A soft, cool voice singing in an echo chamber, possessed of a deadly calm. Repetitive, insistent instrumentation intercut with a lilting but menacing laugh. And always, always, a vague sense of unease. Such is the art of Nancy Sinatra, femme fatale, psychadelic pop star, and one of mainstream music's most original talents.
She is known of course for "These Boots Are Made for Walking," a prime example of her creepy cool demeanor and vaguely threatening lyrics which are also strikingly original.
You keep playin' where you shouldn't be playin'
and you keep thinkin' that you´ll never get burned.
Ha! I just found me a brand new box of matches, yeah
and what he knows you ain't had time to learn.
and you keep thinkin' that you´ll never get burned.
Ha! I just found me a brand new box of matches, yeah
and what he knows you ain't had time to learn.
Of course, Nancy can't take credit for the lyrics. They belong to Lee Hazlewood, who belongs in a genre all his own (Cowboy Psychadelia, apparently). From his collaboration with Nancy on this song we get a wonderful new word: “truthin.'”
From his other collaborations with her, we get even more unusual stuff. Fairy Tales and Fantasies, one of my favorite albums ever, is Nancy at her most disturbing. It contains “Some Velvet Morning,” an ethereal space odyssey and perhaps the strangest song ever to climb the pop charts (Nancy herself admits she still has no idea what it means). The other songs range from conventional covers of popular songs (“Jackson,” “You've Lost That Loving Feeling”), to strange lonely songs about people with weird names (“Sand,” “Sundown”), to sad tragic country songs with a creepy Nancy & Lee twist. Again we are in the domain of unique lyrics:
love came pouring from the sky pretending it was rain
I put my finger in his mind's eye
But we are also in a land of peril and treachery. A lone figure roams throughout the songs, sometimes passing through a town where a hypnotic siren drugs and robs him (“Summer Wine”), sometimes reflecting on a lost love (“Ladybird”), often encountering alienation and heartache on his travels. In the final song, he dies in a coal mine (my vote for strangest song on the album, “Arkansas Coal”).
Yes, death is a theme on the album, and most of the time it is dead babies. In “Down from Dover,” a pregnant woman awaits the return of her illicit lover. When the baby is stillborn, she interprets this as a sign from the child that it knows the father will never return. “Elusive Dreams” is about a couple chasing get-rich-quick schemes. Between Nebraska and Alaska, a child is born. The couple returns from Alaska alone. The child in “Arkansas Coal,” though spared an early demise, seems to go insane after her father's death. When a child is born in “Storybook Children,” I immediately fear for its life.
This is the power of Nancy Sinatra. Her haunting, breathy voice suggests a world of secrecy, mystery, and danger. No one is safe in Nancy's world. The danger and eeriness of Nancy's mileu gives even the most harmless of her songs the same sense of unease. “Did You Ever?” is almost a novelty song of suggestive double-entendre. But in the hands of Nancy Sinatra, the playful lyrics seem to suggest something sinister:
Did you ever...
Not so much that you could notice
Could you estimate how many?
Eight or nine
Will you do it anymore?
As soon as you walk out the door
Well I just wondered, did you ever...
All the time.
And only Nancy Sinatra could turn Cher's gypsy-left-at-the-altar lament (“Bang Bang”) into something that seems to suggest an eventual revenge-fueled killing spree like the one in Kill Bill.
Listening to a Nancy Sinatra album is an experience. She doesn't let you get complacent—you must be on your toes; nothing is certain. Through it all, her cruel, ethereal laughter surprises and jars the listener. Nancy is up to something and we are in her spell.
