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Here's the new Coldplay single, "Violet Hill." The new album, "Viva la Vida," comes out June 17. My enthusiasm for Chris Martin & Co. has diminished over the years. But I heard "Yellow" on my walk this morning, and I was kinda digging it. Anyway, "Violet Hill" isn't awful, but it's not too thrilling, either. Whattaya think?
My two favorite Steves -- Persall and Spears -- have already offered up nice eulogies to Harvey Korman, 81, who died yesterday from an abdominal aortic aneurysm. But the Forever Fiancee and I would like to say a little something about the great comedian, too. We were huge, silly, unabashed fans. To this day, we snort at Hedley Lamarr and Count de Monet far more than any other nut in Blazing Saddles and History of the World Part I. And we sass each other with "Don't get saucy with me, Bernaise!" at least once a week.
Plus a few months ago, five days after our daughter Mai-Mai was born, I did a bleary-eyed guest spot on Fox 13's morning show. The segment was a blur, as I hadn't slept in awhile. But it remains one of my fave appearances for one very good reason. In describing my new bambina, I said, with great amounts of pride, "She looks a lot like Harvey Korman." Mean? No way. In my world, that's love right there.
Thanks, Harvey. We'll miss you.
I just cheated on Steve Spears.
I tried to resist, but in the end, my robust vaingloriosity was too lusty to overcome. You see, I was invited by the dudes at Ante Up! to be a guest on their hugely popular poker podcast. The theme was poker music (what to play at your weekly sausage hang game, what to play on your iPod when you're taking the house in Vegas...) I wasn't as hyper as usual -- on the Red Bull Scale, I was a 6. It was hella fun.
Here's a LINK to their page and the podcast. Thanks to Chris and Scott for having me. Finally in my podcast career, I was treated with respect, like a valuable part of a show, like something more than a pesky Funyun in the game of life. Now I guess it's back to the '80s sweatshop...
Here's a bonus Poker Playlist just for kicks...
10) Luck Be a Lady -- Frank Sinatra
9) You Got Lucky -- Tom Petty
8) Even the Losers -- Tom Petty
7) Who's Got the Action? -- Dean Martin
6) Lay It Down -- Ratt
5) Crapped Out Again -- Keb Mo
4) Misery Loves Company -- Mike Ness & Bruce Springsteen
3) Diamonds From Sierra Leone -- Kanye West
2) Viva Las Vegas -- ZZ Top
1) Ace of Spades -- Motorhead
(By the way, if you'd like to hear how I'm mistreated on Stuck in the '80s, here's a podcast about the One-Hit Wonders of 1989. At the very least, you'll hear the phrase "bologna mustache.")
Last Saturday, those reborn Tampa Bay Rays — America's team! — drew more than 30,000 fans to Tropicana Field for a night game against the Baltimore Orioles. For a notoriously haunted building (that still continues to draw miserably), that crowd was downright Cecil B. DeMille-an. But the reason for this newsworthy surge in attendance was more than just wins and losses. For the first time in their history, the Rays are one of the best teams in the major leagues. But more than that, they have a crafty, cool marketing department. Saturday's victory was punctuated with a free show by none other than...the Commodores! "She's mighty mighty!"
Lionel Richie's former crew was the first in a string of postgame concerts that should jazz the joint this summer. (I'll be there, peeps. Come see me in Section 113.) This Saturday, after the Rays demolish the White Sox, country behemoth Trace Adkins will lead a group singalong of Honky Tonk Badonkadonk. Future shows will include Kool & the Gang, MC Hammer and Loverboy. Okay, so that's not exactly the white-hottest lineup. But let me tell you this: On Aug. 2, when the Rays down the woeful Tigers and get that much closer to the playoffs, it's gonna feel mighty good singing along to LL Cool J and Mama Said Knock You Out. "Don't call it a comeback...!"
The summer concerts are free with a game ticket; prices start at $9. Dates and performers (all games begin at 6:10 p.m except where noted) are Saturday (vs. White Sox), Trace Adkins; June 14 (vs. Marlins), Gilberto Santa Rosa; June 21 (vs. Astros), Kool & the Gang; July 5 (vs. Royals), Loverboy, 7:10 p.m.; July 19 (vs. Blue Jays), MC Hammer; and Aug. 2 (vs. Tigers), LL Cool J.
For tickets, call toll-free 1-888-326-7297 or go to www.tampabayrays.com.
Hey gang, I just received the following playlist, which is the very definition of badass. I was in a lousy mood this morning, but this sucker changed things quick. Crank it up!
Hey, I'm just writing to see if you could post this on your summer playlist blog comments. I'm in Afghanistan right now and the block the Army has on our computers won't let us post things on message boards or anything like that. If you can't, its no big deal. I just thought it would be cool!
I love reading your blog, which I check every morning for my pop culture update from the real world. (I went to school at UT and graduated last spring and am going through Tampa withdrawls on a daily basis!) Thanks and keep up the good work man!
1) Atmosphere, the Minneapolis rap duo, "Sunshine," from the EP "Sad Clown, Bad Summer #9." It's a great song to bump after those long summer nights. (If you listen to it, you'll know what I mean. You should listen to Atmosphere's new CD, its the best, out right now!)
2) Sublime's "Santeria" is a song I always hear at the beach and should be included.
3) The Who's "Baba O'Riley" is a song that makes me think about all those wasted summer days that I miss so much now.
4) Dr. Dre and Snoop, "Ain't Nuthin but a G Thang," A classic BBQ song and riding with the boys with the top chopped off!
5) The Tams, "Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy." If it's summer in the Carolinas, it's Shag music! Anytime I here this, it reminds me of dancing on the Pier at Myrtle Beach, SC!!
Erik Strange
2LT, AG
TF Bayonet Strength Manager
FOB Fenty
So my Stuck in the '80s compadre Steve Spears and I are planning a future podcast about summer: summer movies, summer music, that "forbidden" summer when Steve and I went skinny-dipping at midnight and would never speak of our "splashing" again.
We have the movies pretty well planned out, but we still need that killer soundtrack. So gimme good songs for summer! (Cruel Summer! The Boys of Summer! Summertime Girls!) You can focus on the '80s if you like. Or you can let it all hang out of your banana hammock and gimme summer songs from all decades. 'Cause that's how we roll here at Pop Life.
TAMPA — Kanye West was snubbed here twice. Beyonce played to more empty seats than occupied ones. And now Alicia Keys has joined the Cold Shoulder Club.
It’s sad but true: Tampa Bay is a brutal market for major R&B and hip-hop concerts. West, Beyonce and Keys are multiplatinum superstars that have fans of all ages, genders and races. I want them to come back. But do you?
