Underrated/ Sick Vids: Dio's "Holy Diver"

The coolest thing about Ronnie James Dio's 1983 video for "Holy Diver" is that it treats reality like a puppet -- a shadow puppet of doom. That is to say, Dio's definitely toying with the boundaries of the universe (as we know it) here. Artistically speaking, it's a well-executed clip, with Ronnie playing the smirking hero that has time to both slay the bad dude and sing the hook. And yeah, it suits the song fairly well: you don't want a Michel Gondry lego-fest with this shit, you want some fucking swords and some really fucking hot-looking lava! Let's not mince words, the "Holy Diver" video had to bring it hard, and it does so impressively.

But there's something more here, something that makes it Underrated-worthy. The storyline for this video is absolutely astounding. It opens in silence, with the camera panning across some healthy trees that suddenly become barren. Then, the rocking commences: that axe riff sinks its teeth into our hearts as we watch a cold, desolate castle of some kind set the scene. It becomes clear that a battle between the fair, noble Ronnie James, wielding a sweet sword and a sweeter perm, and Some Ugly Douche With an Axe is about to occur. As Dio strokes his sword suggestively and all but winks at the camera, we at home think, "...Dude's got this fight in the bag." And this proves to be the case, as one swift, feminine blow to the other guy's chest somehow stuns him into falling down (witness the hilariously sorrowful collapse at 1:25). Dio walks on, and as the first chorus climaxes with "Gotta get awaaaay...", we know that there shall be more battles for this silly motherfucker to face.

Or are there?

This is where the music video steers away from its battle-scene impulses and heads toward more philosophical ground. Ronnie James Dio sorta stalks around the castle for a minute, as this evil/childish black demon artwork keeps appearing on the screen. What the hell is this? We keep expecting to find out, but more detours are taken, as a mysterious blacksmith-esque man with a black mask that does nothing for his complexion provides our hero with the most fucking beast-mode sword in history. Dio leaves with the new sword, and now, at long last, you expect an epic duel with some sinister force, right as the song winds down in a tremendous heap of awesome. But like... the next minute of the video is devoted to Ronnie James walking like a complete moron as a bird squawks at him, and then accidentally stumbling upon three guys in red hoods chillin out in front of what I can only assume is a sick-ass volcano. At 3:13, when the third one looks up to reveal big, yellow eyes and no face -- the chills, my friend.

So now, of course, Dio will battle the greatest evil the world has ever known, using the most crotch-grabbingly bitchin' sword God has ever licked. Right? Wrong: instead, the video cuts to a shot of Dio once again outside of the castle, walking toward the camera until coming into a close-up, where his face is briefly swapped with that of the frustratingly cartoonish black demon. Then, I guess, he leaves. More shots of dead trees? You got 'em! And all becomes black.

One of two things is happening here: either the director planned to film a big battle scene and the video's budget of $4.75 wouldn't allow it, or Dio is using "Holy Diver" to question the fabric of our existence. By juxtaposing Dio's face with the demon, the director is suggesting that the noble hero may not be so pristine after all; such is the case with life. Why must we watch endless battles between good and evil, when we can look inside ourselves and find aspects of both extremes? We can cut down ugly enemies in our paths, we can receive the coolest weapon to fight evil, but no training or accessory will quell the evil that lurks within us. If our biggest enemy is essentially a shadow, like Ronnie James Dio's was, is this enemy representative of nothing -- or everything? How can we fight the enemy we cannot identify?

At 2:23 in the video for "Holy Diver", Ronnie James Dio captures his soul in a chokehold and lets out the high-pitched, crushing line, "The vision never DIIIIIES!" I think this is part of the reason that the main battle sequence was omitted from the video. If we were to actually view our internal demons, all of our greatest fears and insecurities, the vision would haunt us forever. All we can see is the progress toward defeating them, and the slow, steady walk toward victory. "Holy Diver" operates in the same vein as great postmodern artists such as Samuel Beckett and David Lynch, defining itself by reflecting the mirror upon its audience. We see ourselves in "Holy Diver", and understand that, sometimes, you don't need to see the most heart-wrenching battles to know that they have occurred within all of us. And also, that you're not going to do anything in this world unless you have the biggest fucking sword in the tri-state area. Thank you, Dio.

List Madness: Top Ten Rappers That Have One (Or One More) Great Album Left In the Tank

In my opinion, talent is much easier to detect in rappers than in, say, rock bands or pop singers, because a large amount of their "talent" comes from constant variables: their delivery, their writing, their overall persona. For the most part, none of these things change too much over a career; what seems to change are the subjects they focus on and the production/beats behind them. That's why, even while releasing a slew of shitty albums, a talented MC always has the opportunity to bounce back with a change in direction. Witness Jay-Z's lackluster "Kingdom Come" and critical hit "American Gangster": the man and his flow are basically the same, but on his latest CD, the actual songs are much tighter, and Jay stopped analyzing his old age and directed the spotlight once again on his intriguing youth as a hustler.

Here are ten rappers that I believe have one truly great album buried deep within them. Their talent on the mic has hinted at greatness, but they haven't been able to capture it on a fully realized release just yet (or, if they have, haven't shown they can do it recently). Go get 'em, fellas:

10. The Roots
The inspiration for this entry was the lame process of hearing some of The Roots' just-released Rising Down. Like their last two releases, it's so bogged down in maintaining a social conscience that it refuses to hint at some exciting new dynamic. The band's sound barely even matters anymore, since Black Thought's rhyming is as boring as a high school lecture on the importance of community service. Look, I'm not saying The Roots don't have a worthy cause, but I'd love to hear it channeled into something less anger-driven and more personally affecting. Black Thought is a thoughtful, sophisticated rapper; is it too much to ask for something as beautifully constructed as "Illadelph Halflife"? I don't think so.

9. Talib Kweli
Talib seems to be unable to create an interesting place for himself in the world of hip-hop: not as hard as most rappers, but not as willing to sell out as other PG-13 rappers like Common or Mos Def. Last year's Eardrum wasn't too bad when it finally saw the light of day, but it wasn't the masterpiece that he's hinted at since Quality. It's probably asking a lot, but I'd love to see Talib make a really fucking dark album, with someone like El-P providing a handful of nasty sci-fi beats. He doesn't have to get all gangsta on us, but Talib definitely needs some sort of edge to his delivery.

8. Scarface
Okay, yeah, it's not like Scarface has been too far off his game here. He released MADE this year to some well-deserved acclaim, coming off of an "I-ain't-rappin-no-more" stint. But still, Scarface hasn't made an out-and-out masterpiece in a long time. It's hard to judge whether or not he's still got one left in him, though: at 37 years old, Scarface is at the optimal age to walk away from serious recording and become a symbolic elder statesman. What else is there to prove, really? Well, I think he's got a puncher's chance to make another classic. After "T.I. vs. T.I.P.", the South could use someone like Scarface.

7. Twista
Twista: a man destined for guest-verse purgatory? Tough to say. He keeps knocking cameos out of the park, usually because he's light years ahead of the other rapper on the track stylistically. But then he'll release something like The Day After, and suddenly you think, "Hmm, maybe a full-length Twista album wasn't that good of an idea..." It's usually because he just raps about doin' girls and doin' drugs, and since Twista raps at warp-speed, his references to doin' these things mow you down until you're numb. I mean, I would never suggest that Twista's delivery is intrinsically tied to his failure as a solo artist, but... yeah, I have to suggest it. Maybe he should try calming down a bit, not worry about showing off his word-per-minute ratio, and start writing rhymes that are more thought-provoking and not designed exclusively for the club.

6. Eminem
Oh boy, where to start with this one? When Marshall Mathers comes back (and he will come back), it'll be interesting to see what sort of reception he receives, now that he purged himself of his genius on The Marshall Mathers LP and chose to carefully destroy the album image he created on his two follow-ups. What will he say, now that he's irrelevant in a world where pop culture has moved onto the next generation? My guess (and hope): he'll release a deeply bitter, reflective album, one in which none of the singles particularly connect well and the critics hail as his Blood On the Tracks. Eminem's got too much talent and too many demons to not release another staggering album. Let's hope he gets around to it soon.

5. Busta Rhymes
I refuse to believe that The Big Bang is the harbinger of Mr. Flip Mode Squad's career. Why do so many people forget that Busta Rhymes was, for a very long time, really fucking WEIRD? Because, after years of hanging out with Diddy, making songs like "I Love My Bitch", and pissing us off by cutting his dreadlocks, it's easy to overlook such explosive past offerings as "Woo-Ha!", "Dangerous", and "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See". The thing about Busta is that, as his production and hooks became more mainstream, his appeal as rap's wildly brilliant court jester sorta tapered off. Can Busta Rhymes be rescued from his "Ludacris, but a worse actor" fate? Of course he can. In some shape or form, the man will make another great collection of songs -- the moment he stops calling will.i.am and getting haircuts. (Busta, I'm sorry about the actor comment. You were pretty good as the brother in "Finding Forrester".)

