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Sunday Singalong: You'd Be Amazed How Much I Love You So

From the time spent reminiscing:

Donna Summer, Dim All The Lights. It's not even my favorite song, but it's a prime example of the kind of disco music that came to define the era: the slow jam opening to an extended sped up note, the percussive rhythms, the connecting bridge, followed by repeats of the chorus to the end. It's Summer's longest held note (a pop music record at the time for number of bars held), and lyrically, it's arguably one of the best of her songs from that era, sexy without being sleazy, a clear idea expressed from start to finish. For me, it's a reminder of the weird, wonderful sophistication of my childhood: the things we were exposed to at 11, 12, 13... gee whiz. They played this at junior high school dances, for goodness sake. I keep saying we were the generation that was 40 before we were 25. One other thing - it's this song, in many ways, that also turned the "disco" concept into pure formula; in many ways, this song is simply an improvement on the structure, lyrics and instrumentation of Last Dance. From there... you could list a raft of songs that essentially did the same thing (for artists such as Cher, Streisand, France Joli... I could go on). And that, as much anything, goes a long way to explaining why disco kind of wore itself out.

Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand, No More Tears (Enough Is Enough). Neither of these women did all that many duets; even more rarely were they ever paired with a singer anywhere near as strong (Summer may have married Bruce Sudano, but she could sure outsing him). Aretha Franklin has always had a similar problem. So this duet is remarkable, if nothing else, for how well matched these two are, both technically and in terms of range. Indeed, it's rare to have a duet where both the voices are fairly high sopranos. And the song is a marvel - never mind the pyrotechnics, just listen to them harmonize on "and we won't waste... another tear," with complete care and precision. Technically, I'm among those who think Summer wins this one, if we have to judge a contest; she's more naturally suited to the material, and Streisand can get strident. But it's a close call, and calling it a contest is to miss the point: this is just an amazing song, a remarkable duet, and it holds up amazingly well (consider how theatically similar it is to "I Will Survive" and how that song has been more or less been played into the ground.

Donna Summer, Last Dance. There's this moment, towards the end of every version (Casablanca edited the song a number of ways over the years), when Summer is doing the final repeat of the refrain "I need you by me, to guide me, to guide me..." (she apparently forgot "beside me"), and it's a long song and she's working it hard... and still, she sounds amazing. More than that, over a complicated orchestral arrangement (listen to the way the strings swirl, and the horns climb), she never gives the impression of the arrangement leading her, instead she's focused, in control, and very much in charge of where all this energy is headed.There's a reason this song became, commandingly, the song that sums up the end of an evening of dancing: it's not just the universal notions of the lyrics, or the obviousness of the title; it's that Summer gives it the authority it deserves. When she says "I need you..." and all the rest, the sense of need is actually palpable, and only one more dance can possibly satisfy. And so, come on baby... there's that dance. Yeah....

Donna Summer, Love Is In Control (Finger on the Trigger). J, my best friend, was the first person to point out to me that thinking of Summer as a "disco died" casualty was a mistake: even as disco vanished from radio and clubs, Summer was back in the Top 40 with The Wanderer, a fairly adventurous album that was actually well received. That was followed by a self titled album, including this single. Objectively, Love is in Control isn't necessarily great - you can hear the heavy hand of Quincy Jones in the instrumentation which borrows heavily from the similar work he was doing for Michael Jackson, and I realized, today, that Summer's voice is barely present for half the track. But she wins again, because her growling, fearsome delivery of lines like "you better raise your sights up high..." offer no room for hesitation. 

Donna Summer and Musical Youth, Unconditional Love. It's also easy to forget that Donna Summer was actually a very versatile singer who could easily handle a wide variety of genres and styles; on top of disco, she was actually one of the artists to help bring reggae into mainstream pop musical culture, both with State of Independence, and with this charmer, done with the then trendy, kind of a flash in the pan act Musical Youth. The song lopes along genially, and Summer's "ya mon" diction may be somewhat mannered, but underneath it all... she gets it, and it shows. Plus, the duet softened her image tremendously, taking her from the saucy siren image of the seventies into a more wholesome, Earth Mother type presentation (which was probably the most natural fit).

