Favorite songs of 2016: Songs 23-33

If there was any doubt that I was going to reprise my annual list here, they were erased by the generous words of my friend R, who posted about it in her GrongarBlog and is telling us what she's listening to this month as a result. As in years past, these are my favorite songs that I've heard over the past year from one source or another, culled from hundreds that I've listened to (in some cases, only for a few seconds). As in only last year (and the first when I listed only 20), there are 33 songs on this year's list because ... well, just because. 

23. Babylon by Jesiah.


"You've got the best type of defense
You tell the joke just to distract them
I thought we both grew up in Babylon...
We speak the language, no one understands us."

C first suggested that this sounds like Vampire Weekend, which after reflection I agree is spot-on. From the artist himself: "Babylon is a story about two souls defending their love in the face of adversity.”

24. White Flag by Joseph.

"I could surrender but I'd
Just be pretending, no I'd
Rather be dead than live a lie...
Burn the white flag
Burn the white flag."

No Josephs, Richards, or Thomases to be seen in this band, fronted by the three Closner sisters, who just happen to be from Joseph, Oregon. Love the defiant vocals that match the "never surrender" lyrics of this song. The album title, "I'm Alone, No You're Not" is excellent as well.

25. Brazil by Declan McKenna.

"I wanna play the beautiful game while I'm in Brazil
Cause everybody plays the beautiful game while in Brazil
It's all you've ever wanted, and it's all that you want still...
Don't you wanna play the beautiful game out in Brazil?"

I'm guessing I don't have to explain to most who read this why I would like a song about soccer in general, and FIFA's corruption in particular. But if the lyrics were about hopscotch instead it would probably still be on the list given its hooky Britpop sound and McKenna's unique voice.

26. Coastal California 1985 by Math and Physics Club.

"Coastal California
Like a picture postcard
Your wind-swept hair and...
Pasted on smile
Remind me how the years have come and gone
And never seem to linger very long."

One of many songs about California released this past year (including one further up the list), almost all of which make its residents seem pretty darn happy currently.

27. This Is Your Life by Augustines.

"Maybe we'll pull ourselves together
Burn forever in some fading summer night
But you got to find sometimes for anything in this life...
Just forgot it in yourself, but you're alright
You're alright
Hey you're alright."

The first of several repeat artists from past lists - some below, some farther up. What can I say -- I know what I like and Augustines, with their big anthemic sound, is something I definitely like. "Knock me down my friend, I'll just get back up again."

28. Turn Up by The Heavy.

"There ain't nothing more I want
For you my love
If that's what you really want...
Must be what you really want
If that's what you really want
My love
I said you better
Turn, (Up!)"

Most of my favorite songs are lyrically driven. Not (obviously) this one. Why does it seem that all the best funk/R&B bands these days are English? And, yes, The Heavy have been here before.

29. Soft Offering (For the Oft Suffering) by Hey Rosetta!

"Under the pitch and pull of the moon
Sweet silver medicine swim in my temples
Bring in the shadows to cover our wounds...
When the pain is gone and the rest is
Coming on."

The song's title alone makes it list-worthy let alone the evocative lyrics. At least the second appearance by Hey Rosetta! on one of my lists as well.

30. 24 Frames by Jason Isbell.

"You thought God was an architect
Now you know
He's something like a pipe bomb ...
Ready to blow
And everything that you've built
That's all for show
Goes up in flames
In twenty-four frames."

Better late than never with this song which should have been on last year's list. A brilliant song from a brilliant artist. One of, I believe, only two artists on this year's list that I saw live this past year.

image from rukkus.com

31. The Diving Bell by Gang of Youths.

"And I dreamed the voices they were calling
Out to you
Come alive, come alive and the firings...
Where everything is true."

A haunting song - maybe a Ferguson reference, maybe something more personal. A sufficiently obscure track that I can't find a link to an MP3, let alone a video. If you do find it somewhere (try Spotify) this is your language warning.

