A Quickie

Penultimate paragraph. Love this idea.

So Passes Denethor, Son of Ecthelion

Title says it all. This is a sad day in Middle Earth. You know how dearly I appreciated these Spurs.

In the midst of hell. Should be out of it Thursday afternoon. Will write real things then.

Is This Awesome or Awesomely Disappointing?

That's way harsh, Steph!

R.I.P. 2000-Era Pistons

Sad to see them go out like such heartless punks.

"Well I'm the Newest Member of the Roc-A-Fella Team"

I'm going to be contributing some writing to FreeDarko. Like, under my own name, not solely as a guest. You can check the first piece here.

* Quote comes from Kanye on his Roc chaining day.

Questing for Self

The realest.

If Raekwon continues to go in over just about everything, Cuban Linx 2 is going to single-handedly redeem the last five years of rap music. I can't tell you how exciting it is to hear this. Over the last four, five months, I don't think anyone has made more listenable tracks. The guy's flow is right and he's using better beats, joints that mesh with his voice and style to create the dramatized aesthetic Rae does best.

Admittedly, some of my enthusiasm is driven by nostalgia. At 27, I'm a prematurely old head who just loves the Wu-Tang Clan and remains ever more certain that the 90s were where it was at. More meaningfully, as a hater, I have been so disillusioned by the general elevation of mediocrity that allows Yung Joc to continue finding his way onto the radio that sometimes I am a little quick to dismiss rap that sounds a certain way. It's Pavlovian--you sound like you're making something dumb, or something boring, or something annoying, or something similar to what I have heard from others and know I don't like, and it's gonna be hard to win me over. Maybe it forecloses certain opportunities for growth. I'm working on it. In my defense, though, people constantly tell me that clowns are the next big deal, and then I hear their albums, and their voices are horrible, their rhymes are stale, their beats are middling, the overall experience is boring, and I feel more than happy to keep on keeping on. (P.S. Read Jeff on this.)

Regardless, it's hard to not be feeling this track. The woozy synthesizer and soft-hits-radio drums and bass create a dope template for Rae's tightly constructed reminiscences and scratchy voice. And like I said, this is Rae Rae in his element: with the hustling in the rear-view mirror, and the tone one less of boastfulness and more of resignation to merely accept what's past, the narrative enjoys the compelling fictionalized element that has always been a hallmark of Wu-Tang entertainment. This is escapism, or perhaps vicarious titillation, at its finest. It's not that Rae, or Ghost, raps about what I know, or what I've lived. They don't even really rap about what they've known firsthand. At least, not always. Instead, they entertain. They use the rap medium and subject archetypes to explore their storytelling powers. They don't conjure some tale and straight work it, though. I mean something with greater nuance. Something that reflects their interest in rhymes, their personalities, their unique imaginations. Rae marshals these gifts in service of a song, the process becoming a challenge as to whether he can impart pieces of himself and flex his abilities while advancing his purpose, which is to construct the lecture at hand. So many of the little gaps get filled with vivid imagery, or ideas that say so much more than what's on the surface.

A lot of hip-hop might be favorably described this way by its fans, and that is where subjective taste comes in, I suppose. But Raekwon pulls this all off without seeming to try so hard, and that's something distinct. Raekwon raps with, and operates with, a certain intangible air that borders on indifference. It's a casualness that seems real, and certainly realer than rappers who select identities for themselves and then cultivate them, respectively. Rae comes off as relaxed, and the music is not accompanied by a relentless marketing scheme meant to sell an image to the audience. Rae's music must speak for itself. And this simple, little number tells us a lot about where dude is right now. As noted, it's auspicious.

Two other notes: First, it's beyond ironic that on a track entitled "Flashback Memories," which would theoretically give him ultimate license to do what he always does, Game, for the first time I can remember, neglects to name check some of the classic rap music he grew up on. When has a Game song ever not included some reference to classic material? It's just funny in that "Oh yeah, you're right" kind of way.

Second, I like how Rae flips the word "etiquette" during the chorus. Deliberately or not, it connotes an other-ness that delineates him from the mainstream, in effect, and redirects attention to the fact that--hello--people whose time is filled selling drugs probably don't have concern for or knowledge of how that word should be pronounced.

P.S. I think that Game is kind of dumb. And as a rapper, he's limited, because no matter how good he gets at it, he basically makes the same verse over and over again. Cadence, flow, rhyme scheme, subjects--you know. But something weird has happened as his niche and his personality have crystallized: I sort of like him for the narrow rapper as which he's emerged. He is so thoroughly wrapped up in his own personal process that it's amusing, kind of like watching a child flail away at something harmless. Also, he's predictable, and the value he delivers is pleasantly forgettable, like a well-made b-list action-adventure movie. I don't ever find myself ruminating about or dwelling upon a Game verse. But usually, when he's on, I don't mind him, and knowing that it's just Game being Game makes me smile.

- Raekwon ft. The Game, "Flashback Memories"

Where Appalling Happens

Enjoy, North Mexico

I'll be honest: I won't miss Texas if it secedes. To my knowledge, we'd only lose idiots like the guy who wanted to fight me because he thinks Aerosmith is a better band than Pearl Jam; people who boo science and reject the fact that the Moon does not generate light (!); those crappy rappers whom we were conned into thinking, let alone caring, about a few years ago; and gun zealots like Joe Horn:



Oh, and the Cowboys. Sorry, HR. We'd simply have to ask Henry to move first.

Law School Is for Dorks

F my life.

A Few More Odds and End

Fake thugs need hugs.