4. De La Soul
I don't really wanna talk about why De La Soul is probably gonna make another amazing record. It'll just happen. It doesn't matter that they're old, that The Grind Date was good but not great, or that they don't seem to have any interest in recording another classic. It'll just happen. They're just that good. They will always be that good, and it will come as no surprise when they make another mind-blower. Enough said.

3. Method Man
See, this one's probably the trickiest to call, because Method Man might just be the single best rapper on this list, but he's by far the most inconsistent. Like Twista, he excels at killing the posse cut and squelches on the solo efforts he regularly produces. Unlike Twista, he already has a classic album (Tical) under his belt, not to mention his work as Wu-Tang's most recognizable member. But every time you think Johnny Blaze is ready to come back and smash the world, he puts out more unexceptional material. Dude's hard to pigeonhole. Still, as long as Method Man is still rhyming and the song "Bring The Pain" exists, you just have to believe that he'll eventually get it together and release his own Fishscale.

2. Cam'ron
No, Purple Haze was not an anomaly. Yes, Killa Season was a well-deserved victory lap. And yes, Killa Cam will release something that measures up to (or comes close to) the magenta masterpiece that I consider hands-down a top-ten rap album of the decade. It's very difficult for me to think otherwise, with Purple Haze's crackling wit, hilarious disses, and bizarre sexual come-ons still fresh in the mind. Cam'ron's rhyming style is wholly singular, and while his opinions about basically anything important are undoubtedly deplorable, he remains a genius in the studio. The Diplomats may be readjusting themselves, but Killa's personality is too irrepressible to stay in the shadows for long. My guess is, by next year, men, women, and children of all colors and creeds will be happily shouting "Dipset, bitch!" once more.

1. Cannibal Ox
If they ever get around to making it, Cannibal Ox's follow-up to The Cold Vein will cause many people to lose their respective shit. But there's that damn clause: if they ever get around to making it. Vast Aire and Vordul Mega have been quiet ever since reports of them working on a new record never lead to anything substantial. But let's be serious here: the guys will get around to it, and when they do, underground hip-hop will have a new bible to thump. This is because The Cold Vein is sorta perfect: fantastically engaging, with heart-pounding beats and enough personal insight on songs like "The F-Word" to make the listener feel like they've known the two MCs for years. If El-P can hibernate for a few years and come back with I'll Sleep When You're Dead, it's hard not to expect these two knuckleheads to do the same. And even if the follow-up is a crushing disappointment, Cannibal Ox are too talented to not give us another adrenaline shot someday. If anyone's got one great album left in the tank, it's these guys.

What Went Wrong: Madonna's "Comeback" Single

...gross.

Let's get right down to it. Three reasons why "4 Minutes", Madonna's lead single off of her new album Hard Candy, sucks:

1. It costars Timbaland and Justin Timberlake. I love Timbo and JT as much as the next guy, but there's something to be said for oversaturation. For all Timbaland accomplished as a producer in 2006, mega-hits with Timberlake, Nelly Furtado, and Young Jeezy ("3 A.M.", still a great banger) caused the man's head to swell and him to throw out his time-worn asset of subtlety. From Missy Elliott's "Get Ur Freak On" to Timberlake's "Cry Me A River" and Jay-Z's "Dirt Off Your Shoulder", Timbaland's beats have always sounded more stunning when they let the artist have his or her way with them. Ever since "Futuresex/Lovesounds", though, Timbaland's gotten thirsty to be numero uno, a position he doesn't have the voice or the persona for. "4 Minutes" is the sound of grave overcompensation: it's a Timbaland production that fires on too many cylinders, built around a boring horn riff and a chorus that's just musically ugly. As for Justin, well, he phones in the minor call-and-response action that he's assigned. "4 Minutes" is Timbaland's baby, really, and as good a team he and Justin have made, their collaborations have been a bit tired ever since "Shock Value". Timbaland, your victory lap is officially over; time to explore other options, potna.

2. Madonna isn't given anything to do. A Madonna single doesn't need Mrs. Guy Ritchie to slug notes out of the park as if she's Mary J. Blige. Hell, she barely has to say anything interesting or heighten her vocal range, as seen by "Ray Of Light" and "Music". But she's gotta do SOMETHING. "4 Minutes" sounds like Madge has been neutered. She's allotted about 1/4th of the song, and the lines she does have are handled without any form of pizzazz. Listen to the line "The road to heaven/ is filled with good intentions" at 2:39 into the song; has Madonna ever sung anything with less passion? Part of this is the fact that she's been overshadowed by Timbaland's frustrating beat and Justin's clunky singing, but come on, this is Madonna. Even if she doesn't have a great voice, she's got enough showmanship to drive a great hook. For a comeback single, Madonna sure sits around on the sidelines a lot here. But oh yeah, that's right...

3. Madonna didn't need a fucking comeback single. People are treating the decidedly Americanized "Hard Candy" as Madonna's return to form, working with hip-hop producers like Pharrell Williams and Kanye West after dabbling with Euro-dance music for the better part of a decade. The problem with this is that the past decade, starting with the William Orbit-produced "Ray Of Light" album, has been pretty goddamn successful for Madonna. Sure, there have been missteps like "American Life" and smooching the Spears, but most of what Madonna's tried has worked, from "Ray Of Light"'s rave music to "Music"'s music music to "Confessions on a Dance Floor"'s dirty dance tracks, which birthed one of her best singles ever, "Hung Up". In fact, "Confessions" and its subsequent tour have arguably been the most well-received, positive-press outings Madonna's put together in the '00s. Why change course now? To become a firmly-American pop star again, backed by radio-approved beatmakers? Granted, I haven't heard the rest of "Hard Candy", but it sounds like a backwards creative step for someone who so far has been aging suprisingly gracefully. And as far as American audiences, it has yet to resonate: it sold 280,000 copies its first week, down from "Confession"'s 463,000. After a triumph like "Hung Up", why digress with a song as calculated as "4 Minutes"? It kinda blows that, judging from this song and "Hard Candy"'s obscenely unnecessarily cover art, Madonna's choosing to be hip instead of really, really good.

The Great Debate: Is "Lollipop" the Most Important Song of the Last Five Years?

"No, I want the lollipop HERE!"

So first of all, apologies for the blatant infrequency. Chalk it up to an internship at Seventeen magazine, a really hard politics class, a radio show, and an awesome girlfriend for me to be distracted by this semester, I guess. But now it's summer, I'm done school, (almost) done my reign at Seventeen, and ready to blog. Two changes to come for "From Tha Chuuuch" over the next few months: it's gonna be almost exclusively focused on music, and it's gonna be daily. That second promise may be difficult to pull off, but fuck, man. I'm ready to make it happen.

As "Tha Carter III" gets endlessly pushed back, Lil' Wayne, largely recognized as the best rapper alive, has given us "Lollipop" to suck on. In the time Weezy released "Carter II" in '05, he's used sublime guest verses and a ridiculous mixtape output to become a critical hit. This isn't particularly newsworthy; Clipse basically did the same thing before "Hell Hath No Fury". The difference between the two is that Lil' Wayne has become equally recognized and respected in the mainstream market. He's on the cover of Vibe and XXL, dropping verses on Kanye and Jay-Z albums, and noticeably growing a cult fanbase, based on... what, exactly? "Da Drought 3"? I mean, as lethal as that mixtape is, it's still a mixtape, a medium that's not too optimal for commercial success for obvious reasons. "Carter II" is a solid disc, but it wasn't huge in '05, and its singles never received much airplay. So, Lil' Wayne has made himself a superstar based on material not available in retail stores, and now "Carter III" is more hotly anticipated than albums from veterans like Nas and T.I. It's a stunning achievement, honestly, and it sort of speaks to just how good those mixtapes (most notably "Drought 3" and "Dedication 2") have been.

Now... "Lollipop". Is this a joke? A cross between 50 Cent's mystical-penis misogyny and T-Pain's Framptonized vocoder vox? This is the new king of rap music? Lil' Wayne became famous over the past two years for his acrobatic rhyming skills and his incredibly unique voice. On "Lollipop", there's no rapping. None. Also on "Lollipop", Weezy F. Baby sounds nothing like our regular, beloved Weezy F. Baby. He uses a tired metaphor throughout the song (I'll let you guess what it is), discusses how he let some ho "lick the (w)rapper", and gives us a stinted drum machine with some minimal Souljah Boy synths. The fuck?

Well, "Lollipop" is a huge hit. It's also kind of good.

It's hard to defend "Lollipop" for several reasons, the biggest one being that it's a pretty terrible, stupid song. It's also difficult to justify its existence without appearing to be some apologist Lil' Wayne fanatic, refusing to admit that their idol sold out to hit #1. "No way," an apologist would say, "Weezy's just taking us in a new direction, perfecting the R&B-vocoder genre and giving us some catchy shit to nod our heads to. And plus, he's not really gonna make music like this forever."

