Ah yes, the Grannys... that annual tradition of the record industry straining to spin "legendary" moments from sow's asses, as the business itself sinks deeper into the downward spiral of oblivion. CD sales are tumbling. Record stores are closing. Labels keep merging, employees keep getting put on the chopping block and the whiz-kid execs hired to turn fortunes around walk away with sweetheart bonus clauses. The evidence is mounting and yet no one can stop the bleeding. Until Neil Portnow comes on to do his "illegal download deterrent" monologue. Nero's warming up the ol' fiddle, indeed.

The show has actually tried to enter the 21st century with the rest of us as it's finally acknowledged the existence of Black musicians under the age of AARP membership. But for every small step made (Van Hunt picking up his first statuette), there's always a quantum leap backwards to bestow goldies to the oldies. Yes, Stevie Wonderful...I'm talking to you.

The audience filled with jaded Angelenos seemed to muster just enough enthusiasm for "music's biggest night" as a State of the Union address. And if you watched, you probably weren't content to be wasting your time with them either. No matter what the cause, the 49th annual Grammy Awards was even more constricted than usual. The red carpet ensembles were subdued, the performances promoted channel surfing and the acceptance speeches would've bored Ben Stein to tears. A retrospective of the snoozefest that was is as follows...

Don't Get Mad, Get Even: What a difference four years can make. In March 2003, the Dixie Chicks were dead women walking. After lead singer Natalie Maines expressed her shame in sharing a hometown with President Bush during a performance in London on the eve of the Iraq war, the toasts of Nashville flipped from red state darlings to personas non grata faster than a johnny cake. Things change, and thankfully so do opinions as the industry was clearly ready to make nice. Echoing Mimi's '06 derailing in spite of pulling off a career best resurgence, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul was upstaged as Saddam's little helpers got the last laugh in the winner's circle. How you spell vindication? S-w-e-e-p... x 5. Let this be the best case study to future rebels without a pause on how to handle controversy properly: face it dead on. Address it in your music. But don't act as though it never happened. (Get your pen & paper out, Miss Jackson.)

Jesus Loves Me, Yes We ALL Know: Mary J. Blige thanked everyone from J. Dilla to John McClain and then got played off while reading the phone book in her purse. But let's get to some hateration in this dancery... is it really necessary to hear the 12 step affirmations about how her life used to be filled with such drama and pain and self-hate and now she loves her self so much and her man is so wonderful to her? I mean, EVERY opening of a song, EVERY award speech, EVERY interview. It's reached flogging Barbaro proportions already. She's clinging so hard to Kendu to keep her on the straight & narrow that a pull on the crack pipe of co-dependency seems almost inevitable. But then again, could you imagine the masterpiece we'd get out of it?

The Silver Lining In A Dark Cloud: Remember when Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears used to be mentioned in the same sentence? Me neither. Who cares if that random shriek roused every canine from slumber on a block near you, when has a former Mouseketeer turned pop star gone for the gusto like that? Crouched onstage, clutching the mic stand like a woman possessed, Xtina skipped a naked Sunday with the hubby to reach into her gut, imbuing It's A Man's Man's World with fiery passion — a stark contrast to the emotionless caterwauling she's known for. The Godfather's surely smacking a bitch up in approval.

Most Premature Center of Attention Grab: The glitter. The sparkles. The magnolias which were a bit more brain tumor than Billie Holiday. Anything to bedazzle your overexposed ass back in the spotlight. Alas, impersonating Mariah Carey on a number that belongs in a regional pageant's talent competition and has to performed again on the Gay Super Bowl a mere two weeks away is a Rex Grossman-esque fumble.

The Blair Bitch Project: Everybody's favorite counterfeit Michael Jackson pre-molestation wannabe tried to aim high on the credibility meter with his piano-man rendition of "What Goes Around" — and then he blew it with that pointless TimberCam bullshit, up-close and creepy. Who does he think he is, LonelyBoy15? Take your dick out the box and put your head in it.

Best Non-Medicinal Cure for Insomnia: Pairing the establishment's preferred brand of fresh faced talent may have seemed like a good idea in theory, but the triumvirate of John Legend, Corinne Bailey Rae & John Mayer foregoing the uptempo songs which netted their collective nominations for acoustic balladry added up to a Starbucks unplugged without the caffeine.

Cardio Fixation, Volume 2: Not only do Shakira's hips not lie, they should be hooked up to a smoothie making machine. I'm hopeful that this will mark the final time that this song is performed. Backflips and Solid Gold dancers are still bona fide crowd pleasers, but it feels like this song has been around for 10 years. If this isn't stopped now, Charo 2.0 will be turbo shimmying until she's 70. Enough is enough.

Edge Of Seventeen: Not even old enough to indulge in manly hazing tactics like eating a donut off someone's dick, yet he's stomping the yard in a Skeletor mask with krumping preschoolers, vocals curiously inconspicuous. Putting him behind Smokey and Lionel Richie just drives home how overproduced, badly written and piss-poor commercial R&B is right now. Ay dios mio.

Most Unnecessary Ode To American Idol: My Grammy Moment," they called it. My bathroom break, I decided was more apropos.

America's Next Trimspa Spokeswoman: All hail the Queen.

Labels: award shows, Grammys, music

Is there another pop superstar who blurs the lines between mega-watt likability and platinum blond vacuousness with as much joie de vivre as Gwen Stefani? Try as I might in vain to hate her, but the truth is, I love her and all the blissful band camp dorkiness that she encompasses. Well, at the least, I can settle on our relationship skewing love/hate because she makes being utterly annoying the car wreck I can't help but rubberneck for a peek.

Case in point: Lead single "Wind It Up", championed by frat girls coast to coast who've had one too many shots of Jagrmeister and should be in a taxi on their way to bed but instead choose to channel their inner Coyote Ugly for passed out bar patrons instead. As radio singles go, it's an absurd-sounding concoction that lederhosens to the brink of utter ridiculousness, but there's something almost admirable about this "throw the wackiest shit on the wall and let's see if it sticks" approach. I mean, let's be real...this is limburger cheese, not War & Peace. It takes a certain sort of quirky finesse to mine show tunes for inspiration, first with Fiddler On The Roof and now in full Swiss Miss glory with The Sound of Music. What's next? West Side Story? Unlike most singers, Stefani aims to please with style over sex appeal and oddity reigns supreme. Early Winter is probably the closest to her past rumblings with No Doubt, scaling above indie-rock, college radio circa '88 to epic power ballad heights with an assist from co-writer, Keane's Tim Rice-Oxley. But you'd better off advised to fast forward through filler like Orange County Girl, in which the SoCal sweetheart gets all Jenny From The Block to prove "a lot of things have changed but I'm mostly the same." Uh huh.