On Saturday, the 27-year-old Keys — who’s had four consecutive No. 1 albums — played to 7,201 people in the St. Pete Times Forum, a Tampa venue that can seat three times as many. The show was a dazzler, but it would have been better with a full house cheering her on. Tickets started at $39.50, a relatively good deal these days.
You could blame the recession, the price of gas, the price of life. But other major tours are doing great in Tampa Bay (Radiohead, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen). Plus this is a trend that tracks well before 2008.
Last July, Beyonce played to a smattering of fans in the Forum, probably no more than 4,000. Final figures were never released, no surprise there. Minutes before the show — in a move I’ve never seen before — people in the upper levels were invited down to grab a seat in the lower level. Even more amazing? There weren’t enough people in the pricier seats to complain.
The last two times rapper West set up shop in Tampa Bay, a widespread case of couldn’t-care-less broke out. In October 2005, as he was selling out consecutive nights in Madison Square Garden, West drew a measly 3,572 in the USF Sun Dome, which has a capacity around 10,000.
A few weeks ago, West came to Ford Amphitheatre with a hit-making supporting cast of Rihanna, Lupe Fiasco and N.E.R.D. They drew just 9,200, or about half of the venue’s capacity. The very next night, at Miami’s American Airlines Arena, which holds 19,600, Kanye & Co. performed for a sold-out crowd, according to the Miami Herald.
Granted we’re not Miami, and we’re definitely not New York. But something’s going on here.
DJ Trauma, an on-air personality at WiLD 98.7, one of the few local stations that play West and Keys, says there are two major reasons why R&B and hip-hop shows are tanking. First of all, “They don’t have the proper promotions behind them,” he says. “They don’t know how to get the word out to the right people.” Much has been made of Tampa Bay’s dearth of urban radio choices, which could also be part of the problem.
But DJ Trauma also points to the success of WiLD’s two annual hip-hop festivals: Wild Splash and the Last Damn Show, multi-act events that cost around $20 and routinely draw huge crowds. “All these people around here don’t have $40 to spend on a concert,” he says. “There’s a lot of money in Miami and Dallas. This is different here.”
A few R&B and hip-hop acts do well here: Mariah Carey drew 16,493 fans to her 2006 Forum show. Gwen Stefani, whose biggest solo hits are hip-hop collaborations, drew 16,500 at the Amphitheatre last year. Not as good, but not awful, were crowds for a double-bill of Eminem and 50 Cent (13,593, the Forum, 2005), and R&B belter Christina Aguilera (11,538, the Forum, 2007).
Overall, Tampa Bay is considered a good, if unreliable, concert market. Country acts always fill the seats. Veteran performers (a la Neil Diamond, coming Oct. 24) are slam-dunks. And ’80s acts (such as Cheap Trick, Heart and Journey, a triple-bill coming July 30) are money in the bank, too. Those sales numbers are reflected in the local abundance of country and classic-rock radio stations.
But hip-hop shows? Not so much. And that’s too bad, especially since West, Keys and many more have made hip-hop the most creatively daring genre in popular music.
According to Billboard magazine, one of ’08’s hottest tours is the tandem of rapper Jay-Z and “queen of hip-hop soul” Mary J. Blige. Tickets start in the $30s, and nightly grosses in Los Angeles, Las Vegas and Oakland have topped $1 million. There are no plans for Jay and Mary to come to Tampa. With our attendance records, why would they?
Alicia Keys in concert at St. Pete Times Forum. [DANIEL WALLACE | Times}
TAMPA – Alicia Keys is really good at her job. Almost too good at her job.
She’s a striver, a piano-pounding prodigy, a double-take knockout. At 27, she’s already on her way to R&B icon status, but you get the feeling she’d excel at anything. If Alicia Keys worked in the cubicle next to you, you’d probably hate her (but you'd also want to be her). (Or at least date her.)
Keys' three studio albums -- including her latest, 2007's "As I Am" -- have been increasingly smooth, polished, sublime. But something has ultimately been missing. And now we know what:
As the New York City native proved at the St. Pete Times Forum Saturday, in front a small, passionate crowd of 7,201, she's even better onstage, displaying a vulnerable, not-perfect-after-all side that makes her even more appealing.
As far as I'm concerned (if it's not gushingly apparent by now), Keys is peerless in the current pop universe. She's touring with two of the hotter radio acts these days, but no matter how charming those also-rans might be, opening for Keys remains a brutal assignment.
First up was Jordin Sparks, last year's "American Idol" champ. The tall teen has a smile that could shatter a 60-watt bulb. But Sparks was swallowed by a major stage and a four-piece band.
Not only does R&B hunk Ne-Yo write his own hits ("So Sick"), but he's penned smashes for Beyonce ("Irreplaceable") and Rihanna ("Unfaithful"). He's a talented dude, but he's still learning the live game. Taking the stage in top hat and tails, he wanted to do something different, but his voice and his material ultimately lacked distinction.
Two minutes into Keys' two-hour set, however, those openers felt like another show altogether.
The best place to see Keys will always be a small, quiet club. The next best place? Anywhere you can catch her, people.
With her stage looking like a futuristic Cotton Club, Keys entered the venue on a spinning baby grand, her weapon of choice awash in wisps of smoke. She pounded out an intricate mix of classical pomp and hip-hop stomp, then stood to shake and strut and wail.
Dressed in a frilly top, kapow! pants and sparkly heels, Keys was a constant showstopper. With her 10-piece band and frolicky dancers behind her, she gave frisky girl-group oomph to "You Don't Know My Name" and the new "Teenage Love Affair." She posed and vamped and pretended to be Beyonce.
"All my life I've had people telling me that I should take it off more," she said after that flurry of sass. "But I wanted to do something different. I just wanted to play my piano!"
And that's when a fun show turned fantastic.
Waving her band goodbye, Keys took a seat behind her sleek black piano and instantly turned a huge venue into an intimate parlor. If her voice sounded good at the start, hoo boy, the girl gave goosebumps when she was all by her lonesome, that smoky, soulful way percolating from sultry to rafter-rattling ferocious.
First up was the new "Sure Looks Good to Me." But what followed was the song of the night, Prince's "How Come You Don't Call Me," a smoldering, darkly comic tale of a lover who just won't dial her digits. Before spitting the song's final line, Keys stood up and stared into the crowd with a mock-exasperated leer. The place went nuts -- and then she sat back down and blew 'em all away.
She would alternate between big blowout numbers ("Wreckless Love," "Go Ahead," "Karma") and softer, sweeter fare (a cover of "Tender Love," the current smash "Like You'll Never See Me Again," "Fallin'"). But no matter what she was doing, whether she was sitting or grooving, you couldn't take your eyes off of her.
For an encore, she hollered the Brahms-meets-Bob Marley lullabye "No One" and, after a white baby grand lifted from a platform in the middle of the crowd, her signature ballad "If I Ain't Got You."
