Live Your Life

Broadway star Nick Cordero and his wife, Amanda Kloots, were happily raising their young family until COVID-19 changed everything. 

Nick Cordero poses on the red carpet. The actor, 41, died due to COVID-19 this June. 

My grandmother, Kate Yungblut, is a wonderfully spiritual woman. One of her most closely held beliefs is that bad things come in threes. That belief has passed right down through the maternal line in my family, from my grandmother’s mother down to my own mother. They all like to say that it is something their mothers used to tell them, but they all really believe it. Well, so did I, until the year 2020, when we have been bombarded with so many possible bad things, the number three seems laughable. The COVID pandemic is the paramount issue, although it can hardly count as only one part of the “bad thing” trinity. To date, COVID in the US has taken more than 240,000 people. One of them, was Nick Cordero.

Cordero was born in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, a tough town on the shores of Lake Ontario that would not look out of place in the American Midwest. Cordero attended high school in Hamilton before leaving to attend Ryerson University in downtown Toronto. Like so many performers, Cordero didn’t finish his stint at the school, and soon left to join a band. It was many years until he would achieve his eventual career as a mainstay on Broadway.

Cordero got his break in 2012, serving as a replacement for Rock of Ages on Broadway. Soon after, in 2014, Cordero performed as Cheech in Bullets Over Broadway, a story about  a playwright who gets entangled with mobsters and dramatic riffraff. Cordero was rewarded for his efforts on the production, earning a Tony nomination for Best Featured Actor in a Musical.

The actor made his television debut around this time, appearing in the CBS show Blue Bloods, among other shows. Meanwhile, he continued to play music, and would eventually release his own solo projects, including the single “Live Your Life.”

Two years later, Cordero graced the stage again, this time as Earl in Waitress, a story of a small-town baker who considered entering an out of town cooking contest . Cordero jumped back in the limelight for his most recent role as the lead in A Bronx Tale the Musical. The show grossed more than 68 million dollars in total, and Cordero earned nominations for Outstanding Actor in a Musical from both the Drama Desk awards, and the Outer Critics Circle.

While Nick was well on his way to establishing his career at the center of the Musical world, he was also making some life changing moves off the stage. In 2017, Cordero tied the knot with Amanda Kloots, a celebrity fitness trainer and former actress, whom Nick met when they both acted in Bullets Over Broadway. Kloots, who now runs a jump rope fitness class, would so tragically become a public figure this past year, when she shared moments from her husband’s battle with the Coronavirus. Kloots and Cordero welcomed their only child, Elvis, in June of 2019, just months before their lives would be turned upside down.

Cordero and Kloots began their nightmare on March 30th, 2020. Nick was admitted to the hospital that day, just weeks after lockdowns began around the country, while the pandemic was still in its early stage in the US. Nick’s health was deteriorating rapidly. However, Kloots remained steadfast in her optimism. On one instance, her post showed a screenshot of Elvis Presley’s, Got a Lot O’ Livin to Do, and encouraged her followers to sing the tune in support of her husband.

Nick’s condition worsened by the day, and the tone of Kloots’ posts showed her increasing anguish. In April, Cordero was put on an ECMO machine, a machine that helps to support the heart artificially. Unable to actually see her dying husband in person, Kloots was left to sharing her experiences on social media, with heartbreaking hashtags like #wakeupnick. Her chronicles show the ups and downs of a man fighting for his life. Small victories were celebrated when they happened, but it was clear that Nick was fighting for his life.

Some of her posts, like the one posted on May 8th, describe just how horrifying and scary Cordero’s health situation was.

“Nick is 41 years old,” she writes, “he had no pre-existing health conditions. We do not know how he got COVID-19 but he did. He went to the ER on March 30th, and intubated on a ventilator on April 1.” She goes on to describe the list of complications that ravaged her husband’s body, including an infection that caused his heart to stop, two mini strokes, dialysis, and multiple surgeries on his leg that ultimately led to the amputation of his right leg. But the list continued on, with the actor facing brain damage, multiple operations to clear out his lungs, to the finding of holes in his lungs, and the implementation of a pacemaker to keep his heart beating. All of this happened in the 38 days after he was first admitted to the hospital. I may not be fully versed in my grandmother’s rule of threes, but it seems a guarantee that Cordero and Kloots had blown right past the trinity.

Two months later, Nick’s condition was no better. On June 25th, Kloots wrote, “Nick is profoundly weak,” a statement that reads like a punch to the gut. At that point, Cordero was interacting only with his eyes, moving them up or down. The rest of his body was useless.

Finally, on July 5th, Kloots reported that Nick had died. By any possible measure, it was far too soon for him to go, and added a tally to the list of tragedies during this bizarre and miserable year.

In a twist of fate, one of Cordero’s lasting gifts to the world was a song he wrote entitled Live Your Life. The song sends a powerful and clear message, along with a lively guitar playing throughout the tune. Without context, the song is a mainstream pop-song with a theatrical feel. But in context of Cordero’s fight with COVID, the song and its lyrics feel ever so poignant.

“You’ve got your plans, I’ve got mine” sings Cordero. The hook continues “live your life / like you’ve got one night / live your life.” The song was a rallying cry for Kloots and Cordero’s fans as the Family did everything they could to keep Nick alive. Kloots sang the song daily on Instagram, and was joined by supporters around the country. Live Your Life became a slogan of sorts for Nick to continue his fight, and for those around him to cherish the life they enjoyed.

Cordero and Kloots’ horrible embodiment of 2020 continued with a frustrating episode this fall. Just months after the healthy, young actor died at the hands of the virus, President Donald Trump had his own stint with the virus. The story is well known, but Trump declined to take his hospital visit as a chance to sympathize with families who lost loved ones to COVID. Instead, he urged Americans “don’t let it dominate you.” Kloots took to social media in a teary response to the commander in chief.

“Not everyone is lucky enough to walk out of the hospital after two days” she said through tears. “Let it dominate your life? No one is letting it. Nick didn’t let it. It wasn’t a choice. It dominated his life, it dominated my life, it dominated our family’s lives, for 95 days. And because he didn’t make it, it will forever effect my life.” While the lack of compassion from the Oval Office is unsurprising, it is no less heartbreaking to watch a wife and young mother grieve from losing her husband while citizens and politicians around the country continue to insist that the virus is no more than a common flu.

What does it mean to “live your life?” Kloots urges her followers to distance, wear masks, and practice distancing. Living your life emphatically does not mean that we should all do what we want. Instead, Kloots sends a message on behalf of her late husband, someone who never got the chance to finish what he started. Do what you love, cherish your family, and never take a day for granted. It is a helpful reminder as this pandemic rages on, that losing university semesters, athletic events, and social interactions are a small price to pay. Families like Nick’s are more than circles on a COVID map. They are more than statistics in a chart, or part of some politician’s daily update. They are real families, with horrifying stories that deserve to be told. More importantly, these stories deserve to be taken to heart, and actions need to be taken to ensure we limit the number of similar tales.

Nick defied odds throughout his life. From a steel town in southwestern Ontario to the most important proving ground in theatre, Cordero’s talent was matched only by his resiliency. He had more music in him, and the world is worse without getting to hear it.

Live Your Life ends with the lyrics “They’ll give you hell but don’t you let them kill your light / not without a fight / live your life.” Nick fought an incredible fight, and alongside his wife, his light will live on far past this most strange year.

Remembering Christiane Eda-Pierre, Lyric Coloratura Supreme

Through a career filled with international opera fame, Christiane Eda-Pierre inspired and opened doors for Black classical musicians everywhere.

