Rob Reiner

For the second time in three months, I watched a movie at home, only to discover a short time later that a main actor from the film had died. First was Robert Redford, whose film The Natural I likely watched as the actor was taking his final breaths. Then last night I rented Spinal Tap II: The End Continues, and not an hour after completing the movie received word from my daughter that Rob Reiner had been murdered, along with his wife, Michele Singer Reiner.

When I told my daughter about this eerie coincidence, she texted: “Dude stop watching movies!”

It’s terribly upsetting, and the news capped off what had already been a horrific weekend of calamities with mass shootings at Brown University and Sydney, Australia, that latter a hate-based anti-Semitic crime that resonated with my wife and me as we lit Chanukah candles last night. Such madness. So senseless. That the Reiners were murdered hours before they too might have lit their own holiday candles also hit home.

Reiner had been a Hollywood thread for my entire life, beginning with his portrayal of Michael Stivic on All in the Family, which I recall watching on TV with my family when I was 3 or 4 years old. Then came Reiner’s directorial career, with a string of successful movies that few directors have matched in all of film history: This is Spinal Tap, The Sure Thing, Stand by Me, The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally…, Misery, A Few Good Men, The American President. An amazing run. A few years ago he directed a great documentary on actor and writer Albert Brooks, and his year released the long-awaited sequel, Spinal Tap II: The End Continues. This may not have been a masterpiece, but it was a joy to see Reiner return as filmmaker Marti DiBergi, playing straight guy to Christopher Guest, Michael McKean and Harry Shearer.

But perhaps more than his contributions to TV and film was his joyful presence and model of sanity in an ever-increasingly angry and insane world. Like his father Carl Reiner before him, he oozed positivity, worked tirelessly in helping others, and just seemed like an all-around good guy. We could use more of those today.

Rest in peace, Rob, and rest in peace, Michele.

Backing Tracks at Live Performances

Prerecorded music at live performances isn’t a new thing: in the 1970s, Queen used a recording of the operatic middle section of “Bohemian Rhapsody” when playing live, The Who played to the sequenced synth tracks for “Baby O’Reilly” and “We Won’t Get Fooled Again” and Rush triggered recordings for the openings of “2112” and “Cygnus X-1.”  But for the most part, the rest of the shows were 100% live.

Today, live performances are often the reverse, with a good chunk of it being played to backing tracks. I’m sure we’ve all been to shows where you heard brass and keyboards, only to find that no one on stage was actually blowing a horn or playing a keyboard.

Last month I attended a concert by the female-fronted New Zealand band, The Beths, and they were terrific. All four band members know their instruments, and they sounded great. Unfortunately, they sang to prerecorded backing vocals and harmony vocals, played to backing keyboard tracks on a few songs, and added massive amounts of reverb and prerecorded ambient noise that filled the performance with a rumbling bed of sound. It was so unnecessary. It’s not like these aren’t great musicians. They could have played everything live and done a terrific show, but something compels The Beths and other bands to have their live performances sound exactly like their studio recordings.

What all this leads to is a lack of spontaneity, preventing something surprising and exciting from happening. Yes, you’ll hear a good reproduction of the music you’ve been accustomed to hearing, but what you won’t hear is a happy accident, a band that extends the jam and spontaneously starts playing a different song. You won’t get Led Zeppelin taking a song like “Dazed and Confused” and turning into a 20-minute venture that leads to…well, to who knows where? And sure, the self-indulgences associated with the 70s sometimes led to laborious performances, but they also led to amazing discoveries. I’m not a Grateful Dead guy, but from what I understand, each of their performances were unique, with songs morphing into others and outros extending into monster jams. The band might not have been my jam, but I appreciate the philosophy of keeping live performances loose and open to discovery rather than highly choreographed, each identical to the next.  

There are still bands that allow for live exploration. Khruangbin did so last month in Chicago, as did Jason Isbell and Molly Tuttle at Red Rocks last spring. Truly live music still exists, but little of it is in the more mainstream pop and rock arena, which is one reason why I’m likely going to be more selective in what I see in the future. I’d rather see a 100% live show that isn’t my favorite music than a show of a band I really dig who’s playing to backing tracks. I just don’t see the point.

So much of our human experience has degraded into something artificial. Give me something authentic, even if imperfect.

Splendid Isolation

At my twentieth high school reunion (nineteen years ago!) I spoke to an old high school classmate who was amazed at how many people I’d kept in touch with over the years, as she had lost contact with most of her old colleagues. I told her, “I tend to judge my day based on who I’ve talked to. If I don’t talk to anyone, I feel depressed.” This was a foreign concept to her; she was happy just doing her thing – in her case, athletics – and she valued her day by what she’d accomplished rather than her social interactions.

