Strange Fruit

I defy you to watch a Ken Burns documentary and not cry. This week I tried to watch Jazz, the 10 hour series. I made it as far as the late 30's. By then Louis Armstrong had just arrived in Chicago. I began the series only intending to watch the episode about Billie Holiday. I quickly realized that I would have to start from the beginning to fully appreciate the Lady. To fully understand how she could be so heartbroken. Heartbroken in a way that only a jazz singer could be. If jazz were a tree, then it's roots would be deep and twisted, it's fruit would be bitter-sweet. The most successful artists had the greatest failures. They drowned in bottles or faded into shadows. Often they would just disappear into the deep blue of their own music. I only made it as far as the late 30's. Louis Armstrong was still blowing on second-hand trumpet and wearing borrowed tuxedos. He hadn't even met Billie Holiday yet. I defy you to watch an entire Ken Burns documentary. A person can only look at black and white photo's for so long. A person can only take so much heartbreak.