Time for the NL to Adopt DH Rule

He made contact, which is more than most pitchers do!

The World Series is over–a feel-good story for Bostonians recovering from last year’s last-place finish under Bobby Valentine and the city’s even deeper anguish after the Marathon bombing in April. St. Louis fans are, of course, disappointed. Winners and losers aside, objectively speaking it wasn’t one of the better Fall Classics–too much sloppy play, a relatively non-competitive Cardinals’ team, and a woeful lack of hitting by either side. The Cardinals actually out-hit the Red Sox, though their just .224 to .211 margin isn’t exactly Paul Bunyan territory.

So let’s talk hitting. With then possible exception of watching Cardinals shortstop Pete Kozma swing the lumber, is there anything more boring that watching pitchers flail away like a 4-year-old T-ball player? Pitchers went a combined 0-15 during the three games in Busch Stadium and it’s not that they were unlucky–they were as clueless as Ted Cruz when confronted by facts. The number one thing MLB could do to enhance its brand is tell the National League to get on board and adopt the Designated Hitter rule.

I can hear the self-styled “purists” screaming about tradition, strategy, and respect for the game. Poppycock! The DH isn’t exactly the flavor of the month–the American League has used it since 1973. Isn’t 40 years of “history” enough to prove that fans like it and that it’s good for the game? MLB attendance went up the first year the DH went into effect, but let’s look at the overall picture. In the 40 years the DH has been in effect total MLB attendance per decade has soared from 329 million in the 1970s to over 808 million in the first decade of the 21^st century. Sure there are other factors: expansion, new ballparks, TV hype… but maybe the purists might wish to consider that the game itself has gotten more exciting. Maybe it’s like the 1996 Nike commercial after all, and most chicks (and guys) dig the long ball way more than they do a 2-1 game.

Hold the true-athletes-can-do-it-all appeals. The truth of the matter is that pitchers never could hit worth a damn. By average the only recent pitchers with plate success are Micah Owens (.316) and Rick Ankiel (.266). The problem is that Owens also happens to be a lousy pitcher and Ankiel long ago converted to being an outfielder–just like the best-hitting pitcher in MLB history, one George Herman “Babe” Ruth (.342). I guess you could argue that Carlos Zombrano (.238) is also a better hitter than Kozma, but the Big Z isn’t putting up enough K’s these days. Nor should you listen to the hype about all those great hitting pitchers from baseball's Golden Age. Bob Gibson? Are you impressed by his .206 lifetime average? Or Don Drysdale’s .186? I remember some of these Golden Age players and I have to tell you that the only thing scarier than a Sandy Koufax fastball was Koufax trying to hit a thrown pitch by someone else. It didn’t need to be fast. Or close to the plate for that matter.

When we get right down to it, none of the evocations of tradition make any sense. The game changes, end of story. Can we really compare Ty Cobb to Willie Mays to Mike Trout? Not really. Not unless we standardize the equipment, the angle of the mound, the size of the ballparks, etc. Ever wonder if Joe DiMaggio would have hit in 56 straight games or if Ted Williams would have averaged .406 in 1941 if fielders of their day wielded today’s gloves? (When I was a kid, the word “glove” was more descriptive than today’s mitts, which look more a jai alai cesta!) Would Bob Feller have pitched as well off a flat mound? Would Mickey Mantle have prolonged his career if he could have been a DH?

That last line is the crux of the matter. Who do you want to see hit, someone like Mantle or the Astros’ Brian Mohler, a pitcher with a .045 lifetime average? As great as he is on the mound, the Dodgers’ Clayton Kershaw is a sissy with a stick at the plate (.078). Does it really make the game more strategic when everyone in the ballpark knows the outcome of a pitcher’s at bat? The NL needs to wise up and adopt the DH. It allows fans to see guys hit who might not otherwise be on the roster. Don’t believe me? In 2002 the Minnesota Twins released a player because a glove on his hand was uglier than a mule with a shaved butt. That’s right, I’m talking about 2013 World Series MVP David Ortiz. Would purists really rather see Clay Buchholtz swing for the fences?

Vishtén Spins Acadian Delights

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VISHTÈN

Mōsaïk

Vishtèn Vish004

We’ve come to expect exuberance and joy from Francophone music, but does it sound differently if it comes from outside Québec? What happens when Acadian music is played by twin sisters (Emmanuel and Pastelle LeBlanc) from Prince Edward Island, and a guitarist from the remote Magdalen Islands? And what new potage emerges when we take an Acadian roux and blend it with Mi’kmaq influences, Celtic melodies, and the occasional Moog synthesizer? That’s the mosaic that Vishtèn have been assembling for over a decade and which, on this, their fourth album, comes together in ways that blends the best of the past with just the right contemporary touches. The end product retains the famed ragged tune structure, the constant percussive patter of feet and call-and-echo vocals of Québéçois music, but make it come out in a detectably smoother way. Mōsaïk is, indeed, a collection of small pieces that combine in aesthetically pleasing ways. There are splashes of whimsy (Emmanuelle LeBlanc’s whistle-led instrumental “Tutti Fluti),” some bluesy drama (“Je Pars Pour un Voyage”), crisp guitar work from Pascal Miousse (“Pour Jacob’), and accordion/mouth harp/fiddle party-down tunes (such as “Tempête des Glaces”).  There’s even a moody arrangement of a song inspired by a First Nations legend, “L’Áme Á P’tit Jean,” which has a touch of surf guitar embedded in a meaty hook and supplemented by some spooky Moog. Got that? Trust me–you’ll like it. Rob Weir

Here's a bouncy little Francophone number.

