it's no deep, dark secret to regular readers of this blog that i compose my deepest, darkest posts to (a) liberal amounts of vodka, and (b) more often than not, a single bouncy pop song from my misspent youth upon which i fixate and set to "repeat" when it comes up on shuffle at the optimal moment in that particular night's alcoholic cycle.
and while the booze is integral to the creative process, the song selection is probably equally if not more so. because to me, these songs aren't just songs, they're little aural drug pushes that last precisely as long as the music does--i.e., little two-and-a-half minute endorphin-loaded packages of happiness that, in combination with the booze, hold off the darkness long enough for me to actually write something.
songs such as the one that's the subject of this post, for instance.
* * * * *
yeah, she's from way back in the day and her flippy hairdo was tragically wrong for her face, but lesley gore was the britney spears of her day--and even though her signature song never did much for me, this all-but-forgotten follow-up ranks, imho, among the best pop records ever made.
she was all of 18, her voice was sublime, her song selection shrewd, and the impeccable, multi-layered production was, believe it or not, quincy jones at his early best. and if all that's not enough, it turns out that despite all her protestations of boy trouble to the contrary, she was One Of Our People all along--who the fuck knew?
and, half a century later, maybe when lady gaga manages to come up with something even half as hooky as maybe i know, then maybe i'll start to pay attention to her scrawny, desperately-theatrical ass.
unless and until that happens, i'll stay down here in the dinosaur pit, pour myself another one and keep lil' lesley on repeat, thank you very much.
2 comments:
I never knew that Leslie was crying for Suzy at her party.
I had heard she still sings across the country at (most probably) Indian casinos for one night only. In other words, she's made a living for 50 years off her own youth. Not many people can say that. But such is the peculiar power of musicians that resonant with your youth that you still want to hear them when you're 70 and so is the performer.
Which reminds me, Happy Birthday Bob Dylan.
noblesavage: i'm just glad there's no talking in the middle of this one, because i really didn't wanna hear it.
Post a Comment