Reclassification

Thoughts on recent events, both local and national

• Hymie’s Records recently moved down the street.  It sounds like they’re happy to be rid of their old landlord, but I still miss that weird, aquamarine building that they used to occupy.  And now, much to my dismay, that building has been painted over.  If you look closely, there’s still some greenish-blue paint left around the trim of the door.  Hymie’s now occupies the space right next to the Blue Moon Cafe, which puts it even closer to my home.  Their new building, however, is not of an interesting hue like the old Hymie’s.

• I feel bad for the umpire who made the bad call at first base in Wednesday night’s Detroit victory.  Jim Joyce* made a mistake.  Moreover, he has shown a huge amount of contrition, and immediately admitted that he  made huge mistake.  For the love of God, do not introduce instant replay into the game of baseball because of this one mistake…it’s a slow enough game as it is.

• I love to hate the jargon populating music criticim these days.  For example, how many reviews do I have to read that describe something as  “lo-fi,” only to find out they mean that the guitarist uses a tube amp and the record was captured on tape and then transferred to a digital file?  How are we judging fidelity, here?  How much tape hiss does it take to be cool these days?  On a similar note, several records reviewed these days seem to be best described as having “angular guitars.”  Alternately, the guitars may be “reverb-drenched.”   Hell, even the Entertainment Weekly blog is jumping on that bandwagon, referring to Mark Linkous’ music as “lo-fi psych-folk.”  Honestly, that description tells me absolutely nothing about the way this music sounds; these reviews often fail to contextualize a given “sound” because every band has a unique compound noun microgenre of their own. And because this stuff drives me nuts,  I really enjoyed this Glo-Fi chart in the NYT.  Mostly, I enjoyed that it elicited the following comment from one reader: “not sure i agree that teengirl fantasy is glo-fi. pretty dreamy dub to me.”   Dream-dub indie-trance electro-core.  With reverb-drenched guitars, naturally.

*Can we start referring to this guy as JAMES JOYCE?  That would be awesome to me.  James Joyce ruins perfect game for Detroit Tigers pitcher.   

The designated hitter

I have spent my whole life in a sports market that is home to an American League baseball team.  In many ways, I am just starting to coming to grips with the fact that the AL is not representative of me or my feelings towards baseball.  In fact, I’d even go as far as to say that I agree with Crash Davis’ famous statement that, “there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter.” *

The designated hitter.  I’ve tried for years to come to terms with this phenomenon.  The DH is a position not found in the National League, and therefore it is the focal point of disagreements amongst the Leagues and their supporters.   And though I have grown up watching the AL and following its Central Division, I am prepared to say that I would support the removal of the designated hitter as a position in the American League lineup.

How is it that an American League fan can come out, after all these years, so unequivocally against the DH?  Well, there are several reasons, but I’d like to begin by sharing the name of the AL team that I’ve grown up supporting: the Minnesota Twins.  The Twins and their fans (myself included) are a rare breed.**  We’ve won two World Series, but like to boast that we’ve always been counted out.  We generally slump in the middle of the season, experience the sort of frustration that accompanies a “ten games behind” standing in late August, and then magically come back to face a Division rival in a one-game playoff for the chance to play in October.  In 2008, we lost that playoff to the White Sox.  In 2009, we beat Detroit for the chance to go to the ALDS.   I don’t know what was more potent: the anguish of ’08 or the elation of ’09.  Occurring in back-to-back years, they were almost too much to handle.

The Twins, at least in the local sports journalism, are always referred to as being a “scrappy” team.  They string together small hits, with the occasional monster jam by a guy like Kubel, Morneau, or Mauer.  The Twins do the little things right: they have guys like Punto who can field every ball, they steal a few bases, and they generally infuriate other teams by hitting weird choppers in the infield that somehow get by your team’s shortstop.  All of which is to say that they are not like the Yankees.

The Bronx Bombers have a very telling nickname.  They hit home runs!  They’re colossal players that crush bats like toothpicks and take one ill-placed fastball after another out of your ballpark.   They don’t need to know how to steal a base: they will just have the next hulk in their lineup hit a ball so far into the corner of your stadium that even the slowest guy on the team will advance from first to third.  In my mind, the Yankees exemplify the American League.  They are the Platonic form of a team that is reliant on power hitters—so much so that they have a guy whose job it is to bat but not field! 

Let’s stop for a moment and consider the arguments that I have just put forth: 

Number one: even though my favorite team is an American League team, they are regarded as a team that scrapes together runs and wears down their opponents with small ball.  They have guys with great OBPs and decent pitching, but they are not stacked with power hitters.  In my mind, the stereotypical AL team has a lineup full of sluggers and the Twins, therefore, do not fit this model.  

