Beverly Kenney

By: Bill REED

To the best of my knowledge, little has been written about the life of the late jazz singer Beverly Kenney. Only Jonathan Schwartz's article in the November 1992 issue of GQ came anywhere close to being comprehensive, and even that left a lot of questions unanswered. Most obviously, still dangling with a big question mark over it, is the cause of her suicide in 1960 when she was, if not THE Girl of the Year, at least A Girl of the Year.

And so I set out to see if I couldn't overturn a few more stones regarding the suicide of a woman still in her twenties who seemingly had, if not everything, at least a lot to live for. In the end, however, I'm afraid I didn't come much closer to solving the riddle of her self-willed death than Jonathan Schwartz did.

One thing I did come to sense, though, from talking to a number of friends and professional associates, was that Kenney never really had a chance. The only dissenting voice, in that regard, is one of her closest friends, actress Millie Perkins, who contends that she NEVER saw it coming. Which, finally, makes Kenney's suicide all that much more paradoxical and puzzling.

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UPDATE: New 2010 U.S. edition of Snuggled on Your Shoulder (with 4 previously un-issued tracks) now available at CDBaby.com
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Circa the late fifties, singer Beverly Kenney seemed to have everything going for her. A fast-rising performer in the still-dominant, pre-Beatles world of commercial jazz, she seemed poised to reap the same kind of rewards and accolades that had recently befallen a slightly older wave of singers, i.e. Chris Connor, June Christy, Julie London, et. al. Indeed, the latter in a '57 interview, cited Kenney, along with Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald, as one of her favorite singers. "Looks to me that 1957 will really be her year," London said in an interview. "I dig her because, well, she phrases like mad. She sings in tune, too; matter of fact, she sings like a musician."

Kenney possessed looks to rival those of pin-up chanteuse London. As for her singing style, try to imagine what Billie Holiday, with an equally slight, laid-back timbre, might have sounded had she been born a generation later and come up listening not so much to earlier jazz greats like Teddy Wilson and Louis Armstrong but instead to cool school players like Mulligan, Tristano, and Getz, et al.

Julie London's encomia followed hard on the heels of two years' worth of equally effusive praise in the pages of Down Beat and other influential music and show biz publications of the period: "It looks as if finally, a new voice of unmistakable jazz quality has appeared to take its place beside those of Sarah Vaughan, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald". . ."a great jazz vocal find". . . "Beverly is beginning to arrive and she is displaying the kind of ability and potential that should enable her to stay a long time." In light of how Kenney's life and career played out in 1960, the latter quote was especially ironic. Beverly Kenney wasn't all that much older than I; thus, it was difficult for me, as a teenager, to comprehend her suicide.  MORE

The Two Faces of Miles Davis

From my memoir, Early Plastic:
"It's not just the bitchy world of opera that has its divas: Shortly after jazz pianist Cecil Taylor and I met in the mid-sixties, I went to see him opening night of an engagement at the popular and long-running club, the Village Vanguard. In the middle of his first set, who should walk in---looking very unlike his later period Lectoid From Planet Ten self---but a natty, dapper and Saville Row-ed Miles Davis. All eyes left Cecil on stage and turned to focus as Miles and his still somewhat socially taboo, blonde date as the two made their way to one of the club's postage stamp-size tables. They sat down in front of the bandstand, downed one drink apiece, stayed for all of five minutes, then---when Miles gave the signal---split. I was there again the next night when, at nearly the same time, Davis came in once more, this time with a different, but equally stunning Aryan number, and proceeded to do exactly the same thing: five minutes, and gone! Cecil later told me that this jazz equivalent of a head-on clash between Godzilla and Rodan took place for several more nights running."

