Like many American males, I’ve spent a lot of my life wishing I could be a baseball player. Some of my earliest memories include swinging a red plastic bat at a rubber ball in my front yard, pretending to be Rico Petrocelli. I was lucky enough to be able to play in organized leagues until I was 16, and even luckier to have my only really good year at age 14 (when it meant a lot more to me). My success at that age probably can be attributed more to my having reached my full adult size earlier than many kids than to any innate talent for baseball.
For that short time, I lived and loved what I imagined the life of a baseball player to be: sleeping in, getting to the ballpark in late afternoon, taking batting practice and infield, playing the game, coming home and peeling off my sweat-drenched uniform, showering and going to bed, and then getting up and doing it all over again. This really only lasted for one summer, and pretty quickly I went from being one of the bigger kids on the field to being one of the smaller ones. Shortly thereafter, my baseball dreams were over.
For a while, I didn’t think as much about baseball. Other things piqued my interest. As I once heard Bruce Springsteen describe it –when you’re standing in right field and you find yourself more interested in the girl walking by the ball field than the batter at home plate, it’s time to move on from baseball.
But as I began and progressed in my professional career, I took new notice of baseball players.Virtually every profession boils down to decision-making, and your success in your profession depends on your ability to make good decisions on the fly. Baseball is no different, except for the prodigious physical gifts that are required to turn decisions made into meaningful outcomes.
If you’ve ever heard Tony Gwynn talk about what’s going on in his mind during a hit-and-run, you have some idea of what I’m talking about. Gwynn was a physical freak in terms of vision and bat control, but he also was a great thinker about his craft. And so, once more, as a young professional, I found myself envying baseball players, albeit in a different way. The best ones were really good at their jobs; their craft; their profession. Heaven forbid my job performance should ever be measured by a standard as unforgiving as VORP.
Finally, this week, my baseball player envy took a new turn. I was listening to an interview with long-time Atlanta Braves third baseman, Chipper Jones, who has announced that this year will be his last year in the major leagues. During the interview, Jones explained that he had been playing baseball professionally for 23 years, had kids in middle school, and had decided that, after this year, it would be time to focus more on his family.
That really did it for me. Forget about the joy of the game, or honing your skills to the point where you can hit a 2-0 slider to any part of the ballpark, I want the retirement gig that baseball players have. You work hard developing your skills, give it all you have for 20 years or so, and then you get to take a break to watch your kids grow up, and if you want, you can take a crack at a second career. That’s the really great part of the deal.
Forget about the chance to come to the plate with the bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th in the seventh game of the World Series, I don't want to be Chipper Jones the ballplayer; I want to be Chipper Jones the retired ballplayer. And I’d take the spot without the money.
Most of us complete our educations and, with a little luck, head off to work doing something for which we have a lot of enthusiasm, some talent, and the desire to develop our professional skills. But why should that work be the only thing we get to do with our lives? After 23 years or so, shouldn’t we actually want to try something else? All I know is that I’m with Chipper Jones on this one.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
MARVIN’S RAPTURE
Last weekend, while most of the media was squandering airtime, cyberspace, and columns of print on the lunatic end of the world prediction of a fringe religious figure, I observed them all fail to give anything like equal time to one of the few things I can think of that actually argues for the existence of a God. Last Saturday may have been the day that the crazies thought the world would end, but to me the most important thing about May 21, 2011 was that it was the 40th anniversary of the release of Marvin Gaye’s album “What’s Going On.” To the extent that I believe there’s anything beyond us here on earth, after our lives are done, it’s because “What’s Going On” exists.Consider this. A heart-broken, depressed musician overwhelmed with sadness at the death of his singing partner and friend retreats from the world – vowing to never record or perform again. Eventually, he begins working on new music, but the owner of his label won’t let him release it, fearing that it is too political and inaccessible to sell. The musician keeps working on his music, hoping for the chance to make a grand statement about the world around him. After some months, the label owner agrees to release one song as a single. The song becomes a huge hit. The label owner then demands that the musician complete the entire album as quickly as possible in order to follow on the success of the single. The musician spends 10 days fulfilling his vision, recording most of the rest of the album during that time. The album is then mixed in Detroit, when he is not present. He rejects the mix, and takes the tapes back to LA where the album is mixed to his satisfaction. The album is released on May 21, 1971 and becomes a landmark.
That, in brief, is the unlikely story of “What’s Going On.” Marvin Gaye, stricken with grief over the death of Tammi Terrell, envisions and then executes a masterpiece that goes beyond anything ever done at Motown and sets a new standard for soul music. Everything I’ve read says that Gaye conceived the album as a single piece of music and had to fight to record it that way, and that everyone involved with the project, from Gaye himself to the Funk Brothers and members of the Detroit Symphony who played on the album, knew they were involved in something special and strove for greatness. Whether you want to call it miraculous, the product of divine inspiration, or merely the work of a genius who managed to dip his toe into our pooled Jungian unconscious at the right time, it is, quite simply, the best album ever made. I’m sure there are good arguments for other works, but you’ll never convince me that any album was better suited to its time, has held up better over forty years, or can match the near-seamless beauty of “What’s Going On.”
It’s important to note that the album’s title isn’t followed by a question mark – because Marvin wasn’t merely asking, he was telling. He was looking around at the world, at his neighborhood and his community, through the eyes of friends, family, neighbors, and vets returning from Vietnam, and describing what he saw. Unlike the album’s music, the scene was not pretty: war, drug addiction, environmental devastation, and children in need of saving.
What makes his vision so poignant is the sense of loss. Throughout the album, Gaye longs for lost community, touching on the familiar in the hopes of building or re-building relationships. “Will our ball club win the pennant? Do ya think they have a chance? . . . And how in the world have you been?” he asks in “What’s Happenin’ Brother.” At times, his plea is so simple it almost hurts, as in “God is Love”: “Oh don't go and talk about my father/God is my friend (Jesus is my friend)/He made this world for us to live in, and gave us everything/And all he asks of us is we give each other love.” For Gaye, the foundation of the community he seeks is communication: "Talk to me, so you can see/ Oh, what's going on.” Music, art, working together, acknowledging our equality and equal holiness before God are the means by which Gaye urges us to come together, underlined by the reminder “Oh, you know we've got to find a way/To bring some understanding here today.”
This striking vision of knitting together a community as tight and seamless as the musical tour de force that is “What’s Going On” gives the album much of its staying power. Forty years later, not much has changed. Endless war in Asia? Check. Oil polluting the oceans? Check. Grinding poverty and dying cities? Check and check. We are not saved. And yet, “What’s Going On” still motivates me.
One of the incredible things about the album is that every aspect of it is near-perfect, including the cover art. I continue to be blown away by the power of the photograph on the back cover. In it, Gaye stands in a backyard, wearing a suit and raincoat, near an old swingset, with broken toys stacked behind him. It is raining, and the place seems to be abandoned. His face conveys the most incredible look of sadness and frustration that I have ever seen.
He turned that sadness and frustration into the greatest album ever recorded. Now, 40 years later, it’s still our turn.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Statement of LeBron James, July 8, 2010
[editor’s note: The following statement will be delivered by LeBron James on Thursday evening, July 8, 2010 at 9 PM EST]
Thank you, and thank you to all of you present here and who are watching in your homes on television. This has been a difficult and complicated process. I know many of you have spent countless hours speculating on where I might like to live and with whom I might want to work during the next three to four years. I admit that I am humbled by all the opportunities that have been presented to me. Most of us don’t really get to make choices about those things – where we work, how much we earn, whether we like our co-workers – so I feel very fortunate to be where I am today.
I also would like to thank the cities of Chicago, Miami, New York, and Newark for their fond wishes and for just being so excited that I might move there. The representatives of those cities’ teams – the Bulls, the Heat, the Knicks, and the Nets – all made positive and impressive presentations to me. In truth, I couldn’t go wrong if I were to move to any of those places.
But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and the final cliché has been uttered, my decision comes down to one thing: I love Lake Erie. I love the icy cold wind in the winter and the stultifying humidity in the summer. I love how, at the start of every basketball game, when I do that goofy thing throwing the chalk dust up in the air, and the white flecks rain back down on me, it reminds me of the scene in Jim Jarmusch’s classic film, “Stranger than Paradise,” when the characters visit my lake, Lake Erie.
And so, my next contract represents not just a re-commitment to the City of Cleveland, the Cavaliers, and the pursuit of NBA championships but also an opportunity to give something back to my lake, Lake Erie. You see, Lake Erie is currently confronted with the threat of invasion from a devastating predator – no, not Shaquille O’Neal in a Speedo, like on that lame reality tv show; I’m talking about the Asian Carp.
