Late Life Jazz: The Life and Career of Rosemary Clooney
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Authors: Ken Crossland,Malcolm Macfarlane
Late Life Jazz
ATE
L
IFE
J
AZZ
The Life and Career of Rosemary Clooney
Ken Crossland
and
Malcolm Macfarlane
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Crossland, Ken, author.
Late life jazz : the life and career of Rosemary Clooney / Ken Crossland & Malcolm Macfarlane.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Discography: pages.
ISBN 978-0-19-979857-5 (hardback : alk. paper)
1. Clooney, Rosemary. 2. Singers—United States—Biography.
I. Macfarlane, Malcolm, 1942– author. II. Title.
ML420.C58C76 2013
782.42164092—dc23
[B]
2012051013
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
1. Kentucky, Sure as You’re Born
4. “A Dame Called Rosemary Clooney”
15. Get Me to the Church on Time
Appendix A—Rosemary Clooney on Record
Appendix B—Rosemary Clooney on Television
Appendix C—Rosemary Clooney: A Selective Chronology
There are many singers who have graced our lives with legacies that will live on, but I daresay not one of them was ever as joyful to be around nor as special as Rosemary Clooney.
There was something about Rosemary that gave those near her a heightened sense of being alive when they were in her presence. That palpable joy she created was just one of her many gifts, and whenever I was with her it was exciting as I never knew what the day would bring, other than something unexpected. She was exceedingly smart, kind, incisive, tender, tough, playful, gossipy, spiritual, and above all practical. She would “cut to the chase” and didn’t like to waste time. Too much of it had been squandered years before when she had her nervous breakdown and she was mindful that time was precious, whether it was used for work, play, or introspection.
She lived a large, full life and saw with equal clarity the tragedy and triumph it offered. And Lord was she witty, I mean the laugh out loud kind of wit, as humor was an antidote for the sad stuff. Rosemary could also be moody, and on certain days one look told you it was best to keep your mouth shut or you’d surely be hit with a zinger. Yet even at her most irascible, the wit never foundered. She managed to speak her mind forcefully but you always knew she loved you, and underneath it all dwelt the ultimate earth mother. She made friends so easily that she couldn’t keep up with them all. Once while flying back to Beverly Hills from New York she met a young television host who had fallen out of favor. By the time she arrived in Los Angeles they had exchanged numbers and she invited him to visit her home. When she reported to her kids that she invited her new friend over for dinner, they cried in unison “Oh no mother, not him!” But she couldn’t help it; everybody wanted to be her friend.
If she had never sung a note she would have remained a beloved soul to those around her, but the gift of her voice communicated directly to the hearts of millions and made her a star. When Rosemary sang, it was transcendent, deeply soulful, and it all seemed to pour out so easily, even at an
early age. People didn’t know it was a lifetime of hard experience that made her songs so real, so conversational, especially in the latter days. As her voice slowly lost its fluidity over the last decade, her interpretive powers grew and grew. The loss of range didn’t bother her and she was circumspect about it. She would test her voice with a single note and say “it’s there,” and if it wasn’t up to snuff, she still accepted whatever she had and gave a brilliant show anyway. Through the years Rosemary had two voices and two distinct careers and would later dismiss the earlier performances saying she didn’t understand “those songs” then as she did now. So one day I challenged her by playing a searingly sad recording of “I’ll Be Around,” made when she was 23. When it was over she quietly said, “Well, I did understand some things then.” Another time she listened with me as I played a favorite early recording that she had forgotten. On the old record she effortlessly hit a soaring high note, and her response was one of mock irritation exclaiming “Well, aren’t you too cute.” She no longer clung to the seriousness of youth and had to comment on her earnest bravado.
Singing with her was a dream come true and I never imagined that one day I would collaborate with her, for she was my favorite female voice. When I listened to her during my formative years I sometimes projected thoughts of what she must be like as a person, and then one day, years later, there I was seated in her living room rehearsing a song. She was supportive and nurturing and gently made suggestions about how to make our duets better. We were rehearsing in the same room where she had sung with Bing Crosby, and it was at times an almost surreal, heady experience. After a few successful shows, we discovered that we were very comfortable together onstage. One night after a particularly solid show, she stated that the only other person with whom she ever felt such ease onstage was Bing himself. If only I could have sung anywhere near the way Bing sang with her! They were the most natural vocal duo I ever heard and they will never be bettered.
Every day I think about her. As time passes she grows stronger in memory, unlike others who have strangely faded away. The day of her funeral was numbingly hard. Being a person who fervently believes in an afterlife and that the soul goes on should have given me more comfort on some level. Yet the thought that I would never again be able to call her and share a story, a laugh, or hear a few comforting words had finally become irrevocably real. Though I didn’t know it, the hardest part was yet to come. It happened as we made the final journey to her resting place, a trip that took about 25 minutes from the church to the cemetery. Along the route, lining the rural roads, were people everywhere: standing, watching, crying, silently paying tribute to one who deeply mattered in their lives. There were laborers in overalls, waitresses in uniforms, ruddy-faced farmers, men in business suits, pastors,
postmen, children, mothers, fathers, grandparents … just people. People who had stopped their work in midday to say goodbye; and they were all her people. She had touched their lives, and they had lost a member of their family. Such an unexpected demonstration of mass devotion caused a backlog of tears to flow and I thought about how much she would have loved knowing that they were all there. After all, the thing she most wanted was to put something good in the world and make a difference, and what more significant proof would ever exist to show what a difference she had made?
Michael Feinstein, Los Angeles, October 2011
Late Life Jazz
T
he 21st-century world of show business is very familiar with the name “Clooney.” Few of Hollywood’s present aristocracy can match the success that actor, producer, director, and screenwriter, George Clooney, has enjoyed in the first years of the new millennium. Time was, however, when the Clooney name was represented by an altogether different show business figure. Rosemary Clooney—George’s aunt—sustained one of the most remarkable and enduring careers in show business, from her professional singing debut in 1945 to her final concert appearance in December 2001. Starting as a band singer with her sister, Betty, Rosemary quickly became an international star. Her own labeling was more modest. “Girl Singer” was the only title she ever used. Hollywood soon beckoned the sweet-voiced, svelte, honey-blonde girl from Kentucky. She met its call as the female lead and love interest for Bing Crosby in the iconic
White Christmas
in 1954. On television, she hosted her own weekly show and as Eisenhower’s decade progressed, Rosemary came to epitomize the American dream. A Hollywood marriage to actor, José Ferrer, and a fast-growing family only served to enhance the apparent richness of her life in the land of milk and honey. The small-town girl who sang with the laugh in her voice had made it to the top.