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.
Of course, this was the most numbingly painful day in my life…saying goodbye to Mom. I wrote this for her memorial service, but I could not read it aloud – it was far too excruciating – so I asked Denise if she would read it (she was the most eloquent of all my friends) and of course she said yes. Tears emanated as we cried…I remember my brother Scott just sitting there, quiescent, during the whole service, still absorbing the fact that she was gone…I recall my friends still thunderstruck that this was reality. It was odd, there were no adults mom’s age at the ceremony, just most of her children and their friends…which showed where Mom was in her life. She had no “girlfriends” in her life, except for her daughters, and that came in the later years, at execrable costs. Lord knows her husband was never a friend (or a spouse)…she only knew her immediate family for most of her life after marriage. And the questions that arise about that part of her will always remain a mystery; it died with her. At the conclusion of the reading of this soliloquy, Bedelia sang Mom’s favourite song, “Wind Beneath My Wings” so unbelievably powerful, that it rocked the very core of our aching souls…It was so hard to say goodbye, but we knew…Mom was just a song away…
This was written for her memorial service…
Goodbye, Barbara Jean
I don’t know where to really begin. I should first say thank you to all of you who were gracious enough to come ~ kind enough to be here in my family’s and my great sorrow.
I’m best at describing and expressing how I feel with pen and paper ~ but at this time, my voice cannot speak the words wrote, the words I feel, so I asked one of my soul sisters to read them for me.
What is there really to say? Everyone who knows me knows how much I treasure my mother. It wasn’t the conventional mother/son relationship…we were more like friends. (Heh! Mom always loved a good cliche!)
I know I’ve mentioned this to a few of you, but I feel I should repeat it. Mom believed in fate. All the debates could not stop her beliefs. She felt that when it’s your time to go, you go. Period. She wasn’t a churchgoer, but she kept her own internal religious beliefs. Keeping these beliefs in mind, then, we must accept her philosophy and believe that, YES, it was her time. She was strong enough to wait long enough to escape doom before she just…let go. She held on long enough until she was content, until she realized it was okay now. Of course she knew that whenever it was her time, it would be hell for most of us, but she always told me that when it was, “…do not mourn too long…” Crying is natural, so, yes, cry ~ but also laugh ~ remember ~ never forget ~ but cry not forever. Besides, if we are going to believe it was her time, then tears will not bring her back. I used to tell her, “You’re nuts.” Then we’d laugh. But she really believed in that fate.
We can take peace within ourselves and be thankful that she went away in her sleep ~ gently, quietly ~ finally content in the knowledge that we loved her ~ finally feeling there’s a need to smile. She clawed her way through 34 years of hell, escaping, at last, to a new form of happiness, which was her last few months. Evil incarnate no longer haunted her, mentally abused her [or us]. She was rid of the monster, freed of that anguish, and at last could say she was happy. She told my brother and me, for example, that this past Christmas was the best she’s experienced since she was a child.
Yet, how does one not mourn when you lose someone who is part of your blood from day one? How do you not halt your heart from leaping? And then you start feeling angry ~ angry at life ~ angry at other people’s happiness ~ angry at survivors ~ angry at your family ~ angry at anyone who’s older than Mom ~ and ultimately angry at this entity she named God. “How could you do this to us God!?” you scream to her god. “How could you take away the one constant thread in our life and expect us to believe in you!? And without even the chance to say goodbye?!” Then you start hating her god and denouncing her god.
Then…I remember mom. Then I realized I’m wrong to curse her god because to do so was to curse her belief system. Then the anger disappears and then you cry again ~ then sigh ~ maybe wonder a simple “Why?” I take comfort, then, when remembering Mom’s favourite poem ~ I’ve always loathed it because, non-believer or not, I thought it to be treacly and pretentious ~ but she cherished it. It’s called “Footprints.” and she stood her ground. She loved it, believed it ~ she felt she lived it. So, again, if we are going to accept mom’s beliefs, then we must accept that she felt she was the one being carried by this “lord” in the poem, and that now, she always will be.
