Katz Komments

You Go Scorsese!

2011-12-12T08:30:00.000-08:00

Hugo is not simply the best movie I've seen this year, but it has immediately gained entrance into the Jeff Katz All-Time Greats list. It's touching (though not cloying), funny (though not buffoonish), effect laden (though not empty) and educational (though not pedantic). Hugo is as magical as the films of Melies it brings back to life.

I'm not going to recount the plot; you can look that up elsewhere.

After preview upon preview of CGI movies to come (I'm looking at you Tin Tin), it was a big adjustment to Hugo. Here was a large movie, an epic of imagination, that had a cast of humans! And big time humans like Ben Kingsley, Jude Law and Christoper Lee. It took a while for me to get used to it, like those 10-15 minutes of Shakespeare that one has to pass through to reorient their ears and get the hang of the language. That sense of semi-reality only added to the storybook experience.

Sacha Baron Cohen as the Station Inspector. Is there anybody funnier? He brings a sly and somewhat perverse characterization to the movie which gives it great depth. All the characters have something happening; there's not a useless member of the cast.

Seeing Georges Melies' films, even in clip form, on a giant screen is pure heaven. The hand tinted frames bleed gloriously and still, over a century later, you wonder "How did he do that?" My lord, it's wonderful. Scorsese manages to infuse screen history into a child's tale and, in doing so, makes the best film about the spell that movies weave. (No disrespect meant for Sullivan's Travels). In great part, Hugo is about film preservation and restoration, a cause dear to the director's heart. He makes a tragedy out of something long forgotten, and that isn't easy. The scenes of Melies' studio and the filming of the filming of the films is spectacular.

It's been said that Hugo makes the most of 3D. It does. The special effects are totally organic. There's no flash, no in-your-face moment. There's a point being made here, and that point is subtly and quite cleverly played out not once, but twice. Train Entering the Railroad Station, one of the first silents, is simply that: a train entering the depot. Much has been made of how the audience of 1898 recoiled in horror as the steaming locomotive approached, fearful that it may leap from screen to lap. Scorsese shows that two times.

Think about that. An audience of sentient adults, all clearly in three-dimensions and in color, could not separate themselves from a flat screen presentation of a black and white train. They were truly frightened that the one world would infiltrate the other. It worked, and set the table for the cheap 3D jolts to come: the thrown spear, the reaching hand, any old protuberance that would make the audience jump.

Scorsese's 3D does none of that and yet results in more genuine emotional reaction than any stunt. It does what it's supposed to, presenting depth with reality, not as a hoax. In that way, Hugo feels real and swallows you up in its world. It was a shame to leave it.

Avant le déluge

2011-12-08T06:28:00.000-08:00

My cultural world has been taken over by 1963. It wasn't planned, it simply became. My recent records, books and DVD watching have made me wish I were alive in the year before the 1960's began. Technically I was among the living, but what does a newborn know in his world of diapers, baby food and cribs. You call that living?

Kookie!, an album of almost music by Edd Byrnes, was actually released in 1959, but Byrnes' show, 77 Sunset Strip, ran until 1964. The entertainment, as it were, of a record like this, filled with anonymous studio rock 'n' roll of the period and the talk-singing of the Kookie character is pure hokum and innocence. Byrnes' street rapping hipster, whose innocence makes The Fonz seem like Tupac, splutters enough "babys," "daddy-os" and "like, wows" that I wondered how this was mistaken for edgy beatnik talk. Songs titled "Kookie's Mad Pad, "The Kookie Cha Cha Cha," and the boffo hit "Kookie, Kookie (Lend Me Your Comb)" are sweet in their faux-cool. All is not as it seems in retrospect, we all know that, but somehow the kind of world that could produce an album like this made me long for a happier time.

That hackneyed time travel sentiment is the subject of many a Twilight Zone. I'd always wanted to see Season 4, the year CBS executives forced the creators into one-hour long episodes. Having now seen all 18, I can say that the doubly long programs have been unfairly maligned over the years. Everything I've read about the January - May 1963 run has damned them as too long and unable to hold the quality of the 30-minute versions. Not so. The weaknesses of the shows are similar to those of all lesser Zones. There are several purported comedies; Rod Serling never did funny very well (though "The Bard" is a hoot, highlighted by Burt Reynolds' spot-on Brando impersonation).

I've been working my way through Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion, published in '64 but set in '63. Similar to Faulkner, Kesey jumps from first-person to first-person without a heads up. That's where the similarity ends. Notion is just alright. It's not particularly difficult, or interesting, but I'm only half way through and, perhaps, there's good stuff ahead. The novel was seen by some critics as a "work of new consciousness" and, perhaps it will be by the time I close the covers. So far, I don't see it. Kesey has his counter-culture cred intact with Cuckoo's Nest and the Merry Pranksters, and with that in mind, his story of The Stamper family's generational conflicts presages what lurks right around the corner, the schism of the second half of the decade.

"Passage on the Lady Anne" is the penultimate show of Twilight Zone Season 4. It centers around a young couple, probably in their late 20's, trying to save a rocky marriage. They're a typical pair of the time, young people who look, dress and act twice their age. What was it about 25-30 year olds of the mid-60's that made them so beaten up and overly mature? Was it the Mantovanni records? The couple is headed to England by cruise ship, a decrepit vessel populated by ancients on their last voyage. You can guess where this one goes.

Would Allan and Eileen even know what was waiting for them in 1963 Swinging London? Would they even guess that a band of four boys from Liverpool was driving the Old Sod insane? How could they know that in a mere few months The Beatles would hit America and change the world? 1963 was the last year before the culture cracked. It's been fun to visit.

Scorsese's Missed Opportunity

2011-10-10T06:16:00.001-07:00

George Harrison's eponymous 1979 album has always been a favorite of mine. It's soft, to be sure, but the tunes are all of high quality and show him in his best light: sweet, thoughtful, funny. George Harrison was also my go-to record when I wanted to fall asleep. It's a great listen AND a fine sleeping pill. That's just my personal example of the dichotomy that was George Harrison.

Martin Scorsese's much anticipated documentary on George, Living in the Material World, presented itself as the same mixed bag that was the ex-Beatle. It was sloppy and acute, focused and chaotic, touching and superficial. All like the man himself. Scorsese, or his underlings, couldn't quite grasp the man they chose to exalt. In the early segments of Part 1, the film focused on John Lennon, who is hands down more funny and clever than his younger band mate. Still, that's not why we were all watching. And to have both of George's brothers wasted in a one-off snippet that told the story of John spilling beer on a wedding guest, well that was unforgivable. What a wasted resource.

Why tell the Beatles story at all? Scorsese goes on the assumption that most viewers know the details anyway, otherwise why mention Stu's death, without noting who he was, how he may have died (or did die) and why his demise was so devastating to John? True, Dhani Harrison reading his father's letters was a solid device to show how Hari was, even at the beginning, jaded by the mania. It's unfair to judge the movie on what I think it should have been, instead of what it was, but telling the tale from the breakup onward, with flashbacks to the few pertinent Beatley moments, would have made a more effective and sharply honed narrative of George's quest for spiritual growth in a perverted world.

Part 2, the 1970 and onward period, was better, though still scattered. It bounced from All Things Must Pass, to the ill-fated Dark Horse tour of 1974, to George's creation of Handmade Films, his obsession with racing, the Traveling Wilburys and, ultimately, the outrageous attack in his home and death. The clips from what seemed to be a film made during the tour, which found George with poor voice, bad judgment in song selection (changing lyrics to Beatle songs, putting Ravi Shankar on twice), and happily, for critics, the target of venom after his "do no wrong" run from his debut album, to Concert for Bangladesh and the album which gave Scorsese's film its name, were eye-opening. George sounded horrible at first, though in fine voice a bit later on. The behind the scenes moments with a wise-cracking, throat-gargling George made we wish for a revisit to this period. not a revision, per se, because I've heard the bootlegs and the music is pretty weak, but a deep look at an interesting moment in rock history. Drummer Jim Keltner's take, that George, though struggling, was "loved" by the crowd, was an insightful look from a participant.

But even Keltner's anecdote about George putting a plug for the Jim Keltner fan club on the back cover of Living in the Material World, was missing a key fact. It wasn't a funny poke at Keltner; it was a nasty rebuke of Paul McCartney, who had a tag for a Wings Fan Club in the same spot on Red Rose Speedway. Scorsese's film had room for George as curmudgeonly, but not for George as vicious and nasty, which he could very well be.

There are powerful moments sprinkled throughout. 1976 George watching a 1964 clip of The Fabs singing "This Boy" was worth the price of admission. Tom Petty's eyes-welling account of George's call to tell of the death of Roy Orbison was touching. Eric Clapton provided thoughtful commentary throughout. And when was the last time anyone saw real emotion out of Ringo? With all his "peace and love" superficiality, Ringo has made himself a self-parodying joke, but when he tells of his last visit with George, and begins to cry, well, it was beautiful. McCartney was, as always, a tad inscrutable. His tales of his youth with George, as two young mates, came across as genuine, but at other times, when he explains his late-period dictatorial ways, it was simply another edition of the last decade's "Paul Revisionary Tour." Macca is lucky to be the last one standing who can shape the tale of The Beatles. Ringo was never in the trenches in the same way as the other three.

Olivia Harrison provided depth, the sole person who was willing to delve into her husband's foibles, however briefly. And her account of the knife wielding madman who broke into Friar Park is harrowing. A short take of George mixing a Ringo song at his home studio is made touching by a lovely hug that Dhani gives his dad. There are more wonderful bits scattered over the 3 1/2 hours but, as a friend said "vignettes do not make up a narrative."

So, what are we left with at the end? A jumbled view of an interesting man, a film that felt both too long and too short, and the empty feeling of an underwhelming effort. The hardcover companion book does a much better job of fleshing out the man. Did I like it? I have a hard time criticizing The Beatles and their projects, though I do know when the product is weak. Living in the Material World is mediocre at best, but any time I can spend with George Harrison is time well spent. I'm hoping for really good bonus features when the DVD comes out.

Why Beat the Rush?

2011-09-29T08:38:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, my Dad would take us, usually once a year, to Shea Stadium for a Mets game. It was thrilling to be at the ballpark and, regardless of what was happening on the field, it was completely joyful. Even when I got pelted by a half-grapefruit thrown from the upper deck smack into the stomach area of my new Mets’ shirt, leaving pinkish citrus ooze, I was happy (once I got back the wind that had been knocked out of me).

Except if we went to Shea on a weekday. Then, no matter the score, we would leave. “It’s a work night,” my father would pronounce. Or, “It’s a school night.” Or both. It was eminently more important to out-exit the hordes and get home at a reasonable time. My collection of scorecards is marred by games that were left voluntarily, the results of the Mets-Astros game, at 2-2 going into the ninth, suspended by our departure. I’ve never forgotten that crushing, sinking feeling of being outside the park, the halo of lights behind and above me, hearing the roar of the crowd who either didn’t work, didn’t go to school, or had the proper sense of priority to realize that the rare game they got to see was worth a little less sleep. When I got older and had season tickets at Wrigley Field, I watched each game to its conclusion, and still managed to be a productive person the next day. It was false that beating the rush was important.

I swore I’d never do that to my kids, whether it was at a sports event, a concert, whatever. Joey wanted to see The Avett Brothers on Tuesday night. It was pouring. I mean buckets, but I wasn’t going to tell him no. Even my recent back surgery was no excuse, though Joey was sweetly solicitous. I had spent Monday night undergoing my first real test - an 8-hour Board of Trustees meeting. I was physically sore at the end, but, on the whole, in fine shape. Standing at a concert would be easier, I thought, and it was, though my feet hurt during the last hour.

Nicole Atkins was the first act and she was OK. Her lead guitarist, Irina Yalkowsky, was a stellar soloist. That girl knows the proper use of dynamics! Brandi Carlile was next. I don’t know. She’s pretty popular, but left me un-won over. There was something too stagy, too false, a bit overly enthusiastic for my taste. Atkins and Carlile share a vocal trait that I dislike, the sudden switch to upper register that always strikes me as affected and out of place. Anyway, the two lead-ins didn’t bother me. I was focused on the rain that never let up.

When Joey and I saw Wilco in June, he asked if we could be up front. I told him that nothing stops determined people from getting to the stage. The Avett crowd had scores of those types, healthy young college aged folks who strongly made their way wherever they wanted. It caused an occasional scene. Early in the Avett set, there was a lot of pushing. I held my ground for my own benefit, but also was keenly aware of where Joey was and what threats surrounded him. There was fun too, with much throwing of beer cups, one which ended up landing perfectly atop an umbrella

At one point, I overheard a guy yell “Joey Katz.” It turned out to be someone Joey worked with two years ago at The Hall of Fame. I listened in, especially when the guy’s girlfriend was talking to Joey. After a while, I heard Joey say to her, “I’m 15.” To that, the girl replied, “No way dude, I thought you were 21! I’m 21!”

I turned around at that point, and she said to me, “Are you his friend?” When I told her I was his father, she was dumbfounded and then began to heap praise upon the boy. It was pretty cool. By that time the crowd had settled into position, but there were some points of fun and violence to come.

In front of me stood a 20-something man who early on struck me as a douche, egging on a guy pissed off at someone trying to cut ahead of him. When the rain stopped for about 2 minutes, he began to elaborately disrobe, taking off his jacket, then his backpack. From his bag he brought out, and began to assemble, a pipe, a very long pipe. It was ridiculous. Pipe Guy grabbed some tobacco from a metallic pouch, bits sticking to his wet hand. He lit up, began puffing away like a 19th century burgomaster, and offered it around. I couldn’t believe Joey didn’t try some, and told him so, jokingly.

“What would you have done if I did?” I told him I probably wouldn’t have cared. Having shared a passed bottle of Jack Daniels at a Rolling Stones’ show in 1981, who was I to talk.

When a cowboy-hatted scruff-beard tried to make his way through the tightly packed audience, causing strife for some, Pipe Guy couldn’t quite get the negative vibes. I told him that perhaps not everyone had achieved the serenity he gained by taking up the pipe. He liked that.

The occasional rough stuff was a good thing for Joey to see. I told him that in packed concerts one had to be very vigilant and aware of what was happening around them. Soon after, a very out of it drunk or drugged dude came barreling through. The same person who had been taunted by Pipe Guy was not happy and viciously grabbed the intruder by the neck and literally threw him backward. Angry Guy was steaming, but Fucked Up Dude was unperturbed. He was so out of it that no signal would have been recognized.

I understood Angry Guy’s reaction but not his follow-up assault. Fucked Up Dude tried to bash through again, far from Angry Guy. FUD succeeded and was well past our area, when Angry Guy went deep into the crowd after him and pulled him back. “Why are you looking for a fight?” asked Joey’s former co-worker. It was odd.

The Avetts were truly spectacular. They seem a little mentally challenged to me, with their quirks and tics and verbal outbursts. All to good effect. Joe Qwan, their cellist, looks like an evil Mongol extra from a bad Genghis Khan movie. I was happy to have seen the show. Afterwards, the parking lot was a muddy morass and, to add squelching insult to the soggy injury of the evening, we got stuck. We weren’t alone. Happily, college kids are young, strong and willing to do goofy things for fun; packs of them were gleefully pushing cars out. We took full advantage of their services. The road never felt so good.

Was it worth it? I don't know. The headliners were terrific but standing for four plus hours in a monsoon, with painful feet and a soaked 1970's Atlanta Braves cap that became as heavy as a space helmet, made it memorable and that may be the better. We hung tough in miserable weather, Joey learned how passionate crowds operate, and we had awesome sugar waffles. We’ll be talking about this one for a long time.

La tragica vita

2011-08-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

I sat down to watch La Dolce Vita a few night's ago (or, as Nate said, "it's the classic La Dolse Vita). It'd been many years since I'd seen it, during a period where I caught up to every Fellini film (I may still need to see 1 or 2). I remembered a lot of the movie, knew I loved it, but was in no way prepared on how staggering its impact would be on me this time around. Maybe it's because I'm older; maybe I just forgot a similar reaction on last viewing. I mostly couldn't believe I didn't remember Nico was in it, but there she was talking like she sings, just as she sings like she talks.

Marcello's gossip columnist character has quickly found that the empty, glamour chasing life has gotten him nowhere. However, if you pursue your true love – in Marcello’s case literature, the arts - then you’re screwed too. A life of domestic simplicity, taking on a real job and settling down to a routine, like the father you have romanticized, or the girlfriend who romanticizes you – well, that’s a dead end as well. ("This isn’t love; it’s brutalization!" Marcello famously tells his Emma). When even a sweet angel, from heaven by way of Umbria, beckons you across the smallest of chasms to your salvation, a physically easy walk but an emotional leap as vast as the widest Alpine valley, so vast that there’s no hope of crossing, there remains no choice but to refuse. That is the saddest moment of all.

Each set piece – Hollywood-type party, aristocrats cavorting in an ancient villa, moneyed class boringly flaunting their riches - is empty, each group offering their own vacuous existence as an alternative. Nothing is as beautiful as it seems. Anita Ekberg's classic wade through Trevi Fountain, with Fellini painting her as otherworldly, magical, a statue come to life in unbelievably large proportions, turns tawdry and washed out in the light of morning. Night is where the magic happens and where, usually, one can be convinced, falsely, that there is beauty and purpose in life. All hopes fade with the sun.

Everyone is a whore in their own way, selling their soul and selling it badly, never getting what they thought they’d get when the bargain was made. The Chicken Girl, who, like Marcello, came from the sticks to Rome with a dream, will do anything, be abused in anyway, if it helps her reach her goal. Marcello is a true coward and maybe she is too. He makes her into a symbol, covering her with feathers from a ripped pillow. It's his final act of realization; he's at his most cruel when he's attacking his alter image.

The final scene, at the beach with the monstrous fish/ray who's been caught in a net and is likely to fetch a high price, hits hard. Why does the sea creature insist on looking, wide eyed? Doesn’t he know it’s all over for him?

The dead are always the last to know. Aren't we all?

This is Spinal Surgery

2011-08-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, I had a lot of back pain, the result, I assume, of two decades, give or take, of standing in trading pits. I went through a series of MRIs and found out I was a mess: stenosis, arthritis, cord compression, and a few more bits. I had surgery scheduled, but knew enough guys back in Chicago who went under the knife to cure back pain. It never worked. So I cancelled.

With much doubt, I started seeing a chiropractor, and the back pain disappeared. In its place arose a new set of symptoms: leg numbness, pain, a constant sense of having pins and needles. I have a high pain threshold, equal to that of a dairy farmer a friend said (high praise) so I bore with it, but when my knees started buckling and I suffered an occasional fall down the two steps to the computer room (invariably while holding a full cup of coffee), I knew I needed to revisit the ol' MRI machine to see what was causing my 48 year old body to pose as an 80 year old's. (I wrote about that two posts ago, I believe).

With the results in, I saw a neurosurgeon on Tuesday. He was alarmed at the progression (or is it regression?). My spine was so pinched, like an indented pool noodle, that he feared a fall would cause some serious damage. I needed surgery and this time I was up for it. This wasn't for pain, this was about functionality. Not that I love to walk, but I do like having the option. The surgeon left to call the operating room as to their schedule, and Karen and I were shocked to find upon his return that two days later, on Thursday morning, I was going to be cut.

On one hand it was a comfort to not have time to think about it. On the other hand, it would've been nice to have some time to think about it. Didn't matter though, the wheels were now in motion.

With the market behaving with the same lack of control as my legs, I thought about how much this might cost me. What could a little spinal surgery come to - $30,000, $40,000, $50,000? I had no idea and was afraid to call my insurance company, even though I assumed I wouldn't have to pay the full boat. I assumed they'd try to tell me not to have the procedure. The hospital, Bassett in Cooperstown, was very helpful, filling me in on their conversation with Allied Benefits and, it turns out I have a cap on cost. I did call Allied, but got the feeling they were just spitting back what I told them Bassett had told me. I nervously await the bill.

The surgery was moved from 11 AM to 9 AM, which was good since I couldn't eat after midnight. We checked in and, in the waiting room, which had floor-to-ceiling black and white baseball shots which I'll have to investigate further (there was a nice one of Maury Wills backhanding a grounder), Karen and I went through the paperwork.

"What's PACU?" she asked the woman at the desk.

"Oh, that's the recovery room."

It was clear Karen wasn't going to get what she wanted, which was what the acronym stood for. It became a running gag: everyone she asked told her "Oh, that's the recovery room."

I've found that having friends as doctors makes the hospital experience more relaxing. I never would have thought that in the past. Down on the operating floor, we talked to my anesthesiologist, who was the first person to give me the lowdown on some of the risks.

"You're going to be prone for five hours and, though we are very careful, you may develop pressure sores from the weight distribution. Chin, knees, hip bones. Sometimes there's pressure on the eyes that could lead to blindness, but that's never happened here."

There was more: a breathing tube, which when removed would leave me with a temporary throat problem (I have a Vito Corleone thing going on still) and a catheter, which I dreaded. I was told the tube would come out before I was awake, but the catheter would remain. It wouldn't hurt, I was assured. It would feel weird, like having an earthworm pulled from my penis.

This was scary stuff. "Could I back out now?" I asked, with no real intention of doing so.

"You wouldn't be the first."

The surgeon came in, and reiterated my problem. The spinal cord is supposed to be an oval looking downward, but mine looks like a three-cornered hat. The Tea Party strikes again! I was to undergo a laminotomy (still don't know), a discectomy (removal of a disc) and a cage fusion (either an exotic wrestling match or a newly built metal and bone support).

By this time I wasn't very nervous. Having had a colonoscopy a long time back helped. Before that delight, I was told I wouldn't remember anything. That was hard for me to intellectualize, but having undergone the experience I know it to be true.

Finally the moment came and I was wheeled into the OR. I remember the lights, and some people milling about, and then it was about 3:30, I was in PACU (Peri-operative Acute Care Unit, we eventually found out), and it was all over. Some people visited me to check me out and fit me with a new plastic brace/corset. Reports were that I was very cooperative.

The worst was over, and I wasn't even aware of how it played out, but the recovery was going to prove problematic. Not physically, I could already feel my legs were better. I had the worst roommate imaginable: a cantankerous, complaining, snoring evil Oz behind the curtain that divided the room. All night long his machines were buzzing. He couldn't figure out why, but I could here that he wasn't interested in how to fix it. The nurses told him how to avoid having his IV tangled but he insisted he had faulty equipment. Even when no staff was present, he would complain out loud. I had no problems with anyone and if they arrived a little late on my behalf I was fine with it. Cranky Neighbor bitched on my behalf. Thank God for earplugs.

The night went reasonably well despite the black cloud to my right, and I learned something important about myself. I can't pee lying down. You're given a jug to use, which was some relief accident wise, but I need to get up and that would prove a chore. Two strong guys were brought in to help me up and I made it to the bathroom, a heroic achievement. It was a struggle to get from lying down to sitting up. As the night wore on, I was able to leave bed with only a little help.

All signs pointed to a lunchtime discharge. I was feeling fine, though sore, as if someone had sliced their way through my back muscles. My wound was draining into a white hockey puck device that was connected through a tube into my back. This too, upon removal, would feel weird like the evil earthworm of the catheter.

Karen and Nate came to visit. Nate was worried, on edge a bit, but soon, with no real sense of my comfort, hopped into bed with me and started watching TV. "You're not dying, are you?" When he saw my puck, he asked, "Is your blood brown?"was very sweet and comforting.

Karen, who was as wonderful as I would expect, had put in a lot of hours the night before and came back as soon as Joey got off to work. She took Nate for pizza in the cafeteria, and it was only a matter of time before I was released, leaving my nemesis behind the veil cursing and screaming at his lazy, good for nothing wife who couldn't do anything right. At least that was his take on her; I was glad to leave.

I slept on the couch last night, finding my down to the floor and bathroom. It's truly amazing that I had back surgery two days ago, and have already improved dramatically, enough that I'm sitting at the kitchen writing this. No pain, all gain.

A Leader For Our Troubled Time

2011-08-10T20:47:00.001-07:00

As I watched the market crumble this past week, and our political leaders range from idiotically crazy (GOTeaParty) to impotently weak and purposeless (Obama and Dems), I realized that I'd also seen, with my own two eyes, a leader who we need, a leader who is willing to lead and isn't afraid to do so.

He's smart, capable of things his peers could never dream of, and he revels in his intelligence. When his homeland is threatened, he summons up great strength in its defense, though is filled with contrition when confronted with the fact that he may have crossed a line between protection and aggression.

This is a leader who understands his own, who realizes what they need to succeed and isn't afraid to fight for those beliefs. For those incapable of helping themselves, he's there for them, not in words but in deeds. His goals are achieved by the means suited for the particular situation: kindness, cleverness and, when necessary, a literal thump in the head. But it's all for the greater good and he knows it.

Even when he has nearly reached the mountaintop, has almost reached his goal, he doesn't gloat and wreak violent revenge on his defeated foes. Even among his enemies, he sees there are friends, good people who can be reached. Never, never does he rule out interaction with an entire class of people because of the mistakes of the few, even the vicious few who have mercilessly tortured his compatriots. That takes strength of character.

This is that leader:

Caesar: In Your Heart, You Know He's Right.

Havin' a MRI ol' time

2011-08-03T09:49:00.000-07:00

Six years ago I went through a series of MRIs. I was experiencing a lot of back pain, something I was used to after nearly two decades standing in the trading pits of the Chicago Board Options’ Exchange. What I wasn’t used to was the weird tingling and soreness in my extremities, something that troubled me, and my doctor, who suspected multiple sclerosis. So I went in for an MRI.

The first one was acceptably uncomfortable. Sliding into the chamber, I was given a mirror to see outside. I could also peek out on my own to see the ceiling. I’m not claustrophobic, and it was a reasonably short test. What I wasn’t prepared for was the loud clanging of the magnets, a sci-fi metallic banging that changed its rhythm when a different scan began. It was disconcerting, to say the least. The test was inconclusive and I was scheduled for another, a bit lower than the first brain scan. It was spinal time.

Number two seemed easy, until I was shoved in to the gaping maw of the machine and found I couldn’t see anything, nothing but the glowing white innards of that seemed pressed against my face. I freaked and pressed the panic button, signaling to the operators that I needed to get the hell out of there. I was a wreck, but they guilted me into going back in. “Sir, we really don’t want to have to reschedule.” I composed myself and was conveyor belted back inside. There, I occupied my time thinking of baseball, trying to name every Mets’ manager (I forgot about Art Howe).

