A Guy What Takes His Time

This song is filthy. There’s not a dirty word in it, but there’s not a doubt what Marlene Dietrich is talking about when she says she’s a “fast movin’ gal who likes ‘em slow.” Dietrich was one of Hollywood’s most boldly sexual stars, known as a femme fatale onscreen and off. It’s rare in our slut-shaming culture for a woman to be celebrated for her conquests, and Dietrich is one of those rare women. She reportedly seduced everyone from JFK to Greta Garbo, and then some. Lucky for her she lived in the pre-tabloid era, when the studios, in exchange for complete control over a star’s professional life, worked mightily to keep their private scandals safe from the prying eyes of the public. Thus stars back then were free to conduct themselves with utmost depravity without the awkwardness of having their every drunken fumble documented, broadcast and criticized before millions of people. Some scandals, like the Lana Turner stabbing, couldn’t be covered up, but most of what we know now didn’t become public until relatively recently. The full extent of Dietrich’s exploits weren’t known until her daughter’s memoir, published after the star’s death. But we didn’t have to know the details. Dietrich’s persona was saucy enough there was never any need for names to be named. The characters she played and the songs she sang weren’t too far from reality. She really was as tough, smart and liberated as a woman could be, years ahead of her time. When she sings about her desires there’s no pretense of innocence. Some stars led double lives, like Doris Day, whose clean-scrubbed image belied the hard times she’s suffered privately. Marlene Dietrich’s image as a glamorous, dangerous, smart talking broad who took what she wanted may have been exaggerated and polished by Hollywood mythmaking, but it wasn’t entirely untrue. Maybe that’s why her memory is still so strong with us.

Falling In Love Again

“… Never wanted to/what am I to do?/ I can’t help it.”

 

So goes one of the most famous songs of all time. It springs, in its most known iteration, from the 1930 German film The Blue Angel, from which also sprang its singer Marlene Dietrich. In the movie Dietrich is a sexy cabaret girl who seduces, marries and thoroughly emasculates a priggish professor. It was a bit racy, from Dietrich’s miles-of-leg-showing costumes to her maneater persona. The song is also quite racy, for when she sings offhandedly about flitting from one love to another, it is in the roundabout parlance of the times the clearest declaration of sexual independence she could be allowed. Back then, in nifty prude doublespeak all things carnal were disguised as love and romance. To sing about having an endless parade of loves is to sing about having an endless parade of lovers. Which Dietrich did with a vengeance – she took down half of Hollywood, male and female.

Since Marlene Dietrich made Falling In Love Again a splash, it’s been covered by all the usual suspects; from Billie Holiday in the forties, to Doris Day and Nina Simone in the sixties, to big shooters like Christina Aguilera more recently. The Beatles used to play it in concert, back when they could still play audible concerts. There’s a recording of William S. Burroughs croaking it in the original German. Bryan Ferry and Marianne Faithfull covered it, because that stuff is catnip to them both. All those versions are honorable – it’s hard to screw up such a classic piece of songwriting. Even Xtina’s version is unexpectedly good. But for me, the definitive Falling In Love Again will always be Klaus Nomi’s. Who but a Nomi would know that an age-old slice of Weimar was meant to be reborn as a disco homage to an entirely different Sodom and Gomorrah, worlds away?

