Reasons to Love Colorado, #46
And now for something COMPLETELY different (and I really mean it this time)....
For those who don't already know it, I'm a fairly rabid baseball fan. Forget the thugs in those other sports (and yes, I DID vote for the asterisk on Barry Bonds' baseball too, so there).
And while I'll root for the Broncos (and Jets, if they ever get a clue again), I don't go in for the downright disturbing Elway worship that STILL goes on here. (Have I ever mentioned that South Park episodes are SO much funnier when you live in Colorado and actually see what they're based on? They really WOULD sacrifice Butters to a 20-foot Elway statue.)
Besides, I always hated Ol' Horse-Face (aka the 20th-Century Peyton Manning) anyway. Don't tell anyone here that, though -- the Gena 6 would have an easier time getting justice.
Anyway, I continue to assert that the difference between baseball and football (or basketball, for that matter) is like the difference between The Brothers Karamazov and a graphic novel (sorry, byrnes).
And I LIKE 162-(or preferably more)-chapter novels.
Anyway....
Just before I left New Jersey, it was really nice to see the Mets organization finally get a clue and do something I'd been pleading for 5 years before that: Make Omar Minaya their GM. And in the few years since, they've actually become a real organization, made smart baseball decisions, won games, all that good stuff. (Not lately, but more about that later.)
And yet, there's a part of me that misses the longtime-lovable-losers-who-occasionally-pulled-off-a-miracle Mets. (Yes, my 1st baseball memory WAS 1969. Why do you ask?)
That's why it was so easy, upon touching down in DIA two-plus years ago, to embrace the Colorado Rockies.
These guys ARE the Mets of the 21st Century. Even two years ago, it was just FUN watching a young team play their hearts out, even as their hearts were getting RIPPED out night after night. But you saw a core of players who, if they came together, could really be SOMETHING.
Yes, to be more normally on-topic, it HAS been somewhat like discovering a great band at their first album then seeing them on the verge of finally cashing in.
And most of this year they've shown flashes of that. Despite losing 60% of their original starting rotation, they've managed to stay in the running -- largely because of arguably the best everyday starting lineup in the NL. Matt Holliday is MVP material, Troy Tulowitski probably IS NL Rookie of the Year, and, finally being rewarded for his years of patience after arguably a HoF career (OK, that $12-19 million/year is more than he's worth at this point, but still...)...
The Todd.
No, no.... THIS The Todd....
Diminished power and all, he's still one of the best pure hitters in the game, and a joy to watch. Good for him that he's finally playing meaningful games in September. Even better that he's making the most of them.
SO, to further confess, I'd pretty much given up after Game 1 of the Phillies series a few weeks back, when Clint Hurdle (ahem) managed to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory with some truly awful (ahem) decisionmaking. And they're still paying for that even now. Throw in their inability to finish off sub-.500 teams (while simultaneously sweeping the Mets, Yankees, and Brewers earlier this year), and the Rox seemed headed for a promising season nonetheless filled with head-scratching moments. And it may still wind up being that. BUT....
...thank God, after getting spanked by the Florida Marlins, the Rox have been playing the best teams in the league the last two weeks.
A 10-game win streak against their direct competition (including sweeeping the Dodgers & Padres -- just think, if they only played plus-.500 teams this'd be in the bag by now) has put them right back in the hunt. In addition to being neck-and-neck with the Phils, a game behind the Pods, and two behind the D-Backs, the Rox are now a game behind this season's obvious-favorite METS.
I am on the verge of being SO conflicted.
Or I can wait until the playoffs to feel conflicted. Either way. 
In short, this is completely wild. 4 games -- 7 teams (the Cubs and Brewers are still fighting in the NL Central, too, you know, and mathematically those pesky Braves are still in it too, so arguably 8 teams) -- 4 slots.
THIS is why you have to read the WHOLE 162-chapter novel to appreciate it.
When the Rox pull into Arizona tomorrow, regardless of what happens today (although another sweep of the Dodgers WOULD be sweet -- and pretty critical), their fate is in their hands.
So I have to give Clint (known elsewhere as "The Sanjaya of Managers") THIS: He might just be the Herm Edwards of MLB (or the second coming of Dusty Baker, if you will): I.e., can motivate his guys but still not the guy you want to make a smart decision at a critical moment. The fact that the Rox are still looking up is proof of that (again, start with Game 1 of the Phils series and work back from there, and often). And again, the fact that plus-.500 teams seem to be no problem, yet the Marlins, Royals and Pirates beat their butts without an issue.