Donna Summer, This Time I Know It's For Real. When word began to drift out that Donna Summer was in London working with producers Stock, Aitken and Waterman, the anticipation, especially among knowledgable gays, was palpable. Proven hitmakers, S-A-W had already made dance music stars out of Rick Astley, Bananarama, Kylie Minogue, and a number of others. And when "This Time" showed up, the wait was worth it. However lightweight lyrically, the song was a revival of the kind of upbeat dance music not seen since disco's heyday, and as it turned out, lots of people liked it, and missed it. Summer's so in her elements, it's hard to know where to begin about why this song is simple perfection. You'd be amazed... how much I love you so. 

Donna Summer (with Bruce Roberts), Whenever There Is Love (the Junior Vasquez mix). In the early days, a disco track wasn't really a "remix" effort, not in the way we see them today. Producers started out recording long tracks, and simply cut them down for radio, editing out instrumental breaks, and even verses. Go back, and you can hear an enormous difference from the seventies era songs (they're fuller, more fully arranged), then a lot of the early "remixes" where songs were lengthened or sped up artificially after the fact of their initial recording. That means that much of Donna Summer's hits were never touched, at the time, by the deejays who became remix stars. It was years before Summer joined the ranks of artists with multiple remixes of one song by different deejays... and naturally, they all wanted the chance to work with the Queen. This song, for the forgettable film Daylight, was the first time Junior Vasquez (legendary, dear) worked his magic... and magic it is. At his best, Vasquez plays with the dynamics of the singer, but never loses sight of the song's overall structure, and here, he's in top form. So is Summer, and it hardly matters that Roberts (who wrote it) is more or less blown away as a result.

Donna Summer, Love Is The Healer (Thunderpuss mix). But the part that kind of defies explanation is buried, deep down, in Summer's success: it's the connection she made, on the dance floor, with the dancers, in their hearts, down to their souls. Oh sure, maybe you just danced to Last Dance at your cousin's wedding. Fun... right? That's not the half of it. It's that late night, 2 in the morning moment when a group of ecstatic revelers - probably gay men, but whoever - were lifted that much higher by the voice of a Goddess who spoke to their deepest feelings. The place where love is eternal, we are all one, and everything is possible. This is not stuff for amateurs. It's dance as a religion, the communion of true believers. I am on a mission... a mission of love. "Love is the mission, baby," Summer says in this song's spoken break, and it's the priestess, speaking to her flock, open and ready to receive. Thunderpuss, a remixing duo, are naturally up to the challenge of translating this into the realm of anthem - there's similar ecstasy to be found in their remix of Whitney Houston's "It's Not Right, But It's Okay" - but it's Donna who reigns. That's why she was Queen.

Forever Donna

Somehow, I never expected to live through one year where two of pop music's greatest singers died.

Donna Summer was the lifeline of my childhood, the Queen of Disco who made the world safe for teen age gay boys yet to come out. She was beautiful, insanely talented, and she put dance music on the top of the pop charts. 

Of course she was much, much more than that. She was a stage performer. She was a survivor, one of the brightest examples of a seventies cocaine casualty rising from the ashes. She survived the "death" of disco and rode the return of dance music wave of the late eighties and early nineties back to her rightful place in pop history. 

I am blessed, in my life, to have known one of her most ardent fans, my best friend. His love became my love; his joy in her music became mine. I am chocolate... but I don't like the heat.

She was the greatest of gay stars, a career created and supported by gay men, who managed to say "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve"... and still managed to make it right in the end. It helps that, you know, she wasn't necessarily a genius... but man, could she sing. So that's mostly what she did.

People will talk about Last Dance and MacArthur Park and Dim All The Lights - the longest sustained single note in a number one song by a singer - but my two favorites are earlier and simpler. No one has, or will ever improve on "I Love You" and "Heaven Knows."

I am a dancer. I love to dance, to feel the rhythm on the dance floor. I have been dancing to Donna Summer since I was 12, and almost consistently ever since. And we will dance again to her music. And it will all be all right.

