Top Three Reasons Why Decade Ending Albums Lists Are Stupid

The first decade of the 21st Century is now in its final two months. You know what that means: List upon list upon list upon list. Best Albums of the Decade. Worst Singles of the Decade. Longest Movies of the Decade (I’m torn between Zodiac and There Will Be Blood).

When the last decade ended, I couldn’t possibly have consumed Nineties albums lists more eagerly. From MC Hammer to The Fragile, the Nineties was the decade where my young self fell hopelessly in love with music, and I wanted to find out if the critical consensus revered the same albums I did. Ten years later, my excitement about decade ending albums lists, as well as, to a lesser degree, year ending albums lists, has waned considerably. At some point in the last five years, I reached the point where I’d listened to enough music that my tastes finally became fully my own. What I mean by this is that, at the beginning of this decade, if I saw an album ranking high on yearly lists that I disliked, I would wonder what I was missing, and how I needed to expand my tastes accordingly. When that happens now, I just think the critics are stupid. (In other words, it took me fifteen years of obsessively listening to music to arrive at the same level of confidence in my personal tastes as some idiot who becomes indignant over critical dismissal of KISS.) I no longer need critics to tell me how to think; it’s a wonderful place to be.

So without further ado, here are my Top Three Reasons Why Decade Ending Album Lists Are Stupid!

3. It Punishes Artists Who Don’t Have a Definitive “Best” Album In a Given Decade

This thought occurred to me when I realized that Deerhoof has exactly one album in Pitchfork’s Top 200 Albums of the 2000s lists, and it was number 199. How the hell did this happen, you ask? Here’s how: Deerhoof made the mistake of releasing seven albums this decade, and they were all good. So now, some well-meaning, baby-faced hipster-in-training is going to try to catch up on a decade’s worth of music that they were too young to fully digest at the time by examining the Pitchfork list, and determine that Deerhoof’s entire discography can be skipped over. Well, that sucks. What almost certainly happened is that everyone who voted listed a different Deerhoof album as their favorite, and the lack of consensus resulted in a really good band barely garnering any mention at all. This is not Deerhoof’s fault, it’s the fault of the very concept of the decade ending albums list.

2. Endpoint Sensitivity

Obviously, decade lists have to be determined at the end of said decade. This makes no sense. There’s a reason why films that studios hope will win Best Picture at the Oscars all come out in the fall. No one remembers movies that come out in January, and similarly, no one remembers albums that come out in 2000.

This problem doesn’t affect albums like Kid A, whose perceived importance — almost because they came out at the beginning of their decade — tends to be wildly exaggerated by writers who love to love to cram unrelated events together with the aim of forming a semi-coherent narrative. But it does affect the albums that are merely liked, as opposed to loved.

Thinking about the albums that I dug in, say, 2001, Stephen Malkmus’s solo debut fits this mold. Discovering Pavement in high school was somewhat revelatory for me, and that love transferred over to Malkmus’s first album, which I listened to a lot when it came out. While I don’t necessarily like it any less now, it’s been at least five years since I listened to it the whole way through. How is that supposed to be reflected on a decade albums list? Do I willingly ignore it because I never listen to it now, or do I value it highly because at one point during the decade in question I knew all the words to “Jenny and the Ess-Dog”? Personal tastes change with time, as do individual albums’ resonance, so any decade list should come with a disclaimer reminding the reader of just how prone it will inevitably be to revisionism.

1. The Genre Problem

Albums lists that attempt to be comprehensive across all genres are inherently stupid. If you’re a white guy from the suburbs who’s looked at hundreds of albums lists like me — women want us, men want to be us — then you’ve seen countless lists full of rock albums with something like Enter the Wu-Tang or Ready to Die tossed in almost at random. Obviously, this is moronic, and not because esteemed albums like those ones are allowed to occupy the same sacred ground as white critical darlings like Yo La Tengo, but because it makes no sense whatsoever to cross-pollinate genres that have nothing to do with each other. Genre-specific lists are 100 times more useful than unwieldly messes like the Rolling Stone Top 500 Albums of All Time. There has never been, and never will be, an instance where someone is standing in a record store debating whether they should buy It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back or the Allman Brothers’ At Fillmore East, so what in God’s name is the point of ranking them next to each other on the same list?

***

Having said all this, in the coming weeks and months, you can droolingly anticipate the official PUSHING PAPER TOP 100 ALBUMS OF THE DECADE list. I’ve spent no small amount of time recently trying to recall which albums from the past ten years I liked best, as well as re-listening to ones I knew I liked, but couldn’t remember how much. Why am I doing this? Because I have to, that’s why. Get ready, decade, Pushing Paper is about to send you out in style.

The Police State of Champions

If Pittsburgh’s hosting of the G20 has taught me anything, it’s a lesson I learned long ago but willingly forgot in the run-up to (as the Los Angeles Times so cleverly put it) Pittsburgh’s 15 minutes of fame: The higher you get your hopes up for something, the more you’re bound to be disappointed.

I couldn’t help but get excited for the G20 meetings this week, which was set to be the glorious climax to what has seemed like the Year of Pittsburgh. After all, 2009 is all but guaranteed to be the last year downtown Pittsburgh hosts a Super Bowl parade, a Stanley Cup parade, and a major global political conference, all in an eight-month span. Well, the Steelers and Penguins parades were awesome, but so far, on Thursday evening, the G20 has been a colossal letdown.

I’m not talking about mass protests or major pieces of global economic legislation. That there would be protests was a given, but the odds were and are overwhelmingly against Pittsburgh suddenly turning into Seattle circa 1999. Of course the protest groups’ leaders have been making big noise about their plans for this week. To do otherwise would be akin to Mike Tomlin saying that he expected the Steelers to lose to the Bengals this weekend. And it says everything about the usefulness of these meetings from a political standpoint that typical anticipatory headlines this week have read something like “No One Expects G20 to Accomplish Anything at Pittsburgh Summit Except Maybe to Bang On About Bankers’ Pay.”

No, my excitement this week revolved solely around Pittsburgh’s role in this whole thing. My view going into the G20 was that, unless someone got assassinated or something, everything would be worth it, since just about every newspaper on the planet this week featured lovely puff pieces about how Pittsburgh has transformed itself from “Hell with the lid off” (which, when originally said, was meant as a compliment) into Paradise with cripplingly underfunded pension obligations. It’s not like I expected Pittsburgh to suddenly become a global tourist destination or anything, but I did harbor hopes that it would prove charming enough to finally put an end to the widespread belief, held by morons who’ve never been here, that nothing about this town has changed since 1950. (If you have spent some time here and dislike it, then I’ve got no problem with you; Pittsburgh definitely isn’t for everyone.)

Maybe that will still happen, but it certainly isn’t helping that, by virtue of the insanely overwhelming police force, downtown today was turned into the world’s biggest Former Second String High School Offensive Linemen Reunion. I should have known something was off when things seemed eerily quiet Monday morning — three days before the meetings kicked off, thousands of workers already had opted to stay home. Still, having been told for months and months that the G20 promises to be the biggest effing deal ever, I was pretty stunned this morning when I realized that the policeman to general citizen ratio was approximately 100:1.