Number two: the idea of a guy who just bats and does not play in the field really upsets me.  Fielding never gets its due.  Fans are more likely to go to the concession stands when their team is in the field.  A player who is lousy in the field but hits home runs will always have a place in an American League lineup.  This sort of stuff upsets me, and I associate the disregard for defensive skills with the American League because the designated hitter exemplifies the notion that it’s okay to just have a good bat.

Make no mistake: all of this is very personal.  I’m a much better fielder than I am a batter.  I love rooting for underdogs, and consider the American League to have a weird advantage in the designated hitter.  My team (underdogs in their own right) always makes a run towards the end of the season and occasionally ends up in the playoffs, only to the Yankees in the Division Series.  I watched Sosa and McGuire and Bonds hit unfathomable numbers of home runs, only to be disgusted when it was revealed that, yeah, those guys were doping and so was everybody else. ***

It was only recently that these feelings were awakened.  Oddly, the television channels that I get at home do not include the Fox Sports station that broadcasts all weekday Twins games (Sunday afternoon games are shown on regular Fox, which is a channel that I get).  But for some strange reason, I do get the Chicago-based WGN, which shows a TON of Cubs games.  It seems to me that I’ve caught the 7^th, 8^th, and 9^th innings of an inordinate number of these games in the past couple of weeks.  I’ve watched carefully—hoping to gain insight into the National League.   It has been extremely helpful to see the last third of the games, because the pitching choices are made in a different fashion than American League pitching choices.

Imagine your pitcher is left-handed, and the game is in the top of the 8^th inning.  There are two outs and a man on.  Because this is your set-up man, he’s unlikely to pitch the 9th, too.  The other team is probably pitching a right-handed reliever in the bottom of the inning, and your pitcher is up second in the batting order.  Do you leave him in, or do you bring in a different pitcher to close out the inning?  What are the odds that the other team’s righty is going to get your lefty pitcher to strike out or hit into a double play? Would the right-handed pitcher warming up in your bullpen stand a better chance in the batter’s box in the next inning?   If so, do you put him in the game now?  If you’re an American League fan like me, decisions like this could be outside of your purview.  The AL manager doesn’t have to take into consideration where the pitcher is in the upcoming batting order.   But these are the sort sorts of decisions that make the game so exciting; they inspire the best arguments. And unfortunately, they’re confined to the National League.

* I am debating removing this quote, because the rest of that speech is so objectionable and cringe-worthy that I hate to associate my views with those of Crash Davis.

** Every team and its fans practice this sort of exceptionalism

***Oddly, they all played the bulk of their careers in the National League, except for McGuire who spent quite a bit of his career with the A’s but hit 60+ homers with the Cardinals in two consecutive seasons

Farsighted and groggy

After nearly three weeks of being too busy to blog, I’ve decided to post once more in 2009.  This won’t be some sort of grand, end-of-the-year post trying to summarize a decade, a year, or even a season.  Rather, I’m posting a cranky rant about forgetting one’s glasses.  You see, since I have been relocated to our St. Paul office, I am required to wake up earlier just to get to work at the accustomed time.  And lacking the ability to go to sleep earlier than I used to, I am continually getting less and less sleep.  So this week has been a rush of fumbling in the dark for alarm clocks, less-than-adequate shirt ironing, and nearly-missed bus connections.  This morning, I left in such haste that I forgot both my glasses and my travel mug.

Even though it’s two o’clock and I’ve been drinking coffee all day, I’m still groggy.  There’s something about that cup of coffee at 6:15 that really sets the mood for my day.  Even worse, though, is my lack of eyeglasses.  I used to have great vision, but in recent years, my close vision has deteriorated.  I am almost helpless without my reading glasses, and have spent the afternoon combing over spreadsheets with a magnifying glass (no joke).

I guess this is a good time to make a New Year’s resolution about leaving myself enough time in the morning to appropriately groom myself and make sure I have everything I need before leaving the house.  Perhaps the TwentyTeens will teach me the important grown-up lessons of going to bed earlier and eating a good breakfast and what-not.

The first trillionth of a second

“Next year the CERN physicists plan to ramp up to 3.5 trillion electron volts and begin doing physics at an energy never encountered before in search of forces and laws that prevailed during the first trillionth of a second of time.”

This quote, from an article on the Large Hardon Collider, is both fascinating and frightening to me.  The FIRST TRILLIONTH of a second of TIME!  I hate to get into a whole “meaning of it all” sort of discussion, but I have trouble grasping the fact that “time” had a beginning, or that scientists are so close to recreating the conditions, the “forms of matter and energy that held sway” at said beginning of time.   Or at least they think they’re close to recreating those conditions.  How would you know? Like I said, it’s fascinating to me.  And scary. 

