Tiger, Tiger, Burning Elsewhere

What does golf’s brightest star gain — or lose — by skipping events like the FedEx St. Jude Classic?

By Frank Murtaugh

Tiger Woods has already become the next Nicklaus. Only 26 years old and with eight major titles notched on his bag, Tiger should match the Golden Bear’s record of 18 majors by the time he’s 35. But you know what? Woods will never be the next Arnie. Not by a long shot. An unqualified phenom, and the closest thing to Michael Jordan the sports world can claim today, Woods will never be deserving of the prodigious title People’s Champion until he actually goes to the people.

The FedEx St. Jude Classic opens play this Thursday at Southwind, the 45th consecutive year Memphis has hosted the PGA Tour and, supposedly, the very best golf has to offer. With every passing Year of the Tiger, though, professional golf is being transformed into a sport where the tournament calendar is divided into the “big leagues” (those events where Tiger plays) and “Triple-A” (those events Tiger chooses to skip). For a sport already top-heavy with a caste system dominated by the four majors (Masters, U.S. Open, British Open, and PGA Championship), the tour finds itself in a catch-22 with the ever-more-dominant Woods. While Tiger has everyone from soccer moms to the NASCAR set in front of their tubes on Sunday afternoons when he’s tearing up another hapless field, those events he doesn’t play become back-page news, two-minute updates on SportsCenter as you’re brushing your teeth before bed.

Now in his sixth full year as a pro, Tiger has yet to play the FESJC. And it’s a shame … for Tiger. There’s not a classier sports operation in town than the group headed by tournament director Phil Cannon. Year after year, Cannon’s crew puts on a seamless week-long event that is every bit as major-league as any Grizzlies game. (Sure, it’s hot. Bring some water and a hat and enjoy some world-class entertainment.) To the credit of Mid-South fans, Tiger’s absence hasn’t really dented attendance at Southwind. A record $1 million was donated to St. Jude after last year’s event.

But imagine the scale of excitement if Elvis, er, Tiger were announced at the first tee on Thursday. Imagine if the Bluff City had hosted Mike Tyson in action . . . for four days. Considering this city’s large black population — not to mention a growing Asian base — Tiger’s impact would be that much greater, regardless of his performance on the course.

“I think Tiger prepares himself for four weeks a year,” says Cannon, noting Woods’ primary objective of winning the majors. “Tiger will play in our event when it’s good for Tiger, and not before. He’s not going to play for St. Jude … he doesn’t owe us anything.” Cannon points out that the FESJC must always compete with the calendar, as players aim to peak for the likes of the U.S. Open (this year, two weeks before the FESJC) and the British Open (three weeks after the FESJC). And keep this in mind: There are no appearance fees allowed on the PGA Tour. “There’s very little we can do to lure Tiger here,” explains Cannon, “other than just putting on the best tournament we can and treating all the players as royally as possible.”

The irony of Woods not playing a tournament is that it makes the event more competitive and usually a more compelling attraction for golf fans. (In baseball terms, remove the Yankees from the major leagues for a season and count the number of teams that circle October on their calendars.) In the most recent world golf rankings, the distance between the top-ranked Woods’ point total (17.06) and the number-two player, Phil Mickelson, is 7.01. That’s the same point differential between Mickelson and the number 31 player. Tiger has simply lapped the field. When he takes a week off, hope for the rest of the tour is, if not eternal, at least a four-day care package.

The saddest part in all this is the fact that the one person who stands to gain the most by playing events like the FESJC is Tiger Woods. It’s unlikely that Woods cares much about being some sort of mythical “people’s champion.” It’s more likely that he’ll stick to his career plan, showing up for the majors and the “secondary major” PGA events, piling up the prize money and rankings points. It’s not too early, though, to ask a certain life-plan question for this transcendent golfing talent. Of what value will Tiger’s 18th major be (and 19th and 20th), if, in the process of winning it, he loses his golfing soul?

High Maintenance

The Redbirds’ grounds crew keeps the diamond shining.

By James P. Hill

It’s about 4 a.m. You’re at home in bed, enjoying some REMs and dreaming. For Steve Horne, Memphis Redbirds director of field operations, this is one of his favorite times. “I have dreams,” he says, “and when I wake up, I put field patterns on paper and then talk to the guys on the grounds crew. After the pattern is mowed on the field, we get satisfaction from fans’ feedback.”

The three-man full-time crew works long hours through the Mid-South summer heat and winter cold — all year round. “In July and August, it’s pretty hot,” says grounds crew worker Ed Collins. Just as the Redbirds have a strategy to win baseball games, the grounds crew has its own system to work through the extremes of Mother Nature. “You gotta come out in 20-minute shifts and drink a lot of water,” says Jeff Vincent, another crew member.

Despite an ever-changing and sometimes unpredictable schedule due to rain, the grounds-crew staff is passionate about the results of their collective work. “It’s a lot harder than I thought. It all pays off when you see how good the field looks at the end of the day,” says Vincent.

The normal routine for the crew includes pre-game field preparation — mowing, applying fresh chalk lines — and post-game care, such as raking and filling holes. Some people compare grounds-crew work to gardening, but that’s like comparing redbirds to bluejays. “The difference between gardening and yard-building is I have about 25 guys who come out and attempt to tear everything up that I do,” Horne says. “They’re out there to play a game. That’s their business. It’s our job to make it where they’re as comfortable as possible doing that.”

Most of the grounds work at AutoZone Park is unglamorous, to say the least. There are no fans in the stands, no hot dogs, no apple pies, and no excitement in the air. This ballpark scene is all about preparing the field of dreams.

Redbirds catcher Alex Andreopoulos says he admires and respects the job the grounds crew does. Andreopoulos also understands how hard work behind the scenes can often be overlooked. “The fans don’t see what they’re doing before the game, what they do after the game especially, and then in between innings,” says Andreopoulos. “You don’t see the guys doing their job, but it makes it easier for us to go out there and play.”