 

 

Articles We Never Finished Reading (Except For The Pictures): The Rocks That I Got

"The house, a classic white brick manse, is huge—nine bedrooms—and sprawls out from the center hall with two giant wings. The interior is echt J.Lo: luxe, modern, and sexy—dark floors, gray curtains and walls, pastel-colored furniture. Her assistant, Gilly, deposits me in Lopez’s office and says, “Jennifer will be down shortly.” I hear kids shrieking somewhere upstairs. Like Lopez herself, the office is both masculine and feminine. There are wood-paneled walls and wingback chairs, a killer sound system, and a fur throw draped over a sofa. There’s a huge plaque (30 MILLION ALBUMS SOLD WORLD-WIDE); a ledge full of various film- and music-industry awards; and on her desk, nude shots of J.Lo for the advertising campaign for her forthcoming perfume, Glowing (the sample fragrance bottle actually lights up). A quick glance at the shelves reveals a taste for the classics (The Grapes of Wrath, Shakespeare); memoir (Arthur Miller’sTimebends); and self-help (Lies at the Altar: The Truth About Great Marriages). On the glass coffee table there is a big, lush book on Pucci, which somehow seems perfect."

"Venus Rising", a profile of Jennifer Lopez by Jonathan Van Meter, in the April 2012 Vogue

I just wanted to prove that not everything I put down is in New York, and also that not everything is a political or intellectual diatribe. I don't (generally) buy People or Us (though I admit a weakness for the sleazier Star) or other mags with fawning celbrity profiles... but Conde Nast can get me to read them anyway, posing as fashion (Vogue, GQ) or deep thought (Vanity Fair, which isn't). At this late date, I know what I'm in for: a quick tour of the Star's Lovely Home, a few bites of Our Star at a Meal, the old "they're just like us" anecdote, and another few thousand words about how, really, they're not (multiple divorces, million dollar lifestyles, blah blah blah). Sometimes they're interesting (Julia Roberts, Charlize Theron), even thoughtful (Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway)... but sometimes you can't even fake the necessary interest, which appears to be the case here. I kept putting this issue at the top of my pile, even after the new one came out, determined to read the Lopez piece all the way to the end. But I just couldn't do it; I'd get hung up on descriptions, like the one above, which illustrate both the absurdity of her wealth and the vapidness of the profiles like this (and, by extension, the vapid prose of writers like Van Meter). Then there's the fact that Lopez, still, is the odd kind of nondescript star only America can quite produce: she's not exactly good, her career is kind of middling, she's the third chair on a reality panel show whose recording career has been modestly succesful. Although she seemed a promising actress, that hasn't really worked out either. So why does she get Vogue covers? I mean, obviously, she's attractive, but that seems to be about it, and even there, there are more striking brunettes and women of Puerto Rican descent. So mostly, I've given up, the Vogue goes into my back issue pile, and I'll never know Jennifer's beauty secrets. Oh well. Life, I suppose, must go on.

Worst Song Ever: Out With The Old, Out With The New...

Something old, something new... I haven't heard a lot of terrible in a while, but when they do... jeepers.

Bryan Adams, Summer of '69. Lazy, lazy, lazy: never mind that Adams can't be the protagonist of the song (he was 10 in 1969), or the failure to evoke a decade as tumultuous as the sixties were, no, let's just wonder about "best days of my life," the line meant to imply this summer - remember, when his "band" broke up - was amazing because he met some girl and it just seemed to "last forever" when, of course, that girl's no longer in the picture and his rock aspirations amounted to even bigger, better things. Yes, the song, basically, is an insult to us al, dreamers or not, who fixate on our past as if it were golden, or reject holding onto the past because there's no point. Cynical, lazy and obvious, Summer of 69 is just corporate rock with little more than profit in mind. And no, I don't hate all Bryan Adams. What was really insulting about this song was that the same fairly sexy, smart songwriter who mixed pain and pleasure in "Cuts Like A Knife" (and showed up in one of MTV's most casually arresting videos) ultimately resorted to it. And no, I don't think "Canadian" is the perjorative for it.

Nicki Minaj, Starships. I freely admit, I don't entirely get Minaj or her success, but I don't entirely depise it: Super Bass has its charms (boom ba loom ba boom ba boom boom bass, indeed), and somebody should indeed know who the f*** I is. But that song came from Stargate, a production team recently profiled in The New Yorker's creative arts issue (I don't hate all New Yorkers, either, natch) along with this song's writer, Ester Dean. The article is especially deadly for the way it pulls back a Wizard of Oz-like curtain on the team's approach to songwriting, what they term "hhok plus hook plus hook" which appears to mean the layering on of easy catch phrases (going a long way to explaining a lot of their work with Rihanna, like the atrocious "S&M"). Starships, produced by another, Stargate-like team, is a good example of how the process can fail, all meaningless catchphrases loaded on top of one another until complete incoherence is achieved. It's not the song is lazy, overprocessed, or not undeniably catchy - it's all of these. It's the astonishing amount (obviously) of money, time and effort spent to put complete gibberish onto a digital hard drive as if it did, indeed, mean something. 

