95 More Songs of Summer - Bob Seger, "Against the Wind"

Back in the days when Rolling Stone Magazine actually published negative music reviews, Dave Marsh - a longtime fan - just savaged "Against the Wind," calling it "heartless and mediocre," and writing that "all that Seger risks here is his credibility, and that accidentally."

I agree that the production is a little too slick for my taste, but I still like the album - songs like "You'll Accompany Me," Betty Lou's Gettin' Out Tonight" still sound fresh today, as does this tune, the title track.  Marsh's review didn't stop the album from becoming a monster hit, and I'd venture a guess that it was his biggest seller.  It certainly dominated the airwaves during the summer of 1980.

Bob Seger, "Against the Wind," from the summer of 1980

95 More Songs of Summer - "San Francisco"

This will fall into one of two categories - "triumphant return," or "dumbest idea I ever had."

But...ladies and gentlemen...it's 95 MORE SONGS OF SUMMER!

We kick off today with a really medicore performance of a song that I thought was really cool when I was 7 years old and can appreciate today for its naivete (at the same time I'm chuckling at how goofy it is).  It takes a while in this clip for the band to figure out what tempo Scott McKenzie wants to sing the song, but after a while it does kick in to a reasonably entertaining groove.

Now mind you, "San Francisco" will never go down as one of the great songs in history - there's a reason you don't hear it played at Giants and 49ers games - but it is an artifact of the times, no doubt.

"San Francisco," Scott McKenzie, from the early summer of 1967. 

Instant Classic

But do you know what this feels like? To see one of your idols succeed at the expense of another? To see a team that deserved it so much lose to another that deserved it just as much? To see both teams go from miles ahead to inches ahead to, ultimately, just enough to cross the finish line? Somebody has to lose. And, somehow, that is why we all win.

- Patricia Lee, Grantland

And that pretty much says it all.  There is nothing more exciting than watching two elite teams play at the top of their respective games for a championship trophy.  And even though each individual game was not a classic, the series definitely was.  It's probably too early to opine on where the 2013 NBA Finals stands in the pantheon of great NBA series (the 2002 Western Conference Finals between the Kings and Lakers is tough to top for sheer drama), but there's no question it was one of the best of my lifetime.  Off the top of my head, the only one that comes to mind as a competitor for the crown is the 1984 classic between the Lakers and the Celtics.

What the 1984 and 2013 series have in common is that they both felt like a classic heavyweight fight - two great champions beating the living daylights out of each other in the center of the ring, with neither being able to sustain momentum for very long.  I've watched the Thrilla in Manila (the third Ali-Frazier fight, for those not steeped in sports history) many times on YouTube, and there is a classic moment early in that fight that tells the entire story.  Ali has come out blazing, clearly thinking that he needs to get this thing over with and get the hell out of Dodge before the oppressive heat and Mr. Frazier expose the fact that most of his skills have eroded to the point where he is barely recognizable from the unbeatable legend sent into exile 8 years earlier.  And he is absolutely pummeling Frazier, and Frazier is doing nothing in return.  Until a moment at the end of the third round, when Frazier uncorks one of his patented left hooks right onto Ali's chin, making Ali step back with the pain, and suddenly you see a look on Ali's face that says "oh my God, this guy isn't going away."  And thus ensued what remains to this day perhaps the most savage beating that two boxers have ever inflicted on each other - in all likelihood, changing the trajectories of both lives.

The players on Miami and San Antonio probably feel the same way this morning.  After that fight in Manila, Ali was heard to say that the experience was "the closest thing to dying that I can think of."  One can only imagine what must be going through the heads of Tim Duncan - who has made that little hook shot a million times, except last night it wouldn't go down in the desperate closing moments - and Manu Ginobli, whose flashes of typical brilliance were, in the end, washed away by horrible shots and horrible lapses in judgment that led to turnovers.  And yet, there was Ginobli near the end, still shooting when others like Danny Green appeared to be scared to even touch the ball, dropping a rainbow three that was like a spear through the hearts of the Miami fans.

