If you were ever trying to sell me on the importance or artistic genius of a particular singer, song-writer, painter, novelist, or film-maker, the first mistake is to talk about how may books, albums, singles he or she has sold, or how much his latest movie grossed, or how much a painting of his recently sold for at Christies, or even how many Oscars he won.
Leonardo Di Caprio has an Oscar for acting.
Case closed.
To me, that information is worse than irrelevant: it’s a marker of likely mediocrity. Line up Beyonce, Neil Diamond, Steven Spielberg, Basquiat, Andy Warhol, whoever you like: I’m not buying.
So when Tina Turner died recently we were bombarded with the usual fawning appreciations from the media most of which, of course, exaggerated her good qualities and completely forgot about the bad ones. That’s to be expected. What I did not expect was a slobbering wet kiss from the New York Times in the “Headlines” podcast. The Times, a very, very good paper, should be embarrassed by this one. Don’t do it again.
For one thing, Tina Turner did not quite stand out as breathlessly alone as the Times made it sound. There have been a lot of great female rock or pop singers over the years and each one of them claims to have been the first important one. Diana Ross (another singer I never cared for), Dionne Warwick, Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin — of course! Nina Simone– even more of course. Come on folks– it’s not that hard.
The Fanny’s were more substantial and far more interesting than Tina Turner. Ever heard of them? I thought not.
It’s not that Turner is not entitled to an appreciation. She’s not really the giant some make her out to be: she’s had a few good hits and she put on a lively show and a lot of feminists see her as an icon for self-empowerment for the way she dumped Ike Turner, struck out on her own, and found someone else’s great songs to cover. I hope the feminists who complain about men oogling women find it in their hearts to forgive Turner for wearing costumes that conspicuously beg to be oogled. Come on.
“What’s Love Got to Do With It” is not a bad song. It’s a less incisive update of Bob Dylan’s stunning “Love is Just a Four-Letter Word”, a toxic take-down of romanticism and delusion. You would not call “What’s Love Got to Do With It” a toxic take down of anything, really. It’s a glorious hook, wonderful arrangement, and a couple of verses. Not bad. It resonates with her disillusionment with Ike Turner. Okay? Good song; now let’s not weigh it down with unentitled significance.
“Proud Mary” gets dreary after a while but I can see why someone hearing it for the first time might think of himself as thinking of himself being blown away. I really dislike the intro on one of the most popular live performances on Youtube, the patter about “we never take things slow”, as if that is supposed to be incredibly sexy or funny or both.
The talk about her “sensational comeback” is a lot of hype: she never stopped touring really and continued to appear on television shows like “Donny and Marie” (yes she did), The Brady Bunch Hour, Sonny and Cher, and Hollywood Squares. Just because “Private Dancer” was a monster hit doesn’t mean that Turner’s career didn’t exist prior to it, but it’s a story everyone loves and repeats no matter how many times they’ve heard it, or untrue it is.
The bottom line for me is, has she ever done a song that really mattered to me? Like any of these:
- Someday Soon (Ian & Sylvia, Judy Collins)
- Anchorage (Michelle Shocked)
- Diamonds and Rust (Joan Baez)
- That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard it Should Be (Carly Simon)
- You Don’t Own Me (Leslie Gore)
Doing this list I can’ help but notice how many of these songs performed by women were written by men. Sigh. All except “Diamonds and Rust”.
Wikipedia, incidentally, tirelessly lists Tina Turner’s sales records. A long list of so many so much so popular. Why? Because there is not much to say about what she actually achieved artistically? Loud and fast and legs.
Wikipedia also reports on her divorce and her allegations of physical abuse against Ike Turner while acknowledging that he did a hell of a lot for her career early on. When they divorced, I had the impression, from all the blather, that he left her penniless. Yes, penniless, along with two Jaguars, furs, and jewelry. She demanded $4,000 a month in alimony. Wiki doesn’t say if she got it or not, but the BS about running away from Ike with 23 cents in her pocket is just that: BS. Oh, she may have had 23 cents in her pocket– and the keys to the Jaguar.
She refused to attend his funeral. Phil Spector, the murderer, did.
There is a film. I’d be absolutely pleasantly stunned if it was any more accurate than the usual Hollywood bullshit.