“You’ve either got or you haven’t got style,” goes the old Sammy Cahn lyric. “If you’ve got it, you stand out a mile.” Iris Apfel, with her signature oversized glasses and distinctive outfits—who died today in Palm Beach—stood out a mile, and then some.
The centenarian wore her age well. On the occasion of her 100th birthday, the indefatigable fashion influencer and style icon posted an Instagram slideshow displaying things she was older than. These included: the Cyclone roller coaster, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Center, and the Empire State Building. Within the fashion world, she was—in a word—a monument.
In September 2022, at the age of 101, she posted her thoughts on fashion versus style to her more than two million social media followers. They are “two entirely different things,” she said. “You can easily buy your way into being fashionable. Style, I think, is in your DNA. It implies originality and courage. The worst that can happen is you can fail, and you don’t die from that.”
It was certainly in her DNA. In Iris, Albert Maysles’s 2014 award-winning documentary, Apfel recalled being taken aside by Loehmann’s department store founder Frieda Loehmann, who told her, “Young lady, I’ve been watching you. You’re not pretty and you’ll never be pretty, but it doesn’t matter. You have something much better. You have style.” Her philosophy that “more is more and less is a bore” made her a self-described “accidental icon” (which is also the title of her 2018 memoir) and “geriatric starlet.”
In 2005, the Costume Institute at The Metropolitan Museum of Art mounted an exhibition of Apfel’s clothes. “Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection” presented 40 of her sartorially striking accessories and ensembles. In Maysles’s documentary, Harold Koda, the curator in charge of the Costume Institute at the time, noted, “She’s an artist. What she uses all of her clothing and accessories to do is compose a new vision. That, to me, is creativity.”
Apfel was an American original. Martha Stewart once dubbed her “a legendary collector of fashion”—part archivist, part aesthete, part social anthropologist. Apfel radically juxtaposed high and low fashion, as The Met noted: “Dior haute couture with flea market finds, 19th-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers. With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions.”
She described her personal style to Vogue in 2022: “It’s big and it’s bold and it’s a tangible expression about how I feel about things.” One thing it was not, she emphasized, was planned. “I just do it unconsciously,” she said. “It is a creative exercise that I seem to do every day.”
Apfel was born Iris Barrel in New York City on August 29, 1921. An only child, she wrote in her memoir that she began buying her own clothes when she was 12. She credits her grandmother with first igniting her creative spark by giving her fabric swatches to play with at family gatherings. “My eyes popped,” she told Vogue. “She said, ‘Look, you can play with all these scraps—just play and do whatever you want with them, and at the end of the day, if you’ve had a good time and you like them, I’ll let you take home six pieces of your choice.’ It was the entrance to my life in the textile world. I had the time of my life. It was so exciting for me to put colors together. It was my first dose of how it feels to be creative. I must have been about five years old.”
Her mother, Sayde “Syd” Barrel, who attended college and then law school—but dropped out when she became pregnant with Iris—opened a boutique during the Great Depression. In her memoir, Apfel recalls Easter 1933, when her mother gave her $25 to assemble an outfit to wear in the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade. She found a dress for $12.95 and a pair of pumps for $3.95, which left her enough money for a straw bonnet, a light lunch, and transportation home. “My mother approved my fashion sense,” she wrote. “My father praised my financial skill.” Thus began her career as, in her words, a “black belt shopper.”
Richard Lewis, the actor and comedian known for his long-running stand-up career and recurring role on the hit HBO series “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” has died at 76, his publicist announced Wednesday.
The cause of death was a heart attack, the publicist, Jeff Abraham, said.
Comedian and actor Richard Lewis at his home in Los Angeles on February 20, 2020.
Emily Berl for The Washington Post via Getty Images
Lewis was a fixture of the comedy club circuit for decades, and his angsty, tortured act led to many TV and film roles. After appearing on “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson,”he rose to prominence on the sitcom “Anything but Love” with Jamie Lee Curtis. He also starred inthe movie “Drunks” and played Prince John in the 1993 adventure comedy film “Robin Hood: Men in Tights.”
Lewis had been playing a semi-fictionalized version of himself throughout the 24 years of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Lewis — who had known the show’s creator, Larry David, since they met at summer camp at age 12 — was a perfectly irksome foil to the already curmudgeonly protagonist.
“Richard and I were born three days apart in the same hospital and for most of my life he’s been like a brother to me,” David said in a statement on Wednesday. “He had that rare combination of being the funniest person and also the sweetest. But today he made me sob and for that I’ll never forgive him.”
“His wife, Joyce Lapinsky, thanks everyone for all the love, friendship and support and asks for privacy at this time,” Abraham said in a statement.
Born in New York, Lewis studied, and often drew comparisons to, Lenny Bruce for his riffing, neurotic crowd work. In his many comedy specials, “The Prince of Pain,” as Lewis was known, was often at the receiving end of the punchline.
“The key ingredient to his humor is his honesty. Richard has a bad relationship with himself — most comedians do — but he can express it,” David told The Washington Post in a profile of Lewis published in 2020.
Lewis also published two books, “The Other Great Depression,” a memoir in which he opened up about his struggles with fame and drug and alcohol use, and “Reflections from Hell,” a book that used artistic illustrations to capture Lewis’s dark comedic “premises.”
“We are heartbroken to learn that Richard Lewis has passed away. His comedic brilliance, wit and talent were unmatched,” HBO said in a statement. “Richard will always be a cherished member of the HBO and “Curb Your Enthusiasm” families, our heartfelt condolences go out to his family, friends and all the fans who could count on Richard to brighten their days with laughter.”
Lewis’ “Curb Your Enthusiasm” co-star Cheryl Hines, who plays David’s ex-wife, said in a statement that working with Lewis was “a dream come true.”
“Through the years I learned who Richard really was and the gifts he gave,” Hines said. “Yes, he was the comedian I fell in love with, but he was also one of the most loving people I know. He would take time to tell the people he loved what they meant to him —especially in recent years. In between takes on Curb, he would tell me how special I was to him and how much he loved me. To be loved by Richard Lewis. A true gift.”
Music legend Ringo Starr posted a message on social media sending his love to Lewis’s wife. “God bless Richard Lewis. We will all miss you, man. Love to Joyce. Peace and love,” Starr wrote. In a 2009 interview, Lewis said he met his wife through the former Beatles drummer.
“You don’t call him Ringo if you know him, you call him Richard or he’ll come after you with a pitchfork,” Lewis clarified.
Eric Mays, a passionate and combative Flint City Councilman and TikTok sensation who became one of the most outspoken supporters of residents during the water crisis, has died, city officials announced late Saturday.
Mays was 65.
His cause of death wasn’t immediately clear.
First elected to the council in 2013, Mays was one of the first public officials to voice concerns about the water crisis that began in 2014. While other state and city officials downplayed the crisis, Mays was an unwavering advocate for residents.
During council meetings, Mays’s passion often manifested as combativeness as he clashed with others on the board. On more than a few occasions, police escorted Mays out of council meetings for clamoring with his colleagues.
In December, Mays was suspended from the council for 90 days for making “constant frivolous motions” and using “racist rhetoric,” according to a council motion. Mays planned to file a federal lawsuit against the council, saying the suspension violated his First Amendment rights and left his constituents unrepresented.
Human rights activist Sam Riddle (left) with Flint City Councilman Eric Mays.
Sam Riddle, a longtime friend and supporter of the councilman, says Mays was popular among residents because he zealously fought for them.
