Music

I.

He is 73, with a long, woolly beard, like someone’s version of Father Time. He lives in a hand-built shack with no electricity or running water, nearly eight miles up a forgotten dirt road in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, a mile from a creek named for a long-ago settler — Waddell — who was killed by a grizzly bear. They call him a hermit, a holy man, the Unabomber. He could care less. On the night of Sunday, Aug. 16, 2020, a heat wave with temperatures well above 100 degrees brings a rolling cloud from the ocean as the old man sleeps under a canopy of redwood trees. When the lightning comes, it sizzles and snakes, consummates with dry earth.

II.

We all start somewhere — and end somewhere too. But how did he come to be here, feeding the jays and squirrels each day, under the redwoods? His vow of silence, one he takes in his early 30s, makes him an enigma to others, for silence is one of our great American fears. But still, he hasn’t annulled himself. He has a history too, born a middle child, to a mother of blighted artistic ambitions and a father who was a traveling salesman, with two sisters, living in a comfortable Sears Roebuck house in Columbus, Ohio. He loved camping and fishing with his father. He loved animals, rabbits first. Patiently played with his younger sister, Jill. Was gravely ill at one point and probably concussed himself after hitting a tree with his sled. He went to college and rambunctiously flunked out. He went into the military, in 1967, and was sent to Germany instead of Vietnam, growing to hate authority figures and command chains. His inheritance was an anger that kept growing; almost a substance: even now it smolders and ignites.

III.

By the next day — Monday, Aug. 17 — the lightning has set the grasses and underbrush on fire in the mountains around Big Basin Redwoods State Park. Within miles of these growing fires lives the old man in the remote enclave of Last Chance, in a gully beneath the ridge. He has no plumbing and stores his supplies in plastic barrels. Once a month, he rents a car in town, in Santa Cruz, to procure his supplies, including 800 pounds of seed to feed the animals, and to visit Windy, a friend’s 43-year-old daughter whom he helped raise. Until recently, she had never heard his voice as he took the vow of silence back when Jimmy Carter was president, communicating by chalkboard and jottings on paper. She has only ever known him as that wise, constant presence in her life. “The Bay Area is made up of many microclimates, and the one I am living in is particularly nice,” he tells Windy in one of his letters. “I don’t have the heat of inland or the fog of the coast. So I’ll stay here as long as possible.” The spot fires, left unfettered, now grow and begin to converge. In some places there is 50, 100 years’ worth of fuel on the ground. Though there has been no call for evacuation yet, you can smell the smoke. The forecast projects more heat and wind.

IV.

Booze, weed, the Sixties. Tad Jones, for that’s his name when people use it, lives in a school bus, on Sanibel Island in Florida, with a girlfriend. After they split, he lives for a time with his other sister, in her barn. His skin turns a green pallor perhaps because of “alcohol mixed with pharmacology,” as Jill puts it today. But at some point, he lifts himself up and turns himself into a seeker. He finds yoga, which helps with his scoliosis, and a guru: Baba Hari Dass, an Indian yoga master he follows to California. Like his guru, he renounces all but essential material possessions — and seemingly sex too — and takes a vow of silence. Baba Hari Dass wrote: “One who doesn’t want to possess any thing possesses every thing.”

V.

At first it’s hard for the Jones family to understand this retreat, his wanton rejection of American society, but he keeps repeating his mantra: He doesn’t want to inflict his anger on the world. Or his growing paranoia. “How uncalm he was,” Jill recalls. “If he was outside his realm, he was overwhelmed.” He carries a knife for protection; he’s careful to wear neutral clothing so as not to be confused for a gang member. He lets his beard grow out, until eventually it reaches his knees. He braids it and often rolls it up, then unfurls it to the surprise of new acquaintances. He lives inside the trunk of a redwood tree, in time with it, in opposition to industrial time, replicating those happy camping trips with his father. In the 1980s he moves out to Last Chance, a back-to-the-land community fed by cold springs and an August barn dance. His work here is to become part of the fauna, to enter the understory, to encode himself in nature. He writes in a letter that the skunks brush up against his legs, not once thinking to spray.

VI.

We could use more contemplation, more self-reflection. America — us — we could use more silence. As radical as it seems to subtract yourself from society, to cancel your own voice, and add yourself to the forest floor, the old man, it turns out, is not really radical. He likes the band Rush and the movie “The Big Lebowski.” He reads National Geographic, articles about faraway places and these extreme changes to our environment. The wind direction shifts now from the northwest to the northeast, and the fire leaps into alignment with the topography, lighting duff and branches: More than 43,000 acres are about to burn in a matter of hours.

