Cécile McLorin Salvant Finds “the Gems That Haven’t Been Sung and Sung”
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Listener supported. WNYC Studios. Hey, Lulu here. Whether we are romping through science, music, politics, technology, or feelings, we seek to leave you seeing the world anew. Radiolab adventures right on the edge of what we think we know, wherever you get podcasts. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick.

For every music lover, I think there are two basic forms of pleasure. The huge satisfaction of something you love done just perfectly, and then the thrill of hearing something altogether shockingly new. When an artist does both things at once, your head comes open a little bit, which is what happened when I first heard Cecile McLaurin-Selvan. Here am I lounging on the sands of my hourglass

Feeling my mind slip clear. I lost. She's a jazz singer for sure, someone on the level of Sarah Vaughan or Ella Fitzgerald, but her repertoire and her approach to performing are totally her own. A standard from the American Songbook might be followed by a tune from hundreds of years ago and across an ocean, as we'll hear shortly. And no two shows are ever alike.

I once went to see her expecting things like how high the moon and how deep is the ocean, but the first thing out of her was a century-old murder ballad, some half an hour long. Wynton Marsalis has called her the kind of talent who comes along only once in a generation or two. Cecile McLaurin-Selvan has been touring the country and in between shows, came to talk and to sing in our studio at WNYC.

Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter. Don't bring around the cloud to rain on my parade. Don't tell me not to fly, I've simply got to. If someone takes the spill, it's me and not you. Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade? I'll march my band out.

I'll beat my drum And if I'm fanned out Your turn at bat, sir At least I didn't fake it, hat

I guess I didn't make it. But whether I'm a rose of sheer perfection, a freckle on the nose of life's complexion, the cinder or the shine, the apple of its eye, I've gotta fly once, I've gotta try once, only can die once, right, sir? Ooh, life is juicy, juicy, and you see, I've gotta take my bite, sir.

Get ready for me love, cause I'm a comer. I've simply got to march, my heart's a drummer. Don't bring around the cloud to rain on my parade.

I'm gonna live and live now. Get what I want, I know how. One roll for the whole shebang. One throw, that bell will go clang. Eye on the target and wham. One shot, one gunshot and bam. Hey, Mr. Four, he

And arch my band out, I'll beat my drum. And if I'm fanned out, your turn.

I'm a drummer. I've simply gotta march. My heart's a drummer. Nobody, no, nobody is gonna rain. I need

Oh, man. I don't know what I did there. Wow. I am so excited to have you here today. And I have gone to see you at any number of places around New York and just and not enough because every time I go, I leave so happy and so surprised by what you've decided to sting on a given night. What goes into those decisions?

It's very nice to hear you say that you're surprised because that's my first priority, I think. I just love to be surprised in life in general by people, by the musicians I play with, by myself. That's huge for me when I'm looking for songs or listening to songs.

and even just as a fan of art and artists. Well, this song is so associated with one singer in particular, maybe Barbra Streisand, and you take it on head on. Then on another night, I'll go see you, and you're singing, I don't know how many verses that was. We were just discussing this before we came in. It must have been a 40-verse long blues song that no one had probably heard.

Yeah, I did. I think it was like a half an hour long. It was a half an hour long blues called Murder Ballad that Jelly Roll Morton did for Library of Congress years ago. Let me tell you one of the things that I've said. This woman who murders her boyfriend's lover and then goes to prison and dies.

There's a lot of profanity, and I had always wanted to sing it. So I sat on it for 10 years thinking, where could I ever possibly do it and who would I do it with? And then I had a Valentine's Day concert at Jazz at Lincoln Center, and I thought, wouldn't that be for date night? Wouldn't that just be great? A date night with a little murder involved. Yeah. Well, let's start from the beginning. You grew up where? I grew up in Miami, Florida.

And what were you listening to at home and who was filling the home with music?

I was listening to whatever my mom was listening to, and she loves everything. Cesaria Evora from Cape Verde. We were listening to Yusun Dour from Senegal. We were listening to Los Tres Paraguayos, which is like Paraguayan folk music. We were listening to French music. We were listening to some jazz, mostly Sarah Vaughan, a little bit of Nancy Wilson, Gladys Knight.

Aretha Franklin. We were listening to folk music, some bluegrass. I could go on and on, actually. A lot of Brazilian music. And that's all due to your mother. She has a huge, wide ear, and she traveled a lot in her childhood. And I think she brought back those travels in some way or that traveling sort of feeling. Where did she grow up?

