Fresh Air - Nathan Lane is being tested (and he loves it)

Episode Date: May 7, 2026

Nathan Lane just received a Tony nomination for his starring role as Willy Loman in ‘Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman.’ He’s a veteran of the stage – often in comedic and musical roles. But in the role of Loman, which he does eight times a week, he’s noticed something different in the audience. “There’s an old joke – my job is just to keep 1600 people from coughing. It's kind of true, but when you hear what we hear during ‘Salesman,’ you hear people weeping in the dark.”  At the age of 70, Lane says this production of ‘Salesman’ is the thing he’s most proud of. He spoke with ‘Fresh Air’ guest interviewer Sam Fragoso, host of the podcast ‘Talk Easy.’  Later, Ken Tucker reviews new songs by Ella Langley, Robyn, and Allison Russell. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for sponsorship and to manage your podcast sponsorship preferences.NPR Privacy Policy

This is fresh air. I'm Terry Gross. Our guest today is three-time Tony Award winner Nathan Lane. He was just nominated for a Tony for his starring role as Willie Lohman in the new Broadway revival of Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. The Role is a Departure from the Comedic, Larger-than-Life performances Lane is best known for, like in The Birdcage, Guys and Dolls, and the producers. Lane spoke with guest interviewer Sam Fragoso, host of the interview podcast, Talking. easy. Here's Sam. Since his Broadway debut at the tender age of 26 and Noel Coward's present laughter, Tony winner Nathan Lane, has long been regarded as one of the great entertainers of the stage in the tradition of Ethel Merman, Zero Mostel, and Bill Silvers. But in the last decade, Lane couldn't help but think of Peggy Lee singing, Is that all there is? Which inspired Lane

to pivot to more dramatic roles. Hickey and the Ice Man Comet, Roy Cone and Angels in America, and now Willie Lohman in Death of a Salesman. In the hit new Broadway revival, Lane transforms as the prideful patriarch in traveling salesman, oscillating back and forth between bravado and desperation, an emblem of the dissolution of the American family and their dreams. Arthur Miller's 1949-pulled surprise-winning play has had several acclaimed productions, led by great actors like Lee J. Cobb, Dustin Hoffman, Wendell Pierce, and the late Brian Denahey, who was a mentor to Lane.

The Guardian has praised his portrayal as, quote, the crown, jewel in a life spent on stage, end quote. The Tonys seem to agree when the nominations were announced earlier this week. Nathan Lane, welcome back to Fresh Air. Thank you. Thanks for having me. You were nominated this week for a Tony for your performance as Willie Lohman and Death of a Salesman. This marks, I think, your seventh nomination, is that right? That is correct.

I've heard there are pre-show rituals that performers have before they go on stage. Are there rituals or traditions you have the morning of Tony nominations? I sleep. I try to get as much sleep as possible because this is a big mountain to climb. So I don't have any rituals in the hopes of Tony nominations. I just hope for the best. what don't we hear a little bit of what that performance that you're nominated for sounds like. The play alternates between the past and present, and so in this flashback, Willie has just come home from a sales trip up along the East Coast where he's met by his two young boys.

Where'd you go this time, Dad? Well, I got on the road and I went north to Providence, met the mayor. The mayor of Providence. He was sitting in the hotel lobby. What he said? He said morning, and I said, you've got a fine city here, mayor, and then he had coffee with me. And then I went to Waterbury. Waterbury is a fine city, big clock city. The famous Waterbury Clock.

Sold a nice bill there. And then Boston is the cradle of the revolution. A fine city and a couple of other towns in Massachusetts. And on to Portland and Bangor and straight home. Gee, I'd love to go with you sometime, Dad. Soon as Summercome. Promise. Oh, you and Hap and I. And I'll show you all the towns.

America is full of beautiful times. and fine, upstanding people. And they know me, boys. They know me up and down New England, the finest people. And when I bring you fellas up, there'll be open sesame for all of us. Because one thing, boys, I have friends. I can park my car in any street in New England,

and the cops protect it like their own. This summer, huh? You bet. We'll take our bathing suit. You'll carry your bags, Pop. Oh, won't that be something? Me coming into the Boston stores with you boys, Carrying my bags.

It's funny hearing that scene. Willie is out on the road selling. But when he comes back home, you can hear even there he's selling a story or a dream even to his sons. There seems to be like another. And to his wife. And to his wife. You've said before that when it comes to death of a salesman, it's meaning to you changes depending on where you're at in your life when you're in it. Oh, yeah.

