I’ve been on a real Billie Holiday kick lately. I attribute this development to something akin to typical mid-twenties labor pains and the fact that it’s already nasty hot and it’s not even summer yet. Putting a Billie Holiday record on has roughly the same effect on a room as turning on an oscillating fan and taking off a couple of layers of clothes. The only way the setting could possibly improve is if you’ve got one hand clenched around a glass of champagne, and your other arm wrapped tightly around a man who smells like soap and salt, your chin perched on his shoulder as you two shuffle side by side to the slow, swinging beat, your shadows long from the candlelight.
Early last year, I posted about an NPR segment called “Vocal impressions”, where listeners described various iconic American voices. I offered up a description of Al Green’s voice at the time that I’m still actually pretty happy with (“A lovesick panther with a shard of glass stuck in his paw”).
But Billie? She’s proving a bit harder to describe, though I sure would love to pin her sound down.
A fully-grown woman, sipping bourbon while playing hopscotch.
The dew dripping off an old wooden radio, left sitting on the porch.
A hot-air balloon drifting into the sunset.
Homemade lemonade and sweat at dusk.
A trumpet mute made out of daisies.
Help me out.
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