Jerry West is kind of a big deal.

Aside from having impeccable taste in player acquisitions—he was the architect behind the 1980s “Showtime” Lakers before luring Kobe and Shaq to Los Angeles to jumpstart the next dynasty in the 2000s—he was nice as fuck on the basketball court.

Like, 12-time All-NBA, nice. 1960 Olympic gold medalist, nice.

1972 NBA champion, nice. NBA 75th Anniversary Team, nice.

The only player in NBA history to win Finals MVP while playing for the losing team, nice.

Then, after he decided to stop breaking everyone’s ankles on the court for a living, he continued his reign of terror as a coach—remember that pit stop at the Western Conference Finals in 1977?—and front office exec, where, with the keys to the kingdom, the Lakers blossomed into the gold standard in professional sports, and the moribund Memphis Grizzlies flourished as a perennial playoff team. He then went on to sprinkle his Midas touch on the Golden State Warriors—who ran up two championships during his tenure—and the Clippers before he passed at the age of 86 in 2024.

So simply put, Jerry West is basketball.

That’s why he was inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame on three separate occasions: as a player (in 1980), on behalf of the 1960 U.S. men’s Olympic basketball team (in 2010), and for his unprecedented success as a general manager and advisor (in 2024).

Oh, and the NBA logo? That’s his silhouette.

So if there’s a professional athlete in the history of Western Civilization who’s deserving of an Amazon MGM Studios documentary, it’s Jerry West. And in Jerry West: The Logo, director Kenya Barris peers behind the mythology to reveal the person—and every ounce of pain—buried beneath.

Early in this doc, the man who collected an astonishing eight NBA championships as an executive offers a candid confession: “I learned so much from winning, but more from losing.” And as the byproduct of an impoverished, abusive household, it becomes almost immediately clear that for all of the accolades he accrued later in life, the crippling losses began early.

His childhood was fraught with violence, and sadly, it only escalated after his older brother, David, joined the military and was killed in the Korean War. It’s hard to imagine spending the holidays with your brother’s casket next to the Christmas tree, yet as devastating as David’s loss was, Jerry insists that the tragic death of Kobe Bryant decades later was just as emotionally catastrophic. We also learn that the first time Jerry’s wife ever saw him cry was when Magic Johnson was diagnosed with HIV in 1991.

While Jerry is somber as he revisits these ghosts of the past, it’s his friends and family who contextualize the true extent of his anguish through their own firsthand accounts. He’s described as withdrawn and emotionally inaccessible—greeting his sons with handshakes instead of hugs—and affable one day, then struggling to even get out of bed the next. He even admits that he doesn’t use the words “I love you” because he “doesn’t know if it’s inside of me.”

Further fracturing his psyche was the toll that basketball took on him. Despite being synonymous with winning as an executive, losing seven consecutive NBA Finals to the Boston Celtics as a player clearly broke something inside of him. So much so that his son reveals that his father almost had a panic attack upon returning to Boston Garden as the Lakers’ general manager, and that the family is forbidden from ever wearing green.

We often view Jerry through the prism of invincibility, as he’s widely considered one of the greatest players, and the single greatest front office executive, in the history of the sport. But how he viewed himself wasn’t framed by his achievements, he was framed by calamity—and the trauma that burrowed itself deep within his soul until his dying day.

For the casual fan, Jerry West: The Logo is a compelling collection of riveting interviews and obscure archival footage, presented through Barris’ curious lens. But if you’re anything like me, it’s the juicy morsels of compassion and candor that make this documentary such a satisfying treat.

Jerry West: The Logo is available on Prime Video on April 16th.

Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice is hilarious.

It’s also a bit aggressive with the ampersands, but there’s a good reason for that.

You see, Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice is what happens when mob bosses & time travel & after after parties & chloroform & Gilmore Girls &—hold up. Let’s try this again.

On the surface, Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice sounds eerily similar to just about every mob movie in the history of Western civilization: Mike (James Marsden) is sick and tired of shooting people in the face for a living. So, of course, on the night he finally decides to call it quits, his fellow career criminal, Nick (Vince Vaughn), convinces him to hit one last lick before Mike hangs his jersey in the rafters.

Did I mention Mike partakes in ravenous, extramarital sex with Nick’s wife, Alice (Eiza González), behind his back? Oh.

Naturally, this illicit love triangle is the perfect recipe for a vengeful bloodbath. But because Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice is hellbent on giving the tired mob movie trope the middle finger, it adds a completely unhinged twist to the equation: a time machine.

Yes, you read that right: a time machine.

And as with all things that involve semi-automatic handguns and time travel, foolishness and fuckery ensue for approximately 107 minutes of runtime, as Nick arrives from the future to save his BFF Mike in the present from a murderous crime boss (Keith David).

I did mention Mike is fucking Nick’s wife, right?

Just making sure.

If this all sounds like complete and utter insanity, it’s because it absolutely is. But that’s also what imbues this movie with its undeniable charm: the outlandishness of it all juxtaposed against the conventional “one last job and I’m out” trope. We’ve been down this road before, with Robert De Niro in Heat, Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, and approximately 7,391,528 other instances of a contrite mobster running back on stage for one last encore to the audience’s delight.

But with a time machine?

This has gotta be a first.

Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice isn’t without its missteps, however.

That whole Wong Kar-wai smeared visual aesthetic that director BenDavid Grabinski sporadically deploys is confounding, and if gratuitous amounts of camp isn’t your ministry, you might find the tone of this film off-putting.

Hell, you might even mistake it for parody.

That said, it’s borderline criminal that this excellent cast, with their excellent gags, won’t get the opportunity to be drowned in laughter and box office receipts since they’re skipping that whole extravagant theatrical release thing in order to take their quirkiness and snark straight to Hulu.

But just remember: Even though wacky sci-fi action comedies might be condemned to streaming services in this day and age, that doesn’t make them any less worthy of praise or accolades.

Some movies step up to the plate and swing for greatness. Others stumble into cult classic status by sheer force of personality. Because sometimes, all it takes is a time machine, a generous dose of betrayal, and absolutely no interest in behaving.

Mike & Nick & Nick & Alice premieres on Hulu on March 27th.

Behind every confident man is a woman protecting his ego.

And as a New York Times bombshell investigation revealed on Wednesday, the latest—and most heinous—example of this disturbing reality is courtesy of civil rights icon Cesar Chavez.

I won’t pretend to have intimate knowledge of his work to establish The United Farm Workers, or the decades he poured into activism and environmental justice. But now I do know that every achievement, every accolade, he accomplished while standing up for the rights and liberties of marginalized Mexican Americans came at an unimaginable cost: the purloined innocence of the same women and underage girls he was supposed to be fighting for.

Two things can be true: the farm labor movement was instrumental in ensuring farm workers received fair wages, labor rights, and safer working conditions. It even played a crucial role in getting California’s 1975 Agricultural Labor Relations Act passed. But no movement is perfect, and even those that empower and uplift are entirely capable of harm.

As the incredible work of reporters Manny Fernandez and Sarah Hurtes proves, Dolores Huerta—an iconic civil rights activist and community organizer in her own right—wasn’t the only one who survived unspeakable horrors at the hands of Chavez. But what makes her unique—and her circumstances especially tragic—is that as the co-founder of The United Farm Workers, of which Chavez’s entire legacy is built upon, she was tasked with concealing her abuse in service to what she believed to be the greater good.

“I am nearly 96 years old,” she wrote in a statement on Wednesday. “And for the last 60 years have kept a secret because I believed that exposing the truth would hurt the farmworker movement I have spent my entire life fighting for.”

In her statement, she not only details the sexual abuse she suffered but also reveals that those encounters resulted in the birth of two children—children she was denied the opportunity to love, cherish, and raise as her own.

“I chose to keep my pregnancies secret and, after the children were born, I arranged for them to be raised by other families that could give them stable lives,” she wrote. “Over the years, I have been fortunate to develop a deep relationship with these children, who are now close to my other children, their siblings. But even then, no one knew the full truth about how they were conceived until just a few weeks ago.”

So not only did Dolores spend decades of her life standing side by side with her abuser—championing his reputation; protecting his ego—she did so because she felt she had no better way to fight for her community.

“I carried this secret for as long as I did because building the movement and securing farmworker rights was my life’s work,” she wrote. “The formation of a union was the only vehicle to accomplish and secure those rights, and I wasn’t going to let Cesar or anyone else get in the way. I channeled everything I had into advocating on behalf of millions of farmworkers and others who were suffering and deserved equal rights.”

I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of sacrifice that takes.

To love your people—and their progress—so much that you suffer in silence, all while the monster who tried to break you is revered for his fortitude and character. Time and time again.

Streets and schools are named after him. Parks, plazas. Libraries and holidays. He even has a Presidential Medal of Freedom—the highest civilian honor our government can bestow.

And throughout all of that—the boycotts, the union negotiations, the advocacy for women’s rights, possibly even the 1965 Delano Grape Strike—she clung to his secrets.

Buried them in her womb and protected them with her life.

I don’t know what’s next for Dolores and the other survivors, but I find it fascinating that Chavez is facing more outrage and accountability from the grave (he died in 1993) than our sitting president is for similar behavior.

I also hope that Dolores and every other survivor are rewarded with the opportunity to properly heal now that they’ve been so courageous in sharing their truth.

May the rest of their days be free from protecting any more male egos.

Sí, se puede.

(If you are a survivor or if you have been impacted by any type of sexual violence, please visit the Dolores Huerta Foundation website, where you will find a list of resources for support.)

SPOILER WARNING: Don’t read another word unless you hate yourself enough not to be keeping up with the latest episode of Paradise.

Yo, I don’t know what type of performance-enhancing drugs Dan Fogelman is on—this man needs to be tested IMMEDIATELY—but he took a series that was already exceptional, sprinkled it with pixie dust, and has somehow made it even better during its sophomore season.

