PATRON SAINT OF JAZZ
She lived in the corner
in the record rack
Her face, flat on an album cover
but spin that vinyl and ooooh
She sang about life
About the sad truth that
black lives didn’t always matter
Especially in the south in the 30s
Her voice gave witness
to a woman’s weary world
Her curls pressed, ironed
Her veins spiraled in junk
Her attitude, defiant
Her circumstance,
forced compliant
by companies and creeps
No one could deny her
power, the flower behind
one ear; the blossom
gardenia, always
The voice got harsher
as did the years, but
Billie was the patron saint
of one little abused white girl
who understood without knowing
there was anything else to be
but to be a musician, or
anything else to do but sing the blues
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Decades before cultural appropriation was a thing, I was a white girl singing blues and jazz (from the age of around 6). I copied no one, truly; probably had more Judy Garland in me than anything. But the feeling, yes. I got that. Grew up around it, heard so many singers and musicians, both black and Anglo, who encouraged me. They never made a distinction about my race, they just said, “Sing it, baby.” The depth of feeling was natural for me, it ran through me like my own blood.
Having said that, I DO “get” cultural appropriation and am PROUD I never thought to copy any of Billie Holiday’s stuff. Too many female singers of all ethnicities adopted the gardenia behind one ear; I always thought it terribly corny and a bit disrespectful.
For Poets United, the Midweek Motif is Patron Saints.
Peace and a spin on the turntable, Amy
Where I’m Comin’ From
Look back at the burbs
White enclave; promise of the GI Bill
Manicured lawns, manacled wives who
drank a dram during the drudgery of
The Soap Trinity (Laundry, Dishes, The Edge of Night)
We were their kids, who tried not to notice
We ran scattersplat wild and messy as anything
Hair flying, legs booblaboobla gearing up to race
Kickball, swimming, badminton in a harsh breeze
Barbies hunted Nazis in the woods (we had badass dollies)
Anything was possible; everyone was some shade of pale
…except when my family hosted a jazz party
Singin’ & Sippin’ – white was not a prerequisite
for fitting in; all that mattered was the lushlife music
Screw being eight, ditch that perfect smooth hopscotch stone
Pocket a church key, cuz beer bottles will need opening
and the grownups’ll be too drunk to open their own
Time for goldenbronze fortunes to be shouted and whispered
© 2015 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The prompt at dverse Poets was “Where Are Your From?” We all wrote a poem about the soil from which each of us sprang. Mine dawdled at home base for our kickball game; but eventually, I found my way to the party. And in all honesty, once I’d found it, my heart never left! Amy
Swing, Sway, Pay the musicians!
(New Orleans)
TOURIST SAYS:
“We flew down here to New OrLEENZ
Oh, that Berbin Street’s a racy scene
White people, black people
Al Hirt’s closed but I got
a real hurricane glass at Pete Fountain’s
And the music! There was a white singer
who did that gravelly voice on
‘What a Wonderful World,’
so authentic, he sounded just like
Lance Armstrong!”
LOCALS SAY:
…‘cept she wouldn’t know real jazz
if it sashayed up
slithered along her inseam
and chomped down on her skinny butt
Buuuut… we love them, the tourists
in their Mardi Gras beads
They stay on Bourbon so’s not to
imperil themselves, and
sure as God’s name is on a dollar bill,
the Lord rains that green on our
Katrina-ravaged, race/grace savaged,
road-buckled, pothole-pimpled hometown
Tourists nurture the city, rain the green
on the parched heads of bartenders and servers,
taxi drivers, musicians – from our bevy of
audacious, bodacious singers to brass ensembles and
buskers to second-line bands – plus mule carriage men and
bicycle carters, all manner of trade here in N’Orleans
Hell, they take that bread and spread it all over town
Tourists don’t know the real goins-on
‘less they got good friends hostin, boastin on
their chicory-roasted tasty toasty town
The dark side streets pulsing late-night R&B,
roots jazz, Kid Ory’s ghost, all those
greasy good sounds after the Bourbon Street gigs
are done, the paddleboat is docked, long after people
who clap on the one and the three (bless ‘em) have retired to
their hotels…after the Top Five Louis Tunes go to bed
That’s when the hunger is sated, when gates open to
a positive, righteous flood no Army Corps of Engineers
could ever fuck up, this outpouring of soul
dredged in Creole hot sauce nasty goodness
It’s what they’ve been dyin to say, dyin to play all day
all the way down from The Land of the Green, source of
the rent and new shoes and toys for Christmas
Payin gigs ain’t even foreplay
The cab ride down steams every hungry body up
Jump out the door, slide into sensual surreal
so-real recesses of excessive compression
to achieve the blissful explosion
swaying sweaty bodies
contorted faces
building building to
The excruciating mindbending orgasm of
hot humid homegrown harmony
And to that I say, Laissez les bons temps rouler
“Let the good times roll!”
