What April Suggests about the Baseball Season

May Days, May Days

April is a cruel month for baseball fans, as anyone who has sat through a game north of Atlanta can attest. (Full disclosure: I support a shorter season.) April is also a prankster that can make dandelions look like tulips. (Last year's Diamondbacks, anyone?) Here are some thoughts now that about 18 percent of the season is behind us.

The Real Deals:

Right now there are just two sure things: the Dodgers and the Astros. Each has a powerful lineup—Bellinger is white hot right now–but more importantly, each has a pitching staff that should hurl them deep into the postseason.

Stick a Fork in 'Em; They're Already Done:

Compost the putrid Marlins and call a taxidermist for the once-proud Orioles. The Royals are more like a deposed monarchy and the Angels are bound for hell once again. What was Mike Trout thinking when he signed a long-term contract with Anaheim. Do you see any hope in the next 4-5 years? I don't.

How are those Sonny Gray, Yasiel Puig, Matt Kemp acquisitions working out for the Reds? You can probably stick the tines in San Francisco as well. The Yankees AAA players just blew them out of the water and made the Giants look like midgets in the process.

Not as Bad as You Think:

The White Sox probably won't make it .500, but they won't embarrass themselves. Some of their younger players–like Anderson and Moncada–are figuring things out.

The Rangers might have the most potent lineup of any lousy team. They will score a ton of runs, but they'll give up a ton and a half. The Padres are the NL West equivalent of the Rangers. Machado isn't hitting much right now, but he will, as will Hosmer and Tatis. Myers will continue to tantalize and disappoint, as will any pitcher not named Yates. 

The Tigers are in rebuild mode and need to shed some onerous contracts, but they're not pushovers. These cats are starting to flex their paws.

Wait Until Next Year:

We already know about Vlad Junior, but he's not the only thing to like about the Blue Jays. They are just an arm or two away from making the AL East a four-horse race. It won't happen this year, but you do not want to go to sleep on these guys or they'll lay some hurt on you.

Call it a hunch, but the Braves look as if they are going to take a step backward this year. It's a team dependent upon a handful of vets to close the holes of youthful inconsistency. That might happen, but I'm not seeing a pitching staff that can take them to the Promised Land. This needs to be redressed before some of those vets (Freeman, McCann, Markakis) reach the end of their productiveness. Next year?

I Don't Believe In You:

The Diamondbacks are playing above their pay grade right now. You know–just like 2018. It won't last.

I said it last year and will say it again: the Cubs pitching isn't very good. Plus Bryant and Rizzo aren't hitting their weight. I'd not be surprised if they miss the playoffs.

Never bet on the Pirates. You get the team you pay for and Pirates' ownership keeps its riches buried in a bank somewhere far from where the three rivers join.

Parsimony and young players who fuzzed out but never blossomed are the reasons I don't believe in the Twins. They're not a bad team, but in the long run they'll struggle to rise above mediocrity. Even if they click on all cylinders, they simply can't match the Indians' pitching.

I'd be remiss not to mention the perpetually tightwad Oakland A's. Look down their roster and tell me how many names you recognize other than Khris Davis. (Semien is good, though.)

They'll Probably Break Your Heart:

The Phillies spent like drunken gamblers to sign Bryce Harper. He's hitting .250, which is just about right for a player who might be the most overrated in all of baseball. The Phils should have bought some pitching. Arrieta is on the downside and Nola and Elfin have yet to rise.

The Mets are the opposite: potentially great pitching but if McNeil and Alonso cool off, where's the offense?

The Mariners are on fire at present, but I'd be higher on them had they not traded their best pitcher (James Paxton) to the Yankees. Their lineup consists of a lot of castoffs, has-beens, and late arrivals. I think this holiday will soon sink back to workaday tedium.

Don't the Nationals always break hearts? They show signs of sorting things out, but when you look at their roster, you'd think they should be great. The Nats are like brilliant students content to earn a C. 

Waiting to Catch Fire

The Brewers have too much in the bank in addition to Yelich to be playing penny ante baseball. In fact, without Yelich they'd be in serious trouble by now. Time to man up in Cheesehead Town.

Exchange the cheese for bad beer and the same is true for the Cardinals, who plucked Goldschmidt from Arizona and Ozuna from Miami. (Did I mention the Marlins should be in the Eastern League?)  About half of the Cards' pitching staff needs to step up or move out.

