I saw Ronnie Spector perform a few times, usually as an act on the same bill. There were always a lot of things going on backstage that could be considered diva-esque (keep reading, please!)—for instance the backstage would be totally closed off from other performers going back there, a lot of extra security, guards walking her from her room to the stage, that sort of thing. More than once I saw a promoter pulling his hair out over all her demands. In the show business world, she was considered “extra high maintenance.”
But then she’d get on stage, and she’d open her mouth, and she’d start to sing.
If you’ve only heard the records, I can’t really put it into words, but Ronnie Spector was blessed with a magical voice, a voice that was distinct, clear, perfect in tone and pitch and vibrato. She didn’t sound like anyone else. She sounded like Ronnie Spector.
She would open her mouth and start to sing, and it was literally like the clouds parted, and the heavens opened up, and this magical “thing” happened, when she made all those old hits come to life. I saw it happen a few times, and it was, well, magic.
There are a only few singers on the planet that can make me cry. Lefty Frizzell, Aretha Franklin, and Ronnie Spector are the only three names I can come up with off the top of my head. But I’ll admit it, when I saw Ronnie Spector sing live and in person, it was so momentous and incredible, I sat there watching and tears streamed down my face. I’m getting misty right now, just thinking about a talent of that magnitude leaving our planet. Man, I hope there’s a heaven and I can go check out her show up there.
So yeah, whatever diva stunts she may have pulled, whatever extra-large fees she demanded, it wasn’t enough. She was royalty. She was our royalty, rock ’n’ roll royalty.
The last time I saw her perform was at the Nashville Boogie festival a couple of years ago. I brought along my Ronettes album, hoping to get it signed. I thought I might have a chance because my hotel room was on the same row as her room, and I figured I could catch her as she walked from her room to the show. Not a chance; she had about eight security guards surrounding her, giant men walking in a circle around this tiny woman, so nobody could bother her. I stood there as the procession went past me, and said, “Damn it.” Just then a voice boomed out, “DEKE?” Turns out it was Ronnie’s husband, Jonathan Greenfield, and he knew me from seeing me perform with a bunch of acts at the Ponderosa Stomp festival in New Orleans a year or two earlier.
He took my album and he said, “Just be patient. We’ll make this happen.” A couple hours later, I saw him walking around with a bag. He got my album signed. I never got my chance to tell her how much her magical voice meant to me, but I did get my album signed (thanks again, Jonathan—and I’m very sorry for your loss).
I’m really sick of 2022 already, can we please make it stop? I want my heroes (and heroines) back.
