Dave Frishberg "My Dear Departed Past"

[sgcim]

I just finished this 2017 autobiography of the jazz pianist/songwriter/vocalist Dave Frishberg, and found it a welcome rest from the angst-ridden, self-involved autobio of Fred Hersch, who seemed obsessed with telling us the state of his interior mind during every second of his life.

Frishberg whirls through his 85 years on the planet in under 200 pages, and fills the pages with lyrics to his many songs, and interesting anecdotes involving the many jazz musicians and celebs he came into contact with through his long career.

Some things I found interesting were his time in NYC, from about 1957 to 1971, where he comes into contact with such shadowy figures as the pianist Billy Rubinstein (rumored by a few people to be Bill Evans before Bill Evans hit the scene), who set DF with his first big gig, pianist with the Kai Winding four-trombone band. The drummer in the band was Stu Martin, who Frishberg described as a "Caucasian, fair-skinned with red hair, who chose to live as a black man, and who left for Europe after the Winding band, becoming something of a free-jazz icon playing mostly with black artists".

He then got a strange two-piece gig (pno. and drums) at a cabaret on Seventh Ave. a block south of the VV, which was called The Page Three. Almost every singer there was trans (including Tiny Tim), with the exception of Sheila Jordan. When he left that gig for a while, he got Herbie Nichols to replace him, who being a well-rounded musician, was able to a great job in this and many other situations. One night, DF visited the club to see Herbie, and he found the place in a complete uproar. It seems that Herbie got another pianist to sub for him that night, and the singers refused to go on stage with him. Sheila Jordan greeted DF with a big smile, and said, "You know who that is on piano, don't you? You don't? That's Cecil Taylor; Herbie sent him to sub. He's been here all night, played for everyone. You've never heard a show like this in your life!" DF asked Sheila if Tiny Tim had gone on, and Sheila answered, "No, damn it. Wouldn't that have been priceless?"

He talked about his times jamming at the Sixth Avenue Loft with people like Sam Brown, and the "legendary tenor sax player Fred Greenwell from Seattle. Freddy was a freakishly talented jazz player who played entirely by ear, and couldn't discuss music in terms of notes and chords, sharps or flats. He loved to play, and would play all night and into the next morning, going without sleep for for days until the Dexedrine was gone. Then you wouldn't see him for a week or so, but he'd be back at the loft after that."

In 1961, he got a gig with Bud Freeman, and they needed a bass player. DF suggested the 18 year-old Steve Swallow who he had met at a loft session. Freeman refused to play with an 18 year-old until he found out DF had played with him in a dixieland band at Yale. Freeman's face lit up. "A Yale man! Will you call him for me , Dave?" They went on the road together, and one afternoon Swallow invited them to his hotel room to listen to tapes of Coltrane and Ornette. Bud listened patiently to 'Trane's "Naima" and made polite comments. When he heard Ornette he burst out laughing. ""That's not new!" He said, "We used to play that waywhen we were kids, just to be funny! He's serious, isn't he? Or is he making fun of music like we used to do in Chicago? Sometimes we'd play like that and the people weren't laughing, and they would applaud and think we were brilliant!" Swallow was a little downcast, while Bud guffawed over the new music.

He then tells a story about how Bud rehearsed him, Bob Haggart and drummer Don Lamond for three afternoons for an album Bud was going to record. They went over little riffs and interludes Bud wanted to add to each tune, and DF learned them all. At the recording session, Freeman didn't play any of the songs they had spent three days rehearsing!

He's got a lot of other great stories about singers he accompanied such as Judy Garland and Anita O'Day (whom he despised), and goes on to talk about his career as a studio musician in LA, and as a songwriter for Schoolhouse Rock with Bob Dorough. 

[mjzee]

Does he talk about Blossom Dearie?

[Dan Gould]

Thanks for the heads up this sounds like a fun read.

The one and only time I saw Frishberg was when he opened for the Ray Brown Trio - my first or second time seeing Gene Harris - at the Blue Note.  I had no idea who he was but he certainly entertained and I went to Sally White's place the next weekend and picked up one of his Concord LPs. 