Maroon 5 (featuring Wiz Khalifa), Payphone. Let's be honest, it's hard being Maroon 5; hard being a band who zoomed to the top of the charts in about 1 and a half albums, rethinking Chic-era bass heavy disco beats as stylish, designer rock music for the upscale lounge set, and proving, on a string of hits (not to mention some pretty choice album filler), at least a dozen ways to reinvent that wheel.  That success is due, in no small part, to Adam Levine, possessed of one of the highest, most graceful tenors in pop, able to sound yearning, sweet and sublimely sad, often all at once (She Will Be Loved, for starters, Misery to follow). Levine's also an offbeat heartthrob, which explains his budding success as the latest thing in Reality show TV judging on The Voice. But, alas, success will spoil Rock Hunter: Levine is, more or less, phoning it in for this lazy Chris Brown viaTaio Cruzish, Usher-lite single, which can't even be bothered, lyrically, to either set itself in a past where payphones actually mattered, or somehow explain why the central image of a payphone even matters to the point of the song. Instantly forgettable, yet still featuring a vocal jump that borders, even for Levine, on screechy, Payphone is the first time I've felt like Maroon 5 is cashing the check rather than putting in the effort. And yes, Moves Like Jagger did kind of hint at this development, but even that, egregious Xtina notwithstanding, made up in verve what it lacked in panache. Levine may not have moves like Jagger, but his own style is sexy enough, most of the time. Here's hoping the album isn't a complete dud.

Are You Ready, Tell Me Are You Ready...

I've been sick for the past three days, hence no posting.

The Whitney thing keeps washing in and out of my head... one of my regulars at the coffee shop was at the funeral and called it devastating (he also went to see Aretha Franklin that night, where she paid tribute to Whitney. Also devastating).

In any case, while I gather some strength, here's one more, one I'd almost forgotten, probably her most flat-out jazz number, a big album cut on "Quiet Storm" and "Smooth Jazz" stations after Whitney came out. I loved this one.

 

 

I'm Asking You, Cause You Know About These Things...

Cause I'm still not over it yet:

 

Sunday Singalong: I Don't Know Why I Like It, I Just Do.

May she rest in peace:

Whitney Houston, Saving All My Love For You. Possibly one of the most straightforward jazz tunes to make it to the top of the pop charts, Saving was the followup to the knockout of You Give Good Love, itself breathtaking. But Saving was unnerving because so much of Whitney's range was apparent in just the two songs - few women can negotiate the singing personas of both girlfriend and the Other Woman. Saving is a classic Other Woman song, and while her singing is techinically perfect, what's astonishing is the depth of emotion, when she says, at the end, "we'll be making love the whole night through" you don't just believe her, it's that she captures the reality of having to live, emotionally, on just though stolen moments. Critics carped, early on, that Whitney couldn't possibly be all these women... but I think that's the amazing thing about the true divas - the ability to connect emotionally with material when you don't think they have the life experience for it.

Whitney Houston, So Emotional. By the time of So Emotional, Whitney had done nothing but release #1 singles; this one, in fact, tied the record of the Beatles, at six (the next, a pure safety play so she would have the record, was "Where Do Broken Hearts Go"; not her best moment). This also works if you pretend, as the charts did, that "All at Once", which got a lot of radio play, was never officially released as a single. But regardless, So Emotional is one of those real change of pace singles that show her versatility: percussive beats, screaming rock guitars and probably her first completely straight up dance beat. Not necessarily lyrically daring ("I get so emotional, every time I think of you"), but Whitney infused with a playful urgency that somehow made "shocking" actually work. I don't know why I like it... I just do.

