
My inaugural (and final) trip ever to Atlantic City was leg one of a two-leg excursion where I spent the final two days of 2012 with members of the hip-hop duo The Throne. ‘With’ is a very loose term, of course — while Kanye was holed up in the Penthouse of Atlantic City’s opulent new Revel, I was sleeping over the covers in room 4016 of the grimy and dank Tropicana. Ye and I probably dined at the same restaurant — though not intentionally, as my ill compensated waiter can attest. And while the Revel was cutting Kanye a check for an ungodly amount of money they don’t actually have, I was watching a friend win $90 at a $15 limit blackjack table and imagining the well liquor we’d be drinking in celebration.
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Our journey begins at 2:30 p.m. eastern standard time, Sunday December 30th, at a Battleship-themed slot machine.
2:31 p.m. - We’re not sure how or why, but this Battleship-themed slot machine just gave a 150% return on a $5 investment.
2:33 p.m. - I take a cellphone picture of a Michael Jackson-themed slot machine and am quickly greeted by one of the members of casino’s security task force. It was like that time when I accidentally took a picture of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and got yelled at in Italian.
2:45 p.m. – P.F. Chang’s for brunch; we opt for apps and beer so that we can save room (and money) for a big fancy dinner. The Flaming Red Wontons are incredible. I also recommend the Spicy Green Beans.
4:00 p.m. – The Giants are eliminated from the playoffs.
4:15 p.m. - The $15 Blackjack dealers don’t have pockets. No shirt pockets, no pants pockets, no anything pockets.
4:55 p.m. - Everyone already knows this, but casino owners are really the most intelligent people alive. Want to play a fun game? Try to pick out all the things the casino does to make you drink more and spend more. The lack of clocks is the obvious one. At the Tropicana, they paint the ceilings sky blue, so it constantly feels like high noon. Happy Hour at the casino floor bar runs from Noon to 10 p.m.. The vending machines take credit cards. The wine store sells wine in a flask and calls it Flasq.
5:00 p.m. - Speaking of Happy Hour at the casino floor bar, they clearly don’t invest a lot of money in live entertainment. At first we think it’s a karaoke bar — but then we realize it isn’t.
The Karaoke singer plugging $2 drafts, $3 wines, and $5 well drinks is more tolerable than her singing of “Call Me Maybe”, “Crazy In Love”, and “Diamonds”.
6:00 p.m. – It’s cold outside, and thus it’s cold on the beach.
7:00 p.m. – We make our way to Revel to pick up tickets for Kanye West’s third and final show at the Revel. Think of the Revel as the type of casino Kanye would build. Whereas the Tropicana has a Mrs. Field’s cookie stand and Starbucks, Revel has a Hugo Boss store and an actual food truck parked on the third floor. Revel’s casino floor has flashing lights (lights, lights), and the hallways are littered with furniture that no one actually sits in and these light fixtures that glow as you walk under them.
8:30 p.m. – If I were Donald Trump, I’d be embarrassed to own the Taj Mahal. Half the lights that spell out Trump Taj Mahal’s ginormous sign are burnt out, and the inside looks like a prison camp. The bartenders wear leather dominatrix outfits (girls, too), and the dealers all make the same frown. I envision the scene in Casino for any soul daring enough to count cards. So, I have no idea why we’re here or why we continue to stay here or why we’re walking to a steakhouse called Robert’s, but that’s what we decide to do.

8:35 p.m. – Shockingly, Robert’s charges $150 for a steak and most of the clientele look like ex-mob members — yet we decide to sit down. Someone throws out the “We’re in Atlantic City, might as well enjoy ourselves” rationale and the value of United States currency becomes inconsequential.
10:30 p.m. – The previous two nights didn’t begin until 11 p.m., which is why I go from walking to running toward the Revel’s Ovation Hall as I hear the sounds of “Power”. Our seats are in the 100 section, but the few security members found in the venue are oblivious to there even being a concert. We walk through the first door and onto the floor.
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Friday night’s show at the Revel was a dress rehearsal for things in the future. By Kanye West standards, this 80-minute performance was forgettable, an extended version of his 12-12-12 collage. Half of the set comprised of quick hitting verses from Cruel Summer or collaborations with Jay-Z, Rihanna, and 2 Chainz. The rest was great, but no different than what he’s been doing for the last two years, and there was a serious lack of material off My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.
Instead, Kanye was at the Revel for one reason: to see what fun new things he could do and wear with a sizable production budget, an intimate music venue, and no accredited members of the press.
A Cruel Winter has been talked about for several months now — though no one really knows what it is or when it will surface. As you’ve surely heard, Kanye’s three Revel shows had a rather frigid theme: Kanye wore an all-white suit and a Yetti-like mask, and the seven video screens that encompassed the stage frequently displayed arctic imagery. He also pumped in artificial wind and snow during performances of “Say You Will” and “Heartless”. For a show at a casino, it was impressive as fuck. But anyone looking for answers left with none. There were no new songs, and Kanye never once addressed his future intentions or the thing on his head.
