Recycling for Real

 I don’t understand the crowd that thinks the Environmental Protection Agency ought to be dismantled. I remember a childhood in which people took whatever they didn’t want and just tossed it into creeks and rivers: old tires, wrecked cars, dead appliances, box springs, garbage… even chemicals. Every few months there would be a fish kill on about a quarter of mile of the stream that flowed through my Pennsylvania town—courtesy of discharge from a creek-side dry cleaning plant.

As I got older I recall flying into cities that weren’t visible until the plane pierced the yellow smog that hovered above. You didn’t need to be an M.D. to figure out that it probably wasn’t healthy to breathe that air. I also remember taking parts of Pittsburgh home with me—in the form of grime and soot that clung to my clothing and exposed skin. Or driving through places like Latrobe and Butler as fast as I could because the stench of paper mills watered my eyes and constricted my throat. These memories make me testy when I hear business-at-any-cost advocates talk about emasculating the EPA. Don’t get me started on idiots like Mitch “Burn as Much Coal as Possible” McConnell.

Pre-Earth Day American imagery came flooding back last week when I took a train from western Massachusetts to Philadelphia. Amtrak isn’t known for its scenic journeys, especially not in the Northeastern megalopolis. You get a great view of postindustrial America as you whiz (or crawl) through Holyoke, Springfield, New Haven, Bridgeport, Yonkers, Newark, and Trenton. It also seems as if trackside is the new dumping ground for the detritus of the American Dream gone wrong. Flat out ugly would be another way of expressing it.

Those old enough will recall the difference Lady Bird Johnson’s Highway Beautification Act made to American highways and byways. It made me wonder what a modern version of it would look like. We pat ourselves on the back when we recycle cans, glass, and paper, but the data is pretty clear that these things make just a dent in improving the environment. I’ll take and support that dent, but there’s so much more that could be done to make America a more pleasant and ecologically sound land. Why not start with the trackside?

What if we tried to convert squalor to dollars? (I like that phrase for a campaign!) When I look out the train window at abandoned factories, ghost parking lots, rusting heaps of metal, and cast off junk, I envision the following: real estate, recycling, repurposing, and reinvigorating local economies. First, local governments should seize these blighted and abandoned places by eminent domain and subdivide them into real estate parcels. Second, offer free land to any developer but with the stipulations that the site must be cleared and cleaned before anything else is done, and that all usable materials must be salvaged and either used on site or sold. Those old buildings are eyesores, but think of the number of reusable bricks, concrete blocks, sheets of tin, steel I-beams, cables, and pieces of wood contained therein.  them.

In like fashion, imagine how much rubber could be chopped and reused from those old tires, how much asphalt could be crushed and made into new, how much glass could be re-fired, and how much metal could be re-smelted. Imagine, if you can, taking a train through a corridor of new developments, parks, or just good old Mother Nature reclaiming land where bric-a-brac and rubbish once collected. Imagine too the number of jobs that would result if we hired people to carefully recycle rather than sending in wrecking balls, bulldozers, or worse: waiting for he ravages of time to undo the ravages of humankind. Too expensive? Compared to what? What is our landscape worth? How much is it worth to put the American Dream on display rather than dying a slow death before our eyes? And while we’re at it, let’s give the EPA the power to make sure we don’t make these mistakes again.  

