Uncle Bardie’s Spotlight Creator: Yola

Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight Creator is Yola Carter or Yola:

Yola is a British singer-songwriter. She was born in Bristol. And her new album is called “Walk Through Fire”. It was produced by Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys. It’s not her first album but if there is any justice, this one is the one that will send her star into the heavens. She has a major voice. So listen. Enjoy. And here’s another from her 2016 EP Release “Orphan Offering”:


Near 500 words: Gypsy Woman

“It’ s springtime in France. The long grass rising from the fields. Van Gogh’s in the field painting. Splattering his canvas with color,” Nadia and her guitar sang.

She sang of the gypsies and she sang of the days when the world was no longer dead but alive with blossoms. France was her home but she left when she was seventeen to come to America and New York City and make it in the Big Time. Now she waitressed and sang her tunes three nights a week. It was a living as she worked the system to get a recording contract.

“Do you rap?” a producer asked.

“I don’t rap,” she answered. “And I am not about to start.”

“Better find another line of work,” he told her.

She didn’t. She wasn’t a quitter. So she kept at it.

“He looked like Charles Aznavour but he had a temper like tornado. It rose in the west and came early on a Saturday night. It was a tornado called jealousy,” she and her guitar sang.

At the end of her performance one Friday night, a man appeared out of the crowd of ten. “I’m Felix. I think I can take you far.”

She had heard that before. All they wanted to do is to get in her pants, then slink away into the night like the snakes they were. “Perhaps I should do a song about snakes,” she thought.

He handed her his card. It read A & R, Ruckus Records.

“When do we record?” she asked, suspicious-like.

“How ‘bout coming to the studio tomorrow at eight.”

“Maybe this one was the one,” hope spoke to her.

After he left, a woman in her early fifties approached her. “Watch out for him. He’s a bastard.”

The next morning, with her suitcase packed, she caught a bus south. For Nashville. She yodeled like the best of them and she was sure Nashville was the place she could sing her songs of France and yodel like the hills.

Listening to Sinatra

Listening to Sinatra, Blue Eyes
sipping his blues on the rocks, cigarette smoke
curling up into another September song,
three a. m. in his soul in some half forgotten
side street bar, alone and far from eternity
on the nightside of town. Just listen:

to the Sultan of Swoon with the Dorsey swing,
to the Hollywood songs by The Voice,
to the loss and heart aches remembered
as the music ripened, a fine wine aged.
Frank, like DiMaggio, perfect grace and style,
this Hoboken kid sure made Little Italy proud.

All “high hopes,” “young at heart” and counting
his “pennies from heaven” those very good years
“the summer wind blew” as he flew us to the moon
“nice ‘n’ easy” on The “Guys and Dolls” Express.
Sang those “old black magic,” street-of-dreams tunes
his way, Pal Joey in Vegastown.

Luck was his lady a second time around
during the Rat Pack days of Frank, Sammy
and Dean, his “Oceans Eleven” gang playing
“Robin and the Seven Hoods” just for laughs.
With his gambler’s heart he threw the dice
and scored a great American songbook.

“There used to be a ballpark” where he sang
of Emily and Nancy with the laughing face.
Then the autumn days, the summer years gone
and his once upon a time, ‘til suddenly
he was eighty with only duets left. Just listen
to this Chairman of the Board, Zen-maestro of Song.