Ode to Dusty Springfield by David Trinidad

Ode to Dusty Springfield

What makes                     

a voice                     

distinct?                     

What special                     

quality                     

makes it                     

indelible?                     

Yours is plaintive,                     

as any singer                     

of torch songs                     

must be,                     

yet endowed                     

with confidence,                     

and fully                     

in command.                      

Deep and                     

resonant,                     

a bit husky                     

if you like.                     

A voice that rises—                     

or skyrockets,                     

rather—from                      

a wellspring                     

of pure emotion.                     

Manically                     

infatuated                     

in “I Only                     

Want to Be                     

with You.”                     

Desperate to                     

keep your                     

lover from                     

leaving in                     

“Stay Awhile.”                     

Despondent                     

in “I Just                     

Don’t Know                      

What to Do                     

with Myself”                     

and “You Don’t                     

Have to Say                     

You Love Me.”                     

All cried out                     

in “All Cried                     

Out.”  But then                     

amazingly                     

on the rebound                     

in “Brand New Me.”                      

I hear your                     

voice, Dusty,                     

and I am                     

instantly                      

whisked                     

back in time,                     

not quite                     

a teenager                     

all over                     

again,                     

full of longing                     

and confusion,                     

listening                     

to your                     

latest hit                     

on my                     

red plastic                     

transistor                     

radio on                     

a mid-sixties                     

Los Angeles                     

suburban                     

summer                     

afternoon.                      

Twice in                     

my life, I                     

found myself                      

in the same                     

room as you.                     

Can one fathom                     

anything more                     

miraculous?                     

The first                     

time was                     

in 1983, late                      

November,                     

in the basement                     

of a church                     

in Los Feliz,                     

around the                     

corner from                     

where I lived.                      

Sober only                     

a few weeks,                     

I watched                     

you approach                     

the podium,                     

but didn’t                     

realize who                     

you were                      

until you                     

identified                     

yourself as                     

“Dusty S.”                     

For the next                     

twenty minutes,                     

you told us                      

the story                     

of your                     

drinking.                     

How early in                     

your career,                     

backstage                     

before a                     

performance,                      

one of the                      

Four Tops                     

handed you                     

your first                     

drink, vodka.                     

How smoothly                     

it went down                     

and loosened                     

you up,                     

lit you from                     

within,                     

gave you                     

enough                     

courage                     

to go out on                     

stage, into that                     

blinding spot,                     

and sing like                     

no one else.                     

The alcohol                     

eventually                     

stopped working—                     

it always does,                     

that brand                     

of magic                     

is transient—                     

and here you                     

were, two                     

decades                     

later, sober                      

and clean                     

and still singing,                     

so to speak,                     

before a live                     

audience.                     

In my youth,                     

your words                     

had come over                     

the radio                     

and stirred                     

feelings                     

of heartbreak                     

and infatuation.                     

Now they                     

inspired me                      

to keep                     

coming back.                      

The second                     

time, 1987,                     

four years                     

sober, at a more                     

upscale meeting                     

at Cedars-Sinai                     

in West Hollywood,                     

I sat directly                     

behind you.                     

It was hard                     

to breathe                     

being in such                     

close proximity.                     

I didn’t hear                     

a word the                     

speaker said.                     

During his                     

drunkalog,                     

I slowly,                     

surreptitiously,                      

moved the                     

toe of my                     

white high-top                     

until it touched                     

the back of                     

your folding chair.                     

Then said a                      

little prayer.                     

I hoped                     

(should I be                     

embarrassed                     

admitting this?)                     

that some                     

of your                     

stardust                     

might travel                     

down the                     

metal leg                     

of your chair,                     

like a lightning                     

rod, and be                     

passed on                      

to me.                      

It’s after                     

midnight                     

again, Dusty,                     

half a century                     

since, on                     

a suburban                     

lawn or alone                      

in my room,                     

I suffered                     

through hits                     

by Paul Revere                     

& the Raiders                     

and Herman’s                     

Hermits,                      

just to                     

experience                     

two or                     

three minutes                     

of your                     

sultry voice.                     

I’m on                     

YouTube                      

again, watching                     

the black-and-white                     

video of you                     

singing “I                     

Only Want                     

to Be                     

with You.”                     

Your 1964                      

appearance                     

on some teen                     

variety show.                     

I’ve viewed                     

it innumerable                     

times, but                     

it’s always                      

exciting to see                     

you dance                     

out of the                     

darkness into                     

the round                     

spotlight,                     

exuberant                     

as the song’s                      

intro, arms                     

outspread,                     

in a chiffon                     

cocktail                     

dress and                     

high heels,                     

your platinum                     

hair, sprayed                     

perfectly                     

in place,                     

as bright                     

and shiny                     

as the moon.                     

Midway                     

through the                      

song—the                     

instrumental                     

bridge—you                     

turn and                     

sashay around                     

the edge of                     

the spotlight,                     

the ruffled                      

hem of your                     

chiffon dress                     

twisting with                     

your hips                     

and intricate                     

footwork.                     

Circle circling                     

circle: your                     

full backlit                     

hair orbiting                     

the pool of                     

white light                     

in the center                     

of the stage.                     

I watch this                      

again and again,                     

like Bashō’s moon                     

walking around                     

the pond                     

all night long.