Song of the Day 1/2/12 Monday, Jan 2 2012

Happy New Year! And after a brief break, let’s get back to the sound from King Records, this time with a New Orleans twist.

Today’s tune comes courtesy of a New Orleans saxophone player by the name of Herbert Hardesty, who spun out some of the greatest sax solos on Fats Domino’s records. Hardesty was a mainstay of Dave Bartholomew’s band in the early fifties, and as a result, played as a session musician on many of the tunes that were pouring out of Cosimo Matassa’s little record studio on Rampart Street. Although he started as a trumpet player, Hardesty soon found himself using his saxophone to back up such New Orleans greats as Roy Brown, Lloyd Price, Smiley Lewis, Professor Longhair, and Fats Domino. He was a reliable session player, a terrific soloist, and a showman on the bandstand known for sliding across the stage and playing solos on his back.

It was rare for Hardesty to record anything on his own. But in 1961, while playing with James Brown, he got a chance to take the lead on a funky little ska number called “Just a Little Bit of Everything,” which combined swing early sixties pop with a twanging surf guitar. Hardesty uses the breaks well, leading the horns in a blazing crescendo that just stays this side of blowing the horns permanently out of tune. The result is a great example of early ska, which was still incubating in Jamaica, and had been heavily influenced by the sounds coming out of New Orleans, particularly Fats Domino’s tune “Be My Guest.”

I could write a series of pieces on the influence of New Orleans on Jamaica’s music, and how that influence came back around the influence the musicians of New Orleans. But for now, let’s ring in the New Year with Hardesty and his pseudo-ska number recorded in Cincinnati in 1961. Enjoy!

 

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The King Records Story, and Song of the Day 12/15/11 Thursday, Dec 15 2011

Today, two versions of a little gem off the great Cincinnati label King Records, whose old building at 1540 Brewster Avenue now stands as a Rock and Roll Heritage Site. I’m always drawn to the various sounds that various cities produce. Every town has its own rhythms, its own music, from the trains barreling around Chicago’s loop to the steamboats blowing past St. Louis to the clip clop of mule hooves all around New Orleans. New York may house the biggest labels, and L.A. may be home to the world’s greatest dream factory, but when the story of American music is written, it tends to find its strongest voice in the towns that grow their music right out of the ground.

Some labels had a sound so distinctive that they are forever identified with the cities that spawned them. Chess Records in Chicago. Stax and Sun in Memphis. Motown in Detroit. Every label tells a story. It’s the mark of not only the producer, but the engineers, the distributors, even the recording studio itself.

What made Cincinnati’s King Records unique was that they controlled every step of their process from one building. When you walked into that old factory on Brewster, you could find artists recording, engineers mixing, and a small crew of people pressing and printing every record, sometimes in quantities as small as a few dozen, then shipping them out to every radio station and record store they figured would gain them and audience, even if it meant building the audience one station and store at a time. It was on-demand music of a style that big labels were too impatient to emulate when their money came from mass production, and that smaller independent labels couldn’t emulate, as they didn’t have the same resources.

Originally, King Records focused on country music—“If it’s a King, it’s a Hillbilly!”—while keeping a race records label—Queen Records—on the side. Eventually, the race records, as they were known at the time, would be absorbed into King as part of an emerging rhythm and blues catalogue that would soon feature the likes of Hank Ballard and the Midnighters, Billy Ward and the Dominoes, Little Willie John, and a very young James Brown.

It was this rhythm and blues market that King owner Syd Nathan focused on from the late 1940’s onward. By 1950, what had once been a strictly country outfit was well on its way to being regarded as the “king” of rhythm and blues labels. One of the turning points for King’s move from country to rhythm and blues came in 1949, as the label scored big hits on both charts with the song, “Why Don’t You Haul Off and Love Me.”

Wayne Raney, a country musician from Arkansas who established his greatest wealth with a harmonica business, co-wrote the song and recorded it for King. By September of 1949, the song soared to the top of Billboard’s Country and Western charts—ending the sixteen-week reign of Hank Williams’ “Lovesick Blues” at number one.

Shortly after Raney recorded his version, Syd Nathan, seeing its potential in a different market, passed the song along to a talented rhythm and blues saxophonist named Bull Moose Jackson, who had already scored number one hits on Billboard’s Race Records chart with “I Love You, Yes I Do” (1947)—which was the first R & B record to sell a million copies—and “I Can’t Go On Without You” (1948).

Jackson’s version, dotted with handclaps and driven by driving saxophone blasts, roared up Billboard’s newly named Rhythm and Blues chart (it was called the Race Records chart until June of that year), reaching number two in late November and sticking there for two weeks, behind Louis Jordan’s “Saturday Night Fish Fry.” As 1949 rolled over into 1950—with the Golden Age of Rock and Roll inching ever closer—King Records left behind its country roots for the new, swinging sound of rhythm and blues.

Today, we’ll give a listen to both versions of a track that stands as a signpost in the history of one of American music’s great labels. First, let’s give a listen to Raney’s version, a bouncy hillbilly tune that became Raney’s biggest hit:

Next, the swinging version recorded by Bull Moose Jackson and his Buffalo Bearcats. Sadly, not many people remember the Moose these days. Like King Records, his remarkable contribution to the body of American music is largely forgotten. If enough people hear songs like this, however, that shouldn’t be the case for long.

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Song of the Day 12/13/11 Tuesday, Dec 13 2011

Here’s a little New Orleans funk on a funky New Orleans day. This one coming from the funk/jazz/groove/gumbo/paella band Galactic, a solid five piece ensemble that has become one of the premier funk groups in the Big Easy. This is one of the great things about living in New Orleans: I first heard this band on a jukebox in BJ’s Lounge deep in the Bywater. Like a lot of artists I’ve grown to love in this city, I would never have heard of this band if I didn’t live here. So, for those of you who don’t live here, here’s a chance to hear them and go digging around for more of their music on your own time.

This is “Uptown Odyssey” off their 2003 album Ruckus. Enjoy.

 

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Book Report—July /August 2011—Part 1 Tuesday, Sep 6 2011

Books Purchased:

The Elephant’s Child—(Steve Orlen)
The Barbary Coast—(Herbert Asbury)
Collected Poems—(Zbigniew Herbert)

Books Read:

Green Hills of Africa—(Ernest Hemingway)
The Black Dahlia—(James Ellroy)
The Long Goodbye—(Raymond Chandler)
Moby Dick—(Herman Melville)
A Moveable Feast—(Ernest Hemingway)
Under the Volcano—(Malcolm Lowry)
The Elephant’s Child—(Steve Orlen)
The Barbary Coast—(Herbert Asbury)
The Passion—(Jeanette Winterson)
The Constant Velocity of Trains—(Lea Deschanes)

Ten books in the last two months, which is more than I read in the previous year. It’s a run through the world of literature like I haven’t experienced in a long time. The last time I can remember reading so many pages in so short a time, I was in Chicago, ripping through the collected short stories of Hemingway, Chekhov, and Flannery O’Connor in two and a half weeks. You know, a little light reading.

