The Definition of a Payback

Just got this video via my electronic mail. Looks like it was captured last year but added to the YouTubes today. Simply something to smile about. We miss you, James.

Farewell to Fuck Ups

If you'll miss them, you're on drugs.

Good. That's all I want to say. Good. You play shit basketball, you go home.

These Nuggets were a disgrace to the sport. They didn't run an offense. They didn't play defense. They were stupid. They took cheap fouls. They committed every common, moronic mistake possible. And they were coached by a retread who has no business being a coach any more.

Denver was offensive, playing a selfish and thoughtless style of basketball that made me viscerally upset as I watched it. I cannot properly express how poetic it is that such a vainglorious group of players has lost in such ignominious fashion. This was wonderful and well-deserved. Good riddance to such an affront.


Should have been fired after Game 3.

Memorandum re: Larry Brown

Oy. I, uh...oy.

TO: The People of Charlotte
FROM: Joey
DATE: April 28, 2008
RE: Larry Brown

My deepest condolences, people of Charlotte. You're probably nice enough folks (I wouldn't know; I've never been), and now you'll have to deal with the most lugubrious, pedantic basketball coach of all time.

Maybe you aren't so upset. Maybe you're even excited. Larry Brown? The guy who won a title at Kansas? With the Pistons? Took so many teams to the playoffs? Yes! But hey, it's early. And I get that Sam Vincent may not have been much, but you will wish he were coach, GM, and starting point guard by the time you're fully immersed in the Larry Brown experience. Let's see...

...there will be the nights when he holds pre-game press conferences and disparages all of your players while speaking in that somber, steady tone of his that's meant to convey an air of authority.

...there will be the games after which he seeks consolation upon confessing that the night's events--a blown lead, an emotional eruption, a porous defensive effort--have left him personally bruised and questioning his will to go on.

...there will, of course, be the endless discussion, led by him, of just how much longer he will, in fact, be able to go on. You know, because only he understands how the game should be played and everyone else is imposing upon him by not "playing the right way."

...there will be the rampant speculation about his next job. Beginning in training camp. Maybe he'll move to the front office. Maybe he'll coach the Nuggets and finally save them. Maybe he'll come to the Garden on weekends and take Isiah Thomas for a walk. Maybe he and Michael will run off to a Carolina-blue picket-fenced house, open a casino, and cuddle with a picture of Dean Smith between them at night.

...there will be the talk of his health. Poor Larry. His hips, his knees, his back, his heart. You think you're getting a coach, but really you're getting someone's Jewish grandmother.

...there will be the press conferences when he sits with his head in his hand and mumbles almost inaudibly because no one could possibly comprehend how hard it is being Larry Brown.

...there will be the sad and sort of demoralizing moment that ultimately becomes humorous when you realize that despite having a hot younger wife, several kids, and tons of money, Larry Brown only cares about two things: himself and basketball. Just those two. Literally. I mean, this is a man who said, unembarrassed and with a straight face, that he truly couldn't coach David Robinson because the Admiral had too many interests outside of basketball.

...there will be the inevitable moment when he quits, likely at some point when even the idea of doing so is wildly inappropriate. Like in the middle of a playoff series. Sure, he may remain coach in title, but you'll know when he's out the door. Ask the Pistons or the Sixers.

And have I mentioned that he will surely make Raymond Felton want to kill himself? Even if he did go to Carolina? Larry and his point guards don't really hit it off famously at first. Or ever.

So, still excited? If you are, I admire your optimism and fortitude. If not, you should probably thank me. I've taught you a lesson that basketball executives and the media either frowardly ignore or just cannot comprehend: it's always, forever all about Larry Brown. Either way, you're no longer operating with the information deficit that they all assume comes with their jobs. You'll know what's going on well before it happens. If nothing else, it will save you time reading the sports pages.

Rising Down

- The Roots ft. Common, "The Show"

Well, this should be a good Thursday...

Video: R. Kelly, "Hairbraider"

Phoenix: Where Crybabies Happen

I like it when people complain about the Spurs. They call the team dirty and cheap and obnoxious. They complain that the team is boring. The make cute videos like this:



There is some merit to all of the qualms. Manu flops. Bowen puts his hands all over the place. No team yells at the refs more.

