Recently, I received an email stating that I should eradicate John Coltrane from my playlist. I believe the emailer’s words were something to the effect of, “Coltrane DOES NOT ease my troubled mind. Stick with the likes of Webster.” Webster being, of course, Ben Webster.

While I respect the opinions of my listeners and can even understand where this particular individual is coming from — I mean, Coltrane’s versions of the ballads Body & Soul and I Want to Talk About You are not exactly slow-paced lullabies — I can’t imagine playing classic jazz without Coltrane. Can you? In my opinion, jazz without Coltrane would be like the Nazis without Himmler. That’s a bad analogy, I know, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Himmler was integral to the whole movement that was Nazism, was he not? And where would jazz be without Coltrane.

I don’t mean to make light of Nazis and it seems awful to compare the legends of jazz to one of the most destructive machines in the history of man. But I do it tongue in cheek. I also do it because the Nazis hated jazz almost as much as they hated the men and women who created the music. The thing about jazz is that it was totally inclusive. Black, white, Jew, Gentile. None of that crap mattered. All that mattered was what you did when you put your fingers to the keys or sticks to the skins or your lips upon that horn. And yes, jazz was a male dominated artform, but where would it be without Mary Lou Williams or Clora Bryant or the endless list of female vocalists out there? Totally inclusive.

I think that is why the Nazis hated the music so much. You had Black musicians, Jewish producers, vice-versa, intermingling, co-existing. What you had was integration in the studios, on the dance floors and more. It was the more that the Nazis detested. It was the more that got the Savoy closed in Harlem. The Nazis weren’t the only ones who hated harmony that went beyond the music.

Anyway, I went the long way around to basically say that I can not stop playing Coltrane on the station. Perhaps there is a tune or two that I could leave off the playlist, as they may be a little too incendiary for the ballad format. But it would be a mortal sin to exclude Coltrane altogether.

Sehnen sich Phasencoltrane!

I love Babel Fish.

The following was in the New York Daily News today:

The Ninth Circuit of the U.S. Court of Appeals voted 2-1 that federal investigators may use the names of 104 players who tested positive in supposedly anonymous testing in 2003, shooting down the MLB Players Association’s attempts to keep the names private.

Speculation is sure to center on whether Barry Bonds’ name is on the list, although even if he did test positive in 2003, he could argue that he did not intentionally take illegal performance enhancers. Bonds is the target of a government perjury investigation.

At this point, does anyone think that Barry Bonds did not intentionally take illegal performance enhancers? If his name were on the list, how many people would gasp with shock? Not many, I’m sure. The fact is if you compare the 1986 Barry Bonds to the 2006 Barry Bonds, there is a pretty noticeable difference. And yes, people put on pounds as the years go by, but look at Barry’s head! It’s huge! He could head-butt a rhinoceros with that melon. Personally, I think Barry did use performance enhancers. What kind, I don’t know. And it isn’t only him. In 1986 Mark Mcgwire looked like your next door neighbor. Not skinny by any means, but definitely human. Now he looks like the friggin’ Michelin Man. His neck is like a tree trunk and one of his legs is big enough to feed a Guatemalan family for a year. Does anyone question whether he used performance enhancers? Only a blind man would.

So why pick on Barry? This is why. For one thing, Barry is an arrogant S.O.B. If he were a nice guy, they’d still look at this closely for other obvious reasons, but perhaps the vitriol directed towards Barry wouldn’t be so acidic. A lot of the media hate Barry because he treats them like they are a nuisance. Fact is, without the media nobody but hardcore baseball fans would care about what Bonds has done. So when the chance comes to bury a man who seems to luxuriate in his own hubris, the media becomes ravenous and unrelenting. The media can propel you to great heights or make you disappear. One only wishes their power to persuade was as great when Ty Cobb was around. Cur that he was.

