home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME: Almanac 1995
/
TIME Almanac 1995.iso
/
time
/
050189
/
05018900.071
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1995-02-24
|
4KB
|
94 lines
<text id=89TT1181>
<title>
May 01, 1989: Throwing In The Crying Towel
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
May 01, 1989 Abortion
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
MUSIC, Page 74
Throwing In the Crying Towel
</hdr><body>
<p>Phoebe Snow beats the blues with a fine new album
</p>
<p>By Jay Cocks
</p>
<p> It seemed like a fine time. She was out of school, hanging
out in Greenwich Village, and Charlie Parker was teaching her
to sing. "Not that Charlie Parker," Phoebe Snow says now, but
still, this was a time of awakening. At the urging of Parker,
her "first boyfriend," Snow was beginning to experiment with the
crystalline grace of her four-octave voice, getting a grip on
her crippling shyness, actually starting to perform. She made
a debut album, she had a hit, she was on her way. Then her luck
faded. So did she.
</p>
<p> That was the mid-'70s. There was music after that, but none
of it was as consistent or as solid; none of it was as soulful.
Now Phoebe Snow is back, with her first album in eight years,
whose title, Something Real, is a cool bit of understatement.
The record is so real -- so immediate -- that the feelings
described in its ten songs become almost palpable. The rhythms
swing easy and rock on request, but the tunes have lyrics so
vivid that each becomes an epigram from a broken heart.
</p>
<p> What gives the songs their staying power is their instant
emotional familiarity, the way they seem to carry so much of
Snow's emotional freight with no strain. The record's last song,
Cardiac Arrest, is a kick, a stops-out rocker that dares to be
a little goofy, that cuts the listener a little welcome slack.
Even here, though, Snow is laughing at the expense of a mangled
heart. The women Snow sings about put themselves at perpetual
high risk. I'm Your Girl, the record's midpoint and one of its
high points, sounds at first like another improbably beguiling
Snow song about love gone bad. I'm Your Girl is a love song, all
right, but it is about Snow's mother Lili, who died of cancer
in 1986.
</p>
<p> Lili Grossman was a former Martha Graham dancer who married
an entertainer turned exterminator and raised Phoebe and her
sister in the subdued suburban environs of Teaneck, N.J. Phoebe
was a shy child. "If you remember," she says, "in high school
there were always a couple of kids whose clothes were on
crooked, whose glasses were really thick and hung sideways.
Their hair was never right, and their clothes didn't match, and
they looked like little lost souls wandering down the hallway.
That was me."
</p>
<p> It was the music she heard, and the music Parker urged her
to make, that brought her out of herself. She was making demo
tapes the night she heard that Parker had ODed. But he had left
her a legacy: a little self-confidence. And some hard luck. Her
first album, released in 1974, is still treasured as one of the
seminal singer-songwriter testaments of the decade. There were
enervating legal problems over record deals. Her subsequent
releases turned unfocused, uncertain. And there were personal
tragedies. Snow's daughter Valerie was born with brain damage
in 1975. Music was no longer so much a refuge and release; it
became just another component of a great struggle. Snow resolved
to care for her daughter at home, but then almost died herself
a few years back from a sickness she declines to specify. She
now supports herself and Valerie mostly by singing advertising
jingles.
</p>
<p> If quality can prevail, then the success of Something Real
ought to put some long distance between Snow and ditties for
AT&T. "If you survive something traumatic," she says, "you are
never the same again. If you survive two traumatic things, you
take a quantum leap in your spiritual self. You're never the
same again. Life is looking up. I am a crying towel, but thank
God I can do that. I don't know where I'd be if I didn't cry at
least once a week." That's the real beat beneath her new album.
The faint sound of broken hearts mending. The rhythm of life
restored.
</p>
<p>--Elizabeth L. Bland/New York
</p>
</body></article>
</text>