When I was an infant, my parents decided our small apartment in Manhattan was no place to raise two little daughters. The following day they set off on their search for a house in The Bronx. Back then living in The Bronx was a lot different than it is now. Crime was practically nonexistent; drug dealers weren’t openly operating out of school playgrounds, storefronts weren’t gated and padlocked and families were not shattered by drive-by shootings.
The Bronx was like a country village with farms dotting the neighborhoods of Baychester, Kingsbridge, Morrisania, Riverdale and others. People raised sheep, goats and chickens. Gardens were abundant with homegrown fruit and vegetables. It was a different world, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Life was peaceful.
My parents bought a new semi-attached two family house spacious enough for the four of us and my maternal grandparents. We had a nice piece of corner property and a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fruit trees and my mother’s vegetable garden.
My grandmother was a sickly woman, having been ill since my mother was only 12 years old. Nonna was not quite bedridden but spent a fair amount of time inside in bed or looking out the window. My mother was her caregiver; when the weather was nice, she would wrap a blanket around Nonna, making her comfortable in a lounge chair in the backyard.
Nonna’s ‘job‘ was to rock my carriage as I napped outside. Since she was not strong enough to carry me, my grandmother delighted in being able to help my mother in this small way. Nonna relished being outside in our quiet backyard watching my grandfather tending the garden; the warmth of the sun on her frail body renewed her spirit and magically brought a glow back to her face.
It was the first Labor Day in our new home and I napped in my baby carriage while Nonna sat in her chair gently rocking me. I began to stir and when I opened my eyes, I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me. Her doe-like eyes twinkled as she sang an old Italian lullaby, “Ninna Ninna”.
It may be difficult to comprehend that a little one just seven months of age could have such clear and distinct memories. I can recall my grandmother’s happy face smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining. The poignant song and Nonna’s expressive voice always had a mysterious way of calming me and I would drift back to sleep. Those days in our peaceful backyard are tenderly stored in my mind.
My grandmother passed away six years later; the special bond we shared is something I will treasure forever.
Time, my friends, for another round of Name That Tune; are you feeling lucky today? Let’s see how quickly you can guess the name of this song and the artist(s) who made if famous. It’s one of my personal favorites and you’ll find out why when you get to clue #5.
So how about we get this game going? Are ya ready? Ok, let’s do this thing!
This song from 1969 has been called the most beautiful love song ever written – quite a fete considering the phrase “I love you” is never used in the song.
The composer of this song was a member of the most famous and prolific rock band in history. It’s also his first real attempt at writing a song on his own and finally being taken seriously by the other members, two of whom wrote almost all the group’s songs.
By the late 1970s, today’s featured song had been covered by over 150 artists. BTW, the most covered song of all time is another song by the group to which our featured singer once belonged.
Our performer dedicated this song to his wife at the time; she must have been quite something because this is the second song I’m aware of that has been dedicated to her. [If that clue sounds even a tiny bit familiar, maybe that’s because one of my posts in May from In The Groove was about the other song dedicated to this very desirable woman.Were you paying attention back then?]
Every year since its release in 1969 this song has been among the most requested first dance songs for new brides and grooms. In fact, it was the first dance for me and Mr. Bill … and, as you know, I think he’s really quite something himself!
Have you figured out what the most beautiful love song ever written is? I’ll keep you in suspense no longer; let’s go find out. You know what to do:
If you said The Beatles’ “Something” composed entirely by George Harrison and sung by him, you are correct! Are you ready to hear it?
Here’s a little refresher for you: George Harrison wrote “Something” in 1969 for his wife, Pattie Boyd. Fate stepped in and George’s best bud Eric Clapton fell in love with Pattie. Eric was so crazy about Pattie that just one year later in 1970 he wrote his own song dedicated to George’s wife. That song which I hinted at in clue #4 was “Layla” by Derek and the Dominoes, Eric’s group at the time. It must have been hell for poor Pattie having two handsome, sexy, talented guys so madly in love with her! She resisted for as long as she could but eventually Pattie left George and married Eric. George took it all in stride like the gentleman he was, saying “it happens” or words to that effect. He and Eric remained best friends until George died in 2001 and the rest is history …. or her story. 😉
Oh, I almost forgot. The most covered song of all time is another tune by The Beatles; it’s a little ditty you may have heard once or twice called “Yesterday”. There was also a movie with an intriguing premise called “Yesterday”, released in 2019 and chock full of Beatles tunes.
Thanks for spending some time playing Name That Tune. Hope you had fun today with me and The Lads!
Did you ever experience weather so dry that the ground and air crackled and all you could think about was bones … the ones you found buried in Vern Wilson’s barn that drought summer seventeen years ago?
That’s how it was for me and my friends Bucky Berringer and Grady McCallister.
They was human bones, alright, and we covered ‘em up right quick before ol’ Vern caught us.
Weatherman said rain’s a-comin’. Pappy’s fields are shrivelin’ up awful. We need us some good rain, days upon days of rain, but all we’re seein’ is damn fire bolts makin’ us twitch.
How can this be Cow got sold Hen lays no eggs The pig ran away My goat up and died The horse has no hay Sheep lost her wool Bull has the flu Well has run dry Flies swarm around Farm’s overgrown Barn is in tatters Plow rusted over Truck engine’s dead Bills piled high And money is gone Wife left me cold I’m here on my own Cow got sold How can this be
Here is a corrected version. I didn’t realize the first words of each line had to rhyme!
