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?
Pink Floyd “The Division Bell”
For as much as it was a David Gilmour album, “A Momentary Loss of Reason” was also a Roger Waters’ album. Every single review noted the absence of the band’s erstwhile leader, who was himself active and vocal in sharing his derision for the project. And while the record was commercially successful, it was doubly taxing. In its aftermath, Gilmore and Waters finally and painfully resolved most of their legal affairs but almost none of their enmity. For many years there was little hope, and no indication, of any future for Pink Floyd. But then, in 1993, the ink having barely dried on both his marital and professional divorces, Gilmour did something unexpected. He invited Nick Mason and Richard Wright—the latter of whom had been dismissed from the band during the making of “The Wall”—to get together, play some music and talk about the power of talking.
Steve Earle “I Feel Alright”
In 1996, having shaken off five years of rust, sixty days in jail and a couple decades of addiction, Steve Earle released “I Feel Alright.” Whereas 1995s “Train a Comin’” found him looking backwards, “I Feel Alright” was a completely present album. It was vintage Earle, after the pink cloud had dissipated—honest, aching, and feeling “alright.” Which is to say he was not feeling great. But also he was not feeling awful. It was a hedge—somewhere between cautious and optimistic. “I Feel Alright” is the ultimate one day at a time response to the question, “How you doing?” As a description of Earle’s state of mind, it sounds appropriate. As a title for his sixth studio album, it feels like a radical understatement.
Richard Lloyd “The Radiant Monkey”
Following their unexpected reunion in 1992, Richard Lloyd and Tom Verlaine maintained a polite working relationship born from financial necessity and creative compatibility. The fallout from the first Television breakup had cost Lloyd a good deal of his commercial prime. The sequel, meanwhile, was a long, sputtering, part time concern. Lloyd made a small splash in 1991 for his appearance on Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend.” In 2001 he quietly released his first album in more than a decade. But, by 2007, he’d had enough. He’d had enough of waiting to make another Television record. He’d had enough of Tom being Tom. And so Lloyd finally resolved that—no matter how much he admired Tom Verlaine as an artist or even as a friend—he did not want him as a boss any more. Thirty-four years after he first joined the band and thirty-two years after he first quit the band and twenty-nine years after Verlaine broke up the band, Richard Lloyd quit Television and released “The Radiant Monkey,” his fifth solo album.
Asia “Phoenix”
If a computer—even a very old one—was tasked with naming an album made by the original four members of Asia who were reuniting for the first time in two decades, I am certain it would land on “Phoenix.” The metaphor of that ancient, immortal, mythological bird rising up again is simply too good to pass up on. “Phoenix” speaks to the passage of time, fire, beauty, erudition and regeneration. It is, in a single word, quite literally the perfect title for Asia’s comeback album—as ridiculous as it is accurate.
Dave Kingman “Kong”
Dave Kingman’s entire career—but especially his 1977 season, wherein he played his way off four different teams—suggests a dour, underperforming athlete who soiled each nest he landed in. However, beneath the surface of that framing is very different and equally viable narrative: Kong was rushed and forsaken—over and over again. He was a grown man—a superstar—every fifteen times at the plate and a helpless child the other fourteen times. George Foster, Garry Maddox, Gary Matthews and Bobby Bonds—Kingman’s teammates on The Giants in the early Seventies—all struck out much more than they walked. But none of them could destroy baseballs quite like Dave Kingman. And as a result, they were given time to practice, fail, practice, fail less, practice and—eventually—succeed. But not Dave Kingman. Everybody is awed by King Kong. But nobody roots for him.