So, Tim, where has it landed with you in this stretch where you're, performing, what is it, six nights a week, don't know how you're doing it. Where does it land with you in this moment? I don't know how I'm doing it either. But Lori Metcalf and I are old school. We just, the show must go on. We do it. I believe that's called masochism. Yes. Is it? Maybe. I don't know. I like to think of it as professionalism. Look, there's a reason it's a classic that it's called the Great American Play. And when people come back and talk about it, if they're not weeping, they're saying things like, you were my father. And I think so often with this production, so many people say, I feel like I've never seen.

seen it before. It felt so modern. And also, the notion of Willie often is the case in the play, he's fighting for his life. I mean, I think that's what makes him an interesting character. He's, you know, very flawed. He's a mass of contradictions and incredibly insecure. And he has this very misguided view of the American dream, which is, you know, that it's about, His self-worth and his idea of success is all based on the opinion of others, which as an actor, you certainly can relate to. His whole philosophy is it's about being well-liked. It's not what you say. It's how you say it because personality always wins the day.

And if you are well-liked, you will never want. It's a very flawed view of how to succeed. but he totally believes in it and in this his version of the American dream. And I guess for a while in the old days, you know, it worked to a certain degree. But now all of the people he used to go out and see who are friends on the road, they're either retired or dead. And being a traveling salesman is sort of fading away as well. So he's in a desperate way.

But in that scene, you're getting a glimpse into his psyche, and they're trying to pretend that it's all okay when it's not. The last time you played a salesman was over a decade ago in the Iceman Cometh. And you've said that production of Iceman Cometh, quote, changed the way I approach everything. What was that change? Well, I had been doing a musical on Broadway called The Adams Family, which had been reviled. by the critics, and yet the public spoke. They wanted to see it. So while I was in that run, Charles Isherwood, who was at the New York Times then, wrote a very lovely and flattering piece about an assessment of my career. And he referred to me as the greatest stage entertainer

of the last decade, which was extremely complimentary. But I can always find the dark cloud in any silver lining. I was flattered, but troubled by the word entertainer. But I appreciated it, but he found me entertaining. Is this kind of like a Joe Pesci and Goodfellas? Like, why do you, what's funny about me situation? I'm funny to you. I'm funny to you.

Well, there was no threat of violence. I just felt I was more than. just an entertainer. I saw myself as an actor, now having been doing this for 50 years. I may have been entertaining, but I was acting in all of those pieces, whether it was musical or straight play. So it got me a thinking. And so I thought, gee, is that how people perceive me and I feel like I have more to offer as an actor. And maybe I have to challenge myself and also challenge the audience

and see if they're willing to go on that journey with me. I wonder if I can shift that perception. So I thought, how can I do this? And I have no power in film or television, but in the theater I have a little bit. So I happened to read an interview with Brian Denahe, a very old friend of mine, the late-grade Brian Dennyhy, and Robert Falls, his collaborator in theater. And they were discussing that collaboration. And at one point, they wondered whether they would revisit the Iceman Cometh. And Dennyhee had done it in 1990 with Bob and very successfully.

And he was thinking of playing the other character, Larry Slade. And they were wondering who might play Hickey if they did that. And I thought, aha, that would really shake things up. And so I contacted Bob Falls and I said, if you're really thinking about doing Iceman, again, I would love to be considered for the role of Hickey and here's why. The audience feels the same way the guys in the bar feel about Hickey, about me, which is he's here to show us a good time he's the life of the party. And then we pulled the rug out from one of them.

And I think that's an interesting dynamic. So I went to Chicago. I had six weeks of rehearsal. And then you have, because it's a regional theater, you only have nine performances and you open. And so because Dannehy and I were doing it. this, people showed up, like from New York, like Charles Isherwood, who drove me to this in the first place. So there was a lot of pressure on me. And then, so fortunately, it was very well

received. It was sold out. The happy ending is it worked. Eventually, I did shift the perception just a little, just enough. So that by the time I got to Angels in America and then salesmen, it wasn't such a shock to people. Oh, oh, Nathan Lane is doing death of a salesman. Oh, that's an onion headline. You have referred to your childhood as bad Eugene O'Neill. Is there a good Eugene O'Neill? Right.