What Algren and Dybek started for me in June continued with Hemingway this past month. I was reading Green Hills of Africa right about the time I wrote my last missive, and I experienced the far too long gone sensation of not wanting a book to end. It’s been a while since I’ve been there—wanting to take my time with the pages, only read a little bit at a time. Save it up and come back to it. Because it isn’t the only book we come back to when we come back. It’s the place. A crap day at the office and then you pick up this book and bang. You’re in Kenya, looking at rhino tracks and checking to see if the pyramids of elephant dung are still warm so you can follow the trail. The sun is beating down on your pup tent. The guides are sleeping off the noontime heat and that big bastard Hemingway is handing you a drink and telling you a story.

I always feel bad for people who tell me they don’t like Hemingway. It’s the same feeling I have for people who don’t like baseball. I wonder if they know what they’re missing out on. There are few people who can render landscapes like this guy, who can convey as much emotion without seeming to allow any out of the bottle. Who can seem as bold while writing about things so delicate. I think the myth of the man—and Green Hills of Africa is definitely one that sits on the “myth of Hemingway” side of the aisle—gets in the way. That’s a damn shame, because I hate to see it obscure of the better pieces of travel writing I’ve ever read, not to mention his usual nuts and bolts takes on the craft of writing. There’s a point when he tells a fellow hunter, “I have a good life, but I find that if I don’t write a certain amount I don’t enjoy the rest of my life.” And that’s it. That’s the whole philosophy of his life’s work in one line. Of course, he probably wouldn’t use a term like “whole philosophy” when describing it. He’d probably just punch you in the mouth, which is also effective. Simple. Efficient. Memorable.

I’ve never been hunting, and the idea of hunting animals merely for sport is pretty odious to me. I have to get past that to read this book, but the payoff is tremendous. The end result is one of the most beautifully rendered looks at a landscape I’ve ever read, and one of the better observances of a time and place long since gone. Men (and one woman) with guns, playing safari in Africa with the world steadily, quietly moving towards a war that will shake the planet. That same feeling is also rendered in A Movable Feast, that touchstone of Bohemian Paris, with its great Lost Generation figures swimming through one of the most creative periods of the century, unaware that their daily comings and goings will be the subject of study for generations to come. That’s part of the book’s charm. It’s a historical relic, a window into that seemingly safe gap between two world wars, and the artists who found a new way to say almost everything in that time.

There is, of course, the feeling of innocence lost in both books. But the larger innocence that pervades them—more noticeable in A Moveable Feast, written as it was toward the end of Hemingway’s life—is even more palpable. Both books are portraits of a generation that survived the Great War and feel the worst the world can offer is behind them. But the world has uglier ideas. Before long, their beloved Paris will be occupied, Africa will be a battleground, they will be in flight from madness. They have little idea of what’s coming, and coming soon.

The feeling of a world on the brink is also central to Malcolm Lowry’s monumental Under the Volcano, a book I’ve tried to push my way through several times in the past. I found the key to getting through it in an unusual place. Turns out Herman Melville had it all along. I should have known.

Certain books unlock other ones for us. Upon finishing Moby Dick, with its oceans of language and humor embedded in the most mundane details, I decided to give Lowry’s opus another crack. Melville’s book forced me to read closer, to slow down and take in the language, to try to hear the voices of the crew, their unusual patterns of speech, the strange rhythms of mid-nineteenth century speech, mixed with the ocean, mixed with Melville’s joyous blending of form. By the time I got around to Lowry, a book of voices was beginning to make sense.

And that’s how I had to attack Under the Volcano. This is book that slips between internal monologue, external narration, dialogue, things almost said, looks that become memories, memories that become meditations on the nature of man, meditations that are interrupted by a spoken phrase, and resumed in a new direction. It is a book that moves through the minds of its characters, the primary one being an alcoholic crashing recklessly toward his end.

I’m not going to pretend this was anything approaching an easy read for me. I had to lock in to get through it, try to ride the waves of language, try not to get too discouraged when I lost the path. I had a similar reaction reading Borges (one of my favorites). You’re just not going to get the whole thing the first time through. Don’t let that stop you. The language is a waterfall, and you hold out your bucket and catch what you can.

The book is heavy on symbolism (thank you again, Mr. Melville, for the preparation on that front), most notably the volcano rumbling in the far distance, like the Earth sending a telegram of impending war. It captures a Mexico where the war in Spain seems to be fought by proxy between idealists. It brings to life the fears and ambitions and crushed hopes of three people over the course of a single day, giving us a clear sense of time rushing by even while it pauses on an hour for an entire chapter.

And, as many critics have noted, Under the Volcano gives us a startling portrait of a man helplessly stumbling through alcoholism. Lowry himself was deep in a losing battle with the same illness while writing this book, and the fact that he completed the manuscript is both miraculous and tragic. I get irritated all to hell when someone tries to romanticize the idea of the great intoxicated artist, stumbling toward genius with a bottle and a needle. There’s nothing pretty about a long suicide, and all I can think when I consider the facts of Lowry’s life is how many other great works he might have been able to give us had he been able to stay sober. As it is, Under the Volcano is his one lasting work, and it’s a monster. I would also hope it would put anyone off the idea that a decades long drunk might be entertaining. By the time the British consul met his end, I felt like I couldn’t stomach anything stronger than water for days.

I think I’m running out of space for part one of this book report, and Moby Dick is going to need a good amount of copy room. So I’ll close by mentioning Herbert Asbury’s The Barbary Coast. Some feel Asbury was a second rate historian whose work survives largely because of his entertaining way of telling it. This might be the case. But if the bulk of these stories were made up, I don’t want to know about it. This is word of mouth history at its most entertaining, and contains quite a few tidbits that might not have been reported any later. The book was published in 1933, and so Asbury actually had access to many people who had seen the later years of the Barbary Coast, which meant not only their stories, but stories that were only a generation or so out of circulation by the time they were retold to him. He had access to people who were born at the dawn of San Francisco, and even if they didn’t remember the mining camps or the tent brothels, they surely knew people who did.

Asbury’s narrative certainly feels authentic. It is clearly well researched, no matter how dubious the sources, and the end result is something that gives the impression of a time completely out of control. Some of the most interesting bits come right at the beginning, as the gold rush seems to have turned the entire country mad. The list of prices of various items along is enough to make jaws drop. In 1950, at the height of the boom, you could expect to pay fifteen dollars a night to sleep on a cot with no springs or mattress. Apples would run one to five dollars each, and eggs could cost as high as fifty dollars a dozen. A doctor wouldn’t write you a prescription for less than one hundred dollars. And this was at a time when a loaf of bread in any other city in America cost about four cents (it was almost twenty times that in San Francisco). Everything else followed a similar price pattern for the first couple years of the rush, and people paid it gladly for the chance to find gold.

One of the most interesting turns in the narrative comes at the end, where Asbury shows the Barbary Coast being shut down, and how the puritan standards of the time (right before Prohibition) caused innumerable problems, such as closing down a medical center that had done great work in reducing venereal disease in the district, because most of its work was done with prostitutes. In one of the final scenes, Asbury relates a moment when a group of prostitutes from around the district marched on a church with a preacher who had been highly influential in getting the district boarded up. One woman reveals that three-quarters of the women in the group are mothers, and that they were only prostitutes because they couldn’t earn a living any other way. The standards of the time that kept them from working had driven them to the oldest profession there is. Now, the same standards were driving them even from that.