The grounds work is not just for show. Maintaining a quality playing surface can help prevent injuries. The coaching staff and players can tell a good field from a bad one. “Say the field is too soft,” says Redbirds manager Gaylen Pitts. “You’re gonna have guys slipping and sliding out there. They’ll have a tendency to pull a muscle or whatever. If it’s too hard when they slide, they can hurt themselves. Or if the grass has some bad spots, if it’s loose, they can catch their spikes. A good playing surface is worth its weight in gold.”

Or diamonds.

Music Music Features

Blinded By the Lights

Post author By
Post date June 21, 2002

There is something hilarious about the mere mention of the word “laser” — the way Mike Myers’ Dr. Evil torturously elongates it; its delightful use as a proper noun on American Gladiators. It is both harshly futuristic and disarmingly retro at the same time.

“Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation.” I used to repeat it like a mantra back in my prepubescent mathlete days when the recitation of scientific acronyms could very well be the zenith of a Saturday night’s activities. But a couple years later in high school, when I was trying to unsuccessfully woo potential paramours with dates to a laser rock interpretation of the Doors’ oeuvre, “Stimulated Emission” had taken on an entirely new meaning. The announcement that the Pink Palace was reviving the tradition of rock-oriented laser-light shows for the Moldy Oldy Laser Show Festival was more than enough to trigger those foggy memories of yore. And if I seem blinded by nostalgia, please forgive me — for the lights have just been dimmed, there are luminescent Spirograph designs shimmering above, and the really rocking part of that song that we’ve all heard a thousand times before is about to begin

In 1982, the Pink Palace presented its very first laser rock show. Not surprisingly, it was Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, the urtext of laser rock albums. (Like most rock-music laser-light shows staged by planetariums, it had the dual purpose of increasing awareness of the museum’s facilities and, perhaps more importantly, raising funds.) Dark Side of the Moon is a perfect choice for a laser-light show. Its synthesis of commercial pop and cynical psychedelia appeals to successive generations of rock neophytes. The album cover accurately depicts the prismatic process that the Pink Palace’s Spectra Physics 164 White Light Multigas Laser uses to create every color within the visible spectrum. Even its very title must surely endear it to rock laserists, who are often lovers, if not students, of astronomy.

Twenty years after the original programs, the Sharpe Planetarium at the Pink Palace is reviving several of its archived laser-light shows. Humbly titled the Moldy Oldy Laser Show Festival, it has resurrected the Beatles, Metallica, Pink Floyd, and Pearl Jam laser shows for weekends in the month of June. The title of the festival refers as much to the dated technology as it does to the classic-rock tunes and is designed to complement the new exhibit “Behind the Scenes: Curious Collections of the Pink Palace.” The shows themselves were all designed by relatively ancient software running on DOS. They have been archived on ADAT media, like prehistoric weevils suspended in amber.

Anthony Hale, who now runs the IMAX theater at the U.S. Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama, created all of the original shows that constitute the Moldy Oldy festival. Although it is currently impossible to edit these archived programs, there is still a little wiggle room for improvised visualizations. Currently, the two main rock laserists are Ben F. Hudgens, planetarium coordinator, and Kathey Nix, theaters manager. In addition to the archived shows, Hudgens and Nix are able to use an array of supplemental light effects. On a handmade console, there are over 20 different effects with such imaginative labels as “Ferris Wheels,” “Jailbars,” and the refreshingly licentious “Boobs.” Now, don’t worry, champions of decency, the shows are approved for all ages. None of the rock songs contain profanity and these un-anatomically correct laser “Boobs” more closely resemble water balloons filled with neon tetra.

Most sources point to Los Angeles’ Laserium as the location of the first rock laser show. Ivan Dryer, an astronomer-turned-filmmaker, somehow convinced the Griffith Observatory that it would be a good idea to let a gaggle of drug-addled teens gather in the planetarium on weekend nights to get their collective gourds rattled by a “light and music phantasma.” On November 19, 1973, the first Laserium concert was staged with Dryer manually operating the laser squiggles to accompanying music. Dryer took baby steps to rockville at first, mixing in Emerson, Lake, and Palmer with classical music by Copland and Holst. But it wasn’t long before rock became the music of choice for the Laserium, and within months, they were turning away crowds of suburban stoners. (Sadly, after 28 years, the Laserium closed its doors, but after a year, it is planning to reopen and saddle itself with the already dated moniker Cyberdome.)

Over the mid-’70s, the worlds of science and rock continued their ardent flirtation. Rock bands began taking elaborate laser-based shows on the road. Blue Oyster Cult shot lasers from their wrists with custom-built blasters. Kiss knockoffs Angel stupefied audiences with holographic seraphim. And planetariums around the country began creating their own laser rock shows. Attending these programs while sauced on psychedelics became a rite of passage for America’s teahead teens.

Most people of my generation (X) seem to have at least one pleasant memory of attending a laser rock show, no matter how inchoate it may be. I will never forget my own transcendent glee during a presentation of laser AC/DC. Timed to throb with the chorus of “Big Balls,” two perfect neon-green circles coruscated above while I thrilled at being allowed, nay, encouraged, to yell “big balls!” in a museum setting. And it is certainly the low-tech imagery that gives the programs in the Moldy Oldy festival a quaint charm. The title is not just self-deprecating. “We didn’t want people to be disappointed in the limitations of the laser shows,” says Nix. It’s true — many screensavers are like Jerry Bruckheimer “blow-’em-up” productions compared to the line-art animations of these retro creations.

But viewers last week at the festival didn’t seem to mind the simplistic renderings. Personally, I was impressed with the economic use of the laser images. For instance, the benign helicopter used to bring the Fab Four in for a landing during “Help” looked awfully similar to the war machine used at the beginning of “One” by Metallica. But one aspect of the shows was decidedly high-tech: the sound. Over 12 kilowatts power a six-track sound system that, on certain magical nights, can creep into the three-digit decibel range. The Metallica connoisseur and photographer I brought along last Friday reported hearing elements in songs he had never heard before. “The only time I have ever listened to Metallica louder than that,” he said, “Metallica was in the same room.”

