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Music Box: Patti Labelle & the Lady of the Harbor

It’s hard to believe that, as a native New Yorker, it’s been over 3 decades since my first – and last – visit to the Statue Of Liberty. It was during a 4th grade class trip, years before it was closed (from 1984 – 1986) for a much needed face-and-body lift. As someone who’s loath to tourist attractions, I’ve avoided revisiting. Now, it’s set to close again this week for further multimillion dollar (re)construction. (After the September 11 attacks in 2001, it was closed for reasons of safety and security; the pedestal reopened in 2004 and the statue in 2009, with limits on the number of visitors allowed to ascend to the crown.)

There are no elaborate celebratory plans to commemorate this 125th birthday milestone, so I decided to pay tribute myself by posting the celestial Patti LaBelle (accompanied by the late, great Billy Preston on organ) saluting Lady Liberty in a great 1986 July 4th concert that aired to fête the 1986 re-opening, which coincided with her 100th birthday. It’s an other-worldly gospel performance so joyful it almost made this atheist a god-fearing believer! (I said almost!)

Happy Birthday Lady Liberty. I promise to visit you soon, that is, once you’re available for company…

Legacy: Amy Winehouse…Another Dead Rock And Roll Cliché

Amy Winehouse died this past week and the real grief is in the knowledge that no one was surprised at all. As of this writing the cause of death was still undetermined, but lest we fool ourselves, is there really any wonder?

Winehouse – whose breakthrough (2006’s BACK TO BLACK) cemented the route for other Brit-soul contemporaries like Duffy and Adele to conquer intercontinental shores – didn’t merely “struggle” with addiction – she flaunted and reveled in it. She was a talented singer/songwriter who lived a stupid, foolish life and now she’s another stupid, foolish dead Rock star. She squandered her intrinsic gifts for years for pure hedonism, permeating her whole existence in drug-induced stupors, coked-up public performances, heroin-induced soporifics and a lifestyle that prodigiously overshadowed her musicality. Her brief skimps at rehab only solidified her lack of seriousness of getting any help. And because of that profligacy, she was the inadvertent queen of the tabloids, those subhuman succubi who lick their scabbed lips in deviant, debased glee at every fucked-up antic that befall any caliber celebrity. (Though we can scorn the tabloids for their evil, we can only blame ourselves for their successes.)

I’ll not belittle addiction. I understand the colossal power of control it has over the core of the mind and body and soul. And I also know that there are enablers and sycophants who are willing participants in someone’s destructive behavior (Winehouse associated with plenty, and even married one). But at what point does one’s self – the captain of that soul – take responsibility for the sinking ship? Millions battle addiction. Millions have beaten addiction. Millions will continue to do both.

Addiction is often touted as a disease, and perhaps it is – I can’t claim to be erudite in the science of medicine. And if it is indeed a disease, it’s the only one that is curable by the afflicted. Those who cannot – or who do not – overcome this malady are not wholly to blame, of course, but do bear the crux of responsibility. Those who cannot are merely prisoners of the encumbrance of the albatross. Those who continue on their suicidal sojourn (which is what addiction is) understand the ultimate price payable. And they accept it. Those who do not wish to accept the obvious sober up, as complex and excruciating as the process is. If it’s too late, then it’s merely another sad cautionary tale. And a cliché.

Or, in Winehouse’s case (or Jim Morrison’s case, or Janis Joplin’s case or Jimi Hendrix’s or Judy Garland’s, or John Bohnam’s, or Billie Holiday’s or any other icon who played one final game of Russian Roulette that cost them their lives) a dead Rock N Roll cliché. By joining a list of dead musicians, she has solidified her place in the annals of music history (that the tragedy of Winehouse is greater than her genius is foretelling – with a mediocre-at-best debut and a strong follow-up, many – postmortem, of course – have histrionically already declared BACK TO BLACK a classic).

On a friend’s website earlier this week, I drew ire when discussing my innate beliefs about Winehouse and addiction. One response I received after voicing these sentiments read:

“It’s disrespectful, whether you know Amy Winehouse or not, to simply pass her off at the end of her life as a “stupid, foolish dead RnR cliche”. I hope that you don’t have the misfortune of someone saying these horrible things about one of your loved ones one day.