Eda-Pierre performs one of Mozart’s concert arias in Salzburg. Image credit: youtube.com

Christiane Eda-Pierre, a champion of Baroque theatre and champion of Black excellence, has died at the age of 88 on September 6, 2020. As France’s first Black international opera star, Eda-Pierre overcame racial barriers to pursue a successful career filled with critical acclaim. The French coloratura’s strong, agile, emotion-filled voice moved opera fans around the world. While she flourished in any role she embarked upon, her precision and flexibility in Baroque opera catapulted her into the international spotlight. Christiane Eda-Pierre was not simply another classical star; rather, she showed the world how a Black immigrant woman could infiltrate the ranks of and thrive in a White-dominated, elitist field.

The opera diva’s clear voice, her greatest strength, propelled her into numerous roles. Across a rich and varied career, Eda Pierre’s most popular recording on Spotify, with 19,046 plays, is “Vous soupirez, madame?,” from Berlioz’s Beatrice et Benedicte. Her voice floats effortlessly above the contralto, Helen Watts’s, voice, with careful ornamentation and bright color. Critics commented most frequently on not her acting, but her singing. According to the New York Times, Eda-Pierre “displayed a clear voice backed by good coloratura equipment and a very strong top.” The Chicago Tribune agreed, describing Eda-Pierre’s voice as “a clean lyric soprano with a slightly metallic edge to it,” filled with “delicacy and dramatic fervor when needed.”

Despite these outstanding reviews of her talents, other critics took the liberty of commenting on her race first. In 1981, the New York Amsterdam Times opened their review of the Verdi performances in New York City with the following statement: “Four unusually fine Black singers were cast in recent productions of Verdi Productions in the New York area.” There is no doubt that had a white person been cast in those roles, the reviewer for the New Amsterdam Times would not have begun with a pointed notice of their race, much less call them “unusually fine.” Although Eda-Pierre, among these other skillful Black singers, often had to endure commentary on her race first, and talents second, she prevailed against such prejudice and gained wide critical acclaim in the opera world.

Given her superlative ability to ornament passages with elegance, Eda-Pierre thrived in Mozart and French Baroque operas. She performed roles in many of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s operas, including Les Indes galantes (1962), Les Boréades (1964), and Zoroastre (1964). Through these performances, as well as her role in the first public performance of Rameau’s Dardanus, Eda-Pierre secured her place in the French opera stage and helped a movement to revive Rameau’s music. On tour with the Paris Opera at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1976, Eda-Pierre alternated nights with Welsh soprano Margaret Price as the Countess in Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro. This performance is now regarded as one of her greatest, but the New York Times’s John Rockwell felt that she lacked “that final solidarity of breath support that distinguishes great singers” and did not live up to the expectations of the other cast members.

This review did not deter her success on the international stage, however, as just four years later, Eda-Pierre went on to make her official Metropolitan Opera debut as Konstanze in Mozart’s The Abduction From the Seraglio. In contrast to their earlier remarks, the New York Times raved about this performance. “Any soprano who can sing Konstanze’s ‘Martern aller Arten’ decently is a better-than-average singer, and Miss Eda-Pierre’s accomplishments with this fiendish aria were far better than decent.” In the 1980 and 1981 seasons at the Met, Eda-Pierre went on to participate in sixteen performances, including as Gilda in Verdi’s Rigoletto and Antonia in Offenbach’s Les contes d’Hoffmann. These performances were just as widely successful. Rigoletto in Central Park drew a crowd of between 150,000 and 300,000. Writing in The Guardian, Barry Millington described her interpretation of Antonia as having “a real sense of drama and a plenitude of tone that contrasted favourably with the mechanical delivery of decoration and pitchpipe timbre of some notable exponents of the role.”

The Baroque talent’s roles were not limited to Baroque opera, however. She performed in a vast variety of roles, from canonical operas in the standard repertoire to contemporary works. These newer pieces include roles in Chaynes’s oratorio Pour un monde noir (1979), which was composed specifically for Eda-Pierre, as well as Erszebet (1983). Notably, in 1983 she created the angel role — sung by a soprano but referred to in the libretto as “he” — in Olivier Messaien’s Saint François d’Assise. Messaien had Eda-Pierre specifically in mind as he wrote this role, and she proved his instincts right. Her ability to sustain long, high notes with elegance served her well in this role, as she maintained careful control over her timbre to create a warm, not shrill, tone. Though her voice floats, it does so with depth and passion. After this performance with the Paris Opera at the Palais Garnier, it was not staged again for nearly ten years. These contemporary performances elucidate how Eda-Pierre, much to the dislike of racist critics, thrived in not only standard roles, but also stood at the frontiers of innovation in opera.

Eda-Pierre was born March 24, 1932 on the French-owned Caribbean island of Martinique. She grew up in an accomplished family that inspired her with their musical and professional endeavors. Her father, William, was a journalist, and her mother, Alice, was a piano teacher who brought music into her life from a young age. Her grandfather, Paul Nardal, was Martinique’s first Black engineer. Furthermore, Eda-Pierre’s aunt, Paulette Nardal, was the first Black woman to study at the Sorbonne, one of the world’s oldest universities. Nardal, who played an important role in the development of Black literary consciousness and Negritude, spent her professional life introducing Black culture to White elites, much like Eda-Pierre would go on to do with opera. Nardal also pursued international projects, as she introduced French intellectuals to the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance. Eda-Pierre’s home environment served as a place of cultivation for professional excellence and promoting Black culture in white spaces.

In 1950, she immigrated to Paris to advance her musical education, and in 1954 enrolled at the Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse (Paris Conservatory). She had originally planned to study piano there, following in her mother’s footsteps. However, the budding pianist soon switched to voice after her teacher, Jean Planel, heard her sing and encouraged her to pursue this talent. At the Paris Conservatory, Eda-Pierre studied under Swiss baritone Charles Panzera. With his guidance, she flourished at the school, winning a first prize of singing and lyric art. As one of the first Black students at the Conservatory, she had to work against racism to prove herself as a capable singer. In 2013, Eda-Pierre detailed her experience at the conservatory: “My eyes almost popped out of my head because I was like, ‘Me, a black girl at the Conservatory, it’s just not possible.’” It was more than possible, though, since in 1957, she graduated with honors.

The same year, Eda-Pierre made her opera debut with the Opera de Nice as Leila in Bizet’s Les Pêcheurs de Perles, a role she later took to America in 1966 to make her American debut with the Chicago Lyric Opera. After her first performance, she soon after earned the title role in Delibes’s Lakmé with the Opéra Comique. These early performances catapulted her to fame not only in France, but around the globe. The New York Times took note of her role as Lakmé in particular. “She breathed such life into the faded orientalism of ‘Lakmé’ that London’s leading music critic, Andrew Porter of The Financial Times, wrote after a detailed rave, ‘We must hear more of this remarkable singer!’”

Eda-Pierre performed in opera houses around the world, touring with French opera companies and earning roles in these cities’ own opera companies. Highlights from her international career include performances in Berlin, Hamburg, London, Lisbon, Wexford, Vienna, Salzburg, Moscow, Chicago, and New York. Beloved by the global opera community, Eda-Pierre took every opportunity to use her career to advance Black singers and musicians more broadly.

After retiring from the stage in the mid-1980s, Eda-Pierre dedicated many years to inspiring others in the way that her mentors did her. She became a teacher at the Paris Conservatory while continuing her recital career and engaged students with her impressive experience as a world-renowned opera star and strict pedagogical approach to singing. The Opéra Comique, with which she had performed for twelve years, opened an academy for young musicians in 2012 and gave Eda-Pierre the title of honorary president.

