TERRY GROSS, HOST:
This is FRESH AIR. I'm Terry Gross. This is my first show back in about 2 1/2 weeks. Today's show is all about why. My husband, my partner of 47 years, Francis Davis, died after a long illness on Monday, April 14. You may know about Francis from his writing about jazz and popular culture or from the time he was a jazz critic on FRESH AIR when it was a local show and in the early days when we went national. Often when I introduce a guest, I quote from reviews and profiles that sum up their contributions better than I think I could. To sum up my husband's place as a writer, I'm going to quote from a couple of the obits.
In The New York Times, Adam Nossiter wrote, his specialty was teasing meaning from the sounds he heard, situating them in America's history, culture and society. That approach and the fluency of his writing made him one of the most influential writers on jazz in the 1980s and beyond. The headline of the NPR obit by Nate Chinen described him as a giant of jazz criticism. In addition to jazz, Francis also wrote essays about other forms of music, as well as movies, TV and books. For me, reading him is now my best way of feeling like I'm spending time with him. I've been reading him a lot lately.
Before I get back to doing interviews and immersing myself in the lives of my guests, I want to share some of Francis with you. On today's show, I'm going to read you excerpts of a few of his essays and play recordings he praised in those pieces. Along the way, I'll also tell a few stories about him, including the story of how we met and became a couple. FRESH AIR played a big part in that.
Francis wrote for The Atlantic magazine, The New York Times, The Village Voice, The Philadelphia Inquirer and various music magazines. He had seven books and received a Guggenheim fellowship. He founded and ran The Village Voice annual jazz critics poll, which, after several years, moved to NPR Music and is now on artsfuse.org, where it's run by Tom Hull, who will be continuing the poll, which he renamed the Annual Francis Davis Jazz Poll.
Francis also won a Grammy for his liner notes to the Miles Davis 50th anniversary collector's edition of "Kind Of Blue." It's been surreal to have that famous trophy in our home. In his liner notes, Francis wrote, quote, "in terms of where it falls in jazz history, 'Kind Of Blue' is celebrated for being the album that popularized improvising on modes - that is, improvising in the sparest and starkest of scales as an alternative to bebop's dense thickets of chord changes. But this hardly explains the album's hold on three successive generations of listeners. The pieces on 'Kind Of Blue' were meant to serve as springboards to improvisation, and did they ever," unquote. Francis went on to describe John Coltrane's solo on the track "Flamenco Sketches." Quote, "Coltrane worries the notes of each scale as prayerfully as beads on a rosary," unquote.
I'm going to play an excerpt of that Coltrane solo because it's beautiful and because Francis had a contract to write a book about Coltrane. Although he never finished the book, he was steeped in Coltrane music and research and wrote about him in shorter essays. In this solo on "Flamenco Sketches," you'll hear Coltrane on tenor saxophone, Bill Evans - piano, Paul Chambers - bass, Jimmy Cobb - drums.
(SOUNDBITE OF MILES DAVIS' "FLAMENCO SKETCHES")
GROSS: That was an excerpt of John Coltrane's solo on the track "Flamenco Sketches" from the Miles Davis album "Kind Of Blue."
A piece that was a turning point for Francis was his profile of tenor saxophonist Sonny Rollins titled "An Improvisor Prepares." After it was rejected by the magazine that greenlighted it, Francis sent it to the attention of Bill Whitworth, the revered editor of The Atlantic magazine. And although Bill didn't publish it, he wanted to see more. The Atlantic became Francis' longest professional affiliation. He became a contributing editor, and Bill became a treasured friend. Here's how Francis describes Sonny Rollins in that 1984 profile. Quote, "when conjuring up an image of the quintessential jazz man - heroic, inspired, mystical, obsessed, as often as not, it is Rollins we picture because no other jazz instrumentalist better epitomizes the lonely tight rope walk between spontaneity and organization, implicit in taking an improvised solo. Everyone who listens to jazz can tell a story of a night when Rollins could do no wrong, when ideas poured out of him so effortlessly. The irony is that the nights when Rollins is at wit's end can be just as thrilling for illuminating the perils endemic to improvisation. Rollins is the greatest living jazz improviser. No arguments, please. And if we redefine virtuosity to include improvisational cunning as well as instrumental finesse, he may be the greatest virtuoso that jazz has ever produced," unquote. Here's Sonny Rollins' unaccompanied opening on his 1972 recording of "Skylark."