I covered a lot of ground on my lunch break today, and everywhere I went I saw three things: dozens of cops sitting around with nothing to do, boarded up storefronts, and a few people like me walking around thinking, Where the hell is everybody? While I realize that just about anything beats mass rioting, there must have been a better alternative than a city that is terrified so thoroughly of the prospect of violent outbreaks that it’s turned into a deserted police state. For weeks now, I’ve heard people say over and over that they’ll be getting as far away from downtown as possible once the G20 starts. Well, they did, and the terrified masses apparently included local business owners as well, as the parts of downtown that aren’t surrounded by eight-foot-high metal fences have been covered in plywood (including business districts located miles from the convention center).

As I write this from my condo in Friendship, helicopters are flying around outside and the Drudge Report has a screaming red headline along with a picture of riot police detaining a G20 protester. Pittsburgh and the rest of the world have been waiting desperately for these protesters to make some sort of scene so we all can freak out about it, and as of late this afternoon, we finally got our wish, even though the protesters so far have caused significantly less damage to our city than Steelers fans did after Super Bowl XLIII.

I realize I’m probably over-reacting to this utter failure to plan appropriately for the G20 on the part of our civic and national leaders. Starting Saturday, the world will almost certainly go back to ignoring Pittsburgh just as it did during the previous several decades, as Chris Potter so shrewdly pointed out in his column in this week’s City Paper. [For my money that column is the best thing that's been written about Pittsburgh all week, and I've read a lot about Pittsburgh this week.] If anything, the desertion of downtown and the intimidation of Pittsburgh’s residents has been so over-the-top that any visitor with a brain would have to know that this city is infinitely more entertaining than the incarnation currently in place.

As for the other disappointing aspect of Pittsburgh today — the dreary weather — well, what you see is what you get.

2009 NHL Eastern Conference Preview: Live from Pens Mansion West

On February 14, after the Pittsburgh Penguins surrendered five third period goals to the exceedingly mediocre Toronto Maple Leafs in a demoralizing 6-2 loss when the Penguins were near-desperate for every possible point, few people would have predicted that in three short months they would open the 2009 Eastern Conference Finals with home ice advantage.

But, as anyone who follows the team will tell you, the Penguins team that will take the ice Monday night is very different from its mid-winter incarnation. The organizational changes made by general manager Ray Shero since that loss to Toronto have been well documented to this point. Head coach Michel Therrien was fired and replaced by Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins head coach Dan Bylsma, initially on an interim but now permanent basis. Shero traded defenseman Ryan Whitney to Anaheim for winger Chris Kunitz and prospect Eric Tangradi. Shero was also able to pluck gritty winger Craig Adams off the the waiver wire and acquire winger Bill Guerin from the New York Islanders in return for a conditional draft pick. And the Toronto game also marked the return of elite defenseman Sergei Gonchar from an extended absence caused by a shoulder injury suffered in a preseason game against the Tampa Lightning. It would be impossible to isolate just one of these changes as the catalyst for the Penguins’ latest trip deep into the playoffs, but their aggregate effect has been transformative, salvaging the season of a struggling team that prior to the season was thought to be a leading contender for the Stanley Cup.

However, amidst all of these changes was a solitary real estate transaction that, while seemingly innocuous on the surface, the Penguins themselves credit every bit as much as the moves outlined above with forever altering the course of their 2008-09 campaign: The players as a team chipped in together and bought an eight-bedroom, four-bathroom mansion outside of Los Angeles, California, with a goal in mind of fostering a comfortable, communal atmosphere to where the Penguins could escape for some rest and relaxation when life in the hockey hotspot that is Pittsburgh becomes a bit too stressful.

In a Pushing Paper exclusive, we made the trip out to California to check in on the players as they prepare for their conference finals showdown against the Carolina Hurricanes.

***

Upon entering “The Pens Mansion West,” as the players call it, I was welcomed by Gonchar, the venerable veteran whose extensive experience and calm demeanor have helped set the emotional tone for the team during its most critical moments. Gonchar, who is certainly well known but does not receive nearly as much attention as fellow stars Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin, affably greeted every one of his teammates with playful high fives and hugs as we entered the house’s second-floor foyer, often repeating the players’ nicknames twice in a playful sign of affection. “Superstar, Superstar,” he said to forward Max Tablot before proceeding to “Sid the Kid, Sid the Kid.” Gonchar invited me to come bug out with the team before inadvertantly illustrating his position of command with the team by admonishing young defenseman Kris Letang to “get your fuckin’ feet off the glass table.” Gonchar immediately diffused what could have been a tense moment with a warm chuckle.

While introducing myself to the players, I could hear, far off in the house somewhere, the sound of a delicately beautiful piano piece, so I decided to follow it. The music led me to the bedroom of none other than Gonchar, whose modesty prevents him from revealing to fans just how talented of a musician and composer he is. In fact, I initially startled him as I made my way into the room, unaware that I had been watching him. As he led me on a tour of his expansive bedroom, Gonchar gave me some background information on the purchase of the home.

“This house was actually my choice. I don’t know if everybody agreed with it when they got here, but I checked out a few houses in L.A., you know, I seen some nice mansions, some big places. And some places was, like, too glamorous for us, but this house had more of a sportacious feeling. I knew that brothers would be like, ‘Yo, this is a phat crib.’”

As we made our way through the bedroom, it became clear how much Gonchar has come to value this home away from home, and how it helps him ease his mind from the stresses of life as a prominent professional athlete.

“I be in here watching, you know, kung fu flicks and pornos. I got my desk right here, my shit here — I’m also an executive. They call me the Abbot of the Pittsburgh Penguins,” Gonchar noted with pride as he showed me his necklace, which featured an exquistiely jewelled compass symbol. “The Abbot meaning, like, the one that gives the most advice or the one that guides guys.” Careful not to overstate his influence on the Penguins’ young stars, including team captain Sidney Crosby, he added, “I’m not the leader. I mean, we all lead our own selves, we all individual leaders, but I’m the Abbot.”

From there we made our way to Gonchar’s bathroom, from which he derived obvious delight.

“I’ma show you how they got the bathrooms when you start making money, I guess. You get a phone in your bathroom first of all, right? You get the normal toilet stool, and then you get this one we call the, the bootywetter [a marble bidet]. You got the two showerheads in here, chillin’ in here, you know, me and my wife or whatever, you know, we can both have our own temperature sets, then we can switch up and share. We got the jacuzzi so I be in here chillin’.

“We keep a lot of flowers and plants; I love life being around me. I recently lost my moms and everythings, so I became real appreciative of flowers and life, you know, because you never know when that life ceases, you know what I mean?” It was a moment of touching vulnerability from the normally reserved star.

I then made my way to Gonchar’s countryman and 2009 NHL Art Ross Trophy winner Evgeni Malkin’s room. Malkin’s shyness with the press has become famous, and his broken English in televised interviews belies his fluency with the language he displays in settings where he is more comfortable. “Geno” enthusiastically gave me a tour of his bedroom.