Considering this is the same dude who subjected millions to unspeakable amounts of emotional torment every week with his most popular creation, This Is Us, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But Dan has become synonymous with the Emmys for a reason, and he’s definitely keeping that same energy with his latest concoction, Hulu’s Paradise.

We Outside!

When last we left Sterling K. Xavier Collins, he had escaped the Ninja Turtles’ lair and taken to the friendly skies after learning that his beloved, beautiful, Black-ass wife, Teri, had survived the zombie apocalypse. Naturally, after spending eight straight episodes inside that sealed bunker, we all could use a little fresh air. But instead of picking up where Xavier’s trek to Atlanta left off, we’re cordially introduced to…

…a post-apocalyptic Graceland, of all places.

Such a seismic shift in setting was jarring at first—trading in all the chaos and claustrophobia of last season for sunshine and rainbows stolen car batteries was not on my bingo card—but it’s nice to finally get a little elbow room. We went from sleeping on the bottom bunk to swimming in a sea of sheets and pillowcases in a California king.

I mean, sure, life on the surface isn’t exactly ideal: billions of people were either nuclear wintered, supervolcanoed, or megatsunamied, so what’s left of Trump’s America is in worse shape than his ankles, but this expansion in scope offers limitless story potential. No longer are we trapped in the library with Jeremy, or in the shower with Xavier and that Gabriela lady that wasn’t Teri. Now we get to frolic and play in Elvis’s basement, scour for blankets to swaddle in a Waffle Barn, and pick fresh tomatoes at an Atlanta post office.

I guess the end of the world ain’t so bad after all—especially when you’ve got some unexpected company.

Who All Gon’ Be There?

You really thought we’d finally escape that stuffy-ass bunker and wouldn’t stumble upon some new friends to play with?

From the jump, we’re introduced to Annie—the should-be doctor whose years of solitude at Graceland greatly contribute to her childhood trauma and inability to trust others. This, of course, becomes a bit of a problem when Link magically appears to knock her up. But even more so when—after he’s forced to chuck up the deuce and leave her behind—she’s reluctant to seek help during the birth of their daughter. Thankfully, everyone loves Xavier, so naturally, Annie takes a liking—and a gun—to him before bestowing upon him his “holy charge”: he’s gotta take the baby to its father because ummm…Annie’s dead, y’all.

Yeeeeeah.

So as if Xavier doesn’t already have murderous scavengers stabbing him in the ribs in this dystopian wasteland, now he’s gotta burp babies and heat up bottles because Link doesn’t do condoms?

A Black man’s burden, indeed.

But with Annie buried next to Elvis in the backyard somewhere, don’t think the parade of new faces comes to an end. Oh, no no no. We’ve got a cartel of thieving-ass kids; Henry Miller, a quantum entanglement professor who was kind enough to euthanize his wife before headbutting a bullet; Henry Baines, the Trump-adjacent successor to President Cal, whose necktie of choice is a slit throat; Bean, whose adolescence and curiosity bring some much-needed levity to an otherwise forlorn future; and punk-ass Gary, who needs his punk-ass beat expeditiously.

Considering mailmen are entrusted with everything from Christmas gifts to dildos, you’d think they’d be some of the most virtuous inhabitants in the entire universe. But nope! Apparently, a nuclear winter brings out the worst in all of us, because this motherfucker Gary really aint shit. While the depths of his ain’t shitness have yet to be determined, murdering your best friend is a pretty good start—and it’s safe to assume he’d love nothing more than for our lord and savior Xavier to suffer a similar fate.

But it’s Link in particular who’s the most compelling of this new influx of allies and antagonists. As the de facto leader of the largest faction we’ve come across yet, who is Alex? And why is Link so hellbent on killing them?

So many new friends! So little time!

#ThoseFlashbacksTho

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And with all the success he’s had with This Is Us and Only Murders in the Building, Dan Fogelman continues to tantalize us with delicious tidbits of the past.

Oh, so that’s why Gary’s descent into villainy is so tragic.

Oh, so that’s how Xavier and Teri met.

Oh, so that’s why Graceland meant so much to Annie.

Oh, so that’s why Billy and Jane ain’t shit.

Oh, so that’s why [a bunch of other things I can’t speak on yet since I’ve already watched the rest of the season]!

Hell, if it wasn’t for flashbacks, we’d have no idea how charismatic and layered our favorite corpse, Cal, was. So shoutout to them for doing the Lord’s work in both providing context and raising the stakes to astonishing heights.

Now, who needs a breath mint?

Well, long time no see, old friend.

When singer-songwriter-producer Rashad last graced us with his presence, it was with his second studio album, 2015’s The Quiet Loud—the esoteric follow-up to his critically acclaimed debut, Museum. With its obscure samples and unorthodox approach—we’re talking about a dude who flips French horns and tubas into bouncing basslines—his sophomore album was equal parts autobiography and introspective ode to creative freedom.

As someone whose musical journey has been mired in more than its fair share of frustrations—as his failed deals with labels like RCA and Columbia can attest to—his victory laps as an independent entity are a testament to his talent and his unyielding belief in it.

“I’ve been frustrated with the industry, for sure. But I was one of those kids who didn’t give himself a plan B,” he told Columbus Monthly while discussing his string of major label woes. “When you’re in that grind, it’s all about sounding like someone else. For a creative person, that sucks.”

He continued: “I learned I need to be completely true to what I do, and I got more comfortable in my own shoes. I was more reserved [then]. Now, I’m not holding anything back.”

In the 11 years in between The Quiet Loud and his latest release, I Was Told There’d Be Gold, Rashad bided his time racking up placements like every other in-demand music producer. From Bizzy Bone’s son, to jumping Jack Harlow into the “Gang Gang Gang,” to blessing fellow Columbus, Ohio native J. Rawls with a trip to “Rio.” Even Stranger Things star Caleb McLaughlin knew who to call when it was time to “bring it on back” to his “Neighborhood.”

But music aside, life happened. He became a husband and a father—and we get to hear all about that evolution, and much more, on I Was Told There’d Be Gold.

In what should come as a surprise to absolutely no one, the production picks up exactly where it left off on his prior releases: knockin’. For all his shortcomings as a vocalist, Rashad knows his otherworldly command of playing keys and MPCs is where his strength lies. But for all his prowess as a producer, it’s his aptitude as a songwriter that doesn’t get nearly enough credit.

On the neck jerker “Return to Brazil,” we’re treated to Rashad’s signature blend of beauty and boom-bap as he ponders if “heaven left us down here,” and theorizes that “life is beautiful, but it can be hell too.” Additional themes throughout the album include perseverance (“Larry’s Lament”), valor in the face of insurmountable odds (“Courage”), and, of course, love.

With its nods to everything from Apache’s “Gangsta Bitch” to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Fantasy,” I Was Told There’d Be Gold is pure genre-hopping delight. You’ll get plenty of hip-hop; you’ll get a generous portion of R&B; you’ll even get a heaping scoop of house. But most importantly, you’ll get what’s sure to be one of the strongest releases of the year from one of the most criminally underrated musical maestros of our time.

I was late to the Bruno Mars party.

I know, I know.

When the artist formerly known as Peter Gene Hernandez generously offered to catch a grenade for the rest of y’all, I wasn’t particularly fond of his power pop stylings—or his aggressive pompador. But once “Uptown Funk” seized the entire galaxy—leaving man, woman, and UFO alike at the mercy of a cacophony of synths and crutch thrusts—my apprehensions were officially cast aside.

It was time to accept my fate and partake in the Kool-Aid.

Fast forward to 2026, and the Grammy Award-winning crooner has since blossomed into one of my favorite artists. His showmanship is unmatched, and between his Billboard dominance, his studious approach to his craft, and his uncanny mutant ability to shapeshift through music genres like an X-Men villain, his latest studio album, The Romantic, was one of the most anticipated since…24K Magic—of which he dropped a decade ago.

This context is important because, under typical circumstances, The Romantic would be considered a comeback album. However, when you’re an artiste as prolific as Bruno, even your respite is anything but—as evidenced by the duets, Silk Sonics, and Vegas residences (as in plural) that occupied his time.

That means that, without the allure of a triumphant return, how do you give the people what they want without giving them what they’ve already had? Somehow, that Aubrey person doesn’t seem to have this problem, but when you’re Bruno Mars, the answer is simple: go in the closet and try on another genre.

On The Romantic, Bruno takes an audacious—if not completely unexpected—plunge into Chicano soul. While 2021’s An Evening with Silk Sonic served as the perfect precursor for the boleros to come—since it familiarized his audience with a time-traveling tour of the ‘70s—instead of staying rooted in the Chi-Lites and Con Funk Shuns of yesteryear, The Romantic draws inspiration from trailblazers like Tito Puente. And while the end result is undoubtedly stellar, it also poses far more questions than it answers.

Kicking things off with the gorgeous “Risk It All,” with its blaring mariachi horns and maudlin guitars, one can’t help but wonder if we’re unwilling participants in cultural appreciation or self-serving cosplay—especially after seeing the music video, in which Bruno fronts a mariachi band and gallivants alongside his conveniently Chicana bride.

The rest of the album is comprised of much of the same. With serial hitmaker D’Mile serving as co-conspirator, Bruno goes from reciting Soulja Slim lyrics over strings and congas on “Cha Cha Cha,” to questioning if “God Was Showing Off” over trumpets you’ve definitely heard before, to channeling teenage heartthrob Ritchie Valens on the album closer, “Dance With Me.”

If the goal of this project was to sell out yet another world tour, and run up an insane amount of streams in the process, then mission accomplished. But as someone who considers himself a fan, I wish his otherworldly musical acumen and attention to detail extended beyond merely performance. Bruno’s catalog is often ridiculed for being vapid or formulaic, but it’s nearly impossible to foster transparency or depth when you’re in the business of homage.

“I’m trying to live the dream, but I need you on my team,” he howls on the Curtis Mayfield-esque “On My Soul.” “So if you want me like I want you, let me hear you scream.”