The Indians have been only middling good in a bad division. Cheapskate management is a problem in Cleveland as well, but the Indians should be fine when Kipnis, Naquin, and Lindor heat up. There's really no reason in the world why the Tribe shouldn't waltz to another division crown.

Mysteries Wrapped Inside Enigmas

In a sense, the Red Sox were destined to disappoint. They had a season for the ages in 2018, and no serious fan expects them to duplicate a .667 winning percentage. But to be a tick above the Orioles? I can't imagine that will last, but there's got to be concern that signing Sale to a big contract instead of re-signing Kimbrel was a bonehead move given that Sale hasn't been brilliant since the middle of 2017. Porcello thus far has been in the "other" side of his every other year effectiveness, and there is also concern that Moreland, Pearce, and Bradley had career years in '18. Commonsense says that Bogaerts ought to be moved to third and Devers should become a DH. Devers' glove is simply B-A-D. But if you ask me if the Red Sox will finish below .500 this year I'd reply, "Are you nuts?"

The Yankees are a mystery in the sense that one wonders how in the hell they are winning with 15 players on the disabled list. LeMahieu was a great signing, Voit was a steal, and getting Paxton a fleecing, but the only way you make any sense of their early success is to concede that their minor league system was every bit as good as touted. Nonetheless mystery surrounds the Bronx Bombers. Will Sanchez figure out how to catch and hit consistently, or is he a bum receiver who is all or nothing with the stick? Will the Yanks go on a roll when the big guns return? Logic dictates they should, but baseball has a habit of making fools of the Stat Heads. The biggest mystery of all is why the team hasn't fired every single one of its conditioning coaches. It baffles my mind how MLB thinks launch angles and pro wrestling sized muscles are more important than flexibility and durability. For the record, Detroit has the deepest fences of any stadium: 420 feet to dead center. So who gives damn if a homerun travels 470 feet?

The Rays are also an enigma. I like Pham and Diaz, but I don't see enough bats on this team to justify their otherworldly record in April. Morton and Snell are proven pitchers, but are Glasnow and Chirinos for real? I don't think the Rays have enough, but if the Red Sox don't start winning, the Rays might steal a playoff spot.

Let's end with the yearly mystery team: the Rockies. The hitting is there, but the staff has an ERA the size of Mount Elbert. I think they'll be in the middle of the pack, but it seems that nobody really knows how the Rockies will fare until the season is over.

Layover is Pulp Fiction. In a Good Way.

Layover (2019)

By David Bell

Berkley/Penguin Press, 416 pages.

★★★

If you enjoy psychological thriller movies that make you bolt upright and shout, "Oh no! Do not open that door!!!" David Bell's novel Layover is like that. No matter what the medium–movies, novels, campfire tales, TV shows–such works rely upon building tension to a level where you are fully immersed in the moment. Alfred Hitchcock famously remarked, "Logic is dull." He meant this in the sense that effective melodrama goes for the gut, not the brain's logic center.

Or is it the heart? Or the gonads? Joshua Fields is pretty much the poster child for the well-scrubbed All American lad. He's considerate, altruistic, clean-cut, attractive, smart, and successful. That's not to say he doesn't have his crosses to bear. He was raised by a doting father and went into pop's real far-flung estate and development business right out of college. Joshua is making lots of money, but he's never really stretched his own wings. His job is dull, but he soldiers on because he doesn't want to disappoint his father. This takes its toll, as Joshua is a nervous flyer who needs Xanax and airport booze to get onto an airplane. He also has a longtime girlfriend, but the fire of that relationship is (at best) on smolder.

One evening he's in Atlanta waiting to change planes–the titular layover–when he meets Morgan Reynolds, an attractive young woman in her twenties. The two have a drink  and part ways, but not before Morgan surprises Joshua with a body-grinding kiss that practically makes him jump out of his khakis. On impulse, Joshua decides not to meet his dad in Florida and instead finagles his way onto a flight to Nashville, which is where Morgan said she was bound. Yet when he surprises her on the airplane, the same woman claims she is not Morgan Reynolds, rings the flight attendant, and asks her to make Joshua stop harassing her.  

