Southern Bookman

Documentary gives inspiring portrait of Quincy Jones

Frank Sinatra and Michael Jackson represent shifting tides in American popular music.

The pop superstars from different generations and musical styles shared a guiding presence who understood the underlying dynamics of the country's mainstream audience: Quincy Jones.

Jones' career as musician, composer, arranger, producer and unerring hit maker is celebrated in the Netflix documentary "Quincy," directed and written by his daughter, Rashida Jones, whose mother was Peggy Lipton, known for playing Julie Barnes on "The Mod Squad." 

An adoring companion to her father, Rashida, an accomplished actress and film-maker, adds dramatic resonance to the film.

Amazingly, Jones also discovered Lesley Gore, whose teenage pop confections "It's My Party" and "It's Judy's Turn to Cry" were derided as showing rock's decline in the early 1960s when Elvis joined the Army and before the British invasion. Now, the songs are considered classics.

The documentary traces Jones' rise from Chicago's impoverished and violent Chicago South Side to powerful musical mogul.

His obsessive devotion to his work comes at the cost of several marriages, including a 14-year union with Lipton, who gave up her acting career to raise Rashida and another daughter. Jones' voracious work ethic comes with relentless womanizing and alcohol and drug abuse.

A reckoning arrives when the over-80-year-old Jones suffers a diabetic stroke. The film's dramatic appeal is heightened by Jones' recovery from the life-threatening event, along with a later heart attack. Earlier in his career, while married to Lipton, Davis underwent surgery for two brain aneurysms, one of which left him unconscious.

The aging Davis' near-death experience underscores a main theme of mortality. He often expresses sorrow over the deaths of musicians with whom he'd worked.

Another motif is family; Davis is shown at gatherings with his children and grandchildren. He often regrets his failed marriages, especially with Lipton.

After giving up alcohol and improving his diet, the 86-year-old Davis is shown producing the stirring concert marking the opening of the Smithsonian's National Museum of African-American History and Culture before the 2016 presidential election.

That joyful moment at the close of the Obama administration brings the film to an inspiring conclusion. Sadly, the election of Donald Trump, the George Floyd death and the attack on the U.S. Capitol would show the persistence of American racism.

But Davis, at age 88, is still producing music. The film highlights his reaching out to rising musicians. His production company's web site shows a deep roster of young talent.

Jones' work has spanned musical genres and generations. "Quincy" affirms the American dream.

 

 

 

 

 

Suffering with Alzheimer's, Tony Bennett gave all to his fans

Tony Bennett's Valentine's Day concert at Atlanta's Symphony Hall last year was our last public event before the Covid lockdown.

The 94-year-old singer gave a marvelous performance before a festive, romantic crowd. Here is my Southern Bookman post about that memorable night.

It turns out the entertainer put on the magical show while suffering from Alzheimer's disease. His family recently told the AARP magazine that Bennett received his diagnosis about the disease in 2016.

Before covid, Bennett kept performing and recording albums, including duets with Lady Gaga. He made his last public appearance last March.

With the pandemic surging and his condition worsening, it's unlikely he'll perform again.

While forgetting names in his daily life and displaying confusion about everyday duties, Bennett has kept singing, remembering the lyrics to his classic songs.

Bennett still rehearses a couple of times a week, and does his daily vocal exercises. His family says he's been spared the depression and rage associated with the disease. As with the late Glen Campbell, who died of Alzheimer's, Bennett hasn't lost his music.

When he performed, the love between him and his fans was unforgettable. That kept him going night after night.

 

 

 

Rereading James Joyce’s “The Dead”

I once again reread James Joyce's "The Dead" to start the new year, although I'd thought I would give up my annual ritual.

After all of these years, I suppose I thought Joyce's story had no more to tell me.

But with the pandemic overwhelming hospitals, political turmoil boiling and the impending climax of momentous Senate elections in Georgia, I turned once again to the timeliness of the Misses Morkans' annual Christmastime dance in early 20th century Dublin.

Once again, I found the story new. It's changed over the years.

Almost as long as a novella, "The Dead" concludes Joyce's "The Dubliners," the brilliant short story collection that began his evisceration of his native city that continued with "The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man," "Ulysses" and "Finnegan's Wake." For me, "The Dubliners" is his most precise portrait of the Irish city and its people.

I first read "The Dead" when I was Joyce's age when he wrote the story while in exile in Rome. I nurtured similar youthful ambitions.

As I grew older, I more and more identified with the story's main character, Gabriel Conroy, as he enters middle age.

Now, I have reached the age of the elderly sisters who give the party each year, looking back on their lives.

