#jazz chanteuse

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 70 years ago: actress, singer, sex kitten, perennial starlet, queen of terrible, terrible movies (like Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and Voyage of the Rock Aliens) and beloved kitsch icon turned credible and durable jazz chanteuse – Miss Pia Zadora (née Pia Alfreda Schipani, 4 May 1954)! For John Waters aficionados, Zadora will always be “Beatnik Girl” in Hairspray (1988): “I play my bongos, listen to Odetta, and then I iron my hair. Dig?” (As Waters raved in his 1987 volume of essays Crackpot,  “She’s shorter than Elizabeth Taylor, cuter than Alvin the Chipmunk, richer than Cher, more publicized than Zsa Zsa and has a better hairdo than Farrah.”). Every time I attend the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender, I endeavor to make a religious pilgrimage to see Pia’s one-woman cabaret revue in an Italian restaurant called Piero's, where she sings jazz standards in front of a giant Warhol portrait of herself. In April 2019, my friend Kevin and I even got to hang out with her, and she was a savvy, self-deprecating and adorable down to earth blast! I intend to commemorate the occasion by watching Zadora’s 1982 exploitation flick Fake-Out (aka Nevada Heat), which I just discovered is free to stream on both YouTube and Amazon Prime. It’s filmed on location in Vegas (in and around the long-defunct Riviera casino), co-stars Telly Savalas and Desi Arnaz Jr and is directed by Jayne Mansfield’s sexploitation filmmaker ex-husband Matt Cimber. How can I resist? And crank up “When the Rain Begins to Fall” and “The Clapping Song” LOUD! Pictured: Polaroid of Zadora by Andy Warhol, 1983.

[bitter69uk]

“… Holiday stood on the bandstand, hardly moving – an elegantly gowned beauty with a gardenia in her pulled-back hair. Holiday’s small, wailing voice revealed a woman who lived for love and would possibly die for it. She both luxuriated in her suffering and gave it dignity, even in “My Man” in which she sang: “He isn’t true / He beats me too / What can I do?” Holiday’s singing was pure autobiography, tied to stylistic quirks that are copied to this day: seductively bent notes that sounded like sighs; a thin, brassy edge that evoked a muted trumpet; a languid delivery that could drag perilously behind the beat yet never fell out of time. Her life was cloaked in tabloid scandal, much of it involving her addictions to heroin and abusive men. She lived her saddest songs to such a reckless degree that she died at forty-four.”

/ From Is That All There Is? The Strange Life of Peggy Lee (2014) by James Gavin /

“I saw the whole world in that face. All of the beauty and all of the misery.”

/ From the documentary Billie (2020) /

Died 65 years ago today: regal, soulful and ravaged jazz chanteuse Billie Holiday (née Eleanora Fagan, 7 April 1915 – 17 July 1959). Lady Day’s bruised but defiant (and sexy as hell) spirit lives every time you listen to her music. My favourite songs of hers will always be “I’m a Fool to Want You”, “Don’t Explain”, “You’ve Changed” and “Good Morning Heartache.” The greatest living interpreter of the Holiday songbook is Joey Arias.

Billie Holiday performing at the Mars Club in Paris on November 20, 1958.

Photos by Jean Pierre Leloir

[carbone14]

Billie Holiday au Downbeat club - New York - Février 1947

Photo de William P. Gottlieb

©Library of Congress

[vagabondageautourdesoi]

Eddy Mitchell- Ma discothèque

Cadeau à s'offrir ou à offrir !

Idéale Ma discothèque idéale d’Eddy Mitchell est un vrai cadeau fait par Alain Artaud-Macari et Marc Maret, en cette fin d’année, En effet, ils rassemblent dans ce beau livre plus de cinquante références musicales témoignant de la vigueur des références musicales que le chanteur apprécie, de la chanson française à la country en passant par le Rock’Roll qu’il s’est employé à faire connaître en…

[oreilletendue]

Correction bienvenue

L’ancien président états-unien Barack Obama aime faire des recommandations de lectures et de pièces musicales. Parmi ces dernières, il y a souvent du Ella Fitzgerald. En 2015, il y avait «Let It Snow ! Let It Snow ! Let It Snow !» En 2016, 2017 et 2018, rien. En 2019, «How High the Moon». En 2020, rien. En 2021, «Lush Life». En 2022, rien. En 2023, «Cry Me a River» — voilà qui est…

[bitter69uk]

“There are all kinds of singers. Somehow, Dinah made most of them sound like little girls.” Dan Morgenstern, from the sleeve notes to the 1958 Dinah Washington album Jazz Sides.

“Like Billie Holiday, the singer for whom early in her career she sometimes substituted, Dinah Washington lived a life loaded with drink, drugs and far too many men. Determined to enjoy the opportunities her success brought her she lavished on herself clothes and jewelry; and so, dressed to kill and driving a flashy new car, lived the party life. If she could sing a song of lost love or a rollicking good time, or care off a dirty ditty with eloquent conviction, it was because she knew the experience firsthand. She lived it … she half-talked, half-sang and her style blatantly mixed the sacred music of her background and the profanity of the blues and her raucous mode of life.” Deborah Valentine on Dinah Washington.

Born one hundred years ago today: turbulent jukebox diva Dinah Washington (29 August 1924 - 14 December 1963). One of the first African American superstars to enjoy crossover success on the white pop charts, Washington was financially able to indulge her love of jewelry, furs and sports cars. A defiant and willful tough cookie, she was known to pull out a gun in disagreements. During recording sessions, she would pound back magnums of pink champagne (no wonder her vocals sound so relaxed and effortless! And no wonder – as the liner notes to one of my CDs claims - “records were released that Dinah didn’t even remember making”). I know she’s most beloved for classics like “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes”, “September in the Rain” and her sumptuous, string-drenched version of Noel Coward’s “Mad About the Boy”, but I recommend two heartbreak ballads where Washington drops the trademark bravado to reveal a sensitive, bruised side: “I Want to Cry” (1948) and “You’re Crying” (1956).

Dinah Washington, Newport, Photo by Herman Leonard, 1955

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 90 years ago: sensational Eisenhower era jazz chanteuse, actress and pin-up queen Meg Myles (née Billie Jean Jones, 14 November 1934 – 12 November 2019). For b-movie aficionados, Myles makes an incendiary impression as the leading lady of Satan in High Heels (1962), the apex of early sixties sexploitation cinema NOT made by Russ Meyer. (I screened this tawdry gem at the Lobotomy Room cinema club in July 2024). Even though Satan is black-and-white, you can just tell Myles’ hair is flaming red. (If you squint your eyes, with her curvaceous figure, tight pencil skirts and impressive beehive hairdo, Myles’ silhouette anticipates Joan Holloway in TV’s Mad Men). Inexplicably, despite her tender way with a ballad and scorching charismatic and glamorous performance as the tough as nails anti-heroine Stacey Kane, Myles somehow wasn’t destined for mainstream stardom. (In later years she focused on TV soap operas like The Edge of Night, Search for Tomorrow and All My Children). Now belt out Myles’ BDSM musical number “Female of the Species” from Satan in High Heels along with me: “I'm the kind of woman / Not hard to understand / I'm the kind that cracks the whip / And takes the upper hand …” Satan in High Heels seemingly slipped into public domain years ago and is easy to find and watch for free online. This version is great.

[figurines-rock]

[mermervi]

a little party

✎ It's 1927 and the lights are glittering. You're a budding jazz chanteuse, everyone's sweetheart, and Leon, who's got you in his sights, is out to score what's in his mind.

cw: blood, death, oral (female receiving), uhmm idek what to add cuz my mind is not minding after this (this shii hit hard and it's like 9k) , intricate time-skipping from scene to scene, mayhaps?, not proofread ouchie, MDNI

The rain poured down from the sky like a mighty torrent of rage. That night, the cold that prickled through Leon’s soaked Hart Schaffner jacket, far from dispiriting him, only kept him going. Years of privation, every step he had taken to secure his very existence, had taught him the vernacular of the streets, but on that night, the streets were poised to betray him. 

This story of treachery wasn’t as bitter as life; Leon couldn’t refute that. 

He had witnessed a sequence of crime that perhaps a boy who had come to a city like New York from his rural village, a boy who couldn’t even calculate his steps precisely, should never have seen in those scenes in his ever-lasting life. It was true that these blue pairs of peepers had seen many people perish, but these were the deaths that came in their due time, like his mother’s death before she turned sixty, the Grim Reaper’s visit to his grandfather on a night like that night when the rains were drizzling over the sky. 

Only his father’s martial death could have rivaled the images he had seen that night. That may be it, he thought. After all, he had never had the chance to see his father choke on his own tainted and alcohol-laden blood in his frail, final moments. 

Back to that night, the man Leon saw in the car had a very different kind of dread. His eyes were huge sockets, and a bloody streak was running down his throat on his skin, visible through the placket of his dress shirt. 

That was the kind of sight that makes one’s heart sing. Otherwise, it must have been an appalling sight that made men and women wince and cower. Leon should have felt the former for himself. 

How could he have known the little trick that fate would be about to play? 

On that September night, on a corner, he saw a wounded man trapped inside a maroon Cadillac. On the man’s face, there was a sliver of hope mixed with absolute despair, just the kind of “too proud to ask for help but in need of salvation.” 

A faint spark flared inside Leon. 

He could recall his departed father’s words, that such men like those in those costly cars were indeed evils for no good deed. 

His past had to be repudiated. 

His father was perhaps cursing him that night—no, the old man was absolutely putting the whammy on young Leon. What a hell of a father. It was always the hardest thing for a boy like Leon to placate that lousy man. Even after his death it was all the more impossible to appease him. A ruffian of a man, Leon thought. 

He thought too much on that rainy Friday night. 

Out of pure, undiluted impulse, he acted without a plan at all to save the man; he only thought of taking one more step in that ill-lit road. When he set his eyes on that street, he walked with a foolish spunk, heedless of the gun barrel of the mobster shrouded in shadows. He neither thought about the future nor retreated. “If you bail someone out, someday you will be bailed out too,” he thought with childlike simplicity. 

He was cold and unsure. Somehow or other, he had slid out of the dusk and appeared behind the black-clad mafioso, who was pointing his revolver at the driver’s window and was about to blast the man inside with the hollow point of a bullet. 

The plot was grim. A gruesome story. For hours Leon washed his hands with scalding soapy water to rinse off the scum of the filthy man’s blood, or that’s how he remembers the aftermath of the chain of events. 

He had grabbed the man by the cord and bashed his head against the drywall, searing sounds that he could still recall in the innermost recesses of his ear, the gold inlaid revolver in his hand clattering to the pavement, airy-fairy. The wrangling of the man, his fedora plunged into the muddy rainwater pit on the tiled road. Leon would always remember the first murder, the one that lodged deep in the very core of his psyche. 

Beyond recall, Leon thrashed the man’s skull from wall to wall until he was sure he was in a stupor, and when the man finally slumped—coup de grace. Leon wailed out the air he had been consciously holding all those long, long minutes. Mouth hanging open, dulled eyes, and the pile of a corpse littering the floor at his feet. The lack of sleep from hours of working in the packing department of the Berwick shoe factory, some man’s brains imploding in the wall... Everything had drained the daylight out of Leon on that cursed night. 

When he met the gaze of the terror-struck man in the car, he met something much newer. 

He met himself. 

Or rather, his new “self.”. 

An absolute criminal.

He wasn’t shaking, nor did he feel like he might be sick. What was most pathetic was that he appeared to resemble his dead father in the wretched auspices reflected in the window of that maroon Cadillac. 

After that night, life kept rolling along. Days, weeks, and months. Ironically, Leon was no longer just another schmo slugging it out in the textile mills. Nobody batted an eye at the kid’s line of work with all that greenbacks stuffed in his pockets. The word on the street? He’s just a flash in the pan, a real fly-by-night type. But here’s the thing: an American, with blonde hair and baby blues, is always the cat’s meow, especially if he’s sporting a sharp suit with a label on it. Anything that doesn’t fit the mold? Forget it. No exceptions to the rule. And isn’t that the ultimate American dream? Gents with pockets full of dough, running the show. 

How your story comes along with this creepy-crawly backstory, with so many powerful men signing off on it, is pure happenstance. A story straight from the pen of God, really, to put it in a nutshell. 

It all starts on a Saturday night in March of 1927. 

Tin Pan Alley is kicking up its heels tonight, the joint hopping with the wildest kind of racket. The place is packed with middle-class folks from all corners of the city—newly minted millionaires who’ve made their pile and are now living it up. These cats have been rolling in dough so long they’ve got the smarts to throw it around like it’s sugar-coated. The air’s thick. Lap of luxury, and the whole scene is a real shindig, full of high-living gents and dames who’ve learned to spend big, laugh loud, and flash those fat pockets like it’s nobody’s business. 

“Get a wiggle on, gals! C’mon now.” 

From backstage, the sound of booming voices cuts through the air, unmistakably Ada Wong herself—barking orders and giving the girls an earful as she whips them into shape for the show. She’s a stunner with grit, the kind of woman you can’t help but notice. No one else is ever going to take her seat; this joint is hers, and everyone knows it. Ada doesn’t just run the joint—she owns it. She’s got her pretty fingers on the pulse of the city’s most daring and avant-garde talent, working with the best, the boldest, and the brightest minds the world has to offer. If she’s not at the top of the heap, she’s surely standing on it. 