Bummer! But when Joshua looks up her profile on Facebook–hey it's the 21^st century!–there she is, along with various postings that say she's missing. Joshua tries to explain this to airport police in Nashville, who basically say she's an adult and has the right to go missing if she wishes. A rational person would move on, right? Well, that wouldn't make for much of a novel, would it? Instead, Joshua decides to investigate on his own.

Meanwhile, in (fictional) Laurel Falls, Kentucky, Detective Kimberly Givens is under pressure to locate a missing local businessman, Giles Caldwell. The mayor is up for reelection, Giles' aggressive brother Simon is raising a stink, and the mayor has pretty much ordered Givens–who was already passed over for promotion once before–to work around the clock to find Giles. That's hard to do if you're divorced and have a (barely) teenaged daughter.

The two stories will, of course, intersect. At each step of the way Joshua is warned to go back home and leave the investigation to professionals. Instead, he continues to open doors he shouldn't, even when each new one brings him more grief and places him in greater danger.

Objectively speaking, Layover is pulp fiction that frequently demands that readers suspend disbelief. Who knows? The news is filled with tales of those who have done more illogical things than Joshua, so maybe there's more verisimilitude to Bell's novel than we'd like to admit. I can say, though, that Joshua wiggles out of a few legal situations from which he'd be unlikely to walk away in real life. This is a 416-page book that feels like it's barely half that long. In otherwise, this is your proverbial page-turner. It releases in July, and I can imagine it will be a popular beach read.

David Bell is an English professor at Western Kentucky University with eight previous novels to his credit. Layover is no Woman in White. It's not even Gone Girl. But let's give Bell credit for writing a novel with great mass appeal. Sometimes all a reader wants is good juicy thriller.

Rob Weir  

Note: I received an advance copy of this book from Berkeley and NetGalley to review. I note, however, that it seems to be available on Kindle.

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Revisiting A Confederacy of Dunces

A Confederacy of Dunces (1980)

By John Kennedy Toole

Grove Press, 405 pages.

★★★★

From time to time I like to re-read favored books from my youth to see how well they hold up. Recently I decided to give A Confederacy of Dunces another whirl. After all, it won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1981. Here’s some irony to consider. The book was written in 1963, could not find a publisher, and its author John Kennedy Toole, committed suicide in 1969, allegedly feeling misunderstood and rejected. The book’s posthumous award notwithstanding, A Confederacy of Dunces probably would not find a publisher today, as it is one of the most politically incorrect novels of the past hundred years.

The book takes its title from a Jonathan Swift epigram: “When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.” The open question is whether Toole’s protagonist Ignatius J. Reilly is that genius, or whether we are supposed to believe that Toole is the genius and Ignatius is among the dunces. He is certainly one of the more unique main characters you’ll ever encounter.

If you crossed a street bum with Oliver Hardy, Don Quixote, Falstaff, and Boethius, you’d still be a few weirdnesses short of Ignatius. He fancies himself an erudite man on all subjects and has contempt for the masses, whom he sees as destroyers of good taste, morality, and ancient wisdom. He is also a compulsive eater who is grossly obese and whose pyloric valve opens and closes when he is annoyed, which is pretty much all the time. I won’t make you run to your medical dictionary; a malfunctioning pyloric valve means Ignatius belches like a junkyard muffler and farts like a church bean supper. Food nests in his unkempt mustache, crumbs hang from his clothing, and he seldom ventures out without stuffing himself into a parka, donning a green hunting cap with the flaps pulled down, and a heavy scarf wrapped around his neck. Did I mention that the novel is set in New Orleans?

Ignatius has fewer social graces than a rutting hog, but he does have a big vocabulary and such an unusual way of expressing himself that others often assume he’s well educated. Not that it would take much; A Confederacy of Dunces isn’t populated by the brightest bulbs in the socket. Ignatius lives with his widowed mother, Irene, who still hopes her “boy”–he’s 30–will fulfill his potential. She also has a small drinking problem, which might explain why she thinks Ignatius has potential. He is, to put it mildly, vocationally challenged, as we see in hilarious stints as an office manager at a pants factory and an inventory control and motivationally challenged hotdog vendor.

