Pain at the limit of their voices, hard times, that rose-tinted view («la vie en rose») which turned blue when Gloomy Sunday* dawned…those clichés and, more than that, the titles one associates with the two, say it all…Įven so, does this virtuoso-trumpet and emancipated-accordion pairing announce just another fling between jazz and the popular French waltz they call the java? The whirling themes of the latter, a suggestion of swing beyond swing, are present of course the music sways in motion and, although with a different mathematical elasticity, it appears to have been seasoned by some transatlantic kiss. Each might have followed in the other’s footsteps, so much did their lives resemble a Greek tragedy with traits exacerbated by the twentieth century each carried scars too visible to be appeased by the unction of fame. Beyond their careers, what do these two soloists have in common, if not something greater than they are? It had to be two women, two legends, naturally: Edith Piaf and Billie Holiday. The first breathes the past into his present the second, vice versa.
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