No fellow could ignore
The little girl next door
She sure looked sweet in her first evening gown;
Now there’s a charge for what she used to give for free
In my home town. – Tom Lehrer, “My Home Town”
Yesterday we looked at two songs whose narrators are whores, and one told from the point of view of bluenoses engaged in their favorite activity, attacking prostitutes who never did anything to them. Today we’ll look at five songs told from the client’s point of view, two of which are positive, two negative and one disturbed. Four have links to videos; no video was available for “The Taxicab”, so I have included a link for you to download a Windows Media file of the song if you wish. We’ll start with an ode to the “Ladies of the Evening” from my home town; most of my readers have probably never heard it, but it would be rare to find anyone in South Louisiana who didn’t know it by heart.
New Orleans Ladies (Hoyt Garrick)
New Orleans ladies
Sassy style that will drive you crazy
And they hold you like the light
Hugs the wick when this candle’s burning
Them Creole babies
Thin and brown and downright lazy
And they roll just like the river
A little wave will last forever
(refrain) All the way
From Bourbon Street to Esplanade
They sashay by
They sashay by
New Orleans ladies
A flair for life, love and laughter
And they hold you like the night
Holds a chill when this cold wind’s blowing
Them Creole babies
They strut and sway from dusk till dawn
And they roll just like a river
A little wave will last forever
(refrain) x2
Now, though I really do like this song I must point out that it does fall into the old “all hookers are streetwalkers” fallacy. Given the way the singer lauds our working belles, I hardly think it likely he is really talking about streetwalkers; he’s simply using it as a convenient symbol so his audience understands the specific type of lady he means, so I can forgive it in this instance. Also, since Bourbon Street intersects Esplanade, I’m not sure what he really means by saying that; I reckon he just intends to describe a fan-shaped area including the French Quarter.
Next, an explanation of the word “Creole” is in order; I used the term in my column on Storyville (day before yesterday) but neglected to define it. Early New Orleans was home to many free negroes, some of whom were themselves slave-owners. So by the Civil War a large community of free, light-skinned blacks with a considerable percentage of white blood had developed; these Creoles (as they were called) usually married among themselves and looked down on unmixed black people just as much as their white cousins did. Though their social status was quite high before the War, once Reconstruction was over Jim Crow laws were imposed on New Orleans and many of the wealthy, genteel old Creole families found themselves just as mistreated as other negroes; they fell into poverty, and their beautiful, cultured, educated daughters often found themselves with only one trade in which they could support themselves in their accustomed style. Not all of them did so in brothels; many became the mistresses of wealthy white men. There are still many Creoles in New Orleans, but most of them now find it more advantageous to identify as black rather than to maintain a separate ethnic identity as their great-grandparents did.
Clearly, the narrator of our next song isn’t nearly as accepting of our trade:
Roxanne (Sting)
Roxanne
You don’t have to put on the red light
Those days are over
You don’t have to sell your body to the night
Roxanne
You don’t have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right
Roxanne
You don’t have to put on the red light
(repeat several times)
I loved you since I knew you
I wouldn’t talk down to you
I have to tell you just how I feel
I won’t share you with another boy
I know my mind is made up
So put away your make up
Told you once I won’t tell you again
It’s a bad way
Roxanne
You don’t have to put on the red light
(repeat several times)
I think it’s pretty obvious that this man is one of the “rescuers” I talked about in my column of August 25th; he has fallen in love with Roxanne and simply cannot comprehend why she still prefers to ply her trade rather than be “redeemed” (i.e. owned, as evidenced by the last few lines) by him. The narrator of the next song is also obsessed with a working girl, though I would hesitate to call the emotion “love”; it is clearly a type of psychotic neediness which has fixated itself on a girl he has never met or even spoken to before.
867-5309 (Alex Call and Jim Keller)
Jenny, Jenny who can I turn to
You give me something I can hold on to
I know you’ll think I’m like the others before
Who saw your name and number on the wall
(refrain) Jenny I’ve got your number
I need to make you mine
Jenny don’t change your number
8 6 7-5 3 0 9 (8 6 7-5 3 0 9)
8 6 7-5 3 0 9 (8 6 7-5 3 0 9)
Jenny, Jenny you’re the girl for me
You don’t know me but you make me so happy
I tried to call you before, but I lost my nerve
I tried my imagination, but I was disturbed
(refrain)
I got it (I got it), I got it
I got your number on the wall
I got it (I got it), I got it
For a good time call
(refrain)
(refrain)
Jenny, Jenny who can I turn to
For the price of a dime
I can always turn to you
8 6 7-5 3 0 9 (8 6 7-5 3 0 9)
8 6 7-5 3 0 9 (8 6 7-5 3 0 9)
5309
It’s possible that Jenny isn’t even a cheap hooker at all, but merely the victim of a rather ugly practical joke. Either way, the poor girl will probably have to change her number or face repeated calls from this pathetic, lonely person (as implied in the last verse). The narrators of our last two songs (both by the famous Belgian singer Jacques Brel) are equally obsessed (though in opposite ways) by their experiences with two very different kinds of prostitutes. Brel was famed for his strong, earthy language and these examples of his work are no exception.