Toole’s novel is a hoot that’s comedic in ways inspired by slapstick, farce, and bawdy medieval tales. But let’s cut to why this book would disturb those of delicate sensibilities. Among the other characters are a jive-talking black man, Burma Jones, who is street smart but not any other kind, and whose speech Toole writes in exaggerated dialect. There is also Ignatius’ pen pal and sparring partner, Myrna Minkoff, a Jewish beatnik and sexual libertine whom he met in his brief time at LSU and whom he berates as a “whore;” a pair of swishy gay men and several aggressive lesbians; Lana Lee, who purveys porn from her sleazy bar; Darlene, a would-be exotic dancer trying to teach her cockatoo to rip her dress off; Trixie, the dementia-suffering “project” of a factory owner’s wife; the widower Claude who rants about the “communiss;” and patrolman Mancuso, whose captain punishes him by making him wear ridiculous getups and look for perps in places such as bus station bathrooms.

So how did A Confederacy of Dunces hold up for me? I found it even funnier now than when I first read it sometime around 1982. It is safe to say that there simply aren’t many novels that can rival it for surrealism and absurdity. However, I’d advise anyone thinking of teaching it not to touch it with a ten-foot pole. Not unless you want to face a pitchfork brigade made up of #MeToo, Black Lives Matter, fat rights activists, LGBTQ warriors, and maybe even sex workers and weenie stand promoters! I would argue–though I would get nowhere–that it’s a great book for the Age of Trump in that Ignatius’ world contains more phonies and bloviatrs than geniuses. The safer route, though, would be to buy a used copy, cover it with a cut-up shopping bag, and howl in the privacy of your own home.

Rob Weir

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Vanessa Peters April 2019 Artist of the Month

VANESSA PETERS

Foxhole Prayers

Texas-based Vanessa Peters was a literature major in college who once entertained the idea of becoming a short story writer. Instead she opted for a career in music, but it her songs are short stories in their own right. Foxhole Prayers took shape when she was re-reading The Great Gatsby and realized that we seem to reliving Fitzgerald's era with–in her words­–"Trump as some sort of PT Barnum-meets-Warren G. Harding character."

Peters mixes fear and pain with hope. On the title track, sirens swell and cacophony rises before giving way to echo effects that frame Peters' vocals. There's a lot going on in this song. A sample lyric: we're all just children hurried out of school/holding hands and told to keep our heads low/and all of this just makes me weary/the woman in the backseat screaming/yes sir yes is yes sir/can't anybody hear me? It is at once a beautiful song–which is true of anything that comes out of her mouth–but also one that makes the hair rise on the back of your neck. And she sure doesn't believe that Trump will save us from any of this. On "Carnival Barker" she sings: but there was this carnival barker we were all warned about/they told us to steer clear of him when he came to our town/you'll get a circus, history told us, if you vote for a clown/but the grifters pitched their tents and the good word got drowned out… This song also showcases how well Peters works with a band. She commands the stage like a young Emmylou. Peters isn't letting anyone off the hook for what went wrong. Check out "Just One of Them." Her observation: and this ragged dream is full of holes poked through/and the threads left behind don't hang true/and I’m deafened by my silence in the face of so much need/I thought I was an honest man but truth be told/I'm just one of them. Well, damn, that's just good songwriting–the kind that impresses and makes you cringe at the same time.

Not all is hopeless. On "Fight" Peters sinks low but rises to tell us, get out there and fight girl, don't be afraid to bleed crawl back towards the light. Peters also takes time to realize that she's "Lucky" and has things that go beyond money and running races that don't matter. That message is made even more poignantly in "Get Started," another one in which she really works the band–Frederico Ciancabilla (lead guitar), Andrea Colicchia (bass), John Dufilho (percussion), Rip Rowan (keys)–on a piece that's on the pop side of folk rock. This one is serious, but with plus side possibilities.  

Still, Peters frets over the "Trolls," their "poisoned darts" and the "wizard (who) sold us out."  She wants us to wake up "Before It falls Apart." Good stuff from a singer/songwriter unafraid to speak truth to power or to critique her own actions.

