Catching Up Vol. 3: Ringo Was a Great Drummer

For all the abuse Ringo Starr takes from fans and musicians, the newly remastered Beatles catalogue represents a validation. A generation of fans grew up listening to nothing but brittle CD transfers, not the bright, fleshed-out mixes that came out in September.

I have only gotten through With the Beatles, A Hard Day's Night and Abbey Road, but the instruments pop; no more does the awkward stereo mix push all the instruments either hard-left or hard-right. The Beatles finally sound organic; look for fingers sliding against guitar strings, Paul's bass galloping against Ringo's fleshed-out beat. Having listened to those albums innumerable times, it amazed to find they had so much new warmth and depth to offer.

But that hasn't been all this fall. Here is a roundup of my latest listens, short and sweet:

Noah & The Whale, First Day of Spring
I really like this band's debut, but this song cycle about a break-up never gelled for me. There are a few good tunes sprinkled in, but nothing on par with Five Years' Time or Rocks & Daggers. While ambitious, it stalls on too many bland acoustic ballad and none of the female vocals which spiced up their debut; unfortunately, the female voice belonged to the former girlfriend addressed on First Day of Spring, so the best feature of Noah & the Whale might have been stripped away.

Os Mutantes, Os Mutantes
Where has this psychedelic gem been hiding all my life? A newer incarnation of this Brazilian rock band now tours, but it all started right here on this self-titled ancestor to My Bloody Valentine's Loveless.

Kings of Convenience, Declaration of Dependence: I awaited this third disc from the Swedish duo since I saw them perform the quietest show ever at Little Brother's in 2005. They don't swerve away from their delicate, harmonious sound, but they advance it enough not to sound repetitive. Os Mutantes defies easy description, so just grab a copy and prepare to be challenged.

The Flaming Lips, Embryonic: Love them or hate them, Oklahoma City's finest shake up their sound and restore the fractured pop they churned out prior to She Don't Use Jelly. A bold step for the Lips. Don't ask about tracks - I know they released a single, but the band hasn't sounded less commercial since Zaireeka. If you can't appreciate the music, at least appreciate that the band took a major chance after the middling, bland At War With the Mystics. Each of these tracks has a dagger for the soft belly of The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song.

Avett Brothers, I and Love and You: Thank Rick Rubin's production for avoiding the major label slump; the Avetts coming-out record has moments of lush music, tender lyrics and driving piano interludes. Just as the songs appear ready to decide to descend into pop-balladry cliche, the Avetts turn away and reward your faith. This is a natural progression for their bluegrass-tinged rock.

Lou Barlow, Goodnight Unknown: This record resembles Barlow's home recordings more than the gentle folk-rock of Emoh, his previous long-player. While that record never faltered, his reversion to fuzzed-out rock on a few tracks puts his shortcomings on display and weakens the solid acoustic tracks dispersed within. But some of the best music Barlow wrote this year already appeared on Farm, the latest from Dinosaur Jr., so

Catching Up Vol. 2: Indians' Ineptitude Cannot Evade Spotlight

Any faithful Cleveland sports fan has to thank God for the Cavaliers, because I have never seen such chaotic, arrogant incompetence from the other two teams in town.

Here I won't touch the Browns, not even from 500 miles away. Enough have (rightfully) gouged Eric Mangini, and until Randy Lerner decides to sell, I can't allow myself to care.

But baseball is different; while there should be ample cause for watching a potentially epic World Series, I am stuck on the Indians.

Unfortunately, the gut-punch from the masterful choke in the 2007 League Championship never fully heals. I desperately want to forget, just as I'd like all memories of this disastrous season washed clean.

But I won't get that, not when Charley Manuel has the Phillies in a second straight World Series, not when the two Cy Youngs produced by the Indians, CC Sabathia and Cliff Lee, face each other in Game One, and certainly not when another on-the-cheap managerial hire leaves fans angrily scratching their heads again.

Sabathia just won ALCS MVP honors; in 2007, he couldn't find the strike zone with anything but meatballs the Red Sox were ready to pummel. The Indians left Cliff Lee off the playoff roster before he went onto his magic 22-3 performance in 2008. He pitched just as well this year, but for another spit-and-duct tape Indians team of super-utility players, injured players ready for the scrap heap (see Hafner, Travis) and headcases (see Carmona, Fausto).

