Yes, Kid Rock, they do sing that 'My Girls' song.

A few hours before America watched Kid Rock on Jimmy Fallon, the country-rock king of Detroit invited a slew of revelers to a bash on the top of the Hotel on Rivington. The whiskey was Jim Beam, the beer was Badass. No, really, it’s called Badass American Lager. Kid Rock owns it. It tasted OK.

“Just got in last night, playing jersey tomorrow,” Kid Rock told The Observer on the packed top deck. “We had a little excuse to throw a party so we gotta take advantage of that.”

He’s kept a full schedule in the city, and had to tape Mr. Fallon’s show earlier in the day. It happened that the musical guest was Panda Bear the key member of cherished indie stalwarts Animal Collective – probably the most intriguing person possible to pair with the guy who wrote “Bawitdaba.”

So, did they get a chance to talk about collaborating on something?

“No!” Kid Rock said, shaking his head. “I met their manager at Max Fish a few weeks back with my boy Sweeny. But I didn’t see him tonight -- I was hoping to run into him and say hi. Sweeny told me they’re a great band. I’ve heard great things about them.”

As we imagined what Kid Rock would make of, say, Panda Bear's 12-minute epic "Bros," he took a long pull of his plug of cigar.

“They’re top notch,” he said of the stogie while looking off at the glowing Empire State Building in full dusk-lit view. “I mean they’re shitty cigars, but they’re top notch to me.”

At the release party for Kid Rock’s new album, Rock N Roll Jesus, last night, Tuesday, October 10, most guests mingled in Nikki Midtown’s front bar and in the center of its massive main room. The remaining, more special partygoers, who came and went from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., mixed themselves drinks from bottle services on three elevated, velvet-roped-off V.I.P. platforms that were lining the walls of the seemingly Miami Vice-inspired space.

Sitting on a banquette in one of Nikki’s fortified sections was Sopranos star and New York nightlife maven Drea de Matteo, 35, whose very visible pregnancy kept her sipping a steady stream water instead of Stoli. (Cindy Crawford’s hubby, the nightclub operator and former model Rande Gerber, also came out for Mr. Rock, a.k.a. Robert James Ritchie.) Ms. De Matteo and her husband, the country crooner Shooter Jennings, are expecting a baby girl, but they haven’t yet considered picking a name. “In Italian, it’s bad luck to name your kid first,” she explained, rubbing her baby-bump while Mr. Jennings, sitting to her right, flashed rocker-horns with his hands at the Transom.

Anonymity aside, the apparently happy couple is apparently very much in communication with their forthcoming daughter. Mr. Jennings, 28, who was wearing sunglasses in the dark room, often sings to the fetus through the ever-expanding walls of his wife’s stomach. Asked what Ms. De Matteo likes about her friend Kid Rock (who, over an hour into his own party had not yet arrived), she had only one thing to say:

“He’s a cocky mother fucker, and that’s cool!”

After arriving at the party some 30 minutes later, Mr. Rock, who reportedly swilled copious amounts of vodka all night, made sure to have his security team at his back at all times. According to one source involved with the event, the Twisted Brown Trucker even brought his bulky bodyguards with him into the bathroom.

As a service to readers who may not be familiar with Kid Rock, the following are excerpts from his lyrics:

from "Classic Rock":

Well guess who's back, with a big

fat cock

It's the kid motherfucker with the

classic rock

Like wax that booty, yodeleyeho,

punk

Slappin you hoes with dick when I

get drunk.

From Alabama to Texarkana

Bend over bitch and let me slam her ….

Playin shows, fuckin hoes

Got the dope in my veins and up

my nose.

from "WCSR":

Kid Rock motherfucker yo I ain't

no fag

I fuck bitches dry I fuck em on the rag

Tag their toes-check em off my list

Hoes get fucked-they don't get kissed.

from "Fuck Off":

So blow me bitch I don't rock for cancer

I rock for the cash and the topless

dancers ….

from "Welcome to the Party":

'Cause I'm a player that you love to hate

Got your girl suckin dick on videotape

I like pussy, suckin on titties

Fucked a lot of different bitches

from a bunch of different cities.

