But her voice lives on...

File this one under "bittersweet."

I was whiling away a recent lazy afternoon by the radio, listening to the American standards station on XM. Up popped this fantastic song called "Listen to My Heart" by a singer named Nancy LaMott.

I was blown away by the power of her voice. "Wow," I thought when the record ended, "I need to find out more about her."

A quick Google search revealed a tragic story.

Nancy LaMott was a talented cabaret singer who first made her name playing clubs in San Francisco. Plagued by illness her entire life (she was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease as a child), Nancy was often broke and found herself staring at a big pile of hospital bills.

She finally moved to New York, where she became known as one of the best cabaret singers to ever hit the Big Apple. Noted disc jockey Jonathan Schwartz, an expert in such music, says LaMott is the best cabaret singer since Sinatra.

Her songs are often peppered with positive thinking, odes to an optimistic future in which everything will work out for the best. Sadly, her own story played out under a much different ending.

LaMott was diagnosed with uterine cancer just as her career was taking off. According to her Web site, LaMott opted for hormone therapy over surgery in order to complete her landmark album "Listen to My Heart."

The title song, composed by David Friedman, is a fine piece of music. Her voice soars, far and high, full of optimism and hope. Of special treat is the CD recording an engagement at New York's Tavern on the Green shortly before her death.

Not long after being diagnosed with cancer, Nancy met and fell in love with actor Pete Zapp. They were married just before her untimely death in 1995.

I wish Nancy LaMott were still around to share her beautiful talent with the world. As it is, she's in a better place now, free from pain.

But her music lives on; her talent survives. Ours may not be to question why, but I can't help but wonder why the world was robbed of this remarkable voice.

Drowning my soul

I know I won't make it if you don't love back, please love me for all that I lack..

OK, I admit it.

I cheated.

Couldn't help it. I love this girl's voice; I love this song even more.

If you know me well, you know of whom I speak. Yes, it was Sunday night. Yes, that means Barley's and RobinElla.

Once or twice in our lives, if we're blessed, or fortunate, or just plain lucky, a song comes along that plants itself smack dab in the middle of your soul. It touches you in a place that only the stars in their courses can possibly understand. It makes you forget about life and death, love and hate, heaven and hell and how the weather was.

All that matters is you, the singer, the moment, and the song.

For me, the singer is RobinElla. The moment was at Barley's, a Sunday night several moons ago. The song is "Teardrops."

Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound, when they roll down my cheeks, and they fall to the ground...

We ducked into my favorite joint a little after 7. It was muggy, oppressive, one of those hot summer nights that make you wish this was Knoxville, Alaska.

I'd have been content to hear anything. But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't have been disappointed if Robin didn't sing the song.

I couldn't bring myself to ask for it. Part of me is just shy; I admit it. The bigger part of me figures musicians get hit up for songs 24/7. I didn't want to be another jerk begging for a tune.

So I struck a deal. My sis knows no fear. I agreed to do a favor for one of her friends. She went to talk to Robin.

Robin looks up after a moment and waves at us. We wave back. My sis said later she wanted to know where our table was, and asked why we wanted to hear something so sad.

I don't have an answer for that. All I know is this song, and this singer, speaks to my soul.

See my tears in the moonlight, reflect what I'm feelin' inside...

There's something about this angel's voice that makes me wish I could land in the middle of that "Twilight Zone" episode and make time stop. Just for a moment. Just for awhile.

First time I heard her sing, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, or some such place. No, really. The music was honest, a little sweet, with a touch of sadness thrown in for the hell of it.

Tonight Robin mixes her two sets well. She jumps from country to bluegrass to funk to folk and back again with ease. I feel my spirit fly high up into the ether. It stays up there a good long while. When it hits the ground, I'm refreshed, rejuvenated, ready to head back to reality after this two hour detour.

But it's the song, man. It's the song. She sings it as if she's walked around in my heart awhile, touched its scars, felt its pain.

It's almost religious and when the moment's over I force myself to leave it behind.

Hold me, I'm fallen and I can't stand upright...

I remember the woman I can't forget.

You say that we're stuck with nowhere to go, look in my eyes and you'll know...