“Eric Mays raised hell and irritated people, but his behavior moved leadership and mis-leadership up the ladder of consciousness one rung at a time,” Riddle, political director of the National Action Network, a civil rights organization led by the Rev. Al Sharpton, tells Metro Times. “He had a unique ability to make people angry because he was so right analytically, so people would hate on him rather than take on the issues he raised. Like the rest of us, he had personal flaws, but they paled in comparison to his astute political abilities.”
The Lento Law Group, which represented Mays in numerous legal matters, said the councilman stood up for his residents when no one else would.
“We are heartbroken by the sudden, tragic death of our client, Councilman Eric Mays,” Lento Law Group wrote in a statement to Metro Times. “Our hearts go out to his family, friends, and constituents. Councilman Mays was a man devoted to public service. His unrelenting advocacy on behalf of his constituents gave them a voice in a government body that often seemed interested in silencing voices that did not agree with the majority.”
The law firm added, “We will continue to fight for those constituents and the City of Flint in Councilman Mays’ name and memory, including against those individuals whose gracious statements concerning his passing stand in stark contrast to the actions they took against him while he was a public servant. Rest in Peace, Councilman Mays.”
Flint Mayor Sheldon Neely, with whom Mays often clashed, spoke warmly of the councilman in a written statement.
“This is a tremendous loss for our community and a shock to all friends and family,” Neeley said. “As our community grieves during this difficult time, on behalf of Councilman Mays’ family, we ask that community members respect their privacy and allow them time and space to mourn. We continue to lift the family in prayer.”
Citing Mays’s “bold and courageous service,” city officials said in a statement that the flag at City Hall would be lowered to half-staff in his honor Monday.
âIâm not ready for my son to become a martyr.â Alexey Navalnyâs mother said these words in 2011, at the start of his journey to prominence as Russiaâs most active opposition politician. Thirteen years later, as news of her sonâs death, in a remote penal colony inside Russiaâs Arctic Circle, spread across the world, she said that she didnât want to hear any condolences. âI saw my son in prison on the 12th, when we went to visit him. He was alive, healthy, and cheerful.â
Navalnyâs team filled the void of his absence with similar calls. âWe have no reason to believe state propaganda. They have lied, are lying and will continue to lie,â wroteLeonid Volkov, a longtime associate of Navalnyâs. âDonât rush to bury Alexey.â
Who could blame them? Everyone knew the stakes. Navalny had risen from anti-corruption activist to online superstar to grassroots organizer to Russiaâs most famous political prisoner. He had battled countless physical attacks along the way, including one, when the nerve agent Novichok nearly killed him. Navalny himself had addressed the possibility of his death in the Oscar-winning documentary that carried his name. âDonât give up. You cannot give up,â he says straight to the camera in the film directed by Daniel Roher. âIf it happens, if they decide to kill me, it means we are incredibly strong. We need to use that power.â That begins by depriving the Russian state of the authority of defining his death.
Navalny was a singular figure in Russiaâthough he would bristle at that description. He wanted to inspire through his example and empower average people to throw off the yoke of Vladimir Putinâs tyrannical leadershipâitself, an inheritance from centuries of Russian imperial rule. If Navalnyâthe son of a couple who owns a basket-weaving factory in the outskirts of Moscow, and who studied law at a second-tier universityâcould come deeply in touch with his power as a citizen, couldnât anyone? When Navalny emerged in 2011 to become a leader of the massive street protests that swept Russia (after Putin announced he was returning to the presidency following a brief stint as prime minister), his chants embodied that idea. âWe exist!â he would yell to a crowd of tens of thousands. At one such protest, late in 2011, he sounded like a being from another planet, far from a Russia that had consolidated itself around one man: âThe only source of power is the people of the Russian Federation,â Navalny told the crowd. The roar in response was deafening.
Now he is gone, killedâperhaps in the moment, but certainly over the past few years of his imprisonmentâby a regime that could not tolerate him. âPutin tried and failed to murder Navalny quickly and secretly with poison, and now he has murdered him slowly and publicly in prison,â wrote the exiled Russian opposition figure Garry Kasparov, and he could not be more right.
Navalny grew an enormous following inside Russia by conducting thorough and easily digestible investigations into the corruption of the countryâs top elite, including Putin. He exposed shady deals, gaudy palaces, nepotistic excesses, and luxury yachts. After he was poisoned with Novichok on a trip to Siberia, he, along with the journalist Christo Grozev, called one of his own poisonersâan FSB agentâand got him to admit what he had done.
His career in politics began on the street and then quickly shifted into something more. In 2013, he ran for mayor of Moscow and came in second. Three years later, he tried to run for president but was barred. He founded an organization, the Anti-Corruption Foundation, which opened regional chapters across the country, before being declared extremist in 2021 and now operates in exile. He launched a campaign to get Russians to engage in âSmart Votingââcasting their ballots for anyone but Putinâs cronies in the United Russia party.
He was driven by one goalâto get Putin and his henchmen out of power. He made some serious mistakes along the way, including early engagement with nationalist anti-migrant politics and initial acceptance of Putinâs seizure of Crimea from Ukraine, which he later renounced.
Through it all, he remained, unmistakably, himself. Navalny was deeply serious about his work, but also quick to make a joke or flash a smile. This might not seem notable, but in Russia it was revolutionary. Russiaâs Soviet legacy did so much to degrade the country, including its language and the way people not well acquainted interact with one other. Listening to a politician or newscaster talk is often an exercise in acronyms, the passive voice, and language so technical itâs as though theyâre talking about the intricacies of factory parts. Interpersonal exchanges are governed by suspicion or fear.
Damo Suzuki, the Japanese musician who spent a handful of memorable years as the lead singer of Can, died yesterday (February 9) at the age of 74. Can’s label, Spoon Records, did not disclose a cause of death in its announcement, but Suzuki had been diagnosed with colon cancer in 2014. “His boundless creative energy has touched so many over the whole world, not just with Can, but also with his all continents spanning Network Tour,” the label wrote. “Damo’s kind soul and cheeky smile will be forever missed.”
Born Kenji Suzuki in Kobe, Japan, the musician found his way to Germany by the late 1960s, joining Can after bassist Holger Czukay and drummer Jaki Liebezeit spotted him busking outside of a Munich cafe. Can had released just one album, 1969’s Monster Movie, with original vocalist Malcolm Mooney before Suzuki joined for some work on 1970’s Soundtracks. The group’s first full album with Suzuki was 1971’s Tago Mago, and the vocalist truly made his mark on 1972’s Ege Bamyasi, featuring “Vitamin C” and “Spoon.” Suzuki made just one more LP with the krautrock band, Future Days, before departing in 1973.
After leaving Can, Suzuki became a Jehovah’s Witness and spent about a decade away from music entirely. When he returned to music, he played shows globally with different local musicians, referring to the tours as Damo Suzuki’s Network. He recorded numerous Network and solo releases over the ensuing decades.
With co-author Paul Woods, Suzuki released the memoir I Am Damo Suzuki in 2019. The musician was also the subject of director Michelle Heighway’s 2022 documentary Energy.
Colorado civil rights attorney Kevin Williams died this week after 26 years of fighting to improve the lives of people with disabilities. He was 57.
Williams died Tuesday after a short illness, according to colleagues at the Denver-based Colorado Cross-Disability Coalition, where he launched the legal program in 1997 upon graduation from law school.
A quadriplegic paralyzed from his chest down following a car crash at age 19, Williams steadily increased access for disabled people by filing lawsuits — pressing for enforcement under the Americans with Disabilities Act, the Rehabilitation Act, the Colorado Anti-Discrimination Act and the Fair Housing Act.
