changed his workout routines. It's natural for the body to get larger as you get older. Steroids don't help his hitting eye. I said everything. I just couldn't relinquish the pure excitement I recalled as I woke up each morning and consulted San Francisco box scores, something that this non-baseball-fan loved doing. And even now, having realized that Barry Bonds is a terrible person who cheated to accomplish things that probably aren't natural, I still warmly remember the early spring of 2002 when I hopped around my college dorm room while contemplating that after two games, Bonds was on pace for 324 home runs. I knew he wouldn't belt 300, even, but 100? I wanted to buy into the magic of history.

And so it was that I spent this entire football season quasi-obsessed with the Patriots. Their games were appointment television because they were led by a Michigan Man, their coach was hilarious in his lugubriousness, and, oh by the way, they were realistically pursuing one of the most hallowed goals in sports. I am not that much of an NFL fan, but I watch a lot of football all the same because I like sports and I am a red-blooded American man. The Patriots' moment was not lost on me this year.

Of course, following the Patriots, and on some level rooting for them, led me to internal conflict, as my intense interest in sports history always does. Rooting for the Pats in any way meant rooting for a team from racist and Mickey Mouse Boston. It meant rooting for a quarterback who proudly supported George Bush even after his first term of ineptitude. It meant enjoying fair weather. And still, I was undeterred, the lure of seeing some rare athletic thing surpassing all other impulses. I couldn't help myself.

I've reflected about this a great deal since the Super Bowl match up was determined a few weeks ago. As you have read, hoping that the Patriots accomplish something historic has not been without its complications for me. And, in diving this common thread that ran or runs through my interest in Tiger and Bonds, or Michael, or now the Pats, I came to think that I have perhaps made too many compromises at times in the name of witnessing the uncommon. I am not at all apologetic about my adoration of Tiger ()--whatever complicating negatives he presents, they are far outweighed by the awesome extent of his greatness. But that's not the case with New England. I can't comfortably support a Republican who has quite publicly abandoned his child, and I sure as shit cannot countenance endorsing yet another triumph for Boston.

I've long been uncomfortable with the Giants because I don't really understand how they beat good teams, I don't like Tom Coughlin, and I literally cannot comprehend how a team with a mentally challenged quarterback has made it to the Super Bowl. But having said all that: I grew up with Rodney Hampton; I appreciate LT, in part because he, himself, was a towering figure of history; and I want Amani Toomer to get a ring. So while my head says that the Patriots will win, and my heart yearns for history, my soul has triumphed in these intervening two weeks. If nothing else, a Giants win will argue for football's inclusion in the Special Olympics.

Oh, and one more thing: baaaalllllllinnnnnnnn'!

- Jim Jones, "We Fly High (Giants Remix)"

Fonzworth Bentley and Nick Cannon Endorse Barry O

This should put him over the top...