Keys' biggest sing-along of the night might have been for new song "Superwoman," another stunner she performed alone on piano. The heroic track may sound like a boast, a brag. But let's be honest: It's also the truth.
Love these guys. New Weezer (their third self-titled disc...this one's "red") comes out June 3. I'm supposed to get it Wednesday. Rivers Cuomo is a freak. Look at that 'stache! That's downright Spearsian!
In order to reconnect on an emotional level -- or at least fight in public -- the Forever Fiancee and I are going on a date tonight. Should be interesting, in that we haven't had a date since I proposed to her 5 years ago in front of the Ape House at the National Zoo. I'm excited to spend time with her. I'm also excited that our date will consist of drinks, dinner and a viewing of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Not that the movie matters. Not at all. We could be seeing Made of Honor, and I wouldn't care. (Too much?)
Anyway, to send us off, here's The Date Night Playlist:
10) Got to Give It Up -- Marvin Gaye
Sorry, got carried away there...
9) Going Out Tonight -- Mary Chapin Carpenter
8) Date With the Night -- the Yeah Yeah Yeahs
7) Kissing a Fool -- George Michael
6) Let's Talk About Me -- the Alan Parsons Project
5) You're Not Drinking Enough -- Alan Jackson
4) We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off -- Jermaine Stewart
3) Slow Dancing -- Johnny Rivers
2) Lights Out -- Peter Wolf
1) The Hover (DOTSB Remix) -- Sean Daly
The next time you’re strutting past a rack of records, you might want to look twice at a new release by the Foxboro Hot Tubs. Hitting store shelves this week, the garage-rocking album Stop Drop and Roll!!! features a cover shot of frug-ing young nubiles in swinging ’60s garb. But one listen to the punchy pop-punk inside, and the secret is revealed: It’s actually a Green Day record, a one-off side project by Billie Joe Armstrong, Tre Cool and Mike Dirnt. Blowing off steam between 2004 masterpiece American Idiot and their next politicized epic, Green Day decided to cut loose and hammer out 12 cuts of party-time rock ’n’ roll, a throwback nod to their early days. I'll have a review and a bigger story about this sneaky surprise in the upcoming days. But for now, let's rock a little.
David Cook, Paula Abdul and David Archuleta arrive at Wednesday's finale. [AP photo]
Why did David Archuleta, the vacant-eyed Muppet and presumed Idol champ, lose Wednesday?
That's easy: 'Cause America rocks, baby! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! Just when I thought you were all a bunch of pod people, you opted for an underdog with a big heart and bad hair.
Of course, there were a few other reasons Archie lost to David Cook:
• For many people, a vote for Cook was in fact a vote against the Great Santini, a.k.a. Archuleta's omnipresent pop, a buttinski stage dad who was banned from backstage.
• Archuleta can sing like Rain Man can count. He's a 17-year-old phenom who gives mature recitations of complex songs. But it plays like a synaptic misfiring, a supernatural gift. I'd be less creeped if he had the ability to fly or start fires with his mind.
• I wasn't the most well-spoken 17-year-old. In fact, unless I was gabbing about where my father hid his Playboy, I was basically inarticulate. But not once this season was Archuleta able to string together a simple sentence. Being nervous is one thing. Being a blinky dust bunny is another.
To read why David Cook won, head to my pal Eric Deggans' blog RIGHT HERE.
This isn't all that funny. And there's an awkward "fist bump" in the middle. And my enthusiasm for Idol is obviously, painfully, perilously low. But at least I managed to buy a new shirt.
CLICK HERE to see hot, hairless chest action.
(Thanks to Jeff for the link.)
(And thanks to Marissa for caring.)
(And thanks to Chip, Mark and Paul for laughing at my jokes.)
Wow, I picked a bad night to stop sniffing glue.
Before I bolt to get more FOX time for my fat head (totally rockin' new TV shirt tonight, peeps -- Vic, my personal Macy's dresser picked it out...well, I think he worked there), I give you this quick rundown of Tuesday's Idol showdown, which was threaded by a lame-o-rama boxing motif, complete with overexposed clown Michael Buffer opening the show. If you didn't see it, you're my hero.
DAVID COOK (I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, Dream Big, The World I Know) : Loved the U2 cover. I mean, really, that's the stuff dreams are made of, right? Some 'do-challenged Joe Nobody crooning like Bono in front of thousands adoring fans. I dig that. Unfortunately, he didn't keep it going. The second song was a generic dust bunny, like end-credit music from a knockoff '80s flick, possibly one starring Jon Cryer. And that last song? Sheesh. Collective Soul blows. But it obviously meant something to him. And he didn't feel like doing the same thing again. And for that reason, I'm totally hot for him.
DAVID ARCHULETA (Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me, In This Moment, Imagine): This much is true: Archuleta can sing like Rain Man can count. There are crossed wires in his brain that allow him to give strikingly mature readings of grown-up fare. It's spooky. It creeps me out. Admittedly, his Elton John cover was probably the best thing he's done. But that second song was caca. And as for doing Imagine again (which borders on sacriligious), either he or someone close to him knows how to play the game. He'll probably win. But I'd have greater respect for America if he didn't.
[Fox photo]
Welcome to the Pop Life Idol Chat & Last Chance Saloon, the snarkiest bastion of American Idol commentary this side of the Mississippi. We've had a tremendous year here, with such popular blog stars as Jeff in Cuba, Sparky and Giant Head all in spinoff talks with major networks. Good luck to each and every one of you. Don't forget us!
As the above picture plainly shows -- featuring the most awkward physical contact since Michael Jackson kissed Lisa Marie Presley -- tonight's David Cook vs. David Archuleta should be spectacularly lame...but alas, no doubt strangely watchable. And why not? We've come this far, we've traded away valuable hours we could have spent curing cancer or mainlining horse tranquilizers, so why not sacrifice a little more to the AI Gods?
In between jumping in front of TV cameras and acting like a spaz, I'll be blogging it up tonight and tomorrow. Wednesday's live chat will feature a cavalcade of guest stars (or maybe just a nude Spearsy), as we pull out all the stops from the carefree offices of the St. Pete Times.
So in the spirit of the grand finale, the Pop Life Idol Chat & Last Chance Saloon will be OPEN STRAIGHT FOR THE NEXT 48 HOURS. Let the games begin...
It's Scruff vs. Fluff!
It's Skullet vs. Muppet!
It's David Cook vs. David Archuleta!
And most important...it's almost over!
And so begins our final week of American Idol Season 7. Thank the sweet lord. No one is more excited about ending this maelstrom of mediocrity than me. We're gonna have a ton of AI stuff for you the next two days. But for now, with Tuesday's showdown starting at 8 p.m., let's start with a simple question:
WHO'S YOUR FAVE DAVE?
