C is for Captiousness

Recently baseball icon Sammy Sosa declined an offer by the Washington Nationals of $500k non-guaranteed contract. The Nationals were the only club to express any interest in signing him, so by turning down the offer, Sammy implicitly retired from Major League Baseball, for the time being anyway.

You may not be interested in baseball, and even if you are, you may wonder why I'm giving so much thought to a declining and not particularly well-liked player like Sammy. Still, as a diehard Cubs fan, I want to put ongoing subjects aside (again) and take a moment to say goodbye to Sammy. Well, actually I don’t want to say goodbye to Sammy—‘tho I’m not sorry to see him go. It’s more along the lines of a feeling of obligation. Which is stupid.

For those of us living here in Chicago, there really isn’t hell much to say about Sammy that hasn’t already been said. Some people still love him. Some people hate his guts. I don’t love him or hate him. Now. I have had my moments on either side of the coin. Which is stupid.

Like a lot of people, I did love Sammy. In a way, he was a personal hero, which I didn’t realize at the time and which surprises me as I write this. I loved the stupid little hop he did when he hit one in the air. I loved the way he waved at the crowd when he ran out onto the field. And I knew my feelings were based on atavistic bubblegum silliness, but I couldn’t help but get caught up in them. Which was stupid.

It took a long time for my feelings toward Sammy to curdle. Some people’s feelings did so more quickly. Others still believe. I’m somewhere in the middle. Truth be told, Sammy just makes me sad, and he doesn’t even do that so much anymore. I didn’t watch him blunder through the senate hearings on steroid use in baseball, and I was neither pissed nor amused when his ability to speak English suddenly atrophied. Which was, of course, a stupid and obvious copout.

Speaking of atrophy, seen Mark McGwire lately? A lotta people have said that the homerun race between him & Sammy healed wounds caused by the 1994-95 player’s strike. The spectators were more than a little brassed off that they’d not only lost a World Series, but had their faces rubbed in the conglomerated scorn of the Major League Baseball biz. But here in the light of goodwill were two guys competing for a historical marker. Lotsa dingers were hit, and lotsa gosh-shucks speeches were made. Here were these two humble, but incredibly talented fellas striving for excellence within a great historical human endeavor. At least, that’s how it was presented to the public. Which was stupid.




Naturally, idiotically sentimental baseball fans like me fell for it. We do every time. We’re the same people who thought that Sammy’s big friendly grin—the visual equivalent of a friendly Labrador lickin’ your face—meant that he was a good guy. Which was stupid.

Baseball, like any other commercial endeavor, functions most effectively when you can put a face on it. And in Chicago, that face was Sammy’s. We loved the ’98 Cubs for making the post-season. We recognized the fact that it was a team effort, but Sammy was our leader. He wore the shirt w/ the big team captain’s C on it, didn’t he? And while that was almost poisonously unfair to the other players and the management, it did make it more fun—more old-timey. We fooled ourselves into thinking we had a hero. Which was stupid.

Stupid, but understandable. By ’03, when we got really close, Sammy was on slightly shakier ground. There were rumblings in the clubhouse—rumored tantrums & other prima-donnisms. The C hadn’t changed to a symbol for “cancer.” Yet. But Sammy was lookin’ a little less lovable. The C continued to haunt him, and us, in the form of a corked bat and its attendant accusations of cheating. But he was still our not-so-secret-weapon. When he went to the plate, you saw the other guys really sweat. He gave us what we wanted, but if we hadn’t’ve been so close, I’m not so sure we would’ve all been so forgiving. Which was stupid.

Then Sammy got stupid. During the 2004 season, he camped out on the disabled list with one ailment following another, and some of them seeming potentially disingenuous. (Sneezing fer chrissakes!) This was all going on while Sammy was in a slump at the plate. He was swinging at every goddamn thing in sight, which was a symptom of the offensive disease that seemed to be plaguing the entire team. It was ugly. We’d gotten so close the year before. Some of the people who’d loved him were already calling him a pussy. They were booing him every time he struck out, and that just seemed to cause him to retreat even more. Was he hiding on the disabled list? If so, that was stupid.

(Now I’m starting to sound like Jeff Foxworthy or maybe more like one of those obnoxious speeches people make at political conventions. Which is really, really stupid.)

There were more rumors. You heard that Sammy basically told the other team members that he couldn’t carry their weight. They needed to get off their asses. But you never heard Sammy say anything like that in public. Then Dusty Baker told the press that Sammy’d done a really modest thing: Recognizing that his struggles were hurting the team, he’d volunteered to take a lower slot in the batting order. Not long after this, Sammy complained in an interview w/ the Hoy! newspaper that he hadn’t been consulted about the change. He created this discrepancy that nobody could ignore. Which (you guessed it) wasn’t very smart.

