Peripatetic

I ended up awake until 6 a.m. Central Time watching what was at times a thrilling men’s final at the Australian Open, and somewhat to my surprise, it ended better than I could have hoped, with a four-set victory for Safin. None of Hewitt’s conduct in this morning’s match endeared him to me any further; the number of beautiful shots he made couldn’t cancel out his cheering his opponent’s mistakes or jabbing a finger toward the linesman who had (accurately) called a foot-fault on him. What a graceless human being Hewitt is. And they showed repeated shots of an Australian TV star who was identified as his girlfriend, which reminded me that I had read about he and Clijsters breaking off their engagement a while back, so now I have no reason to believe he has any redeeming features. (Besides, I think Safin wins in the gorgeous girlfriend department; speaking strictly as a heterosexual female, I can only say, “Yowza!”)

So even if my very favorite players didn’t win, it turned out to be a reasonably gratifying Aussie Open. More successful than this weekend’s basketball results, in which the Gophers got (predictably, but by a bigger margin than expected) clobbered by the Illini and the Wolves, playing at home, failed to defeat a severely depleted Kings team despite a typically superb performance from KG. Sometimes I think that now that it’s been nearly seven years since I left Minneapolis, I need to quit rooting for their teams…but it’s not really something I can control, unfortunately.

The dogs woke me at 5 this morning, wanting to go out, and as long as I was up, I figured I’d check in on the Australian Open. I was expecting a five-set epic, though I was feeling pretty confident that Roddick would win. The match was tied at a set apiece, so I dozed off for another 45 minutes or so, knowing that they’d still be playing when the alarm went off. And they were…but barely. I tuned in just in time to see Hewitt take the third set to a tiebreak, after (I gathered) breaking Roddick to even the match. I was making tea and coffee while Hewitt won the tiebreak, so I comforted myself with the thought that even if Roddick didn’t come back and take the next two sets, at least Federer would devour Hewitt like a little snack cake in the final. And just as I was thinking that, that Chris ?Fowler fellow that ESPN has as their main tennis host nowadays mentioned after a commercial break that Safin had beaten Federer the night before. What?!?! That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Despairing slightly–I loathe Hewitt* and am not completely confident that Safin can beat him–I went to get dressed. Drank down my tea and put the coffee in the travel mug while Hewitt demolished Roddick decisively in the fourth set; I think it ended up at 6-1, with Hewitt making all those graceless, Jimmy-Connors-ish (and I don’t mean that as a compliment) fist-pumping, chest-pounding gestures all the while. Gosh I hate* that guy. I don’t expect all male tennis players to be as polite, well-spoken, respectful, and even courtly as, say, Federer, or James Blake, but there’s a big difference between youthful exuberance and cockiness, like Roddick’s (and Roddick seems to have the nice counterbalancing attribute of not taking himself too seriously, plus he’s kind of a funny guy), and outright boorishness, like Hewitt’s.

I’ll be rooting emphatically for Safin, in any case. I like* him well enough, always have, though his head seems to get in the way of his game a lot. (Then again, I’m often intrigued by players like that–I couldn’t have loved Chris Webber for all these years if that weren’t true.) He’s played up to his old standards in this tournament, and I’m hopeful that he’ll just come out and overpower Hewitt. Hopeful, but not optimistic. And if Hewitt wins, sheesh, he’ll be more insufferable than ever. Kim Clijsters, who seems like the very embodiment of grace and class, loves Hewitt enough to want to marry him, so he must have some redeeming features, but it’s awfully hard to see what they are.

