Archives

Categories
Sports Sports Feature

City Sports

Four-play

A quartet of discrete observations after two games of Hubie Ball.

By Chris Herrington

1. Frontcourt Defense: Still Horrible

Aside from immeasurables such as chemistry and effort, interior defense is the single biggest reason for the Memphis Grizzlies’ awful start. Against the Chicago Bulls last weekend, the entire Grizzlies frontcourt rotation (Pau Gasol, Drew Gooden, Stromile Swift, Shane Battier, Lorenzen Wright, and Cezary Trybanski) combined for a mere 23 rebounds. Chicago journeyman forward Donyell Marshall pulled down 17 himself — off the bench.

Through two games new coach Hubie Brown has returned to the Swift-Gasol-Gooden frontcourt that former coach Sidney Lowe tried for a few games before abandoning it. This lineup gets the team’s most talented players on the floor but also gives the Grizzlies a frontline in which all three starters are mediocre (Swift) to bad (Gasol and Gooden) one-on-one defenders.

Playing Swift at center allows Gasol to slide to his natural position at power forward, but right now he’s a bad defender wherever you put him. However, Gasol is (by far) the team’s most talented player on the offensive end of the court, and it will be crucial to the team’s success to maximize those skills while minimizing the damage at the defensive end. Part of this has to come from Gasol’s own dedication and improvement as a straight-up defender, but part of it can also come from team defense — quicker defensive rotations, matching Gasol against non-scorers when possible, and using more zone (which the Dallas Mavericks have done with great success to cover for offensive star/defensive liability Dirk Nowitski).

But the problem with those strategies is that it’s hard to hide Gasol on the defensive end when rookie Gooden is playing beside him at the three. Gooden has shown no ability whatsoever to guard offensive-minded small forwards, and the team has been routinely torched by opposing threes with Gooden in the lineup, most recently in the loss to the Bulls when, down by only eight, Gooden returned to the game in the fourth quarter and Jalen Rose immediately put six points on him to put the game away.

2. J-Will: Buying In

Like pretty much everyone else on this young and underachieving team, point guard Jason Williams has plenty of problems with his game. But is anyone else on this team (or in the league?) more unfairly maligned? When Hubie Brown was hired, NBA writers around the country and more than a few onlookers locally were almost gleeful in their anticipation of the hard-nosed, old-school coach giving the punk a needed comeuppance.

Well, it’s still early, but Williams seems to have adapted to Hubie Ball rather well. He’s been surprisingly effective on the defensive end (his full-court ball pressure leading a more dedicated defensive attack) and more aggressive offensively, penetrating with more regularity than under Lowe. Williams’ three-point shooting is still sketchy (2-11 in two games under Brown; look for this to be a big priority for new shooting coach Hal Wissel), but the renewed commitment to getting to the basket has helped Williams to 10 of 15 shooting inside the arc. Against the Timberwolves in Brown’s debut, Williams was better than his box-score (though he did miss two shots late — both good decisions — that might have won the game). Against the Bulls the next night he was clearly the best Grizzly on the floor.

3. Battier: In Limbo

On opening night, coach Sidney Lowe had the gall to choose a starting lineup that didn’t include Shane Battier. He caught hell for it, and Battier was back in the starting lineup for the rest of the team’s Lowe-helmed games. Well, in two games under Brown, Battier has been back on the bench with nary a peep of protest. That’s as much a testament to Brown’s stature and backing from management as anything.

The team might actually be better with Battier as a starter: His ability to guard three positions (and guard them well) gives the lineup much-needed defensive flexibility, and moving Gooden to the bench would give the second team much-needed scoring punch. But, for most of this season, Battier has been an offensive liability — a tentative, ineffective shooter and prime candidate to get his shot blocked. If he can’t knock down the open jumper, it’s difficult to see him regaining his starting spot.

Battier’s minutes have quietly dwindled over the last few games to numbers more common for a seventh or eighth man — 21 (Denver), 19 (Golden State), 16 (Minnesota), 25 (Chicago) — and that could well be what he is becoming.

To his credit, Battier seems willing to embrace whatever role is necessary in order to help this team win. But, if the tangible disconnect between Battier’s on-court accomplishments and his off-court reputation (a product of draft status, his de facto role as community frontman, and his celebration by much of the local media) continues to widen, it could be a Grizzlies subplot to watch.

4. Scrub Scramble

Early on, Brown has adopted a few of the profusion of elements of Lowe’s constant lineup experimentation — Gooden at the three, Battier off the bench — but where he’s differed most dramatically is in his use of end-of-the-bench players. Two of Lowe’s most curious obsessions — Mike Batiste early and often and Earl Watson at two-guard — seem to have (thankfully) been abandoned. But most intriguing is the sudden elevation of Polish center Cezary Trybanski from the injury list (where he was expected to spend a “red-shirt” rookie season) to the rotation.

