Savannah Churchill

Savannah Churchill (August 21, 1920 – April 19, 1974)

Born quietly in a noisy time. Out of the blue. Part of a wonderful plan. Only God knew. The pope declared that Catholics were forbidden. To shower. During Lent. Flames ate the head. Of the Eiffel Tower.

Savannah could hear footsteps. Up the hardwood stairs. David at the door. The smell of combava garlic and ginger. Lovely evenings. Arms wrapped around shoulders. The skid of tires. The jingle of glass. David in photographs. Windows without breadth. Its better not to ask.

A satin voice. No time for introspection. Two kids to feed. Music spilling her name in lights. A red velvet dress. In Birmingham, Nat King Cole was attacked on stage. A concrete girder weighing 200 tons. Killed 48. In Karachi. Pakistan. The reason. Anyone’s guess.

A fat man ended her career. Fell on her. From the balcony. In 1956. She succumbed on April 19. 1974. That’s what the papers wrote. As if it all made sense. Some wonderful plan. Written by a million. Wise men. Sitting at a million computers. In a million. Separate rooms.

Kay Starr

Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 -

Lou Gehrig could see the future. Luckiest man in the world. Knew when his time was up. Not Eugen Weidmann. Lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining. Page 50. Believe it or Not. Made Eugene so famous. Last thing he did was dance.

The tramps passed. Little Kay Starr’s doorstep. And talked of revolution.  When things would return. To the golden days. But little Katie wasn’t listenin’. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her singin’. Made them forget. The foxes in the woodlot. Couldn’t stop grinnin’.

Kay sang on a radio station. In Dallas. Texas. A little girl. And that big mike. So many song contests. You’d think that winning once was enough. And Lina Medina. Became the world’s youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.

In small little  towns. Up and down endless. Dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. And then one day. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry. And have little mute children. But disaster struck. Her voice came back. And the ongoing never ending career.  Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

Ivie Anderson

Ivie Anderson (July 10, 1905 – December 28, 1949)

The photographer showed up. In a Panama suit. At St. Mary’s Convent. For Negro girls. The students smiled so often. Their lips began to break. Outside in the street. Little Ivie pounded at the door.  Let me in! But she was too late.. There were 67 girls photographed. There should have been 8.

On a stool. To one side of the band. She sat. Tapping her foot. Not for her Prince. But for the Duke. As he climbed up his Calvary of pain. The broken hearted chorus burst into joy. And the thorns gave over to her words. So sweet and true. Ivie became their voice.

A Day at the Races. Ivie got lost in Groucho’s eyebrows. The washerwoman. Her sad bewildered eyes. Attracted Harpo. Blew his horn. Like a fire truck. Chased Ivie around the set. Humour is like smoke. Ivie laughed like. She was on fire.

The world is so strange. Cows could fly. It was world war 2. The cows dive bombed the herds of cats. That filled the rolling prairie. With bags of milk. On the streetcars. In New Orleans. The whores exercised their right to assembly. Mao Tse-tung wrote. About love. “A Single Spark Can Start a Prairie Fire”.

Ivie’s songs. Made you feel you were in love for the first time. The moon blushed. And hid in the shade. But time passes. Even though women hold up half the heavens. Love fades. The voice of the Duke ceased. Ivie Anderson was dead at 43.

Peggy Lee

Peggy Lee (May 26, 1920 – January 21, 2002)

Eyes can be beautiful. So gay and young. Peggy’s step-mother had eyes. As black as coal. As hard as iron. The back of her hand. Across Peggy’s cheeks. Don’t think your daddy is going to save you now.

Peggy sang for her meals. In small joints. With fast cooks. And red necks. And the chorus of bacon and burning violins. Peggy joined the dreamers. Dancing into heartache. To the City of Angels. Where children were begging to be born.

300 Dutch ice cream salesmen protested. The shortage of appetite. While their wives organized their socks. And ironed their shirts. And while the salesmen marched on the parliament. Shoes were left at the doorstep. Curtains closed in haste. And Peggy sang about the neighbourhood boys. Who risked their lives. To appease. The appetite of salesmen’s wives.

