Aurelia Butler

Taking over for his father in 1961, he transformed a former vaudeville house in Harlem into a pre-eminent R&B showcase.Bobby Schiffman, who guided the Apollo Theater in Harlem through the seismic cultural and musical changes of the 1960s and early ’70s, cementing its place as a world-renowned showcase for Black music and entertainment, died on Sept. 6 at his home in Boynton Beach, Fla. He was 94.His death was confirmed by his son, Howard.In 1961, Mr. Schiffman inherited the reins of the storied neoclassical Apollo Theater on West 125th Street in Manhattan from his father, Frank Schiffman. The elder Mr. Schiffman, along with a financial partner, Leo Brecher, had taken over the theater — a former burlesque house that opened in 1914 as a whites-only establishment — in 1935.Frank Schiffman transformed the theater from a vaudeville house hosting acts like Al Jolson and the Marx Brothers into an epicenter for Black artists performing for largely Black audiences in an era of de facto cultural segregation. During the 1930s and ’40s, the elder Mr. Schiffman provided early exposure to countless African American luminaries, including Count Basie, Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington.Frank Schiffman was respected and feared for his fierce competitiveness. “In Harlem show business circles he was God — a five-foot-nine-inch, white, Jewish, balding, bespectacled deity,” the music writer Ted Fox observed in his 1983 book, “Showtime at the Apollo.”Bobby, the younger of his two sons, was more affable and easygoing, but lacked none of his father’s drive or ambition.“I don’t think Bobby Schiffman gets enough credit for being a great impresario,” Mr. Fox said in a phone interview. “Through enormous changes in musical tastes, styles and culture in general, he kept the theater going, doing 31 shows a week, seven days a week, year after year for decades, in a way that no other theater has ever been able to do.”His father had run the theater along the old vaudeville model, as a venue for variety shows. “Frank was old school,” Howard Schiffman said of his grandfather in a phone interview. “He was like Ed Sullivan. He thought that there should be a juggler and an animal act on every show.”Mr. Schiffman, second from left, with his father, Frank Schiffman; the tap dancer Honi Coles, who worked for many years as the Apollo’s production manager; and, standing, Mercer Ellington, Duke Ellington’s son and later the leader of the Ellington orchestra. Mr. Schiffman took over the Apollo from his father in 1961.via Apollo Theater“My father,” he added, “turned the Apollo into the R&B showcase that it became.”Faced with keeping the lights on at a compact 1,500-seat theater with little financial cushion, Bobby Schiffman “made it his business to find out what the people in the streets were listening to,” Mr. Fox said.“He would go into the bars and see what was on the jukebox,” he added, “he would talk to local D.J.s and record store owners to find out what was coming out, and book them while they were still unknown.”Winners of the theater’s famous and long-running Wednesday Amateur Night during Mr. Schiffman’s tenure included Gladys Knight, Ronnie Spector, Jimi Hendrix and the Jackson 5.By providing support and exposure, he nurtured young stars “before they became superstars,” Mr. Fox said, “and would later appeal to them to appear, at great financial sacrifice, to come back and play for the people who made them.”During the years Mr. Schiffman managed the Apollo, it became a symbol of arrival to generations of performers. “It was the pinnacle,” the Motown star Smokey Robinson once said.Tyrone Dukes/The New York TimesDuring Mr. Schiffman’s tenure as manager, the Apollo served not only as a launching pad to fame but also, eventually, as a symbol of arrival to generations of performers. “It was the pinnacle,” the Motown star Smokey Robinson once said. “It was the most important theater in the world. Once you could say you had played the Apollo, you could get in any door anywhere.”The Apollo’s reputation went global, thanks in part to hit live recordings made there by stars like James Brown, an Apollo regular, who recorded the landmark album “‘Live’ at the Apollo” in October 1962. Widely regarded as one of the great live albums, it hit No. 6 on the Billboard chart in 1963 and remained in the Top 10 for 39 weeks.The Apollo’s reputation went global thanks in part to albums like James Brown’s “‘Live’ at the Apollo,” which spent 39 weeks in the Billboard Top 10 in 1963.King“For years,” Mr. Schiffman said in a 2014 interview with The Daily News in New York, “you could write ‘Apollo Theater’ on a postcard, drop it into a mailbox anywhere and it would be delivered. How many theaters can you say that about?”Robert Lee Schiffman was born on Feb. 12, 1929, in Manhattan, the youngest of Frank and Lee Schiffman’s