On the other hand. . .both times I met Davis, he was absolutely fine . . . albeit, admittedly, somewhat dour. The first time was with my old friend Jean Bach (Great Day in Harlem) one Sunday afternoon when Miles was splitting a bill there with Blossom Dearie (ah, the good old days). After his set, Davis came over to the table and Jean introduced us. All was fine until a fan approached and said:

"I've got a great idea, Miles. Why don't you do a concert at Carnegie Hall, record it, and release it titled it something like 'Miles Davis at Carnegie Hall.'"

"Okay, man," Miles said, waved the man away, then just shut down and glared off into space.

The problem was that Davis had done just that very thing, with the results being released only the week prior. No wonder he was such a world-renowned bringdown.

The next time I encountered Davis was a few years later. I looked up to see him seated next to me in customs. We had both just winged in from Paris. He had flown coach; I, first class. Um, come to think of it, 'twas the other way 'round. Of all things, I happened to be reading a book about Buddy Bolden, historically recognized as THE first jazz musician AND a trumpet player to boot. Who could fail but mediate upon the irony of same? Talk about yer synchronicity in everyday American life! I handed Miles the book, and said, "Here, this belongs to you." "Thanks, man," he replied, without so much as even looking at the title. I stood up and walked off.

There was some kind of hangup in customs. An hour later we were still there. From the steerage of coach immigration, where I now found myself, I gazed down and espied Miles devouring the contents of the book I had just given him. Not quite sure what the moral is here. Maybe I'm just rehearsing for a future David Letterman "Brush With Greatness" segment. On the other hand, that might be just a leeetle bit too hip for the house.

Le Roi du Bundt Cake

I have known Mike Shelley since '81 when he was but mere protoplasm in Buster Brown Shoes and I was still a couple of decades away from becoming the semi-arthritic, high blood pressure pill-popping shambles that I am today. I met Mike when I worked with him in the behind-the-scenes madhouse at the Great Bronze Age of China exhibit at the L.A. County Museum of Art.

We were filling ticket orders for that touring Metropolitan Museum of Art show at a time when computerized fulfillment of tix was still just around the bend. Dozens of failed hipsters, misfits, wannabes, never was-es, etc. seated around long folding tables armed with (a bit dangerous in some cases) letter openers, staplers and other accoutrement of of the mail order trade. It might well have been Mike's first grownup (!) job. For reasons now swallowed up by the dim recesses of time, Mike called the exhibit the "Great Pronta," and it stuck (he might have been the one to've opened an envelope addressed that way).

Mike is now a professional musician with a half-dozen or so CDs, and countless live appearances and tours to his credit. I am not certain how much he talks about his lineage in bios and interviews. However, it is significant that his late father was the well-known actor and director Joshua Shelley. In the former capacity, Josh appeared in the original production of Marc Blitzstein's No For an Answer, and wearing the latter hat, his credits list include the original staging of Langston Hughes' Simply Heavenly. His mother, Molly, is an actor and acting coach; in the latter capacity she played a significant role in the development of, among others, Matt Dillon's career.

With such a vaunted geneology, it's little wonder that Mike was---to invoke the parlance of Lord Buckley---such a hip little kiddy. Thus, despite the two decades difference in our ages, he and I quickly became fast friends in '81 and (also in spite of the entirety of the U.S. continent that now lies between us) have remained so ever since.

Mike and his wife, Jordan, have just become the parents of their first child, Juniper. AND he has also just added another CD to his credit, the brand new Goodbye Cheater. Mike thinks it is his best, and I tend to agree. You can read more about it here.

The Phil Spector of Japan

That's what they call Eiichi Ohtaki in his native land. . .even though, to the best of my knowledge, he's never been charged with any crime. Here is: what he sounds (link for a limited time only) like (dig those crazzzy castinets); where you can read more about him; where you can buy.

His LP Long Vacation (1981) was the first CD (1982) issued in Japan. No doubt he will be seated front row center, six hours from now---8 pm 8/30 Japan time---when Brian Wilson commences his blitz four Smile concert tour of Tokyo and Nagoya Japan.