One Bedroom

I wore your shirt today. It’s my shirt actually. Black, number 24 on the left shoulder. It is my favorite shirt. Not because you gave it to me. It fits me, and I don’t have a lot of long-sleeved shirts.

You gave it to me before you told me. Hi, I said, welcome back, how are you, tell me about the trip. A black shirt and a pair of shorts that were much too large. A belt cinches them into a wrinkled mess around the waist, and they hang almost to my ankles. They are plaid. Like golfer’s shorts. They look silly on me, a perfect reason to wear them again and again. The thin material sticks to my legs on humid summer days.

How presumptuous of me to assume you would still love me, nine days later. What a shame, to have pinned my hopes on such a fleeting love. It is fine today. What liberation, for hindsight to so clearly display the reality of a situation. I grasped so desperately for what we had, and when I could get a hold of it I squeezed and squeezed. In May you were a dried date, unhappy and lost. In June I pitted you, forced out the hardness at your core and let it bore into my own soft, bruised skin.

I cried. I cried for so long, and so hard. Ah, but sweet liberation. A chance to take a step back, to take a breath, to take stock. It is so obvious now. We were perfect when we started. But that was then, and then turned into a new now again and again. In September I took your pit out of my chest. It isn’t do or die, is it dear? The black and white of in love and out of love is a creation of some screen writer in L.A., or the tortured soul of the musician. I remember when you loved me so hard that my heart heaved and my eyes saw nothing but light around you. I remember when you kissed my cheek and pedaled away, to your room, to the airport, to the East Coast.

I remember when you returned, the light extinguished, my pain in its infancy, growing up fast. I remember when I let go, too late, with too much trepidation, unwilling to admit that it could be so plain. It wasn’t black and white.

I told you it wasn’t all or nothing. The feelings were different. Did that mean there were none? Ultimately, yes. But it was gray, and then a deep and dark purple, with lightning flashing white. From the bridge the city looked dark and empty, visible only against the purple sky behind the line of skyscrapers. The flashes of light brought night to day, for a moment. I cried to know that you couldn’t see it, and wouldn’t see it through my lens. Nor our lens, the one that was lying on Franklin Ave., thrown to the curb by wheels and wheels, stained with dirt and surrounded by a gang of cigarette butts.

I miss you, sometimes. I don’t love you, not anymore. I don’t know what you do or who you see; I can’t promise I would feign an interest if you told me about it. But my memories are in tact, and with time, they banished the gray and the purple, turned the lightning to a flash bulb. The bulb flashes on your calves below your shorts, hard and cut with fine lines of muscle and bone. It flashes on your lips, and they move to greet me, to explore me, to speak to me. It flashes on my face, smiling, happy, hairy, and ready.

She gave me the bracelet after she told me. It’s not a pattern, not so precisely, anyway. She told me in the same room you did. We sat on the same porch later, feeling the distance. One year after your change in heart. Her trip meant something different, something much more explicit, something much more formulaic. A man, a bed, a condom. She is not lost, not so young and without direction. Her voice does not apologize, and does not dance around the disclosure. It does not push me out the door.

Today I tell her I won’t repeat the period of desperation, there will be no waiting or wishing. I tell her it is not all or nothing. It is, really, much more complicated than that. I tell her yes, I will meet her for tennis tonight. At home I put her bracelet on the desk, and I put on your black shirt.

Tift Merritt, Another Country, Fantasy

Tift Merritt’s third release, Another Country, comes in the wake of a solitary stay in Paris. Merritt holed up with a guitar and a piano, penning the new album after four years away from the studio. The opening track “Something to Me” brings to mind early Jackson Browne, both in its lively “Doctor My Eyes” swing, and in the reflective, low key emotionality of Merritt’s lyrics, featuring lines like ‘gentle is the road within me and it’s gently I depart/ ‘cause these well-worn threads of daylight will sometimes come apart.” Among the up-beat tunes, “Broken” builds to a radio-friendly chorus, and “Tell Me Something True” moves Merritt closer to her soul leanings, organ and horns included. “Keep You Happy” is the most moving song on the album, with Merritt’s soft vocals singing lines like “Day breaks of loneliness/ I’d weather all of this/ If I could find a place where I’d Keep you happy” over strings and shimmering electric guitar. While she is the possessor of an outstanding voice and an established penchant for solid song craft, ultimately, Another Country is more of the same from Tift Merritt.  –Brad Tucker

Withdrawal (nearly) of Previous Remarks

If there is any team sport in which one player can be the deciding factor in every game he/she plays in, it is basketball. This is the sport where Michael Jordan and Wilt Chamberlain can completely take over entire games and entire seasons, dominating to the point where there is no question what the outcome will be.  This belief of mine is what makes it so hard to understand how Boston has taken a commanding 3-1 lead in the NBA Finals.

My prediction from the start was that L.A. would take the series, and in fewer than seven games. And it was based solely on Kobe Bryant's presence. But, as it turns out, the best player in the world is not enough sometimes.

