Sunday, November 21, 2004
Heartbreak in the Honky Tonk
I've been to Nashville twice and twice I've left Nashville. But once again, I feel like I've left my heart in some saloon on Broadway, reeling like the old 45s in that beat-up jukebox by the cigarette machine.
And the stories that those jukeboxes could tell -- they're all filled with the greats: Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, Bill Monroe, Hank Williams, Ernest Tubbs, Patsy Cline. And while Broadway is maybe the only place in Nashville while you'll really hear live country being performed and appreciated (meaning, that's where the city sends its tourists), you know that the old timin' ghost riders in the sky are still hanging around. Because Broadway is really all about what country wants to be, a lot of neon, a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a lot of pompadour, a lot of drawl and maybe a little bit of humble flair. For a full history of country, walk past the bars with names like Tootsie's Purple Lounge and Robert's Western Saloon till you get to Hatch Show Print, where antique, custom-made, hand-perfected posters of shows plaster the exposed-brick, from the Stanley Brothers to Loretta Lynn.
Many people call and think of the Ryman Auditorium -- home of the Grand Ole Opry before it moved to the kitsch of Opryland -- as the "Mother Church" of country music. It's true. You sit on pews made of solid wood and it makes you stay upright. You're afraid to let your attention stray because the person next to you is close enough to know you're yawning. But when Ryan Adams began to play, that's when we knew that the good word about music being a religious experience is true. You feel it as it surges through the wooden floor, shaking down your frame as it muscles up through your oaken perch, coursing across the auditorium like an electrified sermon. Ryan was on his Sunday best behaviour -- no tantrums, no childish tomfoolery, no gibberish, no false starts and nothing but perfect singing and playing. Plugged and unplugged, blowing the harmonica and Jerry Lee Lewis-tip toeing on the ivories, he delivered a set covering all but the "Rock and Roll" album. For both the believers and the non-believers, Ryan was a preacher you couldn't trust, but his shortcomings and his devilish band, the Cardinals, saved your soul. Some musicians make albums named "Grace," Ryan Adams makes albums named "Love is Hell." But the fact remains that he's up on stage, and we were down there.
Coasting the set lists, it seems like St. Louis got a show full of character and Omaha got a three hour 10-minute set on this tour. But these weren't shows with hometown emotion. There's nothing like playing in the town where you made it. Ryan Adams genuinely happy and proud to be playing live, everyone singing along to every song in a sort of just-loud-enough hymnful mantra? You'd think it'd never happen in your lifetime. JC must have been smiling down with pride.
Here I am, back up north of the Mason-Dixon and missing tea sweet as honey on the vine and chicken so fried it must've come from scrambled eggs. Listening to Marty Robbins singing about the story of his life, pink carnations and white gardenias and towns with names like El Paso. And I'm thinking that I might be crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely.
And the stories that those jukeboxes could tell -- they're all filled with the greats: Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, Bill Monroe, Hank Williams, Ernest Tubbs, Patsy Cline. And while Broadway is maybe the only place in Nashville while you'll really hear live country being performed and appreciated (meaning, that's where the city sends its tourists), you know that the old timin' ghost riders in the sky are still hanging around. Because Broadway is really all about what country wants to be, a lot of neon, a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a lot of pompadour, a lot of drawl and maybe a little bit of humble flair. For a full history of country, walk past the bars with names like Tootsie's Purple Lounge and Robert's Western Saloon till you get to Hatch Show Print, where antique, custom-made, hand-perfected posters of shows plaster the exposed-brick, from the Stanley Brothers to Loretta Lynn.
Many people call and think of the Ryman Auditorium -- home of the Grand Ole Opry before it moved to the kitsch of Opryland -- as the "Mother Church" of country music. It's true. You sit on pews made of solid wood and it makes you stay upright. You're afraid to let your attention stray because the person next to you is close enough to know you're yawning. But when Ryan Adams began to play, that's when we knew that the good word about music being a religious experience is true. You feel it as it surges through the wooden floor, shaking down your frame as it muscles up through your oaken perch, coursing across the auditorium like an electrified sermon. Ryan was on his Sunday best behaviour -- no tantrums, no childish tomfoolery, no gibberish, no false starts and nothing but perfect singing and playing. Plugged and unplugged, blowing the harmonica and Jerry Lee Lewis-tip toeing on the ivories, he delivered a set covering all but the "Rock and Roll" album. For both the believers and the non-believers, Ryan was a preacher you couldn't trust, but his shortcomings and his devilish band, the Cardinals, saved your soul. Some musicians make albums named "Grace," Ryan Adams makes albums named "Love is Hell." But the fact remains that he's up on stage, and we were down there.