Eda-Pierre’s career had no shortage of impressive roles, and there is no doubt that she played a vital role in advancing the opportunities for Black women in opera. From starting as one of the first Black students at the Paris Conservatory to creating an international name for herself in an impressive array of roles, she exceeded society’s expectations. Her experiences position her as a hero of promoting global Black excellence. Her biographer, Catherine Marceline, noted how Eda-Pierre aimed to advance Black musicians. “[Eda-Pierre] said that the more often we put them on stage, the more it would end up becoming normal.” Throughout her extensive opera career, Eda-Pierre opened up opportunities for her successors, and her voice and integrity were far beyond what one would consider normal.

The Many Lives of John Prine

(AP Photo: John Humphrey)

Folk icon John Prine died earlier this year, leaving behind decades of influential work and a legion of artists who carry on the style he helped pioneer.

John Prine died on April 7, 2020 from complications caused by COVID-19. He was 73 years old.

Often referred to as one of the greatest songwriters in American history, he reached his peak in popularity near the end of his career, and his legacy will continue to grow. He leaves behind his wife and two children, along with every life he invented through his songs. 

Following a stint in the army that would go on to inform much of his writing, Prine began his career in the late 1960s, performing alone with his guitar at open-mic nights at a small Chicago club called the Fifth Peg. He was immediately offered paid gigs, and gained notoriety in the local area following a chance encounter and glowing review from Roger Ebert. He began to play at more clubs across the city, quickly becoming one of the figures in the folk revival scene. 

Prine released his self-titled debut in 1971, garnering little commercial success but establishing himself as one of the most important musicians in folk. The songs were witty, political, and relatable, demonstrating his ability to seamlessly weave haunting tragedy and biting satire with romance and simple beauty. The album was filled with ruminations on war and patriotism, with songs “Your American Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore” and “Sam Stone” criticising America’s actions in Korea and Vietnam, and the government’s exploitation of soldiers. Lyrics like “But your flag decal won’t get you Into Heaven anymore, they’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war” tapped into a disillusion many Americans felt at the time, and resonate currently with American disgust at the wars fought in the middle east for the past twenty years. 

Prine’s song “Illegal Smile” connected with drug users, a group that overlapped greatly with antiwar protestors at the time. Although he later admitted the song wasn’t written about marijuana smoking, the lyrics “And you may see me tonight with an illegal smile, it don’t cost very much, but it lasts a long while. Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone, no I’m just trying to have me some fun” spoke to smokers who seeked escapism in the way Prine described. Drug use was a theme across many of the songs in the album, but he often discussed them with a darker tone. 

The themes came together in the standout track “Sam Stone,” a song that told the story of a drug addicted disabled veteran who received a Purple Heart for his time in Vietnam. The tragically beautiful lyric “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes, Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose” is just one example of Prine’s ability to boil down the tragedy of a universal American experience to a single line. He could connect with anyone who listened to him though, as his dark lyrics came with beautiful, simple chords, and were often cut with humor. “Illegal Smile,” for example, ends with the simple “Well done, hot dog bun, my sister’s a nun,” bringing back his audience from the bleak story he just laid upon them. 

He continued to release music consistently throughout the 1970s, building his commercial success and maintaining his critical stature. He hit the Billboard Hot 100 for the first time with 1975’s  “Come Back to Us Barbara Lewis Hare Krishna Beauregard,” and went on a tour across the country. By the end of the decade though, he had grown disgusted with the exploitation found across the music industry, leading him to found his own label, Oh Boy Records, in 1981. At that point, many of his most well known songs became popular through covers by acts like The Highwaymen. His talent was plainly recognizable to his contemporaries, and through them he began to build a legacy as a “songwriter’s songwriter.” 

He continued to release original albums until 2005’s Fair &Square, after which he took a pause from full length albums. He spent the next decade working with younger artists and performing for younger crowds, filled with a new generation discovering him for themselves for the first time. In 2018, he released his final solo album, The Tree of Forgiveness. The album sold over 50,000 copies in its first week, debuting at #5 on the Billboard album chart, by far his highest ever. His final song, “I Remember Everything,” was a rumination on his career, recounting all of the places he’d performed, artists he’d worked with, and beautiful times he’d experienced throughout his life.

Though he hadn’t released an album of new material for over thirteen years, his profile had grown immensely, in part due to the success of those he mentored in the industry. The album featured contributions from Jason Isbell, Amanda Shires, Dan Auerbach, and Brandi Carlile, all of whom are successful artists who credit Prine as a major inspiration to their own work. It is in this way that Prine’s legacy will continue to grow, constantly exposing him to a new generation of fans, including myself.

When an artist is so influential, there is often a generational delay before the full scope of their influence can be recognized. Although they are not appreciated by most fans during their creative peak, artists take notice, and find great influence in their work. When the next generation finds success, they will bring their idols along with them, leading to a revival of the original work. For Prine, this cycle materialized through his mentorship and shared live performances with many of the most talented artists in current country and folk music. Following his death, Kacey Musgraves said Prine “impacted [her] songwriting more than anyone else.” Sturgill Simpson, Jason Isbell, and Margo Price all participated in tribute concerts for him as well. I mention these four names because they also occupy spots one through four on Paste Magazine’s top country albums of the decade. John Prine helped to shape the modern sound of country music, and his fingerprints can be found across myriad projects, constantly expanding his reach.  

Following this year’s Country Music Awards, Isbell and fellow singer Amanda Shires announced that they would be returning their lifetime memberships to the Country Music Association due to their failure to mention John Prine during the show. The tension between the singers and establishment is emblematic of the gap between Prine’s adoration among the music community and in the general public. For the CMA’s whose goal is to make money and appeal to as wide a reach of people as possible, avoiding Prine is a decision that sacrifices integrity for commercial success. Whether they wanted to avoid discussing the coronavirus due to its politicization, or didn’t want to bring him up due to his anti war and anti republican messaging, they made it clear that many areas of the industry are still lagging behind the innovation Prine has brought since the 70s. This only makes him connect with those who care about more though. Isbell wrote that they were giving up their memberships because “we cared a lot about our heroes.” Sturgill Simpson didn’t hold back in his response, writing “Don’t get it twisted,.. wouldn’t be caught dead at this tacky ass glitter and botox cake & cock pony show even if my chair had a morphine drip. … I just wanted to see if they would say his name but nope.” 

The omission of Prine reflects more on the CMAs than it does on his career. The Grammy’s gave Prine a lifetime achievement award in 2019, and the DNC used his music to soundtrack a tribute to those lost to the Coronavirus, but the show dedicated to country music didn’t mention him. Already facing backlash for advertising the show as a “no drama” night (during a pandemic, massive civil rights movement, and contested election,) the CMAs showed that they care more about appearing accessible than being honest. In a genre built on storytelling, the artists proved that they have the final say in who lives on. I was able to discover Prine through a tribute by Phoebe Bridgers, and then through cover after cover from a dozen other artists I love, regardless of any omissions by the CMAs (a show I would never watch anyway.) Because of the time he spent working with and influencing other artists, his legacy will continue, and his characters will live on. When his self titled debut turns fifty next year, the story of Sam Stone will as well, and every veteran he represents will have their stories told a little bit more thanks to him. This is the legacy of John Prine: by weaving his own truths into songs everyone can relate to, he will live on through the stories told by those he inspired.

Dead in Flesh; Alive in Spirit

The LP is dead. It is survived by artists everywhere, who will be influenced by the art form for years to come.

