Black Sabbath “13”
Once upon a time, Black Sabbath were considered musical troglodytes — dumb, artless wankers, shunned by the cultural cognoscenti. Years later, even after many fans and some critics came around, they were still treated like drunk, possibly murderous threats. It was not until recently, long after Ozzy left, after Ronnie left, after most of the world had reconsidered them, that Sabbath settled into the realm of quaint, rich celebrity. They came to signify the excess and darkness of Seventies Hard Rock and the eventual convalescence from said excess and darkness. By 2013, Ozzy Osbourne was unimaginably wealthy. He was a reality TV star. He was a doddering, comical old man. And yet, despite the passage of time, despite the reputational rehab and despite Ozzy’s defanging, “13” is not funny — not for a single moment.
The Olivia Tremor Control “Garden of Light” and “The Same Place”
Whereas Bill Doss was a hard working free spirit, Will Cullen Hart was more of a boundless tinkerer. Doss’ songs have an easy air about them — they feel well-crafted but also kind of effortless. Hart’s songs, on the other hand, sound unlike anything or anyone else. If The Olivia Tremor Control were a miracle, Hart was the miracle worker. And of the many miracles he performed, none were more miraculous than the ones he manifested on November 29, 2024. That day, at the age of fifty-three, he bequeathed us “Garden of Light” and “The Same Place.” The surprise of these two gifts — the first new music from OTC in fifteen years — was all the more mind boggling, though, when you consider what immediately preceded them. Just a few hours earlier, Will Cullen Hart had passed away from natural causes.
Robin Ventura “The Misremembrance”
His “grand slam single” during the 2000 NLCS would have been the most memorable event from almost any other player’s career. So would have the two grand slam game or the two grand slam double header. So would all those gold gloves. And that’s not to mention anything of the fifty-eight game collegiate hitting streak. Any one of those feats would have been a career hallmark for most ballplayers. But not so in the case of Robin Ventura who, on August 4, 1993, dared to charge the mound inhabited by one Nolan Ryan.
Bon Iver “Sable”
As Bon Iver evolved from loner in the shack to experimental Jam band, Justin Vernon became more diffuse — and more opaque. His voice was everywhere, but his songs were impossible to decipher. His career was simultaneously safe and unpredictable. He was Indie Rock canon verging on Pop canon, but one never knew when or if the next album would come. And one never knew what it might sound like — except that it wouldn’t sound like “For Emma, Forever Ago.” Justin Vernon was not going back.
George Michael “Patience”
Eight years removed from his last album of originals — after a very public arrest, after the death of his mother and his partner — George released what would become his swan song. Having lost most of his U.S. fanbase, “Patience” was less a triumphant return and much more an album for aging diehards. Like all George Michael albums, it was an extremely personal one. But, it was also a radically honest album. Prince employed characters and double entendres. Michael Jackson used masks. And Madonna had her costumes. But there was always a sense that George was telling the absolute truth. That what we were hearing was not a “version of George Michael,” but the man himself.
Huey Lewis and The News “Plan B”
The Nineties were a fallow period for Huey Lewis and The News. Following a decade wherein they released nine albums, the band mustered just two over the next ten years. His platinum-selling, chart-topping days were a thing of the past, but his transition from Heartland New Wave to aging Mom-and-Dad-core was both graceful and inevitable. In some ways it made much less sense that Huey Lewis was ever a bonafide Pop star and more sense that he was a charming screen presence who occasionally put out R&B albums. By 2001, at the age of fifty, Huey had finally achieved his pop culture destiny, settling into his rightful place as Bruce Willis’ less theatrically — but much more musically talented — cousin.
John Kruk “The Mullet Gives You Permission”
In 1972, President Richard Nixon made a diplomatic visit to mainland China where he finally, formally recognized the Communist government. Conventional wisdom suggested that only Richard Nixon, with his unimpeachable anti-communist bona fides, could have made such a conciliatory move. In the case of Nixon and China, for the truth to be heard, a very specific messenger was required. Twenty one years later, baseball got its Nixon and China moment when John Kruk faced Randy Johnson in the third-inning of the 1993 All-Star Game. During that legendary, if swift, at bat, Kruk revealed a truth that had been suppressed for years and which he alone could effectively convey: baseball is terrifying.