We’d been so close. It had been so long. And now we were so close to being close. Injuries had fucked us up, but down the stretch, we had a shot. It was pissed away. In fact, there was a whole lotta pissin’ goin’ on. The fans were pissed at the team, the management, the owners, and or each other. The team was pissed at the fans, the media and each other. The management was pissed at the team, the fans and the media. And everybody, to the extent that they gave him a thought now, was pissed at Sammy. Which was stupid.

One guy doesn’t piss away a shot at the championship. One guy can’t even cause a world war. (Surprisingly, I just heard that Hitler had some help!) All we were doing was turning him into a scape… uh, well, never mind… Anyway, when Sammy was off the DL, everybody bitched about his performance. When he was on it, everybody bitched about him deserting his team. Which was stupid.

Actually, some people pointed out the absurdity of these circumstances. Some of them were calm, rationale spirits who, to their credit, refused to get caught up in the hate. They looked at things as they really were. Others, who were reminiscent of Elvis fans, still loved Sammy blindly. They ignored the cork. They ignored the fact that the rumors were confirmed—Sammy did throw tantrums. He’d practically do it on camera, if you asked him to. They still loved him. Even now, when the friendly grin was a thing of the past. When Sammy seemed less like a cheerful Labrador and more and more like a yippy little terrier that snaps at everything in sight. Which was stupid. And sad.

Because now Sammy was pissed at the media, the management, and his fans. All of them. I’m not sure if he knew or cared that some of them still loved him, or if he stopped to think about why those who no longer loved him had stopped. Which was stupid.

Oh yeah, and Sammy was pissed at his teammates. The clubhouse atmosphere was even uglier, you heard. Now people were talking about a “clubhouse cancer,” and that C on Sammy’s jersey was starting to sorta look like a Scarlet Letter. You heard that he was throwing more tantrums, making more accusations that the other guys weren’t doing their part. As though the endeavor that they weren’t supporting was him, not the team. You heard that he wasn’t showing up for team exercises or meetings. When Sammy skipped out of the last game of the season and then lied about it, well, rumors stopped being rumors. It was almost like he wanted to get caught. Which was stupid.

Or maybe not. We wanted to get rid of Sammy, & he wanted to get rid of us. He came up with a quick fix, and people were almost grateful. At the very least, no one was mad. No one was surprised. We were relieved. It was like one of those awful romantic relationships that just won’t fucking end. Thanks to Sammy, it did. He provided the last nail in the coffin of something he and the fans had built together: a sand castle phantasm. A pretty comic book picture of a guy who never existed. And I’m guessing it hurt Sammy as much as the rest of us to find out that this guy didn’t exist and never had.

I’m not saying that a human being named Sammy Sosa doesn’t live and breathe. That, obviously, would be stupid. I’m saying that Sammy Sosa was a guy like any other. It’s such an obvious dumbass cliché: an incredibly talented person is, in the end, just a person. And people want to be loved and to be cool. Those are human constants and always have been. Go read Beowulf, where the ass-kickin’ hero is right upfront about the fact that he’s in it for the glory. (And the money.) These people get seduced by alla that bright lights, big city yammery that you’ve heard about 5719 times before. So I won’t bore you or insult your intelligence any further by restating it.

Baseball is just one arena for the acting out of another human constant: we need people to whom we can look up. We put ‘em on pedestals, and they tear ‘em down for us, and we all enjoy every minute of it. We both love and hate ‘em when they spit on us from above and we revel in the sight of the smug bastards falling on their faces and humiliating themselves. And they have similarly schizoid feelings toward us. Everyone gets hurt in the process. We all lose something. So why the hell do we do it?

A lot of people say they don’t do it, but I think they’re lying. I have no proof, but when someone tells me it’s just a game, or just a business, or just the way things are, I think they’re trying to convince themselves of something they want to believe. It’s easier. You don’t get hurt that way. But you do get older. Which is unavoidable.

I Saw God and/or The Reputation

Recently, some of my friends pointed out that I can't seem to write anything that doesn't prominently feature scatology; sodomy; violence toward &/or humiliation of celebrities; (often combined w/eulogies for has-been celebrities;) absurd transformations of people into objects like paper airplanes, hieroglyphics, etc.; cannibalism; &/or images of decay & death, including (but not limited to) frequent encounters w/ the walking dead. They pointed out how often—very often, these days—these themes not only interrupt my ostensible subjects, but frequently shanghai them, beat them senseless & then dance on their carcasses.

My friends seemed sorta concerned about their observation, but mostly just pleased w/ themselves for mapping out part of my psyche—smug bastards. The only thing they couldn't figure out was if I was unconsciously inserting (snicker) these themes, or if I knew I was doing it—and if I did, whether or not it was a matter of choice.

Well, I don't know about all that. You may think I try to fit these things in. The truth is, they just seem to come up in the writing. I guess that's where I am right now, & rather than try to rein in that part of what I write, I figure it's best to let it run its course. Whether it's tedious or boring, it appears that I (& whoever, if anyone, reads this) am (are) stuck in this territory for the time being.


