To the non-believer, "baseball astrologer" probably seems like an amusing oxymoron, but for the rest of us who understand a 5-6-3 doubleplay, astrology is to baseball what Romulus and Remus are to Rome; ground zero, baby! Baseball players would like you to think they're scientists, but really, they're nothing more than a bunch of superstitious ninnies. Stars need the stars. How else could you explain Wade Boggs' chicken jones, Dick Allen's 5th inning beer, Joe Pepitone's rug, or Mark McGwire hiring his pet duck as the Cardinal's batboy last year? Scientists? Yeah right, and my name's Robert Pollard. Somebody hand me a brewski. 

But this record isn't about baseball per se, at least not about the game itself. If anything, it's about baseball of the soul. This isn't Denny McLain on the mighty hammond organ my friend, oh no, you're not going to get off that easy. It's Tycho Brahe channeled through Ken Nordine in possession of an armload of Sandy Koufax fastballs, reducing the meat of Murderer's Row (Gehring, Ruth and Lazzeri) to nothing more than limp, Van Nuys pop (Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynolds). It's the soundtrack to The Exorcist and a Vietnam flashback fornicating in the wild of Oscar Gamble's afro during a lightning storm. The Baseball Astrologer is Douglas Berman - painter, astrologer, raconteur, chai-maker and dedicated walker. His ominous take is accompanied by the guitar and sounds of Steven Wray Lobdell for an otherworldly post-game wrap-up where everything needs more orange, Neptune is in Capricorn, the casino of life is operating and where, even after death, we will have things to do. Darkness has no stare.