32. True Sadness by The Avett Brothers.

"I cannot go on with this evil inside me
I step outside my front door and I feel it surround me
Just know the kingdom of God is within you...
Even though the battle is bound to continue."

A song whose dark lyrics belie its mostly upbeat melody. I don't think the boys have given up hope - they'll continue to fight the good fight.

33. I Need Never Get Old by Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats.

"I know that some will say
It matters but little babe
Oh but come on and mean it to me...
I need it so bad."

I think I first saw this song on AXS TV live from some festival this late spring. These guys look like they pour everything they have into every minute on stage.

Disappointment, Desperation, and Despondency (All Solely Related to Soccer)

Jose, from Washington State, introduced himself to me and E as he took his seat in the row in front of us in the American Outlaws section of MAPFRE Stadium. Cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a welcoming grin from ear-to-ear. He took off his coat, revealing his AO jersey. He sang and chanted at the top of his lungs the entire game.

We all rode the wave of emotion that is unique to being present while your team, your country is on the field, seemingly within arms' reach. Disappointment at the first Mexican goal. Desperation when Tim Howard was subbed out, unable to continue (please tell me why they watered the field right before the start). Relief when not one, but two, Mexican shots banged off of the crossbar and the post. Frustration at chances missed in the first half, largely against the run of play; and in the second, when we should have put the game out of reach. Jubilation when Bobby Wood scored the tying goal.

Howard lies injured.
(photo from sbnation.com via pinterest)

And, then, disbelief when Rafa Marquez, he who could teach Putin a thing or two about true anti-American villainy, scored the winning goal at the death. Right in front of us.

No emotions invested or wasted due to anything off of the pitch. No "Build the Wall" chants. No anti-Trump protests. Just devotion directed by us to our team, and them to theirs. And, of course, some derision sent in the direction of the opposing players. But not their fans, and not their countries.

At game's end, Jose was disconsolate, repeatedly banging his AO Washington-Tri-Cities scarf on the seat in front of him. He'd come all this way to witness that? E and I silently filed out, leaving Jose and his two friends to their despondency.

As we left, I caught the eye of a woman in the row behind us, wrapped in the flag of Mexico. I gave her a wink, hoping that she took it as a "congrats," not flirtation.

Yes, the U.S. Men's Team lost. But America won.

This is still is our America.

One Nation. One Team.

When the Yanks ...

It's been 15 years since I've seen the U.S. Men's National Soccer team play a World Cup qualifier, in Columbus, against Mexico.

This was that game:

What I remember the most, other than the fact that we won 2-0 (and that it may have been the coldest I have ever been in my entire life), from "La Guerra Fria" was Tony Sanneh coming out for final pre-game warm-ups in shirt sleeves, while the Mexican team huddled in its dressing room until, literally, seconds remained before the whistle blew to start the match.

A lot has changed since then.  Three more dos a cero wins in World Cup qualifiers in Columbus. And an election, just this week, that has given me pause to reflect on what being a supporter of the United States -- in the broadest sense, and in the context of its soccer teams -- means.

This is what I've decided:

I am still an American, as are the millions who voted, as was their right, for the candidate I did not support. As are the millions who did not vote (although maybe a little less love for them as far as I'm concerned). 

I still am proud to be an American.

I will still loudly and full-heartedly cheer and sing and probably yell at the officials in support of my team and my country.

Most importantly, I will cheer for a team that is comprised of African Americans, German African Americans, Hispanic Americans, Jewish Americans, Icelandic Americans, Asian Americans, Croatian Americans, and, yes, some Anglo Americans too.

I will respect our brothers from Mexico for their right to cheer on their team, although I will desperately hope that their team fails.

This is what my America looks like:

photo from mlssoccer.com

I'm still all in.

Please, please

I know it's only sports and there's a debate on that may well decide the final fate of our country, of our little experiment in constitutional democracy. 