Willie Wilson “Speed Kills”
It is a cliche to suggest that, in life, your greatest blessing becomes your curse — that your feature becomes your bug. But in the case of Willie Wilson that seems especially true. So gifted, so fast and so strong, Willie could have been an All Star in most any sport. But the sport he chose was the one which least suited his particular genius. There’s a certain tragedy in knowing that you can surely do things that no one else in the game can do, but at the same time knowing that those things only matter so much in your chosen game.
John Tesh “Live at Red Rocks”
Recorded in the summer of 1994, “Live at Red Rocks” first aired on PBS in the Spring of 1995 and hit stores just a few months later. In the thirty plus years since, it’s become synonymous with both “Nineties New Age” and “PBS fundraising.” Which is to say that it is simultaneously elaborate (not minimalist or tranquil) and cheap (free with donation). As an album of recorded music, it is almost farcical. But as a concert movie, it's positively gripping. For one windy night, against an breathtaking backdrop, accompanied by the Colorado Symphony Orchestra, and dressed in a three piece purple suit, John Tesh — the co-host of "Entertainment Tonight" — thrilled a rapt audience of dedicated philanthropists and Olympic gymnastic enthusiasts.
Joey Ramone “Don’t Worry About Me”
“Don’t Worry About Me” is almost exactly what you'd expect from a Joey Ramone on death's doorstep solo album. Which is to say it’s alternately frightened, bored, unfinished, funny, maudlin and brilliant. Joey croons, bleats and tawks his way through eleven tracks, all (but one) of which clock in under four minutes, but none of which are under two. The (by Ramones’ standards) mid-tempo nature of “Dont Worry About Me” — the seeming lack of rush — suggests a pace afforded by age, poor health and, most of all, no Johnny Ramone. Johnny had zero time for bullshit. But, especially at the very end, Joey had all the time in the world for it.
Bob Dylan “Together Through Life”
If Past Past Prime Van Morrison sounds like disgruntled Soul, and if Past Past Prime Leonard Cohen sounds like breathy Tao, Past Past Prime Dylan sounds more like Willie Nelson. It’s the sound of an artist working tirelessly, but with an air of retirement. The stakes are lower. There’s nothing to prove. And even if he had an agenda it would be swallowed up by his voice. That voice. The voice of relief and release. The voice of self-knowledge and self-acceptance. If you squint your ears, those post-”Time Out of Mind” records — from “Love and Theft” through “Tempest” — sort of blend together. The bands vary. Stories and settings change. But they share a common pace, range and — most of all — voice.
Don Mattingly “The American Dream”
By the time Don Mattingly became the Yankees’ captain in 1991, the franchise had already won twenty-two World Series championships. They’d not won one, though, during Mattingly’s career. In fact, they’d not even been to the Fall Classic. But during his final season in 1995 — a season in which he limped his way to seven home runs and 49 RBIs — the Bronx Bombers finally made it to the playoffs. According to the story of The American Dream, Donnie Baseball’s work ethic should have been validated by a championship ring before he was put out to pasture. And, true to form, he tried. The badly hobbled Mattingly — as one last testament to the power of will and determination — hit .417 for the series with six RBIs and a magical go-ahead home run in Game Two. But, in the end, the Yankees lost, Mattingly retired and returned to his horse farm in Evansville. The next year, without Mattingly, the Yankees would win the World Series. And then again three more times in the next four years.
Peter Frampton “Now”
Frampton’s appeal was something like Xanax — it was a mild but neutered sensation. He possessed a rare capacity to elicit pleasure without the charge of Rock and Roll. Which is not to discount his talent so much as it is to explain why he was so positively vital in 1976 and so completely antithetical by 1977 — the year in which “Rumors” and “Never Mind the Bollocks” exploded with feelings. Amazingly, 1976 was also the year that the U.S. patent was awarded for Alprazolam — known commonly as Xanax. Yes — Xanax arrived at precisely the same time that Peter Frampton dominated airwaves and record store shelves. However, it did not take long for the effects to wear off and for everyone — including no doubt Frampton himself — to realize that we needed to actually feel the feelings.
Jimmy Buffett “Fruitcakes”
Buffett’s eighteenth studio album was both his first to reach the top five on the sales charts as well as his first Platinum-seller since the 1970s. Its title is a nod to fans — those sun loving, clothing optional weirdos who sometimes get drunk and say silly things but who possess a positively essential joie de vivre. It almost goes without saying that most Parrotheads are not clothing optional weirdos. But it’s also worth saying that many of the teachers, lawyers and middle-managers that comprise his fanbase do fantasize about being carefree, clothes-free beach dwellers. And that is precisely Buffett’s appeal — how he taps into a primal need to escape. An urge to — every once in a while — exist in a liminal space between feeling warm and feeling nothing at all.
