In Which It Was All A Means of Divination

A Grand Alchemical Ambition

by HELEN SCHUMACHER

You can find in America a place where houses are built from the remains of shipwrecks and wedding bands are cast from railroad spikes, where people welcome you with a sneer instead of a smile, and where a wooden gallows casts its shadow across the town square. I found my way here late, having returned home after a night of drinking with that downtrodden feeling restless inside of me, when I listened for the first time to Buell Kazee’s version of “The Wagoner’s Lad,” a song that begins with the verse:

Oh, hard is the fortune of all woman kind
She's always controlled, she's always confined
Controlled by her parents until she's a wife
A slave to her husband the rest of her life

It was not a sentiment I expected to find in an antediluvian ballad. And sung as it was in Kazee’s lonesome Appalachian moan, I was profoundly affected. I listened to that track, and another performed by Kazee, “The Butcher Boy,” over and over until it was near dawn, feeling the odd comfort of a bittersweet sisterhood. The mayor of this bleak place I had ended up in was a man named Harry Everett Smith. He was the person responsible for including the Kazee tracks on the compilation I had been listening to — the Anthology of American Folk Music.

In 1951 Smith moved to New York City. As was typical, he was broke when he arrived on the East Coast and contacted Moses Asch, who had recently started the Folkways imprint, with the hope of selling him part of his record collection. An avid collector of obscure records since his early teens, the now 28-year-old Smith had a collection of recordings numbering in the thousands. Asch was intrigued by Smith’s collection, but instead of purchasing part of it, he commissioned Smith to curate what would become the Anthology of American Folk Music — an 84-song collection that played a crucial role in the folk revival for the 1950s and ‘60s. At the time he was compiling the Anthology, Smith was reading Plato, an inspiration he recounts in a 1969 interview: “I felt social changes would result from it. I’d been reading Plato’s Republic. He’s jabbering on about music, how you have to be careful about changing the music because it might upset or destroy the government.” By serving as inspiration for the protest songs of the era, the Anthology did indeed contribute to important social change.

It wasn’t just what Smith put on the Anthology that made it a subversive spellbook, but how. He arranged the songs — from the Devil’s whistle of “faaa-dita-la-dita-la-daaay” relayed by Bill and Belle Reed to the rounds of “We thank the Lord” of the Alabama Sacred Harp Singers and back to the effusive “Kill yourself!” whoop of Uncle Dave Macon — so that themes of suicide and salvation looped around a Möbius strip of red, white, and blue bunting. Smith assembled tracks so as to erase any context of race, gender, and education, and he omitted these kind of biographical details from the album’s liner notes. “It took years before anybody discovered that Mississippi John Hurt wasn’t a hillbilly,” Smith said. It took several months for me to realize that Buell Kazee wasn’t a woman. With no gender context for the name Buell and given the quality of the old recording, Kazee had become the person I needed to hear sing what had registered as a proto-feminist ballad — a woman.

The celestial monochord being played by the hand of God that Smith used for the cover of the Anthology of American Folk Music

In his book on Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes, The Old, Weird America, Greil Marcus wrote of Smith’s codex, “The Anthology was a mystery — an insistence that against every assurance to the contrary, America was itself a mystery. As a mystery, though, the Anthology was disguised as a textbook; it was an occult document disguised as an academic treatise on stylistic shifts within an archaic musicology.” The Anthology of American Folk Music was exactly the kind of arcane catalog you would expect to be produced by a man who claimed to be the son of infamous occultist Aleister Crowley and Anastasia Romanov, youngest daughter of the last Russian czar who was executed by the Bolsheviks.

Recording a Lummi ceremony in 1942

Another (more likely true) claim from Smith about his childhood was that when he turned 12 his father gave him a blacksmith shop and told him, “You must perform that magic feat which no one in the history of the world has yet performed: the conversion of lead into gold.” This father was a Freemason who worked a variety of jobs in the Pacific Northwest salmon-fishing industry and was married to a woman who worked as a Lummi Indian teacher. They were theosophists and encouraged their son’s interests in the unusual. The elder Smith also had his son build models of Edison’s light bulb and Bell’s telephone in his blacksmith shop. His mother’s work with the area’s Native communities inspired Smith to document their culture. On self-modified equipment, he recorded ceremonies and songs, developed a notational system for translating their language, and collected artifacts (later repatriated) — all while still a high school student. This was the beginning of Smith’s lifelong quest to document and arrange the different permutations of culture as a means to esoteric enlightenment.

