Ooh, can From the Balcony use its crazy chameleon magic to turn into a Mets blog now?
Much like you did with Young, I must acknowledge your larger point while arguing with your logic. By the numbers, Bonds would be a terrific acquisition for the Mets. Ask yourself this: are you more confident with Alou or Endy in left? Alou looks pretty rickety out there, but plug him into the lineup and it suddenly starts to look a lot like a meat grinder. Alou seems like a less and less of viable option, and if Bonds can replicate his 2007 season (admittedly a big if), he's an even better hitter than Moises. With Beltran zooming around center on his motorcycle we can afford a left fielder without range. Even better, unlike all the other sluggers on the market, he doesn't cost us anything (besides cash, and possibly not THAT much). I love Endy like a brother, but he doesn't offer too much with the bat. Bonds' stellar offense more than offsets his horrid defense. The Mets sign Bonds and instantly become a better team.
So why don't I want them to do it?
Because if they did we'd have to have Barry Bonds on our team.
I see Bonds as a tragic, almost Shakespearean figure, a victim of his own character. I feared and admired him in his Pirate days. He was the best player I'd ever seen play the game. He had blazing speed, hit scorching line drives, and his eight gold gloves have something to say about your claim that he's always been a sub par fielder. He had a great baseball lineage, and there was no reason why his name shouldn't have gone down in history alongside the likes Mantle and Mays and DiMaggio.
Then there was McGuire, and suddenly everyone in America was weeping and rending their garments for the new Home Run King. Bonds had more talent in his pinkie toe than McGuire had in his whole fence swingin', strikeout lovin', grounder-bootin' body. But were people knifing each other in the stands over Bonds' home run balls? McGuire was the golden boy, and Bonds, the any fair measure the greatest player of his generation, was jealous.
So he shot crazy drugs up his ass until he turned into the loathsome, hulking knuckle-dragger we see before us today. He lost the ability to walk without hobbling, his head swelled up too big for his helmet, (also, presumably his balls have fallen off or something by this point) but man did he start pounding the fuck out of the ball. He hit more home runs than any body had ever hit before.
Wow-ee.
The press misses the point when they talk about the unfair advantage that steroids gave Bonds. The real story here is that steroids DESTROYED Bonds. Because we celebrate flash over substance, the macho, fascist home run over real athleticism, our generation was denied an athlete for ages. Mention Mickey Mantle in a room of older people, and somebody will smile and say, "I saw him play." When we're sitting in our rocking chairs and somebody mentions Bonds we'll shake our heads and say, "I saw him wither." Kids watching the game today don't even know what Bonds used to be. That's how we'll remember him -- the sickly, musclebound freak, smacking dingers, yawning in the outfield and failing to run out pop ups. All because he wanted the applause we gave to McGuire.
And that's why I don't want Bonds on the Mets. Because he's depressing. Even in his diminished state he's probably an upgrade over Endy, but I don't want a left fielder that I can't look at without thinking about the corrosive aspect of the American dream. That's the opposite of why I watch baseball. Also, Bonds is a pretty big douchebag, and I only support douchebags if they are already on the team and have achieved the status of Beloved Douchebag. (See: Paul Lo Duca.)
But seriously... Young thinks we should sign Bonds because the crazy media circus will help us somehow? That is CUH-RAZY. Even for a sportswriter.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
It is now July 10th and Barry Bonds is still unemployed.
This is not ot surprising, of course, considering his legal woes. Still, Bonds and his agent are confident that he will play this year. He's been working out at his secret mountain lair and select scouts have been invited to come see what a 44-year old baseball superfreak can do. So who will sign this man?
How about the Mets? That's what Eric Young, former ballplayer and current ESPN analyst, suggests in his Baseball Tonight Clubhouse post. Now now, stop laughing hysterically and put away that syringe and straight-jacket. The man did hit 28 home runs in 126 games last year - with the season halfway done, David Wright leads the Mets with only 17 bombers. So he'd help out with the power numbers. Bonds also posted an outworldly on-base percentage of .480 with 132 walks: mmmm, yummy RBI's!
Okay, so there is an intelligent case to be made for Bonds. Mr. Young's argument, unfortunately, is anything but. A cardinal rule in baseball is that its analysts are dumb and uninformed - the "Joe Morgan Rule", if you will. So let's have at it.
First, who are the Mets?
