Nun will endlich auch ich hier die vielzitierte Ausnahme von der Regel tun und eine Veröffentlichung besprechen, deren hörbare Frequenzen sich im Rascheln von Papier erschöpfen: ein Buch nämlich, namentlich “The Death of Bunny Munro” von Nick Cave. Und spätestens hier wird dem geneigten Leser klar, daß der Schritt von meinen sonstigen kleinen Plaudereien hierher zu dieser speziellen nicht wirklich ein großer ist, steht Nick Cave doch nun schon seit geraumer Zeit einigermaßen komplett bei mir im Platten- beziehungsweise CD-Regal (auch, wenn mir seine neuen Platten nicht mehr so gut gefallen wie die mittleren Bad-Seeds-Scheiben, aber dazu ein andermal), und eben auch im Bücherregal, mit “And the Ass Saw the Angel” und “King Ink”, und seit kurzem auch mit “The Death of Bunny Munro”.

Letzteres ist Caves zweiter Roman nach “And the Ass…” (1989), über den Australier Cave selbst muss man wahrscheinlich nicht mehr viel Worte verlieren: Boys Next Door, Birthday Party, vor allem die Bad Seeds und jüngst Grinderman seien als Stichworte genannt, ebenso Blixa Bargeld, Mick Harvey, Kylie Minogue, und vielleicht sei noch seine Arbeit im filmischen Sektor erwähnt, John Hillcoats “Ghosts … of the Civil Dead” (1988) z.B. oder das Drehbuch von “The Proposition”, 2005 ebenfalls von Hillcoat verfilmt, Auftritte und die Soundtrackbeiträge zu Wenders-Filmen etc. Dann könnte man noch, um ein paar inhaltliche Eckpfeiler zu etablieren, Begriffe wie “Heroin”, “Rabenhaar”, “Prediger”, “alttestamentarischer Zorn”, “Blues”, “Punk”, “Klavier”, “Wilde Rosen”, “schöne Melodien” und “Lärm” ins Feld führen, den ganzen Rest dem schlauen Internet überlassen und sich um “The Death of Bunny Munro” kümmern.

Wie gesagt, seit einiger Zeit stehe ich den Platten Caves etwas verhaltener gegenüber, als es schonmal der Fall war, und auch, wenn das Doppel- beziehungsweise Zweifachalbum “Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus” (2004) nochmal ziemlich gut und vor allem abwechslungsreich und überraschend ist, meine liebsten Nick-Cave-Platten sind die Bad-Seeds-Alben zwischen “Kicking against the pricks” (1986) und “Henry’s Dream” (1992). Sein erster Roman, den ich damals anfang der 90er verschlungen habe wie nichts Gutes (in der deutschen Übersetzung allerdings), schien mir beim Versuch, ihn vor ein, zwei Jahren wiederzulesen, arg aufgesetzt, zu pathosbeladen, zu alttestamentarisch, zu vollgestopft (in der deutschen Übersetzung allerdings), und ich mußte es nach ein paar Seiten einfach genervt aufgeben. Und nun “The Death of Bunny Munro”.

Die Kritiken haben sich vor Lob beinahe überschlagen in ihren Rezensionen, wie man auf der Homepage von Kiepenheuer & Witsch nachlesen kann, bei denen das Buch auf deutsch erscheint. Doch hier und da wurde auch Kritik z.B. am Finale des Romans laut (die, dazu später, durchaus berechtigt ist), und so zögerte ich doch einige Zeit, bis ich mir das Buch in der englischen Paperbackausgabe in einem Anfall samstäglicher Shoppingsucht doch kaufte. Kaufte, aufschlug, zu lesen begann und es in einem Rutsch durchlas, amüsiert, zeitweise begeistert, zeitweise richtig traurig, nur am Ende kurz leicht genervt, aber im Großen und Ganzen sehr positiv überrascht.

Vielleicht dies jetzt gleich: Nick Cave ist ein großer Liedermacher, ein großer Liedtexter, eine insgesamt beeindruckende Gestalt, aber er ist freilich kein Autor von Weltliteratur. Behält man diese Einschränkung im Hinterkopf, dann ist “Bunny Munro” ein richtig gutes Buch. Im Gegensatz zu seinem Debutroman hat Cave sein alttestamentarisches Donnern und Zürnen ab- und sich stattdessen einen fast schon leichtfüßigen Erzählstil zugelegt. Sein Zweitling erzählt die Geschichte des Kosmetikvertreters Bunny Munro, ein notorischer Schwerenöter und Weiberheld, völlig vaginafixiert, über seine besten Jahre hinaus, aber noch immer mit dem gewissen Etwas (seiner Meinung nach), das ihm die Weiber reihenweise ins Bett treibt, auch wenn sie es hinterher meistens bereuen. Mit Schmalzlocke und jovialer Borniertheit stolziert Bunny also vom Verkaufsgespräch zum nächsten Fick und zurück, bis seine Frau Libby sich erhängt – ein Akt der Verzweiflung, der Abscheu vor und der Rache an Bunny, mit einer gewissen Perfidität, die Bunny den Rest des Romans – und seines Lebens – verfolgen wird. Bunny bleibt zurück, und mit ihm sein Sohn Bunny Jr., den er bis dato kaum beachtet hat und mit dem er auch weiterhin nicht viel anzufangen weiß. Nach einer Trauerphase, die bei Bunny eher ein Besäufnis mit seinen Kumpels ist, unterbrochen nur von kurzen Momenten ungenützter Erkenntnis über seinen Verlust und seinen Sohn, schleichen sich plötzlich surreale Momente ein, stimmt plötzlich etwas nicht mehr, überfallen Bunny plötzlich abstrakte Vorahnungen. Bunnys schnurgerades, borniertes Macholeben bekommt plötzlich Risse. Bunny packt seinen Sohn ein und steigt in sein Auto, on the road again, und macht sich entlang der englischen Südküste auf eine letzte Verkaufs- und Ficktour, sein Sohn auf dem Beifahrer- und eine immer größer werdende Finsternis auf dem Rücksitz, seinem schon im Titel angekündigten Tod entgegen.

Caves Version des “Death of a Salesman” ist auf den ersten Blick die recht lineare Geschichte vom Niedergang eines ziemlichen Unsympaths, der seine Illusion ewiger Geilheit nach dem Tod seiner Frau, mit dem auch ihm selbst klar werden muß, daß er längst aufgeflogen ist, nicht mehr aufrecht erhalten kann, und der an seiner eigenen Erbärmlichkeit zugrunde geht. Erzählt ist das Ganze mit einem gewissen Furor, mit viel Humor, Caves – hier erfolgreich kanalisierter – Sprachgewalt, einer zunehmenden, surrealen Metaphysik (die sich, gepaart mit einer Prise Medien- und Gesellschaftskritik, in der Furche manifestiert, die ein mit Plastikhörnern und Teufelsgabel bewehrter, Überwachungskameras geradezu suchender Serienmörder durch England schlägt – eine von Cave mit voller Absicht inszenierte, derart plumpe Metapher, daß es nur so eine Freude ist) und einer unglaublichen, an allen Ecken und Enden unpassenden Sex- und vor allem Vaginafixierung, die sich wiederum – neben absolut und ausnahmslos allen Frauen – auf Avril Lavigne, Kylie Minogue und nochmal Avril Lavigne konzentriert (und oft in ziemlich komischen, grotesken Sätzen wie z.B. “Easy, no problem, vagina, vagina” gipfelt).

