Ric Ocasek has passed away and another legend has left this realm to jam in Rock N Roll heaven. He was 75.
I once had a brief conversation with Ocasek back in the early-1990s, about a decade or so after the video for “Drive” was an MTV ubiquity, and after the song itself had become (and remains) one of the greatest rock ballads of all time.
Ocasek and his then-wife, Paulina Porizkova, were frequent shoppers at Tower Records, on 4th and Broadway, and one evening, while supervising the Rock floor for one of the other supervisors who called out sick, the couple were perusing the the racks and I saw my chance to chat with him. After the obligatory small talk of me telling him how much I loved The Cars, and what his music meant to me, I said to him “…and I appreciate that you were smart enough to know that Ben was a better singer, so you gave him “Drive.” You composed one of the greats, and giving it to his mellifluous voice, rather than yours, solidified its eternal classic status!”
Instantly, I realized that what I said could have been misconstrued as an insult, and I immediately started stammering, “Oh, no, no, no, I didn’t mean…I mean, you’re great too, but…you know…”, blubbering some gobbledygook I don’t even remember. When I finally shut up, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. It lasted a second, but felt like 5 minutes. I thought I pissed him off, but he said, “You’re right.” And then he and Paulina smiled and walked away.
I don’t know if he just wanted to shut me up, if he actually agreed with me, if he thought I was a fool, or if he was being nice to the stuttering idiot trying to explain himself, but at that moment I knew that Ocasek was one of the coolest “rock stars” I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
Also, as displayed in the below video – where he performed an acoustic version for a select audience in 2005 – his voice suited “Drive,” if not definitively, just lovely still.
Ocasek’s written (and yes, sang) some of the greatest songs of my youth, and he’s been a prolific producer, painter, and even a poet. The Ben I spoke of was, of course, bassist Benjamin Orr, who sadly died back in October of 2000, and who, again of course, also sang lead on other Cars classics.
Whenever I hear “Drive” – or watch its haunting video – it brings me back to my beloved Tower Records days, a moment in time frozen in my memory. And it always reminds me of how much I loved – and will always love – The Cars.
(I wrote this in 2012 for Adam’s 34th birthday, upon discovering that he had died a few years prior, never having the chance to say goodbye. I’ve removed older post when reconfiguring MyNewBoyfriend, but decided to continue with these, for Adam…)
Adam Forgetta and I met 18 years ago during a brisk and stinging winter morning. It sounds like a cliché, I know, but it’s actually true. I was standing on a near-empty underground subway platform at Church Avenue waiting for the F train, when, from the corner of my eye I noticed a young man (who vaguely resembled a young, handsome male version of Sandra Bernhard) bopping and sing-whispering aloud to Guns N Roses, with a pair of drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket. I don’t recall who initiated the conversation, or what our first words were, but I remember, after giving him the thumbs up for his pseudo-public performance, he smiled, took his headphones off and we started speaking. Soon subsequently, he and I were at my apartment – Guns N Roses was his favorite band, Axl Rose his favorite singer, and he was in awe of my massive CD collection that I “acquired” while at my recent past tenure at Tower Records. As a fellow music lover he was enthralled spelunking the thousands of titles (especially those G ‘n R imports) packed in my small one room apartment.
The above photo was taken on March 9, 1994 in that Bensonhurst, Brooklyn apartment on Bay Ridge Parkway and 17th avenue not too many months after we met. Unemployed at the time, living off my “savings” from Tower, we spent limitless days lounging about. We kept each other company through that cold winter, lunching on microwavable hamburgers and diet Coke from the corner deli up the block on 18th avenue, traipsing through the snow to Manhattan to check out new CD releases from the copious import stores that saturated the East Village. We strolled to Bay Ridge in the springtime and sat along the water, people watching, dreaming. We excitedly talked of buying bikes so we could pedal to the Verrazano Bridge to enjoy the exercise and the view. I told him about my friend, Kenny Joseph, who took his life many years ago by leaping, and how the bridge has become, for me, a sort of sanctuary for contemplation, even amidst the clamor of the traffic above. The holidays swiftly came and went, and we enjoyed visiting the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, with the hopes that the imminent New Year would bring forth happiness. I loved teaching him everything I knew about music, movies, life, politics, and I loved him, soul deep.
Through this all, and right after his birthday the following year, the eventual had happened.