The phenomenon of laser rock declined in popularity in the ’90s, and the fate of future Pink Palace shows is dependent on the success of the Moldy Oldy Laser Show Festival. There are some permanent shows on the schedule, however. In November, the museum will revive its annual holiday show with Mannheim Steamroller performing Christmas carols. In February 2003, Pink Floyd’s — you guessed it — Dark Side of the Moon will be played in its entirety. And, of course, next month will mark the 20th year of Elvis Presley’s Legacy in Lights, timed to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the King’s death. Easily the museum’s most popular laser show, it also contains hundreds of exclusive slides of Elvis and chronologically traces him through his Sun, Hollywood, and concert years.

In a great episode of Freaks and Geeks, a short-lived TV show about early ’80s teenagers, the stoner kids are all set to enjoy an evening of Pink Floyd at the local Laser Dome and, in anticipation, are yelling “Floyd rules!” and “Comfortably Numb!” But instead of the otherworldly strains of Pink Floyd, “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” kicks in while the laser depicts cowboy boots and anthropomorphic cacti. The looks on their despondent faces are priceless as the kids begin to realize they have accidentally attended Southern Rock Night at the Laser Dome. It’s a scene that I can imagine happened when the Pink Palace temporarily abandoned laser rock and took a mistress. And that mistress’ name was laser country. Garth Brooks was the only artist the Pink Palace tried. Country fans showed up for a couple of weeks then stayed away in drawling droves. Laser and rock — why try to break up a good thing? But experiment and failure are part of the scientific method. Maybe I learned something at the museum after all.

The Moldy Oldy Laser Show Festival

The Pink Palace Museum and Planetarium

Running through June 29th

Fridays: 8:30 p.m., The Beatles; 10 p.m., Metallica

Saturdays: 8:30 p.m., Pink Floyd; 10 p.m., Pearl Jam

Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

Post author By
Post date June 21, 2002

Maladroit

Weezer

(Interscope)

In the past decade, Weezer have made only three albums, each one catchy and memorable — despite the long gap between numbers two and three — and each one with its own distinct formula. The band’s eponymous debut (the blue album) melded pop hooks to the polite sounds of mid-’90s alternative radio. The follow-up, 1996’s Pinkerton, welded similar pop hooks to punk snottiness, its looser yet more accomplished sound almost unanimously maligned by critics. And the much-hyped, long-awaited, eponymous third album (the green album) took Rivers Cuomo’s by-now signature pop hooks and pasted them onto heavy-metal riffs, raising eyebrows and sending those very same critics down to the corner used-CD store to find out what those meddling emo fans had known all along.

So Maladroit, Weezer’s fourth album but only its second with a damn title, marks a momentous point in the group’s career: Not only is it the first time the band has used the same formula to make two albums, it’s also the first album on which pop is not the foundation.

Like its bright-green predecessor, Maladroit is full of hard-rock riffage and angsty snarl, but there’s little here that is memorable. Cuomo & Co. seem to have used most of the good riffs and all the catchy hooks on the green album. Songs like “Take Control,” “Dope Nose,” and the strangely aggressive “Slob” rock without any real urgency and fall out of memory with the final strained chord. Slower numbers like “Death and Destruction” and the lame “December,” which even Cuomo’s unrelenting irony can’t redeem, slow to a crawl before anything memorable happens. “Burnt Jamb” attempts to re-create the idyllic offhandedness of “Island In the Sun,” but Cuomo inserts an uninspired, unrelated guitar riff in place of a chorus.

Without pop hooks as anchors, Cuomo’s emotionally unraveled persona is surprisingly hard to take. It was endearing on blue and green, and on Pinkerton, his emotional pain was well-matched only by his candid expressiveness. But on Maladroit, his lyrics are whiny, self-absorbed, grating, and not the least bit sympathetic.

By now, Weezer’s rock-and-roll equations have been recalculated by scores of artists, often with better results. Compared to Maladroit, Phantom Planet’s The Guest is catchier, and Andrew W.K.’s debut is loads more fun. Too bad nothing on this ho-hum album adds up so well.

Then again, maybe time will be good to this one too. Give Maladroit five years to marinate and it could become another cult fave. But not for now. — Stephen Deusner

Grade: C

New Connection

Todd Snider

(Oh Boy Records)

The problem with most singer-songwriters is that one side of the hyphen always outweighs the other: They’re either gifted singers who can’t write an honest, original song to save their lives or they’re fluent lyricists who can’t sing their own songs persuasively. With his insightful lyrics and well-meaning but white-bread voice, former Memphian Todd Snider once landed squarely in the latter camp, but on his fifth album, New Connection, he unexpectedly blurs the line between his strengths and weaknesses.

The best moments on New Connection are those when his voice — which has assumed an evocative rasp over time — contains enough emotion to match his lyrics. On “Rose City,” for instance, he inflects the last note of each line to perfectly capture his feelings of dislocation and longing.

In this regard, “Anywhere” might just be the highlight of his career. He builds the song around what would be a throwaway line for most other singer-songwriters: “Let’s get out of here/I’ll go anywhere/With you.” But he sings it in a fragile, broken whisper, his understated delivery making the words all the more direct and startling.

Alas, Snider the songwriter is also clever — too clever. On “Vinyl Records” (note the redundancy), he rambles on and on about the artists in his record collection, sounding like Billy Joel teaching American history. Snider’s keen enough to poke fun at himself for having “piles and piles and piiiles of Tom Petty,” but there’s little point to the song beyond revealing his own cleverness. And on “Beer Run,” which is set at a Robert Earl Keen concert, he tells us about “a couple of frat guys from Abilene” who get duped with a marijuana cigarette. Not to generalize, but I find that really hard to believe.