Boston has played outstanding defense in all but two quarters in the series. They have turned up the intensity over and over, and L.A. has not been able to match them. Ray Allen is shooting the lights out, and the Celtics bench has found a way to contribute in every game. How much were Kendrick Perkins and Rajon Rondo talked about in the Eastern Conference Finals? Now it has been about the scoring of Eddie House and the defense of James Posey (who has hit a couple clutch shots himself).

The Lakers, conversely, have been wildly inconsistent. Bryant has had flashes, but has mostly been average. Derek Fischer is a no-show, and Radmonivich and Vujacic can't be relied on game to game, or even quarter to quarter. Pau Gasol is having a solid series, but is being out-muscled time and again by Kevin Garnett. And, for the life of me, I cannot figure out how Phil Jackson can leave Jordan Farmar and Ronny Turiaf in for such long stretches in the second half. And is Jackson ever more pleased with himself than after he makes a sly remark to Michelle Tafoya between quarters?

But, for all this, I can't say that I have jumped off the Lakers bandwagon just yet. They will win Game 5. They are still a force at home, and still have Kobe Bryant. The extra day off will help them more than Boston, as the momentum of Thursday's frantic comeback will slip further away. And, as most are saying around the sports world, if it somehow gets to a Game 7, it will be hard to bet against Bryant. I won't predict a Lakers championship at this point, but I haven't given up them quite yet.

Oh, and speaking of almost-corrections, I may have spoken too soon on the Jim Edmonds topic. Shortly after my "bring back Matt Murton" rally, Edmonds proceeded to go 3 for 4, and has had some really clutch hits. Still, he is hitting in the low .200's, and with Soriano out, there is little to support the "get rid of Jim" argument.

Old 97's, Blame It on Gravity, New West Records

The Old 97’s return to the studio for the first time since 2004 with Blame It on Gravity. The band’s third album with New West picks up where their up-tempo alt-country sound left off before front man Rhett Miller’s most recent solo venture. Miller’s aptitude for pop-friendly phrasing is on display immediately with the driving opener “The Fool,” the track fading to the repeated line “You’ve got to be a fool to be a fool in love.” While the intensity never reaches 1997’s Too Far To Care levels, Gravity has its share of rockers. “Ride” features Philip Peeples’ pulsing drumbeats and “Early Morning” recalls the bouncing speed of the band’s earlier work. Lead guitarist Ken Bethea provides solos and signature 97’s pop riffs, especially on the Byrds-ish jangle of “My Two Feet.” Bassist and occasional vocalist Murray Hammond contributes a ballad reminiscent of Harvest-era Neil Young in “Color of a Lonely Heart Is Blue.” After 15 years, The Old-97’s continue to wear their influences on their sleeves while maintaining a sound all their own (as well as all four original members). Blame It on Gravity is immediately among the finest albums released in 2008, and slides neat as a new pin into the 97’s prolific catalogue. — Brad Tucker

Lakers Win

After all those previous posts about the conference finals, I suppose I am obliged to put in my NBA Finals prediction. Which is fine, as my pick has been in place since the Lakers won Game 6 against the Spurs. But how am I going to justify it?

Kobe Bryant is the best basketball player in the world. That seems simple enough. I do think this is the key to the series. If the Celtics are to have any chance, they will have to contain Bryant. How do they do this? Can Pierce stay with him? He did a pretty good job against LeBron James, but Bryant will present a different challenge. Frankly, a more challenging challenge. Bryant is better at creating shots for himself than James, and beyond that, he is better at creating shots for his teammates (who are, in turn, much better at making those shots than LeBron’s Cavs).

Some have suggested that Tony Allen and James Posey could be major factors defensively coming off the bench. I’m not going to completely disregard this, but Bryant is not going to be phased by these two. The only defense to Bryant will be to contain him, and contest the open shots that his teammates are sure to find.

Boston’s defense does present a formidable opponent for the Lakers. But I think the Lakers are much better equipped for this series than the Pistons were for the previous series. While the Pistons have a number of legitimate scorers, they had nobody who could come inside and challenge the big guys of Boston. While the Pistons were forced to rely on the streaky shooting of Rasheed Wallace and Antonio McDyess, L.A. will be able to work the ball inside with Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom. Maybe the Celtics can out-physical L.A., but Gasol and Odom possess amazing length and range.

L.A. will probably win at least one game in Boston. I can’t imagine Boston taking anything on the road, not under the Hollywood lights. This could go five games just as easily as it could go seven. Either way, I’m going Lakers.

An Open Letter to Jeff Tweedy

Jeff-

Ok, this is probably going to come out of the blue. No, you don’t know me. Honestly, I’ve never even been to one of your shows, which might make what follows even harder to accept/comprehend. But it’s become painfully clear to me that we simply could never work out. When I say ‘we’, I’m really referring to your current musical endeavor, Wilco.

