Almoorica

Sneaker watch: Crocs now OK for Medical Doctors.

2008-07-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

Apologies for lack of posting.

Recorded an album.

"Released" said album on compact disk.

Played several times to promote it.

Went on vacation.

Changed jobs.

Also: became violently ill. Which brings me to the following:

I am almost never sick. That's a very simple declaration, but an enormous blessing. Until the week before last, I hadn't vomited from anything other than alcohol poisoning since I was under age 10. While noteworthy, this realization comforted me little as I yakked blood. Instead, I sequenced through the usual progression: discomfort, shock, appeal to jesus, webmd.com.

Ever the alarmist, Webmd "symptom checker" advised I seek immediate emergency medical attention. That was enormously inconvenient, blood and all, and Kayla (ever the realist) was having none of it. So I waited it out, hit the bathroom for a little diarrhea, and visited the Primary Care Physician's office the next day during regular business hours.

It was my first trip in a couple years, and I'd changed insurers. This meant paperwork, and increased interaction with adjunct office personnel, all of whom were rocking white Crocs. Then a nurse (also totally Crocked-out) led my virus-ravaged skeleton to an exam room, where I sat on deli paper clutching gatorade and staring out the door. Every passer-by rocked Crocs. Many, including my doctor, sported a sockless Croc look. Not OK, says I, but also sort of awesome.

Illness prevented me from thinking much on this topic at the time, but, on reflection, the emergence of Crocs in emergeny medical situations really caps a startlingly meteoric rise. I mean, Doctors dont typically take fashion risks, yet here they are with friggin beach clogs on their feet. Can any other beachwear claim to have won over the medical community? Hell-to-the-No.

Crocs are the Saabs of footwear. They are ugly as sin, but unique, and their loyal followers buy them primarily for utility. That's all fine by me, but there's a time and a place to keep it super-casual, and the Doctor's office aint one of em.

Patrick Ewing--my first favorite baller--elected to Hall of Fame

2008-04-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

"We didn't compete."
-Isiah Thomas. November 29th, 2007 and many, many other dates.

You never heard this unacceptable phrase during the 15-year Patrick Ewing era in New York, which is a big part of why he is now a hall of famer.

Ewing never overcame Jordan, and his hard-nosed style didn’t match Hakeem Olajuwan’s grace, but no one worked harder to win, and no one questioned his leadership, his effort, his willingness to get better, or his dedication to his team. Certainly the Knicks miss his production—he was always good for 20 and 10—but it is his commitment they miss most.

Ewing’s career is defined by two images, both of which feature his arms—possibly the longest in human history. The first is his victory pose following the Knicks' 94 victory over the Pacers. This was the closest he came to winning it all at the Garden, and his outstretched arms told the story: the win moved him, and us, and it looked like he could literally embrace the entire arena.

Ewing at the peak. It was a profound sports moment because the win clearly meant as much to Patrick as it did to the fans.

The second was less glorious, but, ultimately, more career-defining: the missed finger roll in game 7 of the 95 conference finals at Indiana. He played tenaciously, carried team on his (presumably aching) back, and put himself in position to win. But where the situation called for an emphatic dunk, Ewing went with the soft-roll, and he didn’t get the bounce.

The symbolism of this was vivid to fans of all ages.

After those two indellible images, when I think of Ewing, I think of sweat. Many people do.

I know that’s gross, but its also awesome, because it was a byproduct of effort. Athletes should want to compete, and want to lay it on the line every game. Most of the time they don’t. But Ewing played both ends of the floor every night, and he had the sweat to prove it. Seeing him at the free-throw line, drenched, 2 minutes into the game, made me feel like the game and the Knicks meant as much to him as it did to me as a kid.

Because he didn’t win it all, Ewing is frequently remembered largely for trivial things like the stupid gold-club scandal and the lumbering, slow style he adopted and the ever-growing knee-pads he wore late in his career as injuries piled up. Truth is, Patrick Ewing kept a (once) great franchise in the hunt for 15 years, gave his body to his team, and showed millions of kids that competitive greatness could be defined by effort. By sweat. He never made success look easy, and that’s why we loved him.

Patrick Ewing gave his body to the Knicks. His commitment was unassailable.

Opera Corner with Tim Harrington

2008-04-02T16:50:00.001-07:00

Faithful readers, I'd like to broaden the scope of almoorica's ceaseless music coverage via a new segment: Opera Corner with Tim Harrington.

Tim Harrington, my grandfather, knows he is an authority on opera. What he doesn't know yet is that he is also a born blogger.

I sincerely hope his amusing, astute insights into this crucial art form will become a valuable and recurring addition to my humble blog. They will certainly elevate its level of sophistication. He makes his almoorica debut with an unfiltered take on the Met's latest production of Tristan and Isolde:

The hot news from Needham is that the Metropolitan will be streaming a live performance of Tristan und Isolde TONIGHT, at 7PM EST. Rush to www.metopera.org. The original six performances of this FIVE hour long opera was to star two great singers, Ben Heppner ( Canada ) and Deborah Voight ( USA ) and I saw the fourth show last Sat PM with the fourth replacement tenor: Heppner had got sick the week before the first show, withdrew, was misdiagnosed in NY, went to Toronto where an abdominal infection was found and surgically drained; meanwhile the first performance occurred in NY and the tenor got sick but got through ( booed by some kindly folks from the City at first curtain call, but cheered at second by outraged outlanders); at the next performance Voight got sick ( stomach upset, show completed by her stand-in ); at the next, the second substitute tenor was hurled into the prompter's box by a malfunction of the stage machinery ( the box was cleverly hidden by a dish with a large sacrificial fire in it, but he wasn't incinerated, and the show was halted for eight minutes and then went on. );then came the fourth show, with yet another substitute, excellent, ( an American flown in from Paris ) and broadcast worldwide, he w/o any rehearsal. Now Mr Heppner is about to undertake this punishing role, in a weakened condition... but the fans are thirsting for blood. Producing these shows live, worldwide is truly a high wire act.

Rick Berlin's Rent Party--or, why I love the Midway

2008-03-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

Last week, the unstoppable indie-iconoclast Rick Berlin hosted the latest in a series of musical potlucks in support of "Jamaica Plain Spoken," his perpetually-forthcoming documentary film about this under-celebrated, completely vital neighborhood. The event took place at the Midway Cafe--a dive that does everything right--and was a solid reminder that this neighborhood is the lynchpin of Boston's counterculture.

Rick expressed concern that these evenings were beginning to feel like rent parties, cause the film is nowhere in sight, but to me the show was ingenious as it essentially stated the case for why the thing needs to be made in the first place. There was a local artist selling photographs of genetalia by the bar, bands and performers on the stage, buzzing in the crowd, and stalwart barflies watching the Bruins on the TV in the corner. This was the "good Boston" in full effect.

It was also a typical night at the Midway, a small room with a comfy stage, a band-friendly, unassuming vibe, and possibly the most eclectic built-in crowd in Boston.

I love playing this room. Even when we've played to zero people (it happens) there, we've been reasonably taken care of, and when we've played to big crowds, we've consistently walked out of there having made worthwhile connections.

Black Crowes and Workloads

2008-03-12T19:53:00.000-07:00

Im swamped in the J-O-B, sick of looking at computers, and suffering from low all-arond morale, but listening to the Black Crowes new disc, "warpaint," moves me to write.

Its a joy, mostly because its nice to hear the band, after several years, slipping easily back into the same niche they've basically occupied since forever: stonesy, southern roots rock with a tinge of psychadelia (aside: as a longtime fan of this band, it feels great to write that sentence).

Anyway, despite the addition of a new guitarist, there are no radical new directions here. But there are several welcome, subtle, telling pivots. For starters, the record announces that they're rededicated to their music and their "brotherhood" for the first time in awhile. Secondly, it says that the band knows their wheelhouse and knows how to work brilliantly within it, dishing out side orders of grunge, grit, psychadelia, hippie jamband fare, and blues with their main course of sourthern-fried stones. Finally, it proves they're still interested in trying to make really good records. All of this is great news for us all, since the arena rock world desperately needs proven, dedicated, traditionalist bands. And damned if the crowes arent that.

As for the music itself, the album sounds terrific--Chris Robinson is in great voice here; the guitars flat-out sing, sliding and crunching and glistening; the mix is first-rate; and the performances are on the money, from the dobro-laced "Goodbye Daugters of the Revolution," to the grungy boogie "Wounded Bird," to the lovely "Oh Josephine," with its pastoral opening progression and its elegant close.

The only trouble, and this is always the Crowes' achilles heel, is that the songwriting sometimes comes off as more of a homage to the band's musical idols than it feels like they've picked up the torch and run with it. Thats an easy criticism I know, but its fair since the Crowes have proven themselves capable of top notch songwriting in the past--most notably on "the Southern Harmony" record.

Still, thats a small beans criticism, since the sheer soul and life in this album more than makes up for its (occasional) songwriting shortcomings. Classic roots rock is alive and well, as it always will be, in this important record from a band that, while never the "it" act in mainstream america, remains one of the best.

Brett Favre, Greatest Human Being of All Time, Retires; ESPN Scrambles to Fill Vast Programming Void

2008-03-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

Its a difficult day for ESPN. Brett Favre, the football player/god among men, has gone ahead and retired in characteristically heroic fashion (i.e. by leaving a manly, rugged voicemail to an ESPN reporter). The news, while sad for Packer fans and the Wrangler Jeans company, is nothing short of devastating to the omnipotent cable network, which is contractually obligated to devote at least 2 hours out of every 24 to Fav-related puff programming.

Think about what that means for ESPN. While the network does get at least two full news cycles to inflate this completely unsurprising, long-expected story into a tearjerking, 10-megaton-news bombshell, they will now be forced to shelf their vast trove of Farve-fegnugen. Consequently, their entire editorial philosophy is upended; their stock-footage file utterly decimated, their go-to crawl headlines--"Favre says he'll play another year", "Favre: I still love the game", "God to Favre: You can borrow my arm for another year if you want"--now totally outdated.

I will watch the editorial ramifications of the Favre retirement with great anticipation...hopefully it may steer the network toward objective coverage of all 30 NFL teams with minimal infantile hero-worship. But I think an all-favre network, ESPN4, anchored by the man himself, is probably more likely.

Brett Favre's retirement creates problems for his legions of idolators at ESPN. They may now be forced to provide objective coverage of all 30 NFL teams

You had me at "Blogging D-Bag"

2008-03-01T22:12:00.001-08:00

I'd like to give a special shout-out to Straight Up Sports, my favorite new site. In a sea of stupid, "lighter side of" sports blogs, yours, to be sure, is among the least insufferable.

Special tip 'o the hat to the Brooklyn Hillbilly for his impressive co-stewardship of this bastion of piquant journalism.

Dive Lounges Dissected. Part II- PA's

2008-02-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

Ah...PAs. When this Union Square spot is packed, which it rarely is, it's stiflingly hot, acoustically miserable, and unnervingly claustrophobic. When it's empty, which is usually is, it feels, looks, and smells like a basement, even though its on the first floor.

PA's is the type of room that makes even a spry 27-year-old like me feel old and out of touch, inasmuch as what I perceive only as "ramshackle," "bush league" and "dingy," the college hipsters I always encounter there seem to find "authentic."

My band at PA's Lounge. Its small stage and makeshift trimmings aren't inspiring, but it does offer an unassuming, charming bar

I can see where the hipsters are coming from--PA's has carved out a hipsterific niche in a Union Square scene that houses a fair amount of good music--but judged simply as a place to play and experience music, its less than ideal. Bizarro furnishings, left over from its previous life as club for Portugese-Americans (hence the name) suggest the room housed secretive (tiny windows) religious congregations (church pews), meat-roasting sessions (massive oven) and polka music (sousaphone). These odds-n-ends don't so much lend character or kitsch appeal to the room as much as they just contribute to its storage basement-esq vibe. And the makeshift stage, flanked by guitar cases and gear doesn't exactly induce goosebumps either.

The result is a cavernous, musty room that transmits no energy, confidence, or even basic professioalism to performers. And thats before you even play a note. Sets dont start on time, the mix is hit-or-miss, and the acoustics are basement-quality. Its a good room for bands just starting out, bands comprised of college kids, or bands looking to take over the room for a boozy CD release party. Anyone else need not apply.

Of course, I'd be remiss to ignore the other half of the place--the bar. Set completely apart from the music cavern, the PA's bar, like its neighbor Sally O'Briens, is charming and unpretentious, with a friendly, unassuming staff, a likably retro aesthetic, and cheapo swill. Its an altogether pleasant escape from the mediocre set you'll play and/or hear across the hall.

February Malaise Music

2008-02-19T19:46:00.000-08:00

Certain events help define your age, and I inched a bit from "mid twenties" to "late twenties" over a weekend of partying and crashing on air-mattresses. Weekends like this dominated my college life, except in college air-mattresses were replaced as crashpads by gross-ass furniture and/or bathtubs. Even right up until recently Ive thought nothing of posting up on some couch fabricated in the mesozoic era. Why? because I used to be able to party all nite, eat a bag of doritos, crash on any surface that could carry my weight, and wake up the next day feeling fantastic.

This is no longer the case.

After two nights of reconnecting with old college friends and doing the air-mattress thing, I feel like I've been in a massive fight. Only in this fight the dudes who pummelled me also coughed on me and infected me with the flu. Its a physical malaise that has plagued me for most of February, but its connection to my feeling older, wiser (?), and less interested in bathtub slumber came as a revelation on Saturday afternoon while I did nothing but listen to a friend's records. These relaxing albums were the best possible therapy for my aged-feeling ass, and they can help you through your own February malaise.

Wes Montgomery--Road Song.

Im no serious jazz-o-phile, which probably helped me enjoy this record more, because this would probably be a write-off among jazz scholars. Having heard a lot of Mongomery's work over the years (I am a guitarist after all), I know that "road song" isn't exacty heavy lifting for him. But this tour through standards and schmaltzy "mood music" is beautifully played, and extremely balanced in its track sequence. This record is basically synonymous with February afternoons, which makes it perfect to relax with when you're feeling crappy.

Wilie Dixon--"I Am The Blues"

All old blues guys "have" the blues. Few claim to actually BE the blues. The record does support his claim though. Like the Wes Montgomery disc, "I am the Blues" is smooth and even. It offers familiar standards performed impeccably, and it comes particularly alive through the warmth of vinyl. This man knows something about malaises, and this record is the template for American Blues.

Keith Jarrett--"Vienna"

Since falling under the "koln concert" spell in high school when I was still playing piano, I've been a sucker for the Jarrett solo piano albums. The "vienna concert" has the same inspired, lyrical quality and the intense dynamic range of the Koln Concert, but the two improvisations on "vinna" both have a much longer arc, which makes for an ideal balance between passive and active listening. More often than not, Jarrett's playing is anchored by a "classical" foundation, but its too rich and exploratory to be pinned down. The Vienna concert is as graceful, and as purely musical as anything I've ever heard from Keith Jarrett.

Dive Lounges Dissected. Part I- The Cantab

2008-02-12T14:09:00.000-08:00

Like any musician, I'm something of a dive bar expert, and I have a particular affinity for the "lounge" subspecies of the dive bar family. The band has had the pleasure of playing a couple "Dive Lounges" recently: PA's in Union Square and the Cantab in Central. So with those experiences fresh in mind, today I'll post the first in a 2-part dive-lounge series

I'll start with the 'Tab. Its an institution--a soul-filled bastion of appealing seediness in a rapidly gentrifying district (exhibit A: its next door neighbor the Tavern in the Square). Like the best thriving dives, its hard to know if its "salad days" are behind it or if these are, in fact, said glory days. All the dive trimmings are here--long-in-the-tooth bar staff, no-frills service, stiff drinks, threadbare aesthetic--but the place's real "differentiators" are its unflappably eclectic nightly music menu and the enormous diversity of its clientele. On Tuesday night, you'll get quality bluegrass; on Friday, first-class soul.

No discussion of the Cantab would be complete without mentioning Joe Cook. The (presumed) world-record holder for longest standing dive-lounge engagement, the "Peanut Man" played "Mustang Sally" and other soul standards at the Tab every weekend for about 35 years. I'll pause as that sinks in. 35 Years.

I hear Cook's health now prohibits him from continuing the engagement, but the legacy endures: At our gig, the scene was the same as was at his usual Friday night shows--three generations of couples getting loaded and boogie-ing to soul covers.

Joe Cook, the Cambridge music legend

Meantime, we played the "lounge" (read: basement) as the last band on the amusingly named "Club Bohemia" bill. This hastily-constructed evening o' music featured 4 diametrically-opposed bands: us (an indie/americana outfit), a straight funk group with an excessively elaborate (6 tambourines!) "additional percussion" set, a bizarre art-rock band w/ a drummer who played standing up, and a garage-punk band with a rotund drummer/lead vocalist. It was as if the MC of the event, a fella by the name of Mickey Bliss, was aiming for some kind of musical deathmatch. Or he was just super, super lazy in his planning (evidence to this forthcoming).

Bands beware: Mr. Bliss doesn't exactly run a tight ship. He is as incompetent as he is nattily-clad, and the set-times are hopelessly erratic. Embarrassingly, he delayed the set a full hour by botching the set-up of the second band on the bill and FELL ASLEEP during our absurdly-late set, resulting (ironically) in ear-splittingly loud volume and disastrous feedback throughout the room. Its safe to say that the sight of your sound-guy slumped over the board, drooling over his cheap, crushed-velvet suit doesn't exactly inspire rock-star confidence on the stage.

But who cares? No one plays the Cantab to ignite a rock revolution. You play it for the same reason you go there--to have a good time and get into the spirit of the place. After it became clear we'd be lucky to play by 1AM, I stepped upstairs to take in the scene and get into the night as a spectator. Cantabulous as usual: Couples boogied to well-worn but well-played classics, everyone was tanked, and the muffled rumblings of the band downstairs crept through the sticky floorboards between songs. Places like this are the lifeblood of a decent music scene.

Atwoods Tavern: Always Worth the Trip

2008-02-08T09:05:00.000-08:00

Ambled into Atwoods last night and discovered the latest incarnation of the extended Hi-n-Dry/ Morphine family: the Chip Smith Project. Billy Conway: percussion. Laurie Sargent: front-woman. My bandmate Ben Crouch aptly described the music as "NPR Americana," so it wasnt exactly earth-shattering stuff, and not nearly twisted enough for Ben, but Sargent's lovely vocals brought quality to the proceedings.

Its not the music that prompted me to write though. Its what dawned on me as I scarfed a delicious dinner while hearing bona-fide local heavyweights:

Atwoods is suddenly the best bar around.

No cover, ever; Shockingly good, refreshingly cheap food; Friendly, professional bartenders; Super-warm (albiet fake) fireplace and nice tavern-y vibe; A growing following of enthusiasts; and, most notably, increasingly good music almost every night. If you're looking to get a feel for the local live roots/americana scene for free, this is your spot.

They must take good care of the talent, because word is spreading among the local roots crowd. Dennis Brennan plays there weekly, as do a growing number of his Hi-N-Dry labelmates. Tim Gearan has a standing Friday engagement, and the mandolinist Jimmy Ryan and the jazz chanteuse Miss Tess are regulars. You could do a lot worse than this community for musicianship, people.

An ideal corner bar, Atwoods Tavern is an increasingly reliable spot for quality local roots acts.

Guitar Tech Showdown: Mr. Music BESTS Rock City Guitars

2008-02-06T15:34:00.000-08:00

A couple anecdotes about guitar nerds isnt a glamorous way to kick-off my new blogging direction, but I figure there's no such thing as too many firsthand accounts of local service-providers. Musicians are always ass-broke, and because of this their gear is always in poor repair. and, because of THIS, they're always looking for a good "guy" who can fix their shoddy, beer-stained merchandise for cheap.

well, I know a guy.

Take your greasy, busted axe to Jay at Mr. Music in Allston:

Just got my beer-stained (but unshoddy) Les Paul back from him yesterday, and I'm satisfied as usual with the results and the fee. He fixed some disasterous fret problems, worked with me to find the right string-height, asked me about what I'm playing these days, and invited me back to fine-tune if necessary--everything you want from a good guitar tech.

Here's the thing with good guitar-techs: they like what they do. They're all about tinkering wign guitars, so they'll work with you until you are completely satisfied with every aspect of the repair/set-up. They're like doctors. They might make you sit there on the deli paper for awhile before materializing out of the shadows, but then they'll talk you through a diagnosis and invite you to keep coming back until everything's fixed. And they'll take some time with you. If you can find a guy who does that, and his labor charges are reasonable, you've got yourself a keeper!

Contrast this with the following sob-story from the once reputable, now defunct Rock City Guitars in Davis Square:

Now, as noted above this place went belly-up, so this anecdote wont be all that instructive, but it is a cautionary tale about rolling the dice at a place that looks solid but that you know nothing about.

So...looming bankruptcy undoubtedly undermining their motivation for gold-star service, the RCG folks "performed" a hasty, ham-handed set-up (guitar speak for basic tune-up) on my guitar, and returned it to me without checking to see if their substandard efforts would meet even a toddler's specifications. I say this because they took my perfectly playable guitar, and my 50 bucks, then returned me an unplayable wreck. This was a complete anti-transaction...I liken it to bringing your car in for a tune-up and having them take the wheels off. Then charging you for rustproofing.

Like a rube, I cheerfully took the guitar home without even opening the case. I trusted the high quality "guitarsmanship" of these seemingly trained professionals. Later I discovered the uneven frets, the rampant buzzing, and the flat-out dead spots along the neck. This was a car with no wheels. And when I angrily returned, the store was closed for good.

Now, I know a few Rock City enthusiasts, so this experience was likely an anomaly, but there are lessons to be drawn anyhow. First up, if you roll dice with a new guitar-tech, take your axe out and play it while you're in the store BEFORE forking over your $50 bucks (side-note: dont pay more than 50 bucks). Secondly, be sure to ask to talk to the guy who will be working on your instrument, and proactively tell him about your playing style and exactly what you want to get out of your instrument. If he's not in the store, ask for his card so you can call him when he is. If he doesnt want to talk to you for a bit, (or if he looks like he's about to go bankrupt), he's not your guy.

Just 5 Years In--Almoorica Makes A Change

2008-02-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

Echoing the diluted theme of Campaign 2008, I'm boldly embracing "change." For the first time in the 5-year history of the Almoorica blog, I've decided to choose an Actual Focus! And what could be more apropos for a guy like me, a longtime bostonian whose only remotely worthwhile posts concern music, than the insecure, insular, incestuous subculture that is the mighty Boston Rock Scene. The idea isn't to opine on shows and local releases so much as to survey the spots, studios, scenesters, and stores that breathe much-needed noise into this conservative city. I've lived here for a decade, written for the local rags, played in the local dives, gotten my instruments fixed in the local shops, and I've learned from pros and schmoes alike. I'm not the most plugged-in dude around, but I'm an anonymous, abiding musician with a pen, a brain, and an honest experience of this town's music and culture.

Oh, and I also will have stuff to say about trucks with testicles, elevator etiquette, urinal nomenclature, Levar Burton, high hi-tops, short shorts, unresolved municipal infractions, and the struggle to dunk.

The Latest on Trucks with Testicles

2008-01-21T16:46:00.000-08:00

I've been speaking out against Truck Testicles for a long time now, and I'm not alone apparently.

Indeed, over a year and a half since I first voiced disdain for the crass vehicular ornamentation, BOTH of my two remaining readers shot me this--the latest in the ongoing public campaign to rid the road of big, fake, dangling balls.

Yes, folks, Virginia Delegate Lionell Spruill is the latest lawmaker to file legislation banning automotive genetalia. He hopes to succeed where Maryland Rep. Leroy Myers did not by labeling the gaudy gonads a safety issue, rather than just a tasteless eyesore.

In his anti-testicle efforts, Del. Spruill plans to "bring them out here and show them to you until they tell me to stop." Can't wait.

Creep-Off!

2008-01-17T17:12:00.000-08:00

A new segment here for 08--the creep-off! Its self explanitorily hilarious!

Today's showdown pits "The King," of Burger King renown against "The Viking," of Freaks n Geeks fame. I love both these characters, for different reasons. The King is second only to Ronald McDonald in fast-food creepiness (no one else comes close to R-Mac), yet he seems to know a thing or two about selling burgers given that he reigns over a growing kingdom of TV ads. He is a survivor and an inspiration to waxy creeps everywhere.

The Viking, on the other hand, is far from ubiquitous. He made only a couple of appearances on a TV show that only lasted only 9 episodes. But he stole every scene he was in, and has haunted my dreams ever since. A gigantic, freaky, floating head, the Viking may be the greatest single piece of TV Memorabilia ever. He lives on, terrorizing all who see him, on DVD.

Lets get it on!

Domepiece:
Working from the top down, it looks like "The King" has the edge. Now that Flava Flav has taken all the menace out of the Viking Horn look, "The Viking" loses points, especially contrasted against "The King's" delightfully ridiculous, BK-branded crown. Its too small, it awkwardly props up a creepily-curly coif, and it sits too high. A beacon of creepiness. Edge: KING

Expression:
All Viking here. Both King and VIking are waxy, but the Viking's overt psychosis and oddly photorealistic chicklets and eyeballs are utterly paralyzing. Laughing maniacally, fixing to kill you with his bare hands, the Viking is an absolute terror. Meanwhile, The King's waxy complexion is off-putting, and his beady eyes are far from trustworthy, but at least I dont feel like my life is in danger when I look at him. Edge: VIKING

Beard:
The well-kempt King sports a properly-combed "Garibaldi" beard which is only creepy in the overall context of his face. As a stand-alone feature, this full facial hair is relativey reasonable, especially for royalty.

The Viking, on the other hand, is going with a "Gandolf the Grey with a hangover" look. Not only is his facial flow stringy and platinum blonde, but it also appears to be actual human hair. Off the charts creepy. Edge: VIKING

Coif
Tough call. The Viking looks like he doesn't have time to groom because he's too focused on finding ways to kill you. The King looks like he spends all day on his 'do because he wants to seduce you and molest you. At least you'll live. Edge: VIKING

Bling
Viking: Nothing
King: Mr. T chain
Edge: KING

Final Thoughts

A tie seems appropriate, given these two legends. Alas, since I have frittered away the last several minutes studying these bizarre fictional characters, I may be the true creep-off champ. ok...onto something actually funny and/or worthwhile next time.

Record Reports: James Brown's "Motherlode." Wu Tan Clan's "8 Diagrams"

2008-01-10T18:53:00.000-08:00

James Brown's "Motherlode" is proof positive that I cannot dance. Its one of the most danceable records I've heard by the Godfather of Soul, and that's saying something; and I cant dance to it, which reflects very poorly on me.

The album is a scattershot compliation, but its disorganization is easily redeemed by the exceptional quality of the tracks. I'm sometimes discouraged by The Godfather's records because so many are comprised of either overly-long vamps ("Hot Pants"), or too many truncated bits and pieces of song--live medleys, 45-second bursts o' funk, intros/outtros/interludes. "Motherlode" is full of 5 minute, perfectly-realized funk compositions. Clyde Stubblefield's drumming is nothing short of heroic; Bootsy Collins is supersonically limber on the bass; Maceo Parker's horn vamps are pitch perfect; and Brown punctuates the changes with characteristic gusto. When the group stretches out on tracks like the sublime "People Get Up and Drive Your Funky Soul." " or the more succintcly-titled "Funk Bomb," the results are stratospheric.

