when we’re old and full of cancer, it doesn’t matter now, come on get happy ‘cause nothing lasts forever and i will always love you

It's an almost surreal experience to hear an icon of yours - for style, music, and attitude - being so frank about their insecurities and perceived flaws. This is what occurred for me when reading the transcribed interview with Debbie Harry on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs today. Along with frankly discussing about her drug habit - from which she has long recovered from - and admitting her regrets about not having children, the rock star revealed her insecurities regarding growing older. Harry said, "As far as aging goes, it's rough. It's hard. I rely on looks a lot. Women's calling cards, unfortunately, are based on their looks." And as much as a die-hard Blondie fan (like I) doesn't want to admit it, Harry's success wasn't completely based on her immense talent - it did, in part, have to do with her looks. I remember reading a book on Patti Smith a few months back by Victor Bockris, and in it friends and fellow 70s scenesters discussed Smith's contempt for Debbie Harry as a performer back in the day. Debbie was the physical embodiment of all the women Patti worshipped - she was blonde, wide-eyed, and beautiful. Patti loved the likes of Anita, Marianne, Nico, and Edie for their ethereal beauty, but hated it in Debbie. Perhaps because Patti loved these beauties as they were seen as muses, the inspirations for poetry and music - not the writers of the music itself. Debbie integrated herself in the same scene as Patti, and had talent to match the reigning Princess of Punk. Bockris writes, “Debbie had all the physical attributes of the women that Patti celebrated in her poetry: blondeness, beauty, and charisma. However, those attributes encountered in the flesh, combined with talent, a voice, and a healthy dose of ambition, constituted a threat” to Patti, who fancied herself the female Keith Richards and physically mirrored the Stone to androgynous success. There was a moment when Patti admitted both her dislike and love for Debbie, telling the Blondie singer to get out of rock'n'roll and they could run off together, as detailed in an interview with the High Times Reader. Debbie in turn interpreted it as Patti's declaration that there was only room enough for one of them in music and Debbie wasn't good enough to withstand Patti's talents. 

Thank goodness Debbie didn't let any intimidations from Miss Smith or any of the other numerous critics get to her, because if she lacked a steely resilience and undying passion for music, we might not have Blondie in our iPods blasting on our way to work. Harry seems to have the same view in coming to terms with how her outward appearance altered her music and life, concluding to Radio 4 that, despite everything, "I'm glad I've had all the radical experiences in my life. I have a better perspective." 

Title: from "Don't Forget Me" (Marianne Faithfull)

alors voilà clyde a une petite amie, elle est belle et son prénom c'est bonnie

In greatness usually only imaginable in my wildest dreams, my obsession with French sixties pop music and American gangsters came together in a beautiful union in 1967. One of the most famous (and infamous) couples of the Sixties, bombshell sex symbol Brigitte Bardot and famed womanizer Serge Gainsbourg, took on the roles of a perhaps even more infamous pair of lovers: Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. While I love me some Dillinger and Ma Barker, and I'm fascinated by the men from Murder Inc., Bonnie and Clyde still hold the top spot for me. It's not just their terribly romanticized lifestyle that's been perpetuated over the years (I know that Bonnie didn't really wear heels, and those pencil skirts would've slowed down her getaway run) - though I do love buying into that - but also because they were born, bred, robbing, and dead in my hometown. (Both Bonnie and Clyde are buried in Dallas, and I once ate at a restaurant that used to be a famous jail, and dined in the cell that once housed W.D. Jones, member of the Barrow Gang. I know, I'm awesome).
Serge and Brigitte's song "Bonnie and Clyde" was recorded in 1967, perhaps the peak of the pop culture obsession with these Depression-era bank robbers, as it was also the year that Arthur Penn released his film Bonnie and Clyde. The film changed the entire nature of cinema, ushering in the New Hollywood era, and also launching the careers of Faye Dunaway, Gene Hackman, Estelle Parsons (who won an Oscar for her role as Blanche Barrow), and Gene Wilder (in his very first film role), as well as cementing Warren Beatty as a major player in Hollywood (he produced, starred, and gave uncredited contributions to the script of the film).
More importantly (to me at least), the film also tremendously influenced fashion, with the glam gal-on-the-run look coming back to the runways and magazines at least once every two years. (You can read my post on Faye's Bonnie looks here). It is no coincidence that Bardot is dressed in snug printed blouses, tailored pencil skirts, berets atop short blonde bobbed hair - the very same style of dress that Dunaway wore in the film. Serge and Brigitte prefer to channel the glammed, sexy version of Bonnie and Clyde, rather than the rough-and-tumble reality of the two on-the-run gangsters.
The song is typical Gainsbourg genuis - sometimes a bit random, and always a bit inappropriate, the darker tones of the song are masked by the catchy melody and the sweet singing voices of the duo. The lyrics were inspired by a poem entitled "The Trail's End" (now known as "The Story of Bonnie and Clyde"), written by Miss Parker herself only weeks before her and Clyde's fatal shootout with the police.
Released in 1968, the tune and its accompanying video are both classic. The song is a must-have for fans not just of American gangster heroes and history, and not just for fans of French pop by the likes of Bardot and Gainsbourg, but for anyone who likes a fun tune to cruise around in their car and listen to with their windows rolled down. Trust me, if you do it you'll feel like a supreme badass.