Despite his tenure as a singer-songwriter, Snider still sounds like he’s learning the ropes and paying his dues, which aren’t necessarily bad things. Once he gets a better grasp of his own strengths and weaknesses, he’ll give us his breakthrough album full of heartbreakers. —SD

Grade: B

You Can’t Fight What You Can’t See

Girls Against Boys

(Jade Tree)

Yes, but who is really looking? I don’t think anyone was too jarred when Girls Against Boys’ last album, the inappropriately named Freak*on*ica (if it’s a joke, GVSB, try to make your next one funny) failed as both major-label debut and artistic statement. Bidding war + a now-defunct major label + previously established indie band = Surprise! The album sucked! The music biz has boiled this particular equation into vapors for the past 10 years, and GVSB have spent the past four removing themselves from it and reentering the world of the independent label. The label in question is Jade Tree, the imprint that has literally birthed, nurtured, and destroyed the “emo” genre.

GVSB are relocated stalwarts of DisChord Records, with three of the static members coming out of DisChord’s overlooked band Soul Side. Because I like to do my research, I exhumed GVSB’s 1995 release Cruise Yourself from my record shelf and immediately understood why this 7-year-old piece maintains its mint condition. GVSB have always been good at one thing that is not a good thing. They mix three variables to poor ends: the Fall, the thankfully forgotten swagger of the Cocktail Nation movement, and the early ’90s aggro-rock usually associated with their onetime label Touch and Go. That combo sounds just as ill-conceived coming out of the speakers as it looks on paper. After the major-label jaunt that produced the Garbage-flavored (no jokes, please) electro-metal of the record I refuse to mention again, GVSB 2002 are making some middle-of-the-road, post-wallet-chain rock that should appeal to the cerebral Queens of the Stone Age fan who’s not afraid to let the term “badass” enter his/her vernacular every so often. A top-down, crotch-grabbing summertime ride for the sensitive, aging indie rocker, You Can’t Fight has GVSB falling out of the unoriginality tree and finally hitting every branch. — Andrew Earles

Grade: D+

Music Music Features

Sound Advice

Post author By
Post date June 21, 2002

I could write a surrealist opus about the divinely hallucinatory effects of The Warlocks‘ new album, Rise and Fall, but space forbids. If Syd Barrett had collaborated on Mercury Rev’s Yourself Is Steam, injecting each track with the breathy pop of “Carwash Hair,” it would have sounded a lot like Rise and Fall. Following a mellower path than the Flaming Lips and other, similarly psychedelic bands that came of age in the ’90s, the Warlocks’ music is less sonic attack than magical full-body foreplay. It leaves you tingling, sweaty, tearful, and certain you’ve just witnessed something too beautiful to be fully understood. They will be at the Young Avenue Deli on Tuesday, June 25th, with Mouse Rocket, the pet project of the Lost Sounds’ Alicja Trout. And while on the subject of the Deli …

Writing for Nashville Scene, Noel Murray says, “[The alt-country band Saddlesong can] blow away most of the retro-minded neo-honky-tonk acts who dwell outside of Music City.” Here, Murray pathetically misses the fact that those retro-minded bands exist outside of Music City because (except for the lately lame BR-549 and the great Joe Buck) Music City hasn’t been in the business of making real country for years. Saddlesong’s best offering, “Glory,” is nothing more than a rocked-up reworking of Kenny Rogers’ hit “The Gambler” with uninspired gospel imagery. It’s alternative only to CMT and an excellent indicator that Nashville is still lost. At least Memphis’ most-improved Southern rockers, Bumpercrop, are on hand to give the ticket some oomph. This double bill goes down on Friday, June 21st. — Chris Davis

A recently formed support organization founded by the Rock-and-Roll Grandma herself, Cordell Jackson, the Memphis Music Community will have a coming-out party for itself on Tuesday, June 25th, at the Palm Court in Overton Square. The event will celebrate the release of a compilation CD, Living In a State Of Love, which features tracks from 14 diverse local acts (including a vintage cut from the Bill Black Combo). Highlights include Jackson’s own “Basketball Widow” and Nancy Apple‘s lovely “Fooled By the Heart.” The album also gives a sense of the non-blues variety that the Beale/downtown scene currently offers with the rockabilly of The Dempseys‘ “Back To the Dog House,” the fusion-y jazz of FreeWorld‘s “2nd and Beale,” and the vocal soul of The Masqueraders‘ “Merry Christmas.” Many of the artists found on the CD will be performing at the show, which begins at 7:30 p.m. with a $5 cover.

Singer-songwriter Neilson Hubbard, whose last album, Why Men Fail, with its aching, beatifully bent pop à la Big Star, sounds even finer now than it did upon its 2000 release, will be at the Lounge on Friday, June 21st. Joining Hubbard will be local pop band Crash Into June, who have done studio work with Hubbard and who mine a similar vein of smart popcraft with similarly rewarding results. — Chris Herrington

Sports Sports Feature

City Sports

Post author By
Post date June 21, 2002

Winning Developments

Prospects are brighter for the Redbirds this year.

By Frank Murtaugh

It’s tricky being a minor-league baseball fan. Tricky, in that root, root, rooting for the home team isn’t as elementary as pulling for wins, like every big-league fan does. The minor leagues are, first and foremost, about development. Winning is considered a bonus. Former Redbirds president Allie Prescott pointed this out to me before the ‘Birds played their first game at Tim McCarver Stadium four years ago — and he did so with a smile on his face. With Triple-A baseball, winning really isn’t everything. Period.

The joyous 2000 season is one local baseball fans will never forget, nor should they. Memphis ran away from the Pacific Coast League’s Eastern Division, won 22 more games than they lost, then won the league championship in dramatic fashion on an extra-inning home run from St. Louis Cardinal star-to-be Albert Pujols. That team had a pair of key offensive ingredients in Eduardo Perez and Ernie Young, two players with major-league experience who provided power in the middle of the lineup. It had players like Stubby Clapp, Keith McDonald, Lou Lucca, and Mark Little … players not quite ready for the Show but more than capable on the Triple-A level. (In some circles, these are known as “Four-A” players.) Add to the mix pitchers like Clint Weibl, Luther Hackman, Mark Nussbeck, and Bud Smith and you have the confluence of rising talent and seasoned veterans that results in winning baseball — a lot of it.