But that is not why they win games and series and championships. They win because they are a better team. A guy like Michael Finley resolves to come off curls and shoot 12-footers endlessly if that's what the other team can't stop. He doesn't freelance or decide he's going for his or whatever else. Brent Barry seems to feel good about only being asked to hack Shaq. Manu and Duncan and Parker execute the shit out of simple plays like pick-and-rolls. They are just so well assembled, so rhythmic (in their own way), and so focused. I am not going to launch into a lengthy praise of the Spurs because it's all been said before. But it remains a marvel to behold, and the proficiency with which they operate almost comes to mock the desperate insults hurled by losers (i.e., everyone else in the Lig) and their fans. And this comes from someone who doesn't root for the Spurs beyond enjoying how well they play together.

So moan away, Suns fans. Continue to curse the day that Robert Horry did or didn't do something that sneaky-in-his-own-way Steve Nash does all the time. Tell yourselves that it will all be better in Phoenix, or that Game 2 was only Game 2 because the Suns weren't hitting their shots. Whatever you need to say to neglect the fact that as each day goes by, Shaq and Nash get a little older, the team still can't defend a pick-and-roll, and that window closes more and more.

I will continue to enjoy what the Spurs do.

UPDATE: Suns fans like to cry about being depicted as lachrymose. That's so meta!

Emasculation Is Spelled I-S-I-A-H

"...The three men then retired to an executive suite to finally settle who was the biggest asshole."

If Isiah Thomas weren't so loathsome, I'd find this a little sad. But he's earned this, so mostly it's just funny and yet another bizarre episode for a franchise that cannot escape them. I guess the Knicks are just trying to force Zeke to quit or take much less money to leave. If this doesn't work, maybe they'll draft a contract clause stipulating that Isiah must let R. Kelly have custody of his kids two weekends a month.

For those looking, you can now find Isiah in the windowless office behind the supply closet with the leak from the bathroom plumbing. His door says "Mr. Dolan's Manfriend." Don't ask.

And for more Knick fan reaction to what's happened, overall, check out Serious Tip.

Anguish Is My Name

Excruciating.

My man Shoals and I get our shared suffering on at FD as we try to come to terms with another utter hearbreak.

Today is a bad day for me. I am broken.

Music for a Monday: Nas Does Us All a Disservice

The N, the a, the s-i-r/Who is it?/The dude who used to be Escobar.

I've never felt comfortable with anyone using the word "nigger" or any of its derivatives. In my mind, that word remains the most vile one in our language, because no single word conveys so much anguish or can be used to inflict so much pain. I recognize that this is subjective, and conferring a superlative designation--"the most"--should not signal a disregard for other ugly, injurious, hateful words. But I don't think any one word is as evocative of so much suffering and malice, so much manifested, senseless hatred. And if I may be a little self-righteous and presumptuous, let me say that this feeling extends beyond cynical dismissals and accusations of white guilt; the n-word captures an entire country's shameful and ongoing history of heartbreaking racial hostility.

Of course, it's not my place to decide who can and can't use the n-word. I'm not the decider. I am just one person. And I'm not from a directly affected group, so as is often the practical case, I don't own that word and license to use it. But I am nonetheless opposed to it, and for as much rap music as I consume, I am still always struck by its invocation. I hear it, or I hear "n***a," and it stands out. I hear people like Fat Joe and Jennifer Lopez and idiot white kids who joyfully say things like "I'm so ghetto!" use it, and I get pissed off.

But others, whose opinions are just as valid as mine, have argued to the contrary. I've been told by countless people from an array of ethnic backgrounds that it's at least innocuous, if not good, for the hip-hop appropriation of the n-word to flourish. It reclaims the word's identity, they say, and it removes the sting of the epithet for the word to be used in new, even positive contexts.

The debate about how the n-word is used will not be settled by this blog post, but I think we can all say this: the new Nas song "Be a N***er Too" serves no constructive or beneficial purpose.

The deluded, pseudo-intellectual rapper that he is, Nas surely believes that he's crafted some withering social commentary about the universality of oppression, or the bondage we have created for ourselves. And I am sure he believes that he's given cathartic voice to a seething frustration experienced among black people by stretching the boundary of positive cooptation and not only welcoming more people under the n-word umbrella, but doing so while also drawing parallels to other terms of intolerance. He likely even feels that his brash ramblings about the trappings of ostentatious consumption stand in contradistinction to the narrative of black suffering and defiantly challenge conventional notions of black identity by packaging that lifestyle inside of the n-word wrapper.

Nas is wrong if he's feeling or believing any of that. More than anything else, he just sounds foolish. Far from accomplishing any grand ambition, his first song from the unfortunately (and stupidly) named album N***er is a maddening joke.

