Finally at ease ...

We are settled at last in the new digs at ground level, and wish we'd done all this much sooner.  To be sure, there are still a few stray boxes containing some odd items to be kept or discarded, but basically, we are able to relax and get on with our lives as before the disruption.   

Buck and I had only one battle and it was because of this:

This behemoth belonged to Buck's father who purchased it in 1955.  Yes.  That's not a typo. 1955. It's a remarkably sturdy RCA color set that performed flawlessly all the ensuing years, never in all that time needing a repairman's services.  Did I just hear someone say "They don't build 'em like that anymore"?  But then, much like Hal's final gasps in "2001 A Space Odyssey", the picture lost clarity even with the aid of cable tv and hi-def.  I wanted to chuck it, but Buck's strong sentimental attachment to it and memories of watching the Red Sox or the Celtics with his Dad proved the winning argument.  The set now sits in a corner of the bedroom, adding a unique decorative touch and covered with a protective sheet. 

One final note:

I keep all my favorite authors' works grouped together on the shelf. It's so much easier to quickly lay my hand on any Hemingway, say, or a much-loved Austin.  Much to my dismay, every book lost its shelf mate during the move from the top floor of this building to this exact configuration at ground level.  As I've remarked (see "Upstairs Downstairs", April 3, 2013), it was a most arduous task which consumed all of the month of March, and no less demanding than if we'd decided to move to Anchorage.  Let me explain how my carefully arranged library became a topsy-turvy, upside down, helter-skelter toss pot:

The movers were three burly sorts who began the work at 8 AM on the morning of March 16th.  They scooped armfuls of books, carried them hastily down three flights, deposited the books in the middle of the floor, ran back up the stairs, and repeated the process until both walls of books were transferred.  Then they took down the shelves, the brackets and the strips which held the shelves. They flung themselves up and down all morning with these items plus the entertainment center consisting of drawers brimming to capacity with cds, dvds, vcrs, some vinyl, the flat screen tv and cable box trailing wires and connective devices. 

At approximately 5 PM, they summoned me to view their handy work.  Strips, brackets, shelves, drawers and books all back in place.  I was quite overwhelmed to gaze upon the wonder of it all.  Only a day or so later did I discover the rather haphazard method of book transport had scattered my authors to the far corners.

Imagine my surprise to find Dickens wedged between Doris Lessing and Alice Munro, Alan Bennett cozily nestled beside Betty Friedan, and John Updike on top of Eudora Welty (picture that if you can).  Some authors probably should remain intimately enjoined: I like the idea of Charles Mingus and Norman Mailer side by side because of their notorious pugilistic temperments, and Saul Bellow and Sinatra are also a good duo, with their muscular, swaggering ways with words ("My kind of town, Chicago is ..."), and of course, "The Old Man And The Sea" should sit beside "Moby Dick".  Because I am still unpacking the few remaining boxes, I have neither read a book nor cooked a meal in weeks.  In many ways, I am famished. 

(For the record: that last sentence was written at least a week ago and I am now cooking dinner each evening and reading a juicy Hamish Macbeth mystery by M.C. Beaton called "Death of Yesterday" set in the Scottish Highlands.)

Upstairs Downstairs

Diary of a mad woman: Thursday, March 28, 2013:  I do not know where I live, and recognize only a few items as long-held possessions.  We slept in the downstairs apartment last night, and were each stricken with strenuous fits of restless body syndrome (which beats the leg variety by a mile). This is a predictable occurrence since still roughly 1/4 of the stuff necessary to function down here is still sitting in boxes up there. Why didn't someone warn me this would be a proper little nightmare?

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Tuesday, April 2:  Except for fact that my living-room drapes are still not in place, leaving us walking about in an uncomfortable fish bowl atmosphere, the boxes I filled upstairs are now slowly being unpacked and contents restored to their proper place.  Bags and bags of unwanted, useless, outdated stuff have been removed, leaving us uncluttered for the first time in years.  How clean it is!