Age never really mattered to me, up to some point (his actual age was definitely something I never pursued – my range was always a +10/-5 year circumference). But the age he told me he was upon our meeting (20) – and appeared to be, in all his emotional and personable fortitude – was not what the truth was; there was more than a decade difference between us, I knew, and though he was younger, I did not think he was a teenager still. I was confused after I found out the truth – and angry (for a little while) – but I was thankful, too, that, when the eventual actually occurred, he was of legal age in New York. But it didn’t distill my uncomfortability with it, and that part of our friendship was instantly halted. It didn’t matter to either of us – after all, we weren’t “a couple” – we were friends who, after spending a year as such, extended the boundaries; out of love, out of brotherhood, out of boredom too. And…if it was beautiful, then how could it have been wrong? (It really wasn’t.)
I never thought Adam was gay, despite our relationship – I knew he had been with other men, usually older, but he spoke so often about girls that I figured any same-sex dalliances were merely that of the heightened hormones of a horny teenager. Before I knew his real age, he told me he was bisexual, and I accepted that, knowing even then that ours was a temporary sexuality – and one that was merely that extension of friendship rather than a torrid romance. I loved him, but I was never in love with him. And vice versa.
I started working shortly thereafter at Merlite Industries, a costume jewelry catalog company based in Chelsea, and our times together grew more fleeting, though we made our efforts to see each other whenever able. Over the next year or two, we saw each other as often as we could – even after I moved in with a roommate to a larger apartment not too far away from my previous one and sporadically beyond that.
Sadly, as time progressed, Adam had virtually disappeared. Our visits were more and more infrequent, our phone calls halted completely (it didn’t help that he no longer had one). The last time I had spoken to him, he was living with an older woman and her two children. He sounded happy, despite their age difference (funny, huh?), and I was happy for him. He was 18 at that time, I surmise. As I hugged him goodbye, I kissed his cheek and said, “I miss you, man!” He replied, almost bittersweetly, “I know. Me too.” We paused a little longer mid-embrace, and then he walked out the door, heading home.
If I had only known…
Despite the years-long hiatus, I’ve often searched for Adam. I had no phone number for he had no phone; his previous address left no forwarding one. When I finally purchased a computer in 2000-2001, I began, in vain, my quest. I spelunked Yahoo and AOL chat rooms, on Guns N Roses fan message boards. With the advent of “social media,” I would peruse Friendster and MySpace then later Facebook and Google, all grasping onto the hope that Adam took to this new form of technology.
But the reason he was intangible breaks my heart, still.
In May of 2011, like an epiphany, I remembered Adam had an older sister – he talked of her fondly years before and I loved that her name was “Starr”. So I looked up Starr on Facebook on a hopeful whim and there she was! I eagerly wrote:
Hi Starr – forgive my intrusion but I was wondering if you were related to Adam Forgetta. He’s an old friend of mine from back in the 1990s and we’ve lost contact over the years. I know “Adam” is a common name, so let me describe my friend Adam – he was about 5’9 – reddish curly hair, a HUGE Guns N Roses fan (big music fan in general). He’d be in his early 30s now, as I knew him when he was a teenager. If Adam is indeed a relative of yours, can you please let him know that his old friend from Bensonhurst Jeffrey (the music man with 8,000 CDs) has been looking for him for a few years…and if he is indeed a relative, please let me know and I will give you my number so you can give it to Adam. If Adam is not related to you, please let me know as well. Thanx for your time…I hope to hear back from you soon. ~jeffrey
She replied with the worst words I never wanted to – or expected to – hear:
I’m his sister and he passed away in 2004. U can call me at xxxxxx
I momentarily froze. My hands quivered and I sobbed uncontrollably. Through the tremors, I responded:
I can’t talk…I’m in tears…I will call, but I can’t now…too emotional…how did he pass…?
Ur going make me cry! I loved my brother very much. He died from HIV and cancer and he left a set of twins behind, a boy and girl. They’re 9 years old now…
Oh my…I am so sorry for your loss…I didn’t mean to make you cry. I loved your brother…he was special to me and when we lost contact a piece of my heart left…I still have photos of him from a few parties I threw…Oh, Adam!!! I am weeping so hard… I’ve looked for him for years…I wish I never lost touch…oh, sweet, sweet Adam!
