From Napster to Radiohead, from Reality TV to the resurgence of Playboy, Y2K has seen more than its share of overrated crap! Step inside as MUSICBLITZ wrestles the media hype machine to the ground -- and gives it a swift kick in the nuts! Disagree with our picks? Wanna chime in your approval? Send us your ! HYPE OF THE YEAR: NAPSTER If you believed all the media hype (or Metallica) in Y2K, one fact seemed inevitable: Napster, "The Little Program That Could," was ready to bring the record industry to its knees. But if you actually sat down at a computer and tested that theory for yourself, you probably realized the only thing Napster was going to bring to its knees was its users -- in a torrent of frustrated tears and gnashing teeth. As even the Gobi Desert's most far-flung Bedouin knows by now, Napster is a file-sharing program that gives free access to music files on the hard drives of any of its users. "Any song. Any time. Free," as Time gushes -- yours just for the taking. All you need's a computer and modem. And the patience of a Cubs fan. And more time to kill than an inmate locked down in solitary. And, most importantly, a big-ass masochistic streak. To wit: You find that elusive track you'd give your left gonad (or ovary) for. You get 88% of it downloaded, at the speed of soil erosion. Almost home, heh heh! And then comes the phrase that's Napster's own version of "I like you a lot -- as a friend." In other words, "Transfer Error" -- and all your anticipation is time down the crapper. Nothing quite like it -- except trying it all over again and getting the exact same result. After the twentieth time, you find yourself wondering if some of your fellow Napsterites aren't just sick bastards who log off on purpose when they see they've got you on the hook for a song. As you sit there sobbing, some 15-year-old kid in Newark or Tokyo is laughing his ass off. If Napster's a game for some people, though, it's dead-ass serious for others. Just peek into the meticulously organized libraries of certain Napster users for a glimpse of the dark side. Yes, I appreciate all the hours they've spent uploading their entire CD collections for lazy, non-file-sharing hypocrites like me to swipe. But they remind me a little too much of the guys who spent years committing their whole vinyl collections to cassette. Remember them? Remember going to their houses, seeing the stacks and stacks of carefully hand-lettered tape boxes, and wanting to yak just thinking how much life they'd wasted? Remember wanting to shake them into submission, while screaming: "For Christ's sake, go outside and flash some kids! Make a new friend at the bus depot! Or stare into the sun! But STOP DOING THIS SHIT!" Of course, in a Napster world I can overlook the pathology -- if they've got that rare Scritti Politti track I need. If I can get it, that is. The days of the 88-percent Napster blue-balling will be with us for a while yet. But even the most cynical Luddite can't argue this point: 2000 was the year Napster caught the record industry with its fly open, and changed the music biz forever, for better or worse. I say for the better. Especially if I ever catch that little prick in Newark. -- Dan LeRoy RUNNERS UP: PLAYBOY Whether hawking Vargas prints or touting the restorative powers of Viagra, Hugh Hefner enjoyed a greater media presence in 2000 than he's experienced in almost two decades. In a world where hardcore porn has become almost mainstream (hell, even Penthouse is featuring penetration and "golden shower" shots these days), the wizened old Playboy founder seems hellbent on re-establishing his now-quaint publication in the hearts of lusty hetero males everywhere. Thus, we've been treated to an endless succession of press ops from L.A.'s Playboy Mansion (Limp Bizkit's record release party being the most high-profile offender), as well as "juicy" gossip-column items about Hef's alleged relationship with three-count 'em-three Playmates. The magazine itself is about as sexy as Helen Hunt, yet we're somehow supposed to believe that the swingin', bathrobe-clad Playboy Lifestyle is alive and well in the new millennium. It is, of course, all a huge hype, one more airbrushed than last year's Miss July. I've been to Hef's Holmby Hills estate several times in the past year or so, both as a journalist and party-goer, and so I'm pretty qualified to tell you what really goes on at these much-ballyhooed soirees: There's always the same large dining-room tent set up on the back lawn (with a catered buffet menu that never seems to vary), and the same open bar located next to the infamous "Grotto." Wandering aimlessly between the two areas will be hundreds of mid-level executives and would-be Rat Packers, 85% of whom honestly believe that they stand at least an outside chance of getting a blowjob from a Bunny before the night is over. Aside from the requisite smattering of Playmates (none of whom have any intention of administering any favors to any of the bozos in attendance), females are few and far between; those who do make the scene run the definite risk of being groped -- she must want to party if she's at the Playboy Mansion, right? -- and are guaranteed of being ogled by a lot of overweight guys with moustaches. As the evening progresses, the music (usually a mix of cutting-edge stuff like Baha Men, Lou Bega and Glen Frey) gets louder, the throng gets drunker, and the repartee gets ever more idiotic, until finally everyone piles back into the shuttle buses and heads for the parking garage. Hef? He usually stays tucked away inside the Mansion, watching TV and avoiding the drunken