Don’t Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Where have all the rich folks gone? Long time passing....




I just caught a game at the new Yankee Stadium. I was glad I went, but I won’t be back soon. It was a pleasant, but not a transcendent experience, and it was not worth the money.

The new park is nice, especially when compared to junk piles like Chicago’s U.S. Cellular Field or Boston’s Fenway Park (the latter easily the most overrated venue in America). But it’s hard to see why Yankee Stadium should have cost $1.5 billion and it’s distressing to contemplate how many better uses that money could have served in the Dante’s Inferno called the Bronx. And, truth be told, the Yankees didn’t need a new park.

What new visitors will notice is the jumbo-sized video screen in centerfield, the wide concourses, and the impressive Great Hall festooned with three-story banners of past Yankee heroes that greets you when you enter the park. The seats are wider, the facades outlining the upper deck are a nice touch, the sightlines are clean, and the vantage point outside of Gate Four conjures images of imperial Rome. Beyond these, however, the new park is a clone of the old House that George Steinbrenner Rebuilt. I was surprised by the lack of design that went into new Yankee Stadium. For over a billion dollars I expected something more akin to baseball’s jewel, Baltimore’s Camden Yard. And they can blow up the damned video screen. It’s just a bunch of noise and distraction. 101-feet long and they can’t find space to put up the balls and strikes?

Most of the dough went into things we mortals will never see: the clubhouses, the training rooms, and above all—the luxury boxes, suites, private clubs, and amenities aimed at the high rollers. Since most of the latter choked on their own greed and perished in the Stock Market collapse, Yankee Stadium has a lot of facilities collecting cobwebs. These include the embarrassingly empty field-level box seats that were supposed to be filled with fat asses shelling out up to $2500 per game. The Yankees should repent this folly and put these seats up for public sale at $100 each. In the old days Joe Sixpack left the bleachers for a once-a-year splurge for a box seat for himself and his kid. As often as not that experience turned wide-eyed kids into lifelong baseball fans. Now Joe would have to sell a kidney (and maybe the kid as well) to get anywhere near those seats. Yankee stadium is crawling with security guards to make sure commoners can’t get near the lower level. They won’t even allow you to enter empty concourse areas to snap a photograph before the friggin’ game.

If you’re not an oil baron, here’s what you’ll shell out at Yankee Stadium. “General Admission” tickets are a myth; these have been bought by consolidators, speculators, and season ticketholders displaced from the old park. Expect to pay double the face value. My upper grandstand ticket cost me $50. If Jeeves isn’t dropping you off in front of your suite, it will cost at least $19 to park your car. Hotdogs are $5.75; a pulled pork sandwich (not bad!) will set you back $10. Bottled water is $4 and everything from cotton candy to popcorn is marked up astronomically. Beer is nine bucks a bottle. (The day I spend $9 for a Budweiser is the day you can donate my brain to science.) I was quite modest and managed to spend just $15 on concessions and, since it was Cap Day I wasn’t tempted by the ubiquitous “official gear” kiosks. Get thee to a Bob’s Store to buy t-shirts, unless you find virtue in shelling out $35 for run-of-the-mill logo apparel. Tolls on the Henry Hudson—and good luck finding it from the horrendous traffic rerouting—will cost another $5.50. Toss in $20 for gas if you’re traveling any distance and another $10 to have some pizza and beer in New Haven on the way home and your day to Yankee Stadium will run you around a hundred bucks a person if you’re being frugal. (Go to baseball’s most expensive venue, Fenway Park, and it will cost about a third more.)

A hundred bucks is a buck more than I pay for a subscription to MLB.com, which allows me to watch every game in the country for the entire year. While the experience of watching games on the Internet—even in high def—isn’t the same as being at the park, the seating, sightlines, beer, and food are way cheaper and better at home. And if that’s what a baseball nut like me has concluded, it gives pause about how much longer MLB can put fannies in the seats. Don’t take me out to the ballgame. I’m sick of subsidizing rich people’s playgrounds.

