Unless you’ve been under a rock, you’ve heard about the TRANSFORMERS movie. Now…if you managed to keep from being under a rock long enough to see the movie, you may have caught the trailer that some say actually upstaged the movie.

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www.bluescholars.com - $$$(1/2)

Review by - Nin

In an industry typified by attention-deficiency, what was de rigueur yesterday is invariably outmoded today. Politics and hip-hop, once virtually inextricable from one another, now make awkward bedfellows in the popular consciousness, devoured by the maw of atomistic individualism that defines capitalistic ideology. Hip-hop, as a mirror of prevalent socio-economic currents, is perhaps more earnest and transparent than any other form of sonic art, a ductile, amorphous mass that absorbs and reflects economic truths of its age. Now firmly in the grasp of the status quo, the incandescent indignation of its earliest practitioners has been dulled and sterilized, and its polyglot diversity has been rendered subject to the voice of the marketplace. Money is the lingua franca, consumption is the ideology, art is the canvas. A Marxist nightmare, in short.

It takes a group like Blue Scholars to repair the communitarian threads that cutthroat corporate, materialist culture has unravelled, to reaffirm the fact that hip-hop is beyond a means of individual expression, it is also a legitimate community, a firmament upon which revolt can be coordinated. This is not to say that I am a communist, far from it, but I am not averse to the concepts of solidarity, fraternity and consciousness that Blue Scholars espouse. While Geologic’s loquacious, meticulously constructed verses can prove to be somewhat trying on extended exposure (his deliberate elocution comes off somewhat monochromatic in spots), his rapid-fire effusiveness conveys elegantly-expressed tracts on social upheaval, unity and integrity in the face of widespread serialization/alienation/indifference, plagues of the urban experience that hip-hop is an appendage of. The message is one of luminescent hope in the midst of urban blight, a clarion call for communal spirit amongst a progressively diffuse audience.

Accenting these eloquent manifestos are some of the finest beats to grace a rap record this year, suffused with fearsome, leviathan bass, piquant rhythms and a pensive yet rousing sense of tunefulness. Anchored by a gargantuan low-end, Sabzi’s exquisitely thoughtful sonic potpourris are ceaselessly entrancing, saturated with a sense of melody that is undoubtedly schooled by a genuine understanding of music’s ineffable, intangible dimensions. This is a very strong record, and while it might (much like this review) seem redolent with the selfsame “self-righteousness” that is at odds with popular sentiment in this day and age, it effortlessly walks the trapeze between overtly didactic diatribe and pointed, informed commentary.

www.kochrecords.com - $$$

Review by - Nin

Call him what you want, but Prodigy is nothing if not canny- the vicissitudes of the rap game have often forced the diminutive don to make some difficult decisions in an effort to maintain visibility in an age characterized by tempestuous caprice. While I believe we are all unanimous in our evaluation of Mobb Deep’s latterday output and suspect career decisions, the shrewdness of these manoeuvres have allowed the group to embalm a career that seemed desiccated a few years ago. True, the dramatic detour from the original Mobb Deep template has been much for devotees to endure, but one can’t help but feel that the consequences of such choices loom larger on Hav and P- they have effectively sundered the group from a halcyon, irretrievable past and a dubious future. Mobb Deep are adrift in the merciless present, desperately groping for some means to preserve legitimacy in an avaricious, indifferent industry.

This anguish and exasperation is writ large across this succinct statement of intent, another convincing exemplar of P’s trademark po-faced fatalism. Bitterness and uncompromising despondency crystallize into keen shards of frigid rhetoric, delivered with the graven solemnity that Prodigy has made his hallmark. Atop organic, swaggering, streetwise Alchemist production, Prodigy paints (with broad swathes of nickel black and plasma, crimson red) impressionistic images of New York as Capharnaum, a shell-riddled dystopia that smothers (with ill-will and fusillades of bullets) bourgeois notions of idealism and humanism. New York is a vicious rite of passage that concludes only in death, and P’s solution to this existential barrenness with vigour worthy of Albert Camus- revelling in the Bacchanalian pleasures afforded by wilful brutality, emotional detachment and unfettered capitalism. Acutely sensitive to the absurdity of it all, P’s meditations on impending death are bedecked with visions of material opulence, juxtaposed with a grim acceptance of his own demise. This is hell on earth, and P’s unflinching reluctance to offer any glimpses of redemption has made him one of the most bleakly austere lyricists of our generation.

It helps that Alchemist’s production is up to task- “7th Heaven” evokes vivid recollections of Scarface, all resonant digital snares and looped, consciously kitschy synth loops, while “Down & Out In New York City” is morose and ominous, a pastiche of strings and hi-hats as spare as P’s lean narrative. One would have thought that Alchemist’s imagination would have been exhausted by now, but it is laudable that the man has managed to wring a formidable career out of a somewhat limited template. Vitality and imagination bleed from every sonic pore here, and while Alchemist beats are always a somewhat predictable proposition, he has managed to infuse aesthetically similar beats with enough variety to warrant parallels to the like-minded Premo.

