This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
I am devoted to a local
folk station WUMB which is run out of the campus of U/Mass-Boston over near
Boston Harbor. At one time this station was an independent one based in Cambridge
but went under when their significant demographic base deserted or just passed
on once the remnant of the folk minute really did sink below the horizon.
So much for radio folk history
except to say that the DJs on many of the programs go out of their ways to
commemorate or celebrate the birthdays of many folk, rock, blues and related
genre artists. So many and so often that I have had a hard time keeping up with
noting those occurrences in this space which after all is dedicated to such
happening along the historical continuum.
To “solve” this problem
I have decided to send birthday to that grouping of musicians on an arbitrary
basis as I come across their names in other contents or as someone here has
written about them and we have them in the archives. This may not be the best
way to acknowledge them, but it does do so in a respectful manner.
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Inkspots performing I’ll Get By.
CD Review
Stardust: The Classic Decca Hits and Standards Collection, various artists, Decca Records, MCA, 1994
I am a first generation child of the television age, although in recent years I have spent more time kicking and screaming about that fact than watching the damn thing. Nevertheless I can appreciate this little compilation of Decca hits and standard tunes from the 1940s and 1950s as a valentine to the radio days of my parents’ youth, parents who came of musical age (and every other kind of age as well) during the Great Depression of the 1930s and who fought, or waited for those out on the front lines fighting, World War II. I am just old enough though, although generation behind them, to remember the strains of songs like the harmonic –heavy Mills Brothers Paper Dolls (a favorite of my mother’s) and The Glow Worm (not a favorite of anybody as far as I know although the harmony is still first-rate) that came wafting, via the local Adamsville radio station WJDA, through our big box living room radio in the early 1950s. It seemed they, or maybe the Andrews Sisters, be-bopping (be-bopping now, not then, you do not want to know what I called it then), on Rum And Coca-Cola or tagging along with Bing Crosby on Don’t Fence Me In were permanent residents of the airs-waves in the Markin household.
I am also a child of Rock 'n' Roll but those above-mentioned tunes were the melodies that my mother and father came of age to and the stuff of their dreams during World War II and its aftermath. The rough and tumble of my parents raising a bunch of kids might have taken the edge off it but the dreams remained. In the end it is this musical backdrop, behind the generation musical fights that roils the Markin household in teen times, that makes this compilation most memorable to me. Just to say names like Dick Haymes (I think my mother had a “crush” on him at some point), Vaughn Monroe, The Inkspots (who, truth, I liked even then, even in my “high, Elvis, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee, Buddy Holly days, especially on If I Didn’t Care and I’ll Get By-wow), and Lois Armstrong. Or songs like Blueberry Hill, You’ll Never Know, A- Tisket- A Tasket, You Always Hurt The One You Love and so gather in a goodly portion of the mid-20th century American Songbook. Other talents like Billie Holiday, The Weavers, and Rosemary Clooney and tunes like Lover Man (and a thousand and one Cole Porter Billie-sung songs), Fever, and As Time Goes By (from Dooley Wilson in Casablanca) came later through very different frames of reference. But the seed, no question, no question now, was planted then.
Let’s be clear as well going back to that first paragraph mention of television - there something very different between the medium of the radio and the medium of the television. The radio allowed for an expansion of the imagination (and of fantasy) that the increasingly harsh realities of what was being portrayed on television did not allow one to get away with. The heart of World War II, and in its immediate aftermath, was time when one needed to be able to dream a little. The realities of the world at that time seemingly only allowed for nightmares. My feeling is that this compilation will touch a lot of sentimental nerves for the World War II generation (that so-called ‘greatest generation’), including my growing-up Irish working class families on the shores of North Adamsville. Nice work.
When Lady Day Chased The Blues Away, Again And Again-“Billie
Holiday: The First Verve Sessions ”-A CD Review
CD Review
By Music Critic Seth Garth
Billie Holiday: The First Verve (Record) Sessions, Billie
Holiday, Verve Records, Polygram, 1975
Everybody, at least the every bodies who came of age in the
1950s and 1960s, had at least heard the sad life story and junkie death of the
legendary blue singer Billie Holiday. Knew that information either from having
read her biography, the liner notes on her records (vinyl for those younger
readers who have not become hip to the beauties of that old-fashion way to
produce recordings in the current retro revival of that method), newspaper
obituaries, or from the 1970s film starring Diana Ross (lead singer of Motown’s
The Supremes). So everybody knew that Lady Day had come up the hard way, had
had a hard time with men in her life and had plenty of trouble with junk, with
heroin. Had turned her into some hustling gal with dark lights out of a Nelson
Algren story about her “daddy” making her blues go away, had the “fixer” man
making the pain going away for a moment. (I believe that the Prez, the great
saxophonist Lester Young who himself blew many a high white note out to the
China seas as the phrase went on the West Coast when he was “on” gave her that
name. Put lady and day together and it stuck. He backed her up on many
recordings, including here, and in many a venue, including New York café
society before they pulled her ticket. The name fit her as did that eternal
flower arrangement, sweet gardenia or some such flower speaking of sexual
adventures and promise, in her hair)
Yeah, that is the sad part, the life and times part. But if
you listen to this CD under review like the other compilations that I am
reviewing at this time while I am in a “from hunger” wanting habits mood about
Lady Day’s work like I get into every once in a while about music that moved,
moves, me, spoke, speaks, to me. If you listen through this CD or her classic
tunes for Verve Records you will also know why in the first part of the 21st
century guys like me are still reviewing her work, still haunted by that voice,
by that meaningful pause between notes that carried you to a different place,
by that slight hush as she enveloped a song which kept your own blues at bay. I
repeat kept your blues away whatever she suffered to bring that sentiment
forward.
That last statement, those last two sentences are really
what I want to hone in on here as I have previously done since Billie Holiday
is an acquired taste, and a taste which grows on you as you settle in to listen
to whole albums rather than a single selection spending half the night turning
over vinyl, flipping tapes, changing CDs if you don’t have multiple CD
recorder, or grabbing the dial on an MP3 player. Here is my god’s honest truth
though. Many a blue night when I was young, hell, now too, I would play Billie
for hours, tune that vinyl over in the beginning in my case, and my own silly
blues would kind of evaporate. Nice right.
Here is the not nice part, maybe better the not respectful
part for a sanctified woman’s voice and spirit.
Once a few years ago I was talking to some young people about Billie
and, maybe under the influence of the Diana Ross film or from their
disapproving parents, kind of wrote her off as just another junkie gone to
seed. When I was a kid, long before I acquired the Billie habit I had some
similar ideas about junk and junkies maybe under the influence of Frankie
Machine (played by Frank Sinatra) in the film adaptation of the voice of the
small people Nelson Algren’s The Man With
The Golden Arm. (The “golden arm” the amount of money spent with the “fixer
man” which singer/songwriter John Prine later mentioned in a lyric about “all
the money going into a hole in daddy’s arm” in the song Sam Sloan about the fate of a returning Vietnam veteran who
couldn’t face the “real” world after that experience.) The film seen and not totally understood then with my parents in
the early 1950s who warned me against the dangers of hanging with junkies and
getting hooked on dope. A real and present danger in the neighborhood we were
forced to live in where dope was around if a lot more discreetly and on the low
than now. It would take actually knowing guys, soldiers, friends, coming back
from Vietnam where via the Golden Triangle heroin, opium and such were cheap and
plentiful to have a more tolerant attitude toward that guys with a “habit”. A
couple of overdoses only added to the sense of loss. I shocked them, I think, and
maybe myself a little when I said if I had had the opportunity I would have given
Billie all the dope she wanted just for taking my own blues away.