Far from poignant social commentary, Nas instead delivers immature, half-baked ideas that resemble the diary scratch of an ill-informed high-schooler. Far from speaking to an authentic black experience, Nas instead traffics in fantasy and exaggeration. (Not to mention that it's been a while since he was burying anyone. Unless Zac Posen fashion parties are gullier than we all thought.) Far from aligning the pain caused by the term "n***er" with other ethnic epithets, Nas instead engages in an ugly and empty pornography of hate terms. And far from redefining or nullifying the term "n***er" by demonstrating what successful black America looks like, Nas instead reinforces the stereotypes commonly attached to the rich black men created by the hip-hop industry.

Further, "Be a N***er Too" is perhaps an articulation of all the bad things that afflict hip-hop: the rhymes are pedestrian; the flow sounds lazy given how many moments of dead air there are; the content is bland; the vocabulary is genric; the beat is forgettable. This is all more than a little ironic given that such a lame and worthless song has been made by the same dude who declared that hip-hop had been killed by the disposable, mindless, formulaic songs pumped out by so many of today's stars.

Having written all of that, the most vexing aspect of "Be a N***er Too" might be that Nas, his industry supporters, and his fans will likely attempt to pass off the song as a smart consideration of the n-word and a meaningful contribution to the dialogue around it. But anyone who falls for that either listens to Illmatic too much (if that's possible) or votes for George Bush. It's an insult to intelligent people and those who would seek to convene a meaningful discussion about the n-word for Nas to so dishonestly position an artless farce as anything constructive. Even worse, you know that other rappers and celebrities who set the agenda in popular-culture circles will treat this song as something intelligent and provocative because they are just as foolish. That will only further erode the integrity of a public discussion of the n-word's place. Rather than calling out Nas for his sophomoric media stunt and sad, desperate attempt to remain relevant, too many people--I mean, Prodigy has probably already started AN ALL-CAPS DIATRIBE ABOUT HOW REDEFINING "N***ER" IS AN IDEA HE GOT WHILE READING A GOINES NOVEL THAT THE SECRET GOVERNMENT DOESN'T WANT HIM TO SEE--will likely treat it as something of substance.

And that's not good for anyone. So let's all thank Nas for nothing and get back to comparing the relative merits of Wale, Jay Electronica, the Cool Kids, Kidz in the Hall, and other rappers who can still make interesting music.

- Nas, "Be a N***er Too"

P.S. HR goes in, too.

Why Isn't This an Obama Campaign Commercial?

Just slap an "Obama '08" graphic onto the end and you have a compelling video.

Don't eff it up tomorrow, Pennsylvania.

My People Are Delivered

I think he's asking how he can get to the basement, where his new office should be.

Thank God.

Props

Want to give a shot to long-time SB friend Nerditry, which has put together some entertaining NBA Playoff previews (pardon the black background):

Cavs-Wiz

Magic-Raps

Stones-Sixers

Celts-Hawks

Jazz-Rockets

Suns-Spurs

Hornets-Mavs

Lakers-Nuggies

The Long March

Following this presidential election has become almost intolerable. Not only does coverage begin too early and almost immediately saturate the news for nearly two years; not only do mainstream reporters appear more intent on telling the picayune stories they prefer and believe will drive sales than on reporting what matters; not only do the prevailing narratives to which most coverage cleaves allow only for black-and-white portrayals, but Americans are morons. Just idiots. And they come from all over. There are Asian idiots, black idiots, white idiots, old idiots, young idiots, rich idiots, poor idiots. Name your favorite flavor of idiot; America has that in stock.

What else can we conclude as we're asked to suffer through hours of talk about flag pins and loving America, all the while ignoring economic specifics, discussions of torture, and other things that actually matter?

The interminable and insufferable watered-down campaign found its latest low on Wednesday and Thursday when ABC News staged a debate that was set up like a boxing match (idiots love conflict) and featured an almost unrelenting procession of stupidity. Tom Shales was right--it was despicable:

For the first 52 minutes of the two-hour, commercial-crammed show, Gibson and Stephanopoulos dwelled entirely on specious and gossipy trivia that already has been hashed and rehashed, in the hope of getting the candidates to claw at one another over disputes that are no longer news. Some were barely news to begin with...

...Obama was right on the money when he complained about the campaign being bogged down in media-driven inanities and obsessiveness over any misstatement a candidate might make along the way, whether in a speech or while being eavesdropped upon by the opposition. The tactic has been to "take one statement and beat it to death," he said.