Tough news, team: it's finals time here at Ye Olde Law School. As such, posting shall be limited in frequency and length. At least, until this weekend, when I can catch my breath for a second. Probably gonna have a lot of scatter-shot joints like what follows. Sorry. But that's why God made the comments section. Hit me up and we can chat. (That sounds creepy, like something I should post on my MySpace page. If I had one. And was looking for pre-adolescent good times.)

Music
- Quick Ricky Rowss album review: Deeper Than Rap is ironically titled. On the one hand, its material is incredibly superficial. There are so many of the usual hip-hop tropes. While some of these images and ideas may carry with them meaning or connotation which runs far deeper than what's immediately apparent, it's hard to extend that benefit of the doubt for about an hour.

On the other hand, it a disarmingly earnest album that, indeed, is deeper than rap. Despite the obvious effort behind the image Ricky Rowss cultivates, the Officer Ricky fiasco left him vulnerable. In turn, that has unintentionally given his calculations and posturing a sympathetic component because, suddenly, he needs all this. He needs us to believe he's capable of leading the life he professes to own. The insistance that he's a boss, the flossing, the laughable idea that he's turning out model chicks--it almost conjures the image of a child reflexively clutching at something for comfort. Beyond the usual, cynical rap marketing, Rowss digs in before lunging back at everyone. In its own way--one crafted for plausible deniability--Deeper Than Rap smacks of desperation. Not the embarrassing sort, but the kind that summons empathy. Rowss puts together a bizarrely honest record.

Luckily for Ricky, he gets it right on a bunch of songs. First, this album is a surprisingly inviting production showcase. Few albums will be as well done this year. That's my word. Second, either Rowss's flow has improved or he's picking better beats. But on songs like "Mafia Music" and "Valley of Death," he finds a great rhythm. He's especially good at dissing 50 Cent, and I think we should all applaud that. (Which reminds me: Deeper Than Rap > anything 50's made since Get Rich or Die Tryin'.) He's still Ricky Rowss, and as such, he's not anything special as a lyricist. He delivers lines in a fairly repetitive style. And far from an MC with one of those natural and organic vibes, he always sounds like he's working a little harder than he should have to. But still, this joint is listenable. Especially if you turn it into a 6-track EP consisting of the opening and closing trios. I suggest giving that a try.

P.S. Given that he ends up on so many songs as a guest, Lil' Wayne could reasonably be expected to have sorted out how to spit a hot guest verse at this point. And yet...no.

- So much wrong with this story. Above all else, don't piss in my ear and tell me it's raining:

Dude's got a horrible voice, so please say so. Don't tell me that it's not the same as Eminem's.

Dude's word play is of the running-to-stand-still variety (no U2), so please say so. Don't mistake activity for accomplishment.

Dude's a shallow thinker, so please say so (recognize). Don't laud him for the easy, cursory treatment of non-standard content that any college graduate could summon.

Dude's making this highly self-conscious frat rap, so please say so. Don't tell me he's just having fun while being himself.

Dude's rapping over boring beats, so please say so. Don't tell me its innovative production just because it doesn't sound like the radio.

Also: why is Jon Caramanica such a celebrated music critic? Like Sean Fennessey and every other rap writer whose narrative voice reflects the author's high opinion of himself and the belief that he's "really thinking about rap music" or whatever, Caramanica has questionable taste and seems to lose the forest from the trees.

And another thing: read this nice write up. Totally on point.

UPDATE: Also read Ian Cohen's review. Hits on many key points, not least of all the disappointing internets hype and the culture behind it.

- How many rappers that I couldn't care less about flooded the internets with new material today? And how much of it comes from forthcoming mixtapes that will ultimately lead to nothing? Sometimes, I think the internets have ruined rap music.

- Solid reading here. (HT: Ian, who remains a god-body rap blogger.)

Playoffs?! Playoffs?!
- Deron Williams needs a new look like whoa. Never has there been a greater gap between a player's game and look. He's pioneering this bloated, dime-store hustler look, and, uh, it doesn't work. Wow.

- Suddenly the Pistons are a total dog team. Well, maybe not suddenly. They've played heartless, dispassionate basketball all season. Writing that last sentence hurts, as it is completely antithetical to what this nucleus of Bad Boy basketball used to be. But it's the truth.

The Pistons haven't been right for a while, really, and I think everyone's known it. Only, it took the LeBron takeover game from 2007 and last year's Celtics ascension to allow everyone to acknowledge it. Before those events, there was no one else to tout, to focus on, to expect anything of, and so Detroit enjoyed a certain kind of borrowed-time privilege. This year's utterly feeble showing has been years in the making.

When Detroit couldn't answer the bell in the fourth quarter of Game Seven against the Spurs in 2005, that was the end. (How the fuck do you so easily roll over? I remember sitting in my backyard seething about it.) Detroit was irrevocably changed that night. There was a lot of posturing afterwards. And there were sustained stretches when the team played well. But let's be honest--never since June 23, 2005 has the team really seemed to believe it was the best, and it has failed in progressively worse fashion ever since. It crapped out and lost its cool against Miami. Then against Cleveland. The against the Celtics. The Pistons have had their spot blown up in every critical moment for four years, now.

Not only is it sad for a Pistons fan, but it's sad because it destroys the personal brands of so many players. Roscoe seems silly to always act so surly and mean mug when he consistently punks out. Same for Tayshaun, who will never really "arrive." And there is something about Richard Hamilton that always has and always will seem a little Mickey Mask Mouse. Real stars don't need gimmicks.
 

Please Remember This

Seems like the right day for this.

 

Odds and Ends

- Fallout from Jeff Van Gundy saying, "I am hip-hop"? Look no further.

