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

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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

 

Anna Falkenau's Quiet Celtic Power

 

ANNA FALKENAU

Féileacán na Saoirse

Scroll Music 1401

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The Irish-to-English translation of Anna Falkenau's solo fiddle album is, roughly, "Butterfly of Freedom," an apt descriptor. It reminds me of Kevin Burke projects in the ways in which tunes are freed by putting composition and emotion at the fore instead of virtuosity. The trick, as Burke once patiently explained to me, is to make the music sound simple and easy flowing–like a butterfly's flight–even when it's hard to play. Falkenau does precisely this. Her tone and control are glorious, but the overall feel is that of a late-night session when the bar patrons have left and the remaining musicians are playing for each other.

This collection consists mostly of traditional Irish and American fiddle tunes inspired by the playing of such renowned old masters as Paddy Killoran, Tommy Peoples, and Pádraig O'Keefe, and recent ones the likes of Liz Carroll and Bruce Molsky. Aside from a few well-traveled tunes such as "Sally Coming through the Rye" and "The Jolly Tinker," though, Falkenau chooses material suited to her quiet and expressive style rather than ones that sound familiar. (Over-familiarity can be a curse on solo projects.) She does let her hair down on several pieces, including "The Coolea Jig" set, the American old-time selection "Richmond," her tour de force thump-out with bodhrán artist Johnny McDonagh on "The Little Cascade," and her note-for-echoing-note duet with accordionist Steve Sweeney on the wonderfully titled "The Sporting Pitchfork" set. But among the many things Falkenau does well is mix tempos and moods. "The House on the Hill/The Leading Role" is lilting and smooth, her take on hornpipes "Fitzgerald's/Bushmills" is stripped down and raw, and the lullaby effect of "Ivan's Waltz" is enhanced by her tasteful collaboration with harper Holly Geraghty. One of my favorites, though, was the only original on the CD, "Vodka & Chocolate." Falkenau's liner notes say that it came to her after a Cork session in which she had been overly imbibing in the aforementioned items. The next morning she fashioned a gorgeous piece that sounds faintly like a Breton an dro. Who says excess is a bad thing?

Rob Weir

Here's a YouTube live show performance of the CD's last selection. It's slow for a few minutes, but stay with it—it's worth it!

When She Woke--a Timely Rediscovery

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When She Woke (2012)

Hillary Jordan

Algonquin Books, 341 pp.  ISBN: 9781565126299

* * * ½

This one slid past me when it came out in 2012, but it seems appropriate to revisit it in a political climate in which Tea Party zealots wield inordinate/inappropriate amounts of power. Hillary Jordan imagines a near-future in which conservative Christians gain power and institute a Jesus-centered version of Sharia law.  She updates Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter by replacing Puritans and old-fashioned cruelty with latter-day fundamentalists and high-tech inhumanity. Add a dystopian dollop from The Handmaiden’s Tale and you have a 21^st century mash-up novel.

The “Great Scourge,” a virus that renders most women infertile, ushers in the political takeover of the Trinity Party. This band of Texas fundamentalists abolishes Roe v. Wade, clothes motherhood in cult-like garb, and remakes American society as a Biblical theocracy of Old Testament proportions. Theirs is a rigid world that marks all transgressors–literally. Those who stray from the straight and narrow undergo melachroming, a process that dyes their skin hues ranging from yellow to red, depending upon their sins.

Enter Hannah Payne (Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne), a young woman who tries to be a good Christian, but has too many questions and too much of an independent streak to mesh well with evangelical patriarchy. She finds herself attracted to the Rev. Aidan Dale (Arthur Dimmesdale) and nature takes its course. Complications arise when she becomes pregnant; Dale is married, promiscuity is a sin, and social ostracism a very real possibility. Hannah opts for the dangerous course of seeking an illegal abortion knowing that, if discovered, her troubles magnify.

Of course she’s discovered! When Hannah refuses to name the father or the abortionist, she is shipped to a melachroming facility and, when she awakes, she’s scarlet from head to toe. Solitary confinement is followed by a Dickensian stay at Magdalene House, a halfway facility for fallen women designed to impress upon their charges the enormity of their sins, prepare them to be social outcasts, and program them for patriarchal submission.