She grew up in Tunisia. She lived throughout Africa. She lived in Senegal. She lived in Cuba. She lived in Dominican Republic. She lived in Honduras, in Haiti. And what was the lingua franca at home? English, French, or both? Franca. It was franca. It was French. It was French at home. Yeah. From what I understand, in fact, from a profile in The New Yorker some years ago, there was a time when you were a kid, you thought you were going to study law.

Not so much when I was a kid. It was more after high school. I really didn't know what to do. And...

There was this political science prep school in this small town in France. My cousin was going. They had a law option, like first year law. In a beautiful place in Aix-en-Provence. In Aix-en-Provence. And so I said, oh, why not? What a good deal. It was a great deal. My cousin was there. I, you know, I like, I've always liked school. So off you go as a teenager to the south of France to study law, politics, history, and then something happened. Yeah.

I always studied music alongside my other school activities. Did you play an instrument? Piano. And you were playing classical, jazz, everything? I guess I was playing classical, but I was not really playing much. I was not practicing much.

I had to be bribed every week with donuts to go to class, to go to piano class. I just didn't like it. But I did it for 15 years. And singing? Singing, I...

It's funny. I think singing for me is so social. I don't sing when I'm alone or I sing very rarely when I'm alone. Not in the shower? Not so much. Walking down the street? No, no, no. It's very social. It's very communicative. It's about being with other people and telling them a story or telling them a secret. So while you're studying in France, at a certain point you start performing as a singer. Yes.

with a jazz quintet. How did that happen? And how did you have the skills and the nerve to do that all of a sudden? It was really my teacher at the music school, Jean-Francois Bonnel. I had sung for him a Sarah Vaughan song. He was adamant that I join the jazz class. I was probably the only native English speaker there. So maybe it gave me a little bit of an edge with singing these standards.

And he was just like, I got us a gig. We're doing a show within like two months of me starting in his class. And it was in a small jazz club. It was a tiny jazz club in Aix-en-Provence with like five people in the audience. But it was horrifying. Tell me about the first night. What'd you sing? I sang It's Only a Paper Moon. Say it's only a paper moon Sailing over a cardboard sea

I sang Body and Soul. I sang Lover Man. I sang You're Just Too Marvelous for Words. In my best and most intense Ella Fitzgerald impression mixed with some Sarah Vaughan. You're just too marvelous, too marvelous for words. So I get the feeling that you're...

At a certain point early on, you're kind of like a magpie of different styles and voices that your teacher is giving you stacks of CDs to listen to. And one week it's Sarah Vaughan week, and one week it's Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday or whomever. This is all coming in as kind of information. And none of them wins out. You don't become an imitator of any one of them, do you think? No.

I think as I go through the phase with whoever it is, I am trying to sing as best I can like them. I think that's what was happening. But I was failing. You can never really sing like someone. So the failing is becoming yourself. The failing is becoming yourself, yeah. And it's interesting, like the singers that he had me listen to,

Yes, there were those big ones, the famous ones. But what was more interesting was all of the music by people that are completely unknown or not celebrated enough. People like Lil Hardin, Armstrong. If you're doing a Lil Hardin, Armstrong imitation, no one's going to really know because they don't know who she is, unfortunately. Right.

Now, my sources tell me that the song you're going to do next is pretty radically different. It's called Can She Excuse My Wrongs? Oh, I would love to talk about this. I want to know everything about it. It was written by an English musician who was born in the 16th century, John Dowland. Yes. Tell me about the song. Okay.

The lyric is attributed to this man named Robert Devereaux. The music is John Dowland. Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex, who was Queen Elizabeth's, Elizabeth I's favorite or one of her favorites. And it's an interesting lyric because he talks about his desire and the desire can be read two ways as a desire for her or a desire for power.

And what happened to the Earl of Essex is that he was found out in a plot against her and was then killed. I mean, like executed by the queen for plotting against her. And the song basically is it's just everything is there. Now, how did you learn about this song? Flipping around on Spotify? Yeah.

Car radio? What? I was taking lute lessons years ago. I thought that I would maybe learn a little bit of lute just for fun. And this is like a very, this is like a classic. This is a standard classic. This is Don't Rain on My Parade. In the 16th century. In the 16th century. Lute. That's what they were playing at the Vanguard in the 16th century. Exactly. Exactly. He says, better a thousand times to die. Yeah.

Then for to live thus still tormented. Dear, but remember it was I who for thy sake did die contented. And he does die. It's crazy. Well, let's give it a go. Okay. Let's see if I remember. Can she excuse my wrongs with virtues close? Shall I call her good when she proves unkind? Are those clear fires which vanish into smoke?