three children.He grew up in Mount Vernon, N.Y., a suburb north of the city, where he attended A.B. Davis High School with Dick Clark, the future host of “American Bandstand.”After earning a bachelor’s degree in business from New York University, Mr. Schiffman spent the early 1950s working his way up the ladder at the Apollo. “He did every terrible job in the place, from cleaning bathrooms to taking tickets,” his son said.During Mr. Schiffman’s heyday at the Apollo in the 1960s, his office functioned as a nerve center for Black culture. Local politicians like Representative Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and sports stars like Muhammad Ali would drop by for a chat.By the 1970s, however, Harlem was being increasingly buffeted by drugs, crime and economic decline, and the live-music business was changing. With color barriers in music breaking down, the Apollo was unable to maintain its lure for artists who had become arena-packing juggernauts.“The big stars would say, ‘We love you, Bobby, but we can play the Apollo and sell 1,500 tickets or play Madison Square Garden and sell 18,000,’” Howard Schiffman said.Mr. Schiffman finally shuttered the theater in 1976. The Apollo reopened under new management in 1978 but closed again the next year. In 1981, the media and technology executive Percy E. Sutton, a former Manhattan borough president, purchased the theater with a group of investors. It was declared a state and city landmark in 1983, and in 1991 it was taken over by the Apollo Theater Foundation, a nonprofit organization.Mr. Schiffman later oversaw the Westchester Premier Theater in Tarrytown, N.Y., before retiring to Florida.In addition to his son, from his marriage to Joan Landy, which ended in divorce in 1973, he is survived by his fourth wife, Betsy (Rothman) Schiffman; his stepsons from that marriage, Barry and Michael Rothman; six grandchildren; and two great-grandsons. His marriages to Renee Levy and Rusty Donner also ended in divorce.While the Apollo became famous for its stars and spectacle, Mr. Schiffman never forgot its unique role as a locus for Harlem life.“We were in the business of pleasing the Black community,” he said in an interview for the book “Showtime at the Apollo.” “If white folks came as an ancillary benefit, that was fine. But the basic motto was to bring the people of the community entertainment they wanted at a price they could afford to pay.”When he overstepped his bounds, the community let him know. “The highest price I ever charged was six dollars,” Mr. Schiffman added. “I tried seven for Redd Foxx once, and they stayed away in droves.” More

The breakout musician has not given a reason for rescheduling the dates. The authorities in Mexico are investigating the credibility of written threats against him.A string of concerts in the United States by the breakout Mexican singer-songwriter Peso Pluma were postponed this week after written threats were apparently issued by a major drug cartel. The authorities said they were investigating the credibility of the threats, which were written on banners and posted publicly in the border city Tijuana.Ticketmaster and Live Nation said that Peso Pluma shows scheduled from Thursday to Sunday, in Milwaukee, Chicago, Indianapolis and Birmingham, had been rescheduled for later this fall; his performances are set to resume on Sept. 30 in Chula Vista, Calif. A representative for Peso Pluma did not immediately respond to a request for comment about the scheduling changes.The singer, who performed at the MTV Video Music Awards on Tuesday night, is in the middle of his North American Doble P Tour, following the release of his third album, “Génesis,” which has helped lead an international surge in what is known in the United States under the umbrella term “regional Mexican music.” The album reached No. 3 on the Billboard chart upon its release in June, and has tallied hundreds of millions of digital streams.Peso Pluma — who was born Hassan Emilio Kabande Laija, and whose stage name translates to Featherweight — specializes in corridos tumbados, a modern form of the drug-trade songs known as narcocorridos, combining regional Mexican styles like ranchera, norteño, banda and mariachi with influences from American and Latin rap.On Tuesday morning, three threatening banners, or narcomantas, were spotted in different areas of Tijuana. The messages, written in big red letters, were addressed to Peso Pluma, who is scheduled to perform in the city on Oct. 14.