At least the forces of (basically) good triumphed over the forces of ickiness in the women’s final. I can’t think of a top player on the women’s tour that I’ve liked* less than Lindsay Davenport in recent years. I’m not crazy about Jennifer Capriati, who comes off as kind of tactless and not especially bright, but Davenport has made numerous barely-veiled racist and homophobic comments (about the Williams sisters and Amelie Mauresmo, respectively, of course) in the past that reveal that she isn’t the sweet All-American small-town girl that she’s usually portrayed as. I’ve never much liked her game–she’s a choke artist of the first order, and if she weren’t so tall, I don’t think she’d have had the successes she’s had. And the fact that she’s been ranked #1 recently (though I guess she’ll lose that ranking now) is just a joke. She’s #1 only because the Belgians and Capriati have been out of contention for significant parts of the year, and because the Williams sisters’ interest in tennis has waxed and waned more dramatically than usual this year. I don’t adore* Serena as much as I admire her, or in the way that I adore* Venus, though Serena is certainly fun to watch when she’s on her game. I was rooting for Sharapova in her match with Serena, because I think Sharapova really has the goods–I wish my personal favorite leggy blonde Slavic tennis player with great moves and reach on the court, Daniela Hantuchova, wasn’t turning out to be a possible flash in the pan, but in the absence of success on her part, I’ll temporarily switch allegiance to Sharapova. But I loved the way Serena clawed her way back against Maria, and how strong she looked in the third set. Generally speaking, I prefer Venus’s more elegant finesse game to Serena’s sheer power, but objectively, I have to admit that Serena is the better player, maybe the most naturally talented player on the current tour.** Watching her come back from a set down to take the second set and then bagel Davenport in the third was an absolute delight, and I was also very pleased to see one of the Williamses win a major again; it had been too long.

So whether or not I’m awake tonight to watch the beginning of the Hewitt-Safin match (or up early enough tomorrow morning to watch the end), all I have to say is: go Safin!

*I am, of course, aware that I can’t actually like or dislike or loathe or adore any of these people, since I’ve never met them and never will and am only exposed to whatever inklings of them they, their agents, and the broadcasters want the world to see. But almost all sports fans form irrational likes and dislikes based on trivial, not-so-trivial, and/or imagined personal and professional factors, and because tennis is an individual sport, it’s particularly easy to form those preferences. Tennis is, I guess, the sport I’ve followed with the most intensity for the longest time. I liked baseball when I was very young, because my family did and because it was fun to play with my brothers’ baseball cards, though I didn’t fully understand the game when I was four, I don’t think; later, I hated baseball because my family loved it. I liked hockey and basketball a little later in childhood; it would have been hard not to then, because the Rangers were pretty good and the Knicks were in their heyday, and it just wouldn’t have made sense not to love players like Clyde and Bradley and Dave DeBusschere and Willis Reed. They were icons, heroes, even to me. My family also loved football–I think in some ways my parents cared more about the (football) Giants than they did about the Yankees, maybe partly because the Yankees weren’t their team until the (baseball) Giants broke their hearts by leaving New York–but I’ve hated it my whole life, and not just as a form of rebellion against my family. I can’t really explain why I hate football so much–maybe it’s a combination of the long periods of standing around, the excessive role that the refs play, or just the sheer dumb brutality and lack of subtlety that I perceive in the game (I don’t like rugby or Australian Rules football either, fwiw, whereas I love what the rest of the world calls football, i.e. soccer). I don’t know. But I actively hate football, more than any other sport except golf and boxing. Tennis, though…I got started watching tennis mostly because a Swedish (real Swedish, from Sweden–not Swedish-American) friend in junior high got me interested in it–her parents played all the time, and of course they all rooted fanatically for Borg, as I soon did too. But the rest of my family watched tennis too, so for a long time it was the one sport that we could all sit around and watched together. I was about ten or eleven when I started paying serious attention, and though I don’t follow the tour all that closely except for the majors, it’s still almost a religion of sorts for me. When the Grand Slam tournaments are going on, I’ll skip watching my favorite basketball teams without a second thought in favor of the tennis action, and I think I get more passionate about players I love* and players I can’t stand* in tennis than in any other sport that I follow.