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, New Orleans was a treat. I will be recounting these stories for the next few posts. Thanks to Rickie Lee for inviting me down… to Lex for telling me I had to go… to Rose and Suzanne for their sweetness… to Alfred for being Alfred and trading the piano bench with me… to Amanda for hosting my Second Phase… to Brother Robert, and you best call him, I’ll give you his number later, if you need a cab… and to the wonderful assembly of artists, musicians, and just plain folk who made up our Second Line parade in celebration of Rickie’s birthday.
We will have words about Brother Robert, a smidge of the gorgeous art of Suzanne La Fleur, musings on my new friends and old ones as well. And yes, there will be clips once I get my Smart Phone hooked up to my hard drive. I am in love with NOLA, but my somke-sensitive lungs are glad to be back in Wisconsin!!
For ABC Wednesday, the letter was S. Sweet sweaty salty swimmin in satisfaction. Yeah. Peace, Amy
All That And More
Voice like menthol
Balls of brass
Face like schoolgirl
Killer ass
Charmful armful
Singing sinner
Rings the bell for
raunchy dinner
All the makings
All the style
Shimmy, chanteuse
Make ‘em smile
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
You want a jazz poem, dverse? One from the heart, heels, and head of a vintage babe who sang in clubs for 35 years and never overstayed her welcome. .
Also on the sidebar at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Peace, Amy
GET TO THE GIG, GIRL!
Take the A train? Hell, no
I’ve faster ways to go
Head south on Amsterdam
Keep low and lively, ma’am
I filter through the fog
and gusting city smog
The traffic’s fierce, you see
I keep it high and free
Some pieces of the News
Fly by in folded twos
Through bitter cold and then
I spring balloon to end
And climb on up and out
the fountain’s water spout
The cries of “Viva! Viva!”
when I arrive, La Diva
Enough to warm my heart
And now my gig I start
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
The “B” on the balloon is for Barlow, my former stage name. At dverse Poets Pub, we were challenged to an ekphrastic prompt – writing to an image; I used words from The Sunday Whirl. The brill artist is Judith Clay, and you can see more of her fantastic fantasies and read other poets HERE, as well as check out what other poets did with the Whirl Wordle HERE.
Fun prompt. Was ready for one. It was a long week, but things are looking up! Peace, Amy
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads presented me with a real challenge – a new form! Not my strong suit, but once I got going, I was on FIRE, baby! I’ve also placed this on the shelf of the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Process notes below.
I.
She sings
for the lonely
whose martini glasses
teeter their moods to sighs of “then”
Choosing songs with good bones, timeless, misty
Watching hookups destined to fail
Witness to a rapt drunk
who cries; to whom
she sings
II.
The blur
of is/is not
falls upon her lightly
winds around her soul so tightly
She seeks solace in the bitter bottle
Battles blues with burn of bourbon
Diff’rent bottle, the script
would help her beat
the blur
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
PROCESS NOTES:
First, thematic: She Sings is from my days in piano bars, where I was the only performer. Some nights I found that the sights and emotions of my customers were more interesting than my music. The reference to “good bones” is, of course, from old houses in terms of reconstruction.
The Blur can be any sort of mental disorder, when the person chooses to self-medicate rather than follow the doctor’s plan. In this case, she has received her diagnosis, gotten her meds, and won’t “play along.” Most heavy drinkers I know don’t gave the insurance or don’t realize they need a psychiatrist; I’ve seen this lead to the worst ends possible, including several suicides… and my mother’s lifelong battle with booze.
AS TO THE FORM: A Rictameter is a “form with a shape.” The syllable count is 2-4-6-8-10-8-6-4-2.
A bit of history from the Real Toads site: Created in the early 1990s by two cousins, Jason D. Wilkins and Richard W. Lunsford, Jr., for a poetry contest that was held as a weekly practice of their self-invented order, The Brotherhood of the Amarantos Mystery. The order was inspired by the Robin Williams movie Dead Poets Society.
Jiminy Was Right
She sits up
sweat drenched, crying
Doesn’t mind pix with smeared makeup
After a miscarriage and abortion
she didn’t think a baby could emerge
Her first child suckles
Proof that dreams come true
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Trifecta asked for exactly 33 words about a “dream come true.”