Rob Weir

Rani Arbo and daisy mayhem Create Another Winner

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RANI ARBO & daisy mayhem

Violets are Blue

Signature 2074

* * * *

"Americana" is such an ambiguous label that it often seems to connote little more than a song sung in English. If, on the other hand, we use the term to denote the ways in which American music cross-fertilizes, surely daisy mayhem is among the best exemplars of Americana. Rani Arbo reminds me of Nanci Griffith–not the voice, but in the way each chooses music that inspires them and let others fret over what to call it. You know you're on a unique ride from the start; Violets are Blue opens with an Arbo original, "Heart of the World," that unfurls with just Arbo's voice and Scott Kessel's percussion before any other instruments appear. With Kessel, though, you can be sure there will be twists. Want to know what happens to the junk you throw away? Kessel retrieves it and adds it to his ever-evolving collection of things upon which to bang. The band follows with an Appalachian-influenced song ("Down by the Water"), a bit of country folk–Arbo's "Keep it in Mind" would feel at home on a Bill Staines album–and then the hard-driving "Around the Wheel," with especially crisp work from bassist Andrew Kinsey and fret meister Anand Nayak. Still to come is music with a decided mountain feel ("You Should See Me Now"), the Cajun-flavored "Swing Me Down") a splash of honky tonk ("Over and Over"), some torchy blues ("I'm Satisfied with You"), and a cover of May Erlewine's "I Love this City" that reminds us that folks from the Delta created the Motown sound. If pure acoustic folk is your thing, Ms. Arbo has penned two gorgeous songs for this album: "Piece of Land," whose tune is faintly reminiscent of the opening strains of Harry Chapin's "Cats in the Cradle;" and "Sweet and Bitter," a heartbreakingly lovely song about love tinged with uncertainty. The latter is the album's final track, but in many ways it's the theme song. The very title of Violets are Blue is clever wordplay, as is most of the album's selections touch upon affairs the heart. Kinsey, however, correctly notes that they are "sugar-free love songs." About what we'd expect from this topnotch, mature string band with its superb musicianship, tight harmonies, solid rhythms, and grown-up takes on life. Everyone in the band can/does sing and occasionally one of the lads takes the lead, but there just isn't too much that compares to Rani Arbo, one of the most distinctive voices in the business. Fifteen years on the road has just made it better and the journey seems to have nourished her Americana soul as well.  Rob Weir

Opening Day: Field of Memories

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Here's small memoir to celebrate the opening of baseball season.

Maybe it’s that Everest-sized mound of snow remaining in my driveway, but lately I’ve been thinking about the days when I played softball for Pleasant Journey Used Cars in Northampton’s mixed-sex summer league.

My wife and I moved to Northampton, MA in 1985, and my decision to play with “PJs” was one of my wiser ones. I’d like to say PJs was a fabulous team, but I think we had a winning record just once in the five years I played. The team reflected the character of owner/manager Bob, who remains a kind, generous friend. His motives for fielding a team were, in order of priority: making friends, having fun, catching some sun, enjoying post-game fellowship, and competition. A lot of our competitor teams consisted of hell-bent-on-winning folks in their late teens or early twenties; PJ’s was mostly over 30 with an occasional graybeard within sight of 50. Team motto: “We may be slow, but we’re old.”

We did have some very good players. Our shortstop, Rich, could clobber the ball and dazzle with the glove; nothing got by Patty at third and she was amazingly strong. When Patty wasn’t at third, Jessie was nearly her equal. John was another great fielder and was fleet of foot, though not nearly as swift as his wife, Elaine–the fastest person I've ever met. She couldn’t hit the ball further than 20 feet but if she made contact, she was on base. Peter was also a good player, as were Bob and Chris. Yours truly was a decent hitter—one year I hit nearly .700—but I was definitely a singles and doubles guy with very little power. I was pretty good with the glove too, though the less said about my throwing arm, the better.

Mostly we were a reverse Lake Woebegone: slightly below average. Bob’s son, Dereck, kept score on a cleverly fashioned electric scoring board powered by a car battery that he lugged to the field of combat, and he often needed to jerry-rig some crooked numbers–for the other team. PJs had what can be charitably called a fungible roster fashioned from newcomers, friends, spouses, paramours, and persons of interest. Because we were older than most teams, many of us had work and family obligations that prevented us from attending every game. When you showed up on a given night, there might be 20 people vying for nine slots, or just seven. Bob’s position was that if you were there, you played—a democratic worldview at odds with a winning-is-everything ethos. Some times we lost games we would have won with our best nine on the field. Meh! We made fun of those who confused recreational softball with game seven of the World Series.

