My Dear friends

This site not work anymore .I have a new site and you can go there visit me. I dont go put more post here anymore ... If you like this blog go there .. I will be there for you ... Olá meus queridos amigos ... agora tenho um novo blog Este site nao funcionará mais , tive alguns problemas. Agora tenho um novo endereco de blog. Nao irei mais colocar post neste blog .. Todas as atualizacoes e novidades estarao no outro endereco .. Acessem... estarei lá pra vcssss Se vcs gostaram desse blog irao amar o outro .. mais atualizado e lindo ... Vamos láaaa .... visitem-me lá .. Beijinhos Lili

Tank for everything !!!

melldesofia.blogspot.com

sexta-feira, 29 de janeiro de 2010

Gettin’ a Glow On in Mercer’s Savannah




North America > United States > Georgia > Savannah
Gettin’ a Glow On in Mercer’s Savannah

HUCKLEBERRY FRIENDS The many types of traffic on River Street in Savannah.

The New York Times
By JAY ATKINSON
Published: January 29, 2010

Savannah, Ga.


AT the Boar’s Head Grill & Tavern, Kellen Gray, 25, a violinist with the LaGrange Symphony Orchestra came through the door, bringing a draft of unseasonably cold air with him. The bartender, Margaret Coughlin, gave the new arrival an inquiring look.

“Whiskey,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “Make it bourbon.”

Savannah is a whiskey town, with tugboats chewing their way up the frigid Savannah River, and the barrooms and cafes along the waterfront alive with talk about food, sports, politics and music. It is also Mercer’s town — Johnny Mercer, that is, the prolific lyricist, singer and occasional composer who wrote more than 1,500 songs and won four Academy Awards.

Earlier that afternoon I had driven into Savannah along U.S. 80, blasting “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive,” “Come Rain or Come Shine” and “In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening,” a Mercer signature hit, written with Hoagy Carmichael.

When the party’s gettin’ a glow on,

’N’ singin’ fills the air,

If I ain’t in the clink,

And there’s sumpin’ to drink,

You can tell ’em I’ll be there.

Inside the Boar’s Head, Mr. Gray spun a yarn about his dog, Mischa, who is engaged in a battle of wits with Mr. Gray’s roommate, a guitarist who typically eats in his room. After several attempts, Mischa lured the roommate into the hallway and then dashed in to steal his sandwich.

“I didn’t have the heart to punish him,” Mr. Gray said, and we all laughed, tipping up our glasses.

Although Johnny Mercer had a stint writing in New York and then moved to Hollywood, in his cadences and sensibility he never really departed from the quaint, colloquial melodic influences of his home ground — the same ones that inhabited Mr. Gray’s barroom tale.

Thanks to an uncharacteristic gesture of restraint by Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, who incinerated a swath of Georgia during the Civil War, there was a Savannah for Johnny Mercer to grow up in. In the cold morning sunshine the cobblestone boulevards of old Savannah, which was founded in 1733, look much as they did in Mercer’s youth, during the 1920s and ’30s.

Before starting my tour I drove toward the coast to Mercer’s grave. The whitened dirt lanes of Bonaventure Cemetery bore a resemblance to the crushed oyster-shell roads leading to Mercer’s old summer haunt on nearby Burnside Island. Above me the chittering of birds punctuated the silence, and the smell of tidal waters drifted in from the Wilmington River, which nearly encircles the cemetery. In the shade of a live oak hung with Spanish moss was the Mercer family plot, Johnny’s crypt adorned with wilted roses and dotted by seashells. Engraved on a marble bench was his well-known couplet from the song “One for My Baby (And One More for the Road)”: “Buddy, I’m a kind of poet,/And I’ve got a lotta things to say.”

For the intrepid visitor the best way to see Savannah is on a bicycle, as long as you keep an eye out for local drivers whizzing through the historic district. Back in town I rented one for $15 from the Bicycle Link on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard.

From his teenage years on Mercer often crossed the city’s racial divide, absorbing the influences that shaped his music. He haunted the black neighborhood just beyond here, listening to “race records” by the likes of Bessie Smith. One of his first collaborators was Louis Armstrong, and in 1944 the Abraham Lincoln Junior Club named Mercer “the most popular young colored singer on the radio.”

From King Boulevard I headed over to Ellis Square. Leaning casually against a fireplug and reading a newspaper was “my huckleberry friend,” Mercer himself — at least, there was a statue of him there, and a pretty fair likeness, right down to his soft hat and wingtip shoes. The dedication of the statue was part of last year’s celebration of Mercer’s birth in 1909. (He died, at 66, in 1976.)

All around Mercer his city was in motion, men in hard hats chest deep in the road, digging out a water main; lovely young college girls sashaying by, their faces flushed with the cold; and over on Charlton, a minister in his Episcopal collar emerged from the church to light up a cigarette.

Johnny Mercer was a modest, circumspect fellow — especially by Hollywood standards — whose Southern manners rarely deserted him. As I rolled along, a police officer in a patrol car leaned out with directions to the Sentient Bean, a funky vegetarian cafe on East Park Avenue. Mercer’s lyrics are known for jazz- and blues-influenced vernacular, and in the Bean, I was treated to a friendly, cross-cultural mix of people along with my spicy roll-up.

There was a table of blue-collar guys drinking coffee, art students sketching on pads and a guy with dreadlocks talking to a skinny kid in a leather jacket and Converse high-tops. Seated nearby was Alessandra Hoshor, 19, a student at Savannah College of Art and Design, having lunch with her mom, Lucilla Hoshor, 50, a professor in the animation department.

Alessandra Hoshor’s show, “Blanket Theory,” made up of 21 large, bright acrylics, oils and other pieces, covered an entire wall.

“One of them is still wet, actually,” Ms. Hoshor said, indicating a portrait of her younger brother, Daniel. With the sort of improvisational spirit that is widespread in Savannah, Ms. Hoshor finished laying on the thick paint just before her monthlong show opened. “The city’s full of eccentric, open-minded people,” she said.

Later that night, near closing time at a bar on Reynolds Square, I was sitting alone by the vacant piano nursing a glass of bourbon. Tables with the chairs overturned on top stretched away into the shadows. A ceiling fan whirred, and a song was playing about a hard-luck Romeo and his elusive Juliet.

I’ve had my share of disappointment in that regard. But bearing it with a shrug and a smile is Mercer’s gift and his legacy. The ice made a little music in the glass when I raised it up, signaling the bartender.

We’re drinking, my friend,

To the end of a brief episode —

Make it one for my baby

And one more for the road.

IF YOU GO

WHERE TO STAY

River Street Inn, 115 East River Street (lobby entrance, 124 East Bay Street); (800) 253-4229, (912) 234-6400; riverstreetinn.com.

Savannah Bed and Breakfast Inn, 117 West Gordon Street, at Chatham Square; (912) 238-0518; savannahbnb.com.

WHERE TO EAT

Boar’s Head Grill & Tavern, 1 North Lincoln Street; (912) 651-9660; boarsheadgrillandtavern.com. Steaks.

T-Rex Mex, 217 ½ West Broughton Street; (912) 232-3466. Tex-Mex.

Sentient Bean, 13 East Park Avenue; (912) 232-4447; sentientbean.com. Vegetarian.

INFORMATION

Visitor Center, 301 Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard; (912) 944-0455.

Nenhum comentário:

Postar um comentário

Minha lista de blogs