Almoorica

Sneaker watch: Crocs now OK for Medical Doctors.

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

Apologies for lack of posting.

Recorded an album.

"Released" said album on compact disk.

Played several times to promote it.

Went on vacation.

Changed jobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opera Corner with Tim Harrington

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Crowes and Workloads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had me at "Blogging D-Bag"

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

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

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

Dive Lounges Dissected. Part II- PA's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February Malaise Music

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

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

This is no longer the case.

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

Wes Montgomery--Road Song.

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

Wilie Dixon--"I Am The Blues"

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

Keith Jarrett--"Vienna"

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

Dive Lounges Dissected. Part I- The Cantab

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

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

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

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

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

Joe Cook, the Cambridge music legend

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

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

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

Atwoods Tavern: Always Worth the Trip

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

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

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

Atwoods is suddenly the best bar around.

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

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

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

Guitar Tech Showdown: Mr. Music BESTS Rock City Guitars

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

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

well, I know a guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just 5 Years In--Almoorica Makes A Change

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

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

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

The Latest on Trucks with Testicles

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

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

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

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

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

Creep-Off!

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

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

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

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

Lets get it on!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great Moments in Fantasy Football History

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

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

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

Returning to Mr. Lif

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Case Against LeBron James

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Air Golf Swing

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

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

I started playing air guitar.

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

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

SOLD!

Springsteen & the Sportsfan

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesnt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Unmaking of Bill Belichick?? YOU make the call

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

"The Emperor."

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

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

-ESPN.com

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

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

The Bill Belichick Timeline--2006-2007:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucinda Williams at the ____ Pavilion

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

And Im back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NYC Meter Maids Issue Challenge: Undefeated Parking Ticket Appeal Deployed

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

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

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

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

Stay Tuned....

To whom it may concern:

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

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

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

With consternation,
Al Moore, Boston motorist