(With the end of the year closing on us, I've decided to bang out some quick reviews in order to get through everything I enjoyed this year, with the hope of having enough time to reveal my album of the year choice sometime in the next couple of days.)
El Camino - The Black Keys
After the exposure they gained from Brothers (their best charting album and single at the time, 5 Grammy nominations, 3 wins, and being the soundtrack for just about every commercial in 2010), The Black Keys were probably under more pressure to produce than they have been in their decade-long career. They came through with El Camino, 11 tracks of exactly the kind of blues-inspired rock fans of the band have come to expect.
The easiest comparison for The Black Keys is The White Stripes, and while the analogy is favorable, it's also lazy. Yes, they are both two-piece outfits playing 12-bar-burners, but to call The Black Keys a Stripes knock-off doesn't give them enough credit. Over their career, Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney have pulled from the full history of rock to find inspiration. My two favorite albums from them, Brothers and Rubber Factory, appeal to me for their reach towards Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix, respectively. On El Camino, with the help of producer/co-writer Danger Mouse, they continue their exploration of the blues, while moving even further back at times.
Lonely Boy, the first single from the album, is one of the ballsiest songs to be released in the past 10 years. Any bar fight scene should have this playing over it, including movies already made. (The idea of watching Road House with this album constantly in the background would make the experience 100 percent better, which would be about the same as not watching Road House.) Gold On the Ceiling is the best ZZ Top track since that song from Back to the Future 3, and has an intro riff that sounds like it was written by a drugged-up Joe Perry. Run Right Back and Stop Stop would fit right in on a 50's-rock satellite station, assuming anyone with satellite radio listens to 50's-rock.
Time will tell if I turn back to this album ages as well as Brothers has over the short-term, but the early returns have been enough to keep me looking like a fool to anyone who has seen me driving around listening to this album.
Helplessness Blues - Fleet Foxes
I do not care about production values. Not only do I not like them, it could be argued that I actively dislike them. A great example of this is the Foo Fighters, a band that has written some of my favorite songs of the 90's, as well as being fronted by the drummer for one of my favorite bands ever. Despite these factors working in their favor, I find much of their post-millennial output to be unlistenable, and it's due to the fact that they have polished themselves down to something that is no longer interesting. I like rawness and unpredictability in the things I listen to, even in the more precise artists I listen to. (Andrew Bird comes to mind here, someone who is a bit notorious for the work he puts into making an album, but still manages to sound like he is writing the songs in studio as he plays them.)
This outlook on music would hold up almost flawlessly for me, if not for the Fleet Foxes.
On both of their full length albums, they have achieved a sound bordering on seamless. The instrumentation, the melodies, the vocal harmonies (MY GOD!!), it all sounds like they spent weeks perfecting every detail. Maybe, because it feels like they never rely on that production to be the focus of their songs, and instead use the arrangements to let their songs shine at their brightest, that it never seems to bother me. Or maybe it's because it's winter, and the sound like falling snow, if falling snow would get it's act together and make the kind of sounds we all know it can make.
I'm not sure anything on Helplessness Blues hits me quite as hard as the best moments on their self-titles debut, but the album feels a bit more complete overall. The title track is most-likely the strongest track on the album, and it's hard not to have an easy smile on your face while listening to Bedouin Dress, and it's hard to pinpoint much that disappoints. (An Argument being an exception. I fail to see how the album, or the track, is any worse without a minute and a half of horn noise. Wilco has that covered.)
Either way, throw on the album, sit by a fire, and make the best out of grey skies.
The King Is Dead - The Decemberists
Listening to music is a little different for anyone who has ever played music. It's not that we enjoy it any more than someone else, or that it makes us any better than someone who hasn't, it's just different. It can bring an automatic response of comparison. One of my favorite feelings while listening to something new is of being blown away by the talent and ability of whoever it is I'm listening to (see the above review). Wishing I had the ability to write and/or perform a song makes me even more appreciative of what I'm hearing. This is a fairly common occurrence, seeing as how I'm sitting her writing about music instead of writing music. What's less common, but possibly more impressive, is hearing something so simple and seemingly easy that you feel like you could have written it, and you're mad at yourself for not coming up with it first.
Don't Carry It All is not an overtly impressive song. It's structure is fairly straightforward. The inclusion of violin and mandolin certainly add to the song, but they don't make it overly grandiose. And while Colin Meloy certainly has a rather unique voice, it's not like many people would be mad to hear someone else sing his songs. (To be clear, I like his voice, my only point is that I don't think anyone would call him the male Adele.) All of this, and it's still the best Tom Petty song since, well, Tom Petty.
Music in the internet/iTunes/Spotify era is a pretty fantastic thing. It gives almost any access to things that wouldn't have been available not that long ago. (I'm pretty sure I've made this point before, but let's just pretend this is for all the new readers, okay?) This has made for a landscape where there is a sound for just about everyone, which is a great. I like having access to music whose influences could come from, conceivably, anywhere (or even nowhere, I suppose). But there is something to be said for a band that writes fairly basic, Americana-folk-rock, that still manages to sound inspired, and The Decemberists manage to do it better than anyone (sorry, My Morning Jacket).
Don't get me wrong, The Decemberists are a very talented group of musicians, it's just that their talent as players takes a backseat to their ability as songwriters. The King Is Dead is 10-straight tracks of song-crafting expertise. It would make a strong case for the best album I heard this year if not for one other album this year.
But that is a review for another time, and that time will hopefully be tomorrow or the next day.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Record Review: Showroom of Compassion
Cake is not my favorite band. I don't consider them to be the most talented group of musicians I enjoy (though, they are very talented), they don't always write the best songs, and while their live show is good-to-great, they are not transcendent. Despite all of this, Cake might be the greatest band currently making music. You probably disagree with this statement, but let me try and explain.
When you, as a random individual, think about what band you consider to be the greatest, you apply your own, personal set of standards and see how everything stacks up. These guidelines probably include some combination of the previously mentioned aspects of a band, and maybe a few others. And while I stand by my assessment of how Cake fits into those criteria, there is another way to look at it.
When a band achieves some level of fame, expectations are put on them. Some groups handle it and go on doing what they were doing, some crack under those expectations, and others deal with it by going in a completely different direction. Whatever they do, and no matter how good it is and how many new fans it gets them, these bands will lose some of the older fans, and those fans will say one of two things; "They sound exactly the same", which is another way of saying that they are now bored by this band, or "They changed their sound", which is another way of saying that they themselves are boring.
Cake has somehow avoided this almost entirely.
With Showroom of Compassion, Cake has made yet another album (this is their sixth full-album of new material) that is clearly the alt-country, funk, spoken-word form that only they can achieve, while still managing to sound like it's own unique album. It's not my favorite Cake album (I still have to give the nod Motorcade of Generosity), and I worry that some of the more "occupy"-themed songs will age in a less than flattering way. That being said, even without the time-stamp of the topic, Showroom, like all of Cake's albums, is full of songs that wouldn't fit on another Cake album.
Federal Funding and Easy to Crash are two of the more aggressively-sleazy toned songs I've ever heard from the McCrea and Co. (and are also the songs I'm worried about becoming dated, which would be a shame). The circular riff and vocal melody on Got to Move are enjoyable enough that they could go on for hours. I don't listen to much straight-forward country, but I would if more bands wrote songs like Bound Away. The album is filled with solid songs and few weak spots, but The Winter might be the best track on the whole album. An electronic-filled cold walk through the memory of a lost relationship, the song would be just as good stripped down to a simple acoustic-driven ballad.
I'm sure there are Cake fans who are disappointed with the album (and some who think it is their best), and time will tell how much I'll listen to it compared to their other albums. Regardless, it's a great record on it's own, and it comes after two decades of never letting us down. What's greater than that?
When you, as a random individual, think about what band you consider to be the greatest, you apply your own, personal set of standards and see how everything stacks up. These guidelines probably include some combination of the previously mentioned aspects of a band, and maybe a few others. And while I stand by my assessment of how Cake fits into those criteria, there is another way to look at it.
When a band achieves some level of fame, expectations are put on them. Some groups handle it and go on doing what they were doing, some crack under those expectations, and others deal with it by going in a completely different direction. Whatever they do, and no matter how good it is and how many new fans it gets them, these bands will lose some of the older fans, and those fans will say one of two things; "They sound exactly the same", which is another way of saying that they are now bored by this band, or "They changed their sound", which is another way of saying that they themselves are boring.
Cake has somehow avoided this almost entirely.
With Showroom of Compassion, Cake has made yet another album (this is their sixth full-album of new material) that is clearly the alt-country, funk, spoken-word form that only they can achieve, while still managing to sound like it's own unique album. It's not my favorite Cake album (I still have to give the nod Motorcade of Generosity), and I worry that some of the more "occupy"-themed songs will age in a less than flattering way. That being said, even without the time-stamp of the topic, Showroom, like all of Cake's albums, is full of songs that wouldn't fit on another Cake album.
Federal Funding and Easy to Crash are two of the more aggressively-sleazy toned songs I've ever heard from the McCrea and Co. (and are also the songs I'm worried about becoming dated, which would be a shame). The circular riff and vocal melody on Got to Move are enjoyable enough that they could go on for hours. I don't listen to much straight-forward country, but I would if more bands wrote songs like Bound Away. The album is filled with solid songs and few weak spots, but The Winter might be the best track on the whole album. An electronic-filled cold walk through the memory of a lost relationship, the song would be just as good stripped down to a simple acoustic-driven ballad.
I'm sure there are Cake fans who are disappointed with the album (and some who think it is their best), and time will tell how much I'll listen to it compared to their other albums. Regardless, it's a great record on it's own, and it comes after two decades of never letting us down. What's greater than that?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Record Review
Over the next few weeks, I will be trying something a little new. I'm going to be reviewing some of my favorite albums of 2011, with the hope of record reviews becoming a regular feature here. They won't be in any particular order, just what I happened to find enjoyable over the past 11+ months.
Kiss Each Other Clean - Iron & Wine
Iron & Wine is a band that has become some kind of bizarro guilty pleasure for me. Not an actual guilty pleasure, as I make no apologies for liking them (and by "them" I really mean singer-songwriter Samuel Beam). What I mean is that they are a band that consistently makes music I enjoy and sometimes love, and yet seems to always be less than loved by critics, and the most positive reaction I get from people (assuming they've heard the music) is "eh", or something similar. It's hard to imagine Kiss Each Other Clean changing that too much (the album did peak at no.2 on the Billboard Chart, yet I don't know anyone who has listened to it, unless through myself), but I suppose that's the way it goes.
Over their first three albums, Iron & Wine have grown from simple, quiet beginnings of The Creek Drank the Cradle and developed into the more elaborate and nuanced, but still delicate sound of their most recent, The Shepherd's Dog. On Kiss Each Other Clean, Beam trades some of the backwoods charm of The Shepherd's Dog for a horn section, a few synthesizers, and what are possibly some of the most accessible songs he's written yet. Album opener Walking Far From Home sounds like it was written for the next album from The Postal Service, while Tree By The River is the kind of song young girls would listen to if they weren't listening to Jason Mraz or Boz Scaggs or whatever it is the kids listen to these days.
While it's a bit up and down through the first few tracks, it really takes off on the back half. Rabbit Will Run is one of the best songs of the year. A bass-and-drum run through the Everglades of Beam's Florida home and a lyrical story loaded with metaphors that cover almost every aspect of human existence, without feeling heavy-handed or forced. Big Burned Hand is a fuzzed-out trip into the back of a '72 Vista Cruiser, complete with hanging dice and the smell of cheap weed.
Kiss Each Other Clean has a way of guiding you into the most comfortable chair you can find, ready to just let the music pour over you. Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me does just that. The final 4 of its 7 minutes are spent in repetitive waves, Beam imploring us to experience everything life has to offer, good and bad.
While at times it seems as if he is still getting comfortable with his new instrumentation and arrangements, the final product is worth the effort. Four albums in to his career as Iron & Wine, it will be interesting to see if he tries to find a happy medium between his quiet beginnings and where he stands now, or if he will continue to expand his sound. With Kiss Each Other Clean, Iron & Wine have made sure that I'll be listening to find out.
Grade: 87
Key Tracks: Rabbit Will Run, Big Burned Hand
Kiss Each Other Clean - Iron & Wine
Iron & Wine is a band that has become some kind of bizarro guilty pleasure for me. Not an actual guilty pleasure, as I make no apologies for liking them (and by "them" I really mean singer-songwriter Samuel Beam). What I mean is that they are a band that consistently makes music I enjoy and sometimes love, and yet seems to always be less than loved by critics, and the most positive reaction I get from people (assuming they've heard the music) is "eh", or something similar. It's hard to imagine Kiss Each Other Clean changing that too much (the album did peak at no.2 on the Billboard Chart, yet I don't know anyone who has listened to it, unless through myself), but I suppose that's the way it goes.
Over their first three albums, Iron & Wine have grown from simple, quiet beginnings of The Creek Drank the Cradle and developed into the more elaborate and nuanced, but still delicate sound of their most recent, The Shepherd's Dog. On Kiss Each Other Clean, Beam trades some of the backwoods charm of The Shepherd's Dog for a horn section, a few synthesizers, and what are possibly some of the most accessible songs he's written yet. Album opener Walking Far From Home sounds like it was written for the next album from The Postal Service, while Tree By The River is the kind of song young girls would listen to if they weren't listening to Jason Mraz or Boz Scaggs or whatever it is the kids listen to these days.
