Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

I write this listening-- for the umpteenth time-- to the recent CD release, Bette Midler Sings the Rosemary Clooney Songbook. It was co-produced by Barry Manilow and Robbie Buchanan. It's nice that Bette and Barry are working together again; he was her original pianist and toured with her (I saw them at Boston's Symphony Hall back in 1973 and did an interview with Bette). Barry even sings a duet with Bette on this release ("On A Slow Boat to China"). Bette looks fabulous in the photos used in the packaging; she seems ageless. It's amazing to realize she's been on the entertainment scene for over 30 years. A few years back, she left LA and moved back to New York where she is involved in civic works. And, of course, Bette's numbers are songs made famous by Rosie Clooney, long one of my favorites.

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I remember chatting with someone about my favorite singers and I named Rosie Clooney as one in the top tier. He winced and said he couldn't stand her singing. This surprised me; I couldn't imagine there would be anyone who disliked Clooney. But there you are. I have another friend who hated the film work of Katharine Hepburn; he'd go crazy at the mention of her name. I guess it takes all kinds. I am fortunate to lack the energy to engage in such enthusiasms.

The American Songbook. I grew up with rock and roll. I was a kid in a suburb of Cleveland when it all started. My brothers and I would crowd around the radio and listen to one of the first over-the-top rock-and-roll DJs, and Cleveland, Ohio, became identified as the origin of it all, which is why the Rock and Roll Museum is in downtown Cleveland and a mecca for teenaged white boys. But I also liked show tunes and popular jazz standards. The tunes from Broadway musicals were much more part of the radio stations' playlists then and certainly part of the formative experience of a young gay boy. The girl groups of the early 60s were fun, and Motown was an indelible cultural force. But the British invasion and guitar-driven rock became ascendant and led to all its successors-- heavy metal, rap, etc. There was the novelty of disco, which tired quickly (I just an article about Donna Summer; she's a grandmother!). The straight rock-and-rollers hated disco. Some asshole DJ had a public burning of disco records and the straight teens swarmed the event. After I passed though the demographic for which popular music and movies are now made-- and believe me, it's such a relief to be post-popular culture-- I've settled on what I like; in music it consists of show tunes, jazz ladies, as I call them, and the American Songbook, sung by the aforementioned ladies.

Does one's sexual orientation influence one's musical tastes? I think the evidence is overwhelming: yes, it does. The jazz culture was largely defined by African-American sensibilities, with a strong undercurrent of gayola. The Broadway culture was infused by the Jewish experience and imagination, also with a generous dollop of gayola. When disco was at its peak, the primary audience seemed to be white gay urban men and black men and women, a nice mix of gay and black sensibilities in a sensuous, erotic dance medium. That most disco was dumb is another matter ("Love to love you, baby" sung repeatedly for three minutes wears thin after one-and-a-half hearings). Lyrics do matter. That's why Broadway and the old Tin Pan Alley were important; the writing counted and lyricists didn't hesitate to be clever. Think of Lorenz Hart! And Sondheim is a brave holdout against the tide of Disney musicales and roller skates, helicopters, and felines! Popular culture need not be intelligent, but it can be. It can be bright and entertaining and popular all at the same time. And have that sublime gay appeal. Which you find in Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Burton and Lane, and others. Does Jerry Herman fit in this club? I guess yes. And many others. Let's be generous. We need them all. Soul and camp, Broadway belting and the tinkle of the cabaret. A friend of mine, when he hit his mid 30s, gave away all his rock-and-roll records and went out and bought the music of all the great jazz ladies. This is the lovely isle we land on. Nice to have a homeland.

I moved to Cincinnati in 1958, when I was 10 years old. My dear cousin had an aunt who hosted a show on WLW-TV, the powerhouse station in that city, sister to the radio station (the one with the 50,000 watts, so strong, it was alleged, people picked up the vibes in their metal teeth fillings). At any rate, my cousins and I were invited down to the TV station. We stood in the wings of the stage and watched the show, broadcast live, as most programs were at that time. It was a local variety show and one guest was Rosemary Clooney, who came out and sang. I fell in love with her at that minute. She was young and gorgeous. Hers is one of those very handsome Irish-American families; it shows in her brother Nick and her nephew George. In later years, Clooney put on the pounds; there was the very trouble-filled marriage. But we never stopped loving Rosie. I believe Cincinnati began the Rosemary Clooney Jazz Festival in her honor a few years before she died-- the right gesture, enshrining Rosie in the Pantheon.

Thank you Bette. Thank you Barry. And rest in peace Rosie. Signed: A Fan.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com