Archive for the ‘Life As She Is’ Category

Saturday Single No. 690

Saturday, May 23rd, 2020

The other day, I drove past the house on Kilian Boulevard, the one Mom sold in 2004. I don’t get over to the East Side very often, and I was startled to see that whoever lives there now has put up a fence.

It’s a nice fence, about six feet tall with vertical white slats, enclosing the back yard. Curious, I drove around the block and then along the alley, looking at how the fence installers handled the relatively steep bank along Eighth Street, the rise along the driveway, and the area back by the alley where the garbage cans stand.

And as I examined the fence, I was stuck by my reaction to it. Not all that deeply inside of me, a voice was saying, “Dammit, you can’t fence off my back yard!”

Of course, it’s not my back yard anymore. Hasn’t been since 1976, when I packed a few things into my 1961 Falcon and moved across town to the drafty old house on the North Side.

But in a way that I’m sure lots of people will understand, it still is my back yard. It’s where Dad put the swing set and built the sandbox during the summer of 1957. It’s where I took a batting stance near the back steps and learned to hit a plastic baseball over the garage and into the alley. It’s where I endured the drudgery of digging dandelions and picking up sticks more times than I can count from childhood into young adulthood, adding mowing the grass along the way.

The back yard is where Dad cooked bread-and-butter roasts on his grill on many Saturdays and Sundays from the early 1960s into the 1990s. It’s where relatives gathered, again from the early 1960s into the 1990s to celebrate our family’s milestones: Lutheran confirmations, high school graduations, weddings, anniversaries.

It’s where we sat – Mom, my sister and brother-in-law, the Texas Gal and I – late on the June afternoon when Dad died, beginning to plan his funeral.

As I said, it’s a nice fence, and no doubt the folks who live in the house on Kilian have good reasons for installing it. And they certainly have the right to do so. It’s their back yard.

But in a very fundamental way, it’s always going to be my back yard, too.

Here’s a tune unrelated to any of that except for the words “back yard” in the title: Nat Stuckey’s cover of “Clean Up Your Own Back Yard,” first recorded by Elvis Presley. Stuckey’s version comes from his 1969 album New Country Roads. And it’s today’s Saturday Single.

Saturday Single No. 689

Saturday, May 16th, 2020

I worked at a number of things during my professional career: college teacher, corporate researcher, skip-tracer, public relations writer, newspaper editor and reporter. If I am at base any of those things, it is that last. Even more than twenty years after I closed my final notebook, I am a reporter, a newspaperman.

That’s why the story published May 13 in the Minneapolis Star Tribune – headlined “Twin Cities weekly newspapers are shutting down in the face of pandemic” – was distressing. The newspaper business has been in crisis for some time, of course. The rise of the 24-hour news cycle on television and the availability of other news sources on the Internet, along with other factors, have made newspapers more vulnerable, dropping circulation and thus depressing ad revenue.

Then, as the piece notes, add the impact of Covid-19 to society in general and to the business sector particularly, and ad revenues drop even more. The story wasn’t surprising to me; I’ve noticed the Minneapolis paper becoming noticeably slimmer in the past two months, and Time magazine, too, is remarkably more slender when I take it from the mailbox. That revenues have been falling at community newspapers as well is not startling.

Just as distressing as the actual news about weekly papers in the Twin Cities area, however, were the personal connections. I’ve known reporters, editors and publishers at many of the newspapers mentioned in the piece, and one of the newspapers that recently closed was the Eden Prairie News, where I wrote for almost four years in the early 1990s.

In a lot of ways, those were good years for me: I was coming out of my wandering phase – I had moved seven times in a little less than four years, going from Minnesota to North Dakota back to Minnesota to Kansas to Missouri and finally back to Minnesota again – and was looking for a place to stay for a while, perhaps even thrive. Eden Prairie and its newspaper helped me do both. And I was saddened to see that the newspaper is gone and sad, too, to see that the vibrant city I enjoyed getting to know is now without a local paper.

