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To the beautiful voices

Copyright@2010

Ella Fitzgerald

Ella Fitzgerald (April 25, 1917 – June 15, 1996)

A brown eyed girl. Notoriously shy. Sitting on a lonely window sill. Knees under her chin. Poison heartache. Strumming the pain with her nails. The heat pipes are growling. Her stomach. Harmonizing. Outside the drunken sun has stumbled. Into an alley. Looking for someone to blame.

Night. Juiced up. Dressed up like a paramour. Wooing the ladies. Who have their hands in his pocket. And their knees on the floor. Little Ella worked the horror show. Ran numbers for her uncles. Rumble in the alley. She could hardly breathe. With the joy. In her voice.

Ella’s mother died. Automobile accident. Ella was left unharmed. Charmed. Her living room was the street. Her bedroom. Was her lover’s arms. Kidnapped. By the Sisters of Mercy. Holed up in the Colored Orphan Asylum. No one knew Ella’s name. But they beat her just the same.

Stumbled. Into the Apollo Theatre. That low road that simple strife. Where she stole notes from the birds. And sang for her life. No one knew. If she was happy or sad. Someone said if she knew. She kept it to herself.

There are days. When it seems that darkness. Keeps you sane. Keeps you from seeing the thief. That steals your time. But when Ella hit a note. Opened up her soul. It seemed. The sun has been laughing. All afternoon.

Billie Holiday

Billie Holiday (April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959)

With a knife. At her throat. He keeps hitting me. What can I do? Keep waiting for something to fall. Something to stop. Always another blow. Apologies and booze. Thank the dear Lord. When he’s had enough.

Floor boards creaking. With wind and with wear. Trousers slung over an easy chair. Spread those legs, girl! Was all that she heard. Didn’t care. That she was ten years old. Someone should have been there. Someone should have heard. That wretched curse and those ugly words.

And the soot would pour down her throat. From the bastards in brown trousers. Given a pillow. In The House of the Good Shepherd. Where Jesus kissed the dust off her face. Didn’t stop that itch in the night. That lament. That cry.

American pianist Alexander Kelberine. Programmed his last recital with pieces. In minor keys and melodic funereal lines. He then went home. And took. An overdose of sleeping pills. Made Billie laugh. Put the bottle of wine back on the shelf. And wondered if he had worn. His best suit. Then wrote a song. On some postcards. Of southern trees. And strange exotic fruit.

Betty Hutton

Betty Hutton (February 26, 1921 – March 11, 2007)

There was a hole. In the ceiling. A slap. Of windshield wipers. And the sweet song. Of the police. Escorting the family. Out of town. Betty’s mother wept. Into her purse. Where have I gone wrong?

Ceiling fans. Chopped up her name. Betty became the high priestess. Of jitterbug. Christine Jorgenson. Went under the knife. First person to undergo. Sexual. Realignment. Life. Moves so fast. When you’re never around.

On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does Betty get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Soiled. Cigarette veneer. Stains on the lamp shades. And that pool. Shaped like a kidney. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet. Without the cure.

On her knees. Weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. Down and out as the jitterbug Detroit juke box queen. On the sticky floors in the local music hall. Down with feathers & tears and a local boy. His future choking your throat. Down the paint red ran. In the long halls of miserable hotels. On Avenue Marlene. Down in the kitchen. In St. Jude Parish. Patron saint of the hopeless. On her knees laying on the floor. Abandoned in her torn and broken hearted dress.

Ethel Waters

Ethel Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)

Look at the sun. Pouring. Through the branches of that tree. Like Ethel. Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. The smell of giant tupelo and bald cypress. At 13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a big barrel of a man. Ass three blocks wide. F***ed her for fun. Beat her when he got bored. He left. She was left. To fend for herself. Sometimes it seems. You don’t recognize love. Until its gone.

President Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. Ethel was jealous. Her lover cheated. With heroin. And left her early one morn. He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to San Francisco. The best things in life should be put on a list. And number one. Happiness is a fist.

