WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH KANSAS?

Why is this book still relevant? Wake up Jayhawks!


“What’s the matter with Kansas?” That question was posed in an eponymous 2004 book by Thomas Frank and, alas, remains germane five years later.

The latest head scratcher from the Jayhawk State is the news that antiabortion terrorist Scott Roeder, cooling his heels in a county jail for murdering Dr. George Tiller, has been using jail computers to sing the praises of fellow terrorist Paul Hill—executed in 2003 for murdering Dr. Bayard Britton in Florida—and to communicate with other radical anti-choice activists. There is even anecdotal evidence that Roeder may be in touch with others plotting similar actions as his own against abortion providers.

Two questions strike me immediately. First, why is this man in a county jail? He is clearly a threat to society and belongs in a more secure facility. A federal judge recently upped Roeder’s bail to $20 million because of Roeder’s threats. Why have Kansas officials been so slow to realize this?

The second question is even more pertinent: Why does this man have Internet and email access? He is not a free citizen whose first amendment rights must be respected; he’s an accused felon facing a possible death penalty for first-degree murder (even though Sedgwick County’s DA is not seeking it). Unless a (mentally deranged) jury decides otherwise, Scott Roeder is a prisoner. As such he has only such privileges as jail officials grant him.

The solution to the current Roeder outrage is a no-brainer: pull the plug on his computer use. He is legally entitled to legal counsel and visits from court-approved visitors. That’s it. Even his written correspondence may be opened, read, and censored. Shut Roeder down and let him rot in the ignoble obscurity he deserves. Do it now before the term “jayhawk” becomes synonymous with “brainless.” --LV

TOAST TORTURE

There are many things to admire about the Scots—their music, their sense of humor, world-class whisky, the breathtaking beauty of the Scottish landscape…. I even like haggis, a tasty treat whose enjoyment is best enhanced by asking as few questions as possible about its origins or preparation. But for a people who often pride themselves on being unlike the English, Scots share a barbaric, but universal British custom: the use of toast racks.

For those lucky enough to have never experienced a toast rack, it is a vile instrument of torture worthy of Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition. It is a series of triangular dividers welded to a steel frame whose sole purpose is to make certain that no piece of warm toast is accidentally ingested anywhere in the British Isles. Insofar as I can tell, Brits live in mortal fear of toast-burn lawsuits because the minute a piece of toast pops up it is sliced on the diagonal and placed on the toast rack. There it sits until two or three other pieces of bread undergo similar treatment and the rack is filled. It then cools in the kitchen while the rest of breakfast is prepared and the full rack is then ceremoniously delivered to the table with your meal. If the cook has done his or her job properly the toast will be the temperature of a granite slab in February.

But wait; it gets worse. Scottish baked goods are so scrumptious that they almost single-handedly redeem Scotland’s (well-earned) reputation as culinary purgatory. Go to a bakery and all manner of wholemeal, granary, and multigrain breads line the shelves. Which begs the question of why toast rack offerings are always bland white slices that make Wonderbread seem a gourmet food. If you’re lucky, one of the cold wedges will be “brown bread,” a generic term for any toast a shade darker than Casper the Friendly Ghost. One theory is that most brown bread is actually white bread upon which tea has been spilled.

Isn’t there some obscure codicil of the Geneva Convention that covers toast abuse? If we have petitions to ban landmines, why not toast racks? The very existence of the toast rack makes mockery of the claim that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Ban them now and make the Brits adjust. I suggest small plates with bright red warning labels: “CAUTION! Toast May be Warm!!!”--LV

CHERYL!

CHERYL WHEELER
Pointing at the Sun
Dias Records 1001

A new Cheryl Wheeler release is always cause for celebration and Pointing at the Sun is true to the formula that’s won her legions of fans: mix a few novelty songs with selected wry commentary, and surround them with heart-achingly beautiful reflections on love, loss, longing, and life. I’m not the biggest fan of recording novelty songs—cats are the foil for three on the new record— as I think it spoils the joke in her concerts, but most Wheeler fans love these, so what the heck? Besides, she needs a bit of comic relief. Wheeler’s never been afraid to ruffle feathers and the title track will dislodge quite a few—it’s Wheeler’s blanket condemnation of religious orthodoxy however imagined. When Wheeler slips at all, it’s when she tries to do too much; the lushly arranged “Summer Fly” comes off as Daniel Lanois Lite and is a much stronger song stripped-down for concert performance. But Wheeler’s at her absolute finest when she goes for the heart instead of the funny bone, head, or new musical turf. “Holding On” and “One Step at a Time” are no-gilded-lily takes on what it takes to how to navigate relationships. As such they are portraits of giddiness and hope framed with anxiety, pain, and perseverance. Like the starkly silhouetted trees that adorn the album cover, these songs get to the essence of reality. The courage to lay bare her deepest emotions is among the things that makes Wheeler one of the gutsiest songwriters of our times.--LV

THE DOLTS OF RED SOX NATION

New England is my adopted home but I’m glad that I grew in Pennsylvania for at least one reason: I gained enough perspective to know that “Red Sox Nation” is a psychological malady, not a description of reality. To hear people up my way tell it, Red Sox fans are the most “knowledgeable” fans in the game.