That is why we still listen to that
sultry, slinky, sexy voice today.
Is everything in this CD or in her overall work the cat’s
meow. No, toward the end in the 1950s you can tell her voice was hanging by a
thread under the strain of all her troubles, legal and medical. But in the
1930sand 1940s, the time of her time, the time of her Verve recordings covering
Cole Porter, Gershwin and Jerome Kern songs with a little Johnny Mercer thrown
in, the time of Tin Pan Alley songs which seem to have almost been written just
for her she had that certain “it” which cannot be defined but only accepted,
accepted gratefully. Some of the versions of the songs here may be a little
more indicative of her high water mark than her later work where she teamed up
with serious jazz and blues players like the aforementioned Lester Young
blowing out high white notes to the China seas while she basked in the glow of
the lyrics. But just check out Blue Moon, Autumn In New York, Love For Sale and
Solitude and you will get an idea of what I am talking about. And as I have
stated repeatedly maybe get your own blues chased away
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Cleman Hawkins Doing "Body And Soul".
The “Bean “Is In The House
The Definitive Coleman Hawkins, Coleman Hawkins, Ken Burns “Jazz”, The Verve Music Group,2000
I admit to a very spotty interest in jazz over my life time and while I have always loved those 1940’s swing bands, like that of Benny Goodman, it was only with the celebration of the centennial of Duke Ellington’s birth in 1999 that I got a little more serious about this genre. Ken Burns’ “Jazz” series for PBS gave me another boost. Still and all there are huge gaps in my knowledge and appreciation of the classic jazz tradition. This is a little odd in that there is a certain convergence between jazz and my favorite musical genre, the blues. The artist under review here exemplifies both those traditions, the “max daddy” tenor sax player Coleman Hawkins, who was the consummate professional and innovator, on that instrument back in the days. All others, including the great Lester Young and Ben Webster, fall in behind this master. That much I do know.
A part of the Burns “Jazz” educational process a series of individual CDs featuring the classic works of the various artists featured in the documentaries were produced. Here the best of Hawkins, starting back in the 1920’s, is given a full workout. The “best” here –no question- “Body And Soul”, “I Mean You” and the later jumped up “Driva Man” (with the legendary Max Roach on drums). Wow.
Click on the title to link to a "Sunday Boston Globe", December 13, 2009, review of a new biography of Louis Armstrong.
BOOK REVIEW
Giants of Jazz, Revised edition, Studs Terkel, Thomas Crowell Company, New York, 1975
Recently I have been on a tear reviewing the works of the now departed Studs Terkel. As is the case, usually, when I get “hot” on an author I grab everything I can get my hands on and read it in no particular order. That is the case here. Terkel, widely known and deservedly so, as the author of oral histories concerning the pressing social issues of class, race and gender of working people (in the main)in America was also in his earlier career a popular Chicago disc jockey concentrating on jazz (and a little blues and folk as they intersected jazz). I had not previously known of that part of Studs’ life and only became aware of it through reading his last work, a memoir of sorts but really a series of connected vignettes, “Touch and Go” (well worth reading by the way as background to his interest in the jazz figures highlighted here). Previously my knowledge of jazz was formed by the likes of Nat Hentoff and John Hammond. Apparently I have to revise this list to include Studs. Why?
As a member of the "Generation of ’68" my tastes were formed by blues, folk and early rock & roll and only incidentally by jazz. However, once one delves into the roots of all of these forms one can only understand their attractions when one sees the influences all those forms had on each other. Without going into a dissertation on the subject (useless in any case) jazz is a core beat that expressed one form of music that had its roots in the South , among blacks and was a reflection of the rural life that was being left behind as America became more industrialized. Jazz is the music of the city, as blues is (before World War II) the music of the southern countryside. But enough. Read Studs and you can see how the music developed (and was retarded as well by the rules of racial separation as it spread to whites looking for real music, other than the likes of the Paul Whitman Orchestra or Tin Pan Alley, after World War I).
Many of the names of the performers highlighted here have are the classic expressions of the jazz idiom. King Oliver, Louis Armstrong, "The Empress" Bessie Smith. "The Duke" (Ellington), "The Count" (Basie), "Lady Day" (Billie Holiday). Yes this is the royalty of jazz. For those who follow this space you already know of my devotion to Billie Holiday and Bessie Smith. Less well know is my devotion to the “King of Swing” Benny Goodman of the Peggy Lee days in the 1940’s, Dizzy Gillespie of be-bop in the early 1950’s and Duke Ellington of the early 1940’s. Well, if you want to know more about them read on. By the way, this little book’s formatting is an early example of Studs Terkel’s easy style that he would work into an art form when he went full bore at his oral history interviews later. The only fault I would find here is that Studs is a little light on female singers. No Peggy Lee of the Benny Goodman days, no Margaret Whiting, no Helen Morgan, No Ivy Anderson. Oh well, I have always been a 'sucker' for a "torch singer". Maybe, Studs, except for Billie, wasn’t.
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Johnny Hodges blowing that high white note.
CD Review
Johnny Hodges Story:1929-1946, Johnny Hodges and a list of classic jazz greats, The Jazz Archives Collection Number 114, 1990
I never tire of telling the tale of how “Lady Day”, Billie Holiday was my entry point into the world of jazz, or rather that bluesy form of jazz that got meshed together in her voice, even that old-drug-addled voice that took its toll in more than one way. Well, Lady Day did not sing unaccompanied, at least not much, and so I would hear some sax man or trumpeter or drummer behind here and say who the heck is that blowing those high white notes. And when it came to the sax, more often than not, it would be Johnny Hodges giving body to the lyrics.
And then when I got really interested in Duke Ellington around the time of the centenary of his birth I kept saying who the heck is that blowing those same high white notes and guess what. Ya, Johnny. What more needs to be said, except to give a few of the highs of this compilation done by the excellent Jazz Archives people. Give a listen to Ellington’s “In A Mellotone”, “Hodges’ “Grievin’, and “Don’t Be That Way”. Then you ‘ll kick yourself like I do for not being OLD enough to have been able to be in some New York Jazz café and hear this stuff live. Wow.
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the Cotton Club in New York mentioned below, including information about its racial profile.
CD Review
Jungle Nights In Harlem, Duke Ellington and his Cotton Club Orchestra: 1927-1933, Bluebird, 1991
As I have mentioned in previous reviews of various classical jazz artists I came to an appreciation of that musical art from one source, and one source only- Lady Day, Billie Holiday. Along the way I started to get interested in her various back-up musicians which led me to the likes of Lester Young, Johnny Hodges, Artie Shaw and others. And, of course, when you get to Johnny Hodges you naturally have to think of the Duke- Ellington that is. And there you have it, except, that I doubled, no I tripled, my appreciation of the Duke around the time of the centenary of his birthday in 1999.
