Longtime Fans Bid Farewell To One Of Soul's Greatest Singers.
By Tom Danehy
LIFE, THE SAYING goes, is crappy and then you die. But
before that final disappointment hits, life's usually at its crappiest
when someone else dies. It could be a loved one or a friend, or
someone you've never met. Someone who touched you from a distance,
nudged you in one direction or another, showed what greatness
can be accomplished when one is fueled by passion.
It's been a bad month for great people. In the space of five
days, we lost Stanley Kubrick, Joe DiMaggio and Dusty Springfield.
All three expanded our lives in subtle and glorious ways--Kubrick
through his unflinching confidence in his own vision; DiMaggio
by setting for himself, and then adhering to, an almost inhuman
standard of excellence; and Dusty, by living up to her nickname
in a series of recordings which will live forever.
There are enormously popular singers and then there are Great
Voices. The latter are set apart by nuance, style and the ethereal
ability to transmit, in an undiluted fashion, emotion and power
and sex from the singer's throat to the listener's ear. It's a
symbiotic relationship--the singer sings, we listen with undivided
attention and devotion. A simple equation, seldom completed.
I've heard lots of good voices in my lifetime, but only three
great ones--Aretha Franklin, Karen Carpenter and Dusty Springfield.
And now only Aretha remains.
Growing up in a ghetto in the 1960s, it wasn't the macho thing
to like female vocalists. Oh, you could nudge your buddy and smirk
at the sight of Mary Wells in a too-tight dress on American
Bandstand. Or hope that, at the school dance, the right girl-group
slow song might allow you to pull your dance partner closer, past
the "Let's-see-some-daylight-in-there" point, where
you might catch a hint of the possibilities of life.
But you didn't like girl singers. They were girls. You
wanted to dance like James Brown, sweat like Otis Redding, and
forestall puberty so you could sing falsetto like Smokey Robinson
just one more year.
But I couldn't help myself with Dusty. Her voice cut right through
me. Sultry and smoky, breathy and dripping with emotion, fired
by passion from the heart she wore squarely on her sleeve.
I used to joke that puberty was a particularly difficult time
for me, coinciding as it did with the sight of Julie Newmar as
Catwoman and Dusty Springfield singing "The Look of Love."
Resurrected recently for a series of commercials, "The Look
of Love" is the undisputed sexiest song of all time. And
unlike Madonna, Foxy Brown and all the other slut-rockers who've
taken the fun and mystery out of sex, the most risqué lyric
in the whole song is, "I can hardly wait to hold you, feel
my arms around you...Don't ever go."
Born Mary Catherine Isabel O'Brien, she was part of a British
generation which giddily worshipped at the altar of American rhythm
and blues. From this phenomenon sprang, among many others, the
blues-rock of the Rolling Stones, the mystical soul of Van Morrison,
and the heart-breaking sincerity of Dusty Springfield.
Saddled throughout much of her career by sub-standard material,
she began as part of a skiffle-folk group, The Springfields. After
heading out on her own, she bounced around from one sound to another,
translating an Italian ballad into "You Don't Have To Say
You Love Me," and breathing life into the schmaltzy Beatles-esque
"I Only Want To Be With You."
But it was on the pop-soul classic "Wishin' And Hopin' "
that she found her niche. Behind that trademark facade of blonde
bouffant hair and raccoon eye makeup was a Voice, an instrument
from God which could belt out Motown, growl Stax, and purr Atlantic
with equal ease. Like Mick Hucknall today, she was an oddity;
a white soul singer who just happened to be the best in the world.
When Motown sent one of its famous multi-act revues over to England,
they begged Dusty to host the show at its various venues and on
the big BBC broadcast. Encumbered by the chronically lame BBC
orchestra, she nonetheless tore the roof off the sucka', stealing
"Heat Wave" from right under Martha Reeves' nose. The
broadcast became the stuff of legend in England. Elvis Costello
credits it with sparking his interest in music, and Elton John
said it made him join her official fan club the very next day.
For her part, Dusty remained unconvinced of her own power. In
an interview before her death, she said she felt overwhelmed by
the talent of the Motown performers. She added that the ultimate
highlight of her career just may have been when she joined Reeves
and others on stage to sing backup on Marvin Gaye's "Hitchhike."
As she remembered the moment, a smile crept across her face and
she sang, in her dustiest, "Hitchhike...hitchhike, Baby."
Her career was schizophrenic: She enjoyed icon status in Britain,
while never really catching on big in the U.S.; she was revered
in the industry (she was Aretha Franklin's favorite singer), but
enjoyed only a so-so following among American music fans.
This changed with the 1969 release of Dusty In Memphis,
one of the greatest pop-soul albums of all time. Best known for
the smoldering "Son Of A Preacher Man," it also includes
the playful "Just A Little Lovin' (Early In The Mornin')"
and the magnificently sad "Breakfast In Bed." When she
whispers "You've been cryin', your face is a mess; Come in,
Baby, I can dry your tears on my dress," it's all over. But
even this album didn't do blockbuster business, though it quickly
achieved classic status. It will appear on just about every Best
of All Time List ever compiled.
(Incidentally, Aretha had been offered "Son of a Preacher
Man" first, but turned it down, not wanting to offend her
preacher father. But after hearing Dusty's version, she had
to record it. Franklin says she didn't come close to Dusty's version.)
Dusty exiled herself to Holland for much of the '70s and '80s,
consumed by (and consuming) drink and drug. She made a triumphant
return on the Pet Shop Boys' "What Have I Done To Deserve
This?" in 1988. She later had a hit in England with the theme
song from the movie Scandal, and then later with a song
from the film While You Were Sleeping.
But at that same time, she learned that she had breast cancer.
She was given a year to live, and then lasted almost five. Last
week she was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, with
Elton John doing the honors. She'd wanted to live to see that
day, but fell short by two weeks. Life is indeed crappy.
The hell with macho. She was my favorite.
|