[sgcim]

2 hours ago, mjzee said:

Does he talk about Blossom Dearie?

Yeah, but no interesting stories about her. After hearing an interview Blossom did with Rick Petrone on that Connecticut jazz station back in the 80s, I'm sure there was a lot going on in that incredibly talented brain of hers. It had to be the most adversarial interview I've ever heard in my life, and we were cracking up at the way she mistreated Rick on the air.

I did a gig with Rick a few years ago, and forgot to ask him about that. Doh!

[Larry Kart]

2 hours ago, sgcim said:

Yeah, but no interesting stories about her. After hearing an interview Blossom did with Rick Petrone on that Connecticut jazz station back in the 80s, I'm sure there was a lot going on in that incredibly talented brain of hers. It had to be the most adversarial interview I've ever heard in my life, and we were cracking up at the way she mistreated Rick on the air.

I did a gig with Rick a few years ago, and forgot to ask him about that. Doh!

 A Blossom Dearie story from the late Joel Siegel, originally posted on the Songbirds site. (BTW I did survive doing an interview with Blossom):

The Blossom Experience
By Joel E. Siegel

In the early '80s, I produced a concert series at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. called "Great American Songwriters." The idea was to match up first-class jazz and cabaret performers with GAS composers or, in rare cases, special themes. The series ran for three and a half years in a lovely 197-seat auditorium with a superb Steinway piano. Many of the programs were taped by and subsequently broadcast on National Public Radio.

Overall, there were about 30 concerts spread over three years. Here's a sample of the programs: Jackie and Roy doing concerts of Stephen Sondheim, Alec Wilder and a collection of songs they introduced; Pinky Winters and Lou Levy doing Johnny Mandel; Carol Sloane doing Rodgers and Hart; Charles DeForest doing Harry Warren; Ethabelle doing Harold Arlen and John Latouche; Sheila Jordan doing songs by jazz musicians; Buddy Barnes doing Cole Porter; Shirley Horn doing Duke Ellington and Curtis Lewis' "The Garden of the Blues Suite"; Mark Murphy doing Dorothy Fields; Julie Wilson doing Arlen and Kurt Weill, Sandra King making her American debut with a Vernon Duke program. Well, you get the idea. Others in the series included Chris Connor, Margaret Whiting, Carol Fredette, Ronny Whyte, Rose Murphy, Dardanelle, Bob Dorough, Dave Frishberg and many more. (Apologies to anyone I forgot to mention. My box of materials with the full list of performers is stored in my attic.)

Obviously, this was a perfect venue for Our Blossom. My negotiations with her were rather complicated. From the outset, she rejected the idea of preparing a special program as all of the others did. ("I'm a Great American Songwriter myself," she informed me.) I decided to bend the rules because Blossom is special and I knew she would draw a full house. So I gave her carte blanche to do whatever she wanted. I told her that traditionally we had a celebration dinner at a restaurant in Chinatown after the 4 p.m. concerts, to which a handful of people associated with the series were invited-Jennifer, my helpful and charming young intern-assistant from the Corcoran, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, several patrons of the series, etc. Blossom told me that her brother Walter and his wife would be coming from Winchester, Virginia, and asked that they be invited to dinner and that a driver be assigned to them. The Blackwells graciously volunteered provide them with transportation.

On Saturday, I picked Blossom up at Union Station and drove her to her hotel, a comfortable place just across the bridge from Georgetown. She was tired so I left her to rest after checking her in. The next morning, I was awakened at 8 a.m. by a call from her. She said that she needed to rehearse and had to find a place with a piano. This struck me as rather odd since she was performing solo and doing songs she had performed hundreds, probably thousands of times before-"I'm Shadowing You", "My New Celebrity Is You" etc. I told her that I had a piano, albeit not a very good one, and would be happy to drive into D.C. from Arlington, Virginia, and bring her to my place. She said she needed to have breakfast first, and would call me as soon as she was finished. I couldn't fall back to sleep, so I awaited her call.

