11/11/23
Newsletter 509
The Crack of Dawn
My father had wonderfully odd, eclectic taste in music that he was more than happy to pass along to his kids. He wasn’t passionate about music, nor did he really know all that much about it, but he certainly knew what he liked. Say what you will about the man, and there’s plenty that could be said, he absolutely had a song in his heart. Two songs, actually, and both are by Rodgers and Hart. For long as I can remember, he was either singing the refrain of Dancing on the Ceiling – “I love my ceiling more/Since it’s my dancing floor . . .” or the song Where or When – “It seems we stood and talked like this before/ We looked at each other in the same way then/ But I can't remember where or when. . .” That was my dad: if everybody loved Rodgers and Hammerstein; he loved Rodgers and Hart. I like them both. So did he, but I’m more of a sentimentalist than he was.
Interestingly, there’s a huge difference between the two collaborations. In their own way, Lorenz Hart and Oscar Hammerstein II were like John Lennon and Paul McCartney: one had a clever, downbeat, dark streak; the other was indefatigably upbeat and cheerful. Lorenz Hart was insanely smart, a hopeless drunk, a difficult person, then after a lot of astounding work, died at 48 of alcoholism. Hammerstein was a serious, sober, businesslike man, who went through the tortures of the damned to write, “Doe, a deer, a female deer/ Ray, a drop of golden sun/ Me, a name I call myself/ Fa, a long, long way to run,” which I think is pretty good. Both lyricists, however, wrote their lyrics slowly, while Richard Rodgers wrote his music ridiculously fast. So, with either man, Rodgers was always waiting.
Meanwhile, back to my dad’s passionate, though oddball, musical taste. For at least a year, maybe two, every day he’d come home from work and immediately put on Frank Sinatra singing, Send in the Clowns. He’d listen to ¾ of the song, then start it again. Why? Nobody knew. For another year or more, as soon as he came home, he’d put on Ethel Merman singing Rose’s Turn from Gypsy. Thankfully, he’d listen to the whole song, because the end is the best part, “Everything’s coming up roses/ Everything’s coming up bright lights and lollipops/ Everything’s coming roses, this time for me!/ For me!/ For me!”
My dad turned me and my two sisters onto jazz when we were babies. Apparently, one of the first things my older sister, Ricki, ever said was, “Navy Bubeck.” My dad had Dave Brubeck’s first three albums, and that’s it. Brubeck probably put out 40 albums, and I have 20. And my dad only listened to the third album, Dave Brubeck at Storyville, which I like, but I think his second album, Jazz Goes to College, which was mostly recorded at the University of Michigan in 1954, is his best. I’ve listened to that record thousands of times. I don’t recall my dad ever playing it, although he must have.
My dad loved the soundtrack of the movie, Gigi (1958). He played the shit out of that album. My younger sister, Pam, and I can sing all of the duets. “We met at nine/ We met at eight/ I was on time/ No, you were late/ Ah, yes, I remember it well.”
When he was in his eighties and driving sportscars, like a Jaguar, my dad listened to Fred Astaire singing Cole Porter songs. I couldn’t help but comment, “You know, dad, Fred Astaire wasn’t known for his singing.” Dad would say, “I like singers who don’t sing.” He meant like Maurice Chevalier singing/speaking the now particularly politically incorrect first number of Gigi, “Thank heaven for little girls/ For little girls get bigger every day/ Thank heaven for little girls/ They grow up in the most delightful way.”
My dad also liked Francis Faye, Matt Dennis and Trini Lopez. I’m not sure that he actually had good taste in music, but his taste was certainly eclectic and interesting, and oddly intense in its own way. And as I’ve said, at any given moment you’d glance over at him and he’d be staring off into space, mumbling, “I love my ceiling more/ Since it is my dancing floor.”
I’m staying at a cute hotel in Atlanta called the Moxy. My overly bright nephew, Ari, lives here. While you and I were snoozing, he started an AI company about eight years ago. Tonight, using the most modern method available, he cooked some great steaks. He shoved electronic prongs into the steaks, thus enabling him to digitally monitor the interior temperature of the meat. It worked perfectly.
Meanwhile, I had a vivid dream last night, which I rarely have anymore. Get this: Donald Trump had read my book, though seemingly not any of the books I’ve actually written, some other autobiographical book, and he didn’t like it. He was telling me why he didn’t like it, and he wasn’t being mean, but he was letting me have it. I should have realized it wasn’t real right away because Donald Trump had read a book?
Let’s see what tomorrow brings. Or if I can figure out how to post this.