"This is a team that has the talent to not only win the National League East, but to run away with it. I believe the best way for this team to do that may be by making one more big headline this summer. That would be by signing Barry Bonds."
So far so good. The Mets have been a disappointment this year. Two years ago they came within one game of making to the World Series. Last year the team was visibly hungry for the title and maintained their NL East dominance throughout the season, except they infamously blew a 7-game lead to the Phillies with only 17 games left in the season. Just to give you a sense of how improbable this was, I remember convincing myself that everything was going to be fine because the Mets had 97.5% chance of making the playoffs with only one week to go. That was heartbreaking. This year, the Mets were flat coming out of the gate. They are hovering near .500 and have not been able to pull together a dominating stretch, despite the fact that they added the Best Pitcher on the Planet to the team.
Mr. Young, please continue:
"This is a move that would help this team in several different ways. First, this is a team filled with quiet guys who are having to deal with the circus that comes with playing in New York. The signing of Bonds would put all that pressure on him and allow the rest of this team to just play ball the rest of the season."
Duhrrrrr, what? Forget injuries, lack of clutch hitting, mistakes on the field, and the continuing implosion of the bullpen. The Mets are not playing well because of the New York media circus. This is a common charge. Anytime a New York athlete or team fares poorly, it's always because of the big scary wolves of the New York dailies are ripping on them for every single decision... especially when the bile and hatred is richly deserved.
Mr. Young's solution: bring in Bonds as the patsy! The man is hated so much already by the fans and the media that all the boo-birds of Shea Stadium will target their shit-bombs on Barry's ginormous head. Reporters will flock post-game to Bonds and grill him on his pending criminal charges, giving Wright, Reyes, Beltran and crew the chance to tip-toe their way out of the lockerroom and make a getaway on the team bus.
But how will Bonds contribute, besides as a decoy?
"Second, this gives the Mets not only the most potent offense in the National League, but in all of baseball. The Mets could trot out a lineup that started out like this: Jose Reyes, Luis Castillo/Damion Easley, Carlos Beltran, Bonds, David Wright and then Carlos Delgado. In the later innings, they could pull Bonds for Endy Chavez, a better defensive outfielder who could also help rest Bonds' knees."
That Castilo/Easley platoon sure is fearsome, no? Nah, I won't criticize Mr. Young too much on this point. That line-up sure sounds scary. The good news: Reyes is on track to post his career-best numbers and Wright is one the last stage of his metamorphosis into God. Beltran is Beltran: quitely racking up the number while playing excellent defense at center.
No, the real problem with the line is that old age has taken its toll on the veterans. Alou is out until god-knows-when, and Delgado completely fell off the wagon. The 2008 Mets are exhibit #1 for the theory that when you gamble with veterans, be prepared for the worst. Bonds will turn 45 sometime this season. He's not the kind of player who can take to the field every day.
The real flaw in Mr. Young's analysis, however, is that he completely omits defense. Baseball analysists (or at least TV analysts) bring in defense only when they want to hype up a player - the Derek Jeter Syndrome, if you will - and leave it out entirely when it leads to inconvenient conclusions. Let me say it loud and clear: Bonds is a terrible outfielder. His defense was always sub-par, but at this point he can't run, he can't dive, and he could never throw very hard. Expect flyballs to drop in the outfield like M.I.R.V. warheads falling on Soviet cities.
The Mets cannot afford Bond's defense, of all the teams out there, because our whole strategy for winning depends on outfield defense. We spent hundreds of millions of dollars on flyball pitchers and Gold Glove outfielders to take advantage of Shea's spacious outfield: Johan Santana, Pedro Martinez, and Olivier Perez give up flyballs, and Endy Chavez and Carlos Beltran turn 'em into outs. That's Mets baseball. That's the highest flyball-to-out defense efficiency in the league. That's how we win.
So yeah, we might not want to add a doorstop to the outfield and hope and pray and cringe everytime the ball heads to the leftfield. Bonds will find gainful employment somewhere, to some other team with loads of cash mired in mediocrity (ahem, the Yankees). But he won't be wearing the blue and the orange anytime soon.
This is not ot surprising, of course, considering his legal woes. Still, Bonds and his agent are confident that he will play this year. He's been working out at his secret mountain lair and select scouts have been invited to come see what a 44-year old baseball superfreak can do. So who will sign this man?