**(Natural talent isn’t automatically a plus for me–Ivan Lendl is one of my favorite players of all time, after all, and he was anything but naturally talented; he had to work twice as hard as his peers to get to the top level. And though I wouldn’t say she’s low on natural talent, I think one of the things I love* most about Justine Henin-Hardenne–probably my favorite women’s player nowadays–is the way she scraps and battles and fights to overcome her natural disadvantages, like being of normal height on a tour full of giantesses.)

Since only four or five people ever read this blog, I figure it’s safe to post this now. Of course, those four or five people probably know about it already:

In an effort to declutter my life just a little, and, I hope, to share some music with people who will appreciate it more than my dusty, overcrowded shelves do, I’m giving away a bunch of CDs. Not trading or selling, but giving away, in exchange for either blank CD-Rs or postage. The first batch is listed here. (There’s a more long-winded explanation, along with details of how the whole thing works, on the page with the list itself.)

If you stumble across this post and want to tell other people, please feel free to do so. I’m hoping (I never say “planning,” ’cause that guarantees that it won’t happen) to add a bunch more CDs this weekend.

I’m listening to my favorite radio show in the world at the moment, and my favorite DJ is playing “One Step Up,” from Tunnel of Love, the only Bruce Springsteen album that I can claim to love unequivocally.* The show has been great from beginning to end today. Listening to it cost me money (had to order the new Bettie Serveert record after John played a song from it, and somewhat to my surprise, I ordered the new one by Low, a band I’d always dismissed becauase I hated–and in this case, that’s not too strong a word–their first album and the live show I saw around that time. But a guy on one of the music lists I’m no longer on persuaded me to listen to a couple of tracks from an advance he had, and I liked them quite well. Then John played a song from the just-released record this morning; I’d been away from my desk, and came back in the middle of the song, and liked it so much that I checked his playlist right away to see what it was. When it turned out to be Low, I decided to take a chance on the record, even though I’m trying not to buy records unless I’m either already familiar with them or close to certain that I’ll love them–all part of the effort to buy fewer CDs.

Anyway, in spite of the fact that it cost me money, I loved today’s show, like every other week’s show, and it occurred to me that though I try to mention the show as often as I can when I post to various lists (which isn’t a very effective tactic right now since I’m under a self-imposed moratorium on e-mail list reading or posting–more on that later, I think), I still don’t mention it often enough.

So here’s a plug for it: Memphis to Manchester, on KDHX, Thursday mornings from 8 to 10 a.m. That first link will take you to a brief description of the page and the most recent playlist; you can also look at archived playlists. As you’ll see, it mixes soul, indie rock, twang, and related music for people with wide-ranging tastes. KDHX is a fine community station in St. Louis, but they stream live, so you can listen wherever you are if you’re near a computer at that early hour. I listen to various excellent Net radio broadcasts, from the BBC to KEXP, but this is by far my favorite show, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Put it on your calendar and listen to it every Thursday if you possibly can.

And that’s today’s plug.

*I still love Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town, but even now, nearly 26 years after I graduated from high school, there’s weird high-school-era baggage attached to those records, because there were so many Bruce–make that BROOOOOCE–obsessives in my high school, people who really thought they were Bruce Springsteen, pretty much, and overexposure to Bruce via those people and via NYC radio made it impossible for me to listen to him at all for many years. That’s meant that there are albums of his that I just don’t know very well, along with a few that I know well enough to know that I don’t love them–though I guess every record he’s ever made features at least one song that I think is great.