One thing I can say with certainty is that those last two games were absolute classics.  In past years, I've rooted against the Spurs in the Finals, for no particular reason except that they were the prohibitive favorite.  I've never rooted for this version of the Heat, although I've come to terms with what Lebron did and have the utmost respect for him, as well as guys like Shane Battier, Eric Spoelstra, and Pat Riley.  So it's not as if I had any real stake in the outcome.  But watching those two games was excruciating in the same way that watching the Giants in the World Series and the 49ers in the Super Bowl was excruciating.  There was never time to even take a breath - those two games were never over, not until the final buzzer sounded.  Body blow followed by body blow - two of the greatest players of my lifetime, along with at least four other future Hall of Famers, spiced up with a dash of young studs like Kawhi Leonard (talk about poise) and old geezers like Battier, somehow pulling a performance for the ages out of his hat when, unless I missed something, he hadn't contributed a single thing to the Heat effort in Games 1 through 6.

The two best teams.  The two best coaches.  Two of the greatest players.  Wonderful competition.  It really doesn't get much better than that.  And if you asked them today, they'd probably be open to making it a Best of 11...or 13.  The only thing that would stop them in the end would be their bodies.

Random stuff...you know, running through my head

So Google Reader is going away on July 1.  It's aggravating, but for me it may be a blessing in disguise.  I logged on today, and there were 685 new blog posts just screaming out at me to read them.  216 from Ann Althouse alone.  Sure, there are probably some real gems in there, but in the end how much time does one really have to read blog posts?  So moving forward, I'll be severely reducing the number of blogs I read - whatever platform I end up reading them on.

This is shaping up to be an awesome year for music, at least the music that I like.  In some recent years, I've had trouble coming up with a 10-best list because I couldn't think of that many albums worthy of the designation.  But this year, we've already had:

- Patty Griffin's "American Kid"
- Vampire Weekend's "Modern Vampires of the City"
- John Fogerty's "Wrote a Song For Everyone"
- The National's "Trouble Will Find Me"
- Jake Bugg's debut

John Fogerty...simply impossible to dislike his new album, methinks.

Not to mention the new efforts from Pistol Annies, Kacey Musgrave, Deerhunter's "Monomania," plus Emmylou & Rodney, Phoenix, Dawes, and Yo La Tengo, which I already wrote about.  Good stuff.  And Arcade Fire yet to come this year.

I really enjoyed "Looper," and thought it was the best time-travel movie I've ever seen.  It all worked for me.

Of the summer blockbusters, we've already seen "Iron Man 3" (almost as good as the original, much better than "2"), "The Hangover 3" (I admit I enjoyed it, even though I agree that it probably has no reason to exist), and "Star Trek Into Darkness" (already on record as saying that I think what JJ Abrams has done with the canon is absolutely brilliant, and I loved most of what they did here).

Being extended to 7 games by the Indiana Pacers doesn't do much for the Heat's argument to be considered in the debate for best team ever.

Bill Simmons' "The Basketball Book" is nearly 700 pages of absolute nirvana for a sports fan.  My favorite quote comes from Bill Walton, in explaining what it takes to reach the elite level in the game: "Can you make the choice that your happiness comes from someone else's success?"

Worked my way through "the three Cs" - Connelly, Crais, and Coben.  Of the three, Crais' "Suspect" is the best, and I promise to write more about it at some point.  It's his best work since his masterpiece, "LA Requiem."   And since that was only one of the greatest detective novels ever written, that is saying something.

Admit it - right now, Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" is stuck in your head, and you can't get it out.

Happy 35th birthday, "Darkness on the Edge of Town."

I could watch "Lost In Translation" every week for the rest of my life, and I don't think I'd get tired of it.

"Chronicle" was really good - every time I see a movie like that, I think "watch that director - going to be a big deal."

More to come...eventually.

Oh well

So much for my repeatedly thwarted plans to stay connected to the blog.

But in case anyone was wondering how I've been spending my time, I did get to spend some great time last week in Long Beach to celebrate Son #1's college graduation.

Here's what it looked like in person.

Ray Manzarek

This isn't intended to discount his work with the Doors, which in many (if not most) instances is remarkable, but just to point out that he also made a significant contribution (as producer for several albums, and playing organ in a most memorable way) to the success of X, one of the punk era's greatest bands.