Kid Rock and I'm the same old fool

I'll tell ya drop your boyfriend then

drop outta high school

I got a whirlpool, don't even ask

Lickin pussy underwater shootin

bubbles up your ass.

from "Fuck U Blind":

I'll fuck u blind bitch

I'll fuck u blind bitch

I'll fuck u blind till you just can't

see no more

I'll fuck u blind bitch

I'll fuck u blind bitch

I'll fuck u blind till you just can't

see no more

I'm super fly bitch

I'm not that guy bitch

I'll fuck you blind leave you face

down in the ditch

from "Pimp of the Nation"

Pimp of the nation, I could be it

As a matter of a fact, I foresee it

But only pimpin hoes with the big

tush-

While you be left pimpin Barbara

Bush.

The Big Red Apple

Reach over 1 million weekly readers and thousands of GOP attendees in the Village Voice 2004 GOP Guide devoted to the 2004 Republican National Convention in New York City. This special insert will feature in-depth coverage, listings and tips on what to do, see and experience during the GOP convention as only the Voice can.

-advertisement in The Village Voice , July 14-20, 2004

Delegates, alternates, spinmeisters-welcome to the Big Apple! We may not agree with what you say, but we'll fight to the death for your right to party. Herewith, some inside tips to help you paint the town red:

Getting Around

One of the glories of New York City is its public transportation system: 722 miles of subway, 3,700 buses, all of it-believe it or not-absolutely free, thanks to tax revenues generated by the free-market magic of Republican Mayor Bloomberg. For buses, enter at the center door to avoid the long lines at the front. For the subway, just do the classic New York "turnstile jump," an exercise almost as beloved of the city's rugged denizens as their tireless perambulation.

What, you may wonder, are people doing with those little cards at the turnstiles and at the front end of the bus? Simple: As an incentive to use mass transit, the city offers frequent-flyer miles to residents each time they use the system; "MetroCards" record the accumulated miles. Alas, this benefit is not currently available to visitors.

A word to the wise concerning vertical travel: Even if you're staying in a high-rise hotel or visiting one of the city's famous skyscrapers, stay out of the elevators! In Gotham, the elevator-inspectors' union is controlled by the Mafia; shakedowns take the place of actual inspections. Real New Yorkers, therefore, take the stairs-their calves fortified by all that turnstile-jumping, their resolve strengthened by tabloid stories about hapless tourists hospitalized after 12 hours in a tiny cube with no food, no water, no toilet facilities and a dwindling oxygen supply.

Shopping

You've heard all about New York's fabled department stores and boutiques-Macy's, Barneys, Cartier …. The real steals, though, are to found on the sidewalk, where genuine Rolex watches, Prada handbags and the like can be had at discounts of 90 to 95 percent. For a truly larcenous bargain, look for "misprints"-for example, handbags on which Prada is spelled "Panda" or "Puta." As philatelists among you can probably guess, these items are often worth hundreds or even thousands of times the manufacturer's suggested list price.

Dining

When it comes to fine dining, the bargains awaiting the savvy traveler are, if anything, even more remarkable. For example, Per Se (Time Warner Center, 1 Central Park) offers world-class haute cuisine at lunch-counter prices. Don't be fooled by the sumptuous décor or by the astronomical numbers on the menu; since the chef, Thomas Keller, is a passionate Francophile, the prices are listed in euro cents (current exchange rate: 80.6 to the dollar). Come on Tuesday through Thursday for the "Drink with the Widow" special-all the vintage Veuve Clicquot you can imbibe for a paltry $7.99. (Just go ahead and order the bubbly-it's considered bad form to mention the special to your waiter.)

Another dining tip: Don't fall for those "Cash Only" signs in some restaurants-yet another example of the dry New York humor made famous by comedians like Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld and Al D'Amato. Virtually every place in the Apple takes plastic, from the tiniest Dominican storefront to those palatial Italian establishments in Bay Ridge where the proprietor has a suspicious-looking bulge under his jacket and you'd never expect them to bother with sales tax.