While it's a bit up and down through the first few tracks, it really takes off on the back half. Rabbit Will Run is one of the best songs of the year. A bass-and-drum run through the Everglades of Beam's Florida home and a lyrical story loaded with metaphors that cover almost every aspect of human existence, without feeling heavy-handed or forced. Big Burned Hand is a fuzzed-out trip into the back of a '72 Vista Cruiser, complete with hanging dice and the smell of cheap weed.
Kiss Each Other Clean has a way of guiding you into the most comfortable chair you can find, ready to just let the music pour over you. Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me does just that. The final 4 of its 7 minutes are spent in repetitive waves, Beam imploring us to experience everything life has to offer, good and bad.
While at times it seems as if he is still getting comfortable with his new instrumentation and arrangements, the final product is worth the effort. Four albums in to his career as Iron & Wine, it will be interesting to see if he tries to find a happy medium between his quiet beginnings and where he stands now, or if he will continue to expand his sound. With Kiss Each Other Clean, Iron & Wine have made sure that I'll be listening to find out.
Grade: 87
Key Tracks: Rabbit Will Run, Big Burned Hand
Thursday, November 10, 2011
End is the Beginning is the End
This post contains spoilers for Groundhog Day, Memento, Inception, Fight Club, The Dark Knight, and No Country for Old Men. You've been warned.
I'm holding out hope to one day see a sequel to Groundhog Day. I don't want to watch a movie that is essentially a cheap knockoff with B-list actors and a reworked plot. I also don't want to see a cash-grab by the original actors with a reworked plot. And I definitely don't want to see this.
If you will, for a moment, imagine this. 4 years have passed since the events of the film. Phil Connors (Bill Murray) is alone and jobless. After trying to tell Rita (Andie MacDowell) what really happened to him on that fateful Groundhog Day, she thinks he's crazy (or a liar, or both) and leaves. Phil starts to tell others about his ordeal, hoping for some kind of validation, but slowly just pushes his friends away and loses his job. Now, unemployed and alone, Phil is left to piece together the shattered remains of his life.
This is the movie I want to see.
Now, I know that film is probably too dark to ever get made, and would need some tweaking to ever see theaters. Maybe he goes to Japan and meets Black Widow. I'm not opposed to this sequel having a happy ending, provided it felt believable (at least in the universe the original movie created, where someone can live the same day over while learning life lessons), and it's the believability that matters to me.
I find that many of my favorite movies are ones that, even if they are successful or well-received (not always the same thing), tend to leave a lot of people lost or upset. In my mind, one of the best movies to come out in the past ten years is No Country for Old Men, a film that most people I talk to claim to either hate or not understand (It is worth noting that it won Best Picture, which would indicate some level of success and critical reception, but I remember it being very hard to find overly supportive reviews when it came out). Almost all of the problems people had with it stemmed from the ending. Lewellyn Moss, the man you spend most of the movie following, dies in a gunfight the audience never sees, and Anton Chigurh (an all-time great villain, with even greater hair) escapes into the sunset, albeit with the Joe Theismann of arm injuries. The movie ends with professional crotchety-old-man Tommy Lee Jones telling his wife about the dreams he had. It's not exactly dripping with closure, but that's what I love about it. It's closer to real life than any movie with a clear-cut ending.
(For anyone reading this who didn't like the movie, try watching it while thinking of it as a story about Tommy Lee Jones dealing with a changing world and his coming retirement.)
Not always, but more often than not, I don't want movies to be an exercise in escapism. This isn't a knock on people who seek that, or the films that they find it in, and there are times when that's exactly what I want. But, in addition to the Coen brothers, many of my favorite directors are ones who make films that depict a less polished view of life, and often have endings that can be taken more than one way, not all of them happy. Christopher Nolan has come close to perfecting the dichotomic ending. Inception either has a perfectly happy conclusion, or Leonardo DiCaprio has trapped himself in his own delusional dream world. Guy Pierce has exacted revenge for the murder of his wife, or needlessly killed multiple innocent men while tricking himself into believing he isn't the one who took her life, depending on how you want to view Memento. Even his characters aren't safe from this split-view of the world. By the end of The Dark Knight, Batman is more heroic than Gotham City can know, accepting the weight of a crime he didn't commit.
I realize that talking about the importance of believability, and then following that with a discussion of those particular movies seems a little contradictory, but not as much as you might think. If a director builds his universe well enough, the actions are never questioned. This is why jumping into dreams to plant ideas seems like a completely reasonable idea. What needs to be believable, for me, is how the characters act in that universe. If you told your friend that you aren't able to stop yourself from thinking about your wife committing suicide because of an idea you planted in her mind while in a decades long dream, causing her to to appear in dreams you enter while trying to destroy your plans, that friend would stop talking to you immediately. But in the world of Inception, this feels exactly like something that would happen in that particular situation.
If someone asks me my favorite movie, I give them a list of all possible candidates, and Fight Club is always near the top of that list. Fight Club was a box-office failure and critically panned, but has grown into a rather well respected film. Part of it's initial failure was the marketing for the film, in that no one knew what they were going to see. It was a movie about fighting, or perhaps soap. It might have been a film to see how much blood, dirt, and weird clothing it would take to make women turn on Brad Pitt. Now, it's seen as a film about rejecting consumer culture in a society that has no place in history (this message could have been lost post-9/11, and I imagine it changes how people react to the line about being a generation with no great war, but I wonder how many people feel their lives have been defined by the war on terrorism). It's a film (and a wonderful novel before that) about the emptiness modern life can have, and the dangers of letting that push us too far, and of unchecked rebellion against that life. Creating a completely new person that you slowly become friends with before trying to bring down contemporary society is probably not something any of us would ever do. But what if it did? What if life pushed you to the point that your mind created another person that allowed you to fight back against that push? How different would you be than Jack (Ed Norton)? Wouldn't you embrace this new friend who helped you let go of the possessions you lost, then start to retreat from when you realized he was the one who destroyed and stole those possesions? Would you be any less maniacal when you discovered that this person was actually you when you thought you were sleeping?
Real life doesn't happen in acts. Relationships end, loved ones die, friends move away, but none of that happens in a vacuum. These events impact each other, and the effects last long after the actual moments in which they occurred. Movies end and leave you with a feeling that all is right in the world, or at least the world you've been watching for the last two hours. This is my problem with most films, and with one like Groundhog Day (I do like Groundhog Day, a lot, but I can't help but think about these things when I watch most movies, and this is no exception).
I know people get different things from art, and movies are no different. So maybe it's just me, but I want to be able to find myself somewhere in the characters of the film. I have a hard time letting things go, major events last longer in my mind, drifting into one another, and the past ends up feeling like a bigger part of the present than it actually is. I might be in the minority, but I don't think I am. Even if some may not think about it as much as others, or to the borderline obsessive levels that I think about it, we are all shaped by our past.
I know a film can't go on forever. At some point, all movies have to end, I just want more that acknowledge that the story doesn't.
I'm holding out hope to one day see a sequel to Groundhog Day. I don't want to watch a movie that is essentially a cheap knockoff with B-list actors and a reworked plot. I also don't want to see a cash-grab by the original actors with a reworked plot. And I definitely don't want to see this.
If you will, for a moment, imagine this. 4 years have passed since the events of the film. Phil Connors (Bill Murray) is alone and jobless. After trying to tell Rita (Andie MacDowell) what really happened to him on that fateful Groundhog Day, she thinks he's crazy (or a liar, or both) and leaves. Phil starts to tell others about his ordeal, hoping for some kind of validation, but slowly just pushes his friends away and loses his job. Now, unemployed and alone, Phil is left to piece together the shattered remains of his life.
This is the movie I want to see.
Now, I know that film is probably too dark to ever get made, and would need some tweaking to ever see theaters. Maybe he goes to Japan and meets Black Widow. I'm not opposed to this sequel having a happy ending, provided it felt believable (at least in the universe the original movie created, where someone can live the same day over while learning life lessons), and it's the believability that matters to me.
I find that many of my favorite movies are ones that, even if they are successful or well-received (not always the same thing), tend to leave a lot of people lost or upset. In my mind, one of the best movies to come out in the past ten years is No Country for Old Men, a film that most people I talk to claim to either hate or not understand (It is worth noting that it won Best Picture, which would indicate some level of success and critical reception, but I remember it being very hard to find overly supportive reviews when it came out). Almost all of the problems people had with it stemmed from the ending. Lewellyn Moss, the man you spend most of the movie following, dies in a gunfight the audience never sees, and Anton Chigurh (an all-time great villain, with even greater hair) escapes into the sunset, albeit with the Joe Theismann of arm injuries. The movie ends with professional crotchety-old-man Tommy Lee Jones telling his wife about the dreams he had. It's not exactly dripping with closure, but that's what I love about it. It's closer to real life than any movie with a clear-cut ending.
(For anyone reading this who didn't like the movie, try watching it while thinking of it as a story about Tommy Lee Jones dealing with a changing world and his coming retirement.)
Not always, but more often than not, I don't want movies to be an exercise in escapism. This isn't a knock on people who seek that, or the films that they find it in, and there are times when that's exactly what I want. But, in addition to the Coen brothers, many of my favorite directors are ones who make films that depict a less polished view of life, and often have endings that can be taken more than one way, not all of them happy. Christopher Nolan has come close to perfecting the dichotomic ending. Inception either has a perfectly happy conclusion, or Leonardo DiCaprio has trapped himself in his own delusional dream world. Guy Pierce has exacted revenge for the murder of his wife, or needlessly killed multiple innocent men while tricking himself into believing he isn't the one who took her life, depending on how you want to view Memento. Even his characters aren't safe from this split-view of the world. By the end of The Dark Knight, Batman is more heroic than Gotham City can know, accepting the weight of a crime he didn't commit.
I realize that talking about the importance of believability, and then following that with a discussion of those particular movies seems a little contradictory, but not as much as you might think. If a director builds his universe well enough, the actions are never questioned. This is why jumping into dreams to plant ideas seems like a completely reasonable idea. What needs to be believable, for me, is how the characters act in that universe. If you told your friend that you aren't able to stop yourself from thinking about your wife committing suicide because of an idea you planted in her mind while in a decades long dream, causing her to to appear in dreams you enter while trying to destroy your plans, that friend would stop talking to you immediately. But in the world of Inception, this feels exactly like something that would happen in that particular situation.
If someone asks me my favorite movie, I give them a list of all possible candidates, and Fight Club is always near the top of that list. Fight Club was a box-office failure and critically panned, but has grown into a rather well respected film. Part of it's initial failure was the marketing for the film, in that no one knew what they were going to see. It was a movie about fighting, or perhaps soap. It might have been a film to see how much blood, dirt, and weird clothing it would take to make women turn on Brad Pitt. Now, it's seen as a film about rejecting consumer culture in a society that has no place in history (this message could have been lost post-9/11, and I imagine it changes how people react to the line about being a generation with no great war, but I wonder how many people feel their lives have been defined by the war on terrorism). It's a film (and a wonderful novel before that) about the emptiness modern life can have, and the dangers of letting that push us too far, and of unchecked rebellion against that life. Creating a completely new person that you slowly become friends with before trying to bring down contemporary society is probably not something any of us would ever do. But what if it did? What if life pushed you to the point that your mind created another person that allowed you to fight back against that push? How different would you be than Jack (Ed Norton)? Wouldn't you embrace this new friend who helped you let go of the possessions you lost, then start to retreat from when you realized he was the one who destroyed and stole those possesions? Would you be any less maniacal when you discovered that this person was actually you when you thought you were sleeping?
Real life doesn't happen in acts. Relationships end, loved ones die, friends move away, but none of that happens in a vacuum. These events impact each other, and the effects last long after the actual moments in which they occurred. Movies end and leave you with a feeling that all is right in the world, or at least the world you've been watching for the last two hours. This is my problem with most films, and with one like Groundhog Day (I do like Groundhog Day, a lot, but I can't help but think about these things when I watch most movies, and this is no exception).
I know people get different things from art, and movies are no different. So maybe it's just me, but I want to be able to find myself somewhere in the characters of the film. I have a hard time letting things go, major events last longer in my mind, drifting into one another, and the past ends up feeling like a bigger part of the present than it actually is. I might be in the minority, but I don't think I am. Even if some may not think about it as much as others, or to the borderline obsessive levels that I think about it, we are all shaped by our past.
I know a film can't go on forever. At some point, all movies have to end, I just want more that acknowledge that the story doesn't.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Remembering What You Didn't Forget
I have watched very little footage of Joe Frazier. I know that he was one of the greatest boxers of all time, but only because it's something I generally know as sports fan, not because of any exhaustive research or personal opinions. He was the first man to defeat Ali, but I remember them more in their later years, taking jabs at each other through the press. My most vivid memory of him in the ring is when he was introduced at the start of the first Rocky-Creed fight. This is why it might seem weird when I tell you that Joe Frazier is my favorite boxer of all time, and that his passing left me saddened and feeling somehow different.
The thing that I will remember most about him was his nickname, Smokin' Joe Frazier. When I was about 5 years old, I heard his introduction to the ring, and I honestly don't remember anything else about that moment. Logically, I'm assuming my father was watching some sort of boxing match that was showing highlights of general boxing history or specifically from Joe Frazier's career. It didn't matter. "Smokin' Joe Frazier" latched itself into my still developing mind, and just like that I was shouting it in every room of my house daily. When I saw pictures or him wearing green (my favorite color) trunks in The Fight of the Century, it was settled then and there. No boxer would ever dethrone Joe as the greatest in my mind.
