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I've been listening to Ann Wilson's first ever solo cd. It makes me a little excited in the pants. I love Ann Wilson. Ann Wilson of Heart, with the 23 top 40 hits, over 30 million records sold and a voice that melts kryptonite. I love Ann Wilson because she looks like every woman in my family, especially my mom and my Aunt Karen. I love Nancy Wilson too, but like Gene Simmons of Kiss once said of the two sisters, "Nancy is easy, but Ann, she's the Queen of flesh." The Queen of Flesh. There's a compliment there, I'm sure of it.
Nancy, the thinner of the two, has also spoken about Ann in the press. "She's the white Aretha." Which again, I guess is a compliment? Considering that Aretha no longer sings like she used to and looks like she's smuggling two black dwarfs in her bra and an entire supermarket aisle of Christmas hams in her panties, I'm having a difficult time searching for the compliment in that particular accolade.
My dad also loved Heart. His compliments of Ann Wilson were far less obtuse. It was predicated on three things 1) Ann Wilson's voice, 2) Ann Wilson's face, 3) Ann Wilson's tits. He first became aware of the band in the summer of 1985, when the Wilson sisters mounted a comeback and had a number one album called Heart. My family was on a drive to Lake George, NY when he heard What About Love playing on the radio, (Hitting #10, the song was the band's first top ten single since "Tell It Like It Is hit #8 in 1981.) My father was instantly smitten.
"Who the hell is that singing? Now she's got some voice."
"Better than Barbra Streisand?" That's me.
"Nobody sings better than Streisand, but she's close."
I was momentarily crushed but thanked God he qualified it. According to my Dad, Ann Wilson was almost as good a singer as thee Barbra Streisand. Who he predicted would be an instant star after attending an Off-Broadway show she was performing in the late 1960's. Had my father not been hell bent on prefecting Irish/Italian rage, me might have become a talent scout instead of a civil servant.
"I saw Streisand take to the stage (translation your mother dragged me to...) and that's when I knew that girl was gonna be a star. Hit every branch of the ugly tree, but what a set of pipes."
Barbra Streisand was the bar and most singers fell way below it. That Ann Wilson and her rock and roll howl of a voice came close is saying something.
My mom, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with Ann Wilson. The deeper I became enamoured with Heart the less tolerant my mother became of me and Ann. Posters went up, the scrap books got laminated and I became a fan club member, eagerly awaiting my monthly copy of "Heartbeat", the official newsletter edited by Ann's good friend Allan Muller who succumbed to AIDS in the 90's. I'd blare Crazy on You (#35 in 1975) from my stereo and my mother would say, "You really think she has a good voice? She's no Karen Carpenter."
"Karen Carpenter is anorexic and dead," I'd say annoyed, as I flipped Heart's Greatest Hits Live lp to crank up Led Zepplin's Rock and Roll, which I knew gave her an angina attack.
Although it took me years to realize it, my mother's disdain for Heart had little to do with the band -- one time I caught her singing along to Alone and she looked as blissed out as I'd ever seen her (#1 for three weeks in 1987, written by Tom Kelly and Billy Steinberg, who also wrote Like A Virgin and True Colors). My mother's disdain for the band was cleverly masked resentment for my father, who gave her many reasons to dislike him and very few ways to show it. Outward resentment of Ann Wilson was her only retaliation. He'd turn them up, she's turn them off and plunk in a Barry Manilow collection. As she got older, she became better at displaying her hostility, read: she scrubbed the toilet with his toothbrush when he told her he was leaving (#1, 2000-2004 when the divorce was finalized). But that was in the new century, In 1985 all my mom had in her arsenal were off handed passive aggressive comments about my favorite band and a sore index finger from ejecting the tape from the car stereo.
Nancy, the thinner of the two, has also spoken about Ann in the press. "She's the white Aretha." Which again, I guess is a compliment? Considering that Aretha no longer sings like she used to and looks like she's smuggling two black dwarfs in her bra and an entire supermarket aisle of Christmas hams in her panties, I'm having a difficult time searching for the compliment in that particular accolade.
My dad also loved Heart. His compliments of Ann Wilson were far less obtuse. It was predicated on three things 1) Ann Wilson's voice, 2) Ann Wilson's face, 3) Ann Wilson's tits. He first became aware of the band in the summer of 1985, when the Wilson sisters mounted a comeback and had a number one album called Heart. My family was on a drive to Lake George, NY when he heard What About Love playing on the radio, (Hitting #10, the song was the band's first top ten single since "Tell It Like It Is hit #8 in 1981.) My father was instantly smitten.
"Who the hell is that singing? Now she's got some voice."
"Better than Barbra Streisand?" That's me.
"Nobody sings better than Streisand, but she's close."
I was momentarily crushed but thanked God he qualified it. According to my Dad, Ann Wilson was almost as good a singer as thee Barbra Streisand. Who he predicted would be an instant star after attending an Off-Broadway show she was performing in the late 1960's. Had my father not been hell bent on prefecting Irish/Italian rage, me might have become a talent scout instead of a civil servant.
"I saw Streisand take to the stage (translation your mother dragged me to...) and that's when I knew that girl was gonna be a star. Hit every branch of the ugly tree, but what a set of pipes."
Barbra Streisand was the bar and most singers fell way below it. That Ann Wilson and her rock and roll howl of a voice came close is saying something.
My mom, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with Ann Wilson. The deeper I became enamoured with Heart the less tolerant my mother became of me and Ann. Posters went up, the scrap books got laminated and I became a fan club member, eagerly awaiting my monthly copy of "Heartbeat", the official newsletter edited by Ann's good friend Allan Muller who succumbed to AIDS in the 90's. I'd blare Crazy on You (#35 in 1975) from my stereo and my mother would say, "You really think she has a good voice? She's no Karen Carpenter."
"Karen Carpenter is anorexic and dead," I'd say annoyed, as I flipped Heart's Greatest Hits Live lp to crank up Led Zepplin's Rock and Roll, which I knew gave her an angina attack.
Although it took me years to realize it, my mother's disdain for Heart had little to do with the band -- one time I caught her singing along to Alone and she looked as blissed out as I'd ever seen her (#1 for three weeks in 1987, written by Tom Kelly and Billy Steinberg, who also wrote Like A Virgin and True Colors). My mother's disdain for the band was cleverly masked resentment for my father, who gave her many reasons to dislike him and very few ways to show it. Outward resentment of Ann Wilson was her only retaliation. He'd turn them up, she's turn them off and plunk in a Barry Manilow collection. As she got older, she became better at displaying her hostility, read: she scrubbed the toilet with his toothbrush when he told her he was leaving (#1, 2000-2004 when the divorce was finalized). But that was in the new century, In 1985 all my mom had in her arsenal were off handed passive aggressive comments about my favorite band and a sore index finger from ejecting the tape from the car stereo.
2 comments:
and i agree that it's about the voice, but it's also always about the look. that's what Heart and every other band became popular because they had a sound and a look that appealed to a lot of people.
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