Have you ever, long having loved something, suddenly found yourself either trying to remember or simply musing on how the romance began? I have discovered that sometimes, owing to poor memory or emotional resistance, it can be difficult to retrace the seemingly charted steps that led to the doorstep of an object of affection. Introspection, I think, inclines me toward pondering the passions that preceded a current enchantment – a stubborn reluctance to believe that anything other than what is of the present ever mattered often impedes my semi-sentimental journey.
Though I am, it seems, always ready to expound on my love of jazz and swing music, until a few nights ago, I was, I now realize, unwilling to examine prior stages in my musical life – as if they were the discarded lovers of failed, unsatisfactory relationships. "Courage and patience ... and self-honesty, old girl," I told myself and commenced travel to my musical past.
My elder siblings, who have always been highly influential to me, are 14, 11 and 9 years my senior. When I was a tot, for music I heard what they listened to and that was – more than anything or anyone else – The Beatles. One of my earliest memories is of sitting in the family library (of all places), wearing headphones and strumming uneducatedly along to an all-Beatles fest on a Detroit radio station. By nine, I was amassing my own collection of Capitol and Apple albums, reissues rather than the original pressings owned by my sisters and brother. At 11, inspired by three quarters of The Fab Four, I took up the guitar, learning first Lennon and McCartney's "Things We Said Today." This highly intense block of my life now seems rather remote but, to be honest, I would have to admit that for years, I ate, slept and breathed The Beatles, becoming intimately acquainted with all their recordings through constant scrutinization.
In my mid-teens, I began exploring the sounds of some of the other British bands: The Who, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Zombies, The Yardbirds, The Animals, Cream, Led Zeppelin. Strangely, the aggregation among these that I then liked most, The Who, is now the one whose music I find completely unlistenable; the group's angst-filled wailing and Pete Townshend's so-called "power chords" appealed strongly to the teenaged me but entirely alienates the adult version. I remember well my sister's response when I asked her if she liked The Stones' "Under My Thumb," a record with which I only recently had fallen in love: "I like the song, but not the philosophy." Now, I understand! At 15, I was more interested in guitar work than lyrical content – thus I was scarcely ever offended. This same sister's copy of "Donovan's Greatest Hits" introduced me to the Scottish singer, guitarist, songwriter and his unusual brand of psychedelia, which, I realized even in my relative infancy, contained influences beyond rock itself.
My fondness for Donovan's acoustic folkiness made me open, I believe, to Simon & Garfunkel, whose records also could be found in the family home. I recall putting the capo, that thing I'd had for years but never had found any use for, on my guitar and learning "Scarborough Fair" as well as making a multi-track recording of "Fakin' It."
Gradually, I was becoming, oddly enough for an American, a little more Americanized. My next major discovery was The Mamas and The Papas. I loved the blend of the two male and two female voices, enjoyed, too, singing along. Though I then may not have been able to recognize in their sound the imprint of Tin Pan Alley, its presence greatly attracted me.
In next becoming interested in the music of Sly & The Family Stone, I made simultaneous forward and backward leaps: I remembered my earlier exposure to the exuberant band, even as I moved on to something "new," which made conspicuous use of brass. I wish I still had my homemade instrumental Casio treatment of "Hot Fun in the Summertime"!
I have no clear recollection of how I went from Sly to Sergio in receptivity terms. Perhaps I was merely becoming restless. My interest in British rock had, by the mid '80's waned considerably and I both wanted and needed new aural stimulation. I can still see myself going through my mom's record collection and pulling out the visually familiar "Herb Alpert Presents Sergio Mendes & Brazil '66" and "Look Around." At the first arresting notes of the former's opening track, "Mas Que Nada," I realized that this music indeed had stored itself on the cranial hard drive long ago, had made a vivid impression. For a couple of years, I listened to the insinuating sounds of pianist Sergio, vocalist Lani Hall & company almost to the exclusion of all else, it now seems.
Co-founder of A & M Records, Herb Alpert, may have presented Brazil '66 to the world at large, but it was the other way around with me: Brazil '66 presented Herb Alpert to me – I looked at those album sleeves with pictures of the records of "other A & M artists you might enjoy" (or whatever the hype was) as I dug the Mendes bossa nova beat and became intrigued. I recall mom telling me, as I placed her well-worn copy of "What Now, My Love" on the turntable, that Herb's crew had been a favorite of inhabitants of Camelot, JFK and Jackie. My own subsequently purchased greatest hits collection exposed me to a little number called "I'm Gettin' Sentimental Over You," which would figure prominently in my musical future.
