[This film] will make you fall in love [with Linda] all over again.
- Frank Scheck, Hollywood Reporter (2019)
"Linda Ronstadt: The Sound Of My Voice": A. This year we have witnessed a run of music-related movies, including narrative films and documentaries, in which the focus has been on famous artists who became stars during the sixties and seventies. On that list are Bohemian Rhapsody (Freddie Mercury), The Quiet One (Bill Wyman) and Rocket Man (Elton John), all films I have reviewed here.* Four other recent films which I have not yet decided on viewing are (i) the documentary David Crosby: Remember My Name, covering the life of the former Byrds and CS&N member, (ii) Echo In The Canyon, a documentary examining the influence in the mid-sixties of the LA music scene, where Laurel Canyon was the hotbed of creativity for the likes of the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson and Michelle Phillips of The Mamas And The Papas, (iii) Yesterday, a comedy whose premise is a scenario in which no one except for the protagonist is familiar with the music of the Beatles, and (iv) Blinded By The Light, the fictionalized story of a Pakistani teenager who senses a connection between his life's challenging circumstances and the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen's songs.
The music film which sets the bar almost unattainably high is the one I just watched, Linda Ronstadt: The Sound Of My Voice. Ronstadt is the perfect specimen for a biographical documentary. I am very surprised it took this long for a filmmaker to recognize the practically can't-miss potential and jump into the project. Congratulations to co-directors Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman for the excellence of their finished product.
What makes Linda Ronstadt such a foolproof candidate for a full length documentary? Let's start with her commercial success. During her multi-decade career spanning 1967 when she was just twenty-one years old until 1990, she managed to place thirty-five singles on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. Think about that number for a moment. That is truly rarefied air. Twenty-one of those offerings hit the top forty, with ten climbing into the top ten. When you consider that the seventies marked the beginning of an era when music tastes were changing, with more emphasis being placed on albums, her achievement on the singles chart was remarkable. Ronstadt was no less successful with album sales, releasing one gold or platinum platter after another.
The second reason flows from the first: Her voice is perfectly clear, evocative and wide ranging. There was no genre which she was afraid to tackle. If she came across a song that moved her, she felt a need to record it herself, but in her own manner. Her recordings cover the gamut, from pop, rock, Motown, country, classical and even Spanish. In one of the film's segments, Ronstadt reveals the story of how she boldly informed an Asylum Records exec that she was going to record an entire album of songs in Spanish. The exec thought her idea would result in a financial disaster, but Linda reminded him that she had always been willing to follow the label's guidance. This time, however, she needed to do a recording for herself. Her motive and inspiration were to honor her recently deceased father, who was Mexican. The label acquiesced, and the album, 1987's Canciones de Mi Padre (which translates to Songs Of My Father), soared up the charts.
Another example of Ronstadt's fearlessness was accepting the challenge of performing the leading soprano role in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, The Pirates Of Penzance, at a point in her singing career when she could have rested on her numerous laurels. The production ran for almost two full years, 1981-1982, on Broadway.
Despite the fact that Ronstadt did not write her own material, I find it easy to take the position that her covers more than do justice to the original versions. Some examples, all of which are contained in the documentary, are: Silver Threads And Golden Needles (originally by the Springfields), When Will I be Loved (originally by the Everly Brothers), Heat Wave (originally by Martha & The Vandellas), Blue Bayou (originally by Roy Orbison) and It's So Easy (originally by Buddy Holly).
In contrast to many of the music industry's female singers, Ronstadt was humble, even insecure. She was the antithesis of a diva. For example, she insisted that she not be handed the Pirates role until she passed an audition. When she first saw Emmy Lou Harris in concert, she hoped someday the two would be able to perform together, but she hesitated to suggest it because she felt Emmy Lou was the better singer. (Most people would call it a draw.) The two of them, together with icon Dolly Parton, created Trio, one of the best albums of 1987. A very similar situation involved Aaron Neville, whom Ronstadt greatly admired but balked at approaching for a music partnership. She thought he was out of her league. In an on-camera interview, Neville scoffed at the idea that Ronstadt had anything to fear. Their duet, 1989's Don't Know Much, is silky smooth. (Note: It's a tossup which of Linda's duets is better, Don't Know Much with Neville, or 1986's Somewhere Out There with James Ingram. I could listen to those two melodies all day. Coincidentally, they each attained # 2 on the Billboard Hot 100.) Linda loved Frank Sinatra's renditions of songs from the forties and fifties, and wanted to cover them herself. In 1983 she told a New York music insider that in order to do so, she needed an arranger "like Nelson Riddle," who was Sinatra's arranger. The insider replied, "Why don't you ask Nelson Riddle?" Ronstadt felt he'd turn her down, but she was wrong. The three albums resulting from their collaboration (What's New?, Lush Life and For Sentimental Reasons) were masterpieces.
