Led by a great band of musicians headed by guitarists Larry Campbell and Jimmy Iovine, the funeral procession that took Levon Helm to his final rest paraded through Woodstock, where Helm had long made his home.

The 27th annual induction ceremony of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame held on Saturday. Seventeen entities–individual performers, bands and behind-the-scenes influences–were inducted, raising the total number of inductees to near 300 (I’m a little tentative about my ability to perform addition the Rock and roll way) and the the total number of human beings to over 700.

None of them is named Linda Ronstadt.

Surprised? I sure was. I just assumed that at some point along the line, the best, most accomplished, most amazing interpreter of rock’s greatest composers would have received recognition from the Hall. It just stands to reason; other worthies whose gifts simply do not measure up are there. Bonnie Raitt, say? Jackson Browne? Tom Waits? Their talents are amazing, but Ronstadt’s vocal range and interpretive aptitude are beyond compare. And given that this is a Hall of Fame, after all, it seems that an organization that finds room for anonymous record producers and unnamed Crickets and Miracles just might find space for someone who has amassed 11 Grammy Awards and a score of magazine covers and stacks of gold and platinum records. But bringing up these distinctions seems crass, and vain, as though they might merit her induction when all that it really would take, should take, is to hear her recordings. Linda Ronstadt could–can–just flat out sing: an impeccable performer, a peerless interpreter, with amazing taste. If all she had recorded was her early hit Long, Long Time, and she would be remembered for having sung one of the four or five
best torch songs ever, but she of course has given us so much more. She helped define country rock (and did Silver Threads and Golden Needles ever rock!), establish California rock (Desperado), interpret Motown with great versions of Tracks of My Tears and Heat Wave, reintroduce audiences to Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Doris Troy, The Everly Brothers and The Exciters, showcase songwriters like Warren Zevon (Carmelita, Poor Poor Pitiful Me) J.D. Souther (Prisoner in Disguise), Lowell George (Willin’), Randy Newman (Sail Away), Neil Young (Birds) and The McGarrigle Sisters (Heart Like a Wheel).

It’s true that the Hall of Fame has a bias in favor of artists who wrote their own material, or who at least recorded the best known versions of the material they picked (it’s also true that rock in general has a bias against women.) Taking ownership of material wasn’t really Ronstadt’s game. She has not written a great deal, and it’s not like her version of say, Tracks of My Tears makes you forget that Smokey Robinson and the Miracles made a hit version of it (although her late ballads, the great Cry Like a Windstorm and her duet with Aaron Neville Don’t Know Much will never be identified with anyone else.) But it’s wrong to diminish Ronstadt for this; instead, she should be appreciated for being an incredible curator, a peerless interpreter. If singing perfect songs is an impediment to induction in the Hall of Fame, then indeed, she is guilty.

At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ronstadt will kiss off the Hall of Fame when it finally gets around to come calling (hey, she might already have.) What does she need them for? And really, at this point, her absence says more about the Hall’s blockheadedness than any shortcoming on her part. And if she has a need to review the history of rock, she can listen to her records, where she’ll find British Invasion groups, Motown, Stax, the Brill Building, the Club Troubador, Nashville, the New Wave. She is the Hall of Fame.

On Friday, more baby steps were taken in the effort to turn The Coup into a musical, when composer David Berger, lyricist Paul Mendenhall and I joined three singers, about ten musicians, and a cadre of sound technicians in recording several of the songs that David and Paul have written for the show. The recording studio was located on the third floor of a building at 48th and 7th. Kind of shabby building, but state of the art equipment inside. It made me think that when Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin went into the back of Del Floria’s humble tailor shop, yes, they might have been slipping into UNCLE headquarters.

David had assembled a band of about ten musicians to perform behind the singers. I am told that this is kind of unusual these days–on these demo records, it’s often just a piano backing the singers. I heard at three songs in total, and a part of another. I liked the music. It’s very jazzy; one romantic number was described, I think accurately, as “very Billy Strayhorn.” Paul’s lyrics are intelligent and witty. The difference between reading them and hearing them performed is amazing; they take on a whole life of their own.

The singers were very good. I only heard Bill Nolte sing in an ensemble piece, so I really didn’t get a good idea of his voice. But Bruce Warren and Jessica Molaskey were very strong. It was impressive to hear how they progressed from take to take. The first take was usually a very straight rendition of the song. Then with each take, they began adding little inflections and variation; by the fourth take, they were really performing the numbers, really acting the lyrics. It’s really incredible how talented these people are.

We should finish the recording this week, followed by another week or so to mix the record. Then the script, the songs and the demo record will go to various people up the food chain–to some producers, who regularly invest and raise money, and to some directors, whose interest would attract investors.

And then we’ll see. . .