The Wu-Tang Clan, another enduring group, makes a bid for Greatest Crew of All Time status with "8 Diagrams." Since people like me who dont follow hip-hop closely figured that the Wu was finished as a functional unit, the mere existence of this disc is exciting. But here's the thing: its also tremendously good.

The RZA ties the Wu Tang Clan together like the Dude's Rug. He is their Clyde Stubblefield, their Bootsy Collins, AND their James Brown. And he doesnt disappoint here, presenting a strikingly musical brand of gangsta rap. The productions don't skimp on the RZA trademarks--the cavernous feel, the campy Kung-Fu proverbs, the psychadelic keyboard touches--but they incorporate more singing, more guitar-playing, and more dynamic range. Some might argue that all this melody comes at the expense of the Wu Tang's hard-hitting style, but that objection is nullified by the fine performances here. Method Man is particularly vintage, delivering verses with enough menace to make me forget his clownish experiments as a TV pitchman for PowerStripe deoderant.

RZAs singular production and the depth, restlessness, and impeccable quality of these tracks gives "8 Diagrams" the feel of a "producer's album," but, despite the absence of the late ODB, its a Wu-Tang record through and through. That means its feel will make you pleasantly nostalgic for the late 90s without sounding remotely dated. Could you ask for more in this type of album?

Great Moments in Fantasy Football History

2007-12-03T21:25:00.000-08:00

Generally, you get one or two truly great games per season, per sport. Tonight's Ravens/Pats game was one of them. I'm still all a-twitter, but only in part because of the incredible, all-out slugfestI just witnessed. Indeed, while Tom Brady's classic 4th quarter heroics saved a perfect season for his team, they also may have inadvertently set the table for a fantasy football playoff showdown between me and this man, Nick Lunger:

Clinging to playoff contention, Lunger boldly inserted "the other Pats receiver," the middling Jabbar "the Journeyman" Gaffney. By my calculations, the move may have paid off. Desperately needing a formidable 30 points to pull off a stunning upset, sneak into the Fantasy Football playoffs, and set up a showdown with my squad, Lunger's bold insertion of Gaffney looked characteristically foolish until the waning seconds. Like the Pats hopes for an undefeated season, team Lunger was on the ropes, until fate intervened and resurrected them. The unlikely hero Gaffney scored an improbable touchdown in the closing moments--as gorgeous a 7-yard reception as these eyes have seen. A grand moment in Pats history, and a great moment in Fantasy Football history.

Returning to Mr. Lif

2007-12-02T19:29:00.000-08:00

I hate lifting weights. I love playing basketball. My physique reflects this. But, with winter upon us, the balling has been limited to my corporate 4-on-4 squad, so all gym activity has been of the begrudging weight-room variety. The silver lining: a hip-hop influx in my ipod, with the finest MC I have heard in this city, Mr. Lif, taking center stage.

A cogent argument could be made that Mr. Lif is Boston's flat-out best performer. He's a tireless, dedicated rapper and a commanding performer; he is unafraid of taking risks creatively and is deeply committed to his craft; and he rewards the loyalty of his fans by steadfastly promoting Boston and making himself accessible to his fans.

As I write this, I recall that I wrote an overly-serious review of Mr. Lif's "band" The Perceptionists, way back in the early days of this blog, where I alluded to many of these things. Well, much as I enjoyed that record, the latest disc that I'm shamelessly plugging is I Phantom, which has been my album of choice for physical activity lately.

I Phanom is a well-made doozy in which Lif's urbane lyrics are propelled by pounding, kinetic, party-ready beats. By keeping Lif front-and-center throughout, it beautifully showcases his strengths as an MC: his contagious respect for hip-hop as an art-form , his tasteful approach to record-making (zero filler, lean production), and his gift for communicating personal struggles, tribulations, and ideas through clever, populist rhymes. Lif's lyrics manage to be both highly sophisticated and pretense free, and these tracks--funky, esoteric, lively--keep things moving along without diluting any of his lyrical barbs. Lif brilliantly exploits hip-hop's potential to both communicate a message and fuel a party. Sometimes you want to discuss Iraq, but sometimes you just wanna announce that you just kicked your friend's ass in FIFA 98.

One of Boston's finest ambassadors, the underground icon Mr. Lif plays the Middle East on Dec. 14th. His return home coincides nicely with my recent rediscovery of the hip-hop genre.

The Case Against LeBron James

2007-11-29T09:29:00.000-08:00

Although he receives Jordan-esq protection from the media, LeBron James is no "next jordan"

This post comes straight outta left-field, but I’m going to attempt to correct the record on LeBron “King” James, a basketballer who many inaccurately consider the “heir apparent” to Michael Jordan. While James’ possesses a preternatural ability to play any position, appears to be physically indestructible on the court, and has skillfully cultivated a pristene public image, his competitive desire and judgment in the clutch are consistently dubious. The fact is, thus far in his career, James is more akin to Tracy McGrady than Michael Jordan: he is a likable, enormously talented player capable of leading a team, but he wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice to build a championship-caliber team around.

This became obvious to me last night while I watched his Cavs play the Celtics.

With the score tied and 20 seconds to go, the Cavs had the ball. Naturally, they called a timeout; naturally, they put the ball in LeBron’s hands; naturally, because I watch the NBA, I assumed that he would misfire. He did.

No big deal. He put up some big numbers and his team won the game in overtime. Moreover, all the best “clutch” players miss game-winning shots at times. But it occurred to me in that moment that not only did I assume he would miss that game-winner, I had basically assumed he would brick at the end of every close game I had ever seen him in.

It dawned on me that I’ve almost never been struck by LeBron’s ability to find ways to win games, which is the essence of greatness. Instead, I’ve frequently wondered why he seems so content to file (or bite) his nails during timeouts and float around the perimeter for long stretches (even whole games), seemingly not competing hard. His talent and occasional brilliance is unassailable: I was as impressed as the next guy by his phenomenal performance against Detroit in last year’s playoffs, and against the Wizards the year before that. But the truth is, these winning moments have been the exception to the rule.

Great players, and many merely “good” players are deadly in end-game situations: Kobe, Tim Duncan, Steve Nash, Dirk (who can always get a shot, and always get to the line), Ben Gordon (an underrated assassin), Chauncey Billups, Dwayne Wade, Paul Pierce, and on and on. LeBron may be more talented than most everyone on that list, but, for all his skills, most fans would rather any one of these others get the ball with the game on the line.

Like every other NBA fan, I understand and appreciate LeBron James’ value and talent. He’s likable, seems smart, and he’s clearly driven to be the type of marketing colossus Michael Jordan was. Only one problem: he hasn’t figured out how to win like Jordan did, and its starting to look like that’s not just because he’s young.

Air Golf Swing

2007-11-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

Stuffy looking businessdude in the elevator irritated me with his air-golfswing today. Laserlike focus on his invisible grip, interlocking fingers, scowly brow, full backswing, follow-through, all with me standing awkwardly next to him. Dude, I get it, you play golf. You also look like a tool and a soulless corporate stiff-in-training (note to self: avoid being a corporate stiff in training).

I started playing air guitar.

Hey so subject change: Every now and then i recommit to blogging after flaking out for a bit. Now is one of those times. The catalyst: my new new computer. I'm back on the mac. Expensive as shit, but i feels very much like a quality machine and I'm digging the change so far. The biggest selling point: just seems all mac lovers love their machines in a way PC users dont. That love derives in part from contrived marketing, but also because the machines dont fart in your face constantly. Its remarkable how accustomed we've all gotten to computers constantly failing and farting in our virtual faces with random sounds, egregious popups, constant "updates", security breaches, security messages popping up just to smugly tell you that they've blocked a virus, and other techno-gas. Macs aren't totally immune to all this, but they do cut down on it.

PS the dude in the mac store told me that the Ilife suite, which includes iweb--a simple blogging tool--makes mac "the only choice for self-promotion."

SOLD!

Springsteen & the Sportsfan

2007-10-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

It funny. I've reacted all the recent Springsteen and Randy Moss hype similarly--that is to say, it drives me nuts.

Its natural to feel you "own" your favorite athletes and artists, but that feeling penetrates particularly deeply when it comes to those athletes/artists who are widely known, overexposed, and highly polarizing. And Randy Moss and Bruce Springsteen are oddly linked that way. You have to defend your support of people like this, lest you be misrepresented on a grossly unacceptable scale.

Music snobs tend to smirk at Springsteen. Its hard to say you love the guy and not be dismissed as a Mellencamp (note adjectival use of Mellencamp) imbicile. Much of this has to do with the Dave Matthews theory (dont mind the guy, cant stand the fanbase), and some of this has to do with backlash against his absolutely staggering success. Little has to do with his talent and abilty to connect with his fans, which is basically unassailable. The dude can play, the dude can write songs, and, most of all, the dude has the will and the charisma to actively engage with his fans. It goes a long way.

Moss is a different story, obviously. His big talent is that he can run really fast and jump really high. He basically spent 10 years as a classic sports "villain," then he came to Boston, and now he essentially walks on water. I think he may have been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. Moss Jerseys everywhere! His cup runneth over! Don't get me wrong, I love watching the guy play, and, unlike most everyone in this town, I always have (see my blog predicting his eventual arrival here). As a longtime fan, I thought I would love the outpouring of love I assumed he'd receive here. But I dont. I've lost "ownership" of him, and it irritates me.

So, back to Springsteen. I was listening, as I do constantly, to Mike and the Mad Dog (for all you nonsportsfans, this is the New York afternoon drive sports call-in show. Their mantra, "sports talk, not guy talk," instantly separates it from anything Boston has to offer, so I stream it online) Chris "Mad Dog" Russo LOVES Springsteen, and talks about him frequently. To Mike and the Mad Dog, decidedly NONmusical folks, Springsteen=the best pop music has, or has ever had, to offer. You'd think this would annoy me, as someone who KNOWS theres more out there than the Boss.

But it doesnt.

And it occurs to me that the reason why explains a lot of Springsteen's appeal...

Springsteen:american pop music::Larry Bird:american sports.

He's a great talent but he doesnt make it look easy.

Sportsfans love guys that work hard. all you really need to do to be a fan favorite is to be pretty good at what you do and to give the appearance that you are BUSTING YOUR ASS at all times to do whatever it is you're doing. Casual fans generally dont connect with athletes that make the game seem easy (this is why they dislike Randy Moss and Tiger Woods and Alex Rodgriguez) but they revere athletes that are constantly struggling, scrapping, and battling injuries/personal demons/physical limitations (like, say, Wayne Chrebet or Pete Rose or a million other better examples that I cant think off right now).

Listening to Russo gush about Springsteen, it occurred to me that Springsteen appeals to people exactly the way "fan favorite" athletes do. He doesn't make it look easy, like Randy Moss does. He makes it look HARD. He gets his uniform dirty. Guy's always grimacing, singing through a clenched jaw, "gritting" his way through super-long shows, stiffly strutting around the stage like he's running on empty but fueled by adrenaline, like James Brown w/ a telecaster and no dance moves. Springsteen has carefully cultivated the image of a hardscrabble, up-from-the-bootstraps rocker, a guy who WILLED himself to the top of the rock n roll world.

Which doesnt seem to be all that untrue. To get where he got requires relentless drive, natural talent, and the ability to convince people you are a winner....the same qualities that define hall-of-fame athletes. So of COURSE Mike and the Mad Dog love him, and "casual" (as opposed to business-casual?) music fans love the guy. He's easy to root for, and you can root for him without really interpreting his work. He's extremely good, but he doesnt ask much of you. More than anyone else, Bruce Springsteen is the sportsfan's rock icon.

Bruce Springsteen: Unlike many musicians, his immense popularity stems largely from the same qualities that sportsfans look for in athletes

The Unmaking of Bill Belichick?? YOU make the call

2007-09-12T13:47:00.000-07:00

"The Emperor."

BB's unprecidented coaching success has shielded him from negative publicity-until now. As chronicled below, BB's recent behavior has added to an increasingly negative perception of the Pats.

"NFL commissioner Roger Goodell has determined that the New England Patriots violated league rules Sunday when they videotaped defensive signals by the New York Jets' coaches, according to league sources. "

-ESPN.com

The latest in a series of PR gaffes for the once unassailable New England Patriots and their anointed head coach, Bill "BB" Belichick, this "Signalgate" scandal may be the most serious, because it furthers the Pats' inevitable march toward New York Yankee "win at all costs" evil empire status. Put simply, it's becoming harder and harder to root for this goliath or their increasingly villanous coach.

Although he Pats' impeccable public relations machinery has effectively quashed each of Mr. Belichick's transgressions, as the list grows its becoming harder to overlook them. Fearlessly independent observer that I am, I've compiled a short list of BB's seemingly dubious blunders from the past 12 months.

The Bill Belichick Timeline--2006-2007:

1) Blinded by lust, BB "showers" a married woman with gifts, drawing some heat in the papers.

2) Turning a blind eye to a troublesome public health issue, BB defends his shortsighted and inhumane tendency to subject concussed players to further concussing. Former fan-favorite Ted Johnson, now permanently concussed, accuses BB of all-around concussive behavior.

3) Seething with rage, an infantile BB eschews customary post-game handshake w/ pupil-cum-rival Eric "Mangenius" Mangini.

4) Taking the Emperor/Darth Maul corollary a step further, a hooded BB, flush with pride, impatiently shoves a reporter aside as he hurries toward Mangini, seemingly in a rush to gloat over his victory.

5) Basking shamelessly in the afterglow of a historic playoff win, BB manages to provoke an uncharacteristically angry, highly personal attack from one of the NFL's most respected, most mild-mannered stars, Ladanian Tomlinson. Patriots' "classless" display following 2006 AFC divisional playoff reflects a smug attitude "that comes from their coach," remarks Tomlinson.

6) In Machiavellian fashion, BB abruptly and inexplicably drops NFL legend/national treasure/fan favorite Vinny Testaverde from the patriots like a sack of rotten tomatoes. Many people weep.

7) Raising eyebrows leaguewide, BB harasses highly respected, shockingly bald, and all-around-lovely Vikings chief Brad Childress over waiver-wire dealings. Expressing consternation over BBs strong-arming, Childress uncharacteristically speaks out to media.

8) seemingly eschewing his previous emphasis on "character guys," BB drafts gun-toting, head-stomping A-Hole Brandon Meriweather in the first round.

9) Drowning in his own hubris, BB shamelessly violates league competition rules by spying on division rival with video technology. In aftermath, BB immaturely deploys Bill Clinton-esq evasive-language to dodge questions surrounding this brazen display of cheating.

Series of unfortunate events, or distressing "pattern of behavior?" YOU MAKE THE CALL

Record Report: Medina Sod's "trace back the lines"

2007-08-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

None of the 11 tracks on Medina Sod’s “Trace Back the Lines” top the 5 minute mark, but the album’s looseness, sprawl, and spirited eclecticism gives it all the trappings of a jamband record. Buoyant, good-natured, and freewheeling, the album makes a strong case for the band as performers, and it succeeds where many similarly-inclined records fail by capturing the spontaneity and energy at the band’s core without drifting into half-baked grooves.

This success is owed mainly to the band’s careful attention to production. It’s an impressive effort for a self-made album: the guitars are crisp, the keyboards sing, and the many vocal harmonies and overdubs come through clearly and evenly. This mix creates an agreeable platform for the band’s big, bright sound.

As for the material itself, there are guitar vamps a-plenty here, but the album is mostly fueled by good-natured, quirky vocals and the strong, omnipresent organ and keyboard work of Scott Simon. This foundation keeps the record moving along amiably despite the songs’ lack of real standout hooks or grooves. Moreover, the band does well to keep the songs tightly constructed, reining in their instinctive eclecticism to keep the album focused. The result is a good-quality collection of quirky, accessible rock that fans of the whimsical spirit and neo-psychadelia of the jamband genre will love.

Lucinda Williams at the ____ Pavilion

2007-08-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

And Im back.

So, Lucinda Williams. I've been listening to a slew of her albums lately, which is normal since I tend pick a musician and listen to them constantly (much to Kayla's dismay btw). So, of course I had to check out her show when she rolled through last week.

She played at the _____ Pavillion (the name seems to change anually, so you can fill in the blank with whatever financial-institution/corporate sponsor youd like and you'll eventually be right). Its a great spot, but the tent was 1/2 empty and pretty uptight feeling on this night, which was both too bad and mildly flabbergasting to me--sure its a big venue, and this is a conservative city, but I figured Williams' steadily rising profile, the ideal weather, and the growing appetite for "alt-country" and roots here in Beantown would be enough to fill and enliven it. But it wasn't, and with Williams' modest stage production (small amps, low-key sidemen, prominantly positioned music stand holding thick songbook) the place seemed pretty cavernous.

No matter. She chose perfect material for the circumstances--a summery songwriting tour-de-force with a side order of the moodier, less conventional material on display on the new record, "West."

At her best, Willams incorporates deeply personal, affecting lyrics into accessible and familiar-sounding melodies with clear, frequently repeated hooks. The result is material that seems timeless and classic, like instant country-standards, but also relevant and relatable. She also favors simple, lean orchestrations and prominant guitar playing that punctuates her vocals--alternately fierce, worn-out, or tende. Its an ideal template for modern country, which is why her songs lend themselves so well to cover versions, and it was on display the other night as she burned quickly through concise versions of "Paneola," "Car Wheels on a Gravel Road," and "I Lost it."

Midway through, she trotted out the sweet-singin' country veteran Charlie Louvin for a few duets, all of which were really outstanding. I experienced a genuine Aaron Neville moment (Aaron Neville moment=somewhat comical disconnect between outward appearance and singing voice) when he started out. This curmedeonly looking man's cool, clear, and steady harmonies lent a crucial bouyancy to William's raspy alto.

Charlie Louvin's curmudeonly apparance belies a gorgeous singing voice in much the same way Aaron Neville's uber-sensitive vocal-style clashes with his entirely-too-jacked physique.

Williams closed with some "riskier" (read: less characteristic) material from West, a record that seems to have people divided. Moodier and less evenly balanced than prior records, West isn't architypcal Williams--the songs aren't instantly coverable, most aren't as tightly constructed as her best-known material, and the production is a notch or two glossier than her earlier work--but its not bad either. Williams is fearlessly personal on "West," which should delight her fans, and, as on her other albums, "West" feels like a fully-realized document of a phase of her life--one entailing a relocation (hence the album name) and, of course, a breakup (no one in the history of the world has broken-up more times, or more brutally, than Lucinda Williams). So it may not be the architypal alt-county collection she's become known for, but its very much a Lucinda Williams album.

With its many mood-swings , "West" doesnt display the accessible songwriting of her previous efforts, but it has many other virtues

In the live setting, the "West" material synched up well with the rest of the show--mainly because of the terrific guitarist Doug Pettibone, who's impeccable control of feedback and distortion makes for leads that are as piercing and raw as they are brilliantly precise. I was hoping that she'd let him stretch out a bit more, as she did on the great live album "at the Fillmore," but it wasn't to be. On this night, the songbook literally took center stage.

NYC Meter Maids Issue Challenge: Undefeated Parking Ticket Appeal Deployed

2007-07-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

I was almost glad to receive a massive, $115 dollar ticket in New York during the band's first voyage outside of the Bean. Glad because my heretofore UNDEFEATED written ticket appeal would face its most formidable adversary yet--the New York Parking Commission (or whatever they're called).

So far, the comical plea you are about to read has saved me approximately $160 dollars. I kid you not. Originally written largely for my own personal jollies, this stupid thing has worked everytime I've deployed it. I have no idea why. Maybe the folks at the BTD have a sense of humor. All I know is that the template works.

But now it faces its biggest challenge: the big, bad city of New York. Do I think that this feeble thing will actually work again? no. But its worth a shot.

Stay Tuned....

To whom it may concern:

I am appealing the fine on this violation, which I received while parked on ____________ street in a metered space. The ticket indicates that my parking spot was for resident permits only/closed for street cleaning/intended for handicapped people, but there was no clear signage to this effect on the street, and none on the meter itself. Indeed, I double-checked the area multiple times to confirm that there were no restrictions and left fully convinced that I’d parked legally.

Given this signage ambiguity and my concerted efforts to park properly, I’m troubled by this citation. Either parking meters shouldn’t exist in resident parking zones, or the city must place instructive, well-maintained, clearly-worded street-signs in plain sight to direct traffic elsewhere.

It is unfair for the city to penalize drivers who are thwarted in their attempt to abide by parking codes by vague or nonexistent signs and/or ambiguous instructions on parking meters as I was in this case. Please revoke the fine on this ticket.

With consternation,
Al Moore, Boston motorist

Mr. Butch, the transcendent panhandler, is dead

2007-07-12T19:07:00.000-07:00

I am currently "chillaxin" in a hammock, and no, I dont use that word on a regular basis. Beside me is a shake I made from chocolate chips, "thin mints," and Fro-Yo. By rule, it cannot be called a "milkshake." Its the thickest, sweetest, beige-ist drink I've ever had. I have like 8 internet tabs open, one of which is "Oak Ridge Boys Radio" on pandora. This is not a particularly reflective circumstance, but on another internet tab is the news that Mr. Butch, the transcendent Allston panhandler, is dead.

The number of people who have spent more than 2 calendar days in allston and not encountered this man is zero. (Its true. The US Census has confirmed this.) Everyone knew Mr. Butch, and everyone enjoyed him...not because he was an endearing and colorful hobo (which he was), but because he really seemed to have beaten the hobo odds: he was a drunk, he looked awful and smelled worse, and he was homeless, but he was also remarkably enduring and wily. He was literally the poor man's James Brown: incomprehensible, musical, eternal, and ageless. In much the same way I pretty much assumed James Brown would be playing like 200 dates a year until I was 50 years old, I basically expected to see a besuited Mr. Butch playing tin-whistle, with briefcase in tow, in front of McDonalds, every time I went to Allston.

Guys like this never die. Which makes it jarring when, of course, they do.

Mr. Butch died on a moped, which somehow makes perfect sense, even though he was penniless, gangly, and not exactly a motor-vehicle kind of guy.

Mr. Butch, I didnt know you. You woke me up constantly by prostheletyzing on the street corner outside my house, you constantly pissed on sidewalks I walked on, you were once denied a "pooportunity" by the girl who ran "flyrabbit" when I was in there because you had, apparently, shat on her floor the day before. You also made me and my friends laugh (not always with you, but never at you either), you made crazy and funky music all the time, you never made anyone uncomfortable (unless they had sensitive ears or noses), you colored my college years more than any other "stranger" did, and you were instrumental in making Allston great and unique. You will be missed.

The unflappable artist and iconic hobo Mr. Butch died this week.

shows tonite n tomorrow

2007-06-29T10:00:00.001-07:00

Apologize for lack of posting. I've discovered that 2 blogs are harder to maintan than 1 (do peep my band blog if yer so inclined...ive been trying to get it off the ground). BUT many thoughts are in the pipeline, beginning with Ray Allen to the Celtics, then the WWE culture of Death, then the Beastie Boys return to instrumentals (or, "what the hell do we do now" mode), then, of course, reflections on the relative merits of bostons millions of music stores (none of which feel adequate, by the way). Look for all this and more next week on this station. Meantime, do peep my band blog. i must hit the road for the Resurrectionists first foray to the tri-state area! PEACE.

Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band KILLS. Abbey Crowd idles

2007-06-15T17:36:00.000-07:00

So we shared a bill w/ the Big Damn family band last nite. Approximately 250 (!!!!!!!!!) times/year (apparently), this hard working outfit plays absolutely righteous, furious dixie stomp; they roll across the country in a van and have no permanent residence; they meticulously groom and shine their hair (her) and beard (him); their cousin was recently on "Cops."

Rev. Payton's Big Damn Band absolutely stole last nite's Abbey Lounge show, and we're glad to have warmed the stage for em, but you'd never know about it, because everyone was friggin listless. The Abbey is notrious for this kinda thing, but this was ridiculous. Payton & Co. KILLED it with their brand of bellowin', high-leg-stompin', washboard shufflin, dobro-poundin' delta fury and all people could muster was the official dance of the Abbey Lounge--a weak "head-nod" manuver. I was as criminally stationary as everyone else, but I had something of an excuse, having been sick as all hell (not to mention being a pathetic dancer and super-tall, which makes me a villain/potential hazard out there on the floor).

I s'pose the other Abbey denizens just fell pray to the dreary culture of the Abbey on an "off" night--and by "off" I mean any night where the place isnt packed, the bill doens't consist of unadulterated blues-based barroom rawk, and not everyone is pissed-drunk. Just seems like, for a "famous" music spot, the culture of that room can be awfully spiritless.

The reverend Payton's Big Damn Band stomped and bellowed their way through the Abbey with us last nite. Although everyone had ants in their pants, no one actually danced.

But thats ok. Relative lack of energy didnt prevent the abbey foray from being a good kickoff to our upcoming flurry of shows. We scooped up the reverends record--we'll see how that bellow sounds on the disc. Meantime, I know this is super-lame, but for anyone even halfway interested, I'll be sounding off on our news and notes on our band blog (linked to the right). Y'know...talkin about bands we like, rooms we like, all things musical that our group is feeling. Peep if you feel like it.

Campaign 2008: Barack handles the Rock.

2007-06-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama: Baller.

Amazing!

In this terrific Times piece, the candidate's impressively extensive hoops background gets the front-page treatment, from interviews with various members of his bball entourage to an exploration of what drove Obama to the court, and what has kept him there throughout his life.

Featuring quotes like "you can tell a lot about a guy by the way he plays basketball" (which I love..and sort of agree with, even though all its about as meaningful as saying 'you can tell a lot about a guy by the way he does things'), the article faithfully delves into the culture of hoops and the significant differences between the organized game, the indoor "YMCA" version, and the outdoor style, tracing Obama's background in all three.

Obama (far left) whilst balling. While most politicians appear awkward and phony in sports action-shots, the Senator/Presidential hopeful looks like just another dude on a court full of (seemingly) solid players.

Impressively, the man seems to have both a nice shooting touch (pickup gold indoors) and a cerebral approach (critical in streetball where finesse takes a backseat to court sense and mind-games). Better yet, he continues to ball whenever possible, and, like many top-shelf streetballers, can run all afternoon despite a cigarette habit. Observe:

Before Rickey Green, a former NBA all-star, played with Mr. Obama in a 2004 Senate campaign fund-raiser, “I didn’t think he could play at all, to be honest with you,” Mr. Green said. But “he’s above average,” for a pickup player, Mr. Green said. “He’s got a nice little left-hand shot and some knowledge of the game.”

Mr. Robinson, now the coach of Brown University’s men’s team, said the 6-foot-2 senator is too skinny to be an imposing presence, but he is fast, with good wind even when he was a smoker. Mr. Obama is left-handed, and his signature move is to fake right and veer left, surprising players used to guarding right-handed competitors.

On the court, Mr. Obama is confident, even a bit boastful.

Badass (although as a lefty myself I can attest that "fake right veer left" doesn't count as a "signature move," because it only works once.) My guess is his ACTUAL signature is a fadeaway jumper following the aforementioned fakery, followed by mild-to-moderate shit-talking while backpedaling to the defensive end. Sort of like Jordan in his Wizards years....and yes, I just compared Barack Obama to Jordan.