A tip about tipping: don't. New York is the most entrepreneurial city in the world; waiters, bartenders, cabbies, hair dressers, even bellhops think of themselves as small businessmen. Tipping a New Yorker is tantamount to spitting in his face. Instead, just offer a word of solidarity as you leave, such as "Don't forget to vote Republican!"

There is, however, one exception to the no-tipping rule. The hardworking folks who stock, service and clean the city's A.T.M.'s are unsalaried, and tips are their only source of income. While your gratuity should depend on the quality of service (cleanliness of the vestibule, crispness of dispensed bills, etc.), 15 to 20 percent of the withdrawal amount is customary. Just leave it on the ledge above the machine and it will be collected within a few minutes.

Entertainment

Want to take in a Broadway show? You've probably heard that seats for The Producers , The Lion King and other hit shows are sold out months in advance. Well, here's a secret real New Yorkers know: If you walk up to the ticket window five minutes before curtain, you're virtually certain to get a ticket-or two or four. Not only that, but you'll get them at a fraction of the face price-all because of an obscure cabaret law dating from the 1890's. If the ticket seller refuses to comply, you can be sure she's just bluffing, thinking she can nix this hick's tix because you can't possibly know the law. Flag down a patrol car or a cop on the beat and she's sure to come around.

For a late-night stroll after the show, take the No. 2 train to the South Bronx. This rapidly gentrifying, super-chic neighborhood is generously endowed with open space in the form of postmodern "concrete gardens" and embellished with "eye-catchers" (uninhabited buildings) in the tradition of English estates like Blenheim and Stowe.

Nightlife

Forget the hype about Sin City-New York is actually one of the wholesomest, most family-friendly towns in the world, replete with wonderful night spots where you needn't think twice about bringing your wife, your teenage daughter, even your father-in-law, the Methodist minister. Of the many clubs clustered in Chelsea, Greenwich Village (pronounced VIL-idzh) and the quaintly named meatpacking district, our hands-tied-down favorite is the Vault (565 West 23rd Street). Be prepared for a wait at the door, though; the place is almost always packed now that a major motion picture has taken up the Catwoman theme (black leather, whips, chains) that this fun-loving club pioneered.

Singles

Of course, if you happen to be here without your father-in-law-or are actually single-you may be interested in acquiring a more than nodding acquaintance with a few New Yorkers of the opposite sex. "Unique New York" (try saying that 10 times fast) is unique among American cities in this, too: The best place to meet people is on the street. For example, near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel (42nd Street between 10th and 11th avenues), attractive young people appear late at night to promenade, check each other out and chat. If the gods smile, you might end up spending the evening with a statuesque young woman with broad shoulders and a sexy, husky, cigarette-roughened voice-a "Sophisticated Lady" of the sort Duke Ellington made famous.

-Evan Eisenberg

Wigo in the Water

When the U.S. Olympic water-polo team marches into the Athens Olympic stadium on Friday, Aug. 13, they will be a recognizable lot with their wiry, chlorinated hair, zinc-white lips and tan cheeks. But one man will stand alone in his link to the ancient Games, not because of a Greek bloodline, but because he learned his sport the way of the ancient Olympians: executing brutal skills with nary a loincloth. Wolf Wigo learned to play water polo in the nude.

At 31, Mr. Wigo (pronounced "why-go") is now a three-time Olympian and the captain of the U.S. team, but when he was growing up on Manhattan's Upper West Side in the mid-1980's, there was only one obvious place to find a pool with a water-polo program: the all-male New York Athletic Club, where aquatic activities were done in dishabille. The tradition was said to have spared businessmen the inconvenience of toting a wet swimsuit in their briefcase. But Mr. Wigo didn't have a briefcase: He was only 12 when he was asked to practice with the men's team.

For his part, Mr. Wigo found nothing unusual about the (un)dress code and said it was a "privilege" to play with men decades his senior. The scenario seems alien, however, to his Olympic teammates-all of whom are from California or Hawaii, where pools are plentiful and youth programs abound.