“This is for you, Peso Pluma,” one of the banners read in Spanish. “Refrain from appearing this October 14. Because it will be your last presentation.”The banner was signed with the initials of the Cartel Jalisco Nueva Generación, or Jalisco New Generation Cartel, one of the most powerful and brutal cartels in Mexico, and a major rival to the Sinaloa Cartel. It said the artist would face consequences for being “disrespectful and loose-mouthed.”Edgar Mendoza, a state prosecutor in Baja, Calif., told the local press that one person had been detained on drug and terrorism charges after being found in the vicinity of one of the banners.The mayor of Tijuana, Montserrat Caballero, who is living in military headquarters, initially said the banners would be investigated while concert security was ramped up. As of Friday afternoon, tickets for Peso Pluma’s concert there next month remained on sale.However, on Tuesday, Caballero said in a radio interview that artists like Peso Pluma had potentially invited the attention of the cartels with their lyrics. “Let’s be clear: They sing and make an apology of crime and thus they should know the risk and consequences,” Caballero told Azucena Uresti, the host of Radio Fórmula, in a phone interview.She added that whether the authorities canceled the concert would be contingent on whether the narcomantas were the work of organized crime or ordinary citizens. Caballero, who is from the governing party Morena, moved into the military headquarters of the 28th Infantry Battalion after one of her bodyguards suffered an armed attack, and has said she is being targeted by organized crime for confiscating arms.Other Mexican musicians have drawn attention to the risks of the genre as well. Natanael Cano, who is considered a pioneer of corridos tumbados, recently stopped mid-song during a concert in Sonora, remarking that he was “going to get killed.” The lyrics of the song, “Cuerno Azulado,” allude to drug deals and potential government involvement, including a line assumed to be a reference to Joaquín Guzmán Loera, the drug lord known as El Chapo.Narcomantas have long been used by cartels and organized crime to leave public messages for authorities, rivals or the community at large. Popularized at the height of the drug war in the 2010s, the banners can be used to promote or assuage fear, although it is often unclear who is responsible for making them and how credible their messages are.Peso Pluma had previously been expected to appear at a concert at the Chevron Stadium in Tijuana in March, alongside the artists Eden Muñoz, Roberto Tapia and El Fantasma. But in late February, Tapia Entertainment, which was organizing the show, said tickets would be reimbursed “due to insecurity and threats towards other events.”Mexico’s president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, criticized some of the country’s current popular music in June, invoking Peso Pluma’s hit song “AMG,” about a Mercedes-Benz. “As if material things were the most important things — brand clothes, houses, jewelry, power or arrogance,” he said. “There are other options, there are other alternatives, it’s possible to be happy in another way.” More

Hear tracks by Cat Power, Chris Stapleton, Loraine James and others.Every Friday, pop critics for The New York Times weigh in on the week’s most notable new tracks. Just want the music? Listen to the Playlist on Spotify here (or find our profile: nytimes). Like what you hear? Let us know at [email protected] and sign up for our Louder newsletter, a once-a-week blast of our pop music coverage, and The Amplifier, a twice-weekly guide to new and old songs.Maren Morris, ‘The Tree’Maren Morris forcefully pulls free of a bad relationship in “The Tree,” an arena-scale waltz full of botanical imagery: “The rot at the roots is the root of the problem/But you wanna blame it on me.” Buttressed by a massive drumbeat, power chords and a choir, Morris has clearly made up her mind: “I’ll never stop growing.” JON PARELESMitski, ‘My Love Mine All Mine’Mitski’s seventh album, “The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We” — out Friday — is suffused with a luminous warmth and an easy confidence that are both on ample display on the single “My Love Mine All Mine.” “Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love,” Mitski sings in a clarion croon, as a chorus of backing singers fill out the atmosphere around her. Tinkling barroom piano and the occasional whine of pedal steel give the song a nocturnal country flair, while Mitski leads the way at an unhurried tempo that seems to slow time itself. LINDSAY ZOLADZCat Power, ‘She Belongs to Me (Live at the Royal Albert Hall)’Last year, Chan Marshall, who records as Cat Power, played a full performance recreating Bob Dylan’s fabled 1966 “Royal Albert Hall” concert (which actually took place at the Manchester Free Trade Hall). On Nov. 10, she’ll release a live album of the full 15-song set, including this stirring rendition of “She Belongs to Me.” A prolific and intuitive interpreter of other people’s songs, Marshall brings the right balance of reverence and invention to this 1965 Dylan classic, slowing the original’s tempo and conveying a coziness through the