Listening too closely will only force you to confront lyrics that were obviously jotted down in her DayTimer instead of her diary en route to the Beat Factory and never looked at again ("Don't know what I'm doing back in the studio/Getting greedy cause he said he had another sick flow/So I had to hollaback cause I didn't get enough/Still feel the Wonderland, Alice and the tick tock"). But if you just slip on your tortoiseshell J.Lo sunglasses, pour yourself a Smirnoff Twisted and get lost in the beats, The Sweet Escape delivers on its name and continues in Stefani's proud tradition of being caught in the middle between the vanguard and the superficial. Few mainstream artists can hope to produce an album as effortlessly eccentric as this, so here's to hoping that the next screwball chapter is just around the bend.




Rating:

Download this: Early Winter, Now That You Got It, Yummy, 4 In The Morning, Fluorescent, U Started It, Don't Get It Twisted

Labels: album review, Gwen Stefani, music

Okay, so I'm probably gonna get my platinum hag pass revoked for admitting that I just can't fully grasp the whole Beyoncé thing. Pretty in the conventional Black Barbie sense, check. Above average chops, check. Overrated, check. I already hear the angry stampede of bitter twinks in the offing ready to stab me with a Bandolino heel for daring to disparage of Our Lady of Knowles. Nowadays you can't swing a Fendi purse without knocking over four bottoms who'll scratch your eyes out for throwing shade to the diva-in-training who single handedly made the Bedazzler relevant again. But I'll take my chances.

She's the kind of artist that I want to like, but I just can't bring myself to actually drinking the laced Kool-Aid and succumbing to the madness. I mean, the whole all-girl backing band yet only strumming about 3 chords max was a good idea, I suppose (in theory only) and a step in the right direction. My beef with Bey — as cohorts who've heard me riff on the topic know — is that she doesn't usually sing complete songs, either on her own, or with Destiny's Child. If the hallmark of a truly great singer is their ability to shape a piece of material and make a song work from beginning to end, then the road from mere talent show trills and onto soul with sincerity is yet untraveled.

Maybe if she wasn't such an android of stage parenting, I'd be a wee bit more accepting of Sashabot-TX3500. But hey, I'll admit that the dip 'n pop strut of that damn Chi-Lites sample had me looking so crazy right then in the summer of '03. But then came the inevitable oversaturation. You couldn't open an awards show envelope without her lion's mane front and center to stop, drop & roll around center stage for comic effect. On top of that, the inexplicable 5 Grammys for an album weaker than 2-ply soaked in battery acid. The excruciating massacre of the English & French languages at the 05' Oscars in count 'em... three different performances. The reconvening and subsequent disbanding of DC3 on a farewell tour that lasted longer than The Pink Panther's box office run. The transformation from kitschy mallrat playing dress up in Mama's glad rags to Roc-A-Fella's gangsta's moll, surgically attached to the hip with her svengali, Jay-Z from South Beach to St. Tropez. I. just. couldn't. take. the. shit. anymore.

And apparently, neither could everyone else. The first single aptly titled Deja Vu was little else than pop's prom queen & king rehashing to lesser effect what made their earlier collab so successful. Looking like a crazed maniac possessed by a Yoruba spirit in Revlon's Fire & Ice lipstick on the estate of Tara, the video was a giddy slice of unintentional slapstick. The decibel shredding follow-up in Ring The Alarm which was chock full of Basic Instinct parodies did little else to restore the luster to Daddy Warbucks' longterm investment. However, with the release of Irreplaceable, Bee comes full circle back to the neck rolling badass she longs to be. And a welcome return it is. The instrumentation stripped to a mere acoustic guitar, percolating 808 and a simple verse/melody arrangement manages to encourage the most restrained vocal performance delivered from a chronic caterwauler in like.... ever. Leave it to those crafty Norwegians better known as Stargate and R&B's rookie of the year in Ne-Yo for crafting a chorus so catchy it'll take a lobotomy to stop you from singing it. Wrapped in pretty packaging, you'll find a trifecta of her most go-to songwriting trappings: Woman Done Wrong (Bills Bills Bills), Woman Thou Art Loosed (Independent Woman Part 1), Woman With Closet Full Of Shit (every damn song with her singing lead).

The number-one song on the R&B, pop, and iTunes charts, not because of its hell-hath-no-fury sentiment, but because it's more infectious than a flu shot gone bad. You'd be hard pressed to find a man, woman or drag queen who ain't uttering "to the left, to the left."

Hooks? I lost count at approximately seven — mainly the maddeningly catchy "keep talking that mess, that's fine/but could you walk and talk at the same time," which doesn't fully explain the record's worldwide popularity. Taken at face value, you'd think that everyone on the planet's going all Waiting To Exhale on their lovers, regaining their backbone and calling up the locksmith to make sure the creep stays out for good. Me, I think it represents the best of what finely crafted pop gems have to offer because it connects us in a way that hardly anything else on the dial bothers to anymore.

So after all the catty punchlines and putdowns, I'll grant her a temporary reprieve simply because my defenses are worn ragged and resistance is futile. I'm diggin' this a lot. But not nearly enough to cop that two week stream of unconsciousness touted as her sophomore album though. No sir.

Hell, I gotta draw a line somewhere.

Labels: Beyonce, guilty pleasure, music

Is it too much to ask that the trend of country-fried, niggnorant rap die a fiery, merciless death? Between the toxic spawns of "Yung/Young's", "Lil's" and "Boyz" polluting radio airwaves 'round the clock, I can't take the shit anymore. The ear rape better known as Bammas 'R Us has to be a potent brain cell degenerate by the BPM, but everybody's too busy polishing their new grillz to a chrome finish to pay attention. The trend has always been to remain a few steps behind once the Mason-Dixon line is crossed, (ex. quality of public school education, evangelical bible thumpers, the Bush mafia, sweeping red-state endorsements of Dumbya's re-election) ... but, it really shows in the music.

It's almost as if making joints that birds love to squawk to is an innate gift. While it's a given that true originality doesn't exist in the industry, is it too much to ask that the conventional and expected content that people have come to expect for so long and seem to love with an unwavering passion evolve past its primitive appeal? From pimp fetishes to the slurred dialect, it's almost as if the affirmation of deep-rooted stereotypes are relished with pride. And don't even get me started on that trash christened snap music. It never should have been allowed to escape beyond its region of origin. It's like some deep, twisted family secret that should've never come to the light. Right up there with marrying your second cousin.

There are certainly exceptions to every rule and this is not a sweeping indictment of all things sprouting from the Dirty South. My loathing of bullshit like Dem Franchise Boyz, Mike Jones, Chamillionaire & the diarrhea anthem of it all, Laffy Taffy doesn't negate the props I give acts like 'Kast, Cunninlynguists, Little Brother, Goodie Mob, Scarface, Supastition, Luda, etc. However, if being branded "a hater" because I don't like something and mention it in public, then fuck it, I'll be that... but it is what it is.