What’s a woman like that to do with a gal like you? Well, there’s a rather simple answer to that. 

Pretty young things always find their way to the top. And that’s before we even get to ones with voices that could melt hearts, like yours. 

Ada’s the Queen of the downtown club scene, and you’re her darling young, white-hot vessel of treasure trove. Pretty girls always get their moment, but pretty girls with a lilting voice garner more than their share of attention. All in all, Wong knows what she’s doing, and you’re her ace in the hole. 

Yet there are some rules. Ada’s rules. Simple ones, really. “Slip into your Jeanne Lanvin, dazzle ‘em with that red lipstick, and keep your chin up—don’t fidget, don’t even think about mussing up that perfect coif.” 

And on the stage, do keep that smile for the crowd until you get the microphone—because after all, the crowd is here to see your legs, not to hear your troubles. They pay in bills; you deliver the thrills. 

Hot minutes before the show, you stare at your reflection in the mirror like you’ve never seen your face before. The same old script in the mind, the same fake smile stretched on your lips—too tight over a thousand unspoken thoughts. The eyes in the glass, observing you with a kind of critical hunger, just waiting for a slip. They can’t perceive the enmity in your head—the one that never takes a break, no matter how many gin rickeys you slug down. The booze? It doesn’t wash away the ache. The pills? Only another temporary fix to soothe the ache that burns brighter when the spotlight fades. 

Why are you miserable when the dough’s rolling in and the world’s at your feet? Why turn your back on the luxury that others would kill for? But hell, you don’t need an answer. 

You’re an oddity, a riddle wrapped in velvet and lace, sipped from a silver cup. The men and women, they all like you. The faces in the crowd—each of them gazing up at you with athirst eyes—are only loyal to you when the lights are on and the music’s blaring. Afterward, though, you’re just another pretty girl in a smoky room, holding your breath until they let you vanish again. 

Post-performance, Chris Redfield is the name that shields you from scrutiny (he quite literally interposes his humongous body between you and the admirers); he’ll pluck you out of the melee, hustle you into a quiet space, and shelter you from anything. 

Then you’ll sit in the corner, maybe sip a seltzer, and go over your numbers, rehearsing the songs they want to hear and shimmy your tush that they’re going to throw dollars at. All in those godforsaken high heels! It’s a devil’s game, this life of glitter and stage lights. But the lights burn so bright, you almost forget the shadows hounding you from behind. 

All this suffering, your illusions, the never-ending fervent hopes of that girl who had to run in those heels were perfectly channeled, and you were born. For years you have breathed in and out for a single purpose, in an intricate cycle called life, a circle of a powdery pink existence that is anything but powdery pink. 

It’s all diamonds. Dirty, big diamonds. 

“Miss, are you all set?” Chris’ voice slips into the air, stripped of any graspable pathos like a bad rumor. Those mother-of-pearl drop earrings—they’re starting to feel like anchors around your neck. 

“Sure thing, Chris,” you enunciate animatedly before getting up from your vanity chair. “Let’s take a stroll, huh? Like we own the place.” 

He does laugh, though rather silly. He’s a straight shooter, the kind who lives by the book. 

After a lackluster walk, you arrive upstage. The joint is packed to the rafters, the air thick with the perfume of incense, lavender, and a dash of orange, like a high-society boudoir on a Saturday night. Piers, who performed a little verse before you, is preparing to leave the stage to thunderous ovations. Naturally, he can’t scram from the joint until he’s put in the grunt work he’s got to handle. 

“Ladies and gents, hold onto your hats—here’s the name you’ve all been dying to hear!” Piers’ voice crackles through the microphone, sending a whitecap through the crowd like a match setting fire to velvet. He does wonders with the microphone, alright. 

One, two, three—out with it. You exhale that pent-up storm, and just like that, the stage belongs to you. 

Time’s up. You take that breath, the one you’ve been holding like a secret you can’t quite tell, and you step into the spotlight. 

You’re in. And the stage is yours—a damn showstopper of a stage, mind you. 

Your heels hit the floor with that familiar rhythm, each step measured, a saint’s grace—if a saint knew how to twirl in silk and steal the show. The crowd’s already on their feet, clapping, whooping, and hollering. The smile on your face is blindingly luminescent, even more dazzling than diamonds. God, you’re fake, but hands up, darling. You’re the queen of this palace. 

The air’s electric as you wave, your people calling your name like it’s the sweetest song they’ve ever heard. Your chest swells, a perfect mix of pride and thrill, the crowd hanging on your every move like moths to the flame. 

But then—just as the frenzy peaks—a set of eyes catches yours from somewhere in the haze. 

Something in that gaze. Something different. A new note in the symphony, sharp and clear. 

With all due respect, you know the dandies—the regulars who’ve been greasing their palms to get front-row seats for years. Those high-browed, underdressed gargoyles—each one plastered in a grotesque mask of makeup that’d make a saint blanch. And then there are the ones who are really in love with your voice, the ones who drop their dimes and bills just to hear you sing, all the way down to the final breath of your last note. Their eyes glisten like they’re listening not just to you, but to the very last song on earth. 

But then there’s him—the stranger in the crowd. He doesn’t quite fit into either of those camps. He stands apart like a shadow, as though he’s absorbed something from the city itself—electric, muted, with a trace of gunmetal dust in his eyes, something that caught the reflected light of a thousand lost souls. 

He’s not looking at the fellow beside him, not paying the slightest attention to the clamor or the chatter. No, his gaze is all for you. Wait a minute—what’s this? Is that Ada, standing just there by his side, or has your vision gone all soft in the haze of the lights? 

It’s Ada, alright. And she’s got you in her sights, sending you a thousand little daggers with those eyes of hers, as if daring you to keep singing, daring you to hit every note just so. 

Now, it’s not your style to stand around like some dopey schoolgirl, ogling every flapper and every fancy boy who drifts through the scene. No, you’re only a little giddy to see fresh faces, fresh crowds, and—well, a fresh crop of admirers, too. No harm, no foul. End of story, no need to dig any deeper. (Of course, that’s all just a tall tale.) 

But what about Leon? How’s he taking in this blurred picture of yours, with all its strange little twists and turns? 

“What a hot mess up there on that stage.” He mutters tacitly, his very first thoughts about you. 

He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, finding the whole thing a delightful mess. And he knows—oh, he knows—that he’s right in the crosshairs of Ada’s death stare. Poor guy. He’s probably already picturing her giving him a good talking-to, the sort that’d have a lesser man crawling for cover. 

For now, though, your voice knells over the microphone, a golden oldie, ritzy and true, and the crowd falls into a hush like a room full of smitten children. The spell is cast again, and they’re all yours. 

Ada, meanwhile, gives you a nod—half maternal, half triumphant—as if you’re her very own creation, fretting and fuming along in a delicate harmony with the night. And Leon, well, let’s just say he’s still trying to keep his own amusement under wraps, but the grin’s playing all over his face. 

No doubt about it, you’re the star of the night—who else could it possibly be? The eponymous name everyone’s been whispering in esteem, the one Leon has heard mentioned more than once, all wrapped up in the honeyed sort of praise. 

Up on stage, Leon has you in his illusory blues, as everyone else contemplates you until your encore is at an end. There are certain things that should only be spectated; their splendor should be kept locked away in the heart and in a secret corner of the brain after peeping through the veils of the eyes. That’s you, for him. You’re that kind of beauty—too grand for the world to touch, too perfect to be anything but an ephemeral glimpse. 

“Oh, that chick’s the real deal, alright,” Leon breathes in awe. Turning now to Ada, when your performance comes to a sublime end, he has you up front in the applause, as does your crowd. He’s a part of your crowd now. 

To which Ada retorts with a cognizant luster, “What did I tell you?” she says, the glow of the cinch lighting up her face like the glow of a cigarette’s ember in the dark. “The best ones are always under my namesake.” 

Leon can’t argue with that—not when he’s seen you, not when you’ve got him bewitched, already half-dreaming that you might be some celestial being sent here just to voodoo the cosmos with your tongue. A star fallen from Arcadia, caught in a moment of earthly grace. In such a way that he should render himself a more open target for you. The thought flickers through his mind like a dangerous little inferno: maybe he should make you his. Keep you close, lock you up like the most precious thing he owns, the way he’s always hoarded only the finest nonpareils. Time’s done a number on him, sure—he’s spent enough hours in the smoke-permeated parlors of the city’s high society to become exactly the sort of libertine playboy who rounds up beautiful things. In this modern age, after all, it’s the ones who possess the rarest jewels who leave their names etched into history. 

And legacy—that’s all Leon really wants. To leave a mark. To be remembered. 

Ada gets the wind of that desire in Leon’s eyes the second he lays his zealous eyes on you. She tugs him by the arm and pushes him to a corner that’s secluded from the public eye so that his ear can reach her red-tinctured lips. “Don’t,” she warns, “don’t cross that line in your mind.” 

“Don’t get all worked up, Ada.” Leon’s voice slips out smooth and phlegmatic, like a man who’s seen it all and is hardly moved by it anymore. There’s something visceral about it, something that pulls him into the dark corners of the backstage when a woman like her—striking and full of fire—yanks him close. He has always adored women, sure, but there’s something about the ones who know how to take charge, the ones who’ve got the power to bend him to their will, that makes him stay just a little bit longer. 

Tonight, though, Ada isn’t the one who has his attention. You are. He plays the part of the good boy to Ada, with soft words and wistful smiles, but underneath, there’s a quiet conspiracy to take what she holds dear, her prized girl, namely you. 

This tendency is nothing new for Leon—it’s a trick he’s picked up over time, a survival mechanism he learned in the kind of world where charm and guile are the only things that keep him afloat. 

Ada doesn’t miss it. Her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows, the kind of expression that makes a man’s skin crawl. There’s no mistaking the mistrust there, like ice forming in the atmosphere between them. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, her voice abiding, almost too calm. “One wrong move, and Wesker’s on your tail.” 

Her words hang heavy in the air, a warning clothed in concern. Beneath her sangfroid, Leon feels a flicker of something deeper, something that he’s too foolish to fully understand—Ada Wong is afraid. In this world, in this neon-lit, soulless place, she fears losing someone she can rely on. Someone she trusts. 

Leon gets it, or at least, he feels the weight of it—but it’s nothing he’ll lose sleep over. He’s too simple, too self-absorbed, too headstrong. A fool, really. 

And that foolishness, that same reckless drive, leads him straight to your door. And standing in the way is Chris, his massive frame blocking the entrance like a standpat mountain. 

Leon’s voice takes on a resigned note. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out.” He knows he’ll have to talk his way through. He always does—always puts his life and tears on the line. 

“Come on, pal,” he says with a remiss grin, like he’s telling an old joke. “What’s one little party going to hurt? 

His words sound tired, worn from repetition, but his eyes are sharp, looking for any crack, any weakness in Chris’ solid stance. Leon knows this game well, but Chris? He’s not someone you talk past easily. 

“No entry, I said.” Chris’ voice is edgier and booming. Leon didn’t expect a harsh backlash from such a dim-witted man, even though he’s been grilling him for nearly half an hour. The pedestal, however, is clear: Leon wants to be heard, and he wants to draw your attention. He knows you’re in your room, and he doesn’t compromise since he always wants more. Even if he tickles a chance that he might end up getting beaten up, the risk, you are, is worth it. 

Leon shrugs, ever the picture of nonchalance, though his voice is silky with calculated charm. “It’s just an autograph, my good man. A trifle, really. You wouldn’t deny an admirer of the arts a simple token, would you? It’s hardly the end of the world…” Leon flaunts his mendacious excuses. 

For then, Chris inhales a long, drawn-out gulp of bile. Why is he going through this excruciating ordeal? This loquacious blonde has been clamoring to see you for minutes. Leon’s been at it for minutes now, talking a mile a minute—promising everything, offering bribes, flattering him to no end. And yet, there’s no movement. 

“When I say no, it means no. Get movin’ or I won’t be liable for what happens, young fella.” Chris’ last words are too caustic and are perhaps adequate proof enough to conclude the last point. Only a cheeky mite like Leon doesn’t understand how to leave high and dry. 

“A grave indignity, old sport. I only—” His words are broken off by the crack of the door parting open. The countenance he beholds is the one Leon covets. At the sound of the click of your heels, Chris turns in a dazed sort of way to acknowledge your presence. 

“Ma’am, this fellow here—” 

You interrupt him with a wave of your hand in the breeze. You don’t necessarily need to hear the whole story; you’ve already overheard the whole thing when you were changing your dress. 

“Chris, I and my... admirer will take it from here,” you assure your friend, and you do recognize your newest fan’s face, “You should go home now.” 

That’s how you seal a deal. 

The jazzy, twinkling blue mirrors in Leon’s sockets—reflecting fragments of light like stars caught in a lover’s gaze—seem to applaud you silently. “Look at this dame,” they whisper, “What a thing she’s done, dispatching that thug.” 

Chris’ stupefied gaze flies between you and Leon. Yet the look you give him signals that all is well enough, the quiet reassurance of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. Chris bears silent and moves a meter away, and then over a dividing wall. 