Just as Mom had done, I came to regard the Tijuana Brass as a passing fancy. Their sound now strikes me as terribly '60's as well as extremely commercial. The important thing that I got from that outfit was not a taste of honey but more than a mere taste of brass. The trumpets and trombones whispered – even as they blasted – in my ear, as the guitar once had.
I was lucky in having a mother who had both an encyclopedic knowledge of music of the 20th century and a nature that prevented her from ramming her knowledge down others' throats. She waited; when my curiosity had become sufficiently piqued – by little bits I took in here and there – I went to her. And I learned about the music of her childhood and young adulthood: swing and jazz.
It was in the late '80's that fell in love with swing and jazz, the great, irreplaceable Benny Goodman serving as my introduction to both. Everything that I have listened to and attempted artistically in the past 20 years has sprung from my acquaintance with BG's vital music. Actually, my exposure to Glenn Miller's sound took place at the same time and its importance must not be lightly dismissed. Miller's music, at once popular and under-appreciated (if to be such is possible), which I love still, prepared me for other, more adventurous things in big band.
At 13, I was ready for neither Benny Goodman's Sextet nor the vast majority of the compositions that they performed; Harry Barris' "I Surrender, Dear" comes immediately to mind. Both the ear and the brain had to be slowly trained. It's been a growth process as well as a journey. Until a few days ago, when I felt a nostalgic tugging at my heartstrings, I don't believe I was ready, either, to make the journey backwards.
Gradually, I was becoming, oddly enough for an American, a little more Americanized. My next major discovery was The Mamas and The Papas. I loved the blend of the two male and two female voices, enjoyed, too, singing along. Though I then may not have been able to recognize in their sound the imprint of Tin Pan Alley, its presence greatly attracted me.
In next becoming interested in the music of Sly & The Family Stone, I made simultaneous forward and backward leaps: I remembered my earlier exposure to the exuberant band, even as I moved on to something "new," which made conspicuous use of brass. I wish I still had my homemade instrumental Casio treatment of "Hot Fun in the Summertime"!
I have no clear recollection of how I went from Sly to Sergio in receptivity terms. Perhaps I was merely becoming restless. My interest in British rock had, by the mid '80's waned considerably and I both wanted and needed new aural stimulation. I can still see myself going through my mom's record collection and pulling out the visually familiar "Herb Alpert Presents Sergio Mendes & Brazil '66" and "Look Around." At the first arresting notes of the former's opening track, "Mas Que Nada," I realized that this music indeed had stored itself on the cranial hard drive long ago, had made a vivid impression. For a couple of years, I listened to the insinuating sounds of pianist Sergio, vocalist Lani Hall & company almost to the exclusion of all else, it now seems.
Co-founder of A & M Records, Herb Alpert, may have presented Brazil '66 to the world at large, but it was the other way around with me: Brazil '66 presented Herb Alpert to me – I looked at those album sleeves with pictures of the records of "other A & M artists you might enjoy" (or whatever the hype was) as I dug the Mendes bossa nova beat and became intrigued. I recall mom telling me, as I placed her well-worn copy of "What Now, My Love" on the turntable, that Herb's crew had been a favorite of inhabitants of Camelot, JFK and Jackie. My own subsequently purchased greatest hits collection exposed me to a little number called "I'm Gettin' Sentimental Over You," which would figure prominently in my musical future.
Just as Mom had done, I came to regard the Tijuana Brass as a passing fancy. Their sound now strikes me as terribly '60's as well as extremely commercial. The important thing that I got from that outfit was not a taste of honey but more than a mere taste of brass. The trumpets and trombones whispered – even as they blasted – in my ear, as the guitar once had.
I was lucky in having a mother who had both an encyclopedic knowledge of music of the 20th century and a nature that prevented her from ramming her knowledge down others' throats. She waited; when my curiosity had become sufficiently piqued – by little bits I took in here and there – I went to her. And I learned about the music of her childhood and young adulthood: swing and jazz.
It was in the late '80's that fell in love with swing and jazz, the great, irreplaceable Benny Goodman serving as my introduction to both. Everything that I have listened to and attempted artistically in the past 20 years has sprung from my acquaintance with BG's vital music. Actually, my exposure to Glenn Miller's sound took place at the same time and its importance must not be lightly dismissed. Miller's music, at once popular and under-appreciated (if to be such is possible), which I love still, prepared me for other, more adventurous things in big band.
At 13, I was ready for neither Benny Goodman's Sextet nor the vast majority of the compositions that they performed; Harry Barris' "I Surrender, Dear" comes immediately to mind. Both the ear and the brain had to be slowly trained. It's been a growth process as well as a journey. Until a few days ago, when I felt a nostalgic tugging at my heartstrings, I don't believe I was ready, either, to make the journey backwards.
