Rebecca Kilgore obit

REBECCA, BECKY, ROO: MISSING MISS KILGORE

 

She was not on the list.

It might sound melodramatic, but the sky is darker because our dear Rebecca Kilgore is no longer with us. I learned the news on the morning of January 8, that she had died peacefully the evening before, having suffered a long debilitating illness. I could not wish for that state to be prolonged a moment longer, but I expect to miss her as long as I have consciousness and hearing.

Earlier today, I posted these few lines on Facebook:

I learned this morning that the wonderful singer Rebecca Kilgore has died. Writing these words is difficult. She was the gentlest of human beings and when she was comfortable on stage or in the recording studio, she gave us hours of melodious happiness. I grieve for her loss and also for the long illness that preceded it, which I can only describe as ungentle. I know that I and others will not forget her, her sweet presence, her concern that the music should go perfectly, her care for the song, her delight in submerging herself in the music so that we could fully receive the gifts the composers had created. I will write more and offer examples of her sweet subtle touching art, but thought that the people who love our Becky would like to know.

I first heard her on record in 1994, with an Arbors Records release called I SAW STARS, which she and Dan Barrett were featured, and I bought her CDs as they came out. Luckily for all of us, she recorded often for about thirty-five years. Mat and Rachel Domber became enthusiastic champions, and her work sold well for them. I met her in person at my first Jazz at Chautauqua, September 2004, although she knew my prose from reviews I’d written for the late lamented MISSISSIPPI RAG. She was not someone who tried to be witty; I never heard her tell a joke or make a wisecrack, but our conversations were full of laughter.

She was a star, no question. But every kind of behavior you would expect from one was abhorrent to her. I never saw her make a scene; in fact, she was (to my eyes) overly cooperative and compliant, and as a result I think people took advantage of this. She was at heart a shy person, and although she loved the songs and the musicians, I often thought that she was uncomfortable with the limelight, the very opposite of the bold prima donna. Many women singers, whether by habit, convention, or expectation, dress in ways that attract male attention: the tight red dress is a cliche. Becky seemed to choose consciously unobtrusive clothing: I remember a brown dress and flat shoes. It was as if she was saying, “Don’t come to stare at me. Listen to the song instead. Listen to me disappear into it.” There was one exception, which I have caught in a photograph. On one of her New York visits, she went down to Chinatown and found a golden jacket, completely flattering, which she wore with shy pride. But she wasn’t there to woo us, to slither sexily. As the Elders said, she stood flat-footed and sang the damn’ song, no tricks.

This business of music, by which I mean creating music in front of people for pay, is not easy. When you look at the small island that I will call pre-Coltrane jazz (call it what you will, at your leisure) you see quickly that it is much more stressful. Many more musicians than gigs. Some of the prime gigs go to those who effectively self-promote. It is very easy to become resentful, competitive, hysterically grasping, paranoid.

In all the conversations and correspondence I had with our Becky, I never saw her become small-minded or mean. The worst she said was that she was happier singing with X instead of Y accompanying her. She knew what made her at peace: finding a new song that had been passed over, and working to make her performance of it a tribute to the song and its creators. She loved reading, and we traded names of books we were delighting in. When the weather was fine, she sat in her garden and admired the plants. She loved cats, and many emails had as their subject one Stanley, who turned out to be a neighbor’s cat, visiting intermittently. Incidentally, these details are firm in my memory: I dare not look at our emails of a decade. Reading her words would be more than I could take right now.

She was a great melodist and a great subtle improviser, but she never went in for classic-jazz-singer extroversion. She liked medium swinging tempos, and she wanted to make sure we heard the lyrics, so no scat-singing. Almost all of the songs she chose were, to quote Austen, light and bright and swinging. She left the deep self-pity, the wallowing in melancholy heartbreak to others. This isn’t that she couldn’t convey emotion: there’s a version of YOU LET ME DOWN that shows what she might have done if she had chosen. She was also a professional musician: she had a set list; she had rehearsed when possible; she gave the musicians lead sheets; she knew her key; she came in when she was expected to. And all of the musicians she worked with respected her. As a thoroughly skilled rhythm guitarist, she had good time and knew the harmonies.

She was the real thing, an artist completely devoted to the music.

I was fortunate in that she encouraged me to cross the invisible barrier between musicians and civilians. I didn’t want anything from her except for her to sing and be comfortable; I didn’t push her around, and I got friendship in return: an email correspondence, and (something I treasured then and now think of with tears) my phone would ring on my birthday and there would be Becky, singing a chorus of some appropriate song. This happened before smartphones, so I saved none of those moments, but I know they happened. If this sounds like boasting, I apologize, and I know that Michael was not large in Becky’s life, that she probably had fifty people whose birthdays she remembered, but it still is one of the things I think of with pride and now, sadness: that the emails and phone calls are memories rather than events.

In a past life, I was a college English professor, which might account for these long paragraphs. John Berryman wrote, after the deaths of several dear friends and contemporaries, “I’m cross with god . . . ” (it’s the opening line of Dream Song 153). When I saw in early 2023 that Becky was not herself, and then learned the news of her debilitating illness, I could only think to myself, “Why her? She did no one any harm and she brought us beauty in both hands.” I don’t expect to have an answer, am not asking for one, and the orthodox ones don’t work for me. But I note with sadness and puzzlement that my path into and through this music has been marked by beautiful open-handedness and the deaths of people I saw at close range and loved. The list is long, but I think of James Dapogny, Joe Wilder, Mike Burgevin, and a hundred others. Our dear Becky has joined that list.

Oh: the names in my title. I first knew her as Rebecca Kilgore. At what point she became Becky I can’t say, but she did. And I was honored beyond words to progress to Roo, which is how she signed emails, a sweet one-syllable tag from her days in Western Swing, where she was Beck-a-Roo.

I want to add some beautiful words from the peerless singer Dawn Lambeth, words I would be proud to have written: I first heard Rebecca about 25 years ago when I was just starting to learn about older jazz styles. At the time I was listening to lot of late 30’s Billie Holiday, Lee Wiley, and other greats of that time but hadn’t really figured out what felt ‘authentic’ to me. Then I got to see Rebecca perform with Hal Smith’s Roadrunners at the Sacramento Jubilee. On stage she blended in with the rest of band, relaxed, unassuming, and often sitting casually behind her guitar. But when she started singing she invited she you in to a very special world of warmth and light. My husband, Marc Caparone, called her ‘the singer with the smile in her voice’ and there was something transporting listening to her, it just made you feel good. Even watching her in a big room felt like an intimate living room performance- we all were just enjoying each others’ company and the music we cherished. Her performances and recordings opened up worlds of possibilities for me, not just in how to interpret songs, but also showing me the depth of the Great American Songbook and how many great songs there are to perform beyond the usual suspects. Her singing style and repertoire introduced me to other wonderful singers she pulled from – Maxine Sullivan, Doris Day, Ivie Anderson and more. She invited me up to a sing a song a few times at different festivals, which was always a bit intimidating – I admired her so much and hoped she wouldn’t hear (or at least wouldn’t mind), how much I studied her recordings at home. Earlier this fall Michael posted a video of her and Jim Dapogny from 2004 that takes me right back to the festivals of that time and getting to watch her. It’s got all the elements I remember of her performances – relaxed melodies, easy swing, gentle humor, even a little sass on the Ethel Waters tune. I know the last few years were tough for her and her loved ones and I wish everyone peace with her passing. R.I.P. Becky and thank you for all the wonderful music – you’ve got a date with an angel 💞

Thanks for everything, dear Roo. You increased everyone’s happiness by just being.