You can chop it, screw it or bounce it, but I'd rather light my pubic hairs on fire than to sit through a Rap City countdown with the illiterati's greatest hits making up positions 20-1. I'm all crunked out and am dialing 911 in need of detox.

Labels: hip hop, music, rants

It's Janet, Miss Jackson if ya nasty. And my month was just made with the news that the finishing touches are being placed on her forthcoming, still untitled album. According to Billboard.com, longtime producer Jimmy Jam confirms that things are coming towards the homestretch.

"Hopefully in January we'll be done with her project," says Jam. "We're trying to have a single around February and the album around April or May. It's up to the record company, but we'll definitely have it done by then. We're real close."

Schwing! I'm kvelling like a Yeshiva at a Yisroel Williger concert. Like shmearing shmaltz on a matzah. In layman's terms for those not fluent in Jewisms 101, I'm fucking amped, people. Anyone that knows me well enough can attest to being a card-carrying platinum member of the rhythm nation for eons with my spare house key on the earring as a show of good faith.

However, in spite of my symptoms of unwavering fandom, I'm not blinded with rose-colored glasses to the point where I can't recognize the real. Coming off the disappointing sales of 2004's Damita Jo, La J's gonna have to step her game up to truly get her groove back. And listed below is a checklist of pitfalls to avoid suffering another career malfunction in her quest from boob-bearing punchline to diva-on-mission to reclaim her mojo.

How To Go Multi-Platinum Without Really Trying:

1. Sprint your ass up and down the Malibu coastline daily. Double up on a session of spinning and repeat. The recent paparazzi flicks reveal a hot buttered mess that's a far cry from the six pack that inspired scads of women to purchase Ab Rollers in vain. Damn Gina! What happened? Put down the Krispy Kremes and pick up a few colonics, stat!
2. Lay off the overtly explicit material. It took Marco Polo less time to stumble across the Silk Road to China than it has for you to fully explore all facets of your orgasm on record. You like sex, we get it. But there's gotta be a more creative way to express it aside from waxing poetic about "the warmth of your mouth."
3. Your loyalty to a fault will be your Achilles' heel if you don't rid yourself of the tired ass choreography. It's time to clean house and rid yourself of the little Hawaiian no-punch who's been recycling moves and adding nothing worthwhile to the repertoire. Yes, I mean Gil. Yes, I know you've shared eyeliner since the janet. tour. But he's ovah like North Face bubble jackets, honey. Cut your losses before another video mimics an ESPN2 cheerleading competition.
4. For the love of couture, hire a goddamn stylist. Any more public appearances in outfits like this or this will force me to ask "where's René?" at the next album signing. Bankroll's too stacked to constantly commit ensemble violations. Leave those kind of missteps to the Vivica A. Fox's of the world.
5. Quit trying to compete with the youngsters that are raiding your laundry for ideas on the watered down pop/R&B with a sprinkle of a guest rap for street cred and bring back the Minneapolis funk, dammit!

Get the point? Good, let's dance.

Labels: Janet Jackson, music

To say that pop music is nothing more than a barren wasteland of forgettable hooks and empty cliches is about as obvious as Katie Holmes' artificial insemination pregnancy. And nothing quite drove the death knell home for today's current state of affairs more than the announcement of nominations for the 48th annual Grammy Awards this morning. The days of that shiny golden gramophone actually carrying some semblance of prestige have gone the way of Geri Halliwell's career. Credibility has officially flown the co-op.

Among the most blatant head scratchers:

The inexplicable amount of accolades given to Alicia Keys' Unbreakable. I love her like a play cousin, but even I recognize an aural dump when I hear it and this little ditty is a clusterfuck of nonsense masquerading as some trumped-up ode to Black love. It's the offseason of batting cleanup in the NARAS winner's circle, but to even be mentioned as a contender for Best R&B Song when a hook contains the lyrics, "we could fight like Ike and Tina" is clearly on some next shit. Ditto squared for the National Organization of Women's theme in Cater 2 U. Is that all there is?

Omarion actually winding up on a ballot without Ashton Kutcher popping up at the press conference to reassure us it's all a joke.

Beyoncé landing her gift certificate early to Payola 'R' Us for a "blink-and-you-missed-it" inclusion on the damn Roll Bounce soundtrack.

The goddawful hatchet jobs to Luther Vandross standards on the J Records compilation spawning multiple mentions thanks largely to Daddy Warbucks (that's Clive Davis for those in the dark) greasing palms, while Lalah Hathaway's rendition of Forever, For Always, For Love is completely ignored. Motherfucking blasphemy at its worst, I tell ya.

No trace of recognition towards Leela James, Kem, Faith Evans or Kindred the Family Soul?

As expected, the little muppet that could emerged as the frontrunner, garnering multiple nods in the Album, Record & Song of the Year categories in addition to 5 more where those came from. Of course, there's nothing that the Academy loves more than a feel-good comeback story, and there was no story with more TV-movie-of-the-week ingredients than the emancipation of Mimi in 2005. So, consider Mariah Carey a lock to walk away with more than a few door stoppers to cap off her successful rebound from psych ward outpatient to relevant hit maker. Eight was also enough for newcomer John Legend and his fairy godfather, Kanye West.

The partial list of who's in and up for what is listed below.

Record of the Year

• "We Belong Together," Mariah Carey
• "Feel Good Inc.," Gorillaz featuring De La Soul
• "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," Green Day
• "Hollaback Girl," Gwen Stefani
• "Gold Digger," Kanye West featuring Jamie Foxx

Album of the Year

• The Emancipation of Mimi, Mariah Carey
• Chaos and Creation In the Backyard, Paul McCartney
• Love. Angel. Music. Baby., Gwen Stefani
• How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, U2
• Late Registration, Kanye West

Song of the Year

• "Bless the Broken Road," Rascal Flats
• "Devils & Dust," Bruce Springsteen
• "Ordinary People," John Legend
• "Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own," U2
• "We Belong Together," Mariah Carey

Best New Artist

• Ciara
• Fall Out Boy
• Keane
• John Legend
• Sugarland

Female Pop Vocal Performance

• "It's Like That," Mariah Carey
• "Since U Been Gone," Kelly Clarkson
• "Good Is Good," Sheryl Crow
• "I Will Not Be Broken," Bonnie Raitt
• "Hollaback Girl," Gwen Stefani

Male Pop Vocal Performance

• "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing," Jack Johnson
• "Fine Line," Paul McCartney
• "Walk on By," Seal
• "Lonely No More," Rob Thomas
• "From the Bottom of My Heart," Stevie Wonder

