That Sinatra quote is a great reminder of her reach. We often pigeonhole Billie as a "jazz singer," but seeing her direct impact on a giant like Sinatra really puts her singular status into perspective.
The recent book “Bitter Crop” by Paul Alexander is a fascinating read. Ostensibly, the book is about the tumultuous last year of Billie’s life, but of course is much more than that. A revelation for me was the fact that Billie did not view her life as tragic, and even toward the end was planning for the future. She even gave up alcohol for a while when her doctor recommended she do so. Ultimately, her courageous decision to perform “Strange Fruit” put the FEDS on her case for the remainder of her days.
The Artie Shaw section breaks your heart — not just because of what they did to her, but because of what she did with it. Hours alone in a back room. The freight elevator. The message, delivered nightly, that she was less than the people she was about to go out and move with her voice. That is what systemic racism looks like up close — not just laws and signs, but the daily, grinding insistence that a human being does not belong in the same room as other human beings, even when those other human beings cannot get enough of what she gives them.
And then she'd walk to the microphone and give them euphoria. Beauty. Lightness. Joy wrapped around pain so precisely that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Those alternating waves that you feel when you really listen to her — that's not performance. That's a life being lived at full volume, with nowhere to hide. She changes you a little every time you hear her. Every singer who came after her felt it. Every small crack that eventually opened in the wall owes something to what she endured and refused to let silence her.
Interesting to hear Billie and Helen Merrill, likely somewhat lubricated, singing impromptu at a house party. Merrill's voice was distinctive. To me it had a quality like icy fog. I'd forgotten that Leonard Feather knew his way around the keyboard. While I understand her importance and know of her struggles, I can't listen to many of Billie's later recordings. The debilitation, the wasting away of her voice is hard for me to take. Thanks for another cool post.
Wonderful piece. The Artie Shaw section breaks your heart — not just because of what they did to her, but because of what she did with it. Hours alone in a back room. The freight elevator. The message, delivered nightly, that she was less than the people she was about to go out and move with her voice. That is what systemic racism looks like up close — not just laws and signs, but the daily, grinding insistence that a human being does not belong in the same room as other human beings, even when those other human beings cannot get enough of what she gives them.
And then she'd walk to the microphone and give them euphoria. Beauty. Lightness. Joy wrapped around pain so precisely that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Those alternating waves that you feel when you really listen to her — that's not performance. That's a life being lived at full volume, with nowhere to hide. She changes you a little every time you hear her. Every singer who came after her felt it. Every small crack that eventually opened in the wall owes something to what she endured and refused to let silence her.
This is such a thoughtful piece—thank you for sharing it. As a singer, I was especially struck by your point about her phrasing and storytelling. I’ve been spending time with her music recently, and it continues to reveal something new each time.
This is priceless. A young Mike Wallace introducing Lady Day and her stellar supporting cast. Her reactions to the soloists-particularly Prez-are deeply felt.
That Sinatra quote is a great reminder of her reach. We often pigeonhole Billie as a "jazz singer," but seeing her direct impact on a giant like Sinatra really puts her singular status into perspective.
The recent book “Bitter Crop” by Paul Alexander is a fascinating read. Ostensibly, the book is about the tumultuous last year of Billie’s life, but of course is much more than that. A revelation for me was the fact that Billie did not view her life as tragic, and even toward the end was planning for the future. She even gave up alcohol for a while when her doctor recommended she do so. Ultimately, her courageous decision to perform “Strange Fruit” put the FEDS on her case for the remainder of her days.
Wonderful piece, Marc!
The Artie Shaw section breaks your heart — not just because of what they did to her, but because of what she did with it. Hours alone in a back room. The freight elevator. The message, delivered nightly, that she was less than the people she was about to go out and move with her voice. That is what systemic racism looks like up close — not just laws and signs, but the daily, grinding insistence that a human being does not belong in the same room as other human beings, even when those other human beings cannot get enough of what she gives them.
And then she'd walk to the microphone and give them euphoria. Beauty. Lightness. Joy wrapped around pain so precisely that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Those alternating waves that you feel when you really listen to her — that's not performance. That's a life being lived at full volume, with nowhere to hide. She changes you a little every time you hear her. Every singer who came after her felt it. Every small crack that eventually opened in the wall owes something to what she endured and refused to let silence her.
Interesting to hear Billie and Helen Merrill, likely somewhat lubricated, singing impromptu at a house party. Merrill's voice was distinctive. To me it had a quality like icy fog. I'd forgotten that Leonard Feather knew his way around the keyboard. While I understand her importance and know of her struggles, I can't listen to many of Billie's later recordings. The debilitation, the wasting away of her voice is hard for me to take. Thanks for another cool post.
Nice Mark—"icy fog." Glad you enjoyed.
Wonderful piece. The Artie Shaw section breaks your heart — not just because of what they did to her, but because of what she did with it. Hours alone in a back room. The freight elevator. The message, delivered nightly, that she was less than the people she was about to go out and move with her voice. That is what systemic racism looks like up close — not just laws and signs, but the daily, grinding insistence that a human being does not belong in the same room as other human beings, even when those other human beings cannot get enough of what she gives them.
And then she'd walk to the microphone and give them euphoria. Beauty. Lightness. Joy wrapped around pain so precisely that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Those alternating waves that you feel when you really listen to her — that's not performance. That's a life being lived at full volume, with nowhere to hide. She changes you a little every time you hear her. Every singer who came after her felt it. Every small crack that eventually opened in the wall owes something to what she endured and refused to let silence her.
Beautifully put. Thanks for your kind words.
This is such a thoughtful piece—thank you for sharing it. As a singer, I was especially struck by your point about her phrasing and storytelling. I’ve been spending time with her music recently, and it continues to reveal something new each time.
My pleasure, Eileen. So glad you enjoyed.
This is priceless. A young Mike Wallace introducing Lady Day and her stellar supporting cast. Her reactions to the soloists-particularly Prez-are deeply felt.
Twas New York Herald Tribune media critic John Crosby doing the MC honors.
Sorry-my error. Looks and sounds like Wallace. Too many years of watching 60 Minutes.
Too Garment District-y v. Wallace's razor-blade ambition.
Great contrast - you sure know your NYC .