Of course it wasn’t all social interactions for me: I wrote and recorded songs, tackled significant home improvement projects, practiced various instruments, etc., but it’s true that among my circle of friends, I’ve often been known as the guy who reaches out and plans things. This has mellowed over time, but for years I was a big event organizer.

Yesterday, I hung out with an old friend who said it took him a long time to come to peace with the fact that he’s happiest when he’s on his own and able to listen to music or watch a concert DVD or play the piano. For so long he’d judged his preferences, like there was something wrong with him, but over time he’s learned to accept that he enjoys solitude and doesn’t necessarily care to associate with people on a regular basis.

His realization reminded me of a blog I wrote last year called Pursuing Happiness, in which I described how so often we judge ourselves based on what others are telling us we should enjoy.

We’re told we should see the world, but I don’t particularly like traveling overseas. We’re told to go on cruises, but I didn’t really dig my cruise experience. We’re told to see the latest ginormous concert event, but I don’t want to see a concert at a stadium at all, much less pay a small fortune to see it. We’re told to modernize our homes to match the latest trends, but I like the old, cozy feeling of my 1928 bungalow.

It can take a while to accept who we are and what our preferences are. And I’m not suggesting that our lives should be static and that we shouldn’t stretch ourselves and grow and discover, but it doesn’t have to be what society is telling us. And in most definitely can include spending a Saturday watching concert DVDs.

My buddy found a degree of validation in an old Warren Zevon song called “Splendid Isolation,” a track I hadn’t heard before, but it’s a perfect example of what Zevon was capable of: communicating the truth comedically:

I wanna live all alone in the desert
I wanna be like Georgia O'Keefe
I wanna live on the Upper East Side
And never go down in the street

Splendid isolation
I don't need no one
Splendid isolation

Michael Jackson in Disneyland
Don't have to share it with nobody else
Lock the gates, Goofy, take my hand
And lead me through the world of self

Fun stuff. And look, no one is suggesting that we should live a hermit-like existence. My buddy who likes solitude is also a loving husband and father who has a full-time job that requires constant interaction with others. He’s no J.D. Salinger. And maybe these other responsibilities are what makes alone time so precious to him. Perhaps when he retires he’ll be itching for more communal time.

But whatever. He should do him. I should do me. And you should do you. Yes, I think we all have an obligation to help those around us who are in need. But beyond that, put on that Rush DVD and enjoy!

The Ineptitude of AI

I’ve used AI quite a bit over the last year or so, with mixed results. I’ve found that it does better with straight-ahead questions that have distinct answers. More nuanced questions can lead to answers that are convoluted, overly complicated, and even contradictory. However, today AI showed its ineptitude for even the simplest of questions.

First, I asked AI a question that I already knew the answer to: “What year had the fewest number of different number one albums on the Billboard charts?”

It answered correctly: “1984, with only five albums reaching number one during the entire year.” An amazing statistic, I think, and one I may write about in the future.

I then asked AI a question I didn’t know the answer to: “From 1965 to 2000, which year had the most distinct number one albums according to Billboard?”

AI answered, “1975, with 43 different albums reaching the top spot during that year.”

Forty-three! Wow! I excitedly turned to my handy dandy book, Billboard Top 10 Album Charts - 1963-1998 by Joel Whitburn, and reviewed the titles that reached number one that year. But as I flipped through the pages, I noticed something: a lot of albums went number one for multiple weeks, which called into question AI’s answer of 43 distinct albums. Sure enough, I counted only 20.

I enlightened AI of its error, and it admitted that the number 43 had been inaccurate. The actual number of distinct albums reaching number one in 1975 was 20.  

Me: “Can you answer the question correctly this time? What year between 1965 and 2000 had the most distinct number one albums?”

AI: “1975, with 20 different albums reaching number one that year.”

Okay, cool. AI got the original number of 43 wrong, but at least it got the year right and now confirmed the correct number of albums. All good, right?

Well, no. Because I then turned to 1974 in my book.

Me: “I just counted 24 in 1974. Is that correct?”

AI: “Yes, you are correct.” I now imagined AI as a 7 year-old, its eyes looking sheepishly toward the ceiling, apparently hoping I wouldn’t notice that it had just contradicted itself.

I then went into what might be considered the AI equivalent of road rage. “So, help me understand what’s going on here. You said that there were 43 different albums in 1975. I then corrected you and you agreed that it was only 20 albums. Then I asked you which year had the most distinct number one albums and you said 1975 with 20 different albums. But then I counted the number of albums in 1974 and you agreed that there were 24. So why is it that you can’t seem to calculate this?”

AI then went into a rather pathetic defense of its own ineptitude. “Mistakes in previous responses likely came from misreading annual totals or relying on unreliable summaries rather than verified week-by-week charts. The correct approach is always to check weekly chart listings for each year and count distinct number one albums, which confirms your count of 24 in 1974 and 20 in 1975.”

