DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Jeff Healey Band Up)

“That’s What They Say”
Jeff Healey Band (1988)
Not released as a single
Recommended source: See the Light

When Jeff Healey came into the spotlight in the late eighties, he was the latest in a long line of white hot white blues guitarists–the hook being that, like a lot of first generation black bluesmen, he was blind.

What really marked him off, though, was his singing, a dry, meticulous baritone that made him one of the last great blue-eyed soulsters.

Though he had only one big hit (the great “Angel Eyes”), the voice said he might have done better in earlier times.

And, whatever the times, why the record company didn’t release “That’s What They Say” as a followup single from his debut album is one of those mysteries only a record company executive could answer.

Well, and maybe all those people who thought the new ballad style, embodied by Whitney Houston, had something to do with gospel or soul.

Album cut or no, “That’s What They Say” has only grown for me over the can’t-believe-it’s-been-three-decades since. Unlike “Angel Eyes,” stunning in its own right, Healey wrote it and, as a work of lyric imagination, it was on a level with the polio-stricken Doc Pomus writing “Save the Last Dance For Me.”

As a example of blues paranoia, it sounds like a creeping future we hoped would never arrive….but, inevitably, did.

Until I started researching this post, I didn’t know Healey had passed away in 2008. I think one reason I was a little shocked was because, in his best music,  recorded in an age that defined hype and bluster, he sounded like he had all the time in the world….

LOGAN LUCKY (At the Multiplex: November, 2017)

Logan Lucky (2017)
D. Steven Soderbergh

This one is probably worth seeing twice. I don’t say that about a lot of modern movies, including some that are at least as good as Logan Lucky. But the heist plot is compelling–updating the old horse-track thefts lovingly detailed in movies like The Killing (Stanley Kubrick, 1956) to the world of NASCAR. The acting is excellent all around and, unlike Soderbergh’s similarly byzantine (and massively overpraised) Traffic (2000), it builds suspense rather than disperses it, partly by giving reasonable people a few characters they can root for.

Those characters include the half-smart brothers played by Channing Tatum and Adam Driver as though they are exactly half-smart, which means their scheme has just about a fifty-fifty chance of succeeding. Enough of these movies, from The Asphalt Jungle (John Huston, 950) to now, have ended badly enough for the protagonists for this one to make you feel it might do the same. And enough of these movies, from Gambit to now, have ended happily enough, for hope to remain a reasonable outcome.

Soderbergh seems to know something about splitting that difference. He should make more heist flicks in this vein (which is quite different that the everybody-is-a-star vibe of his Ocean’s Eleven-Twelve-Thirteen franchise, which I modestly enjoyed but have never felt compelled to revisit).

Meanwhile, if I do revisit this one, it will be partly to judge Tatum and Driver’s performances against the known outcome. I have a feeling they made all the exact right decisions, but I’ll withhold judgment on that for a second viewing. Meanwhile, on the basis of that and the plotting alone, I can heartily recommend a first viewing for any fan of the genre.

A few things reach beyond those parameters, though: Starting with Leann Rimes’ performance of “America the Beautiful,” which is on YouTube. I’m not going to link it because it has to be seen/heard in the context of the film to be fully appreciated as the act of genius it is, the first complete obliteration of the distance between parody and the modern style of Passion. I literally couldn’t tell whether she was utterly sincere or wickedly spoofing herself (and every other melisma-addicted performer from Whitney Houston on down), just that it’s the first performance in history that works as well either way (thus making it an apt metaphor for the finely balanced plot). There’s also a funny performance from a nearly unrecognizable Hilary Swank (playing an uptight Fed) that is slightly sabotaged by the one-too-many-twists ending, and a matching one from a wholly unrecognizable Daniel Craig (playing a con who is whatever the opposite of uptight is). All these things, plus an unusually well-chosen-and-applied soundtrack, give me the feeling this is one rare new film that might hold together even past a second viewing. Anyway I’m looking forward to finding out.

I would watch it again, though, even if none of these other fine elements were present, for the performance by child-of-Hollywood Farrah MacKenzie, who gets the mountain accent that every one of the adults shades a little too close to parody or actorly precision just right, and provides the film’s anchor not so much with a beautifully played but rather obvious heart-tug moment involving a John Denver song as by simply being genuine in a movie that has fronting in its bones.

If there’s justice in the world, she’ll get an Oscar nod.

And “It’s my talent!” will become a catchphrase.

THE NIGHT CYNDI LAUPER TRIED TO SAVE ROCK AND ROLL (Memory Lane….1989)

I must have been channel surfing. I usually preferred somebody jabbing at my eyeballs with red-hot needles to watching David Letterman define a-holery. Once in a while, though, there was a decent musical guest. There weren’t enough of them for me to check the listings or anything, but if I tuned in at just the right moment, I might linger.

That night I lingered. Cyndi Lauper was on.

It had been two years since her last sizable hit–and that had been a cover of “What’s Going On” that nobody seemed to like but me (and plenty of people thought was sacreligious). I had heard and liked her new one, which would turn out to be her last sizable hit ever, a few times on the radio.

It’s hard now, to describe just how bleak the musical landscape felt then, when, unlike now, a glorious past was still so near that it seemed impossible it could be gone.

Still, the possibility was real: Whitney Houston had defined the new ballad style and it owed more to Kate Smith than Bessie Smith. The seventies’ era artists who had defined the eighties–Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Prince–had all gone a bit stale for everyone but their most devoted fans (of which I wasn’t one, though I liked them all). Any chance that the old New Wave might change the world had gone a-wasting because the big talents–Joe Strummer, Elvis Costello, Chrissie Hynde–either didn’t care about being stars (their excuse) or were afraid of the burden (the stronger likelihood).

Cyndi herself had clearly lost the fake battle the media staged between her and Madonna.

It was the eighties. Selling twenty-five million albums was chump change.

Of course, I wanted her to defy the odds and go on and on–for this one to spark a massive comeback.

So I wouldn’t have changed that dial, no matter what.

But the thing that had me holding my breath was waiting for the answer to the really big question.

Could she hold….that note?

I don’t remember what I thought while I waited. In memory, for years after, she stood still for the whole performance. When I finally thought to pull it up on YouTube a few years back, I guess I was surprised–maybe even shocked–that she bopped around for most of the song. I say I guess I was surprised because, in the memory I had built since, she was still standing in one spot.

So when I pulled it up again today, I was surprised all over.

I imagine if I wait a few more years, I’ll be surprised again.

I don’t think I really saw her the first time even though I had my eyes open. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember how, or even if, she moves.

Because whenever I watch it, then or now, the question is still the same.

Can she really, on live television, sans production tricks, hold that note?

I mean, she can…

But can she really?

I know she can. I know she’ll do it every time, but it still sends a tingle down my spine. Not just because it was her last big hit, and I somehow knew it would be as I watched her that night. But because, even as I imagined her standing still as a stone, I felt like I was watching somebody fight to keep the last ember lit, in the vain hope that it could reignite the fire.

Fight, you know, with every breath. Including the last one.