Amy, Amy, Amy
It’s funny the events in one’s life that are recalled with crystal clear clarity. I’m a writer who loves William Shakespeare but cannot recite his dialogue at will. Yet, I can quote chapter and verse when it comes, for example, to Neil Simon comedies as well as episodes of The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, Batman, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All In The Family, The Odd Couple, Get Smart, Roseanne, The King Of Queens, The Flintstones and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I have the sort of weird memory that only recollects movies I’ve seen but also the theatres I saw them at and the audience reaction to certain scenes. (Yeah, I know, it’s a gift.)
Music affects me the same way. I can remember where I was when I heard certain songs or artists for the first time. For example, one time I was visiting a friend of mine who worked at The New Yorker magazine’s mailroom. My friend had music playing softly on her office computer when I walked into her work area. What I heard literally made me stop in my tracks. (It was a musical Michael Corleone-meets-Apollonia moment.) The voice coming through the speaker was that of a youngish lady– one as influenced by Mary J. Blige as by Dinah Washington – singing with an unusual maturity over a tough infectious funky groove.
The singer I quickly found out was a British teenager named Amy Winehouse. The song was the eleven-minute plus closing opus “Amy Amy Amy” from a then-import only CD entitled Frank. Within the hour, I was on a line in the Virgin Megastore – hey, remember record stores? - purchasing her album. For the next couple of weeks, Amy had tip-top rotation in my computer, my CD player – hey, remember them too? – and my I-Pod.
If I was only comparing her to other white female soul singers, I’d have to say that Winehouse was a combination of Lisa Stansfield’s vocal dexterity and Teena Marie’s idiosyncratic lyricism. (By the way, the latter still remains the platinum standard of Caucasian soul.) Except where Teena Marie’s songs treated love as a mystical, magical concept, a Winehouse composition was hip-hop blunt and street-smart direct. Her two best tunes on Frank were prime examples of this: “Fuck Me Pumps” was a cautionary groupie tale and “I Heard Love Is Blind” found her trying to explain her discovered infidelity to her lover. Then she’d flip the script and perform inspired covers of jazz standards like “Mister Magic” and “Moody’s Mood For Love.” No doubt about it, Frank was an impressive debut from a major talent.
Winehouse’s next work Back To Black was even better. Where Frank cautiously melded hip-hop and jazz influences, Back To Black confidently overlaid a Phil Spector -Motown -Stax soulful sheen onto Winehouse’s dusky, defiant bluesy vocals. And the lyrical content was even more candid with witty tales of alcohol and drug-fueled debauchery – along with incisive allusions to folk like Slick Rick, Donny Hathaway and Sammy Davis Jr. - besides heartbreaking tales of lost love. It was a great album showcasing the sound of a singer/songwriter who’d explosively come into her own.
Then came….nothing. No new album or music. Nothing except tabloid headlines, embarrassing concert appearances played ad infinitum on the internet and repeated interventions both public and private until Winehouse’s truly tragic demise earlier this year at the age of 27.
I have to admit I was genuinely saddened by Winehouse’s death. (Saddened but not surprised.) As such, it took me a long time to play her music. In fact, this past weekend was the first time I listened to Back To Black since Winehouse passed away. It was a sobering – pun intended – experience to say the least.
“Rehab” – with her cries of ‘no no no’ and a determination not to ‘go go go’ – now seems like willful self-destruction. And Winehouse’s cry of how ‘I just need a friend’ is heartrendering while “You Know I’m No Good” with her talk of ‘cheating herself’ seems distressingly prescient. “Some Unholy War” and “Me And Mr. Jones ” - with her chilling cry of ‘what kind of fuckery is this?’ – painfully details the allure of self-destructive liaisons whereas “My Tears Dry On Their Own” and “Wake Up Alone” show the agonizing ache of post-relationship depression. And the druggy delivery of “Back To Black” – with the now excruciating line of ‘I died a hundred times’ – and “Love Is A Losing Game” merely heightens Winehouse’s internal torment. What was once a bright brilliant pop record of youthful defiance has been transformed into an artistic and emotional last will and testament on the order of the Billie Holiday masterwork Lady In Satin.
Strangely enough, the only song for me that still maintains the original sense of rebellious verve is also the most overt on the album: “Addiction.” Unfortunately left off Back To Black’s stateside release, the song finds Winehouse gently, rhythmically, chiding her girlfriend against a driving Motown backbeat. It seems her pal’s beau has been dipping into Winehouse’s weed supply without replacing it. Perhaps, it’s the warm conversational tone Winehouse adopts throughout the tune that robs it of any posthumous sting. Yet, it has her most revealing couplet. ‘It’s got me addicted/Does more then any dick did.’ (Talk about your candor!)
To her credit, Winehouse always dealt with her audience with uncommon honesty. (It wasn’t an accident her first album was named Frank.) It’s just too bad that so many of those adoring aficionados paid more attention to catchy pop trappings then the desperate pleadings of a young lady battling her demons out loud. And because of those demons, an incandescent performer has flickered out. Forever.
September 20, 2011
July 13, 2011
Passings 2
So many faves have passed on since the beginning of 2011. Here are some thoughts about them:
Peter Falk: Sure he was the star of the best - and my favorite - detective series on American television: Columbo. But even though that was his signature role, Falk was so much more then a rumpled one-trick pony. For example, he was a wonderful comic actor. Just recall his sidesplitting supporting turns in Pocketful Of Miracles, The Great Race, It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Robin And The Seven Hoods.
In regards to the latter film, Falk adlibbed so much as the gangster Guy Gisborne, the director Gordon Douglas complained to producer/star Frank Sinatra that such impromptu antics had put the production ten pages behind schedule. Sinatra then asked for a copy of the script. Upon receiving it, Ol’ Blue Eyes ripped out the next ten pages they were going to shoot. (Which, by the way, included a Sinatra solo on the terrific Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen song “I Like To Lead When I Dance.”) “Now, we’re on schedule,” proclaimed Sinatra who then handed the script back to a stunned Douglas.
Falk also unveiled a dazzling Humphrey Bogart parody in two Neil Simon comedies Murder By Death and The Cheap Detective as well as bringing a warmly humorous verve to films like The Princess Bride, Tune In Tomorrow, All The Marbles, Cookie, Roommates and The Brink’s Job. And he and Alan Arkin made a memorable comedy team in two Andrew Bergman-penned films: The In-Laws and Big Trouble.
But Falk was a sensational dramatic actor too. He was chilling as killer Abe Reles in Murder, Inc. and was no less lethal nearly four decades later as the imprisoned crime boss in Walter Hill’s underrated Undisputed. Falk was beatific as the angel in Wim Wenders’ Wings Of Desire and cynical as a war-weary soldier in Anzio. And his collaborations with John Cassavetes, Ben Gazzara and Gena Rowlands – a Method Rat Pack – on the searing dramas Husbands and A Woman Under The Influence revolutionized cinema with their hyperrealistic style. (They’re the sort of films that make viewers feel as though they’re watching the action unfold not from a screen but from an open window across the street.) And the acting between them was the stuff of legend. Just check out the interplay between Falk and Cassavetes as two low-level hoods in Elaine May’s Mikey And Nicky. Like much of Falk’s career, not a false note is struck. Not a one. He will be missed.
Gene Colan: As a kid, my favorite comic-book character was Marvel Comics’ Daredevil. (And damn you, Ben Affleck for ruining him in that lousy movie adaptation.) Much of my monthly enjoyment of Daredevil was due to the sweeping style of illustrator Gene Colan. Even today, when I close my eyes and picture the character, it is Colan’s rendering - not the much-acclaimed Frank Miller reboot - that comes to mind. And Colan’s stylish, brooding work on Tomb Of Dracula was absolutely brilliant. He made the horrific beautiful and the mundane ominous. Colan was, in the best sense of the term, a true artist.