9 a.m. 10 a.m. 11 a.m. 12 p.m. No call. Finally, I began phoning her, but got no response. 1 p.m. 2 p.m. I'm getting nervous because we have a 3 p.m. sound check. Finally, she called me at 2:30. I told her that I was worried that something had happened to her. She sternly said, "I told you that I was going for breakfast." "But that was more than 6 hours ago," I pointed out. "Oh," she said, "They were very slow." End of explanation.

I hurriedly picked her up and took her to the Corcoran. I had told her in advance that NPR was taping the shows and outlined the terms of their contract with the artists. When we arrived at the Gallery, she saw the sound truck, turned to me and imperiously said "It is not permitted." When I inquired WHAT was not permitted, she replied the taping of her show. This was the first time I had been informed of this stricture. An angry NPR sound crew, working overtime on Sunday, was turned away.

We entered the auditorium where the obliging Jennifer was setting things up. Nothing this young woman did satisfied Blossom. The lights were too bright. The lights were too dim. The piano had to be moved numerous times. Instead of requesting changes politely, Blossom kept snapping at the flustered young women in the most insulting manner. Embarrassed by her behavior, I drew Blossom aside and quietly said "You know, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar." She looked at me blankly and replied "I don't know what that means."

Finally, we managed to set things up to Blossom's apparent satisfaction. Just before we were to open the doors, she walked out into the seating area, called me over and asked "Where are all the flowers?" Totally disgruntled by her, I replied "I didn't bring them, Blossom. Did you?"

The audience enters-a packed house with standees-and I introduce Blossom. She takes elaborate bows, then notices a woman standing by the entrance door holding a baby. Blossom points to her and asks "Is that a baby?" The woman indicates that it is. "Does it cry?" Blossom inquires. The woman says "He's asleep. If he wakes up and cries, I'll take him outside. That's why I'm standing by the door." Blossom repeats her earlier mantra "It is not permitted" and the woman and her baby are banished. This behavior does not endear her to the audience.

Blossom performs the first half of her program. Not one of her shining hours. She hits a number of keyboard clunkers. (Maybe she was right about needing to rehearse.) Just before the intermission, she spots Felix Grant, the famous Washington jazz disc jockey, in the audience. She comes to the front of the stage, introduces him and makes a little speech. "I have never performed in the nation's capital before, and for years Felix has been trying to arrange a concert for me here. I guess this must be a pretty big day for you, right Felix?" On that modest note, she retired to the dressing room.

During the intermission, Shirley Horn, who was in the audience and had known Blossom since her New York debut with Miles Davis at the Village Vanguard, popped backstage to say hello. Shirley returned a few minutes later with a puzzled look on her face. I asked whether Blossom was acting strangely. Shirley nodded her head and said, metaphorically, "I think she's gone inside, locked the door and now she can't get out."


The second set unfolded without incident, apart from a few pianistic clangers.

Afterwards, Blossom briefly received her audience. Two gay men, who were regulars at the series, told her how much they enjoyed her, and made a point of saying that they had attended her PREVIOUS D.C. appearance at a gay-owned supper club called the Way Off Broadway, where Barbara Cook, Anita' O'Day. Helen Humes and others had also worked. (Blossom had revised history so that the venerable Corcoran, which she must have perceived as a more reputable venue, was now the site of her "official" Washington debut.) She pretended that she didn't know what they were referring to.

Concert is over. Time for dinner. The Blackwells escort Blossom's brother and wife to the restaurant. We close the auditorium, and I start to drive Blossom to the same location. Only she doesn't want to go there. "I want to see the monuments," she insists. "But everyone's waiting for us," I reply. "I'm not hungry," she pouts. "I want to see the monuments." I give her an abbreviated tour of Tourist Washington and take her to Hunan Gourmet where everyone has grown restless waiting for her.

Arriving at the large round table I reserved that seated 10 people, Blossom complained that she didn't like the chair that was left for her. She made everybody stand up and forced them to exchange seats to suit her. Then she announced to the starving gathering that she was not hungry. Helpfully, I suggested that we could just have drinks and snacks.

"No snacks!" she commanded.

