A Fair Share of Rudiment

Some very important corners of the web finally got around today to wondering about Jay-Z paying Dwyane Wade. The explanation has been laid out several places and now linked to where millions of eyes will catch the fever. So that's that. We all know what's up, drugs in the house and no tampering.

Howeeevs (long e), there have been radical developments since "NY State of Mind" stopped ringing in my ears. Namely, LeBron James switched his number from 23 to 6. So now, if Jeezy's paying LeBron prices, he's getting his for 6K a kilo. Not as good as Jay, but everyone knows that Hov is an old, washed-up liar, while Jeezy still occasionally shows up in court documents. Under his alias, Mr. Pickle and Fright, of course. But back to the matter at hand: So now, if the international cocaine market is, as I've always suspected, governed by NBA jersey numbers, then Jeezy is getting a really good deal himself.

That's only one layer of the mystery, as they say. Why would LeBron James go and do a favor for Jeezy, when Jay-Z has been been big brother since before Akron was more than a place from Greek mythology that someone got to visit? That's right, you guessed it: LeBron is going to the Hawks. I know that Jeezy isn't an owner yet, or officially, but how hard would it be for him to purchase a minority stake? Him going to the Hawks allows the coke price to drop for a part owner which means the financial picture for the franchise changes drastically in ways that means going way over the cap is no problem.

When it comes to the world of money and stuff, perception is stronger than reality. That's how a song, which is just a bunch of words, can actually have these real world implications. You know why? Because those lines are really memorable and "NYSOM" was a huge hit. So when deals get determined, it creeps in, insidiously. In the end, Jay's hit-making prowess may have destroyed the future of the Nets. I can't stand it anymore.

This may be tampering but it's also an NBA team funded by drug money. I don't even know where to start with that.

NOTE: THIS IS ALL FICTION.

NOTE: This is my really long and thoughtful piece about this year's tournament.

NOTE: This blog will be pumpin' out more when I'm done with book stuff, in like a week or so. Hopefully.

Hospital Power

Remember that time we posted three years' worth of homages to the Ultramagnetic MCs 1989 All-Star theme? How about when they did it again for the 2009!.

Now it's time to wait no more: Here's the 2010 version. All 15.48 minutes of it.



UPDATE: Some thoughts from me on what makes a dunker.

Cancel Everything

WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF

I never understood all those metaphors about faces melting and brains collapsing until now.

Oh, and CHECK OUT THIS POST FROM EARLIER!

It's his Pasture

Okay, what's getting lost in this whole LeBron James/Russian tycoon/global tycoon synergy is WHERE THE FUCK JAY FITS IN. For pure spurts and puddles, read Woj's column on Mikhail Prokhorov, which will leave you thinking that Prokhorov is hard (of course), his money questionable (it's Russian), and his grand entrance into the lobby of a NYC hotel nothing short of a Jay-Z video.

Incidental, you say? Did Sean fail, since his token ownership stake failed to get the Nets relocated, or generate that much buzz? What about this: Even if the man mattered very little in this particular case, it's his influence that allows James and Prokhorov to make so much sense together. His presence in this deal may add some residual cred, and make it pop a little more, but it's more a lifetime achievement award. Remember, Jay was the first to take the hustle all the way into the boardroom, and make the boardroom respect it. Forget the kingpin fantasies that made our favorite music. That was the old totem; Jay saw a way to really leverage street smarts, and street branding, in a way that brought him real power.

Is he still the figurehead he once was? No matter what you think of the new joint, the answer is no. He's closer and closer to Russell Simmons everyday. That is, less and less involved in any real manipulation of what we might term "gangter capital." Gangsters by themselves are business rubes, at least once they try and enter the halls of legal money. Capital of all kinds is synonymous with selling out, exactly the reason why anyone trying to be the Next Jordan has to tread lightly: Jordan could get away with anything, and even he ended up a corporatized shell on the public stage.

I believe in the power of music. I believe that Jay-Z inspired a generation to believe that there was no shame in trying to clean up a little and invest back in ventures that didn't have to choose between profit and legitimacy. He made a seamless transition from fake drug kingpin (is mafia even lower than this?), to vague wealthy and influential baller with skeletons in the closet, to the nexus of the board room and the streets in a way that worked for everyone. LeBron wants to be like Jay, not Mike; this Russian fellow finds himself with instant credibility because of the pioneering work done by the man without a pen. When the photo opp happens, he needs to symbolically bless the handshake, because it might be his greatest legacy.

(You try and tell me how "My President is Black" fits in here.)