The story opens with a wide lens on the gathering at the Morkan sisters' house, then closes in on the intimacy of Gabriel and Gretta Conroy's marriage.

In the final scene, in a Dublin hotel room as snow falls outside, Gabriel's sexual longing for his wife is frustrated by her memory of her first love, a young man whom she believes died for her.

Her memory of the young Michael Furey is triggered at the party's end by the tenor "Mr. Bartell D'Arcy" singing "The Lass of Aughim," the same song that Furey sang for her when he caught pneumonia.

The story closes with Gabriel contemplating human mortality as he watches the snow fall beyond the hotel room window:

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

When I read the story this time, I found a new poignancy in the conversation between Gabriel and Gretta at the party after he's had a confrontation with his colleague Molly Ivors. Ivors accuses him of being a "West Briton" for not wanting to travel in Ireland.

"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel.

"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?"

"No row. Why? Did she say so?"

"Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's full of conceit, I think."

"There was no row," said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me to go for a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't."

His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.

"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again."

Gretta's simple reference to her native region shows Joyce's genius, foreshadowing the story's conclusion by signaling a depth of associations.

The story is a meditation on history and how it intersects with our lives. During the story, issues of the day surface, many long-forgotten, others still weighing upon us, such as British-Irish relations.

Reading the story, I was reassured that political crises reaching a climax this week will subside.

"The Dead" affirms the enduring power of love and art.

 

Farewell, Chad Stuart

I rediscovered Chad and Jeremy's pop confection "A Summer Song" when it played during a Coors Beer commercial a couple of years ago.

Following the death of the duo's Chad Stuart this week at age 79, I've been enthralled by You Tube versions of the song.

With its distinctive guitar riff, lush orchestration, haunting lyrics and tight vocal harmonies, the 1964 hit endures as one of the classics of the "British invasion."

The song is among those I dismissed in my rock-snob youth. Now I appreciate the musical craft of many of those Top-40, AM radio hits I shunned back then. Sirius XM Radio's '60s channel acclaims that the era's pop music matches the quality of  "the American songbook."

Stuart, who co-wrote "A Summer Song" and Chad and Jeremy's other major hit, "Yesterday's Gone," was the duo's main musical creator. He and Jeremy Clyde had more success in the United States than in their native country, because Clyde was the grandson of the Duke of Wellington and working-class British audiences disliked aristocrats in pop music.

Formed in 1962, the band broke up in 1968 when Clyde pursued his acting ambitions on London's West End. But the duo came back together in the 1980s with the rise of 1960s rock nostalgia.

"A September Song" exudes that longing for youth and simpler times. But there's a deeper maturity in its musical sophistication.

 

 

 

 

New York Times' Anthony Tommasini won't give up his compact discs

New York Times classical music critic Anthony Tommasini in a Thursday essay vowed to hold on to his thousands of compact discs.

As the owner of many CDs, more rock, jazz, country and Americana-oriented than Tommasini's, I welcomed the support from a fellow pack rat. Tommasini also defended keeping old vinyl records, which I also possess from my college days.

For years, I've loved Tommasini's reviews and learned essays on composers, especially those not well-known. His essay affirmed art's power to enrich our lives.

When Tommasini recalled buying many of his CDs at the Harvard Co-Op at Harvard Square in Cambridge, Mass., across the Charles River from Boston, I felt the thrill of recognition.

Over the years, I've spent many happy hours at the co-op, as well as several other wonderful bookstores lining Harvard Square, one of my favorite places in the world.

Along with browsing and buying books at the co-op, I fondly remember eating lunch there one day, standing in the cafeteria line with Harvard students and professors. The stew was delicious, along with the overheard conversations.

Tommasini points out that the younger generation now listens to music through streaming services, as does his husband, Ben. I enjoy YouTube music videos, but haven't yet warmed up to services such as Spotify. Like Tommasini, I still enjoy going back to my CD collection for old favorites.

And, I keep buying new ones to add to those overflowing their ramshackle shelves. Perhaps I should adapt Tommasini's rule, imposed by Ben, that for every CD bought, one will be given away.

Tommasini also upheld the pleasures of reading old-fashioned books. I've also come to appreciate the convenience of e-readers. But I'm still a print creature.

Hey, Tony, I read your piece in the newspaper printed on paper, delivered to my driveway in the pre-dawn darkness each morning so that I can look up to see the moon, stars and planets. I don't even know the password for the Times' online publication, if that's the word.

Although I have a couple of turntables, I haven't returned to playing vinyl. I sometimes think of selling my vinyl record collection, which includes treasures like the original-cover Blind Faith album, but hold on to them year after year. And what about those cassette and VHS tapes? My house is a museum, or graveyard, of obsolete technology.