“You saved me, my dear.” Leon dashes in without wasting a second of his precious time. However much he can wow you, that’s as good as it gets. 

“Oh, don’t even mention it,” you reply, your voice airy but welded. “And please, do excuse Chris. Mr...?” You quirk your eyebrows and proffer his name, hand raised for a handshake. Leon’s only too happy to comply. 

“Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy.” 

You can’t quite place it, but there’s something vaguely familiar about the name, like a snippet of conversation overheard in a café or a name dropped casually pending a gossip fest. It lingers on the edge of your memory, refusing to settle in the space where it belongs. 

Leon can see the ululation echoing in your eyes, plain and simple: “What is it, doll?” He asks, beryls alight with oceanic larks. “Do you know me? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve heard of me. Everyone knows my name around here, you see.” 

How he can’t stop raving about himself leaves a tangy aftertaste on your tongue for the first impressions. Naturally on your face too. 

You smile, just a little too gaily. “I believe so,” you counter. “But I was more curious about what’s brought a man of such... renown to this particular corner of the world. After all, I’ve never heard of you before tonight, Mr. Kennedy.” 

Your words are relentless, and besides, there’s no harm in reminding this conceited man of his place in your presence. 

“Is that so?” Leon cross-examines. Now it’s time to watch his face shrivel up—figuratively speaking, since his face is too pretty to take a nosedive. 

“That so, gentleman?” You sort of ascribe to his intonation the same acerbic tonality and maybe a pinch of belittlement. It’s more genuine. Now why would you do it like that? Now that you’ve piqued his interest all the more, his already inherent infatuation with you attains a deeper level. Now you’ve got him hooked even tighter. The one that’s not an easy prey is always more desirable, and simple-minded people like Leon, men of a breed under the names of kind gents, take this as a rule of thumb. 

“Honey... That’s called cheating, see? Be straight with me. My name’s the talk of the town.” Leon’s counting on you to accept this absurd truth, his truth. The smile of implied expectation on his lips is a foreshadowing of its force majeure. He’s delivering the punchline of a joke no one’s laughing at yet. 

“Sir... I’m at a loss for words, truly. You’ve come all the way here to face Chris just for my autograph?” You do what you know, and your cockiness builds layer by layer. Watching the ferment on his face, the frowny set of his eyebrows, gives you a special sense of self-assurance. 

“Autograph. Ha!” Leon lets out a crow of laughter, like he’s just remembered something from way back. It’s big, brash, and loud. Passing dancer girls bustle around backstage, giggling at his fit of exuberance. It’s that you are making a toy out of him, and somehow, he can’t extricate himself from the predicament. 

“I forgot, of course,” he says, shifting into a more controlled drawl; he’s trying to smooth out the bumpy ride. He pulls a pen and a small notebook from his coat pocket with an exaggerated flourish. “But you can’t exactly blame me, doll. Your beauty’s done something to my head—messed with my mind, ya know?” 

Oh, he’s smooth, like the tingles left by the fingers tangent to your palm. 

“It seems to be your problem,” you riposte. Pen in hand, you carve your signature on the blank expanse of crisp white paper, and Leon follows the touch of the ink on the sheet of paper, heedless of your jeering remarks. 

“My problems never quite seem to end,” he expounds, not in a protesting way, but with a light touch of amusement tapping on his lips. You only respond with a whispery whicker of a laugh. You do laugh like God, Leon notices, if God is even real. 

That’s when Leon understands why people can be drawn to a simple voice as much as they can. You owe your fame to this elfin-singing voice, the batting of those cartoon eyes. As for your beauty, it must be a double blessing from God. 

Leon delights in deciphering you like a crossword puzzle, worships your littlest moves, the way the flutter of your lashes floats and the way you tuck his pen back into the pocket on his chest, your fingers brushing the fine wool. 

“There you go. I’ve solved the great mystery of where your pen belongs.” You intone with a quip, setting up a bittersweet closure for the end of your conversation. No sooner do you withdraw your hand than Leon neatly guides your wrist and then places your knuckles in the vicinity of his lips, dusting them with brief, aestival kisses. 

“Oh, so chivalry isn’t pushing up daisies after all,” you admire, a playful lilt that could make even the most cynical gangster crack a smile. When your cadenza echoes in his ears, he takes a step or two back and assents with a single nod. A small vignette of a valedictory farewell. 

“It never croaked, doll,” Leon’s exuding poise again. “And as long as I’m around, it never will.” 

Seeing the beatific smile on your face like the marquee outside the Cotton Club, in his defense, is worth being so gooey—it makes him feel just the right kind of foolish. 

“I wish you the grandest of nights,” he wishes you a generous adieu, tipping his hat in a farewell that’s both classy and just a speck visionary. Then, with a hindmost glance, he’s gone, leaving behind the faintest fume of his cologne—woodsy, something big-ticket, and just dangerous enough to match the man himself. 

This parting, though it may feel final, is no more than the ebb and flow of time. 

The morning’s bouquet arrives with violets, their soft, violet faces peeking from beneath a flourish of ribbon, accompanied by a silver card, its edges smooth and gleaming, bearing a name that was spoken only yesterday, inked in a hand that could never be mistaken for anything but deliberate, graceful. 

Leon. 

Each new day brings its own small ceremonial gestures—an exchange of flowers, bellflowers to accompany the violets, perhaps a box of bonbons in the afternoon—each offering bestowed as if to signify the passing of something eternal. You, by virtue of your place, greet them with the appropriate pleasantries. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it stirs something within you. The feeling lingers. It is like the first breath of spring, though all around you is the stillness of winter. 

The exchange of blooms soon shifts from the morning to the evening, as the days drag on. And one night, when you return home well after the sun has set, weary from a day’s toil, you barely step inside before stumbling over a scattering of furniture, bags, and the daily clutter that seems to overtake your living room. The place is chaos, but your eyes catch the glint of something—an envelope, dark as the night, slipping from beneath the glow of the lamp. 

In the midst of such chaos, the gray Luna card peeks out in the darkness like a square, mini-moon. Leon Scott Kennedy, you see that signature. 

“Is he playing some cruel jest?” You grumble ringingly. Indignation and dismay pump a tumult of emotion into your bloodstream. 

How on earth did this man find my home? 

It’s one thing to trace the address, to acquire it from some list or chance encounter, but to walk right in—to gain such intimate knowledge—who is this Leon Scott Kennedy? 

You don’t know the answer yet, but you will have to. 

In the days that follow, the gifts come still, but their novelty has long worn thin. The flowers, yes, they remain—fragile reminders of something, but the jewelry and the fine clothes? A cheap masquerade, a vulgar form of generosity. They carry no weight, no warmth. You collect them all and send them on their way, delivered into the hands of some worthy cause, as if the giving itself were the only part worth remembering. 

The night presses on, and once again, you sit in the stillness of the dressing room, the buzz of anticipation humming just outside the door. The minutes slip by like forgotten memories, yet the weight of them, that heavy burden, never quite leaves you. Your chin rests in your palm as you study your reflection in the vanity mirror. Makeup perfected, hair arranged with methodical precision—everything is in its place, or so it seems. 

Everything is okay, except for one problem. A burden of distress that has been piling up inside you, which you can’t tell anyone about, and it’s directly stabbing you in the heart. 

Should you even be on that stage tonight? The question lingers in your mind like a ghost, but you can’t answer it. Your thoughts are in a terrible disarray, as though your mind has split itself apart at the seams. Paranoia gnaws at the edges of your sanity, clawing at the fragile thread that holds it all together. How could you possibly perform in this state, to feed the insatiable hunger of the crowd outside? 

But, of course, Ada would have no qualms about writing you out of here in the blink of an eye, and while the money tempts you, the thought of unemployment claws at your gut like a feral thing. Still, this job—the stage, the spotlight, the rhythm of it all—this is what you are in love with. It’s never easy, losing what you love while you’re still so deeply entwined in it, but sometimes that is the price you pay. 

And so it’s settled. You will go. You will step out there, and you will do what you’ve always done. The show must go on, after all. 

It’s only then that matters assume a different ontogeny. Two torpid taps at the door, clouds of heavy thoughts bite the dust. It’s absurd to ask who it could be. Has to be Chris. Take a deep breath and repeat the rituals you know, the ones that are now ingrained in your repertoire. 

Then, there’s a second round of knocks. A fourth, more insistent, more immediate, as though time is a cat on a hot tin roof. It’s not Chris. It can’t be. 

“Salutations, my dear.” 

To see the face that flashes you a foul grin when you open the door here again is the very last alternative scene you’d hoped for. On the spur of the moment, you even attempt to slam the door in his face, but he’s reflexively putting his foot on the threshold, rather faster than you anticipated. 

“Tch! Not so fast, honey,” comes that jaunty cadence again, infected with that same devil-may-care rhythm. 

The man at the door is none other than Leon himself—an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. He stands there, his presence somehow both imposing and unwarranted. 

“I can’t believe you,” you break into hysterical platitudes. The very notion of him—of this—is enough to rift the delicate shell of control you had carefully built around yourself. 

Leon can’t fathom the reason for the knitted brow and is forced to compromise the arrogant mien on his face. The sang in the cerulean blues adequately sums it up. 

“What exactly can’t you believe, ma’am?” 

The dazed stress in his question reveals that he doesn’t even realize the folly of his mistake. What kind of a joke is this? What audacity and idiocy? 

“I don’t buy it, sir.” 

The froth in your breath at odds with the urbane gentleness of your words. Ignoring this, Leon pushes the door open in a single dash, and you’re propelled through the door. He closes it in a blink of an eye. 

“Is your charade going to end or...” 

Before Leon can ask his rhetorical question, his eyes flick to the ultraviolet petals in the vases on your vanity table. So you kept everything, his floral tribute for you. Oh, it’s heartwarming, but... he still can’t cross the backhanded pinprick in your stance. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave my room, or I’ll have to fetch Chris here.” 

“You don’t say?” Leon is the same, overzealous. He’s irksome to the extreme. 

“Last time, I thought everything was splendid, darling,” he drags out, “I distinctly recall you favoring me with those dreamy little looks. Correct me if I’m mistaken.” 

Such gall. He has absolutely no idea how much of a headache and hell he’s been giving you. It’s better to remind him, but how you do it is up to your discretion. 

“Listen here, mister, had I taken your insolence to the authorities, you’d likely not be setting foot anywhere near here. You’d be—” a deliberate pause for emphasis, “breathing stale air behind iron bars.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me; I’ve been mixing grain and grapes, but what the devil are you talking about?” 

His smile falters then, only slightly. There’s no awning of shock, no mortification, no shame etched across his face. Instead, his expression remains a humdrum enigma; a challenge lurks behind his steady gaze. What sort of man faces such accusations without so much as a flicker of discomposure? 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“How dare you intrude upon my home?” The words cut sharp, like the honed edge of a razor. 

“I’ve never been in your house, doll.” He’s ready to mount a defense in mere seconds. In fact, he hadn’t been in your house, not directly. Indirect is more like it. 

“Leon... please,” you hold up your hand and project callousness as if you’re repulsing his words, sweeping away the ugly bugs, “your card was even in the room with your very name written on it.” 

This is the first time he ever heard his name from your cherry lips, ruby and ripe. A different gamut of sensations, it’s limerence. 

But back to the elephant in the room. 

Soon enough, Leon’s epiphany is added to the flow of events, and if he can take his eyes away from you, he will have a couple of revelations. Taking his eyes away from you, on the other hand, is a hell of an ordeal—a Sisyphean task. 

It really does scorch him on a physical plane. 

“Don’t get yourself in a twist, sweetheart,” Leon is honing his flirting chops. Smoothing your ruffled feathers is a sport he’s personally cultivated. 

The stunned confusion written in a chiffon calligraphy on your face only fuels his merriment, albeit the sheer umbrage gemmating on your face. 

“I must remind you, Mr. Kennedy, that you are brazenly invading my privacy.” The words spill out like pearls on a string, polished but sharp-edged. It never hurts to try again, even if it means shoving your own ineradicable truths and forcing your own phrases into that numbskull. 

“Sure, sure, sweetheart. Privacy. Trespassing. Let’s call the whole thing off.” His grin unfurls, shameless. 

Leon takes a tentative grip on your wrist and guides you toward the chair by the window. As you sink into the chair, borderline slumping over, a thought strikes you like the crack of a conductor’s baton: tonight’s gig. 

The stage, the lights, the hushed murmurs of the audience—it all comes flooding back with startling clarity. 

“I can’t deal with this,” you mutter, rising to your feet as a fresh wave of trepidation tightens your chest. “I’ve got a show—” 

“Oh, the big show,” Leon infringes on your words with a chuckle, waving his hand theatrically. “Let me guess. You’ll have the whole world eating out of your hand tonight, and I’m just the poor sap standing in your spotlight.” 

His hand finds your shoulder, potent and unyielding. He eases you back into the chair with a maddeningly adroit air. 

How rude. 

“All right, what’s the racket now?” you demand. Your eyes tote the lake of fire. 

“Don’t look at me like that, sugar,” Leon’s voice grates on your brain in just the veritable way; it’s tip-top dulcet. 

“I had a most discreet little chinwag with Ada Wong,” he prattles on. He pays no mind to the labored breaths that break the rhythm of his words, then, with an audacity that leaves you momentarily aghast, drops to his knees before you. 