I ranked "Los Angeles" as my 48th favorite album of all time, and in that review wrote this about his work on "The World's A Mess, It's In My Kiss":

And then you reach the album’s last song, and my favorite, “The World’s A Mess, It’s In My Kiss.” This is my favorite song on the album, it’s my favorite song by the band, and it’s one of my favorite songs, period. It contains one of my favorite moments of any song that I’ve heard – the organ solo by Ray Manzarek (of The Doors, who produced the album). At the point the solo begins, John and Exene are trading lines, and then suddenly, the organ takes center stage. All you hear is Zoom’s guitar, Doe’s bass, Bonebrake’s drums, and Manzarek’s incredible organ.

For me, it’s a supremely exciting moment. I’ve heard it hundreds if not thousands of times, and the feeling is always the same. I don’t want it to end, and I feel more alive while it is playing. At that moment, the lyrics and the themes don’t matter. All that is left is the music.

If you haven't heard it, you owe it to yourself to check it out.

American Triumph

If justice were to prevail, Patty Griffin would be a household name in the world of music, and her 2002 masterpiece "1000 Kisses" would be discussed in the same breath as American classics like "The Band," "Blood on the Tracks," and "Nebraska."  In the world in which we live in, as Paul McCartney might say, the story is a little different.  I've no idea how many records she sells - I could be wrong, but I doubt her albums go platinum -  but over the last decade Griffin has comfortably occupied and even solidified a notable position in the Americana genre, admired and even loved by devoted fans but residing just outside the periphery of mainstream stardom.  At this juncture, she's probably better known by many as being the current companion of Robert Plant, with whom she has toured and recorded, filling quite adequately the niche established by Alison Krauss on her album with Plant, "Raising Sand."

Since "1000 Kisses," Griffin has not been terribly prolific - two studio LPs that were good but didn't come close to approaching the greatness of her 2002 triumph, a live recording, and "Downtown Church," a compelling but unusual and somewhat inconsistent concept album incorporating old folk and gospel songs with just a couple of Griffin originals.

That all changes with "American Kid."  It is without question a great album; just how great it is will be determined with time.  It's too early to tell, but I suspect there will come a day when Griffin fans engage in strong but good-natured arguments over whether "1000 Kisses" or "American Kid" is the artist's best - the way that devoted fans to this day discuss if not argue about the relative merits of "Rubber Soul" and "Revolver."

The songs on the new album were inspired by Griffin's father, but they tell a universal story about a man - a kid, really - who goes to war and comes home profoundly changed by the experience.  It is a testament to the album's strength that many of these songs could be talking about veterans in any American war - from the Civil War on down to the recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The sites may have changed, but the stories remain the same.  Consider these lyrics, from "Not a Bad Man":

I bet you see a stranger
When you look at me
When I look in the mirror
I know that's what I see
I just want a little sleep now
Sleep as silent as the snow
But I am not a bad man
I just wanted you to know

Or these, from "Faithful Son":

Oh, my God
I cry in fear
Afraid you have forgotten me here
Afraid you have forgotten one
Your quiet, dull and faithful son
Who's seen the loneliest of days
And fought the dirtiest of ways
With the main inside
Who would have run away
From the promises I made

The musical approach of the album hearkens back to Griffin's 2002 triumph - for the most part, guitar, bass and percussion, with the occasional banjo or mandolin thrown in for good measure.  And there is also a chilling beauty in many of the songs, particularly two ("Ohio," and "Highway Song") on which the aforementioned Plant sings harmony vocals.

It was too much to ask of Griffin that she replicate the success of "1000 Kisses" on every one of her recordings.  That she has been able to do it at all is reason for jubilation and celebration.  

The Vinyl Collection: Rockpile

I think I may have found a way to stay connected to the blog during this period at work where I'm writing thousands of words about the state budget and the governor's proposed local control funding formula for public schools.

Recipe - take an album from the vinyl collection, attache a picture, and write as many words as I'm in the mood and/or have time for.  No albums that would be considered an all-time classic, and nothing that I also own on CD.  So now that we have those ground rules set...