Thanks to Tommasini, I don't feel so alone and obsolescent myself in this de-clutter age. Anybody want a Moby Grape album?

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering John Lennon, 40 years after his death

On the 40th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, the world hurtles further away from his message of peace and love.

In the years since Lennon was fatally shot outside of his home in New York City, humanity has failed to control carbon emissions and head off climate change.

Storms, fires and drought have worsened. Littered with plastic, the oceans turn acidic and sea levels rise as global ice melts. More and more species head toward extinction, and massive migrations proliferate as people flee deteriorating habitats.

Wars have multiplied, killing millions. The Cold War ended, but China and Russia turned from cooperative to threatening. North Korea, Iran, India and Pakistan bring nuclear holocaust closer. Racism, religious intolerance and political conflict explode.

Lennon's shocking death marked the end of youth for many in my generation. We were entering our 30s, launching families and careers.

But as we joined the "silent majority," we still kept Lennon's vision alive, even as the election of Ronald Reagan launched an era of bitter partisan politics, and the abandonment of bold progressive programs like those enacted during the Johnson and Nixon administrations. 

A new generation of young people gives the world what might be its last hope to survive climate change and nuclear war. They probably don't know much about Lennon, but they still sing his songs.

 

Alex Winter's "Zappa" captures musician's multi-faceted career

Frank Zappa was a singular figure in American culture.

Zappa exulted in rock stardom while sneering at its lifestyle. A counterculture hero, he condemned drug use and lampooned the hippie ethos.

As the leader of the Mothers of Invention, he wrote R&B and rock pastiches that stand on their on as memorable music.

A rock guitar virtuoso, he gained increasing acclaim as a serious avant garde composer. Unlike many pop musicians, Zappa had a taste for business.

Zappa's concerts, developed in appearances in 1967 at New York City’s Garrick Theater, encompassed theatrical elements. Rather than alienating the audience, his insulting surrealistic comedy drew appreciation.

Alex Winter's documentary "Zappa" captures the multitudes of the musician and social critic's career. From home movies in Zappa's youth to his final triumphs as First Amendment defender and champion of Czech independence, the film portrays a heroic life.

Interviews recorded before Zappa's death in 1993 at age 52 from prostate cancer show a saintly man transformed from his egocentric rock star days.

The most astonishing scenes show Zappa leading a visitor through a massive home vault that holds an extensive collection of film, audiotapes and album recordings. Even daily events such as a visit from Eric Clapton are registered on the tapes, which fill a warren of shelves.

Winter said in media reports that even before filming, the production company spent two years preserving deteriorating materials.

While Winter avoids interviews with academics or critics assessing Zappa's legacy, Mothers of Invention members give riveting memories of playing for the perfectionistic, often caustic Zappa.

While admitting that Zappa could be a cruel leader, percussionist Ruth Underwood gives moving testimony to Zappa's artistic commitment. She tells how Zappa before his death expressed his love for her. Guitarist Steve Vai also stands out with his portrait of Zappa's complex personality.

But the star is Zappa's widow, Gail, who died before the film's release. Gail Zappa tells how Zappa ranged from rock hedonism to committed father to the couple's four children and details how they sought independence by launching record companies from Straight and Bizarre to Barking Pumpkin. She also recalls taking care of all aspects of a mail-order merchandise operation.

In a heart-warming moment, Zappa's daughter, Moon Unit, writes him a letter asking him to spend more time with her. That leads to him and Moon recording "Valley Girls," Zappa's only mainstream hit.

The show touches upon Zappa's high school friendship with Don Van Vliet, a fellow connoisseur of rhythm and blues. But Winter doesn't examine Van Vliet's recording as Captain Beefheart the groundbreaking experimental album "Trout Mask Replica," partially produced by Zappa and released on his Straight Records.

Nor does Winter discuss Zappa's importance as a record executive in introducing Lenny Bruce to a wider audience with the live recording of Bruce's Berkeley Concert, also on the Straight label. The film briefly cites the Mothers of Invention appearing with the subversive comedian, but ignores Zappa's broadening Bruce's fame.

A brief mention is made of Larry "Wild Man" Fischer, a mentally ill street person who sang his erratic songs in front of  Los Angeles nightclubs. Zappa also recorded Fischer for Straight Records, a sociological experiment that edged toward exploitation.

Alice Cooper was another discovery, fully covered with a warm tribute from Cooper to Zappa.

Extensive interviews with Zappa show his progress from long-haired iconoclast and rock hedonist to respected First Amendment spokesman, appearing before Congress in suit and tie and conservative haircut.

Zappa was the only pop musician who spoke out against an effort to label albums that contained violent or sexually explicit lyrics.

