SLOW NIGHT IN
FANDANGOVILLE
'I don't want nothing and I want the that old
radio off!' Someone was playing dance tunes
from 50 years ago, the kind of ballroom music
you maybe heard your father have on in the
den when you still couldn't understand how
he thought. Wars of different eras. Every
moment, brewing with something.
-
Even if you won't admit to knowing what I
mean, I know you do. No matter what your
age is; it's pretty much the same for each
of us, although the incidentals may be different.
As for me, I never lived in a house with a den.
My father used to re-upholster chairs in the
basement, most all hours, with the AM radio
on, 1950's music. William B. Williams, Milkman's
Matinee, all sorts of strange Ray Coniff stuff.
Nothing I ever figured out. Only the thumb-tack
of upholstery tapped by a hammer. I wonder how
many drummers got their start with that sound?
-
Maybe that's why I've always hated Frank Sinatra.
Insincere, smirking son-of-a-bitch with his cigarettes
and his pitch. All that snarky orchestration and his
love-lorn bullshit music. Stood about five-feet-five
in his stockinged shoes. Tommy Dorsey, Nelson
Riddle, Harry James. I used to be amazed to learn
of all the work the orchestrator did, while that
schmuck just sang his titillating wop-eyed gumbo.
-
So maybe that's the sort of things I learned along
the way and, Jesus, look what it got me : wicked
tendencies in a countervailing wind, and a spit
that blows right back in my face.
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