The common understanding of alchemy is that it’s the study of turning lead into gold. But this fabled ability, known as the philosopher’s stone, is only one facet of alchemy, which is more philosophical tradition than bunk science. Alchemy is in part physical transmutation, of base metals into noble ones, but even that is said by Hermetics to be symbolic of the greater aspect of the study, which is spiritual transmutation via purification processes, or to bring the body and mind to perfection, to accomplish the Magnum Opus.

Still from Mirror Abstractions, 1957

While the Anthology of American Folk Music was a Magnum Opus (or Great Work) in its own right, it was also just one example of Smith’s grand alchemical ambition. Through his documenting and arranging, he hoped to uncover universal patterns and with them a deeper understanding of all human creation. There was his paper airplane collection, assembled over a 20-year period from the playgrounds and streets of New York and annotated with the date and location found for later analysis, and his research into string figures, a storytelling method he considered a global form of expression. During a stint at a Bowery homeless shelter, he made audio recordings of the snoring sounds of his vagabond bunkmates. For Smith it was all a means of divination. He elevated documenting and arranging to a ritualized process — as the preparation for the mystery of transmutation to occur. It became a trademark, particularly in his film work.

Smith's string figures

Smith began his experimentations in filmmaking while living in Berkeley. He moved there after dropping out of his anthropology studies at the University of Washington and quickly fell in with the 1940s bohemian milieu. His works were drug-enhanced experimentations in synesthesia that attempted to unite the experiences of hearing and seeing. These experimentations included screenings in San Francisco’s Fillmore district where jazz musicians like Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, and Dizzy Gillespie would improvise a soundtrack according to Smith’s color projections. Inspired by painters like Kandinsky, Smith considered synesthesia a mystical correspondence between the senses. Exemplary of his Hermetic assemblages was his Film #12: Heaven and Earth Magic, a story of a heroine who incurs a toothache after the loss of a valuable watermelon. The dialogue-less film was primarily made from collaged catalog and medical illustrations and influenced by Max Ernst, turn-of-the-century psychiatry and psychoanalysis, and Georges Méliès.

With his mural at Jimbo’s Bop City in 1950

Avant-garde film scholar P. Adams Sitney has written extensively on Smith’s Film #12 Heaven and Earth Magic, and on the topic of alchemy in Smith’s film opus he has said, “The chance variations on the basic imagistic vocabulary of the film provide yet another metaphor between his film and the Great Work of the alchemists. For the Renaissance alchemist, the preparation of his tools and of himself equaled in importance the act of transformation itself. Since every element in an alchemical change had to be perfect, each instrument and chemical had its own intricate preparation. The commitment to preliminaries is so strong that in its spiritual interpretation, alchemy becomes the slow perfection of the alchemist; the accent shifts from goals to processes.”

For all the intricate codifying that went into Smith’s collections and artwork, a parallel and destructive urge ran through him. Toward the end of his life, Smith taught for several years as a shaman in residence at the Naropa Institute in Colorado, and a former student said of his process there: “He would just concentrate and study and work and go haywire, drive himself crazy, getting everything in exactly the right order and then he would just give it a kick and say ‘that’s it.’ But he knew when he kicked it that he’d chosen the right moment and however it fell was going to be right.” This Surrealist technique allowed for the magic of alchemy to occur — the purification process of arranging film pieces perfectly and the final “act of God” that transformed the base work into a noble one.

in 1965

When Smith’s violent gestures were taken to the extreme, however, they resembled self-sabotage. Heaven and Earth Magic was printed in black and white, but Smith built a special projection unit for showing it that allowed for him to change its color and shape using a series of filters and gels. Smith threw the projector out a third-story window in a tantrum, destroying it. And during a talk at the Queens Museum in 1978, Smith would say that the filmstrip of Heaven and Earth Magic screened that day was a fifth generation print, the previous four having been thrown out by Smith and later recovered by friends.