The book is billed as an “informal history,” and maybe that’s what I find so appealing about it. The whole thing feels like a yarn told to us by a fascinating uncle. The tales sometimes get tall, but Asbury acknowledges when they do, professes they probably aren’t true, and then tells them anyway.

I’ll save the whale, the Dahlia, the poetry and the rest of it for part two. More to come soon…

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Book Report–June 2011 Monday, Jul 4 2011

Books Purchased:
Green Hills of Africa—(Ernest Hemingway)
The Black Dahlia—(James Ellroy)

Books Read:
The Coast of Chicago—(Stuart Dybek)
Chicago: City on the Make—(Nelson Algren)

This is a new thing I’m trying out, and if it seems like a deliberate, shameless rip-off of Nick Hornby’s  “Stuff I’ve Been Reading” column, that’s because it is. I got the idea from Hornby. I’m copying Hornby. Not that it really matters, since he has (deservedly) about three million people reading his column every month while my blog is viewed by a few close friends and sympathetic family members.

Hi mom.

The main reason I’m shamelessly apeing Hornby’s column here is that I’ve fallen way, way off my reading in the past year, and I’m trying to hold myself accountable. I haven’t been reading the way I used to, and for this I blame my frequent descents into the labyrinth that is the Internet. So I’ve taken two steps to try and correct my poor reading ways.
The first is a strict limit on my Internet usage. From now on, I am allowed a half hour before noon, and a half hour after six. No carrying over or anything like that. If I miss my time, I miss it. If I don’t use it, it goes by the wayside. The exceptions are emergencies and White Sox games, which are kind of the same thing.

The second is this column.

Each month, I’ll list the books I bought and the books I read in the previous month. I’ll follow up with a book report on the books I read that month. It’ll be fun, I think, and it’ll keep me honest as far as how much reading I get done.
There’s an ulterior motive to this project, too. It may end being the focus of the whole thing by the time I’m done. That motive is the desire to read every book in my library that I have not yet read.

It’s a weird goal. One I’ve had for a while. I was nearly there about six years ago. I went from thirty-five unread books in my library down to four while I was living in France with a lot of time on my hands. But then I got myself into an MFA program, started collecting pages, and am now probably back to my original count of unread books. I’m going to start chipping away at that. Slowly.

The most important part of this, of course, is to start reading again. Bad readers make bad writers. I don’t think there are any exceptions to this.

So, with that out of the way, here’s the report for June.

My final month in New Orleans before the trip I’m currently on had me homesick for a town that is not, technically, my hometown. I grew up in Sarasota, Florida (where I am as I type this), but the place feels less and less like home to me. When I come down here, I don’t see anyone from “the old days.” I don’t have any old haunts I need to haunt or any dishes only served by such and such a restaurant. I go to a couple houses of a couple family members and that’s that and that’s fine.

Chicago, by contrast, still has the immediate feel of a homecoming every time I come back. There are friends in every neighborhood, clear, sharp memories from every view out the window of the red line. I wouldn’t miss a poetry slam at the Green Mill or a Sox game at Comiskey or a stroll down Clark and the various side streets of Andersonville. I read about the Art Institute or Algren’s Division Street and I get a smile all over my face, and memories that sometimes sting, that usually sing.

Algren’s Chicago: City on the Make has been on my list for years. It’s a quick read, and the fact that it’s the only thing I red before the last week of the month illustrates how off I’ve been on my reading of late. I drank this one in slowly, during my last week on the job as a mule-drawn carriage driver. The thing is a short shot, an extended prose poem in praise of all the beauty and all the nasty and all the big noise and quiet moments that make up Algren’s city. And it is Algren’s city. Make no mistake about this. He may not be as well known as a lot of great American writers these days, but if you haven’t read him, you’re due for a treat.

When I moved to Chicago for the second time—the most permanent of my five moves there—I decided that the most Chicagoan thing I could do would be to take myself to the University of Chicago and hear Studs Terkel speak. Studs walked in twenty minutes late, still riding high on his second or third martini of the day, leaned back in his chair, and waxed on about Chicago to an audience that, to the last, would have happily sat there for eighteen hours straight to listen to the man tell stories. It was a stellar performance that ranged across the city, from Harold Washington to Hinky Dink and Bathouse John’s political machine to Nelson Algren, his longtime friend and “the wittiest man I ever knew.”

I walked down afterward and picked up two books: The latest collection by Studs (called Hope Dies Last, a book which Studs signed to me and my now ex-wife, and which is still sitting lonely and unread in my library), and Algren’s The Man With the Golden Arm.

It took me two weeks to go through Algren’s novel, and the thing tore me to pieces. It’s a magnificent, heartbreaker of a book, and makes a monster introduction to one of the most underappreciated American writers.

For years since, and spurred on by constant reminders from my friends Drew and Belen, I’ve been meaning to get around to City on the Make. I read one section repeatedly, the second about the two faces of Chicago. Yet I somehow never got around the whole kielbasa until just recently. Maybe because, outside of Chicago, the book is hard as hell to find.

But it’s a find, ladies and gents. A solid quick read or a long, luxurious stroll with a man who has the history of the city pouring out of his prose. The closest comparison I can make is to a far more grandiose works, such as Don DeLillo’s Underworld, which seemes to see every corner of New York and every inch of the late twentieth century. Or maybe Charles Olsen’s Maximus Poems, which stand looking over Gloucester’s history like a lighthouse. But those are works of unbelievable scale. Algren somehow manages to do much the same thing in about 70 pages of prose. Characters fromt eh city’s history are mentioned, forgotten, mentioned later, from Swede Risberg and the Black Sox to Cap Streeter and his sandbar gin house. If you know the city, it’s like a course in everything you never knew or forgot you knew. If you don’t know the city, it’s like eavesdropping on a conversation on two guardian angels who have watched the city grow up from marshland to outpost to railyard to boomtown to the biggest city in America, and back down to Second City, so they say. But don’t tell Chicago it’s second to anything. It’s liable to bust you across the ass with a railroad tie.

As a sidenote, I’ve always found it easier to write about a city I no longer live in than one that I do live in. When I tell people in New Orleans that I’m a writer, some seem genuinely surprised that I’m not writing about the city. Give me a few years. Maybe I’ll do more when I’m not there longer. I’m not sure. Maybe I feel I haven’t earned the right. Yet even with Algren’s poem ringing in my head, I’ve started to feel I do have the right to say something about Chicago. Maybe that’s all you need.

I have Algren’s Walk on the Wild Side sitting in my backpack right now, which is a book that takes place in New Orleans. I’ll be curious to see how that goes. But in due time, Mister Fox. In due time.

The other one on my “read” list for June is Stuart Dybek’s remarkable short story collection, The Coast of Chicago. I finished this one at the start of my summer trip, reading the final few stories out loud to my co-driver Emily to help keep her awake. Maybe it was reading out loud that made the stories “Hot Ice” and “Nighthawks” stand out so strong. Maybe it’s just that they are so good. But over the course of reading this collection, I felt something wild happen. I began to feel my love of reading returning.

Love of reading and love of a city. Things to come back to. In “Nighthawks,” the feel of the café in Hopper’s painting, and the feel of the Art Institute that stands around that painting, and the feel of the city that stands around the Art Institute, which contains that scene in so many spots, so many corner diners, from Bridgeport to Humboldt Park. Someplace is always open. Somewhere the light is always on.