More often we often found ourselves short of players.  On those nights, we drafted partners and friends no matter how loudly they protested they were “no good” or didn’t know the game rules. As we hysterically discovered, most were telling the truth! Some draftees had to be tutored on how to hold a bat and there simply wasn’t enough time to consider the fundamentals of catching.

No one was too lonely, lost, or un-athletic for PJs. Just moved to town? Show up and someone will loan you a glove. Danny had cystic fibrosis, couldn’t see well, and was fairly immobile. We didn’t care. When Danny hit a dribbler we screamed as if he had launched a moon shot over the light stanchion. We also had some eccentrics on the team. Ron had a powerful arm capable of gunning down anyone reckless enough to try stretching a cheap single into an even cheaper double. The problem was he had no idea where the throw would land once it left his hand. Rumor has it that some of the comets in the summertime sky are Ron’s errant throws. Dave was a pretty good player—when he was focused. When he wasn’t, it was as if he paused mid-pitch to compose haiku.

Even our practices were like Keystone Kops outtakes. Once we tried to practice at Child Park. After about ten minutes, a guard appeared to tell us that “organized games” were not allowed there. I pointed out that it was inaccurate to call us “organized.” He agreed that I had a point, but we still had to move on.

After a few years, most of us crossed the line between being getting older and fearing we might seriously hurt ourselves. Peter kept the team running for a while—longer than he should have, as he later conceded. Left behind, though, was something far better than a winning record: a passel of good friends and a field of memories. --Rob Weir

AL East is Weak and Wide Open

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Maybe!

Remember when this was MLB’s power division? Not any more–90-91 wins should win the AL East. It should be wide open for any team not named Yankees or Rays, either of whom will need luck to have a winning record.

Worst to first to worst to first in four years? It could happen–the Red Sox are odds-on favorites to win the AL East. The Sox added Hanley Ramirez, Sandoval, and Cuban phenom Castillo, who join proven talents such as Pedroia, Ortiz, Napoli, and a rehabbed Victorino. The Sox have rebuilt the pitching staff that, if not dazzling, is deep. The ace might be Porcello, though he’s just a one-year rental. If healthy, Uehara is a fine closer.

            Why the Sox still might stink: Few teams over-hype talent like the Red Sox. It can go horribly wrong if these guys simply aren’t as good as management says there are. If that happens, the Sox are the new Yankees: a team saddled with bloated contracts that they can't unload. Sandoval was merely an okay player in San Francisco. What if he can’t transition from the NL to the AL?  Miley was good in Arizona, but the record for NL pitchers coming over the AL isn't very good either. If the Red Sox really think Boegarts is their future shortstop, why did they throw stupid money at an unproven 19-year-old Cuban? There’s also a lot of redundancy. Hundred million dollar man Castillo replicates Betts, who is better. Ramirez can’t play short anymore and was shifted to left, where legitimate outfielders like Craig, Bradley, and Nava should be playing.  Chemistry could be a major issue and the defense will have more holes than a bum’s trousers. Which Buccholz shows up: Jekyll or Hyde? By the way, reports hold that the Phillies backed off of trading Hamels to Boston because they're unimpressed by Barnes and Owens–two guys they originally demanded in a trade.

Maybe!

The Orioles won 97 games last year, but that will be hard to duplicate having lost Markakis and Cruz. Wieters is scheduled to catch, but his fragile knees spell DH. Chris Davis, slugger or ‘roid rage? Probably the latter. Machado can be awesome—but he too has been of fragile health. Gotta love Adam Jones, though—maybe the best centerfielder in baseball. Travis Snider is a nice player, but he won’t make anyone forget Cruz. Chen, Tillman, Norris, and Gausman are a nice pitching staff, though one that won’t inspire fear. (Jimenez is officially hopeless.) They’re the champs until someone dethrones them, but are they 7 or 8 games worse than last year? That might make the difference between Party Time and the Port-o-Potty.