Still from Early Abstractions, 1941-1957

He was equally destructive with himself and his relationships. He liked to brag about killing people and claimed to have never had sex (the latter claim another of the few likely true statements about himself). “Smith is a legitimate visionary, whose disdain for the personality can be found not only in the absence of biographical references in his art but also in the lies he tells about himself, in the tricks he plays so assiduously to hold others at a distance, and in his utter disregard for physical and emotional well-being, whether his own or that of others,” wrote poetry scholar Stephen Fredman. He would borrow equipment from friends and then refuse to return it or pawn it for money without apology. Another anecdote about Smith has him reading to his mother on her deathbed a chapter titled “Sadistic Trends” from Karen Horney’s Our Inner Conflicts. No word as to whether Smith was accusing his mother, in her final days, of being a sadist, or if he was trying to offer an explanation for his behavior.

Hunchbacked from childhood rickets, Smith further deteriorated his body with decades of drug and alcohol addiction and poor eating habits. (When he finally adopted a “healthy” diet late in life, it was said to consist of “bee pollen, raw hamburger, ice cream, and Ensure,” as well his usual marijuana and “whatever combination of Sinequan and Valium he found in his jacket pocket.”) Between the six months Smith worked as an engine degreaser operator for Boeing while in college and his final years as a teacher, Smith seems to have survived solely on the occasional grant and benefactor or generosity of friends (particularly Allen Ginsberg, who let Smith room with him on several occasions). His indifferent poverty meant that he had a well developed sense of ingenuity, but it also resulted in many projects remaining unfinished and the loss of his collections. In 1965, while working on a recording project in Oklahoma, Smith was evicted for nonpayment of rent and his irreplaceable artwork and collections were dumped in the Fresh Kills landfill.

With Allen Ginsberg in 1987

In a 1976 interview, Smith said, “When I was younger, I thought that the feelings that went through me were — that I would outgrow them, that the anxiety or panic or whatever it is called would disappear, but you sort of suspect it at 35, [and] when you get to be 50 you definitely know you’re stuck with your neuroses, or whatever you want to classify them as — demons, completed ceremonies, any old damn thing.” It is this rare confession of vulnerability that perhaps gets to the heart of Smith’s alchemical obsessions. The desire to ameliorate these feelings is the desire to achieve spiritual transmutation. And I can’t imagine a more beautiful way to consider one’s uncomfortable feelings and self-defeating urges than as completed ceremonies, timeless and inscrutable, something at home in the nation of the Anthology of American Folk Music. Anarchist Mikhail Bakunin’s quote seems appropriate to consider in conclusion: “Let us therefore trust the eternal Spirit which destroys and annihilates only because it is the unfathomable and eternal source of all life. The passion for destruction is a creative passion, too!”

Helen Schumacher is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Brooklyn. She tumbls here and here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about Joy Williams.

still from the Anthology Film Archives

"Wagoner's Lad" - Buell Kazee (mp3)

"The Moonshiner" - Buell Kazee (mp3)

In Which We Want The Chance To Direct

The Opal Ring

by HELEN SCHUMACHER

A spiritualist and mystic who believed in reincarnation, June Mathis always wore an opal ring when she wrote, believing it brought her ideas. Her films were recognizable from their religious figures and esoteric themes. Nearly one hundred years before The Secret, Mathis claimed that, “If you are vibrating on the right plane, you will inevitably come in contact with others who can help you.” She elaborates, “It's like tuning in on your radio. If you get the right wavelength, you have your station.” As is all-too-typical of successful women, Mathis dismissed her hard work and natural talent, instead attributing her achievements to an outside force. And Mathis was highly successful; one of the first female Hollywood executives, she also became the highest paid (male or female) at age 35.

Born in Leadville, Colorado, in 1889 and raised primarily in Salt Lake City, Mathis first employed the idea of a mind-cure as a sick child with a heart condition and tried to will herself into health. At 12 years old, she was well enough to join a vaudeville act and began touring the country. She continued with theater tours and Broadway performances for the next decade, until deciding to become a screenwriter.

After studying with an editor friend for two years, Mathis entered a screenwriting contest in 1914. She didn’t win, but her entry was impressive enough to garner offers from Hollywood. Mathis moved to California with her mother and began working for Metro studios in 1918. A year later she was the head of the scenario department and the only female executive at the studio.