Es ist sicher nicht die Story selbst, die den Roman zu einem guten Roman macht und die, wie auch die Songtexte Caves, vor allem von den letzten Dingen handelt. Vielmehr beweist Cave eher in Kleinigkeiten und Details ein großes Gespür für emotionale Zwischentöne, für die Tragik der ins Leere laufende Kommunikationen zwischen Vater und Sohn und für die ganzen vergeudeten Chancen zur Erkenntnis, die Bunny Munro zwar ahnt, aber bis zuletzt nicht ergreifen kann. Zwischen all der groben, hysterischen Sexualität, den Zoten und der Männlichkeit von Bunny Sr. gibt es immer wieder ergreifend einfache, stille, tieftraurige Momente, in denen Bunny Jr. im Mittelpunkt steht, in denen Cave hellsichtig die Perspektive des neunjährigen Jungen einnimmt, dessen ewig entzündete Augen dem Vater ebenso entgehen wie alles andere, der mit einer Schicksalsergebenheit seine Trauer, Verzweiflung und Einsamkeit im Zaum zu halten versucht und der seinen Vater trotz allem bewundert und liebt. Es zerreißt einem schier das Herz, wenn Bunny Jr. allein auf dem Beifahrersitz wartet und sich von vorne nach hinten durch seine Enzyklopädie arbeitet, ein Geschenk seiner Mutter, während sein Vater Kosmetika und seinen Pimmel an die Hausfrau zu bringen versucht, und ihn seine Einsamkeit überwältig und er sich so sehr nach seiner Mutter sehnt, daß diese ihm als Geist erscheint, ein schwacher Trost, denn der Geist verschwindet freilich wieder und läßt den kleinen Bunny allein in dieser fürchterlichen Welt zurück. Und selbst, als Bunny Munros Beunruhigung immer größer wird, bleibt sein Blick auf sich selbst gerichtet, entgeht ihm sein Sohn und dessen kranke, eitrige Augen und dessen wundes, kleines Herz.

“The Death of Bunny Munro” ist tatsächlich ein schönes Buch, voller Witz und Trauer, voller Geilheit und Einfühlsamkeit, und nur ganz am Ende gerät Cave wieder sein biblischer stream of consciousness außer Kontrolle, und er gleitet ab in einen Pathos, der dem wohltemperierten und dennoch furiosen Restbuch ein allzu plump moralisches Bein stellt. Das sei Cave aber verziehen, denn die ersten neun Zehntel lohnen sich auf jeder Seite, seine Charakterisierung von Vater und Sohn und vor allem der Unmöglichkeit zur Verständigung zwischen den beiden ist mit dem gebotenen Respekt und dem größtmöglichen Humor beschrieben, und gerade der fließende Wechsel zwischen den grobschlächtigen Zoten des Vaters und den poetischen Momenten des Sohnes zeugt vom Können Caves, von seiner literarischen Leichthändigkeit.

Wie gesagt, “The Death of Bunny Munro” ist keine Weltliteratur, es ist vielleicht auch nicht das literarische Meisterwerk, das die Presse ab und an sehen will, aber es ist ein schönes, lesenswertes Buch und vielleicht doch ein Meisterwerk für einen Autor, der hauptberuflich Musiker ist.

www.thedeathofbunnymunro.com
www.canongate.net

I think I’ll always look back on 2004 as one of the richest musical years– certainly of this decade. With spectacular new releases, from veterans and rookies alike, and from innumerable different genres and pop idioms, the year was practically a deluge of truly landmark recordings, and I dare say that no other year will play as prominent a role in my Best of the Decade list. Or, for that matter, my all-time desert island list.

It was a year of towering twin peaks: Standing high above everything else and defining the year’s creative vibrancy were Nick Cave’s two-disc Bad Seeds opus, Abattoir Blues and the Lyre of Orpheus, and Sam Phillips‘ spare, devastating break-up chronicle, A Boot and a Shoe. These two albums are masterpieces of very different kinds, and in my mind they are essentially tied for Album of the Year honors, although, for its sheer scope and audacity, I usually choose Cave’s album as the year’s “official” champion. And indeed, with all of his Seeds in tow and his poetic gift at the peak of its powers, Cave created a sprawling album of astonishing spiritual fervor; you’d have to go back to The Joshua Tree for another rock album of such burning, gospel-fueled passion. Smaller in scale but equally exploratory and profound was Phillips‘ album, a tightly-constructed gem that used a romantic break-up to address issues of suffering, providence, and grace. The impact of both of these albums on my own life– and my listening habits– is, to be quite honest, immeasurable.

But if those were the standouts, they were hardly the year’s only memorable albums. Going into 2004, the album I was most primed to hear was the new, long-delayed offering from U2. Of course this album turned out to be How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, and, to be frank, it’s one of my least favorite of their albums; that said, given what a profound blessing this band’s music has been in my life, that hardly means I didn’t like it. I’ve wavered a bit in just how much I like it, finding all of the songs to be good but the production and the cohesion of the album to be lacking; these days I consider it to be a slight disappointment, but the songs still mean a lot to me, so my attitude toward the album is primarily one of great fondness. But I’m the first to admit that, in 2004, Bono and the boys were out-U2ed by a band that can legitimately claim to be the heirs to the U2 throne– Arcade Fire, that rarest of bands that deserves every hyped-up word that’s been written about them. Their debut, Funeral, is a brave and stunningly assured work of catharsis and rich feeling, brimming with a youthful poetry, at once weary and romantic, that could only come from rock and roll.

Tom Waits released his edgiest, hippest, and altogether strangest album in 2004 (which is saying a lot, given Waits’ astonishingly weird career). Real Gone is a nasty little rock record that finds inspiration in everything from hip-hop to parlor folk. It’s Waits’ most daring experiment, pushing the aesthetics of Rain Dogs and Bone Machine to their breaking point. It’s also a profound reflection on history and sin, and in many ways it’s my most cherished Tom Waits album.

Another veteran singer/songwriter who topped himself in 2004 was the great Buddy Miller, whose Universal United House of Prayer was the year’s best gospel album, as well as one of its most profound– and compassionate– political statements. Released during a time of war, Miller’s album sidestepped polemics in favor of spiritual songs bemoaning man’s depravity and begging for God’s grace. He preached peace through love and faith, and the songs– drawn from mountain music but filtered through rock and roll– matched the lyrics in their fervor and urgency.

Ron Sexsmith released one of the decade’s finest pure pop albums in Retriever, an album of grace and elegance that drew from a number of singer/songwriter traditions but came to be something far more, an incredible showcase of melody matched with lyrics brimming with beauty, sincerity, and truth. Sexsmith wrote about love as something rooted not in carnality, but in divinity; fittingly, his hooks were positively heavenly.

American roots music– everything from country to gospel– was rich and vibrant in 2004. In addition to the Buddy Miller album, of course, there was the Jack White-produced comeback album by Loretta Lynn, an album overflowing with energy, personality, humor, and storytelling virtuosity. Meanwhile, Ben Harper collaborated with the Blind Boys of Alabama for an irresistible gospel concoction– with rock underpinnings, of course– called There Will Be a Light. And Patty Griffin’s Impossible Dream is a record of rich, devastating, and utterly mesmerizing sadness.

And speaking of rock, 2004 gave us formative recordings from some of the decade’s most promising and exciting bands, most notably The Black Keys‘ breakthrough album, Rubber Factory, and the fully-formed debut from The Hold Steady, Almost Killed Me. And then there was the Green Day album: American Idiot is a blockbuster and a modern-day classic, and for good reason; its mixture of political fire, rock and roll mayhem, and pop craftmanship make it one of the most ambitious mainstream rock albums of the decade, as well as one of the best.

Singer-songwriters were in fine form in 2004, too, particularly in indie music: Iron & Wine’s Our Endless Numbered Days was a hushed, spooky reflection on death and fidelity, while Sufjan Stevens‘ Seven Swans was a hushed, spooky reflection on death and faith. Both are, in my opinion, the best albums yet made by the two respective artists.

And the beat goes on. AC Newman’s The Slow Wonder is a pop gem. TV on the Radio’s Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes revealed a band with a fully-formed voice that was entirely their own. Devendra Banhart’s Rejoicing in the Hands is a riveting update on the old, weird Americana. And on and on.

That was 2004 for me. What were your favorites from that year?

See also: 2000; 2001; 2002; and 2003.