Vapid? Formulaic?

Clearly, he’s not beating those allegations.

In contrast, Anderson .Paak—his cohort in all things Silk Sonic—has used his gift of song to divulge his pandemic observations, grieve the loss of his close friend, Mac Miller, blast Trump and lament gun violence, and even give us a glimpse into his life post-divorce. So, whereas Bruno has made it his duty to study everyone else’s business—as evidenced by his lucrative forays into reggae, soft rock, new jack swing, or whatever else—he shares literally none of his own.

Comedians routinely pour their pain into their jokes on stage; Beyoncé made an entire album explaining why Solange unleashed Jiu-jitsu in that elevator. So, seventeen years into his career, when will Bruno finally allow us to peer behind his veil? When will he stop telling us what we want to hear and instead bear even a fragment of his soul?

He’s spent so much time being everyone else—from Morris Day to Porter Wagoner—that we honestly have no fucking idea who he actually is. And to that end, when will he stop making music that’s so shamelessly derivative of popular works?

I love the guy, but songs should serve as declarations—not mementos. And at this point, I’d much rather hear his truth than his endless string of “tributes.”

That said, if spending 32 minutes of your life repeating, “Yo, this sounds like…” is your thing, then The Romantic unquestionably delivers—just like it did when Carlos Santana and Tower of Power did it first. But if you’re like me and prefer a bit more authenticity pouring out of your earbuds, then this Bette Davis quote puts things into perspective:

“If everybody likes you, you’re pretty dull.”

Stop being dull, Bruno.

Both your fans and your talent deserve so much more.

“This is crazy.”

Despite former Tony! Toni! Toné! frontman Raphael Saadiq’s claims that “It Never Rains in Southern California,” on an uncharacteristically dreary morning, the clouds bearing down on Los Angeles are doing exactly that. Undeterred, he offers a mea culpa: “It doesn’t rain, it like—storms here. Lucky I wore some boots though.”

If his calm demeanor in the midst of chaos comes as a surprise, it shouldn’t. With Ryan Coogler’s Sinners taking Hollywood by—well—storm during awards season, Saadiq’s lone contribution to its soundtrack, the spellbinding “I Lied to You,” is up against Diane Warren, KPop Demon Hunters, and others vying for Best Original Song at the upcoming 98th Academy Awards.

It’s the type of sonic immortality that, after nearly 40 years in this business, honestly feels inevitable.

So, in between flash flood warnings and accolades for his executive production on Brent Faiyaz’s latest album, Saadiq and I discussed all things Sinners, the tragic loss of his “brother” D’Angelo, and the invaluable role his grandmother plays in his appreciation for Black History Month.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Jay Connor: Sinners is easily one of the most culturally profound movies in recent memory—if not ever. How did you become involved in such an impactful project?

Raphael Saadiq: I got a phone call from Ryan Coogler. We’re both from the Bay Area, both born and raised in Oakland. We never met in person, but we knew of each other. I also got a call from [Grammy Award-winning composer] Ludwig Göransson, who scored the movie. They invited me over and gave me a rundown.

Ludwig is a beast.

Yeah, he’s a beast.

He’s no joke. And with him using blues as the lifeblood of this soundtrack, what was the creative process like with “I Lied to You”?

I spoke to Ryan on FaceTime as he was getting ready to start shooting. He told me the history of his uncle, who was really into blues. His uncle gave him the history of the relationship between the blues and church, and the complications that blues players faced: that if you played the blues, you were going to hell. So there was this tug-of-war between church and the blues.

I knew that story all too well, growing up in Oakland around a lot of Pentecostal, Church of God in Christ—people like Sly of Sly and the Family Stone. His dad, Sylvestor Sr., was a pastor. He would come to our church and preach sometimes. He’d see us playing music, and he’d look at us like, “Don’t get out there in the world and get turned out.” So I lived Preacher Boy’s story.

Oh, wow.

So once Ryan gave me his uncle’s interpretation of that, we got off the phone, and Ludwig and I grabbed our guitars and jammed for an hour. We came up with the main guitar licks, then off the top of my head, I just started singing the lyrics. It just sort of came out.

The way Ryan explained what he wanted to me, it made me think about blues musicians like Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf—just to name a few. That’s what I was pulling from. That was my inspiration. And I guess the ancestors came down because it fit the film so perfectly. Just that lyric, “I lied to you.” I don’t even know why I said it, but it matched the film.

It had to be something spiritual that happened, because the kid who was singing it, Miles Caton, he has this big voice—

Yeah, his voice is crazy. He sounds like a grown-ass man.

And he’s a young dude! Like 20 years old. I could never sound like that.

He was the missing ingredient that made that song so mesmerizing. Were there any other influences you drew from—aside from Muddy Waters and some of the others you mentioned—in the song’s creation?

It just came from inside of me, really. That’s me. I grew up with blues. Growing up with my father, going fishing with my mom, just being out on the banks. I’ve been listening to blues all my life. I could pull from so many places that I don’t even know where it came from. That’s why I say it has to be the ancestors who dropped in on me like that.

You know when they say, “Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready?” I really believe in that. I’ve been ready for something like this my whole life.

That’s a pretty profound statement to make—especially with the caliber of projects you had already worked on prior to Sinners. From Higher Learning, to The PJs, to Luke Cage, to Insecure, you have a lengthy history of using music to expand the scope of visual storytelling. What is it about music and film that pair so well together?

I’m a very visual person. I’ve also found that I really like writing to films. I can just turn the volume down, and if I see something, I like writing to it.

When you have DPs (the director of photography) and directors shoot something that beautiful—I didn’t even get a chance to see this one. I only had a day to work on this.

Hold up. A day?

I did it in like two hours, then left. I never saw the film or heard the song again until the movie came out.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. They gave you two hours?!

Nah, they didn’t give me two hours, but that’s how long it took.

Oh, aiight. [Laughs] I was like, what?!

They were leaving in the next two days, so we only had that one day to do it. It just came out.

Sometimes you write music and it comes out slowly. When Toto wrote “Georgy Porgy,” one of the Porcaro brothers told me they played it and sang it down the first time. He just kept going. Sometimes you have songs that take a week, sometimes they take a year, sometimes they only take an hour. This was one of those two-hour songs. The words came out, and everything was just flowing. So I know it wasn’t me. I’m just a vessel. I felt that energy through my body that—it wasn’t me. Ryan, Ludwig, and I were just put in place to do what we did.

As a fellow creative, I can relate entirely when you say that. It’s like when Steph Curry’s in the zone—he can’t miss. Sometimes you’ll sit there, and it’ll take you forever to put something together. Then other times, it’s immediate. So you’re like, “Okay, dope! I should keep cooking up because—”

[Laughs] I’m in a zone! Can’t nobody mess with me.

You feel me?

Feed me the rock!

[Laughs] For sure. So obviously, there’s a difference between reading the script throughout the creative process and actually seeing the end result with the song incorporated on screen. But I’m curious: Since you came in, banged the song out in two hours, then dipped out, what was it like to watch that scene for the first time? Especially knowing how pivotal it was to the film?

I was so surprised because it expressed something I always talk about: how Black music is everything. We speak through drums. Drums are a language. Our conversation is always drums. It’s always rhythm. So in that scene, when it goes through all the different variations of hip-hop and all those different things, it cemented that for me.

I had to see it twice to really grasp what was going on. I was looking at Ryan—it was dark, so they couldn’t see me looking at them—but I’m looking at them like, “What the?” I’m looking around—I didn’t know what to think. And when I heard “I Lied to You,” I didn’t even remember the song.

How long before the movie came out did you record it?

Maybe like six months?

So it wasn’t too crazy of a wait.

Nah, it wasn’t too crazy. It might’ve been longer, but I don’t think it was that long.

Aiight, I got you. Between being a journalist and a consultant, I see a lot of movies and TV shows way before they’re even finished. So I saw Sinners at least three times before opening night, and the first time I saw that scene, my mind was completely blown like everyone else. But the other two times, I was just watching people, and they all had the same reaction you and I had, where we’re all just sitting there stuck like, “What the hell just happened?”

[Laughs] Yeah.

And with that underlying theme of Black music having this supernatural element to it, in real life, that’s the Black experience. There’s something extraordinary about us—whether it’s a byproduct of the obstacles we’ve faced—but there’s a reason we’re the epicenter of creativity and culture throughout the world. So seeing Ryan and everyone else involved create a scene that so masterfully illustrates our impact and influence was amazing. And the fact that you were a part of it is just icing on the cake.

We are the drums. We create that base for people to start from. That’s us. That’s what we do.

I’m such a fan of Michael B. Jordan, too. And Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning” is one of my favorite blues songs. So seeing the characters he played were named Smoke and Stack, I was in there gassed. Just fanning out. Sometimes, when I’m working on a film or a show, I forget that I’m part of the staff working on it, too.

Was this your first time working with Ludwig? And if so, did he specifically state why this was the perfect time for y’all to work together?

He just said they wanted to be really authentic to the film. He was like, “What other person could we call who’s authentic to the culture behind this music?” And that I could probably write something that people would listen to. I’ve had songs called “The Blues.”

[Sings] “Spending all my time pleasing you…”

And that was at a time when nobody would dare put out a song saying you give me the blues! We were young and just knew. It wasn’t a popular thing to say. It’s like when Kendrick put out, “We want the funk!” Funk wasn’t a popular word to use in a record. But if you really believe in something, people will follow. And Ludwig felt like I would be that person.

They went to Clarksdale, Mississippi, the birthplace of blues, and got all the original blues cats—people that even I didn’t know—I got the opportunity to meet. They were very true to the craft.

Sinners has already been killing it throughout award season, but with sixteen Academy Award nominations—the most for any film ever—it’s poised to take Black cinema to unprecedented heights. How does it feel to have your art and your passion so well received?

