The Beatles - "Live at the Hollywood Bowl"

The Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl was always the black sheep of the band's core catalog, recorded live at an outdoor stadium at a time when recording equipment struggled to capture live music and pop artists - with one exception - didn't play stadiums. Reviews focused on the audience's continuous wall of screams, melodramatically describing the sound quality as bordering on unlistenable. In reality the Beatles' only sanctioned live album was an invaluable addition to the catalog, proudly (if roughly) showing off the tight, confident rock and roll band that John Lennon, even after the breakup, couldn't resist bragging about.

Live at the Hollywood Bowl is the absolute realization of the material's potential [1]. Sourced from different tapes than the 1977 LP, these digitally manipulated recordings miraculously present a sound that wasn't available to anyone at the Hollywood Bowl, including - or especially - the Beatles. The spacing between instruments, vocals, and crowd noise is comparable to a modern-day equivalent. Giles Martin, in his first solo venture as the Beatles' producer, accomplished what his late father's 1977 liner notes lament having been technically impossible at the time. What has been released in that worthy album's place is the definitive aural document of Beatlemania, preserving the impact of the screams with, at last, less input from the screams themselves.

My Top 10 Albums of the 80s: (6) The Joshua Tree - U2

[This is the fifth in a series of ten posts. The list'll be revealed as entries are written.]

U2 have always been searchers. Reviews of the band's albums, positive and negative alike, tend to touch on the sense of yearning that pervades the music. It's likely this very restlessness that lends the group its defining peculiarity: no band has ever put out so many great albums without producing any back-to-back. The Joshua Tree is the quintessential U2 album, not because it's definitively their best - Achtung Baby is at least as good - but because it features the band distilling this essence most successfully. The Unforgettable Fire sessions had expanded U2's palate, but most of the resulting music suffered from a lack of structure. Rattle and Hum, meanwhile, featured a bombast that lands on the album's anthemic highlights, but otherwise comes off as obnoxious. The Joshua Tree sharpens the atmospherics of its predecessor while withholding on self-indulgence just enough to almost never become unctuous [1]. Each band member gets a showcase: Bono sings to rafters on "Red Hill Mining Town," Adam Clayton's groove sets the album in motion on "Where the Streets Have No Name," and Larry Mullen Jr.'s thunderous drumming is the high point of "Bullet the Blue Sky." The Edge, meanwhile, dominates The Joshua Tree. The shimmering arpeggios of "Where the Streets Have No Name" were expressly designed to be the ultimate U2 riff, and the claim has stood the test of eight subsequent albums. He almost single-handedly provides the songs with their atmospheres, summoning dread on "Exit," rapture on "Trip Through Your Wires," and (naturally) yearning on "With or Without You" - a song prudently chosen as the lead single, and one that ultimately couldn't help but become the band's signature composition. It was perfectly in character for Bono to announce "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," but The Joshua Tree represents perhaps the only time that U2 ever did just that. Fortunately for everyone else, it wasn't long before they felt compelled to return once more to the drawing board.

When the Daisy, At Long Last, Opens Her Eyes

A previous post detailed my search for "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes," an obscure recording by the once-famous violinist Albert Sandler used in the delightful 1973 documentary Metro-Land. Since November 2014, I had been regularly checking eBay for the record in question, and occasionally searching for more clues elsewhere on the internet. On March 10, I came across the website of the Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music (CHARM), once operated by the UK's Arts and Humanities Research Council [1]. Their database included listings for several Albert Sandler recordings that had eluded me, including one disc (Columbia DX 961) comprising a medley of tunes by the composer of "Daisy," Haydn Wood. It was an encouraging discovery: though it fell short of naming the tune I was looking for, it was my first ever indication of which disc to chase. Soon after, I found an advertisement for the record in the Singaporean newspaper The Straits Times, published about 8 months after the recording session. So the record existed - it would just be a matter of finding it.

Five weeks of dead ends later, I received an email from a UK record dealer who had found a friend willing to part with his copy of "Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs." I still had no confirmation that this disc included the tune. However, having identified 136 Albert Sandler 78s that did not contain "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes," I felt assured my time had come and made the purchase. Thankfully, I was right: Sandler included "Daisy" in his Haydn Wood medley, closing the circle on my Search for Metro-Land. The record's details are as follows:

Albert Sandler - Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs (Columbia DX 961)

Side 1 (Matrix CAX-8713-1)
Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs - Part 1: Fleurette, I Shall Never Forget/Silver Clouds/It Is Only a Tiny Garden/Love's Garden of Roses

Side 2 (Matrix CAX-8714-2)
Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs - Part 2: When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes/I Love Your Eyes of Grey/Roses of Picardy

Both selections recorded January 21, 1940. Columbia DX 961 was released in March 1940 and deleted from the catalog in March 1949.

