Interesting Times in MMA


I’m not sure where to start, really. The first thing I saw this week was the farewell to arms of Dream Stage Entertainment. Pride really seems to have taken the purchase by the Fertitta brothers to heart, because there was no sense at all of Pride’s continuing to be a fight company in the future. The tone throughout was incredibly sombre, as though – like Boyz II Men said – they truly had come to the end of the road. I wonder how fighter moods will change when the first Pride International Holdings LLC shows get underway; one would hope the sense of tragedy was merely to humour the departing President Sakakibara.

As a Western MMA fan, the idea that Pride and UFC are now under the same umbrella has great potential for working out whom is the best at each weight, and just in terms of seeing promising fights. Still, I can’t help but feel bad for the Japanese fans. One of their key promotions has been bought out, and seems as though it is on the verge of being stripped for parts. What was once the clear best heavyweight division recently lost Mirko Filipovic and now Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira. In terms of how much of a blow this is, they were not only two of the top three Pride heavyweights, but of the world top three.

With that said, it was exciting to see Rodrigo turn up in the Octagon the other day. He is one of my absolute favourite fighters, is still relatively young, and has sufficient skill to bother anybody on the ground. (Incidentally, it is interesting that the company is also advertising Fabricio Werdum as appearing on their cards – all other heavyweights need to brush up on their grappling or else learn the best time to tap.)

I do wonder how many of these masturbatory episodes of ‘BIG NEWS’ Dana White is going to put the audience through, though. Knowing the Fertittas own everybody, there is little surprise when a Pride veteran is wheeled out in front of the baying herds; especially when a lot of these fighters are not well known to the aforementioned herds. Fortunately, Nogueira is six foot three (so he looks the part even in street clothes) and speaks English well (so the drunken hordes are less likely to boo during interviews), so this session went swimmingly. One hopes this is the end of such unveilings, though, as the returns will undoubtedly diminish in a hurry.

Anyway, the Pride heavyweight division, once a gleaming rocket ship of quality and variety, is now a charred wreck, the occasional mutant skulking out of the shadows with smoke radiating from its shell. I exaggerate, but the matches on this card had star power more befitting Cage Rage or even Hero*s.

The most intriguing fight on paper turned out to be the most enjoyable to watch. James Thompson performed his usual routine of terrifying his fans while flailing away in his inimitable style. Thompson runs the risk whenever he utilises such strategy of getting sparked out by a stray opposing fist. When the fists in question belong to such a seasoned brawling veteran as Don Frye, the worry increases exponentially. While it is most definitely true that Frye is certainly… older than he once was, he seems not to be losing power, and speed is not an overly important attribute in this kind of fight anyway.

The pre-fight festivities were arguably as entertaining as the fight proper, and that is meant as no slight. The preceding video package had marching band music befitting a superhero from the nineteen fifties: perfect for someone like Frye. Thompson started his march down the runway shuddering and vibrating, as ever, as though he had licked both forefingers and stuck them in plug sockets. Say what you will about his lack of finesse, few fighters appear as intense as James Thompson.

The stare-down, too, was something to behold. The two seemed fit to burst with mutual animus as they ground their foreheads against each other, eyes locked and jaws jacking, mouthing what were presumably the polar opposite of sweet nothings.

The fight itself was as wonderfully chaotic as one would hope. There was the slapstick opening of Thompson charging toward Frye, only to get plonked right on his arse; there was a brief re-enactment of the Frye-Takayama backstreet-nose job (and backstreet- other forms of reconstructive surgery), though thankfully more brief. At one point the chaos temporarily abated as Don Frye demonstrated some admirable top control. The fight was odd in its swings to the ground and back to the feet.

It was in familiar territory, on those feet, where the fight came to its ultimate end. Those familiar with Thompson’s pugilistic oeuvre will know the scene well, as the fatigued Bristolian was swinging those massive arms for all he was worth. The result was somewhere closer to Thompson’s fight with Yoshida than Frye’s fight with Le Banner: Thompson was punching and punching, and Frye was eventually stopped. What is interesting is that, for all his weight and muscle, it takes a lot of shots for Thompson to drop people; this was not the clinical assassination Le Banner delivered.

