The 1980s, in California, will always remain in my memory backed by a soundtrack (heavily) featuring Linda Ronstadt. Yeah, there were other groups and other soloists riding the air-waves, but as I rode the real waves, a wailing Ronstadt fed my imagination.
Perhaps it was because she also played "the beard" for hip (then) governor, Jerry Brown; even flying with him to Africa? Perhaps it was her raggedy edge denim hot-pants and roller skates? Maybe it was the enormous doe eyes and that mop of dark hair? Perhaps...Yet, most of all, it was her luscious vocals,wailing love songs from two different cultures. She entered more than my reality: she entered my heart.
As we both aged, I lost sight of her. It was less a matter of "growing up" than a matter of too many choices; too many emerging musical interests. Always eclectic in my tastes, I was moving past "punk" and into "classical" music, with a minor in opera. Environmental and spiritual sounds could be heard ringing from my Silverlake apartment at all hours of the day or night. (Ronstadt would make her way into private reveries--or when romance went south--but she wasn't on the daily rotation.)
As I moved out of the city for a while, down to the beaches of Orange County, mainstream top forty, dance mixes, industrial and electronic beats prevailed. Then, back to reggae, hard rock and old blues. Chorale groups took over for a time, leading to Gospel and on to World Music. Percussion experiments, (including Pygmy rainforest sounds) rained on my head at The Farm School. So too, did Tibetan mountain songs, Indian Chants (Buddhist and Hindu), Chinese healing music, then back to the Americas for a panoply of Native American shamanistic music. (Somewhere along these stellar lines, I lost connections to Linda--unless someone nearby hit "Blue Bayou" on their oldies list. Is there anyone around who can't stop for a moment, when Ronstadt hits that final note?)
Earlier, this week, I was informed that there will be no more glorious sounds emanating from the woman's throat. Parkinson's has invaded her body, making it impossible to ever sing, again. (How is that possible? There's got to be a mistake!) The news hit me as I just finished picking up my fallen father, covered in oatmeal and coffee, after he dropped his breakfast tray in front of the morning news report. Dad down, but not out.(Linda out, but not "down".) Both trying to re-boot themselves. (Less re-invention and more "how can I survive this body betrayal"?)
How, indeed?
When one is given enormous gifts, there comes enormous responsibilities.
(Enormous.)
Ronstadt never seemed to allow her rocketing fame to burn her out, as so many of the stars from my youth did. She always was so normal, so approachable, so "cute"-- in the best way. When she reclaimed the Mexican love songs from her own youth, the heartbreak and purity gave one chills, even if the culture was not one's own. She allowed a sharing of "art"--perhaps the purest art--from her own cells--her throat and lungs-- into the Universe. The very body now breaking itself down made us "understand" something we might have missed, on our own.
Yes, there have been "other voices" down through the ages, from all cultures and times. Each is precious; revelatory. Perhaps making celestial music earthly, at least for a while. Hers could be numbered in their midst. It was more than a simple rock and roll character, created for mass appeal. Ronstadt was "the real deal".
So, do we toil under a capricious God? Is there cruelty when such gifts (presents that reveal the Creator...which is the biggest conundrum of all...) are ripped away? Linda Ronstadt didn't make mockery of her stardom. She didn't take her voice for granted. She wasn't creepy nor mean nor even selfish. Her politics were never screaming at us--though they were present. She didn't rile us up with promises she would never keep, nor pretend she was something she wasn't. (She was an anti-Diva; but with a voice that rivaled anyone belting out a number, today.) So, why would her voice be taken? It seemed a gift for us all--the working people, everywhere...
I am also left wondering about this cost to her psyche--her Spirit. To be silenced, forever. (With Parkinson's, the voice, the singing voice, doesn't come back...)
Silenced.
I think of what it would mean to me if I were suddenly blind. If I could not paint nor draw nor even see a keyboard. (Yes, there are other ways to write, so maybe painting is a better analogy. Either way, to be suddenly deprived of my truest "voice" in the world...) Could I bear it? Day to day, after defining myself as an artist and a writer, for my entire life? After sacrificing many other paths--including relationships--to just "keep on" doing that which I felt I have been created to do? Would I bear it? (Could I bear it?)
I think of the millions of people, through time, who, themselves, have been "silenced": bad laws; corrupt governments; wars; natural disasters wiping out entire civilizations; always sickness; always, finally: death.
How do we recover from these setbacks? Not abstractly nor historically, but individually. (Personally...?)
I can go "meta" and outward and deal with abstract numbers--or I can come back in, close, and think of Linda Ronstadt: forever quiet.
She remains alive; remains fighting her own body's changes. She must find new ways to communicate with the world. My prayers are that she is surrounded by family and friends who love her beyond the golden voice that thrilled us. My wishes are that she feel the gratitude I have for her music, in the past, and for her honesty, in the present. (And that she know by sharing what has happened to her, she once, again, touches us all.)