They ask before the exam whether you have any metal in your eye. Seems like there was a case where someone had an industrial accident of some kind and the powerful magnets contained in the Magnetic Resonance Imaging device tore the metal shards from his or her eyes. I think that was later used in a Saw movie. I realized I had my wedding ring on, which didn’t count as dangerous metal, but I didn’t know that at the time and flung it across the room. It took a while to find it. That test was also without result.

Once more into the breach and this time it would be a double whammy: 90 minutes inside the giant tube. No way. I knew couldn’t hold out that long. Then a surgeon friend suggested Valium and, though I shy away from pills, I was eager to fill that prescription. The longest test went the easiest. I slept through most of it, and when I woke up I was calm, though extra-toasty. That thing heats up.

The results were definitive - cord compression, disc compression, and arthritic conditions up and down my spine. The solution was vaguer. I had back surgery scheduled, though the two neurosurgeons that looked at me had varying opinions. Eventually I backed out. I knew enough guys from the pits who had back surgery that ended up badly. One died, though, to be fair, it was in a car accident years later. But still.

Lately I’ve been feeling lousy, though my back pain is virtually gone due to weekly chiropractic work. I have what is called “All Shook Up” disease: my legs are shaky and my knees are weak, so weak that I have the occasional knee-buckle that leads to near-falls or completed falls. My legs are a constant combination of numbness and pain, like the tingling you get when you’re coming out of pins and needles. I deal with it but, when a doctor friend commented as he watched me walk, “Dude, you’re all fucked up.” Not much of a clinical diagnosis, but enough for me to act on. With much reservation, I went back last night for both thoracic and lumbar MRIs, a double whammy redux.

I left my wedding ring at home this time, but not my pills. I had my Valium in hand, and upon arrival one hour before the test, I was fairly relaxed. At 6:30 PM I downed my little round friend and watched Modern Times in the waiting room. I felt very much at peace. I was called in to change, and, upon lying down on the tongue of my old nemesis, began to sweat. I thought I’d be near-sleep by then. Instead I was near-panic, and very much concerned I couldn’t go through with it. Dan, who would administer the test, talked me through it before he sent me into the mouth of the machine with panic button in right hand, and wouldn’t leave until I said so. He’d given me earplugs which expanded and muffled him as he spoke, so I may have missed something.

To my surprise and joy, the white plastic roof above my head seemed much further from my face than I recalled. Maybe an inch or so away, but it felt downright spacious. The incessant banging of the magnets hammered their discordant melody. To occupy my mind, I visualized my future publishing success: the call from my agent telling me my proposal had been sold, the glowing reviews, my appearance on The Daily Show, the follow-up Maybe Baby book, and so on. I even had a new idea or two. Before I knew it I heard Dan announce that the first part was finished.

He put me further into the machine, where the white became beige and gave me even more room. I worried that this might put me in more confined space, but it felt like Howe Caverns compared to what I was expecting. When I was slid back I almost lost control of my distress button, but I quickly tightened my grasp.

There’s a bit of a pause when the imaging area changes. It’s short, but, for a moment, a gap struck me as far too long. The night before we had all watched Liam Neeson’s Unknown and there’s an MRI scene where Neeson’s character is on a gurney, a bit drugged, and in danger of his life. That was on my mind during the long silence. At first, I thought it unlikely that Dan had been murdered and I was in a perilous situation, but a terrible thought crossed my mind. He could have had a heart attack and died, leaving me bound in the machine, the buzzing of my signal screaming “let me out” left unheard. I wondered if I could squirm out, whether the strap that held my head down would prevent me from escape. The Valium helped lessen the growing stress, but, though I never thought I’d think it, I was relieved to hear the pounding of the magnets start up.

By then I wanted out, though not in a wild way. I’d had enough, it was getting warm, and I was running out of things to think about. Finally, I could feel the cool air from an opened door and then Dan’s presence. I was done.

Back home, the family gathered around to watch The Concert for Bangladesh, one day after its 40th anniversary. I needed the sound of “Awaiting on You All” to wash away the clanging of the MRI and the memories of an unpleasant 90 minutes. Thanks to George Harrison, all things passed.

I Ain't Gonna Stand For It

2011-07-20T05:54:00.000-07:00

Why do people stand for God Bless America? It's a pop song for crissakes! When the Philadelphia Flyers' fans of the 1970's adopted the Kate Smith version as an anthem of sorts, back when the Broad Street Bullies fought their way to the Stanley Cup, it was a perverse claiming of a schmaltzy chestnut as statement of identity. But since 9/11, when the Yankees had Ronan Tynan sing GBA, it has taken on an air of the holy. People were already standing for the 7th-inning stretch, why sit now? God Bless has become such a quasi-anthem that the New York Police once ejected a fan for going to the bathroom during its singing. That the scofflaw was a Red Sox fan may have more to do with it than the perception of insufficient patriotism.

I rail at this, but this Paul Revere horse has left the barn. There's no getting back to the idea that God Bless America is merely an Irving Berlin ditty, written for the Hit Parade. I tried explaining this at a recent Rotary meeting and was met with dagger stares. It's getting worse. Yesterday, Rotarians, haltingly at first, stood for the singing of America, the Beautiful. First, one, then two, then, guiltily, a few more, until the tide was irresistible. We all arose and I stewed. What can you do?

What's next? Should people stand when they hear Simon & Garfunkel's America? How about James Brown's Living in America? It has "America" in the title AND was featured in Rocky IV. What a red, white and blue juggernaut! And what about the songs from the group America? I won't stand up for A Horse with No Name, I assure you.

However, I could be convinced to rise for Sister Golden Hair.

Music and Movie Thoughts

2011-07-14T07:27:00.000-07:00

From, say, 1983-1993, I was 100% devoted to jazz. The managers of Slipped Disc Record Co-op at SUNY-Binghamton were given free records instead of a cash stipend. Some geniuses well before my time as General Manager devised a point system that maximized the amount of records we could take to gibe with the equivalent cash value of a similar campus job. After one year as GM, I had fairly well maxed out my pop and rock needs and, looking for a new musical outlet, I tried jazz, loved it, and that was that for the next decade.

The only exception I made was for new releases by old favorites: McCartney, Dylan, that sort. I knew I was missing out on bands I really liked, but choices had to be made. I find myself catching up now, buying bulk lots of instant record or CD collections on eBay. It takes a bit of patience, but I'm making my way towards fixing that hole.

The Smiths are one of those groups I liked but never bought. I had entire John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins catalogs to make my way through! There was no time, or extra money, for Meat is Murder. Yet, lately, The Smiths are all I hear in my head. If I listened to "Half a Person" once this morning, I listened to it five times. Don't get me started on "Girlfriend in a Coma," which seems to be swirling all around me the last few weeks. So, as I watch and wait, looking for all The Smiths albums in one fell swoop, I'll keep playing Louder Than Bombs and watching You Tube clips. I will end up with all their records eventually.

I've seen every Marlon Brando movie save two or three. There are lots of stinkers in his canon, but Brando is always a sight to see and one scene can make the time well spent. Crapfests like Morituri (or, Saboteur: Code Name Morituri) are made memorable by Marlon moments. Robert DeNiro had that skill for some time, but now that his acting skill has been reduced to the permanent Focker grimace and mugging that was once comedically fresh (Midnight Run) but is now annoying and pathetic, Bobby has become almost impossible to watch.

It's Edward Norton that is the real heir to the Brando throne and, paired with DeNiro in Stone, it shows. Norton's convict of the title is deep, inscrutable, and natural. DeNiro, as his parole officer, can't keep up. It' s hard to believe I could write that but it's true. The film itself is mediocre, but Norton is what makes it worth watching. There is one scene, towards the end, when DeNiro gives up on believing in Norton's character. It's old time great DeNiro and coupled with still great Norton is brilliant work.

Harry Potter. I've never read the books and when I'd hear adults tell me they read them and "they're really good," I have no doubt. But, you know, it makes me sick.

"You're an adult," I scream internally," read Crime and Punishment or something. Half Blood Prince is where you make your mark on reading? And go no further? Come on, don't be so infantile." Exhale.

The movies are OK, but each one's marginal return is less and less. I finally saw Deathly Hallows Part 1 last night and it was fine. It was the first one in the series I hadn't seen in the theater and it was good enough that I didn't regret the time spent. A little too much Lord of the Rings-y for me. Could Dobby be any more Smigel-like in concept, or the Horcrux that, when worn, makes the wearer behave badly? "Precious" anyone?

I know we're all supposed to believe in the love triangle of Harry-Hermoine-Ron, but does any sentient being over the age of 10 believe in the sexual chemistry between any of those three dweebs? Seeing Weasley with his shirt off is enough to make me call in the Death Eaters.

I have no reason to see these films other than completing the set, and I will dutifully see Part 2, but I can't say when. It'll definitely be without any enthusiasm.

A Cry in the Casey Anthony

2011-07-08T05:57:00.000-07:00

A mother, baby daughter dead under mysterious circumstances, is pilloried by the public and press. "Of course she did it, just look at her. Her story makes no sense, her emotions are off." Casey Anthony? No, I couldn't give a shit about her or her case. Thousands of injustices are perpetrated every year in our judicial system and more innocents than that are victimized. Is it because she's white trash and the salivating public can feel superior to her wanton ways? Again, I don't give a shit.

It's ironic that we sat down last night to watch A Cry in the Dark, the 1988 Meryl Streep vehicle, made timeless by Elaine Benes' "Maybe the dingo ate your baby" line in Seinfeld. Robbie wanted to catch up on courtroom classics and this was one of them, and one of the few I've never seen.

Director Fred Schepisi does wonders weaving the mass reaction to Lindy and Michael Chamberlain's possible murdering of their baby girl Azaria. This true Australian crime story came to a head just months before the movie's release. It's both gripping and off-putting, much in the way that the main characters are. As parents they are a messed up pair of religious zealots and weirdos. Streep is top-notch, Sam Neill is too, and I learned that Ozzies of both sexes were very much into tube socks in the early '80's. This, more than anything, is what I'll take away from the movie.

The DVD we got from Netflix was cracked straight across from center to edge. I assumed it wouldn't play at all, yet it did, for over an hour. Then it stopped. We were left in limbo yesterday, not knowing the truth, the courtroom scene about to begin as the film froze. Now, we'll have to wait for another copy to see how it all played out, whether the parents were guilty or not. The verdict is still out, the result of a faulty piece of media.

How's that for symbolic resonance?

Why Remake?

2011-07-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

What's the point of a remake? A new artistic twist, a la The Killers morphed into Pulp Fiction? No argument from me. The Americanization of a foreign plot, say The Seven Samurai, converted to a more comfortable western setting (The Magnificent Seven). Again, I've got no issues. Still, you've got to say something different to make it not merely an economic cash-in or an "American audiences are just too dumb for a foreign film" re-do.

The Coen Brothers' True Grit is a fine film, but adds nothing. Jeff Bridges is as gripping as John Wayne in the Rooster Cogburn role. Matt Damon is better than Glen Campbell in a "no-shit Sherlock" kinda way. Hallie Steinfeld is very good, but Kim Darby defined the role of Maddie and, though Wayne won the Oscar, Darby stole the show. Or maybe it was the hair?

There are couple of Coen specific touches - a camera pulling back from a desolate cabin, a bit of digit related violence - but, though I very much liked it, I couldn't see the point and forgot it quickly.

Let the Right One In was one of my favorite movies of 2008. A vampire movie that was more coming of age, Swedish mood piece, the performances were superior, the atmosphere depressing yet triumphant. Quite a great film. So why Let Me In? This 2010 Hollywood version is fine. It's a nearly identical remake (though not shot by shot like Gus van Sant's Psycho, which, though a piece of shit, had an artistic point of view). It's good, but, again, why, other than it's in English.

Is it so true that Americans can't handle a superior original in subtitles? Did Let Me In do better at the box office, considering its budget, than the original would have done in wider distribution? Doubtful. The effects are horribly fake and the setting of Los Alamos is a distraction, planting thoughts of nuclear fallout and radiation that have zero to do with what's onscreen. Weird.

Do yourself a favor - see The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and its sequels in glorious Swedish before you're forced to see the Tinseltown takes. Not to say H'wood will do a bad job. They just won't do a better one.

A Report from the Ground at Solid Sound

2011-06-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

After a proposed trip down to Bonnaroo fell through, I felt I owed Joey something. That something became a one-day pass to Wilco's Solid Sound Festival at Mass Moca.

We got up early Saturday. Well, I got up early; Joey got up 10 minutes before we were scheduled to leave and, in a tizzy, got himself together. It's a reasonable drive from Cooperstown to North Adams, MA. Two hours and thirty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot, ecstatic to have made it early enough (11 AM) to avoid the remote lots which would have been soul-crushing to face when the day ended.

Mass Moca's industrial backdrop was perfectly laid out for the festival: lots of courtyards, interesting alcoves and easy access to the different sites. Sarah Lee Guthrie, Woody's granddaughter, was the first act of the day. A little boring but overall pleasant. She'll become important later on in the story.

Next up, one courtyard over, were The Sic Alps. They were heavy, loud and tons of fun. Joey and I were up close, leaning on the stage. The band provides great visuals: lead guitar/vocals, drummer/guitar player and weird feedback guy in the shadows. There was a man standing next to me who leaned over and loudly proclaimed: "I love music." Profound stuff.

Next up were The Handsome Family. I'd liked what I'd heard on line but they left me flat. I was disappointed and we didn't stay long, heading over to the train-converted-into-a-cramped-house exhibit and finding the samosa seller. A festival employee told us John Hodgman was spotted buying a falafel.

Liam Finn. What can I say about this musical Zach Galifianakis? Awesome energy, killer tunes and dynamic stage presence. The double drum gimmick was powerful, hearkening back to the old Thunder and Lightning duo of Ringo Starr and Jim Keltner. Things ramped up when Glenn Kotche of Wilco got behind one of the kits.

Joey and I played everything right. On Friday (we weren't there but heard the talk), there were massive storms that created havoc. Up to this point, we were bone dry. By heading to the inside comedy performances, we remained so, missing a downpour. Eugene Mirman, Wyatt Cenac and John Hodgman, with a guest appearance by Lewis Black, provided a pleasant break from the music.

We checked in with Thurston Moore, briefly. He usually leaves me cold. Instead we made yet one more stop at Euclid Records and bought The Sic Alps CD, two Wilco 45's on clear vinyl and T. Rex's The Slider. I was looking at the T. Rex albums and noticed Joey, eyes opened wide in expectation. I deferred to him and, though we both needed and wanted the record, like a good Dad I let him buy it. Then we were off to Joe’s Field, site of the headliners. (But first a burrito).

"Think we can be in the front for Wilco?" Joey asked. I explained to him that a determined person can always get to the stage, depending on how much they didn't mind pissing off other people. We got to the railing, uneventfully, up at stage left. Once situated, we heard the announcement that a short-lived storm was coming through. We went back to Euclid but it was so hot and humid in there that we ended up outside, finding a spot under an overhang. When the rain passed, and it was in buckets, we headed to the field and got our spot back. Again, well played!

Syl Johnson, a soul-infused vision in red, rocked the crowd. Syl pushed his new box set with almost every song. "This is featured on my new box set, Complete Mythology." Over and over again. Favorite part - Johnson asking if we knew The Wu-Tang Clan, 'cuz they gave him lots of money when they sampled him on "Shame On a Nigga."

We'd seen Wilco open for Neil Young a few years back and wished there'd been more of them and less of Neil. This was our first full Wilco concert, though I'd seen Jeff Tweedy once. They were simply wonderful and provided one of the sweetest moments I've ever witnessed at a concert. As the opening strains of "Jesus, Etc." floated over the euphoric crowd, Jeff let the fans sing, by themselves, for over half the tune. It was beautiful, soft, halting, the audience not sure whether to keep going, but Tweedy kept them at it. I like Wilco a lot, but I gave up learning words to songs sometime after The River came out. I knew a few phrases, but I was an outsider, not an insider. The view from there was fine.

Liam Finn joined the band for "I’ll Fight" and Ms. Guthrie came out for the encore. There, in a "long overdue moment" according to Tweedy, Woody Guthrie’s granddaughter sang "California Stars" from Mermaid Ave, lyrics by her famous forefather. Special doesn't quite cut it.

Remembering our killer parking spot, I was not pushing to leave quickly. What was the point? We still had 2 1/2 hours to drive; what was another 15 minutes making sure Joey bought a couple of shirts, including the Syl Johnson "Is It Because I'm Black" tee (It's featured on my new box set, Complete Mythology, don't you know?).

Though I missed a few turns along the way, we arrived home at 2:30, and, tired and happy, watched Robbie graduate high school later that afternoon. But I’m still sleepy.

(photos by Joey Katz)

Another Year Not Just Another Movie

2011-06-23T07:14:00.001-07:00

Another Year is one of those movies that I throw on my Netflix list when it hits the theaters and, by the time it comes out on DVD and gets delivered to my door, I forget why it caught my attention to begin with. That leads to a perverse feeling of dread of the "I don't want to watch this film but I got it for a reason so I'll watch it anyway but it'll suck." Invariably, the movies that fall into that rental category turn out to be wonderful. So it is with Mike Leigh's latest.

It's a remarkable film, held together less by plot than by theme and mood. Tom and Gerri (true) are a happily married couple, an older couple in their 60's. Played by Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen, the two exude calm and contentment, but they are not shallow, they are not boring and they are real. The subtle looks that Sheen delivers, the occasional fiery outburst by Broadbent, are delicately played but played to the hilt.

The attention-grabber is Lesley Manville as Mary, the irresponsible co-worker of Gerri, who is under the delusion that she's young. Clearly in her mid-50's, Mary is the type who prays desperately that people think she's 30, when at best she could be mistaken for ten years younger. Manville grabs your eye in a way her character only hopes to, and the central scene, when her pipe dreams are blown apart, will leave you breathless.

Another Year shows that "boring" real lives are anything but and, though seen as commonplace, are as rare as can be. How we get to our current state is our own creation; some realize that late, some never at all. Leigh presents a grand movie about the simplest of concepts: people can be happy.

Another Night in Cassavetes Land

2011-06-21T05:15:00.000-07:00

I've seen most of John Cassavetes' directorial efforts. Not all, most. They swing wildly from overwrought to muted, from histrionically unreal to uncomfortably real. I like them and I don't.

Husbands (1970) has been on my must-see list forever. I finally watched it last night. Peter Falk, Ben Gazzara and Cassavetes himself portray three close friends who descend into a frenzy of self-searching after the death Stuart, which turns their quartet of pals into a trio. Archie, Harry and Gus are so terribly worn and old in their early 40's, years younger than I am today. I was taken aback by how beaten down a 40-year-old was 40 years ago.

They are each selfish and childish in equal, though different, measure. Not likeable characters, particularly Gazzara's Harry who, in an over the top but harrowingly raw scene, has it out with his wife and mother-in-law. Cassavetes' Gus has his moments of charm, but when he does his crazy Victor Franko turn a la The Dirty Dozen, he's tremendously off-putting and hard to believe. Falk's Archie is a schlemiel, a bit hapless and pathetic, but he's Peter Falk and that's always good enough. The acting so is wonderful that I couldn't help like them all.

The film starts in dirty New York City, another entry for my list of filthy Manhattan movies of the '70's. I do love that disgusting, gritty look. As in all Cassavetes movies, there are natural moments, and when the three boys cavort and carry on in the streets, the camera captures their antics as passersby watch on in amusement and shock. Archie and Gus have a race walk down the block and an old broad turns her head, mouth opened roundly in a stunning bit of cinema verite. Scenes, as always, go on too long, no more so than the singing around the bar table bit. It's two-thirds wonderful, but that extra one-third really sucks the energy out of it. A Cassavetes trademark.

Gazzara, now realizing his marriage is over, decides to head to London. His two buddies agree to go along for the ride and tuck him into his hotel only to return right home. In their own bout of mid-life crisis, the pair find themselves with strange women in their hotel rooms wondering what to do next. I couldn't quite understand Gus and Archie's motivations; it seemed they had happy family lives. Perhaps that's how men carried on back then. I won't say how all three come through their struggles, but a cameo by Cassavetes' kids, Nick and Alexa, are highlights of the movie.

There's something about Falk, Cassavetes and Gazzara that is mesmerizing and fun. All three are, in their own ways, incredibly undervalued as individual actors. All together in Husbands, they're not to be missed.

Not Wasted On the Young

2011-05-31T07:09:00.000-07:00

Mentally I feel young. Not 18 young, but, say, 32 young. My interests are the same – books, music, movies – as they were when I was a teenager. Age has allowed me to read more, hear more and watch more. That’s the only difference.

I still dress the same. Jeans, shorts, T-shirts. There’s a certain immaturity to that, I know, but I simply don’t care about clothes. Never have, never will. However, I just had a moment that may change my ways.

There’s nothing more pathetic than a middle-aged person desperately trying to connect with teenagers. I don’t mean in a creepy way, but in a way that reeks of a “hey, I’m not that much older than you” vibe. I don’t go for that, but my music and movie tastes tend to bridge the generation gap. But I am older than these kids, 30 years older, and though we may share some likes, I’m finding it unhealthy to believe that, let’s face it, I’m very old in their eyes.

I’ve been thinking about who in my life was 48 when I was 18, and you know what, they were friggin’ old! Granted, they listened to Mantovani and watched Marcus Welby, MD, and that made them seem older still, but facts are facts. No matter how youthful my brain thinks it is, the rest of me isn’t.

So here’s what happened. I was wearing my T-shirt with Jeff Bridge’s giant Dude character, and my favorite quote from The Big Lebowski underneath: “Man, I hate the f***ing Eagles!” Robbie had borrowed it and worn it to school a couple of weeks ago and got into a bit of trouble over its slight offensives. I wore it last week, which was fine because, as usual, I was staying home. A call from Joey, “I forgot my French books,” precipitated a drive to school.

I didn’t think about the shirt until I got out of my car. Robbie and his classmates were hanging out for a creative writing class on the grassy circle in the parking lot. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I felt embarrassed about what I was wearing. True or not, I felt like an aging hipster; there’s nothing worse than that. When I dropped off Joey’s books at the front desk, I made sure to cover up as much of the risqué message. I got home and felt, for the first time in my life, that perhaps I should start acting my age.

I think it comes down to accepting that almost 50 is not the new 30. It’s the same old 50. Not that I want to do anything about it. The classic “middle age crisis” – divorce, young girlfriend, new car, second marriage, etc. – is completely perplexing to me, though I see it around me. All of that would only make a person feel older, right? Isn’t that the opposite of what’s being sought? And it’s not that I look back on the me of 20, 25, 30, and wish I were that guy again. Maybe no age fits me that well.

I’m not of the “hope I die before I get old” crowd; that ship has long sailed (though the thought of living close to the amount of years I’ve lived does not fill me with joy). Yet, I can say unequivocally, that even with all the good things that have come with age, getting old blows. And it’s only gonna get worse.

Some Thoughts on Bobby Dylan

2011-05-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

I think it was Freewheelin’. Yup, I’m sure it was Freewheelin’. That was my first Dylan album. I got it at Korvette’s and, I’ll admit with shame, that I was already 15 or 16. Those were the years I began buying albums in earnest. Before then it was the occasional Beatles, McCartney or Paul Simon record; I wasn’t too serious. From that moment on, I measured time through Bob Dylan.

Some markers:

October 23, 1981. The long drive from Binghamton to Philadelphia. No GPS, no cell phone, no dough. Smashing into another car in a diner parking lot and running scared. Thought I would heave when he strode on stage, breaking into “Gotta Serve Somebody” in the echoey Spectrum. Finding a 76er’s calendar in the bathroom. The dark and deer-observed roads heading back north.

Jul 16, 1986. Now engaged, almost married. The big Dylan/Petty tour and we were there at Madison Square Garden. Karen buying me a program, a luxury I never would have bestowed on myself, but am thankful to have this very day.

Nate, around 6 years old, somewhere in 1996-97. No music lover he, but from his bedroom CD player came Blonde on Blonde for weeks. He latched onto that for reasons unknown. A few weeks ago, “Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine” blaring from the computer and Nate, now 20, sitting next to me saying “Hey, I know that song.”

Moving to Cooperstown in June 2003 and one year later having Bob play down the block at Doubleday Field. Sitting in the first base bleachers with little Joey, Dylan in center field. Then, two years later, helping to bring him back home for an encore.

2008? Robbie immersed in five disc Genuine Basement Tapes, getting a crash course in Dylan humor and the joys of The Band. July 2009, sitting on the front porch with college pals, listening to Joey play “Desolation Row” on guitar.

Back in Binghamton, my old school, standing by the stage with Robbie and Joey in November 2010. Me and my boys, hanging onto the railing as Bob strutted, mugged and belted ‘em out, thinking back to when I first got to college and drove to Philly, never dreaming that 30 years later I’d be right back, with sons of my own, watching the great one in action. Robbie going nutty when Bob launched into the Lebowski-rejuvenated “The Man in Me.”

I find myself quoting Dylan often, his words affixed to every occasion. Like Muhammad Ali, Dylan has gone from revolutionary to revered, from living outside the law to loved like a crusty old uncle. He’s charted a new path, a path no other rock star has carved, producing some of his best albums in his last years.

Talking about his hero, but meaning himself, from “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie”:

You need something to open up a new door

To show you something you seen before

But overlooked a hundred times or more

You need something to open your eyes

Bob Dylan said that.

Thankfully he’s not dead or a-dyin’, in no need for us to see that his grave is kept clean. And on his 70th birthday, listening to his songs all day long, I’m grateful for his very existence and nervy persistence. Thanks Bob.

I said that.

Rabbit Hole

2011-05-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

I can't stop thinking about Rabbit Hole.

What I love about this film is it's complete adultness. Forget the tragic event that is at the core of the story. It's indisputable that loss of Nicole Kidman and Aaron Eckhart's son is the driving force behind the drama. But, for me, it's not what makes the movie wrenching. What makes it unforgettable is that every turn in every reaction and every argument rings true. I don't want to give away much, but a few moments shine.

Eckhart's reaction to Kidman's messing with his cellphone is remarkably real. He is pissed off at her at a childlike level, and reacts with physical revulsion. She, in turn, is shocked at how he pulls away from her. There are many times in a marriage when one member acts out, or says something, that makes the other wonder who that person really is. It happens to the best of us. Eckhart's display and Kidman's reaction are almost too real, and uncomfortably beautiful to watch. Until Rabbit Hole, my favorite realistic marital argument in cinema was Julianne Moore's pants off fight with Matthew Modine in Robert Altman's Short Cuts.

