AL West: Angels in the Outfield

The Mariners are this year's sexy pick to go deep into the postseason. I don't think so.

Should be enough for a flawed division.

Why the Angels Should Win:  They don't have the best pitcher in the division, but if Wilson rebounds from last year and Richards is truly recovered from his torn tendon, it's the best overall staff. Jared Weaver heads the pitching, Shoemaker is a rising star, and Santiago has serious stuff if he learns to use it.

            We keep waiting for Albert Pujols to be AL awesome and this, I think, will be that year. Mike Trout is the reigning MVP and there's help throughout the lineup: Aybar, Ianetta, Freese, Calhoun….

            Why the Angels Might Not Win: There's the impending distraction of Josh Hamilton, plus this the Angels consistently underachieve. And, as I say every year, I'm not fan of any pitcher with the last name of Weaver in important games.

Team Most Likely to Surprise: The Houston Astros. They're probably a year or two away, but their minor league system is loaded and there's already some very good young talent on this team. Think the Mariners' Robbie Cano is the best second baseman in baseball? Maybe, but check out the Astros' José Altuve before you decide. They also have lots of other guys who can pound the ball—Carter, Gattis, Rasmus, Lowrie…. If the 'Stros improve their on-base percentages, they are going to score lots of runs. And when you look up their pitching records, ignore the won-loss records and take a look at those low ERAs. I don't think 2015 will be their year, but it wouldn't shock me to see them emerge as this year's KC Royals

Team Most Likely to Disappoint: The Seattle Mariners. Yes, they have a potent 1-2 staff in Felix Harnandez and Hisashi Iwakuma. After that, nothing but questions and prayers. (Haven't we seen enough of J. A.  Happ to know he's no one's # 3?) Robbie Cano is a future Hall of Famer and Kyle Seager is the league's best third baseman, but count me among those who doubt that Nelson Cruz will do well in Seattle's hitter-unfriendly confines. But even if all of the previous three perform up to par there's the problem of not having a legit MLB catcher on the roster and that players such as Smith, Ackley, and Morrison don't get on base enough. Richie Weeks as your left fielder? Doubtful. Austin Jackson—flash in the pan? I suspect it. 

Team Most Likely to Suck: That would be the Oakland A's. Can we just start the "Billy Beane-is-really-an-idiot" chants now and skip the season? Between mid-season 2014 and now he's traded away one of MLB's best teams and got what? Let's see he traded an All-Star for Brett Lawrie, the poster child for wasted promise. He raided the offense-challenged Rays and Mets for run production (Zobrist, Fuld, Ike Davis) and that can't be good. Think Kazmir will win 15 games again this year? That Parker will be lights-out after Tommy John surgery? Even if Sonny Gray continues his rise, he'll need to hurl shutouts to win.

Predictions:

1. Los Angeles Angels: Or do I mean the Anaheim Angels? This team is too balanced for the question mark lineups that permeate this division.

2. Seattle Mariners:  A soft pick for second that's based on having just enough great players to compete, though too few to complete.

3.  Houston Astros: Call it a hunch. It wouldn't surprise me to see them finish second, nor would it shock me if they're just too young this year and sink.

4.  Texas Rangers: If Darvish were healthy, I'd like this team more. He's not and despite players such as Beltré, Fielder, Choo, and Andrus, you can't rely on winning a lot of 8-6 games.

5. Oakland A's: I used to admire this team. Now I think they're just cast-offs led by a fraud general manager, playing in MLB's worst stadium in one of America's worst cities.

The Secret Place: Too Claustrophobic and Too Many Characters

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THE SECRET PLACE (2014)

Tana French

Viking 978-0670026326, 464 pp.

