DJ Green Lantern and Jay-Z sanction a round up of rarities and recent appearances and live footage:

Before it was the mighty Neil Armstrong, DJ Green Lantern infamously toured with Jigga Man as his #1 on the 1's and 2's. In fact, around the time of his 2006 album "KINGDOM COME" Green & Jay had intended to drop 'Presidential Invasion' -- a promotional mixtape created while the two were touring Africa and promoting Jay's "The Diary of Jay-Z: Water for Life" conquest to aid African countries in the pursuit of clean water. That mixtape never materialized, and the hip-hop world was left waiting for that elusive Hova v. Evil Genius collaboration. Four years later -- with the summer of 2010 as the backdrop, and Jay-Z's Roc Nation label and DJ Green Lantern's Team Invasion as the suppliers -- S. Carter takes it to the next level with a new kind of CREATIVE CONTROL. Green and Jay do the damn thing and drop this official new mixtape masterpiece, complete with trademark GL production, remixes, live appearances and never-before-heard music.

A benchmark in fake gangster music I reviewed for the Washington City Paper. Check out the thought process, know I like this record a great deal.

On Thursday night, LeBron James will announce he's joining the New York Knicks. It's in stone.

LeBron James is joining his best friends and fellow all-world Olympic basketball gods Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh in Miami to complete an overwhelming triumvirate. It's a done deal.

LeBron James is too loyal and self-aware to rip out his city's heart on national television. It is written, James must stay and forge glory from good vibes.


At this point, only two facts are patently clear:

1. LeBron James is a special kind of megalomaniac.
2. If he chooses to ink with my beloved New York Knicks, I'll have to find another team.

The last time the Knicks mattered, I was on a high school band trip on the scenic Texas Gulf Coast, watching the Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady Raptors knock out the expensive, aging Allan Houston-Latrell Sprewell-Larry Johnson-Patrick Ewing Knicks. It was the spring of 2001, yet I'd fallen in love during the early '90s when NBA Jam emerged on the 5th grade sleepover scene and a Ewing-John Starks combination was the best path to downtown threes and boom-shacka-lacka jams.

The Knicks play in the country's biggest media market (a vital metric to the success of any second tier professional sport), are one of the NBA's most historic franchises. Yet when they previously tasted success, they were a defensive-minded, heartbreaking team notorious for choking, contending, playing with the grit and spark of their hometown.  

But a decade removed from any semblance of hope (save for a few months during the early winter months of 2004 when fiery young administrator, Isiah Thomas, made bold plays for the likes of Stephon Marbury and Penny Hardaway) means the spirit of the Knicks is long dead and a franchise's identity lies at a crossroads.

With offensive guru and former Phoenix Suns coach Mike D'Antoni, along with the signing/reunion of former Suns center Amar'e Stoudemire, along with, say, a point guard like San Antonio's Tony Parker and scoring blizzard, Syracuse hero Carmelo Anthony joining up in 2011, there's a free-flowing, cerebral core for a perpetual playoff contender sure to promise heartbreaking and rewarding spring flings. They'll steadily improve. They'll matter.

With Stoudemire, D'Antoni and LeBron James, the Knicks bandwagon is instantly overloaded with new-gen fans that principally pull for individual players, celebrities in baseball caps, wealthy and very real housewives, Spike Lee, insufferable hip-hop fans and worst of all, fairweather New Yorkers.

The Lakerization in fan culture is an instantly ghastly proposition, but more so when considering the central marketing force would be a farce of a man. Make no mistake, these truths are self-evident:

1. LeBron owes no one anything.

But ripping out the heart of a suffering city takes an Art Modell/Jack Parkman gene not present in hero athletes and admirable men.

But the self-aggrandizement of an hour-long special called "The Decision" means he's fiendishly milking the moment for all it's worth.


2. LeBron certainly has a right to move forward, join forces with his best shot at winning. This is America, advancement is fundamental.

But it means the only two choices are talent-rich, supporting-cast-in-tact Chicago or cutting ties with at least $30 million, hijacking the league with Bosh and Wade in Miami in an ego-checking move reminiscent of the 2008 Boston Celtics.