And I was not wrong to do so, although the CD under review falls more into a piece of jazz history, black musical history, Jazz Age history, Harlem history and, most importantly, Cotton Club history than a source of understanding his huge place in the jazz pantheon. For those unfamiliar with that New York City venue, the Cotton Club, that is the place when all the jazz greats of the 1920s and 1930s aspired to perform- and whites, at least certain whites like those rich ones that the author F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about, went to “kick up their heels”, “get their kicks”, and, maybe, get “kicked” away from the downtown squares. And Duke and his orchestra (including the afore-mentioned Johnny Hodges, Barney Bigard, Harry Carney, and Cootie Williams among others) was the most serious feature in those days. Wouldn’t you pay big money, and gladly, to hear that sound in those surroundings? I think so.
Now, just a note for history's sake, or for the sake of a nod to political correctness. The term “jungle music” has always, as far as I know, had negative connotations about black music or black-related music like rock and roll, and still does. But, my friends, these were the terms of usage for what was going on then so accept it as a piece of history. But, also know this: do not miss out on a piece of our common history, jazz, racial, and social by missing Duke and the guys performing “Mood Indigo”, “Black and Tan Fantasy”, or “The Duke Steps Out” and the others here.
When Lady Day Chased The Blues Away, Again And Again-“Billie
Holiday: Embraceable You”-A CD Review
CD Review
By Music Critic Seth Garth
Billie Holiday: Embraceable You, Billie Holiday, 2 CD set, Polygram
Everybody, at least the everybodies who came of age in the
1950s and 1960s, had at least heard the sad life story and junkie death of the
legendary blue singer Billie Holiday. Knew that information either from having
read her biography, the liner notes on her records (vinyl for those younger
readers who have not become hip to the beauties of that old-fashion way to
produce recordings in the current retro revival of that method), newspaper
obituaries, or from the 1970s film starring Diana Ross (lead singer of Motown’s
The Supremes). So everybody knew that Lady Day had come up the hard way, had
had a hard time with men in her life and had plenty of trouble with junk, with
heroin. Had turned her into some hustling gal with dark lights out of a Nelson
Algren story about her daddy making her blues go away, had the “fixer” man making
the pain going away for a moment. (I believe that the Prez, the great
saxophonist Lester Young who himself blew many a high white note out to the
China seas as the phrase went on the West Coast when he was “on” gave her that
name. Put lady and day together and it stuck. He backed her up on many
recordings, including here, and in many a venue, including New York café
society before they pulled her ticket. The name fit her as did that eternal
flower arrangement, sweet gardenia speaking of sexual adventures and promise, in
her hair)
Yeah, that is the sad part, the life and times part. But if
you listen to this CD under review like the other ones in this series and other
compilations that I am reviewing at this time while I am in a “from hunger”
wanting habits mood about Lady Day’s work like I get into every once in a while
about music that moved, moves, me, spoke, speaks, to me. If you listen through
this double CD you will also know why in the first part of the 21st
century guys like me are still reviewing her work, still haunted by that voice,
by that meaningful pause between notes that carried you to a different place,
by that slight hush as she envelopes a song which kept your own blues at bay. I
repeat kept your blues away whatever she suffered to bring that sentiment forward.
That last statement, those last two sentences are really
what I want to hone in on here as I have previously since Billie Holiday is an
acquired taste, and a taste which grows on you as you settle in to listen to
whole albums rather than a single selection spending half the night turning
over vinyl, flipping tapes, changing CDs if you don’t have multiple CD
recorder, or grabbing the dial on an MP3 player. Here is my god’s honest truth
though. Many a blue night when I was young, hell, now too, I would play Billie
for hours, tune that vinyl over in my case, and my own silly blues would kind
of evaporate. Nice right.
Here is the not nice part, maybe better the not respectful
part for a sanctified woman’s voice and spirit. Once a few years ago I was talking to some
young people about Billie and, maybe under the influence of the Diana Ross film
or from their disapproving parents, kind of wrote her off as just another
junkie gone to seed. I shocked them, I think, when I said if I had had the
opportunity I would have given Billie all the dope she wanted just for taking
my own blues away. That is why we still
listen to that sultry, slinky, sexy voice today.
Is everything in this CD or in her overall work the cat’s
meow. No, toward the end in the 1950s you can tell her voice was hanging by a
thread under the strain of all her troubles, legal and medical. But in the
1930sand 1940s, the time of her time, covering Cole Porter, Gershwin and Jerome
Kern songs with a little Johnny Mercer thrown in, the time of Tin Pan Alley
songs which seem to have almost been written just for her she had that certain
“it” which cannot be defined but only accepted, accepted gratefully.
Some of
the songs here may be a little more uneven that her later work when she teamed
up with serious jazz and blues players like the aforementioned Lester Young
blowing out high white notes to the China seas while she basked in the glow of
the lyrics. But just check out Our Love
Is Here To Stay, One For My Baby, the title track Embraceable You and Day In
Day Out and you will get an idea of what I am talking about. And maybe get
your own blues chased away
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Dory Previn performing some material that she did on the Carnegie Hall CD.
CD Review
Dory Previn: Live At Carnegie Hall, Dory Previn, BGO Records, 1973
In a recent CD review of the music of Priscilla Herdman I wrote the following paragraph that can serve as a lead in to this review of Dory Previn’s work:
“Every once in a while I run into a CD or DVD that, for lack of a better term, is just plain whimsical. This detour started a couple of years back with a review of film about Miss (Ms). Beatrice Potter and her artistic talent, especially of illustrations for children’s books. And, in that spirit, we will just let it go at that. The CD under review, Star Dreamer, by singer/songwriter Priscilla Herdman, in any case fits that description. I have described her work previously in a review of her 1998 CD, “Moondreamer” and the sense of that review can fit here: ’’
So here, once again we have a performer who doesn’t fit neatly into one of my folk rock, rock, rockabilly, blues, jazz categories but who nevertheless drew my attention once I got onto her lyrics. And that is where one goes here-to the lyrics. There is some powerful, personal stuff about dysfunctional family (especially fathers-she is searing on this subject), love, war (of course in this period, 1973), aging. You know, all the subjects of the folk rainbow except her performance live at Carnegie Hall has more the quality of an intimate cabaret act.
Be forewarned some of these songs are not for the faint-hearted. Here, though, is what you NEED to listen to: “Scared To Be Alone (if you can bear it),” “Esther’s First Communion,” “The Veteran’s Big Parade,” and to be whimsical, “Moon Rock”, done from the perspective of the moon.