Many women experience misfortunes when it comes to timing pregnancy, carrying a baby, and actually coming to full term. I’ve held the hands of friends who were going to terminate a pregnancy – even paid for one, whose boyfriend was beating her. I’ve said “I’m sorry” and cradled sobbing girlfriends in my arms like she was my own child. The miracle of childbirth is a dream come true – a dream deferred for some. For others, they “drop ‘em like tadpoles,” lucky women!
The song, “A Child Is Born,” was written by jazz legend Thad Jones, with lyrics by Alec Wilder. Peace, Amy
First, watch this classic, short clip from “Sunset Boulevard,” with Wm. Holden and Gloria Swanson
Studio Blues (the session)
So we’re sittin around
mid-session/post-mortem
We are, so far, not happy
It doesn’t sound like us at all
The urge to get it right
to project confidence and
unity in the band’s sound…
Technology can get in the way:
Today was a clusterfrack of
padded drums with five mikes
and 64 tracks on the sound board
and an OCD tech whose mantra is
“Perrrrrrr-fect”
(If he were a makeup artist,
a single smudge would be verboten)
Inquisitive as to our dissatisfaction
(this being an old-style jazz recording)
he joins us and digs into the
delicious coffee cake make by
the bass player’s girlfriend. I activate
the discussion: “It’s too clean.”
Tech gets defensive. “I’ve made
stellar recordings for (so-and-so)
It takes the master’s touch to clean up
the blips and merge all the tracks.”
“Look,” sez I, “let’s do a Sinatra session.
Strip the drums – Mike, use brushes
Jimmy, get your stand-up bass, no more electric
Screw the keyboard effects, Stu, just
tickle the baby grand in the corner. One
mike on that, and I’ll sing in the center,
Billie-style. Lower the lights and let’s
get the mood right.” Tech is instructed
to merge all tracks simultaneously and
create a single, live session. “But there
will be off notes and sometimes the
guitarist squeaks on the strings!” frets he.
“You need reverb, some sweetening…”
I honey/hotsauce him: “Listen, babe,
I’m a singer, not a vocal machine, and
we want soul, not squeaky-clean.
“Wanna know how we did it when
I started out? Watch this and
get schooled, learn from someone
who came up in smoky clubs.
“Dusty Springfield sang sitting on a toilet
because the sound was better in the bathroom.
We didn’t NEED reverb then…
We had voices.”
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Well, the Real Toads had a “come one, come all” today, so I thought I’d pick up a prompt from The Sunday Whirl. This comes from my “old school” background in music, where the singers whose catalogs I raided (Sinatra, Billie, Bennett, Satch, Nat “King” Cole, the early years of Barbra Streisand) all had one thing in common: They recorded live with their band or orchestras. No fiddling around with the sound post-session.
Once Madonna came on the scene, she was sued for using a second singer’s voice to give her own so-so voice that high-nasal feel (She lip-synched most of “Like A Virgin” at the Grammy Awards, but no one noticed because she was writhing on the floor). Studios full of baffles, drum rooms, and solo vocals recorded separately after the band, a jillion tracks they could add later, as well as reverb (the first vocal enhancement) and eventually the vocanizer, which not only “sweetens” a vocal flat note but was used by Cher on “Believe (In Life After Lov e)” – that “it takes ti-i-i-ime” computerized effect, used to create an interesting vibe.
MY PEOPLE SANG. Sinatra always had an audience (women had to remove all clinky jewelry); Billie sat in the middle of a circle, mike suspended from the ceiling; Streisand, accompanied by full orchestras in her 20s, had a knack for getting her emotional performances on the very first take. Nat live in sessions, playing his own piano? The livin’ end.
In other words, things change, but I don’t have to follow the trend. None of the recordings you have heard from me have ever had any monkey business, no sweetening, etc. Pure, simple jazz. Peace, Amy
Blessed Blue
I am one of many or one of few
blessed with blue beneath my beige
Age has no power over singers
even the unbalanced or quirky
First a slap on the upright bass
not uptight, plays soooo right
Then a snippet of snare and a
clink on the ride cymbal, yeah
Dust off a classic, “St. James Infirmary”?