(SOUNDBITE OF SONNY ROLLINS' "SKYLARK")
GROSS: That was the opening to Sonny Rollins' recording of "Skylark." The song was co-written by Hoagy Carmichael. Francis once wrote that Carmichael, who was from the Midwest, looked like a Corn Belt Samuel Beckett. Francis and I met through music. He was managing the record store on the University of Pennsylvania campus, which was just a few blocks away from where WHYY was in the 1970s. I'd go to that store to pick up records I needed for the show. A close friend of mine who also worked there introduced me to Francis and told me that Francis had a huge record collection that included a lot of out-of-print recordings. This was decades before you could find nearly anything on the internet.
At the time, 1978, FRESH AIR was a local three-hour show five days a week, which was way too much time to fill. So I was on the lookout for good features. I thought, why not try a feature in which Francis would play and talk about great but hard-to-find jazz recordings? I asked him to write a script and record an audition. This was before he'd started his writing career, and I was astonished by the quality of his writing. That's how he started his weekly FRESH AIR feature called Interval. I fell in love with his writing and with him. Music, movies, books - these were passions we shared and loved talking about with each other.
I need to take a short break here. I'll continue this remembrance of my husband, Francis Davis, after a break. This is FRESH AIR.
(SOUNDBITE OF BILL EVANS' "SOME OTHER TIME")
GROSS: This is FRESH AIR. There's more I want to tell you about my husband, Francis Davis. He died Monday, April 14, after eight months in home hospice, doing his best to maintain his strength despite his enemies, COPD and Parkinson's. Francis wrote about jazz and other forms of music and popular culture. In this remembrance, I'm reading passages from his essays and playing related recordings that he praised.
When PBS was planning to broadcast a three-part series on "The History Of The Blues," Francis was asked to write the companion book. He wrote the book, but the series was never completed and never broadcast. The status of the series and how it would affect the book was very stress-inducing, and that was in addition to the pressure of writing the book.
As he was finishing it, he started to not feel well, and after it was done, he ended up in the hospital with a serious, possibly life-threatening infection that took days to diagnose. It was terrifying. After he was sent home, he still needed IV antibiotics. I was taught briefly how to administer the drugs through the IV line and was warned that if there are air bubbles in the tubing, that could be dangerous. And I was told that anything that touches the opening of the tubing or the medication could contaminate it. I thought, are you out of your mind, giving me the responsibility of doing what trained nurses do? I'm proud to say Francis survived my nursing, but I almost didn't. Here's a passage from the 1995 book, "The History Of The Blues," the book that Francis handed in before the hospital. The passage is about Blind Willie Johnson.
Quote, "he had few equals as a slide guitarist. He used a pocketknife in lieu of a bottleneck. Johnson's music was charred with purgatorial fire. More than 60 years later, you can still smell the smoke on it. He was a man of God, perhaps even a religious fanatic, but he ranted like a man possessed by demons. His life was tragic, even by the cruel standards of the day. He died in 1947, long after his brief recording career had come to an end. He made his living by playing on Texas street corners, a blind man with a guitar and a tin cup, shaking the faith of passers by with the absolute certainty of his. Were Johnson alive today, he might be livid to find his name in so many books on the blues. He performed mostly traditional hymns, hardly any secular material. Yet his style had more in common with those of the blues performers of his day than that of any of his fellow guitar evangelists, and no one was more original. In terms of its intensity alone, its spiritual ache, there's nothing else from the period to compare with Johnson's 1927 recording of 'Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground' on which his guitar takes the part of a preacher and his wordless voice the part of a wrapped congregation," unquote.
Here's Blind Willie Johnson's 1927 recording of "Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground."
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "DARK WAS THE NIGHT, COLD WAS THE GROUND")
BLIND WILLIE JOHNSON: (Vocalizing).
GROSS: That was Blind Willie Johnson. After Francis' blues book was published, he received a confounding invitation to sell the book live on TV on the cable home shopping network QVC. Apparently, one of the hosts was a fan. As I recall, Francis was sandwiched between fake emerald costume jewelry and the Road Whiz, an early kind of GPS that told you where the closest restaurants, gas stations, and bathrooms were. Let's just say the book did OK, but the Road Whiz did a whole lot better. As I mentioned, Francis was hospitalized after handing in the manuscript for "The History Of The Blues." The essay he wrote after he got out of the hospital was titled "Infection." It was a review of the original cast recording of the Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine musical "Passion."