No sooner was that said than Gibson brought up, yet again, the controversial ravings of the pastor at a church attended by Obama. "Charlie, I've discussed this," he said, and indeed he has, ad infinitum. If he tried to avoid repeating himself when clarifying his position, the networks would accuse him of changing his story, or changing his tune, or some other baloney.

That's a debate? Juvenile recriminations and vapid consideration of synthetic issues? Tired posturing and self-fulfilling campaign prophecies of pointless bickering? At the risk of sounding like one of those oh-so-horrible elitists: I can't stand this shit. I would like for the presidential candidates to talk about real things. The things that affect people's abilities to go to school, to find jobs, to earn living wages, to retire, to be healthy, to have equal opportunities, to enjoy a just and lawful society. If most people don't want the same, or if they've been snookered into thinking that they need automatic weapons or a President who can out-pray the other candidates, then I'm moving. Because that sucks.

And again: the reporting in this country is horrible. Not only did ABC betray any notion of journalistic integrity by peddling gossip and anti-intellectualism, but the big, bad liberal media continues to treat out-of-touch, condescending hacks like David Brooks as though they're credible pundits. Here's what Brooks thought about a debate that has been widely derided as amateurish and silly:

First, Democrats, and especially Obama supporters, are going to jump all over ABC for the choice of topics: too many gaffe questions, not enough policy questions.

I understand the complaints, but I thought the questions were excellent. The journalist’s job is to make politicians uncomfortable, to explore evasions, contradictions and vulnerabilities. Almost every question tonight did that. The candidates each looked foolish at times, but that’s their own fault.

We may not like it, but issues like Jeremiah Wright, flag lapels and the Tuzla airport will be important in the fall. Remember how George H.W. Bush toured flag factories to expose Michael Dukakis. It’s legitimate to see how the candidates will respond to these sorts of symbolic issues.

Let's do this in a brief list so that I don't get too caught up in my frustration and wind up with an aneurysm:

1) "The journalist’s job is to make politicians uncomfortable, to explore evasions, contradictions and vulnerabilities. Almost every question tonight did that."

NO. Thinking like this is why reporting is horrible--journalists are not the story. And they are not supposed to frame the story as they see fit. They are supposed to report facts and provide the information that comprises a relevant context. They aren't supposed to poke these people with a stick for their amusement.

2) "It’s legitimate to see how the candidates will respond to these sorts of symbolic issues."

NO. These "issues"--wearing a flag pin, Jeremiah Wright, Tuzla--are only "issues" because, as Shales said, the media harp upon bullshit. A flag pin doesn't carry the answers to complicated economic issues. And a flag pin doesn't undo centuries of racial bias, just as a man's pastor is not going to provide a clear legal doctrine that addresses the gross exploitation of executive privilege as exercised during these nearly cataclysmic Bush years. What did or didn't happen at Tuzla has no bearing on health-care reform or Social Security or tax codes or the Middle East peace process. These things are symbols only of what the media constructs. They mean nothing without the feckless reporters whose protestations to the contrary effectively destroy reality and replace it with the maddening surrealism we now deal with.

Also, how narcissistic is it for Brooks to applaud this debate because it reinforced the destructive values of his own cloistered universe?

Please just make it November already.

Stank Louis?

In August, I am moving to St. Louis. I am going to be a law student at Washington University starting in the fall. St. Louis seems like a fine place. I am excited. But...the music scene leaves much to be desired. For example, we get these generic, Southern "block boys" like Stank:

East Stank

Never have I wanted a sequel to "Grillz" more, as it is hands down my favorite song to ever come from St. Louis.

New Muxtape

Remember that Muxtape I made a few weeks ago? Well, I just posted a new one here. I am going to try and make this an every-other-weekly thing.

Track listing (UPDATE: Pursuant to popular demand, some tracks are available for download):

1) Redman, "Watch Yo Nuggets"
2) Bushwick Bill, "Call Me Crazy"
3) Ghostface Killah, "Fish"
4) Loosie All-Stars, "Breakadawn"
5) M.O.P., "Instigator"
6) Electric Company, "Where Would You Be (Remix)"
7) Elzhi ft. T3, "Save Ya"
8) Sean Price, "The Huckabuck"
9) Pete Rock and Ini, "Mind Over Matter"
10) Soul Position, "Priceless"
11) De La Soul, "Wasn't for You"
12) The Moments, "Not on the Outside"

Over the Hill P

"...and then, during fourth period, Albert began making pretty drawings."