* * ½ 

I've become a big fan of Tana French's Dublin Murder Mystery series, but The Secret Place (#5), is easily the weakest link thus far. This time setting is St. Kilda, a Catholic girls' boarding school for the spoiled spawn of the Irish haute bourgeoisie (and wannabes) plopped down in a sylvan glen on Dublin's outskirts. In the sort of logic guaranteed to keep the Catholic Church atop the list of the world's most illogical institutions, it sits cheek-by-jowl with its boys' counterpart, Colm's. Both schools have strict non-fraternization rules because, as we all know, dutiful 14-18 year-olds are too busy with the rosary to think about sex. Sex couldn't have had anything to do with the murder of 16-year-old dream hunk Christopher Harper, right?

 Dublin Detectives Thomas Costello and Antoinette Conway failed to bring a prosecution in that case, a major factor in Costello being quietly "retired" from the police and the humorless Conway remaining partnerless a year later. Harper's files are sent to "Cold Cases," a purgatory for an ambitious lad such as Stephen Moran, who wants to move into the action and prestige of the murder squad. When 15-year-old Holly Mackey shows up, it looks as if Moran may get his chance. Holly, a St. Kilda student and daughter of Detective Frank Mackey (from The Faithful Place), is there to present Stephen with a new clue on the Harper case: a card she liberated in good forensic style from her school's student bulletin board—the namesake Secret Place–on the one-year anniversary of Harper's death. Its message, in pasted on letters cut from a book, reads: "I know who killed him."

The icy Conway isn't sure she wants any part of Moran, whom she correctly thinks is just angling for promotion, but he can play the "good cop" in ways incompatible with her curmudgeonly demeanor, so he's along for a 24-hour ride inside a world neither of them could have imagined growing up on the working-class side of the Liffey. The key to cracking the case hinges on who posted the card to the Secret Place after hours when it was inaccessible to students. It will surprise few to learn that St. Kilda was not as 'secure' as its adult staff thought! It also becomes apparent that the card could have only been pinned to the board by eight girls: members of rival cliques, one of which is Holly's inner circle.

Unless you've spent time in such a private school, you do not know the meaning of 'vicious,' but are any of these smart-ass, foul-mouthed, narcissistic girls capable of murder? We are drawn deep into both cliques: Holly is the most intelligent of the eight, but even she turns bitchy when she demurs to the scheming, wise-cracking Julia Harte, who lords over her, the dreamy Selena Wynne, and the gauche-but-about-to-bud Rebecca O'Mara. All four claim to have sworn off dating, largely because the only guys they see are Colm's students, who are as awkward as they and suffer from testosterone poisoning to boot. But what Julia's brood really hates is Joanne Heffernan's clique. Joanne is Svengali-like in the way that she manipulates dimwitted Orla Burgess, compliant Alison Muldon, and flirty Gemma Harding. Joanne's airhead crew is so obsessed with popularity that they look and dress alike. Holly's lot has nicknamed them the "Daleks," as if they were the cyborg race from Doctor Who. The only thing all eight agree upon is that Chris was such a hunk that he couldn't possibly have been dating anyone from the other clique. Moran and Conway aren't buying that, but it won't be easy separating the murderer from the framers.

Sound complex? It is, and not always in a good way. The novel is often claustrophobic. Chapters alter between a series of interrogations that take place over one very long day and flashbacks to the shenanigans and intrigue that took place in the months leading to Chris' death. Still, we never venture off the St. Kilda campus. You can feel the walls closing in as we near revelation, but I too started to feel weary by then. Ms. French is a skillful writer, but there's literally not enough space for much to happen.

Toward the end, Holly's father makes a dramatic appearance. This means that the novel has a dozen (including Chris) major characters and, frankly, that's four or five too many. Even at  440+ pages, you quickly eliminate numerous suspects because their characters aren't well enough developed to make them credible villains. There's also ghost hysteria thrown in that's too silly to play the role French assigns.