A worthwhile purchase then, if only to arouse some optimism for the upcoming HNIC 2 LP. This time around, P’s distinctively laconic, lackadaisical flow is untainted with the lyrical lassitude that has typified much of his recent material, and I, for one, am thankful for it. Recommended.

Maybe every year is a great year for celebrity centennials and I’m just noticing, but at my house, 2007 is particularly rich. Example: July 16 is the 100th birthday of Ruby Katherine Stevens, perhaps my favorite actress of Golden Age Hollywood, better known to the world at large as Barbara Stanwyck. Frequently dismissed as nothing more than a good technician or, as a callow film “buff” once described her to me, “not that pretty” (immediately disqualifying his opinions on the craft of acting in perpetuity), Stanwyck was the greatest, most believable seductress of her time, a slim, cool and omniscient stick of dynamite.

She was more than cute enough for anything you had in mind, and game for it, too, but caveat emptor, here was a creature with a core of mystery too deep for mortal travelers, a real woman who was beyond possession — which is, of course, the very quality that keeps ’em coming back for more.

Charles: You’re certainly a funny girl for anybody to meet

who’s just been up the Amazon for a year.

Jean: Good thing you weren’t up there two years.

For most of the 1940s, an upstart screenwriter named Preston Sturges made complete nonsense of the idea that there’s no such thing as an auteur filmmaker, and while he was at it, continually transformed Nonsense itself into Art, just for good measure. As soon as Paramount Pictures gave him a chance to direct his own scripts, after a decade of providing great material for other moviemakers, he unleashed a seemingly impossible flow of creative energy, turning out hit after hit as if he’d found a way to bottle genius. It may be a cliché that the brightest star burns briefest, but in Sturges’ case it was decidedly, woefully true. Not, however, before he’d given us five or six of the funniest movies of all time.

His third film, The Lady Eve, is the best of his best by a hair, which means it’s likely the best comedy of its decade, as well. (more…)

DISCLAIMER (angry creators, please read)

[[WARNING! THIS COLUMN MIGHT CONTAIN SPOILERS!]]

Well, I’m back after skipping a week, as I said in my last column, I was working on something. I’ve been invited to take part in a book of essays celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Legion of Superheroes. It’s taken me more than I expected, but it’s to be expected, since I’ve never written such a long article. My essay ended up being 17 pages long!

I’m very happy with the result, and as soon as the book is on sale, I’ll let you know. As for this week’s column, it’s certainly beefy, both in amount of nits (35), and in content, with several fun things I spotted.

Now, on two personal notes, I was reading the Sinestro Corps Special, which, whoa, is one of the best single issues I’ve ever read, don’t miss it, and on page 27-28, when they show the spread of the whole Sinestro Corps, I found… MY DAD!!!! Look below, and tell me if it ain’t him!

Man, I know he’s a lawyer, but this is too much… maybe he can get me one of them rings? And the second not is, that while write this, sitting on my shoulder is the newest member of my family. No, I didn’t get a parrot, and no, I didn’t have a second kid and sit him on my shoulder. I’m talking about Baudelaire the cat, a one month old kitten we’ve adopted. Here he is:

Ain’t he cute? And as much as I like Charles Baudelaire the poet (in fact, I don’t like poetry, yet his book The Flowers Of Evil is one of my favorite books), he’s not named directly after him. Who can tell me who I named him after? Hint, it’s comic book related.

Now, before going to the nits, lemme show you a pic of my two year old, Gabriel, so he doesn’t get too jealous.

Isn’t he a cutie as well? He’s a comic fan already, and Green Lantern is one of his faves (granted, I kinda forced it upon him, but well). He can recite Hal Jordan’s oath and make his daddy very proud.

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Here’s an idea: O.G. is Oscar Gutierrez, AKA Rey Mysterio, who already got exposed by Sports Illustrated last year.

From: Gerweck.net

As previously reported, Dr. Phil Astin of Carrollton, GA was indicted on Monday for improperly prescribing various controll substances in 2004 and 2005 to two patients with the initials “O.G.” and “M.J.” Bob Ryder of 1wrestling.com is reporting that the individual listed by “M.J.” may be a former WCW/WWE wrestler. According to the report, “O.G.” may be a current WWE superstar.

We may be only at the tip of the iceberg with this scandal, folks.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/POLITICS/07/02/libby.sentence/index.html

There’s nothing more to say, really.

I’ve just learned that Mike Acton died. I’d known him since first grade. He was the drummer for Ravenous Doorknobs and Icicle Thieves, two bands with which long-time readers should be familiar. I hadn’t seen Mike much in recent years, but he was present for some memorable times and significant moments in my own life. He is survived by his son, Cody, his parents, his brother and sister and their families, and his friend and companion Di Sutter. Our condolences and best wishes go out to them all. I’ll talk more about Mike when I am able; sufficient to say that he always had the ability to make us laugh, and there are few better things that you can say about a person.