Take Care

Quietly but surely enough, Beach House has become one of the best American bands making music today. With "Bloom," their newest album, they've done something very few bands do -- they've made four consecutive, consistently strong albums, where each one builds upon the last. In my generation the best examples of this are Yo La Tengo, from "Painful" through "And Then Nothing Turned Itself Out"; Wilco, from "A.M." through "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"; and Spoon, from "A Series of Sneaks" through "Gimme Fiction." Today, the Walkmen, TV on the Radio, and the Arcade Fire belong there too, and Fleet Foxes and Vampire Weekend will probably get there (and I'm sure I'm missing a couple of other young bands). This is very good company, where everyone writes rock records with a well-understood mission and relatively easy appeal -- but not one that's too easy because, after all, this is indie rock.

Beach House, as they've noted in interviews, have had a career arc that isn't very common anymore. Their first two records, as promising as they were, weren't incredibly popular, ablaze in Internet buzz. They could take their time on tour learning their strengths, rather than having to perform prematurely on large stages, as so many bands have to do now. In fact, their albums follow a classic pattern: demo to sad sophomore release to harnessing a bigger sound to then smoothing it out to reach a larger audience. And now there's an evident confidence and comfort in their work that gives them a big lift.

I preferred "Devotion" and "Teen Dream," when their songs rocked so hard for being so slow, fuzzy and dreamy. "Bloom" is just a bit too smooth in its lyrics, melodies and its placement of crescendos -- a bit too clear that, yes, this is Beach House's moment. (And what a moment it is: "Bloom" was the best-selling album at Newbury Comics when I bought it there last month!) But it's quite good nonetheless. My favorite song is the final one, "Irene." Not surprisingly, it's the one where Victoria Legrand starts singing about strange paradises. Above is a live version from the recent tour, in Charlottesville, Va., where it stretches and stretches.

Thanks to Beach House for the post's title.

Kevin Durant Makes Me Want To Move To Oklahoma City

It's not only that Durant is the most magnificently smooth player I've seen, always seemingly assured of making the basket. It's that he -- and the rest of Thunder's core players -- are younger than 25 but already so ascendant. To revisit what I wrote in November 2010 about the Thunder (and two years earlier about that brief era of the Trailblazers), they're "athletic, versatile players who seem to genuinely like each other and realize they can do something special together," in a moment "where everyone understands what's happening, appreciates the potential, and starts to click with each other." And now, the Thunder have fully arrived, looking great in the NBA Finals! So rarely does the fleeting promise of greatness coalesce like this, so rarely does the indie phenomenon reach the big stage and stay true to who it is. There weren't any compromises and there didn't have to be.

The central question is: Are the Thunder cooler because they're in Oklahoma City? I have to answer, Yes, because Oklahoma City is otherwise so anonymous. In an era when basketball stars apparently only want to play in cities with some combination of great weather, exciting nightlife, and low income taxes, Durant and his co-star, point guard Russell Westbrook, have already signed long-term lucrative contracts to stay in Oklahoma. (The team's two other young leaders, guard James Harden and forward Serge Ibaka, haven't yet and it's unclear if the Thunder can afford them all.) Durant's and Westbrook's decisions reveal their personalities -- mature, sensible and fantastic. They've chosen a homegrown, organic scene over an expensively assembled one, place over placelessness, and the local over the imported. It's almost as though the Thunder are urban planners.

By the way, did you hear that Oklahoma City is redesigning its downtown streets?

History Is A Fluke

The Mets satisfied a 50-year drought last Friday night when Johan Santana, once their star and now their folk hero, threw the franchise's first no-hitter, against the St. Louis Cardinals. The next morning, fans were calling WFAN congratulating themselves for finally reaching reaching this milestone -- the San Diego Padres are now the only team without a no-hitter -- and the Times had more stories about the game than the news pages do about Syria's civil war on one of its busier days.

But no-hitters are a funny thing: They're so clean and wondrous yet the ultimate fluke; it just can't be predicted when they might happen. There are plenty of great pitchers who have them and some who you thought would always have a chance at throwing one with each start -- Justin Verlander circa 2011, Pedro Martinez circa 1999, Nolan Ryan circa 1973-1985, Sandy Koufax circa 1963. But then neither Verlander nor Martinez threw one in those years and plenty of unsuccessful pitchers have thrown them too (see Philip Humber, once a Mets flop who had one for the White Sox earlier this season). On the other hand, they still feel great. Santana's was like an early birthday present for my father, who turned 60 today and has been a Mets for all of the team's 50 years. He called me at 10 that night after the game finished, very excited. To think, a game where everything went according to plan, where each batter came to the plate and didn't have a hit. 0, 0, 0. How refreshing.

The funny thing about Santana's no-hitter is how jagged its edges were. There was Santana's shoulder, which is only a year from major surgery that forced him to sit out all of last year. Everyone, most especially manager Terry Collins, was very worried that Santana threw too many pitches to reach the end, though it was a promising sign when he raised his arm above his head the next day to give a high-five. There was reliever Ramon Ramirez, who injured his hamstring running to the mound to celebrate. There was the fan in the Gary Carter jersey and jean shorts who rushed the field in celebration and was arrested. The Mets pitchers the next two days also threw superbly (if not perfectly). But then, the team lost last night when Jordany Valdespin (who?) committed two painful errors at shortstop in the bottom of the 12th as Elvin Ramirez (double who? but not Ramon) pitched, thwarting them from entering first place, and they lost again today.

One way that baseball mirrors life is its length. Even when wonderful things happen, they recede. There are no hot streaks that can be ridden all the way, as in football or other sports' playoffs. Peaks happen and slumps happen, so it's best to stay level.

Update: Thanks to the new version of Blogger, where I've learned how to insert photos midway through a post, instead of only at the usual top.