The main reason why people are picking on Barry is because he is about to break the most coveted record in major league baseball and, one could argue, all of sports. Barry surpassed Babe Ruth last year in home runs and I am sure that chapped a lot of hides. But now he is bearing down on Hammerin’ Hank Aaron. By all accounts Hank Aaron is the antithesis of a Barry Bonds. Humble, congenial. He’s the kind of man you want to hold the record. There’s little room for ambivalence when it comes to Hank Aaron, especially these days. But Barry with the attitude and the alleged drug enhanced bulk is an easy target.

Should an asterisk be placed by Bonds’ name if he breaks the all-time home run record? Does it matter? People will always think he broke the record under false pretenses. They will never give him the credit he will think he is due, whether he deserves it or not. And if his name is on that list, well…bye bye Barry. You can hit 800 homers. No one is gonna care. And even those who do will wonder if you could have done it without the medicinal nudge.

After the strike in ‘94 baseball was revived when Mark Mcgwire and Sammy Sosa locked horns and the chase for the most home runs in one season was on. Looking back, one has to wonder what, if anything, these guys were shooting into themselves or rubbing onto themselves or whatever they had to do to hit so many homers. The romantic in me would like to think that Mark and Sammy did it all with grit and determination. But the cynic in me now thinks that home run chase was the beginning of the end of baseball as we knew it.

And if Barry’s name shows up on that list, baseball may never be the same again.

Obviously, Tom Coughlin is not going to be the coach of the New York Giants come season’s end. The Giants were expected to be a much better team this year than they have proven and much of the blame has gone to Coughlin. Justified? Maybe. But I’ve watched a few of these games and if the players aren’t doing their job, perhaps it isn’t entirely the coaches fault. But I am neither a Giants expert nor have I viewed enough of their games to decisively state that their flaws can all be attributed to the head coach.

However, in reading a recent editorial which states that Charlie Weis would be a great fit for the Giants, I realized how effective hype can really be. Weis has been there for what? Two seasons? He’s won how many bowl games? Zero so far and I can almost guarantee you he will not win against LSU either. His team lost to Michigan and to USC. Both tough schools, but not impossible victories.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Notre Dame. I have been a fan since high school. And I know that Weis was an effective offensive coordinator at New England, but can’t we see if the guy can win the big one (or even a little one at ND) before we start anointing him the messiah of the New York Giants?

Perhaps I sound a little upset or bitter. And maybe I am. You see, when Weis was in the middle of his 1st season at ND, he was given a contract extension, a ten year deal worth many millions of dollars. Ty Willingham ended his first season with a 10-3 record (same amount of losses and 1 more win than Weis), and I don’t recall any more money being thrown at him. I dunno. I probably shouldn’t be irked by such disparities. I’m quite sure they could be easily explained away.

All I am saying is that Weis has proven to be a good head coach, not a great one.  Not yet. And next year, he will be stuck with a lot of his recruits, not Willingham’s. Let’s see if he is as good as people would like to think. But you know what? If the Giants come knocking at the Weis family’s door, I really don’t think he will stay at Notre Dame. Call it a hunch. But in my opinion, the NFL is where he’d rather be. And with ND setting the bar so high salary-wise, Coach Weis could be set to make quite a bit of bank.

Last night I decided to take my girlfriend out to dinner and a movie. Nothing unique about that, right? I told her I was taking her out to a movie, but I didn’t tell her which movie. I wanted it to be a surprise. All I told her was that she had seen it before. Lucky for me, I have an open-minded girlfriend and she was a game.

So, after dinner we walked over to the Belcourt, the old theater in the heart of Nashville. I’ve mentioned this before, but the Belcourt is the best movie theater in the city. The screen isn’t that big, the seats not too comfortable and the sound sucks. But all of these imperfections are wiped away by the fact that when you sit down and the lights grow dim, you are absolutely whisked away. There is such a sense of history with the Belcourt. The place has been there since 1925 and you can feel it every time you walk in. There are no ushers and it isn’t some souless, 27 screen multiplex with the latest Tom Hanks film. Two projectors are all you get. A rather ragtag fellow with an unkempt beard and black-framed glasses sells you your tickets and no one is there to rip them. Sometimes the same guy who sold you the ticket has to mosey over to the concession stand to sell you a “bucket” of popcorn and a dark, tasty lager. So unassuming and spontaneous. I love it!