Download by clicking the arrow button beneath the Soundcloud logo.

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Finding the record suggested answers to a number of questions. The dealer addressed the disc's scarcity, reasonably surmising that compositions by Wood (whose most popular song was published in 1916) would have viewed as hopelessly old-fashioned by 1940 and sold very few copies. Furthermore, the use of "Daisy" as merely part of a subtitle explained why I had found so little information on the song. For one thing, Albert Sandler's records had never been explicitly linked to the "Daisy" title on the internet: the internet ostensibly contains 3 prior references [2] to the Albert Sandler record "Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs," none of which list the subtitle. For another, even in general, "Daisy" is more often referenced as a part of Haydn Wood medleys than it is standing alone. One such fascinating artifact – part of the Australian Library of Congress' digital holdings – is a copy of sheet music bearing the same title as my record, copyrighted 1920. In keeping with "Daisy's" obscurity (apparently even at the time), it is not advertised on the front cover, but is included on page 10. It would seem likely that this arrangement of Wood's music actually served as the basis for Sandler's: though 6 of the sheet music's 13 songs were excised (almost certainly for time [3]), the remaining 7 are all found on the record, in order. At least one bit of evidence suggests the medley, truncated or otherwise, remained part of his repertoire after recording it: he performed it as the last program of the day for BBC Radio at 11:30pm on February 28, 1943.

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My quest for "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes" has been the most obscure pursuit of a life already full of them. The year and a half between first seeing Metro-Land and completing the search for "Daisy" included the hardest 18 months of medical school and multiple other unforeseen challenges - sporadically interspersed with new information on a man I was unlikely to ever have heard about. It's been a pleasure to discover the gems populating his enormous discography. In this transitional period, it's also been touching to uncover the details of a life that it's felt time is on the verge of passing by. I decided to use what I've been able cobble together as the basis of a short biodiscography, which I've published online here. I hope it'll serve in a modest way to preserve his memory, and provide some interest to anyone else that should stumble upon Albert Sandler as haphazardly as I did.

Prince, 1958-2016

It was September or October 2006, about a month into my first year at Berkeley, when I saw a new copy of Purple Rain for $5.99 in the discount bin at Rasputin Music. At that point, I knew Prince as a symbol (literally), a revered musical icon, and a Chapelle's Show character, but had never actually listened to his music. I had gotten off to a rocky start to college, and my growing music collection played a substantial role in helping me through. I dug into every corner of the Beatles' back catalog; I continued to wear out the copy of The Eraser I'd bought the previous summer; and after only one or two months I had already spun St. Elsewhere more times than I could count. As I bought music, I'd always intended to listen to Prince, and this particular afternoon seemed as good a time as any.

Sometime towards the end of college – by which time I'd acquired most of the rest of Prince's discography and bought Purple Rain and its otherworldly accompanying poster on LP – I decided to average out that $5.99 over the number of plays or hours I got out of that tinny, mid-80s pressing CD. Though the index card bearing my arithmetic has long since disappeared, by whichever metric I used we were talking about fractions of fractions of a cent per unit. Among the storied peaks of the many discographies I acquainted myself with at the outset of college, Purple Rain resonated with confident, inexhaustible vitality. Today, it's my pick for the best album of the 80s, and certainly one of my 10 favorites ever made – yet it's not without competitors for the title of best album in his catalog.

Prince passed away this morning. In the sense that his health in some way necessitated an emergency plane landing last week, it's not surprising, even for someone as young as 57. And yet the idea remains a shock – perhaps because his transcendent otherness was so immaculately cultivated that it suggested he might, in fact, actually be impervious to such Earthly concerns as death. From his star-making turn dressed in a purple jumpsuit atop a motorcycle, Prince somehow grew more eccentric as he aged, including such highlights as waging war on the internet and fully embracing his extramusical celebrity. Even as he receded from the experimental forefront of popular music, he remained one of its few truly fascinating figures. He announced his memoirs a month ago, and for the first time in my adulthood (with one obvious exception), I remember being genuinely curious to read a musician's full take on their own life. In every aspect of his person, he was one of a kind, and the world is less rich for having lost him.