There's a scene where Eckhart puts on the ipod and tries desperately to reconnect sexually with his wife. The ensuing argument about sex, seduction and Al Green hits every note perfectly. Though it springs from the couple's grief, it has little to do with that tragedy. Every married couple will see themselves in this scene, and almost every scene. The couple are seen as individuals trying in their own ways to cope with the worst thing that can happen to a parent; the death of a child. But Rabbit Hole is about how two separate people come together, and often fall apart, in their efforts to become one. It's a story of how deep love can be and how, even with that love apparent, difficult it can be to stay together.

Musical Closure

2011-05-02T05:15:00.000-07:00

While the world was learning about the capture and killing of Osama Bin Laden, I was undergoing my own bit of closure. As the big news was breaking, I was at the Oneonta Theatre watching John Sebastian open for Roger McGuinn.

Back in 1982, Sebastian opened for Rodney Dangerfield at the Binghamton Arena. Rodney was at the height of his popularity then, post-Caddyshack. Sebastian was a relic. His most recent hit had been "Welcome Back," the theme song for Gabe Kaplan's sitcom. Granted, it was number one in the spring of 1976, but six years later no one cared, not in the midst of New Wave and MTV. It was too early to appreciate how wonderful The Lovin' Spoonful were. In the early '80's, even the greatest acts of the sixties - Dylan, McCartney, et al - were finally hitting a tough patch of readjustment. Sebastian was a has-been, a goofy groovy artifact of a discredited generation.

There couldn't have been a worse match of audience and performer. That crowd was mostly college-aged kids looking for laughs, and the caustic comedy of Dangerfield. They were not receptive to a musician past his popularity and completely unaware of it. I'm sure Sebastian did his old hits; I clearly recall "Welcome Back" introduced with the complete certainty that it would please the crowd; it didn't.

There was much taunting levelled John's way, wry sarcastic cheering, but the worst was saved for a new song that Sebastian introduced playfully, or so he thought. In an attempt to revive the successful theme of The Spoonful's smash hit "Summer in the City," Sebastian explained how urban heatwaves lead to rooftop relief. The song was called "Tar Beach," and he asked the crowd to sing along with the chorus, which meant crooning "tar beach." No one did. As much as the former folk troubadour tried, he couldn't win over that crowd.

Later in the show, during another tune since faded from my memory, the crowd began to sing "tar beach." It was a complete mocking, embarrassing for the artist and, for me, cringe producing, though my discomfort didn't prevent me from joining in. I felt terrible for Sebastian, even worse when he tried to join the joke. It was sad and humiliating. I've never forgotten that moment and my complicity in it.

With that in mind, I dreaded seeing Sebastian last night. Would he suck? He wasn't very good 30 years ago though undeserving of such harsh treatment. How would he be now, his voice somewhat ravaged by time? I'm pleased to report that he put on a good show. See, these days The Lovin' Spoonful are legitimate Rock and Roll Hall of Famers and Sebastian has achieved legendary status. Nothing like a few decades to turn a washout into an icon.

Sebastian's voice was a bit croaky, but he generated much good will with his tales of growing up in Greenwich Villae and his sense of humor won over the older crowd. Sure, his recent songs are weak, and, though he was glib and funny, he had a healthy amount of curmudgeon in him. After chastising cell phones and auto-tune, he actually walked off stage, pissed off about someone behind the curtains listening to a device sans headphones. Johnny sucked all the energy out of the show with this prima donna move, but he regained his momentum. On the whole, he delivered and we all enjoyed his time onstage.

So, I feel better. Of course, there was nothing really that important that occurred on that Binghamton night thirty years ago when a bunch of college kids tortured a former superstar well past his prime , but it bothered me and stuck in my head. Now the harshness of that memory is gone and I'm glad.

New Ragazine Post

2011-04-01T05:28:00.000-07:00

Marvin Gaye Remembered

http://ragazine.cc/2011/03/jeff-katzmusic-2/

Roads Taken and Not

2011-03-25T11:06:00.000-07:00

The profound Philip Roth, in The Plot Against America, says this: when we look in the history books, every event seems inevitable, each moment part of an unavoidable momentum. It could have been no other way. But, Roth points out, in the moment, in the past’s present, all is unknown and scary; there’s no knowledge of what happens next. (This isn’t exact, but I don’t feel like looking through the book for it).

Since moving to Cooperstown almost eight years ago, and, in doing so, abdicating a regular job, I’ve had a lot of time to think about life; perhaps too much time. That’s how I spend my days, dwelling on the turns in my life, and, as I reconnect with old friends, thinking on the choices they made that affected the course of my personal history.

Looking back, at choices made, both rewarding and regretful, would I change anything? Would you? There is the Starfleet Prime Directive: no interference, as even the smallest change would affect time’s arrow. (That’s the whole point of Maybe Baby as well). Sure, I wonder what alternate paths could have occurred. Some may have been better, some worse, but all different. (I think often about a career path not taken in early 2000. It involved setting up my own trading group, trading NASDAQ options v. the individual stock options. I took the easy way out and went to work for someone else. I would have cleaned up on my proposed idea. So be it.) The thing is I’m very happy with where I am now and, as a result, every thread in the tapestry must remain in place.

When we came to Cooperstown in June of 2003, our friends and family told us how brave we were. I didn’t see it that way at the time. I do now. Thoughts on how I would make a living, what I would do if my job plans fell through, what such a dramatic move would hold for our entire family, well, I admit I had the blind confidence that it would all work out somehow.

Initially, I did have plans to trade and some ideas on working in conjunction with other trading groups, but I knew deep down my heart wasn’t in it. Once I put trading to bed, I knew I’d never return to it. The “Jeff Katz story” is something still talked about back in the Chicago trading pits among the people who knew me. Most guys I knew wanted to leave that business; few did, and many of those came back later on, somewhat sheepish and embarrassed by their inability to make a go of it elsewhere.

I was determined not to go backward, regardless. What would One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest be if, after the Chief throws the water fountain through the window and runs to freedom, urged on by the whoops of his fellow inmates, he came back a few weeks later? A bit of a letdown, right?

Choosing writing as a possible career came somewhat out of the blue. I always enjoyed the practice, but attempting to make money at it was a ridiculous conceit. It was a challenge I placed before myself: how does one write a book? Can I do it? The Kansas City A’s & The Wrong Half of The Yankees, my only published book (so far) is an interesting, though middle of the pack baseball book. It doesn’t reach the heights of Ball Four, but it’s also much better than the countless crappy sports books that permeate that market. My publisher, Maple Street Press, got me out there and, to my surprise, I found myself on NPR, WFAN and menitoned in The New York Post. It was an important start, a crucial decision that led me to now. Where is now? I can’t say, but, just maybe, I’m on the cusp of something big. Stay tuned. And as to that first book, I sold two copies yesterday to visiting researchers at the Baseball Hall of Fame!

Those other deep thinkers, The English Beat, sang “The only limits we set/what can we get away with?” Picking up and relocating to Cooperstown has resulted in amazing things, things that were inconceivable had I remained in Chicago and worked full-time. Seeing Nate’s growth, a direct result of controlling my own time, or reveling in Robbie’s selection as a Rotary Exchange Student to Brazil, or cheering as Joey won Battle of the Bands, or watching Karen’s Quirky Works Studio jewelry take off, or spending my days translating thoughts into writing, I get the feeling I’ve gotten away with a lot.

Three New Ragazine Pieces

2011-02-20T12:42:00.000-08:00

In the March-April Issue of Ragazine (http://ragazine.cc/2011/02/jeff-katzmusic/)

When Giants Ruled - a few words on then and now

Sundazed, Not Confused - new releases from Sundazed

Sweethearts of the Rodeo - Doug and Telisha Williams in Concert

The Dullest Documentary Director

2011-02-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

What is it about Davis Guggenheim that makes his movies stultifying and soporific?

Is it the subject matter? No one choosing to watch Al Gore talk for 100 minutes should have expected a result other than the sudden desire to go eye-gouging Oedipus on themselves. And that's before the ice caps begin to melt.

An Inconvenient Truth may not have the wild action of, say, Eat Pray Love, but it contains important content and was the guilt-inducing must-see of 2006. But how did Guggenheim manage to suck the wind out of a summit meeting between Jimmy Page, The Edge and Jack White? That truly takes a master's skill. It Might Get Loud was a great missed opportunity as a film, though the trio shone in the bonus features, thankfully devoid of the director's touch.

What could I have possibly expected from Waiting for "Superman?" It was much heralded, to be sure, but the ailments of our public school system in the hands of Davis Guggenheim? Now where's my copy of Burlesque?

Superman is mostly a yawner, with its plodding pace and droning voiceover making it difficult to focus on the crucial problem of our failing schools. However, there are two items worthy of further comment:

1 - Geoffrey Canada, education reformer, takes the role that Buck O'Neil had in Ken Burns' Baseball. Canada is the focal point, the man who takes us through his crushed idealism as a young teacher to his persistence of purpose that led him to create the Harlem Success Academy. His desire to test his theories in the crucible of the 97 block area most conducive to failure is heroic. It is worth getting to know this man, the superhero he himself waited for as a kid.

2 - The film spends much of its time bemoaning the fact that kids sent through the public school system learn early on, in some cases between fifth and seven grades, that they will not succeed and that there is no point in trying. So what do the best schools do, the Kipp Academies, the Harlem Success Academy, the Seed program in D.C.? They take these children, first graders, second graders, babies really, and have them sit in a gym or auditorium with hundreds of other kids and their families, hoping to hear their name called after its been picked from a box. Or they

have a numerical other in billiard ball form that will slide down a track and signal that one lucky tyke has been chosen to move on to a better future.

Most don't get picked, and we get to watch them cry or grow emotionally distant when they realize they're out of luck. What kind of fucking system can be so cruel? And this is perpetrated by the shining examples of the "kids first" schools. Sure it gives Guggenheim a solid ending to an otherwise sleep-inducing film, but it completely undermines the good work of the model educators the director has put forward.

(For more on the disappointing It Might Get Loud, see my ragazine review here: http://ragazine.cc/2010/02/jeff-katz/)

Client 9 (or, The World of Whores)

2011-02-04T06:12:00.000-08:00

Alex Gibney's 2009 documentary on the meteoric rise and straight vertical fall of former New York State Attorney General and Governor Eliot Spitzer, Client 9, is a mesmerizing account of how the worst people on Earth go about their daily business. The scum that rose to avenge themselves for Spitzer's assault on their criminality are given the chance to relate their experiences, hypocrisy free. Spitzer is front and center, not particularly sympathetic himself, but amidst the creeps that abound, he's the Dalai Lama.

Watching former New York State Senate President and Majority Leader Joe Bruno, twice convicted on felony fraud charges, rail against Spitzer's persecution and unfair treatment of his noble self, is jaw-dropping. You know the old joke, about the kid who killed his parents. "Have mercy, your Honor, I'm an orphan." That's Joe Bruno.

But he's an altar boy compared to the Wall Street powerhouses that were felled directly by Spitzer when he was a superhero lawman, or came a-crashing down after the klieg lights were focused on their dark of night thievery. The rat-faced "Hank" Greenberg,

former CEO of AIG is Exhibit A in the case against unfettered capitalism. A down and dirty bandit, ousted by his own board when the company's accountants wouldn't certify AIG's financial statement due to Greenberg's fraudulent transactions, "Hank" has the temerity to assert that Spitzer is to blame for the 2008 economic collapse. Why? You can guess - the troubles at AIG, that led to massive government bailouts of the company would never have occurred under Greenberg's watch. Of course, it may be true, as he may have directed AIG to other types of chicanery. Greenberg's ability to ignore his crookedness that pre-dated 2008 is psychopathic. Sure, I may have molested your kid, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be principal of an elementary school!

Spitzer himself is a flawed mess. Clearly his appearance in the film was part of the massive rehabilitation movement that has resulted in his own show on CNN. Spitzer's comments on his life as hubris and Greek tragedy are a cop out, a way of taking the mundane nature of screwing hookers and elevating it to mythical status. Like the scuzzballs who surround him in the film, Spitzer has an over sized ego, one that results in the occasional third person reference. You hear that and you know you're dealing with a troubled man. His overblown sense of importance permeated his staff. One mentions that Spitzer was on a clear path to becoming the first Jewish President. What world do these people live in?

Look we all want money and we all want sex. What galls me about this motley crew of diseased minds is their unwillingness to look for these things within the confines of existing rules and realities. Was there not enough money to be made legitimately that "Hank" Greenberg had to commit crimes to pad his wealth? Is it not possible for an elected official to serve and not become a felon? Can it be that satisfaction in bed is not possible within a married life?

That's ultimately where I can't connect to these types. Spitzer's story is not about a man who didn't play by the rules he insisted others abide by, or whether his descent was a political hit. Those are interesting points, but not what I derived from Client 9. What I got was a genuine sadness that those who seem to have it all are dissatisfied with their lot and need to break free of societal constraints for more. That's sad.

Springsteen's Greatest

2011-01-19T09:02:00.000-08:00

I got the fortunes of heaven in diamonds and gold

I got all the bonds baby that the bank could hold

I got houses 'cross the country honey end to end

And everybody buddy wants to be my friend

Well I got all the riches baby any man ever knew

But the only thing I ain't got honey I ain't got you

These are not the words of a happy man, three years removed from the album that made him a mega-star and two years into a marriage with a proto-typical ‘80’s beauty. No, these are not the words of a happy man at the top. These are the words of Bruce Springsteen, the opening words to “Ain’t Got You,” the opening track to his greatest and most personal work, 1987’s Tunnel of Love.

Did I really write that, that Tunnel of Love is The Boss’ best work? Not Born to Run? Not Darkness? Yeah, I wrote that and there’s room for argument, I know. I’m content to back off from my claim, but I won’t retreat from this: Tunnel of Love is Springsteen’s truest record, the most personal in his canon.

The huge reaction to the stadium-filling Born in the USA album and tour garnered gold for Bruce, but also produced a crisis of conscience. When the anti-Vietnam War title track, perhaps the best bit of American soul-searching since Buffalo Springfield’s "For What It’s Worth," was co-opted by the Reagan administration, Springsteen’s initial fears that the lyrical importance of the songs on USA would be, at best, ignored, and, at worst, misconstrued when bathed in ‘80’s pop production, were proven dead right. After Bruce broke through to the record buying public with 1980’s The River, he consciously followed up with the brilliant, skeletal Nebraska. Similarly, Tunnel followed Born in the USA, but it is in no way as forced, in no way a “hey, there’s more to me than what you think.” Tunnel is adult, organic, real.

Caught in the spotlight, his profile never higher, Bruce went Hollywood. He met model/actress Julianne Phillips in late 1984, and they married the following year. Phillips was not of the “you ain’t a beauty but hey you’re all right” variety. She was a stunner, a prime example of the Kelly LeBrock/Rebecca DeMornay 1980’s era doll.

As Jimmy Cagney might say, Springsteen was at the “top of the world,” but that was clearly not the case. How clearly is demonstrated, track after track, on Tunnel of Love. Bruce may try to push through his old coarse sentimentality that worked so well in his first decade of recording, and he does in “Tougher than the Rest,” but it won’t wash this time. The jig is up for the working man loser persona, and what’s left is a troubled and confused 38-year-old man/child, at sea in a world of crossed signals and duplicity.

The songs of falseness, particularly “Brilliant Disguise” and “Two Faces,” are unsparing, throwing both husband Bruce and wife Julianne into the same muddy suspicion. “I’m just a lonely pilgrim/ I walk this world in wealth/I want to know if it's you I don't trust/ cause I damn sure don't trust myself” – we’re talking monumental stuff here, Plastic Ono Band raw without the screaming. Springsteen’s self-flagellation is as much a songwriting turnabout as the switch from the Dylan-esque wordplay of his early work to the straightforward approach that began with Born to Run. That’s not to say his character driven pieces are absent – “Spare Parts” and “Cautious Man” are classic Springsteen points of view. But the song after song accounts of car heisters, downtrodden working men looking to let it loose out on the street when the Friday whistle blows are replaced by self-analysis and introspection.

Even a time worn Springsteen theme, the battle between father and son, is handled differently in the deft, serious and sweet “Walk Like a Man.” Now as old as his father, Bruce has a sense of understanding that stretches far beyond the lunch pail, shift working two-dimensional figure of, say, “Factory.” You can see a wistful smile on Springsteen’s face as he sings, perhaps as he begins to realize how complex growing up can actually be.

The freak show of the tile track and “One Step Up” are expositions of a man lost, treading water and sinking at the same time. By album’s end, the killer one-two punch of “When You’re Alone” and “Valentine’s Day,” all is gone, but not lost. Bruce Springsteen found out that for all the trappings of success, money can’t buy him love. Even when he thinks it’s there, it’s not, a cruel magic trick that leaves him desolate though hopeful that love is out there to be regained.

It would be recaptured in his relationship with Patti Scialfa, which would end his marriage to Phillips. The love of a good woman wasn’t the end of this difficult period, and Bruce let the E Street Band loose in 1989, one year after the Tunnel of Love Express Tour. A failed marriage, a new emotional start, and a solo career without his band, heralded the artistic tumult of the ‘90’s, a decade that found Springsteen producing his weakest work. He’d return to prime form, his band in tow, to rescue the crushed spirits of his home area after 9/11. The Rising was the first in a series of a reborn to run Bruce, that has continued on through 2009’s Working On a Dream.

Tunnel of Love was a one-off, a brief but powerful glimpse into the heart of Bruce Springsteen. There’s a good reason that the tunes from 1987 are rarely played on tour; they simply hurt too much. Bruce sang, again in “Ain’t Got You,” “been paid a king's ransom for doin' what comes naturally.” It was never more natural than in Tunnel of Love.

Howdy New Neighbors

2011-01-06T07:39:00.000-08:00

Hall of Fame Election Day is the hands down best event of the post-season, with all due respect to the November issuance of the recent season’s hardware. Yesterday, Bert Blyleven and Robbie Alomar became my fellow Cooperstownians, to be enshrined this summer a few blocks away on Main St.

My feelings on the pointless selection of Pat Gillick were laid out in December (In Celebration of the Plantation Owners). A few words on Blyleven.

Was Bert ever seen as one of the best of his era? Nah, although if Candy Cummings can be inducted for “inventing” the curveball, surely Blyleven has earned his way to the Plaque Gallery with the best breaker of his time. That pitch was some nasty medicine and universally recognized as numero uno during Blyleven's pitching career.

Was Bert even the best on his staff? Definitely on the 1973 Twins, his only 20 win season. Absolutely for the 1984 Indians, when he won 18 games for a 75 win horror of a club. Quite often he played second fiddle to the Gaylord Perrys and John Candelarias. Sometimes even to the Jim Bibbys.

Blyleven is another version of “Sutton Syndrome.” I've always had trouble with Don Sutton as a Hall of Famer, though his numbers are indisputably worthy. It’s just that Sutton was never a #1 kinda guy, rarely the ace of his own staff. In Bert’s favor is his 287 wins for crap teams, much more remarkable than Don’s 324 for consistently solid teams. But I’m good with Blyleven’s election. See you in July.

Robbie Alomar. The best second baseman of the last 30 years, possibly the best of the last six decades when you throw Joe Morgan into the mix. Certainly in the top five of his position all-time. A sure first ballot HOFer last year.

But no. Enough writers’ delicate sensibility was shaken by Alomar’s spitting on an umpire John Hirschbeck in 1996. “Oh, my heavens, this ruffian must be handed a stern lesson.” Please. Would these same scribes have made Ted Williams wait a year for his spewing and bat tossing? Doubtful. It was a shock that Alomar didn’t get in last year. Jumping from just under the needed 75% to 90% is absurd, like the Republican Senators who fought "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell" and wouldn’t allow it to come for a vote. Once it did, it got 65 votes, many from the same people who argued so hard against it. You think Alomar’s a bad actor a la Pete Rose? Keep him out then, but don’t give him some schoolmarmy punishment. It made the writers look silly.

As to Robbie the player, there was no one as fun to watch in the field. No one. He was a diving, spinning, laser throwing artist at the keystone and, when paired with Omar Vizquel (see you in Cooperstown down the road O.V.), it was Nijinksy and Nureyev with more speed and better bats.

Before the 1988 season, the spotlight was put on an Alomar, but it was Sandy Alomar Jr., Robbie’s catcher brother who was the more heralded rookie. In many ways, Roberto’s debut was a surprise. At the plate, Alomar was strong, powerful, a solid run producer. On the bases he was a blur. From 1988-2001, Roberto Alomar was not only the best at his position, but one of the top players in the game. At 34, of course beginning in his first season with the Mets, Alomar began a steep decline that resulted in a weak and sad end to a stellar career at the age of 36. It was sad to see him fall apart so quickly, but it didn’t dim the memory of how great he was.

Karen was pregnant for most of 1992, and as we neared the December due date, we had, for the second time in our married lives, a serious naming discussion. I didn’t like most names for some reason, but after watching the post-season games, one name kept repeating itself in my head: Robbie. I heard that name incessantly during the playoffs, when Alomar slugged, swiped and swooped his way to the ALCS MVP. Though he slumped in the World Series, the Blue Jays couldn’t have won it all without him. Robbie: a great name and no one we knew had used it.

So Robbie it was to be. He was two weeks late and finally arrived on January 5, 1993. That was 18 years ago yesterday, the same day his namesake received the ultimate honor.

Two Pieces in the New Ragazine

2010-12-30T18:57:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year everyone!

Disappearing music:http://ragazine.cc/2010/12/music-dizco-daze/

A sort of Top 10 list: http://ragazine.cc/2010/12/jeff-katz-music-to-your-ears/

Kanye and Me

2010-12-19T07:57:00.000-08:00

“Why do you like Kanye so much?” Karen asked during another listen to My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, this time in the Kia on the way to see Tron:Legacy.

It’s a good question. We are not kindred spirits and I don’t pretend to understand what life is like for a rich black guy, or a very famous guy, or a damn rich guy. I wouldn’t say Kanye speaks to me, but when he speaks at me, I listen.

West’s rhymes never fail to make me laugh. Best lines (from “Gold Digger”):

She was suppose to buy your shorty TYCO with your money

She went to the doctor got lypo with your money

She walking around looking like Michael with your money

Should of got that insured got GEICO for your money.

That piece of lyrical genius is, in itself, enough to make me a lifelong fan, but there’s more. Kanye is the ultimate popmeister, a master at spinning hooks that stab deeply and, coupled with brilliant wordplay, become as automatically quotable as the most memorable lines of your favorite movies and songs. When Robbie came home with a great report card last week, I burst into “Champion” (“This is the story of a champion”) when I saw his top grades. Kanye’s new songs feel old right away. That’s a good thing. With one listen, they are stuck in my brain – instant classics. The only other artist who pulls this off with regularity is Bruce Springsteen.

My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is, after two spins, deeply ingrained. Who else would reach back for that King Crimson beauty, “21st Century Schizoid Man” and take it for a ride in “Monster.” (By the way, Nicki Minaj steals the show; she’s at least five people on this track. Now I have to get her album.) “Runaway” pushes its way onto the list of best songs of the century in its catchiness and depth. Kanye’s turn at Maoist self-criticism is scorching, but, you damn well know he’s pleased with himself for being such a righteous asshole.

Let's have a toast for the douchebags

Let's have a toast for the assholes

We’ve all been there, right, and wished the world would recognize our dickishness as a positive. Well, I’ve been there. Right on Mr. West. And making Black Sabbath’s “Ironman” his own on “Hell of a Life”? Again, who else does this so effortlessly?

Why do I like Kanye? His melodies are indelible, timeless, his patter hysterical and soul baring. And he incorporates all the good bits that came before him, from any genre that fits. Isn’t that what all the true greats have done, from Dylan and The Beatles forward?

That’s why I like Kanye so much.

In Celebration of the Plantation Owners

2010-12-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

Back in the good ol' days, when the working scum knew their places, the great barons of industry were legend. Carnegie, Ford - they made America, not the bohunks, Micks, Sheenys and coloreds who toiled in the factory. Right? That's how it was written in all the textbooks.

Baseball was like that too. The great helmsmen in the dugout - McGraw and Mack - it was they who made the game great. Umpires like Klem WERE the game on the field, their martial manner giving the game its character. Where would the game have been without the steely leadership of Kenesaw Mountain Landis? (Integrated, for sure, since he was a racist bastard). Sure, a Ruth or a Cobb broke out of the fold, but the baseball history books were mostly about the cattlemen, not the cattle. Spalding, now there was a man!

That was before Marvin Miller. Before Miller, the authoritarian figures were more important than the players. What Miller made all of us realize is that the players own the game. The team names, the uniforms, the stadiums are the property of the moguls; the ballplayers ARE the game. Steinbrenner was a great owner? Gabe Paul was a genius team builder? Sure. Just check the Yankees between 1973-5. Add Reggie Jackson in 1977 and, voila, the Yanks are champs again. Now, who gets credit for that? Only a moron would give the kudos to King George instead of Jackson.

The Hall of Fame has voted in numerous executives, managers, umpires and owners over the years, but those men were mostly enshrined in bygone days. Yet, in recent elections, there has been a return to the glorification of the men upstairs, a bowing down to the business interests only exceeded in the halls of Congress. Bowie Kuhn? Are you kidding? Kuhn's son made a heartfelt Induction speech on behalf of his dead father, citing all the progress baseball made during the Kuhn era. Never before had baseball experienced such a growth in popularity, things like that. What was forgotten was that Kuhn FOUGHT that progress with every breath of his being. Miller paved that way.

Does Marvin Miller belong the Hall? I don't know. I really don't care. What Miller did is beyond plaque-worthy. He is the Abe Lincoln of the diamond. Honest Abe didn't need a sign on the wall patting him on the back for freeing the slaves. Every one knew what he'd done, and some hated him for it.

But Pat Gillick? Give me a break. Who's next Walt Jocketty? And this resurgence in enshrining money men and wheeler-dealers would make Larry Summers proud.

"Many years ago those who control the Hall decided to rewrite history instead of recording it," the 93-year-old Miller said today upon receiving his latest rejection from Cooperstown. "The aim was to eradicate the history of the tremendous impact of the players' union on the progress and development of the game as a competitive sport, as entertainment, and as an industry."