Clarence Clemons: The Big Man with the big sound. His impassioned sax solos with the Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band often evoked the most primal emotions in their listeners. He was the sound of escape in “Born To Run” and of the city life on “Jungleland.”. Perhaps most importantly to those who came of age in the AOR – Apartheid Oriented Radio – ‘70s when stations across the dial appeared to be segregated by callous racial divides, the images of Clemons and Springsteen cavorting side-by-side onstage on anthems like “Rosalita” spoke volumes to we listeners who unashamedly loved all kinds of music. It reminded us that soul – true soul – comes in all shades and colors. For that alone, Clemons should be lionized.
Jimmy Roselli: Unfairly branded as the ‘other’ singer from Hoboken, Roselli sang, for over a half-century, traditional pop fare like “When Your Old Wedding Ring Was New” with a full-throttle, full-throated approach. What Roselli lacked in subtlety, he definitely made up for in heart. (In his excellent autobiography Making The Wiseguys Weep, the ever-understated Roselli called it ‘singing with balls.’) His showstopping approach worked best when he was reenergizing old-timey standards like Al Jolson’s “Toot Toot Tootsie” and “Little Pal” with palpable verve and feeling.
Gil Scott-Heron: So much has been written and said about this terrific performer that I’d simply like to add this. On December 13th, 1975, when Richard Pryor hosted Saturday Night Live for his one and only time, he demanded that Paul Mooney write the skits, that Thalmus Rasulala and the beautiful Annazette Chase appear with him in them and that the musical guest be… Gil Scott-Heron. Over thirty-five years later, that episode – the show’s seventh - remains the Blackest 90 minutes that comedy institution has ever produced.
Sidney Lumet: Considered by many to be the quintessential New York filmmaker, Lumet’s movies had much in common the glorious city he featured in so many films. Like life in the Big Apple, his work careened from great – Dog Day Afternoon, Serpico, and Prince Of The City – to the thoughtful – Fail Safe, The Hill and The Fugitive Kind - to entertaining - Just Tell Me What You Want, The Anderson Tapes and Murder On The Orient Express to the disappointing like Gloria, Family Business and The Wiz. But they all contained a directorial dynamism fortified by committed characterizations. Even his uneven efforts contained great performances: Nick Nolte and Armand Assante in Q & A, Don Johnson and Rebecca DeMornay in Guilty As Sin, Vin Diesel in Find Me Guilty, George Segal in Bye Bye Braverman, Ron Leibman in Night Falls On Manhattan, Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges in The Morning After and Steven Hill, River Phoenix and Christine Lahti in Running On Empty to just name a few. And, occasionally, he helmed irrefutably incandescent work like Long Day’s Journey Into Night, Twelve Angry Men and “The Verdict. Was he a visual stylist? No. But he was something equally important: a filmmaker genuinely interested in human emotions. That’s why Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Anna Magnani, Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda were so great in Lumet films. He had the gift of turning stars into regular people and regular people into stars.
Peter Falk: Sure he was the star of the best - and my favorite - detective series on American television: Columbo. But even though that was his signature role, Falk was so much more then a rumpled one-trick pony. For example, he was a wonderful comic actor. Just recall his sidesplitting supporting turns in Pocketful Of Miracles, The Great Race, It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Robin And The Seven Hoods.
In regards to the latter film, Falk adlibbed so much as the gangster Guy Gisborne, the director Gordon Douglas complained to producer/star Frank Sinatra that such impromptu antics had put the production ten pages behind schedule. Sinatra then asked for a copy of the script. Upon receiving it, Ol’ Blue Eyes ripped out the next ten pages they were going to shoot. (Which, by the way, included a Sinatra solo on the terrific Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen song “I Like To Lead When I Dance.”) “Now, we’re on schedule,” proclaimed Sinatra who then handed the script back to a stunned Douglas.
Falk also unveiled a dazzling Humphrey Bogart parody in two Neil Simon comedies Murder By Death and The Cheap Detective as well as bringing a warmly humorous verve to films like The Princess Bride, Tune In Tomorrow, All The Marbles, Cookie, Roommates and The Brink’s Job. And he and Alan Arkin made a memorable comedy team in two Andrew Bergman-penned films: The In-Laws and Big Trouble.
But Falk was a sensational dramatic actor too. He was chilling as killer Abe Reles in Murder, Inc. and was no less lethal nearly four decades later as the imprisoned crime boss in Walter Hill’s underrated Undisputed. Falk was beatific as the angel in Wim Wenders’ Wings Of Desire and cynical as a war-weary soldier in Anzio. And his collaborations with John Cassavetes, Ben Gazzara and Gena Rowlands – a Method Rat Pack – on the searing dramas Husbands and A Woman Under The Influence revolutionized cinema with their hyperrealistic style. (They’re the sort of films that make viewers feel as though they’re watching the action unfold not from a screen but from an open window across the street.) And the acting between them was the stuff of legend. Just check out the interplay between Falk and Cassavetes as two low-level hoods in Elaine May’s Mikey And Nicky. Like much of Falk’s career, not a false note is struck. Not a one. He will be missed.
Gene Colan: As a kid, my favorite comic-book character was Marvel Comics’ Daredevil. (And damn you, Ben Affleck for ruining him in that lousy movie adaptation.) Much of my monthly enjoyment of Daredevil was due to the sweeping style of illustrator Gene Colan. Even today, when I close my eyes and picture the character, it is Colan’s rendering - not the much-acclaimed Frank Miller reboot - that comes to mind. And Colan’s stylish, brooding work on Tomb Of Dracula was absolutely brilliant. He made the horrific beautiful and the mundane ominous. Colan was, in the best sense of the term, a true artist.
Clarence Clemons: The Big Man with the big sound. His impassioned sax solos with the Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band often evoked the most primal emotions in their listeners. He was the sound of escape in “Born To Run” and of the city life on “Jungleland.”. Perhaps most importantly to those who came of age in the AOR – Apartheid Oriented Radio – ‘70s when stations across the dial appeared to be segregated by callous racial divides, the images of Clemons and Springsteen cavorting side-by-side onstage on anthems like “Rosalita” spoke volumes to we listeners who unashamedly loved all kinds of music. It reminded us that soul – true soul – comes in all shades and colors. For that alone, Clemons should be lionized.
Jimmy Roselli: Unfairly branded as the ‘other’ singer from Hoboken, Roselli sang, for over a half-century, traditional pop fare like “When Your Old Wedding Ring Was New” with a full-throttle, full-throated approach. What Roselli lacked in subtlety, he definitely made up for in heart. (In his excellent autobiography Making The Wiseguys Weep, the ever-understated Roselli called it ‘singing with balls.’) His showstopping approach worked best when he was reenergizing old-timey standards like Al Jolson’s “Toot Toot Tootsie” and “Little Pal” with palpable verve and feeling.
Gil Scott-Heron: So much has been written and said about this terrific performer that I’d simply like to add this. On December 13th, 1975, when Richard Pryor hosted Saturday Night Live for his one and only time, he demanded that Paul Mooney write the skits, that Thalmus Rasulala and the beautiful Annazette Chase appear with him in them and that the musical guest be… Gil Scott-Heron. Over thirty-five years later, that episode – the show’s seventh - remains the Blackest 90 minutes that comedy institution has ever produced.
Sidney Lumet: Considered by many to be the quintessential New York filmmaker, Lumet’s movies had much in common the glorious city he featured in so many films. Like life in the Big Apple, his work careened from great – Dog Day Afternoon, Serpico, and Prince Of The City – to the thoughtful – Fail Safe, The Hill and The Fugitive Kind - to entertaining - Just Tell Me What You Want, The Anderson Tapes and Murder On The Orient Express to the disappointing like Gloria, Family Business and The Wiz. But they all contained a directorial dynamism fortified by committed characterizations. Even his uneven efforts contained great performances: Nick Nolte and Armand Assante in Q & A, Don Johnson and Rebecca DeMornay in Guilty As Sin, Vin Diesel in Find Me Guilty, George Segal in Bye Bye Braverman, Ron Leibman in Night Falls On Manhattan, Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges in The Morning After and Steven Hill, River Phoenix and Christine Lahti in Running On Empty to just name a few. And, occasionally, he helmed irrefutably incandescent work like Long Day’s Journey Into Night, Twelve Angry Men and “The Verdict. Was he a visual stylist? No. But he was something equally important: a filmmaker genuinely interested in human emotions. That’s why Al Pacino, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Anna Magnani, Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda were so great in Lumet films. He had the gift of turning stars into regular people and regular people into stars.