The memory wafts away like the ash from the cigarette the girl at the end of the bar is smoking.

Seems like I've finally drowned my soul...

It's you, the singer, the moment, and the song.

Without a song...

It's early afternoon and I'm eased back in my recliner. Didn't feel like brunch today.

So I've turned on the XM and am continuing my week-long New York state of mind by tuning into the disc jockey of the City.

Jonathan Schwartz still does his Sunday show. He's been around, it seems, nearly as long as the Great American Songbook music he plays.

Today he opens up with an eclectic gem. Bernadette Peters doing Bob Dylan.

And I'll be your baby tonight...

First time I heard that song, Bobby Darin was doing it at the Desert Inn. Mack the Knife turned Dylan's folk song into a blues number. He was good.

Now Schwartz is playing Ben Webster. He's taking off on a Richard Rodgers tune. I can't remember the name and I'm too lazy to get up and look.

I wonder if kids listen to the radio anymore in this iPod, MP3, download it now! world. I don't even listen to the radio like I once did. That's because Knox Vegas radio sucks.

But I digress.

When I was a kid, every night at 8 or so, you could find me in front of the big dial, usually tuned to some oldies station. I used to call one particular show every night while doing homework. My moniker was "Jake in Halls." (Imagine that.)

One night I coaxed DJ Tony Lawson into digging up Elvis Presley's "Promised Land." He had to go down to the basement and find the 45 RPM single. But he played it.

Left my home in Norfolk, Virginia, California on my mind...

Johnny's got somebody -- it isn't Patsy Cline -- singing "Walking After Midnight." Pretty good. Real jazzy. Something you'd hear in a joint.

Tonight we're going to hear Robin. I hear she's got a new band. Can't wait.

Robin sang me to sleep last night.

Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound, when they roll down my cheeks and they fall to the ground...

Whenever I die, my funeral is going to be a wall-to-wall sound of music that will make Phil Spector blush. You'll think you've come to a concert, and that's the way I want it. No tears. No fuss. Just tunes.

Schwartz is playing Astaire. Now it's k.d. lang, of all people, belting out Sinatra's classic saloon song, "Angel Eyes." Where does he find this stuff?

I'm thinking about turning it off. I want to hear the Chairman of the Board himself.

Without a song, the day would never end...

You're so right, Frankie. You're so right.

The last time I saw her...

I'm a fan of story songs.

I especially like tunes that are somewhat ambiguous, that leave something to the imagination. You know something's not quite what it appears. But it isn't clear. The ultimate example has to be Bobbie Gentry's "Ode to Billy Joe."

But I digress.

Waiting for pages to roll out of compo this afternoon, an old Gordon Lightfoot composition came on the iPod.

Called "The Last Time I Saw Her," the song is a haunting ballad about a doomed love affair. Like all of his best work, Lightfoot's lyric is pure poetry, full of ethos and imagery.

This particular version was recorded not by Lightfoot, but by Glen Campbell. The arrangement fits the song, full of strings and an elaborate presentation. It's one of Glen's most beautiful songs, but I'm not sure it ever became a hit.

Yet another beautiful gem lost to the passing of time. The lyric is below:

The last time I saw her face
Her eyes were bathed in starlight
And her hair hung long

The last time she spoke to me
Her lips were like the scented flowers
Inside a rain-drenched forest

But that was so long ago
That I can scarcely feel
The way I felt before
And if time could heal the wounds
I would tear the threads away
That I might bleed some more

The last time I walked with her
Her laughter was the steeple bells
That rang to greet the morning sun
A voice that called to everyone
To love the ground we walked upon
Those were her good days

The last time I held her hand
Her touch was autumn, spring and summer
Winter, too

The last time I let go of her
She walked away into the night
I lost her in the misty streets
A thousand months, a thousand years
When other lips will kiss her eyes
A million miles beyond the moon
That's where she is

The last time I saw her face
Her eyes were bathed in sadness
And she walked alone

The last time she kissed my cheek
Her lips were like the wilted leaves
Upon the autumn covered hill
Rested on the frozen ground
The seeds of love lie cold and still
Beneath the battered marking stone
It lies forgotten

Born out of time

So it's nearly 11, and Ella's singing on the CD player.