"Seconds of Pleasure" was the first (and only) album released under the moniker of Rockpile, although the band - Guitarists Dave Edumunds and Billy Bremner, bassist Nick Lowe, and drummer Terry Williams - had performed on notable albums released by Edmunds and Lowe.

Even though they were pub-rock veterans, both Lowe and Edmunds got thrown into that amorphous, late 70s category that meant everything and nothing - "new wave" - probably because Lowe produced the early Elvis Costello albums and Edmunds covered a Costello song (although so did Linda Ronstadt, and it didn't do much for her artistic integrity).

Lowe and Edmunds each released strong albums in both '78 and '79, and then "Seconds of Pleasure" came out in the fall of 1980.  It was about as far from a new wave album as one could possibly imagine - if anything, it sounded like a recording by a band that had been frozen in the Arctic for 25 years.  It's hard-rocking, and it's fun, and ultimately as lightweight and disposable as they come.  But I really liked it at the time, and still pull it out every now and then when I'm in the mood for some loud and fast fifties-influenced sounds.

Sacramento Horror Story

I have no idea whether David Stern's mother is still alive, but I have a feeling he spent at least part of his Mother's Day wondering what he ever did in his life to deserve the Maloof family.  I get that what Stern is doing in his efforts to keep the Kings in Sacramento is probably against most (if not all) of the precepts of business, but in my book he deserves credit for recognizing that franchise hopping destroys the soul of professional sports.  And yeah, maybe Sacramento didn't deserve its team either.  I don't remember shedding a lot of tears on behalf of Kansas City fans at the time the Kings moved out here. 

I have no idea what will happen in the next few days, and there's a small part of me that just wishes they'd leave and let Sacramento figure out some other way to redevelop the shameful stretch of K Street that would be transformed if a new arena was built downtown.  But damn it, if they do end up leaving, I hope every sports site and pundit across the country recognizes that what is happening here is wrong.  They won't write books about the Kings because we're not Brooklyn and have never had a group of players to match the boys of summer (but then again, no one ever has), but if we do lose the Kings it will be just as much an injustice as when the O'Malleys stabbed Brooklyn in the back and took their team to Chavez Ravine (not right away, but close enough).

And at least the O'Malley family knew how to run a business, turning the L.A. Dodgers into one of the most successful and lucrative franchises in the history of professional sports (strong enough to survive Frank McCourt, baseball's version of the Maloofs).  But the Maloofs?  Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but based on the evidence at hand I'd have to say that the Maloof boys (and they are boys, never having matured into men) have run every golden egg they've ever been handed straight into the ground.  I'm not sure if "evil" fits, because to call someone evil makes an assumption that the subject at hand at least has some sense of what he/she is doing.  These guys are like the worst frat guys you could possibly imagine.  Living on mommy and daddy's money, partying like it was going out of style, flaunting their wealth in the most distasteful ways one could imagine.

What did Sacramento do to deserve this?  Oh, we supported a horrible team for years, leading the league in consecutive sellouts during an era when approaching .500 was considered a successful season.  The entire world (well, maybe not L.A.) fell in love with the great Kings team of the early aughts, and then the Maloofs embarked on their little family project to see how just how successful an enterprise they could turn into garbage.  And now that they've gouged the town and the fans for everything they had, they can't resist taking one last jab at the city, because to accept the bid would mean that...hey, get this...they might actually have to go out and work for a living.  You know, like the rest of us do, except we're not paid millions and we're actually held accountable for our performance.

If the NBA Board of Governors or whatever highfalutin name the billionaires who run the league call themselves agree to ship the team off to Seattle, then it will be a dark day for professional sports.  Because the almighty dollar is what it's all about, I'm prepared for the worst.  But I can't help but think that there's an owner or two out there thinking to themselves right now, "I get what these guys are trying to do, but let's face it - they're just a bunch of dicks, and we don't owe them a damn thing."

American Horror Story

Gus Van Sant's "Elephant" is a terrifying film made even more so by the fact that there are large swaths of the film where nothing much happens.  You watch high school students during the course of their day at and around school, the students being followed in long-tracking shots reminiscent of the legendary Big Wheel scenes in "The Shining."  You know what is coming, so you watch these scenes with an increasing sense of dread, wondering what lies behind every corner and every door.  But as they unfold, they seem entirely ordinary.