Title: from "Bonnie and Clyde" (Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot)

life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting my friends

It’s terrifying to think that it has been over thirty years now since John Lennon’s death. Thirty years, since a woman lost her husband, two young boys lost a father that neither of them truly got to know, and the world lost a hero that its never seen the likes of since.

In a strange sense, the anniversary of his death is also comforting: in those thirty years, Lennon has not become forgotten, forced to live only in the dusty memories of photo negatives and scratchy studio recordings. He is still alive among us, because the memories of him are relived for us by his friends, lovers, bandmates and children. For many, thirty years go by and the only ones still singing your songs are your intimate relations, the people who truly knew you and felt your love. But Lennon succeeded in creating this sense of intimacy with thousands – nay, millions – of people who he never even met. Many of whom, like me, were born years after his death.

I read an article yesterday that wondered what John Lennon would be like today. No doubt he would have continued to be a force in the music industry, pushing forward to create more radical sounds and challenging the norms of what is "good" music. 

The article supposes that Lennon's life would have been most akin to the life of his former Beatle-mate George Harrison, who also left the world far too early. Which makes sense. Even though the two men differed in fundamental senses of their ideology – John imagined a world of “no religion,” whereas George searched for most of his life for a higher meaning – they were similar in several ways. Music was not about profit or celebrity, touring or accolades. That all came secondary. Music was their passion, but the celebrity that went along with their careers was just the spoiled bit that they had to swallow in order to do what they loved to do. George wanted to live the world as best he could so that he could reach some higher level of understanding – nirvana, salvation, it really depends on your religion as to how you view George’s quest.

But John wanted to change the world. His nirvana would come from encouraging people to wake up and live their lives the way they wanted to, not the way that people told them to. Whether he was begging for peace or spurring on revolution, touting the merits of artistic self-expression through living only for yourself before proclaiming that “love was all you need,” Lennon was nothing if not a contradiction.

But maybe that’s the source of his widespread appeal, the reason that he has garnered devoted fans worldwide over the last half-century. Through his contradictions, he is relatable to everyone. His emotions run the gamut A through Z. There is a little something there for everyone. Even if you can’t jive with the more political tones of his later work, maybe you have found yourself needing to “hide your love away” or feeling duped by a “Sexy Sadie” all your own. Or maybe it’s the notorious wit that has you, or his dalliance with Lewis Carroll-esque poetry, or his sketches of grotesque little creatures from his college days. Or, maybe you have caught yourself once or twice pulling a facial expression that you saw him do in the train scene of A Hard Day’s Night (you know the one I’m talking about).

In his personal life, he was notoriously hard on himself and on others. But through his own twisted expectations, he relieves his fans of a lot of their own guilt. He seems to be telling them to breathe steady because you’re not the only one. He wants you to love, but he identifies with your hate, he was a proponent of the avant-garde with a taste for the classics, he was tender as well as hard, weak as well as strong. There is something in John Lennon that everyone can identify with, even if what is identifiable for you is his inconsistencies. Whatever your feelings on Lennon’s musical career, his personal life, the way he treated his women and his sons, you can’t deny that he ultimate got what he wanted: he changed the world.

and though you want to last forever, you know you never will, you know you never will, and the goodbye makes the journey harder still

Chet Baker is one of my utmost favorite musicians. He's known best for his recording of the tender ballad "My Funny Valentine" - and his version is pretty much synonymous with the song itself - and the 1988 documentary that followed his turbulent life in the time leading up to his death - an accidental fall from a hotel window the same year the film was released. 

When Chet was a young musician in the 1950s, he was famous for his matinee star good looks just as much as his trumpet-playing abilities. The handsome young jazz musician was thought to be a cross between "James Dean and Jack Kerouac." 

Baker's career began to decline when the effects of his heroin use, which he had enjoyed regularly since the 1950s, began to affect his appearance, his ability, and his personal and financial security. By the end of the 1950s, Baker was pawning his instruments for money to support his heroin addiction. 

The 1960s found Baker serving a one-year prison sentence in Italy for drug-related offenses, while also facing deportation in West Germany and the UK for similar problems. He was still addicted by 1966 when he was severely beaten by a group of men after a performance in San Francisco. Chet made it out alive, but after being kicked in the face several times by his attackers, his mouth was split and torn and his front teeth were broken, essentially ruining his embouchure (the facial muscles & way the lips shape to the mouthpiece of a wind instrument). As a result, Baker had to relearn to play the trumpet and flugelhorn with dentures. He eventually developed a new embouchure with the dentures, and Baker was able to make a comeback in the 1970s. The effects of his lifestyle were very evident, as his matinee idol good looks had disappeared and, as Village Voice critic J. Hoberman put it, he became "a seamy-looking drugstore cowboy-cum-derelict." 

I think it's fascinating to listen to what Baker could do with not just a trumpet, but with his voice as well. He had a gorgeous voice. Perhaps due to his experience as a trumpeter, but Baker knew how to use his voice in the most subtle ways possible - it never sounds like he's over-extending himself or trying to make a record sound hot. He just sings. And it's beautiful. The gentle quietness of his voice is cool and refreshing, especially in comparison to a lot of other jazz musicians who do big vocal arrangements.