Next week, or maybe the week after, I promise I’ll think Happy Thoughts.
So Hillary Clinton introduced her running mate, Tim Kaine, today and the walk-on music was Motown: “The Sound of Young America” circa 1967.
Superficially at least, It didn’t seem to matter which Motown. The point was to have a certain vibe, create happy thoughts which turned out to be in line with the candidate’s newest face (apparently adopted to bring her in line with Kaine, who is the happiest Wall Street Warrior I’ve ever seen) and present a true alternative to Donald Trump the Dark Lord of Chaos.
Yes, Ms. Clinton has now found the incarnation she intends to run on: Little Miss Sunshine.
So any of a hundred Motown hits with a happy beat might have served the moment.
Weird then, that somebody–surely not the candidate herself, at least not without focus grouping it to death–chose “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and not Diana’s version (which, wearing its glittering angst plainly on the surface, would have been, like the record itself, a shade gauche) but Marvin and Tammi’s.
It’s not weird because it cast Clinton as an underdog, seeking to overcome impossible odds (“Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough”) against an opponent she has consistently led in the polls, is outspending thirty to one, and who has alienated the establishments of both parties. Nor is it weird because, if you wanted one single record in all the world to stand on the knife edge between ecstasy and despair, you would pick this one.
It’s not even weird because it was a song written by two fundamentally happy people (Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson) and made indelible by two fundamentally tormented people.
It’s the source of the torment that’s….challenging, even irreducible. It’s background opens up interesting questions.
Did whoever chose the song to represent an in-your-face “America will dominate the world and you will like it and you will keep that smile on your face” candidacy recognize the dark thread running through the record Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell made? Did they hear beneath a lyric and melody which, standing alone, should have defined only the sunniest of emotions? Did they have a sense of irony? And, if so, how deep does that sense go? Is it surface irony (hey there’s some darkness here, but listen to that beat soar…nobody will notice!), or a double irony (the rubes will know..but they’ll know we know…and listen to that beat soar!)?
But if this backfires–if the Clinton campaign, can’t sell the new “her” we’re supposed to be with through November–then it might be a sign that ghosts have not departed but instead hung around, seeking absolution or even vengeance.
It’s not enough to know that Tammi Terrell was gang-raped at eleven, endured horrifically abusive relationships as a young woman with, among others, James Brown and David Ruffin (reports that Ruffin attacked her with a hammer or a machete turned out to be untrue, but the relationship did end when he smacked her with a motorcycle helmet), collapsed in Gaye’s arms from the effects of a brain tumor in 1967, and, eight surgeries later, died in 1970.
And it’s not enough to know that Marvin Gaye’s friends were universally convinced that the cycle of drugs and depression which, in 1984, ended with his being shot and killed by his father (who was later diagnosed with a brain tumor as well), began with Terrell’s death (lovers they weren’t–soulmates they were).
No, the weird part is that we actually know how Little Miss Sunshine feels about little girls who get themselves raped:
I didn’t quite need this sort of evidence (into which one can read whatever one wants to read–just because there’s only one rational conclusion doesn’t mean we can’t all build our own different rationalities…she still really could be Little Miss Sunshine, you just gotta squint a little!) to know I’d never vote for her (not voting for the other guy either, if that matters). But, for the record, I found that link a few months back when I was looking for some reason, any reason, to like her at least a little.
But, however off-putting–or maybe chilling is the word I’m looking for–her willingness to go to extraordinary lengths to free a child-raper (whose victim has led a life Tammi Terrell would recognize), and then laugh about it, might be, it’s nothing next to her stunningly perfect imitation of a well-bred Southern woman, resigned to the acceptance of her own Grace. I’m an umpteenth-generation Southerner and I’ve known the type all my life. Until I heard this, I never believed anyone who wasn’t born to it or named Vivien Leigh could fool me into believing they were.
I’m therefore proposing that we dig up Tammi Terrell and Marvin Gaye and run them on the Unity ticket.
Hell. they might not be beautiful beyond belief any more, but I’d feel better voting for their unembalmed corpses than for anyone who’s on the ballet this time.