Dame Cleo Laine has died at age 97. Her death was announced by The Stables, the music venue that she and her husband, Sir John Dankworth, founded. Critic Bob Mondello — a longtime fan — offers an appreciation. It was the mid-1970s when a concert-going friend told me he'd just been to Carnegie Hall and heard the greatest pop vocalist alive. "She's coming to DC," he said. "Get tickets."
So I did.
On stage, she wore a diaphanous gown and had an afro that looked like a sunburst mane as the spotlight hit it. And when the applause died away, she sang a capella. Then came the second number — Carole King's "Music," accompanied by Laine's saxophonist husband John Dankworth and his band, in an arrangement designed to establish her jazz credentials. In Britain, she and Dankworth had been playing clubs and concerts since the 1950s, but American audiences were just meeting her.
This song was also designed, I soon learned, to show off her range, from gravelly low notes, to keening ethereal sounds a full four octaves higher. In one particularly glorious passage she went from her lowest note to her highest and back down again in the space of 44 seconds. On her album Cleo Laine Live at Carnegie Hall you can hear her do it live for an audience that's clearly as astonished as mine was.
Now, vocal pyrotechnics are fun. But they're not everything for a pop singer. Laine, I discovered in years of following her, had everything. She excelled at jazz, pop, and classical stylings — among the few vocalists to receive Grammy nominations in all three of those categories — and was so popular in Britain that she was made a Dame in 1997.
Give her a comic number and she'd land every joke, a talent she developed in the theater, where she began her career as an actress, and went on to star in musicals on the West End, regularly stopping such shows as Showboat, and A Little Night Music with ballads. Give her the right one and she could nearly stop your heart.
I remember her holding the last note of "Send in the Clowns" at an outdoor amphitheater many years after I saw that first concert and, I swear, even the crickets stopped for her, the audience so captivated that no one wanted to break the silence.
As she finished that last note, I started counting — one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand ... and got to seven before every hand in the place came together in the only "thunderclap" of applause I've ever heard.
Laine continued performing for six decades — all but the last with her husband. He died hours before they were to give a concert in 2010, and she went on without him, only telling the audience at the end that he'd passed away — because, she said, that's what he'd have wanted.
In recent years her voice had dimmed, but not enough that there was ever reason to argue with the Sunday Times critic who said in the 1970s, that Cleo Laine was "quite simply the best singer in the world."