Astral Weeks - Van Morrison

Previous posts have outlined my fondness for remastered albums, and the way that a properly executed remastered release can contribute to newfound appreciation for the music it comprises. Entering 2015, my once daunting list of hoped-for remasters had dwindled to a precious few, with Prince and Van Morrison settling as vaguely surprising bedfellows atop the pile. Yet as far removed from one another as they - by nearly any metric - would seem to be, both Prince and Morrison share a history of aversion towards acknowledging past glories, fear of the future, and animosity towards record labels (in both cases, oddly, the reputedly artist-friendly Warner Bros.)  that made them ideal candidates to resist the long-overdue revisiting of their rich and expansive back catalogs. In February 2015, after years of rumors, it was finally confirmed that an expanded, anniversary edition of Purple Rain would be released before the end of the year. Meanwhile, as special editions of Moondance and other Morrison classics were announced and released, Astral Weeks - his most universally acclaimed album - remained uniquely (and bizarrely) untouched. So naturally, in late October, 2015, it was a newly burnished Astral Weeks that was unceremoniously dropped onto the market, while Purple Rain remained trapped in late-80s CD pressing purgatory with no end in sight.

Astral Weeks is a special album, one for which, by now, musical critics have reserved the most superlative of their superlatives for decades. And indeed, there's no good way to escape that trap: Astral Weeks is genuinely unique. It's unprecedented in popular music, untouched by the countless imitators spawned in its wake, and inexplicably, totally different from any other studio album produced by an artist who's recorded 35 of them. Morrison sings of love, death, and rebirth as though he was experiencing all three simultaneously, in studio. The jazzy arrangements have the same air as all the greatest albums in the medium from which they derive: so perfectly conceived and executed as to feel more like a happy accident than a master plan. The effect is like a Monet landscape, vibrant and all-encompassing precisely by way of its vagueness. The music evokes the quiet voices that ramble unobtrusively beneath the everyday noise in your head; it sounds like taking a walk with the moon shining just so, and has a way of bringing clarity and calm into any environment. This serenity is responsible for the magic trick Astral Weeks pulls off anew with every listen: making it seem as though Van Morrison - armed with his guitar, his voice, and newfound release from an insufferable contract with Bang Records - waltzed into Century Sound Studios and created the entire album in a sitting, unpremeditated.

To its credit, Warner Bros. payed off the interminable wait for an Astral Weeks update with a perfectly executed remastered album: pristine sound, nice liner notes, and enough bonus material to provide context without watering down the original contents. A languid early take of "Madame George" leans heavily on vibraphones; "Ballerina" stretches a full minute beyond its 7 minute final runtime. The new edition also reveals Astral Weeks - like almost every masterpiece - to have been made successful every bit as much by careful deliberation as by the feeling of spontaneity for which it's become famous. The first take of "Beside You" finds Morrison singing with a hesitancy compared to the final version, almost as though not yet fully tapped in to his own composition. "Slim Slow Slider," meanwhile, appears in an extended version revealing the sudden ending of the original album to have been an prudent edit by producer Lewis Merenstein. Tampering with the impression that Van Morrison appeared in studio in a trance and banged out all 8 tracks in perfect succession may not be to all tastes, but the survival of this effect through editing may make the accomplishment more impressive. One would have to imagine a suitable set of hands could similarly augment the already exalted legacy of Purple Rain; whether such a set of hands exist, unfortunately, only time can tell.

In Search of Metro-Land

In November, my girlfriend introduced me to Metro-Land, a 1973 BBC documentary she'd watched two years prior in class while studying abroad in London. The film was written and narrated by John Betjeman, a onetime Poet Laureate of the UK and leading enthusiast of British railroads. It's a wonderful film populated by fascinating characters, and blessed with a unique and diverse soundtrack ostensibly curated by the author. The film has never been released in America, and is available only via Region 2 DVD or torrent; the soundtrack has never been released anywhere, and the quest to identify and acquire the music heard during the film served as a rare diversion while studying for Boards [1].

Music begins Metro-Land at center stage: the film begins with a sped-up montage documenting the length of a line on a Metropolitan Railway train starring the frantic music used to score it.

The tune is a rendition of Scott Joplin's standard "Tiger Rag," as performed by The Temperance Seven, who gained short-lived fame during the traditional jazz craze that swept England in the years immediately preceding the rise of The Beatles. To up the frantic factor, a 33⅓ rpm record was played at 45 rpm; it starts the show with a bang, and listening to the unaltered recording (below) shows it to have been an astute decision.

