Because when she sings "Good Morning, Heartache", you can feel her crying through the microphone.
Because you can feel the sweat pouring out of her as she sings deep inside of Harlem.
Because she sang as Louis Armstrong sang and played, but better.
Because you can smell the smoke drifting through your speakers as it sits in her fingers.
Because you can hear the little girl named Eleanora singing along to the records at the whore house she
cleaned at, but then began working at.
Because the words she is singing feel like they are not just lyrics; they are what she is living.
Because you can imagine her running to the things she is trying to flee from.
Because you can see her chasing after all the things you know will kill her and you know she knows as well.
Because her voice cracks and wanes into rustic, rhythmic imperfection.
Because the abuse and destruction she sang of were her own.
Because her soul was empty and longed to be filled, but never would be no matter what she tried to crowd into it.
Because when she sings. "Let's Call a Heart a Heart", you can imagine her singing with her head titled back and trying to give her heart to anyone who would truly care for it, but no one ever did.
Because even at her lowest, she could still melt all who sat before her inside the hallowed walls of Carnegie Hall.
Because there will only be and there always be only one Lady Day singing of her troubled life with a gardenia guarding her fragile heart with delicate efflorescence.
Wishing Billie would have lived much, much longer,
David
No comments:
Post a Comment