New England Patriots tight end Aaron Hernandez

Photo by Debby Wong (Shutterstock)

"What is your definition of being happy?"

In the second episode of Netflix's latest true crime docuseries, Killer Inside: The Mind of Aaron Hernandez, Stephen Ziogas, Aaron Hernandez's childhood friend, can't imagine what drove his friend to commit first-degree murder. He says, "I think the biggest misconception is he was someone who had everything and threw it all away. From what we know now, can you ever really define that he was happy?" In June 2013, the New England Patriots tight end had fame, wealth, a devoted fiancee, and his first child on the way. Looking back on what followed, Ziogas adds, "He did everything that, in that storybook setting, would make you happy, but obviously he was still hurting."

The three episodes of Killer Inside create a rare, objective look at Hernandez's life, mostly built from audio recordings of Hernandez's phone calls while in prison, security footage from his own home, testimonies from his criminal trial, and interviews with his close friends and former teammates. While those close to him describe him as playful, teasing, and full of life, they also discuss his childhood traumas from his physically abusive father, his long history of anger issues and violent outbursts, and his struggles with his sexuality.

In June 2013, the body of Odin Lloyd, a 27-year-old semi-professional football player, was found in the street with wounds from six gunshots. In what was described as a particularly messy crime, Hernandez murdered Lloyd with motives that are unclear to this day. At the time of his trial in 2015, prosecutors argued that Lloyd was targeted because he'd spoken to people disliked by Hernandez while at a bar in Boston. But friends and photographs paint a friendly relationship between Lloyd and Hernandez, who were respectively dating sisters Shayanna and Shaneah Jenkins. The men bonded over their love of video games and smoking (Lloyd's nickname was the "blunt master").

Why did the beloved New England Patriot murder Lloyd, who was set to become his brother-in-law? The docuseries doesn't offer a clear answer, because those answers ultimately died with Hernandez when he hanged himself in his jail cell in 2017. Hernandez killed himself with his prison bed sheet on the same day his former NFL team visited the White House to celebrate their fifth Super Bowl win.

The series taps into the power of personal testimony mixed with compelling video and audio evidence to unfold a mind-boggling backstory, including a second criminal charge Hernandez faced on top of first-degree murder. He was charged and tried for fatally shooting two men in a car outside of a nightclub in 2012; his lawyer, Jose Baez (noted for defending Casey Anthony), successfully cast doubt on his involvement, resulting in a not guilty verdict. In fact, Hernandez was described as having high spirits prior to his death, with the double-murder charges dropped and an appeal of his life sentence with no parole in the works.

In the larger picture, however, Hernandez was clearly at odds with his own identity, with jarring contradictions causing rifts in both his personal and professional lives. He complained that the Patriots organization "try to ruin all your fun because that want you to only be business [sic]," even asking to be traded in 2013 and struggling to bond with his teammates, who viewed him as impulsive and "immature." He idolized his abusive father, Dennis Hernandez, as "a good man" who was "also really wild," but he resented his mother, whom he felt abandoned him after his father's death. He makes a belligerent call from prison, yelling, "I was the happiest little kid in the world, and you f***ed me up. I had nobody. What'd you think I was going to do? Become a perfect angel?" He grew up attending a safe, "typical American high school" but fostered a bad boy image, keeping company with violent criminals while professing his love for the Harry Potter series to his fiancee and close friends.

And then two issues are weakly covered–disappointingly so–in the third episode of Killer Inside: Hernandez's sexual history, which involved allegations of childhood molestation and represssed homosexuality, and its connection to his perpetual anger; and Hernandez's confirmed brain damage incurred from playing in the NFL. The series' tepid handling of the issues create an abrupt ending, with more emphasis on humanizing Hernandez, a convicted murderer of at least one man, while giving incomplete consideration of how trauma impacted Hernandez's psychology.

Rumors about Hernandez's sexuality persisted both during and after his life, with one inmate coming forward after Hernandez's death to allege that they were lovers in prison (he is not interviewed in the series). One childhood friend recounts discovering his own bisexuality when he and Hernandez would sexually experiment in high school. He affirms, "He [Aaron] wasn't ashamed of who he was. Aaron was proud of his sexuality. It was just, he couldn't say anything—at the time, there was no one in the NFL that had ever broke this news."

However, throughout the docuseries, Dennis Hernandez's severe homophobia is starkly outlined next to his son's admiration of him, underlining the recurring theme of troubled and toxic masculinity in Hernanez's violent outbursts. Additionally, one of Hernandez's lawyers, George Leontire, says that Hernandez confided in him about being molested by a male babysitter as a child (his older brother, DJ Hernandez, has publicly corroborated the story of abuse). Leontire says that he, as a gay man, felt bad for his client: "Aaron asked me if I felt or believed that someone was born gay...Aaron had a belief that his abuse as a child impacted his sexuality. That was one of the things that he held onto as to why he, in his mind, has this aberrant behavior." And then, most egregiously, in 2017 one reporter named Michele McPhee published an unconfirmed story that Odin Lloyd was targeted because he'd caught Hernandez with a man. She was interviewed on a popular Boston sports radio show, where the hosts openly mocked Hernandez about being the Patriots' "tight end." Two days later, Hernandez hanged himself.