If I can be honest, this is one of the best feelings of my life. I can feel the people around me talking about it. It feels like I’m carving myself into more history. I’ve been doing this for a while, but everything in front of me just keeps getting better. I’m being blessed by the gods.

I’m being placed around people who love the arts, love creating, and take chances. I’ve always taken chances at every part of my career. I never took the easy route. So win, lose, or draw, I can never lose being around all these great people—and Sinners is the cherry on top. This is making history, and I just love being part of it—with the cast, Ryan, and Ludwig.

This movie is rooted in what I love: the blues. The first record I ever tried to play on a broom was “The Thrill Is Gone” by B.B. King. I remember my sister holding the lamp over me, and I’ve got the broom. [Sings] “The thrill is gone…” I was born for this.

By saying everything in front of you “just keeps getting better,” you’re speaking even more blessings into existence. And I know you said you were sought out for this film, but what is it you look for in collaborators? And in the people you want to work with?

I look for people who have a vision of what they want to be. What they want to do. When I look back at my track record—rest in peace to D’Angelo, my bro—that’s somebody who knew what they wanted to do and who they wanted to be. So it was easy. It was like Sinners—the songs were fast.

When we worked on “Untitled,” I just so happened to be in New York, walking down the street in the Village, and stopped by to get a joint. I was sort of mad at him from like three months before, and he runs up and goes, “Yeah, I got a joint. But can we do a song?” I’m like, “Yeah, let’s do it.” And it becomes one of these monsters. That’s because when two people lock in, and you both have a vision, it just happens like that.

Y’all definitely made magic. And with everything you’ve accomplished throughout the course of your career, I and plenty of others would consider you a human embodiment of Black history. So my question is, what does Black history mean to you, as well as everything you’ve contributed to it?

Black history means great parenting, starting with my grandmother, Sara Ford. She took me to church, and when I was playing, she would stand up and tell everybody how amazing my nephew and I were. But the funny thing is, at that church, my amp was so small, and the organ was so loud, you could never hear anything I was doing. [Laughs]

My grandmother was one generation removed from slavery. So for me to be raised by my mom and my grandmother…I think about it every Black History Month. All day, all year. Thinking about the things our people went through.

My uncle had to go to school and only had one pair of jeans. Then a car would drive through a puddle and muddy up his clothes. He didn’t have any other clothes to wear, so he’d have to go back home, put on a dress, and go to school. [Laughs] So, when I think about that kind of history? As Black people, we can get through anything.

No doubt. So after y’all win the Oscar for Best Original Song, what are you gonna do to celebrate?

We got some stiff competition. But if we do win, I don’t know what I’ll do. That’ll be crazy.

Might have to put one in the air for D’Angelo.

Oh, of course! Definitely.

(This interview is additionally available at Bossip.)

Roses and cards are cool and all, but with Valentine’s Day *counts on fingers* five days away, now’s the opportune time to switch things up. So, in the spirit of comedian Luenell and R&B icon Al B. Sure—who broke the internet recently when they hard-launched their blossoming romance—I’m here to help you do exactly that.

You’re welcome in advance.

A Dozen Rosés

No, no, no. Read that again.

Not roses—rosés. As in the delicious pink wine, not the flowers that make women swoon and coo.

Rosés!

And there are 12 of them included in this Alcoholics Anonymous-approved bouquet of mini bottles “from up and down the coast of California.” So whether you’re looking for something to sip on the next time you Netflix and chill, or wanna magically transform date night into an elaborate wine tasting, the fine folks at In Good Taste got you.

Like I said: I’m here to help.

Teufel x Fender ROCKSTER GO 2

Oh, yes.

JBL and I go together real bad, but this Fender x Teufel Rockster Go 2 is the first speaker to throw our marriage into complete turmoil—because I’ve been cheating like a mofo.

I’ll be the first to admit this isn’t the loudest speaker, but for its size and price range, it’s a top-tier option for those of us who can’t go a day without running up Spotify streams. Aside from being sexy as shit, it’s waterproof (pool party approved), the bass is no joke, and its insane battery life ensures your car will die before this speaker does.

Snatch this up for that special someone in your life immediately.

A Year of Date Nights Idea Jar

Are things getting stale in your love life? Getting sick of taking your dates to McDonald’s? Well, have I got the gift for you!

Since there’s much more to life than French fries and Big Macs, this jar is brimming with all types of prompts to elevate your date nights for an entire year. And I won’t spoil what each activity is, but my personal fav is the one that says “Give Jay Money.”

Billie Gene Body’s Body Oil

The only thing I hate more than being ashy is Donald Trump.

And as someone who made the religious conversion from lotions to body oils many moons ago, I can attest to their supernatural ability to keep my elbows, toe knuckles, and the rest of my melanated being well moisturized.

That said, celebrity makeup artist-turned-beauty founder Billie Gene Body has unveiled a new line of body oils that are vegan, cruelty-free, gluten-free, and paraben-free. That means sex appeal with no preservatives!

Go forth and receive your blessing.

The Macallan Diamonds Are Forever 55th Anniversary Release

Good things come to those who wait, and there’s no better example of that than The Macallan, who waited 55 years to hit us in the head with their latest and greatest.

This price tag is definitely not for the weak, so make sure you and your boo thang at least hold hands in public before you spend your rent money on one of the best whiskies on the market.

The Levi Fisher Beard Bundle

Look at your beard, bro.

Before your boo thang files assault charges for all those friction burns you’ve been giving them, why not correct course and get that matted mess on your face right?

The Levi Fisher Beard Bundle is all the salvation you need. It includes a foaming beard wash, a 2-in-1 grooming spray, beard detangling lotion, and beard butter so you can stop embarrassing your ancestors in public and finally look like you don’t sleep in an alley.

‘Kiss Me’ Sherpa Hoodie

TODAY contributor Jill Martin is kind of a big deal, so it should come as no surprise that her line of elevated loungewear lives up to her name.

This self-proclaimed “best hoodie in the world” comes in seven different sizes and three different colors, offering a cozy option for the crib or the streets. Additionally, it can be customized with names or initials to personally ensure it’s “stitched with love.”

Cincha Travel’s The Bigger Bag Buddy

Y’all really thought I wouldn’t recommend Black-owned businesses during Black History Month? LOL

From bags, organizers, and beyond, Oakland-based Cincha is killing it in the travel space. So much so that I had a hard time trying to decide which single product of theirs to recommend. But after rolling the dice, I’m going with something we all can use: their Bigger Bag Buddy.

Coming in an assortment of colors and designs, the Bigger Bag Buddy is the perfect accessory for those of us on Team Carry-On who stay on the go. Instead of fumbling through your luggage for your passport, just keep that and everything else that’s essential to your trip looking fly and easily accessible.

As a critically acclaimed culture critic and consultant who’s been ensnared in all things entertainment for approximately 12 years and counting, it’s safe to assume I’ve survived a Grammy Week or seven. So, since people always have questions about what it entails, I figured I’d give those of you who haven’t had the privilege of being deprived of sleep for seven days straight a glimpse behind the curtain.

You’re welcome in advance.

Sooooooo, what the hell is Grammy Week?

I’m glad you asked! In the week leading up to the Grammy Awards, the Recording Academy—and its deep-pocketed associated parties—bombard Los Angeles with an endless succession of live performances, sexy ass dinners, panels, galas, parties, secret events, workshops, and whatever the hell else until the Grammy Awards finally stroll along on Sunday and bring us back to our senses.

Okay, so it’s just for celebrities?

Not at all. It actually serves many functions, and can be beneficial to you whether you’re a big-name celebrity or not. It’s a fantastic opportunity to expand your network, build community, and promote your work. Artist showcases are common, and performing in front of the right manager or meeting the right music exec could completely change your life. It’s basically an annual family reunion for the music industry with groupies sprinkled in—because groupies build character and make everything better.

And it’s for seven days straight?

Yup. Every. Single. Day. There are dozens of events tripping and stumbling over each other literally from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed. So there’s a 100% chance you’re gonna miss something you really wanted to hit up, but such is the price we pay for euphoria.

Damn, that sounds exhausting.

You have nooooooo idea. Which is exactly why I pumped the brakes this year instead of running myself into the ground for the 87th year in a row.

So what’d you do differently this year?

Instead of trying to be anywhere and everywhere like I was contractually obligated to do in a past life, I protected my peace and only popped up where I either had to be or where I really wanted to—either for personal reasons or to support the homies. Shoutout to my therapist for beating this approach into my head. It made a world of difference not only in my enjoyment but also in my mental and physical health.

Yo, I love that for you! So what does a typical day look like?

I’ll give you two different days of the seven, since they were different but somewhat similar.

On Tuesday, since I always support the home team—Amazon Music—I kicked off the day with their Grammy party on the Amazon Studios lot. The drinks and tuna tostadas were plentiful, the vibes were immaculate, and Skepta on the turntables is an undeniable win. After that, I slid over to The Regent for DJ Jazzy Jeff’s Playlist Live, which was dope as the entire fuck and featured Butcher Brown, Mumu Fresh, and countless others paying tribute to J. Dilla. The way each artist put their own spin on different Dilla classics was crazy, and this was easily one of the highlights of the week.

On Friday, I hit up UnitedMasters’ Celebration of Independence, which featured BigXthaPlug and the Clipse—with a special appearance from Pharrell—then slid over to the Epic Records x Hennessy Grammy Party to congratulate Tyla, Giveon, and the rest of their Grammy nominees. (And pop up just in time to wish Tyla a happy birthday.) But the belle of the ball that night was producer Alissa’s Boogie Nights: Grammy Edition party at Sunset at EDITION. Any party that includes a live band, people dancing on roller skates, and Sheila fucking E playing the congas (!!!!!!!!) over your favorite songs is an automatic win.

Are there any events going on the day of the Grammys?