My reply was simple and true: if someone in my family or one of my friends dies as a result of addiction, I would say exactly what I said about Winehouse. If accusations of cold-heartedness are hurled my way, so be it. If that mendacity makes you feel better, I’m glad for you. Only, it’s not. It’s the polar opposite. It’s a truism, and anger often deflects truth.

My empathy is minuscule for life-wasters. My sympathies are limited to the devastation of the loved ones and family members and friends that addicts inconsiderately leave behind.

This week, they buried the woman who possessed such promise but cared so little in nurturing it. Family and friends gathered in somber reflection, serene sadness and devout mourning.

Another daughter. Another sister. Another friend. Another artist. Suicide by selfishness. Another addict.

Music Box: Stevie Nicks…Come In Out Of The Darkness – BELLA DONNA Turns 30

Bella Donna….

In paying tribute to one of my Desert Island Discs on the 30th anniversary of its initial release date (July 27, 1981), here is my original review of BELLA DONNA that was written for my school newspaper:

STEVIE NICKS – BELLA DONNA Where the wispy fairy/poet/waif we adored – and still do – on FLEETWOOD MAC, RUMOURS  and TUSK becomes the queen of rock and roll we are dared to worship, challenging the nay-sayers and snickering critics to finally take her seriously. With BELLA DONNA, Nicks not only solidifies her significance as a rock persona, but establishes herself as a great songwriting force to be reckoned with. Displaying that superlative craft, she employs an ultimate ensemble of musicians borrowed from the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty (including Tom himself on the striking and rocking duet “Stop Dragging My Heart Around”) and paints an incredible journey through the multi-facets of love. Her country music heritage is apparent on some of the best cuts here: from the bittersweet, elegiac “After The Glitter Fades” to the dark, but lovely, innuendo of “Leather And Lace” (sung with Eagle Don Henley) to “The Highwayman”, a tale that delves deeper than the title suggests. There is also a sure-to-be classic rock track “Edge Of Seventeen” which will span the ages ahead, and the albums best piece, the hauntingly beautiful, enigmatic title track. As if possessing, albeit arguably, the most distinct and recognizable female voice in rock’s short history isn’t enough, one could measure BELLA DONNA as an archetype of portraits to come. Stevie Nicks’ solo career is just beginning, but with the Mac on an unknown hiatus, one needn’t worry about the lack of Stevie in their lives – as this collection of provocative and gorgeous tunes prove, there’s more to Nicks than meets the eyes – and ears – of even the most casual fan.  Grade: A

 

To which I added, year later to a revised review on Amazon.com:

“…could anyone really see Prince’s images of lace, purple and doves without wondering if his evolution didn’t come via Nicks’ mirror? [He did play keyboards on “Stand Back” from her WILD HEART album]. And who begat the whole angels-as-rock-imagery but Nicks on her Mac recordings and solo work?”

Many  fans, and even some critics, have boasted that her recent, erratic CD, IN YOUR DREAMS, is Stevie’s best solo album (my review will come in a forthcoming Musical Report Card). I can’t fathom that peculiar statement while listening to BELLA DONNA again and marveling at its intricate harmonies and sonic splendors.

It remains her most consistent solo work to date, and it, above all her other works, remains an achievement that still towers three decades later.

…Come in out of the darkness…

Happy Anniversary BELLA DONNA…still we fight for the Northern Star…

 

Music Box: Buju BYE BYE!!!

It’s hard to believe that over 2 decades have passed since abominable Jamaican dancehall “artist” Buju Banton (whose real un-Jamaican name is Mark Anthony Myrie), then only fifteen years old, solidified his name in the Homophobe Hall Of Fame with his virulent and heinous ode to murdering gays, “Boom Bye Bye”. Today, this hatemonger was sentenced to ten years in a maximum security prison for drug trafficking.

In his honor, maybe we can change some of the lyrics to his most (in)famous song (which advocates skinning gay men, pouring acid over us then burning is alive). So, instead of:

(Its like) Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead

…we can sing:

(It’s like) Boom, Hi, Hi!
I give a batty bwoy head
If I no promote nasty man
Imma haffi be dead!

