Seanez Strikes Again

Lost in the hoopla about the Dodgers memorable 11-10 comeback victory over the Padres the other night – the game where four consecutive LA batters hit home runs – was the identity of the pitcher who surrendered the tenth inning walk-off to Nomar. That would be none other then the infamous Rudy Seanez, who faced only two batters, walking the first, and then giving up the home run to the second. Poor Rudy’s ERA is over eight; and why anyone is pitching him after his series of disastrous appearances for the Sox earlier this year is really a mystery. But I guess after the Padres had called on Trevor Hoffman, and he had let them down, there probably weren’t a lot of arms in their bullpen. Both of these teams have former Sox on them, many of whom are still held in great affection by the nation – especially Nomar and Dave Roberts, both of whom, in their own way, played a roll in the epic 2004 season. There’s even a soft spot for Mark Bellhorn, who will be remembered for his big post-season hits more than his strikeouts. But Rudy; forget about it. I’m just glad he’s throwing for someone else, anyone else.

More on Malts

White House held a Bruichladdich tasting the other day; it was their second such tasting in a little more than a year. But really, who needs much of an excuse to drink the Laddie, especially when it’s free? I met Danny there, and we sampled a few of the old favorites, including the fifteen, now in the second edition, and the fourteen, which has a golfing theme. I could care less about golf, but their fourteen is very nice, very rich and flavorful. That’s the Bruichladdich trademark: flavor. There is a little hint of peat lingering in the background; after all it’s an Islay malt. But the distinguishing characteristic is the flavor, not the peat. For a special treat, they had a bottle of the twenty available for tasting. This is too pricey to purchase, about $150 a bottle, and clearly not two-and-a-half times better than the fifteen. But the twenty is a pretty special malt, full of slow-developing flavor – one of these malts that slowly blows up on your palate, or in your mouth, or wherever it is that you taste these whiskies.

Speaking of big flavor and a too pricey price, the Chophouse now has Macallan 18 behind the bar. I’ve always felt the 18 was overpriced; no way it’s worth the 120 or more that most stores want to charge. But the Chophouse serves a generous pour for only $15, and at that price, which is about the same that any New York City hotel would charge for a simple shot of any entry level single malt, it’s pretty hard to turn down. And I have to admit, the 18 deserves its reputation for big flavor. I’ve read some guys criticize the 18 for a syrupy flavor, but I enjoy that rich chocolaty taste. It’s not as smooth as other high end malts I’ve tasted, but it’s hard to find fault with the enormous flavor.

I’ve joked in past years at the Rosh Hashanah table, that our sages prescribe a fine single malt to finish the holiday meal, but come to find out that isn’t so preposterous a statement. My young friend Matt from New York, who is observant, advises that single malts, not aged in wine casks, are kosher. And his neighborhood purveyor runs a sale each year before the holidays, discounting everything that’s appropriate for the holidays. After a brief consultation, he picked up a nice bottle of Highland Park. Shana Tova.

Too Little, Too Late

So far, it’s been a pretty nice fall day, almost a beautiful day. First off, after eleven losses in a row, Cuse finally won a football game. They beat Illinois, away. For three quarters, they seemed to dominate the game; although it’s true they had a couple lucky bounces. But in the fourth quarter, they let Illinois come back on them, and run up close to 200 yards. Twice they gave up touchdowns on passing plays of 70 some yards. So what’s the opposite cliché for the silver lining in every cloud? It won’t go unnoticed that we have this weakness in our defense, even though for the past three weeks the defense has otherwise played tough. Perhaps it was just a momentary lapse, or two.

Not long thereafter, the Sox won the first game of four to be played over the weekend with the Yankees. It’s too late to mean anything; we’re a couple miles behind them in the AL East; and there are three teams with about a six game advantage in the wildcard. Plus, if by some miracle the Sox did make the post-season, who would pitch for them? Who are the healthy starters? Who’s the closer? Still it’s always nice to beat the Yankees. Beckett threw pretty well, and Timlin and Foulke both looked like their old selves. I’d just like to see them finish the year playing well.

And for good measure, Michigan trounced Notre Dame, in South Bend no less. That ought to put an end to any talk of a national championship for the Irish. So while we can’t look forward to the baseball post-season; and even though there’s no chance Cuse will get to play in a bowl game this year, even in some cheesy bowl; at least we can take pleasure in seeing teams we hate get their asses kicked.

Malts with Friends and Family

Cousin Jessica got married last month at Turning Stone, another excuse for a bunch of us to get together, and renew our old, old friendships. The year had started out on the most somber note possible, our trip with Chuck and Jack out to Aspen for Jon’s memorial service. But in July, we met again up at Andy’s house in the Berkshires, for what is now the annual renewal of old times, and only a few weeks later, here we were again in Turning Stone.