He began this work as a third-year law student at the University of Denver. Shortly before his graduation, he sued his law school. The issue was compliance with the ADA. He prevailed, leading to required improvements, including a wheelchair-accessible graduation venue.
Often serving as the plaintiff, Williams repeated that feat again and again, expanding access for Coloradans with disabilities in stores, restaurants, public transit systems, theaters, arenas and travel pathways around the state. For example, his litigation compelled the operators of Red Rocks Amphitheatre to provide accessible parking, seating and ticketing.
He also led other lawyers into disability rights work.
Williams grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland. He made Colorado his home in 1990, the year President George H.W. Bush signed the ADA into law. He enjoyed drives in the mountains, attending concerts and visiting local breweries and distilleries.
Friends this week remembered him as passionate in his pursuit of civil rights.
“Kevin was contemplative, thorough and certain not to leave any stone unturned, especially in litigation,” said Andrew Montoya, who worked in the coalition’s legal program as an assistant and then was inspired to attend law school.
“Even seemingly mundane legal issues could occupy hours of lively discussion ranging from interpretive case law to contemporary and historical politics to litigation strategy to the meaning of life, and back again,” Montoya said. “His passion for civil rights, both in general and specifically those of people with disabilities, clearly animated his work, both in the courtroom and in the rest of the world.”
He also had a knack for making light of difficulties. Friends recalled his adaptation of the Beatles’ “Let It Be” — a rendition that he titled “Let Us Pee.” (“When I find myself in times of trouble; The bathroom door is two-foot-three; Whisper words of wisdom; Let us pee, let us pee.”
“He was intense, passionate, focused and very analytical. What kept him motivated was seeing people with disabilities face discrimination and knowing that the laws that are supposed to protect us are being violated,” said Julie Reiskin, co-executive director of the coalition.
“What bothered him was the blatant violation of the law, especially by those who should know better, such as courts and lawyers that made excuses rather than working to fix the problem.”
A mural of Wayne Kramer and the MC5 on Detroit’s former Grande Ballroom, where the band recorded its landmark Kick Out the Jams.
In his riveting memoir The Hard Stuff, guitarist Wayne Kramer cites the deaths of Rob Tyner, Michael Davis, and Fred Smith, his fellow musicians in Detroit’s legendary rock band, the MC5.
Tyner was the lead singer. Reflecting on his 1991 death, Kramer writes: “I never thought about Rob or any of the MC5 guys dying, just like I’d never thought about my own death.”
Kramer died at age 75 last week in Los Angeles of pancreatic cancer, more than 50 years after his “Motor City Five” musical group tried to reform — can you dig it? — the culture of the city of Detroit, the state of Michigan, the United States of America, the whole planet, and the entire universe, brothers and sisters, with loud, hard-core, revolutionary rock music, radical politics, free love and mind-altering drugs, man. Power to the people!
“I embraced many of the most extreme ideas and actions of my day,” Kramer wrote. “It was both frightening and exciting … I was a romantic anarchist.”
Kramer’s death jolted the popular music world all the way down to those of us who hung around the Grande Ballroom on Grand River Avenue on Detroit’s West Side in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when and where “The Five” were the house band and life was grand.
Personally, I was surprised to discover how many deep feelings were stored behind my memory doors. They were spurred by chats with old friends, by re-reading Kramer’s 2018 book, and by listening again to the band’s defining album (and song) called “Kick Out the Jams” and recorded in late 1968 live at the Grande.
The song touts “the sound that abounds and resounds and rebounds off the ceiling … ‘Cause it gets in your brain, it drives you insane … the wailin’ guitars, girl, the crash of the drums, makes you want to keep a-rockin’ ‘til morning comes …”
Although Kramer and the MC5 are not in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, they are curiously mythical icons in the collective consciousness of rock music as an art form. Some rock historians consider them prophets of the punk era, which followed them by a decade, when Kramer was imprisoned.
Even the Clash opened a song called “Jail Guitar Doors” with a reference to Kramer’s conviction for dealing cocaine. So a tribute to Kramer was wisely inserted into last Sunday’s Grammy awards during a segment honoring those who had died in the previous year.
The screen on the national telecast showed a misty photo of young Kramer, performing on stage, with long hair and long sideburns, wearing shades and wielding a guitar painted like the American flag.
“Wayne Kramer,” the words on the screen said. “Co-founder, Guitarist, Activist. MC5.”
I saw the MC5 at least a dozen times, mostly at the Grande, but sometimes at other venues. One of my favorite shows was in 1970 at Tartar Field at Wayne State University, a school I attended at the time to study journalism.
A friend had a Super 8 color movie camera so we bought a few rolls of film and stood close to the stage and got some good action shots of the Five flailing away. Sorry to say, the pictures still exist but the film is — and always was — silent.
To properly capture the essence of an MC5 show you had to both see and hear them. And I don’t think we had money at the time for sound film or a sound camera. No cellphones, then, either. Fortunately, other cameras were there and one of them recorded an excellent version of “Kick Out the Jams.”
The sound video on the internet looks to be a black-and-white recording that has been colorized.
Others interested in a longer crash course about the MC5 should listen to the entire album, which lasts about 40 minutes. Those of a certain age, upon honest reflection, might find the music much more mediocre than it is in our memories.
The best and most melodic cut on K.O.T.J. is “Motor City is Burning,” and that was written and first recorded by John Lee Hooker. At the end of it, Tyner ad-libs, “I may be a white boy, but I can be nasty.” Along with their manager, John Sinclair, the Five helped found the “White Panther Party.”
Kramer sings the lead in “Ramblin’ Rose,” his voice a high tenor, bordering on a cartoonish falsetto. Some lyrics of other songs reflect sexist rock tropes of the time, including “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I’m a born ass-pincher and I don’t give a damn.”
As for the psychedelic “Starship,” well, let’s just say you can’t dance to it and that the late 1960s featured the occasional blend of strange musical sounds influenced by controlled substances and space travel fantasies.
But music was just part of the package that came with the MC5. If you were a guy on the cusp of high school and college at the time, the draft and the war in Vietnam were daily worries. So was getting busted by cops for marijuana.
The Five took the left-wing, liberal side in those debates and also opposed police brutality after Detroit’s Riot and Rebellion of 1967. Importantly for the Motor City sensibility, they pushed a blue-collar, chip-on-the-shoulder style and attitude of what are sometimes called factory rats and working class.
They acted more streetwise than the draft-deferred college kids protesting, sometimes violently, on their pretty campuses in the countryside. They even posed bare-chested for photos with rifles and gun belts, a stance steered by the extremist politics of Sinclair, who later became Michigan’s marijuana martyr.
After Sinclair went to Jackson State Prison in 1969, the group began to falter. Despite his general bluntness, Kramer treads delicately over the break with Sinclair and their eventual reconciliation.
“John and I have never discussed what happened between us,” Kramer writes. “We both have our own perspectives. It was extremely painful … I’d always loved John and I was happy to have my old friend back.”
In some ways, the most gripping parts of Kramer’s book describe his life before the MC5’s success — when he was physically abused by his step-father — and his after-life following the demise of the band, when he became a home burglar in Oakland County, a drunk, a junkie, a drug dealer, and a federal prisoner.
He grew up in various places including Harsens Island, Detroit’s West Side, then the Downriver suburbs, sporting what he calls “greaser” style and moving from rental to rental with his mother, who fixed hair and worked in bars and drifted from man to man, one of whom abused both Kramer and his sister.