First, they take a page from the Randy Lerner playbook and pick a coach nobody wanted aside from the equally inept Houston Astros. I want to give Manny Acta the benefit of the doubt, to overlook that atrocious record with the Washington Nationals, but my gut rumbles with the same uneasiness I had when the Browns hired Mangini. Hearing him talk about Travis Hafner coming back from injuries ... well, I don't know any Indians fan who think the damaged slugger will do more than hit the occasion single between rehab spells until his contract lapses and he retires.

Baseball people rave about Acta's preparations, but let's face it - so long as the Dolans own the Indians, Cleveland won't be a desirable stop for a manager. If they had fired Mike Hargrove in 1997 like John Hart wanted, there would have been no shortage of candidates. Dick Jacobs looks so much better all the time.

Ten years later, Larry Dolan's line about a string of championships couldn't feel more ridiculous. Profits taking precedent over playoffs (I know the Dolans claimed losses of $16 million this year, but team ownership is generally a break-even proposition at best outside of NYC). Why would Don Mattingly come here knowing Joe Torre might retire after 2010? Why would Bobby Valentine commit when he had an ESPN gig waiting him?

Every fan wants to think the best coaches want to turn their teams around, but the Dolans have given no inclination they will support it with resources. This team's future is so muddled that the likely Opening Day starter could be a guy who hasn't pitched in two years. Otherwise, pick a name out of a hat.

Pitchers and catchers don't report until February, but the path of baseball in Cleveland already feels too bleak.

Catching Up Vol. 1: The Columbus Half

[Time to catch up on blogging after two relentlessly crazy weeks. As Elton John once quipped after coming onstage 45 minutes at a concert my parents attended, "Sorry for the delay. I'll make it up to you."]


Forget the shivers and cold legs; runners love it anytime a race starts at dawn with a temperature barely above freezing. Once packed into the staging area, it warmed considerably. With a barely audible start gun, I bid good luck to Jason Main, who I knew would disappear from sight before we ran a quarter-mile, and finally got to work on a promise I made to myself not long after I started running three years ago.

Finally, the October Sunday arrived, and I was charging down Broad Street with 12,000 other runners, shedding clothing and tossing my Team Zissou ski hat when it became impossibly hot after the first mile.

Of the six I've run, this was the friendliest half-marathon I ran. Getting out of the Main's van at the starting line, a woman ran up and asked if I was from Tennessee because I wore my Murfreesboro Half Marathon shirt. It turned out she was the race director. On the course, somewhere deep in Bexley, I got into a brief conversation with a couple from Knoxville, and that was just one of many. People were chatty that morning, enhancing the neighborhood feel of the race, which zigzagged through Bexley, Olde Town East, German Village, the Brewery District and most of Downtown's highlights.

My body betrayed me around Schiller Park - folks, regularity is overrated on race morning.

And note to the guy playing TLC's Waterfalls on acoustic guitar -Never disrespect a runner at Mile 11. We might lack the full marathon inclination, but you like a pie-eating contest champion. Don't call someone "the day's first androgynous runner when bundling up for the cold race start made their gender a question to you. And don't expect respect in return when you ask a chafed man with throbbing calf muscles.

Pain shepherded me through the final paces, when stopping felt so right. It got so bad I missed that Columbus finally tore down the awful pedestrian bridge from the derelict City Center Mall. Even on a Sunday after devastating Ohio State loss (you can't rationalize that Purdue victory in any way), give Columbus its due; its residents poured out onto the streets and made the race the welcoming event the city needs, not the black marks it receives for drunken fans harassing those from visiting teams.

Aside from the Marine Corps band playing in front of the Capitol building's William McKinley statue, I hardly noticed anything at all. That only lasted until the final turn came into view; full marathoners must try hard to ignore that - the turn happens at Mile 13, when 1/2-Marathoners have just a few hundred yards to finish. Thanks to the bathroom stop, I had no chance to set a personal best, but 2:26:45 beat my 2009 Country Music mark by a cool nine seconds.