An airplane crashed into the Empire State Building. The pilot begged the mayor. It was an accident. And 1942. No one doubted that he was telling the truth. Until they found his plans. And sweet Peggy almost died. A fall in a New York hotel. She was tripped. At the top of a set of stairs. By a man with no legs. He leaked a secret. Don’t be in such a rush.

Peggy sang. Quietly. Her voice simmered. Everyone leaned. Forward. The waiters hesitated to wait. No one dared slam a door. In the kitchen. Or in the parking lot. In the hotel rooms. Lovers held their breath. If silence were a dance. Singing was a substitute for love.

Bessie Smith

Bessie Smith (April 15, 1894 – September 26, 1937)

Love is an angry bed. Sheets are torn. Pillows born. Too small. And his words creep.  Into your thoughts on tippy toes. Is there a bigger fool. Than a woman with her heart spread open.

9. A.M. All the morning fools. Are sucking up the lazy light. The silent man. In the photograph has disappeared. God is trying to pray. But Bessie can’t stop laughing.

Give them all the ‘lectric chair.

The Titanic left Queenstown Ireland for NY. The mayor was there. With his best friend. A little Scotch terrier. At another place. At the same time. Bessie married a security guard. They fought like cats. They ate the dog. Their appetite kept the night awake.

The audience was drunk. The band was jumping.  Jack Johnson TKO’d Jim Flynn. In the Ninth. Bessie had another cigarette. She  laughed so loud. When the bartender couldn’t put on his coat. I can hardly stand up for falling down.

Bessie was with her lover. When the car rolled over. Crushed poor Bessie’s legs. Smoke filled the air. Lungs doing what they are told. She didn’t want to die. Poor Bessie was buried anyway.

Fans collected money for her tombstone. Write something appropriate in stone. Her husband Jack. Put the cash in his pants. The dead got no worries. The living got to take care of themselves.

Anita O’Day

Anita O’Day (October 18, 1919 – November 23, 2006)

The doctors leaned over. Slit open Anita’s throat. Like they were parting the Red Sea. Like they were opening a zipper. White Studebakers rolled slowly down the lane. Her eyes opened with surprise. A gurgle that sounded like laughter.

On the road. Cheek against the glass. Too many buses. Too many stops. In empty rooms. Too many handsome men with dark sunglasses. And wicked laughs. Garters slid so slowly down a calf. And you sometimes had to wait hours. For the sun to reappear. Empty hearts. And wallets. Promises were made. So sweet. The morning light. Stockings over chairs.

Raped in a gas station washroom. 31 storms crossed 6 states. Killing 340. The worst smog in London. Four to 8,000 died. But who’s counting. The floor was wet. And the mirror was out of focus. A radio was crying. A Studebaker pulled up for gas.

Too many hangers dripping. With dreams. Too many office buildings after hours. Elevators out of service. Too much talk about nothing. A heart sling. Gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda. And His name in vain. Thrown at the shadows from the chair over there. Too many cloudy mirrors. Too many cheap diners. Too many miles going nowhere. Too many walls for company.

Anita O’Day (October 18, 1919 – November 23, 2006)

Anita O’Day (October 18, 1919 – November 23, 2006)

The doctors leaned over. Slit open Anita’s throat. Like they were parting the Red Sea. Like they were opening a zipper. White Studebakers rolled slowly down the lane. Her eyes opened with surprise. A gurgle that sounded like laughter.

On the road. Cheek against the glass. Too many buses. Too many stops. In empty rooms. Too many handsome men with dark sunglasses. And wicked laughs. Garters slid so slowly down a calf. And you sometimes had to wait hours. For the sun to reappear. Empty hearts. And wallets. Promises were made. So sweet. The morning light. Stockings over chairs.

Raped in a gas station washroom. 31 storms crossed 6 states. Killing 340. The worst smog in London. Four to 8,000 died. But who’s counting. The floor was wet. And the mirror was out of focus. A radio was crying. A Studebaker pulled up for gas.

Too many hangers dripping. With dreams. Too many office buildings after hours. Elevators out of service. Too much talk about nothing. A heart sling. Gin, lemon juice, sugar, and soda. And His name in vain. Thrown at the shadows from the chair over there. Too many cloudy mirrors. Too many cheap diners. Too many miles going nowhere. Too many walls for company.

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