Mathis’s next break would come with her adaptation of the epic war novel The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. She had been put in charge of production of the film and was responsible for casting Rudolph Valentino as the lead. The movie was a huge success, becoming one of the highest grossing silent films, inspiring fads in tango dancing and gaucho fashion, and launching the careers of director Rex Ingram, Valentino, and Mathis. Valentino and Mathis would be on-again-off-again creative partners for the rest of their lives. Mathis had another box office hit the following year with Blood and Sand.

With Valentino and Ingram on the set of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Mathis believed she knew the two men from a past life.

Working within the studio system for the next six years, eventually Mathis would leave Metro for Famous Players-Lasky and later move to Goldwyn during its merger into MGM, just before which, Mathis would be charged with adapting and heading up production of Ben-Hur. She insisted the movie be filmed on location in Italy, a decision that proved problematic as the local crew went on strike and extras lied about their swimming experience and consequently drowned. Mathis also fought with the director Charles Brabin — who ignored her despite her responsibility for his being hired.

After the MGM merger, the studio was desperate to finish the expensive, troubled film and fired the crew and recast the lead. The movie would end up being the most expensive silent film ever made until 2011’s The Artist. Although the experience was a professional disappointment, the trip to Italy was not a total loss. While there, Mathis met an Italian cameraman named Silvano Balboni. They were married after she returned to California.

With her husband, Silvano Balboni

Three years later, while seeing a performance of The Squall with her grandmother in New York, Mathis had a heart attack, leaping up from her seat and shouting “Mother, I’m dying!” during the play’s final act. She was pronounced dead in the alley behind the theater at age 38, having succumbed to her lifelong heart condition. Her ashes were shipped to California and interned in the mausoleum next to Valentino in the Hollywood Forever cemetery.

Helen Schumacher is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Brooklyn. She tumbls here and here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about Clouzot.

Most Powerful Women of Early Hollywood

Mary Pickford: Having acted in 52 films, Pickford’s international stardom helped define the concept of modern celebrity. An adroit businesswoman, in 1916 she signed a contract with Famous Players-Lasky that gave her control over any of the movies she starred in and a record-breaking salary of $500 a week. Later she founded United Artists with D. W. Griffith, Douglas Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin.

Lois Weber: Weber’s Wikipedia page begins with a quote from film historian Anthony Slide that declares: “Along with D. W. Griffith, Lois Weber was the American cinema’s first genuine auteur, a filmmaker involved in all aspects of production and one who utilized the motion picture to put across her own ideas and philosophies.” A talented professional pianist as a youth, Weber went on to work as a screenwriter, producer, director and actress. She was also an evangelist who supported progressive social causes. Under the surveillance of Hollywood censors, her film Hypocrites would contain the first scene with female full-frontal nudity, and another called Where Are My Children? addressed abortion and birth control (and, disappointingly, promoted eugenics). She was also the first woman to start her own movie studio.

Frances Marion: After serving as a correspondent during World War I, Marion moved to Hollywood and began working as a writing assistant for Lois Weber Productions and later writing scripts for Pickford. During her tenure, she wrote over 100 scripts and won two Oscars. She also directed several films, taught screenwriting at the University of Southern California, and was married four times.

Dorothy Arzner: Her first big assignment was as an editor for Mathis’s Blood and Sand. Soon after Arzner began directing, including Clara Bow’s first talking film, and would continue working until the mid-1940s. She also invented the boom mic.

Anita Loos: Loos was best known for her Harper’s Bazaar column “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and the book that followed. She was successful writer despite getting married to the needy John Emerson, whom she met while both were working on a series of Douglas Fairbanks films. The two continued to work together with Loos writing the scripts and Emerson directing them and later shared writing credits with Loos doing all the writing and Emerson spending all the paycheck. When she wasn’t writing or caring for her husband’s hypochondria and schizophrenia, Loos enjoyed an active social life and regularly made appearances at society galas and fashion shows. She hung out with the Algonquin Round Table while renting a suite at the hotel and spent summers in Paris with another Hollywood couple Joseph Schenck and Norma Talmadge. Loos was an early member of the Lucy Stone League and creator of the Tuesday Widows club — after her husband convinced her that he needed to take a break from their marriage once a week, she would spend those days entertaining friends like the Talmadge sisters, Marion Davies, and Adele Astaire or visiting Harlem jazz clubs.