All of this is more or less true. It is a new direction for Wayne, albeit a calculated attempt to capitalize on a booming music niche. But for all of its shortcomings, "Lollipop" has more soul than all of the last eight T-Pain singles combined. The first time you hear "Lollipop", you disregard it as trash. The second time, you notice how insanely emotional Lil' Wayne is throughout the song: he strains every ounce of his being to nail lines like "I liiiike that!", "Call ME/So I can make it juicy for ya", and "I make her feel RIGHT when it's wrong like lyin'". The third time you hear it, you will have the refrain "She li-li-licked me like a lollipop" stuck in your skull for the next six hours. Frustrated, and craving one more goddamn listen, you listen to it for a fourth time, and you start to think that the drum machine is actually pretty sweet, that Static Major is a serviceable hook-singer, and that the last minute is sickeningly great. It's a hypnotic process, really. Now, I keep retreating to "Lollipop" like a shameful sex junkie looking for just a quick piece of nookie. I know it's wrong, that on paper it's a terrible piece of music, but it's gotten me under its spell. I've been made a sucker.

Plus... c'mon, Lil' Wayne is still an amazing rapper. This is just the single to draw the masses into an album chock full of "I'm the man in this bitch/They say money talks, well, I'm the ventriloquist"s, right? Sadly, upon hearing "Lollipop", it's hard to expect the brilliance of "Da Drought 3" to linger over into an album seemingly made for commercial success. Expectations have to at least partially subside, because no one wants an album full of "Lollipop"s; one song without rhyming and with vocoder should be enough, thanks. Plus, the fact that its release keeps being delayed is never a good sign, especially when such spontaneous output as the mixtapes was like lightning in a bottle. No matter if you hate "Lollipop" or are kinda charmed by it, its existence has to make you a little nervous about what everyone believes to be a classic. And so, the "Carter III" wait uncomfortably continues...

But "Lollipop" should be noted for more than spiking anticipation about the album. This song, and everything it represents, is FASCINATING. An artist who started out as a Cash Money figurehead and Juvenile supporter ("Back That Azz Up", indeed) falls out of the limelight only to become a critical success on the basis of some raw mixtape power. Gaining some cred, he boosts his profile by guesting on some high-profile tracks, and suddenly the man's a rising star once again, though without that signature single as an anchor. "Tha Carter III", fast approaching, has been annointed the critical and commercial zenith in a genre quickly losing big names. With all the pressure in the world to live up to unusually curious fans and die-hard critics, Lil' Wayne releases "Lollipop".

This song feels like a plot twist no one saw coming. It's a complete musical departure, sure, but the audience it panders to sent it straight to #1; fuck me if this track isn't the jam of the summer. Critics eyeball it like Pandora's Box, either treating it like a puerile mess or praising it for, ya know, being okay and stuff. This isn't what they wanted. They wanted "I Feel Like Dying" to become a radio staple! Simply put, "Lollipop" is the point in which fans and critics have collided and coiled themselves around each other. It's the career apex for Weezy's popularity; it's the long-awaited surge of the critics' new pet rapper. No single song since "Hey Ya!" has had such a huge impact on the commercial and critical world -- the past five years have seen the radio cling onto Ne-Yo and Nickelback, and the 'zines heap praise upon Ghostface Killah and Panda Bear. This is generalization, but crossover between the two sects has been very small. "Lollipop" is the point where the critical darling becomes the people's champ, and the bloggers who nursed him back to health don't know what to do. Hate it or love it, Weezy The Underdog's on top, with a fucking vocoder and a lollipop. How is this NOT the most important song of the last five years?

Underrated/ Down to "The Wire": Season 2, The Best Season of "The Wire"

"The Wire" ended tonight. Yep, one of the best shows in the history of television ended tonight, and while it was enough to get me out of my self-imposed blogger hibernation period, it's not quite enough to get me to reflect on the final episode, and the final season, of the show -- yet. The fifth season was probably my least favorite, which seems in line with a lot of comments circulating the web these days, and I'll likely discuss why in my next post. But for now, let's take a moment to reflect on the ugly stepchild season, season 2.

I'm an ass-backwards "Wire" fan. As I've mentioned in an earlier post, I started watching season 2 before I watched season 1, because I could only find season 2 online at the time, which doesn't make much sense but I'm sticking to my story. From there I was hooked and wanted to see where the plot lead, so I watched season 3, then season 4. At this point season 5 was still two months away, so I spent a weekend at home from college, using my On Demand feature, ignoring my parents, and inhaling season 1's 13 episodes in 2 days. It underwhelmed me. Coming off of the complexity of 3 and 4, season 1 seemed like the characters were still being sketched out, and while this is perfectly fine for a first season, it still couldn't stack up to the others. I mean, c'mon, Wallace isn't half as interesting a character as Carcetti, or Michael, right? Even Stringer and Avon were broad caricatures at the time, and D'Angelo will always resemble a punk to me. So before season 5, I thought season 1 was by far the weakest. Yeah, I know, I don't make sense.

But let's back up. Why was I hooked at this point, enthused enough to watch seasons 3 and 4 in about a week each? Because I decided to give season 2 a try, and after I figured out who the hell all these characters were and what they were doing in this little universe, I couldn't help but keep watching. Maybe I'm just saying this because I watched it first, or maybe because the Avon/Stringer stuff never interested me as much as the police work being done, or maybe it's because my skin is white. But fuck it. Season 2 of "The Wire" is the show's best season.

A lot of my reasoning has to do with the actual structure of the season, which is head and shoulders above the others except for maybe season 4. Season 2 starts with the jolt of the 14 dead girls found in a can on the docks (disclaimer: if I mess up any or all of the details of this season, I apologize; I haven't watched it in its entirety since September), and from there it's a slow, steady burn. The police work is careful and shrewd, and the writing is focused on characters and attuned to detail. The setting of the docks is astonishingly fleshed-out: we get to wake up early with these guys, share drinks with them, get inside their heads. It's a little weak that the detail on Frank Sobotka arises from him basically ruffling Stan Valchek's feathers, but the way the murder case and the detail fold into each other is flawlessly paced. Most importantly to me, the steadiness is transferred to the drug storyline, which is admittedly slow but not without explosiveness. The hotshot in the prison, Stringer's seduction of D's girl before he orders his execution, the powerful presence of Prop Joe and the growing disconnect between Stringer and Avon are all deeply felt. That scene where D'Angelo talks about "The Great Gatsby" ("he frontin' wit all them books, but if we pull one down off the shelf, ain't none of them pages ever been open") is one of the best-written monologues I've ever heard, and is well worth the season's absence of gang-banging and violent drama.

The emotional violence is left for the Sobotkas. Frank, Nick and Ziggy are the epicenter for season 2, and the lynchpin for its success. Luckily, the trio are the most relatable band of miscreants the show has ever offered. Believe me, I love me some Omar, but can I REALLY relate to a gay, shotgun-wielding, Honey Nut Cheerios-loving stick-up artist? Nick is the everyman, the Polish union lackey who, fed up with shrinking hours and a bland lifestyle, tries to dabble in some extracurriculars and does horribly. He may not be the most outlandish character, but he feels very real, as does his lumbering uncle Frank. The boss man tries to keep the docks alive by buying a couple rounds and trying to be everything to everybody, even though he can't be a father to his son. Ziggy is an ass for most of the season, but he's a likable ass, the screw-up who wants to prove that he's not a screw-up even though he knows he is. Watching him slowly sink into the crimes he's too sweetly bone-headed to commit was like seeing someone be overcome by quicksand. When he killed a guy who knew he was a screw-up, we saw his ragged vulnerability fully revealed; when he turned himself in to the police, we saw what is in my opinion the finest single scene "The Wire" has ever produced: his final stinted conversation with Frank, now separated from him by a metallic prison table. "I got tired of being a punchline to every joke," he laments to his father, who doesn't know what to say. It's a gut-wrenching scene that sets up the series' two most tragic figures: Ziggy, the clown who couldn't handle the world's seriousness, and Frank, the father whose overambition made him lose everything he loves.

But let's cut to the chase: season 2 is much more subtle and implosive, but that doesn't mean there's a shortage of pulse-pounding drama. The police work of the show has never been as gripping, from Daniels' grudging participation to McNulty's brilliance during exile to the sly maneuvering of Beadie Russell. Unlike season 1, the roles of the cops were rounded out nicely, and the dialogue and in-fighting between them were electric. Simply put, many of the scenes were just executed beautifully as well. That scene where the police just barely miss putting the lock on Sobotka by tipping him off that something's funny had my heart racing. And the penultimate episode couldn't have ended with a more incredible shot: Frank Sobotka, walking toward the Greek, the shoreline, and his certain death. After that episode, how could you NOT be hooked? And while the finale was not as compelling as the end of season 4, it wrapped up the prostitute murders and Greek storyline in a believable fashion, and gave us the silhouette of rocky things to come between Avon and Stringer in season 3. And Nick Sobotka was saved, as he rightfully should have been. The final shot of him looking through a fence at the fallen docks empire his father had created could not have been more apt.