Ethel worked as a maid. 9 until unconsciousness. Sang in whorehouses. The smell of semen. And stale beer. And late night confessions. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for food and gange. Found Jesus. Hanging in a big tent. Next to a trailer park. Oh how she envied the Catholics. Who could forget about all their sins. And laugh at the son tumbling out of his tree.

Dinah Shore

Dinah Shore (February 29, 1916 – February 24, 1994)

1950s. From shore to shore. Dyed blondes. In suburban homes. Black bodies bobbing up in  the swamp. Like apples in a barrel. Big frilly dresses. Puffy sleeves. In the golden days of the Pharaoh. When men drove Chevrolets. Women in church. Happy on their knees.

Every Sunday evening. Black and white laughter. Dinah and her lovers. In alphabetical order. Dinah loved Tarzan. And his jungle. A general named Moose. A singer and his jingles. The Cantabile Choir Of Kingston. A drummer. From the old school. Several actors named Jimmy. A cat. Who wanted to be President. And a red headed kid with buck teeth. And a head too big for his hat.

America had a new home movie. It was called the ‘The Battle of Los Angeles’. UFOs attacked the city of angels. Through the smog. And the alleys. And all their mighty ships were shot down. But no one could find. Where they had crashed. And Dinah kept smiling. Her ankles like a necklace. Throwing a kiss. Across America. To Ed Gein and his buddies down at Biff’s . To the nurse in the E.R. To the waitress on the graveyard shift. And all the little blondes. Watching Dinah. Cracking a joke. Singing a song. America was in love. With being blonde.

Nina Simone

Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003)

Blood in the fountains. Is black. Ropes dripping from trees. Are red. Whispers in bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. Someone is getting the chair. Jesus breaths. His last. Again. Some call it justice. Some call it the Mississippi rain.

So many men planting holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity. Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing. Nina wanted to crawl. Into the microphone. The world is mad. Like a mongrel dog. Snarling. At the end of a chain. She could smell the bitch’s breath. Some call it law and order. Some call it death.

Running. From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the mad narrow French avenues. I tell you. Everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be lovely, to do this all over again? After Nina died they took her ashes. Out onto the verandah. And scattered her laughter. Over the African savannah.

Jo Stafford

Jo Stafford (November 12, 1917 – July 16, 2008)

A letter on the vanity. Next to the talc and brandy. A shadow standing in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. A cigarette in his fingers. Looking back with a smile on her face. Some kind of disruption behind.

The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Dinner served with laughs. A lot of coughing. Love curled up in a purse. Jo Stafford. Entertainee. Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.

Old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping. In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the retirement homes are run. By government men. Dying of congestive heart failure. Jo Stafford wept. First love would not come again.

Glenn Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham. Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked “for Negroes”. Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light. Observed on the moon.  A spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing goodbye. Jo Stafford died. At age 90.

Maxine Sullivan

Maxine Sullivan (May 13, 1911 – April 7, 1987)

The customers sat in hard back chairs. Listening to the swing. Of the barbershop door. Daddy cut hair. Maxine Sullivan of Twelfth Street swept up the floor. Everyone read The Free Press. The Hindenburg exploded in flames. In the Sahara Desert it rained. Little Maxine danced around the room in her new pink dress.

January. And the Red Sox acquired 19-year-old Ted Williams. Slush in the streets. April seemed so far away. But little Maxine would sing. And all the customers. Would listen. Amongst all the noise. Tyrants in Europe. The boss at work. Maxine had spring in her voice.

One weekend. Maxine took a bus. And did not return. Loch Lomond. An odd song. For a little black girl. To build a career upon. Little Maxine was “Going Places” in the twentieth century. With Louis Armstrong. When he was king. With Ronald Reagan. Before he was president.

One afternoon. Elmer J Fudd flew. Waldo Waterman’s Arrowbiles. Over Spain. Laughs. Poured down upon. The Basque. Town of Guernica. And Maxine. Stepped off the stage. In an age of selflessness. There was a child. To raise.