I finished The Secret Place. I didn't resent spending my time doing so, but I probably could have done something more productive. I admire the fact that French's detectives are flawed people, not Sherlock-like deductive geniuses, but what I took away from this book is that Irish police methods are very different from those in America, that private schools are Dickensian nightmares, and that children should be cryogenically frozen from ages 14 to 18. That's probably not what French had in mind. Read it or skip it; it will neither shatter nor rock your world.  Rob Weir

Liz Longley a Glorious New Voice

LIZ LONGLEY

Liz Longley

Sugar Hill 4108

* * * *

Looking for a glorious new voice? Liz Longley came out of Boston's Berklee College of Music a few years back and immediately began drawing comparisons to Shawn Colvin, Natalie Cole, and Nanci Griffith. That was the excitement speaking, as she doesn't sound like any of them and that will be just fine with anyone lucky enough to hear her. Longley sings with all the power of a pop star, but with the wisdom of a mature performer who knows the difference between presentation and pyrotechnics. You'll hear some of those whispery tones female country singers favor these days, but also delightful catches, full-throated soaring scales, and lower-register grit. She's pretty darn handy with the pen as well, which is to say that Ms. Longley is the real deal.

Longley's Sugar Hill release is her third full release and, for better and occasionally for worse, it's aimed at breaking through Nashville's noisy and competitive scene. There are songs on this record that are just about as good as songwriting gets. "Skin and Bones" has that Appalachia with ominous undertones feel that's evocative of a David Olney song; and "We Run," is an inspirational pop/rock anthem in honor of a cousin she lost to 9/11. (Longley also performed this song as part of the Boston Strong campaign.) Then there's her confessional "Bad Habit," an anti-tribute to a bad relationship that should have ended sooner; and "This Is Not the End," an honest look at not being able to let go. But even these pale compared to "Memphis," destined to become the earworm you'll feel blessed to have living in your head. It's another song about something that may or may not be ending, this one dished out with a warning. Longley frames it in a signature tune and about as much raw emotion as a body can take without choking. The only thing that prevents me from declaring the entire album one for the ages is the feeling that there's more going on here than is needed. I've heard most of these songs in Longley solo performances that I much prefer to the slick studio processing. Whether you will or not depends upon how you feel about Nashville records aimed at country/pop audiences. There is, however, an old adage about gilding and lilies. Make no mistake; Liz Longley is a rare lily indeed, so maybe we can dispense with the gilt.  Rob Weir

MLB Preview: How the NL West Will Be Lost

This won't be a brilliant division this year. The defending World Series champion Giants will be weaker, as will the Dodgers, the team that actually won the division last year. Neither the Diamondbacks nor the Rockies are substantially better. That has led some observers to pick the revamped Padres to contend for the NL West Crown. Somebody has to win this division, but I don't think it will be the Pads.

Wil Myers swings at another ball out of the strike zone.

Why the Padres could win: If Matt Kemp stays healthy, Will Middlebrooks regains his (long lost) mojo, somebody (Medica? Alones?) plays like an everyday first baseman, Justin Upton fulfills his potential, and Wil Myers isn't a bust, the Padres could ride a staff headed by Shields. Cashner, and Kennedy to glory.

            Why it won't happen: Because Middlebrooks is lost, Kemp too fragile, Upton too temperamental, and Myers is a fraud. And because Brandon Morrow is the # 4 starter.

Why the Dodgers will win: Too much pitching. Greinke, Ryu, and Kershaw—MLB's best pitcher)–head the division's best staff. The Dodgers overpaid for McCarthy, but he only needs to be so-so (and so-so he'll be). Jimmy Rollins won't hit as well as Hanley Ramirez, but his defense will be way better. I look for Ethier to supplant Pederson in center, who isn't ready. AGon is steady at first. Crawford is much maligned, but a good player.

            What could go wrong: Puig might be one of MLB's best players; he might also be to jerks what Miley Cyrus is to twerks. If he goes Bad Boy poisonous, I'm not sure this team has the character (or leadership) to right a listing ship.

