Crossing the diamond with the pearl

"Is this a Claritin ad?"

That's the question my amigo dropped on me halfway through Michael McDonald's set at the Shoreline Amphitheater Monday night. Yes, I spent an evening watching the king of yacht rock, both by himself and backing up Steely Dan, in a night of music I won't ever forget.

The Claritin question wasn't the only thing my amigo dropped. I wasn't planning to go at all, but once he e-mailed to say, "I can't find a hot date, so I'm bringing you," I was on that extra ducat before you could say "Bodhisattva." (As you may know, the Dan has been a regular on my turntable for about 18 years now, with no sign of being shelved for long.) At $65 a ticket, I thought maybe I'd sit this one out, but for free? I'll bring the six-pack for the parking lot, my friend, and the next A's game is on me.

Evidently I wasn't the only one who's been listening for awhile. We were almost certainly the youngest people in Row R of Section 203, and we were clearly among the youngest 5% of attendees at this "Sugartooth McDan" event. A lot of people had "ex-cokehead" (or maybe not quite ex-) written all over their sagging, ashen faces. Others, I am somewhat shocked to report, became surprisingly animated for stuff like "Takin' It To The Streets," which I guess prompts fond memories in a certain American boomer subculture that has now largely backslid into obesity. You should've seen the crowd shots on the video monitors during "What A Fool Believes." I mean, I knew whitey had no rhythm, but this was something to behold. The overhead clap has never been so avant-garde.

Anyway I spent part of the McDonald set watching the swallows dive through the clouds of marijuana smoke rising above Section 203, gazing at the three video monitors sheltered beneath Shoreline's shapely white tent, and trying to figure out whether I could take McDonald seriously at all. The music sounded the way it always sounds in those big sheds, regardless of who's playing -- that weird unnatural drum sound, the bass that's probably not muddy if you pay extra to sit in the 100s level, and the slight delay due to the difference in the speeds of sound and light, that creeps you out when you watch the singer or the drummer on the giant video screens. We arrived just in time for "Sweet Freedom" (theme from Running Scared, right?!?) and eventually bolted for the bar when McDonald started desecrating Marvin Gaye's corpse during "Ain't No Mountain High Enough."

The Dan were another thing entirely. The ten-piece band took the stage without our two heroes, doing some sort of hard-bop Blakey thing until Fagen skulked out to his Rhodes and Becker mainlined -- er, made a beeline for his blue guitar. "Won't you take me by the hand," they asked, and we did. Then there was "Time Out Of Mind," making us think the set list might veer toward the strange, but it really didn't. Heavy on Aja all night, leaving out only "Black Cow" and "Home At Last." (Set list here.)

I kind of figured a 2006 Steely Dan show would have to balance the three R's: Recital, Re-creation and Revival. Is this going to be a bunch of old men reading charts? Is it a simulation of a 1970s LP? Or is it new life for old songs? Fortunately, the show tended toward the last. Most of the band was older, but there were some kids up there too. The very young drummer did Steve Gadd justice on "Aja," and seemed to be driving the bus at many points during the evening. Fagen looked a little silly playing that keyboard/harmonica thing (I guess it's commonly called a melodica or a "hooter," seen in above photo), but his campy stage presence and bad sneakers were appropriately smarmy. I expected no less.

Bonnie Raitt appeared for a song, actually saving the bit of juvenilia called "Dirty Work" from the scrap heap. "Hey Nineteen" was a huge middle-aged ex-cokehead singalong, although the Bubber Miley-vs-Tricky Sam plunger-mute horn argument bit was my favorite part. They trotted out McDonald for seven songs, including the weird "foreign movie" harmony in "Peg," and let him sing lead on "Show Biz Kids" and most of "Do It Again." The proceedings ended with "My Old School," and although Fagen blew the words a couple of times, it didn't matter.

Steely Dan was perfect for the occasion, and more: 70 degrees at showtime, a cooling sunset overlooking the GooglePlex from behind the hill, a bunch of smug druggies folding their arms as if to say "here we are now, entertain us", and a faint memory of what surely was a really good time for a bunch of ornery putzes in the 1970s ruling the evening. I guess you don't really understand those laid-back 70s Eagles people until you've walked a mile in their shoes sandals. I get it, California, I do.