I imagine the day will come when print news is dead instead of just dying, and it may come in my lifetime. Maybe I’m wrong. Actually, I think I am. I see the major national newspapers – the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post, the Wall Street Journal and others – surviving, and maybe even the newsmagazines like Time will do so, too. But I expect that smaller cities and town will be without local papers, and I think that will include St. Cloud.

There are about 100,000 folks in the St. Cloud metro area, and for years, the St. Cloud Times – owned by the Gannett chain – has been struggling, downsizing office space and shedding staffers in an attempt to stay upright. Someday, I think, the corporation will pull the plug. And the same is going to happen, I think, to newspapers all over the country in a lot of medium-sized cities like St. Cloud. We’ll all be poorer for it.

So I looked on the digital shelves for a track with the word “sad” in the title, to match how I feel as I write this, and I came up with “Sad Wind,” a 1966 instrumental B-side from a group called the Imperial Show Band. It came to me through the massive Lost Jukebox collection, and though it doesn’t sound particularly sorrowful, it’s today’s Saturday Single.

True Spring

Friday, May 8th, 2020

It’s more than pleasant to see the trees and grass and all the greening things beyond our windows. The flowering crab off of our deck is nearly fully leaved and in a week or so will be in bloom. The maple near the front door shows signs of budding.

And the linden in between them waits, as it always does; its leafing will come when the other two are in full green. A late arrival in spring allows the linden to be the last of the three trees to yield its leaves in the autumn.

So, spring as a fact – as opposed to an alignment of the earth – is here. As is pollen. Both the Texas Gal and I have been stuffed, itchy-eyed, and sniffing for the past few days. For me, each passing year seems to bring more allergies. Forty years ago, in my mid-twenties, I was aware of none, but slowly, they’ve accumulated. For a few years in my late thirties, the middle and end of June was the most notable time. Then August came into play as I hit my forties.

Now – and for the past few years – early May has me heading for decongestants, antihistamines and tissues more than ever. So I’m going to sit back and take it easy. There’s little that need be done today. Maybe a bit of work around the house, but then, maybe not.

Here’s a springtime tune: “First Spring Rain” by the little-known New York City group, the Canterbury Music Festival. The 1968 track came my way through the massive Lost Jukebox I found online some years ago.

‘Somewhere East Of Midnight . . .’

Wednesday, April 29th, 2020

In 1988, April 29 was a Friday, and I’m guessing that I stopped off to do some shopping on the way home from Minot State University that day and came away with a copy of Gordon Lightfoot’s 1986 album East Of Midnight.

The album was Lightfoot’s most recent release of all new material. (Sometime in 1988, he would release Gord’s Gold, Volume II, which included re-recordings of some of his recent work, as well as some repackaging of earlier recordings and one new track.) And it was, according to the LP database, the fifth album by the Canadian folk singer to come home with me.

I was likely in a difficult mood that day, struggling after the ending of a relationship during the first days of the month. New music might cheer me, I suppose I thought. And there was another thing, as I look back.

One of the stages of grief, it’s said, is bargaining: If I do this, things will change and the grief will go away, or something like that. And, I’ve read, we don’t often recognize the bargaining behavior at the time. One of the touchstones of the relationship just ended had been music, and Lightfoot’s music had been high on our list. Was there a subconscious motive in my buying East Of Midnight?

Maybe. I’d added some Lightfoot to my stacks during the previous year, while things had been going well. I might have seen East Of Midnight as a talisman of some sort. Or maybe not. As well as I recall the events of that spring, I can’t untangle my motivations on that long-ago Friday.

So I don’t remember the specific purchase. At first thought this morning, I was guessing I stopped at a garage sale on the way home, but after pulling the record from the stacks, I lean toward a retail purchase: the jacket is crisp and the record is shiny and unmarked. I assume I put the record on the turntable sometime after dinner that evening, but it’s pretty evident that the record has not been out of the jacket very often in the past thirty-two years. And when it has come out of the jacket, it did so most often at the times I was making mixtapes for friends. I often included the album’s moody title track on those mixtapes.