Today is the birthday of one of Australia’s premier exports, Nick Cave. Cave has made his mark in many arenas: music, novels, poetry, and film, and probably a few more. His work with his band, The Bad Seeds, changed the landscape of literate rock. Their appearance in one of my favorite films of all times, Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire, is the stuff of legend. The use of his song, Red Right Hand, in mainstream television’s The X-Files creeped out an entire generation (and made John Milton roll over in his grave).

Just this month he has released his 2nd novel, The Death of Bunny Munro, garnering some formidable reviews. Find someone, anyone, who read his first novel, And the Ass Saw the Angel (check out Cave reading an excerpt), ask them what they thought, and watch them turn into a sunken eyed, twitchy haint right before your eyes. His two poetry/lyric volumes, King Ink and King Ink II, may take you places you never really wanted to go. His 14 minute epic song, “Babe, I’m On Fire,” with its possessed accompanying video, is so mesmerizingly over-the-top it brings you right back to where you started, well beyond spent.

Have the feeling I could go on for days? Right, mate. So rather than experience all this literate goodness vicariously, sit back and enjoy the tender ballad “The Ship Song” and be charmed right out of your chaps/knickers.

Happy B’Day, Mr. C.

Don

PS. Wonder if he’ll be having a Birthday Party?

My first crack at a return obviously must begin with MM.

Confession that most already know: I love Halloween.  Now that August has finally waned completely, my mind is already turning to the fantastic feelings that the ghoulish holiday brings.  The songs, the movies, the sounds, the costumes, the crackling leaves, the brisk wind, the pumpkin pie, the jack-o-laterns…I could go on forever.

Along that line…

Red Right Hand – Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

The Good Son(Mute 1990)

http://www.mediafire.com/?lz5jkfvjo6e

I may be in the minority, but I never really bought Nick Cave as a primal, misanthropic entity attuned to the darkest impulses of mankind. Outside of the “Mercy Seat” which still gives me fucking chills, his solo work seemed most poetic when he spun heartfelt yarns about love and its inevitable absence. Sure. the Birthday Party were a singleminded bunch whose music was honestly unsettling and full of the kind of aggression that made you question whether it was mere persona or psychopath. However, he wisely chose a gentler vocabulary and pursued a subtler, but no less effective form of drama. Yeah, he occasionally fostered the occasional shitstorm worthy of the Birthday Party, but he really found his voice interpreting the songs of his heroes on Kicking at the Pricks. Now, that album really grabbed me because I never really saw him as much more than an artist that one listened to when in a pissed, morbid or oddball mood but there are moments of pristine beauty on it as he does what few pull off, which is to make a well-known standard entirely your own. I dunno…there was something tender, yet antagonistic about his take on the familiar that made it seem new. Its followup. Tender Prey, was pretty impressive, but I wanted him to slow things down and take his time with a song, so his subsequent release, The Good Son, was music to these biased ears.

By no means do I recommend The Good Son as a classic or even an entirely successful album since a few songs delve into superficial schtick instead of bloody-hearted pleading and frayed nerves. It’s sometimes hard to embrace a Nick Cave album in its entirety because his embrace of gospel and R&B is kind of ham-fisted as most European efforts tend to play out in their lovable, but shallow manner. Man, that sounds a bit harsh, but if I want clapping and gospel sing-a-longs, there are so many better outlets than Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in this wonderful world.

However, my passion for The Good Son possibly revolves around one single song. I think “Ship Song” is so fucking eloquent and symbolic of the tricky nature of loving someone who may ultimately burn you to the ground. In some ways, it may be one of my favorite metaphors in some ways. He portrays himself as an island while his lover is a ship who burns all bridges down in order to get sole access to her muse. The whole song is about how a love seems perfect in theory, but is destined to fail by their own hands. It is an ode to passion and the infantile decisions it sometimes inspires, but is also a paean to how alive these impulses make us feel. It is self-destructive, utterly romantic and a reflection of past mistakes that could possibly be made right in future relationships. For these reasons, this song is pure perfection as parable and song because it is universal just like the beloved standards he took the time to cover. He finally nailed the perfect blend of schmaltz, empathy, pain and composition required of a song that will stand the test of time.

The rest of The Good Son is no slouch either. Most of it is kind of boozy and drunken in a peculiarly restrain manner. He pursues a lovelorn and regretful mood throughout the album and the result is a pervasive theme of poor decision making and its consequences. It doesn’t hurt that the instrumentation allows the Bad Seeds to explore a more lush side of their musicianship. It’s a gorgeous album with just the right amount of occasional ugliness to make you wince as you slug it all down your gullet.

در یکی‌ از پست‌های گذشته، آهنگی از Nick Cave خواننده و ترانه سرای استرالیا‌یی معرفی شد. امروز نیز آهنگ دیگری از این خواننده میشنویم با نام Henry Lee که با همراهی خواننده انگلیسی‌ P J Harvey اجرا کرده.

ریتم آرام و یکنواخت (و البته زیبا) این آهنگ به همراه تونالیته صدای Nick و همخوانی خوانندگان در بخش هائی از آهنگ به گوش نوازی اون کمک کرده اما متن ترانه چندان سر راست نیست! و مثل برشی از یک داستان است. اما در مورد کلیپ باید یک نکته رو اشاره کنم و اون اینکه کلیپ به صورت تک نما و بدون برش (cut) است. دوربین بر روی چهره دو خوانده cut in شده و تا انتهای آهنگ شاهد میمیک و حرکات آنها هستیم. نمونه ای ازکلیپ بدون برش رو قبلا در آهنگ خانوم گل از کامی‌ و مژده دیده بودیم.

متاًسفانه کلیپ به خاطر کپی‌ رایت قابل آپلود بر روی یوتیوب نبود، بنابر‌این اون رو بر روی یک سایت دیگه قرار دادم.

آهنگ‌های مرتبط:

Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue- Where The Wild Roses Grow

در صورت تمایل یا اگرسرعت اینترنت‌تون اجازه تماشا‌ رو نمیده، میتونید آهنگ رو اینجا گوش کنید:

Lyric

Get down, get down, little Henry Lee, And stay all night with me
You won’t find a girl in this damn world
That will compare with me
And the wind did howl and the wind did blow
La la la la la, La la la la lee
A little bird lit down on Henry Lee, I can’t get down and I won’t get down
And stay all night with thee, For the girl I have in that merry green land
I love far better than thee
And the wind did howl and the wind did blow
La la la la la
La la la la lee
A little bird lit down on Henry Lee, She leaned herself against a fence
Just for a kiss or two, And with a little pen-knife held in her hand
She plugged him through and through
And the wind did roar and the wind did moan
La la la la la, La la la la lee
A little bird lit down on Henry Lee, Come take him by his lilly-white hands
Come take him by his feet, And throw him in this deep deep well
Which is more than one hundred feet
And the wind did howl and the wind did blow
La la la la la, La la la la lee
A little bird lit down on Henry Lee, Lie there, lie there, little Henry Lee
Till the flesh drops from your bones
For the girl you have in that merry green land
Can wait forever for you to come home
And the wind did howl and the wind did moan
La la la la la, La la la la lee
A little bird lit down on Henry Lee

This one’s for you Katy!

Am Sonntag regnete es wahrscheinlich um ganz Dresden herum und auch in Dresden selbst – außer über der Bühne der Jungen Garde. Dort trat nämlich der Hohepriester der Noise-Chansons Nick Cave nebst seinen Bad Seeds auf und gab ein seltenes Stelldichein in 2009. Außer der schnieken Freilichtbühne im Süden Dresdens bespielte der Australier nur noch die beiden Zwillingsfestivals Southside und Hurricane. Wie er die Bühne betrat, hörte der Regen auf.

Die Rahmenbedingungen hätten also nicht besser sein können. Zu erwarten war ein Hitfeuerwerk, wie es sich für große Acts auf großen Festivalbühnen ziemt – dass die kleine Dresdner Freilichtbühne mit auf den Tourplan gerückt ist, war demnach also eine prima Voraussetzung dafür eine Cave-Show zu sehen, die das Beste aus allen Schaffensphasen in Szene setzt.