Now, Obama isn't the first baller-candidate. In terms of the roundball resume, politicians can't get much more balleriffic than former NY Knick big man Bill Bradley. I mean, the guy was a starter for an NBA championship team for god's sakes. But Obama, in his steadfast loyalty to the pickup and outdoor game, his roster of friends he knows primarily (or exclusively) through hoops, and his apparent fluency in the culture and language of today's game, makes his pedigree more relatable to the average baller than Bill Bradley's. For example, my guess is that big Bill would, to this day, be a formidable P-I-G adversary, and could probably stomp any-and-all comers in a "mikan drill" contest. And Im sure he would be a gas to watch a game with. And he could probably hook up front row NBA finals tickets with Clyde Frazier as his wingman, which is completely amazing. But when it comes to picking sides in an actual game of basketball, where it was win or sit on the sidelines for the next 45 minutes, are you going to give Bill Bradley the rock? No man, you're going to take Obama, and his cigarette breath, pointy elbows, 3 decades of streetball experience, and quality lefty jumper.

The best part about this whole deal is that there's zero political posturing at work here. Unlike, say, John Kerry's awkward snowboard photo-op, in photos Obama looks like an actual basketball player. The cardinal sin with pickup basketball is phoniness. Terrible players who show up everyday, play to win, and figure out ways to make a positive contribution are respected. But poseurs aren't. And you can tell the difference right away. That Obama doesn't appear to be either terrible, or a phony, on the court, may not be saying much, but its something. And maybe that's what this "you can tell a lot about someone by how he plays basketball" business means after all.

So I saw Velvet Revolver at Avalon...and loved every second

2007-05-20T19:24:00.000-07:00

Guns n' Roses was my first favorite band, which means I was obligated to see Velvet Revolver at Avalon the other night. There's no point in explaining why this is true, because we all know the maxim. Like your first favorite sports team, your first favorite band tattoos your brain so that no matter how your taste evolves, you will inevitably continue to love their records and defend them, even if they are total shit and you have come to realize this over time. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying.

This is my trump card when discussing GnR in bar arguments and among snobbish peers. Guns n' Roses made one undeniably great record, which helps, but their spectacular and rapid demise--their astonishing bloat and the nuclear force with which they were blasted out of cool-ville by the grunge movement--pretty much outweighs their late-80s heyday in the popular consciousness. I understand this, and accept it. I cannot and will not defend such things as "My World," and "Get in the Ring," and Axl Rose's hot-pants and customized converse hi-top look and the Estranged video where he jumps off an aircraft carrier and swims with dolphins. So I play the "first favorite band maxim" card instead.

I also enjoy discussing the NON-Axl members of GnR, who have gone on to a) remain alive and b) establish viable, and overlooked, acts of their own. Izzy Stradlin, always the unsung hero of GnR, has made several great roots records, and now Slash has finally reemerged with the type of outfit that he's always wanted (which is to say, a band that tries to replicate guns n' roses circa 1988).

That group, obviously, is Velvet Revolver (a horrible name, by the way) and they've been surprisingly adept at fulfilling their mission to play the kind of music Guns n' Roses probably would've played if Axl Rose hadn't gone egomaniacally apeshit and started swimming with dolphins: swaggering, hedonistic guitar rock thats tempered by the cynicism of having been around the block a few times. The trick is that each member of the band is very much the same performer they were in their glory days, but their music remains just fresh enough to keep the from being solely a trip down memory lane (or "Mem-o-ry" lane, to use the power-ballad pronunciation).

Naturally, the group behaves like "rock-stars" (a term that has less and less actual meaning as the music industry continues to fragment), or "icons" or "charicatures" depending on your vantage point. Duff McKagan, now sober and fit, still can't really play bass. Scott Weiland has yet to meet a shirt he liked (after he ditched his odd woman's shawl moments into the performance, I noted that I've never seen him get through a song without becoming shirtless...including their ill-conceived performance on the Today show in 35 degree weather a couple years back.

I also made note of Weiland's teeth, seemingly the healthiest part of his anatomy. The man's Barry Gibb-esq chicklets gleamed all the way to to me in the back row, which, when combined with his pasty, near-naked, heroin-wracked body, really gave him the look of a deceased person, a real-live skeleton slithering around up there. Adding to the skeleton look, he sported the same Aviators/Airline Pilot headwear style that axl rose trademarked in the "appetite for destruction" era, which perplexed me. I assume it was a send-up of sorts, but it's hard to know for sure.

As for Slash, it was all love. Velvet Revolver gives Slash the chance to play with good songwriters and a good singer (both of which he requires), while remaining the marquee attraction. Every single person in the room was there primarily to see this man. The mens room was abuzz with Slash chatter, everyone I spoke to made mention of Slash, and the kid in front of me (a 12 year old flanked by a "my two dads" looking duo) had some Slash "wallpaper" on his cell phone. It was obvious that as Slash goes, so goes VR.

And he exceeded expectations. The fact that he has not changed anything about his image since forever has been criminally overlooked. He's become prototypical, and he was every bit the veteran here. Back in the day, when Slash was blackout drunk at all times, his playing was sloppy and overly animated. Here, he played efficiently and with the type of economy and fluidity that distinguishes the best players. As much as I know that that sounds like fanboy bombast, its accurate. Notwithstanding the time he played behind his head, I was astonished at how matrue Slash's playing is--precise, smooth, and grounded, an approach which is somewhat masked by his "perpetual 1988" look.

As an overall show, the VR act adhered closely to Perforamance Rule #1: give em what they want. All the best songs off "contraband" were represented, material from the forthcoming album was introduced but not force-fed, a few choice covers slipped in --including, oddly enough, "Psycho Killer" and, more predictably, "Wish You Were Here"--and they closed with "slither," their best song. It was nostalgic without being cliched, familiar without being tired, and fun as hell. How can you argue with that?

20 Years has elapsed between these photos. Slash has a new foil now, but his look remains exactly the same, a fact which is to be celebrated.

Everything but the Jell-o

2007-05-19T11:57:00.001-07:00

Out of nowhere, my old friend DJ NATO hit my cell phone late last night with a link to a comedy goldmine for Cosby enthusiasts (which is everyone, no?). While I figure out how to post vids on my blog, enjoy this the "old fashioned" way by just clicking this link to the 'tube. Its a house of cosbys. A House of Cosbys, ya see.

The NYPD bluders amusingly

2007-05-18T08:02:00.000-07:00

Approximately 10 people regularly read this blog, and there’s nary a cop among them, so I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised that the NYPD doesn’t agree with me that Segways are ridiculous. To the contrary, the NYPD boldly purchased 10 of the ridiculous “personal transport” vessels for use in actual policework.

According to the New York Times, the Department feels the ludicrous wheels might help petite cops appear more formidable by elevating them 8 inches off the ground. So basically the Segways are just really expensive stilts, and no less ridiculous. Don’t these decision-makers watch television like everyone else? Everyone knows that “Arrested Development” proved the inherent comedy in Segway-ing. You could put Michael Clarke Duncan on a Segway and he’d be unintimidating.

Intimidating : bike-helmeted cop on Segway

The paraphrases a police spokesperson, noting there's “nothing illegal about the use of Segways by the police.” But, comically, the article then points out that Segways are, in fact, totally NOT legal at all in the state of New York because they are “impractical in crowds of pedestrians and in city traffic.”

Rather than exploring this amusing contradiction, the article just becomes nakedly cynical about the whole experiment. The NYPD commissioner himself hedges when asked if he’ll be throwing down for any new Segways, and the story points out that the devices will be used only on a select number of “designated walkways and boardwalks,” which suggests that cops in pursuit of villains will have to (awkwardly?) DE-segway themselves as soon as perps venture away from the stupid Segway track. Nice.

Music on TV: American Idol "Jumps the Shark"

2007-05-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

For a few moments last night, I was utterly transfixed by Barry Gibb’s incandescent, searingly white, fake-ass teeth. He was faux-soulfully sputtering his way through “you don’t know what its like,” spitting out weird warbly falsetto hiccups like Aaron Neville might if you gave him a bad microphone and a bottle of barbiturates.

At first, I couldn’t turn away from this cloying song and the unintentional comedy generated by this “Disco Stu” on the stage, plucked seemingly at random from the bowels of pop culture and suddenly performing a soft rock song before 20 million sets of eyes. Then, when the spell of the fake teeth lifted, I felt a visceral backlash against the whole thing. Hello? This was AWFUL! Why on earth was I watching this? “Barry Gibb Week on American Idol”?!!? Are you kidding? This was an irrelevant relic from the disco era, all shined up and glossy-like and gross, standing up there in front of a too-low microphone and a disinterested, stooge-filled audience flashing pre-fab placards they didn’t even make, and he’s relying entirely on backup singers to carry a mewling ballad that you might hear piped into your skull when you’re sitting in a dental chair.

The whole spectacle drove home the final nail in the American Idol coffin from this miserable season. The show has jumped the shark, or rather, collapsed under the weight of its own bullshit.

Barry Gibb. I have no real problem with this guy, but "Barry Gibb Week" symbolized the decay,and perhaps the beginning of the end, of "American Idol"

The show isn’t just unmemorable this season, it’s officially and utterly UNWATCHABLE. The final outcome, Jordin Sparks winning, Melinda Doolittle taking 2nd , has been a foregone conclusion for weeks, and its impossible to sympathize with the “kicked off,” since every one of these jokers is going to unleash an album on us anyway. Finally, the show’s “theme weeks,” which included the legendary likes of Stevie fucking Wonder and Queen last year, have somehow reversed course entirely this season. How is someone born in 1985, who has no connection to the British Invasion whatsoever, going to faithfully interpret a Hermans Hermits tune? Who from this generation does Barry Gibb inspire? Can anyone name more than 2 of his tunes? How is Jennifer Lopez, who’s glaring weakness is her singing, going to enrich a group of aspiring vocalists?

Without remotely relevant music, and stripped of suspense and sympathy, the show has nothing but filler and bloat: incessant and nonsensical “judge” bickering (can you call them judges when they do nothing to actually influence the voting?), nauseating product-placement and advertising, transparent self-congratulation, etc. etc. With charmless contestants and tired schtick from its “cast,” the show is just an embarrassment now, a ridiculous vehicle for pure schadenfruede. Its too bad it took “Barry Gibb week” to really distill this for me, but better late than never.

Campaign 2008: The rise of the Index Finger

2007-05-01T07:33:00.000-07:00

A lesser known legacy of the Bush Administration is the popularization of the folksy "point" move in presidential politics. Notably, both Gov. Bill Richardson and Sen. John Edwards have "made it their own" by adding a crotch grab maneuver.

...

You can tell a lot about a guy from what he does with his hands during an awkward photo op. Its kind of like the “would you want to have a beer with the guy” litmus test in Presidential politics. The New York Times knows this, so they featured this comical and telling photo on their front page the other day following a debate that no one cared about.

Judging by the photo, the Dems are still refining their “go-to” photo-op moves, but the early frontrunner for 2008 is a full-extension, avuncular point, with corresponding manly crotch-grab. Look at the pointing party thrown by John Edwards, Chris Dodd, and a remarkably (over)confident Bill Richardson! The arrival of the point move to the big time is, to me, one of George W Bush’s underreported legacies. An incorrigible pointer, Bush’s success has apparently brought index-finger politics across the aisle, and to a whole new batch of hopefuls. Its the “thumbs up” for the frat-boy era in presidential politics. And how about not one, but TWO candidates, Richardson and John Edwards, feeling the move enough to throw in a crotch grab!

Astonishing

A close second to the point move appears to be Kucinich’s folksy “no, no, I applaud YOU!” clap. He’s committed to the move, with hands framed by a magnificent combover, and extended warmly to the audience. Attempting, as always, to co-opt a successful formula, Hillary makes an awkward go of it, but with no success. Her hands, all drawn in and guarded, are drowning in her icy pants-suit. No flair. No sincerity. But better than a crotch grab

Finally, there are a couple of maverick “low handers.” Too-cool-for-school Joe Biden and Barack Obama are reigning in their pointin’ hands. Though Obama looks like he could use the restroom, the guy is comfortable up there. Likes the lights and the applause, doesn’t feel the need to point. The guy’s a contender. Fittingly, the most invisible guy on the campaign trail, Mike “Mike Gravel?” Gravel, takes the “low hand” all the way to “no hand” for this op

I hate to say it, but Gravel should consider the point/crotch grab for next time. Get with a winner. The wave is yesterday’s news, and the Clintonian “half thumbs up” will get you nowhere in 08. Only a stud like Barack can successfully rock Low Hands. Judging by this photo, if you’re going to make it in 08, get your index finger ready.

6 months later, the deal is sealed. almoorica jubilant

2007-04-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

Randy Moss' talent was too great for the Pats to ignore.

The arm goes up right off the line of scrimmage, the lob follows, and its 6 points in the blink of an eye. See it again, for the first time, in Foxboro this year.

6 months after I first speculated on it, Randy Moss is coming to New England. The Pats gave up a measly 4th round draft pick to acquire a guy the New York Times called “supremely talented but mercurial” and who the great Bill Belichick long ago deemed “impossible to cover.”

The obnoxious, generally pitiful Boston sports media is already bashing the move, lamenting a perceived shift away from the Pats’ famous focus on character and building through draft on which their dynasty was founded.

Shennanigans!

6 months ago the same media attacked the Pats for their miserly spending and seeming unwillingness to surround Tom Brady with viable receivers. Evidently, the “in Bill we trust” media mantra stops at players that they just don’t like.

I’m not saying Moss isn’t a classic NFL villain, and I agree that he’s sure doesn’t seem like a “Belichick” type of guy on the surface (unless you count the on-field toughness and competitiveness). But I think they’ll be liking Moss in NE soon enough. Here’s a guy who now has everything he has ever asked for: a cerebral, pocket-passer at quarterback, a winning team, a brand new fieldturf field perfectly suited to his blazing speed, and a chance to resuscitate a flagging career before its too late. Plus, as Lunger pointed out, he won’t need to assume any leadership duties. He needs only to do his job and keep his mouth shut, and as a follower of Moss for his entire career, I think it will be easier for him to do that than most knee-jerk beantown sports pundits do.

Its certainly easy to loathe Moss. The guy walked off the field before the final gun sounded in one of his last games as a Viking, and the guy dogged it in Oakland last year in hopes of getting himself traded. But who was motivated to risk life and limb for that horrendous team last year? And who hasn’t seen a guy with supreme ability get special treatment. When you’re better at a job than anyone else, you get slack the rest of us don’t. Its unfair, but it happens at every level of life. Besides, lets not forget how fickle fans (and media) are when it comes to this—how about exhibit A, the NBA’s Vince Carter. Unlike Moss, the guy publicly admitted to dogging his way out of Toronto. Now he’s embraced as one of the NBA’s “good guys,” and a key contributor on a perennial Eastern Conference contender. The book on Moss is still wide-open….

Maybe the move suggests that the Pats are on the last legs of a dynasty—they’ve fully rebuilt, peaked, started to fall behind, and are now desperately plugging in the gaps with high-profile, high-priced players (sounds a bit like the Yankees of the last 5 years doesn’t it?) Or maybe Belichick is hoping to grab one more title before, after 35 or however many years its been, he takes a Bill Cowher-esq sabbatical. Or maybe its hubris—this is the Pats, of course, an organization who’s never met a player they cant control. Or maybe they think the guy really is their kind of guy and just needs the right environment and coaches who aren’t afraid to challenge him (remember, Moss has spent his whole career playing for deferential “players coaches”). Who knows. All I know is that on Sundays this fall, the Pats will be fielding one of the greatest players of our era, and we’ll all be glued to the set.

On Lessons and country tunes

2007-04-24T18:32:00.000-07:00

ALERT! I'm getting a little personal here....

I'm taking it back. Way back. Playin' in a rock band, taking music lessons, and listening to old blues and country players all the time....I feel like I'm in a time-warp of the best possible kind--back to age 14, but without the terrible acne! Of course, a day-job and increasing concern over such decidedly NON-youthful crapola as damaged eardrums, clogging arteries, and patellar tendonitis keep me planted firmly in the fragility and drudgery of adulthood. But still, as my workaday lifestyle and my mental makeup becomes decidedly more routine, its nice to keep breaking new ground musically, and feeling excited about it like I did as a kid....

with that in mind....

Diggin this Heartworn Highways soundtrack tonight. You know...folky acoustic guitar singer-songwritery! This type of stuff can be so dull, and raggedy music papers (like one I write for) love to dress it up in any number of ways--its roots! its authentic! its sincere and pure!--but you and I what it really usually is...tired as shit!

Thats why this record is great. No frills OR feebleness*. Just the sound of a barbeque populated entirely by whiskeylovers who, by the way, know how to play. The disc is a soundtrack to a documentary on "the new sound of country music" that is obviously so old that the "new sound" is what we now know expressly as "americana." Naturally, its on my netflix queue lodged between some obscure documentary on the Vikings (the pillagers, not the football squad) and, I think, Happy Feet.

So while I wait to put faces with the songs, I'm left making my way through this blueprint for doing the singer-songwriting thing right. Guitar-toting hippies and "roots" bandwagon jumpers** be schooled! Learn to play your instrument so that keeping it simple is a matter of choice, not necessity; recognize that unless you're waits, or y'know dylan, or elliot smith or, hey, ani difranco, your lyrics are probably shit, so your phrasing and dynamics are the only way to get your music across; most of all, unless you're just a flat-out tortured genius, american music is collaborative....so leave space, listen, and play with an affection and appreciation for your musical entourage. No one likes a sullen folkie.

*ok, maybe a little feebleness. calculated feebleness.

**yes, i include myself in this category

Record Report! Almoorica reviews a Dad Rawk Masterpiece

2007-04-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

Every musician should strive to make a record that captures their essence as closely as Dennis Brennan’s “Engagement” captures his. A lengthy, inspired disc split evenly in half between studio and live tracks, “Engagement” is the quintessential document of where Brennan is at these days. Side one showcases his songwriting versatility within the “roots-rock” genre; side two features his top-tier sidemen and indefatigable performance chops familiar to anyone who’s caught him during his Lizard Lounge stand. It’s a superb, definitive set that would be a good first purchase for anyone looking for an example of this city’s vibrant roots underground.

It would also be a nice pickup for any guitarists unfamiliar with Kevin Barry and Duke Levine, the best and most technically sound combination that I’ve heard in the city. Levine has all the Nashville tricks and plays with impeccable polish and technique. Barry doesn’t lack for chops either, but his playing is all feel, sweat, and fury. While Levine assembles perfect phrases and immaculate lines, Barry is down n’ dirty, packing his solos with double stops, thick chords, and grit. Both get plenty of room to stretch out on this record, and neither upstages the assured Brennan, who is in strong voice on these tracks.

The songs themselves all fall within the “roots” categorization that Brennan and his hi-n-dry entourage has created a movement around. They range from vintage country, folk, and soul to full-on, Stonesy rock. In short, its pretty much classic “dad rock.” But its dad rock that rocks…rendered with heart, conviction, and skill.

I read on allmusic.com that Brennan has had a number of “near misses” with major labels and singer-songwriter “stardom” (whatever that means nowadays). I don’t know him personally, so I can only speculate as to his ambitions/aspirations at this point in his life. But, to me, “Engagement” does exactly what an album from a local legend type should: showcase an artist at the heart of a scene, at the top of their game, doing what they do best, and letting the chips (and sales figures) fall where they may. Although there are some moments on “Engagement” where Brennan seems to be aiming for the radio (witness the fade-out and made-for-FM hook of “When you were loving him”), for the most part this record does just that. It’s well produced, the material is perfectly chosen, its comprehensive and full without ever dragging on, and its full of energy and life. You couldn’t ask for more.

Style Shennanigans! Hideous, Random Aquasock Cashes in on an SNL Gimmick! Almoorica Blows the Whistle

2007-04-03T21:18:00.000-07:00

In another amusing example of everyday life imitating the type of obscure pop-cultural art I fancy so much, I found myself privately dumbfounded in the shoe-store yesterday when I stumbled upon these absurd creations:

Ladies and gentlemen: Vibram Fivefingers. Yes, that is the name. Forget for a second the otherworldly nerdishness of the aquasock meets Teva styling and ludicrous "individual toes improves traction" gimmick. These bizarre "traction shoes" purport to be a viable alternative to actual shoes and, more egregiously, claim on their website to be "the first and only footwear to offer the exhilerating feeling of going barefoot."

Challenge! I liked these shoes much better when they were known as "JJ Casuals, shoes that look like feet" and featured in one of my favorite SNL moments of yesteryear.

As the underrated commercial parody went, JJ Casuals were invented by mellow-pop-folk singer Jack Johnson in an attempt to "keep it super casual" even in that rare circumstance for him wherein footwear was flat-out required. Personally, I found the whole spoof, particularly the disgusting, fleshy footwear to be great, but it only aired once or twice. Still, the vile JJ Casuals prototypes managed to be LESS hideous than this ridiculous aquasock thing that has come to market. Moreover, I must say I was more comfortable with the whole "exhilleration of going barefoot" notion as a commercial parody than a real life good poaching precious shelf space from less useless styles.

I declare shennanigans on Vibram Fivefingers, a ludicrous novelty footwear company that claims to make the original "shoes that looks like feet." Astute cultural observers and fans of SNL (even when its bad) know that Andy Samberg's JJ Casuals spoof pioneered the bullshit technology long ago.

OutKast, Idlewild, and What Went Wrong. First: the Album

2007-03-21T14:20:00.000-07:00

Around the turn of the 2000s, OutKast could do no wrong. They had cultivated an alternate musical universe from their mysterious Dungeon hideout, and every one of their records was an unmitigated musical and commercial success. They created brilliant hip-hop concept records that were sophisticated enough to reward repeated and careful listening without ever being presumptuous, overbearing, or inaccessible. Plus, the duo--the flamboyant showman Andre 3000 and more “traditional” rapper/beatmaker Big Boi seemed to be perfect foils for each other, musically and otherwise.

The pair ascended pretty much to the apex of pop music--joining the exclusive club of musicians who are simultaneously the best at what they do and the most popular. They became a seminal group for anyone who went to high school and/or college between 95-2003 (and wouldnt you know...thats just when I went to high school and college!), and, in doing so, managed to make bow-ties, chaps, flip-flops with socks, and other incredibly gay and/or impractical style choices look masculine and cool. They even managed to grow their audience with the type of record usually reserved for fan-club members only--a lengthy and sprawling double-album where each MC had their own disc.

Musically, OutKast's career started with a strong release which they followed with a series of absolute classics, all of which remain just as enjoyable and fresh today as when first released. The group led the southern hip-hop movement that dominated the charts for a time, and expanded the vocabulary of mainstream hip-hop by applying progressive, unconventional beats and orchestration to the freewheeling, stylish funk frame pioneered by Sly Stone. Obviously, borrowing from the funk template is nothing new for hip-hop, but rather than sampling directly from his favorite Funkadelic records like Dr. Dre, OutKast essentially just picked up the torch and created a distinct musical brand.

The critics loved them, for good reason, and so did listeners both serious and casual—the former because there was something new to be discovered with every listen to their records, the latter because those records were filled with terrific hooks and clever, fresh lyrics that were largely positive and often funny without ever being corny. Although each of their discs has a distinctive spirit and overall artistic vision, two enjoyable lyrical themes persist, without fail: 1) Atlanta, Georgia is the place to be. End of story. 2) The Dungeon, the near-mythic source of all funky things and home of their roster of beatmakers, pot wranglers, and other members of their be-flip-flopped entourage, is the greatest and funkiest place in the universe.

So, you had to figure that their most ambitious project to date, the feature film and corresponding soundtrac,k“Idlewild”, would make something of a splash. Here’s a crucial group who hasn’t made a wrong move yet, and now they're branching out into films—and not a stupid quasi-biography or glorified gangsta-rap video like Exit Wounds, but a piece set in 1930s New Orleans! Sounds intriguing right? Wrong, apparently. The flick did generate hype, but it quickly stalled. Then the actual product came and went and no one ever talked about it. Did I miss something? Maybe it was because I was no longer in college, but I heard nothing whatsoever about this seemingly major album! A seminal band, a team that had strung together 5 straight classic albums, takes several years to conceive a full-blown film and an ambitious soundtrack, and it just comes and goes with a couple weak reviews and seemingly no discussion? What happened?

I wanted to see the film prior to hearing the soundtrack, but the CD arrived courtesy of Amazon’s cheapo used auctions sooner than expected, and the DVD is lost down at the bottom of my netflix queue, so it didn’t work that way. I unwrapped the disc.

The bloated "Idlewild" project was OutKast's first flop. The music is good, but its botched execution suggests a worsening creative divide between Big Boi and Andre 3000

It comes down to this: the whole is less than the sum of its parts on Idlewild, and there are way too many parts.

Its way, way too long, even by their standards. I have no idea what the actual running-time is, but put it this way: on a recent highway trek, I threw on the disc in Boston and it sputtered to a close somewhere near Stamford, CT. And there was traffic that day.

Rather than complementing each other and reigning each other in for the sake of a collective album vision as they have in the past, on the Idlewild project, Dre and Big Boi just give each other carte blanche and stay out of each other’s way. There’s very little evidence of any real collaboration here, giving credence to the notion that the group is essentially broken up. Much like they did on their "Speakerboxx/Love Below" double-disc, they both have their own distinct material, but here its all thrown together haphazardly, so the album veers wildly from Dre’s spacey crooning and goofy character affectations to Big Boi’s straight-on bangers. But what really disappoints is that the material seems mismatched, particularly amid the hype of some kind of 30s/2000s musical fusion. There are few running lyrical themes, and what does exist of the musical hybrid of vintage New Orleans street music and contemporary hip-hop is spread too thin. Its not that the other material isn’t strong—this is OutKast after all. The problem is that a lot of it just doesn’t fit on a record ostensibly accompanying a film about the 1930s south. Its a quality record, but its simply too unwieldy.

Although nothing will alleviate the feeling that the duo is only nominally together, and suffering as a result, a few clicks on itunes can work magic! Trim it down into something of normal human length, keep all piano and guitar-based tunes and the marching band-based tune, feature everything that Janelle Monae sings on, and save “The Train” for last, and you have yourself a great package. There’s not quite enough meat there to classify the 30s/00s fusion as a total success, but its still a gas, and, dare I say, the absolute best combination of hip-hop and 30’s bordello music ever laid down by a chart-topping rap act. Plus, Big Boi is at his perfectionistic best throughout, sprinkling layer upon layer of sounds into his productions and concocting miniature masterpieces while his partner hams it up.

When I first threw "Idlewild" on, I couldn't fathom how the record didnt make a splash like all Outkast's other releases. But with each subsequent attempt to get through the whole thing, its bulk weighed me down and its problems came to the surface. There are many gems on this sprawling disc--but it ultimately doesn't meet expectations.

Taking Wikipedia to Task

2007-03-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

Wikipedia, everyone's favorite dubious information trove, is taking a beating. I accepted its chaiman's apology to the New Yorker magazine after one of its seniormost "community members" (aka the small group of writers that contribute the majority of the articles) ludicrously inflated his credentials to the magazine.

