Remembering Dad... And "Rosie"
MEMORIES OF MY FATHER (WHO WOULD HAVE TURNED 96 TODAY) ARE OFTEN SET TO MUSIC. And his birthday finds me musing on why the singer Rosemary Clooney held such a unique place in his heart. “Sharing music” was a cherished practice between my father and me. While home from college, I remember my father wanting to sit down and listen to Prince, Talking Heads (and others), asking me to share my take on, “Why they mattered.” So, what about Rosemary made her “matter” more than others? (To him, anyway?)
The five McKees have always bonded over their love of music—with Rosemary Clooney a unique connection between my father and me.
Few had as eclectic musical tastes as my father (whose CD collection included Willie Nelson, Alicia Keyes, Eric Clapton, Bob Marley, Itzhak Perlman, Ella Fitzgerald, Isaac Hayes, and Gladys Knight). His knowledge of both the jazz and classical genres was encyclopedic. The female vocalists in his regular rotation spanning eight decades. And while he loved himself some Aretha, Whitney, and Barbra (vocal gymnasts all), he was more drawn to “quieter” voices. Anita O’Day and Lee Wiley. Billie Holiday, certainly. And perhaps Rosemary Clooney, above all. Like those artists we call “singer/songwriters,” Clooney and her kin were first-and-foremost storytellers. The lyric was all. And she brought to it, “a warmth, a depth of understanding, an honesty that surpassed craft” (The Washington Post).
A POST-WAR POPSTAR. Rosemary Clooney launched her career on a Cincinnati radio station, singing duets with sister, Betty—quickly followed by a stint as The Clooney Sisters (with the Pastor Band) that debuted at Atlantic City’s Steel Pier. Two years later, she signed a solo contract with Columbia Records, where her first single, “Come On-a My House” (1951) propelled her to stardom. A decade of hits under A&R man, Mitch Miller, movies (including 1950’s beloved “White Christmas”) and a half-hour syndicated television musical-variety show, The Rosemary Clooney Show (1956-57) followed. But the strains of juggling five children, a career and marriage to the philandering José Ferrer took their toll. And after personally witnessing the murder of her friend, Robert Kennedy, a mental breakdown landed her in a mental hospital before an invitation to perform with former co-star Bing Crosby and a new label, Concord Jazz (1977-2002), resurrected her.
A critic for the San Francisco Examiner wrote after a 1976 comeback performance, “She opens her mouth, gives a little smile, half-closes her eyes and vocally fondles the lyrics of [the songs]. And subsequently, listeners wonder why these songs never sounded so good before.” Many would argue that Clooney had never sounded as good, either. Singing was the one constant in her life… and that commitment produced a next-level musicianship.
Clooney’s 2nd autobiography describes her transformation from schoolgirl to one of the most beloved singers of the twentieth century.
WORTHY OF HER VOICE. A recent review of Miley Cyrus’ “Something Beautiful” declared it, “The first record to fully take advantage of the unusual array of sonic colors she is able to draw upon”—the industry’s higher expectations finally met by “An album worthy of [Cyrus’] voice.” It took Clooney (as big a pop star in her day) a little longer to find the material and milieu that would cement her legacy. Recording with Concord’s small, stellar groups of musicians (including Warren Vache and Cal Tjader) liberated her. “She needed to grow into her voice, or it needed to deepen to catch up with her,” said one critic. (An observation that reminds me of Angela Lansbury, whose talent blossomed only after she’d outgrown the handicap of seeming older than her years.)
"I'd call myself a sweet singer with a big band sensibility," Clooney wrote in her 1999 autobiography. And the Concord recordings gave her the room to properly swing—as evidenced in her wryly comic 1982 take on Cole Porter’s “Get out of Town.”
Get out of town
Before it's too late, my love.
Get out of town,
Be good to me, please!
Why wish me harm?
Why not retire to a farm
And be contented to charm
The birds off the trees?