I couldn't find Jason and his family at the crowded finish, so rather than stand still and cramp up, I walked all the way back to my buddy Mike's house in Victorian Village. So I tacked on another 1.5 miles to the half-marathon, which was surprisingly fun; the full marathoners pass Mile 25 on that stretch of Neil Avenue, so I got to see some especially fast runners cruising to the finish.

I limped and tossed my way into Cap City Diner for brunch and celebration of a new law - the Ohio Legislature finally broke down the last of the blue laws, allowing restaurants to serve at 11 a.m. That made the bloody Mary taste that much better. Although my legs tried not to cooperate, I made numerous visits around the city, catching up with my core people in Columbus, grabbing a beer at Bodega (God, I need a bar in Nashville like it) and enjoying a slow pace in the big city for one.

That Sunday was one of the last pretty falls days to hit Central Ohio. Between clumps of pinkish red leaves fanned on the pavement, I saw one large ant sluggishly navigating the cracks. At dusk, he had little time to reform before the elements claimed. Why focus on something so insignificant, a single insect racing against the fading season? On a different scale, I just saw another anonymous runner pursuing a finish line, concentrating only on his journey, not the rest of the field.

A Southern Serving of Literature

Given the disparity in their subject matters – the brutalized poor in the Deep South and the need to reinvestment in space exploration – it was a surprise to hear Rick Bragg and Buzz Aldrin make the same point.

But the chronicler of the South’s forgotten people and the second man to step on the Moon both managed to note that America might not be in the this financial quandary if it’s only remaining industries weren’t focused on making money from nothing.

It was interesting to hear such different men criticize our system for the same failing. But at the Southern Festival of Books, interesting is the order of the weekend.

While a fair number of people ventured outside to Legislative Plaza on this gloomy October Saturday (fall presented itself in a major way), the speakers validated this literary gathering, the one non-musical event in Nashville I managed to miss the past two Octobers.

While Aldrin meandered and struggled with a few non-sequitirs, he hit numerous high points, including a jab at people who point out their BlackBerry or iPhone (Aldrin owns both) has more computing power than the Apollo spacecraft guidance system. “I get a little resentful about that. But I can throw this BlackBerry in the air and it’s going to crash,” he remarked. He also delved into his need to file an expense report for a rental car after Apollo 11 splashed down in the Pacific.

When not working on Magnificent Desolation, his latest autobiography, Aldrin stays busy promoting space exploration these days. His urging toward Mars went beyond simply a visit and a return; he draw parallels to the Pilgrims, saying colonization should be a goal. “That is a valuable opportunity for someone who just won a Nobel Peace Prize,” Aldrin concluded.

While Aldrin aimed for the stars, Bragg stayed firmly tethered to Southern soil (like Aldrin, he was promoting a new book, The Most They Ever Had, chronicling the plight of cotton mill workers and their dying industry. “These people don’t have much of a champion anymore," Bragg said.

He took turns praising how far Southerners can stretch a can of potted meat, excoriating people a generation or two removed from the working people who turn their back on them, and explaining why his works don’t fit with Hollywood’s slanted perceptions of the South. “Do you know what Hollywood does to stories? They would have my mama in a leather skirt and a beehive hairdo, speaking in a Savannah accent,” he said.

Finally some light shed on the Vultures

With only a handful of veiled performances to their name, Them Crooked Vultures came to Nashville's War Memorial on Oct. 5 with high yet unanswerable expectations.

There was little to divine from the crowd - with no knowledge of the music to come,
only age divided up the audience, with its mix of 70's (the Zeppelin fans), 90's (Foo Fighter frontman Grohl united with his drumkit) and Double Aughts (Queens of the Stone Age).

Aside from a few camera phone shots and mumbled song names, they had given up little about themselves. But the members needed no introduction ... well, rhythm guitarist Alain Johannes did.

The main trio got an uproarious when singer/guitarist Josh Homme introduced drummer Dave Grohl and bassist/keyboardist John Paul Jones. The other two got their share of cheers, but even Homme seemed shocked at the decibels added for the Led Zeppelin bass player. All he got out was, "I know," as he still felt surprised to share the stage with Jones.

I can't say if this band is merely a chance for Homme to play with his dream lineup, but he put on such an electric show with Jones and Grohl that it didn't matter.