The Veterans Big Parade Lyrics by Dory Previn
In the veterans big parade
Marched the businessmen’s brigade
While behind the high school band
The ladies fife and drum corps played
In the veterans big parade
The flag flew high and free
Down they marched to Fourth and Main
Our soldiers died but not in vain
God was with us
That’s for sure
He proved it cause
It didn’t rain
Balloons batons you wanted to cry
The best day in July
At the veterans cemetery
Then the services were said
There the Mayor’s first assistant
Wiped his glasses
Put them on
And red
We’re gathered here
Dear friends today
To show our brave boys
Where they lay
We are with them all the way
And I think it’s safe to say
They are not
Alone
They are not
Alone
All the widows proudly smiled
(Except for one with an infant child)
Picnic time was then announced
And all the little kids went wild
Picnic blankets then were spread
And the beer flowed fast and free
There were clams and corn on the cob
To feed the celebrating mob
(Once in a while
I don’t know why
The infant child
Began to sob)
Other than that is was New Year’s Eve
Till it was time to leave
Then a fine Hawaiian band
Played and sang
Aloha oh
And their voices drifted low
Between the crosses
Painted white
Row on row on row
Aloha oh
And so goodbye
Till next year boys
Next July
We are with you
All the way
And I think
It’s safe to say
You are not
Alone
You are not
Alone
You are not
Alone
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Michelle Pfeiffer performing the song Making Whoopee in the film The Fabulous Baker Boys. Whoa!
DVD Review
The Fabulous Baker Boys, Jeff Bridges, Beau Bridges, Michele Pfeiffer, 1984
In what has now become my standard opening line doing this retrospective of Jeff Bridge's film work I will simply repeat here what I have said before. I have spilled much ink this year, in the wake of his Oscar victory in the role of broken down country singer-songwriter, Bad Blake, in the film Crazy Hearts , arguing that Bridges had been preparing for that role since he first broke out as the future good ol' boy, Duane Jackson, in The Last Picture Show. That thread in his work comes to something of halt here as Bridges, and brother Beau, play a brother team of lounge lizard show tune piano-players going nowhere fast in the hard scrabble work of small venue musical gigs. East Coast version, mainly New York City and its environs. Bridges' here plays a more abstracted, more world-weary and wary, catch in a place that he doesn't want to be, life has passed him by, more existential anti-heroic role.
You know, now that I think of it, what this low rent brother act could use is a female singer, a torch singer. And of course the plot line in what would otherwise be an unexceptional film brings in just such a singer in the person of Michelle Pfeiffer to spice up the act. The tensions, including the obvious sexual tensions between Jeff and Michelle drive most of the film. And at that level this becomes a better than average film. But the real reason that I liked the film is, as I have mentioned in other reviews, I am a sucker for a torch singer. From Bessie Smith to Billie Holiday to Peggy Lee in her Benny Goodman days, hell, even Rosemary Clooney when she was in the mood could (can) always chase away the blues. Now enter one fetching torch singer, one slinky, fetching torch singer, one cry me a river fetching torch singer and I am a goner. Add in a scene with said torch singer dressed in a come hither devilishly red dress singing atop old Jeff's piano on New Year's and, well, be still my heart. I could add more but under doctor's advice I have to wait until my blood pressure subsides Oh ya, before I forget Jeff (and Beau) did a good job acting here. But it's really about that silky-voiced, sultry dame, okay. Enough said.
Click on title to link to a "The Boston Sunday Globe" book review of the new jazz primer, "Jazz" by Gary Giddins and Scott DeVeaux.
Markin comment:
My interest in jazz is sporadic and tends to the old classics that seem to predominate in this CD/book combination. Nevertheless one cannot talk about the blues, as readers of this space know that I surely do, without a tip of the hat to jazz in the middle third of the 20th century. I will give my own review at some future date , if I ever get my hands on this thing.
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Billie Holiday performing Strange Fruit.
DVD REVIEW
Billie’s Best, Polygram Records, 1992
In my book, and I am hardly alone on this, Billie Holiday is the torch singer's torch singer. Maybe it is the phrasing on her best songs. That well-placed hush. Maybe it is the unbreakable link between her voice when she is on a roll and the arrangements. Hell, maybe in the end it was the dope but, by Jesus, she could sing a modern ballad of love, lost or both like no other. And if it was the dope, let me say this- a `normal' nice singer could sing for a hundred years and never get it right, the way Billie could get it right when she was at her best. Dope or no dope. Was she always at her best? Hell no, as the current compilation makes clear. These recordings done between 1945 and her death in 1959 for Verve show the highs but also the lows as the voice faltered a little and the dope put the nerves on edge toward the end.
Many of the songs on the current compilation are technically sound, a few not, as is to be expected on such re-mastering. You will like Come Rain or Come Shine, Stars Fell On Alabama and Stormy Blues. A tear will come to your eye with Some Other Spring and East of the Sun. The surprise of the package is Speak Low, a sultry song with tropical background beat. That one is very good, indeed.
One last word- I have occasionally mentioned my love of Billie Holiday's music to younger acquaintances. Some of their responses reflecting, I think, the influence of the movie version of her life (Lady Sings the Blues with Diana Ross) or some unsympathetic black history 'uplift' type views on her life have written her off as an 'addled' doper. Here is my rejoinder- If when I am blue and need a pick me-up and put on a Billie platter (CD)and feel better then, my friends, I do not give a damn about the dope. Enough said.
In my book, and I am hardly alone on this, Billie Holiday is the torch singer's torch singer. Maybe it is the phrasing on her best songs. That well-placed hush. Maybe it is the unbreakable link between her voice when she is on a roll and the arrangements. Hell, maybe in the end it was the dope but, by Jesus, she could sing a modern ballad of love, lost or both like no other. And if it was the dope, let me say this- a `normal' nice singer could sing for a hundred years and never get it right, the way Billie could get it right when she was at her best. Dope or no dope. Was she always at her best? These recordings done between 1940 and 1942 show the highs. Billie had mastered her trade.
Many of the songs on the current compilation are technically sound, a few not, as is to be expected on such re-mastering. You will like Am I Blue and In My Solitude. Can anyone every do a Cole Porter song better than Billie on Let's Do It. Or the phrasing of Johnny Mercer's Mandy and Me. Damn.
One last word- I have occasionally mentioned my love of Billie Holiday's music to younger acquaintances. Some of their responses reflecting, I think, the influence of the movie version of her life (Lady Sings the Blues with Diana Ross) or some unsympathetic black history 'up lift' type views on her life have written her off as an 'addled' doper. Here is my rejoinder- If when I am blue and need a pick me-up and put on a Billie platter (CD)and feel better then, my friends, I do not give a damn about the dope. Enough said.
Many of the songs on this compilation are technically sound, a few not, as is to be expected on such re-mastering. For examples of what I mean by what I said in the first paragraph of this review check out the playfulness of You Go to My Head and If I Were You. The sentiment of The Very Thought of You and I Got a Date With A Dream. Hey, I don’t even usually like these kinds of songs composed by the masters of Tin Pan Alley but they had me had me humming along. That tells the tale here.
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Patsy Cline performing her classic I Fall To Pieces.