NO POLKAS NEED APPLY

WARSAW VILLAGE BAND
Infinity
Barbés Records 0021

The Iron Curtain didn’t was swept away by a global tidal wave and the Warsaw Village Band is the musical embodiment of the flotsam left in its wake. This is decidedly not your grandmother’s Polish dance band. There are no accordions present and you won’t find a polka until track nine. Good luck in recognizing it as such! What you will find are snippets of traditional Polish music as filtered through industrial rock, African village singing, Delta blues, Bollywood, reggae, primal keening, Goth sensibilities, and your local disco. Mix those elements with soupcons of Sweden’s Garmarna and Finland’s mighty Värttinä and you’ll still have to hear this band to get a sense of how glorious they truly are. Can you imagine what Willie Dixon would have played on cello? Check out “Little Baby Blues.” How about a raga in which fiddles and dulcimers sound like a sitar on LSD? Listen to “Circle No. 1.” There’s no guitar anywhere on this record, yet it sounds wilder than anything Jimi Hendrix ever envisioned. Spin “Wise Kid Song” and the cello, fiddle, and frame drums will explode in your head like a Fillmore West light show. And the abandonment with which Maja Kleszcz, Magdalena Sobczak, Sylwia Swiatkowska, and Wojtek Krzak attack the vocals is almost frightening. It’s been a long time since a new release so utterly blew me away. This is truly one of the best global fusion records of the 21st century.--LV

Check out this YouTube video.

PONDERING THE PLAYOFFS

The NHL and NBA are deep into the playoffs now. A few thoughts, the first of which is why the hell are they still playing? When I’m elected Grand Exalted Poohbah in Charge of Everything the following rules will apply:

· Absolutely no hockey after April 30 or before October 1.
· No pro basketball after May 15 or before October 15.
· No pro football in the summer. Ever. Under any circumstance.
· The World Series must be finished by October 20. The MLB season may not begin until April 15.

The Only Reason to Watch the Rangers!

National Hockey League:

· The collapse of the Sharks is stunning. The Bruins were right; Joe Thornton is the reincarnation of Eric Lindros—lots of talent, no guts.
· I root for the Rangers, a hobby only slightly less painful than pounding nails in my own forehead, but Hendrik Lundquist is a great goalie.
· I was disgusted by the way the Boston Globe trashed the Bruins when they were “upset” by the Hurricanes. So which of their brilliant experts picked the Bruins to be in the chase for the President’s Cup? This gritty, well-coached bunch overachieved all year and their achievement should be celebrated. Still another reason why out-of-towners can’t stand Boston sports fans and their all-or-nothing smugness.
· They may not win the Stanley Cup—though I’d not bet against it—but it’s a sheer delight to watch the Red Wings. They are disciplined, skilled, and fundamentally sound.
· Can’t stand the Penguins or Girly Boy Crosby, but I want them to beat the Hurricanes. Anything to hasten the demise of hockey south of the Mason-Dixon.
· Another year with no Cup in Canada. When it finally comes all of the Great White North will worship the team that delivers it.
· Will someone please shoot Gary Bettman so the Coyotes can move to Hamilton?

The NBA Unveils its New Logo

National Boring Association

· How can March Madness be so exciting and the NBA playoffs such a crashing bore?
· Millions of kids are shooting hoops all across America. So why can only a handful of NBA players hit a 20-foot J and make a free throw? And why are three-quarters of them European? Might be time to turn off the ESPN dunk highlights and enroll in fundamentals drills classes.
· If I coached the Orlando Magic I’d do to LeBron James what teams did to Michael Jordan when he was young: concede his 35 ppg. and shut down everyone else. It’s still a team game.
· Count me among those who don’t buy the James hype. I’m in awe of his natural ability, but his basketball IQ remains suspect.
· Will the NBA brass and accountants commit hari-kari if the Nuggets win it all? I’d love to see it. Denver is one of the few teams that’s actually fun to watch. And what were the Celtics thinking when they let Chauncey Billups go?
· Speaking of the Celtics, hope fans (me included) enjoyed last year’s championship because it’s the last one they’ll see for awhile. All the attention was on Kevin Garnett, but the guy who’s done is Ray Allen. Management should start rebuilding this team around Rajon Rondo and phase out the Big Three. Resign Big Baby; he’s a keeper. No one else on the bench warrants a second thought. (Well, maybe Bill Walker.)
· The upcoming draft looks weaker than Dick Cheney’s morality. Anyone with a mid-round or lower pick (like the Celtics) ought to move that pick for proven talent.

How Cool is THIS?--Poetry to Wait By

This is triply cool:

First, our town (Northampton, Massachusetts) has a poet laureate.

Second, she is Lesléa Newman, author of the acclaimed (and occasionally banned) Heather has Two Mommies.