Coasting the set lists, it seems like St. Louis got a show full of character and Omaha got a three hour 10-minute set on this tour. But these weren't shows with hometown emotion. There's nothing like playing in the town where you made it. Ryan Adams genuinely happy and proud to be playing live, everyone singing along to every song in a sort of just-loud-enough hymnful mantra? You'd think it'd never happen in your lifetime. JC must have been smiling down with pride.
Here I am, back up north of the Mason-Dixon and missing tea sweet as honey on the vine and chicken so fried it must've come from scrambled eggs. Listening to Marty Robbins singing about the story of his life, pink carnations and white gardenias and towns with names like El Paso. And I'm thinking that I might be crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Put Me In Coach, I'm Ready to Play Today
Before the exhilaration of ripping open presents on Christmas morning, before the anticipation of slicing into the Manrique turkey at Thanksgiving, and even before revving up the vocal cords for our annual Sing-a-Long Sound of Music tradition, there's some unfinished business left on the softball diamonds. It's not ballplaying weather, but the spirit is warm.
After missing two weekends of ball (not to complain about having had to drink all that wine in Paris or for languishing in mussel heaven), it feels so good to be out there once more. It's not just playing the game... it's jabbering about everything while playing warm-up catch, talking shit about each other,'s recent unforced errors, challenging for first place and fighting for reputation dibs. Slapping leather, dirt on the palm, knocking cleats. Just as bats sometimes get heavy at the tail end of the season, so do our hearts. It won't be long before we hang up the spikes for 2004... or in my case, yet another pair will soon depart to Adidas heaven. It's unbelievable the rate I'm going through my cleats at one pair a year.
Friday night, the best of Chicago softball came out for our first ever Softball Challenge. Two teams drafted by Mike and Sonny, childhood buddies, former roommates, softball teammates and erstwhile rivals. With pride on the line, our team beat Sonny's 33 to 14. No contest. I was voted MVP after smacking two home runs and six RBIs. The comfort zone was locked in and I kept up my continuous streak of at least one home run a week for the past six weeks.
Before we could really recover from last night out at Riverview with a couple of Jaeger bombs and Goose Island 312s, we headed into our Saturday league championships at Clarendon Park. Went neck to neck in the finals against the guys from the Grafton, tie game for a few innings, both teams playing tight defense. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. Sonny scores the winning run, and just like that I win my first softball championship for the year, in an undefeated season.
Finally, a team that didn't choke on a cheezburger like a billy goat, although I'd still love for our regular, standard team to win one (but that wouldn't be funny anymore, would it?). We take another stab at tomorrow's semis -- one more league left to go before softball's over for the year. Now that's a catastrophe. I'm not sure how I'm going to make it through the winter. Hello indoor soccer and volleyball!
"Got a beat up glove, a homemade bat and brand new pair of shoes
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all
A moment in the sun
Pop, it's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!"
Thank you John Fogerty for writing the best song about playing ball.
After missing two weekends of ball (not to complain about having had to drink all that wine in Paris or for languishing in mussel heaven), it feels so good to be out there once more. It's not just playing the game... it's jabbering about everything while playing warm-up catch, talking shit about each other,'s recent unforced errors, challenging for first place and fighting for reputation dibs. Slapping leather, dirt on the palm, knocking cleats. Just as bats sometimes get heavy at the tail end of the season, so do our hearts. It won't be long before we hang up the spikes for 2004... or in my case, yet another pair will soon depart to Adidas heaven. It's unbelievable the rate I'm going through my cleats at one pair a year.
Friday night, the best of Chicago softball came out for our first ever Softball Challenge. Two teams drafted by Mike and Sonny, childhood buddies, former roommates, softball teammates and erstwhile rivals. With pride on the line, our team beat Sonny's 33 to 14. No contest. I was voted MVP after smacking two home runs and six RBIs. The comfort zone was locked in and I kept up my continuous streak of at least one home run a week for the past six weeks.
Before we could really recover from last night out at Riverview with a couple of Jaeger bombs and Goose Island 312s, we headed into our Saturday league championships at Clarendon Park. Went neck to neck in the finals against the guys from the Grafton, tie game for a few innings, both teams playing tight defense. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. Sonny scores the winning run, and just like that I win my first softball championship for the year, in an undefeated season.