I called Starr after I composed myself and we spoke – and through our tears she told me the tale of her brother’s later life, of the woman who had given him HIV, his twins he loved so much, the AIDS-related cancer he had finally succumbed to. How it was 7 years since he died and how she misses her brother beyond comprehensive words and how she longs to embrace her twin niece and nephew, Adam’s children. She told me of the tattoo she had made in her brother’s honor so he would forever be with her. She told me if I Googled his name, I would find his death notice. I have Googled his name in the past, and always came up with nothing. After we hung up, I did so again. And there, like a serrated blade, it was. So I wept again.
I know it’s a cliché to say it, but there really aren’t words to convey the prodigious size of the hole in my heart. I had prayed to a god I don’t believe in that the aforementioned hiatus would be just that…that I would find my long-ago lost, itinerant child…that I would embrace him and feel that breathtaking hug of his, and to again smell his hair while doing so (which he always thought was weird, and we’d laugh); that, speaking of laughs, we would have a few good ones at the expense of his favorite singer’s eccentricity (though there’s no doubt Adam’s love for Axl would not have waned). I had always expected that I would see him, rocking down the street, air-drumming with those drumsticks he was rarely – if ever – without (they were his security blanket, his constant thread to his reality. And you wouldn’t recognize it instantly, but he’s twirling those beaters in the photo above). I anticipated the ensuing day I would hear the tales of his happy life, perhaps of a wife and kids, or a partner or husband. I fervently awaited the tales of how he had filled the missing years that separated our tangibility, but not our brotherhood or bond.
I just assumed that, given time…he would just…be here.
But, these are now evaporated aspirations, jolting evanescences, discarded dreams. Oh, if only I had tried much harder…used any resources at my disposal, extended my searches. I never should have allowed those expanses that life jettisons at us to allow him to slip away. If I tried more powerfully, perchance he would still…be here.
Maybe, if we remained tangible, I could have, at the very least, held his hand when he left us.
I recently dreamed of Adam, almost a year after receiving the news, and one of a myriad of dreams he’s haunted for years and years. These dreams were always surreal, unexplainable, but commonly; they very rarely altered – they were of Adam and I doing what we’ve always done as friends, as if time were not merely a ghost. This time was different, though. I remember reaching out, imploring to him, “Don’t go…stay, Adam…” And he smiled that goofy, glorious grin, enveloped me in his arms and said, “I love you man. Always have, always will…”
Drenched in tears, with the sunlight bathing my face, I woke up smiling.
I don’t believe that dreams are anything other than our subconscious minds working overtime to get us through the night. But…that embrace…maybe, just maybe.
So, Adam, here’s to you on your (34th ) (35th) (36th) (37th) (38th) (39th) (40th) 41st birthday. You are forever tattooed on my heart, and will always reside within the storehouse of my soul, for as long as I shall live…and beyond…
On your grave, I will lie, it’s the closest I will get to touching you again. I will kiss the dirt, make love to the stone…I will always remember you…
…especially during those cold November rains…
I recently reached out to Starr again and asked if she had any other photos, but most were long gone. She sent me the only two she had – of Adam and his son, Adam Jr., from 2001, and a childhood Christmas photo with Adam grinning with the heart of the holidays. Hindsight can make one despondent at times, but I wish I had known to take more photos of us. Selfies, digital cameras, iPhones – all pipe dreams from SciFi films. We lived life sans the technology.
The other one is a photo I found in my archives of a New Year’s Eve party, with Adam on the far right looking bemused at my party antics.
Moments frozen in time…etched in our memories, eternal.
Buttered Soul Pop is how I once described his emotional, sweet, passionate baritone voice…and now it – one of my favorite vocalists – is silenced at 66.
Rest peacefully, James Ingram.
Here he is in 1981 on “Soul Train” singing one of his (many) signature songs (and one of my eternal favorites), “Just Once.” Yes, it’s lip-synced (all Soul Train performances were), but no less magical.
James Ingram performs Just Once on Soul Train, 1982
Of course we all loved him as Lennie Briscoe on Law & Order, a role he played for 12 years before succumbing to prostate cancer. But many of us, who are old enough, have loved Jerry Orbach for years prior, whether as a leading song-and-dance man on Broadway (he originated the role of Billy Flynn in Chicago, and his Tony-winning role as Chuck Baxter in Promises, Promises), as a great character actor (amongst my favorites was as Jack Rosenthal, a gangster who’s hired by his brother-in-law to get rid of his mistress, in the 2nd best Woody Allen movie, Crimes & Misdemeanors), and of course as the unforgettable voice of Lumiere, the candelabrum, in my favorite Disney musical, Beauty & The Beast). A few of many, many others.