As many of you know, scientists now fear that hyperactive Asian Carp will reach the Great Lakes, devour the base of the food chain and spoil drinking water for 40 million people. The only barriers between dense populations of silver and bighead carp -- two closely related Asian carp species -- and the world's largest collective body of fresh water are a few miles of waterway and a little-tested underwater electrical field spanning a canal near Chicago. And, I’m afraid that I must point out that when some of the Great Lakes states attempted to protect themselves from the Carp, the City of Chicago stood in their way, refusing to close their canal. Bad move, Chicago. That’s not the way to entice LeBron to play in your city.
Carp that can grow to 100 pounds filter huge amounts of water, consuming 40 percent of their body weight per day in microscopic plant and animal life that form the foundation of the aquatic food chain. The loss of this food relied on by crayfish and smaller fish such as alewifes, sculpins and perch would in turn eliminate the prey for popular game fish such as salmon, trout and bass. And now, we have word that the Carp may attempt a backdoor entry into Lake Erie, via Fort Wayne and the Maumee River. Bad move, Carp. Here’s what I do when someone tries to go backdoor.
And so, with this in mind, I make my solemn pledge to the City of Cleveland. Over the next four years, I may or may not be able to win you a championship, but you can rest assured that I will spend every waking moment during the off-season protecting my lake, Lake Erie, from the devastation of the Asian Carp. This is one fight I know I will win.
Thank you, good night, and may God bless you all.
--LeBron James
Thank you, and thank you to all of you present here and who are watching in your homes on television. This has been a difficult and complicated process. I know many of you have spent countless hours speculating on where I might like to live and with whom I might want to work during the next three to four years. I admit that I am humbled by all the opportunities that have been presented to me. Most of us don’t really get to make choices about those things – where we work, how much we earn, whether we like our co-workers – so I feel very fortunate to be where I am today.
I also would like to thank the cities of Chicago, Miami, New York, and Newark for their fond wishes and for just being so excited that I might move there. The representatives of those cities’ teams – the Bulls, the Heat, the Knicks, and the Nets – all made positive and impressive presentations to me. In truth, I couldn’t go wrong if I were to move to any of those places.
But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and the final cliché has been uttered, my decision comes down to one thing: I love Lake Erie. I love the icy cold wind in the winter and the stultifying humidity in the summer. I love how, at the start of every basketball game, when I do that goofy thing throwing the chalk dust up in the air, and the white flecks rain back down on me, it reminds me of the scene in Jim Jarmusch’s classic film, “Stranger than Paradise,” when the characters visit my lake, Lake Erie.
And so, my next contract represents not just a re-commitment to the City of Cleveland, the Cavaliers, and the pursuit of NBA championships but also an opportunity to give something back to my lake, Lake Erie. You see, Lake Erie is currently confronted with the threat of invasion from a devastating predator – no, not Shaquille O’Neal in a Speedo, like on that lame reality tv show; I’m talking about the Asian Carp.
As many of you know, scientists now fear that hyperactive Asian Carp will reach the Great Lakes, devour the base of the food chain and spoil drinking water for 40 million people. The only barriers between dense populations of silver and bighead carp -- two closely related Asian carp species -- and the world's largest collective body of fresh water are a few miles of waterway and a little-tested underwater electrical field spanning a canal near Chicago. And, I’m afraid that I must point out that when some of the Great Lakes states attempted to protect themselves from the Carp, the City of Chicago stood in their way, refusing to close their canal. Bad move, Chicago. That’s not the way to entice LeBron to play in your city.
Carp that can grow to 100 pounds filter huge amounts of water, consuming 40 percent of their body weight per day in microscopic plant and animal life that form the foundation of the aquatic food chain. The loss of this food relied on by crayfish and smaller fish such as alewifes, sculpins and perch would in turn eliminate the prey for popular game fish such as salmon, trout and bass. And now, we have word that the Carp may attempt a backdoor entry into Lake Erie, via Fort Wayne and the Maumee River. Bad move, Carp. Here’s what I do when someone tries to go backdoor.
And so, with this in mind, I make my solemn pledge to the City of Cleveland. Over the next four years, I may or may not be able to win you a championship, but you can rest assured that I will spend every waking moment during the off-season protecting my lake, Lake Erie, from the devastation of the Asian Carp. This is one fight I know I will win.
Thank you, good night, and may God bless you all.
--LeBron James
Friday, September 25, 2009
IT’S NOT TOO LATE . . . TO BREATHE
It's too late
To fall in love with Sharon Tate
But it's too soon
To ask me for the words I want carved on my tomb
-- Jim Carroll, “It’s Too Late” (1980)
September 14, 2009: I was stunned this morning to read of the September 11 death of Jim Carroll, poet and erstwhile rock musician. Carroll was perhaps most famous for writing “The Basketball Diaries” about his years as a hustler and heroin addict in New York City, but I first learned of him when my brother gave me the album, Catholic Boy, for my 16th birthday. Steve had been a fan of the anthemic single “People Who Died” – Carroll’s amphetamine-paced litany of deceased friends, and I soon shared his affection for the song, with its furious guitars and detached-but-somehow-not-too-detached closing lines: “I miss ‘em/They died!” This morning when my cell phone rang, and I saw that it was Steve – who almost never calls me – I knew he wanted to talk about Jim Carroll.
There was always a certain cachet to being turned on to Jim Carroll. This was a guy who started a rock band with the support of Patti Smith, got a three-record deal with Atlantic on the recommendation of Keith Richards, and had his first album cover photo taken by Annie Liebovitz. Still, though I have many friends who know a lot about the late 1970s/early 1980s New York punk scene, and of course, know about Carroll, I might be the only one who actually owns a copy of Catholic Boy.
Ironically, at the end of last week, I had been surprised to open the most recent issue of Paste magazine and find a tribute to Carroll and Catholic Boy. I now realize that as I was reading that article on the evening of September 11, Carroll either already had died or was in the process of dying. In the article, Paste editor Andy Whitman praises Catholic Boy, as an album worthy of the “Punk Pulitzer,” an award does not -- and probably should not -- exist (though I appreciate Whitman’s sentiments).
Whitman makes a point of saying that, while he first encountered Carroll through “People Who Died,” the title track resonated even more thoroughly with him. No quarrel there. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve trotted out the line “Redeemed through pain/ Not through joy” to elicit a chuckle about my Catholic upbringing. Even better, for a 16 year-old boy attending a Catholic high school, there was Carroll’s litany of the sacraments. To this day, I can’t think of the Anointing of the Sick without hearing (in my head) Carroll intoning the word “Extreem-unk-shun” as though it were some impossibly filthy sex act.
And that was precisely what made Carroll great: his ability to blur any and all distinctions between the sacred and the profane. Jim Carroll was not the first, though he was one of the most powerful voices, to remind me that most things, unlike the standard nun’s habit, are not black and white. Almost miraculously, he embraced life in all its sordid messiness without it diminishing his longing for or appreciation of small moments of clarity. From Carroll’s viewpoint, the trick was to remain hopeful without being a sucker.
As the day progressed, I began to recall other songs from Catholic Boy, googling the lyrics on my computer: “City Drops Into the Night” with its chorus “When the city drops into the night/ Before the darkness there’s one moment of light/That’s when everything seems clear/ The other side seems so near”; “Wicked Gravity”’s plea for release from earthbound existence: “I want a world without gravity/It could be just what I need/I'd watch the stars move close/I'd watch the earth recede”; and the pop veneer of “Day and Night,” carefully scratched by its subject matter: “But the stars tell lies/ It blinds the only warning/And when darkness dies,/There's nothing left but morning.”
Eventually, I found my way to my favorite track on Catholic Boy, “It’s Too Late.” Ostensibly a rant against poseurs declaimed over a killer bass line, “It’s Too Late” had provided Teenaged Me with some vital words to live by: “I think it's time/That you all start to think about gettin' by/Without that need to go out and find/Somebody to love.” Like I said: too soon to give up, but time to stop being a sucker.
As I walked around my office in the afternoon, with Jim Carroll hooks cascading in my head, a funny thing happened. The Carroll tunes started to merge with another tune that had begun running around in my brain:
Every day I die again, and again I'm reborn
Every day I have to find the courage
To walk out into the street
With arms out
Got a love you can't defeat
Neither down or out
There's nothing you have that I need
I can breathe
Breathe now
I’d been to see U2 in Chicago two days earlier, and now I had the music of those four Catholic Boys, as well as Jim Carroll, on my mind. But I don’t think it was an accident that my subconscious picked “Breathe” to add to the playlist. “Breathe” is U2’s Joycean paean to Everyman (It’s no accident when four Dubliners set a song on June 16th ). In Ulysses, James Joyce artfully scrambled the sacred and the profane in a stream-of-consciousness collage that celebrated the heroic day-long odyssey of ordinary guy Leopold Bloom. “Breathe” takes a similar tack, emphasizing the simple glory of finding enough strength to go outside and take one more self-reliant breath.