The descriptions of the city stick with me still. The light disappearing above the tops of the lightposts reminded me of the same imagery used in Denis Johnson’s Angels, ad remind you that, as big as Chicago is, so much of it still seems to be at ground level, especially at night. The el ride during the final scene of my favorite story in the collection (“Pet Milk”), and the way the narrator can name every view of every stop along the way. When you know a place well enough to know the place described, to see the cemetery just by the Wilson Avenue stop, it’s a special kind of magic between you and the author. Like if you look up, they’ll be standing there throwing you a wink.

Short story collections are always hit and miss. They always, by their nature, tend to be a little uneven. But I’ve rarely ever read one that holds as even as The Coast of Chicago. By turns hilarious and brutal and whimsical and vicious, fantastic and real as the dirt in your soles, quickly glimpsed and elaborated on to no end.

I’m getting a little whimsical myself, and that’s usually a signal to me to turn out the lights. I’d like to be as light and funny as can be here, but there’s a lot of emotion attached to these books. I hope that a couple years from now I’ll be able to say this was a bridge. This was a moment that brought me back to my love of reading. Two books and a city and a road trip.

That might just about do it.

I’m already well into my reading for July. But that’s for then. And I expect to have a decent amount to report.

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Donnie Walsh Departs in New York: Woe to the New York Knicks Sunday, Jun 5 2011

In the middle of what looks like a very exciting NBA Finals, another storyline re-emerged over the weekend which didn’t make many waves outside of New York. Donnie Walsh, who took over as team president of the New York Knicks three years ago, has stepped down, citing age and health concerns.

The truth is this: Donnie Walsh, who took the Knicks from punchline to legitimate playoff contender in less than three years, lost his job months ago.

Three years ago, when Walsh took over as president, the Knicks were coming off their eighth straight losing season. Their closing record of 23-59 tied the worst record in team history. To make matters uglier, the team’s coach and general manager (Isaiah Thomas), owner (James Dolan), and parent company (Madison Square Garden Entertainment) were found liable in a sexual harassment lawsuit and ordered to pay 11.6 million dollars in punitive damages.

Put bluntly, the New York Knicks were the laughing stock of the league.

For most of the last decade, the Knicks were defined by losing seasons and comically inept trades and free agent signings arranged by owner James Dolan (who was ranked by both Sports Illustrated and ESPN among the worst owners in American sports) and president/GM/coach Thomas, which left the team with bloated contracts for ineffective players like Stephon Marbury, Jamal Crawford and Eddy Curry. The position of head coach became a carousel that included a one-year stint by Larry Brown (he was fired with four years remaining on his contract), and the debacle of Thomas’s tenure as head coach (he appointed himself to the position), which featured a brawl against Denver instigated by Thomas, historically poor season records, poor draft picks, and all of it while the team spent more money than any other in the league.

And, of course, the sexual harassment lawsuit.

Into this maelstrom of ineptitude came Donnie Walsh. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of the sexual harassment suit is that it forced James Dolan, under pressure from the league, to hire someone not named Isaiah Thomas to run the team. One of Walsh’s first acts as team president was to fire Isaiah Thomas. Thomas was not allowed to have any contact with any Knicks players during his tenure, as many felt that he would attempt to undermine Walsh’s authority, as well as that of new head coach Mike D’Antoni.

Walsh spent the next two years drafting promising talent and trading away the bulky contracts his predecessor incurred. By the time this season rolled around, he had given his coach a solid team to work with. For the bulk of this year, the Knicks looked like not just a playoff team, but a team capable of contending in the league for years to come. The $24 million Walsh had cleared off the payroll allowed the team to sign superstar Amar’e Stoudamire, who stepped into a role as team leader under his old coach, D’Antoni. Raymond Felton, picked up from the Charolotte Bobcats, emerged as a stellar point guard and reliable force at running the offense, averaging 17.1 points and nine assists per game. Shooting guard Landry Fields was named to the NBA’s All-Rookie team. Italian forward Danilo Gallinari (whose drafting was booed by New York fans two years earlier) and Wilson Chandler both averaged better than 15 points per game and gave the team a defensive presence in the paint not seen since the days of Patrick Ewing and Charles Oakley. The Knicks were young, talented, and on their way to the playoffs. And after nearly a decade of futility and the humiliating tenure of Isaiah Thomas, Donnie Walsh had returned the team to respectability.

Unfortunately for Walsh, he was never fully in control of the team’s basketball operations. James Dolan never wanted to fire Thomas, and only did so when the league leaned on him after the lawsuit. He continued, according to reporters such as Frank Isola of the New York Daily News, to rely on Thomas for advice. He even attempted to re-hire Thomas as GM while he was serving as head coach at Florida International University. Thomas even accepted a job as consultant, but was forced to give it up as it violated NBA rules.

For whatever reason (and it is hard to speculate with Dolan, who hasn’t spoken to the press in four years), Dolan seems to be constantly under the sway of Thomas. Last summer, when the most anticipated free agent class in NBA history came available, Dolan sent Thomas to try to recruit LeBron James to the Knicks. When that failed, Thomas still attempted to take credit for the hiring of Amar’e Stoudamire. Walsh apparently had a full out argument with Dolan for undermining him, but the truth is that Thomas had never really gone away in the first place.

Then, in February, came the last straw. All season long, the Denver Nuggets had been looking to trade Carmelo Anthony. For weeks, Donnie Walsh sat back, eyeing the field, offering Denver some of what they wanted, but not too much. He was convinced Anthony wanted to come to New York, and that if he couldn’t trade for him by the deadline, he’d be able to sign him when his contract came up at the end of the year. It was a shrewd strategy, one that had a very good chance of working, and one which would have left the Knicks with two superstar scorers without having to deplete their talented young core.

Then Dolan and Thomas swooped in and blew the whole thing up.

On the advice of Thomas, Dolan pulled the trigger on a trade that sent Danilo Gallinari, Wilson Chandler, Raymond Felton, and Russian center Timofy Mozgov, a first round draft pick, two second round draft picks, and cash to Denver in return for Carmelo Anthony, point guard Chauncey Billups, and a few bench players, including Renaldo Balkman, an Isaiah Thomas draft pick from years before who never performed up to expectations.

In one move, nearly everything Donnie Walsh had worked for was wiped out. The Knicks lost three starters and three future draft picks for one big star, a once great but now aging point guard, and a few reserves. Gallinari (age 22), Chandler (age 23), and Felton (age 26) all have the potential to be solid players in the league for years to come, while Billups (age 35) is nearing retirement, and Anthony, despite his scoring prowess, is regarded as a liability on defense. The Knicks actually had a lower winning percentage with Anthony than they did without him.

Worst of all, the Knicks gave up everything they did for a player they probably could have landed if they’d waited until the season was over.

Donnie Walsh gave the Knicks back their respectability over the past three years. He built a solid team and attempted to separate them from one of the ugliest eras of their history. But he was undermined constantly by his boss, Dolan, and by the man who had nearly dragged the temple down on all their heads.

And despite all of his success, when it came contract time, Dolan proposed that Walsh take a forty percent paycut.

There are slaps in the face and there are slaps in the face. This was a slap done with a steam shovel.