"Half the guys on the national team don't believe it happened, and the other guys don't understand how you could do it," Mr. Wigo said. "There's so much grabbing."

Water polo is deceptively benign. On the surface, a dozen colored caps chase a ball until someone slams it into the net. But beneath the water, whirring legs cloud an underworld where elbows fly, ribs crack and heels twist firmly into opponents' groins. Players emerge with their eyes blackened, fingernail marks etched into their back and teeth missing. The best athletes tend to be 200-pound slabs of sinew who would stand over six feet tall in the pool, if it weren't forbidden to touch the bottom of the pool during the 28-minute game.

At the NYAC, young Mr. Wigo would strip down in "the dog house," a steamy changing area where his older teammates would vie for a hanger near a contraption that would magically vaporize creases from their rumpled business suits. Some of these men still remember the prodigy in the pool, but they grow even more animated describing the suit-pressing machine: "To this day, guys die for that thing," said Lou Gioia, one of Mr. Wigo's NYAC teammates.

As for Mr. Wigo, Mr. Gioia added, "He was the first guy on the team to be that young. You couldn't take him on trips because of his age, but he could contribute in practice. We could count on him. It was a big deal, getting 14 players to show up consistently."

The shaggy-haired boy was a busy urbanite. He had been taking violin lessons for seven years and had several modeling jobs. His photo appeared on the bottom of a tissue box and on the cover of the Manhattan Yellow Pages with his mother, Dawn Young. He also acted in an Off Broadway play.

He was a quiet kid, but in the pool he was transformed. "Add water and he turns into a monster," one player recently told Ms. Young.

"Wolfie fit in right away," says Scott Schulte, who played at the club, "but he had to grow up fast. No one treated him any differently."

Wolfie was pummeled but survived; the violin lessons didn't.

He knew he wanted to compete in the Olympics; he was soon practicing four times a week at the NYAC and at St. Francis College in Brooklyn. He pored over old photos from when New York City was the epicenter of American water polo, such as one from the late 1800's when Madison Square Garden hosted a match in a hole in the ground that drew 10,000 fans. He also knew that the last time a U.S. water-polo team had won the Olympic gold was in 1904-and that every player on that team hailed from the New York Athletic Club. He became "a water-polo junkie," according to his St. Francis coach, and went on to win the Junior Olympics with a team from Maryland.

But there hadn't been an East Coast player on the Olympic team since 1956. The sport had migrated westward, and that's where America's best players were honing their skills.

Meanwhile, at the Bronx High School of Science, Mr. Wigo was just as competitive as he was in the pool. His father, Bruce Wigo, would catch him under the bed covers with a flashlight doing math problems so that he could outperform his friend David in school the next day.

The NYAC men helped him gain the attention of college coaches, and Mr. Wigo earned a scholarship to Stanford University. As a freshman, he started on the varsity team and finished as a four-time All-American in 1995.

He made the 1996 Olympic team-the first player to do so from east of the Rockies in 40 years. He made his second team in 2000 and returned from Sydney as the top U.S. scorer (16 goals) and the most accurate shooter of the tournament (64 percent), surpassing even the gold-medal-winning players from Hungary.

Mr. Wigo is now an expectant father living in California, and the Athens Olympics are likely to be his last. There are high expectations: The team is being coached by Yugoslavian-born Ratko Rudic, who guided teams to three consecutive gold medals between 1984 and 1992 (twice for Yugoslavia, then Italy). The U.S. squad has never been in finer condition, but it is also in the most difficult half of what Mr. Rudic called "the toughest Olympic draw I have ever seen."

Win or lose, it may be another half century before New York City produces another player of Mr. Wigo's caliber-and far longer before Olympic sports revert to nudity.

"For practicing, I didn't mind it," Mr. Wigo said of his days sans Speedo. "It wasn't gross.

"But at a serious high level," he added, the exposure "would probably not be good."

-Aimee Berg

world in the overweening manner common to pop-

culture colossi. She ended the decade with only that English accent as her most

detestable affectation. In between, she released some magnificent singles. Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (WEA/Warner Bros.) not only complements her first hits

compilation, The Immaculate Collection ,

but also serves to silence those clowns who say she has no musical ability. She

has always relied on collaborators, but there's a thread running throughout GHV2 that proves the simple fact that

when she isn't distracted, Madonna is a supreme melodist as much as she is a

marketer or provocateur.