Which is exactly the point.  Van Sant isn't out to make some bold statement about what causes mass shootings and murder, although there are shots where bullying takes place, where violent video games are played, and where weapons of destruction are casually bought on the Internet.  What he's saying is that this could happen anywhere - or anytime.  And that's why the film is so terrifying.  There is no sense to what happens - no one is picked out for anything in particular that they did.  It's nothing more than a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time - in particular, the large rooms like the library and the cafeteria, where there is no place to hide.  The sense of disorientation is enhanced when Van Sant, on more than one occasion, rewinds the timeline of the narrative and shows us a different perspective of the same event.

None of the kids in the movie were professional actors, and they are entirely believable.  They go about their days, and they react to the horror that envelops them in entirely realistic ways.  For the most part, they freeze where they are, reacting a sense of panic and disbelief so strong that it traps them like cement.  Yet even those demonstrating a presence of mind are not safe.  It's entirely random.

"Elephant" is not a fun movie to watch by any stretch of the imagination, but it is a very effective one.

History

It was always going to happen, eventually.  But hearing the news for the first time this morning, it felt as it should - like a milestone, a moment in history that you would always remember.

 

And even though I'm a bit more fanatic about sports than your average fan, I have to admit that I had no idea who Jason Collins was - my attention to the NBA has dropped in recent years with the slow descent of the Sacramento Kings, and it's only during playoff time that my antennae are raised to any relevant degree.  And it's not as if the Washington Wizards have made many recent postseason appearances.

 

Nothing I can say will equal the brevity and the poignancy of the statement by Jason's twin brother Jarron, so I'll just reprint it here:

 

"Today, Jason has taken a huge weight off his shoulders. And I've never been more proud of him."

He Stopped Loving Her Today

 

R.I.P., George Jones.

Roger Ebert

Roger Ebert wasn't the first film critic I read on a regular basis - that distinction goes to Andrew Sarris in The Village Voice - and surely like many others, I watched him on TV for a long time before I began to read his work with any regularity.  But all these years later, there's little doubt that I've read more of his reviews than any other critic, in any other field.  Before the advent of the Internet, I'd buy the new edition of his Home Movie Companion every other year or so, because in order to keep the volume at a manageable size, they'd have to drop reviews - and sometimes, those were of films like "Red Sonja," which never threatened to make a mark in the annals of film history but which inspired what I still think was some of Ebert's best writing.  To wit...an excerpt from his review of "Red Sonja."

"First, she [Sonja] must learn the ways of the sword from the Grandmaster, a character who looks like a cross between Fu Manchu and Clara Peller (the "Where's the beef?" lady). He tells her, "To be a great swordsman...you need a great sword." She nods intently, and selects one from the stock he has on hand. Then she rides out of the ampitheater by passing beneath a statue of the Buddha, who was squatting in such a familiar position that I instinctively knew why he looked so contented. "

"Along the way, Red Sonja meets Kalidor, a muscular swordsman with a great sword. They encounter a little emperor and his valet, who does not carry a great sword but does have several small knives..."

"Kalidor loves Red Sonja. He wants to kiss her. She rebuffs his advance, and says, "I have vowed to love no man who cannot defeat me in battle." This is a tough one for Kalidor. He knits his brow and puzzles it out. "But...if I defeat you," he says, "then you will be dead...and then how will I love you?" His logic is irrefutable, but they fight anyway."

"Red Sonja is one of the ranking goofy movies of our time...The exact time frame of the story is a little hard to figure out, but using the evidence on the screen, I have been able to narrow it down to the epoch between the rise of Buddhism and the year brass brassieres went out of style."

 It also must be worth something that I can remember quite clearly the first time I watched a complete episode of "Sneak Previews."  I don't remember the exact date, but it had to be sometime around the Fall of 1981, because the two "headline" films being reviewed that night were "Prince of the City" and "The French Lieutenant's Woman."  If I recall correctly, both films got two thumbs up, although they seemed to prefer the latter - meaning that even legends can get one wrong every now and then.