FMFM: "FM"

The White Sox used to have this outfielder....

I imagine this man's name coming out of Keith Jackson's mouth, and it's even funnier.


FMFM: The Bard College interview with the Minutemen

Your band could be my life

Watt says, "Punk rock happened and we saw other lame dudes getting gigs, and [we thought] whoa! We can try this!"

D. Boon, finishing the thought, adds, "We're lame! We can play gigs!"

A very long tail

A great story from Wired editor-in-chief Chris Anderson.


FMFM: Egoslavia, of course

Go upstate and get your head together

I love foggy San Francisco in the summertime, but sometimes I can't help but think we're robbed of a real summer. That's when I get the itch for another roadtrip. Thursday afternoon was one of those times, so I got in the car and drove up I-5 for a brief sojourn, documented in photos here.

The pictures are nearly all from my hike through Lassen Volcanic National Park early Friday. (For the uninitiated: Lassen Peak is the second-to-last volcano to erupt in the Lower 48 states, with only Mt. St. Helens popping twice since. Lassen is also the southernmost of the Cascade Mountains.)

You can climb and descend the 10,450-foot peak in an afternoon, but I didn't bother this time, having summited it three times before. I'd also been down to the memorably-named Bumpass Hell twice, so this time I elected to explore the northwest corner of the park. There's a pretty alpine lake, Manzanita Lake, and nearby Reflection Lake, for scenic views, but those were fairly well populated with RVs, families and senior citizens, so I elected to embark on a four-mile jaunt out to Crags Lake and back.

The treelined path to Chaos Crags is well-maintained, but still fairly remote and unoccupied. The ranger said I didn't have much to worry about hiking alone, and I saw no large fauna on the way up or back, save for about ten people over the course of three hours. The soft dirt trail winds up through the pines, many of them covered in iridescent moss that looks a little like farofa, then gives way to a mostly-meadow area before cresting above the lake. I sat for awhile in the meadow, enjoying the emptiness and gazing out at fifty-mile-away peaks, before descending into the crater and pausing beside the lake.

I admit that I expected a larger lake, rather than the tadpole-filled green pool at trail's end. It's still a pretty spot, sure. But this place is interesting because of its geologic instability more than anything else. The land simply collapsed there -- about 300 years ago, the geologists say -- and now is strewn with relatively lightweight rocks that shift beneath your feet, sounding like crunching broken glass and providing ample opportunities for twisted ankles. I was just fine in my Asics, though, scampering up for a pretty decent look at Mount Shasta across the way before heading back to the trail. [Google Earthers or GPSers: the lake appears to be the black dot at roughly 40°31'57" N, 121°31'50" W -- roughly in the center of the frame.]

This was a low-to-moderate impact hike any healthy adult could complete in a few hours, across spectacular terrain in a National Park with geologically interesting phenomena along the way, and yet there was almost nobody there. I've heard that Lassen is the least-visited National Park in the Lower 48 (true?), and I've met many lifelong Californians haven't even heard of the place. (Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't be publishing this stuff -- I should really keep it all to myself.) I suppose the Park isn't long on stuff for Grandma to do, lacks a marquee attraction like Yosemite Falls or Old Faithful, and is easily accessible for only five months out of the year. (There's no lodging anywhere near the place, save for a guest ranch in a remote area of the Park.) I have a hunch I'll be returning before long, though not on a day when temperatures in the Sacramento Valley are expected to reach 112 degrees. Yikes!

[UPDATE: Check this. Isle Royale seems to get the most citations, but people definitely have differing views on what the least-visited National Park really is.]


FMFM: "St. Dominic's Preview," one of the all-time great San Francisco songs. Inspired by RustedRobot's link to Van The Man's performance of "Caravan" in The Last Waltz.

A friend in need

"You need to call Steve Hoskins," Barry continues. "That's what you need to do."

Or maybe not.

Sadness

This is heartbreaking news. I'm happy to hear that Pappy & Harriet's is still standing, but for the rest of Pioneertown, the news doesn't look good at all.

Hope your favorite desert musician made it out OK -- and everyone else too. What a drag.