Well, well, I was just making a joke. but because I come from an Irish background. It was a way of, to tell you the truth, it was a way of avoiding talking about the real facts of my childhood. I just sort of covered it in a general way with a joke, which is typical of me. But the facts were that my father was an alcoholic. and my mother eventually after his death and her own mother's death, my grandmother, she had a breakdown and it took about five years and it was finally diagnosed as what was

called manic depression then. So I had to grow up fast. My father, I didn't have much of a relationship with because, He was really not home a lot. And when he was, he was drunk or recovering. Which was worse? You know, my memory is that, you know, he would come home. He was holding onto the walls.

He couldn't walk. When my mother would get him to go to AA, which she did a couple of times. And he had two periods that I remember of sobriety. And my mother would say to me, when he was sober, she said, you would always, I was only, you know, nine, ten. He died when I was 11. And she said I would stay next to him. I would stay close to him and hold his hand.

And one time he, I remember, we were in this apartment and, you know, it was very cold. And we were by now it becomes Dickensy. And we were by a radiator. And he was talking to me and he said, you know, you're going to have to learn how to take care of yourself. because your mother and I aren't going to be, you know, around all the time. And I was, I guess, nine, and I was like, why is he telling me this now? Yeah, a lot to lay on a nine-year-old. A lot to lay on a nine-year-old.

But it was true. I remember another moment where I was walking to school. And this is in Jersey City. And I was passing what was called the Stegman Street Tavern. and the back door was open and it was a very sunny day, sunny morning. And as I was going by, I turned and looked and I saw my father sweeping up. I would imagine probably for drinks. And he stopped realizing that someone was looking at him.

And he looked up and he looked at me. And we just stood there and stared at one another. And there's, you know, he didn't say hello. He didn't say a word. There was so much that might have been said, could have been said, should have been said. And then he just turned away and went back to sweeping, and I went on to school. You know, I wish I could go back and ask him some questions. He was a truck driver for many years.

Well, I want to know what drove him to drink himself to death. I have two older brothers, Bob and Dan, and my brother Bob was probably was closer to him than myself and my oldest brother, Dan. And eventually, my mother moved away. She left him. And he stayed in this apartment we were in. And, you know, got a couple of other drunks to move in with him to help pay the rent. And my brother went to see him and to try to help him. And he said to my brother, Bob, I'm no good to anybody. I'm just going to drink myself to death. And then he did. You know, Nathan, when you're describing this man, just traveling truck driver, of course I think of Willie Lohman, but I also think you as a kid growing up in Jersey City in this Irish Catholic family, the youngest of three, did you see the theater and performing as some off ramp to that, as some escape? My sense of humor was an escape.

But yes, I mean, from a very early age, I was a voracious reader. I think because of my brother, Dan, and also I had an uncle who gave me a lot of books. And then I joined what was called the Fireside Theater. It was a play of the month club. And you were the kind of kid who was reading Death of a Salesman while other kids were watching Gilligan's Island. Yes, that is correct. And then eventually, you know, as I started reading plays and see, playing plays because my brother, my brother Dan, he obviously saw that in me and encouraged it.

And he took me to see plays. And then at one point, when he was at college, they were putting on a play and they needed a child. So he suggested that he said to his friends, my kid brother could do that. And so he got me into this play. So that was the first time I was ever on stage. Anyway, and then he took me to see theater in New York, and that was all very exciting. And when, you know, as I would sit there in a theater with him, and, you know, the lights would go down and the curtain would go up. And the whole thing, I just, you wanted, I wanted to be a part of it.

I just thought, for some reason, I thought, I think I could do that, or I certainly would like to try. I want to know, and this may go back to your Catholic school days or your time at St. Peter's Prep, do you remember the first time you got a laugh on stage? Yes, I was in grammar school, and we put on a production of around the world in 80 days. Very ambitious for grammar school who had no budget. And there was a scene where we were on a train and it was being attacked by Indians and people were running around and I was trying, I was a small, round child and I was trying to hide. And I had a little suitcase. And the suitcase was sort of right in front of me. And so I crouched down behind the suitcase as if I might be hidden behind it.

And I wasn't. And then the audience laughed. And it was, that's the first laugh I ever got. It was like blood to a vampire. And, I mean, I certainly had gotten laughs at home. I used to have a little, it was like I would do a little club act, a lounge act for my family. I'd do bad impressions and entertain them. You had a tight five?

Yes, I definitely had a tight five. That was back when you were Joe Lane, not Nathan Lane. That is correct, sir. You've done your research. I have. Here's how one of your classmates describes you at St. Peter's Prep. Yes, Lane lacked height and possessed girth. His words, not mine.