April 4, 2011
From Madison To Football To LeBron
As we’ve recently seen in states like Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Maryland, New Jersey and New York, unions are under siege in this land. When the elected powers-that-be attempt to, say, wipe out the right to collectively bargain and the notion of tenure, of seniority, then its fair to say that the biggest battle of the 21st Century might just be for the right for unions to survive, to exist in this noxious political environment.
Now, are unions perfect? Absolutely not. As with every group devised by man, they’re rife with the same failings and foibles – from corruption to pettiness - as the rest. But what they stand for is something that should be considered sacrosanct: the right for every employee to be treated fairly and with respect in the workplace. It is because of unions that there’s a 40 hour workweek. That there are such things as health benefits, vacations, pensions and other perks - all which are now being assailed - the American worker has for too long taken for granted.
Until now. What was so fascinating about the recent fracas over public employee collective bargaining rights in Madison, Wisconsin - now all-but-wiped off major news network coverage due to the Libyan conflict and the disaster in Japan – was the unmistakable shock on the workers/protesters’ faces. It seemed as if it was totally inconceivable to many of them that they were being treated so shabbily by Scott Walker, a governor, no doubt, many of them had voted for. (It’s kind of like requesting an early morning wake-up call at a hotel and being awoken by a bucket of ice water at the crack of dawn.)
For the most part, many mainstream news outlets and –unsurprisingly - politicians from both major parties steered clear of the Wisconsin commotion. Oh, there might have been a story or two or a couple of comments from afar but, generally, this seemed to be a donnybrook that the powers-that-be wanted no part of.
Except one sports union like the NFLPA - National Football League Players Association - got it. Staring at a then-potential lockout by the NFL owners, they understood the importance of the right to sit at the negotiating table and be heard. That’s why one of the first celebrity supporters of the teacher walkouts was Green Bay Packer great Charles Woodson who eloquently spoke about teammates both past and present who felt the same way he did and about the bravery of the Wisconsin folk who demanded to be heard.
See, America’s a funny place. We take our union battles seriously and – as polls have oft demonstrated – we have a tendency to support the underdog, the prototypical working man. Except when it comes to sports. Perhaps, it’s the exorbitant salaries being tossed around in the papers or the crazy belief that many fans have that if not for certain circumstances in their life – all-too-often a dearth of talent – they too could’ve played pro fill-in-the-blank.
What fans and occasional onlookers repeatedly fail to do is to take a good, hard gaze at the price many professional athletes pay for their entertainment. Look at what happens to so many ex-fighters or football players. Check out a lifetime of excruciating pain. The advanced disintegration of their bodies and, in extreme cases, their minds.
All of this agony so we’ll have something to do on a Saturday night or a Sunday afternoon. Regardless of the money being paid, many of these athletes are done –out of professional sports - within a few years. (Talk about your services no longer being required.) Even the greatest of the great are toast by age 40. And for a lot of them, it’s their first real view of what really goes down in the real world – like going from Pandora to Times Square – and all that entails. That’s why so many athletes end up broke or in extreme financial distress.
Which is why before the recent lockout, the NFLPA went to great pains to make clear their message to the public. They presented a united front led by such icons as Drew Brees, Peyton Manning and Tom Brady. They repeatedly reminded folk that they were not going on strike. That they were being locked out by the owners. That they were fighting for the rights of all – superstars to journeymen alike - of their players/workers. That they were even willing to decertify their union for the purpose of challenging the owners’ antitrust status. That they were going to do whatever it took – within the law – to do their best to protect the rights of their membership.
And isn’t that what we ask, no, demand of our professional athletes? We ask them to try their hardest, to give us their all in pursuit of victory and, ultimately, a championship. And if they fall short of the mark, we praise them for the effort expended.
And isn’t that exactly what LeBron James did throughout his seven year sojourn as a Cleveland Cavalier? This native Ohioan came straight from high school, revitalized a moribund franchise and played the prerequisite NBA-mandated seven seasons before entering the free agency market.
(Now, think about that last requirement and imagined if you had to work 7 years at a job – even one you detested – before you could leave. Seven years before you had the opportunity to upgrade your situation, your life. How fair would you consider that to be?)
During those 7 years, James seemed to single-handedly will his team to victory. In the 2008-2009, he came closest to an NBA championship before losing in the final round. But last season, the Cavs took a decided step backwards failing to get back the Boston Celtics in the Eastern Conference finals. Furthermore, at the end of the 2009-2010 campaign, Cleveland was without a general manager or coach. Not the most appetizing of scenarios to woo their superstar back.
And so, in a nationally-televised special entitled “The Decision,” LeBron James stated he was joining two other superstars Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh to play on the Miami Heat. The quote that rankled many was James stating he was ‘taking his talents to South Beach.’ But that’s exactly what he was taking. He never said he was taking his heart, his soul there. He was taking his basketball gifts to a place where he felt he’d have the best shot at winning an NBA championship. If it was about more money or fame, he could’ve just as easily chosen the New York Knicks or the New Jersey Nets. But he didn’t. He did his time and made a decision based on winning a ring.
It didn’t stop the owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, Dan Gilbert, from blasting James as selfish, heartless and cowardly among other tossed epithets. He also charged that James dogged it in a few playoff games preventing the Cavs from winning. That’s right, the same player who averaged in the playoffs 29.3 points, 8.4 rebounds and 7.3 assists a game – contrast that to his regular season averages of 27.8, 7.0 and 7.0 respectively – who was responsible for the multitude of sellouts at his home arena, the player named in 2004 youngest Rookie of the Year in NBA history, the reigning two-time Most Valuable Player for the 2009 and 2010 campaigns was accused by his employer of professional malfeasance.
Unsurprisingly, few in the media took up for James. Most took up where Gilbert had left off highlighting the desertion of the loyal Cavalier fan base rather than the mess James was leaving being behind. (And as their pitiful record this season has shown, a mess that James’ talents had covered up for many a year.) As a result of this negative publicity – a tactic many owners and elected officials use to garner support - within months, LeBron James went from being one of professional basketball’s most admired athletes to one of their most despised.
It’s a shame because; James had definitely – thanks to the NBA players union – earned his right of self-determination. It’s that right that America – or at least the idea of America – stands for. It’s the right of every working person no matter the sex, religion or race of that individual. Whether the workplace is a classroom in Madison or a basketball court in Miami; a factory in Newark or the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, the employee has the right to be heard. Think about that the next time you watch a ballgame or a news report. And think about it the next time you head to the ballot box.
Now, are unions perfect? Absolutely not. As with every group devised by man, they’re rife with the same failings and foibles – from corruption to pettiness - as the rest. But what they stand for is something that should be considered sacrosanct: the right for every employee to be treated fairly and with respect in the workplace. It is because of unions that there’s a 40 hour workweek. That there are such things as health benefits, vacations, pensions and other perks - all which are now being assailed - the American worker has for too long taken for granted.
Until now. What was so fascinating about the recent fracas over public employee collective bargaining rights in Madison, Wisconsin - now all-but-wiped off major news network coverage due to the Libyan conflict and the disaster in Japan – was the unmistakable shock on the workers/protesters’ faces. It seemed as if it was totally inconceivable to many of them that they were being treated so shabbily by Scott Walker, a governor, no doubt, many of them had voted for. (It’s kind of like requesting an early morning wake-up call at a hotel and being awoken by a bucket of ice water at the crack of dawn.)