CD Review
Pasty Cline-Live At The Cimarron Ballroom (1961), Patsy Cline, MCA Records, 1997
For those of us of a certain age (growing up in the early 1960’s) the timeless voice of Patsy Cline, whether we were aware of it or not, formed the backdrop to many a school dance or other romantic endeavor. I was not a fan of Cline’s, at least not consciously, growing up but have come to appreciate her talent and her amazing voice. In another review in this space I have called her the “country torch singer,” par excellence. And she does not fail here. At least musically. On such classics as I Fall To Pieces (twice, the second being better than the first, ah, “warm up”), Walking After Midnight, Stupid Cupid, Foolin’ Round, and some twangy Cline dialogue between songs she is up to par. However, thematically this CD, while of some value as a historic document (her first concert after a near fatal car accident), is another question. While it was interesting (and a little disconcerting live, circa 1961) to hear her work from the 1950's and early 1960s and covers of others I do not believe that this compilation does justice to her work. Patsy, like many another torch singer like Bessie Smith or Billie Holiday, needs to grow on you. The best way to do that is grab a Greatest Hits (or a Gold Definitive) album and sit back. You won’t want to turn the damn thing off. As for this one, if you have time to listen do so as an appetizer. "Crazy"
Written by willie nelson
(as performed by willie nelson)
Also performed by patsy cline and ray price* Crazy Crazy for feeling so lonely Im crazy Crazy for feeling so blue I knew Youd love me as long as you wanted And then someday Youd leave me for somebody new Worry Why do I let myself worry Wondrin What in the world did I do Crazy For thinking that my love could hold you Im crazy for tryin Crazy for cryin And Im crazy For lovin you (repeat last verse) Patsy Cline, She's Got You Lyrics Artist: Cline Patsy Song: She's Got You “She's Got You” I've got your picture that you gave to me And it's signed "with love," just like it used to be The only thing different, the only thing new I've got your picture, she's got you I've got the records that we used to share And they still sound the same as when you were here The only thing different, the only thing new, I've got the records, she's got you I've got your memory, or has it got me? I really don't know, but I know it won't let me be I've got your class ring; that proved you cared And it still looks the same as when you gave it dear The only thing different, the only thing new I've got these little things, she's got you Patsy Cline, Why Can't He Be You Lyrics
Artist: Cline Patsy
Song: Why Can't He Be You
“Why Can't He Be You” He takes me to the places you and I used to go He tells me over and over that he loves me so He gives me love that I never got from you He loves me too, his love is true Why can't he be you He never fails to call and tell me I'm on his mind And I'm lucky to have such a guy; I hear it all the time And he does all the things that you would never do He loves me, too, his love is true Why can't he be you He's not the one who dominates my mind and soul And I should love him so, 'cause he loves me, I know But his kisses leave me cold He sends me flowers, calls on the hour, just to prove his love And my friends say when he's around, I'm all he speaks of And he does all the things that you would never do He loves me too, his love is true Why can't he be you Patsy Cline, Sweet Dreams Lyrics
Artist: Cline Patsy
Song: Sweet Dreams
“Sweet Dreams” Sweet dreams of you Every night I go through Why can't I forget you and start my life anew Instead of having sweet dreams about you You don't love me, it's plain I should know I'll never wear your ring I should hate you the whole night through Instead of having sweet dreams about you Sweet dreams of you Things I know can't come true Why can't I forget the past, start loving someone new Instead of having sweet dreams about you
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Cab Calloway performing "Minnie The Moocher".
DVD Review
Jumping& Jivin’: The Jazz Classics From The Big Band Era, Volume One, Cab Calloway, Lena Horne, Fats Waller and various other bandleaders and sidemen, Acorn Media, 2007.
I recently reviewed the work, in his prime in the 1960s, of jazz guitarist Wes Montgomery. There I noted that my interest in jazz, as such, was at the many places where jazz and the blues intersect. This volume of jazz- centered music from the big band era of the 1940s is a prime example of that statement. Not all of the twenty plus “soundies” (the old time version of MTV-type music videos for the benefit of the younger reader) from the 1940s and early 1950s here derives from the blues but a good number do. The compilers of this DVD have put, in one place at one time, many of the best big bands from that era, including Duke Ellington, Billy Eckstine and Count Basie. The production values on some of the material is not great but you are getting this for its look at cultural history, warts and all.
Moreover, there are two performers who perked my interest from the blues perspective. One was the incredible performances of Mr. Cab Calloway in his classic “Minnie The Moocher” and the, well, bluesy “Blues In The Night”. I last recall seeing old Cab in the original John Belushi “Blues Brothers” film from the 1980s. That was nothing compared to these performances in his prime. Watch this. The other outstanding performance here is from Lena Horne. Yes, I know, I am supposed to be true-blue to Ms. Billie Holiday. And I am. Except last year I heard Lena doing “Stormy Weather” on a 1940s CD compilation and was blown away. Here on her “soundie” “Unlucky Woman” she does so again. So call me perfidious, okay.
"Minnie the Moocher" -Cab Calloway
folk's here's the story 'bout Minnie the Moocher
she was a red hot hoochie coocher
she was the roughest, toughest frail
but Minnie had a heart a big as a whale
(hidey-hi's!)
she messed around with a bloke named Smokey
she loved him, though he was coke-y
he took her down to Chinatown
and he showed her how to kick the gong around
(hidey-hi's!)
she had a dream about the King of Sweden
he gave her things that she was needin'
gave her a home built of gold and steel
a diamond car, with the platinum wheels
(fast hidey-hi's!)
he gave her a townhouse and his racing horses
each meal she ate was a dozen courses
she had a million dollars worth of nickels and dimes
she sat around and counted them a million times
(hidey-hi's, one mo' 'gain!)
poor min, poor min, poor min!
"Unlucky Woman"
I was born on Friday, married on Friday too
Yes I was born on Friday, married on Friday too
But I didn't believe in jinxes till the day that I met you
I don't want no more lovin', I'd rather be all alone
No i don't want no more lovin', I'd rather be all alone
So when payday comes around, I can call my money my own
Now love is just a gamble, it's just like shootin' dice
But it's my bad luck that I got snake eyes twice
I'm an unlucky woman, guess I was born that way
And if anyone can change me, they can move right in today
I don't want no more excuses, I don't want no jive
I wouldn't want you daddy if you was the last man alive
I've learned my lesson, and I've learned it just in time
Good luck will never find me, till I cross you off my mind
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Billie Holiday performing the riveting Strange Fruit.
Billie’s Best, Billie Holiday, Verve, 1972
In my book, and I am hardly alone on this, Billie Holiday is the torch singer’s torch singer. Maybe it is the phrasing on her best songs. That well-placed hush. Maybe it is the unbreakable link between her voice when she is on a roll and the arrangements. Hell, maybe in the end it was the dope but, by Jesus, she could sing a modern ballad of love, lost or both like no other. And if it was the dope, let me say this- a ‘normal’ nice singer could sing for a hundred years and never get it right, the way Billie could get it right when she was at her best. Dope, or no dope. Was she always at her best? Hell no, as the current compilation makes clear. These recordings done between 1945 and her death in 1959 for Verve show the highs but also the lows as the voice faltered a little and the dope put the nerves on edge toward the end.