We ordered drinks and, despite her instructions, some appetizers. Before the order arrived, she announced that she was leaving and asked if someone would hail her a cab. In a moment worthy of a Lubitsch comedy, every man at the table leapt up to escort her to the street and get rid of her. I can't recall whether or not her nice relatives remained with us, but I think they did. (Bill Blackwell probably can probably clarify this.) As soon as she was gone, we trashed her roundly before ravenously consuming a huge meal. Subsequently, I learned that Blossom had taken that cab to Charlie's, a jazz club in Georgetown, to see if she could secure a future gig. Had she bothered to inform us of her intention, we could have convened at Charlie's rather than in Chinatown.

To this day, I have yet to solve the mystery of her six-hour breakfast.
 

 

Another one from Bill Reed: 'One day Blossom Dearie came on business to the office of a former New York friend of mine. But all she could bring herself to talk about were the unsanitary conditions in his john: “The yoooo-rine [she pronounced it] stains” on the wall next to the toilet. Dearie then insisted that he send an aide to the deli downstairs to buy scouring powder and when it arrived, she set to work cleaning his toilet. She finished, then departed, and they never really did get around to discussing business. (And Marlene Dietrich thought that SHE was---as self-described---"The Queen of Ajax.") Eventually the insulted party with the dirty loo got even with Dearie by becoming her final (mis)manager.'

[sgcim]

5 hours ago, Larry Kart said:

 A Blossom Dearie story from the late Joel Siegel, originally posted on the Songbirds site. (BTW I did survive doing an interview with Blossom):

The Blossom Experience
By Joel E. Siegel

In the early '80s, I produced a concert series at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. called "Great American Songwriters." The idea was to match up first-class jazz and cabaret performers with GAS composers or, in rare cases, special themes. The series ran for three and a half years in a lovely 197-seat auditorium with a superb Steinway piano. Many of the programs were taped by and subsequently broadcast on National Public Radio.

Overall, there were about 30 concerts spread over three years. Here's a sample of the programs: Jackie and Roy doing concerts of Stephen Sondheim, Alec Wilder and a collection of songs they introduced; Pinky Winters and Lou Levy doing Johnny Mandel; Carol Sloane doing Rodgers and Hart; Charles DeForest doing Harry Warren; Ethabelle doing Harold Arlen and John Latouche; Sheila Jordan doing songs by jazz musicians; Buddy Barnes doing Cole Porter; Shirley Horn doing Duke Ellington and Curtis Lewis' "The Garden of the Blues Suite"; Mark Murphy doing Dorothy Fields; Julie Wilson doing Arlen and Kurt Weill, Sandra King making her American debut with a Vernon Duke program. Well, you get the idea. Others in the series included Chris Connor, Margaret Whiting, Carol Fredette, Ronny Whyte, Rose Murphy, Dardanelle, Bob Dorough, Dave Frishberg and many more. (Apologies to anyone I forgot to mention. My box of materials with the full list of performers is stored in my attic.)

Obviously, this was a perfect venue for Our Blossom. My negotiations with her were rather complicated. From the outset, she rejected the idea of preparing a special program as all of the others did. ("I'm a Great American Songwriter myself," she informed me.) I decided to bend the rules because Blossom is special and I knew she would draw a full house. So I gave her carte blanche to do whatever she wanted. I told her that traditionally we had a celebration dinner at a restaurant in Chinatown after the 4 p.m. concerts, to which a handful of people associated with the series were invited-Jennifer, my helpful and charming young intern-assistant from the Corcoran, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, several patrons of the series, etc. Blossom told me that her brother Walter and his wife would be coming from Winchester, Virginia, and asked that they be invited to dinner and that a driver be assigned to them. The Blackwells graciously volunteered provide them with transportation.

On Saturday, I picked Blossom up at Union Station and drove her to her hotel, a comfortable place just across the bridge from Georgetown. She was tired so I left her to rest after checking her in. The next morning, I was awakened at 8 a.m. by a call from her. She said that she needed to rehearse and had to find a place with a piano. This struck me as rather odd since she was performing solo and doing songs she had performed hundreds, probably thousands of times before-"I'm Shadowing You", "My New Celebrity Is You" etc. I told her that I had a piano, albeit not a very good one, and would be happy to drive into D.C. from Arlington, Virginia, and bring her to my place. She said she needed to have breakfast first, and would call me as soon as she was finished. I couldn't fall back to sleep, so I awaited her call.