What about the Giants? Nobody–and I mean nobody–wants to face Bumgarner, Cain, Hudson et. al in the playoffs, but the Giants have to get there first. Are Belt, Posey, Pagan, Pence, and Aoki enough to get them there? I'm skeptical. I'm downright cynical that Casey McGhee will make anyone forget Sandoval, as overrated as he is. Besides, it's an odd-numbered year and the Giants only win in even years!

Most likely to stink: The Diamondbacks could easily lost 100 games, despite a few good players (Goldschmidt, Hill, Trumbo). Their "ace" (Collmenter) won all of 11 games last year and two-thirds of their starters were  cast-offs from a team short on pitching (Red Sox, 2014). Hellickson would be useful if healthy, but he's injured again and it's only March.

Could surprise: The Rockies have Morneau, Tulowitzki, Arenado, and GarGo. They will score some runs, but that won't matter unless the pitching is better than it looks.

Should win, though I don't think you'll see them in the World Series.

Predictions: 

1. Dodgers (Call it prediction without conviction)

2. Padres (Not because they're all that good, but because the division is that weak)

3. Giants (Sometimes addition by subtraction really is subtraction)

4.  Rockies (If they get pitching, they could pass the Giants and maybe the Padres)

5. Diamondbacks (Is that a dead snake causing that horrid smell?)

Balkan Clarinet Summit Transcends Language

BALKAN CLARINET SUMMIT

Many Languages, One Soul

Piranha 2857

* * * *

It’s an orchestra! It’s a small jazz ensemble! It’s a heavy metal concert! And it’s many other things as well. The Balkan Clarinet Summit is a veritable United Nations of woodwind talent, fertile ideas, and musical mastery. It’s fourteen tracks and more than an hour’s worth of live clarinet-based instrumentals like you’ve never heard them before. Go ahead and scoff. I did before I listened.

The Summit is composed of Stavros Pazarentis (Greece), Slobodan Trkulja (Serbia), Sergiu Balutel (Moldavia/Rumania), Oguz Buyukberber (Turkey), and Orlin Pamukor (Bulgaria), with arrangements and other contributions from Claudio Puntin (Italian Swiss and Steffen Schorn (Germany). As the album title suggests, these skilled reed players communicate in the language that transcends words: music. In one of several bold moves, the project opens with a piece titled “Nostalgia,” and it’s a bit like what you get if you took some Gershwin, a medieval pastoral, and classical orchestral music and whirled it about in a blender. If that doesn’t sound particularly “Balkan,” try pieces such as “Geamparale” or “Severniaski Tanc,” each of which pulse with the nervous energy of a dog chasing its own tail. Do you prefer an introspective, forlorn feel? Try “Poéme.” Want to evoke a “Sorcerer’s Apprentice”-like foray into 20^th century modernism? Listen to “Sirba De Concert.” Or maybe you just want to hear how many sounds you can get from a reed instrument.  Check out the heavy metal licks of “Snake Lick Jab,” which also contains scratches and funky grooves that will make you ponder, “Clarinet hip hop?” There’s even a brief moment in “Breaza” where the clarinet evokes a didgeridoo, though most of the piece sounds like a drunken dance of mosquitoes (in a good way).  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow remarked that “music is the universal language of mankind.”  Many Languages, One Soul is living testament to the truth of the poet’s words. – Rob Weir

Here's the official trailer

Time to Ban Josh Hamilton

No more chances. MLB needs to ban Hamilton.

This is going to sound cruel, but here goes: If Major League Baseball is serious about cleaning up its drug problem, Josh Hamilton needs to become the star poster child for three strikes and you're out. Let's face it; if a sober Josh Hamilton couldn't hit a baseball a country mile, he would have been tossed on the trash heap long ago. Lucky for him he can–or at least, he could. It's no longer clear if Hamilton can perform at all, but it has become abundantly clear he can't be trusted.