Many of the songs on the current compilation are technically sound, a few not, as is to be expected on such re-mastering. You will like Come Rain or Come Shine, Stars Fell On Alabama and Stormy Blues. A tear will come to your eye with Some Other Spring and East of the Sun. The surprise of the package is Speak Low, a sultry song with tropical background beat. That one is very good, indeed. One last word- I have occasionally mentioned my love of Billie Holiday’s music to younger acquaintances. Some of their responses reflecting, I think, the influence of the movies or some black history looks on her life have written her off as an addled doper. Here is my rejoinder- If when I am blue and need a pick-me-up and put on a Billie platter and feel better then, my friends, someone who can do that for me I will buy them, metaphorically of course, all the dope they ever need. Enough said.
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the great jazz pianist, Earl "Fatha" Hines.
Markin comment:
My jazz vocabulary is rather limited to these classic guys like Duke, Lady Day, the Count, and other royalty, including one Earl "Fatha" Hines. Wow!
Number One Songs—Stormy Monday Blues
This is one of the most unusual #1 song stories ever. You see, "Stormy Monday Blues" was a #1 R&B hit in 1942 by jazz greats Earl "Fatha" Hines and Billy Eckstein.
But the song "Stormy Monday" or "They Call It Stormy Monday," written by blues guitar legend T-Bone Walker and first recorded in 1947, is a much more famous and covered song, and has come to be known as "Stormy Monday Blues." While both are structurally blues compositions, they are not the same song at all.
Here is the first verse of the Hines-Eckstein song:
Stormy Monday Blues Lyrics
(Words and Music by Earl Hines, Billy Eckstein and Bob Crowder)
It's gone and started raining
I'm as lonesome as a man can be
It's gone and started raining
I'm as lonesome as a man can be
Cause every time it rains
I real-ize what you mean...
It is the T-Bone Walker song that begins, "They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad...."
Among music lovers, there seemingly isn't much confusion about the songs because most simply don't know the 1942 "Stormy" song, even though it was a #1 hit.
But "They Call It Stormy Monday" is universally known despite only reaching #5 on the R&B charts in 1948!
Although the confusing titles are a moot point to the public, as "They Call It Stormy Monday" is clearly the definitive "Stormy Monday" song, the similarity of song titles has been a nightmare for the writers and publishers of the songs, as performance royalties have often been mis-applied.
"Trouble ensued when artists named ["They Call It Stormy Monday"] "Stormy Monday Blues," [on records]...as for instance Bobby Bland did on a well-known rendition, as it was mis-credited and royalties went to the Hines-Eckstine song rather than Walker's. This may have also happened on some of the treatments that were just called "Stormy Monday." —Wikipedia
"They Call It Stormy Monday" has been recorded hundreds of times by a wide array of artists, most notably by Bobby "Blue" Bland in the 60s and the Allman Brothers in 1971 on their widely-acclaimed classic album At Fillmore East.
"The original recording appeared on Black & White Records, produced by Ralph Bass, and was one of [T-Bone] Walker's breakthrough sides in pioneering the idiom of electric blues guitar...B.B. King has said that 'Call It Stormy Monday' inspired him to begin playing electric guitar." —Wikipedia
SIDEBAR: Stormy Monday is also the title of a 1988 feature film starring Sean Bean, Tommy Lee Jones, Sting and Melanie Griffith.
(They Call It) Stormy Monday Lyrics
(Words and Music by T-Bone Walker)
They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad
They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad
Wednesday's worse, and Thursday's also sad
Yes the eagle flies on Friday, and Saturday I go out to play
Eagle flies on Friday, and Saturday I go out to play
Sunday I go to church, then I kneel down and pray
Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy on me
Lord have mercy, my heart's in misery
Crazy about my baby, yes, send her back to me
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Billie Holiday holding forth, very holding forth on Stormy Blues.
Blues Masters: Classic Blues Women: Volume 11, various artists, Rhino Records, 1993
I swear, I swear on a stack of seven bibles, I am off, finally off film noir femme fatales after watching (or rather , re-watching) Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer, mainly Jane Greer, go round and round in the classic crime noirOut Of The Past. How could any rational man not think twice about following such femmes as Jane Greer’s Kathy who just happened to be a little gun happy (and a chronic liar to boot) who put a couple in Robert Mitchum’s Jeff after he did somersaults to try to save her bacon about six times. That’s gratitude for you.
Well, like I said I am off, done, finished with those two-timing dames, and good riddance. Now I have time, plenty of time, and my health to speak of blues in the night wailing female torch singers who, as far as I know, do not carry or do not need to carry guns, to do their business. Of course it was not big deal to change my allegiances because since I was a kid I have been nothing but putty in their hands for any torch singer who could throw away my blues with some sorrow laden tune.
Maybe it was in some back-drop Harvard Square coffeehouse in long mist time 1960s when I first heard such voices, first among them, Billie Holiday, late, early, whatever Billie Holiday singing of some man on her mind, mostly some no good man, some no dough man, who maybe took a couple of whacks at her for no reason, or just took her last dough to bet on that next sure thing…and happiness. Or maybe earlier when some home background 1940s we-won-the-war be-bop music filtered through the air my own childhood house from the local radio station playing Peggy Lee all Benny Goodman’d up, or Helen Whiting, or, or well, you get the drift. Stuff that would stop me in my tracks and ask, ask where did that sorrow come from.
Later, several years later, it blossomed fully when some now half-forgotten (but only half-forgotten) girlfriend gave me a complete Vanguard Record set of all of Bessie Smith’s recordings. Ah heaven, and ah the student neighbors who had to listen for half a day while I played the damn set through. So get it, get it straight I am a long-time aficionado of the genre and commenting on this Blues Masters CD about classic women blues singers is a piece of cake.
Strangely, although the bulk of the “discovered” blues singers of the folk revival minute of the 1960s were male (Mississippi John Hurt, Bukka White, Son House, Skip James, et. al) back in the serious heyday of the blues in the 1920s and early 1930s women dominated the blues market, the popular music of the day. And the women featured in this compilation were the most well-known of the myriad torch singers that lit up the concert hall, speakeasies and juke joints North and South. Mamie Smith, “Ma” Rainey, the divide Sippie Wallace, of course Bessie Smith, Ida Cox, Victoria Spivey (later to be one of the first women blues producers and record company owners), and Alberta Hunter are all rightfully and righteously here.
What, no Billie Holiday? Well yes she does Stormy Weather here so stay calm. I have singled her out because to me her voice, her phrasing, her half breath between notes is what torch singing was all about and all about whenever I felt (or feel) blue I just turned to Billie and she would sing your blues away (unfortunately not her own). Now if I could just get a torch singer who was also a non-gun- toting femme fatale I would be in very heaven. Ya, I know I said I was off femmes but what are you going to do.
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for jazz man and mad clarinetist Artie Shaw.
Markin comment:
There is a question of who was the better clarinetist, Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman, among classical jazz aficionados (although one should not exclude Duke Ellington's sideman, Barney Bigard, in that mix). There is, however, no dispute over who had the better swing band in the 1930s- Artie hands down (including with Billie Holiday as vocalist, for a short time). For those, by the way, unfamiliar with swing that was the "bad" teenage-driven music that your grandparents, or parents, listened to away from their parents. You know, the music of the youth tribe like rock and roll for my generation or, maybe, hip-hop for this generation.