VII.

Windy, who adores him, saves all his letters, which are full of advice written in his big loopy handwriting: here’s how to interact with your grandparents, here are the pros and cons of having children. (“[T]he earth doesn’t need any more people, so if you do give birth you want to give the child a reasonable chance to succeed.”) He tells her about the Mexican radio station he listens to, with the woman’s voice singing so lovely. He cracks slightly profane jokes about Donald Trump. He says he has set redwood trunks in ascending order to a little pet entrance to the shack so the cat can keep safe from predators. When he’s overrun by arthritis — his knees and shoulders and hips, walking with two metal canes — he goes to town to see the doctor, to stay with Windy. “Word is the crabs are meaty and good,” he writes her. “I am including a hunny B” — a hundred-dollar bill — “to buy the dinner.” Guinness beer too. He writes, “Remember I am speaking/talking now so don’t be shocked.”

VIII.

After nearly 40 years of silence, the old man starts talking again, at first to communicate with the doctors. It’s 2017, and he still swears like a sailor. Jill, his sister, speaks to him over Windy’s cellphone, and the first words out of his mouth are “How do you make this goddamn thing work?” It’s as if they’ve never missed a beat: he still has that mellifluous, bemused voice, that Midwestern accent. And that hair-trigger temper. As the fire encroaches, on that Tuesday, he buys feed for the animals in town — then returns to Last Chance. The wind is blowing, harder now, created by the fire itself, it seems. A community is its own ecosystem — like a forest — connected through pulses, half aerial, half subterranean. Every person, every cell, communicates in a chain. Still, almost no one here knows the old man’s last name. The fire conjoins and rages, from oak to oak, redwood to redwood. In the mesmerizing face of it, your own anger isn’t much. Even by 8 p.m. no evacuation order has been issued by the state. The residents of Last Chance, over 100 in all, think they’re safe. Only when the smoke blows clear does the fire marshal see wild flames from the ridge, the fine, dry leaf matter catching hot. By the time the conflagration jumps Waddell Creek, she take matters into her own hands, no longer waiting for state officials to raise the alarm, and the evacuation plan goes into effect.

IX.

By about 9:30 p.m., all but three people are accounted for at the gate that leads out of Last Chance. The old man — the hermit, the holy man, Unabomber — tries to drive the road out in his rented minivan, but fire suddenly blocks his way. He turns, and drives back, but now more fire blocks the back way. It’s as if napalm has been dropped on the forest, everything lit and storming. Fire personnel are nowhere to be seen. One resident spends the night in a field, fighting off rivers of sparks; another takes to a pond in his backyard, breathing out of a hose to escape the inferno. By 10:30 p.m. Last Chance has mostly burned to the ground. In the days after, only one person remains unaccounted for.

X.

Later comes the recovery mission. People with chain saws, an incursion to reclaim what’s left of home. Many of the redwoods are still burning inside and will die later. The old man is found — his bones, his ashes — near his two metal canes and the minivan not far from his shack, next to a scorched ravine, the fire so hot the van’s windows have been vaporized. Jill says there’s a way of seeing her brother’s demise as “terrifying” but “glorious.” “A slow, rusty death — that wouldn’t have been good for him,” she says. “It would have been awful.” After 70,000 people evacuate and nearly 1,500 structures are lost, Tad Jones ends up the only casualty of what comes to be called the CZU Lightning Complex in the most rampant fire year California has ever seen. “He burned on the ground of the place he lived,” Windy says, “the land he loved, the forest he walked through thousands and thousands of times, and he became part of it.”

[Read an article about Tad Jones’s death.]

Michael Paterniti is a contributing writer for the magazine and is working on a book about the discovery of the North Pole. More

I.

He is 73, with a long, woolly beard, like someone’s version of Father Time. He lives in a hand-built shack with no electricity or running water, nearly eight miles up a forgotten dirt road in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, a mile from a creek named for a long-ago settler — Waddell — who was killed by a grizzly bear. They call him a hermit, a holy man, the Unabomber. He could care less. On the night of Sunday, Aug. 16, 2020, a heat wave with temperatures well above 100 degrees brings a rolling cloud from the ocean as the old man sleeps under a canopy of redwood trees. When the lightning comes, it sizzles and snakes, consummates with dry earth.

II.