[UPDATE: More here. Situation not improving.]

[...but this story offers a little hope for "much of Pioneertown's historic district" and Pappy & Harriet's. Two nasty-looking photos are here and here.]


FMFM: Bill Evans' understated Explorations. The version of "Nardis" here is among my favorite Evans performances, and features the dizzying bass runs of Scott LaFaro (speaking of tragic losses in the music world).

Rough trade

You might have heard about Kyle Macdonald, the fellow who successfully bartered his way from a paper clip to a house.

As much as I appreciate this stunt, I can't help but note that the house in Kipling, Saskatchewan, is only 115 miles from Crosby, North Dakota, where they're giving away houses for free.

Shootout at the fantasy factory

As my amigo talks up the Cup final, I have just one thing to add: Deciding the final on penalty kicks is lame. I realize that these guys are sapped of their strength, already playing on wobbly knees by the 120th minute, but isn't that just one more sign that the game's going to end soon? When somebody makes a mistake, or gets outrun by a player with more stamina? When the team with the deeper bench succeeds where the thinner team fails, just like in most sports playoffs?

Solution: If the game has to end with a shootout, they should at least make the players dribble toward the goal before shooting, from perhaps 30 yards out. You know, hockey-style. At least you'd incorporate a few more soccer skills into the process. And the goalie wouldn't be a sitting duck with his heels on the touchline: he'd have to show some real moves out there too.

Then again, I'm just an every-fourth-year American fan, telling the rest of the world how to run their game. I don't want to sound like some Belgian guy saying there should be either three balls or four strikes, so the batter and pitcher have an equal chance. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time someone tried to innovate in soccer to capture Americans' attention....


FMFM: Doughboys, Playboys & Cowboys: The Golden Years of Western Swing on Proper. I can't say I love every cut on this 99-song box, but this is a very deep set that includes a lot of songs you couldn't make up if you tried. I mean, I really wonder about track #54. And who knew the original "Yellow Rose of Texas" was a racist song?

[Clarifying: I'm not saying I'm impressed with the original racist lyrics of "Yellow Rose," I'm merely intrigued by the fact that such a well-known piece has such an ignominious past.]

Moratorium, please

Dear World,

Can we please stop saying "threw up in my mouth a little"?

That was so last summer. 43,800 Google hits and counting.

Yours,
The View From Fort Miley


FMFM: Ravi Shankar's Festival From India

Soccer America

This excellent story is a trip down memory lane for me. I believe I was part of the largest crowd ever at Giants Stadium as an eight-year-old -- there to view a Cosmos playoff game. I was too young to see Pele, but I recall cheering for Chinaglia, Alberto, Beckenbauer, Neeskens, and others not named in the article. (The star defender, Vladislav Bogicevic! The goalie, Hubert Birkenmeier! Young California-bred phenom Ricky Davis! And a crafty Portuguese star called Seninho, whom my dad recalls once humiliating a goalkeeper by kicking the ball up to his head, knocking it down to the ground, and flipping it over the keeper's head on a half-volley.) I'll have to see the movie too.

This person has a nice NASL history too. Oh man, the Tulsa Roughnecks? No wonder the league didn't make it.

[UPDATE: More here. Also, further research seems to reveal that it was not the largest crowd ever at Giants Stadium. But it was definitely a big one.]


FMFM: Sonny Rollins' Quartets Featuring Jim Hall, including all of The Bridge and some other period material. This one took awhile to grab me, but Hall's sensitive guitar parts have emerged as a warm, subtle complement to Rollins' exciting tenor.

"Mood Indigo" on YouTube

I can't quite read the copyright date because my eyes have never been good enough to hit the curveball, but I think it says MCMLXII -- 1952. I'm guessing that the bass clarinetist here is the always-reliable Harry Carney. The trombonists do not include Juan Tizol, who played a valved instrument. (They could be Quentin Jackson and Britt Woodman, who appear on Ellington Uptown from the same era.) Based on some old photos, I'm speculating that the clarinetist playing the familiar soprano instrument may be Russell Procope, and the trumpeter is probably Clark Terry. I think you know who the piano player is, and his first phrase is his best one (although the rest of his solo is fine, fine).

