"When you remember who I am, just call."
The lyric above is from "There Is A Ghost," one of the ten tracks on Marianne Faithfull’s 2003 album, Before The Poison. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, give it a listen some 3 a.m. after the wine bottle’s empty and the ashtray’s full. It’s a real motherfucker. Trust me, she’s not singing those words as a chat-up line; she delivers them with equal parts desperation and resignation.
Before The Poison was heralded as a "comeback"— downright silly, considering that everything she’d done since 1979 had been lauded as her return to relevance. Then again, it was always a surprise when she showed up with a new collection of songs and reminded the world that she was still above ground, having cheated death once again. The Reaper finally got her today. I could take the lazy scribe’s way out and fill this post with a few hundred male-gaze-driven words about her beauty in her youth, her roles as a '60s “it” girl and muse, and her eventual descent into addiction, painting her as just another beautiful broken doll. But that would sell her — and myself — short.
My spiritual aunt deserves more than that.
Right. Broken English. Sigh … where to start? That album has shattered my heart and put it back together again more times than I can count. A cracking voice emanating the sound of strength amidst diminished dreams. Mental illness set to melodies. Enough to make Pele weep amongst her boys. A gorgeous goddamn thing and the most nakedly and honestly human recording in my possession. Nearly 46 years after its release, its grooves still bleed.
You can’t sing with that much pain and truth unless you’re the real fucking thing.
Her rendition of “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan.” My God. I’ve known a few Lucies in my lifetime. We shared secrets. Often a bed. Ladies who dropped their kids off at school before dipping into their secret stashes of Oxy. Women who fucked with the lights off so I couldn’t see the cut marks on their thighs or left the bathroom with the faint smell of vomit lingering. Marianne sang for them — and helped me see them, love them, and hold them close, despite it all.
There’s more I could say, but there’s no need. Her albums are in print and utterly perfect. They already say it all. If you’re new to her work, start with Broken English. It may not speak to you, but if it does, it will always be there when you need it.
Farewell to Marianne — and to all our dear Lucy Jordans, when their time comes.
EMAIL JOEL at gaustenbooks@gmail.com