As disarming as this was, Locked Up P's album cover is possibly weirder. What the eff? Dun, for real? Syringe doodles? Penciled-in dice? This amateur-hour routine makes that legendary No Limit album artwork look like cutting-edge photography. I can't imagine what it will be like in the shower once all of P's inmate brethren get their copies ().

As for the record itself, one initial listen leaves me thinking that it's mediocre-to-solid production underneath largely lackluster rambling. Lots of simple rhymes and boring gully-speak. Plus, it's not nearly outlandish enough to properly honor the deranged persona that P's displayed on the internets for the past few months. After the first song, you would never know that P was your favorite blogger's favorite ALL-CAPS-TYPING CRAZY PERSON.

- Prodigy, "Real Power Is People"
This should be subtitled, "Bookworm P Drops Knowledge."

- Prodigy, "Veterans Memorial, Pt. 2"
"...Killa had an obsession for poppin' unexpected/He would just pop off when you wouldn't expect it." Oh, you don't say. Thanks for the clarification.

Programming Note

Those of you who like it when I get all righteous as the world falls apart are in for a special treat: I will be a guest on Sirius Radio's "Blog Bunker" program today, talking politics. It goes down around 5:30 on Indie Talk channel 110. Jyeah!

UPDATE: Sirius doesn't distribute mp3's of its programming. So, if you missed it live, you missed it. Sorry.

The Last Supper

May this image forever endure.

There were few Knicks home games that I wanted to attend this season, and it should come as no surprise, really, that the two at the top of my list were the first and the last. Those games shaped up as the best opportunities to participate in the deafening chorus of fans lustily booing Isiah Thomas. Is that sick? No. Not really. Nothing is perverse with this team. It just isn't anymore, not after pathetic basketball and even more humiliating personal indiscretion. No matter that the team will avoid sixty losses or that it hasn't come close to accumulating the worst single-season record in the history of the Lig. The depth of the Knicks' degradation extends well beyond the on-court results. And nothing better captures the surreal, poisonous culture engulfing the organization better than knowing that fans like me pick out chances to boo ahead of chances to see a LeBron or a Kobe.

To have "rooted for" the Knicks this season was something of an oxymoron. I don't know a single person who cares about the team that spent this year approaching the games with even a modicum of hope. Worse, Knick fans didn't even participate in the good-natured cynicism that accompanies predictably bad teams which may be repaired in the future. The level of transfixed, and sometimes gleeful, loathing that was shared across New York was something I'd never encountered before. All year, following the Knicks was tantamount to laughing your way through a comically horrible movie: the product was so thoroughly awful that you had no recourse but to laugh, lest you suffered something serious and painful. But something about Knickdom was different. The laughing was not informed by anything at all positive. No optimism or even pragmatism tempered the burning antipathy that the exasperated laughter helped to relieve. It was as though we all needed something to do, some vehicle for release, and laughing among ourselves seemed more natural than standing around and booing when not at the Garden.

Attending a game was different, though. A night at MSG was an evening of absurdism that quickly devolved into macabre theater as Isiah Thomas steadily dug a grave out of which no fan would allow him to climb. On nights at the Garden, it was cathartic to participate in the avalanche of boos that steadily buried one of the single worst sports executives of all time. "Going to the Knicks game" was consigned to shorthand this year, the phrase morphing into a euphemism for expressing unadulterated hatred for Thomas.

The phenomenon has been widely reported all season. Nary a column or feature about the Knicks neglects to highlight fan frustration and its most common manifestation. However reading about it, as opposed to witnessing it, participating in it--those are different, and I can't imagine that someone who doesn't live in New York, know Knick fans, and consume New York media on a daily basis fully grasps the tenor of the basketball culture right now.

All that hostility has left the Knicks--the sports entertainment institution, not the specific collection of individuals who run and populate the team--in a weird position. All season, the organization has sought to protect Thomas, banning signs and escorting out hecklers. But the operational resolve appeared to have been worn down by the ardor of the fan base's protestations, given that the Knicks sent Isiah out with the basketball equivalent of a final meal with Tony and Silvio.

Howard Beck did a nice job of capturing the seemingly eschatological final moments of Isiah's coaching tenure in New York last night. Beck said:

The Knicks thanked their fans--their irrationally loyal, perpetually tormented fans--with free hot dogs, popcorn, pizza and pretzels Monday at Madison Square Garden. They called it fan appreciation night, although the fans surely would have traded the food for a higher-ticket item, namely the termination of Isiah Thomas.