That is the true crime perpetrated by the voters today, the reemergence of the corporate over the men who created the memories we all love.

Get out your shackles and buggy whips folks, they're back in style.

"It's Not Personal, Sonny. It's Strictly Business"

2010-12-02T06:48:00.000-08:00

Much has been written about the Derek Jeter situation. I was talking to my brother-in-law last week about it, and I brought up some relevant and relatively obscure illustrative points. One, that I love, is Tom Seaver's incredulity at ownership's shock that players, the most competitive people on Earth, were equally fierce at the bargaining table. I also made it clear that fans have convinced themselves, wrongly, that somehow Jeter is "different" than the rest. Pleased with my unique insight, I opened The New York Times to read some of these same points. So, forgive me if you've already heard some of what you read below.

The Yankees initial offer is, by any reasonable accounts, more than generous and by no means am I pro-management. Fifteen million dollars per year, for three years, already includes the Yankee premium that we all recognize must be there. Jeter's value to the Bombers is more than his value to any other team in baseball. Even Derek must know that. Coming off a bad year, at an advanced age - who else will pay that much?

Just look westward. The Rockies signed the best YOUNG shortstop to a 7-year, $134 million dollar deal. If Troy Tulowitzki is valued (I won't say worth) at $19 million per year, how can Jeter, ten years older, be priced at even $15 mil?

For a slob like me, and most fans, it's easy to say "$15 million is a shitload of money. How can he be pissed off about that?" For Derek, it's a 25% cut in pay and, getting back to Tom Terrific's point, for athletes already super-sensitive to all signs of "disrespect," it is a slap in the face. That both sides are upset, publicly, is regrettable. The new era Steinbrenners are most likely going to be as despicable as younger George was, before he was canonized in his dementia. Jeter's agent, Casey Close, is married to Fox News anchor Gretchen Carlson, so his judgment on what is "fair and balanced" is already questionable.

An idea being floated about is that if King George were alive this never would have happened. Really. How many fans recall the unceremonious dumping of Reggie Jackson after the 1981 season? Granted Jackson was no Jeter in terms of dignity or Yankee service, but Jeter is no Jackson in the realm of publicity and power. Jax' initial year with the Angels, when he led the AL in homers (and strikeouts), embarrassed the hell out of George, but letting him head to Cali was wise. Beginning in '83, Reggie began a rapid descent. He was 35 years old when the New Yorkers let him go.

Will anyone else offer Jeter more to lure him from the Bronx? No way, no how. Long gone are the days when the Yankees would sign Luis Tiant just to stick it to the Red Sox.

Even signing Johnny Damon for the same spiteful purposes seems like eons ago. The Red Sox never had the same meanness of character, or balls, to do to the Yankees as the Yanks did to them, but in these Theo Epstein times, they wouldn't do it because it makes no sense. And Jeter wouldn't keep his pristine reputation, or national endorsements, if he's the 2012 starting shortstop for the Royals.

Ever think of how much Derek Jeter and Eminem share? Both raised in Michigan, both the biggest stars of the last decade, both diddled Mariah Carey. But does Jeter have a Mathers-like recovery in store? Probably not, but whether he has a comeback from his dismal season or not, he will be in pinstripes, to the joy of Yankees fans who'll go crazy as they once again hear Bob Sheppard announce his "De-rek Jee-tuh" as he steps to the plate.

Have no doubt though, that this team's best days are behind it.

Doris Troy

2010-11-12T05:43:00.001-08:00

The single most anticipated remaster (for me anyway) in the great Apple Records remaster project was Doris Troy's self-titled 1970 LP. The soulful singer was the subject of George Harrison's admiration and The Quiet Beatle, at the beginning of the year that loudly inaugurated his new found, post-breakup stature with the release of All Things Must Pass, produced her sole Apple album.

On a joyful, spiritual record, Doris ("Mama Soul"), knocks the shit out of originals and covers. Highlight: Buffalo Springfield's "Special Care" with Stephen Stills guesting. Each tune is a heart-grabber, foot-stomper or soul-searcher. Troy, best known for her original take of "Just One Look," comes scorching out of the speakers, whether in loose jams a la "Give Me Back My Dynamite," or tight, churchy numbers like "Hurry."

I've read that the record suffers from period "heaviness." Nah. George plays with happy elan (no more so than on the bonus version of "Get Back"), Eric Clapton adds typical tasteful flourishes and Ringo pounds away quite brilliantly. It is of its time for sure - think Delaney & Bonnie or Derek and the Dominoes - but it is timeless.

Doris Troy may be my favorite album of the year. Not bad for a 30 year old record!

Two new ragazine pieces

2010-10-28T04:48:00.000-07:00

Jon Weiss and The Resurgent Oneonta Theatre

http://ragazine.cc/2010/10/music-2/

Shiny New Apples for Fall

http://ragazine.cc/2010/10/music-new-releases/

The Killer Inside Him (Not Me)

2010-10-26T07:06:00.000-07:00

Back in '98, I had to break into a new trading pit on the floor of The Chicago Board Options Exchange. Except for a failed one year of trading off-floor, I had been in the SPX (S & P 500) options pit since 1987. Our firm, Arbitrade, had had no success in the NDX (Nasdaq 100) crowd, but I wasn't worried about my prospects. Nearly every broker on the CBOE floor knew me, most liked me, and the traders in the pit were mostly young guys who I'd befriended when they were starting out as clerks.

The pit was tyrannically run by Susquehanna Trading, but it was with the main broker in the crowd that I needed to connect. He had a rough reputation: Vietnam vet, violent temper, and well-armed, carrying a pistol to the floor every day in his briefcase. A challenge? Maybe, but I earned his grudging respect with humor and the ability to do The New York Times' crossword as quickly as he could.

We were talking about books one day, an interest that the other traders in the pit didn't share.

"Have you ever read Jim Thompson?" he asked.

"Only The Grifters." I'd read the novel after seeing the film version and liked it very much. It was even darker and more disturbing than the John Cusack-Annette Bening-Anjelica Huston take, which was harrowing in its own right.

The next day he brought in a stack of nine paperbacks. If I'm interested in a recommendation, I don't like to borrow. I'm a proud possessor of books. They live on and my library is referred to daily. But I took them. Remember, he did have a gun in his briefcase.

I read them all in a few weeks. Each one was fucked up, violent, but fun, in a sick sick sick way. None was more repulsive and gripping than The Killer Inside Me. The story of psycho lawman Lou Ford left its mark on me. Here's an example why: "And I hit her in the guts as hard as I could. My fist went back against her spine." Those two sentences really turned my stomach and, oddly, I've repeated that scene often. Think about it. Those are two remarkably evocative lines of prose. Hard to shake.

So, when I sat down to watch this year's movie version starring Casey Affleck, Jessica Alba and Kate Hudson, I was scared. If the filmmakers backed off the brutality and kinkiness of the novel, then it would suck. If they didn't, it might make me puke.

They didn't. It was brutal, vile, hard to take. And I knew what was coming! Extremely true to Thompson, The Killer Inside Me is difficult to watch. Affleck captures the schizophrenia of Ford quite well. Casey's voice is always odd, but his robotic, quivering and insane tone is perfect here. Alba transcends her to be expected sultriness a turns in some fine acting as Joyce the whore (no heart of gold, but she'll make you cry for her). Kate Hudson, who has made a career based on terrible role choices, is excellent as Amy, Casey's supposedly "nice" girl. Hudson's been on a bit of a streak for me; she stole the boring and dreadful Nine, putting much needed life in that corpse.

Should you see The Killer Inside Me? Hmm, I don't know. Read the book. If you don't find yourself hating humanity after that, give the movie a whirl. You may regret both experiences, but you won't forget them.

Beat Beat Beat with The Rolling Stones

2010-10-20T06:26:00.000-07:00

Keith Richards' grinning Shar-Pei face smirks out from the cover of the new issue of Rolling Stone. Keef's long-anticipated memoir, Life, is soon to be sprung on the world. Richards the writer? The literary giant is even scheduled for a reading at The New York Public Library on October 29. The featured excerpts were a bit flat, though that didn't stop me from devouring every word.

I never fancied myself a huge Stones fan, which doesn't explain why I have 35 of their albums. It's the early years of the Fugly Five that do send me. No one would dispute that the early Stones were the best white blues band around. (Only ex-schoolmate Eric Schaefer would. He believed with all his heart that The Who were better at it than Mick and Keith, but Eric thought The Who were better at everything than anyone else. Paul Lukas and I recoiled in horror!).

It's Keith's reflections on the beginnings of the band that were the most interesting and sincere. The struggles of Mick, Keith and Brian, starving and cold as they pursued the Holy Grail of Chicago blues reads true. It's not an image; it's pre-"Bad Boys of Rock" bullshit that permeates the other bits. The travails of druggie Brian, the love triangle between Jones, Richards and Anita Pallenberg lack passion. Keith says it all in the origins piece; girls came way last for the band. Though the Stones' persona is wrapped around chicks, they never seemed to really care. Anita giving Keith a blow job in the back of his Bentley is delivered with the disinterest one would have in flicking away a fly. Keith tells it as if he's watching as an outsider. There no love on those pages. Hey, no one really believes the Stones love anyone, do they? Think of "We Love You" from Satanic Majesties. Totally false.

When Keith talks of music, now there's a love story, and it brings me back to the start of the Stones. From 1963-66, they were the best at what they did, but who really listens to that period anymore? Compare that to how much we hear of the early Beatles, and how their first records till fly off the shelves. Rolling Stones Now? 12 X 5? Only die-hards buy the Stones back catalog, yet it's their shining hour, when their commitment to what they were doing was all-consuming.

Yesterday I stumbled upon a precious bootleg, Beat Beat Beat, the Stones BBC sessions from '63-'65. They are a powerhouse and loads of fun. I defy anyone who's heard their version of Rufus Thomas' "Walking the Dog" to not break out in a huge grin. And no one did Chuck Berry like The Stones. The radio take on "The Last Time" is a marvel and, boy, they could play. Listen to "Satisfaction." The interplay between Keith and Brian is their sound, never recaptured after Jones' death (or was it murder?).

Though there's no studio chatter that makes The Beatles BBC recordings so enjoyable (and, in fact, I'd rather hear The Fab Four talk than the Stones play), a brief interview reveals what The Rolling Stones always knew: they were never going to stop. Poor Brian, he makes that point though he wouldn't make it into the next decade. Keef always said to whoever would listen that this band would play forever. It's only their audience and the media that came late to that realization.

The Rolling Stones of 1963 would be proud that those band members who survived into 2010 were still rocking, mirroring the lives of the aging bluesmen they revered when they set out on their journey to spread the music they worshipped.

The Post-Modern Deconstruction of Double Fantasy …(or, John Lennon Lives!)

2010-10-19T05:18:00.000-07:00

New ragazine review:

http://ragazine.cc/2010/10/music/

Playing Hurt and Making Mickey Proud

2010-10-04T07:24:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night I had the chills and, every time I rolled onto my stomach, a jolt of pain shot out from my left knee. When I woke up, the knee was gigantic, a glowing, oversized ball of hurt. Against my will, I was escorted to Bassett Hospital for hours of fun, knee-draining (which was cool), multiple blood lettings and an IV bag chock full of antibiotic.

"Stay off that knee," I was warned by my doctor friends. But this weekend was the Hall of Fame Film Festival, and Friday night was a tribute to 61*. Billy Crystal (writer and director), Bob Costas (broadcaster par excellence), Thomas Jane (who played Mickey Mantle in the movie) and Ross Greenburg (head of HBO Sports) were to be in attendance at a reception to be held in the Plaque Gallery, followed by a Q and A and a film showing. Believe me, there was no chance I was going to be home, leg up and cooling under a Ziplock bag of ice cubes. I would be there, pain or not.

Single crutch under my left arm, looking like a World War 1 vet (why did those guys always seem to be single crutched?), I hobbled to the gala. Accompanied by my weekend house guest, Andy Strasberg, Roger Maris fan #1 (look it up) and technical advisor to the movie, I hoped for an introduction to the participants and even brought my book, The Kansas City A's & The Wrong Half of the Yankees, to hand out as a gift. It has Maris on the cover, totally appropriate to the occasion. Plus, I need to improve my self-promotion skills.

I didn't meet Crystal, though Joey, my little Zelig, found his way to the big star.

I didn't pursue Thomas Jane, but as he whooshed by me in his loud plaid suit, I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and I told him how much I enjoyed his cameo in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Turns out Joey had done the same thing. Jane must've thought it odd that two people mentioned this most minor role.

With Andy off to mingle, I made my own way to Costas and snapped a picture of him with Joey.

"I can see there's no family relationship here," quipped Bob. Joey is a mini-me. I handed my book over to Bob and he was truly interested. Over the course of the evening, Bob Costas would prove to be an authentically good guy.

As was Ross Greenburg. Andy introduced us and, immediately Ross focused on my condition.

"Stay off that knee," he said with great concern. "That's serious stuff." He also looked at the book with real gusto.

The Q and A was funny and lively. Afterwards, the Grandstand Theater emptied and refilled, as the two events were separately ticketed. It took me a while to make my way down to the first floor bathroom and back. As I walked in via the 3rd base side ramp of the theater, Billy was trying to get everyone settled so he could begin his remarks.

He saw me. "Come on, come on," he pleaded.

"You can start," I replied.

"Great, he's got a cane!" Oh, to be mocked by Billy Crystal: it made the injury worthwhile.

After the film, we filed out and, in front of the Hall's offices, Costas and Crystal signed autographs for a waiting group of fans. With Andy by my side, I got to talk with Bob and, again, Ross. It's rare to find public figures, and powerful ones, as genuine as these two. It made the night extra special.

Now, in return, I think I'll subscribe to HBO. It's the least I can do.

Vacation, Barbecue and Elvis: My 9/11 Memories

2010-09-11T08:39:00.000-07:00

I like not working on my birthday. September 14th fell on a Friday in 2001 and would cap a pleasant week of laying loose. Maybe I'd stay up late and watch movies. Certainly I would head down to Evanston for a day at Vintage Vinyl and 2nd Hand Tunes shopping for used records. Karen and I would hang out, go out to lunch, and be together more than usual. We always did better the more time we spent together.

For the actual day, we had a party planned, a special one. The guest of honor: a huge amount of Corky's barbecue flown up from Memphis. We'd just taken a family trip to the Home of the Blues and had an amazing time: Graceland, Interstate Barbecue, used record stores, the Civil Rights Museum. Memphis stayed on our mind and bringing a little taste to our friends was to be our pleasure.

Monday the 1oth started the week off well. I remember the night vividly. I was watching Marat/Sade, marveling at a young Glenda Jackson, when Karen called me up from the basement.

"Jeff, Tracey's here." And he was. I'd helped Tracey, an old OEX trader, as he made the transition from floor trader to off-floor position manager. We talked all day about volatility and skew, things that now are part of an almost-forgotten past (although when I talk to traders on the CBOE it comes back like auto-pilot). Tracey was a generous guy and he was holding a large package.

"Hi, Happy Birthday and thanks for all you've done for me," he said as he handed over a gift.

It was beyond belief: a framed Elvis for Everyone album, signed by the King. That it was signed "For Sue," only made it better. Inscriptions tend to be real. A great present, and a wonderful beginning to a whole week off.

The next morning, I slept in a bit. Karen came into our room with the phone. "It's work," she said as she handed over the portable.

Norm was on the line.

"Do you know what's going on? The exchange is closed and we're all going home." I don't remember the rest. Next thing Karen and I were in front of the big screen Sony in the basement watching the smoke and the horrific chaos.

It's too trite to say we were stunned, that it was an unreal experience. I used to work in that area by the World Trade Center and it had a homey feel to it, but that means shit. I wasn't there.

Gale was. Our best friend called Karen and told her she couldn't get home. She was incommunicado and Karen filled her in as best she could. Gale said she could rent a car and drive back. "Did that make sense?" Karen told her get the car and head out. It was unknown when flights would leave New York.

My parents were living by the river in Chicago and, after less than a year there, our relationship had begun to dissolve, the path being paved for the lack of contact we have today. But in the face of the WTC attacks, and the realization that: 1) my parents used to live in the shadow of the towers and 2) that maybe all big cities were on notice, even Chicago, we had to put our negative feelings aside and get them to the suburbs. We did.

I can't remember if the traders got together the next day, but there were meetings to discuss positions and what would happen to the firm whenever the markets reopened. I remember driving into the city and looking up at the Sears Tower with dread. In Murnau's silent classic, The Last Laugh, Emil Jannings is a hotel doorman who loses his job and all the haughtiness and prestige that came with it. As he unravels, he dreams that the buildings are falling on him. That's what I saw as I drove through the canyons of the Loop.

The Friday birthday party was now both anti-climactic and troublesome. One friend lost a good pal in the attack and was in no mood to come. Others were set to be out of town but couldn't fly out.

And the Memphis barbecue? It was cancelled as the boxes of ribs and brisket couldn't fly north to Illinois. Karen luckily turned to Hecky's in Evanston who, on short notice, could fill our order.

When Friday night came, all our friends showed up. Surrounded by delicious food, the sound of blues and Chuck Berry in the air, and the comfort of good people, the birthday party morphed into hours of therapy through love and laughter. It didn't make everything all right, but it helped.

The week that started joyfully ended bittersweet, to put it mildly. And it set into motion the life changes we were to start one year later, buying a house in Cooperstown, moving full time, resetting our priorities and putting our family first. At work, I talked to a lot a guys at Cantor Fitzgerald, traders who I never met but interacted with every day. They were all dead, just like that. If I was going to go tomorrow, I wasn't going to leave this Earth after my daily commute, worried about my options position. I was going to go after a day with my wife and kids. I've lived every day with that as my goal. No regrets.

Coming of Age, Automotive Edition

2010-08-26T09:10:00.000-07:00

When your first child is autistic, you miss out on some milestones as they roll around. Nate doesn't drive, and shouldn't drive, based on the way he plays Burnout and Need for Speed. That boy takes too much pleasure in cracking up cars.

Yesterday, I was supposed to head up to Boston for the Red Sox game, but a 60% chance of rain coupled with thunderstorms made me reconsider a 9 hour round trip for a rainout. (The weather held off and the BoSox played a double-header instead). By staying home, I got to take Robbie for his road test. Actually, four of us loaded into the Land Cruiser and took him to Oneonta.

Karen and Nate headed to a coffee shop and I waited with Rob. His early nerves had faded and he was raring to go. There was a girl ahead of us and she rode off with the test administrator for a long time. Rob and I talked and a Cooperstown friend of his pulled up. His test was soon after Rob's.

One way to lessen the tension was Rob's constant referring to my first driving test, my failed driving test. I was doing OK until I made a right turn in front of an oncoming car.

"You know you just cut that guy off," the proctor said sternly.

Of course I talked back. I was 17 and that's what I did. Bad form. I didn't understand who had the power back then.

"I didn't cut him off; I had plenty of room."

"Take it back," he ordered. Not "take back what you said," but "drive this car back because your test is over." So, all morning, Robbie kept saying at the slightest provocation, "Take it back."

When Rob went off for his test, I talked to our Cooperstown friends. It seemed like a flash that he was back. Uh oh, that was much shorter than that girl's test. And, he pulled up on the opposite side of the street. These are the signs of failure.

The woman who tested Rob got out of the car. Her face was severe, no emotion. I'd noticed that earlier. It's to be expected, getting in car after car with people who haven't yet proven they can drive. That's taking your life in your hands every workday.

She gave me a look and a thin smile. It was OK. He passed. And he really passed - not one point taken off.

Now we have a son who can drive. I'm not worried about him at all; it's all good. Now he can order at the drive-thru (and he did at Taco Bell soon after). Better yet, I can get more sleep as he carts me around.

This transition to adult children is working out very well, I must say.

New at ragazine: Eli "Paperboy" Reed and One Trick Pony

2010-08-21T08:02:00.001-07:00

Two new articles in ragazine.

http://ragazine.cc/2010/08/eli-paperboy-reed/

Record Wars and Family Peace

2010-08-20T05:58:00.000-07:00

Aunt Linda called from Santa Monica last week.

"Hi, I found albums and wanted to know which ones you want. I have Dylan, Firesign Theater. I already promised Robbie a Country Joe and The Fish album."

Since record hunting is now a three player sport in our household, I told Linda to send them all. Between me, Robbie and Joey, we'd pick that carcass clean.

Box one arrived yesterday. Joey was at work, so Rob and I got a sneak preview. We'd already discussed the rules that I proposed. First, everyone has to chip in to pay for postage. Three bucks each, but, as Rod Blagojevich said, you gotta pay to play. Second, we would draw lots to decide who'd pick first. Some might say that as the father, I should go last, or not at all, but, hell man, we're talking records here. Every man for himself.

I checked out the pile often, and it was on second, or third, glance, that I beheld the miracle. Blonde on Blonde was a mono copy with the rare Claudia Cardinale picture in the gatefold. Joey assumed he'd get it, since Rob and I both have copies already, but now it was up for grabs.

When Joey got home, he looked through the records and we used Scrabble pieces of Nate's initials, N, E and K, to decide who went first. The tiles were shuffled on the kitchen table. I picked the K, worth 5 points to the other letters 1. Before I chose, I informed Joey of the Dylan problem. Had he picked first I would have told him as well. Fair is fair. He was crushed, but so you have it. I also told him that inside the Are You Experienced? cover was Meet the Beatles.

It was Joey's turn. He chose John Wesley Harding. I was stunned, and when Robbie quickly snatched The Doors' first album, I had to ask.

"Hey Joey, you've been talking about that Doors album for weeks. I can't believe you didn't pick it."

Here's what happened: in pre-selection talks, Robbie had mentioned he wanted that one Dylan record. Brotherly spite clouded good judgment and Joey went for JWH. So it goes. It's finders keepers, or first come, first serve. Either way, Joey was Door-less.

I ended up getting what I wanted - Fugs, Kaleidoscope's first album, stuff the two of them wouldn't know or care about. After the session was over, Joey was downcast. The Doors mishap had him reeling.

"Hey," I said. "You came back from Chicago with about 60 new albums. Trade with Rob."

The two disappeared and a little while later I went up to Robbie's room. There, leaning against his bed, was All Things Must Pass, George Harrison triple vinyl masterpiece.

"Whoa, Joey traded you that for The Doors?"

Rob laughed.

"I kinda pressured him into it."

I'm still the father here, and, as such rule setter and commissioner. I had to make a snap judgment.

"No sir. You can't get three albums for one." Joey ended up giving Rob Squeezing Out Sparks instead.

Later, I spoke to Linda, who told me another box of records is on its way. Controversy is sure to follow.

Jack White's Other Other Band

2010-08-05T07:18:00.001-07:00

I'm spoiled. I admit it. The concerts I go to these days are wonderfully professional: great sound, punctual start times. I love it. Gone are the days of horrible sound and bands that keep you waiting for hours, for reasons totally their own. When I saw The Rolling Stones on the first date of their 1981 American tour, they hit the stage two hours after Journey ended. As if Journey wasn't bad enough!

Joey and I headed to the Congress Theater in Chicago to check out The Dead Weather. Would I finally see Jack White live? Two years ago I had tickets for The White Stripes show, also in Chicago, that was cancelled as a result of Meg White's stress level, or sex tape, or stress level about the sex tape.

The doors opened at 7 PM, which meant the line that curved around the side street adjacent to the theater didn't move until around 7:30. Once in motion, it became a quasi-military operation, the first half of Full Metal Jacket run by greasy-haired crazy people.

"Two lines!, Don't mess up my lines!" shouted the stringy line monitor. A rough pat down was given upon entry. I was waiting for someone to call me Pvt. Pyle.

Most old theaters I've been to have been restored to their former beauty. Not so the Congress Theater. It's a dingy mess. We headed up to the balcony and sat in smooth, oily seats. Below my feet was a huge pitted concrete patch. I was not overcome with a sense of calm about my surroundings.

I was excited to see the opening band, Harlem. They didn't come out until 9, and by then, the place was a sweltering crock pot of people and weed. Below us at floor level was a crush of fans growing restless by the minute. Joey was growing impatient and the smell of pot saturated the air around him. Later, when I asked if he'd gotten a contact high, he was confused. He knew the song by Nodzzz of that name, but only now got it.

"Oh, so that's what it means," he said with surprise. Another of life's mysteries solved.

Harlem was very good, and would have been better had the sound not been a muddy morass of heavy bass. Every word spoken was unintelligible and their power pop was done a disservice by the venue.

When The Dead Weather came out, the crowd went berserk, watched closely by the giant eye atop the painted backdrop. This may be the first show I've ever seen that I didn't know one song in advance. Didn't matter though, it was exciting to see White and the group. They were excellent, though again, the sound was atrocious.

Know this: in any Dead Weather show, when Jack plays guitar it signifies the end of something. he stepped out front twice, for the last song of the set, and the final song of the encore.

A woman next to my friend said it was the 15th time she'd seen Jack White in his various incarnations - White Stripes, Raconteurs, Dead Weather. The theater was packed with similarly rabid fans, and when they sang and clapped and stomped on the floor, the structural insecurity of the balcony became apparent. I could see the headline in the next day's Tribune:

Scores Die in Concert Collapse

Thankfully, we survived and learned a valuable lesson. It's still possible to see great bands in shitty halls with miserable sound. When my iPhone has better sound than The Congress Theater, there's something wrong.

Let's Get Small

2010-07-15T06:39:00.001-07:00

Last month, I read a story on The Huffington Post that refuses to leave my mind. Daniel Kahneman, a Nobel Prize winning economist, found that $60,000 per year results in happiness. Any amount of earnings above that result in the same level of happiness. "I've rarely seen lines so flat," he said with surprise at the steadiness of response. Sure, Kahneman noted that the level of satisfaction may be higher at $600,000 per annum than at one-tenth the amount, but, emotionally, people remain constant. Below $60K, life is worse ("lack of money certainly buys you misery"), and gets progressively suckier the further from the magic number one gets.

When we moved from suburban Chicago to Cooperstown, there were several motivations: getting kids into a smaller school, regaining huge chunks of my life by not commuting to the Loop, pulling back post-9/11 and spending time with the family before everyone went their separate ways. What I've learned these last seven years is that quality of life is so much more important than quantity of stuff. Seeking happiness through material things never leads to long term contentment. Believe me, I come from a long line of people who have been consistently crushed by the deep seated belief that the next car, boat, house, whatever, would be THE ONE, the thing that would cure their emotional ills. Never worked, never will.

