Fortunate Sons

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

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)

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

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?

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

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

Working My Way Through Bergman

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.