Perhaps it was because she also played "the beard" for hip (then) governor, Jerry Brown; even flying with him to Africa? Perhaps it was her raggedy edge denim hot-pants and roller skates? Maybe it was the enormous doe eyes and that mop of dark hair? Perhaps...Yet, most of all, it was her luscious vocals,wailing love songs from two different cultures. She entered more than my reality: she entered my heart.
As we both aged, I lost sight of her. It was less a matter of "growing up" than a matter of too many choices; too many emerging musical interests. Always eclectic in my tastes, I was moving past "punk" and into "classical" music, with a minor in opera. Environmental and spiritual sounds could be heard ringing from my Silverlake apartment at all hours of the day or night. (Ronstadt would make her way into private reveries--or when romance went south--but she wasn't on the daily rotation.)
As I moved out of the city for a while, down to the beaches of Orange County, mainstream top forty, dance mixes, industrial and electronic beats prevailed. Then, back to reggae, hard rock and old blues. Chorale groups took over for a time, leading to Gospel and on to World Music. Percussion experiments, (including Pygmy rainforest sounds) rained on my head at The Farm School. So too, did Tibetan mountain songs, Indian Chants (Buddhist and Hindu), Chinese healing music, then back to the Americas for a panoply of Native American shamanistic music. (Somewhere along these stellar lines, I lost connections to Linda--unless someone nearby hit "Blue Bayou" on their oldies list. Is there anyone around who can't stop for a moment, when Ronstadt hits that final note?)
Earlier, this week, I was informed that there will be no more glorious sounds emanating from the woman's throat. Parkinson's has invaded her body, making it impossible to ever sing, again. (How is that possible? There's got to be a mistake!) The news hit me as I just finished picking up my fallen father, covered in oatmeal and coffee, after he dropped his breakfast tray in front of the morning news report. Dad down, but not out.(Linda out, but not "down".) Both trying to re-boot themselves. (Less re-invention and more "how can I survive this body betrayal"?)
How, indeed?
When one is given enormous gifts, there comes enormous responsibilities.
(Enormous.)
Ronstadt never seemed to allow her rocketing fame to burn her out, as so many of the stars from my youth did. She always was so normal, so approachable, so "cute"-- in the best way. When she reclaimed the Mexican love songs from her own youth, the heartbreak and purity gave one chills, even if the culture was not one's own. She allowed a sharing of "art"--perhaps the purest art--from her own cells--her throat and lungs-- into the Universe. The very body now breaking itself down made us "understand" something we might have missed, on our own.
Yes, there have been "other voices" down through the ages, from all cultures and times. Each is precious; revelatory. Perhaps making celestial music earthly, at least for a while. Hers could be numbered in their midst. It was more than a simple rock and roll character, created for mass appeal. Ronstadt was "the real deal".
So, do we toil under a capricious God? Is there cruelty when such gifts (presents that reveal the Creator...which is the biggest conundrum of all...) are ripped away? Linda Ronstadt didn't make mockery of her stardom. She didn't take her voice for granted. She wasn't creepy nor mean nor even selfish. Her politics were never screaming at us--though they were present. She didn't rile us up with promises she would never keep, nor pretend she was something she wasn't. (She was an anti-Diva; but with a voice that rivaled anyone belting out a number, today.) So, why would her voice be taken? It seemed a gift for us all--the working people, everywhere...
I am also left wondering about this cost to her psyche--her Spirit. To be silenced, forever. (With Parkinson's, the voice, the singing voice, doesn't come back...)
Silenced.
I think of what it would mean to me if I were suddenly blind. If I could not paint nor draw nor even see a keyboard. (Yes, there are other ways to write, so maybe painting is a better analogy. Either way, to be suddenly deprived of my truest "voice" in the world...) Could I bear it? Day to day, after defining myself as an artist and a writer, for my entire life? After sacrificing many other paths--including relationships--to just "keep on" doing that which I felt I have been created to do? Would I bear it? (Could I bear it?)
I think of the millions of people, through time, who, themselves, have been "silenced": bad laws; corrupt governments; wars; natural disasters wiping out entire civilizations; always sickness; always, finally: death.
How do we recover from these setbacks? Not abstractly nor historically, but individually. (Personally...?)
I can go "meta" and outward and deal with abstract numbers--or I can come back in, close, and think of Linda Ronstadt: forever quiet.
She remains alive; remains fighting her own body's changes. She must find new ways to communicate with the world. My prayers are that she is surrounded by family and friends who love her beyond the golden voice that thrilled us. My wishes are that she feel the gratitude I have for her music, in the past, and for her honesty, in the present. (And that she know by sharing what has happened to her, she once, again, touches us all.)
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