crackling, bonfire warmth of her voice. ZOLADZChris Stapleton, ‘Think I’m in Love With You’The stolid backbeat, laconic guitar hooks, stealthy organ chords and hovering string arrangement of “Think I’m in Love With You” come straight out of 1970s Memphis soul. So do Chris Stapleton’s vocal choices; his leaps, quavers and evasions of the beat can be traced to Al Green. But Stapleton brings his own drama and grit to the style; his homage carries an emotional charge. PARELESParchman Prison Prayer, ‘Break Every Chain’Inmates at Mississippi’s notorious Parchman Farm prison sing at weekly church services. Like the folklorist Alan Lomax in the 1940s, earlier this year the producer Ian Brennan visited Parchman to record. In one Sunday session, he gathered fervent gospel performances, most of them solo and unaccompanied, from prisoners, collectively billed as Parchman Prison Prayer. Proceeds from the album, “Some Mississippi Sunday Morning,” will benefit the Mississippi Department of Corrections Chaplain Services. One is from M. Kyles, a prisoner in his 50s, whose voice sails aloft as he extols the power of Jesus’s name to “Break Every Chain.” PARELESNas, ‘Fever’Nas, like hip-hop itself, turns 50 this year, and in “Fever” he’s “celebrating years of flows and crazy wordplay/Seasoned, I’m leaving my 40s, I’m a griot.” Backed by minor-chord loops of guitars, strings and distant voices, his raspy voice is both proud and generous: “I wish at least 50 on all my good people,” he declares. PARELESLoraine James featuring Morgan Simpson, ‘I DM U’The electronic producer Loraine James teams up with the indefatigable muscle power of Morgan Simpson — Black Midi’s drummer — in “I DM U” from her album out next week, “Gentle Confrontation.” She dispenses sustained chords and sporadic bass lines at a stately tempo; he’s all over his kit, barreling ahead at quadruple speed, impulsive where she’s measured. But they’re working in tandem, moving forward together. PARELESJenn Champion, ‘Jessica’Grief and anger roil in “Jessica,” a quietly devastated ballad about a friend’s fatal overdose. Jenn Champion, who has been making music since she was a member of Carissa’s Wierd in the 1990s, double tracks her voice over a cycle of three basic, echoey piano chords as she mourns “stupid dead Jessica,” a friend she loved, who couldn’t overcome her addiction: “Honestly, who OD’s in their [expletive] 40s,” she sings, even as she recognizes, “Our friends die but we keep getting older.” PARELESSnail Mail, ‘Easy Thing (Demo)’Lindsey Jordan’s recordings as Snail Mail have increasingly reveled in the possibilities of studio production. But songs have to start somewhere, and “Easy Thing” — an unreleased song that will be included on an EP of demos from the 2021 album “Valentine” — harks back to Jordan’s sparse early recordings. It’s a waltz backed by just a few home-recorded tracks — guitars, flutelike synthesizer and an occasional harmony vocal — as Jordan sings about still longing for an ex who moved on. “Forget about that girl,” she urges, though not exactly confidently. “We’ll always have that easy thing.” PARELESKavita Shah and Bau, ‘Flor de Lis’On her quietly riveting new album, “Cape Verdean Blues,” the vocalist and folklorist Kavita Shah teams up with Bau, a guitarist and one of Cape Verde’s best-known musicians, to explore the island nation’s repertoire of traditional ballads and dance songs. But on “Flor de Lis,” Shah and Bau take a detour to Brazil, playing this popular samba by the MPB musician Djavan. Shah’s vocals maintain pitch-perfect clarity even as she arcs a high melody over the chorus. GIOVANNI RUSSONELLOSteve Lehman, ‘Chimera’How Steve Lehman gets music to sound the way he does is both an object of fascination and, to some degree, a mystery we must accept. To unpack it, you’d have to understand how he uses spectral harmony — a computer-assisted approach that treats the shapes and contours of sound waves as the basis for harmony — and that’s before you even begin to decode his densely scribbled, tone-smearing saxophone lines. Indeed, “Chimera” is an apt name for a piece of his. This version of the tune (which has been in his repertoire for years) begins with two minutes of Chris Dingman’s vibraphone mixing with other mallets and chimes, thickening the air before Lehman’s alto saxophone enters, joined by a full horn section, playing in pulses and stabs. Drums and bass put their weight into a tensile, halting rhythm. The tune comes from Lehman’s new album, “Ex Machina,” which he recorded with the Orchestre National de Jazz in France (the birthplace of spectral composition, by the way). Lehman’s music, always flooded with ideas, has rarely felt so fully fleshed out and exposed. RUSSONELLO More