How can this be Cow got sold Hen lays no eggs Pen has no pigs Goat up and died Boat has a hole Sheep lost her wool Sleep now evades me Well has run dry Spell of no rain Farm’s overgrown Barn’s in tatters Truck engine’s dead Stuck in the mud Bills piled high Pills by my side Wife left me cold Strife is my friend Cow got sold How can this be
Oh, good morning! Sorry, I didn’t see you there till just now. Do you know who I am? I come into your homes multiple times each week. You’ve just never seen me look quite like this before.
I’m heading out to share coffee with my friend. Why not keep me company along the way?
You know, it’s funny how things happen. If you’re lucky, you go through life happy and content, grateful for the many blessings you have. Life may not be a whirlwind of excitement but it’s still life and I’m glad to be living it, especially since I have a dear friend to share things with. Sure, we may be creeping up on OBS (Old Bat Status) but we don’t care; life truly is what you make it!
It all began months ago when we crossed paths in this very location and the more we got to know one another, the more we liked each other. We discovered we have a lot in common. As time went by and we started peeling back more layers, we realized the similarities between us were uncanny. We jokingly say it’s like being “separated at birth”.
My friend and I each have a wonderful hubby, two terrific sons and four grandchildren we’re crazy about. We have a handful of good friends and we’re lucky to be doing the things we really enjoy: writing {poetry for her and stories for me}, cooking, gardening, walking, listening to music and watching a little TV. We love the show, Granchester and like Will but wish Sydney would come back, you know?
Let’s see; we both wear glasses (although I seem to have misplaced mine today). We enjoy feeding the birds in our yards. We complain about doctors and think Seinfeld is the funniest show ever. We won’t wear clothes without pockets and prefer scrambled eggs cooked the French way. We love fresh burrata, watching sports, Bobby Darin and anchovies.
We relish the silence but our minds are constantly in the groove to the soundtrack of life; we are, as we like to say, “cautious worriers“. She’s also a wiz at that computer imaging thingy she does. What she can do with people is amazing; sometimes it just makes us laugh and laugh!
We’re comfy as two old peas in a pod. Being friends is as relaxed as sharing a warm slice of freshly baked sourdough bread, laughing at something funny one of us said.
Why, we even call each other “sis”; now, ain’t that a kick in the head!
We do have our differences, though: I love liver and she can’t stand it and she loves spicy mustard while I prefer mild. We enjoy working on puzzles – crossword for me, jigsaw for her. And she’s got a couple of inches on me.
Oh, look! Here she comes now! I wonder, can you recognize her from where you are? Who’s my friend?
Morning, sis! I was just chatting with a couple hundred of our WordPress friends. Right you are – it is a small world. Care for a cuppa? Here ya go, luv, just the way we like it. Cheers!
Went to the farmer’s market yesterday. Lots of pitting ahead of me but this isn’t my first rodeo.
Toss all the pitted cherries into a saucepan with some sugar and lemon juice. Let that cook over a medium heat just until the juices are released. Scoop the cherries into a bowl with a slotted spoon. Mix some of the cherry sauce with cornstarch until dissolved, then return it to the pot to cook until thick. Pour over the cherries and set aside while preparing your pie crust.
I love working with dough; it’s very therapeutic. After years of practice, making the perfect pie crust is a piece of cake! And don’t forget to save any dough remnants.
Line a pie plate with your crust and add the cherry filling. Here’s where you can get fancy. Remember the crust trimmings you set aside? Ball them up, then roll out the dough into a circle but not too thin. Cut strips out of your dough to lay a lattice top crust across the cherry filling. If you’re new to this, just place the whole, uncut circle of dough over the pie filling and poke a hole in the top for the steam to escape while your pie bakes.
Don’t forget to crimp the edges of your crust. Finish it off by brushing a thin layer of beaten egg over the top. We all like a bit of sweetness; sprinkle some sugar on it! 💋
“Justice of the Peace? You wanna elope, Gina? Our parents haven’t even met to discuss the wedding!”
