Joanna Newsom

I have been far too dismissive in my life, ruling out artists, writers, whatever, based on preconceptions or early knee-jerk reactions. As one gets older, these sorts of instincts seem to solidify and self-justify. Going into something you might assume is not your thing will, more often than not, leave yet another bad impression and strengthens your resolve to avoid more of "those sorts of things."

The trouble is, however, that one runs the risk of missing out on things of almost incomprehensible beauty, such as this and other songs by Joanna Newsom.

Though I am as guilty as most in the closing of the mind, I can't say that my initial reaction to Joanna's music was to close myself off from it and recoil. See, for me, one of the good things about living in this era is that it is easier to just get exposed to the actual art, music especially, without reading about it first. In pre-Internet days, I tended not to base my decisions on whether or not to go out and explore new artists based on music press; that is not the most effective way to convey what an artist is like. Nevertheless, I would often find myself reading that this to that band was like this other one. Oh? Well I don't like what I have heard of them, so the other ones who this writer says sounds like them must also not be my thing.

If someone had described Joanna to me before hearing it, I can't say I would have heeded the George Michael dictum, "Listen Without Prejudice." The adjectives most used to describe her are, "elfin," "fairy," "child-like," "freak folk," and so on. She pays the harp. Apparently, she grew up in a neo-hippy, new age, rural ex-mining mountain enclave alongside friends and collaborators like Devendra Banhart. Some would say her voice is often like that of Bjork. Sometimes it can seem like Tori Amos. OK? See why one might run away as fast as possible?

You would do so at the risk of missing out on something deeply rewarding. She's not for everyone, but don't automatically assume she's not for you. Lucky for me, I clicked on something and heard her first, before knowing anything about her, a couple of years ago. I was drawn in pretty quickly. I had sort of put her music on the back burner, but it hs moved back to the front recently. There was a nice piece on her in the Times this past week. Then I clicked on this and watched the whole thing repeatedly. The harp playing is jaw-dropping, the voice is magnetic. But most of all, the poetry leaves me breathless. You simply will not find anyone who sounds just like her. Having listened, I can't imagine her music not existing. It seems necessary. It feels at once magically inspired and stolen from the ether, and crafted artfully. It makes me believe in God and it makes me want to work harder. I think she has tapped the same mystic vein as Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Ricki Lee Jones.

You can find the lyrics online. I hate all those pop-up-y ad-riddled lyric sites. But I must quote at least one section that hits me on a primal level and makes me wish that I had written it:

And they will recognize
All the lines of your face
In the face of the daughter, of the daughter, of my daughter.

The Ballad of Tim Wakefield ({Non}Cover of the Week 29)

Wake and me rocking Hot Stove Cool Music at Fenway 2005 (photo by Steve Latham)

Buff Tom was in the studio this week working on new songs. Work has also been very busy in my day job. I feared not being able to get to the Cover of the Week this week and, while that is technically true, I did get inspired by another dazzling knuckleball performance by 42-y.o. Red Sox legend, Tim Wakefield last night. So with 2 cups of coffee in me, I whipped this little homage up this morning. Also, finding it's way into the song is this article from the Boston Globe this AM.

When rock and rollers hit a certain (middle) age, many of them feel compelled to write a baseball song. But having one of our own still going at 42, well, that just begs a song. So in the tradition, hopefully, of Zevon and Dylan (and not so much Fogerty), here is mine:

The Ballad of Tim Wakefield



Lyrics:


The Ballad of Tim Wakefield


He don't need no injections in his ass
He makes the ball flutter, it don't need to go fast
Hitters swinging just like a cartoons when it passes
The knuckleball from Timmy Wakefield

I remember all the late innings of June
But there came a night with a big harvest moon
And an October game when a Yankee named Boone
Hit a long one off of Tim Wakefield

But fishing off of Melbourne in the off-season glare
Knowing that middle-aged men everywhere
Are harboring dreams that they could be up there
Pitching just like Timmy Wakefield


When the boys are all flailing as the weather gets warm
He always remain the calm eye of the storm
There are 18 year-old people who might have been born
When a night game was pitched by Tim Wakefield

Batters strike out, pop up, heads bowed low
And into dark dugout tunnels they go
And still confused as the video shows
They were defeated by Timmy Wakefield.

Boston may not be the easiest place
It's not every player they warmly embrace
So just go ask Keith Foulke if he would trade places
In history with Tim Wakefield

You know what they say about saving nine
Well Doug Mirabelli was his stitch in time
The State Police escorted him for no crime
We just needed him to receive Tim Wakefield

Taking the mound or offering his time
for charity's sake and then on down the line
There are plenty of people who will be crying
When they hang up the spikes of Timmy Wakefield

Dylan has written all about Catfish
I may never write like Bobby, Wake like Pedro won't pitch
But true Red Sox fans will always know what they wish
To have nine players just like Timmy Wakefield
Nine players just like Timmy Wakefield
Give me nine players just like Timmy Wakefield