Savannah Churchill

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Savannah Churchill (August 21, 1920 – April 19, 1974)

Born quietly in a noisy time. Out of the blue. Part of a wonderful plan. Only God knew. The pope declared that Catholics were forbidden. To shower. During Lent. Flames ate the head. Of the Eiffel Tower.

Savannah could hear footsteps. Up the hardwood stairs. David at the door. The smell of combava garlic and ginger. Lovely evenings. Arms wrapped around shoulders. The skid of tires. The jingle of glass. David in photographs. Windows without breadth. Its better not to ask.

A satin voice. No time for introspection. Two kids to feed. Music spilling her name in lights. A red velvet dress. In Birmingham, Nat King Cole was attacked on stage. A concrete girder weighing 200 tons. Killed 48. In Karachi. Pakistan. The reason. Anyone's guess.

A fat man ended her career. Fell on her. From the balcony. In 1956. She succumbed on April 19. 1974. That’s what the papers wrote. As if it all made sense. Some wonderful plan. Written by a million. Wise men. Sitting at a million computers. In a million. Separate rooms.

Nina Simone

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Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003)

Blood in the fountains. Is black. Ropes dripping from trees. Are red. Whispers in bar rooms. Electric lights flickering. Someone is getting the chair. Jesus breaths. His last. Again. Some call it justice. Some call it the Mississippi rain.

So many men planting holes. In other men’s flesh. Too much stupidity. Too much vulgarity. Too much nothing. Nina wanted to crawl. Into the microphone. The world is mad. Like a mongrel dog. Snarling. At the end of a chain. She could smell the bitch's breath. Some call it law and order. Some call it death.

Running. From the black wolves. Of night. Driving her car through the mad narrow French avenues. I tell you. Everyone is going to die. Such a shame. Wouldn’t it be lovely, to do this all over again? After Nina died they took her ashes. Out onto the verandah. And scattered her laughter. Over the African savannah.

Maxine Sullivan

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Maxine Sullivan (May 13, 1911 – April 7, 1987)

The customers sat in hard back chairs. Listening to the swing. Of the barbershop door. Daddy cut hair. Maxine Sullivan of Twelfth Street swept up the floor. Everyone read The Free Press. The Hindenburg exploded in flames. In the Sahara Desert it rained. Little Maxine danced around the room in her new pink dress.

January. And the Red Sox acquired 19-year-old Ted Williams. Slush in the streets. April seemed so far away. But little Maxine would sing. And all the customers. Would listen. Amongst all the noise. Tyrants in Europe. The boss at work. Maxine had spring in her voice.

One weekend. Maxine took a bus. And did not return. Loch Lomond. An odd song. For a little black girl. To build a career upon. Little Maxine was “Going Places” in the twentieth century. With Louis Armstrong. When he was king. With Ronald Reagan. Before he was president.

One afternoon. Elmer J Fudd flew. Waldo Waterman's Arrowbiles. Over Spain. Laughs. Poured down upon. The Basque. Town of Guernica. And Maxine. Stepped off the stage. In an age of selflessness. There was a child. To raise.

 

Kay Starr

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Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 -

Lou Gehrig could see the future. Luckiest man in the world. Knew when his time was up. Not Eugen Weidmann. Lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining. Believe it or Not. Made Eugene so famous. Last thing he did was dance.

The tramps passed. Little Kay Starr’s doorstep. And talked of revolution. When things would return. To the golden days. But little Katie wasn’t listenin'. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her singin'. Made them forget. The foxes in the woodlot. Couldn't stop grinnin'.

Kay sang on a radio station. In Dallas. Texas. A little girl. And that big mike. So many song contests. You'd think that winning once was enough. And Lina Medina. Became the world's youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.

In small little towns. Up and down endless. Dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. And then one day. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry. And have little mute children. But disaster struck. Her voice came back. And the ongoing never ending career. Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

Jo Stafford

Jo Stafford (November 12, 1917 – July 16, 2008)

A letter on the vanity. Next to the talc and brandy. A shadow standing in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. A cigarette in his fingers. Looking back with a smile on her face. Some kind of disruption behind.

The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Dinner served with laughs. A lot of coughing. Love curled up in a purse. Jo Stafford. Entertainee. Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.

Old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping. In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the retirement homes are run. By government men. Dying of congestive heart failure. Jo Stafford wept. First love would not come again.

Glenn Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham. Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked "for Negroes". Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light. Observed on the moon. A spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing goodbye. Jo Stafford died. At age 90. 

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Ivie Anderson

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Ivie Anderson (July 10, 1905 – December 28, 1949)

The photographer showed up. In a Panama suit. At St. Mary’s Convent. For Negro

girls. The students smiled so often. Their lips began to break. Outside in the street.

Little Ivie pounded at the door. Let me in! But she was too late.. There were 67

girls photographed. There should have been 8.

On a stool. To one side of the band. She sat. Tapping her foot. Not for her Prince.

But for the Duke. As he climbed up his Calvary of pain. The broken hearted chorus

burst into joy. And the thorns gave over to her words. So sweet and true. Ivie

became their voice.

A Day at the Races. Ivie got lost in Groucho’s eyebrows. The washerwoman. Her

sad bewildered eyes. Attracted Harpo. Blew his horn. Like a fire truck. Chased

Ivie around the set. Humour is like smoke. Ivie laughed like. She was on fire.