Pop Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal

• "Don't Lie," The Black Eyed Peas
• "Mr. Brightside," The Killers
• "More Than Love," Los Lonely Boys
• "This Love," Maroon 5
• "My Doorbell," The White Stripes

Pop Vocal Album

• Extraordinary Machine, Fiona Apple
• Breakaway, Kelly Clarkson
• Wildflower, Sheryl Crow
• Chaos and Creation In the Backyard, Paul McCartney
• Love. Angel. Music. Baby., Gwen Stefani

Rock Album

• X&Y, Coldplay
• In Your Honor, Foo Fighters
• A Bigger Bang, The Rolling Stones
• How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, U2
• Prairie Wind, Neil Young

Female R&B Vocal Performance

• "1 Thing," Amerie
• "Wishing On A Star," Beyoncé
• "We Belong Together," Mariah Carey
• "Free Yourself," Fantasia
• "Unbreakable," Alicia Keys

Male R&B Vocal Performance

• "Creepin'," Jamie Foxx
• "Ordinary People," John Legend
• "Let Me Love You," Mario
• "Superstar," Usher
• "So What the Fuss," Stevie Wonder

R&B Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal

• "So Amazing," Beyoncé & Stevie Wonder
• "Cater 2 U," Destiny's Child
• "If This World Were Mine," Alicia Keys featuring Jermaine Paul
• "So High," John Legend featuring Lauryn Hill
• "How Will I Know," Stevie Wonder featuring Aisha Morris

Traditional R&B Vocal Performance

• "Mine Again," Mariah Carey
• "Summertime," Fantasia
• "A House Is Not A Home," Aretha Franklin
• "If I Was Your Woman," Alicia Keys
• "Stay With You," John Legend

Urban/Alternative Performance

• "SupaStar," Floetry
• "Dirty Harry," Gorillaz
• "Dust," Van Hunt
• "Welcome To Jamrock," Damian Marley
• "Ghetto Rock," Mos Def

R&B Song

• "Cater 2 U," Destiny's Child
• "Free Yourself," Fantasia
• "Ordinary People," John Legend
• "Unbreakable," Alicia Keys
• "We Belong Together," Mariah Carey

R&B Album

• Illumination, Earth, Wind and Fire
• Free Yourself, Fantasia
• Unplugged, Alicia Keys
• Get Lifted, John Legend
• A Time 2 Love, Stevie Wonder

Contemporary R&B Album

• Touch, Amerie
• The Emancipation of Mimi, Mariah Carey
• Destiny Fulfilled, Destiny's Child
• Turning Point, Mario
• O, Omarion

Rap Solo Performance

• "Testify," Common
• "Mockingbird," Eminem
• "Disco Inferno," 50 Cent
• "Number One Spot," Ludacris
• "U Don't Know Me," T.I.
• "Gold Digger," Kanye West

Rap Performance by a Duo or Group

• "Don't Phunk With My Heart," The Black Eyed Peas
• "The Corner," Common featuring The Last Poets
• "Encore," Eminem featuring Dr. Dre & 50 Cent
• "Hate It Or Love It," The Game featuring 50 Cent
• "Wait (The Whisper Song)," Ying Yang Twins

Rap Song

• "Candy Shop," 50 Cent featuring Olivia
• "Diamonds from Sierra Leone," Kanye West
• "Don't Phunk With My Heart," The Black Eyed Peas
• "Hate It Or Love It," The Game featuring 50 Cent
• "Lose Control," Missy Elliot featuring Ciara & Fat Man Scoop

Rap Album

• Be, Common
• The Cookbook, Missy Elliot
• Encore, Eminem
• The Massacre, 50 Cent
• Late Registration, Kanye West

Best Reggae Album

• Our Music, Burning Spear
• Welcome To Jamrock, Damian Marley
• The Trinity, Sean Paul
• Clothesdrop, Shaggy
• Black Gold & Green, Third World

Best Short Form Music Video

• "Lose Control," Missy Elliott featuring Ciara & Fat Man Scoop
• "Feel Good Inc.," Gorillaz featuring De La Soul
• "Feels Just Like It Should," Jamiroquai
• "God's Will," Martina McBride
• "World On Fire," Sarah McLachlan

Labels: award shows, Grammys, music

I'm a glutton for punishment. And not of the "I slipped and won't make this mistake again," but of the "there's 2 hours of your life gone... was it really worth it?" variety. So now, I can finally admit without trepidation... I'm in an S&M relationship with craptastic "special presentations" geared to the urban audience.

Less interesting than the Country Music Association's shindig at MSG and with a budget of pocket lint and shoestrings, the taped telecast was broadcast from the Econo Lodge in downtown L.A. with designated UPN Negro spokesmodel Tracee Ellis Ross and the Chris Farley of Black comedy, Anthony Anderson as the supposed "celebrity hosts." In its third year, the bonus should be that all attendants left without any puncture wounds after last year's melee involving a crowd participant, Dr. Dre & Young Buck.

Kicking off this banquet in red carpet clothing was the incredible miming hermaphrodite her(him)self, the laughably monikered "Queen of Crunk & B" Ciara. Try as she might to pillage the polished precision of her most obvious influence - Janet Jackson - she couldn't hold her nipple shield even at La J's most bloated. Gone are the times of actually rehearsing something that'll make the kiddies want to memorize the moves to bust out at the playground the next day. Merely popping your flat ass and whipping wet 'n wavy yak hair around in a hornet's nest constitutes groundbreaking choreography nowadays. The most telling moment of this limp opener came at the mandatory "hold up, wait a minute" fancy footwork breakdown to a shitty remix.

"Ya'll wanna see me dance?"

The audience who were probably already agitated with the hors d'oeurves of pigs in a blanket and cubed Cracker Barrel certainly didn't warm up to her call and response.

*crickets chirping*
*tumblewood rolling by*

Maybe she should've just canned the Boys & Girls Club of Compton as her backing troupe and just whipped her dick out for amusement. Now there's fine FCC-endorsed fun for the entire family.

Up next on the Saturday afternoon Soul Train throwback to forgettable appearances was Young Jeezy and Akon's descent to utter laziness. How in the hell is it necessary to lip synch a goddamn rap song with a one-octave hook?!

Leave it up to the brainchildren at Vibe to come up with the dumbest categories (Hottest Hook, anyone?) and even dumber reasons to bestow honors to the most baffling choices. Case in point, the Stepford beard of hip-hop, Kimora Lee Simmons.

Dual winner for Vibe Vixen (the hell?) and even more egregious - VStyle (are you fucking kidding me? Baby Phat earns more revenue on the clearance rack rather than full-priced retail), Kimmy Lee unveiled her newest look. Imitation dancehall queen. Following in the bargain basement attire of her Asian sistren Junko, ol' Kimono got wiggy with it as a walking platinum blonde mess.