“Oh, and darling Ada didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow as long as I promised to square her away for the greenbacks slipping through the fingers of your adorable fans.” 

He stylishly fuses the bevy of words with his… fancy lines as he speaks. His gliding hands on your legs awaken a surprisingly ruddy pallor. He seizes your ankle and sews it up, positioning your heel on top of his knee, cradling your right leg. The subsequent is tremendous. 

He slants the marrow of his blues on you, his chin tipped up, calculating how you’ll react. Ambivalent eyes are only on you. 

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, but if you want me to keep going, I won’t stop till you’re sick of me. It’s all for you, doll.” His voice lacks the sanctimonious hue you have come to memorize. It leaves a more mellow rumble in your ears. 

Leon, taking into account the fact that he has received no verbal confirmation yet no verbal rebuff, folds the hem of your dress until the silk fabric curves around your hips, the satin is a girdle around your waist, traversing the garter. 

“Give me a fair chance and I’ll make you forget all the pratfalls I’ve done.” His wintry breath strokes across your skin, soaking into your blood, his lips on your legs, camellia pink, lush. 

Up and up. 

High enough to boggle your mind, but not high enough to bore you. Up your calves, past your knees, and up your thighs beyond your calves. It’s not enough, and the peerless panorama you can behold before you soak out your veiled eyelids, beset by strands of blonde hair tangled in the white lace of your French knickers. The abject cold of March versus the waves of citrus fire pouring from the fireplace sizzle your skin like in the saying; March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. 

Leon is inexorable with you and the portent of antsy impatience on your face as he lingers between your legs and welds his tongue between your pulpy slit. 

For Leon, it’s all he can do not to get drunk on the tang of the nectar he’s been craving for weeks. He clamps his hands around your thighs and worships you, your lovely cunt, perhaps with the devout hunger of a believer after fasting all day long. 

Let your hips propel themselves against his nose, riding on the tip of his tongue. That garrulous mouth is at last put to some use, occupied, but his nose? The work his nose does is better experienced than spoken. 

An ephemeral passion infuses you with the lyrics of his tongue; your French-manicured nails are nothing more than paws on his scalp, and your fingers are nothing more than joints yanking at his tresses. 

What about your legs? 

They are a complete sphinx; you can’t even feel them. 

The words of adulation choke at the base of your throat, and your mind blanks out when you feel his pillowy lips pressing against your raw ribbon of sore nerves. A myriad of gasps tumbles down your rosy red lips; your body trembles as bolts of ecstasy rush through your synapses, white-hot to the touch with bliss. 

Lovely sounds emanating from the crevices of your lips grow louder, and Leon switches his weight to the outsole of his shoes, only ever paying attention to your glistening pussy. To quiet you down, he plants a brief, benign nip on your clit. 

Deep within you, that flash of rural thunderbolt strikes you anew, but you get the picture. Now your subdued moans beguile his ears; he licks and kisses and sucks on your plump clit; he’s near suffocation, but he carries on the rave, finger-fucking where his lips are each retreat to catch his breath. 

Right when you’re nearing the decadence, as ecstatic as he is, he flings his head back and refuses to let you sip that cocktail of hedonistic fumes. 

“Leon!” You yelp his name unabashedly in that frantic microsecond. Those twisted tufts of pleasure in your belly are torn to shreds, and yes, in the end, you are incapable of cumming. All this because of your douchebag new lover with his tinsel eyes who is all eyes and no eyes. 

“Sorry, love.” His voice is raspy, his eyes cryptic as he entreats for absolution. Emits all the sounds that got stuck in his throat after lovemaking. 

Tongue still laced with that sherbet of jawbreaker liqueur, the only thing he’s lost is the blissed-out zeal of ecstasy on your beautiful face. His plans are separate anyway; that creampie episode should be in his bed, and you’ll be stretched out on his cock, which is now straining in a Brooks Brothers suit. He’ll leave you hanging, wanting more of him. 

Regardless, he can at least catch a glimpse of macules of mascara on your eyelashes and two mini teardrops splashing down on your lash cords. The saliva trickling out of your mouth and drooling over the brim of your lips tears at his very root, but the eyes are special. They will always tell the absolute truth. 

“I only want to be yours.” The rhapsodic promises spring out of his lips like a bolt from the blue. 

That’s the whole secret, and so he graves his head between your thighs like a lovesick animal, incapable of subduing himself. You foolishly dwell in this rollercoaster of amore. 

It would certainly not be a lie to conclude that things came to a healthier denouement after that night. The scant nights when you are absent from your apartment complex come on the heels of the days you stayed at his place and baked biscuits together in his kitchen. Those afternoons clogged with whispering of sins in the darkness. 

The city, blues, and jazz lovers, and the circle of all those people for whom Leon has who knows what kind of background, your name is the only topic of conversation, next to Leon’s. Your resplendent name, always written alone in big prints, is now next to a man. 

You are no longer alone, by all means. But then sometimes... some nights when Leon doesn’t drop by the house until the morning, your suspicions curdle into a black furor. Not a word of what the hell he was doing was ever exchanged between you; that’s what is slowly killing you. 

This uncertainty lingers for weeks and then for months. He somehow coaxes you into selling your apartment. It’s a seemingly ghastly toll—being bound to him, but his clarion rhymes always alleviate you. Strange. 

“My little angel, I just want you near me. Why do we need your apartment when I have my space and we have more than enough. Besides, a little party hurt no one, not you and me when we’re together.” 

Your protections are short-lived, because the kisses he lanced to your lips were usually loud enough to lull you into silence. 

He, Leon Kennedy, is hardly to be got to grips with. A charmer who never misses a trick. The best of everything belongs only to him and to you because you are his. You love dancing, but he doesn’t; he has to be a grumpy cat. Every time you stick a match to light your stogie, he winds up next to you, and he’s the one who lit your kindle. He hates the smell, hates it wholeheartedly, says that his hair reeks and so on, but he sleeps with his head in your lap, watching the smoke flitting through the air from your lips. In fond veneration, as a little infant would behold his mother's face for the foremost time since the hour of his birth. 

The addressee of every petty dispute, the hardest, was to love a man who never lagged behind, who always wanted more. 

“You want more,” a dejected sulk crosses your lips. “Why?” 

Leon takes two sips from his glass full of Lafite, and he peers over the rim of the glass, half-listening. 

“What does that mean now?” 

“The night we met... something... struck me.” 

“Oh.” He sets his pint down on the table and is all at ease. 

“I’m only talking about the time you confronted a bloke like Chris without hesitation just to flaunt yourself in front of me, darling.” 

“Oh, that one. I’ll give Chris props; he was a hell of a boss. You should consider bumping up his paycheck.” 

You shake your head in resentful disbelief and refuse to say anything more beyond his passing remarks. Any time you point out something about his behavioral pattern, he gets testy and does his best to bury the hatchet. And then comes a killer migraine. 

“I certainly will. Ah, perhaps your patron should be a good patron like me and not withhold some money.” 

It’s these words that are rattling around in your unconscious. A voice in your head taps on your skull that it would not be a bad idea to hold back, but your lips will not meet. 

“Simply inhuman, to be working from nine at night to six in the morning. He should make you a multimillionaire by now.” 

Leon blinks his eyes closed and unfocused, his intense metallic gaze boring into you from beneath his lashes. 

“You know I prefer not to talk about it.” There is a devotional twang in his timbre. 

“Leon. I am merely—” 

Your lecture, however, is bisected in half by the storming in of a blond man dressed in a black leather trench coat following behind one of the girls working in housekeeping. Lackluster and sketchy. 

Leon staggers from his seat to his feet as the ignoble visitor takes his first step inside. 

You’re as still in your seat, legs crossed. 

“Please forgive me, young lady.” Your guest's voice is veiled with pejorative politeness. He draws closer, as if Leon is not in the room, and whispers short, detached, and insensate kisses on your knuckles. 

“But your lover Leon himself was slacking off. For some weeks now,” he adds, then turns a short pivot to make sure his last words have reached the ears they are meant to reach. 

“I told you, pal, Ada and I have submitted our notice of dismissal, Mr. Wesker.” Leon’s teeth clench together. Oh, you know that look better than anyone or anything. 

The humble ignominy of failing to uphold you in front of a man like Albert Wesker is hideous for Leon. 

“Pah! I’d be a fool to lose my best recruits, Mr. Kennedy.” 

This man must be the boss, apparently. What chutzpah. 

“I’m not coming. I told you, Italy isn’t my business.” 

“Italy?” Now you’re diving into the spiel. Confused, what’s coming out of these two men’s mouths is beyond their ears. 

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, this tangled headache, the revelation of everything he had swept under the carpet, wasn’t part of his plans for tonight. 

“Your girlfriend is very prying, Leon, but curiosity kills the cat.” This Albert bastard is blatantly blackmailing you and Leon with verbal cattle prods. 

“I must ask you to leave my house. Please, kind sir.” 

You’d be a fool to put up with this nonsense any longer. You stand up and tactfully point to the door to the man who might be the very incarnation of effrontery. His eyes darting to Leon, you, and the door, flux and reflux. 

“Sure thing. I’m not here to offend the little lady. See, I’ll find my own way out.” Wesker bids you his wee farewell and, one last time, delivers those paralyzing spells of paranoia to Leon. “You know the deal, boy. You know better than anyone what happens when you slip up.” 

Leon is more familiar with such words. Grim-rimmed eyes are no longer cavalier blues. 

“You still got an hour.” 

After the admonition, the man leaves the room, leaving only misdoubt in his wake. At least for you. Your lover... He’s in a very different state of mind. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. No one.” 

“I... What?” 

Your brain, which is still recovering from the shell shock, can’t even wrap up what you’re repeating.

“You humor me, will you. Get your head together, sweetheart.” 

It’s absurd that Leon still adores you like some baby when he's slamming the lid of the safe full of dollars, euros, and gold ingots. Only you don’t raise a peep; you simply gawk and watch the chaos around you. 

He’s been pacing the room for half an hour, tucking a flak jacket under his shirt and a leather gun holster into a Louis Vuitton utility belt around his waist. What the hell is this? Off marching off to war? 

When he’s done, he stalks you with quick strides, and you find yourself stepping backwards for no reason. Leon doesn’t have time for these flip-flops. He’s got one overriding objective in mind. To save you by any means necessary, but he’ll never tell you from what. Yet you ask him over and over again, ranting and raving. 

A tantrum and delirium. 

“You can’t leave me. No.” Your voice is harsh enough, but the stinging tears in your eyes are perfidious. 

Inasmuch as he can’t bear to look at them, he can’t heed their force. 

“I’ll be back. I guarantee it, love. This is just a little party; it had never hurt a soul.” 

He smothers your forehead in bittersweet caresses and spares your quivering lips along the pucker of your flesh. It’s all for naught. Nothing can be solved with these evanescent kisses. 

“Why are you running away from me? Why are you afraid of that man?” Your questions are clipped but unyielding. A single answer is more than enough, and you demand it, fight for it. 

That’s how pathetic Leon is. Can’t he face it? 

To be so weak that, for all that you’ve been through... It’s all teardrops on the fire between the two of you. 

You can’t quite read his eyes anymore; they’re not what they used to be, and he’s not the man he used to be. 

“Please, Leon.” 

It’s the most humbling feeling of near-death to close his deaf ears to your invocation. He can’t name it, name the thing inside him, but acridness suffuses his whole body. 

He’s back to that rainy Friday night. Flashes and strikes with lightning bolts, like a short vignette of that night when the pump of the nightmare was looping through his brain. 

“Leon!” 

For once, he doesn’t look back. He knows very well that if he does, he will never be able to leave the house, not even one foot outside. 

You are left stupefied on the stairs now, as he simply slides the door shut and drifts away into the evening of a drizzly Tuesday night. 

A second or two elapses, and you run to the door with a renewed willpower. No, he’s not leaving. You run, breaking the heel of your stilettos, barring you’re gravely late for everything. Every single thing. 

It’s Leon’s Auburn, and you watch as he revs up the accelerator down the path through your garden, past the streetlights, and into a void of alveolate twilight. 

The saga fades away as though it had never been indited for you with a special brush of pen. All that remains is the heavy diamond necklace on your neck, a souvenir from him; the chasm, he vamooses. 

You promptly called the police, despite repeated strident warnings from Leon. Instead of promising you that they would find him, they inquired about Leon’s possibly alleged behavior and conduct, which you highly resented. How could they frame an absolute angel like him? “He’s not a bad man. He was threatened and scared. I know him better than any of you constables.” You defended him, short-winded, because he needed to be remembered as the good man he always was. 

The Bluecoat was not as accommodating as you anticipated. 

So you did the only thing you could do. You waited for him. Every night, awake and alone in your empty and stone-cold bed, but the aria of this room was the nights when you kissed and fellated him a night or two before and then rode till you could not anymore.

But he never came. 

Two nights after Leon’s departure, on a Thursday morning to be precise, your eyes were as swollen and bloodshot as ever. Your slumber was ruptured by the rush of a newspaper headline brought to your room by one of the girls who worked at home. Breaking news, or as the Big Apple would say, hot topic. 

The name that crowded the headlines was none other than the name of the man you had in mind.