Susan Baker, the wife of Secretary of State James Baker, and Tipper Gore, wife of then Sen. Al Gore, led the campaign, which Zappa branded as censorship.

The film focuses on Susan Baker, curiously not mentioning Tipper Gore, although she is shown sitting beside Mrs. Baker at a committee hearing. And Al Gore is shown favoring Zappa's proposal to print lyrics on album covers.

In a poignant moment, Zappa in an interview mildly criticizes Bruce Springsteen and Prince for not speaking out on the issue. He points out that Springsteen and Prince would be directly affected by the labeling. In the clip, Zappa shows the melancholy air of an older musical generation seeing its time fade away.

The film reaches thrilling heights with Zappa's triumphant visit to the Czech Republic following the country's “Velvet Revolution" to gain freedom from the Soviet Union.

Playwright and Czech leader Vaclav Havel, crediting Zappa's music for inspiring the revolution, names Zappa as the country's trade representative to the United States. But Winter claims that James Baker pressured Havel to remove Zappa from the post.

A recurring theme is that Zappa heard his compositions in his head, and was never satisfied with performances and recordings.

Before his death, the German group Ensemble Modern devoted itself to his music, rising to his expectations.

The final scenes capture Zappa's serenity during rehearsals with Ensemble Modern. In his last concert, he seems to have found transcendent joy.

 

 

 

Charlie Brown holiday classics headed to public TV

A bit of good news emerged amid Trump's scorched earth exit and the raging Covid 19 pandemic.

The beloved Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and Christmas specials will be shown on public television this year as well as Apple's subscription-based streaming channel.

Broadcast on commercial networks for years, cartoonist Charles Schultz's TV classics were to be shown only on the Apple + channel until public outcry resulted in Apple reaching a deal with PBS to broadcast the shows.

The Thanksgiving show will air on PBS Sunday, and the Christmas special featuring Vince Guaraldi's haunting jazz score Dec. 13. The shows will also be offered on Apple +, including times of free viewing.

Alas, the agreement arrived too late for the Charlie Brown Halloween special and the Great Pumpkin, absent from the public airwaves this autumn. Maybe next year, big boy.

Charlie Brown's Christmas includes a Bible verse and the singing of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."

But the widespread love for the show likely will head off any protest about it being shown on a channel partially funded by taxpayers.

We only hope that PBS avoids any temptation to carry out pledge drives.

 

 

Luc Sante recalls days on New York City's gritty Lower East Side

Luc Sante delivers vintage Lower East Side nostalgia in "Maybe the People Would Be the Times."

The collection of musical, literary and art reviews, profiles, autobiographical essays and fictional meditations looks back at Sante's days in the gritty New York City neighborhood during the 1970s and 1980s.

Before gentrification conquered the area, it was home to avant garde artists, poets and writers and punk musicians who loved the rank air of freedom on the crime-ridden streets.

While some of the pieces bog down in self-indulgent, meandering prose, Sante gives a fresh take on often covered subjects such as Patti Smith, CBGB, David Wojnarowicz and Rene Ricard.

Sante shines a light on obscure bands, albums and songs. His jazzy, insular language evokes the era's gauzy, dreamy atmosphere.

Nostalgia for the times and the ravaged neighborhood is a flourishing subgenre. Sante's hip writing will be treasured by his dedicated fans. Despite its narrow focus, the book offers pleasures for a wider readership, even at its most experimental.

Farewell, Billy Joe Shaver

We're losing musical legends at a distressing pace.

Soon after the death of Jerry Jeff Walker, supreme country songwriter and performer Billy Joe Shaver died Tuesday in Waco, Texas of a massive stroke at age 81.

Willie Nelson acknowledged Shaver as the best songwriter in Texas, and Shaver compositions like "Old Five and Dimers Like Me" go beyond country conventions to achieve poetry.

Shaver's wrote 10 of the 12 songs on Waylon Jennings' groundbreaking "outlaw country" album, "Honky Tonk Heroes."  The title song, written by Shaver, is one of Jennings' signature numbers.

While Shaver never made it big as a performer, his songs were recorded by an all-star cast including Nelson, Emmy Lou Harris and Elvis Presley.

Like Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers, Merle Haggard and Nelson, Shaver possessed the gift of expressing universal emotions in memorable lines. Fans at concerts sang along with his words, as if they had written them.

Shaver really lived on the edges, battling alcoholism, drug abuse and violent bar-room encounters.

His raffish personality masked a songwriter of rare sensitivity and subtle language. He also had a gift for simple but unforgettable melodies.

Jerry Jeff Walker and Billie Joe Shaver gone in one week. They survived a lot of good times and hard times, and left us beautiful music.