What this means for the Knicks remains to be seen, but there are very dark clouds on the horizon. Donnie Walsh is a good man and deserving of respect for the job he did in New York. If he’s going to get treated like this as a thank you, what can his successor expect? Furthermore, what will happen to Mike D’Antoni, who has done such a good job as coach? And if Carmelo Anthony starts to act out like he did in Denver, what does that do to the team’s chemistry, not to mention the attitude of Stoudamire, who stepped up so admirably as a leader this season?

This should be a very interesting storyline over the coming months, and probably not in a good way. Pity the New York fans. They deserve better than this.

So does Donnie Walsh.

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Song of the Day–2/7/11 Monday, Feb 7 2011

I’ve been trying all morning to write something about the Super Bowl and I’ve got nothing. At least nothing new. The game has been so rabidly over-covered, so forcibly blasted into our collective experience, that saying anything that isn’t being said at this very moment across thousands of newspapers, radio signals, blogs and websites, is even harder than attempting to decipher what the hell was going on in the halftime show last night.

There are pages and pages today dedicated to the Packers and the Steelers. To the advertisements that bring in as many fans as the game does. To the fiasco of the National Anthem rendition that opened the game, and the equally huge fiasco of the miserable halftime show that popped up in the middle of it like an abscess. To the triumph of Aaron Rogers, complete with a few final digs at Brett Favre’s legacy. To the failure of Ben Roethlisberger, complete with multiple references to the sexual assault charge he faced during the offseason. To any number of smaller storylines, and to all of the big ones.

What I will say is this: The Super Bowl is a very different game when you have a stake in it. Last year, with the Saints buoying the hearts of an entire city, with the staggering release of joy that came from the win, the game could not have been more important. That it fell right in the middle of Mardi Gras lent the next ten days the air of a non-stop victory parade in praise of a city back from the brink.

This year, I felt like I was looking at a magic eye chart. I knew if I stared past the commercials and the commentators and the tinsel long enough, I would see a football game. But it took a great deal of patience.

So rather than try and go over the game a piece at a time, I’ll just play some music. And the piece of music I’ve chosen is inspired by one of my favorite football fans, Hunter S. Thompson, and comes from the legendary New Orleans maestro James Booker. Booker’s song, “Gonzo,” is said to have been a favorite record of Thompson’s, and Thompson made a reference to the fact that he took the word “Gonzo” from this song when he was developing his style of writing, now widely known as “Gonzo journalism.”

Booker was one of the finest keyboardists to come out of New Orleans, but recordings of him are sadly limited. Part of this was Booker’s own self-destructive behavior, which involved massive drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness, and eventually the loss of one of his eyes in a fight or as payment for a gambling debt, depending on who you ask. But when he was on, by all accounts, he was astonishing. If you’d like to hear how good Booker could be, grab a copy of the album Resurrection of the Bayou Maharajah, which is a series of his live performances at the Maple Leaf Bar. You will rarely hear one man on a piano swing a single room so hard.

I’ll have a few more words on Booker soon, but for now, enjoy his biggest hit. “Gonzo” reached number 3 on the R&B charts, carried along by Booker’s bouncy organ playing, a rocking chair bassline, and a little airy spin from a flute hanging over the proceedings.

So a tribute to New Orleans, and a very sideways tribute to the Super Bowl. Happy Gonzo Day, everybody. And Go Saints. There’s always last year.

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Anatomy of a Knockout—Tyson/Douglas-Part IV Monday, Jan 17 2011

Part IV—The Knockout Heard Round the World

There is all the difference in the world between an upset and an almost-upset. History is loaded with those who nearly pulled the upset, then faded at the crucial moment. People talk about Princeton’s near-upset of Georgetown in 1990 NCAA Basketball Tournament, how the Ivy Leaguers had the nation’s top team on the ropes into the final moments, before Georgetown squeeked out a one-point victory.

Likewise, Billy Conn’s near-upset of Joe Louis gained the fighter his greatest fame. Ahead on two of the scorecards (and even on the other) after twelve rounds against a tiring Louis, Conn foolishly decided to go for a knockout against a man who outweighed him by 37 pounds. He left himself open, Joe Louis landed a couple bombs, and Conn lost his shot at the title.

After the fight, Conn jokingly asked Louis why he couldn’t let him hold the title for a year. Louis replied, “You had the title for twelve rounds and you couldn’t hold on to it.”

The near-upsets have their place in history, but they are remarkable because they illustrate the difference between the champions and the challengers. History is loaded with underdogs who almost got away with it, only to have the champions wake up just in time, realize they were champions for a reason, and show the other gear that allowed them to stay in front.

As good as Douglas had been all night, there was still disbelief that this fight was going to go his way. The heavyweight division carries a greater possibility for big upsets because the size and strength of the fighters lends itself to more one-punch knockouts. As broadcaster “Colonel” Bob Sheridan put it, the heavyweight division was always “sudden death.” This was especially true with Tyson, who had made his reputation on such knockouts. Let Douglas have seven good rounds. Let him climb ahead on the cards. Sooner or later, Tyson would catch him. Everyone knew it.

What nobody knew was that Douglas still wouldn’t be stopped.

I want to bring it back to the sound of the fight, because that’s the reason I started writing this piece in the first place. Both HBO and Showtime broadcast the fight from the Tokyo Dome, but Bob Sheridan’s commentary for Showtime is some of the best I’ve ever heard. Here are the final three rounds. I’ll break them down, but listen to how Sheridan becomes a believer over the course of these rounds. In round 8, he’s admiring Douglas for having made it so far, but unsurprised when Tyson knocks him down. In round 9, he’s surprised when Tyson can’t finish Douglas, then shocked as Douglas comes back and takes over the round. In round 10, as Douglas sends Tyson out, he rises to the occasion, giving a spectacular call of arguably the most unexpected knockout in the history of boxing.

Let’s take it round by round.

ROUND 8:

Sheridan’s commentary here is complimentary to Douglas. But like everyone else who watched, there is a certain amount of disbelief that Douglas is going to pull this thing out. Even with Douglas owning the fight, there was still the sense that Tyson was ahead. No one could really accept that Tyson was going to lose. Most were just stunned it was taking him so long to rally that big shot that would send this pesky bastard down. Tyson drops a few good shots in the round, but Douglas keeps coming back, especially in the second half of the round. But Douglas gets sloppy, and at the 2:50 mark of the clip, Tyson lands an uppercut with enough juice that, even though it doesn’t land square, still sends Douglas to the canvas.

This seemed to be the moment everyone was waiting for. Douglas finally on the mat, Tyson finally himself. When Douglas clambers to his feet, Sheridan, like everyone else is surprised. And luckily for Douglas, the shot came at the end of the round, allowing him to take a seat and gather himself.

As a side note, it should be mentioned that Don King later protested the result, saying the referee had given a long count here; that Douglas was actually on the mat fourteen seconds, and not nine, as Octavio Meyran counted. This dispute was resolved in Douglas’s favor, as the official count always stands with the referee. And even if Meyran’s count was long, Douglas was clearly waiting to get up. Note how he strikes the mat in disappointment when he goes down. This is not a fighter struggling for orientation. If Meyran’s count was quicker, Douglas would still have been up on the number nine.