Are you rooting for Cook?
Are you rooting against Archuleta?
If Michael Johns were ice cream, what flavor would he be?
Elbow
Album: The Seldom Seen Kid (Geffen)
In stores: Now
Why we care: If Radiohead had followed their melodies instead of fracturing them, they might have wound up sounding like fellow U.K. band Elbow. Led by quirkcentric romantic Guy Garvey, the moody quintet works with big voices and distant ones, loud blasts and soft regret. All very dramatic, all very end-credit Brit-pop navel-gazing. These guys have been around for 18 years, and yet they remain a mystery over here. Believe me, they are your next favorite band.
Why we like it: “I’ve been working on a cocktail called grounds for divorce.” Garvey recently lost a dear friend, but gained a new lover, and his turbulent emotions drive this melodic roller-coaster. Synths soar, minor-keys lament and Garvey seduces with wild wordplay and soul-nuzzling gravitas.
Reminds us of: OK Computer 2.0 (well, at least Garvey wants you to think so)
Download these: Weather to Fly, The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver and Grounds for Divorce (see the below video)
Grade: A
Hey Cyber Stars -- After all this American Idol mishegas is over, I'd like to start up a weekly live chat a la Steve Spears at Stuck in the '80s. We can talk about music, pop culture, Funyuns or even Jeff in Cuba's stand-up comedy career. Up at the Washington Post, they do their live chats during lunchtime Mon-Fri. Spearsy does his on the weekends. What do you think? It'll probably be an hour or two a week. I'm taking any and all ideas about time, content, nudity, etc.
It's a nightmare going to the movies with me. And not just for the obvious reasons. I insist on getting there at least 30 minutes prior to a flick. I need time to look at all the posters, order up a buttery vat of heart-clogging corn (extra salt please) and I can't miss a single trailer, or I'll pout like a baby. Most people assume this is my OCD rearing its (melon)head, but it's deeper than that.
When I was 11, my mother drove me and some pals to the theater (Rt. 3 Cinema in Chelmsford, Mass.) to see a new movie called Raiders of the Lost Ark. I'm not sure who I saw it with, maybe John Hickey or Keith Marciniak. Anyway, we stumbled into the theater 15 minutes late. Hmmm, we thought, this movie gets off to a slow start. We noticed a few people smirking at us, but we weren't sure why. When I saw Raiders again a week later (and again, and again), I realized why people were snickering. Holy crap! We had missed the most rousing opening in movie history. The spiders! Satipo! The giant frickin' ball! I would never make that mistake again. Ever.
You ask me my favorite movie of all time, 27 years later I still give the same answer. Raiders would also goose my love for soundtracks, for big bad rousing scores. I totally geek out for John Williams, but I also dig Danny Elfman, Randy Newman, Thomas Newman and more.
So here are my 15 fave movie scores, all of which are on my iPod. No doubt about No. 1, baby.
By the way, I'll be there May 22 for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Might actually get to the theater an hour early for that one. Say hi if you see me. Maybe I'll buy you some popcorn...
A few of my coworkers have had enough of the rampant "testosterone" wafting from my bazoomy blog. So they're rising up and defending the Forever Fiancee...
That's it! I can no longer stay silent. Tamara El-Khoury here, Times reporter, Pop Life lurker and official Feisty Friend of the Forever Fiancee. That’s right, I’ve started a club: FF's of the FF unite!
Stephanie Hayes, are you with me?
I avoid posting, trying to stay neutral like a good journalist should. Like you, I’ve endured Sean’s testosterone-filled posts on Mrs. Overmyer-Daly, his grass-skirted Hula Girl tattoo, his South Carolinian co-ed harem and finally, the last straw, the Divorcees for Daly ta-ta stunt.
It's time to rise up in defense of the FF, the mother of Daly’s spawn, the woman who has to read about Ashley Tisdale, Pamela Sue Martin and her fiance’s other crushes of the week. What does she get in return? Dead tulips. Well, FF, this is for you.
The Girl Power, In Your Face, Girls Rule, Boys Drool Playlist
1. Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper
2. These Boots Are Made for Walking, Nancy Sinatra
3. We're Not Gonna Take It, Twisted Sister
4. Black Magic Woman, Santana
5. I Am Woman, Helen Reddy
6. Ladies Night, Kool & the Gang
7. Independent Women Pt. 1, Destiny’s Child
8. Respect, Aretha Franklin
9. Miss Independent, Kelly Clarkson
10. Fighter, Christina Aguilera
So last Thursday, I tried to make good by sending flowers to both my mother (the Diplomat) and the mother of my children (the Forever Fiancee). I went to FTD.com, and ordered Mother's Day tulips. The next day, the Diplomat got hers. YESTERDAY, the FF finally got hers. Ugh. Yes, that is a picture of them on the left. And yes, they smelled horribly. And yes, this is what I get for trying to make good. Things work out much better when I'm self-centered and vainglorious.
Without turning this into a consumer column, for some reason, the FF's flowers were originally sent from Cincinnati, then they were in Kentucky, and then, from the look of them, they made a quick stop in Bogota. Good lord, what a disaster. The FF was relatively good-humored about the whole mishegas. As for FTD, this one's for you.
The Dead Flowers Playlist
1. Dead Flowers -- the Rolling Stones
2. Some Flowers Bloom Dead -- the Wallflowers
3. (Nothing but) Flowers -- Talking Heads
4. You Don't Bring Me Flowers -- Barbra Streisand & Neil Diamond
5. Flowers for the Dead -- Cuban Link
6. Tiptoe Through the Tulips -- Tiny Tim
7. (I Never Promised You) A Rose Garden -- Lynn Anderson
8. Fading Like a Flower -- Roxette
9. (Listen to the) Flower People -- Spinal Tap
10. Power Flower -- Stevie Wonder
Hey kids, for those who need a jolt (or a snort or more reason to dislike me), here's my TV appearance on last night's Fox 13 Lightning Round (CLICK). Special thanks to Jeff in Cuba for the link.
Those guys on Fox totally amp me up, like an organ-grinder monkey on speed.
If you want more, you got it -- next Tuesday I'll be on the Kathy Fountain show at lunchtime and then the Lightning Round again later that night. Wednesday night I'll be at the paper, working with Spearsy on a multimedia AI blowout.
Incandescent R&B singer Syesha Mercado was unfairly doinked from American Idol Wednesday, leaving thinly coiffed rocker David Cook and personality-averse Jim Henson creation David Archuleta to duke it out in next week's finale. The show's producers all but willed the Battle of Davids to happen, repeatedly sandbagging Mercado even though she was by far the most entertaining person on the show the last few weeks.