How about the Mets? That's what Eric Young, former ballplayer and current ESPN analyst, suggests in his Baseball Tonight Clubhouse post. Now now, stop laughing hysterically and put away that syringe and straight-jacket. The man did hit 28 home runs in 126 games last year - with the season halfway done, David Wright leads the Mets with only 17 bombers. So he'd help out with the power numbers. Bonds also posted an outworldly on-base percentage of .480 with 132 walks: mmmm, yummy RBI's!
Okay, so there is an intelligent case to be made for Bonds. Mr. Young's argument, unfortunately, is anything but. A cardinal rule in baseball is that its analysts are dumb and uninformed - the "Joe Morgan Rule", if you will. So let's have at it.
First, who are the Mets?
"This is a team that has the talent to not only win the National League East, but to run away with it. I believe the best way for this team to do that may be by making one more big headline this summer. That would be by signing Barry Bonds."
So far so good. The Mets have been a disappointment this year. Two years ago they came within one game of making to the World Series. Last year the team was visibly hungry for the title and maintained their NL East dominance throughout the season, except they infamously blew a 7-game lead to the Phillies with only 17 games left in the season. Just to give you a sense of how improbable this was, I remember convincing myself that everything was going to be fine because the Mets had 97.5% chance of making the playoffs with only one week to go. That was heartbreaking. This year, the Mets were flat coming out of the gate. They are hovering near .500 and have not been able to pull together a dominating stretch, despite the fact that they added the Best Pitcher on the Planet to the team.
Mr. Young, please continue:
"This is a move that would help this team in several different ways. First, this is a team filled with quiet guys who are having to deal with the circus that comes with playing in New York. The signing of Bonds would put all that pressure on him and allow the rest of this team to just play ball the rest of the season."
Duhrrrrr, what? Forget injuries, lack of clutch hitting, mistakes on the field, and the continuing implosion of the bullpen. The Mets are not playing well because of the New York media circus. This is a common charge. Anytime a New York athlete or team fares poorly, it's always because of the big scary wolves of the New York dailies are ripping on them for every single decision... especially when the bile and hatred is richly deserved.
Mr. Young's solution: bring in Bonds as the patsy! The man is hated so much already by the fans and the media that all the boo-birds of Shea Stadium will target their shit-bombs on Barry's ginormous head. Reporters will flock post-game to Bonds and grill him on his pending criminal charges, giving Wright, Reyes, Beltran and crew the chance to tip-toe their way out of the lockerroom and make a getaway on the team bus.
But how will Bonds contribute, besides as a decoy?
"Second, this gives the Mets not only the most potent offense in the National League, but in all of baseball. The Mets could trot out a lineup that started out like this: Jose Reyes, Luis Castillo/Damion Easley, Carlos Beltran, Bonds, David Wright and then Carlos Delgado. In the later innings, they could pull Bonds for Endy Chavez, a better defensive outfielder who could also help rest Bonds' knees."
That Castilo/Easley platoon sure is fearsome, no? Nah, I won't criticize Mr. Young too much on this point. That line-up sure sounds scary. The good news: Reyes is on track to post his career-best numbers and Wright is one the last stage of his metamorphosis into God. Beltran is Beltran: quitely racking up the number while playing excellent defense at center.
No, the real problem with the line is that old age has taken its toll on the veterans. Alou is out until god-knows-when, and Delgado completely fell off the wagon. The 2008 Mets are exhibit #1 for the theory that when you gamble with veterans, be prepared for the worst. Bonds will turn 45 sometime this season. He's not the kind of player who can take to the field every day.
The real flaw in Mr. Young's analysis, however, is that he completely omits defense. Baseball analysists (or at least TV analysts) bring in defense only when they want to hype up a player - the Derek Jeter Syndrome, if you will - and leave it out entirely when it leads to inconvenient conclusions. Let me say it loud and clear: Bonds is a terrible outfielder. His defense was always sub-par, but at this point he can't run, he can't dive, and he could never throw very hard. Expect flyballs to drop in the outfield like M.I.R.V. warheads falling on Soviet cities.
The Mets cannot afford Bond's defense, of all the teams out there, because our whole strategy for winning depends on outfield defense. We spent hundreds of millions of dollars on flyball pitchers and Gold Glove outfielders to take advantage of Shea's spacious outfield: Johan Santana, Pedro Martinez, and Olivier Perez give up flyballs, and Endy Chavez and Carlos Beltran turn 'em into outs. That's Mets baseball. That's the highest flyball-to-out defense efficiency in the league. That's how we win.