In two games and 26 minutes, Trybanski has looked like Frankenstein’s monster on the offensive end but has given the team a presence on the defensive end and on the boards: Trybanski actually led the team in rebounds per minute in both games. With frontcourt defense as the team’s single biggest weakness and Trybanski as the only true center on the roster, tossing him into the fire early is a reasonable gamble.

Passion Play

Some local round-ballers show their true colors.

By Ron Martin

Passion has returned to the University of Memphis and its name is Jeremy Hunt. Prior to his breakout game against Syracuse, Hunt said he would do things Tiger players weren’t known for doing: play hard, dive on the floor, “whatever it takes,” said Hunt, “to win games.” Just moments after the Tigers won in New York, Hunt said, “I’ve always wanted to be a Tiger. I’ve never wanted anything else.”

That’s passion. You don’t have to stretch your imagination very far to visualize Hunt before the game, standing in front of the mirror, gazing at “Memphis” emblazoned across his chest and smiling as though he hit the lottery. In his mind, at least, he had. Though John Calipari’s staff recruited Hunt, in reality the youngster’s birthright was the only recruiting tool they needed. His passion for the school is built on a lifelong love affair.

Passion — or the lack thereof — can be contagious. Hunt’s love for his school puts his work ethic on automatic and a level above someone who’s just showing up for practice. It’s hard to watch a teammate beat his brains out in practice and games and not get caught up in his enthusiasm. A lack of passion can have the opposite effect. Where passion creates success, a lack of passion creates excuses.

Dane Bradshaw, currently playing for White Station High School, will experience his first collegiate game jitters next season. He will put on the orange and white of the University of Tennessee, and just like Hunt he will stand in front of a mirror before heading onto the hardwood. Someone may need to be standing close by with a bucket in case Bradshaw barfs. For some strange reason, Bradshaw has signed to play for a school he apparently doesn’t have a passion for. According to a story in The Commercial Appeal, Bradshaw and his high school coach, Terry Tippet, visited UT for a football game and each claimed to have become ill at the sight of everyone wearing orange. Bradshaw is quoted as saying, “I’m not going to be a guy wearing all that orange.” If a player hasn’t the passion for the colors he will wear, can he have a passion for the school and its tradition?

Bradshaw may click as a Volunteer and Tennessee may be a better team because of his talents, which, according to recruiting experts, are top-notch. Call me old-fashioned, but I will take a less talented player who has passion for the colors on his back over someone who is wearing the colors of a team because of the recruiter who sold him on the school. Passion creates championships.

Flyers It seems Jeremy Hunt’s passion is being tested early. He will probably miss Friday’s game with Austin Peay due to a foot injury which appears to be a stress fracture. The number of games he’ll miss has not been determined.

The University of Memphis has yet to decide where it will play basketball in the future — in the new arena or in The Pyramid. Am I the only person who wonders how much influence some of the athletic department’s biggest donors, such as FedEx, will have on that decision? And am I the only one who wonders about a possible conflict of interest because some of those donors have a financial investment in the team and the FedExForum? The question of doing what is best for the university is more convoluted than some may think.

Ramblings What does the University of Alabama’s 6-1 conference record — best in the SEC East and tied for best in the conference — while on probation say about the SEC? … And yes, I could see a difference in the Grizzlies after the first two games of the Hubie era … Congrats to Joye-Lee McNelis. The Lady Tigers signed a “stud-ette” when they inked Ashley Shields of Melrose.

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

Medium Well

As pop-star romans à clef go, the Eminem vehicle 8 Mile sure beats anything Elvis ever did. It’s even better than Purple Rain (which, as a Prince-fanatic grade-schooler, I must have seen in the theater at least half a dozen times). In fact, the only film of its kind that’s more satisfying and interesting is probably the Jimmy Cliff reggae/gangster tale The Harder They Come, which most of the millions of Eminem fans who have pushed 8 Mile up the box-office charts have probably never even heard of.

Set in Marshall Mathers’ native Detroit, this tale of a talented white rapper (Jimmy Smith, aka Bunny Rabbit) from a trailer park on the outskirts of the city trying to make it in a black man’s world will be familiar to anyone well-acquainted with Mathers’ biography. The details have been changed a little but not much. The three women who supply so much of the content on Eminem’s records are all here: Doted-on daughter Halie Jade becomes doted-on little sister Lily. The irresponsible, alcoholic mother Eminem lashes out against on record becomes an object of mixed affection (and unlikely glamour) played by Kim Basinger. The anguished relationship with (ex-)wife Kim on record is broken up into far gentler relationships with estranged girlfriend Janeane (Taryn Manning, much of her work seemingly left on the cutting-room floor) and comely new dalliance Alex (Brittany Murphy, with her trademark mix of adorable and dangerous).