That moment is probably not far off. But for one more night, Thomas roamed the Garden hallways, made optimistic speeches and watched his team try to regain some self-respect against the Boston Celtics.

Boos greeted Thomas before tipoff, and they probably would have been louder if everyone’s mouths were not stuffed with free eats. Yet there was no escaping the reality of the evening, the Knicks’ last home game of the season.

Think about that: the Garden all but admitted defeat last night, offering an angry mob free reign and free food to go with it. That's some end-of-days material; rarely has a basketball team catered its coach's funeral.


R.I.P. to the most competent basketball player least qualified to do any single other thing.

Music for a Monday: Remembering a Powerful Movement

What's really good?

Over the weekend, I went to the internets store and acquired the new Dip Set greatest street hits tape, Harlem Classics. It's fitting, of course, that the Set (or Duke Da God, really) would drop a proper compilation loaded with shit that you may not fully recognize in higher fidelity and without Kay Slay, DJ Clue, and those other bums yelling over. As much as anyone, the Diplomats helped to usher in this new technology-driven rap era by using new media to be more accessible while challenging the orthodoxies of the industry and migrating music distribution from periodic record releases to street tapes and internet leaks. If any group can credibly float a mixtape that culls premium material from other tapes, it's the gentlemen of Harlem.

As there isn't much new material on Harlem Classics, there accordingly isn't much new to write about the music, itself. And given how many blog posts Cam, Jim, and Juelz have generated over the relatively brief amount of time that hip-hop blogging has been in vogue, one would be hard-pressed to break new critical ground. (I suppose an especially close listening might always yield creative writing, and perhaps some fresh ideas, but I'll leave that to a time when such thorough circumspection feels much less foolish.) But Classics was fun to pick my way through over the past few days because while it catalogues generally recent music, we are hearing it in changed times.

Not so long ago, The Diplomats were in the vanguard of a nascent movement. And no, it wasn't the self-constructed, self-promoted, self-perpetuated Dip Set Movement, in all its supposed "powerful" glory. I don't think that ever materialized for anyone who wasn't a Dip Set weed carrier or a whimsical, foolish internets critic. Rather, the Dips were a collection of brash rappers who started on the periphery of general hip-hop culture and were easily identified as leaders of a revival in hip-hop ephemera, ignorance, and superficiality. They were happy to showcase their characters and lifestyle, too, using a steady torrent of street tapes, DVDs, and internet videos.

Though always a genre of party music and indulgence, rap music seemed changed by Cam'ron's ascension--validated by the Roc-a-fella imprimatur--and the ensuing glut of Dip Set tapes, records, and overall content. Suddenly, there were credible rappers unembarrassed by even the simplest of rhymes or most audacious of images legitimized by decent record sales, mainstream-outlet attention, and the larger hip-hop community's embrace. And to be fair, the Diplomats could rhyme. The jumbled Dip Set wordplay--Cam and Juelz's in particular--that was simple on the surface but sometimes insightful when more closely considered was fun and impressive, if not always consistent. And this, along with a production style that was oftentimes grandiose, catchy, and even campy, allowed many rap fans to either look past or even tout the street violence, drug stories, and destructive social values filling all those bars of doublespeak and single words rhymed over and over.

Diplomat hip-hop was lowest-common-denominator music when taken most basically. And I don't mean that as an insult, or for it to come off as a dismissive, supercilious judgment. You're reading the writing of someone who has put in many hours with Cam and Jimmy and friends (). But let's be honest--you throw a capable flow over some steady drums and a melodic loop or a chipmunk sample that gets caught in the head and you suddenly don't need to say much to earn airplay. More to the point, you can almost say anything, no matter how ridiculous or vile or generic. (That a record like Purple Haze perfected the formula and combined it with a lyrical pastiche that was both technically impressive and a reflection of an outlandish personality was a perfect storm for a cult classic. Which it is.) That dynamic seemed to become self-reinforcing: as the Dips gained in notoriety, success encouraged further exploration of the musical niche which they created. Taken in concert with several other extant or blossoming trends in rap music--the steady recession of more established and traditional stars; the marketing preeminence of 50 Cent; the technology-driven sub-group fracturing of the rap audience--the Diplomats, though not regular titans of the SoundScan charts, emerged to give a hip-hop fan base comprised of many smaller, discrete constituencies a model for a new kind of rap celebrity. The Dips were rogues within the system, with their accessible aesthetic apologizing for their content, and their unwavering personalities, newly captured across many more communication channels than just CD booklets, helping to replace a solely musical connection with a larger cultural experience.