And so, at the end of the day on the drive home from work, I cranked up U2’s latest as loud as it would go on my iPod in solitary tribute to Jim Carroll. As I pulled into my driveway, I heard:
We are people borne of sound
The songs are in our eyes
Gonna wear them like a crown
Walk out, into the sunburst street
Sing your heart out, sing my heart out
I've found grace inside a sound
I found grace, it's all that I found
And I can breathe
Breathe now
Jim Carroll wore his songs like a crown. He walked out into the sunburst street and sang his heart out. I got out of my car and took a breath. Jim Carroll helped me to learn how to breathe, I thought, and I was home. So, I realized, was he.
To fall in love with Sharon Tate
But it's too soon
To ask me for the words I want carved on my tomb
-- Jim Carroll, “It’s Too Late” (1980)
September 14, 2009: I was stunned this morning to read of the September 11 death of Jim Carroll, poet and erstwhile rock musician. Carroll was perhaps most famous for writing “The Basketball Diaries” about his years as a hustler and heroin addict in New York City, but I first learned of him when my brother gave me the album, Catholic Boy, for my 16th birthday. Steve had been a fan of the anthemic single “People Who Died” – Carroll’s amphetamine-paced litany of deceased friends, and I soon shared his affection for the song, with its furious guitars and detached-but-somehow-not-too-detached closing lines: “I miss ‘em/They died!” This morning when my cell phone rang, and I saw that it was Steve – who almost never calls me – I knew he wanted to talk about Jim Carroll.
There was always a certain cachet to being turned on to Jim Carroll. This was a guy who started a rock band with the support of Patti Smith, got a three-record deal with Atlantic on the recommendation of Keith Richards, and had his first album cover photo taken by Annie Liebovitz. Still, though I have many friends who know a lot about the late 1970s/early 1980s New York punk scene, and of course, know about Carroll, I might be the only one who actually owns a copy of Catholic Boy.
Ironically, at the end of last week, I had been surprised to open the most recent issue of Paste magazine and find a tribute to Carroll and Catholic Boy. I now realize that as I was reading that article on the evening of September 11, Carroll either already had died or was in the process of dying. In the article, Paste editor Andy Whitman praises Catholic Boy, as an album worthy of the “Punk Pulitzer,” an award does not -- and probably should not -- exist (though I appreciate Whitman’s sentiments).
Whitman makes a point of saying that, while he first encountered Carroll through “People Who Died,” the title track resonated even more thoroughly with him. No quarrel there. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve trotted out the line “Redeemed through pain/ Not through joy” to elicit a chuckle about my Catholic upbringing. Even better, for a 16 year-old boy attending a Catholic high school, there was Carroll’s litany of the sacraments. To this day, I can’t think of the Anointing of the Sick without hearing (in my head) Carroll intoning the word “Extreem-unk-shun” as though it were some impossibly filthy sex act.
And that was precisely what made Carroll great: his ability to blur any and all distinctions between the sacred and the profane. Jim Carroll was not the first, though he was one of the most powerful voices, to remind me that most things, unlike the standard nun’s habit, are not black and white. Almost miraculously, he embraced life in all its sordid messiness without it diminishing his longing for or appreciation of small moments of clarity. From Carroll’s viewpoint, the trick was to remain hopeful without being a sucker.
As the day progressed, I began to recall other songs from Catholic Boy, googling the lyrics on my computer: “City Drops Into the Night” with its chorus “When the city drops into the night/ Before the darkness there’s one moment of light/That’s when everything seems clear/ The other side seems so near”; “Wicked Gravity”’s plea for release from earthbound existence: “I want a world without gravity/It could be just what I need/I'd watch the stars move close/I'd watch the earth recede”; and the pop veneer of “Day and Night,” carefully scratched by its subject matter: “But the stars tell lies/ It blinds the only warning/And when darkness dies,/There's nothing left but morning.”
Eventually, I found my way to my favorite track on Catholic Boy, “It’s Too Late.” Ostensibly a rant against poseurs declaimed over a killer bass line, “It’s Too Late” had provided Teenaged Me with some vital words to live by: “I think it's time/That you all start to think about gettin' by/Without that need to go out and find/Somebody to love.” Like I said: too soon to give up, but time to stop being a sucker.
As I walked around my office in the afternoon, with Jim Carroll hooks cascading in my head, a funny thing happened. The Carroll tunes started to merge with another tune that had begun running around in my brain:
Every day I die again, and again I'm reborn
Every day I have to find the courage
To walk out into the street
With arms out
Got a love you can't defeat
Neither down or out
There's nothing you have that I need
I can breathe
Breathe now
I’d been to see U2 in Chicago two days earlier, and now I had the music of those four Catholic Boys, as well as Jim Carroll, on my mind. But I don’t think it was an accident that my subconscious picked “Breathe” to add to the playlist. “Breathe” is U2’s Joycean paean to Everyman (It’s no accident when four Dubliners set a song on June 16th ). In Ulysses, James Joyce artfully scrambled the sacred and the profane in a stream-of-consciousness collage that celebrated the heroic day-long odyssey of ordinary guy Leopold Bloom. “Breathe” takes a similar tack, emphasizing the simple glory of finding enough strength to go outside and take one more self-reliant breath.
And so, at the end of the day on the drive home from work, I cranked up U2’s latest as loud as it would go on my iPod in solitary tribute to Jim Carroll. As I pulled into my driveway, I heard:
We are people borne of sound
The songs are in our eyes
Gonna wear them like a crown
Walk out, into the sunburst street
Sing your heart out, sing my heart out
I've found grace inside a sound
I found grace, it's all that I found
And I can breathe
Breathe now
Jim Carroll wore his songs like a crown. He walked out into the sunburst street and sang his heart out. I got out of my car and took a breath. Jim Carroll helped me to learn how to breathe, I thought, and I was home. So, I realized, was he.
Monday, February 23, 2009
GrammyBlog 2009 (because someone still has to do it)
[Note: I didn’t have a chance to post this prior to the Academy Awards. Thinking about the two shows brought to mind some revealing contrasts. I am always struck at the Grammies by how many people there seem to either have no interest in music, or an active dislike of those who buy it. At the Academy Awards, despite all the outsize egos, you still get a sense that the people attending, be they actors, directors, or producer types, all really like movies. Or how about this: It’s almost always worth it to see all of the movies nominated for Best Picture, even if you don’t end up liking all of them or agree with the Academy on the winner. With the Grammies most years, you’d almost have to be clinically insane to buy and listen to all of the nominees for Album of the Year or Record of the Year. In other words, there’s just so much wrong with the Grammies – more so than any other show of its type – that you just gotta blog ‘em. So here we go with this year’s actual entries, recorded live, without the benefit of Auto-Tune]
2/8/2009 8:30:21 PM
This year’s starstudded event promises some actual Grammy Glory ® and, perhaps, not too many thoroughly embarrassing moments for past-their-prime stars. We shall see . . .
There’s no truth to the rumor that the Grammy Museum opened early in order to accommodate the egos of BOTH Bono and Kanye West.
No sign of Vince Gill this year. He’s not taking any chances that Kanye will remember being dissed by him last year.
This year, I missed both U2 and Coldplay while picking up the kids from Religious Ed. Class. Guess they had to get Bono out of the building before Kanye’s ego arrived.
But, at least I arrived in time for . . . Carrie Underwood, Nice dress! Now we’re talkin’ Grammies, all about the music … and the undertrou. Wherever Kid Rock is, he’s excited about that guitarist.
Next, LeeAnn Rimes, Sheryl Crow to present:
Best Country Performance Duo or Group
And the Grammy goes to, Sugarland. Yawn.
2/8/2009 8:41:15 PM
Next up, Al Green and Duffy: Song of the Year
Al Green sings, cool stuff. Duffy, looking like Dusty, is intimidated, then sings with him. It sounded better with just Al.
Coldplay wins, Coldplay wins, in Sargent Pepper Jackets, is there nothing this band does that is original? At least they credited McCartney.
And now, Kid Rock (wearing glasses the size of Chris Martin’s epaulets) . . .Woo! do it for the 313, say Amen, everybody.