The Oneidas don’t yet have a liquor license, so Chuck and I brought malts to the hotel. Chuck went heavy on Islay flavor, bringing Lagavulin and Caol Ila 18. I tended toward the sweeter end of the spectrum, with Aberlour 15, and Talisker Double Matured, both finished in sherry casks. But beyond that, Chuck also brought these special glasses Linda had bought him, sort of tulip shaped, and designed to emphasize the malt’s aroma, along with his guide to single malt scotches, reviewing over 1000 different scotches.

The weekend’s highlight came on Saturday afternoon, before the ceremony, when we went outside for Cohebas and Aberlour. The combination was wonderful. Cigars have a bit of a bite, even a smooth smoking label like Coheba. But that bite made the Aberlour taste remarkably smooth, and so flavorful. Too bad we’ve outlawed smoking; there’s almost no chance to enjoy a cigar outside your home any more. Turning Stone is one of the few places where tobacco use doesn’t brand one a pariah; on the contrary, it’s openly encouraged. Unfortunately, they don’t sell alcohol, so that means there’s nowhere in New York State, except perhaps our barbeque pit, where one can openly enjoy a malt and a good cigar.

Later that day, first during a lull in the evening, after the ceremony and before the band began playing, and later on when the reception was at full throttle, we brought a group of folks up to the hotel room, so we could enjoy a drink with friends. Different folks had different preferences; some of the guys liked the strong flavors of the Islay malts, but others preferred the smoother and softer flavors of the sherry finished Aberlour. But regardless of what was everyone’s favorite, the most enjoyable part was the chance to get with old friends. Malts as a means for reminiscing, for revisiting old times, and for telling the same old stories for the thousandth time.

Two weeks later, Jeremy and Julie came to Rochester for a visit, bringing baby Nathan with them. Friday night, after the grandparents had gone home to the Summit, and the ladies had retired for the evening, Jeremy and I sat down to enjoy a taste or two. Jeremy wasn’t familiar with malts, so we started with a nice flavorful highland malt, Cragganmmore double distilled (also finished in sherry casks), and for contrast, some Talisker - spicy and peppery. Jeremy loved them both. So we then tasted Highland Park 12, so we could sample a straightforward highland malt, with a very traditional flavor. We weren’t finished yet. I gave Jeremy some Ardbeg, so he could get the full-blown peaty Islay taste. Next came Bruichladdich, full of flavor and only a hint of peat. And because Jeremy seemed to appreciate all these varied tastes, we finished up with Lagavulin, almost never served to a novice, but here was someone who really appreciated all the flavors of of these varied scotches. All in all, a well-rounded introduction to single malts. By weekend’s end, I had shared about nine or ten scotches with young Jeremy, more if you count the various Johnny Blacks and Greens we threw in for the hell of it. I don’t know what was more fun – watching Nathan figure out how to walk in his new Pumas (blue and orange – cuse colors), or drinking malts with my nephew. Now we’ve got to get him back here when the boys are home. Either that, or we all return to some cruise ship with a good whisky bar.

Who's the Genius Now?

Tonight, a Marlins rookie tossed the first no-hitter in the majors since 2004. Anibal Sanchez, 22 years old, with an era under 3. He was a Sox prospect, traded away in the various pre-season moves that brought Lowell and Beckett north from the Marlins. Lowell has had a great year, but after all, he's 34 years old. Sanchez is 22. The last out of the game was a grounder to Hanley Ramirez, playing shortstop for the Marlins. Ramirez too was a Sox prospect, perhaps the best of all our young talent. He's 24, batting close to 300, around 50 RBIs, over 100 runs scored. And last night Bronson tossed a shutout. We call them complete-game-shoutouts these days, because no one pitches nine innings any more. Bronson has reportedly struggled after the all-star break, but if you look closely, his era is still in the low threes. That's about a point lower than Schill's, a couple points lower than Beckett's, and who know how much lower than the staff average. I know, Bronson is pitching in the National League, and everyone's era drops over there. But we're all beginning to wonder aloud now: was Theo a genius, or just the luckiest guy on the planet? I guess we'll have to wait a year or two to find out.

Highway 61, circa 2006

The Bob Dylan concert in Rochester on Wednesday night, part of his baseball tour, all concerts in minor league ball parks, was attended by the oldest audience ever to see a rock concert. I saw a couple guys with canes wearing tie-dyed tee-shirts. And there were at least one hundred bald guys with pony tails. White hair was the norm. I figure half the audience was on social security.