Even more troubling from Kim-Foo Young was the constant giggly shoutouts to the mogul midget who could as "her baby daddy" as if the patronizing attempts to be "down" in a room full of Nigras would be well received.

One of these days, my wish to see Ball Park frank neck banished to the confines of their Saddle River compound for good will be realized.

After channel surfing for an eternity to try and replenish the many brain cells lost while falling under UPN's kryptonite haze, I clicked back to see that the Next award for best new artist wound up as.... a tie! A collective eye roll was given as both Young Jeezy and Keyshia Cole were the recipients. Since when was the NHL a corporate sponsor? There's no ties in nonsensical award shows!

And speaking of Ms. Cole, anyone know if she was home schooled at a correctional facility? Her diction is right up there with such other well known scholars in the industry who have mastered the art of enunciation obliteration to a tee.

Ludacris + a confederate flag jumpsuit = pretty fucking stupid. This Quik rabbit trapped in the body of a My Buddy doll has been teetering on the edge of "nutty nigga-itis" for some time now, but he's finally sunk into the abyss of latent stupidity. What's next? Ropes around our neck and pointy white hoods as the newest trend to turn negative historical symbols into an acceptable form of culture pimping for the masses?

I know it's the heartwarming tale to see a former pop star rise like a phoenix once more to conquer the charts, but Tina Turner clearly Mariah Carey ain't. Four Lego model statuettes seemed more than a bit excessive for my tastes, but in happier news - Mary J. Blige appears to be hitting the crack pipe again. Picking a fight with the editor-in-chief (wish they would've aired that one) because the mag cover on newsstands now resemble Chester the Cheetah while accepting an undeserved Legend Award? Could this be scripted any better? Hallelujah! Finally, some decent material to look forward to now. Call me cold and bitchy, but the "no more drama" version 2.0 of MJB has produced nothing but extra drink coasters from 1997 onwards. Every cloud has a silver lining, and in the grand scheme of a telecast that made even BET look current, I'll take whatever I can get.

Labels: award shows, music, TV

When F. Scott Fitzgerald opined that there were no second acts in American life, he clearly never envisioned a whirling dervish of blond ambition from Bay City, Michigan. Boy toy. Material girl. Culture vulture. The world's most famous Kabbalist. Madonna has had more lives than your average Siamese in her 22-year reign as the Queen of Pop. For all her chameleonic shape shifting throughout decades past, her connection to the lullaby of clubland never waned. And after she struck an ill-advised Patty Hearst pose on 2003's disappointing American Life, a return to the frothy glory days of plastic bangles and strobe lit nights not only seemed like a logical retreat but also as a necessary tactic to restore the platinum luster to her distinguished chart stats.

If American Life was for the head, Confessions On A Dance Floor is strictly meant for the feet. However, while music critics by and large have given an overall enthusiastic thumbs up (Entertainment Weekly's Michael Slezak may quite possibly kickstart the first male menstrual cycle with his finger snapped salute to COADF on PopWatch) to Confessions, I wasn't quite ready to take my vintage pair of Sergio Valentes out of storage to party like it was 1985 all over again. I suppose this is the part where I should renounce my platinum fag hag membership because I dared to back away from the altar of Our Lady of Ciccone, but for an album designed to coax the party-girl-gone-astray out of me, I felt like a wallflower for longer than expected while tuned in.

Moving away from the aristocratic English pretension of her current Lady Madonna incarnation and back into the darkened jungle where she's always been most at home, the first three tracks come at you with the fury of a disco inferno and are worthy of instant repeat value. The first single, "Hung Up" is a delectable slice of heaven which owes much of the frenetic BPM's to ABBA's 1979 campy chestnut "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)." The constant clock ticking which seems to be a concurrent theme throughout blends into the blurry soundscape of the Stardust-inspired "Get Together." Rounding out the amplified trifecta is an litany of multilingual apologies which picks up the pace yet again as "Sorry" pounds with a driving bassline courtesy of the Jackson's "Can You Feel It."

The problems begin when she starts to drift from the guilty pleasures of merely shaking your ass down to the ground to the overwhelming need to spout off more empty truisms with a "deeper meaning." On the dubiously titled "Let It Will Be," Madge gets all E! True Hollywood Story on us with a spiffy opener: "Now I can tell you about success, about fame/About the rise and the fall of all the stars in the sky..." Sound familiar? It should, the rehash was detailed ad nauseum on "Drowned World/Substitute For Love" 7 years ago. Haven't we had all the inner peace/ethereal reference bases covered since she spit out her litter of rugrats and allegedly gained a conscience? If I hear one more allusion to light, I may just need to indulge in a bit of erotic asphyxiation with a red string bracelet. And in her tongue-in-cheek ode to the city that never sleeps has even more embarrassing dialogue than her last children's book: "I don't like cities, but I like New York/Other places make me feel like a dork."

British DJ/remixer Stuart Price a.k.a. Jacques Du Cont (of Les Rhythmes Digitales) was brought in this time around as the main collaborator and his productions swathes each cut with dizzying pace and dense production. The LP was mixed as a throwback to older disco EP's which flowed seamlessly from one song to another irregardless to track numbers. However, the digital bells and whistles could've benefited from less trendy techno posturing and simply more percussion of the traditional house variety. This merely seems like window dressing as opposed to some of her latter-day gems which winked and nodded to the joys of rediscovering the groove on Impressive Instant, Nothing Really Matters and Thief Of Hearts with ease.

In her attempt to prove that she can still hang out with the raver kids past a yoga mama's scheduled curfew, it only makes me long for the sugar rush of her early classics all the more. A time when she believed in power of the beat and remaining under the DJ's spell would save the world. And when she used to dance... for inspiration.