Morphing into a tribute for Billy Powell, all those suburban Detroit white guys love their Lynyrd Skynyrd,
And then, morphing into “Rock’n’roll Jesus,” say Amen, indeed.
2/8/2009 8:54:57 PM
Miley and Taylor. Tween heaven! Singing “Fifteen,” yeah I can relate to that. OK, hmm, what else is there to look at, . . alright, I love the wood-grain in Taylor’s guitar. But whoa, check out the backing band in the pit, is that Nikki Sixx from Motley Crue? Who is that dude? How many Dads want their daughters going to see Miley or Taylor with creepy Nikki in the band? Bizarre.
Song over. Now they’re bantering, save me, please . . .
leading to: Best Pop Collaboration with Vocals
--if there is a God, Plant and Krauss win this . . .
And the winner is: God!!!
Robert Plant, still looking great; Allison smiles that “I gotta closet full of grammies, but this time I get to hang out with Robert Plant,” smile.
And now, someone who can sing: Jennifer Hudson.
Nicely done. Is it possible that this year’s Grammies won’t totally suck ? I’ll withhold judgment at least until the next Coldplay nomination.
2/8/2009 9:09:21 PM
Introducing the Jonas Brothers and Stevie Wonder, all bets are now officially off. Grammy Glory ® time, just how much money has Stevie lost in the market, anyway?
Wow, profoundly strange visuals. . . if Stevie could see, well, he wouldn’t want to.
Now Stevie, singing “Superstition” with the Jonas Brothers. Stevie’s kicking ass, they are not. Wait, is Stevie mocking them, the way he’s singing?
2/8/2009 9:15:48 PM
Blink 182, the Reunion – Woohoo! Next up: Best Rock Album
We’ll know all is right in Grammy world if Coldplay wins . . . and the Grammy goes to Coldplay!!! They keep name-dropping Paul, as if he was the cool Beatle.
Not to worry, after a brief period of good taste (well, except for Carrie’s dress) and decent music, the GRAMMIES ARE BACK.
2/8/2009 9:22:27 PM
Craig Ferguson
Mocking the punk era. Celebrating lesbians, and bi-sexuality, which means, Katy Perry is up!!
Wow! Riding down to the stage in a glittering banana. Nothing says gay like enormous fruit, I guess. Can it get any better than this? Well, yeah, if she could sing at all. Is she even pretending not to lipsync? Now the back-up singers are taking off their tops. Quick, where are Kid Rock and Nikki Sixx? Better yet, where’s Janet Jackson right now?
Camera cuts to the Jonas Brothers, who look seriously bored: “Like we don’t see better bi-curious chicks every day, dude . . .”
2/8/2009 9:27:28 PM
And now, Kanye !!! with Estelle. No last names, please.
Classy outfit for Kanye, no one looks better, except maybe Bono
On to the Best New Artist award:
Kanye complains about Estelle and Him not being nominated, which is really like him complaining about HIM not being nominated again. Welcome back, Kanye. We missed you.
Adele wins the award, not a bad choice. Acceptance speech: Chewing gum, she’s completely incomprehensible between that and her accent. Makes me long for an off-the-wagon Amy Winehouse.
2/8/2009 9:36:35 PM
Morgan Freeman to introduce:
No faux lesbians and fruit for him. Just . . . Kenny Chesney, hmm.
No comment.
2/8/2009 9:41:08 PM
Puff-Daddy, Natalie Cole, and Herbie Hancock for Record of the Year:
Herbie looking much better than last year. Winning a grammy can do wonders.
Please God, not Coldplay. Plant and Krauss? MIA.?
Plant and Krauss!!
Thank you! [making sign of cross]
Plant lets T-Bone Burnett talk. One sentence. Then Plant takes over again. He might be the only person in the room who knows where Wolverhampton is. Krauss silent but still smiling.
2/8/2009 9:48:25 PM
Queen Latifah
Introducing, MIA AND Kanye, AND Lil’ Wayne, AND T.I., AND Jay-Z. The RAP PACK, get it! MIA looks huge, great, and kind of like a bug. Polka dots, not so slimming, but as my wife notes, pregnant women can wear anything they want.
MIA is possibly the only woman who could hold the stage with these guys.
Wow, do those guys love themselves. No wonder U2 had to be on early.
First its black and white, and then its color!!! Yawn. An interesting mash-up, but it needed more MIA (that is, more of MIA rapping, I think we’ve seen all of MIA that we could possibly see outside the delivery room).
2/8/2009 9:54:39 PM
Kate Beckinsale
Saluting MIA for being 9 months pregnant - and just who is her ob-gyn anyway?
Now introducing Paul McCartney. With Dave Grohl on drums.
“I Saw Her Standing There.” Hmm, interesting follow-on for MIA’s oh-so-pregnant appearance.
McCartney looks great. Great voice. Still. Great hair. Not embarrassing.
On the other hand, Dave Grohl looks like he’s playing a Nirvana song. Dave, Ringo never made it look so hard.
2/8/2009 10:04:15 PM
Jack Black and Charlie Hayden
Honoring Hank Jones. 10 seconds of Hank Jones. Back to the important stuff:
On to Best Male Pop Vocal
John Mayer, King of Grammy vapidity. Thanking Michael McDonald, retired King of Grammy Vapidity; all we needed to know.
2/8/2009 10:07:16 PM
LL Cool J and annoying white guy.
Introducing the next Bad Grammy mash-up. Adele and Sugarland. This could be disastrous. Especially if Adele is still chewing that gum.
Sugarland, so overwrought, yet so dull. Almost entirely devoid of rhythm. Grammy Glory ® at its best. At least no mash-up, yet.
And here comes Adele, channeling Tracey Thorne and, of course, Dusty. She’s cool. She’s tasteful. She actually can sing. (Talking might be another story).
Wait, now here’s Sugarland, mashed up Grammy Glory ® after all. Ooh, brief but brutal.
2/8/2009 10:19:02 PM
Gwyneth Paltrow
To introduce Radiohead, (take that, Chris Martin) – hmm, who’s babysitting Apple tonight, anyway?
Radiohead with the USC Marching Band, where’s Fleetwood Mac when you need ‘em?
Great performance, although the tuba section got a little carried away; Thom Yorke rules; even cooler than Kanye. Wait, did I just write that?
2/8/2009 10:28:39 PM
Samuel L. Jackson to introduce U2, oh, no wait, that was the inaugural concert.
Instead, another mash-up, T.I. and Justin Timberlake:
That’s right, more Grammy Glory ®. Justin, only mildly annoying, T.I. working the 6-second delay. Did T.I. get that hat from Adebeesi in “Oz”? Nothing like Justin singing about the tough life on the streets.
Jay-Z applauding, perfunctorily.
2/8/2009 10:34:34 PM
President of the RIAA, (yawn)
--time for the annual speech on downloading?
--nope, just back-patting for the Grammy Foundation – yes, they can. Yes, they can sue you for illegally downloading their music. (Sure enough) Give a shout for new legislation, yes! Hah, I knew we could count on them.
--proposing a new cabinet position, Secretary of the Arts; hmm, a minister of culture, just like . . . France?
--now, introducing Smokey Robinson, who introduces
--Lifetime achievement award for the Four Tops. Why did it have to be after Levi Stubbs’ death?
-and now, the tribute. Jamie Foxx, and Ne-Yo join Smokey and the last remaining Top. “Reach Out I’ll be There.” Not bad. No one can do Levi’s voice justice, but all four give a credible shot at a line of the first verse. “Sugar Pie,” “Standing in the Shadows of Love” Well done. Smokey can still sing, though the remaining Top looks even better.
2/8/2009 10:47:21 PM
Josh Groban, a name synonymous with boredom.
Introducing Neil Diamond, a name synonymous with “Sweet Caroline”
Suddenly, we’re in the Bleachers at Fenway Park on a hot summer night. Ah, no. Those RIAA folks just don’t do the “So good, so good, so good, “ like the Fenway Faithful. Neil is Pure Gold, though. Bono’s got nothing on him. Nice eyebrows, too. McCartney’s thinking, “Damn, why didn’t I wear a shirt like Neil’s”
2/8/2009 10:53:06 PM
And now, the montage of folks who’ve passed away in the past year. . .
Ending with Bo Diddley, which means the Bo Diddley tribute and more actual Grammy Glory ®:
B.B. King, John Mayer. B.B smiles at Mayer overplaying, plucks at Lucille: Watch and learn, son. It’s over quickly, mercifully.