North Sea Gas Turns Up the Heat

NORTH SEA GAS

The Fire and the Passion of Scotland

Scotdisc ITV827

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North Sea Gas holds own on a formal concert stage, a house concert, or a noisy Highland bar (which is where I first heard them). It might be the hardest-working Scottish band you’ve never heard of, even though founder Dave Gilfillan has been hitting the road for 34 years and the latest album is the band’s eighteenth. NSG–Gilfillan, Ronnie MacDonald, and Grant Simpson–invite adjectives such as protean and quotidian in the very best shadings of meaning. On this album, NSG continues its long tradition as both a cover band and interpreters of traditional songs. As advertised, there’s lots of fire and passion. There are just three of them, but six different instruments are trotted out and bold, booming three-part harmonies (reminiscent of The Tannahill Weavers) makes it seem as if there is a small village on stage. The band rips through a delightful mix of material–old chestnuts such as “Maggie Lauder” and “Fear a’ Bhata,” rousing battle cries the likes of “The Standard on the Braes O’ Mar” and “The Battle O’ Harlaw,” the pathos of “Calling Down the Line,” the bygone nostalgia of “Windmills,” and humorous offerings such as “Aye No No” and “I’m Having a Bit Tonight.” The last, by the way, is one of the filthiest-sounding, innocent songs about dessert you’ll ever hear! NSG do everything with panache and, perhaps, a little bit of cheese, but you’ll savor every crumb.   

Rob Weir

The Non-Reason of Health Care Debates

I doubt she planned on being in this chair!

I have not come to praise Obamacare. I’m on record many times as saying there should be no such thing as for-profit medical care in America–­health should be a human right. But given that this Congress is more likely to abolish gravity than advance public health, I can’t bring myself to bury Obamacare either. We can debate this, but would it be too much to ask that we insist that that discussion rest upon something more substantive than Straw Men?

There are two in particular that have been so endlessly recycled that they even get trotted out on NPR, the closest thing we have to meaty mainstream media here in ‘Merica. The first is that too much money is “squandered” on end-of-life elders; the second is that among the “losers” of health care reform will be younger workers. If ever the adage that foolishness repeated eventually becomes reality holds true, these two cinch the case.

It stands to reason that more money is spent toward the end of one’s life–healthy people tend not to die until they first shed their (apparently) annoying lack of illness. I suppose one could make the case that it makes little sense to approve a heart transplant for a 75-year-old man. Or does it? What if that man was your father? Now how do you feel about it? No doubt about it—the elderly cost more to maintain. We could do what some peoples north of Arctic Circle do; that is, when the elderly become burdensome, abandon them on the tundra until the cold, wolves, or bears finish them off. But spare us pious nonsense about spending too much on old people until you’ve booked tundra passage for your parents and your name appears on a future manifest. Until then, shut up and help pay for hospice care, morphine, and nursing care that eases the passage of elders, lest you appear an idiot, a monster, or both. Let’s call picking up the tab the least we can do for a person who once valued his or her life (and bank account) as much as you value your own.

If you’re young and healthy, be thankful not selfish. I nearly spewed when I heard an October 23 NPR story that repeated the line that the young and healthy stood to be “losers” in health care reform because they would end up “paying” for those who are “sick.” Well, duh! What’s the point of insurance other than to have it when needed? What does age have to do with it? Nobody plans or wishes to get sick. I know; I’ve been there. When I was barely in my 30s, I experienced very severe back pain of mysterious origin. I was running every day, ate a healthy diet, wasn’t overweight, and had not injured myself. It took a battery of tests to locate the problem: a bladder tumor pressing against sensitive nerves. It had to be removed and tested–cancer. I was extremely lucky in that it was tiny, completely excisable, and had not spread. An outpatient procedure fixed me, though healing my psychological anxiety took a tad longer.

The moral? What turned out to be a very minor incident wracked up around $40,000 in medical bills before it was said and done. Because I had insurance, I was out for just several hundred dollars of various copayments. Consider this before mounting your prancing young pony and extolling your rosy-cheeked youthfulness–unless you just happen to have forty grand lying around the house for which you have no better use. Human bodies are like cars and houses–use them long enough and things wear out or break. You’ll never know when this will happen. When I go the gym I observe shoulder and knee surgery scars, ugly marks that once held the staples for post-op open heart procedures, and external reminders of hip replacements. Sometimes these bodies are old, but often they are far younger than my own. You just never know…. Insurance protects us from what we can’t  predict, not what we can. If you don’t have it, you’re playing Russian roulette with your future. And, in a very indirect way, you’re also asking me to pay for your gambling habits. If you go broke, who pays your Medicaid bills?

