Fall is in the air

It's the Friday roundup, if anyone's still around, and I'll make it brief because although I do love the smell of ouzo in the morning, it is a little fatiguing.
After Wednesday's post, the estimable James Mirtle -- estimable being one of those words, like eschew, propitious and mendacious, you often see in the prints but never hear come out of anyone's mouth -- asks a pretty good question:

What I can't understand is why junior hockey has withered so much ... I obviously wasn't here for it to happen, but I'll never forget the shock of coming from Kamloops - where there's a new, 6,000-seat rink filled every night - to going to my first St. Mike's games in that cramped, crappy rink.  I thought I'd shown up in the wrong place. It was unbelievable.

Sounds like a (long) weekend assignment. Who killed junior hockey in Toronto, anyway?

One last read. Twice in one day I'm linking to the Basketball Jones. But I did so like Skeets' interview with J.R. Smith, who has been traded twice this summer but is being admirably upbeat in spite of it (full marks for the Andy Moog namedrop, too):

Skeets: So how does it feel to get traded twice in the same summer?
Smith: To be perfectly honest, it doesn’t feel any different for it to be done twice. I mean I’m still only going to one new place, right? If it happened during the season though … well, that’d be a different story.

FOX

Frankie got game.

Skeets: Tell me a different story, J.R..
Smith: Excuse me?

Skeets: Please tell me a story. A tale, a fable…
Smith: About?

Skeets: Anything. Go nuts.
Smith: Um…

Skeets: Let your imagination soar, young child…
Smith: OK, um … um … I guess once upon a time–

Skeets: Hold on. You guess?
Smith: Um, yeah…

Skeets: If you’re going to tell a story, tell it like you mean it!
Smith: Sorry.

Skeets: No wonder you got traded for air. You’ve got no gusto man.
Smith: Hey, Howard Eisley is solid baller.

Skeets: Yeah, so is Frankie Muniz. Come on man…

One last heads-up. The Flagrancy is counting down the 50 Most Dubious Moments in Raptors History. In other words, the shortlist.

Sports around town. The York Yeomen (Lions; thanks, Andrew! and you're right, it is kinda dull) open the CIS football season Monday at home against McMaster (2 p.m. up on the windswept edge of the world), so once again it's okay to start painting your face red and white and yelling "Tentanda Via" around town. Really, it is. Go to it, kids (Thanks to regular John Richardson for the link. Go Axemen!).

Watching. There's Cat Power on Monday night at Lee's. Okay, as far as TV, a look-in on Sunday's world hoops final (6:30 a.m., Raptors TV) and the latest chapter of the Damon Allen Show (Monday, 6 p.m., CBC) is pretty much the only thing on the PVR as I'm resting up for youknowwho.

Punters corner. We're a week away from the first full Sunday of youknowwhat, so like I said, it's rest time. Save your loonies. Have a fine weekend. See you the first day of fall.

 

Weekend surprise VII

Three takes on the same insanely catchy tune:

First, the Pipettes' Pull Shapes.

Second, the clip from Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls cheez classic that inspired it.

Finally, Peter Crouch (remember him? Remember the dance?) liking to rock n roll (note the poignant slo-mo embrace with Beckham). Ah, the memories.

Yes, It's back

Exactly one month later -- in blog years, that's akin to a millenium, and in Mundial years, let's just say the odometer on that car has rusted out -- like it or not, It is back.

So what'd I miss? Momentous stuff -- Floyd Landis, caught; Maurice Clarett, bucking for a CFL tryout; Wade Belak, re-signed.

TORONTO STAR PHOTO

Like it or not, JABS, and Wade Belak, are back.

For now, I'll throw out a few links have caught my eye just to ease back into things and maybe get these cold embers up to room temperature. I didn't do much surfing during the time off, but a couple hats go off to faves Vancouver Canucks OpEd and Sports Guy North for their 24-hour blogathon efforts. 24 hours of continuous blogging. No wonder us daily newspaper types are getting killed (and on the subject of SGN, I've been tagged with one of those meme type things. I'm not quite sure what it's all about, but will advise and yes Kent, perform my blogger-bro duty).

Now to some of those links:

I know these are the dog days, and some of you are afflicted by golf addiction. Here's The Morning News' Ralph Gamelli with some tips, because, you know, it's such a mental game:

Hitting Out of the Woods

1. You’ve never liked the woods, have you?
2. You don’t even have a good excuse. You were never lost in them or abducted by crazed mountain men. You never suffered any kind of trauma in them whatsoever. You’re just a sniveling coward, afraid of what animals could be lurking in there.
3. Snakes.
4. Coyotes.
5. Maybe even bears.
6. You’re 50 feet away and already you can sense a pair of inhuman eyes in there, staring at you. Hungrily. Don’t go in. You’ll never come back out.
7. Take a penalty stroke and drop another ball at the nearest relief point.
8. Swing, you pansy.

And still on golf, Dave Feschuk, this summer's hardest-working (and best) columnist, filed today on young Hamilton swinger Salimah Mussani, playing in this week's CN Canadian Women's Open in London despite suffering from lupus:

"It's scary," she said yesterday. "Before it happens, you can't hear anything. Everything goes mute. And then I'd slowly lose the sensation in my fingers. And then, suddenly, I was just out. It's happened a few times. And I know it's coming and I'll drink more water and sit down. ... But sometimes it's so intense, your body just shuts down."
Such is Mussani's ongoing battle with lupus, a decimator of the immune system for which there is no cure. Because lupus is triggered by sunlight and stress — a couple of golf's unavoidable occupational hazards — two doctors told her she would have to quit golf. But Mussani found a third doctor, at McMaster University's lupus clinic, who in turn found a drug that has, for the past couple of years, helped a rare athlete resume a promising career.

Good find over at Sportsfilter, with Foxsports' Randy Hill riffing on sports' biggest cheaters:

What level of personal protocol would you sacrifice to be the world's fastest human?
Thanks to the predicaments of cyclist Floyd Landis and sprinter Justin Gatlin, a culture of alleged cheating may have reached critical mess.
But breaking the rules is not unprecedented.

And one more, from a while back, sent along by e-mailer Robert Simpson and posted here in case you missed it -- O Canada coming in at No. 2 on SI's list of greatest sports songs. Never mind that No. 1 is the dreadful "We are the Champions". We're No. 2!:

TORONTO STAR PHOTO

Proud to be Canadian.

Yeah, it's a national anthem, but most national anthems sound like dirges and this one is lump-in-the-throat gorgeous. It summons images of gleaming ice and players on skates, heads bowed under Stanley Cup banners -- even when it's played in baseball stadiums.

I've never been all that keen on anthems, but there are exceptions and O Canada, at times rousing, at times butchered, always seems to provide them. This spring's Rexall Place singalong. Roger Doucet on New Year's Eve 1975 in Montreal. Mary O'Dowd at Yankee Stadium (reg. required). (Unfortunately, I can't find links to clips for those last two. If anyone can help, please do).

Best anthem memories, or some jock rock that moves you (with so much of that SI list -- and pro arenas -- stuck on stale numbers like Glory Days and Centre Field, of late I do like the Decemberists' "Sporting Life")? More golf tips? A cheater or two? Send 'em along. Like it or not, JABS is back.

Day 30: A Hungry March to the Final

BERLIN

Ageism: 64 Mundial years (another day, and a Hungry March Band CD to go with an unforgettable show of theirs at a tiny, airless club in Ostkreuz, a neighbourhood in the eastern part of town)
Pallor: Leaden, like the skies
Forecast: Rainy, humid

After being away from soccer for two+ days, it’s time to get back into it tonight -- with the third-place game. Well, I’ve got nothing to say for once, and I’ll leave it regular contributor Ray Skyrme to set it up in his usual rhymin’ way:

GER v POR

Deutschland meets Portugal Saturday
In a match neither team wants to play.
But for national pride
Let both coaches decide
That their best troops will enter the fray.

Let this match be a true exhibition
Of the Game played without inhibition,
Play that thrills and enthuses,
Wherein nobody loses:
Players, spectators, FIFA tradition.

Hmm. Ray be getting’ a little teary-eyed there. Stiff upper lip there, lad, we're almost done.
Let’s look at a game that does mean a little bit more: Sunday’s final. And this fascinating fact from Mark Sandler of the New York Times on chief local organizer Franz Beckenbauer:

Barnstorming from city to city in a twin-engine Augusta helicopter lent by a sponsor, Beckenbauer will have attended 46 of the 64 games by the time he takes his seat in Olympic Stadium in Berlin. He is a familiar presence in the VIP section, usually at the elbow of people like Prince William of England, Diego Maradona of Argentina or Chancellor Angela Merkel of Germany.

Good lord. Der Kaiser also took an unscheduled powder to go off and get married. Imagine how many Mundial years he’s added to his life this past month.
Oh, one more thing. The Hungry March Band? They’re so much fun, there oughta be a law. I’ve sweated less running marathons than I did Friday night in east Berlin, trying to dance to their wonderful and clever wall of sound in a performance space barely bigger than the main floor of my house – and my house is small, a typical Toronto WWI-era box -- but jammed with about 100 like-minded enthusiasts, not to mention the 16 or 18 pieces the band brought (I lost count – apparently they’re down a few this tour from the usual 24). They've never played Toronto. I think we have to get them there. JABS presents, or something like that.

Today’s game

Germany 3, Portugal 1. The hosts grab a much-needed shot in the arm after falling to Italy in the semis. The third-place game is pretty much an afterthought unless you're in it, so there was much celebration here Saturday night after this result. With Ballack out and Oliver Kahn getting a start in goal, Schweinsteiger scored two and an own goal accounted for Germany's scoring. Sunday they're having a big pep rally with the Mannschaft at Brandenburg Gate. Expect a million or so to be there, the warmup act to Sunday night's grand finale.

Sunday’s menu

Italy vs France. Well here it is. Only one lineup note on each side: Reserve Louis Saha is out for France after that needless second yellow picked up in the last minutes of the semi, while Alessandro Nesta remains injured and can’t return to partner Fabio Cannavaro, who has only been having one of the greatest defending tournaments of all-time. Couple his performance with Buffon in goal behind him, and I do think this Azzurri is unbreakable. The way Lippi has managed it, he’s always trying to avoid penalties by piling on the attack as the game goes on. The sentiment is mostly on France’s side, with all those elders heading off into the sunset, none of them getting more of the praise (and deservedly so) than Zidane. But Zizou was visibly wilting the final 20+ plus minutes of the semifinal, along with some other of his teammates -- note that Italy gets the extra day's rest going into this one -- and Barthez always seems to be just a bobble away from donning a clown suit. I’ll be very surprised if France wins this. Italy to get one, then add one late to seal it when France begin to wear down. Italy 2, France 0.

Day 29: Of Golden Ball and Brass Band

BERLIN

Ageism: 61 Mundial years
Pallor: Grey
Forecast: 30C (yes, it’s cooling off)

Couple of random items, short post. Let’s start with the personal. Last night, sitting out in the Friedrichstrasse’s Hackescher Market, drinking a Berliner Weisse mit Schuss – a white beer, with red raspberry syrup mixed in (you can also get green). Sort of like sour cream soda with a mild kick -- sounds horrible, but actually quite good.

AP PHOTO

Happy birthday Chris, you big teddy bear.

I’m not a birthday guy, and it wasn’t till around 11 that I mentioned to Brunt – the odd couple from Frankfurt, reunited for a night out -- that it was the b-day. So we had a toast. And that was it. And it was good. As it turned out, it was about to get better.
Eight years ago at France ’98, on the same day, I was with World Cup traveling partner Martin Smith of Journal de Montreal, staying in a small seaside hotel in the little Mediterranean town of La Ciotat, home of cinema pioneers the Lumiere brothers, and had a specially-made bouillabase birthday dinner prepared in a sandy tented restaurant that remains a favourite memory. We were there for three days before the semifinal in Marseille. It was a great way to unwind after the craziness of following this tournament in a leased minivan we dubbed the Hearse.
Apart from the unwinding, this is very different. One of the notable things about being in Berlin for the World Cup final is that it’s like any great and enormous city when a big event comes to town – there are always places where the World Cup doesn’t exist, and this was one of them. After a month here being surrounded by it, this was a welcome escape zone.
A three-piece Latin jazz band played for a while. Then as we were getting ready to leave, a 14-piece brass band moved slowly into the square, playing as they advanced, complete with a baton twirler and a women in a sort-of cowboy outfit tossing a silver hoop up in the air. Tricks and brass no-wave mashing -- a little bit of Latin, a little bit of Lounge Lizards, a hint of New Orleans and more. You can't beat it.
Then they played happy birthday for someone. I mentioned to the cowbell girl that it was my birthday too. So of course they did it again, and at the finish, one of the percussionists came over, threw her cymbals to the ground at my feet and bowed. I hooted and applauded, and the band, Brooklyn’s riotous Hungry March Band (for a WMP sample, go here) are playing tonight and tomorrow here as part of a European tour. So it’s a date, then.
As for the footy, Germany's Lukas Podolski has been named the best Young Player of the tournament, and FIFA released the shortlist for the Golden Ball award given to the World Cup's most outstanding player. I don't have a vote, but if I did I'd go with Fabio Cannavaro, Italy’s stalwart defender and, for my money, the most influential player here. Here’s the field, feel free to tell me I’m wrong and you’re right with your choice:

Thierry Henry, France
Patrick Vieira, France
Zinedine Zidane, France
Michael Ballack, Germany
Miroslav Klose, Germany
Fabio Cannavaro, Italy
Gianluigi Buffon, Italy
Andrea Pirlo, Italy
Gianluca Zambrotta, Italy
Maniche, Portugal

The Song of the World Cup

I've riffed a few times in here on the mostly crappy/anodyne music and videos that are played in the stadiums -- not just here, but at any Euro or previous Mundial. But here's one I've been saving that's got something going from the heart, from Bavarian band Sportfreunde Stiller.

I first heard this song early on while travelling on the train, and again and again since in the same setting. It's a great terrace singalong, and in the stadiums whenever Deutschland play you hear it at least once or twice during matches, someone in a Germany shirt counting off "Ein-Schwein-Drei!" to start it off, and everyone joins in with gusto.

Now that Germany's out of the final at the last hurdle, I'm throwing it up as a salute to the Mannschaft. They sure have been fun to watch -- I never had really seen Philipp Lahm before this, and what a dynamic little package he is to watch out for in the coming years. Likewise, Miroslav Klose seems certain to be going to one of the big Euro leagues some day soon.

Here it is -- quite charming and instantly likable. If anyone can give me a translation, send it along and I'll post it as an update.

UPDATE

Well, that was fast. Big props to e-mailer Markus Weigl for sending along a quick translation of the Sportfreunde Stiller song "54 74 90 2006" -- er, forget to mention that, and if you're wondering about the sequence those first three numbers refer to Germany's three World Cup titles -- and adds the comment that "if it had bagpipes would sound like one of those amazing Scotch anthems. Agreed, Markus. Over to you:

54 74 90 2006

1 and 2 and 3 and '54, '74, '90, 2006
Yes, we all join in
With hearts in our hands and passion in our legs
We will be the world champions

We don't exactly have the greatest sporting culture
We're not exactly filigrees
But we have dreams and visions
And a master plan up our sleeves.
The motto for our long journey out of crisis
And out of depression
goes: Nothing but up onto the football-throne!

1 and 2 and 3 and '54, '74, '90, 2006
Yes, we all join in
With hearts in our hands and passion in our legs
We will be the world champions

The whole world is grasping for the golden cup
But only one will hold on to it
Now that's the way it is
The whole world is playing itself crazy
But the cup stays in our land.
1 and 2 and 3 and '54, '74, '90, 2006
Yes, we all join in
With hearts in our hands and passion in our legs
We will be the world champions

The first time it was a miracle,
The second time it was luck
The third time it was an earned reward
And this time it'll be a sensation!

1 and 2 and 3 and '54, '74, '90, 2006
Yes, we all join in
With hearts in our hands and passion in our legs
We will be the world champions

'54, '74, '90, 2006
Yes, we all join in
With hearts in our hands and passion in our legs
We will be the world champions

Day 25: World Cup music

FRANKFURT, Germany

Ageism: 53 Mundial years added
Pallor: Rosy (two days in one spot, and no games to watch, will get you feeling that way)
Forecast: What else? Sunny and hot

Last full day in Frankfurt – with some time here, went on a Main River boat ride yesterday and well, the wind and the sun were nice; tonight it will be the final meal at the neighbourhood restaurant, the da Michele, where the nightly fresh fish is always, always the wise choice. Dora Danielli and her husband – the eponymous chef, Michele – have 34 years here in the restaurant business. They’ve been at their present location, 2 ½ blocks away from the train station, for four years. If you’re ever in the neighbourhood, you can’t go wrong here.
Now, to a mini-post, sort of the addendum to the other day’s Feel the Love Generation whining, among other things. When it comes to cheesy music, nothing beats the World Cup. Before they play every match here, the same tunes precede the arrival of the teams and their officially sponsored children’s escorts.
Besides Feel the Love etc., there’s All Together Now, a soap bubble of a pop song from the Brit-bubblegummer group Atomic Kitten, otherwise harmless except it amps up the cute factor with an accompanying video of pantless, bankrupt mascot Goleo and his little ball pal traveling over Planet Football. Bleah.
At halftime, there’s a bunch of advertisements. In previous World Cups, I always looked forward to this time for the montage of past great moments – in 2002, I never got tired of watching the same clip, almost 70 years of history boiled down to three minutes. Not here. This has been the most corporate of World Cups. All you get at halftime is selling.
At the end of each game, as the players fall to the ground either exalting or in desolation, there’s another destruction of the Pet Shop Boys’ Go West – this is a terrace anthem with a version for every language, and subversions from there. In this case, a way-OTT tenor sings “Stand Up for the Champ-i-ons”. Pretty corny.
When I get home, these things will be drilled into my skull so deep I’d need microsurgery to get them out. They’re down there with Ricky Martin (France ’98), Anastasia (Korea/Japan ’02) and Nelly Furtado (Euro 2004) – I can’t remember the USA ’94 stuff, though I do recall Diana Ross’ awful miskick of the easiest tap-in of a ball at the opening ceremonies in Chicago. It’s a cheezfest.
There’s one common element: No one appears to be paying the least attention to it, at least until the final when everyone's in party mode (Furtado's Forca! at the Euro finale got 'em jumping, and Martin got a big brass backup in '98). These are meant in part to be stadium singalongs, but rarely does anyone join in. At Netherlands-Ivory Coast, there was some desultory clapping, but that’s been it.
That’s why the fans in the stands singing “Born in the USA” or “I Will Survive” or "Football's Coming Home" are so much a part of this event, much moreso than the most committed at the biggest games in North America. These people don’t need prompting from the Jumbotron – The show in the stands, with the costumes and the people-watching, is so much more interesting than what's up there -- they make their own noise.