“Exactly, Taylor, and it’s gonna stay that way!” said Gina Mezzacappa in her irresistible Marisa Tomei voice. “You know why that is, Taylor? Because my parents have had my wedding all figured out since I was a baby. You saw the Godfather so you know that I know what I’m talking about! There are two things you gotta face right off the bat: number one, our parents are about as different as you can get and number two, left in my family’s hands, our wedding will rival a motion picture extravaganza under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola. Let me ask you a question, Taylor. Have you ever been to an Italian wedding? No? That’s what I thought. Remember my cousin Rosellla’s engagement party? Well, picture that only ten times worse. There will be no elegant ceremony in your parent’s country club like your sister had, with one maid of honor, one best man and a string quartet. There will be no dainty hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne served by an attentive, white-gloved waitstaff followed by dinner of Beef Wellington, fingerling potatoes and haricots verts. The delicate wedding cake with gold leaf flowers? Ain’t gonna happen. Our romantic wedding night in the country club honeymoon suite overlooking the lake? Fugetaboutit! My parents are old school, Taylor, and only want a real Italian wedding. My father would rather swim through the shark-infested Straits of Messina than go against tradition. Now picture this: the ceremony will be held at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Church with my mother’s cousin, Monsignor DelFino, officiating. There will be at least ten bridesmaids and groomsmen, four junior bridesmaids, a couple of flower girls and a ring bearer in addition to the maid of honor and best man. The reception will be held at The Villa Barone catering hall where my brother-in-law Carlo, the newly-elected fire chief, had a sweet sixteen birthday party for his daughter, my niece Anna Marie. The cocktail hour will consist of a cash bar and a buffet of hot and cold antipasti, sausage and peppers, potato croquettes, stuffed artichokes, prosciutto with melon and garlic knots. The reception dinner will be Italian wedding soup, manicotti, salad, lemon intermezzo followed by a choice of chicken marsala with penne, prime rib or filet of sole with string beans almondine and mashed potatoes. There will be fennel, mixed nuts and assorted fruit on each table along with bottles of wine. The cake will be five, maybe six tiers and for the kids a chocolate fondu fountain with Twinkies, brownie bites, cheesecake cubes and marshmallows. There will be a live band with traditional Sicilian folk dancers and my cousin Vinny will play the tarantella on his accordion. Finally, the pièce de résistance – the floating Viennese Dessert Hour and flaming cherries jubilee served with spumoni, gelato, espresso and anisette. Our wedding night will be spent sitting around my parent’s kitchen table with you, me and my mother counting the money we got as wedding gifts while my father records everything in an accounting ledger like Matthew the Tax Collector. OR ….. we go to City Hall, just you and me, get hitched and spend two glorious weeks alone in sunny Aruba. Your call.”
Welcome, my friends, to the final installment of At The Movies. I have enjoyed every moment sharing my thoughts with you about great songs and the movies that featured them.
It’s no secret I’m Sicilian; my parents were born there and I’m very proud of my heritage. That is why I chose the most important motion picture in my lifetime to showcase in my final segment of At The Movies. This is a very personal post for me.
In 1972, my husband and I went to see “The Godfather” and in many little ways that movie changed my life. The film chronicles the Corleone Family under patriarch, Vito Corleone, while focusing on the transformation of Vito’s youngest son, Michael, from reluctant family outsider to ruthless mafia boss. That’s the Reader’s Digest abridged version; there’s much, much more going on in that movie to write about here.
When the movie was over, I turned to my husband and said “This movie is going to win the Academy Award”.
I remember reading that director Francis Ford Coppola knew he was going against the grain with “The Godfather” and wasn’t expecting it to be anything but a “special failure”, certainly not a hit. With a screenplay co-written by Coppola and Mario Puzo (who wrote the 1969 best-selling novel of the same name), and stars such as Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, James Caan, Richard Castellano, Robert Duval (and later, Robert De Niro in Part 2), the result was anything but a failure; it was an astounding blockbuster.
When the Academy Award nominations were announced, “The Godfather” received an incredible eleven nominations but won only three – Best Picture, Best Actor for Brando, Best Adapted Screenplay. According to popular opinion poll results released just days after the awards ceremony, three wins out of eleven nominations was considered a travesty and a personal snub by the Academy. I agree.
But that’s only half the story. We cannot forget the music. The raw beauty of the soundtrack with music composed by Nino Rota brings me to tears every time I hear it.
In January 2018, The Danish Broadcasting Corporation (DR) aired a concert called “The Morricone Duel” performed by The Danish National Symphony Orchestra and The Danish National Concert Choir conducted by Sarah Hicks. Named for the great Italian composer Ennio Morricone (1928-2020), the music performed included titles from a wide range of “spaghetti” westerns and mafia films reflecting different perspectives on the Italian-American movie and film music styles.
From that concert, here is “The Godfather – Orchestral Suite” composed by Nino Rota.
I have seen “The Godfather Trilogy” (especially Parts 1 & 2) so many times, I can listen to this suite and picture exactly what’s going on in the movie. I have Sicilian friends who refused to watch “The Godfather”, saying it shows all Sicilians in a bad light; that’s ridiculous. While the vast majority of Sicilians are not connected to the mob, some are. This film is an accurate depiction of that lifestyle. I am as proud this groundbreaking movie as I am of my heritage.
For me there is only one other movie that rivals “The Godfather” and that is “The Godfather Part II”. These films will always remain in my heart as the greatest movies ever made.
One final very special memory before closing. I raised my sons in an American home sprinkled with the flavor of Sicily; they had no doubt where their ancestors came from. A great highlight for me was hearing my then 13-year-old son David playing the theme from “The Godfather” in recital as a solo on the bass trombone – not a rendition you hear often. When his time in the spotlight was over, there was a moment of terrifying silence before the chaos of applause broke out. I smiled knowing that was my boy and he played that piece for me.
Well, kids, it’s time to bring the curtain down At The Movies for the final time. I hope you found my posts these past six months to be entertaining, interesting, enlightening and fun. It has been a delight bringing these great movies and songs to you every week.
You’ll still be able to find me on Tuesdays in an all new re-vamped In The Groove and right here in this same slot on Thursdays with a totally different laidback program I think you’ll enjoy. I’ll be looking for you!
That’s a wrap. Turn off the lights on your way out.