We all start somewhere — and end somewhere too. But how did he come to be here, feeding the jays and squirrels each day, under the redwoods? His vow of silence, one he takes in his early 30s, makes him an enigma to others, for silence is one of our great American fears. But still, he hasn’t annulled himself. He has a history too, born a middle child, to a mother of blighted artistic ambitions and a father who was a traveling salesman, with two sisters, living in a comfortable Sears Roebuck house in Columbus, Ohio. He loved camping and fishing with his father. He loved animals, rabbits first. Patiently played with his younger sister, Jill. Was gravely ill at one point and probably concussed himself after hitting a tree with his sled. He went to college and rambunctiously flunked out. He went into the military, in 1967, and was sent to Germany instead of Vietnam, growing to hate authority figures and command chains. His inheritance was an anger that kept growing; almost a substance: even now it smolders and ignites.

III.

By the next day — Monday, Aug. 17 — the lightning has set the grasses and underbrush on fire in the mountains around Big Basin Redwoods State Park. Within miles of these growing fires lives the old man in the remote enclave of Last Chance, in a gully beneath the ridge. He has no plumbing and stores his supplies in plastic barrels. Once a month, he rents a car in town, in Santa Cruz, to procure his supplies, including 800 pounds of seed to feed the animals, and to visit Windy, a friend’s 43-year-old daughter whom he helped raise. Until recently, she had never heard his voice as he took the vow of silence back when Jimmy Carter was president, communicating by chalkboard and jottings on paper. She has only ever known him as that wise, constant presence in her life. “The Bay Area is made up of many microclimates, and the one I am living in is particularly nice,” he tells Windy in one of his letters. “I don’t have the heat of inland or the fog of the coast. So I’ll stay here as long as possible.” The spot fires, left unfettered, now grow and begin to converge. In some places there is 50, 100 years’ worth of fuel on the ground. Though there has been no call for evacuation yet, you can smell the smoke. The forecast projects more heat and wind.

IV.

Booze, weed, the Sixties. Tad Jones, for that’s his name when people use it, lives in a school bus, on Sanibel Island in Florida, with a girlfriend. After they split, he lives for a time with his other sister, in her barn. His skin turns a green pallor perhaps because of “alcohol mixed with pharmacology,” as Jill puts it today. But at some point, he lifts himself up and turns himself into a seeker. He finds yoga, which helps with his scoliosis, and a guru: Baba Hari Dass, an Indian yoga master he follows to California. Like his guru, he renounces all but essential material possessions — and seemingly sex too — and takes a vow of silence. Baba Hari Dass wrote: “One who doesn’t want to possess any thing possesses every thing.”

V.

At first it’s hard for the Jones family to understand this retreat, his wanton rejection of American society, but he keeps repeating his mantra: He doesn’t want to inflict his anger on the world. Or his growing paranoia. “How uncalm he was,” Jill recalls. “If he was outside his realm, he was overwhelmed.” He carries a knife for protection; he’s careful to wear neutral clothing so as not to be confused for a gang member. He lets his beard grow out, until eventually it reaches his knees. He braids it and often rolls it up, then unfurls it to the surprise of new acquaintances. He lives inside the trunk of a redwood tree, in time with it, in opposition to industrial time, replicating those happy camping trips with his father. In the 1980s he moves out to Last Chance, a back-to-the-land community fed by cold springs and an August barn dance. His work here is to become part of the fauna, to enter the understory, to encode himself in nature. He writes in a letter that the skunks brush up against his legs, not once thinking to spray.

VI.

We could use more contemplation, more self-reflection. America — us — we could use more silence. As radical as it seems to subtract yourself from society, to cancel your own voice, and add yourself to the forest floor, the old man, it turns out, is not really radical. He likes the band Rush and the movie “The Big Lebowski.” He reads National Geographic, articles about faraway places and these extreme changes to our environment. The wind direction shifts now from the northwest to the northeast, and the fire leaps into alignment with the topography, lighting duff and branches: More than 43,000 acres are about to burn in a matter of hours.

VII.

Windy, who adores him, saves all his letters, which are full of advice written in his big loopy handwriting: here’s how to interact with your grandparents, here are the pros and cons of having children. (“[T]he earth doesn’t need any more people, so if you do give birth you want to give the child a reasonable chance to succeed.”) He tells her about the Mexican radio station he listens to, with the woman’s voice singing so lovely. He cracks slightly profane jokes about Donald Trump. He says he has set redwood trunks in ascending order to a little pet entrance to the shack so the cat can keep safe from predators. When he’s overrun by arthritis — his knees and shoulders and hips, walking with two metal canes — he goes to town to see the doctor, to stay with Windy. “Word is the crabs are meaty and good,” he writes her. “I am including a hunny B” — a hundred-dollar bill — “to buy the dinner.” Guinness beer too. He writes, “Remember I am speaking/talking now so don’t be shocked.”