The Taxicab (Jacques Brel, English version by Eric Blau & Mort Shuman)
She lives on Madonna Street
In a house tucked away there
In a house so small and sweet
Though the rug’s a little threadbare
And a stairway corkscrews up
In the middle of her pad
She lives on Madonna Street
But me, I drive the taxicab.
Her bedroom’s filled with filigree
Candles dancing in the air
Cupids dancing everywhere
You can smell the sandalwood incense
She glides about in radiance
And when she breathes I feel a stab
The candles shimmer in the air
But me, I drive the taxicab.
Her bed is big enough for three
One of her and two of me
A bar that’s filled with everything
From Old Grand-Dad to Hennessy
There’s one black cat, five Pekingese
The hi-fi’s playing modern jazz
Her bed is big enough for three
But me, I drive the taxicab.
There are other tenants in the house
A captain of the artillery
A priest who chews cheese like a mouse
A guru who will serve you tea
A financier from Katmandu
A pornographer whose eyes are bad
I know what each of them wants to do
But me, I drive the taxicab.
She’s got eyes like blazing suns
Her hips in song with pagan tunes
Her ass rolls like twin waterfalls
Lips and mouth moan like bassoons
She zips up her gown, I feel my doom
She takes it off, I wanna grab
She’s got tits like virgin moons
But me, I drive the taxicab!
Gotta go down to Madonna Street
Her bed is big enough for three
Whatever it is, I’ll pay the tab
But me, but me, but me I drive the taxicab!
However obsessed he may be, our cab driver clearly views his doxy in a flattering light and is not in the least disturbed by her profession as long as he gets to partake (note the name of her street). The narrator of the next song, however, is clearly an unusually sensitive young man who was deeply (and perhaps irreparably) traumatized by his experience in a French military brothel; the song is both powerful and unforgettable.
Next (Jacques Brel, English version by Eric Blau & Mort Shuman)
Naked as sin, an army towel
Covering my belly
Some of us blush, somehow
Knees turning to jelly
Next!
I was still just a kid
There were a hundred like me
I followed a naked body
A naked body followed me
Next!
I was still just a kid
When my innocence was lost
In a mobile army whorehouse
Gift for the army, free of cost
Next, next!
Me, I really would have liked
A little touch of tenderness
Maybe a word, a smile
An hour of happiness
But, next, next!
Oh, it wasn’t so tragic
The high heavens did not fall
But how much of that time
I hated being there at all
Next, next!
Now I always will recall
The brothel truck, the flying flags
The queer lieutenant who slapped
Our asses as if we were fags
Next! Next!
I swear on the wet head
Of my first case of gonorrhea
It is his ugly voice
That I forever hear
Next! Next!
That voice that stinks of whiskey
Of corpses and of mud
It is the voice of nations
It is the thick voice of blood
Next! Next!
And since then each woman
I have taken to bed
Seems to laugh in my arms
To whisper through my head
Next, next…
All the naked and the dead
Should hold each other’s hands
As they watch me scream at night
In a dream no one understands
Next! Next!
And when I am not screaming
In a voice grown dry and hollow
I stand on endless naked lines
Of the following and the followed
Next! Next!
One day I’ll cut my legs off
Or burn myself alive
Anything, I’ll do anything
To get out of line to survive
Not ever to be next!
Not ever to be next!
I think it’s safe to say our narrator wouldn’t have reacted this way had his initiation been at the hands of Fancy, the lady of Madonna Street or one of the enchanting Creole beauties who “hold you like the light holds the wick.” I’ve actually heard this song called “anti-prostitution” by silly critics who are apparently unfamiliar with Brel’s other work and unable to follow the words of this one. As should be obvious from the title and refrain, it is the assembly-line nature of the thing, the reduction of what should be beautiful to a mechanistic process, which has done the psychological damage here.
This overview is by no means exhaustive; I can think of several other songs right now, and I’m sure some of you can as well. But I think these represent a good cross-section of the subject, from high to low and from very positive to quite negative.
I always felt that Jenny was just some girl unlucky enough to have had her number written on the wall by a spiteful ex-boyfriend, or spiteful wannabe boyfriend.
