Yesterday Aaron tweeted a link to this article by Simon Kuper, the noted author of several excellent books that look at world soccer through political and economic angles. The World Cup would normally be a perfect opportunity for his brand of analysis, which is why I was disappointed by his piece. Judging by the events on display over the past month in South Africa, he concludes that soccer no longer explains the world, a reference to Franklin Foer’s renown book that touches on Kuper’s ground.
My first thought was, “It’s a transatlantic duel between intellectual Jewish soccer geeks,” so naturally I felt a need to get involved in it. But I got busy with a few other things and couldn’t get to this until just now. Kuper writes:
The sorry truth is that the World Cup is losing its geopolitical meaning altogether…soccer is ceasing to explain the world. There were still some political observations to make about the host country, South Africa, and the winning country, Spain. But for the most part, this tournament exemplified how everywhere on Earth is becoming the same place.
I agree with every point Kuper’s article makes, except for that conclusion. It’s not that soccer no longer explains the world, but rather that it explains a new and different world. He even says as much.
So why have the geopolitics drained from soccer? First, because the world has changed. The era of dictatorships, hypernationalism, country vs. country wars, and festering resentments held over from World War II is passing. Most wars today are civil wars.
…
These days, however, the World Cup rewards globalization, and the homogenization of styles helped make this a post-nationalist World Cup. Everyone plays much the same way now… The key to success in modern soccer seems to be to dilute your inherited national style.
He’s right that countries that stuck with their traditional stereotypes (notably England and Italy) underperformed where countries that veered away from them and incorporated other national styles (notably Spain and Germany) did well. But at a time where I can explore and communicate with the world without ever leaving my apartment, then isn’t soccer reflecting a world that’s more interconnected than ever before?
One of my favorite things about Chicago is the sheer amount of live music that comes through town on a regular basis. This increases exponentially in the summer, when neighborhood street festivals and the parks bring in a lot of big-name acts, and there’s a lot of potential for conflict when you have to choose. Last night could have ended up that way, but it turned out fine in the end.
The Old 97s were performing at Navy Pier as part of a traveling show by the Texas Board of Tourism. Also, Bill Janovitz, the lead singer of Buffalo Tom, was doing a solo show at Schubas. Both shows had their advantages. On the one hand, we had an intimate evening by a great singer-songwriter who doesn’t perform often outside of his native Boston. On the other, a free outdoor show by one of my favorite bands. These are tough decisions, people.
But fate intervened. The Old 97s were scheduled to go on at 7:00, while Janovitz wasn’t starting until 10:00. The Old 97s show would probably end around 9:00. I could walk about a mile to the Grand station on the Red Line, take that to Belmont, and walk the five blocks to Schubas with enough time to spare. Beautiful. The plan was set.
I got to Navy Pier probably around 5:45, which gave me a good spot a few feet away from the stage. The opening act was Austin’s Patricia Vonne, who performed in both English and Spanish. For the Spanish songs, she donned a pair of castanets which she played with a theatrical flair while she sang. The songs were good and her voice was strong and clear, and it certainly didn’t hurt that she was very sexy.
But it was really the Old 97s that I came to see and they didn’t waste much time getting started. They opened with “Won’t Be Home” which opens 2004’s Drag It Up. They followed it up with another recent song, “Dance With Me,” from their excellent 2008 release Blame It On Gravity.
Yes, that’s my thumb slightly obscuring the lens in the opening 20 seconds. But hey, the iPhone 4 takes pretty good videos, doesn’t it?
After a few songs, Rhett Miller traded that battered Telecaster Deluxe for an acoustic, and the show settled into a groove, but not at the expense of energy. Just like their records, bassist Murry Hammond sang lead about every fourth song. They played a handful of newer songs, but the bulk of the set came from their first few records, including a cover of Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried.” They gave a shout-out to their former label, the Chicago-based Bloodshot Records, before “W-I-F-E” (yes!), and they even broke out “Curtain Calls,” a deep track from Too Far To Care.
They also played two songs that will likely be on their next album, both of which I liked a lot. Surprisingly, they played nothing from Fight Songs and only one song from Satellite Rides, “Question,” which Rhett prefaced by asking if a woman named Anna was in the crowd, and dedicated it to her.
When the song finished, I heard a commotion behind me. I had a feeling I knew what it was, so I turned around and, sure enough, about 10 feet away, a man was on his knees asking Anna to be his wife. I’ve seen it happen at least once before at an Old 97s show (I don’t remember if it happened at a Rhett solo show I was at), and the band doesn’t seem to get tired of seeing it. Even though they haven’t gotten the fame they’ve deserved, Rhett has to take pride in having created the soundtrack to so many marriage proposals.
But how do you follow that up? Part of me was hoping that they’d do “Wish The Worst,” one of the all-time great revenge songs, but that’s just my perverse sense of humor. To be honest, I don’t really remember what they did (“Stoned,” perhaps?), but not too long after that, Rhett brought back the Tele and the tempo picked up even more, with old chestnuts like “Victoria,” “Big Brown Eyes,” and a slamming “Barrier Reef.”