Finally, a team that didn't choke on a cheezburger like a billy goat, although I'd still love for our regular, standard team to win one (but that wouldn't be funny anymore, would it?). We take another stab at tomorrow's semis -- one more league left to go before softball's over for the year. Now that's a catastrophe. I'm not sure how I'm going to make it through the winter. Hello indoor soccer and volleyball!
"Got a beat up glove, a homemade bat and brand new pair of shoes
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all
A moment in the sun
Pop, it's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!"
Thank you John Fogerty for writing the best song about playing ball.
White Castle Fries Only Come in One Size
If only the whole world wore matching Adidas track suits.
With cockeyed baseball hats, loopy grins, lopsided white boy shuffles across the stage and a little bit of tiki kitsch, the Beastie Boys showed the real reason why retrograde humility is in and affected consciousness out. They drink more chai than Chivas these days, but they're still acey deucey loosey goosey.
It could've been a street corner in Brooklyn, the last subway car on the A train or a chop suey shop in Chinatown, but it was the United Center, and we were in the Pageant Pit right next to the right side of the stage. One launch over the railing and I could've grabbed Ad Rock's ankle, but Juan the stage-side security guy was not as cool as Earl the Beastie Bouncer who salvaged us from our decent section 217 seats. How come I don't get Bruce karma like this?
So the show could've sucked and it still would've been all right. But watching the B-Boys perform is like guffawing at the class clowns at the back making fun of the teacher and everything that's serious in the world . Still, their cavalier attitude makes what they have to say important, because they're saying it in my terms.
The Beasties paid homage to Run DMC and Curtis Mayfield but really, they built a shrine to old school good times and everything that used to be right. They were rhyming and stealing like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and came out for the second set in matching red shirts and balloon Dickies jeans -- red shirts that each proclaimed their favourite board games (Mike D -- Critter, Ad Rock -- Scrabble, MCA -- Mahjong. Ad Rock, will you pick me!). They guffawed at the videos that spooled in the background, like the one of a afro'd black brother trying to do a backflip over and over again but landing on his head each time. They shot each other cheeky winks and cracked up like Jimmy Fallon at their own jokes and raps. At one point, Mike D stopped in the middle of "Shake Your Rumpa" to flip off his mesh trucker hat, revealing an almond butter sandwich that's been on his head for the first hour of the show. He eats it because he's hungry. Lorne Michaels, are you watching?
There was almost not a single comment on the election results. Except that at the end of the encore, they dedicated the last song to Bush, and immediately launched into a scathing airplane-taking-off rendition of "Sabotage." This is why it's OK to never grow up, if you've got a sense of humour.
With cockeyed baseball hats, loopy grins, lopsided white boy shuffles across the stage and a little bit of tiki kitsch, the Beastie Boys showed the real reason why retrograde humility is in and affected consciousness out. They drink more chai than Chivas these days, but they're still acey deucey loosey goosey.
It could've been a street corner in Brooklyn, the last subway car on the A train or a chop suey shop in Chinatown, but it was the United Center, and we were in the Pageant Pit right next to the right side of the stage. One launch over the railing and I could've grabbed Ad Rock's ankle, but Juan the stage-side security guy was not as cool as Earl the Beastie Bouncer who salvaged us from our decent section 217 seats. How come I don't get Bruce karma like this?
So the show could've sucked and it still would've been all right. But watching the B-Boys perform is like guffawing at the class clowns at the back making fun of the teacher and everything that's serious in the world . Still, their cavalier attitude makes what they have to say important, because they're saying it in my terms.
The Beasties paid homage to Run DMC and Curtis Mayfield but really, they built a shrine to old school good times and everything that used to be right. They were rhyming and stealing like Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and came out for the second set in matching red shirts and balloon Dickies jeans -- red shirts that each proclaimed their favourite board games (Mike D -- Critter, Ad Rock -- Scrabble, MCA -- Mahjong. Ad Rock, will you pick me!). They guffawed at the videos that spooled in the background, like the one of a afro'd black brother trying to do a backflip over and over again but landing on his head each time. They shot each other cheeky winks and cracked up like Jimmy Fallon at their own jokes and raps. At one point, Mike D stopped in the middle of "Shake Your Rumpa" to flip off his mesh trucker hat, revealing an almond butter sandwich that's been on his head for the first hour of the show. He eats it because he's hungry. Lorne Michaels, are you watching?
There was almost not a single comment on the election results. Except that at the end of the encore, they dedicated the last song to Bush, and immediately launched into a scathing airplane-taking-off rendition of "Sabotage." This is why it's OK to never grow up, if you've got a sense of humour.