I recognize the other titles listed on the jacket, but none of them are favorites of mine, especially not “Anything For Love,” which was pulled from the album as a single. It’s the one track on the album produced by David Foster, whose work I’ve never much cared for. (Lightfoot produced the rest of the album.) And as a single, “Anything For Love” had some success, reaching No. 15 on the Billboard Adult Contemporary chart; the album itself went to No. 165 on the Billboard 200. Given the radio stations I tended to listen to in 1986, I imagine I heard the single without really noticing it.

In the context of the album, though, the single was noticeable, as Foster’s overblown approach was vastly different from the tack Lightfoot took, a pop-folk vein familiar to listeners since his first major successes in 1970. And I imagine I noticed that difference during that first playing of the album on that long-ago evening.

In the years since, I’ve continued to gather Lightfoot’s work, with seventeen LPs and five CDs on the stacks here. East Of Midnight isn’t my favorite; I think that title would go to 1974’s Sundown, with Shadows from 1982 coming in second. East Of Midnight comes somewhere after those two, but the dark title track still ranks pretty highly with me. Lyrically, it’s a bit of a hodge-podge, so I’m not sure what Lightfoot was actually trying to say, but I like it nevertheless.

And the fact that I found the track during a difficult spring and still like it in a springtime thirty-two years later – a springtime also difficult but for far different reasons – pleases me. Here’s “East Of Midight.”

‘Night Theme’

Friday, April 24th, 2020

As has been noted here numerous times, one of the formative albums in my musical life is the 1963 release by trumpeter Al Hirt, Honey In The Horn.

It encouraged me in my horn playing, giving me a model, something that all young artists and performers need. And it introduced me to a wide variety of songs, although it took a few years to realize that. On the album Hirt covered songs written by legends such as Hank Snow (“I’m Movin’ On), Allen Toussaint (“Java”), Boudleaux Bryant (“Theme From A Dream”) Ira Gershwin and Vernon Duke (“I Can’t Get Started”) and others.

Shortly after I got the record for my eleventh birthday, I knew the tracks well enough to “play” them in my head, nailing the background chorus work and Hirt’s solos. It took me years, though, to begin to read the credits, and it wasn’t until the Internet years that I began to look for the original – or at least additional – versions of the songs.

Some were easy, like the three mentioned above. “Java” came from Toussaint’s pen, “I Can’t Get Started” is one of the entries in what we now call the Great American Songbook, and “I’m Movin’ On” is one of the biggest hits in country history. Others took some digging, like “Al Di Là” by Carlo Donida and Mogol, which turned out to have been Italy’s 1961 entry in the Eurovision Song Contest.

And there were some I never looked into: “Tansy,” “Man With A Horn,” and a few more.

Not long after I began this blog, I wondered about the moody “Night Theme.” Broad Googling got me nowhere, and a trip to YouTube failed. A few years later I went to one of my favorite tools, the website Second Hand Songs and found nothing, there, so I forgot about “Night Theme,” except whenever Hirt’s rendition popped up on the RealPlayer or iTunes or when I played his CD in the car:

A mention earlier this month at my pal jb’s blog, The Hits Just Keep On Comin’, of a different tune with the same title got me looking again. Armed with a wider range of tools, and a copy of Joel Whitburn’s Top Pop Singles, I got some results.

“Night Theme” was the product of songwriters Wayne Cogswell and Ray Peterson a pair of Rhode Island natives. Cogswell’s fingerprints are all over 1950s pop and early rock ’n’ roll, especially for his work in Memphis with Sam Phillips. Peterson was a guitarist and composer based mainly in his home state, if I read things correctly. Right around 1960, according to a 2014 piece in the Johnston Sunrise newspaper in Warwick, Cogswell came back home and started Wye Records with a business partner, but still wanting to perform and record, he looked for a musical partner and found Peterson:

“I met Ray Peterson and we decided to do a dual piano act, one piano, two players, like the old Ferrante and Teicher thing.” One of the products of the piano thing was “Night Theme,” an atmospheric, blues-infected instrumental that was a favorite for slow dancing at record hops and teen hangouts for many years.

