Happy 25th Anniversary to Cassandra Wilson’s New Moon Daughter, originally released March 5, 1996.
Jazz music is a profoundly unique American art form that has undergone transformation on a regular basis since its inception on the streets of New Orleans in the late 19th Century. Indeed, the great Miles Davis would stake a claim to having changed the course of music (not just jazz) five or six times during his career. With each of those changes in direction though comes a struggle and resistance to whatever is reshaping the landscape of jazz.
For jazz singers, the struggle to break new ground is especially challenging. How can a jazz singer give new life to the classic jazz songs of the past and, moreover, how can they compete with the grandeur of iconic vocalists like Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald and others who made The Great American Songbook their own?
There is only one answer to that question. They can’t. So instead, they branch out to other genres and find songs that can be remodeled, reshaped and reformed using jazz sensibilities.
If it is done correctly, the impact can be huge and Cassandra Wilson is a case in point. Wilson moved to New York City in 1982 to pursue a career as a jazz singer. Alongside Steve Coleman (and others), she became a key part of the M-Base movement in Brooklyn, forging new directions under the acronym that stood for “Macro-Basic Array of Structured Extemporization.”
Like all cutting-edge forays, it had to end somewhere, as the music business strangled financial outcomes for the collective, forcing most members to seek alternative ways to make music and communicate their truths in a way that would allow them to live a life more comfortable. For Wilson, her first sight of wider success was a set of jazz standards released in 1988 (Blue Skies) that precipitated a move to hallowed jazz label Blue Note Records.
Having been both astronomically successful and artistically admired during jazz’s peak, Blue Note eventually retired from view in the late 1970s. It was revived in 1985 as part of EMI Manhattan and began to build a path to further success. This success was in part due to reissues of classic Blue Note material and new albums by Blue Note alumni, but also by the movement of the label into new genres that blurred the edges of the jazz genre.
Key among these was Cassandra Wilson’s New Moon Daughter released in early March 1996. Following on from Blue Light 'til Dawn (1993), it synthesized jazz, with blues, roots, country and, even, pop. The content of which is almost beside the point because there, at the center of it all, was Wilson’s voice—a deep, lustful growl that was able to tackle each of those styles and emerge triumphant, irrespective of the demands of the song.
Beyond the glory of Wilson’s voice is a set of accompaniments that are simply tinged with the key tenets of the genre that she is reshaping to her will. The material ranges from the pop of “Last Train To Clarksville,” to the blues of Robert Johnson’s “32-20” via her own compositions and a jaw-dropping cover of Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.” Whatever it is, she wraps her dulcet tones around the lyrics in a way that wrings every last iota of feeling from them.
Opening an album with Lewis Allan’s epochal, world-changing “Strange Fruit” is a bold statement despite the many and varied versions that have seen the light of day over the years. As always, the specter of Billie Holiday’s harrowing reading looms (rightly) over all who follow her footsteps, but Wilson does herself justice with a deeply brooding version.
The bass (played by Lonnie Plaxico) is a doom-laden beast astride the land, while the plaintive coronet of Graham Haynes wails like a family bereft. Meanwhile, the errant flashes of Chris Whitley’s resophonic guitar reveal the anger simmering beneath the surface. Added to this is Wilson’s vaguely indifferent delivery, which gives her thinly veiled revulsion the merest hint of cover. Comparisons to Holiday are pointless, but here Cassandra Wilson more than holds her own.
The same combination surfaces to similarly spectacular effect on Son House’s “Death Letter.” Once more, the bass swaggers with an evil glint in its eye, as Wilson growls her way through the tale of love’s lost labors like the blues women of yore. Not only do her voice and the accompaniment dovetail to create the sense of loss, but they also conjure an eerie feeling that befits being confronted by the body of a loved one on “the cooling board”—the tenor banjo and Jews harp ratchet the unsettling feeling to no end.
Elsewhere, there is a swooning, soothing version of the Hoagy Carmichael classic “Skylark” that is as warm and therapeutic as a hot spring bath, a tender heartbreaking cover of Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and a playfully sensual re-invention of The Monkees’ “Last Train To Clarksville.” But the two covers that resonate the most are those of Robert Johnson’s “32-20” and Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.”
On the former, the accompaniment is as DIY and “down home” as could possibly be—a bath tub, an ashtray and a pan combine with a guitar and Wilson’s voice to create a shuffling interpretation of a blues classic that thrills in its simplicity and directness. It would seem Johnson was not the only one to trade with the devil in return for musical mastership.
In covering Young’s beautiful “Harvest Moon,” Wilson strips away the jaunty, joyfulness and trades it instead for a solemn, weary feeling, her voice compelling us to believe that her affections may not be reciprocated. She crawls inside the beauty of the song to find the hint of heartbreak before amplifying it so effectively. It is the one song that moves me to the brink of tears every time I listen to it.
Spliced amongst these re-imaginings is a series of original pieces written by Wilson that don’t pale into insignificance alongside the classics she repurposes. In fact, given the consistent instrumental arrangements, they merge seamlessly into the fabric of those cover versions. “Solomon Sang” is a delicious, lilting cascade of guitars and “Find Him” is a buoyant joy, while “A Little Warm Death” is an uplifting flight of fancy. While it would be churlish to suggest that these originals are as memorable as the famous songs she reupholsters, thanks to the winning combination of her stellar voice and the rootsy, simple arrangements, they sit cheek by jowl with some comfort.
Throughout the album, it is the nuances and subtleties of both Wilson’s voice and the arrangements that contribute to such a powerful artistic statement—one second her warm honeyed tones wrap you in a cocoon of bliss (see “Until”), the next a thin veneer of disdain coats her delivery as she snarls with world-weary blues (see “Death Letter”).
As a demonstration of Wilson’s power as a singer, it is a fitting tribute to one of the finest jazz vocalists of her generation. It is a lesson to others in how to cover songs and bring to light aspects of the song that others may have missed or ignored. It is a special album from a special singer.
LISTEN: