By Bart Barry-
DALLAS – Four miles southeast of this city’s downtown center stands Gexa Energy Pavilion, a 20,000-seat outdoor amphitheater whose stage Friday hosted a deep roster of pioneers in a musical genre then-known as rap – as in Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” – and now known as hip-hop. For those enchanted by the seedling genre in its great years, 1985-1992, Friday was an ecstasy of nostalgia and enduring craftsmanship.
Would that welterweight Timothy Bradley’s decision victory over Jessie Vargas Saturday night in Carson, Calif., kindled such praise, but when a referee marks the first interview conducted after a sporting event of any kind, one can safely assume that event disappointed spectators. So it went with Bradley-Vargas 1, a middling affair until the final moments, when Bradley ran himself into a Vargas righthand, got buckled, staggered a bit, held on, and made it to referee Pat Russell’s chosen stopping place, which as everyone now has been told a dozen times and as many different ways, was not on the 3:00 mark.
The idea Bradley – who pedaled himself unconsciously through about 11 rounds with Ruslan Provodnikov, and managed to remain conscious, too, for a combined 36 rounds across from Manny Pacquiao and Juan Manuel Marquez – was but one blow from being stopped by a career junior welterweight with nine knockouts in 26 prizefights, in his debut at 147 pounds, is quite nearly absurd. But as neither HBO nor promoter Top Rank has an idea what to do with Bradley, still, a rematch birthed by a controversy inspired by true events is the best idea currently in the offing. One no longer pities Bradley quite deeply as he did in the aftermath of the Provodnikov match, when Bradley dutifully shortened his own life with a heroic apology for decisioning Pacquiao and thereby sabotaging in 2012 (until Marquez did it perfectly six months later, and Top Rank subsequently and effortfully resurrected Pacquiao) the Fight to Save Boxing, which did quite the opposite this May.
Bradley is not a welterweight, whatever says the thickening of his physique, and his lack of welterweight power manifests itself in two obvious ways. Firstly, in seven matches, Bradley has yet to knock-out, or even knock-down, anyone as a welterweight – despite hurling himself awkwardly enough at every opponent to ruin feet and ankles, and perform what could only be called a contortionist feat on the blue mat against Provodnikov th’t yogis, to this day, cannot replicate. And secondly, that Bradley loses his balance so often, and badly, by overcommitting to punches that barely dent or mark the men he strikes flush with them.
The move that causes Bradley the most trouble is his orphan-the-children righthand that, when it misses, finds him fully crossed-over and pointedly aware of how precariously he’s mispositioned himself. Generally, after the righthand misses, Bradley sets his eyes on the tops of his own shoes, hopes not to get hit, returns his weight to his left foot (now his back foot), and quickly uncrosses his legs. He’s an elite athlete, even among what elite athletes make their livings in prizefighting, and that athleticism, once a fundamental hindrance, most likely, a hindrance to his adoption of boxing fundamentals, is now what allows him to do well as he does.
Jessie Vargas, too, exceeded expectations, Saturday, offering a competitive opponent to Bradley, and making the final minute of the fight more interesting than its 35 predecessors. Vargas certainly did not win, and were there a feasible or even novel opponent for Bradley, victory over Vargas would be declared and boxing would move on without a rematch at the end of the year, but as there is not, Unfinished will become Business’s modifier, and a more-tentative Timothy Bradley will outbox Vargas by wide margins whenever the rematch happens.
There was a two-year stretch in which I attended three-of-four Bradley matches, in Las Vegas, and yet it didn’t cross my mind to attend Saturday’s tilt. Why not? Two reasons, again: Firstly, Timothy Bradley, while remaining a model citizen and fighter boxing would be well-advised to replicate a few hundred times, is not always enthralling to watch, and the higher his weight climbs, the more apparent this becomes. And secondly, there was Big Daddy Kane and Melle Mel and Sugarhill Gang and Doug E. Fresh and Whodini and LL Cool J – “Kings of the Mic” – to see in this city, Friday.
The term “classic hip-hop” appears now to encompass the genuinely talented part of Friday’s show, while the less-talented part of Friday’s show, Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, is from a later era discovered by trailblazers who, despite their collective greatness as performers, proved no better at spotting talent than Shane Mosley during his brief time as a Golden Boy Promotions partner. There was not a single oath spoken, sung or rapped in the opening four hours of Friday’s show, and then Bone Thugs-n-Harmony began its sloppy, pointless set, and one couldn’t escape from vulgarity – the word motherf**ker fairly creaking under the weight of a performance it now had to shoulder.
That is not some priggish commentary about family values, either; it’s an aesthetic criticism.
Today, consumers of hip-hop expect, proudly demand even, lyrics written between and a first- and third-grade reading level. It was not that way in the beginning. Big Daddy Kane’s lyrics resonate almost 30 years after one first hears them, and so do LL Cool J’s. The songs Public Enemy released before 1992 are more relevant to current events, 25 years later, than 90-percent of the garbage hip-hop has become since the fateful year Dr. Dre released “The Chronic.”
“Oh, but you don’t understand ‘the industry’ and ‘the branding’ and ‘what’s hot’ and . . .” – just stop it; no man wants to hear another man talk like a teenage girl.
In the short run, little in life finds its governance in a meritocracy, and the long run, by its very nature, rarely gets survived by what artists it promotes. May some sense of that continue to bring solace to both Timothy Bradley and Big Daddy Kane.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