Am I surly? A bit. Am I surprised? Not at all. But I am saving my energy and vitriol for live television. I'll be on Fox 13's Lightning Round around 11:20 tonight. I'll be the hyper, glistening one in the blousy merlot-colored button down. Now it's off to the MAZD to make television magic. Daly...OUT!
THIRD PLACE GOES TO: Syesha Mercado
NEXT WEEK'S SHOWDOWN: David Cook vs. David Archuleta
Thanks to loyal bloggess Marissa, the high priestess of cybersnark, for this immensely creative piece of apparel.
You see, last night I was wicked jealous of American Idol's David Cook, whose fans made a poster saying "Cougars 4 Cook." So Miss Riss, who always has my fragile ego in mind, decided to even the playing field. Or, um, something like that.
CLICK HERE for more Marissa.
So the Forever Fiancee is convinced American Idol's David Archuleta looks like a character from The Dark Crystal. She's extremely proud of this, so I'm indulging her. As long as she mocks the little gwat, I'm cool with it. Tuesday night's Idol -- the battle of the top 3 -- was so stacked in favor of a David-vs.-David final, it was slimy, with the judges spouting scripted anti-Syesha sentiment. My fellow Americans, go against the corporate morons and VOTE FOR SYESHA. She was the most entertaining person on the show, and you know it.
DAVID ARCHULETA (songs performed: And So It Goes, With You, Longer) This kid's 1,000-yard stare is just plain creepy. Am I the only one not bamboozled? The lights aren't on with this dope. And yet, like some sort of Muppet Rain Man, he can mimic deeper material with a strange resonance. Frankly, I find the whole thing eerie. Billy Joel wrote And So It Goes as a middle-aged man with severe emotional issues. Archuleta had no idea what the song meant, and yet an unexplainable synaptic misfiring allowed him to fool millions. Soylent green is people!
SYESHA MERCADO (If I Ain't Got You, Fever, Hit Me Up) Watching Syesha tonight, I totally wanted to pull a Bodyguard, scoop up the Sarasota native and carry her away from all this mayhem -- or at least carry her to a mountain hideaway, where I'd foil the plot of a cold-blooded killer then jump into a lake and heroically save a kid. But I digress: I think she could pull an upset. I really do. The Alicia Keys song was fine. But Fever was hot, and Paula is an idiot. (Since when did Abdul get so mean? Did someone hide the Xanax?) Plus Simon's kiss-of-death proclamation aren't as lethal as they used to be. Hop into my arms, baby. VOTE FOR SYESHA!!!
DAVID COOK (The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, Dare You to Move, I Don't Want to Miss a Thing) On national television, with tons of people watching, David Cook has perfected the art of acting nonchalant about being on national television, with tons of people watching. He's a cool dude, and the ladies love him. (Did you see the "Cougars 4 Cook" sign? Damn. I'd love to see a "Divorcees 4 Daly" sign. Hint, hint.) But the truth is, Cook has been pretty bad for awhile now. The first song was kinda wussy, and the last two were weak and blah, especially the Aerosmith mess, which was catastrophic. But the judges "loved" it anyway. Of course they did. Yuck.
Hey Young Lovers! Wow, it's been a long time since I Idol-ed it up with you guys on a Tuesday. But I'm back tonight, and I should be onboard until the bitter end, which is now just two blessed weeks away. Special thanks to my lovely and talented colleagues Janet Keeler, Sharon Fink and Stephanie Hayes for stepping in these last few weeks -- those guys rock the chat.
So here we go. Tonight is the Final 3 -- asexual Muppet David Archuleta vs. not-as-good-as-he-was-three-weeks-ago rocker David Cook vs. better-and-better belter Syesha Mercado. I'm pulling for Syesha, mainly because I've developed superficial feelings for her. I think she could pull off the upset this week, especially if she goes barefoot. Anybody with me on that? The singers will do three songs each: a judge's pick, producers' pick, their own pick. Syesha will no doubt get the best three tunes.
I've been playing catch up with all the Idol action, and I gotta say I LOVE the brouhaha about Archuleta's creepy stage dad being doinked from backstage. I think Archuleta is a blinky dope. But it must suck dealing with the Great Santini. That's why I tell my daughters to aim low. Takes the pressure off.
The show starts at 8 p.m. The Pop Life Idol Chat & Key Party starts swinging at 7:39 p.m.
I'm live on Tampa's Fox 13 tomorrow night for the 11 p.m. Lightning Round. But I also might go on there tonight. (I'm kinda like the emergency filler guest on a talk show. Like George Gobel or Rich Little.) Oh, I'm also doing a half-hour show on May 20th at 12:30 p.m. Don't miss the hot Daly action!
So I get home from the Rays game last night (down go the Yankees, 7-1), and I have a wicked case of the munchies. I'm not entirely sure when I got home, however I am fairly certain the evening's madcap finale involved Ferg's bar, two surly stewardesses and a boxing video game in which you embarrass yourself and do longstanding vertebrae damage. Good times, good times.
Anyway, in what is becoming a disturbing trend, I eventually find myself at home, in my boxer shorts, in the dark, eating from a giant tub of chicken salad. I'm pretty sure that's the very definition of both insanity and obesity. Per usual, in the morning, this just gives the FF even more ammo, as I have once again (1) eaten her next-day chicken-salad lunch, which I seem to do every other night (2) spent another raucous night with the boys (3) told a story involving the words "two surly stewardesses."
In a good-versus-evil twist, however, it turned out to be demonic chicken salad, and has been raising a heart-torching ruckus all day. I no doubt deserve all this and more. But as you all know, there's only one way to combat dietary malaise. That's right: a curiously themed playlist!
So here we go, The Chicken Salad Playlist:
1) I Play Chicken With the Train -- Cowboy Troy
2) The Chicken Dance -- Lawrence Welk
3) The Bird -- the Time
4) Bird of Prey -- the Doors
5) Disco Duck -- Rick Dees
6) Rubber Ducky -- Ernie
7) Surfin' Bird -- the Cramps
8) I'll Fly Away -- Alison Krauss
9) My Little Chicken -- Adam Sandler
10) Dixie Chicken -- Little Feat
The inevitable "American Idols LIVE" touring nightmare returns to Tampa Bay on Aug. 21. That's right, such former household names as Chikezie (who?) and Ramiele Malubay (what?) will be turning the St. Pete Times Forum into a blazing inferno of mediocrity. Tickets go on sale this Saturday (GO HERE). Prices range from $36.75 for the cheap seats to $65.75 for a close-up of Brooke White's feet.
Yes, I will be reviewing it. And yes, I will be surly and unapproachable. Unless, of course, they allow my dear Amanda Overmyer-Daly, who failed to make the Top 10, to travel with the show. She's dirty. She's nasty. She's all mine.