So scoff if you will, tell me I'm insane. You're probably right. As "The Wire" ends, we'll all have our personal memories of the show, and most people will not share mine. But in a show that focuses on the downfall of the American city, I will always find a storyline about a working-class character who tries bending the rules to make up for waning wages -- and the terrible consequences such a decision leads to -- much more in line with the world around us than a bunch of disciplined gangsters holding board meetings, or a dude with a shotgun sticking up the stash in the world's most risky anti-drug campaign ever. This is over-simplification/blasphemy, I know. But the story, the writing, and the characters of Season 2 will always resonate with me the strongest. "The Wire" is over, but I will always have that memory of watching Season 2 late at night in my dorm room, watching the Sobotkas and co., and wondering why this little cop show that nobody watches was so goddamn good.

Underrated: The Terribleness of the 2008 Grammys

Sometimes, I'm completely the man...

I was gonna write a post bitching and moaning about the 2008 Grammys; oh, believe me, I was. But what's the point? It's sort of after the fact (happened two whole days ago) and people have moved on. More importantly, the Grammys themselves will never change, no matter how much criticism they receive for being completely disconnected from the rest of the universe. The fact that the Grammys exist in its own nebulous where Alicia Keys is holy and everything can be solved with a interpretive-dance tribute concerns me none. Frankly, I think it's sad and a little pathetic that the U.S. does not have a valid award for musicians. Think about it. Despite what a lot of people think, the Oscars seem to get it right a lot, especially this year when two of 2007's greatest films, "No Country for Old Men" and "There Will Be Blood", are up for Best Picture. Even the Emmys have been pretty spot-on as of late; how else to explain the worthiness of winners like "30 Rock" and "The Sopranos"? Sure, some of the indie favorites get passed over, from "The Wire" to Wes Anderson's career, but at least there's a common denominator between critics and the awards for these mediums.

The Grammys, in comparison, are ass-backwards. They nominate popular artists because "popular" means "best" to them, but not BAD popular like Hinder or Nickelback, only GOOD popular, John Legend and Feist, the artists you can take home to mom. Obviously the Grammys are geared toward an older generation for viewership, which is why John Fogerty, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard scared the bejesus out of everyone with the night's final performance. But then what the hell is this? An awards show based around old-timey viewers? The nominations are already uninformed, why must we blindly pick musical performers as well? I mean... I have major beef(s) with LCD Soundsystem, but seriously, how in the name of fuck how can they appear in EVERY SINGLE TOP 10 LIST this year and not get one single nomination from what's supposed to be the quintessential music awards? That's the closest I'm getting into a rant, but I think that's a valid question. If nothing else, it forces even the most casual music fan to see a wild disconnect between the Grammys and the rest of the human world.

But enough of that. Even if I just inadvertently bitched and moaned, let's now turn to happier times: a list of four things about the 2008 Grammys that made me smile. In no particular order:

-- Daft Punk. That's right, somebody came up with a GENIUS idea to bring DP and Kanye together on stage for "Stronger", and I guess the thought had just never occurred to me up until I saw Mr. West dancing around that brooding French pyramid, but it was still pretty inspired. You gotta wonder how people like Bonnie Raitt and Ringo Starr reacted when they saw the pyramid open up and those two knucklehead robots doing their thing; I hope Bonnie's mind was fucking blown, and I hope Ringo was envious to be a part of that collective. The fact that they were just pressing random squares on a keypad, as if they were controlling every inch of music when they clearly were not, was pretty sweet too. Would anybody have minded if Kanye left the stage and they broke into some "Digital Love"?

-- That mind-warping gospel performance. The combination of Aretha Franklin's monstrous dress, that one guy who was waving a trombone around and clapping a lot, and the general air of "...okay, wait, what's this all about?" was one for the ages. What this nine-minute tribute to a irrelevant genre to the Grammys lacked in subtlety, it made up for in Israel and New Breed, and the Clark Sisters, and Trin-i-Tee 5:7, and about 78 other people. I couldn't help but smile as nothing made sense.

-- The guy who holds up the mirror so Morris Day can see how pretty he is, mid-performance. Poetic.

-- Herbie Hancock winning Album of the Year. I'm not even gonna relish in the fact that I PREDICTED THIS, on this here very blog, and felt very very smart when I heard the gasps and saw that old S.O.B. skip toward the stage. I just thought, "Good for Herbie Hancock. He proved that he could win Album of the Year with an album no one has ever heard of." What went down at the Grammys was an act of mischievous wonder: Hancock cracked the code. He exposed the Grammy's prejudice against new and interesting music. He proved that all you need is a fail-safe concept for your album (tribute to another great artist), the "classic" reputation, and a sprinkle of fairy dust, and you will have the year's Best Album. Will anyone take this award seriously after this, arguably a more ludicrous win than that one Steely Dan album and the 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' soundtrack? Herbie Hancock has just imploded the Grammys. I bet he's still laughing. How can you not admire the guy?

Down To "The Wire": Midseason Thoughts

"He was in the glee club."

Technically, I've seen the first seven episodes of the fifth and final season of "The Wire", but I won't spoil anything about the two episodes that haven't aired yet. What's been interesting about season 5 for me is the fact that I can't inhale the eps like I did for the first 4 seasons using torrents; I 've basically had to watch one episode a week, and the days in between have been painfully long.

Midway through the season, I'm finding it difficult to locate where season 5 belongs on the greatness meter when compared to the other four seasons. The serial killer plotline and the way it's linking itself to Scott Templeton is arguably the center of this season, and it seems that, if you go along with the thread without holding a grudge, you'll enjoy the season more. Frankly, it goes against the grain of the show by being so unrealistic; c'mon, how many times have cops fictionalized serial killers for more police funding? If it's not a plotline straight out of a bottomfeeding "L&O" ep, it at least treats the gritty cop beat the way "House" treats standard medical practice. Personally, I think it's a lot more interesting to think of it more as a critique of our sensationalizing society (adding bite marks to draw media attention is a terrifyingly truthful detail) and a character study of McNulty. Sure, Lester's helping him with the dynamics and Bunk's reacting like a sane person, but Jimmy's leap off the deep end is pretty damn compelling, especially after his moral breakthrough in season four. Watching him deteriorate back into a drunk and a hound helps justify the looniest, most insubordinate idea he's ever had, but the fact that he's doing it to get police work done and nail a man who dropped 22 bodies and is ruling the West side -- a man who's case the mayor sort of dismissed -- somewhat rationalizes his out-of-the-box actions. This is a man pushed to the edge, a smart man who knows how to manipulate bosses and the media so that he can get the funding to drop Marlo. If you don't dig the serial killer plot (and trust me, I've had days of disapproval), at least recognize what a fascinating character McNulty is.

On the other side of the coin, somebody get Jamie Hector some kind of fucking award, because his performance as Marlo should be the stuff of legend. As if anyone doubted the cold-bloodedness of the kid, the way he dropped Prop Joe (R.I.P.) without batting an eye or saying more than "I was never made to play the son" was truly chilling. The best part about him is that he's ridiculously successful: with a connect to the Greeks and Joe out of the way, the kid's on his way to becoming untouchable. It'll be interesting to see whether or not McNulty and Lester can bring him and his goons down by season's end, or if they still takin over, one city at a time. My gut tells me that "The Wire" does not pull any punches, and will not gift-wrap a happy ending into their depiction of the streets of Baltimore, so I think Marlo stands upright at the end of episode 10. It would be damn depressing, but having the ultimate incarnation of evil succeed would be pretty historic as well (since the Patriots lost in the Super Bowl).

Of course, Marlo's gotta dodge Omar first (SPOILER: falling out of that window wasn't the last we'll see of Mr. Honey Nut Cheerio's). Slate.com's recent article on "The Wire" criticized the show for routinely suspending its realism so that Omar can stick around, and I gotta say, it's a valid point. I mean, how the HELL is that guy not dead yet? The window stunt was probably the deepest dip into Fantasyland yet. Omar is obviously a central figure and lovable character, but his wild-card status is starting to look a little cartoonish on a show this trench-deep in reality. Not saying I love my man Mr. Little any less, although I can almost guarantee that Omar will be a goner by season's end, especially with his newfound thirst for dispatching Marlo. As we've seen before, Chris Partlow does not fuck around. I'm all about Omar taking down the king, but my money's on Chris when the two square off.

