That we’re nearly midway thru 2017 and some segment of the allegedly savvy music world has either slept on Cleveland’s Lamont Thomas aka OBNOX or continues to damn him with some faint “prolific garage rocker” praise is nothing sort of criminal. OK, not WAR CRIMINAL, but certainly a brand of cultural c(r)ock blockery that neither historians or your kids will look kindly upon.
(photo by Aaron A-Live Snorton)
‘Niggative Approach’ — a knowing nod to Ann Arbor’s other N.A. (with an opening cameo from John Brannon) is the 7th album in Bim’s astonishing unbeaten streak that began with 2011’s ‘I’m Bleeding Now’ and shows no immediate sign of ending. While Thomas’ past genre-defying works have brazenly taken a torch to such record store bin cards as “punk”, “psych”, “hip hop”, “funk”, “new arrivals” and “MISC. O”, ‘Niggative Approach’ is his most bold, fully realized statement to date. There’s no one in what’s left of the underground with a sharper take on the ties that bind these genres, and no eyewitness to the nation-going-to-shit as quick to stand up and throw down than Obnox. If you wanna settle for half steps, by all means, be our guest, but ’Niggative Approach’ shouldn’t merely challenge you to imagine the possibilities, but maybe even get your hands dirty in making them happen.
You were at this show (which must have been of the last pre-Repo Man performances for Smash) in about 1991 or so; the main event was Ultimate Warrior vs The Undertaker… which roughly lines up with that years Summerslam and the WWF’s then-habit of just recycling those main events for months after on house shows.
Anyway, Smash was on the card as a low midcarder, having seen the Demolition push completely destroyed by the arrival of LOD/Road Warriors. But, I was still a pretty big fan of Smash so when he came out, I wormed my way through to the aisle to get a good look at him. You sir, were obviously no fan of Smash and took it upon yourself to yell “Smash, you suck!”
Now, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but you did however, leave me in the lurch when Smash stopped his ring walk and approached the aisle to confront who he assumed had insulted him: Me.
You were clearly much older than me, as you had a loud adult voice. And I’m not sure why he thought a 12 year old could have yelled that powerfully, but who am I to judge. I’m willing to completely let bygones be bygones on this… I just need you to come clean to Smash and admit it was you and get me off the hook.
I now live in Philadelphia and Demolition is coming here to wrestle in what is probably a very small and depressing venue. If he recognizes me, there’s a very strong chance he, like a tiger backed into a corner, feels he has nothing to lose and attacks me. I’m pretty sure he’s an old man and I could probably take him PHYSICALLY, but mentally I would rather it not come to that.
I will do what I can to put you both in touch. I think it’s time we all made our peace. Thank you.
Adrian Peterson beat up a preschooler so badly the child had cuts on his thights, hands, and abdomen. He had bruises on his lower back and buttocks. Peterson admitted to the child’s mother that he did feel a tiny bit of remorse, but only because he managed to hit the child in the testicles. He mentioned no remorse over filling the child’s mouth with leaves and then stripping the child’s pants to his ankles prior to administering the beating. Because we all know how important it is, if you’re a 6’ 1”, 220-pound man, to gag and strip a preschooler before you beat him with wood.
Instead of chasing rings or another lucrative contract or an ultimately meaningless rushing record for players over 32, maybe Peterson should retire. And take a parenting course. Read a few books on the subject. Get in touch with whatever rage over his own abused inner child comes out when he aspires to “tear up (the) butt” of one of his children. Michael Vick apologized and sought to make restitution for his crimes. That took character, maturity, a reclaiming of his moral center. Adrian Peterson, thus far, has shown that the only center he believes in is his place at the center of the universe and as the apple of God’s eye.
After calling for a (decisive) penalty kick for South Africa on a phantom handbabll by Senegal defender Kalidou Koulibaly during last November’s 2018 World Cup qualifier, Ghanaian referee Joseph Odartei Lamptey has been hit with a lifetime ban by FIFA, as Goal.com’s Evans Gyamera-Antwi details :
“The FIFA disciplinary committee has decided to ban the Ghanaian match official Joseph Odartei Lamptey from taking part in any kind of football-related activity (administrative, sports or any other) at national and international level for life,” a statement read.
“The official was found guilty of breaching art. 69 par. 1 (unlawfully influencing match results) of the Fifa disciplinary code during the 2018 FIFA World Cup Russia qualifying match between South Africa and Senegal on 12 November 2016,” the statement added.