One of his earliest roles was, in 1960, as El Gallo, the narrator/bandit from the classic musical, The Fantastiks. And from that show came this gorgeous song. I’ll never tire of watching Orbach on TV or in the movies. And I’ll never tire of hearing him sing one of my very favorite songs, “Try To Remember” (performed here in 1982 on the TV special Night of 100 Stars).
Orbach was taken away from us (#FuckCancer) on this December 28, in 2004.
“Deep in December, our hearts should remember…then follow…”
Aretha, at home in New York by Moneta Sleet Jr. 1974
Smarter, far more eloquent people than I will write smarter, far more eloquent tributes to Aretha Franklin than I’ll ever be able to, but anyone who knows me knows what her voice and her music has meant to me my whole life. To say I am gutted in an understatement.
On her 75th birthday, last year, I posted a photo of the Queen and wrote,
“When it’s asked of me who I believe to be the greatest voice of the Rock and Roll era, I immediately say, without hesitation, the Queen of Soul. I’ve stated such for decades (and felt vindicated when Rolling Stone magazine heralded Her Highness with the same accolade). Here’s to a spectacular Happy 75th Birthday to the unparalleled Aretha Franklin!”
In 2015, when she performed “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” for the Carole King tribute at the Kennedy Center Honors – which is now legendary – I wrote,
“To me, the greatest female voice in pop music history is Aretha Franklin’s. When it comes to her early years (post-Columbia, particularly during her Atlantic reign during the 70s) there wasn’t a pop, rock, soul or gospel singer alive who came close to joining her on her pantheon. In recent years, due to health issues, as well as her age, her range has hindered, as her top voice was almost non-existent, her breath control shaky, and her choices were more than a little peculiar. Well, I’ll be damned if she didn’t just prove why she is still THE Queen. She just tore the roof off the fucking joint celebrating Carole King – instilling her performance of “(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman” with that natural, raw power she hasn’t mustered in almost 2 decades. This was the best I’ve heard Aretha in years. YEARS. Brava, Aretha. BRAVA!”
There is a plethora of Aretha performance videos to spelunk online, to splendor in her majesty, to marvel at her technique, to engulf your very core with the pure passion of soul. And you should; her voice was and remains unmatched. And I’m sure hundreds of those videos will embellish your Facebook feeds, now that the Queen has left the throne – and I will revel in them again, as I have for years, and will for years to come.
My favorite of those comes to mind, and it’s more recent history.
In 1998, twenty-two minutes after she was asked to cover for her ailing friend, Luciano Pavarotti, Aretha Franklin walked on stage at the Grammy Awards to perform the legendary aria “Nessun Dorma.” With little time to prepare Franklin performed the aria as is. In Pavarotti’s key. No one knew what to expect. No one knew what he or she was about to witness.
That performance begets one of the most extraordinary musical moments in awards show history, in a canon as mammoth. It brought the audience to a thunderous ovation and remains, in my opinion, the greatest performance in the history of the Grammy Awards.
Her talent, nonpareil. Our loss, immeasurable. Her legacy? Eternal.
I don’t believe in a heaven or a god, but Aretha surely did. And if there actually was one or the other, I know that he or she bows knowingly, as Ms. Franklin struts through those pearly gates, belting Amazing Grace.
As
an adult, it’s easy to poke fun at the cheesiness of Adam West and the
original “Batman” TV show – after all, I doubt the show took itself
seriously; it reveled in its kitschiness. But for millions of adult men
and women, West’s tongue-in-cheek portrayal (of a far-darker original
source material) remains comfort food, a personification of a more
halcyon, long-ago era. We can watch now, decades later, and smile at the
audacity of it’s bold, camp value, and for West’s wonderful, deadpan
delivery. But, when I was a child, it brought delight to me (still
does). I wasn’t old enough to enjoy the original run of the show, but
thanks to the rerun gods of TV, “Batman” – and Adam West – were more
than a staple of my childhood – they were an integral part of my – our –
our formative years. Some of my fondest memories are of watching the
show with my brothers, gathered around the only TV in our wood-paneled
living room, lying on the shag-carpet floor, watching joyfully as
Batman, with his sidekick Robin, battled the larger-than-life criminals
in a color-saturated Gotham City (and when the late, great Yvonne Craig
would join in as Batgirl, this little gay kid’s excitement couldn’t be
contained).