So yeah, we might not want to add a doorstop to the outfield and hope and pray and cringe everytime the ball heads to the leftfield. Bonds will find gainful employment somewhere, to some other team with loads of cash mired in mediocrity (ahem, the Yankees). But he won't be wearing the blue and the orange anytime soon.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Words of Wisdom
"The only choice for the final roster spot on the 2008 American League All-Star Team is Jason Giambi. He not only represents the great Yankees dynasty previously led by the likes of Reggie Jackson -- the father of the mustache in modern-day baseball -- but Giambi represents the hopes and dreams of the previously downtrodden mustached American, a breed that was on the U.S. Endangered Species list as recently as 2005. Clearly, the voting public must take into account Giambi’s powerful lip fur, as it signifies great intellect, good looks, and the ability to stare down the most powerful of martial arts gurus." -- The American Mustache Institute
Monday, June 30, 2008
An Ode to the B-Movie [Part 1]
We'll come out and admit it: having passed the quarter century mark, we here at FTB can't help but feel a twinge of that "they don't make 'em like they used to" feelin'. We feel this most acutely when thinking about the movies and cartoons of our childhood.
The Early Filmography of Arnold Schwarzenegger: In addition to boasting the highest governor to actor ratio of any movie, many of Arnold's early adventures in film possess a schlocky grandeur that you'd be hard pressed to find in the modern cineplex. I'd be a lot happier in life if I could revisit these scenes at least once a day:
-Commando: "Remember when I said I'd kill you last? I lied." An early classic, and an example of what would become a defining feature of Arnold's career.
-Any scene in Total Recall in which someone's face bugs out due to the martian atmosphere. Scared the shit out of me when I was six, and I still get a little bit of a thrill whenever I see it. Honorable Mentions--the prostitute with three boobs (three boobs!) and one of the earlier Arnold one-liners: "see you at the party, Richter" while holding Richter's severed arms. Michael Ironside, our movie-going lives are poorer without you.
-Predator: In many ways, Predator is the perfect storm of 80's B-moviemaking. Rugged manly men in the jungle, plenty of stereotypes, Carl Weathers, minimal character development, just the right amount of primitive special effects, and plenty of blood. Although Arnold is a little light on the one-liners in this movie, the rest of cast carries him along with lines like, "I'll bleed you, real quiet" and "It'll make you a sexual tyrannosaur."
-The Running Man: The dystopian future is a popular topic for filmmakers and Blade Runner, Logan's Run, Death Race 2000 stand as testaments to its powerful attraction. However, there will always be a special place in my heart for Ben Richards, the conscience burdened pilot who refuses to bomb a food riot. After being framed by his government for his recalcitrance, our noble savage is forced to play a hellish gameshow to earn his pardon or die trying. In addition to featuring Jesse Ventura as the cowardly Captain Freedom, The Running Man moves in a structure familiar to all children of the 80's--plot development, problem solving, boss fight--life as understood through Megaman 2.
-The Last Action Hero: Arguably my favorite Arnold flick, it's hard to imagine a movie of his that so effectively combines schlock, self-referential humor, and genuine pathos. It gently pokes at the formulaic nature of Arnold's performances while including just enough heart to keep the audience engaged.
The closest we have come an heir to Arnold is the Rock (or "Dwayne" as he now fancies himself), who strayed from his promising early ventures (The Rundown, The Scorpion King) into family-friendly fare, which was certainly not the Game Plan (a-hyuck!) I had in mind. So take some time to watch or revisit the inimitable Schwarzenegger of the 80's and early 90's.
The Early Filmography of Arnold Schwarzenegger: In addition to boasting the highest governor to actor ratio of any movie, many of Arnold's early adventures in film possess a schlocky grandeur that you'd be hard pressed to find in the modern cineplex. I'd be a lot happier in life if I could revisit these scenes at least once a day:
-Commando: "Remember when I said I'd kill you last? I lied." An early classic, and an example of what would become a defining feature of Arnold's career.