9 a.m. 10 a.m. 11 a.m. 12 p.m. No call. Finally, I began phoning her, but got no response. 1 p.m. 2 p.m. I'm getting nervous because we have a 3 p.m. sound check. Finally, she called me at 2:30. I told her that I was worried that something had happened to her. She sternly said, "I told you that I was going for breakfast." "But that was more than 6 hours ago," I pointed out. "Oh," she said, "They were very slow." End of explanation.

I hurriedly picked her up and took her to the Corcoran. I had told her in advance that NPR was taping the shows and outlined the terms of their contract with the artists. When we arrived at the Gallery, she saw the sound truck, turned to me and imperiously said "It is not permitted." When I inquired WHAT was not permitted, she replied the taping of her show. This was the first time I had been informed of this stricture. An angry NPR sound crew, working overtime on Sunday, was turned away.

We entered the auditorium where the obliging Jennifer was setting things up. Nothing this young woman did satisfied Blossom. The lights were too bright. The lights were too dim. The piano had to be moved numerous times. Instead of requesting changes politely, Blossom kept snapping at the flustered young women in the most insulting manner. Embarrassed by her behavior, I drew Blossom aside and quietly said "You know, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar." She looked at me blankly and replied "I don't know what that means."

Finally, we managed to set things up to Blossom's apparent satisfaction. Just before we were to open the doors, she walked out into the seating area, called me over and asked "Where are all the flowers?" Totally disgruntled by her, I replied "I didn't bring them, Blossom. Did you?"

The audience enters-a packed house with standees-and I introduce Blossom. She takes elaborate bows, then notices a woman standing by the entrance door holding a baby. Blossom points to her and asks "Is that a baby?" The woman indicates that it is. "Does it cry?" Blossom inquires. The woman says "He's asleep. If he wakes up and cries, I'll take him outside. That's why I'm standing by the door." Blossom repeats her earlier mantra "It is not permitted" and the woman and her baby are banished. This behavior does not endear her to the audience.

Blossom performs the first half of her program. Not one of her shining hours. She hits a number of keyboard clunkers. (Maybe she was right about needing to rehearse.) Just before the intermission, she spots Felix Grant, the famous Washington jazz disc jockey, in the audience. She comes to the front of the stage, introduces him and makes a little speech. "I have never performed in the nation's capital before, and for years Felix has been trying to arrange a concert for me here. I guess this must be a pretty big day for you, right Felix?" On that modest note, she retired to the dressing room.

During the intermission, Shirley Horn, who was in the audience and had known Blossom since her New York debut with Miles Davis at the Village Vanguard, popped backstage to say hello. Shirley returned a few minutes later with a puzzled look on her face. I asked whether Blossom was acting strangely. Shirley nodded her head and said, metaphorically, "I think she's gone inside, locked the door and now she can't get out."


The second set unfolded without incident, apart from a few pianistic clangers.

Afterwards, Blossom briefly received her audience. Two gay men, who were regulars at the series, told her how much they enjoyed her, and made a point of saying that they had attended her PREVIOUS D.C. appearance at a gay-owned supper club called the Way Off Broadway, where Barbara Cook, Anita' O'Day. Helen Humes and others had also worked. (Blossom had revised history so that the venerable Corcoran, which she must have perceived as a more reputable venue, was now the site of her "official" Washington debut.) She pretended that she didn't know what they were referring to.

Concert is over. Time for dinner. The Blackwells escort Blossom's brother and wife to the restaurant. We close the auditorium, and I start to drive Blossom to the same location. Only she doesn't want to go there. "I want to see the monuments," she insists. "But everyone's waiting for us," I reply. "I'm not hungry," she pouts. "I want to see the monuments." I give her an abbreviated tour of Tourist Washington and take her to Hunan Gourmet where everyone has grown restless waiting for her.

Arriving at the large round table I reserved that seated 10 people, Blossom complained that she didn't like the chair that was left for her. She made everybody stand up and forced them to exchange seats to suit her. Then she announced to the starving gathering that she was not hungry. Helpfully, I suggested that we could just have drinks and snacks.