“This is my room right here, this is where I lay my head,” Malkin explained as he led me to the closet. Malkin is something of a clotheshorse, always making sure to be seen styling the latest fashions. His wardrobe is no small passion for him.

“I got, you know, sneakers for days. I got to have my blowy shirts” – Malkin’s term of choice for his loose-fitting clothing — “all day long, see what I’m saying? I got to have, like, about twelve blowy shirts, all, just, varieties and flavors. Got to have your Guccis and shit. And I must have my jackets. Got to have the Fubu in there, the Pure Playaz, the Pelle Pelle, the Wu Wear. Everything got to be assorted flavors, so I can be versatile.”

Then Malkin showed me a possession that was of obvious significance to him.

“This is my autograph – signed – of Little Richard, that I met out here. Little Richard, know what I’m saying? My mother used to love this guy, so he gave me a little autograph, bing bing bing!”

Then we made our way out to Malkin’s balcony, where the native of the Russian steel center Magnitogorsk reflected on his rapid rise from humble roots to a newfound position of wealth and success.

“This neighborhood is real [bourgeoisie]. Everybody over here has two million dollar homes and better. Over there, Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant, Neal Long, everybody, everybody is in all these vicinities over here,” he observed as he looked over an expansive vista primarily featuring both lush, rolling hills and gargantuan estates. “This is the duku. This is the beauty of all this. After all our hard work, this is where it supposedly pays off at, you know what I’m saying?” Then Malkin stepped up to the balcony’s ledge and spread his arms wide as he took a moment to fully absorb the privileges that the game of hockey has suddenly afforded him. “We out here in the hills, just gliding like condors.”

I then granted Malkin’s request for some private introspection and made my way to the house’s game room, a veritable hive of laughter and mirth featuring equal doses video games, billiards, and push-ups. Here, goaltender Marc-Andre Fleury served as my tour guide. He explained to me just how vital it is for this young team to be able to occasionally escape the hype and media scrutiny that constantly follow them and, if only for a day or two, act like the kids that many of them really are.

“This where we get a little mack on, you know what I’m saying? Pool table action, this is where we just be loungin’. Today was a big dice game goin’ on, you know, six G’s was up in the air . . . This is how we live, you know?

“We watch stuff like the Discovery Channel, you know what I’m saying, check out the news sometimes. A lotta flicks goin’ on, you know what I’m sayin’, like, a lotta black flicks, karate flicks. When we together, it’s like a family reunion, so it feels good to be amongst your brothers.”

Then Sidney Crosby, arguably the NHL’s best player and biggest star, implored me to walk with him. Crosby also was quick to emphasize the unsung role that the new house has played in the Penguins’ remarkable turnaround. 

“When we back in Pittsburgh, we with our family or whatever, whatever, and we want to get away, we slide out here, you know what I mean, and just get the thoughts together.”

We made our way into a finely decorated living space, one notably devoid of any sort of electronic entertainment. But even beyond its obvious tranquility, Crosby explained just how much thought had gone into creating this oasis of relaxtion for the team.

“If you do the knowledge to this room right here, and just the color contrast right here, it’s like a thinking room.”

The room’s centerpiece was a beautiful baby grand piano. Crosby explained its function thusly:

“Got the little piano just in case my man Lionel Ritchie wanna come through and come holla at me, you know?”

We then made our way to the mansion’s weight room. Given Crosby’s reputation for being perhaps the hardest-working player in the NHL, it was no surprise that it was he who led me here.

“Brothers come up in here and get tight and all that, you know what I mean? Me, personally, I don’t even really like dealing with all that. I like to do calisthenics, you know what I mean? I like to get on this little running thing here [a treadmill], you know? I ain’t do my thing thing in a minute with this, though.” Unfortunately for Crosby, however, his increased minutes and superior stamina throughout this postseason betray his modesty.

We entered Crosby’s bedroom, which was certainly nice but seemed rather small for the team’s biggest star.

“It’s comfortable. A brother can come up in here and relax. I’m happy with this right here.” But Crosby’s satisfaction ends once he turns on his television. “Putting a cat in the crib without cable, that’s hurtin’ him.” He eventually finds a program that suits him. “You see what’s on, right? Cartoons, baby!”

Sid the Kid, indeed.

Unlike his fellow superstar Malkin, Crosby isn’t particular about his clothes.

“This my little wears right here while I’m out in Cali right now,” Crosby explains as we enter his walk-in closet, which has conspicuously few actual clothes in it. His main clothing item of choice this season is a fresh t-shirt adorned with the logo of a professional or major college sports team. (I did not spy any Philadelphia Flyers t-shirts.) As Crosby himself notes, “It ain’t nothin’ basic . . . One thing about Cali that’s different from Pittsburgh is that the climate is always off the hook out here, so you ain’t really got time to get fly, because if you get fly, it’s gonna be too hot.”

As with Crosby’s gritty, close-range goals in the Washington series, function over fashion suits Crosby just fine these days.

My visit ended with an impromptu pool party, where Fleury tried his best to summarize the Mansion’s importance to the team.

“Pool parties, jumpin’ off, piece of mind. But then we just stare off right over there into the green, you know what I mean, into the leaves and the trees.” Fleury pointed to the same landscape that had earlier captured Malkin’s awe. “For some reason, for some reason green brings a lot of thoughts.”

I was beginning to understand how the relaxation provided by Pens Mansion West had influenced the team’s approach to the game, in addition to providing the Penguins with a proper perspective that, in an age with so many pressing geopolitical problems, such as a global recession and runaway climate change, losing a hockey game probably isn’t the end of the world. Further still, the players know they are fortunate to have each other and play for such a successful franchise with an entire city of adoring fans. (Gonchar made sure to mention their friend and former teammate Colby Armstrong, who, in Gonchar’s words, is on “an iron vacation” — street slang for serving a jail sentence, or, in the NHL’s case, playing for the Atlanta Thrashers.)

Right as I was leaving, fourth line winger Miroslav Satan made a running leap across the pool, clearing it by the slimmest of margins and prompting guffaws from his teammates. Before the laughter had even subsided, Crosby ran toward the pool as if he were going to attempt a leap of his own. Just as some of the players began to hold their breath, Crosby backed off, a sly smirk on his face. It is this balance between relaxation and discipline that should serve the Penguins well as they continue their run towards the Stanley Cup.

Thin Line Between Hell and Here: Steelers 27, Cardinals 23

A full four days later, and I’m still going through the process of convincing myself that the Steelers actually won Super Bowl XLIII. When Larry Fitzgerald scored his insane, 64-yard touchdown with under three minutes left, the rational side of my brain furiously started preparing me for life in a world where the Steelers somehow lost a Super Bowl to a team that only outscored its opponents by one point this season, all while falling prey to the biggest come-from-behind victory in Super Bowl history. I kept repeating two things to myself: “This is only a football game,” and “At least they won Super Bowl XL,” neither of which made me feel the slightest bit better. There’s no such thing as perspective when your team is blowing the Super Bowl.