My lady and I walked up and into the theater and I handed the guy sitting at the window the tickets (I purchased them earlier in the day so as not to ruin the surprise by having to announce what movie we wished to see when we arrived). The gentleman looked at my tickets and without tearing them, nodded his confirmation. My girlfriend and I walked over to the concession stand and bought refreshments. On this night, someone was actually working behind the stand — a short blond with a perky demeanor and light blue leg warmers. It was only after we received our refreshments and turned around that my girlfriend saw what movie we were going to see.

“Are we going to see It’s A Wonderful Life?”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

“It’s wonderful. I haven’t seen it in so long. Perfect choice, honey.”

Well, that was a relief. A small part of me worried that she would think it was corny. Why see a movie that you have already seen twenty times before? But she was elated and that calmed me a bit. However, I did wonder if the movie would feel stale to me. I mean, I watch it nearly every year around the holidays and this year they have been running that lasso around the moon scene in the Kay Jeweler commercials ad nauseam. Perhaps I would find myself squirming in my seat and glancing at my watch, cursing myself for thinking this would be a fun experience. Would this be the slowest two hours of my life?

To my surprise the theater was nearly full. These days DVD players can be purchased with pocket change. DVD movies are extraordinarily cheap as well. However, all of these people had the same idea as me. They wanted to see the film on the big screen. Not only that but they wanted to see it in this old theater, this home away from home. Another surprise was the family that sat next to us. A man and his wife brought their two kids, and in my eavesdropping I discovered that the kids had never seen the film. What an experience! Not only were they seeing the movie for the first time BUT they were also seeing it for the first time on the big screen! They were seeing it the way people saw it when it first came out 60 years ago. I envied those kids because I knew that if they were film lovers like me, this night would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

The lights dimmed, the sound came up and I was gone. Glorious black and white, beautiful music. There was George Bailey and Mary and Uncle Billy and old man Potter and Mr. Gower. I’d seen this film so many times. Remember back in the day when it was public domain and every television station in the city ran it? How could you miss it? But none of those times could add up to last night. A chill ran through me while I watched the film. I felt a certain kinship with the people around me, like we were all sharing this experience together. I heard them laugh and even heard sighs during certain scenes as if they were waiting for these particular moments. And when George Bailey runs through the little town of Bedford screaming Merry Christmas to every passerby, I felt my grip tighten over my girlfriend’s hand. For a brief moment that elation that came with my childhood Christmases was inside of me once again. It was a great feeling, and for the first time this holiday season I felt the spirit of Christmas all around me. Sounds corny, I know. But it’s true.

“The End” appeared scrawled across the screen, the lights came up and the whole theater erupted in applause. Imagine that. Everyone there, except for those two fortunate kids, has probably seen the movie just as many times as I have, but it seems they were imbued with the same feeling I felt. It was an applause of appreciation. It was an applause of thank you. Thank you, Jimmy Stewart. Thank you, Frank Capra. You reminded us of the pretty things in life.

I felt rejuvenated walking out of that old theater. For two hours I was lost in another world. A better world. It was idealistic and sentimental, but who cares. Without idealism and sentimentality we’re dead.

The Belcourt may have saved my Christmas this year. It washed away the Bah Humbug and left a bit of romantic hope.

Little sidenote: From January 3rd to February 27th the Belcourt will be showing 30 Janus Films. This includes films by Hitchcock, Fellini, Kurosawa, Polanski, Bergman…. I’m saving my pennies. Once you experience the thrill of seeing a classic on the big screen, you find yourself quite addicted. I want to feel that rush over and over again.

Oh, one last thing.

Merry Christmas to all…and to all a good night.