That's not to say I don't have a healthy enjoyment of stuff. Luckily, my tastes are the same at 47 as they were at 17 - books, records, the occasional baseball card set. Sure, those are still "things" but they're pretty cheap and the joy they bring lasts a long time.

Kahneman's study got me thinking. The future is not going to be one of consumption, so the endless pursuit of dough is something of a dead end. Going smaller, getting less, searching for happiness that isn't money-centric, that's the course for me. It sounds great.

Now if I could only stop having to pay a monstrous amount of money on health care, I'd really be in good shape.

Willpower - Do I Still Have Any?

2010-07-06T06:44:00.000-07:00

When I was twelve years old, I had a problem. It dogged me constantly. Grades? No. Friends? A-OK. Girls? Well, that was a problem, but not a big one yet.

What troubled me was my obsessive need to buy packs of cards - baseball, football, basketball, hockey. I was insatiable. No sooner did I open up the waxy outer wrapper (after a ceremonial rubbing of the pack and wishing for a particular card), was I ready to buy more. A vicious cycle indeed and it bothered me. I had to prove to myself that I could break the habit.

I went to the trusty stationery store and bought two packs of Topps Hockey cards, 1974-75 edition. I already had the set, but still bought some packs. See? It was a problem.

Not for this pair. I wrapped them in a taped banner of torn looseleaf paper and wrote the date: January 23, 1975. My plan was to wait a week, then another, then a month. It was a test, and I passed with flying colors: those packs are still unopened today.

Did I prove anything? Sort of. But I've opened thousands of packs since then, so what was the point. I don't know, I was only twelve.

Those cards have been on my mind lately as I feel myself helpless at the altar of record albums. Those who know me aren't surprised by my addiction, but lately I feel it may be out of hand.

I swore this past weekend that I wouldn't order or buy any platters until September. Then, I remembered I may be visiting a label's warehouse and that'll lead to some buying. I have a list already. On Saturday, J., 14 and on the verge of his first stereo, found Vintage Vinyl, ten miles from a wedding we attended in Somerset, NJ. Of course we went, and of course I carted out another 11 records. Jimmy Reed at Carnegie Hall - I couldn't pass that up!

So, can I do it, can I go months without a new batch of discs? I don't know. I may not have the same will as the 1975 me. Yet, I'm starting to wonder if these personal tests and inner struggles are even worth the time.

Regardless, they're no match for the pure joy of finding Magic Christian Music by Badfinger. And on Apple too!

Tough Times for Rock Royalty

2010-06-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

1980 was a rough year for rock icons. The Rolling Stones produced Emotional Rescue, a weak ass album that has some of their most dreadful songs - the title track and "Indian Girl"to name two - and continues that late '70's, early' 80's sound of Charlie's overly loud drums and disco-y beat. Dylan was in the middle of his Holy Trinity of Jesus-music. Saved, his loadoff entry of the new decade, was the worst of the three. Paul Simon suffered the first flops of his unblemished career in both the film and record of One-Trick Pony. Led Zeppelin bit the dust after drummer John Bonham did first. For the ex-Beatles, the year began with Paul McCartney in a Tokyo jail and ended with the assassination of John Lennon.

The musical legends of the 1960's were still dominaning the charts for most of the 1970's. It was the following decade that proved to be ten years of transition and grappling with relevancy (except for Lennon, of course). McCartney decade was a long slog of mediocre albums (1982's Tug of War the lone exception) and the abominable Give My Regards to Broad Street, a film that made Simon's movie look like Citizen Kane. Dylan's descent into dreck ended with his Traveling Wilburys rebirth in 1988. The Stones, well, the Stones finally fell apart. Tattoo You was a monster seller in 1981, but by mid-decade Mick and Keith had fallen out and the band was no more until Steel Wheels in 1989. Richards' first solo work, Talk is Cheap, is the best album of the 1980's by the erstwhile Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World. There's no reason to get into Robert Plant and Jimmy Page's solo works. No on need be reminded of The Firm or The Honeydrippers.

Simon rebounded the quickest, with Hearts and Bones, Graceland and The Rhythm of the Saints. Perhaps because Simon was the least rock starish he made the easiest switch to middle age. To be fair, rock and roll had never grown old. Chuck Berry, Little Richard, they were strictly oldies acts by the time they were 40, blasting out their hits in Vegas and at state fairs. Elvis died cold and alone on his bathroom floor. How did one grow old gracefully and maintain a creative spark? This was uncharted territory.

Lennon did have the key with Double Fantasy, his last collection of songs. He wasn't looking backward on his youthful adventures. He was 40, a father and husband and that was fine. He was comfortable with it and sang with the passion and confidence of a man his age. For the others, it was starting around 1990 that they came to grips with who they were - superb songwriters and musicians. Turning 50, fuck that!

Since then, though sales don't show it, these artists have produced some of their greatest works. Dylan's last four studio albums (not including the Christmas album romp) stand up against any four records he's ever put out. McCartney has never released a consecutive string of five strong albums since he's recorded as a solo act. The Stones' A Bigger Bang is certainly as good as their best product since Exile On Main St. Simon keeps knocking them out, 2006's Surprise an adventurous and finely crafted work.

As much as these men created the rock and roll we know today, the music that merged 1950's animal energy with lyrical sophistication and poetry, they have created the mold for a complete and fulfilling career for rock musicians. The 1980's weren't easy, but it served as a period of growth. Sure, their fans waded through a lot of crap, but it was worth it to get these legends to where they are today.

Two New Ragazine Pieces - Graham Parker and Neil Young

2010-06-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

A Howlin' Wind Still Blows

http://ragazine.cc/2010/06/graham-parker/

Rust Never Sleeps, but Sometimes It Naps

http://ragazine.cc/2010/06/neil-young/

The George Burns Catalog

2010-06-19T05:37:00.001-07:00

After 7 year old Nattie Birnbaum's dad died during the influenza epidemic of '03, he formed The Peewee Quartet with some neighborhood pals. They'd sing on street corners, basements, wherever they could. Now how could Dolly Parton have known his story when she co-penned "Nickels and Dimes?" It's that song, wistfully sung by the very grown up Nattie, that closes the 1980 album I Wish I Was Eighteen Again. By this time, Birnbaum had been calling himself George Burns for nearly 70 years.

My tendency is to binge on records. After the family watched The Sunshine Boys, I immediately realized I had to buy George Burns albums. I loved his style of mumbling lyrics at a brisk pace. Why is it appealing? I don't know. Why do people like Yes? Taste can be a very mysterious thing.

A couple of eBay deals later and there I was, staring at three Burns LPs. Let's dig in.

The Sgt. Pepper spoof that greets you belies a serious endeavor in George Burns Sings (1969). The rushing pace that I expected was nowhere to be found. Buddah Records approached Burns, who assumed they were looking for laughs. Instead, label founder Neil Bogart presented the comic legend with a series of legitimate contemporary tunes to hash out honestly, not for yuks.

That's not to say the record is devoid of jokes. Just listen to "I Kissed Her on the Back Porch." But, dare I say it, Burns straightforward renditions are reminiscent of Willie Nelson, warbling with unpredictable, yet musically dead on instincts. His voice is warm and sweet, his New Yawk accent varying in intensity. "With a Little Help from My Friends" and "Mr. Bojangles" are stand out tracks. Most view Jerry Jeff Walker's "Bojangles" as tribute to a bygone era. For George, its real life. Burns starred in The Big Broadcast of 1936 with Bill Robinson, Bojangles himself! The biggest surprise, both in selection and delivery, was George's take on Harry Nilsson's "1941." It's Harry's song about his the year of his birth, when Burns was a whippersnapper of 45. Perfection.

Walter Matthau looms over Burns in the upper right hand corner, but George Burns Sings predates the great comeback of the mid-1970's. Flash forward to 1980. Burns is now the Oscar winning actor for his portrayal of Matthau's aged vaudeville partner Al Lewis in Neil Simon's The Sunshine Boys. For Burns' sake, he also played God in Oh, God! At the start of his tenth decade on Earth, George Burns found himself the last standing symbol of an entertainment world long gone and a multi-media star - movies, TV, books and, once again, records.

That hat is never gonna touch that gray toupee and rest its brim on those fish lens glasses! George Burns in Nashville is simply another in a series of vocally challenged performers crooning in front of a crack team of Nashville session musicians. Ringo did it well on Beaucoups of Blues, Joey Bishop not so well on Joey Bishop Sings Country and Western. There's nothing wrong with this LP, a totally straight attempt. None of the songs are played as outright comedy, though some are too cute by half. He tackles "Ain't Misbehavin'" again, and, as he did on Sings, simply nails it.

Remember my Willie Nelson comment? Imagine my surprise when, on In Nashville, George sings "Willie, Won't You Sing a Song with Me." It's a great bit, Burns noting that Nelson has sung with everyone (and this was before Willie met Julio Iglesias!), and that they should get together. The offer is made and an opportunity missed. And Burns even had a television special tied in with the record. As the song fades, Burns pushes his credentials - I played God, I'm hot right now, I can help your career. Still, Willie demurred.

Also in 1980 came I Wish I Was Eighteen Again. Another piece of countrypolitan, there's a bit of vaudeville tossed in for good measure. "The Baby Song" is a ditty I'd heard Burns sing on TV, fast, funny, detouring into chatter as the punchline hit. Though slowed down and stretched out, it still works to great comic effect. Tom T. Hall's "One of the Mysteries of Life" starts with a touch of The Ink Spots in George's delivery. And Dolly's tune ends another pleasant album with a touching bit of autobiography.

I finally caught up with some Sex Pistols and Public Image Ltd. records that I've had on tape since college. That's the latest vinyl buying obsession. George Burns and Johnny Rotten - now there are a couple of contemporary record artists I'd love to have heard together.

Shutter Island

2010-06-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

How do I tell you about Shutter Island without telling you about Shutter Island? It's a phenomenal film, as un-Scorsese as any Martin Scorsese film in his canon. Except Kundun, of course. It is part crime drama, part Hitchcockian fantasy, with scenes a la the Dali dream piece in Spellbound.

I tell you what's been on my mind since I watched the movie a few days ago: Leonardo DiCaprio as the new Scorsese go to guy. No more is Robert DeNiro the onscreen image of Marty's films.

When DeNiro ruled the Scorsese universe, he was, as main character, a troubled individual, hard to peg as all-good, all-evil, or all-sane. Johnny Boy, Travis Bickle, Jake LaMotta and Rupert Pupkin didn't see the dichotomy of their inner selves, not really. Sure, Jake pounded his fists and head against his cell wall, wondering why things turned out as they did, but it was all animal action.

Amsterdam Villon, Howard Hughes, Billy Costigan and Teddy Daniels, the DiCaprio roles, are quite aware of the split selves. If not totally aware, then at least they suspect thing are pretty fucked up. It gnaws at them, the shifting reality that they find themselves immersed in, whether by choice or not.

As he gets older, Martin Scorsese has morphed his anti-heroes into intellectual and thoughtful men who contemplate the deeply held angels and devils that live in us all. Now his characters contemplate their dual natures. Back in the day, they simply lashed out with feral ferocity. The only thing that Leo and Bobby share are an upper case "D" and a lower case vowel in their last names.

Today in Record Shopping

2010-06-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

With K. out of town, 17 year old R. suggested we head up to Last Vestige in Albany and buy some records. Good idea. I had all good intentions to buy a few albums. I'm all caught up (look for a post on three, yes three, George Burns albums in the next few days). As Bobby Burns said, my best laid plans, once again, gang aft agley. How agley? Nineteen records worth. Some highlights:

Ever seen this?

Me neither. There are more Beatles bootlegs than I could possibly know, but this was odd. Turns out to be a 1967 issue of a 1964 unauthorized (I believe) hits album. The pic is not the copy I bought. Mine was all taped up, with a sticker from Nursery on Third Avenue. But for a buck, I had to get it.

Speaking of stickers, two albums, Free's Fire and Water and Dave Edmunds' Tracks on Wax 4 had stickers from St. Mark's Sounds on the cover. Ah, the memories of that beautiful store.

I always feel strange buying an album I should have had all along, like Edmunds above. But, life was a series of choices based on available coin back then (and still today in different denominations), so why feel bad. Therefore, I am proud, not ashamed, to announce that I finally got Public Image's First Issue and Second Edition. Too long not to have those. Also, got The Sex Pistols' The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle, with a nice soundtrack sticker on the cover. I've been listening to a tape I made of the record for over a quarter century. Nice to have the vinyl.

Not having a seminal album like The Dead Boys' Young, Loud and Snotty does tick me off. Getting it today for $1 more than makes up for its long time absence. Got their We Have Come For Your Children too, also a buck. Discs are in great shape, covers are much worse for the wear.

It's rare that an album from my want list appears in the cheapie bin, so when I saw The Animals' Ark, their early '80's reunion attempt, I was floored and, obeying the signs from above, packed it in. I took a quick peek at the nicer albums in the racks, the records I was intending to spend my time and money on. They'll just have to wait for next time (I'm talking to you Don Everly solo records).

A Serious Look at A Serious Man

2010-05-29T06:34:00.000-07:00

By starting a movie about Minnesota circa 1970 in the dark night of a Polish shtetl of the past, the Coen brothers make it abundantly clear: nothing is at it seems. No single reality created the skein of our memories. Especially our personal history.

The opening scene, a Yiddisher exploration of the supernatural, provides more questions than answers, and the subsequent sonic belt of Jefferson Airplane singing "When the truth is found to be lies" sets us up for a movie like no other. Sure, A Serious Man contains the typical Coen absurdities of smoking doctors and junior rabbis obsessed with parking lots, but those touches give comic relief to the unrelentingly tensions in the life of a normal man, Professor Larry Gopnick, suddenly in the midst of shifting realities that leave him lost and confused. "What's going on?" he shouts desperately on more than one occasion.

There's no real point in going through the plot, since what is true is up in the air. Accept the lack of ground below you as you watch. The South Korean father of one of Gopnick's students implores him to "Please accept the mystery." Good advice. As a physics professor, Gopnick deals with issues of motion through space and time; his life is a physics problem he can't solve. Like Schrodinger's cat, which he explains to his class, who knows if he is alive or dead. Maybe both.

But isn't it true of all our lives, that many things we thought for sure were one way, get turned around and become something else entirely? Larry is besieged by a world he doesn't quite get. His neighbor is literally encroaching on his world. The middle class Jewish culture that surrounds him gives no solace. Rabbi after Rabbi dispense empty words. Religion fails utterly. When anyone is close to giving Gopnick the answer, or any answer, they refuse. A brilliant scene involving the Columbia Record Club hammers home that even when we do nothing, punishment is sure to follow.

The title refers to a secondary character, a pompous cypher who is, quite the contrary, ridiculous to an extreme. Larry's brother is either an insane scribbler, a nerdy math wiz writing dense probability map of the universe in a much-leafed through notebook, or he's a genius. Or he's something much worse. Dreams become more real as the story unfolds and, at the end, it's still hard to fathom what actually has happened.

Back in the old days of the opening scene, the Polish wife challenges rational reality. Was she right? We don't know. Another famous Minnesota Jew once sang, who will give us shelter from the storm? And what if the storm is in our own mind? Or what if it doesn't exist at all?

Surprising Things in the Middle of Nowhere

2010-05-27T05:51:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday, me and the boys took a long drive west to Homer. There was a Graham Parker concert that I was covering for ragazine.cc. Over an hour into a boring drive, something happened.

"Truxton! Truxton!" I yelled, genuinely excited by the small white on green sign announcing our entrance into yet another tiny town along State Route 13.

Joey thought, "Why is he shouting? Is there a movie reference here or something?"

Still talking to myself, but aware of Robbie and Joey, I said, "This is the birthplace of John McGraw, the legendary Giants manager. I think there's a monument in the middle of town." And there was.

I pulled over to a small spot right next to an imposing granite obelisk. The front showed McGraw's face in relief, with a bit of historical info below. (You can read it yourself if you zoom in). "A great American?" By what standards?

The back cited an exhibition game between the Jints and a local Truxton nine, held on August 8, 1938, as the funding source for this erection. Baseball as the pre-Viagra cure for ED? I'd never dreamed that nine innings could have such a solid result.

I checked back to Charles C. Alexander's definitive bio of McGraw and here's a brief summary of that day. The New Yorkers took a train to Cortland, then school-bused it over to Truxton. The semi-pro locals, also dubbed Giants, took on the big leaguers at John McGraw Field, situated on a plot of land that Muggsy himself had paid for and donated. The game was well-attended, 7,650 fans making their way from all points to place their fannies on bleachers hauled in from Cornell and Syracuse Universities.

The monument made its way skyward in October 1942, placed on the past site of Mary Goddard's hotel, where a much younger McGraw sought refuge from his violent father and skipped town for good, fame and fortune never having a prayer when confronted with his fiery and determined personality.

Tetro

2010-05-15T08:49:00.000-07:00

After watching Hunger last week (see post of 5/9), I've been thinking about the visual aspect of film. We've all seen movies that look great and leave a permanent imprint on us, but fail to achieve what we require to say "That was a great movie." You know, things like plot, action, special effects.

Francis Ford Coppola is a true master of the moving picture. When he succeeds in combining this talent with a strong story, we get The Godfather. No debate on the merits there. When he fails to connect, we get One from the Heart, the movie that bankrupted Francis. Heart is wrong-headed from the start - no story, weak leads (Frederic Forrest and Teri Garr could never carry a feature film). But it is a treat to watch -from the grandeur of a faux Las Vegas built on a sound stage, to Nastassja Kinksi writhing in a giant martini glass. Forget the story, embrace the images.

Coppola's family drama Tetro is his best work since 1979's Apocalypse Now. For me that is not faint praise. I loved Dracula, Tucker and Godfather III (I can sense your outrage. We can discuss this later). The present day scenes are shot in deep and warm black and white; the flashbacks are in color. The dated black and white is the now, the realistic color the then. It's a jarring device that works magnificently. Shadows are played to perfection, achieving both aesthetic heights and narrative relevance. Tetro (Vincent Gallo) is filmed in a chair, the darkness he emits right of a German Expressionist textbook. A scene with Miranda (the always provocative Maribel Verdu of Y Tu Mama Tambien) and Bennie (Alden Ehrenreich) is Bergmanesque but for the over sized phantom image of Tetro projected on the wall.

No surprise that Coppola nails the visual. The family drama, some bits surely autobiographical as it deals with a conductor father, works in so many ways. I read a biography of Francis once, but honestly don't remember very much of it. Was his own musical father Carmine like the cruel, overbearing Carlo? I don't know. As the maestro, Klaus Maria Brandauer lords over the film. I'd forgotten how great Brandauer can be; I have to admit I haven't seen him since 1990's The Russia House.

There's an awkwardness to how the main players interact. It could be bad acting, or a weak script, but I didn't see it that way. The story of one family's self-inflicted misery, and the physical and mental injuries they endure, is mirrored in their lack of connection. What do they have that brings them together as a family? Nothing. It's simply a formality of position: father, brother, son, wife. And why do these people, who by a fluke of birth are tied, have the right to violate the most privately held parts of one's soul? This discourse on the nature of family hit me hard.

It's a shame that a latter day work of genius like Tetro will be overlooked by a public who deems Coppola past his pop culture prime. How many will see this movie? Sadly, very few. But Coppola presents us with some real challenges. How do we merge our private and public selves? How do we accept the painful truths of who we are? What is the nature of family? Why must we avoid the far greater damage of trying to make the false real? These are crucial questions for us all to grapple with.

Fortunate Sons

2010-05-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

Bonds and Griffey, the Goofus and Gallant of the last twenty years of baseball. But is it clear which is which?

http://www.seamheads.com/2010/05/10/fortunate-sons/

Hunger

2010-05-09T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what enthralled me about the 1981 hunger strike at Maze Prison. It may have been part of a general awakening to world affairs that began in my freshman year at SUNY-Buffalo. My arrival coincided with the rise of Solidarity in Poland, and that peaceful revolt was very exciting to watch unfold.

I had no overwhelming predilection for things Irish, other than a couple of Van Morrison albums. But when Bobby Sands began to refuse food on March 1 to protest British rule, I was entranced. Two months later he died and by that time others had joined in the strike. By the time it ended in August, ten men had willed themselves to die.

For some reason I took great pride in remembering the names of the fallen, but that information has long been squeezed out. The lingering effects of that time remain, and when I saw that Steve McQueen (not that Steve McQueen) made a film about it, I couldn't wait until the DVD release.

McQueen is an art gallery filmmaker, but Hunger is not simply an art piece. It is permeated by an aesthetic that is gripping and thought provoking, many times beautiful and always steeped in humanity. McQueen's films were exclusively black and white and silent until 1998, and the absence of dialogue marks the first and third parts of the movie. The centerpiece in a full 25 minute medium shot of Bobby Sands and his priest, sitting at a table talking. Talking, that's it (and smoking). We as viewers have developed the same sense of isolation and loneliness of the jailed and are desperate for conversation. It's a scene that would never work if all that preceded hadn't paced for it.

The director shows depth for all characters: guards, prisoners, riot squad members, parents. That's not to say I felt sympathy for many, if any, of the people presented, but I did get a sense of who they were and how they lived in the world and in themselves. Giving humanity to the seemingly inhuman is no easy task.

Beauty is found in the most unlikely places. Urine, poured from within the cells into the hall merge into an ocean. One guard, smoking outside with his back to the wall, stands immobile as snow falls, its whiteness a stark contrast as it crosses his black pants. Pre-hunger strike, the prisoners engaged in a "dirty protest," refusing to bathe and smearing their feces on cell walls. One maintenance man, charged with the unenviable task of power washing the filth, is hypnotized by the stunning patterns he must spray away. Art through shit.

I'd read about a shockingly violent scene and, I admit, I'm a bit of a baby when it comes to that. I watch few horror flicks, but when I do I fast forward when I think something bad is coming up. Getting a glimpse sans sound takes the sting out. I tried that in Hunger but missed. It is, quite literally, a jaw-dropping moment.

I've been in a bit of a slump with recent movies choices. I saw Nine last night. It was, to be fair, a visual feast, but, vapid and empty. Plus, the songs suck. Hunger is a must-see, a fascinating work of art, deep in content and meaning, unforgettable as a moving picture.

Is It In My Head? (Or, Inner Groove Distortion)

2010-05-04T07:17:00.000-07:00

About two years ago, I upgraded my old turntable for a brand new Rega. Now I’m no audiophile, believe me, and I’d never heard of the Rega brand until ten years ago, when I finally said goodbye to the stereo I’d been using since college and stepped up a notch. It was the dawning of the new millennia. I had been fairly successful in my trading career and, maybe, just maybe, I could treat myself to some nicer equipment. Someone told me about ProMusica, a high end shop in Lincoln Park and off I went. Setting a budget of $5000, I told the audio men what I wanted: a turntable, a single CD player (no multi-CD magazine for me, I don’t listen to music that way), an amp and speakers. They turned me on to Rega, the best bang for the buck they said. I took them at their word, and their word was good. My records sounded completely new. Wait, was that piano part always there in “She’s a Woman?” Who knew?

When we moved to Cooperstown, I luckily found Rich Brkich at Signature Sound (www.sigsound.com) in Liverpool. It’s a pretty big schlep from here to there, but Rich has been my go-to guy. And when I was ready to trade up, he gave me good advice. But when I played my first platters, there was something amiss. I thought I heard my records take a turn for the aural worst as each side drew to a close. Was there a muddiness there, or was I hearing things?

It wouldn’t always be there, but different albums have different time lengths and the fat black blank space encroaches further away from the hole. (That sounds faintly pornographic). Maybe it was in my head. Then I read about inner groove distortion, and I was falling into an abyss. Oh no! Listening to records was not a pure joy anymore. No good! I finally brought my turntable in to Rich. He tested it in ways known only to men of his skill, involving test records and such. There was something wrong with the factory installed cartridge. Vindicated at last!

I was without my turntable for over a month, as I waited for word from up North. It was a lonely time, only made worse by my insatiable desire to buy records, even though I had no way to play them. I bought a small pile of early rock reissues from Norton Records. I can tell you that Johnny Burnette’s Rock ‘n Roll Trio album, all 180 grams of thick black vinyl surrounding a beautiful Coral label, was calling out to me from its spot on the floor by my left leg. Stop! I will play you some day. I promise. Karen found some old Jan and Dean and Frankie Avalon albums at a garage sale. And I bought limited edition National Record Store Day releases. Plus the Mancini soundtrack to Hatari! for a buck.

Always looking for little ways to improve my sound, I bought a Herbie’s mat that sat in its cardboard box, awaiting its new home. What is that, you ask? It’s a mat, made by one Herbie fellow, which is supposed to hold the record fast to the platter and do other things I’m not quite sure about. I finally got word from Rich that his distributor agreed that the cartridge was defective from the get-go and offered to replace my SuperElys 2 for free, or give me a half price Exact2, a huge improvement (according to Rich. I have no idea what any of it means). I went with the latter and, with that, my turntable was returned home.

Problem solved, records sound great. But, as is my nature, I’ve moved on to another issue. Can’t be happy for too long, right? I buy a lot of records, some new, most used. Sure, I could buy one $30 remastered classic on 180 gram virgin vinyl, but, you know what, I’d rather buy 30 albums I never heard in something less than pristine condition. Quantity beats quality on this one. Disc Doctor is my preferred solution for cleaning those finger smudges, dust and miscellaneous bleccch that adhere to many neglected discs.

Two record junkie friends of mine recommended I buy the VPI 16.5 record cleaning machine. It’s a workhorse of a machine that vacuums up the offending filth. What you do, according to the experts, is soap up the record with Disc Doctor, put it on the VPI, and let the sucking begin. Then a rinse, another suck (talk about faintly pornographic), and, voila! your soiled discs have never sounded as good.

But I’m still unsure. Do I buy this $550 machine? What do you think?

A Couple of Follow-Ups

2010-05-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

Back in December, I wrote about Avatar (Blue Man Group in Space). I had high praise, with some criticisms. Last night, the family gathered to watch it on Blu-ray and, though I was not looking forward to seeing it again, I was taken with the story much more than upon first viewing. It's still a simple tale, no doubt, but this time around I was struck by its emotional clout. The power of seeing it on the big screen, in 3-D, is gone, and, in a way, that's good. Watching at home, in plain old 2-D allowed it to be, well, just a movie. And it's a great one. (Read the first post for more detail).