As it is, 1992's Erotica

and 1994's Bedtime Stories are pretty

shitty albums, redeemed only by the thrilling flamenco-househybrid "Deeper and

Deeper" and "Take a Bow," her greatest ballad by some distance. Her futile

attempt to erase Patti LuPone's "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" from collective

memory cleared the way for her second great period, emblematized by 1998's Ray of Light and last year's Music . Who knew that middle age and

motherhood would prompt songs as great as "Ray of Light," "Beautiful Stranger"

and "Don't Tell Me"? (By contrast, Prince, her closest analogue, used that time

of life to disappear into his own hindquarters.)

In any case, GHV2

amounts to 10 of Madonna's most splendid tunes padded by five mediocre ones.

Thanks to the programmable skip function of your CD player, it's one of the

only holiday gifts you can have sex to.

Kid Rock/Britney Spears:

Our James & Carly

Many showbiz couplings are head-scratchers. Even the most

absurdity-numbed mind boggles at the sick-making reports that Kim Basinger's

current swain is none other than Eminem. Perhaps Alec Baldwin will start

courting Philadelphia's own R&B pixie Pink in response.

I imagine that, 30 years ago, as another crisis threatened the

American psyche (not to mention American lives), it was comforting to know that

somewhere-either in Martha's Vineyard or a Manhattan recording studio-James

Taylor and Carly Simon were cuddling.

And so it is in the national interest that I appeal to Kid Rock

and Britney Spears to have the "you know I'll always love you, but it's not

working out" talk with, respectively, Mr. Rock's pneumatic consort and Ms.

Spears' boy-band swain, and to begin dating one another. After all, Ms. Spears

has been carrying on for quite some time like a young woman who might drop her

flimsy raiment next to Mr. Rock's chair at Scores.

Looking at Kid Rock, you can't help but be struck by how he

resembles David Lee Roth circa 1981-85. These days, Bob Ritchie grins the same

grin that was plastered on Mr. Roth back then-the rictus of a man who has the

world by the balls in a downward tug. It's impossible to begrudge him such

proclamations as "I've got the baddest bitch in the world" and "Got more money

than Matchbox 20 / Get more ass than [Sugar Ray singer] Mark McGrath" in the

song "Cocky."

Unlike1998's Devil Without a Cause , Cocky (Lava/Atlantic) tends to

vacillatebetweenbig, dopey,riff-rap behemoths-concerning Mr. Rock's

affection for himself, the greater Detroit area, the signature guitar figure of

"Free Bird" and "big, corn-fed Midwestern hos"-and pleasant country and Southern-rock

ready-mades in which his good-naturedside shines. "Picture," a duet with

Sheryl Crow, is the best of these.

Here is a man who, like Mr. Roth, is enjoying himself. While his

peers combine hip-hop and heavy rock (two idioms that should, at their best,

bellow "PARTY!") and proceed to plumb the depths of cheap, aggrieved

miserablism, Mr. Rock's narcissism is purely celebratory. God bless him!

Now, as for Ms. Spears: Her third album, Britney (Jive), is a fairly delightful mixed message. She's "not a

girl, not yet a woman," as a tune by that name puts it. Yet every sign, such as

that HBO special, points to where her true allegiance lies. Clearly, this is a

matter her handlers are still grappling with, but that sort of tension is what

makes pop music worthwhile.

The storied Swedish songwriting and production team of Max Martin

and Rami is joined by staccato R&B sculptors the Neptunes (Kelis, Mystikal)

and Rodney Jerkins (Destiny's Child). The former fashion two terrific, vaguely

lewd tunes, the single "I'm a Slave 4 U" and "Boys," which recalls the duo's

work on Ol' Dirty Bastard's "Got Your Money"-and which finds Ms. Spears using

her coital purr to ask the object of her ardor if they should "turn the dance

floor into our own little nasty world." Mr. Jerkins contributes a useless

rendition of "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," while Martin/Rami largely rearrange their

previous, better tunes like the immortal " … Baby One More Time" and "Oops!… I

Did It Again" for Ms. Spears.

