They loved to sing

April 1, 2012

Talk about soul.  Like everyone didn’t have one. Talk about the blues. Like everyone hadn’t felt it. But blowing that horn was another question. Louis Armstrong. Could have blown with the angels. And what was this jazz. By these young woman. Some elegant. Some rough as spider cones. Their voices. Like angels. On fire. They felt the essence. Of life and left it on the stage.

They began their careers in small clubs. And cat houses. In choirs. And minstrel shows. They were applauded. Made famous. At times they were loved. They made a lot of money and spent it. On booze. On drugs. On men. And became famous. Some died in small rooms without family. Some in the arms of their children. They were all different. They were the Saints of Jazz. And they loved to sing.

Kay Starr (July 21, 1922 -


Lou Gehrig could see the future. Luckiest man in the world. Knew when his time was up. Not Eugen Weidmann. Lost his head. Outside the prison of Saint-Pierre. The last public guillotining. Page 50. Believe it or Not. Made Eugene so famous. Last thing he did was dance.


The tramps passed. Little Kay Starr’s doorstep. And talked of revolution.  When things would return. To the golden days. But little Katie wasn’t listenin’. She had found her own audience. The chickens in the coop. Loved to hear her singin’. Made them forget. The foxes in the woodlot. Couldn’t stop grinnin’.


Kay sang on a radio station. In Dallas. Texas. A little girl. And that big mike. So many song contests. You’d think that winning once was enough. And Lina Medina. Became the world’s youngest mother. At the age of five. And everyone agreed. The future had arrived.


In small little towns. Up and down endless. Dusty roads. Listening to the little stones. Hitting the floor boards. And then one day. Her voice disappeared. In a hole. Her smile. It was heaven being mute. Now she could marry big Harry. And have little mute children. But disaster struck. Her voice came back. And the ongoing never ending career.  Its such a long long time. When you’re never allowed to remember. How anything began.

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