“Organized? You call this organized? I see books not positioned correctly on the shelves and why is there a bottle of Coca Cola sweating on your desk? There better not be any water rings on the wood. Now finish up in here; we haven’t got all day and my patience is wearing thin!”
More anger and criticism rained down on me by my long-suffering mother. Living with her was neither fun nor easy – it just was what it was.
Mother was a strict, in-control-at-all-times perfectionist who rarely let her guard down or her emotions show, which is why what happened that ordinary day in August left both me and my sister bewildered, squinting our eyes, skewing our faces and scratching our heads wondering who this imposter was in my mother’s place.
Mother raised her arm above her head. Suddenly the sky parted, angels sang and a brilliant stream of light shone down upon an envelope in her hand. My sister and I stared in disbelief as realization struck. We hugged each other, jumped up and down, screamed and cried tears of joy for peeking out of that envelope were three yellow tickets that looked exactly like this:
Three passes into a world we only dreamed of, a place greater than any national treasure, a fantasy land more majestic than any shrine in the universe, tickets more precious than gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Clapping her hands twice, Mother brought us back down to earth. “Hurry and get dressed. The show starts in four hours and traffic will be a nightmare. Dresses only, girls. No blue jeans and no shorts. And for heaven’s sake, wear your bras; you are not animals and this is not a free-for-all!”
Oh, really?
Sacred tickets in hand, we jumped into Mother’s 1957 Ford Fairlane 500. It seemed to take forever to arrive and we sang one Beatles song after another. In the distance we caught our first glimpse of Shea Stadium glimmering in the glow of the setting sun like the Land of Oz, and the four wizards were there waiting to play just for us. Well, us and approximately 56,000 crying, screaming, hyperventilating fans.
We found our seats and finally had our first real chance to look around. Our eyes widened in awe; surely this was even more spectacular, more jaw-dropping than The Colosseum in Rome which we had visited just one month earlier. Finally, after waiting for what seemed a lifetime, television host Ed Sullivan appeared on stage and tried to speak over the roaring mass of adoring fans. These were the words he spoke that night: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, honored by their country, decorated by their Queen, and loved here in America, here are The Beatles!”
Pandemonium, a mania the likes of which was never witnessed before broke out as the most beloved musical group of all time ran onto the stage.
My sister and I grabbed our binoculars and raced to the bottom of our tier for a closer look. Hearing anything over the cacophony of the audience was almost impossible and we screamed and cried right along with everyone there. At one point I looked back, stunned to see my mother laughing and singing and dancing in the aisle! Whatthefuckedness?!
That night my world was changed; my greatest dream came true. I had reached Mecca, climbed Everest and walked on the moon. Being there was beyond surreal. It was the most electrifying and exhilarating experience of my life. That night remains etched in my mind and on my heart for all eternity.
Well, I started In The Groove with a George Harrison song; it’s only fitting that I end this segment of The Rhythm Section with the group who has given me so much joy the majority of my life.
The entire medley is 16.41 minutes long with several short breaks. To enjoy the entire piece, listen through all the breaks until The End … literally.
“Now for you youngsters out there, here they are, live on our stage …. The Beatles!”
I’m not even going to comment on that medley; no need.
This month I was busy working on a revamped format for In The Groove; I had a great time putting it together and I think you’ll enjoy what you see and hear. That’s all I’m prepared to say at this point; just come back next week to find out what it’s all about. I think you’re gonna like it!
Thanks for your participation and great comments these past six months; you’re a terrific audience!
That’s it for now, kids; catch you right here next Tuesday.
“Great! Just great! First I drop my phone in the toilet; now I can’t find my Magellan! Where is that dang GPS? I coulda sworn I put it in the glove box a couple of years ago. This aughta be fun, trying to figure out how to get to my sales meeting without directions. Lemme take another look.
Nope, it’s not in here but there’s my jumper cables. Thought I lost them the time my engine died on me the night of the office Christmas party. Hot damn, that was a wild shindig! Who woulda guessed Uptight Tina from R&D could be such a temptress?
Let’s see what we got here … napkins, ketchup packets, pencils, pencils, more pencils, a menu from Panda Pavilion, a roach clip. No GPS. Now hold on just a second. What’s this? Oh man, do my eyes deceive me? A cassette tape! Right on!! Ah, that explains all the pencils!Oh man, from the days when music was good.
Hmm, looks like one of my old homemade jobs. I wonder what’s on it … writing’s all smudged so could be anything. Well, I’m good and lost but at least I’ll have some company on the road. I’m just gonna slip this baby in and see what develops.
My son David is a librarian by vocation. Then there are the times he moonlights as lead tenor with the Taconic Opera Company and as a church singer for special holy days. He has a God-given talent and is quite brilliant. I like to think he inherited some of my musical skills as well. His brother Bill was there that night some 20+ years ago when David blew the roof off a karaoke bar singing an Iron Maiden song; at that point in time no one in the family knew David could sing. He also plays the bass trombone. Did I mention he has perfect pitch?
David’s wife Jessica is a doctor specializing in making chemo for cancer patients – an intense and demanding job. Somehow she also manages to be a super mom – part Wonder Woman, part Energizer Bunny. She is a beautiful woman, a stunning mezzo soprano with a wondrous soul and a remarkable mind. She has performed alongside David and is also a church singer often called on for weddings and funerals. Jessica plays the piano and cello and was chosen for All County Choir and All County Orchestra while in school. I’m not sure if she has perfect pitch; if not, then damn close.