ROUND 9:

This was the round that really stunned everyone. As good as Douglas had been, now that he’d been knocked down, it was assumed Tyson would finish him off. And indeed, this is exactly what Tyson tries to do. Sheridan’s comments about how Douglas should be given “a lot of credit” point to the assumption that the poor sap is certainly on his way out.

That all starts to change at the 4:00 mark of the clip. Watch how Douglas lands the two jabs, then a right-left combo, followed by a left-right-left combo, to which Sheridan shouts, “Look at this!” Suddenly, it became clear that not only was Douglas not woozy and hanging on, he was actually, even after a knockdown, still the stronger fighter. This was the complete opposite of any other major fight in Buster Douglas’s history.

As the round progresses, watch the bounce in Douglas’s legs. Then watch at the 5:26 mark, as he stuns Tyson, driving him back into the ropes. I remember my jaw swinging open when I saw this exchange. At 5:40, Sheridan shouts, “Who would EVER have expected this?” No one would have. Douglas dominated the round, and it suddenly seemed that Tyson might not have another good chance to put Douglas away.

It is interesting to note that, after nine rounds, and despite completely dominating the fight, Douglas was only ahead on one of the scorecards. Another judge had it for Tyson by a point, and the third judge had it even. If the fight went to a decision, there’s a chance Douglas might have had the fight stolen from him.

That wasn’t about to happen, however. One minute into round ten, Buster Douglas finished off the greatest upset in boxing history.

ROUND 10:

I’ll stick to the knockout, and I’ll stick to the sound of it. It starts at the 7:47 mark of the clip. Douglas, after a couple jabs to get Tyson’s hands up, sneaks a massive uppercut through the hole that lands flush on Tyson’s chin. Listen to the entire Tokyo dome react, as Sheridan says, “OH! THERE’S A NICE UPPERCUT BY BUSTER!”

Douglas follows with a left, a right, and a hard left—“LOOK AT THIS! HE’S KNOCKED MIKE TYSON DOWN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS CAREER!”

The crowd in the Tokyo Dome erupts, aware they are seeing something they’ve never seen before, and Octavio Meyran begins his count. Four. Five. Six.

“HE’S IN BIG TROUBLE!”

The crowd. Listen to the crowd. As Meyran’s count progresses, they steadily grow quieter. It’s almost like you can hear them holding their breath. The air gets sucked right out of the arena.

Seven. Eight.

Tyson grasping for his mouthpiece, completely disoriented.

“HE MAY NOT BE ABLE TO RECOVER!”

Dead silence in the dome.

Nine.

Tyson staggering. Meyran waving his arms.

“HE’S NOT GOING TO MAKE IT!”

Meyran wrapping his arms around Tyson to keep him from falling.

Listen to the crowd. All the air that got sucked out of the arena as they collectively held their breath during the count comes rushing back out in what can only be described as a collective gasp of shock. Yells, shouts, but all of it registering the impossible. Sheridan screaming now.

“UNBELIEVEABLE!!! UNBELIEVEABLE!!! UNBELIEVEABLE!!!”

The crowd roaring. Douglas being mobbed with his hands in the air. Sheridan saying the most unthinkable of phrases.

“BUSTER DOUGLAS IS THE NEW HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!”

 

THE AFTERMATH:

There wasn’t much more for Douglas after this fight. Galvanized by his mother’s death, he’d given the performance of his life. Afterward, he went back to his old ways. Poor conditioning, poor training. Because the Tyson fight was considered to be a cakewalk for the champion, no rematch clause was included in the contract. As a result, Douglas fought Evander Holyfield instead. He was paid 24 million dollars for the fight, showed up out of shape and sloppy, and was beaten to a pulp by the supremely conditioned Holyfield in three ugly rounds. He retired off and on for the next several years, and his heart was clearly no longer in the sport. He had all the money he’d ever need.

The luxury nearly destroyed him. His weight ballooned to 400 pounds and he went into a diabetic coma, from which he barely recovered. In recent years, he’s made public appearances and taught boxing around the Columbus area, generally keeping a low profile, usually only appearing when people want to discuss Tyson.

While that certainly is a decent enough ending for the fighter, it is a little disappointing for anyone who saw what he was capable of that night in Tokyo. Buster Douglas was a very talented boxer who simply did not have enough desire to become as great as his talent might have let him become. Had he applied the dedication to the rest of his career that he did to the Tyson fight, who knows how great he might have been?

Mike Tyson’s life and career, both rocky before the fight, began to spiral out of control after the fight. He won four more fights, and was ready to fight Evander Holyfield for the title in November of 1991, before a rib injury forced a postponement. Shortly after this, he was convicted of rape and sentenced to six years in prison and four years of probation.

He was released after three years and began a comeback, winning two of his belts back quickly with victories over Bruce Seldon and Frank Bruno. It seemed, at the time, that Tyson was back to stay. He looked every bit his old dominating self, and he finally faced off against Evander Holyfield, the man he’d been waiting to fight when he went to prison. The fight took place on November 9, 1996, five years and one day after their original fight date. For the second time in his career, Tyson suffered a humiliating upset, as a supposedly over-the-hill Evander Holyfield stopped Tyson in the eleventh round.

The two scheduled a rematch, in which Tyson bit a chunk of Holyfield’s ear off, but that’s a story for another post.

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Pre-Nomination Oscar Predictions Sunday, Jan 16 2011

The Golden Globe Awards, which will be announced tonight in a ceremony I won’t watch, are considered a prime forecast for who is going to win the Oscars. Every year, people assume this to be true, and the results are inevitably mixed. I had a discussion about this last night with several members of my family, during which I stated who I thought would win the Big Six Oscars this year. My predictions were met with, “But that’s not a good film/performance” or “this movie/performance was better” and so on. I responded by saying I wouldn’t know, since I hadn’t seen any of the performances or the film I picked to be the winners. When asked how I could choose the winner of the Oscar without even seeing the movies I was talking about, I said that I was not saying who I thought should win, but who would win. My list is not based on my own personal preferences, but on the tendencies of the Academy. I do this every year, and I always manage to predict at least five of the Big Six winners correctly.

The point I raise is that the winner of the Oscar each year has only so much to do with the quality of the performance or the picture in question. This is not to say quality is not important at the Oscars, but it only counts for so much. Who wins an Oscar has to do with a number of factors, the first of which is how likely they are to be nominated. People always celebrate the unexpected nominee who sneaks in (Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade, Keisha Castle Hughes in Whale Rider), but these actors never win. The nomination is an announcement that they gave a great performance, and it can be a signal that they should be considered for a win in the future. Last year, Colin Firth got an unexpected nomination for A Single Man, and that is part of the reason he will win the Oscar this year. But if the nomination is not a forgone conclusion, the Oscar will never come, no matter how good the performance is (see: Terrence Howard in Hustle and Flow).

Secondly, there has to be a certain amount of political pull to the candidate. Perhaps they were nominated recently and lost when they probably should have won. This would help us understand Russell Crowe’s almost inexplicable Best Actor win for Gladiator (even Crowe looked confused when his name was announced). It was the Academy’s way of saying, “Hey sorry we didn’t give it to you last year for The Insider. Here ya go.”

The Academy will also give Oscars as a sort of Lifetime Achievement Award to someone they should have given an Oscar to a long time ago (see: Martin Scorcese’s win for The Departed). This will be a contributing factor in Helena Bonham Carter’s win for Best Supporting Actress. This also often works in reverse. An actor who already has an Oscar is less likely to win another one, especially if it was a recent win. This is why Jeff Bridges will not win for True Grit.

