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Police have released the names of two men murdered yesterday in the city.

The killings brought this year’s homicide total to 60.Early last night, Jamal Slade, 19, was fatally shot in Logan, police said.

Slade, who lived in the 5200 block of North Second Street, was shot multiple times in the torso shortly before 7 p.m. at 11th and Louden Streets, police said.

He was transported to Albert Einstein Medical Center and later pronounced dead. Police reported no arrests.

Yesterday afternoon, Mondez Lloyd, 31, of 2800 North Van Pelt, was fatally wounded yesterday in a shooting on a North Philadelphia street, police said.

He was shot in the neck and head about 2:50 p.m. on the 2000 block of West Somerset Street, police said. He was pronounced dead at Temple University Hospital.

INQUIRER: Letting God Sort ‘Em Out

BY JEFF DEENEY “Today I saw…” is a series of nonfiction shorts based on my experiences as a caseworker serving formerly homeless families now living in North and West Philadelphia. I decided not long after starting the job that I was seeing so many fascinating and disturbing things in the city’s poorest neighborhoods that I needed to start cataloging them. I hope this bi-weekly column serves as a record of a side of the city that many Philadelphians don’t come in contact with on a daily basis. I want to capture moments not frequently covered by the local media, which tends to only cover the most fantastically violent or sordid aspects of life there.

Today I saw the sanctuary of another African Methodist Episcopal Church, this time on 16th and Jefferson Street about block away from where they sell the Oxys at. It was much like the other one I saw recently; a stage at the front of the room with a podium and throne-like wooden chair with deep maroon velvet cusions on it standing at the center. There were pianos on either side of the stage and folding tables set up for bingo.

I went to an antechamber at the center of the church where there were fading black and white photos of former Reverends lining a wall made from wood patterned fiber board. There were two rows of portraits in a long line that stretched across the wall of stately black men in smart suits that changed with the current fashions as time moved backwards to the first picture taken in 1856. There was a group shot taken in the 1950s of a room filled with smiling black families seated around decorated tables that was labeled, “150th Anniversary Party.” The woman showing me around told me a quick history, explaining that this church was built more than 130 years ago but the congregation itself was nearly 70 years older than that.

On my way out I took a look down the block towards 17th and Jefferson where I could see the pill pushers out in force on the corners in their black fir lined hooded parkas.

***

Today I saw a man in blue denim overalls masturbating near a school. He had his hands slid down the front of them and was working himself furiously, causing the fabric to pull taut with every stroke. He was an older black man with a salt and pepper goatee and an unzipped black leather jacket with two horizontal red stripes around each arm.

I said, “There’s a school right there you fucking sick asshole.”

His eyes bugged out and he said, “Yeah, I’ll do what I want, what you gone do about it?”

I pulled the cellphone from my pocket and started dialing, showing him the phone and my fingers hitting the keypad. “I’m dialing 911 right now.”

He said, “You go ahead and call. I got my ID on me. I got my ID right here with me.”

The entire time he kept pumping his hands inside his overalls. He started walking across the street towards me and I got back in my car and locked the doors while describing the man to the police. He circled around the back of my car but then went back towards the school.

I heard a middle aged black woman yell from across the street, “you nasty, nasty buzzard!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeff Deeney is a freelance writer who has contributed to the City Paper and the Inquirer. He focuses on issues of urban poverty and drug culture. He is also a caseworker with a nonprofit housing program that serves homeless families.

By Jonathan Valania
For The Inquirer
Somewhere in rock-and-roll’s journey from revolution to rite of passage, this much has become inevitable: One day your kids will turn on you. It’s impossible to say exactly what will set them off – lingering resentments over the great Santa Hoax, the sudden realization that we’re all bound to die, that good guys don’t always wear white, and that most of us won’t live happily ever after. It may seem like a phase to you, but it feels like the end of the world to them.

And then they will turn to a band like My Chemical Romance. Not to worry, they will be in good hands – these MCR boys are handsome, ambitious, hardworking, with road-tested musical chops and glossy coverboy charisma. Their new album, The Black Parade, is the sour symphony du jour of tender-aged iPod malcontents, and Sunday night the band managed to fill the better part of the Liacouras Center despite a major winter storm.

A surprisingly large portion of the crowd looked like Little Miss Sunshines, hoisting devil horns with one hand and a glowing cell phone in the other, freshly bought size XL MCR T-shirts fringing their knees. And they all got plenty of rock spectacle bang in exchange for their baby-sitting bucks: confetti cannons, flamethrowers, and the drummer’s elevated perch rotating 360 degrees during thunderous vulcanian drum fills.

Dressed in matching black bellhop costumes seemingly purchased from a Michael Jackson sheriff’s sale, and sporting Kabuki whiteface, MCR pummeled through The Black Parade’s solipsistic grandiosity from beginning to end, despite the venue’s dubious acoustics and taking a time-out to lead the crowd in singing “Happy Birthday” to a band member’s mom. (The group hails from New Jersey.)