Davidsen, a true dramatic soprano, was the rare singer whose first New York recital came at the Metropolitan Opera House.When Lise Davidsen sang the first four notes of Elisabeth’s aria “Dich, teure Halle,” from Wagner’s “Tannhäuser,” at the Metropolitan Opera last night, all I could think to write down in my notebook was “holy” — and remembering to mind my manners — “cow.”That opening salvo was magnificent — an ideal balance of warmth, penetration and power that didn’t seem to strain her one bit.It’s rare for the Met to invite an artist for a solo concert in its 3,800-seat auditorium. And it’s rarer still for that singer to be making her New York City recital debut.But Davidsen is another rare thing: a true dramatic soprano. Originally trained as a mezzo, she possesses a fully resonant lower register that passes through a dark, capacious middle into a blazing, seraphic top. When her voice really starts flowing, its legato is molten, and the sonic boom of her high notes can cause a mild ringing in the ears. Davidsen’s timbre is also lovely in its shapeliness, metal wrapped in layers of velvet.Her rangy program with the pianist James Baillieu covered improbable distances — Verdi’s delicate Desdemona from “Otello,” Wagner’s ecstatic Elisabeth and Tchaikovsky’s shattered Lisa from “Queen of Spades”; Schubert’s gracious songs and Richard Strauss’s rhapsodic ones; silver-age operetta and golden-age musical theater.Rather than open the first half with Elisabeth’s rapturous greeting to the Hall of Song — too obvious — Davidsen chose three placid Edvard Grieg songs in her native Norwegian and three more in German. By the fifth song, “Zur Rosenzeit,” she was fully invested, adding a drop of ink to her pooling tone and bringing herself to the verge of tears amid the narrator’s grief-stricken desire. Baillieu also dodged expectations, exploring degrees of quiet from the Met’s vast stage.Sensitive and theatrically engaged, Davidsen doesn’t merely ply audiences with lots of high-decibel singing. In the long introduction to Lisa’s suicide scene, she swayed back and forth, almost unconsciously, as her character waits impatiently for a lover on a riverbank, unfurling a splendid sound shot through with a chilly gust. No sets, no costumes, no orchestra: But the whole opera was there.Using a microphone to talk to the audience between numbers, Davidsen, a witty, soft-spoken presence, explained the program’s personal bent. She wanted to bring her “home composer,” Grieg, to the Met stage; she had avoided Schubert for so long because she didn’t think dramatic voices were supposed to sing him; the “Queen of Spades” aria was a memento of her 2019 Met debut, and “Dich, teure Halle,” of her days as a voice student.She needn’t have worried about Schubert. Her tone in “An die musik” and “Litanei auf das Fest Aller Seelen” was voluminous, clean and gently applied, and she made a compellingly operatic scene out of “Gretchen am Spinnrade.”Perhaps there are times, though, when a voice is simply too big. The hushed, focused line of Strauss’s “Morgen” eluded her, and her tonal opacity, perfect for Wagner, sometimes obscured the vulnerability of an aria from Verdi’s “Un Ballo in Maschera.” But the arching exclamations of Strauss’s “Zueignung” and Sibelius’s “Den första kyssen” sounded tailor-made for her.In a winking final set, Davidsen playfully enjoyed her own vocal glamour in an Emmerich Kalman operetta aria and slid languidly into Lerner and Loewe’s “I Could Have Danced All Night” in an apparent nod to the great Birgit Nilsson, who capped her famous recording of it with a missile-like high C.Davidsen may have been acknowledging that audiences are eager for her to pick up Nilsson’s mantle. But she had also spent an evening inviting them to get to know her own story and artistry first. More

Night had fallen, spirits were moving and the songwriting baseball coach was rounding third base and headed for home. Twice in the autumn of 2020, doctors had advised a gravely ill Tim Flannery to say goodbye to his family. Both times, he declined to surrender.The right arm that sent home so many San Francisco base runners during the Giants’ three World Series titles from 2010 to 2014 waved away a final coda.The road back from the brink was as unlikely as the man himself. An infielder turned popular coach, Flannery was always something more. A musician who carried a guitar with him on the road, and a surfer who posed with a board on one of his trading cards, he could not help but stand out in the strait-laced world of Major League Baseball.Having transitioned fully into philanthropy and songwriting in his baseball retirement — his foundation has raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for anti-bullying causes — he had more people to help and more stories to tell. So giving in to a life-threatening staph infection was not an option.Fate and Flannery eventually reached a standstill during his harrowing, three-month battle with the infection, but doctors still warned him that he might never walk again. He fell into sepsis and required two back surgeries to clear away abscesses and damaged tissue. He went home with a tube that sent antibiotics streaming into his heart. That was the easy part because his wife of 42 years, Donna, administered those doses.Tim and Donna Flannery have been married for more than 40 years.Gabriella Angotti-Jones for The New York TimesEventually, walker in hand, with his little granddaughter Jade riding shotgun on the crossbar, he cut a deal: 25 times up the driveway, slowly, 25 times back, painfully, and Jade would be rewarded with an ice cream sandwich.On particularly productive days, she’d score two.