VIII.

After nearly 40 years of silence, the old man starts talking again, at first to communicate with the doctors. It’s 2017, and he still swears like a sailor. Jill, his sister, speaks to him over Windy’s cellphone, and the first words out of his mouth are “How do you make this goddamn thing work?” It’s as if they’ve never missed a beat: he still has that mellifluous, bemused voice, that Midwestern accent. And that hair-trigger temper. As the fire encroaches, on that Tuesday, he buys feed for the animals in town — then returns to Last Chance. The wind is blowing, harder now, created by the fire itself, it seems. A community is its own ecosystem — like a forest — connected through pulses, half aerial, half subterranean. Every person, every cell, communicates in a chain. Still, almost no one here knows the old man’s last name. The fire conjoins and rages, from oak to oak, redwood to redwood. In the mesmerizing face of it, your own anger isn’t much. Even by 8 p.m. no evacuation order has been issued by the state. The residents of Last Chance, over 100 in all, think they’re safe. Only when the smoke blows clear does the fire marshal see wild flames from the ridge, the fine, dry leaf matter catching hot. By the time the conflagration jumps Waddell Creek, she take matters into her own hands, no longer waiting for state officials to raise the alarm, and the evacuation plan goes into effect.

IX.

By about 9:30 p.m., all but three people are accounted for at the gate that leads out of Last Chance. The old man — the hermit, the holy man, Unabomber — tries to drive the road out in his rented minivan, but fire suddenly blocks his way. He turns, and drives back, but now more fire blocks the back way. It’s as if napalm has been dropped on the forest, everything lit and storming. Fire personnel are nowhere to be seen. One resident spends the night in a field, fighting off rivers of sparks; another takes to a pond in his backyard, breathing out of a hose to escape the inferno. By 10:30 p.m. Last Chance has mostly burned to the ground. In the days after, only one person remains unaccounted for.

X.

Later comes the recovery mission. People with chain saws, an incursion to reclaim what’s left of home. Many of the redwoods are still burning inside and will die later. The old man is found — his bones, his ashes — near his two metal canes and the minivan not far from his shack, next to a scorched ravine, the fire so hot the van’s windows have been vaporized. Jill says there’s a way of seeing her brother’s demise as “terrifying” but “glorious.” “A slow, rusty death — that wouldn’t have been good for him,” she says. “It would have been awful.” After 70,000 people evacuate and nearly 1,500 structures are lost, Tad Jones ends up the only casualty of what comes to be called the CZU Lightning Complex in the most rampant fire year California has ever seen. “He burned on the ground of the place he lived,” Windy says, “the land he loved, the forest he walked through thousands and thousands of times, and he became part of it.”

[Read an article about Tad Jones’s death.]

Michael Paterniti is a contributing writer for the magazine and is working on a book about the discovery of the North Pole. More

#masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }The Coronavirus OutbreakliveLatest UpdatesMaps and CasesThe Stimulus DealThe Latest Vaccine InformationF.A.Q.AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyR. Kelly Is Set to Face Trial in Chicago in SeptemberA judge acknowledged that the date for the singer’s federal trial on child pornography and obstruction charges could change because of pandemic-related delays.R. Kelly and two associates have been accused by federal prosecutors in Chicago of paying witnesses and victims in a previous child pornography trial to change their stories.Credit…Pool photo by E. Jason WambsgansDec. 22, 2020, 6:55 p.m. ETA date was set on Tuesday for the singer R. Kelly’s federal trial in Chicago on child pornography and obstruction charges, but even the judge said the date was “not set in stone” given the pandemic-related delays that continue to bog down the court.Judge Harry Leinenweber of U.S. District Court set Kelly’s trial for Sept. 13, five months after another federal trial Kelly faces in New York.Prosecutors in the Northern District of Illinois told Leinenweber they would need three weeks to present evidence against Kelly, who is facing charges that he and two former employees conspired to fix his 2008 state trial in Cook County on child pornography charges by paying off witnesses and victims to get them to change their stories.Mr. Kelly is also scheduled to face trial on April 7 in New York on racketeering charges. In that case, an indictment filed in U.S. District Court in Brooklyn alleges that Kelly, whose full name is Robert Sylvester Kelly, and his associates ran a criminal enterprise that recruited women and underage girls for illegal sexual contact and then isolated and threatened them to keep them under control and prevent them from going to the authorities.If convicted in the New York case, Mr. Kelly faces up to 20 years in prison. The federal charges in Chicago have the potential to add decades more in prison, and Kelly is also facing state charges of criminal sexual abuse that were filed in Chicago in February 2019.Kelly, 53, has been held in the federal Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago since his arrest in July 2019. Since then, his lawyer, Steven Greenberg, has unsuccessfully made at least six arguments for Kelly’s release, citing the danger of the coronavirus and an attack on Kelly over the summer by another prisoner, a member of the Latin Kings street gang who was later sentenced to life in prison on an unrelated racketeering conviction.Most cases in federal court in Chicago were halted in the spring, but jury trials resumed in August with new safety protocols. Even so, Leinenweber has said that Chicago’s federal courthouse would not be able to accommodate a trial with three defendants with those protocols in place.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

#masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }What to WatchBest Movies on NetflixBest of Disney PlusBest of Amazon PrimeHoliday TVBest Netflix DocumentariesAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyChad Stuart, of the Hit British Duo Chad & Jeremy, Dies at 79Mr. Stuart’s wistful tunes of summer romance brought him and Jeremy Clyde an intense but brief burst of stardom during the British Invasion of the 1960s.Chad Stuart in 1965. He and Jeremy Clyde had seven Top 40 singles from 1964 to 1966.Credit…Sony MusicDec. 22, 2020Updated 6:52 p.m. ETChad Stuart, who found stardom as the chief musical force of the duo Chad & Jeremy during the British Invasion in the mid-1960s, died on Sunday at his home in Hailey, Idaho. He was 79.The cause was pneumonia, his daughter, Beth Stuart, said.Singing in lock-step harmony, Mr. Stuart and Jeremy Clyde wrung all they could from the theme of a fondly recalled summer romance. “I loved you all the summer through,” “lovely summer dream,” “sweet soft summer nights,” “soft kisses on a summer’s day” — these phrases come from four different Top 40 Chad & Jeremy hits. They had seven of them in total, all love songs, between 1964 and 1966.Their gentle voices and acoustic guitars conveyed intimacy, but tracks like “A Summer Song” and “Yesterday’s Gone” took on a grander scale from the sweeping strings, plaintive horns and booming drums of Mr. Stuart’s arrangements. The orchestration had neither the spare authenticity of purist folk nor the electric attitude of rock. Mr. Stuart’s pop tunes made wistfulness upbeat; they were less invasion than invitation.Nevertheless, Chad & Jeremy capitalized on the British Invasion phenomenon. As their fame took off, close on the heels of Beatlemania, alongside other British bands like Herman’s Hermits and a fellow duo, Peter and Gordon, Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde found themselves serving as archetypal mop-top crooners on “Batman” and other TV series.Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde in 1966. Becoming rock stars in America, Mr. Clyde said, “was a young man’s dream come true.”Credit…Sony MusicOn “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” for instance, Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde played the Redcoats, a heartthrob British rock duo in skinny black ties and bowl cuts with “every teenager in America looking for them.” After some teenage girls learn that the handsome young Brits had stayed in the suburban home of Mr. Van Dyke’s character, they emit a collective shriek and begin looting his living room, every object in it suddenly a sacred memento.That hysteria was not far from Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde’s actual experience of the mid-’60s.Mr. Clyde, in a phone interview, recalled a trip to Los Angeles in 1964 when throngs of screaming girls greeted him and Mr. Stuart at the airport. On their way to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, they found themselves tailed by the girls, who reached out and tried to touch their limousine. Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde were pursued into the hotel. One girl jumped out of a laundry basket.Mr. Clyde said the sound of girls’ screams remained among his most palpable memories from the era.“A wall of sound, a blast, like a jet engine — screeching like a jet engine,” he said. “Never letting up. No pause for breath. It keeps on going.”He and Mr. Stuart, he added, found this moment enthralling.“It was a young man’s dream come true,” Mr. Clyde said. “You’re a star, and America’s at your feet.”Mr. Stuart on an episode of “Batman” in 1966, one of a number of television appearances Chad & Jeremy made in their heyday.Credit…ABC TV/Time WarnerChad Stuart was born David Stuart Chadwick on Dec. 10, 1941, in Windermere, England. (He was called Chad as a teenager and changed his name legally in 1964.) His father, Frank Chadwick, worked as a foreman in the lumber industry, and his mother, Frieda (Bedford) Chadwick, was a nurse.His family moved to the town of West Hartlepool, but Chad grew up largely at the Durham Cathedral Chorister School, a boarding school for choirboys that gave him a scholarship. He would later use his musical training to construct the hooks of Chad & Jeremy’s catchy tunes.“They hit them until they learned music theory,” Mr. Clyde said. “He could harmonize anything. For years and years, I’d just say, ‘What’s my part?’ and he’d tell me, and I’d sing it.”Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde met as undergraduates at the Central School of Speech and Drama (now the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama) in London. Mr. Clyde, an aspiring actor, also played rudimentary folk guitar. A rumor went around that a guitar-playing new boy had mastered “Apache,” an instrumental by the beloved British rock group the Shadows. Mr. Clyde introduced himself, and he and Mr. Stuart became instant friends.Mr. Stuart in 1959 as a student at the Durham Cathedral Chorister School, a boarding school for choirboys, where, Mr. Clyde said, “They hit them until they learned music theory.”Credit…via Stuart familyMr. Stuart “came from a grimy little town in Northern England,” he told the blog Music Web Express 3000. Mr. Clyde, conversely, was the grandson of the Duke of Wellington.“It was kind of a mutual fascination society,” Mr. Stuart said. “It was a good trade-off, really.” Mr. Stuart taught Mr. Clyde about music, and Mr. Clyde introduced Mr. Stuart to a new social world. Thanks to Mr. Clyde’s family connections, the two young men stayed at Dean Martin’s house in Los Angeles and hung out with Frank Sinatra.Their fame had the brevity of a firework. Mr. Clyde wanted to be an actor, and by 1965 he had already returned to London to appear in a play, leaving Mr. Stuart to perform with a cardboard cutout of Mr. Clyde under his arm. They kept putting out records until “The Ark,” a 1968 album for which Mr. Clyde wrote most of the songs, but lagging commercial interest and Mr. Clyde’s other career ambitions broke up the band.“It always amazed me that after being so prolific in the ‘Ark’ period, he just walked away,” Mr. Stuart told Music Web Express 3000.Mr. Stuart continued to perform, but with a greatly reduced pop-cultural stature. At one point he opened for the hard-rock band Mountain in a bowling alley in Hartford, Conn. He made a living producing radio jingles and, toward the end of his life, giving private music lessons. Mr. Clyde had a successful career as an actor onstage and on television in Britain.Mr. Stuart’s two previous marriages, to Jill Gibson and Valerie Romero, ended in divorce. In addition to his daughter, from his second marriage, he is survived by his wife, Judy Shelly; two children from his first marriage, Andrew and Patrick Stuart; another child from his second marriage, Beau, and two stepchildren from that marriage, Hallie Kelly and Devin Kelly; two stepchildren from his current marriage, Cassi Shelly and Owen Shelly; five grandchildren; and a sister, Jen Histon.Mr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde in 2014. They toured annually from 2004 to 2016 and were surprised by how much they enjoyed the experience.Credit…Alma PitchfordMr. Stuart and Mr. Clyde did several reunion tours in the 1980s and annually from 2004 to 2016, surprising themselves by how much they enjoyed the experience. Fans asked them to sign photographs they had taken with the duo decades ago, and to take new photographs together.“We want to keep going until we drop,” Mr. Stuart said in an interview with the blog ClassicBands.com. “This is the best fun either one of us has had in decades.”Mr. Stuart “jumped right in” to “hugging the audience,” Mr. Clyde said. “He loved being loved.”AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