Vinyl

Born to Columbia Records in 1948, the long-playing (LP) record ran circles around its elder sibling, the 78. Shedding the staticky shellac synthetic of the 78, the LP’s vinyl construction produced a cleaner, crisper tone. Its 12-inch stature and 33 rpm speed allowed for more minutes of playing time than any of its predecessors. Inscribed in its grooves, artists found a new code of corpus production: 10-12 songs, 30-45 minutes, one coherent album.

This new format broadened the canvas of expression within a single disc. Jazz musicians were first to take this shift in stride, using the album as an opportunity to comprehensively explore new styles; Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue and John Coltrane’s Giant Steps are a few famous examples of this phenomenon. In the 1960s, popular music took the torch of innovation, engineering the concept album: a coherent story or theme carried across a collection of songs. The Beach Boys famously perfected this form with the lush, alluring Pet Sounds, to which The Beatles retorted with the scintillating Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band. Two years later, The Who pushed the boundaries of the album still further with the first ever rock opera, “Tommy.”

From the 1960s forward, the LP album established itself as the quintessential mode of musical expression, and the entire music industry became fitted to its features. Aspiring artist were disciplined by record labels with deadlines for writing and recording 10-12 songs. After routine artistic deliberations on track order, album art, and liner notes, an artist’s work was finally deemed ready for placement on record store shelves. The LP structured an artist’s operations on the road as well. Tours became centered around album promotion, and the 10-12 songs of an LP provided the perfect amount of new content to add to ones setlist. Albums had become the locus of all professional musical endeavors.

It wasn’t long before this favorite child of the music industry began competing for attention with its slimmer, sleeker siblings. The cassette, released in 1968, steadily gained popularity in the 1970s and 1980s for its compact design. LPs still sold, but more and more consumers were willing to pass on vinyl’s alluring album art and graceful grooves for this new plastic box which could be conveniently slipped into a car dashboard or boombox. Even more alarming for the LP was the rise of the famed and feared mixtape. Rather than listen to an artist’s released work front to back, as the LP encouraged, listeners at home could dub their favorite individual songs from their records or radio onto a blank tape, curating an individualized listening experience. Thus, a dissonance grew between how the artist packaged their material and how the consumer experienced it. While artists still followed the conventions of the LP, taking time to create enticing album art and arranging their tracks in optimal order, consumers lurched towards a less dazzling, more convenient way to play.

If the cassette tugged at the fabric of album ascendancy, the CD ripped it completely apart. Introduced in 1982, this diminutive doppelgänger of its predecessor had the appearance of an LP shrunken in the wash. Much like with cassettes, consumers were willing to pass on the comely, weighted feel of an LP for another portable plastic box with mix-taping capabilities. By the early 1990s, the LP was wobbling on the edge of the wastebasket. It was finally nudged into oblivion by the emergence of music digitization in the early 2000s. In both legal and illegal fashions, consumers began using computers to transfer the music of their CDs with MP3 files, turning their backs completely on the aesthetic of physical product for weightless ones and zeros. The market soon caught up with this phenomenon; platforms allowing consumers to purchase files directly from the internet rose to prominence. Consumers were further encouraged to ignore the greater body of an artist’s produced work for individual tracks of an album.

Consumers’ slow rejection of the LP’s conventions solidified in the 2010s with the rise of music streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music. The all-you-can-eat nature of these platforms encouraged consumers to take bites out of the works of an array of artists rather than devouring one singular product. Streamlining the playlist-making process, these sites reinforced consumers’ cravings for an individualized listening experience. The shift away from albums is well documented. In one 2016 study by the Music Business Association, 77% of surveyed participants acknowledged playlists and single song streaming as their dominant mode of listening. Comparatively, only 22% of participants still favored listening to albums. Creators of album charts, such as Billboard, have had to acknowledge that the most successful albums are no longer those selling the most whole copies. Their solution was the mythical metric of “streaming album equivalents.” For Billboard, this means weighing every 1,250 subscription paid streams and every 3,750 free, ad-supported streams as one album unit to count towards the total number of records sold. This assuredly arbitrary algorithm boosted albums to the top of the charts off the success of only a handful of hits.

With the singular sensation of holding a piece of physical music, poring over its liner notes, and playing front to back finally meeting its maker, some makers of music bemoan the album as an outdated model of production. For artists who labor for months to create their 12-song statement to the world, it can be downright disheartening to see the majority of their tracks disregarded. In response, some artists are preferring to focus more on singles and EPs—a pattern of production that we haven’t witnessed on a large scale since the 1950s, when the album had not yet been embraced as the premier format of recording. This method not only ensures that individual songs are not lost in the greater catalog of an album, but it also allows for artists to release music with greater frequency. A smaller, steadier stream of content is phenomenal fuel for an artist’s fanbase, keeping them continually interested. With none of the hurdles that come with pressing and packaging physical product, a frequent output of content is both doable and desirable.

Still, the LP resists relegation to the glass cases of the Smithsonian with the other obsolete inventions of music’s past. After being buried below cassettes, CDs, and Spotify, a new generation of listeners has dug the LP out of its grave. Some are enticed by its collectible nature. Others are searching for a superior stereophonic experience. A third group is staging a desperate escape from the Silicon Valley giants collecting and selling data of every stream. Whatever the motive, vinyl revival has arrived. The LP is now the fastest growing form of physical music. In some sense, the LP itself has taken a similar trajectory to the genres of music that were once inscribed in its grooves. Just as jazz and rock have gone from chart-topping sensations to somewhat niche genres with smaller audiences, the LP has abdicated its role as the primary purveyor of music for a second life as an item of nostalgia.

The lengthy life and times of the album is a captivating saga. Yet, to dramatize on all the foes the LP has fought, as I have attempted, might miss the forest for the trees. The shock value that this topic provides is proof itself that the album still looms large over the cultural conscience of America. The LP is no longer a titan of the music market, and some artists are indeed leaning towards a more piecemeal manner of production, yet the album still stands as the benchmark achievement for musicians everywhere. Despite vast changes in technology, the conventions of production that the LP provided are preferred by most artists. While recording musicians are no longer bound to the 45 minutes limit of what could fit on a record, many still value this length as the optimal balance between substantial and succinct. Album art survives as well; despite some musicians forgoing physical music altogether, the tradition of creating a colorful cover is embraced by all. The “album,” as we refer to it today may be a skeleton of its former self, the LP, yet decades of cultural prominence have knighted the album with a reverence that won’t be lost on the music industry for years to come.

 

The Dazzling Betty Wright’s Miami-Soul Legacy

Betty Wright’s Soulful Singing Rings On, Even After Her Passing

Betty Wright, Getty Images

 

Betty Wright, the sweet soul singer whose fierce vocals brought Miami funk into the public light and whose musical prowess catapulted the careers of hip-hop legends such as Rick Ross and DJ Khaled, passed away this past May. The 66-year old singer had been battling cancer for months, but her honey-sweet voice will live on for years to come.

Born in Miami in 1953 as Bessie Regina Norris, Betty Wright was immediately surrounded by song. At the age of three, Wright was singing with her family in a gospel group known as “the Echoes of Joy.” “We used to sing in local churches and halls,” said Wright in a 1972 interview, “and we used to make demo discs of some of the religious songs and we’d sell them when ever we appeared at a local hall.” Though she was the youngest, “she could not only sing on key but had a strong, loud voice,” said her brother Philip in an interview with The Glasgow Herald.