Thoughts on being transferred to our St. Paul office

I imagine that when the day comes (and it is coming next week, dear readers) that my employers will give me cab fare to take me just as far as the county line.  The drop-off point will either be the bridge where Lake turns into Marshall or at the intersection Emerald Street and University Ave.  I will get out of the cab, and it will be snowing.  I’ll see a sign that says “St. Paul” or “Ramsey County,” and the snowflakes on the lapel of my jacket will be intermingled with tears. 

Did this all begin when I started going to school in St. Paul?  Or does my fiance’s Prospect Park address make us somehow St. Paul proxies?  Don’t the two-tenths of a mile that separate her apartment from the other Twin City count for anything? 

Yes, I ‘ll be going to St. Paul next week, to begin working in a strange office with people I’ve only spoken to on the phone.  They might as well be transferring me to Charlotte or Sacramento.  My days in this town are numbered.  My Hennepin County library card will probably be revoked.

I’ll think of you always, Minneapolis. 

Godard/Spillane

Do you ever stumble across a book, a CD, or a film that makes total sense, that seems to bring together thoughts you could have sworn that you’ve had in a form that you could’ve sworn you’ve dreamt up?  Have you ever found out that this idea, still incubating in your own mind, was realized by someone else in a concrete form, say, a decade ago?

That’s what happened when I found John Zorn’s Godard/Spillane at the public library last week. To wit, I still haven’t had a chance to listen to this recording, but from the way it’s been described, it sounds like something I would pursue if I had more spare time.  Or perhaps more accurately, it sounds like something Brennan and Pete would come up with.  Here’s the premise, according to allmusic.com’s overview:

“The goal was to translate imagery from Godard’s films and Spillane’s crime novels (and probably the films based on those novels) into unified compositions. Bits of text weave through musical fragments including gentle lounge piano, spacey electronic music, violent sonic crashes, and dive-bar jazz.”

This, coming from the man who brought us the brilliant pairings of hardcore musicians and Ornette Coleman tunes on Spy vs. Spy, could be really, really cool.  On the other hand, it may just be really, really weird.  In hindsight, I wish I had listened to this record before deciding to blog about it.   Whatever this particular recording sounds like, and whatever people want to say about Zorn’s records, I can affirm that seeing Electric Masada live at the Walker was one of the single best performances I’ve ever seen in any genre of music.  I have great hopes for this record.

Without having heardi it, the idea behind this album has a great deal of familiarity. As usual, I’m ruefully wishing that I’d realized this dream-idea of mine years ago.

How about you, reader, has there been a book, CD, film, event, etc. that has had uncanny reverberations with your own creative work?  Have you ever found yourself thinking up an idea, only to find out that it’s been done by someone?

Spiritual bookends

I like the Monsters of Folk disc.  I cringed the first few times that I heard that name, but the music is enjoyable.  I am a sucker for the well-worn sounds of acoustic guitars and lap steels with the occasional twist (is that some sort of harp sample on the first track?).  I’ve heard the CSNY and Wilbury comparisons, and to a certain extent they’re valid—Monsters of Folk make feel-good music that is perhaps more easily accessible/less thorny than any of the disparate acts that its members are otherwise involved in.  It’s a CD that can be put in one’s car and will get no complaints, one that I often clean the house listening to. 

To me, the truly interesting tracks are the first and last: the literal and spiritual bookends of this album.  “Dear God (sincerely M.O.F.)” and “His Master’s Voice” present really interesting perspectives on an album otherwise lacking in metaphysics.  Jim James’ opening verse on “Dear God” is strikingly honest-sounding: “Dear God, I’m trying hard to reach you / Dear God, I see your face in all I do.”   In the third line of the stanza, the speaker takes a turn: “Sometimes, it’s so hard to believe in” before turning back to complete the four-line verse: “But God, I know you have your reasons.”  

James’ voice, positioned well within his vocal range on the first two lines, seems comfortable with the assertions he’s making.  Line three moves him a little further out of his comfort zone (in both the voice and the content) before resolving in line four by repeating (in voice and content) the form of the first line.  The melodic structure of AABA is mimicked in the speakers’ words.  It’s fucking perfect. 

“His Master’s Voice” is maybe one of my favorite tracks of 2009.  Again, we begin with Jim James, but now he is at the top end of his wide vocal range.  His voice stretching from the opening words: “Mohammed rolling dice with Christ at twilight” all the way through the end of the third verse: “CALLING like the lady’s siren call.”  The music is likewise airy for the beginning of the first verse, building to the line where other voices join for “calling.”   The sensitivity of the individual is offset by the cacophony and four-voice unison of “You’re only gonna hear what you want to hear” before Jim’s voice is once again left by itself.  While the speaker was trying to reach God in the first song, he seems to have found his master by the end of the last song, as the album concludes: “But the one that I like best, he sings inside my chest / I hear my master’s voice now / calling out.”

