Today marks the actual Fitzgerald centenary. Happy Birthday, Ella Fitzgerald.
What is Jazz? This is Jazz.
I heard this song on the radio on the way home from work this afternoon and was kinda knocked out--a young Fitzgerald, singing, "Don't Worry 'bout Me," doing some fairly Billie Holliday scooping and singing in fine, 1938 period form. Just smashing.
When I saw Fitzgerald live in 1989 in Cincinnati, we were all seated, respectfully, like adults, and between songs, during a quiet pause, after our applause, a woman yelled out as though she couldn't contain herself another second, " I LOVE YOU, ELLA!!"
Fitzgerald gave a beat and replied, very simply, in that one-of-a-kind, immersively warm voice of hers, into the microphone, and her voice came from everywhere and nowhere, like God, "I love you too, sweetheart."
I love you, Ella.
Forget 'bout Me
Don't worry 'bout me,
I'll get along.
Forget about me,
Be happy, my love,
Let's say that our little show is over,
And so the story ends,
Why not call it a day the sensible way
And still be friends?
We'll be friends.
Look out for yourself
Should be the rule,
Give your heart and your love
To whomever you love,
Don't be a fool.
Darling, why do we cling to this old faded thing
That used to be?
If you can forget,
Don't worry 'bout me.
[dance break]
Yes, just look out for yourself
Should be the rule,
Give your heart and your love
To whomever you love,
Don't don't be a fool.
Darling, why should we cling to some old faded thing
That used to be?
Yes, if you can forget,
Don't worry 'bout me.
If you see somebody new
Someone who looks good to you,
You please don't worry 'bout me
Rube Bloom, music; Ted Koehler, lyrics; Ella Fitzgerald, vocal; "Don't Worry 'bout me," Ella Fitzgerald and her Savoy Eight, 1938.
I am late to the appreciation of Jazz Appreciation Month, again, the spur, as always, being, my friend, the essential, Rose, who was raised, as I was--a hopeful, white, American child--in a house of Jazz.
I always seek the liminal, the undefinable, the indecipherable, the edge-places, and in-between places. All of the true, American art forms belong to this space of uncertain certainty: they all come from and are beholden to earlier expressions and traditions, yet pose a problem-solution so special that we decide, upon some thoughtful, knowledgeable, respectful analysis that it presents a unique position.
Not even Athena sprang Athena-like from the forehead of Zeus. Her mother, Metis, the Titan of Wisdom, whose progeny would be greater than the father, were that prophecy allowed to take place properly, had been swallowed as the fly into which she'd transformed herself to escape Zeus' amour. There are two great prophecies, that I know of, in Greek mythology, calling out the offspring of the mother as greater than the father, the other being a sea goddess, Thetis. Both prophecies encounter Zeus, who--wily as Odin and the other Skyfathers--sidesteps the prophetic outcome made in the lap of a woman, which is to say, a womb. Who says the Fates can't be denied?
Metis. Thetis.
In the case of Thetis, Zeus, who "loved" her but, given her prophetic baggage, was unwilling to chance his throne on his lust, through an incredible public relations coup, relegated her offspring, through a mortal father, King Peleus, to the mortal dimension, as Achilles, mightiest of doomed mortals. Similarly, Athena--as a woman, not a man, as a goddess of wisdom and war, out-does her father in every way; she is her father's favorite--poses no threat to the line of succession and the base of power, since only male offspring pose that issue of issue. And thus, the rape of her mother, and the prophecy about her, was constrained, contained, diffused, and defused into the most fascinating of deities, as a female, always-virgin god.
All the post-indigenous-people, indigenous, American forms are based on a kind of love, appropriation, and violence: the Blues, Jazz, the Broadway Musical, and Rock and Roll--all of which, constantly, bleed into each other. Miscegenation is our American past and our American future. It is our heritage, our dowry, our inheritance, our legacy, and our estate. Just ask Thomas Jefferson.
Welcome to Jazz Appreciation Month.
Toxic
Baby, can't you see,
I'm calling.
A guy like you
Should wear a warning.
It's dangerous.
I'm falling.
There is no escape;
I can't wait;
I need a hit;
Baby, give me it;
You're dangerous;
I'm loving it.
Too high,
Can't come down;
It's in the air
And it's all around.
Can you feel me, now?
With a taste of your lips,
I'm on a ride:
You're toxic,
I'm slipping under.
A taste of your poison paradise,
I'm addicted to you,
Don't you know that you're
toc-sick,
And I love what you do,
Don't you know that you're
toxic?
It's getting late
To give you up;
I took a sip
From my devil's cup;
Slowly,
It's taking over me:
Too high,
Can't come down;
It's in the air,
And it's all around.
Can you feel me now?
With a taste
of your lips,
I'm on a ride.
You're toxic,
I'm slipping
under;
Taste of a poison paradise,
I'm addicted to you;
Don't you know that you're toxic?
And I love what you do,
Don't you know
that you're toxic?
Intoxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
Think I'm ready, now,
Think I'm ready, now.
Toxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
Think I'm ready, now,
Think I'm ready, now.
Toxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
I think I'm ready, now,
I think I'm ready, now.
I think I'm ready, now.
I think I'm ready, now.
Toxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
I think I'm ready, now,
Think I'm ready, now.
Now.
Now.
Now
Now.
Now-ow.
Now.
Now
Now.
Now.
Now
Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now Now. Now. Now. Now.
I think I'm ready, now,
With a taste of lips,
I think I'm ready, now.
I think I'm ready, now.
Intoxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
I think I'm ready, now,
I think I'm ready, now.
Intoxicate me, now,
With your lovin', now,
I think I'm ready, now,
I think I'm ready, now.
Yael Naïm, "Toxic."
"Toxic" is a song recorded by American singer Britney Spears for her fourth studio album In the Zone (2003). It was written and produced by Christian Karlsson and Pontus Winnberg (known collectively as Bloodshy & Avant), with additional writing from Cathy Dennis and Henrik Jonback.