Broiling, hollow tears welled up in your eyes as you read the one headline stating that he had died in a car accident due to the soggy roads. The next words and the rest of the scoop didn’t matter to you at all; you knew it was all a lie. A big fat lie. 

A million interview requisitions came in, but who would waste time with that? 

Leon Kennedy did not die in a car accident. No one would believe you if you told them that. The truth is, your lover was already playing a dice game with stakes of death. 

He never needed to tell you; you already knew. Revolvers and gunpowder, the smell that assailed your nose right after his perfume on your skin, your clothes. 

It was an idiotic fairy tale in which you played a blinder. You were his nymph, and he was your guardian angel. You were jumping off the stage and hopping to evade the eyes that swept over your body like hungry maggots, and he was the first man to bail you out of that jam, to buy you diamonds and pearls, and to love you above the rest of the hordes of those pantywaists. You loved your cigarettes; he hated the aroma and the haze of smoke. 

You loved dancing and baking biscuits at home with him, and he loved hustling from party to party. Every single night when his landline rang, he left for his frivolous job that netted him a hefty sum of money—he was very fond of putting his life on the line. An even crazier adrenaline fiend than his love for you. 

You always detested yourself for it took you those torturous days after the breakup to finally decipher Leon. Always the latecomer to really know and love someone like him. His story couldn’t be passed on to anyone, anyone but you.

The story of a boy who came from an obscure hamlet and prowled the City That Never Sleeps to see things he hadn’t yet seen. A boy who always wanted to hang in the lights yearned for the freedom, just like you once were. And then you. Without him, robbed of the best party of your life.

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 104 years ago: incomparably sultry torch singer Peggy Lee (Norma Deloris Egstrom, 26 May 1920 - 21 January 2002). As her biographer James Gavin writes in the essential Is That All There Is? The Strange Life of Peggy Lee (2015), Lee conveyed maximum emotional (and erotic) impact with little more than a languid murmur: "a tough purr that kicked open the bedroom door." “Those who saw her at New York’s Basin Street East or the Copacabana in the 60s know firsthand the Peggy Lee of legend: a seductive blonde who controlled the stage like a puppeteer,” Gavin continues. “Her throaty voice floated on a wisp of breath yet could drive a whole orchestra. Characters materialized one by one - a barroom vamp on the make, an indomitable housewife, a faded woman exposing her loneliness.” This bewitching artistry is captured in one of my all-time favourite Lee tracks: the eerie “The Case of MJ” from her 1975 album Mirrors. The lyrics offer the alienated inner monologue and mood swings of an institutionalized mentally ill woman, with Lee alternating between numb childlike compliance (“Mary Jane's been a good girl today / She ate all her peas / She said, "thank you" and "please" / And she didn't mess up her pretty white dress”) and stabs at defiance (“Mary Jane tried to run away / Mary Jane has been naughty today …”) while the music gradually turns as tense as any horror movie soundtrack. Pictured: Peter Hujar’s portrait of the diva in 1974.

Peggy Lee, May 26, 1920 – January 21, 2002.

1974 photo by Peter Hujar.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Movie Musical Divas Tournament: Quarterfinals

Judy Garland (1922-1969) Esther Smith in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) | Vicki Lester in A Star is Born (1954) | Hannah Brown in Easter Parade (1948) | Susan Bradley in The Harvey Girls (1946) Additional musicals/singing roles include: Strike Up the Band (1940), Little Nellie Kelly (1940), Ziegfeld Girl (1941), Babes on Broadway (1941), For Me and My Gal (1942), A Star is Born (1954), etc.

"i am sure someone else already submitted her but i had to be sure. the icon the ravishing beauty the scrungly little gal." - anonymous

Eartha Kitt (1927-2008): New Faces (1954, Miss Kitt) | St Louis Blues (1958, Gogo Germaine) Additional musicals/singing roles include: The Chastity Belt (1972)

"YES! Even though she faced bewildering amounts of Hollywood racism, the winner of the Hot & Vintage Movie Women Tournament DID manage to do a couple of movie musicals: New Faces, a fluffy backstage-hijinks thing in which she plays her classic chanteuse persona and is even addressed as "Miss Kitt", and St Louis Blues, a musical biopic in which she sings alongside a bunch of other jazz greats. Neither of the films is considered a masterpiece, but Eartha is as scorchingly hot as always, and demonstrates that she could have become a legend in movie musicals if the roles had been there for her. In short, vote for Eartha Kitt because (1) she has JUST ENOUGH credits to count as a movie musical diva, (2) think of all the other Eartha Kitt movie musicals we COULD have had if not for racism, and (3) she's Eartha Kitt, certifiably the hottest old movie woman. Please and thank you." - anonymous

This is Round 5 (quarterfinals) of the Movie Musical Divas tournament. Additional polls in this round may be found by searching #mmround5, or by clicking the link below. Add your propaganda and support by reblogging this post.

ADDITIONAL PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

Judy Garland:

"I was so surprised to discover that no one has submitted propaganda for Judy Garland yet! Unless the list hasn't been updated, in which case, never mind. But either way, here are some of my favorite Judy moments:

This version of Old Man River hits me square in the feels, holy crapProof that not only was she an unbelievable singer, but she could keep up with both Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire on the dance floor!

She was such an icon and a massive inspiration for me! She definitely deserves to go far in this tournament!!" - @mygreatadventurehasbegun

Photos and video provided by: @mygreatadventurehasbegun

Eartha Kitt:

Photos and video submitted by: anonymous

[jpbjazz]

LÉGENDES DU JAZZ

JOE ZAWINUL, DE WEATHER REPORT AUX MUSIQUES DU MONDE

“My dad raised the bar in the music world as a true artist to his profession. As a bandleader, he was able to pull out performances from his bandmates and take them to heights they never knew existed. He never compromised his art. You either liked it or you didn’t. One thing is for sure, though, you always knew it was Joe Zawinul.”

- Anthony Zawinul

Né le 7 juillet 1932 à Vienne, en Autriche, Josef Erich Zawinul était d’origine gitane (par sa grand-mère d’origine hongroise) et avait grandi dans une famille musicale. Son père, qui travaillait comme commis pour une compagnie de gas, jouait de l’harmonica pendant ses temps libres. Sa mère était chanteuse. Zawinul avait un frère jumeau, Erich, qui était mort de pneumonie à l’âge de quatre ans.

Zawinul avait d’abord appris à jouer de l’accordéon à l’âge de six ans, un instrument qu’il avait continué d’apprécier durant toute sa vie. La famille Zawinul étant trop pauvre pour avoir son propre piano, les talents de Josef étaient si remarquables que ses parents lui avaient payé des leçons de piano classique. Le Conservatoire de Vienne (Konservatorium Wien) avait été tellement impressionné par les talents de Zawinul qu’il avait accepté de lui donner des cours gratuits de piano, de clarinette, de violon et de composition. Parmi les camarades de classe de Zawinul, on remarquait le pianiste classique Friedrich Gilda. Zawinul avait également formé un duo avec le futur président autrichien Thomas Lentil.

 Une des grandes découvertes de Zawinul durant sa jeunesse était  le jazz américain, qui avait été interdit par les Nazis durant la Seconde Guerre mondiale. À la fin de la guerre, Vienne ayant été victime de nombreux bombardement alliés, Zawinul et ses vingt-huit camarades de classe avaient été évacués en Tchécoslovaquie, où ils avaient poursuivi leurs études musicales tout en étant soumis à un entraînement militaire plutôt strict sous la direction d’officiers SS blessés. C’est à cette époque que Zawinul avait entendu du jazz pour la première fois lorsqu’un de ses camarades de classe avait interprété une version improvisée du standard “Honeysuckle Rose” au piano. Parmi les premières influences de Zawinul, on remarquait les pianistes Erroll Garner et George Shearing.

Après la guerre, Zawinul était retourné à Vienne où il avait poursuivi ses études de piano classique tout en gagnant un peu d’argent en jouant de l’accordéon avec de petits groupes de danse. Après la fin des hostilités, lors de l’occupation de Vienne par les Alliés, Zawinul avait commencé à jouer sur des bases militaires américaines, ce qui lui avait permis d’avoir accès à un orgue Hammond, un instrument qui l’avait toujours fasciné.

DÉBUTS DE CARRIÈRE

Il n’avait pas fallu longtemps à Zawinul pour lancer sa carrière musicale. Il expliquait: “I saw what I wanted to do with my life, and that was to play with black musicians.” Après avoir travaillé comme pianiste de studio pour les disques Polydor, Zawinul avait accompagné en 1952 le saxophoniste autrichien Hans Keller. Il avait aussi joué avec les Austrian All Stars, le pianiste classique Friedrich Gulda (avec qui il avait fait ses débuts sur disque en 1953), Karl Drewo et Fatty George. Il avait également fait une tournée en Allemagne et en France avec son propre trio. Convaincu que sa carrière ne pourrait se développer davantage en Autriche, Zawinul était tellement obsédé par l’idée d’aller jouer aux États-Unis que certains de ses amis musiciens avaient arrangé un faux appel téléphonique l’invitant à se joindre au groupe d’Ella Fitzgerald en tournée ! Après avoir découvert la vérité, Zawinul avait par la suite raté une occasion en or en ignorant un autre appel (mai bien réel celui-là) du trompettiste Clark Terry.

Zawinul avait finalement obtenu sa chance après avoir vu une publicité de la Berklee School of Music dans un des rares exemplaires du magazine Down Beat à avoir réussi à se rendre jusqu’à Vienne. Après avoir remporté une bourse pour aller étudier durant un semestre à Berklee, Zawinul s’était embarqué sur un navire le 2 janvier 1959 et avait entrepris la traversée de cinq jours jusqu’aux États-Unis. Avec seulement 800$ en poche, Zawinul savait que sa tâche ne serait pas facile. Comme il l’avait précisé plus tard, “I knew that it wouldn’t be easy, because I had no relatives, didn’t know a single person in America. But when I came over on the boat, I did it with the purpose to kick asses.”

À son arrivée à New York, Zawinul avait fait un de ses premiers arrêts au célèbre club Birdland, où il était entré en contact avec la scène du jazz pour la première fois. C’est d’ailleurs au Birdland que Zawinul avait rencontré sa future épouse Maxine.

Mais les événements n’avaient pas tardé à se bousculer. Quelques semaines après avoir commencé à étudier à Berklee, un des professeurs de Zawinul lui avait proposé d’agir de remplacer un pianiste dans le cadre d’une performance avec le bassiste Gene Cherico et le batteur Jake Hanna. Impressionné par le talent de Zawinul, Hanna l’avait recommandé au trompettiste canadien Maynard Ferguson qui l’avait embauché peu après lui avoir fait passer une brève audition. Ferguson avait aussi auditionné quelques saxophonistes, car son saxophoniste régulier venait de quitter le groupe. Parmi les candidats, on remarquait un jeune saxophoniste appelé Wayne Shorter. C’est ainsi que la longue et fructueuse collaboration de Zawinul et Shorter avait débuté.

Ne pouvant laisser passer cette occasion en or, Zawinul avait fait ses adieux à Berkley et avait joué en tournée durant huit mois avec Ferguson, participant notamment à l’enregistrement de l’album live A Night at Birdland. Après avoir joué brièvement avec le tromboniste Slide Hampton, Zawinul avait accompagné la chanteuse Dinah Washington durant trois ans (1959 à 1961), ce qui lui avait permis de se familiariser avec le blues et de collaborer à l’enregistrement de l’album à succès “What A Diff’rence a Day Makes!” Washington voyageant souvent en tournée avec Ray Charles, Zawinul utilisait souvent le piano électrique Wurlitzer de ce dernier lorsque le piano acoustique des salles dans lesquels il était appelé à jouer n’était pas en parfait état. C’était la première fois de sa carrière que Zawinul se servait d’un piano électrique, mais ce ne serait sûrement pas la dernière. Mais même s’il avait apprécié de jouer avec Washington, accompagner une chanteuse n’était pas vraiment l’objectif de Zawinul dans la vie. Le rêve de Zawinul était de devenir un musicien de jazz à part entière, et il savait que pour réaliser son ambition, il devait passer à autre chose. Après avoir quitté Washington, Zawinul était parti brièvement en tournée avec Harry ‘’Sweets’’ Edison et Joe Williams.

À l’automne 1961, Zawinul avait finalement été invité à se joindre au quintet de Cannonball Adderley, qui était alors un des groupes les plus renommés du jazz. En 1961, Zawinul avait inauguré une collaboration de neuf ans avec Adderley, dont le style de jeu était très influencé par le soul et d’autres formes de musique afro-américaine. Adderley, après avoir remarqué la facilité avec laquelle Zawinul était capable d’absorber ces styles de musique, l’avait encouragé à composer. Devenu progressivement le principal compositeur du groupe, Zawinul, qui avait écrit le grand succès de 1966 “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” ainsi que d’autres pièces à succès du saxophoniste comme ‘’Walk Tall" et "Country Preacher". C’est à la même époque que Zawinul s’était lié d’amitié avec le pianiste Herbie Hancock. Saluant la remarquable habileté de Zawinul à saisir l’esprit du peuple afro-américain, Hancock avait déclaré plus tard au sujet de Zawinul: "For a white Viennese boy to write a tune that's that black is pretty remarkable. He just captured the essence of the African-American heritage, just the statement of melody and feeling of that song. Clearly, in some past life, Joe must've been black."