That West DID take the show seriously, even decades
after it ended, made him even more endearing. But not in a condescending
way at all, rather as a champion for what was good and valuable in the
messages he and the show brought to us.
They are lessons we can surely use still, now, in 2017.
I grew up on Country music, thanks to my mother’s devotion to it (you could say my sibling’s and I were Country when Country wasn’t cool – whether we wanted to be or not), and one of my earliest childhood musical memories is of listening to Lynn Anderson’s “Rose Garden;” it was one of the few 8-Track cassettes we owned (along with Freddie Fender, Elvis Presley, Dolly Parton, Jim Reeves and a few others my memories can’t evoke), and I would listen to music in our ancient 1970s wood-paneled living room of our home, on our wool sofa, across from where our “stereo system” sat. I loved that album as a boy, and revisited it over the years, even into adulthood.
Recently, I listed to the album again and the memories flooded back. I admired her versions of Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” “I Wish I Was A Little Boy Again,” “Snowbird” (made famous by Anne Murray), another Kristofferson gem, “For The Good Times,” and of course, Joe South’s archetypal “Rose Garden,” for which she is most famous for. She died Thursday, in Nashville at 67. Too young.
Rest peacefully, Ms. Anderson. And thank you for the memories…I’ve never walked by a rose garden without thinking of you.
If there was a god, it’s apparent that he/she has no sense of humor. Still recovering from the loss of comic god Robin Williams only three weeks ago, another comedy giant has left the building.
Joan Rivers is gone.
After a routine throat procedure, she stopped breathing and was taken to Mount Sinai hospital. After going into cardiac arrest, her doctors put into an induced coma, and after hoping for a recovery, and spending her last few days on life support, her family issued a statement that she had passed. I’m still confused as to how this happened at all. And I surmise we’ll be hearing much more about the Yorkville Endoscopy procedures that ended her life in the coming weeks/months.
So to say it’s a sad day in the entertainment world is an understatement. I – most of us, really – grew up, with Joan Rivers as a part of our very fabric, for better or worse.
Her rise and temporary fall is practically mythic. After establishing herself as a stand up comic force to be reckoned with – and in a male-dominated field at that – Johnny Carson made Rivers a household name with her numerous appearances on “The Tonight Show,” during the 1970s, then by allotting her the permanent guest hostess gig in 1983. Her star was in orbit until she was fucked over by that “friend” (well-documented, and something she never really emotionally recovered from). After landing her own talk show, the ill-conceived and short-lived “The Late Show Starring Joan Rivers,” Carson shunned Rivers as a friend and a talent, and never spoke to her again; she was barred from the show and unofficially blacklisted in Hollywood. Her show’s subsequent failure also briefly destroyed her career and was one catalyst to the suicide of her husband Edgar Rosenberg, which shattered her, in 1987.
She was persona non grata and sadly, a punch line for a cruel, albeit temporary, time.
She inched her way back, adamantly, forcefully and tirelessly, regaining her name, her brand, and her humanity. She made brilliantly funny guest appearances on Howard Stern’s FM radio show, started another more successful afternoon TV talk show, “The Joan Rivers Show” (which won her an Emmy and lasted for five years), made a fortune on QVC designing and selling costume jewelry, was center square during a 90s revival of “The Hollywood Squares,” and was Tony-nominated for her performance as Sally Marr, Lenny Bruce’s mother, in “Sally Marr…and Her Escorts.” She never met a gig she didn’t like. She never allowed fragility to define her, rather perseverance and tenacity. From this point on, she was unstoppable, and where once she was a superstar fading, she was ubiquitous from the start of the aughts until the end of her life.