I like thinking of these songs as being weird, honest bookends to an album that otherwise barely touches on spiritual matters.  They are nice flourishes that throw a wrench in an album of enjoyable roots rock. 

Bob Vila, Dock Ellis, and Sonny Rollins walk into a bar…

My thoughts seem to be coming in bursts today—almost like bullet points.  The things that have grabbed my attention have been similarly focused (and topically scattered). Because I think it will be the most effective way for me to communicate right now, I intend to present this blog in a form that mirrors my thought process.  Here goes:

BOB VILA APPROVED!  

This is what I saw on a full-page ad in the copy of the Star Tribune in our break room this morning.  The ad, which I could hardly believe was an ENTIRE PAGE was for a space heater, and this was apparently the most crucial information: it’s got Bob Vila’s stamp.  While Mr. Vila’s recommendation is surely appreciated, couldn’t the company do more to connect with people in a way that meant more to them?  Say, something about how much money you’d save?   I’m sure this was all in the ad somewhere (after all, it was a full-page of newsprint text), but the big, bold font at the top only told me what Bob Vila thought about it.

Dock Ellis and the 1971 All-Star Game

I came across the most interesting facts while reading Dock Ellis’ obituary today.  (Note: Ellis didn’t die today…I just happened to read the NYT obit today, during a particularly slow, unproductive morning at work…).  First of all, did you know that Donald Hall is an Ellis biographer?  I had no idea.   Also, while most people are familiar with the famous LSD no-hitter, there are some other Dock Ellis gems in the annals of baseball.  My favorite is the 1971 All-Star game:

According to Ellis, he was told by the National League All-Star Manager, Sparky Anderson, that he wouldn’t be starting the game because the American League was starting Vida Blue, and the League didn’t want two African American pitchers facing each other in the All-Star matchup.  WHAT?!   You have to be kidding me! 

Turns out that Ellis was, in fact, kidding us all.  Sparky never made that comment, but because Dock Ellis alleged that the manager’s decision not to start him was motivated by race, he wound up getting the starting slot.   At the end of the day, it was easier for Sparky Anderson to just start Dock Ellis than try to deny that he had originally made a racially-motivated decision not to start him (even though he had never made the comment!).

Sonny Rollins vs. John Coltrane:

I was flipping through the music selection at the Minneapolis Central Library, and they have tons of Sonny Rollins CDs.  Tons of them!  But Coltrane appeared woefully underrepresented.  Upon checking the catalog, however, it appears there are 87 distinct titles filed under John Coltrane’s name and only 44 under Rollins’ name.  That means, contrary to my initial observation, that the library system owns nearly twice as much of Coltrane’s music. But while Trane’s discography is spread far and wide across the county-wide system, Sonny seems hunkered down in the 3^rd floor stacks.  

Missed shows; mixed feelings

I’m blogging from work again, so I’ll make this quick.

2009 may go down as the year that I had the opportunity to see two veterans of the legendary SST record label and missed my chance.  The first occasion was earlier this year, when the Meat Puppets played the 7^th St. Entry.  I think the show was on a Sunday or something, and I decided that I couldn’t hang out at the 7^th street, waiting til one o’clock or whenever the Kirkwood brothers would finally take the stage.  Looking back, I blew what may have been my only opportunity to hear those guys rip through “Backwater” (assuming they played it, that is). 

The most recent chance was a mainroom gig by Dinosaur, Jr.  At $20, I decided it was too pricy for a guy on my budget, and besides, it was a Wednesday night show.  Still, as I rode the bus home from class and “In a Jar” came on my mp3 player —  “I’ll be grazing by your window / Please come pat me on the head / I just want to find out what you’re nice to me for…” — and I kicked myself for not having tickets to that night’s show. They might actually play “In a Jar!”  They might play “Feel the Pain!”

I have flashbacks to July:  I’m thrashing around the living room while the “Feel the Pain” riff explodes from my stereo; I’m drunk on a weeknight and I knock over the ironing board; I return a crusty, beer-soaked copy of Ear Bleeding Country to the Hennepin County Library three weeks late; I get a weird look from my fiancé because I’m making tortured faces in the passenger seat of her car (because somehow I convinced her that it was a good idea to put Meat Puppets II in the CD player, and I’m showing [in my own weird way] how much I love those crazy sounds emanating from the speakers).

And so, as the Kirkwoods would say, “Some things will never change.”  I missed some of the loudest, feistiest bands that my CD collection has to offer.  I regret those decisions sometimes. Then again, if I want to follow the logic of the Kirkwoods, I would recognize that either “you just stand there looking backwards,” or you learn to live with your decisions and stop second-guessing yourself.