OK so I don't try to fit that stuff in. But I will absolutely admit that I do try to fit in Elizabeth Elmore whenever possible. What's more, I wouldn't mind trying to fit into Elizabeth Elmore. She's that much of a fox. (And Liz, if you're reading this, I mean no disrespect. I am just overmastered by my passion. Nor am I a creepy stalker type. I'm too humble—too much of a scruffy hangdog type to do more than admire you from afar.) And recently, something that relates to Liz actually happened to me.

January 7th saw something like a dramatic yearly astronomical event: The Reputation's annual post-holiday show at Schuba's tavern. Sadly, the last time I'd seen them had been at the previous year's shindig. Since then, I've had to live on the records and my memories. ('Tho I'm still not reconciled to the second album, it hasn't left my iTunes library just yet. I mean, this is, after all, The Reputation.) I always try to make their shows, but lately the timing's been bad. It's been one fucking weird year. So I was amped, cleared my calendar & was ready for the party.

I got to Schuba's early. I waded through the obnoxious Sat. night singles crowd, heading for the back room, whereat I received a hand-stamp in red ink. (After I left the show, a beloved female acquaintance said, "Weeagh! What the fuck happened to yr. hand?" I looked down & saw a large brightly inflamed spot. I said, "Weeagh!" Then I realized it was my "stamp." Either I sweated a lot, or the guy minding the door was being a little lax w/ the hand-stamping.)

I think I've been to Schuba's since the last gig. If it did happen, I guess whatever I saw must not've been that memorable, right? Up until about a year ago, I went out to see live music around once or twice a week, work permitting. These days, it's not unusual for a month to pass w/o my going to any of my old haunts. (The Empty Bottle, Metro, the Riviera, etc.) I'm not sure what's changed. I am a year older, I'll admit. (Fucking calendars.) But more important, I think, is the fact that it was a weird year, as I said. It's sucked, because live music has always uplifted the quality of my life—esp. in the last decade or so.

I don't see anybody very high profile anymore. The last time I did, it was Neil Young, & the show was really, really weak. I've seen him 3 other times in both solo folksy & blisteringly loud rock arrangements, & he's usually pretty great. But this time the show felt perfunctory, and the ticket prices were downright usurious. Mostly I stick to lower profile, often local performers. And lately, 'tho I listen to additional other stuff at home, (Hank Williams, Miles Davis, Sly Stone, Robert Johnson, & C.,) these tend to be purveyors of a limited range of electronica, metal, "avant noise," singer-songwriter acoustic guitar stuff, & most frequently, free jazz & punk/garage rock.

I've found utterly transcendent & utterly disappointing moments at performances of all the above listed types of music. But it's the free jazz & punk/garage rock shows that provide the lion's share of intense experiences. Sadly, the charlatans outnumber the geniuses, so disappointment is more common. Especially at the free jazz & rock shows.

I know that I've recently maligned contemporary rock music, esp. as it travels under the moniker "garage." I dislike that term because it's so clearly a marketing label. Suddenly, a year or 2 ago, we were told through magazines, newspapers, TV & radio, that there was a "garage revival" at hand. ("Garage revival." Doesn't that sound like a rummage sale put on by fundamentalist Christians? Maybe to raise money for some new pews? "Pews!" HAW! HAW! HAW!) I'm pretty sure that there have been plenty of bands playing basic straightforward rock in & out of garages all along & all over the place. I don't think we need a revival, because in terms of rock n' roll, the garage has always been w/ us.

The Reputation are kinda anomalous as far as my taste in music goes. They could be located in the garage—or at least, that's where Elizabeth Elmore may've formed her first set of calluses, playing w/ the other very young members of her Champaign, IL. band Sarge. Today, Elizabeth proudly hawks her own T-shirts, CDs etc., like any other self-respecting indie rock figure. From what I understand, she's always followed a D.I.Y. esthetic, which I take to be Criterion #1 if you're going to be admitted to The Garage or The Pub or The Trailer Park or The Condemned Warehouse. Or any of the other archetypal places where kids w/ a genuine love of music get together & try to achieve a collective 4/4 rhythm & link a coupla bar chords together. That's the beauty of it, right? Anyone can do it. It's at least 50% attitude. And Elizabeth has plenty of that.

Now understand, I do not mean to say that The Reputation play "dangerous" rock music. There's too much of a pop sensibility there—too much of a focus on melody and not enough on danger. Danger in rock is mostly an absurd but enjoyable convention, unless you're at a GG Allin show, or Altamont or Woodstock 2000, or the type of late Stooges performance that's amoralized on Metallic K.O. (Lester Bangs famously called it the only live rock album he knew of "where you can actually hear hurled beer bottles breaking against guitar strings.") And while events of this nature sound good on vinyl, I'm not sure they'd really be fun to attend, unless you're fond of rape, murder, & other misc. violence. (Whether it's yr. own or someone else's rape or murder is basically a matter of luck & therefore beside the point.)