Must I praise the leaves when no fruit I find? Oh, know where shadows do for bodies stand. Thou mayst be abused if thy sight be dim. Old love is like two words written on sand, Or two bubbles which on the water swim.

Will thou be thus abused still, seeing that she will right thee never? If thou canst not overcome her will, thy love will be thus fruitless ever. Will thou be thus abused still, knowing that she will right thee never? No, but remember it was I who for thy sake did thy contented.

Was I so base that I might not aspire unto those high joys which she holds from me? As they are high, so high is my desire. If she this deny, what can granted be?

If she will yield to that which reason is, it is reason's will that love should be just. Dear, make me happy still by granting this, or cut off delays that if I die must.

Better a thousand times to die than for to live the still tormented, dear, but remember it was I who for thy sake did die contented. Better a thousand times to die knowing that she will write me never, dear, but remember it was I who for thy sake did die contented.

Better a thousand times to die than for to live the still tormented dear. But remember it was I who for thy sake did die contented.

I screwed up some lyrics. We're good. Okay, this is what happens after each song? The recriminations begin? In the studio? You screwed something up? In the studio, always. I was, it was, it's funny enough, I was... I'm speaking with the extraordinary singer Cecile McLaurin-Salvant, a three-time Grammy winner for Best Jazz Vocal Album, and Sullivan Fortner accompanies her on piano. Our conversation continues in just a moment. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. Maybe I know how to do it.

Hello again, WNYC. It's Andrea Bernstein, co-host of the podcast Trump Inc. This August, I'm guest hosting The Law According to Trump, a special series on amicus from Slate.

Long before this year's historic Supreme Court term, Donald Trump created a blueprint for shielding himself from legal accountability on everything from taxes to fraud to discrimination. Listen now on Amicus as we explore Trump's history of bending the law to his will. Search Amicus wherever you're listening.

This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick, and I've been speaking today with the singer Cecile McLaurin-Selvan. She's emerged as one of the great jazz artists of her generation. She was 21 when she entered the Thelonious Monk Jazz Competition, and that competition was about discovering the next generation of jazz masters. Winning is like getting the Heisman Trophy for jazz musicians. And she was a complete unknown.

I didn't think I would win. I had just lost a competition in France, in a small town in France. I mean, no knock to them, but I really didn't think I would make it past the semifinals. I was even shocked that they kept my audition tape in the first place. I went there completely astounded by all of the musicians. Herbie Hancock was like in the elevator with me. It was... Wow.

Scary and crazy. Everybody could scat. Everybody was going to universities in the U.S. I was I felt like a little country girl, country bumpkin. So I wasn't expecting anything. And both my parents came with me. My mom kept saying I'm so because she's the one who signed me up for that competition. She kept saying, I'm so sorry. This is this is crazy. What were you going to say?

I sang, so there were two rounds. For the first round, I sang Bernie's tune. I sang Monk's Mood. And I sang a Bessie Smith song. Which one? One that she sings called Take It Right Back. You're just leaping and rolling drunk Smelling just like you've been with any old skunk Take it right back to the place where you got it

Mama don't want a bit of it left, yeah. And it was a great experience because it was the first time anyone ever laughed at what I was singing. And I thought, oh my gosh, understanding. How much do you sound like yourself now? How much did you come into your talent and sense of originality? I think it's very raw, but there is something there that...

is like I can see where I went after. It was all there. The choice of like odd repertoire, the like intensely looking at the audience while I'm singing. But I was trembling and scared. And even for that time, I wasn't fully singing. I mean, I was, you could hear the nerves. I mean, I could, I can hear the nerves coming.

I interviewed in this room, in this studio at WNYC years ago, Rhiannon Giddens. And she, to me, she does a lot of things, but she does two things at once in the sense that she's a great performer, but there's an element of her that she's also a scholar. She's a musicologist. She is an evangelist for all kinds of music. In her case, wants to very much make the big point that country music is not...

purely White Hillbilly music, but a confluence of Black American music meets White Hillbilly music and all kinds of interesting things come out of it. It seems to me with different music, you're doing a similar thing that Rihanna and Giddens does, is that you're introducing all kinds of things to the stage. You're not just, of course you do standards and Broadway show tunes and things that we associate in our minds with what Sarah Vaughan did or...

Or Ella Fitzgerald. But so many other things are on your mind to give us. It's funny you mention her. Rhiannon Giddens is somebody who I have to thank so much for a lot. I first heard about her through Carolina Chocolate Drops. Her first band. Her first band. I learned...

