Name a great female singer, any great female singer, and each and every one of them will pale in comparison to Aretha Franklin. They all have their moments of greatness, to be sure. They are all talented within their own rights, possessing style and personality that lets their individuality shine. But none were ever as consistently great as ‘Retha. The proper definition of the word awesome is inspiring awe, that feeling of vast wonderment in the universe and whatever spirit moves you. Aretha Franklin was awesome.
I’m not going to try to explain why. Yes, she had natural talent that was honed by training in gospel choirs and production studios. Yes, she had charisma and grace and the intelligence to change her style with the times. Yes, she was physically beautiful. But there was something else there, something ineffable and intangible. Something in her eyes that told you whatever she felt when she was singing was profound and deep and metaphysical. Supernatural, if you will. It’s the same thing that makes Eric Clapton such an unbelievable guitar player, despite being less technically skilled than many others. There is something that she touches with her voice that almost no other singer of any gender will ever be able to get close to touching.
Many tributes to Aretha will choose “Respect” or “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You),” or even “Natural Woman.” I’ll just leave with this, possibly my favorite of hers. It was just as much about respect for yourself and your fellow human beings as “Respect,” but with a focus not just on the relationship between men and women, but that between blacks and whites. I only wish it weren’t still relevant. After all, Aretha isn’t here to knock some sense into our sorry asses anymore.
I need to start this with the statement that I do not believe anyone younger than I am should be dead. I do not say this to deny the reality that every single day, a multitude of people who have spent less time on this planet than I have–many of them considerably less–die. Dolores O’Riordan, lead singer of the Cranberries, was just 46 when she left this plane on January 15th; I’ll be 49 this coming Saturday. My belief that people younger than me should not be dead is rooted not only in my own fears about mortality, but also my general belief in fairness. And it is simply not fair that people die young.
Once again, my desire for fairness is not rooted in some sort of denial about the reality of the world. There is no philosophy or religion that guarantees fairness in the universe; if there were, I would’ve signed up for it by now. But the arbitrariness of it all makes me feel, well, kind of helpless. Sure, O’Riordan had some health challenges in the last few years, but she was doing okay at the moment and her death was a shock. It must always be a shock to find a seemingly vital and happy person dead on the floor of their hotel bathroom. Add to this the news that Tom Petty’s death was due to an accidental Fentanyl overdose and a young person’s death in the family of someone I know. (My mom has Fentanyl patches for pain relief; obviously I’ll be monitoring her use of them very carefully from now on.) It’s just kind of disheartening.
Which makes the Cranberries’ “Zombie” the perfect song for this mini-memorial. It’s a great tune, but it also expresses the shadows that violence and anger and death cast over everyone in their orbits. It’s about The Troubles in Ireland, about the way politics and religion can be twisted into oppression, about the way we all turn anger into prejudice and prejudice into violence. It’s about how those with power use that power against everyone without it, everyone who is different in some way that they don’t like. In terms of the current presidential administration, it’s a nice little reminder. In terms of a history lesson, it’s a little vague but can be used as a starting off point. In terms of music and mood, it is a black hole. It sucks all the light and the hope out of the room. It is not a denial of reality but an acceptance of it. Sometimes, you just have to sit with the grief and anger, let it flow over you and simply feel it.
Then you get up and get on with life. No, it is not fair and people will always leave this plane too soon. But flowers will still bloom and there will still be joy. You just learn to carry them with you.
No one should be allowed to die this time of year. It’s just too sad. Of course, lots of people do die during the holiday season. Joe Cocker did. John Lennon was robbed of his life in December. My grandmother passed early in December some 20-odd years ago, and it will still go down as the most somber Christmas ever, even more so than last year’s muted celebration after Mom’s cancer diagnosis (but she’s doing okay right now). And let’s not forget all those people who’ve lost everything they had in the SoCal fires this month, with at least one death being directly related to the blazes. But I really hate just adding to the list of sadness this time of year. I want people to celebrate and be happy. To find joy in everything.
So my heart goes out to the friends and family of Smithereens lead singer Pat DiNizio, who passed yesterday at just 62. It’s gonna be a difficult holiday for them (whatever holiday they celebrate. . . I make no presumptions). I hope they can still take joy in knowing that he made a lot of people very happy with his special brand of Rock & Roll.