A Fine Romance, Circa 1945- With Billie Holiday In Mind
Over in a darken corner a couple, she a very perky bleached blonde,
naturally so or not only she and her God know (perhaps her hairdresser as well
but what with the war shortages with the chemicals necessary for artificially
very bleached blonde hair going into Europe rather than say the hair of frisky
brunettes probably only her God just then as the war was winding down but had
not quite finished up and so shortages still held sway), mascaraed blue eyes which
the bleached blonde hair only accentuated, made more alluring, and a fair
dusting of powders and whatnots that make a gal alluring to the opposite sex.
Especially members of the opposite sex who have been spitting the muds of
wartime Europe out of their mouths, have breathed in the odors of men’s fears,
men’s food, men’s lack of toiletries and other refinements for the previous
three years but who even if they had not been close enough to a woman, a perky
blonde one at that, had not lost the taste for such company. (Some men had lost that desire, not in the
throes of desire for other men, you know some homosexual impulse previously
unexplored, although that happened too, happened anytime you had men cooped up
in war, in prisons, on merchant ships, hell, in boarding schools, but from the
shock of war, from what would then be called “shell shock,” and now some
post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. Those “lost boys”, those who would have
trouble getting back to the old routines, getting back to the “real” world as a
later war generation would call their malaise would be legend as the years wore
on and they drifted mainly west, west of wherever they were from and never
quite got back to that pre-Pearl Harbor calm, never).
Those appealing eyes and hair were accompanied by a long slinky gown
although not of recent purchase since like the hair ingredients the materials
for such glamour-enhancement long ago went ashore at Normandy fitted over a
slender but what guys back then would call “curves in all the right places.” And silver dancing slippers of recent purchase
since she had a friend who had a friend who worked on Seventh Avenue and that
was that, nothing more need be said just in case some noisy bureaucrat was in the
house and jealous that he did not have such resources to get a pair for his own
girlfriend.
Her picture completed in the glimmer of the candle emanating from their table
any idle eyes at the bar filled with plenty of men who had not been close enough
a woman but had not lost the habit and those were staring hopefully in her
direction that she was talking to her companion of the evening. His description
was ease itself beyond the short high side walls haircut that meant he was
still in one or another branches of the military service, just then
clean-shaven although he was one of those men bedeviled by the need to shave
twice daily (made worse in those European muds when a man dared no shave for
fear of being some sniper’s target when the opposing armies were in close
proximity); regulation cologne, although a sea of cologne would not wash away
that smell of men’s fear, even brave men, which made a guy alluring to the
opposite sex, regulation brown eyes, and a fairly-well beribboned, beribboned
beyond what every combat soldier received for just being in a war zone, Army uniform to take the mystery out of which
branch he belonged to and which made clear that he had seen action in some
theater in Europe. He was raptly listening to whatever it was she was saying as
if just the act of hearing her voice, hearing a female voice, an American
female voice was worthy of such rapture.
In front of the young couple who from a quick glance and the reserved manner
of their gestures had not known each other long (and how could they in 1945 the
war not even half over yet and the soldiers just starting to pour back to the states)
were well-used glasses of red wine accompanied by some wine correct meat
dishes. Probably the Beef Alsace for which the Club Martin up in high 49th
StreetNew York City was famous for far
and wide. On the other hand those gestures did not exhibit the obvious tell-tale
symptoms of a first date, a nervous first date for her since mother had warned
against any such cavorting with soldiers and for him nervous with nothing but
the memories of those muds, fears, and the assorted horrors of war that he
might have lost his touch despite his desire for the society of women, the
timid talk skirting around anything favorite colors, her blue, him black, films,
her romantic comedies, him film noir, songs, her I’ll Get By, him We’ll Meet
Again, the off-hand laughter (she kept calling it a gun and he insisted on
rifle and the occasional blush when in
the newness of the situation one party makes a social blunder (or when the slightest
sexual reference came up although both probably even then sensed they were
headed for the sheets sometime). But moving closer, although not close enough to
break the spell of the darkness they craved in those tender moments the menu of
the day was far removed from what they were talking about, what interested them
that evening.
See our beribboned, clean shaven, slightly flush with the taste of wine in
his mouth soldier boy, let’s call him Adam Jordan which is actually his name so
there need for there to be anything mysterious or nefarious about it, and his perky
blonde date, let’s call her Brenda Dubois for that is her name although she
would not like that information broadcast widely since she is under-age,
under-age for nightclubbing if not for other activities had just a few minutes
before abandoned their darkened safe harbor and stepped to the back of the house
into a back room of the Club, the band’s dressing area, and shared a joint,
marijuana, with Nick Janeway, the famous trumpeter, who was working at the Club
now that he had been discharged from the Army, discharged with a fairly beribboned
uniform which meant that he too had seen serious action in one of the European
theaters of combat although this evening he was wearing the standard tuxedo of
the house band at the Club Martin. As anyone may have guessed Nick and Adam had
served together in Europe and this night Nick had gotten Adam and Brenda through
might and main as his guests for the evening’s entertainment. Might and main since
such elegant supper clubs were booked solid with the regular Manhattan Mayfair
swell who frequented such places bolstered by scores, hundreds of returning
servicemen just off the troop transports and with plenty of dough and desire to
“live it up” after the travails of the European theater.
This night was hardly the first time that Nick and Adam had “flamed” up
(their personal term so the hick other soldiers who were still drinking sodas
or six point two Army beer would not catch on since that “reefer madness” mad rapist
pervert junkie stuff was still making the news, literature and the films) for
they had endured the travails of the slugfest battles of Europe by being
well-doped up when the action cooled off (and decidedly not when in battle as
those medals on their respective uniforms can attest to since both had led squads
from Normandy eastward). This night however was Brenda’s first time, her first encounter
with reefer which previously along with soldiers, sex and about seven other things
she had been warned off by her mother, and while she was thrilled and afraid at
the same time when Adam had broached the question of taking a “hit.” Softened
up by the wine, and frankly by her unquestioned attraction to Adam, she wanted
to be a good sport so on the first hit she inhaled deeply, too deeply. The
mandatory few drags had the equally mandatory effect common among first time
users who treat reefer inhalation the same way as smoking tobacco cigarettes
had fits of coughing which accompany the harsh smoke. Now back at the table Brenda
was just beginning to get a decent buzz off of the stuff.
Brenda thought to herself, beside the million flashing silly thoughts,that Adam was a cool guy, knew some cool
guys and maybe they would get along after all. He sure was attractive enough, for
that read sexy enough as she confided to a girlfriend from work who when that friend
met him had her Adam thoughts and probably ready to catch him if Brenda didn’t work
out, as she could tell by the wandering female eyes that followed Adam when he
was not at table. She had not been sure the first few dates after Adam had
picked her up at a USO dance over in Times Square when she had gone with a
girlfriend in order to support the guys who were coming off the transport ships
by the thousands now that the war in Europe was almost over that they would get
along since he was so worldly and she was just a very bleached blonde from
Brooklyn. He had laughed while they were finishing dinner at that remark and
asked her if she wanted to go back to Nick’s hangout and blow another joint.