Whitney Houston, Didn't We Almost Have It All (Live; the VH1 video). She would be forever tagged as the Power Ballad champ of the eighties, both good and bad, but that's more than a little unfair; the fact that she could sing the hell out of a ballad and that she could vocally stand up to enormous orchestrations shouldn't be tagged as liabilities, and anyway, her discogoraphy is much wider than that (but there's a reason I'm not putting "Greatest Love of All" in this mix). When Whitney came out, it was clear that Didn't We was an obvious single choice, and it went to #1, but critics, again, suggested that it was only her pull out the stops reading of it that made it work (truthfully, by then, Michael Masser's heavy ballad productions were starting to grate). And the song, really, is an especially strong construction (a standard verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus). But Houston wasn't one to let that slide, and in concert she completely re-approached the song, starting gentle and light ("Remember when we held on in the rain?") and gradually building to the overwhelming emotional moments, until "Didn't We? Didn't We?" became a plaintive wail over love and loss. Take that, haters.

Whitney Houston and Jermaine Jackson, If You Say My Eyes Are Beautiful. Pure, by the numbers duetting, one of those "they didn't even record it together" trade-offs of verses, a little harmonizing on the chorus, and done. But gee whiz! Jermaine's an underrated singer, but like many, he could barely keep up with her. The song is all about Whitney's sections and an especially pretty lyric. And it never quite got the play it should have, I think.

Whitney Houston, I'm Your Baby Tonight. By the time of Whitney's third album, it had been nearly seven years since her debut, and the world of pop had changed, in no small measure because of her. And the real challenge was could she find her way doing different material? The answer, amazingly, was yes, as Houston began a long, and productive relationship with producer Babyface. It's not just the explosiion of drums at the opening that signals the real shift of this single, but the loping, slightly backwards beat throughout. And Houston shows herself entirely up to the challenge of a complicated rhythm track, drawing out a sly sexiness, and leaving a lot of the vocal tricks at home. But then, we already establsihed that she was good at Other Woman songs, too.

Whitney Houston, Queen of the Night (the CJ Mackintosh mix). Houston had a mixed history as a dance diva - her power ballads, naturally, didn't work on dance floors, and that put a lot of weight on her uptempo numbers (you can't really dance to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody"... nor could she). When you get a chance, go back and seek out "Love Will Save The Day" which also never quite got the moment it deserved. But as she matured, the possibilities of her in dance music also opened up. Queen, as a single, is an overproduced, top heavy rock number... but CJ Mackintosh found a deep house gem within it, playing with the lines of the chorus ("stuff that you want... thing that you need... more than enough... to make you drop to your knees") until they swirled into dizzying harmonizing ear candy. Rule the dance floor, indeed.

Whitney Houston, I'm Every Woman. Really, she was capable of almost anything. And there's nothing even especially wrong with Chaka Khan's original, yet there's Whitney, making it an anthem's anthem. And of course, you hadn't lived until you were surrounded by a sea of gay boys, hands in the air, claiming to be every woman, with it all in them. World peace, baby.

Whitney Houston and The Georgia Mass Choir, Joy To The World. In truth, she was a gospel singer, by training and by preference. Surely at some point, that's what she would have recorded, had there been time. As it was, only The Preacher's Wife soundtrack put her on truly religious material, and those gospel moments lift the album well above where it would be otherwise. The choice of Joy to the World was also, somewhat subtly, a dig at Mariah Carey, who had combined the orginial with Three Dog Night's song on her own Christmas album. Houston's response: who needs it? When she coos her way though the slow, nearly acapella opening, stopping to fully explore "heaven and nature"... it's a diva throwdown: don't come for me, honey, cause I'll crush you.

Whitney Houston and George Michael, If I Told You That. There's plenty of ways to go with the later career - even as her voice failed her, she found a second life singing full on in her mid range. The top notes might be elusively out of reach (which is why I don't immediately go to "I Will Always Love You"), but the trick turning was never what it was all about. When she turned, "It's not right, but it's okay" into a get the hell out statement, it was the power of interpretation and emotional connection that shown through. But what I loved was the sinewy magic she found working with Darkchild. Originally recorded for My Love is Your Love, If I Told You That became a sharp, stylized duet when she paired up with George Michael, two of the eighties icons united as survivors. Even if we didn't realize at the time how true that really was.