Anyway, I don’t see any reason why a love of melody or of unironic joy or heartache should be damning qualities for a rock band to have. If you like The Beatles, say, & you've been busy sneering at sentimental stuff, then you're obviously a hypocrite. Probably a pussy too: "Sentimental" is a cheap shot label, frequently used by "cynics" to cover the fact that they just made water in their pants because someone was expressing an authentic emotion. The horror! Maybe that qualifies as a kind of danger after all.

When an emotional expression is real, which, I'll grant ya, is rare, it's a great pleasure, which is probably the most important reason why I go to see The Reputation, in spite of the fact that there is not a single other performer of this sort whose shows I attend. It's power pop—another stupid label. To the extent that it has any applicability: Power because on the one hand, it's usually played w/ kinda loud electric guitars. Pop because it's hooky—and because no one would ever call it dangerous.

I am not dangerous. (Unless I'm on the job.) I do like some pop stuff from the 60s-80s. Buuuutttt... I don't like much of the contemporary pop stuff I've heard. (Which isn't much, 'cuz I never listen to the radio unless the Cubs are playing.) But I never regret it when I do get to see The Reputation.

Anyway on the night in question, the Schuba’s crowd was pretty dull. The atmosphere was something like what I imagine an office Xmas party to be. The opener, The 8th Grade, hit the stage promptly, no waiting around, like punctual schoolboys. They then embarked on a adequate, but bromidic set of amalgamated "alternative" toonz.

The singer/rhythm guitarist had short curly hair and was handsome in a clean-cut, sexually irrelevant way—the cheery sort of fellow who leads his church youth group but then goes out to "rock" on the weekends. He did have one song that featured the repeated use of the word "fuck," but, like, the band’s delivery was too arch & cutesy pie for you to feel real threatened. Or interested.

About the only unusual thing about this band were its two lead guitars! You don't see that shit much these days, do you? (Beloved female acquaintance: "Do they need 3 guitars?" She doesn't pay attention to that sort of thing when she listens to music. A buncha the rest of us: "No!") One guitarist had dreds & was clearly this band's idea of a sexy bad boy. He played a lotta squealy high register solos. They were OK, but not worthy of the glee he seemed to find in them. Don't get me wrong: genuine glee is cool. Just this guy's seemed a little self-conscious. My fave band member was the other guitar player, a skinny slob w/ a dorky Prince Valiant hair cut. He really did seem to feel the music—unselfconsciously. And for my money, his solos were better too.

Suffice it to say that they were McBarband in a post-"alternative" soft-core emo maybe sorta way. They were maybe playing in a style that's similar to The Reputation, but like, they couldn't carry The Reputations jock strap. As it were. Oh yeah, this wannabe-heroin-chic chick in a low-cut sleeveless black shirt trundled about clickin' off pix of the fellas plying their rawk. She was one of those aggressively thin women—sorta like the heroin-chic queen of yore, Kate Moss—who look like they'd snap in two if you pushed 'em. She’d squat down low—lookin’ for all the world like some humanoid woodland critter stoppin’ to deposit its spoor,) extending long legs everywhichway around her, so as not to block yr. view. Good thing it wasn't that crowded yet, or she mighta fatally sliced someone w/an errant kneecap.

Ah well. No accounting for opening acts, right? Which is probably a good thing, because the second act, Baby Teeth, actually gave The Reputation a run for their money. As in, Elizabeth had to fight (only a little) not to be upstaged. And she gracefully, if ruefully acknowledged this when she took the stage later. These guys were a last minute fill-in for some other act, but they hit the stage running.

Get this: only 3 guys this time. One plays bass & sings spot-on harmony parts. Another plays the drums, actually adding some personality to the thump-thump 4/4, and providing a second harmony part to the main vocal, delivered by a guy who's playing a bevel of old-school analog synths—a small Roland being the only 1 I remember specifically—sometimes one synth w/ each hand at the same time!!! Holy shit! And these weren't mere acrobatics. No ho. These guys had songs. And they sang 'em like they meant 'em.

Sure, it was all very theatrical—operatic even: All three band members wore white T-shirts & pants. The music hadda Ziggy-era Bowie glam feel to it which was fed by the frontman's warbling delivery. His features shifted in a histrionic, downright protean manner. These guys were performing, sure, but they were in the zone, and as they moved further into it, they grabbed you by yr. balls & dragged you along w/ 'em.

Speaking of balls, remember how I said I'd like to fit into Elizabeth? Well, failing or in addition to that, I really wouldn't mind being her guitar strap. To caress that lovely breast… No, all you soulless Cro-Magnon types, it's not huge. But it—they—both of them are beautifully shaped, and I can only dream of being that strap allowed to caress, gently slide over the cup of Liz's breast, slick w/ the sweat of passion she must find in her music. (Not to mention the heat of the stage lights.) I could sculpt her unseen nipple—exquisite, I'm sure. Most of all, 'tho, I could simply embrace Elizabeth—as an object, sure, but one that she trusts. (I know I can't hope for love.) Oh but wait, we're getting off the subject again...