As for tonight's Idol to-do, I'll be back in a bit to chat you up...
So it's Sunday, and the fam is beat from a Mother's Day at Disney, and we've just frantically pulled off the road somewhere between Orlando and Tampa. I wanna say the name of the town is Scrotum Loop, but something tells me that can't be right. We're in the skeezy parking lot of a weird Wendy's, emergency-feeding my youngest daughter, who is now 14 weeks old, and who weighs in the neighborhood of Dom Deluise. On the radio is Hall & Oates. One on One.
We call our youngest Mai-Mai. Or Pugsley. Or Pugs. Or occasionally Kid TwoTwo. She is our mellow child (4-year-old Kid Lulu is a pip, and a brain, but she's a first-class drama queen). Anyway, Pugs sleeps 10 hours straight every night, and spends the rest of her time giggling and flirting. She's healthy, and adorable, and looks pretty much like a hippity hop. She never loses her cool.
Except, as it turns out, when she's very hungry.
We thought we could make it home from Disney. But we were wrong. Really wrong. So with Lulu passed out next to her, a ravenous Mai-Mai eventually slow-boils to an Exorcistian hunger maelstrom. We have never heard this before. It is a ferocious response to our suspect parenting. We used up all our baby bottles at the park, but we have one precious pouch of Similac left. So we need to find water soon -- or at least before the kid's head starts spinning and she unleashes the forces of hell upon her old man.
Finally, an exit. Scrotum Loop! Take it! Take it! I hit a curve so hard I swear we're pulling a Cannonball Run on two wheels. The Forever Fiancee bolts into Wendy's, and I pull Beelzebaby from her seat. At this point, Pugsley is breathing fire. There's a sad, curious woman right next to us, who seems to be moving all of her worldly possessions from one car to another, perhaps a friend's. I have a feeling this woman is on the run. Pugsley has a feeling that if she doesn't eat soon, she will tear my face off.
Anyway, we eventually pop a bottle in Mai-Mai's mouth, and she basically shotguns the thing. Lulu wakes up and, finding nothing odd about this situation, starts play-by-playing her day at Disney. (She went on Test Track with Mommy. Very exciting.) The FF and I just kinda stare out the window, looking at this weird Wendy's in Scrotum Loop, wondering when all of this life happened. It's now completely dark. Hall & Oates has since turned into Counting Crows' Accidentally in Love. And with that, we drive home.
Although I'm still not convinced last week actually happened, I have approximately 3 billion new CDs to open today, which means I haven't tackled my mail since April. So let's start with that, let's clean things up around here, let's get motivated. This is gonna be a good, positive week, SD regaining some semblance of order, balance.
...although I have a Rays-Yankees game tonight, and have already made plans to leave my car at work overnight. That's gonna set me back a bit. I also plan to do some major beer-sponsored celebratory texting tonight, so if you want me to send you a rambling text message, just provide your name and number, and I'll sneak you in between innings.
Henceforth, all the new crap (including not one, but four copies of the new Bryan Adams album, 11).....
Scarlett Johansson -- Anywhere I Lay My Head (OUCH)
Neil Diamond -- Home Before Dark
Frank Sinatra -- Nothing But the Best
Duffy -- Rockferry
Robyn -- Robyn
Mindi Abair -- Stars
The Fashion -- The Fashion
Emmylou Harris -- All I Intended to Be
Gavin DeGraw -- Gavin DeGraw
Alejandro Escovedo -- Real Animal
Tokio Hotel -- Scream
Jools Holland -- Best of Friends
Charlotte Sometimes -- Waves & The Both of Us
Mason Jennings -- In the Ever
Donna Summer -- Crayons
Dokken -- Lightning Strikes Again
Clay Aiken -- On My Way Here
Josh Groban -- Awake Live
There's more to open, but after that Aiken/Groban one-two punch, I lost the spirit.
I'm totally gonna rock that new Neil Diamond, tho.
So last weeked at Hard Rock Park, I got a hula-girl tattoo on my left bicep. (Is it still a bicep if there isn't actually a muscle in there?). This was a pivotal moment in SD history, seeing as how I don't even like pen ink on my skin (or, for that matter, watches or jewelry, especially, it seems, wedding bands).
But there was something in the air up there, so I slapped the money on the counter and some hipster inked me up. Sure, this art was only meant to last a week. And the Forever Fiancee mocked it as soon as I got home. But I've grown rather fond of my grass-skirted gal. She even has a coconut bra. She's kinda ghosty now, with only a day or two left, but I'm gonna miss her.
Maybe I should get a real tattoo? Any suggestions?
Anyway...I'm still on a minor siesta, taking off yesterday and today, trying to regain energy, sanity. But I thought I'd check in, remind you not to forget Mother's Day, for any and all mamas in your life.
If you missed it, I recently spent time with MY NEW BEST FRIEND ROBIN ZANDER FROM CHEAP TRICK. That's right, RZ is my boy, my bro. He's working on a cool Beatles project (with original Beatles engineer Geoff Emerick), so I wrote a big fat feature on it. You can read that HERE.
Is there anything else to report? Oh, if you're an American Idol fan, Syesha Mercado, a Top 3 finalist from just down the road in Sarasota, is in town tonight to warble the national anthem at the Rays-Angels game at Tropicana Field. HERE'S THAT report from our pop-culture desk. (I'll be at the game Monday. Not singing, just drinking. Stop by 113 to say hi.)
Okay, that's that. Hula Girl and I are driving off together, maybe to the beach for a final fling...
A few years ago, I took an awful cruise, on a dented SpaghettiOs can of a ship, with my family. This included my mother, the Diplomat.
Now, the Diplomat has more friends than anyone I know, a tribute to her pathological ability to treat everyone like a friend. A smile, a joke, a hug: My 66-year-old mom doles ’em out like free donuts. She wants everybody to have a good time on her watch, especially on horrific cruises.
It was brutal, too. Luggage was lost, the food was salmonellic, everyone was on edge. So the Diplomat got the idea that in order to galvanize the masses, her only child, her 30-something son, her darling Seany Boy, should enter every ridiculous contest and mortifying event on the lido deck. You know, fire up the troops, make the best of a bad situation. First up, she decided, the 3-on-3 water basketball tournament.
"Come on, Mom. No way. Can’t I just sit here and read?"
"Read? On a cruise?! Get in that pool and play basketball!"
I was teamed up with a little chubby kid who couldn’t swim and a little skinny kid who was approximately 2-foot-6. The pool, unfortunately, was 6-feet deep.
In the first round, my pathetic squad drew a team of German brothers — triplets, no less — each of whom was the thickness of Lou Ferrigno. They were tall, blonde, built. They swam like Mark Spitz on Red Bull.