The success the Dips enjoyed in the streets, on hip-hop radio, and among websites and magazines that also trafficked in lifestyle, not just music, seemed to only encourage rap's evolution into what it is today.

Hip-hop culture is far from monolithic, evidenced by failing record sales and a booming interwebs presence. Individual artists and sub-genres can be closely followed online, with fans cherry-picking songs, entire albums, and blog posts while dispensing with more varied platforms like the old rap video shows that made every Tribe fan a Snoop and Dre fan, as well. Further, the ascension of the largely vapid but nonetheless engaging southern styles from Atlanta and Houston seems to have been facilitated by a prevailing sentiment that if the music just sounds good and gets people dancing, then that's enough. While megastars like Jay-Z still combine weightier music with pop appeal and a spot within the rap-game zeitgeist, it appears as though music not primarily made for the party set has grown increasingly marginalized in lieu of more generic and easily produced offerings from the Youngs and Lils of the word. And the business models followed, the signals sought when searching for what will become a hit record--those appear to stem in some part from the success that the Dip Set enjoyed.

I don't think my fairly simple treatment of the subject makes an ironclad argument for a causal relationship, but I do think there is a clear, strong correlation between where we were pre-Dip Set and where we are now, a post-Dip Set hip-hop reality. (Emphasis on "post," of course, since the Dips are all but disbanded without the true capo, Killa. And, by the way, where is dude?) So in that regard, Harlem Classics is an endeavor in cultural curation, as the record both captures foundational sonic elements of the Dip Set phenomenon and, more generally, comes to represent a collection of the music that helped propel hip-hop along its current trajectory. Ironically, this has the strained effect of ex post facto validation: the majesty of a song like "What's Really Good" recalls a certain bizarre optimism that surrounded the Set back when it was still an intruding curiosity, not an established strain of the hip-hop mainstream.

- The Diplomats, "What's Really Good?" (OG Version)

Knicks Fans, Find Catharsis

Losers. Complete, utter losers.

There is no way to read this piece and not feel oddly good afterwards. At least someone captured the singular absurdity of what it's been to root for the Knicks during this reign of incompetence.

Everyone Likes Stuff

Stuff

Surely I am late in noting this, but the internets appear to be on their way to definitively chronicling all general social-group preferences. Who is going to start Stuff Ignorant People Like?

- Stuff White People Like

- Stuff White Trash People Like

- Stuff Educated Black People Like

- Stuff Jewish Young Adults Like

- Stuff Asian People Like

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We Now Mourn the Mavericks

I like my Dirk redefining awkward. How do you like yours?

It used to be fun to watch the Dallas Mavericks. It was especially fun to stay up late and watch them in the playoffs. I didn't mind trudging in to work half asleep on spring mornings back when I was home from college and working fleeting summer jobs. It was a price I willingly paid to watch this ascendant, exciting team that was brash in its play and defying conventional wisdom with its tactics. It sort of felt like I was part of a special club as I sacrificed sleep to vicariously participate in such an important endeavor: upsetting the NBA's governing structure. Dallas was an ideal underdog--dangerous, colorful, exuberant, and fearless. Those Mavs teams were far from perfect, and they weren't built for a title run (or maybe they were but the Lig just wasn't ready), but they were fun.

No player embodied the essence of those Mavs better than Dirkalicious. Michael Finley was a more explosive asset, and Steve Nash was more inventive (though he dribbled far too much), but Dirk was a walking epitome of all that fueled Dallas.

He was completely non-standard. First, he wasn't from America, and the NBA was not a league of or (yet) for foreigners. Obviously, he wasn't the first non-American in the Association, but never before had there been a franchise player from abroad. Second, his game was ridiculous. A seven-footer who had the audacity to favor his jumper, who was more likely to wildly spin into the lane than execute a drop step on the baseline, and whose length seemed serendipitous, not fundamental. It was great that he was tall, but he wasn't great because of it. The Diggler's game was disarming. He'd pull up for a three in transition; he'd dip his shoulder and dive across the lane, hanging to shoot a jumper on the way down; he'd station himself behind the three-point line and watch Nash dribble away a shot clock before launching something quasi-crazy. Guys went past and around him on defense, leaving him to stand there under the rim with his hands up, hoping to get a block. When he rebounded, it often came at an angle, as he staggered to get his balance or find his footing. But despite some ill-advised shots, some bizarre moves, and all the herky-jerk, he was effective. And he was relentless. Not Dwyane Wade, break-your-spirit-on-the-way-to-the-rim relentless, though. He just kind of kept doing all that stuff...because.