Das Beste in Szene setzen – das tat der gertenschlanke Nick dann auch. Im Vergleich zur letzten Tour hat sich in der Liveumsetzung nichts verändert – zwei Drumsets, zeitweise drei Gitarren und das “übliche” Brimborium aus Geige, Percussion, Keyboards… Die Songauswahl war dann aber doch eine andere, denn auf der letzten Tour lag der Fokus auf dem neuen Album und die Hits kamen hintendran.

“Weeping Song” und “Ship song” kamen in Dresden schon sehr früh im Set und wie die gesamten 2/3 des Konzerts litten sie unter dem miesen Livesound. Bei jedem zweiten Schlag auf die Snare gab es ein unangenehmes Klacken. Aber was will man machen, wenn da oben ein alter Mann steht, der auf seine alten Tage den Anschein macht noch einmal R-O.C.K. für sich definieren zu wollen. Da wird geflüstert, gekeift, um die eigene Achse gewirbelt und alle Beteiligten geben sich Mühe möglichst laut und tight zu sein.

Meine Highlights waren dementsprechend die eher progressiveren Geschichtenlieder wie “Red Right Hand” oder “We call upon the Author”. Die sind zwar auch laut, haben aber auch diese cave-typische Verschrobenheit, Melancholie und die bittersüßen Texte. Das Tolle an diesem Konzert war aber etwas anderes – nämlich die Ausgelassenheit von Nick Cave. Man konnte förmlich spüren welche große Freude es ihm bereitete nach der zurückliegenden Livepause mal wieder unter Leute zu kommen. Er suchte das Gespräch mit dem Publikum, sprang immer wieder zwischen dem Bühnenzentrum und dem äußersten Bühnenende umher und ließ sich die eine oder andere ironisch-morbide Ansage nicht nehmen.

Alles in allem ein feiner Abend. Aber was gibt es schöneres als mit drei guten Freunden am Sonntagabend nebeneinander zu stehen und sich den Derwisch Cave anzuschauen und sich ab und an wissend zuzunicken? Nicht viel (außer vielleicht Lindenstrasse und Tatort, aber das hat man ja immer).

Een live performance van de titelsong van deze blog: The Mercy Seat (Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds).

You know what happens when you enlist kids from the baseball team you coach to help you with a burglary? Punny newspaper ledes, that’s what. From the Everett (Wash.) Herald:

ARLINGTON — An Arlington Little League coach is accused of showing some of his players how to steal more than second base.

The stepfather was angry that an adult would use the boys to commit a crime, and, even worse, “that the adult was his son’s baseball coach,” Okoloko wrote.

I can see the lede now if a coach ever takes his team to a hooker: “A local baseball coach showed his kids ways to get to third base besides hitting a triple.”

You might remember in 2000 how Michael Costin Sr. died after being beaten by fellow hockey dad Thomas Junta, upset that someone elbowed his son in a practice Coston supervised at a rink in Reading, Mass. It remains one of the most notorious cases of sports parents run amok. Junta is still in jail on his involuntary manslaughter conviction, his parole denied for a second time, in 2008.

Also in jail: one of attack’s witnesses, Michael Costin Jr.

From the Gloucester Times:

…after the case was over and the attention faded away, Michael Costin Jr.’s life spiraled into drug and alcohol abuse and violence, court records show.

[Monday], Costin, now 20, was sent to Middleton Jail for 18 months, after pleading guilty to beating up his 43-year-old girlfriend and stealing her car two days before Christmas.

Prosecutor Michelle DeCourcey said Salem police were called to a Leach Street apartment on the afternoon of Dec. 23 by Costin’s girlfriend, who said he had grabbed her by the throat, punched her in the face and told her, “You’re going to die tonight.”

The above photo is Michael Costin Jr. testifying during Junta’s 2002 trial. The Gloucester Times went into more detail about how he frequently has ended up in court again, but as a defendent.

Costin has already served time for assaulting the same woman and has racked up a multipage record in the past three years.

Judge Richard Mori [who has heard other cases involving Costin] said Costin has received a lot of support, including requests for leniency from police officers familiar with his family history.

Costin’s lawyer, James Craig, urged the judge to give his client another shot at probation, suggesting a brief jail term and then strict supervision by a probation officer. He even noted that the victim in the case has offered to take Costin back in when he is released, though he added that Costin no longer wants to be involved with the woman.

But the judge said Costin has failed to take part in programs offered by the probation department in some of his prior cases to help him deal with some of his issues, including a serious substance abuse problem and mental health problems that may stem from the death of his father.

“I’m really sorry about the thing with your father, but you’ve got to grow up,” Mori told him. “It’s got to stop. You just can’t do this anymore.”

At Junta’s trial, Costin Jr. told the court: “I saw Thomas Junta beating my dad into the ground. For the rest of that day and for the next day, my heart was in my throat. Please teach Thomas Junta a lesson: Let the world know that a person can’t do what Thomas Junta did to my dad, to my family and to me … we all want Thomas Junta to go to prison for as long as your honor can put him there.”

So is Michael Costin Jr. in this downward spiral because of his witnessing the beating death of his father?

I’ll leave that to the mental health professionals. But I will make one guess: it didn’t help. Neither did not having his father as he entered his teenage years. (I don’t know whether Michael was the son who reportedly climbed into the casket with his father during his wake.)

I’ll make another guess — the roots of the younger Costin’s criminal behavior are deep. His father, an unemployed handyman, had numerous convictions, including weapons possession and assaulting a police officer. The younger Costin’s grandfather fatally stabbed his uncle when he was 17 and was convicted of manslaughter. Costin, an unemployed handyman, had a record of convictions on charges including weapons possession and assaulting a police officer.

The grandfather also told NBC’s “Today” in 2000 that his son, Michael’s dad, had a drinking problem that ran in the family.

Michael Costin Jr., for whatever reason, is fulfilling a family tradition — no happy endings.

The headline says: “Charges filed in Little League brouhaha.” The story appears to be another case of a parent gone wild in a toxic youth sports environment. Me, I see many, many small, bad decisions that escalated to a large, unfortunate case that is going to stain the life of a mother who mistakenly thought she was doing the right thing by sticking up for her child.

The case involves Jodi Scheffler, 41, of Kirkland, Wash., seen at right wearing a very unfortunate hat for her Facebook profile given the circumstances: she’s charged with assaulting a 12-year-old after a Little League game. Here is the story as told by KOMO-TV in Seattle.

The reports say … Scheffler …  left her side of the field and got into an altercation with boys from the visiting team. Name-calling escalated and then Scheffler allegedly grabbed the boy’s face.

Scheffler told Kirkland police that the 12-year-old visiting player was calling her son a loser and taunting him during the game.

Charging papers say she told the boy and his brother to stop talking to her son. They told her to shut up and called her a “dumb blond.” The report says she then called them “white trash,” then allegedly grabbed the boy’s face.

Now the mother of the 12-year-old boy, Michelle McLaughlin, is furious and speaking out.

“He’s scared,” McLaughlin says. “He asks me every day we play a game, ‘Is she gonna be there? Is she gonna hit me?’”

But Scheffler told police that McLaughlin’s husband chest-butted her.

“According to witnesses, the only thing my husband did was yelling at her from 30 feet away to get away from my kids – and charged up to her, asking her politely to go away, ‘Back up, get away from my kids,’” says McLaughlin. “But as far as the chest-butting – that’s a lie.”

No charges have been filed against McLaughlin’s husband. She says she’s the one who decided to file charges against Scheffler.

“Maybe she’ll learn to keep her anger to herself,” McLaughlin says.

The Little League president calls this an unfortunate incident. Longtime coaches, meanwhile, say they haven’t seen anything like it.

Some parents feel the whole thing is being blown out of proportion. But Scheffler faces a year in jail if she’s convicted.