In San Francisco, there is a plumbing company whose name you will not forget (Ben Franklin), and whose number you will not forget: 867-5309. The best business phone number you can have (and the worst home phone number).
Do you have any thoughts on the two versions of “Lady Marmalade”? I notice that the cover by Christina Aguilara, Pink, Mya, and Lil’ Kim contains this sort of rap segment, which includes the line “Some mistake us for whores.” Well, I’m pretty durn sure that the original song IS about a whore, and one who doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.
You’re right; she’s specifically a Creole whore from New Orleans.
Lady Marmalade by Labelle
Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister
Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister
He met Marmalade down in Old New Orleans
Struttin’ her stuff on the street
She said ‘Hello, hey Joe,
You wanna give it a go?
(refrain)Mmm Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Da Da
Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Here
Mocha chocolata Ya Ya
Creole Lady Marmalade
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
He savored her cool while she freshened up
That boy drank all that Magnolia wine
On the black satin sheets where
He started to freak
(refrain)
Seeing her skin feeling silky smooth
Colour of cafe au lait
Made the savage beast inside
Roaring till it cried, “More, More, More!”
Now he’s at home doing 9 to 5
Living his brave life of lies
But when he turns off to sleep
All memories keep more, more, more
(refrain x 2)
Ohh, I’ve got news for you, little darlin’s… 🙁
The YouTube video you linked to has been taken down. Here’s another one, though.
And one of the more recent one. It needs more ads, though. [/sarcasm]
I read a book called “Hell in a Very Small Place” about the 1950’s French war in Vietnam, specifically about the battle of Dien Bien Phu. They talked about the French Field Brothels in that book. I had never heard of such a thing. If I remember correctly, the air field at Dien Bien Phu became unusable early in the fight and, as a result, the whores were stranded there with the French military, ultimately serving as nursed to the wounded (also stranded there). Needless to say, the French lost the battle and, as a result, the whole of French Indochina. Shortly thereafter, the Americans went in to make everything better…
My personal favourite: The Son Of Hickory Holler’s Tramp. This one’s a positive one from a male perspective, and I love the warmth with which the narrator talks of his mother’s decision to do what it took to provide for her children, no matter what others thought:
Oh, the corn was dry and the weeds were high
When Daddy took to drinkin’,
Him and Lucy Walker, they took up and ran away.
Momma shed a tear and then she promised fourteen children,
“I swear you’ll never see a hungry day.”
When Momma sacrified her pride the neighbours started talking,
But I was much too young to understand the things they said,
The things that mattered most to me were Momma’s chicken dumplings,
And a goodnight kiss before we went to bed.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin,
Outside the door there burned a scarlet lamp,
And late at night a hand would knock and there would come a stranger,
Yes, I’m the son of Hickory Holler’s tramp.
When Daddy left and destitution came upon our family,
Not one neighbour volunteered to lend a helping hand,
So let ’em gossip all they want – she loved us and she raised us
The proof is standing here, a full-grown man.
Last summer Momma passed away and left the ones who loved her,
Each and every one is more than grateful for their birth,
Each Sunday she receives a fresh bouquet of fourteen roses,
And a card that says “The greatest Mom on earth”.
Oh, the path was deep and wide from footsteps leading to our cabin… (repeat chorus to fade)
(Writing this from memory so can’t swear there are no errors)
Thanks for posting this one, Dr. Sarah! My experience tells me that real-life examples of the woman in the song (though usually with fewer children!) are far more common than the negative stereotypes the media constantly foists on us.
This is the truth of “children and prostitution.” Prostitutes often have children to raise, to support, to try to give a chance at a good life.
Those who disapprove of prostitution AND who want to kick all the mommies off of welfare in this economy should stop and reflect for a bit.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this song before. I’m not certain it is about a hooker– I read once that it was, but the words aren’t blatant enough for me to be sure. Goodnight, Sweet Josephine by the Yardbirds. It’s their best song, in fact (really, it is– I don’t care what anyone else says).
If you look for it on Youtube, the US version is better. It’s got a louder, fuzzier guitar, and a cool piano bit that the British version lacks.
I’d never heard it before, but having just listened to it and read the lyrics, I’ve got to say that while it’s possible that Josephine isn’t a hooker, she probably is.
I suppose t could be one of those songs where the songwriter didn’t want us to know for sure.
If I weren’t a devoted fan already, I would be now. Any writer who can reference Lehrer and Brel in the same column is clearly someone I should be reading.
😉
[…] If you’d like to see the words (and those of the other songs I picked that time) you can visit my column for September 5th, 2010. Digg it | reddit | del.icio.us | […]