Tomorrow’s semifinal

Germany vs Italy. I’ll be at this one in Dortmund, where Germany have never lost an international – that’s 71 years, and 14 matches, 13 of them wins. But the anti-stat to that is that Italy has never lost to the Mannschaft at the World Cup finals, including the 1982 championship game. Looks like Germany could be without defensive midfielder Torsten Frings, who is in the midst of a disciplinary hearing in Berlin early this afternoon, after a review of video suggested he was an “active participant” in the post-match melee with Argentina on Friday. A huge loss, he would be – his presence allows Michael Ballack to roam a little more freely up front, and is a security blanket for the Germany back 4. Nesta is probably still out for Azzurri, who get Materazzi back from suspension and into the central defence. I like how Italy looked in their latest, their own goal against the U.S. way back when is the only ball to have got by Buffon in five matches here, and they've remained unbeaten and mostly unshakable despite all the trouble with the game back home. Italy 1, Germany 0.

UPDATE: Frings has been suspended for the semifinal. This from the FIFA news release:

The committee ruled that it had been proved that Frings had punched Argentine international Julio Cruz immediately after the World Cup quarter-final between Germany and Argentina on 30 June 2006. In the opinion of the committee, this action was tantamount to an assault.

Day 21: Day at the Races, Night at the Beach

FRANKFURT, Germany

Ageism: 47 Mundial years added
Pallor: Rosy
Forecast: Sunny and warm

It was all going so well, so perfect, so day-offy.
We were at the Beach Club in Frankfurt’s warehouse district last night, a more charming and compact version of the formula employed by the grim Docks in Toronto: On the north bank of the Main River, the gamut was being run from vigorous activity (beach volleyball, beach badminton, beach table tennis) to sedate contemplation in a lounge chair, nursing a sundowner while the house sound system thumped away.
An oldie had just finished – Eurhythmics’ Sweet Dreams, and it was good, 1983 all over again – and after a late-afternoon-into-early-evening at the racetrack I was lost in a revery, barely noticing the next tune starting up and suddenly my colleague Mr. Brunt, sitting across the way, looked stricken.
“Oh no,” he said.

FRANKA BRUNS/AP

Hard not to "Feel the Love" in Germany these days, even at the Reichstag.

But first about the racetrack – the galopprennbahn. The difference between mediocre and good at the track is simple and has everything to do with customer comfort. At the Renn-Klub-Frankfurt, there’s a railside biergarten at the clubhouse turn where you can sit under linden trees and study the program or, if you’re really ambitious, the racing paper Sport-Welt. Steps away is the walking ring where the horses are brought, guys with rheumy eyes and beautiful women dressed to the nines sizing them up, the connections gathering and an ancient steward rings a bell hanging on a tree for riders up. Handicapping by sight, I had a decent day financially – a little longer nose in the sixth, my nightcap, and I would’ve walked out of there with a fat wad of profit – but really, in a place like this, there is no bad day. People bring their dogs to the track here, for pete’s sake (I must call John Siscos when I get back to see if I can take Jinks to Woodbine). In the vast infield, there’s a driving range and a pitch-and-putt golf course – throughout the card, there was the incongruous sight of men walking in with golf bags slung over their shoulder, heading for the tunnel that went under the turf course (rated “gut”) and took them to the practice spot. I asked one regular reading Sport-Welt if a horse had ever been hit by a golf ball. He smiled. “Only the horses I play,” he said. A real wiseguy, this one.
I could’ve gone to an art museum, I suppose, or done some sightseeing, but this was pure relaxation: Watch the horses in the walking ring, walk over to the mutual window across to place a bet, walk to the small grandstand to watch the race, come back via the biergarten for the next, and it all starts over again. The World Cup seemed as far away as the Frankfurt skyline off in the distance. Back at the Beach Club, I wasn’t sure what Brunt was getting at. Then I realized – those chords, that strummy guitar, that whiney, faux-Peter-Frampton voice starting up: “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah … Feel the Love Generation,” he sang.
Here we were at the end of a great day, and one of the World Cup’s most inane, officially-licensed pregame assaults was coming on. Every match, you hear this one. Feel the Love Generation – it sounds like Japanglish, something you’d see on a T-shirt in Tokyo. Hear it enough and it becomes this aural tapeworm, looping inside your head as you walk home from the train station, or with the morning coffee – it’s inescapable!
We got up, padding over the trucked-in white sand and out into the parking lot and a waiting taxi. It wasn’t the perfect ending to the day, but it was a perfect escape.