However, this I cannot abide. Sinbad, everyone's favorite outlandishly clothed, occasionally red-haired Cosby disciple, has gone public to refute Wikipedia's spurious and mean-spirited claim that he is deceased. The very-much-alive, still ludicrously outfitted comedian responded in typically good-natured fashion, and the article has since been "locked for editing." But I'm unsatistifed. Wikipedia must be taken to task. Shame on their "community" for facilitating a morbid hoax on the sizable legion of "A Different World" fans and other afficionados of hilarious garb.

The gaudily clad actor/comedian Sinbad has become an unwitting symbol of Wikipedia's shortcomings

Record Report: Peter C. Johnson's Yaka Yaka-Welcome to my Cave

2007-03-14T15:42:00.000-07:00

“Yaka Yaka—Come Into My Cave,” by Peter C. Johnson, is a sardonic, riveting descent into misanthropy. Unrelenting and assured, the underground boston vet's weary lyrics and biting, sing-speak delivery collide with languid, rootsy orchestration to create a true cave of a record--humid, dark, and intense throughout. It’s moving and compelling in any setting, but it’s especially good when you’re pissed off.

Recorded for Hi-n-Dry, the label’s signature “low-rock” musical aesthetic is gorgeously rendered and applied by Johnson, Howard Thompson, Billy Conway, Dana Colley, and Mike Castellana. They present hypnotic, discreet, lap-steel and string-based improvisations, with drums and background singers, and the occasional bird sound-effect, pushed to the rear of the mix.

It’s an uncommon backdrop for an album as unrelentingly bleak as this, but an effective, one. In tempering Johnson’s most searing lyrics and subtly reinforcing the wit beneath all the cynicism, the warm orchestration also gives legs to what might otherwise be an exhausting listen.

Over this backdrop, Johnson smolders through what he describes as “one man’s story of loss, grief, confusion, and redemption in a violent world.” He takes his time, turning otherwise banal phrases like “Monday night football” into symbols of American cultural decay through the sheer power of his gravelly enunciation and impeccable phrasing.

Johnson seems to be no longer in the business of making popular records, but he is in the business of making good ones. Yaka Yaka is an incisive, hypnotic and well-made comment on this world of ours, from someone who’s seen it all and doesn't seem to want much to do with it.

Forgotten Ballers of Yesteryear: God Shammgod

2007-03-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

God Shammgod's handle was divine, but no one seems to know definatively if he exists on the basketball map.

Known primarily for his glorious name and divine handle, the erstwhile college star God Shammgod’s surfaced during a conversation I had with my bandmate and fellow fan of the comic underbelly of sports, Alex Kissel. If ever there was a player deserving of Forgotten Ballers of Yesteryear status, its Mr. Shammgod.

God Shammgod routinely made highlight reels as a collegiate at Providence with his devastating crossover move, which he named, simply and delightfully, “the Shammgod.” “The Shammgod” was so vexing, so unique, it compelled the baller establishment to compound Mr. Shammgod’s already incredible name with a totally unnecessary nickname; thus, God “the Wizard” Shammgod, was born.

Although sportscasters and fans nationwide delighted in speaking his name, hopes were dashed when Shammgod’s NBA career fizzled after just one season. According to databasebasketball:

Shammgod, God: 20 games, 3.1 PPG, .4 RPG, 1.8 APG. Similar Players: Dell Demps.

Those numbers don’t befit a God. Maybe a Shammgod, but not a God. And when you are compared to Dell Demps, its trouble.

Several websites suggest that “The Shammgod” is still breaking ankles somewhere, but his specific whereabouts are mysterious. According to Wikipedia, God balls professionally in China for squad Shanxi Yujun, but a quick trip to “asia-basket.com” displays a God-less Shanxi roster. A Shammgod Google indicated he had signed with the Portland Chinooks of the IBL, but the Chinooks homepage, also, is Godless. Unfortunately for fans of God, the internet's reliability appears to be a sham.

Man of the Week: LeRoy Myers.

2007-03-01T14:56:00.000-08:00

I'm about to go fully Idlewild either tonight or tomorrow, having finally torn into OutKast's first ever critical and commercial failure. But any discussion of OutKast, one of the most crucial bands of this era, deserves more effort than I'm prepared to give today.

But, my long-lost home-skillet Ethan Brodie sent me this phenomenal link that I feel must be disseminated: A kindred spirit has taken a stand against truck-nuts. And he is taking his fight to the Maryland state legislature. Ladies and Gentlemen.............Rep. LeRoy E. Myers !

Faithful readers will recall my stance on the issue of plastic scrotums hangingfrom pickup trucks (Cue Mellencamp--"this is AAR COUNTRYYYYY") and assorted assholemobiles (razor scooters, etc). Well, LeRoy Myers agrees, and is pursuing legislation to ban truck testicles in Maryland, where the vile balls, apparently, have become epidemic. As an opponent of all things unfunny and stupid, I salute this man. Not only because he is combating a loathsome trend, but because, in taking the issue public, he is leaving a trail of grade-A unintentional comedy behind. Hey, they're not my taxes.

The article notes that, to some, the balls are a "manly expression of rural chic," which, ordinarily, I'd fully support. But unless "Manly Rural Chic" now means "unfunny and stoopid," I dont think these ridiculous things fall into that category.

Fight on LeRoy Myers. Fight on.

Surveying the Super-High-Top Landscape

2007-02-19T14:40:00.000-08:00

Its 100% all about massively high hi-tops on the basketball court. I’ve been preaching this, and representing the ultra-high, for many months now, and I’ve only become more resolved. For those of us playing the 4 and 5 positions, calf-scratchers are essential: they prevent dreaded ankle-sprains, guard against lower-shin contusions, and withstand the overall commotion in the paint. Last but not least, they recall the 80s glory years of big-men: The Dream, “Big” Bill Walton, Patrick “best big man to never win a title OR earn a nickname” Ewing, the young Big Aristotle, The Chief, Kareem, and on and on. None of these legendary beasts sported lo-tops, and most eschewed even the mid-height sneaks common among today’s balers. Nay, high-tops were where it was at then, and they’re where its at now. An overview of super-high-tops recently demoed, by Almoorica.

1) Reebok Classic Pump

Reebok has always played the Washington Generals to Nike’s Harlem Globetrotters. Fortunately for fans of ludicrous sneakers like me, their endless, futile fight to undermine the Nike juggernaut has produced some off-the-wall styles. Pumps, featuring "hexalite" technology and, at one point, coming with a CO2 cartridge as part of an ill-advised "instapump" line, are one of these. Reebok’s answer to Nike Air, Pumps fell out of style after their Dee Brown Dunk-Contest hayday while "Air" technology continues to dominate Nike's line. Nevertheless, Pumps have maintained a sizable cult following of enthusiasts in the wake of the re-issue boom of the early 2000s, and I spotted these gigantic specimens on sale for dirt cheap recently. I very nearly picked them up, enticed as I was by their jaw-dropping height which appeared to top 12 inches, and their are heavily fortified soles and highly rigid uppers, which suggest tank-like sturdiness and durability. The black on black style with the bright-orange trim is my favorite (unlike the weak, church-league scheme pictured above), and keeps them attractively faithful to the original Pumps. The only major drawback here, and possibly a fatal one, is that they are as heavy as cinderblocks. I could barely lift one of these to glance at the price-tag. Between the pump-infrastructure, massive amount of padding, and gargantuan height, the shoes are too heavy for anyone on a quest to dunk.

2) Reebok ??????

On the other hand, these bad-boys, which are on my feet currently, may score a 40-out-of-a-possible-30 points on the style-meter, but suffer from a marked lack of fortification, and are simply too light and flimsy. Embarrasingly, I dont know the name of the style. While they are perfectly comfortable and grip the court reasonably well, the kicks offer dismal ankle support for a so-called “high-top,” and lack the glove-like fit and sturdiness desirable in a big-man’s shoe. I knew that these were reissues when I purchased them, so I had reduced performance-expectations, but still, I am slightly disappointed. Still, they’re hanging in there, and from a purely visual standpoint, these Reeboks are hard to beat. Classic look, completely unique stripage, arresting color-scheme.

3) adidas Instinct

I was pretty thrilled about these, and even blogged about them previously, but, I can no longer recommend them for any type of competitive play. Again, these reissues presented “off the chain” visual appeal, with terrific overall height, a loud and patriotic colorway, and a style that recalled Adidas glory years of hoop sneakers. But, owing to shoddy construction and a sole far too narrow, they are simply not game-ready.

2) Puma Stalker (photo unfindable)

With a name like the “stalker,” you know these are old-school and non-reissued. You simply could not leave a marketing meeting with any type of consensus on the “stalker” name in today’s climate. Anyway, I rocked these kicks for about 3 games before they fell apart. Again, I was wooed by the look—gigantic Puma stripe, well-above-ankle hight, understated gray on black scheme—but disappointed by the performance.

3) Nike Air Force One

My best basketball shoe of all time from a strictly performance standpoint. Sturdy construction, wide-base, high-top, and soft leather upper which keeps them from being too heavy. A little pricey, and not exactly distinctive due to their “pantheon” status, but the standard “big man” shoe for a reason. Ballerific.

"Good Old Boys" and why I love Randy Newman

2007-02-08T07:28:00.000-08:00

Something about the ass-cold winds I face on my daily morning walk to the subway makes Good Old Boys by Randy Newman particularly great. Newman is an all-time favorite songwriter for me and this record, with its inspired contrast of bitter satire and gorgeous orchestration, resonates all the more in bleak weather.

It doesn’t take an English major to detect the sarcasm in Newman’s lyrics. He often writes from the point of view of unsavory types, bigots, and creeps, and this record is full of these characters. It begins with the spiteful “Rednecks,” a satirical commentary on prideful ignorance in the South (and the North for that matter) peppered by N-bombs and frustration. But, as is true of most of Newman’s stuff, all the vocal nastiness is wrapped up in music that is polished, easy to listen to, and impeccably rendered.

You can’t argue with Newman’s songwriting chops. His music incorporates the lush orchestration and precision of traditional pop standards, the polish and melodic sense of Broadway, and the ironic flavor and attitude of rock. Its sophisticated but unpretentious songwriting, and it can be downright elegant and evocative without ever getting sappy (Newman’s lyrics take care of that). Despite his reluctance to write “personal” songs, these hallmarks give his records real personality and make Newman seem like, at the very least, an engaging guy, in addition to a great musical talent.

Take “Lousiana 1927,” a flawless, moving ballad with an absolutely gorgeous stings/woodwind arrangement that crests over lyrics as smart as they are emotional. The tune has been reinterpreted in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina--Aaron Neville’s version was featured on “Meet the Press” of all shows after the storm--but I prefer Newman’s original, and I like it nestled in with the satire of Good Old Boys. It shows that while Newman can write songs that reflect the best of American musical tradition, he’s happier exposing the darker side of life.

Wiz or Wonka? Almoorica Settles the Score

2007-02-06T13:20:00.000-08:00

When I dragged “The Wiz” into my netflix queue, I knew I was taking a risk. Would this be another “Willy Wonka and the Chocolage Factory” type disappointment--another childhood favorite that became creepy, dated, and decidedly unmagical with the passage of time? Or would the super-imaginative set-design, bizarro-New York setting, sweet disco-dance moves, and presence of a pre-thriller MJ still captivate me all these years later?

As it turns out, time has exposed the core essence of all the elements that make up “The Wiz,” both good and bad. Everything that was cool as a kid (the graffiti-people, Eveline’s sweat-shop, the colossal, fire-breathing Richard Pryor dome with metallic afro) is now cooler, and all the parts long since forgotten (Lena Horne’s finale, the bizarre golden man-thongs of the “Brand New Day” number) fell into creepy Wonka territory. Luckily, the former far outweigh the latter.

The filmmakers’ big triumph is that they assembled awesome musical talent and then allowed the performers and musical director (Quincy Jones) to drive the movie. Special effects take a backseat, and since anyone who’s ever been a kid in America knows the story, the plot doesn’t matter much. Its all just a vehicle for showstopping dance numbers set against clever, imaginative set design. And if those two things are done right, they don’t get old like even the best special effects quickly does.

The super familiar story and the fact that Diana, MJ and Richard Prior were already household names in other domains might help explain why the movie apparently tanked at the box office, but it also explains why it makes for such a great DVD 20-whatever years later. Having seen Diana give an interview on TV recently, displaying freakish, massive fake hair and whispering in cryptic non-sequiters, it was awesome for me to see her back in the day, in top vocal form, clowning around with a young MJ on the Yellow Brick Road. That inspired scene, jazz hands and all, made my week. And its always great to see “the good” MJ, all pure talent and energy, long before the endless, painful downfall. Pryor is underused, but he steals his few scenes, and actually gives The Wiz a real character in just a few lines.

Obscure Record Report: Joe Pesci Sings, Drops F-Bombs, Just for You

2007-01-30T12:56:00.000-08:00

I’d like to take a moment to discuss the most absurd, astonishing musical oddity I’ve ever come across: Joe Pesci’s novelty album “Vincent LaGuardia Gambini Sings Just for You.”

This record is, as you'd assume, comedy gold. But not for the right reasons.

The story (so much as I can surmise) is as follows: For god-knows-what reason, no less than seven years after the release of “My Cousin Vinny,” Joe Pesci revived his “Vinny Gambini” persona, somehow assembled a cast of studio help, and concocted a full suite of utterly ridiculous, exploitive, shockingly vulgar ditties for release under the Gambini pseudonym. Its 12 ditties plus Italian and Spanish-language versions of the “single,” “Yo Cousin Vinny.” That even one of these songs was translated into multiple languages, nay, saw the light of day at all, defies all reason. Aimed at sheer novelty appeal, the package instead ends up being ludicrously crass, disturbingly misogynistic, somewhat baffling, and, last but not least, creepily menacing.

But, of course, that’s what makes the album a comedy goldmine and amazing conversation piece. As Joe Pesci curses his way through everything from christmas songs to vaudeville to loungey camp to gangsta rap (!), you can’t help but wonder what will be next. Sincere, lengthy jazz-guitar intro…check; borderline pedophilic easy-listening number….check; profanity-laced Christmas Carol complete with disturbing children’s chorus…check. By the time his ostensibly wholesome duet with a Marisa Tomei sound-alike (I refuse to believe this is actually Marisa Tomei) comes around, you’re prepared for anything.

And yet, you’re not, because its pretty much impossible to prepare yourself for the sheer preposterousness of these tracks. Everything about this record raises hilarious questions—what’s the target audience here? Who funded this? Who played on this? Is he singing about his daughter or is he a pedophile?. The questions keep on coming as Joe Pesci’s vulgar ad-libs rain down.

Moore Porter on Tap

2007-01-28T19:58:00.000-08:00

After numerous setbacks and tribulations, I bottled my first homebrew, Moore Porter,
this afternoon. I regret that this is the most engaging thing I have to offer at the moment.

Meticulously cleaned/sanitized Moore Porter bottles.
.

What does this say about my mind?

2007-01-25T09:27:00.000-08:00

The following are the last 8 google searches that led people to my blog:

The Thamesmen
Adult Freezy Freakies
Fred Armisen Sabado Gigante
New Roland Keytar
Pete Sampras
Best Female MCs
Walt “Clyde” Frazier Catchphrases
Hanging Testicles

To quote the Bill Simmons mailbag: Yep, these are my readers.

Pete Sampras Elected to Tennis Hall of Fame, World Thrilled

2007-01-22T19:59:00.000-08:00

In characteristically dull fashion, Pete Sampras, the lamest "household name" in memory, was just elected to the tennis hall of fame. He charmlessly dominated tennis for the majority of my "formative years," routinely annhilating Andre Agassi in mechanical, uncharismatic fashion during their one-sided rivalry. Many thanks to the good folks at the elevator-TV-monitor programming department for delivering this hard-hitting, juicy piece of news this morning.

Peter "Pete" Sampras overwhelmed opponents with his serve, but bored fans to tears.

Record Roundup: Midwinter Discs!

2007-01-12T09:27:00.000-08:00

Over the past week I’ve been listening to four incredibly different, really good albums. All are recommended….check em!

Emmylou Harris “Pieces of the Sky.” I think this was her solo debut after Gram Parsons’ death. It may be a little uneven in terms of song sequence, but I can’t get over how warm this record is and the skill of the musicians involved. I have it on CD, and special props must be extended to whoever mastered the disc as these are the types of albums that often become degraded in the transition to digital. I’ll have to be on the lookout for a vinyl copy.

Anyway, initially I could understand the Emmylou cult (she’s the best harmonizer ever, she makes everyone she collaborates with sound/seem better, she works with only the most skilled players, she has made outstanding hair-choices over the last decade that have led her to look more attractive at 60 than she did at 20), but now I’ve officially crossed into the EH cult. The highlights of this disc are a good indicator as to why. Track one, Bluebird Wine is rather uncharacteristically carefree and spirited, but displays all of Harris’ musical trademarks—immaculate voice, flawless phrasing, and collaboration with great arrangers and players. “If I could only win your love” showcases her brilliance as a duet-singer, and “Boulder to Birmingham” has always been a staple of hers.

Clipse “Hell Hath No Fury”: Yep…from Emmylou Harris to Clipse we go.

I have to admit, although I’m familiar with Clipse I didn’t really think about picking up a disc of theirs until I saw Sasha Frere-Jones “New Yorker” clip on this record and the “cocaine rap” trend. That’s not to say the article sold me (I barely skimmed it), but it just jogged my memory of the group and so I picked it up basically on a lark—which is pretty much how I access hip-hop for the most part these days. I can’t deny that the favorable critical reception this album has received has influenced me going in (when you expect something good, you focus on the positive), but I have been pleasantly surprised mainly because the record delivers exactly what I look for in a hardcore rap disc. Bare, hard, and cold beats and rhymes. “Hell Hath No Fury” distills the elements of modern gangsta rap to its core elements and never lets up. Its comprised ENTIRELY of “bangers” and features none of the mindless interludes, skits, or awful filler that sinks so much hip-hop. Production is as bare-bones as it is adroit (it is the Neptunes after all), and the duo coolly and comfortably drop their cocaine-tales over them from start to finish. No curveballs and no letup makes this a great disc for a walking around or riding the (still virtually snowless) mountains.

Paul Simon “the Rhythm of the Saints.”

I’m not afraid to say that “Graceland” is a total masterpiece, and I play it all the time—particularly on the way to and from snowboard trips. I don’t know why. Kayla loves the record too so it made sense to pick up “Rhythm of the Saints”, the official “Graceland” follow-up as a stocking-stuffer (which, of course, doubled as a gift to myself). I’m surprised that it took me until 2007 to get this album, but it happens. Lofty title aside, this disc is about 97% about rhythms—this time South American—leaving the other 3% for lyrics and songwriting. In a way this is a very positive growth away from Graceland. It’s a little more of a relaxed effort--he clearly wasn’t trying to out-do Graceland—and the songs are a degree or two removed from the Graceland mold. Lyrically, it doesn’t contain the brilliant bits of stories and terrific phrasing that “Graceland” had, and the words are generally buried beneath the rhythms here, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t solid. From a casual listening perspective, the biggest difference between the two is that, while it works well as an album, the songs on “Rhythm of the Saints” don’t have the instant recognizability of “Graceland’s” tracks. Part of the brilliance of that disc was that the songs stood so well on their own, while still coming together to produce a seamless start-to-finish album. “Rhythm of the Saints” works well as a record, but you won’t find its songs on many itunes playlists.

Frank Smith

I love a local band that sounds as good or better on their self-released disc than they do at a good show. That’s a big indicator of who knows what they’re doing and who’s just part of the abyss of local upstarts (currently my band falls into the latter category). Frank Smith are one of the best bands we’ve got, and they seem to live right at the center of the burgeoning roots scene here. Live, Frank Smith play lively, well-rendered alt-country/indie, heavy on banjo and two-part harmonies. The disc captures all this, but the energy is tempered by an underlying dark current present in the overall arc of the record, the lyrics (“Hey big brother what do you say, how many kids did you kill today”), and often the basic melancholy banjo/distant vocals/layered guitar orchestration. Centerpiece of the record is the band’s brilliantly languid interpretation of Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire,” which does what a cover should—pay homage to the original while bringing something new to the table. On the surface, the cover seems like a stretch, but given the faint rockabilly swing of the original, and the brooding, quietly menacing lyrics, it’s a perfect fit on this Frank Smith record.

A letter to the editor of the Boston Globe Magazine

2007-01-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

In 2007, I resolve to make my voice as a consumer/friend heard via the written word. Constuctive criticism is a lost art, and if its humorous in nature, all the better! With that said, I've posted an actual letter to the editor submitted to the Globe today...along with corresponding abysmal photographs:

Dear Boston Globe Magazine,
This year’s “Bostonian of the Year” issue did Deval Patrick, and, frankly, all your readers, a tremendous disservice. The poorly-conceived cover photo of a hunching, drowsy Patrick, lit creepily by what appeared to be the type of mercury-vapor lamp generally reserved for warehouses and public garages, stripped the Governor of the charisma and energy he brings to office. Moreover, the absolutely gigantic, super-extreme close-up accompanying the story was the photographic equivalent of “too much information.” While we turn to periodicals for insight into our public figures, we can abide not seeing their individual pores. This was photojournalism at its worst—one image that contrasted sharply with the content of the piece, and another that simply distracted readers from it altogether. We deserve better.
Al Moore
Avid Globe Reader

On the cover, a sedat Governor-elect stares blankly and somewhat creepily. This isn't the indefatiguable do-gooder we voted for.

Whoa there! In the print edition, this appalling extreme close-up is enormous and utterly inescapable. Horrifying.

Men of the Week: Tufnel, The Thamesmen

2006-12-26T06:55:00.000-08:00

Like everyone else, I detest the uber-bastardization of baby-boomer rock in inescapable, terrible TV commercials. Circuit “You’re just what I needed” City ruined any chance I ever had at digging the Cars. Chevy “Like a Rock” Silverado pretty much killed Bob Seger. Mellencamp, who sucked horribly to begin with, is just insufferable now. The list goes on.

But American Express, to my delight, has turned the whole “dad rock” commercial soundtrack thing upside-down with its brilliant use of The Thamesmen’s “Gimme Some Money” in their last campaign. The Thamesmen, of course, were the fictitious first incarnation of the band that became fictitious metal legends Spinal Tap, and “Gimme Some Money” is their fictitious first “hit.” The tune works perfectly as a commercial jingle, since it only has 3 words and 3 chords, and its use by a credit card company only thickens the irony. Plus, its obscure and cryptic enough that most viewers probably take it for some crappy 60s B-side that AmEx picked up on the cheap (which it is, sort of).

Considering Nigel Tufnel himself can also be seen tearing it up (along with Slash) in those VW ads these days, the Tap has undeniably emerged as an unlikely commercial force. Paradoxical indeed, but, as with a bizarre gardening accident, “best leave it unsolved.”

With music appearing in two major current ad campaigns, the Tap's Nigel Tufnel has exhibited enviable staying power in the fictitious-metal genre.

Growing Pains at the Lizard Lounge

2006-12-22T07:39:00.000-08:00

Big night at the Lizard Lounge and a learning experience. Our fledgling group shared the bill with three quality bands, the most surprising of which was Walter the Orange Ocean, who have a real good lo-fi thing going on. Duly impressed with the bands onstage and feeling the friendly Lizard energy, I felt every bit the bystander, totally detached from our looming show—surprising since this was essentially our debut.

That was cool from an individual standpoint—I was loose as could be given the circumstances and my guitar playing wasn’t restricted by nervous fingers--but as our show lurched to a start following various ambiguities, it became clear that we weren’t prepared enough, and what feeling is worse than that for a musician? Fortunately for the long-term, musical preparedness wasn’t really the problem so much as it was just all the minutia of a gig—-setup, mix, hearing each other over the crowd and through the speakers, performance, and so on…a million small things that can end up crippling a show no matter how good the tunes, and we had trouble getting beyond that. Typical young-band follies, but it was too bad not to deliver the show we wanted, especially to a house as full as you’re going to find on a weekday.

What can you do. It wasn’t all bad. There were bright spots and we lived to fight another day. Plus we had the last slot so the booze had been flowing all night, so we were probably more aware of the tech problems than anyone else. All we really need to do is just continue playing as much as possible.

Meantime, the Gulf played a great show which they should be thrilled about. Garland has put so much into this project, and all the work really showed last night. Full-house, perfect sound, and a good sustained energy throughout the set. For those interested in checking this upcoming Boston group, and because I’m feeling lazy and exhausted today and don’t want to write anymore, I’ve pasted a moderately servicable clip I wrote on Garland and company for last month’s Insite Magazine below.

The Gulf Comes out of Hibernation
Insite Magazine, November 2006.

“Boston’s not an easy place to live…everything is hard here for a musician, so you need to want it.” Adam Garland of The Gulf would know. He converses so easily and comfortably about the personal and musical path that brought him to this city, his speech inflected by his Texas upbringing and Louisiana musical roots, that you almost think its ordinary. But most Boston musicians don’t have a biography that involves a decade playing in New Orleans—“influential in every way,” according to Garland—multiple cross-country moves, and the decision to forgo the shackles (and ample paychecks) of a comfortable corporate job for full-time devotion to music and part-time work in a supermarket. Nor do most Boston musicians break into empty school classrooms to record albums, but that’s another story.
To be sure, Garland’s eclectic musical pedigree and combination of Big Easy humility and Big-thinking dedication comes straight to the fore in his band’s music. The Gulf applies traditional roots instrumentation—pianos, guitars, lap steels, trumpets, cellos, violins—to atmospheric, neo-psychedelic compositions. Their eclecticism and ambitious approach to exploring the surreal outer-limits of the rock format recalls Pink Floyd, but where Floyd championed “space-rock,” The Gulf is very much of this Earth. As atmospheric and expansive as their sound gets, at their core The Gulf are grounded; by the familiar, organic sounds of the acoustic instruments they use, by the do-it-yourself ethos of indie-rock, by their lyrics, dreamlike but rooted in raw emotion and earthy imagery.
The band’s forward-looking compositions and ambition has fit well in Boston, a city known more for its songwriters and composers than its improvisers. “Before Katrina, New Orleans was an easy place to live, and [its easy-going nature is] reflected in its musicians. Boston is tough on musicians—bars close early, there aren’t lots of places to play, the weather…” Garland stops himself, but he’s made his point—Boston doesn’t lend itself to street-corner jams and jazz-fueled parades, and it’s exponentially harder to be a professional musician here than in many other cities. So the area tends to foster ambitious songwriters, and those who want to make a go of it professionally tend to want to push the envelope creatively to differentiate themselves. Considering this, Garland’s decision to settle here begins to make sense--his musical pedigree is New Orleans, but his approach is fully Northeastern.
After making their initial dent in the Boston scene with the self-released EP Mind in a Helmet, Garland and the Gulf have spent much of this year busy with the largely invisible but essential process of fortifying their personnel lineup and recording a full- length disc. “I’ve been staying up all-night, 6 nights straight, working constantly to finish this,” Garland told me, “and we’re planning a run of shows in November and December.” Despite the insomnia, he sounded anything but fatigued, charged, it would seem, by the satisfaction of putting the finishing touches on the project, and the prospect of bringing it out to clubs here and in New York.
So what of the new record? What can people expect when the band reemerges from its self-imposed recording exile? Well, for starters, it was indeed recorded in an empty school classroom which Garland is loath to describe in detail, on equipment he bought with savings from his previous life in a cubicle-farm. Garland suggests it’s a natural evolution from “Mind in a Helmet” with the sextet refining its formula of emotional, sprawling, layered rock, and, from the tracks I’ve heard, upping the emphasis on lyrics. The complexity of the tracks belie the unorthodox makeshift studio—this is a strong, fully-realized effort from a polished, ambitious group.
Garland discusses his music critically, almost as if he’s talking about another band, and with the self-awareness of a seasoned pro: “It’s layered and conceptual,” he says, and adds that the group aims for “power without melodrama.” Finally, he addresses his lyrics, which are central in shaping the band’s identity. “We get strong reactions to our subject matter,” he makes a point to mention, “We have a dynamic, complex sound, but we always want people to listen to the lyrics.” Indeed, Garland was never at a loss for words during our conversation, and, discussing his music and his background, he projects a folksy, matter-of-fact confidence that never crosses over into arrogance. It’s the kind of understated self-assurance that might allow someone to follow their own path and not look back—even if it leads to empty schoolrooms.