The script here (from Scott Silver, the brain-wizard behind 1999’s disastrous The Mod Squad) is strictly perfunctory. If you’ve seen Purple Rain (or The Karate Kid or the first couple of Rocky movies, for that matter), you can pretty much imagine the narrative arc: Shy kid from the wrong side of the tracks hones his craft but can’t cut it when the pressure’s on. He suffers humiliation and defeat at the hands of more confident and privileged rivals. He deals with personal issues –a messy broken home, romantic problems, arguments with friends and employers, his own relatively inchoate emotional problems –that all go sour at the same time for a nadir about two-thirds of the way into the film. Then he gets it all together, breaking out of his shell for a rousing and climactic victory during a concluding confrontation.

But if 8 Mile‘s script is nothing special, the direction from Curtis Hanson and lead performance from Eminem are special indeed. Hanson, an old pro who got his start working with Samuel Fuller on the brilliant if little-seen racism meditation White Dog and who has become an A-list director in recent years after helming L.A. Confidential and Wonder Boys, takes this bundle of familiar tropes and shapes it into a movie. And Eminem’s overwhelming starpower, no-brainer backstory, and searing screen presence (no major pop star –discounting pre-rock icons such as Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin — has ever given a big-screen performance this convincing) are all the material Hanson really needs.

But 8 Mile isn’t just about the life of Marshall Mathers. For starters, it’s different from most other pop-music romans à clef in that most of the music heard in the film isn’t actually that of the star. 8 Mile is set in 1995, and most of the film’s soundtrack is the music that Rabbit and his friends are listening to. As much about hip hop as about Eminem, 8 Mile captures a specific cultural moment — artists like Mobb Deep (their classic track “Shook Ones Pt. II” blaring from Rabbit’s headphones during the opening credits), Wu-Tang Clan, and Notorious B.I.G. reflecting a gritty era when East Coast hip hop experienced a rebirth and before East/West violence and gilded-age greed turned things sour. And the story itself is as much about any struggling MC — dreaming of making it big while rapping with Biggie while driving a beater and living at home with mom.

It’s also a film about Detroit, the most bracing cinematic essay on that decaying industrial city since Paul Schrader’s Blue Collar. All dour grays and rusted browns, Hanson’s Detroit is a bombed-out collection of abandoned buildings, blighted neighborhoods, run-down trailer parks, and ramshackle pressing plants. It’s not a pretty place, but Hanson makes it a memorable one and conveys how such rough-edged music would emerge from such an environment.

8 Mile is also, of course, a film about race: Its title refers to a road that separates city from suburb, black from white. One tip-off to the film’s ambition occurs when Rabbit’s mom is seen painting her toenails while watching Imitation of Life — Douglas Sirk’s ’50s “passing” melodrama –on television. But, like both Blue Collar and Purple Rain, 8 Mile is a film about race that denies the subject’s importance. If Purple Rain posits an imaginary multicultural utopia in the middle of lily-white Minnesota, 8 Mile joins Blue Collar in embracing class, not race, as a source of solidarity.

And finally, right, it’s a film about Eminem, perhaps the most momentous talent American pop music has produced in the last 20 years. It isn’t a concert film —8 Mile parcels out Eminem’s rhyme skills in small doses. He and pal Future (Mekhi Phifer) riff on “Sweet Home Alabama” when Rabbit’s mom’s boyfriend is blaring it from the trailer. There are two impromptu battle scenes — one in a parking lot, the other during lunch break at the pressing plant –in which Eminem flashes his skills. But it’s all setup for the finale.

8 Mile is bracketed by an MC “battle” competition at a hip-hop club called The Shelter, and these scenes — more exciting with conflict than anything in Rocky, The Karate Kid, or Gladiator — may convey the thrill of hip hop at its purest better than anything else captured on film. There is a raw intimacy to these battles — MCs going head-to-head in a gray, graffiti-scarred club. Rabbit –an easy target due to his race — freezes up during the opening battle. But Eminem lets loose for the conclusion. The final battle ingeniously conveys one of the key facets of Eminem’s greatness as an artist — rather than obscuring his whiteness, he embraces it, and he may be the most self-deprecating rapper ever. Forced to take the mic first in his climactic battle with champion MC Papa Doc, Rabbit steals Papa Doc’s material by anticipating everything he’ll say about Rabbit and saying it for him. You’re right, Rabbit raps, I am white. Your crew did beat me up. You did steal my girlfriend. I do live in a trailer park. My friends are Uncle Toms and retards. And I’m still standing here in your face.