In other news, I am positively baffled by Flip's "Arenas will have the ball more than eighty percent of the time because we're scrapping Princeton". Isn't that an awful lot already? I know that Butler and the other guards did touch it sometimes, and that Arenas's quickness/quick release means he doesn't stand around so much. But I just don't see how this does anything to encourage a change in Gil's game, or the team's complexion. It's not like he was being denied his touches or discouraged from attacking before. This is what happens when Ziller or Kevin Pelton aren't online early.

Update: Maybe he meant "I want him to control the ball and run the offense, not just fire away or attack." But the comment was about % of the time Gil has the ball, not how patient he is.

Go Go Commerce!

Like Nike needs my help in promoting this ad. But this is so classic, I have to post it. This is that strain of Nike ad-making that fueled the business up until recently, and helped create players as much as they helped create it. "The LeBrons" picked it up briefly, but this confirms what I'd been hearing: That these companies know the demand is there, and have been trying to get back to this. I definitely attribute this to Twitter, though not Obama; not sure how my theory about those two phenomena works when you introduce a third element. Regardless, this is the shit, even if it's somewhat redolent of past Undrcrwn efforts.

Stray thoughts:

-The mystery of Shard continues. I only found out recently that, rather than speaking in an affect-less whisper, dude has a thick Houston accent. How I didn't know this until recently is anyone's guess. But now he goes and raps in a way that in no way indicates his regional roots. This isn't a referendum on his skill as a rapper, though I guess bad rappers sound more generic. Just surprised me, in the same way that Delonte's bland freestyle voice did. Iverson should've set the precedent on this one!

-Where's the part, mentioned on Mo Williams's Twitter, where Iguodala saves AutoTune from stagnation? Now he doesn't even get a verse?

-Lewis looks most costumed. Williams, like that's what he wears around the house. Durant makes me think about what this ad means to people who aren't old enough to get all the references (includng him).

-Spent last night in the ID looking at Japanese teen fashion magazine. That's kind of the vibe I get from this.

-Never have I felt less like the ad world needed me. And I think that's a good thing.

-Is there going to be a backlash that demands more differentiation between West/East, or Afrocentric/gangster? It is all kind of lumped together. That's what makes the ad so great to me, but to the purist, it could be dangerous.

-Is this archaeology, a la the Jordan 9th game vid, or self-aware nostalgia?

-Mainstream-ing after the fact? Not that this stuff was so inaccessible, but rap's definitely bigger now than then.

-Back to the previous question: Exoticism, roots, or both?

-Finally: Missed opportunity that Ice Cube and Kobe appears in a Nike SB ad but failed to address the 3x2, to my mind the defining ball moment of West Coast hip-hop?

To Hold On Tight We Must Let Go

The days are not good for Allen Iverson. The one-time beacon of personal integrity, triumphal dysfunction, and "fuck the world" stylistic rights currently sits out in the cold. He's hoping some team will look past his recent disappointments, figure several accelerated half-lives have made his legacy less radioactive, and give him a chance to make a roster like a blaxploitation Kevin Costner character. So perhaps now is not the time to launch an entirely new critique of AI.

However, the rise of Twitter has me rethinking that foundation of Iverson's NBA being: his authenticity. Allen Iverson, above all else, was his own man, did what he wanted, and forced the world to accept him on this own terms. This was where he picked up momentum as a hip-hop icon, which is to say, while others screamed "thug", he simply brushed them off as ignorant or sheltered. There's a tendency, even a need, to separate AI the world-historical figure from AI the athletic performer. In both cases, however, Iverson exemplified "realness"—perhaps to a pathological degree, but nonetheless in a way that informed the direction of the league and the players who came up idolizing him as much as Jordan.

Hence, as much as we speak of the post-Jordan days, I myself had become accustomed to the "post-Iverson" age. In this (gulp) dialectic, there seemed to always be a hard edge, or uncompromising bluntness, to be reckoned with. There was Jordan's universal appeal, met head-on by Iverson's populist bluster. The players spat out of this maelstrom were some combination of the two; Allen Iverson came to symbolize a mish-mash of unapologetic ghetto roots, "wrong way" ball, not taking shit from no one, and a wary intelligence that could often be its own worst enemy. Carmelo Anthony, post-Iverson because he was hood plus Magic Johnson's effervescent charm; Gilbert Arenas, idiosyncratic and disruptive as a player and person, but writing his own script with all the whimsy of a Saturday morning cartoon.

