On Women's Month: Dee Dee Sings Lady Day {w/ Adenda}*

[Lady Sings The Blues]

“Young people take note of this woman’s life,
This woman’s bravery, so you too can learn to stand up,
and not be afraid to speak in your own voice.
Children, stand tall and dare to be a Billie Holiday!”

Dee Dee Bridgewater



[Good Morning Heartache]




[Don't Explain]




[Foggy Day]

[Strange Fruit]


{discover more here}

*Adenda

"Someone's got to have the balls to stand up and say, that's enough. That... is... enough." Printed words do not convey the force accompanying this sentiment from a woman who admits to having once thrown a man across a room.
"We're going to try to unite all the female black jazz-singers," she says, "and make a political stand." Woe betide anyone who tries to oppose her. "When I get really angry, I feel my blood boil, I see red, literally, and then I get physical. Don't mess with my babies, my albums. Don't mess with me. I'll turn into an angry, black 'ghettified' sister who will kick your effing ass."

Today (14/03/11), while perusing through some old papers looking for a poem I wrote some years ago dedicated to Lady Day (still couldn't find it), I came across this flyer for the one and only Dee Dee Bridgewater show I went to see (on May 2002, at the Barbican) so far - and what a show! I was totally immersed in the vibrancy of her strong voice and enthralled by the energy of her scatting: it was the first time I experienced live what I had only heard before on some of Ella Fitzgerald's or Sarah Vaughan's recordings - a woman's voice turned into an instrument, mainly the trumpet, but also, incidentally, the piano, or the bass. I still can feel some of that energy now more than 10 years passed...

Then I went to look up the Net for echoes of that show and found the article from which I've taken the extracts bellow. I was totally unaware of that row about Dianna Krall (and, in passing, Norah Jones) at the time ... and now I must rethink my 'singing her praises', though not necessarily repent because I only dit it once, and half-heartedly at that, namely in a comment posted here, and in a context that I suppose was perfectly understandable (and ... I pray that sista Dee Dee, if she ever reads this, doesn't feel like kicking my effing ass for having mentioning her name alongside Krall's...)!

That context being one, it might be worth noting, in which I was (only mildly and respectfully enough...) making some remarks and suggestions to some Angolan national “jazz pundit” for promoting exclusively white Portuguese jazz musicians’ tours to the country, as can be gathered here… and it just so happens that he recently voiced an overt, sinister, death threat (!) to me, apparently because of it and of my ‘tolerance’ (not even unconditional support…) for some new trends in Angolan contemporary music, such as HIPHOP and Kuduro, basing my position on the darker side of Jazz History as exemplified here… All, as he sees it, against the background of the 27 May 1977 - a political tragedy with clear racist overtones on all sides which caused thousands of victims and has left open, unhealed wounds in the fabric of Angolan society to this day - and on which some of my views vis-a-vis the Marxist theory and practice aluded to by him are expressed on this post and on comments to this one...

Ah! And also, directly or indirectly, because of my stance on issues like this, protagonised by some white blond barbie doll who, funnily enough, recently rose overnight from virtually total obscurity in that country’s media - after a forced retreat caused by an open letter by Angolan citizens accusing her of blatant racism! - thanks to unashamedly aping, for her 'rebirth so-called contemporary dance show', Cassandra Wilson’s “(un)vest”, for lack of a better word, on the cover of her New Moon Daughter album pictured here…

Now, just briefly, about Norah Jones: in the beginning of 2003, a female friend (and in the Angolan context this can be highly relevant: a mixed-race one) in Luanda asked me what I thought about her and I replied, totally absentmindedly and unaware of Dee Dee’s outburst a few months earlier, something like this: look, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know what the fuss around her is all about; her most celebrated song so far seems to be all around something like “don’t know why I didn’t come”, which apparently invokes (unfulfilled) sex… so, if that’s all there is to her success I can’t really figure out where she stands as a jazz singer, writer, or musician…

Another thing that touched me in Dee Dee's outburst was the way in which she used the word antiseptic - I often use the word asseptic (e.g. here) to describe similar cases and contexts... But, above all, it was warming to know of her sisterly allegiance with Cassandra Wilson and other black jazz singers around it at the time... which, in some ways, takes me to this other sort of 'sisterly allegiance' (albeit circumstancial and distant), where it becomes apparent that some people in Angola, somewhere, somehow, and for whatever racially and/or culturally-based reason(s) have been trying (for far too long!) to, to use Dee Dee's word, exterminate me and my work, humble and unconceited as it is...