2/8/2009 11:02:36 PM
Gary Sinise
Tribute to New Orleans, Lil Wayne and Allen Toussaint and Robin Thicke
Wayne doing “Tie Me Up”. Robin Thicke channeling Michael McDonald. Not as annoying as Justin. Nice boots on Wayne. Solid performance. And now, Allen Toussaint, a true legend, playing some Mardi gras music.
Let’s see how long they give him. A good 5 minutes, alright. Bizarre dancers with little umbrellas – yeah, that’s what New Orleans needs, umbrellas. Toussaint’s virtuosity is almost overwhelmed by the blasting horn section. And, it’s over.
2/8/2009 11:09:29 PM
Will. I. Am. and T. Pain read nominations for
Best Rap Album:
Will still celebrating the Obama victory. T. Pain complaining about not being nominated enough.
Shut up, T., only Kanye gets to do that.
Lil’ Wayne wins. How ’bout that. Grammy got it right. An entire city comes on stage with him to accept. It takes a village . . .
2/8/2009 11:18:04 PM
Zooey Deschanel
--careful, don’t lose that dress, Zoey.
Introducing Plant and Krauss
Great songs. Nice wind machine blowing their hair. Was that left over from Zeppelin? Not such a good effect for T-Bone Burnett, though. Is Allison really that tall? No, Allison is wearing huge heels, and virtually unable to move. Wow, could Plant make v-neck t-shirts cool for the first time? Middle-aged guys all over America are wondering.
2/8/2009 11:23:08 PM
Green Day
For album of the year:
Coldplay, Lil’ Wayne, Ne-Yo, Plant and Krauss, Radiohead. Only one truly bad choice here: and the Academy DOESN’T PICK IT. Plant and Krauss win. A good album that people actually bought. Krauss finally decides to talk. A good speech by Plant, name-checking everyone, even good ol’ Buddy Miller. T-Bone Burnett looking smug and goofy in a 19th –century era suit.
Stevie Wonder saying good night. Without the Jonas Brothers? Thank God, yes! Stevie singing a new song. Aha, this is why he put up with that ridiculous Jonas Brothers spot. Crazy, like a fox, that Stevie. Crazy like a fox . . .
2/8/2009 8:30:21 PM
This year’s starstudded event promises some actual Grammy Glory ® and, perhaps, not too many thoroughly embarrassing moments for past-their-prime stars. We shall see . . .
There’s no truth to the rumor that the Grammy Museum opened early in order to accommodate the egos of BOTH Bono and Kanye West.
No sign of Vince Gill this year. He’s not taking any chances that Kanye will remember being dissed by him last year.
This year, I missed both U2 and Coldplay while picking up the kids from Religious Ed. Class. Guess they had to get Bono out of the building before Kanye’s ego arrived.
But, at least I arrived in time for . . . Carrie Underwood, Nice dress! Now we’re talkin’ Grammies, all about the music … and the undertrou. Wherever Kid Rock is, he’s excited about that guitarist.
Next, LeeAnn Rimes, Sheryl Crow to present:
Best Country Performance Duo or Group
And the Grammy goes to, Sugarland. Yawn.
2/8/2009 8:41:15 PM
Next up, Al Green and Duffy: Song of the Year
Al Green sings, cool stuff. Duffy, looking like Dusty, is intimidated, then sings with him. It sounded better with just Al.
Coldplay wins, Coldplay wins, in Sargent Pepper Jackets, is there nothing this band does that is original? At least they credited McCartney.
And now, Kid Rock (wearing glasses the size of Chris Martin’s epaulets) . . .Woo! do it for the 313, say Amen, everybody.
Morphing into a tribute for Billy Powell, all those suburban Detroit white guys love their Lynyrd Skynyrd,
And then, morphing into “Rock’n’roll Jesus,” say Amen, indeed.
2/8/2009 8:54:57 PM
Miley and Taylor. Tween heaven! Singing “Fifteen,” yeah I can relate to that. OK, hmm, what else is there to look at, . . alright, I love the wood-grain in Taylor’s guitar. But whoa, check out the backing band in the pit, is that Nikki Sixx from Motley Crue? Who is that dude? How many Dads want their daughters going to see Miley or Taylor with creepy Nikki in the band? Bizarre.
Song over. Now they’re bantering, save me, please . . .
leading to: Best Pop Collaboration with Vocals
--if there is a God, Plant and Krauss win this . . .
And the winner is: God!!!
Robert Plant, still looking great; Allison smiles that “I gotta closet full of grammies, but this time I get to hang out with Robert Plant,” smile.
And now, someone who can sing: Jennifer Hudson.
Nicely done. Is it possible that this year’s Grammies won’t totally suck ? I’ll withhold judgment at least until the next Coldplay nomination.
2/8/2009 9:09:21 PM
Introducing the Jonas Brothers and Stevie Wonder, all bets are now officially off. Grammy Glory ® time, just how much money has Stevie lost in the market, anyway?
Wow, profoundly strange visuals. . . if Stevie could see, well, he wouldn’t want to.
Now Stevie, singing “Superstition” with the Jonas Brothers. Stevie’s kicking ass, they are not. Wait, is Stevie mocking them, the way he’s singing?
2/8/2009 9:15:48 PM
Blink 182, the Reunion – Woohoo! Next up: Best Rock Album
We’ll know all is right in Grammy world if Coldplay wins . . . and the Grammy goes to Coldplay!!! They keep name-dropping Paul, as if he was the cool Beatle.
Not to worry, after a brief period of good taste (well, except for Carrie’s dress) and decent music, the GRAMMIES ARE BACK.
2/8/2009 9:22:27 PM
Craig Ferguson
Mocking the punk era. Celebrating lesbians, and bi-sexuality, which means, Katy Perry is up!!
Wow! Riding down to the stage in a glittering banana. Nothing says gay like enormous fruit, I guess. Can it get any better than this? Well, yeah, if she could sing at all. Is she even pretending not to lipsync? Now the back-up singers are taking off their tops. Quick, where are Kid Rock and Nikki Sixx? Better yet, where’s Janet Jackson right now?
Camera cuts to the Jonas Brothers, who look seriously bored: “Like we don’t see better bi-curious chicks every day, dude . . .”
2/8/2009 9:27:28 PM
And now, Kanye !!! with Estelle. No last names, please.
Classy outfit for Kanye, no one looks better, except maybe Bono
On to the Best New Artist award:
Kanye complains about Estelle and Him not being nominated, which is really like him complaining about HIM not being nominated again. Welcome back, Kanye. We missed you.
Adele wins the award, not a bad choice. Acceptance speech: Chewing gum, she’s completely incomprehensible between that and her accent. Makes me long for an off-the-wagon Amy Winehouse.
2/8/2009 9:36:35 PM
Morgan Freeman to introduce:
No faux lesbians and fruit for him. Just . . . Kenny Chesney, hmm.
No comment.
2/8/2009 9:41:08 PM
Puff-Daddy, Natalie Cole, and Herbie Hancock for Record of the Year:
Herbie looking much better than last year. Winning a grammy can do wonders.
Please God, not Coldplay. Plant and Krauss? MIA.?
Plant and Krauss!!
Thank you! [making sign of cross]
Plant lets T-Bone Burnett talk. One sentence. Then Plant takes over again. He might be the only person in the room who knows where Wolverhampton is. Krauss silent but still smiling.
2/8/2009 9:48:25 PM
Queen Latifah
Introducing, MIA AND Kanye, AND Lil’ Wayne, AND T.I., AND Jay-Z. The RAP PACK, get it! MIA looks huge, great, and kind of like a bug. Polka dots, not so slimming, but as my wife notes, pregnant women can wear anything they want.
MIA is possibly the only woman who could hold the stage with these guys.
Wow, do those guys love themselves. No wonder U2 had to be on early.
First its black and white, and then its color!!! Yawn. An interesting mash-up, but it needed more MIA (that is, more of MIA rapping, I think we’ve seen all of MIA that we could possibly see outside the delivery room).
2/8/2009 9:54:39 PM
Kate Beckinsale
Saluting MIA for being 9 months pregnant - and just who is her ob-gyn anyway?
Now introducing Paul McCartney. With Dave Grohl on drums.
“I Saw Her Standing There.” Hmm, interesting follow-on for MIA’s oh-so-pregnant appearance.
McCartney looks great. Great voice. Still. Great hair. Not embarrassing.
On the other hand, Dave Grohl looks like he’s playing a Nirvana song. Dave, Ringo never made it look so hard.