There are more important things. To others. Including me.

I remember going to Wrigley Field as a youngster with a busload of Swedes from the Vikings' Club, giddy on morning herring, and highballs and Bloody Marys (the adults, not me), heckling passers-by (again the adults, not me) en route to another Cubs' loss.

I remember watching at my grandparents' house in Blue Island as Jack Brickhouse called Ernie Banks's 500th home run.

I remember 1969, 1984, 1989, 2015, and especially 2003.

I remember my Grandpa and his 60+ years of loyalty and sadness ("those damn Cubs") and my Dad and his 70+ years of anticipation and delusion. 

Please, please. Just this once. Let the little guy, the underdog, the endurer of 108 years of misery and frustration and ultimately false hope, come out on top.

photo from http://cdn9.whiskeyriff.com

Go Cubs Go.

A Eulogy

Charles Nelson was a complicated man.  He was, I believe, the personification of something that we used to hear a lot about, but which his left-leaning son has long felt was in short supply: a compassionate conservative.  The son of a Swedish immigrant steelworker who was a card carrying union member his entire life and a woman who grew up in rural South Dakota, he was a self-made man, a life-long Republican, who believed, first and foremost, in our legal system and in justice for all.  Dad was an animal lover who also loved to hunt.  He was a Christian who, as many here have already attested, enjoyed a ribald joke. He had what some might describe as an inelegant golf swing, but readily offered advice to others on theirs, whether solicited it or not.

photo courtesy of Jeff Nelson

He allowed his sons to find their way in the world with little direct instruction, but with substantial influence.  When his eldest son turned from an eighth grader who made a “Nixon Now, More than Ever” poster to a high school senior distributing Mo Udall flyers outside of the plants in Jackson when the shifts changed he never protested.  Don’t get me wrong, there were a few topics that I studiously avoided discussing with Dad, chief among them global climate change.  But he rarely drew bright lines when it came to raising his sons, or in making and remaking himself. 

The advice that Dad gave Jeff and me regarding our vocational choices was relatively simple: “(1) I don’t care what you do for your careers once you get your medical degrees; (2) If you go into the armed services, go in as an officer; and (3) If you go into the armed services, never volunteer for anything.”  The fact that Jeff and I ignored the first, and Jeff the third, of those admonitions was the culmination of what I suspect was a long-standing realization that we would not choose the paths that he recommended, although our math and science grades likely softened the blow with regard to the whole career in medicine thing.  I do know that, regardless, he was proud that his sons both followed in his footsteps, that his daughters-in-law were actual and de facto lawyers, and that his grandson Ethan will be a third-generation Nelson lawyer.

There were things he could have been truly disappointed about in Jeff and me but wasn't: the failure of either of us to embrace the Boy Scouts despite Dad’s status as an Eagle Scout; my refusal to accept an invitation to join the cross country team despite being asked by the coach to do so; consideration of journalism as a career; consideration of photography as a career.

He could be, and was, hard on us when it came to some things, particularly our grades and the chores that we were given to do around the house.  I’ll never forget when I came home one day my junior year in high school to tell Mom and Dad that I had been named a National Merit Scholar Semi-Finalist only to be told by Dad that, if that was the case, I should have been making better grades.  If only I had known at any point before the last month what I know now (discovered after Jeff and I were going through things at our house several weeks ago), I surely would have had a conversation with Dad about it: my grades were better than his in college and law school. 

There was another discovery that I made sifting through the house that speaks more of Dad as the truly humble person, despite all that he achieved, that he was.  We knew that Dad had run track and cross-country at Carleton College, and that his roommate was the author and distance running guru Hal Higdon.  But that was about all that we knew of his athletic career.  Lo and behold, I discovered two weeks ago that not only did Dad run, but he ran very well.  In the 1953 Conference Track Championship, Mr. Higdon won the mile and Dad finished third.  Both the Carleton cross-country team and the track team won their conference meets in his senior year, with descriptions of both teams as being talented, with the talent running deep.  This reflects Dad’s outlook regarding life: the run, and the hard work preparing for the run, are most important. 

