C’mon, Kobe! Put up 45 points, with 9 assists. The assists are important. Otherwise people might wrongfully accuse you of being selfish.
And Lamar, take down 15 boards and inexplicably hit two threes. Please. Luke Walton, be a ‘great glue guy’ with a ‘high basketball IQ.’ (PS I love your tattoo of monkeys dunking basketballs. That’s what it is, right?). Chris Mihm, keep those muscles warm; you never know when Phil will mouth those magic words: ‘thirty. one.’ And then those other three: ‘yes, Chris. You!’
And Pau? Just keep that beard. Don’t even think about shaving. You’re beautiful.
(The most surprising part of the meme-rich video? That it makes Weezer seem more relevant. You’d think that a clip with Tay Zonday would be a surefire, never-miss way to compound the fairly reasonable idea that Weezer are busted, over-the-hill, and culturally irrelevant.
The success of the clip, and the fact it’s brought Weezer so thoroughly back into the spotlight, comes down to the fact it’s done so well. You’re treading a very fine line when you get internet-related kitsch involved, but Cullen has — with sharp ideas, tight editing and access to genuine webcelebrities* — nailed it).
Bonus track: I really like this Tay Zonday track. Yes, unironically. The reverb-heavy bass laid down over a jangly guitar makes it sound like an Entertainment!-era Gang Of Four track produced and recorded on GarageBand. With vocals by an inexplicably earnest David Bowie, and lyrics written in ‘65 by a young Curtis Mayfield.
Fuck me, can you imagine someone not loving this song? And if you met a hater of Harry, could you trust them?
Personally, I can’t think of a harsher indictment of someone’s character than an inability to love this 1994 classic; those exuberant horns blowing the water out of the Mississippi, the charmingly awkward rhymes (the highlight: ‘opinion/dominion’), and Harry singing cool and slow, like he doesn’t realise just how good the song around him really is.
It’s easy to forget that Cake were good. But they were. Just in a really 90s way. So if they release anything nowadays it’s like, Cake? Seriously? Still?
Most of us share a strained, distant relationship with the Beastie Boys. Those boys we once loved.
Sure, we remember the magic times Yauch, Diamond and Horovitz soundtracked: punching cones after a good old skate, getting messy at that party where Nathan totally fingerbanged Katie, stealing Posca markers for a teenage graf session. But now, when we hear Ill Communication, an awkward distance emerges from the recognition that those magic times have passed, and we’ve all moved on.
For the good of basketball, the Lakers need to beat the Spurs.
Yes, the spastic hyper-physicality of Manu Ginobili entertains, and Mr. Longoria sure can break ankles, and you’re forced to respect the semi-automatic clutchness of The Big Fundamental… but the Spurs have to go. No more debates about sly ankle pokes and hip-shot elbows from Bruce Bowen, no more opportunities for Big Shot Rob to lay big shots on smaller men, no more chances for your mates to drunkenly sing ‘I love it when you call me Big Poppa!’ at the television.
We need Kobe Bryant in the finals. A vicious competitor at the top of his game, cursed with an inability to censor his frustration, and fully capable of scoring a half-century when a game demands it (and frustratingly, sometimes when a game doesn’t).
We need the long arms of Lamar Odom punching into the lane for a silky soft two-step lay-up. We need Pau Gasol screaming and intense, fully focused on a) dominating the boards b) looking for the open man when the Spurs double down in the post and c) discovering fire.
And, most of all, we need Ronny Turiaf covered in towels, screaming French obscenities after every dunk, pushing his teammates over.
Good luck to the Lakers today. In San Antonio, they’ll need it.
PS If Phil Jackson needs something funny to fire the boys up, perhaps a copy of T.P. will do the trick. Just hope Big Poppa doesn’t bring his copy of the K.O.B.E. EP.
I’m surprised by how good the new Death Cab For Cutie is. Not because I don’t like Gibbard and the fellas. Far from it. It’s just that the three albums released pre-Narrow Stairs were so good, I figured the band was due for a misfire.
Turns out we’ll have to wait a little while longer for sub-par Cutie. In the three years between Plans and now, it seems Ben has drawn divine inspiration from Robert Smith and Brian Wilson’s best works. Or am I imagining it?
2008 already seems to be a better-than-average year in new music. It started strong with Vampire Weekend’s debut (if you go by official release dates and not when everyone downloaded it), went on to R.E.M.’s highly unexpected best album in almost twenty years, a surprise second Raconteurs record, Bauhaus’ swan song, and a dozen other good ones besides. Here are my favorites of this quarter who I didn’t just mention:
Neon Neon - Stainless Style
A collaboration between Super Furry Animals’ Gruff Rhys (still riding a hot streak less than a year after his band’s possibly best-yet Hey Venus!) and hip-hop producer Boom Bip, this one mostly parties like Dire Straits were still at the top of the charts. I have to admit, I deleted three songs off this set that I felt clashed horrifically with the vibe of the other nine. The rest are solid retro gold.
Usually the exclamation point in any band’s name is just a stylistic conceit, but I swear these guys! make! it! audible!
Blood on the Wall - Liferz
If Neon Neon have to cut a royalty check to Mark Knopfler, Blood on the Wall owe one to every band played on 120 Minutes in 1992.
Switches - Lay Down the Law
…and these guys are signing theirs over to Franz Ferdinand for the title track on this one. Listen to these guys now so you can brag when they get huge.
I didn’t realize that anyone ever cared about Afghan Whigs, even in their heyday, until I read the breathless retroactive praise for them in recent articles concerning this collaboration between head ‘Whig Greg Dulli and Mark Lanegan.
The American Girl is everywhere, from Delaware to Delhi, a tight sweater wrapped around her small hips, a pom-pom dropped next to her diary on the floor, her blue eyes sparkling in the California sun, Pamela or Jessica or Jayne, riding in a pink Cadillac years ago and her boyfriend’s black Range Rover now, her red lips caught in a tight zoom across a big screen, she dances to rock ‘n’ roll in an all-wood Texas bar, runs through a blazing sprinkler in a tight white singlet on a scorching hot late spring day.
Men everywhere are frustrated by, and in love with, the American Girl. And men write songs:
My boys did it. They made the Super Bowl. Now all that remains is for Eli Manning to throw for 100 yards, two interceptions, and one touchdown in an absolute beatdown at the hands of Brady and friends from Boston. It is, sadly, going to happen. At least the G-Men will be a major player in the greatest NFL season in history.
The inevitable thrashing hasn’t stopped me putting some real money on the Giants at 5-1. All that remains for me is to get the Doritos and Miller Chills ready, put some cushions on the couch, and get an appropriate soundtrack for Super Bowl Sunday (or Super Bowl Monday, as it’s known in Sydney). And here it is — game-ready, hip-hop heavy and loud enough for some real yelling:
Here’s a little taste of the underground from my hometown. An eclectic assortment of songs, to say the least. If you don’t like one, try the next, and so on and so forth! Represent!
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