Ohio State makes it look easy in 52-3 rout over Northwestern
October 19, 2019Buckeyes move up one spot to No. 3 in latest AP Poll
October 21, 2019There’s this portion of the song “Not” from Big Thief’s most recent album Two Hands that swells up my throat every time it reaches my ears as if I’m slightly allergic to emotional breakthroughs. The track opens with a grungy, stormy guitar from bandleader Adrianne Lenker that sounds transported from 1993, and immediately, the listener knows what kind of song “Not” will be. Quickly, her guitar is accompanied by a bass guitar/kick drum tandem, and ultimately a second guitar and a soaring astral synth. Big Thief typically has a folk-rock tinge, but instrumentally, “Not” is a straight-up rocker. Throughout her discography, Lenker effectively modulates her voice to a wide variety of timbres, but on “Not,” she’s at her absolute rawest; honestly, it’s surprising that she can speak after performing it live.
Lyrically, the song is a long list of things it isn’t. Lenker begins by cryptically crying “it’s not the energy reeling/nor the lines on your face/nor the clouds on the ceiling/nor the clouds in space,” and she continues to weave her way through vivid descriptions of concerns in her life on both a cosmic and an interpersonal scale, skillfully allowing the emotion to build in her voice and her cadence despite insisting that “it isn’t” the things that she’s listing. Her band swells around her as she goes, seemingly on a collision course for eruption.
But then, about two minutes in, something magical happens. As the third verse is beginning, the wall of guitar the song was built upon suddenly disappears, leaving her voice naked and vulnerable. With that sudden exposure, Lenker seems to mourn her failed relationship, lamenting the shallowness and ultimate separation of her and her partner’s relationship. Then, the wall of guitar comes crashing back as the intensity in her voice peaks, amping up the catharsis to a new height. It’s like driving under a bridge on the freeway during a terrible storm: the brief respite from a drenched, obscured windshield only reinforces the calamity of the situation as the rumble of giant raindrops returns. Eventually, the energy of the song boils over into an epic, thunderous guitar solo that feels earned, largely because of the raw desperation in Lenker’s voice.
or if you prefer live:
If I were trying to introduce someone to Big Thief, the first half of “Not” perfectly encapsulates what I find most compelling about them: an uncanny knack for writing about universal human elements with deep emotional complexity, especially relationships with loved ones. It’s no coincidence that some of Big Thief’s other standout songs are titled “Jenni,” “Paul,” “Lorraine,” and “Mary.” Still, on “Not,” Lenker, with the remainder of the band in sync, perfectly exerts herself to convey the desperation associated with missing an important person from the past. Big Thief has prettier songs, and they have catchier songs, but when it comes to doing what they do best, “Not” is their masterpiece.
. . .
Going to a baseball game presents a unique opportunity for people like me, who can think and talk about baseball for hours. It doesn’t provide the best vantage for analyzing or even following the game. For instance, few are able to discern a ball from a strike from their seats, whereas on TV, viewers get to see every pitch from a better angle, and if it’s close, the telecast will show it again, in slo-mo. One thing physical attendance does provide is a natural breaking down of social barriers. You see, in real life, it’s difficult to tell whether a stranger or acquaintance shares my love for baseball, and not wanting to alienate those people prevents me from succumbing to my insatiable and everlasting desire to talk about the game. But when at the ballpark, there’s much less to decipher. Everyone there chose to devote their time to a three-hour game, which acts as a social equalizer. Most of the time, the camaraderie is pleasant but forgettable: high-fives after your team scores, collective awe after great plays, jeering the umpire after a blown call. But sometimes, the diminished social barriers at the ballpark lead to a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
In 2013, I was home from college for the summer and got invited to an Indians-Rangers game with a friend from high school. We had great seats: third row, halfway between home plate and first base, immediately in front of the visitors’ dugout and on-deck circle. Because of the location, the Indians often reserved the seats one row in front of ours for opponents’ front offices to give away. Most of the time, the people in front of us had some relationship to the front office, like a team doctor’s family or select members of the marketing team.
At this game, the seats remained empty for several innings before finally, one guy plopped down in front of us, with eyes affixed to his phone and dressed in business-casual attire that was suspiciously nondescript for a ballgame. My friend and I raised an eyebrow and thought nothing more about it.
In 2013, the emergence of Cuban-born players like Yasiel Puig and Yoenis Cespedes was an exciting development in MLB, and I had vaguely recalled that Texas center fielder Leonys Martin was also part of this movement. I asked my friend, a geography whiz, but before he could answer, the man in front of us emerged from his cellular fixation to inform us that, yes, Martin was a Cuban émigré. Our curiosity about the mystery man fueled, I asked him if he was a Rangers fan.
“I’m a medium fan,” he retorted dryly, “but I specialize in player countries of origin.” He then pointed to each Ranger in the field, effortlessly reporting: “Dominican Republic…UCLA, fourth-rounder…Cuba…Florida high school…Dominican Republic…”
I missed the point, genuinely perplexed as to why someone so knowledgeable would only consider himself a medium fan. My friend’s dad was not so gullible. “Are you a scout?” he asked.
The mystery man stuck out his hand and smiled: “I’m Thad Levine. I’m the assistant general manager of the Texas Rangers. Nice to meet you.” The Thad Levine who is now the assistant GM of the Twins.
Revealing his identity was a huge mistake if he wanted to get any work done. For the next two hours, I asked him about his entry into baseball operations (he was pre-med too!), the Rangers farm system, the thought processes behind certain trades, and the personalities of certain players. I told him what I thought of trading CJ Edwards (aka Craig Edwards Jr.) and Mike Olt for Matt Garza. He told me about Cespedes and Puig and the perils of being a Cuban baseball player in America. He was hilarious, and I learned a lot.
Supposedly, Levine was at work, but for an evening at the ballpark, the second-in-command of the Rangers front office graciously spent his time making the day of this teenage baseball superfan when he certainly didn’t have to. But that’s what you do when you’re at the ballpark, you talk baseball.