His real father was a “shell-shocked” World War II veteran who turned to alcohol and drifted away, leaving his son exposed and vulnerable.
“My mother called him a ‘rat’ and a ‘bum,’” Kramer writes of his real dad. ““My grandpa was a mean alcoholic … He was loud and a bully … Herschel abused me … I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. No one ever said anything about it afterward … It was family fun — if you lived in the ninth circle of hell … Fighting was part of boyhood then … There was power in stealing. It became my thing …”
Much of the writing is blunt and confessional, evoking the gritty style of Charles Bukowski, especially when the band breaks up and Kramer’s life turns into a tailspin of addiction and crime. He even mentions Bukowski as one of his heroes.
“Crime had an allure for me,” Kramer writes. “I have identified with and romanticized outsiders … I was desperate. A dope habit requires cash every day … Eventually, I ran out of things to sell …”
He writes of avoiding a possible execution during a shady drug deal in the Pick Fort Shelby hotel in downtown Detroit.
“No witnesses meant Leon and Barker were going to kill everyone in the room — Tim Shafe, the Bug, Tony and me, too,” Kramer writes. “… The Bug left Detroit and was never seen again. He was always a slippery dude …”
Especially when recounting the rock star life, Kramer comes off like a junior varsity Keith Richards, whose autobiography called Life — published in 2010 — also recounts the lifestyle of that era among that fast crowd.
“We were on the cover of Rolling Stone,” Kramer writes.
Importantly for the Motor City sensibility, the MC5 pushed a blue-collar, chip-on-the-shoulder style and attitude of what are sometimes called factory rats and working class.
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He tells of playing on the same bill with Janis Joplin on the West Coast and turning down her offer to meet up later at the hotel. As for the Velvet Underground: “They avoided us and our people completely. Not that I blame them, considering how deranged and aggressive we must have seemed.”
Some memories are pleasant. He dined in Berlin with Marianne Faithful. Some anecdotes are hilarious. At one show, “my super tight stage trousers ripped open at the crotch” when Kramer wore no underwear. Many other scenes in the book are just as visual and seem like parts of a movie script.
One that was serious came in Lower Manhattan, when a local street gang called “The East Village Motherfuckers” decided the Five were not real revolutionaries but mere sellouts to the exploitative and capitalist record companies.
So they protested an MC5 show at the Fillmore East.
“The Motherfuckers bum-rushed the stage and started trashing our equipment,” Kramer writes. “I watched as knives slashed through the fire curtain, while mayhem exploded out front. Cymbals were crashing, amps were knocked over and there was a lot of yelling and cursing.”
And those were the best of times.
Fast forward a bit, with Kramer out of prison after three years, still struggling, drinking and drugging, doing handyman work, scoring occasional musical gigs and drifting through cities like New York and Nashville, damaging personal relationships all the while.
“Eve had finally decided that being the girlfriend of a touring, drug-addicted, criminal musician wasn’t exactly what she had in mind,” he writes. “A group of small-time crooks and scam artists comprised my social circle. I was on a trajectory straight into the gutter.”
In what amounts to a happy ending, Kramer finishes The Hard Stuff with his account of sobering up, marrying, settling down, adopting a son, helping prisoners reform through music, and enjoying accolades from several generations during his various revival tours up through recent years as a senior citizen.
“The beats of my life break down pretty simply: childhood, the MC5, crime, prison, sobriety, service and family,” Kramer writes. “… I am at peace with my past … I still live in the tension between the angel and the beast … The struggle will continue until the day I depart.”
Country music star Toby Keith has died, his social media sites and website announced early Tuesday. He was 62.
The sites said he “passed peacefully last night on February 5th, surrounded by his family. He fought his fight with grace and courage. Please respect the privacy of his family at this time.”
Toby Keith at the People’s Choice Country Awards at The Grand Ole Opry House on Sept. 28, 2023, in Nashville.
Tammie Arroyo/Variety via Getty Images
Keith announced in June 2022 that he’d been undergoing treatment for stomach cancer since the previous fall.
“So far, so good,” the Oklahoma native said. “I need time to breathe, recover and relax.
“I am looking forward to spending this time with my family. But I will see the fans sooner than later. I can’t wait.”
Toby Keith performs during the iHeartCountry Festival at Frank Irwin Center on Oct. 30, 2021, in Austin, Texas.
Erika Goldring/WireImage
Tributes poured in Tuesday following news of Keith’s death. Country singer Zach Bryan remembered him in a social media post: “Too many rides in my old man’s car listening to Toby Keith. Really hard thing to hear rest in peace friend we love you.”
John Rich, of the country duo Big & Rich, called Keith a “friend and legend.” “He was a true Patriot, a first class singer/songwriter, and a bigger than life kind of guy. He will be greatly missed,” he wrote.
Unabashed patriot
Sometimes a polarizing figure in country music, the 6-foot-4 Keith broke out in the country boom years of the 1990s, crafting an identity around his macho, pro-American swagger and writing songs that fans loved to hear. During the course of his career, he publicly clashed with other celebrities and journalists and often pushed back against record executives who wanted to smooth his rough edges.
He was known for his overt patriotism on post 9/11 songs like “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue,” and boisterous barroom tunes like “I Love This Bar” and “Red Solo Cup.” He had a powerful booming voice, a tongue-in-cheek sense of humor and a range that carried love songs as well as drinking songs.
Among his 20 No. 1 Billboard hits were “How Do You Like Me Now?!,” “Should’ve Been a Cowboy,” “As Good As I Once Was,” “My List” and “Beer for My Horses,” a duet with Willie Nelson.
Long road to stardom
Keith worked as a roughneck in the oil fields of Oklahoma as a young man, then played semi-pro football before launching his career as a singer.
“I write about life, and I sing about life, and I don’t overanalyze things,” Keith told The Associated Press in 2001, following the success of his song “I’m Just Talking About Tonight.”
Keith learned good lessons in the booming oil fields, which toughened him up, but also showed him the value of money.
“The money to be made was unbelievable,” Keith told The Associated Press in 1996. “I came out of high school in 1980 and they gave me this job December of 1979, $50,000 a year. I was 18-years-old.”
But the domestic oil field industry collapsed and Keith had not saved. “It about broke us,” he said. “So I just learned. I’ve taken care of my money this time.”
He spent a couple of seasons as a defensive end for the Oklahoma City Drillers, a farm team for the now-defunct United States Football League. But he found consistent money playing music with his band throughout the red dirt roadhouse circuit in Oklahoma and Texas.
“All through this whole thing, the only constant thing we had was music,” he said. “But it’s hard to sit back and say, ‘I’m going to go make my fortune singing music, or writing music. I had no contacts.”‘
Finally arrives
Eventually his path took him to Nashville, where he attracted the interest of Mercury Records head Harold Shedd, who was best known as a producer for the hit group Alabama. Shedd brought him to Mercury, where he released his platinum debut record “Toby Keith,” in 1993.
“Should’ve Been a Cowboy,” his breakout hit, was played 3 million times on radio stations, making it the most played country song of the 1990s.
But the label’s focus on global star Shania Twain overshadowed the rest of the roster and Keith felt the executives were trying to push him in a pop direction.
“They were trying to get me to compromise, and I was living a miserable existence,” Keith told the AP. “Everybody was trying to mold me into something I was not.”
After a series of albums that produced hits like “Who’s That Man,” and the cover of Sting’s “I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying,” Keith moved to DreamWorks Records in 1999.