This must feel abrupt. To be telling you it’s over before it even started; it seems a little unfair. But I can explain. I know what you must be thinking: There’s somebody else. Well…

Listen Jeff, I know this is difficult for you, and that you (among many others) don’t like to hear this. But a couple weeks ago I discovered a band… Son Volt. I know, I know. It’s not an easy topic for any of us. And I’m ready for you to ask the oh-so-obvious question: How could I have gone so long without hearing Son Volt? Well, you’re right in thinking that way. It is 2008, 13 years since their debut album.

I have to plead a small, insy-winsy bit of ignorance. I’m not a hardcore alt-country person. Here’s where I might lose you: I’ve never even listened to Uncle Tupelo! Shocking, I know. Bear with me.

Jeff, I’m twenty-two years old. In case you don’t know, my peers are among your supreme supporters. And, mostly due to that piece of reality, I was, quite a while back, introduced to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. And it’s pretty good. You should be proud. After exposure to, and some enjoyment of, some (granted, not all) of your back catalogue, I was surprised to find myself slightly charmed by your most recent release, Sky Blue Sky.

As an admitted rock-music elitist, I felt pretty comfortable on the Wilco-listening path I was headed down. But, every now and then, I admit there was some hesitation. I would never say this in front of your fans, but sometimes your voice starts to get to me. Are you reaching way down inside yourself to find those hoarse moments, or is it as contrived as it sometimes feels? And you know, it all can get a little too cute sometimes. And I’ll save you the rant about the lyrics (impossible Germany, unlikely Japan… I mean, really?).

Ok, so these are maybe mixed messages. But here I will get to the point. I got my hands on the first two Son Volt albums, Trace and Straightaways. Look, as I said, I don’t know what Uncle Tupelo was like. But I hope it was rooted in the sound of Jay Farrar. I understand that Jay isn’t exactly the greatest singer of all-time. But can we all admit that he is real about it? No trace of pretension there, which you, Jeff, might want to learn something from.

I read somewhere that Jay got pretty fed up with what he thought was your burgeoning smugness and big-headedness. After hearing both of your cases (musically, at least), I can understand how he might have seen that.

And, here’s where you might have to really bear-down: Jay writes really good songs. Has his sound “evolved” (In Wilco’s case, I think that means adding non-traditional instruments, and funky arrangements)? Some might say it’s been a slow evolution. But the songs are good, Jeff. The lyrics actually mean something beyond easy rhymes; and for straight ahead rock ‘n roll, Jay actually has a pretty nonstandard vocal approach.

Am I acting a little hastily here? Perhaps. I mean, I didn’t even ask you how you felt about all this. But you know, the music does the talking sometimes. This doesn’t have to be the very end. Let me know when you write something that isn’t so self-consciously cute-for-cutes-sake, or pretentious-for-pretensions-sake. Until then, I’ll put your CDs safely in the back of my closet, with the wiffleball bat and that storm window that comes off in May every year.

—BT 

Big Red

For the last two years my biggest question concerning the MLB, and one that certainly calls attention to my allegiance to a certain National League team, is how can Matt Murton not be on a major league roster?

Murton broke into the majors in 2005 after two and a half seasons in the Red Sox and Cubs minor league systems. The left-fielder logged 195 games and almost 600 at bats in his first two seasons with the Cubs, hitting .297 in 2006. Murton is also a solid outfielder, at least by the current Cubs standards (he somewhere between struggling Alfonso Soriano and regular infielder Mark Derosa—he catches the ball, whether it looks graceful or not).

Now the standard logic concerning the Cubs lineup is that they need a left-handed bat in the outfield other than Kosuke Fukodome. Felix Pie was failing miserably in this role, forcing the Cubs to bring in the 56-year-old Jim Edmonds. Edmunds was advertised as a solution to some of the teams fielding troubles and a potential left-handed slugger to platoon with Reed Johnson.

Well, through 11 games with Chicago,mostly thanks to his recent 3-for-4 day against the Rockies, Edmonds is hitting .214 overall, with only six hits against right-handing pitchers (note: he has no hits against lefties as a Cub.) Add that to his short stint earlier this season with San Diego, and Edmonds has a whopping .206 batting average against righties in ’08.

Believe it or not, Murton is a career .283 hitter against righties, with 16 homers.

Murton is ultimately a for-average hitter. And what’s so bad about that? Seems like an upgrade over Edmonds, who is currently a not-for-average hitter. When facing right-handed pitchers, why not choose between Johnson and Murton, sliding Fukodome to center when Murton starts?

Don’t like the case for Matt Murton? Can we at least agree that Pie is as good an option, plus one with potential for the future, as Edmonds? Pie covers center field without issues, and if they are both going to hit around .200, why not let the young guy continue to work at the major level?

Last note: According to Cubs.com’s Nick Zaccardi, as of May 29^th, Murton was leading the Cubs organization with a .362 batting average overall.