“I’ve definitely changed my life,” Flannery, 65, said on a recent afternoon at a neighborhood coffee shop near the beach, a familiar twinkle — life — back in his eyes. He had rehearsed for two hours earlier that day. Soon, he would nail down details for the next show with his band, the Lunatic Fringe.“I’ve looked at moments and things a lot more clearly,” he continued. “And you do try to create good thoughts and try to remember, like, this moment right here. Because if I ever go back to that situation again, I want to try to bring as many good memories and good hallucinations as I can.”His stay in the hospital was harrowing. “Vicious,” he said of time spent tied down so he did not harm himself or others. The hospital was two miles from his home, but each glance out his window brought more distortion. Not all his visions were awful. His friend Bob Weir, a founding member of the Grateful Dead, appeared by apparition. So did another friend, Jimmy Buffett.The meaning of those particular visitations would come into focus later, convincing Flannery that they were no coincidence.Flannery and his band played for more than three hours at their show in Solvang.Gabriella Angotti-Jones for The New York TimesAuthenticThrough more than four decades of baseball and music, first in San Diego and then in San Francisco, Flannery grew into a beloved player, coach and troubadour — a character — because of an endearing knack for leaving pieces of himself with whomever he met.“Authentic,” said Flannery’s bandmate and producer, Jeff Berkley. “He is exactly who you think he is. He’s not trying to put on any airs. He’s not trying to be from Kentucky; he is from Kentucky. Until he stopped drinking, man, he carried moonshine around with him wherever he went. He’s a total hillbilly. He wears that term proudly. He’s probably the first woke hillbilly.”Because Flannery felt some baseball people viewed his guitar suspiciously during his years in San Diego, he initially intended to keep that part of his life quiet when he agreed to coach for Bruce Bochy in San Francisco.“I was going to come coach third and not let anybody in,” Flannery said. “I thought, ‘No one’s going to tear my heart.’”But in 2011, his music came to the forefront when he founded the Love Harder Project in response to the horrific beating of Bryan Stow, a Giants fan who was attacked in the Dodger Stadium parking lot on opening day in 2011. With the foundation, which has a mission of anti-bullying and anti-violence, Flannery has helped raise around $100,000, mostly through shows with the Lunatic Fringe, to offset the Stow family’s medical costs.Flannery founded the Love Harder project after the beating of Bryan Stow at Dodger Stadium. Stow’s mother says Flannery “an important part of our family.”Robert Beck/Sports Illustrated, via Getty Images“Hey, I hit nine home runs in the ’80s,” Flannery said. “I can’t just write a check.”But he could write, and play, and sing.Stow, now 54, sustained a serious brain injury in the attack and today lives at home in the Santa Cruz area with his parents. He is taking memory and mobility courses at a local community college and learned on Father’s Day that he was going to be a grandfather.“Flan was one of the first to come to the forefront and help Bryan out. It was just amazing,” said Ann Stow, Bryan’s mother. “And he’s been that way throughout Bryan’s journey. Flan and Donna are such an important part of our family.”In all, the Love Harder Project has raised around $360,000 in Flannery’s ongoing battle against bullies and violence.In a nod to his musical side, and his long list of connections, Flannery sang the national anthem at a Giants game in 2011 with his friends Phil Lesh and Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead.Marcio Jose Sanchez/Associated PressAir and WaterDespite what some advised early in his career, Flannery was never going to choose baseball over music.