One comment on James Cameron's ability. In an early scene of Avatar-human interaction, I (and I'm guessing you), was struck by how huge the Na'vi were compared to the Earthlings. It's a mankind-centric point of view. Later, when Sigourney Weaver is taken to the holy site, I (and I'm guessing you) was struck by how puny man was in relation to the natives. It's a Na'vi-centric POV. That switching of perspective, done very subtly and through excellent pacing, is a testament to Cameron's skill.

Two weeks ago, after a National Record Store shopping spree, I wrote a post (Keepin' v. Sellin' - The Eternal Battle Continues). Well, no surprise to those who know me best, I'm keeping my haul. So there. I lost again. Or did I win? I'm not sure, but it never was very close, not with the bag perched next to me, the records calling to me like tell-tale hearts of vinyl.

Did I Need to Know That?

2010-04-22T05:22:00.000-07:00

Have you ever met any of your heroes? I have, many times. It's an odd experience, these demi-gods reduced to mere mortals. I've spent time with two of the greats in my musical pantheon, Dave Frishberg and Roger McGuinn.

Frishberg and I had dinner together twice, drove from Albany to Cooperstown and back, visited the Hall of Fame together. It was all cool, he being a bit more anxious than I would have thought, but a good guy. I got to drive McGuinn and his wife around, Roger sitting in the middle row of my Land Cruiser. There was one of the legends of rock, the inventor of The Byrds sound, peering his head between the two front seats like a kid.

Both men were different than what I'd expected, although I couldn't put a finger on what I actually expected. Meeting them didn't take away from them musically. It wasn't like they were assholes or anything.

Which leads me to Chet Baker. I've always liked Chet, but to a point. I found him limited as a trumpet player, affected and bland as a singer. Yet, there are times I crave listening to him. Not often, but sometimes.

Having recently finished James Gavin's bio of Baker, Deep in a Dream, I find it impossible to separate the evil person and the musician. I had seen Bruce Weber's documentary Let's Get Lost back when it came out in '88, and knew Baker was a fiend, but reading it over hundreds of pages made me detest him.

It's a relentless tale of deceit, physical and verbal abuse of his friends, wives and lovers, squandered talent, and drugs drugs drugs! One vignette of shooting up into his scrotum is enough. More than that, well, eewwww! He was a bad, bad man.

When I write my Maybe Baby (or, You Know That It Would Be Untrue) blog, I surround myself with the music of my subject. Same happens when I read a bio, if appropriate. (I haven't found the right soundtrack for Caro's LBJ series). Yet, every time I instinctively went to press play for a bit of Baker, I couldn't pull the trigger.

Perhaps that's the sign of a great work of non-fiction, although Gavin and Baker's hangers-on all try to promote the good side of him, especially he played the few notes he could muster. Bullshit. He was a bastard, 100% through and through. And now, I'm not sure if I can ever listen to him again.

She & Him, Volume Two

2010-04-21T06:20:00.000-07:00

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/she-and-him-volume-two/

Working My Way Through Bergman

2010-04-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

Often I tell my kids what life was like for a movie fan in the 1970's. They can't even believe that once a movie left the theater, there was a pretty good possibility that you'd never see it again. I remember scouring TV Guide or the Newsday equivalent, to make sure I caught an old movie late at night. The VHS revolution was a godsend, but, even so, it was a frustrating experience. For every 20 copies of Tango & Cash, there might be one of Yojimbo. Seen it.

I don't recall when I discovered Home Film Festival, but I think it was in the early '90's. They were a video rental service with a monster catalog of silent, foreign and cult films. It wasn't cheap, 21 bucks for three movies, but it was worth it. With HFF, I finally tore through all Kurosawa, Fellini and Truffaut, and caught up on a mess of pre-talkies. I still remember N. and I watching Buster Keaton's Spite Marriage. N. still talks about the scene where Buster is putting on a false beard and almost cuts his ear off with a pair of scissors.

Then came Netflix and the three movie a week schedule I've kept up for seven years. Now, finally, I'm making my way through Bergman. Unlike Truffaut or Fellini, thoughtful directors who made enjoyable movies that I could watch every week. Bergman is a a hammer blow and it takes a long time for me to process his work. I saw Persona months ago (maybe it was last year) and I'm still thinking about it.

Last night I watched The Virgin Spring. I won't get into too many plot details, but I can tell you that it was very disturbing, in a way 1960 films were not. The ending threw me into a state of emotion I haven't felt since von Trier's Breaking the Waves.

It's interesting to note that The Virgin Spring was sorta remade into Wes Craven's Last House on the Left. Never saw it. I have a real fear of 1970's horror classics. There, I said it. They always feel too real. I'm not sure I could handle it.

So, until I'm mentally ready for the next Bergman opus, it's a strict diet of Erik the Viking and Iron Man 2.

Keepin' v. Sellin' - The Eternal Battle Continues

2010-04-17T10:53:00.001-07:00

Back in the SPX options pit, we would always have this discussion, usually started by me.

"I just got this baseball card (or book, or record) for $1. It's worth $100."

"Well, if you don't sell it, then it really cost you $100," said another trader, usually Rob S., the devil himself.

"Nah, I don't see it that way. I got the card (or book, or record) and I want it. I only paid $1." Now I knew what he meant about opportunity cost and market value, but that can't always be the barometer, can it? Not everything needs to be reduced to potential profit. Isn't there a value to be placed on owning something you like? Maybe that attitude is why I never reached greater heights in trading.

"You're wrong," Rob responded and turned around, probably to squirt water at someone, or put pretzel salt in their coat pocket.

Before I got a Facebook post from the Bruce Springsteen page a couple of days ago, I had no idea that today was National Record Store Day. I also didn't know that there is a vinyl shoppe in Utica called Off-Center Records. With most of the family off to Italy, N. and I went up to beautiful downtown Utica. Rome v. Utica, well, you know where I sit on that decision, especially if there are albums involved.

On The Boss' post was mention of a special limited record for today's quasi-holiday. I headed to the official site for Record Day and saw all the special releases, but none gave me that "I MUST HAVE IT" vibe.

There was a little line, maybe 7 or 8 people, at 10:55, five minutes before the opening. The owner (or someone who worked there, I couldn't tell) was pleasantly surprised as he cut his way through the mini-crowd and unlocked the door. "Let's rock," he exclaimed, and we were in.

I asked where the rare, serial-numbered releases for the day were, and I was pointed to a couple of racks right behind me. The LPs didn't look like much, so I turned to the 7"'s. The top shelf had a Neil Young Harvest item, but I didn't care. Then the guy next to me reached in front of me to the lower shelf and pulled out a John Lennon Singles Bag.

I grabbed the other. Three 45's, a poster, and more goodies, for $22. That whet my appetite, I can tell you. I grabbed the new/old Stones 45 of "Plundered My Soul," an Exile on Main St. era release. An Elvis P. 45 of "That's All Right" followed, then an Elvis C. EP of a live show at Hollywood High. Returning to the long-player rack, a Hendrix live found its way into my stack. Anything with "Red House" is a must have.

N. was in the back of the store in old VHS heaven. I looked around a bit. Good store, nice inventory, way too high prices. I did get the soundtrack of Hatari for a buck though.

While checking out, I asked the owner/cashier how the small amounts of records were divvied up between all the stores in the land. He said it was hit and miss, and he didn't get all he wanted. A Parlophone 45 of "Paperback Writer/Rain" in a reissued sleeve sounded nice. A colored vinyl Moby Grape had me drooling, but I was satisfied by my haul.

Then I got to thinking, "Do I really want these 45's, or was it the impulse of finding things that were new, hard to come by and very cool?" As soon as I got home I went on ebay. The Lennon piece is already $50 or more. The Stones song, which cost $7, is also at $50. Elvis P. looks like it's in the $20-30 range.

What to do? Do I really want the Stones single if I can sell it for 50 smackers and then download it for a buck? How much is a reproduction of "Imagine/It's So Hard" really worth to me? I really don't know.

I can tell you this: all records will remain unopened for the next week as I watch the auctions unfold. Sellin' may win this battle, a rare victory.

Hey Norton!

2010-04-15T06:46:00.000-07:00

Life in Cooperstown has taken me to odd places. The lack of a 9 to 5 job has freed me up to pursue other interests. My involvement in local concerts has led to encounters with Paul Simon and Roger McGuinn. The burgeoning writing career (hopefully some developments on that in the near future) resulted in a gig as music editor for ragazine (ragazine.cc) and, in 1 1/2 hours, a phone interview with Graham Parker.

A few months ago, I had lunch with Jon Weiss, formerly of The Vipers, creator of Cavestomp, sax dude for The Fleshtones. As we reminisced (I was a big fan of the '80's garage rock revival), he asked if I knew Norton Records. I didn't then; I do now.

I headed over to their site (http://www.nortonrecords.com/) as soon as I got home. Paradise! I was home. Esquerita, Gene Vincent, monster mags, boss descriptions and the coolest vibe this side of Piscataway. As is always my lot, I percolated on my first order for weeks, trying to decide what to get first, balancing volume and cost.

Here's what I chose:

2 Esquerita LPs, one a Capitol reissue that Jeff G., my old Binghamton roommate had and I taped (and still listen to). Another, Vintage Voola, a compilation created by Billy Miller and Miriam Linna, the brains behind Norton. Miriam was the original drummer for The Cramps and has the largest vintage paperback collection around (the kind of hoard one would expect). Billy is singer for The A-Bones and started Kicks magazine and Norton with Miriam.

2 Gene Vincent reissues, Bluejean Bop and Gene Vincent and The Blue Caps.

1 Johnny Burnette and the Rock 'n Roll Trio

1 At Home with Screamin' Jay Hawkins

How are they? I don't know because my turntable is awaiting a new cartridge. So, as I sit typing, Gene Vincent's happy face beckoning from the floor to my left. Yet, I can't stop poring through the print catalog. There's so much to get: 45 split-sided covers of old Stones songs, Bo Diddley reissues, and on and on. I should wait until I can actually play the records before I order more, but that should be in a week or two, I hope. It's pretty lonely without vinyl.

Thanks Jon for the tip. Thanks Billy and Miriam for existing. So sorry it's taken me this long to get on board.

Get The Nodzzz

2010-04-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

Saw Nodzzz. From San Francisco. Opened for The Soft Pack. At Mercury Lounge. Tiny club. Lower East Side. Near Katz’ Deli. Had pastrami. And a knish. And a hot dog.

At club. Long narrow bar space. Too tight. Lots of kids. Could be their father. A little uncomfortable.

Awesome show. Geeky trio. Double lead singers. Cool guitar interplay. Quirky pop tunes. Kinda like The Feelies. Or The Voidoids. Lots of fun.

Bought CD. From singer with Clark Kent glasses. Ten bucks. Ten songs, fifteen minutes total. Haven’t stopped listening. For days. Very catchy.

I’m hooked. You should be too. Go here: http://www.myspace.com/nodzzz

(From ragazine, http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/music-hendrix/)

My Imaginary Friend Has a CD

2010-04-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

The talented Mr. Jon Nickoll.

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/cinema-music/

Holy Grail Acquired

2010-04-02T18:24:00.000-07:00

My take on The T.A.M.I. Show on ragazine.

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/music-grai/

Valleys of Neptune

2010-04-02T18:21:00.000-07:00

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/music-hendrix/

The Mirror Seaver

2010-04-02T18:08:00.000-07:00

A new top story on Seamheads, by me.

http://www.seamheads.com/2010/04/02/the-mirror-seaver/

Bo Belinsky: Livin' the Life

2010-03-31T05:27:00.000-07:00

A recent piece on Bo Belinsky can be found at Seamheads.com.

http://www.seamheads.com/2010/03/24/bo-belinsky-livin%e2%80%99-the-life/

Heading Up River with Joseph Conrad

2010-03-24T05:22:00.000-07:00

Before becoming the target of lies, smears and general hate in the campaign for Mayor, I would say the worst thing about living in Cooperstown was the lack of reading time. Don't get me wrong - I do not miss the commute back and forth from Lincolnshire to Chicago for a fun-filled day of options trading. But having at least one hour per day to read, Monday through Friday on the train to the Loop, was a treat. I could could knock off a normal-sized tome, say 250-300 pages, in 7-10 days. I covered a lot of literary ground over 20 years.

Now it takes forever to get through the average book. I just finished Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim after 4 months. It's only 300 pages! I did read The Bronx is Burning, which I didn't like, during the same period, but that was the upstairs book, number two on my priority list.

Have you ever read Conrad? Jim was my third. Like many, I was introduced to Conrad via Apocalypse Now, based on Heart of Darkness. I've read Heart twice and like it, though it is slow and creepy. There's an aura to Conrad's prose. If you've seen the movie, and can remember the foggy scenes as the crew makes their way to Kurtz, that feeling of haunting claustrophobia, of something disturbing lurking just out of view, that's how Conrad makes you feel. The book has one of my favorite descriptions, of "the harlequin dressed in motley." That character is, in Coppola's movie, Dennis Hopper. I can never think of one without the other.

The Secret Agent is the most enjoyable read of the trio. Taut, oozing suspense, with a depth of character that puts it apart from the average anarchist drama. It's a story that Hitchcock would find appealing, and did. Sabotage, filmed in 1936, is one of Hitch's early best, the bomb in the film can sequence enough to still drive an audience up the wall with anxiety. The Secret Agent will blow you apart. It's that explosive.

So, back to Lord Jim. It took a long while to get into, even though it has one of my favorite devices, the unreliable narrator. Zeno's Conscience, by Svevo, and Ford's The Good Soldier rank high on my list of novels told by lead characters not quite grounded in reality. Jim is a difficult guy to get close to as a reader, and I couldn't understand Marlow's affection and attraction. Not my problem, I'm just the reader.

I pressed forward, ever so slowly, and last week decided I had to get this done. Once I hit the 100-page-left-to-go mark, it's full speed ahead. At this point, Jim has regained a stature of pride and dignity he professed to have had all along, though there was nothing on the page to back that up. Interesting enough, but with the end in sight, I was chomping at the bit to wrap it up.

Then, with one page to go, Conrad punches you in stomach with a sudden and emotional wallop that leaves you staggering. Then it ends. Boom, just like that. A steep cliff of a denouement, I must say. I had to read that last page or two over and over to make sure, and each time I was blown away. The description of Jim's last scene is so visual, I can see now why Conrad, though a very intellectual writer, lends himself to film so well.

As to Jim's story of redemption, I know of few of those types, some even named Jim, who might benefit from reading Conrad. There's still hope for you!

Putting the "Late" in Legislate

2010-03-22T04:24:00.000-07:00

I admit, I kept an eye on the TV all day yesterday, and stayed up all night to watch the Health Reform voting. You'd think after losing my own election almost a week ago and being hit with a slew of vile lies that I would remove myself from any and all politics, but no.

As I listened to the arguments, pro and con, I thought back almost seven years ago. We were planning on moving to Cooperstown, and I wasn't sure how I would proceed in trading. My first order of business was to find health insurance. Since I was leaving Equitec, I had to find private insurance for the five of us. One call, the first, scared the shit out of me.

I was informed, right off the bat, that N. was uninsurable. Why? Autism. I couldn't believe it and protested.

"He doesn't cost any more than a regular kid. He has a couple of prescriptions, that's it," I argued, trying to keep a lid on my fear and anger.

"It's a pre-existing condition. No one will insure him."

Being autistic would preclude him from having coverage for a broken leg? For pneumonia? For cancer? It didn't make sense.

Everything worked out, as the CFO of Equitec offered me a trading account within one of the limited partnerships and, as long as I paid my way, access to the same health coverage I'd been under for the past three years. What a relief! Thanks Fred.

Now I get to pay $21,000 each year for health insurance. N. is fine. He ended up qualifying for Medicaid due to his autism, which takes a huge load off our mind going forward. He'll be 20 in August.

That experience was on my mind as I listened to the endless stream of House bills: HR 3590, HR 4872, HR Haldeman, HR Pufnstuf. Is health care a "right" or a "privilege?" Maybe it's neither. Maybe it's just something that as moral people we should all be concerned about. I'm no Christian, but I believe "do unto others" is the way to live. Shouldn't we care about the lives and health of all people? If we should, then a course must be set to meet that concern.

That's where the Republicans lost it last night. Minority Leader John Boehner screamed "Hell no you can't!" Speaker Nancy Pelosi spoke, not on the arcane parliamentary process, but on the coverage of 32 million people, on the elimination of pre-exisitng conditions, the end of rescissions. Think about that last one. No longer can insurance companies kick you off your policy when you become too sick for their balance sheets.

Do I believe that the CBO score is unimpeachably correct on the future deficit reduction powers of health reform? I don't know. Do I share the GOP's belief that this bill will lead the nation to further expansion of health care provided by the government? Absolutely. These type of programs only expand, they never lessen.

And why is that bad? Forget the "we'll become European" claptrap. What is so terrible about making sure Americans are given adequate medical coverage. Again, I won't speak as a knowledgeable Christian, because I can't, but isn't it true that we are supposed to look after those less fortunate? Isn't that the tenet of most religions, of most civilized societies?

Rectangular Solace

2010-03-19T09:28:00.001-07:00

My love for cards has never been limited to baseball and sports. My earliest memory involves Beatles cards, when I was, what two years old. I find that hard to believe, but it's true. Unless they were still available in packs for a couple of years after 1964. I don't know.

I bought cards, or had them bought for me would be more accurate, and they were always tossed out with my permission. It wasn't until early 1972 when I began buying older baseball cards after noticing dealer ads at the back of The Sporting News. I figured, if I was buying old cards there wasn't a lot of sense in throwing out the new ones.

In the 1970's I attended the two card shows each year in Manhattan. The dealers were into the hobby for its own sake. As a teen, it was heady scene to be surrounded by vintage memorabilia and actually purchase some. I'd save my birthday money and Hanukkah money and hit those shows with $100. I got every Koufax card, a smattering of Mays and Mantle (neither my big favorites), and some great sets - the 1959 Fleer Ted Williams, the 1969-70 Topps Basketball Rulers, and so on.

During college I put my yearly collecting on hold, a bit ashamed of the hobby, but, once I graduated I caught up on the sets I'd missed form 1981-84. And I started to go back to shows. I had a huge amount of 1967 Topps cards and vowed to finish the set. I'll never forget going with K. to a show and completing the task, save one card.

"I can't believe they didn't have that Red Sox team card," I said to K.

"No, he said he had it in another box." I hadn't heard that, she had. So we went back and got it. Save by K.

There's a lot of card related tales that mean much to me and very little to you. Sometimes my interest in the hobby wanes, sometimes it roars back. After losing the Mayoral election, I find myself passionately thumbing through the 2009 Standard Catalog of Baseball Cards, acquiring courtesy of T.W. who found cheap copies near his Clinton home.

I've been scanning Ebay for cards, a Roger Staubach autograph here, some 2000-01 short print Heritage Basketball there. It's nice to turn to an old friend, my oldest really, for a little mindless cardboard joy.

A Few Week's Worth of Stuff

2010-03-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

When we last met, I had just gotten back from a two day break from campaigning.

Here's some scattered happenings since then.

1) Campaigning has filled most of my days and been great. I completed knocking on every door in the Village on Thursday. It's not that small a place when you hit every person. And when you make a point of trying to talk with people, as opposed to only jamming flyers in their doors, it takes a while. Though not everyone was home when I popped in, I spoke to hundreds of people, many who I never see in my daily travels. Very enjoyable, very informative.

I also appeared on local access TV for a 1/2 hour interview and participated in Candidates Night at the County Courthouse. Those were fun as well, especially the latter as residents get a chance to ask questions that are on their mind. The feedback from that night has been incredible.

2) The usual 2-3 movie per week schedule is still intact. I saw The Invention of Lying, a mostly unfunny Ricky Gervais film. It may be the first Gervais project that didn't crack me up. It is pretty subversive, though, on its out and out shot at religion.

There are a few Robert Altman films I haven't seen. Sad to say Thieves Like Us with Kieth Carradine and Shelly Duvall, was one. Finally caught up with it and, like all Altman flicks, it's a treat. Quirky, muted story that packs an emotional wallop and leaves you with the feeling that you've watched real people. It's easy to forget how great Duvall is now that she's out of the spotlight, but, man, she delivers.

What is that quality, exactly, that makes a horrible movie so enjoyable? I watched Dolemite last week in my ongoing effort to cover "blaxploitation" films. Such bad acting, such terrible editing, a boom mike that makes appearances throughout. But when the actors take a peek at the camera as they leave the room, it's a hoot. 1970's film nudity is, as I've mentioned before, unnerving. Since the actors are not creations of a plastic surgeon, but real people without clothes on, it feels like a real invasion of their privacy to be peeking in. Dolemite has the most troubling nudity since Schindler's List, but Spielberg wasn't trying to be sexy. Dolemite is and it is the worst assortment of naked flesh I've ever seen!

The best movie I've seen lately is Moon, directed by Duncan Jones, formerly known as Zowie Bowie. He was, and still is, David's son. I can't really get into it without revealing too many plot points, but let me say it is a worthy addition to brainy sci-fi classics like 2001 and Blade Runner. It's that good and will stick with you for days.

3) Writing has taken the back burner, especially Katz Komments. I have finished a book proposal that an agent was interested in, which is, as I think about it, a huge deal. We'll see how that plays out. I did knock out a couple of Maybe Baby stories, and the new issue of ragazine has two pieces of mine. (http://ragazine.cc/category/music/). I'm also writing a bit for Seamheads, a solid baseball site. An article appears here: http://www.seamheads.com/2010/02/20/the-scapegoat/.

Slowly, time permitting, I've also been working on a sample chapter for a proposed book on N., our autistic son, now a college boy. That's the primary focus now that some time has opened up.

4) I finally bought some albums I've always wanted, some old Eminem, Wu-Tang. Fun stuff. Of actual new releases, I love the new Soft Pack CD and appreciate Paul Lukas' leading me to the band last year when they were still called The Muslims. The new Vampire Weekend is pretty good, except the song "White Sky" is an absolute musical rip-off of Paul Simon's "Crazy Love." Ringo's new disc is typical of recent Ringo, but more enjoyable than the last few. You get what you expect from Mr. Starkey, which if your sensible, is a bar set fairly low. Yet, I persevere, not quite the Beatle completest, but a fair approximation.

So that gets us up to today. Hopefully, there won't be as big a delay until next post, but I know you'll all understand.

March 16 - Election Day in Cooperstown!

Where Have We Been?

2010-02-15T05:07:00.000-08:00

It's been a hectic few weeks - working on two book proposals, writing Maybe Baby, campaigning for Mayor of Cooperstown. So what gets the shortest shrift - Katz Komments. Sorry about that, but it's bound to continue at this pace for the rest of the month.

With the rest of the family on their way to Death Valley for a week of dehydration, N. and I ducked down to New York City. We went straight from Cooperstown to Bleecker St. A quick stop into Bleecker Records resulted in a nice find - a Speedy Keen (he of Thunderclap Newman fame) solo album for only $1.99. Then across the street to John's Pizza to meet friend/author/guru Michael D'Antonio for pizza and advice.

From there, we checked into the Hilton, just south of Central Park, and laid around watching cartoons until we headed back down to Murray Hill to meet our cousin J. and his girlfriend B. at Baby Bo's Cantina. Great food, the type so missing from our life upstate. I can tell you, having dinner with a 24 year old makes you feel a bit ancient.

Much to my surprise and delight, Paul Lukas of UniWatch became suddenly available to hang out and quickly made his way across the bridge from Brooklyn to meet us upstairs at Old Town. Paul is a great writer, effortless storyteller and completely revealing. I need to keep that in mind as I work on a book proposal about N.

Next day was the focal point of the trip - the Tim Burton exhibit at MoMA. It's a must see. The amount of art work that director Burton has produced is overwhelming. He's a sick fuck, let me tell you. Of course, some well known props were given front and center exposure - Batman cowls, Edward Scissorhands costume, Mars Attacks! posters (my fave).

Searching for a good burger, N. and I returned to the Village to Stand4. Amazingly good food and shakes to die for. Remember the $5 shake from Pulp Fiction? Stand4's regular size is $6. Travolta would've stormed out of the joint.

With time to kill before we headed for our overnight in Staten Island, I asked N. if he would go to a record store in Williamsburg for an hour. He consented and off we went to Academy Records Annex. Thank God for the iPhone! We found Stand4 through its magical powers, as well as Academy Records.

Readers know my idea of heaven is to be surrounded by LPs. To walk into Academy Records and encounter a full house was unreal. Imagine, a crowd of people browsing, listening and buying albums. It was like walking into a time warp. Got some good stuff too - Eddie Cochran, early Roger McGuinn, Sammy Davis and Count Basie together.

The best part of the S.I. trip was plowing through my cousin's collection of 45's. I was impressed that he had so many and, though he is technologically-averse, he actually plugged in his turntable and we listened to his singles. We even put on my new copy of Leapy Lee's "Little Arrows."

Now we're back. Lots to do, again, things to write, doorbells to ring. But I wanted to say hi while I had the chance.

A Brief Note on Passing Strange

2010-02-04T04:56:00.000-08:00

I've been out on the street lately, going door to door in my campaign for Mayor of Cooperstown. It's fun and informative, and has cut into my posting (which is fine).

A couple of nights ago I watched Spike Lee's latest, a filmed version of the musical Passing Strange. I know nothing about current shows, so had no idea what to expect, but I do make a point of seeing every Spike film. They're usually very good, sometimes failing at the end. He often seems to be lost when it comes to nailing down that final scene. Even Malcolm X, a towering achievement, has a lousy ending with various celebrities chanting "Malcolm," followed by an explanation of his importance. Come on Spike! The story has its own ending - he gets shot!

Passing Strange is the story of Stew, a black rock and roller, who had a band called The Negro Problem. Young Stew leaves a comfortable LA youth for the adventure of Amsterdam and Berlin, deserting his mom. The songs are stirring, the call and response tunes uplifting. It's very funny and the staging is bare. The band and actors constantly interact, adding a surreal and warm feeling to the show.

What I particularly loved is the construct of Stew, on stage the whole time, watching his life laid bare on stage night after night. And believe me, he's not always complimentary of his choices and actions. When actor Stew and real Stew stand face to face at the end, both wearing a red shirt and black jacket, it's striking.

As much as he can, Spike shoots the musical as a movie. I was struck by how fine the acting was. Many scenes are more movie-like than play-like, the leads making those small gestures that translate well on film and get lost on stage. It made for an emotional 2+ hours. By the end, I was a bit weepy, not because I saw myself in Stew, but because we all have our own family issues that make us miserable, in all sorts of ways.

