Julie London

[Miguel]

Julie died on October 18, 2000.

This article appeared in the NYT on 01-07-01.

The Lives They Lived:
Julie London, b. 1926; The Echo Chamber
By Karen Schoemer


All the lights were out in Julie London's Encino house on the day, two years ago, when her housekeeper ushered me in. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a woman glaring at me from a wheelchair in the next room. London had suffered a stroke, but she still looked beautiful. Her tawny hair, streaked with gray, lay in soft, neat waves on her shoulders. Her nails were perfectly manicured. Her posture was straight and regal. I told her I wanted to interview her. In an achingly slow, deliberate motion, she picked up her Carlton Menthol 100's and shook the pack until a filter tip extended toward me. I had quit years ago, but I took it. I wasn't about to tell her no.

At the age of 71, her health in decline, Julie London could still make you swoon. In the late 50's and 60's she was pop music's ultimate bombshell: a sultry-voiced hottie who released more than 30 albums of brooding, jazz-inflected standards. She slowed tempos to a crawl and brought heartbreak ballads like ''What'll I Do'' and ''Cry Me a River'' alive by laying herself on the line with every note. Her label, Liberty Records, wasn't coy about accentuating her physical attributes. Each of her album covers was va-va-voomier than the last. Her debut, ''Julie Is Her Name,'' featured a photo that was all cleavage. ''Calendar Girl'' offered a gallery of themed pinups; inside was a whopper called the Thirteenth Month, with London splayed across a bed wearing a feather boa. Critics were unsure whether to take her seriously. A 1956 Downbeat review praised her ''rare and deceptive simplicity,'' then added, ''Aestheticians will be pleased to learn that the cover again is devoted to Miss London alone.''

London didn't take herself all that seriously as a singer, either. ''I'm a girl who needs amplification,'' she once said cheerfully. Underneath the self-deprecation, she was conflicted about show business. She married a promising young radio personality named Jack Webb and had two kids; he dumped her when ''Dragnet'' made him famous. The songwriter Bobby Troup (''Route 66'') -- who became her second husband -- heard her sing when she was drunk at a party and spent a year and a half persuading her to try it again in public. ''Cry Me a River,'' released in 1955, sold a million copies. She carved out a niche for herself: a bona-fide woman in an ocean of teen idols, an unapologetic advocate of adult sexuality in an era dominated by squeals and gyrations.

But by 1969, rock had eclipsed her. London quit recording and touring to spend time with her family.

That afternoon in Encino, I asked her why she had stopped. During our time together she had mostly let Troup speak for her, but that question inspired one of her only full sentences of the day. ''It wore me out,'' she said.

Troup intervened. It was up to him to establish whatever humble legacy Julie could claim. ''She sure could sing,'' he said. ''She has perfect intonation. Hits the note right on the head. It's just gorgeous.''

''Bobby,'' she protested.

''It's true,'' he said.