Yup. Plenty of afterparties, and Bryan-Michael Cox’s annual The Breakfast Club Pre-Grammy Brunch, honoring Alex Isley, Eric Roberson, and Walter Jones, was divine. Ask me how I know. (Psssst…I was there.)

Wow, all this sounds dope. How do I attend an event? And who’s paying for all this?

It definitely ain’t cheap. But with sponsors, brands, and artists fighting for your attention, these events are usually free. But there’s a catch, because isn’t there always? Anything open to the public is usually flooded with people trying to attend, so good luck getting your RSVP confirmed. As for the more exclusive stuff, it’s all about relationships. If your best friend is Jamie Foxx, it’s safe to assume you won’t have any problems getting invited to anything.

Okay, I think I got it. I think I’m ready to join in the festivities next year.

I’m just here to help. Go forth and be blessed.

In a past life, when I still had aspirations to conquer Hollywood as a screenwriter, I vividly recall stumbling into our writers’ room at Culver Studios for what would eventually become Strange Angel for AMC Networks.

However, on that particular morning, I had no desire to be there.

The execution of Philando Castile was freshly seared into my soul, and if my 30-plus years as a Black man in America had taught me anything up to that point, it’s that the last place I wanted to be was in a room full of white folks—meandering about their Monday morning, completely oblivious to my rage.

I skipped my usual breakfast of bagels and banter to avoid the exuberance of my colleagues in the kitchen. Instead, my anguish and I sank behind the desk in our conference room.

The silence was comforting.

At least it gave a shit.

To my surprise, one of my fellow scribes noticed I wasn’t my hungry, jovial self. She peered into the conference room from the kitchen, then joined me at the desk. There was an awkward silence as she mulled her approach, but eventually, she lured me in with eye contact.

“I’m sorry.”

I turned away. “For?”

“I saw what happened. You must be so angry.”

I was so astonished at what was happening—that a living, breathing white person was actually expressing concern over yet another murdered Black body—that I could barely process the words tumbling out of her mouth.

“I don’t know how you do it every day,” she continued. “Murdered in cold blood. You must be so afraid.”

I just stared in silence. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I had spent my entire drive to work that morning dreading these people; their blissful ignorance, their perpetual state of apathy. I was the only Black dude in a writers’ room brimming with privilege, tasked with cranking out a hit TV series with living, breathing human beings who looked and lived nothing like me.

I was used to feeling invisible. I was used to being othered.

But this? To finally feel seen?

I sorted through my thoughts, brushed aside my consternation to speak, and—

“I’ve been telling you to watch House of Cards!” she yelled. “Frank is so good!”

Laughter poured into the room, with fistfuls of caffeine not far behind. Laptops and backpacks collapsed onto the desk in front of us. The rest of our writing staff had arrived.

I watched as she smiled and cackled away with our colleagues. Uncontrollable laughter, devoid of a single care in the world.

I was invisible again.

What happened to Alex Pretti and Renee Good is appalling, but they aren’t isolated incidents.

And maybe—just maybe—if white folks started listening to us sooner instead of laughing, they’d still be alive.

All Lives Matter better get to work.

If you think the “A” in my middle name stands for Atticus or Anthony, then boyyyyyyy, do I have a surprise for you.

That “A” is for anxiety—as in, not being worth a damn until my Lexapro decides to cooperate. As in, “Yeah, I’d love to come inside, but I’m in the driveway waiting for Cleo Sol to talk me out of this panic attack.” As in, “What do you mean Christmas is only a week away?!”

Oops.

So yeah, it might look a little barren under your Christmas tree, but because I’m Black and marvelous, guess who's here to help? And trust me, I’m pretty good at this.

So without further ado, here’s a last-minute procrastinator’s gift guide to salvage your marriage Christmas morning.

Ray-Ban Meta AI Glasses

I know Sarah Connor tried to save us from Skynet and all that, but why fear the future when it can ride your face?!

Okay, maybe that didn’t come out right, but regardless, the second generation of Ray-Ban’s Meta AI Glasses are comprised of all the hopes and dreams we had as children, miraculously brought to life.

Can they capture pictures and 3k videos? Yup. Do they have Bluetooth speakers for music and making drug deals phone calls? Yup. Are they AI-enhanced with a voice assistant to answer your every beck and call? Yup. Can they poplock or swag surf? Helllllllll nah. But they’re still dope as hell, and you need them in your life immediately.

Omaha Steaks

If you’re vegan, you might wanna cover your eyes with a bowl of quinoa or something, while the rest of us heathens arm wrestle for what’s left of the chimichurri.

If I could hug a medium filet mignon, I would. But since I’d much rather have it on my plate than my armpits, Omaha Steaks is really good at that whole red meat thing. From steaks to burgers, salmon to pork chops, they’ve got it all—even the desserts (like molten lava cakes) and sides (like that mistress your kids keep asking about).

Plus, if you snatch up one of their glorious gift boxes for the missus, and there’s a 93% chance you’ll never sleep on the couch again.

You’re welcome in advance.

Crown Royal Chocolate Flavored Whisky

Just because DEI is a thing of the past doesn’t mean your bar cart has to comply.

And because diversity brings out the best in literally everything but the White House, it’s only right that the fine folks at Crown Royal have extended their multi-billion-dollar enterprise to include the one thing that drives Kardashians crazy: plastic surgery chocolate.

So buy a bottle (or seven), pick a recipe, and enjoy your Dr. Umar-flavored blessing.

Kenmore AquaLite 3-in-1 Cordless Hard Floor Cleaner

If you’re like me and loooove to vacuum excessively, but hate anything to do with mopping, then congratulations! Because today’s your lucky day.

Why spend your afternoon vacuuming up dirty-ass floors, then mopping when you can do both at the same damn time? And to my shock and awe, the Kenmore AquaLite 3-in-1 Cordless Hard Floor Cleaner is also equipped with a self-cleaning system. That way, your vacuum won’t have to get ready, because it’ll stay ready.

GoNutz

You’re probably looking at this pic and wondering, “What the hell is that?”

Well, no, R2-D2 didn’t trip and fall on a dominatrix. This is actually GoNutz, arguably the greatest personal grooming device in the history of ever. And I can say that with my entire chest because you can use it in the shower, it self-charges and self-cleans, and it’s designed for both women and their male counterparts’ parts.

Keeping everything sleek and sexy downstairs has never been easier.

Bevel 3-Step Skin Essentials Kit

Imagine snatching up those aforementioned Ray-Ban Meta AI Glasses and not having luxurious melaninated skin to match. That's a travesty, if I've ever heard one.

Thankfully, Bevel loves Black folks almost as much as Rachel Dolezal does. So it should come as no surprise that their 3-Step Skin Essentials Kit is top tier. You can never go wrong with any skin routine that includes a face wash, moisturizer, and exfoliating pads, which makes this a clutch acquisition for those of us scrambling for Christmas gifts in the bottom of the 9th inning.

Macallan Timeless Collections

Featuring some jaw-dropping artwork from the David Carson, Macallan’s Timeless Collection is a delectable ode to its European roots. So whether you have an affinity for sherry oak or you’re more of a double cask connoisseur, trust and believe Macallan will get you right.

Your Christmas won’t be the same without it.

Photo courtesy of Frazer Harrison/Getty Images/Amazon Music.

Country music isn’t my ministry, nor would it ever purport itself to be.

But since I’ve already been singing the praises of Amazon Music Live for approximately 1,079 days (and counting), I might as well keep that same energy after the latest installment of the popular live-streamed concert series.

On Thursday night, Grammy-nominated superstar Shaboozey—America’s favorite hootanany homeboy himself—descended from the heavens and delivered the kind of ethereal set that sorta kinda almost made me want to herd cattle and scour the ranch for more country music.

I said almost, dammit.

As someone who’s strongly considered filing assault charges after spending the past year getting bitch slapped by “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” every 37 seconds, the unrepetant hater in me has often wondered, “Aren’t y’all tired of this shit yet?!” But lo and behold, after 11 agonizing months, Amazon Music Live finally made its triumphant return—with Shaboozey in tow, no less—and my Black ass was front and center to bask in all of its 10-gallon hat glory.

Aside from the Woodbridge, Va. native’s quiet command of the crowd, Season 4 of Amazon Music Live introduces a completely revamped stage. This jaw-dropping new 360° setup not only allows for much more dynamic camera angles for viewers at home, but also facilitates a far more intimate experience for attendees without sacrificing the grandeur or venue capacity of East End Studios, where it’s filmed. Add some themed drinks, a Black-owned ice cream shop, a giant spin the wheel for giveaways, a Kevin Powers cameo, and a mechanical bull ride that my groin and I wanted no parts of, and you have all the ingredients for an unforgettable boot scootin’ boogie—courtesy of the fine folks at Amazon Music.

If you’re one of those poor, unfortunate souls who missed Shaboozey doing the damn thing Thursday night, you can catch the full recap here. (You’re welcome.) Just promise not to be a dumb ass and miss the Foo Fighters, Fuerza Regida, or anyone else scheduled to perform on Amazon Music Live—that’s every Thursday night—the rest of this season.

I’m gonna hit the saloon and go listen to some Randy Travis now.

Many things in life are definitive: Stuffing is definitively vile, I’m the definitive handsome Black man, and Trump is unquestionably the definitive asshole.

But a definitive musical tribute, honoring one of the greatest artists in the history of Western Civilization, is something else entirely.

Minnie Riperton was much more than the vocal acrobat who effortlessly cartwheeled through lullabies like “Lovin’ You.” She was one of the first big names to openly advocate for breast cancer research, the blueprint for the Mariahs and Arianas of the world, and a loving wife and mother who left us at only 31 years young.

Thankfully, her musical legacy will live on forever. And with the blessing of Maya and Richard Rudolph, the legendary Hollywood Bowl took it upon itself on Wednesday to celebrate the 50th anniversary of her second studio album, "Perfect Angel,” with a neoteric night of music and memories.