For the most part, many mainstream news outlets and –unsurprisingly - politicians from both major parties steered clear of the Wisconsin commotion. Oh, there might have been a story or two or a couple of comments from afar but, generally, this seemed to be a donnybrook that the powers-that-be wanted no part of.
Except one sports union like the NFLPA - National Football League Players Association - got it. Staring at a then-potential lockout by the NFL owners, they understood the importance of the right to sit at the negotiating table and be heard. That’s why one of the first celebrity supporters of the teacher walkouts was Green Bay Packer great Charles Woodson who eloquently spoke about teammates both past and present who felt the same way he did and about the bravery of the Wisconsin folk who demanded to be heard.
See, America’s a funny place. We take our union battles seriously and – as polls have oft demonstrated – we have a tendency to support the underdog, the prototypical working man. Except when it comes to sports. Perhaps, it’s the exorbitant salaries being tossed around in the papers or the crazy belief that many fans have that if not for certain circumstances in their life – all-too-often a dearth of talent – they too could’ve played pro fill-in-the-blank.
What fans and occasional onlookers repeatedly fail to do is to take a good, hard gaze at the price many professional athletes pay for their entertainment. Look at what happens to so many ex-fighters or football players. Check out a lifetime of excruciating pain. The advanced disintegration of their bodies and, in extreme cases, their minds.
All of this agony so we’ll have something to do on a Saturday night or a Sunday afternoon. Regardless of the money being paid, many of these athletes are done –out of professional sports - within a few years. (Talk about your services no longer being required.) Even the greatest of the great are toast by age 40. And for a lot of them, it’s their first real view of what really goes down in the real world – like going from Pandora to Times Square – and all that entails. That’s why so many athletes end up broke or in extreme financial distress.
Which is why before the recent lockout, the NFLPA went to great pains to make clear their message to the public. They presented a united front led by such icons as Drew Brees, Peyton Manning and Tom Brady. They repeatedly reminded folk that they were not going on strike. That they were being locked out by the owners. That they were fighting for the rights of all – superstars to journeymen alike - of their players/workers. That they were even willing to decertify their union for the purpose of challenging the owners’ antitrust status. That they were going to do whatever it took – within the law – to do their best to protect the rights of their membership.
And isn’t that what we ask, no, demand of our professional athletes? We ask them to try their hardest, to give us their all in pursuit of victory and, ultimately, a championship. And if they fall short of the mark, we praise them for the effort expended.
And isn’t that exactly what LeBron James did throughout his seven year sojourn as a Cleveland Cavalier? This native Ohioan came straight from high school, revitalized a moribund franchise and played the prerequisite NBA-mandated seven seasons before entering the free agency market.
(Now, think about that last requirement and imagined if you had to work 7 years at a job – even one you detested – before you could leave. Seven years before you had the opportunity to upgrade your situation, your life. How fair would you consider that to be?)
During those 7 years, James seemed to single-handedly will his team to victory. In the 2008-2009, he came closest to an NBA championship before losing in the final round. But last season, the Cavs took a decided step backwards failing to get back the Boston Celtics in the Eastern Conference finals. Furthermore, at the end of the 2009-2010 campaign, Cleveland was without a general manager or coach. Not the most appetizing of scenarios to woo their superstar back.
And so, in a nationally-televised special entitled “The Decision,” LeBron James stated he was joining two other superstars Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh to play on the Miami Heat. The quote that rankled many was James stating he was ‘taking his talents to South Beach.’ But that’s exactly what he was taking. He never said he was taking his heart, his soul there. He was taking his basketball gifts to a place where he felt he’d have the best shot at winning an NBA championship. If it was about more money or fame, he could’ve just as easily chosen the New York Knicks or the New Jersey Nets. But he didn’t. He did his time and made a decision based on winning a ring.
It didn’t stop the owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, Dan Gilbert, from blasting James as selfish, heartless and cowardly among other tossed epithets. He also charged that James dogged it in a few playoff games preventing the Cavs from winning. That’s right, the same player who averaged in the playoffs 29.3 points, 8.4 rebounds and 7.3 assists a game – contrast that to his regular season averages of 27.8, 7.0 and 7.0 respectively – who was responsible for the multitude of sellouts at his home arena, the player named in 2004 youngest Rookie of the Year in NBA history, the reigning two-time Most Valuable Player for the 2009 and 2010 campaigns was accused by his employer of professional malfeasance.
Unsurprisingly, few in the media took up for James. Most took up where Gilbert had left off highlighting the desertion of the loyal Cavalier fan base rather than the mess James was leaving being behind. (And as their pitiful record this season has shown, a mess that James’ talents had covered up for many a year.) As a result of this negative publicity – a tactic many owners and elected officials use to garner support - within months, LeBron James went from being one of professional basketball’s most admired athletes to one of their most despised.
It’s a shame because; James had definitely – thanks to the NBA players union – earned his right of self-determination. It’s that right that America – or at least the idea of America – stands for. It’s the right of every working person no matter the sex, religion or race of that individual. Whether the workplace is a classroom in Madison or a basketball court in Miami; a factory in Newark or the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, the employee has the right to be heard. Think about that the next time you watch a ballgame or a news report. And think about it the next time you head to the ballot box.
March 24, 2011
Passings
Here are some musings on three recent artist passings.
Nate Dogg: My late friend Tom Terrell and I once spent a hilarious lunch many moons ago at the now-shuttered Acme Diner musing about all the things we would have the then-ubiquitous Nate Dogg sing. (Among the more inspired – and fit for public viewing - suggestions were the instructions on our answering machines, the introduction to every single news program on television and the usually dull explanation about the voting rules on award shows.) But that’s how pervasive his vocals - most notably on Warren G’s "Regulate" – were. If there was a hook to be sung, Nate Dogg sang the hell out of it. It was as if he treated each vocal as if it was a juicy cameo appearance in a major motion picture; it might not have been the starring role but you were sure gonna remember it.
Loleatta Holloway: Without a doubt, the best way to have experienced Loleatta Holloway was at a crowded, cavernous club. Picture being in the midst of a packed dance floor, at a time long past the witching hour, at the end of a long workweek, clothes drenched with the sweat of hours of terpsichorean delight, body close to exhaustion when the powerful gospelish vocals of this lifeforce comes blaring through the speaker system. A voice so strong it would cause the grooving throng to simultaneously let out an orgiastic moan in response, forget their physical fatigue and dance into a collective ecstasy.
Such was the gift of Loleatta Holloway. On jams like “Love Sensation,” “Hit And Run” and “Runaway” with the Salsoul Orchestra, she practically propelled her listeners to boogie on down. While she could also be a subtly soulful singer – check out “Worn Out Broken Heart” and her much-underrated duet with Bunny Sigler “Only You” - it was high energy tracks like the lengthily-titled “I May Not Be There When You Want Me (But I’m Right On Time)” that ensured her disco diva status.
Best of all was her guest appearance on Dan Hartman’s “Vertigo/Relight My Fire.” An engaging dance song with an unusual symphonic sweep is transformed into a bonafide classic about 6:35 into it when Holloway blasts onto the scene. Screaming “I’ve got to be strong enough to walk on through the night,” her full-throttle entrance kicks the tune into the stratosphere. (Mela Machinko has a similar effect on Pharoahe Monch’s “Shine.”) Amazingly, Holloway maintains the same intensity for the next 3:08 – relegating Hartman to background duties on his own song - until the track finally fades out as if happily drained by her vigorous vocalizing. And that spirited singing is what finally distinguishes Loleatta Holloway from a host of others. No matter what the inherent quality of the song – even on so-so fare like “Mama Don’t, Papa Won’t” and “Dance What Cha Wanna” – she never cheated her listeners. She always left it all on the mike.