I've followed boxing somewhat half-heartedly since I was a kid, watching Tyson demolish opponents who were never actually that good, before ruining his own career and eventually revealing that he was never that good of a boxer in the first place. The most exciting fight in my lifetime was seeing George Foreman, a man I knew for being a goofy, friendly guy with his own grill and starring in muffler commercials, suddenly remind everyone that he was once a brutal and punishing man while becoming the oldest champion the sport has ever seen. Since then, (and possibly before), the sport has been in decline, particularly in the heavyweight division. There has been a lack of true superstars, and the titleholders have mostly been whoever happened to be there at the time. (The exception right now, of course, is the ongoing non-fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao, a fight that would most likely shatter ratings records. You know, if it ever happened.) This, combined with the rise of UFC and mixed martial arts, has pushed boxing to the back of the national sports consciousness.
Even in my own quasi-disinterested sort of way, I've always preferred boxing to MMA. I know I'm wrong about this, and that any fan of MMA would shout at me for hours with the reasons I am wrong, but MMA fights lack any real excitement and technique to me. Sure, this guy trained with this master of whatever, and that guy lived with a guru in the art of that other thing, and one punches a bit more while the other kicks a bit more, but 9 times out of 10, they just end up rolling around on the mat trying to bend their opponent's limbs in ways they aren't supposed to until the other taps out. Boxing can be equally mindless, but there is something about it that can (but doesn't always) transcend that savage brutality. Sometimes, it's not about the training or the skill of the two boxers, but it's about their will, something that made the Ali-Frazier fights so incredible. It's about two men who want to destroy each other, knowing that they have to give everything they have to bring his opponent down, while dealing with the same coming back. It's the ultimate test of perseverance and strength, both mentally and physically.
I wish there were more boxers that could push the sport to those levels, but not just for that reason. I miss sitting with my father and grandfather, watching two men trying to punch there way through one another, and then talking about the grace and intricacy of such an act. I want to see two men bring the absolute best out of one another, which is really one of the greatest things sports can allow us to witness. I suspect over the next couple of days, I'll watch clips of Joe Frazier's fights, and I'll sit through the entire third battle with Ali, and even though I'll know it's coming, I'll be crushed when Frazier's corner throws in the towel before the final round, his trainer realizing that Frazier couldn't see out of his eyes because his face was too swollen. And then I'll think about his green trunks, and his cool nickname, and I'll feel like I'm 5 years old again. And that will make me happy. And then I'll remember that he's gone.
The thing that I will remember most about him was his nickname, Smokin' Joe Frazier. When I was about 5 years old, I heard his introduction to the ring, and I honestly don't remember anything else about that moment. Logically, I'm assuming my father was watching some sort of boxing match that was showing highlights of general boxing history or specifically from Joe Frazier's career. It didn't matter. "Smokin' Joe Frazier" latched itself into my still developing mind, and just like that I was shouting it in every room of my house daily. When I saw pictures or him wearing green (my favorite color) trunks in The Fight of the Century, it was settled then and there. No boxer would ever dethrone Joe as the greatest in my mind.
I've followed boxing somewhat half-heartedly since I was a kid, watching Tyson demolish opponents who were never actually that good, before ruining his own career and eventually revealing that he was never that good of a boxer in the first place. The most exciting fight in my lifetime was seeing George Foreman, a man I knew for being a goofy, friendly guy with his own grill and starring in muffler commercials, suddenly remind everyone that he was once a brutal and punishing man while becoming the oldest champion the sport has ever seen. Since then, (and possibly before), the sport has been in decline, particularly in the heavyweight division. There has been a lack of true superstars, and the titleholders have mostly been whoever happened to be there at the time. (The exception right now, of course, is the ongoing non-fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao, a fight that would most likely shatter ratings records. You know, if it ever happened.) This, combined with the rise of UFC and mixed martial arts, has pushed boxing to the back of the national sports consciousness.
Even in my own quasi-disinterested sort of way, I've always preferred boxing to MMA. I know I'm wrong about this, and that any fan of MMA would shout at me for hours with the reasons I am wrong, but MMA fights lack any real excitement and technique to me. Sure, this guy trained with this master of whatever, and that guy lived with a guru in the art of that other thing, and one punches a bit more while the other kicks a bit more, but 9 times out of 10, they just end up rolling around on the mat trying to bend their opponent's limbs in ways they aren't supposed to until the other taps out. Boxing can be equally mindless, but there is something about it that can (but doesn't always) transcend that savage brutality. Sometimes, it's not about the training or the skill of the two boxers, but it's about their will, something that made the Ali-Frazier fights so incredible. It's about two men who want to destroy each other, knowing that they have to give everything they have to bring his opponent down, while dealing with the same coming back. It's the ultimate test of perseverance and strength, both mentally and physically.
I wish there were more boxers that could push the sport to those levels, but not just for that reason. I miss sitting with my father and grandfather, watching two men trying to punch there way through one another, and then talking about the grace and intricacy of such an act. I want to see two men bring the absolute best out of one another, which is really one of the greatest things sports can allow us to witness. I suspect over the next couple of days, I'll watch clips of Joe Frazier's fights, and I'll sit through the entire third battle with Ali, and even though I'll know it's coming, I'll be crushed when Frazier's corner throws in the towel before the final round, his trainer realizing that Frazier couldn't see out of his eyes because his face was too swollen. And then I'll think about his green trunks, and his cool nickname, and I'll feel like I'm 5 years old again. And that will make me happy. And then I'll remember that he's gone.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Hope for a Better Tomorrow
Some of you may have noticed (and some of you have even pointed it out) that when I write about something, I'm very often writing about something else as well. I tend to find a (somewhat) larger meaning behind whatever it is I happen to be writing about. This is not accidental. If I'm writing about something, I care about and feel it's interesting enough write about. If I care about, there is probably a deeper reasoning, even if I don't immediately understand what it is. Whether it's the state of television, John Lackey's histrionics (to be fair, I'm completely on his side about the recent events involving text messages and his personal life, but I wrote about him before all of that), or the coming technological revolution, writing helps (and forces) me to figure out those undiscovered connections. It's one of the reasons I enjoy writing as much as I do. I bring this up because this is not going to be one of those posts.
I love football. Sundays from September through early February are some of the best days of the year. I play in a flag football league that has given me the knees of someone significantly older, but I can't actually imagine the day when I'll decide I don't want to do it anymore. I'll watch almost any NFL game, and despite the fact that I will always talk about how inferior it is in any conversation, I tend to catch myself watching a handful of NCAA games each season as well.
As much as I love football, I love the Patriots more. I know there is a general criticism about people who love their team/s more than the given sport itself, and how that typically means those people don't really like whatever sport is in question, but I feel I've adequately explained myself here. It can ruin my whole day when they lose. I realize this is ridiculous. I understand that the outcome of one football game (or one football season, or all football seasons, etc...) has almost no actual impact on anything. That's fine. I'm still going to love football. And the Patriots.
Right now, the Patriots are making it difficult.
This past Sunday, Tom Brady completed 66.7 percent of his pass attempts, threw for 387 yards and 4 touchdowns. All fantastic numbers, except that with it he threw 4 interceptions. These were far from the only mistakes made by New England, and the defense has to take some of the blame for the 17 points they allowed after those interceptions. (Buffalo actually scored 24 points off the turnovers, but one of the interceptions was returned for a touchdown. Hard to pin that on the defense.) It was a bad day for the whole team, which happens from time to time. It was a bad day for Brady, which almost never happens.
Let's get one thing straight right now. Tom Brady is the best quarterback New England fans will ever see in their lifetime. There has been a seemingly endless debate about where Brady ranks among QBs all time, or even among his generation. (For the record, I still consider him to be the best of his generation. When given the weapons, he put up record-setting numbers that Manning only came close to, while also having the ability to come through when it mattered most. Say what you want about the Patriots recent playoff struggles, but Brady still has a 3-1 edge in Super Bowl rings. Brees is a great quarterback, but I don't think he's in the same class as Manning or Brady, and Aaron Rodgers needs to keep it up for a bit longer before I'm ready to really put him in this conversation. But that's just me.) Wherever you stand on Brady among the other greats, there has never been another New England quarterback who has been even close to this level, and the odds of seeing another player of his talent come along are astronomical. I've loved the Tom Brady era, knowing how special it is to watch one of the best ever lead your team.
Which is why Sunday's loss to the Bills is so upsetting. In terms of this season, it's not exactly the worst thing that could happen. It is a loss to a divisional opponent, and it puts New England a game behind Buffalo for first place in the division (and, technically, the conference and league). But it's only the third game of the season, and the teams play each other again. The discouraging thing is how they lost. They lost because Brady didn't have his best day, and this team wasn't good enough to pick him up. The offense still moved the ball well, when it was able to maintain possession, and scored points, but the defense couldn't come up with a stop when it needed one. If 31 points isn't enough to win a game, your defense isn't good enough. Again, it's one game, so maybe this is all a little bit of an over-reaction, but I'm afraid that it's not.
I was talking about this current Patriots team with a friend of mine before the game against Buffalo, and I told her that I felt like the offense looked to be good enough that it will cover for the defense most games, hopefully while the defense develops and comes together. Her response was, "sounds like a typical Patriots team to me." I was depressed by how accurate this statement was. When the Patriots were winning Super Bowls, they did it with a controlled offense and a defense that was always in the top-10 of points allowed. There are some who think the offense has become too much of the priority in recent seasons. That a high-octane offense can't win in the playoffs. Maybe, but I don't agree with that. Teams can win with that kind of offense, but they need the defense to go with it. Teams need to ability to stop their opponent, and at the very least, have the kind of second-gear or play-making ability to come up with a big stop when the game is on the line. The Patriots haven't had that for a while, with some pretty clear examples. (If you don't remember the '06 AFC Championship or the '07 Super Bowl, too bad, I'm not going to torture myself and anyone reading this more than I already have to.)
The NFL has become a passing league. This seems to be common knowledge. In 1991, teams threw for 199.1 yards per game (ypg). In 2010, that number has increased to 221.6 ypg. Through the first three weeks of this season, the league is on pace for an average of 245.5 ypg. In the past 4 full seasons, 2008 had the lowest average, with quarterbacks throwing for 211.3 ypg. In the 16 seasons prior to that stretch, only 3 of them had a higher average.
I love football. Sundays from September through early February are some of the best days of the year. I play in a flag football league that has given me the knees of someone significantly older, but I can't actually imagine the day when I'll decide I don't want to do it anymore. I'll watch almost any NFL game, and despite the fact that I will always talk about how inferior it is in any conversation, I tend to catch myself watching a handful of NCAA games each season as well.
As much as I love football, I love the Patriots more. I know there is a general criticism about people who love their team/s more than the given sport itself, and how that typically means those people don't really like whatever sport is in question, but I feel I've adequately explained myself here. It can ruin my whole day when they lose. I realize this is ridiculous. I understand that the outcome of one football game (or one football season, or all football seasons, etc...) has almost no actual impact on anything. That's fine. I'm still going to love football. And the Patriots.
Right now, the Patriots are making it difficult.
This past Sunday, Tom Brady completed 66.7 percent of his pass attempts, threw for 387 yards and 4 touchdowns. All fantastic numbers, except that with it he threw 4 interceptions. These were far from the only mistakes made by New England, and the defense has to take some of the blame for the 17 points they allowed after those interceptions. (Buffalo actually scored 24 points off the turnovers, but one of the interceptions was returned for a touchdown. Hard to pin that on the defense.) It was a bad day for the whole team, which happens from time to time. It was a bad day for Brady, which almost never happens.
Let's get one thing straight right now. Tom Brady is the best quarterback New England fans will ever see in their lifetime. There has been a seemingly endless debate about where Brady ranks among QBs all time, or even among his generation. (For the record, I still consider him to be the best of his generation. When given the weapons, he put up record-setting numbers that Manning only came close to, while also having the ability to come through when it mattered most. Say what you want about the Patriots recent playoff struggles, but Brady still has a 3-1 edge in Super Bowl rings. Brees is a great quarterback, but I don't think he's in the same class as Manning or Brady, and Aaron Rodgers needs to keep it up for a bit longer before I'm ready to really put him in this conversation. But that's just me.) Wherever you stand on Brady among the other greats, there has never been another New England quarterback who has been even close to this level, and the odds of seeing another player of his talent come along are astronomical. I've loved the Tom Brady era, knowing how special it is to watch one of the best ever lead your team.
Which is why Sunday's loss to the Bills is so upsetting. In terms of this season, it's not exactly the worst thing that could happen. It is a loss to a divisional opponent, and it puts New England a game behind Buffalo for first place in the division (and, technically, the conference and league). But it's only the third game of the season, and the teams play each other again. The discouraging thing is how they lost. They lost because Brady didn't have his best day, and this team wasn't good enough to pick him up. The offense still moved the ball well, when it was able to maintain possession, and scored points, but the defense couldn't come up with a stop when it needed one. If 31 points isn't enough to win a game, your defense isn't good enough. Again, it's one game, so maybe this is all a little bit of an over-reaction, but I'm afraid that it's not.
