Huge Triple Threat For The NXT Championship Announced For WWE NXT Stand & Deliver
Huge Triple Threat For The NXT Championship Announced For WWE NXT Stand & Deliver
WWE NXT Stand and Deliver Logo 2023
Oba Femi will have his hands full later this month at WWE NXT Stand & Deliver.
Tonight during WWE NXT, Trick Williams once again called out Oba Femi, looking for a rematch for the NXT Championship. This led to Je'Von Evans and Oba Femi both coming to the ring, and the three men exchanged heated comments.
Advertisement
This led to WWE NXT General Manager Ava interrupting the three men and announcing that Oba Femi would defend his title in a triple threat match at Stand & Deliver against both Trick Williams and Je'Von Evans.
Williams didn't take kindly to this announcement and immediately attacked Evans. Femi quickly got involved before Darkstate once again made their presence felt and laid out all three men.
Here is the updated NXT Stand & Deliver card:
NXT Championship: Oba Femi (c) vs. Trick Williams vs. Je'Von Evans
NXT Women's Championship: Stephanie Vaquer (c) vs. Jordynne Grace or Jaida Parker
NXT Women's North American Championship Ladder Match: Zaria vs. Kelani Jordan vs. TBA vs. TBA vs. TBA vs. TBA
WrestleZone will have live coverage of Stand & Deliver later this month.
READ MORE: Stephanie Vaquer Forced To Relinquish Women's North American Championship On WWE NXT
Advertisement
What do you make of the main event for NXT Stand & Deliver? Who do you think will leave with the championship? Let us know your thoughts by sounding off in the comments section below.
The post Huge Triple Threat For The NXT Championship Announced For WWE NXT Stand & Deliver appeared first on Wrestlezone.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
6 hours ago
- Yahoo
The Singer Who Saw America's Best and Worst
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. It's a real American moment out there: battle lines drawn, tear gas drifting, charity and gentleness on their heels. Turn inward, inside ourselves, and it looks even worse, the mind's landscape pocked and blackened with destruction. Can somebody please bring the beautiful music, to carry us up and out? Someone like Sly Stone, who died on Monday at the age of 82. Sly was a born transcender, a natural synthesizer of situations, a raiser of elements to their highest state of possibility. Black, white; R&B, rock; politics, carnival; great taste, screaming excess; heaven and Earth: He put it all together. On a tight curve of musical euphoria, he led his people—which was everybody, or so he claimed—out of conflict. The opposing force was in him too, equally strong as it turned out: drag, downwardness, drugs, isolation. Who in the world would ever have the power to shut him down? Only Sly himself. It's remarkable that he lived as long as he did. But in his glorious and self-consuming prime—'68 to '71, roughly—he harmonized the energies that were tearing and would continue to tear this country to pieces. Dangerous work, highly exposed, but he made it look like a party. And in the floating jubilee that was his band, the Family Stone, he gave America a vision of itself: racially and emotionally integrated, celestially oriented, if not healed then at least open to healing. What to listen to, right now, as you're reading this? You could start with 1969's 'Stand!' A circus crash of cymbal, a burlesque snare roll, and away we go: 'Stand, in the end, you'll still be you / One that's done all the things you set out to do.' The vocals are airy, haughtily enunciated in the high hippie style, and embellished with happy trills; the melody chugs along with a nursery-rhyme simplicity that is somehow underwired by knowingness: innocence and experience conjoined. (The Beatles were very good at this too, but Sly's true peer in this area, oddly, was a later songwriter: Kurt Cobain.) And the lyrics are classic Sly: a pinch of psychedelic double-talk—'You have you to complete and there is no deal'—and an ounce of street knowledge. The song rises and falls, jogging on the spot as it were, but with a building gospel crescendo of a half-chorus—'Stand! Stand! Stand!'—that seems to presage or demand release. And release is granted, unforgettably. It comes out of nowhere, with less than a minute of music left: a sudden loop of chiming, uplifted, militant, and taut-nerved funk, resolving/unresolving, tension and deliverance together, guitars locked; the drummer, Greg Errico, is thrashing out an ecstatic double-time pattern on his hi-hat (and doing it, if you watch the live footage, with one hand). [Read: The undoing of a great American band] From 'Stand!' you might go to 1970's 'Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).' Everything in America is one year worse, one year more violent and bummed-out, and although the music stays celebratory (with a finger-popping bass line from Larry Graham that famously invented the next two decades of funk playing), lyrically, Sly is darkening: 'Lookin' at the devil / Grinnin' at his gun / Fingers start shakin' / I begin to run.' He quotes himself, his own (very recent) hits, his own nostrums of positivity, in a charred-by-time kind of way, 'Different strokes for different folks' right next to a new observation, 'Flamin' eyes of people fear burnin' into you.' We're on course here for the Sly-in-ruins of 1971's There's a Riot Goin' On, his woozy sayonara to the years of greatness. Druggy and drum-machined, with a rippling American flag on the cover, Riot is the album that most directly connects him to the present situation. Decades of obscurity followed—which is a cliché, but he lived it, as durably and intensely as he had lived the cliché of superstardom. 