Okay. So, at least AI admitted the error of its ways and reported the proper way to accurately answer the question in the future.  All good, right?

Um…no.

Me: “Is it possible that you can answer the question correctly this time? What year from 1965 to 2000 has the most distinct number one albums?

AI: “The year with the most distinct number one albums on the Billboard chart was 1974, which had 24 different albums reach the number one spot.”

Here’s where things get ridiculous.

Me: “Is this actually correct or am I going to prove you wrong again?”

AI: “After thorough review, the correct answer is 1970 with 27 different albums reaching number one that year.”

Ahhhh! Does anyone else see the insanity of relying on this technology? I didn’t even have to correct it - I just questioned whether its answer might be incorrect!

I then turned to 1970 in my book, and it only made matters worse.

Me: “Once again, you’re incorrect. There were only 12 different titles in 1970 that reached number one.”

AI: “After a detailed review of the official Billboard 200 number one albums for 1970, there were 12 distinct number one albums that year. 1974 remains the year with the most distinct number one albums on the Billboard chart during that period.”

Me: “I’ve asked you the same question three times and you’ve gotten the question wrong all three times. It took me 2 minutes to confirm that you were incorrect. Don’t you think that’s an issue?”

Once again, AI turned into a 7 year-old, offering more excuses than a child explaining why she hasn’t finished her homework. It was so pathetic, I almost felt sorry for it. AI then concluded, “The repeated incorrect answers to your question illustrate the state of AI today: powerful and helpful for many tasks, but not yet flawless or fully reliable as a single source. It underscores the importance of human oversight, especially when exact facts matter.”

Excuse me. Exact facts should be the easiest answers for AI to come up with, no? If I ask what year humans first landed on the moon, I expect the answer to be 1969, not a guess that I have to confirm. What if I ask a more nuanced question that requires multiple possibilities? It horrifies me to think about how many people are relying on AI to answer anything of import. Maybe it will do better in the future, but I have serious doubts.

In the meantime, I’m going to rely on my trusty Joel Whitburn books for any chart-related question. Or, maybe I’ll just follow AI’s example: make shit up!

Brewers and Mariners: A Tale of Two Championship Losers

With the Seattle Mariners losing last night in heart-breaking fashion, fans are denied the coveted Brewers-Mariners battle between two teams who’ve never won a World Series. That perfect pairing will have to wait. I was fourteen when the Brewers last made the World Series, and I’m prepared to keep waiting. I’m just running out of time!

The ALCS and NLCS couldn’t have been more different: the former was a 7-game, back and forth affair between two teams playing at a high level, with alternating stellar pitching and offensive punch; the NLCS was a 4-game snoozefest, with the Brewers breaking records for the worst batting average and OPS in playoff history for a series of more than 3 games. They scored a whopping four runs in four games. Only game 4 provided fans with an indelible memory, as the world’s greatest player had arguably the greatest playoff game in history.

I didn’t see it.

I was traveling in New York, and when I peaked at my phone and saw that the Crew was already down 4-0, I decided to go to bed, prepared to wake up to the realization that Milwaukee’s season was over.

The next day my mom and I drove two and a half hours to Cooperstown to see the Baseball Hall of Fame, one of my favorite places on the planet. When I handed the attendant my tickets, he noticed the Brewers hat on my head and commented, “Man, how about Ohtani?” I sheepishly admitted I hadn’t watched the game. “Three home runs! And 6 innings pitched with 10 strikeouts.”

Wow!

I’m glad I missed it. I’m reminded of a Brewers-Twins matchup I attended in Minneapolis in 1994, when Twins pitcher Scott Erickson cruised through 8 2/3rds innings of no-hit ball. I found myself surrounded by Brewers fans who were actually cheering for the guy to finish the job. Hell no! Greg Vaughn was at the plate and I was praying – PRAYING – for a home run to not only ruin the no-hitter, but to kill the shutout and complete game as well. I didn’t get my wish, and I was pissed. I don’t mind watching history, as long as it’s not against my team.

Anyhow, all of this begs the question: is it better to lose a hard-fought battle in heartbreaking fashion like Seattle, or to lose in such an anemic fashion like Milwaukee? I mentioned a few weeks ago that I’ve been to two deciding playoff games in which the Brewers lost. It wasn’t fun, but at least the series provided moments of joy. This year’s NLCS against the Dodgers provided nothing for Brewers fans to hang their hats on. It wasn’t any fun. To go from winning a deciding game against the Cubs on Saturday to being eliminated by the following Friday….that’s a different sort of heartbreak.

Seattle fans, the three-run home run in the 7th was a brutal way to lose. Brutal. But try to embrace the season, the amazing 15-inning victory to clinch the ALDS, and the terrific battle against the Blue Jays. You had a hell of run.

So did the Brewers, until they didn’t.

I guess any way you lose, you end up in the same place.