-Any scene in Total Recall in which someone's face bugs out due to the martian atmosphere. Scared the shit out of me when I was six, and I still get a little bit of a thrill whenever I see it. Honorable Mentions--the prostitute with three boobs (three boobs!) and one of the earlier Arnold one-liners: "see you at the party, Richter" while holding Richter's severed arms. Michael Ironside, our movie-going lives are poorer without you.
-Predator: In many ways, Predator is the perfect storm of 80's B-moviemaking. Rugged manly men in the jungle, plenty of stereotypes, Carl Weathers, minimal character development, just the right amount of primitive special effects, and plenty of blood. Although Arnold is a little light on the one-liners in this movie, the rest of cast carries him along with lines like, "I'll bleed you, real quiet" and "It'll make you a sexual tyrannosaur."
-The Running Man: The dystopian future is a popular topic for filmmakers and Blade Runner, Logan's Run, Death Race 2000 stand as testaments to its powerful attraction. However, there will always be a special place in my heart for Ben Richards, the conscience burdened pilot who refuses to bomb a food riot. After being framed by his government for his recalcitrance, our noble savage is forced to play a hellish gameshow to earn his pardon or die trying. In addition to featuring Jesse Ventura as the cowardly Captain Freedom, The Running Man moves in a structure familiar to all children of the 80's--plot development, problem solving, boss fight--life as understood through Megaman 2.
-The Last Action Hero: Arguably my favorite Arnold flick, it's hard to imagine a movie of his that so effectively combines schlock, self-referential humor, and genuine pathos. It gently pokes at the formulaic nature of Arnold's performances while including just enough heart to keep the audience engaged.
The closest we have come an heir to Arnold is the Rock (or "Dwayne" as he now fancies himself), who strayed from his promising early ventures (The Rundown, The Scorpion King) into family-friendly fare, which was certainly not the Game Plan (a-hyuck!) I had in mind. So take some time to watch or revisit the inimitable Schwarzenegger of the 80's and early 90's.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The world is one fucked-up place.
This is the lesson that I have learned from law school. Place millions of strangers into a region, leave them free to interact with each other, and call it a society. You are bound to find that the most horrifying, tragic, and unlikely events will become the norm.
A "dwarf" woman was arrested last week for pimping out a 15-year old runaway. Clients paid $250 per sex-session and $100 for oral sex services. When interviewed, her neighbors "were not surprised by the arrest": one Reginald Ford told CBS News, "I didn't know she was a pimp, but I'm not surprised." (Ed: Reginald? Bubbles?!?)
Let that soak in for a while.
He wasn't surprised? Why not? Did this woman flash jewelry and wear purple suits? Was she known in her community as a person of unscrupulous morality? If so, how? Did the reporter walk around her neighborhood asking, "Sir, could you kindly tell me what you think about this woman? In your opinion, is she a pimp?" Questions, people, questions!
Cases like this are sadly commonplace. Not the physical deformity part - rather, the runaway turning to tricks. The lady pimp here is in a world of trouble. On top of promoting and soliciting prostitution, she has been charged with child endangerment.
What about aiding and abetting rape?
We all know (or should know) that having sex with a minor is a crime. What many people do not know, however, is that it is a strict liability crime. This means that anyone who has sex with a minor is guilty of a crime, regardless of whether the minor consented, looked old, or even lied about age.
As far as I know, no one has been charged with rape for having sex with a minor prostitute. Of course, it is already a crime to patronize prostitutes, and in New York the severity of the punishment rises when the sex worker is a minor. However, there is a strange wrinkle in the law: while it is a more serious crime to obtain the services of underage prostitutes, it is an affirmative defense that buyer "did not have reasonable grounds to believe that the person was less than the age specified." (See, New York Penal Law s. 230.07)
Just to be clear, a 45-year old man who has sex with a 15-year girl who lies to him about his age can be convicted of a felony, but the same man can buys a 15-year old runaway might be guilty of only the 'vanilla' prostitution charge (a misdemeanor) if the girl "looked old".
Let's not dwell on this any longer. This is what happens when the governor of the state acts the pimp and ends up resigning in disgrace.
This is the lesson that I have learned from law school. Place millions of strangers into a region, leave them free to interact with each other, and call it a society. You are bound to find that the most horrifying, tragic, and unlikely events will become the norm.
A "dwarf" woman was arrested last week for pimping out a 15-year old runaway. Clients paid $250 per sex-session and $100 for oral sex services. When interviewed, her neighbors "were not surprised by the arrest": one Reginald Ford told CBS News, "I didn't know she was a pimp, but I'm not surprised." (Ed: Reginald? Bubbles?!?)