Although they play “Barrier Reef” at every show, I like to think they brought it out special for me because Rhett knows how much I love it. By the way, check out what drummer Philip Peeples does just before the final verse. He’s one of the most underrated drummers around.
They left the stage after “Four Leaf Clover,” with Rhett returning a few minutes later. He performed a couple of songs from his solo records, “The El” (presumably for Chicago), and “I Need To Know Where I Stand.” The band returned for three more songs, a cover of David Bowie’s “Five Years,” “The Easy Way,” and a breathless “Timebomb.”
It was about 8:50, which was perfect timing. I began making my way to the train to catch the Bill Janovitz show, but not before briefly stopping to buy a bottle of water and take this picture.
I love this city.
I got to Schubas at about 9:45, a little too close for comfort, but it wasn’t crowded. Buffalo Tom were a big musical part of my mid-twenties angst, which is a nice way of saying that I don’t listen to them much anymore. I readily admit that’s not fair, because their trifecta of Let Me Come Over, Big Red Letter Day, and Sleepy Eyed are as smart and tuneful as anything the And I re-connected with Janovitz early last year through his excellent Cover Of The Week blog (where the posts are as good as his songs) and his Twitter feed, which was how I knew he was playing here, opening for the Radar Brothers.
The only time I saw Buffalo Tom was at Baltimore’s Pier Six Pavilion in the summer of 1994. It was a day of Boston power pop trios beginning with Gigolo Aunts (who were good) and ending with The Lemonheads (who sucked). Buffalo Tom were in the middle and blew the place up with a phenomenal set.
For the better part of the last decade, Janovitz has been working as a real estate agent, occasionally gigging in the Boston area as a solo act and, more recently, with a reunited Buffalo Tom. He doesn’t look that much different than he did 16 years ago. A different haircut, a few lines on the face, maybe, but otherwise unchanged.
His voice has also held up very well. Until he started singing Rolling Stones songs for his website, I had never realized how much of an influence Mick Jagger was on him. But knowing that and hearing his own songs with just an acoustic, you can hear it in his inflections and the way he draws out vowels as long as possible. That’s really tough to pull off without resorting to parody (witness Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right” as an example) but Janovitz pulled it off, despite having a few problems at the top of his range.
I was pretty drained from the Old 97s show (and a 25-mile bike ride early that morning), so I found a spot on the bench directly below the sound man where I could still see everything. But after the first song, I wanted a better view, so I worked my way through the crowd (only about 60 people) and got up front. The battery on my phone was running low, so I only took a few pictures, no videos.
I probably could have gotten a less-grainy shot, but I don’t like using a flash at shows.
But I’m glad I moved when I did, because his third song in was “I’m Allowed,” which was the song that first turned me on to them back in 1994, and one that was a regular part of my own gigs after that.
I stayed up there for a few songs, then my knees were being a pain again, so I went back to my original spot, where I stayed for the rest of the night.
He pulled from the whole of Buffalo Tom’s catalog, including some other favorites like “Your Stripes,” “Taillights Fade” and “Treehouse.” The crowd, all of whom were about my age, contributed Chris Colbourn’s counterpoint vocals when necessary in absentia. He also added a really good song from an album that they just finished recording and will begin mastering this week (if Giles reviews it as part of the You Again? series, he’s a dead man), and did a couple of covers, including Bruce Springsteen’s “Atlantic City,” which got me on my feet again, albeit briefly (it’s so predictable, it’s sad, really).
Janovitz left the stage around 11:15, ending with “Crutch.” Under normal circumstances, I would have stayed for the headliner to see if they were any good, but I was too tired. Plus, I was really hungry,because I hadn’t eaten since an ice cream cone at Navy Pier around 5:30. Unfortunately, Schubas’ kitchen was closed, so I staggered back down Belmont over to Clarke’s and got a waffle and a chance to relax. Then I took the El back to my apartment and crashed pretty quickly.
On the Popdose Podcast (Episode 11 went up today), you know that I routinely call Jason Hare a pussy. In fairness, that’s usually because his behavior warrants it. But if you’ve been listening to the show, you that he and his wife have been training for a triathlon to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
Well, that triathlon is this Sunday, and what only needed to be a donation of $2,700 each has turned into $15,000. That not only put them in the top 10% of donors, but also made them the subject of an article in the New York Daily News. Even for such a worthy cause, this is not something that I would do (The 25-mile bike ride is enough), and not-at-all pussy-like behavior. They deserve all the praise in the world for what they’re doing. So from now on, I’m going to refrain from calling Jason a pussy.
Until the next time he really acts like one, of course.
And it’s still not too late to donate to their team. You can do it at their special fundraising page.
Even though I’ve seen some incredible concerts in my lifetime, I’ve never been to one of those shows where something so amazing happens that it makes national news, that everybody in attendance knows that they saw something that will probably never be repeated again. Usually those come in the form of a “Hey, look who just stopped by, our good friend Mr.-Really-Famous-Rock-Star!” guest appearance. I came pretty close a week ago last Tuesday, when I was at Taste Of Chicago and Robert Plant joined Los Lobos – who, typically, kicked ass – for the encore, a cover of Roy Head’s Treat Her Right.