The biggest story coming out of this show was not the heavyweights, though (even if Butterbean did win a match via submission to keylock). It was the further adventures of one Rameau Thierry Sokoudjou, as he followed his dramatic knockout victory over Antonio Rogerio Nogueira with a dramatic knockout victory over Ricardo Arona. While I like to resist the hype of bandwagoneering, this is quite the achievement. Judo champions with heavy hands, who train at Team Quest, should be feared. Given the impressive takedown defence and the fact that, off the top of my head, the only other man to have beaten both Nogueira and Arona is one Mauricio Rua. I am not about to declare him the future of the weight class, but Sokoudjou is moving in high circles indeed. I eagerly await the next development in this man’s career.

Another fighter who saw another win on this card, albeit to infinitely less surprise, was Shinya Aoki. On the surface, it seems as though – after rolling through the likes of Hansen, Kikuchi, French and Black – he had paid his dues; that this fight was something of a Gilles Arsene (though not exactly, as Sakuraba took way too long to find the win in that fight). The submission here was quick and deadly, and one hopes this is a mere tune up for what has to be a firmer test, in the lightweight tournament that begins next month.

Speaking of master grapplers who inhabit that limbo betwixt light- and welterweight, this past week saw what has to be the crowning achievement of Matt Serra’s career. While I have gone on at length in the past about my fondness for the underdog, Serra vs. St. Pierre transcended that. See, Matt Serra (along with Randy Couture and Carlos Newton) is one of the fighters I took a shine to when first getting into MMA.

I thought his was a name to be consigned to history. Then TUF4 rolled around and my favourite took the series championship in a tight fight, and booked himself into what even I saw as certain defeat for the Renzo Gracie protégé. What happened when the two finally hit the Octagon was unbelievable.

Before the fight, I entertained an outside chance of Serra getting a takedown and then being well-placed to hit a submission, Aurelio-Gomi I style. The eventual chase knockout was something I am not likely to forget in a hurry, and respect really does to out to Serra for working on his stand-up so effectively. To think that, after GSP rampaged through Trigg, Sherk, Penn (well, perhaps ‘rampage’ isn’t the most apt verb in that case) and Hughes, it would be Serra who stopped him – and in such dramatic fashion.

I’m not about to pretend that Serra is as potentially a dominant as Hughes or GSP seemed they were/would be, but this is a definitely deserved moment in the sun for the veteran. Like Couture as heavyweight champion, the scene just got a lot more interesting as theoretically very many people might now be the next champion. Hughes looks likely to get another shot, and is likely to be successful if he does. As for St. Pierre, he is ever the gentleman (note to Tim Sylvia: this is how you lose a fight without losing fans) and, at just twenty-five, seems destined to be reunited with his belt at some point in the near future.

I made my DSE eulogy in the last issue, but it would be remiss of me to finish this article without a farewell nod to arguably the most entertaining epoch of MMA seen thus far, and indubitably the most epic. Here’s hoping the promotion does not flounder under new ownership, because the name certainly deserves to live on in opulence. While the heavyweight raids take a toll on the fight cards, the impending lightweight tournament fills me with optimism, especially as it reminds of the classic ninth Bushido show.

Pride is dead! Long live Pride.

Seeing Bob, part one.

Set List

Bob Dylan, 16th November 2005
Manchester Evening News Arena

I finally got to see Bob, and what a show it was. My journey of getting into Bob was a long and awkward one, but has ultimately led to enlightenment and much enjoyment. When I started university was when I first decided to buy some Bob. My best friend thought he was the best thing ever, so I’m surprised I didn’t make the attempt sooner. I suppose I’m just stubborn. So I went into the student union CD shop and walked out with a copy of Blonde on Blonde.

I didn’t get it. I appreciated it, but didn’t actually like it. One song I warmed to before others, which was the masterful ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’. I ended up sticking it on a ‘Sunday Morning Chill’ compilation for those lazy student days, and my love for that song grew.

Time passed, and university finished. I was of the opinion that Dylan was really good (I had copied the Bootleg series, Biographs and the Free Trade Hall concert off the friend from paragraph two, but rarely listened to them), and also that he wasn’t one of my favourites.

The intention to get into more Dylan was there, though. I would buy special Dylan issues of magazines, and for one birthday received a copy of Blood on the Tracks. Listened to it, and my appreciation grew, though to be honest ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ was always a song that stuck out to me as great. I was warming to the man.

* * *

Everything then seemed to happen quite quickly. One of my Dylanite friends asked me if I was interested in seeing Dylan in Manchester. Not being an idiot, I agreed, on the basis that it would at least be a good night out. I did love the mythology of Dylan at this point, and seeing him would be quite the event.