And even though I was joyfully hopping around just like everyone else when the game ended, it wasn’t until I emerged from the apartment in Oakland where I watched the game and found myself surrounded by screaming lunatics and honking car horns that I started to accept that the Steelers truly had pulled it out. I didn’t smash any windows or light any couches on fire (unfortunately), but I did run around screaming a lot, and even did some freestyle walking. With all this gloriousness in mind, here’s Pushing Paper’s Official Super Bowl XLIII Recap, in Q&A form.

Q: How long did it take to clean up the mess left by your head exploding after James Harrison’s touchdown?

A: I know this will sound like a revised account of what happened, but I honestly wasn’t that shocked by that play. With any other defense (including the gang of impostors who masqueraded as Steelers in the fourth quarter), the opposing team having the ball on the one is cause for overwhelming dread. But if there’s one lesson that the 2008 Steelers’ D taught us, it’s that they never had any shortage of miracles up their sleeves. Remember, this was the same defense that forced an 11-5 New England team into committing twenty-five turnovers at home in week 13. This was the same defense that called a timeout when Dallas had the ball in a tie game with almost two minutes left, because they knew they would shut the Cowboys down and wanted to leave enough time for the offense to score — only Deshea Townshend picked off a Tony Romo pass and scored the winning TD himself. This was the same defense that slammed the AFC Championship’s door shut as emphatically as possible with Troy Polamalu’s unreal pick-six as Baltimore tried to put together a game-winning drive. So yes, even though I never in my wildest dreams expected a 100-yard touchdown return, I really did hold out hope for an interception when a 14-10 halftime deficit seemed inevitable to many.

(Side note: I hate to admit it, but I don’t see how this play was better than the Helmet Catch. Although highly unlikely, there’s every chance that next year a team could score on a 100-yard pick-six, even one that completely alters the game’s final outcome. But a play like the Helmet Catch will never, ever, ever, EVER happen again. Long live David Tyree and the Patriots-slaying Giants.)

Q: Was Super Bowl XLIII the greatest ever?

A: Much as I’d like to say it was, it wasn’t. (Full disclosure: My Super Bowl viewing experience begins at XXV.) I’ve heard some people out there claim that it was a terrible game until the fourth quarter — which just isn’t true — but, aside from Harrison’s TD, it was an average game until the fourth, and by my criteria, a game’s got to be good the whole way through to be considered the greatest ever. (I’m looking at you, Super Bowl XXXIV.)

Two things I’ll never understand: Why Super Bowls XIII and XXXII are barely mentioned in greatest ever debates. Super Bowl XIII, in which the NFL’s two most popular franchises essentially fought for Team of the Seventies status, was thrilling from start to finish, with Terry Bradshaw reversing his first half attempt to single-handedly throw the game away by having such a stupendous second half that he was named MVP. And Super Bowl XXXII was, on paper, one of the biggest upsets in Super Bowl history, and had the great storyline of John Elway finally winning his first Super Bowl. What’s more, all but two of the nine scores were touchdowns, and it was unclear what team would triumph until the game actually ended. I suppose XIII was long enough ago that everyone has pretty much forgotten about it, but how XXXII goes unmentioned in these debates is beyond me.

Q: Should anyone who came away from such a fantastic game whining about the refs be shot?

A: Yes.

Q: Would you like to elaborate?

A: The refs obviously weren’t perfect, but I do think they got almost every call right, and above all, they called the game evenly. What infuriates me about the ref-related backlash is that, thanks to ESPN’s unending desire to create artificial controversy after every single sporting event (witness the non-debate about whether or not Ryan Clark’s AFC Championship game hit on Willis McGahee was clean), many sports fans out there are now incapable of accepting something like Super Bowl XLIII for what it was: a game that everyone but Cardinals fans should be rejoicing. The worst offenders of all are the people who bitched about how Santonio Holmes should have been flagged for a personal foul after using the ball as a prop during his celebration of the Super Bowl winning touchdown. Honestly, just imagine if the Cardinals had come back and scored the winning touchdown thanks partially to a field shortened by such a pointless penalty. If that’s the call you’re complaining about after the game, here’s some heartfelt advice: Stop watching football. Seriously, if you’re so uppity about strict adherance to stupid rules, quit whatever job you have and become a meter maid.

That said, the review system detracted measurably from my enjoyment of the game. Aside from the controversial fumble at the end, there wasn’t a single big play the Steelers made that wasn’t reviewed extensively afterward. One of the best things about watching sports are the moments of spontaneous elation that arise from epic plays. Super Bowl XLIII had plenty of epic plays, but, thanks to instant replay, only muted moments of spontaneous elation. What a shame.

Q: In what ways was Super Bowl XLIII superior to Super Bowl XL?

A: By almost any objective measure, XLIII blew XL away. What pleased me most about XLIII was that it was a very well played game, where both teams could walk off the field with their heads held high. Winning Super Bowl XL was sweet as hell, but it was slightly dampened by the fact that the Steelers won primarily because they were less horrible than the Seahawks that day.

The other thing that really stood out about this game for me was how exceptionally classy both teams were all week, especially after the game ended. Santonio, who in my mind still isn’t completely absolved from his past transgressions, has carried himself with nothing but humility since winning the game’s MVP award, and it’s felt sincere. The Cardinals have been even more impressive. No one had to worry about Ken Whisenhunt pissing and moaning about the refs afterward like that fat mess Mike Holmgren, even though losing to the Steelers like that must have been incredibly tough for him to stomach. Unsurprisingly, Larry Fitzgerald was all class, and Kurt Warner was such a gracious loser that it was uncanny. If the Steelers don’t win the Super Bowl next year, then I am 100% pulling for the Cardinals. They are a credit to the NFL.

And lastly, it’s never a bad thing when the Steelers become the first franchise ever to win six Super Bowls.

Q: In what ways was Super Bowl XL superior to Super Bowl XLIII?

A: Just one, but it’s why I will always hold XL most dearly. There really is nothing like your first time. When the Steelers won this weekend, I was extremely happy for all the obvious reasons. A Super Bowl victory is truly something to be cherished. But when the Steelers won Super Bowl XL, I honestly felt like anything in the world was possible. I know that’s stupid, but I was pretty damn happy that night.

Q: So, how many years did Super Bowl XLIII shave off of your life expectancy?

A: At least ten, but it was probably worth it.

No One On Tha Corner Got Steelers Like Us: Pushing Paper’s Super Bowl XLIII Preview

Look, I could write 10,000 words breaking down what I expect to happen in Super Bowl XLIII, and act like all I’ve done this week is hole up in my apartment and watch game tape, with everything building toward a hotly anticipated final prediction, but let’s not kid ourselves here. I’m a major Steelers fan, and, believe it or not, I don’t have an overwhelming desire to be the malaria-infested fly in the Pittsburgh punchbowl. So I’ll be damned if I’m going to come out and pick the Cardinals to win this weekend. Steelers 27, Cardinals 17.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there are some aspects of this matchup that I do want to comment on, so I’m going to go at this baby in a wholly incoherent, point by point style. My goal for this post is to say something that ten million people haven’t already said this week. Now let’s get after it.