I like the Smithereens. They were one of the band’s I discovered watching MTV. Or maybe listening to the radio. It’s been long enough that I’m not sure either way. But either way, they were good. Solid. I’m not a big enough fan to need more than their greatest hits, but those songs make me pretty darn happy whenever I hear them. “Behind the Wall of Sleep” has long been my favorite of theirs, an ode to a beautiful bass-playing girl. The sound is chunky and fuzzy and utterly irresistable. As a teenager, this kind of music was all I needed to brighten my mood. Still is. Thanks, Pat.
I really don’t have a lot to say about David Cassidy, except that he made a lot of people really happy. That seems like a pretty awesome thing to leave behind in this world.
This clip, however, reinforces some rather nasty sexist notions. So ignore the scene in front of the song and just enjoy the bubblegum goodness.
You always saw Angus. With his schoolboy uniform and flashy solos, it was kind of impossible to miss him. Or you saw the singer–first Bon, then Brian–all raspy voices, tight jeans, and leering smiles. It didn’t matter which one it was; they were eerily interchangeable. If you were a certain type of fan, you’d watch the drummer at the back. But you almost never saw Malcolm on stage. He was always there, usually just to the singer’s left, bobbing away to the beat and strumming his guitar. Your attention would always be on the flashy exterior, never really realizing that the heart of AC/DC was pounding away unnoticed.
Malcolm Young might not have been responsible for the image AC/DC projected to its fans, but he was largely responsible for their sound. He co-wrote most of the songs you sing along with as they blare from your radio. When it was announced in 2014 that he was permanently retiring from the band because of dementia, family and fans knew it was just a matter of time. That time came a couple days ago when Malcolm left this plane at just 64. He left behind some truly kick ass music. It won’t change the fact that he was too young to go, but at least it gives everyone something to hold on to.
Note: The obligatory obituary post for AC/DC’s Malcolm Young will be coming soon. But I’ve got to get this little rant off my chest first. Plus, I think Malcolm would’ve really enjoyed hearing this tune again.
One of my dear friends on Facebook recently posted this article about some students offended by Steve Martin’s 70s novelty hit “King Tut.” Something about the performance being “blackface” and akin to using the n-word. Assuming they meant that literally, that means they’re assuming Tutankhamun was a black man. That may or may not be the case; depictions of Tut pretty much run the gamut colorwise. But seeing that he was born in a land of much sun, he probably had a bit more melanin in his skin than, say, your average Scandinavian. (Skin color is directly related to how much sun your ancestors were exposed to when evolving. Period.) But the song wasn’t meant as a commentary on race. It was meant as a commentary on the blatant commercialization surrounding the Treasures of Tutankhamun tour. It came to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in 1978, and my family went. (My original post of this song focused on that, written while Daddy the amateur Egyptologist was still around.) It was glorious. And it was also crass and expensive. We alone purchased I don’t know how many silly souvenirs from it. The entire country was gripped with Tut fever at the time. Why shouldn’t Steve Martin have a little fun with it?
Of course, if the instructor of the class had played this version from Saturday Night Live, then they would’ve seen Martin’s introduction and contextualization of the song. If they paid attention. And if they didn’t decide to reflexively get their hackles up over the obvious stereotypes and pure silliness of the song. He wasn’t making fun of Tutankhamun; he was making fun of all the idiots who acted like they knew something about him or ancient Egypt just because of one really spectacular art & artifact tour.
I don’t fault these kids for being aware of the bias against African-Americans in our society. I don’t fault them for trying to fight for equality. I certainly don’t fault them for fighting back against the brutality and violence many black people are faced with every day simply because of the color of their skin. They’re right, dammit. But I do fault them for not understanding the joke in this case. They missed the point. And the instructor probably missed it, too. I imagine this was presented not in the cultural light it was meant to be seen, but as a case of racial stereotyping.