And then there's the newsroom. I don't want to dwell on this part of the show in the same way I never want a particular episode to dwell on the Baltimore Sun storyline. I don't dislike what David Simon is doing here, but it doesn't really gel with the rest of the show in the way the school storyline or even the docks of season 2 did. I think that's because it's too removed from the drug trade, the streets, the central focus of the show. From the way Hamsterdam was shoehorned into the politics-driven third season to the way we watched Frank Sobotka and Michael Lee fall in with the wrong crowd of slingers, drugs and the violence they put into motion were always pretty central to the "Big Issue" storylines of "Wire" seasons. There's a feeling of disconnect surrounding Simon's analysis of a dying newsroom, and it makes it appear more agenda-driven than it probably is. It doesn't help that all of the characters are either good or bad (good: Gus, Alma, old-timey copy editors; bad: Templeton, guy who plays Doug in 'Flight of the Conchords', main editor/suspenders enthusiast), and that's about all. We understand that there are those who abide by the sacred laws of journalism and those who want to sharpen their resume by sensationalizing their writing, and this was interesting when it was a movie called "Shattered Glass", but it doesn't congeal with the world of cops, dealers and politicians that "The Wire" has established over four brilliant seasons.

My criticisms are probably magnified, though. Omar and the BS newsroom are realistic and entertaining enough to still allow "The Wire" to wear the Best Show On Television Without A Doubt crown. There's a ton more about the first five episodes that I could talk about -- the awesomeness of Carver, Method Man's rise to Emmy-worthy status, the "why spend so much time on this?" nature of the Clay Davis trial -- and if you want my opinion, feel free to comment. Truth be told, with only five episodes left (three for me!), I'm starting to get a bit misty-eyed. I guess I'm gonna start watching "Dexter" when it's over, even the CBS commercials for it look kick-ass.

TV Me: Why Under Armour Won Best Super Bowl Ad '08

I hated both teams playing in last night's contest. The Patriots are seemingly a team of endless assholes, while the Giants are the Giants, so as an Eagles fan I cannot root for them, especially when they have the most sinister-looking coach in the world. So last night I decided to have the least-football-influenced Super Bowl party ever: myself and my girlfriend and four female friends, none of whom really cared about the game of football. We brought in a pizza, laughed at Tom Coughlin, considered playing Guitar Hero, and were ridiculously excited for the stupid advertisements. Everyone wanted to see what would be the year's fan favorite, the one commercial sure to unite a nation. I didn't have to wait long for my pick.

The year? The future; specific things such as numbers no longer matter. The sky is a hazy dash of orange, and we are in a post-apocalyptic city, presumably destroyed due to years of economic decline, perhaps because of shoddy athletic apparel. There is a football stadium, and we see the Under Armour logo in the middle, suggesting an alternate universe where Under Armour is a football team. The only football team.

Holy fucking shit.

A narrator, speaking in some sort of Asian drawl, says, "All new prototypes... leave everything behind." We then cut to various good-lookings working out: a man with dreadlocks drags a tire (?) across a dusty alley, a woman weaves back and forth holding a cinder block in front of three humongous spinning fans, two people sorta fuck around on a big block of ice, etc. "We! Started this thing!" a more manly voiceover proclaims. "It's us! Versus them!" And then it cuts to a shot of Baltimore linebacker/accused murderer Ray Lewis, lifting what appears to be a gnarled scaffold in order to build a more perfect Under Armour universe. He looks calm, yet dissatisfied.

This is 30 seconds of the minute-long Under Armour commercial that aired during the first quarter of last night's game, and it was at about this point that I fell hopelessly in love with it. Combining a vague sense of confusion, people working out alongside incongruous hunks of metal, and Ray Lewis has ALWAYS proved successful, but this spot really goes the distance. What I find disconcerting is that everyone has appeared to callously ignore it. I have read at least a dozen articles today detailing the best and worst commercials of last night, and not a single one has mentioned this ad. The Coke commercial with the parade balloons seems to be the overwhelming favorite, and while I admit that it was cute, no one worked out on a block of ice in it, so it was automatically disqualified. On a side note, is it entirely possible that Budweiser, which has long been the leading advertiser for the Big Game, cannot find a single person who can think of better ideas for their ads? Does anyone enjoy them?

The Under Armour army grows and grows, and now the well-clad muscular dudes are banding together in the streets. They are clearly heading toward a similar location; one guy looks at another, who gives him a quick nod that conveys a "Yo, this shit is about to get REAL" attitude. The Under Armour leader is seen walking through a dark corridor, contemplating his speech for the masses. Suddenly we are at the rally, which is mobbed with people and decked with Nazi-like Under Armour banners streaming from the sky. Our fearless leader is restless.

"The game... has CHANGED!" he snarls. "It all starts... TODAY!" Reaction shots of his constituency; yeah, they know what the fuck's up, man.

"YOU... are the new prototypes! WE... are Under Armour!" The music swells. I'd like to mention that, in back of the leader, a large red TV screen is showing designs of sneakers, which may be the funniest thing I could ever think of showing at what appears to be a war-mongering speech. Suddenly the leader becomes enamored by the spirit.

"The FUUUUUTUUUUURE..... IIIIIIS.....

OUUUUUUUUUUUURS!"

I can't really convey how much I personally related to this ad. First of all, I want to make clear that I have no idea what the fuck is going on in it. These people are apparently training for something, something big, something that I can't imagine when the only war I know is one concocted under false pretenses. They are about to fight for something real. I don't really know what they're all about to do after this dude is finished his soapboxing about games and change and prototypes, but I know it's going to be awesome as hell. It sounds like they're gonna go to war, but with whom? Adidas? Maybe. They might be getting ready to compete in some sporting event, but what would require an army of thousands in order to win? But clearly something is starting today, and they are the new prototypes... hm. "Prototypes", that word troubles me. Are they all robots? Who is the "we" that the leader is referring to as Under Armour, their gods and creators? Perhaps Under Armour is launching a calculated coup upon the nation, in which UA-clad robots overthrow our government and establish UnderArmourocracy. Hey, Obama had an ad last night, maybe this was just a little less subtle.

...It's his eyes, that's what always get me. When the leader says "The fuuuutuuuure," he's so damn convicted to Under Armour that you cannot overlook his credibility. And his muscles; that's what lets me know that he's cool. The rest of the game I was anxiously awaiting a sequel to this spot, perhaps depicting an Under Armour revolution of sorts, with shots of Ray Lewis twisting the necks of Nike douchebags. There's always next year. Until then, I shall savor this poetic advertisement, and dream of a day when I myself am the new prototype. Keep your stupid Coca-Cola commercials. You say you want a revolution? Join the ranks of Under Armour, while you still can, bitch.

My Week With Mono/What Went Wrong: "Art School Confidential"

" Malkovich. Malkovich Malkovich."

So there were only a few movies on our On Demand feature that I showed a slight interest in during the time I was sick, which just shows how finicky I am, because I have 5 On Demands that each holds about 100 movies. I watched "For Your Consideration" again (INSANELY underrated, needs a second viewing) and the beginning of the new "Dawn of the Dead", which I regard as the best opening to any horror film ever. At one point, I was trying to decide between "Babe" and "Final Destination" when I stumbled upon the title "Art School Confidential". Even though I usually prefer to watch old chestnuts when I'm sick, and even though "Confidential" got some seriously shitty reviews when released, I immediately selected and watched it.

Let's make one thing clear: "Ghost World" is probably one of the smartest movies made in the past decade, and it could easily be argued to be a modern classic. For a story as idiosyncratic as Enid's journey, director Terry Zwigoff and writer Daniel Clowes seem to navigate through each and every one of the trappings of the "quirky indie movie", almost impossibly. The characters are broad but never ridiculous caricatures, a la Tim Burton; Enid's awkwardness is thoroughly explored but never exploited as if she was a Todd Solondz character; and as much as I love Wes Anderson, his dialogue is always a bit too romanticized, to a point where a character's speech has no place in reality (see Klaus in "Life Aquatic"). "Ghost World", on the other hand, is very, very real. It feels vital, maybe because the direction is so crisp and the "dum! dum! dum!" score so urgent, or maybe just because I can personally relate to Enid's attitude of post-high school cynicism toward everything and everyone. No, "Ghost World" is so good because, more than any other movie in recent memory, you completely lose yourself in Enid's point of view; you see the world exactly as she does. God, Enid's dad's girlfriend Maxine does nothing particularly offensive throughout the film, but because Enid just fucking hates her, you find yourself wincing whenever she's on screen! I could mention the graphic novel, or Zwigoff and Clowe's past collaboration "Crumb", but I know very little about either, so I will say this: "Ghost World" rulez 4ever.

Well, "Art School Confidential" is Zwigoff and Clowe's follow-up, and although I wasn't expecting "Ghost World 2", I thought there was definite possibility for this to be an overlooked gem. It's not as bad as critics would want you to believe; there's a handful of funny situations, and you can see that the narrative had some real sparkle before something went wrong and we received the final product. I wouldn't even call it 'misguided', because it accomplishes its task of deconstructing the pretentious world of the art school campus and makes a point, through the awkward journey of main character Jerome (Max Minghella), of showing that the world of art can and will break down any sense of idealism an aspiring young lad may have. Yeah, but so what? This is all unmarked fodder, but it's neither pleasant nor interesting, at least in the way Zwigoff has constructed this film. You just don't care about anything on screen, and even if you think this is a smart film, it's not exactly fun to watch.