That’s when his multi-week “How Do You Like Me Now?!” took off and became his first song to crossover to Top 40 charts. In 2001, he won male vocalist of the year and album of the year at the Academy of Country Music Awards, exclaiming from the stage: “I’ve waited a long time for this. Nine years!”
Songs like “I Wanna Talk About Me,” a spoken-word song written by Bobby Braddock about a man frustrated by a talkative partner, got him attention for its similarity to the cadence of rap, which Keith dismissed. “They’re going to call it a rap song, (although) there ain’t nobody doing rap who would call it rap,” he told “Billboard” magazine in 2001.
No stranger to controversy
Keith often wore his politics on his sleeve, especially after the terrorist attacks on U.S. soil in 2001, and early on said he was a conservative Democrat, but later claimed he was an independent. He’s played at events for Presidents George W. Bush, Barack Obama and Donald Trump, the latter giving him a National Medal of the Arts in 2021. His songs and his blunt opinions sometimes caused him controversy, which he seemed to court.
His 2002 song, “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue (The Angry American)” included a threat —”We’ll put a boot in your ass – It’s the American way” — to anyone who dared to mess with America.
The song got pulled from a patriotic ABC Fourth of July special after producers deemed it too angry for the show. Singer-songwriter Steve Earle called Keith’s song “pandering to people’s worst instincts at a time they are hurt and scared.”
Then there was the feud between Keith and The Chicks (formerly called the Dixie Chicks), who became a target of Keith’s ire when singer Natalie Maines told a crowd that they were ashamed of then President George W. Bush. Maines had also previously called Keith’s song “ignorant.”
Keith, who had previously claimed that he supported any artist’s freedom to voice their opinion about politics, used a doctored photo of Maines with an image of Saddam Hussein at his concerts, further ramping up angry fans.
Maines responded by wearing a shirt with the letters “FUTK” onstage at the 2003 ACM Awards, which many people believed was a vulgar message to Keith.
He also publicly called out actor Ethan Hawke, who had written a story in “Rolling Stone” that described an argument between Kris Kristofferson and an unnamed country star that sounded a lot like Keith. During a backstage press conference during an awards show, Keith was furious at Hawke (and reporters for repeating the story) for what he called a “fictitious (expletive) lie.”
Keith, who acknowledged that he holds onto grudges, walked out of the ACM Awards in 2003 early because he had gotten snubbed in earlier categories, causing him to miss out when he was announced as entertainer of the year. Vince Gill accepted on his behalf. He came back the next year and won the top prize for a second year in a row, along with top male vocalist and album of the year for “Shock ‘n Y’all.”
His pro-military stance wasn’t just fodder for songs, however. He went on 11 USO tours to visit and play for troops serving overseas. He also helped to raised millions for charity over his career, including building a home in Oklahoma City for kids and their families who are battling cancer.
After Universal Music Group acquired DreamWorks, Keith started anew again, starting his own record label, Show Dog, in 2005 with record executive Scott Borchetta, who launched his own label Big Machine at the same time.
“Probably 75 percent of the people in this town think I’ll fail, and the other 25 percent hope I fail,” he said that year.
The label later became Show Dog-Universal Music and had Keith, Trace Adkins, Joe Nichols, Josh Thompson, Clay Walker and Phil Vassar on its roster.
His later hits included “Love Me If You Can,” “She Never Cried In Front of Me,” and “Red Solo Cup.” He was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2015.
He was honored by the performance rights organization BMI in November 2022 with the BMI Icon award, a few months after announcing his stomach cancer diagnosis.
“I always felt like that the songwriting was the most important part of this whole industry,” Keith told the crowd of fellow singers and writers.
DJ Katapila, the Ghanaian producer who started out DJing funeral parties before amassing a cult behind his innovative albums and marathon sets, died Sunday, January 28, after a brief illness. Awesome Tapes From Africa, the label that helped break Katapila internationally, reported the news. The label’s post described Katapila as an “inimitable producer, disc jockey, and mobile party-starter,” noting that “he leaves behind a loving family including his young daughter and son and his 92-year-old mother.” He was 50 years old.
DJ Katapila, who was born Ishmael Abbey in Accra’s Jamestown neighborhood, moved into production in his mid-30s, using simple FruityLoops software to construct bracing, often high-energy tracks that mixed early house and techno influences with rhythms and vocals from Ghanaian dance music. He often spoke and sang in Twi, English, and Ga over or between tracks, complicating the beats with dextrous live drum pads. He released three records on Awesome Tapes From Africa, starting with Trotro, before his final EP, Techno Africa, came out on Club Yeke in 2022.
In his Instagram tribute, Awesome Tapes founder Brian Shimkovitz wrote, in part:
DJ Katapila launched into my consciousness on a trip to Ghana in 2015, after finding one of his tapes. We ended up releasing a 3 albums together and he traveled to Europe for touring at least four times. Many of those shows we played together so I have vivid memories of our travels together and all the capers that entailed. Ishmael’s friendly and calm nature touched countless people along the way. It wasn’t always easy or stress-free working with him but I greatly value what I learned from him.
We soldiered together with the incredible help of @qujunktions staff to navigate the horrible visa process African artists endure. Ishmael was subjected to numerous indignities and costly bad luck situations along the way but he always held his head high and kept positive and persisted His drive to make a life out of music was as relentless as the music he produced over the years. As a late bloomer in the world of music creation—he started working with Fruity Loops after about 20 years of DJing nonstop—he made up for the simplicity of his studio with the liveliness of his productions.
As the golden era of action movies wound down in the late 1990s, Weathers became a consistent figure on the big and small screen, including a well-regarded comedic turn in 1996’s Happy Gilmore.Adam Sandler, who played that film’s title role, wrote on Instagram that Weathers was “smart as hell. Loyal as hell. Funny as hell. Loved his sons more than anything. What a guy!! Everyone loved him.”
Weathers was introduced to a new generation of fans in 2019, when he joined the Star Wars world in Disney+ series The Mandalorian. As a character named Greef Karga, he was nominated for an outstanding guest actor in a drama series Emmy in 2021.
Carl Weathers at the launch event for season 3 of “The Mandalorian” held at El Capitan Theatre on February 28, 2023 in Los Angeles, California.
Michael Buckner/Getty Images
Speaking to Hypebeast as the most recent season of The Mandalorian wound down, Weathers spoke to his life as an actor — but his remarks arguably apply to how his fans are feeling today. “As always, when you have success you want more,” he said. “It’s bittersweet because you know that come next Wednesday, audiences aren’t going to be gathered to witness another episode.”
“For those of us who are performing, we’re eagerly awaiting whether we’ll see a fourth opportunity to bring it all back again,” he said. “But, at the same time, it’s really fulfilling to have gotten through three seasons now and still have people wanting more.”
Actor and former Oakland Raiders player Carl Weathers stands on the Las Vegas Raiders sideline before the team’s game against the Houston Texans at Allegiant Stadium on October 23, 2022 in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Acclaimed actor Carl Weathers, who was maybe best known to audiences for his memorable character Apollo Creed in the “Rocky” movies, has died at the age of 76. Weathers, a former NFL player, also starred in “Predator.” In 2021, he earned an Emmy nomination for his role in the popular “Star Wars” series “The Mandalorian.”
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Carl Weathers, a former NFL linebacker who became a Hollywood action movie and comedy star, playing nemesis-turned-ally Apollo Creed in the “Rocky” movies, facing-off against Arnold Schwarzenegger in “Predator” and teaching golf in “Happy Gilmore,” has died. He was 76.