But there was nothing insecure about him. Every day he held court in the cafeteria surrounded by adoring fans. In the age of George Carlin, Joe Lane was the archetypical class clown. The entire faculty feared his might. Wow. Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it. Yeah. High school, well, that was, you know, like any kid, high school is difficult.

And I'm sure being funny was my way in. You know, I was, and certainly, I would say by then, I knew I was different than the other boys. and I was going to an all-boys prep school. And so that was an interesting navigation, you know, perhaps being attracted to other young men, but not being able to show any of that. And that's, you know, but I got involved. The social activity was being involved in the drama club and putting on plays. We're listening to guest interviewer Sam Fragoso

speaking with Nathan Lane. Lane was just nominated for a Tony for his starring role as Willie Lohman in the new hit Broadway revival of Death of a Salesman. We'll hear more of the interview after a break. I'm Terry Gross and this is fresh air. When you told your mother you were going to New York to act,

you were 21 years old. Yeah. Oh God, I've told this story so much And my poor mother, I feel guilty now, but it's become a famous story, unfortunately. This is Catholic guilt popping up here. Oh, totally. You know, you have to understand, this was not a sophisticated woman. She had her prejudices. God knows.

She made you. That's got to count for something. Well, sure. You know, but I think, look, I think what happened is they went to a wedding. my mother, of all the people in her family, who were all drunks, she did not drink. But if she went out, she might, she would order one thing, a whiskey sour on the rocks, and she would sort of nurse it through an evening. But I think maybe this one night at the wedding, she had two, and they had sex,

and, you know, the future hope of Broadway was born. Anyway, so what was the question? The question was, how did you tell your mother you were going to New York to act? Okay. So, we have been living in Rutherford together in this tiny one-bedroom apartment. And, or I slept on the, this is the most uncomfortable couch in history. And I had done a production of guys and dolls, a non-equity production of guys and dolls at a dinner theater in Meadowbrook, New Jersey, where I played Nathan Detroit. And I had a crush on the guy playing Benny South Street.

And we, you know, something had developed and he lived in New York. And so I was going to move to New York. And so I sat her down because we had been through a lot together and I thought I had never lied to her. And I had been telling her, I had been seeing a girl, but I was seeing, I said to her, I know you think I've been seeing a girl, but I've been seeing a guy. And, you know, she turned white and looked very shocked. And she said, you mean you're a homosexual? She said.

And I said, yeah, I guess so. And she said, oh, Joseph, I would rather you were dead. And I said, I knew you'd understand. And once I got her head out of the oven, everything was fine. And I remember at one point, I was dating a modern dancer, and he was very handsome. And we were at a gathering at Sardis, and he was, this dancer was there, and my mother was there. And I introduced them, and he went off to get drinks for her and myself. And she looked at me and went, he's very good.

Nathan, that's what we call progress. That's right. You take the winds where you can find them. That's progress. That's her version of going to a pride parade is what you just heard. Exactly. Did your mother enjoy seeing you perform? Oh, my God, yes.

Yes, she was, you know, she lived to 84. She was at all those openings and, and, you know, more than anything that I did, she loved when I was in a musical. You know, I'm sentimental about this. She always would say, after every show, I'm not, she would say, I'm not saying this because I'm your mother. I'm saying it because it's true. You were the best one.

So I'll always remember that. Nathan, one of your biggest, And most beloved performances is Max Bialystok, the corrupt producer in the namesake, the producers, who sent to jail for cooking the books while his business partner gets away with it. And I thought, why don't we listen to a little bit of the song, Betrayed. Just like Kane and Abel, you pulled a sneak attack. I thought that we were brothers. Then you stab me in the back. Oh boy, I'm so betrayed.

Like Samson and Delilah, your love began to fade. I'm crying in the who's cow you're in Rio. Betrayed. Let's face it, I'm betrayed. Boy, have I been taken? Oh, you're so forsaken. I should have seen what came to pass. I should have known to watch my...

I feel like a fellow, everything is lost. Leo is the uncle. Max is double crossed. I'm so dismayed. Did I mention I'm betrayed? Now I'm about to go to jail. There's no one who will pay my bail. I have no one who I can...

When you sing the word stabbed, how do you do that? I don't know. That's what came out of my mouth. That's what I felt. I'll give you a little story about that number. when we were discussing it and talking about it before we went into rehearsal, I said, you know, I said to Mel, I disappear in the second act. I said, I need an 11 o'clock number. And so he wrote a song called Farewell to Broadway, which was kind of a, you know, it was a sentiment. It was a sentimental song. And in the middle of it, there was a speech he had about how angry he was about being betrayed by Leo.