Only pop stars and movie idols are as pampered as athletes. Fall outside that exalted company and society is content to allow you to suffer from any demon of your own construction. Part of the conceit of those profiting from the chosen, though, is that somehow their rehabs and special programs will work better than those of mere mortals. They don't. An unassailable fact: junkies lie. Second unassailable fact: there are far more relapsed junkies than there are ex-junkies. When I heard that Hamilton has (allegedly) being using coke and alcohol again, I couldn't get ex-manager Earl Weaver's words out of my head. When mercurial and pitcher Mike Cuellar complained that his skipper didn't give him a "chance" after he lost his effectiveness, Weaver retorted, "I gave Mike Cuellar more chances than I gave my first wife."

Josh Hamilton has certainly has his chances. He was suspended from 2004 through 2006. Despite stringent intervention involving thrice a week testing, Hamilton fell off the wagon in 2009 and again in 2012. Alas, it appears that 2015 is the latest bout. At some point, tragedies become farce and one must simply admit that the cause (and quite possibly the individual) is a loss.

Steve Howe

Does anyone remember Steve Howe? In his sixteen MLB years (1980-96) he was suspended seven times for drugs. Each time tears were shed, pledges were made, and the word "tragic" appeared. Steve Howe died a junkie in 2006, his penultimate act having been penning an autobiography in which he claimed to have kicked the habit through his conversion to evangelical Christianity. Remember–junkies lie. All the promise, all the interventions, and all the good intentions simply don't matter if the momentary rush is better than the long-term effort of getting clean. Ask Jeff Allison, the can't-miss pitcher who did because he liked heroin better than heroism. Or Daryl Strawberry, who exchanged his #39 jersey for a Florida State Prison number.

Strawberry claims he's turned his life around. I hope so. I hope Josh Hamilton will too–outside of Major League Baseball. The game has done all it can for Hamilton. He's no longer a tragedy; he's a farce. Ban him from the game, sever his ties to his MLB enablers, and let him show us if he's the next Daryl Strawberry, or the next Steve Howe. So long, Josh. You could have been a contender.

Juliana Hatfield Three Sophomore Release--Twenty-One Years Later!

THE JULIANA HATFIELD THREE

Whatever, My Love

American Laundromat Records 0035

* * *

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Twenty-one years after the first Juliana Hatfield Three record, Hatfield has reunited with drummer Todd Philips and bassist Dean Fisher to make the trio's sophomore release. By her own admission Hatfield hasn't tried to "reinvent the wheel." Whatever, My Love is pretty much guaranteed to invite comparisons to other Hatfield projects through the decades, though it does have a few twists. Some listeners may be surprised by the album's moments of vulnerability. Hatfield has a bad girl reputation, partly because she made glib remarks when she was younger, and partly because controversy follows her like a hungry dog. Speaking of canines, the new record has two dog references, both ironic. Lyrically there are two subthemes–longing for closeness and offering shelter to those ambivalent about needing it. When Hatfield muses "If Only We Were Dogs," it's in the sense of wanting an intense physical interaction in a highly inappropriate setting. Several tracks later, "Dog on a Chain" suggests things didn't go well. In like fashion, metaphorical pawing arises in "I Don't Know What to Do with My Hands."

Hatfield is generally pigeonholed in the alt rock category, with reviewers noting her blend of rock and folk. The latter is simply a wrongheaded way of describing her soft voice, which she prefers to frame with Fisher's thick, heavy bass lines. "Dog on a Chain" evokes early '80s punk, and "Push Pin" has the new wave feel of a Devo song. Listen hard and you'll hear some bass homage–a touch of Rolling Stones is "I'm Shy" and a little bit of Cream in "Blame the Stylist." When Hatfield detours on the soft side, it's for pop-tinged songs such as "Invisible," or for some jangly rock such as "If I Could," the track being pushed as a single. Overall, this album's flavor is somewhere between The Stooges and The Lemonheads (with whom Hatfield once played). It's not earth-shatteringly original—just some pretty good rock and roll at a time in which that offering is in short supply. I could nitpick about the need for better balance so that Hatfield's vocals come through more clearly, but I'm just happy to hear three musicians who sound like they're sweating instead of posing. Rob Weir