Elizabeth Taylor: Forget the whole Cleopatra controversy – I mean, c’mon, has anyone ever expected Hollywood to be historically accurate? – the multiple illnesses and the eight marriages. What has to be remembered about Elizabeth Taylor – besides her preternatural beauty – is how many fine performances she gave throughout her career but especially in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
There was her ferocious Academy Award-winning turn – the one she deserved – as Martha in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf which she comes close to matching as the title role in The Taming Of The Shrew. There’s her quiet strength as Rock Hudson’s patient, wise wife in Giant. Or her emotional desperation in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Reflections In A Golden Eye in which both of her leading men – Paul Newman and Marlon Brando respectively – deal with themes of repressed homosexuality. The skill in which she delivers her climatic haunting monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer. The tenderness between Taylor and her screen papa Spencer Tracy in Father Of The Bride and Father’s Little Dividend.
My favorite performance of hers during this period is that of the rich girl Montgomery Clift pursues in A Place In The Sun. There are few sexier poignant moments in cinematic history then when Clift – back to the camera – is verbally unburdening himself to Taylor. As directed by George Stevens, the scene is a long take, a semi-obscured - by Clift’s body – close-up of Taylor’s gorgeous face. She lets the viewer see the impact each halting word of Clift has on her so by the time she physically pulls him in for a rib-crunching hug, the effect is as emotionally wrenching and sensually satisfying as any explicit sex scene in, say, Last Tango In Paris.
Why the roll call of roles? To make a simple point. When it comes to Elizabeth Taylor, acknowledge the tabloid stuff, respect the activism, sigh at the beauty but never forget the artistry. It is that, one hopes, which will be her lasting legacy.
Nate Dogg: My late friend Tom Terrell and I once spent a hilarious lunch many moons ago at the now-shuttered Acme Diner musing about all the things we would have the then-ubiquitous Nate Dogg sing. (Among the more inspired – and fit for public viewing - suggestions were the instructions on our answering machines, the introduction to every single news program on television and the usually dull explanation about the voting rules on award shows.) But that’s how pervasive his vocals - most notably on Warren G’s "Regulate" – were. If there was a hook to be sung, Nate Dogg sang the hell out of it. It was as if he treated each vocal as if it was a juicy cameo appearance in a major motion picture; it might not have been the starring role but you were sure gonna remember it.
Loleatta Holloway: Without a doubt, the best way to have experienced Loleatta Holloway was at a crowded, cavernous club. Picture being in the midst of a packed dance floor, at a time long past the witching hour, at the end of a long workweek, clothes drenched with the sweat of hours of terpsichorean delight, body close to exhaustion when the powerful gospelish vocals of this lifeforce comes blaring through the speaker system. A voice so strong it would cause the grooving throng to simultaneously let out an orgiastic moan in response, forget their physical fatigue and dance into a collective ecstasy.
Such was the gift of Loleatta Holloway. On jams like “Love Sensation,” “Hit And Run” and “Runaway” with the Salsoul Orchestra, she practically propelled her listeners to boogie on down. While she could also be a subtly soulful singer – check out “Worn Out Broken Heart” and her much-underrated duet with Bunny Sigler “Only You” - it was high energy tracks like the lengthily-titled “I May Not Be There When You Want Me (But I’m Right On Time)” that ensured her disco diva status.
Best of all was her guest appearance on Dan Hartman’s “Vertigo/Relight My Fire.” An engaging dance song with an unusual symphonic sweep is transformed into a bonafide classic about 6:35 into it when Holloway blasts onto the scene. Screaming “I’ve got to be strong enough to walk on through the night,” her full-throttle entrance kicks the tune into the stratosphere. (Mela Machinko has a similar effect on Pharoahe Monch’s “Shine.”) Amazingly, Holloway maintains the same intensity for the next 3:08 – relegating Hartman to background duties on his own song - until the track finally fades out as if happily drained by her vigorous vocalizing. And that spirited singing is what finally distinguishes Loleatta Holloway from a host of others. No matter what the inherent quality of the song – even on so-so fare like “Mama Don’t, Papa Won’t” and “Dance What Cha Wanna” – she never cheated her listeners. She always left it all on the mike.
Elizabeth Taylor: Forget the whole Cleopatra controversy – I mean, c’mon, has anyone ever expected Hollywood to be historically accurate? – the multiple illnesses and the eight marriages. What has to be remembered about Elizabeth Taylor – besides her preternatural beauty – is how many fine performances she gave throughout her career but especially in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
There was her ferocious Academy Award-winning turn – the one she deserved – as Martha in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf which she comes close to matching as the title role in The Taming Of The Shrew. There’s her quiet strength as Rock Hudson’s patient, wise wife in Giant. Or her emotional desperation in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Reflections In A Golden Eye in which both of her leading men – Paul Newman and Marlon Brando respectively – deal with themes of repressed homosexuality. The skill in which she delivers her climatic haunting monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer. The tenderness between Taylor and her screen papa Spencer Tracy in Father Of The Bride and Father’s Little Dividend.
My favorite performance of hers during this period is that of the rich girl Montgomery Clift pursues in A Place In The Sun. There are few sexier poignant moments in cinematic history then when Clift – back to the camera – is verbally unburdening himself to Taylor. As directed by George Stevens, the scene is a long take, a semi-obscured - by Clift’s body – close-up of Taylor’s gorgeous face. She lets the viewer see the impact each halting word of Clift has on her so by the time she physically pulls him in for a rib-crunching hug, the effect is as emotionally wrenching and sensually satisfying as any explicit sex scene in, say, Last Tango In Paris.
Why the roll call of roles? To make a simple point. When it comes to Elizabeth Taylor, acknowledge the tabloid stuff, respect the activism, sigh at the beauty but never forget the artistry. It is that, one hopes, which will be her lasting legacy.
March 17, 2011
Renegades
For many of us who grew up during rap’s nascent age, there’s a tendency to automatically dismiss much of modern hip-hop. The litany of contemptuous comments can range from complaining that the music isn’t danceable enough – or too danceable for the rhythmically challenged – to a lack of, well, pick one, spiritual, political, social or topical context. In many ways, we of hip-hop’s first generation – the true Generation X – have mirrored the advances in musical technology. As rap’s delivery system transitioned from black wax to cassette tape to encoded shiny silver discs to digital downloads, we evolved from acolytes to record buyers to occasional concertgoers to unofficial music historians.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
February 9, 2011
King Of Latin Soul
The following article is from a review I wrote a couple of years ago for a certain New York-based weekly.
Born in the early ‘60s, Boogaloo has always been one of the most crucial and underestimated musical genres. A bare-bones mixture of Latin rhythmic instrumentation and doo-wop/soul harmonies, Boogaloo was a musical manifestation of the then ongoing civil rights movement with Latinos and African-Americans merging forces to create a vibrant urban sound with hits like Mongo Santamaria’s “Watermelon Man,” the Jimmy Castor Bunch’s “Hey Leroy, Your Mama’s Callin’ You” and two anthems by the Joe Cuba Sextet: “Bang Bang” and the slow jam “To Be With You.” This driving sound also directly impacted other musical genres like salsa, funk and rock (After all, what would the early work of Sly & the Family Stone, Santana, Chicago and Steely Dan have been without the Boogaloo template already in place?)
One prime back-in-the-day practioner of Boogaloo was East Harlem’s own Joe Bataan. Featuring vocals as visceral as the surrounding instrumentation, albums like Riot and St. Latin’s Day Massacre and songs like “Subway Joe” and “Gipsy Woman,” still sound vital because of the energetic performances by Bataan and bandmates like backup singer/trombonist Ralph “Chubby” Igartua.
As a lead vocalist, Bataan could never be classified as a silky-smooth crooner. Instead, what got him over was the pure primal emotion in his voice. In his late ‘60s heyday, he sounded like a guy on a darkened street corner with his eyes closed, singing his heart out to the melodies in his mind.
So what happened to Bataan? Well, after a ‘70s stint at Salsoul, a word and record label he created, he basically disappeared into the land of reissues.