Really, these kids would be offended by pretty much anything from SNL back in the 70s. You know, back when it was kind of offensive. And really, really, really funny. And truly insightful and satirical. They only know about the tame buffooning that they see today. They didn’t watch the good old days when the Not Ready For Prime Time Players and the show’s writers were both vicious and fearless. If they’re offended by “King Tut,” then they really better not ever see the Job Interview skit. They’ll really lose their shit over that one.
Antoine “Fats” Domino has left this world at the age of 89. We were lucky we had him so long. We almost lost him in New Orleans in 2005, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, but he survived and kept making music. We got twelve more years of that wonderful voice and unbelievable smile. (I need to add him to that mental list I have of musicians who love their work so much they can’t contain themselves.) Domino was always smiling at the piano, and even when he wasn’t, you could still see the echo of that smile in his eyes. He was irrepressible.
Domino was also one of the original architects of Rock & Roll. Without his trademark piano style, drawn from the jazz and blues that filled the air in his native New Orleans, the music I and so many others love so much would not have sounded the same. The old guard is dwindling now–just a few of the originals are still out there. But the music is still as vital and alive as it was decades ago.
If you’ve got some time to kill and want to be truly entertained, watch the episode of American Masters devoted to Domino. You will not be sorry to have spent an hour in the presence of this lovely, talented human.
Yesterday I did my laundry, folded it, and put it away. I read a couple of the articles for this week’s unit in my class. I ate leftover spaghetti for dinner and finished off a nice bottle of Spanish wine. I watched the news. And when Rita Wilde on 100.3 announced that Tom Petty had finally passed on a little before nine pm last night, I cried for ten minutes.
While I consciously cried over losing the voice and physical energy of one of my favorite musicians ever, I also cried all the tears I’d been holding in over what happened the night before in Las Vegas. People doing nothing more than enjoying music were targeted and gunned down for no discernible reason. And I’m still sitting on all the grief and anger I feel over that. (I’m not doing that rant again; it’s just too damn much right now.) I still want to cry. I still might. I slept with a teddy bear last night, which I probably won’t do again. At least not tonight.
I went to yoga class this morning. It’s a “gentle” class, so most of what we do is on the floor. I felt unbalanced and uncentered the whole time, like I was leaning just a little bit to one side or the other. I couldn’t get any equilibrium. I still feel that way. I still feel just a little bit like a hole has been torn into me. It’s going to take a long time for the space Tom left behind will be refilled.
It will, though. I will regain my psychic footing, put together more coherent thoughts, make it through one of his songs without bursting into tears. that’s how the Universe works. Nothing is ever really lost. His energy is still there. And I can still reach out and hold it in my heart.
I dug out the iPod so I could listen to Tom while I was watching the football game last night. For whatever reason, I gravitated to the softer songs. I cried then, too, but it felt like a balm on the wound. This is one of my all-time favorites, from the second Hearbreakers’ album, You’re Gonna Get It. A gentle song about moving on. Time to start doing that.
When I was thirteen, I walked up to the counter at Big Ben’s music store and asked “Who is this?” The bored clerk pointed to the red and black album displayed on the counter and said “Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.” I was stone cold in love from that moment on.
No, he wasn’t especially good-looking. But there was a gleam in his eye and a sly grin on his face that told you all you needed to know. He was funny and sexy and he never took anything, especially himself, all that seriously. Except the music. He always took the music seriously.
I remember an interview with Petty back in the 90s. He told his parents he was leaving school to become a musician. His father said he might want to get an education anyway, just in case he needed something to fall back on. But Petty replied, “I won’t fall back.” There were a lot of rough times at the beginning, but he was right. Tom Petty never fell back, he never backed down, and we have all his wonderful music because of it.
The song that was playing in the store when I was thirteen was “You Got Lucky.” I was lucky my parents wanted to rent a movie that night so I could hear that song on the store’s PA system. It’s still my favorite.
I’ve always been a Bob Mould kind of girl, and he’ll always be my favorite from Husker Du. But hearing of Grant Hart’s passing today was heartbreaking. He was Mould’s perfect foil and partner in art. He was also the kind of drummer I like best: clean and economical, even within the ramshackle chaos that marked much of Husker Du’s oeuvre. I really should say more, but I don’t know how (Rob Sheffield sure as hell does, though). This loss makes me so damn sad. Like the song says, it’s not funny anymore.