"Tiger Rag," along with other music used throughout Metro-Land, is identified in the screenplay included in the 1976 compendium The Best of Betjeman. (The entire book is a worthwhile selection of his poetry and prose; the third section comprises the script and is available for download as a PDF here.) In all, 14 recordings were selected for use in Metro-Land, outlined below. There are also four featured diegetic tracks: one choir performance of the Harrow School Song ("Forty Years On") and an organ medley played by Len Rawle in one of the film's most memorable sequences.

Of the 14 selections not performed onscreen, 10 or 11 [2] are directly identified in The Best of Betjeman. Five of these were released together in 2015 by Cherry Red Records as part of a fascinating collection. The compilation opens with the entirety of the Temperance Seven's first album, which itself began with "Tiger Rag"; the other tracks from Metro-Land included in the compilation are "Build a Little Home" by Roy Fox and His Band (recorded in 1934); "Masculine Women and Feminine Men" by The Savoy Havana Band (1926); "The Sunny Side of the Street" by Jack Hylton and His Orchestra (1930); and "Golfing Love" by Melville Gideon (1923).

Three others mentioned by name in the book are easily found for purchase today. The Osmonds' "Down by the Lazy River" and Bread's "Everything I Own" were both legitimate hits in 1972. The third song, also released in 1972, was "Neasden!" by William Rushton, a comedy record celebrating the dubious attractions of the titular, run-down-looking London suburb. It was originally released on Spark Records by the satire magazine Private Eye and has since found its way onto compilation albums. For its inclusion in Metro-Land, "Neasden!" was specially remixed from the original master tapes to highlight the lyrics, which producers felt had been "slightly overwhelmed" by the "rambunctious backing by 'The Ron Watford Sound'."

Four of the remaining six tracks are classical compositions. Two are directly named in The Best of Betjeman: "Civic Fanfare" by Edward Elgar and "Solemn Melody" by Walford Davies. An orchestral crescendo appears in the film and is identified in the script as "‘The Witch of Endor,’ ‘Le Roi David’ ‒ Honegger." The sequence is found in the twelfth movement of Arthur Honegger's Le roi David suite, entitled "Beschwörung der Hexe von Endor." The final classical piece was described in the script as "‘Double Concerti’ ‒ Handel." With the help of a stranger on Reddit, it's been identified as the first movement in Handel's Concerto a due cori No. 2. In all four cases, it's proved predictably difficult to identify the precise recording used in the film.

A similar challenge was presented by one of the remaining two pieces, identified in the script only as "‘Tit Willow’ ‒ Gilbert and Sullivan." Wikipedia revealed the song to be the 3rd-to-last number in The Mikado, which has been recorded innumerable times in a near-equal number of places. Luckily, an unusual arrangement was chosen for use in the film - entirely instrumental, including the usually-sung vocal line. A quick(ish) survey of the available recordings of "Tit Willow" on Spotify allowed me to positively identify the recording selected for use by Betjeman as the version performed by the Cyril Ornadel Orchestra. Few-to-no details on the recording seem to be available on the internet beyond the title and artist.

The final recording used in the film is identified in the script as "‘When the Daisy Opens her Eyes’ ‒ Albert Sandler." Not much else of the song exists - anywhere. "When the Daisy Opens her Eyes" was apparently composed by Haydn Wood, and trace references to the song appear on Google in prewar archive documents including copyright catalogs and social newsletters. Effectively all online references to the Sandler recording, however, are from copies of Metro-Land's Wikipedia article, citing the song's inclusion in the aforementioned script.

Not much exists on Sandler himself, either. A bare-bones life story was distributed in the 40s on the reverse of a trading card packaged with Wills's Cigarettes (right), and as time has elapsed, little has been added. By far his most extensive online biography is a 3 paragraph write-up by AllMusic's Bruce Eder, which aptly begins, "One would never know it from the neglect heaped on him since World War II, but violinist Albert Sandler was one of the more popular orchestra leaders in England during the period between the two world wars, and a leading name in the field of light classical music." Per Eder, Sandler was born in 1906 and died in 1948, and at his 1940s peak was a popular bandleader whose orchestra often appeared on BBC radio. For Sandler, "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes" may have been an occasional setpiece, or perhaps even a staple as he led his bands through performance after performance in hotel ballrooms first in Eastbourne, and later in London. For me, it has become a White Whale.