After a brief introduction by Bay Area songbird Goapele, the festivities kicked off with “Les Fleur,” courtesy of Lizz Wright. For those out the loop, “Les Fleur” is the opening song on Minnie’s debut album, “Come to My Garden.” So I see what they were trying to do, and this is exactly the type of carrying on I’m here for.

But while Lizz came out the gate swinging with “Les Fleur,” it was her intoxicating rendition of “Can You Feel What I’m Saying?” that left me completely mesmerized. The warm texture of her alto added an entirely new dynamic to the “Stay In Love” standout, leaving me eager to explore more of her own music.

You can’t pay tribute to Minnie without doing “Inside My Love” justice, and that responsibility fell on Alex Isley’s courageous shoulders. I love Alex to death, but admittedly, I wish a stronger vocalist would’ve tackled this one. She did her thing, but this is a song with some big notes—as a reminder, Minnie had as many octaves as she did fingers—and Alex will tell you herself that she’s never been that type of singer.

Other highlights of the night include Kings Return putting their signature a cappella spin on Dionne Warwick’s Luther Vandross’ “So Amazing,” George Benson’s guitar doing what George Benson’s guitar does before taking the sold-out crowd to smooth jazz heaven with “Breezin’,” and Chanté Moore—arguably the most underrated vocalist of our time—sending “Lovin’ You” to orbit with a masterclass in vocal dexterity.

Finishing out the night was the incomparable Stevland Hardaway Morris—better known to you lowly commoners as Stevie Wonder—who came out on stage flanked by Maya and Richard Rudolph, Minnie’s Emmy award-winning daughter and songwriting partner/widower. Stevie took a moment to reflect on his friendship with Minnie before performing “Perfect Angel”—a song he just so happened to write for her—and his own “Is It Magic,” bringing the audience to tears.

I’d much rather our luminaries get their flowers while they can still smell them, but the Hollywood Bowl did a spectacular job of honoring one of R&B’s guiding lights.

“I have a question: What’s it like being the GOAT?”

When college football star Cameron Cade, played by “Tell Me Lies”’s Tyriq Withers, proposes this inquiry to his mentor, 8-time USFF champion Isiah White—played by Marlon Wayans—one word immediately came to mind: Beyoncé.

Gifts of her magnitude don’t grow on trees, and the unrivaled excellence she’s honed and wielded for decades is not for the weak. It’s a standard of greatness exceeded only by her work ethic, and while everyone claims they aspire to be great, only a scarce few are willing to put in the work to actually achieve it.

Ask Michael Jackson.

Ask Serena Williams.

Ask Ray J.

(Okay, fine. Don’t ask Ray J.)

“Him” is a film about greatness: The maniacal obsession to lay claim to it, the unfathomable trials to maintain it, and the excruciating sacrifices along the way.

Cam is nice as fuck at football—as in No. 1 overall pick in the draft type nice—but since movies about superstar college quarterbacks require an inciting incident, it’s only right that some unhinged asshole splits his wig after practice—leaving our beloved bright-skinned adonis with a career-threatening head injury.

I don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to survive the rigors of the draft combine with a broken skull, and apparently, Cam doesn’t either. Which puts our boy in a pretty fucked up predicament: Does he literally risk life, limb, and brain to impress scouts at the combine? Or does he stay his ass on the couch and inhale a couple dozen aspirin?

Neither, dammit. Because greatness beckons!

Cam learns that Isiah White, the legendary quarterback of the San Antonio Saviors—the team Cam’s spent his entire life developing a man-crush on—is considering retirement. So, to put our brain-damaged NIL hoarder to the test and see if he’s a worthy heir to Isiah’s all-time great mantle, he invites Cam to train in what looks like Trump’s musty toupee for a week.

This is the exact moment when things get…weird.

Once at the compound, Isaiah puts Cam through a perilous gauntlet of drills and other Iyanla Vanzant-inspired lunacy, pushing his mind, body, and blossoming CTE to the brink. But the more grotesque or absurd the trial—and trust me, things definitely get about as grotesque and absurd as humanly possible—the more confounding the film becomes until the end credits mercifully roll and you blurt out an audible, “What the fuck did I just watch?” like I did.

“Him” is a movie I really wanted to like. Anything with the words “Jordan” and “Peele” involved is an automatic watch. And with its familiar themes of masculinity, the unyielding pursuit of eminence, the commodification of Black bodies, idol worship, and the insidious underbelly of professional sports, it was easily one of my most anticipated films of the year.

I mean, look at this trailer. Can you blame me?!

However, “Him” is a resounding failure at achieving the same greatness it seeks to explore. Its grandiose machinations are rudimentary, and the illogical march to its conclusion is far more spectacle than substance.

And if this film’s goal is not only to be great, but to be even better—an affirmation Isiah literally beats into his could-be successor's head—then screenwriter-director Justin Tipping has much to learn from an actual all-time great like Beyoncé.

As an avid comic book head, X-Men alumna Laura Kinney (AKA X-23, AKA the other Wolverine) introduced me to the concept of a trigger scent.

In short, she was a clone created in a lab by an evil corporation—like a room full of Stephen Millers—for the sole purpose of murdering innocent people who would much rather do things like continue breathing oxygen or frolic with pumpkin spice lattes. And as if being a bloodthirsty teenage girl, with retractable claws and a natural aptitude for unarmed combat, wasn’t terrifying enough, her villainous overlords also created a trigger scent that would send her into an uncontrollable murderous rage—as in mauling everything in sight—if she detected it.

They exploited this means of control to heartbreaking effect—forcing Laura to slaughter the geneticist who became like a mother to her, completely against her will.

Fast forward to June 23, 2009, and Jay Electronica’s “Exhibit A (Transformations)” had a similar effect on me.

Try as I may, I could not get that fucking song out of my system—immune, car, home stereo, or otherwise. Those haunting chords? Those ominous piano keys? Jay extolling the virtues of “five finger ring rap” over Just Blaze’s unique brand of gospel-infused boom bap?!

Y’all. Y’all.

Please take me to the King.

It took me months to wean myself off of whatever he put in that song, crying into my drug counselor’s arms as I snuck hit after hit between therapy sessions. And just when I found the courage to kick the habit and reclaim my sobriety, this motherfucker went upside my head with “Exhibit C”—another sanctified banger—and Hip-Hop would never be the same again—as evidenced by the endless deluge of freestyles and discourse it spawned.

In the weeks that followed, with his buzz at a deafening pitch, a fierce bidding war ensued. And once the dust settled, Erykah Badu’s then-boo signed with the other Jay’s Roc Nation label in 2010. Typically, this would imply a full-length project was soon to follow. But nope! That Electronica person proceeded to play in our faces for an entire decade—teasing album release dates one second, and breaking up billionaire happy homes the next.

And with sparse musical output throughout his extended 3,734-day drought, I pursued other interests, relocated to Los Angeles, ventured into an illustrious career in Hollywood, had a whole ass child, and finally rid myself of my addiction to all things Jay Electronica—or so I thought.

Because out the blue, in February 2020 to be exact, came this succession of tweets from the New Orleans wordsmith himself:

“‘…my debut album featuring Hov man this is highway robbery’”

“Recorded over 40 days and 40 nights, starting from Dec 26”

“Releasing in 40 days”

“A Written Testimony”

My trigger scent was instantly reactivated.

However, after years of suffering and stammering through severe withdrawal symptoms, Jay’s debut album, “A Written Testimony,” didn’t quite deliver the fix I was fiending for. Yes, there was a minuscule amount of that pure, uncut raw on there, but being a guest appearance on your own debut album is a criminal offense in at least 17 countries. Why in the red, white, and blue fuck is Beyoncé’s husband laid out on the bench press, doing all the heavy lifting?

After over a decade of anticipation, calling that “album” underwhelming is the understatement of the century. And just when I thought I had finally flushed every ounce of disappointment out of my system, not to be outdone, the 49-year-old returned from the dead with a surprise release on Friday: this time, a 7-track clunker that’s equal parts flimsy, disjointed, and grueling. (He also dropped a 5-track EP I'd describe the exact same way.)

To be clear, “A Written Testimony: Leaflets” isn’t uncharted territory. It’s still riddled with the same protracted speeches, random incursions, and conspiracy theories we’ve come to expect from a dude who treats his rap career like a booty call. I’m just hip to this ruse and smart enough to know better now.

After broken promise after broken promise, I don’t want to listen to six minutes of duct-taped speeches interrupted by a meager two-minute ration of rapping.

I don’t want to listen to Stevie Wonder’s archival footage being ambushed by opaque rhymes and meandering production.

I don’t want song titles I can’t recall while I'm trying to tell the homies about a song I almost liked.

I don’t want Diddy.

And most importantly, I don’t want music that’s created without audience consumption in mind. I’m an ardent proponent of allowing an artist to explore the full breadth of their artistry, but gotdamn, nigga. At least pretend like you give a fuck about how your music sounds as a cohesive body of work.

Shit.

Jay’s mutant power is mystique; it’s a ploy he wields with unparalleled mastery. But with his discography falling into question as his facade continues to erode, all that’s left is a gifted rapper who's proven himself incapable of delivering a quality, full-length project. And after almost 20 years of failing to be rewarded for my patience, I have zero interest in waiting to see if he’ll ever deliver on that promise.

Because, as much as I hate to admit it, Jay Electronica no longer has a trigger scent—that’s just the lingering stench of wasted potential.

(This interview originally appeared in part in The Emancipator. But in light of rising suspicions around the results of the 2024 Presidential Election, it’s the opportune time to revisit this unpublished conversation in full.)

Since its inception in 2016, Black Voters Matter has made it its mission to “increase power in marginalized, predominantly Black communities.” And with our very democracy at stake in the upcoming presidential election, the revered voting rights and community empowerment organization has been more active than ever in educating voters and empowering our communities to stand up and be heard at the polls on November 5.