I was talking about this current Patriots team with a friend of mine before the game against Buffalo, and I told her that I felt like the offense looked to be good enough that it will cover for the defense most games, hopefully while the defense develops and comes together. Her response was, "sounds like a typical Patriots team to me." I was depressed by how accurate this statement was. When the Patriots were winning Super Bowls, they did it with a controlled offense and a defense that was always in the top-10 of points allowed. There are some who think the offense has become too much of the priority in recent seasons. That a high-octane offense can't win in the playoffs. Maybe, but I don't agree with that. Teams can win with that kind of offense, but they need the defense to go with it. Teams need to ability to stop their opponent, and at the very least, have the kind of second-gear or play-making ability to come up with a big stop when the game is on the line. The Patriots haven't had that for a while, with some pretty clear examples. (If you don't remember the '06 AFC Championship or the '07 Super Bowl, too bad, I'm not going to torture myself and anyone reading this more than I already have to.)
The NFL has become a passing league. This seems to be common knowledge. In 1991, teams threw for 199.1 yards per game (ypg). In 2010, that number has increased to 221.6 ypg. Through the first three weeks of this season, the league is on pace for an average of 245.5 ypg. In the past 4 full seasons, 2008 had the lowest average, with quarterbacks throwing for 211.3 ypg. In the 16 seasons prior to that stretch, only 3 of them had a higher average.
Going back a few years ago, many teams would try to establish a running game to open up their passing game. In response to this, a defense would try to stop the run, forcing a team to throw out of necessity, not by choice. With many teams choosing to pass regardless of their ability to run the ball (Indianapolis, New England, teams that want to be Indianapolis and New England), defenses now have to focus on stopping the pass first, and most defensive coaches (and analysts, talking-heads, and casual sports fans) seem to agree that the best way to slow down a passing offense is to pressure the quarterback. The numbers back it up. Going back to 2003, only 2 teams have ranked lower than 11th in the NFL in sack percentage (how often a defense sacks the opposing QB on a passing play): Indianapolis in 2006 (22nd) and New Orleans in 2009 (27th). In '06, Indianapolis had been questioned all season long about their defense, and whether it was good enough to win a Super Bowl. They made a few moves, tightened things up, and were a different team by the time the playoffs rolled around. The new defense shut teams down and they were unstoppable (well, the new defense along with pumped in crowd noise and the hottest stadium in the NFL, but whatever). New Orleans was a little different. They didn’t get much pressure the quarterback during their Super Bowl season, but they had a secondary that was effective (ranked 3rd in opposing QB rating) and pulled off big plays when they needed them (Tracy Porter had late interceptions in the NFC Championship game and the Super Bowl, both of which effectively sealed wins for New Orleans).
New England right now rates 28th in sack percentage and 22nd in opposing passer rating. Yes, we’re only three games in. Yes, there is plenty of time for them to change it. I’m just worried (and somewhat certain) that they won’t. And I feel that way because Belichick hasn’t called an aggressive blitz in what feels like years. This team doesn’t attack the quarterback. It chooses to instead drop men into coverage in the hopes of confusing opposing quarterbacks. I’m not trying to question Belichick. He is, without argument, the greatest coach in my lifetime. I trust that he has a better reason for crafting the defense that he does than I would have for questioning it. Maybe it’s as simple as he doesn’t feel he has the players for it (a criticism which would seem valid, but would also point out his recent track record with draft choices and free agent signings, at least among certain positions). It’s entirely possible that the sack rate stays the same, but McCourty and Bodden recover from their early season struggles, the younger guys/first-year starters develop, and the pass defense gets better that way.
But it might not. And if it doesn’t, the likely outcome is that another year of Tom Brady’s career will be lost. And that would be a shame. Because as rare as it is to see Brady have a game like he did against the Bills, it’s nothing compared to how rare it is to see Tom Brady.
(Forgot to include this. All stats in this post came from teamrankings.com and pro-football-reference.com)
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Untitled
Depending on who you ask, autumn has already started in New England. Officially, seasons are based on the length of the day, which means it won't really be fall until September 23 and the autumnal equinox, but for many people, summer ended with their Labor Day cookouts and beach trips, filled with grilled meats and beer, that suntan lotion smell of coconut and medicine left to be washed off in their morning shower.
By it's nature, autumn is somewhat of a second-class season. Summer and winter get top billing. People wait all year so they can do things that can only be done in those seasons (This isn't entirely accurate, as things like skiing/snowboarding and going to the beach start and end outside of their respective seasons, but people associate these activities with these seasons, and that's sort of all that matters.). By human nature, we tend to focus on the extremes of any particular group (see also: celebrity train wrecks, reality television {some overlap between these two}, weather patterns, the tea party). Spring and fall are basically just there to get us from one to the other.
Between the two backup seasons, fall gets the bum deal. Despite being little more than constant rain and pollen, spring gets everyone thinking about summer and how exciting that will be. By the time fall rolls around, summer is over, the beaches are closing, before you know it winter will be here, and no one likes winter (This is also an inaccurate statement, except no one is excited about winter until it's right on top of us. Ask someone in August how they feel about winter and they hate it, because at that moment, all winter means is that we will be cold and covered in snow.). Autumn has long been used as a metaphor for aging and sadness. The prime of the year is behind us, and all we have to do is look around to see reminders that we are all withering towards a barren and cold conclusion, an inevitable end on the horizon. All the new life and rebirth of spring has run it's course, and fall is just our small chance to brace for the coming winter.
This seems like a good time to mention that autumn is, without question, my favorite season. And not because I get some perverse kick out of all the crap I just mentioned. There are reasons on top of reasons that I love fall. As soon as the heat and humidity of summer breaks, I feel like a different person. It's almost as if I spend most of the summer thinking only of ways to keep myself from turning into a puddle, and fall allows me to start thinking about everything else again. Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in months, and that is due almost entirely to the cool breeze coming through my window. It was flat-out cold in my bedroom this morning, and I loved it.
Fall also brings with it the start of football. I love football, love my New England Patriots, and love watching Belichick and Brady be the best at what they do. More than that, though, I love the Sundays I spend at my grandfather's house watching the games with him and his son, three generations of Belair men together, watching their team, eating and drinking and bs'ing about whatever it is we decide to bs about. If you've kept up with these posts at all, you'll know that I have a certain relationship with sports and my father. Adding my grandfather to the mix is about the only thing that could make it better.
In the autumn of 2003, I was going through basic training for the U.S. Air Force, which takes place in San Antonio, Texas. Autumn in San Antonio is a lot like summer in New England, only hotter. I tried to explain what I was missing out on back home, and most of my fellow trainees had no idea what I was talking about. There were a few guys from New England, though, and they all knew what I knew: there is nothing like fall in New England. Forget what you've heard about the leaves and any sort of festival based around candy apples or pumpkins. All fun things in their own right, but their is a smell to autumn here that cannot be described. It's crisp and refreshing and cool. I know that all sounds like a terrible add for a Sprite knockoff, but I don't know how else to describe it, and I know that those words don't do it justice.
While I was in basic, my significant other at the time wrote to me regularly. Mail is absolutely the best part of basic training. The days when the mail gets backed up (you are the lowest priority mail recipients on base) are awful, but are made up for on the days when you go back to your bunk with a stack of letters. One of the letters she sent me was about how the leaves were changing and how nice everything looked. She knew how much I loved autumn, and sent a second envelope along containing a few leaves she had found and thought I would like. A small piece of home while I was away. It was sweet and touching and I loved it and loved her for doing it. The rest of our flight (the name for a group of trainees when you're in basic) finally began to understand how much we loved fall in New England when my "letter" became the most popular thing in the room, at least among the guys from the area. Everyone took their time with it, each of them examining the leaves and breathing in the scent inside the envelope. If you know the scent I've been talking about, this won't seem weird to you at all.
I'm sure there will be moments this autumn when the cool air turns to cold and I'll miss the summer sun. Or a night that seems to come too early, and the realization that it will only continue to get earlier for the coming months. It's then that I'll try to think about Sunday afternoons, and of the changing leaves, and of New England air floating through Texas. Autumn is my season. An in-between season defined by what it isn't, but knows what it has to offer.
By it's nature, autumn is somewhat of a second-class season. Summer and winter get top billing. People wait all year so they can do things that can only be done in those seasons (This isn't entirely accurate, as things like skiing/snowboarding and going to the beach start and end outside of their respective seasons, but people associate these activities with these seasons, and that's sort of all that matters.). By human nature, we tend to focus on the extremes of any particular group (see also: celebrity train wrecks, reality television {some overlap between these two}, weather patterns, the tea party). Spring and fall are basically just there to get us from one to the other.
Between the two backup seasons, fall gets the bum deal. Despite being little more than constant rain and pollen, spring gets everyone thinking about summer and how exciting that will be. By the time fall rolls around, summer is over, the beaches are closing, before you know it winter will be here, and no one likes winter (This is also an inaccurate statement, except no one is excited about winter until it's right on top of us. Ask someone in August how they feel about winter and they hate it, because at that moment, all winter means is that we will be cold and covered in snow.). Autumn has long been used as a metaphor for aging and sadness. The prime of the year is behind us, and all we have to do is look around to see reminders that we are all withering towards a barren and cold conclusion, an inevitable end on the horizon. All the new life and rebirth of spring has run it's course, and fall is just our small chance to brace for the coming winter.
This seems like a good time to mention that autumn is, without question, my favorite season. And not because I get some perverse kick out of all the crap I just mentioned. There are reasons on top of reasons that I love fall. As soon as the heat and humidity of summer breaks, I feel like a different person. It's almost as if I spend most of the summer thinking only of ways to keep myself from turning into a puddle, and fall allows me to start thinking about everything else again. Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in months, and that is due almost entirely to the cool breeze coming through my window. It was flat-out cold in my bedroom this morning, and I loved it.
Fall also brings with it the start of football. I love football, love my New England Patriots, and love watching Belichick and Brady be the best at what they do. More than that, though, I love the Sundays I spend at my grandfather's house watching the games with him and his son, three generations of Belair men together, watching their team, eating and drinking and bs'ing about whatever it is we decide to bs about. If you've kept up with these posts at all, you'll know that I have a certain relationship with sports and my father. Adding my grandfather to the mix is about the only thing that could make it better.
In the autumn of 2003, I was going through basic training for the U.S. Air Force, which takes place in San Antonio, Texas. Autumn in San Antonio is a lot like summer in New England, only hotter. I tried to explain what I was missing out on back home, and most of my fellow trainees had no idea what I was talking about. There were a few guys from New England, though, and they all knew what I knew: there is nothing like fall in New England. Forget what you've heard about the leaves and any sort of festival based around candy apples or pumpkins. All fun things in their own right, but their is a smell to autumn here that cannot be described. It's crisp and refreshing and cool. I know that all sounds like a terrible add for a Sprite knockoff, but I don't know how else to describe it, and I know that those words don't do it justice.
While I was in basic, my significant other at the time wrote to me regularly. Mail is absolutely the best part of basic training. The days when the mail gets backed up (you are the lowest priority mail recipients on base) are awful, but are made up for on the days when you go back to your bunk with a stack of letters. One of the letters she sent me was about how the leaves were changing and how nice everything looked. She knew how much I loved autumn, and sent a second envelope along containing a few leaves she had found and thought I would like. A small piece of home while I was away. It was sweet and touching and I loved it and loved her for doing it. The rest of our flight (the name for a group of trainees when you're in basic) finally began to understand how much we loved fall in New England when my "letter" became the most popular thing in the room, at least among the guys from the area. Everyone took their time with it, each of them examining the leaves and breathing in the scent inside the envelope. If you know the scent I've been talking about, this won't seem weird to you at all.
I'm sure there will be moments this autumn when the cool air turns to cold and I'll miss the summer sun. Or a night that seems to come too early, and the realization that it will only continue to get earlier for the coming months. It's then that I'll try to think about Sunday afternoons, and of the changing leaves, and of New England air floating through Texas. Autumn is my season. An in-between season defined by what it isn't, but knows what it has to offer.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Things We Said
There are a lot of things that people don't like to admit. There are a decent number of things that people take for granted. Television is something that a lot of people take for granted, and few people want to admit it. I recently read a statistic that the number of homes with at least one television set had declined over the past year. This is interesting for a few reasons. For starters, this is the first time that percentage has dropped in 20 years. The two main reasons for this drop appear to be a struggling economy and availability of online content. Secondly, the drop was from 99 percent to 97 percent. That's such a small drop from such a large number that it barely counts.
These numbers, and the ability to watch tv shows without an actual television, mean it's safe to assume almost everyone you know is watching tv (in some capacity). If you're reading this (a small group of people), or are even someone who could conceivably read this (a larger group), you are aware of a wide range of shows, and probably watch at least some of them. So, if (almost) all of us are watching, and even the ones who aren't watching are getting it somewhere else, why are we so afraid of admitting it?
Casually ask a few people you know if, or how much, tv they watch, and the most common response you'll get is "I don't really watch much television", or something along those lines. There are two reasons for this, and the first answer is pretty simple. We've all been conditioned to believe that television somehow makes you less intelligent, and that admitting to watching it is equivalent to admitting that you're a fool with nothing better to do with your time. The second reason is a bit more complicated. We're all afraid of who we are. Not to come off as a pretentious a-hole (little chance of that, I'm guessing), but I'm not terribly satisfied with either explanation, but for different reasons.
Everyone seems to agree that film, at its highest levels, is an art form. I don't want to get into a discussion about how it stacks up against music or literature or the visual arts, so let's just call them all equal (since that conversation is mostly dominated by personal tastes anyway). So why is it that sitting in a theater for 2 hours is fine, but spending 60 minutes watching a television show is something to be embarrassed about? I realize that there are certainly shows out there that do nothing for the human mind, and I would have a hard time calling any reality tv show "art", but even that might be overly critical.