Insert Cock-Pun Here: Allstonians fighting over chickens

2006-12-15T11:51:00.000-08:00

This comical article from last week's Weekly Dig piqued my interest as a former Allstonian. Evidently, residents of one of Boston University’s famed party landmarks are clashing with the city’s health and Animal Services deparments over a chicken coop set up in the kids’ front yard. The coop houses some “show chickens” picked up via the “Free stuff” link on Craigslist. Not surprisingly, Boston is skeptical about the arrangement, since study after study has shown that only rats and embittered, tough-as-nails, retired rug-factory workers can sustain long-term existence in the booze-soaked, god-forsaken college sty.

I can't decide who's filthier here, the Allstonian or the bird. But I love the devotion.

Most interesting about the whole deal is the dedication on the part of the students to keep the livestock. They’ve cleverly discovered some loophole to temporarily stave-off the authorities while they petition for some kind of full-time chicken permit, and they seem sincere. Plus, decrepit as Allston most certainly is, the chickens probably have a better quality of life there than at their alternative home-- “Live Poultry Fresh Killed.” Best of luck to the Purple House residents.

Located in my neighborhood, the Mayflower Poultry Co. slaughters a few hundered chickens a week, and has become a local landmark due to its striking and badass sign. Peep this article for more on this amazing, throwback butchershop.

Forgotten Ballers of Yesteryear: Dikembe Mutombo

2006-12-05T13:43:00.000-08:00

Against all odds, Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean Jacques Wamutombo Mutombo has reached the rarified territory of the baller who manages to be largely lost to history while remaining on an NBA roster.

Listed as 40 years of age, Mutombo is arguably the most awkward player in league history, and owns the dubious superlative of "sharpest elbows" in the NBA. He's largely remembered for two images: clutching the ball over his head while screaming in celebration of the Nuggets' improbable first-round victory over the sonics, and (less gloriously) being manhandled by Shaq (and leaning against him, to no avail, at a 45-degree angle in the post) in the 200 NBA finals. But the noble big man managed to parlayed raw shotblocking skill and coachability into a 15+ year NBA career that has spanned two distinct eras, all the while donating vast chunks of money to build hospitals in his native congo.

Mutombo's career numbers are nothing to scoff at (10 pts, 10 rebs, and 3 blocks per game and 4 all-star games), yet Mutombo has been generally ignored since joining the Rockets a couple seasons ago. Lets give the affable, humorous Deke the respect he deserves.

Although still in the NBA, the great Dikembe Mutombo is a viable Forgotten Baller of Yesteryear

Almoorica Alpine: 2006-07 Snowboard Season Preview!

2006-12-05T09:27:00.000-08:00

Our changing climate delivered an eerily warm, beautiful-yet-endless fall to New England, wreaking havoc on all my much anticipated early season snowboard plans. But better late than never to bust out my new winterrific, outlandish snowboarding apparel, debuting this weekend on the icy and pitifully bald slopes of Killington.

With the exception of my positively spectacular and oh-so-state-of-the-art new Arbor Element sled, I've committed to moving snowboard style in a new, retro direction. At this point, the sport has obviously fully emerged out of the formidable shadow of skiing as a viable and equally respectable pasttime, and only assholes perpetuate the longstanding alpine skier vs. snowboarder vendetta. I'm moving to bridge the gap, and I'm reflecting both my proud ski background and current snowboard devotion in the process through carefully chosen, blazing hot slope-steez! Witness the gear:

Steamboat Springs Domepiece. Site of numerous childhood alpine triumphs, represented in Corduroy, the fabric of kings.

Vintage Ski Sweater: classic. hideous.

Arbor Element--the best board from one of the best companies around. No stupid graphics lifted from Addison Wesley Geometry textbooks and bad tattoo samples, just the best materials and a classic design. fresh.

Old Obbermyer Overalls. I found a sweet, hundred-year old specimen thrown in with my dad's old gear. The blue ski-trousers offer a classic look and fresh alternative to comically baggy snowboard counterparts, although they mustn't be the only pants option. Reason: overalls may mitigate snow/numb-ass phenomenon, but inherent lack of breathability and relative tightness (me: 6'4" Dad: 5'10") promotes dreaded swamp-ass.

2006-07 slope look duly established, I turn my attention to environmental concerns, a frequent topic of conversation in my household (Kayla=public health student/conniseur of bleak environmental statistics). Heavily reliant on increasingly more elaborate and seemingly destructive snowmaking systems, Kayla formally inquired as to what meastures Killington was taking to mitigate planetary rape. The response: Killington is resorting to Bullshit! Literally!

The full letter exchange follows:

Hello,
I'm a season-pass holder for the second straight year in a row and come to Killington more than any other Mountain in the Northeast. I'm looking forward to the upcoming season, and have high hopes for a great season with lots of snow. I understand that natural snow is not always reliable and that snow-making is one of the things that makes Killington great. However, as weather patterns have changed noticeably in the last several years, I'm concerned about the effects that snowmaking and other high-energy operations at the resort have on the environment. I recently heard that Sunday River has taken steps to off-set the environmental impact of their resort operations by turning to wind power. I'm wondering what steps Killington has taken to reduce emissions of greenhouse gases? I hope to see many more seasons of plentiful snow and great skiing in the Northeast, and am sure you agree that in order to ensure a profitable future for the resort it's essential that we all do what we can to reduce our emissions today. Please pass this information on to your colleagues at Killington, and let them know that this matters to their clients. Also let me know what is being done at Killington to address this important issue, and how you plan to make your operations more environmentally sustainable.

Regards,
Kayla
Boston, MA

Hi Kayla,

Thank you so much for taking the time to write to us with your thoughts about the ski industry and energy usage.

Over the last 4 years, Killington has replaced most of our older technology diesel compressor engines with new state of the art engines. This change has resulted in a 50% reduction in our NOX emissions. We have also purchased several low-energy snow gun nozzles which make snow by using 75% less compressed air than standard guns. Using these guns has reduced our energy profile per acre/ft of snow produced in each of the last 4 seasons. Additionally, we are in the process of talks with our local power company, CVPS, regarding the purchase of "Cow Power", which pays farmers to turn their manure into fuel.

Please let me know if you would like more information regarding Killington's energy initiatives. We appreciate your decision to ski with us and look forward to seeing you soon.

Sincerely,

Patty McIlvaine
Guest Services Manager
Killington, LTD.
pmcilvaine@killington.com

Have You Seen My Eyewear?

2006-11-29T21:26:00.000-08:00

Fashionable, vision-correcting spectacles MISSING! Broke almoorica author resorting to abominable, decrepit "backup pair" with "discolored nosepads," cockeyed "temple-tips" and cheap, flimsy "monel" frames. Be on the lookout for hipper-than-hip, FUBU (thats right, bitch) frames that look a lot like these:

The eyewear was lost following a pretty good show at Bill's Bar which I appear to have enjoyed exponentially more than most in the crowd. The bill was great: The Andrea Gillis Band, who is unparalleled as soul-steeped rock vocalist in this city, and The Great Bandini, Scott Janovitz' emerging pop/garage rock project. But despite the skill of the bands--and they're both among the highest caliber bands a city otherwise filled with mediocrity--the Bill's Bar energy was pretty flat. Although both acts are plenty experienced with larger venues, maybe the gig would've gone better in a smaller-room on this night. Problem was, with the place not at capacity that dastardly, potentially toxic "halo" effect developed up front, with the crowd concentrating 10-15 feet in front of the stage and just kind of regarding the band from a distance like they were studying a mural or something. Not ideal.

Another possible energy deflater: Andrea may be falling victim to the ol' oversaturation conundrum. She and her band always deliver the best old-fashioned, riff-driven, soul-drenched barroom rawk around, but her set is heavily weighted with songs from her record--which is now I think going on 2 years old. Natrually it helps that the songs are good, but they've gotten an awful lot of milage, particularly since Andrea has been playing out a lot lately--I've seen her maybe 6 times in the last couple of months.

Meanwhile, considering the guitar player Eric Barlow has been in New York since last summer, its safe to say that Bandini is in no danger of oversaturating the Beantown scene. Somewhat paradoxically, according to Janovitz Barlow is the most committed to the Bandini project, and he certainly gave it his all on Friday--taking centerstage and mugging up a storm. To be honest, this sort of turned me off--Barlow knows his shit and plays a good guitar, but he's not the soul of Bandini and his stage persona seemed contrived. It seemed like he was trying to establish himself as the star of this group, and I was surprised that Janovitz, who has more natural charisma on the stage, deferred to him so much.

Nevertheless, the key thing with Bandini is that Janovitz understands the critical importance of songs. Seems obvious, but a lot of bands are hung up on chops, their appearance on stage, and "forward looking" music (which manifests itself, chiefly, in guitar effects pedals and/or long jams). All those things are great, but ultimately, you just have to have the songs. You need hooks, you need to present the lyrics so they can be heard, and you need to pay attention to your arrangements since no one can tolerate songs that go on too long. Otherwise, in addition to being doomed to crap records, there's no way your band will maintain the attention of a rock audience who is looking to get drunk and have a good time.

Janovitz gets this, and is clearly painstaking in his approach to songwriting. All the Bandini tunes are fully realized, well arranged pieces that combine the spirit of garage rock with catchy, pop hooks and strong, clear two-part vocals. The underground landscape is chock full of hard-rocking bar bands, but Janovitz'high standard of song and record quality sets Bandini apart, at least here in Boston. They've spent most of their brief existence in on-again, off-again recording process, but now that it appears they're making a push to build their audience the old fashioned way--playing out--I'm curious to see where the project leads.

VICTORY

2006-11-29T21:18:00.000-08:00

On the strength of my written claim, the City of Cambridge has offered to throw down for throwing my furniture away. Thank you, Margaret Drury.

NFL 2006: The Mellencamp Year

2006-11-16T16:06:00.000-08:00

Lets face it: its been a Mellencamp few weeks in the NFL: successful yet somewhat bland and overrated

It’s fitting that a tedious and trite Mellencamp song has become the de facto soundtrack of the NFL 2006 season, because, here at the halfway point, mediocrity is omnipotent in the league. It’s a Mellencamp year in the NFL, and yes, Mellencamp is an adjective now.

Like Mellencamp’s biggest hits, the few elite NFL teams are reasonably good on the surface, but flawed upon close examination. I’m watching the Pats as I write this, and, while they deserve consideration as title contenders, the team’s usual calling card—consistency—is markedly absent this year. While their line-play has been solid, creating giant holes for Maroney and Dillon on offense, getting to the quarterback on defense, the team’s passing game is lackluster, and they’ve choked away two consecutive games. Meantime, the Colts poor run defense, reliance on the passing game, and struggles against weaker opponents belies their undefeated record woes, and the Bears turnover issues are well-chronicled and easy to see. Finally, there’s Denver. Fundamentally sound, led by a top-tier head coach, and aided by a distinct home-field advantage, the Broncos nonetheless are fallible on defense—they squander leads and give up a lot of points.

Beyond this group of contenders, the NFL is awash in Mellencamp, making games harder than ever to predict and trends more difficult to identify for casual observers. Adding to the Mellencamp-ian nature of the season, the NFL has fortified its reputation as the “No Fun League” through a series of poorly-enforced, totally unnecessary rule changes. The league’s “no group celebrations” policy strikes me as particularly egregious, both due to the subjective nature of the rule (its up to the ref’s discretion) and the reality that the fans enjoy team celebrations and don’t enjoy listening to referees explain inane penalties. Lets examine some case-studies:

The “Giants Jump Shot” vs. The “Ronde Barber Dance”

Every time the Giants defensive line tackles someone for a loss, the entire group jumps around and mimes a basketball jump-shot together. Yes, its pretty stupid, but the point is that these players collectively celebrate the same way, using the same gesture. Seems like a clear-cut example of the type of “group celebration” that the league has decided, needlessly, to crack down on. But I haven’t seen a single penalty called on the Giants for this apparently clear-cut offense.

Meantime, in this week’s Monday Night game, the Bucs’ Ronde Barber came up with his second interception of the night (a huge deal to any defensive back), and in doing so positioned his team in field-goal range as the half wound down. Barring a penalty, the Bucs would be in position to lead their opponents by two scores and set up a potential major upset victory. It was cause for celebration, and Barber and a couple of his teammates pranced around for abut 5 seconds. It would be hard to argue this was a pre-rehearsed routine, as it sucked miserably and lacked creativity. Preposterously, flags flew, and a 15 yard “group celebration” penalty was assessed, effectively pushing the Bucs out of scoring position.

The “Celebratory Ball Chuck” vs. The “Lambeau Leap”

Then there’s the legendary “Lambeau Leap.” Embraced, it would appear, by the NFL, the Lambeau Leap occurs every time the Packers score at home. The touchdown scorer hurls himself into the stands and absorbs the love of the fans. Fine.

Lady, what are you doing? you disgust me. Jesus.

But if throwing oneself into the crowd is no problem in the eyes of the league, why is throwing the ball into the stands considered egregious misconduct worthy of a 15-yard penalty? You can throw your 250-pound body at the fans, but not the 2 pound ball? Or how about the Giants’ Brandon Jacobs, who was flagged 15 yards for “celebrating with the ball.” Wait. What? You cant celebrate “with the ball”? What do you call spiking it in the end-zone (still A-OK to the NFL). Besides, Jacobs’ celebration consisted of putting the ball under his jersey as a gesture to his very pregnant wife. Not exactly unsportsmanlike in my book.

The message is clear—the NFL’s policy toward celebrations is both unnecessary and deeply flawed. Fans enjoy celebrating with the players, sharing in the emotion of a big play, and they don’t enjoy watching referees subjectively dole out 15 yard penalties.

As a final note, lets talk Vikings. I’ll be brief.

On account of a total lack of offensive playmakers, the Vikings are fading fast; but their Mellencamp record doesn’t tell the whole story. No team has undergone a more comprehensive overhaul in the last year than the Vikings, who have an entirely new coaching staff, an entirely new front-office led by a second-year owner, a drastically revamped offense, and a wholly new team-philosophy exemplified by the replacement of Daunte Culpepper and Randy Moss with Brad Johnson and Chester Taylor.

Given this overhaul, the Vikings decent play this season gives fans reason to be optimistic. Their line-play, overall discipline, and general ability to keep games close all speaks to the solid foundation they’ve built in a short period of time. But to contend for a championship, they’ll need to add playmakers, and they’ll need to address the quarterback situation. Brad Johnson is serviceable at best, and he is approaching the end of his career. They need a player who understands the West-Coast passing scheme, and who is solid enough to make an immediate impact. As luck would have it, just such a player exists: Byron "Windmill" Leftwich. Now I'm not a big Leftwich guy, but he appears to be finished in Jacksonville, and he'll be available this offseason. The guy is in the prime of his career, has proven capable of success in the NFL, and will enter 2007, one would think, on a mission to re-establish himself as a legitimate NFL stud. Plus, he could really thrive in Minnesota, which runs a system he's used to and features a giant offsive line used to protecting the elderly Brad Johnson. They'll give him the time he needs to load up the Windmill, and, ideally, safeguard him from the injuries that have plagued his career. Hopefully the front office will also deliver him the playmaking receiver he'll also need to be successful. But that's thinking a little too far ahead. For now, let it be known: barring the unlikely rapid ascention of Tarvaris Jackson (who i love, by the way), let the Leftwich groundswell begins.

Byron "Windmill" Leftwich. Could this handsome gent be the answer for the Vikings in 2007? You heard it here first.

The Departed: Thoughts on a heavily hyped flick

2006-10-31T09:52:00.000-08:00

Uncharacteristically, I’m going to A) talk about a movie and B) be concise in floating a few quick observations about this film—one of only 2 I’ve actually gone out to a theater to see in the last year. While this wasn’t a Scorcese classic—and not as good as The Aviator, a near-classic, either—it was terrifically entertaining, and worth seeing on the Big Screen. The film’s anticlimactic conclusion doesn’t resonante the way Scorcese’s other gangster flicks do, but the double-mole story had me on the edge of my seat, the dialog was slick, and hey, always nice to see Beantown in the limelight.

Couple thoughts:

1) Hey, Let’s hear it for Text-Messaging! In a star-drenched production, the unglamorous text-message took center stage!

2) Alec Baldwin should be in the discussion of greatest supporting-actors out there. Leaving aside his political leanings which I guess get on peoples nerves, and crap like “the Cat in the Hat,” he steals scenes with the best of ‘em and he’s been showing up in great flicks left and right lately. He's fantastic again here, delivering some key comic relief and establishing himself despite only having a couple of scenes. His offbeat comic timing is positively Walken-esq, but he's never really discussed as a great comic actor. The John Stockton of Hollywood?

3)Once again, Leo delivers when you expect his perpetually adolescent looks to be a fatal downfall. In a film in which the other principal actors stuck close to comfortable gound—Nicholson just being Nicholson, Damon’s character a more sociopathic cousin of Will Hunting--Leo faced the biggest challenge, and, once again, pulled it off brilliantly. A solid actor who benefits greatly from great directors (i.e. Scorcese and Spielberg)

4)When the police-phycologist was introduced, alarms went off in my head—-uh,oh…Scorcese’s co-opting The Sopranos, this isn’t good—-but luckily the film veered away from this angle and the psychologist character brought out new dimensions of the main characters without ripping off Dr. Melfi. A near miss.

5)I know he loves the Stones, and I love em too, but Scorcese should go deeper in the catalog. Hasn’t he used “gimme shelter” before? At least he didn’t throw in the Layla instrumental though.

The Music Writer's Dilemma

2006-10-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

"Septic" Hank Shteamer, an old acquaintence of mine, wrote a fantastic piece on his blog about the nature of music-writing and the dillema faced by those of us who love writing about music, but are uncomfortable with the "critic" tag. I posted a comment that rapidly became a lengthy freewrite on the subject--so why not post it here too, i figure.

I decided to try my hand at freelancing less than a year ago, and have recently begun to get some traction with it, but i often feel the need to filter the enthusiasm I have for great records in the interest of appearing professional and even-handed. Oddly enough, for much the same reason, I also find myself avoiding writing about those puerile favorites of mine who inspired me so much as a kid in the first place. Its funny--in sports, your first favorite team is a badge of honor, you love them forever, and the more steadfastly loyal you are to them, the more respect you'll get. That's not how it works with the music media--for a lot of reasons, one of which being the infinate amount of great music out there (if you spent all your time following and listening to your first favorite band, you'd be sorely missing out).

I try to approach my written work with an appreciation for how much more energy and time goes into creating a record than reviewing it, and I try to evaluate music on its own terms and avoid reducing it to a list of influences that read like a ploy to bolster my own credibility, which I see all the time in record reviews. Its worthles to pretend like I've heard everything under the sun when in reality I'm constantly reminded of how vast the music landscape is and how little I really know. The best I can do is to listen and evaluate music the way I'd hope my music would be approached--closely and with appreciation for the music-making process. Its amazing how often this seemingly basic respect is ignored, but i suppose this is a natural side-effect of a culture in which music is so ubiquitous.

Personally, the dillema has been offset a bit now that im playing in a band again and being active as a musician myself--only because now i feel like i may be dishing out criticism, but i am taking it too, or at least exposing myself to it. I feel it would be wise for all aspiring music writers to remain active musically themselves, if not for this, than just to participate in music making and recording process and see the enormous difference between the pros and the hobbyists.

Hank points to Steve Perry of Journey as an example of a classic critic's whipping boy who's redeeming, flat-out fun characteristics are largely ignored in the interest of maintaining some type of music-geek street-cred. His makes a spot-on point about the general disdain critics pile on "never not fun" pop acts, as if speaking to their positive qualities somehow damages a reviewer's cred. While I agree with him, i also think that Hanks outlook represents a distinct advantage, both for musicians and professional writers. Being able to find joy in all types of music is something to take pride in. People who tune out the arts are tragically missing out. More to the point, some of the "pop" acts out there may be manufactured, but often they are manufactured by pros who really know how to write a damn-good song, and whats wrong with pointing that out?

While Steve Perry personifies the issue for Hank, naturally my example is none other than the most damaged celebrity ever, Michael Jackson. leaving aside his downward spiral, everytime "billie Jean" comes on, which it does at pretty much every party/club envirnment known to man, the energy level inevitably spikes, and not due to irony. Everyone starts shaking their ass and smiling because "Billie Jean" is a fucking awesome party song and among the best dance tracks ever laid down. kitch only takes you so far (otherwise we'd hear the Hoff's "looking for freedom" more often). the fact is "billie jean" and the Thriller and Off the Wall albums are both masterpieces of their genre. MJ has become a travesty, and deservedly so, but that doesnt mean he didnt knock the ball out of the park at his creative peak.

whether its cool or not, those artists/performers who accomplish exactly what they set out to do, or, better yet, exceed all reasonable expectations deserve respect. we should all be so lucky.

Album Cover Face-Off

2006-10-20T12:28:00.000-07:00

While I hope not to bury my long-winded Wu-Tang exploration too early, I wanted to give my five readers plenty of time to digest my most recent interactive blog notion: the hideous album cover face-off.

So here we have two top contenders for the title of alltime Best/Worst Album Cover. Diehard almoorica readers will recall I referenced Millie Jackson's "Back to the Shit" record long ago, but I just love it too much to let it fade into the recesses of blogosphere archives.

For me, bluesman Dr. Duke Tumatoe's "You've got the problem" recalls the same feelings of shock, humor, and bewilderment that "Back to the Shit" does. Look at that big fleshy hand comin' atcha, that wild-eyed look, that Shel Silverstein 'do, that cartoonish text. Astonishing! Not sure if it ranks up there with "Back to The Shit," with its unfathomable crassness (look at that face! check out that right shoe!), but in its own way, its right up there.

I invite the public to weigh in. Are these album covers just plain hideous, or so brazenly terrible that they somehow became great? Is there sound marketing strategy at work or is this just a horrendous miscalculation? These albums raise more questions than answers for me, and I hope my readership will help elevate the discussion.

Wu-Tang: Enjoy Them Again...For the First Time

2006-10-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

Aereoperro’s outstanding survey of recent output from the seminal Wu-Tang clan moved me to revisit my long-dormant Wu collection—with rewarding results. I must admit that I had shelved most of my Wu discs as my tastes shifted away from hip-hop. This is probably par for the course, as the initial Wu-Tang mania of the mid 90’s would lend most casual observers to figure the music was, like most mainstream hip-hop, great only for a specific time and place, and doomed to total obscurity thereafter. Indeed Wu-Tang's runaway success was built largely upon ingenius marketing and favorable cultural circumstances: the East Coast needed a counterpart to the Death Row empire, then at the height of its powers, and RZA’s dark, spare, brooding beats were a perfect alternative to Dr. Dre’s bouncing, blunted G-funk.

But time has revealed the RZA to be just as revolutionary, and perhaps even more influential, than Dre. Dre’s beats are no longer the quintessential California musical export, and he has periodically reclused himself to update his formulas and locate new protegees, while RZA has continuously churned out the beats, all the while sounding exactly and unmistakably like New York City. Meanwhile, as the brazen West-Coast gangsta image of the Death Row stable devolved steadily into the clownish cliché of a lot of hip-hop, the enigmatic, witty Wu-Tang Clan have remained a credible, relevant musical force as well as one of music’s most ubiquitous brands right through the present.

Its interesting to note the rapper Ghostface’s emergence as the group’s critical darling here in the 2000s. In the early days it appeared Method Man would always be the unquestioned star of the Wu. With an instantly recognizable, gravelly voice, impeccable delivery, and an unmistakable stoner star-power not unlike Snoop Dogg’s, the sky seemed the limit for Meth. But a string of uneven releases have suggested that he's best suited to collaborations and guest-spots. Indeed, Methods' latest single—provided to me by Aereoperro—is a somewhat defensive duet with Lauryn Hill called “say” that has Method castigating lesser MCs and critics for having “so much things to say” about his recent musical shortcomings.

Meanwhile, Ghostface, despite his nomadic delivery (he’s always sliding around the beat, not really over it) and high-pitched, slurry voice, has built a reputation as Wu-Tang’s superior album-maker, resulting in a swell of "hipster cred” that probably reached its zenith following the release of his “Fishscale” album. That record succeeds because it mixes the tried and true Wu-Tang lyrical formula—witty, disarmingly sophisticated rhymes, a violent but hugely entertaining gangster storyline straight out of Scorcese—with cutting edge production. RZA’s musical blueprint colors the record as it does all Wu releases, but a host of star beatmakers breathe new life into the template by layering on guitars and soul-heavy samples. The result recalls classic Wu-Tang releases while remaining perfectly of its time: a winning formula if there ever was one in hip-hop.

Releases like Fishscale point to Wu-Tang’s remarkable marketing structure. Inextricably and forever linked, yet highly distinct from each other, the Wu Tang MC’s piggy-back each other’s success while retaining their own musical identities. Thus, all it takes is one white-hot solo release like "Fishscale" or Raekon's "Only Built for Cuban Linx" to renew mass interest in the whole collective, but in the meantime they can individually infiltrate the smallest recesses of the hip-hop spectrum. What better evidence of this is there than the underground mash-up, "wu-tang meets the indie culture"? An album title that says it all about Wu-Tang's pervasive influence while also rather eerily summing up my entire musical sensibility circa 1999 (an extremely formative year in my musical biography, I might add).

The crux is that while Ghostface gets all the press these days(and understandably so), its instructive, and suprisingly rewarding, to scan the entire wu-tang landscape. Their marketing formula may appear forever sustainable, but its only worked so well because the Wu-Tang Clan has the goods musically, which can be all-too-easily forgotten. In a genre marked by hastily-compiled records with short shelf lives, Wu-Tang’s offerings remain remarkably durable. As a result, while most rappers can barely cobble together anything that could reasonably be called a “career,” the Wu-Tang Clan stand as that rare breed of pop-artist: elder statesmen of the genre who are revered as much for their current output as their early masterpieces.

The Wu-Tang Clan fashions itself as more an army than a "clique." It took the Rap World by storm and its soldiers have subsequently infiltrated most niches within the genre.