Except we're not! Not really. I mention the guitar strap because, well, pretty soon Elizabeth was climbing up those steps to the stage. (Schuba's does not seem to provide its performers w/ a backstage area.) Her blond hair shone w/ what might've been a streak of copper. Hard to say if it was an added highlight or just an effect of the light, but I thought I'd spotted such a tint earlier. (More about that later.) On stage, she was resplendent in a brand spankin' new pair of blue jeans & a black sleeveless shirt. (She loves those things, & they do show off her shapely arms—toned, but not too creepily muscled.) There she did break out her ax. It looks like a custom job—the wood being, uh, red—and it does bear a strap. Annnnnddd... said strap does tend to fall across the velveteen (as I imagine it) surface of Elizabeth's left breast. (Sigghhhh...) So see w/ the strap thing? I do have some sense of logic, however roundabout!

OK, you're saying, I get it. But what you really want to know is what Elizabeth did w/ her ax, once she'd plugged in & ordered her guys to attack. Well, it took a minute or 2 to get to that because Thax Douglas appeared. Thax is this large, soft-spoken bearded fellow who sometimes appears at Chicago rock shows to pay tribute to a band w/ some specially tailored pseudo-Beat poetry. It’s always kinda cool when you get to see him. Anyway, he came up & gave The Reputation its beautifully nonsensical tribute. (He'd already provided one for Baby Teeth, which means they must be gettin' big round these parts.)

And thennnnn Elizabeth showed you she was a regular human being by exchanging some Johnny-n-Ed or Dave-n-Paul type chitter chatter w/lead guitarist Sean Hulet. (Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like recently departed & greatly missed NYC guitar impresario Bob Quine—which is to say he's fat, balding & always wears glasses. Hmmmm.... Maybe Bob just wanted to cut all the high profile horseshit & get back to the real music he'd always loved. Yeah. Maybe. But I doubt it.)

The subject for yukkin' here was how drunk they'd gotten at last year's show—they even did shots on stage!!! To all you distinguishing drinkers out there who want to immediately hop on the next big thing—potato vodka & single malt scotch having lost their hipness sometime back—I sadly do not know what The Rep were sluggin'. Of course, Elizabeth does speak of how "whiskey had fucked w/ my head" in "She Turned Your Head." But we have to assume that's a dramatic convention, since while I do think Elizabeth's pain is genuine, I cannot imagine her having so little self-respect as to creep around in the dark like some drooling gutterpup, surveilling her on-again-off-again paramour's (it's unclear if they're on- or off- at this point) place to see if little Miss Sally Loosepants was showing up to service him.

A friendly chortle or 2 was had at the expense of the humble, quiet bass player, Greg Mytych, a bearded, kinda handsome guy, who appeared to be unselfconsciously into the music himself. He had declined the previous evening's invitation to go out drinkin' w/ his fellow male band members. (Elizabeth made it clear that she was hurt by her own exclusion. What's wrong w/ these heartless, sexist bastards?) Seems this fellow tee-totals or at least samples spirits in considerable moderation. Sean Hulet made the following, disturbing revelation: "Dude, I'm 61!" and went on to say that if he could still get shit-faced, this snot-nosed punk better grow a pair! Nothing wrong w/ rockin' whilst agin', but I mean, fuck man, couldn’t you have kept that shit to yerself? I was already feeling old!

Ever wily Elizabeth suggested that they turn the tables on the usual band rowdiness by forcing shots only on this hapless guy. That did not happen, but he did toss one back w/ the band at the appropriate moment.

But so then they cut loose w/ "Either Coast," starting the show w/ the same up-tempo rocker that begins the first record. Man, did it kick! It was louder and more aggressive than you hear it on plastic—downright rock, baby. Light on the pop. That's the way I like it, 'tho I also dig some of those heartfelt ballads. Elizabeth went light on these for some reason. No "Uselessness of Friends" w/, among other things, that brilliant couplet, "won't waste my mind on things that can't remain/same latent flaw keeps coursing through my brain”—a brilliant interpolation, I’m sure you’ll agree, of the ol’ United Negro College Fund slogan.

And worst of all, there was no sign of "For the Win." I did notice that no keys were in sight. Elizabeth sticks to the ax, mostly, but when it's time to really tug at yr. heartstrings, she slides her dainty posterior behind some keys & machine guns you w/ one of her sad songs. I remember wondering, somewhere in the mist of my disorientation, whether she'd been keeping up on her piano exercises. It's easy to let that shit go, I know, esp. when you have another instrument you play.