I’ve heard that load of hooey for over 25 years now and there’s very little truth to it. Much of the actual United States despises the Red Sox and thinks their fans are arrogant. There’s much to suggest they’re right. Red Sox fans are certainly loyal, but that doesn’t make them knowledgeable. (For the record, St. Louis Cardinals fans seem to know a lot about the overall state of Major League Baseball, not just what takes place within the parameters of self-created myths.) Look at the final fan tallies for the upcoming All-Star game. There can be little doubt that Red Sox loyalists “stuffed” the ballot box out of cult-like blindness rather than “knowledge” of the game.

Loyalty, of course, is part of the game. As a kid growing up near Baltimore the announcer Chuck Thompson proclaimed every Oriole a demigod, even if he was mediocre at best. But Chuck never claimed to be more than he was: a rabid “homer.” Red Sox fans may or may not be the least knowledgeable fans in MLB, but they are certainly Chuck Thompson-like in their blind devotion to the Old Town team. Let’s start with this: There is no way Dustin Pedroia should be the All-Star second baseman. Yes, he’s the reigning MVP and, yes, he’s a nice player. But All-Star status is for the best player during the first half of the year. Pedroia has been, at best, the fourth best. Ian Kinsler of Texas has top performer honors, followed by Robinson Cano or the Yankees and Aaron Hill of the Blue Jays. (You could argue that Brian Roberts of Baltimore is also having a better year than Pedroia.) Because Sox fans stuffed the ballot Cano isn’t even on the AL roster and Kinsler rides the pines.

I’m also not wild about Jason Bay as starting leftfielder. He has 70 RBIs, but his .260 batting average is hardly the stuff of immortals. One wonders how he’d fare on a terrible team like the Orioles, where the more-deserving Nick Markakis is hitting thirty-three points higher with just 15 fewer RBIs. Others at least (and probably more) deserving than Bay include Jermaine Dye of the White Sox, Torii Hunter and Bobby Abreu of the Angels, Carl Crawford of the Rays, and Adam Jones of Baltimore. Yet Bay got more votes than any other AL outfielder.

Pedroia and Bay are debatable choices at best, but let’s look at some real head-scratchers. Jed Lowrie got nearly one million votes for shortstop. He had just 18 at-bats before going onto the disabled list! Now explain why Jason Varitek got the second most votes for catcher. Must be that exalted .238 batting average. Or maybe it’s his vaunted leadership skills. Those with real “knowledge” of MLB know that there’s not a starting catcher in the AL whom Theo Epstein wouldn’t trade Varitek to secure. (He’s been after Victor Martinez of the Indians since spring training.) Varitek is as over-the-hill as Liz Taylor, for heaven’s sake.

All-Star voting is, of course, a joke. (Don’t get me started on the Mark Teixera versus Kevin Youkilis battle for first; Justin Morneau is the deserving candidate. And Josh Hamilton? Geddouttahere.) Most fans votes cast “homer” ballots. But can we please stop already with the Red Sox Nation crap!? I personally know several “knowledgeable” Sox fans, but the evidence is clear: they’re vastly outnumbered by dolts.--LV

SQUEEZE THIS

BILLY McCOMISKEY
Outside the Box
Compass 7-4488-2

Listen hard. Billy McComiskey pushes both literal and metaphorical accordion buttons. On the surface we hear the usual jigs, reels, and hornpipes, but McComiskey is about depth, not surfaces. The reel “Keogh’s” doesn’t just move, it gallops to John Doyle’s bold and robust guitar. The talent assembled on this album—including Doyle, Liz Carroll, Joanie Madden, Mick Moloney, and Athena Tergis—is so rich that many of the tunes soar to Bothy Band-like heights. Listen closely to “The Humours of Bandon” in which McComiskey maintains a sessions-like background role for about two-thirds of the set before leaping to the fore and blasting aside the piano, fiddles, banjo, and other instruments in his mighty wake. And then there’s the “Frances Keegan” reels that grabs you and won’t let go. The album also has a lullaby and a waltz, which you might need to bring down your blood pressure. McComiskey plays with a robust muscularity that lays low all who associate accordion music with Polkaville.

HARPING ON CHANGE

CATRIONA McKAY
Starfish
Compass 7-4489-2

The harp is perhaps the most stately of all acoustic instruments and those who play it generally play to type. The cover of Catriona McKay’s latest effort suggests that she never got the memo about being dignified. She’s posed as a naked shellfish sporting a strategically placed strip of yellow gauze, a wry smile, and a harp springing from her head. She definitely spent time in her brain contemplating how to free her instrument from the parlor. It helps that she has a new harp with unorthodox tunings explored on the opening three tracks. “Starfish” opens with a West Africa-meets-Scotland riff before lapsing into a light jazz arrangement in which McKay cascades across the strings to themes laid down by a full band. At times it’s as if she’s crossed the harp with a kora. “Forest Baby” is a gorgeous melody, but one whose outward calm is immersed in contemplative tension framed by bass and soulful fiddle. “Greenman” is a minimalist experiment that Philip Glass might have written for harp. There are plenty of tunes to hearten those who prefer a more sedate approach—beauties such as “Swan LK243” and “Sand Dollar” stand out—but overall McKay challenges us to toss our preconceptions and hear the harp in a new way.

Watch McKay go from pretty to funky in a set with fiddler Chris Stout.

Signs of the Times--June 17

For all you Baby Boomers out there--maybe we need to turn back the clock and take a few liver pills to alleviate our aches and pains! This sign is from Brattleboro, Vermont.