I'd never heard a two-trombone arrangement of this piece before. Part of the magic of the 1930 recording of "Mood Indigo" comes from the tonal blend from pitching the trombone part above the clarinet part, which doesn't happen the same way here. But the execution from this group remains flawless, the phrasing exquisite. Worth your 4:16. This is the way they used to do it: live, with no mistakes.

Taking your eye off the ball

Just in time for you to not read the paper on the Fourth of July, this happens. Maybe you missed it while you were grilling. I did.

Seen your video

Among the zillion great things you can find on YouTube: lost mid-90s no-budget rock videos by indie artists, which MTV may or may not have played back in the day. There was a little sub-sub-genre of absurdist videos, usually featuring members of the band doing ridiculous things for no good reason. They were visually livelier than the Replacements' inspired "anti-video" clips from the 1980s, but they weren't necessarily more meaningful.

I know I saw Pavement's "Gold Soundz" clip on MTV once, late at night. I don't know if they ever played the Archers of Loaf's "Web In Front". Both are hilariously weird.


FMFM: The sounds of celebration in France

Godless killing machines without a soul

The threat is real.


FMFM: "Jack of Speed", one of the best midlife crisis songs ever

Animal instincts

I've been watching the Steely Dan video over and over for a whole day now (thanks, Advanced Theory!), but if you've tired of Rick Marotta, you may enjoy this drum-related clip instead. Not bad, buddy.


FMFM: Horace Silver's "Song For My Father," which the Dan nicked for "Rikki Don't Lose That Number."

R.I.N.P.

Half an hour after reports of Ken Lay's death surfaced, the Wall Street Journal has had this to say in the fourth and longest paragraph of a five-graf story:

"As the Enron prosecutorial effort winds down after four years of forensic digging, it is clear that the government moved quickly in the wake of the 2001 scandal to demonstrate to an angry public that a cop was on the beat, the guilty would be punished and the system purged of corruption."

What an odd sentence. Deep inside words like "demonstrate," the WSJ is code-talking, saying to anyone who's listening that Lay was singled out for doing a slightly worse version of what everyone does. The amount of time and money spent prosecuting Lay and Skilling may be disproportionate to the magnitude of their crimes compared to other white-collar crimes that are barely prosecuted at all, but the idea that they were prosecuted as some sort of puffed-up display of governmental power is absolutely daft. These men ruined an awful lot of people's lives. Rest in no peace.

[UPDATE: The WSJ has replaced its original story with a new version that strikes the above paragraph. But, apparently without irony, the new version includes a sidebar headlined "Road to Judgment Day" that ends with Lay's May 25 conviction.]


FMFM: Lady Soul, which we transferred from vinyl to CD shortly after watching the Tom Dowd movie (again) this weekend. In contrast to the things already being said about Ken Lay almost everywhere but the Wall Street Journal's pages, a lot of people have remarked this week that the late Arif Mardin was the consummate professional. I'll give him a free pass on No Jacket Required and Culture Club. I mean, Dusty In Memphis alone balances a dozen crappy records from the 1980s. May the Karma Chameleon eat up Ken Lay in the next life, and may Arif Mardin be greeted at the gates by a bad-ass rhythm section and a fat retirement fund.

All quiet on the Western front

Apologies for slipping out of the blogosphere these past few days. I'm afraid it's not because I've been in some faraway exotic place -- just doing a lot of outdoor cooking and ballgame watching and so forth.

I can report a brief HATFYR reunion, acoustic style, on the porch in Guerneville. (A.L. Jones was there to see it.)

I can also report that Steely Dan has good taste in guitar solos. Obvious, I know, but wait till you gaze down the road not taken. And check out all those Michael McDonalds!

I'll be at Stinson Beach with an expert outdoor chef today. Back in this chair for too many hours (but not too many, really), tomorrow.


FMFM: Lee Dorsey's Yes We Can (...And Then Some, actually). It's the kind of record that gives me a Louisiana jones: the Meters, Sr. Toussaint, and the charismatic vocals of Mr. Dorsey, all in one place, though not necessarily at the same time. "We knew him in passing," says George Porter Jr. of Dorsey, quoted in the liner notes.