Zawinul avait également composé pour Adderley des pièces plutôt innovatrices comme “74 Miles Away” et “Rumpelstiltskin”. En tout et pour tout tout, Adderley avait enregistré une cinquantaine de compositions de Zawinul.

Durant cette période, Zawinul avait également trouvé le temps d’enregistrer deux albums comme leader, Money In the Pocket (1966) et The Rise and Fall Of The Third Stream (1967).

Le solo de Zawinul sur “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” représentait une des premières utilisations du piano électrique dans un enregistrement de jazz. Zawinul avait écrit la pièce lors de sa collaboration avec la chanteuse de gospel Esther Marrow. Peu avant la session d’enregistrement, Zawinul avait repéré un piano électrique Wurlitzer dans le studio et avait demandé à Adderley s’il pourrait l’utiliser de préférence à un piano acoustique, car il était convaincu que ce changement permettrait de connaître un grand succès. Le flair de Zawinul avait porté fruit, et la pièce s’était hissée à la onzième position du palmarès Billboard. Parallèlement à son séjour avec le groupe d’Adderley, Zawinul avait également accompagné d’autres grands noms du jazz comme le saxophoniste Ben Webster.

Les groupes multi-raciaux n’étant pas encore très nombreux dans le jazz à l’époque, Zawinul devait souvent s’allonger sur le plancher de l’autobus lorsqu’il voyageait en tournée avec le groupe d’Adderley dans les États du Sud. Comme Zawinul l’avait expliqué au cours d’une entrevue qu’il avait accordée en 1997, ‘'I often had to sit in the bottom of the car when we drove through certain parts of the South.’’ Mais, malgré tous ces obtacles, Zawinul avait refusé de se laisser intimider et n’avait jamais abandonné son rêve de devenir un musicien de jazz respecté. Il avait ajouté: ‘’Those kinds of things never fazed me; I wanted to play music with the best, and I could play on that level with the best.''

La collaboration de Zawinul avec Adderley avait été significative tant sur le plan musical que personnel. Les membres du groupe d’Adderley passaient énormément de temps ensemble lors des tournées, ce qui leur avait permis de développer de solides amitiés. Comme Zawinul l’avait raconté plus tard, “He was family. He was my best man, my witness, when I got married. He bought bicycles for my kids. He was a great friend. He was like a brother to me.” Des années après la mort d’Adderley en 1975, il était toujours très présent dans la vie de Zaminul. Comme Zawinul l’avait précisé en 2004: “I miss him every day. My wife and I, we talk about him somehow every day.”

Même s’il avait remporté énormément de succès comme musicien, Zawinul craignait d’être considéré comme un simple imitateur du style des autres plutôt qu’un véritable créateur. Les choses avaient atteint un point de rupture lorsque le pianiste Barry Harris lui avait fait remarquer que le son style de jeu ressemblait à s’y méprendre au sien. Flatté au début, Zawinul avait finalement décidé de ranger sa collection de disques de jazz dans une boîte afin de pouvoir prendre une nouvelle direction. En 1966, Zawinul avait pris de nouveaux cours de piano classique avec Raymond Leventhal. Après sept mois de cours, Leventhal avait déclaré qu’il n’avait plus rien à apprendre à Zawinul et lui avait offert un clavier de pratique en cadeau.

À la fin des années 1960, après s’être marié à Maxine, le premier mannequin afro-américain de l’histoire du magazine Playboy, avec qui il avait eu trois enfants, Zawinul avait reçu une offre tentante du producteur Norman Granz, qui lui aurait permis de réaliser son vieux rêve de jouer avec Ella Fitzgerald. Granz avait proposé à Zawinul un salaire de 1400$ par semaine, ce qui représentait une augmentation de 300$ comparativement à ce qu’il gagnait avec Adderley. Mais à l’époque, Zawinul avait déjà commencé à suivre les traces de Miles Davis et tentait de réaliser une sorte de fusion du rock et du jazz, ce qui lui avait enfin permis de trouver son propre son. Après avoir demandé cinq minutes à Granz pour réfléchir, Zawinul était allé consulter son épouse Maxine qui avait répondu: “No. You do what you have to do. I can make do with $300 and I have time to wait until you have your thing.” Zawinul, qui adorait sa femme, lui avait un jour fait le plus beau compliment qu’un homme pouvait faire à son épouse en déclarant : "I have a great wife. And I believe it takes a great wife to become a great man."

Zawinul avait donc décliné l’offre de Granz et avait commencé à travailler sur une nouvelle série de compositions qui témoignaient de son intérêt pour le jazz-fusion. Quant à Davis, il avait été tellement impressionné par le solo de Zawinul sur la pièce  “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” qu’il allait souvent le voir jouer avec le groupe d’Adderley. Il lui avait même proposé de se joindre à son propre groupe. Lorsque Zawinul avait refusé, Davis avait demandé à son pianiste Herbie Hancock de laisser tomber le piano acoustique en faveur du piano électrique. Fasciné par les compositions de Zawinul, Davis avait également invité ce dernier à participer aux sessions qui allaient donner naissance à l’album In A Silent Way (1960), d’après le titre de la composition du même nom de Zawinul. Au cours de l’année suivante, Zawinul avait continué d’enregistrer avec Davis à de nombreuses reprises. D’autres compositions de Zawinul, dont ‘’Pharaoh's Dance” et “Double Image”, avaient aussi été incluses sur des albums de Davis comme Bitches Brew (1970), Live–Evil (1971) et Big Fun (1974).

Zawinul avait d’ailleurs lui-même fait des apparitions sur ces trois albums même s’il ne s’était jamais joint officiellement au groupe de Davis. Lorsque Zawinul avait publié son premier album solo simplement intitulé ‘’Zawinul’’ en 1970, il avait décliné la proposition de Davis de participer à l’enregistrement sous prétexte que la présence du trompettiste ne pouvait que lui faire de l’ombre. Zawinul avait répondu à Davis: "If you're on the record, your presence will be so powerful I cannot find out what I am worth."

Finalement, Davis avait rédigé les notes de pochette de l’album qui avait été décrit par un critique du magazine Down Beat comme ‘’the work of a complete musician who has transcended categories and is certain to have a profound influence on the direction music will take in the ‘70s.” Zawinul avait joué en public avec Davis seulement une fois, peu avant la mort du trompettiste. Le concert avait eu lieu à Paris le 10 juillet 1991. Wayne Shorter participait également au concert.

WEATHER REPORT

À l’époque de sa collaboration avec Miles Davis, le principal saxophoniste du groupe était Wayne Shorter, que Zawinul connaissait depuis sa collaboration avec le trompettiste Maynard Ferguson en 1959. C’est à cette époque que Zawinul et Shorter avaient commencé à parler de la fondation d’un éventuel groupe. Le contrebassiste d’origine tchèque Miroslav Vitous était également impliqué dans le projet. Zawinul avait expliqué plus tard qu’il envisageait de former un groupe aver Shorter depuis qu’il l’avait entendu jouer sur l’album Nefertiti de Miles Davis en 1968.

Connu sous le nom de Weather Report, le groupe avait été officiellement fondé en décembre 1970 et avait enregistré son premier album éponyme l’année suivante. Très influencée par l’Afrique, l’Amérique latine et le Moyen-Orient, la musique du groupe avait été décrite par Jonathan Herrera du magazine Bass Player comme "a free jazz experiment, a world music pioneer, a jazz-pop blockbuster, and a seriously grooving funk band." Sous contrat avec les disques Columbia, le groupe avait remporté un grand succès dès le départ tant auprès des amateurs de jazz que de la critique, même si l’importance accordée aux instruments électroniques avait irrité certain puristes. Décrivant le premier album du groupe, le critique Dan Morgenstern écrivait dans le magazine Down Beat: ‘’The music of Weather Report is beyond category… music unlike any other I’ve heard, music that is very contemporary but also very warm, very human, and very beautiful… The forecast, if there is justice, must be clear skies and sunny days for these four creative men and their associates.” Rapidement devenu le plus populaire groupe de jazz de son époque, Weather Report avait remporté tous les sondages des lecteurs du magazine Down Beat comme meilleur groupe de jazz durant chacune de ses années d’existence (1970 à 1985).

Il faut dire que le groupe était arrivé au bon moment. À l’époque, les progrès technologiques de l’époque avaient grandement favorisé le développement du groupe, notamment en réduisant la taille de synthétiseurs qui étaient devenus plus faciles à transporter, ce qui les avaient rendus accessibles au plus grand nombre, permettant ainsi de les utiliser dans les sessions d’enregistrement et les performances sur scène.

Zawinul avait acquis son premier synthétiseur en 1971, un Arp 2600 qui lui avait été offert par le fabricant de synthétiseurs Arp afin d’augmenter la crédibilité de la compagnie  face à la compétition de son puissant compétiteur Moog Music. Zawinul avait utilisé le Arp 2600 pour la première fois sur le second album du groupe intitulé I Sing the Body Electric, un enregistrement d’un concert au Japon en 1972. Une des pièces de l’album était une composition ambitieuse de Zawinul appelée “Unknown Soldier’’, qui relatait sa jeunesse en Autriche durant la Seconde Guerre mondiale. À l’époque, le rôle du synthétiseur Arp était encore très réduit , et se limitait à produire certains effets sonores. Fasciné par la nouvelle technologie, Zawinul avait commencé à enregistrer ses improvisations sur cassette (et plus tard sur MIDI dans son propre studio maison que son épouse avait surnommé “the Music Room”), qu’il utilisait par la suite comme base de ses compositions (comme sur les pièces “Nubian Sundance” et “Jungle Book” tirées de l’album Mysterious Traveler) ou transcrivait note par note afin que le groupe puisse les exécuter de la façon dont il les avait écrites à l’origine. Zawinul avait utilisé cette méthode tout au long de sa carrière. Décrivant son style de composition, Zawinul avait expliqué: “It is all improvisation. All my tunes are improvisations. I’m a formal improviser. Even my symphony I improvised.”

Au cours de ses deux premières années d’existence, le groupe s’était surtout fait connaître par la qualité de ses improvisations. Même si au début le groupe jouait une musique très apparentée à celle de Miles Davis (mais avec  une sonorité un peu plus rock), il avait rapidement commencé à bâtir son propre son.

À partir de la publication de l’album Sweetnighter en 1973, le rôle de Zawinul avec le groupe était devenu de plus en plus important. Après être passé progressivement du piano électrique au synthétiseur, Zawinul avait commencé à exploiter pleinement le potentiel d’un instrument qui avait été jusque-là la chasse-gardée de la musique pop. Il avait aussi ajouté des éléments funk en ajoutant des instruments comme la basse électrique et la pédale wah-wah, ce qui avait permis d’introduire de nouvelles couleurs dans le son du groupe. L’ajout d’un bassiste et d’un batteur spécialisés dans le funk avaient également contribué à atteindre cet objectif.

À la suite de la parution du quatrième album du groupe, Mysterious Traveller, en 1974, le virage du groupe vers une sonorité plus funk s’était encore accentué. L’ajout d’éléments inspirés par la musique classique avait également ajouté de nouvelles couleurs sonores. L’addition du bassiste Alphonso Johnson avait aussi favorisé la transition du groupe vers un son qui intégrait des éléments de jazz et de rock de façon très originale. La combinaison des harmonies du jazz et des éléments funk des années 1970 avait également aidé le groupe à connaître sa période la plus lucrative sur le plan commercial. Pour l’album Black Market en 1976, Zawinul avait recruté le phénomène de la basse électrique Jaco Pastorius. Très sûr de ses moyens, Pastorius s’était présenté lui-même à Zawinul comme “the world’s greatest bass player.” Même s’il est toujours considéré de nos jour comme le plus grand innovateur de l’histoire de la basse électrique, Pastorius avait de nombreux problèmes personnels qui l’avaient éventuellement conduit à sa perte.

Avec Pastorius dans l’alignement, Weather Report avait connu le plus grand succès de sa carrière avec l’album Heavy Weather (1977), qui comprenait la plus célèbre composition de Zawinul, ‘’Birdland’’, écrite en hommage au club du même nom sur la 52e rue de New York. La pièce avait remporté un si grand succès qu’elle s’était hissée jusqu’à la 30e position du palmarès Billboard. Le groupe vocal Manhattan Transfer avait par la suite ajouté des paroles sur la pièce, ce qui avait encore accru sa popularité. Zawinul a d’ailleurs ouvert son propre club Birdland dans sa ville natale de Vienne en Autriche en 2004.

Devenue une des compositions de jazz les plus connues des années 1970, la pièce avait permis à Zawinul de remporter trois prix Grammy et avait été reprise par la suite par de nombreux artistes dont Quincy Jones, Maynard Ferguson, le big band de Buddy Rich et même le groupe rock Jefferson Starship. Décrivant l’album Heavy Weather en 2001 dans le cadre de sa rétrospective de l’histoire du groupe, le critique Jossef Woodard écrivait dans le magazine Down Beat: “In 2000, Heavy Weather still sounds like a milestone in the cultural unconscious of jazz history. By some accounts, the album is the crowning achievement of the band’s recorded output, and therefore, by extension, a towering landmark of fusion.”