But let me get to the nominations, and I’ll explain why my choice is likely to win, and why the other likely choices are unlikely to win. Understand that I am not saying the ones I’m choosing are more (or even less) deserving. I’m just stating why the Academy will choose them. Cold logic, that’s all.

BEST PICTURE: The Social Network

This is one of the most hotly debated categories, and it will be even more hotly debated if The King’s Speech wins the Golden Globe tonight, which is very likely. After all, the Golden Globes are chosen by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, and The King’s Speech is a British film. Yes, it often comes down to that. And it will work that way in reverse at the Oscars. The King’s Speech might be a shoo-in some years, but not this year.

The Social Network has everything going for it right now. It had a good run at the box office, it’s getting all the critic’s awards, and it’s an American film. Remember, producers will often choose a winner that helps their own bottom line. This is why Titanic beat out L.A. Confidential despite nearly every major critic group in the country picking L.A. Confidential. As a sidenote, it should also be noted that the win for Titanic almost assured that Avatar did not beat out The Hurt Locker last year. They already gave James Cameron his Oscar for Best Picture over a much better film. They weren’t going to do it again. And yes, I know Cameron was the director, but they will rarely give the Best Director Oscar to anyone whose film isn’t winning Best Picture. Tendencies.

The King’s Speech has also been a hit, but not as big a one as The Social Network. So even if we consider them even after those two tests, there are two other factors that will deep six any chance it has to win. The first is that it is British. The second, and perhaps most important one, is that The King’s Speech is going to win other major Oscars.

When George Clooney won his Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Syriana, the first thing he said in his speech was, “Well, I guess I’m not going to win for best director.” And he was dead on the money. The choices this year are not so clear that a film guaranteed to get a couple acting Oscars will also win Best Picture. Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter are likely to win, and the Academy knows this. As a result, there is no way they will give Best Picture to a British flick when there is a homegrown one that is getting better reviews from many. This category is not nearly as close as people make out.

BEST DIRECTOR: David Fincher (The Social Network)

This one’s not close either. Fincher will win Best Director for a couple of reasons. The first is his track record. He’s done a lot of good films, and he was nominated two years ago for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but lost out to Danny Boyle for Slumdog Millionaire, which is an interesting contradiction to everything I just wrote about the Best Picture winner. By the logic of my Best Picture analysis, Benjamin Button should have won because it had a big budget and Slumdog Millionaire was a British film. But the mitigating factor was the critical response. Slumdog Millionaire was such a shockingly original film, so loaded with things we’d never seen in a big budget movie before, so wonderfully energetic, and so beloved by the critics, that it was able to pull the upset. The King’s Speech does not have these advantages. It is a period piece, and no matter how good it is, The Social Network, at least in the eyes of the critics is every bit as good, more timely, and more surprisingly original, which means The King’s Speech can’t pull the same upset.

That’s the second reason Fincher will win Best Director. His picture is going to win Best Picture. This is not always the case, but it usually is. Best Picture and Best Director are the chocolate and peanut butter of the Oscars. It is rare they don’t match up, and this is no year for the exception. Tom Hooper and Darren Aronofsky are very respected directors who, by all accounts, did great work on their movies. But their movies do not have such a huge groundswell that one of these directors is considered more accomplished in what they did than Fincher is.

This brings up an interesting side note. If you consider that Fincher was likely second choice for Best Director two years ago, and that this in turn set him up for a future Oscar (this one, to be specific), then it should be assumed that Hooper and Aronofsky are going to be at the top of the list for the next few years. That’s the third reason Fincher will win. Aronofsky is 41. Hooper is 38. They are young and will get their turns. At least, the Academy will assume this. This kind of thinking hamstrung Scorcese for a long time. Hopefully that doesn’t happen to Hooper and Aronofsky. Both are wonderful directors. But this is Fincher’s year. It’s his turn.

BEST ACTOR: Colin Firth (The King’s Speech)

The Golden Globes failed to nominate the obvious second choice for this award: Jeff Bridges for True Grit. I don’t think that’s going to hurt Bridges, however, because I don’t think he ever had a chance to begin with. Firth has been around a long time, and he got an unexpected nomination last year for A Single Man, which means the Academy felt he gave such a great performance they were willing to nominate him even though he wasn’t an obvious choice. That means he is respected. Also, his movie is a critically acclaimed picture that won’t win the Oscar. The Academy’s tendency to balance things along the best candidates for Best Picture can only help him.

But the most damning thing for Bridges is that he won the Oscar for Best Actor last year. His performance in True Grit (I actually saw this one) is brilliant, but the Acadamy almost never gives Oscars to the same actor two years in a row (Tom Hanks is the rare exception). The only way Bridges would win would be if there was no other obvious choice. He might have a chance if not for Firth. Critics have gone crazy over Ryan Gosling in Blue Valentine, but he wouldn’t beat Bridges in a head-to-head. The movie was just too small. James Franco has also received great reviews for 127 Hours, but he’s hosting the show, which alone is enough to disqualify him. Plus both those guys are young. They’ll get their turns. So thinks the Academy.

Firth is a talented veteran, highly respected, who gave a performance that critics are crazy about in a film that will be the Best Picture runner-up. If Bridges hadn’t won last year, he’d be a shoo-in this year. But he did. So he isn’t.

BEST ACTRESS: Natalie Portman (Black Swan)

None of the other nominees were in films as widely screened, so Portman’s got the advantage of visibility. Plus, critics loved the movie. Plus, the backstory on the performance is the kind of thing Hollywood goes crazy over. Ten months of ballet training to play the role of a disintegrating ballerina. Also, everyone has watched this young woman grow up on screen. And did we mention she trained for ten months in order to play the role?

This is one of those “Role of a Lifetime” moments. The physical demands on Portman were so incredible that it would almost seem cruel of the Academy to deny her an award for them. Hollywood is always impressed by actors who are willing to push themselves physically for a role (see: DeNiro in Raging Bull).

There are a couple performances out there generating good buzz. Nicole Kidman for Rabbit Hole and Michelle Williams for Blue Valentine. But both films are too small to get enough recognition to overcome Portman. Also, Kidman already has an Oscar.

The same, however, cannot be said for Julianne Moore or Annette Bening (both in The Kids Are All Right), and this could present the biggest challenge to what would normally be a lock-down for Portman. Moore and Bening are two highly respected actors who have been around a long time without ever winning an Oscar, despite winning just about every other major critical award between them. If either of these performances were considered supporting roles, that would help them out. However, two good actresses in the same film nominated for the same award never bodes well. There is a tendency to split the vote (see: Thelma and Louise).

In the end, a difficult, critically acclaimed, physically excruciating performance trumps experience. This is Portman’s year.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Helena Bonham Carter (The King’s Speech)

A similar argument to the one for Colin Firth on this one, and also to Annette Bening and Julianne Moore, for that matter. Melissa Leo and Amy Adams are both getting rave reviews for their performances in The Fighter, and that’s the problem. They are in the same movie, which leads to a split vote (should they both be nominated, which is likely), and that helps Carter. Of the two challengers, Adams, who has been proven herself a formidable talent, will likely be the tougher one to fight off. She is not far from getting an Oscar, and probably more than one.