Take the two father figures of the story. Jerome's a teenager who wants to be the best artist in the world, and upon first entering art school, he seeks guidance on how to accomplish this. One of his buddies tells him about Jimmy, a middle-aged former artist who has been broken down by the system and now takes drinks between telling various people to fuck off. Jerome also tries to enlist the help of Professor Sandiford, who clearly hides his contempt for being passed over in the art world and relegated to the realms of teaching under a thin coat of insincere cheer. Jimmy tells Jerome to fuck off; Sandiford tells him to keep trying to find himself, which leads to a sort of obtuse frustration for the young lad. Jim Broadbent and John Malkovich play these roles well enough, and the audience understands that Jerome is terrified of being doomed to either one of their fates. The problem is that Jimmy is so balls-out awful that he's hard to watch, and Sandiford is too bland to feel sympathy for. Jerome just sort of drifts through his conversations with them without any reaction, and the audience does the same for the most part.

It's difficult to not compare Jerome to Enid, because they are Zwigoff's unconstituted protagonists and polar opposites. The whole point of "Ghost World" was to depict the way post-high school uncertainty can end up crippling many teenagers, even (perhaps especially) the most self-assured of us, but it never once spells this out. "Confidential" wants to poke fun at art schools, and it offers us Jerome, who's wide-eyed enough to believe that he can change the world through art, or at least get tons of ass because of it. But that's about it to him. I don't really remember anything else distinguishing about him, besides his defined eyebrows, and even those aren't too defined. He's in some pretty amusing situations, and interacts with some pretty amusing characters (Ethan Suplee's hack director is an inspired character), but nothing seems to make an impact on him, or us. Maybe "Art Sch0ol Confidential" is realistic, but unlike "Ghost World", it never congeals as anything too engrossing. It's a one-sided analysis of a concept that could have been fleshed out into something really mesmerizing. In short, it's a disappointment.

"Art School Confidential" takes a late-inning twist that doesn't really do much to salvage the narrative, but it's worth noting because it's completely insane; not exactly ridiculous, but it requires one of those "WHOA, what the hell just happened?" moments. I won't give anything away, but it involves a serial killer plotline that's totally out of place, and ends the note on a valuable statement that's jammed down our throats. That's sort of the movie though. Definitely worth watching because of what Zwigoff and Clowes have to offer, but it might be better viewed before seeing "Ghost World", just so hopes aren't too dashed.

My Week With Mono: The Beauty of "Derailed"

So when I was in the middle of my week with mono, "Derailed" was on Showtime at like midnight. That night I had planned to watch some "Flight of the Conchords" and fall asleep around 12:30, but I dunno, for some reason I started watching this. Not that there was any palpable reason to. My friend said that this movie was so bad that he fast-forwarded it and only watched the scenes with the RZA (more on that later). But I like Clive Owen, and I like the concept of Jennifer Aniston being in dramas/not always smiling, and I turned it on during the scene where Owen's character tells Aniston's character something like, "I bet I can kiss you without ever touching your lips." All right, Clive Owen. I'll play your game, at least for a few scenes.

I ended up watching the whole damn movie, because frankly, I couldn't muster the will to change the channel. "Derailed" is a preposterous, overwhelmingly stupid film, but if you tell me that it isn't entertaining, I will call you a liar. It's not a terrible movie, but it seems more ridiculous than it is because it continuously stays within the Clint Eastwood realm of look-at-me-frown, give-me-an-Oscar seriousness. I mean, Jesus, Owen and Aniston may take part in the first smile-less affair ever. But just when you think it's a humorless mood piece, in struts Bobby Digital as Clive Owen's friend named Winston, and Mr. X to the Z himself Xzibit as a muscle named Dexter. The fuck?

Anyway, so Charlie (Owen) and Lucinda (Aniston) are both married and (from what I gathered, missed the first 10 minutes) started flirting on a train. They decide to get a room at Sketchy Hotel (hearing Rachel Green say the line, 'I think... I want to fuck you' was pretty unnerving), but before they get down to bizness, a French (?) robber named Laroche (Vincent Cassel, reprising his role as smirking prick from 'Ocean's 12') waves a gun around, knocks Charlie the fuck out, and rapes Lucinda. They can't call the cops because of their cheatin' ways, and when Laroche calls Charlie asking for a couple grand, Clive Owen's brow furrows and more trouble arises.

From there, the CRAZIEST shit starts happening. There's one scene in which Laroche shows up to Charlie's house and tells his wife and kid that he's a colleague, and then when the family's out of the room, he fucking stabs Charlie and tells him to give him $100 grand. Later, the RZA is shot in the face mid-sentence. Then a prostitute propositions Charlie, and when he says no, a cop pulls up and yells at Charlie for not taking on the whore. There are two major plot twists at the end (one is fairly easy to predict, the other makes literally no sense whatsoever), and I won't reveal too much, but I will say this: Xzibit dies like a prince, and Clive Owen's character quickly transforms from a complete moron into the smartest man alive. A quick word on the RZA: ya gotta wonder how he got the part of Winston, Clive Owen's witty pal who works in the mailroom, likes hockey and "Johnny motherfucking Cash", and has killed man in prison before, but dude does a pretty good job with the role. Some would say he is even the best rapper/actor in the film, narrowly trumping Xzibit and Jennifer Aniston.

Director Mikael Hafstrom has more recently explored the limits of arty popcorn flicks in last year's "1408", which similarly had multiple asinine endings. Although that film tailed off about 45 minutes in, the entirety of "Derailed" is amazingly transfixing. I can't really explain it. The plot moves forward very quickly, never taking too long to explore any backstories or delve into Charlie's brooding psyche. These are not good qualities, but then, this is not a good movie; if "Derailed" is unaware that it is an illogical mess, it certainly recognizes that its story must unfold without any hesitation to prove effective. Charlie's problems are ever-evolving, and as he gets deeper and deeper into trouble, the audience gradually begins to pity him/root for him. It's not hard when you've somehow got an actor as mannered as Clive Owen doing whatever he can with a character constantly being put in ludicrous situations. Despite all of its flaws, when the climax approaches and Owen is getting ready to get him some revenge, you're not going to criticize its gaping flaws, you're gonna pump your fist and wait for someone to finally punch the shit-eating grin off of Vincent Cassel's face.

Man, what a great guilty pleasure, if only for this exchange:

Winston Boyko: Hey Chaz, you feeling okay?
Charles Schine: Yeah, I'm ok.
Winston Boyko: You sure? You look like you comin' down with that bug or somethin'.
Charles Schine: It's nothing.
Winston Boyko: Nothing? That's what Dick Lumberg said.
Charles Schine: Who's Dick Lumberg?
Winston Boyko: Nobody. That motherfucker's dead!

Priceless. RZA should do comedy!

My Week With Mono/TV Me: Seeing "Fight Club" For the First Time

Okay, so... okay, wait, who am I again?

So having mono completely sucks. I popped about 80 cough drops and dusted off a box o' popsicles in a week's time, just so my throat wouldn't feel terrible for a few seconds. While I was doing this, though, I managed to catch up on a handful of fairly mediocre movies that I had thus far avoided, with the help of HBO On Demand! "Fight Club" seemed like an obvious pick, and I watched it the first night or two that I was sick. Edward Norton! Brad Pitt! Beating the bejesus out of each other! And somehow, soap is involved (I had seen the poster)! Plus, ya know, David Fincher is a pretty okay director; "Seven" is an outstanding thriller, and no matter how many people tell me that the ending's dumb, I think it's brilliant. And like... "Panic Room", yeah, I guess. So yeah, "Fight Club", should be a solid pick!

Woo boy. "Fight Club" is by far the most nihilistic film I have ever seen, but not in the brutally sexy way it should have been. Honestly, I think everything about this movie was done incorrectly. The script is littered with good ideas that end up turning to shit. When Norton and Pitt start beating the crap out of each other and the other men start watching, perplexed and intrigued, genuine excitement is conjured. Most men have not been in an actual fight, and their willingness and (homoerotic) excitement to do so delves into issues of primal masculinity we honestly have not seen addressed in such a mainsteam feature before. There are things this movie can talk about. Instead, we get a gonzo cult organization being formed, lots of confusing sex (no, literally, just damn confusing), and a dead Meat Loaf. "His name is Robert Paulson," my ass; the man's name is Meat Loaf Aday, and he will do anything for love, except that.

I'm also wondering why David Fincher, a director whose other films are completely plot-driven and rarely deal with any issues besides dimly lit fun, would run through this landmine. The entire last third of the movie is a neo-political rant/trippy mindfuck, and he can't even begin to handle it. Fincher's clearly a mood guy: he enjoys playing with shadows, creaky noises, and Jared Leto's hair, and he does these things well. But because he's way outside his range, the result reflects poorly on the actors. I would never call Norton and Pitt's respective performances superb, but given that their characters are basically typified as Superego and Id, they really sink their teeth into the roles and make them entertaining. Hell, their commitment can be seen in every fight scene, where they seem to be taking a bunch of very real shots.