Aaron hernandezNetflix

In the last minutes of the Killer Mind, we learn that Hernandez's family donated his brain to science with shocking results. In 2017, the same year of Hernandez's death, former NFL player Fred McNeill became the first living patient to be accurately diagnosed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy (C.T.E.), a form of severe brain damage resulting from repeated head traumas. As the disease develops in four worsening stages, symptoms range from memory loss, confusion, depression, and dementia to violent mood swings and suicidal ideation. Shortly after Dr. Bennet Omalu first discovered the disease in professional football players, a study examined the brains of 111 deceased players; 110 were confirmed to have CTE. Examination of Aaron Hernandez's brain showed "the most severe case they had ever seen in someone of Aaron's age," with degeneration well into stage three, comparable to a player well into his 60s.

Hernandez's turmoil over his sexuality is not framed as an excuse for his actions, but overall, the series' tepid handling of the issue creates an abrupt end to the matter, with incomplete consideration of how this impacted Hernandez's psychology. In all likelihood, the combination of childhood trauma, internalized shame, and brain damage created the double loss of life surrounding the Aaron Hernandez case. Odin Lloyd's family has forgiven Hernandez, but the senselessness behind the crime makes its unsettling loss feel frozen in time. In a suicide letter addressed to his lawyer, Baez, Hernandez wrote, "Wrong or right — who knows — I just follow my natural instincts and how it guides me."

Netflix

Photo by David Balev-Unsplash

Everything in life is funny.

Remember that the next time you feel creeping alarm about climate change, impeachment proceedings, or Brexit. As George Carlin once said, "There's a humorous side to every situation. The challenge is to find it." But in the age of Twitter and op-eds about bad dates with comedians, it's hard to keep track of what's funny and what's cringey. In the last decade, we've been treated to all variations. From critics lamenting that Hannah Gadsby's emotional comedy isn't "real" stand-up to Dave Chappelle returning to say exactly what's on his mind regardless of the political climate, our cultural understanding of what constitutes comedy is currently in flux.

Is Mike Birbiglia's vulnerability funny? Is Bo Burnham's peppy musical satire funny? We're saying yes. Why? On the enduring power of comedy, American humorist Mark Twain once said, "Humor must not professedly teach, and it must not professedly preach, but it must do both if it would live forever"–which is lovely, but Richard Pryor frankly put it better when he said, "Two things people throughout history have had in common are hatred and humor. I am proud that I have been able to use humor to lesson people's hatred."

That is to say: Some comedic talents have shone undeniable light upon our existential dread, and for that we're thankful.

Hannah Gadsby, "Nanette"

MUSIC

Taylor Swift Says Big Machine Won't Let Her Perform Old Songs at the AMAs

The pop star accused her ex-label of preventing her from performing her old music.

Taylor Swift - Live at the 2019 American Music Awards

The battle between Taylor Swift and her ex-label, Big Machine, continues.

Earlier this year, Swift was involved in a high-profile dispute when Big Machine was sold to Ithaca Holdings LLC, the media holding company run by big-name music businessman Scooter Braun. When Swift signed to Big Machine as a teenager, she also signed away the rights to her masters—a.k.a. original recordings of her songs. These masters, spanning all the way from her 2006 debut to 2017's Reputation, are now owned by Braun, who Swift claims has bullied her relentlessly throughout her career. Masters ownership disputes are as old as record labels themselves, but when a star as omnipresent and indelible as Swift voices her own "worst-case scenario" experience, it's hard not to criticize how the music industry functions financially.

Another layer to this feud arose publicly yesterday, when Swift published a lengthy post to her social media explaining that Braun and Big Machine founder Scott Borchetta are allegedly preventing her from performing material from her first six albums on television (for those catching up, that's everything predating August's Lover). Swift is going to be named the Artist of the Decade at this month's American Music Awards, and she was planning on celebrating the honor by performing a medley of her career-spanning hits. Swift said Braun and Borchetta consider this "re-recording" those old songs, something she's apparently not allowed to do until next year.

In her post, Swift also spilled the beans about a documentary Netflix has in the works about her. She alleged that Braun and Borchetta were refusing the use of her older music in the film, although she claims the documentary doesn't mention the two men or Big Machine. "Scott Borchetta told my team that they'll allow me to use my music only if I do these things: If I agree to not re-record copycat versions of my songs next year (which is something I'm both legally allowed to do and looking forward to) and also told my team that I need to stop talking about him and Scooter Braun," Swift wrote. "The message being sent to me is very clear. Basically, be a good little girl and shut up. Or you'll be punished."