The Blue Jays are the sexy choice to win the AL East but, frankly, it’s the same story every year: the Jays make a big splash in the off-season but the headlines are bigger than the payoff. Stealing Josh Donaldson from the A’s for slacker Brett Lawrie was a coup, though. He joins an already fearsome group of lumberjacks: Encarnación, Bautista, Reyes…. The outfield, which lost Rasmus and Melky Cabrera, won’t be as good. It’s a  perpetual problem for the Jays: not enough pitching. Stroman has a bad knee and the only guys you can depend upon for 200 innings are a 40-year-old knuckleballer (Dickey) and a declining southpaw (Buerle).  Catcher Russ Martin will be called upon to shape up this staff, but let's face it­–if he was half as good as his press clippings he’d still be catching in New York. He’s only 40% as good, which is why he’s in Toronto via Pittsburgh.

On paper, the Yankees look awful. Tanaka is Tommy John surgery waiting to happen; Sabathia is back–fatter in body and in the pitches he lobs. Nova won’t be back until summer, and Warren is probably the # 5 guy after the green Evoaldi. Pineda may be the ace! The Yankees traded last year’s pitching sensation to get a guy with a great glove and weak bat to take Jeter’s place (Gregorious). They already had someone like that in Buddy Ryan, and everyone is wondering why he's still on the squad instead of kids like Pirela and Refsnyder, who actually know how to hit. Even worse, the Yanks resigned Drew, who of late couldn't hit a barn with a mini van. Tex is an RBI machine when healthy, which was three years ago. A-Rod’s back, Beltran is way over the hill, and Ellsbury is injured again (no shock there!)? Did I mention A-Rod?

            Why the Yankees might surprise: They had a worse team last year and still won 83 games. Few managers use personnel as well as Girardi, so what happens if Joe coaxes another six or so wins out of this team? If they can get to it, the bullpen should be awesome. The ultimate would be if A-Rod played with a chip on his shoulder, Headley is the steal of the off-season, Sabathia morphs into a crafty lefty, and the Yankees break out into health. Damned if I’d bet the farm on it!

Predictions:

1. Red Sox: If not first, fourth–and it could go either way.

2. Orioles: Solid lineup, decent pitching, good defense. Maybe it's enough to repeat. Maybe.

3. Jays: By might alone because the pitching is shakier than an AA confessional.

4. Yankees: Old, shopworn, and married to a hire-vets-first mentality that hasn’t made sense in a decade. If the chips fall the right way, the Yankees could win 90 games. It's more likely they'll lose that many.

5. Rays: Move this team—please. Nice young pitchers, though Cobb is hurt. The problem is basic—"Rays offense" is an oxymoron. If Longoria gets hurt, only Loney can hit harder than a grade school sissy.

Kirsten Allstaff: Flute form Scotland and Ireland

KIRSTEN ALLSTAFF

Gallowglass

Online Irish Academy of Music 001

Flautist Kirsten Allstaff was raised in Scotland and now lives in Ireland, where she co-founded the Online Irish Academy of Music. She honors her pan-Celtic perspective with a new project appropriately titled Gallowglass–the name of Scottish mercenaries on the losing side of various independence movements who relocated to Ireland and fought for Irish chieftains from the 13^th century on. Gallowglass warriors were renowned for their toughness. One hears a bit of tenacity in Allstaff's playing, though she wields her wooden flute as more of a velvet sword. The reel set "Sleep Sound in Da Mornin" opens with Tony Trundel's martial bodhran, but once Allstaff eases in, he damps the percussion to allow the flute notes to flutter like birds' wings.