Still, he has to get some credit for the fact that these guys not only didn't give up, but are now playing on all cylinders. Just pray that no cylinders misfire in the next four games and he actually has to make an actual game-affecting decision. 
So: The Pods get the Brewers, who still have a chance for the NL Central. The Phils have a historically huge gag reflex, so even though they're home against the Nats I'm still betting on that until further notice. The Mets and D-Backs are suddenly and mysteriously floundering. If I were a betting man.... well, I'd be having convulsions trying to figure out which way to go.
AND if all this were to play out to a one-game playoff at Coors, if the rotation holds as is, the Rox' starting pitcher will be.... perennial #5 pitcher Josh Fogg, pitching through a bad shoulder.
Who just happened to shut out the Dodgers last night.
I TOLD you this was crazy.
In short, I'm prepared to have my heart broken by a brand-new team. But I certainly have experience with miracles too (calling Calvin Schiraldi.... calling Bill Buckner....), so keep hope alive.
GO ROX! 
Shameless Plug #14
I guess this one qualifies. Nowhere near as much effort as past entries, and my role was really just to identify and organize the already-existing copy so that the youth editor who hadn't yet started working here could handle the production part. Nonetheless, it was a pretty large chunk of the overall work, so why not: http://www.group.com/coretruth/. Enjoy as you will.
Expectancy vs. Expectation:
The Musical Play-at-Home Version
Last entry, I ruminated somewhat about the importance of expectancy in one’s spiritual walk, and how that differs from having expectations. Well, it may be a lower plane but that often works for music, too. Today’s selections -- all from newer artists and/or emerging cult darlings -- all have had some manner of expectation placed upon them before I even heard them, from different sources and in noticeably differing degrees. And I daresay the hype hinders rather than helps at times, and creates a hurdle that maybe shouldn’t’ve needed to be cleared, and so far sometimes isn’t.
Yeah, this entry’s gonna be even ramblier than usual.
So let’s work our way…. um, wayward… and with more obscure musical references than you can shake a STICK at, buddies….
The Zincs -- Black Pompadour. Starting with the dark horse of the three: I picked this one up virtually on a whim, as the only thing I previously knew about them was that Thrill Jockey Records was kind enough to throw in a poster for an earlier album when I ordered a crapload of Tom Verlaine stuff from them last year. (I still have the other Verlaine poster they included in my cube, in fact.) So, having little in the way of direction outside of a nagging curiosity, I went for it.
It ain’t life-changing, but if the idea of a flatter and more arcane Nick Cave fronting Mission of Burma (OK, let’s make that analogy slightly less impenetrable and substitute reunion-era Television) sounds appealing, this just might be your thing. Transplanted Brit James Elkington (and what is it with me and transplanted Brits, anyway?), whose songs drive this, says he was listening to a lot of The Smiths when writing this, and I can hear that too in places. Anyway, I’m taking it for what it’s worth and liking it.
It’s worth noting, though, that the songs usually work best when the guitars are working the hardest. Elkington has an interesting turn of phrase here and there, but it’s more interesting than illuminating. (Again, see also Verlaine’s especially later solo stuff.)
I’m not sure where the “Kaspar” framework that begins and ends the album comes in here, unless it’s meant to be some alter-ego for Elkington’s own pilgrimage to the states. And maybe that works: The opener “Head East, Kaspar” (and its closing reprise, just plain "Kaspar") includes the encouragement, “Get ready for profanity and greed.” But again, it’s the guitar that drives this thing, and drive it does, with a strong melody to match. “Coward’s Corral” takes the tempo up a notch, with some nice dissonant if controlled guitar.
“Hamstrung and Juvenile” has a bit of a Doors feel to it, likely the pulsing organ riff that opens it, before giving way to a minor-chorded chorus that opens “Some rays of daylight to radiate this tune," which kind of says it all (if it says anything at all to you, of course). Besides that the guitar work here is again very tasty in a mellow-Verlaine kind of way. “Rice Scars” is a pretty tune that continues to lean on the organ and just the right amount of guitar arpeggios.