Tomorrow’s menu

Germany vs Argentina. This is certainly the game of the tournament so far, with a number of great matchups -- Mascherano marking Ballack, Frings on Riquelme, and forwards like Crespo and Klose and Podolski terrorizing defenders. At the bet shop, it’s a pick-em proposition. Ever so slight edge to Argentina, whose coach Pekerman has made all the right moves and has shepherded many of these players through pressure-packed, hostile encounters before. Argentina 3, Germany 2.
Italy vs Ukraine. The teams drew 0-0 in an exhibition game on June 2, Shevchenko missing out with injury in that one. Now he’s back, against Italy team rocked by news that their friend and Juventus caretaker manager Gianluca Pessotto was in hospital after falling from the team’s office building. They’ve managed to pull together here so far. Italy 1, Ukraine 0.

Rawk the Puck! We are the Champions ...

TORONTO STAR FILE PHOTO

The Champ.

Yep, that loathsome ubiquitous Queen chant -- No. 1 in the world, apparently - is playing over the speakers and on all the cellphones, the crowd is on their feet and brandishing their lighters. That's the New Jersey Devils representers taking the victory lap, grizzled Bruce Springsteen hoisting Lord Stanley's hallowed old gee-tar trailed around by the Stones, Moz and Marr, and the ghost of Johnny Cash -- Ladies and Gentlemen, your Rawk the Puck! Most Valuable Player, and so much for all that talk about the 'new rules' -- after a narrow win over sludge-rockin' Soundgarden.

And so the first (and last, I reckon) Rawk the Puck! is in the books. To recap in agate type, the official results:

RAWK the PUCK! CUP FINAL

ATLANTIC CITY (Live), Bruce Springsteen (Classic Rawk Conference Champion *New Jersey Devils* b-w Sympathy for the DEVIL, Rolling Stones; Handsome DEVIL, the Smiths; and DEVIL to Pay, Johnny Cash) 7

vs.

TORONTO STAR FILE PHOTO

The MVP.

Black Hole SUN, Soundgarden (Indie Rawk Conference Champion *Dallas Stars* b-w Black STAR, Radiohead; STARman, David Bowie; and STAR Sign, Teenage Fanclub) 5

Thanks to the judges, and to the voters. One last bobblehead goes out to regular visitor and long-distance specialist JLo (who will have to contact me with a mailing address or await his next escape from Montreal for the dropoff). CD to Pipe Smoker, whose vote came via email but that's okay -- I'm quite far behind on getting these CDs out to all the earlier winners, but it will happen. Soon. Promise.

Earlier rounds and related:

Conference finals and the judges' votes.

First-round results and Conference semifinals and the judges' votes.

First-round pairings, Classic Rawk Conference and Indie Rawk Conference, and first-round judges' votes.

Rawk the Puck! Final, Judges' votes

So it's down to this: Classic vs. Indie, and the first Rawk the Puck! is settled the old fashioned way. With a vote.

Still got a bobblehead and a CD available if your name is selected from the voters, so give your thoughts on who which tune you're picking down in the comments section. Results to be announced early next week, then I promise, no more.

Dick Darrell/Toronto Star

Springsteen: Live at Seneca College in '75.

To recap, here's the matchup (and for links to videos of the final tunes - Thanks, Alanah! - go here, and here) and if you want links to previous rounds, the last post setting this one up gives you all you need.