Ronstadt retired in 2011 at age sixty-five. The following year she was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. Many celebrities would never agree to go on camera while fighting such debilitation, but Linda, ever the modest optimist, was game. She explained to the filmmakers that her speaking voice has changed little, but her illness prevents her from being able to control her singing voice. Nevertheless, she did perform a short song with two relatives while sitting on her living room sofa.
Besides the sublime subject matter which Linda Ronstadt herself provides in terms of her voice, her alluring charm and her candor, two other key attributes account for the movie's lofty rating in my eyes. First, as is true with most successful documentaries, the concert footage is exciting and plentiful. Secondly, don't overlook the fact that not only is Rondstadt alive at age seventy-three, and healthy enough to contribute to this documentary, but so are most of the key people during her long career, such as collaborating singers, producers, band mates, record label honchos and music journalists. Her contacts list, which in the old days used to be kept on a Rolodex, would include Peter Asher, Ry Cooder, Cameron Crowe, David Geffen, J.D. Souther, all of the original Eagles, and almost all of the other folks mentioned in this post. The filmmakers interview all of them in the course of the documentary.
My favorite observation comes from Jackson Browne, paired with Ronstadt on an early seventies North American tour. Because they were both merely starting their careers, they took turns as opening act and headliner. Browne, who himself became a rock star, admitted that he soon realized it was better for him psychologically to be the opener. He asked rhetorically, "How would you like to take the stage after Linda every night?"
____________
* Bohemian Rhapsody reviewed here January 29, 2019; B-.
The Quiet One reviewed here July 30, 2019; B.
Rocket Man reviewed here August 24, 2019; B.
Monday, September 30, 2019
Saturday, September 28, 2019
The Chinese Grandmother
I have verbally recited the following little story so many times that it has become part of my oral history. It seems fitting fodder for this blog which, at times, serves as my written history.
I worked in downtown Minneapolis from June 1980 to September 2007. During the middle third of that twenty-seven year span, I developed the following, rather loosely constructed weekly lunch schedule to which I adhered more often than not:
Mondays: Pizza at Ginelli's, located in the TCF Tower.
Tuesdays: Chicken chow mein at Bamboo Garden, located in the Northstar Center.
Wednesdays: Chili at The Loon (First Ave & 5th Street) if I was flush, otherwise at the Park Cafe located in the Hennepin County Government Center.
Thursdays: Italian meat loaf at Sorrento, located in the Northstar Center.
Fridays: Wild Card, i.e., pick somewhere different each week.
Tuesday lunches at the Bamboo Garden were a special treat for me, because there I would have a ninety second encounter with one of my all-time favorite restaurant people, who is the title character of this post. Ironically and sadly, I can no longer remember her name. For this post I'm going to call her "Liu."
One would think it would not be all that difficult to find good chow mein in a major city's downtown, but that was the case in Minneapolis back in the nineties. I guess we are too far from the west coast to be afforded a large number of choices. In any event, after sampling chicken chow mein at the handful of places serving it within a reasonable walking distance, Bamboo Garden, right across Marquette Avenue from my office, was the winner. Still operating today in the same Northstar Center location, Bamboo Garden is a Chinese restaurant where the customers, immediately upon entering, go through a cafeteria style line. The routine calls for picking up a tray, moving from right to left while looking through the glass at the tempting offerings, and communicating selections to an employee behind the glass. As alluded to above, I did not spend any time mulling over my choice of lunch; it was going to be chicken chow mein, no matter what else was on display.