This is an attempt to reconstruct another of the posts that vanished into the ether when my blog temporarily went walkies a few weeks ago…except I’m not sure how I started that one off, so I’ll just dive clumsily into this one:

The question in the title of this post refers to the Damnations, who were once an exceptionally fine band based in Austin, TX, and seemed to have a great future ahead. What prompted me to ask the rhetorical question was having “For Awhile,” one of the songs on their superb first album, Half Mad Moon, come up on the iPod.* I hadn’t listened to the record** in a long time, and that wistful, simple song reminded me of everything that was great about the band: Rob Bernard’s flashy-but-not-too-flashy guitar playing, the sweet harmonies of sisters Amy Boone and Deborah Kelly, and maybe more than anything, Amy’s incredible songwriting. I admire lots of female songwriters, from Lori Carson to Sam Phillips to countless more, but Amy Boone had a way with lyrics that was unlike any other woman songwriter I’ve ever encountered (and not like a whole lot of males either, come to think of it). That was what put me in total awe of her, so much so that when they played Twangfest 3, way back in 1999, and hung out with the rest of us at the motel after the show, I was too awestruck to go up and talk to her. And that’s saying a lot, because I’ve conquered awe sufficiently to talk to nearly every musician I’ve ever really wanted to, even the supposedly unapproachable Jay Farrar (who was perfectly approachable and talkative when I met him, but we had some friends in common, which probably helped). I can’t really think of any other musicians who could even potentially have that effect on me, except maybe Iris DeMent and the aforementioned Sam. With Amy Boone, I’d either have been completely speechless or made a Chris-Farley-style fool of myself.

I’m not sure exactly why. But she could write a song like “Kansas,” which was historical (and historically accurate), odd, not exactly standard girly-love-song fare (not that I’m suggesting that that’s all most female songwriters can write, of course–just that it’s a very unexpected topic and one that shouldn’t make a great song, but somehow does) and catchy as hell, and then write “Spit and Tears,” arguably the best song ever written about a dog, and then turn around and–all on the same record–write “For Awhile,” which is simple but absolutely heartbreaking:

For a while, right away
Before true confessions
The weather’s always better on common ground
Until cloudy waters rise and you lose that ground
And you start falling
Calling it love
Calling it love

Finally touch down
A whole ocean shattered like glass
We drank that potion so fast and turned
Wanting more when we’re doing the same
Falling
Calling it love
Calling it love
What do you mean by “falling”?

Ain’t no use in hanging around
Emptiness swallows its own path
I watch my weakness go down easy
And I pray it won’t last
Fallling
Calling it love
Calling it love
Mm, love
Where do you see yourself falling?

It’s a song that’s both obliquely specific and transparently universal. That probably doesn’t come across just from transcribing the lyrics (I think any lyric can be made to look stupid or brilliant without musical context), but when I listen to it, I can’t help thinking that anyone who’s ever been in love or lost in love will know exactly what she means. To be able to capture that and also write about John Brown and “Bleeding Kansas,” among other topics…that’s a lot of talent, not to mention that she’s a terrific singer (as is her sister) and an excellent bass player.

But I got that record in 1998 (the official release was early 1999). That’s seven years ago. Since then, the band was dropped by their major label (to no one’s surprise), released one decidedly less impressive follow-up, played Twangfest again (I dealt with Deborah for most of the booking details, and wasn’t too awestruck to talk to her–just her sister), and mostly stayed around Austin and played lots of shows at the Continental Club and the like. (If you check their Website, it’s up-to-date, but there’s one “tour” date listed: the Continental Club, last Friday.) And I can’t help wondering if they got fed up with trying to be a touring band, or if the Austin slacker disease–you know, “yeah, we make some money playing local shows, and our day jobs help pay the rent, and we’re content with that”–got to them as it has to so many other bands…or what. If they are content to be just sort of a local band, in a town where there are lots of bands in the same position, that’s their choice, of course, and best wishes to them. (I mean that sincerely, not sarcastically; it’s a mug’s game at best, trying to be a successful or even subsistence-level band, and I can’t fault anyone who decides they don’t want to play along.) But I can’t help but wonder, and feel saddened at the thought of all that talent floating around out there and not reaching my ears or the ears of the, I dunno, hundreds? of other people who, for a while at least, felt the way I did about them.