This is a philosophy that Dad maintained, and perhaps came close to perfecting, in his second career as a Judge.  He tackled the work of a jurist with the same enthusiasm that he had as a litigator, but through that job he demonstrated that he was willing to continue to learn, to grow, and, I believe, to become more passionate about life and more compassionate about those whose lives were in his hands.  I find it interesting and humbling that, just as Dad was undoubtedly better known as, and defined by, his “second career” so too Jeff and I have been shaped by and identified with vocations that we pursued beyond our law degrees.  As proud as I know he was that both Jeff and I are lawyers, I believe he may have been more proud of our second careers: Jeff's as an Army officer and mine as a soccer coach. Jeff and I often remarked to each other that we couldn't have imagined being in the other's shoes: either in Afghanistan or Guatemala or the Middle East for training or tours; or on a soccer field with a gaggle of high school girls six days a week for three months a year for ten years.  But, honestly, neither could we have imagined those endeavors for ourselves, or considered the possibilities of what we could achieve through them, without having in the backs of our minds what Dad consistently told us: do what YOU want, but once you choose to do it, stay the course and do it well.

The one thing about Dad that was uncomplicated was his faith and his unwavering lack of fear of death.  I remember being horrified as a child when Dad came home to declare to us that he had just purchased a life insurance policy that had a double indemnity clause and that, if he would ever have a heart attack, we should drag him to the top of the stairs and throw him down so that the benefits would increase.  Later in life he often referred to and planned for what to do when he died and gave generous gifts of support for us and our families with the simple notation: “in lieu of my death.”  He left few details regarding this service other than the day of the week on which it should be held (so as not to disrupt anyone’s work, I suspect), but more express ones for the “reception with drinks at the Club to follow.” 

Jeff read from Matthew, which I would expect from my Southern Baptist brother.  I chose (thanks to Cindy) this short passage from Ecclesiastes, probably the most irreligious of any book of the Bible, in which Solomon teaches us that one should embrace the simple pleasures of daily life: eating, drinking, and taking enjoyment in one's work, which are gifts from the hand of God.  Ecclesiastes chapter 7, verse 2 simply states: "You learn more at a funeral than at a feast." This is what I believe Dad would want us to learn today, and what he expected from Jeff, from me, and from all who are here:

For Pete’s Sake don’t mope; be strong.  Be of strong faith as well, but whatever your faith or belief system is, do not try to impose it on others.  Laugh.  Love.  Most importantly, celebrate life.  How we celebrate his life today he left for us to decide, and I hope we have done him justice.  But as for life itself, he very much intended for us to celebrate that now, and for as long as we can.

This and That

As occasionally happens, life and work have gotten in the way of writing several planned posts. Here are a few short takes on things happening or that have happened recently in soccer:

1.  U.S. Men Are Thrashed by a South American Opponent (Again).

Was it great that the U.S. made the semi-finals of the Copa America? Yes. Should we have expected any better than 4-0 against Argentina in the semis? Well ...

Yes and no. The U.S. has played well in the knock-out rounds of some tournaments (while rarely winning). Outplaying (really, they outplayed them!) Germany in the 2002 World Cup only to be denied a shot at the semis by a missed handball that rivaled Maradona's; the second dos a cero win over Mexico in the round of 16 in the same 2002 World Cup; even the 2-1 after extra time loss to Belgium in the round of 16 in the 2014 World Cup in which the U.S. had every chance to extend the match to penalties until Wondo missed the sitter that allowed Landon Donovan fans everywhere to say "I told you so."