* Going into conference championship weekend, I vowed that, were the Steelers to play the Cardinals in the Super Bowl, as I expected to happen, I would spend the next two weeks repeatedly waking up in cold sweats after Larry Fitzgerald ran rampant through my nightmares. Thankfully that hasn’t happened yet, but I am obviously worried about him, for all the reasons that everyone else on the planet has already listed. However, one thing I’ve found to be odd is that people are so hyped up about Fitzgerald that many of the pundits who are picking the Cardinals are looking at the Super Bowl as if it were the NBA Finals. Fitzgerald is fantastic, but he’s not Michael Jordan. Nor is he Jim Brown playing against a bunch of slow, white guys in the fifties. Somehow it seems like a lot of people have forgotten this.

* Considering that this is a matchup between a 12-4 team that played the toughest regular season schedule that just about anyone alive can recall, and a team that only went 9-7 despite playing in the most pathetic division in world history, there seems to be an unusually large groundswell of support for the Cards this week. Of course, while there are some very legitimate reason to pick the Cards to win, the blame for this mass irrationality lies at the feet of the 2001 Patriots and the valorous 2007 Giants. In the age of NFL parity, it’s become apparent that no outcome is certain in the Super Bowl. (That last sentence clearly will not be the one to fulfill this post’s stated goal.) Almost everyone I’ve read who’s picked the Steelers has started out their column with some inane preamble explaining how they haven’t slept for six days while trying to arrive at their final prediction and blah, blah, blah, only to close by assuming a near-apologetic tone when picking the Steelers. Even more annoying, I’ve already read about ten columns where the writer will predict the Cardinals to win, and then say something stupid like, “Someone’s got to pick them, right?” Sorry, unoriginal sports columnists, if you really wanted to go out on a limb, you should have picked against the Rams in ‘01 and the Pats in ‘07.

* For all the talk of how much of a factor Whisenhunt’s knowledge of the Steelers will be on Sunday (and I am legitimately worried about this), I find it odd that no one’s really talked about how the Steelers faced an extremely similar situation in Super Bowl XIV against the Los Angeles Rams. Bud Carson had been the Steelers’ defensive coordinator during their first two Super Bowl wins before leaving to fill the same position for the Rams prior to the 1977 season. Like the Cardinals, the ‘79 Rams finished 9-7 and barely outscored their regular season opponents (323-309 for the Rams, and a positively sterling 427-426 for the Cards). Super Bowl XIV was much closer than many expected, no doubt thanks partly to Carson’s knowledge of the Steelers’ personnel, but in the end the better team pulled it out. Super Bowls are won and lost by players, not coaches, so let’s not get too carried away with Whiz angle.

* It took a week, but the world has finally realized that this is going to be a home game for the Steelers. I knew the Super Bowl XL crowd was going to be lopsided, but I also knew that the Seahawks had actual fans who might be willing to travel to Detroit to watch their team play in its first ever Super Bowl. You could probably watch the Super Bowl and play a game where you drink every time you spot a Cardinal fan in the crowd and not even get drunk. Thanks to the Cardinals pounding on the Panthers in what will be forever remembered as the most senseless NFL result ever, people are completely ignoring the fact that all year the Cardinals were a truly abysmal road team. While I think there’s something to be said for largely disregarding the regular season when evaluating this game, I’m not willing to pretend like it never happened.

* Getting back to the Grand Canyon-sized disparity between the difficulty of these respective teams’ schedules, I can say with full confidence that the Cards have not played a defense approaching the quality of the Steelers’. This year the NFL had three defenses that on a weekly basis pummeled the hell out of their opponents, regardless of the end result: Pittsburgh, Baltimore, and Tennessee. This is why being the second seed ending up being such a huge advantage for the Steelers in the playoffs. The Ravens and the Titans were going to beat each other so senselessly that no matter who won, they would limp their way into the AFC Championship game, which is exactly what happened to the Ravens. The worst thing that could possibly happen to the Steelers is for the Cards to score on their opening drive in a similar fashion to the Chargers in the divisional round. (That point is so glaringly obvious that it just might accomplish the post’s stated goal!) Even if the Cards get points on their first possession, what’s key is that it last long enough for the Steelers’ D to lay some shots on the likes of Kurt Warner, Fitzgerald, Anquan Boldin, and Steve Breaston. The Steelers won’t have to sack Warner seven times to win if he has happy feet in the pocket the entire game, or if his receivers are afraid to cross the middle of the field. If I had my druthers, the Cardinals wouldn’t be wearing their home reds on Sunday, but Ravens purple. I don’t think the Cards can win if the Steelers find a way to work up a Baltimore-level of hatred for this one.

* One thing that gives me the shivers is the fact that there is absolutely no evidence to date that the 2008 Steelers can get that critical yard when they absolutely need it. Earlier in the season, I would throw a hissy fit whenever Bruce Arians sent the team out in the shotgun on 3rd and 2. But when the Steelers lined up in an empty set on 3rd and 1 in the AFC Championship game, I couldn’t even muster a single word of protest. In other words, if ever the Steelers have an important 4th and 1 in the game, I’ll probably pass out long before the ball is snapped.

* Two players I don’t really think are keys for a potential Steelers victory: Hines Ward and Willie Parker. I suppose with this one that you could accuse me of going against the grain to an almost foolish degree, but here’s my reasoning. With Willie, he’s barely been a factor in the Steelers’ offense all year, and they’ve been just fine. Yes, they cut some of those regular season wins a little close for my liking, but it gave the team valuable practice under pressure situations, and if it’s a close game, I like the Steelers’ chances. All I want from Willie is a competent performance. He doesn’t need to get 100 yards for the Steelers to win, he just needs to be enough of a threat that it keeps the Cardinals’ defense guessing, enabling the Steelers to successfully implement the play action, because Ben’s accuracy with the deep throws has returned with a vengeance. Regarding Hines, I think that all the Steelers need from him is a convincing enough decoy act. I think if Hines makes a nice catch for a first down early (preferably more, of course), then it will be enough. As long as the Cards feel somewhat threatened by his presence on the field, then I think it will open things up for Santonio Holmes and Heath Miller, and maybe even Nate Washington. (If Hines spends the majority of the game on the sidelines, resulting in Limas Sweed becoming a regular part of the Steelers offense? Then all bets are off.) The Steelers went 12-4 and got to the Super Bowl with one of the best defenses of the past twenty years and a passable offense. I don’t necessarily think they need much more to beat the Cardinals.

* I am one of those people who thinks — and this is my final point — that the number one key to a Steelers win is Big Ben not turning the ball over. Of the Steelers’ four losses, one happened because Bruce Arians called a neverending sequence of seven-step drops for Ben even though the Eagles were sending eleven men on the blitz on every play, one happened because the long snapper blew out his knee and the NFL Defensive Player of the Year had to replace him, and then put a snap through the back of the Steelers’ own end zone, and the other two happened because Ben became a turnover machine. Well, I suspect that the three week stretch where the Steelers beat Dallas, beat Baltimore, and lost to Tennessee caused a light to turn on in Ben’s head. Against Dallas and Baltimore, the Steelers’ offense, except for clutch TD drives late in each game, was practically nonexistent, while the defense played its two best games of the year. Then in Tennessee, Ben tried to do too much, and pretty much cost the Steelers the game. (Admittedly, it was an almost meaningless one.) At this point, I think that either Ben realized on his own, or the coaching staff forced him to realize, that, for as good as he can be, all the team really needs him to do this year is make a few big plays each game and generally not screw things up for the defense. And, to my eyes, this has how he’s played in the playoffs. For all the crazy scrambling plays he made against Baltimore, the risks he took were measured ones (for him), and he deliberately threw the ball away more than he usually does. While I grudgingly stand by my declaration that I will never again fully trust Ben in a big game after his truly horrific first half against Jacksonville in last year’s playoffs, I do think he knows his role going into this game — a large reason why I think the Steelers will be coming home to Pittsburgh with a sixth Lombardi.