(Extended side-discussion no.1 of 2. When discussing reality tv, the first show to come to mind is "Jersey Shore". Everyone seems to be in complete agreement that this show is a train wreck, no one wants to admit to watching it, yet everyone knows by Friday morning what The Situation was doing Thursday night. In the interest of full disclosure, I watched the last season. Every week, my friends and I would get together and watch it while drinking and having side conversations and insulting the behavior of various characters. This season, we haven't gotten together as a group to watch it, I watched the first episode alone, was bored to tears within the first 20 minutes and haven't been back. I've heard it wasn't the best episode, so maybe I'll catch up eventually, but who knows. Anyway, no one, even hardcore fans of the show, would praise it for being a particularly good show or classy or smart, but does that mean it has no value? An apologist could make the case that the show is an interesting insight into the mind set of a certain section of American society, and how we--or at least that section of society--view, define, and value fame, success, and friendship. And I'm not sure those apologists would be wrong.)
If there is even some value to be found in reality tv, what does that mean for television operating in the upper tiers? Shows that are compelling, thoughtful, and intelligent? All art can change the way we look at the world or our lives. If I can watch a character develop in a film, and become completely engulfed in his or her story, and feel differently about myself (or at least part of myself) than I did before I watched the movie. Doesn't it stand to reason then, that a television series that can keep me coming back week after week and season after season is just as much of an accomplishment, if not more so?
We live in an interesting time for television. We have never had more options in terms of programming. Neither of these ideas are particularly new, and neither is what I'm about to say, but it's worth saying. This range of choices has been both positive and negative for the 97 percent of us still watching. Having so many options has led to lower ratings for tv shows, We'll never have another M*A*S*H moment (the finale drew the largest absolute audience, a record held until the 2010 Super Bowl, and it still holds the highest share of all time). There are too many other things to watch. And as the internet begins to pull away more viewers (or, more accurately, more tracked viewers), ratings will continue to drop. This makes it harder for networks to generate advertising revenue, which makes it harder to justify the expense of high quality programming.
The other side, however. is that these options have given us just that, options. Shows exist today that probably wouldn't have had a place in American homes even 20 years ago. My favorite show currently airing is Breaking Bad (discussion 2 coming), a show about a high school chemistry teacher who becomes a meth cook. It's violent and edgy, wouldn't been on tv a decade ago (or at least not before the advent of the TV Parental Guidelines, which have allowed shows to get away with far more than they used to), and it airs on AMC (it wouldn't be noteworthy if it aired on HBO, where the rules have always been different). Most cursing is allowed (in moderation) on basic cable, violence is becoming more graphic, almost any subject matter is acceptable, and even nudity was beginning to become somewhat tolerated until Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson ruined everything for everyone (if everyone else wants to exaggerate how bad it was, so can I). Modern television gives us access to at least the possibility of almost anything we could want from a television show.
(Extended side-discussion no.2 of 2. I've been trying to avoid writing anything about Breaking Bad simply because I've seen and read so much about it already that I don't want to copy something that has already been said, inadvertently or otherwise. That being said, given the topic of this post, I have to at least mention it. This show is amazing. It's easily my favorite show on tv right now, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a show that I would consider better. Creator Vince Gilligan has developed incredibly interesting and complex characters who are acted out superbly by the entire cast. It's hard to imagine anyone else performing better in any of the main roles, and even some of the not so main roles. Gilligan has stated many times in interviews that he wanted to create a show where the "fundamental drive was towards change" and one that took the protagonist and made him the antagonist. He's done this by constantly putting his characters in situations where they need to make moral choices. These situations never feel forced or contrived, but it gives the audience a chance to watch these characters change right before us, sometimes gradually, sometimes in the course of a single scene. This also points to the pacing of the show, something that gets commented on quite frequently, and sometimes very critically by fans. Whether or not this is the best show I've ever watched, I have no problem saying that it has the best pacing of any show I've ever seen. I think one of the reasons behind this {and why so many people get upset about it} is because it doesn't operate like any show I've seen before. There will be multiple episode stretches where the tension of a given situation builds, far longer than a typical drama and past what many would consider to be the breaking point, before resolution is given. And yet there are other times when actions and reactions happen immediately, before you're even given a chance to consider what is about to transpire and what it all means. I could go on for a while, but point is, if you're a fan of television and you're not watching this show, you're missing out.)
This era of television and all of it's options have given us some incredible shows, moments, and characters to let into our lives. I would rank Arrested Development among the best all-time comedies to air. Perhaps four of the best shows ever made have aired with the past 10 years (depending on who you ask, and I ask Chuck Klosterman, in a manner of speaking), The Wire, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men. Aaron Sorkin gets criticized for being more style over substance and for bordering on pretentious and preachy(to put it kindly) but I think he makes some of the best dialogue to be found on television. (I also tend to love the characters on his shows, but this seems to be point of contention for his detractors).
Maybe everyone doesn't agree with me (?!), or maybe you don't think film is all that special as a medium for art. You might be right, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. If all of this is true, and tv is as diverse, smart, and compelling as it has ever been, then the belief that watching television is somehow bad for you mentally is a poor assumption. I'm not advocating spending hours in front of the device everyday, but enjoying it is nothing to be ashamed of. And that's where we get to the second reason people don't like to admit to watching tv.
People lie constantly. We tell little lies for almost any reason. Because it's easier than explaining the truth, because we think we have something to gain, and, more often than not, because we want to be seen as whatever it is we think we should be seen as. This may seem reductionist and cynical, but most people act in a way that is based on who they think they should be instead of who they actually are and what kind of person they want to be. This doesn't make anyone a bad person in itself, it just seems like a dangerous way to live your life and a good way to do things you don't actually want to do. I have spent a lot of time considering what kind of person I am, what kind of person I want to be, and why I do what I do. This doesn't make me better than anyone else, it just makes me (somewhat) self-aware. I do this mostly because I think about things too much. I may have mentioned this before, and if I did, it's because I think about things too much, and I think about that, too.
I was watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Aaron Sorkin's short lived show that takes place behind the scenes of a late-night sketch comedy show. There is a scene where Matthew Perry's character (Matt) asks his on-and-off girlfriend (Harriet) one thing she likes about the guy she is currently seeing. She replies that he is "easy". The obvious sexual joke is made, and then she explains that he is easy to be around, that his personality is easy, with the implication being that Matt is not. This is mostly because Matt can't understand Harriet's religious beliefs and questions them constantly, along with the motivations behind the actions of just about everyone he interacts with. (This is something a lot of Sorkin characters do, which might be one of the reasons I like his shows so much.)
When watching this, I came to realize that I'm not easy, either, and that I've actually pushed some people away from me by not being easy. I can't stand when someone assumes they know why I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing (usually because they don't have any idea why I'm doing what I'm doing) and will think nothing of questioning why someone says or does anything. Being someone who knows me isn't easy. I will question things you probably haven't questioned yourself. If you can't handle someone doing that to you, you probably wouldn't like me after a while. I suspect that all this actually does is make me incredibly annoying to be around for most people, but at this point, I kind of don't care. The reason I don't care is that, if I'm doing this to you, it's most likely because I value your thoughts and opinions in some way, and want to know more about whatever is we're/you're talking about or doing.
I know it seems ridiculous to admit and revel in doing something annoying and sometimes troubling to people I like and care about. But I like who I am (at least this part of who I am), and I want to know who you are, and I want you to know who you are. And if that's troubling to you and you need time to think about it, that's fine. I'll be watching tv.
These numbers, and the ability to watch tv shows without an actual television, mean it's safe to assume almost everyone you know is watching tv (in some capacity). If you're reading this (a small group of people), or are even someone who could conceivably read this (a larger group), you are aware of a wide range of shows, and probably watch at least some of them. So, if (almost) all of us are watching, and even the ones who aren't watching are getting it somewhere else, why are we so afraid of admitting it?
Casually ask a few people you know if, or how much, tv they watch, and the most common response you'll get is "I don't really watch much television", or something along those lines. There are two reasons for this, and the first answer is pretty simple. We've all been conditioned to believe that television somehow makes you less intelligent, and that admitting to watching it is equivalent to admitting that you're a fool with nothing better to do with your time. The second reason is a bit more complicated. We're all afraid of who we are. Not to come off as a pretentious a-hole (little chance of that, I'm guessing), but I'm not terribly satisfied with either explanation, but for different reasons.
Everyone seems to agree that film, at its highest levels, is an art form. I don't want to get into a discussion about how it stacks up against music or literature or the visual arts, so let's just call them all equal (since that conversation is mostly dominated by personal tastes anyway). So why is it that sitting in a theater for 2 hours is fine, but spending 60 minutes watching a television show is something to be embarrassed about? I realize that there are certainly shows out there that do nothing for the human mind, and I would have a hard time calling any reality tv show "art", but even that might be overly critical.
(Extended side-discussion no.1 of 2. When discussing reality tv, the first show to come to mind is "Jersey Shore". Everyone seems to be in complete agreement that this show is a train wreck, no one wants to admit to watching it, yet everyone knows by Friday morning what The Situation was doing Thursday night. In the interest of full disclosure, I watched the last season. Every week, my friends and I would get together and watch it while drinking and having side conversations and insulting the behavior of various characters. This season, we haven't gotten together as a group to watch it, I watched the first episode alone, was bored to tears within the first 20 minutes and haven't been back. I've heard it wasn't the best episode, so maybe I'll catch up eventually, but who knows. Anyway, no one, even hardcore fans of the show, would praise it for being a particularly good show or classy or smart, but does that mean it has no value? An apologist could make the case that the show is an interesting insight into the mind set of a certain section of American society, and how we--or at least that section of society--view, define, and value fame, success, and friendship. And I'm not sure those apologists would be wrong.)
If there is even some value to be found in reality tv, what does that mean for television operating in the upper tiers? Shows that are compelling, thoughtful, and intelligent? All art can change the way we look at the world or our lives. If I can watch a character develop in a film, and become completely engulfed in his or her story, and feel differently about myself (or at least part of myself) than I did before I watched the movie. Doesn't it stand to reason then, that a television series that can keep me coming back week after week and season after season is just as much of an accomplishment, if not more so?
We live in an interesting time for television. We have never had more options in terms of programming. Neither of these ideas are particularly new, and neither is what I'm about to say, but it's worth saying. This range of choices has been both positive and negative for the 97 percent of us still watching. Having so many options has led to lower ratings for tv shows, We'll never have another M*A*S*H moment (the finale drew the largest absolute audience, a record held until the 2010 Super Bowl, and it still holds the highest share of all time). There are too many other things to watch. And as the internet begins to pull away more viewers (or, more accurately, more tracked viewers), ratings will continue to drop. This makes it harder for networks to generate advertising revenue, which makes it harder to justify the expense of high quality programming.
The other side, however. is that these options have given us just that, options. Shows exist today that probably wouldn't have had a place in American homes even 20 years ago. My favorite show currently airing is Breaking Bad (discussion 2 coming), a show about a high school chemistry teacher who becomes a meth cook. It's violent and edgy, wouldn't been on tv a decade ago (or at least not before the advent of the TV Parental Guidelines, which have allowed shows to get away with far more than they used to), and it airs on AMC (it wouldn't be noteworthy if it aired on HBO, where the rules have always been different). Most cursing is allowed (in moderation) on basic cable, violence is becoming more graphic, almost any subject matter is acceptable, and even nudity was beginning to become somewhat tolerated until Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson ruined everything for everyone (if everyone else wants to exaggerate how bad it was, so can I). Modern television gives us access to at least the possibility of almost anything we could want from a television show.
(Extended side-discussion no.2 of 2. I've been trying to avoid writing anything about Breaking Bad simply because I've seen and read so much about it already that I don't want to copy something that has already been said, inadvertently or otherwise. That being said, given the topic of this post, I have to at least mention it. This show is amazing. It's easily my favorite show on tv right now, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a show that I would consider better. Creator Vince Gilligan has developed incredibly interesting and complex characters who are acted out superbly by the entire cast. It's hard to imagine anyone else performing better in any of the main roles, and even some of the not so main roles. Gilligan has stated many times in interviews that he wanted to create a show where the "fundamental drive was towards change" and one that took the protagonist and made him the antagonist. He's done this by constantly putting his characters in situations where they need to make moral choices. These situations never feel forced or contrived, but it gives the audience a chance to watch these characters change right before us, sometimes gradually, sometimes in the course of a single scene. This also points to the pacing of the show, something that gets commented on quite frequently, and sometimes very critically by fans. Whether or not this is the best show I've ever watched, I have no problem saying that it has the best pacing of any show I've ever seen. I think one of the reasons behind this {and why so many people get upset about it} is because it doesn't operate like any show I've seen before. There will be multiple episode stretches where the tension of a given situation builds, far longer than a typical drama and past what many would consider to be the breaking point, before resolution is given. And yet there are other times when actions and reactions happen immediately, before you're even given a chance to consider what is about to transpire and what it all means. I could go on for a while, but point is, if you're a fan of television and you're not watching this show, you're missing out.)
This era of television and all of it's options have given us some incredible shows, moments, and characters to let into our lives. I would rank Arrested Development among the best all-time comedies to air. Perhaps four of the best shows ever made have aired with the past 10 years (depending on who you ask, and I ask Chuck Klosterman, in a manner of speaking), The Wire, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men. Aaron Sorkin gets criticized for being more style over substance and for bordering on pretentious and preachy(to put it kindly) but I think he makes some of the best dialogue to be found on television. (I also tend to love the characters on his shows, but this seems to be point of contention for his detractors).