The employee at the start of the line was Liu, always ready with a smile which would momentarily allow you to forget the stress, politics and mayhem of the office you just left. Her diminutive stature and winning personality reminded me of my Italian grandma. Seeing and speaking with Liu was always the highlight of my weekly Bamboo Garden visits, to be immediately followed by the lowlight (explained shortly). Although I am terrible at guessing a person's age, it's safe to say that Liu was in her seventies, probably a grandmother and perhaps even a great grandmother. I'm also fairly confident in guessing that she was related to and likely the mother of the much younger woman, whom I'll refer to as "Zhi," at the end of the line. Zhi multi-tasked behind the counter as the manager and cashier.
Liu's most charming aspect was that she appeared to speak almost no English. In fact, in all the years I went through her line at the Bamboo Garden, I only heard her say three quasi-sentences, which were interrogatories:
"Here to go?" Did I plan to eat my lunch in the adjoining dining room, or was this going to be a take-out order? I always opted for the former.
"Fwie wie, wie wie?" (Each rhyming with "rye.") Did I want fried rice or white rice with my chow mein? Again, I always opted for the former.
Her third question was the one I cherished the most: "Ah pah tie zah?" Did I want an appetizer, such as an egg roll? I usually declined. What I really wanted was for Liu to repeat that third question, but of course I never asked her to do so. I counted on hearing it every Tuesday afternoon, and she never let me down!
A few months after I started eating at the Bamboo Garden, I told my kids about Liu's marvelous third question. Her unique pronunciation of "appetizer" thereupon became a staple of the family lexicon. No one at our dining room table -- well, except for Momma Cuandito -- ever pronounced the word other than in the fashion originated by Liu. It is an established tradition at the Quentin Estates.
Unfortunately, but understandably, Zhi did not share the enduring charisma of Liu. Zhi was all business and at times even stern. She kept the line moving and simultaneously oversaw the dining room, making sure tables were cleared and the bus boys were doing their job. The lunch business downtown is highly competitive, and I'm sure Zhi felt the burden. Still, in her apparent quest to turn a profit, she had one practice which was annoying and ridiculous.
As the food plate made its way from Liu's end to Zhi, Zhi would closely examine the portion, making sure that Liu had not been too generous with her ladle full of food. If Liu had put too much chicken in the chow mein, Zhi would take a pair of tongs, pick the excess chicken off and place it back in the pot. Keep in mind that what we're talking about here is not ribeye or lobster; it's chicken! The pieces of chicken were usually tiny, no bigger than the surface area on the nail of a person's little finger. It would be rare for me to get through the line without Zhi removing four or five of the infinitesimally small nuggets. If I didn't like Liu so much, Zhi's absurd frugality would have been a show stopper.
I patronized Bamboo Garden for many years. Then for a string of three or four consecutive weeks I noticed Liu was no longer there. I don't know why, but hopefully it was a voluntary retirement in good health. For a short time afterward I even peeked in the restaurant's window facing 7th Street whenever I happened to be walking by, but there was no sign of her. Liu's absence opened the door for me to satisfy my Chinese food craving on Tuesdays at a different restaurant called Canton Village, located in the Soo Line Building. The specialty there was kung pao chicken. I ate at Canton Village on Tuesdays for at least five years until the owners lost their lease. Not once did the manager remove any excess chicken from my plate.
I worked in downtown Minneapolis from June 1980 to September 2007. During the middle third of that twenty-seven year span, I developed the following, rather loosely constructed weekly lunch schedule to which I adhered more often than not:
Mondays: Pizza at Ginelli's, located in the TCF Tower.
Tuesdays: Chicken chow mein at Bamboo Garden, located in the Northstar Center.
Wednesdays: Chili at The Loon (First Ave & 5th Street) if I was flush, otherwise at the Park Cafe located in the Hennepin County Government Center.
Thursdays: Italian meat loaf at Sorrento, located in the Northstar Center.
Fridays: Wild Card, i.e., pick somewhere different each week.
Tuesday lunches at the Bamboo Garden were a special treat for me, because there I would have a ninety second encounter with one of my all-time favorite restaurant people, who is the title character of this post. Ironically and sadly, I can no longer remember her name. For this post I'm going to call her "Liu."
