‘Ages ago, last night . . .’

Keeping to a theme begun a few posts ago, I checked out the data bases and found that just seven years ago today, I brought home the CD of one of Frank Sinatra’s greatest albums, September Of My Years.

It’s a melancholy album, filled with longing, doubt and reverie, recorded in 1965 when Sinatra was forty-nine and perfect for how I often feel these days. I’m some years older than Sinatra was when he recorded the album, but the record still speaks to me; I feel as if I’ve invested a great deal of my entire life in reverie, doubt, and longing. Fine. I am who I am.

Whatever else I might say about the album – or how I feel these days – was said much better by Stan Cornyn in his liner notes for the album in 1965:

He sings of the penny days. Of the rose-lipt girls and candy apple times. Of green winds, of a first lass who had perfumed hair. April thoughts.

He sings with perspective. This vital man, this archetype of the good life, this idolized star . . . this man pauses. He looks back. He remembers, and graces his memory with a poet’s vision.

He has lived enough for two lives, and can sing now of September. Of the bruising days. Of the rouged lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines.

September can be an attitude or an age or a wistful reality. For this man, it is a time of love. A time to sing.

A thousand days hath September.

Here’s the melancholy (what else?) plaint, “Last Night When We Were Young.”

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