- Finally saw one of the cartoons that spawned so much of MM...Food:



(HT: Russy)

- Peep game: Soul Fresh. Seems like this will have a lot of content which might appeal to the typical SB reader.

Grieving Renewal

Over the last ten years, no one has ever made money counting out the Spurs, and it has frustrated hordes of people. San Antonio is a team that seemingly everyone loves to hate. Casual basketball fans think that the Spurs are boring. Dedicated NBA heads think that the Spurs' success stifles many other forms of the game, coming at the expense of change. There are people who hate Manu Ginobili, and the Spurs through association, because he flops. There are people who, while grudgingly acknowledging Tim Duncan's brilliance, nonetheless hate Duncan's unassuming demeanor and outwardly imperceptible swag. People have hated Robert Horry because he's Horry; Tony Parker because he's French; Brent Barry because he's white. "Cheap" strategy, maddening luck, inexplicable referee munificence--Spurs haters say that San Antonio has benefited from it all.

I've long stood out as an unabashed Spurs admirer. Even among my friends, it's a point of differentiation in which I find pride and others find confusion. And I won't pretend as though some of the criticism isn't warranted. There have, indeed, been ugly games, obvious flops, and patent luck. But of which successful team can that not be said? In fact, of which team has that not be celebrated? Very often, the conventions of sports thinking dictate that we praise teams that "find ways to win," play with a certain craftiness, and "make the most of opportunities." The Spurs, for some combination of the reasons stated above, aren't afforded as much critical deference. They're granted latitude, and writers have been forced into respectful reflection due to the franchise's sustained excellence, but the tenor of the conversation about San Antonio has regularly lacked the ebullient tone which one suspects would have been attached to several Suns titles had there been any during the peak years of Nash, Amare, and D'Antoni. The Spurs' success has largely been treated like Eeyore winning election as Prom King year after year.

Though most passionate about the Knicks and ever devoted to Tracy McGrady (this makes me beyond depressed), I have derived tremendous enjoyment and definition from San Antonio. Like most people, I've had moments when the Spurs' success has baffled me. "How can they win with this team," I'd wonder. But rather than allowing the initial bewilderment to ossify into something bitter, I've gone the other way. Precisely because the Spurs have won with a style and a roster that can both appear pedestrian on the surface, I have filled the comprehension void with my huge admiration for Pop, Duncan, Manu, and Parker. My skepticism has given way to an appreciative amusment: they win because they are just that good. But unlike the Tiger Woods tautology, there is obvious explanation; it's not that the Spurs are revolutionary, it's that they renewed the game's foundation through sublime execution.



San Antonio's triumph has been the elevation of basketball professionalism. The Spurs' culture dictates that each member of the team understands his job and consistently performs its duties at a high level. They might as well give out Dharma Initiative jumpsuits embroidered with titles like "Shooter" or "Defender," because that's what you are on the Spurs. To wit, the shooters find their prescribed spots, balance the halfcourt sets, stretch the defense, and make their shots. That's the job. Do the job, trust in the system, and watch your jewelry collection grow. One might argue that Duncan, Manu, and Parker break this mold by doing much of many things, but I'd argue each simply has a more nuanced and demanding role commensurate with his distinct, elevated capabilities. Along with competitive wages, San Antonio job perks include: spending time among a brilliant CEO (Pop) and a modest, funny, worldly all-time great (Duncan); coming to a drama-free work environment; being treated as a grown-ass man; and, perhaps most importantly, not being asked to do more than you can. On the Spurs, you'll be challenged, for sure, but you won't be asked to work above your pay grade, or to take on challenges unfairly left for you to conquer.

The Spurs' business is basketball, and as an organization, it has devoted itself to being a leader in the sector's basic, enduring elements. Pick-and-roll, drive and dish, pass out of double teams, funnel penetrators toward the help, close out and box out--excelling at those fundamentals is how the Spurs have earned a profit. I think they'd be the first to tell you that seven-seconds-or-less basketball is an exciting, volatile niche in the industry, and one with obvious but still-inscrutable growth potential. But they'd also point out that in the long run, the San Antonio method has reaped steadier returns and has outperformed even the best attempts to realize the potential of something with such a high risk and high reward. (We should note, of course, that the Spurs, to their credit, have even been able to win by occasionally relying on their own seven-seconds business unit to drive sales, albeit temporarily.)

I have found this unflinching confidence and steady devotion to the craft of basketball something ultimately seductive. The appeal of the Spurs is not the results, but that the results validate this meticulous process. As exciting as it is to conceptualize how basketball can be changed through new styles, or through new player archetypes that introduce combinations of skills and ranges of motion previously unseen, it can be equally captivating to observe an old-world outfit modernize through excellence and dispense with the notion that it must blow up a model that has worked. The tension created by this process is captivating. Just what, exactly, is required to win if you want to play a fundamentally fundamental style bereft of certain modern amenities and conveniences? I harbor so much esteem for the Spurs because they are everything that can be great about basketball; they are a collective that is proud to be a team and recognizes how an organization, in total, can be greater than the aggregated value of its individual components. That will never change in the NBA, and so closely cleaving to this mission statement has served San Antonio well.

That the team does not apologize for what it is while knowingly embracing its most-hated-on status only enhances its appeal. It's unquestionably cool. For example, as I laughed uncontrollably about it in the middle of a conversation this weekend, I realized that my most favorite moment of the season came on its opening night when Pop flashed Shaq the double thumbs up after San Antonio played Hack-a-Shaq just seconds into the game.



That is the essence of what these Spurs have been: perceptive, smart, funny, defiant, and proud. Just as others fail to understand why I root for San Antonio, I struggle to grasp why more people don't love this organization.

