Laurel Massé

To Sir, with love

A rose is a rose, even when it's a McCartney rose. It was many years ago today (or some other day) that not-yet-Sir Paul McCartney pulled a perfect rose from a table centerpiece and tossed it into my hands as I was singing Heart's Desire with my Manhattan Transfer colleagues at the Brit Awards. At least, I think the event was the Brits. I was completely focused on Sir P. I confess that I was singing right to (or perhaps even at) him, and he... well, the story is going into my memoir, which I had hoped to write this morning, but it's too darn hot.

On Sir's birthday, June 18th, I am going to be singing a few of his tunes in Beacon, NY. Not too many, though. I don't want to hurt Johnny Mercer or Willie Nelson's feelings. Cole Porter can be pretty touchy, too. With me will be Tex Arnold on the piano, and because we had such a good time in Washington CT last month, my sister Babette will again be joining me in a few songs, along with guitarist (and nephew) Alex Brown.

The Howland Cultural Center is a very interesting venue. Built in the "Norwegian" style in 1872 as a library, and placed on the National Historic Register one hundred years later, it is now a performance space and art gallery. It's geothermally cooled (which cannot be said of my apartment, alas). I hope to see some of you there. If you are planning on coming, please do make your reservation right away, so as to be sure to have a seat.

By the way, the McCartney Rose, shown above, is a hybrid tea rose, introduced in 1995. It is described as a hardy repeating bloomer (like me and my career!) with a strong and intoxicating fragrance. This pleases me. Though a rose by any other name would smell as sweet in Shakespeare's time, most of the cut roses one can buy these days have no perfume at all. One sniffs a bouquet, and there's nothing.

Heavy the heart that, via the nose, encounters the unscented rose.

Gary Moore, last chorus

I met Gary Moore briefly in Australia in October, 1978. The Manhattan Transfer was doing a long engagement at the ballroom of the Sydney Hilton, and Thin Lizzy hit town to do a big outdoor concert at the Sydney Opera House. Back in L.A., I'd heard the first riffs of  "The Boys Are Back in Town" roaring out of the radio speakers of my '65 Mustang, pulled over to the curb to listen, and then driven straight to the record store (remember them?) to buy the album (remember them?). So I was already a fan. The energy of that track was tremendous.

Lizzy and the Transfer had crossed paths in a TV studio somewhere at some point, without making much of a connection, but when it happened again in Sydney, an invitation to the concert was proffered. The Transfer was off that night, so I was happy to put on my rock & roll shoes and enjoy the show.

Lizzy, live, was a blast. Phil Lynott had a cool charisma, Scott Gorham and Gary Moore wove serpentine double guitar leads, the drummer, Mark Nauseef (subbing for Brian Downey), was great. The band would build a tune to a reckless peak, then yank the volume down, keeping the intensity, and rumble and growl till another build. I have always loved that push and pull, whether it shows up in the Basie Band or Little Feat. Power, restrained.

Moore was so young, racing around the stage, leaping, playing to the crowds, and he had a singing, muscular tone on his pretty Les Paul. As he aged, he just played better - that's what good musicians do - and his tone grew ever more rich.

Our paths did not cross again. The Transfer wasn't long back in L.A. before I fell asleep driving that Mustang. Everything changed.

But everything always changes, for everyone - Thin Lizzy disbanded in 1983, Lynott died in 1986. The other musicians I saw on the stage that day carried on in the business, sometimes working together. Moore established himself solidly as a solo artist, continuing to rock through good times and bad until this past weekend, when he died while on vacation in Spain. We were only just beginning to know him as an elder. The last chorus came unexpectedly, and there's a sadness on me about that.

 

From the heart: Karen Dalton

It's Sunday night, I have been practicing for the upcoming JaLaLa gig, and my mind has nothing in it but lyrics, repeating. So I thought I would post a video for you of a singer you may never have heard.

Karen Dalton only recorded two albums, It's So Hard to Tell Who is Going to Love You in 1969, and In My Own Time 1971. That's it. But I had them both, and loved them.

Her voice was often compared to Billie Holiday's, and I used to hear a great resemblance. Now, though, I don't hear it as much, perhaps because I know Billie's work so much better than I did then, and can recognize how Karen's harsh beauty is different. But there is a resemblance in their artistic integrity. Both women sang from their experience, both were fiercely individual, both were stalked by demons of addiction, and paid a price for that ferocity.

Two albums, recorded (and first heard) forty years ago, still ringing in my memory. Karen's singing continues to move me with its simplicity, and honesty, and the way she told her story.

 

Going south

Hello all!

I am going to be singing in Annapolis, Maryland at 49 West Café this coming Friday, November 6th, with guitarist Tom Mitchell. Also on the bandstand will be Robert Redd and Tommy Cecil. The shows are at 8 and 10 PM, cover charge is $20.

49 West Café is located in downtown Annapolis on 49 West St. For more information and to make reservations, call 410.626.9796, or go to the website.

I am looking forward to this very much. Tom is one of my favorite musicians on this or any other planet. He's one of my fellow staff members at Ashokan Western and Swing Week, and swings hard and sweet. 

I'll be hoping to see you there!