I won’t play revisionist history and state that I’ve been an ardent fan in recent years (I mean, even before her “fall” there were times I cringed rather than laughed). In fact, more often than not, I’ve been angered by the paths Rivers has taken in her final decade or so. There was/is a fine line between being an “insult comic” (Joan was Queen to Don Rickles’ King) and being hateful, vindictive. Always a brilliant, incisive commentator of the world around us, she (in my apparently minority opinion) diminished her art for pure commerce and ego. Where, once upon a time, she eviscerated her targets with intelligence and truth seeped with hilarious sardonic overkill, in recent years she circumvented the truths and went for the jugular, often mean-spiritedly and too-often maddeningly ugly. Particularly as the go-to fashion mouthpiece for every post-Awards show since the mid-1990s, until it became her (in)famous “Fashion Police” specials, which were merely loathsome bully roundtables by a select group of individuals who really had no business insulting or critiquing anyone’s fashion choices. It pissed me off that this comic genius relegated to this. Which, for better or worse, begot countless other wannabes, making any Awards season almost unbearable (it didn’t help that I already thought that fashion killed Rock n Roll). But, it’s been her métier for the last two decades of her life, and cemented her already-icon status for eternity.
Besides, it doesn’t depreciate her overall legacy. Only a liar and a fool would negate or diminish her stature as a trailblazer, nonpareil. She was a cultural emblem, and a tireless proponent of equality (even before it was hip to be that, headlining one of the very first – if not THE first – HIV/AIDS awareness charity events back in 1983! Unheard of for a celebrity of Joan’s stature!), and, most importantly, as one of the last of the great legendary stand-up comics. And that’s how I’ll always remember her. From howling with laughter listening to her classic 70s album, “What Becomes A Semi-Legend Most” (which I listened to again a few days before she passed, and boy, it still holds up), to her outrageously funny “Tonight Show” guest host gigs (I always wished that Carson would retire and she would take over) which I’ve often perused YouTube to watch, to those aforementioned Howard Stern appearances…the woman epitomizes steadfastness. She lived for her family and, unwaveringly, her audience – and they loved her. She loved what she did, even when she didn’t have to do it anymore. But, thankfully, she did.
So Rest in Prada, funny lady. You deserve it. Knock ‘em dead(er) on the other side.
How do you mourn a legend who’s lived more than you and me combined? At the ripe old age of 89, the great Elaine Stritch has taken her final bows. To see her in a show was to expect the expected AND unexpected, and to bear witness Broadway royalty non pareil. I’m thrilled, delighted, and now nostalgic that I was able to be a mortal spectator over the years – in the astounding “Eliane Stritch At Liberty,” over a dozen years ago, and more recently as Angela Lansbury’s replacement in the revival of “A Little Night Music.” And, I can still, forevermore, as Colleen Donaghy on “30 Rock,” my already worn out copy of the making of the Original Cast Recording of “Company,” and countless YouTube treasures.
Rest in peace and respect, Elaine. And everybody rise…rise…RISE!
Recording her legendary “The Ladies Who Lunch” from Sondheim’s “Company”:
The idea was noble, the benefit, beyond worthwhile, the execution a little cheesy in hindsight, but back in 1995, Lincoln Center staged a concert reading of “The Wizard Of Oz In Concert: Dreams Come True” to benefit the CDF (Children’s Defense Fund), the child advocacy group whose motto of No Child Left Behind defined their great cause.
The cast included Jewel (as Dorothy), Debra Winger (The Wicked Witch of the West), Natalie Cole (Glinda The Good Witch), Nathan Lane (the Cowardly Lion), Jackson Browne (the Scarecrow), Roger Daltrey (the Tin Man), and Joel Grey as the Wizard (he also narrated, played various other parts).
Rather than an absolute faithful concert, the songs were altered – stylistically – to better suit each singer’s voice, rather than role (e.g. a Rock N Roll-ish “If I Only Had A Heart” – a la Daltrey’s classic rock front man persona).
But the single moment I fell in love with from the whole affair was the addition of the late, great Phoebe Snow. Acting as a muse, of sorts, she performed a medley of “If I Only Had a Brain; a Heart; the Nerve” – as a reprise, alone with only piano accompaniment (with lyrics in hand), and it’s the most glorious 3 minutes of the production. Her voice simultaneously bluesy, bittersweet, nostalgic and haunting, she soars while staying grounded.
The concert was never released on DVD – I transferred the Phoebe Snow medley from an old VHS recording, and converted it digitally (so excuse the shoddy quality) because as a lifelong Snow fan, I feel it deserves to be seen. And what better day than on the date she would have celebrated her 64th birthday?
So, Happy Birthday, Phoebe Snow. Your voice…your brain, your heart and your nerve…are still – and will forever be – missed.
My New Boyfriend 