Monday, October 17, 2005

Fathers and Sons

Muted electronic beeping, shadows, and the sound of squirting jelly. I wonder if it’s cold as I watch it spread upon the smooth, rounding surface of Tina’s belly. The space of the propped open door, a golden rectangle of light. Concentrated. Glowing. First Born.
…but, silence.
“Dual-lobed placenta.” Nurse says. “See here where the cord is inserted between these two masses? Umbilical cords are typically inserted into a single placental mass.”
“What does that mean for the baby?” A whisper from my wife.
“A dual-lobed insertion sometimes means a dangerous delivery. Occasionally, the cord can detach prematurely and cut off the oxygen to the baby and cause hemorrhaging within the mother… but I am sure everything will be fine. We’ll just need to watch it.”
I watch the ultrasound screen. I see the lines that mean cord, placenta, blood flow—they ungulate and fold into each other: A river at its source, a tree truck; its branches.
My eyes turn back toward Tina’s protrusion, sticky and slick. For a moment I am Nostrodomis, a prophet, a soothsayer. I see shades of a 9-monthed future: Tina, legs splayed, blue, her eyes silently screaming: Lights, Doctor, Nurse, Blood, Chaos, but no child...
Suddenly back at Ultrasound my own eyes focus again on the fuzzy, grey screen. But now I see spine, eye socket, leg, toes and then… penis.
“Do you want to know the sex?’ Nurse says.
“It’s a boy,” I say.
***
My father is a singer of made up songs. I learned to sing my address and phone number before I could read. If I happened to stray, I knew my song “285 South 400 East!” It was sure to lead me home. Even then I knew the songs were silly—bits and pieces of real melodies, but twisted to serve a practical purpose. Like the notes of a little boy’s address or an harmonic offering of affection directed towards my mother. He sang me through Big Wheel park rides and puddle splashes, surprised and warmed with metaphor when I show him my smiling reflection in a dirty, stagnant, pool of melted snow.
Later, he disciplines, but hesitantly. I am Eldest. I remember a conversation he has with my mom about whether or not to use a belt for a grievous act of child villainy that I had committed. He doesn’t.
Later still, in a library adjacent to my school and his office I remember his face, a combination of consternation and fear as he searches the isles to break up my first kiss. One of his students had tipped him off… too late.
My dad paints. But his lessons were broad stroked—impressionistic. My dad writes. But publishing was never the motivation for our relationship. My dad teaches religion professionally, but he rarely, if ever, preached to me when I lived in his house.
My dad hates to camp. He can barely set up the damn tent. But we went anyway. At the annual “Fathers and Sons” church campout, I was humiliated that long after the neighboring family’s tents seemed appear magically like so many morning mushrooms, we would still be struggling and hammering, staking and yanking the mildewed, twenty year old tent that my dad said “worked great” on his honeymoon. The next morning we would leave right after breakfast.
One teenage evening, much later, I am up late messing around with the cat. Amidst the tormenting, the mutt-cat scratches me deeply across the wrist. I stumble out into the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom, pissed, and began cleaning the bleeding wound. My dad comes in to see what the matter is. Our eyes make contact in the mirror, and I pass out. I fall backwards toward the shower curtain. My back hits the edge of the tub just above my hips and I accomplish a handless backbend.
My fainting immediately transports me to a dreamscape. The dreams are un-stoppable, and full story lines play themselves out. There is a nauseating tug from the other dimension, but I resist. I hear the words. They drift into my gathering consciousness like disconnected memories or precognitions and the words are neither present, past or future. They are spoken tenderly by a distant voice that sounds like my own.
“Sweet... sweetheart! Sweetheart! Wake up!” I force my eyelids open and find myself in a place I hadn’t been in years: my father’s arms. In a moment it is weird and I wiggle out, “I’m alright, Dad. Why does my back hurt?”
***
Seth is almost two. He too sings songs and gives hugs and bold, slobbery kisses on the mouth. These kisses seem a symbol of his smallness. I will know the very moment when he is my little-boy-no-longer because of an announcement of his emancipation from them. Without shame, I call him “sweetheart.”
He sits this morning watching Dora, Boots and Blue. Weeks ago we discovered that he knew every single one of his letters, and he can count to the teens even though he skips 4 and 5. We hadn’t spent much time going over that stuff with him-- thinking it was too soon to start. It must be the T.V.
He looks at me, beautiful, and smiles. Earlier in the year, he bumped his face on the tile at grandma and grandpa’s house and chipped a little corner off of one of his front teeth. At first I was disappointed, but know now that it just adds to his charm.
“Hi daddy,” he says and then does his favorite new thing: He lifts his little hand and concentrating, rotates it from side to side, waving. He watches his own hand, as if to make sure that he is doing it right. Satisfied, he looks up at me with his nose squished, grinning:
“Wun, two, fee, six! Seben! Et-nine-ten, eeyeben, telve fiteen fiteen fiteen!” He says, and runs up to me throwing his arms around me.
“Oh, daddy. Lub.”
“I love you too, Seffers,” I say.
***
In a digital snapshot that sits in megabytes on my hard drive, a doctor’s hand is gloved and bloody. She lifts up the opaque, purple, shell-casing: a chrysalis. Two distinct lobes can be seen, while a crying, pink baby is nuzzled, sucking, in the background.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

