EASE DOWN THE ROAD

4 1/2 Stars 

At least five times now, all while sitting on the can, I’ve read through the liner notes that accompany The Baseball Project’s first proper album, Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. I’ve included “the can” element of my story because, well, no, you can’t borrow my stinkin’ CD. Get your own. You won’t regret it. What? You’re not a baseball person? You’re not a huge follower of the history of Illinois, but you like those state-themed albums that Sufjan fella makes (call it “Wiki Rock”), right? So, no, before we even brown our hands in the infield dirt or stain our hearts diving in fresh sod, know that you don’t need to know who Campy Campaneris is to enjoy Vol. 1. If you appreciate a songwriter who simply understands why a name like Campy Campaneris just must be used, you’ll want this album. If you like guitar-driven power pop and solid songwriting, you’ll want this album. “Good music is good music.” Didn’t Yogi Berra say that?

And before you ask, no, I’m not going to tell you everything about the 13 perfect innings – I mean songs – included here. (Okay, maybe only nine or so near-perfect innings; not every song is essential, but all are worth getting to know.) I can’t say enough about how well written and sweetly nostalgic both the lyrics and song notations are in Vol. 1’s liner notes; they alone are worth the bleacher seat price of admission. I will, however, tell you about the all-star band, the sound and, most importantly, the album’s surprisingly broad appeal. I’ll tell you why you need to own this record, even if you think baseball is, you know, America’s most boring pastime. (”So long ago / So long / Pastime are you past your prime?” the band itself asks on opener “Past Time” – but only after noting a few obscure triumphs the game has seen over the years, including that of Campaneris, who once played all nine defensive positions in a single game.)

First, naturally, the lineup. Take a batting cage full of scruffy musicians who have spent most of their lives writing and recording good music (and who also just happen to be friends), throw ‘em in a studio and see what happens. Oh, and by the way, they all love baseball, as proven by the academic writing throughout Vol. 1. First up to bat is Steve Wynn, formerly of Dream Syndicate. He sounds great. From what I gather, he always sounds great; his voice here just bursting with power pop-ready excitement and energy. Batting second is Scott McCaughey, frontman behind The Minus 5, former Young Fresh Fellows member and current R.E.M. member. This man, if you’re not familiar, can seriously churn out pop hits – not quite as fast or edgy as Robert Pollard, but his quality is more consistent. Same as Wynn, McCaughey sounds great here. The two of them make up the soul of the band, which is more or less a project they joked about in friendly passing for over 15 years before finally going to work. Next up is Peter Buck. No need to discuss this man; if you don’t know who Buck is, turn the page, you’ve been thrown out at home plate. Linda Pitmon, of Miracle Three (Wynn’s band) and Golden Smog fame, rounds out the lineup. She’s the base coach, aka drummer. She’s also much better looking than Derek Jeter and may even be Wynn’s wife or girlfriend or best friend. Who knows. She’s good, and works well with Buck, McCaughey and Wynn.

What makes this album work is that these musicians – who have all recorded or toured together over the years – work very well together. It’s hard to tell who is singing most of the time. Is it Wynn? McCaughey? Both? Buck? Black Jack? Surely not Buck. This power quartet, all past their documented artistic primes (aside from Pitmon, who is still a youngish firecracker sort), work together in a way that most non-side projects can’t even come close to matching. Therein lies the key to how this somewhat harebrained concept works so well. The interest and love for the topics at hand, all baseball-related, feels endlessly genuine. These folks love the sport and know their stuff, and somehow they wrote some great songs that will likely even be interesting – and often hilarious – to listeners who know nothing of the sport. It’s pop music, really – sing-alongs with memorable hooks and bleacher-stomping rhythms. A reason to clean the pine tar out of your ears. Taste the bite of salty sunflower seeds on your tongue … you get it.

So now you know about the band, what the record sounds like and why both you and your baseball-hating friends alike need to give this modest little curve ball a chance. Here it is, your one and only opportunity to hear two middle-aged men sing/shout “Ted Fucking Williams” over and over again, and with all the youthful glee in the world. It’s funny and sweet – and, as a friend of mine pointed out, “wholly American.” There’s a universal history here made approachable for anyone who ever played catch with their grandpa, an appeal that can only work in the United States. Oh, and wait until you hear “The Closer,” maybe my pick for best-written song of the year. The only thing these guys did wrong was forget to include an old, dry stick of sugary bubble gum with their power pop. Maybe next time. Enough with the closing words, go buy this record, it’s the one with the dirty baseball on the cover and liner notes so succinct and moving that proper reviews need not be written or even considered.

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