Let that soak in for a while.
He wasn't surprised? Why not? Did this woman flash jewelry and wear purple suits? Was she known in her community as a person of unscrupulous morality? If so, how? Did the reporter walk around her neighborhood asking, "Sir, could you kindly tell me what you think about this woman? In your opinion, is she a pimp?" Questions, people, questions!
Cases like this are sadly commonplace. Not the physical deformity part - rather, the runaway turning to tricks. The lady pimp here is in a world of trouble. On top of promoting and soliciting prostitution, she has been charged with child endangerment.
What about aiding and abetting rape?
We all know (or should know) that having sex with a minor is a crime. What many people do not know, however, is that it is a strict liability crime. This means that anyone who has sex with a minor is guilty of a crime, regardless of whether the minor consented, looked old, or even lied about age.
As far as I know, no one has been charged with rape for having sex with a minor prostitute. Of course, it is already a crime to patronize prostitutes, and in New York the severity of the punishment rises when the sex worker is a minor. However, there is a strange wrinkle in the law: while it is a more serious crime to obtain the services of underage prostitutes, it is an affirmative defense that buyer "did not have reasonable grounds to believe that the person was less than the age specified." (See, New York Penal Law s. 230.07)
Just to be clear, a 45-year old man who has sex with a 15-year girl who lies to him about his age can be convicted of a felony, but the same man can buys a 15-year old runaway might be guilty of only the 'vanilla' prostitution charge (a misdemeanor) if the girl "looked old".
Let's not dwell on this any longer. This is what happens when the governor of the state acts the pimp and ends up resigning in disgrace.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
RIP George Carlin, 1937-2008
Rest in peace, you glorious bastard. Enjoy life in comedy heaven, getting wasted with Richard Pryor and Lenny Bruce while making Mitch Hedberg your bitch.
And above all, have a nice day.
And above all, have a nice day.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Silver Jews: Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea
I saw David Berman headlining at the Pitchfork Music Festival two years ago. He was in the midst of the first tour of his two-decade career, and the adoring throng in Chicago Union Park
Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, released today onDrag City
Which is not to imply there's anything slick or complacent about the songs -- "Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer" explodes out of the gate with a drum-roll and a frantic piano riff and refuses to cool as Berman sneers his way through a vengeful, twisted little romantic comedy. And I don't even mean that the songs sound happier -- "Suffering Jukebox", a heartrending lament for a neglected jukebox in a dingy bar, has to be one of the saddest songs ever written about an inanimate object. It floats in on a cloud of pedal-steel smoke that sounds like a cliché until you realize that it perfectly expresses the deadening misery of a life spent repeating the same old lines to distracted drunks. ("They never seem to turn you up loud, there are a lot of chatterboxes in this crowd.") "My Pillow is the Threshold" begins as a romantic lament from a guy who can only be with a girl in his dreams, then turns out to be about suicide ("Now I'm here for good, I won't leave you anymore,") -- a fact that only becomes clear in the last moments, when the mindless drone of the deep bass rises to overwhelm the song, illuminating a frightful foreboding that's been hidden in the music all along, somehow just beyond our notice like the twist that ends the slasher movie. So when I describeLookout Mountain Lookout Sea
The album is filled with idiosyncratic story-songs, which have never before been the Silver Jews' favored mode of expression. “San Francisco B.C.” is a brilliant, cinematic caper involving a jewelry heist, a murdered barber and a mysterious Oriental named Mr. Games. “Party Barge" is the heroic tale of, well, a party barge and the Coast Guard that tries in vain to shut the party down. (That song features a great call-and-response bit between the barge-partiers and the cops.) There are no devastating, laid-bare Berman tracks, no “Dallas” or “Pet Politics” to be found here, and it would be easy to shrug the album off, concluding that Berman does his best work when his life is on fire. Instead, he takes on a more writerly voice, exploring characters and ideas rather than his own personal pain. The razor-wit is there -- even a Silver Jews-by-numbers song like “Strange Victory, Strange Defeat” can contain a wonderfully sharp couplet like "What's with all the handsome grandsons in these rock band magazines? And what have they done with the fat ones, the bald and the goatee'd?" -- the miserablism has just been leavened slightly.