The absence of keys didn't hurt in at least one respect: we were spared the crappy "jazzy" vamping that ruins so many of the songs on the second disc, To Force a Fate. As a composer & arranger, I like how Elizabeth does interesting things w/ rock/pop idioms. Subtle interesting things, of course: the melodies & the hooks are always there.

The ding-dong moodiness of "The Stars of Amateur Hour," for instance, is cleverly linked to a discordant arpeggio, thus creating a pretty wicked sense of dynamics. This song, one of my personal favorites, was kicked out & revved up by the band, thankfully. The delivery was spot-on, and aside from that the song provided one of the high points of the evening for me, as my party all toasted the lines "...a certain inept licentiousness/ an artless gluttony for squalidness & heated promises." By far, it's one of my favorite Elizabethisms, and I was touched that my friends made this gesture to me. (While they like 'em, my friends mostly think I'm a little overenthusiastic about The Reputation.)

Aside from the downright bizarre "Bottle Rocket Battles," inspired arrangements are mostly missing-in-action on To Force a Fate. The MOR jazziness ain't very creative, and in fact drags the material dangerously close to adult contemporary gruel. Now "Bottle Rocket Battles" features a chanting pair of voices, one male & one female, on its verses, which is set against beautifully sung choruses. This song captures the same sort of emotional and creative tension that marks "Amateur Hour." That it follows an entirely different path to pop glory is admirable. That it rocks is cool: It's a barn-burning thrash-out on the verses. (Sort of.) And then it settles in for some tense chug-chuggin’ guitars on the choruses. It was another welcome piece of the set list.

Aside from the pumped up volume, there’s one other difference I noticed between the way the band sounds live & on plastic. I don't want to criticize Elizabeth, but her singing is not quite as assured when you hear her in person. The very clear and emotive vocals heard on both albums become kinda sorta squeaky on stage. I think that may be a consequence of having to make yourself heard above The Rep's Wall of Sound. (Such as it is.) No matter how much vocal they put in the mix. Still, Elizabeth isn't the only distinguished musical artist to rely on an overdub or two (maybe even a little processing) when recording. Look at late-period Beatles fer chrissake!

But OK, it wasn’t all flowers. Every experience has to have a low point… During some of that amusing banter between Elizabeth & Sean, he starts talking about the White Sox. Man, can this guy kill a party or what? I'm out trying to enjoy myself. I don't need to hear this shit. Sorry, Sox. You can have yr. Series—and I earnestly congratulate you for that. Really. But you will never have my love. That lives in Wrigley Field.

Anyway, this is Chicago, & there are matters of tact re: this whole baseball thing. 'Tho I deferred to silence out of respect for Elizabeth, I was glad to hear that the rest of the crowd did not. More of them than I would've expected booed, & Mr. Hulet looked a little taken aback. Could this be The Reputation's Metallic K.O.??? Would we soon hear the breaking of beer bottles against Sean’s guitar strings, or worse yet his cackleberry skull???

"I got 2 words for ya," he sez: "Dusty Baker." That's all he's got? Sure, Dusty sucks ass, but we already know that. And Ozzie Guillen is approximately 10,317 times cooler, but hell, in spite of Dusty's sucking, we still came to within an angel's downy pubic hair of the 2003 World Series & despite his incomprehensible handling of the pitching staff at the end, he didn't single-handedly blow 2003 for us either. Appropriately, this bit of raillery drew nothing but half-hearted grunts.

Still, indirectly, his words drew blood from me: There are but few things I truly love in this sadly misshapen world. I'd shrugged off the basic dilemma this fellow put before me: How should I react to a minion of beloved Elizabeth slandering the beauty of north-side baseball? But it broke my heart to see Elizabeth nodding at the foolish, bandwagon-jumping (I suspect) sentiments of her underling. "I kinda like baseball now," she said

Damn it Elizabeth! If only we could watch baseball together... You'd see that yr. love for the game is a good thing, but currently misdirected. Ah well... When the Cubs take the World Series this year, things will be different.

Anyway, all in all, I can't complain. And I haven’t even told ya everything! I saved the best part for last: During a break between bands, I went over to the bar to get a beer. The waitress was steering clear of me, I think because when she'd come around once before, I'd told her I didn't want another beer yet although my glass was like 80% empty. I was trying to pace myself. It doesn't hurt to be sorta drunk for these things, but I didn't want my senses to be too blunted, nor to make an ass of myself before the good shit went down on stage.

(For a moment during the show, I was worried. A guy's voice calling out from the crowd, and Elizabeth squinted angrily out into the crowd & said my name! "Steve, is that you?" She was not amused. Was it my voice??? Had it gotten away from me? Was I that drunk? Fortunately, it wasn't me. It was some other Steve.)