Granted, I’ve never been the biggest Robert Plant fan, but it was still completely unexpected and, apart from his need to throw a bit of D’yer Maker in there, pretty cool. But I can’t imagine anything that compared to what happened in New York three days ago. From Rolling Stone’s account of Ringo Starr’s 70th birthday concert:
For about 30 seconds it seemed like Ringo Starr’s 70th birthday concert at Radio City Music Hall earlier tonight was over. An incredible assemblage of rock stars including…had just left the stage following a massive singalong rendition of “With a Little Help From My Friends” that felt like the grand finale to an incredible night. Then, just as the house lights threatened to rise, a roadie brought out Paul McCartney’s signature Hofner bass and the sell-out crowd went into absolute hysterics. When McCartney himself ran onstage and burst into (of course) the White Album’s “Birthday,” the screams reached a decibel level rarely heard since the Beatles stopped touring nearly 45 years ago.
I love the way that was done – no announcement, just the roadie bringing out Paul’s bass, which needed no explanation.
In other news, I’m almost done blogging the World Cup at Popdose. After the completion of the tournament tomorrow, hopefully I’ll be back on a fairly regular schedule here. Thanks for your patience.
On the way to last night’s show at Lincoln Hall, my girlfriend and I got into the latest round of the age-old “Is Dave a snob?” argument. I maintain my innocence. I’m undoubtedly a highly opinionated geek, but a snob? Not particularly. My definition of a snob is someone who wants to be the first to discover a new band, and the first to start the backlash against them. It’s all about feeling superior to everybody else. I simply want everybody else to hear the same things in the music I love. I look for emotion over detachment, and tuneful accessibility over oblique insularity. It’s why people will be singing Don’t Stop Believin’ long after Pitchfork readers have sold off 80% of their CD collection. If something falls outside one or both of those lines, there had better be a damn good reason why I should pay attention to it. I just don’t have the time or patience for anything else.
As if on cue, Justin Currie was there to back me up. The former frontman of Del Amitri, he’s a true believer in the idea that music and words must work together equally to create the proper emotion. For 20 years, he’s been writing wonderful melodies with direct lyrics that cut to the heart of the trials and tribulations in relationships, and he has never been hip for a minute of that time. It also helps that he’s an incredibly underrated singer who can go from a dusky brood to a falsetto with seemingly little effort. And the format, with Currie accompanying himself on acoustic guitar, and Peter Adams on keyboard, accordion, and background vocals, put all of his talents on display front and center.
Currie took the stage and professed his love for Chicago, adding that he was merely buttering up the crowd because he was going to begin with five songs about the death of his grandmother. Anybody who thought Currie may have been serious was soon relieved when the first song turned out to be Always The Last To Know, their Top 30 hit from 1992’s Change Everything. He seamlessly mixed in songs from his two excellent solo albums with favorites from Del Amitri, with a handful of request from the crowd (my shout for Surface Of The Moon went unanswered). Highlights were Nothing Ever Happens, Not Where It’s At (rearranged for solo piano), and a gorgeous performance of Tell Her This.
Between songs, he entertained the crowd with amusing banter and his thoughts on the World Cup (he thinks the US will get at least a draw against England tomorrow). He also told a funny story about a friend’s band that was third on the bill for a Michael Penn tour years ago. Apparently, Penn was telling the same stories every night, and even had them written into the setlist. So they learned his stories and, near the end of the tour, told them during their set as if they were their own. The crowd didn’t understand who “my brother Sean” was, but knew something was up when Penn, who was in his dressing room and oblivious to the prank, went into his routines during his set.
This was also my first experience seeing a concert at Lincoln Hall, which opened last fall and is owned by the same people who own Schubas, with a similar devotion to providing excellent sound. It’s a bigger room, set up like the 9:30 Club in DC but smaller (it holds about 500 people), and I’m hoping to see Marah there on Monday.
Here’s Currie performing Always The Last To Know two years ago. For more on Currie, read my buddy Matt Wardlaw’s interview with him at Popdose.
Believe it or not, friends, but there actually is a Sports section at Popdose. Up until this week, it hasn’t been touched since the end of the NFL season. But I volunteered to provide commentary on the World Cup over there, so those of you who have missed my “expert” analysis since I stopped Booked For Dissent can follow along there.
And as long as I’m at talking about sports, what an incredible night in my adopted hometown last night! Congratulations to the Blackhawks and their fans, who have waited 49 years to see the Stanley Cup back in Chicago. I live on the 18th floor of a high-rise in a quiet neighborhood, and I could hear screaming and horns down on the street for hours after the game. Friends were telling me that fireworks were going off near them. I glad I don’t live in Wrigleyville, which was a madhouse.
And the sound of Flyers fans shocked into silence? Well, that’s just icing on the cake. Way to live up to the worst reputation in sports by booing the presentation of the Conn Smythe Trophy and the Cup. Stay classy, Philly!