The Pushing Paper Book Review: The Trophy Kids Grow Up

Apparently if you were born in between 1980 and 2001, you’re a member of the “millenial” generation. Well, I was born in 1983, and I don’t see how I have anything remotely in common with some little, seven-year-old wiener outside of the fact that we both probably love Nintendo Wii. (And I bet I could pwn them in Guitar Hero.) But when I read the excerpt of The Trophy Kids Grow Up: How the Millenial Generation Is Shaking Up the Workplace in the Wall Street Journal a couple months ago, I became pretty anxious to read the book in its entirety. Just check out this golden quote from “a teenage blogger named Olivia”:

[Crusty-ass old people in the workplace] are finding that they have to adjust work around our lives instead of us adjusting our lives around work. What other option do they have? We are hard working and utilize tools to get the job done. But we don’t want to work more than 40 hours a week, and we want to wear clothes that are comfortable. We want to be able to spice up the dull workday by listening to our iPods. If corporate America doesn’t like that, too bad. They don’t have much of a choice because there are other jobs out there that will take us.

If you don’t feel the urge to hum “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” to yourself while reading that, then you aren’t a true millenial.

A large reason why I was so eager to read The Trophy Kids Grow Up was that I wanted to see how I stacked up against existing stereotypes of my fellow millenials. Aside from the vitriol — I must confess, I do behave myself at work — Olivia’s quote succinctly summarized many of my views of the professional world, so I anticipated that the book would have me pretty well pegged. However, that turned out to be only half true, because while there are many ways in which I am a typical millenial, there seem to be just as many ways in which I am not. (There are some common traits of my generation that, if this book is to be believed, are so incredibly ridiculous that it’s no wonder all those crusty-ass old people in the workplace hate us.)

Make no mistake, despite the fact that Alsop is a self-admitted baby boomer, his book is a clear-eyed portrayal of millenials. While he dutifully lists his interview subjects’ complaints, deep down I think he likes us. He notes that he has a millenial-aged son, and in an important passage points out the blatant hypocrisy of baby boomers who go out of their way to complain about the very generation that they raised. So while it would have been wildly entertaining to read a book full of nothing more than sour grapes cranks whining about how they’re slowly losing their grip of the world, Alsop is to be credited for his even-handedness.

The Trophy Kids Grow Up touches upon all major traits of the millenial generation, and I suspect that my fellow twenty-somethings might read the book exactly as I did: Rapt with attention when reading chapters that describe an aspect of their personalities, eyes glazed over when reading chapters that don’t. For example, I lapped up the chapter titled “Free To Be Me,” which illustrated millenials’ desire for a less structured professional world, be it in the form of less formal dress codes, more freedom for inexperienced workers to bounce from job to job, or the ability to work from home more often. But I cruised through the chapter titled “Take Your Parents to Work” as quickly as possible — I’ve never brought one of my parents with me to a job interview, and I never intend to. (Seriously, kids who do that should be shot, and I say that as someone who moved back home for a year after graduating from college, so I’m not exactly Mr. Independent.) Having said all this, I can think of people I knew in college who would feel perfectly comfortable slicking back their hair and spending a significant chunk of their income on business clothes, but also consult with their parents before making every decision in their lives, no matter how insignificant.

In the end, I think The Trophy Kids Grow Up would be most interesting to and beneficial for the generations who are currently running the show, particularly the baby boomers (or as they’re now known, the generation that pretty much ruined the entire world last year). For all the debate about whether or not millenials are unprofessional or lazy or entitled, it’s pretty much a moot point. The one thing that is absolutely certain about the conflicts between millenials and the generations above them is that the millenials will be the last ones standing, and The Trophy Kids Grow Up understands this. Its main point is that, although millenials will inevitably have to compromise on some fronts, companies who hope to be viable in the future had better adjust to millenials now, because eventually they will need us. That a teenage blogger named Olivia can grasp this concept better than many of this country’s presumably brilliant business leaders is pretty mind-blowing.

Get HGH or Die Trying

I just finished reading this gargantuan ESPN.com piece about former Steelers team doctor Richard Rydze. The lead on ESPN’s front page, at the time it was posted, read: “Richard Rydze was a member of the Steelers’ medical staff for more than 20 years. Then he was gone, only months after his name surfaced as a big-time buyer of HGH. Coincidence?”

Talk about your juicy leads. While Rydze’s story isn’t new — it broke in February of 2007 — I had hoped that perhaps a new investigative piece of such depth would reveal something new about whether or not Rydze’s connections to both the Steelers and HGH were, in fact, a coincidence. On that front, I was disappointed. The story ends up veering into an examination of the legality of using HGH for off-label purposes, an issue over which Rydze and the FDA disagree vehemently. If I read the piece correctly, it’s basically illegal to use HGH for anything other than its FDA approved purposes (I guess for other drugs you can pretty much do whatever you want with them so long as you’re a doctor, which seems insane to my medically uninclined mind), but throughout the piece Rydze freely discusses using it for whatever he damn well pleases — and he clearly believes that HGH has the potential to be beneficial for any number of ailments.

Well one segment of the population that would clearly benefit from expanded usage of HGH would be professional football players. (I know, crazy.) Reading that Rydze admitted to administering HGH to elderly patients who were suffering from tendon and ligament damage immediately brings to mind every NFL player not named Tom Brady who blew out their knee in the last decade, facing a full year on the sidelines, yet somehow having their rehab continually be described as “well ahead of schedule.” Not to mention the fact that your average NFL position player is both significantly larger and faster than almost all of his predecessors.

If all these “coincidences” leave you feeling skeptical, just know that the NFL is on top of the Rydze case. As the article informs us: “NFL and UPMC officials have already been to [Rydze's] office . . . and ‘looked through every record and chart.’” In case you were wondering, this is the same NFL that exhaustively investigated Bill Belichick’s illegal filming of opposing teams’ sidelines by destroying all of his secret tapes the second they arrived at league offices. And if that isn’t enough to win you over, it’s also the same NFL that’s banned HGH, but doesn’t test for it.

I’m in no position to speculate on whether or not Rydze was illegally supplying HGH to the Steelers during the years he was affiliated with the team (and no, not just because I own home and away Hines Ward jerseys). But, if there were a preponderance of NFL players who were using HGH, there wouldn’t be much incentive for the league to do anything about it. I can’t imagine there are many fans out there, be they die hard or casual, saying things like, “you know, the NFL is great and all, but I just wish the players were smaller and slower.” And it goes without saying that it’s to the league’s overwhelming benefit if injured star players get back on the field as quickly as possible.