Whitney Houston, The Star Spangled Banner. In the end, though, it comes down to this: no one, but no one, could take the familiar and make it seem new the way she did. She did it, repeatedly with her own songs... so why not do it to the national anthem? Listen to her caress the word "ramparts", taking an emotional breath before soaring on "rockets red glare"... by the time she cruises up the extra high note on "Land of the Free", it's all over; she had the audience well before that, and that note is really just icing. Effortless. I just threw that in because I can. At the height of the Gulf War, she made the jingoistic patriotism that grated so much into an irrelevancy. It was all her. The National Anthem didn't become a top ten single because of the war, it was because of her. 

Saturday Singalong: Eighties Exotics

My "off and on" has been more off than on... again... so I'm working on easing back into it. Let's see how this goes. How about some tunes that came back to my mind lately?

Africa, Toto. Possibly the weirdest left field, mainstream oddity to ever chart this successfully; nothing Toto ever did, before or since, quite explains the allure of this pulsating, midtempo jam, or the enormous success of "IV", the album from which it sprang. And lyrically... who knows? Something about midlife crisis, a changing relatioship and the African continent, though God knows how that's all supposed to fit together. And it does - the shimmering harmonies, the tribal beat, the loppy lines ("sure as Kiliminjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti" - it's not just descriptive, it's accurate) - all of it works quite beautifully, and surely helped expose a wide swath of pop radio listeners to exotic rhythms and instrumentation. That's one of the things about the misbegotten "eighties revival" - it's easy to miss the role of left field hits like this.

Shock the Monkey, Peter Gabriel. Among many - Sledgehammer and Big Time, fer sher - this one manages to straddle both eccentric exotic and slyly oversexed. If you don't know what it's about... I'll never tell what we theorized as kids, but then I always thought "She Bop" was more direct. I don't know if you can exactly dance to it - I think we tried in college, a lot - but once I hear it on the radio, I am tapping along. Monkey, monkaiee, monkey...

King of Pain, The Police. Zenyatta Mondatta is probably the more world beat of their albums, but Synchronicity hit a sweet spot of commercial success, owing considerably to the fact that The Police were early and enthusiastic adopters of the potential for music video. And plenty of the album works well, but nothing quite captures teenage angst like this ("there's a little black spot on the sun today... it's the same old thing as yesterday..."). Not quite as spare as Every Breath You Take (and not as stalker-ish, either), King of Pain is a great example of how the sound of the Police was constantly evolving and growing. Which is why liking them was both visceral - God they were hot - and cerebral (my third college roommate, a brilliant woman, was simply mad for Sting. A lot of it rubbed off). It's only lately, I think, that Sting has slowed down.

Rio, Duran Duran. Another example of the "right place, right time" argument for their success - video and early MTV surely catapulted Duran Duran to the top - that can overlook the substantive aspect of their music. The one-two punch of Hungry Like the Wolf and Rio was effective because nothing quite sounded like that up to then; the driving quitars, the screaming sax, the exotic rhythm, the wash of synths behind it. Combine that with a lot of sexy business (and more creepy stalking - "at the end of the drive, the lawmen arrive" - sheesh), and the whole thing is kind of undeniable.

Love Plus One, Haircut 100. Though much of the grief for Dire Straits' "Money For Nothing" ("that little faggot is a millionaire") is about George Michael, it's also the case that the song was slamming successes like the far more obscure Haircut 100, who enjoyed a flurry of attention for this song. In retrospect, it was hardly worth the derision; they were indeed flash in the pan, one minor hit wonders. But gosh they were cute, and this song, loping along as it does, has its charms.

Too Shy, Kajagoogoo. Another example of the pretty, pretty boy bands that the Brit New Wave produced, full of exotic looks (Limahl, their one named lead singer) and sounds. And also, another overlooked gem of what made the eighties such a weird, wonderful time - for a minute there, the potential to have a hit and get on the radio seemed especially wide open, and the result was a lot of interesting, and rather ambitious music; I'd argue - and still do - that it was real renaissance moment for pop. And if today's music let's me down, it's partly because I grew up believing in a lot of the possibilities.

 

 

Whitney

I am writing this about an hour after the news first appeared: Whitney Houston has died.

It's one of those losses that is utterly unbelievable, yet somehow, inevitable.