As you no doubt surmise, that doesn’t go well either. When She Woke becomes a life-on-the-lam tale that includes a shadowy underground movement called the Novembrists, a lesbian affair, a feminist awakening, and a showdown with Dale. It’s not easy being bright red, hence Hannah’s Underground Railroad-like flight (hopefully to freedom in Canada) is fraught with peril, treachery, and routine obstacles than threaten to become major.

This novel is more than a little derivative of not just Hawthorne and Atwood, but also of dozens of other dystopian novels. Jordan acknowledges her sources, so is this homage or literary simulacra?  A bit of both actually. When She Woke is a fast-paced read with lots of thrilling moments, some of which work very well and some of which are for-heaven’s-sake forced. One annoying device is the repeated phrase “It’s personal,” which is used by numerous characters to not explain what they’re doing (or to save it for a big revelation later on). In a similar vein, there are few too many close escapes for believability’s sake and after a while they feel like story padding. Good luck fathoming how Hannah goes from distressed Christian to lesbian lust in a single encounter. And Jordan’s color metaphors strike me as too obvious.

On the other hand, Jordan’s treatment of faith is a plus. Some (who have likely never actually read the book) accused Jordan of belittling Christianity. Far from it. We see Hannah struggle with faith and reject intolerant versions of it, but not to the end you might imagine. Jordan also raises slippery slope questions of intolerance. Where is the line between personal belief and imposed will? How does religious freedom mutate into theocracy? At what things can a person of faith cast a blind eye and what must they condemn/punish?

As a reviewer I am compelled to draw Hawthorne/Atwood parallels; as a reader I’d encourage you to avoid comparisons as much as possible. I doubt When She Woke will become a novel for the ages, but it’s a very entertaining and thought-provoking novel for this age.  Rob Weir

Bube Dame Konig Mashes Irish, Swedish, and German Musical Traditions

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BUBE DAME KÖNIG

Fraumländlein-Neue Folkmusik

CPI Music 005

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Ich spreche kein Deutsch.  I speak so little that I had to look up how to say, "I don't speak German," just as I had to use translation software to discover that the album title means "Pleasant Land," and that the band is curiously named "Knave Lady King." (The name is probably inspired by the German translation of the 1998 Guy Ritchie card sharp film Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, but the band's website won't help much–about which, more in a moment.) Mysteries aside, I knew right away that much of the trio's the sound was as Irish and Swedish as German. This trio is so fond of old tales and musical traditions that is has worked with University of Leipzig poet Thomas Kolitisch, who has rewritten old lyrics–many of them Child ballads–so that the band could set them to new tunes that sound old. Now that's devotion! Some might naturally wonder about the project. Both Irish and Swedish music are alive and thriving. Isn't this akin to a tribute band paying homage to an artist who is still touring? And why buy an album in a language one doesn't speak?

The second objection is easily overcome–most North Americans don't speak Gaelic or Swedish either, so who cares if the song comes at us in German? As for the first, shouldn't the only standard be whether the music is done well? Make no mistake–Bube Dame König plays Irish- and Scandinavian-influenced music very well indeed. The trio consists of vocalist/flautist Juliane Weinelt; fiddler and hurdy-gurdy artist Till Uhlmann; and guitarist/fiddler/vocalist Jan Oelmann. Weinelt's vocals are quite reminiscent of those of Altan's Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh—clear, lovely, and fragile at one moment and muscular the next. Uhlmann's hurdy-gurdy is especially effective in setting danceable tempos, some of which evoke Breton music, and Oelmann runs Germany's only school for Irish traditional music and dance and knows his way around each. To get a sense of how Bube Dame König handles Irish music check out "Ebereschenbaum," a jaunty little ditty that highlights the time Weinelt put in with the Irish band Dizzy Spell. For a dose of Scandinavia try "Schnitter Tod," which is filled with ominous tones and evokes the industrial folk rock of early Garmarna. And, yes, there are some German folk songs as well, including the Lower Rhineland song "Kein Schöner Land" and "Wenn Alle Brünnlein Fliessen," which hails from 16the century Swabia. The mix of dark and light–a band staple–is very much in evidence on "Abschied," a parting song with the feel of an innocent wandering into a potentially foreboding wilderness. I wish I could tell you more about how many liberties the band has taken with old texts but, alas, the CD's tracks do not match well with those listed on their Website. The translations are better than my German–but not by much in some cases! But the feel and sound of this excellent CD need no translation. –Rob Weir

Try this YouTube clip to catch the band in a Swedish/German groove.