In this exclusive interview, Black Voters Matter co-founder Cliff Albright discusses the crucial role Black men will play in this election while also providing some insight into their needs, concerns, and involvement—or supposed lack thereof.

Jay Connor: Black voters have a lengthy history of being the Democratic Party's most loyal constituency. However, with each passing day, it feels like Trump is garnering more support from Black men than ever before. Is this merely internet conjecture? Or a troubling turn of the tide?

Cliff Albright: It’s mainly internet conjecture. [Laughs] We're not seeing any turning of the tide or any growing support among Black folks for Trump. At the end of the day, Kamala Harris is still gonna get about 90 percent of the Black vote.

Each election cycle, there are questions about Black voters and Black men. Two years ago, they swore [Republican U.S. Senate candidate] Herschell Walker was gonna get 50 percent of Black men because surely we only vote based on if somebody played football and won the Heisman Trophy, right? As if there are no other factors to determine how we vote. And as we all know, that didn't turn out so well for Herschell. At all.

So yeah, every election cycle, Black men do what we do: We vote for our issues, we vote for our interests, and we vote overwhelmingly progressive. Last night at the barbershop, we didn’t get into who was voting which way, but based on the issues and the attitudes that were expressed, there were no Trump fans. That’s also been my experience throughout the year, traveling with Black Voters Matter, but especially over the past month.

Thanks for clearing that up. Recently, Kamala Harris unveiled her Opportunity Agenda for Black Men, which includes forgivable loans, the federal legalization of marijuana, mentorship programs, and other intriguing opportunities. Some have dismissed this agenda as “demeaning,” while others are excited about its potential impact on our community. What are your thoughts on this agenda and the mixed reception to it?

It addresses a lot of issues that we’ve discussed with community members, partners, and staff members, so I think it’s a good agenda. We asked, “What would you want to see if there was a Black male agenda?” And the reason we asked that question is because, to whatever extent, there's been some hesitancy around Black men.

What we often hear is, “I need to hear more about us. What are the policies for us?” Even though the policies that she’s talked about up to this point—housing affordability, ending price gouging on groceries—are things that would obviously impact Black men. But they still want to know about policies that are specifically crafted for us. So then she comes out with this agenda, and now you have some people saying, “Oh, she’s pandering.” Well, what are we doing here? Either you want an agenda or not. So, what are you really talking about? Are you just using an agenda, or lack thereof, as an excuse because you just don’t want to vote for her?

I’ve had conversations like that, where we’ll go back and forth discussing these issues, then ultimately, when they’re resistant to accepting accurate information, you just have to ask: Is it because she’s a woman?

Well, to that point, former President Barack Obama has been criticized for his blunt approach to addressing Black men's perceived lack of support for Harris during this election cycle. He’s accused us of misogyny and, in turn, of welcoming harm to our communities by not doing enough to deter Trump’s reelection. That said, has he done more harm than good in how he’s addressed Black male voters? Should he consider changing his approach?

He should consider changing his approach, and I think he has. My critique, and that of some other brothers, is that we agree with the substance of what he was saying, but it was the presentation—the tone and the focus.

We’re talking about a situation in which—by even the most conservative estimates—80 percent of Black men are gonna vote for her. So there's all this hair-pulling over the fact that, “Oh, my God. Does that mean the remaining 20 percent are gonna vote for Trump?” But 80 percent is still the largest block of any demographic aside from Black women. If my son brings home an 80 on his test, I’m cool. [Laughs] That's a pretty big number! So, let's start with that recognition. The vast majority of Black men are gonna do what we've always done: join Black women and support the progressive candidate, whether they’re Black, white, male, or female. That's just what we do.

When you start the discussion there, now you can get into the other 20 percent. Ten percent of those are gonna vote for Trump because they always do, whether it was Trump, Bush, Romney—

Herschel Walker.

Or Herschel Walker! [Laughs] He got his 10 percent too! And within that group, yes. There's definitely a lot of misogyny and all that.

So you’ve got 80 percent that are already there, the 10 percent that are in The Sunken Place, and this other 10 percent that are undecided. And that's where these discussions have to take place. That's the 10 percent that when they say, “I need to hear more about our issues,” that’s perfectly fine. They're not just hiding patriarchy.

So when you go to them and say, “Look at this agenda. Look at healthcare and mental health, marijuana legalization, and small business development,” they say, “Okay, I hear you.” When you bring them Kamala’s record as a progressive DA, and you explain that it's simply not true that she was locking up thousands of Black men, they say, “Oh, man. I didn't know that.”

If I were Obama, the way I would’ve entered that conversation—which was at a field office with a bunch of Black men working on her campaign—would’ve been, “Look. Y’all are out here ten toes down for Kamala, and I know there are millions of Black men out there just like you. So, let’s clap it up for us. But we know that there’s some misogyny out there.” When you have a conversation that way, with that type of tone and acknowledgment, now, brothers hear you differently. We're tired of people looking at us like there's something pathologically wrong with us, because when it comes to voting progressive, white men don't keep up with white women. Latino men don't keep up with Latina women. Men are more conservative by about five to eight points within every group. That’s across the board—and Black men are no different.

Between the Biden administration's handling of Gaza, disenchantment with the Democratic Party, and other factors, there's a growing contingent of Black folks who are refusing to vote in this election. How would you address these specific issues and convince them to vote?

First, it depends on the issue. For some, it’s because of Gaza. For others, it’s immigration or something else that draws them to a third-party candidate. But fundamentally, we say, “Look. Whenever our rights are under attack, we don’t sit out. We fight back.”

That’s why we named our bus tour—the bus I’m sitting on right now and our tour this entire year—We Fight Back. It’s to speak to that feeling of, “Oh, we’re gonna sit this one out. Nobody cares. We’re just gonna let them do Project 2025 and act like we don’t have anything at stake.” We say, “Nah, that’s not the way we’ve done it historically, and that’s not what we can afford to do at this particular moment.”

As Black men, we’re watching attacks on everybody. In terms of Trump, it doesn’t end with stop and frisk or absolute immunity for cops. There are threats to our sisters and mothers: our aunties and daughters—the women in our community. We’ve got Black women dying from just trying to give birth. Like Michelle Obama said the other day: “Are we gonna look at the women in our lives, the women we love, and say we stood by while this attack was taking place?” I know I’m not gonna do that. Most brothers aren’t gonna do that.

So, even those who are dissatisfied with any of the issues you mentioned, I think, ultimately, most of us will vote for the person who most directly addresses our concerns—or at least gives us the space to protest for them. If you’re unhappy about Gaza, you gotta pick the person who will let you do that. And right now, only one of these candidates allows for that.

Black Voters Matter has been on the frontlines pounding the pavement during this election cycle with Get Out the Vote bus tours, social media campaigns, and other means to educate and empower our community. What has this experience been like during this election, and how are you specifically engaging Black male voters?

It’s been a little more frustrating than recent election cycles because the financial support hasn't been the same. It’s definitely not the same as it was in 2020, and honestly, not even the same as it was in 2022. So that's been frustrating. There’s a sense among some people that the threats aren't as serious as they were in 2020, which doesn't make sense because the threats are even more serious now.

It’s not like Trump was using dog whistles before; he’s always used a bullhorn. But now that bullhorn has gotten much more explicit. He’s doing Nazi rallies now. [Laughs] He’s openly flirting with Hitler. He’s talked about being a dictator on Day One, using the military on “his enemies within.” The gloves are off.

Yeah, he’s threatened to shut down the Department of Education and defund schools that teach the truth about American history: that it was built on the backs of our enslaved ancestors on stolen land.

It’s the same thing with the Environmental Protection Agency. We were in Pensacola, Fla., yesterday. There’s a landfill causing sickness in the immediate area. Getting rid of EPA, or any accountability regarding environmental justice, directly impacts Black lives.

So, what it feels like during this election cycle is a mixture of excitement and cautious optimism. This is a historic election that Black men are eager to be a part of. But there’s also nervousness and anxiety because this is America, and we know white folks. [Laughs] But I tell people, “We can’t sit in that anxiety. We have to be a part of the process.” That’s why we say everybody we touch is an organizer, whether it’s speaking at a rally, texting friends to attend one, cooking meals for the community, or doing some phone banking. We all have a role we can play to put that anxiety and uneasiness into action.

What do Black men want from our next president, and why, specifically, should we vote for Kamala Harris in this election?

Black men want to be heard. We want the same things that everybody else wants: We want good jobs and a nice house. We want our families to be safe and healthy. We want economic development. We want PPP loans like any other business. However, because of the unique challenges we face in this country, we also have additional, unique needs.

You’ve got those of us who are vocal about reparations. You’ve got those who are like, “We don’t want to be stopped and frisked or shot by police.” We also have unique health issues, which her agenda addresses. We all know brothers with diabetes, Sickle Cell Disease, prostate or colon cancer. I’ve dealt with two forms of cancer myself. These are concerns for us, and we want to hear that our elected officials not only recognize these concerns but have a plan in place to address them. That’s reasonable to demand.

I believe that Kamala Harris deserves our vote. Not just because she has a plan but because in her many roles as a public servant—whether as a DA, where she was doing job training for brothers facing the criminal justice system; as Vice President, with the work she’s done with economic development; or as a senator, with criminal justice reform by sponsoring the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act—there’s really nothing in there that’s brand new. She’s just trying to put herself in a better position to expand the work she’s already spent decades doing. That’s her track record.

At the end of the day, we’re gonna show up. After Election Day, it’s gonna be all over the news: “Black folks came out in record numbers.” So, don’t believe the narratives about who we are and what we’re gonna do. If we do our jobs, we’ll come out of this just fine. But on November 6 or January 20, that’s when the accountability begins. We have to hold not just Kamala but everyone on the ballot accountable. And I believe we’ll get there—because we fight back.

On Thursday morning, I woke up to this CNN headline:

Trump DOJ is looking at ways to ban transgender Americans from owning guns, sources say

And I laughed.

