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Good-Bye, Nina The weather must have known. I glanced at my buddy list and noticed one of my favourite diaries had updated. I clicked the link to Shiv's Joint, and saw the title, "Goodbye, Nina." Immediately, there was a catch in my throat and tears welled behind my eyes. In high-school, in the midst of a time of penning Windham Hill-esque instrumental tunes, I'd sketched out a piece called "Good-bye, Nina." I had seen the movie Point of No Return, a rip-off of La Femme Nikita, and something about one scene, its juxtaposition of music, setting, and Bridget Fonda walking away, had moved me. That movie's soundtrack wasn't the first I'd heard of Nina Simone, but it was the first conscious introduction I'd had to her music. The strains of "Sugar in My Bowl" plunged me into childhood memories; "Feelin' Good" became the anthem of my happier days in college (the ones when the depression wasn't dragging me quite so hard and actually let me come to the surface for a gulp of euphoric air). I love to drive around on balmy days with the windows down and the sunroof open blaring Nina from the stereo, especially the up-tempo numbers, like "My Baby Just Cares for Me" and "Love Me or Leave Me," in which she embarks upon a musical odyssey to introduce J.S. Bach to her friend Jazz in an extended and impressive piano break. Her recorded-live version of Brecht & Weill's "Pirate Jenny" is one of the most fantastic and disturbing I've ever heard; she does Screamin' Jay Hawkins's "I Put a Spell on You" with the seductive rage of a tipsy socialite. Her tender sincerity is emotionally wrenching in her version of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood," which is much finer than the pop hit version the Animals cut some time later, and though her accent is flawed, she clearly understands very well what she is singing as she pleads her way through Jacques Brel's "Ne me quitte pas"; in the end, she, like so many others before her, chose to make France her home. It is often a comforting place for those who feel persecuted. Interestingly, after dinner on Sunday night, I was discussing Nina's music, her musicianship, her skills as a pianist, and most particularly, that unmistakable voice, with fellow singers and friends. It would have been the early hours of the morning on Monday, the day she was to die, in southern France, where she was at that time. I wonder did she know she was fading; did her spirit send itself out in a final great wave to those of us who would listen and remember? Is this mere coincidence? How do these strange phenomena occur? The catch in my throat has not left me today. I sat eating lunch in a restaurant around the corner wanting desperately to cry. I carried this feeling into the music store where I searched, vainly, for Nina's final studio album, A Single Woman. It is foolish and inexplicable, I know. I never met Nina Simone. I never saw her live, though I must have held out the hope that someday I might be so lucky. I know only her history, her recordings, her reputation. I know, too, that she will be missed. Her funeral will be on Friday, and I pray that there will be many mourners present, and much good, soulful singing. For now, I merely stare at the rain, and I can't get "Love Me or Leave Me" out of my head. Rest in peace, Nina. "And may choirs of Angels sing thee to thy sleep." r
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