(There’s eventually going to be a vol. 2 of “What the Hell Happened?”, about the great Cheri Knight, except that I actually know what happened to her, pretty much; I just have trouble accepting the fact that a record I still listen to constantly–her second album, The Northeast Kingdom–came out seven friggin’ years ago and will probably never be followed up. But that’s a story for another day.)

*The iPod has a name now, in keeping with the overall theme of my domain name: it’s the LynxPod, and will hereafter be referred to as such. I don’t always name my inanimate objects–cars usually, guitars sometimes, bicycles always, mandolins never, and everything else rarely–but I talk about this particular inanimate object so much that it seemed to warrant naming.

**For the sake of accuracy and the love of nitpickery, I should note that the version of the album that I put on the LynxPod is an advance that predated the official release by six months or more. The commercially released version was remastered and slightly resequenced, and one or two of the songs were completely re-recorded (two, if I remember correctly: the title track and “Unholy Train,” but I could be wrong since my memory is just a giant sieve). It’s hard for me to listen to it objectively because I was so used to the advance, but being as objective as I can, I think the commercial version is inferior to the advance…but it’s still a great record.

In reconstructing my blog after its brief foray into the Twilight Zone of the blogosphere, I noticed that a few posts went walkies somewhere along the line. Because I’m the only person who actually reads this blog and I can’t bear the thought of those posts out there in Blogovian limbo, I’m going to attempt to reconstruct the ones I can remember. Here’s the first of them, not verbatim (it would be a little scary if it were verbatim, now that I think of it):

At the end of 2004, my husband decided to compile a list of people’s favorites of the decade-so-far on a music e-mail list that we were then both on (I have subsequently left in a huff, or maybe it was an hour and a huff, or perhaps a taxi). I threw my list together quickly, shortly after his initial request to the list, because I knew that otherwise I would spend weeks agonizing over it; this way, I spent only a few hours agonizing over it. I think if I put the list together again right now, it might be slightly different, but again wanting to avoid those days of agony, I’m going to post my original list:

I had a really hard time limiting this to ten, but this is what I came up with. Subject to revision numerous times, starting ten seconds after I post:

1. Dolly Varden, The Dumbest Magnets
2. Allison Moorer, The Hardest Part
3. Robbie Fulks, Couples in Trouble
4. Scott Miller, Thus Always to Tyrants
5. Sam Phillips, Fan Dance
6. The Libertines, Up the Bracket
7. Scott Miller, Are You with Me?
8. Dixie Chicks, Home
9. The Delgados, Universal Audio
10. Jay Farrar, The Slaughter Rule soundtrack (my edited version)*

I posted my ten shortly after there had been a discussion on the list about whether or not there was a valid difference between “best” and “favorite.” My feeling is that there definitely is, and the above list confirms that. I don’t know if I can seriously, rationally argue, for example, that Dolly Varden’s The Dumbest Magnets is objectively the best record released since January 1, 2000, but I can state pretty unequivocally that it’s my favorite, in the sense that it’s the record that’s meant the most to me; although I’m capable of evaluating it objectively as a superb (if imperfect) record, my feelings about it, for various reasons, transcend any objective measures and move int the purely passion-based. Objectively, I think The Hardest Part–like The Dumbest Magnets, probably a once-in-a-lifetime peak of brilliance by an artist who is nonetheless capable of creating many more great records–might be a better record, but The Dumbest Magnets is still my favorite.

*I might eventually–in the unlikely event that I find myself with lots of spare time or the more likely event that I find myself wanting to duck schoolwork or work-work–write a little mini-essay on each of the records, because doing so would give me great pleasure, and I don’t really have any other forums to write about music much at the moment, now that I’m not actually subbed to any purely music-related lists. For the moment, though, I’ll just note that my special customized edition of the Slaughter Rule soundtrack is the regular version minus the Freakwater song and the Vic Chesnutt song. I’m not a Freakwater fan in general, but the torture they inflict on “When I Stop Dreaming” should be a prosecutable offense. I’m not exactly a Vic Chesnutt fan either–more of an admirer, a picker-and-chooser from his catalog than a real fan–but I like a lot of what he does, and his dirgelike, barely audible version of “Rank Stranger” was a big disappointment to me, so I left it off my version of the record. Those are two pretty much canonical songs that really should be treated with more respect, IMO. I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to covers: there are note-for-note faithful covers that I love, and there are complete reinventions of songs that I love, and I’m not a purist either way. But I do balk at outright desecration of great songs, and that’s how those two strike me.