And I said to him, the song isn't right, but the monologue you wrote in the middle of it is. It's got to be his version of Rose's turn. And he went off and wrote betrayed. and he, you know, Mel just knocked it out of the park. If you're joining us, my guest is actor Nathan Lane. His latest turn is as Willie Lohman and Death of a Salesman opposite Lori Metcalf. The show was recently nominated for Best Revival of a Play at the Tonys. More after her break. I'm San Francisco. This is Fresh Air.

When you're in the throes of starring in the producers in the early 2000s, there was a producer who visited you backstage, who told the Guardian, quote, seeing him after a performance, it's like he's gone 10 rounds with Joe Lewis. This must have been an old producer if he said Joe Lewis. Look, we don't want to age him here. But, you know, if playing the corrupt, charismatic theater producer Max Bialstock took 10 rounds with Joe Lewis out of you, what has Willie Lohman done to you? Well, musicals are a young man's game.

Musicals, it's like your quarterback for the New York Giants. It's an athletic event. And, you know, I'll tell you what happened with the producers is I was so, you know, it became such a phenomenon. And I felt the pressure of now, you know, of living up to the hype. And I didn't protect myself vocally. I just, I was out there doing it, you know, my homage to zero and yelling and screaming and carrying on and then having singing song after song and you, and after six, seven months, I had hurt myself. And what I find is, is, and salesman is difficult because of where you have to go, it's a play that, that tests you.

And it costs you because you have to go there night after night after night, like Iceman Cometh. But there's something about this play that it's taken me a long time. And I'm proud of the work that I'm doing. And I attribute a lot of it to the genius of Joe Mantello, who guided me in this role. and it's been the most rewarding thing I've done. Toward the middle of Death of a Salesman, I thought maybe we could play a little bit from it where Biff, Hap, greet their father at a restaurant.

Both of them, both Biff and Willie, have had big days in very different ways. So here's how that conversation sounds. Facts, Pop, facts. About my life came back. back to me. Who was it, Pop? Who ever said that I was a salesman with Oliver? Well, you were. No, Dad, I was a shipping clerk.

But you were bragged me. All right, Dad, I don't know who said it first, but I was never a salesman with Bill Oliver. What are you talking about? Let's hold on to the facts tonight, Pop, because we're not going to get anywhere bullying around. I was a shipping clerk. All right, now listen to me. What are you let me finish? I'm not interested in stories about the past.

or any crap of that kind, because the woods are burning boys. You understand there's a big blaze going on all around. I was fired today. How could you be? I was fired, and I'm looking for a little good news to tell your mother, because the woman has waited and the woman has suffered. The gist of it is that I ever got a story left in my head, Biff, so don't give me a lecture about facts and aspects.

I am not interested. Now, what have you got to say to me? I just want to repeat that line. The gist of it is, I haven't got a story left in my head. Oh, I know. I know. I love that line. I can't hear that line and not think of the dynamic between you and your father. I can't hear it and think, oh, like, for you to do that line night after night, because he passed away when you were so young.

And now for you, at the highest possible stage, to do what you have done, to be awarded sort of ironically for a story about someone whose career didn't work out, I don't know, like I hear that line and it's just, I wondered where it lands with you today and night to night. You know, it's funny you bring that line up because I find it such a, an important line. He's a salesman. And so when he says, I don't have a story left in my head, Biff, so don't give me a lecture about facts and aspects. I am not interested. That's what he's been doing. I mean, you know, it's never mentioned what he sells. And when they asked Miller about that, he says, well, he's selling himself. And he's, and he's, and he's, and he's, and he's,

sadly reached the point where they're not buying anymore and it's killing him you know he used to sell his sons too he sold them on this his version of the american dream and the idea of success but but as biff says it's wrong it's all wrong he didn't know who he was and he was probably never as successful as he imagined um you know he was probably some guy in a hotel lobby talking to someone a little too loudly. And you thought, oh, God. You know, it's such a tragedy that, you know, as Miller wrote, the tragedy of the common man. I saw the play this past week. And, you know, like a traditional curtain call, everyone comes out. You're the last one that comes out.

And I was standing there. We were all applauding. Many of the people next to me were weeping. And I saw you walk out on stage. And you took a bow and there was some look in your face that I had not seen in the play but saw very clearly in that moment. it was almost as if there was like an exhale.