3. LeBron can chase immortality and the impossible task of restoring titles to the New York Knicks and he just may have the talent and star-power to elevate the NBA past college football as the number two sport in America.

But it means James is a special kind of cocksucker because he'd sacrifice money, the heart and soul and economy of a suffering region that's championed him for nearly a decade and championships (Jordan or Russell would have long ago signed with these Bulls or this Heat force in the making) for a big city with bright lights. He's like that prick from your high school that sells out his parents for an NYU education, that spends Thanksgiving breaks touting the culture, food and nightlife...if that prick from your high school simultaneously left a major dent in the local economy upon departure.

Reggie Ugwu
Tuesday, June 15 at 5:18 p.m.

So I looked in Slate today and everything I've wanted to say about this Drake shit was staring me in the face. It was uncanny. At first I was thrilled, and then I was profoundly dismayed. Kudos to Jonah Weiner, and death to Jonah Weiner.

Thank Me Later is not a bad album. But compare it to his earlier work, as those of us who have been following his career closely for years are want to do, and it feels like a significant disappointment. There is very little to be excited about, and frankly, the sonic palette is kind of a snooze. Are Weiner and I the only ones feeling Aubrey fatigue?

Bro, I think he might be.

Teflon Don, arriving on July 20, already sounds stirring and boasts an epic prequel. The final tracklisting is mouth-watering: short, cohesive, boasts immaculate guests. Rick Ross's authenticity as a boss/drug lord with connections was long ago disproven but he's retained a penchant for penning enormous, swelling anthems. His voice is a welcome addition to any posse cut (Ross steals just about every moment, especially 2009's who's who roll call, "Fed Up") and without a need to federate existence, we'll get winking, relatable nods to Honey Comb Hideouts.

And more car songs!


Rick Ross featuring T.I., Jadakiss, Erykah Badu - Maybach Music III

Rick Ross featuring Drake, Chrisette Michele - Aston Martin Music

Dig No I.D.'s beat and the hooks from Tony Williams and Connie Mitchell. This one is from Teflon Don, Rick Ross's forthcoming summer blockbuster. It's scheduled for July 20.

Not to be confusing, but the picture is accompanying promo art for Kanye's latest single. Like it a great deal.


Rick Ross featuring Kanye West - Live Fast, Die Young

A collection of tip top Andre 3000 and Big Boi memories sanctioned by Big Boi FBO street buzz for his album out July 6.

The tape is a bit late, however. With the same effort it takes to download after the jump, one can snag a leaked version of Sir Lucious Leftfoot: The Son of Chico Dusty from Mediafire. I opted for both.

• Rammellzee died.
  
• Jay-Z and Eminem took over The Late Show with David Letterman as tickets swiftly sold out through devilish gatekeepers for their pair of September shows in Detroit and New York.
• Eminem released the generally well-received Recovery and sold an astonishing 741,000 copies. Take that, Jayson Greene.
  
• Trae's war on Houston radio got increasingly ugly.
• The elusive, frustrating Son of Chico Dusty leaked. It's good.
• LeBron James speculation ran rampant. He clearly wants to play in New York and for a contender, so ATG projects a record-breaking pile of money and five-year max deal from the Harlem Globetrotters.
  
• The Roots, Rhymefest, The Dream, Z-Ro and Nappy Roots released albums.

ATG sizes it all up.

Tomorrow, the World Fucking Cup (WFC) begins in South Africa. The thought of typing up a "WFC for Dummies" guide seemed appropriate but, more than likely, you've read such a document in ESPN, Sports Illustrated, Slate, Time, Newsweek or other formidable publications.

ATG will not provide banal analysis and default to Spain or Brazil. I won't explain why Brazilian athletes have one name. I won't compare and qualify a sport by putting it in perfect, hilarious American context. Rather, I'll advocate total immersion and dissect your barriers to total immersion.

Enjoy the globe-stopping tournament. Hopefully at a trendy, hip, American bar full of pseudo-intellectuals more than happy to break down the offsides rules.