Man of the Week: Donald "King of the Balzac" Spector

2006-10-13T13:40:00.000-07:00

Did you know that the top selling children’s toy of 1990 was the Balzac Balloon Ball? On the surface, the Balzac Ball just seems like a stupid toy with a humorously profane name. But, as it turns out, there's a stroke of marketing genius behind the comical nomenclature. Think about the sheer tonnage of bad puns and unintentional humor the Balzac name elicits. On the playground, the balzac’s primary domain, the word “ballsack” is nothing less than comedy gold, and the term has some "crossover appeal" in the adult world as well--it still stands as one of our funnier, sillier terms. The Balzac brass recognized this, and, despite numorous opportunities to change the name, but they didn't. They made a “balzy” play to capitalize on our collective sophomoric sense of humor, and that deserves commendation.

A brief dive into Balzac lore turns up a story as comic and silly as the Balzac itself, and presents some interesting factoids, all of which suggest that the zacs behind the Balzac A) were utterly insane and B) knew what they were doing when they named their multi-million selling toy after a scrotum.

According to an article appearing n Business Week Online in 1999, the toy, a dumb polyester balloon cover, was invented by a lone entrepreneur and crackpot named Donald Spector. A “self-described child prodigy” with a resume that “seems to exaggerate his credentials,” Spector evidently owns several hundred patents, including one for a “CD player that emits smells electronically.” But his passion is Balzac, which, to everyone's suprise, achieved great national success as a playground toy/vulgar homonym. Apparently, without the machinery of focus-groups, board meetings, and other corporate infrastructure to change the name into one something more benign, the Balzac slipped into the marketplace, crass, inappropriate name intact.

The article also notes that Spector recruited, as his de facto VP of Marketing, a 13 year old “child marketing prodigy” (takes one to know one) called Mary Rodas for the Balzac operation, and it was then that the Balzac exploded onto the national scene. Rodas, evidently, fixated only on upgrading the boring, monochrome look of the Balzac. The tasteless, laughable name again went unchecked.

I suppose it could be argued that, since Rodas was still a kid, the scrotal imagery could have escaped her but the reality is that Rodas' youth probably made her even more acutely aware of the play-on-words. But, given the Balzac's subsequent marketing campaign, thats beside the point, because the Balzac's ad copy leaves little doubt that the obviously bananas Don Spector clearly was in on the joke. Take the writeup on Amazon.com: the “Manufacturer Description” of the Balzac reads, in part, "The Balzac: Blow it up! Throw it! Kick it! Bet you can't bust balzac! Add water for weight! Your favorite game will never be the same. Colors may vary. What's in your Balzac? This special mini version is fun for all ages."

You can’t make this stuff up.

Originally, I was going to mention the Balzac craze of the 1990s as one of my bad fad features—stupid toy, hilariously god-awful name. But the revelation that the Balzac is the brainchild of a subversive, gonzo inventor with a penchant for sophomoric humor changed everything for me. Congratulations Don, you are the almoorica Man of the Week. That bogus honor should fit well on your bullshit resume.

Rather than the clueless corporate stiffs I assumed to be behind the Balzac (l), Donald Spector is a prolific crackpot inventor not unlike everyone's favorite mad scientist, Doc Brown (r)

Randy Moss to the New England Patriots--Contemplating a Blockbuster

2006-10-05T22:27:00.000-07:00

"If they feel trading me and getting me out is the best thing to do, I’ve been traded once, two won’t hurt." –Randy Moss

The NFL may be the richest and most robust of all american sports leagues, but it's short on one of sports’ most compelling storylines: the blockbuster mid-season trade. The reason for this, of course, is that the NFL regular season is short and every game is critical. There are only 16 of them, and each one is instrumental both in determining a team’s chances of advancing to the Super Bowl (the stated goal of all football teams and the glue that holds the whole system together), and deciding who from that team is and isn't going to be able to walk when they are 60 (every game produces one or two massive, permanently debilitating injuries and several small ones). With so few games with which to get a bunch of men who are sacrificing their long-term health to subscribe to a system for gridiron success, coaches and organizations generally don't like to roll the dice. At least, not under normal circumstances.

Well, for a couple of teams, these aren't normal circumstances. The Oakland Raiders are the sorriest team in football. They have two equally horrendous quarterbacks: the underachiever Aaron Brooks, whose recent injury (sustained, it looked to me, while fumbling the ball) probably saved him from the virtual-certainty of an embarrassing benching, and the novice Andrew Walter, his overmatched replacement. Walter was apparently so unimpressive during training camp that the Raiders briefly called up old man Jeff George, the NFL's least popular player of all time, as a possible emergency replacement. The Raiders also have a coach whose decent career record belies a reputation for ineffective leadership and poor discipline—his teams always lead the league in penalties. What else? They have one of the worst offensive lines in recent memory, led by former first round pick Robert Gallery. Gallery has, of late, been likened to Ryan Leaf. Enough said.

All of which is to say the Raiders have needs that extend beyond Wide Receiver, a position which has become no man’s land for Oakland. Commentators and sports media steakheads aren’t even at liberty to discuss whether or not their stud, Randy Moss, is “taking plays off” as they loved to do in the past, because, in essence, he’s taking every play off. He may as well not be there. The Raiders have had so few successful offensive plays this season that only a miniscule fraction of pass attempts have even reached Moss. Of that tiny number, an even smaller percentage were actually catchable passes.

Its therefore fairly obvious that the 2006 season is a lost cause for the once mighty Raiders, and its sad to see a once electrifying player crippled by a failing franchise.

Meanwhile, the New England Patriots, while lightyears ahead of the Raiders—they’re still thinking, as always, Super Bowl—-are in the throes of a trying period themselves (by their standards). Despite a big win in Cincinatti last week, the Pats essentially failed to show up for their first 3 games, eaking out unconvincing wins against two comparatively soft teams and falling hard in a much-hyped playoff rematch in Denver, their first "big game". Indeed, the media impact of the Cincinatti win last Sunday is telling in itself; its rare for a Patriots team to face a “must win” game this early in the season, even more so for Pats fans and pundits to express such collective relief over a regular season win in this era.

Heading into the season’s “second quarter,” the Patriots are very much in the hunt, but appear more fallible than at any point in the last several years. Their weakness (aside, possibly, from managerial hubris): Wide-Receiver. Tom Brady’s current targets are either ancient (the great Troy Brown, who is wily but, at 35, over-the-hill), pedestrian (the new acquisitions Reche Caldwell and Doug Gabriel have 14 career touchdowns in a combined 96 career games—that’s 3 less than Randy Moss had his rookie year), or unproven (the Pats have two rookies on the roster). Pats faithful, naturally, see bright futures for the new blood—but this isn’t supposed to be a rebuilding year for a franchise strong enough to make a push for the Super Bowl this year. Rolling the dice on rookies doesn’t fit that plan.

What does? A blockbuster deal to bring Randy Moss to New England. Such a move would solve the Patriots problems at wideout entirely, and instantaneously make them Super-Bowl favorites. Think Moss is too controversial? too polarizing? too selfish? too outspoken to fit in with the notoriously tight-lipped Pats? Those same media-ascribed scarlet letters were branded on Corey Dillon and Rodney Harrison before they came to Boston, and both immediately became vital components of championship Patriots teams. Think Moss is a “cooler”? or worse, a “cancer,” because of Minnesota’s and Oakland’s troubles? Consider this—Minnesota's off field behavior plummeted to embarrassing lows long after Moss hit the road, and his controversy quotient in Oakland has been limited to a couple of fairly obvious, over-amplified sound-bytes about a confused locker room in Raider-land. Indeed, as he hits his late-prime, Moss has fallen almost entirely out of the NFL media blitz. When was the last Randy Moss "controversy"? The "Fake Moon" episode of 2002?

Finally, the Pats have the cash, and the Raiders are all ears. Recent reports allude to a desperate Raider organization shopping their expensive former all-world wideout. He will almost certainly land somewhere else next season, as his contract is due to expire, and he simply hasn’t gotten the ball enough to endear himself to Raider fans. Meanwhile the Patriots, who convinced Tom Brady to take less than his market-value in exchange for the promise of continued determination to assemble winning teams, now have an opportunity to put their money where their mouths have been. Moss is due 13.6 million dollars this season…a staggering sum to virtually all teams. Not the comparatively miserly Pats, who have an even more astonishing 16 million in available cap-space.

Pats fans will pay plenty of lip-service to the idea that Moss is a cancer, a prima-donna, a loser, not a “system guy.” But, secretly, they can visualize it—they can see the wiry arm go up not 1 second after the ball is snapped, the lob tossed, the corner there but not there, the man somehow ending up perfectly under the ball without seeming to expend any energy or make any unnecessary movements. There’s not a shadow of a doubt that he will catch the ball, and it’s the easiest, fastest 6 points you ever saw. Its nearly inconceivable how easy he makes it look. He doesn’t seem to be moving that fast, jumping that high, working that hard, but suddenly it’s a touchdown, or two, or three, and suddenly the rest of the field is wide open for Brady and his backfield to go to work. Secretly, maybe even against their better judgment, Pats fans can see it. Will they?

Suspicions Confirmed

2006-09-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

This isnt the first time I've been likened to an Ent.

Via The Republic of Sarah...

To which race of Middle Earth do you belong?

Entish
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Name my Band!

2006-09-28T11:07:00.000-07:00

Following the enormous, runaway success of this winter's "Kevin Garnett Joke Contest," I'd like to again capitalize on the incredible wit of my readers via yet another ridiculous contest.

Recently, I auditioned for a vacant slot in the band formerly known as the Less Lonesome. Astonishingly, I got the gig, and, with the addition of a second new guy, the group is reborn. In its former incarnation, the band played music which I can only describe as aquatic carny-pop, with lots of bizarre, boozy lyrical imagery, frequent rhythm changes, and baritone vocals that alternated between charmingly sensitive and downright menacing, sometimes within the same song.

Of course, breath of bluesy, Stonesy fresh air that I am, the band has taken a new musical tack. The same quirky, fucked-up-funhouse sensibilities remain in place, but two Les Pauls imbue it all with growly barroom rawk. We need a new name that captures this sensibility.
Its been a few weeks, and various Mark Twain-ey literary references have been bandied about, but nothing has stuck (besides, I don't like bands that take their names from books). As we get ready to take our act out, this is becoming a liability.

Friends, jump in. Seriously. Seize your chance to name a band that appears destined to record at least one full-length Disc on Mac Garageband, and accumulate a minimum of 100 "friends" on MySpace. Since I know not all of you are musicians, just take it from me that its not exactly easy to compile friends on MySpace, so that's a pretty ambitious number. What's more, We'll even put the winner on our "Top 8" and put them on "the list" at shows! Huzzah!

Brief Sabbatical: Over

2006-09-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

I'm back. Sorry. Lookout for a flurry of hilarious, hard-hitting, sometimes interactive bloggings. Coming your way momentarily.

The Path to Justice, Chapter 1: Almoorica Finds an Ally

2006-09-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Following a somewhat comical moving mishap, I find myself in the throes of small-claims litigation with the city of Cambridge. I invite my readers along for the ride. It will almost certainly be a long one.

The episode in question is chronicled in the letter below, written to City Clerk Margaret Drury (L), with whom I enjoyed a nice phone conversation earlier today. As you can tell from the photo, she seems to be a lovely woman. She also appears to have appreciated my letter, as she remarked "if it were up to me, I'd see to it you got the full refund based on the qulity of the letter alone. "

Ms. Drury later directed me to three people "in the law office upstairs," where, undoubtely, this letter is sitting at the bottom of a huge stack of similar sob-stories.

Margaret Drury
City Clerk
Cambridge City Council
795 Massachusetts AveCambridge, MA 02139
9/2/2006

Dear Margaret,

As I was moving furniture to a new apartment during the early afternoon of August 30th, sanitation workers in the area mistook two pieces of furniture I’d placed outside my UHaul van for trash and crushed them in their truck while I was moving other items inside. While the mistake was somewhat understandable, given the high volume of discarded furniture on the sidewalk, my furniture was placed directly in front of my van and was not mixed in with the refuse. I had left the pieces unattended for no more than 5 minutes while moving other belongings into my apartment.

Kindly, the driver of the garbage truck circled back a few minutes later, approached me, and inquired as to whether he’d made an unfortunate, disastrous mistake. When I explained what had happened, he apologized, admitted fault, and directed us to speak to one John McGrath at the Cambridge Dept. of Public Works to secure a refund.

I stepped immediately to the Department and was greeted by Annette Rodibaugh, who radioed the driver of the truck. Annette politely explained that these types of mistakes happen occasionally, and advised me to write you with an exact description of the incident. Specific details follow:

The calamity occurred at approximately 1 PM outside my home on Windsor Street. I placed my belongings directly outside my truck with the door open, and was making several trips back and forth. By sheer coincidence the garbage truck rolled through while I was inside for a few moments. The collector took a sturdy wooden dresser and a green loveseat, and I returned outside just as they were being compacted and the truck was rolling down the street. About 15 minutes later, the driver circled back, called to me, and explained that he had made a mistake.

The dresser was several years old, but was an elegant and strong piece. I value it at $350. The loveseat I picked up secondhand from Putnam Furniture in Central Square as part of a set that cost $500. I would sell it for $100. Unfortunately, I did not catch the name of the sanitation worker, although he may remember the incident as Annette radioed him to confirm the details. There was no way the items were salvageable, although he may remember them.

Annette assured me that you could assist me in securing a refund for these pieces. I hope to resolve this unfortunate incident quickly, and thank you in advance for your assistance. Please feel free to contact me at any time.

Regards,

Alex Moore

The final resting place of my fine old dresser and beloved green love-seat.

Brad Childress: Baldest man in the NFL

2006-09-08T07:09:00.000-07:00

The NFL preseason is a time of rampant, baseless speculation, but one thing is certain: Brad Childress, the new Head Coach of my beloved Vikings, is the NFL's baldest man. I discovered this while viewing an outdoor press conference. Duped by his youthful and robust Tom Selleck mustache, which implies a corresponding a full head of hair, I was momentarily blinded and astonished when Childress removed his coachin' hat, aging approximately 25 years and revealing a remarkably shiny, highly reflective brainpan.

Childress' healthy mustache and coaching domepiece (L) belie a scalp that is as alarmingly bereft of hair as any in the NFL (R).

Signs o' The Times: Almoorica surveys the best and worst inventions of the recent past

2006-09-07T11:24:00.000-07:00

We all know how it’s going these days. Bleak. Global tailspin. Fractured, divided cultural landscape. Appalling, embarrassing, tired and predictable entertainment. Looming, seemingly inevitable environmental apocalypse. Staggering hubris, obvious corruption, and inexcusable shortsightedness in Washington. Consumerism run-amok. Nickelback.

Even our usual response to all this, making fun of everything, is getting exhausting.

But its not ALL bad. In fact, we’ve produced some genuinely amazing things in the last several years. So I’d like to take a few moments to profile a few of the revolutionary consumer goods that have changed life dramatically for the better in the past few years. Since I tend to run a few years behind the times when it comes to gadgetry, none of these are exactly new news, but all of them deserve a little recognition.

Hard to say where this gent gets off on the information superhighway, but the sheer fact that he could be learning basically anything from his perch in the wood-chips is genuinely astonishing.

#1) Wireless Internet. The greatest invention of all time? As a wi-fi rookie, I’m blinded by pure exuberance, but, cliché as it is, the internet changed everything, and now its available everywhere. Pay your bills, buy your gear, make your plans, apply for your dream job, check out any band ever, watch any video ever, and learn about The Ultimate Warrior on Wikipedia (a great entry), from wherever you want.

Even the haters cant REALLY hate this amazing gizmo

#2) Ipod. Another cliché, but come on, how can you not rank this as one of the defining inventions of our age? Audiophiles can bitch about diminished sound quality until they’re blue in the face. It’s every record you own, every record you are thinking of owning, and all your guilty pleasures, friend’s bands, and comedy and video clips packaged in a post-it-note pack. End of argument. The malcontents griping about how cell phones and iPods reduce human interaction and everyday kindnesses and courtesies in public? These people obviously haven’t ridden the bus lately. I’m sorry to report that day-to-day civility eroded from urban life long before the ipod appeared. I’ll take a soundtrack of my favorite music over the noise-polluted minutia of urban life every day of the week. And if an old lady needs help across the street, I’ll turn it down and help her out. Everybody wins!

Breeze right along, fella!

#3) EZ Pass. How about EZ Pass!? Doesn’t it feel great to roll right on through tolls? Never gets old.

More user-friendly and stylish than clunky imitators, TiVo launched a revolution. A must for sportsfans.

#4) TiVo. Sure, it can all go awry. You can end up with 40 hours of “A Different World,” on your hands and an old ballgame you were saving to watch only to end up knowing the outcome because you inadvertently glimpsed the score on one of those totally unnecessary LCD taxicab ads, but its ok cause TiVo probably cut the end of the game off anyway. But once you learn the ropes of this amazing invention, you end up watching less TV because you see only the good shows, all the while cathartically skipping through all commercials (another simple pleasure that never gets old).

Great concept, poor hardware. Satellite Radio.

#5). Satellite Radio. I don’t even have it yet, and I’ve heard sad stories about crappy hardware, poor sound quality, and other standard pitfalls of new technologies, but it makes the list by virtue of the simple fact that it’s an alternative to regular radio.

Then again, for every brilliant invention, there’s a “truck ballsack” waiting in the wings. A look at some of the lesser lights of invention from the past several years:

41 and 43, tooling around on useless Segues. The 80 year-old George H.W. hung in just fine, while the current President wiped out awkwardly soon after this photo was snapped. Nice shorts by the way.

#1) The Segway. When they first busted out this inane, clumsy-looking eyesore, it was supposed to change urban life, nay, Global Transportation As We Know It!! Now these wastes-of-a-perfectly good-gyroscope aren’t even worthy of a time capsule. They’re an expensive, pretentiously high-tech solution to the problem of getting somewhere two blocks away, at slow speed, without falling down. The time-honored, low tech solution, walking, appears to be working out just fine for most people. Fancy that!

Grow up, jerk.

#2). Razor Scooters. These were enormously popular for about a year despite being comically undersized, hard to ride, and totally impractical. You still see grown men riding these unstable, childish novelties. What’s wrong with these men and who are the women who are attracted to them? What’s wrong guy, couldn’t afford a segway? WALK!

Just what the world needs....another horrible dancer. Worthless robo-bum.

#3) . Asimo. I’m all for robots and droids and all of those great things we imagine as kids, but don’t tell me an overgrown lego-man who can dance the Macarena represents the dawn of a new age. At least the Segway can get me to the Laundromat. Fuck off, Asimo. Id like to kick you right in your little lego-man techno-balls.

Dude, cars suck. Yours especially.

#4). Spinning Rims. Dude, your car is hideous. You spent your hard-earned discretionary income on some bootleg piece of metal that serves no purpose other than being shiny and only draws attention to the fact that the rest of your car is a rusty piece of shit. I love kitchy, gaudy things as much as the next guy, but why not at least be creative? Don’t buy into that corporate, MTV manufactured gangsta bullshit.

Picture of obsolescence. The lowly Yellow Pages.

#5). The Phone Book. Its still coming out. Why? Do we need giant shrinkwrapped bundles of this relic of a reference manual sitting on our sidewalks and in our vestibules for endless months just to remind us that there's an old-fashioned, antiquated way of gathering google-able information?

Thompson Financial B "Wears the Pants" in 2006 Basketball City Summer Leauge

2006-08-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

Readers rejoice! In a championship game that recalled the gritty slug-fests of the NBA's early-90's era, "Thompson Financial B" bested feisty upstarts "Old School" 60-56 to cap a cinderella run in the 2006 B-Ball City Summer League.

"Old School" deployed the same offensive gameplan that had carried it to a massive, convincing upset the week prior: two greasy, rock-like fireplugs clawed, held, kicked-in-the-balls (fact!), and pushed around inside to clear lanes for the squad's swift-footed scoring machine. Naturally, "Thompson Financial B" countered with a winning-formula of our own: devastating outside shooting and tall, tireless rebounders cleaning up the glass. Guess which category I fall into.

Both teams had success, and the game remained close until the end, but our teamwork and balance carried the day and the foul-happy "Old School" strategy backfired. Capitalizing on my matchup against slow, hamfisted lummox, I found myself at the free-throw line on several occasions. Although I shot a terrible percentage in the first half, I came alive at the line in the end, sinking two critical shots to put our squad ahead in the final minute. Visions of wind-panted glory swirling in our collective mind, Thompson battened down. A critical defensive stop, and an enormous, game-winning 3-point bomb followed, sealing the deal, and paving the way for the ceremonial "donning of the shiny windpants."

In a ceremony rivaled only by the fitting of the hideous Masters Jacket (L), Thompson Financial B donned the prestigious Championship Snap-Pants (R)

The Quest to Dunk temporarily gives way to Quest for Tear-Away Pants.

2006-08-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

Slowly, quietly, the quest goes on. Overshadowed for weeks by the malaise of workin’ for the man and movin’ with the woman, my epic journey toward city-league hoops glory (and throwdown city), takes center-stage tonight, as my current squad will go for a city championship title. The spoils: Championship Tear-Away warm-up gear. That’s right. No trophies, no medals, no ceremony. We’re playing for clownish, ridiculous pants, the legs of which are held together by snaps! These are garments that, according to wikipedia (yep, looked it up), are known as "poppy pants" in the UK, and have no discernable use outside of a professional basketball court or a college dorm.

And, frankly, I couldn’t be happier about it! I want those tear-aways. I NEED the tear-aways. I’ll wear the tear-aways to work tomorrow if we win ‘em. I'll even take the ultimate risk and go commando.

That's because the road to these tear-aways has been long and arduous. Entering the campaign as an emergency replacement player, I quickly found a permanent roster-spot for the undermanned, unimaginatively named, yet feisty-as-all-getout “Thompson Financial B” squad, yet I found myself struggling at just the wrong time—late in the season. My game and confidence collapsed. The root of the suckage: undoubtedly my previously blogged-about life-crisis combined with an untimely case of total-body poison ivy. I’ll kindly withhold the details on that condition, but suffice it to say my itchiness and general rustiness nearly led to an epic team collapse against heated rival, the equally poorly-named “Thompson Financial A.”

And yet, thanks to the clock running out on A-Squad before they could complete their comeback, B-squad survived to play Team Old School in tonight’s winner-take-all round. With a long history of second place finishes behind me (ranging from state championships to intramural flag-football), and a second-chance to restore my game, you can bet I'll be leaving it all on the court tonight. I won’t be holding anything back. and I won't be leaving without my pants.

Get a load of these Tear-Away pants. They obviously have no place in an adult's wardrobe, but I'll be laying it all on the line to snag my pair tonight. Such is life on the quest.

Record Report: The Roots-"Game Theory"

2006-08-21T08:17:00.000-07:00

Thump-Thump- PING! The Roots are as vital as ever on "Game Theory," a record that reflects the experience and chemistry of a band at its peak.

For a group possessed of superior talent, lying at the heart of the Philly hip-hop/soul scene, the Roots have always been conspicuously short on hooks. This is understandable to a degree, given the fundamentally non-melodic core of the group—the master of the pocket, Questlove, and the indefatigable MC, Blackthought—and their background as essentially a hip-hop jamband who cut their teeth as (originally) a house-band and (ever since) a tireless touring machine. But still, its notewothy that the group, now nearly 15 years past its first release, has never embraced the type of hooky songcraft that’s made superstars out of contemporaries like OutKast and Jay-Z, the group’s current boss and occasional collaborator.

Instead, whenever their material edged towards conventional pop, as on “You Got Me,” perhaps their signature hit, or the jubilant (yet weirdly vulgar) Cody Chestnutt collab “The Seed,” the group has tended to consciously revert back to their lean, groove-based comfort zone in the aftermath. They transformed “You Got Me,” an infectious radio single, into long, moody, showstopping jams during concerts (as heard on their subsequent live album), and they followed “The Seed” and the eclectic, ambitious record that housed it, “Phrenology,” up with the low-profile, relaxed, generally single-less “The Tipping Point.”

None of this is a criticism so much as it is simply the backdrop over which Roots fans have anticipated their new release “Game Theory.” “The Tipping Point” was soul-drenched, heartfelt, risk-free hip-hop that embodied The Roots’ strength--their ability to set-up a groove pocket and live in it endlessly, Questlove unassumingly laying down the beat and Blackthought finding infinitely clever ways of reiterating his status as, alternately, “legendary” and “hailing from the city of Philadelphia.” You knew they would take it to a new level with “Game Theory,” but, given their history, and their new label, it was hard to predict what that level would be. Would “Game Theory” be an eclectic, ambitious, complex piece like “Phrenology”? Some kind of OutKast-esq concept record? Or something altogether new for the Roots, a single-heavy record built for the chart success that has largely eluded them?

The answer is…none of the above. “Game Theory” doesn’t attempt to tear the roof off the hip-hop genre like “Phrenology” did, and it doesn’t knock down the door to the mainstream with pop-star collaborations or internet and club-conquering singles. Instead, it’s the sound of a group that is quietly peaking, and is comfortable if a lot of people don’t know it. The group turns inward here, with lean orchestration and collaborations almost only with longtime Roots Crew stalwarts like Mos Def, Dice Raw, and Malik B. The result is a record that marries the groove-heavy, essential Roots sound of “The Tipping Point” with the perfectionism and craft of “Phrenology,” all marinated in the grief of personal loss and the general anxiety of our seemingly apocalyptic times. It will thrill the group’s diverse following, keep the critics and music geeks enamored, and add even more breadth to their concert repertoire. But it probably won’t expand their audience.

Structurally, this is The Roots’ finest album. No throwaways here, no superfluous skits or awkward cameos, and for once the obligatory hip-hop album intro serves an actual purpose—bleeding into the bleak opening track, “False Media,” to establish the record’s dark tenor. Here the roots also work their aversion to conventional hooks to their advantage. The band’s characteristic grooves are the perfect template for Blackthought’s heavy-handed subject matter, so when the hooks and fresh voices do hit, as on the razor-sharp “Don’t Feel Right,” they’re electric. And that’s the key the album. Thematically, it’s the Roots’ darkest record, and the group gamely supports their lament musically with rough-edged samples, soulful keyboards and other devices. But, in the end, the basic live orchestration and musical chemistry that is the essence of the Roots is too alive, too unflappable, to cave in under this emotional weight.

That is, until the final track--an 8-minute, wandering ode to the band's close friend and collaborater Jay Dee called “Can’t Stop This.” Without the vital thump-thump-PING of Questlove's breakbeat to leaven it, saturated with voice-mail eulogies, and deliberately uneven, the song closes the album on a somber and shaky note. It’s a personal track that, had it appeared anywhere else on the record, would have taken the wind right out of its sails. But it doesn’t, because by the time “Can’t Stop This” arrives, “Game Theory” has made its point. It’s a rich, well-crafted artistic statement that appropriates the unease of our times without sacrificing the cathartic, bust-you-in-the-grill energy that the best hip-hop delivers.

Al Moore, almoorica bravely confront slippage in life, blog.

2006-08-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

Faithful readers, don’t think I don’t realize I’m slipping. Life-crisis looms. I’m spiritually depleted by my oppressive office workload, and creatively hamstrung by a month crashing on couches. Frequent weekend “getaways” to escape the above have left me sapped of funds and energy. Al Moore is down, almoorica is out. I own this.