Pitt's character is much more stylish, but is ultimately hollow (spoiler alert: in more ways than one!) because most of the things he does are such utter bullshit. Roger Ebert's review of "Fight Club" may be the best review of his that I've ever read, if only for the lines, " 'It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,' (Tyler) says, sounding like a man who tripped over the Nietzsche display on his way to the coffee bar in Borders. In my opinion, he has no useful truths. He's a bully--Werner Erhard plus S & M, a leather club operator without the decor." A perfect simplification of a character that may appear to be complex. Pitt does a fine job with the character, but not enough to leave him unexposed. As for Helena Bonham Carter's batshit performance, in which she talks and moves like a Looney Tune... let's just say it's been overrated by quite a few.

But no, this is not a complete "Fight Club" slam, because there is one moment at the start of the movie (the movie begins very well, by the way) that contained every inch of raw emotion the film should have tried for but never got close to again. I'm talking about the Chloe scene, by far the best scene in the film, by far the best performance in the film. Norton's character journeys through night groups of terminally ill people to leech their emotion and find something to prick his numb existence; an interesting concept, undoubtedly, and one executed nicely in "Fight Club"'s first third. Then he gets into a tizzy because Helena Bonham Carter shows up to these meetings too, even though she's clearly as healthy as he is. During one of these groups (I'm pretty sure it was for some type of cancer), a bald, gaunt, sad-looking woman named Chloe approaches the podium to muted applause:

"Well, I'm still here," she says to the crowd, including a thoughtful Norton and Carter. "But I don't know for how long. That's as much certainty as anyone can give me. But I've got good news: I no longer have any fear of death." The onlookers clap politely, and the group's leader smiles encouragingly at Chloe, who gives an appreciative nod. And then the speech becomes the most gut-wrenching in recent memory.

"But... I am in a pretty lonely place. No one will have sex with me. ...I'm so close to the end and all I want is to get laid for the last time." She looks around wistfully, and then approaches the microphone closely. "I have pornographic movies in my apartment, and lubricants, and amyl nitrite..." She speaks until the group leader grabs the mic and sternly says, "Thank you, Chloe. Everyone, let's thank Chloe."

It's just that this scene, this minor scene that has nothing to do with the rest of the film, is more affecting than anything else presented during its 2-hour-plus running time. I've only watched it once, because I don't think I could take a second time. Rachel Singer has approximately two minutes of screen time, and in that frame she crafts a character at once funny, sad, horny, desperate, self-loathing, and deeply in denial. Not only does she illustrate the general point of the film's first third, but she epitomizes the theme of whitewashed futility that hangs over the film but is never fully analyzed. The way that those last few perverse words stumble out of her mouth to show how deeply intent this poor woman is to find someone, anyone, to share a moment of happiness with overshadows all of the unfounded psychobabble pouring out of Brad Pitt's mouth. At least Fincher had the foresight to pull the reins back in the scene and give Chloe a moment or two to summarize how horrible this world can be sometimes.

The only other mention of Chloe is much later in the film, when Helena Bonham Carter mentions that she's dead to Edward Norton after engaging in some more confusing sex. Norton doesn't really care. I do, because I know that means that she's not coming back for an encore, and that I've got another hour of Ed and Brad and a tub full of twist endings. Oh well. The Chloe scene in "Fight Club" should always be remembered for lending a human touch to a film too preoccupied with its ludicrous morals. If Judi Dench got an Oscar for acting really fucking British for ten minutes in "Shakespeare In Love", Rachel Singer, a mostly unknown character actor, deserves to at least be acknowledged. Great scene, great performance, shrug-worthy movie.

Year-End Bullshit: Top 25 Albums of the Year

So it took me a while to finally post this one, and as much as I look forward to the year-end bullshit and critics' list, I'm sort of glad it's over, so I can get back to writing about Ron Howard and "The Wire". Tough list to compile, and I want to give honorable mention honors to the Beirut, El-P, Ghostface Killah, and Andrew Bird albums. 2007 was definitely a great year for music, if perhaps the worst year for rap music ever. Enjoy, feel free to comment.

25. Parts &Labor - "Mapmaker"

A fast, loud album that has the class to avoid being a messy heap of noise. The songs on "Mapmaker" are a hell of a lot of fun, and are far more subtle than they have any business being.

24. Roisin Murphy - "Overpowered"

Murphy makes a superb disco disc with the raucous beats to match her personality. It's definitely a frontloaded album, but goddamn, those first four songs are pretty unstoppable.

23. Justice - "Cross"

Took a while for me to get into this one, but it really is a top-notch dance album. It's got holes, but they're mostly due to overambitiousness; when Justice connects, though, they hit it out of the park.

22. Animal Collective - "Strawberry Jam"

An album that's maddeningly inconsistent; how the hell can you follow "Fireworks" with "#1"?? Still, there are too many fantastic tracks here to brush aside. The fact that they're evolving with each disc is admirable, and it's clear that they have the capabilities of bringing everything together for an undisputed classic.

21. Feist - "The Reminder"

An unbelievably alive album from an artist I once pegged as vanilla. The singles are still its strength, but there's really not a bum track to be found on Feist's coming-out party. As earnest as records get.

20. Fall Out Boy - "Infinity On High"

I wish I could be honest and say that I approach every album I hear objectively, I really could, but personal taste and prearranged discriminations inevitably bleed through. Admitting that "Infinity on High" is a great record was a tiring one, but necessary; I gritted my teeth, tried to stay as open-minded as I possibly could for a whiny-voiced album backed by Jay-Z, and just listened to it. If not for my damning snobbery, it would be higher on this list. Even people who hate the genre more than me have to appreciate the skill with which Pete Wentz slings hooks like the coldest of dealers, and the sheer R&B white dynamite of Patrick Stump's quivering voice. Simply put, it's a fantastic album that exposes these bastards as legitimate. Stop throwing stones at the crown, motherfuckers, and bow down.

19. Les Savy Fav - "Let's Stay Friends"

Another example of a band with immense talent deciding to stop goofing off, buckle down, and try their darndest to make a classic. "Let's Stay Friends" is a gem of a punk album, as unexpected as it is unexpectedly charming (yeah... that makes sense...)

18. Nina Nastasia & Jim White - "You Follow Me"

A collaboration album, I guess, but all of White's noodling around on his drums can't equal the performance Nastasia gives on every single song, raw emotion leaking out of her words. Best lyrics of the year, maybe. I'd also like to point out that, if any VH1-approved female singer with a well-regarded back catalogue (I'm lookin at you, Sheryl Crow!) made this album, it would win 9 Grammys.

17. The Arcade Fire - "Neon Bible"

Probably the best-case scenario for the Arcade Fire after "Funeral", "Neon Bible" is a powerhouse that does not always connect. It's still arguably the most ambitious album of the year, and a good share of these tracks - "Keep The Car Running", "No Cars Go", "Intervention" - establish these guys as unflappably good.

16. Tunng - "Good Arrows"

An album that almost all critics slept on, and for good reason. "Good Arrows" is a weird, difficult album, but not in the way you'd expect: the arrangements are challenging, the sequencing a little off, and the lyrics are terribly morose. It's a good thing that every song here is slowly, subtly mind-blowing, then. It may take a few listens to unravel, but its warm center is worth discovering, however patient you need be.

15. Battles - "Mirrored"

In essence, Animal Collective got beat by a band that outweirded them. It may be because AC is trying to become more accessible, but the fact that "Mirrored" is a force of nature should not be overlooked. Whether snorting entire rooms on "Ddiamondd" or grooving the fuck out on "Leyendecker", Battles captured a niche that seemed like it didn't need filling until 2032, when robots start recording prog albums.

14. Iron & Wine - "The Shepherd's Dog"

When will Sam Beam stop destroying my underestimations and come out with a collection of poorly conceived songs? That's right, he won't, because he knows his shit, because he has fleshed out his sound but not in a way that's distracting, because he's got the voice to match his gothic songwriting, because he's diligent enough to make sure every song on his albums is strong. EVERY song.

13. Kanye West - "Graduation"

When will Kanye get some respect? I mean, after "Graduation" becomes remembered as "the one after 'Late Registration', where Kanye beefed with 50", will anyone take the time to acknowledge how BRAVE of a release this is? For Kanye West, one of the most effervescent hip-hop artists around, to (mostly) drop the soul samples, rely on big synths, and to make a song as out-of-left-field as "Drunk and Hot Girls" -- and to do these things successfully -- is staggering. This is some left-brain semantics, and further proof that Yeezy's genius is bonified.