I wasn’t there, but I think, from my informed-enough-to-be-dangerous knowledge of sports parent-child interactions, what mistakes might have been made along the way to turn this game into a brouhaha. Or maybe it’s more like a row. Or a set-to. Maybe a melee.

The first one was made by Scheffler, of course. I know it stinks to watch little brats trash your baby. The parents should have taught their children to be respectful, and the coaches should have tried to stop the trash-talking (maybe they did — the story doesn’t say). Even after she confronted the boys, that’s pretty ballsy of 12-year-olds to call a grown woman a “dumb blond.”

But no adult should never, never, never, never, never, never, ever, ever, ever, ever, confront someone else’s kid before, during or after a game. As a parent, you can (calmly) talk to your own coach. You can talk to the league vice president or president. But there’s no point in jumping on someone else’s kid, or even the opposing coach, in the heat of the moment. If you’re that upset, better to just pack you stuff and go home. The 24-hour rule applies. Otherwise, you risk making an ass out of yourself, embarrassing your child, and risking assault charges.

The second one was made by Michelle McLaughlin. Let’s assume her husband did not chest-bump anyone, though it would be a first for me to see a charged up/ask politely combination. Like Scheffler, it sounds like in this report that McLaughlin could wear a drama queen hat herself. As stupid as it was for Scheffler to do what she did, all McLaughlin needed to do was take her kids and go home. She seems ready to have Scheffler charged just out of spite — “maybe she’ll learn to keep her anger to herself.” Takes one to know one.

I highly doubt Scheffler will face a year in jail. I wouldn’t be shocked if the charges are dropped for something so relatively petty. However the legal case turns out, nobody — not Scheffler, not McLaughlin, not the kids in question — acquitted themselves well. But I’m not going to add my overreaction to the overreaction at hand. The league should ban Scheffler from games, and let players and coaches know they will be ejected from games and/or suspended if taunting continues.

In fact, the league itself should take a closer look at the conduct during its games. I would guess that Jodi Scheffler isn’t the first Little League mom to have the urge to attack when no one was doing anything to protect their kids.

While I have been part of several local bands throughout the years, only this one – Caffeine – has released a video clip that actually aired on some tv stations. To put it simple, Caffeine was a rock act that had it’s major activity around the turn of the millenium and saw an EP and full length albums released. Quite far from the prog area (if not from some splashes from yours truly), this was a different thing and maybe not the usual dear channel viewer’s cup of tea. Still, I would like to present you a picture of what I was doing some years back, including some of my own bassline work. You will find “familiar” influences for sure, but also other elements that somehow are part of my style, if there is one.The bass however gets a bit lost in the mix, as this single edit of the song progresses. I used my J-Bass with flanger on the first part of the song, and on 2 occasional overdubs you may spot some 8-string harmonics. The video was shot in 2001 by the occasion of our only international performance, opening for Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds (after being invited by Mick Harvey) at La Riviera, Madrid – Spain, and in our homeland, at Lisbon’s Coliseu dos Recreios. Caffeine opened for other more and less well known international alternative acts such as Sigur Ros, Dakota Suite and Day-One.

Music’s an amazing force, isn’t it? I can’t think of another artform that has such power to unite, polarise and divide. Dissemination is comparatively easy, sharing to a mass audience ridiculously so (if you can get them to listen, and there’s the rub).

So when a media outlet, as is their wont, publishes a list of, well, anything really, but music in particular, you can bet they’re really just spoiling for an argument. My mate, Noel Mengel, the chief music writer at The Courier-Mail, has set himself up as a clay target by listing his best 150 songs of all time, even as he acknowledges it’s such a subjective topic as to be almost meaningless. He says he’s a product of his time, as are, I will hazard, we all. Alas, there isn’t a lot of synthesiser in Noel’s list, nor down-tuned guitars. And he hasn’t tried to reach out to cover all genres, all movements, not even those amazing songs that have defined eras and forged new musical directions. It’s upapologetically heart on sleeve stuff, which got me thinking: what does it for me? And why? And just how bloody hard would it be to try to make such a list?!

So I’m giving it a go. Herewith, 30 old friends, the tunes that’ve stuck with me through thick and thin, or serve as milestones on the journey:

Love Will Tear Us Apart, Joy Division: The song came out after Ian Curtis killed himself, highlighting the sheer bloody waste. I often wonder what words he could’ve delivered to us had he hung on in there. The song is an obvious choice, a regular favourite on Triple J radio’s ‘best of’ lists. I once maintained it was my favourite love song, but of late, I’m less sure. I still wear the t-shirt, though!

Hurt, Nine Inch Nails: As with Joy Division, or any of one’s favourite bands, trying to pick the definitive song is a mission impossible – especially given the strength of NIN’s debut album, Pretty Hate Machine. Favourites change, from mood to mood, moment to moment. But this is an unforgettable song (from The Downward Spiral), Trent Reznor in his maudlin, angst-ridden glory. See also the reflective version by Johnny Cash.

Scarred, Johnette Napolitano: The lead singer of Concrete Blonde, Napolitano possesses one of the most distinctive, emotive voices in rock, and a gift for deft lyricism. Scarred, from the album of the same name, is a coming of middle-age song, acceptance of the path that’s been trodden, the journey ahead and the ultimate end of the road.

Bloodletting (The Vampire Song), Concrete Blonde: Horror writer, remember? So given the uniform strength of the CB songlist, why not go with the one with bite — New Orleans by night, creatures of the night, and a swaggering bass beat. Yummy.

Personal Jesus, Depeche Mode: Time for a dance? This one never fails to get the foot tapping. Johnny Cash also covered this, sublimely.

More, Sisters of Mercy: Predictable for an ’80s Goth tragic such as moi, but it’s a crowd-pleaser from the pretentious tosser who largely introduced me to the genre of Goth rock — even if Andrew Eldritch is too up himself to acknowledge his fan base.

Edie (Ciao Baby), The Cult: Ian Astbury has a set of lungs with few rivals, a Jim Morrison aura, and as this tune reveals, a strong interest in Andrew Warhol and his coterie of muses. Another band with such a massive catalogue of hits and dancefloor favourites, I went for something less obvious than She Sells Sanctuary.

Sister Awake, The Tea Party: Speaking of Jim, The Tea Party frontman Jeff Martin is another with a leonine presence and a gift for poetic lyrics, sometimes obtuse. Haven’t been to a Tea Party/Martin gig yet without being skewered through my emotional centre by one song or another.

Bela Lugosi’s Dead, Bauhaus: It’s long, it’s atmospheric, it name-checks one of my favourite actors from one of the best vampire movies ever made (that’s another list!), and I can’t hear it without thinking of those nights on the dance floor, wreathed in smoke from the fog machine, barely moving to this hypnotic beat. And of course, it was used in unforgettable fashion in the movie The Hunger.

Vienna, Ultravox: If you’re not going to send the kids home from the club with Bela Lugosi’s Dead, then this synth pop classic is another apt choice for bringing down the curtain.

Reckless (Don’t Be So), Australian Crawl: Classic Aussie rock from a classic Aussie band, poking their tongues at middle class pretension and generally having a hell of a good time. The Crawl were huge during my high school years, still love ‘em. Along with Icehouse, INXS, The Church, Divinyls … ah, those were the days…

Do You Love Me, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: It’s raw, it’s dark … duh, I hear you say.

Back in Black, AC/DC: Headbangers of the world unite. Shared some good red-eye drives down the coast with my uni mates with Acca Dacca keeping our eyes open.

The Night, Heart: The Canadian sisters were at their height in the 80s with some rather saccharine power rock, but their depth goes further, melding folk, rock and a touch of world music a la their heroes Led Zeppelin. The Night, from the Brigade album, is about a vampire. At least, that’s my interpretation.

Kashmir, Led Zeppelin: Love the funereal beat, though Stairway to Heaven would be a more logical choice.

Paranoid, Black Sabbath: Where would we be without Ozzy and co? Somewhere nicer, but definitely nowhere as interesting!