"No snacks!" she commanded.

We ordered drinks and, despite her instructions, some appetizers. Before the order arrived, she announced that she was leaving and asked if someone would hail her a cab. In a moment worthy of a Lubitsch comedy, every man at the table leapt up to escort her to the street and get rid of her. I can't recall whether or not her nice relatives remained with us, but I think they did. (Bill Blackwell probably can probably clarify this.) As soon as she was gone, we trashed her roundly before ravenously consuming a huge meal. Subsequently, I learned that Blossom had taken that cab to Charlie's, a jazz club in Georgetown, to see if she could secure a future gig. Had she bothered to inform us of her intention, we could have convened at Charlie's rather than in Chinatown.

To this day, I have yet to solve the mystery of her six-hour breakfast.
 

 

Another one from Bill Reed: 'One day Blossom Dearie came on business to the office of a former New York friend of mine. But all she could bring herself to talk about were the unsanitary conditions in his john: “The yoooo-rine [she pronounced it] stains” on the wall next to the toilet. Dearie then insisted that he send an aide to the deli downstairs to buy scouring powder and when it arrived, she set to work cleaning his toilet. She finished, then departed, and they never really did get around to discussing business. (And Marlene Dietrich thought that SHE was---as self-described---"The Queen of Ajax.") Eventually the insulted party with the dirty loo got even with Dearie by becoming her final (mis)manager.'

Yea, that was pretty much how she treated that jazz DJ. I thought I was hearing things when I heard her telling him that he was asking her stupid questions. No wonder Bobby Jaspar got addicted to heroin...Thanks for the confirmation!

[Larry Kart]

Joel Siegel obit, just so it's clear which person of that name  wrote about the Dearie debacle):
 

Joel E. Siegel Dies

 

 

 

By Louie Estrada

March 13, 2004

Joel E. Siegel, 63, a retired Georgetown University English professor who also was a lyricist, music producer and freelance film and music critic for the Washington City Paper, died of spinal meningitis March 11 at George Washington University Hospital.

Dr. Siegel mostly taught film studies at Georgetown, where he was a faculty member for 32 years, until 1998. He offered the college's earliest courses on film studies and built the curriculum while maintaining a vibrant career in the arts outside the classroom.

He staged singer and songwriter series at the Kennedy Center, the Corcoran Gallery of Art and the University of Maryland; managed singers and produced their albums; and in 1973 authored "Val Lewton: The Reality of Terror," about the legendary film producer.

In 1993, he shared a Grammy for best album notes with Buck Clayton and Phil Schaap for their book accompanying the 10-CD set "The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve, 1945-1959."

He was perhaps most recognizable for his freelance music, book and film reviews that appeared in the Washington City Paper for the past 20 years. His last movie review, about the recent revival of Francis Ford Coppola's 1982 film "One From the Heart," appeared in January.

He utilized an economical writing style with short, declarative sentences in his critiques, which sometimes related occurrences in his personal life, said Leonard Roberge, arts editor at the City Paper.

In one review, Dr. Siegel likened the displeasure of watching a movie with a bad ending after enjoying two-thirds of the film to a dining experience he had at a restaurant. He wrote how fabulous the food tasted until the very last bite, when lifting his fork he found an insect plastered to the underside, ruining the entire meal.

"He established a relationship with readers, confided in them," Roberge said.

Dr. Siegel also wrote reviews for JazzTimes, Washingtonian magazine and the old Washington Newsworks and Washington Tribune newspapers.

As a music producer, he managed Washington jazz singer-songwriter Shirley Horn in the 1980s and 1990s, after she had taken time off to raise her children. He produced her 1987 album "Softly" and co-produced her "You Won't Forget Me" and "I Love You, Paris" albums. He was an associate producer on her album "Here's to Life."

In the early 1990s, he wrote English lyrics for the Italian song "Estate."

Dr. Siegel also produced jazz vocalist Patti Wicks's recent album "Love Locked Out."

He would often take sabbaticals from teaching to pursue his other interests or simply squeeze in projects between the courses he taught, said his sister, Judith Siegel-Baum.

