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Richmond perches Lee on a Mount Rushmore of popular jazz singers, along with Armstrong, Crosby and Sinatra. Richmond's assertion seems a slight stretch and baits a distracting and unhelpful debate. Lee placed her brand on certain songs, as did Armstrong; she was certainly as instinctual a jazz singer as Crosby, and she made you suspect, as did Sinatra, that a darker side lurked. But she could not be rated as influential and penetrating as the other three. Armstrong brought jazz out of its swaddling clothes. Though not the first, Crosby was certainly the quintessential crooner, eclipsing his predecessors and raising the bar for all who followed. Among them was Sinatra, who followed Crosby but established his own brand, a singer whose rendering of lyrics came out of the full experience of life, both bitter and sweet. Lee was more a stylist than a style maker, original to be sure, but not groundbreaking. But there's no debating that she should be included among the great interpreters of American popular song, or that an evening at home listening to Peggy Lee records is an exquisite pleasure.
During the 1940s, Lee carved out a singing style that many would describe as minimalist; she performed without the broad gestures and outstretched arms that were most singers' stock in trade. This compelled listeners, Andre Previn once observed, to focus on the song itself. Previn echoed the opinion of other musicians, that Lee had "the best sense of time" and was, he said, "right in the pocket." Music historians and critics often struggle to classify someone as either a pop or a jazz singer. In Lee's case, her affinity for the blues as well as pop and jazz made versatility her pigeonhole.
Benny Goodman, whose band Lee joined in 1941, brought her to nationwide recognition and did himself no harm in the process. Lee was drawn to black singer Lil Green's recording of "Why Don't You Do Right?" Goodman had it arranged for Lee, and the record enjoyed tremendous sales.
When Goodman brought guitarist Dave Barbour into the band, Lee fell in love with his musicianship and, rapidly, with Barbour himself. The two married in 1943 and left the band in Los Angeles. Lee resisted entreaties to return to music, adamantly choosing to make a home, especially after the birth of her daughter, Nicki. In 1951, Barbour, an alcoholic, asked for a divorce to protect his daughter from seeing him at his worst. Although Lee granted it, she seems to have loved Barbour all her life.
In the early years of their marriage, Lee was often at the kitchen table writing songs. The very fact that she fell in love with a musician all but ensured that she would return to music, and Barbour was unreservedly insistent that she do so. She was soon recording for Capitol, often accompanied by Barbour, and the couple wrote a series of bankable hits, including bluesy tunes such as "I Don't Know Enough About You" and "You Was Right, Baby," as well as the unabashedly upbeat "It's A Good Day." Years later, Lee teamed with lyricist Sonny Burke to write the "Siamese Cat Song" and the others in Disney's "Lady and the Tramp," and Lee voiced the sultry dog named (what else?) Peg.
She was an unremitting perfectionist, carefully ordering the songs in her sets for pace and presentation of a range of moods. Though she earned phenomenal sums for her live appearances, she spent much of the take on the musicians, musical arrangements and clothes that enhanced the singer and her show.
Richmond's book, the first substantial Lee biography, is loaded with worthwhile detail. Wisely, Richmond cites Lee's own autobiography selectively, for her point of view and not as a source of gospel fact. However, easily avoidable errors crop up -- several details of a 1933 recording date led by Benny Goodman are amiss, Joe McCoy was no trumpeter but a guitarist, and the 1943 motion picture "The Powers Girl," while perhaps not in circulation, is hardly "lost." In the first portion of the book, Richmond seems overly taken with the idea of a young girl's destiny and is given occasionally to fanciful metaphors, but as he moves into the better documented years of Lee's life, the account settles down to one of exceptional interest, owing to the extent of Richmond's interviews with her associates and friends.
One thing he makes clear is that Lee was never afraid to be adventurous, and that it usually worked to her advantage. Her visions for the staging of her hit recordings of "Lover" and "Fever" were counterintuitive. "Fever" invited bombast, but Peggy and arranger Jack Marshall lent it a hip coffeehouse sound with the sparest of accompaniment from string bass, drums and finger snapping. For Rodgers and Hart's waltz, Peggy hired eight percussionists and treated "Lover" as if it were "Bolero," intensifying with every chorus. Lee's faith in the darkly comic Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller song "Is That All There Is?" had little support from her label and the tastemakers in the record industry. Capitol gave the record negligible promotion but found itself with a hit anyway.
But Lee sometimes missed the mark. Richmond writes perceptively about Lee's various albums, never afraid to comment frankly on what worked and what did not, and notes the periods when Lee, anxious to remain relevant to the music scene, instead lost her way. His account of her return to her roots on her last albums in the early 1990s is especially poignant.
Lee gave people any number of reasons to shorten their professional and personal associations with her. Her behavior could lose its moorings, even be a little bizarre, such as the occasion when she went into a near-hallucinatory ramble before French President Georges Pompidou at a White House state dinner in 1970. She was demanding of her musicians on the job and wanted them to party with her after hours. A club manager branded her a "high maintenance" attraction. As the years passed, she was plagued by a spate of maladies and accidents -- pneumonia, faints and falls. There was a succession of relationships with men, some strictly spiritual or intellectual, carried out in long distance calls that often came in the middle of the night. An accompanist and conductor who rejected a romantic advance from her recalled that "she would devour people like me." But many others stuck with her. Was it for the gratification of being in the inner circle of celebrity, or for the entertainment value of her unpredictability? No, they remained for the music, and because they recognized Lee's extraordinary if unconventional intellect and empathized with her desperate quest for some sort of inner peace. Performers, she once remarked, "dream of -- and seek -- reality."
Her associates frequently remark on the distinction Lee drew between the stage persona ("I don't want to talk about her") and Norma Egstrom. Richmond seems to accept and embrace this notion as a window into Lee's psyche. Dualities of this sort are frequently a little glib, especially in Lee's case, where there is such chaos that it's difficult to really know at any particular moment which one of her was in charge. However, neither of them failed the music, nor did the music fail her.
Reviewed by Rob Bamberger
Copyright 2006, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
--This text refers to the
Hardcover
edition.
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