The table was turned dramatically last season when, without Young and Perez, the Redbirds had very little power. (Luis Saturria led the club with 13 home runs.) Smith was called up to St. Louis at mid-season, and Weibl was limited to 12 innings of work due to shoulder trouble. Memphis fell from first to 10th in the PCL in ERA and finished next to last in the league in batting. End result: a last-place finish, 19 games under .500.

The worst aspect of last year’s struggles wasn’t so much the losing but the fact that, aside from Smith, there appeared to be nary a big-league prospect on the field. In the bushes, losing is accepted in the name of development. While the team may fail on the scoreboard, it wins — and its fans win — if rising stars are learning their trade in the process. (The ’98 and ’99 clubs were mediocre when measured in the standings, but it was some fun watching the likes of J.D. Drew, Placido Polanco, Eli Marrero, and Rick Ankiel.) I still have to be convinced the likes of Saturria, William Ortega, or Ryan Balfe — all Memphis mainstays last year — will have any impact on the major-league level. So not only were the 2001 Redbirds losing, their players weren’t going anywhere.

Which brings us to the 2002 model. Ivan Cruz and Mike Coolbaugh have assumed the Perez/Young power slots. A pair of Smiths — Travis and Bud — joined a healthy Weibl and Jason Jacome to give the club arguably the best starting rotation in the PCL. Even with Bud Smith’s recent call-up (to fill the injured Garrett Stephenson’s slot in the St. Louis rotation), the Redbirds have some inning-eaters who will help the club avoid long losing streaks. At the plate, Cruz and Coolbaugh have already equaled Saturria’s home run total from a year ago, and Mike Frank appears to have the prettiest Redbird swing since Chris Richard was traded two years ago. Injuries to McDonald and Clapp won’t help in the runs department, so the newly acquired Warren Morris and the backup backstops (Matt Garrick and Alex Andreopoulos) will need to pick up some big hits.

Will the new faces mean more wins and PCL playoff hopes for Memphis fans? A lot will depend on the fortunes of the parent club. If the Smiths wind up spelling injured Cardinals, the Redbirds’ fortunes will suffer. And injuries to Cruz or Coolbaugh would seriously damage the team’s run production. But a healthy Frank-Cruz-Coolbaugh trio in the middle of the lineup bodes well and could mean as many as 60 home runs this year.

Prospects? You’ve got to start with Weibl, the 2000 PCL ERA champ who seems to be on the cusp of getting the big call. Jason Simontacchi has already earned a spot on Tony LaRussa’s staff, and So Taguchi — back in Memphis after being called up to the Cards June 10th to fill in for the injured Jim Edmonds — is worth measuring (though it’s hard to consider a 32-year-old player a prospect). Combine this rising talent with the “Four-A” group in uniform for Memphis and you’ve got a club with more than a few parallels to the 2000 championship edition. Making it that much easier for local fans to root for wins — and development.

On a Role

Sometimes, the people behind the scenes make all the difference.

By Ron Martin

I was 8 when my basketball coach passed out everyone’s assignments. It was our first game after a month of twice-weekly practices. My excitement turned to disappointment when Coach said, “Ron, sit next to me and keep the scorebook.” I would’ve looked to my dad to intervene on my behalf because I knew that keeping the scorebook was not a good thing if I wanted to see some playing time. But Dad was of no help because he was the coach. So early on I was introduced to one of the most unheralded positions on any team: the role player.

A role player arrives every day for practice just like the stars. He dresses out for each game, takes warm-up, then sits on the bench. He does everything the stars do except play. He never gets interviewed and in most cases is not recognized as he walks down the street.

Meet former role player Brendon Gaughan (pronounced “gone”).

Gaughan crossed the country to become a role player for John Thompson’s Georgetown University team featuring Allen Iverson. “My job was to work Allen hard in practice,” said Gaughan. “I tried to beat him up and get him ready for the game and the NBA.”

This week, Gaughan, of Las Vegas, will be at the Memphis Motorsports Park with his NAPA Auto Parts Dodge team trying to win his second consecutive NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series race.

“I knew my role at Georgetown,” he said. “Coach Thompson made it real clear to me. I didn’t get to play a lot but playing in the games wasn’t my job. But I sure learned a lot.”

Learn he did. Gaughan graduated from Georgetown with a degree in human-resource management and an unwritten degree in life. “I’ll never forget what Coach Thompson taught me; I’d be a fool if I did,” he said. “I owe everything I am or will be to Coach and to my dad.”

Normally, when the first of the year rolls around, race teams have the core of their stable of cars prepared. But when sponsorship comes late, so does preparation. “We had nothing — zero — when January rolled around,” said Gaughan, adding that a team needs at least seven trucks to be competitive. “Today, we have seven trucks and a win.”

Why? Gaughan uses the John Thompson style of coaching, “Shane Wilson is the crew chief, but I’m the Allen Iverson of the team. I do all the interviews, get all the applause, but I’m nothing without the role players like Junebug.” Junebug is Robert Strmiska, the rear-tire changer.

“Junebug works as hard as anyone on the team,” explained Gaughan. “If he screws up, our trainer punishes him just like anybody else, just like I was at Georgetown. No applause, just hard work.”

Gaughan made a trip to the NCAA Tournament and appearances in the Sweet 16 and the Elite Eight because he fulfilled his role — getting Iverson ready. Now Junebug Strmiska has made his first trip to the winner’s circle because Brendon Gaughan traveled across the country and met a guy by the name of John Thompson and accepted the position of role player.

Flyers … The University of Memphis will soon be presented a “hard to turn down” proposal from the Grizzlies to join them in the new arena. Heavy-hitter boosters are being polled as a way of testing the waters.

The Sporting News picked the U of M football team to finish fifth in C-USA, with seven wins. If they’re right, Memphis spends Christmas in Hawaii. TSN picked Louisville to win the conference with 12 wins, which could result in a BCS bid, leaving the AXA Liberty Bowl without a team. Remember these are just predictions, but, just in case, I’m sure Steve Ehrhart is dusting off the contract to remind Louisville of its commitment.

