Billie Holiday is remembered as one of the most tragic figures in music, her life wasted in a haze of drink, drugs and abuse. But, on the eve of a tribute to the legendary singer, Martin Gayford argues that her career was a triumph, not a tragedy. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus famously observed that it is impossible to step into the same river twice - when you do, the water will have changed.
Billie Holiday found that the same was true with songs. Tomorrow, she once pointed out to her accompanist, Jimmy Rowles, "I'll be in a different mood. That's why I can never sing the same way, 'cause I don't always feel the same. I just can't do it. I can't even copy me." Nor can anyone else copy Billie Holiday. She is in the strange position of being not only hugely influential, but also inimitable. On April 5, numerous singers, many born decades after she died in 1959 - the line-up includes Carleen Anderson, Susheela Raman and Amy Winehouse - will pay tribute to Holiday at the Barbican, but none will really sing like her. Nobody ever could.
In some ways, Holiday was the greatest popular singer of the 20th century - although not in every way. Ella Fitzgerald in her heyday had an incomparably better voice, smooth and rich as cream; so too did Sinatra. Holiday's vocal range was narrow, and her tone thin and acrid. But emotionally, Fitzgerald sounded like a little girl in comparison.
What Holiday could do in a manner far beyond any other performer was to communicate feelings, and not just single moods, but complex emotional clusters. She could drag a few words across the beat - possibly lyrics banal in themselves - in such a manner as to convey ruefulness, irony, tenderness, love, joy, resignation, salty delight, one after another, or several all together. But to do this, you had to be Holiday. More than that, by her own account you had to be Holiday on a certain day. ...
According to Max Jones, "Her own lifestyle, probably responsible for much of the disorder swirling about her person, she defended stoutly as ‘my own damn business'." She knew, he went on, that it would shorten her life: "This she foresaw, naturally, and accepted it. She wasn't unhappy about it." Her stage persona as "Lady", the sad torch singer, was in part, as another biographer, Stuart Nicholson, has argued, her creation (just as was her name, her vocal style, and everything else about her). Behind it was a complicated, difficult, enormously talented woman.
Her drink and drug habits were not that different from those of many male jazz contemporaries. As with them, with Holiday it is hard to separate self-destructiveness and lust for life. Holiday herself, asked why so many jazz musicians died so young, replied:
"We kind of live one hundred days in one day. Like myself, I want to bend this note, bend that note, sing this way, sing that way, get all the feeling and eat all the good food and travel all over, all in one day, and you can't do it." The pianist Hampton Hawes put it this way: "I know she died because she was too emotional and big-hearted, always racing. She lived her life so full it was inevitable she would go down fast."
Is that success or failure? In life, the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson has remarked, it's not longevity that counts, but intensity. That Holiday certainly achieved, and you can hear it in every note she sang. Daily Telegraph