It's the Cole Porter disc tonight. I get no kick from champagne, mere alcohol, it doesn't move me at all..

Jenny said while commenting on an earlier blog post that I was born out of my time. It's true. I'm proud of it. Such is life.

My sick gift to myself (LOL) was a splurge on the 16-disc "The Complete Ella Fitzgerald Song Books" box set. This thing is a true piece of beauty.

All the greats are here. Besides Porter, she sings the best of Duke Ellington (complete with Duke and the band playing behind her), the Gershwins, Harold Arlen, Johnny Mercer, a handful of others.

Oooh, here's a good one.

Night and day, you are the one...only you beneath the moon or under the sun...

If Sinatra is the Chairman of the Board, Ella is the torch singer in the little jazz club on the corner. And while I find myself missing the "ring-a-ding-ding" of Frankie's versions, there's something special at work here.

Forget the drivel --- this is pop music. They don't sing like this anymore, y'all.

What! You need proof? How many people are going to be looking nostalgically back toward something like "Oops, I Did It Again" in 30 years?

(Or, as Dudley Moore says in "10," "Why Don't We Do It in the Road? What (expletive) kind of era is that?")

But I digress.

For those of you in Knox Vegas, some kind of storm tonight, huh? I don't think I've ever seen severe lightning like that in years. It was fun to watch in its hauntingly beautiful way.

OK, I'm outta here. Gettin' sleepy. Y'all be safe out there.

Cause I've got you....under my skin...

Had enough (but Ella helps)

I want my life back.

It's the little things you miss.

Not feeling like you want to shoot yourself all the time, for one. Sandra yelling at ya when you linger too long in her office. Ruth and Shannon. Anybody in compo, 'cause they give me a hard time, make me feel loved.

Putting words together. Feeling the high that comes with knowing you've stumbled onto a great story. All that and a hundred other things.

I miss living. Just simply living.

Past two days have been pure hell. I can't describe to you what this feels like if you've never had kidney stones. I hope to God you never know. Sure, you're glad it isn't cancer or something worse. But that doesn't make the pain stop.

The black dog hasn't barked through any of this. But it's beginning to yelp. Guess that happens when you don't feel like getting out of bed for 48 hours.

I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. I've had enough. Gotta get back to work. Gotta end the pain.

It would be nice to enjoy the summer, too. It would be nice to feel like eating a meal without wanting to throw it up.

Took a little solace tonight in music. It, along with writing and baseball, have always been my most effective painkillers.

Found a little gem a few minutes ago. This year would have been Ella Fitzgerald's 90th birthday. PBS showed a new concert tribute to the First Lady of Song earlier tonight. I drowned my sorrow over Tennessee softball's loss to Arizona in the music.

Anyway, I downloaded one of Ella's recordings, "Mack the Knife: The Ella in Berlin," a 1960 live concert and a delicious slice of American jazz. Ella's take on "Summertime" (and a few painkillers) eases the pain awhile. Her flubbed version of "Mack the Knife" is a true classic.

PBS is showing the "We Love Ella" special as part of the channel's annual pledge drive. If it hasn't played in your area yet, do yourself a favor and watch or TiVo it.

Performers include Natalie Cole, Quincy Jones, Take 6, Stevie Wonder, Dave Koz, Lizz Wright and several others, along with some of the best recordings from the American Songbook. Need I say more?

OK, that's enough for now. Just had to get some stuff off my chest tonight. Thanks for pulling up a chair and listenin' awhile.

See you soon. I'll let you know what the doc says.

One charming 'Waitress'; more 'Yellow Roses'

A CHARACTER SPOUTS A LINE in a little-known 1974 film called "Lovin' Molly" that I like very much.

"A woman's love is like the morning dew," Mr. Fry says. "It's as apt to land on a cow turd as a rose."

That line flashed through my mind while watching "Waitress," the late Adrienne Shelly's quirky, charming new film. Because that's the only way one can explain why the otherwise smart Jenna (Keri Russell), the waitress of the title, would marry a guy like Earl (Jeremy Sisto).

Jenna is a server at a small-town diner. (Think "Alice.") She makes pies. Darn good pies. To escape reality, she imagines baking new pies. All sorts of pies.

