I’ve got some career advice for the rapper who calls himself “Eminem.”
That advice is as follows — hang it up.
I’ve just walked into my hotel room from a night out on the town and managed to catch his latest musical “performance,” on NBC’s Saturday Night Live. I assure you, this was completely by accident. Not watching Eminem, mind you. I’m talking about tuning into Saturday Night Live.
Before I could reach for the remote control, I learned that he was the “guest star” of the show that night. “Coming up next: Eminem!” Naturally, I had to watch out of morbid curiosity. I’d never watched him perform before. I figured it was sort of like rubbernecking a bad car crash. Well, it was kinda’ like that — only I would have been much more interested in the auto wreck, especially if there were injuries.
Here’s the deal. Basically, the dude comes out and jumps around a stage for six minutes wearing a puffy winter coat and screams into a microphone. That’s it. No structure. No emotion. No soul. Hell, I could barely understand a single word he was saying.
I confess that I’ve never once watched Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.
Who knew what I was missing all these years?
Check out several of Fallon’s very best impersonations of classic rock icons. My favorite is the Jim Morrison impression, which Fallon absolutely nails.
What’s really brilliant about this rendition is the faux song sounds exactly like something The Doors could have released in their prime (hell, it’s actually better than most of the stuff they put out). Yet, it was created by Fallon and his talented team of writers and then performed live on his show in one take. That’s right — one take. That’s extraordinary.
In fact, all of Fallon’s impersonations are original songs. That’s what sets these impersonations apart — that not only does Fallon capture the voice and character, he also co-wrote original songs and lyrics. Simply amazing.
Many of you may have seen these already. But I assume that many of you have not. Click on the following videos, crank up the volume, and enjoy.
The 2013 World Series of Poker Main Event Championship began today. For me, this is a special time.
Ten years ago when I was working at Binion’s Horseshoe, there was a critical junction on the WSOP timeline. We were given the cover story for Card Player magazine, which at the time was pretty much the voice of poker. I was told to “handle it.”
Binion’s Horseshoe’s steady decline and eventual demise has been written about in some depth here. However, that cover story provided a rare opportunity to re-brand ourselves and regain the high ground over everyone else.
Back then, an exciting new attraction called the World Poker Tour was kicking our ass. Sure, we had a far superior product, largely due to our prestige and tradition. But we weren’t marketing it right. I decided then and there that — for all the things the WPT was doing better than us — the one thing they couldn’t touch was the gold bracelet.
Who could have imagined this? Many years ago, gold bracelets weren’t thought of as they are today. Many of the players who won them, including quite a few poker legends, lost them over the years or simply gave them away. Quite a few gold bracelets ended up in pawn shops.
It seemed to me that the gold bracelet was that one item that simply couldn’t be equaled by any other poker competitor, no matter how hard they tried. As creative as our rivals were in trumpeting their own symbols of accomplishment, nothing quite matched the WSOP gold bracelet, nor would anything ever equal it so long as I was in charge of the publicity surrounding our event.
The third annual “Electric Daisy Carnival” is happening this coming weekend in Las Vegas.
Talk about a fucking freak show.
Something like 320,000 dopers with no fucking taste whatsoever in music or clothes will head out to the Las Vegas Motor Speedway, scorch themselves in the baking sun for three full days, act like total asses, and get off on the worst music perhaps that’s ever been created.
Sounds like something created by the Marquis de Sade.
I have a message for all the thousands of Electric Daisy Carnival attendees who follow me. The message is as follows.
I’m not going.
That’s right. I’m staying the fuck away. And I urge you to do the same.
Go ahead. Ignore my advice. Stick your asses out on the blazing asphalt of a motor track, fry your brains with ecstasy or cocaine or whatever dope your generation snorts nowadays, groove to your fucking garbage, and blow hundreds of dollars of your parents’ money to brag later that you were part of the assfuck circus.
You show me a machine or a computer program that can match the stellar majesty of Luciano Pavarotti’s singing “Nessun Dorma,” and I’ll acknowledge it as music. Until then, it’s fucking garbage.
If you’re under 25 years old — or an immature 30-plus — I’m about to set your ass straight.
So, listen up.
Your music is fucking garbage.
There, I said it.
Mindless crap. Eardrum-bursting, dagger-in-the-eyes, ass-bagging, blow your fucking brains out — unadulterated dog shit. That pretty much sums up the type of music that’s popular with today’s young people.
Listen, you stupid sons of bitches. I’m talking at you. I’m your elder. My opinion demands respect.
Your music hasn’t got life. It’s fucking dead. Your music is void of humanity. It’s as fake as a porn queen’s orgasm. There’s no soul. It’s tripe. It’s a carp in the sea of music. The stuff you listen to was created by fucking machines.
Today’s “artists” — there’s an oxymoron — don’t even need to know how to play musical instruments or sing. In other words, no fucking talent whatsoever is needed to succeed today in music. You heard me. No. Talent. Whatsoever.
And, I’m fucking sick of it because the current generation is taking the gold we gave you and dragging it into a sewer.