Now might be the time when everyone can finally make some money betting against San Antonio. Almost a year ago, I wrote that the steady undoing of these Spurs had likely begun. Manu was injured, Duncan was slowing, and the professionals who had led their industry were suddenly failing to perform at the level demanded by the unique model San Antonio has cultivated. This season, despite the now habitual residence toward the top of the Western Conference, the Spurs were clearly infirm. Duncan was, indeed, not fully the same. Manu endured another season of injuries that have likely conspired to effectively end his career playing as he once could. And, the supporting elements were still not right. (Were Lloyd Bentsen an NBA analysts, he'd surely note that Roger Mason, for example, is no Robert Horry.) I picked Dallas to win yesterday, and I won't be surprised at all if they win this series. Everyone's pets die. (So I'm told, at least. I hate animals and have never had a pet.)

Something funny has happened as I've girded myself for San Antonio's demise, though. While I'd like for the Spurs to win, and as much as I relish San Antonio as a concept, I am completely at peace with these Mavericks vanquishing Pop and Co. Frankly, it would be almost poetic. Perhaps not stylistically, but certainly when considering each team's essence.

After years of manic tinkering, reactive decisions, and impulsive risks, always trying to be at the leading edge of the industry, Dallas came into this season relative staid, somewhat forgotten, and widely dismissed. Many people thought the Mavs would fail to make the playoffs, and it was generally accepted that the team was this almost grotesque amalgamation of mismatched parts, the ruins of all those hurried decisions and ever changing new directions. Kidd-for-Harris was a bust; Dirk was slightly impotent ever since the Golden State series; Howard was a rebel to America. There was even this pervasive notion that Rick Carlisle was a coach resigned to adequacy and perpetually failing to get over the hump, no matter how many times he worked up enough steam to at least mount its front side. Dallas wasn't supposed to be a factor.

The Mavericks, instead, have coalesced, and now play with this assured calm. And don't mistake calm as a synonym for plodding or boring. It's not a stylistic designation; it's one of identity. Suddenly, Dallas just seems to get what it is, and more importantly, it likes itself. I'd imagine that being marginalized was a key component in this odd renaissance of collective self-esteem. The Mavs are much more a team than they have been in the past. Far from a series of players colliding as each seeks out an identity, and far from a group in the throes of constant upheaval, Dallas is actually content to be what it is. (Someone who has more closely followed Dallas all season could perhaps make the case that the entire process of arriving at this emboldening equilibrium was personified by Jason Terry accepting his bench role and then emerging as the best sub in the Lig.) Suddenly, Dallas is very much like San Antonio in this regard. And as such, I am suffering this bizarre sort of Stockholm Syndrome. I should hate the Mavericks for stealing away my moments with Pop and Timmy, yet I secretly love Dallas thanks to the identity metamorphosis.

This Is What You Want to See in a QB of the Future

In case there was any confusion: Devin Gardner is the man. This is so wonderful.

I'm Ready

I Get It in Ohio

These people appreciate the unique wisdom of the FD.

And by "get it in Ohio," I of course mean that I contributed a guest post over at FreeDarko. It's about how much the NFL Draft is about the NFL Draft, and seemingly not so much about football. Maybe a little muddled, and maybe not the super-thorough post the subject demands, but I think it gets the job done. Check it.

Oh, and just because it was in my head this morning:

- Cam'ron, "Dreams"

Dead Ain't Necessarily Dead

Finale, "Heat"
Whoa. Feelin' this track. Like the steady, winding electro melody. Like the focused energy of the flow. Like Finale's staccato cadence. Like the dense verses. Like the Sean P-style grunts at the end of the chorus bars. Like the signature Detroit sound...which, of course, comes courtesy of the late, great Dilla Dog.

Just making my way through this record. It's beyond solid. Full review coming soon. Gotta get back on my record review game.

P.S. You may have seen a "new" Rhymefest track over at eskay's. I think I liked it better in its original form, though. Very frenetic, and that kind of free-wheeling style seemed to better suit the content and humorous tone of the song.

- Rhymefest, "Mouth" (Rough Draft)

A Modest Proposal

More intense than anyone on Denver.

The timing of the diclosure that Kevin Garnett is not likely to participate in these playoffs is sickly appropriate. It completely clears the way for the LeBron-Kobe-Wade collective playoff lovefest, it reinforces the strain of dialogue about this year's narrative shortcomings, and it dovetails with the latest FreeDarko Presents Disciples of Clyde podcast. You see...

Framed by the Beijing Effect, this season has been one in which the foretold has come to pass and the majority of focus has been placed narrowly on the triumvirate of excellence we know as LeBron, Kobe, and Dwyane. Deservedly so, but still, I'm sayin'. The fact that those three have been so dominant made the season feel a little empty, in fact. Everything else lacked sizzle if they weren't involved, because they were doing special things. And, the sustained relative dominance of Cleveland and Los Angeles made clear for months that only the Cavs, Lakers, or Celtics could win a title.

These were some of the themes explored on the latest podcast presided over by the excellent dudes () at Disciples of Clyde and presented by my homies at FreeDarko. I was their guest this week, and you can listen to us discuss it here or here. (Can direct download it here.) For those of you who have been dying to hear me freak out about the Knicks of my youth, now is your chance. There's also a wonderful anecdote about matzah.