Sebadoh “Defend Yourself”
If Lou Reed was the first and the alpha, then Lou Barlow was the distant second and the beta Lo-Fi Lou. With Sebadoh, Barlow invented the kind of work in progress, kind of perfect as it is style that Guided by Voices and Olivia Tremor Control soon perfected. With Sentridoh, he invented an even quieter, decidedly unpunk alter ego that Iron & Wine and The Microphones cribbed notes from. And before all that, of course, was Dinosaur Jr., where Barlow’s Cardigan Cat Guy guise debuted. Yes — before Kurt Unplugged, before Elliott at The Oscars, and way before Taylor’s Tortured Poets Department — Lou Barlow was whispering the way.
Jonathan Davis “Black Labyrinth”
The Jonathan Davis who released “Black Labyrinth” looked remarkably similar to the one who’d conquered the world on “Follow the Leader.” Same dreads. Same black glasses. Same eyebrow ring. Same scraggly beard. But in 2018 the almost forty-seven year old was an elder statesman, reclaimed by multiple generations as a pioneer and a survivor. On the surface, he was the exact same guy he’d always been. But inside he was a completely different man. And according to the press that accompanied his solo debut, Davis was the completely different sort of man who was interested in the history, politics and music of the Middle East. Which meant that “Black Labyrinth” necessarily included sitar, duduk, tablas and (double) violin. Which meant that I was more than a little reluctant to check it out. Which meant that—just as I’d done a quarter century earlier—I was steeling myself to dislike something I’d not yet heard.
Willie McCovey and Willie Stargell “The Other Willies”
Beyond their shared first name and their doppelgänger stats, McCovey and Stargell co-represent an enduring Major League Baseball archetype: post-Jackie-and-Larry, post-Hank-and-Willie MLB stars. Stretch and Pops were MVP, Hall of Fame sluggers young enough to appreciate the monumental importance of their predecessors and old enough to recall the ugliness of baseball’s recent past. The two Willies respectfully thrived so that Curt Flood could brazenly protest. They demurred so their superstar teammates—Mays and Clemente—could shine. If Willie Mays was always the untouchable standard, McCovey and Stargell—together—represented the enduring greatness of goodness.
The Baseball Project “Volume 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails”
While they aren’t Hall of Famers, Steve Wynn and Scott McCaughey are the subjects of indie fascination and the stars of The Baseball Project. On “Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails,” Wynn has seven writing credits to McCaughey’s six. Meanwhile, the actual Hall of Famer—Peter Buck —operates as a role player and drummer Linda Pitmon calls the pitches from behind the plate. In The Baseball Project, the frontmen are actually journeymen. Which, I think, is a big reason why the band works—because they are a team. Everyone is working in service of the same goal. And it’s a very specific goal—to make always witty, occasionally poignant songs about baseball’s great history. They’re not aiming for hits, much less home runs—they just want to play ball.
Luna “Rendezvous”
Just a decade earlier with Galaxie 500, Dean Wareham realized something profound and profoundly obvious—it’s hard to be in a band with a couple. Back then, he was the frontman who was also the third wheel. But in 2004, with Luna, he was the frontman and one half of the couple. Which is why “Rendezvous,” Luna’s seventh studio album, was meant to be their last album. Recorded during their farewell tour, “Tell Me Do You Miss Me,” is a feature length documentary about life on the road for a well known, well loved, but ultimately not known or loved enough indie band. There’s a lot of pleasure. And there’s even more pain. On the surface, it’s the story of a band breaking up because they just can’t make a living. But you didn’t have to scratch too hard to uncover the other truth—the story of a band breaking up because their lead singer and bassist had fallen in love.
George Foster “Yahtzee!”
While some “Hall of Very Good” players have enjoyed extended, Cooperstown-caliber runs—Wally Berger, Hal Trosky and Mo Vaughn come to mind—the actual number is smaller than you’d think. George Foster might belong in that class except that—unlike most others, whose careers were cut short by injury, military service or poor self care—he avoided injuries, fought in no wars and took immaculate care of himself. Moreover, his peak was matched only by the mediocrity of what came before and after. Many people have suggested that George Foster was a great “what if” story—what if he’d been given a chance to start earlier in his career with The Giants? What if The Mets had protection for Foster in their early Eighties lineups. Alternately, Foster might also be one of the game’s great “what if not” stories—what would his career have looked like had he not played for The Big Red Machine?