Black Night, Deep Purple: Completing the triumvirate of classic ‘heavy metal’ founders, this track should be mandatory on all driving compilations.

Nothing Else Matters, Metallica: My sister introduced me to Metallica’s Black album, for which I’ll always be thankful. She had far less success with her Mariah Carey fetish.

Epic, Faith No More: Not my favourite FNM song, but memorable for being the one I *didn’t* like until my Carey-lovin’ sister and I went to their gig and were knocked out by their performance. Mike Patton is a genius. I think.

The Thrill is Gone, BB King: Tellin’ it like it is. The beauty of the blues is, it can make you tap your foot and nod your head at the same time as it tears out your heart.

New Orleans, Louisiana Gator Boys and the Blues Brothers: From the Blues Brothers 2000 soundtrack, an album played repeatedly by a good friend in Canada while we were driving to the Rockies and back, ahead of a trip to New Orleans. Good times… file with Baby, Please Don’t Go (Lightnin’ Hopkins, for starters), House of the Rising Sun (Animals) and Summer Breeze (Type O Negative version) for other N’Awlins-evoking tunes.

Creep, Radiohead: Oh the angst! Still the only Radiohead song I’ve bought. That whiney Thom Yorke voice kind of works on this one. Check out the Amanda Palmer ukelele version!

Angel, Massive Attack: Came late to these too-cool dudes, but this track offers lovely sentiment and reminds me of the gang I used to hang with when I first moved to Brisbane.

Wild is the Wind, David Bowie: I bought a best of with this song on it after hearing an interview with Bowie in which he said this song probably offered his most authentic voice. It’s a beautiful cover from one of the modern era’s true musical geniuses.

Proud Mary, Tina Turner: Blew me away live, this rollicking ode to paddle steamers on the Mississippi. Creedence do an awesome version, too.

Born on the Bayou, Creedence Clearwater Revival: Another southern homage that gets the foot tapping, conjuring memories of my favourite city. If you get a chance to see John Fogerty in concert, take it!

Walk This World, Heather Nova: A song that strikes straight at my wanderlust, best shared with someone special. The lovelorn might like to check out her London Rain, too.

Rio, Duran Duran: Another ’80s holdover, from one of the few albums I distinctly remember buying. On cassette, in Darwin!

Cities Lie in Dust, Siouxsie and the Banshees: Appropriate or otherwise, I’ll always remember this tune playing through my mind pretty much all day on September 12, 2001. From one of Goth rock’s truest characters and longest survivors.

Principles of Lust, Enigma: The MCMXC AD album was already a favourite, but it’s indelibly imprinted on my mind as the soundtrack to driving past fields at dawn in a Romanian taxi, heading to the Hungarian border after a paperwork issue resulted in my being removed from a train.

Thirty songs. Thirty moments in time, some fixed, some still unwinding. With new milestones ahead, either yet to be written or simply yet to be discovered. Viva la music!

Exhibit A in the Modern Age of Crazy Sports Parenting is usually the oddball relationship between Marv Marinovich and his son, Todd. As the story famously goes, when the ex-Oakland Raider and personal trainer found out he was going to have a baby boy, he started in the womb the training and feeding of young Todd, using the Eastern Bloc training methods he studied. After his birth July 4, 1969 (while your humble blogger was still in the womb, not being fed a diet of carob), everything in Todd’s life was trained to make him what was later called “robo-QB.”

Just as famously, Todd made his way to USC and a first-round pick of the Raiders, but flamed out quickly because of drug addiction and other personal problems, cementing Marv as a unanimous choice for one of the worst sports parents of all-time. (Further cementing Marv’s status is that with his second wife he had another son, Mikhail, whom he tried to develop, with a few variations, into a robo-linebacker. Mikhail is a reserve at Syracuse, where he’s made his fame opening a hookah bar and getting arrested. Oh, and Mikhail is an aspiring model, too.)

The assumption is that Todd’s downfall was some sort of passive-aggressive rebellion against his father trying to make him into a quarterback machine, a less destructive (at least to Marv) way than say, the monster killing Dr. Frankenstein, to show his displeasure with his creator.

After reading Mike Sager’s piece in the latest Esquire on Todd Marinovich, I’m rethinking a few of my own assumptions — although his story still stands as the unintended consequences of crazy sports parenthood, or crazy parenthood in general. It’s a reminder as a parent that whatever ambitions you have for your child, however you try to steer them, no matter how overbearing and focused you are, and no matter if you indeed are doing what is best for your child, that child is a human being who can — and perhaps should — veer off your course at any moment.

Actually, I wish this story were more about Marv, because Todd himself is just another boring junkie. He was clean as the story was reported, but the story notes a February relapse into addiction, while Todd handles with much more maturity than he had in the past — he calls his parole officer to report his violation.

What has me rethinking some of my assumptions is that for all of Marv’s effort in making sure Todd ate and trained right, he appeared to make no attempt to shield his son from the party-hearty lifestyle a star athlete can get away with.

From the story, picking up after Marinovich, as a freshman, opens the season as the varsity’s starting quarterback:

After the final gun, Todd stood with his parents. His new teammates drifted over and surrounded him. “When I was growing up, the term my mom used was ‘terrifyingly shy,’ ” Todd says. “That’s why I always loved being on a team. It was the only way I could make friends. It was really amazing to have these guys, these upperclassmen, come over. And they’re like, ‘Hey, Todd, let’s go! Come out with us after the game. It’s party time!’ “

Todd looked at Marv. The old man didn’t hesitate. “He just gave me the nod, you know, like, ‘Go ahead, you earned it.’

“We went directly to a kegger and started pounding down beers,” Todd recalls.

For what it’s worth, the story notes that it was Todd’s goal to start as a freshman. Was he just under Marv’s thrall? Maybe, maybe not. But you can’t always assume with a perceived crazy sports parents that the kid is being dragged along for the ride.

Later in high school, Marinovich’s parents divorced — and the leash loosened.

Then the January 1988 issue of California magazine hit the stands with Todd’s picture on the cover. The headline: ROBO QB: THE MAKING OF A PERFECT ATHLETE. A media onslaught ensued. They called Todd the bionic quarterback, a test-tube athlete, the boy in the bubble. All over the world, people were talking about Todd’s amazing story. In truth, he was leading a double life.

“I really looked forward to giving it all I had at the game on Friday night and then continuing through the weekend with the partying. It opened up a new social scene for me — liquid courage. I wasn’t scared of people anymore,” Todd says.

At Mater Dei, Todd had also begun smoking marijuana. By the time his junior year rolled around, he says, “I was a full-on loady.” His parents had divorced just before his transfer, and he was sharing a one-bedroom apartment with Marv near Capistrano. “Probably the best part of my childhood was me and Marv’s relationship my junior and senior years,” Todd says. “After the divorce, he really loosened up. It was a bachelor pad. We were both dating.”

For all his personal troubles, one thing Todd does nowhere in the article is blame Marv. Below a photo of the two men, Todd looking more like bald Ron Howard than the flowing red-haired god of his youth, Sager concludes the piece:

From the driver’s seat, sensing his good mood, I ask: “How much effect do you think that Marv and sports and all contributed to you turning to drugs?” I’d been saving this line of questioning since our first interview, six months earlier. “If you look at your life, it’s interesting. It appears that to get out of playing, you sort of partied away your eligibility. It’s like you’re too old to play now, so you don’t have to do drugs anymore. Has the burden been lifted?”

Todd looks out the windshield down the road. The truck bounces. Thirty full seconds pass.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Todd says at last. “I really have very few answers.”

“That’s kind of what it seems like. A little.”

Twenty seconds.

“No thoughts?”

“I think, more than anything, it’s genetic. I got that gene from the Fertigs — my uncle, the Chief. They were huge drinkers. And then the environment plays a part in it, for sure.”

He lights another Marlboro Red, sucks down the first sweet hit. He rides in silence the rest of the way home.