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Wednesday, April 3:  More welcome progress: drapes and spirits up, with some beloved framed art work to be brought down tomorrow. Since we are down-sizing, I am still filling boxes with some "every-day" china, but not the delicate tea cups, saucers and pots collected over the years.  With the colossal disruptions of the past month, I was unable to cook a decent meal (lost track of the proper cooking utensils), so we ate lots of take-out.  I feel I must have gained at least 10 lbs of the 20 I shed in February, but that may be an exaggeration.  Just feel heavier and totally exhausted.  On Friday we will have completed the task and will celebrate by uncorking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot which has been patiently chilling since March 5th. 

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Backtracking:

 Professor Judith Tick at Northeastern University asked me to speak to and conduct a Master Class for music and vocal students on Friday, March 22nd and I was happy to do it.  I very much enjoy dialogue with The Young And The Curious and the 35 YACs and I interacted smoothly, making the session highly enjoyable.  I talked about singing and meeting and working with so many luminaries of jazz during my fifty years of active performing, and listened to two young ladies with great promise explore their favorite melodies.  They were able to successfully persuade me to be considerably less squeamish about the future of vocal jazz.

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Also on the evening of the 22nd, after the session with the students, Buck and I went to see the remarkable singing group The New York Voices performing at Sculler's Jazz Club in Boston. Truly on top of their game, it was a sensational program of jazz, sung with their usual extraordinary intensity and musical sensibility. The New York Voices have a new cd, and my earnest exhortation to you is "run out and buy it!"

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My friend Joan Merrill offers a new book titled "And All That Madness" featuring her jazz-loving detective Casey McKie.  Because of my unabashed admiration for Joan's writing skill, combined with her genuine devotion to jazz, I have recommended and trust you have read the four previous novels.  Nothing should dissuade you from continuing your newly-acquired addiction for Joan's mysteries which are saturated with references to jazz venues in and around the San Francisco Bay area, with specific focus on vocal jazz which is the world I know.  Disclaimer: I did write a blurb for Joan's new book and wouldn't change a syllable.  

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A Moving Experience

After living in this third floor flat for 26 years*, we approach the back-breaking labor and genuine stress of sorting through, packing up and tossing out so much worthless stuff.  It's truly amazing how much of it piles up, having passed the expiration date months, if not years ago.  Believe me: we could use a back-hoe for this job.  But we've made a good start anticipating the arrival of the moving company's strapping lads on Tuesday when the serious upheaval and chaos begins.  My husband is a "keeper", so finding old para-mutual tickets from Suffolk Downs dated 1996, or "to-do" lists marked 1986 most definitely qualify for the trash bin.  I am proud of him for giving up these valuable items without a whimper.  Good man. 

One of the nicer aspects of this cleaning out business is the discovery of long-lost bits and odds and ends which are in fact worthy of retention, proper identification and storage.  Among my most recent finds: a written exchange between Barbra Streisand and myself which occurred late in 1967 or very early 1968. Here's the background:

I was living in New York City at the time, and my hairdresser was a skilled and funny man named Mr. Edward.  He was employed at the Revlon Salon on Fifth Avenue.  I saw him on a regular basis.  One day, the place became a bee-hive, abuzz with the word spreading throughout that Barbra Streisand was being prepped, polished and permed in a private room.  "Eddy" knew I'd met Barbra more than once when she and I were both recording for Columbia Records, so I think he wanted me to prove our acquaintanceship by sending her a note, and whether she'd acknowledge same.  Today I found the little piece of paper.  I wrote on one side, she turned it over and replied on the back.  It might be difficult to read my writing, and I've tried to enlarge it to no avail, so I've transcribed both sides:

I wrote:


 Dear Barbra -

I've just been excitedly informed you're here!

We met long ago when I was with Columbia Records -

one night at The Village Vanguard.

Like everyone else, I think it's smashing

you're so successful, and

Happy New Year.

I should have it so good in '68!

Carol Sloane

Here is her charming reply:

Dear Carol -

I remember you & that night very well -

I was so envious that you were going to

California to do a TV show -

You sang & still sing great!

All best wishes to you always -

Barbra

I especially love the part about envying me the trip to LA.  That was for an appearance on The Steve Allen Show, a weekly hodge-podge on ABC, and it was my first trip out there.  Memory tells me it was great fun. 
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*No elevator either.  The identical first-floor apartment became vacant last month, so I hurriedly requested the transfer, and received the okay immediately.  However, just because we'll retain residence in the same building, that doesn't make it any easier: we might as well be relocating to Fargo.  Wonderful film though.  Have you seen it?







































































 

December 12, 1915

If you can honestly say you'd rather hear a melody from the Great Amerian Songbook sung by any male singer other than Frank Sinatra, you needn't read any further. 