The Scorsese documentary was screened on BBC2 and while I caught only the final forty minutes, I was sufficiently hyped for the gig. I then decided to pick up as much Dylan as I could, to make the most of the event. I tracked down the golden era of albums from the 1960s, and already had copies of Time Out Of Mind and Desire, so went with 1979s Slow Train Coming and the Daniel Lanois-produced Oh Mercy, from 1989.

From here, I carried out some research and compiled what seemed to be standout tracks from ’lesser’ albums and immersed myself. Listened to CDs, MDs, and logged over two-hundred-and-fifty plays on the computer.

Of course, one can never truly be ready for a Bob Dylan concert. Seeing the Pixies, for example, involves listening to their four albums and the knowledge that there are certain ‘hit’ songs they will definitely play. No such luxury with Bob, who has many more albums, and is prone to play just about anything from his biggest hits to obscure bluegrass songs.

There is also the legendary warning that is proffered to any Bob virgin: ‘Even if he plays a famous song, you won’t recognise it’. Described variously as ‘evolving his songs over time to suit the Bob performing them’ to ‘butchering the classics’, there was a definite trepidation as it pertained to the thought of knowing what he’s playing. However, I figured I was as ready as I could be.

* * *

Anyway, the day arrived, I met up with my crew, and we went to the arena following some pub time and a rather nice Italian meal. Finding the arena was a cinch – I had spent some years in Manchester after all. However, finding the seats was an altogether different matter. We got pointed to our seats; well, we were shown a dark corridor. My associate and I wandered down some stairs, and the arena was plunged into darkness. Lost in concentration trying to find the seats, I nevertheless heard a voice-over recount Bob’s various successes and, lo and behold, the man himself was on stage and flying through an energetic version of ‘Maggie’s Farm’.

Quickly, we sidled to the edge of a seating block on the floor and not too far from the stage. Well, I could make out which one Bob was, and what his suit was like – good enough for me. The song itself was grand, and a positive start to what would be a ‘best of’ set, what with his last album being released some four years previously.

It seemed as though the majority of his songs had been dropped into an upbeat twelve-bar-blues blender and come out somewhat homogenised, but as long as the songs were largely recognisable I didn’t mind. I say that because there were some issues with recognition throughout the set. Amusingly, the intro and first verse of a lot of songs were periods of doubt, wherein the audience attempted to discern what was being played. The ovations, erupting a couple of minutes into a song, as opposed to right at the start, were amusing – almost reminiscent of the delayed applause that characterised Stars in their Eyes performances back in the day.

The other big change to songs was the vocal delivery. However songs had been sung in the past, they were all now delivered in Bob’s inimitable, short of breath, croak. Some people complain about this, but it’s not as though he was the most classically brilliant singer in the first place. Also: the man is in his sixties – he is bound to sound aged. The litmus test, rather than ‘does it sound like the album?’ should be ‘does it work in its new arrangement?’ And it does. Besides, I’ve always been of the opinion that if people want to hear something identical to a studio album, that they should listen to the studio album.

So a song like ‘Lay, Lady, Lay’s vocal is changed totally. Rather than a relatively smooth delivery, informed by Dylan’s years of listening to country and bluegrass, the romance is strained and awkward, as indeed a sixty-four year old Dylan would be likely to in real life. Rather than the classic song being besmirched by this old man on a stage, it works perfectly as a microcosm of the changes Dylan has been through in the decades since the song was released. The songs age with the man, which would be compelling in itself, even if the songs weren’t as well performed as they were.

Shortly after this, we were treated to something of a Blonde on Blonde section: ‘Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine’ and ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’, two awesome songs with awesome titles, separated only by ‘Million Miles’ (itself taken from Bob’s best album since the seventies, so it’s all good). ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile…’ was the crowning moment of the set proper for me. While my favourite Dylan song for a good half decade prior to this, recognition took shamefully long. There was a newly-composed riff to introduce the song as a whole and each stanza specifically, it was all slightly sped up, and of course the clarity of enunciation that is so important to the song was rather modified.

I’ll be delving deeper into the song in Part 2 of me seeing Dylan, but rest assured I loved it to an absolutely mighty degree. While it took a couple of minutes for me to recognise, this was an occasion in which a songs sorta-epic length was fortunate. The length, and the rolling format of the song, means that whenever you listen to the song it’s a treat. In the live arena, with the atmosphere all abuzz and the players providing their own personal ignition, this tune is something else entirely. Contrary to a bizarrely widely-held belief, seeing Bob is not some lethargic nostalgia trip in which all concerned take it easy. This was as sufficient evidence as any to refute that error. While perfunctory seating was provided, we were positioned on the floor, and seating was far from our minds. Already on my feet, I was rocking out massively for the duration of this song. I was literally rocking out.