"I think this is our tenth show together. No one knows the music so everyone has to listen. It's a little old school," Homme admitted near the end. Going in, nobody knew what to expect during the first show on the supergroup's brief North American jaunt.

Minus headphones, people might remember this as the concert where deafness officially set in. For those of us in earplugs, the trio delivered a slab of rock heavier than almost anyone.

Now, the music cannot escape comparisons to Queens of the Stone Age's Songs for the Deaf, upon which Grohl played drums. Homme's clean vocal style gives the music a precision that most metal acts lack; Homme actually has range and doesn't resort to growling and guttural lows. But it also becomes an unbreakable link to his main band.

Luckily, the musicianship rose above their past accomplishments. Jones broke in with some nice harmonies and led a chorus or two. Homme's vocal drew eerily close to Layne Staley of Alice in Chains on a few tracks.

The music grooved as nothing from the Queens or the Foo Fighters could, the splashes of piano and keyboard orchestrated by Jones prevented any lapse into metal monotony. Back to the seat he occupied in Nirvana, Grohl looked wholly content when bashing it out as he played with Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem Band.

On the catchy Scumbag Blues - one of the few audible song titles - Homme hit his high range in voice and guitar, with squealing notes at times resembling the late "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott from Pantera.

The keyboards were a little more difficult; Jones broke out a keytar on one of Homme's "love songs," and then mercifully traded it back for his bass. But he showed his adept skill on piano, gradually dialing down a 60's pop melody into brutality on par with No Quarter. One later effort saw Jones jump away from the bass in time to give one brutal song a slightly bittersweet piano coda a la Faith No More on Epic.

Them Crooked Vultures closed with a jam that took some proggy twists, where the three principals seemed to challenge each other technically, pushing the tempos to stranger heights while rattling the floorboards. Grohl grew extra arms, Homme switched from speed metal to skillful blues without a hitch, and Jones was the rock, never breaking a sweat. Rarely will any musician weave through such intricate basslines so effortlessly.

The shredding jam concluded in a few grungy chords, and they departed without an encore, the shortcoming of many a band with one album to their credit (one unreleased album, in the Vultures' case).

In one show, Jones, Grohl and Homme firmly established Them Crooked Vultures as their own animal. Recognizable songs were a luxury, but in the age of instant media, the supergroup preserved its air of mystery, if only for one show.

Bright Sky, Dead Headphones: Surviving the 2009 Middle Half

Important confession – I barely trained. Calling what I've done in the past six weeks does a disservice to hard-working runners everywhere.

Aside from a handful of 6-8 miles runs back in July and early August, regular long runs disappeared around the same time Grandma passed away. My running gear went to Montana, but the Tennessee altitude did not; when I ran there, I ran poorly, and never for more than a few minutes, much less miles. In eight days, my lungs could not adapt to these new heights.

The unshakable tired state I have lived in ever since taking the second job I doubted the 8 ragged miles I ran in Brentwood last week would do much to build my endurance again. I had bleak expectations for the Middle Half.

But muscle memory runs deeper than I ever imagined. Knowing the course in Murfreesboro probably helped.

What didn’t were problems that began between Mile 1 and 2. As I propelled along to Don’t Let Me Down by ELO (seriously, you can’t just walk to that song), the right earphone began crackling and died within, cutting out completely during Badlands. I ran last year’s Middle Half without any musical accompaniment, so I expected to survive this setback.

Broken headphones quickly became a minor quibble. The worse diversion was the unexpected deviation from certain morning routines took during this year’s Middle Half. Around Mile 3, part of my body felt wrong. Around Mile 6, I accepted the inevitable, but I held on until Mile 7, when necessity finally found a short line. Give me back the 15 minutes loss by standing in line, and I could have challenged last year’s time. At 2 hours 37 minutes, I challenged no one but myself. But through 10 miles I barely stopped, aside for the aforementioned necessity.

At Mile 10, I allowed myself a break, which evolved into a mistake. Walking for 100 feet unraveled the pace I resumed for the past three miles, and I struggled for the last three. Running wherever I could, and stopping with more frequency once inner thigh cramps forced me into abrupt stretching breaks after Mile 11.