Source: Music – nytimes.com More

Instagram/WENN/Facebook

The recipients for the upcoming Grammy Lifetime Achievement award have been officially announced by the Recording Academy, a month after the nominations were revealed.

Dec 23, 2020
AceShowbiz – Tragic Latin superstar Selena Quintanilla is set to posthumously join rap pioneers Salt-N-Pepa and rockers Talking Heads among the recipients of the 2021 Grammy Awards Lifetime Achievement honours.
Also set to be feted with the Special Merit Awards are hip-hop icons Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five, opera singer Marilyn Horne, and late jazz musician Lionel Hampton.
Recording Academy officials have additionally named the stars selected for the Trustees Awards, with R&B legend Kenny “Babyface” Edmonds, saxophonist Benny Golson, and noted producer and engineer Ed Cherney, who lost his battle with cancer last year (19), due to be saluted for their “significant contributions… to the field of recording” while engineer Daniel Weiss has been recognised with the Technical Grammy Award.

  See also…

“As we welcome the new class of Special Merit Award honorees, it gives us a chance to reward and recognize the influence they’ve had in the music community regardless of genre,” Harvey Mason, Jr., Interim President/CEO of the Recording Academy, shared in a statement.
“As a music creator and music lover, I am grateful that we are able to look back at our influences and see the impact that they have made on our community. In a year where music has helped keep us together, I look forward to honoring this iconic group of music creators.”
All of the honourees will be celebrated at a special ceremony on 31 January (21) although it’s yet to be announced if the event will be a virtual affair amid the ongoing coronavirus pandemic.
The Class of 2020 was made up of Iggy Pop, Chicago, Public Enemy, Roberta Flack, Isaac Hayes, John Prine, and Sister Rosetta Tharpe.

You can share this post!

Next article
Paloma Faith ‘Traumatized’ by 2016 Difficult Childbirth and ‘Postpartum Psychotic Outburst’ More

AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyK.T. Oslin, Country Singer Known for ‘80’s Ladies,’ Dies at 78Her song, the first of many hits, heralded the arrival of a songwriting voice whose sharply drawn miniatures conveyed domestic humor and pathos.The singer and songwriter K.T. Oslin in Central Park in 1987. Her song “80’s Ladies,” released that year, became an anthem for a generation of women.Credit…Oliver Morris/Getty ImagesDec. 22, 2020Updated 4:49 p.m. ETNASHVILLE — K.T. Oslin, the pioneering country singer-songwriter whose biggest hits gave voice to the desires and trials of female baby boomers on the cusp of middle age, died on Monday at an assisted-living facility here. She was 78.The country music historian Robert K. Oermann, a longtime friend, said that the cause was complications of Parkinson’s disease. He said she had also tested positive for Covid-19 last week.“80’s Ladies,” Ms. Oslin’s breakthrough single, became an anthem for a generation of women. Released in 1987, it heralded the arrival of a songwriting voice whose sharply drawn miniatures conveyed domestic humor and pathos reminiscent of the songs of Loretta Lynn two decades earlier.“We’ve been educated/We got liberated/And had complicating matters with men,” Ms. Oslin sang in a rich, throaty alto to open the song’s second stanza, looking back over four decades of living.Oh, we’ve said “I do”And we’ve signed “I don’t”And we’ve sworn we’d never do that again.Oh, we burned our brasAnd we burned our dinnersAnd we burned our candles at both ends.Its rock-leaning arrangement might have had more in common with the piano-based ballads of the California singer-songwriter Jackson Browne than with the standard Nashville fare of the era, but “80’s Ladies” was down to earth and catchy enough to make the country Top 10 in 1987. The next year, it also made Ms. Oslin the first female songwriter to earn song of the year honors from the Country Music Association.Ms. Oslin performing at the Country Music Association Awards in Nashville in 1987. A year later, she was named female vocalist of the year.Credit…CMA“Do Ya,” her next single, proved that “80’s Ladies” was no fluke; rather, it was the first in a series of poignant meditations from Ms. Oslin on the ebb and flow of midlife vulnerability and desire.“Do you still get a thrill/When ya see me coming up the hill?/Honey now do ya?” she entreats her lover, the coarse timbre in her voice redolent of some of Janis Joplin’s more intimate performances.Do ya whisper my nameJust to bring a little comfort to ya?Do ya?Do ya still like the feel of my body lying next to ya?