God Sometimes You Just Don't Come Through

There is an old axiom in baseball, that the team that is in first place come July 1, will be the team that finishes at the top at the end of the season. So what does it mean when our local lads were a mere twenty four and a half games out when June ended? It means we keep a watchful eye out for any glimpse of that dreaded word, potential for the rest of the year.

When I was a child when we didn't dream of being the next Harmon Killebrew or the next Amos Otis, we all aspired to be either John Lennon or Paul McCartney. Now days, all the kids want to be either Tori Amos or Alanis Morissette. You explain it to me, is this progress, or have we as a civilization come to a collective, difficult end?

If I may be so bold, I would like to offer a word of advice to Ms. Morissette. Remember the lesson of Lyman Bostock. Bostock was a young, talented centerfielder who came up to the Twins back in the mid seventies. He had a Rod Carew type batting stroke and he covered centerfield like a gazelle. He had a flash, a cockiness that extended beyond his basket catches, and seemed to point to an inevitable clash with stardom.

Unfortunately just as he was beginning to show some of his talent, he became worth more than the Twins could afford to pay him. He signed a huge contract with the California Angels, where he got off to a miserable start in his first season. Being a man with a lot of pride, Mr. Bostock offered to give his first month's worth of pay back to the ballclub. Just as he was starting to pull himself out of the unusual slump, he was tragically shot and killed outside of Gary Indiana. Baseball rolled on, but somewhere in the hearts of some fans, the game never seemed the same. There is nothing sadder than being labeled with that dreaded "p" word only to have fate snatch it away so quickly.

According to the kids today, Ms. Morissette is the hottest thing since Pop Tarts. So what is it about the "next big thing" that would make one want to waddle through a gathering of thousands of sweaty Minnesotans on a hot and humid afternoon, munch down a foot long corn dog, and stand so far away from the small band shell that the only time the music makers were at all visible was when the crowd swayed a certain way in unison, revealing the side of the drummer? The songs themselves seemed unremarkable, although Ms. Morissette displayed an impressive voice with a range from an effective shrill to a growling lower register. She certainly seems an angry young person. The band was steady if not spectacular and the music seemed to keep the masses entertained. Not actually being able to see the band was a bit of a drawback, and all the nearby trees were full, so the group I was with grew a bit restless. Fortunately, we ran into a friend who happened to be working as a security person for the concert. Following her lead, the five of us squeezed our way through the densely packed adoring fans and somehow found ourselves situated right in front of the stage, with the volume from the speakers at a range where the ears felt like bleeding.

The song that has gotten a lot of attention is You Oughta Know, a bitter, vitriolic diatribe directed at a former lover. The performance in front of the majestic background of the State's Capitol, was as impressive as any of the soggy fireworks fired off the following day. It got the crowd groovin, and witnessing the transformation from blind, uncomfortable heat sufferers, to the looks of recognition on the faces of the body movin', toe tappin', dancing fools (they actually began passing people through the crowd) made for an entertaining spectacle.

Listening to Ms. Morissette's disc, Jagged Little Pill, is much like the experience of her Taste of Minnesota performance. On the whole, all the parts seem OK, and upon closer examination there is a lot to like. The band sounds good and her harmonica playing is the most effective I've heard since, oh you know who. However, there are some flaws that spoil an otherwise impressive debut. She seems to try a little too hard with some of her lyrics. She doesn't have the minimalist poetic flair of PJ Harvey, Liz Phair, or Tanya Donelly; nor does she seem to have the authentic angst of Juliana Hatfield or Courtney Love. Her lyrics have the subtlety of a televangelist. Perhaps in an attempt at trying to be the next big thing, she over shot the mark a little. Her voice reminds one a bit of Tori Amos' with a little dose of Sinead O'Connor's thrown in, and with its sheer dynamic range, often overwhelms the content of the music.

Yet it is clear Ms. Morissette is an artist with a lot of potential. That her music could pique the attention from a fried food overdosed group of Midwesterners, suggests that she will eventually get over the largest hurdle facing any entertainer- to get people to listen to that which they don't know or understand.