12. Panda Bear - "Person Pitch"

Gorgeous from front to back, "Person Pitch" is the apotheosis of the introverted "Young Prayer" and lacks the cynical underbelly of some of Animal Collective's work. Noah Lennox sounds like he's singing in the middle of a cloud, with "Bros." and "Ponytail" representing an amalgamation of everything positive in the world right now. As fun and wacky as the album cover.

11. Patrick Wolf - "The Magic Position"

Music this happy usually comes with a healthy dose of irony or from Gloria Estefan, but P-Wolf is all smiles here, and surprise, glowing cheeks are a suitable shade of rouge for the moptop. The pop songs are unadulterated gay joy, but Wolf really sinks his teeth into the ballads, which are impressive while never taking themselves too seriously. May fade over time, but "Magic Position" is perfect for here and now.

10. Burial - "Untrue"

This album will bulldoze you and cut out your heart. It is composed of darkness and voices that cut through it like slow-motion beams of yellow light. It is made from a man without an identity, and it sounds like it. It is impossible to dance to, but feels like it belongs in a club infested with people dancing to forget their complex, disturbing problems. There is so much distortion that nothing sounds human. It is brilliant.

9. Frog Eyes - "Tears of the Valedictorian"

For a collection of songs that exhibit endless energy and unpolished vocals, it's a hard to imagine how long it must have taken Frog Eyes to compose this album. That's because each track -- and especially its two towering bookends, "Caravan Breakers, They Prey on the Weak and the Old" and "Bushels" -- is so intricate that you have to notice the effort being exalted. Simply put, Frog Eyes is on fire during the entire length of this album; maybe it's because the guitar and drum work is obnoxiously good, or because Carey Mercer sounds like he's literally burning on some songs, but God, this band is unstoppable here.

8. Of Montreal - "Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?"

Kevin Barnes seems like a complete dick, and I'm basing this on the way he seems like a complete dick during Of Montreal's live shows. Their performance at Pitchfork Music Festival led me into a fit of frustation: "Why don't they just PLAY the songs?" I asked my equally annoyed friend, watching from afar as the band passed ladle-fuls of fake blood from a big-headed gold monster into the audience. But the thing is, I was so aggravated because the songs they were playing during these shenanigans, the material being so clearly overshadowed on the live show, were the best of the band's career, and among the best of the year. A breakup record hidden under a rhinestone mask, "Hissing Fauna" is going to stand the test of time on record, even if it's disguised by gimmicks in person.

7. Menomena - "Friend and Foe"

I could write a lot of words about Menomena, about how they make superb music and how they are one of the most underrated bands in America and how their album artwork kicks ass, blah blah blah. It's pointless, I tell you. Menomena albums are not meant to be discussed, they are meant to be listened to, because every song is so simple and contains just majestic trinkets that you wanna make sure no one else has thought of such obvious ideas before. From the piano line of "Muscle'n Flo" to the opening line "What if all my enemies were dead?" to "My My", there are too many small wonders here to dissect with words. You just have to listen to it, preferably with a trusty friend, so you can lean back at particular points and exclaim, "That was awesome." It was, man. It was.

6. Radiohead - "In Rainbows"

And our heroes decided to create an album that is at once accessible and not one bit self-absorbed or demanding of their quest for perfection. These songs are not perfect, but "Hail to the Thief" effectively ended that desire by being a bit too drawn-out and pretentious. Radiohead has already mastered the universe, I guess, so the fact that "In Rainbows" is just a really solid rock album should not only be accepted, it should be recognized as an achievement that hasn't been seen since "The Bends". There aren't any "Idioteque"s here, but you just can't beat the pristine beauty of "Nude", the shimmy of "House of Cards", and the entirety of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place", not when they come from a group as admittedly smart as Radiohead. They could make eleven more albums of this caliber and I'd be a satisfied fan.

5. Deerhoof - "Friend Opportunity"

Fuck, man, "Friend Opportunity" is just a GREAT album. Excuse me while I gush about it, because, you see, Deerhoof makes me sounds like a snivelling idiot, that's how much their music grabs hold of the 12-year-old rawk fan inside of me and stunts my use of adjectives. And "Friend Opportunity" is their BEST album, by far, because they've brought together the tightness of "Reveille" and "Apple O'" and the songwriting of "The Runners Four" to make, ya know, really tight music. First three songs are fucking amazing, this is indisputable to me. "The Galaxist" and "Whither the Invisible Birds", the two slow-ish (for Deerhoof) songs, are completely gorgeous; again, indisputable. And the last four songs really stress the whole themes of loneliness and acceptance that run through the whole album. "Matchbook Seeks Maniac" = career highlight! In conclusion, Deerhoof destroys every band around it, and "Friend Opportunity" is the album their career has always been leading up to. Yeah!

4. Lil' Wayne - "Da Drought 3"

How can Lil' Wayne release something like this, a stone-cold classic, and it still feels like it's just a preview of his masterpiece? Maybe "Tha Carter III" won't be the pinnacle of Weezy's career (smart money says that it will be), but for now, be satisfied with the best mixtape since "We Got It For Cheap Vol. 2", and the best display of rapping since "Purple Haze". It's official, Lil' Wayne is the king of one-liners that would take me and you 8 years to think of, but that he conjures up in the midst of a single drug-fueled freestyle: "I'm so motherfucking high, I could eat a star," "It's a bakery here, just tryin' to get dough!", "I'm the man in this bitch/They say money talks, well... I'm the ventriloquist," etc., etc., etc. It's eerily frustrating to know that I could study literature in college for another decade, write three novels, and study the dictionary, but I will NEVER master the English language and its dynamics like Weezy F. Baby does. 2007: the year of Lil' Wayne, always and forever.

3. The National - "Boxer"

I've always wondered what the guys of The National thought when they heard "Boxer" straight through for the first time. Did they just think that it was a follow-up to "Alligator" to be very proud of? Or did they have any inkling that they had just recorded a classic record, wholly original and precise in the way it captures the uneasiness of an entire generation fumbling its way through relationships and lives that they're dissatisfied with for some unclear reason? I mean, they would have been as arrogant as all hell if they had immediately thought the latter, but they would have been correct. And the most surprising thing is that they probably could have deduced it after one good listen, as I assume so many have done. "Boxer" crafts another world for its characters to exist in, but the environment sinks in so snugly because of its details: general tales of wanting more are piqued by images of regrettable parties, out-of-touch friends, and thinking about too much about your dick. The drums ground the affair in reality, and you realize that the portrait The National has painted here encompasses everyone in our awkward society. Yeah, I think they knew that when they first heard it.

2. Bon Iver - "For Emma, Forever Ago"

I knew I loved "For Emma, Forever Ago" from the first time I heard it, but I don't think I knew how much I loved it until I heard its last song, "Re: Stacks", in its entirety. I was walking through a few inches of snow on my way back from class, and it popped up on shuffle on my i-pod. Walking alone, with only the music to focus on, I realized how utterly hopeless the song was. It made me want to curl up into a ball and rock back and forth. But, of course, this was not a bad thing; "For Emma, Forever Ago" is an album about memory, about scars, and it is as cathartic as it is hypnotic. And as sad as "Re: Stacks" is, it is one of the most personal, moving songs I have ever had the good fortune to stumble upon. Like the rest of the album, it requires a patient ear, not because it is a difficult record to traipse through, but because you might miss some of its best parts if you blink. On "Re: Stacks", for instance, the way Justin Vernon enunciates the line "That has brought me to this loss", is a shattering display of power. In the end, though, "For Emma, Forever Ago" ends with the line "Your love will be safe with me", mirroring the way in which nearly anyone who gives this obscure disc a chance will eventually grow to cherish it. Bon Iver is the reason I listen to music.

1. Spoon - "Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga"

I'm sitting here, just one more blurb to write, and this album seems to be the one I find most difficult to find words for. For the last six months or so, I have been a mascot for this album. I have talked to friends about how "Rhythm & Soul" is a literally perfect song, to my dad about how "The Ghost Of You Lingers" really is a great single, to everyone who has ever approached my soapbox about how "The Underdog" is gonna blow up on the radio and make Spoon the next Modest Mouse. I guess I was wrong about that last one (Feist had already won the mass appeal for the year, I suppose), but it's never a regrettable thing when The Best Band In the World releases their Best Album, even if it's not the great public unifier that it should be. So what can I say about "Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga" that I haven't already expressed a dozen times over? I'm not going to talk about how every song is practically flawless, about how I want to scream like a schoolgirl when the music drops out in the middle of "Cherry Bomb", about how "Black Like Me" could not end the album on a more confident note. All I will say is that Spoon, through this album and their jaw-dropping back catalogue, have just made me have a better year. I latched onto this band this year before "Ga" came out, discovering the remarkable quality of "Gimme Fiction" and "Girls Can Tell", and when their new one was released, it manhandled even my highest expectations. They're just a bunch of guys who know their shit, who aren't afraid to try new things and strip themselves of gimmicks, all while staying true to their fundamental sound. They're just a fantastic band (the best right now, in my opinion), and "Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga" is their greatest achievement. Thanks, Spoon.