The musical tells the story of an Italian soldier, Giorgio , who's forced to leave his beautiful, vibrant mistress, Clara, with whom he's deeply in love, after he receives orders that he's being transferred to a faraway garrison. His new commanding officer's sickly cousin, Fosca, falls in love with Giorgio and becomes obsessed with him. She lives in the world of the sick and marginalized, and he's healthy and strong and wants to get away from her. Francis and I loved the show. Here's an excerpt of his essay.
Quote, "a few days after seeing 'Passion' for the second time, I was hospitalized with a 104-degree temperature, a symptom of what was ultimately diagnosed as a serious bacterial infection. In a situation in which part of my role as a good patient was to monitor my moods and bodily functions and dutifully report even the slightest change, I no longer saw Fosca's morbid self-absorption as quite so absurd. Fosca's love for Giorgio is supposed to be superior to Clara's by virtue of not being carnal." At least that was what Sondheim and Lapine said in interviews. "Regardless of Sondheim and Lapine's original intentions, the dichotomy represented onstage wasn't between body love and soul love but between health and infirmity, the pang of happiness and the unaccountable lure of death," unquote.
Here's the song Francis singled out. It's sung by the character Fosca on what may be her deathbed. She tells Giorgio she wants to dictate a letter for him to write but to write it as if he were writing it to her, confessing his deep feelings for her. The song is "I Wish I Could Forget You," sung by Donna Murphy.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "I WISH I COULD FORGET YOU")
JERE SHEA: (As Giorgio) My dearest Fosca.
DONNA MURPHY: (As Fosca, singing) I wish I could forget you, erase you from my mind. But ever since I met you, I find I cannot leave the thought of you behind. That doesn't mean I love you.
SHEA: (As Giorgio, singing) That doesn't mean I love you.
MURPHY: (As Fosca, singing) I wish that I could love you. I know that I've upset you. I know I've been unkind. I wanted you to vanish from sight, but now I see you in a different light. And though I cannot love you, I wish that I could love you, for now I'm seeing love like none I've ever known, a love as pure as breath, as permanent as death, implacable as stone - a love that, like a knife, has cut into a life I wanted left alone. A love I may regret...
GROSS: That was Donna Murphy from the original cast recording of "Passion." Francis' essay about "Passion" was included in his book "Bebop And Nothingness: Jazz And Pop At The End Of The Century." The title is a play on Jean-Paul Sartre's book "Being And Nothingness." Francis was great at coming up with titles. That book showed up in a confounding place, a Brooks Brothers ad, maybe a page from the catalog. The photo was of a 20-something guy with his hands folded around the back of his head, and on his lap, a copy of Francis' book, "Bebop And Nothingness."
The model was supposed to look dreamy, but I doubt he'd ever dream of reading that book. My theory is the book was chosen as a prop because the book jacket's eye-catching color scheme of blue, red and yellow matched the model's sweater and plaid pants. We framed the ad, and it still hangs on our wall, baffling anyone who sees it. One of Francis' coinages also showed up in a surprising place. In a 1992 essay about the show "Seinfeld," Francis described Kramer as a hipster doofus. Someone from the show must've read that because the following year, hipster doofus showed up in a couple of "Seinfeld" episodes. Here's Kramer.
(SOUNDBITE OF TV SHOW, "SEINFELD")
MICHAEL RICHARDS: (As Cosmo Kramer) She dumped me.
JERRY SEINFELD: (As Jerry Seinfeld) She dumped you?
RICHARDS: (As Cosmo Kramer) She dumped me. She rolled right over me.
(LAUGHTER)
RICHARDS: (As Cosmo Kramer) Said I was a hipster doofus.
(LAUGHTER)
RICHARDS: (As Cosmo Kramer) Am I a hipster doofus?
JASON ALEXANDER: (As George Costanza) No, no.
SEINFELD: (As Jerry Seinfeld) No.
RICHARDS: (As Cosmo Kramer) Said I'm not good-looking enough for her, not good-looking enough. Jerry, look at me.
GROSS: After we take a short break, I'll conclude my tribute to Francis. And we'll feature my interview with George Clooney, who was just nominated for a Tony. He's on Broadway starring as journalist Edward R. Murrow in the stage adaptation of Clooney's 2005 film "Good Night, And Good Luck." Francis loved and was influenced by film noir, and he loved Charlie Haden's ensemble, Quartet West, and how it often evoked film noir like on this track, "There In A Dream." I'm Terry Gross, and this is FRESH AIR.