But, to my ears, there's always been something slightly redemptive about Berman's music. Something he glimpsed out beyond the despair -- beauty or light or even death -- that made all the doom and gloom at least halfway worthwhile. Even great downers like "Smith and Jones Forever," about glue-sniffing killers sentenced to the electric chair, have a grandiose quality -- not by way of apologia, but by way of sincere commitment to the story of these born losers who disappear into a self-destructive holocaust entirely of their own making. The story is nihilistic in the extreme, but the portrait is humanizing, even slightly touching. There’s warmth, empathy behind all the misanthropic sarcasm, and it’s clearer on this album than ever before.
Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea closes with "We Could be Looking for the Same Thing," a heartsick plea for love -- derivative, familiar and entirely unclever, but moving just the same. We're reminded that behind all the wordplay and mystery, behind the prophetic junkie persona, the fundamental reason we connect with Berman's albums might be that we share his exquisite sense of longing and the hope -- the tattered, distant, extremely Jewish form of hope -- that tinges all the despair. Berman is who he is because he's able to affect us even when he comes before us with no tricks and no tools.Lookout Mountain Lookout Sea
Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, released today on
Which is not to imply there's anything slick or complacent about the songs -- "Aloysius, Bluegrass Drummer" explodes out of the gate with a drum-roll and a frantic piano riff and refuses to cool as Berman sneers his way through a vengeful, twisted little romantic comedy. And I don't even mean that the songs sound happier -- "Suffering Jukebox", a heartrending lament for a neglected jukebox in a dingy bar, has to be one of the saddest songs ever written about an inanimate object. It floats in on a cloud of pedal-steel smoke that sounds like a cliché until you realize that it perfectly expresses the deadening misery of a life spent repeating the same old lines to distracted drunks. ("They never seem to turn you up loud, there are a lot of chatterboxes in this crowd.") "My Pillow is the Threshold" begins as a romantic lament from a guy who can only be with a girl in his dreams, then turns out to be about suicide ("Now I'm here for good, I won't leave you anymore,") -- a fact that only becomes clear in the last moments, when the mindless drone of the deep bass rises to overwhelm the song, illuminating a frightful foreboding that's been hidden in the music all along, somehow just beyond our notice like the twist that ends the slasher movie. So when I describe
The album is filled with idiosyncratic story-songs, which have never before been the Silver Jews' favored mode of expression. “San Francisco B.C.” is a brilliant, cinematic caper involving a jewelry heist, a murdered barber and a mysterious Oriental named Mr. Games. “Party Barge" is the heroic tale of, well, a party barge and the Coast Guard that tries in vain to shut the party down. (That song features a great call-and-response bit between the barge-partiers and the cops.) There are no devastating, laid-bare Berman tracks, no “Dallas” or “Pet Politics” to be found here, and it would be easy to shrug the album off, concluding that Berman does his best work when his life is on fire. Instead, he takes on a more writerly voice, exploring characters and ideas rather than his own personal pain. The razor-wit is there -- even a Silver Jews-by-numbers song like “Strange Victory, Strange Defeat” can contain a wonderfully sharp couplet like "What's with all the handsome grandsons in these rock band magazines? And what have they done with the fat ones, the bald and the goatee'd?" -- the miserablism has just been leavened slightly.
But, to my ears, there's always been something slightly redemptive about Berman's music. Something he glimpsed out beyond the despair -- beauty or light or even death -- that made all the doom and gloom at least halfway worthwhile. Even great downers like "Smith and Jones Forever," about glue-sniffing killers sentenced to the electric chair, have a grandiose quality -- not by way of apologia, but by way of sincere commitment to the story of these born losers who disappear into a self-destructive holocaust entirely of their own making. The story is nihilistic in the extreme, but the portrait is humanizing, even slightly touching. There’s warmth, empathy behind all the misanthropic sarcasm, and it’s clearer on this album than ever before.
Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea closes with "We Could be Looking for the Same Thing," a heartsick plea for love -- derivative, familiar and entirely unclever, but moving just the same. We're reminded that behind all the wordplay and mystery, behind the prophetic junkie persona, the fundamental reason we connect with Berman's albums might be that we share his exquisite sense of longing and the hope -- the tattered, distant, extremely Jewish form of hope -- that tinges all the despair. Berman is who he is because he's able to affect us even when he comes before us with no tricks and no tools.
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