Finally, there is a Carmen McRae web site. It’s creators call it a tribute site. That designation smacks of fanzinedom, but don’t be misled; the McRae site is put together with knowledge as well as appreciation. It does not have a formal discography, but it lists, describes and in some cases illustrates her recordings decade by decade. It borrows an adequate short biography from the New Grove Dictionary of Jazz and has a chronology excerpted from Leslie Gourse’s biography of McRae. Gourse’s book is dreadful, but this sample from her coverage of Carmen in the 1960s is right on the money:
Carmen hires pianist Norman Simmons as her accompanist, though he is wary of working with her because of her reputation for being tough, outspoken, and highly opinionated. Simmons soon learns to love and respect his boss on a professional level; he observes that she simply doesn’t let any one “stomp around” in her life.
That’s an understatement, as Carol Sloane makes plain in her story in a section of essays about McRae.
Carmen McRae
Each page of the site is loaded with photographs from all phases of Carmen’s life. The McRae site includes a reduction of the essay I wrote for the booklet accompanying the two CDs of her 1976 performances at Ratso’s, a club in Chicago, not, as the site reports, in Florida. Here is the unreconstituted version:
Carmen McRae never had to confront the kind of Tin Pan Alley songpluggers’ dross that her idol Billie Holiday was handed in the 1930s, but she had the same ability to transform ordinary material into something of value. Anyone who recalls the transitory Top Forty versions of the 1970s pop songs McRae sings here will marvel as she fashions them into proper companions for imperishable classics. She brings Bob Lind’s “Elusive Butterfly” and Eric Carmen’s “All By Myself” into the room with Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo” and Antonio Carlos Jobim’s “Dindi” and makes them welcome. “Elusive Butterfly” and “All By Myself” may not be great songs, but they had quality in a decade whose hit parade did not overflow with deathless works. Carmen had an unfailing ear for the best material.
For her, the main attraction of some of these songs may well have been the lyrics. A thorough musician who knew the implications of a song’s every chord, Carmen was also a supreme vocal actress, homing in on the emotional heat that would bond her to the audience. She often said that words were more important to her than melody. In her incomparably literate and deeply felt interpretations of lyrics, you can hear her love of the meaning in verbal connection. The pain and the catch in her throat are real when she sings, “I won’t let sorrow hurt me, not like it’s hurt me before.”
This collection also has generous samples of another aspect of her ability to communicate. As an audience schmoozer, Carmen was in a league with Dizzy Gillespie and Cannonball Adderley. Listen to the spontaneity of her funny asides during “‘Tain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do” and her earthy ones in “Just A Little Lovin’.” In her twenties and thirties she was gorgeous, with an exotic luminosity that glowed through the wariness she accumulated on the road in tough bands and rough clubs. As she aged, she took on an earth mother solidity and an armor of irony, but when she was pleased her face lit up with the young Carmen’s smile.
Browsing the McRae site accomplishes what a good music site should; it makes you want to hear the music. It leads the reader to dozens of McRae recordings. If I had to choose just one for my desert island, it would be The Great American Song Book, a dumb title for a great album. This brilliant 1972 collaboration at Donte’s in Los Angeles with pianist Jimmy Rowles includes “The Ballad of Thelonious Monk” and an “I Cried For You” that sets a singers’ standard for up-tempo relaxation.
You Tube has a generous handful of Carmen McRae performances. I recommend all of them, but be sure not to miss this one and this one. And take a look at that web site. It’s worth your time.