Of all these seeming coincidences that connect HGH and other performance enhancing drugs to the NFL, the most glaring one is the fact that, as PEDs have become increasingly prevalent in the world of professional sports, the NFL has become far and away America’s most popular sports league. There are many reasons for this that go beyond performance enhancement, chief among them being the simple fact that professional football is wildly entertaining to watch, but if you’re commissioner Roger Goodell, you know that your job description amounts to little more than “Don’t Kill the Golden Goose.” If that goose just so happens to be regularly injecting itself with HGH, then your best move isn’t to actually crack down on this transgression, but to make it seem as though you are.

***

As dreadful as the Pens’ season has become, it’s worth remembering that less than two years ago there was a significant chance that the team could move away from Pittsburgh. Maybe they’ve completely lost their way on the ice, but, as of this post, they’ve still sold out 87 games in a row, and, as far as I can tell, the new arena is progressing nicely. With all this in mind, I enthusiastically recommend Stu Hackel’s examination of the Phoenix Coyotes’ current financial woes in the New York Times‘ Slap Shot blog. Definitely one of my favorite sports pieces I’ve read in a while.

2008 Music Year In Review: Falling Out Of Love With Indie Rock

Hate it or love it (I side much more with the latter), it’s still a big deal for music nerds when Pitchfork releases its year-end best-of lists. Maybe Pitchfork no longer has the monopoly on internet tastemaking that it did five years ago — before mp3 blogs allowed everyone to bypass the entire concept of criticism and just figure out what they liked for themselves — but the annual albums list remains the go-to destination for those of us who yearn for a critical consensus that isn’t perpetually undermined by old geezers who continue to drool over every Dylan or Springsteen release like it’s 1975.

Looking back at Pitchfork’s past lists reveals how the site has evolved over the years. 2002, the year I started reading on a daily basis, was one of Pitchfork’s last years as a little-known indie paradise, and their albums list reflects this. The bottom half is pretty interesting, but the top of the list tells all. Indie gods Interpol, Wilco, The Flaming Lips, Spoon, and Sonic Youth all placed in the top ten. The highest placing rap album was by a white guy on Def Jux. Hot Hot Heat cracked the top twenty, for crying out loud. (Not to be forgotten: That year Pitchfork bestowed perfect 10.0s upon Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Source Tags & Codes, which, it seems, they’ve never forgiven themselves for.)

As the years went by, Pitchfork’s increasing popularity demanded that the editors pay more attention to non-indie genres. 2005 was probably when this movement hit its apogee, as the “singles” list was littered with random rap mixtape songs. (Not coincidentally, this was by far my favorite of Pitchfork’s tracks lists, even if the number one song is completely depressing and lame. Honestly, who in 2005 actually sat around playing “Hope There’s Someone” on repeat all day?)

Now, in 2008, Pitchfork and, to a larger degree, the tastes of its audience have come full circle — it’s a full fledged indie rock site again. To be fair, with selections like Portishead and DJ/Rupture, the top ten artists from this year’s list aren’t exactly a bunch of Pavement knock-offs, but it’s not like a nation of hipsters is now being forced to go out and act like they’re obsessed with The Knife. In the wake of mainstream rock’s last, nümetal gasp at the turn of the century, casual music listeners who want to hear contemporary rock music that’s actually worth hearing have no choice but to go indie. And a lot of those people are probably going to stumble across Pitchfork at some point. The thing is, these newcomers aren’t going to have the same appetite for wild new sounds as the longtime readers who reside in a world where the Pixies are as big as the Beatles. After all, when David Brooks begins name-checking your site, you’ve probably lost at least a shred of your cutting edge cred.

That doesn’t mean that Pitchfork is worse than it was before it blew up. It’s just different. Thankfully, unless you’re one of the Black Kids, Pitchfork’s writers won’t go out of their way to destroy your career anymore. But, at the same time, Pitchfork isn’t single-handedly pulling bands as unusual as The Books out of eternal obscurity anymore, either. It’s a given that straightforward indie rock will always be Pitchfork’s bread and butter, but with bands like Modest Mouse and Arcade Fire bringing the masses down to Pitchfork’s level, it feels like the site, from a consensus building standpoint, has become less adventurous.

At least that’s one way I look at it. The other, more likely, scenario is that, although I’m still a loyal reader, I’m no longer a part of Pitchfork’s core constituency. Not to sound dismissive, but bands like, say, No Age just don’t do it for me anymore. What’s more, I no longer feel obligated to listen to all the hot new indie albums, if only so I can say I’m up on things. It may be true that I haven’t bothered to sit down and actually listen to Nouns, but I also know somehow that I don’t want to. (I apologize for that last sentence basically reading as the definition of the word dismissive.) That this statement comes from a man who was in a good mood one day last week because he had “Harnessed In Slums” stuck in his head is as compelling a piece of evidence as any that Pitchfork and I have gone our separate ways. That and the fact that “Put On” only finished 67th on their tracks list. What the hell.

For some reason, this bums me out. I suppose in one sense it’s nice to finally be freed from the shackles of those nefarious tastemakers who will one day praise an artist you hold dear and then drag them through the mud on the next. But I was completely floored by how emphatically out of touch I was when filling out Pitchfork’s year-end poll/survey. (I had hoped to win one of those sweet New Order reissues, as well as complain somewhere about how in the news section you have to click a new link to view a band’s tour dates, but are forced to scroll through 500 stupid pictures of Marnie Stern every time she plays in Chicago.) When I struggled to choose my five favorite albums from their list of fifty or so, it was as if a chapter of my life had closed, and unless you’re getting out of prison or something, that’s never any fun.

So, five to ten years from now, when I look back on the music of 2008, I most likely will struggle to remember it at all. 2008 was the year of metal for me. The majority of the albums I listened to most this year — some brand new but most older — were metal albums, and some of the best shows I went to this year were metal shows. Frankly, I enjoyed it all so much that I hope 2009 is a metal year, too. As for indie, well, if ever there should come a time when “Zurich Is Stained” or “Gyroscope” unexpectedly comes on the radio and you see a lonely tear run down my cheek, don’t think I’m weird.

The Five Most Accurately Titled Albums Ever

The critical reception for Kanye West’s latest album, 808s and Heartbreak, has greatly disappointed me. As I sat through my first listen, I was sure that 808s was destined to be one of the most divisive albums of our time. As has been noted by many a reviewer lately, Kanye is maybe the only truly popular musical artist who could pull off an album like this. Out of all the arena-headlining superstars nowadays, Kanye by far seems the least beholden to his revenue-starved record label’s desires. I’ll never bother to find out just how much unlistenable filler there is on Beyonce’s new album, I Am … Sasha Fierce (seeing as how all the good songs will make their way onto radio/MTV Jams eventually), but I know there’s a zero percent chance that it contains nothing but songs where she cries about Jay-Z over barely-existent beats through an autotuner.