'The pure products of America go crazy,' as William Carlos Williams said. And now he's left us, when once again brutality is massing behind its shields, and once again compassion has acquired the nobility of true folly. All very familiar to Sly the avatar. I can't stop thinking about these lines from 'Stand!,' so wistfully prophetic, so half-encouraging, so dead-on predictive of our mass retreat into the space behind our eyes: 'Stand, don't you know that you are free / Well, at least in your mind if you want to be.' Article originally published at The Atlantic
Yahoo
6 hours ago
- Yahoo
Thank You, Sly Stone
Let us begin with gratitude. Thank you, Sly Stone, for being so generous with your music before your death on Monday at the age of 82 — for the wealth of durable hits that includes 'Stand!,' 'Sing a Simple Song,' 'Everyday People,' 'Dance to the Music,' 'Family Affair,' and, yes, 'Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again).' Thank you, Sly, for effectively inventing 1970s funk and the career of Prince with that last song. Thank you, Sly for pulling together the Family Stone, a band of players and singers Black and white, male and female, that served as a music-world version of the original Sesame Street cast, bright with the 1960s promise of a multicultural future unbound by racial or genre distinctions. More from The Hollywood Reporter Kendrick Lamar Was the Top Winner at the 2025 BET Awards Tyler Perry Calls Out Hollywood Studios at BET Awards: "This Is Not the Time to Be Silent" SHINee's Key on K-pop Stardom After 30 and Reuniting with U.S. Fans And thank you, Sly, falettin me into your life in 2007. Permit me to explain. I grew up besotted with the music of the man born Sylvester Stewart in 1943. His songs defined my primordial years, osmosing straight into my bloodstream. In 1996, the year I became a contributing editor at Vanity Fair, I screwed up the courage to pitch the editor, Graydon Carter, the idea of my profiling Sly. Mr. Stone was in a bad place then. Actually, no one seemed quite sure what place he was in, having removed himself from public life after a bad 70s and 80s in which drugs and indolence robbed him of his joy and spark. It wasn't typical Vanity Fair material. But to my delight, Graydon said yes. Terrific! I started making phone calls. I got in touch with Greg Errico, the Family Stone's founding drummer, who invited me to watch him jam in a Bay Area rehearsal space with fellow original band members Freddie Stone (guitar, Sly's brother) and Jerry Martini (saxophone). Stonewalled by Sly's then manager, Jerry Goldstein, I reached out to his fellow record-industry machers Lou Adler and Richard Gottehrer, to advocate on my behalf. Despite their efforts, Goldstein was unmoved. Years passed. My wife and I welcomed two children into our family. A new millennium dawned. Then, early in 2007, I heard that the youngest of Sly's sisters, a singer born Vaetta and known as Vet, had coaxed Sly into performing a few dates with her band that coming summer. I contacted Vet and related to her my decade-plus of travails. She told me that if I was serious, I should get to Las Vegas pronto to see her band's show at the Flamingo Hotel. Sly, she said, was going to play. I asked her, given the predilection for no-shows that did in his career as a touring musician, if she was sure. 'All I can say is that I'm his little sister and he's never lied to me,' she said. Sly did show up — in a bizarre ensemble pulled from the Me Decade's dress-up bin, wearing platform boots, wraparound white sunglasses, and spangly newsboy knickers. It was a chaotic show in which he performed only a few songs. But when he sang a soft, unplugged version of 'Stand!,' with its affirming message In the end you'll still be you/ One that's done all the things you set out to do, he held the crowd rapt. It was evident that, whatever he had done to himself bodily and mentally, his voice and musicianship were intact. My reward for turning up was the first major interview he had granted in a couple of decades. We met in a motorcycle shop in his native Vallejo, California, called Chopper Guys Biker Products. I had a million questions. He answered them gnomically. When I asked him what he had been up to all these years, and if he was watching Seinfeld and American Idol like the rest of us, he said, 'I've done all that. I do regular things a lot. But it's probably more of a Sly Stone life. It's probably… it's probably not very normal.' The comeback that my Vanity Fair profile was meant to signal failed to materialize; he still had drug and business issues to sort out. But between then and now, he did finally get sober. Vet emailed me a photo of Sly contentedly dandling a grandson in his lap. In Questlove's excellent documentary released earlier this year, Sly Lives! (a.k.a. The Burden of Black Genius), his younger daughter, Novena, laughs at the unlikely