Jazzanine

“Work spares us from three evils: boredom, vice, and need.” -- Voltaire It’s another Labor Day. Most of us think of the holiday as the demarcation line on the calendar marking the end of summer, our last chance at a warm weather barbecue or swim, or just that much-needed day off from work. On this day honoring “the economic and social contributions of American workers,” I’m thinking of what it is to “labor.” I’m thinking of the many unemployed who don’t currently have the opportunity to serve the nation, their families, or themselves through a simple thing we probably always took for granted: a job. Since the age of 14, I’ve earned some kind of paycheck. I’ve been a summer camp counselor, a department store cashier, a library page, a photography school intern, a girl Friday for a filmmaking foundation. In college I juggled classes with Boston gigs as a writing tutor, a retail store clerk, a hospital assistant, a publishing company researcher, and a program assistant at the Cambr...

June is Black Music Month. I first heard this tagline during my years as editor of black music at "music industry bible" Billboard in the late 1980s; heretofore I was unaware of any such celebration. I was raised in New York City and blessed or cursed with the cynicism of natives of the metropolis; after a few years in the music biz I was quickly learning the warp and woof of the rather slick fabric undergirding the frothy array of the music industry. So I quickly attributed the proclamation of black music ascendancy for the month of June as an invention of the record industry itself – much as Valentine’s Day, Secretary’s Day, Mother’s Day and other heart and hearth holidays were inventions of the greeting card biz. I thought, Hey -- the kiddies were out of school for a glorious stretch of "hot fun in the summertime," and the season offered endless opportunities for music-infused vacation activities of all kinds. The record labels and their distribution com...

I am devastated to learn of the passing of the brilliant Donna Summer, whose music was such an integral part to my maturation. "Love To Love You" was mindblowing, with its driving synth and daring vocals. I thought Donna was gorgeous. When her second album, A Love Trilogy , was quickly released in March 1976, just eight months after Love To Love You , I went to DiscoMat on Lexington to buy the album. Reminiscing about dancing to Donna's music, I listened to her 70s output on YouTube one day back in 2008, and it reminded me how much I loved these tracks. I even incorporated Donna into the current novel I am writing, in which the main character is obsessed with her (Lady Lady or Personal Summer). In tribute to Donna, here is what I wrote back in 2008: Writing while jamming to music on YouTube. Why does “Try Me (I Know We Can Make It)” by Donna Summer give me such a delicious thrill? Because it’s 1976, lost in time. Donna’s voice is operatically, candy-coat...

Whitney Houston: An Alternate View From the beginning she was the embodiment of duality: Sweet yet sensual, young yet old, pop yet R&B, gritty yet sophisticated. Who could successfully balance these opposites without verging on schizophrenia? The world is bidding farewell to songbird Whitney Houston, who left us much too soon. Her passing at the age of 48 is so tragic, ironic, and awful that even these words can’t encompass it. Her voice was a gift to the world, a force so powerful that whole generations of singers owe a debt to her shimmering mix of gospel feeling and pop precision. She had seen the pinnacle of success through adulation, awards, applause, and admiration. She had also endured the deepest recesses of hell due to addiction, abuses, failed expectations, troubled relationships, and public ridicule. I mourn for her passing, and pray for her family, friends, and fans – all of those who loved her. I first became aware of Whitney Houston in the mid ‘80s via ...

I’m not sure when I first became aware of Soul Train . I probably heard my friends talking about it, or perhaps it appeared in psychedelic splendor before our startled eyes as my younger sister and I battled for control of our living room television set, flipping channels between cartoons and reruns on a South Bronx Saturday morning. Our attention was galvanized by a seldom-seen-on-TV-in-the-70s glimpse of hip young black folks (hey – they look like us!) in their Afros and bell bottoms dancing in a yellow and orange stage set to the latest soul tunes. I was instantly hooked. I don’t know what I liked more: watching the live or semi-live performances by the flesh and blood R&B artists whom I only knew by name from the Top 45s list at the Korvette’s record shop, or watching the funky dance moves executed with such abandon by the studio dancers. Soul Train was THE show, hands down. You were socially required to study and report back on the dances, the clothes, the performances, the ...