Cabaret

I just saw Liza Minnelli in concert, fulfilling a longtime ambition. I’ve adored Liza ever since I first saw Cabaret at an age when nearly everything that movie is about went directly over my head. I loved the hair, loved the lashes, loved the spangles, and especially loved the vivaciousness of Sally Bowles. I wished really hard that I could be that way too, vivacious and charming, because I was quite the opposite. (Now I’ve learned that vivaciousness is usually deployed to disguise crushing insecurity.) I always admire people who live life with gusto. Of course, Sally was an extension of Liza, because Liza’s job is to be Liza. So, anyway, I went to her concert, and Liza was Liza, like a champ. She looked fantastic, and she’s a trooper. She’s had some severe health problems in recent years, including hip and knee replacements among other things, so she can’t hoof it like she used to. She was a tiny, sparkly, extremely dynamic figure. She coughed and wheezed a little between numbers, but she delivered the big songs, belting ‘em like there’s no tomorrow. Poor Liza, as legendary as she is, gets a lot of flak, I’m not sure for what – being too campy, perhaps, or being an icon for gays-of-a-certain-age. Perhaps it that she’s less a singer or an actress than a delivery girl for her own persona. Because whatever she does, no matter how well she does it, she’s always Liza. That’s what makes her so appealing (or not). It’s almost impossible to separate the performance from the person underneath. She’s a larger-than-life personality, except that being larger-than-life is her life – she is, after all, born and bred for the spotlight. The emotional gymnastics of the theatre are second nature to her. For her, being a living legend is just, life. Only somebody who knows she’s a legend (and feels quite comfortable with it) can pull of a song about her own name. Say LIZA!!!

Amsterdam

If you thought French chanson was wimpy…let Jacques Brel set you straight. (Though if you wanna get technical about it, Brel  was born in Brussels.) The passion of Brel’s performance, you just know, not understanding a word of French that he’s singing about something infernal. There’s no doubt that sometime, someplace the young Nick Cave took time out from searching for his mainline to spin some Jacque Brel records. The influence is so clear. The combination of chanson refinement with pitch-black poetic depravity. Jacques Brel influenced generations of rock stars. When you hear him sing this, the path from cabaret to rock and roll becomes obvious and crystalline. The English translation has been tackled in homage by some of the greats. Because how could they resist? There’s the usual suspects, like Scott Walker and Ute Lemper, both mainly known for burnishing the dirty glory of Brel, Brecht, and their kin. Still waiting for The Bad Seed himself to get his paws on this one, but in the meantime there’s no shortage of exciting covers.

David Bowie, attracted like a magnet to theatricality, sleaze, and decadence, added Amsterdam to his setlist in the seventies, alongside a helping of Alabama Song. His recorded cover was the B-Side to the Pin-Ups single Sorrow. Interestingly, the cabaret influence doesn’t strongly show itself in Bowie’s music. I can’t think of any Bowie songs where you can listen and just hear the inspiration – ‘oh that’s so Brel of you, Bowie!’. Doesn’t happen. But then, that’s the way with Bowie. He takes ideas and reworks them into unrecognizable forms. You can, however, clearly see it in his style, especially the Thin White Duke period, when he lived and breathed Euro-decadence.

For younger ears, there’s The Dresden Dolls, who make it their business to keep cabaret music alive for a new century. They failed to bring this one out when I saw them play, despite loud audience requests, but it’s been one of their staples. (And they did play Pirate Jenny, so that was nice.)  On her solo tour, Amanda Palmer’s taken to singing it in the original French, though I’m told her accent is atrocious. You can see why I’ve come to idolize this duo! They’ve single-handedly refreshed an ages old aesthetic, to find that people still love this stuff. Post-modern neo-cabaret, anyone?

Dirty Business

“She’s the kind of girl who leaves out condoms on the bedroom table/to make you jealous of the men she fucked before you met her”