And third, she has spearheaded a project called "Poetry to Wait By" that involves placing books of poetry in the waiting rooms of local businesses.

So instead of having to choose between a three-month-old copy of Golf magazine or the latest Dentists' Monthly, you might feast your eyes on Keats, Ferlinghetti, or former US poet laureate Billy Collins.

What's in any given waiting room depends on what volunteers have donated to the cause. But whatever the meter and rhyme on offer, it's bound to be superior to the gossip and dross of the usual waiting-room reading.

APPALACHIA: BEYOND THE STEREOTYPES

VARIOUS ARTISTS
Appalachia Music from Home
Lonesome Records 094

Appalachia and bluegrass are so synonymous that a lot of people forget that the latter was only invented in the 1940s and isn’t really “roots music” in the strictest sense. A new collection of Appalachian music—a companion to the PBS series Appalachia: A History of Mountains and People—contains plenty of bluegrass, but it’s also a reminder that the region’s roots are deep, broad, and stretch beyond the Mason-Dixon Line. Appropriately enough, it opens with a corn dance sung by Seneca peoples living on a reservation in New York State.

Appalachia is where the first “song catchers” scoured the hills for variants of British ballads and dance tunes. These are represented on this collection, with Jean Ritchie turning in a dry-toned “Pretty Saro,” Molly Slemp an emotive version of “The Blackest Crow,” and fiddlers such as Martin Fox and Benny Thomasson laying down solid old-time melodies. Also included is “Coal Creek March,” a classic Dock Boggs banjo performance.

Other reminders of Appalachia’s musical diversity come in the form of shape-note hymns, a stately rendition of “Haste to the Wedding,” and union songs. The album is a fine mix of lesser-known performers and those who have graced stages worldwide. The latter, however, do shine brighter. Standout tracks include Darrell Scott’s reworking of “Old Joe Clark” and a gorgeous song from Robin and Linda Williams, the melodic and memorable “Don’t Let Me Come Home a Stranger.” And no Appalachian collection is complete without the incomparable Ralph Stanley, whose “Gloryland” could convert sinners and atheists alike.

A notable omission: Although slavery was not as widespread in the Piedmont as along the coast, the region nonetheless contained hundreds of thousands of chattels. Where are their songs? Carl Martin’s bluesy “Let’s Have a New Deal” is a small step in the right direction, but another way to break Appalachian stereotypes is to add more color to the narrative.--LV

Click here for a nice cover of "Don't Let Me Come Home a Stranger."

Star Trek: Not So Boldly Going Where Many Have Been Before

*** 1/2
No Star Trek film has ever won an Oscar but its newest incarnation deserves one in a brand-new category—casting. Unfortunately, that’s the only Oscar it should get.

The film’s creators had the unenviable task of rebooting the moribund franchise for the (excuse the expression) next generation without alienating all the ageing Trekkers and Trekkies who can recite decades-old dialogue from the original TV series. What’s a filmmaker to do?

Hiring solid but little- to-slightly-known actors who absolutely nail their characters was a great first step. Much has been made of the, um, fascinating physical likeness (even without makeup) of the original Mr. Spock (Leonard Nimoy) and Zachary Quinto, who plays Spock as a young Vulcan who’s not yet learned to control the emotional impulses of his human half. And Quinto deserves every bit of the praise, having not only absorbed Spock’s mannerisms (canny raised eyebrow, deadpan quizzical look) but also made the character his own. (This Spock is softer somehow, yet just as logical as ever.)

The other key casting decision was, of course, who would replace William Shatner in Kirk’s captain’s chair. Though Chris Pine’s physical similarity to Shatner isn’t striking, there’s no denying he channels Kirk’s cowboy eagerness, bravado, bombast, and tendency to pepper his speeches with…dramatic…pauses.

The spirit of the rest of the old gang on the Enterprise bridge is recognizable in their replacements too, even if some—Sulu (John Cho) and Uhuru (the delectable Zoe Saldana) in particular—are still shortchanged in the character- development department. Karl Urban (also delectable) as Dr. McCoy and Scots comedian Simon Pegg are particularly refreshing as the show’s comic relief. (And thank heaven Scotty is played by an actual Scot this time around.)
And when the “real” Mr. Spock (Nimoy) shows up in a welcome but bizarre subplot, you can almost feel the torch being passed to the new crew.