On the other hand, if like millions of his fans, you were more than willing to accept his invitation to fly away to exotic lands where a one-man band would toot his flute for you, we can celebrate his birthday on December 12th by remembering the man and the many hours of blemish-free recordings he shared with us, not to mention his films, concert and television appearances. 

I was born in 1937, so the Frank Sinatra of the early 40's, whose singing caused countless teen-aged girls and untold adult females to swoon as he crooned, didn't include me. I feel certain, however, that my infant sensory system absorbed his distinctive sound as it floated into the nursery, emanating from the speaker of our family's never-silent table model Philco.

My parents were fans of the big bands, so my earliest Sinatra experience probably originated with the recordings he made while working with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra.  The radio was the singular source of news and entertainment in the 1930's, and from it we were kept informed of Allied troop movements and other crucial data during the Second World War.  Our spirits were greatly buoyed by the songs that reminded us and the GIs that we'd be sitting under the apple tree when they all came marching home. 

Even in the very early stages of my life, Frank Sinatra impressed me with his phrasing, his sound completely impossible to duplicate: his placement (intonation) was perfect, i.e., he always nailed each note with unwavering accuracy.  He didn't have to add a hint of melisma to help his voice glide with style and grace from one interval to the next because for him, even the most demanding intervals were never more of a challenge than the simple act of breathing.   

His voice reproduced the music as written, and to add to his sonorous appeal, he could also transmit a sense of having experienced the joy or pain of a lyric, always getting the "read" right:

  "It's quarter to three ... there's no one in the place except you and me." 

"Oh, but you're lovely with your smile so warm and your cheek so soft ..." 

"I see your face before me, clouding my every dream ... you are my only theme." 

The young baritone's sound was pure and vibrant, like a cup of strong coffee.  As the voice matured, it became a more potent blend, laced with a shot of Jack Daniels.  His vocal skills became more prodigious, and the intimate nature of his interpretations also reflected his masterful microphone technique.  The voice projected a powerful virility.  It was an understated, irresistible attraction to women.  Men were impressed with his "cool" image, his nonchalant swagger, and the "I'll do it my way" mystique which developed right before our eyes.   

As a singer, my admiration for his precise enunciation and perfect diction knows no bounds.  Superb examples of these distinctive Sinatra vocal components are found in a well-known YouTube clip from 1967 (see below), in which Sinatra and Brazilian composer Antonio Carlos Jobim combine to remind us of the intense emotion which can be created with subtlety, nuance, good taste and laid-back simplicity. 

The video opens with Frank at the beginning of Jobim's famous composition called "Corcovado" (or with Gene Lees' English lyric, "Quiet Nights").  The opening lines conjure a scene ripe for romance.  One can picture a beautiful room with a spectacular view, a couple having spent the day walking and talking, perhaps sharing a glass of wine in this secluded space. "Quiet nights and quiet stars, quiet chords from my guitar", as Sinatra sings them, are some of the most meltingly-seductive lyrics in the history of romantic ballads. 

The medley which follows includes Irving Berlin's "Change Partners", and "I Concentrate On You" by Cole Porter, both sung and played with infinite depth, warmth and affection.

 The video ends with a beguiling duet on what is probably Jobim's most famous song, "The Girl From Ipanema".  If you listen closely, you can hear Frank having a spontaneous fling with a hint of scat behind Jobim's vocal, and there is a charming syncopated moment at the end of the song which obviously delights them both.   

Happy Birthday, Mr. Sinatra.  I truly miss you more than words can say because the standard you set makes it nearly impossible to listen to the many sincere but transparently less qualified who would lay claim to a seat on the Board, much less the one occupied by the Chairman.   

 I think you will love these 6:30 minutes:  

I'm gonna sit write down ...

With a determination most sincere, I have recently re-joined The Jazz Journalists Association hoping that rubbing shoulders metaphorically with such luminaries as Dan Morgenstern, Gary Giddens, Bob Blumenthal, Marc Myers, W. Royal Stokes, Doug Ramsey and David Hajdu, among others, may provide the inspiration I seek. Well, it's worth a try.