So it is time for a change. For Al Moore, a bold new direction, and for almoorica, a new look and schedule. I’ll post every Thursday...the same award-winning* criticism you trust and Al Moore Brand commentary you crave, plus daring, mysterious new subject matter. All delivered to you consistently for your non-pornographic internet-surfing edification. And all amidst the bold change and creative rejuvenation that I’ve resolved to initiate during my upcoming 26th year. Fuck, am I old now, or still young? Opinions vary, but maybe the answer is too old to be apathetic, too young to be old.

*bald-faced lie

Yacht Rock Makes Landfall

2006-08-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

The hilarious “Yacht Rock” genre has cast off its mooring in the WASPy, moneyed fringe of the music world, and is drifting into the sea of kitch appeal and quasi-respectability. Thanks in part to the proliferation of the comical web-based show of the same name, the ascention of potential Yacht-Rock stud Taylor Hicks, and the damn-near Hasselhoff-ian ubiquity of Michael McDonald, Yacht Rock’s surprising pop-cultural surge may just net some new young fans for the heretofore painfully uncool, perfectly silly genre.

Essentially Adult-Contemporary, so-called “Blue-Eyed Soul”, and Pop-Rock drenched in booze, Yacht Rock primarily appeals to heavy-drinking, coastal baby-boomers. Although the college kids who set the trends in popular music naturally despise the shit, their parents have the disposable income, and the instinct to buy records rather than download free mp3s, to sustain a solid market for the genre.

Although any good Yacht Rock collection includes Hall & Oates, beachy soul-trio General Johnson, Crystal Gayle, and Christopher Cross, the style’s Mount Rushmore consists of Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Loggins, and the aforementioned former Doobie Brother Michael McDonald. While Buffet embodies the hard-drinkin’, tropical shirted, rich beach bummin’ ethos of the genre, and Loggins is the musical architect (the Loggins name alone connotes terrible music that somehow befits a chardonnay-fueled afternoon harbor jaunt), McDonald’s crossover popularity is really carrying the genre into the new millennium.

Possessed of a paradoxical, exaggerated baritone that my colleague Jon Glassett once deemed both the highest low-voice and lowest high-voice in rock, McDonald sprung to fore of Yacht Rock through a series of backward-looking hit records (“Motown” and “Motown II”) and various ubiquitous ad campaigns featuring the songs. With the retro, kitch appeal of the genre cresting, McDonald is riding a wave of Yacht Rock popularity equaled only by the longstanding juggernaut Buffett.

Glassett accurately noted that "Yacht Rock" crooner Michael McDonald has the highest low voice/lowest high voice in music

When will McDonald and the Yacht Rockers sail back to the fringe? Hard to say. Yes, the music is dull and unhip, but it also has a market, and a one that acquires music in the traditional way (i.e. by buying it) at that. Moreover, in American Idol’s Taylor Hicks, the great Cirle of Yacht-Rock life may have its Simba. While Hicks doesn’t have the makeup of a traditional “pop star,” he does appear to have the look, charm, and watered-down “soulful” vocal style of a great yacht-rocker. Moreover, he comes with a built-in audience of Yacht Rock enthusiasts who caught him while watching American Idol below-deck with their kids. That’s right. Multiple generations of Yacht Rockers. Batten down the hatches.

Taylor Hicks may be destined to lead the Neo-Yacht-Rock movement. Almoorica has mixed feelings.

Another Loathsome Fad Focus: Testicles Hanging from Vehicles

2006-07-19T11:03:00.000-07:00

America..FUCK YEAH!

I don’t think it’s alarmist to argue that the recent outbreak of outlandish plastic testicles hanging from vehicles is the most heinous trend ever to infest our culture. Calvin urinating on a Ford and/or Chevy logo may be asinine, but its somewhat understandable amongst the NASCAR set (they actually care about Fords and Chevys). The hot chick mudflap silhouette? Pitiful, but whatever. But oversize, colorful, dangling scrotums?? Hanging off of everything from trucks to Razor Scooters (fact)?? Has it really come to this? Really?!

Setting aside the abject stupidity of men A) actively trying to never get laid B) wearing deep-seated male insecurity and infantile senses of humor like badges of honor and C) dropping actual money on a pair of fake gonads for their automobiles, car-balls seem potentially dangerous. Sack enemy and all-around reasonable guy Bob Sloper raises the concern of being dangerously distracted by swinging coin-purses, and presents the comical-yet-disastrous scenario of a bag dislodging itself and coming through the windshield at 70 MPH. Meanwhile I lament the awkward consternation these foul things must cause for those attempting to drive with Grandma and/or 8-year-old kids whilst a set of comically oversized, anatomically accurate family jewels dangles in their face off of the car in front of them. Or, worse yet, the sinking feeling brought on by the knowledge that somewhere, someone is probably driving their own kindly old Grandma and/or 8-year-old around in a car outfitted with a big bright red ballsack. Oh the humanity.

Ladies, fight back. First, do not encourage car-balls enthusiasts by having sex with them. I regret that this doesn’t go without saying. Next, hang some grossly oversized labia from your cars/bikes/what have you. Express your womanhood and attract desired attention with a crass depiction of your private area on your favorite vehicle. Now that’s funny.

Fellas, let’s not ruin a good thing. The balls are amusing. So is a lot of ball-related humor. But there’s a time and a place. Tooling around town with fake jinx swinging from your car 24/7 kills the joke. I’m all for crass humor (when its funny), and freedom of expression (funny or not), but come on, some goddam nuts on your car? Do you really want to be That Guy?

Men of America, we can do better.

While realistic-looking cojones on a bike are somewhat comically absurd on first glance, the novelty gives way to scorn within nanoseconds. Meanwhile, adding shiny Blue Balls (!) is essentially the only possible way to make the Razor Scooter LESS cool. Way to go.

America, Almoorica Celebrating Birthdays This Week

2006-07-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

The Almoorica blog is 1 year young today.

On this historic anniversary, I would like to personally thank each and every one of my generous benefactors and corporate sponsors for making the inaugural year of Almoorica such a smash success. I would also like to thank Google, for making Almoorica the #1 link to the search words “Axl Rose Speedo.” Who could have predicted that such a lucrative and influential bastion of journalism could've sprung from from the humble beginnings of a comical profile of forgotten hoopster Jeff Ruland? Wonders never cease.

A year of Almoorica, by the Numbers:

-6086 hits, several from people other than myself!
-20 records and shows reviewed
-14 irksome/awesome clothing fads evaluated
-11 Updates on the Quest to Dunk
-10 Sitcom themes and sports announcers ranked
-9 Men of the Week discussed
-4 Glowing homages to Shaquille O’Neal
-2 Obscure musical instruments showcased
-2 “Forgotten Ballers of Yesteryear” profiled
-2 Bathroom-related terms judged (“Porta-Potty”: out, “David Allen”: in)
-1 Levar Burton birthday celebrated
-1 unintentionally hilarious 800-number exposed

Shaquillle Makes Good, Simmons Makes No Sense, Almoorica Celebrates

2006-06-27T08:15:00.000-07:00

To Shaq, this denim housedress is a "Championship Tank." What's not to love?

Most analysis of the 2006 NBA finals has been downright spurious (to use the dictionary.com “word of the day”). I’m moved to comment. Lost in the drivel is the simple reality that the Heat discovered in game 3 that they could win by outmuscling the Mavs, and the Mavs never adjusted. Appealing to officials is fool’s gold, particularly in the NBA finals, which are historically extremely physical affairs. Likewise, citing the free-throw disparity between the two teams as evidence of official bias or an NBA conspiracy is equally foolhardy, considering the Mavs frequently deployed the “Hack-a-Shaq” strategy in order to put the poor-shooting Heat on the line.

The crux of the series: the Heat wanted the title more, figured out a way to win, and the Mavs didn’t counterpunch. What’s more, Miami never panicked despite losing decisively in games 1 and 2. Avery Johnson is a likable coach, but he was outdueled by the Machiavellian Riley, who managed his stars brilliantly—right down to the “mystery bowl” and the “I only packed one suit” motivational tactics.

Angry perhaps that the Finals didn’t go the way he’d predicted, Bill Simmons strangely used his post-finals column to attack Shaquille O’Neal and insinuate that The Big Aristotle is unprepared to face the end of his career gracefully. Simmons' posits that the Finals most “enduring moment” (authenticated by careful analysis of multiple TiVo replays) was Shaq grabbing the Finals MVP trophy awkwardly to “make sure HE handed it to Wade.” Shiver Me Timbers! An awkard trophy handoff in the throes of a euphoric celebration! Laying aside the obvious possibility that Simmons’ amateur behavioral analysis is simply flat-out wrong, and that maybe Shaq wanted to personally hand the trophy to Wade, its positively baffling that The Sports Guy would consider a moment that took place on the championship podium to be the defining image of a series. Seriously, how insane is the sports media going to get? Now we have high-profile columnists ignoring actual games in favor of dissecting tapes of celebrations looking for moments of “symbolic” body language that they find suspect. Weak.

Fact is, Shaquille must be credited for being essential to the Heat's championship season, adjusting his game to suit a declining body and adopting a new role to make good on his guarantee of bringing a title to Miami. Simmons’ flimsy argument that Shaq hasn’t aged with class is refuted by the simple facts that Shaq A) won it all again, and B) deferred gracefully to an offense that revolved around another player. It seemed like all Shaq did was pass in the Finals, not because he had to, but because it was the game-plan. And it worked.

Shaq now becomes a 4-time champion, has won titles in both conferences, and has been the NBA’s best center through two distinct NBA eras, in which the game has been both played and officiated differently. Many analysts have equated his decreased statistical output with reduced impact in the playoffs. In fairness, however, the Heat’s system was based largely on the open shots created by defenses collapsing on the Big Man. Besides, despite struggling in game 6, and in the finals generally, Shaq was huge throughout these playoffs, overpowering Detroit and tormenting New Jersey. Once again, Shaq's epic free-throw woes didn't cost his team their title hopes. In the end, the Big Aristotle got the last laugh.

Almoorica critics malign my Shaq-o-philia, but naturally I feel it’s justified. The haters may not be aware that I noted that this would probably be Shaq’s last, best chance to win, and aligned myself with the Heat 2006 believers prior to the start of the 2005-06 season. As a long-suffering Knicks and Vikings fan, it’s been nice to have a team I rooted for actually win something. Moreover, I’ve long maintained that Shaq lovers and detractors alike will miss him when he is gone. The Diesel is a true original—an affable jokester off the court, a punishing, ferocious beast on it, and a physical marvel the likes of which we've never seen. Now that the end of his career in sight, I feel it’s fair, even necessary, to relish what’s most likely the last championship run of a bona-fide legend.

Record Report: The Raconteurs "Broken Boy Soldiers"

2006-06-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

This short gem is what power-pop, a genre that sadly connotes “disposability” and “crap” because of the Click Five and their ilk, can be. In the right hands, a polished production aesthetic combined with sharp vocal hooks, jangly guitars, and concise, time-honored song-structures, is an irresistible combination. That’s what we get here. The band is slick and the ease with which they play together suggests spot-on chemistry. It doesn’t hurt that Jack White can write a hit in his sleep and is a natural rock-star.

While all involved insist that the group is very much a collaborative effort—something of an alternative supergroup—White’s imprint is really all over the record, simply because his voice is such a driving force and the vocal arrangements and melodies are what ultimately carry the songs. The Raconteurs sound feels like a logical, comfortable extension of his White Stripes identity, and the record has the feel of a casual side-project that really clicked rather than, say, a self-conscious effort to break from the past and start anew as is sometimes the case with “supergroups.”

The result is a great career move for White. The Stripes neatly slipped out of the spotlight with their ominous, shaky “Get Behind Me Satan” record, but they left the door open for a return. Meanwhile, White’s simply too valuable a commodity, and too loose a musical cannon, to stick with a deliberately limited, two-piece group. So a side-project with the potential to grow into a primary group suits him. And as side-projects go, the Raconteurs are terrific, crafting a sound that, while recalling the past (as all good rock does of course), is perfectly of its time.

All of this suggests an instantly appealing record, which this is. Plus, it ends right when it should…which is to say before you know it. The texture, arrangements, and chord progressions make for well-crafted pop, but, as noted earlier, its the vocals—be it White’s terrific descending lead vocal line over a syncopated guitar progression on “Steady as She Goes” or the gorgeous, liquid background harmonies on “Call it a Day”—that keep you spinning the album. It has the feel of one of those time-capsule CDs you play and enjoy constantly for a few weeks—in your car, on your ipod—as it becomes the soundtrack of a season of your life. You’ll put it away for a long time and rediscover it long down the road. You’ll enjoy it again, but for different reasons.

almoorica toss-up: whose lip abnormality is more distracting: D-Wade or A-Rod?

2006-06-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

Rodriguez' purple lips have been well-chronicled, but what about Wade's crimson spot? Is that anomoly not equally noteworthy?

Actual thoughts on the NBA finals thus far are posted below. Meantime, I'm having difficulty deciding which elite athlete has the weirder lips: A-rod or D-Wade. Rodriguez, the unfairly maligned Yankees star, posesses chameleonic lips that frequently turn a bright and puzzling shade of lavender, particuarly when he is up to bat in pressure circumstances. Meanwhile, Heat superstar Dwyane Wade has a distracting crimson dot in the middle of his otherwise dark upper lip. Rodriguez' lips get all the press, but Wade's funny red spot is, in many ways, just as intriguing.

The Quest to Dunk: Finals Free-for-All

2006-06-16T07:17:00.000-07:00

Notes from the Finals:

Obviously, I'm an unabashed Shaq-o-Phile. The reason why: Shaq is the best Center I have ever seen. According to none other than Bill Russell, he is the best center of All Time.

Indeed, although Dwyane Wade's unconscious play in the last two games keyed the Heat's enormously entertaining comeback in the NBA Finals, the reemergence of the Big Unstoppable must also be noted. Though his scoring average is down, Shaq's all-around game has been something to behold in the last two games (and throughout these playoffs).

Specifically, O'Neal has been passing brilliantly, finding cutters and threading the needle with aplomb and style. Veteran savvy has also allowed him to adjust his game to avoid toxic foul-trouble and maintain discipline through bad stretches. Shaq bounced back from being literally stepped-on en-route to being dunked on by Jason Terry, and calmly drained two important free-throws after being decked by Jerry Stackhouse (more on this later). Finally, Shaq has played excellent Defense lately...you'll notice he never leaves his feet on pump-fakes when challenged around the basket, allowing him to intimidate shots without fouling and to remain in the play for rebounds and to defense interior passes. He has also effectively thwarted Dallas' pick-n-roll attampts with timely step-outs and fast recoveries. Finally, O'Neal may have lost some of his former agility, but his hands remain deceptively fast around the basket. If he has the right position, he can still convert a pass into a dunk faster than any big man I have ever seen.

Wade has willed the Heat back into the series. Shaq's may not score at will as he once did, but his all-around game and veteran savvy makes him as valuable as ever.

Meanwhile...

After ranting to anyone who'd listen about Dwayne Wade's relative invisibility in Dallas, he of the mantyhose and red-spotted upper-lip has been nothing short of Jordanesque in the last two games. If the Heat can pull off the upset and win this series, he will be the unanimous MVP.
Mark Cuban's multi-year quest to improve the officiating in the NBA is valid. Home-court advantage shouldn't be reinforced by the referees, but it is. Dirk gets sensational treatment by the Refs in Dallas, while in Miami he couldn't buy a break. Meanwhile, the vicious cycle of "make-up calls" just slows the game down. 3-second violations and travelling, the cheif manifestations of the "make-up" call phenomenon, both should be addressed by officials in the offseason. The league needs to find a way to call these infractions consistently.
Jerry Stackhouse's flagrant foul of Shaquille was a great, classic, stunning "finals moment." Flailing around as he tried to untangle himself from the cameramen, stunned and glassy-eyed, Shaq looked like a heavyweight who'd been caught offguard for the first time. Jason Williams never should've given Shaq the ball and put him in that position, but Stackhouse was right to foul the big man hard. Significant that Shaq made both free-throws in the aftermath.
Unless he manages to hit a game-winning shot, Keith Van Horn figures to edge out Gary Payton for Highest-Profile/Least Effective player honors.
Despite the huge game 4 win, this remains Dallas' series to lose. Dirk is too good a shooter to have another poor game, and all the Mavericks players can score. That said, Miami seems to be discovering that they can outmuscle the Mavs, and, despite the revival of the old-fashioned, run-n-gun style exhibited in these playoffs, the most physical team still stands the best chance of being the last team standing.

Game 5 will in all likelihood be the pivotal game in this series.

Mark Cuban considered trading Dirk for Shaq in one of the finals most intriguing unexplored subplots. He has rewarded the team with tremendous growth as a player and leader. An elite and likable baller, he should reemerge as a force in this series.

Les Paul, rock n' roll royalty, Turns 91

2006-06-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

As a music lover, I'd be profoundly remiss not to acknowledge Les Paul, who turned 91 years old over the weekend. The granddaddy of all electric music and a towering figure across virtually all American popular music genres, Paul has been performing country and jazz music professionally for over 75 years (!). Well known as the creator of one of the first solid-body electric guitars, Paul also pioneered the multi-track recording techniques through which virtually all popular music was laid down. All the while, Paul was making his own legendary records, and he became influential across genres either as a vocalist, guitarist, recording influence, or some combination of the above. His signature Gibson model remains one of rock n’ roll’s most enduring symbols.

The architect of multi-track recording, an inventor of the modern solid-body electric guitar, and an enormously respected player, Les Paul is among the most influential figure in American Pop Music history.

Shaq, Heat Embarrass Themselves, Me

2006-06-12T10:08:00.000-07:00

"The Big Anxious"? Shaq's historic free-throw struggles could sink the Heat, because of the toxic effect they are having on his "Big Unstoppable" Mindset.

Despite the Heat's miserable showing in the Finals thus far, I stand by my contention that to declare Shaquille O'Neal's reign of dominance over-with-a-capital-O is foolish. Shaq remains the best center in the league and his lower scoring output is more a function of deference to teammates than inability to produce points--as his 60% shooting percentage, bevy of polished post-moves, limited turnovers, and smart passing illustrates.

That said, his historically terrible free throw shooting in this series is beyond pitiful--its toxic. I really think Shaq's struggles at the line have sapped him of confidence and, with it, the will to dominate. Shaq actually seems AFRAID of the free-throw stripe in this series, and that jeopardizes his entire game--which is built on intimidation and force. He's more inclined to pass out of double teams than to plow right through them, seemingly out of fear of The Line. Such an attitude will surely sink the Heat if it continues.

In the end, this entirely mental hindrance may, surprisingly, prove the crux of the "Shaq debate." Doubters suggest Shaq is no longer "dominant", but this is bogus. Defensive gameplans still key on him, and he still possesses more than the requisite sense and skill to carry a championship team. Meanwhile, I've optimistically maintained that he is still plenty beastly to win another title, but a 5 point performance and an 0-2 series hole doesn't exactly float that argument either.

No, as capable as he still is, and as "smart" as his play has been in these playoffs, the signature "Big Unstoppable" fearlessness looks like its being encroached on by anxiety, beginning with his free-throw ineptitude and culminating with his understanding that this may be his last, best chance to win. In other words, in these finals at least, it could be that The Mental Game betrays Shaq before the power game does.

Of course, its only been 2 games...and the last laugh is still very much up for grabs.

Shaq Lifts Heat to Finals; Bill Simmons Embarassingly Offbase

2006-06-05T12:43:00.000-07:00

As this photo suggests, Ben Wallace's spectacular block was just one teriffic play in a matchup otherwise dominated by O'Neal

I enjoy Bill Simmons because he is an unabashed NBA fan and, unlike most in the shameful Sports Media, he actually watches the games. But Simmons inexplicably foists the following asinine opinion regarding Shaquille O’Neal in his latest column:

"Question No. 10: When Wallace violently stuffed Shaq's dunk during Game 5, did Shaq's reign as a dominant center officially come to an end?
I say yes…He's still good for a 20-10 every night, but his body has pretty much straightened out -- he can't bend his knees anymore, which kills his explosiveness when he's standing still (especially on putbacks around the basket), and he's starting to get that clumsy, mummy-like feel to his game that always destroys centers in their waning years. "

Shaq is certainly past his prime, and he is not as agile as he once was, but to suggest that his “reign” of dominance has reached an end when he has been completely unsolvable for the opposition in carrying the Heat to the Finals is ludicrous on its face.

Shaq’s reign as a dominant center “officially” over? Hello, Shaq is currently playing his best basketball in years, and his team is “officially” in the NBA finals. The “violent stuff” signifying an end to Shaq’s dominance? More like one good play in an otherwise embarassing series for Wallace, who was annihilated by Shaq during the series. In terms of blocks, Shaq averaged 2.5 per game to Big Ben’s .6. Most importantly, at no point did it appear that Detroit would win the series, and Shaq displayed the full repertoire throughout: power, the jump-hook, the pro-hop into the lane, the passing skills, defensive intimidation, the patented alley-oop, and even the driving layup! That play—when Shaq stepped out on defense, stole a pass and sprinted downcourt, led many sportswriters to laud the return of the “Orlando Shaq.”

Finally, virtually every time Shaq gets a “putback around the basket” opportunity, he dunks the ball and gets fouled. Maybe he’s lost “explosiveness” but that doesn’t seem to impede his ability to dominate the paint. Wallace’s block was his one shining moment in a series in which he was otherwise decimated by O’Neal.

As I’ve said all season, this is a huge year for Shaq. It may be his last chance to win a fourth championship and secure his legacy in the pantheon of greatest players of all time, and he is playing accordingly. The Heat very well may lose in what could be an epic finals series, but it won’t be for lack of a dominant center.

Desmond Dekker, reggae pioneer, dies

2006-06-01T12:55:00.000-07:00

Desmond Dekker, reggae pioneer/natty dresser, is dead at 64

Desmond Dekker’s clear, airy falsetto had an elasticity and vibrance that somehow makes the news of his recent death even more jarring. Voices that youthful and spirited have no business aging, let alone going silent forever. But Dekker, a pivotal figure in the emergence of reggae music, died suddenly of a heart-attack last week at 64, as he prepared for a new tour.

Dekker’s legacy was sealed early, as he was the first Jamaican artist to break through internationally, tapping into a market later cornered by Bob Marley, Dekker’s only real rival for reggae Godfather status. His early recordings remain his best-known, and are marked by the confluence of the singer’s crystalline tenor and a loose, undulating amalgamation of ska and rocksteady.

In the sense that he was a pioneering, distinctive vocalist creating a musical revolution out of two established styles, Dekker is, oddly, analogous to a young Elvis Presley--Presley combining the rockabilly template-- country “hillbilly” orchestration and blues song structures-- with a charismatic, instantly identifiable vocal style. The similarities pretty much end there, but Dekker’s early output is reminiscent of Presley’s legendary Sun sessions in that they are both the sound of musical movements being born.

“Israelites” is Dekker’s best-known, best-loved, and Best song. In many ways the record is responsible for the hugely-significant global breakthrough of reggae music. Though the lyrics are terrific and the rhythm driving and bouyant, “Israelites” is sustained primarily by Dekker’s faleset-tastic vocals. He’s an absolute natural, infusing the song with a cool but sustained energy while still conveying the lament of his impoverished countrymen. The song crystallized the elements that formed the blueprint of a genre, while remaining one of its most enduring and memorable examples.

Your Guide to Spring Driving Tunes

2006-05-23T14:52:00.000-07:00

Commuting sucks, because it makes you feel old and means you have to go from sitting at a desk to sitting behind a steering wheel. But at least it affords you a (barely) changing landscape to take in and a chance to jolt your soul back to life with the right audio at the right volume. In the winter, that's Fela Kuti and other lengthy, relatively static, heavy shit. In the Springtime, especially when the sun emerges after 3 straight weeks of continuous, apocalyptic downpour, that means The Meters and DJ Jazzy Jeff! Huzzah!

My Top 3 Springtime Driving records:

#1) The Meters--the very best of the Meters. In my book, "Best of" collections are basically only acceptible when A) the artist recorded back in the days you could only store 4 minutes of music on a side B) the artist recorded on Motown and was not named Stevie or Marvin C) the artist is a guilty pleasure that never made a quality album or D) the artist could be defined entirely by one defining musical characteristic present in everything they ever laid down. The Meters fall into this last category and that elemental trait is a breezy, heady groove that sounds like it materialized out of your second empty beer can at a hot block party. While a lot of funk sounds like sweaty clubs at 3 AM, the Meters scale things back, take it outside, don a stylin Tee shirt and start the drinking canned beer at about 3 PM, which is pretty much exactly what you want to do when the sun emerges after 3 weeks of rain and 6 months of winter.

#2) Izzy Stradlin "and the Ju-Ju Hounds" I'm not kidding. First up, you can get this record for about 50 cents on ebay (I did). Secondly, its just wall-to-wall kickass roots-rock with no pretense whatsoever. Sure, you can find this type of swaggering guitar boogie in the right bar most night of the week, but if anything that just goes to show how much more vital and authentic the underground scene is, and at least here you can sorta hear the words and your shoes arent sticky. "Shuffle it All" is the soundtrack to your next road-trip.

#3) DJ Jazzy Jeff "The Soul Mixtape"--Again, Im serious. DJ Jazzy Jeff is the type of kitchy pop-cultural touchstone that we all expect to wash-up on reality TV. Guess again! In the years since he was last violently thrown out of Uncle Phil's Bel-Air mansion, good ol' Jazz has quietly solidified his status as one of the music world's true iconic DJs and a cornerstone of the venerable Philly hip-hop/R&B scene. The whole DJ/mixtape thing is all about taste and finding the right pocket and that's exactly what this record puts forth--its a collection of fine underground R&B that runs just the right length, canvasses all the right themes, and represents the genre, and the region, well--which is exactly what DJing is supposed to do.

Your interest now undoubtedly piqued, watch the skies for my more lengthy profile of the stylings of Mr. Jazzy Jeff. coming soon to almoorica or some other venerable bastion of music journalism.

The Quest to Dunk--Travelling: A thing of the past? NBA Playoffs/2006 Streetball Edition.

2006-05-16T12:42:00.000-07:00

The Gladiator "Laser" sporting Reebok Pumps and playing powerball. Like a rapidly melting arctic glacier, a foreboding image of a possibly bleak Future of Basketball.

My recent practice of balling relentlessly in a thus-far futile attempt to return to my Rodmanian streetball form, then going home to watch my slowly declining hero, Shaquille O’Neal, compete in the NBA playoffs, has led to numerous hoops-related observations over the past few weeks. Chief among these: the traveling rule, elemental to the game of bball, is basically becoming obsolete. Its called sporadically and subjectively in the NBA and totally randomly if at all in the streetball game. I’m beginning to wonder if basketball is evolving into a sport not unlike “Powerball” of American Gladiators fame, wherein players just grab the ball and sprint toward the goal.

Inexplicably, you see traveling called most often when a player begins to make a move without beginning his dribble first, or if a big man shuffles his feet. Technically, this is traveling, but it offers the player no advantage. Meanwhile, you never see the call made when a player is finishing their move, when taking 4 steps on the way to the hoop does give them a considerable advantage. Lunacy.