revelers outside as if they carried the bubonic plague. In fact, the Playboy founder rarely has anything to do with the parties that take place in his back yard. Rather, the festivities are generally paid for by various corporations looking to promote their products to -- big surprise -- men in the 25-42 age demographic. In other words, Hef's fabled Playboy Lifestyle is nothing more than a bald-faced shill for anyone with pockets deep enough to rent out the grounds for an evening. Lucky for him, there seems to be an endless supply of suckers willing to go along for the ride. -- Dan Epstein RADIOHEAD'S "Kid A" America's greatest writer, Mr. Mark Twain, once wrote (I'm paraphrasing) that there are three kinds of lies: lies, damn lies, and statistics. Allow me to update that for the year 2001 and say there are 3 types of scams: scams, damn scams, and Radiohead's Kid A. Scams are obvious schemes: a Britney Spears holds the keys to Fort Knoxx, so next thing you know, a Jessica Simpson appears to sweep all of the golden crumbs from the table. Damn scams are the province of the Limp Bizkits and Backstreet Boys-es, who spot an open market niche and milk it with a single-minded ruthlessness that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger shudder. But no scam of the year can even begin to approach the unbridled ballsiness that framed the release of Radiohead's Kid A in a crown of thorns and a veil of tears, a martyr on the cross of what used to be called rock and roll. Shit stirring, condescending Brits that they are, I believe that not only did the boys in Radiohead intend to make an inscrutable, incoherent, rambling mess of a record, but they also consciously took a prankish, puckish, perverted joy in seeing how much they could get away with and how deep they could push any believer's nose into a heaping, steaming pile of bullshit. Sound harsh? Consider this: Radiohead, flush with power after two universally acclaimed records, only allowed execs at their own label to have a listen to this masterpiece on headphones, in a van, taking a drive down Pacific Coast Highway. And even for all of us plebeians, we exceedingly common folk, the few snatches of lyric that can be made out ("today I woke up sucking on a lemon," "Take the money and run") make Radiohead's essential message clear. The relationship between their fans is essentially that as exists between Sly Stallone and this week's paramour: "I'm gonna fuck you and you're gonna like it." Take a listen to Kid A, and you tell me -- is there a hook on this record? Is there a melody that anyone will remember 5 years from now? Is there a single real song? Critics who make a living from seeming to be hip have proclaimed it a masterpiece, because they too need a rallying point that proclaims their superiority to the great unwashed (conventional, song-loving) masses, yet, in the end, Kid A is nothing but the millennial version of The Emperor's New Clothes. All it's waiting for is some unbiased young kid to take a listen and say, "But … it sucks." -- Sean O'Neill REALITY TV In the Year 2000, a record number of shameless fools found themselves on TV without so much as a stupid pet trick to justify their instant celebrity. What's worse, a record number of shameless fools tuned in. From Survivor to Big Brother and the ubiquitous Real World, the stupidity was unavoidable. It was the subject of every late night TV joke, morning radio show -- even the safe haven of NPR was not free of this scourge. Am I the only person in America who had no interest in laughing at, with, or anywhere near these people? Reality TV? Reality check, please. Reality is me wishing payday would come before rent day for once. Reality is twenty drunk guys at a bar with only six girls to choose from. It's mothers screaming at their kids in the name of peace and love while Christmas shopping. It's getting stuck in traffic, having a bad day at work, or finding hair in your food at a four-star restaurant. It's lots of things, but it's not Big Brother. But then again, I've never been stranded on an island with ten complete strangers, voting someone off each week. I've never even been forced to live in a house with ten complete strangers. And I've definitely never formed a conga line with ten complete strangers to see which of us would marry a mystery millionaire. Maybe that's why I've never gotten past the first five seconds of Survivor or Who Wants To Marry A Wife-Beating Wannabe Comedian. I live a sheltered life. I can't relate to that reality. Of course, I can't relate to fighting with laser swords in space, either -- but I'll watch any Star Wars movie any time, even a second-rate prequel. I've never been in the mafia, but I own the Godfather trilogy. I might even watch The Sopranos if I knew when it was on, because those things reveal the infinite possibilities of human existence. Survivor and its ilk reduce human nature to its basest form, the quest for fame and fortune at all costs. And those without the privilege of debasing themselves for five minutes of airtime are supposed to sit like pathetic voyeurs, wishing we could be so lucky. We are in the midst of the greatest period of prosperity in American history, yet millions of people's lives are apparently so empty that their only solace is watching people with even emptier lives than their own make asses of themselves on TV. Well, call me conceited, but I don't need to make myself feel superior by watching other people's televised stupidity; I know I'm superior. Why? Because I don't need to watch -- I have a fucking life. -- Mike Magnuson SEND THIS FEATURE TO A FRIEND!