Rating:
Download this: Hung Up, Get Together, Sorry, Forbidden Love, Push, Jump

Labels: album review, Madonna, music, new CD

The best things in life aren't free. They're unplanned. Well... sometimes, at least. As was the case last night at approximately 6:13 p.m. I had no plans after work except to get the hell out of my office before 7:00, stop for some Mexican takeout in Park Slope and curl up in bed for a date with my weekly trifecta of true crime programming on A&E. But my cell started ringing like a bat outta hell as I was filing away the day's paperwork and shutting Windows down. It was a pleasant surprise to hear from Carly*, my best friend from high school. We hadn't talked for a few months and a year had already passed since we last got together to hang out. She was calling to extend a last-minute invite to see Kanye West live at the Theater @ Madison Square Garden as a part of her 27th birthday celebration. I was so not dressed for a concert since I had to be hyper corporate for a scheduled meeting earlier on in the day, but what the hell. It was about time someone took my ass out to a show instead of always being the one to offer the front row courtesy to others. So, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

On the way in, we were both disappointed to learn that Common had bowed out of the Touch the Sky tour to accept a film role alongside Ben Affleck, Ray Liotta and Alicia Keys. Dammit, I was looking forward to seeing Testify backed by a live band. Kicking off the show as the primer to a still incoming crowd would be Oakland native Keyshia Cole. The rawness and no-nonsense emotions behind such a throaty voice have earned her comparisons as the heir apparent to Mary J. Blige's queen of hip-hop soul throne. But after a brief 6-song set, those lofty parallels were quickly put to rest. Clearly Cole has the talent, but canned backing tapes and two accompanying dancers who looked fresh out the Wade Robson school of stiffness added nothing to her impassioned wails. It boiled what amounts to a solid R&B palette on wax down to underwhelming, middle-of-the road fare up close and personal. Being right in the midst of her 'round-the-way-girl fanbase, current hit "I Should Have Cheated" got a welcome reception with her ghetto soul shtick. By the time Keyshia took a stab at being a showstopper in covering "I'm Going Down," the audience should've been crooning along, instead, most people seemed to still be finding their seats. Yawn.

3rd season American Idol champ Fantasia wisely opted for a full band to give layers to the pedestrian offerings from debut album Free Yourself. Clad in "was her stylist blindfolded?" black biker shorts, thigh-high black boots and frilly white blouse, the outfit had High Point, NC stamped all over it. Fresh out the box, Barrino's fever pitch was a study in dramatics. Not hard to tell how she garnered votes after commanding the stage with the fervor of Patti LaBelle in all her floor rolling, holy ghost glory. Obviously a natural with a flair for gutbucket soul, her clipped phrasing weighed far more bark than bite as her set wore on. The predisposition for taking screeching over the edge was never more evident as she veered full speed ahead into lung-shredder territory again, puncturing first Prince's "Purple Rain", then Aerosmith's "Dream On" with the type of histrionics that would cause Steven Tyler to cower behind his scarf-tied mic stand. She'd do well to employ a vocal coach to drive home the mantra: less IS more, and move onto a new wardrobe consultant.

After the mere appetizers were out of the way, it was time for the main course. And the headliner didn't disappoint. 9 musicians (including a seven-piece string section), 2 background singers and 1 DJ silhouetted behind an eye-catching platform sectioned into boxes that doubled as a video screen: welcome to the Kanye West show. Curtis Mayfield's anthemic "Move On Up" was a fitting opener for the GQ cover boy who made good. Indeed it was just over a year ago when West was still learning the stage ropes as an opener on Usher's The Truth tour. Fast forward to now and he's the marquee above the bill. Flashing white lights introduced "Touch The Sky" spitting "I got to testify, come up in the spot lookin' extra fly" while dressed appropriately sharp.

Whether he was channelling a preacher man's testimony with on the spiritual ode "Jesus Walks," reminiscing about his days as a sweater folder at the Gap on the every man's frustration rant "Spaceship," framing a snippet of the Eurythmics classic, "Sweet Dreams" as a setup for the moody gem "Addiction" off current album Late Registration or continuing to thumb his nose at the President by quipping "Drug dealers buy Jordans/crackheads buy crack/And George Bush get paid off of all dat.." as a softer, but still present political jab, West's move away from the usual entourage in tow with mics yelling the obligatory "wave ya hands in the air, and wave 'em like ya just don't care..." was a refreshing sight to see.

The energy level remained high as he switched gears from the sentimental tribute to his grandmother, Roses (played out as a tug on the heartstrings sitting adjacent to a hospital bed) and We Don't Care - but the noise level really reached another level as the night was heading into the homestretch of I-know-all-the-words-by-heart smash hits. 9 weeks and running as the #1 song in the country (Kanye couldn't rein in his oversized ego by mistakenly claiming the top spot all over the world), Gold Digger had the audience yelling "We want pre-nup!" as if Kobe Bryant's face was freezeframed on the overhead projector. And just when you thought it couldn't get any better - it did. Out walked Jay-Z to an adoring hometown on the brink of pandemonium to perform Encore and PSA. The Roc was now officially in the building. With the crowd turned into a sea of pyramid hand signs, Kanye stood center stage proud as a peacock and crowed, "They can't do what we do baby!" After a triumphant performance, it was hard to disagree.

Labels: concert review, Fantasia, Kanye West, Keyshia Cole, music

When exactly is VH-1 going to lay the decade retread franchise to rest already?

Seeing the usual suspects like the notorious J.E.W. Michael Ian Black, Rachael Harris, Mo Rocca and Hal Sparks act the plum fool gets my motor running just like all other nostalgia whores who can relate to the joys of this guilty pleasure, but even I'm reaching my fill of repetitive strolls down memory lane. First it was I Love The 80's, then I Love The 80's Strikes Back and now I Love The 80's in 3-D. What's next? In ColecoVision?

Just how long is it going to take Marc Cherry to rescue his brainchild from the abyss of sophomoric storyline hell? Desperate Housewives has gone from must-see TV to a barren wasteland in just one season. Teri Hatcher has devolved into an unwatchable caricature (another teary-eyed Susan/Mike breakup? Oh, that one's original...) and the George/Bree pairing is like Liza Minnelli and David Gest reincarnated. For the sake of sex with hired help, trim the fat and get back to what made it such a phenomenon right out the gate. Why the hell is Mary Alice still doing voiceover narration? Who cares about Alfre Woodard's character and shroud of mystery? (As much as it pains me to type that, the Betty Applewhite backstory is a write-off that serves no purpose.) Bring the lead actresses back together with the inclusion of Nicollette Sheridan for comic relief on a plot that includes everyone on Wisteria Lane. If none of the fab four seem to care what's going on next door, why as viewers should we?

Here's something else to pin on the ubiquitous mallrat of pop, Mariah Carey. Not only responsible for introducing a generation raised on American Idol how to perfect empty melisma, we can now peg the trend of packaged CD collections with the misleading title of #1's. Enter Destiny's Child. It's one thing to actually have a catalogue of tunes that have all hit the top spot like The Beatles, Elvis and so on, but only 4 chart toppers, a couple of blink-and-you-missed-it tracks and the rest chalked up as pointless filler does not a number one compilation make. I am so ready for the two props masquerading as group members to sit their asses down somewhere on a permanent vacation and for Seabiscuit to just get the wedding ring already from her camel in shining armor so the already prominent hips can make like Pillsbury dough mix and expand further. But if the godawful first single, Stand Up For Love (Diane Warren is as adept at penning shlock as Kate Lanier is as writing flop screenplays) wasn't painful enough, the gall to stamp a false seal of approval has me more baffled than Tina Knowles' costume choices.