Director JJ Abrams had the wisdom to give the millions who recall the original series enough nostalgia hits and in-jokes to keep them (me) happy without slavishly staying true to every aspect of the 1960s series. (The cheesy special effects and aliens with visible zippers on their rubber costumes are thankfully replaced by up-to-date CGI effects).

Too bad then, that Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman opted for a story so convoluted yet lightweight that even killer tattoos on the baldheaded Romulan villains headed by Eric Bana don’t compel us to care whether the Enterprise crew survives to begin its mission to seek out new life and new civilizations.

OK, so we can’t expect mature, humanitarian thought of The Next Generation kind from a bunch of Starfleet Academy cadets, but still there are far too many fistfights and things blowing up. We got that Kirk’s not in control of his impulses during the fight that opens the film; there was no need to belabor the point endlessly.

The new film has broken opening-weekend box office records, so surely it will be followed by more Treks. I just hope the series takes some lessons from the weightier Next Generation and Deep Space Nine scripts so that its bluff, buff new crew can live long and prosper.

BEAM ME DOWN A SCRIPT, SCOTTY!

Mr. Scott: I need a script. Now!

I’m an admitted Star Trek Sucker. Most folks think the first Star Trek film was a bore. Not me; I still recall losing myself in glassy-eyed delight as the camera panned the Enterprise in dry dock. Wrath of Khan? Loved it. And whose liberal heart could not be moved by saving the earth by saving the whales in Star Trek Four? Several episodes of The Next Generation were, in my eyes, just about as good as television gets and I’ll crawl out of my pod to club anyone who doesn’t think the Borg were the greatest sci-fi villains ever. I pretty much gave up watching TV when Deep Space Nine and Voyager went off the air. I’ve loved Trek in all of its iterations. (Okay, nobody liked Enterprise, but T’Pol was easy on the eyes!)

So why do I share Phoenix Brown’s reservations about the re-launch film? She’s certainly right—with one notable exception—that J. J. Abrams did a helluva job casting the new crew to look and act like the old crew. Karl Urban’s Leonard McCoy is fab, Simon Pegg’s Montgomery Scott captures the character’s crusty brilliance, and I want to see Zachary Quinto’s DNA records—he’s got to be Leonard Nimoy’s clone. Loved the cast, even the cameo bits such as Winona Ryder playing a Spocker mom.

Chris Pine’s portrayal of Kirk left me cold, though. Yes, Kirk was a cowboy full of swagger but he was a disciplined cowboy who resorted to intuition and the unorthodox when his back was to the wall, not as the default position. Let’s see if I’ve got this right. In the new film a drunken letch gets beaten to a bloody pulp in a cheesy bar and from that performance a Star Fleet officer, Captain Christopher Pike, realizes the lad’s potential and talks him into going to Star Fleet Academy. After three years of drinking, womanizing, breaking every rule in the book, and smuggling his way onto a starship against express orders in the midst of a pending cheating scandal he manages to get appointed First Officer!? But wait; it gets worse. After banishment and an improbable return to the Enterprise he gets a Vulcan to crack emotionally so that he can be appointed—straight out of cadet school, mind you—as captain of the fleet’s newest starship. And I thought some of the old Holodeck episodes rested on dodgy logic!

The new film has continuity holes big enough to drive a Borg cube through. The only way to sustain such logical inconsistencies was to turn Star Trek into a big f/x shoot-‘em-up. Explosions, fisticuffs, and thrills fly past at warp speed, but are as plentiful as ions in a particle beam. And—as is generally true of excess—ultimately they bore rather than excite. Moreover, they leave no time or room for character development. Those who already know these characters will read between the lines; those who don’t will give up on the text.

I’m delighted the film is doing well enough to stimulate discussions for new Trek spinoffs. But “dammit man,” as McCoy would say, they need a script that’s written for someone whose intellect exceeds that of a fifteen-year-old video game addict. The Next Generation set the standard for thought-provoking scripts that probed questions about violence, defining life, tolerating difference, the nature of memory, collective guilt, learning from other cultures, and other weighty matters. It won 18 Emmys, two Hugos, and a Peabody prize. You don’t get that kind of hardware with scripts whose idea of drama is “Let’s blow up some more stuff.” If the Enterprise is really going to have an ongoing mission, the franchise needs to let adults write the scripts and tell the little boys to be selective with the pyrotechnics. --LV