Wright’s musical career began early, at around 12 or 13 years old, after she was discovered by two local music producers, Clarence Reid and Willie Clarke. The founder of the small Miami record label Deep City, Clarke heard Wright singing along to “Summertime” by Billie Stewart in his combined record store and recording studio, and knew she had a voice of gold. “The record was down low,” Clarke recounted hearing Wright’s voice for the first time, “but she had overpowered [Stewart’s] lead voice. She just shut down our rehearsal.” She recognized Clarke from the times he had “pick[ed] up Philip for a session,” so she gladly accepted his invitation to sing for him. Wright initially faced opposition from her mother, who was deeply religious and didn’t approve of any music other than gospel. Eventually, however, “she changed her mind and she signed over her agreement and I made my first recordings,” Wright told John Abbey of Blues & Soul in 1972.

In 1967 Wright released her first album, My First Time Around, solidifying herself as a powerful performer at just 14. Wright’s voice chirps on “Funny How Love Grows Cold” and croons on “Sweet Lovin’ Daddy,” demonstrating how versatile the young singer was, even at the very beginning of her career. On the slower “Watch out Love,” Wright’s voice smoothly transitions between notes, fluttering in and out of vibrato before letting out hearty belts. And “I Can’t Stop My Heart” is a timeless ballad that begs listeners to take their paramour by the hand for a late-night dance in one another’s arms. It’s hard to imagine that Wright was able to produce such mature and distinct music at such a young age, but “Wright’s vocal power allowed her to ‘pass’ for a much older singer” which led “[her songwriters to] cast Wright as a worldly woman” according to Oliver Wang, a music reviewer for NPR. “Girls Can’t Do What The Guys Do,” the hit of this first album, features the line “Girls, you can’t do what the guys do – no – and still be a lady,” alluding to the sexist ideology that men can (and should) be promiscuous, but women cannot. Wright entered the music industry by testing the limits of what women should sing about, setting a new standard for the topics of songs for female singers.

Wright’s next big hit came with her 1972 album, I Love the Way You Love, when the song “Clean Up Woman” topped charts. Though Wright said she “didn’t like it too much at first,” the record was an immediate success. Wright credited this to its danceability, saying that “People could dance so easily to it – especially the soul sisters! Now [it’s] sold more than a million copies.” Though people originally mistook the song’s risqué lyrics as Wright’s claim that she could steal a woman’s man and be “a clean up woman,” she reflected upon the lyrics in a 1977 interview with Rolling Stone’s J Swenson and denied that they encourage any raunchy activity, “The song is not telling women to be sinful, but to watch out not to lose their husbands to the ‘Clean Up Woman.’” Whether people agreed with the story of Wright’s song or not, “Clean Up Woman” became “a top 10 hit on multiple charts, and it directly inspired Wright’s future singles ‘Baby Sitter’ (1972), ‘Outside Woman’ (1972) and ‘Secretary’ (1974)” according to Wang. In a 1972 Variety piece, Wright is described as “[adding] her own unique ‘soul’ dimension and some uptempo things that had the room vibrating.” Even in 2020, Betty Wright fans can find videos of her performing this memorable tune on television programs from the 1970s, surrounded by other young people, grooving her smooth vocals. And artists – such as Chance the and Mary J. Blige –  have since sampled the catchy opening guitar riff continuing the legacy of Wright’s career-advancing song about infidelity.

Betty Wright

Wright’s next big hits came two years later, on her 1974 album, Danger High Voltage. “Where Is The Love,” a track brimming with the unique sounds of the Miami music scene – beginning with poignant trumpets and energetic bongos – gained popularity thanks to its danceability. As the disco scene emerged, Wright’s Miami funk-infused soul tracks were distinct enough to garner attention and similar enough to disco to draw in diverse crowds. In a 1977 interview with David Nathan of Blues & Soul, Wright explained, “I can sing whatever I want – it doesn’t have to be blues or funk…But the most important thing of all is that it comes straight from the heart, that whatever we do is ‘for real.’” Similarly, “Shoorah! Shoorah!” was a crowd favorite, with its piercing brass line, funky beats, and clapping on the chorus.  In 1975, however, New Musical Express’s Roger St. Pierre stated that “a lot of radio stations have flipped over ‘Shoorah, Shoorah’ and gone for the ballad flip, ‘Tonight Is The Night’.” The latter was perhaps Wright’s first expression of her own story, telling an intimate tale of a young girl preparing to lose her virginity. Wang describes the intimacy in this track brilliantly: “there’s a candor and aching vulnerability that felt more authentically personal.” Wright’s live recording of the song (on her 1978 album Betty Wright Live!) revealed the reality of the track, as she told the audience, “I never intended recording this song. It was a personal poem, that is until the day my producer happened to thumb through the pages of my notebook.” The song still stands as a beautiful ode to womanhood through words and music.

The album that signaled Wright’s transition from young star to mature artist was This Time For Real, released in 1977 and filled with songs about her husband and newborn daughter. This record came at a time when Wright had decided to connect with her faith after being separated from it since entering the music industry. After winning a Grammy award and being recognized for her talent, Wright demonstrated her newfound introspectiveness and artistry in This Time For Real. During this time, as well, she had begun to dabble in producing, working with renowned producer Danny Sims to produce singles for up and coming artists. She told David Nathan of Blues & Soul in 1978 that this new role “will help me be more selective about my work. I know the difference between ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ as a record artist and when you’re hot, you can decide what you want more, be more choosy, pace yourself better.” Wright’s personality shone through on this album of slower tracks, particularly on “Brick Grits” and “That Man of Mine.” “‘Brick Grits,’” Wright told Rolling Stone, “is a little three-minute autobiography, I didn’t get a chance to learn how to cook or iron when I was a child…But my husband loved me enough to put up with me while I learned.” About “That Man of Mine,” Wright said, “When I was recording this album I was six months pregnant, I was really big, and all my friends were telling me how my eyes were shining…I wrote, ‘That Man of Mine’ as an explanation of that, because I realized I was really exuding that happiness.” Listening to these songs now, you would have no idea that Wright was six months pregnant, hearing her float in the whistle register in between hearty belts. Throughout her career, Wright demonstrated her resilience as a performer, delivering top-notch vocals as a child and even during her first pregnancy.

Betty Wright, Getty Images

In 1985, Wright formed her own label, Ms. B Records, but continued to produce her own music with TK Records (the former Deep City). Wright’s music has stayed true to her style throughout the decades, while still incorporating the trends of the time. “No Pain, (No Gain)” (off of the 1988 album Mother Wit) featured the frequently-used snares and synthesized backing line of the eighties, and “It’s The Little Things” (off of the 1993 album B-Attitudes) exuded the sound of the nineties, with a steady drumbeat and tambourine complementing Wright’s seductive singing. Her 2011 album, Betty Wright: The Movie, perfectly blended Wright’s soul style with the sounds of the 2010s and featured popular hip-hop artists such as Snoop Dogg and Lil Wayne. The middle-aged Wright hadn’t lost any of her passion or skill and even dabbled in rap on “Old Songs.” Perhaps because of her older age, Wright’s belting seems fuller on this album. They ache with experience and knowledge…the result of Wright’s years of singing and producing music that is entirely her own. Her legacy lives on through her pupils and friends, Lil Wayne, DJ Khaled, and Joss Stone (to name a few). In a New Yorker interview in 2014, Wright spoke of her work with hip-hop artists, saying “You know, they are somebody’s children, and I’m somebody’s momma, so we have a really good kinship. I ain’t trying to be in their sandbox – I built the sandbox, but I watch ‘em play in it.” By “[teaching] them breathing and stamina,” Wright transformed hip-hop hopefuls into impassioned rappers with impeccable flow. Most notably, Wright’s raspy butterscotch vocals were featured in Rick Ross and Kanye West’s “Sanctified,” which was recorded at midnight by a tired Wright at the pleading request of DJ Khaled. Hearing the song now, Wright’s aching voice evoked her fulfilling singing career. And juxtaposed next to Rick Ross’s rap, Wright had given hip-hop her blessing.