Just to put into perspective, here are the actual lyrics both in Jamaian patois and translated into English (underlined), courtesy of the Southern Poverty Law Center:

Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Boom [the sound of a gunshot] bye-bye
In a faggot’s head

Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
The tough young guys don’t accept fags
They have to die

Send fi di matic an
Di Uzi instead
 Send for the automatic [gun] and
The Uzi instead

Shoot dem no come if we shot dem
Shoot them, don’t come [to help] if we shoot them

Guy come near we
Then his skin must peel
If a man comes near me
Then his skin must peel [as with acid poured over him]

Burn him up bad like an old tyre wheel
Burn him badly, like an old tire

Have fun on your knees in prison, you putrid piece of shit. I can’t wait until someone sings “Boom Bye Bye” while you’re slobbin’ on their knob.

Legacy: Big Man, Clarence Clemons

“I looked over at C and it looked like his head reached into the clouds. And I felt like a mere mortal scurrying upon the earth, you know. But he always lifted me up. Way, way, way up. Together we told a story of the possibilities of friendship, a story older than the ones that I was writing and a story I could never have told without him at my side.” ~ Bruce Springsteen pays  tribute to Clarence during 1999 Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame speech

Here’s his obit from ROLLING STONE

Music Box: The Incredible Shrinking Women

*****

I’ve always hated Christina Aguilera’s histrionic melismatics and pretentious, over-the-top trilling, so when she flubbed the lyrics to the “The Star Spangled Banner” a few months back during the Super Bowl, as funny as it was, her memory lapse didn’t offend me as much as the overall performance did (there’s rarely a half-note she doesn’t deem worthy – despite the unworthiness of the result – to elongate into five. Besides, in my opinion, “The Star Spangled Banner” is a heinous song that shouldn’t be our national anthem anyway. I’ve long been a proponent that “America The Beautiful” should immediately replace it as our country’s anthem – but that’s another conversation).

So, as a non-fan, when her BURLESQUE film – far and away the worst film of 2010 – was critically reviled and royally flopped, I couldn’t have cared less. It deserved to be loathed and unseen.

It didn’t phase me, too, when her “Bionic” CD – far and away the worst CD of 2010 (I’m sensing a theme here…) also bombed. It was a fiasco of epic proportions. Again, when shit is, well, shit, it should be called out as such.

And, while divorce may be tragic, it happens to everyone, and maybe more so in the entertainment industry.

So, you might ask why I bring up all these tidbits about a performer I think of only once a week while watching NBCs “The Voice”? Well, she talks about all these issues in the new issue of W magazine.

Still, why do I care? Well, I don’t.

What I DO want to know, though, is WHERE THE FUCK did the other half of Aguilera go?!

Now, before I’m accused of being cruel, this is not meant to be an insult to Aguilera. This isn’t about mocking her size, which she vauntingly displays. It’s about the Curse of Photoshop.

I know that photo-shopping has been the norm in magazines for years, but this is beyond specious. I mean, bad enough it’s 2011 and the press is still defining beauty/glamor/style by the waistline of our female stars. And we all know Aguilera recently gained weight as the mother/maturing woman she has become. But are the editors at W that stupefyingly, uhhhh, stupid that they don’t realize that we can see as such every week while watching “The Voice”?  The girl has curves, and she flaunts them. I wonder, has Aguilera approved this cover?

Is this really what a girl wants?

Recent magazine covers of other plus-size female artists have also been photoshopped, if to a lesser degree. If you were unaware of her already, perusing recent tabloids (e.g. Rolling Stone, Q, Elle, Out) you’d never garner that the prodigiously gifted Adele was a lusciously plump powerhouse. And Britney Spears and Janet Jackson are amongst the most blatantly airbrushed/photoshopped female entertainers of the past decade or so, trimming inches off their bodies. Following Mariah Carey, of course.

It’s not a new phenomenon, as I already noted, and it’s not merely for the overweight either (paging Madonna…). But the acceptance into our pop culture mindset doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Perhaps , even 42 years after she first said it, Yoko Ono was right… “Woman Is The Nigger Of The World…”