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There’s so much “wrong” in this video: men on bicycles singing with each other; Spandex; bicycle helmets; and the seemingly frigid English countryside. However, all is “right” with the Style Council. Paul Weller is a songwriting genius, and as far as I know, he prefers a tandem bike with a lady on the back. Grab your vintage Raleigh and enjoy!

Wyclef Jean gives us his autumn plans in a melodious format.

Merite.

New York City in the early-1980s: if you didn’t live there…well, you just missed-out on a whole lot. From the puffy Afros of Harlem to the payos of the Lower East Side, Madhattan truly was a melting-pot. The very thing that made NYC great also made it smell: of falafel; of knishes; of garbage (lots of strikes back then); and of change.

Yet, to open our eyes to this “change,” it took a Jew from England. Equipped with a singular sense of style, schmaltz, brilliance, and sheer talent, Malcolm McLaren gave the world the Sex Pistols. As if that wasn’t enough, McLaren helped his partner, Vivienne Westwood, to the top of the fashion mount. A proven, successful, “Renaissance Man” if there ever was one, McLaren went from “fathering” punk music to the jump-roping scene of Harlem in 1983.

Nut-hugger shorts, white socks up to the knees, and beautiful smiles to match–these young ladies do the Double Dutch as Malcolm raps. Thirty years ago, mind you. Did Malcolm turn millions of white people on to “rap” in ’83? You betcha–especially in his native Britain. In fact, years before, McLaren “borrowed” the New York Dolls proto-punk look and attitude and the SPs were born.

Alas, Malcolm passed a few years ago; he’s free to argue with Sid Vicious now, but unable to turn the world on to new genres in music and fashion.  Enjoy.

The person who wrote Principia and turned the world onto “gravity” was an Olde English man named Newton–not a college-age babe in yoga pants with a taste for crappy Urban music. In this video, Madison (or Melissa or Taighlor or Mhyssie) learns the hard way that the best way to a gent’s heart is through his tummy, and not through twerking.

Get out your fire extinguishers, your Orville Redenbacher, and enjoy.

The best part about this clip–other than, um, THE DOORS–is the ponce “hosting” it.

From his diary, written shortly after this concert was filmed*:

“I awoke to find myself covered with a slimy substance…When I finally pried my eyelids open, I saw where I was: a dank room with dirt on the floors. There was a ceiling fan undulating like a Moroccan schoolboy…The furniture was ramshackle, however, hanging on the wall was an Andy Warhol original litho of Elvis in a Western stance, holding a gun. Suddenly, I remembered everything. A strange American chap by the name of Mr. Mojo Risin’ sidled up to me at the after-party. He asked me if I wanted something to drink, and I before I could answer, the long-haired stallion grabbed me by the nape of my neck and pressed his lips against me. Instinctively, my mouth opened, like a whale inhaling a shipload full of sea men. Next came a liquid, which splashed against the back of my throat in much the same manner that Pollock created his canvases. It wasn’t vodka or gin or even Blue Nun. No…Mr. Risin’ had slipped me a ‘Jimmy.'”

(*Not really)