Despite having a fiancee with a baby on the way, and how he handled his February relapse, and the faraway end to his athletic career, Todd appears to have a hard time breaking his addictions. After the Esquire piece was written, Todd was arrested for missing a Drug Court hearing and will sit in jail at least through May 4, when he has a hearing on his case. There is a good chance Marinovich will spend his 40th birthday in prison.

Many will blame youth sports for the, as George Carlin put it in his later, crankier, much unfunnier years (in a line stolen by many crankier, much more unfunny hacks), the “wussification” of America. You know, kids not learning there are winners and losers, and not learning everybody doesn’t get a trophy, and demanding as grownups they be treated like 5-year-old soccer players. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe they sound like Mr. MacAfee in “Bye Bye Birdie,” bitching about kids.

But the “wussification” of youth sports as a reason behind killing sprees? That hypothesis, offered by Athens State (Ala.) University psychology professor Mark Durm in an interview with the Athens News-Courier, is a new one on me.

Killing sprees are on his mind, and the local News-Courier’s, because Athens is 20 miles from Priceville. That’s where on Tuesday a man, on the eve of his divorce hearing, killed his estranged wife and three other family members, burned down their house, and then killed himself. In the last month there have been at least eight mass killings — three of them in Alabama.

Mark Durm, an Athens State University instructor, said because of early childhood training, when adults don’t get what they want they react with “knee-jerk hostility.”

While Durm said there are “undoubtedly many other variables” when someone goes on a killing rampage, early conditioning plays a big part in how people deal with frustration.

Here is the excerpt from Durm’s interview with the News-Courier that had me rubbing my eyeballs in disbelief:

Durm said he has given a lot of thought to mass killings, especially since the slaying of 15 people at an immigration office last week by someone who had lost his job.

“I think we also no longer teach children how to handle emotions, but it is deeper in some ways,” he said. “We are a society where no one can lose. Sometimes in youth sports leagues they don’t keep score so no one loses. When they get to be adults and lose the person they love, they don’t know how to tolerate it.

“You need to learn how to lose before you can win.”

Really? The implications are staggering — millions of children, their psyches no longer soothed because everybody no longer gets a trophy, going on mass killing sprees when things don’t go their way. I had a hard time believing Durm was serious. I thought he might have been misquoted.

A little research on Durm finds that he is the antithesis to a no-score league, a tough grader who has studied extensively the history of handing out A’s and B’s, and F’s. (He’s also a debunker of paranormal activity and Alabama’s religiosity.) You also can find his email address — so I contacted him to ask about what he was quoted as saying in the News-Courier.

Here is a slightly edited back-and-forth we had today (mostly edited to take out the rambling introduction to myself I wrote for Durm, and his inquiry about whether I had gotten one of his notes because he was having computer problems):

Your Kid’s Not Going Pro: Is this [opinion] conjecture on your part, or is this something you’ve researched? What is the connection between that sort of treatment in youth sports (or otherwise as children) and what’s happening now? Is there any research you can point to on this subject? … If there’s any bias I have on the subject of no-score leagues, it’s that in my experience I feel like they’ve been used to guarantee the parents will shut up. The kids usually know the score.

Mark Durm: Bob..its mainly conjecture on my part…..to my knowledge there is very little, if any, research on “no losing” sports. Several years ago we were sold a lot of hogwash about hurting a child’s self esteem…………but one can never get up if one has never fallen down.

YKNGP: My follow-up would be then, how does one make the connection, even through conjecture, from “no losing” sports to mass killings, even as a small factor in why we appear to be seeing more of them? For example, in cases like the shooter in Binghamton, the evidence presented thus far appears to be of a man who had fallen down repeatedly, not one who went off after the first time things went wrong.

Durm: Specifically the man in binghamton had an Asian mindset [Editor's note: the shooter was from Vietnam]……..to my knowledge he had just “lost face”. The connection in our culture, in my opinion, is if I do not get my way you pay.

YKNGP: One more question. Given the cultural norms you talk about it, why don’t we see more of
these deadly outbursts? After all, we lose face or don’t get our way frequently.

Durm: Because “spurned” people extract different level of payments……………..those with the least control(and many variables come into play here) extract the payment of your life.

So while it’s a stretch to say he thinks no-score leagues turn children into mass killers, he’s definitely saying, it doesn’t help to not turn them into killers.

The conversation ended because I had no more immediate questions. Why didn’t I ask about the Asian thing, which seems, um, a bit of a broad brush? My purpose was to find out Durm’s opinion on youth sports’ connection to the violence we see, not his thoughts and impressions of Asian cultures. You can fill in your own blanks on that one. I just wanted to confirm Durm meant what he told the newspaper.

I will say that I think Durm is guilty of what many are guilty of, both on the subject of youth sports and mass murder — gross oversimplification. No-score leagues, as part of a self-esteem curriculum, might accentuate some already-spoiled kids’ diva tendencies — but as of yet there’s no empirical evidence (even by Durm’s own admission) they turn children into adults incapable of handling setbacks, much less ones who will act out violently when they don’t get their way.

And it’s hardly Durm who pins some sort of easy, overarching cause to mass shootings. Of course, there’s the old standby, easy access to guns. These days, there’s always economic oppression.

I don’t know more than anybody else why we’re seeing so many mass killings. It might be one of these things. It might be all of these things, and more. But I have a hard time believing no-score leagues will turn an otherwise stable child into a future spree killer. Or a future wuss.

Zenfooty.com (hat tip: On The Pitch) has a good piece about how to deal with rough play in youth soccer.

Let me first say that the issue of dirty and abusive play does not start with the referee or the players, it begins with coaching. The tolerance level of the coach has a direct bearing on the ethics of players. The best coaches will reprimand their own players for foul play. I have seen good coaches pull their own players even before the referee takes action. …

Do not “dive” when you have not been fouled in an attempt to attract sympathy from the official [Editor's note: apparently this message isn't taking on the international level]. Nothing irritates fans, players and referees as much as this. If you are caught diving, not only may you receive a yellow card, but you may never be taken seriously by the referee. You must also avoid retaliation and returning any verbal comments. This will give the defender the idea that they are getting to your psyche which will reinforce and escalate their behavior.

On dead ball situations, have your captain ask the ref to check into the pattern of recurring fouls. If the issue continues, have the coach visit with the official at halftime. If this is unsuccessful, have the fouled player go down with injury to create an opportunity to speak with the referee and once again reinforce the violent play [Editor's note: didn't you just say no diving? Maybe you can say something at the next dead ball?]. Your captain and coach must do their jobs here. It is their duty to the team.

If a referee ever loses control of the match and play gets out of hand, remember that your goal is to live to play another day. Nothing is worth a broken leg or a broken nose in a bench clearing brawl. As a coach (or parent), simply indicate to the referee that in the interest of safety, it is best that you calmly remove your players from the field of play and accept whatever consequences come with this. Stay in a group after the game. Do NOT have players and parents walk alone to their cars.

Great advice — for any sport.

Why does rough play start with coaches? Because they set the ground rules. They are the ones who draw the line between good, aggressive play and outright thuggery, mainly because they are the ones who (should) know the difference.

For example, I teach my basketball players that on a fast break, there’s nothing wrong with committing a foul if you’re behind the player but you’re going for the ball first. However, it IS wrong to push a player from behind, or wrap your arms around him or her, or try to pull him or her down without making a play on the ball.

In most cases, players don’t realize that what they’re doing might hurt someone. In my 7th- and 8th-grade basketball league, the only time I talked to the refs about foul calls was one very tall, strong girl who had a tendency to swing her elbows after she got a rebound. In one case, she elbowed one of my players in the throat. (Ouch.) I don’t think she meant to hurt anyone — she was just trying to clear space. I asked if the ref could call that more tightly because it was clear her coach was not advising her to stop swinging her elbows, and I was afraid more kids might get hurt. Unfortunately, the ref relayed to me that they called fouls looser because this was a rec league, and they didn’t want to slow the game down. Fortunately, no one else got hurt.