Among his favorite activities was penning lyrics. His long list of credits includes the songs "Noir," recorded by Claire Martin; "The Ways of Love," recorded by Shirley Horn and Wynton Marsalis; "I Watch You Sleep," recorded by Jackie Cain and Roy Kral; and the theme song of the 1979 war movie "Yanks."

Dr. Siegel, an Arlington resident, was a native of Washington, Pa. He graduated from Cornell University and received a master's degree and a doctorate in English from Northwestern University.

His doctoral dissertation was on film director Vincent Minnelli.

In addition to his sister, of New York, survivors include his parents, Sherman H. and Miriam Danzinger Siegel of Washington, Pa.

[sgcim]

4 hours ago, Larry Kart said:

Joel Siegel obit, just so it's clear which person of that name  wrote about the Dearie debacle):
 

Joel E. Siegel Dies

 

 

 

By Louie Estrada

March 13, 2004

Joel E. Siegel, 63, a retired Georgetown University English professor who also was a lyricist, music producer and freelance film and music critic for the Washington City Paper, died of spinal meningitis March 11 at George Washington University Hospital.

Dr. Siegel mostly taught film studies at Georgetown, where he was a faculty member for 32 years, until 1998. He offered the college's earliest courses on film studies and built the curriculum while maintaining a vibrant career in the arts outside the classroom.

He staged singer and songwriter series at the Kennedy Center, the Corcoran Gallery of Art and the University of Maryland; managed singers and produced their albums; and in 1973 authored "Val Lewton: The Reality of Terror," about the legendary film producer.

In 1993, he shared a Grammy for best album notes with Buck Clayton and Phil Schaap for their book accompanying the 10-CD set "The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve, 1945-1959."

He was perhaps most recognizable for his freelance music, book and film reviews that appeared in the Washington City Paper for the past 20 years. His last movie review, about the recent revival of Francis Ford Coppola's 1982 film "One From the Heart," appeared in January.

He utilized an economical writing style with short, declarative sentences in his critiques, which sometimes related occurrences in his personal life, said Leonard Roberge, arts editor at the City Paper.

In one review, Dr. Siegel likened the displeasure of watching a movie with a bad ending after enjoying two-thirds of the film to a dining experience he had at a restaurant. He wrote how fabulous the food tasted until the very last bite, when lifting his fork he found an insect plastered to the underside, ruining the entire meal.

"He established a relationship with readers, confided in them," Roberge said.

Dr. Siegel also wrote reviews for JazzTimes, Washingtonian magazine and the old Washington Newsworks and Washington Tribune newspapers.

As a music producer, he managed Washington jazz singer-songwriter Shirley Horn in the 1980s and 1990s, after she had taken time off to raise her children. He produced her 1987 album "Softly" and co-produced her "You Won't Forget Me" and "I Love You, Paris" albums. He was an associate producer on her album "Here's to Life."

In the early 1990s, he wrote English lyrics for the Italian song "Estate."

Dr. Siegel also produced jazz vocalist Patti Wicks's recent album "Love Locked Out."

He would often take sabbaticals from teaching to pursue his other interests or simply squeeze in projects between the courses he taught, said his sister, Judith Siegel-Baum.

Among his favorite activities was penning lyrics. His long list of credits includes the songs "Noir," recorded by Claire Martin; "The Ways of Love," recorded by Shirley Horn and Wynton Marsalis; "I Watch You Sleep," recorded by Jackie Cain and Roy Kral; and the theme song of the 1979 war movie "Yanks."

Dr. Siegel, an Arlington resident, was a native of Washington, Pa. He graduated from Cornell University and received a master's degree and a doctorate in English from Northwestern University.

His doctoral dissertation was on film director Vincent Minnelli.

In addition to his sister, of New York, survivors include his parents, Sherman H. and Miriam Danzinger Siegel of Washington, Pa.

 

Thanks! There's gotta be a book out there with some more Blossom Dearyisms...

[Ken Dryden]

I bought the book several months ago and enjoyed it, though I thought the later years of his life were skipped over, like he was pressing to meet a publisher's deadline.

[JSngry]

I've always enjoyed Stu Martin.