In 2005, he resurfaced on the Vampisoul label with a rather ragged release Call My Name. It had the feel and sound of a retired fighter trying to get back into the ring. Yes, there were some fine moments but a raspy Bataan just wasn’t in shape yet.
Now he’s back on Vampisoul with a new disc and sobriquet: King Of Latin Soul. This time, backed by Los Fulanos - a terrific Barcelona-based nonet - Bataan might just earn that crown. Guided by the crisp production of the modestly named Miguelito Superstar, a revitalized Bataan romps through his refurbished catalog. “Mestizo” and “The Bottle” become Latin funk workouts while on the lilting “Special Girl,” the driving “Johnny’s No Good” and the poignant “I Wish You Love,” an ebullient Bataan combines the passion of his ‘60s heyday with a modern-day persona of an elder dispensing wisdom.
Not every cut on King Of Latin Soul hits the mark. Both “Latin Soul Square Dance” and the unfortunately titled “Rap-O- Clap-O 2008” are gimmick records best remembered then actually redone But when Bataan cuts loose with such heartfelt material like “The Prayer,” then such musical missteps are easily forgivable. King Of Latin Soul? Maybe not, but this record definitely makes a convincing case for being invited to the royal family ball.
Born in the early ‘60s, Boogaloo has always been one of the most crucial and underestimated musical genres. A bare-bones mixture of Latin rhythmic instrumentation and doo-wop/soul harmonies, Boogaloo was a musical manifestation of the then ongoing civil rights movement with Latinos and African-Americans merging forces to create a vibrant urban sound with hits like Mongo Santamaria’s “Watermelon Man,” the Jimmy Castor Bunch’s “Hey Leroy, Your Mama’s Callin’ You” and two anthems by the Joe Cuba Sextet: “Bang Bang” and the slow jam “To Be With You.” This driving sound also directly impacted other musical genres like salsa, funk and rock (After all, what would the early work of Sly & the Family Stone, Santana, Chicago and Steely Dan have been without the Boogaloo template already in place?)
One prime back-in-the-day practioner of Boogaloo was East Harlem’s own Joe Bataan. Featuring vocals as visceral as the surrounding instrumentation, albums like Riot and St. Latin’s Day Massacre and songs like “Subway Joe” and “Gipsy Woman,” still sound vital because of the energetic performances by Bataan and bandmates like backup singer/trombonist Ralph “Chubby” Igartua.
As a lead vocalist, Bataan could never be classified as a silky-smooth crooner. Instead, what got him over was the pure primal emotion in his voice. In his late ‘60s heyday, he sounded like a guy on a darkened street corner with his eyes closed, singing his heart out to the melodies in his mind.
So what happened to Bataan? Well, after a ‘70s stint at Salsoul, a word and record label he created, he basically disappeared into the land of reissues.
In 2005, he resurfaced on the Vampisoul label with a rather ragged release Call My Name. It had the feel and sound of a retired fighter trying to get back into the ring. Yes, there were some fine moments but a raspy Bataan just wasn’t in shape yet.
Now he’s back on Vampisoul with a new disc and sobriquet: King Of Latin Soul. This time, backed by Los Fulanos - a terrific Barcelona-based nonet - Bataan might just earn that crown. Guided by the crisp production of the modestly named Miguelito Superstar, a revitalized Bataan romps through his refurbished catalog. “Mestizo” and “The Bottle” become Latin funk workouts while on the lilting “Special Girl,” the driving “Johnny’s No Good” and the poignant “I Wish You Love,” an ebullient Bataan combines the passion of his ‘60s heyday with a modern-day persona of an elder dispensing wisdom.
Not every cut on King Of Latin Soul hits the mark. Both “Latin Soul Square Dance” and the unfortunately titled “Rap-O- Clap-O 2008” are gimmick records best remembered then actually redone But when Bataan cuts loose with such heartfelt material like “The Prayer,” then such musical missteps are easily forgivable. King Of Latin Soul? Maybe not, but this record definitely makes a convincing case for being invited to the royal family ball.
February 3, 2011
Grindhousin'
The following article is an expanded and uncensored version of a piece I penned a couple of years back for a now-defunct magazine. It's also a preview of an upcoming book of mine on cult movies.
James Agee. Andrew Sarris. Pauline Kael. Think about the mind-expanding theoretical insight and exquisite prose these great film critics gave us. Now wonder where we celluloid lovers would be without them. (Why, we’d be a country of – gulp - Elvis Mitchells.) But as brilliant as these cineastes were, a lifetime of New York City moviegoing has convinced me that some of the most salient and memorable filmic observations come from the regular ticket buying public. The following are some of my favorite critical assessments; statements I’ve overheard before, during and after screenings in a variety of neighborhood motion picture houses. In other words, these are reel opinions from real people.
Star Wars Episode 1 – The Phantom Menace: ‘Uh-uh, there’s no way, no way, that annoying little midget ends up as Darth Vader. No way!”
Star Wars Episode 2 – Attack Of The Clones: (During the fight scene between Yoda and Count Dooku.) “Yo, I didn’t know that Yoda trained under the Tasmanian Devil.”
Boogie Nights: “Goddam, Marky Mark sure be packin’!”
I Still Know What You Did Last Summer: “Damn, I spent 10 bucks to see Brandy get chopped up and didn’t even get a chance to savor that bullshit.”
Freddy vs. Jason: (Shouted right after Kelly Rowland got smashed into a tree by Jason.) “It’s destiny, child!”
Transformers: (After the transformer Jazz’s demise.) “How come even when they’re robots, the Black man has to be the only one to die?”
Heat: (Shouted right after the Al Pacino – Robert DeNiro diner face-off.) “Method Acting 101, y’all.”
Pulp Fiction: (Overheard after John Travolta accidentally shot Phil LaMarr in the back seat of the car that Samuel L. Jackson is driving.) “Is that brains in Sam Jackson’s hair?” “It ain’t just curl activator.”
La Bamba: “Yo, this ripped off The Buddy Holly Story!””
After a screening of the 1998 American remake of Godzilla starring Matthew Broderick and Jean Reno: “So, 150 million dollars later, it basically came down to Ferris Bueller and The Professional fighting a bunch of retarded raptors in Madison Square Garden.”
He Got Game: “Uh-oh, Spike’s gonna fuck up the ending again.”
The Killing Fields: (Just as the lights are going down in the theater.) “I hope there’s not a lot of violence in this.” “Hello, it’s called The Killing Fields. It takes place in Vietnam.” “So what, a Vietnam movie can’t still be quiet and tasteful?” “Once again, I repeat, The Killing Fields.”
I Robot: (After realizing that the female lead Bridget Moynihan would not, unlike her leading man Will Smith, be doing a nude scene.) “This is bullshit. How come I have to see the Fresh Prince’s ass but not the white bitch’s ass?”
Friday The 13th – The Final Chapter: (Yelled when the heroine is repeatedly striking the homicidally determined Mr. Voorhees with a machete.) “Hit that motherfucker again. Hit him again. Believe me, I’ve seen all of these movies. Hit him again!”
Certain actors have certain Brechtian qualities in that they produce works that continually engage the audience. (At least, they did until the paucity of their box office grosses relegated them to the direct-to-DVD section of your now-closed video rental store and reruns on Spike TV and the USA network.) I am, of course, referring to Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Seagal.. Here are some reactions to some of their greatest hits.
Timecop: (After a trademark Van Damme butt-clenching full split.) “I sure wish my man could do that.” “Why? What practical purpose would it serve?” “I don’t know but it’s just so pretty.”
Hard Target: (After an impassioned plot-advancing Van Damme monologue.) “Huh?”
Above The Law: (On the ticket buyer line before the screening.) “Why are we watching this?” “I don’t know why you’re here but I’m here for two reasons: Pam Grier!”