Here’s a case of a coach stepping in. One coach asked me to help him to take one of his sixth-graders (a kid I coached the previous year, which is why he talked to me) out of the 5th- and 6th-grade league we coached in and limit the kid to the 7th- and 8th-grade league. He was too strong and aggressive (in a good way) for the kids his age, and we wanted him to be able to play hard without worrying about hurting somebody. (Though later one of the refs, to me before a 7th- and 8th-grade game, related he thought that kid was a “thug.” That was the same ref who wouldn’t call the elbows on the other girl. Anyway, his assessment was seriously harsh, given this kid was aggressive in a good way, and as nice a kid as I’ve ever coached. Hence, unfortunate examples A and B of not counting on refs to sort things out.)

By the way, my interest in this post was not necessitated by my own son’s injury. He sprained his right foot on a clean, common basketball play — rolling off someone’s show when he landed after jumping. Sometimes play gets rough when kids are putting out a full effort, and that just goes with the territory. The important thing for coaches and parents is not to blow up in the heat of the moment.

Rather than argue with a coach or official, give yourself 24 hours, then talk to whomever runs the league about what happened, if there’s anything that person can do to control rough play. More often that not, someone will then contact the officials or coach to recommend putting a lid on certain activities, or at least send the message that they won’t be tolerated in case, say, the coach is an asshole and is going to argue instead of listen. Also, the coach needs to be ready to explain to his or her players and their parents the difference between aggressive play and rough play.

After all, as Zenfooty says, the goal is to live and play another day.

Anita Lane partiu de Melbourne para Londres, em 1980, com os Birthday Party, banda de Nick Cave, tendo escrito letras de algumas canções da banda: “A Dead Song”, “Kiss Me Black” e “Dead Joe”.

Mais tarde, foi co-fundadora dos Bad Seeds, banda que tem acompanhado Nick Cave, e ajudou a escrever algumas faixas dos álbuns “From Her To Eternity” e “Stranger Than Kindness”.

Anita Lane tem mantido um bom relacionamento com os restantes membros dos Bad Seeds e já colaborou em diversos trabalhos de Barry Adamson, Mick Harvey e Einsturzende Neubaten.

Com uma carreira a solo muito discreta, já lançou os álbuns: “Dirty Sings” (1988), “World’s a Girl” (1995), Dirty Pearl (1995) e “Sex O’Clock” (2001). Aqui fica uma versão de “Bella Ciao”.

Nick Cave’s aptly named Murder Ballads is just that, a collection of songs both traditional and new, about death, murder, mayhem and love lost. Fans of Cave are accustomed to his career long exploration into humanities darkest corners. Goregirl’s dungeon thinks that the album is the definitive collection of songs about death and one of the greatest rock/alternative albums ever made. We start with the rather unjoyful “Songs of Joy” and get right down to business with “Stagger Lee” a song about a ruthless cold-blooded gun slinging bastard. Things get slightly gentler but remain deadly with Henry Lee a duet with PJ Harvey and we ease nicely into the insidious “Lovely Creatures”. In “Where The Wild Roses Grow” a charming tune about a woman bashed to death by her lover, is another duet, this one with Kylie Minogue. Then my favorite song on the album, “The Curse of Millhaven” about a crazy little girl who runs amok and kills a whole lotta people. This song in particular I think could be the basis for the greatest horror film ever made. Nick Cave wrote the great 2006 Western PROPOSITION so I know he is capable of the task. We round out with “The Kindness of strangers”, “Crow Jane”, about a woman who takes revenge on the miners who gang raped her and a fourteen-minute long “O’Malley’s Bar” about a man who walks into his local bar and shoots everyone in sight with no detail spared. We finish with the appropriate “Death is Not the End” featuring a cast of supporting characters including Anita Lane and Shane McGowan. The album as a whole is nasty and violent and makes no apologies for it. Although the songs are laden with violence and mayhem the songs are also sad, beautiful, haunting and often humorous. It is brilliantly written, and performed by Cave and his Bad Seeds with outstanding feature talent. The Dungeon suggests you go out and buy this album right now!

Murder Ballads (1996)

(Song Title, Song length, Written By)

Song Of Joy – 6:47 (Nick Cave/John Milton)
Stagger Lee – 5:15 (trad./Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds)
Henry Lee – 3:58 (trad./Cave featuring PJ Harvey)
Lovely Creature – 4:13 (Blixa Bargeld/Martyn P. Casey/Nick Cave/Mick Harvey/Thomas Wydler)
Where The Wild Roses Grow – 3:57 (featuring Kylie Minogue)
The Curse Of Millhaven – 6:55 (Nick Cave)
The Kindness Of Strangers – 4:39 (Nick Cave)
Crow Jane – 4:14 (Martyn P. Casey/Nick Cave)
O’Malley’s Bar – 14:28 (Nick Cave)
Death Is Not The End – 4:26 (Bob Dylan)

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds Are:

Nick Cave – Vocals, Piano, Organ
Blixa Bargeld – Guitar, Screams, Vocals
Martyn P. Casey – Bass
Mick Harvey – Drums, Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Organ, Backing Vocals
Conway Savage – Piano, Backing Vocals, Organ
Jim Sclavunos – Drums, Percussion, Bells, Tambourine
Thomas Wydler – Maracas, Drums, Tambourine, Vocals

Over at the Positive Coaching Alliance, the sworn enemy of the Negative Coaching Alliance, there is an interesting conversation going on inspired by this question:

My 7th-grade son has played very competitive soccer and basketball for years, always supporting his teammates. Recently, his coaches in both sports challenged all the players to improve on specific skills, but some players are not trying very hard. As a parent, how can I help my son demand vocally (even angrily, if necessary) that his teammates strive for their potential and do so without alienating himself?
– Phil Carragher, Glencoe, IL

Well, Phil, it’s interesting that you bring this up. My brother-in-law and I are coaching a basketball team of seventh- and eighth-graders (and my son, a sixth-grader), and as coaches we’re wrestling with the same problem. As a team, we have a problem with every kid going all-out every practice and every game. In fact, after winning our first game, we’ve lost every one since as a direct result of a lack of team hustle. As coaches we take responsibility as well because we are charged with putting our team in the best position to win, and better yet creating an environment in which everyone is relaxed and having fun so they can feel comfortable going all-out and unafraid to make mistakes. Unfortunately, when you’re losing, that goal becomes harder to reach.

Phil, let me ask you this first: is your son unequivocally recognized by his teammates as the best player? Or at least a major contributor to the team’s success? Otherwise, there’s no hope. In my experience, other players will take praise and criticism more seriously from the best player than they will someone who is not.

Also, what are the personalities on the team? I encouraged our best player, who does hustle all-out, to feel free to praise and criticize on the court, to position players, and to otherwise lead by example. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be working, though such a strategy has worked for me as a coach before. Particularly at the junior-high level (and I don’t have to tell you this, having a son in junior high), kids at that age are far more likely to blow off you and peers.

A kid who is not predisposed to hustling, who does not see it his duty to play well for his teammates’ sake, and who does not see the connection in how being lazy in practice means poor results in games — you’re just going to have a hard time getting through. No matter what your son says, a player like that isn’t going to respond. In fact, that player will probably go into a shell.

And to back it up even further, Phil, it’s not your job as a parent to get your son to help him to demand vocally (and even angrily) that his teammates step it up. I don’t know your son’s personality, but some kids are just not comfortable with doing that. You can’t make your kid into something he’s not.

I understand your frustration, and your son’s, at being stuck on a team where it appears everyone is not interested in trying their best. I know it’s driving me crazy with my team right now, and I’m having to take a good, hard look at how I’m coaching to make sure I don’t make a tough situation worse. I recommend, Phil, that you and your son suck it up, that he focus on improving his game and being the best teammate he can be (no matter what everyone else does — perhaps the more he shows he trusts them, the more they might respond, maybe), and that you and he realize that soon enough he will be on another team that might not have the problems this one has.

Oh, and Phil, don’t complain to the coach about it, either, if you were thinking of that. The coach knows. Trust me on this one.