Weathers’ manager Matt Luber confirmed to CBS News that Weathers died at his home in Los Angeles on Thursday. His family issued a statement to the Associated Press saying he died “peacefully in his sleep.”
“Carl was an exceptional human being who lived an extraordinary life. Through his contributions to film, television, the arts and sports, he has left an indelible mark and is recognized worldwide and across generations. He was a beloved brother, father, grandfather, partner, and friend,” his family said in the statement, according to entertainment news outlet Deadline.
Actor Carl Weathers of “Chicago Justice” poses for a portrait on Jan. 18, 2017, in Pasadena, California.
Maarten de Boer/NBCU Photo Bank/NBCUniversal via Getty Images
Adam Sandler, who starred with Weathers in “Happy Gilmore,” took to social media to remember his co-star in the 1996 comedy.
“A true great man. Great dad. Great actor. Great athlete. So much fun to be around always. Smart as hell. Loyal as hell. Funny as hell. Loved his sons more than anything. What a guy!!” Sandler said.
Weathers was as comfortable flexing his muscles on the big screen in “Action Jackson” as he was joking around on the small screen in such shows as “Arrested Development.” Weathers was perhaps most closely associated with Creed, who made his first appearance as the cocky, undisputed heavyweight world champion in 1976’s “Rocky,” starring Sylvester Stallone.
“It puts you on the map and makes your career, so to speak. But that’s a one-off, so you’ve got to follow it up with something. Fortunately those movies kept coming, and Apollo Creed became more and more in people’s consciousness and welcome in their lives, and it was just the right guy at the right time,” he told The Daily Beast in 2017.
Most recently, Weathers has starred in the Disney+ hit “The Mandalorian,” appearing in all three seasons.
Creed, who appeared in the first four “Rocky” movies, memorably died in the ring of 1984’s “Rocky IV,” going toe-to-toe with the hulking, steroided-using Soviet Ivan Drago, played by Dolph Lundgren. Before he entered the ring, James Brown sang “Living in America” with showgirls and Creed popped up on a balcony in a Star-Spangled Banner shorts and waistcoat combo and an Uncle Sam hat, dancing and taunting Drago.
A bloodied Creed collapses in the ring after taking a vicious beating, twitches and is cradled by Rocky as he dies, inevitably setting up a fight between Drago and Rocky. But while Creed is gone, his character’s son, Michael B. Jordan’s Adonis Creed, would lead his own boxing trilogy starting in 2015.
Actors Carl Weathers, left, and Sylvester Stallone pose at an album release party for singer Frank Stallone, center, at Capital Records on Aug. 7, 2003, in Hollywood, California.
Kevin Winter/Getty Images
Weathers went on to 1987’s “Predator,” where he flexed his pecs alongside Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura and a host of others, and 1988’s nouveau blaxploitation flick “Action Jackson,” where he trains his flamethrower on a bad guy and asks, “How do you like your ribs?” before broiling him.
He later starred in Dick Wolf’s short-lived spin-off series “Chicago Justice” in 2017 and earned an Emmy Award nomination in 2021 for “The Mandalorian.” He also voiced Combat Carl in the “Toy Story” franchise.
“There are so many people that came before me who I admired and whose success I wanted to emulate, and just kind of hit the benchmarks they hit in terms of success, who created a pathway that I’ve been able to walk and find success as a result. And hopefully I can inspire someone else to do good work as well,” he said. “I guess I’m just a lucky guy.”
Weathers grew up admiring actors such as Woody Strode, whose combination of physique and acting prowess in “Spartacus” made an early impression. Others he idolized included actors Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte and athletes Jim Brown and Muhammad Ali, stars who broke the mold and the color barrier.
Growing up in New Orleans, Weathers started performing in plays as early as grade school. In high school, athletics took him down another path but he would reunite with his first love later in life.
Weathers played college football at San Diego State University — he majored in theater — and went on to play for one season in the NFL, for the Oakland Raiders, in 1970.
“When I found football, it was a completely different outlet,” Weathers told the Detroit News. “It was more about the physicality, although one does feed the other. You needed some smarts because there were playbooks to study and film to study, to learn about the opposition on any given week.”
After the Raiders, he joined the Canadian Football League, playing for two years while finishing up his studies during the offseason at San Francisco State University. He graduated with a bachelor’s in drama in 1974.
After appearing in several films and TV shows, including “Good Times,” “The Six Million Dollar Man,” “In the Heat of the Night” and “Starsky & Hutch,” as well as fighting Nazis alongside Harrison Ford in “Force 10 From Navarone,” Weathers landed his knockout role — Creed. He told The Hollywood Reporter that his start in the iconic franchise was not auspicious.
He was asked to read with the writer, Stallone, then unknown. Weathers read the scene but felt it didn’t land and so he blurted out: “I could do a lot better if you got me a real actor to work with,” he recalled. “So I just insulted the star of the movie without really knowing it and not intending to.” He also lied that he had any boxing experience.
Later in life, Weathers developed a passion for directing, helming episodes of “Silk Stalkings” and the Lorenzo Lamas vehicle “Renegade.” He directed a season three episode of “The Mandalorian.”
Weathers introduced himself to another generation when he portrayed himself as an opportunistic and extremely thrifty actor who becomes involved with the dysfunctional clan at the heart of “Arrested Development.”
The Weathers character likes to save money by making broth from discarded food — “There’s still plenty of meat on that bone” and “Baby, you got a stew going!” — and, for the right price, agrees to become an acting coach for delusional and talent-free thespian Tobias Funke, played by David Cross.
NEW YORK — Carl Weathers, a former NFL linebacker who became a Hollywood action movie and comedy star, playing nemesis-turned-ally Apollo Creed in the “Rocky” movies, facing-off against Arnold Schwarzenegger in “Predator” and teaching golf in “Happy Gilmore,” has died. He was 76.
Matt Luber, his manager, said Weathers died Thursday. His family issued a statement saying he died “peacefully in his sleep.”
Weathers was as comfortable flexing his muscles on the big screen in “Action Jackson” as he was joking around on the small screen in such shows as “Arrested Development,” Weathers was perhaps most closely associated with Creed, who made his first appearance as the cocky, undisputed heavyweight world champion in 1976’s “Rocky,” starring Sylvester Stallone.
“It puts you on the map and makes your career, so to speak. But that’s a one-off, so you’ve got to follow it up with something. Fortunately those movies kept coming, and Apollo Creed became more and more in people’s consciousness and welcome in their lives, and it was just the right guy at the right time,” he told The Daily Beast in 2017.
Most recently, Weathers has starred in the Disney+ hit “The Mandalorian,” appearing in all three seasons.
Creed, who appeared in the first four “Rocky” movies, memorably died in the ring of 1984’s “Rocky IV,” going toe-to-toe with the hulking, steroided-using Soviet Ivan Drago, played by Dolph Lundgren. Before he entered the ring, James Brown sang “Living in America” with showgirls and Creed popped up on a balcony in a Star-Spangled Banner shorts and waistcoat combo and an Uncle Sam hat, dancing and taunting Drago.
(Kevin Winter/Getty Images Archives)
Weathers, left, and “Rocky” co-star Sylvester Stallone greet one another at a party in Hollywood in 2003.
A bloodied Creed collapses in the ring after taking a vicious beating, twitches and is cradled by Rocky as he dies, inevitably setting up a fight between Drago and Rocky. But while Creed is gone, his character’s son, Michael B. Jordan’s Adonis Creed, would lead his own boxing trilogy starting in 2015.