But in criticism, there is no "right" and "wrong."  Ebert was quoted as saying that it was his job to explain how he felt about a movie, and not how the viewer should feel about it.  And that's exactly right.

R.I.P.

Still Living

This is the longest I've gone between posts since I started this blog, and it's not for lack of anything to write about (in fact, I'm keeping a list, just in case I forget about something).  To say it's been busy at work would be an understatement, and as has been my wont for most of my adult life, I've made things more difficult than they probably needed to be with self-inflicted stress.  But overall things are good, I'm still kicking, and at one point or another I'll be able to engage more often and dispense the particular (if not peculiar) brand of wisdom that regular readers have always found here.

Not Fade Away: Yo La Tengo

According to Wikipedia, Yo La Tengo formed in 1984, and has been recording albums under that moniker with the same personnel since 1992.  Nearly all of their albums have been critical hits, but for some reason the band has never  penetrated my consciousness with any regularity.  The first album of theirs that I bought was 1990's "Fakebook," an acoustic outing that turned out to be almost entirely different than the rest of their catalog.  I've bought one or two others, including their anthology, but for the most part they've been a band that I respected more than actively enjoyed.

I'm not even sure what possessed me to buy "Fade," their new album released in January.  It may have been some enthusiastic tweets from Michele Catalano, or the A- that Christgau awarded the album on his Expert Witness blog.  But whatever the reason, I'm glad that I did because "Fade" is clearly the record to beat for 2013 album of the year, a consistently strong work that strikes a perfect tone from its very first chords and maintains that tone throughout, when the album fades out behind a "joyful cacophony" of guitar, bass, drums, strings, and horns.

It's a very modest album, reminiscent of Jack White's "Blunderbuss" in that guitarist Ira Kaplan never feels the need to show off his chops in a "listen at me, I'm an underappreciated guitar genius!" kind of way.  The music is beautiful, an atmospheric mix that bands like Grizzly Bear (and even, forgive me, Bon Iver) could only hope to approach on their best days.  The highlights for me are "Ohm," the album's loudest tune that evokes a bit of Arcade Fire, "I'll Be Around" (not the Spinners classic hit, although there is a great video on YouTube of the band covering that song), "Before We Run," the closing song, and most of all "The Point of It," which simply is a gorgeous song.

If there is a better album released this year, that would be a great thing, because the bar set by "Fade" is so high that it would need to be really good.

Sophie

As annoying as pets can be - especially cats who insist on being fed and watered at the first hints of sunrise - it's not until something unexpected happens to one that you realize what an integral part of the family they are.

We've had Sophie for 18 years now, which means that Son #1 (now 22) was 4, and Son #2 (now 18) was just a baby.  It's not likely that either one of them remembers a time when we did not have her.  She's slowed down over the years, to the point where she sometimes needs help jumping up onto the bed or the couch, and to the point where the days of doing things like jumping up on the counter are long gone.  She's had some health issues in recent months, and even though those issues didn't approach the level of life-threatening, we had begun to mentally prepare ourselves for the inevitable.

When we got home the night of the Academy Awards, she somehow slipped out the front door when we were taking the garbage out, and we didn't notice she was gone until we woke up the next morning.  By then she was long gone, or at least gone.  To say that we felt horrible was an understatement - even though she was old, this was certainly not the way we wanted to lose her, and since she rarely went outside for more than a few minutes at a time (in our backyard, usually to nosh on a little grass), our confidence in her ability to survive in the big bad outdoors was not very high.

Fortunately, the story has a happy ending.  After 9 days of putting up signs, visiting vets, walking, running and driving all over the neighborhood, she was found near our local supermarket, and dropped off at the local vet, where Debra was able to pick her up.  I was on a work trip out of town, and was frankly amazed at the outcome - it just didn't seem possible after all that time that we'd see her again.

So now she is back, a little lighter and a little more tired than normal (although with a cat, can you really tell?).  The picture above was taken on Saturday morning, in her favorite place - a place where she is spending a lot of time right now.  We know that she won't last forever, but we're glad to have her back home where she can go back to being her old, annoying normal self.  In other words, part of the family.