2/8/2009 10:04:15 PM
Jack Black and Charlie Hayden
Honoring Hank Jones. 10 seconds of Hank Jones. Back to the important stuff:
On to Best Male Pop Vocal
John Mayer, King of Grammy vapidity. Thanking Michael McDonald, retired King of Grammy Vapidity; all we needed to know.
2/8/2009 10:07:16 PM
LL Cool J and annoying white guy.
Introducing the next Bad Grammy mash-up. Adele and Sugarland. This could be disastrous. Especially if Adele is still chewing that gum.
Sugarland, so overwrought, yet so dull. Almost entirely devoid of rhythm. Grammy Glory ® at its best. At least no mash-up, yet.
And here comes Adele, channeling Tracey Thorne and, of course, Dusty. She’s cool. She’s tasteful. She actually can sing. (Talking might be another story).
Wait, now here’s Sugarland, mashed up Grammy Glory ® after all. Ooh, brief but brutal.
2/8/2009 10:19:02 PM
Gwyneth Paltrow
To introduce Radiohead, (take that, Chris Martin) – hmm, who’s babysitting Apple tonight, anyway?
Radiohead with the USC Marching Band, where’s Fleetwood Mac when you need ‘em?
Great performance, although the tuba section got a little carried away; Thom Yorke rules; even cooler than Kanye. Wait, did I just write that?
2/8/2009 10:28:39 PM
Samuel L. Jackson to introduce U2, oh, no wait, that was the inaugural concert.
Instead, another mash-up, T.I. and Justin Timberlake:
That’s right, more Grammy Glory ®. Justin, only mildly annoying, T.I. working the 6-second delay. Did T.I. get that hat from Adebeesi in “Oz”? Nothing like Justin singing about the tough life on the streets.
Jay-Z applauding, perfunctorily.
2/8/2009 10:34:34 PM
President of the RIAA, (yawn)
--time for the annual speech on downloading?
--nope, just back-patting for the Grammy Foundation – yes, they can. Yes, they can sue you for illegally downloading their music. (Sure enough) Give a shout for new legislation, yes! Hah, I knew we could count on them.
--proposing a new cabinet position, Secretary of the Arts; hmm, a minister of culture, just like . . . France?
--now, introducing Smokey Robinson, who introduces
--Lifetime achievement award for the Four Tops. Why did it have to be after Levi Stubbs’ death?
-and now, the tribute. Jamie Foxx, and Ne-Yo join Smokey and the last remaining Top. “Reach Out I’ll be There.” Not bad. No one can do Levi’s voice justice, but all four give a credible shot at a line of the first verse. “Sugar Pie,” “Standing in the Shadows of Love” Well done. Smokey can still sing, though the remaining Top looks even better.
2/8/2009 10:47:21 PM
Josh Groban, a name synonymous with boredom.
Introducing Neil Diamond, a name synonymous with “Sweet Caroline”
Suddenly, we’re in the Bleachers at Fenway Park on a hot summer night. Ah, no. Those RIAA folks just don’t do the “So good, so good, so good, “ like the Fenway Faithful. Neil is Pure Gold, though. Bono’s got nothing on him. Nice eyebrows, too. McCartney’s thinking, “Damn, why didn’t I wear a shirt like Neil’s”
2/8/2009 10:53:06 PM
And now, the montage of folks who’ve passed away in the past year. . .
Ending with Bo Diddley, which means the Bo Diddley tribute and more actual Grammy Glory ®:
B.B. King, John Mayer. B.B smiles at Mayer overplaying, plucks at Lucille: Watch and learn, son. It’s over quickly, mercifully.
2/8/2009 11:02:36 PM
Gary Sinise
Tribute to New Orleans, Lil Wayne and Allen Toussaint and Robin Thicke
Wayne doing “Tie Me Up”. Robin Thicke channeling Michael McDonald. Not as annoying as Justin. Nice boots on Wayne. Solid performance. And now, Allen Toussaint, a true legend, playing some Mardi gras music.
Let’s see how long they give him. A good 5 minutes, alright. Bizarre dancers with little umbrellas – yeah, that’s what New Orleans needs, umbrellas. Toussaint’s virtuosity is almost overwhelmed by the blasting horn section. And, it’s over.
2/8/2009 11:09:29 PM
Will. I. Am. and T. Pain read nominations for
Best Rap Album:
Will still celebrating the Obama victory. T. Pain complaining about not being nominated enough.
Shut up, T., only Kanye gets to do that.
Lil’ Wayne wins. How ’bout that. Grammy got it right. An entire city comes on stage with him to accept. It takes a village . . .
2/8/2009 11:18:04 PM
Zooey Deschanel
--careful, don’t lose that dress, Zoey.
Introducing Plant and Krauss
Great songs. Nice wind machine blowing their hair. Was that left over from Zeppelin? Not such a good effect for T-Bone Burnett, though. Is Allison really that tall? No, Allison is wearing huge heels, and virtually unable to move. Wow, could Plant make v-neck t-shirts cool for the first time? Middle-aged guys all over America are wondering.
2/8/2009 11:23:08 PM
Green Day
For album of the year:
Coldplay, Lil’ Wayne, Ne-Yo, Plant and Krauss, Radiohead. Only one truly bad choice here: and the Academy DOESN’T PICK IT. Plant and Krauss win. A good album that people actually bought. Krauss finally decides to talk. A good speech by Plant, name-checking everyone, even good ol’ Buddy Miller. T-Bone Burnett looking smug and goofy in a 19th –century era suit.
Stevie Wonder saying good night. Without the Jonas Brothers? Thank God, yes! Stevie singing a new song. Aha, this is why he put up with that ridiculous Jonas Brothers spot. Crazy, like a fox, that Stevie. Crazy like a fox . . .
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Resurrection, Hope, and the Resurrection of Hope
I initially held off writing this post, thinking that too much of what I’ve been writing this year is more obit than essay. But then my daughter had an assignment in her CCD class to talk to her parents about Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, celebrated on All Saints and All Souls Days, in Mexico and among Mexican Americans. Because the Day of the Dead is based on the belief that the Dead remain with us and, on the Day of the Dead, literally walk among us, my daughter was required to talk to me about some of my deceased loved ones and their influence on me, about the ways in which they are still present to me.
This was a particularly timely assignment for me, because my Uncle Walter had died two weeks earlier. As I flew out to Massachusetts for the funeral, I brought Elaine Pagels’ and Karen King’s book “Reading Judas,” an analysis of the recently discovered Gospel of Judas, which critiques traditional Catholic notions of martyrdom and, therefore, salvation. At any rate, what I took away from the book was the notion that Jesus taught that we must believe in something beyond this life in order to find the courage and will to do the right thing during our time here on earth.
And so, when Alice interviewed me for her assignment, I was primed to tell her about two people who had done the right thing in their earthly lives, my friends Trino and Denise, whose pictures I keep posted on the door of my office. Both of them were advocates and activists for the disadvantaged – Trino for prisoners; Denise for children in poor public school districts. I can say that I’ve had a good day at work if I feel I’ve done something to honor their memory. During the days leading up to the election, as I powered through consecutive 15-hour days of preparation for and then actual poll and election monitoring, I thought of them often.
When the election was over, and Barack Obama had been projected the winner, I cried and thought about Trino and Denise, and how I wished they had lived to see this election day. As story after emotional story was reported in the election’s aftermath, this became a recurring theme across America. African-Americans spoke of their joy in casting a ballot not just for themselves but for so many who had gone before them. Civil Rights activists and their descendants invoked the memories of departed comrades and relatives who had longed for what occurred this week and took satisfaction in knowing, finally, that their work had not been in vain.
The Obama victory also provided me with a slightly different kind of closure. My mother, Walter’s sister, instilled in me the superstition that deaths come in threes – that when someone close to us dies, there are two other deaths of significance to us that occur at about the same time. In October 2008, my three deaths of significance were: Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops; my uncle Walter; and the writer Studs Terkel – not exactly kindred spirits, but somehow all tied up in my emotions surrounding the election.
The idea that I would feel a connection to and among them, I submit, is not a totally crazy notion. I actually met Studs several years ago when he eulogized a colleague of mine who had died suddenly and tragically, and though I never met Stubbs, it was not surprising to hear him on WDET, my favorite public radio station, during one of their fundraising drives. Like a handful of former Motown stars, he still could be found regularly around Detroit. At any rate, while Barack Obama was winning the presidency earlier this month, I was having my own Day of the Dead experience as these three men seemed to walk the earth again with me.