And because Kanye is in such a rare position where he can make an album like 808s, I hoped he might be able to spark a nationwide civil war between those who loved and hated it. Because nobody buys CDs anymore (you heard it here first), it’s rare that an album could set off an honest to God debate. But with Kanye, who through three albums has consistently succeeded on both critical and commercial fronts, I thought it possible that enough unsuspecting “Gold Digger” fans would be so bewildered by Kanye’s lover’s lament crap that a calculable backlash would ensue. I was eagerly awaiting the day I would be called into battle, half of my fellow music nerds with me and half against me, with the tribal drums from “Love Lockdown” thumping all around, ready to slay the non-believers. But, if Metacritic is to be believed, the almost universal sentiment surrounding 808s is, roughly, “This album’s pretty good, I guess.” Like I said, I’m disappointed.

But if 808s and Heartbreak failed in its bid to become Kanye’s personal The Final Cut (only in the public reception sense, most definitely NOT in the subject matter sense), it might possibly be the most accurately titled album ever, which counts for something, I think. Given what a striking left turn Kanye took with this album (you know, since rappers usually rap in their songs, and all) it was courteous of him to give those who weren’t paying attention all summer such a clear warning of what they were about to encounter. So in tribute to the most compelling popular musical artist of this decade, I give you my wholly undefinitive list of the five most accurately titled albums ever prior to 808s and Heartbreak, because coming up with ten was a real pain in the ass.

(And, in case any smart-ass jerks are reading this, self-titled albums, greatest hits compilations, and albums with names like Songs of Love and Hate or Live at the Apollo don’t count.)

5. Nine Inch Nails, The Downward Spiral

Take it from someone who was a cranky little boy who couldn’t possibly get enough teen angst-type music around the time of this epochal album’s release: This title is basically perfect. Can you possibly imagine The Downward Spiral being named anything else? I rest my case.

4. Paul Wall and Chamillionaire, Get Ya Mind Correct

I’m far from alone in wishing that these two would release another album (or more) together, but we’ll always have this classic. Given that Get Ya Mind Correct is almost entirely about money and cars, it’s fitting that its title should succinctly remind not to lose sight of what really matters in life.

3. Mayhem, Pure Fucking Armageddon

I’ll be honest, I’m not all that familiar with Mayhem’s music, including this early demo they made in 1986. But I have read about them on the Internet approximately five million times, so I feel perfectly comfortable rating this one so highly.

2. Crime Mob, Hated On Mostly

I usually try not to make broad, sweeping statements about America’s moral fiber, but I think it’s safe to say that any music group that has a member who’s been incarcerated for child molestation could be accurately described as “hated on mostly.” (I really wish I were making this up.)

1. Daft Punk, Human After All

Now, most people, when they think of this title, automatically connect it with the Daft Punk boys’ personae as robots sent from outer space to teach our fair world about the finest dance music the universe has to offer. That makes total sense. However, I like to think of this title as a red-faced confession that this is a really shitty album. “So you thought we were geniuses, huh? Well, have we got some news for you.”

Radiohead Live in Cleveland

Last night I checked off one of the most important items on any hipster’s bucket list: Go to a Radiohead concert. I even went so far as to take two days off of work and drive all the way to Cleveland to do it. If that’s what life requires of me so that I may one day rest easy on my deathbed, so be it.

Even though there was never any single period in my life where I fell head-over-heels in love with Radiohead, I am a big enough fan that I own all their albums and even have a pretty healthy working knowledge of a lot of their b-sides. So I was pretty excited for last night’s show, even if you factor out the aforementioned vacation days. Everyone knows that Radiohead consistently brings the goods in concert. Most bands I see struggle to fill an hour of material, but with Radiohead you’re guaranteed at least two hours of music spanning a full thirteen years of creative evolution. Believe me, I don’t take that for granted.

The first thing that struck me as we walked up to the lawn is that going to a Radiohead concert certainly feels like an event. It seemed like there were 100,000 people there. (I have no idea what the actual number was.) That’s what happens when a band with an obsessively devoted legion of fans plays precious few shows in America. One of the biggest testaments to Radiohead’s popularity is the fact that, unlike just about every other band big enough to fill an outdoor ampitheater, people in the crowd are perfectly happy to hear their new material. I’m sure there were some in the crowd who showed up hoping they’d hear a setlist chock full of Bends classics, but it was obvious that most people were curious to hear what the songs from In Rainbows sounded like live. How do I know this? Because if the crowd had any objections to hearing In Rainbows songs last night, there would have been riots. Radiohead played every single song from that album. The result was that last night’s show felt pleasant more than anything else. If you wanted to relax, stare at the sky, and let the music (and, for just about every person around us, the marijuana) overwhelm you, this was your show. If you wanted to hear the full range of Thom Yorke’s vocal capabalities and be blown away by anthemic climaxes, then maybe not.

The good news is that they played the In Rainbows songs, along with pretty much everything else, almost flawlessly. The bad news is that they played everything a little too flawlessly. Aside from songs like “The National Anthem” and “How To Disappear Completely,” which can’t possibly be 100% recreated live, everything sounded exactly as it does on record. Combined with the fact that we were standing quite a ways from the stage, there were a couple of moments where it felt like I was watching the concert on TV. Last October, when I saw the Smashing Pumpkins — a band whose new material I had absolutely zero interest in hearing live — there was one point where everyone left the stage but Billy, who then played acoustic versions of “1979″ and “Perfect.” It was my personal highlight of the concert, largely because I felt like I saw and heard something that couldn’t be bought off a shelf at Best Buy. I’m not sure I can say that about last night’s show.

I don’t want to make it sound like the band was on autopilot or anything, because they most certainly were not. We all got our money’s worth, to be sure. They definitely seemed appreciative of the large turnout. I wish there were some way to find out how many people there were actually from Cleveland. (I certainly got a fair amount of compliments for my Sergei Gonchar t-shirt jersey.) And let us not forget, I can now say I’ve seen Radiohead live. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

Other Notable Moments

• If one ever needed proof that miracles really do happen, they only need reference the fact that we made our way out of Blossom in less than fifteen minutes last night. That’s the flipside to going to a concert where there are so many people that it feels like an event: You think, Oh no, it’s going to take about eight hours to get out of here. We didn’t leave the show prematurely. We didn’t sprint to the car. We just got in and, for the most part, cruised on out. I can’t possibly explain why it was so painless. That’s why it was a miracle.
• Perhaps my personal highlight of the show was meeting a guy who was decked out in a Brett Favre jersey and a Packers hat. Now, I hate Brett Favre as much as everyone else right now. He makes Pete Rose seem like J.D. Salinger. But when I saw this guy who was so overjoyed about Favre being a Packer again that he felt the need to show up at a Radiohead concert dressed like that, I had to congratulate him. He promptly gave me five and, with a huge grin on his face, said, “It’s so awesome. One more year of glory.” I have to say, I was honestly happy for him.
• The unquestioned lowlight of the concert was missing Grizzly Bear’s opening set. If you’re keeping score at home, I’ve now missed a Pittsburgh show of theirs that took place on my birthday because it somehow slipped under my radar, and another show of theirs that I actually had tickets to well in advance. If they break up I’m going to punch myself in the face.