Because I am no longer an active performer, I rely on these gifted and discerning writers to keep me informed and curious about new, innovative musicians and singers.  Most of the time, I am disappointed by the latter, and somewhat befuddled by the former, many of whom are prime examples of a famous Jimmy Rowles put-down: "He plays as if he's getting paid by the note."  I am a devoted fan of be-bop in the style of Phil Woods or Bill Charlap or Sonny Rollins, and jazz singers who deliver uncomplicated, preferably scat-free renditions.

My introduction to the great popular and jazz vocalists of the day came to me via the air-waves, and a blessed gift it was. (Please read this previous post)  Some of the singers were members of an elite group of men and women who sat at the corner of the band stand, dressed in formal attire, smiling at the dancing couples fox-trotting past, while awaiting their turn to sing one or more songs. 

The girl vocalists were adorable, fresh and perky (as Variety often described them) as well as accomplished vocalists: Martha Tilton, Peggy Lee, Helen O'Connell, June Christy, Connie Boswell, to name a precious few.  The men were good-looking too with strong, clear voices that appealed to the ladies: Dick Haymes, Billy Eckstine, Johnny Desmond, Ray Eberly and of course, Frank Sinatra.  It was a standard format for any of the big bands of the day.  But they had voices, and had been hired because the band leader knew they could sing any melody, no matter how demanding.  And because they usually sang the songs with strict adherence to melody and tempo as specified on the lead sheet, composers loved them.   

In the late 1940's, with the decline of big-band popularity, small, improvisational jazz groups became the rage, and singers with jazz chops flourished as well. The rarified era of jazz vocals began with the emergence of Sarah Vaughan, Carmen McRae, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, the original Fab Four.  Golden voices, and golden sounds of cash registers ringing up huge revenues from the sale of recordings made by these exceptional talents.  They set the standards so many hoped to emulate. The effort was made, but only a rare few even came close.  And no, I won't name names.  The singers who most impressed me impressed ME, and when I listen to their recorded legacies, I am still in awe.  No one singer was The Best or The Greatest because in art, there can be no such distinction.      

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While thumbing through an issue of SAVEUR dated December, 1997, I found a small item titled "Ella Cooked".  It tells of the donation of her cook book collection to the Schlesinger Library at Radcliffe College in Cambridge, MA.  It is not an outstanding or remarkable collection and some seem never to have been opened.  However, there are a quite a few which are well-thumbed and annotated.  

Recipes were given check marks, one check = "not a big hit", some with four checks, and a concoction found in a slim 1950's hard-cover on "the world's choicest vintages and spirits": a drink called Goddess of Love Cocktail (3/4 jigger Pernod, 1/4 jigger Anisette) on which was bestowed an unprecedented five checks. 

I once asked her if she liked to cook, to which she mumbled a half-hearted "Um ... yeah ... sometimes".  I should clarify that at that moment I was a passenger in the jump seat of the limo driving her from the hotel to the concert venue.  She and her maid/travelling companion had been at swords' point all day, and Pete Cavallo, Ella's road manager, asked me to come along as a sort of deterrent to further heated debate.  The ladies sat in tight-lipped silence during the journey.  I don't think my presence meant much, but at least the steam seemed to subside.  Not a good idea for The First Lady Of Song to try to sing with her blood pressure on the boil. 
 

PS: I don't believe Ella really "messed with the pots".  She did have a full-time cook and a chauffeur, but from all accounts, she did like to read cookbooks.  Those check marks may have been made by her hired chef, indicating a meal that Ella thought especially delicious. 

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Pet Peeve: Singers caught up in themselves

   Example: I once heard a particularly windy version of "What Kind of Fool Am I" sung by a male singer famous not only for his voice but for his dancing, sense of humor, and boundless energy.  The ending was a blow-out of shouted emotion delivered at gale force ferocity, ultimately crashing into the wall with this memorable mangle:

  (Orchestra, loudly, strings swelling ....)

   "And maybe then I'll know ....

    What kind of fool .... (drums building tension)

                   EYE - YAAAAAAAAAMMM"
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         May you all have a great Thanksgiving surrounded by family and friends.