Now, of course, you can eliminate the Celtics from the championship discussion. And suddenly, this playoff cycle looks a lot like a coronation of sorts. We'll leave June either staggered by the birth of a new LeBron Era, or we'll continue to marvel at his singularity while cementing Kobe as the defining player of the Post-Jordan, Pre-LeBron age. With that in mind, let's be real: they should shorten the playoffs this year. Just have the Heat play the Cavs so we can see Dwyane in mesmerizing, heroic defeat, and then have the Cavs play the Lakers. David has two days to make this happen, and really, what suspense would be lost? Maybe Portland and Denver could play an exhibition series on the side.

As for KG, I just shrug. I love him (), but he's won, and his place is no longer in dispute. It is great to watch him, but he wouldn't have been the real Kevin, and I hate Boston, so all the same, this is fine. He'll be missed, but the C's won't.

Also, a note: NBA awards are played out. The annual MVP debate is fun, and I respect the nuanced form it takes. Because really, it's a fight that's less about the most valuable player and more about how various players embody so many of the themes we, as fans, like to see in the game. I am cool with that. But doling out awards has become stale, and that was confirmed by this Steve Aschburner column. When boring, middle-aged white men (Charley Rosen, what up?) start thinking they're all clever for handing out alternative awards, you know shit is kind of corny. So awards discussion is forbotten verboten here as we head out into the exciting waters of the playoffs. Get psyched!

This Week's Sign of the Apocalypse

A proud day for crazy, incompetent people.

The next men's basketball coach at Florida International? Isiah Thomas.

Perhaps as a promotional event, FIU can bring in all of the CBA staff and players who lost their employment once Thomas ran that entire league into the ground...Or Al Harrington, Jermaine O'Neal, and other disenfranchised ex-Pacers to talk about squandering all that talent...Or me, to talk about living through the Isiah years in New York...or Anucha Brown Sanders.

Honestly, this will probably be OK. He'll raise the program's profile, he'll recruit some good players from the Southeast, and then his teams will just perpetually underachieve. They'll annually do things like not know which plays to run in crunch time. He'll use 17 different end-game lineups, most of them featuring baffling combinations of players. And at some point, I am sure he'll commit recruiting violations or do something wildly offensive or both.

There is now office space available in the Garden. Good.

"The Founding Fathers Didn't See a Need for a Bill of Responsibilities"

(Post title HT: littlelazer)

To put my reaction in terms that Clarence Thomas could appreciate, I will hold his words to be self-evident that he's a frightening, retrograde arbiter of supreme jurisprudence. I mean, this is utterly stupefying:

“Or how can you not reminisce about a childhood where you began each day with the Pledge of Allegiance as little kids lined up in the schoolyard and then marched in two by two with a flag and a crucifix in each classroom?”
...

“Today there is much focus on our rights. Indeed, I think there is a proliferation of rights...I am often surprised by the virtual nobility that seems to be accorded those with grievances...Shouldn’t there at least be equal time for our Bill of Obligations and our Bill of Responsibilities?”

It's late and I need to get to bed. But I'll just add one thing: this sort of reluctant, niggardly acknowledgment of rights, coupled with an obvious cultural anachronism, makes anything having to do with Anita Hill seem almost irrelevant. This is a strict constructionist whose extreme doctrinal obedience betrays logic and sensibility. It's radicalism, honestly, albeit stated with a quiet disposition. Thomas seems intent on championing 1791 as a model for contemporary lifestyles, and his proclivities neglect so much of the precedential debate that both preceded him and informs any reasonable sense of this nation's foundation that you have to wonder if there are many people more dangerous. Seriously. Consider that he's one of the nine people in the United States who determine the law, and remember that he's an unquestioning (literally) apparatchik in the ruling pseudo majority. Whoa.
 

Trade

Props to Eric and Jeff.

Rap Career Comeback FAIL

Sorry to have subjected you to that. It needed to be done for the sake of posterity.

HR does all the work that needs to be done on this. Eminem's done been over for a while.

What's next?

Best Song of 2009 Is Here

Thank me later.

P.S. Does anyone have a studio version of that Big Sean song "Way Out"?

An Open Letter to Michigan State University

Dear Michigan State:

Before we go any further, how about some theme music? Might I suggest something by 2Pac? Maybe "Wonda Why They Call U Bitch"?

Anyway, thanks for nothing. You blew it. All week, the media and anyone in Michigan seeking a headline said that you were the key. Even Jennifer Granholm. You'd lift up the community. You'd unite the state. You'd restore hope, create jobs, cure cancer, and rid the world of sadness. Well, now what? Damn you. By the time this is posted, the Chinese will likely have assumed control of Detroit as they seek to realize some return on their investment in the American economy you were supposed to save.

But it was all a joke. Forget how tired it is for the media to proclaim anything happening in Detroit as an exercise in salvation--Super Bowl, NHL Finals, Final Four, whatever. Forget that East Lansing has little to do with Detroit, and that for a long time, Lansing was a place run by those who hated Detroit. And forget the fact that most of Michigan doesn't even root for Michigan State. Forget that. We knew it was a joke because you're Michigan State. And as such, it was always destined to be illusory.

Michigan State is the place where promising football seasons go to die every year after the inevitable loss to Michigan. The place where the most famous person since Magic Johnson is an NBA washout who used to steal liquor from convenience stores. The place where throwing up in an empty bag of potato chips is the true hallmark of a good time (something I once witnessed). The place where police have to prepare just in case something good actually happens. The place where the school emails students about potential tear gas problems:



So really, I suppose it was unfair of everyone to expect you to pull off such a Herculean task. And, resultantly, let me apologize for how I started this letter. That was the wrong tone to take. How about this, instead: nice try, sport. You gave it your all, and sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't do better than your best. It's OK. No one really thought you could beat a pro team in the NCAA title game. Plus, Lloyd Carr probably jinxed you. To be honest, no one really thought you'd make it that far, anyway. And no, we didn't really think you would save Detroit.