Allstaff's repertoire is gleaned from both sides of the Irish Sea, as she draws inspiration from legends past and present such as Matt Molloy, Mary McNamara, Peter Horan, Johnny Cunningham, Tom Anderson, and Kevin Kennedy. Her take on "March of the King of Laoise/The Train Journey North" is a masterful mash of haunting, heavily accented Scots-style piobaireachd and the jumpy, rapid-fire tempos favored by Irish flautists. She also shows her Scots roots in that the album features more reels than jigs and through her love of ornamentation, but she takes a backseat to none when she gets her Irish up for jig sets such as "The Humours of Ayle House."  As a matter of personal taste, I was quite taken by waltz offerings such as "Maitú's Waltz" and her lovely cover of Johnny Cunningham's "Leaving Brittany," a piece that the late Mr. Cunningham often used to ham it up a bit. Allstaff, by contrast, plays the waltz with delicacy and subtlety, the latter evidenced in her interchanges with fiddler Adam Shapiro. If that's too tame for your blood, listen to Allstaff tear it up in "The Mullinavat" reel set. Allstaff's breath control is amazing–we seldom hear puffs of air, though we do hear plenty of tik-tik sounds as her fingers fly up and down the shaft. Give this album a listen; Kirsten Allstaff is the most exciting flautist to emerge from Ireland since Nuala Kennedy. Or is she Scottish? It hardly matters; she's no mercenary, rather an emissary of great music.–Rob Weir

Hear the launch party for this CD here.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbkExSo6tRQ

NL East Should Be Easy for the Nationals

This division should be a walk in the park for the Nationals, who have the most talent by a country mile. In baseball, though, surprises often occur.

The Nationals supplement a pretty good everyday lineup (Ryan Zimmerman, Rendón, Ramos, Werth, Desmond, Harper….) with a pitching staff thought to be among the very best in all of MLB. You know it’s good when Gio González is slated number 5 behind Scherzer, Jordan Zimmerman, Stasburg, and Fister. Storen is an elite closer, though his stats may be diminished by not needing to save games. Lots of people are picking the Nats to go to the World Series.

            How it could go wrong: Experts have loved the Nationals for the past five years and they’ve won doodley-squat. The flipside of the hype is that the Nats might be less the juggernaut and more the Detroit of the NL: paper tigers. Fantasy gamers love him, but a poll of MLB players rated Bryce Harper as baseball’s most-overrated player. Likewise, Strasburg is just 43-30 lifetime, having spent most of his career thus far on the DL.  Spann doesn’t impress me and Werth is an oxymoron–a decent player pulling down superstar money. But no matter how you parse it, the NL East is the Nats’ to win or lose.

It’s easy to hate the Marlins.  They should be in Montreal, not Miami, and they have MLB’s most loathsome owner, Jeff Loria. Still–as they do every five or six years–the Fish are quietly assembling a very nice team. They tied up youthful stars Stanton and Yelich to long-term contracts and the staff has several live arms (Latos, Fernández, Alvárez, Cosart…) There’s also a nice sprinkling of vets such as Prado, Morse, Ichiro, and Saltalamacchia. I don’t think there’s enough experienced pitching to take the Marlins to the Promised Land, but a Wild Card might be in the deck. 

Poor Mets–just when hope was on the horizon they lost two rising stud pitchers to Tommy John surgery: Harvey (2014), now Wheeler. Another hope, a kid named de Grom, will toss the home opener. Might as well reserve a surgeon now. The most proven arms might be 41-year-old Bartolo Colon and Jon Niese (he of a 52-51 career won/loss record). Too bad, because there’s nothing shabby of a lineup that includes Wright, Murphy, Duda, and Cuddyer (injured). Granderson is a fraud though, and it’s put-up-or-pack-up time for d’Arnaud. Misfortune is such, though, that the Mets may have to settle for a 2015 slogan of “Better than the Yankees,” which isn’t saying much.

Kudos to the Braves for recognizing that the team they fielded the past few years just wasn’t good enough. They did a near complete makeover and added a few pieces (like spark plug Nick Markakis), but when your projected starting outfield is Almonte (a Yankees cast-off), Gomes (Red Sox detritus), and Eury Peréz, all one can say is, “Oh dear!” Was 2014 a down year for Chris Johnson, or were those his true colors? Freeman remains solid and Simmons is poised to become an elite shortstop, but make-overs are not always upgrades and this could be a very tough year in Atlanta. 