In front of us sat this couple with their shopping bags full of stuff: extra clothes, scarves and gloves, water bottles of course, and a book to read. The gal read her book through all of the opening acts. She probably would have read right through Dylan’s set, only the sun had gone down and it was too dark to read. I figure she reads that book when they’re making love – has it open on the bed in front of her, when she’s down there with her big booty up in the air. (How scary is that thought?) Earlier in the evening, when the opening acts were on, the two of them got up to go to the rest room. We knew that – that they were going to the rest room and not for a hot dog or certainly not a beer-- because they took a couple sheets of paper, and taped them, with a roll of scotch tape that came out of that big shopping bag, to their seats. On the paper was written the following message: “Gone to the rest room. Please don’t take our seats.” Most people, of course, would simply have left their stuff in the seats, thus signaling that the seats were taken. I mean, after all, who on earth would want any of their stuff? Extra careful people might have asked us, “Would you mind keeping an eye on our stuff. We’re going to the rest room.” (Really, who needs to know that you’re going to the rest room? Can’t we just save the seats and spare everyone that detail?) But they were trying to make sure that the seats were still available when they returned. And who am I to make fun, because it worked. Even though a dozen couples came by, looked at the signs, and rolled their eyes, no one stole the seats. They were still there when Dick and Jane returned from their bathroom break.

In any event, although the opening acts were great, Junior Brown and his crazy guitar, and Jimmy Vaughn with Lou Ann Barton on vocals, the evening was all about Dylan, and fortunately the sun went down, so we no longer had to watch all the freaks who had come out, and could concentrate on the music.

In a word, Dylan was astonishing. He voice has deteriorated to the level of a growl, but he was never a great vocalist. And once again this summer, instead of seeing some aging artist, who was merely a shadow of his former self, we saw an artist who continued to reinvent himself and his work. In this way, Dylan reminded me a lot of Wayne Shorter, whom we saw in June at the jazz festival – playing with younger performers, rearranging his music, and really creating a new style of playing.

Dylan began the set by alternating new and old, but before too long, he concentrated on older songs, many of them now more than 40 years old. I recognized : You Ain’t Goin Nowhere (which I first heard on the Great White Wonder bootleg album); Positively 4th Street; I’ll be Your Baby Tonight; Memphis Blues Again; Masters of War; Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat; Highway 61; and then for his two encores, Like a Rolling Stone, and Watchtower. I couldn’t have asked for a better selection. Let’s start with Memphis Blues, which I had never heard performed live, but which is one of my all-time favorite songs. In fact, one morning recently I awoke with this song in my head, as if I had dreamed about it, and have been listening to it obsessively for a couple weeks. Dylan did two very interesting things with the performance. First, he totally changed the phrasing of the song, so its sound was completely different, although the lyrics remained, for the most part, intact. But, in true Dylan fashion, always trying to leave everyone guessing, he omitted the one verse that explains the whole song – the one about mixing the rainman’s two cures, thus strangling up his mind.

His performance of Masters of War was also completely rearranged—the effect was an ominous sound that matched the dark lyrics, now 44 years old. But to counteract the somber note sounded by that number, he immediately followed it with Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat, one of the least serious and most entertaining songs he ever wrote.

I expected Rolling Stone as his encore, but was unaware that he has made Watchtower the closing number of his act for several years now. (Playlists from previous concerts, which can be accessed on his website, reveal that Watchtower is now the standard closing for his concerts.) I’ve been telling folks for years, not that anyone ever cared, that the Hendrix version of Watchtower was the greatest rock and roll song ever recorded. After all, Dylan’s lyrics are better in every way than those of any other rock performer. But Hendrix took what was really a quiet song, with biblical imagery, and transformed it into an ominous, almost apocalyptic anthem. Dylan clearly went to school on the Hendrix interpretation, because the Watchtower that ended this concert sent chills up and down my spine.

Earlier in the evening, I had been wondering why we were listening to all this music from Austin, Texas, whether Junior Brown’s psychedelic rockabilly guitar, or Jimmy Vaughn’s Texas blues, but then when I heard the band behind Dylan, I understood. There was this southwest, blues-rock sound to the music, unlike anything I’ve heard on any of his CDs (although I confess not to be that familiar with his recent music). The band was loud and driving at times, and then eerily quiet at other times. Mostly guitars, including a slide guitar, and Dylan on keyboards and harmonica. (The audience really loved the harmonica; I had the sense that some of the white-haired and tie-dyed fans actually went all the way back to the folk music days, probably hoping he’d sing Blowin in the Wind. But it wasn’t that kind of night.)

One last note. G-Man told me that Crosby Stills etc charged him over $140 a ticket for the concert he recently saw on Long Island. Dylan tickets were under $50. Maybe that’s only market forces; maybe Dylan has never been a major draw. But I’d like to think that he’s just keeping things in perspective. Giving us four acts, and four hours of concert, for not too much dough.