About the banjo and what that instrument is and how it's a product of the African diaspora, I did not know. And it felt affirming in a way as somebody who had always loved that music but thought, oh, this is just some white music that I like. Much like the grunge is white music that I like. And then realizing through her in large part that, no, this is not...

This is not just white music. This is actually music that originated with black folks and with a mixture. So she's huge to me. I actually sing one of her songs in my shows. Which one is that? It's called Build a House. Oh, yeah. I love that song. You brought me here to build your house.

But do you feel that you have that in mind, too, that it ain't just by chance, that there's a project that you're building over time of introducing certain kinds of music to your audiences, whether it's in French or it's in English? I think I have the spirit of, like, a kind of a radio DJ slash curator. Like, I want...

It's almost like making a mixtape for someone and only putting deep cuts. That's sort of how I feel a lot of times. If someone is to ask, oh, can you do a Cole Porter tribute? I'll be like, okay, sure, I'll do a Cole Porter tribute. But I want to find the gems that haven't been...

sung and sung and sung over and over again and that we might love and fall in love with. And yet we began our conversation or your being here with Don't Rain on My Parade. Yeah. Huge, huge hit. Why do you want to do something that's so familiar and so associated with one singer? You know, a lot of the decisions are very intuitive decisions.

But that song for me is not about the fact that it's associated with Barbra Streisand. It's just such an optimistic kind of... Make them happy. Yeah. And also she's just like so strong in that lyric. It's not enough that you sing across the centuries and so beautifully. You also write extraordinary songs. Oh, thank you. Tell me about the beginning of...

songwriting and how you went about it and what you were after. I first started writing songs, well, I think as a kid I wrote one song in my own invented language with my cousin. Can you sing it? And how old were you?

Who knows? Did you have a sense of what the lyrics meant? Maybe at the time we knew what it meant. Now I don't know what it means. Lost to the mists of time. Lost, yes. And I heard Abby Lincoln. I heard an album of hers called Holy Earth. And it made me want to write. The earth's a mural seen from way up high. Striped in natural relief, withers from the sky.

The very first song I wrote or that I remember writing is a song called Woman Child. That was the title track of my second album. And then, yeah, ever since then I've been writing. And you're writing them with the piano, with not the lute. Not the lute, not yet. I'm writing with the piano. Why do I have a feeling that that's coming? No, no, no, no. With the piano and with a window. I like to look out a window. How do you spend your days?

A long walk, a lot of writing in the morning, and then eventually get to the piano at some point, and then embroidery, a lot of embroidery. It's a lot of alone time. Yes. And how does that inform the music? Wow, that's a great question. It is very introspective music, and it is music about solitude, a lot of it, about solitude, about yearning. Yeah.

About desire. And I think all of those feelings are clearly coming from the fact that it's so much alone time, which I need. I think I may be pressing my luck, but I'm hoping you'll sing Moon Song, which is on the album Ghost Song from, I think, two years ago, three years ago. Tell me about the song before we hear it. It's a song I wrote about wanting to want something.

And loving that feeling of desire and that feeling of before, before the big thing happens. And almost not wanting the big thing to happen, just wanting to be in that, in that prelude of it. Because that's where all the excitement is. Being far away from the object of affection and looking at them longingly.

So different than a 16th century lute-based song. Maybe exactly the same as a 16th century. Maybe it's exactly, can she excuse my wrongs? Yeah, they had desire in the 16th century. Okay. If you should love me, don't ever tell me. Show it, that's how I'll know it. In fact, it's better not to show me at all.

Let me pine, let me yearn Let me crawl, me write you a song And long to belong to you Write you a song from a distance Let me love you like I'm the moon

Let me love you like I love the moon. I want to thank you so much for being here. Thank you. Thanks for having me. This was great. Thanks for having both of us. Cecile McLaurin-Salvant joined me in the studio playing live at WNYC along with pianist Sullivan Fortner. She's playing this month in Phoenix, Burlington, Cleveland, and more before heading to Europe.

I'm David Remnick. Thanks for listening to the show today. And thanks again to all of you who have been writing in about our election coverage, sharing ideas and observations and questions. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour. See you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Meryl Garbus of Tune Yards, with additional music by Louis Mitchell.

This episode was produced by Max Balton, Adam Howard, Kala Leah, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, Jared Paul, and Alicia Zuckerman. With guidance from Emily Botin and assistance from Michael May, David Gable, Alex Barish, Victor Guan, and Alejandra Decat. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherena Endowment Fund.

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