Holly Gleason There used to be a joke in old-school country music: How many girl singers does it take to sing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”?
The punchline was always an eye-rolling “All of them.” It spoke to the ubiquity of Cline’s influence, as well as the tired renditions of Willie Nelson’s torch lament every “chick singer” clung to.
Back in those pre-internet days, Cline’s ubiquity was word-of-mouth, but deeply felt. Anyone who heard her velve-and-molasses swelter was drawn to its passion, pain, occasional joy and often unrequited desire.
A throbbing cocktail of hanging on in spite of all evidence, she bewitched generations. Yet, somehow, her omnipresence faded into a few facts, a couple songs mostly disconnected from their essence and a name dropped as a hollow echo by the hoi polloi. “Walkin’ After Midnight: The Music of Patsy Cline,” a concert held at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium Monday that will air on PBS later this year, was designed as a living, breathing testament to the vulnerability and big emotions of the country chanteuse whose sophistication matched her swagger.
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