But there was a theme to all of those games. And it was that the U.S. was not playing a South American opponent in any of them. For some reason, in games that matter (or any match against the top teams from CONMEBOL really) the U.S. wilts. Against what are generally recognized today as the top three teams in South America (Argentina, Brazil, and Columbia) the U.S. is a disastrous 6-26-7 all-time.

No doubt the U.S. was hurt by the absences of Jermaine Jones, Alejandro Bedoya, and Bobby Wood against Argentina. But they were behind almost from the start thanks to Lionel Messi and never looked up to the task. U.S. Soccer in general and Jurgen Klinsmann in particular have to figure out how to stay in games early and win matches early, late, or any time in-between, against South American opposition if they ever hope to make the semis of a modern World Cup.

2.  The U.S. Women Tune-Up for the Olympics, with Middling Results.

The U.S. Women's Team has not been particularly scintillating in its warm-up matches for the Olympics, drawing a match and winning one against Japan (a team which, like the U.S., is regrouping or reloading as the case may be) and then beating South Africa 1-0 before thumping Costa Rica 4-0 in the final tune-up last Friday.  After last year's World Cup, however, far be it from me to question coach Jill Ellis's preparation of her squad leading into a major tournament.

With the Olympic soccer rosters limited to 18 players and a schedule of three group stage matches crammed into six days, with the quarters, semis, and finals jammed into the next week, versatility of players and coaches to adapt to fatigue, injuries, and suspensions will be at a premium. Which makes the inclusion of Megan Rapinoe, who has not played since tearing her ACL last December, in the final roster all the more curious.

The Women are in a tough group, with World number three France, Columbia, and New Zealand. But with only 12 teams in the mix, any group was going to have some difficult opposition (although, not surprisingly, hosts Brazil drew by far the easiest of the three).  The U.S. should make it out of the group, but it could be very important that they do so as the top seed as far as the strength of their quarterfinal opponent goes.

Regardless of the ultimate result, it will be exciting to see how well new star Crystal Dunn (who scored the only goal against South Africa and tallied again against Costa Rica) and starlet Mallory Pugh will fare in their first international tournaments for the senior team.

Dunn against Costa Rica (photo from newsday.com)

3.  Portugal, Sans Ronaldo, Wins the European Title.

So much for my wish that Cristiano Ronaldo would eat some crow during the 2016 UEFA Championship. The only saving grace was that he was injured during Portugal's win in the Final against France and spent most of the match on the sidelines (a little cruel, I know -- I wasn't hoping that it was a debilitating injury -- which it apparently wasn't).

I wasn't as upset about the fact that Portugal won (although France winning on home soil after all it's been through in the past year would have been nice), but the way that it accomplished the task. As mad as I get at South American teams for their diving, faked injuries, and time wasting, at least, on some level I feel as though they truly believe that it's just part of the game. The Portuguese, on the other hand, are so cynical in the way that the go about it that it's infuriating. 

After all of their disappointments at the international level, I suppose Portugal was due a few breaks in its favor.  And it got them through squandered opportunities by a French team that seemed, frankly, overwhelmed by the moment and one well placed strike by Eder that barely eluded French keeper Hugo Lloris, who seemed slightly out of position on the shot.

So a tournament that began with promise ended with a whimper (as did, to be fair, the Copa America) and Portugal got its trophy. And the beautiful game took a blow.

A Plateful of Soccer (Best Served Cold)

We've got the Euros all day long and the Copa America in the evenings. I'm already spoiled enough that I am perturbed that there are no Copa 100 games Wednesday before the quarterfinals start tomorrow.

As a result, writing choices abound ...

There were the U.S. men's spirited displays against Costa Rica and Paraguay (and we have to credit Jurgen Klinsmann some for that, don't we?) in not only overcoming a desultory 2-0 loss to Columbia in the first game of group play, but in ending up winning their group.

There is the game tomorrow against Ecuador, and perhaps a deserved backtrack from a certain comment about them being "minnows" in CONMEBOL when they currently lead its qualifying, are ranked 13 in the world, and have qualified for three of the last four World Cups.

