There is the summer pop song, the summer blockbuster, and for some, the summer font, so of course there is the summer drink. In recent summers, it’s been Campari and soda—which should not be confused, a friend tells me, with Campari Soda.
A little research reveals that the deep crimson color comes from carminic acid extracted from the cochineal insect. The bug relies on the acid not for its formidable decorative powers but as a deterrent to predators.
During a recent tipple, a film editor told me of a critical moment in her childhood, a moment that perhaps foretold a career. She was seven when she saw the ad below on television and understood that some images are put together better than others.
I remember watching Celine Dion perform Phil Spector’s “River Deep, Mountain High” on MTV’s first Divas Live extravaganza in 1998. I was full of contempt at the time, having endured a roommate’s long-running obsession with “My Heart Will Go On.” But then Celine took the stage. She wore a dark duster as though she were trying to channel not only Tina Turner but also Johnny Cash and I could not look away. Along with Celine, Deep Purple, Neil Diamond, Erasure, the Saints, and the Supremes have covered the song. The version of all versions, of course, belongs to Tina Turner.
In Mick Brown’s new biography Tearing Down the Wall of Sound, Spector explains his ambition for his music: “I wanted to be in the background. But I wanted to be important in the background. I wanted to be the focal point.” It’s hard to imagine, though, there can ever be any other focal point if Tina Turner’s in the room.
“One of the most ingenious, inspired and impressively stubborn sons-of-a-bitch the music industry ever saw”
That’s from Lee Hazlewood’s obituary on myspace. Hazlewood died Saturday in Las Vegas, but right now in the lefthand corner of his website, the little orange figure is blinking away: “Online Now!”
Hazlewood probably would’ve enjoyed the absurdity. He titled his penultimate album “Farmisht, Flatulence, Origami, ARF!!! and Me.” His last one was simply “Cake or Death.”
I’ve been trying to track down an online version of Phil Milstein’s excellent article, “Nancy & Lee and Sonny & Cher,” from Hermenaut’s Camp issue, which I recall pushing on friends like The Watchtower when it came out, but I’m not having any luck. I have found a wonderful tribute over at New York Night Train by Jonathan who attended the same mesmerizing documentary series on Hazlewood at Anthology Film Archives that I did. Cowboy in Sweden, if I remember correctly, followed Hazlewood and his horse through the country’s stark, barren landscape. Kind of like Bergman with reverb and airline stewardesses.
From the film, here’s “Hey Cowboy” with Hazlewood and Nina Lizell. And the horse.
Last night, in Evergreen Video on Carmine St., I eavesdropped on another customer’s conversation, and then asked the clerk to confirm what I’d just heard, which was that my favorite video store was closing on June 30.
“Is it Netflix?” I asked, feeling remorse for having joined.
He shook his head. “The owner just wants to retire.”
Which seems reasonable, but still didn’t permit any gratifying indignation at The State of Things.
It’s not only the collective knowledge of the staff and the pleasure of flipping through all those laminated video covers (1940s Musicals, 1970s Comedies, etc.) that I’ll miss—it’s the unexpected stuff, like the episode of “Ready Steady Go!” in which Dusty Springfield introduces the sounds of Motown to a studio audience of eager British teens. Evergreen is also the only video store I know of that boasted a pioneering rock critic on its staff. The plain piece of paper on the door says simply “PaulNelson, 1936-2006.”
I paid my late fee, picked up the next movie, and looked around. Same posters up, same catalogs scattered on the table, same used DVDs for sale, and in one corner, a stack of flattened cardboard to be turned into boxes.
Gibb is an old-fashioned song craftsman—a composer of beautiful, harmonically sophisticated pop songs who would have held his own back in the 1930s with Gershwin and Kern and company. This is the funny thing about the Bee Gees disco-era apogee: They were playing dress-up, shamelessly bandwagon-hopping, writing the same great songs that they always did, and tacking on a dance beat. They were disco manqué.