To think that we'll have to - I'll have to - explain to people what she was, what it was like, what she meant. There hadn't been anyone quite like Whitney Houston; no one who had that voice, her looks, her onstage presence. Just as music video changed everything (and Whitney was as video-ready as anyone), changes in television production allowed more artists to perform live onstage, as opposed to lip-synching to already recorded tracks. Whitney Houston was one of the first artists to use this opportunity to her advantage, rearranging and reconstructing her songs on the fly. It wasn't the strength of her voice or the breadth of her range that was so astonishing. It was the times that, mid-song or mid-phrase, she'd simply take off in an entirely different direction than she'd gone the last time you'd heard her. I remember when she performed "All At Once" at the American Music Awards, and re-did the second verse so it rose from the depths of her low range to soar an octave higher by the end of the phrase, all in one breath.

That was the way she paved the way for all the Mariahs and Christinas and at least three seasons of American Idols; none of what happened to pop singing - the extended melismas, the fluttering around notes, the frank oversinging - was possible without the way Whitney Houston took on a song. At her height, she was unstoppable, undeniable. No one sang like she did, no one sang as consistently. And she made it look effortless.

Of course, it was too much, too soon and all of it was insane. I remember seeing her live - it was an imperative - with the lucky break of getting a seat in the fifth row. It was astonishing. And she was so innocent, so ingenue to it all. When she sang "I Am Changing", and got to the final notes, "and nothing's gonna stop" - pause - the audience couldn't wait. The ovation was deafening. And she stared at us, wide-eyed. It was a mixture of appreciation... and fear. It's scary, I think, to be that loved, no matter how good you are at what you do.

Clive Davis sold her to America as the embodiment of the American Dream; our Golden Girl, the triumph of talent and beauty and class and taste. And it worked. So what if she couldn't dance? (In Living Color, famously, spoofed her as the "Rhythmless Nation", verbalizing something we all whispered). It was two albums and six years before the reality, and then the less pretty parts, started to sink in: no one's life is that golden. No one, really, can not break under all that pressure.

The problems were apparent long before the rumors moved from whispers to scandal. She was erratic on her films, not a strong actress, and tales off set suggested some real problems. The fact of her drug use was apparent long before it was openly discussed. By "I Will Always Love You" it was clear that her voice was suffering under the strain. By My Love Is Your Love it was all too clear that her range was far less than it had been, and there'd been some real damage. And maybe, just maybe, the story of the past year or two is that her singing could never entirely recover. And she lived to sing. I'm sure that would be crushing.

I am, frankly, stunned. I can't explain, exactly, how much she meant to me, how influential she was, how much I admired her; the most analogous I could be is to say she was, in some sense, my gay generation's Judy Garland, the singer of our age against whom others were measured. Such a beautiful, stunning, talented creaure. And, of course, perhaps how obvious that talent that burns that bright cannot last for long. Not long enough. Not nearly long enough. I just thought we'd get to see her rise, like a phoenix, one last time. And instead... she's gone.

 

Saturday Singalong: Why Don't You Like Me (The Best Of What We Heard)

This was not a great year for music (reviving my theory that you either get great stuff to watch... or great stuff to listen to, except for 1978/79, and possibly 1983), especially pop, though if I really loved Hip-Hop and R&B I'd be pretty depressed (seriously... Nicki Minaj? Even Super Bass?). Still, there were bright spots, and by the end of the year, it was possible to resume nearly unbroken listening to a pop station... even if it was "Hits 1" on Sirius XM, which jumps on new music faster than New York radio (or LA, since I now get KIIS via satellite, too). In no particular order, ten (okay, eleven) of the songs that brightened my ears:

Mika, Grace Kelly. One of those artists that you're supposed to appreciate if you're gay and offbeat (so perhaps I'm not offbeat enough. Darn), Mika's all seventies era glam rock and whippet thin Brit Boy emo... which I get, but was never entirely my scene (Bowie, even early Bowie, just strikes me as too much, most of the time). But every so often, I just get into it. Grace Kelly has Mika sliiping in snippets of the Princess' better movie lines, lyrically linking Grace's cool demeanor to an unrequited attempt to get love, with Freddie Mercury worship thrown in for good measure. "Why don't you like me, why don't you like me..." is about as universal as it gets.