Jordan was a sales pitch, Iverson a doctrine. Except that, at the risk of offending a bunch of people, Iverson's persona was itself a posture. This may sound pedestrian, or simplistic, but at what point did we decide that Iverson (or Tupac) wasn't, to some degree, faking it, putting it on, selling us a bill of goods based around a very deliberate refusal to play by the rules? AI was certainly faced with difficult circumstances, and had to make tough decisions about what path to follow. And yet over the long haul, it became as opaque a guise as Jordan's Sphinx-like mask. They may have been polar opposites, but their inflexibility and predictability ultimately made them two sides of the same coin.

Should we bemoan the fact that, in the age of Twitter, authenticity is no longer about any iteration of “the struggle,” or truce between the two sides, but the possibility that individual athletes be both accessible and undeniably themselves? The stakes may have been lowered, and yet better a feed like Rudy Gay’s inform our sense of athlete “realness” than AI’s on-message scowl. Relaxation on its own is empty, taking a stand indefinitely is its own kind of blandness.

Incidentally, anyone who’s seen Iverson in the locker room, or otherwise with his guard down, knows that dude would be a monster on Twitter.

So You Can See Me Now

It's rarely stated explicitly, but FD has a long and lasting connection to hip-hop. For all our jazz pretensions and obvious Pitchfork ties, many of us were shaped and formed by rap music, and spent many long hours trying to make sense of our place as fans and, in some cases, participants. All I know is that, no matter what they take from me, they can't take away the first time I heard Rakim, or Straight Outta Compton, or The Infamous. I've more or less repressed all the time I spent flirting with the tape trade underground, but certain albums, however obvious, are as much a part of my musical consciousness as, say, The Band (which came way later, by the way). I will even now unapologetically assert that Wu-Tang changed my life, without leaning too hard on Cuban Linx, but only if I only get credit for knowing most every Guru lyric by heart.

Why am I bothering to tell you all this? Well, mostly as a show of support for Dr. LIC's Straight Bangin' guest post on "why I hate rap now". It was supposed to be a "top 10 albums of the century" joint, but when the Doctor was blocked, and only go going when he realized what the problem was. I didn't even try and bother. Maybe I was always a tourist, maybe that "N.W.A. and Public Enemy were like punk rock" line had more truth to it than I thought. All I know is that, after having intently followed hip-hop since I first bought Raising Hell and yes, Licensed to Ill (gateway pass) in third grade, I'm just not interested these days. Did I give up hope? Grow out of it? Prove that I never had any place in it to begin with? I don't lose much sleep over ferreting out the answer.

But like I said, I think the good Doctor's post does a lot to explain why I've drifted further and further away, and right now own probably like three recordings from the 21st. My list would probably have included The Cold Vein, Supreme Clientale, Philadelphia Freeway, The Black Album, and Got It 4 Cheap 2. And yeah, I know there's definitely a problem/disconnect there, which is why I'll plead alienation instead of (for once) reaching for overwrought justification.

UPDATE: To reiterate, if you're in New York, and want to see me and most every other sports blogger of note on panels, attend Blogs With Balls.

Write with Your Feelings

Below is an exercise in conjecture about Andrew Bynum. As you consider it, please also remember to check out The Baseline, where Shoals has been going in all day, every day. Today should be especially good, as Mr. Bethlehem uses his commodious TSN space to write two columns.

Most likely, few people anticipated that the Game would emerge as such a committed NBA observer when he dedicated his career to the lowest-common-denominator rap in which 50 Cent traffics. And yet, it's undeniable. There are so many examples. A few years ago, on "Beautiful Life," Mr. Taylor spit, "Fo'-dot-six Range/Ben Gordon dip game/That's bullshit/I never been to a Knicks game/Or sat inside of Ms. Chang's/But I watched Tim Duncan in the Olympics go for 45 against Spain." Last year, on "Red Magic," it was: "I'm in L.A. Gasol-in'/But when I'm in New Orleans/You can call it Chris Paul-in'." On "My Life" with Lil' Wayne: "Got a Chris Paul mind state/So I'm never outta bounds." And later, on "Baggage Claim," he again name checked Chris Paul (he is always rapping about CP3) before looking to both the past and future in prophetically asking, "What up, Bynum/How's that playoff knee?/Next timeout/Tell Kobe run the play off me."

So, indeed, Bynum, what up with that playoff knee? Well, so far the results have been mixed. But if Sunday was a game about Andrew performing as he can, and as he has when not impeded by those precarious appendages of his, tonight is perhaps a game about whether or not it's even a relevant inquiry. Tonight we find out not if Bynum matters, but if he knows that he is supposed to matter.