Betty Wright was a woman full of love, not only for song, but for everyone she worked with. In the same New Yorker interview, she said, “As long as you keep yourself in love with people, you can transcend time.” And her love surely remains strong in the hearts of all whom she touched with her voice, whether they be fellow musicians or simply those who danced along to “Clean Up Woman.”

A quick claim to fame followed by a tragic, premature death.

The 20-year-old superstar, Pop Smoke, full of promise and potential, re-invigorated the New York Drill scene, leaving us to wonder what could have been.

Pop Smoke striking a pose for publicity.

2020 has to be one the worst years in recent memory. From the infamous coronavirus to the civil unrest throughout the country, this year has brought to light a wide range of problems. Among the host of terrible events that have occurred, a variety of influential musicians have passed away, one of which was the rising star, Pop Smoke. As quickly as Pop Smoke rose to fame, was as swiftly as he lost it all. The 20-year-old Brooklyn born hip-hop rapper, Pop Smoke (originally named Bashar Barakah Jackson), was on the verge of making an international breakthrough before his life was mercilessly taken away. On the 19th of February 2020, at around 4:30am, two masked men broke into his house in an attempted robbery but instead ended up fatally shooting Smoke and fleeing the scene. Smoke was quickly rushed to the closest hospital where he was pronounced dead after futile attempts at revival. Shock and anger ripped through the community that had grown so fond of his unique voice and compelling style of music. But how did a 20-year-old out of Brooklyn grow to have such an impact in such a short period of time?

Jackson was born on July 20, 1999 in New York City where he spent his early childhood in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn. To say that Jackson had a rough childhood would be an understatement; in eighth grade he was expelled for bringing a gun to school, shortly after he spent two years under house arrest for illegal possession of weapons. Though there were occasional highlights, an invisible force always seemed to prevent Smoke from achieving sustained success. For example, when he was 15, he won a basketball scholarship to a prep school in Philadelphia, however, was forced to decline the offer after being diagnosed with a heart murmur, a condition that can be exacerbating by playing sports. Despite his early struggles, Smoke’s unfaltering failures would soon lead to unimaginable fame in one of the most competitive and volatile industries.

Smoke only started playing around with the idea of music back in 2018, making his story even more unbelievable. His love for music stems from the time he spent in the studio during recording sessions with other well-established artists; these interactions fostered a deep-seated passion for the art and inspired him to embark on his own musical journey. During the recording sessions he started to attend more regularly, Smoke would secretly record his own vocals, immediately piquing the interest of some producers due to the unique nature of his voice. He began to work with 808Melo, a talented producer from the UK who would soon become one of his close friends and appear on numerous projects. On December 19, 2018, he released ‘MPR’ which created some buzz around his name in the Brooklyn area. The positive response he received urged him to continue fine-tuning his craft and creating music to share with the world. A month later, he followed up his debut single with another captivating piece called ‘Flexing,’ which ended up receiving over one hundred thousand views on YouTube within the first day of its release. With success stirring and the stars aligning, the journey seemed to be going much better than expected for the hopeful teenager, and after everything he had been through, this was a nothing short of extraordinary.

Smoke quickly befriended a producer, Rico Beats, who was well acquainted with the record executive for Victor Victor Worldwide, a subsidiary of Universal Music, known for cultivating the growth of young artists. After a quick introduction and brief interview, Smoke announced that he had signed with the record label and suddenly, everything seemed to have fallen in place, poising the young artist for international fame and triumph. In April 2019, Smoke released the lead single, ‘Welcome to the Party,’ of his debut mixtape— ‘Meet The Woo’ – foreshadowing the incredible celebratory party that would ensue. The record experienced tremendous amount of praise and recognition; the type of attention aspiring artists can only dream of achieving. It made its way around the world and caught the attention of heavyweights in the music industry such as Niki Minaj, Travis Scott, Quavo and many other globally acclaimed rappers, leading to some outstanding collaborations. Though the mixtape did not debut in the top 100 on the billboards, it was placed at 173, an impressive feat considering it was Smoke’s first commercial release. With people around the world echoing their unwavering support for the dynamic mixtape, Smoke and his label were confident that they could generate even more buzz with future releases. After taking a few months to refine and perfect his craft, Smoke announced the release of his second mixtape which would feature major artists such as Quavo, A Boogie wit da Hoodie, Fivio Foreign and Lil Tjay. What would be Smoke’s last project was released on the 7th of February 2020. Unlike his previous release, this mixtape not only cracked the top 100 but ended by debuting at 7 on the US billboards; giving Smoke the confidence to say that he had finally made it, despite his rough start and through all the adversity, he had achieved his biggest dream. Unfortunately, though this tale has elements prosperity and triumph interspersed throughout, it eventually ends in tragedy and heartbreak. Smoke never seemed to escape the demons that haunted him from a young age. Only a week after experiencing nationwide recognition and praise, Smoke was brutally murdered in his own home, putting an end to his short-lived, exceptionally successful life.

Smoke’s success was largely attributed to the connection he drew between the New York and London drill scenes, forming a captivating bond that had once been vilified by the media. Drill was originally a British rap sub-genre that emerged in London; it quickly gained popularity inspiring the creation of other regional scenes. It is characterized by dark, violent, nihilistic lyrical content and ominous trap-influenced beats. The lyrics tend to reflect life on the streets in a violent, gritty and realistic way. The rappers generally use a grim, deadpan delivery with vocals that are slathered in auto tune, a method that was commonly employed by Pop Smoke. Though the sub-genre shares many similarities with trap music, it is generally slower with a moderate tempo of 60 to 70 beats per minute. Drill promptly made its way to the US where a regional style emerged in the south side of Chicago in early 2010 and by 2018 New York had seen its own iteration. Smoke did not stick to the conventional characteristics of the New York Drill scene yet was still was considered one of the biggest artists for the sub-genre due to its audible influence. Smoke often wrote about his environment and ambitions, glamorizing drugs and sexualizing women but never referencing excessively violent events. All of which is a direct result of his rough childhood; only Pop Smoke would be capable of turning something dreadful into something poetic and musical for all to listen to. In an interview Smoke stated that he makes music for the young kids growing up in poverty, like he did.

Many fans and critics attributed the newfound popularity of New York Drill to the catchy melodies and autotuned vocals Pop Smoke offered in his mix tapes. Smoke transformed the sub-genre and put it back on the map, capturing an entirely new audience that never existed before. He was praised for his unique style and stand out musical personality, which distinguished him from other rap artists, ultimately allowing him to experience tremendous amounts of fame and recognition. It was his distinctive approach to the sub-genre that caught the attention of many major recording artists. Upon his untimely death, the music world appeared to let out a unifying cry that echoed the remorse and heartbreak everyone was feeling about the tragic event. Quavo referred to Pop Smoke as a ‘very talented, humble, respectful, and appreciative’ young kid in a post on Instagram. Similar types of statements were shared by artists of similar status, showing the immense amount of appreciation and respect the 20-year-old had cultivated during his short musical journey. Now, all we have is the incomplete legacy that Smoke left behind. We are left to wonder what could have been. To what extent would he transform the genre? How would he grow as an artist? So many pressing questions that will never be answered. 808Melo recounts what Smoke said to him during a studio session – He knew, I need to do something else, I need to be versatile. I’m trying to be that superstar – Smoke was the type of artist that transforms genres and creates trends. There seems to be no limits in sight for what Smoke could have achieved. After all, he was only in the music game for two years before he achieved some top charting songs, who knows where he would have been in the next ten years. To lose him at such a young age and so early on in his career is not only devastating to his friends and family but also to the entire music community.