Nope, too melancholy mournful
This lineup deserves a quick trip
on Route 66, flying down that road
on wings of azure razor-sharp steel
In an instant, the crowd really feeling it
One deep breathe and she does the whole
trip, all destinations, in one breath:
St. Louis, Joplin, OK City, Amarillo,
Gallup, Flagstaff, Winona, Kingman,
Barstow, San Bernadino… and then,
with a gasp, winds down to the final line:
“Get your kicks – on Six-Six”
Sure, it’s Nat’s line, but it’s homage
to the King of cool, of keys, ivories
We’re all Cole miners in this club
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Amy sitting in with Madison’s All That Jazz, used by permission.
NOTE: The links below lead to YouTube videos – check out Krupa, Sinatra, and especially my girl Dusty.
For the Sunday Whirl and Poets United’s Poetry Pantry. The word “Blue” shouted to me in the Whirl Cloud – then the snare and ride, both essentials in any drum kit. The snare most folks know – it’s the smaller drum up front; the ride cymbal is one of two in most kits, and it gives a light tapping sound, while the “crash” cymbal does exactly that! There’s also a “high hat,” that gizmo with two small cymbals facing each other, connected to a long rod and controlled with a foot pedal, sometimes hit with sticks during a solo. Add a bass drum controlled with a kick pedal and a tom-tom (or “tom”), which has a deeper tone than the snare, and you’re about fixed. The toms get a workout on Gene Krupa’s classic, “Sing, Sing, Sing.”
Of course, REAL jazz players use more than sticks; for singers who have a ballad to share, they should have brushes for that swooshing sound in the rhythm. Some players use bundled bamboo sticks, which give a sharp, crispy tone to the skins (drum heads). But the most important part of any drummer’s kit? THE BRAIN. Good drummers have taste, a knowledge of the tunes (not just the pace, but the flavor of the song). The best musicians I know, the non-singers, learn the whole song, including lyrics. This gives a distinct flavor to any solo, knowing what word goes with what note, so when they streeeeeetch out on Johnny Mercer’s “Laura,” say, they can slide into “footsteps that you hear down the hall” with meaning. (Mercer wrote the words after David Raksin provided the theme for the Gene Tierney movie, “Laura.” The tune was so popular, they hired Mercer to write lyrics, and the song took off, especially the version by Frank Sinatra. any others. Same goes with “Satin Doll,” the Ellington classic – lyrics later provided by Mercer.)
Good example of tasteful sax soloing: Listen to Dusty Springfield’s version of “The Look of Love.” Stan Getz, who went to Brazil to pioneer the samba with Gilberto and Jobim, plays the sparest, breathiest solo to back up Dusty’s menthol cool. Tasteful piano? Listen to Bill Evans back up Tony Bennett years ago, two giants in one studio. Another vocal-sax pairing of note, Billie Holiday and Lester “Prez” Young.
I could go on, but how about this: Tell us YOUR example of taste in a song, where all planets were in alignment! Peace, Amy
Gorgeous “Goldfinger” Gal: Shirley Bassey
Ah, the Bond movies!
Yes, I thought, let’s sit back and
drool over the biggest misogynist franchise
ever undertaken (overtaking box offices
worldwide, and a great date movie,
if the woman is passive: He can close his eyes
and pretend she’s Ursula Andress later.)
My “blah” goes gaga when Shirley Bassey
Herself takes the stage, clutching a mic
Her first phrase, tentative,
lacking that signature tremolo of
“Gowld-fin-gaaaaaaaah”
But as the song progressed, we
stopped staring at her stifling corset and
listened to the majestic magic spell
cast by a 76-year-old woman,
an icon in every sense of the word
(and a favorite lip-synch of
drag queens back in my day)
By the song’s crashing climax,
she nailed that note. Crushed it.
Grabbed it by the saddle horn and held onto
the bucking broncho of all classic
movie themes. She was triumphant.
Gracious. Luminescent.
In short, Adele could learn a lot from
the great, grand, gorgeous Shirley Bassey!
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Honest to Pete, I was ready to be embarrassed when Shirley Bassey came onstage at the Oscars. I thought, “Oh no, another golden girl who’s appearing in casino lounges now. This is gonna be bad, friends.” Later on, my BFF John and I were texting (throughout), and we agreed: Adele (although the cutest young woman and quite bubbly) wrote a song almost as bad as her rendering of said tune onstage.
BFF and I felt like calling both Bassey and La Streisand up to say, “If you two are feeling generous, please take that nice little Brit under your golden wings. WE BEG YOU.”
And about Affleck not being nominated for Best Director: Directors make those nominations, and I think they’re simply jealous that Ben looks better than most of them.
For ABC Wednesday, Real Toads’ Open Link Monday, and dverse Open Mic Night! Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 