Foster the People, Pumped Up Kicks. Loping along to its own midtempo beat, sinking the lyrics into a deep, fuzzed up echo chamber, it's hard ot make out how grim this song actually is - best kind, really, those catchy songs about misery (Run baby run, outrun my bullet), it's I Don't Like Mondays for the distingue set. I'd give it a 66.

The Band Perry, You Lie. Lots of people glommed onto If I Die Young, their first single, and the imagery is indeed arresting, but I like the Band Perry for not just being traditional country but rather reverently old school about it. You Lie (like the man with the slicked back hair who sold me that Ford) is full of down home notions about giving up on a no good, lying son of a gun, sung with considerable brio, so much so you wonder what happened to that waif who talked about dying in her teens. "It's what you do, it's who you are..." sing it, sister.

Keri Hilson, Pretty Girl Rock. It's easy to see this as a self satisfied, cartoonish paean to being one of the hot ones... but I prefer to think of it as an ode to inner self confidence. "Don't hate me cuz I'm beautiful..." I mean we all are, aren't we? My walk, my talk... it's not my fault, so please don't trip. 

Lady Gaga, You and I, Edge Of Glory. So retro that by the end of summer, my teeth ached. Never mind the controversy over "Born this Way" and a bunch of obvious... er homages... to Madonna; the whole album, it seemed, was a retro 80s schlock fest of epic proportions (and I'm not even getting into Judas or Marry the Night). You and I is a power ballad of the old school, specific in its imagery (at a time when so many ballads are so generic), and a reminder that Gaga can outsing much of the American Idol crew (Carrie Underwood, we're looking at you). Edge of Glory, on the other hand, is probably the best Laura Branigan song Branigan never sang. With a sax solo! And the last charting hit for Clarence Clemons! Jeez! 

Fantasia, Even Angels. Pretty much the best "Lip-synch for your life" competition song on Drag Race this year (okay, Meeting in the Ladies Room was even more inspired... but familiar), with Fantasia on hand to judge it. I've been trying to accept Fantasia as a baby diva, and this really does it - beautiful images (Even angels learn to fly), and a sweet, unforced delivery. Still not a big fan of her reality show... but I'll wait to hear more.

Beyonce, Best Thing I Never Had. Even if the album took some critical heat and was less of a giant seller, "4" was proof that Beyonce has learned a few things along the way, notably how to really harness her strengths as a singer, and actually shape a song's lyrics... and if she had to be less than perfect in Dreamgirls to figure all that out, I can live with it. This should have been the first single (but many artists and labels are leery of going slower or downtempo out of the box), full of creamy harmonies, and showcasing Beyonce as a real threat to Mary J. Blige, on every level. As with "Irreplacable", Beyonce is probably best on these tough girl, man up or get out type songs (Single Ladies, also). Now, probably, she could use the surer hand of a single producer... but I'm not sure she's figured that out yet.

Britney Spears, Till The World Ends. Britney continued to show that her foray into techno-dance pop is no lark - her beats are serious and deep, and the productions are first rate. She also started to glide away from the porn-y, overly sexed obviousness of stuff like If You Seek Amy and Three, a welcome development. If the payoffs weren't quite as... large, she does seem to have found a place on the pop charts as a mature, longtime presence. Which isn't a bad place to wind up, really. 

JTX, Love in America. One of a string of songs by up and coming synthesizer based young bands (which, I guess, could be a couple of guys and some keyboards, really), Love in America is all summer pop rolled in a ball, a cross country, cross genre celebration of everything from true love to hot sex (buttons on your Levi's about to come loose... cute). There's a glut of these acts - with Cobra Starship and 3OH3 leading the way - but there might be room for about three or so.

Breathe Carolina, Blackout. Another striking use of techno editing to make a point, the stuttery, stop/start rhythms of the chorus are well done, although lyrically the song's kind of a mess. It's amost making me wish I was back on a dance floor, somewhere.

One Direction, What Makes You Beautiful. Just another boy band with five guys and dreams of super stardom, these five come from Britain via The British X Factor (which seems to have much more relevance there than the one trying to get established here). I think they're the guys who came in second to Susan Boyle, if that helps. Anyway, this piece of ear candy strikes me as cheerful as that plastic pop of the mid sixties we used to get from corporate creations like The Archies and The Monkees, all jangly guitars and go-go dancebeats. If only you saw what I can see... you'd understand why I want you so desperately... good stuff, that.