Who knows if that even matters now that he fell in love with Kim Kardashian. There’s a very good chance that this show and its stage setup and whatever Kanye achieved will lay waste alongside the forgotten Gaga tour and the CRS album. He’s a genius with ADD, and with a kid on the way, it’s anyone’s guess what the next two years of his career will look like. Critics will scoff at that notion as they point to Kardashian’s television career. But Kanye has always been one to cherish his immediate family, and if he follows the lead of his biggest mentor, then it’ll be some time before he’ll be making music headlines again.
One thing I can conclude though: Most of the audience received comps — so if you want to go to a free concert in a pretty cool venue and don’t mind Atlantic City, then go to the Revel.

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12:20 a.m. – I write news for Consequence of Sound, so I rush home to write up the Kim pregnant story.
12:21 a.m. – The meter on this cab is super fast — another reason to hate this city.
12:22 a.m. - If it’s a boy, his name will be Shawn Donda West. If it’s a girl, her name will be Donda Shawn West
1:00 a.m. - I’m at a casino with cheap drinks and whose sky is bright blue at 1 a.m., yet I’m also lame and drunk so I opt for bed.
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8:05 a.m. – It’s 8:05, leaving 45 minutes to catch a Greyhound Bus to Port Authority, New York City. Jay-Z — who was in attendance at last night’s Kanye show — probably can afford a later bus.
8:30 a.m. - A casino lobby is remarkably pleasant at 8:30 in the morning.
9:10 a.m. - On the bus, this one guy calls everybody he knows to inform them of his impending stay at the W Hotel. “It’s where Drake and Diddy stay. I like to stay where they stay,” he explains as he repositions his legs to one of the three feet of leg room and glances over at all the annoyed, hungover derelicts (myself included) who wish they possessed a samurai sword, because no one gives a shit about Drake and Diddy’s hotel of choice.
9:50 a.m. - This other guy on the bus is getting up to go to the bathroom for a third time — and he brings his luggage with him each time.
11:30 a.m. - In an odd twist, our Greyhound bus successfully completes its journey with no problems, only to break down three feet away from its gate at Port Authority.
Our journey continues at 1:00 p.m. eastern standard time, Monday December 31st, in Midtown Manhattan
Today marks my first day back to New York City since relocating to Chicago in January to work alongside the rest of the Consequence of Sound staff. I lived in the city for six years and will always consider it my home. Chicago is incredible, beautiful, affordable, and I’d recommend anyone who currently lives in New York to move there immediately. But for a super duper Type A person like myself — whose paranoia is quelled only by the availability of a 24-hour Apple Store and 24-hour sports talk radio — New York City is really the only place for me.
I’m a big fan of Mayor Bloomberg despite being an avid soda drinker, but let’s be honest: no one New Yorker hustles harder and runs this city better than Shawn Carter. He’s the most powerful .03% owner in sports history, the sole reason the Nets are in Brooklyn, and his finger prints are all over the Barclays Center. There are critics for sure, but that arena is absolutely beautiful and instantly turned the intersection of Atlantic and Flatbush into the most hip place in the entire city.
Jay-Z is an incredible mascot for not just the Nets, but the city as a whole. He’s the ultimate story of rags to riches, a one-time drug dealer who became the world’s most famous rapper, entrepreneur, husband, and father. He treats the city like he holds some elected position, there to prop us up when we’re down, champion us when we’re on top, and celebrate the greatest city on earth the way it deserves to be celebrated.
So when a pair of tickets to Jay-Z and Coldplay’s New Year’s Eve show at Barclays was made available five days prior, I jumped at the opportunity — even if it meant being subjected to a Greyhound bus ride from Atlantic City to New York City and lodging in a converted closet compliments of Airbnb. There was no better way to ring in 2013 than with a performance by the greatest citizen of the greatest city in the world inside a beautiful new arena.
1:00 p.m. - I’m standing as far away from the subway platform as possible.
1:05 p.m. – Subway’s here, and I’m still alive!
2:00 p.m. – I’m in the greatest city in the world with the greatest restaurants in the world, but old habits die hard so I opt for my favorite cheap salad.
3:00 p.m. – This one guy on the subway is moon walking for money. The Chicago homeless are so uncreative.
4:30 p.m. – In Prospect Heights, a neighborhood full of kids, I’m the douche bag who curses loud enough for all of them to hear.
5:00 p.m. – I’m having major luck with finding an affordable bar! Happy Hour on New Year’s Eve?
07:30 p.m. – We arrive to Barclays Center, where its 80-foot-long cantilevered awning probably cost more than some of the city’s skyscrapers.