I had no last minute burst of runners’ fury to spirit me across the finish line. I took my finisher’s medal, a plate of bananas, orange slices and power bars, then let my muscles stiffen during the 40-minute triumphant ride home.

I had conquered this flat course again, running anonymously aside from the shout-out my financial adviser offered gave as he tore into Mile 4. Anonymity often helps with big races – there’s no one to impress, and more than enough people cheering for all passersby.

I get redemption in two weeks. The Columbus Half Marathon, which once seemed so implausible a goal, awaits me on Sunday the 17^th. In 2006, I fretted over moving from 5Ks to 5 milers. Now, the signature race I wanted to run for the past two years finally crawls close on the calendar.

If I don’t get it there, I have less than six weeks from Columbus to December, when the St. Jude Marathon spills into the streets of Memphis. Like Murfreesboro, both downtown Columbus and Memphis are relatively flat, so those half-marathon will compare favorably.

With half marathons, the chance at besting an old time or fixing a flawed training program never sits too far away.

More importantly, I have chance to reschedule my bodily functions to keep them from knocking me off pace.

Why Joe Always Gets His T-Shirt

Even in the wilderness, unmistakable evidence of America's rampant consumer bleeds into the scenery

The visitor centers and gift shops scattered among America's national parks hold little grip on me. Parks need to cash, and people need to show off their travels to far-flung places.

The map is usually enough of a memento. I don't crave souvenirs when cruising through national parks, just the ability to show my route, the sites and the stops. OK, I'll cop to buying a Glacier National Park T-shirt - I needed more than the map from this place I'd dreamt of for years.

But paradoxically, one of those stops has to be merchandise-related. A new tradition began last year, when coming down from Rocky Mountain National Park and feared I'd never again breathed normally. While relishing in my rapid rebound in the much thicker air near the park entrance, I left the park with a handful of postcards and a Rocky Mountain NP T-shirt.

I repeated it twice on this past trip at Yellowstone and Glacier, grabbing a shirt early at Yellowstone and at a stress-relieving stop downhill from the peaks in Glacier. With the visitor centers closing as I got deeper in the park, I worried I missed the chance to fulfill my little obligation.

After undertaking these long journeys on my own, part of me tugs at the notion that by all rights, my brother should be riding shotgun on these drives into the wilderness. But Joe can't come with me. My mother rarely lets him leave her sight these days. Consequently, I have to bring the park to him.

Honestly, the journey and destinations on these trips to America's unspoiled corners never gets lonely for me. I relish any chance to crisscross the Plains and navigate switchback roads that demand speed-limit respect. From the driver's seat, I have no trouble marveling at the majesty, danger and beauty alive on those craggy peaks, steep canyons and bubbling mud. But I need a feeling that someone should be riding shotgun, even if they cannot.

My aunt just send me these two photos from the 1930s, with my grandfather and great-grandfather (both named Tom Melville, the younger of which appears as the photo on this blog). The first shows them standing in Yellowstone during one of the park's sunny moments (they rarely last long on many days).



We had the fortune to be a railroad family, who could travel at a time when a quarter of Americans went without work. The Yellowstone they visited has an untamed quality; the pictures my digital captured in the park tell a story written mostly on paved roads, but they could stand anywhere, at any outlook.

The latter shows them in front of what could be the train station in Livingstone. They all took their long vacations via train into Indian territory in South Dakota and on this trip, onward to Livingstone, Montana, the major arrival point for most Yellowstone visitors in that era.

The landscape at Yellowstone's northern entrance, with its desert peaks and brown peaks would have barely changed since they traveled them, minus the gas stations and paved highway that run from Gardiner to Livingstone.


What goes unsaid in those pictures is who stands behind the camera, likely my grandfather's twin brother, Uncle Dan. The brothers traveled together and in this case, great-grandpa went along (there's more family history, such as my grandfather's first wife and child dying after birth in the 1920s). I wonder if Joe and I might have undertaken the same journeys as our ancestors- but not for too long. You can't dwell on "what if" moments that can never be.

With a National Parks annual pass in my pocket, this year's park possibilities include Mt. Rainer, Crater Lake and Yosemite next year. Since my sister lives in Washington State and old friend Alicia lives in California, being alone on those drives doesn't factor in.

But that won't stop Joe from getting more shirts.