But there was something even more compelling that happened on the other side of the pond.

Iceland is playing in its first major tournament ever, thanks at least in part to the expansion this year of the field at the Euros from 16 to 24 teams. But make no mistake, "Our Boys" (or "Strákarnir okkar" in Icelandic if you prefer) earned their way to the Finals by finishing second in their group in qualifying, beating The Netherlands at home and away in the process.

To put things in population perspective (as I'm want to do), Iceland's population is roughly 330,000 people, or a few thousand less than that of, yes, Kalamazoo, Michigan. As far as countries go, Iceland is wedged between Belize and The Bahamas (or 179 out of 209) in population of  FIFA member nations. But in the FIFA world rankings, Iceland is #34, between the Republic of Ireland and Sweden, and just three spots below the U.S.

The most recognizable Iceland player to international soccer fans is probably Eidur Gudjohnsen, who played, and played well, for Barcelona and Chelsea back in the day but is now 37 years old and did not start or appear off the bench for their first major competition match, against Portugal and Cristiano Ronaldo.

Interesting side note: Eidur Gudjohnsen and his father, Arnor, hold the unique distinction of being the only father and son to appear on behalf of their country in the same international match.  Arnor started the game, against Estonia in 1996, and Eidur, 17 at the time, came on in the second half as a substitute for his dad.  

In the Portugal match, Iceland, a true soccer minnow, tied mighty Portugal and Ronaldo 1-1. Iceland fought and scrapped and was a little bit lucky, but survived. Afterward they celebrated like, well, like a country that had just tied its first ever match in an international tournament against the eighth best team in the world and a player about whom my friend Mike would say "Ronaldo loves him some Ronaldo."

Portugal took the lead in the match, but Iceland, with one of the precious few chances it had, tied it 50 minutes in on a goal by Birkir Bjarnason, then held on for the next 40 minutes for the tie, surviving two Ronaldo free kicks deep into stoppage time.

Bjarnason celebrates his goal (photo from theguardian.com)

Was it particularly attractive soccer? No. But it was a demonstration of why soccer is great and why, sometimes, a team underskilled and undermanned (although, as is apparent from the picture, not undercoifed, even against pretty boy Ronaldo) can, for 90 minutes, make up for all of those deficiencies by playing gritty, desperate, team soccer.

Of course, Ronaldo didn't see it that way, denigrating Iceland, its style of play, and its post-match celebration:

“Iceland didn’t try anything,” whined the Portuguese captain. “They were just defend, defend, defend and playing on the counterattack. It was a lucky night for them. We should have three points but we are OK. I thought they’d won the Euros the way they celebrated at the end. It was unbelievable. When they don’t try to play and just defend, defend, defend, this in my opinion shows a small mentality and they are not going to do anything in the competition.”

To which Karo Arnason, an Iceland center-mid, responded: "tough shit."

I could add more about Ronaldo, but the Telegraph article is too well written to even try to challenge. So I leave you with these observations about Ronaldo while I hope you revel in the smorgasbord of soccer from which we are feasting, whilst Iceland parties like it's 999, and while I fervently hope someone is forced to eat a little crow:

But Ronaldo would not be Ronaldo if he did not view every single game as a stage for him alone to confirm his greatness, rather than an opportunity for any Tom, Dick or Heimar to seize their own 15 minutes of fame.

He is the ultimate back-garden bully, the kind of barbecue guest who would spend the afternoon doing step-overs past seven year-olds and nutmegging the neighbours’ arthritic collie. It is that mind-set which has made him great. You don’t score 487 career goals, including 50-plus a season for the last six seasons by routinely squaring to better-placed team-mates.

... you get the impression that even now, at the age of 31, it does not matter how luxurious the hotel suite – if Ronaldo has no goal to replay in his mind before lights-out, he does not get a good night’s sleep.