Ramblings … Did Magic Johnson play pick-up with some U of M players and declare Billy Richmond, Earl Barron, and Antonio Burks ready to be big-time players? That’s what I’m hearing … The August trial of Lynn Lang is actually a trial of college sports … Just asking: How much of the multimillion dollar deal between Coca-Cola and the NCAA will filter down to the athletes?

Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

Post author By
Post date June 14, 2002

Down the Road

Van Morrison

(Universal Records)

With his trademark transatlantic growl and impeccable sense of timing, Van Morrison is the stuff of legend. As has so often been noted, this guy could sing the proverbial phone book and still keep an audience enraptured, and his live recordings always have magical moments. Despite this, Morrison’s propensity to dabble has made some of his latest studio recordings rather hit-or-miss.

Morrison’s often idiosyncratic taste in music and collaborators sometimes works wonderfully well and produces classics. (His work with John Lee Hooker and the Chieftains being good examples.) But sometimes these experiments just leave you wondering what the appeal was in the first place. Remember that weird skiffle album from a few years back? For those of us who came to know and love Van the Man as the quintessential R&B-bred rock-and-roller, however, Down the Road is a sterling treat, his most accessible and consistent album in years.

The record is a sort of primer on American roots music, the raw gristle that Morrison first cut his teeth on as a lad while still begging for bootleg American blues and R&B albums from merchant seamen who smuggled them into the Belfast docks. Down the Road touches on virtually every genre that has informed Morrison’s career, from doo wop to boogie woogie to country blues, and, of course, straight-up rock-and-roll. It’s gritty, no-nonsense, back-to-basics stuff, and it’s great. Morrison is still on that never-ending spiritual search, exploring the myriad ways that music can trigger the ultimate transcendental mindset. As an added treat, the album features a cover of “Georgia On My Mind,” a classic staple of his live shows and almost a religious experience in itself. To me, it’s astounding that this stout, middle-aged Irishman can open his mouth and still command such raw power. Sure to restore your faith in rock-and-roll. — Lisa Lumb

Grade: A-

Time

Richard Hell

(Matador)

If there is such a thing as a punk pedigree then surely Richard Hell has one of the purest ones extant. The history may be familiar but bears repeating here: a founding member of New York’s first punk band, Television; a co-founder with Johnny Thunders of NYC’s rockin’ junkie band the Heartbreakers; the leader of Richard Hell & the Voidoids, which featured the guitar talent of Robert Quine; and the visual inspiration for the look that Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren codified into punk. (The spiked hair, ripped clothes, vacant stare, and sneering attitude all came from Hell and looked pretty good on Johnny Rotten.)

Perhaps the coolest thing about Hell (born Richard Meyers in Lexington, Kentucky) is that he got out of the music game in 1984, for the most part. Junk-sick and tired of watching others imitate his style, Hell released a retrospective set, R.I.P., on R.O.I.R. (the New York-based cassette-tape-only label; remember when indie-label cassettes were cool?) in late ’84. After that, he returned to his first passion, writing. Basically, Time is a rerelease of R.I.P. with an added live disc and funny liner notes by Hell. It’s thrown together and scrappy as hell (pardon the pun, or don’t) but still sounds current and coherent.

Disc one is essentially R.I.P. with some extra tracks: a demo version of “Chinese Rocks” done by the Heartbreakers with Hell singing, a cover of Fats Domino’s “I Live My Life” that sounds almost soulful, a manic version of the MC5’s “I Can Only Give You Everything,” and, from a 1984 New Orleans session, a version of Allen Toussaint’s “Cruel Way To Go Down” (possibly Hell’s best vocal performance to date). Disc two is live stuff from 1977 and ’78 that confirms the Voidoids’ reputation as a great live band. Recorded at London’s Music Machine in ’77 and at NYC’s CBGB in ’78, Hell and his band run through the songs on their debut LP Blank Generation but with a noisy abandon that their official release never displayed.

People still like to squawk that the dual-guitar interplay of Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd in Television has seldom been topped. Well, a brief listen to what Robert Quine and Ivan Julian got up to live with the Voidoids puts that overstated myth to rest. Verlaine may have chucked Hell out of Television for being an incompetent bass player (and a junkie, okay), but by doing so, he missed out on working with a collaborator who might have pulled the skull-faced one out of his solipsistic slide into the hall of memories. Context is everything, and Richard Hell got out when his was gone. — Ross Johnson

Grade: A-

This Is Where I Belong:

The Songs of Ray Davies & The Kinks

Various Artists

(Rykodisc)

The Kinks were arguably the most British of all the major bands to emerge from the U.K. during the ’60s — more than the Beatles or the Who, definitely more than the Stones. Though their music revealed a true understanding of American rock-and-roll, and despite Ray Davies’ identification with American redneck culture (“Muswell Hillbilly”), the band’s songs were full of ironic Brit humor and odes to country villages overrun by American tourists. So it’s a little surprising that the lineup for This Is Where I Belong is made up almost entirely of Yanks, some of whom actually have a cracking-good grasp of the band’s quirks.

Steve Forbert and Fountains of Wayne have a blast with their romping versions of “Starstruck” and “Better Things,” respectively, and Nashville art-rock combo Lambchop turn in a pervy take on “Art Lover.” With scorched-earth guitar and bitter, ballsy vocals, Queens of the Stone Age perfectly capture all the male rancor of “Who’ll Be the Next in Line?” but still manage to make it sound fun and danceable.

As with most tribute albums, however, half the songs are mere retreads of the originals: Fastball takes on “Till the End of the Day” and loses; tribute-album staple Matthew Sweet does a note-for-note take on “Big Sky.” Worse than a retread, however, is blind misinterpretation, such as folk boy Josh Rouse’s inappropriately sincere “A Well Respected Man,” which neuters the sharp satire of the original. He just didn’t get it.

Unlike their contemporaries, the Kinks never achieved lasting success overseas, most likely because they were so relentlessly British in sound and lyric. But This Is Where I Belong proves that their legacy lives on in America, in some form or another.