The world is so strange. Cows could fly. It was world war 2. The cows dive bombed

the herds of cats. That filled the rolling prairie. With bags of milk. On the streetcars.

In New Orleans. The whores exercised their right to assembly. Mao Tse-tung wrote.

About love. "A Single Spark Can Start a Prairie Fire".

Ivie's songs. Made you feel you were in love for the first time. The moon blushed.

And hid in the shade. But time passes. Even though women hold up half the heavens.

Love fades. The voice of the Duke ceased. Ivie Anderson was dead at 43.

Ethel Waters

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Ethel Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)

Look at the sun. Pouring. Through the branches of that tree. Like Ethel. Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. The smell of giant tupelo and bald cypress. At 13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a big barrel of a man. Ass three blocks wide. F***ed her for fun. Beat her when he got bored. He left. She was left. To fend for herself. Sometimes it seems. You don't recognize love. Until its gone.

President Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. Ethel was jealous. Her lover cheated. With heroin. And left her early one morn. He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to San Francisco. The best things in life should be put on a list. And number one. Happiness is a fist.

Ethel worked as a maid. 9 until unconsciousness. Sang in whorehouses. The smell of semen. And stale beer. And late night confessions. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for food and gange. Found Jesus. Hanging in a big tent. Next to a trailer park. Oh how she envied the Catholics. Who could forget about all their sins. And laugh at the son tumbling out of his tree.

 

 

Dinah Shore

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Dinah Shore (February 29, 1916 – February 24, 1994)

1950s. From shore to shore. Dyed blondes. In suburban homes. Black bodies bobbing

up in the swamp. Like apples in a barrel. Big frilly dresses. Puffy sleeves. In the golden

days of the Pharaoh. When men drove Chevrolets. Women in church. Happy on their

knees.

Every Sunday evening. Black and white laughter. Dinah and her lovers. In alphabetical

order. Dinah loved Tarzan. And his jungle. A general named Moose. A singer and his

jingles. The Cantabile Choir Of Kingston. A drummer. From the old school. Several

actors named Jimmy. A cat. Who wanted to be President. And a red headed kid with

buck teeth. And a head too big for his hat.

America had a new home movie. It was called the ‘The Battle of Los Angeles’. UFOs

attacked the city of angels. Through the smog. And the alleys. And all their mighty

ships were shot down. But no one could find. Where they had crashed. And Dinah

kept smiling. Her ankles like a necklace. Throwing a kiss. Across America. To

Ed Gein and his buddies down at Biff's . To the nurse in the E.R. To the waitress

on the graveyard shift. And all the little blondes. Watching Dinah. Cracking a joke.

Singing a song. America was in love. With being blonde.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dqoJxjQn-Y

Church Street Is Burning

Kay Starr

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The Saints of Jazz

(excerpt)

Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 –

Lou Gehrig could see the future. Luckiest man in the world. Knew when his time was up. Not Eugen Weidmann. Lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining. Page 50. Believe it or Not. Made Eugene so famous. Last thing he did was dance.
The tramps passed. Little Kay Starr’s doorstep. And talked of revolution. When things would return. To the golden days. But little Katie wasn’t listenin’. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her singin’. Made them forget. The foxes in the woodlot. Couldn’t stop grinnin’.
Kay sang on a radio station. In Dallas. Texas. A little girl. And that big mike. So many song contests. You’d think that winning once was enough. And Lina Medina. Became the world’s youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.
In small little towns. Up and down endless. Dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. And then one day. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry. And have little mute children. But disaster struck. Her voice came back. And the ongoing never ending career. Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

Bessie Smith (April 15, 1894 – September 26, 1937)

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The Saints of Jazz

(excerpt)
Bessie Smith (April 15, 1894 – September 26, 1937)
Love is an angry bed. Sheets are torn. Pillows born. Too small. And his words creep. Into your thoughts on tippy toes. Is there a bigger fool. Than a woman with her heart spread open.
9. A.M. All the morning fools. Are sucking up the lazy light. The silent man. In the photograph has disappeared. God is trying to pray. But Bessie can’t stop laughing.
Give them all the ‘lectric chair.
The Titanic left Queenstown Ireland for NY. The mayor was there. With his best friend. A little Scotch terrier. At another place. At the same time. Bessie married a security guard. They fought like cats. They ate the dog. Their appetite kept the night awake.
The audience was drunk. The band was jumping. Jack Johnson TKO’d Jim Flynn. In the Ninth. Bessie had another cigarette. She laughed so loud. When the bartender couldn’t put on his coat. I can hardly stand up for falling down.
Bessie was with her lover. When the car rolled over. Crushed poor Bessie’s legs. Smoke filled the air. Lungs doing what they are told. She didn’t want to die. Poor Bessie was buried anyway.
Fans collected money for her tombstone. Write something appropriate in stone. Her husband Jack. Put the cash in his pants. The dead got no worries. The living got to take care of themselves

lyrics that inspired images… part 8

lyrics that inspired images… part 8

 

lyrics that inspired images… part 7

lyrics that inspired images… part 7

 

lyrics that inspired images.... part five

lyrics that inspired images.... part five

lyrics that inspired images... part 2

lyrics that inspired images... part 2

Amy Winehouse