There was so much emotion in that. And I could not help but think, oh, that's the kid who performed in the cafeteria at St. Peter's. That's everything there. And I wonder every night, and this was just this week, but when you walk out there, what is that moment to you? it's, you know, very, very powerful is the undeniable power of the play and where it takes you. You know, Arthur Miller really tapped into something in this play.

And it's the last bastion of community. It's people gathering around the campfire. It's the human connection. They're not on their phones until the curtain call and then they hold them. up instead of looking at you. They're filming you. Nevertheless, you know, we have all come together to tell a story and to hear a story and hopefully to feel something, whether it's to laugh or to cry or to think. And this play gives you all of that and more. And it's just, it's, it's, it's, It is that dream that I had as a kid.

And, you know, my friend Sammy Wasson, a wonderful film historian and writer, he always said to me, you can never forget that when you walk out there, way up in the balcony, there's some kid who is just like you and seeing you and thinking, gee, I'd like to do that someday. and that's who you're doing it for. All right, you're going to make me cry. At this age, I'm a very easy cry. As Terrence McNally used to say, oh, at this age, I cry at food displays. Anyway, it's that. It's that thing that only happens in the theater, you know,

and it's why it's why it feels like home and why it's still so special. Well, if the theater is your home, I want to say that I think we have all benefited from and very much enjoyed being your guest. So thank you for that and appreciate the time. Well put, sir. Thank you so much. Nathan Lane spoke with guest interviewer Sam Fragoso,

host of the interview podcast, Talk Easy. Lane was just nominated for a Tony for his starring role as Willie Lohman in the new Broadway revival of Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. Sam Fragoso is the host of the interview podcast Talk Easy. After we take a short break, Ken Tucker will review new songs by Ella Langley, Robin, and Allison Russell. This is fresh air. Our rock critic Ken Tucker has been listening to some recently released music and has come up with three new songs that approach unhappiness and heartache in distinctive ways. country singer Ella Langley, the Swedish dance music star Robin, and the singer-songwriter Alison Russell,

each have a take on sorrow and discontent that offer vivid, even inspiring music. A few weeks ago, I reviewed the new Megan Moroni country album and mentioned that also surging in popularity is her colleague, Ella Langley. Well, now Langley's album called Dandelion is out, and it's more varied and, ambitious than I'd anticipated. It's common for someone early in her career to work variations on the songs that have made her successful. And Chuse in Texas, the song that began this review, is more than successful. It is, in fact, the longest running number one ever by a woman country artist on Billboard's Hot 100. But Dandelion demonstrates Langley's range in making pop ballads, bluegrass rave-ups, and more. My favorite song on the album may be Last Call for Us, a honky tonk song that uses closing time at the honky tonk as a metaphor for a romance that's about to end.

It's last call for us, the light you're coming on. I don't want to leave, but it's almost three, and I think we both know. that it's last call for us. It's a sad, sad tune, that after these drinks, you'll let go of me, and I'll let go of it. It's last call. Ella Langley is at the start of her career. The singer Robin is in the middle of hers,

and she's chosen to build an album around that idea. She calls the collection Sexistential, and its songs are about hard-won, middle-age wisdom and a weary impatience with partners less engaged or sincere than she. Performers ranging from Taylor Swift to Charlie XX have expressed their admiration for Robin's way with vocals that twist around a pulsing rhythm and songwriting that injects emotional complexity into disco repetition. A prime example of this is it don't mean a thing. Robin's jagged, distorted vocal helps convey the lyrics

disappointment in a love gone bad. Her bitterness bleeds into the beat. I've reviewed both of Alice and Russell's albums, The Returner and Outside Child, and it seems as though every time I hear something new by her, I want to immediately play it for everyone I know. That's certainly the case with her new single called No Springtime. Russell sings this ballad with minimal instrumental accompaniment. The song builds on harmonies provided by fellow singer-songwriters, Joy Alada Kuhn, and Julie Williams. To tell me so I still don't get it wrong,

what's gone is gone, as gone, you don't know what you thought you knew. There's no springtime in... This near-occupying. a performance of no springtime gets its power from the completion of the title phrase. There's no springtime in the blues, they sing, and it is indeed Russell's deep connection to the blues that takes its sadness to another level. Russell knows as well as Ella Langley and Robin that sometimes fully felt unhappiness, free of self-pity or melodramatic exaggeration, can be as thrilling and uplifting as joy.

Kentucky reviewed new music by Ella Langley, Robin, and Alison Russell. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Roberta Shorock, Anne Rae Boltonato, Lauren Crenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. They are Challoner directed today's show. Our co-host is Tanya Mosley.

I'm Terry Gross.