— Stephen Deusner

Grade: B

Music Music Features

Sound Advice

Post author By
Post date June 14, 2002

Immersed as much in Howlin’ Wolf as Stevie Ray Vaughan, the Atlanta-based Sean Costello may be the most respected of the last decade’s young white blues phenoms. Costello made his rep wowing crowds at Helena’s King Biscuit Blues Festival as a 16-year-old. Finally legal, Costello released his third album last year with the fine Moanin’ For Molasses. He’s a rarity — a young white blues hope who can play and sing but who rarely overplays or oversings. And he does a shockingly good James Brown impression. He can’t write much, but one look at the way he meshes scalding solos with a tasteful approach to the blues and you’ll see why he’s become such a fave on the contemporary blues scene. Costello will be at B.B. King’s on Friday, June 14th, and Saturday, June 15th. — Chris Herrington

If Steve Earle had never written anything other than the moonshiners’ anthem “Copperhead Road,” he still would have gone down in alt-country history. Fortunately, the surly songsmith was tenacious. His career managed to survive a battery of addictions, a stint in prison, and even a brief flirtation with Celtic music, and, nowadays, this insider’s outlaw is generally regarded as one of Music City U.S.A.’s finest. But the moment of truth is at hand. Can Steve Earle’s career survive a collection of semiautobiographical short stories loosely based on his own rambunctious life as a country legend? Only time will tell. In the meantime, you can hightail it down to Off Square Books in Oxford town on Friday, June 14th, to get your very own copy of Doghouse Roses (this month in paperback from Mariner Books) and hear the author read his favorite selections. The booksigning begins at 1 p.m.

Brooklyn indie rockers The High Strung are one of any number of bands to crop up in recent years that desperately want to be the post-Revolver Beatles. You can hear traces of the Fab Four in every harmony, lurching melody, and sudden time change. While this kind of sonic appropriation can be tiresome in theory, the High Strung get away with it. In their hands, it’s more homage than theft, and considering they only claim to be influenced by the “raw core energy of Detroit Rock & Roll,” it might even be unconscious. But that’s doubtful. The High Strung will be at the Hi-Tone Café on Thursday, June 13th. — Chris Davis

Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

Post author By
Post date June 6, 2002

Universal Truths and Cycles, Guided By Voices (Matador)

In the midst of the musically crippled 1980s, Bob Pollard and Guided By Voices, armed only with an unshakable faith in John Lennon, the potent jargon of war, and an abiding love of flying machines, got stewed as bats and sloppily set about the task of remapping the rock-and-roll genome. Obsessively mixing and matching so many disparate sonic elements, GBV developed a brand of arena-ready bubblegum that can only be described as short-form prog. The ease with which GBV tossed off complex two-minute anthems (not to mention their heroic onstage drinking) made them the darlings of true punks and frat boys alike, and Pollard gave voice to this odd appeal in “Quality of Armor,” a Beatles-flavored beauty from Propeller. “The worst offense is intelligence,” Pollard wailed. “The best defense is belligerence.” Lyrically speaking, songs like “Game of Pricks” from Alien Lanes rivaled Dylan at his finest, while tunes like “Radio Show (Trust the Wizard)” managed to both poke fun at and pay homage to drive-time radio and its requisite doses of Pink Floyd and Rush.

But beginning with Under the Bushes Under the Stars, it started to look like the absurdly prolific Pollard had run out of things to say, and keeper singles like Do the Collapse‘s wickedly catchy “Teenage F.B.I.” aside, they were never able to put together an album as complete and cohesive as Bee Thousand. Last year’s critically lauded Isolation Drills seemed neither intelligent nor belligerent. In fact, Pollard’s lyrics had become decidedly smug. GBV’s latest offering, Universal Truths and Cycles, is the closest the steadily shifting lineup of musicians has come to making a front-to-back brilliant LP in a long time. It’s almost like a guided tour through the group’s discography, beginning with Devil Between My Toes and ending somewhere around Mag Earwig. As usual, this disc finds Pollard sloshed and staring at the stars, and, thanks to the mad guitar skills of Doug Gillard, it has all the monstrous hooks and civilized aggression these self-proclaimed soft-rock renegades are famous for.

Frequent GBV flyers, however, will recognize recycled lyrical material that never quite measures up to vintage Pollard. Occasionally, his lyrics even lapse into the kind of accidental self-parody only Lou Reed can rival. On the other hand, rockers like the disc’s first single, “Everywhere With Helicopter,” manage to sound fresh in spite of the tried-and-true Pollardisms. “Cheyenne” comes on strong with the same bouncy pop that fueled earlier hits like “The Closer You Are (the Quicker It Hits You)” but without the ominous silliness that made that song great. In fact, all the quirkiness that made songs like “My Valuable Hunting Knife” stick in your head has been excised, making the whole affair duller than it could be and more than a little self-important. Maybe it’s finally time for Pollard, well into his 40s, to slow down just a little bit, regroup, and rediscover the wonders of robots, UFOs, and self-inflicted aerial nostalgia. Universal Truths and Cycles would be a career record for most bands, but given the legacy of GBV, it’s pretty average stuff, and maybe not even that.

— Chris Davis

Grade: B

Guided By Voices will be at the Young Avenue Deli Friday, June 7th, with My Morning Jacket and the 45’s.

Easy Now, Jeb Loy Nichols (Rykodisc Records)

A Missouri native who’s made his home in the U.K. since 1983, Jeb Loy Nichols originally worked as a designer and then fell in with the London reggae scene. His cohorts introduced him to the joys of dub and reggae, and he in turn introduced them to George Jones and Lefty Frizzell. In the ’90s, he led the politico-folksy reggae band Fellow Travelers, described by Spin as “the lonesome children of Merle, Marley, and Marx.” On his first two critically acclaimed solo outings, he swirled country, R&B, and Jamaican influences into the purest pop songs that side of the Atlantic. On this, his third release, he steps back from the country/reggae hybrid he’s renowned for to make some sweet soul music that is mellowness personified. On Easy Now, Nichols croons soul and R&B like the masters, channeling Nat King Cole, Marvin Gaye, and Hank Williams Sr. in his reedy, self-assured manner. Like Terence Trent D’Arby, another expatriate American who found his musical fortune in Europe, Nichols has the ease and confidence that make it all seem effortless. He’s a natural. Musically, too, this album reminds me of D’Arby on certain tracks in which funk melds with a soulful backbeat in an almost hypnotic ambience.