(Top photo: Bruce, Bill, Jessica, Paul, me’ Middle left: David, through a glass and darkly, conducts the band; middle right: David and the producer Glenn discuss a take.)

The fifth season of Mad Men got off to a fast start, and although a lot was happening, the episode will likely go down as the `Zoo Be Zoo Be Zoo’ episode, after the song that Jessica, Don’s young wife, performed for him at the birthday party she threw for him.

As Lauren Streib reports in The Daily Beast, the song is actually called `Zou Bisou Bisou’. “The original version was recorded by Gillian Hills, a Brigitte Bardot lookalike who found fame as a French yé-yé girl—one of a handful of young, female European singers who catapulted yé-yé music into an international movement, popular among teens during the era. (“Yé-yé” refers to exclamations of “yeah yeah!” during rock and roll.) Roughly translated, “zou” is a casual exclamation and “bisou” is a sweet kiss—a peck on the cheek to say hello and goodbye. So the lyrics hash out to: Oh! Kiss kiss / My God, they are sweet! / …Oh! Kiss kiss / the sound of kisses /…Oh! Kiss kiss /…That means, I confess / But yes, I love only you!”

The song was performed by Sophia Loren in the 1960 film The Millionairess, co-starring Peter Sellers. “Loren sang an English version, Zoo Be Zoo Be Zoo. Loren’s version uses the same tune, but the lyrics and delivery swell with a bit more sophistication. The movie was a hit in the U.K., though the American response was lukewarm.”

I was thrilled to once again catch The Levon Helm Band on Friday night at the Tarrytown Music Hall. I love this band. Larry Campbell sang “Wheels on ire” in his manly baritone, played the fiddle, and did an amazing guitar solo on “The Genetic Method” that led into “Chest Fever.” Very exciting. Teresa Williams and Brian Mitchell had amazing moments, as did Amy Helm, Jim Weider and of course, Levon Helm, a national treasure. I especially liked the way Teresa sang “Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning,” “Ophelia,”and the way the band just killed on “Chest Fever.”

It wasn’t exactly a bucket list item, but after decades of enthusiastic fandom, Ginny and I finally got to see the great Aretha Franklin in concert at Radio City Music Hall. We had mixed views: Aretha was in good voice and good mood; although we expected her to be at least subdued after the shock of the death her godchild Whitney Houston, she was surprisingly playful and even flirtatious, and not at all the imperious diva that I expected. . But her song choices were uneven. I liked her rendition of “Daydreaming” and “Spirit in the Dark”, and “Natural Woman” was good. She absolutely blew me away with amazing version of “I Ain’t Never Loved a Man”, in which she found a low low low register that really brought out a feeling of desperation. That was really the high point of the evening. But I grew bored with her gospelly deconstruction of “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, wasn’t to happy that she performed not one but two of Whitney’s treacly hits, and was seriously, seriously miffed that she didn’t perform “Think” or “Respect”, my favorites of her repertoire. But I saw the Queen of Soul, one of the iconic artists of my lifetime, and I’m happy about that.

Here’s K.T. Tunstall singing Bob Dylan‘s “Tangled Up in Blue” with Jools Holland in 2005. I love it. A few years ago–right around the time of this video–K.T. Tunstall performed “Suddenly I See”, the song which was played so effectively over the credits in the magazine-centric The Devil Wears Prada, to open the Annual ASME Award ceremonies. I was sitting next to my friend and colleage AJ Baime, and when the song ended, the crowd politely applauded as K.T. Tunstall bowed and exited the stage, head down, right in front of where we were sitting. The applause faded, but AJ kept at it, clapping and shouting “Yeah! Yeah!” until he was the only in the auditorium making noise, and K.T. finally lifted her head and gave him a big smile. And I thought, “Aha! So that’s how it’s done!”

Cathy, Tim, Greg, Susan, Jo, Dave, Ginny and I hit Town Hall on Saturday evening to attend a taping of the radio show Prairie Home Companion. We enjoyed Garrison Keillor‘s low key, folksy, whimsical fun, and his guests Gillian Welch, Joel Grey and especially Itzhak Perlman (with a very fine Klezmer orchestra!) were a treat. I do have to say that if and when I return to Town Hall, I’m definitely sitting in the orchestra, where we sat for Thursday’s Wainwright concert; sitting in the balcony for Keillor wa terribly tight and uncomfortable. After the show, however, we creaked ourselves to our full heights and walked around the block for an excellent dinner at a French restaurant on 44th Street called Saju Bistro. My friends ate things like rabbit, octopus and beets, and the food and the company were top notch.

Ryan Adams shot the video for this gem of a song on September 7, 2001. The World Trade Center looms in all its dopey, stolid earnestness throughout the film, oblivious to its imminent destruction. It always chokes me to see this.