Quote of the day: "It was very courageous of MTV to start the show with a genuine transvestite." - Sacha Baron Cohen on Madonna at the 2005 MTV European Music Awards

Labels: Destiny's Child, Madonna, music, rants, TV

I've always found it ironic that although I'm one of the biggest Billboard watchers you'll ever meet and can go toe-to-toe with almost anyone on chart peaks, debuts and run stretches dating back almost 2 decades as far as the Hot 100's concerned, a sizable chunk of my favorite songs catalog tend to skew to the "could've been a single but wound up a B-side" or was relegated to mere "album track status" from a range of artists, regardless of genre. So, rounded up for your viewing pleasure: here's a look at my current iPod play list chock full of cuts (some hidden, others not so much) which stand head and shoulders above more popular contemporaries...

Adriana Evans - Say You Won't
Thievery Corporation - Pela Janela
Christina Aguilera - Lovin' Me For Me
Mint Condition - My Dear
Caron Wheeler - Little Girl Blue
Lisa Stansfield - Suzanne
Sweetback - Softly Softly
Javier - She Spoke To Me
Chante Moore - Better Than Making Love
Everything But The Girl - Troubled Mind
The Wallflowers - Closer To You
Goodie Mob - Thought Process
Kylie Minogue - Chocolate
Shakira - Obtener Un Si
Nas - Doo Rags
D'Angelo - Spanish Joint
Janet Jackson - And On And On
The Tony Rich Project - Hey Blue
Imani Coppola - Naked City (Love To See U Shine)
Tweet - Smoking Cigarettes
Garbage - Cherry Lips
DJ Rap - You Get Around
Lucy Pearl - Lala
GZA - Investigative Reports
Shades - Serenade
Billy Lawrence - Paradise
Teena Marie - Stop The World
Davina - Mercy
Tori Amos - Liquid Diamonds
Sade - I Never Thought I'd See The Day
Madonna - Thief Of Hearts
Nelly Furtado - The Grass Is Green
Big L - No Endz, No Skinz
Prince - Sometimes It Snows In April
Amp Fiddler - Superficial
Gwen Stefani - The Real Thing (Wendy & Lisa Slow Jam Mix)

Labels: music

Trying to fill Joan Baez's Birkenstocks on American Life clearly was an ill-advised decision for the Material Girl, so her latest reinvention? Getting back to basics with her early formula of 80's club pop spruced up in a Botox'd remix for the '05 - Confessions On A Dance Floor, tentatively slated for release on November 15th. Previous leaks from Photoshop-happy Madonna fans triggered a few false alarms, but her web site has finally made the official album cover available. The Last Days of Disco gets a revival. I think this marks the first time Maddy's been a redhead for a CD, but I like it...even if crouched in that position she looks like the LifeAlert monitor's been misplaced after her horse riding mishap around the manor. For a sneak peek of the first single Hung Up, get click happy here.

Labels: Madonna, music, new CD

With Kanye West sprawled languorously on the throne of self-promotional fellatio across all media outlets, you'd think the salary cap of pointless excess has strained past the breaking point. Damn, I couldn't even type that shit with a straight face. C'mon, who are we kidding here? Even a category 5 natural disaster can't derail an excuse for downtown VIP soirées and yacht arrivals. The time has come again for the tradition of lackluster performances, contrived hijinks and enough celebrity cockstroking to earn Astroglide corporate sponsorship - it's the 2005 MTV Video Music Awards in all its faux-"we're gonna fight, for our right...to paaaaaaarrrrtttty!" glory. The irony that a video channel which now relegates the bulk of its music video programming to the early morning hours just puts the nail in the coffin for how irrelevant the VMA's have become. Since they struck gold in the early 90's with original reality-TV programming, pop stars have taken a backseat to photogenic "real people" who agree to have their lives taped in exchange for their 15 minutes of fame. Remember the glory days of Courtney Love chucking a compact at Madonna, Tabitha Soren unable to hide her "please Black man, don't hurt me" expression alongside [enter random name] rappers for the uneasy fish-out-of-water Q&A, Alison Stewart making even idle red-carpet chatter seem earnest, Kennedy dishing mic techniques for the future Monica Lewinsky's of the world alongside then-mayor Rudy Giuliani or a blue-plate special of bitchiness served up from that grande dame of deadpan, Kurt Loder? Now we're stuck with Sway — monotonous Turban Boy, the ritalin study dropout Suchin Pak and John Norris proving that queers just wanna have fun even if they resemble a 50 yr. old meth addict on the way to a Frankie Goes To Hollywood tribute night at Culture Club.

Each year, I make a semi-coherent promise to myself not to watch, but like all disasters live and in Technicolor — you just can't seem to turn away. So I figured the real test would be to make it through this 3+ hr. testament to bloated ego while sober. But even that seemed too big a challenge, so I settled on taking a shot every time a morally bankrupt musician began their acceptance speech with "First and foremost, I'd like to thank my Lord and savior, Jesus Christ..."

Since they've uprooted the locale from NYC to Miami, the bullshit levels taken a seismic increase on the Richter scale of excess with everybody and their baby's mama spreading the Crockett & Tubbs-inspired motifs thinner than a g-string on South Beach. This year kept the Russ Mayer homage of Faster Asskissers, Kill, Kill! alive and well. And who better sums up style over substance than Puff Daddy, um, Puffy, er...P. Shitty...I mean...Doo Wah Diddy.

In spite of his empty promise "to witness something you've never witnessed before," the soggy opener coupled with a dance-off with Omarion, donating his six-figure costing watch to the United Negro Consumer Fund, the unnecessary fashion challenge that made over master pimp extraordinaire Magic Don Juan into a Dr. Claw knockoff right down to his own personal Mad Cat just highlighted the fact this entire production was one waterlogged mess.

Burning questions that remained unanswered:

How many arbiters did Kelly Clarkson have to gang bang in order to upset Gwen Stefani for Best Female Video? Shockingly, the hollaback girl was snubbed entirely in the major categories and had her clip wins banished to the minor leagues for Best Choreography & Art Direction. That diss and dismiss is bananas... B-A-N-A-N-A-S. I demand a recount.

When is Diddy going to finally allow Biggie to rest in peace? Mr. New Negro, this wasn't the Oscars and your bucktoothed ass sure ain't John Williams — so what's with the orchestral medley of Ready To Die? Yes, the remix of Warning with Snoop was kinda tight, but that aside: there's a time and a place for everything. It was appropriate seven years ago. Now the current generation has a blank stare because the Notorious B.I.G.'s known as "like, some fat guy that got shot, right?" and the rest of us who know better see you as the buzzard pecking the bones for the last shred of sympathy left. I know Jay-Z threw a Kanye-like tantrum backstage since he was snubbed from indulging in his favorite pastime - reciting old Frank White lyrics aloud.