Anyhoo, I headed to the bar, waited in a short line, & then the bartender gave me one of those double handed points—kinda like he had 2 six-shooters. Y'know... like those guys in discotheques did in the 70s. It looked like he’d practiced it pretty rigorously, so after I got my beer, I gave him a healthy tip, and headed back into the crowd. I nearly bumped into a short woman who was right the fuck next to me. She had sensible shoulder-length hair that appeared to hold a red tint. I was too disoriented to notice much else, and so I did an actual spit-take when one of my friends asked me how come I hadn't asked Elizabeth for her autograph after nearly colliding w/ her. And that's how I saw that hint of copper up close.

Damn it! That close & I didn't get to talk to her. Probably just as well. I don't think I could've come up w/ much more than monosyllables anyway. I'll just have to continue to love her from afar...

Elizabeth, Elizabeth! (The tip of the tongue taking four steps.) What can I say? How could I ever show you the depth of the love I feel for you as a woman & as an artist?

My female friends tell me you are self-involved. I would say they are wrong, but for an abiding respect that leads me to, uh, extend only the truth to you. Still, why shouldn't you be self-involved? You are magnificent.

My female friends tell me you would've been one of "the popular girls" in school. Of course you could've, if you'd wanted to! W/ yr. beauty?! W/ yr. intelligence!?! They point out that you may have exaggerated yr. apparent intelligence by delivering indecipherable lyrics like "...I'll stay far away from you ground the things we set aloft & burned them through a wasted premise: 'we'..." So I asked them how they could call these words pretentious if they couldn't even figure out what said words meant! Ha! That shut 'em up! (‘Tho truth be told, I think I was restating their criticism when you get down to it.)

My female friends say that you only tell yr. side of the story in yr. songs. Well, OK, I said as much back there in my celebration of the first Reputation record. What they miss—and I told 'em this—is yr. sensitive side. Vindictive as those songs may seem, they come from a deep personal pain, & as such, here are some promises I want to make to you, Liz. I will probably never meet you, but if the opportunity springs up, I will...


-protect you from drunken singles bar louts, like the ones who are no doubt ogling you in "The Stars of Amateur Hour;"
-not simper about how you've caused me so much pain, (even if you ever do,) nor, esp., call you a "slut," like that asshole milquetoast from "Misery by Design;"
-if we are courting, (even in an on again/ off again way,) allow the "tail end of [any other woman's] ass slip up [my] stairs," & not just because I'm not sure how there can be anything other than a tail end to someone's ass, (I might've gone w/ "ass end of her tail" if it were me, but you're the gifted one around here,) but also because I would be zealously loyal till you told me to get lost; not like that jerkoff in "She Turned Your Head," I mean;
-not "underestimate" you when I am unable to explain something to you like that "Alaskan" chump;
-not perpetrate whatever misc. wrongs yr. former paramours commit vs. you on the second record, To Force a Fate; (sorry, I don't know what these may be as I rarely listen to the thing;)
-and most of all, I will watch out for "late night spills" & never ever ever ever use you sexually to make myself feel better like that shithead from "For the Win." Not once.



I think we can see what the problem really is here, Eliza- beth: My female friends are really fucking jealous of you! Which is understandable. I mean, as the Song of Songs sez, "...thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves' eyes w/in thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are ever shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate w/in thy locks..." (4:1-4:3)



Ah, Elizabeth! What more is there to say? I'm exhausted. As always, I got nothin'.

Except that I had a great time at the show, as usual. And that I really love yr. record. The first one. And that I have a genuine & abiding love for the band & esp. for Elizabeth.







No matter how dorky she is.

Force Manure

I know. This is not about Hawaii. This is not about Thing-Fish. I haven't even finished describing my flights to Hawaii, & I didn't even listen to Thing-Fish till my first full day on the island. (I am coming to that. It's all written out even. It just takes a while to get this shit up here, y'know?) But sometimes important things come up... Immediate important things even.

Gimmme an E! Gimme another E! Whatta they spell??? Right! Elizabeth Elmore!

I saw her recently. In the flesh. Any regular reader of this chronicle must understand at least part of what that means!

But before I can even present my account of that heated moment, I feel obliged to provide a foundation of sorts. Catch Elizabeth live in my next entry! It's all written & everything, but I wanna give you time to digest. So w/o further ado, I present....



Force Manure


Being a Brief Consideration of The Reputation's Second Recording, To Force a Fate.

by Harley Bumslurper



A general thesis: To Force a Fate is esthetically inferior to its predecessor, The Reputation. It is also less enjoyable to experience.

There are a number of obvious reasons for this difference. First is a general lack of distinction—and presumably of assurance--in the second album's use of the basic building blocks of popular music—including, but not limited to catchy, pretty melodies; the eloquent expression of universal emotions; and invigorating rhythms. Second is a the not unrelated absence of esthetic chances taken, as even within the arena of popular music, the author takes moderate formal experimentation as a useful resource that may be used by the artist to distinguish her music from the rest of the pop glop available on CD. Third—and I will not say finally, as I have doubtlessly overlooked other areas—is a lack of emotional force, expressed either vocally or musically within this recording.