circumstance to which she now regularly bears witness: 'He's kind of just like… a standard old Black man.' That he lived to become that is hope-giving. Sly is often upheld as as an avatar for how the utopianism of 1960s America curdled into solipsism, cynicism, and bad vibes. I am reminded of the title character's reproach of the Dude in The Big Lebowski: 'Your revolution is over, Mr. Lebowski. Condolences. The bums lost!' But in the long run, Sly won. He found redemptive happiness. His library of music remains as alive and vibrant as ever and shall forever transcend the circumstances of its making and what came after. Once again, Sly, thank you. Best of The Hollywood Reporter Most Anticipated Concert Tours of 2025: Beyoncé, Billie Eilish, Kendrick Lamar & SZA, Sabrina Carpenter and More Hollywood's Most Notable Deaths of 2025 Hollywood's Highest-Profile Harris Endorsements: Taylor Swift, George Clooney, Bruce Springsteen and More
Atlantic
8 hours ago
- Atlantic
Sly Stone's Pop-Funk Radicalism
It's a real American moment out there: battle lines drawn, tear gas drifting, charity and gentleness on their heels. Turn inward, inside ourselves, and it looks even worse, the mind's landscape pocked and blackened with destruction. Can somebody please bring the beautiful music, to carry us up and out? Someone like Sly Stone, who died on Monday at the age of 82. Sly was a born transcender, a natural synthesizer of situations, a raiser of elements to their highest state of possibility. Black, white; R&B, rock; politics, carnival; great taste, screaming excess; heaven and Earth: He put it all together. On a tight curve of musical euphoria, he led his people—which was everybody, or so he claimed—out of conflict. The opposing force was in him too, equally strong as it turned out: drag, downwardness, drugs, isolation. Who in the world would ever have the power to shut him down? Only Sly himself. It's remarkable that he lived as long as he did. But in his glorious and self-consuming prime—'68 to '71, roughly—he harmonized the energies that were tearing and would continue to tear this country to pieces. Dangerous work, highly exposed, but he made it look like a party. And in the floating jubilee that was his band, the Family Stone, he gave America a vision of itself: racially and emotionally integrated, celestially oriented, if not healed then at least open to healing. What to listen to, right now, as you're reading this? You could start with 1969's 'Stand!' A circus crash of cymbal, a burlesque snare roll, and away we go: 'Stand, in the end, you'll still be you / One that's done all the things you set out to do.' The vocals are airy, haughtily enunciated in the high hippie style, and embellished with happy trills; the melody chugs along with a nursery-rhyme simplicity that is somehow underwired by knowingness: innocence and experience conjoined. (The Beatles were very good at this too, but Sly's true peer in this area, oddly, was a later songwriter: Kurt Cobain.) And the lyrics are classic Sly: a pinch of psychedelic double-talk—'You have you to complete and there is no deal'—and an ounce of street knowledge. The song rises and falls, jogging on the spot as it were, but with a building gospel crescendo of a half-chorus—'Stand! Stand! Stand!'—that seems to presage or demand release. And release is granted, unforgettably. It comes out of nowhere, with less than a minute of music left: a sudden loop of chiming, uplifted, militant, and taut-nerved funk, resolving/unresolving, tension and deliverance together, guitars locked; the drummer, Greg Errico, is thrashing out an ecstatic double-time pattern on his hi-hat (and doing it, if you watch the live footage, with one hand). From 'Stand!' you might go to 1970's 'Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin).' Everything in America is one year worse, one year more violent and bummed-out, and although the music stays celebratory (with a finger-popping bass line from Larry Graham that famously invented the next two decades of funk playing), lyrically, Sly is darkening: 'Lookin' at the devil / Grinnin' at his gun / Fingers start shakin' / I begin to run.' He quotes himself, his own (very recent) hits, his own nostrums of positivity, in a charred-by-time kind of way, 'Different strokes for different folks' right next to a new observation, 'Flamin' eyes of people fear burnin' into you.' We're on course here for the Sly-in-ruins of 1971's There's a Riot Goin' On, his woozy sayonara to the years of greatness. Druggy and drum-machined, with a rippling American flag on the cover, Riot is the album that most directly connects him to the present situation. Decades of obscurity followed—which is a cliché, but he lived it, as durably and intensely as he had lived the cliché of superstardom. 'The pure products of America go crazy,' as William Carlos Williams said. And now he's left us, when once again brutality is massing behind its shields, and once again compassion has acquired the nobility of true folly. All very familiar to Sly the avatar. I can't stop thinking about these lines from 'Stand!,' so wistfully prophetic, so half-encouraging, so dead-on predictive of our mass retreat into the space behind our eyes: 'Stand, don't you know that you are free / Well, at least in your mind if you want to be.'