Paging Missy Elliott: I know Bow Wow's about the size of a hobbit, but the game to 1, 2 step Ciara out of her draws could've been a bit more discreet. She had the Venus fly trap deathgrip on the poor girl's hand like whoa. Props on her two moonman wins, though. Lose Control was another wacky visual trip that was one of the few truly distinctive videos in contention all night.

Memo to Bang 'Em Smurf... er, I mean John Legend. Just how were you able to breathe with that belted Bebe blazer in a smedium on? And you really think the ploy from the Usher playbook of renting out an anonymous "supermodel" throws off the scent of gaydar wafting all around you? Come on now. The journey out the closet doesn't need to be so difficult. Just "take it slow, oh oh oh... this time just take it slow..."

Since Green Day grabbed the lion's share of moonmen for Boulevard of Broken Dreams, the headlines are likely to christen this as "the return of rawk!" but overall this was more of hip hop's retirement home with cameos from fossilized relics like MC Hammer, Grandmaster Flash and Luke.

Such a nice gesture of MTV to allow Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams to wave their goodbyes to the spotlight because once the Destiny's Child promotional farewell tour grinds to the final halt, it's a wrap for these two dead weights. You could almost see the light behind Beyoncé's dim eyes light up in anticipation. We're it not for the constant member merry-go-round, would we even give a damn? — the 30 second retrospective could've been canned entirely without the blink of an eye.

The good: In a word, Shakira. No extras, no backing troupe of dancers, just the kind of hip movements that are probably outlawed west of the Mississippi and electric chemistry with collaborator Alejandro Sanz on La Tortura. This bitch is fierce with a capital F. Isn't it telling that a Colombian pop singer has clearer enunciation than a gaggle of hometown high school dropouts masquerading as 'hood mobsters?

The Louis Vuitton Don & Jamie Foxx brought some much needed energy with a hyperactive rendition of Gold Digger. I could've done without Jamie losing steam to just rip open his shirt and segue into Hype Man-ville, but Kanye's stage presence can't be denied.

Jeremy Piven ribbing Lil' Kim (who apparently had to stoop to raiding Donatella's bargain basement in the same Versace duds Madonna sported 3 seasons ago in her GoodFellas layout) while presenting the award for Best Rap Video. "You know, she's about to go to the big house, for lying,'' he said. "I'd like to place a call to the warden and upgrade your situation.'' Don't think she'll want to hug that out, bitch.

Fat Joe going for the jugular in his ongoing feud with 50 Cent with the slyest jab of the night: "I feel so safe tonight, with all this police protection courtesy of G-Unit." Talk about defecating on ya microphone. Ice cold.

The bad & oh-so-ugly: Fitty gettin' all Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in the wake of having his panties exposed for the world to see by Don Cartegena earlier. We all knew retaliation was imminent, but if you're wearing a man halter, pecs hoisted at full salute with Maidenform support in pleather pants coming off a wack ass medley with assorted lackeys and the phrase "pussy boi" is the best you can come up with as a retort? You might as well wave your wifebeater in surrender. What a cowardly backslide into the abyss of coonery.

There's no way the most bizarre one-man reenactment done "live" could go by without a mention...of course I'm referring to every father's worst nightmare: R. Kelly. Three words come to mind: What. the. fuck?! If I wanted to see the sequel to Shelly Garrett's Beauty Shop, I'll pay my way at the Beacon Theatre box office with the rest of the Mama, I Wanna Sing Because At Night I've Prayed And A Woman's Fed Up chitlin plays. Clearly the withdrawals from the underage poontang is driving this nigga over the edge since he was blatantly miming 4 different parts as if chapter 7 of Trapped In A Piss Soaked Closet was really high art.

Mariah Carey mistaking the National Hotel's poolside as the relocation of Miss America's talent competition. This vapid twit didn't disappoint with a gown straight outta Frederick's of Hollywood's seasonal liquidation sale and Tourette's hand motions. Her whole Krystal Carrington vibe is so yawn-inducing, I'd rather pluck my nose hairs while thumbing through a back catalog of Fingerhut. And when is the lie of "biggest-selling female artist ever" going to be untold? This heifer has more conflicting press releases on her sales stats than the department of Homeland Security.

And how fitting that one desperate tramp introduced another with the tragically overexposed Eva Longoria in a preshrunk ruffled one-piece that only put undue emphasis on her prepubscent figure. Didn't you see where trying to slink into J.Ho's double stick tape territory got Toni Braxton at the '01 Grammys? "I wasn't about to let a little hurricane keep me from wearing my bathing suit," - nice way to show your sensitivity towards the victims left in Katrina's wake. Honey, you're one more misstep away from selling oranges on the freeway...your clock's at 10:43 and counting.

Is it too much to ask that Tweedledee and Tweedledum better known as Bow Wow and Paris Hilton be forced into a South African landmine face-first? The display of carat jockeying over who had the better bling was textbook asshat pandering between a Teen Beat thug and a whorebag no one takes seriously.

Reggaeton must be stopped NOW. Was it really necessary to have Joey Crack give a long winded intro about a "historic showing" of the three leading stars in Don Omar, Tego Calderón and Daddy Yankee (who briefly put a charge into American Airlines Arena with his ubitiquous smash, Gasolina) and they didn't even perform together? And why waste props on these three when El General did this bigger and better already like a decade earlier? Haven't dancehall diehards suffered enough thanks to the likes of Lumidee and Nina Sky desecrating the Diwali & Coolie riddims respectively? Ricans will always find the loophole to be the proverbial roach in the cereal box every fuckin' time.

Who did Ashlee & Jessica Simpson really think they were kidding? Their attempt for street cred in "knowing what soul is all about...take it from two girls from the dirty South," rang about as hollow as the vacant space in between Jess's ears. These hoes must've had a peroxide drip because they wouldn't know rhythm & blues from a can of Bumble Bee.

Overall the best moments of the show were so fleeting, if you blinked you missed it. Like Paulina Rubio shaking off the crunk when Lil' Jon tried to get too cozy or Kelly Clarkson busting her ass during her ode to Waterworld in the closing performance. The air of unpredictability was unapparent in its premiere, so you can cross off sitting through a repeat devoid of the slipped 30-second delays and up-to-the-minute stage beef. The "who shot Suge" cliffhanger is more interesting than all the crumpers you can fit in a box. eMpTyV has gone the way of the Hunts Point crackhead - still delusional in believing their best days are still ahead when the evidence is clear they're more than a day late and a dollar short.

Rewatchability Grade: D

Labels: award shows, MTV, music