What hip-hop naysayers and highbrow snobs don’t understand is that, like all of the truly great rappers (and Eminem is indeed the only white person to belong on a very short list), only even more so, Eminem loves language — unexpected ideas, odd juxtapositions, complicated cadences, rhyme for rhyme’s sake. This concluding battle sequence — one of the most thrilling things you’ll see on the big screen all year — gets all this across. It alone will make 8 Mile an enduring cult classic for hip-hop fans. And it’ll win over any skeptic who gives it a chance. — Chris Herrington

A short, helpful biography: Frida Kahlo (pronounced KAH-low), one of the most prominent female visual artists of the 20th century, was born in Mexico in 1907. In 1925, Kahlo suffered an excruciating injury in a trolley accident — a metal handrail pierced her from her back through her pelvis. She spent a year recovering, mostly in a full body cast, and in the meantime learned to draw and paint — usually self-portraits from a mirror her parents installed above her bed so that she could make the most of her limited perspective. When she had healed, Frida sought the professional critique of Diego Rivera, renowned Communist and muralist. He loved her work and soon introduced her to the lively Mexican art scene and the livelier politics of his revolutionaries. Married not long after, they endured nearly 25 years and two marriages to each other, including fierce battles, countless affairs, and 32 operations for Frida, who had never fully recovered from her defining accident. She died in 1954 at age 47, having enjoyed only one exhibit of her work in her native Mexico. Primarily a self-portraitist known for her one long eyebrow and enigmatic, smileless expression, her paintings combine traditional folk imagery with icons of herself, often in various states of suffering and loss.

A short review: Frida is a tasteful and exciting illumination of the life and work of the prominent but oft-overlooked Kahlo, not only as an artist but also as the revolutionary she became under mentor/husband Rivera. Unlike other artsy biopics, Frida pushes farther than just aesthetics and explores with judicious detail the particulars of the ideas behind the art — the politics, the Communism, the pain, the dirt.

I compare Frida to two of the better artist filmographies from the last 10 years: What’s Love Got To Do With It and Pollock, about Tina Turner and Jackson Pollock, respectively. Watching the former, I longed for a deeper exploration of Turner’s conversion to Buddhism, which seemed so integral to her transformation from battered wife to solo titan. Similarly, I was captivated by Pollock‘s dual focus on the art and mental illness of its subject but left the film not understanding why his work was so significant. Frida manages to best both films in these respects by developing the range of Frida’s influence: that which inspired her and that which makes her inspiring. The result is a revealing panorama that integrates all of Kahlo’s passions — art, politics, family, Rivera — without scrimping on (almost) any of them or fearing the stigma of Kahlo’s leftist leanings or accomplished bisexuality. However, by covering all of the bases, Frida never stays with one subject for very long — least of all, Kahlo herself. Unified but episodic, the film avoids the depths of Kahlo’s sufferings as little more than exposition and overdevelops her relationship with Rivera (it’s really a movie about their marriage), depriving its star (Salma Hayek) of the kind of powerhouse Oscar-momentry that Angela Basset and Ed Harris were able to milk decisively from their respective icons.

Hayek spent 10 years fighting to get Frida made, beating out divas Jennifer Lopez and Madonna to this particular prize. She’s quite good here: dark and feisty, though not quite as dour as the Kahlo I remember from art-history class. Hayek, however, is overshadowed by Alfred Molina’s Rivera. A Dionysian firebrand, he finds just the right balance between his robust and confrontational politics and artistry and the great passion and respect with which he regarded his wife. In particular, Rivera’s expression of pride and deference at Kahlo’s exhibit — which she attended, against doctor’s orders, carried in on her bed — is quietly profound.

Director Julie Taymor, known principally for her reinventions of The Lion King as a Broadway musical and Shakespeare’s gory Titus as an art film, succeeds here by restraining her usually florid metaphor and scope and staying close to Kahlo’s spirit and style. Particularly fascinating are her brief, stylish fantasias that combine the duality of Kahlo’s personal angst with her creations — shown as mind-bending collisions between her tormented, imaginative life and that which lived on the canvas. By the end, the two worlds are indistinguishable — and indelible. — Bo List

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

Jerusalem

Steve Earle

(Artemis/E-Squared)

Even in the beginning, back when he fooled people into believing he could compete with Clint Black and Dwight Yoakam on country radio, Steve Earle was a professional leftist rabble-rouser with lines like “I was born in the land of plenty/Now there ain’t enough” poking out of the highway honky-tonk on his 1986 debut Guitar Town.