We were torpedoed from the start. Within seconds, the skinny kid was drowning, the fat one was clinging for his life, and Gigantor & Co. were draining three-pointers and launching themselves off my love handles for glorious Teutonic dunks. Total nightmare.
But a funny thing happened on the road to full-blown emasculation. The crowd, and my family, once so sad, so miserable, finally started to have fun. And who was leading the Germanic Cheerleading Team, who was charming the Ferrigno Triplets’ proud parents?
Yep, the Diplomat.
"Mom, what are you doing?!" I screamed, spitting out a chokeful of water. "You’re supposed to be rooting for me! I’m your son!"
"But they’re so beautiful!" the Diplomat cheered. "Yay! Go! Go!"
So as my thighs were burning from treading water, as I contemplated barfing up the pina colada I unwisely gulped as a pregame motivator, the worst cruise in the world became merely cruddy.
The Diplomat, a proud smile on her face, had done it once again.
• • •
A few months ago, the Diplomat called to say she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I flew up to Baltimore for the operation. I’ll never forget standing in the waiting room and phoning her epic list of friends — some close, some misfits she picked up along the way — to let them know she was fine. If there had been a German mother of triplets on there, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
I’m pleased to say that, after radiation treatment, my mother is now doing great, spoiling her two granddaughters with moneybagged fervor. So here’s a bouquet of songs for my mom, and all moms, as their special day approaches. The Diplomat isn’t always easy. But I wouldn’t be half the water basketball player without her.
The Mother’s Day Playlist
1. You and Me Against the World, Helen Reddy
2. Baby Mine, Alison Krauss
3. Mama Tried, Merle Haggard
4. The Kids Are Alright, the Who
5. Hey Mama, Kanye West
6. Thank You Mom, Good Charlotte
7. That’s Alright Mama, Elvis Presley
8. Stacy’s Mom, Fountains of Wayne
9. Oh Mother, Christina Aguilera
10. Thank You for Being a Friend, Andrew Gold
Woo! My faith in humanity is restored!
I can put my high heels back on! Protesting is so two months ago, anyway.
In a jarring and unexpected move, the worst singer on American Idol actually received the lowest number of votes. Evil hellspawn Jason Castro, who seriously confessed to his "brain being dead" on Wednesday's show, went home.
YAYYYYY.
Tuesday, he turned in nightmarish renditions of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man and Bob Marley's I Shot the Sheriff. "Somebody told me that I shot the Tambourine Man," he cracked. Well, no, but millions of people threatened to shoot themselves.
We're super close to a two-David ticket just begging for bumper sticker slogans. David squared!
THE BOTTOM TWO: Syesha Mercado, Jason Castro
AND FOURTH-PLACE GOES TO: JASON CASTRO, YAYYYYYYYYYYYY, LET'S HAVE A PARTY!
YOUR TOP THREE IDOLS: David Archuleta, David Cook, Syesha Mercado
Radiohead's lead singer Thom Yorke, performs at the Ford Amphitheatre on Tuesday night.
[JOHN PENDYGRAFT | Times]TAMPA -- From the look of the zombiefied masses at a near-sold-out Ford Amphitheatre Tuesday, you'd think the 17,500 in attendance were bored or stunned or undead.
But that's exactly what a crowd should look like at a Radiohead show. If you came to hear the famously obtuse British rock band bust out the dance jams or incite arena-rocking sing-alongs -- or, um, play the stuff you know -- you no doubt want your money back.
But if you came to quietly enjoy a tech-nerdy quintet work out its Kafka-esque angst via less obvious tracks that shifted from frustrating to quirky to soul-clutching gorgeous, you floated from the venue blissed-out and satisfied.
(Oh, and if you came to gawk at a state-of-the-art light show featuring dozens of floor-length strobes that seemingly danced in unison to each song -- exploding in orange fireworks to the new "Reckoner," morphing into an underwater paradise for "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" -- wow, dude, that was one of the trippiest things I've ever seen.)
With the mind of a mathematician and the voice of a wounded angel, Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke proved once again to be a beautiful misfit, a Lewis Carollian character obsessed with alienation and alien nations, strange equations and fake plastic trees.
Oh yeah, he's mad as a hatter. But man, can he wail, sending shivers through the throngs with soaring, searing readings of 1997's "Airbag" and 2000's prickly "Everything in Its Right Place." He also showed a rather refreshing puckish side, hamming it up for a piano-mounted fish-eye lens during the comically defiant "You and Whose Army?"
Much hullabaloo ensued last year when Radiohead ditched its longtime label, EMI, and decided to sell new album "In Rainbows" themselves. For the digital version of the album, they even let fans pay whatever they wanted.
It made a swell business story, for sure. But the main reason it worked is because Yorke & Co., even two decades after forming, have been able to reinvent themselves to thrilling, and at times confounding, extremes.
They've literally turned their formerly raging, melody-rich songs inside out, and upside down, exploring their odd, anti-pop urges with bleeps and bloops and whatever else they can find in their addled pysches.
Guitarist Jonny Greenwood spent most of the night trying to make his guitar and his keyboard sound like anything but a guitar and a keyboard. For "There There," he freaked out on his axe, making those strings sing out like a swarm of sick birds. On "Lucky," from 1997's masterful "OK Computer," he conjured a heavenly landscape for Yorke's operatic malaise.
The brainy boys kept things relatively downbeat, but they did decide to let loose now and then. The new "Bodysnatchers" sounded like a surf-rock rumbler done by the Talking Heads. And a ferocious encore version of "Just," from 1995's even-more-masterful "The Bends," proved that when these guys cut loose, they can rock as hard as anyone.
Of course, the crowd pretty much absorbed those upbeat cuts just like all the others: swaying, nodding, smiling on the inside.
This is the best talent in the country? All those people in all those audition lines, and we have a dude with French-bread-crusty dreadlocks and alarming cognitive problems in the top four? If Jason Castro doesn't go home, I'm going on strike.
American Idol should just call it a wash and start over next year. It's like when you go soooo far off your diet that you just say, "Eff it, I'm-a just finish this here block of Velveeta and start the 48-Hour Hollywood Miracle Juice Diet in the morning."
That's how the producers must be feeling.
Recap:
David Cook: Hungry Like the Wolf and Baba O'Riley. Did he take a Soma before showtime? Really. He's usually at least got some energy. I've heard better versions of the first song at karaoke bars on the beach at 2 a.m. And song two was the hangover. Incidentally, D-Cook's bangs are really starting to bug me. Embrace your natural hairline, baby. It ain't moving down any further.