Weathers went on to 1987’s “Predator,” where he flexed his pecs alongside Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura and a host of others, and 1988’s nouveau blaxploitation flick “Action Jackson,” where he trains his flamethrower on a bad guy and asks, “How do you like your ribs?” before broiling him.
He later added a false wooden hand to play a gold pro for the 1996 comedy classic “Happy Gilmore” opposite Adam Sandler and starred in Dick Wolf’s short-lived spin-off series “Chicago Justice” in 2017 and in Disney’s “The Mandalorian,” earning an Emmy Award nomination in 2021.
Weathers grew up admiring actors such as Woody Strode, whose combination of physique and acting prowess in “Spartacus” made an early impression. Others he idolized included actors Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte and athletes Jim Brown and Muhammad Ali, stars who broke the mold and the color barrier.
“There are so many people that came before me who I admired and whose success I wanted to emulate, and just kind of hit the benchmarks they hit in terms of success, who created a pathway that I’ve been able to walk and find success as a result. And hopefully I can inspire someone else to do good work as well,” he told the Detroit News 2023. “I guess I’m just a lucky guy.”
Growing up in New Orleans, Weathers started performing in plays as early as grade school. In high school, athletics took him down another path but he would reunite with his first love later in life.
Weathers, who played football at Long Beach Poly High and graduated in 1966, went on to play college football at San Diego State University, where he majored in theater. He played one season in the NFL, for the Oakland Raiders, in 1970.
“When I found football, it was a completely different outlet,” says Weathers told the Detroit News. “It was more about the physicality, although one does feed the other. You needed some smarts because there were playbooks to study and film to study, to learn about the opposition on any given week.”
After the Raiders, he joined the Canadian Football League, playing for two years while finishing up his studies during the offseason at San Francisco State University. He graduated with a B.A. in drama in 1974.
Tributes are continuing to pour in for Broadway legend Chita Rivera, known for bringing to life some of theater’s most classic roles like Anita in “West Side Story” and Velma Kelly in “Chicago.” Rivera died Tuesday at age 91. CBS News’ Vlad Duthiers reflects on her decades-long career.
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Jim Crockarell, a prominent real estate developer and a significant figure in downtown St. Paul, passed away at the age of 79.
Initially from Clarksville, Tennessee, Crockarell made St. Paul his home, leaving a lasting impact on the city’s architectural landscape while often clashing with local authorities, Twin Cities Pioneer Press reported.
Starting his career at Ellerbe Becket in the 1970s, Crockarell ventured into real estate in the early 1980s, beginning with residential properties in St. Paul’s Ramsey Hill neighborhood. Over the years, he expanded his portfolio through Madison Equities, eventually holding stakes in around 32 buildings, including iconic downtown office spaces and converted residential properties.
Crockarell’s investments extended beyond real estate, positioning him as a landlord for trendy restaurants and entertainment venues in the city. Notable establishments like Noyes & Cutler, the Handsome Hog, and Gray Duck Tavern were among those under his ownership.
Throughout his career, Crockarell engaged in numerous disputes with various entities, including St. Paul City Hall, labor groups, and business partners. He was known for his outspoken criticism of downtown policies, particularly regarding issues like crime prevention and urban development strategies.
Despite his conflicts, Crockarell remained committed to enhancing downtown St. Paul’s vitality. He often advocated for the city’s growth and actively pursued opportunities to revitalize its commercial landscape. His ability to acquire downtown properties at advantageous prices, coupled with his vision for urban development, made him a notable figure in the local business community.
However, Crockarell’s legacy was not without controversy. His company, Madison Equities, faced legal challenges related to labor practices, including allegations of wage violations by security guards. Despite legal battles, Crockarell continued to navigate the complexities of urban development in St. Paul.
Concerns about the future of downtown St. Paul lingered as Crockarell expressed uncertainty regarding the occupancy of major commercial spaces, such as the U.S. Bank Center. He emphasized the importance of attracting employees back to downtown in the wake of the pandemic-induced shift towards remote work.
In his passing, Jim Crockarell leaves behind a mixed legacy in downtown St. Paul, remembered for his contributions to the city’s architectural heritage and his sometimes contentious approach to urban development. His impact on the local real estate scene and his role as a downtown advocate will be remembered by many in the St. Paul community.
Melanie, the influential singer-songwriter who was one of three solo female performers at the original 1969 Woodstock Music and Art Fair, died on Tuesday (January 23) at the age of 76. The news was first announced on social media by her three children, and later confirmed to Pitchfork via press release. “We are heartbroken, but want to thank each and every one of you for the affection you have for our Mother,” Melanie’s family wrote. “She was one of the most talented, strong and passionate women of the era and every word she wrote, every note she sang reflected that.” A cause of death has not yet been revealed, though the press release stated that Melanie had been living with an undisclosed illness.
Melanie Safka was born in the Astoria neighborhood of Queens, New York, on February 3, 1947. Melanie was exposed to music at a young age, as her mother, Polly, was a professional jazz singer; Melanie first performed when she was only four years old, singing on a New York radio show. She went on to study at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and would head downtown during her free time to play at the Greenwich Village coffee houses, home to the flourishing 1960s folk scene.
In 1968, Melanie issued her studio debut, Born to Be. The collection of predominately original folk songs included a rendition of Bob Dylan’s oft-covered “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Born to Be solidified Melanie’s style; her dynamic voice could bellow and expand, or shrink into scratchy, childlike murmurs. Deviating from the traditionally simple structure of ’60s folk, Melanie’s sound drew from the high-drama work of édith Piaf, Kurt Weill, and jazz singer Blossom Dearie.
Melanie’s breakout performance at Woodstock was a turning point for the artist, who was one of only three women to play in front of the massive crowd unaccompanied. Her performance of “Birthday of the Sun” exposed an entirely new audience to her belting, acrobatic voice. In 1970, Melanie released her inaugural Stateside hit, “Lay Down (Candles in the Rain),” from her fourth album, Candles in the Rain. The following year, Melanie and Peter Schekeryk—her late husband, manager, and producer—founded Neighborhood Records, regarded as the first female-owned independent label in rock history.
In the ensuing decades, Melanie recorded at a swift pace, issuing LPs through 2010 and releasing hits like “What Have They Done to My Song Ma,” “Peace Will Come,” and “The Nickel Song,” as well as “Brand New Key,” which was later featured in Paul Thomas Anderson’s 1997 film Boogie Nights. Throughout the years, her music was recorded by the likes of Nina Simone, Ray Charles, Miley Cyrus, and Morrissey.
Charles Osgood, who spent 45 years with CBS News, including 22 as the host of “Sunday Morning,” died at his home in New Jersey on Tuesday. He was 91. “Sunday Morning” host Jane Pauley looks back at his incredible life and legacy.
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The Oscar-nominated Canadian director Norman Jewison, who died January 20 at the age of 97, considered himself—above all—a storyteller.
Jewison was a versatile craftsman in the tradition of the Hollywood studio system, where directors worked in a variety of genres; however, unlike those journeymen, Jewison ultimately earned complete creative control. Whether it was a Cold War farce (The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!), a stylish heist (The Thomas Crown Affair), a racial drama (In the Heat of the Night), a musical (Fiddler on the Roof), a sci-fi dystopia (Rollerball), or a romantic comedy (Moonstruck), Jewison had a knack for making entertaining films that people wanted to see but that also conveyed his worldview. Russians, A Soldier’s Story, Heat, Fiddler, and Moonstruck were all nominated for the best-picture award (Heat would go on to win the award for best picture in 1968). The latter three each earned Jewison Oscar nominations for best director.