She was the mother of us all. Can anyone in this room who knew her say that they called her anything but “Mom“? Any friend was automatically one of her “children”. Who else but she could bring together everyone who is here? Friends who lost touch years ago ~ constant companions ~ estranged but unforgotten family ~ friends who are strangers to other friends? All together for one reason…Mother of us all…
I don’t know if this vast, empty hole which houses Mom’s love will ever be filled completely, or if this sadness will ever cease. For some, I gather, the tears have stopped, for others the tears have not yet begun. I guess an overwhelming sense of loss will linger within me always, with every moment I breathe. But I tell you, we must all move on ~ go on. Mom would reprimand us (loudly, of course) if she thought her passing would halt our lives for more than one moment.
But mom’s leaving has taught me a lesson ~ that bitterness leads to bitter lives. We must live ~ and when we wish to recall, just…remember. We have history ~ never stop thinking or talking about her and what she meant to us, negative or positive (no one is a saint in this world full of sinners). We have memories, photos, knowledge. The point of power is in the present. That’s what I believe because of its truth. We must believe in our present, and believe in our future ~ and never ever forget our past. Let the bitterness fade away. All we have is each other now…
I could go on for one million more pages, but I think its time to let go now…not to her spirit, which I still feel around us…but to her physical presence…the body is merely a shell to that spirit, anyway. Now, that spirit is within all our shells ~ all our lives. When we hear the night owl sing her song, it’s Mom. When we feel a quirt of cold breeze on our sweating brows, that’s Mom. When we hear Garth or Reba or Gary Morris or any of her other favorite singers sing on the radio, that’s Mom. When we turn on the television and see Roseanne or Letterman or The Commish or Magnum PI or The Golden Girls, or any other of her favourite TV shows, that’s mom. The world, our lives, our dreams are filled with her…so all we have to do is listen to the sky, and we’ll hear her…all we have to do is listen to her favourite songs, and you know she’s right next to you…inside you, until your time here is over. Then, no matter your beliefs, your spirit will walk to her when it is your time to greet her…in her heaven, on another plane of existence…wherever souls go…and, if you just listen…
I think I hear her now…
…my mother…Mother Hindsight…Mother of us all…
(My mother’s favourite singer was Garth Brooks, and her favourite song was, “The Dance.” Rest in peace, mom.)
And now I’m glad I didn’t know… …the way it all would end, the way it all would go… Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain… But I’d have had to miss the dance…
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.
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.
More than 500 Sunday mornings of my pre-to-teen years were spent with my ears glued to the radio from 8am-12pm listening to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40. It was a weekly ritual; while my mother and sisters were downstairs in the kitchen starting Sunday’s afternoon dinner (the scent of sausages frying in the pan wafted throughout our home) and my brothers played outside in the backyard, I was in my room, bed on the floor, pen in hand, jotting down that week’s Billboard hits in my notebook as narrated by Kasem – in between the myriad of artist facts, chart trivia and of course, Casey’s Long Distance Dedications.
As my teen years progressed, this tradition waned – friendships, love, passion, sex, girlfriends, boyfriends, reality, high school, life all snuck up on me – but I’ve always harbored these memories in the storehouse of my mind as idyllic relics of my youth. So, for the thousands of hours of happiness you’ve given me, I hope you are resting in peace, Casey Kasem. And thank you for telling a million kids to “Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars…”
“The Voice Of An Angel” has become such an insipid cliche that it surpasses pure ludicrousness. But, if heaven actually existed (yeah, yeah, I know), and if there were such entities as angels, and if those angels were actually able to bless us in song, I always hoped that they would sound like Jimmy Scott.
Their perfect harmony nonpareil, their catalog too mammoth to fully convey, Don and Phil Everly – The Everly Brothers – created some of the most gorgeous and ubiquitous recordings in the annals of Rock N Roll. I mean, Bye Bye Love, All I Have To Do Is Dream, When Will I Be Loved, Cathy’s Clown, Wake Up Little Susie, Let It Be Me and on and on and on.
“I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities.
It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die…”
My New Boyfriend 