Since returning in the mid-’90s from a heroin-addiction and imprisonment-imposed hiatus, Earle hasn’t tried to fool anyone. He’s basically Michael Moore with little sense of humor and a command of outlaw mythology. I want to abolish the death penalty and create economic justice too, but I wish I were less convinced that topic A on Earle’s records is confirming and celebrating his own righteousness.

Earle’s latest, Jerusalem, is pretty political, if overtly about 9/11 on only one track, and can’t help but be compared to other recent topical albums — most prominently, Bruce Springsteen’s The Rising and Sleater-Kinney’s One Beat — in what has become a 2002 pop subgenre. One potential flaw of The Rising (though, given the overwhelming decency of Springsteen’s mission, it’s a minor flaw at best) is its refusal to engage in politics, dissent, confusion, etc. Jerusalem has the opposite problem: There’s little acknowledgment here that the Bill of Rights wasn’t the only thing damaged on or by September 11th. When Earle writes in the liner notes that “We’ll survive this too,” it’s not that he’s talking about Ashcroft’s attack on civil liberties. It’s all he’s talking about. That’s but one of many reasons why I treasure One Beat so much more than these white-guy-authoritative takes. It feels less strategically fussed over and more spontaneous, fully lived, felt.

The attention-getter on Jerusalem is “John Walker’s Blues,” a literary stroke in which Earle imagines himself as the voice of the “American Taliban.” And if some of the liberties Earle takes are a little fishy (did Lindh really embrace Islam because he was alienated by the images of the “kids in the soda pop ads” on MTV?), it’s still a commendable and even-handed attempt to make a media symbol flesh and blood –a smart little song that blends guitar skronk with qawwali chants to arrive at its great sardonic punchline: “Allah had some other plan/Some secret not revealed/Now they’re draggin’ me back with my head in a sack/To the land of the infidel.”

But, despite the presence of “John Walker’s Blues” and the this-too-shall-pass bookends (the fatalistic “Ashes to Ashes” and the defiantly hopeful title track), Jerusalem is similar to The Rising and One Beat in yet another way: Its weighty subject matter never dominates the music. If The Rising is the most humane arena-rock this side of All That You Can’t Leave Behind and One Beat the most uplifting, unstoppable punk-rock since the heyday of the Clash, Jerusalem is smaller-sounding but no less rocking. It’s a quick, crafty roots-rock record, with session-pro drummer Will Rigby pushing a bunch of Nashville cats along and Earle as cagey a singer and songwriter (the Tex-Mex border song “What’s a Simple Man to Do?” is worthy of Los Lobos) as ever. Case in point is “Amerika V. 6.0 (The Best We Can Do)”: It’s a statement of principles, but it wouldn’t work without that jumpstarting roots-rock riff and those factory-belt drums, not to mention Earle’s charismatic slurred-and-drawled vocal delivery. — Chris Herringon

Grade: A-

Demolition

Ryan Adams

(Lost Highway)

Rise

Kim Richey

(Lost Highway)

It seems like everything you read these days about Ryan Adams centers on his tortured cowboy-poet image rather than his actual talents — and that’s a shame. Adams has a lot more to offer the world than a rumpled Western shirt and a haircut that cries out for a little attention.

Adams is a fine, emotional vocalist and an ace songwriter. Last year’s Gold was so convincing and consistent over its 76-minute span that it made one wonder if Adams was even capable of penning a bad tune. Maybe not. The story goes that, during the frenetic making of Gold, Adams assembled enough material to fill four CDs –the 13 “demos” collected here are part of the leftovers. But labeling these songs “demos” is a little misleading: Fans will find that this is just the latest Ryan Adams album, full of songs as well-crafted as anything on Gold. After listening to this mostly acoustic set of tunes, it’s tempting to cast Adams in his own unique mold — that of a trouble-making purveyor of traditionalism. But you don’t have to be a country-music fan to appreciate Demolition.

Like Adams, Kim Richey is one of a small group of recording artists who may end up saving country music, and, like Adams (and Lucinda Williams and Willie Nelson and the crew behind O Brother, Where Art Thou?), she records for renegade Nashville label Lost Highway. This coterie of musicians is doing some amazing things to the country genre these days — turning it upside down, inside out, and redefining its former backwoods boundaries. As a result, the music sounds as good as it ever has: simple, fresh, and, most importantly, honest.

Rise is Richey’s fourth major-label release and her first for Lost Highway. The record kicks off with “Girl in a Car,” a song that conjures up images of some restless romantic driving down the two lanes of heartache. The lyrics here, as on so many Richey vignettes, are delivered in the voice of someone clinging in vain to some drifting memory.