What is there to like about baseball?

What is there to like about baseball?

My wife is the sports fan in our house. In fact, when ever sports becomes the topic of conversation, I tell my friends and new acquaintances that I am barely a man when it comes to sports. I played little league for a year and a half, got cut from the 8th grade basketball team, and swam in high school because there weren’t enough guys on the team. So, watching or following any sport is something that I only do in the case of a really exciting basketball championship, or in an attempt to “do something that my wife wants to do for a change,” or if I happen to be the only other barely-a-man in a room full of full-fledged men.
I suppose that I could see the general benefits in being a baseball fan. Baseball caps are fashionable—I own and like to wear at least two of them. There are plenty of statistics and history to memorize and regurgitate. Baseball cards can sometimes be fairly valuable, especially if your mom doesn’t sell your collection at a garage sale.

What is there to like about baseball?

Pretty much nothing. More fun has been had staring at a wall. But, seriously—what is the draw? The first major problem is the time commitment required by the average fan. The game itself lasts 3 1/2 hours, two more than absolutely necessary. Why have nine innings when five would suffice? At three hours a game, even if you only have 3 or 4 teams you follow at two or three games a week per team we are talking like 40 hours a week! I am sorry, but I have to work.
And also, where is the action? Every two hours or so somebody hits a ball that actually gets them on base, and even that is only marginally exciting, because nine times out of ten the inning will end before that player gets to advance, let alone score. Sure, there is the occasional homerun, but I tend to feel more contempt for these players than admiration. The Barry Bonds and Mark McGuires of the world seem to have some kind of unfair advantage over the rest of baseballdom. Who do they think they are hitting the ball so far when most everybody else mostly just swings.
Plus, baseball has to be the only sport when the defense pretty much just has to stand there and do nothing else and they are still effective. I know what its like. I have stood in right field for inning after inning with no ball coming in a direction even remotely close to where I am. I still got the same high fives and “way to look alive” comments on the way back to the dugout. So, if looking alive is the requisite for baseball defense, sign me up and pay me a million dollars: I am alive.
And grief!, the poor pitcher and catcher. I’ve seen the footage of that pitcher who gave himself a compound fracture by the simple act of throwing a ball over and over and over again at a target 15 yards ahead. Who’s idea was it to have one or two guys be the pitchers for a whole team? Why not rotate the players through and give each of them a shot at a strike out. At least that would give the guy in right field a chance to look a little more alive. And the catcher! Can you imagine squatting like that for any longer than two minutes, let alone the eternity that makes up a half an inning? I have only two words for you: knee surgery! Ok, one more—hemorrhoids! Poor, tortured souls (and bums).