The only thing I can say about the Phillies is that Hamels is the kind of guy around which you rebuild, not a pitcher you can trade unless you get a lot of assets in return. Everyone else is expendable. I-told-you-so time: if you were dumb enough to pick Domonic Brown for your fantasy team last year, you were forewarned.

Predictions:

1. Nationals: They can lose the division, but they’ll have to work at it.

2. Marlins: Good enough to make it to the post-season, but not deep enough to go far.

3. Mets: Could have been contenders. Life isn’t fair.

4. Braves: A work in progress–slow progress.

5. Phillies: Howard, Utley, Sizemore, Ruiz, Cliff Lee…. What is this, a Social Security All-Star squad?

Under the Skin Video review: Sci-Fi at its Worst

Under the Skin  (2013)

Directed by Jonathan Glazer

A24 Films

108 minutes, R (nudity)

*

Scar Jo gets under our skin--in a bad way

Movies can be narrative stories and they can be montages of visually stimulation. The great ones are usually both. A story within a pedestrian frame begs the question of why we shouldn't just curl up with a book. Images without a narrative is even trickier. Unless there's something filmic in the production–some intriguing point of view or a way to convey drama in a new way, for instance–the movie is little more than a mechanical flipbook. Alas, that's the sin of which Under the Skin is guilty.

The film dazzles with its dark exteriors and interiors, its relentless moodiness, and with Scarlett Johansson's first movie nude scenes. I recall a few years back that some magazines were offering her seven figures to reveal hers. She should have taken the money as her secret is out now and she's not going to collect residuals on this turkey. A few art house critics praised Ms. Johansson's performance as bold and mesmerizing, and she even copped a few award nominations–mostly at festivals you've never heard of in places you wouldn't wish to go. But despite praise from those critics prone to love all things postmodern, Under the Skin failed to recoup its paltry $13 million budget. It is all surfaces and no story–lots of atmosphere and imagery in service of nothing whatsoever. All of this is to say if you sole motive for considering this film is to see Scar Jo in the all-together, try Google images instead.

Johansson, credited simply as "the woman," spends most of the film driving a van around Scotland–Glasgow mainly, though I recognized a few locations in Orkney and East Lothian. She entices unattached men into the van and lures them to her apartment where they think they're about to hit the roly-poly jackpot, but as they walk toward her undressed body they slowly sink into an inky dark pool. They don't drown, but eventually their bodies exit and leave just the skins behind. Okay, so we've got a bit of sci-fi, but what is Scar Jo? A mutant? A replicant? An alien? A vampire? A symbiant? Don't wait for the film to enlighten you. Nor will it tell you why a motorcyclist sometimes seems to help her and at other times seems to be stalking her. Or why she decides to free a disfigured man (Adam Pearson), or why she actually makes love with another man only to jump out of bed, stare at her vagina, and flee. For what is she searching? Her vacant eyes and flat affect suggest a search for awareness–as if she is trying to figure out and emulate human behavior, but we don't know why. Nor do we learn anything when she sheds her Scar Jo skin to reveal a jet-black featureless being inside.

Other basic questions left unanswered include: Where does she get gas money? Who pays the rent on the pad with the licorice pool? If Scar Jo is so unaware, how can she navigate and drive? Why would a being that leaves a baby on a beach and shows no evidence of any sort of compassion suddenly free a deformed man? What the hell does anything in this film mean?

I run into lots of people who tell me they hate science fiction. I tell them that good sci-fi builds alternative universes and worldviews that make us contemplate the meanings of our own. Alas, Under the Skin is sci-fi at its incomprehensible worst. It has neither rhyme nor meter–­it's a meandering trip to nowhere that gives us no insight into who "the woman" (and presumably the motorcyclist) are, what they want, what they think, how they live, or what they believe. One must ultimately conclude that Johansson's nudity is gratuitous in that it serves neither plot nor character. In fact, her body is the only thing that is revealed in Under the Skin. Yes, both she and the other images look good, but if all you want is a series of stunning moving visuals, rent Koyaanisqatsi.-- Rob Weir