THE POET BEFORE AND AFTER (Segue of the Day: 10/22/17)

Smokey Robinson: The Solo Anthology (2001)

Smokey Robinson left the Miracles in 1972, by which time he was already fading to the nether reaches of White America’s radar.

He re-emerged seven years later with the release of “Cruisin’,” which went top five on the Pop charts. After that he hit the higher reaches of the pop charts pretty regularly for another decade or so and clinched his place on the short list for things like Kennedy Center honors and Gershwin Awards and various and sundry other well-deserved lifetime achievement recognition which he had earned before he left the Miracles and almost certainly never would have received if he had left it at that.

Black America never forgot. The extent to which they never forgot becomes evident near the end of the first disc of this fine compilation, as the seventies come to a close.

It’s not as though Smokey had exactly taken the decade off. The tracks that clinched his comeback were preceded by records as monumental as “Sweet Harmony” and “Baby That’s Backatcha,” (the closest he had come to breaking pop in the wilderness years). Beyond that, all he had done was name–and define–a radio format (Quiet Storm) and remain one of the great vocalists of the age.

But the sequence that closes the first disc is still a breathtaking blast-off back into the mainstream….it makes one wonder if the reception he got live was finally what gave him the strength to carry on until the world, however briefly, reawakened.

Because when this comes on–recorded and released a year before “Cruisin’,” with his career at its nadir–you can hear who he was to the audience who had hung with him.

To them, he was Elvis.

After which, bang…

bang…

bang…

…He was Everybody’s Poet again.

On the second disc, you can hear him go to war with the Frozen Silence.

He barely holds on. But then, he was Smokey Robinson, and you know the lesson was learned by everyone else: If we, the Suits and Machines, can do this to him, just think what we can do to you.

By the end he’s duetting with Kenny G.

I think by then the nineties had arrived. If you want to listen to all that, you’re on your own.

STORM BREWING…AND NOT ONLY IN THIS HEART OF MINE (Segue of the Day: 10/19/17)

I was just reminded (by one of those random accidents that are the Internet’s true reason for being) that Michelle Williams has been signed to play Janis Joplin.

It might not happen. The idea of a Janis biopic has been around forever and this particular one has been bobbing up here and there for nearly a decade (this is the second time Williams’ has her name attached, but this time she seems to have actually been cast after a grueling audition). But it’s farther along than any previous attempt.

If it does come to pass, all I can say is Williams is the one actress most likely to connect with Joplin’s unique ethos (and certainly the only actress who could pull off the Marilyn Monroe/Janis Joplin Daily Double).

And it will mean this…

may very well meet this…

Bear in mind that’s not even in extremis….for either of them.

The mind reels.

Much as I want Michelle Williams to be in every movie that matters, I’m not even sure I want this to happen. The concept is frightening and I’m already certain if it ends up a scintilla less terrifying in reality than it already is in my imagination, I won’t know whether to be gut-punched or relieved.

Either way, I can imagine myself running out of the theater yelling “I can’t bear it” with an English accent.

But one thing’s sure. If it does come to pass, I’ll be there.

I might even watch the Oscars that year.

DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP…(Segue of the Day: 10/16/17)

….Just check in here first.

Last week (11/11/17) I wrote about the psychic damage Harvey Weinstein, as the man who, for two decades plus, controlled access to more plum “prestige” parts than any other ten producers combined, had likely done to a generation of first-rank Hollywood actresses.

For those who understandably don’t want to plow through the whole thing again, here’s the salient passage (The Round Place in the Middle: 11/11/17):

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

This week, the idea has taken hold across the big-name spectrum.

Here’s Dana Stevens, checking in from the left (Slate: 11/13/17):

SOMETIMES THE MOST EXISTENTIAL QUESTIONS COME TO YOU IN THE MOST UNLIKELY SETTINGS (Segue of the Day: 10/15/17)

So a couple of days ago I’m sitting in my local corner cafe, eating my tuna wrap, reading my F. Scott Fitzgerald, and, suddenly, unbidden, the question crossed my mind.

What exactly did we need the Brits for?

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the speaker behind my head, which was emitting a string of programmed oldies in crystal clear sound, having just yielded these two back to back…

Among other things, It made me wish all over again that I could track down the quote from Marianne Faithfull where she recalled a conversation with Jack Nitzsche, where she had repeated the Approved Narrative that rock and roll was dead until the British Invasion saved it and he proceeded to play her a bunch of records like these until she realized the error of her ways. (One reasons I’d like to track it down is to prove I’m remembering correctly. Age gets to you that way.)

Now if he only could have gotten hold of the staff at Rolling Stone!

BTW: I’m still working on the answer to that question. F. Scott Fitzgerald isn’t helping a bit. Maybe looking long enough at this will…

 

REBEL YELLS (Segue of the Day: 9/15/17)

Around here at least, YouTube is the new radio. If you want to be taken by surprise, go on the internet. Based on my viewing habits, this popped up when I was looking for something else entirely (don’t ask me what, this blew it clean out of my head)….

