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Ethel Merman: The Clarion Call
January 6, 2002
By Barry Singer
The New York Times
PICTURE THIS: Britney Spears, Mariah
Carey, Bjork and Ethel Merman are all on stage, side by side,
at roughly the same age - a dewy-eyed 20. Which of them sounds
better to you?
O.K., stop laughing. The question is
well worth exploring. What is it that we listen for in a female
pop singer today and how does this differ from what we once
loved to hear? Or, to further personalize the matter, why
is Ethel Merman, one of the most distinctive female singers
of the 20th century, now viewed by many as perhaps the uncoolest
singer ever, simply because she sang with a natural power
and sheen that today seem the antithesis of contemporary pop
style?
The recent release of selections from
two Merman Broadway star turns, Irving Berlin's "Call
Me Madam" and Cole Porter's "Panama Hattie"
(Decca Broadway 0881 105221-2), alongside the reissue, in
2000, of the original cast album of Berlin's "Annie Get
Your Gun" (Decca Broadway 012 159 243-2) occasion a re-examination
of this neglected icon, the leading Broadway musical comedy
performer of her day and a singer of timeless gifts but less
than eternal appeal. (She died in 1984 at 76.)
Listen to her as Annie Oakley in "Annie
Get Your Gun." The voice is brassy, jaunty, clarion,
yet unexpectedly lilting. It is a sound that seems to embody
much of what has been lost in our musical life over the last
quarter century; a quality of unapologetic, all-American moxie
that our
culture as a whole has largely abandoned since the 60's.
Simply stated, Merman possessed the same
innate vocal prowess as Ms. Carey, the same girlish buoyancy
as Ms. Spears and the same mesmerizing assurance as Bjork.
She was just about Ms. Spears's age when she first became
a sensation, introducing "I Got Rhythm" on Broadway
in the Gershwin brother's 1930 musical comedy "Girl Crazy."
And Merman was very much thought of as "hot" at
the time, though her offstage persona was about as tame as,
well, Ms. Spears's (notwithstanding the latter's well-publicized
visits to strip clubs to study dance moves).
Unlike Ms. Carey, though, Merman's vocal
talent was fearlessly idiosyncratic, an unabashed expression
of her boisterous personality, as was her exuberance. Neither
characteristic was the product of media handlers of any kind.
Her self-confidence was also of the irony-free variety, a
kind of clueless state that makes her seem laughable to many
today.
In fact, Merman's gifts are now prime
reasons for her fall from pop grace. Take her blaring, almost
garish, individuality. Ever since the dawn of rock 'n' roll,
the pop marketplace has placed a premium on original voices,
but it can be fickle, perversely so at times. An iconoclastic
voice like Bjork's is embraced. But it better not sound as
classically legitimate as Merman's or suspicions will arise.
Yes, a legitimate voice like Ms. Carey's is embraced. But
it better not sound as individual as Merman's in-your-face
instrument or listeners are apt to grow antsy. And yes, a
fresh, young presence like Ms. Spears is more than embraced,
not because she possesses an iconoclastic or legitimate or
even rudimentary voice but merely for being infinitely malleable.
Malleable, Merman was not. As a young
woman, her vocal style and even her sexuality were very much
about a sense of inner strength that was marvelously womanly.
Sure, everyone from Madonna and Janet Jackson on down affects
a kind of feminine militancy today. But truly Mermanesque
strength? Hardly.
Certainly, she had idiosyncracies that
hardened into mannerisms - the hair-sprayed harridan image
of her later years. Listening today as a hugely talented young
singer like Macy Gray confuses emotional honesty with eccentricity
verging on grotesquerie, one can't help but think of Merman,
after she had lost her youth.
In their 1959 Broadway musical "Gypsy,"
the composer Jule Styne and the lyricist Stephen Sondheim
channeled the emotional neediness underlying Merman's mannerisms
to revelatory effect, and Merman was more than up to the challenge,
plumbing the depths of her own persona with incandescent results.
Honesty was always what she was after, ultimately.
One young singer who has studied Merman
closely and comprehends the subtleties of her seeming contradictions
is the cabaret artist Klea Blackhurst. Her extraordinarily
nuanced Off Broadway homage to Merman, "Everything the
Traffic Will Allow," received much critical acclaim this
past season. "What eventually got remembered about her
is what she looked like and sounded like late in life,"
Ms. Blackhurst said of Merman in a recent interview. "People
aren't really listening; they're remembering her hair style
on Ed Sullivan, which she shouldn't be memorialized for."
It's almost a relief to point out that
Ms. Blackhurst doesn't sing exactly like Merman at all. Her
rhythmic sense is more fluid (though Merman was not entirely
the rhythmic stiff some accuse her of having been). Her tone
is gentler, her phrasing more thoughtful and her droll sense
of humor far more suited to the moment.
In fact, Ms. Blackhurst is the perfect
answer to the question: Should we even want singers to sound
like Ethel Merman anymore? The answer is a qualified no. Ethel
Merman was unmistakably of another time. But it sure wouldn't
hurt to listen to her.
Barry Singer writes frequently about
theater and music for Arts & Leisure.
Copyright 2002 The New York Times Company
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