By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
Tim Dog is a real mother for ya, as Johnny G. Watson might put it, make ya wanna run for cover, or at least poke a b-hole in the break-bad front of alleged gangsta rappers and chart toppers N.W.A. Yo, I know you're already down with the dispute: West Coasters suck, Tim Dog says, most loudly in his devastating "Fuck Compton," but also with an edge in his def "Step to Me." Old news. 'Zup is that the Dog sent the Niggas runnin' with their tail up their butt, at least if you believe the hype. Word up on the dis tip from Dog's house is that the Compton boyz mailed him letters saying he damnright better shut down distribution of his double-dope Penicillin on Wax LP. Apparently, N.W.A. was downed because Dog sampled them on his rec. A rap group threatening another rap group for sampling!?! Yeah, boy. A settlement was reached on that matter, but as Dog notes, the L.A. rappers sing about fuck-the-po-lice et cetera, but when the chips fall on them, it's run-run-run to the courts, to the system, to the very same establishment they supposedly want to bring to the floor. Don't seem quite right, does it? "I knew when I did the record I was going to hurt their career," the Dog barks through his publicist. "Because they're phonies and they lied to everybody, and I revealed them for the pussies they are. That's what happens when you perpetrate a fraud." Word to their mothers.
So was I right to bitch about the $15 cover at South Beat for the Nestor Torres concerts? Some say no, because if you were to attend a Nestorization at, say, the Knight Center, your ticket would cost more and you would end up much farther from the stage. Of course clubs such as South Beat make their real dough from selling booze. On the other hand, club owners will tell you that drink revenue pays for overhead like insurance, light bills, advertising, staff. So I don't know. Pay what you want. I'm not your mother.
Those krazy kats over at the Alliance have another hot one on. Hippy Porn, an underground plot involving three protag-teens on odyssey, airs at midnight this Friday and Saturday. I mention it here because of the film's mentionable soundtrack: Thurston Moore, Unsane, Superchunk, Cop Shoot Cop, and others.
Don't leave town, clown. The immortal law scholar Charlie Pickett - backed by no less than the Goods - is slated for Churchill's Hideaway near the end of April. You should go - this one should go down in history.
Rich Ulloa knows how to party, and how to find any excuse to do so. That why he me pal. This Saturday the cause to celebre, so to speak, is the one-year anniversary of his latest Yesterday & Today location, at Red Bird, near your mother's house. More than eleven top local bands play live behind a huge sale on vinyl, or so they say, and other festiveness. Call 665-3305.
There must be something terribly skewed in the universe, sun spots or something, for so much grooviness to descend upon us at once. Tiger-Tiger, a truly legendary South Florida rock outfit dating back to the Sixties, is back, appearing live for the first time since 1988. Having seen them live and watched them work in the studio and heard their recordings, I can assure you that Lee and Steve Tiger always give their best, and as anyone knows, your best is good enough. The pleasure is doubled by the band's choice of venue: Old Cutler Oyster Co., where I highly recommend you try the bloody mary and the raw bar. Shows are this Friday and Saturday beginning at 10:00 p.m. and April 24-25.
Felix Martinez needs a band: bass, drums, and keyboards for a jazz-pop-rock sound. Call him at 273-0728.
The April issue of Spin magazine features a big feach about "the seven greatest bands of all time." Part of the spread includes top-seven picks by various and sundry know-it-alls including local DJ and musicologist Evan Chern. Now that's cool (and it's about time Spin did something cool). The Cherner's choices are Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Steve Miller, Fleetwood Mac (Peter Green era), Ten Years After, the Beatles, and Free.
The Mavericks - anybody remember them? - will issue their MCA debut on May 12, with a release party on the 15th (the anniversary of their first Nashville showcase) at the Lasso Lounge, a new venue in Miami Beach. The band will also be taping a set May 10 at the Swap Shop for future airing on the Nashville Network. Read the Miami Herald for updates.
The New Times's (et al.) plea for more live jazz in this small(minded) town continues pretty much unheeded, although Carino's has joined South Beat on the list of venues trying. With Sha-Shaty on Saturdays and live Brazilian music on Fridays, the restaurant is on the track, and owner Rick (one guess on his last name) wants to stage mo' live jazz at Carino's. You do know how to facilitate that, don't you? (If not, ask your mother.)
The world's greatest rock band, the Chant, may release a third album and might even appear live in Miami this year. Check your Sun-Sentinel for updates.
Butthorn of the week: Your employee Jim Smith, whose title is Secretary of State. This fine human being (my editors made me put it that way) is still itchy-scratchy because he couldn't gaff the funds of the Miami Film Festival. In a letter to fellow censor Johnny B. Thompson, Smith described turning over to the Festival the rest of their money as "the most embarrassed I have ever been." Oooh, turn red, Jimmy, turn red. And while we're on the topic, let's toss a big ol' butthorn to Robyn Blumner of the American Civil Liberties Union for chickening out on a public debate, apparently because Mr. Thompson was also on the panel. Robyn, baby, cowardice does not become you.
The media circus: The Dade County Youth Fair must have a pretty big one for so many media to be able to jump on it at the same time. The Fair ceased to matter sometime shortly after it moved from K-Land and turned from a science fair intended to demonstrate the expanding minds of young people into a circus/carnival/money machine. But teevy and others continue to coddle the damn thing as if it were their very own brainless baby. (Please, don't get me started on the media circus gone circle jerk surrounding the circumstances of that unfortunate birth: The baby died, but the story goes on. Coma baby lives! God, it's real.)
The worst Youth Fair plug I endured came courtesy of Channel 4 News after some dudes got shot out there at Tamiami. Poor anchorman Steve Abrams was forced to play patsy to the Metro-Dade cops who wanted to assure each and everyone of you that the Youth Fair is the safest place in the world, whether people get gunned down there or not. So the "news" had Abrams link up live with a Sgt. Roper, who took over to show a hokey videotape of Y.F. security forces pretending to have something to do. The sergeant, who seemed likable enough, mentioned the numerous officers on duty at the Fair, the pro dispatcher, the fire-rescue resources. He also said that the cops single out people who look like "gang members" and make sure they behave themselves. (I look, I'm told, like a very old gang member; several young teens, in fact, sharin' a bus ride, once ganged up on me and demanded to know if others had told me how much I looked like Ice-T. Yes, kids, they have. So single me out! Single my mother out!) Anyway, the point of all this is that the Sgt. Roper segment went off about as smoothly as Saddam's Kuwait campaign. It was chaos - Steve couldn't communicate with Sgt. Roper, Sgt. Roper seemed doped, there were delays and misspeaks and devastating dead air everywhere. After this endless fiasco, Abrams concluded, "Good report." Then he noted there were time problems and so some big segment everyone was waiting to see had to be killed. Sorry, viewers, but what the hell. You were just leaving for the Youth Fair anyway.
Final note: Thanks for the emergency help, Charlie B. Hey dad, Rog, Doug. I love family. Hi mom!