As weekend fans of WLRN-FM (91.3)'s venerable Sounds of the Caribbean show know, all is not copacetic in the world of Miami reggae radio. In fact there is no reggae radio as fascinating as the show put on by DJ Ital-K since his program was terminated in October. Kevin "Ital-K" Smith might not be spinning reggae nuggets on air, but he is waging war with the public radio station, which is run under the auspices of Miami-Dade Public Schools. Smith's fight, made even more rancorous after he filed a complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission charging WLRN with racial discrimination, is entertainment enough. Who would have thought that such a sweet program could lead to such bitterness? To hear the best in reggae warfare, tune in to the monthly broadcasts of the Miami-Dade School Board meeting on LRN. Smith, technically a suspended employee of the school district, has come before the board at least four times asking for an explanation as to why he was yanked from the radio. He has yet to get an answer, and his repeated requests for meetings have been dismissed, promising more great debate shows as he continues his struggle. It's hoped his old show will be returned and everyone can get back to the island grooves. Meanwhile, though, the hottest sounds in reggae come from the bickering and battling between a DJ and an institution.

First the transformation of the nightclub: Gone the primal throb of original owner Prince; gone the Cristal-slick poses of Gerry Kelly's fashionista friends. Instead the enormous main room is thronged by a more idiosyncratic and inventive form of hip. Every dancer in town of every age, ethnicity, and race, it seems, has gathered in this electronic tango dreamscape. Dismembered limbs kick, dip, and turn on an enormous video screen. The atmosphere shivers like Line Kruse's violin, sobs with Nini Flores's bandoneon, gasps at Eduardo Makaroff's guitar, and drowns in vocalist Cristina Villalonga-Serra's mournful melodies. DJ/producers Philippe Cohen-Solal and Christophe Müller mine the deep, luxurious sorrow of tango, sampling, dubbing, milking grief until it gives the most exquisite pleasure. When the band runs out of material to play for encores, pianist Gustavo Beytelmann embarks on a heart-stinging version of an Eminem hit. Tango changes everything.

First the transformation of the nightclub: Gone the primal throb of original owner Prince; gone the Cristal-slick poses of Gerry Kelly's fashionista friends. Instead the enormous main room is thronged by a more idiosyncratic and inventive form of hip. Every dancer in town of every age, ethnicity, and race, it seems, has gathered in this electronic tango dreamscape. Dismembered limbs kick, dip, and turn on an enormous video screen. The atmosphere shivers like Line Kruse's violin, sobs with Nini Flores's bandoneon, gasps at Eduardo Makaroff's guitar, and drowns in vocalist Cristina Villalonga-Serra's mournful melodies. DJ/producers Philippe Cohen-Solal and Christophe Müller mine the deep, luxurious sorrow of tango, sampling, dubbing, milking grief until it gives the most exquisite pleasure. When the band runs out of material to play for encores, pianist Gustavo Beytelmann embarks on a heart-stinging version of an Eminem hit. Tango changes everything.

If the Miami Dolphins can conjure up a quarterback and an offensive line, Ricky Williams will set rushing records for years. Combining speed and agility with Riggins-esque old-school muscle, Williams was the only moving part in the Dolphins' offensive engine last season. Williams's personality also makes him more interesting than your average hunnerdtenpercent-givin' jock: The 230-pound Heisman winner has dealt with social anxiety disorder all his life, and at one point only consented to interviews while wearing his helmet and Vaderlike visor. The eerily soft-voiced bruiser was also, for a time, unable to leave his house for fear of having to interact with people who recognized him. But a well-documented recovery (thanks to therapy and medication) and a trade from New Orleans to Miami in 2002 have resulted in a more confident Williams, on and off the field. Now all the Dolphins need to do is fire their coach, shore up the defense, and bring in the aforementioned QB and offensive line.

The Florida Panthers are a mediocre team with an outstanding goalie. Despite tepid group play all around him, Luongo has been stellar this season, racking up six shutouts by late February, when he led the National Hockey League in saves and was second in the league with a stingy .934 save percentage. Luongo has gotten better over three seasons with the Panthers, turning himself into one of the league's top goalkeepers. Unfortunately (and like Miami's biggest sports star, Ricky Williams) Luongo isn't getting a lot of help from a young, inexperienced Panthers defense. Part of Luongo's one-step strategy for filling up the net: Be big. At six feet three inches and 205 pounds, there's simply not much space to squeeze a puck around him.

