Dave Frishberg Songbook No. 2

Liner Notes

The singers found him first. Blossom Dearie sent her first recording of “I’m Hip” and “Peel Me a Grape” back from London and people listened with glee. With the late great Irene Kral, the enchantment incubated. Irene – as tough and demanding of her songwriters as any first-rate singer with high standards could be, never suffered fools easily. She adopted him, The word spead like measles. The L.A. Dodgers commissioned him to write a song for them. Sue Raney recorded “Dodger Blue” and it sold to thousands of baseball fans at the Dodger Ball Park. Mary Tyler Moore used him for a TV special. People with big ears and good taste in music started asking “Who IS this Dave Frishberg?”

People have been trying to answer that one ever since. Sometimes it’s easier than others. Just when you think you’ve got him pegged, he surprises you again with a new set of lyrics more sophisticated than anything you’ve ever heard since Lorenz Hart died, or a new piano solo that fills the air with highly intricate cadenzas Ior carefully conceived interpolations in the style of Art Tatum. The man is pretty amazing.

In the days when I first heard about Dave Frishberg, the songwriter, he was a piano player who dabbled in special material for other, more aggressive personalities. Now that he’s come in from the dark, he’s blossomed heartily into his own man- composer, lyricist, singer, pianist, nightclub headliner. There are still a few singers around who know how to interpret great songs, but where are the guys to write them? Where are the record companies to record them for posterity? Where are the managers and agents to represent them? Where are the sheet-music publishers to get their songs to the public? Where, for that matter, is the public to spread the word? In this depressing atmosphere, Dave Frishberg is something of a miracle.

At a time when most of the great songwriters from the era of good tunes are heading for that Tin Pan Alley in the sky at a faster rate of speed then I care to clock (we’ve lost Yip Harburg, Hoagy Carmichael, Harry Warren, and Alec Wilder in the past two years, just to name a few), the arrival of Dave Frishberg is very good news indeed. People with the slightest shred of interest in where good songs are heading rushed right out and bought copies of the Dave Frishberg Songbook Volume No 1 like they were reduced price shares in IBM. The ten new take-home tunes in Dave Frishberg Songbook Volume No. 2 are like musical dividends that have split and doubled. Each song is a discovery worth prizing with its own uniquely internal power, rhythmic discipline, and melodic charm. His lyrics are jazzy and snazzy, his sound is a cross between Hoagy Carmichael and Mose Allison. If there is such a thing as a down-home preppie – it’s Dave Frishberg. If an alligator could sing, it would probably sound like Dave Frishberg. His music is wrinkle-free.  

Listen to the aching tenderness in his hymn to “Marilyn Monroe”, dig the winsome sweet intensity of “Our Love Rolls On’ or smile your way through the downtrodden dyspepsia of “My Attorney Bernie”, and you’ll understand why Susannah McCorkle calls him “The Woody Allen of Jazz”. With a touching sincerity and almost embarrassing intimacy he serves up a small part of himself on each song, making the rest of us laugh at our own worst fears. His quirky, uncompromising individuality touches on the insecurities we live with and the realities we hide from while giving us a better look at ourselves through music. To borrow a shallow phrase from the computer age, he “shares his space”. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that Dave Frishberg has a fondness for Johnny Mercer’s music, Hoagy of course, maybe even John Latouch and Willard Robison. His songs have that kind of fresh, rural redolence. (“You Are There”, written in collaboration with Johnny Mandel, is a perfect example, or reflective of the dark and cynical way we live now – “Wheelers and Dealers”)

All of which would be more than enough for most songwriters-singers, but while he’s stimulated our gray cells, he’s also stroking our erogenous zones with beautiful piano that recalls the pretty chords of Teddy Wilson, the Harlem humor of Fats Waller, the relaxed fluidity of Mary Lou Williams. Then back to the 3 a.m. barroom mood of Hoagy again. (Always back to Hoagy, and home)

I guess you could get scholarly about Dave Frishberg, start fitting him neatly into historic contexts and all that. I suggest you just listen and enjoy him, instead. He sings and plays it not only like it is, but like it ought to be

Rex Reed

Dave’s Notes

My Attorney Bernie – when my friend, Tim Brown, a Minneapolis attorney, asked me for a song commemorating his twenty-fifth year with the firm, I wrote this. In real life, my attorney’s name is Mort, and he used to play bass with Louis Armstrong. He never sends the wine back.

Dodger Blue – I was present at the Dodgers Old Timers banquet to hear Sue Raney sing the world premiere of my song. I watched a tear roll down Walter Alston’s cheek. I knew I had found my calling to make ballplayers cry.

Useless Waltz – During a band rehearsal, I ran across this piece on an instrumental, and the title seemed to fit so perfectly I was certain Brookmeyer had a whole lyric for it. “No” he assured me “It’s just a useless waltz.” “Wait right here” I told him. “We’ll split the publishing.”

The Wheelers and Dealers – Oscar Wilde’s definition of a cynic: “One who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Marilyn Monroe – When Alan Broadbent, one of the musicians I admire most, first played this song for me, he remarked modestly, “It sounds like a Miss America theme song – like it should be called Marilyn Monroe.” I’m grateful for his suggestion. The title is half the battle.

Blizzard of Lies – My wife Sam thought this was a great title. “When are you going to write Blizzard of Lies?” she would prod me. I finally responded. “When are you going to help me with the lyric?” After that there was no stopping her.

Oklahoma Toad – I always figured this song, a particular favorite of mine, deserved better than to languish in a file cabinet at April Music, where it’s been for nearly fifteen years. Today, if I were to meet the grizzled old tad in the son, I’d advise him “Keep the publishing.”

Our Love Rolls on – I wrote this for a Burt Reynolds movie. Later when I saw the movie, I understood why they didn’t buy it. The song was totally inappropriate. Nevertheless, I still think of it as the theme song from Sharkey’s Machine.

Another Song About Paris. – I don’t really feel there are too many songs about Paris. Just too many songs, period.

You Are There – Trying to fit words to Johnny Mandel’s long restless melody was like trying to solve one of those impossible double crostics in the London Times. I sulked for nearly two years before gritting my teeth and grinding out the solution.