So, really, these discoveries today made my DAY! And, inDEEd inDEEd, my WOMEN'S MONTH!

Dee Dee Bridgewater is one of those people who is slow to anger, normally exuding the kind of calm associated with green tea, eucalyptus oil and tinkly-binkly music. At the age of 51, her skin is almost unnaturally smooth, and her conversation is low and beguiling, often sinking to a whisper. Her career has included stints with the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra, stage shows about Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday, and forays into pop; a trio of her earlier recordings has recently been reissued. She is delighted with her latest project, an album of Kurt Weill songs, which she will perform tonight at the Barbican. All would seem very well for Ms Bridgewater.

Yet the contented façade barely contains a volcano of rage that she admits she is struggling to keep the lid on. Bridgewater fears that the big record companies are trying to exterminate her and the tradition she represents, to replace them with insipid Barbie dolls with mass-market, lucrative appeal. The idea that jazz singing should be in a frail state may initially seem odd. Aren't the likes of her Verve label-mate Diana Krall and Norah Jones achieving the elusive position of being genuinely popular jazz artists, with posters on billboards and television ad campaigns, just like, well, pop singers? As Bridgewater points out, that achievement does not come without a cost.

"The Diana Krall phenomenon is based on material that's 30 or 40 years old," she says. "The treatment is cold, there's no emotion. It's only working because the jazz has been watered down, it's not abrasive – it's antiseptic." Bridgewater herself is a wonderful interpreter of old standards, although there is a world of difference between her punchy, gutsy style and the pale-honey smooth Krall – you could never accuse Dee Dee of being antiseptic. But there is more than just a difference of stylistic opinion here. "This is the era of the white female jazz singer," she says. "Even though jazz singing has traditionally been associated with the black female voice, it has never been at the elimination of the white female singer. Why, all of a sudden, are we supposed to be eliminated because the labels are scrambling to find their own Diana Krall wannabes? It's upsetting and frightening."

There's nothing grey about Dee Dee, or her contemporary Cassandra Wilson, both of whom search for the individual rather than a lower common-denominator. They resist the pressure to make radio-friendly recordings, and as a result, feel their music is not being treated seriously by an industry looking for a fast, sizeable return. "We were both in New York," says Dee Dee, "and Cassandra said, 'I can't get anybody interested in my projects, they keep putting Krall's name in my face. What are we supposed to do? Look at us, we've got our dreadlocks!'"

This is happening not only in America, but also in France, until recently Bridgewater's adopted home. "I've always employed French musicians, I've been burned for taking them to New York. But I can't get any reviews in French jazz papers. They've decided that Diana Krall is the beginning, the end and the in-between. To have the French jazz community turn its back on me because they've got some blonde, blue-eyed chick that can sing halfway decent and can play the piano – I'm livid."

She is determined that her anger will not make her bitter, though. A solution is forming in her mind. "Someone's got to have the balls to stand up and say, that's enough. That... is... enough." Printed words do not convey the force accompanying this sentiment from a woman who admits to having once thrown a man across a room.
"We're going to try to unite all the female black jazz-singers," she says, "and make a political stand." Woe betide anyone who tries to oppose her. "When I get really angry, I feel my blood boil, I see red, literally, and then I get physical. Don't mess with my babies, my albums. Don't mess with me. I'll turn into an angry, black 'ghettified' sister who will kick your effing ass."

"I always felt that I had to scat, to be another musician" – in her case, a trumpeter. "My father was, my first husband was, I had a boyfriend who was. Dizzy, Miles, Clark Terry – all my heroes were trumpeters." Now she is happy to concentrate on the lyric. "I thought, why don't I just sing the whole song, which I haven't done for years because I've been working so hard on getting my scatting to a level where I felt I was really being an instrument."

This is her route now. Bored by standards, which she says she might return to when she's 60 but not before, Weill has opened up a new vista for her; she's even contemplating resuscitating some of his operas. Her record company would do well to realise what a prodigious talent it has in Dee Dee Bridgewater – an artist worth a hundred Diana Kralls. If they don't, she will certainly be off – but not before she's kicked their effing asses.

{extracted from here}

Related posts:

Happy Hour!!!