L’alignement du groupe ayant souvent fluctué avec les années, Zawinul et Shorter étaient progressivement devenus les deux principaux piliers de la formation. Considérés comme de véritables happenings, les concerts du groupe, tels qu’on peut le constater sur l’album live 8:30 (1979), étaient souvent imprévisibles. Les albums I Sing the Body Electric (1971), Mysterious Traveller (1974) et Night Passage (1980) avaient aussi été très populaires sur la radio FM et auprès des amateurs de jazz, de rhythm & blues et de musique pop.

DERNIÈRES ANNÉES

Même si Weather Report avait continué de publier régulièrement des albums au milieu des années 1980, Zawinul et Shorter avaient commencé à s’orienter vers de nouvelles directions musicales après la publication de l’album Sportin' Life en 1984. Zawinul et Shorter se préparaient à mettre fin aux activités du groupe lorsqu’ils s’étaient aperçus qu’il leur restait encore un album à livrer sur leur contrat avec CBS. Le groupe avait finalement été démantelé en 1985 après la publication de l’album This Is This! Le groupe avait publié quinze albums au cours de son histoire, dont le double album live 8:30 qui avait remporté un prix Grammy en 1979.

Après la dissolution du groupe, Zawinul, qui avait commencé à s’intéresser de plus en plus aux musiques du monde, s’était consacré à certains projets personnels qu’il avait longtemps dû remettre à plus tard en raison de son emploi du temps plutôt chargé avec Weather Report. En 1986, Zawinul avait publié son premier album comme leader en quinze ans, Dialects, qu’il avait enregistré pratiquement seul dans son studio-maison de Pasadena, en Californie. Le chanteur virtuose Bobby McFerrin avait également participé à l’album. Dans le cadre de ses albums solo, Zawinul avait continué d’explorer les énormes possibilités des synthétiseurs. Zawinul avait également fait équipe avec son vieil ami, le grand pianiste classisque Friedrich Gulda dans le cadre d’une série de performances en duo. Il avait aussi fait une tournée avec le percussionniste indien Trilok Gurtu.

En 1988, Zawinul avait fondé un nouveau groupe, le Zawinul Syndicate, une formation qui était très influencée par les musiques du monde, et plus particulièrement par la musique autochtone, africaine, asiatique et latino-américaine. Le groupe avait également fait de nombreuses tournées. C’était une période difficile pour le jazz, qui était en train de se redéfinir. Comme l’écrivait le critique John L. Walters, "jazz was about to enter an acoustic neo-classical phase that has dominated the genre for nearly two decades {…} a whole turbulent era seemed to be shutting down."

Un peu comme avec Weather Group, l’alignement du nouveau groupe de Zawinul avait connu de nombreux changements de personnel.  Zawinul avait expliqué plus tard qu’il avait appelé le groupe ‘’syndicate’’ parce qu’il ressemblait davantage à une véritable famille qu’à un simple groupe. Zawinul avait déclaré: “When you are in the Syndicate, you are not just in a band, you are in a family.” La première édition du groupe, qui comprenait Gerald Veasley à la basse et Scott Henderson à la guitare, avait enregistré trois albums: The Immigrants (1988), Black Water (1989) et Lost Tribes (1992).

Les membres du groupe provenaient souvent de pays non occidentaux, ce qui réflétait l’intérêt croissant de Zawinul pour la musique d’autres continents. L’influence s’était d’ailleurs faite dans les deux sens. Un jour, Zawinul avait découvert que le pièce “Black Market” de Weather Report avait été utilisée comme musique-thème par Radio Dakar au Sénégal durant vingt ans. Il expliquait: “‘Black Market’ was for 20 years the theme song of the Radio Dakaur jazz hour. They grew up with ‘Black Market,’ ‘Nubian Sundance’ from Mysterious Traveller, all the Weather Report songs.”

Les événements n’avaient pas tardé à se précipiter. En 1991, Zawinul avait produit l’album Amen du célèbre chanteur malien Salif Keita, connu sous le nom de ‘’the Golden Voice of Africa.’’ Wayne Shorter et Carlos Santana participaient également à l’enregistrement. L’album, qui était devenu l’album de world music le plus vendu en 1991, avait éventuellement obtenu une nomination au gala des prix Grammy. Excellent résumé de la carrière de Zawinul, l’album avait été décrit ainsi par le principal intéressé: “I improvised the arrangements from the lead tracks that Salif sent, and then I went to Paris to rehearse it with the band. They loved the music immediately. We had so much fun. That was, for me, the most personal and nicest experience of all the records I’ve made. They were the kindest, the most open people. And I was struck by how well they played the rhythms, because I put my own things in there.’’ Keita avait éventuellement retourné la politesse à Zawinul en participant en 1996 à l’enregistrement de l’album My People, qui comprenait comme musiciens invités le percusionniste arménien Arto Tuncboyaciyan, le Turc Burhan Ocal, le Camerounais Richard Bona et des choristes originaires du Pérou, de la Guinée et de la Côte d’Ivoire.

Par la suite, Zawinul avait recruté des musiciens aux origines aussi diversifiées que les percussionnistes Manolo Badrena et Bobby Thomas Jr., les guitaristes Amit Chatterjee,  Gary Poulson et Scott Henderson, les bassistes Linley Marthe, Victor Bailey et Richard Bona, les batteurs Paco Sery et Nathaniel Townsley, et les vocalistes Thania Sanchez et Sabine Kabongo. L’univers de la World Music, qui mettait en vedette différents styles de musique ethnique combinés avec des textures électroniques plutôt complexes, en était alors à ses débuts et Zawinul était à l’avant-garde de ce mouvement, car il avait continué d’expérimenter en tentant de fusionner la musique de différentes cultures.

Parallèlement à son travail avec le groupe, Zawinul avait continué d’être actif dans différents contextes musicaux. À la fin des années 1980 et au début des années 1990, Zawinul s’était produit avec son vieil ami le pianiste classique Friedrich Gulda. Il était aussi retourné vers la musique classique sur une vaste échelle avec la composition symphonique Stories of the Danube en 1993. L’oeuvre était une commande du festival de Brucknerhaus, de Linz, en Autriche. La composition avait été d’abord présentée lors du spectacle d’ouverture du festival en 1993. Oeuvre en six mouvements, la symphonie d’une durée de 63 minutes évoquait le parcours du Danube à travers différents pays et différentes périodes historiques. Enregistrée en 1995 par le Czech State Philharmonic Orchestra de Brno sous la direction de Caspar Richter, la pièce avait été publiée sous forme de CD l’année suivante. L’oeuvre comprenait également une version de la pièce "Unknown Soldier" tirée de l’album I Sing the Body Electric (1972).

En 1994, Zawinul s’était installé à New York, ce qui l’avait contraint à faire de nombreux voyages-éclair en Europe, où il avait conservé de précieux contacts musicaux durant toute sa carrière aux États-Unis. En 1996, Zawinul et son groupe avaient enregistré My People, un album qui avait nécessité plusieurs années de travail et dans lequel Zawinul avait continué de démontrer une remarquable capacité à fusionner ses propres sensibilités musicales avec celles d’autres cultures. Conssidéré comme un des points culminants de la carrière de Zawinul, l’album avait marqué le début sur disque de la nouvelle édition du groupe. Lorsque Richard Bona était devenu le bassiste du groupe en 1997, l’intensité de la formation avait atteint un autre niveau, ce qui avait donné lieu à la publication du double album live World Tour, qui avait également obtenu une nomination au gala des prix Grammy.

Parallèlement à sa collaboration avec le groupe, Zawinul avait continué de travailler sur plussieurs de ses projets personnels. En 1998, il avait notamment été chargé de composer un mémorial musical en hommage aux victimes de la Shoah. Zawinul avait même interprété l’oeuvre lui-même sur la site de l’ancien camp de concentration de Mauthausen dans le cadre du 60e anniversaire de sa construction près de Linz, en Autriche.

Au début des années 2000, Zawinul avait publié d’autres albums solo comme Faces & Places (2002), Midnight Jam (2005) et Brown Street (2007). En 2006, Zawinul avait collaboré avec Vince Mendoza et le WDR Big Band dans le cadre d’une série de performances dans lesquelles il avait revisité les grands classiques du répertoire de Weather Report. La tournée avait éventuellement donné lieu à la publication d’un CD double intitulé Brown Street. L’album avait été enregistré au club Birdland de Vienne.

Le dernier album de Zawinul, 75, avait été enregistré en concert en juillet 2007 à Luzano, en Suisse, à l’occasion de son 75e anniversaire de naissance.

Zawinul complétait une tournée de cinq semaines avec son groupe en 2007 dans le cadre du 20e anniversaire de la formation lorsqu’il avait dû être hospitalisé le 7 août au Wilhelmina Hospital de Vienne. Atteint du carcinome Merkel, une forme plutôt rare du cancer de la peau, Zawinul est décédé dans ce même hôpital le 11 septembre. Il était âgé de soixante-quinze ans. Les cendres de Zawinul ont été enterrées au Vienna Central Cemetery. L’épouse de Zawinul, Maxine, étant décédée un peu plus tôt la même année, ils laissaient comme seuls descendants leurs fils Erich, Ivan et Anthony.

Le Zawinul Syndicate avait présenté son dernier concert à Güssing, en Autriche, le 3 août, six semaines avant la mort de Zawinul.

Considéré comme un des rares prophètes musicaux du 20e siècle, Zawinul avait joué un grand rôle dans la naissance et le développement du jazz-fusion au début des années 1970. Il avait également contribué à faire connaître le jazz auprès d’un nouveau public traditionnellement peu friand de ce genre musical. Pionnier de l’utilisation des instruments électroniques, Zawinul avait été un des musiciens et compositeurs de jazz les plus influents du 20e siècle. Saluant les talents d’innovateur de Zawinul, le critique John L. Walters écrivait: “Many current forms of music, and the myriad sounds, samples and beats that inform them, were influenced or predicted by Zawinul, the grand old man of electronic world jazz fusion.”

Zawinul, qui avait toujours eu un style très personnel, avait inspiré le commentaire suivant à son fils Anthony après sa mort: “My dad raised the bar in the music world as a true artist to his profession. As a bandleader, he was able to pull out performances from his bandmates and take them to heights they never knew existed. He never compromised his art. You either liked it or you didn’t. One thing is for sure, though, you always knew it was Joe Zawinul.” En 2013, Anthony a fondé la Zawinul Foundation for Achievement afin d’honorer la mémoire de son père et d’encourager la carrière de jeunes musiciens prometteurs.

Même s’il n’avait jamais terminé ses études au Berklee College of Music, l’institution lui avait décerné un doctorat honorifique en musique en 1991. Dans le cadre de la cérémonie, Zawinul s’était produit sur scène aux côtés de Matthew Garrison, Torsten de Winkel, Abe Laboriel Jr. et Melvin Butler. Zawinul avait remporté de nombreux autres prix au cours de sa carrière, dont le Hans Koller Austrian State Prize (2000), le Ring of Honor (accordé par la Ville de Vienne en 2002), le premier  International Jazz Award (décerné conjointement par la Jazz Festival Organization et la  International Association of Jazz Educators en 2002), le North Sea Jazz Festival Bird Award (2002), le Montreal Jazz Festival Miles Davis Award (2003) et la Silver Medal for Meritorious Service to the Republic of Austria (2003). Zawinul a aussi remporté le Amadeus Austrian Music Award à deux reprises.

Zawinul est également récipiendaire de doctorats honorifiques du Three Town College de New York et de l’Academy of Music de Graz, en Autriche. Le Service autrichien des Postes a aussi émis un timbre spécial en l’honneur de Zawinul en 2004.

En 2006, les disques Sony ont publié un coffret de trois CD intitulé Weather Report—Forecast: Tomorrow, une compilation qui retrace la carrière du groupe de 1971 à 1985. Le coffret comprend également du matériel inédit ainsi qu’un DVD documentant un concert du groupe en 1978.

Le percussionniste Alex Acuna, qui avait fait partie du groupe Weather Report lors de ses premières années d’existence, avait déclaré que Zawinul et Shorter avaient une vision très précise de la direction qu’ils désiraient donner à leur musique. Acuna avait précisé: "The vision was to make a band that makes music with all the sounds that the world generates.’’ Même s’il avait quitté le groupe, Acuna était toujours resté proche de Zawinul. Il avait même été membre de son dernier groupe, le Joe Zawinul Syndicate. Acuna avait ajouté que Zawinul était un grand amateur de sports, et plus particulièrement de boxe. Même si Zawinul avait la réputation d’avoir un caractère un peu tranchant, il était toujours honnête, sincère et très intègre.

Sur le plan musical, Zawinul détestait se répéter et cherchait continuellement à innover. Zawinul avait également été un des premiers pianistes de jazz avec Chick Corea et Herbie Hancock à utiliser le piano électrique et les premiers synthétiseurs (sur l’album Sweetnighter en 1973). Après avoir joué du piano électrique Wurlitzer, Zawinul était passé au clavier Fender-Rhodes, à qui il avait ajouté une pédale wah-wah puis un effet Mutron avec d’obtenir une sonorité plus complexe. La créativité et le souci du détail de Zawinul avait permis de concevoir un son plus contemporain et plus moderne. Zawinul avait aussi joué du kalimba sur les albums de Weather Report, Mysterious Traveller et Mr. Gone.