The duo released the record – Wye 1001 – as The Mark II, and in 1960, it got to No. 75 on the Billboard Hot 100.

So that’s one minor mystery solved. I have a few to go.

Tops On The Sidewalks

Tuesday, April 21st, 2020

Beyond the warming weather and the greening of the trees and shrubs, there were four sure signs of spring for students at St. Cloud’s Lincoln Elementary School in the early 1960s:

At the three or four mom-and-pop grocery stores near Lincoln – including the one around the corner and down the block from our place – you could find a rack full of balsa wood glider planes, and very nearby, a cardboard bin full of kite kits. I dabbled with both over the years, the planes more frequently than the kites.

And in stores with larger customer bases – drugstores, larger grocery stores, and places like Woolworth’s and Kresge’s – you could find new displays of Duncan yo-yos and spinning tops. Again, I dabbled with both of those from, oh, 1963 to 1967. I was never very good with a yo-yo, being much more likely to end up with a great tangle of string than I was to make the toy walk the dog or jump the camel or whatever it was a yo-yo did.

But I could wrap cord around a top, unleash it and watch it spin, and I joined my classmates and other friends for top-fests on the sidewalks in front of our house and on the concrete driveways in the neighborhood, and I spent plenty of hours spinning tops on the smoother concrete of our basement floor. (Dad’s work to create the basement rec room was still a few years away.)

And one spring, sometime around 1964, I got a package in the mail. In it, I found what was called a Campbell Kid Play-Kit, which consisted of a yo-yo, a spinning top, and a handball – a small rubber ball connected by a rubber cord to a hand-held disc – all stored in a plastic bag with a drawstring and all emblazoned with the faces of the Campbell Kids, the cartoon characters used at the time to market Campbell’s soups.

campbells-soup-campbell-kids-play-kit_

Its appearance at our place on Kilian Boulevard was, I’m sure, the work of my grandmother or my Aunt Ruth (who still lived on the farm with Grandma and Grandpa, and whom we called Tudy). Every now and then, Grandma or Tudy would see an offer for a toy or game on a cereal box or in an ad in one of their magazines, something they thought that my sister or I might like, and they’d send in the cash and the required number of soup labels or cereal box tops and put either my name or my sister’s name as the recipient. And some weeks later, a surprise gift would make its way to our door.

(And I wonder for the first time if they had similar gifts sent to my cousins in Pennsylvania, four girls by 1964 with two boys yet to come. I imagine they did.)

I never played much with the handball. It was similar to – but harder to control – than the paddleballs one could buy at dime and drug stores, and those had never interested me much. I gave the yo-yo a try or two, but – as noted above – while other kids might master The Creeper or The Elevator, I could only perform The Tangler.

The top, though, got a lot of use for a while. Its bright red appearance got some appreciative glances from the top aficionados in our neighborhood, and it spun nicely on its plastic tip. At least it did until – as with all tops I ever had – continued contact with the harsh concrete of the sidewalk abraded the tip until the top’s spinning was at first wobbly and then comically impaired. (The thought hangs in my mind that replacement tips were available at drug and dime stores – or perhaps the hobby shop downtown – but I never thought to replace the worn-down tips.)

And with that, the top joined the yo-yo and the paddleball in the box of ignored toys, and sometime during the forty years between 1964 and 2004, all three were likely discarded, as sometimes happens to our childhood things. But the memories this morning of tangled yo-yo strings, of the awkward paddle-ball (and of a few elastic-powered bops to my face), and of the red top spinning its way across someone’s driveway, well, those memories brought back a little childhood joy. And along with them came pleasant memories of my grandmother and my aunt, both gone now for decades.