Given that Metro-Land was released 25 years after Sandler's death, I can think of three possibilities for "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes." First, The Best of Betjeman may have simply mistaken the title or artist of the song [3] (though I hope not). Second, the recording may have been made exclusively for radio broadcast. This would explain how hard it's been to find, and it's conceivable given that both Metro-Land and any radio performance of the song would have been made under the aegis of BBC. However, one of the few other references to both Albert Sandler and "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes" to be found on the internet is from a 1950 radio guide to a now-repurposed Melbourne radio station [4], which was never affiliated with BBC and is therefore unlikely to have enjoyed access to BBC radio archives.

All of which leads me to guess that the song must have been recorded for release on record. So where is it? To date, I've come across four Albert Sandler compilations in person or on the internet, precisely zero of which include "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes." By my best count, I've also come to recognize 80 records released during Sandler's lifetime on 78rpm shellac. This amounts to 160 tracks; 156 of these were released by Columbia Records [5], and again, zero of them are titled "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes." I expect that the song was recorded for and released by Columbia. It would have been destined to one of the same two fates as other releases of its day. Some records sold well, and were produced in sufficient quantity and distributed sufficiently widely to ensure that some number survived to the modern day [6]. Others never took off, and became rarities out of proportion to more recent unpopular records, having been both (a) less able to coast on the strength of popular songs with which they were packaged and (b) released in a physical medium that shatters when handled even with indifference, much less neglect.

In that respect, assuming it ever existed, Sandler's "Daisy" resembles countless other pre-LP recordings released to an unreceptive audience; only its brief appearance in the background of a TV documentary saved it from complete obscurity. Somewhere out there, a viable copy of "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes" may be sitting on a shelf, or precariously positioned in a box of dusty old crap in someone's Neasden attic. With any luck, it may survive and end up for sale on the internet; I'll keep my eyes on eBay just in case. Here's hoping for a happy ending.

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[EDIT 4/28/2016: There was indeed a happy ending – details are here, and the song can be heard below.]

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Music from Metro-Land

You can listen to the soundtrack below. Songs marked with an asterisk* are not included for reasons detailed above. "Tiger Rag" is included twice: first in a version digitally sped up to approximate the version included in Metro-Land, and again towards the end in its unaltered form. The complete medley of Haydn Wood compositions from which "When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes" was excerpted is included at the end. The complete list of songs heard in the film is as follows:

1)   Tiger Rag (The Temperance Seven)

2)   Build a Little Home (Roy Fox and His Band)

3)   When the Daisy Opens Her Eyes (Albert Sandler)

4)   Le roi David - 12. Beschwörung der Hexe von Endor (Arthur Honegger)*

5)   Neasden! (William Rushton)

6)   Civic Fanfare (Edward Elgar)*

7)   Solemn Melody (Walford Davies)*

8)   Masculine Women and Feminine Men (The Savoy Havana Band)

9)   The Sunny Side of the Street (Jack Hylton and His Orchestra)

10) Down by the Lazy River (The Osmonds)

11) Tit Willow (Cyril Ornadel Orchestra)

12) Golfing Love (Melville Gideon)

13) Concerto a due cori No. 2 - 1. Pomposo (Handel)*

14) Everything I Own (Bread)
15) Selection of Haydn Wood's Songs (Albert Sandler)

The View from the Top

My first baseball game took place on July 25, 1999 at Candlestick Park. It was a grand old stinkfest between the Reds and Giants, with then-future Giant Michael Tucker knocking in the winning run in a 13-inning 2-1 Reds victory. I can't point to my first Warriors game, but it would have taken place about the same year (give or take a few) and been every bit as ignominious. The Warriors of my early adolescence reliably won between 20 and 40 percent of their games per year. By 2000, I'd been following the team for long enough to be excited that Warrior legend Chris Mullin had resigned with the team, yet remained naive enough to believe he could play a hand in transforming a franchise not so much mired in perpetual crappiness as defined by it. And now, here we are: "the 2015 World Champion Golden State Warriors" is officially a factual descriptor, despite the franchise being only four seasons removed from starting Kwame Brown 3 distinct times.