Plusieurs artistes ont rendu hommage à Zawinul après sa mort, dont Brian Eno (sur la pièce “Zawinul/Lava”), John McLaughlin (“Jozy”), Warren Cuccurullo (“Hey Zawinul”), Bob Baldwin (“Joe Zawinul”), Chucho Valdes (‘’Zawinul’s Mambo’’) et Biréli Lagrène (“Josef”).

©-2024, tous droits réservés, Les Productions de l’Imaginaire historique

SOURCES:

‘’Joe Zawinul.’’ All About Jazz, 2023.

‘’Joe Zawinul.’’ Wikipedia, 2023.

WALTERS, John L. ‘’Obituary: Joe Zawinul.’’ The Guardian, 13 septembre 2007.

WAS, David. ‘’A Look at the Life and Work of Joe Zawinul.’’ NPR, 12 septembre 2007.

‘’Zawinul, Joe.’’ Encyclopedia.com, 2023.

[didierleclair]

Carmen McRae was a contemporary of Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. She would avoid the media while on tour to concentrate on her shows. This may be the reason why we know Sarah and Ella better. This New York native was excellent. Pianist of exquisite dexterity, she decided to leave the keyboard for the microphone early in her career. This jazz singer had a beautiful voice that she controls perfectly, giving it the intonation she wants.

Her take on Take Five, by Dave Brubeck, is crafted. Skylark is another beautiful rendition. Ain’t misbehavin’ is revisited and she puts her signature on it. In an interview, Carmen McRae said: "Every word is very important to me. Lyrics come first, then the melody. The lyric of a song I might decide to sing must have something that I can convince you with. It's like an actress who selects a role that contains something she wants to portray." I admired her independence. Carmen McRae won many awards.

Carmen McRae chantait à la même époque que Sarah Vaughan et Ella Fitzgerald. Elle évitait souvent les médias pour se concentrer sur ses spectacles. Ceci pourrait expliquer le fait qu’elle est moins connue que Sarah et Ella. Elle est originaire de New York et maîtrise le piano à la perfection. Toutefois, elle choisira de chanter tôt dans sa carrière. Cette chanteuse de jazz a une belle voix, qu’elle contrôle, en lui donnant l’intonation qu’elle veut. Sa version de « Take five », de Dave Brubeck, est parfaite. « Skylark » est un autre morceau réussi. Elle met sa signature sur « Ain’t misbehavin’ ». Dans une entrevue, Carmen McRae a dit : « Toutes les paroles sont importantes pour moi. Les paroles viennent d’abord, ensuite la mélodie. Les paroles d’une chanson que je pourrais chanter doivent avoir quelque chose que je peux utiliser pour vous convaincre. C’est comme une actrice qui choisit un rôle qu’elle veut interpréter. » Artiste magnifique dont j’admire l’indépendance.  Carmen McRae a obtenu de nombreux prix.

[carbone14]

Billie Holiday - New York - 1943

Photo de Gjon Mili

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

'Cabaret' comes back to Broadway starring Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin

APRIL 20, 20248:00 AM ET

HEARD ON WEEKEND EDITION SATURDAY

NPR's Scott Simon speaks to Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin, who star in the new Broadway revival of "Cabaret."

SCOTT SIMON, HOST: You probably recognize the music from the first notes. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") EDDIE REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. Fremde, etranger, stranger. SIMON: "Cabaret," the 1966 Broadway musical by Joe Masteroff, John Kander and Fred Ebb. It's drawn from Christopher Isherwood's memoir of high times and hot jazz and is set in a fictional Berlin nightspot called the Kit Kat Club. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Im Cabaret, au Cabaret, to Cabaret. SIMON: At a time when sequins, high-stepping flappers and forbidden love gives way to goose-stepping and beating Jews on the street. A new revival of "Cabaret" has opened on Broadway after winning seven Olivier Awards in London. Eddie Redmayne plays the Emcee, and he joins us from New York. May I say willkommen to you? REDMAYNE: You may indeed. Hi.

SIMON: And Gayle Rankin the British chanteuse who comes to Berlin. I get to say fraulein Sally Bowles. (LAUGHTER) GAYLE RANKIN: Hello, darling (laughter). I had to (laughter). SIMON: Oh, my gosh. Wait. Sorry. Let me just catch my heart for a moment. Thanks so much. (LAUGHTER) SIMON: Eddie Redmayne, you've played the Emcee before. I was about to say early in your career, but really, before you started your career. REDMAYNE: That's absolutely true. Yes, I was a kid. I was at high school when I - we did a little school production. I think I was about 14, 15 years old. It was one of those moments in my life where I would say really I fell in love with theater. It thrilled me, and it made me think, and it moved me. And so I always sort of credit it weirdly as being the thing that that got me into acting full and proper. SIMON: What does the Emcee do for the audience?

REDMAYNE: I think one of the reasons the Emcee is such a iconic role and one that so many actors lean into is he's so enigmatic. He was conjured by Hal Prince and Joel Grey as a way of connecting the Sally Bowles story, and so he almost lives in an abstract place. And so for an actor, that is joyous because there are sort of no limitations on the one hand, and it's also quite daunting. He sort of starts as a puppeteer almost, the kind of the Shakespearian fool, perhaps... (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TWO LADIES") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee) Come on, my little ones. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #1: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTORS: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, beedle dee, deedle dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (Singing) Two ladies. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, dee dee dee.

REDMAYNE: ...Who then, over the course of the piece, rises to the all-knowing king or the sort of from puppeteer to conductor, and he becomes rather than the victim, he's almost the perpetrator. And so this person that's hopefully pulled you in at the beginning of the evening and seduced you and made you laugh, you realize is actually conducting the entire piece. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "IF YOU COULD SEE HER") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) If could see her through my eyes, she wouldn't look Jewish at all. SIMON: And Gayle Rankin, you have played other roles in "Cabaret" before Sally Bowles, haven't you? RANKIN: I have. I made my Broadway debut, actually, playing Fraulein Kost in the Sam Mendes revival 10 years ago with Alan and Michelle and Emma Stone. Eddie and I were just talking about it just the other day, and he was like, is this so weird? Is it so weird? And I was like, you know what? It's not weird. It's not weird. And it doesn't - I feel like a new person and in a new world 'cause that's - you know, "Cabaret," it comes back, and the world is new a decade later. It's new, and it's also the same.

SIMON: Help us look inside of Sally's mind and heart. What brings her to Berlin in the early '30s? RANKIN: You know, there's not a lot that's given to us, you know, about Sally. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "MEIN HERR")

RANKIN: (As Sally Bowles, singing) But I do what I can, inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile. For me, it was very important for me to kind of figure out Sally's relationship to artistry and creativity and why she ended up at the club. And there's a huge, you know, kind of cultural discussion about whether Sally has talent or whether she does not have talent. And that's a really fascinating thing, I think, to me. And I think it's amazing how people think they can decide or that they know that she's not - quote-unquote, "not talented" or is talented. It's just wild to me. SIMON: I have to ask. There are so many famous names who have played the two parts into which you two step now - Dame Judi Dench, Natasha Richardson, Michelle Williams. Alan Cumming, Joel Grey have played the Emcee. I didn't even mention the film with Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey, now, did I? So do previous productions inspire you, or do you just have to, you know, leave them in the fridge? REDMAYNE: I've been such a passionate fan of "Cabaret" since I was a kid that I've seen everything in the sense that I've - you can see some of Sam's production on YouTube. I saw Sam's production with Emma and Alan. I've watched the film. I even saw a random Spanish version when I was... RANKIN: Oh.

REDMAYNE: ...Younger. And they've been so brilliant, the productions before, that I hope we come sort of standing on their shoulders and with great respect for them, but also trying to do something new and fresh. And one of the things that was important for me was that idea - one of the Emcee's first lines is leave your troubles outside, and that for audience members coming to see this in New York, you enter via a sort of back alley. You get taken down into the underbelly of the theater, where there is an entire cast of performers playing in these really beautiful spaces, and you get a bit discombobulated. It's labyrinthine, and you get sort of lost, so that by the time you are taken actually into the theater itself, which sits in the round, hopefully, you have genuinely left all memory of 52nd Street outside. SIMON: I got to say, your production reached through to me with something I hadn't quite realized before. Things are terrible and getting worse on the streets. They're beating Jews and putting them into ghettos. There's a refuge in the club. There's also a refuge in Fraulein Schneider's boardinghouse, where she, for the first time in her life, really has a relationship with a man who happens to be a fruit seller and a Jewish man. Both your characters have that refuge in the club, and they have their characters in the boardinghouse. But, you know, refuges - well, real life can bring them down, can't they?

REDMAYNE: Absolutely. And I feel like the play, in its essence, is a warning in some ways. It serves as a warning about when hate can take over humanity and when humanity is lost to hate. And that feels so relevant at this moment. There are so many examples of that throughout the world today, but I hope that the brilliance of what Kander, Ebb and Masteroff created was that it seduces you in and in a way that feels really sort of magnificent but then begins to touch on these - this repetition of history that resounds and serves as a warning. RANKIN: And it kind of - what's so scary about it is how the refuge is created, and then you slowly realize that actually, there's a poison inside of your refuge. SIMON: What do you take in from the audience every night? REDMAYNE: Well, I mean, one of the joys for me as a performer is the intimacy of the space. So there's not really a sort of a bad seat in the house at the August Wilson, and the other character in the room with the Emcee is the audience. And what I have loved about our experience in New York is people because it's an event almost, the evening, from the second you pass the threshold. The theater's been redesigned and reconfigured in a way. People are getting dressed up. So you have people in black tie next to people in fetish gear next to people in jeans and a T-shirt, and you get all sorts of characters.

RANKIN: And to have a relationship with the audience, you know, and to enjoy how fun... REDMAYNE: Yeah. RANKIN: ...This is and can be throughout the show till the very end - what is written in this piece, there's - we're still laughing through tears at a certain point toward - for the very end of the show, and that's what's so kind of timeless and important about this space, that there's something that doesn't die inside of our club. SIMON: Gayle Rankin and Eddie Redmayne star in the new production of "Cabaret" on Broadway. Thank you both so much for being with us. REDMAYNE: Thanks for having us. RANKIN: Thank you so much. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TOMORROW BELONGS TO ME") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) The sun on the meadow is summery warm. The stag in the forest runs free.

https://www.npr.org/2024/04/20/1246083026/cabaret-comes-back-to-broadway-starring-eddie-redmayne-and-gayle-rankin

[solhrafn]

Random thoughts

C'est très satisfaisant de voir des photographes qui ont une certaine notoriété faire des photos avec les mêmes gens que toi mais dont les images sont bof bof. Par contre je ne comprends pas comment je n'ai pas plus de demandes pour des shoots (parce que ça me manque). Mais bon, desire nothing, desire nothing, desire nothing! (Univers envoie moi qq chouettes shoots si tu veux, mais seulement si tu veux hein! Je cours pas après).

Parlant de shoots, y a une ou deux personnes qui ont l'air d'en faire souvent qui m'ont suivi dernièrement mais je me garde bien de les contacter. Leurs comptes donnent de mauvaises vibes. Personnes casse-bonbons dans le contrôle obsessionnel de leur image qui ont l'air de râler sur tout en mode diva. J'en ai eu assez lors de mes shoots pros (quand je faisais des portraits d'artistes pour une édition). Les pires c'étaient les chanteuses lyriques. Je sais pas pourquoi, mais j'imagine que l'expression faire la diva ne vient pas de nulle part.

Ca me rappelle au tout début de ma carrière quand j'ai photographié un concert Jazz d'une flutiste assez connue qui s'était ensuite plainte à l'orga du festival parce que je l'avais "déconnectée de son public". Le boss de la boîte de Jazz à l'époque avait rédigé un email incendiaire en prenant ma défense, attends je vais le retrouver, j'espère que je l'ai encore, ça date de 2008

"Le photographe envahissant !!  (il m'a en effet dit qu'elle lui avait reproché de l'avoir coupée du public) Je peux te dire que j'en ai vu pas mal, des photographes, des qui flashent à tour de bras depuis le bas de la scène, qui se mettent debout devant toi et t'empêchent de voir le spectacle, qui n'arrêtent pas de se déplacer ... qui ont des vestes safari pleines de poches (voire même un chapeau de cow-boy), qui photographient en veillant à se faire remarquer et qui sont reconnus comme de grands artistes avec copyrights.  De vrais emmerdeurs à qui personne n'ose rien dire.  Évidemment ils sont des stars et ont leurs petites entrées partout.Celui qu'elle a considéré comme envahissant est le plus discrets des photographes jamais rencontré.  Il bosse à quatre pattes (ça n'embête pas le public, et il n'est pas dans le rapport artiste-public), il travaille toujours sans flash.  Alors, dire qu'un photographe au niveau de ses pieds, à une distance de 2 à 4 mètres, planqué derrière les retours, ait pu la déranger ... !  Faudrait alors qu'elle se décide à ne plus faire que du studio.   Son manager peut aussi spécifier dans le contrat, l'interdiction de photographier.  Sans doute aussi, si elle avait été moins souvent à genoux ou accroupie à chercher l'énergie ou l'inspiration dans sa peau de mouton, elle se serait moins souvent trouvée face au photographe en question?"

Je suis mort de rire.