The digital library brings no joy from a search for “spinning top.” (There are, however, thirteen versions of Blood, Sweat & Tears’ “Spinning Wheel.”) So we’re going to dip into the Billboard Hot 100 from this week in 1964 and drop down to No. 25, because at a guess, the gift of the Campbell Kids Play-Kit likely cost my grandmother or aunt no more than twenty-five cents (along with the required soup can labels).

And at No. 25 in the Hot 100 from April 25, 1964, we come across an instrumental I’ve never heard before, “Forever” by Pete Drake & His Talking Steel Guitar. Drake has, of course, popped up as a studio musician on many tracks I’ve heard over the years, but I’ve not encountered much of his solo work. A sweet and romantic track, “Forever” peaked during this week in 1964, going no higher than No. 25. The record also went to No. 5 on the magazine’s Easy Listening chart.

One Random Shot

Friday, April 17th, 2020

As I wrote ten years ago:

It was twenty years ago today that I watched a Bekins van pull away from my door with almost everything I owned inside of it. Fifteen minutes later, I gave my apartment key to my landlady, put three cats in carriers into my car and then followed the van’s path toward the highways that would take me from Anoka, Minnesota, to Conway Springs, Kansas.

I wasn’t in Kansas long, just about three months, and at the time, my moving there and then away in such short order felt like random events that life was throwing at me. Looking back, those moves – and a few that followed – look more like mid-course corrections that brought me back to the path where I belonged.

Thirty years after that move, I am without doubt where I belong, but life seems evermore random right now. That’s unsettling, and until I figure out how I feel about that, I’m going to move to another topic.

The Texas Gal and I are putting together a list of household tasks that we have neglected: defrosting the freezer, pulling out the carpet cleaner and letting it do its work, and so on. Some of the tasks on our list are less arduous, and we’ll start with a couple of those today.

But I’m going to go back to the randomness I noted in that earlier paragraph. I’m going to open up iTunes and hit “play,” and we’ll all listen to whatever it gives us.

And we get one of Nanci Griffith’s gentle meditations on life, time, and friendship, “There’s A Light Beyond These Woods (Mary Margaret).” It’s from her 1987 album, Lone Star State Of Mind.

There’s a light beyond these woods, Mary Margaret.
Do you think that we will go there
And see what makes it shine, Mary Margaret?
It’s almost morning, and we’ve talked all night.
You know we’ve made big plans for ten-year-olds,
You and I.

Have you met my new boyfriend, Margaret?
His name is John, and he rides my bus to school.
And he holds my hand.
He’s fourteen, he’s my older man.
But we’ll still be the best of friends,
The three of us, Margaret, John, and I.

Let’s go to New York City, Margaret!
We’ll hide out in the subways
And drink the poets’ wine. Oh,
But I had John, so you went and I stayed behind.
But you were home in time for the senior prom,
When we lost John.

The fantasies we planned, well, I’m living them now.
All the dreams we sang when we knew how.
Well, they haven’t changed.
There’ll never been two friends like you and me,
Mary Margaret.

It’s nice to see your family growing, Margaret.
Your daughter and your husband here,
They really treat you right.
But we’ve talked all night
And what about those lights that glowed beyond
Our woods when we were ten?
You were the rambler then.

The fantasies we planned, oh, Maggie,
I’m living them now.
All the dreams we sang, oh, we damn sure knew how
But ours haven’t changed.
There’ll never be two friends just like you and me,
Maggie, can’t you see?

There’s a light beyond your woods, Mary Margaret

See you tomorrow.

Staying At Home

Thursday, April 9th, 2020

As events came down this late winter and early spring, and the prospect of having to stay home almost all of the time became more and more real, I thought “Big deal. I’ve been staying home pretty much all of the time since the summer of 1999.”

And that’s true. Since I left the workforce late that summer, most of my days have been spent at the computer in three different apartments, one house and now, one condo. And I came to like that, which was a change for me. Still, if I needed to or wanted to, I could go out without having to weigh heavy questions of health and wellness (there was some of that, as I learned how to deal with the malady that had rerouted my life) or equally heavy questions of public obligation.