“The Mogul’s Wives” is likely the second single here; again, some nice insistently jangly guitar work, especially at the end. Elkington’s vocals are even flatter here than elsewhere, but serve well to deadpan the bridge, “Here are the mogul’s wives/ Authority rests in the nests of these snakes.” As byrnes would say, he sounds like he’d be a lot of fun on camping trips. :P
You know what? I’ve either sold you or haven’t, and in any case I’ve pretty much milked all the suitable adjectives and analogies. Go discover the rest for yrselves, if you choose. The only thing I’ll add is: Despite the fact they’re based in Chicago, an East Coast musical mentality (and a love of things Verlaine in general) definitely helps here. It’s definitely helping me, anyway.
Moving on….
St. Vincent – Marry Me. Let me start with a side note: It’s really humorous how many people have stopped at my cube to stare at this cover – and all she had to do was stare back.
Anyway, when someone’s compared to Kate Bush, plays in Sufjan Stevens’ and The Polyphonic Spree’s touring bands, and opens for Television (hmm, Television sightings in consecutive reviews…. go figure….), that positively screams to me “PROVENANCE!” (OK, it might scream something else to you, but you get the idea.) And this debut album IS the best album I’ve heard by a woman not named Patti Smith in ages; I’m racking my brain to figure out exactly how far back I need to go on this…. ah yes, Miranda Stone’s 7 Deadly Sins, which heck, is already five years old now and sadly, remains her most recent release.)
Anywayer, a little more on the Kate Bush analogy, which doesn’t hold up the entire way but is definitely understandable, by adding an analogy of my own: Who’s seen the Star Trek episode where Kirk gets split into two Kirks, the evil aggressive one and nice but wussy one? (TWO bad overactors? NOOOOO….) Now, imagine that kinda happening to Kate Bush. (Take it easy here, guys -- we’re talking musically.) Anyway, anyone who’s been listening the last 15 years knows that the scary neo-classical half with the killer pipes is Tori Amos (at least before mutating exclusively into psychotic sex thang a few albums in). The quirky, coy-yet-winsome half that was more evident on the earlier pre-Dreaming albums, I now know, grew up to be Annie Clark, i.e., St. Vincent.
Which in itself is encouraging, because aside from suggesting she’s already got a “Suspended in Gaffa” within her it also suggests that she might yet still grow up write her own “Get Out of My House” (EEEYAAAAAAAWWWWW-WUH!!!!! 
Although by age 23, I’m pretty sure Kate had already recorded said GOOMH.) I’m thinking Annie might be a little too neurotic and/or nice for that, but hey, keep hope alive.
Anyway, this is still a first album, and thus while it’s got moments it’s got misses too, and a few too many moments that remind me more of Norah Jones than Kate Bush, especially as the album progresses (which ain’t terrible, mind you, but I never need more than one song of that type at any given moment of my life). For what it’s worth, I could also see Ani Di Franco fans embracing this too, given Annie’s DIY approach (i.e., she plays just about everything here) and natural singing voice. Except, of course, that Ani Di Franco usually annoys me but I like this. Usually. I like the potential here, in any case, and that’s far from nothing. Especially as I keep hearing more of it with every listen.
The opening single “Now, Now” wears its Kate on its sleeve, and a very cool sleeve it is, as Annie assures a potential lover who’s apparently mistaking kindness for weakness, “I'm not your mother's favorite dog / I'm not the carpet you walk on … / I'm not the pawn to your king / I'm not your world on a string / I'm not anyone you'll beat / I'm not anything / I'm not anything at all,” then repeatedly demands in a virtual kindergarten chorus, “You don’t mean that, say you’re sorry.” But just when you think she might settle for cute and quirky, out of nowhere comes a big hairy mama-killin’ guitar that more than supports the closing line, “I’ll make you sorry.”
The chipper 6/8 “Jesus Saves, I Spend” likewise finds the ability to balance the bouncy and childlike with the dreamy with the edgy. “Your Lips Are Red” ventures as far into scary-Kateland (and/or a really good early Sinead O’Connor outtake) as this album gets, what with the dissonant piano and loud warbly guitar riff, before giving way to quiet arpeggios and strings, then everything all at once.
After the quieter, sweeter yet still eccentrically ironic pop of the title song -- “Marry me, John, I’ll be so good to you/ You won’t realize I’m gone” -- comes one more venture into Katesville, “Paris Is Burning,” which starts quietly and acoustically (yet with drum machine whirring in the background) then builds into a torch song and blippy insistent electronic circus waltz all at once, justifying and contrasting against the bleak lyrics, “I'm on your side when nobody is, ‘cause nobody is…. We have taken to the streets in open rejoice revolting / We are dancing a black waltz, fair Paris is burning after all.” Heck, I don’t know what I just said either. But it’s still a cool song.
