You may say I'm a dreamer

In December 2005, which was the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, Newsweek ran an article about the occasion. In it, musician Dave Matthews was quoted as saying, "Even if he'd written only 'Imagine,' he would have been the greatest songwriter of all time." That's a bit hyperbolic, but it shows the admiration for the song that Dave has, which I don't think is at all out of place. I don't tend to use the word "art" to describe much of what is done by rock musicians, but this song is an exception. It is (and I contend that the following statement is in no way hyperbolic) an absolutley brilliantly constructed piece of artistry.

John Lennon wrote "Revolution" in 1968. There were, of course, a lot of protest songs, anti-war songs, anti-Establishment songs being written at the time. Various people had publicly called on The Beatles, and other popular groups, to lend their voice to the struggles by speaking out. John certainly championed the basic beliefs of these crowds, but seems to have disagreed with some of their tactics and actions. And, anyone familiar with John would probably guess that he wasn't about to let anyone tell him what to say and how to say it. In response, he came out with "Revolution," with lyrics such as, "but when you talk about destruction, don't you know that you can count me out... but if you want money for people with minds that hate, all I can tell you is brother you have to wait... but if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow." This song isn't exactly related to "Imagine," but I think John did make it clear that when he was going to use his music to speak out, he was going to do so in his own way, and not simply join the crowd that was seeking changes.

The next year, he wrote "Give Peace a Chance." Not "Give Us Peace." Not "Live Peace." Not "End the War." Not "Stop All Wars." Give peace a chance. Again, John was going to use his music on his own terms. He wasn't saying, "This is how things should be," though he certainly thought so. He was just saying, "Give it a try." Look at it in a way you've never looked at it before, and see what you think. Certainly this was a departure from a lot of the anti-war songs of the era, which directly advocated the end of the war.

Two years after this, John hit what Dave Matthews and I consider his zenith with "Imagine." He had bigger things on his mind than just the war in Viet Nam, or the student protests and such that he'd been reacting to back in the old days of 1968. John had a much broader, much grander vision of a united, peaceful world. And again... and once again brilliantly... John doesn't tell us what he thinks we should do. He doesn't tell us this is how we should live. (This time, I'm not sure that even John thought that all of this was how we should live. He certainly seemed to enjoy his possessions, for one thing.) All he does is ask us to imagine it. What would it be like if all the things that we use to separate ourselves from each other didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to justify our prejudices and hatreds didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to categorize, judge, label, elevate or denigrate everyone else didn't exist? If all we had was ourselves, each other, and today.

Just as they never really will give peace a chance, I don't think most people ever really will imagine, not even necessarily John's vision in his song, but any way in which the world or their lives could be significantly different than they are today. Which will, of course, keep them from making any real change. The first step is to decide what change you want to make, and you can't do that until you consider the possibilities. If you start by picturing the farthest extent of where you can go, you can then work back towards today to come to where you actually want to go. Until you know where that is, you can't get there, right? I think that by setting the bar where he did, by asking us to consider an idealized, Utopian picture, John was reminding us of the first step to making changes in our lives. Not by telling anyone what they should do, but by inviting everyone to consider what we could do. Imagine.

R.I.P., Harry

There is a fair chance that you don't know the name Harry Kalas. Even if that's the case, there is still a fair chance that you know his voice. You may have heard it in commercials, such as ones for Chunky soup or his beloved Coors Light, or as the voice of NFL Films, or as the voiceover for the highlights on HBO's "Inside the NFL," or as the voice of Animal Planet's annual "Puppy Bowl." For me, Harry Kalas always was, and always will be, the voice of Philadelphia Phillies baseball.

I grew up in the Philadelphia area, and am a lifelong Phillies fan. Harry did play-by-play for Phillies games on TV and radio for literally my whole life - he started as Phillies' broadcaster in 1971; I was born the next year. From youth, through adolescence, to adulthood, Harry's smooth, resonant voice has been a constant presence. Even since I moved to Minnesota, I've been able to watch some Phillies broadcasts on our cable package, and still have Harry around some.

Usually, when sports fans talk about our team, we talk about the players. But really, the broadcasters are a closer, if not bigger, part of the game for us. Players and coaches come and go, but Harry was always there.

There's a clear separation between the fans and players, in every sense. They're the spectacle, the ones on stage. I can't do what they do. And I certainly don't live in their multi-million dollar, fame-and-celebrity world. It's different, somehow, with the broadcasters - at least with the good ones. It's like they're watching the game with you. The broadcast is like a conversation. Though they very rarely answer my questions ;-). The players are very much on TV. But Harry was in my living room, my kitchen, my car. Just talking baseball with me.

Harry Kalas died today. It seems fitting that he died doing what he loved so much, getting ready to call a Phillies game. It was a couple hours before game time. He had made his regular visit to the Phillies' locker room, and was in the broadcast booth when he collapsed. He died at a local hospital about an hour later.

Most of my memories of Phillies baseball are as much about Harry's descriptions of what happened as they are about what actually happened. Not just the big moments, but thousands of little ones. A home run just wasn't the same without his trademark, "Outta here... home run!" call. A strikeout wasn't the same without his, "Swing and a miss. Struck... him... out!" As I said to the co-worker who first told me that Harry had died, "Harry WAS the soundtrack of Philles baseball for me."

It's hard to imagine that the next walk-off home run, the next no-hitter, the next World Series championship (if you're a Philly fan like me, you can't read - or type, trust me - that phrase without inserting a mental "if") will happen without the backdrop of Harry's words and voice. It was hard for me just to get my mind around the fact that today's game would have to go on without him.

When the Phillies won the World Series (and the series before it) last year, as excited as I was watching the celebrations, I couldn't wait till the national TV broadcasts played the clip of Harry's call of the last out on Philadelphia radio. (If I still lived around Philly, I'd have had the sound on my TV off, and my radio on.) I was excited that they won because, as a fan, I wanted them to win. Duh. But I was also glad that Harry got to call the World Series win. The only other time the Philles won the World Series was in 1980. Baseball's broadcast rules then didn't allow for any local broadcasts, so Harry didn't get to call that one. He very obviously loved the game and the team every bit as much as we fans do, and I know it was a proud moment for him to be part of the championship last year. I was happy for him to have the opportunity, and that the team came through for him. Because, I thought, he won't be around forever. Little did I know...

I'll miss Harry, talking to me about my Phillies. I never met him, but it feels like I've lost a friend - someone who was always around, and someone with whom I had at least one thing... one thing we both enjoyed very much... in common. It'll never be quite the same again without him.

I made...

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...you look.


Happy April Fools Day!!! :-P