After a brief intermission, the band returned to the stage in their stylish black street clothes and rip-snorted through the remainder of their extant catalog, revealing MCR’s more metallic-leaning beginnings. But by then, the long queue of parents’ cars out front signaled a slow but steady exodus toward the idling fleet of minivans and, eventually, the suburbs – where it’s safe and warm and the kids are all right.

FRESH AIR ON WHYY
Investigative journalist Seymour Hersh‘s latest article is about the administration’s efforts to undermine Iran. The article appears in The New Yorker magazine’s March 5th edition and is titled “The Redirection: Is the Administration’s New Policy Benefiting our Enemies in the War on Terror?” Hersh exposed the Abu Ghraib prison scandal in a series of articles published in the magazine early in 2005. He has been the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize, five George Polk Awards, two National Magazine Awards and a dozen other prizes. He is also the author of eight books, including Chain of Command about Abu Ghraib. ALSO, investigative reporter Lowell Bergman is the producer of the new Frontline documentary “News War: Secrets, Spin and the Future of the News.” The four-part series is about the mainstream news media and the political, legal and economic forces acting on it.

RADIO TIMES
Nuclear weapons: is the world becoming more dangerous? JOE CIRINCIONE talks about his new book “Bomb Scare: The History and Future of Nuclear Weapons.” In it he takes us back to the first atomic discoveries of the 1930s and covers the history of their growth all the way to current crisis with Iran. He offers his own solution to the world’s proliferation problem: a balance of force and diplomacy, enforcement and engagement that yields a steady decrease in these deadly arsenals. Cirincione is vice president for national security at the Center for American Progress, and is a past-director of non-proliferation at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace.

WORLD CAFE
Filtering classic rock and pop hooks through a willfully lo-fi aesthetic a la Pavement or Guided by Voices, Philadelphia’s Dr. Dog sounds both timeless and immediate, as only the best music can. Dr. Dog’s new We All Belong is shaping up to be its most powerful and cohesive artistic statement yet. Buoyed by the band’s large and growing following, the disc — which delves into what members call “three-part harmonies, the out-of-doors, soya rotis, baking bread and diminished chords” — should help break Dr. Dog through to a larger and even more enthusiastic audience.

BY SARA SHERR For a critic, the hardest thing to review is something that’s just sort of “eh,” instead of moving you towards joy or repulsion. I didn’t think I’d have a blah attack from The Good, The Bad and The Queen, the latest project for Blur/Gorillaz man Damon Albarn. It certainly sounds good on paper, a gaggle of (mostly) white punks on dope: Clash bassist Paul Simonon, Verve guitarist Simon Tong, and Africa 70′s drummer/musical director Tony Allen, who’s the real star here. Albarn uses reggae rhythms and thick dub soundscapes to explore life during wartime in London when the air is thick with paranoia and cynicism. Problem is, that The Good, The Bad and The Queen suffers from Serious Musician Syndrome in which the artist feels the need to drain all the potential life and personality out of the songs and delivery in order to make a Statement, because hooks would ruin his integrity. So what you’re left with is all the moody asides from the various Gorillaz output. It’s all very downtempo and somewhat dreary and pretty easy to ignore while it’s on, which would make it ideal reading or driving music, or the score to a film at the Ritz. There are some nice moments here: The doo-wop strand of “80s Life,” where you can picture a teenage pouffy haired couple dancing at a prom beneath a disco ball and streamers, and the punk-reggae fight song of the final self-titled track. It feels like things are just getting started and you’d wonder what the next song would sound like if you weren’t half-asleep. The solution? Listen to The Eternals. B-

[Now Playing On PHAWKER RADIO]

DEAR MOTHER PHAWKER,
Ok, here’s the setup: Back in 1989, I was in a band and playing a show in Nuremberg, Germany, with three other bands. I was the only woman, hanging out in the dressing room, which was in a basement down a LONG hall, far away from anything. A dude from one of the other bands held forth with a long, rambling, liquor- and heroin-induced diatribe about how women didn’t belong in rock. OK, whatever, asshole. But then he threatened to rape me. There were eight other people in that room, all men, and not one of them would even make eye contact with me. Obviously, I was afraid – if he (or anyone else) had attacked, me there was no way anyone else would have been able to hear my screams or come to my rescue, because we were in the basement and the music upstairs was loud. I took the first opportunity to get up and run away, and my bandmates told the tour manager, who was outraged and kicked the would-be rapist’s band out. Today, 18 years later, the guys sends me an apology via MySpace. I don’t know if it’s been on his mind, or if he’s in a 12-step program and he’s at the “make apologies” step, though a program-forced apology would mean less to me. And judging by his comments, I don’t think he has any memory of saying he was going to rape me, either. Should I respond? Should I let him be my friend on MySpace?

