Baseball daze

I haven't talked about the Cubs in a while, but that's because they stopped being funny about a month-and-a-half ago. I also haven't been to the ballpark in about two months, mainly because I was home for three weeks, mostly because it's much cheaper to eat a hot dog and cheese fries in the sunshine at the Weiner's Circle than the ballpark, since there's not much else to do when there.

In any case, it's funny what some sunshine can do to you, because biking home from the gym this morning, I forgot about my anger at our stupid team, I forgot my rants about how many wins being the second highest paid team in the National League can bring, and I forgot that I say, walking home from yet another lost cause, I'm never going to a game again this year. I passed by good buddies walking to the ballpark, some dressed in Cubs garb, some dressed in Sox bollocks, all geared up for a party at the crosstown sequel. And I thought to myself, this is what's great about baseball, despite the home plate brawls and stupid fans. Long-distance friendship that lasts the length of the Addison and 31st Red Line L stops.

Luckily for me, but unfortunately for us, all of my good friends are Cubs fans. So when the Pucketts and I settled into outfield box seats yesterday for what we hoped to be a series-evening game with the Brew Crew, we thought that the Cubs would be kind enough to bestow a nice anniversary gift for Ryan and Joanne. However, leaving runners in scoring position on base in the seventh, eighth and ninth innings was very inconsiderate, but at least Joanne got a good look at Todd Walker from behind from our excellent seats. Being next to the Brewers' bullpen, I kept yelling out to Danny Kolb, but he ignored me, and I wanted to tell Derrick Turnbow to cut his hair.

Chicago Cubs vs. Milwaukee Brewers, June 29, 2006. Section 38, Row 5, Seat 7. $54.00. Cubs 4 Brewers 5.

Keen

Once upon a time, three guys from a town called Battle in a province called Sussex in a country called England decided that it was OK to form a band with just two instruments, a drum kit and keyboards. They did cheat a little -- the keyboards had some synthesizers and sometimes the lead vocals guy banged at a Hammond organ -- but mostly, they truly wanted to put an end to the over-indulgences of the Richie Sambora 16-string. Because they were English, they had rosy cheeks and dressed like indie fops -- tight-fitting striped shirts, tight pants, no socks, old school Pumas.

They called their band Keane and released a pounding, extrovertish debut album called "Hope and Fears" in 2004 that produced a few hit singles and won them a Grammy. I liked it so much that even though I mostly listen to my iPod or my iTunes on shuffle, there are five Keane songs in my "Top 25 Most Played" (see previous blog). In fact, a remake of the Walker Brothers' "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine (Anymore)," released as a single for charity in between albums, is top of the list with 92 plays, but that's only because I had the song on repeat.

Last week, they released their sophomore record, called "Under the Iron Sea." I haven't had a chance to fully let it sink in yet, but if I needed any help, tonight's show at the Metro was my cheat sheet. Hanging over the balcony at stage right, I watched Tom work the mic like Rod Stewart (really) and Tim thrash the keyboards like Jerry Lee Lewis. Being English, Tom liked to do the kneeling to the crowd thing, touching fingers, hanging on to the mic stand dramatically, thanking the crowd for their "kindness" -- I mean, this is all very Brit pop. It was humble, unpretentious, they were completely a slave to the audience, and did it all with a smile in-between songs. And I loved it -- it reminded me of past Brit pop shows I'd attended; the Pet Shop Boys, UB40, the Beautiful South -- except that the energy and stage presence was amazing. When he grows up, he's going to be like Bruce Springsteen.

After the show, a girl under the marquee "AN EVENING WITH KEANE - SOLD OUT" had a very serious look on her face as a stranger asked her, "So he touched you?" "Yes, he touched my arm twice and held my hand once," she replied. The stranger said, "And he made eye contact and looked you in the eyes?" "Yes," she said. "You must be in love!" "I am, " she nodded sagely. The travelling road shows of yore may be so 1950s (unless you're an American Idol), but ah, there will always be girls in love with rock stars.

Dedicated to President Bystander

There are many important things in my life, principles that I live by -- loyalty, friendship, compassion, and integrity for everyone. There's a guy I know that feels the same way about these things, and his name is Bruce Springsteen.

It's hard to understand why you'd drive 2,000 miles in 36 hours to see him twice in two days, or spend hard-earned college money on six "Reunion" tour shows or spend hours reading critical appreciations and scouring YouTube.com. I can't explain it, because I'm not that good of a writer, but there's something about it all that rankles the soul like few things can. There's a little bottle rocket that goes off inside every time music is performed the way it was meant to be seen. When rock & roll was invented, from Jelly Roll Morton in Chicago's music halls and Ledbelly in the cotton fields to Alan Freed's late night A.M. radio and a street corner in Memphis called Sun Studios, this was how it wanted to look and sound.

And that's the true essence of rock & roll, isn't it? When you think that no one else understands, there's some guy on stage that's you projected on a big screen (much improved guitar skills over the last 30 years and mega bucks, these are just icing on the cake). It's like air guitar for the soul. I'm talking about growing up with parents who taught us that one of the most important things we could do is share, especially if it means that someone never had to go hungry, and there's Bruce calling for his audience to help the food bank of whichever city he's in every night. There's no Bono-esque attention-seeking stunts or Tom Morello-esque "Fuck Bush!" audacities. Just music doing the talking through astute song selections, and eloquence that makes you think even as you chuckle.

And in case you might think that attending a Springsteen show is like watching Charles Dickens' "Bleak House" performed as a rock opera, we have our share of frat rock fun and laughter, too. When Rosie comes out and Sherry goes home, man, you can't jump a little higher or say hey, hey, hey loud enough. And when Bruce shares a mic with Little Steven van Zant, you think about all the Bobby Jeans in your life. If I ever wanted to tell someone important how I really feel about him or her, I wouldn't send a card. I'd play "Backstreets" in my car as we go driving down Lake Shore Drive.

My professional hero Peter Fleischer told me that the highlight of his concert-going career -- the Ramones at CBGB, Bruce on the Jersey shore in the early 1970s, the New York Dolls at Roseland, etc. -- was "My City of Ruins" at Jazzfest. I haven't been to enough shows in this lifetime to have a highlight just yet, but on the Seeger Sessions tour, it was last Wednesday in Milwaukee. They're re-opening the vote to bring the death penalty back to Wisconsin and Bruce asked for everyone to think through the issue before making their decision. Then he sang "My City of Ruins."

How can a poor man stand such times and live?