That being said, I feel that I've often maligned the record w/o specifically indicating what is wrong w/ it. So I would like to work through the album song by song, providing brief reflections on each one. (I will omit a careful consideration of the lyrics, as I have no transcriptions available to me at this time):




-"Let This Rest" - A promising opener—energetic, catchy and sentimental. It ain't "Either Coast," but it's a pretty good, if undistinguished example of the Rep's M.O.

-"Bottle Rocket Battles" - The most challenging track, 'tho not necessarily the best. (Not sure what that would be, so I guess this could be a candidate. The dual male/female vocal undercuts the typical myopic bias of Elizabeth's lyrics. The chorus is moody, but pretty, & there's a downright hilarious hair-band lead-in to its 2nd run. It's nice to see the band trying something different & good to find them tryin' to rock. Too bad they don't make much of an effort elsewhere.

-"Follow-Through Time" - Unleash the lousy "jazzy" piano! Good points: nice melody, some pretty singing, 'tho Elizabeth doesn't sound very confident, but rather a little restrained. At least it's a little louder. A pretty good track that's just not very engaging or memorable. (And as such, it seems to go on for, like, ever.)

-"Face It" - Again, undistinguished, and to my ear it's drifting into adult contemporary/soft rock radio territory. I do like the forceful, pissy way Elizabeth belts out that chorus. Again, it's damn unfortunate that she doesn't show this kinda fire through very often elsewhere.

-"The Lasting Effects" - OK, here's a candidate for the disc's worst track. This one's just riddled w/ bad choices, from the wimpy, morose trumpet to that male guest vocal--in its own ridiculous way, as memorable as the guy/chick singing dynamics of "Bottle Rocket Battles." Its indistinct warbly quality makes you wonder just who the fuck that poor slob is and why the fuck did he let 'em stuff his mouth fulla cotton. (I'm assuming that's partly a mixing issue.) A crappy lead guitar, sparkly rhythm section, and there's that goddamn trumpet again! This one not only approaches a soft rock style, it stumbles into it like an American platoon at the Cambodian border.

-"March" - Dontcha hate it when a singer starts directly addressing the sun, a feeling or a time of day or year. I mean, who the fuck is Elizabeth supposed to be here, Lord Byron? What's more, she sounds less than assured as a vocalist, songwriter or arranger. The melody is amorphous. The song is boring. And again, it sounds like some adult contemporary monstrosity, which given its immediate predecessor, makes you feel like yr. growing worries about this record are pretty nearly certainties at this point.

-"Cartography" - A notably stupid name. (I restrained myself from commenting on this silliness elsewhere.) It almost makes you think that she's playing Thelonious Monk here. And hey! She is playing a keyboard! She's shooting for jazzy once again, w/ similarly deflating results. For some reason, the dull guitar playing leaps out at me as the most obvious sign of general torpor. This song's not quite as bad as "Follow-Through Time," but it's also not quite as bad as a Rick Astley tune. Unfortunately, it is a cousin of Mr. Astley's work.

-"Some Senseless Day" - Finally! A little musical aggression! And coupled w/ one of those beautiful melodies that Elizabeth used to knock out w/o breaking a sweat, (or so it seemed,) it becomes something like the sound that drew me to The Reputation. The trumpet is as superfluous as ever, but its weird Bitches Brew feel actually made me notice it at least. Aside from "Bottle Rocket Battles," this is the only other contender for the record's best song, 'tho I'm surprised I listened long enough to hear it.

"Anarchy in the U.K." - Fooled ya! Really 'tho, this is the point in the album where I start wishing I was listening to the Sex Pistols

-"The Ugliness Kicking Around" - (Another dumb title.) The keys here are the best ones you'll find on this CD. And the track's the only decent ballad around as well. The trumpet shows up again, but it's settled back into dull mopery. The song's OK. It kinda feels like it's shooting at "For the Win" in its moodiness & extended arrangement, but it lacks that song's fire. Also: strings? Why the fuck does this song need strings??? Elizabeth, please, calm down! At least it's a little too bold and forceful to come across as a straightforward stab at soft rock soft core.

-"Bone-Tired" - Minus the guest bleating, this one sounds just like "The Lasting Effects." That means it sucks. It is a nice change to hear Elizabeth being warm, rather than hot-headed or weepy. But overall, this track feels half-hearted, & being the last track on such a short--by contemporary standards—album, it comes across as filler.




In summation: To Force a Fate seems compromised by a desire to come across w/ a hit. Maybe the move to Lookout! Records put pressure on Elizabeth. Or maybe the fact that she was running short on ideas did. She seems to be flailing about here, in search of songs. (It is reminiscent of a late-period Corey Patterson at-bat.) Whatever the case, the album's over-busy and lacks bite or attitude. It's only 40 minutes long, but it feels much longer. As a sincere fan, I hope it doesn't indicate the direction in which the band is headed.