Richey’s unique songwriting gift lies in taking simple lyrics and turning them into beautiful songs, but producer Bill Bottrell’s heavy-handed imprint keeps the record from being an unqualified success. Rather than leave Richey’s beautifully spare, acoustic arrangements alone, he infuses much of the album with enough studio trickery to keep any teenager happy and make any country purist shudder. The album loses something, especially on tracks where Richey shares a songwriting credit with Bottrell. Richey sounds like she’s singing someone else’s songs.

Overall, though, Richey’s songs are so sharp that the spotty production is forgivable. Hopefully, next time around, she’ll find a producer talented enough to let her music stand by itself, and she’ll realize what few country artists ever do and what every self-respecting folkie has known all along: In any art, especially songwriting, the only voice you ever need is your own. —Andy Meek

Grades: Demolition: A-; Rise: B+

Categories
Music Music Features

Sound Advice

A couple of weeks after Jeff Tweedy hit town, his better half in the seminal Uncle Tupelo, the bourbon-voiced alt-country icon Jay Farrar arrives in Memphis. In truth, Farrar has seemed a little lost since the dissolution of his post-Tupelo band, Son Volt, his thesaurus-inspired lyrics drifting off in the same winds he once promised would carry our troubles away. But Farrar still commands one of the greatest voices in all of Americana, and when he’s on he can come off like a modern-day John Fogerty, making it hurt so good with the fatalistic certainty of an Old Testament prophet. Thankfully, Farrar’s chronic seriousness will be mitigated by the presence of Missouri pal Brian Henneman, the voice and pen behind Festus’ Bottle Rockets. Where Farrar’s music conveys literary distance, Henneman is a front-porch story-swapper, having penned unforgettable odes to welfare moms (“Welfare Music,” needed now even more than during the “welfare reform” and Rush Limbaugh period in which it was written) and unreliable transportation (“$1,000 Car” and the anthemic “Indianapolis”). Maybe his presence will even convince sad ol’ Jay to crack a smile. Farrar and Henneman will be at the Old Daisy Theatre Thursday, November 14th.

—Chris Herrington

I can say this with some certainty: If there isn’t a place in your heart for Jonathan Richman, then there is clearly something wrong with your heart. If you are, in these dark prewar days, noticing that spin, hype, and a dozen other euphemisms for scat, used-car salesmanship, and outright mendacity have created an impenetrable barricade between the general public and anything remotely meaningful, our little Jojo is the antidote for your ills. With nothing but a guitar and a set of cocktail drums, Richman will rock away your worry with prepunk anthems like “Roadrunner,” get you feeling all fuzzy with melancholy odes to “That Summer Feeling,” and inspire an innocent longing to get “Closer” to the person you love the most. The wonder and absolute delight Richman displays while running through his catalog of underground classics illustrates why he remains a beloved and vastly influential artist. His sweet, anticommercial honesty, which in an eternally awestruck way outshines even the likes of Dylan, has, we may assume, kept him from becoming a superstar. He’s at Automatic Slim’s on Wednesday, November 20th, and, let’s face it, you really should be too.

Garage fans can’t miss the keyboard-crazy Forty Fives‘ retro rave-up at the Young Avenue Deli on Tuesday, November 19th, where they’ll open for New York’s The Mooney Suzuki. Country fans have two shows to whoop about: George Jones disciple Alan Jackson at The Pyramid Saturday, November 16th, and Luther Wright & the Wrongs at the Hi-Tone Café Thursday, November 14th. The Wrongs’ attempts to temper traditional country with operatic pretensions can be a little gimmicky, but it’s all in good fun. — Chris Davis

Categories
Sports Sports Feature

City Sports

As Good as It Gets

CBU’s Missy Gregg has set the new standard for scoring in college soccer. Now, she looks to the pros and beyond.

By Bob Brame

The numbers are staggering. Heading into the 2002 season, the all-time record for goals scored by any man or woman in the history of NCAA soccer was 137. After leading Christian Brothers University to its third straight Gulf South Conference title, forward Missy Gregg’s career goal total had reached an astounding 177. After scoring 45 goals in her two years at Dayton University, Gregg scored an NCAA record 73 goals during the 2001 season for CBU and has 59 so far during the Lady Buccaneers’ 2002 campaign. She is, quite simply, the most prolific scorer at any level of college soccer … ever.

In Gregg’s two years at CBU, the Lady Bucs have won 41 of 43 games. The team finished second in Division II last year, losing to UC-San Diego in the national finals. In that game, Gregg suffered a torn ACL, an injury from which she has obviously fully recovered.