What is there to like about baseball?

After a couple of attempts at writing an answer to this question, I have determined that there is only one real reason to like baseball, and the circumstance surrounding that reason can not be accomplished at home with a baseball game on TV. Finding a reason to like baseball can only be accomplished when you have been able to secure for yourself tickets to a real major league baseball game. The tickets have to be for seats in the lower deck of the stadium, unless you like nosebleeds because that’s what you’re to get one sitting in the upper deck of some of the country’s arenas.
Once you have got to the stadium and have found your seat, and stood and sang the National Anthem the reason for liking the sport will have already started to form in your mind. The first pitch will be thrown out by a war veteran or civic servant or movie star and then the game will begin. You will eat peanuts and licorice and drink soda or maybe beer. If you are lucky the stadium you are at will have a great snack section with two foot hotdogs or garlic fries or something else tasty and indulgent.
The first hit will be a foul near your section and you will see the struggle and shuffle of the fans to retrieve the ball. You will start hoping that the next foul ball comes to you. You will cheer (root, root, root) for the home team when they score or keep the other team from scoring. You will boo good naturedly when the other team scores. You will get worked up over a bad call and you might swear loudly at the umpire who made the call.
Yes, at a baseball game you become part of a tradition. You feel a little more American. You are a direct participating part of something that thousands, maybe millions of others are experiencing with you simultaneously. And that is really the only thing to like about baseball.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Mr. Corgan and Mr. Smith

When I was about 14 years old, in the summer before my Freshman year in high school, my buddy Andy and I did what most young teenagers do who are searching for coolness and identity—we would sneak periodically into Andy’s older brother Joe’s room in hopes that some of his esteemed coolness would seep into us. Joe had just graduated from high school and the first thing that you noticed when you went into his room was that he was a fan of what was then called “new wave” music. There were posters from floor to ceiling. These posters featured all of the late 80’s prominent gloom rockers. Depeche Mode and The Smith’s Morrissey were featured prominently as were other, more minor characters. One group, however, outshined them all—both by total number of posters and by the distinct look of the individuals presented within. I speak, of course, of Robert Smith and his band the Cure. Here was a guy who managed, by appearance alone, to be both terrifying and beautiful. His music was also exactly that.

So we braved the tapes. The first songs I remember listening to by the Cure were those off their very first album (“why not start at the beginning?” we thought). “Boys Don’t Cry” was (though we hadn’t the experience then to describe it this way) was the epitome of post punk. In it you could hear elements of the Ramones and the Clash but it had something else too. I remember loving the title single off the album, and being perplexed by the song “Killing an Arab.” After listening for most of the summer, and becoming familiar with their library (especially their most current release at the time “Wish”) what ended up sealing the deal for me in becoming the mega-fan that I have become was the guitar. That same summer I took a special interest in learning how to play. The Cure’s songs were just simple enough that with some effort I could learn how to play almost any song by them that I wanted. This coupled with the formation of my first band “Only Anything” which consisted at the time of 3 other hard core Cure fans became the bedrock for what has now become a 10+ year following. They are my very favorite band, the one rock group that I would choose if forced to listen to only one band for the rest of my life on that proverbial deserted island. This might also have to do with the fact that their arsenal of tunes has to be in the 200s.

Anyway, a few years later I had become a poster child for early 90s rock and roll. By first hand experience I was a certified expert in what for others like me was the natural flow of music progression. Listening to the Cure made listening to other dynamically gloomy music something that wasn’t only natural but inevitable. Among other bands that I began gobbling was a Chicago based group called the Smashing Pumpkins. Almost immediately, Billy Corgan’s foursome became #2 on my list. Just like the Cure, the Pumpkins appealed to me on a variety of levels and languages. Like Smith, Corgan wrote songs that seemed to speak to that adolescent spirit that was in bloom within me. Both the Cure and the Pumpkins seemed to get the formula right, but did so without seeming to be trying to do so like other bands of the time that I loved to hate like Candlebox and Dishwalla. My first concert was a Lollapalooza stop in Phoenix. The Pumpkins and the Beastie Boys headlined—I seemed to be the only one there who gone to see the Pumpkins exclusively. Billy’s guitar playing blew me away and I had a new idol.