Out For Justice: (After Seagal’s third lengthy soliloquy in the film.) “Motherfucker, I didn’t come here to see you act.. I came here to see you kick ass.” (Immediately afterwards, Seagal springs into action shooting, gouging and throwing thugs out of windows.) “Now that’s what I’m motherfuckin’ talking about!”
Under Siege: “Aw shit, Seagal cut his ponytail. He must mean business.” “Yep, it’s Oscar time.”
And speaking of Oscar, here’s my all time personal favorite audience exchange. It was overheard during Reds, an ambitious epic which earned its star Warren Beatty the 1981 Academy Award for best direction.
Reds: (3 hours into this opus with Beatty emoting mightily onscreen, an elderly man nudges his equally elderly female companion.) “Who’s that?” “Why that’s Warren Beatty!!” “Oh, is he in this too?”
James Agee. Andrew Sarris. Pauline Kael. Think about the mind-expanding theoretical insight and exquisite prose these great film critics gave us. Now wonder where we celluloid lovers would be without them. (Why, we’d be a country of – gulp - Elvis Mitchells.) But as brilliant as these cineastes were, a lifetime of New York City moviegoing has convinced me that some of the most salient and memorable filmic observations come from the regular ticket buying public. The following are some of my favorite critical assessments; statements I’ve overheard before, during and after screenings in a variety of neighborhood motion picture houses. In other words, these are reel opinions from real people.
Star Wars Episode 1 – The Phantom Menace: ‘Uh-uh, there’s no way, no way, that annoying little midget ends up as Darth Vader. No way!”
Star Wars Episode 2 – Attack Of The Clones: (During the fight scene between Yoda and Count Dooku.) “Yo, I didn’t know that Yoda trained under the Tasmanian Devil.”
Boogie Nights: “Goddam, Marky Mark sure be packin’!”
I Still Know What You Did Last Summer: “Damn, I spent 10 bucks to see Brandy get chopped up and didn’t even get a chance to savor that bullshit.”
Freddy vs. Jason: (Shouted right after Kelly Rowland got smashed into a tree by Jason.) “It’s destiny, child!”
Transformers: (After the transformer Jazz’s demise.) “How come even when they’re robots, the Black man has to be the only one to die?”
Heat: (Shouted right after the Al Pacino – Robert DeNiro diner face-off.) “Method Acting 101, y’all.”
Pulp Fiction: (Overheard after John Travolta accidentally shot Phil LaMarr in the back seat of the car that Samuel L. Jackson is driving.) “Is that brains in Sam Jackson’s hair?” “It ain’t just curl activator.”
La Bamba: “Yo, this ripped off The Buddy Holly Story!””
After a screening of the 1998 American remake of Godzilla starring Matthew Broderick and Jean Reno: “So, 150 million dollars later, it basically came down to Ferris Bueller and The Professional fighting a bunch of retarded raptors in Madison Square Garden.”
He Got Game: “Uh-oh, Spike’s gonna fuck up the ending again.”
The Killing Fields: (Just as the lights are going down in the theater.) “I hope there’s not a lot of violence in this.” “Hello, it’s called The Killing Fields. It takes place in Vietnam.” “So what, a Vietnam movie can’t still be quiet and tasteful?” “Once again, I repeat, The Killing Fields.”
I Robot: (After realizing that the female lead Bridget Moynihan would not, unlike her leading man Will Smith, be doing a nude scene.) “This is bullshit. How come I have to see the Fresh Prince’s ass but not the white bitch’s ass?”
Friday The 13th – The Final Chapter: (Yelled when the heroine is repeatedly striking the homicidally determined Mr. Voorhees with a machete.) “Hit that motherfucker again. Hit him again. Believe me, I’ve seen all of these movies. Hit him again!”
Certain actors have certain Brechtian qualities in that they produce works that continually engage the audience. (At least, they did until the paucity of their box office grosses relegated them to the direct-to-DVD section of your now-closed video rental store and reruns on Spike TV and the USA network.) I am, of course, referring to Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Seagal.. Here are some reactions to some of their greatest hits.
Timecop: (After a trademark Van Damme butt-clenching full split.) “I sure wish my man could do that.” “Why? What practical purpose would it serve?” “I don’t know but it’s just so pretty.”
Hard Target: (After an impassioned plot-advancing Van Damme monologue.) “Huh?”
Above The Law: (On the ticket buyer line before the screening.) “Why are we watching this?” “I don’t know why you’re here but I’m here for two reasons: Pam Grier!”
Out For Justice: (After Seagal’s third lengthy soliloquy in the film.) “Motherfucker, I didn’t come here to see you act.. I came here to see you kick ass.” (Immediately afterwards, Seagal springs into action shooting, gouging and throwing thugs out of windows.) “Now that’s what I’m motherfuckin’ talking about!”
Under Siege: “Aw shit, Seagal cut his ponytail. He must mean business.” “Yep, it’s Oscar time.”
And speaking of Oscar, here’s my all time personal favorite audience exchange. It was overheard during Reds, an ambitious epic which earned its star Warren Beatty the 1981 Academy Award for best direction.
Reds: (3 hours into this opus with Beatty emoting mightily onscreen, an elderly man nudges his equally elderly female companion.) “Who’s that?” “Why that’s Warren Beatty!!” “Oh, is he in this too?”
January 22, 2011
The Best Music Of 2010 & More....
A few weeks back, I was asked to contribute to the Village Voice’s 2010 Pazz & Jop poll. (The results, of which, were published this past Wednesday.) What follows is what I sent in to the publication: my album and singles choices as well as some commentary on the musical output in the year 2010 with one important addendum.
Albums:
The Sea – Corinne Bailey Rae 20 points
Fellowship – Lizz Wright 20 points
The Promise – Bruce Springsteen 15 points
Iconos – Marc Anthony 10 points
The Fame Monster – Lady Gaga 8 points
20 ten – Prince 7 points
The Ladykiller – Cee Lo Green 5 points
Soldier Of Love – Sade 5 points
Olympia – Bryan Ferry 5 points
Teenage Dream – Katy Perry 5 points
Singles
"Bed Intruder" – Antoine Dotson
"Nothin’ On You" – B.o.B. featuring Bruno Mars
"F…. You" – Cee Lo Green
"Shine" – Pharoahe Monch
"When A Woman Loves A Man" – R. Kelly
"Telephone" – Lady Gaga featuring Beyonce
"Soldier Of Love" – Sade
"Second Chance" – El DeBarge
"Need You Now" – Lady Antebellum
"California Gurls" – Katy Perry featuring Snoop Dogg
The 2010 albums that affected me the most were The Sea by Corrine Bailey Rae and Fellowship by Lizz Wright. They’re such emotional polar opposites that they fused as one in my mind. Rae’s The Sea – the most devastating album about the death of a spouse since Yoko Ono’s Season Of Glass – ruminates on the lost of a love and the rage and confusion that comes with it while Wright’s Fellowship wholeheartedly believes in the joys of spiritual uplift and the power of hope. Loss & hope and hope & loss…ain’t that truly what 2010 was all about?
Put aside the fact that the superb quality of the 21 tunes on Bruce Springsteen’s The Promise are proof positive that during the years 1977 & 1978, the Boss was at a creative peak. No, the truly amazing thing about The Promise is that Springsteen’s decision not to put any of them on what is still his greatest album Darkness On The Edge Of Town was absolutely correct. As wonderful as songs like "Someday (We’ll Be Together)" and "Save My Love" are, they would have shattered Darkness’s carefully crafted mood of angst and desperation. But 33 years removed from the shadow of that masterwork, as compiled and sequenced in this collection, each individual track thrills and delights.
"Bed Intruder" justified Autotune. This time.
"Nothin’ On You" was pop music’s tastiest hook-laden confection.
What made Cee Lo Green’s "F… You" so wonderful is every lovestruck individual has felt that same sentiment in the midst of a romantic pursuit. The problem, of course, is that none of us could vocalize it as soulfully and melodically as Sir Cee. Until now, that is.