A perfect artistic rendering of my whole argument! The hand motion signifies a travelling violation, while the comically creepy Max Headroom/ Ricky Shroeder hybrid image conveys the call's looming obsolescence.

Now, onto my NBA Playoff Power Rankings. First off, I assert that Shaquille has enough left in the tank to lead the Heat to a championship. Fact. Don't write them off. Now...onto the more reasoned thoughts:

#1) Mavs. Dirk rolled his ankle the other day, but last night he Dirked as well as ever. The Dirk fadeaway is one of pro basketball’s all-time most unstoppable shots. He hits it close to 100 percent of the time and it’s utterly unblockable, particularly since NBA refs won’t let anyone get within 10 feet of Dirk without calling a foul. No one, not even Lebron “5-steps” James, gets more favorable treatment from the officials. After spending years systematically invading and assaulting the psyche of each and every NBA official, its all coming together for the dastardly Mark Cuban. They’re going to beat the Spurs.

#2) Pistons. Ballers, yes, but after coasting through a regular season with no significant injuries or adversities, will they be able to remain focused?

#3) Spurs. So good yet so irksome. Ginobili flops and spazzes, Bruce Bowen hacks and holds with impunity, Nick Van Exel has compressed 20 years of aging into 9 months, Tim Duncan continues to produce charmlessly, and the gargolyes PJ Carlesimo and Popovich lurk along the sidelines. This is the league’s ugliest team, but they clearly remain one of the strongest. Tony Parker has evolved into an outstanding scorer, and they know how to win. I’m loving watching their clash with the Mavs, which is obviously taking an enormous physical toll on both squads. Whoever wins the series may be too worn down to win it all, possibly paving the way for…………

#4) ….the Miami Heat. OK, they have chemistry issues, Shaq’s foul trouble, Wade suddenly not seeming so indestructible, and the pesky Antoine Walker. But they also have outstanding coaching and bench depth, Shaquille, and a relatively clear path to the conference finals. Its fun to watch this squad. Question: has anyone in league history finished more alley-oops than Shaq? Answer: No. No one has ever finished more alley-oops than Shaq.

#5) Clippers. I love Sam Cassell. Such a warrior. Such a cerebral player. Plus, after big shots, he runs back downcourt while swinging his arms between his legs as if pretending to carry his proverbial “huge balls” with that enormous, alien smile of his. Its one of those gestures that’s so tasteless, so patently obscene, that it transcends lewdness and crosses over the realm of hilarious performance art. Also, no player’s stock has risen in these playoffs more than Elton Brand’s. The gentlemanly beast is as fundamentally sound and consistently productive as Duncan, yet more likable and rugged. He has shed the “Duke Curse” and mastered the pro game.

#6) Suns. Nash is the league MVP because he plays the kind of old-timey game that “disillusioned former fans” love. That is to say he makes impossible shots routinely, shoots a high-percentage, plays no defense, never stops running, never picks up his dribble, and passes brilliantly. I love him. But the Suns have no one else. Tim Thomas has had a nice playoffs so far, but he’s starting to be exposed as the soft player that’s made him an average journeyman. Shawn Marion desperately wants recognition as an elite baller, but he goes cold for long stretches, doesn’t assert himself defensively, and often takes horrible, ugly shots with that heinous release of his. He’s shot more embarrassing air-balls than anyone player in these playoffs. Soaring, long-range air-balls.

#7) Cavs. The freakishly strong, seemingly indestructible Lebron James has singlehandedly extended his series against the mighty Pistons to 6 games, which is an amazing accomplishment. He appears destined for greatness, and if greatness can be defined as “changing the game,” then he supports my theory that traveling is being abolished. The league has apparently issued a special exemption for him with regards to the traveling violation. His blatant 4-step walk/heroic game-winner against the Wizards was routine for him, as is his constant palming of the ball. To paraphrase Charlie Murphy: He’s a habitual traveler. He habitually carries the ball.

#8) Nets. Kidd is awesome. Carter is good. Jefferson is ok. The least interesting team in the playoffs this year.

While I'm on the subject-- the Marv Albert/Steve Kerr play-by-play team must be credited as the optimal sports broadcasting duo. I love that back-biting bastard and his quirky, acerbic sense of humor. I love that he CONTINUES to make fun of Mike “The Czar of the Telestrator” Fratello at every available opportunity nearly 2 years after the Czar called his last game, and that he mocked Kerr all season for his “still unsponsored” Steve Wonders segment. Hilarious, hilarious guy.

And finally, no discussion of a new season of hoops would be complete without a sneaker mention. In continuing my effort to bring high, loud hightops back to the forefront of hoops style, I've taken to the Adidas Instinct, which, I assure you, are even louder and fresher in real life than they are here:

Fresh....for '06.....you SUCKAS!

Music on TV: The Final Four.

2006-05-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

It was only a matter of time. I have TiVo and I like music. So I’ve been tuning in, temporarily shelving my distaste for fabricated pop stars, homogenized mainstream entertainment, and the dinosauric recording industry. Apparently, the Sunday NY Times has the fever too. They’ve run 3 giant features on the show’s mammoth success in last month alone.

I don’t blame them. Dubious as it is, Idol is thoroughly entertaining, not to mention astonishingly successful, and the contestants (in the later weeks at least) are strong, talented vocalists with real desire. The show is like the calm before the storm of commoditization.

That storm is only a few weeks away as only 4 ballers remain. Here’s how I see this final four playing out.

Katherine McPhee:
It doesnt seem that impressive now that she appears destined to go the distance, but I pegged the telegenic Mcphee to win this a long time ago. She's not much of a mover, but she sings with clarity and polish and she's a knockout onstage. Reproductive pheromones cascade off her like dirt falls off PigPen. Although this week's performance--delivered from her knees--was a tad overboard in its sexual suggestiveness, she seems to have won over the female audience with her general affability and beautiful singing voice.

Its all but in the bag for McPhee

Chris Daughtry:
The male favorite since the beginning, despite wretched taste. The nauseating Scott Stapp-meets-Ed Kowalchek style could be his downfall, should be his downfall, but won't be his downfall. I think he'll glide into the final, because what he lacks in originality he makes up for with a strong, assured presence on the stage. Plus he always seems to get a free pass from the judges, particularly the cringe-inducing Paula Abdul. They see a marketable performer. I just see a derivative hack that won’t, or shouldn't, dethrone McPhee.

Elliot Yamin:
He wants to win so badly its both endearing and irksome. He has a well-trained and developed voice and he is consistently the most prepared and poised contestant. When they had the "family background" montage a few weeks ago, his little segment got me and I root for him, as does everyone. Unfortunately, his meticulousness in some ways belies the fact that he's not a natural. The look counts, and he doesn’t have it.

Taylor Hicks:
My early favorite on account of his rootsy sensibilities and unorthodox approach. Out of all the performers, he displayed the most unbridled enthusiasm (love that seinfeldian phrase), and he has pretty much coasted along the whole way with his Joe Cocker/lounge act schtick. He’s never the best, but he’s never the worst. Still, because of this, it seems he hasn’t really earned his spot in the final 4, and I can’t remember a genuinely engaging, stirring performance from him since the early weeks. Plus I sense that there's something going on with him beneath the surface which is offputting. Some kind of suspended adolescence or some other pathology. Who knows. He’s good enough to survive another week, which is a nice accomplishment for my man Taylor.

Paris Bennett:
The vocal prodigy performed the gnarliest 1-2 punch that I have ever seen on the show-- Prince's classic "Kiss" and the new Mary J Blige tune “Be Without You”-- and she got voted off anyway. Horseshit. As everyone could tell instantly, she can outsing anyone on this show, and would give today’s established singers, including Mary J., a run for their money in terms of pure ability. But despite her stunning voice, Paris never really endeared herself to the voting Audience. I suspect this can be traced to two factors. Foremost, she’s simply too young to deliver an authentic performance and carry adult songs--she fully looks and acts her age, 16, which limits her impact. Secondly, she's one of those girls who talks in an 8-year-old's voice. I realize she’s only 16, but something about women who talk like little children bothers me, and I don't think I'm the only one.

Music Roundup: Bice Denies Own Bice-Itude, Richards Reconfirms Immortality, Here Comes Rhymin' Simon Again

2006-05-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

My favorite American Idol contestant ever, Bo Bice, has been dead to me for ages, but, alarmingly, he appears to be dead even to himself. Reportedly, an intoxicated Bice-Man slugged a professional football player in the face last week. Onlookers curbed the fracas, but the Bice-trionics stemmed, astonishingly, from the singer claiming to be a man named Kevin when identified by the athlete.

Bo "Bob Ice" Bice has been so thoroughly remade by Clive Davis, he is dead even to himself

Meanwhile, Keith Richards just keeps on surviving. Richards, whos trailblazing expansion of the rhythm guitar vocabulary is overshadowed by his legendary durability in the face of extreme drug-use and hard living, concussed (love that word) himself after falling from a palm tree in Fiji. The mind boggles envisioning this 62-year old, drunk man with essentially no muscle tone shimmying up a tree-trunk and falling headlong out of it. As if that imagery wasn’t enough, reports assert that, following the tumble, the iconic guitarist righted himself, boarded a jet-ski, and crashed it moments later, compounding his injury. Keef, still touring relentlessly with the Stones, endured a hospital stay. He recently rejoined the juggernaut tour, however, defying medical science yet again.

Richards cheated death yet again. Side note: check out this amazing account of the icon crashing an 8-year old's birthday party in the WASPy Connecticut suburb of Weston in which he (inexplicably) resides.

Finally, there’s my man Paul Simon, who’s just come out with a new album. I haven’t heard the record, and know nothing about it, but I anticipate it being a strong effort as it comes in the wake of two major flops for the songwriter—"Songs of the Capeman", which seemed uncharacteristic for Simon (the man shouldn’t be dropping F-bombs), and “You’re the One” which found an introspective Simon talkin' aging (listen closely to the song “I’m Old” and you'll see what I mean).

Separated at Birth? Coach Mike Dunleavy and Animated Tot Stewie Griffin

2006-04-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

TV's Stewie Griffin looks exactly like veteran NBA coach Mike Dunleavy.

Top 3 Hideous Pro-Sports Style Trends of 2006

2006-04-25T11:31:00.000-07:00

No introduction necessary here, just 3 fashion trends Ive found comically heinous in this young year in sports. Here we go:

1) The San Diego Padres Camouflage Uniforms. These things are hilarious. Pants are tan cop slacks straight out of the costume department at “Reno 911.” Shirts might work for you if you happen to be Cindy Sheehan trying to evade arrest at George W. Bush’s Crawford, TX dustbowl. If you’re a professional ballplayer, on the other hand, you just look like a buffoon.

Mike "(insert joke here)" Piazza. Wish I could find a shot with the pants that don't even match, which makes this look even more ridiculous, but I'm not going to mine google images just to wound my eyes with the worst uniform concept since the clown gang in "The Warriors."

2) “Underarmor.” I’m wondering if the underarmor look, popularized by legendary narcissists like Terrell Owens and their jackass enablers in the media who photograph them doing situps, is here to stay. I think it is. So, let’s call a spade a spade. Unquestionably, this is the most homoerotic line of athletic gear of all-time, yet it’s marketed (even to golfers) as some type of rugged, exceedingly manly, modern-day chainmail. Hello, we’re talking about skin-tight underwear with a metallic sheen. Sometimes it even takes the form of a tank-top with a turtleneck, a look you might see Bruno from the “Ali G show” rocking. I understand that spandex has been around for a long time, but now that athletes are enveloping their entire bodies in it and companies are foisting it on us as some type of gladiator fashion-statement, I think we can afford to scale it back....

One look and you can tell He Means Business in his shiny spandex bodysuit.

….which brings me to 3) Mantyhose. It seems the legacy of Kobe’s surreal 82-point game manifested itself solely in the form of these clownish stockings. Before the 82 point barrage, only Kobe was rocking these stupid things, seemingly in yet another embarrassing and transparent attempt to affect some type of urban credibility. After the historic (yet seemingly forgotten) scoring performance, everyone from Jason Williams to Chris Webber tested out the laughable leggings, which have been outlawed effective next year. Coincidence? Possibly. Destined to be scoffed at a la the short-shorts with long spandex underneath (often with team name written on the spandex) look of the early 90s? Definitely.

The 2006 Mantyhose Photo Gallery.

Men of the Week: The Dirty Projectors Glass and Longstreth

2006-04-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

The Dirty Projector Chief Dave Longstreth in his Don Henley garb

My former Andover acquaintance Dave Longstreth is a burgeoning underground musical force. He’s teamed up with my longtime Andover cohort, the all-world drummist Bil Glass, for a tour in support of Longstreth’s latest release under the Dirty Projectors name, the EP “New Attitude.” Though critics generally love this band, reviews are often slippery and sometimes flat-out perplexing (experimental criticism often accompanies experimental groups). In an effort to avert the hipster histrionics that accompany most reviews of the band, and to score a possible feature for the Advocate (update: my article was rejected on dubious grounds), I tracked Bil down last week.

Longstreth is the Dirty Projectors. He’s prolific as hell and posessed of elastic vocal chords and eclectic compositional tastes spanning electro/experimental pop to neo-chamber music. It’s atypical rock n’ roll, although Longstreth is no stranger to the standard trappings of indie-rock-- the 4-track recorder and the simple electric guitar figure--either. In their current incarnation, The Dirty Projectors are a 5-piece touring band plus a filmmaker/merch salesman/utility player. They’re performing constantly these days, and they return to their east coast roots this week.

Longstreth has been affectionately labeled many cryptic, peculiar, and/or totally incorrect things in print--a “nobrow genius,” an “autodidactic minstrel,” a “world-weary youngster”--but his most pronounced gift may be his innate sense of arrangement: of his music foremost, but also of the artwork that frames it, and of the overall composition of his band. It’s what allows him to translate an orchestral, operatic suite like 2005’s “The Getty Address” into the touring band context, and to assemble musicians that can pull it off.

In fact, for all their experimental and progressive leanings, it’s this instinctive sense of arrangement and balance that also ultimately keeps the Dirty Projectors accessible. Longstreth’s compositions are clever, ambitious, and offbeat, but they’re also pop music. You don’t have to be a scholar or even a particularly discerning listener to dig it. There’s something for virtually everyone in this mix.

Still, approachable as it is, much of this music is complex. Dave majored in composition before leaving Yale to Dirtily Project full-time—hence the choral groups and chamber orchestras he’s beautifully incorporated into his recordings. He also has a wild singing voice that he likes to put to the test via outrageous melisma and bellows that leap all over the scale.

So what can be expected of this ever-evolving group when they return to their New Haven roots? According the Glass, “Different people will get different things out of it.” One of life’s great truisms, that, but particularly accurate in the case of team Longstreth, who have been likened to everything from Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band to Sufjan Stevens to, yes, “a drag Nina Simone.” One thing audiences will get for sure is a screening of James Sumner’s animated film based on the de-facto libretto of “The Getty Address” and, when it comes time to rock, a performance heavy on guitar and vocal interplay accompanied by postmodern electronic embellishments.

It’s an oversimplification, but the conventional wisdom with Longstreth & co. is to expect the unexpected, both in terms of the show and their audiences. Glass relayed a story of a gig in New Orleans where the group, coming off a packed-house show at the venerable SXSW festival, played to an audience of exactly one older gentleman. Following the show, the gent excitedly told him: “Dude, you took me on a journey to Asia, Africa, the Deep South, and back to Africa!” New Haven didn’t make the destination list, but you get the idea.

Rapper Killed

2006-04-11T11:48:00.000-07:00

Eerily, the rapper Proof, who I referenced in my last posting, was killed on Tuesday in yet another utterly senseless shooting. Its the latest in a long list of murders in the hip-hop community in which no one seems to have seen anything despite the crime occuring in public and with bystanders in the vicinity:

*Tupac Shakur: shot in a car driven by Suge Knight leaving a giant Mike Tyson fight in Vegas.
*Notorious B.I.G.: shot in a car leaving crowded Vibe Music Awards party
*Big L: shot 9 times in front of his home in Harlem
*longtime bodyguard of Busta Rhymes fatally shot at a video shoot earlier this year. Multiple hip-hop stars, includng Missy Elliott, Mary J Blige, and 50 cent were inside at the shoot. An estimated 500 onlookers waited outside, where the crime took place.

Music Focus: "Real Gs," real problems, and why no one really cares

2006-04-06T07:29:00.000-07:00

Marion Knight has filed for bankruptcy in a last-ditch effort to salvage his crumbling Death Row/Tha Row gangsta-rap label. He of the Shel Silverstein ‘do and Nicky Santoro moral compass stands unable to produce the $107 million he owes Lydia Harris, the wife of his former business partner. Moreover, said business partner is serving an incredibly long prison sentence, preventing the Sugar Bear from resorting to his customary plan B— namely, dangling associates over balconies and making them drink urine. While Knight’s previous incarcerations, and the departure of Dr. Dre, the label’s central creative force, essentially sealed Death Row’s fate long ago, the bankruptcy news represents a symbolic nail in the coffin of one of the most bananas music empires of my lifetime.

Meanwhile, here on the East Coast today’s news isn’t much better for the Gangsta Rap community: the underachieving (read: undertalented), one-time Bad Boy headliner Black Rob is on his way to the clink to serve 7 years for ganking a woman’s purse in a hotel. He could’ve easily escaped with a lesser sentence, but he inexplicably decided to become a fugitive, thus upping the penalty upon his inevitable capture. Considering no one in the world even knew he even delivered a second album, this likely means that Mr. Rob, who Puff Daddy once positioned as “the next Biggie Smalls” will go down as a mere one-hit-wonder (and not a very good one at that…who would want to be remembered for the catchphrase “Like Whoa!”?).

Do these tidbits mean anything at all? Well, not really. Frankly, I’m feeling sleepy writing about them, not shocked or engaged. But the apathy itself is telling. Commercially, the gangsta blueprint remains potent—Dr. Dre continues to get mileage out of his signature spare, blunted beats, and his chart-topping disciples (eminem, Snoop) have spawned successful protegees of their own (50 Cent, Proof). But the cultural impact of the genre, based on the notion that these performers actually are dangerous gangsters, the perception on which the Death Row empire was built, has dissipated as the G image has plunged into caricature. Though he’s always been somewhat lovable, Snoop Dogg once convincingly boasted of 1-8-7s and his real-life murder charge blurred the lines between life and art considerably. Now he plays the clown--appearing in commercials with Lee Iacocca and teaching Jay Leno to say “fo shizzle.” 50 Cent leveraged his gangbanging past and bullet-scarred torso to rise to the top of the Gangsta ranks. He now appears to have fully matriculated into the Federation of Overexposed Celebrities, striking fear into the hearts of no one.

Gangsta rap once gripped suburban kids’ imaginations with its slick, stylish portrayal of naked urban decay. But as the genre came to rule the charts, it devolved into cliché, and “keepin’ it real” became nothing more than meaningless G-schtick. Its telling that the downfalls of washed-up G’s like Black Rob and Suge Knight are met with a shrug of the shoulders, as if their very real troubles are somehow just part of the charade. “Gangsta” may still sell records, but as far as the public is concerned, there’s very little that’s “Real” about it.

Shoot the J. Shoot it! Landlord Boozer Repremands Prince

2006-04-03T12:50:00.000-07:00

Prince's deceptively strong hoops game and unique interior-design sensibilities led to consternation for C-Booz.

In a fantastic collision of my two favorite celebrity realms—the NBA and rock music—the one and only Prince was castigated by his landlord, Utah Jazz forward and former Duke standout Carlos Boozer. Evidently, Prince administered the full Paisley Park treatment to one of C-Booz’s properties, festooning the palacial crib with “purple striping” and adorning it with that awesome/ludicrous unpronounceable symbol. Prince even seems to have tinkered with the plumbing to accommodate “beauty salon chairs.” Gotta keep it tight.

Apparently, this feud was settled as Team Booz withdrew the complaint. Methinks a humbling one-on-one game against legendary baller Prince and a post-game pancake fry may have had something to do with this mysterious retreat.

Boozer may have underestimated Prince's game, which he has been honing from a tender age (the baller/musical genius is on the far right, kneeling, with the medium-size afro). In an unrelated side-note, get a load of the guy standing above him with the black lo-tops, white knee- socks and absolutely bananas 'fro! Outrageous!

Style Focus: Personalized Clothing--The Future is NOW!

2006-03-30T12:16:00.000-08:00

In the future, everyone's clothes will be completely personalized. There will be no brand names, as everyone will be their own brand. Consequently, all threads will be emblazoned with the wearer's name, and HyperColor will be replaced by HomeothermaColor. With the exception of pants, all garments will be custom fit. Due to the continued existance of gravity in the future, and the unfasionability of all elastics, pants will still require support, lest they fall down.

Its with this in mind that I've been investing in the cloting of the future, beginning with this unassailably fresh belt-piece picked up off of the electronic Bay:

(old) Record Report: The Numero Group's Eccentric Soul Series

2006-03-28T13:05:00.000-08:00

A late-winter malaise has frozen my imagination and reduced me to holing up unproductively with my guitar, drinking heavily, and trekking as far from the city as possible to ride vexing ski-slopes that manage be both dangerously icy and comically slushy. Until I regain my mental footing, I'm keeping my blog warm with a record review written a few weeks ago.

Months back, my old friend and classmate Julia Shannon turned me on to the Numero Group's Eccentric Soul series. I liked their latest offering so much I wrote a full review. Enjoy!

Here in the age of Itunes and MySpace, music is more readily available than ever, but context is often scarce. Slick websites and easily sharable songs level the playing field for musicians and indie labels to market themselves against the stodgy mainsteam record biz, but often at the expense of much of the real craftsmanship involved in record-making: the artwork, sequence of songs, liner notes and production credits, and the overall aesthetic of an album. The upshot is that while casual fans mine the internet for ipod fodder, many record obsessives eschew the online world entirely, favoring traditional, 3-D album collecting.

The reissue label Numero Group—fresh off the release of its latest collection, “Eccentric Soul: The Deep City Label”—cleverly narrows this rift. Undeniably and proudly a record label by liner-notes readers, for liner-notes readers, Numero’s releases are fastidiously researched and beautifully packaged. But until very recently their catalog was available exclusively on their website, which pairs its fully realized albums with a dollar-a-download mp3 section (arranged record-store style, right down to pictures of beat-up boxes and well-worn record sleeves) and other trimmings of online music browsing.

“The Deep City Label” is the latest in the fascinating “Eccentric Soul” series, which unearths the borderline extinct sounds and stories of the many short-lived soul imprints that sprang up all over the country in the wake of Motown and Stax. The songs merge commercial ambition with do-it yourself indie spirit and plenty of pure sweat, dirt, and heat. It’s a potent mixture—an eclectic, rewarding listen for anyone who ever liked soul.

Unlike other releases in the series, “The Deep City Label” showcases a roster that wasn’t entirely doomed to obscurity. Headed by producer Willie Clarke and local impresario Johnny Pearsall, Miami-based Deep City launched the careers of future hitmakers Clarence Reid, Paul Kelly, and Betty Wright. Lesser knowns The Moovers and Helene Smith rounded out the stable before the operation folded amidst the inevitable big-label defections and in-house rivalries.

The cuts are gems. They’re varied, but they run well together thanks to Deep City’s Motown meets Wall-of-Sound production aesthetic and its musical glue: the gritty, cocksure house rhythm section of Clark, Reid, and Arnold Albury. Ambition also links the songs here, and its not surprising that some of the Deep City talent went on to chart success. But ultimately a melancholy current runs through the tracks, beginning with the lyrics and seeping into the recesses of the music. It feels as if everyone involved knew that the enterprise wasn’t going to last long, so they played as hard as they could, while they could.

Considering this, it fits that the lesser lights steal the show here, most notably the singer Helene Smith. Her pleading, soaring, searing vocal on “Pain in My Heart” supplies the collection’s defining performance. It brims with tenderness, range, and an innate soul sensibility that places Smith squarely in the company of future chart-toppers like Betty Wright. Acs like Smith are what the Numero Group is all about—a star who never was, rescued and resuscitated by record geeks, and delivered to the masses through the internet.

Man of the Week: 2006 NFL Comeback Player of the Year Daunte Culpepper

2006-03-15T13:00:00.000-08:00

Unbelievable, man.

A year and a half ago, it would be utterly inconceivable that Randy Moss and Daunte Culpepper, both exorbitantly talented, proven NFL commodities, would be traded for a combined total of 2 measly draft picks and a random-ass linebacker. Such a move would be ludicrous on its face. It would defy logic in any number of ways. It would be a perplexing, completely needless desertion of a successful, electrifying, record-setting, explosive, fun-to-watch, irreplaceable, winning brand of football. Yet this actually happened to my squad. This ridiculously lopsided, mystifying exchange was sealed yesterday following Pep’s signing with the Dolphins. Two elite, franchise players gone, an 80 in Madden and a couple of draft picks gained (not even: the 80 in Madden’s contract is up and he’s likely to split too).

The Vikings win the award for Most Dynamic/Least Productive squad on planet earth by a country mile. And lately they’ve really surged, even by their standards. Minnesota has undergone the most dramatic top-to-bottom overhaul of any NFL team, maybe any pro sports franchise, over the course of the last two years. A sampling of their recent changes:

A completely new ownership group, helmed by a man named Ziggy.
A new coaching staff, led by a mustachioed former Eagle
A 180-degree shift of game-strategy, and a new system and playbook
A newly adopted off-field code-of-conduct (probably a crock, but it counts)
A dramatically revamped starting lineup on both sides of the ball.
A brand-new “Viking Ship” at Viking headquarters to replace the one that was defaced in the wake of the overblown “love boat” fiasco (!).

And they’re not done! New (probably heinous) uniforms are in the works, an outdoor stadium drive continues, and the Vikes still have bank to spend on new players to help replace the two completely irreplaceable stars they needlessly ditched.

The legitimate motives and circumstances behind the Culpepper and Moss dumps made them slightly more understandable, but not necessarily any more favorable or wise. Moss is abrasive. Did that cost the team wins? Culpepper had a poor year and grew unhappy. Is he worse than Brad Johnson? Has he ever indicated, by words or actions, that he wouldn’t work as hard as ever to lead the Vikings if they retained him? As the Vikings have shown, a year is a long time in sports. One good year for Daunte next year and the love boat, the injury, the contract squabbles, and the mess of 2005 would be forgotten.

Daunte will be missed. His turnovers won’t, but his presence will. With him, Vikings fans always felt there was a chance. Yes, there was a good chance of a fumble or horrendous pick, but there was an equally good chance of a perfectly thrown scoring bomb, a beastly broken tackle on a sack-attempt, or a determined, 20-yard scramble on any given play. Beyond that, Daunte was, and still is, NFL gold: a gifted, franchise quarterback who desperately wants to win, is respected by his peers and a draw for free agents, and knows how to handle the media. A bad season and an off-field mistake, and probably even this injury, are surmountable, especially by someone as determined as Culpepper. Apparently the Vikings didn’t think so. It will be their loss, and mine.

2006 NFL Comeback Player of the Year Award Recipient (you heard it here first) Daunte Culpepper. Determined to overhaul the entire team, the tunnel-visioned Vikings had plenty of money to placate their star, but were short on faith in him. I fear it will be their loss, and will continue to root for Daunte.