A conversation about Roxy Music leads to Bryan Ferry, Damien Rice, and feelings I had not scheduled.
The Riff
I was talking to somebody yesterday about Avalon by Roxy Music, which is the sort of conversation I’m always happy to have. Nobody is asking me for a password. Nothing needs updating. We’re discussing an album that makes an ordinary room feel like somebody has arranged better lighting.
That conversation naturally wandered over to Bryan Ferry’s solo album Boys and Girls, because I believe its first three songs are about as perfect a stretch of atmosphere as anybody has recorded.
“Sensation.” “Slave to Love.” “Don’t Stop the Dance.”
Three songs, in that order. Leave the buttons alone.
“Sensation” gets everything moving. “Slave to Love” arrives with all that gorgeous longing. Then “Don’t Stop the Dance” keeps you suspended in this very specific world where everybody seems to own a good jacket and nobody has ever had to move a dog toy before sitting down.
I can listen to those three songs and briefly believe I’m a sophisticated person.
Then a robot vacuum starts eating a charging cable, the dogs start barking at an imaginary milkman (how do they even know what a milkman is?), and we return to the actual property.
Bryan Ferry makes the whole thing sound effortless. I’m sure it wasn’t. There were probably countless hours spent getting everything exactly right. Maybe a smoky room. A stirred martini. Canapés. But you never hear anybody struggling to assemble it.
It’s the musical equivalent of watching someone parallel park perfectly on the first attempt in a stick shift. I admire it. I also resent them a little.
Then the conversation turned to the first four songs on an album.
This is how music conversations get you. You begin with a perfectly reasonable observation, and suddenly you’re establishing international criteria for something nobody asked you to adjudicate.
But I have a nominee.
Damien Rice. O.
“Delicate.” “Volcano.” “The Blower’s Daughter.” “Cannonball.”
That is a ridiculous opening four.
You don’t even have time to get comfortable before the album starts going through your things.
“Delicate” begins quietly enough that you lean toward it. There’s tenderness there, but also that uneasy feeling of being involved in something neither person wants to explain too carefully.
It sounds like a conversation you probably shouldn’t be overhearing. Naturally, you move closer.
I put on an album. Now I’m emotionally eavesdropping.
“Volcano” brings in that wonderful tension between Rice and Lisa Hannigan. Their voices fit together beautifully while somehow making everything feel less settled.
It has movement. It has friction. It sounds like two people who should either stay together forever or get out of each other’s DMs immediately.
I’m not qualified to advise them. I would, however, like them to keep singing while they decide.
Then comes “The Blower’s Daughter.”
Well. There goes the rest of the afternoon.
The song takes a feeling and stays with it until you have no choice but to sit there too. Rice’s voice gets increasingly exposed, and suddenly looking out a window becomes an activity with consequences.
You start remembering things. People. Entire periods of your life that had been sitting quietly in storage, bothering nobody.
I was going to answer some emails.
Apparently, first we’re reviewing a look somebody gave me in 1998.
And then “Cannonball” arrives with that beautiful acoustic guitar and a slightly softer place to land. It’s still full of uncertainty, but there’s something comforting about hearing somebody admit they don’t have the whole thing worked out.
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it’s not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
By this point, I appreciate the company.
Four songs ago, I was a man with coffee and a reasonably manageable day. Now I’m staring at a wall while a Labrador waits to find out whether this affects breakfast.
It does not. Nothing affects breakfast.
What gets me is the order. Each song makes the next one land differently. You can love them individually, but that opening stretch feels like somebody thought very carefully about what condition you should be in when the next track begins.
Which is why shuffle feels especially rude here.
I don’t need my phone deciding we’ve processed enough longing and should hear something from a completely different emotional department.
Let the man finish.
You may have another opening four. I welcome the discussion, provided you understand that I have already become unreasonable about mine.
Bryan Ferry gives me three songs that make me want to dress better. Stir martinis. Eat some foo-foo thing served to me on a massive silver plate, while I contemplate which article of clothing to take off first.
Hint: Never shoes—shoes are not a sexy man removal item.
Damien Rice gives me four that make me want to sit down. Fall in love. Break up. Fall in love again. Break up. Learn to play guitar. Drink a Guinness.
Conveniently, sitting down is already a major part of my music appreciation technique.
Yesterday’s Autopsy
Two wins, two losses. We stopped digging. We have not yet located a ladder.
Arizona handled Colorado 7–2, with Michael Soroka doing the sort of pitching we had hoped would be more widely available across the card.
The Dodgers beat San Diego 7–0, which means my late addition helped rescue the evening.
Bertie had concerns about the bullpen game. I liked the rested arms and the matchup. Eight Dodgers pitchers combined for the shutout.
I will be accepting credit in a calm and deeply irritating manner.
Seattle was the opposite experience. The Mariners lost 7–0 to Houston, taking our first choice on the card and turning it into something you could safely leave on while doing laundry.
The Cubs required additional time to disappoint us. They stayed tied with Miami through eleven innings, then allowed six runs in the twelfth and lost 8–2.
Eleven innings of suspense followed by somebody dropping the stereo down the stairs.
The split leaves us exactly where we were in the chase for .500. After the previous day’s sweep in the wrong direction, stationary qualifies as an improvement in behavior.
The Giant Scoreboard
ALL SPORTS: 1,086–1,105–7
19 net wins away from .500.
TENNIS: 1–1
Today’s Picks
Four selections from the broader board: three baseball moneylines and a WNBA underdog. Consensus lines remain our reference.
Dodgers ML vs. Padres — consensus around -220
Yoshinobu Yamamoto has completed seven innings in each of his three September starts. He has also allowed just three runs across twenty innings against San Diego this season.
Robbie Ray’s command has been a problem since joining the Padres. I prefer Yamamoto to give Los Angeles the stronger start and some length after yesterday’s bullpen effort.
The Dodgers lead the card. Bertie has located the appropriate album.
Brewers ML at Phillies — consensus around -145
Logan Henderson gives Milwaukee the pitching profile I prefer against Aaron Nola. Henderson’s 2.51 ERA comes with the kind of command that keeps unnecessary guests off the bases.
Nola just threw seven scoreless innings against the Mets, so we’re giving him appropriate respect. I still lean Milwaukee to win a competitive game.
A one-run victory is perfectly acceptable. We do not require an extended remix.
Braves ML vs. Reds — consensus around -260
Chris Sale against Andrew Abbott is the main attraction. Sale enters with a 2.18 ERA, compared with Abbott’s 4.70.
Ronald Acuña Jr. is day-to-day after fouling a ball off his leg. I’m not counting on his presence to make the selection work, but his availability matters.
Atlanta is the expensive ticket today. I like the pitching enough to take the seat.
Atlanta Dream +1.5 at Liberty — consensus around -110
The Dream have won four straight and bring a strong overall profile into the regular-season finale. New York is a serious opponent, but I like Atlanta with the points in a game I expect to be competitive.
Some books have the Dream at +2.5. That’s welcome if available; the selection we’re recording is the consensus +1.5.
Late news about resting starters would matter here. With the expected rotation, Atlanta gets the fourth spot.
Four picks. I would enjoy discussing tomorrow’s opening four without having to put on Damien Rice afterward.
This isn’t called Pick What I Pick.
It’s called Don’t Pick What I Pick.
Please wager accordingly.