Maybe everyone doesn't agree with me (?!), or maybe you don't think film is all that special as a medium for art. You might be right, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. If all of this is true, and tv is as diverse, smart, and compelling as it has ever been, then the belief that watching television is somehow bad for you mentally is a poor assumption. I'm not advocating spending hours in front of the device everyday, but enjoying it is nothing to be ashamed of. And that's where we get to the second reason people don't like to admit to watching tv.
People lie constantly. We tell little lies for almost any reason. Because it's easier than explaining the truth, because we think we have something to gain, and, more often than not, because we want to be seen as whatever it is we think we should be seen as. This may seem reductionist and cynical, but most people act in a way that is based on who they think they should be instead of who they actually are and what kind of person they want to be. This doesn't make anyone a bad person in itself, it just seems like a dangerous way to live your life and a good way to do things you don't actually want to do. I have spent a lot of time considering what kind of person I am, what kind of person I want to be, and why I do what I do. This doesn't make me better than anyone else, it just makes me (somewhat) self-aware. I do this mostly because I think about things too much. I may have mentioned this before, and if I did, it's because I think about things too much, and I think about that, too.
I was watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Aaron Sorkin's short lived show that takes place behind the scenes of a late-night sketch comedy show. There is a scene where Matthew Perry's character (Matt) asks his on-and-off girlfriend (Harriet) one thing she likes about the guy she is currently seeing. She replies that he is "easy". The obvious sexual joke is made, and then she explains that he is easy to be around, that his personality is easy, with the implication being that Matt is not. This is mostly because Matt can't understand Harriet's religious beliefs and questions them constantly, along with the motivations behind the actions of just about everyone he interacts with. (This is something a lot of Sorkin characters do, which might be one of the reasons I like his shows so much.)
When watching this, I came to realize that I'm not easy, either, and that I've actually pushed some people away from me by not being easy. I can't stand when someone assumes they know why I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing (usually because they don't have any idea why I'm doing what I'm doing) and will think nothing of questioning why someone says or does anything. Being someone who knows me isn't easy. I will question things you probably haven't questioned yourself. If you can't handle someone doing that to you, you probably wouldn't like me after a while. I suspect that all this actually does is make me incredibly annoying to be around for most people, but at this point, I kind of don't care. The reason I don't care is that, if I'm doing this to you, it's most likely because I value your thoughts and opinions in some way, and want to know more about whatever is we're/you're talking about or doing.
I know it seems ridiculous to admit and revel in doing something annoying and sometimes troubling to people I like and care about. But I like who I am (at least this part of who I am), and I want to know who you are, and I want you to know who you are. And if that's troubling to you and you need time to think about it, that's fine. I'll be watching tv.
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Downward Spiral
I have heard my favorite album. Contrary to what you might be thinking based on the title of this post, that album is not by Nine Inch Nails. I could tell you what album it is, and perhaps someone reading this might know me well enough to guess, but that would lead to a discussion about that album. Certainly, I could make my case for why I think this is the best album ever made (although I'm not even sure I feel that way; favorite and best are not the same thing), but "best" is really just a measure of "good", and what the hell does that mean, anyway? No, my point is that, at 28, music (in all likelihood) has peaked for me. And while I'm not sure exactly what that means yet, I know it means something.
For starters, let me clarify a few details about why this album (which will be referred to as "Album X" henceforth) is my favorite album. Album X came out in my lifetime, which is an important distinction. The Beatles made some great albums, and some of those I might consider to be the "best" album ever made, but my (and probably most peoples') favorite album is about more than just being the best. It's about how an album strikes you when you first hear it, which itself is dependent on a number of factors. When Album X came out, I was living with someone at the time. We had been together for a few years and were living in my parents house. We had recently moved out of the house we had been living in but hadn't found a new place to live yet. I listened to Album X the first time, shortly before we went to bed. I played it on her computer while she was already lying down. I'll never forget how much she seemed to enjoy watching me enjoy it. These are the sorts of little things that can't be recreated on further listens or another album.
Album X's genre is somewhat unimportant as well (my favorite style of music vs. your favorite style of music is irrelevant in this scenario), but even within a given form, there are still times when music can surprise you. Album X was (and still is in someways) the only music I had ever heard that sounded the way it did. This may seem like an absurd or nonsensical statement, but think about the first time you discovered a particular band or type of music. That feeling of having a door opened that you didn't even know was there. That door can never be closed, which is a good thing, but that also means you can never open it again.
This isn't to say that I will never be surprised by a new album, but I have serious doubts that I will ever be surprised in that way ever again. While the internet age has made it easier to find more and better music than we used to have access to, it also means that there is a smaller chance of finding some new thing that completely shifts your understanding of music. Sure, there are new bands posting videos of themselves right now that I will never hear but would possibly love. But with such a large pool of styles available to us, what are the chances that band would sound unlike anything we have ever heard before?
I don't want to sound like someone's dad. As I mentioned, I still find new music that I like. I think there is potential for great music in the future, and even think that maybe (a big maybe, but maybe) their might be good music on popular radio again one day. But I don't think I'll ever have a better album experience than the one I had listening to Album X. And that is a strange realization.
It's not necessarily a bad thing. Realizing how much something means to you is a good thing. It's possible that this doesn't actually change anything for me at all. If I still seek new music and enjoy music (in general) as much as I used to, what's different? This is the sort of understanding that can make me feel old, but it doesn't actually change anything about my physical age. So if I don't act any differently, and nothing has actually, physically changed as a result of this, then it would seem to reason out that I shouldn't feel any differently at all. But I do.
Maybe it's because, like all milestones in life, it represents a sort of end. An end of possibility. As soon as we are old enough to be aware of the future, we consider the assorted events and experiences life has in store for us. Even though we are always moving towards fewer and fewer of these possibilities, we aren't always aware of it. And even if we stop and think about it, we don't often feel it. This makes me feel it. Which isn't to say that I feel like I'm closer to "the end", or that feel I have fewer possibilities now than I did when I first heard Album X (even though that is true). It simply means that I'm aware of this event within my own life. And as strange as that is, I think I like it. At least now I know what I'm looking for, and not just in an album.
For starters, let me clarify a few details about why this album (which will be referred to as "Album X" henceforth) is my favorite album. Album X came out in my lifetime, which is an important distinction. The Beatles made some great albums, and some of those I might consider to be the "best" album ever made, but my (and probably most peoples') favorite album is about more than just being the best. It's about how an album strikes you when you first hear it, which itself is dependent on a number of factors. When Album X came out, I was living with someone at the time. We had been together for a few years and were living in my parents house. We had recently moved out of the house we had been living in but hadn't found a new place to live yet. I listened to Album X the first time, shortly before we went to bed. I played it on her computer while she was already lying down. I'll never forget how much she seemed to enjoy watching me enjoy it. These are the sorts of little things that can't be recreated on further listens or another album.
Album X's genre is somewhat unimportant as well (my favorite style of music vs. your favorite style of music is irrelevant in this scenario), but even within a given form, there are still times when music can surprise you. Album X was (and still is in someways) the only music I had ever heard that sounded the way it did. This may seem like an absurd or nonsensical statement, but think about the first time you discovered a particular band or type of music. That feeling of having a door opened that you didn't even know was there. That door can never be closed, which is a good thing, but that also means you can never open it again.
This isn't to say that I will never be surprised by a new album, but I have serious doubts that I will ever be surprised in that way ever again. While the internet age has made it easier to find more and better music than we used to have access to, it also means that there is a smaller chance of finding some new thing that completely shifts your understanding of music. Sure, there are new bands posting videos of themselves right now that I will never hear but would possibly love. But with such a large pool of styles available to us, what are the chances that band would sound unlike anything we have ever heard before?
I don't want to sound like someone's dad. As I mentioned, I still find new music that I like. I think there is potential for great music in the future, and even think that maybe (a big maybe, but maybe) their might be good music on popular radio again one day. But I don't think I'll ever have a better album experience than the one I had listening to Album X. And that is a strange realization.
It's not necessarily a bad thing. Realizing how much something means to you is a good thing. It's possible that this doesn't actually change anything for me at all. If I still seek new music and enjoy music (in general) as much as I used to, what's different? This is the sort of understanding that can make me feel old, but it doesn't actually change anything about my physical age. So if I don't act any differently, and nothing has actually, physically changed as a result of this, then it would seem to reason out that I shouldn't feel any differently at all. But I do.
Maybe it's because, like all milestones in life, it represents a sort of end. An end of possibility. As soon as we are old enough to be aware of the future, we consider the assorted events and experiences life has in store for us. Even though we are always moving towards fewer and fewer of these possibilities, we aren't always aware of it. And even if we stop and think about it, we don't often feel it. This makes me feel it. Which isn't to say that I feel like I'm closer to "the end", or that feel I have fewer possibilities now than I did when I first heard Album X (even though that is true). It simply means that I'm aware of this event within my own life. And as strange as that is, I think I like it. At least now I know what I'm looking for, and not just in an album.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Standing Room Only
(Note to the reader: this post deals with sports, but is not about sports. If you aren't a sports fan, tough it out, it gets better.)
John Lackey is not a terrible person. Actually, he might be. I have no idea what kind of person John Lackey is, but I'm assuming he's not a terrible person. He's most likely no worse than the worst person you've ever met, and a strong case could be made that there are many athletes more deserving of the adjective "terrible". To the best of my knowledge, he's never been arrested, never been accused of any sort of domestic disturbance. He's never even sat in the back of his SUV while a friend drove it and led police on a low-speed chase through Orange County. However, as a teammate and employee (which, despite being accurate, seems like a ridiculous title to give anyone making as much as he does), he's among some of the worst, and it's this aspect of his career that I think about the most.
Lackey is scheduled to start tonight's game against the Seattle Mariners. Assuming that happens, it's a very safe bet that he won't finish the game. Maybe he has a rough outing and gets pulled early, or maybe he throws well and becomes a victim of Boston's pitch-counting. Either way, at some point, Terry Francona will walk out to the mound and take the ball out of Lackey's hand, and Lackey will be pissed off about it. How do I know this? Because it is what he has done with almost perfect regularity since arriving in Boston before last season. There is almost no situation in which he feels that the decision to take him out off the mound is justified. After his most recent episode, glaring back at Francona while heading to the dugout after 5 and 2/3 innings, giving up 10 hits, 4 runs, and 3 earned, many in the media agreed with Tim McCarver (a statement which may never have been made before), who said that Lackey was showing up his manager. While this may be true, what Lackey was really doing was exposing his sense of entitlement. Certainly, he's not the only professional athlete with this flaw, but he displays it in a way that represents one of the biggest problems in American society.
We live in a culture where everyone has the ability to express themselves. This, fundamentally, is a good thing (even if it weren't, there is no way someone writing a personal blog for free could claim otherwise). The internet allows the average person to share their thoughts and ideas with people they would most likely never speak to otherwise. Even if you oppose it for being trite (it's hard to imagine deep thoughts coming 140 characters at a time), Twitter, along with Facebook and other social networking sites, Youtube, as well as countless blogs (Hi!!), provide an ability for the masses to exchange ideas, and there is something to be said for that. The problem with this is that the vast majority of the people taking part in said exchange are raised in an era where we are told we are all special and important. And maybe we are. I, personally, like the romanticized idea that everyone brings there own special ability to the global party. But with all of these people having the ability to put their ideas out in the world, the growing sense among the average person is becoming that every thought they have, no matter how ill-conceived or underdeveloped, is loaded with with inherent value.
Twenty-five years ago, if you wanted to voice an idea, you had fewer options to do so than provided today. You needed some sort of credential to get your words (in whatever form you put them in) to the public. There was no internet, at least not in the way we know it today. You couldn't just write something and have it be out there. The closest you could get to that, perhaps, was writing to your local paper, and even then, that would have to be approved by an editor before it would be published. In 1986, if you were giving away every thought that came into your head, you were probably insane and shouting on a street corner. We've essentially replaced that corner with the internet. Now everyone is crowding the sidewalk, cramming to find a place to express ourselves.
Okay, I know I mentioned this earlier, but it's worth repeating. I don't think this is a bad thing. I think more people trading more ideas is a good thing. It's part of why I do this. But I know that no one is obligated to pay any attention to these posts at all. I suspect some people understand this and feel the same way about their blogs/twitter/facebook/etc.., but I am also pretty sure that a lot of people don't. I think many (possibly most) people not only think that what they post is important, but that it deserves to be viewed by everyone. And if you don't believe me, check out your facebook sometime and see how many people "like" their own status.
This constant ability to express ourselves has given many people the sense that it is their right to express themselves about anything, at anytime, and that these expressions shouldn't be suppressed by anyone, for any reason. Well, maybe. I'm not exactly suggesting that we should have free reign to shut people up whenever we want (even though it may sound like that). I just think that the world and, in particular, our corner of it would be a lot better off if we suppressed ourselves a little more often, even if just long enough to consider the impact of what we might have to say.
Forgive the (cliched) sentiment, but we're all in this together. There are just under 7 billion people in the world, slightly over 300 million in the U.S., and about 1 million here in Rhode Island. There isn't enough room for us to force our thoughts out everywhere we go. Get them out there, by all means, just leave space for the everyone else.
I'll be watching John Lackey tonight. I hope he pitches well. I hope the Red Sox win. But most of all, when the time comes, I hope he leaves the game quietly, without incident. For all of us.