(I’d like to take a second to mention a bit of serendipity: When Jessica was with the All County Orchestra, David was, too, though they did not know each other at that time. They did not officially meet until 15 years later. Funny how that works. Now, back to the story.)
David and Jessica have a 3 ½ year old daughter named Colette – my granddaughter whom I mention frequently when writing personal posts. She’s a joy, an absolutely glorious child. Colette loves music and is taking ballet lessons. She can also dig her heels in like nobody’s business. Colette is a spitfire who obviously inherited equal amounts of her parent’s Sicilian-Irish-Italian genes. Add a splash of a Mt Etna temper when pushed beyond the breaking point, courtesy of yours truly, and you have the total package. A real “testa dura” or as we say in slang “gabadost”.
As you can see, this little family of mine is extremely musical. David and Jessica sing around the house and now Colette has begun singing along … and she’s not shy about it. Recently, while singing “Puff the Magic Dragon”, David and Jessica exchanged looks, bit their lips and tried not to laugh. With eyes rolling heavenward, they wondered “Is there any chance on God’s green earth that we created a child who can’t sing in tune?”
Today we have a treat for you: Keith is in the house!
Keith Allen, AKA “The Nostalgic Italian“, has written another guest post which we’re sure you’ll find entertaining, interesting and enlightening. It’s guaranteed to brighten up your back-to-work Monday. Enough talking by me; I’m going to hand the reigns over to Keith for another edition of Be Our Guest in The Rhythm Section. Take it away, Keith!
❖❖❖❖
Thanks, Nancy, for once again allowing me to share music with you.
Are you all in the mood for a little Blues today? I’ve got just the ticket!
Today’s song was originally done by a guy born in Arkansas but has a connection to my home state of Michigan (He moved to Detroit when he was 4.). Little Willie John recorded Sonny Thompson’s song “Let Them Talk” in 1960. His version is backed by a beautiful string arrangement, but his rendition is not the one I wanted to share.
Many know award-winning actor Hugh Laurie for his role as Dr. Gregory House on “House, MD”. His American accent always blew me away as I watched; I knew he was English but you sure couldn’t tell when he spoke! His credentials are impressive, far too many accomplishments to list but here are a few: He was half the comedy duo of “Fry and Laurie” with Stephen Fry. He appeared on the show “Jeevesand Wooster”, and many films including “Sense and Sensibility”, “101 Dalmatians”, and “Stuart Little”. Laurie portrayed the devious Richard Roper in the British TV series “The Night Manager” and George, the Prince in the BBC sitcom “Blackadder”. He is the author of the novel “The Gun Seller.”
He is also an extremely talented musician.
Today’s tune is the title track from Laurie’s first album “Let ThemTalk”. The album is subtitled “A Celebration of New Orleans Blues” and is just fantastic. His piano work is marvelous and he sings with incredible feeling. The period instruments and guest vocalists add to the feel of some great blues music.
I picked this song for a few reasons. First, I love the attitude of the song – “Let them talk!” Recently in my life there are way too many people who are talking about me, my life, and what’s going on in it. It is easy to get caught up in wondering what people think but in reality, who cares?! LET THEM TALK! Maybe they are talking because they see how much better things are for me now. Maybe they are jealous. Maybe they are unhappy with their own lives and aren’t happy unless they are talking smack about others. I don’t know. Whatever the case, LET THEM TALK!
Another reason I love this song is that it is a guy singing about just how wonderful it is to be with his special someone. I feel the same way. I want to yell at the top of my lungs how much I love my wife! I want the world to know how remarkable she is and how special our relationship is!
The final reason I love this song is the simplicity of it musically. A voice and a piano (and a few minor instruments). A song so stripped-down and yet it carries you away. Give a listen and enjoy:
Let Them Talk
Just let them talk If they want to Talk don’t bother me I’m gonna keep on to the whole wide world knows That I really love you I really love you so
Let them whisper For they know know What’s between you and I I’m gonna keep on I’m gonna keep on loving you ’till the day that I die
They tried to break up our romance They didn’t stay a chance We have the kind of love that’s so strong We’ll be together from now on
They say that gossip comes from the devil’s workshop And only true love can make it stop I’m gonna keep on I’m gonna keep on loving you ’till the day that I die
Oh they’re envious of everything that we do But I wanna say it’s wonderful When you love someone And that someone And that someone, really loves you
And that someone And that someone, really loves you
Yeah that someone And that someone, really loves you
Yeahhh
And that someone Yeah that someone, really loves you
Thanks so much for joining me today in The Rhythm Section and thanks again to Nancy, The Sicilian Storyteller. Please leave me a comment; it’ll be a pleasure to read them.
Her parents were good people; they were just too damn young to be raising a family. They didn’t do anything wrong unless you call falling in love wrong. Should they have had unsafe sex? Of course not, but listen – we’ve all gotten caught up in the heat of the moment for many reasons. Their passion resulted in an unwanted pregnancy.
For two 14 year old kids, they made a very mature decision: they put their baby girl up for adoption. They could have chosen any other avenue but they chose the right one for them and their daughter. There are so many good options available to pregnant girls and women who are not ready, not willing, not able to keep their babies. Then there are also illegal abortion mills with doctors willing to rip a fetus from the mother’s womb for a price. How do those people sleep at night?