And it was followed up by this, caught three months before Ronnie Van Zant and Steve and Cassie Gaines were killed in a plane crash, traveling from Toy Caldwell’s home state to Huey Long’s.

“That Smell” hadn’t been released–the album would come out three days before the crash–but you can smell the death already. The only surprise is that it didn’t come for all of them, only some. And that you can’t tell which it will be, even after the fact.

The Devil’s tricky that way.

Toy Caldwell died from cocaine abuse in 1993, having lost two brothers to automobile accidents.

Toy and Ronnie were part of a new idea. They weren’t bound to die young because they were Sensitive Young Men (though they may have been). They weren’t bound to die young because they were Too Good for This World. They weren’t bound to die young because they were courting a cult that demanded their bodies for sacrifice.

They were bound to die young because they were born hell-raisers who weren’t going to change.

You can hear it in every second of either performance, including the seconds–a guitar solo here, a drum crash there, a vocal chant in the back–provided by people who would live to see old age.

The Devil’s tricky that way, too.

PLAY IT AGAIN….(Segue of the Day: 8/21/17)

Well, I was gonna get back to normal today, but they just won’t let me…Maybe tomorrow.

First this…

..which was a VERY popular tweet item on the left side of the spectrum this weekend. It’s the statue of George Tecumseh Sherman that has resided at New York City’s Central Park since 1903. It’s Twitter popularity was supposed to serve as a reassurance that Good Generals will not have their statues torn down!

Fine for now.

Wait until Antifa finds out what an eager and effective Indian killer Sherman was–right down to vocal advocacy for buffalo slaughter to starve them out and backing his subordinate Phil “The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian” Sheridan to the hilt.

Then we’ll see how safe his statutes are.

Then this:

Meanwhile, that old favorite, Christopher Columbus, whose Indian policies were slightly more humane than Sherman’s, is back in the news. This one’s from Baltimore, today. (You can find a video of a black-masked Antifa vandal narrating his own movie of the event on YouTube. I’d link but I’m just too tired. Anyway, he’s an eerily normal sounding sort of fellow.)

But, really, everything’s fine.

Play it Gene….You’re the poet of the moment now:

(NOTE: Be careful of the YouTube thread….at present it’s rolling straight on to “It’s Too Late to Turn Back Now”…I ain’t here to make ya’ll slit your wrists!)

AT LAST, A MYSTERY SOLVED (Segue of the Day: 7/24/17)

I follow a number of Twitter accounts. I even have one, though I’ve never used it for anything except occasionally providing links to this blog.

But, before today, I never quite understood what direct purpose they might serve. (My own purpose for following is indirect: I like observing the effect of echo chambers on private and public thought. That is, I’m rarely interested in what people tweet, but constantly interested in speculating about why they are tweeting it.)

Today, though, I stumbled across an account called Lost in History. It’s an account that consists entirely of photographs that chart the kind of history I try to keep up with through words and YouTube links here. The history that fell between the cracks or has simply been forgotten.

Tracing that kind of history with images alone is so effective it makes me wish I’d thought of it.

As I type this, the top image on the account is of an African child in a “human zoo.”

It’s from Belgium.

From 1958.

And, even so, it didn’t quite prepare me for these.

From 1960, a woman being trained to resist harassment during the Civil Rights era:

From 1948, children for sale in Chicago (they look like they might grow up to be the Appalachian refugees in Haskell Wexler’s Medium Cool, twenty years hence):

Separated, by among other things, this, from backstage at the Oscars in 1956–featuring, literally, the two most glamorous women in the world (and, of all the glamorous women in the history of the world, the two who wore it most easily), each of whom would subsequently devote a good deal of her life to charity.

Caught halfway in between, as it were. And to no avail.

It’s that kind of site. Link here if you’re interested, just be warned it isn’t for the faint of heart.

PSYCHOLOGY OF A (COMPLICATED) SONG (Segue of the Day (2): 7/4/17)

Martina McBride released “Independence Day” in 1994. By her standards it was a relatively modest hit. Her previous two singles had gone top ten Country. “Independence Day” stalled at #12. In the years since she has racked up an additional fifteen country top tens, including five #1’s.

There is no question “Independence Day” is her signature song.

I’ve posted the original video before but it’s worth repeating, as one of the strongest videos ever produced and, by my reckoning, the last really great country gothic murder ballad–no less a ballad for being a rocker and no less murder (or gothic) for being justified.

Since then, the song has gone through many permutations, some not so subtle (it was, for a long time and over songwriter Gretchen Peters’ strenuous objections, the theme song of Sean Hannity’s radio show), some subtle indeed (see below) where, weeks after Sept, 11, 2001, the song is turned into a foot-stomping melodrama, from which thousands of waving flags cannot quite remove the sting–or the irony–probably because McBride doesn’t know how to cheat (or at very least doesn’t know how to cheat this song):

…And ,all these years later still, via the miracle of YouTube, you can watch her let the audience snatch it all the way back to something primal enough that the narrator in the original might recognize it again.

Posted as the homemade fireworks boom over my little town’s streets. Happy rest of the year America!