Rob Weir

Collateral Beauty: Decent, Overlooked Take on A Christmas Carol

COLLATERAL BEAUTY (2017)

Directed by David Frankel

Warner Brothers, 97 minutes, PG-13

★★★

Collateral Beauty doesn’t rank high on the originality scale, but it’s a surprisingly goes-down-easy film for its tragic subject matter: losing a child. It came out at the very end of 2016 and garnered middling reviews. Many moviegoers expressed disappointment that its star, Will Smith, spends much of the film in wordless depression rather than dominating the screen as he usually does. There are reasons to overrule their judgment.

Collateral Beauty is essentially a remake of A Christmas Carol. We open to a somewhat improbable scene of Howard Inlet (Smith) stoking a large gathering as if he was the CEO of Apple at a rollout talk. He’s actually a cofounder, leader, and majority stockholder of a hip advertising company that seems to employ more people than Google. In his pep talk, Howard pontificates about the three most important concepts in both business and life: love, time, and death.

Move the clock forward three years and the firm is perched on the brink of insolvency. Howard is divorced, clinically depressed, and Zen-like in his solitude–all the aftermath of his young daughter’s tragic death. He no longer courts clients or develops new strategies; when he shows up in the office at all, he builds elaborate domino-like structures that he knocks down and builds anew. His partners–Simon (Michael Pena), Claire (Kate Winslet), and Howard’s best friend Whit (Ed Norton)–need cash to save what’s left of the firm and its employees, but they can’t go forward with a sale of the company without Howard’s approval. Howard isn’t talking, not even to Whit. The only outward sign of life of any sort is that Howard considers sitting in on grief counseling sessions led by a woman named Madeline (Naomie Harris). Mostly he stands outside of the session and stares vacantly.

Whit stumbles upon an idea when he impulsively trails a woman to whom he is attracted into a theatre where she is rehearsing a play. Okay, that’s kind of creepy, especially these days, but he begins to court the mostly uninterested Amy (Keira Knightley) and learns that the play she’s working on won’t see the light of day without an infusion of cash. What if, somehow, two birds could be knocked down with one stone? Whit convinces Claire and Simon to take part in an outwardly outrageous plan. He hires Amy and two fellow actors, Raffi (Jacob Latimore) and Brigitte (Helen Mirren) to accost Howard while in the ghostly roles of Love, Time, and Death.

There are various layers and subplots to all of this and a final resolution that will strike some as contrived and others are unanticipated. I underscore my remark that this is Dickens re-imagined and transplanted to Midtown Manhattan. In other words, we’re not talking realism–documentary, dramatic, magical, or otherwise. You simply have to buy into the setup, or steer clear. Nor will I pretend that this is any sort of innovative retelling of Dickens. Collateral Beauty is certainly open to criticism for being an adaptation that doesn’t quite gel–one that’s neither drama nor comedy, though it has elements of each.

It might have collapsed altogether without subtle but strong performances from Smith, Scott, and Harris; a charming one from Latimore; and a superior turn from Ms. Mirren, who is the sort of actress that would be brilliant simply walking across the street. It’s not one of Norton’s finer hours; he’s competent, but seems to be waltzing through his performance rather than stretching himself. Knightley–who sometimes seems to be doing a bad Tina Fey imitation– isn’t very convincing as Love, but she at least looks the part. (I’m beginning to think there’s about as much talent in her as there is flesh upon her frame.)

For all of the film’s shortcomings, it has a rough charm that manages to take us beyond Howard’s despair and provide a modicum of uplift. Collateral Beauty–the title’s meaning will be revealed–isn’t likely to make anyone’s hidden masterpieces list, but it’s certainly worthy of making one of overlooked movies. There are far worse ways to spend an hour and a half, and let’s give Will Smith some love for playing against type and expectation.

Rob Weir 

Music from Steve Earle, Matthew Mayfield, Lost Leaders, Tony Lucca, Kelly Augustine, Jonathan Stevens

Let's start with some big news. When Steve Earle moved to Nashville in 1974, he was an unknown 19-year-old writing songs and working a series of dead-end jobs to make ends meet. Who knows where he would have ended up had he not met outlaw country legend Guy Clark. I've only heard two tracks from Guy, Earle's take on some of Clark's classic songs. Let's just say that this project is long overdue and that I can't wait to get my hands on the rest of the record. Guy Clark must be smiling down from Heaven.