 

A Pianist Through It All: the Life of Leon Fleisher

A musician who was much more than just his malady. 

A pianist needs only three essential components to play their instrument—a piano, their left hand, and their right hand. The difficulty of playing piano comes from pieces that have vastly different melodies and rhythms for each hand or stanzas where one hand has to cross over the other. However, Leon Fleisher, who died at age 92 on August 2nd, would disagree. The trickiest aspect of piano for him was that he could not use the third ingredient—his right hand.

When Fleisher emerged into the world on July 23rd, 1928 to his Jewish immigrant parents, he had two working hands. In fact, his hands were more than just functional—he was a child prodigy who could fully play by ear at the mere age of four years old. At age nine, the prominent pianist Artur Schnabel took him in, and in 1944 he made his Carnegie Hall debut with the New York Philharmonic at just 16 years old. The Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor that he played there became one of his signature pieces. He was praised for this performance by acclaimed musicians and journalists, but he was always motivated to do more, wanting to explore his opportunities outside of the United States. He moved to Europe and became the first American to win the Queen Elisabeth international music competition in 1952. At 23, he was on a path towards further fame and success. He was performing all around the world in renowned concert halls and creating recordings with George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra. These included a huge repertoire of works by Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, Franck, and Rachmaninov. According to the New York Times, these recordings are “considered among the most vivid and moving accounts of those works.” 

Anyone who heard Fleisher play immediately recognized his talent. He was a music descendant of Beethoven, as Schnabel’s teacher Theodor Leschetisky had studied with Carl Czerny, one of Beethoven’s students. Pierre Monteux, who was the conductor of his performance at Carnegie Hall described him as “the pianistic find of the century,” according to NPR. Everyone around him believed that he was set to do great things.

In this peak of his career, however, Fleisher faced possibly the worst obstacle for a pianist. At 36, he began to feel a sharp cramping in his right hand. It started with his ring and pinky fingers, and then eventually creeped to his entire hand. He told the New York Times in 1996 that this was due to overworking himself—“seven or eight hours a day of pumping ivory.” As his hand started to hurt more, he made up for it by practicing more. He soon could not play with his right hand at all. The night before he was supposed to tour with Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, he had to cancel because he could not move both hands.

Many pianists in this situation may have given up. Even Fleisher found himself depressed by his unidentifiable injury. However, his pure love for music ultimately shone brighter than his injury or his need to play piano. He began teaching instead at the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins University as well as the Tanglewood Music Center, and also spent more time conducting. These classes forced him to think about music in different ways—since he could not just sit down and show his students how to play, he had to learn to explain with his own words and descriptive metaphors. He was even able to find some songs that he could play solely with his left hand. He played songs that were originally composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who had lost his right arm in World War I. Fleisher also drew on Brahm’s left-hand piano version of Bach’s chaconne as a mainstay of his recital programming. Fleisher’s new signature pieces became this and Maurice Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. He was infinitely grateful that it was his right hand that gave out instead of his left because at least there were some, albeit limited, pieces for his left hand to play. 

Fleisher never ceased to look for a cure for his hand. For the next 30 years, he tried everything from Rolfing to shots of lidocaine to Zen Buddhism. With no promising results, he felt as though he had lost his one passion in life. He depended on his second wife, Riselle Rosenthal, but his condition ended up destroying that relationship as well, crawling into his family life. Growing out his hair and buying a Vespa motorcycle were the types of distractions he would create for himself to forget about his lost purpose in life. He considered suicide at this time.

His life began to turn around in 1991 because of an increasing number of doctors who were experimenting with Botox injections. These injections combined with Rolfing proved to keep his hand in good enough shape where he could play with both hands again. During the next few years, he built up his dexterity and skill again, and was back on the performance scene in 1995. He started small, and by 2005 he was playing at international concerts halls, and at Carnegie Hall where it all started. His fingers were never permanently fixed, and he often felt the same curling, rigid feeling when he played. However, the Botox injections helped keep the pain minimal. 

It seemed that with his mental and musical success also came advances in Fleisher’s personal life. He married again, this time to pianist Katherine Jacobson. With this new relationship, he was not only able to play two-handed piano pieces, but also four-handed ones together with his wife. Ms. Jacobson survives Fleisher along with his children from his first two marriages, Deborah, Richard, Leah, Paula, and Julian, as well as his two grandchildren. His son Julian revealed that his father had passed from cancer. 

In 2007, Fleisher received the Kennedy Center Honor. Although this award was given for his performing and musical talents, his personality and values are what truly came across. He wrote a letter to The Washington Post describing his deep moral disagreement with Bush’s policies regarding the Iraq War. He thought about the connections between art and politics, and was conflicted as to whether he should accept this award at the White House. When he did choose to attend, he said he was “wearing a peace symbol around my neck and a purple ribbon on my lapel, at once showing support for our young men and women in the armed services and calling for their earliest return home,” according to the Guardian. Beyond his music, Fleisher was a sincere person, and a role model for his pupils both in and outside of the classroom. As per the Washington Post, Fleisher believed that music was “a force capable of reconciling us to each other,” an idea that he got from Beethoven’s conceptualization of music. 

In 2006 also came the release of the short documentary film “Two Hands: The Leon Fleisher Story” by Nathaniel Kahn. By this time, medical science had found a name for his neurological disease, focal dystonia. This film about his miraculous recovery is an emotional one, and the title is taken from the 2004 release of his album “Two Hands.” This was the first album in about 40 years that he had released in which he was able to play with both of his hands. He also wrote a memoir in 2010, “My Nine Lives: A Memoir of Many Careers in Music” that took a more positive approach to his illness, detailing how it enabled him to have diverse musical opportunities that he would not have otherwise pursued.

Cornell University’s very own Bailey Hall welcomed Fleisher as well in 2011. He came to Cornell for a residency, in which he taught and performed all five of Beethoven’s concertos to Cornell and Ithaca college students. These concerts featured guest Cornell faculty Xak Bjerken and his wife, Miri Yampolsky, as soloists. Both of these music professors studied with Fleisher at the Peabody Conservatory of Music and they serve as remnants of the talent that Fleisher’s teaching produced and the effect that he had on the Cornell community. Shortly after Fleisher’s passing in August, a live stream by his students paid tribute to Fleisher— Professor Xak Bjerken closed off the video with one of Fleisher’s favorite pieces, Brahms’s Op.119 No.1.

Fleisher continued to create music up until the day that he passed. Ultimately, fans of classical music listened to Fleisher not because of the obstacles that he faced, but because he was Fleisher. No matter how many hands he had, his irrepressible talent came through in every piece from Beethoven’s symphonies to the Left Hand Concerto. The difficulties that came along with his life seemed to be a minor detail when it came to how people felt about his performances. Even when he was not playing, he had a profound effect on people. As his hand condition worsened, his love and dedication to music were only heightened. He adapted and found new ways to influence the world through his music. He is not just known as “the guy who played piano with one hand” because he did so much more. He shows young musicians that overworking themselves will only counteract their goals and that music can be found in many different avenues. Beethoven, one of Fleisher’s inspirations, once said that “to play without passion is inexcusable!” Beethoven would be proud of Fleisher, knowing that this pianist found a way to play with passion without even playing at times. The clarity and emotions in his sound combined with his perseverance and devotion to music created a passion for classical music unlike any other. 