A tribute to her friend, Billie Holiday, “Here's to My Lady” (1978), was further proof of a talent fully realized. Where Holiday’s recordings sound world-weary, Clooney’s suggest a hard-earned wisdom. Husky of voice and body in her final decades, Clooney presented as the “seasoned broad.” Yet she could summon, if the song demanded it, the bright-eyed innocent in her—proving herself an actress in ways her movies never fully allowed. Listen to her 1986 recording of “Imagination” and you’ll hear a 58-year-old woman in the grip of unrequited love. Revealing the wistful yet affirming truth that the cynic—if only in that moment—is no different than the schoolgirl.
“[Clooney] was part of that special club that not only sings standard but sets them.”
SINGULAR & SELF-AWARE. In a 1992 interview on Prime Time Live, fellow Kentuckian, Diane Sawyer, summed up the secret to Clooney’s early success, “A girl just sultry enough that your dad would like her. And sweet enough that your mother would approve.” By the time my parents and I saw her in 1994 (a Valentine’s Day performance at her favorite venue, Rainbow and Stars), her voice AND history were darker and more complicated. While she rarely spoke of her personal travails, there was no room for such tabloid staples as the wronged wife, et al on her stage. It was already crowded by the many mythologized personas she seemed to embody: the girl singer. The musician “hitting the road.” The journeyman. And her recording of Dave Frishberg's “I Want to Be a Sideman” speaks to how much she related to the life of a working musician:
I want to spend all my time
With music and musicians
I wanna go out and grab a smoke
On intermissions
I want to sleep in the afternoons
And let the leader call all the tunes
I wanna be young
I wanna have fun
I want to be a sideman
She was not one to promote her later concerts as “events” (like Frank, Sammy, or Liza)—the faithful came regardless. Relatable in her grannie glasses and caftans (however beautifully beaded), Clooney’s vibe was less revival meeting than family reunion. Making her fans feel like friends in ways that Sinatra or Streisand never could. Her acknowledgment to Sawyer that, “I let myself get fat,” smacks of this familiarity. “Sometimes I hate it… but mostly I don’t. I really think that since America got pretty fat, maybe I’m still the girl next door, only I just got fat, see.” While casually tossed off, it hinted at a keen understanding of the ways her career and her country reflected each other. I think my father recognized that, too. Like most of her audience, my father appreciated the matter-of-fact resilience that helped her evolve despite horrible setbacks to become a new person and musician—producing the kind of art that we, as a people, take the greatest pride in: Unvarnished. Authentic. Simply and beautifully crafted.
By the time she finished putting her stamp on the American songbook, Rosemary Clooney had become THE American Singer. Embodying its rhythm and reinvention. Setting its tempo (while surviving its troubles). Infusing her life and lyrics with a matter-of-fact mix of humor and humanity. All the while, displaying the one thing that our nation has always seemed sadly lacking: Self-awareness.
Rosemary Clooney singing "God Bless America" with the Cincinnati Pops in July 2000.
With chart-topping albums, Grammy nods and marriage to long-time companion, Dante Di Paulo, her comeback proved the American adage, “Good wins out in the end.” Her dialect-filled novelty songs (like 1951’s "Come On-a My House") reminded millions of radio listeners that we are, in no uncertain (musical) terms—a nation of ethnics. (Clooney joked that the song was, “Based on an Armenian folksong and sung by an Irish American, so naturally we did it in an Italian accent.”) After 9/11, she often closed her shows with “God Bless America”—inviting her audience to sing along. And a moment that might feel cringe-inducing in another’s hands was profoundly moving.
PRAGMATIC. PATRIOTIC. THE CONSUMMATE PROFESSIONAL. Clooney was practical enough to know that for every one “Mambo Italiano” she conceded to sing, she could record one “Tenderly.” For every “Botch-a-Me” she could have one, “We’ll be Together Again.” Maybe that’s another reason for my father’s reverence—her instincts were as savvy as her sound was sonorous. No question, the voice spoke to the jazz lover in him. But the lessons her life and career offered surely meant something to the philosopher in him, as well (having studied for his PHD at Columbia).
I don’t know if I’ve fully explained why Clooney mattered so much. But I know I’ll be marking my dad’s birthday with her music (among others) playing in the background. The singer was (in Diane Sawyer’s words) “As American as… Rosemary Clooney.” And it took a listener as thoughtful as my father to help me appreciate her.
Click here to listen to my SPOTIFY playlist, featuring 12 Rosemary Clooney recordings my dad and I loved.