So, Siamese Dream literally became a soundtrack to my life. It introduced me to heavy music, and taught me how that dynamic could be moving without seeming overwrought like other metal bands seemed to me. When Mellon Collie came out it was like a gift of 26 more songs written just for me about my life. That same year The Cure released Wild Mood Swings, an album who’s songs my wife and I think back on as the songs of our courtship and early love.
So that was a long introduction to my intent on writing this little piece about my two favorite bands of all time. The real reason I wanted to write is that now, ten years later, the Cure is still going strong and the Pumpkins have broken up. Recently, Billy Corgan announced his intentions to reform his band. He said that he wants his songs back as if they have somehow, mysteriously left him behind. This announcement has been met with speculation and disbelief as in the last 5 years or so, he has severely alienated his former band mates, citing James Iha as the reason that the Pumpkins broke up in the first place and pegging D’Arcy as a raving addict. So what is Robert’s secret to success? Why has his band been around for almost 30 years and the Pumpkins broke up to the dismay of their leader after only 12?

Fans might say that it is because Billy is such a head case, but I would submit that Robert does and says things that are just as cold. Just a few months ago, without warning he fired two 12+ year members of his band (Roger O’Donnell and Perry Bamonte). According to their web sites, Roger and Perry still have no idea why Robert pushed them out.

I think that Robert realizes something that Billy might not. Robert Smith realizes that he is the Cure. It doesn’t matter who else is in the band with him as long as they can play or be taught to play the band’s catalog. Its Robert’s unique voice and guitar playing that make the Cure what they are. It could be argued that Simon Gallup, the bands bassist is also necessary to the sound—and I will give you that, but also say that he has been the only constant member of the band besides Robert for most of the band’s long history. In much the same way the Pumpkin’s drummer, Jimmy Chamberlin, is a necessary requisite for that classic Pumpkin sound. He too has been the only constant member of the band and he and Billy continue to be chummy and amicable.

I think Billy claims nobility saying that the Smashing Pumpkins can only be Billy, James, D’Arcy and Jimmy, but he has broken his own rule on numerous occasions replacing the drummer or bassist when breakdowns and addictions forced him to. So why not just reform the band with different members? The fans will miss the old members—I for one love James Iha—but we will embrace the replacements just as we have with the Cure. All we really want to hear is Geek U.S.A and Soma played live again.
So I can’t help but wonder what will happen here. With the less-than-successful release of his first solo album, Billy doesn’t seem to be creating any buzz or longing for his future plans with the general public. It is just me and the good, loyal Pumpkin fan base that will continue waiting and wondering about the return of Captain Zero.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

Why Folds Still Gets Five Stars

Entry # 2

If you are a Ben Folds fan then you know what I am talking about when I say that the man can do no wrong. On his latest release Songs for Silverman, Ben once again proves that success as an artist cannot be measured merely according to the parameters and terms of a critical or commercial agenda. Silverman is yet another example of why he doesn’t nor will he ever need those things to be a successful artist. Rather, his success stems from the ability he has to write melody after beautiful melody and present them within a familiar Folds package of the piano/bass/drum combination. Silverman, however, adds something to his repertoire that I don’t think was there before: true sophistication.

I have been a fan of Folds since shortly after the release of Ben Folds Five’s eponymous first release. The first song I heard off the album was “Underground” and it had all the right elements: It rocked (!), there were great vocals/harmonies, it was different (no guitar), and it had just the right element of humor in it (“Officer Friendly’s little boy’s got a mohawk, and he knows just where we’re coming from”). I got the album and found that it was loaded with the other element that is so crucial to my connecting with a band. It was my central argument in the Weezer entry and that is that the overwhelming sense and range of emotional ideas and feelings presented by Folds, Jesse, and Sledge. Song’s like “Philosophy,” “Best Imitation of Myself” and “The Last Polka” are still enough, I think, to make all the Emo-geeks pine, wishing that they had the ability to write songs that good.