A Man of Many Words and Meters

After his passing, Neil ‘The Professor’ Peart leaves a rich legacy of rhythm and intellect that will have a lasting influence on how musicians approach their craft.

Peart waves farewell to the audience at his last concert with Rush in 2015.

When the spotlight was shining, Neil Peart was an untamed tiger; he showed up to every concert ready to pounce and viciously devour each song with perfect time and execution. But when the spotlight faded and the house lights came up, the tiger quietly retreated back into the wild to search for his next meal. Peart was one third of the famed Canadian prog rock trio, Rush, and his unabashed drumming on his 360 degree kit covered more ground in a single concert than most drummers could in a lifetime. From the small clubs to the massive stadiums, Peart had fans air-drumming his complex and unique drum parts throughout the concerts, and the rhythms he wrote for what have become classic Rush songs are as integral to the tunes as the guitar riffs and melodies. However, the man behind the kit was much more restrained. Peart was a living dichotomy; his private personal life, full of tragic family deaths, was unrecognizable from his demeanor on stage. When Rush completed their R40 tour with their final show in 2015, fans across the world were devastated. But upon hearing the news that Peart had died on January 7, 2020 after suffering from brain cancer, fans were shocked beyond belief.

Rush made its debut in 1974 with their eponymous album, but the lineup on that album is not the band fans have come to know and love over the last forty years. While high school friends Alex Lifeson (guitar) and Geddy Lee (vocals, bass, synth) founded the band and remained in it ever since, the original drummer was John Rutsey, who left the band after the first album as a result of health issues. This first album was unapologetically straight-ahead, and Rutsey’s simpler drumming certainly fit the style. But with Peart’s blazing debut on their second album Fly By Night (1975), right from the intro of the first song “Anthem” the contrast between the two was day and night. And Rush chose to fly by night. Peart’s playing was technically nuanced, and he executed complicated polyrhythms and time signatures with ease. His playing pushed Lifeson and Lee to a new level on this second record, and it was only a taste of what was to come for the next forty years.

Rush digs into a hard-hitting song on their 1975 tour.

A well-read intellectual, Peart also brought immense knowledge about literature and history to the band, and he became Rush’s primary lyricist for the remainder of the band’s career. While the stereotypical drummer of a rock band from the seventies was said to be the least smart of the bunch, Peart ignored the playbook and added more to the band than they could imagine. He wrote about fantasy novels and classics by famous authors such as Ernest Hemingway in the song “Losing It” (1982), as well as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in their well-known hit “Tom Sawyer” (1981). Peart’s literary contributions brought attention to the importance of lyrics in rock music; his words, in addition to his backbeat, were imperative to Rush’s continued success over the course of their musical trajectory.

Peart’s creativity and curiosity also drove his interest in travel, especially by motorcycle. Peart began riding at age 12, and he was immediately enthralled by the feel and control while navigating uncharted territory. Peart’s obsession with riding became so great that beginning in 1996, he toured with Rush by motorcycle instead of by tour bus. Peart said that for him drumming and motorcycle riding went hand in hand: “They are a good counterpoint to each other. Drumming requires three hours of performing at the limit of my physical and mental capabilities, and motorcycling is very demanding physically, and especially, mentally. The concentration necessary to do it correctly, safely, life-preservingly is enormous. It feels like the vibration of riding actually loosens up my sore muscles, so it’s therapeutic in that way, and after so many years of concert tours, which can be tedious, motorcycling keeps me excited and challenged.” In between tours Peart also travelled the globe, finding new places to explore and attempting to satisfy his insatiable hunger to learn more. Peart put his adventures into words, and in 1996 he published a book titled The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa, in which he chronicled his adventures by motorcycle in Cameroon.

Peart poses for a shot with two of his favorite pieces of equipment: a motorcycle and a drum kit.

Writing is also ultimately what saved Peart after the tragic deaths of his 19-year old daughter, Selena, in 1997, and his wife of 23 years, Jacqueline, the following year. Rush had been touring non-stop up until the conclusion of their Test For Echo tour in 1997, but after Selena died in a car crash and his wife died of cancer, the band gave Peart time to mourn – a break that lasted five years. He spent years alone traveling by himself and meeting new people, an unmapped journey from his hometown of Quebec to various destinations such as British Columbia, United States, Mexico, and Belize. Upon returning home, he published his second book Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road in 2002, which focused on his journey of self-rediscovery.

This therapeutic travel experience put Peart in the frame of mind to resume working with Lifeson and Lee, bringing Rush back to life with their album Vapor Trails (2002) and extensive tour that followed. Before the deaths of his daughter and wife, Peart had avoided many press events and meet-and-greets with fans, and after the band resumed touring, the group made a collective and definitive decision that Lifeson and Lee would take care of all interactions with the press in order to give Peart more privacy and avoid him feeling uncomfortable from questions about his personal life. This gave Peart more time to explore the open road yet also remain focused on his craft.

Peart’s incessant need to learn and challenge himself was unmistakable in his growth as a drummer. For twenty years since he joined Rush, he had developed naturally into a virtuosic player, evident in his complicated parts he executed night after night. In 1995, however, after feeling himself become too metronomic of a player, he decided to reach out for lessons. Just a year earlier, Peart participated in the record Burning For Buddy: A Tribute To The Music Of Buddy Rich (1994), in which he played “Cotton Tail” with a big band. During this time he was introduced to drum teacher Freddie Gruber, who had also taught Steve Smith, the drummer of the rock band Journey. Gruber played a critical role in Peart’s development, advising him to change his grip on his drum sticks from “matched grip” to “traditional grip” and altering the heights of some of the drums on his kit, all with the goal to help Peart play with “circular motion” as opposed to the more rigid style he had been using. This change in style provided renewed impetus for even more creativity with Rush, and enabled them to continue producing quality work for the next twenty years.

In 2013, Rush was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Their performance at the event opened with the Foo Fighters, who are fronted by Dave Grohl, the former drummer of Nirvana. Grohl expressed how Peart’s playing changed the landscape for drummers: “An inspiration to millions with an unmistakable sound who spawned generations of musicians (like myself) to pick up two sticks and chase a dream. A kind, thoughtful, brilliant man who ruled our radios and turntables not only with his drumming, but also his beautiful words…I still vividly remember my first listen of 2112 when I was young. It was the first time I really listened to a drummer. And since that day, music has never been the same. His power, precision, and composition was incomparable. He was called ‘The Professor’ for a reason: We all learned from him.”

After Rush’s induction into the Hall of Fame, Peart’s health began to wane, and the future of the band became unpredictable. As he developed tendonitis from years on the road playing three-hour shows, executing his grueling drum parts became more difficult. Peart’s perfectionism manifested clearly in his playing, and since he accepted nothing less than his mile-high standards, he could not continue touring if that meant delivering subpar performances. Peart’s decision to make Rush’s final show on their R40 tour their last as a band set an example of how to leave the game with dignity, grace, and class. Peart’s unending desire to learn more is what enabled him to be successful and satisfied in his life filled with tragic loss. His recovery and legacy should serve as a model for anyone with a passion they are committed to mastering.

As Peart wrote in his book Far and Away: A Prize Every Time (2011), “Excitement is found along the road, not at the end, and likewise, peace is not a fixed point-except perhaps in the unwanted ‘rest in peace’ sense. PEACE is the breathing space between destinations, between excitements, an occasional part of the journey, if you’re lucky. PEACE is a space you move through very rarely, and very briefly-but you’re not allowed to stay there. You have to keep moving, and go do what you do. Because you can.”