“Like having to choose between air and water,” he said. “I’ve got to have both.”Though Flannery mostly was raised in Anaheim, Calif., his family came from the hills of Kentucky. His uncle, Hal Smith, was a catcher who smashed a three-run homer for Pittsburgh in the eighth inning of Game 7 of the 1960 World Series. Had the Pirates’ bullpen held the 9-7 lead, Smith would have been a hero. Instead, the Yankees tied things up and Pittsburgh’s Bill Mazeroski won the game and earned immortality.Smith, who played 10 seasons, regularly carried a Gibson J35 guitar with him on the road. When Flannery signed professionally at 19, he followed suit.Flannery’s first manager, Roger Craig, told him to focus on baseball rather than playing the guitar, but the instrument remained his constant companion. Kids were born — Daniel now is 37; Ginny, the mother of Tim’s three grandchildren, is 35; Kelly is 32 — and the guitar was there for all of it.“If it was a crazy day, having that guitar mellowed him out,” Donna Flannery said.Flannery always stood out from his baseball peers. His 1988 Fleer baseball card featured him holding a surfboard.FleerAnother uncle, George, convinced Flannery that playing music wasn’t enough and that he needed to record his songs to tell the stories of his family’s life. Among them is “Pieces of the Past,” a tribute to Flannery’s preacher father, Ragon, who was dying of Alzheimer’s. Jackson Browne and Bruce Hornsby performed on that recording.On his musical journey, Flannery has opened for Buffett and Emmylou Harris. The Grateful Dead’s Weir entered his life during the benefits for Stow, and Walker, the outlaw country legend and longtime hero of Flannery’s who wrote “Mr. Bojangles,” befriended him during the San Francisco years as well.“The great thing about the Bay Area, one of the greatest blessings, is I found a place where they understand you can be an artist and still coach third,” Flannery said.Playing Through PainWhen the pandemic struck and the world closed, Flannery retreated to a getaway he calls his “treehouse” in the mountains north of Santa Barbara.At his cabin, there is no electricity, no phone service and the water comes straight from a well. The staph infection that nearly killed him started, he believes, as he was building cages to protect the potatoes, corn, tomatoes, okra, spinach and assorted other vegetables he plants there.Gabriella Angotti-Jones for The New York TimesGabriella Angotti-Jones for The New York Times“You’ve got to put everything in cages, because there’s animals,” said Flannery, who retired from coaching after the 2014 World Series but stayed in baseball, doing television analysis, through 2019. “I’ve never done any of that stuff because I never had summers off. Somehow, I got cut, or the soil got in.”As an old ballplayer, when the back pain attacked, he figured he would just play through it.“I took four Advil, drank a huge cocktail and usually I’d polish that off with a bottle of wine to kill the pain,” he said of his nightly regimen.But one afternoon he fell asleep, hard, on the deck, waking up only because it was dinner time for his dog, Buddy. Stubborn as his master, Buddy nudged and licked Flannery until he came to. If not for that, Flannery said, he thinks he would have died right there. Instead, the two somehow drove to his San Diego-area home, where Tim collapsed and was taken away by paramedics.As he was recovering in early 2021, Susan Walker phoned one day. Her husband, Jerry Jeff, had died from cancer in October, and she invited Flannery to perform at a celebration of life in Luckenbach, Texas, that June. At the time, he couldn’t even sit up to play his guitar, but he was determined to make it.The memorial concert was Flannery’s first gig after regaining his health, and both of the men Flannery felt had visited him in the hospital, in spirit only, played a part. Weir, who was scheduled to be in Luckenbach before travel issues kept him away, phoned just before Flannery went onstage. And Buffett, who died this month, was there in person.“Hey, you look just like Tim Flannery, only older,” Buffett teased.The old coach played, at Susan’s request, a Walker original entitled “Last Song” and a tribute Flannery wrote for his friend, “Last of the Old Dogs.”“I think I kind of stunned people,” Flannery said. “I don’t know how it happened, and it was all beyond myself. When I came off, the whole crew had tears in their eyes.”Gabriella Angotti-Jones for The New York TimesDonna Flannery said she finds her husband to be “a kinder person these days, nicer to everybody.”As one of the lines in a song of his goes, kindness lives on the other side.And so the man who was told to leave his guitar at home and focus on baseball has instead hung up his spikes. And he will keep trying to make the world just a little bit better.“When I play, I pray before each show that the great translator, the holy spirit, shows up and changes everything I say and turns it into whatever people need and stick it in their hearts,” Flannery said. “And a couple of days later, when you start to hear back from people, yeah, there’s a reason why I’m playing.” More