My husband and I weren’t looking for another child; we already had three, all strawberry blondes with dove-like skin and blue eyes. Just like us. It was my sister who wanted to adopt. Desperately. When she got the call, she wept for joy … until she learned Zoe was black and not a newborn but three years old. My sister said no. Flat refusal. I couldn’t believe this was the girl I grew up with. What happened to her open mind and arms, her loving heart. They’re still there but only for babies that look like mine.
Zoe hid behind the skirt of the lady at the adoption center. When I kneeled down and opened my arms, she looked at me very tentatively. I smiled, nodded my head and she took off like a little rabbit running straight into my arms. And we hugged like our lives depended on it; in a way, they did.
She is our daughter now and the fit was seamless, like those lovely Russian nesting dolls. Our biological children love Zoe and she loves them. And us. We’re crazy about all our kids and wonder why we didn’t do this sooner. Zoe is our fourth daughter; we already decided we’re going for five.
One very large bedroom with three sets of bunk beds. It’s messy and noisy and all over the place but it’s a happy, beautiful thing.
Welcome back to Name That Tune! Are you feeling lucky today?
Get your brain cells ready to tackle the five questions I have prepared for you. Let’s see if you can come up with the name of the song and the artist(s) who made it famous.
Ok, let’s rock and roll!
This song from 1963 is just one hit by a group of boys from New Jersey that had us singing and dancing along to a great melody … and let’s not forget those fantastic drums!
The singers of this song keep repeating one phrase over and over again; you’d think the person in question would just get the message and go away already!
The lead singer of our featured group had a recurring role as gangster Rusty Millio during the fifth and sixth seasons of the hit HBO series, The Sopranos.
The story of the lives of these guys from New Jersey, especially their lead singer, was turned into a Broadway play in 2004 and eventually into a movie in 2014. None of the original members of the group starred in either the play or the movie.
This one word song is named after a girl … the one mentioned in question #2 who won’t go away. Come to think of it, many of this group’s songs were named after girls.
How’d you do with that one, kids? Well, let’s scroll down for the answers, shall we?
That’s right! It was the Jersey Boys themselves, The Four Seasons (also known later in their career as “Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons“), doing one of their biggest hits (and my personal favorite), “Dawn”. Let’s give a listen and enjoy those crazy drums!
Was I right about the drums or was I right? Kudos to Buddy Saltzman, the drummer on this recording; The Four Seasons did not have a regular drummer and always used various session drummers. Extra credit if you knew that tidbit.
I wonder if any of my WordPress music blogging friends (you know who you are) can name any other groups who used only session drummers. Hmm … let’s see who’s reading this.
Well, that was a great song, a real blast from the past for many of us and possibly a new one for some of you youngsters out there.
I hope you’ve been having fun playing along; join me next time right here for another round of Name That Tune.
Damn! Have you seen the upper body on Michael B. Jordan? He’s the fine young actor who plays Adonis Creed in the new “Creed” movies.
And when I say ‘fine’, I mean fine.
Whether his goal is to get into shape, make award winning movies, encourage young athletes to get in the best shape possible or to leave a trail of panting women behind him, he has succeeded in all those endeavors.
Like his father Apollo Creed, he is one incredible specimen. Just saying.
Originally published in 2020 when times were very different.
Originally I was considering letting nature take its course and stop dying my hair. After all, being in isolation all this time because of the Coronavirus has kept me from going to the salon and now my grey roots are prevalent.
I asked my husband for his opinion. Regardless of the situation his answer is “You always look beautiful!” Liar! I adore him but he tells me what he thinks I want to hear. Give it to me straight! Contrary to what Jack Nicholson declared in “A Few Good Men”, I CAN handle the truth!
Time to weigh my options. First, I look young for a woman in her seventies; will going grey age me or will I look chic? My husband’s light brown hair is sprinkled with grey with look more like blonde highlights; I much prefer looking like his youthful wife as opposed to his older sister! Second, I’ll save beaucoup bucks at the salon if I go au naturel; just need to pop in for the occasional trim. And last but not least I’ll leave myself wide open for a good-natured lampoon offered up by my oh-so-witty friends.
Since my hair is professionally dyed brown with golden highlights, I was reluctant to pick up a box of Clairol and give it a go at home. I recalled the one and only time I tried to dye my hair. The color was called “Iced Mochaccino”’ which sounded like a delicious shade and the model on the box look dazzling. What could go wrong? My hair came out an unattractive shade of dull cocoa so ixnay the home dye job.
Let’s try this: I consulted Google and found a site where I could see what I’d look like with grey hair. I had no idea there were so many shades of grey – everything from silky white to smokey charcoal, even some with hints of purple or green. I was starting to get very confused. Then I downloaded a copy of “Forget the Spa and Salon: Custom Hair Color at Home” – a literary masterpiece guaranteed to “help you find the perfect hair color”. It did not.
Suddenly I had a brainstorm. Click on good old reliable Amazon for a hair product specifically designed to cover roots, something easy? You can get anything on Amazon from an air fryer to zinc ointment. I typed in “root” and abracadabra, there it was – L’Oréal Magic Grey Root Concealer – the answer to my prayers (unless in turns out to be like the infamous “Hair in a Can”)!