Loosened up she agreed and they sat with Nick until it was time for him to
perform.
As Nick headed out of the dressing area to do his work for the night Brenda
and Adam had once again navigated their way back to their darkened corner and
were talking loosely with spurts of giggles on Brenda’s part when Nick and his
fellow band members mounted the small elevated stage several tables away and
began their be-bop swing combo intros. While Brenda and Adam were lighting each
other’s cigarettes (tobacco of course) the house lights dimmed even further and
a tall black woman, maybe thirty or so with a big flower, some kind of orchid
in her pulled back shiny jet black hair, and an elegant fitted deep red gown
with matching slippers that certainly had been recently purchased as Brenda had
seen a copy of a dress like it, war shortages of no war shortages, in one of
the recent issues of a women’s magazine and began singing A Fine Romance in a sultry, sexy, sassy, voice that would make Jehovah’s
angels bow their heads and weep for their inadequacies. Brenda with all kinds
of buzzes going through her head looked over at Adam who was watching and
nodding encouragement to Nick as he played an interlude solo break and thought,
a fine romance, a fine romance indeed.
When Lady Day Chased The Blues Away, Again And Again-“The
Quintessential Billie Holiday (Volume 1-1933-1935)”-A CD Review
CD Review
By Seth Garth
The Quintessential Billie Holiday, Volume 1, 1933-1935,
[Sometimes I get in a Nelson Algren moment as here. But that
I mean I want to get down in the mud, get back to the roots, talk about the
days when it was not clear which way I was heading-a life of crime or its
cousin reading and writing to try to make sense of the world (just kidding on
the cousin part, okay so avoid a tweet storm please). Want to talk about the
blues since I am here reviewing a Lady Day, Billie Holiday of the orchid-ripped
hair. Want to talk about the people like Billie who lived on the edge, who fell
down, who got back up and fell down again. Yeah, the ones Nelson Algren he of
the Walk On The Wild Side, Man With The
Golden Arm talked about, the Frank Machines, the Dove Linkhorns, the people
I came from if the truth be told.
I swear I don’t to this day understand what those people I
talked to several years ago that I noted below who wrote Billie off as some
long-gone junkie of no account. Not after she saved many a day for me when I
was blue, maybe beyond blue, maybe ready to meet the dawn turned into night, if
you really want to know. See even a stone-cold junkie has the capacity to give
something-if she or he has some talent. But here is what the squares and by
that I include those dunces who dismissed Billie out of hand, didn’t want to
hear how she “saved” me on many a misbegotten tough day or estimate, fathom
what pain she had to endure to give what she could give. Maybe some people have
become so sanitized, so vanilla they know not of what I speak when I talks
about Lester Young blowing that seldom attained high white note every
instrumentalist seeks out to the damn China Seas. Don’t know what it took even
on good days for Billie to run the rack, to pick up her head long enough to do
what she had to. Who gives a fuck, the old corner boy from the hard-pressed
Acre section of downtrodden North Adamsville coming out with that fuck word,
whether she needed the fixer man to come and get her well when you think about
it for a minute. Yeah, no wait let me go and listen to about two hours of
Billie rather than slip into a blue funk and forget that Nelson Algren spoke
for the little voiceless people who knew their Billie backward and forward.
Knew her junkie pain, needed their own fixer man to get well.
For the record I will say it here again today-if I had had
the capacity to do so I would have provided Billie with all the dope she
needed-be her every loving fixer man just so she could chase my weary blues
away. That’s the ticket. The hell with the squares. S.G.]
Everybody, that meaning everybody who knows anything about the
blues knows of legendary blue singer Billie Holiday. Knew she was tied up hard
with junkie fever, knee deep in junk. Knew that information either from having
read her biography, the liner notes on her records (vinyl for those who have
not become hip to the beauties of that old-fashion way to produce recordings in
the recent retro revival of that method), newspaper obituaries, or from the
1970s film starring Diana Ross (lead singer of Motown’s Supremes). So everybody
knew that Lady Day had come up the hard way, had had a hard time with men in
her life and had plenty of trouble with junk, with heroin. Had turned her into
some hustling gal with dark lights out of a Nelson Algren story about her daddy
making her blues go away, had the “fixer” man making the pain going away for a
moment.
(I believe that the Prez, the great saxophonist Lester Young
who himself blew many a high white note out to the China seas as the phrase
went on the West Coast when he was “on” gave her that name. Put lady and day
together and it stuck. He backed her up on many recordings, including here, and
in many a venue, including New York café society before they pulled her ticket.
The name fit her as did that eternal flower arrangement, sweet gardenia
speaking of sexual adventures and promise, in her hair)
Yeah, that is the sad part, the life and times part. But if
you listen to this CD under review like the other ones in this series and other
compilations that I am reviewing at this time while I am in a “from hunger”
wanting habits mood about Lady Day’s work like I get into every once in a while
about music that moved me, spoke to me. In this second volume in the series you
will also know why in the first part of the 21st century guys like
me are still reviewing her work, still haunted by that voice, by that
meaningful pause between notes that carried you to a different place, by that
slight hush as she envelopes a song which kept your own blues at bay. I repeat
kept your blues away whatever she suffered to bring that sentiment forward.
That last statement, those last two sentences are really
what I want to hone in on here since Billie Holiday is an acquired taste, and a
taste which grows on you as you settle in to listen to whole albums rather than
a single selection spending half the night turning over vinyl, flipping tapes,
changing CDs if you don’t have a multiple CD recorder, or grabbing the dial on
an MP3 player. Here is my god’s honest truth though. Many a blue night when I
was young, hell, now too, I would play Billie for hours, tune that vinyl over
in my case, and my own silly blues would kind of evaporate. Nice right.
Here is the not nice part, maybe better the not respectful
part for a sanctified woman’s voice and spirit. Once a few years ago I was talking to some
young people about Billie and, maybe under the influence of the Diana Ross film
or from their disapproving parents, kind of wrote her off as just another
junkie gone to seed. I shocked them, I think, when I said if I had had the
opportunity I would have given Billie all the dope she wanted just for taking
my own bluesaway. That is why we still
listen to that sultry, slinky, sexy voice today.
Is everything in this CD or in her overall work the cat’s
meow. No, toward the end in the 1950s you can tell her voice was hanging by a
thread under the strain of all her troubles, legal and medical. But in the
1930s, the time of her time, covering Cole Porter, Gershwin and Jerome Kern
songs with a little Johnny Mercer thrown in, the time of Tin Pan Alley songs
which seem to have almost been written just for her she had that certain “it”
which cannot be defined but only accepted, accepted gratefully. This first may
be a little more uneven that her later work when she teamed up with serious
jazz and blues players like the aforementioned Lester Young blowing out high
white notes to the China seas while she basked in the glow of the lyrics. But just
check out Miss Brown To You, What a
Little Moonlight Can Do, and the classic Sunbonnet Blue and you will get an idea of what I am talking about.
And maybe get your own blues chased away
