| Jazz |
Life has its moments of unexpected poetry. For me, one of them unfolded in 1983, in the heart of a career that placed me inside one of Europe’s most powerful radio stations. The world of broadcasting in those years was a dizzying blur, LPs arriving daily in towers of cardboard boxes, promotional press kits stacked haphazardly across desks, deadlines looming, and the endless rhythm of music filling our corridors. Yet memory has a curious way of preserving certain instants, fixing them in amber. I can see it even now: the pale morning light slanting through the tall windows of my office, scattering across the chaos of vinyl and papers. That light fell upon a record sleeve whose understated design quietly distinguished it from the riot of colors that otherwise defined the era. While most albums of the early ’80s shouted for attention with neon excess, this one whispered. It was a study in white, and in its restraint, it seemed to invite reflection.
I remember closing my office door, seeking a moment apart from the clamor. At my disposal sat the kind of equipment every audiophile of the day envied: a Revox hi-fi system, all clean lines and precision; massive Celestion speakers that could make even a whisper resonate like a cathedral bell. I held the record cover in my hands, turning it slowly, tracing its quiet edges, and sensing something, an intuition, that here was a work of substance. The ritual unfolded as rituals do: the record sliding from its sleeve, catching a glint of sunlight on its grooves, the lift of the Revox turntable’s dust cover, the placing of vinyl upon platter. A press of the “Play” button, and the needle dropped into a world.
The opening track, Nothing Like You, began, and with it, a revelation. What struck me first was the voice: crystalline, joyful, alive with a brightness that was both intimate and expansive. Then came the orchestration, sweeping and luminous, a soundscape that could stop you mid-thought. The effect was immediate, total. I felt the need to capture the experience, to translate the sensation into words, so I reached for a notepad and began to scrawl impressions, half-formed sentences, ideas for how I might present the record to listeners on air. What I did not yet know was that this album would become a constant companion. For the next year, it would dominate my broadcasts, its tracks woven into the fabric of our station’s programming and into the memory of countless listeners.
It was an age of optimism, an era when smiles came easier, when music itself seemed imbued with joy. This album embodied that spirit, elevated by a mix of remarkable clarity, far above the industry’s average of the time. Among its many treasures, one song in particular, The Wine of May, became my touchstone. I played it often, drawn to its warmth and quiet magic. And yet, how could I have imagined, in those analog days, that decades later a strange invention called the Internet would collapse distance and time, bringing me face-to-face with the artist who had so captivated me? Lisa Rich herself reached out, asking if I might help introduce the digital reissue of this very album. The invitation felt like a circle closing, like life’s own symmetry asserting itself. Refusal was impossible. How could I decline to celebrate an artist I had long admired, whose work had etched itself so deeply into my personal and professional history?
This album, after all, is no ordinary relic. It is a work of freshness and daring, filled with an artistry that remains striking even now. Within it one finds compositions by Bob Dorough, David Frishberg, Clare Fischer, Chick Corea, Richie Cole, and, of course, Lennon & McCartney, names that form a constellation of modern music. But beyond the pedigree of composers, there is the execution: the unforgettable performances of David Kane, Cameron Brown, Michael Smith, Marc Copland, and Mike Crotty, all woven together by Rich’s voice, luminous as ever.
Acoustic albums, I have come to believe, possess a peculiar magic. They seem less vulnerable to time’s erosion. Listening now to the digital reissue, I am struck by how current it still feels—how the production, the clarity of the recording, could easily pass for something made yesterday. Only an occasional touch of electronic keyboard betrays the album’s 1980s origins. Otherwise, its sound remains astonishingly fresh, its charm undimmed. This, I think, is the highest compliment one can pay to a recording: that it transcends its era.
All of us carry certain albums within us, works that, for reasons personal or ineffable, become cornerstones of our lives. This one has always remained close to me, tucked away in memory, waiting to be called forth. Each time I hear it, I am transported backward: to my younger self, to a newsroom alive with promise, to a time when I was still a young journalist and writer, filled with dreams and determination, drawn irresistibly to bold artistic voices. There were, of course, temptations and pressures even then. Record companies dangled incentives, urging us to push particular artists onto the airwaves. But I resisted. I felt an obligation to highlight those who were genuine, who placed their craft above commerce, who created not out of calculation but from an irresistible need to express.
Lisa Rich was, and remains, one of those rare voices. She did not simply interpret songs; she reshaped them, redrew their contours, and infused them with her singular vision. That is the mark of great artistry, not repetition, but reinvention. And it is why I count her among the most important vocalists of her generation. Even now, decades later, she is not finished. She has confided that a new album is in preparation. The thought fills me with anticipation. To know that her voice, which has accompanied me across time, is preparing once more to reassert itself, to claim new space, is a privilege.
And so the story continues. What began with a quiet white sleeve glinting in the morning light of 1983 is not over. Music, like memory, resists finality. Lisa Rich’s voice, steadfast and unyielding, reminds us that true artistry never ages—it simply waits for us to listen again.
Thierry De Clemensat
Member at Jazz Journalists Association
USA correspondent for Paris-Move and ABS magazine
Editor in chief – Bayou Blue Radio, Bayou Blue News
PARIS-MOVE, August 21st 2025
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Musicians:
Lisa Rich – vocals
David Kane – piano, electric piano, synthesizer, guiro, tambourine
Cameron Brown – acoustic bass
Michael Smith – drums
Marc Copland – piano (2, 3), tenor sax solo (3, 4), soprano sax solo (9)
Mike Crotty – trumpet, fluglehorn, alto sax, tenor sax, flute, alto flute, bass clarinet
Trackinglist:
Nothing Like You
Listen Here
The Wine of May
Morning
Shaker Song
Bulgarian Folk Song
Times Lie
Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most
The Drinking Song
Can’t Buy Me Love
DC Farewell
Produced by Lisa Rich and Sandra Krause Trupp
Musical Director: David Kane
Arrangements by David Kane, except #1 and #11 by Mike Crotty, #2 and #3 by Marc Copland
Creative Consultants: David Kane, Mike Crotty, Sharon Smith, Marc Copland and Phil Trupp
Recorded by Bob Dawson at Bias Recording Studio, Springfield, Virginia
Cover art: Al Laoang
Photo: John Mitchell
Mastering: Mike Monseur