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A few observations of Barclays:
– There’s no entrance to the Roc-a-wear store from inside the arena. Not one usher could explain why.
– The $12 turkey meatballs are to die for.
– The $14 glass of champagne — which may only be available for New Year’s — is not worth $14.
– The sound inside the venue is impeccable. It’s like a major musician was involved in its design.
– Also very cool: The four circular video screens hanging from four different quadrants of the roof each reflect HD video on both sides of the screen. Hopefully this is a feature installed in other future arenas, because it really does allow a crystal clear view to each audience member, regardless of their seat number.
My own personal opinion of Coldplay has always been that of a poor man’s U2, but they’re impressive live. Their Lollapalooza show featured plenty of lasers, which was all I really needed to justify seeing them over Muse. Their *co-headlining* set at Barclays came at the conclusion of a two-year world tour — and apparently marked their final show prior to a lengthy hiatus — so no wonder they sounded like a fine oiled machine who could probably play this show while in a state of comatose. But perhaps my girlfriend put it best when she leaned over midway through the show and said, “They’re good, but it all it seems so rehearsed.” There is definitely something artificial about their show. I’ve long poked fun at Chris Martin’s love for having a unique jacket for each of the band’s world tours, and this tour also saw ushers hand audience members big old Coldplay bracelets which lit up sporadically throughout the show, because in 2013 we can’t count on the audience to hold up a light or a cellphone for those moments of tranquil spontaneity common in the good old days. And I really hate when Chris Martin does that leap where he bends his back at a 30 degree angle, just because I know he’s doing it for a future concert poster or DVD cover. But, yeah, other than that, Coldplay was great.
It took Jay-Z’s army of roadies 35 minutes to break down U2′s stage and set up his and those were probably the worst 35 minutes of my entire 2012. I had great tickets, which meant I was in the section with all the same people you see in any reality show set in New York City starring twentysomethings who live in $32 million penthouses. They were drunk off $14 glasses of champagne and dancing along to DJ Cassidy, who was fine until he started mixing Daft Punk with Journey. One guy next to me was also refreshing his Wall Street app every two minutes, because apparently the stock markets are open at 11:44 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.
Thank god Jay-Z came on when he did, right at 11:59, accompanied by Chris Martin, Gwyneth Paltrow, their beautiful kids, Alicia Keys fill-in Bridget Kelly, a live band dressed in tuxes, and bottles of solid gold champagne. He began with “Run This Town”, because what better way to flex your new arena and the spectacle you put together. “On to the Next One” followed and it really is one of my favorite songs to see performed live since it justifies dancing like a mime for four minutes.

Like Kanye’s set the night before, Jay-Z hasn’t really changed much since the last time I saw him as The Throne in 2011 or with Eminem in 2010. There was no preview of his forthcoming solo LP; instead, he dished out one greatest hit after another with the lone exceptions being short bites from his collaborations with Rick Ross (“3 Kings”) and Kanye West (“Clique”). The one-two-three-four punch of “Izzo (H.O.V.A.)”, “Big Pimpin’”, “99 Problems” and “Bonnie & Clyde” was better than any form of caffeine I could have found so late at night. But I think mostly everyone sober enough to appreciate the show would agree that Jay’s live backing band really was the best part. These guys were as tight as Coldplay, dropping the sweet grooves of “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” as if they play 200+ shows a year.
Jay-Z closed out his New Year’s Eve party in the way you’d expect: the crowning anthem (“Public Service Announcement”) and one last nod to the longtime diehards (“Song Cry”) before concluding with the city’s greatest song by someone not named Sinatra (“Empire State of Mind”). By now, this song plays at any given time somewhere in the Big Apple, but it never does tire, especially when you see the earnest look on Shawn’s face and remember his story and see all that he’s accomplished. He and I come from different worlds and strive for excellence in different fields, but god damn is the man an inspiration. Twenty years ago he was slinging dope across the street from where Barclays now stands. And then, when it’s all over, you walk out of his arena and onto the mean streets of New York and realize that in this vast, giant city of eight million large, there’s still room for someone bigger and better and greater than Jay-Z. And that’s his greatest gift of all.
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Five hours after walking out of Barclays, I depart the closet/guestroom, bargain with a lively car driver for $5 off my fare, and head to Penn Station for an early morning Amtrak ride back to Pennsylvania. It’s 6:30 am on New Year’s Day and everybody around me is passed out with a stench of dried booze and perspiration. I crack open a Diet Coke and briefly reminiscence about the last 48 hours. Surely they’re sleeping now, but some point today, even with a child on the way and it being a holiday, Kanye will hit to the lab and Jay will scheme his next great venture. I open up this computer and begin writing news stories. Success doesn’t come easy, and I have a lot more work to do.