Sample: "LA Freeway "

I've also heard just two songs from Gun Shy, the just-released new album from gravely voiced veteran rocker Matthew Mayfield. If "Broken Clocks" and "Our Winds" are any indication, he's turned down the volume a bit. To me, it suits him well. We hear the lyrics better but more importantly we feel them. These two have a Richard Shindell vibe.

Lost Leaders, Extra-Ordinary, The Collection

Lost Leaders have recently dropped a new recording, the band's third. You can hear their single "I'm Gonna Win" on YouTube and sample older material on Extra-Ordinary. If you don't know of this New York band, you might have heard the name of bass player Byron Issacs, who was a member of the Levon Helm Band and now sometimes plays with The Lumineers. In Lost Leaders Issacs also plays guitar and shares vocal duties with guitarist Peter Cole. The best way to describe their music is to think of what you'd get if you crossed a retro pop/rock outfit with the post-punk sounds of The Lemonheads. "Horizontal Man" certainly evokes Bob Dylan's lyrical approach to vocals, though Lost Leaders rock out more cleanly than Dylan. What they do best, though, is wry-but-pointed commentary on modern neuroses. "Probably Why We're Here" is at once edgy and poppy, with Issacs laying down some bouncy thick bass lines. It's about a relationship on the rocks that's possibly terminal: We talk and talk but never speak/I never though we'd need a referee. I really like the collection's title track, a 21^st century musical take of Riesman's The Lonely Crowd: But I can't complain/It's good to be like everybody/I'm hiding just the same/It's good to be like everybody. No worries about these guys becoming extra-ordinary. ★★★★

Tony Lucca, Ain't No Storm

Americana artist Tony Lucca surprises. At first his tenor seems light, almost pretty. Don't be deceived; his is a mighty voice that ranges widely. Listen to him on "Frame By Frame" and you can really hear him stretch it. Or "Restless Heart," where you'll hear just a splash of Dylan here and there before his natural smoothness takes over. Lucca also has interesting takes on things, as befits a guy who came to Nashville by way of Detroit and (seriously) The Mickey Mouse Club. I guess this combo taught him something about picking up the pieces and knowing when it's time to move on. In "One Less You," Lucca copes with absence by noting: one less road I have to travel/one less burden to bear/two fewer hearts/tangled up and torn apart/one less you is just one less me to repair. "Everything is Changing" is a song that is likely to turn some heads. It showcases Lucca on piano and it opens soft and wistful, as if it's going to be some wholesome country folk song. Nope! It's a mix of soft and hard, as Lucca mixes it up with a band and rocks out. It's also a poignant reminder of how individuals and couples must both grapple with ancient wisdom from the philosopher Heraclitus: "Change is the only constant in life." Or, as Lucca puts it: …dreams/weren't meant to remain dreams/merely a road map/to where you're 'sposed to be… This is one helluva record and Lucca is a talent you should discover if you've not done so already. ★★★★

Kelly Augustine, Light in the Lowlands

Kelly Augustine grew up in Oklahoma. Although she now lives in Denver, she knows that happy endings are not a given. Her country/folk debut is a good one that highlights her fine writing, a seriously powerful voice, and an outlook that evokes that of Lucinda Williams. "Debbie" is a honky-tonk styled song about a down market woman who cooks meth because she likes it. It's also a good way to feed her kids while her old man is in jail. "Can't Get Enough" is about loving an alcoholic, though you know you shouldn't. One of the album's more powerful songs is "Hurt Too Big," a needed corrective to the way we have glamorized the military. Her take is of a soldier whose idealism is shattered on he battlefield, where he learns that killing others is a sin: On his knees he cries out for forgiveness/God used to talk, but He's gone silent these days… and the solider is left with a Hurt too big for a heart too small. Augustine switches from folk and country to an Appalachian vibe for "Thunder on the Mountain," which takes the nonsense out of "clean coal" and probes the effects of mining, job loss, poverty, and grime. A few love songs take the edge off the gloom, the most affecting of which is "Second Chances," with its hope that act two will surpass act one: I think I'm looking at my best second chance/When I'm looking at you. ★★★ ½ 

Jonathan Stevens, Bread & Butter Songs

 