However, unlike Lamptey, assistant referee David Lionheart Nii Lartey Laryea, who was running the touchline when Lamptey made the ‘unthinkable call’ has been pardoned after investigations proved him innocent.
In 2011, Lamptey was handed a six-month ban by CAF when he awarded a dubious goal to Esperance de Tunis in a CAF Champions League game against Egyptian giants Al Ahli.
The most dangerous letter in the DIY Greek alphabet, XETAS are greeting 2017 with their sophomore album and spring tour, serious as a heart attack and more fun than the drugs they give you in the hospital after the medics bring you back to life.
Pumping through Austin’s clogged Red River arteries since 2014, the Austin firebrands have temporarily broken their vows of Shaolin silence with ten tracks of unadulterated defibrillation –an electrifying monument to distorted melody and verbal hooks brought to a full boil.
This, after spending most of 2016 dedicating their lives to anonymity and heated discussions as to whether the city’s most indispensable soundperson sleeps in his jacket.
Propelled by a new drummer -O.D.J.- who will one day drum a hole to China solely using jazz brushes, XETAS seemingly are on a collision course with the halls of power, despite the absence of any campaign coordination with the Russian ambassador.
Add in the blitzkrieg guitars, bass and vocals of D and K respectively and you’ve arrived at a collection of tools of the trade turned weaponized instruments the likes of which are sure to provoke many a sleepless night at NATO Headquarters.
Recorded over a 24-hour period in the fall of 2016 with engineer Ian Rundell (Carl Sagan’s Skate Shoes, Spray Paint, Empty Markets), the 37-minute, 10-track album was recorded in less than than 7 minutes –a testimony to the band’s energy and capacity for bending time and space after years of monastic devotion.
The melodies are dirty, distorted and delicious, dishing on the world in a jolting and at times unnerving manner, speaking truth to power, assuring a nation already grappling with insomnia under new federal management that it never sleeps again, in soundman Max’s jacket, or otherwise.- Paul Stinson
One does not simply whelp oneself. For one thing, it’s hard to know exactly what whelping means, because it is both a noun (a pup) and a verb (to produce a pup), and for another I was not even really a pup, as it might be understood relative to a human life-span, when our host GC noticed what an unpleasantly persistent comment section presence I was and offered me a chance to write on the site. I was not quite a whelp, and more a late-gestating dude with a lot of problems who’d found a website he liked; GC did not quite whelp me so much as he gave me a login, which I repeatedly forgot. But it was the start of my life as someone who makes a living by being wrong, strenuously and often at length, about sports. Whatever happened, however it happened, I wound up well and truly whelped. And, at the risk of belaboring the point about how good and cool I am, I never forgot what made me: being wrong as hell about pretty much everything.
It’s not fair to say that the CSTBracket is a tribute to that, although being wrong about our predictions is the one thing that every CSTBracket participant has in common with every other. Mostly it was just a thing I liked doing—being wrong, but also picking a super-shitty NCAA Tournament bracket—and which GC let me do when I asked if he would let me do it, a little over ten years ago. That is a long time to keep doing anything, especially if that thing is Overestimating Purdue Literally Every Single Year For Some Reason. But, as it happens, it is not actually that much work to set up a NCAA Tournament bracket on Yahoo Sports. For instance, I was able to do it myself in just a couple minutes. Click here and you’ll find the group; enter “cstb” as your password, without the quotes, and you will gain entry. None of this is difficult. I already knew this.
The difficult part, as always, as is not being wrong about too many games. It’s difficult because college basketball is insane, at least when it’s working properly, and because being surprised is the whole point of it. The idea is to be wrong. The idea of the CSTBracket was always to be wrong together. Whichever one of us winds up being least wrong will luck into some prize pack of GC’s choosing—last year it was some good stuff from 12XU and a saucy autographed photo of Marcus Fizer. This year, we might as well presume that there’s a Wally Szczerbiak bathing suit photo involved. Honestly, if you’re thinking about what you might win, you’ve already lost. Getting things right is not what this is about, or has ever been about.
It’s about getting shit wrong, gambling and losing, overthinking it or leaning too hard into what is not in fact a load-bearing hunch. That’s the point. That’s always been the point. Get the people together. Fuck it all up, get it all wrong. Do it again next year. This has always been what it’s about; it’s never really made sense as anything else. It is a privilege to be this wrong. It is an honor, always, to exercise it.