See Passing Strange. It's not on anyone's radar, especially in these Avatar dominated times, but is as fine a film as I've seen recently.

Che

2010-01-27T04:48:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite lines in any movie is from The Rutles' All You Need is Cash. In this Beatle parody, Eric Idle plays the narrator. From the parking lot outside the site of the Fab Four's most famous concert, he refers to the first outdoor rock concert held at "Che Stadium (named after Cuban Guerrilla leader, Che Stadium)." Cracks me up every time.

Not so funny is Steven Soderbergh's 4 1/2 hour epic bio Che. No laughs , to be sure, but it makes for compelling viewing. Constructed as two separate movies, the first part is the better. The jumping off point is a Che visit to the UN. Filmed in glorious, retro-looking black and white, this segment flashes back to Che's first meeting with Fidel Castro in Mexico City in the early '50's, tracking their beginnings, their struggle and ultimate victory over Batista's tyrannical government.

Nothing is mentioned about Fidel's tyrannical leadership in Part 2. This story comes at you as a straight drama, with Che in Bolivia stirring up and supporting a native uprising against the military government. I thought that, like Part 1, it would start in Bolivia 1965 and flashback to the Castro regime. Uh-uh. It's kinda boring as a result, and I have to say I was disappointed at the gap in the story. It is filled with cinematic highlights. Like Butch Cassidy and Sundance, nothing goes right in Bolivia. In one shot, Che and his men see a single peasant they think is out for a walk. Slowly, more and more people appear and grow into a mob on the hillside looking for the rebels. Towards the end of his efforts, Che is nestled behind a rock, tending to an injury when we see above his head, a menacing group of Army soldiers approaching through the thick cover. We see it - Che doesn't.

As David Bowie sings in "Panic in Detroit," Benicio Del Toro "looks a lot like Che Guevara." BDT is wonderful in the role, though perhaps a bit too saintly. His rebuttal to the condemnations delivered by the ambassadors of other nations at the United Nations is a tour de force. the picture belongs to him and him alone.

Matt Damon makes a surprising cameo as a local Bolivian official. He's got a pretty believable Spanish accent. No traces of Boston southie here. Soderbergh, whose directorial prowess is omnipresent, uses his Ocean's star to great effect. So, where's Brad Pitt?

Che is well worth your time, though I recommend watching one disc per night. They work very well as individual movies, completely stand alone stories told in distinctly different ways.

As for Benicio Del Toro, I can't wait until his next movie. It's the story of another hairy revolutionary, The Wolfman.

Diner

2010-01-18T06:59:00.001-08:00

When Diner came out in 1982, it immediately jumped towards the top of my favorite movie list. Watching it for the first time in decades last week, a few things came to mind.

First, I was struck by how the opening of Reservoir Dogs, is a ripoff (or homage) of the Diner repartee of the Baltimore six. While the dissection of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" in Dogs

seemed shocking upon first viewing, it's just a filthier version of the friends of '59 discussing the relatives merits of Sinatra v. Mathis.

Second, there is a large percentage of the cast that went to SUNY. Steve Guttenberg (Eddie) went to Albany; Paul Reiser (Modell) is a fellow alum of Binghamton. Not bad. Granted, Guttenberg's career went down the shitter, and Reiser has long been forgotten post - Mad About the Jew (wait, that's Mad About You). Still, I felt great local pride.

Third, there's The Scene, the one part of the movie that hit me down to my soul then, and now. Can you guess? It's when Daniel Stern's character "Shrevie" is reclassifying his albums. You know that's my bailiwick. Exasperated, he yells for wife Beth to come in, then berates her for putting his James Brown LPs in rock and roll and for not knowing who Charlie Parker is. Then, he forces her to quiz him on the B-sides of his 45's. She is lost, not grasping how anyone could care about such trivialities. He, in turn, is disgusted that she doesn't get how important all that minutiae is to him.

When everyone I knew saw that, and I mean everyone, they came back to me gleeful. "Did you see Diner? That was you!" And I relished it, I did. It all made sense to me and having someone close not share my obsessions seemed like a character flaw - of them, not me. It was a scene I was proud to be associated with.

Now, not so much. Sure, I still adhere to strict rules of categorization and, like "Shrevie," alphabetical and chronological are the only ways to go. But with age comes the knowledge that the person closest to you doesn't have to be a part of every single aspect of your life. For years I wanted K. to look through all my albums. She said when we met, and still repeats it now, that my copy of Black Market Clash sealed the deal for her. I was so proud of my record collection. It was an integral part of who I was, my children.

Then I had real kids, human, not vinyl, and the records, though still a looming presence in my life, became less crucial to the "who" of me. And when I watch "Shrevie" yell at Beth, it makes me really sad, because, I know I shared that bit of meanness. Watching some old home movies yesterday only confirmed the impatience and curtness of the old me. Now I look back at the person who connected closely to Diner and I'm not pleased.

But my records are in order.

Big Mac Atones

2010-01-12T04:57:00.001-08:00

Mark McGwire finally admits to the worst kept secret in sports. He took steroids on and off throughout the 1990's. Where's Claude Rains when you need him? Shocked, yes, we are all shocked, at this revelation.

Big Mac takes the Andy Pettite approach. PEDs were not taken for performance enhancement (though that's what the P and the E stand for), but in order to heal more quickly. It's a decent approach - "just doing it to get healthy for my team." It feels pretty good.

What McGwire says, and what I've said in a slightly different way with an outsider's point of view is this: "I had good years when I didn't take any, and I had bad years when I didn't take any. I had good years when I took steroids, and I had bad years when I took steroids." Though McGwire has the credibility these days of a member of the Nixon White House, I believe him on this. It would be unbelievably odd to have only good years on steroids and then, what, he stopped taking them and did poorly, then decided he should take them again? Once he took them, I assume it was a fairly consistent part of his per diem.

If you look at the list of players implicated in the Mitchell Report or elsewhere, you get a hodgepodge of talent. The great players were great, the mediocre players were mediocre and the poorer players still sucked. For every Barry Bonds there are ten Randy Velarde

types. So ultimately, do steroids really change the game? Maybe on the margins, and that's where purists bemoan the new records. I understand that. But the breast beating that the game in total was skewed and that a Roger Clemens isn't a Hall of Famer is absurd. The vast majority of players were taking some kind of drug and doesn't that even things out in the long run.

The Hawk and Me

2010-01-06T13:01:00.001-08:00

We had just moved to Chicago from New York. It was a big transition; neither of us had lived anywhere but the East Coast. I was looking forward to it, having visited Jimmy in 1985. I was stunned when the attendant at the rental car lot at O'Hare wished me a pleasant visit. What? In New York, people in toll booths fucked with you as a matter of occupational pride.

Early March of 1987 was unusually warm when news of the Cubs' signing of Andre Dawson hit town. It was Sunday, March 8, and we were at Ranalli's, one block north of our Dearborn & Maple apartment. Sitting on the second floor outdoor deck, eating an oh so delicious double-decker pizza (two crusts, but not thick), I read the Tribune's account on how Dawson's agent Dick Moss, trying to puncture the baseball owners illegal collusive behavior to halt free agent signings, offered Cubs General Manager Dallas Green a blank check, literally. Fill in what you want for one of the best outfielders in the game, a man four years removed from 2nd place in the National League MVP voting. Dawson, on rickety knees, was desperate to leave the iron-like playing surface in Montreal's Olympic Stadium for the cushy grass of Wrigley. For a base salary of $500,000 the Cubs got a steal.

It was Dawson who was the heart and soul of the late '80's, early '90's Cubs. Not Ryne Sandberg, not Rick Sutcliffe, not Mark Grace, not Greg Maddux. Dawson had the stature, the power and the demeanor that exuded leadership. When he was drilled in the mouth by Padre hurler and John Bircher Eric Show, a horrific beaning that resulted in 20 stitches, the Cubs rose in force to protect their man. It was a melee and showed that behind "The Hawk" the Cubs were not to be toyed with.

What a year that first one was for Andre. An MVP year, with 49 homers and 137 RBI. And that arm! One of the best ever. Sure the Cubbies finished last in '87, but that year began a mini-renaissance for the team that resulted in a division title two years later.

I look back at 1987 and feel inextricably linked to Andre Dawson. It was our rookie season in our new city. His was much better than mine, but over the next few years I had some fine campaigns myself. Our time in Chicago was, in my estimation, our golden era. It was where we had all three boys, owned our first homes, and built something of a successful career. I had a close view of the Cubs those years from Section 131 behind first base. Though I never succumbed to Cub fever, I did love Dawson.

Now, we're both in Cooperstown, though I preceded him by about 6 1/2 years. I'll be there at Induction for sure. I may even run into him at the Friday night party before the big Sunday. I can only hope Dawson's entrance into the Hall of Fame means this will be a good year for ex-Chicagoans.

Let Me Lay Something On You

2010-01-05T05:27:00.001-08:00

My only goal in college was to read as much as possible. I had entertained the idea of going to law school, but that lasted about a month or two. I was a great student, but enough was enough. I didn't want to stay in college beyond four years. So I majored in political science, and took a lot of history and English courses. Nary a thought for career.

When I graduated, and embarked on a book a week schedule (commuting helped), I was frustrated by the inability to really make a dent in literature. How would I ever cover all the ground I needed to in order to become "well-read"? Now, 25 years later, I have made serious incursions into the great works and, rather than feeling inadequate due to the impossibility of reading it all, I move onward as fast as I can.

So with movies. Fine, I've seen all of Fellini, Truffaut, Scorsese, (save 1 or 2), but there's much ground to cover. The nice thing about films is that 1 1/2 - 2 hours later, you're all done. Here's the latest hole to be filled.

Though knowledgeable about the "blaxploitation" films of the 1970's, I'd never seen any. Not even Shaft or Superfly. I knew the soundtracks, not the movies. A few months ago that struck me as horrific and I began correct myself. Thank God for Netflix!

These movies always have better music than story. Shaft, Superfly, and Trouble Man are helped by a false sense of excitement due to their driving scores. It was quite a coup to enlist titans like Isaac Hayes, Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye to write original music for B-movies. Slaughter gets a dynamite theme from Billy Preston. Even Blacula gets the funky groove treatment, weirdly inappropriate for a vampire flick.

Speaking of Blacula, it may have the best acting of the bunch. William Marshall plays the cursed Prince Mamuwalde with a grandness and hauteur that befits his royal breeding. He'd bring this same proud bearing to his role as The King of Cartoons on Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Thalmus Rasulala puts in a fine performance as well. These movies are marked by overall crappy acting, but Richard Roundtree as Shaft, Don Gordon (yeah, I know he's white) in Slaughter, these are great performances.

I was mostly disappointed by Melvin van Peebles' Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song. Seminal, my ass! It's unwatchable, although by sitting through it I proved otherwise. My favorite line is from Superfly, when Priest's partner Eddie can't believe his man main wants out of the drug game. "You got an 8-track stereo, color TV in every room and all the cocaine you need. You're living the American dream!" Something like that. Considering Priest lives in a tiny project apartment, a color set in each room may add up to one. Slaughter, starring Jim Brown as a guy who should have stayed a running back, was also pretty rough, except for the aforementioned Gordon and the always hot early '70's Stella Stevens. Ever since I saw her in a man's dress shirt and nothing else, climbing up the ship's ladder in The Poseidon Adventure, I've been a changed man.

I've written before about what a shit hole New York was in the 1970's, and how much I love a good filthy NYC picture. Shaft, Superfly, they've got that down, but all these movies are grimy. I like that. One thing about '70's nudity, and these movies tend not to be shy about a naked girl or two. There's an uncomfortable personal element to that decade's love scenes, and I know why. It's because these women are real! There's a sense that you are watching actual people, and that feels wrong. Not like today, when the actresses are created in a lab and bear no resemblance to actual human females.

Those are some preliminary impressions. Oh, there are so many to come: The Mack, Dolemite, Shaft in Africa, Black Caesar. You know that jolt of excitement when you stumble on something unexpected while thumbing through stacks of records, books or DVDs (or whatever you may shop for)? I had that last week, when I bought Slaughter and Blacula, each for for $5. The prospect of these movies hitting the remainder bin bodes well for a happy new year.

Spreading Myself Around

2010-01-03T07:50:00.000-08:00

(Wow, that title sounds way dirtier than I thought).

My list of 2010 writing projects is set. Tomorrow begins the work, building on 2009 and hoping to reach some of the goals that were just out of my grasp last year.

Though my lists are quite good, they are always thrown a curve and, when that hook comes, I'm ready for it. So, when I got the pleasantly surprising offer at the end of '09 to become Music Editor of ragazine, I happily accepted. For those who read Katz Komments via Facebook, you've seen this already. For the rest of you, here's column number one:
ragazine.cc/2009/12/naked-vinyl/

Look for a new piece every month. And don't forget Maybe Baby, of course. Or Katz Komments. Or any of the other bits on my list that may come to fruition.

Blue Man Group in Space

2009-12-31T11:48:00.000-08:00

Avatar is an unequivocal visual triumph. The Pandoran world is truly believable; there's no sense that you're watching computer generated characters with human voice overs. The Na'vi are real, so real that when the human actors enter the picture towards the end they are the ones that seem fake. I saw Sigourney Weaver on The Daily Show and she explained that the actors were wired to track their movement but, most importantly, could see themselves in real time as the giant blue goodies on a monitor. Whatever. It works and works well, especially in 3D (IMAX was sold out).

What to make of the story? It's easy to make it a play on the Americans v. the Indians. The high schoolers I saw it with viewed it through that prism, but I think there's more to it than that. After all, if you're going to slam Manifest Destiny, it would be best not to work in Hollywood, California. It doesn't help the argument.

I saw two sides of the American experience. The Na'vi suffer a 9-11 tragedy. I won't go into details, but it's hard not to make the connection, especially when the extra-terrestrial high rise is seen in its skeletal form surrounded by smoke, eerily reminiscent of the Twin Tower remains. So what do they do when confronted with an attack on their most significant structure? Like ideal Americans, they rise to defend their culture in ways that show their strength and goodness. Just like us.

But there's that other part of us, the part represented by the human-corporate-Blackwaterish plunderers, the ones who seek to destroy the alien world for its raw materials. They'll do anything to achieve their goals, including full scale annihilation and murder of innocents, or as we like to call it "collateral damage." Try thinking of your kids in that light.

Sure, the U.S. v. the Native-Americans comparison is valid and obvious. I like my view better. It makes for a more interesting movie.

Here's where the movie bites and bites hard. In typical Cameronesque fashion, there is a high level of stupid. What is the magic mineral that the Earthlings have come to take? What could this impossibly rare rock be called? "Unobtainium." I shit you not. Ridiculous. What, was "hard-to-get-ium" deemed too simplistic? I picture a meeting that went something like this:

James Cameron presents the script. Everyone at the table is too scared of his well-deserved tyrannical reputation to speak out. As someone is about to say, "Um, Jim, that's really dumb," they think twice and shut up. It stays in the final cut.

And what is this "unobtainium" needed to be obtainiumed for? Who knows? We're told it costs $20 million a kilo, but why? And is that a lot of dough in 2154? Even a throwaway line like, "We couldn't travel this far in space without the stuff," would have sufficed.

Also, the whole green, preserve the planet spiel gets weary. There's only so much of that "we can learn from the indigenous people" stuff I can stand.

A few words about the acting. It's damn good, often a rarity in effects driven flicks. Giovanni Ribisi, who I haven't seen in a good long time, though he seems to have stayed active, is a hoot as the leader of the greedy capitalists. Sigourney is wonderful, and kinda hot in her bluish incarnation. Zoe Saldana, however, steals the show, after the technology, of course. As Neytiri, she is fierce and sexy. Her hisses of anger, cries of frustration and wails of agony are visceral. Again, it's her acting, not a voice over. She is powerful, and when Neytiri appears next to a human, you're struck with how organic her ten foot presence feels. It's remarkable.

So see it and overlook the flaws. While tickets are hard to come by, they are not unobtainium-able.

Everyone Pulled Their Socks Up, Everyone Had a Good Time

2009-12-18T04:58:00.000-08:00

As we come to the end of the year, a few thoughts on my own 2009.

1 - This was a big year for me in reclaiming some valued past friendships. Through the miracles of Facebook and actually reading my SUNY-Binghamton Alumni mag, I have gotten in touch with several past pals. Some, like Ben, Paul, Paul and Dave, I've seen in person. I spent only two years with these guys back in college and yet it has been effortless transition back into an easy camaraderie. Much to my surprise, and delight. I realize how important these people were during a key part of my life and am more than thrilled to be back in touch. They are all quite accomplished and as interesting and enjoyable to be around as ever. I missed a lot dropping these folks from my life.

Then there are the Facebook friends, mostly from High School. I'm sure I'll see some of them, though I'm pretty anti-reunion (I could be swayed, though). Jim, who I think I knew for maybe a little over the year, but has a pivotal place in my personal history, is a recent addition. As he battles Ben (see above paragraph) over political issues that I provoke, Jim makes me smile with his approach to issues that I totally disagree with.

I learned in 2009, more than in any other year, how important it is to keep your friends close. It's a lesson I won't forget.

2 - In my mind, 2009 was going to be my breakout year as a writer, and, though it turned out I mostly ran in place, progress was made. I wrote two extensive book proposals, one which garnered serious literary agent interest until they dropped me cold. I could have been crushed by that, but instead took a decidedly positive approach and realized I had entered new territory. The L.A. Dodgers' official magazine ran a book review I wrote on Michael D'Antonio's Walter O'Malley bio Forever Blue. That was cool. I also just got the gig as music editor for an online mag called ragazine (ragazine.cc). That starts in January.

The Maybe Baby blog (maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com), began in January and, with new posts every other Friday, will last at least another year. I have readers across the country and around the globe. It's been very exciting to come up with an idea and execute it well enough that complete strangers feel compelled to comment on how much they love your work. Katz Komments, a more personal blog with readers that may number in the single digits, has been a fun outlet for my shallow thoughts.

As I look back, 2009 was a watershed year for my new career. I produced a hell of a lot of material and made some solid connections. Maybe 2010 will be, as Al Stewart sang, the Year of the Katz?

3 - The greatest thing that happened this year, hands down, was our son, N. graduated high school and began college. His autism provided some challenges, to be sure, but he finished up his first semester on Wednesday and, as far as I know, he's going to get B's in all his classes. Maybe C's in some. Who cares? N. earned all his credit hours. Think how many first time collegians drop out, or fail. N.'s story is a certifiable success, the #1 event in our year.

So, this may be the final post for 2009. Some busy days ahead, then off to Chicago for friends, pizza, and hot dogs. Love to you all, and a Happy New Year.

A Few Thoughts on Age

2009-12-15T04:40:00.000-08:00

There is a scene in Judd Apatow's brilliant Funny People when comedian George Simmons, an Adam Sandler-like figure played by Adam Sandler, presides over Thanksgiving dinner. Sick and alone, Simmons/Sandler poignantly tells the gathering of twenty-somethings that this holiday together is the one they'll remember the most. Simmons reflects on how much older he is than the rest, and that he no longer talks to people he was once so close to. It's an understated, emotionally rich moment.

I've been thinking a lot about time lately, and find myself even sadder than the Sandler character, who's actually four years younger than me. I'm lucky enough to have some things in common with Simmons, though I'm not super-rich, or dying. At 47, I've been fairly successful and, dare I say it, retired for about 6 years. My family is great - a wonderful wife that I dig the most, three boys growing into three solid men. So, why am I so mournful? I'm aware that no one likes to hear the whining of a guy in my position, but I continue nonetheless.

As a kid of 18, or 22, nobody would've called me "Mr. Joie de Vivre." I never had that "Hey, world, look at me" attitude, or thought that I would run the table at life. In truth, I didn't really enjoy my younger days - the driving internal competition I put myself through, the emotional roller coaster I was on, the ultra-moodiness. I didn't look at getting old as desirable, living a long life an admirable goal. I still don't. The very idea of living again as long as I already have makes me shudder.

The physical changes of aging bug me, for sure. The thinner hair, the slightly (slightly!) sagging face. I'm in pretty good shape, about the same weight as I was 25 years ago. Physically I'm not as solid as I was, can't do things as well or as easy as I used to, like getting up from a chair without shooting back pain.

Do I wish to be younger? Not really, my life has never been better. But being young, there's nothing like it and I'm not sure why I feel that way. Maybe it was those moments of discovery, about people and things, that is irreplaceable. Maybe it was those late nights of intense discussions about music and politics, every argument accompanied with absolute certainty. Maybe it's those memories that, in reflection, seem so perfect, not marred by the realities of being insecure, completely dependent on parents for money, a false sense of control.

I think what it comes down to is that I wish I was the person I am now, but back then. I would've been so much happier. And what really nags at me, what comes through more and more every day, is that I could have been that person - confident, caring, kind, generous - and I wasn't. That guy was there, lurking some where beneath, the whole time and the years I buried him were a waste. And it sucks to know that.

Petty Deluxe

2009-12-12T06:40:00.001-08:00

Tom Petty is one of those guys who never gets automatically put towards the top of the all-time greats' list. Even among his peers- Springsteen and U2, for example - he shines a bit dimmer. That's not a reflection on his music, but on his method. Petty & The Heartbreakers are straight-forward, balls out rockers; no grand statements, no singing on the steps of The Lincoln Memorial, or confabs with the President over AIDS in Africa. As a result, he floats somewhere below the surface of fawning attention.

Think about what Tom Petty has done, as a musician and a person. For over 30 years, Petty has been a constant seller, a consistent hit maker and a creator of a relatively disaster-less canon of work (maybe The Last DJ mars that record, but I'm willing to give it another shot). He is impossible to tag. Remember when he was kinda punk, kinda New Wave? He wasn't really, though. Remember how he was a sort of Southern hard rocker? Not quite. Did his covers of "Shout" and "Needles & Pins" denote a slavish devotion to rock history? Yes, but he was, and is, so much more.

The Live Anthology, in its deluxe box form, is a wonder. The 5-CD set is an uninterrupted three decade concert, flowing seamlessly from 2002, back to 1981, then forward to 1987, and so on. This band is the equal to The E Street Band, a group that enjoys playing and can play anything, any time. Listen to their take on "Green Onions" and marvel. In the big box of Petty, there are two DVDs, including a 1978 New Year's Eve show. That's the Petty of my memory, the shows that I saw way back when. There's also a great book, a sheet of backstage passes that I resist removing, and a Blu-Ray disc of the entire 62 song set that, when cranked, will make you believe in God and rock and roll. It sounds live, I swear.

If possible, Petty the man is an even greater story. Here's a kid who challenged the music industry for their habitual abuse of hungry young artists dying for a record deal and won. A newly established superstar battling the label to keep his Hard Promises album affordable. A fan protecting the integrity of heroes like Roger McGuinn when producers tried to force the ex-Byrd into a contemporary mode. A man who, at the top of his game musically and financially went back to his first band, Mudcrutch, and brought them back for the album they deserved to make when they were kids.

In no way has Tom Petty suffered over the years. He's sold a lot of records, worked with George Harrison and Bob Dylan, been the subject of a fantastic documentary and, most of the time, been treated kindly by the critics. He didn't get lucky; he earned it. He deserves more of your attention. The Live Anthology is a good place to begin.

Just Put a Band-aid On It

2009-12-06T08:15:00.000-08:00

Like many, I heard the news from Howard Cosell. Sometimes I think that getting word from Cosell took the emotional power out of the moment. It was impossible to fathom that, during Monday Night Football, such horrible news, news that John Lennon had been shot and killed, could be delivered in between a draw play and a square out. Howard, in his inimitable fashion, sucked all the horror out of it.

I was the Beatles guy in High School, knowing more about them than anyone (except maybe Jim M.). I graduated early, in January 1980, and there was a surprise party for me. The most memorable things about that night were the giant hamburger and the engraved plaque with all my friends' names and "Beatles Forever." I haven't seen it in awhile, but it's around here someplace. At parties I would have everyone going with the Paul is Dead stuff, pointing out images of skeletal heads in the Magical Mystery Tour booklet.

There was an outpuring of concern for me after Lennon's killing, which I found incredible. I knew where my friends and family were coming from, but, oddly, I was unfazed by it. No tears, no nothing. Maybe I was already beginning to move away from idolatry, I don't know. I do know I was turning from a John-centric to Paul-centric view of Beatle-y things, for sure part of a journey from empty idealism to practicality. After all, it was the beginning of the Reagan years, I was headed for a job of some kind in the near future, and shouting slogans didn't hold the same appeal anymore.

Double Fantasy had come out in November. I'm pretty sure my brother bought it for me, which always surprised me. One, that he bought it for me at all. Two, that I didn't rush out to get it on the first day of release. I did that for George's 1979 album, why wouldn't I do it for John's first record in 5 years? "Starting Over" was a crap song, although I liked that John put himself in a '50's context. I remember eating at the Red Jacket Quad cafeteria at SUNY-Buffalo and hearing "Woman," which I loved. Honestly, I didn't dig John's material on the whole, though I liked most. I thought Yoko's tunes had more balls. I was 18 then. Now, I'm 47 and I find that the 40-year old John's songs are more meaningful. This is particularly true of "Watching the Wheels," which I live.

Still, my next door neighbor Congo and I talked about seeing Lennon in concert if he toured and we were very excited at the prospect. All that ended on the night of December 8, 29 years ago. The ensuing martyrdom and canonization of John Lennon irked me to no end. The two guys across the hall, who had zero musical knowledge, dashed out like so many to buy Lennon solo albums and, once they heard them, complained to me how much Sometime in New York City sucked. Well, just 'cuz he's dead didn't make it a good album. And why was I responsible for their wasted money? (Oh yeah, I'm the Beatle guy). It was the start of a real anti-John period for me. I couldn't stomach the "John Lennon and The Beatles" take on the group, which lasted into the mid-'90's when a Paul resurgence began. Pays to be the last one standing, don't it.

Now, I often find myself thinking about John Lennon. In researching for the Maybe Baby blog (which you should all read this Friday), I've watched hours of Lennon material - Dick Cavett interviews, Tom Snyder interviews, etc. John was quite a complex character and so much fun to watch, even when he's a hypocritical, haranguing, pain in the ass.

As Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, the Rolling Stones and a few others have proven, rock stars can age well and produce fine material. That wasn't the case in 1980. Chuck Berry wasn't out with a new album of songs that could compare well with his masterpieces. Many icons of the 1960's have shown they still have a great deal to offer. It's in that context that I find myself missing John Lennon the most. Can you picture him as he would be today, older, wiser, more mature, and still rocking. See him? Now you miss him too, and it hurts.

The Perils of Public Speaking

2009-12-03T08:11:00.000-08:00

In the past few years, I've found myself often engaged in public speaking. When The Kansas City A's & The Wrong Half of the Yankees came out in April of 2007, radio and television interviews followed, and I found myself surprisingly calm. I knew my subject matter, and made sure to go to the bathroom ten times before the talks would begin, but, still, I was amazed at my fairly matter of fact manner. Even presentations at the Hall of Fame, or the SABR National, went smoothly. If I did get nervous, it was always in the middle of the talk, not the beginning, a phenomenon I found quite interesting.

Being an elected official also entails a great deal of public speaking, but that's OK too. It's less speech-making than public access to a work meeting. Again, I do a lot of homework and know what I'm talking about before I speak. So, no nervousness there.

Now when I speak about our autistic oldest son, N., I get emotional at the most surprising times. I might mention that he passed the History Regents and feel a lump in my throat. Recounting his first class participation in college is sure to make me falter. So when I agreed to speak before a group of health professionals on N.'s college experience, I should've known I'd be a mess. Yet, I was completely caught off guard.

The event was yesterday at the Holiday Inn-Arena in Binghamton. Whenever I'm in my old college town, I wax nostalgic and, probably the emotional stage was set simply by back being in the Carousel City. In my student days, I never had any reason to go to the Holiday Inn, but thinking back on the Talking Heads show at the Arena across the street, or, wait, I also saw Rodney Dangerfield and John Sebastien there, I plunged deep into my past. I also thought to head over to my last college house and take some pictures when I was done speaking and email them to my ex-roommate.

There were six speakers. I was to be last. Not having prepared remarks, I scribbled some highlights of N.'s life on a notepad. The first five presenters were done with their talks in a total of 23 minutes, and I was suddenly up to bat. I really thought there was one more person to go before I'd head to the podium. Perhaps that put me off my game.

I began well, making it clear that I knew nothing about funding sources, programs, etc, but I knew a lot about N. The audience laughed and, as I got into N.'s early diagnosis of hyperlexia, I saw some nodding heads. Talking about his successes, and our subsequent move to Cooperstown, I was still in control. Briefly, I touched on his first year, then mentioned his one-on-one aide who joined him in 8th grade and stayed with him until graduation. That's where I lost it and lost it good. Not a small choke-up, or a hesitation, but a real cry. I needed to stop and regain my composure.

For those who watch Baseball Hall of Fame Induction speeches, and I know you're out there, you'll remember that Pirate second baseman Bill Mazeroski's speech never began due to excessive blubbering. I thought about that for a split second, and then forged ahead. A good recovery, I must say. I got in N.'s line about his "Cobleskill Adventure," as he calls his college time, and got some laughs. But, uh-oh, as I went on about his good grades and professorial support, and that this kid was maybe going to graduate from college, I could feel my eyes water. I managed to get to the end of the talk, making a few quips about how ill-informed I was about the behind the scenes funding that was allowing N. to go to college and do well.

I finished and sat down. To my leftt was a young girl, maybe teenage, who lives in a support home and spoke from her notes. She'd told me before she led off the session that she was nervous. When I sat down, I leaned toward her and said, "Well, I cried!" The health worker to my right said "You had them glued." Well, maybe I let my emotions get away from me, but, you know, you gotta lay it on the line to tell a good story.

21st Century Ray

2009-11-28T05:36:00.000-08:00

I went through a major Kinks phase in the first half of the 1980's. Then, as now, I binged on records, but in my youth I didn't have much money, so the binge would take a while to accomplish. (Maybe that's not a binge then). Though I don't have every Kinks album, I did pretty well. I can still recall getting a double record set with the exotic British spelling called The Compleat Collection. Had to have that - it had "Sittin' On My Sofa," which The Fleshtones used to cover.

Yet, much to my amazement, then and now, I never saw The Kinks in concert. Oh, there were plenty of opportunities; they were always around. I just never got around to it. Even in the early '90's, when Ray Davies was touring around his autobiography X-Ray, I didn't go see him. Considering he played a week at The Royal George Theater in Chicago, that's more than not getting around to it. It seems a conscious effort to avoid all things Kinky.

Well, cross ol' Ray off the concert list. Me and the boys went to The Egg in Albany last Monday to see the great one. Why was he in Albany? It's hard to fathom. He's conducting a short tour with a chorus, and hitting only big cities. Albany? It must've been a mistake, but one we were glad to capitalize on.

The Kinks catalogue is rich beyond belief, and Davies dipped in for big hits and lost chestnuts. The first half of the show had Ray seated alongside guitarist Bill Shanley, and they opened with "I Need You," which I have on some cheapo compilation called Golden Hour, Vol. 2. An odd choice, to be sure. Ray asked the crowd, "Who's an individual?" Now, I know that old Steve Martin joke about The Non-Conformist's Oath, so I didn't join the masses in applauding their unique qualities while part of a mob. It was the prologue to a rousing version of "I'm Not Like Everybody Else." Soon after beginning "Where Have All the Good Times Gone," some exuberant fan belted out a line, to which Ray quipped, "He was here last night, and we weren't even playing." This kind of humorous repartee was in evidence all night long. We enjoyed him and he genuinely seemed to relish the crowd's love. At one point, he jauntily introduced "an Old English folk tune." As Ray strummed an ancient melody, to an unresponsive crowd, he wondered aloud, "Is it that bad?" With that, he segued into "A Dedicated Follower of Fashion." Oh yes he did!

The show was peppered with crowd participation. Ray loves a sing-song, and the audience happily obliged. One forgets how many hits the Kinks had. They were so overshadowed by The Beatles, The Stones and, let's face it, lots of others, yet they were huge and massively influential. "A Well-Respected Man," "Days," "Waterloo Sunset," "Come Dancing," Better Things," - monster songs that stretched over two decades. The crowd knew the words, I can assure you.

I happily sang along, and was relieved when he skipped the part in "Come Dancing" about the palais being torn down. That always makes me cry. "Come Dancing" is a remarkable example of how great a songwriter Ray Davies is. A smash hit, it is a deep take on nostalgia, lost youth and dashed dreams, disguised as a light hearted pop tune. A remarkable song if you think about it (which I did).

It's hard to fathom that Ray's solo career began only a few years ago with Other People's Lives, but it's true. That 2006 effort, followed by Working Man's Cafe, were well represented by a band that was so loud that I saw some cracks in The Egg. Davies has lost little since his heyday. The solo records are wonderfully catchy, brutally insightful, and a joy to hear.

The encore was thankfully long. Davies told us the story of sitting at the family piano in Muswell Hill, looking to write his first hit song. As he plunked out a few notes, his brother Dave came in from the kitchen and asked what he was playing. The sparse notes would grow into the legendary riff that was Dave's intro to "You Really Got Me." Ray joked about Dave all night, wearing a clear love-hate relationship with his former bandmate and brother on his sleeve. "20th Century Man" nearly blew the roof off the house, if the cockeyed oval that is The Egg has a clear roof line. I can't tell.

When Ray stood for the second half of the show, the full band set, I was shocked at how strikingly tall he was. He's also incredibly springy, leaping around the stage in an un-65 year old way. From where we sat, it was clear that the only real difference between Ray Davies today, and Ray Davies of 1980, is his receding hairline. Except for that, I felt that I'd finally caught up with one of my faves, still in his prime. I won't miss him again.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old (Yeah, Right!)

2009-11-22T05:31:00.001-08:00

I have bought fully into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame media blitz. In their 25th year, the Hall is going balls out for public exposure and money. The two-day concert event at Madison Square Garden raised millions for an endowment. Me and my fortunate sons were there to see night one, and it was spectacular. (Read the four posts on the show - If There's a Rock and Roll Heaven...).

Then, there's the new Rolling Stone, with Bono, Mick and Bruce and the cover, the entire issue dedicated to the performances and the Hall of Fame. It's self-promotion to be sure, but that's fine by me. Best yet. there's a DVD of the Induction ceremonies, the hands down best part of the institution. I ended up with the 3 disc set, although there's a 9 DVD box out there somewhere. I can only comment on Disc 1, but that took a few hours to go through.

The jams are fun, though no high level art. It's a hoot to watch little Paul Shaffer "conduct" the melee. I tell you, Springsteen is always having the most fun, whether it's singing "Oh, Pretty Woman" with his hero Roy Orbison, or harmonizing to "Green River" with his hero John Fogerty. Seeing Peter Green stand uncomfortably stage right as he joins Santana and the Green-penned "Black Magic Woman" is gripping; Green disappeared for years due to psychological and pharmaceutical issues. Prince rips the lid off "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." He is the best guitarist on the stage, but it seems like old warhorses like Tom Petty don't really appreciate him. Petty gives a condescending smirk as the former symbol wails away. only George's son Dhani Harrison revels in the fireworks.

The speeches are the best. That's when the real emotion spews forth. Jagger shows real affection for The Beatles, Fogerty shows intense hatred for the rest of Creedence. Clatpon's speech on wanting to join The Band tells a lot about the man, and was one of the springboards to the Maybe Baby blog. The bonus material on Disc 1 features full introductions. Springsteen's take on Jackson Browne as a chick magnet is hilarious. It explains Browne's greatness better than Jackson's own speech. Paul's "letter to John" is as much about Macca as about Lennon, but it is heartfelt and, when The Cute One embraces Yoko it is cathartic. A quick shot to the late Linda in the audience, weeping as she watches, is another heartbreaker.

There are some bits of real douchery. Brian Wilson's awkward reading is sad, for sure, but when Mike Love follows with a nasty speech, shitting on The Beatles, The Stones (was he drunk?), you realize what torment Brian went through working with this asshole. Jann Wenner reads The Sex Pistols' letter of refusal, to the guffaws of the tuxedoed audience. The big shots laughing at Johnny Rotten's spelling and spleen prove the nasty one is dead right. Pete Townshend's paean to his heroes The Stones is funny, sweet, uncomfortable and sincere.

How great must it have been for these guys to be young? The music, the girls, the money, the fame. Yet, growing old hasn't diminished them in the least. McCartney, The Stones, Dylan - they've invented what we think of as rock and are consistently creating what it means to be an aging rock star. They have stayed artistically vital and strong in a way that no one could have seen in the days when pop icons fizzled out by the age of 30.

More on Failure

2009-11-12T08:25:00.001-08:00

In all the years I was in trading, there was unavoidable competition with my friends and fellow traders. (There is a difference - not all of my fellow traders were my friends). It took years away from the scene to shake that trait and get down to how I felt about my place in life, regardless of whether some dope was making more dough than me. It hasn't gone away totally, but morphed into something slightly different.

At a Martin Short performance last month, he joked that his worst moments far exceeded the best parts of his audience's life. Funny, yes. True, I don't know. I do know that I look at some famous folks in the news lately and, yes, end up feeling much better off. That doesn't apply, though, to Jay-Z or Derek Jeter. They rule.

Take Nicolas Cage. Here's a guy who had a lot going for him and now he's on the skids. Once he was a great actor, really, and now he's a histrionic farce. But that's on the opinion side. Lately, he has made headlines because he owes the IRS $6 million in back taxes. To pay off this huge debt, the Steve Austin of tax evasion is selling off his plethora of homes, collecting the millions needed for the government. Sure, it helps to have a lot of houses, but if you gotta sell them to pay your bills, what's the point. And, now that he's divorced from Lisa Marie Presley, I bet he can't even go upstairs at Graceland anymore. Family only, you know.

Randy Quaid. Here's a guy with a fairly decent list of credits, a journeyman who has carved out a successful career as a character actor. My fave Quaid roles - Seaman Meadows in The Last Detail and Ishmael in Kingpin. So, how does he get to be an alleged felon, accused, along with his wife, of ripping off fancy hotels to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars? Strange, right? I wonder what he was thinking and how he goes forward from here. That always scares me, the very idea of having to start all over, just when it seems like everything is going well. How do you muster the strength to do it again? It must take more than being believable as an Amish bowling phenom.

I couldn't help but think long and hard on the nature of success and failure as I watched Brian Wilson last week (see previous post). A certifiable legend, but happy? I don't know. Pretty brutal upbringing with an abusive dad, inconsistent support from his band mates, who were also family, and a breakdown that lasted on and off for over 20 years. Is his a successful life? Hard to say, though I wouldn't want to switch places with him.

I used to play a game with myself (wait, that sounds wrong). I used to think about who I would rather switch places with. Paul McCartney - not bad, though the downsides are early death of mother & ridicule of press. Joe Namath - pretty good, though I'm not sure I like the burning out so fast. There were others whose lives I would inspect closely, in case of a "Freaky Friday"-like experience. I take it as a healthy sign that I don't think that anymore.

Smile? Sometimes

2009-11-10T08:13:00.001-08:00

I've had Brian Wilson on the brain this week (and how often do I type Brian and it comes out "brain?" Almost all the time). The reasons will become apparent to some tomorrow. So, what a week to have seen him in concert.

J. and I had seen Brian's Smile tour when it stopped in Saratoga, four years ago, I think. It was amazing. Just seeing Brian Wilson is something. His troubled past is known to all in attendance and there's a lot of love and support sent his way from the crowd. He needs it, too. Not as fat as he was in the '70's, not as fit as he appeared in the late '80's, Wilson is a nervous hulk, sitting behind a tiny electric keyboard. His anxiety and awkwardness are always apparent, but were less front and center in 2005 when he and his amazing band went through the most famous lost album in rock.

Not so on Tuesday. Without the triumph of Smile, Wilson was shakier than the first time I'd seen him. He performed Beach Boy hits, as well as reaching for some lesser known album cuts. The Beach Boys were always, in my estimation, a hits-only type of group with the exception of Pet Sounds. I remember my shock when I started going through their LPs and found, to my delight, a huge catalog of great songs. When Brian and the band began playing "Salt Lake City," I was knocked out. It's an odd tribute to a square town, and a wonderfully incongruous tune. "Custom Machine," "The Little Girl I Once Knew" (which Wilson declared the best record he'd ever produced), joined the setlist, lost songs finally given their due.

The Beach Boys were an intensely competitive group. When the Mike Love-edition of the group played Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, also in 2005, Love trashed talked Justin Timberlake for some reason. Brian too dissed his rivals. "The Stones couldn't do a ballad like this," he boasted as an introduction to "Please Let Me Wonder." That song is, in my estimation, the greatest Beach Boy tune, and Brian's high, pristine tone on the original is one if the most beautiful vocals ever put to wax. It was sad to hear him now, straining for even the middle range. Yet, he is so compelling and tragic a figure that it works.

Wilson is childlike and he and The Beach Boys had a juvenile sense of humor. You can hear it on a few spoken word album tracks that made it as filler on their records. It was clear that that silliness would be on display during the show. Hell, they opened with "Monster Mash." A few jokes back and forth, with Brian and a band member referring to each other as "Pilgrim," was immediately tiresome.

While the Smile tour was a complete victory, this show was tinged with melancholy. Brian was so odd, so uncomfortable, so fragile. And, for the bulk of the concert, he and the group completely ignored Lucky Old Sun, Wilson's masterpiece from last year. Then, as the show was winding down, a troika of selections from Sun were played and they were magnificent. "Southern California," which looks back on his dream of singing with his brothers, will break your heart more than a big wave wipe out.

"At 25 I turned out the light, 'cause I couldn't handle the the glare in my tired eyes." Think about those lines from "Going Home." Brian Wilson was a kid when the pressures of writing, producing and recording got to him, resulting in a nervous collapse. What did he miss, what did we all miss, when he disappeared from the rock scene? He's back, and doing pretty well, but I couldn't help mull over the deep tragedy of the man. With the band winding down, I spotted Brian offstage, standing perfectly still, a sad figure bathed in blue light.

No Success Like Failure...

2009-11-08T12:38:00.001-08:00

... and failure's no success at all. I think I know what Dylan means, though every time I feel I've got it figured out, it's seems just out of reach.

What's success anyway? Me, I'm kicking back, working though not employed, and having a great time. That's something, right? But in my world, success is always accompanied by a feeling of emptiness, the short-lived high knocked down by the dread "what next" syndrome. Failure, at times can seem ennobling and enjoyable. So has been my last year of writing.

Having a go at a writing career is a bit daunting in a time when content is losing its financial value. Yet, the democratization of media is a wonderful thing, allowing musicians, writers, filmmakers, to do their thing, get it to the public, without someone having to give it the green light. But can the average Joe keep providing content for free? At some point, that's gotta change.

A best-selling author pal of mine constantly reminds me that I am in an unknown country and am doing pretty well in a field entirely new to me. In the last year, I've written two book proposals, one which made some headway with a literary agent, though, I was ultimately dropped. I've started two blogs, this one right here, and Maybe Baby. Maybe Baby has readers all over the world in only 5 months online. With 29 stories written, countless more to come and only 11 posted, Maybe Baby has seriously long legs. Plus, I had a book review published in the L.A. Dodgers official magazine.

Not bad, but not successful in the way I gauge things. Funny, we live in a world where outside approval from editors and record companies means less when, with a tap on the keyboard, you are out for all to see. Still, it'd be nice to have that approval.

I just finished reading Upton Sinclair's The Cup of Fury, an anti-alcohol polemic. Sinclair must've been a carrier of the alcoholic gene, because he had a huge amount of friends and family who were drop dead drunks. It's not a particularly great read, though it has a memorable dust cover that, unknown to ol' Upton, looks suspiciously like a serious serving of flaming shots.

What was most shocking was that Sinclair self-published! Even The Jungle was turned down by publishers until, after he put the muckraking classic out himself, it gained traction and was picked up. Had Sinclair lived today he would have been a blogger, for sure.

With that as inspiration, I'll keep plugging away. Will all the work get me anywhere? Maybe not, if you define "anywhere" in monetary terms, or as establishing some sort of career. Yet, as a great man once said, "There's no success like failure.." You know the rest.

If There's a Rock & Roll Heaven, Then I Just Had a Near-Death Experience (Part 4)

2009-11-03T16:37:00.000-08:00

What started as a movie about folk music quickly became a biography of Bruce Springsteen. That his pre-set flick was so personal showed how high Bruce sits above the rest. In the same way, his feature topped them all, ending with four lines from "This Land is Your Land," the first sung by Woody Guthrie, followed by Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan and The Boss.

"10th Avenue Freeze-out" rang in the party, a perfect New York-y tune that the faithful ate up. Bruce couldn't wait to bring out his guests, the first being Sam Moore of Sam and Dave. Starting out with "Hold On, I'm Coming," it was hard to know which group was having more fun, the one on stage, or the one in the concert hall. Bruce was in his element, playing along with a hero of his youth who, he proclaimed, taught Springsteen much about being a bandleader. The backup singers were prancing around, having a hard time containing their joy. Sam was ready for the next tune and asked Bruce, "Can I talk to your man there?"

"Not yet," said Bruce.

"Can I talk to your man over there," Moore indicating Steve van Zandt.

"We gotta finish this first," Bruce smiled.

Finally Steve got into the act with the opening riff to "Soul Man," and I swear the roof of the Garden lifted just a bit.

Moore left and Bruce introduced Tom Morello. Morello, whose guitar heroics rocketed the sound of Rage Against the Machine to the stratosphere, duetted with Bruce on "The Ghost of Tom Joad," which RATM had covered on their Renegades album. Morello was insane, waving his hand around the guitar neck as if he were playing a theremin, using one of the cable plugs to push the strings, ungodly stuff that made Jeff Beck's dynamic solo for "Superstition" seem like a tasty Les Paul lick.

In "Him," Lily Allen sings that God's favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival and, well, who could argue? I remember a Springsteen show in Rochester, late '80 or early '81, where the band played CCR during sound check. Bruce brought out John Fogerty and it was clear there's a real bond between the two, even though, as Springsteen mentioned, he'd covered Fogerty's songs when he was 18 years old.

"Fortunate Son," the most perfect rock and roll song in tempo, duration and content, led off the mini-set. "Proud Mary" had the MSGer's singing their heads off. Bruce talked about Roy Orbison's influence on his songwriting and, because he didn't have the guts to do it alone, asked Fogerty to join him on "Oh, Pretty Woman." With that done, and well done I might add, Bruce said the band would do a "song by some other guy," and a ferocious "Jungleland" ensued.

Darlene Love, darling of the Phil Spector girl groups, was ushered in and, I gotta tell you, The E Street Band can do everything. For "A Fine, Fine Boy" and "Da Doo Ron Ron," the Spector studio created Wall of Sound was reproduced live. It was something of a sonic miracle. Bruce couldn't be happier.

Love left the stage after a smooch or two, and Morello reappeared. Springsteen announced they'd do a song from one of the greatest groups to come out of England. The Beatles? The Stones? The Animals? Nope, much to his credit, it was The Clash. "London Calling" segued into "Badlands" and, after all this, it was hard to not give 'em a smile.

But that's not all folks. Looking for an excuse to keep playing, Bruce said, well, since the Yanks won, we gotta do more. But first, he addressed the crowd behind the stage. "We see you back there. How much did they charge you for those tickets? Hope they were free. Anyone from New Jersey?" When a few applauded to signify their Garden State status, Bruce quipped, "That explains it."

That wasn't all for Jersey. Professor Springsteen gave a geological lecture explaining that, though not everyone knows it, Jersey and Long Island were once connected, way before the continental drift, which is why the populaces are so similar. Tonight, on the neutral ground of Manhattan, the kings of New Jersey and Long Island would have it out and the reunion of the two land masses took rock and roll form as Billy Joel joined Bruce on stage.

I'd come full circle. My first show ever was a Billy Joel show at the Garden, and that memory came rushing over me. I never think of these two together, Joel is Springsteen-lite. "You May Be Right" gained some sack given the E Street treatment and Bruce was positively gleeful belting it out. When Billy sings, it's a faux toughness, a posture. Bruce added heft to Joel's tunes. "Only the Good Die Young" is thematically the same as "Thunder Road," but more clownish. Everyone was having a ball and, when they flubbed the ending, Bruce said "it can't end on that," and they got it right the second time around.

"New York State of Mind" sounded fine, if you like that sort of thing. "Born to Run" laid everything in the dust. Billy Joel, searching for the balls needed for the Springsteen anthem, reached for a Bruce impersonation to do the trick. You may gather that I'm not a fan of Billy Joel. That's true, but having him onstage was a great surprise and a monumental moment, regardless of what I think of his crappy songs. It was a Tri-State music fans' wet dream.

Bruce brought everyone back out for the finale, including Jackson Browne from the CSN set, and Peter Wolf of J. Geils, who, once upon a time would have warranted a real spot on the roster. They left us with Jackie Wilson's hit "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher" and, after six hours, we were as high as could be, sailing over the Garden, floating on a breeze of musical history.

If There's a Rock & Roll Heaven, Then I Just Had a Near-Death Experience (Part 3)

2009-11-03T08:15:00.001-08:00

The Garden was at a real high when Simon & Garfunkel ended their set. The best movie of the night followed, connecting the Motown years with the Civil Rights movement, ending with a picture of Obama. So obvious, yet, I have to say, I never saw it coming. Maybe because I was focused on the music to come. Stevie Wonder! The place went nutty.

Then, technical difficulties. There was no sound. We all watched as Stevie sat at the piano, tapping on the mike to no avail, getting increasingly agitated. With every silent minute, Wonder bobbed his head more and more frantically. Why didn't anyone go out to help him? It was not only uncomfortable to witness, but it sucked all the energy out of the building.

Finally, one live mike was found and, when Wonder yelled "Hello New York," the cheers were thunderous. This was, Stevie proclaimed, the 20th anniversary of his induction into the rock hall, and the 5oth anniversary of Motown Records. Were we ready to "turn this mutha out?" he wondered. Oh yeah, we were.

More sound problems followed, and after a loud "Aw shit!," Wonder sat down. OK, a little change was in order. "Can you hear this?" he asked. We could. "Is this good?" as he hit some keys. It was. Alright then. In honor of Bob Dylan, Stevie went into "Blowin' in the Wind." Great choice, great salute to rock history and a sing-songy tune to counter the sound problems.

Though the sound would continue to plague the performance for awhile, Wonder was undeterred. "Wanna hear some Little Stevie Wonder?" he asked, as if referring to another person. "Uptight," with vocals a tad muted, led it off, then Stevie stopped abruptly and soared into "I Was Made to Love Her." He had the crowd going now, and pushed them further with "For Once in My Life," "Signed, Sealed, Delivered," and "Boogie On Reggae Woman." The short, Vegas-y versions, not as short as a medley, not as long as a regular version, bugged me. His songs are too good for that kind of treatment. The sound was still not perfect and, though I love Stevie Wonder, I couldn't help but pray that this better be fixed in time for Bruce.

A litany of guests were scheduled to play during the set. The first was Smokey Robinson, who came on for "Tracks of My Tears." John Legend came on to do a bit of Marvin Gaye with "Mercy Mercy Me." Legend is fine, but he's no Marvin. No one is. Wonder invited his guest to sit at the piano and a remarkable thing happened next.

In tribute to Michael Jackson, Stevie began a pulsing version of "The Way You Make Me Feel." Watching on the video screen, it seemed as if Wonder was having a seizure and, with his singing suddenly halted, there was a bit of confusion. Then it became apparent that he was breaking down, weeping hard over the death of his fallen comrade. Stevie got it together and resumed the song, urging the crowd with "All hail Michael Jackson. We love Michael Jackson. Long live Michael Jackson." It was the most genuine emotional moment of the night. Wonder also paid respects to Lennon, Hendrix and Marley, but he Michael on his mind.

B.B. King slowly made his way onstage for a swing at "The Thrill is Gone." B.B. and Lucille left and Stevie performed "Living For the City." From there, he tore into "Higher Ground," Sting joining on bass. "Higher" dovetailed into "Roxanne," and the song never sounded better than with Wonder wailing on "red light." Then, back to "Higher," and out.

The last guest of the night was Jeff Beck. The connection here is that Wonder had written "Superstition" and was giving it to Beck, but then recorded it first for a hit. Some bad feeling there, but that was 35 years ago. Tonight, Beck was there to tear it open, and he did.

That's was it. Stevie stood up and said "we gotta go." The crowd gave out a big cheer for the Yankees score, a 3-1 victory over the Phillies in Game 2. Now, we all waited for Bruce.