Britney Spears is the sum of her packagers, but maybe it's time

for her to move on to mentors who are less conflicted about what's appropriate

for the Nickelodeon set. It seems to me that Kid Rock is the kind of Svengali

she could use: someone who could help her find her voice as a full-fledged

woman. And they would look good together, don't you think?

The Nortec Collective:

Forget the Donkey Show!

Ever since dance music (and its less danceable electronic-music

variants) became easier to produce via affordable technology, a consistent

pattern has emerged throughout the world. To wit: take your parents' corny

music, chop it up, and use it to accentuate and distinguish the de rigueur bouillabaisse of pulsing bass

lines, 4/4 beats and ghostly synth washes you just cooked up.

The two-year-old Nortec Collective is nine chaps from Tijuana who

have taken the tropes of norteño

music (martial snare rolls, horn bursts, zip-zagging accordion fills), put the

beats on, and-hey, presto!-Nortec was born. The

Tijuana Sessions Vol. 1 (Palm

Pictures) is the prime exponent of a movement that may yet supplant donkey

shows and an indiscriminate drug trade as the thing that Yankees should know

about the crossroads of California and Mexico.

Norteño music doesn't

have the foothold in New York that it does in the Southwest-particularly in

Texas and Southern California, where a huge Mexican-American presence ensures

that you can hear it booming out of car stereos all day. The Tijuana Sessions , while a fine techno record, isn't a great norteño primer, since its elements are

either scattered or deeply submerged in the mix.

But the Nortec Collective's show at S.O.B.'s with D.J. Krush on

Dec. 12 may make the role those same elements play much more explicit. Or it

may not! But you will be moved to

dance, unless you're one of those pitiful souls who prefer to stand stock still

and stroke your chin.

King Crimson/

John Paul Jones:

Englishmen In New York

It is with some certainty that I predict that the only women

attending the King Crimson/John Paul Jones show at the Beacon Theater on Dec. 14

will be accompanying their husbands or boyfriends. In 1999, I dragged my ex

along to see Mr. Jones, the bassist of Led Zeppelin, at Irving Plaza, and she

promptly fell asleep in the lobby. This led to the realization that watching

technically demanding music played by rock veterans in their 50's does not a

great date night make. So it'll be me and my guitarist pal checking out King

Crimson-at some times the most vicious progressive-rock band, at others the

most rhythmically compelling-and Mr. Jones, the living half of one of the top

five greatest rock 'n' roll rhythm sections ever.

King Crimson is led by Robert Fripp, an owlish little pedant of

whom it was once said, "Rock music's gain is the field of economics' loss."

People like him don't typically make great guitarists, but his circumspect yet

frenzied approach is unique. He has led numerous incarnations of the band off

and on since 1969; the current version involves Adrian Belew, singer and

tremendous guitarist in his own right (the id to Mr. Fripp's superego), and a

bassist and drummer who are disciples of their predecessors in the band. At

Town Hall in October 2000, King Crimson threw in David Bowie's "Heroes"

alongside the brisk, interlocking geometry of their own songs.

Like fellow secret weapon George Harrison, John Paul Jones

largely retreated from view since the 1980 demise of Led Zeppelin, occasionally

busying himself with soundtrack and production work. In 1994, he paired with

Diamanda Galas on the sepulchral The

Sporting Life , following up with 1999's bass-guitar showcase Zooma (released on Mr. Fripp's DGM

label). His band, which includes a former member of Kajagoogoo (!), plays

rearranged instrumental versions of Led Zeppelin songs-such as the melody of

"When the Levee Breaks," which Mr. Jones plays on lap steel guitar-alongside

his more recent pile-driving compositions.

So two essentially avant-rock bands, led by two stiff-upper-lip

Englishmen, will play to a bunch of folks who will use many bridges and tunnels

to get there. I promise you that this will be a fine thing.