It's getting late, and I should let you go. I'd imagine you have school tomorrow. Let's end on this: I know how hard it is for you to know that you're second rate. And I know how excited you get any time you have these fleeting moments of real accomplishment. So kudos, Spartans--it was all much ado about nothing, and in many ways, that is just too awesomely appropriate for State.

Regards,

Joey

Sunday Funday: KiD CuDi, Kanye, and Common

- KiD CuDi ft. Kanye West and Common, "I Poke Her Face"
This topic deserves more in-depth treatment at a later date, but I'll tease it now, because I'd appreciate the feedback (hint). I am intrigued by the wave of music from Kanye, KiD CuDi, and 88-Keys that is fueled by their earnest feelings about women. It doesn't always take a nice form, of course. This song, for instance, is a whimsical fantasy track with an obvious current of hostility. But when placed in larger context, it's a hostility that goes beyond the usual bitches-and-hoes, meet-at-club-and-have-sex hip-hop treatment. That's almost a compulsory marketing ploy. This kind of song, understood in a continuum, reflects a more honest sort of pain, an unfortunately earned skepticism, and cynicism. The 88-Keys album from last year was a full-length exercise in carthasis for these kinds of feelings. Doesn't make them pleasant, and doesn't justify being a misogynist, but they are very real, and not so uncommon.

This flood of music adds nuance and a different depth to the conceptions of hip-hop masculinty. For so long, it's been accepted and endorsed: women are tricks, and we rap about them as such. The G.O.O.D. posse, in particular, demands that we revisit what the prevailing images of masculinity can be. Kanye, as an example, is a rapper whose catalogue is loaded with memorable punch lines about women and a man whose aesthetic, liked or reviled, is influential. Yet, he also made an album, 808's, that was incredibly raw and spoke to a kind of vulnerability and uncertainty that rappers don't allow the public to see and consume. It's humanizing, and beyond the sort of banal understanding that normal humans capable of empathy can recognize pain in others, Kanye emerges as a much more likable artist because he seems real. (Even if his obvious self-conscious compels him, at times, to do things for the sake of doing them.)

One facet of the online ascension enjoyed by so-called "hipster rap" that is oft trumpeted is that this music is "normal." A departure from themes like drug dealing, truancy, and conspicuous consumption, the hip-hop put out by this new breed is about "regular" stuff: wordplay, everyday content that can border on minutiae, and whatever else just seems fun. Some of it might be a tinge ironic (or completely ironic in the more irksome cases), but it's largely seen as an accessible style that might be more familiar to the listener who is not posted up on the block. That may be so, but I'd argue that beyond the superficial barriers which someone like Kanye might errect by name dropping designers or whatever else, the emotional honesty, intended or otherwise, behind a track like "I Poke Her Face" is a more engaging, more available form of rap evolution.

OK. That's all from me for now. Anyone else have any thoughts about this?

P.S. Kanye has a line on here about "I love college." Anyone else think that it will inevitably find its way into a song by a certain overrated, sucker-punk aspiring Eminem sound-alike? That will be regrettable, especially when the internets goes nuts for it. *sigh*
 

Cheer Up, Michigan Fans

Here we observe a Buckeye in his natural habitat. Weekend furlough may not be a good idea.

Let's be honest: Michigan State beating UConn last night was likely a sign that America is godless and on the road to hell. (Although, let us not completely throw the baby out with the bath water. Stanley Robinson provided the highlight of the Tournament and cemented his status as my most favorite son:



I am so proud of him. Durrell Summer who?)

More tangible and immediate, it also means that all of those low-life, dyed-blond jerks from East Lansing will spend the next few months going out of their way to feel better about themselves by reminding any and all Michigan graduates that Michigan State actually did something that people care about, for a change. It will be excruciating and annoying; the vexation may lead to flirtations with violence. But in those times, I implore you, the discerning, urbane Michigan alumnus/a, to remember that Michigan State will always be a gutter, cow-focused institution, and to find strength in these truths:

1) It will be hard for anyone from Michigan to ever appear as douchy as Ohio State's Brian Hartline (ads on site potentially NSFW).

2) Few statements will ever be as powerful, as awesome, or as efficient as this one:



That right there is amazing. Simultaneously insulting Ohio State and Michigan State in a manner that properly captures their inexorable awfulness is a soaring triumph. Further, while it rightly places Michigan State on par with Ohio State as a center of evil and all things generally detestable, it does invite the burning question of just what, exactly, is Ohio State? As I've argued before, the Joke of a University is most likely a prison specializing in academically challenged yahoos. This would explain Hartline; Maurice Clarett; the endless array of arrests; the shoddy "education" of Sammy "What Kind of Degree Can You Get from Ohio State if None of Your Classes Count at Other Colleges" Maldonado; and so forth.

At least North Carolina is going to win tomorrow night. And the Spring Game is on Saturday.

Tiger Woods Is an Orange

I'd imagine that there are Straight Bangin' readers who get tired of Tiger Woods. To start, golf doesn't interest most of you, which is not surprising because it doesn't interest most people. It used to not interest me: before Tiger Woods, I had no appreciation for the sport and thought it was beyond boring. Even if you like golf, or perhaps because you like golf, Tiger Woods can be tiresome. He's the only thing that golf writers and broadcasters talk about. No one else gets to shine, even when Woods isn't playing or doesn't win. To wit: Trevor Immelman and Zach Johnson, winners, respectively, of the past two Masters, are already just footnotes in the narrative about Woods at Augusta. That's not especially nice, or fair, or fresh. Perhaps golf would be more interesting for more people if the story ever deviated from the seemingly white noise of Tiger fetish. Am I right? Is this why some people get tired of him?