The reason I choose Carter is that, like Firth, she is a highly respected veteran in a movie that is getting massive critical acclaim. That said, the more I think about it, the more it seems like this could be the one category I miss on. Amy Adams should have won an Oscar for Junebug, and could have won for Doubt. And if Melissa Leo weren’t going to be nominated too, she’d have a real shot. Carter’s performance, from the buzz, is supporting in every sense of the term, and not nearly the most demanding role of her career. But here is a chance to give a very good actress a well-deserved Oscar in a year that there is no clear frontrunner. In the Supporting Actor/Actress categories, that is frequently enough to win.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR: Christian Bale (The Fighter)

Bale is a leading man in a supporting role, which helps (see: George Clooney in Syriana). And he is getting amazing reviews for his portrayal of a drug addict. Oh, and did I mention he lost a bunch of weight for the role? There isn’t really anyone else out there who is getting the kind of response Bale is. Jeremy Renner got good reviews for his performance in The Town, but it’s unlikely a performance in a heist film could unseat the one surefire Oscar for a highly acclaimed film that is unlikely to get another one. This also works against Melissa Leo and Amy Adams. The assumption will be that The Fighter is already getting its Oscar through Bale, and doesn’t need a second one.

The one sleeper I would put on this list–and it’s a serious longshot–is Bill Murray for his performance in Get Low. Murray really, really deserves an Oscar, and the Academy knows this. But the film did not get the hype a lot of people thought it would, and Murray being nominated alone would be a coup. Short of a huge groundswell of support here, I can’t see anyone toppling Bale.

So that’s the list for the Big Six Oscars, without any thought at all given to how good the performances or movies are. I’m sure all will be deserving of their awards when the moment comes. But that said, quality is not the only reason someone takes home an Oscar. When Alan Arkin won for Little Miss Sunshine, he said it was because the voters were afraid he was going to die soon, and this was his last chance to get one. There are too many forces outside the performance that allow Oscar to be a pretty predictable fellow. As Paul Newman said, “To be nominated is an honor. After that, it’s all politics.”

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Anatomy of a Knockout—Tyson/Douglas-Part III Thursday, Dec 9 2010

Part III—The Perfect Storm

The genius of fighters like Rocky Marciano, Carlos Monzon and Marvin Hagler is not only in the ways they found to continually defeat their opponents, but in the ways they continually managed to avoid beating themselves. Even the greatest fighters occasionally leave themselves open to upsets. Some fighters underestimate their opponents. Joe Louis underestimated Billy Conn and would have lost the title if Conn had stepped back and let the fight go to the cards. Some fighters have problems with self-control. Roberto Duran frequently went on eating binges after his fights, and regaining his fighting form in time for the next bout became increasingly difficult as he got older. Some fighters don’t train hard enough, thinking they can walk through the fight. Sonny Liston did that in preparation for his bout with Cassius Clay. Clay knocked him out, changed his name to Muhammad Ali, and nearly fell into the same trap eleven years later in Manila, when a supposedly washed up Joe Frazier gave him the most brutal fight of his life.

In these cases, the fighters expect their talent to save them should they get in trouble. This is a form of hubris, and it is very difficult to defeat. If your fights consistently leave you going through the motions, it won’t be long before you stop thinking you can be beat. For these fighters, the saying goes, their greatest opponent is themselves.

Mike Tyson’s camp in Tokyo was in chaos. Tyson wasn’t training, wasn’t working hard enough. He was reeling from his brief marriage and highly publicized divorce from actress Robin Givens, who claimed he’d beaten her frequently. He’d severed ties with the last remnants of the camp of Cus D’Amato (the man who’d been like a father to Tyson in his formative years) when he fired longtime trainer Kevin Rooney. Now, he was surrounded by hangers on and yes-men, and paraded around as the prize pony in the stable of promoter Don King. It was Givens who had convinced Tyson to bring in Don King, and it was King who had convinced Tyson that he, and no one else, had the best interests of Tyson’s career at heart.

Tyson’s behavior was a whirlwind of bad omens. Car wrecks. Stories of him going on rampages. New people all around who seemed eager to fleece him for his money. Press coverage everywhere he went. He wasn’t prepared, and his lack of self-control was regular public fodder for a press corps that found their access to the champ severely limited.

Aaron Snowell, Tyson’s new trainer, was alarmed at how difficult Tyson was to deal with. He often refused to run in the mornings, and frequently ignored his trainer’s instructions. Oliver McCall, who had lost to Buster Douglas, tried to alert Tyson to the danger he was facing.

According to McCall: “I looked at Mike, I said, ‘Listen, don’t undersestimate Buster Douglas. I lost to Buster. You talking like…he ain’t nothing.’”

Tyson didn’t take Buster Douglas seriously, but he didn’t seem to take anyone or anything seriously anymore. With all the distractions and no one to hold his frequent mood shifts in check and keep him focused, Tyson was on his way to the worst night of his career.

And still, none of this would have mattered if not for the circumstances on the other side. Many assumed that Tyson, on his worst night, would beat Buster Douglas (or almost anyone else) on his best night. Add to that the fact that Buster Douglas never seemed to have a “best night” due to his frequent lack of training and preparation and, even with all the problems, Tyson still looked unbeatable.

Then, just over three weeks before the fight, Douglas’s mother, Lula Pearl, died of a stroke.

In interviews, Douglas referred to his mother as his best friend, and there were stories of how she would drag him off the basketball court and down to the boxing gym so that his father could continue training him. Douglas now had the title shot his father never got, and the opportunity his mother always wanted him to have. His trainer suggested canceling the fight, but Douglas refused. He dedicated his upcoming performance to his mother and locked in to his training. By the time the fight came around, Douglas was in excellent shape and more focused than at any other point in his career. He was determined to fight the fight of his life. Most importantly, when he entered the ring, he had no fear of the man in the other corner.

For Mike Tyson, fear was a powerful weapon. He’d grown accustomed to winning easily and quickly, due in no small part to the fear he inspired. Good fighters, even great fighters like Michael Spinks, came out flat footed against him. They weren’t fighting to win. They were fighting defensively, trying not to get killed. Douglas, on the other hand, came out those first few rounds in the Tokyo Dome, and came right at Mike Tyson. He went toe to toe with the champ. Even when Tyson finally started to get aggressive in the third round, Douglas refused to back down. And even with his reputation for fading in the later rounds, it became clear as the fight went on that Douglas was not only in to make a decent showing, but that he was about to give Tyson the fight of his life.

By the fifth round, Mike Tyson was backing down in the face of Buster’s powerful, loaded up shots, and his corner was shockingly unprepared to deal with the damage he was taking. Aaron Snowell hadn’t even bothered to pack and endswell (a piece of metal used to control swelling), and had to resort to filling a rubber glove with ice water and holding it against Tyson’s swelling eye.  The commentary went from surprise that Douglas wasn’t down, to admiration that he had come to fight, to a growing awareness that Tyson was primed to get knocked out. After seven rounds, Buster Douglas was winning nearly every round and showed few signs of slowing.

But before he could knock out Tyson, he’d have to overcome his long history of fading at the end, not to mention a monster punch that Tyson was keeping in the tank.

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