(SOUNDBITE OF CHARLIE HADEN QUARTET WEST'S "THERE IN A DREAM (INSTRUMENTAL)")
GROSS: This is FRESH AIR. I'm Terry Gross. Putting together a remembrance of my husband, Francis Davis, has been a very helpful way to transition back to FRESH AIR after his death nearly three weeks ago. We knew it was coming. He was in home hospice. But it's nothing you can really be prepared for. If you're just tuning in, Francis was a jazz critic who wrote about all aspects of popular culture. He was a contributing editor at The Atlantic magazine, wrote for The New York Times, the Village Voice, The Philadelphia Inquirer and various music magazines, had seven books, received a Guggenheim Fellowship, and won a Grammy for his liner notes for the 50th anniversary edition of the classic Miles Davis recording "Kind Of Blue."
We were together 47 years. There's more of his writing I want to read you and more related music I want to play. I've mostly been quoting essays about people who are recognized as groundbreaking figures. But Francis also wrote extensively about emerging musicians and composers and the avant-garde. He helped launch the careers of newcomers and rediscover musicians who'd disappeared or been forgotten. He titled one of his books "Outcats," a word coined by the pianist Paul Knopf and revived by Francis. Knopf described an outcat as, quote, "an outcast and a far-out cat combined." Francis wrote about many outcats.
Here's how Francis used the word. Quote, "by popular stereotype, all jazz musicians are outcats. But those of us within music recognize the outcat as a specific type, too self-absorbed to be part of any movement and too idiosyncratic to spearhead one, and too self-reliant to seek audience or peer approval, and too marginal in the larger scheme of things to elicit much. The word conveys undertones of exile, rootlessness, alienation and despair," unquote.
One of my favorite Francis essays was written after Johnny Cash's death and was published in The Atlantic in March 2004. Here's how it opened. Quote, "in 1956, when he recorded 'I Walk The Line' for Sun Records, Johnny Cash became an overnight sensation. But it was as many years of singing as if he knew from personal experience all of humankind's strengths and failings, as if he had both committed murder and been accepted into God's light, that made him a favorite of liberals and conservatives, MTV and the Grand Ole Opry, Gary Gilmore and Billy Graham. From song to song, he was a cowboy or a white outcast who rode with Indians, a family man or a drifter, a believer in eternal life or a condemned murderer with no tomorrows anywhere. His credibility owed as much to the moral effort involved in endlessly putting himself in others' shoes as it did to his professional savvy in putting a song across," unquote.
In another part of the essay, Francis describes Cash like this. Quote, "he was in his late 30s and already had plenty of mileage on him when he was discovered by television. Longer hair and the shadows and dents of middle age brought out the character in his face," unquote. The shadows and dents of middle age - that's an image that has always stuck with me. One of Francis' favorite Johnny Cash songs is from John Frankenheimer's 1970 film "I Walk The Line," for which Cash wrote the score. The songs reflect what's going on in the main character's mind. Francis wrote, quote, "the movie was a flop at the box office, but the film's song 'Flesh And Blood,' perhaps the single most beautiful song Cash ever wrote, and one whose lyrics could stand alone as inspired nature poetry, reached No. 1 on the country charts," unquote. Here's the song "Flesh And Blood."
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "FLESH AND BLOOD")
JOHNNY CASH: (Singing) Beside a singing mountain stream where the willow grew, where the silver leaf of maple sparkled in the morning view, I braided twigs of willow, made a string of buckeye beads. But flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need. Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need. I leaned against a bark of birch, and I breathed the honeydew. I saw a northbound flock of geese against a sky of baby blue. Beside the lily pads, I carved a whistle from a reed. Mother Nature's quite a lady, but you're the one I need. Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need.
GROSS: Thank you for listening to this remembrance of my husband, Francis Davis. This has been different from anything I've ever done on FRESH AIR, but that's because the last 2 1/2 weeks since Francis died have been unlike anything I've ever experienced. Thank you for all the emails, posts and letters I've received. Francis, my husband, my best friend, thank you for our 47 years together. You will live on in your writing and always in my heart.
(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "FLESH AND BLOOD")
CASH: (Singing) So when the day was ended, I was still not satisfied, for I knew everything I touched would wither and would die. And love is all that will remain and grow from all these seeds. Mother Nature's quite a lady, but you're the one I need. Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need.
GROSS: After we take a short break, we'll hear my interview with George Clooney, who's on Broadway starring as journalist Edward R. Murrow in the stage adaptation of Clooney's 2005 film "Good Night, And Good Luck." He was just nominated for a Tony. This is FRESH AIR.
(SOUNDBITE OF BILL EVANS' "B MINOR WALTZ") Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
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