How did they get all those people on I/O's little stage? That was the recurring question during Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra's sweaty set there this past December. With a full horn section, percussionists, and an organist rounding out the fourteen-piece band, it was a wonder the singer didn't find himself crashing into either of the guitarists. Antibalas didn't leave too much time for thinking, though. Firm believers in the maxim that if you free your ass, your mind is sure to follow, the band never let up for a minute. Channeling the spirit of fabled Nigerian Afro-beat pioneer Fela Kuti (via their own hometown of Brooklyn), they whipped through a set of thick funk that had the diverse crowd of hipsters, indie rockers, and barefoot Deadheads all frugging madly. Just imagine the cream of James Brown's get-on-the-good-foot riffs, not only taken to the bridge, but spun out for an entire evening. Yeah, it was that good.

How did they get all those people on I/O's little stage? That was the recurring question during Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra's sweaty set there this past December. With a full horn section, percussionists, and an organist rounding out the fourteen-piece band, it was a wonder the singer didn't find himself crashing into either of the guitarists. Antibalas didn't leave too much time for thinking, though. Firm believers in the maxim that if you free your ass, your mind is sure to follow, the band never let up for a minute. Channeling the spirit of fabled Nigerian Afro-beat pioneer Fela Kuti (via their own hometown of Brooklyn), they whipped through a set of thick funk that had the diverse crowd of hipsters, indie rockers, and barefoot Deadheads all frugging madly. Just imagine the cream of James Brown's get-on-the-good-foot riffs, not only taken to the bridge, but spun out for an entire evening. Yeah, it was that good.

What's the difference between Aquabooty and its competition? This well-established company, a partnership between Joe "Budious" Gray and Tomas Ceddia, emphasizes intimate dance parties in small to midsize venues over monstrous gangbang sessions at superclubs such as Space and crobar. Instead of impersonal, mechanical tribal trance, it programs lush, soulful house music spun by the likes of long-time residents DHM and special guests such as L.A.'s DJ Harvey and Neil Aline. It also creates high-quality events, not glorified meat markets; an Aquabooty party is more than just a booty call. In fact Aquabooty is part of the movement that has made DJ appearances into concerts, a major revolution in music that once required bands, or at least solo musicians, for an event to qualify as a "concert."

What's the difference between Aquabooty and its competition? This well-established company, a partnership between Joe "Budious" Gray and Tomas Ceddia, emphasizes intimate dance parties in small to midsize venues over monstrous gangbang sessions at superclubs such as Space and crobar. Instead of impersonal, mechanical tribal trance, it programs lush, soulful house music spun by the likes of long-time residents DHM and special guests such as L.A.'s DJ Harvey and Neil Aline. It also creates high-quality events, not glorified meat markets; an Aquabooty party is more than just a booty call. In fact Aquabooty is part of the movement that has made DJ appearances into concerts, a major revolution in music that once required bands, or at least solo musicians, for an event to qualify as a "concert."

The tight end finished second in receiving for UM this past season, but first in catching hell for his explosive verbal slants. One somehow morphed into a long bomb. The game in question: a humiliating 10-6 loss to Tennessee. Winslow, son of NFL Hall of Famer turned TV commentator Kellen Winslow, Sr., was peeved by the cheap shots Volunteers took at his knees. Then, while tackling Winslow after a 22-yard reception, Vols tore the helmet off his head. Other witnesses said Winslow spiked the ball too hard, and refs flagged him for unsportsmanlike conduct. After the game, in which the junior caught 7 passes for 88 yards, quoth he: "It's war. They're out there to kill you, so I'm out there to kill them.... They're going after my legs. I'm going to come right back at them. I'm a fucking soldier." Now that's the fighting spirit UM pays its professional student-athletes to whip up. But Commander Coker (Larry's a coach, not an English professor) issued orders for an apology, in case Winslow's military metaphor had offended any U.S. soldiers fighting real wars. "A-N-A-L-O-G-Y! What's that spell? ANALOGY! What's that spell? ANALOGY!" Winslow blamed the refs for squelching freedom of expression. "I can't even get hyped up after a play," he told reporters. "I can't even get my crowd hyped up." But you can bet he'll get many millions of dollars when he moves to the NFL, which he's been ready to do since he was a freshman. And which he will in fact do this year.

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®