There could be other reasons, of course. There's the potentially nettlesome matter of Tiger's meticulously cultivated image appearing everywhere. After Peyton Manning, there cannot possibly be a celebrity who is used more often, in more ways, than Woods. And unlike Tiger, Peyton plays a sport that most Americans rub themselves while thinking about ().

This circumstance, really, is a twofold aggravation: it's not just that he's everywhere, it's that the person everywhere feels synthetic. I get this, because, honestly, it's really effing weird. I'll be the first to acknowledge that Tiger Woods does not seem to be like the rest of us. It feels creepy, a little. Woods is the obvious product of consultation. About what to wear, what to say, what to do. About how to bridge back to his (boring) set of canned messages. About how to smile at all times, appearing likable at best and mitigating any unpleasantness at worst. About how to avoid saying anything with any shape about any issue of significance, so as not to scare off potential customers. About seemingly everything. Woods has been so thoroughly scrutinized, and has so often greeted the scrutiny with an unflinching and precisely calculated blandness, that he no longer appears, well, human. Which is not meant in the hackneyed, sports-cliche way, but is meant in the he-really-seems-like-a-different-kind-of-species way.

The "evidence" is there: Woods keeps a close circle, and he lives a protected, cloistered life of secluded secrecy in a series of locations that amount to one big Fortress of Solitude. (Look at how redundant we have to be to capture his extreme privacy. And note that only Superman, not a human, had a Fortress of Solitude.) You don't ever hear about anyone seeing him anywhere other than a golf tournament or a keystone basketball game. That's not common; Us Weekly has an entire section dedicated to just how much celebrities live like the rest of us.

Eschewing human contact, Tiger discloses most information through his website, which is sleek and annoying and as corporate as they come. His name has its own logo. He choreographs the release of any images containing him and his family. The perverse transparency of the charade meant to convince us that Tiger is just another guy--his language is riddled with everyday idioms and vocabulary, most of it nondescript so as to avoid suggestions of exceptionalism and encourage the idea of Woods as relatable--has had the opposite effect: anything normal, anything human, that he experiences takes on the veneer of theater. When he hugs his caddy; when he cries while remembering his father; when he has children--it all starts to feel insincere because we don't really know anything about Tiger other than what he has allowed us to learn.

Juxtapose Tiger with someone like Michael Jordan. Or LeBron James. Think of how much real access we've had to them. Think of how much we know about them, good and bad: Michael is a degenerate gambler and LeBron bites his finger nails. Tiger? Uh, he thinks it was "pretty cool" to meet Barack Obama.

These men are apt comparisons for another reason, though. And it's the reason why I don't get tired of Tiger Woods. Like Michael, and like LeBron, Tiger is a transformative sports figure. Each of these men has made, continues to, or will make a sizable impact that completely changes the way his sport is played. And Woods, in particular, despite his reverent, orthodox personality and lifestyle, has been such a radical--having changed golf more than Michael or LeBron altered basketball--that we, as sports fans and admirers of greatness, continually struggle to find a suitable way to capture Tiger's brilliance. This process fascinates me. Tiger Woods challenges the semiotics of golf and of how we contemplate athletic exceptionalism.

The New York Times has a golf-writers roundtable today that reminded me of the ongoing transformation. The men who participated in the discussion are veteran golf writers who all know the sport, the PGA Tour, and golf history. To a man, they all struggle to find the right way to explain just why they're so confident that Tiger Woods will win the Masters. Some of them discuss Tiger's mental fortitude, which is ever more legendary, and is something that can only be captured by assertions akin to "you know he will make every important putt because that's just what he does." It's descriptive if you know about Tiger Woods, but it relies on a tautological line of reasoning. Others go the Harrison Bergeron route, bemoaning the technophile culture of golf (better technology hurts Tiger!) and the habitual readjustment of Augusta National (stop maiming Tiger by forcing him to play like everyone else!) as evidence that golf is lacking largely because no one in the sport has yet sorted out how to deal with Woods. In citing these changes, the writers conjure the usual topics of dialogue in golf, and still don't really arrive at a way to best capture why Tiger is so good. It always seems to net out as "he's just better."

If you can put aside whatever disdain you may harbor for Woods, this is the latest evidence of how impressive a sports figure he is. How many people require new language? Or new modes of communication to properly express what we think about them? This is a process that can play out anywhere. For instance, you might taste something you've never tasted before, or something that improves upon a taste you already know, and yearn for it in a way for which you can't always find words. I'm dying for another taste. Well, you're not really dying, of course, but we get the picture. With music, you may have a favorite song that speaks to your emotions, that enlivens your body, that makes you happy, and yet, you might ultimately be frustrated in your effort to express that singular sensation with someone else. You'll have to partially cop out: "It just makes me want to dance."

This is what's happened with Tiger Woods. He literally defies a description that properly captures what he is, what he has done, and what he can do. Those who catalogue his career and tell his story--they still don't know what to say about him. And they probably never will. It is custom to list his records when defining the chasm that exists between him and his competitors. Anecodtes about his resolve, or his shot-making, are de rigueur. And as noted above, most commentators usually fall back on circular logic when summarizing why Woods is so good: he is because he is. This is all adequate, because it ultimately makes the point that he's better then everyone. When he retires, the narrative will mention his preternatural talent, his determined work ethic, and that he was ultimately better than Jack Nicklaus, both in relative and absolute terms. But that mere sufficiency of relying upon comparison and strenuous assertion is somehow dissatisfying because the totality of Woods's accomplishments and his talents deserves something more expressive.