A Minha Patria Nao E' a Lingua Portuguesa

[Lady Sings The Blues]

“Young people take note of this woman’s life,
This woman’s bravery, so you too can learn to stand up,
and not be afraid to speak in your own voice.
Children, stand tall and dare to be a Billie Holiday!”

Dee Dee Bridgewater



[Good Morning Heartache]




[Don't Explain]




[Foggy Day]

[Strange Fruit]


{discover more here}

*Adenda

"Someone's got to have the balls to stand up and say, that's enough. That... is... enough." Printed words do not convey the force accompanying this sentiment from a woman who admits to having once thrown a man across a room.
"We're going to try to unite all the female black jazz-singers," she says, "and make a political stand." Woe betide anyone who tries to oppose her. "When I get really angry, I feel my blood boil, I see red, literally, and then I get physical. Don't mess with my babies, my albums. Don't mess with me. I'll turn into an angry, black 'ghettified' sister who will kick your effing ass."

Today (14/03/11), while perusing through some old papers looking for a poem I wrote some years ago dedicated to Lady Day (still couldn't find it), I came across this flyer for the one and only Dee Dee Bridgewater show I went to see (on May 2002, at the Barbican) so far - and what a show! I was totally immersed in the vibrancy of her strong voice and enthralled by the energy of her scatting: it was the first time I experienced live what I had only heard before on some of Ella Fitzgerald's or Sarah Vaughan's recordings - a woman's voice turned into an instrument, mainly the trumpet, but also, incidentally, the piano, or the bass. I still can feel some of that energy now more than 10 years passed...

Then I went to look up the Net for echoes of that show and found the article from which I've taken the extracts bellow. I was totally unaware of that row about Dianna Krall (and, in passing, Norah Jones) at the time ... and now I must rethink my 'singing her praises', though not necessarily repent because I only dit it once, and half-heartedly at that, namely in a comment posted here, and in a context that I suppose was perfectly understandable (and ... I pray that sista Dee Dee, if she ever reads this, doesn't feel like kicking my effing ass for having mentioning her name alongside Krall's...)!

That context being one, it might be worth noting, in which I was (only mildly and respectfully enough...) making some remarks and suggestions to some Angolan national “jazz pundit” for promoting exclusively white Portuguese jazz musicians’ tours to the country, as can be gathered here… and it just so happens that he recently voiced an overt, sinister, death threat (!) to me, apparently because of it and of my ‘tolerance’ (not even unconditional support…) for some new trends in Angolan contemporary music, such as HIPHOP and Kuduro, basing my position on the darker side of Jazz History as exemplified here… All, as he sees it, against the background of the 27 May 1977 - a political tragedy with clear racist overtones on all sides which caused thousands of victims and has left open, unhealed wounds in the fabric of Angolan society to this day - and on which some of my views vis-a-vis the Marxist theory and practice aluded to by him are expressed on this post and on comments to this one...

Ah! And also, directly or indirectly, because of my stance on issues like this, protagonised by some white blond barbie doll who, funnily enough, recently rose overnight from virtually total obscurity in that country’s media - after a forced retreat caused by an open letter by Angolan citizens accusing her of blatant racism! - thanks to unashamedly aping, for her 'rebirth so-called contemporary dance show', Cassandra Wilson’s “(un)vest”, for lack of a better word, on the cover of her New Moon Daughter album pictured here…

Now, just briefly, about Norah Jones: in the beginning of 2003, a female friend (and in the Angolan context this can be highly relevant: a mixed-race one) in Luanda asked me what I thought about her and I replied, totally absentmindedly and unaware of Dee Dee’s outburst a few months earlier, something like this: look, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know what the fuss around her is all about; her most celebrated song so far seems to be all around something like “don’t know why I didn’t come”, which apparently invokes (unfulfilled) sex… so, if that’s all there is to her success I can’t really figure out where she stands as a jazz singer, writer, or musician…

Another thing that touched me in Dee Dee's outburst was the way in which she used the word antiseptic - I often use the word asseptic (e.g. here) to describe similar cases and contexts... But, above all, it was warming to know of her sisterly allegiance with Cassandra Wilson and other black jazz singers around it at the time... which, in some ways, takes me to this other sort of 'sisterly allegiance' (albeit circumstancial and distant), where it becomes apparent that some people in Angola, somewhere, somehow, and for whatever racially and/or culturally-based reason(s) have been trying (for far too long!) to, to use Dee Dee's word, exterminate me and my work, humble and unconceited as it is...