But the heaviness of those questions – along with the burden of the mostly doleful news from around the nation and around the world – make this stay-at-home time much different. And it’s affecting me: I’m not sleeping well, waking up each morning at about six a.m. no matter how late I might have gotten to bed the night before. My chronic depression seems to have adjusted its default setting – the level attained if I take my medication regularly – to a slightly more unhappy level than had been the case two months ago. I’m a little fidgety. And I’m definitely more short-tempered than usual.

I’m finding things to fill my hours: Sorting and tagging the stock of mp3s I’ve stuck in folders and set aside over the past twenty years; doing the groundwork for and beginning a new season – the twenty-fifth – for my eighteen-team tabletop baseball league; pondering new music for the keyboard (something I need to move from simply pondering to actually playing); binge-watching television with the Texas Gal (we loved both Interrogation and One Dollar, offered by CBS All Access); and more things that don’t come to mind at the moment.

I’m not complaining. I’m just observing that sheltering in place – staying home and having to plan carefully to limit excursions to the essential – is harder than I expected. But if this is what I have to do to play my part in the societal attempt to limit the impact of the corona virus and COVID-19, so be it. My parents’ generation had to deal with far worse, what with the Depression and World War II. I can handle today’s burdens for the duration.

And here’s a tune that came to mind this morning: It’s “(Staying Home and Singing) Homemade Songs” by Tracy Nelson and Mother Earth. It’s from the 1972 album Tracy Nelson/Mother Earth.

Saturday Single No. 683

Saturday, April 4th, 2020

Once a year during three of the four school years I worked for the Eden Prairie News, I taught an informal class in songwriting. And it was, sort of, Bill Withers’ fault.

Well, it was my fault. But it all came about because of Withers, who died this week at the age of 81, leaving behind a catalog of nine albums of R&B that crossed a lot of boundaries (and found a wide audience). Sadly, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to Withers’ music when he was active. (His first album, Just As I Am, came out in 1971, and his last, Watching You Watching Me, was released in 1985.)

I knew and liked the major tunes, of course: “Ain’t No Sunshine,” “Use Me,” “Just The Two Of Us,” and “Lean On Me” chief among them. And it was that last song that sparked my awkward and very limited turns as a teacher of songwriting.

It was early on a Monday, if I recall things rightly, and I was at Eden Prairie High School to shoot some photos of the concert choir as it prepared for a performance sometime in the next few weeks. The members of the choir were milling around the room and gabbing, and I stood waiting off to the side, camera slung around my neck, not far from the piano.

Then one of the young men in the choir said to another, “Hey, listen to this song I heard!” And he sat at the piano and sang the first verse to “Lean On Me.” But instead of underscoring every note of the melody with a chord, he played chords under only the first and last words of phrases.

His buddy nodded and said something nice about the song. And I couldn’t help myself. I went to the piano and told the first young man it was a good song, but he really needed to play all the intermediate chords for the song to sound right. He was puzzled, so I sat at the piano and played the song pretty much like Withers does, a chord for almost every note.

As I played, other students gathered around the piano, and when the choir director – a woman named Julie Kanthak – came in, one of the students said, “Hey, check this out!” She came to the piano as I played a bit more of the song. I’d been reporting for the paper for a year-and-a-half by that time, and I guess I’d never mentioned that I was a musician, and she looked surprised.

And when she learned that I also wrote songs, she asked me to come back on another day – when the choir was not deep into preparation for a concert – and talk to the students (many of whom I knew from having covered them in other school activities) about songwriting.

I did so a few weeks later, having given at least some thought to my process. I talked about the challenges of starting with lyrics, which I generally do, and the very different challenges of starting with the music, which I have done only rarely. And as I talked about that, I was surprised to realize something that I then shared with the students: Even though I’ve only written three or four songs by starting with the music, those three or four are among my best.

And I performed one or two of those songs, and a few of my others, talking between songs – sometimes between verses – about the process of putting each of those songs together.