"Shine" was 2010’s greatest near-hit. Anchored by Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal, Pharoahe Monch – the best bubbling-below-the-surface rapper extant – and his cool, confident, concise cadence reminded many of us what’s missing in much of modern-day hip-hop: verbal clarity and rhythmic control.
Gotta admit that whenever I heard the Kool Moe Dee “Wild Wild West” quote in Sade’s "Soldier Of Love," I’d break out into a smile.
Whenever R. Kelly breaks out his retro soul man guise as he does on "When A Woman Loves A Man," he’s awfully hard to resist.
The joy of El DeBarge’s "Second Chance" is realizing that the sweetest male voice in R & B since Smokey Robinson still has his chops.
Why do I suspect that Ke$ha will end up being to Lady Gaga what Stacey Q was to Madonna?
Was I the only one who after reading for months all about her abusive relationship with Chris Brown who was discomfited by Rhianna singing the sadomasochistic hook on "Love The Way You Lie"?
The problem with Kanye West’s My Beautiful, Dark, Twisted Fantasy is it wasn’t that beautiful, wasn’t that dark, wasn’t that twisted and wasn’t that fantastic. It was a solid professional effort but certainly not the burn-the-house down album he’s capable of like, say, How I Got Taylor Swift Her Grammy! Now that’s a record even Matt Lauer could love.
Addendum: A couple of days after I sent in my list to the Voice, I was channel-surfing when I came upon a Banco Popular special entitled "Salsa: Un Homenaje A El Gran Combo." The show saluted arguably Puerto Rico's greatest musical big band - who else? - El Gran Combo. Now, El Gran Combo’s a group that always been part of the soundtrack of my life. From birthday celebrations to family get-togethers to blaring social club jukeboxes to raucous block parties, I’ve grown up surrounded by and enjoying their music. And, as one oft does with things they’ve spent their life around, I'm ashamed to admit that I took their wit, musicianship and verve - their consistent excellence - for granted. But, for some reason, it took that Banco Popular program to remind me of the staggering number of great records they’ve turned out in their near-half-century of existence. (Call it, for lack of a better term, a Salsa epiphany)
So I ran out and picked up El Gran Combo’s aptly-titled 2010 release: Sin Salsa No Hay Paradiso which was featured throughout the Banco Popular special. It’s a ten-track masterwork with these talented veterans at their very best. The songs, the singing, the playing, the arrangements are all superb. It's a disc that I just can’t stop playing. (Or - much to my neighbors’ dismay - stop dancing to it either.) If I were to hand in my list to the Voice today, it would certainly tie my previously listed top two albums. As it is, this time next year, it will probably reign atop of my 2011 list. I implore you not to wait until then to hear this sensational album. Do yourself a favor and check it out as soon as possible.
Albums:
The Sea – Corinne Bailey Rae 20 points
Fellowship – Lizz Wright 20 points
The Promise – Bruce Springsteen 15 points
Iconos – Marc Anthony 10 points
The Fame Monster – Lady Gaga 8 points
20 ten – Prince 7 points
The Ladykiller – Cee Lo Green 5 points
Soldier Of Love – Sade 5 points
Olympia – Bryan Ferry 5 points
Teenage Dream – Katy Perry 5 points
Singles
"Bed Intruder" – Antoine Dotson
"Nothin’ On You" – B.o.B. featuring Bruno Mars
"F…. You" – Cee Lo Green
"Shine" – Pharoahe Monch
"When A Woman Loves A Man" – R. Kelly
"Telephone" – Lady Gaga featuring Beyonce
"Soldier Of Love" – Sade
"Second Chance" – El DeBarge
"Need You Now" – Lady Antebellum
"California Gurls" – Katy Perry featuring Snoop Dogg
The 2010 albums that affected me the most were The Sea by Corrine Bailey Rae and Fellowship by Lizz Wright. They’re such emotional polar opposites that they fused as one in my mind. Rae’s The Sea – the most devastating album about the death of a spouse since Yoko Ono’s Season Of Glass – ruminates on the lost of a love and the rage and confusion that comes with it while Wright’s Fellowship wholeheartedly believes in the joys of spiritual uplift and the power of hope. Loss & hope and hope & loss…ain’t that truly what 2010 was all about?
Put aside the fact that the superb quality of the 21 tunes on Bruce Springsteen’s The Promise are proof positive that during the years 1977 & 1978, the Boss was at a creative peak. No, the truly amazing thing about The Promise is that Springsteen’s decision not to put any of them on what is still his greatest album Darkness On The Edge Of Town was absolutely correct. As wonderful as songs like "Someday (We’ll Be Together)" and "Save My Love" are, they would have shattered Darkness’s carefully crafted mood of angst and desperation. But 33 years removed from the shadow of that masterwork, as compiled and sequenced in this collection, each individual track thrills and delights.
"Bed Intruder" justified Autotune. This time.
"Nothin’ On You" was pop music’s tastiest hook-laden confection.
What made Cee Lo Green’s "F… You" so wonderful is every lovestruck individual has felt that same sentiment in the midst of a romantic pursuit. The problem, of course, is that none of us could vocalize it as soulfully and melodically as Sir Cee. Until now, that is.
"Shine" was 2010’s greatest near-hit. Anchored by Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal, Pharoahe Monch – the best bubbling-below-the-surface rapper extant – and his cool, confident, concise cadence reminded many of us what’s missing in much of modern-day hip-hop: verbal clarity and rhythmic control.
Gotta admit that whenever I heard the Kool Moe Dee “Wild Wild West” quote in Sade’s "Soldier Of Love," I’d break out into a smile.
Whenever R. Kelly breaks out his retro soul man guise as he does on "When A Woman Loves A Man," he’s awfully hard to resist.
The joy of El DeBarge’s "Second Chance" is realizing that the sweetest male voice in R & B since Smokey Robinson still has his chops.
Why do I suspect that Ke$ha will end up being to Lady Gaga what Stacey Q was to Madonna?
Was I the only one who after reading for months all about her abusive relationship with Chris Brown who was discomfited by Rhianna singing the sadomasochistic hook on "Love The Way You Lie"?
The problem with Kanye West’s My Beautiful, Dark, Twisted Fantasy is it wasn’t that beautiful, wasn’t that dark, wasn’t that twisted and wasn’t that fantastic. It was a solid professional effort but certainly not the burn-the-house down album he’s capable of like, say, How I Got Taylor Swift Her Grammy! Now that’s a record even Matt Lauer could love.
Addendum: A couple of days after I sent in my list to the Voice, I was channel-surfing when I came upon a Banco Popular special entitled "Salsa: Un Homenaje A El Gran Combo." The show saluted arguably Puerto Rico's greatest musical big band - who else? - El Gran Combo. Now, El Gran Combo’s a group that always been part of the soundtrack of my life. From birthday celebrations to family get-togethers to blaring social club jukeboxes to raucous block parties, I’ve grown up surrounded by and enjoying their music. And, as one oft does with things they’ve spent their life around, I'm ashamed to admit that I took their wit, musicianship and verve - their consistent excellence - for granted. But, for some reason, it took that Banco Popular program to remind me of the staggering number of great records they’ve turned out in their near-half-century of existence. (Call it, for lack of a better term, a Salsa epiphany)
So I ran out and picked up El Gran Combo’s aptly-titled 2010 release: Sin Salsa No Hay Paradiso which was featured throughout the Banco Popular special. It’s a ten-track masterwork with these talented veterans at their very best. The songs, the singing, the playing, the arrangements are all superb. It's a disc that I just can’t stop playing. (Or - much to my neighbors’ dismay - stop dancing to it either.) If I were to hand in my list to the Voice today, it would certainly tie my previously listed top two albums. As it is, this time next year, it will probably reign atop of my 2011 list. I implore you not to wait until then to hear this sensational album. Do yourself a favor and check it out as soon as possible.
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