The third component of Dirk's maverick Mavericks paradigm came down to Dirk being Dirk. Nash was (and is) an idiosyncratic fellow, and he was (and is) off in his own way, but his was a more easily accepted game and a muted public persona that was only later celebrated in Phoenix. Dirk was different for different reasons. He was a top-ten pick said to be transformative and soft. People really struggled with that whole perimeter-game thing. And because he both didn't dominate from the get-go and hailed from Germany, it was fun to harp upon his shortcomings as a leader. Most importantly, he was terribly goofy. He wore bad earrings. His hair was intermittently Nazi-esque, Bavarian beefcake (see above?), or Euro-cheesy. He gave funny interviews, his English was stilted, and most of what we knew about him away from the NBA involved some creepy German shot-doctor-slash-basketball-Svengali with whom the Diggler would summer. Oh, and he was given a nickname based on a fictional, prosthetic penis to end all penises ().

You know how some things and people are more FreeDarko than others? Well, Dirk was indisputably the most Mavericks. But that's not to say that the entire outfit wasn't endearingly outcast. Not only was the squad only half-wittingly built around Nowitzki (remember how hard it was to figure out who should be getting the shots when?), but you had Nash and his unique game; you had dudes like Adrian Griffin and Eduardo Najera playing power forward and being discussed and emphasized by announcers in almost-all-star-like terms; Michael Finley was always 9-24 but hitting important shots; the freewheelin' Nick Van Exel was in the mix; there was a vast multinational assortment of sub-par big men (Raef LaFrentz, Evan Eschmeyer, Wang Zhizhi, Shawn Bradley, Juwan Howard); Don Nelson was pushing his small-ball agenda; and oh yeah, Mark Cuban was (and is) the owner. In other words, the team was seductive. You couldn't help but root for the Mavericks, partly because of the curiosity and partly because they collectively offered an attractive alternative to the rote, doctrinaire, mechanical basketball played in places like Utah.

But I've written all of that in the past tense because those days are long gone and Dallas is now boring. I do not enjoy watching that team play basketball. And, it's not just this year's squad. Ever since the franchise got "serious" and decided to run things Avery Johnson's way, the Mavericks have eroded to the point of ordinary. The Mavs are now a traditional collection of fairly traditional players who do things in a mostly traditional fashion. When the most daring thing about your roster is that Jason Terry can play point guard, you're firmly entrenched as a piece of the NBA's establishment.

And again, Nowitzki is the embodiment of this change. His game has become a repertoire of back-to-the-basket fadeaways, pivots, and passes out of double teams. When he faces up, he usually puts the ball on the floor and then pulls up for a floppy jump shot without much creativity or flair. The three-point attempts have declined. The mid-lane experiments are vanishing. Even his defense is improved (though still not great). Worst of all, he doesn't even seem too goofy anymore. The magic is gone.

It's not necessarily bad, I guess. Dirk's won an MVP award and the Mavs have made a finals. But it's sure as shit not fun. I suppose it was bound to happen--Nash and Nelson are elsewhere, the team was retooled to better fit Nowitzki's increasingly reverent style, and spending more time in America assists the assimilation process. Plus, other change has been afoot, primarily in Phoenix and then Golden State. And as with anything else, familiarity can breed disenchantment. We know Dirk; we know Dallas. Words like "plucky" and "scrappy" are not only obsolete, but they're not even fresh in the memory.

To be frank, more than anything else, it's just disappointing. When the Mavericks were still the new Mavericks--new to winning, new to the NBA's archetypes of style, new to being cool--I would throw on a Nowitzki jersey because the dude was exciting, and the jersey stood for something that was enrapturing in its own way. Now, that number-41 joint sits in a drawer, alongside other things put away, like Nowitzki's innocence and Dallas's verve. It's gotten to the point that I am rooting for Dallas to miss the playoffs because there are more interesting and exciting teams just as likely to win a title. That's damning for a franchise that's lost so much in the name of winning.

I Have a Blog. Might as Well Use It.

A few links:

- Henry breaks down the Knicks' situation. I'll have more on this later in the week.

- And if you want to celebrate the team and be able to say you were down with it before the Brickers get Derrick Rose and start doing some thangs, there's some cool shit here.

- Social Stereotype

- Top Urban Blogs. Look at #40!