The Dresden Dolls have quickly become one of my most favorite new* bands. To prove, here’s a picture of me with Amanda Palmer. A little grainy, but it captures the moment. If you’ve only listened to their albums, let me tell you, they are even better live. Although at this point it may be a while before you get your chance. They just completed a tenth anniversary tour, but haven’t recorded in a couple of years, and if I understand what correctly aren’t about to due to some record company related snafu. As for the show…In this age of pyrotechnics, cinema-size telescreens, circe du soleil backup troupes and those nefarious pre-recorded backing tracks, still, never underestimate how much drama two people with a keyboard and a set of drums can create. I’ve been to a lot of concerts, and Brian Viglione is the best drummer I’ve ever seen. Most drummers, by default are heard but not seen, and most just keep their head down and play. Never have I seen anyone behind a drum kit perform to the audience with such flair – and that includes the dead weathered Jack White. The rapport with the audience was very touching too. Amanda actually played the whole show standing up, because she noticed that “all the short people in the audience looking unhappy because they can’t see.” Right on, Amanda! I couldn’t see naught but her hat bobbing about until she raised her keyboard. They played an absolute marathon, some three hours of all their most beloved songs (though they somehow missed Backstabber, unless I was in the ladies’ loo for that one). I gotta admit, I got a little misty eyed when they came on with Cosmic Dancer – and I never, ever get misty eyed for anything. On top of playing above and beyond the call of duty, the dearies stayed and hobnobbed with fans until the wee hours. I’m told they always do this, but it’s still very impressive. They didn’t leave until they’d talked to and hugged and signed and been photographed with every single fan lined up around the block. That’s graciousness. And yes, I got signed. On the arm. (Turns out Viggie can spell his own name but Amanda Palmer can’t – but it’s not her fault, she seemed a little tipsy by the end there.) The next day I went straight out and had it tattooed.

*by ‘new’ I mean ‘under fifty’.

Dance Me to the End of Love

Maybe you’ve heard a terrible smooth-jazz rendition riding in an elevator sometime. Or, if you go to a lot of weddings, you may have heard a terrible smooth-jazz rendition. And perhaps, maybe, Madeleine Peyroux and her terrible smooth-jazz did the world a favor by bringing a clean-shaved ghost of Leonard Cohen’s love song into your elevator. You should know, though, Cohen wasn’t thinking of brides or flowers or elevators when he put pen to paper.

“‘Dance Me to the End Of Love’ … it’s curious how songs begin because the origin of the song, every song, has a kind of grain or seed that somebody hands you or the world hands you and that’s why the process is so mysterious about writing a song. But that came from just hearing or reading or knowing that in the death camps, beside the crematoria, in certain of the death camps, a string quartet was pressed into performance while this horror was going on, those were the people whose fate was this horror also. And they would be playing classical music while their fellow prisoners were being killed and burnt. So, that music, “Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,” meaning the beauty there of being the consummation of life, the end of this existence and of the passionate element in that consummation. But, it is the same language that we use for surrender to the beloved, so that the song — it’s not important that anybody knows the genesis of it, because if the language comes from that passionate resource, it will be able to embrace all passionate activity.”

If you must have a girlie version, well there’s ones out there that aren’t terrible. I’ve long entertained the desire to hear an all-girl Leonard Cohen cover album. (I could just sit down and compile one.) Do proceed with caution. Cohen songs should only be attempted by the highly qualified, for risk of looking pathetic. One of my nominees, Amanda Palmer has found her own way.

Backstabber

You only sleep with girls who say they like your music

I’ve discovered the Dresden Dolls quite recently, so I don’t know too much about them. I know that Amanda Palmer is betrothed to fantasy writer Neil Gaiman. And, eh, she likes to prance about in revealing outfits. A few days ago I got a serendipitous comment from some random stranger who thought I looked like Amanda Palmer. I don’t, but it’s the highest of compliments anyway. She’s a lady with an admirable flair for style.

Coin-Operated Boy

I first heard of Amanda Palmer fairly recently, in fact, only a few months ago. She caught my attention when she showed up at the Golden Globes clad in an exquisite embroidered flapper dress. That was completely see-through. Wearing nothing underneath. Here, I thinks to myself, is an interesting person. Then, only a few short weeks later a friend turned me onto Palmer’s band, The Dresden Dolls, self-proclaimed purveyors of Brechtian neo-cabaret. They’re very good at the cabaret ambiance and they have their own darkly absurd vision of it. I am and always have been a sucker for that sort of thing, so of course, I am smitten. And isn’t that what we all want, a coin-operated boy?