Signed, Busted, Disgusted and Wondering if This Guy Can Be Trusted

DEAR BUSTED,

Short answer: Yes, forgive him, ungrudgingly and without hesitation. Add him as a MySpace friend? Maybe not. Forgiveness is a two-sided coin: On one hand, gaining it can release someone who has done wrong from what could be life-altering guilt. On the flip side, giving forgiveness can free the wronged party from carrying the soul-burdening ballast of anger and resentment. Either way, forgiveness is the currency with which we pay for our happiness. So yes, Mom believes that with few exceptions, sincerely-sought and generously given absolution is a gift to you as much as it (hopefully) would be to him. Does that mean this guy doesn’t deserve to hear – from you — exactly what he did on that blacked-out night, and why the terror you felt was deep enough that you carry it to this day? Hell yes he should hear it. Recount it to him, with the benefit of 18 years’ hindsight and a mature command of your feelings. Then ask him again if he still wants forgiveness – and if he does, give it to him. I guarantee the burden that lifts off your shoulders will be about the same size as the one that comes off his. Should you add him as a MySpace friend? Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but to me, “friending” someone is tantamount to saying you welcome them into your life, you approve of their presence in your social orbit. Forgiving him might finally give you the ability to put him, that whole experience, and how it made you feel, out of your mind for good. Will adding him to your list of friends – and thereby giving him permission to contact you in the future – help you achieve that? You owe yourself the freedom you’ll feel by forgiving this guy, but you don’t owe him friendship. Also, Mom wonders why an apology that came as part of a drug recovery program would mean less to you. In my own experience, having received such mea culpas, they actually can mean more. At least you know the person who did you wrong is now sober and clear-headed enough to understand the consequences of his or her actions. Just a thought.

LOVE, Mom

[Courtesy of Married To The Sea]

I AND I: The Skatalites, Trocadero, February 22nd, 2007

EVA SAYS: I wasn’t at all surprised to find a lot of empty space between patrons at the Skatalites show. On a night like this, all the hip, trendy kids were probably well on their way to catch the new electro-ipod/turntable-avant garde-sample whatever somewhere along the borders of No Libs. Their loss. Though a little aged and worn around the edges, the Skatalites still delivered one of the most fun shows of the past year. And sure, the musical aspect was important. There was no forgetting that I was in the presence of the real thing, the architects of a genre, the original ganstas of ska. But it was the kind of show where the music mattered only as much as it made people MOVE. And move we did. Rude boys and girls, skinheads and punks alike all came together to skank their little hearts out on the Trocs ample dance floor. But you didn’t have to be a ska fan to appreciate the gait of the syncing horns or the cool, low-dropped rhythms of the drums. Amongst the sea of elbow lifts, foot thrusts, hip twists and sloshed beers, there wasn’t a single unsmiling face in the joint. And did I mention they had horns? All around, the combination of people, vibes and music invited everyone to drop pretensions and just dance. It was the kind of good combination which brought back some of that good, old fashion fun. A-

A weekend of gun violence in Philadelphia left four dead and at least six people injured. One flare-up involved a shoot-out near an all-night Center City pharmacy early yesterday.

Shortly after 2 a.m., two men were wounded when a disturbance in a nightclub apparently spilled out into the streets of Center City near a CVS Pharmacy, police said. Police identified them as New Jersey residents, ages 25 and 26.

Police said the altercation may have resulted from an earlier dispute in the Tragos nightclub near 19th and Chestnut Streets. Police said that they weren’t sure if the incidents were connected, but that the gunshots erupted shortly after a bouncer moved the dispute onto the street and the two men were shot as they attempted to flee.

Both men were treated for leg wounds at area hospitals. Police had no suspects.

The weekend’s death toll included Harrison Fambrough, 25, of Northeast Philadelphia, who was found dead in the passenger seat of a parked car on the 2800 block of Welsh Road early Saturday morning. Fambrough had been shot in the chest and was pronounced dead at the scene.
INQUIRER: Homicide detectives had made no arrests in Fambrough’s killing as of late yesterday.
RELATED: “Last year at this time, 49 homicides had been reported, making this year’s rate about 20 percent higher. In 2006, 406 murders were committed in the city.”

BY JONATHAN VALANIA For nearly half a century television has had to bear the “barren wasteland” rap. But even a cursory, static-smeared twist of the radio dial reveals a largely fallow garden. Corporate consolidation and play-it-safe programmers have conspired to increase the emphasis on the obvious, the ordinary and the lowest common denominator.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

“When correctly harnessed, radio can be as emotional, as funny and as satisfying as the best motion pictures and television shows,” says Ira Glass, host of public radio’s This American Life. “But sadly, few radio programmers even shoot for that.”

For the past eight years, Glass–and his coterie of whipsmart writers and producers–has been waging a regime-change insurgency to free radio from the tyranny of mediocrity.

And here’s the good news: He’s winning.

In 2001 Time magazine lionized him as “America’s Best Radio Host” in a glowing honorarium penned by David Mamet. This American Life has already snagged a Peabody Award, which is to broadcasting what the Pulitzer is to print. Each week 1.4 million people tune in to hear This American Life, heard locally on WHYY 91FM, Wednesday nights at 10 p.m. and Sundays at noon.

There have been book deals on the table and even TV show offers. [Ira discusses taking This American Life To The Boob Tube on today's FRESH AIR] And more recently, a movie deal was inked with Steven Soderbergh’s production company, Section 8, to translate This American Life content to the silver screen.

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