Her life is all but hopeless. She adores her two co-workers (played to the hilt by writer/director Shelly and Cheryl Hines). She loves making pies.

But all that's for naught because of Earl.

Earl doesn't let Jenna drive a car. He "don't want her to go nowhere," you see.
He has this obnoxious habit of honking his horn repeatedly whenever he picks Jenna up. In fact, nearly everything Earl does is obnoxious.

Jenna wants money to enter a pie making contest. Earl says no. She stashes funds anyway, waiting for the moment to leave this nightmare.

Oh, but something happens. Earl gets Jenna drunk one night. Oops. She gets pregnant too.
She doesn't tell him; she still plans to leave. To be quite honest, Jenna doesn't even want the baby. But whaddya do?

You go see your OB/GYN, that's what. But she's semi-retired. In her stead is a newcomer, neurotic Dr. Pomatter (Nathan Fillion).

His nervous Yankee demeanor creeps Jenna out. Then she jumps in his arms and plants a big wet one on his lips.

And therein lies the rub of this charming little flick. In the caring eyes of Dr. Pomatter, Jenna glimpses a better life. He listens to her. He holds her -- "nothing more, nothing less," she later writes her unborn child -- for 20 minutes. He makes her smile for what must be the first time in years. It's the beginning of one unique affair.

If all this seems like a slinging hash version of "Bridges of Madison County," you're dead wrong. This movie is about finding one's self. It's about dreaming big dreams. It's also a bit wacky, in a delicious, Dixie-fied, Flannery O'Connor kind of way.

Russell, best known as the star of the short-lived coming of age TV drama "Felicity," comes into her own with this role. Her Jenna becomes a complete woman when the final credits roll. This should be Russell's career-making role.

Shelly and Hines light up the screen as Jenna's fellow hash, er, pie slingers. (I swear I kept waiting for Hines to yell "kiss my grits!")

And what to say about Andy Griffith? Playing the diner's crusty-but-soft elderly owner Old Joe, Griffith turns in his best motion picture performance since 1957's "A Face in the Crowd."

At its core, "Waitress" delivers an important message. I won't reveal what it is for fear of giving away Jenna's ultimate choice, but I'm certain it's the correct choice. You'll think so too.

Despite its charming, happy feel, "Waitress" is overshadowed by melancholy. Not for anything on-screen, but because Shelly, who wrote, directed and co-starred in this film, was murdered late last year. Knowing she isn't around to bask in the afterglow of well-deserved applause for this masterpiece is a true bummer.

But that's the only depressing thing about this flick. After the lights come up, "Waitress" is as delicious and as filling as, well, a freshly-baked slice of pie.

"Waitress" is now playing at Regal Downtown West and at select theaters everywhere. It is rated PG-13 for adult language and situations.



Late last year, I wrote about an obscure 1976 Johnny Mathis song called "Yellow Roses on her Gown."

Yesterday, I received an e-mail about the song from Pat Murphy. Pat lives in Toronto. He hosts an excellent radio show, "The Long Note," the last Sunday of each month on CKLN-FM 88.1 in that city.

The program normally features songs performed in the Celtic tradition. But tonight Pat stepped away from that format to present a playlist entitled "Obscurities," songs you've rarely -- if ever -- heard.

Highlights included a little-known 1973 Glen Campbell recording of "Sold American," Elvis's heartbreaking, brilliant 1974 tear-jerker "Loving Arms" and Daniel O'Donnell and Mary Duff's beautiful cover of Porter Waggoner and Dolly Parton's country classic "Making Plans."

Near the end of the show, Pat played Mathis's tale of a disintegrating marriage. He was also kind enough to mention our e-mail conversation about the song.

Check out this eclectic station on the Web at http://www.ckln.fm/ "The Long Note" airs Sunday nights at 8 p.m. (Eastern).

Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece of music with your listeners, Pat. It remains the most hauntingly beautiful lyric and arrangement I've ever heard.

"Yellow Roses On Her Gown" can be found on the 4 CD Johnny Mathis box set "A Personal Collection" and on the out-of-print 1976 Mathis album "Mahogany."