Syesha Mercado: Proud Mary and A Change is Gonna Come. She violated the cardinal rule - avoid songs by the single-named divas: Whitney, Mariah, Tina, Chaka. I'd take Tina any day, even at six-trillion years old. Syesha glammed it up and wailed much better on the second song. She's got a few chops. Then, WAIT FOR IT... water works! The ultimate vote grabber! Her tear-streaked mineral foundation will keep her in another week.
Jason Castro: I Shot the Sheriff and Mr. Tambourine Man. SO BAD! BAD! BAD BAD BAD!!!!! AND HE FORGOT A MILLION WORDS!! SO DONE! BOOOOO! BAD.
David Archuleta: Stand By Me and Love Me Tender. Young David admitted in the pre-song clip that he sings to his dog. It's possible there are some missing squigglies in his genetic pool. Anyway, he's a good singer. And nobody in America seems to be turned off by his grating Kwepie-Doll-Aw-Shucks-They-Like-Me! thing. I can't wait till his inappropriate backless Annie Leibovitz photos surface.
Who's going home?: JASONJASONJASONJASONJASONJASON. Uh... I mean, it's, uhh, anybody's game. Yeah, that's it.
Photo: AP
Hmm? Oh, hi. Just nodded off thinking about American Idol's "top" four. Lemme just grab a Diet Coke and some electroshock panels, and we'll be in bidness.
By the way, this is Stephanie Hayes. Sean Daly is en route to one of two magical locations: The Radiohead concert in Tampa, or a convalescent facility.
See, everyone's fave Pop Life hero is having a rough time today. His hair looks bad (his words, not mine), he has residual Red Bull Myrtle Beach heartburn, and apparently, he consumed an entire tub of chicken salad at 1 a.m. after the Kanye show. No one should suffer that much Miracle Whip.
So let's give him some respite from the most boring bunch of singers ever in the world, shall we? Seriously, this is getting dreadful. Leading the pack, we've got two schlubs named David (pictured above) with the effervescence of a tablespoon of mayo. Times is hard.
Tonight, the Idols sing songs that shaped rock 'n roll, or something like that. If all goes well, Jason Castro will bite the head off a bat, sending Seacrest screaming like a little girl into the fan pit. But more likely, he'll sing Time in a Bottle and I'll die a little inside.
But forget them! Let's have fun chatting! The Pop Life Idol Chat and Chicken Salad Emporium opens around 8!
TAMPA –- Say what you will about Kanye West (and hoo boy, the man certainly gets people "saying" things), but the controversial Chicago rapper isn't shy. Or subtle. Or, possibly, sane.
From his braggadocio at awards shows to his best-selling beats, not to mention flapping his yap about hot-button politics, the "Louis Vuitton don" does everything big, brash, bold. And that certainly goes for his live shows, too.
On arguably the biggest bill of the summer –- or at least the biggest bill to feature a randy talking spaceship named Jane -- headliner West, plus three other too-cool hip-hop acts, bounced into Ford Amphitheatre Monday with swagger and sweat to spare. If any of the 9,200 in attendance say they weren't entertained, they're lying.
West digs a big, hot buildup, and he certainly got that. Skateboarding Muslim rapper Lupe Fiasco, West's Windy City protege, opened the night at 6:15 to a small, milling crowd. But the brainy MC quick-lipped his rhymes with panache and pogoing energy. He might be cocky like his mentor (already calling still-fresh songs "Kick, Push" and "Hip-Hop Saved My Life" classics), but he's an original for sure.
Pharrell Williams has made his bazillions as an inventive, meticulous producer. But side project N.E.R.D., the next act, was a chance for him to cut loose and go nuts, unleashing funk-punk scrums "Brain" and "Lapdance" and pulling random fans onstage to freak out. A few cuts into his set, he even invited the cheap-seat throngs to rush forward -- and they did, in a moment of mass mayhem that was chaotically charming (unless, of course, you were security).
Opening with the mad-girl romp "Breakin' Dishes," Barbados native Rihanna strutted about in a pink-and-black one-piece, something Catwoman might buy at Frederick's of Hollywood. On the radio, the young star has rival Beyonce beat, with an endless string of great, catchy hits: "Pon de Replay, "S.O.S." "Umbrella." That said, Rihanna is still years behind B. in stage presence and confidence, a blah performer whose sole move is slowly (if expertly) undulating her tuchus. Her 30-minute set was long enough.
And then, at last, there was Kanye, who not only believes he's the best entertainer in the world, but also fancies himself the next George Lucas. On a spectacularly silly, expensive stage made to look like a desolate lunar landscape, 'Ye hammed it up as a wayward space ranger who has crash-landed in oblivion. His only companion? His spaceship Jane, who turns out to be a lot, ahem, friendlier than her cold, robot voice lets on.
With a full band hidden under all the smokey, flamey FX, Kanye worked the stage all by his lonesome, packaging his songs to tell the sci-fi narrative. The tragic "Through the Wire," about his disfiguring car accident, bled into the resilient "Champion," Kanye's Lazarus story set to a Steely Dan sample.
When Kanye longed for some female companionship, Jane (represented on a giant video screen) turned into a gold-plated stripper. The accompanying song? "Gold Digger." After that: the after-party vamp "Good Life."
For a one-man show, it was impressive, as West worked up a massive sweat spitting hit after hit. The storyline's epic finish featured a prayer (the militaristic oomph of "Jesus Walks"), a memory ("Hey Mama," dedicated to his late mother) and, at last, a happy ending (the full-blown get-down "Stronger").
Is Kanye arrogant? Absolutely. But he's also charming as all get-out. And rest assured he knows he has issues. As he sat on his lonely planet and turned to the heavens, he said, "God, if you get me off this planet, I promise to stop talking s---. And I promise to stop spazzing out at awards show."
Does he mean it? Probably not. But hey, it's a start.
Photo: Getty Images (from Grammy Awards)
I know that I'm speaking for the entire platoon when I say this week should be postponed until this platoon is better rested...
Hey kids, just got back from Myrtle Beach, S.C., where I toured the spectacularly badass Hard Rock Park. I'll inundate you with details of that impressive joint soon enough. (Big story in June. Many adjectives. Stay tuned.)
All in all, it was a weekend filled with lots of hard-nosed journalism. Oh, there was also: my penthouse suite at the Island Vista, myriad synaptic misfirings (and bad dancing) due to Red Bull consumption, a dude at Ripley's who ripped a freakin' phone book in half (I can die happy now) and the coolest, funniest, drinkiest bunch of press peers I could ever imagine. I'll miss each and every one of them.
Now the bad part: Although I'm feeling tired, vomitious, morose, forlorn, funky, smelly, hungover and snotty, I have a Kanye West show tonight and Radiohead tomorrow. Brutal stretch, and I'm sure each and every one of you has great sympathy for me. So now I'm going to sob. And maybe hydrate.