Lobby card for Ida May Park’s Fires of Rebellion

Ida May Park: Like Weber, the director Ida May Park’s work often addressed social issues, such as sweatshop conditions (Fires of Rebellion) or sexual harassment in the workplace (The Model’s Confession, Risky Road). Besides her success as a director, Park wrote over 500 scenarios and created her own production company, Ida May Park Productions. In 2009, a chapter Park wrote on filmmaking for the 1924 book Careers for Women was quoted by Manohla Dargis in her essential article on Hollywood sexism: “She warned other women about her chosen path. ‘Unless you are hardy and determined,’ she wrote, ‘the director’s role is not for you. Wait until the profession has emerged from its embryonic state and a system has been evolved by which the terrific weight of responsibility can be lifted from one pair of shoulders. When that time comes I believe that women will find no finer calling.’ There are women who would agree with Park’s conclusions, or would if they could get the chance to direct. The problem is, 90 years later, women have advanced while much of the movie industry has not.”

Mary Pickford and Frances Marion, Suspense

In Which We Ooze A Milky Substance

Difficult to Look At

by HELEN SCHUMACHER

But who knows what good might come from the least of us? From the bones of old horses is made the most beautiful Prussian blue.

- Joy Williams, Dimmer

There’s the pelican child. The orphan boy whose eyes ooze a milky substance. The girl named after the genus of crows and ravens, whose friends find her presence nearly as portentous as the birds’. The shallow boy who laughs in a noblesse oblige fashion. Kate who, even as a child, had the glimpse of extrication in her eyes. The stroke victim who dreams of thirst. The cowboy with the blood of lambs caked beneath his nails. Doreen the sorority girl who rubs self-tanner on her nipples. Deke the wino whose tight leather pants suggest no knob. Alice who has been told she gives the concept of carpe diem a bad name. Corinthian Brown who sleeps in the junkyard and has an unpleasant skin condition. The fitful lady in a bookstore ordering a copy of The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets so as to read about Coatlicue, the Aztec “protectress of lone women, of female outsiders who had powerful ideas and were therefore shunned.” God driving a pink Wagoneer. The piano player for hire, sly with a greedy body and wayward mind — in short, a pervert.

These are the characters that populate the work of Joy Williams. They can be cretinous and difficult to look in the eye. “Escapees from some pageant of atrocities” is how one critic described them. However, most aren’t miscreants, just daydreamers with primitive social skills. They love and yearn to be loved, but in a distorted, unbecoming, predaceous, careless way. A Williams character is often an orphan or an alcoholic or both. They spend a lot of time grieving in peculiar ways. They greet the suffering of others with ambivalence or, at best, curiosity. Their grip on reality is tenuous, making action and thought difficult to sort out.

Despite their vulgarities, her characters are endearing. They are more familiar but still comparable to those of the gothic menagerie: Flannery O’Connor’s Enoch Emery, Carson McCullers' jockey who dines on rose petals, Katherine Dunn’s family of geeks. Or Karen Russell. In her review of Russell’s Vampires in the Lemon Grove, Williams could have been talking about herself when she complimented Russell on “the wily freshness of her language and the breezy nastiness of her observations.” Williams has a favorite way of carving out the details of her characters and their mise-en-scène. That is, through simile. She relies on it heavily, especially in her earlier work, but not to a fault. Her skill is such that I welcome each one. A long but not exhaustive list of my favorites: 

Freddie Gomkin’s wife, who had a face like an ewe, gave birth to twins in January, when everyone knew that poor Fred had been gelded in the war.

She could hear Tommy’s voice faintly in the air, but it seemed contained, as though in some heart’s chamber.

She touched her tiny ears, which looked as though they’d been grafted on in some long-ago emergency operation by an inappropriate donor.

Miriam had once channeled her considerable imagination into sex, which Jack had long appreciated, but now it spilled everywhere and lay lightly on everything like water on a lake.

The brandy rocked like mud in the paper cups.

The moss feels like Father’s hands, which were always very rough although there wasn’t any reason for their being so.

