Basically, most athletes have terrible taste in music as revealed in their lousy walkup music, just like most team chairmen have terrible taste in Buttercups. Let's face it, your job is to throw, hit, catch and toss the ball mister major leaguer. You're good at it, great even. But your taste in music sucks, bro. Put it this way - you can kick my ass, but my iPod would melt yours if they were to meet on the astral-audio plane. And I am not even a music snob. The Angels would do well to have a sophisticated musicologist curate songs to match the strengths of the team's players at their moment of stepping up. This is the first in a series.Albert Pujols is the Hurdy Gurdy Man. Here he comes singing songs of love. Nothing sums the greatest batter of his generation more than that simple phrase. Instead of the Hippy Dippy Donovan original, the 1970 Eartha Kitt cover of this classic has just the right amaount of brassy big band boom that a slugger deserves along with a tender yet remote vocal that is just distanced enough from reality that you wonder how this batter is even really real and with us all on the material plane.
Watch the greatest Catwoman and Lady Bird Johnson killer here and imagine her transfixed on jersey number five stepping into the batter's box as one of 45,000 fans waiting for the miracle that is always a little more likely to happen when our Hurdy Gurdy Man Pujols approaches.
What song do YOU think the Angels should curate to heighten the live entertainment value of an Albert Pujols plate appearance?