So, really, these discoveries today made my DAY! And, inDEEd inDEEd, my WOMEN'S MONTH!

Dee Dee Bridgewater is one of those people who is slow to anger, normally exuding the kind of calm associated with green tea, eucalyptus oil and tinkly-binkly music. At the age of 51, her skin is almost unnaturally smooth, and her conversation is low and beguiling, often sinking to a whisper. Her career has included stints with the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra, stage shows about Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday, and forays into pop; a trio of her earlier recordings has recently been reissued. She is delighted with her latest project, an album of Kurt Weill songs, which she will perform tonight at the Barbican. All would seem very well for Ms Bridgewater.

Yet the contented façade barely contains a volcano of rage that she admits she is struggling to keep the lid on. Bridgewater fears that the big record companies are trying to exterminate her and the tradition she represents, to replace them with insipid Barbie dolls with mass-market, lucrative appeal. The idea that jazz singing should be in a frail state may initially seem odd. Aren't the likes of her Verve label-mate Diana Krall and Norah Jones achieving the elusive position of being genuinely popular jazz artists, with posters on billboards and television ad campaigns, just like, well, pop singers? As Bridgewater points out, that achievement does not come without a cost.

"The Diana Krall phenomenon is based on material that's 30 or 40 years old," she says. "The treatment is cold, there's no emotion. It's only working because the jazz has been watered down, it's not abrasive – it's antiseptic." Bridgewater herself is a wonderful interpreter of old standards, although there is a world of difference between her punchy, gutsy style and the pale-honey smooth Krall – you could never accuse Dee Dee of being antiseptic. But there is more than just a difference of stylistic opinion here. "This is the era of the white female jazz singer," she says. "Even though jazz singing has traditionally been associated with the black female voice, it has never been at the elimination of the white female singer. Why, all of a sudden, are we supposed to be eliminated because the labels are scrambling to find their own Diana Krall wannabes? It's upsetting and frightening."

There's nothing grey about Dee Dee, or her contemporary Cassandra Wilson, both of whom search for the individual rather than a lower common-denominator. They resist the pressure to make radio-friendly recordings, and as a result, feel their music is not being treated seriously by an industry looking for a fast, sizeable return. "We were both in New York," says Dee Dee, "and Cassandra said, 'I can't get anybody interested in my projects, they keep putting Krall's name in my face. What are we supposed to do? Look at us, we've got our dreadlocks!'"

This is happening not only in America, but also in France, until recently Bridgewater's adopted home. "I've always employed French musicians, I've been burned for taking them to New York. But I can't get any reviews in French jazz papers. They've decided that Diana Krall is the beginning, the end and the in-between. To have the French jazz community turn its back on me because they've got some blonde, blue-eyed chick that can sing halfway decent and can play the piano – I'm livid."

She is determined that her anger will not make her bitter, though. A solution is forming in her mind. "Someone's got to have the balls to stand up and say, that's enough. That... is... enough." Printed words do not convey the force accompanying this sentiment from a woman who admits to having once thrown a man across a room.
"We're going to try to unite all the female black jazz-singers," she says, "and make a political stand." Woe betide anyone who tries to oppose her. "When I get really angry, I feel my blood boil, I see red, literally, and then I get physical. Don't mess with my babies, my albums. Don't mess with me. I'll turn into an angry, black 'ghettified' sister who will kick your effing ass."

"I always felt that I had to scat, to be another musician" – in her case, a trumpeter. "My father was, my first husband was, I had a boyfriend who was. Dizzy, Miles, Clark Terry – all my heroes were trumpeters." Now she is happy to concentrate on the lyric. "I thought, why don't I just sing the whole song, which I haven't done for years because I've been working so hard on getting my scatting to a level where I felt I was really being an instrument."

This is her route now. Bored by standards, which she says she might return to when she's 60 but not before, Weill has opened up a new vista for her; she's even contemplating resuscitating some of his operas. Her record company would do well to realise what a prodigious talent it has in Dee Dee Bridgewater – an artist worth a hundred Diana Kralls. If they don't, she will certainly be off – but not before she's kicked their effing asses.

{extracted from here}

Related posts:

Happy Hour!!!

A Minha Patria Nao E' a Lingua Portuguesa