“Do Ya” was the first of Ms. Oslin’s four No. 1 country hits, cementing her place among a distinguished circle of thoughtful, independent female songwriting contemporaries that included Pam Tillis, Gretchen Peters and Matraca Berg. In contrast to their plucky rural forebears Dolly Parton and Ms. Lynn, Ms. Oslin and her peers attended college and openly embraced feminism, weaving its insights into their lyrics.A late bloomer, Ms. Oslin was 45 when “80’s Ladies” ignited her recording career. Before that she had worked as a folk singer, appeared in traveling productions of Broadway shows like “Hello, Dolly!” (with Carol Channing) and recorded television commercials for soft drinks and household cleaning products.She might have languished in obscurity had Joe Galante, the longtime president of RCA Nashville, not taken a chance on her when she was at an age when many recording artists were contemplating retirement.“I thought it was my last chance at doing anything in this business, which was all that I knew how to do,” Ms. Oslin said in a 2015 interview with Billboard. “I would have ended up selling gloves at Macy’s if it weren’t for Joe Galante. I was so naïve about the business.”Ms. Oslin’s first two albums for RCA, “80’s Ladies” and “This Woman,” were certified platinum for sales of more than one million copies. She had 11 Top 40 country hits in all, most of them collected on the brashly titled 1993 compilation “Greatest Hits: Confessions of an Aging Sex Bomb.”Ms. Oslin also won three Grammy Awards, as well as female vocalist of the year honors from the Country Music Association in 1988. She was later inducted into both the Texas and Nashville songwriter halls of fame.Kay Toinette Oslin was born on May 15, 1942, in Crossett, Ark. Her father, Larry, died of leukemia when she was 5. Her mother, Kathleen (Byrd) Oslin, worked as a lab technician for the Veterans Administration.Ms. Oslin and her brother, Larry, who died several years ago, spent much of their childhood with their mother in Mobile, Ala., and their teenage years in Houston, where Ms. Oslin studied drama at Lon Morris College and sang in a folk trio with the singer-songwriter Guy Clark.In the mid-’60s she moved to New York, where she worked in the theater and as a jingle singer.Ms. Oslin made New York her home for much of the next two decades, appearing in, among other productions, the Broadway musical “Promises, Promises” and the Lincoln Center revival of “West Side Story.”She also started writing songs and was encouraged by Diane Petty, an executive with the performing rights organization SESAC, to pitch her country-leaning material to song publishers in Nashville.She eventually was signed, as Kay T. Oslin, by Elektra Records, but neither of the singles she released for the label went anywhere. It was not until other singers started having success with her songs that her career began to gain momentum, ultimately leading to the showcase at which she performed for Mr. Galante.Her acting experience served her well, resulting in several memorable music videos, including the “Bride of Frankenstein”-inspired staging of her final No. 1 single, “Come Next Monday” (1990).Dusty Springfield, the Judds and the soul singer Dorothy Moore are among those who have recorded Ms. Oslin’s material. Latter-day country singers like Chely Wright and Brandy Clark have cited her as an influence.Ms. Oslin in concert in 2012.Credit…Rick Diamond/Getty ImagesMs. Oslin began to focus more on acting than singing as the 1990s progressed, appearing most notably as a Nashville nightclub owner in Peter Bogdanovich’s country music-themed 1993 movie, “The Thing Called Love,” starring Sandra Bullock and River Phoenix.She also appeared frequently on the TV talks shows of Johnny Carson, Arsenio Hall and Joan Rivers and was profiled on the ABC program “20/20.”She had quadruple heart bypass surgery in 1995 and recorded only sporadically after that, embracing her Americana influences on “My Roots Are Showing” in 1996 and releasing a dance-floor mix of the 1951 Rosemary Clooney hit “Come On-a My House” in 2000.No immediate family members survive.In 2015, two years after celebrating its 25th anniversary, Ms. Oslin recorded a new version of “80’s Ladies” for her final album, “Simply.”“That’s the one I still hear the most about, and that’s great,” she said of “80’s Ladies” in her 2015 Billboard interview. “I still love that song. It spoke to a lot of people. I don’t know how I managed to write it, but it was a great song.”AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