Just as I was about to place an order for the root cover up I got an email from my hair salon:
“In accordance with the guidelines of Phase 2, we are delighted to announce the reopening of “We’re Hair For You” on Monday, June 15.”
The email went on to welcome their clients back and describe changes in the salon. I immediately grabbed my cell phone to call my stylist (she’s on speed dial!) and make an appointment for the following week. Goodbye drab grey roots! Hello luscious brown hair with golden highlights! I was thrilled.
The next day I received a sobering email from the salon:
“Your appointment is confirmed. Please call the salon from the parking lot upon your arrival. You will either be told to come in or asked to wait until we call you back. Clients are required to wear a mask at all times and will have their temperature taken before entering the salon. Please come to your appointment alone as we have eliminated our waiting area. We apologize for any inconvenience. The safety of everyone concerned is of utmost importance. Thank you.”
Every day I make my way north on the Cross Island Parkway heading for the Throggs Necks Bridge and home to Westchester County. And every day I see this same fellow slowly pedaling his tired old bicycle. We are riding parallel to one another. He is on my right; further right and out of view is the Little Neck Bay. When the bay is in view, it is stunning.
His shock of silver hair is startling and, together with his tissue-white skin, it is obvious this fellow doesn’t get much sun. I had him pegged for an elitist-type, a retired executive who drinks very dry martinis and lathers himself in SPF 80.
This one particularly splendid day I found myself stuck in traffic; all arteries clogged with nothing getting through. I turned off the engine and relaxed.
At that very moment along came my pale horseman and as I glanced over, he waved and rang the bicycle’s bell. CHING!! I waved and he half-rode, half-walked his bike to my car. I rolled down the window and a very unlikely friendship blossomed.
This fellow was not at all what I imagined. He was a transplant from – of all places – Scotland by way of France! Said his name was Brian Duff-something (strong but utterly enchanting accent).
Did you know there’s one place in all of Scotland where palm trees grow? It’s true! My friend Brian Duff-something told me.
Now every day we wave “Bonjour” and I pray for another traffic jam.
Deep Purple has been my go-to rock band for as long as I can remember. I saw them perform live twice and am a devoted follower of both Deep Purple and their “spin-off” group, “Rainbow”. What better song for Jim’s prompt today than “Smoke On The Water”?!
The lyrics tell a true story: on December 4, 1971, Deep Purple was in Montreux, Switzerland to record the album “Machine Head”.
On the eve of the recording session, a concert with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention was held in the casino’s theatre. This was the theatre’s final concert before the complex closed down for its annual winter renovations, which would allow Deep Purple to record there.
At the beginning of the Mothers’ keyboardist Don Preston’s synthesizer solo on “King Kong”, the place suddenly caught fire when somebody in the audience fired a flare gun towards the rattan-covered ceiling. Although there were no major injuries, the resulting fire destroyed the entire casino complex, along with all the Mothers’ equipment.
The “smoke on the water” line that became the title of the song referred to the smoke from the fire spreading over Lake Geneva from the burning casino as the members of Deep Purple watched from their hotel. Deep Purple’s Bassist Roger Glover said “It was probably the biggest fire I’d ever seen up to that point and probably ever seen in my life. It was a huge building. I remember there was very little panic getting out because it didn’t seem like much of a fire at first. But when it caught, it went up like a fireworks display.”
What a phenomenal classic rock song this is! All the lyrics from the song explain the event vividly. Listen closely and follow along with the written lyrics as the musical story unfolds:
Lyrics
We all came out to Montreux On the Lake Geneva shoreline To make records with a mobile, yeah We didn’t have much time now
Frank Zappa and the Mothers Were at the best place around But some stupid with a flare gun Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky (Smoke) on the water, you guys are great
They burned down the gambling house It died with an awful sound Funky Claude was running in and out He was pulling kids out the ground now
When it all was over Find another place Swiss time was running out It seemed that we would lose the race
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water
Burn it down
We ended up at the Grand Hotel It was empty, cold and bare The Rolling truck Stones thing just outside Huh, making our music there now
With a few red lights and a few old beds We made a place to sweat No matter what we get out of this I know, I know we’ll never forget
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water (I can’t hear anything)
This is a work of fiction. In no way is it meant to be derogatory or insensitive to any peoples’ ethnicity. I do not share any of the disparaging words or sentiments within this story. NAR
It was a blazing hot day in August of 1971. Sweaty air conditioners were working overtime, filling the streets of Manhattan with an unrelenting drone. I was in the elevator of my apartment building having just returned from physical therapy. There were four other people in the elevator – a plumber, a mid-twenties hippie chick I knew only as “Rain”, elderly and bitter Abe Morris and a very pregnant Asian woman I didn’t know.
Abe made a big show of moving away from the Asian woman, spitting out the words “savage gooks!” Abe was angry and grieving the recent death of his son in Vietnam. Someone had to pay; why not the only Asian in the elevator? Abe always had some wise-ass comment about the fact that I’m black and relished every opportunity to say something hurtful about my missing arm. Today his vitriol was directed elsewhere. Ignorant, bigoted man.