Big Machine published a response to Swift's post, saying "at no point did we say Taylor could not perform on the AMAs or block her Netflix special." Well, neither did Swift. She never implied that she wasn't allowed to perform on the AMAs or be featured in the documentary: all she's asking for is the rights to the music she's been writing since she was a teenager. They dodged the specificities of Swift's concerns, claiming that they had been cooperative in the process but that Swift owed millions of dollars to the company. The statement never explicitly denies Swift's accusations. Her publicist, Tree Paine, also tweeted that "an independent, professional auditor has determined that Big Machine owes Taylor $7.9 million of unpaid royalties over several years."

"Taylor, the narrative you have created does not exist," Big Machine wrote. "There is nothing but respect, kindness and support waiting for you on the other side. To date, not one of the invitations to speak with us and work through this has been accepted. Rumors fester in the absence of communication. Let's not have that continue here. We share the collective goal of giving your fans the entertainment they both want and deserve."

Sure, part of Swift's personal brand as a public figure has included the tendency to be a little overdramatic, but she's also one of the most successful artists of all time; Is it too much to ask that she be allowed to perform the music she wrote without jumping through legal hoops? If Big Machine has truly "continued to honor all of her requests to license her catalog to third parties" as they claim in their statement, wouldn't they be able to find a way to let Swift perform her old music during an awards ceremony specifically honoring her success over the past decade? There's clearly a discord here that should raise apprehension in all artists and labels moving forward: Let the people who write music own that music. It's incredibly disheartening when the pursuit of profit, in a creative industry especially, becomes more important than morals and integrity.

BEYONCE

Photo by A.RICARDO (Shutterstock)

This was a year of change and tumult, but if anything has remained consistent through it all, it's been Beyoncé's greatness.

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MUSIC

"Look Mom I Can Fly" Is a Win for Travis Scott Fans—and No One Else

The 28-year-old rapper's new Netflix documentary is a rare and personal (albeit sloppily executed) glimpse into the life of a superstar.

Travis Scott AstroWorld Festival

Photo by Trish Badger/imageSPACE/Shutterstock

Love him or hate him, we can all agree on one thing: Nobody knows how to hype up a crowd quite like Travis Scott.

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Walt Disney Pictures/Kobal/Shutterstock

Beyoncé has never been one to stick to tradition or to announce when she's about to drop something, so it's really no surprise that she just released a 40-track live album called Homecoming in conjunction with her new Netflix documentary.

Homecoming: A Film By Beyoncé | Official Trailer | Netflixwww.youtube.com

The album, which dropped at 10 AM on Wednesday morning, is a collection of the singer's greatest hits, ranging from "Single Ladies" to Destiny's Child's "Say My Name." It also includes rarities such as two covers of the hymn often called the Black national anthem—"Lift Every Voice and Sing"—first sung a cappella by an emotional Beyoncé as a lead-in to "Formation," and later by Bey and Jay-Z's daughter, Blue Ivy.

Blue, who recorded the track in the audience at one of her mom's rehearsals, has obviously inherited some of her parents' love of the spotlight; at the end of the song she exclaims, "I wanna do that again because it feels good!"

B7 also features Jay-Z and J Balvin and concludes with a new studio track—a cover of the song "Before I Let Go" by Frankie Beverly and Maze, originally released in 1981 and first covered by Destiny's Child in 1997.

As if the album alone wasn't enough of a gift, it's available on all streaming platforms. On it, you can hear Beyoncé's vocals—silky and flawless as ever—layered over complicated new brass-heavy arrangements and the distant screams of the infatuated crowd. Supercharged with electric energy, it's a straight shot of the empowerment and magnetism that has gained Beyoncé her well-deserved status as an inimitable icon of our times.

June's Diary performs "Lift Every Voice and Sing" live at Royal Farms Arena in Baltimorewww.youtube.com

The album comes as a surprise companion piece to Beyoncé's Netflix documentary, which debuted last night at Howard University and Houston's Southern Texas University—appropriate venues, as her Coachella performance featured a massive marching band and sets inspired by the aesthetics of historically black colleges. It follows her 2018 performance from conceptualization to fruition and features interviews and intimate behind-the-scenes footage.

The critically lauded set marked the first time in the festival's 11-year history that an African American woman headlined it, and 2018 will forever be marked in history as the year of Beychella. But then again, every year is Bey's year—she's been steadily creating extraordinary multimedia works of art for the past decade, with each event—from the Super Bowl to Lemonade—further fortifying her legacy as music's eternal queen, one surprise release at a time.


Eden Arielle Gordon is a writer and musician from New York City. Follow her on Twitter @edenarielmusic.


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