Instagram

Charles Kelley, Hillary Scott, and Dave Haywood open up about their name change, admitting Black Lives Matter movement was the catalyst behind their decision.

Dec 23, 2020
AceShowbiz – Lady A star Charles Kelley has revealed the country band changed their name to do their bit as part of the Black Lives Matter movement.
The group was formerly known as Lady Antebellum, but announced their decision to adopt a new moniker back in June (20) as they explained that they wanted to distance themselves from the term “Antebellum”, which has ties to the slave-owners of the Confederate South.
However, their decision angered blues singer Anita White, who performed as Lady A, and led to a number of angry lawsuits.

  See also…

Appearing on “The Tamron Hall Show” on Monday (21Dec20), Charles and bandmates Hillary Scott and Dave Haywood opened up about why they’d waited so long to change their name as Charles explained it was the Black Lives Matter movement gaining traction earlier this year that prompted them to take the plunge.
“I think the word to me that resonates the most this year has been ‘blind spot.’ And I think I am so guilty of…I didn’t think about it,” he mused. “You know, we came up with the name thinking about the antebellum home…I don’t know. It’s so naive now looking back, but I think, as we’ve grown up, we all have kids now.”
“I mean, why now? Well, we’re a lot older, we look at the world a lot different. We’re trying to leave the world a little bit better, too, for our kids and the next generation. And we want to be a part of change.”
Hillary concurred, “We realised, you know, over the summer I think not touring and watching just this movement happen that is so needed in this country and around the world, we started to see what our part was, what part of our first steps and making a difference could be. And so our name changing was the first step.”

You can share this post!

Next article
Courteney Cox and Fiance Thank Frontline Workers as They Reunite for First Time in 9 Months

Related Posts More