People in Western Massachusetts know Jonathan Stevens as a baker (Hungry Ghost), a poet, and an advocate for sustainability. If you've lived there long enough, you also know he's singer/songwriter. Bread & Butter Songs is a throwback to the 1970s when musicians made concept albums without a lot of studio gadgetry. The theme of this one is mostly related to what he does most days: bake bread. There are songs about bubbling dough, biscuits, pouring batter, and grain–sometimes as metaphors, sometimes straight up. Stevens wears his values on his sleeve and strums them out on his guitar: "Root for Soup," "Vidalia," Taste of Love." His "Every Kitchen" is an indirect look at food waste. There's even a song for black bears. This record is like his bread: homemade. Alas, there are no full-length YouTube videos currently available for this record, but there is a snippet of "Sweetness" on the Hungry Ghost Bakery Facebook page, and you can hear "Ballad of the Hungry Ghost" on YouTube to get a flavor of his music. If you like what you hear, make queries through Facebook. ★★★

#steveearle

@matthewmayfield

@Lost_Leaders

#Lucca

@hungryghostbread

Currently On View at Mt Holyoke: Not Enough Info

Like/Life: Photography by Martine Gutierrez

Promise of the Infinite: Joan Jonas

Afterlives of Objects/Conflict and Commemoration

Mount Holyoke Afire

Mount Holyoke Museum of Art

Through June 2019

Readers of this blog know that I often prefer smaller, more intimate exhibitions to brain-numbing blockbusters. Is there such a thing as too small? Yes. Several shows at Mount Holyoke College (MHC) cross that line.

Let's start with what Mount Holyoke does right. MHC has always prided itself on being a teaching museum that uses its collection to supplement what takes place in the classroom. An exhibit titled Afterlives of Objects uses the permanent collection as "biographies;" that is, it discusses the object, its origins, and how it ended up in a college art museum. Good idea. The most powerful statements concern adaptive reuse of materials, such as what appears from a distance to be an African-style mask, but which is actually an assemblage of shoes. The overall theme, though, is an important one in an age where hard questions are asked about the appropriateness of collection methods. Does a Mende dance mask teach us about traditional cultures in modern Sierra Leone, or does it exoticize in patronizing ways?

This struck me as a much more profound strain of inquiry than another teaching exhibit Conflict & Commemoration. I breezed through this one because it seemed so obvious. It purports to look at loss and the aftereffects of war. The paintings and objects chosen tell us little that we don't know. The message is that war is a bad thing that kills, destroys, and has lasting impact. Duh! Other than neo-fascists and Nietzsche junkies, who would argue otherwise? The exhibit mostly sidesteps the question of whether conflict is necessary in the first place.

The museum's current featured exhibits underwhelm. Eighty-two-year-old visual artist Joan Jonas, a Mount Holyoke alum, is considered by many to be the "Mother of all Performance Artists." Perhaps she is, but this form of art runs into meta problems when it's on display in a museum. Put simply, once stripped of its very nature–performance–the artistry is easily lost. How interesting is grainy footage of naked people standing in a row while other semi-naked people don mirrored assemblages that refract the view of the lineup? Not very.

The featured MHC show at present is Life/Look, a collection of photographs by Martine Gutierrez (b. 1989), a transgendered Latinx. Hers is a thought-provoking display, but it's also a classic one-trick pony. Gutierrez wishes us to analyze our own gaze, as well as explore gender roles and boundaries. To that end, she poses flesh-and-blood women–often dressed in retro style–in a variety of poses: languid, sensual, whimsical, vaguely erotic, ironic…. She juxtaposes her living subjects with life-life mannequins that call attention to the Life/Look title of the show.

I liked Gutierrez's work, but the show is too small and is tucked away in vest-pocket-sized gallery. The images are strong but once you "get" it, there's not much more to whet the appetite. Her past work provokes thoughts on race, fashion, disembodiment, and fluid sexuality. She infers these themes in Life/Look as well, but the show's small size reduces Gutierrez's politics to the realm of novelty. In a word, what we need is: more.

I also couldn't escape the fact that the most extensive feature show is "Mount Holyoke Afire," which shows the aftermath of three disastrous campus fires. The one in 1896 destroyed the college's original seminary building. Those in 1912 and 1922 also wiped out some of the college's past. It is a nicely done exhibit that looks at those who battled the blazes as well as campus remembrances of the fires. Would that several of the other shows been equally well curated.

Rob Weir

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