The thing that makes Ben Folds so awesome, though (sadly, as apposed to Rivers Cuomo) is that he has continued to deliver. Most of you will at least have the band’s second album Whatever and Ever Amen for which the band received the most critical attention for their single “Brick.” Brick aside (and you almost always have to put singles aside, don’t you?) the album is full of more tunes that move and amaze. Part of the reason for this, and I forgot to mention this above, is that part of the Folds formula is that he almost always tells some sort of story in his songs. The most notable examples of this on Whatever are the songs “Missing the War” (probably my all time favorite BFF song), “Fair” and “Selfless, Cold and Composed” (My second favorite). I saw the trio for the first time while touring for this album at the Pima County fair just outside Tucson, and this sealed the deal. They were just as good: harmonies just as tight, charming, funny in person as they ever were on the album.

The band’s final release The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner, made it hard to say goodbye. I mean, have you heard that horn section on “Army”? “Magic” (penned by Jesse), and “Lullaby” just added to the wealth and emotion of the first two releases.

When Ben Folds (finally) released his first solo album (Rockin’ the Suburbs) on 9/11/2001, I remember coping with what had happened that morning by going out and buying that album. Back was the Fold’s classic humor, (see the title song) the story format (“Zak and Sara,” & “Not the Same”) and the—sometimes very personal,—emotional tunes (“Fred Jones, Pt.2,” & “Still Fighting It”). If you had a chance to see Folds on the first part of that tour, you saw how diverse he could be, playing with 4 other musicians, and if you saw him on the latter part of that tour you saw this versatility raised to an exponential level as you helped Ben by singing those horns on “Army” because he was all alone on stage.

Just incase you missed them, leading up to the release of Silverman, Ben released three self produced EPs: Speed Graphic, Super D, and Sunny 16. All of which contain excellent, full-album worthy material. My favorites are the cover of The Cure’s “In between Days,” the solo version of “Give Judy My Notice” and the song about Ben’s now residence, “Adelaide.” My favorites tend to be fairly pointless in a blog like this, they are another one of those things that are like butts. Everybody’s… well you know.

Anyway, all of this has led me to the latest release from Ben Songs for Silverman. It was released at the very beginning of the summer, before the new Weezer, Beck, Coldplay, Corgan, before all of them, and better. As I stated at the beginning of this little blog turned essay is that Ben has moved from humor here to something even better: sophistication. The old format is there, even more so than on Suburbs, just listen to the sweet “Trusted.” What we have here, though, is almost a “growing up and stretching out” for Ben. He seems to be under less pressure to be comical (maybe he got that out of his system on the B-side from “Landed”). Weird Al’s cameo on the album is just back-up singer (“Time”). You get the sense that you are listening to a jam on “Prison Food,” and if you watch the making-of dvd that comes with certain versions of the album, you see that that is precisely what it started as. I can hardly believe that I am being gypped out of a stop on the “Odd Man Out” tour with Rufus Wainwright. For those of you who are fans and also have to miss, see if you can’t find Ben and Rufus doing Wham’s “Careless Whisper”—classic!

So in a nut shell, I am a big Ben fan. You should be too. If you haven’t bought an album since Whatever, get caught up! If you heard the new album and were like my friend (“I just couldn’t get into it, man”) give it another listen. For me, Folds is goodness.

What Happened to Weezer?