The pace drops from here, with the mellow-jazz-meets-Jiminy-Cricket “All My Stars Aligned.” It’s pleasant, and the ominous strings that enter about two-thirds in help, but it seems that other people like this more than I do. I re-engage at “The Apocalypse Song,” which is definitely reminiscent of that other half-Kate (i.e., Tori) -- “please give me victory / but give me little death” indeed -- starting off off-kilter, segueing into one of the odder bridges you’ll ever hear, before giving way to a “wait a second -- how did this suddenly get gorgeous?” ending (if not for more hints of that odd-but-definitely-memorable bridge).
It gets kind of forgettable after “We Put a Pearl in the Ground,” a pretty minute-long piano intro that leads into the once-more-jazzy “Landmines,” which again is a little too languid and long for my tastes (this is the only song that breaks five minutes), but includes some interesting musical/lyrical imagery. The jazz gets more guitar-based for the “Human Racing,” then brings in a bunch more instrumentation for the closer “What Me Worry” which still doesn’t make it much more compelling (the lyric “love is just a bloodmatch” notwithstanding). Again, the girl can play but it just ain’t my thang.
So, 32 minutes of REALLY good, followed by 13 minutes of so-so (or at least not my style). Not bad at all for a first time out, though. And there’s a LOT to build on. Just bring Coltrane with you next time you wanna do jazz, Annie.
Okkervil River -- The Stage Names. This album has been getting a LOT of accolades recently, and given the critical frothing about the lyrics, and a musical style that could be best described as alt-Americana -- and decidedly alt-er than my newly beloved Kamikaze Hearts -- it really seems I oughta be loving this thing too. But as I say with annoying regularity (just ask him) to my music-loving buddy in the opposite cube who has tried to turn me on to countless indie thangs over the last several months (but curiously hadn’t heard of these guys, even though I think this is album #3 or 4), so far, it’s just… OK.
The ringleader of this particular gang is one Will Sheff, who when he’s worked up often sounds like Kevin Rowland (he of Dexy’s Midnight Runners) trying to sound like Roy Orbison (instead of Van Morrison). Actually, the Rowland analogy holds up pretty well for the songs too -- not that Sheff is quite the next young soul rebel gone Celtic (although maybe gone Tex-Mex), but in terms of the self-conscious cleverness of the lyrics with theoretically just the right amount of cursing inserted to get them across.
And even if the rhyme’s not there, he’ll sure as heck make one. In fact, one could arguably admire the way Scheff willfully force-feeds a lyrical concept or construct into a given song. Example(s):
From “Unless It’s Kicks”: “What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man -- unless it’s fictions… What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand, from some mid-level band?...”
…or “A Hand to Take Hold of the Scene”: “glistening shard / kiss that's as sharp…. light that is fine / cryingest eyes, grace in each face that is making the wastedest, brokenest ones fairly fly, love that is innocent of that old cynical, covetous, cancerous vibe, and a beauty that annihilates all life like it's lived in these nights, holding your hatred tight like a sign that you're right or you're strong. When your doors are shut tight, I will dream you tonight, and my dream will just sweep you along. When all fires are fanned, when we're shucking our plans, when we're too weak to stand…”
… or the otherwise catchy “Plus Ones,” basically a series of musical “numbers” with one added to them, i.e., 8 Chinese brothers, 51 ways to leave yr lover, 100 luftballoons, 9 miles high, blahdeblah.
And speaking of math, YOU do it from here. To put it in a way Mr. Scheff would arguably approve of: Love it and buy it, schlub it and fry it, or shrug and hey, try it.
To me, it sounds a bit too contrived and/or stopping too long to admire its own cleverness and/or just plain trying WAAAAAY too hard. For all I know, though, you might love this thing. I know Andre over at tm3am does (scroll WAY down), as well as any number of other critics.
Me, I may still change my mind, but so far: the effort’s there, and the subject matter’s often there as well. I mean, by all means, give the guy props making the album’s big ending a song about poet John Berryman’s suicide, then closing said song with a reprise of “Sloop John B,” complete with “this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.”
But on a personal level… well honestly, I’m not finding a personal level with this so far. But if I do, I’ll be sure to come back here and repent next week.
