Fox Searchlight's Biggie biopic is set to cast an unknown as Notorious himself (though some knowns, like Beanie Sigel,
tried out for the part!). They even got Biggie’s momma, Voletta
Wallace, on board. I guess it would have been disrespectful not to.
…And it all started with an online casting call, complete with uploaded audition scenes and all. Some of them are crazy.
Three things go through my mind at this point:
Check the NY Times article.
I went to see Sonny Rollins last night at the Boston Symphony Orchestra. My family is full of a bunch of huge jazz fans, so they were all delighted that I was going to see one of the greats.
It didn’t even occur to me that I’d have such a visceral reaction to Sonny Rollins' show – to Sonny himself, his music, or his fans... the one-two-three punch of emotion for ol' Ryan.
He is old and walks slowly, with a limp. He holds his right shoulder significantly lower than his left, his body curved in the shape of his instrument. Sonny is the sax, the piece of brass in his hand his conductor.
I could feel his love for the saxophone as he walked from stage left to stage right, along with his band of brothers’ pride to play with him. As the crowd cheered Sonny Rollins onto the stage, it’s weird but I got very sentimental… before he even got to In a Sentimental Mood.
Next thing that got me was the sound of the tenor saxophone. My dad used to play when I was very young. I’d watch him as he soaked his reeds and practiced holding his lips and teeth to the mouthpiece. So now the instrument is so stickily close to my heart. If I hear a man on the street playing the tenor sax, I weep to myself and give him all the money in my wallet (usually about 2-3 dollars).
When Sonny started to play, I got a little nervous. My dad mentioned that he’d gotten older and might not have the chops that he used to. I heard a few squeaky notes come out of his sax and thought maybe he’d lost the good stuff. Oh no…!
But it was all good. I think he did that on purpose anyway. The notes he hit thereafter came out of Sonny Rollins' sax with force, with laughter, and with commanding certainty. The 75-year-old was jamming; he still had it. I gotta tell my dad.
At intermission I looked around the room and noticed a group of older black gentleman chatting. They had to be in their upper 70’s to mid 80’s. They all wore dressy clothes and caps. My friend and I stood fairly close to them and listened to their lively conversation concerning past jazz shows and festivals and who they’d seen, hotel prices in 1947… 
One man in particular – wearing a black Newsies’ cap, dark printed sweater, and a warm smile – reminded me of my grandfather. My friend suggested that I tell him, but the thought of even uttering those words out loud was too much for me. I could barely look at the man with
out feeling a certain longing for things past.
I miss the generation of cab drivers, smooth dressers and saxophone players. Thank you Sonny Rollins, for bringing it back for one night.
I have been to a great many concerts in my 24 years, but the Howard’s Dilemma show that I saw in assembly sophomore year of high school will forever top them all.
Close your eyes and picture this with me, please.
The lights in the assembly hall dim and then go out completely. The room is dark. Light scuffling can be heard on the stage, but other than the room is silent.
As the lights slowly come up to a foggy grey, one boy stands in the middle of the stage in front of a Yamaha synthesizer with his head bowed. He is wearing all black. He is a quiet boy, a year my senior. He never says anything in class or in the cafeteria. I know nothing about him.
He looks up into the crowd, and his face is painted with black war paint. He scrutinizes the crowd. He stares at everyone, as if he might grab a hammer and bludgeon us all.
He plays one shrill key on the synthesizer. He holds it down forever. He never takes his eyes off of his audience of 400 students and 40 Quaker teachers. Then he hits the next out of tune note, and says very slowly, “Hhhhowwwwward’s Dilemmmmma.”
Next, another boy who doesn’t even go to our school motors onstage, wearing a Scream mask and a black cloak. The synthesizer-playing boy hits a key and one of those crappy preprogrammed Techno beats blasts into the auditorium.
The cloaked boy moves very slowly and starts talking into a microphone. It actually sounds like he’s eating the microphone. “Howard’s. Howard’s. Howard’s. Dilemma.”
Then the show really began, with a song called “Elephant Man.”
My friends and me were so mesmerized that we bought 5 copies of the tapes they sold after the “show.” We memorized all the lyrics and pumped the songs out of our car windows in the summer. We listened to the tapes in my friend’s smoky room, drooling out of laughter. We were true fans.
Now you can be too. Howard’s. Dilemma.
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