Starmaster's Guide to Goodness
Entry#1

*I'm flattered by the comments this post keeps getting. If you're interested in hearing about my current musical interests please follow me on twitter and tumblr and check out my music posts over at www.muzzleofbees.com (see sidebar for links).*

So the year is 1994 and Jon Thwaits and I are working together at this po-dunky little dollar movie theatre. Mann Theatres is a perfect place for us to hang out, talk music, and get paid 4.25 an hour to do so. John Heidenreich had just told us about this new band that he happened to see and tape on Conan O'Brian a few nights before. The band was called Weezer and the lead singer was this short dude with long bowl cut hair and black framed glasses. The lead guitarist was sporting a Cub Scout hat and the bassist was off the wall, dancing and grooving around all to the tune of a song called "Undone." After watching that performance our 16-year-old lives were immediately changed for the better. What made the deal sweeter, was that we found their debut album to be full of other sweet, perfect rock songs that all at once delighted, moved and inspired us. We were hooked. Over the next few years I saw Weezer play at small shows 3 or 4 times. Each time we went to a concert, we were able to meet and hang with the band afterwards (not as their homies, but as loyal fans getting autographs and pictures). I was a member of the fan club and would talk with Mykel and Carlie often about their adventures.

But it wasn’t just being a fanboy that made Weezer so special to us. We loved their tunes. Every song on Blue made us want to be rock stars. Mostly because every song on Blue is amazing. Think about it for a minute. Maybe with only the exception of Buddy Holly, every song inspires some kind of unique feeling: Jonas, No One Else, Say it Ain’t So, Holiday, Only in Dreams-- There was something about those songs that changed me as a person. Seriously.
So I go back to the question I began this entry with—What happened? When Pinkerton came out, I was so pleased that in many ways they delivered again. I remember listening to it for the first time sitting in the bed of a pick-up the day it was released on some headphones. When that first solo on Tired of Sex went down, I literally had tears in my eyes. Why Bother, El Scorcho, Getchoo and as always some of the B-sides from the singles (from Blue: Susanne, then Devotion & I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams—so sweet) continued to speak to me on some other level. But I could hear something in some of those tunes. Something seemed a little funny. Too bad it had to be four years before I could find out what.

In 2000 when Green came out, I had such high hopes. Rivers’ only release between the two albums (American Girls) allured me with the hopes that my boys would be back in action. Hash Pipe was pretty rockin’ but when I bought the album on its release date I was devastated. What happened? Why does every song sound the same? Where are the sweet guitar solos? What happened to all of the emotion? It was gone. And I am afraid to say that for the most part it has never come back.

Maladroit was a little better. It has a few tunes on there that I really like: Burndt Jamb and Death and Destruction among them—but most of the songs still sounded like Green leftovers. To make matters worse, Weezer’s commercial success had skyrocketed during the last few years and so it seemed to me that they were being reinforced for writing crappy music! So aggravating.

Because I am not one to give up hope, when I started to read Karl’s descriptions of the new stuff being written for the latest album Make Believe, I got my hopes up again. Rick Rubin was said to be producing the recording, and I thought to myself, finally! This is going to be it! Even Pat Wilson, the coolest dude in the world, was dissin on the other albums and saying that this new album was the best since Pinkerton.

Then it came out. So, so sad. The only really good song on it (This is Such A Pity) is one that is a total departure from their regular sound—and this is why it is so good! Because their “regular sound” can now be summed up with crap like Slave, Crab, Smile…(sigh) maybe it’s the single word titles. I am out of explanations.

Unfortunately--and this is an update written several years after the initial post, the Red Album (with the exception of "I am the Greatest Man Who Ever Lived" and "Miss Sweeney" also was lack-luster, and Raditude? Wow. It stinketh through and through. (update: Hurley came out. I didn't even buy it)

So I pose these questions for discussion:

1. Why does a band who seems to recognize and be capable of writing really great, unique songs fill three albums with virtually the same song rerecorded with different lyrics?
2. What happened to the feelings that inspired Only In Dreams? Why haven’t they recorded a single jam song since OID when they must be the funnest songs to play on stage, and are by nature so emotional?
3. Can we blame Rivers?
4. Do you think there is any connection between the fact that ever since Matt Sharp left the band it has never been as good as it was to begin with?
5. Am I being too critical? Are Green, Maladroit and Make Believe actually some of the band’s best work? If so, how do you figure?