Gregg was named the Division II Women’s Soccer Player of the Year in 2001. She just received her second straight Women’s Soccer Player of the Year award in her conference. This year, the Lady Bucs are ranked second in the country again, losing only to Northern Kentucky on the road. On neutral turf, CBU is favored by many to win this year’s national championship, and Gregg is a good bet to receive her second straight award as the nation’s top player in Division II. Not bad for the 22-year-old from Dayton, Ohio, who described herself as “kind of gangly” when she played on her first select team at the age of 8.

“I wasn’t very good yet,” said Gregg. “I had not gotten into my legs. But I practiced a lot with my brother, who was four years older than me. In about a year, I went from not being able to do much at all to scoring goals in decent numbers.”

Gregg dominated the Ohio soccer scene and scored 180 goals in her high school career. She was a three-time All-State selection and was twice named to the NCSAA/Adidas High School All-American team. Collegiate soccer powerhouses like North Carolina, Notre Dame, and Texas A&M came calling, but she made the first of several pivotal decisions when she signed with Dayton.

“I wasn’t ready to leave home,” stated Gregg. “I was very close to my family and friends. I had a chance to go to bigger schools, where, if I did well, I’d be pulled up to the national team at a young age. But I went with a gut feeling. I don’t regret it at all. I’ve always done what I thought was right for me at the time.”

As Gregg’s scoring prowess continued at Dayton, she was named the Atlantic 10 Rookie of the Year in 1999 and the league’s Most Valuable Offensive Player in 2000, when she led the conference in scoring and finished sixth nationally.

Always looking to improve, Gregg wanted to play on a competitive team following her sophomore year. The W League, an “open” semiprofessional women’s league that allows college players to play and maintain their amateur status, got Gregg’s attention. She wanted to play on the best W League team she could find and chose the Memphis Mercury. It proved to be another good decision.

Gregg led the W League in scoring with 22 goals and was named Player of the Year for the 2001 season. Good as it was, Gregg couldn’t have envisioned just how much of an impact her decision to join the Mercury would have on her life.

She met a number of people from CBU, including Gareth O’Sullivan, the former University of Memphis soccer standout who serves as head coach for both the women’s and men’s teams at Christian Brothers. O’Sullivan was the stadium announcer for the Mercury’s home games, a perfect forum from which to recruit Gregg. It didn’t take much for O’Sullivan to convince her to give up Dayton for the friendly campus on East Parkway at Central.

“I knew I was never going to win a national title at Dayton,” said Gregg. “After coming to Memphis, I heard a lot about CBU and their goal of winning a national title. Coach O’Sullivan is a great guy and a great coach. CBU is wonderful. It’s very personal and you get a lot of one-on-one time with your professors. I liked being away from home, being independent. I wanted a national title. I grew fond of Memphis and decided to come here.”

Gareth O’Sullivan is still smiling.

As if her phenomenal goal scoring isn’t enough, it’s worth noting that Gregg is a psychology major at CBU. She was selected for the All-Gulf South Conference Academic Honors list in 2001 with a 3.5 GPA. Her coach, when asked to speak about his star player, talked about academics before commenting on the player.

“I think she’s one of the hardest working student-athletes you’ll find,” boasted O’Sullivan. “When you find someone good on the field, they don’t normally excel in the classroom. She does very well academically as well.”

What makes Gregg a record-setting athlete? O’Sullivan should know. He has seen her score 132 times in the last two years.

“She’s tremendous in the air. In the bigger games, she tends to get the job done,” the CBU coach said. “She likes to pull the trigger, she is very confident, and she’s one of the best finishers in the country.”

Gregg has broken record after record. But if you ask her about her accomplishments or any comparison to soccer greats like Mia Hamm or Memphis native Cindy Parlow, she calls timeout.

“It’s just me,” declared Gregg. “I’m trying to improve in some way and don’t want to ever feel like I could have had a better year. Cindy Parlow and Mia Hamm are great, great players and have proven themselves at every level. It’s exciting for me, but I’ve got to work very hard to play on that stage.”

Gregg knows there is life after soccer. She doesn’t see becoming a psychologist, in spite of her major. She does want to pursue a master’s degree following her undergraduate work. Coaching is certainly a possibility. Because she has taken a number of communications courses in the area of radio and television, don’t be surprised if you see Gregg on ESPN’s SportsCenter when her days of scoring goals are over.

“I love all sports,” Gregg said. “I will watch football — professional football — over anything any day. My dad and I always watched it together from the time I was very young. I’d love to work for ESPN someday.”

Before anything else, however, there is the chase for a championship. Gregg and her teammates have given CBU and their coach an excellent chance for a national title. But what comes after for the top goal scorer in NCAA history? Playing for the Women’s United Soccer Association? The U.S. team in the World Cup?

Is the most celebrated athlete in CBU history ready for the challenges ahead? “Absolutely,” said Gregg. “I’m prepared to move on.”