The Game (the rapper, not the sports competition) may not be an NBA thought leader. In fact, it's good that he isn't--in some ways, he is a perfect barometer for what matters to the everyday fan. You usually don't get rapped about if you're a nobody. Nobodies especially don't get rapped about by the Game, an MC so hypersensitive about how he is perceived and so self-conscious about his references that you sometimes pity his therapist while also assuming that you and he would find ample common ground. That he would include a reference to a player who has accomplished little and is best known for summoning Kobe's parking-lot ire stands as testament to just how much is expected of Andrew Bynum. Andrew is supposed to matter.

The trope permeating media since Sunday has been that Andrew Bynum is a key to the Lakers' championship run. If he plays like he did in Game Seven against the Rockets... is the condition upon which the NBA appears to now hinge. It's reasoning with roots in Denver's impressive playoff performance, Denver's imposing front line, and the memory of L.A.'s feeble stand against the Celtics in the 2008 Finals. Similarly, Bynum-as-dispositive-element is presented in the framework of which things must occur to allow for the Lakers' success as a team. Lost amidst these analyses, though, is what the Denver series means for Andrew Bynum, not what Andrew Bynum means for the Lakers. If J.J. Abrams were to direct Andrew Bynum's life, tonight would likely be some kind of wormhole in the space-time continuum through which the future could be seen and at which Andrew's present self and future self would converge to determine who would be the real Bynum.

Ignoring its implications for the greater Los Angeles team, Denver is a unique challenge for Bynum because the Nuggets' front court is a litmus test for NBA significance. To this point, Andrew's knee has mattered to the Game because that knee is considered to be the reason why an NBA star has not yet been born in full. Weighed down by the yoke of his much-touted potential, Bynum has titillated his audience with improvement and flashes of dominance when not injured. One could maybe argue that Andrew, in some ways, is perhaps a better version of Dwight Howard, as the former has obvious room to grow and already possesses a broader range of skills. And yet, because of the injuries, and because he has been learning the NBA, Bynum as we know him is not the Bynum for which we hope. In that respect, we'd like him to be more like Dwight, whom we've already seen flourish (albeit with some obvious cause for concern). Now, finally, we get to find out if that injury, that playoff knee, was worth wasting bars about.



Most young players, with few but awesome exceptions, need three or four years to understand the NBA. They need to explore their abilities in the new landscape, they need to identify who they will be, they need to get used to running into the Charles Oakleys and Tractor Traylors of the world (just ask Danny G). To be blunt, they need to learn how to play against grown-ass men. Andrew Bynum needs to figure out if he can play with grown-ass men on a regular basis, and Denver has them. Luis Scola is a solid NBA player, but when you're being called "That Louis Guy" on PTI, you probably have not yet arrived. And in a post-Yao world where Chuck Hayes and Carl Landry are the Tiny Town Twin Towers, you haven't necessarily been prepared for up to seven games with Nene, Kenyon Martin, and Chris Andersen. More importantly, you haven't yet been tested in a fashion that directly imperils or validates your destiny. (That's a real J.J. Abrams sentence, isn't it? How can destiny be changed? If it could, would it really be destiny? This is where the LOST logo would flash across the screen.)

Andrew Bynum will help us understand tonight if that playoff knee matters, and if he's going to realize the meaningfulness which has been taken as an article of faith, as something to which he is entitled. Nene's girth and persistence will challenge him. Martin's nimbleness and ferocity will challenge him. Andersen's hops and energy will challenge him. Andrew will not be able to escape any of it. A hallmark of this Denver team, particularly in the playoffs, has been the gathering intensity that seems to hang over the court each time the Nuggets walk onto it, this building, palpable tension which ultimately is unleashed in almost feral fashion, with a Denver opponent overwhelmed by the onslaught. Bynum will have to find a way to sustain his energy and his focus as this comes bearing down. Failing that, he will have to decide if he both understands and is willing to undertake that which is required to consistently perform at the heightened level of execution demanded by the playoffs and the attendant greatness which they extract. Win or lose the series, will Bynum emerge chastened and diminished or challenged and hungry? Will he understand why it needs to be the latter? Among the hardest transitions required by the NBA is that from player who can contribute to player who regularly does. It's a process which cannot be accomplished in one evening, but tonight will offer a glimpse into how Andrew will navigate this specific sort of turmoil.



In The Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne lamented that having ventured out into Gotham's festering crime, he returned keenly aware of what he would have to do, and become, to properly fulfill his destiny as the city's savior. Only, he wasn't sure if he was willing or able to undertake that process of growth. Tonight, Andrew Bynum will wander out into a darkened Gotham. It remains to be seen if he'll come back ready to take on all that's required for success, and if he'll know that he's supposed to. If he does, then we can expect more Game verses about him in the future. If not, should he ultimately just be some balky knees and frustrated shakes of the head, Game will have to find someone else to rap about.