John Lackey is not a terrible person. Actually, he might be. I have no idea what kind of person John Lackey is, but I'm assuming he's not a terrible person. He's most likely no worse than the worst person you've ever met, and a strong case could be made that there are many athletes more deserving of the adjective "terrible". To the best of my knowledge, he's never been arrested, never been accused of any sort of domestic disturbance. He's never even sat in the back of his SUV while a friend drove it and led police on a low-speed chase through Orange County. However, as a teammate and employee (which, despite being accurate, seems like a ridiculous title to give anyone making as much as he does), he's among some of the worst, and it's this aspect of his career that I think about the most.
Lackey is scheduled to start tonight's game against the Seattle Mariners. Assuming that happens, it's a very safe bet that he won't finish the game. Maybe he has a rough outing and gets pulled early, or maybe he throws well and becomes a victim of Boston's pitch-counting. Either way, at some point, Terry Francona will walk out to the mound and take the ball out of Lackey's hand, and Lackey will be pissed off about it. How do I know this? Because it is what he has done with almost perfect regularity since arriving in Boston before last season. There is almost no situation in which he feels that the decision to take him out off the mound is justified. After his most recent episode, glaring back at Francona while heading to the dugout after 5 and 2/3 innings, giving up 10 hits, 4 runs, and 3 earned, many in the media agreed with Tim McCarver (a statement which may never have been made before), who said that Lackey was showing up his manager. While this may be true, what Lackey was really doing was exposing his sense of entitlement. Certainly, he's not the only professional athlete with this flaw, but he displays it in a way that represents one of the biggest problems in American society.
We live in a culture where everyone has the ability to express themselves. This, fundamentally, is a good thing (even if it weren't, there is no way someone writing a personal blog for free could claim otherwise). The internet allows the average person to share their thoughts and ideas with people they would most likely never speak to otherwise. Even if you oppose it for being trite (it's hard to imagine deep thoughts coming 140 characters at a time), Twitter, along with Facebook and other social networking sites, Youtube, as well as countless blogs (Hi!!), provide an ability for the masses to exchange ideas, and there is something to be said for that. The problem with this is that the vast majority of the people taking part in said exchange are raised in an era where we are told we are all special and important. And maybe we are. I, personally, like the romanticized idea that everyone brings there own special ability to the global party. But with all of these people having the ability to put their ideas out in the world, the growing sense among the average person is becoming that every thought they have, no matter how ill-conceived or underdeveloped, is loaded with with inherent value.
Twenty-five years ago, if you wanted to voice an idea, you had fewer options to do so than provided today. You needed some sort of credential to get your words (in whatever form you put them in) to the public. There was no internet, at least not in the way we know it today. You couldn't just write something and have it be out there. The closest you could get to that, perhaps, was writing to your local paper, and even then, that would have to be approved by an editor before it would be published. In 1986, if you were giving away every thought that came into your head, you were probably insane and shouting on a street corner. We've essentially replaced that corner with the internet. Now everyone is crowding the sidewalk, cramming to find a place to express ourselves.
Okay, I know I mentioned this earlier, but it's worth repeating. I don't think this is a bad thing. I think more people trading more ideas is a good thing. It's part of why I do this. But I know that no one is obligated to pay any attention to these posts at all. I suspect some people understand this and feel the same way about their blogs/twitter/facebook/etc.., but I am also pretty sure that a lot of people don't. I think many (possibly most) people not only think that what they post is important, but that it deserves to be viewed by everyone. And if you don't believe me, check out your facebook sometime and see how many people "like" their own status.
This constant ability to express ourselves has given many people the sense that it is their right to express themselves about anything, at anytime, and that these expressions shouldn't be suppressed by anyone, for any reason. Well, maybe. I'm not exactly suggesting that we should have free reign to shut people up whenever we want (even though it may sound like that). I just think that the world and, in particular, our corner of it would be a lot better off if we suppressed ourselves a little more often, even if just long enough to consider the impact of what we might have to say.
Forgive the (cliched) sentiment, but we're all in this together. There are just under 7 billion people in the world, slightly over 300 million in the U.S., and about 1 million here in Rhode Island. There isn't enough room for us to force our thoughts out everywhere we go. Get them out there, by all means, just leave space for the everyone else.
I'll be watching John Lackey tonight. I hope he pitches well. I hope the Red Sox win. But most of all, when the time comes, I hope he leaves the game quietly, without incident. For all of us.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Good....meaning what?
Think about your favorite band/musician. Not your favorite one today, or who you've been listening to the most recently, or your "new favorite". Chances are, his/her/their music is something you've been listening to for years and, though there may be periods you don't listen to it much, if at all, you always end up coming back to it. My assumption is that you would qualify this music as being good. (I suppose there is a chance you don't feel this way, but if so, you're probably just a contrarian and I'm not that interested in your opinion. Sorry.) My question is this; what makes you consider this music good?
I'm not asking you to defend your choice. Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with me has probably had to deal with me doing that anyway. (I spend a lot of time thinking about why people do things, and occasionally actually get people to question these things themselves. This may come across as criticism, especially if I disagree with whatever the topic in question is, but it's just sort of what I do.) What I'm asking you, more specifically, is what is your definition of good? What is it about that music that makes you consider it "more good" (a phrase that makes sense in terms of this piece of writing) than other music?
Surely, this is not the only band or artist that you would consider good, but there is a reason I asked you to think of your favorite. Most people, myself included, like some music (other mediums apply to this line of questioning, but more on that in a minute) outside of our normal range of taste, and like it for reasons that are probably quite different from why we like our favorite musicians. A song that reminds you of someone or a certain time in your life (many of the largely forgotten singles from the early and mid-90's). A band so catchy that you can't stop yourself from listening to them (Phoenix and, in particular, their single "Lisztomania", a song that sounds like what would happen if Franz Ferdinand wrote songs exclusively to be used in commercials for hybrid cars). A few of us might be willing to admit that, somewhere, lost in our iPods and CD collections, is music that we acknowledge as bad. We might even like it because it is bad (which is how I feel about almost anything I listen to from the 80's). Your favorite band isn't subject to these kinds of whims. You may have memories associated with them, but they either came after you had already liked them, or whatever memory you have is just what introduced you to them.
Labeling something as "good" is subjective, but we rarely mean it that way (if you don't believe that last sentence is true, the next time someone tells you that a certain band is good, reply with "no they aren't" and see what happens). When we say something is good, we don't mean the same thing as when we say we love or like something. When we say something is good, we are giving it a value that we feel others should be able to recognize. Even the more exclusionary of us out there, those who don't want others to like what they like, take pride in feeling that they see this value that others have missed. We may not think about it, but calling something good says more than simply stating that we like something.
So, where does the value associated with "good" come from? The easiest conclusion to make would be that how good something is comes directly from how much talent it took to create it. This makes sense on the surface, but doesn't hold up for long. Yngwie Malmsteen is widely viewed to be among the most technically skilled guitarists to ever live, yet his music has never really experienced widespread recognition. If Malmsteen is the heads of this proverbial coin, The Ramones would be tails. The Ramones knew 4 chords, wrote 3 songs, and are one of the most influential and well known bands of the past 40 years. You could make an argument (and probably a pretty accurate one) that their music, and the music they inspired (punk) was as much about the message and aesthetic as it was about the music, but does that make it somehow less good than the music of Malmsteen? What of the bands that took the philosophy put forth by The Ramones and punk? Bands like Guided By Voices and Pavement that seemed to actively try to hide their music in lo-fi recordings, largely ignored for large stretches of their careers, but have shown a heavy influence on later bands and found a place in the hearts of critics. Surely, there are people who enjoy Malmsteen simply for his talent, just as there are those like The Ramones for not having any (or, more likely, not flaunting it). So does technical skill even apply to the conversation of what is "good"?
Let's shift gears for a second. Start this whole process again with your favorite movie or television series. Again, I would assume you would describe whatever show or movie you came up with as being good. But what makes them good? You could make the case for talent again, but that rationale makes even less sense when applied to acting. Follow me for a moment: All of us, as fans of music (assuming you are), can recognize a technically skilled musician, even if we don't like the music they make. There might be some discrepancy in opinions on who is the most technically skilled, but we all see the ability that is there. How does that recognition of talent apply to acting, when opinions tend to be much more varied? Don't believe me? Ask a few people about Jack Nicholson's performance in The Departed. Chances are you'll get at least one person who thought he was incredible and a perfect choice for the role, and you'll get at least one person who thought he was embarrassing and should have taken it as a sign to spend less time in movies and more time watching basketball at The Staples Center.
You could make the argument that measuring a piece of film or television by the talent of its performers doesn't take into account the talent of the writers and directors who created the work (unlike music, where the performers and the creators are often the same person/s). Perhaps, but how do we measure that talent? Awards? Even if you put any stock in Emmys and Oscars (and it seems like fewer and fewer people do), that doesn't necessarily translate into success (another semi-meaningless measurement of value). No Country For Old Men won the Academy Award for Best Picture, and I can count on one hand the people I know who even think it is slightly above okay. Arrested Development won 6 Emmy Awards and was nominated for 22, but lasted only three seasons before being cancelled.
When we say something is "good", we are really saying that we think something should be important, understanding that if we said "this should be important", we would sound pretentious or ridiculous, and often both. So if we accept this use of good, but acknowledge that there isn't a clear, universal way to measure it, does the word have any meaning at all?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe we can figure it out the next time we talk about why my music is better than yours.
I'm not asking you to defend your choice. Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with me has probably had to deal with me doing that anyway. (I spend a lot of time thinking about why people do things, and occasionally actually get people to question these things themselves. This may come across as criticism, especially if I disagree with whatever the topic in question is, but it's just sort of what I do.) What I'm asking you, more specifically, is what is your definition of good? What is it about that music that makes you consider it "more good" (a phrase that makes sense in terms of this piece of writing) than other music?
Surely, this is not the only band or artist that you would consider good, but there is a reason I asked you to think of your favorite. Most people, myself included, like some music (other mediums apply to this line of questioning, but more on that in a minute) outside of our normal range of taste, and like it for reasons that are probably quite different from why we like our favorite musicians. A song that reminds you of someone or a certain time in your life (many of the largely forgotten singles from the early and mid-90's). A band so catchy that you can't stop yourself from listening to them (Phoenix and, in particular, their single "Lisztomania", a song that sounds like what would happen if Franz Ferdinand wrote songs exclusively to be used in commercials for hybrid cars). A few of us might be willing to admit that, somewhere, lost in our iPods and CD collections, is music that we acknowledge as bad. We might even like it because it is bad (which is how I feel about almost anything I listen to from the 80's). Your favorite band isn't subject to these kinds of whims. You may have memories associated with them, but they either came after you had already liked them, or whatever memory you have is just what introduced you to them.
Labeling something as "good" is subjective, but we rarely mean it that way (if you don't believe that last sentence is true, the next time someone tells you that a certain band is good, reply with "no they aren't" and see what happens). When we say something is good, we don't mean the same thing as when we say we love or like something. When we say something is good, we are giving it a value that we feel others should be able to recognize. Even the more exclusionary of us out there, those who don't want others to like what they like, take pride in feeling that they see this value that others have missed. We may not think about it, but calling something good says more than simply stating that we like something.
So, where does the value associated with "good" come from? The easiest conclusion to make would be that how good something is comes directly from how much talent it took to create it. This makes sense on the surface, but doesn't hold up for long. Yngwie Malmsteen is widely viewed to be among the most technically skilled guitarists to ever live, yet his music has never really experienced widespread recognition. If Malmsteen is the heads of this proverbial coin, The Ramones would be tails. The Ramones knew 4 chords, wrote 3 songs, and are one of the most influential and well known bands of the past 40 years. You could make an argument (and probably a pretty accurate one) that their music, and the music they inspired (punk) was as much about the message and aesthetic as it was about the music, but does that make it somehow less good than the music of Malmsteen? What of the bands that took the philosophy put forth by The Ramones and punk? Bands like Guided By Voices and Pavement that seemed to actively try to hide their music in lo-fi recordings, largely ignored for large stretches of their careers, but have shown a heavy influence on later bands and found a place in the hearts of critics. Surely, there are people who enjoy Malmsteen simply for his talent, just as there are those like The Ramones for not having any (or, more likely, not flaunting it). So does technical skill even apply to the conversation of what is "good"?
Let's shift gears for a second. Start this whole process again with your favorite movie or television series. Again, I would assume you would describe whatever show or movie you came up with as being good. But what makes them good? You could make the case for talent again, but that rationale makes even less sense when applied to acting. Follow me for a moment: All of us, as fans of music (assuming you are), can recognize a technically skilled musician, even if we don't like the music they make. There might be some discrepancy in opinions on who is the most technically skilled, but we all see the ability that is there. How does that recognition of talent apply to acting, when opinions tend to be much more varied? Don't believe me? Ask a few people about Jack Nicholson's performance in The Departed. Chances are you'll get at least one person who thought he was incredible and a perfect choice for the role, and you'll get at least one person who thought he was embarrassing and should have taken it as a sign to spend less time in movies and more time watching basketball at The Staples Center.
You could make the argument that measuring a piece of film or television by the talent of its performers doesn't take into account the talent of the writers and directors who created the work (unlike music, where the performers and the creators are often the same person/s). Perhaps, but how do we measure that talent? Awards? Even if you put any stock in Emmys and Oscars (and it seems like fewer and fewer people do), that doesn't necessarily translate into success (another semi-meaningless measurement of value). No Country For Old Men won the Academy Award for Best Picture, and I can count on one hand the people I know who even think it is slightly above okay. Arrested Development won 6 Emmy Awards and was nominated for 22, but lasted only three seasons before being cancelled.
