Saturday Morning Music Club

@JVMonte2 A true classic album. I could never understand how Taupin could write such haunting lyrics about the Wild West in America when he and Elton had never been there prior to the record release…

Saturday Morning Music Club @SaturdayMMC

12 days ago

The cost of genius…

Trump Girl

@TrumpGirlLove

13 days ago

At 3 a.m. the phone rang in Nina Simone’s hotel room. It was David Bowie. “The first thing I want you to know is that you’re not crazy,” he said. “Don’t let anybody tell you you’re crazy, because where you’re coming from, there are very few of us out there.” It was 1974. Simone was in one of the hardest stretches of her life—financial trouble, fractured relationships, and an industry that had grown impatient with her. She had been called difficult for years. Bowie saw something else: a singular artist carrying more than most people could name. They had met only hours earlier. Simone had taken her daughter to see him at Madison Square Garden. A week later both of them happened to be at the same private club in New York. As she left, he asked her to sit. They spoke briefly. He took her number. Then he called. For the next month he rang every night. They talked for hours—about music, money, the cost of making work that did not fit the usual shape. He did not offer solutions or advice about her career. He told her she was gifted, that her genius made the practical side of the business harder, and that she simply had to keep playing. Eventually he visited. She remembered him arriving dressed like Charlie Chaplin, in a clown suit and a large black hat, and telling her he was not a natural singer but had figured out the formula. She later said he had more sense than anyone she had known: “It’s not human—David ain’t from here.” In 1976 he closed Station to Station with his version of “Wild Is the Wind,” the song she had recorded a decade earlier. He called it a homage. That same year, onstage at Montreux, she stopped mid-set to ask the crowd whether David Bowie was in the room, referring to him as her dear friend. The calls did not fix her circumstances. They did something quieter. At a moment when she felt most alone, another artist who understood the price of standing outside the ordinary simply refused to let her believe she was.

$TrumpGirlLove's tweet photo. At 3 a.m. the phone rang in Nina Simone’s hotel room. It was David Bowie. “The first thing I want you to know is that you’re not crazy,” he said. “Don’t let anybody tell you you’re crazy, because where you’re coming from, there are very few of us out there.” It was 1974. Simone was in one of the hardest stretches of her life—financial trouble, fractured relationships, and an industry that had grown impatient with her. She had been called difficult for years. Bowie saw something else: a singular artist carrying more than most people could name. They had met only hours earlier. Simone had taken her daughter to see him at Madison Square Garden. A week later both of them happened to be at the same private club in New York. As she left, he asked her to sit. They spoke briefly. He took her number. Then he called. For the next month he rang every night. They talked for hours—about music, money, the cost of making work that did not fit the usual shape. He did not offer solutions or advice about her career. He told her she was gifted, that her genius made the practical side of the business harder, and that she simply had to keep playing. Eventually he visited. She remembered him arriving dressed like Charlie Chaplin, in a clown suit and a large black hat, and telling her he was not a natural singer but had figured out the formula. She later said he had more sense than anyone she had known: “It’s not human—David ain’t from here.” In 1976 he closed Station to Station with his version of “Wild Is the Wind,” the song she had recorded a decade earlier. He called it a homage. That same year, onstage at Montreux, she stopped mid-set to ask the crowd whether David Bowie was in the room, referring to him as her dear friend. The calls did not fix her circumstances. They did something quieter. At a moment when she felt most alone, another artist who understood the price of standing outside the ordinary simply refused to let her believe she was.$