Also rocking was his performance of ‘Highway 61’, but the show wasn’t just about turning up the tempo and boogieing away. The night’s rendition of ‘Girl of the North Country’ was a thing of beauty, shimmering in the night in a manner more spectacular than the Freewheelin’ original. The song tonight rested gently on a glittering arpeggio while the night sky was suggested by the dark blue stage lightning. A triumph of atmosphere and emotion, the song brought the mood down gently before ‘Highway 61’ exploded into action.

The encore consisted of ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ and ‘All Along the Watchtower’. The latter was a truly great moment in my concert-attending life. The performance was great (more in a bit), but the thinking I did while it was playing blew my mind. Jimi Hendrix is one of those near constants in my life: he was pivotal in that time when you’re fifteen and the music you discover is a portal to an unknown world, a world of excitement, fear and limitless possibilities. And drugs. When you’re fifteen and ‘old music’ suddenly starts sounding really good – timeless – the window in your cultural mind wakes up and the spectrum of art shines in.

Hendrix – way more than The Doors, Marley or even Dylan at that time – was the most important figure in that phase of my life. ‘All Along the Watchtower’ was the most significant of his songs to me, too. This was partly because of the effortless genius of the whole thing, but partly because, as track one on The Ultimate Experience, it was the signifier of a new day; the moment of clarity.

Jimi is an eternal figure to me, inordinately brilliant, and dead a decade before I was born. ‘…Watchtower’ is the epitome of his genius. And here I was, watching the man who actually wrote the song, performing it live in front of me. It was such a moment of realisation, of music history being represented on the stage, but living and breathing. Mind-blowing as that was, the musical time tunnel opening up in front of my very eyes and chronology blurring into the abstract, this history was also rocking massively.

As mythology has it, Dylan said the song belonged to Jimi after hearing the cover. Be that as it may (and the song is arguably the best cover of anything ever), it’s not as if Bob decided to lift the Hendrix arrangement. The crashing, scintillating riff that opens the song has not augmented the Dylan version, nor has the mid-song tripped out ‘tuning bit’. The pension-age Dylan certainly doesn’t scream how the hour! Is getting late! No, this performance is the original John Wesley Harding arrangement, but electrified to the point of frying, the songs fizzling eyeballs popping out of their sockets.

Again I rocked out massively, and it’s not as though ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ wasn’t a brilliant lead-in song. What an encore that was. And, Bob being Bob, the night was over by half past nine and I got home in record time. Bonus! This wasn’t the greatest gig I ever attended, and of course Bob is almost ancient, but there were moments of true brilliance that I am never likely to forget.

* * *

Next up: the Bob gig I attended this weekend! Most of it’s already written, so it should be pretty soon…

Is Spam Always This Good?

This morning, I found myself on one of my semi-regular spam deletion missions (obviously a lesser email provider than the solid Gmail), and curiosity led me to open one of these unsolicited emails. Imagine my pleased surprise, then, as I found compelling prose within. And pictures of ‘whores’, but check out the prose:

What strikes me now as the most wonderful proof of my fitness, or unfitness, for the times is the fact that nothing people were writing or talking about had any real interest for me. Only the object haunted me, the separate detached, insignificant thing. It might be a part of the human body or a staircase in a vaudeville house; it might be a smokestack or a button I had found in the gutter. Whatever it was it enabled me to open up, to surrender, to attach my signature. To the life about me, to the people who made up the world I knew, I could not attach my signature. I was as definitely outside their world as a cannibal is outside the bounds of civilized society. I was filled with a perverse love of the thing-in-itself-not a philosophic attachment, but a passionate, desperately passionate hunger, as if in the discarded, worthless thing which everyone ignored there was contained the secret of my own regeneration.

I can only assume this has been lifted from a novel but, not being well read, I wouldn’t know from which exactly. I think Russ made mention a while back about spam making him come to the conclusion that his literary ability paled in comparison, and here we are. I have no idea what the ‘signature’ stuff is about, though…

R.I.P Kurt Vonnegut


I had been meaning to read Harrison Bergeron for a while now, and never did finish Slaughterhouse 5.

It’s kind of a kick in the pants that it takes something like this to motivate someone like me to do something like read. So won’t you all join me in a toast to the great author (so I’m told) and read Harrison Bergeron.

Still, I imagine he’s enjoying that ‘eternal bliss’ up in Heaven.