Slave Traders?

Where’s the outrage from the African-American community?

By Ron Martin

If Lynn Lang and Milton Kirk were white, leaders of the African-American community would be up in arms. Terms such as slave trader would be used to describe the men who peddled their influence over a high school athlete for cash. Reverend Jesse Jackson would be in Memphis, using it as a backdrop for his CNN appearances as he decried the injustice of a coach taking advantage of a black teenager and his family. The Black Coaches Association would be calling for reforms and using the guilty pleas as reasons why the NCAA should have more black head coaches. But Lang and Kirk are for some reason escaping criticism from the African-American community and its leaders. I find this very strange.

The color of their skin does nothing to diminish Lang’s and Kirk’s acts of treason against those who trusted them — the family of Albert Means. Their guilty pleas and Lang’s statements under oath basically proved that they dealt in slave trading, 21st-century style: Gain the confidence of a young athlete and his family, nurture that relationship, then sell the athlete to the highest bidder. You can sugar-coat the incident, but the bottom line remains: They sold Albert Means to the University of Alabama — plain and simple.

This was an isolated incident only to those who view high school and collegiate sports with blinders on. Unfortunately, for every positive story we hear about coaches using sports to mentor a young athlete, there are probably three stories about coaches riding their young charges to the bank in one way or another.

This incident is a sad commentary on sports — and those involved — on two fronts: For one, the only reason this ugly situation caught the light of day is because Lynn Lang wasn’t honorable enough to pay his co-conspirator what he owed him. And second, you have to wonder why so many college coaches kept their mouths shut when they came to evaluate Lang’s Mandingo man and were informed of his price. One can only surmise it’s for the same reason a drug buyer doesn’t call the cops when he’s ripped off by his dealer.

As irony would have it, Lang’s admission of influence peddling was followed by news of the University of Michigan’s admission of guilt for buying athletes in the 1990s. But at least their purchase of the “Fab Four” put money in the pockets of the athletes. This doesn’t justify the wrongdoing, but at least the athletes weren’t placed on the auction block and sold to the highest bidder.

More than a week has passed since allegations charging Lang and Kirk with the sale of Albert Means were demonstrated to be true. I still haven’t heard a cry of protest from the African-American community. Are they telling us that as long as the crime was black-on-black it’s all right? Or has corruption in amateur sports reached the point of no return?

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

wednesday, 13

BOOKSIGNING BY MICHAEL PERRY. Author will sign Population 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time. Square Books. 160 Courthouse Square. Oxford, Mississippi. 5 p.m.

CHAMBER MUSIC FESTIVAL. Featuring music school undergraduate and graduate instumentalists and vocalist U of M. Art Museum. Communications/Fine Arts Building. Free. 12:30 p.m. (through Thursday).

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

tuesday, 12

HEALTHY HOLIDAY MEALS LECTURE. Personal chef Casey Speltz will present the lecture. Baptist Memorial Hospital for Women. 6225Humphreys Blvd. Free. 1-2 p,.m.

OPERA MEMPHIS. The Orpheum. Giacomo Puccini’sMadame Butterly. starring Kellen Esperian in the title role. (Last performance.) 7:30 p.m.

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

monday, 11

CONFESSIONS OF A STORYTELLER LECTURE and DINNER. Public speaker and professiona story-teller Vicki McIntyre will present the lecture. Central Church. 2005 Wichester Blvd. 6:30 p.m.

INSTANT PIANO WORKSHOP. A beginning class in chord piano. Southwest Tennessee Community College. 6-9:30 p.m.

VETERANS MEMORIAL DEDICATION. Oliver North will be the keynote speaker. Downtown Tunica, Mississippi. 10:30 a.m.

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

sunday, 10

MEMPHIS CYCLING RACES. Amphitheater of Pain cyclotron series. Shelby Farms. 10 a.m.

GREAT CHREFS’ TASTING PARTY. The party will include a tasting of dishes prepared by more than 20 Memphis chefs and a silent auction of more than 200 items. Memphis Marriot Hotel, 2625 Thousand Oaks Blvd. 1-4:30 p.m.

Categories
We Recommend We Recommend

saturday, 9

GPAC FAMILY SERIES. Germantown Performing Arts Centre. Germantown Symhony Orchestra, freaturing cellist Felix Wang. 8 pm.

VERTICAL IMBALANCE. Improvisional theater and comedy trouple. Theatre Memphis(Little Theatre), 630 Perkins,ext. 10:30 p.m.

BOOKSIGNING BY CHARLOTTE MILLER. Author will sign There is a River. David-Kidd Booksellers, 387 Perkins, Ext. 1 p.m.