I was in Eden Prairie for two more school years after that, and during each of those, I spent an hour with the concert choir, talking about songwriting and, I expect, learning more each time than did the students I was supposedly teaching.

And here, I imagine, I’m supposed to share Withers’ “Lean On Me.” But despite its small role in my very limited time as a teacher of songwriting – a memory I do cherish – it was never my favorite piece from Withers. I much prefer the album version of “Just The Two Of Us,” his collaboration with saxophonist Grover Washington, Jr. It’s found on Washington’s 1980 album Winelight, and it’s today’s Saturday Single.

‘I Would Be In Love (Anyway)’

Friday, April 3rd, 2020

Here’s what the top ten looked like on the Billboard Easy Listening chart fifty years ago this week, the first week of April in 1970, one of my best-remembered years for music:

“Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon & Garfunkel
“Easy Come Easy Go” by Bobby Sherman
“Kentucky Rain” by Elvis Presley
“Let It Be” by the Beatles
“Temma Harbour” by Mary Hopkin
“I Would Be In Love (Anyway)” by Frank Sinatra
“Rainy Night In Georgia” by Brook Benton
“Long Lonesome Highway” by Michael Parks
“All I Have To Do Is Dream” by Bobbie Gentry & Glenn Campbell
“Brighton Hill” by Jackie DeShannon

Well, six of those I know well, and I clearly remember five of them – the top four and the Brook Benton single – coming out of my old RCA radio during spring evenings in my room. The Gentry/Campbell duet is not as memorable, though I know I heard it.

“Temma Harbour” is one I don’t recall from fifty years ago; I don’t believe I heard it until about ten years ago when I was tipped to it in a comment here by reader David Lenander. I have vague memories of the Michael Parks record, but those memories don’t say “1970” in any way, which tells me I rarely heard it then. And the DeShannon record rings no bells at all, even though I can tell from the visual in the YouTube video that for years, the LP from which it came was in the vinyl stacks.

And then there’s the Sinatra record:

If I lived the past over, saw today from yesterday
I would be in love anyway
If I knew that you’d leave me, if I knew you wouldn’t stay
I would be in love anyway

Sometimes I think, think about before
Sometime I think, if I knew then what I know now
I don’t believe I’d ever change somehow

Though you’ll never be with me, and there are no words to say
I’ll still be in love anyway

If I knew then what I know now,
I don’t believe I’d ever change somehow

If I knew then what I know now
I don’t believe I’d ever change somehow

The single came from Sinatra’s Watertown album, a work I mentioned thirteen years ago:

Watertown [is] a song cycle that’s one of the more idiosyncratic recordings of Sinatra’s long career. The songs on Watertown came from Bob Gaudio – writer of many of the Four Seasons’ hits – and Jake Holmes, the singer-songwriter/folk-rocker who was also the composer of “Dazed & Confused,” which Led Zeppelin appropriated as its own work. The album is, as All-Music Guide notes, Sinatra’s “most explicit attempt at rock-oriented pop.” It’s also a rather depressing piece of work, as the mood throughout is one of unrelieved (and unrelievable) sadness.

And as I listened to “I Would Be In Love (Anyway)” this morning, I recognized the tale Sinatra was telling. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I spent some time in that same bleak emotional place. Eventually (and thankfully), I moved on.

I remember frequently seeing the LP in cutout bins in the early 1970s and in the “Sinatra” bins at used record stores in the 1990s. Even though my buying in the 1990s was pretty indiscriminate, for some reason I never brought Watertown home with me. Somewhere along the line, I acquired a digital copy of the album from which I made the above judgment that its mood “is one of unrelieved (and unrelievable) sadness.” I may take time to again listen closely to the album one of these days, but I’m not sure I need the downer.

As to “I Would Be In Love (Anyway),” it peaked on the Easy Listening chart at No. 4 but got only to No. 88 on the Hot 100. Watertown went to No. 101 on the magazine’s album chart.