To Be Young and Rich in the NBA
I knew this would happen when I decided to get into the teaching profession. Some students, especially athletes, will gain fame and fortune. However, I didn’t expect to be reading an article in the New York Times about one of them.
Terrence Williams is a rookie in the NBA, originally from Seattle. This article, ostensibly about the town house he’s renting, delves into a story that’s typical of the most oppressive kind of poverty. People think of Seattle as city of over-educated white people, but there’s a lot more to it than that.
I first met Terrence during his senior year at Rainier Beach High School, the roughest school in town. Dangerous Minds-type business. I was doing my initial student teaching with his English teacher. She had a good relationship with him and was able to navigate the baggage he brought into the classroom. One day, she had to leave suddenly with an illness. I was only observing at the time, but I volunteered to take the reins. The image that sticks with me is of Terrence having a bad day and sitting at the teacher’s desk instead of with the other students. I wasn’t going to tell him to move; I was just looking for a peaceful classroom.
He got recruited by Rick Pitino at Louisville. After a productive career there, he’s now playing for the New Jersey Nets. Reading this article and knowing the back story, it gives some real perspective to the type of athlete who is usually seen in rarified air. He’s gone from debilitating poverty to insane wealth within a very short period of time. That’s a crazy situation. I don’t imagine anything could prepare him for what lies ahead. Certainly not what lies behind.
It’s really not the video that freaks me out; it’s this dude’s face. Okay, it’s the video, too.
When you want to listen to “Forever Young” there are a lot of choices. Bob Dylan’s is country fried. Rod Stewart’s (my favorite, natch) is simultaneously upbeat and nostalgic. Then there’s this one. I fancy myself a fan/expert on all things 80s, but this song didn’t come onto my radar until Napoleon Dynamite. He walks into his high school dance with Alphaville blazing. So how good of a song is it?
In a word, it’s ridiculous. The vocals that come out of Marian Gold (née Hartwig Schierbaum) are really something. I don’t know if this guy was raised in the Alps or what, but he can hit notes at the mountain top. Be careful listening to the third chorus (right before the synth solo) because your ears might bleed.
Then there’s the lyrics. They start off sane enough.
Let’s dance in style, lets dance for a while
Heaven can wait we’re only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?
At this point, I’m down. The need to dance, the angst of a teenager, even a little social commentary on war. But by the end of the second verse, I think they’ve lost it.
I don’t want to perish like a fading horse
Youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever
So many adventures couldn’t happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true
A fading horse? Okay. And let me get this straight: Young people are like diamonds in the middle of the sun? But they’ll still exist forever? And the adventures didn’t happen but the dreams did? I’m confused. But just wait.
Trying to understand the plot of the video is the epitome of confusion. The lead singer is dressed in a red jumpsuit like Sigourney Weaver could have worn in Ghostbusters. He’s singing to a bunch of sleepy people who look like extras from Time Bandits. Eventually, his nonsense lyrics lead them into a blindingly bright hole in the wall (Walk toward the light!) through which they walk, amazed and delighted.
Watch for yourself. Video below the fold. Enjoy!
Phoenix on Sound Opinions
This week the boys at Sound Opinions hosted band of the moment, Phoenix. Record of the summer? Jim and Greg seem to think so. It’s poppy, it’s French, it’s histor-o-centric.
(I tried to see Phoenix myself earlier this month. They were in town playing the Austin City Limits Fest. I was never going to join that filthy slog, but I got word that the band was playing a “secret show” late that night. I headed down to Beauty Bar, and waited. Local semi-big shots Voxtrot played, and then we waited. And waited. Word spread through the crowd that the boys from Phoenix were in another part of the club DJing. Yes, spinning wax. Would they finish up that nonsense and come play us some songs? It was not to be.)
Even knowing they’re French, it’s easy to forget that when they sing in accent-less English. Being interviewed, however, brought it all home. Oui, oui. Surreal. They seem like nice enough guys, but that accent hits the ears like a nice aged Camembert hits the nose. Oof.
As they’ve made their way around the country, they’ve gone with an acoustic set up for shows like this. It’s worth a listen. I’ve got a video from another live studio performance below the fold.
I knew going into watching the entire series of the new Battlestar Galactica that I’d be dealing with the issues of the day. I had heard about the parallels to the Iraq war and such, but I wasn’t prepared for episode 3.16, “Dirty Hands.” It’s not often that a television show surprises me, but this episode did it. I was slapped in the face by what seemed like an hour long dramatization of Das Kapital. A work of Science Fiction finally did what the genre has always promised: It made me think about our world, right here, right now.
Spoilers below the fold.
Yes, Burn Notice keeps coming up in comparison to White Collar, and I suppose rightly so. Flashy, action-y, gadget-y. Beautiful people doing crazy things using cool, specialized knowledge.
The USA Network decided to set this series in New York instead of Miami. Far fewer bright colors. Just as much ridiculous wealth.
A couple of surprises in the casting department. On a positive note, Willie Garson plays a friend of “The Hot Guy.” You might know him as Stanford in Sex in the City, or surfing lawyer Meyer Dickstein in John from Cincinatti. Ever the pseudo-gay nebbish.
Tiffani Thiessen makes an appearance, too. I could go the rest of my life without seeing her “act.” Honestly, she’s not bad, but I’m prejudiced.
I’ll give this show a few more episodes after a solid pilot. This might not be the best new show on TV, but we should all cry that it’s better than most of what the broadcast channels put out.
It’s not Friday night if there’s no OTM. Seriously, I look forward to the podcast of On the Media as much as anything else in my life. Take that for what it’s worth.
This week Brooke and Bob stepped aside for a special episode all about the state of the music industry, especially in regards to downloading and piracy.
One segment dealt with sampling. For some reason, I’ve always demurred from listening to Girl Talk, but I’ll be honest. That’s some catchy stuff. And it should be. Dude’s taking whatever he wants and mashing it up. I just might ask the internet to send me some.
Payola and the Billboard charts came up, and the point was driven home that with most young people not buying CDs, they don’t get a “consumer vote” and their music isn’t reflected in these charts.
Indie Rock wasn’t ignored. Good small bands are basically invisible in this world of $300 concert tickets and boomer-driven CD sales. (I know I was priced out of going to see The Police, virtually the only band of that ilk I’d ever want to see.) The world of KEXP and Pitchfork is still figuring out how to operate. There are no good answers. Being inventive helps, but the long slog seems to be an enduring reality.
Malcolm Gladwell’s Game
I was just reading an interview with Malcolm Gladwell where he gave away the secret of his success:
“A lot of my process is informed by the notion that two mildly good stories put together sometimes equal one really good story.”
Sure enough, when I read his latest New Yorker piece (subscriber since 2008, thank you), he kicks that pony one more time.
Football’s brutal, dog fighting’s brutal. I think we’re all on board at this point. He takes the “mildly good” story of new brain research about the debilitating effects of playing the game and marries it to another “mildly good” story. Football player Michael Vick just got released from prison for running a dog fighting business. The dogs are used up and thrown away. Football players have brains that look like advanced Alzheimer’s patients.
Layers upon layers.