***
My Uncle Walter was, in the parlance of Thomas Frank, a true backlash voter – someone who never quite got over the Vietnam War and the sixties. He had no patience for liberals, pacifists, and his nephews who dared to wear shoulder-length hair – my cousin Ed felt this particularly, since he wore long hair while the Vietnam War was still going on. I was much younger and didn’t start wearing long hair until the late 1980s. I am pretty confident that he would not have supported a politician named Barack Hussein Obama.
However, in the same way that Barack Obama spoke about his grandmother, who also passed away just before the election, I cannot say that who my Uncle Walter was, and where he came from, are not a part of me. He taught me how to shoot a bb gun and steer a pick up truck (my legs were too short to drive it), and I always had a great time whenever we visited him. He was an engineer and a good teacher. I find myself repeating things he said to tutor my brother in algebra when I help my daughter with her math homework.
He also was a local activist, serving on the town school board, the board of selectmen, and the conservation commission (proving that I come by my own crackpot activist spirit legitimately from both sides of my family). Though he often spoke as though he believed that the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket, it did not keep him from getting involved at a local level where he felt he could make a difference. Ironically enough, this same spirit of local political involvement was the lifeblood of Barack Obama’s bottom-up campaign.
***
To understand Levi Stubbs’ significance to me, you have to understand my love for the song “Reach Out I’ll Be There.” Outside of the work of Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye, “Reach Out I’ll Be There” is one of Motown’s greatest moments. There has never been a more perfect vocal than Stubbs’ in that song – growling, shouting, pleading; no one has ever sung the word “darling” with more passion.
The chattering percussion and rumbling bass that open the song set the tone, with the singer suffering serious emotional turmoil. While the words are reassuring -- "I’ll be there/With a love that will shelter you/ I’ll be there/With a love that will see you through" – the singer’s anguish and vulnerability convey something else. This is someone who needs to be needed; someone who has something to give and has been stymied. That’s why the song works so well as a sing-along. In the dark days after a break-up, I always could growl and shout along with Levi Stubbs – and try to sing, just once perhaps, “darling” as powerfully as he does -- to make it through.
In a similar vein, the socialist singer-songwriter Billy Bragg celebrated the power of Stubbs’ voice in his song “Levi Stubbs’ Tears”: “When the world falls apart some things stay in place/ Levi Stubbs’ tears run down his face.” Music can sustain and transform us. That’s one of the absolute truths of my life and undoubtedly of the lives of many others. When Nelson Mandela spoke at Tiger Stadium 17 years ago, he made a point of noting that the music of Motown had helped him survive his time in the Robben Island prison in South Africa. And so, when Levi Stubbs passed away just before America elected its first African-Americn President, I couldn’t help but think of him as a symbol of all of the musicians whose art helped to sustain all of those (living and dead) who rejoiced in Barack Obama’s electoral victory.
***
It has taken a lot of music like Levi Stubbs’ to sustain hope over the 43-year span of my life, particularly the last eight, but on November 4, all of the long nights seemed a small price to pay. Looking at my own music collection, it is stunning to see how many songs document hard times and misery, and cries for social justice. At times, hope has been hard to come by indeed. That is why Studs Terkel always struck me as such an extraordinary person, and that is why he is the perfect thread to tie together me, my Uncle Walter, Barack Obama, Levi Stubbs, Denise, and Trino.
In all of Studs’ obituaries, it was noted that he had said that he knew Barack Obama would win the election and that he passed away secure in that knowledge. Studs’ faith and hope in America and Americans never wavered. To him, people were too interesting and too unique to give up on. He believed that, in the end, our better nature always triumphed. Every person, from my Uncle Walter to Barack Obama and everyone in between, had something of value to say, in Studs’ view.
This wasn’t just talk, either. I saw Studs walk the walk when he came to my colleague Rose’s memorial, more than 25 years after he had written about her in his chronicle of Chicago, “Division Street.” He didn’t have to do that. Who would have known? But he came to the memorial without fanfare, and he spoke plainly and beautifully enough to convince most of us that we had not known our colleague nearly as well as her friend Studs had, and that he would miss her at least as much as we would.
And so, barely two weeks after The Election Night We Will Never Forget, I find myself beholding an utterly changed world: a world in which the values I have tried to teach my children –love, equality, and respect – again seem real and meaningful; a world in which I can believe that I can use all that I have learned from the departed in the aid of progress; a world in which I can hope again. Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?
This was a particularly timely assignment for me, because my Uncle Walter had died two weeks earlier. As I flew out to Massachusetts for the funeral, I brought Elaine Pagels’ and Karen King’s book “Reading Judas,” an analysis of the recently discovered Gospel of Judas, which critiques traditional Catholic notions of martyrdom and, therefore, salvation. At any rate, what I took away from the book was the notion that Jesus taught that we must believe in something beyond this life in order to find the courage and will to do the right thing during our time here on earth.
And so, when Alice interviewed me for her assignment, I was primed to tell her about two people who had done the right thing in their earthly lives, my friends Trino and Denise, whose pictures I keep posted on the door of my office. Both of them were advocates and activists for the disadvantaged – Trino for prisoners; Denise for children in poor public school districts. I can say that I’ve had a good day at work if I feel I’ve done something to honor their memory. During the days leading up to the election, as I powered through consecutive 15-hour days of preparation for and then actual poll and election monitoring, I thought of them often.
When the election was over, and Barack Obama had been projected the winner, I cried and thought about Trino and Denise, and how I wished they had lived to see this election day. As story after emotional story was reported in the election’s aftermath, this became a recurring theme across America. African-Americans spoke of their joy in casting a ballot not just for themselves but for so many who had gone before them. Civil Rights activists and their descendants invoked the memories of departed comrades and relatives who had longed for what occurred this week and took satisfaction in knowing, finally, that their work had not been in vain.
The Obama victory also provided me with a slightly different kind of closure. My mother, Walter’s sister, instilled in me the superstition that deaths come in threes – that when someone close to us dies, there are two other deaths of significance to us that occur at about the same time. In October 2008, my three deaths of significance were: Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops; my uncle Walter; and the writer Studs Terkel – not exactly kindred spirits, but somehow all tied up in my emotions surrounding the election.
The idea that I would feel a connection to and among them, I submit, is not a totally crazy notion. I actually met Studs several years ago when he eulogized a colleague of mine who had died suddenly and tragically, and though I never met Stubbs, it was not surprising to hear him on WDET, my favorite public radio station, during one of their fundraising drives. Like a handful of former Motown stars, he still could be found regularly around Detroit. At any rate, while Barack Obama was winning the presidency earlier this month, I was having my own Day of the Dead experience as these three men seemed to walk the earth again with me.
***
My Uncle Walter was, in the parlance of Thomas Frank, a true backlash voter – someone who never quite got over the Vietnam War and the sixties. He had no patience for liberals, pacifists, and his nephews who dared to wear shoulder-length hair – my cousin Ed felt this particularly, since he wore long hair while the Vietnam War was still going on. I was much younger and didn’t start wearing long hair until the late 1980s. I am pretty confident that he would not have supported a politician named Barack Hussein Obama.
However, in the same way that Barack Obama spoke about his grandmother, who also passed away just before the election, I cannot say that who my Uncle Walter was, and where he came from, are not a part of me. He taught me how to shoot a bb gun and steer a pick up truck (my legs were too short to drive it), and I always had a great time whenever we visited him. He was an engineer and a good teacher. I find myself repeating things he said to tutor my brother in algebra when I help my daughter with her math homework.
He also was a local activist, serving on the town school board, the board of selectmen, and the conservation commission (proving that I come by my own crackpot activist spirit legitimately from both sides of my family). Though he often spoke as though he believed that the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket, it did not keep him from getting involved at a local level where he felt he could make a difference. Ironically enough, this same spirit of local political involvement was the lifeblood of Barack Obama’s bottom-up campaign.
***
To understand Levi Stubbs’ significance to me, you have to understand my love for the song “Reach Out I’ll Be There.” Outside of the work of Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye, “Reach Out I’ll Be There” is one of Motown’s greatest moments. There has never been a more perfect vocal than Stubbs’ in that song – growling, shouting, pleading; no one has ever sung the word “darling” with more passion.
The chattering percussion and rumbling bass that open the song set the tone, with the singer suffering serious emotional turmoil. While the words are reassuring -- "I’ll be there/With a love that will shelter you/ I’ll be there/With a love that will see you through" – the singer’s anguish and vulnerability convey something else. This is someone who needs to be needed; someone who has something to give and has been stymied. That’s why the song works so well as a sing-along. In the dark days after a break-up, I always could growl and shout along with Levi Stubbs – and try to sing, just once perhaps, “darling” as powerfully as he does -- to make it through.