RAWK the PUCK! CUP FINAL HOOTENANNY

ATLANTIC CITY (Live), Bruce Springsteen (Classic Rawk Conference Champion *New Jersey Devils* b-w Sympathy for the DEVIL, Rolling Stones; Handsome DEVIL, the Smiths; and DEVIL to Pay, Johnny Cash)

vs.

Black Hole SUN, Soundgarden (Indie Rawk Conference Champion *Dallas Stars* b-w Black STAR, Radiohead; STARman, David Bowie; and STAR Sign, Teenage Fanclub)

MARK FREEDMAN. Soundgarden over the Boss. Soundgarden is the best of the grunge bands. Pearl Jam has been around the longest, Nirvana the most popular, but Soundgarden, the best. And Black Hole Sun is their anthem. Damn fine song. Go Clips!

BASKETBALL JONES. Tas Melas: The NHL is a young man's league. The aged can't learn and play the new system the way the young guns can. However, the veterans can provide the experience and leadership that is lacked by the youth. The Indie Rawk Champions are exemplary of the perfect balance of both old and new. Indie Rawk 4, Classic Rawk 0. J.E. Skeets: That Black Hole Sun music video always gave me the creeps. I'm giving the cup to Bruce, but the MVP trophy goes to Johnny.

ACID QUEEN. Soundgarden.

JABS: Kind of a blah matchup. I'm picking Bruce. Good tune, good guy, good bench, and while one of the greatest live acts I’ve ever seen, I haven’t listened to him with any, er, intensity, in 20 years. Soundgarden thing is okay, but pretty overripe and definitely overplayed. Jersey rules, the Boss in 6, but like many finals, the journey was more thrilling than the arrival.

MIKE CHEN: The Boss, in six games. This is like a battle between two of my old college roommates -- Soundgarden was the favorite band of one guy while Springsteen was the other guy's favorite (a third roommate's favorite band was the Scorpions. For real. No joke. Not in a kitschy cheesy way.) I'm going with Bruce on this one because, well, I really dig his songwriting abilities. And even though Soundgarden's Chris Cornell did an astounding job as Bridget Fonda's Anonymous Neighbor #2 in Cameron Crowe's Singles (fantastic flick), it's not enough to push this overblown song over the hump. Besides, Bruce is from Jersey, and at least they have an NHL team there.

Alanah at VANCOUVER CANUCKS OP ED. Awarding the Cup - SO MUCH PRESSURE! Black Hole Sun was popular for good reason - it's well orchestrated and Chris Cornell vocalizes it dramatically. BUT. I did get very sick of that song back in the 1990s, and time hasn't helped much. It still gets on my nerves pretty fast. But Bruce, he never gets on my nerves. I still love Atlantic City (the song, not the city). The Boss can be maudlin without EVER sounding like a drama queen. And since drama queens should never be able to win the Stanley Cup, I'll give it to Bruce in 5 games.

CARLA MacDONALD. *sigh* Never been a Springsteen fan. Just a little too middle-of-the-road for my tastes and memories of the overhyped and overplayed Born in the USA still stick in my craw (and that is as uncomfortable as it sounds, yes). But that Soundgarden song was played to death on the radio station I listened to in Salt Lake. I mean, I generally liked the type of music they played but their playlist was both short and narrow and if I heard that song once, I musta heard it three hundred times. As a result, I am up-to-here with Black Hole Sun. Besides, I can't figure out what the damned thing means, anyway - it's all so overwrought. 'In my eyes, indisposed, in disguise as no one knows, hides the face, lies the snake, the sun in my disgrace'. WTH does that mean?? Moon, june, swoon. Barf. At least I can figure out what Bruce's song is about -Bruce is gonna take all his money outta the credit union and go try his luck at the casinos. What Ontarian can't understand that? Still, I don't like that one any better.