We certainly need a health care debate in this country. Too bad we spend our time knocking over Straw Men instead of dealing with the heart (and knees, shoulders, hips, etc.) of the problem.  Obamacare? It’s little more than a notched stick in the hands of a one-legged man. But in lieu of anything else, the man is glad to have it.

Junkyard Ball an Eclectic Delight

TERO HYVÄLUOMA

Junkyard Ball

Lusti Music and Arts 009

It’s a Celtic music ensemble? No, wait, it’s a small jazz combo. Or is it a Finnish traditional music? I’m sorry; I meant to say this is an album of experimental music. If there’s an award for truth in musical advertising, wrap it and ship to Finland’s Tero Hyvälouma–the music contained on this CD’s eight peripatetic tracks covers so much musical turf that junkyard is as good a classification as any. Pretty fancy junk, though. Hyvälouma is the latest innovative musician to emerge from the Sibelius Academy, where he concentrated on violin. Let’s just say that the academy didn’t sidetrack Hyvälouma’s eclecticism. He is clearly in command of the fiddle, but he also showcases his talents on bouzouki, harmonium, and glockenspiel. (Glockenspiel! Who plays that any more? Glad he does.) Hyvälouma fronts a five-piece band that’s supplemented with 11 guest musicians, so you can add occasional forays into symphonic sounds to the list of influences you’ll hear on this CD. But I pity any retail clerk that has to pick a category into which to stock this CD. The record company calls it “Finnish folk music,” but the album’s sole traditional song, “Läksin mina kesäyonä,” welcomes three female singers into a arrangement that has the feel of ancient music backed by jazz piano. The title track opens with loud accordion and fiddle soaked in enough funk to evoke stride jazz, sans the piano. And when the piano does emerge in the mix, we’re decidedly into progressive jazz territory, complete with Nika Votkin’s bridging drum solo. A bit of scat and double bass and, before you know it, you’re in a place where meaty blues licks intersect with discordance. How about if we just label it eight tracks of intrigue and skillful musicianship? 

Rob Weir

A Trio of World Jazz Recordings

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African Americans invented jazz, but it’s been a global phenomenon since its earliest days. Three new recordings sample current jazz trends in South Africa and Brazil.

The most exciting of the three by far is Kheswa & Her Martians, whose Meadowlands, Stolen Jazz (Xippi Phonorecords 32740) is a four-star delight. Nonhlanhla Kheswa hails from Soweto and is a worthy heiress to the legendary Miriam Makeba. Like the latter she possesses a powerful and supple voice that is anything but a classical jazz set of pipes. She can growl and grunt, but her voice naturally gravitates to upper palette  higher tones usually associated with pop singers. All of this is to say that if you like your jazz sultry and smoky, steer clear–Kheswa favors bright, bold, muscular, and sassy. The album’s name is a triple pun in that the music presented was once forbidden and played on the sly in South Africa’s black townships, some of the music has been “stolen” in the sense that it’s been recorded before (including the 1955 title track song), and that which hasn’t been borrowed has been lifted from its original context. Kheswa fronts a seven-piece band that contains two killer saxophonists (Jovan Alexandre and Karim Rome) and a pianist (Taber Gable) who doesn’t merely back the songs, he shapes and orchestrates them. At times Kheswa is swingy, at others as hep as Ella Fitzgerald, and at still others a jazzy version of Angélique Kidjo. I would yield to purists that insist that Kheswa is more of a popularizer than a classic jazz singer, but that’s why I like her so much!

And it’s probably why I found two new offerings from Brazil rather tepid. Of the two, Mario Adnet’s Villa Lobos (Boranda 0020 **) is the more interesting and the more eclectic offering. It also benefits from the addition from really topnotch musicians. This is a theme album dedicated to the songs of Heitor Villa-Lobos (1897-1959), an important Brazilian modernist composer. The repertoire is a plus and a minus. Like many modernists, Villa-Lobos borrowed freely from other sources (chamber music, movie scores, tango, even some faintly Celtic material). As is also the case, some of the Stravinsky-influenced experimental flights are more impressive than riveting.

Too much introspection bored me when listening to Antonio Loureiro’s Só (Boranda 0015 *). This is piano-based jazz that veers into soundscaping by breaking melodies, drifting into improv, and descending into shapelessness. It feels soulful in its own way, but I often wondered if Loureiro had any audience in mind other than himself and the musicians on stage. In Portuguese só means “under” or “who,” but I often found myself leaving off the accent and reacting in English with a simple interrogative: so?