Our recent Giants dynasty [1] holds a unique place in my heart. Giants radio broadcasts were an anchor for me when I was cast adrift after my vision failed, and the team that had already mattered more to me than any of the others suddenly meant much more than any of the others. By quirk of fate or otherwise, the team's fortunes subsequently mirrored my own, culminating in both cases in 2010 after years marked by struggle. The Franchise and I both had tough years in 2011 and 2013, and in both cases, as things turned around for me, the Giants found themselves making another charmed run through October. Each season, the roster changed and the team's identity evolved, yet through it all - and really, dating back to the drafting of Tim Lincecum and hiring of Bruce Bochy - it felt as though the ship was guided by a steady hand, just waiting for the pieces to fall back into place.

No words could ever have been further from the truth across the Bay. For a few years, my friends and I celebrated my birthday at Warriors games, each time understanding that odds were firmly against hanging around, much less winning. The early/mid-2000s saw the Warriors, 49ers, and Giants all enduring some of the worst years in their respective histories [2], each with little hope and even less direction for the future. Yet where the 49ers were (relatively) fresh off the strongest two decades in NFL history and the Giants played in a ballpark itself worth the price of admission, the Warriors housed their product - almost relentlessly mediocre since the Ford administration - in a trash can-shaped stadium whose ceiling obstructed views in the upper deck and whose parking lot took no less than an hour and a half to escape when the game was over. It was the perfect recipe for a fan experience no one could be excited about.

But man, should you have gone to a Warriors game. Taco Bell used to offer every fan in the stadium a free taco with show of ticket to a game in which the Warriors scored 100 points, a promotion that lasted for years on the strength of how infrequently anyone was able to call their bluff. You never would have known it sitting in that obstructed upper deck, invariably packed to the gills with fans whose screams would rattle that trash can's foundations with every Bimbo Coles free throw that pushed the team closer to that elusive .350 winning percentage. It never seemed to matter that nearly every move management ever made was wrong; no one stopped coming, or watching, or even talking themselves into the feverishly absurd notion that any of the franchise's bungled schemes could someday pay off.

And again, here we are in 2015, and the only one of my favorite teams I never in my heart of hearts believed (until three years ago) would ever pull it all together stands alone at the top of the heap. Part of me is basking in the afterglow: 27-year-old Steph Curry just reasonably (if remarkably) did with the best roster in basketball what 11-year-old me discovered 37-year-old Chris Mullin reasonably was unable to do with possibly the worst roster in basketball. This has, in other words, been a long time coming, and that in itself is cause for excitement. Another, probably older part of me, though, is marveling at the un-Warriorsy manner in which this feat was accomplished.

This championship lineup is the result of a note-perfect negotiation of roster building in modern sports, with irreplaceable parts having been culled by draft (Curry, Thompson, Barnes, Green, Ezeli), trade (Bogut, Lee), and free agency (Iguodala, Livingston, Speights, Barbosa). The coaching staff recognized and exacted the team's true potential, abandoning both Don Nelson's refusal to defend and Mark Jackson's indefensible unwillingness to liberate the league's most talented offense. A roster that is now [3] being heralded as a potential paradigm shifter in the evolution of the league was conceived, assembled, and managed to perfection by the same franchise which over the course of three consecutive years drafted Joe Smith over Kevin Garnett, Todd Fuller over Kobe Bryant, and Adonal Foyle over Tracy McGrady.

Since the modern-vintage Warriors' first playoff appearance in 2006-07, nearly everything has changed: even that magnificent trash can in which the Warriors still host their games won't be home for much longer. To outside observers - and occasionally, even to fans - the rise of this most successful incarnation has seemed sudden, and that would seem to fit best with the shot-in-the-dark mentality that's formed the core of this team's identity for most of the past four decades. Yet the actual assembly of this roster happened methodically, step by patient step, and still required a new coach and a huge vote of confidence in Klay Thompson to push the team over the edge.

I've followed the Warriors for nearly all of my conscious lifetime; I've won them championships in long-forgotten video games, and willfully purchased merchandise adorned with what I even then considered one of the worst logos in sports. They've provided some of my favorite memories, even as they made me wonder why nobody in the Bay Area - myself included - ever seemed to give up on them. In fact, as this recent run of success culminated in this recently concluded playoff run, I was surprised by how inevitable the long-in-waiting success felt. Only one aspect of this story has had me continuously shocked: that those sad sack Warriors could ever have quietly become the best-managed franchise in basketball.

This season was a joy to watch, as a student grateful for scant diversion, as a devotee of the game, and needless to say, as a fan whose dues were officially paid up at least a decade ago. It was also a reminder that patience - perhaps especially when unwarranted - can lead to surprises in the least expected of ways. There may be something to be said after all for waiting people out. The results can be electric.