When we say something is "good", we are really saying that we think something should be important, understanding that if we said "this should be important", we would sound pretentious or ridiculous, and often both. So if we accept this use of good, but acknowledge that there isn't a clear, universal way to measure it, does the word have any meaning at all?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe we can figure it out the next time we talk about why my music is better than yours.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Of Sport and Art
I like lots of things. I have yet to find anyone who likes exactly the same things that I like. I haven't found anyone who likes all of things that I like within a certain area of likeable things (that sentence makes sense). I haven't even found anyone who likes all of the things that I like, simply because they like everything. Even those people don't like something that I like. And that's fine. I don't like everything that other people like. I suspect that I'm not alone in this, and probably far from it. Besides, meeting someone with the exact same interests would probably be boring, and at the very least, would never lead to finding new things to like.
As you may have already guessed, sports are among the things that I like. They have been at least partially involved in my life for as long as I can remember. I've been supporting the local teams before I even knew how to say their names. The Patriots, Bruins. Red Sox, and Celtics. I have memories for all of them. And while much has been made lately about how "spoiled" New England sports fans have been, I've seen the other end of it too. Don't get me wrong, I know that at 28, I've seen more from my sports teams than most other sports fans will see in their lives. I don't say that to brag or rub it in to the less fortunate sports cities, I say it because I know how special it is (as a sports fan) to see what has happened over the last decade. And I know I would love my sports teams just as much if none of it had happened.
Now, I have a lot of friends who share my love of sports. Many of them even love the same teams I do. There are some people, however, who don't like sports. More than that, they actively dislike sports, and they think my love of sports is foolish and a waste of time. They think my time would be better spent doing almost anything else. The interesting part is that I share many other common interests with these people. Music, literature, film, television. We have more in common then we don't, and yet these people still can't get past my love of sports, and often take a moment or two to tell me about it. And the more I think about that, the less I understand it.
When it comes to art, there is no accounting for taste. Most people seem to know this, even if they don't understand it. No one expects everyone else to like their personal favorite song or movie or book. They don't always understand why someone won't like it, and may even get mad when someone else claims to dislike it, but everyone seems to know, that's just the way things work. But even though we all like different things in the art we choose to take in (depending on the form), how different are the things we take away from art?
Whether we listen to an album (and I mean really listen, not just throwing it on as background music), or watch a movie, or read a book, aren't we all doing the same things? We allow these artists to take control of our lives, even if just a for a few minutes. We let them put ideas in our minds, making us think about things that never occurred to us or look at topics from a different perspective. We let them make us laugh, cry, smile, or get upset. We surrender ourselves to them, temporarily. We hope to get a glimpse into their lives, and hope to be able to take something away that will make some sense of our own. Sports may not give us the same insights into our lives, but it does allow us to escape from our own for a little while. Getting ourselves worked up over a game gives us a chance to not be worked up over our own problems.
There are those who will try to argue that athletes are nothing but mindless jocks, overpaid men who are simply products of superior genetics. Listen, I know that there are more than a few stories about athletes that would illustrate that very point. I'm sure almost every Division 1 college has, at some point, looked the other way while one of their "student-athletes" forgot the full meaning of that designation. At this very moment, there is no possible joke I could make about Plaxico Burress that hasn't already been made. But does that mean they are all bad? The truth of it is, most professional athletes are probably decent people. Let's be honest, most of the time, news is just barely disguised entertainment, and that's especially true of sports. There is no room for stories about a baseball (or any other sport) player who comes in, works hard, and goes home to his wife and kids everyday. And make no mistake, every one of them, even the spotlight seeking "divas", works hard. To say that any professional athlete got where they are because they were born that way isn't giving them enough credit. Yes, many of us were born with bodies that never would have made it as a quarterback or power forward, no matter how much work we put it. But being born with a body that could make it doesn't guarantee that you will. Many of these men and women have worked their entire lives to be in the shape that they are in, to do the things that they do. Which is just another way sports can be like art.
We, as people, tend to believe that the artists (again, choose your medium) we love are among the best in their field. There is nothing wrong with this belief (provided you understand that it's a subjective one). We want to see the best do what they are good at. Of the four major sporting leagues in America, all of them are the premier leagues for their respective sports. Whenever you watch a broadcast from the NFL, MLB, NHL, or NBA, you are watching some of the best in the world at what they do. We tend to forget this, because we compare professional athletes to other professional athletes, and we do it all the time, even though it isn't always fair. Player A is matched up against Player B. Player A is an average athlete, while Player B is a perennial all-star. On most nights, even is Player A is performing up to his usual standards, he is going to look bad. Fans of Player A's team are going to call local radio shows to criticize him. And that's okay, that's the way sports work. But does that actually make Player A bad? He's still better than you at whatever sport he plays, and he's more than likely better than anyone you've ever known (A common phrase in sports, that the worst player of X is still better than anyone you've ever known at X. Most of the people reading this probably know someone who knows Rocco Baldelli, so I felt the need to alter it slightly. Rocco Baldelli wasn't exactly Babe Ruth, but he was never the worst player in baseball).
Not everyone gets exactly the same things out of the art they choose to open themselves to. There may be someone out there right now reading this who never thinks new things when they read a book, or doesn't think there is (or is unaware of) anything remarkable about the musicians they listen to. While that may be the case, I'm willing to bet that everyone has talked about the music/movies/books that they love with someone else. Think about your close friends. Think about the conversations you have with them. How much time is spent talking about these things? Probably a pretty big chunk. I would even be willing to bet that it's the second most common thing people talk about, with "other people" being the most common (everybody is a gossip). This is because art brings people together. And sports are no different.
My dad is not a very vocal person. He's opened up a bit more as we've both gotten older, but no one would ever call him effusive. I'm not sure my father has ever experienced an uncomfortable silence. Silence of any sort works well for him. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, but as a young kid, I didn't always understand it. Except when we were watching sports. When a game was on, we didn't need to say anything. We both knew what the other was thinking, because we were both thinking the same things. We loved our teams, and we loved each other.
I took some time out of work recently to make sure I was able to watch the Stanley Cup. Of course I wanted to be able to pay more attention to it than I would have been while at work, but more than that, I wanted to watch it with my dad. There were a lot of great moments from those seven games, but all of them were made better by the fact that he was watching it with me. For 2 weeks now we've been randomly shouting "Stanley Cup Champions!" to each other, but the reason it has meaning beyond the words themselves is because we were able to shout them the first time with each other. It's possible you have no idea what I'm talking about right now, but if you got your love of sports from your father, like I and so many others have, you don't even need to read this to know what I mean.
Sports and art aren't the same thing, I know that. I know that as happy as it made my father and I, the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup didn't really change anything about the world. Neither did the Mavericks beating the Heat in the NBA finals, a point a petulant Lebron James was quick to make. When an athlete is competing, he or she is almost never trying to "reach" the fans or get a larger message to them, where as every artist almost always is. Even when art is supposed to mean nothing, it was actively constructed that way. Sports aren't actively constructed to convey anything, other than the sport itself. But just because there is no meaning behind sports, that isn't to say they don't have meaning.
As you may have already guessed, sports are among the things that I like. They have been at least partially involved in my life for as long as I can remember. I've been supporting the local teams before I even knew how to say their names. The Patriots, Bruins. Red Sox, and Celtics. I have memories for all of them. And while much has been made lately about how "spoiled" New England sports fans have been, I've seen the other end of it too. Don't get me wrong, I know that at 28, I've seen more from my sports teams than most other sports fans will see in their lives. I don't say that to brag or rub it in to the less fortunate sports cities, I say it because I know how special it is (as a sports fan) to see what has happened over the last decade. And I know I would love my sports teams just as much if none of it had happened.
Now, I have a lot of friends who share my love of sports. Many of them even love the same teams I do. There are some people, however, who don't like sports. More than that, they actively dislike sports, and they think my love of sports is foolish and a waste of time. They think my time would be better spent doing almost anything else. The interesting part is that I share many other common interests with these people. Music, literature, film, television. We have more in common then we don't, and yet these people still can't get past my love of sports, and often take a moment or two to tell me about it. And the more I think about that, the less I understand it.
When it comes to art, there is no accounting for taste. Most people seem to know this, even if they don't understand it. No one expects everyone else to like their personal favorite song or movie or book. They don't always understand why someone won't like it, and may even get mad when someone else claims to dislike it, but everyone seems to know, that's just the way things work. But even though we all like different things in the art we choose to take in (depending on the form), how different are the things we take away from art?
Whether we listen to an album (and I mean really listen, not just throwing it on as background music), or watch a movie, or read a book, aren't we all doing the same things? We allow these artists to take control of our lives, even if just a for a few minutes. We let them put ideas in our minds, making us think about things that never occurred to us or look at topics from a different perspective. We let them make us laugh, cry, smile, or get upset. We surrender ourselves to them, temporarily. We hope to get a glimpse into their lives, and hope to be able to take something away that will make some sense of our own. Sports may not give us the same insights into our lives, but it does allow us to escape from our own for a little while. Getting ourselves worked up over a game gives us a chance to not be worked up over our own problems.
There are those who will try to argue that athletes are nothing but mindless jocks, overpaid men who are simply products of superior genetics. Listen, I know that there are more than a few stories about athletes that would illustrate that very point. I'm sure almost every Division 1 college has, at some point, looked the other way while one of their "student-athletes" forgot the full meaning of that designation. At this very moment, there is no possible joke I could make about Plaxico Burress that hasn't already been made. But does that mean they are all bad? The truth of it is, most professional athletes are probably decent people. Let's be honest, most of the time, news is just barely disguised entertainment, and that's especially true of sports. There is no room for stories about a baseball (or any other sport) player who comes in, works hard, and goes home to his wife and kids everyday. And make no mistake, every one of them, even the spotlight seeking "divas", works hard. To say that any professional athlete got where they are because they were born that way isn't giving them enough credit. Yes, many of us were born with bodies that never would have made it as a quarterback or power forward, no matter how much work we put it. But being born with a body that could make it doesn't guarantee that you will. Many of these men and women have worked their entire lives to be in the shape that they are in, to do the things that they do. Which is just another way sports can be like art.
We, as people, tend to believe that the artists (again, choose your medium) we love are among the best in their field. There is nothing wrong with this belief (provided you understand that it's a subjective one). We want to see the best do what they are good at. Of the four major sporting leagues in America, all of them are the premier leagues for their respective sports. Whenever you watch a broadcast from the NFL, MLB, NHL, or NBA, you are watching some of the best in the world at what they do. We tend to forget this, because we compare professional athletes to other professional athletes, and we do it all the time, even though it isn't always fair. Player A is matched up against Player B. Player A is an average athlete, while Player B is a perennial all-star. On most nights, even is Player A is performing up to his usual standards, he is going to look bad. Fans of Player A's team are going to call local radio shows to criticize him. And that's okay, that's the way sports work. But does that actually make Player A bad? He's still better than you at whatever sport he plays, and he's more than likely better than anyone you've ever known (A common phrase in sports, that the worst player of X is still better than anyone you've ever known at X. Most of the people reading this probably know someone who knows Rocco Baldelli, so I felt the need to alter it slightly. Rocco Baldelli wasn't exactly Babe Ruth, but he was never the worst player in baseball).
Not everyone gets exactly the same things out of the art they choose to open themselves to. There may be someone out there right now reading this who never thinks new things when they read a book, or doesn't think there is (or is unaware of) anything remarkable about the musicians they listen to. While that may be the case, I'm willing to bet that everyone has talked about the music/movies/books that they love with someone else. Think about your close friends. Think about the conversations you have with them. How much time is spent talking about these things? Probably a pretty big chunk. I would even be willing to bet that it's the second most common thing people talk about, with "other people" being the most common (everybody is a gossip). This is because art brings people together. And sports are no different.
My dad is not a very vocal person. He's opened up a bit more as we've both gotten older, but no one would ever call him effusive. I'm not sure my father has ever experienced an uncomfortable silence. Silence of any sort works well for him. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, but as a young kid, I didn't always understand it. Except when we were watching sports. When a game was on, we didn't need to say anything. We both knew what the other was thinking, because we were both thinking the same things. We loved our teams, and we loved each other.
I took some time out of work recently to make sure I was able to watch the Stanley Cup. Of course I wanted to be able to pay more attention to it than I would have been while at work, but more than that, I wanted to watch it with my dad. There were a lot of great moments from those seven games, but all of them were made better by the fact that he was watching it with me. For 2 weeks now we've been randomly shouting "Stanley Cup Champions!" to each other, but the reason it has meaning beyond the words themselves is because we were able to shout them the first time with each other. It's possible you have no idea what I'm talking about right now, but if you got your love of sports from your father, like I and so many others have, you don't even need to read this to know what I mean.
Sports and art aren't the same thing, I know that. I know that as happy as it made my father and I, the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup didn't really change anything about the world. Neither did the Mavericks beating the Heat in the NBA finals, a point a petulant Lebron James was quick to make. When an athlete is competing, he or she is almost never trying to "reach" the fans or get a larger message to them, where as every artist almost always is. Even when art is supposed to mean nothing, it was actively constructed that way. Sports aren't actively constructed to convey anything, other than the sport itself. But just because there is no meaning behind sports, that isn't to say they don't have meaning.
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