Nichols has an urban, thinking man’s J.J. Cale groove, adding subtle country and Caribbean touches to this soulful music, which makes it irresistible. (The pure country-pop of the opening track is as luscious and effervescent as strawberry wine.) Barefoot music par excellence, Easy Now gets my vote for the best laid-back listening for summertime 2002. — Lisa Lumb

Grade: A-

The Rough Guide To Bollywood, Various Artists (World Music Network)

The Very Best Bollywood Songs II, Various Artists (Outcaste)

The most outré sonic adventure wouldn’t make the composers of Indian film music blink. Churning out songs for the hundreds of musicals that appear every year, these music teams run through more styles per minute than even the headiest mixmaster, so you might want to sample this pair of compilations selectively: The stuff collected herein can make even jaded eardrums do backflips.

The Very Best Bollywood Songs II, with selections ranging from 1949 to the present, is wilder than the Rough Guide collection, with bushy-tailed beats and wigged-out strings springing from every crevice. On “Zindagi Ek Safar,” baritone Kishore Kumar even yodels. The Rough Guide To Bollywood is neater both sonically (fewer violin sections) and organizationally (it begins in the ’70s and is ordered chronologically). It’s also more tuneful: You’d likely find yourself walking around all day humming, say, Asha Bhonsle’s “Piya Tu Ab To Aaja” if it weren’t followed by Bhonsle and Kishore Kumar’s equally catchy “Pyar Diwana Hota Hai.” Both discs peak with the same song, “Yeh Dosti Hum Nahin.” This theme, from 1975’s Sholay, is a sound clash between corn-fed Oklahoma! strings, Ma-and-Pa-Kettle-style banjo-plucking, and a freaked-out synthesizer.

Two testaments to crass commercialization at its most delicious. — Michaelangelo Matos

Grades: B+ (both albums)

Tangent 2002: Disco Nouveau, Various Artists (Ghostly International)

Hey, are you all right? Gosh, that was a nasty spill you took. Really looked like it hurt. Here, let me help you up. Say, what is that you tripped over, anyway? Oh, Jesus — not another new electro compilation! I’m so sorry about that. You’ve really got to keep your eye out for those suckers, you know? They’re everywhere.

So it’s nice to find one that isn’t a mere rehash of the same handful of songs and/or artists à la the comps that have become as ubiquitous in hipster record stores as a Now disc in a Sam Goody. Tangent 2002: Disco Nouveau is a poppy, song-oriented affair, and its artists seem to regard electro with a sense of romance rather than as the hot and sleazy one-night-stand material of most dance-floor-oriented comps. Adult’s “Night Life” conveys both the giddiness of clubbing and a tongue-in-cheek distance from it, as do tracks from Susumu Yokota and Lowfish.

And “Make Me,” by veteran electro revivalists DMX Krew featuring Tracy, is great pop trash like it oughta be, the Kylie Minogue record you only wish she’d made with Stock/Aitken/Waterman. It might never get on the radio, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself falling for — or over — it anyway. — MM

Grade: B+

Music Music Features

Sound Advice

Post author By
Post date June 6, 2002

I would be remiss in my duties if I did not implore you to leave work early on Friday, June 7th, go directly to the Young Avenue Deli, and begin to slam beers in order to enhance your enjoyment of Dayton’s finest rockers, Guided By Voices. In the opinion of this diehard fan, GBV have been putting out some pretty forgettable material lately, but their songs are two minutes long, and they’ll probably play for three hours, which means they’ll play more than a few songs from their glory days. And since GBV have been cranking out fantastic pop tunes about robots, airplanes, liquor, weed, bad love, outer space, and, of course, rock-and-roll since 1986, there is plenty of material to choose from. And, heck, if they just played “Motor Away” over and over, I’d be plenty happy.

While the group has never completely recovered from guitarist (and, in the estimation of some, the soul of GBV) Tobin Sprout’s departure a few years back, Doug Gillard’s guitar work is not to be underestimated. Though the recorded material seems to suffer from an abundance of production and a lack of inspiration, GBV’s live shows are always a kick in the pants and a fine excuse to jump up and down in a beer-soaked arena-rock frenzy for hours on end. Better still, The 45’s will be on hand to open. While everybody has been cooing and gurgling over the White Stripes, this stunning, organ-driven ensemble has quietly continued to soup up their garage-rock hot rod. And it is one sweet machine, let me tell you. Perhaps only ? and the Mysterians did it better and, even then, only on “96 Tears.” Either GBV or the 45’s would be a heck of a show. Both is almost too much to ask for.

If GBV’s fantastic power pop just ain’t your thang, maybe you’ll want to go visit the Hi-Tone on Thursday, June 6th, to catch a show by honky-tonkers The Brooklyn Cowboys. These citified troubadours have quite the pedigree, what with connections to the late Gram Parsons and all. But there’s one real problem with their music: They are the Brooklyn Cowboys, you see, and it seems they have grown a little too urbane to play real, honest-to-God country music. Their most recent release, The Other Man In Black (The Ballad of Dale Earnhardt), is a rockabilly-tinged mess that sounds like a parody of a spoof of a send-up of Hee Haw, with singers employing the kind of Southern accents you only find on reruns of The Dukes of Hazzard. If it was supposed to be funny, it isn’t, and if it was intended to be a serious homage, then it’s a hoot. Don’t get me wrong: These guys are great players who can whoop up quite the hillbilly ruckus, and that goes a long way to make up for other glaring deficits. And occasionally, as The Other Man In Black‘s fourth track, “Learn How To Love Me,” proves, once in a while, they can get everything absolutely right. Chris Davis