In a similar vein, the socialist singer-songwriter Billy Bragg celebrated the power of Stubbs’ voice in his song “Levi Stubbs’ Tears”: “When the world falls apart some things stay in place/ Levi Stubbs’ tears run down his face.” Music can sustain and transform us. That’s one of the absolute truths of my life and undoubtedly of the lives of many others. When Nelson Mandela spoke at Tiger Stadium 17 years ago, he made a point of noting that the music of Motown had helped him survive his time in the Robben Island prison in South Africa. And so, when Levi Stubbs passed away just before America elected its first African-Americn President, I couldn’t help but think of him as a symbol of all of the musicians whose art helped to sustain all of those (living and dead) who rejoiced in Barack Obama’s electoral victory.
***
It has taken a lot of music like Levi Stubbs’ to sustain hope over the 43-year span of my life, particularly the last eight, but on November 4, all of the long nights seemed a small price to pay. Looking at my own music collection, it is stunning to see how many songs document hard times and misery, and cries for social justice. At times, hope has been hard to come by indeed. That is why Studs Terkel always struck me as such an extraordinary person, and that is why he is the perfect thread to tie together me, my Uncle Walter, Barack Obama, Levi Stubbs, Denise, and Trino.
In all of Studs’ obituaries, it was noted that he had said that he knew Barack Obama would win the election and that he passed away secure in that knowledge. Studs’ faith and hope in America and Americans never wavered. To him, people were too interesting and too unique to give up on. He believed that, in the end, our better nature always triumphed. Every person, from my Uncle Walter to Barack Obama and everyone in between, had something of value to say, in Studs’ view.
This wasn’t just talk, either. I saw Studs walk the walk when he came to my colleague Rose’s memorial, more than 25 years after he had written about her in his chronicle of Chicago, “Division Street.” He didn’t have to do that. Who would have known? But he came to the memorial without fanfare, and he spoke plainly and beautifully enough to convince most of us that we had not known our colleague nearly as well as her friend Studs had, and that he would miss her at least as much as we would.
And so, barely two weeks after The Election Night We Will Never Forget, I find myself beholding an utterly changed world: a world in which the values I have tried to teach my children –love, equality, and respect – again seem real and meaningful; a world in which I can believe that I can use all that I have learned from the departed in the aid of progress; a world in which I can hope again. Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Of God and Governors
This already has been done by many others, and likely better, but I still feel compelled to write my own response to the hateful, cynical attacks leveled at community organizers at the Republican National Convention. You see, as a legal services lawyer, I’ve always admired community organizers because they are what I am (and what we legal services lawyers, generally, are) not. We spend all of our time sorting through theories trying to find the right argument to expand our clients’ economic opportunities and improve their lives, but all too often, the good arguments have precious little to do with what my clients really need and want. In contrast, community organizers always seem to have a much better focus, a much better sense of what clients want and need, and a much better sense of how legal services lawyers can be helpful to the process. Lawyers don’t make good organizers, although one of the best lawyers I know used to be an organizer. For one thing, organizers generally are not control freaks, and lawyers, well, you know . . .
Anyway, while I’m puttering around with my legal theories and worrying that not only am I not making a difference, but that I might actually be making people’s lives worse, a community organizer always will be moving full steam ahead on something, exuding an enviable certitude in the rightness and necessity of the cause. This isn’t simple-mindedness or a lack of subtlety; rather, it is the product of inner strength, conviction, and an unwillingness to compromise essential principles – admirable qualities unless, apparently, you’re a Republican.
And so, I wasn’t surprised to see someone make the point last week that Jesus was a community organizer, while Pontius Pilate, the governor, was the one with executive experience. Indeed, it got me to thinking about the church I attend every Sunday. We Catholics make a practice of honoring saints – those who we believe have led such exemplary lives that they must be in heaven, experiencing the grace of God first hand – by depicting them in paintings, tapestries, and statues in our churches. Because my church is only 10 years old, and because it is a university parish, the saints honored in its artwork are more diverse and contemporary than in your average Catholic church. The point is to remind students that saints look like any and all of us and that they walk among us now, just as those honored did not long ago.
This weekend, as I looked around at the artwork and thought about the lives of those saints, I noticed a theme: no generals, no politicians, no CEO’s, but quite a few community organizers: Archbishop Oscar Romero, Mother Theresa, Mother Elizabeth Seton, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Mohandas Gandhi, and “worst of all” from the GOP perspective, Francis of Assisi, who was both a community organizer and an environmentalist. The truth seems pretty obvious: community organizers are special people who bring special blessings to the world.
Sometimes that grace is unmistakeable, even to a lawyer. What follows is a poem that I wrote six years ago, inspired by my affection for Selma Goode, one of Detroit’s great community organizers, who has worked for years for the Westside Mothers welfare rights organization. Selma had given a very moving presentation at a training I attended about how lawyers can work more productively with community groups.
Today, I Saw the Face of God
(for Selma Goode)
Today, I saw the face of God
Not surprisingly, the face of God was the face of an older woman
It was a face given easily to smiling
With an occasional twinkle in either eye,
In eyes that never lost sight of the prize
It was a face well-lined with the passage of years
And with struggle
As I looked, I thought of the years of union organizing
Of marching for civil rights and working for equality
Of standing shoulder to shoulder with poor women and their children
Of never focusing on all the things that divide us
Because, after all, there are so many more things that ought to unite us
It was, truth be told, a face marked by weariness
But not resignation
A face of someone who was right there
Every time we came this close . . . and missed
And a face of someone who would be there again
The next time we got close . . . and maybe we wouldn’t miss
Or maybe we would, being so frustratingly foolish and human, after all
It was, most of all, a face of love
And forgiveness
And immeasurable empathy,
Despite often registering disbelief,
Especially at the foolishness and humanness
Today, I saw the face of God
And, as I expect to do the next time I see the face of God,
I wept
Anyway, while I’m puttering around with my legal theories and worrying that not only am I not making a difference, but that I might actually be making people’s lives worse, a community organizer always will be moving full steam ahead on something, exuding an enviable certitude in the rightness and necessity of the cause. This isn’t simple-mindedness or a lack of subtlety; rather, it is the product of inner strength, conviction, and an unwillingness to compromise essential principles – admirable qualities unless, apparently, you’re a Republican.
And so, I wasn’t surprised to see someone make the point last week that Jesus was a community organizer, while Pontius Pilate, the governor, was the one with executive experience. Indeed, it got me to thinking about the church I attend every Sunday. We Catholics make a practice of honoring saints – those who we believe have led such exemplary lives that they must be in heaven, experiencing the grace of God first hand – by depicting them in paintings, tapestries, and statues in our churches. Because my church is only 10 years old, and because it is a university parish, the saints honored in its artwork are more diverse and contemporary than in your average Catholic church. The point is to remind students that saints look like any and all of us and that they walk among us now, just as those honored did not long ago.
This weekend, as I looked around at the artwork and thought about the lives of those saints, I noticed a theme: no generals, no politicians, no CEO’s, but quite a few community organizers: Archbishop Oscar Romero, Mother Theresa, Mother Elizabeth Seton, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Mohandas Gandhi, and “worst of all” from the GOP perspective, Francis of Assisi, who was both a community organizer and an environmentalist. The truth seems pretty obvious: community organizers are special people who bring special blessings to the world.
Sometimes that grace is unmistakeable, even to a lawyer. What follows is a poem that I wrote six years ago, inspired by my affection for Selma Goode, one of Detroit’s great community organizers, who has worked for years for the Westside Mothers welfare rights organization. Selma had given a very moving presentation at a training I attended about how lawyers can work more productively with community groups.
Today, I Saw the Face of God
(for Selma Goode)
Today, I saw the face of God
Not surprisingly, the face of God was the face of an older woman
It was a face given easily to smiling
With an occasional twinkle in either eye,
In eyes that never lost sight of the prize
It was a face well-lined with the passage of years
And with struggle
As I looked, I thought of the years of union organizing
Of marching for civil rights and working for equality
Of standing shoulder to shoulder with poor women and their children
Of never focusing on all the things that divide us
Because, after all, there are so many more things that ought to unite us
It was, truth be told, a face marked by weariness
But not resignation
A face of someone who was right there
Every time we came this close . . . and missed
And a face of someone who would be there again
The next time we got close . . . and maybe we wouldn’t miss
Or maybe we would, being so frustratingly foolish and human, after all
It was, most of all, a face of love
And forgiveness
And immeasurable empathy,
Despite often registering disbelief,
Especially at the foolishness and humanness
Today, I saw the face of God
And, as I expect to do the next time I see the face of God,
I wept
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