As I wrote, humans struggle with this problem, in general. What does orange taste like? Well, orange. But what does that taste like? It's tangy. What's tangy? Something strong-tasting, maybe pungent, even. Like what? Like an orange.

For years, I have told friends who don't like or don't understand my zealous interest in Woods that one of my favorite parts of following him is hearing what other golfers say about him. Guys who have won majors, guys with egos, guys who hate him and envy him--the all acknowledge that he's unlike anyone else, that he has revolutionized the sport, and that he is the greatest. They do this all the time, on a weekly basis, because Tiger Woods is professional golf. This phenomenon just doesn't happen in other sports. LeBron acknowleges that Kobe is a great player, but week in and week out, he isn't resigned to talking about Bryant and declaring his timelessness. Golfers are forced into it because Woods in unavoidable, and they often sound baffled as they struggle to find words because they, also, don't know what to do. Tiger Woods is an orange, and part of why I never grow tired of him is because we still don't really know what that means or how to say it.

Michigan Goes All Dark Knight on Us and It's Awesome

Illest way to start a Saturday. Love it.

Between web content like this and Rich Rodriguez openly talking about things like setting spring game attendance records, let's hope that Michigan is finally making its way into the 21st Century and marketing its athletics as every other school does. There may be some understandable hesitancy about this because college sports increasingly feels like an arms race and Michigan likes to think of itself as having too much dignity for that kind of thing. I get that. But like it or not, this is the landscape, and you either compete or you knowingly abandon your athletic tradition by settling for mediocrity. I don't think Michigan has to compromise its academic standards, break any rules, or wade too far into anything murky merely to support its teams. Nothing wrong with trafficking in excitement.

New New Media

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Rap Alley

Volume on decibel 10

So no joke: this is one of my favorite joints of the year. Yeah, it's only been three months, but still. This is some laid back rap music, right here. A stripped down beat that makes its way along at its own pace suggests throwing the track on repeat in an act of defiance. And I do that as I take time for myself. Been working on a paper, and "Volume" has been the soundtrack to my digressions. The trance engendered by the deliberate melody loop is reassuringly hypnotic. A person can lose himself in the rhythm and find an appreciated calm. At the same time, you inevitably end up nodding along.

This isn't an earth-shattering sound. It's far from it. But that's part of the appeal: this joint knocks in a way which seems to be largely ignored or disdained by other hip-hop. There is no pretense, there is no audience in mind. "Volume" is proudly simple. It would be convenient to call this a "throwback," but that's a little lazy, a little banal, and a little wrong. This record has no agenda, and no one will hear this and entertain romantic notions of "how things used to be." Which, of course, might be ironic for me to write since I spend so much time railing against what I consider to be an inferior contemporary rap product. But Bannon has merely put together a track that makes its own space; he hasn't made something for me to place in an arsenal or politicize. I like that.

The rapping is prosaic and awesome. Skyzoo does Skyzoo: he works that flow of his which always feels like Stephon Marbury rocking the ball in between his legs before making a move. And I mean Stephon. Sky's method, easy and sincere, has an element of self-conscious to it. He knows he's steady with the flow; he knows we like that he's got his rhymes on a string. He even drops one of those Mariano Rivera metaphors of which he's so fond. Just as vintage Steph, elementally, could never escape the presumption that what he was doing was supposed to be an event, even as he did what came naturally. And that's the rhythm of the rhyme: top of the key, bent at the waist, hips ready to go laterally, weight shifting back and forth, ball gliding from one hand to the other through the legs as the shoulders talk in code. It's so fluid.

Stimuli takes the rock and jab steps before backing his man down and throwing a lob. It's a sudden infusion of energy quickly leveled out to something subtler that, in turn, gives way to a sensational instant. He comes on with "S-T-I-M/Who, how, why him," and it sounds like an incantation that blesses a verse of otherwise standard boasting with an understated brio. Like the track itself, Sha doesn't seem to care if he stands in contradistinction as he handles his business. So naturally, he goes on to spit bars crafted to sound matter-of-factly confident. And this, of course, works to make his verse something a little bit better than your average MC's average rhymes. It's a weird phenomenon well captured in this somehow cool sequence: "And my interviews are better than your CD/And girls YouTube me just so they can see me/Dude told me watch what I say/The shit's on TV/Vocals so clear it's like HD in 3D." You wouldn't normally care about those bars, but they work, and they're tight. Again, like this seemingly innocuous track that wins on its own terms.

But then, best of all, the moment that makes the track happens:

"Yo, Stimuli is a hell of a draw...

"Donny Goines!"

Donny comes on the track like duhn duhn duhn-uh. The sequence of the track's final third is sublime. Stimuli sets us up with his quietly effective time on the mic, lulling us as he walks us down toward the lane. Then, just as we've shifted the defense a little and focused our eyes on him, he rears up and tosses the ball toward the rim. Before anyone knows what's going on, Donny catches the alley and freaks the oop.

Spitting double-time, Goines just goes in, overwhelming the beat with this focused energy and a furious succession of boasts that don't stop until the beat slows down and devolves as it fades out. The juxtaposition of tempo, the frozen moment in between the pass and the catch, and the power of the reception and finish--it's sublime. It's what makes rap music so great.

- Lee Bannon ft. Skyzoo, Sha Stimuli, and Donny Goines, "Volume"

This Is Not an April Fool's Joke

(HT: Bol)

I like that the first specialty item listed is halal food.

Brooklyn, we go hard! ()