Not the kind of laugh that scampers behind an inappropriate joke, but the incredulous laughter that escapes your soul as you attempt to process a cascade of disgust.

For what feels like eons, those of us who actually consider America’s penchant for mass shootings unacceptable have pleaded for gun reform. And for even longer, the 2nd Amendment has done nothing but point and laugh in our faces.

Republicans have gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that school shootings remain as common as free refills—blocking assault weapons bans and background checks one minute; kicking the ATF in the nuts the next. But since offering “thoughts and prayers” is apparently the antidote for everything but bigotry, we now live in a world where an administration run by a 34-time felon has finally pulled the trigger on gun control.

All it took was a generous scoop of transphobia.

In the wake of the Minneapolis Catholic church shooting, senior Justice Department officials are weighing proposals to limit transgender people’s right to possess firearms, according to two officials familiar with the internal discussions.

The talks, described as preliminary in nature, appear to build on an idea that has gained some currency in conservative media since the Minneapolis shooting that killed two children and injured 21, most of them children, at Annunciation Catholic Church, an attack that police say was carried out by a 23-year-old transgender woman.

Never mind the fact that cis-white males are overwhelmingly the purveyors of mass shootings. The Department of Justice would rather apply the universal law of “do as I say, not as I do” to the entire trans community—regardless of their presumed propensity for violence, and based purely on their having the audacity to embrace their true identity.

But Justice Department leadership is seriously considering whether it can use its rulemaking authority to follow on to Trump’s determination to bar military service by transgender people and declare that people who are transgender are mentally ill and can lose their Second Amendment rights to possess firearms, according to one Justice official.

Thankfully, there are a myriad of legalities that make targeting trans men and women in this manner extremely unlikely. But instead of continuously terrorizing the LGBTQ+ community for sport, perhaps Trump’s energy would be better served by sending in the National Guard to every Republican National Convention so that they can start embracing their own sexuality and stop crashing Grindr.

As with all things Stephen King, “The Long Walk” operates under a uniquely morbid premise:

Are you broke as shit and sick of living under a fascist regime ruled by Luke Skywalker the Major (played by Mark Hamill)? Well, boyyyyyyyyyyy, do we have a surprise for you! Because not only do we have an annual walking contest called The Long Walk—where 100 young adults barely old enough to vote compete for the chance to win ungodly amounts of fame, fortune, and shin splints—but if you solemnly swear not to die along the way, we’ll even grant you a wish! But make it good. We are fascists after all.

Okay, okay. There’s a bit more nuance to all of this, but that’s pretty much the gist of King’s latest foray into unbridled lunacy. What’s left of this dystopian America he’s created can best be described as “fucked” and “up,” so in the legendary horror scribe’s perpetually deranged mind, this is the perfect playground to carouse in the human condition—with a healthy dose of brutality riding shotgun.

The rules are simple: maintain a pace of at least three miles per hour, and our contestants—each of whom is escorted by armed soldiers along their pre-determined route—won’t be adorned with bullet holes. But should anyone dare to cramp up, twist an ankle, gawk at Salma Hayek too long, or otherwise fail to maintain that place? Well, ummmm, they die.

Like, a lot. Like, really die.

Like, “Oh, you thought you were dead? Let me shoot you 87 more times just to make sure,” type dead.

Like, dead dead with extra dead instead of extra guac.

Like, Hulk Hogan sharing a bunk bed with Trump Hitler in Hell right now type dead.

But whoever walks the longest gets to keep their life—and, in turn, will be able to afford all the extra guac in the universe as a reward—so charley horse be damned, they better put a little pep in their step.

Or else.

The anchor of this treacherous tale is Ray Garraty (Cooper Hoffman), who, like many others on this trek, is keeping a pretty big secret. It’s the type of secret that’s eaten away at his moral fiber and threatens to consume him entirely, but thankfully, he’s balanced out by the unyielding optimism of Pete McVries (David Jonsson). Their philosophical tug of war is a prevailing theme throughout the film as they struggle to grasp the inevitability that surrounds them: A winner won’t be crowned unless every last one of their fellow contestants dies, yet each death feels more agonizing—and inevitable—than its predecessor.

This torment also extends to the audience, as the more we learn about this motley crew of characters and their motives—an ominous quest to unveil the truth behind their lineage; a pregnant wife that was left behind—the harder it becomes to watch each of them meet their fate and be eliminated from the game. These physically and psychologically warped conditions contort newfound friends into foes and the worst of foes into friends as the interpersonal dynamics within the group shift and evolve. Superstitions take on new meaning, and as depravity provides each of these young men with its harshest lesson yet, Ray finally concedes that, yes, there are precious moments in this life that must be savored—even at the cost of someone else’s character.

With over 200 short stories, 65 novels, and 100 adaptations in circulation, calling Stephen King prolific is a gross understatement. But if “The Long Walk”’s endless cycle of guilt, grief, and gratitude teaches us anything, it's the unwavering power of friendship—however fleeting it may sometimes be.

It’s been five excruciating years since Teyana Taylor last descended from the heavens with a studio album in tow. But not only has she miraculously returned to the spotlight after extinguishing her pursuit of new music—she’s been reborn.

Her exodus—the culmination of years of frustrations with her record label and, perhaps, the diminishing grip on sanity displayed by its not-so-G.O.O.D. overlord—was gruesome. Yes, she flirted with a Rick Ross feature and got “Closer to God” for Diddy prior to his incarceration, but another “K.T.S.E.” felt like a pipe dream.

Then life happened.

Daughter No. 2, Rue Rose, was born during the pandemic, and a contentious divorce from Rue’s father—retired NBA star Iman Shumpert—soon followed. Taylor insists that her triumphant return to music is a byproduct of the newly unleashed creative control that has long eluded her, but the candor and vulnerability woven throughout her latest venture, “Escape Room,” implies otherwise.

On the opening salvo, Taraji P. Henson warns that “flames are greedy things.” And over the course of the next 47 minutes, spread out over a cornucopia of impassioned pleas, carnal affirmations, and fiery diatribes—many of which are brought to life by a who’s who of Issa Rae, Jill Scott, and other celebrity crushes—it becomes abundantly clear that Teyana’s been through the fire. More specifically, she’s survived the hellish flames of heartbreak and emerged from the other side healed and whole.

This enduring quest for closure is best exemplified in standouts like “Long Time,” where the “A Thousand and One” star admits, “I lent you my fire,” and that she “should've been walked out this bitch.”

This theme is further explored in her accompanying short film—released in partnership with Amazon Music, also titled “Escape Room”—providing the award-winning director with the proper conduit to wear her wounds and anesthetize her pain. Draped in a red trenchcoat emblazoned with literal flames, she prowls through what remains of her forlorn marriage, bemoaning the infallible covenant she once shared with Shumpert.

“It's cold outside, but inside I'm on fire,” she sneers. “I fight with no resistance, fuck you and your existence.”

But while “Escape Room” provides Teyana with a canvas to convey what once was, her textured mezzo-soprano surmounts those same flames to champion her new beau, Aaron Pierre, with whom she credits with “damn near” executive producing her latest body of work.

“He’s so on top of it and so involved and so passionate in regards to the album,” she told GQ. “He would be like, ‘Oh, yeah, that melody right there? That was fire.’ I’m like, ‘Thank you. I thought nobody was going to notice that.’”

Casual fans will inevitably point to Beyoncé’s “Lemonade”—or even Marvin Gaye’s “Here, My Dear”—as the impetus for “Escape Room”’s creation. But Teyana’s fourth studio album is anything but a thematic retread. It’s equal parts sorrow and solace: It’s anguish usurped by jubilee.

And much like the phoenix that rose from the ashes, reincarnation has never sounded better.

After 17 years of She-Hulks, Netflix deflections, and a fruitless flirtation with Black Bolt and them, we’ve finally arrived at the auspicious arrival of the belle of the ball: The Fantastic Four.

So if retrofuturism sprinkled with group hugs and fireballs is your thing, then much like me, you’ve been waiting for literally your entire life for “The Fantastic Four: First Steps” to finally—finally!!!!!!—arrive in theaters.

And yes, while we’ve done this song and dance before—with a rotating cast of everyone from Michael B. Jordan to John Krasinski being sent from the future to play in our faces and waste our fucking time—Marvel has finally delivered the orgasmic bliss we all deserve.

Let the church say, “Amen.”

While Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige has spent the post-“Avengers: Endgame” era bludgeoning us with an endless deluge of big-budget films, TV series, and special presentations—all in the name of greed “worldbuilding”—he’s also created a narrative labyrinth that’s exhausting to navigate. If 12-year-old me gave less than a shit about Black Widow or U.S. Agent in the comics, why am I required to now in order to know what the hell is going on in the Marvel Convoluted Universe?

Thankfully, Feige is acutely aware of this self-inflicted conundrum and has offered a generous helping of “The Fantastic Four: First Steps” as a conciliatory peace offering.

It’s the first Marvel film in forever that not only feels essential in scope—as it clearly sets up a myriad of perils to unfold in 2026’s “Avengers: Doomsday”—but doesn’t require a YouTube explainer or lengthy Disney+ binge sessions beforehand. It’s a beautifully rendered, sovereign entity—free of the MCU’s signature bloat, yet pivotal to the same cinematic universe it brazenly eludes.

Much like the comics, the prevailing theme in this film is the necessity of family. The interpersonal dynamic between Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Sue Storm, and her horny little brother Johnny is heartwarming. And instead of putting a premium on curb-stomping Galactus—although clobberin’ time is always welcome—the star of this movie is the emotional rapport these four share, and the catastrophes they’re able to overcome as a result.

With that premise in mind, “The Fantastic Four: First Steps” leers into your soul and asks the uncomfortable question: What are you willing to jeopardize to protect everything you love? The answer is terrifying, but at least the hour-and-55-minute question is thoroughly entertaining.

But where is an Ultimate Nullifier when you need one?