Okay, end of rant; this is supposed to be a list of my favorites, after all, and absent those two songs, the Slaughter Rule soundtrack is a magnificent work. I say that as someone who would not have expected to put an almost all instrumental record on any best-of list, much less a (mostly) Jay Farrar record, since of all the many things I love about Jay Farrar, his voice is probably first and foremost. But it’s a gorgeous, atmospheric, imaginative work that does something many soundtracks can’t: it actually makes the movie better.

Having said all that, I’m not positive that if I redid the list right now, I wouldn’t swap out Terroir Blues, Jay’s most recent record (with vocals!), for the Slaughter Rule soundtrack; every time I hear that record, I like it better, and if I compile a list like this again in a year or two, I won’t be surprised to find Terroir Blues on it. But this was the one I came up with initially, so here it is, with no apologies–it’s not like there are any records on it that I’m not proud to have there.

…that HBO will be wise enough to go for a fourth season of “The Wire,” which just three seasons in can already be said, I think, to rank among the best TV series ever.

Baltimore’s City Paper has a fine list of 10 reasons not to cancel the show. My personal favorite (of their quotes, not of the whole series): �??I keeps one in the chamber, in case you pondering.�?� �??Omar

I haven’t been this anxious about the fate of a TV series since…well, probably since “Homicide,” another David Simon creation. Guess I’ll cross my toes too.

At least there’s a teensy bit of good news today….
CNN.com - Judge: Evolution stickers unconstitutional - Jan 13, 2005

…though call me cynical, but somehow I have a feeling this will be overturned on appeal.

Guardian Unlimited | Special reports | Renegade royal flouts the rules

You know, I’m not sure how deeply offended I’d be if, say, a Hollywood celeb type (even if British or French) dressed up in a Nazi uniform. It would depend on the context, for one thing, and though it would be impossible not to find it at least a little bit offensive, it might not be the disgrace that this is. But Prince Harry is, obviously, a member of the British royal family. Countless numbers of his “subjects” sacrificed their lives or suffered terribly directly because of the Nazis. If he were a politician, there would be calls–justifiable ones, really–for him to step down from his office. But he’s just a spoiled rich boy with a big fancy title, so he thinks he can get away with this kind of outrage.

And an outrage it is, just as Tom DeLay’s implication last week that the horrors of the earthquake, tsunami, and after math were God’s punishment to the heathen Asians for not being Christians. Why he’s still allowed to hold office–and how he dares to call himself a Christian, when nothing he says or does upholds the fundamental principles of Christ’s teachings–is a total mystery to me. At least Prince Harry can hide behind his bloodlines; why is DeLay allowed to hide behind…I dunno, what? Karl Rove’s skirts?

The world is full of many great and wonderful and mysterious things, but it’s also full of inexplicable crap sometimes.

In reconstructing the damn blog, I re-read my Dolorean post and decided that further listening (lots and lots of further listening) to Violence in the Snowy Fields indicated that my initial assessment of the lyrics missed the mark some. The Christian imagery in the lyrics, in particular, eluded me at first, I think. I know there are some who prefer the more elliptical and cryptic lyrics of the first-actually-second record, Not Exotic, and I’m not knocking those at all, but the lyrics as well as the melodies on Violence are something else entirely.

It ended up very close to being my favorite record of the year, though in the end I just couldn’t give the nod to anyone but the Delgados. Regardless, I think it’s an astonishing achievement, and I’ll have more to say about them soon.