One would think it would not be all that difficult to find good chow mein in a major city's downtown, but that was the case in Minneapolis back in the nineties. I guess we are too far from the west coast to be afforded a large number of choices. In any event, after sampling chicken chow mein at the handful of places serving it within a reasonable walking distance, Bamboo Garden, right across Marquette Avenue from my office, was the winner. Still operating today in the same Northstar Center location, Bamboo Garden is a Chinese restaurant where the customers, immediately upon entering, go through a cafeteria style line. The routine calls for picking up a tray, moving from right to left while looking through the glass at the tempting offerings, and communicating selections to an employee behind the glass. As alluded to above, I did not spend any time mulling over my choice of lunch; it was going to be chicken chow mein, no matter what else was on display.
The employee at the start of the line was Liu, always ready with a smile which would momentarily allow you to forget the stress, politics and mayhem of the office you just left. Her diminutive stature and winning personality reminded me of my Italian grandma. Seeing and speaking with Liu was always the highlight of my weekly Bamboo Garden visits, to be immediately followed by the lowlight (explained shortly). Although I am terrible at guessing a person's age, it's safe to say that Liu was in her seventies, probably a grandmother and perhaps even a great grandmother. I'm also fairly confident in guessing that she was related to and likely the mother of the much younger woman, whom I'll refer to as "Zhi," at the end of the line. Zhi multi-tasked behind the counter as the manager and cashier.
Liu's most charming aspect was that she appeared to speak almost no English. In fact, in all the years I went through her line at the Bamboo Garden, I only heard her say three quasi-sentences, which were interrogatories:
"Here to go?" Did I plan to eat my lunch in the adjoining dining room, or was this going to be a take-out order? I always opted for the former.
"Fwie wie, wie wie?" (Each rhyming with "rye.") Did I want fried rice or white rice with my chow mein? Again, I always opted for the former.
Her third question was the one I cherished the most: "Ah pah tie zah?" Did I want an appetizer, such as an egg roll? I usually declined. What I really wanted was for Liu to repeat that third question, but of course I never asked her to do so. I counted on hearing it every Tuesday afternoon, and she never let me down!
A few months after I started eating at the Bamboo Garden, I told my kids about Liu's marvelous third question. Her unique pronunciation of "appetizer" thereupon became a staple of the family lexicon. No one at our dining room table -- well, except for Momma Cuandito -- ever pronounced the word other than in the fashion originated by Liu. It is an established tradition at the Quentin Estates.
Unfortunately, but understandably, Zhi did not share the enduring charisma of Liu. Zhi was all business and at times even stern. She kept the line moving and simultaneously oversaw the dining room, making sure tables were cleared and the bus boys were doing their job. The lunch business downtown is highly competitive, and I'm sure Zhi felt the burden. Still, in her apparent quest to turn a profit, she had one practice which was annoying and ridiculous.
As the food plate made its way from Liu's end to Zhi, Zhi would closely examine the portion, making sure that Liu had not been too generous with her ladle full of food. If Liu had put too much chicken in the chow mein, Zhi would take a pair of tongs, pick the excess chicken off and place it back in the pot. Keep in mind that what we're talking about here is not ribeye or lobster; it's chicken! The pieces of chicken were usually tiny, no bigger than the surface area on the nail of a person's little finger. It would be rare for me to get through the line without Zhi removing four or five of the infinitesimally small nuggets. If I didn't like Liu so much, Zhi's absurd frugality would have been a show stopper.
I patronized Bamboo Garden for many years. Then for a string of three or four consecutive weeks I noticed Liu was no longer there. I don't know why, but hopefully it was a voluntary retirement in good health. For a short time afterward I even peeked in the restaurant's window facing 7th Street whenever I happened to be walking by, but there was no sign of her. Liu's absence opened the door for me to satisfy my Chinese food craving on Tuesdays at a different restaurant called Canton Village, located in the Soo Line Building. The specialty there was kung pao chicken. I ate at Canton Village on Tuesdays for at least five years until the owners lost their lease. Not once did the manager remove any excess chicken from my plate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)