Jewison was born in Toronto on July 21, 1926. During World War II, he served in the Royal Canadian Navy. When the war ended, he embarked on a hitchhiking trip around America. In his 2004 memoir, This Terrible Business Has Been Good to Me, he recalled an incident in a bus outside Memphis, where he inadvertently took a seat in the rear with the Black passengers. The bus driver stopped the vehicle, refusing to proceed until Jewison changed seats. Jewison got off the bus instead. “I think it was then, along the highways of Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, that the desire to make films like In the Heat of the Night and A Soldier’s Story took root,” he wrote. “Racism and injustice are two themes I have come back to, again and again, in my films.”
Jewison began his career in London television and then moved to Canada, where he joined the fledgling CBC television network in the early 1950s. A few years later, he went to work for CBS in New York and established himself in variety television, eventually working on The Judy Garland Show in 1962. He impressed Tony Curtis, who visited the set and complimented him: “You do nice work, kid. When are you going to make a movie?” Later that year, Jewison directed 40 Pounds of Trouble, the remake of Little Miss Marker that Curtis starred in. Other light comedies followed, including Doris Day vehicles The Thrill of It All and Send Me No Flowers.
Jewison chaffed at being directorially typecast. After his first box office flop, The Art of Love, he directed The Cincinnati Kid—a gritty drama starring Steve McQueen that meant to do for poker what The Hustler did for pool. “It is the one that made me feel like I had finally become a filmmaker,” he wrote in his memoir.
Jewison’s canon features some of the screen’s most indelible moments and images: Conflicted lawyer Al Pacino railing, “You’re out of order! The whole trial is out of order!” in the climax of …And Justice for All; the erotically charged chess game between McQueen and Faye Dunaway in The Thomas Crown Affair; and Cher slapping a head-over-heels Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck, demanding him to “Snap out of it!”
Norman Jewison, the Canadian director of numerous Oscar-recognized titles — including “Moonstruck” and “Fiddler on the Roof” — and a champion of homegrown cinematic talent at the Canadian Film Centre, has died.
A publicist for the Toronto-born filmmaker confirmed that Jewison died peacefully at his home on Saturday. He was 97 years old.
The charming, strong-willed director-producer tackled a wide range of genres throughout his distinguished career, but was particularly drawn to projects that had a social message and explored the human condition.
His five-time Oscar-winning 1967 crime drama “In the Heat of the Night,” for example, was the first of several Jewison films that probed the effects of racism.
It’s an issue that struck Jewison while hitchhiking across the segregated American South as a teen following his one-year service in the Royal Canadian Navy during the Second World War.
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“I saw apartheid for the first time,” he said in February 2010 during a panel discussion in Toronto on race relations in cinema.
“I couldn’t understand at 18 … why a country would ask young men to go and fight and die for America and then when they came home, they had to sit at the back of a bus and they couldn’t get a cup of coffee at Woolworth’s.”
Jewison revisited themes of racial tension with his three-time Oscar-nominated “A Soldier’s Story” in 1984, and “The Hurricane” in 1999, which earned Denzel Washington an Oscar nomination for best actor.
IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT, Rod Steiger, director, Norman Jewison, & Sidney Poitier, rehearsing the script, in Belleville, IL, September 23, 1966. Film was released in 1967.
THE HURRICANE, Denzel Washington, director Norman Jewison, on set, 1999. (c) Universal Pictures/ Courtesy: Everett Collection.
His other Oscar-winning or nominated features spanned film genres, with the crime drama “The Thomas Crown Affair,” the musical “Jesus Christ Superstar,” and the Cold War satire “The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming.”
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There were also the thrillers “…And Justice for All” and “Agnes of God,” as well as the romantic comedy “Best Friends.”
The beloved romantic comedy “Moonstruck” won Oscars for Cher as best actress and Olympia Dukakis for best actress, as well as screenplay.
Jewison, born in his grandmother’s house in 1926, was raised a Methodist but was often confused for being Jewish because of his surname. He was passionate about performing and storytelling from a young age and obtained a bachelor’s degree in general arts from University of Toronto’s Victoria College in 1949.
After failing to land acting gigs in New York and Hollywood, Jewison drove a taxi and waited on tables in Toronto to support his fledgling career in show business.
His first steady showbiz work came in television, first as a scriptwriter with the BBC in London and then as a writer, director and producer for CBC-TV in Toronto. It was around this time, in 1953, that he wed model Margaret Ann (Dixie) Dixon, with whom he had three children — Michael, Kevin and Jennifer. They remained married until her death in 2004.
Jewison followed up his CBC gig with a directing position at CBS in New York, where he oversaw performers including Harry Belafonte, Jackie Gleason and Judy Garland.
On the suggestion of actor Tony Curtis, Jewison started directing films and got his breakthrough with the lauded 1965 gambling drama “The Cincinnati Kid.”
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Many honours followed, including being named companion of the Order of Canada in 1992 and earning the Irving G. Thalberg Award for lifetime achievement from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, in 1999.
Jewison’s name is also immortalized on stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Canada’s Walk of Fame.
“You don’t see a display of genius like that very often in your life and it’s a direct emanation of the soul of this beautiful man,” David Peterson — Jewison’s friend and U of T chancellor who was also once Ontario premier — said at the Jewison archive launch.
Norman Jewison celebrates after winning the Irving Thalberg Award, in recognition of his consistent high quality of motion picture production, during the 71st Annual Academy Awards Sunday, March 21, 1999, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion of the Los Angeles Music Center. (AP Photo/Reed Saxon).
Jewison was also a beloved colleague and coach in the eyes of many cinematic heavyweights, who said his directing style could draw out the best in them.
Dukakis, for instance, called him a “master craftsman” and “consummate teacher” during her acceptance speech for her Golden Globe Award for “Moonstruck.”
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Many budding homegrown filmmakers regarded Jewison as a mentor during their studies at the Canadian Film Centre, which he founded in 1988.
Jewison also showed his nationalism by shooting several films in Canada and advocating for Canuck culture during many public speaking opportunities.
“The power of our arts is the essence of Canada,” he said in a June 2008 convocation address at what was then called Ryerson University.
“Artists are our most precious commodity because we supply the images and the words through which we see and understand ourselves as a people.”
Despite having homes in several cities around North America, Jewison said he always felt most comfortable on Canadian soil, especially at his farm in Caledon, Ont., northwest of Toronto, where he and his family raised pigs and cattle.
“Most people consider me a Hollywood director but I feel very Canadian. I always have,” he told The Canadian Press in 1979.
“Canadians can be more objective (about the Americans). We’re more like them than anyone else but we’re still outsiders.”
Known for his hearty laugh and feisty confidence, the moviemaker always hesitated to pick a favourite film of his, often saying they were all like his children and all a result of determination, good timing, the right casting and luck.
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His biggest piece of advice to budding filmmakers: “Believe in yourself.”
“A lot of it is self-confidence when you get into any of the arts,” Jewison told reporters in September 2008 at the launch of his permanent archive at his alma mater, the University of Toronto.
“All of the arts are difficult because there’s a lot of competition and a lot of people that tell you that you’re not good enough and you’re not special enough and all of those things, so you’ve got to stay at it … and just stay committed.”
Actor and cinematic trailblazer Sidney Poitier dies at 94