“Oh remember that my life is wind,” he kept bringing up like yesterday’s breakfast.

Spreading decline like a citrus tree.

Writers are like eremites or anchorites — natural-born eremites or anchorites — who seem puzzled as to why they went up the pole or into the cave in the first place.

The rain was clattering like teeth in a cold mouth.

Gestating is like being witness to a crime. And I am furtive, I must admit.

The words so clear and useless like a mirror hung backward on a wall.

He had straddled the baby as it crept across the ground as though little Mal were a gulch he had no intention of falling into.

She began kissing his neck, sucking up the skin beneath her teeth as though she were chewing on an artichoke.

It is as though she had bones webbed in her throat.

Heartbreak surrounds her, though she seems unaware of it. She moves through it like a leaf, like a feather, like a falling piece of soot. It is as though she is living out some event that is not part of her life.

Everything in the world was slick and trembling like a gland, like something gutted, roped and dangling from a tree.

Words are macerated like bones being cleaned, and new meaning comes from the sentence assembled. Coca-Cola becomes an eccentricity. A palmetto bug becomes a widow’s amulet. A voice’s bitter tenor becomes the pith of a tree.

A practiced objectivity is necessary for Williams to successfully put together these similes where the pure and putrid hold hands. Critics and Williams herself have pointed out that the idea of “seeing things without preconception” often comes up in her writing. Besides aiding in her simile construction, this perspective is also key to how her characters relate to the world. It allows for the people, animals, and objects in her work to all share the same possibility of thought and emotion. To build on one of Williams’ phrases: Her attitude of impartiality allows for her work to navigate the straits between the living and the dead and the unliving and the undead.

This navigation is exemplified in Williams’ short story “Congress.” It begins with adorations for forensic anthropology professor Jack. His life is filled with praises from those who can finally move on now that Jack has reconstructed the last moments of a loved one’s life through hair and bone fragment. The pieces don’t fit together as well at home; while Jack is an expert gardener with prized rose bushes, his girlfriend Miriam has taken to stealing dying plants from supermarkets and lawns with the intention of nursing them back to health in their yard. Her attempts never thrive like Jack’s flowers.

The dynamic changes when Jack is severely disabled in a hunting accident. The accident is described in a slew of similes: “Then late one afternoon when Jack was out in the woods, he fell asleep in his stand and toppled out of a tree, critically wounding himself with his own arrow, which passed through his eye and into his head like a knife thrust into a cantaloupe. A large portion of his brain lost its rosy hue and turned gray as a rodent’s coat ... He emerged from rehab with a face expressionless as a frosted cake.” After the accident, Jack is doted on by the student who introduced him to hunting. The student, Carl, even replaces Miriam in the bedroom.

Now finding herself freed from Jack’s judgments, Miriam develops an affection for a wobbly lamp Jack made from deer hooves. They read together daily. (At one point, they argue over a book of verses. Amusingly the lamp finds it repellent that the verses confuse thought with existence.) And when Carl decides Jack needs a road trip through the Southwest, Miriam insists they also bring the lamp. In the end, Miriam and the lamp stay behind at one of the desert towns, home to a taxidermy museum, where she is asked by the taxidermist-in-residence to take over his duties of answering questions posed by tourists who come from all over seeking an oracle.

It’s a story brimming with Williams' favorite subjects — taxidermy, the desert, misfits, mortality — and in it the corpus has as much to say as the living; the people can be as impassive as the landscape. With prickly humor, she explores the desire for purpose, for meaning in life and death. That Williams doesn’t elaborate on motivations gives the story its poignancy.

In the early ‘80s, Joy Williams was sometimes lumped with the “Kmart Realists” — writers like Raymond Carver and Ann Beattie. It’s a descriptor that seems fit for a William Eggleston photograph, but Williams’ work is more analogous to Diane Arbus. It’s a glimpse of the underbelly of ordinary. John Barth called it cool-surfaced fiction. And indeed there is a distantness to Williams’ fiction. She doesn’t coddle our species. Hers is the writing of someone who loves humanity but refuses it authority.

Helen Schumacher is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Brooklyn. She tumbls here and here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about recess.

"Why" - Annie Lennox (mp3)

"Keep Young and Beautiful" - Annie Lennox (mp3)