If You Don't Look Good, I Don't Look Good

This morning, my distinguished colleague twitted the following about everyone's favorite char-broiled NBA lightning rod, and sub-rosa racial interloper:

lingering thought-did kobe really say "i'm an 80s baby" when asked about the artest foul? what type of bs cred is he trying to buy? (and, my standard qualification: i still LOVE kobe...it's just...what a nerd)

Now, without taking anything away from Dr. LIC's intuition—yes, this sounded contrived, and almost made you think that Kobe had planned out a semi-youthful, semi-traditionalist way of framing the situation in advance. But whatever persistent reason you may have settled on for mocking Bryant (his fake-ness, his cultural uncomfortable-ness, his personality, his self-consciousness), we're all assuming that Kobe doesn't understand where Jay-Z stands these days. It's entirely conceivable that Bryant knows that, these days, Jay is pop culture detritus, not the lingua franca of street cred. The remark was fun, flippant, and knowing, an admittedly nerdy way of evoking Jay-Z as both foundational and cliched. Being goofy with hip-hop is dangerous territory, especially for Bryant, but does the alternative—that he cluelessly tried to channel the streetz and fell flat—is to give the guy way too little credit. The only thing worse than caricaturing players is caricaturing ourselves as fans.

This feeds into what might be the most compelling mano y mano rivalry of the playoffs. No, it's not Kobe/Bron; that 1 point/minute average for James has him in a stratosphere all his own for now, especially given how easy it's looked for him. It's this Kobe/Ron Ron binary that's emerged not so much on the court (all elbows aside), but in the imagination of the public. If Bryant's slammed for tip-toeing around hip-hop, Artest is lionized as a man who walks with a cloud of Mobb Deep samples over his head whether or not he ever explicitly makes the connection. If he did an entire post-game interview with Kool G Rap quotes, bloggers would faint from glee. Never mind for a second that if you want to get aesthetic about it, Artest's hip-hop analogue is M.O.P., while Kobe can tap into a far more substantial lineage of self-serious, style-laden masters. Or that Artest is going out of his way to repaint himself as a tough player, not a hood one, going so far as to suggest that there's no essential connection between the two.

And then you have Artest faintly conspired against by the league, and Kobe riding a wave of whispers about a rigged Lakers/Cavs Finals. Not to say this has turned into a study in racial or cultural contrasts—or that it should be either—but once again, Kobe's being cast in, pardon my pun, a black/white situation. Maybe Kobe isn't as "real" as Artest, but is Artest a player driven solely by what he learned from Kool G Rap fantasies? Isn't Artest way more Bad Boys than Kobe? If all this boils down to is "Artest saw friends die on the basketball court and Kobe grew up rich," then we might as well ignore everything they've accomplished, and asserted, as professional athletes—and admittedly convoluted adults.

Do that, then you can start arguing about who belongs to hip-hop, or who hip-hop belongs to, in the NBA.

Of Course You Knew It

From the YouTube description: "Backstage at a Too Short show last year. Baron Davis (aka Flava Flav) claims that Stephen Jackson (aka Chuck D) is 'the sickest rapper' he knows. Baron lied. Stephen Jackson cannot rap." Whatever.

Don't forget to buy our newest shirts.

There's No Ritual in Fun!

If you've been reading this site for a minute, or haven't but found yourself inexplicably drawn to it, you're probably familiar with this timeless clip:



Stage set. When I was on the road, I met this guy in New York who swore that he and his friend had kept this torch alive, recording their own awkward, lo-fi, partly freestyled, and did I mention, very white, homages to these perfect nine minutes of Ultramag weird/NBA classic synergy. He got in touch with me over the weekend and blessed me with mp3's of their efforts, as well as assurances that the 2009 edition is on its way. So without further anticipation, here's Doug S. and friend down through the years:

All-Star 2006
All-Star 2007
All-Star 2008

While you won't exactly hear the recent history of rap played out in these tracks, there is definite evolution as they, I don't know, figure out how to use a computer and control their voices. Even if you don't get all the way through all of them—and you should—at least respect the monk-ish devotion and triumph over god-given limitations. Not to proselytize, but this just might be the FD version of the inspired fan jingle.

P.S. New post later today or early tomorrow. Also, the FD Twitter is so on and poppin' that it warrants getting an account.

HOLY GRAIL ALERT



Video of the 1976 Spirits of St. Louis team, one of those ones that got away from my lifetime.