The doors closed and we began our slow ascent. Old buildings, temperamental elevators and a heatwave – a bad combination. Somewhere between floors 3 and 4 the elevator jolted to a stop. Before Abe could utter a curse word, the elevator churned back to life, coughed and stopped again with an ominous screech. Except for a few groans no one said anything. I pushed the alarm button and reached for the elevator’s emergency phone. Halfway through my call the electricity went out, the AC shut off and my phone connection died. Blackness engulfed us and it started getting uncomfortably warm.
Abe started cursing and banging the walls, all the while ranting “goddamn fucking dinks – I hate them!” The plumber was praying in what sounded like Russian while Rain softly hummed “Let It Be”. I tried unsuccessfully to pry open the doors and reminded everyone that at least part of our emergency call went through so help had to be on its way. It was then that I became aware of low guttural moans coming from the Asian woman; in a language I recognized as Vietnamese, she gasped that the baby was coming.
I asked the plumber if he had a flashlight, which he did. Turning it on, he handed it to me and everyone calmed down just a bit. Amazing what a little ray of light can do. With her back to the wall, the pregnant woman slid down and eased herself onto the floor. I told her I understood Vietnamese from my days as a medic in Nam. I said my name was Jim; her name was Thanh. We talked softly as Abe carried on about his son who died in the war – “And for what?? This slant??” he screamed. The plumber became more agitated and Rain sat by him holding his hand.
With ragged breaths and dry lips, Thanh told me she married an American soldier in early November 1970 and he brought her back to live in the U.S. with his parents. After two weeks he returned to Vietnam; he was killed November 21st in Operation Ivory Coast. Thanh soon learned she was pregnant. Relations with her in-laws became strained and she moved into my apartment building with her cousin.
As we sat waiting, I thought of that November day. I remembered a soldier who flung himself on me as I worked in the MASH unit. He was blown to bits while I only lost my arm. That young hero was someone’s son, a friend, perhaps a brother; he could have even been Thanh’s husband.
Suddenly Abe lost it; he stood and yelled racial slurs at both me Thanh. The plumber sobbed while Rain tried to calm him. I yelled for everyone to “shut up!” And that’s when we heard faint voices.
“Anyone in there?”
“Roger that! We’re down here! Five people, one woman in labor!” I shouted and was rewarded with a resounding “HUA!”
Haltingly the doors were pried open and a rescue ladder was lowered into the elevator. Abe headed straight for the ladder; I stopped the selfish bastard in his tracks.
“The pregnant lady goes first.”
Abe called me “a no good spook” and blindly took a swing at me; even with my disability I was able to easily block him. I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor where he sat, head in hands, repeating what must have been his son’s name. I pitied the man but he was not the only person in pain.
With my assistance, Thanh gingerly made her way up the ladder; she was pulled out of the elevator and the EMTs rushed her to the hospital. The rest of us slowly climbed to safety.
When I emerged into the lobby of my building, I found one of Thanh’s shoes. Call it whatever you want but in that moment I knew I had to get to her.
Nobody likes a downer but the reality is summer vacation is almost over and school has already started or is about to start for many students around the world. What better way to usher in the school year here At The Movies than with the classic film, “To Sir, With Love”.
American Mark Thackeray (Sidney Poitier) recently received his degree in engineering but cannot find work. To make ends meet, he takes a job as a teacher in a rough London East End school populated mostly with troublemakers who were rejected from other schools for their behavior. While the students at first see Thackeray as just another teacher open for ridicule and bullying, his calm demeanor and desire to see them succeed gradually earn him their respect.
Released in 1967, “To Sir, With Love” is based on the 1959 autobiographical novel by E. R. Braithwaite and offers dynamic insight into the politics of race and class in postwar London.
Scottish singer and actress Lulu performed the title song whose lyrics poignantly describe life in the U.K. in the 60s and the teenage revolution that was gaining full momentum at that time.
Here now is the movie’s trailer with Lulu singing the excellent title song.
A great song and terrific movie! Sidney Poitier was a powerful presence in every role he undertook.
With the end of summer drawing near and September knocking on our doors, I have a school-related question for you today:
Did you have a favorite teacher and/or subject?
My favorite subject was 11th Grade English Lit. I was an excellent student (in that subject) and the teacher, Mr. Voight, was my favorite. He introduced our class to fantastic books which we discussed in class. He showed us great movies which have become classics, films such as On the Waterfront, The Pawnbroker, Dr, Zhivago. We didn’t get to goof off and watch movies, though; we had to write reports about them and have class discussions. It’s amazing how much more you discover about a book or movie when you compare thoughts with other people! Thank you, Mr. Voight!
Thanks for joining me today At The Movies; I’ll be here again next week with a great flick, terrific music and some news! You don’t want to miss it.
“No, they are not! They’re hydrangeas, Ben. Don’t you remember we had snowball bushes in the backyard of our first house? These are not them!”
“Yes, of course I remember having snowball bushes in our backyard and they looked just like this! I also remember we have a roast beef in the oven right now and if we don’t get home and take it out, it’s gonna be pot roast!”
“Merciful heavens! My roast beef! I forgot all about it! We’ll come back tomorrow to admire the hydrangeas.”
Reposting this from January ’22. Some of you have read it, many have not. Hope you enjoy another favorite of mine as much as I do.
It was raining when Kate Sullivan left Mercy Hospital. She was exhausted after her 12-hour shift, a bit short-tempered and very sweaty. All she wanted was to get home, peel off her scrubs, shower and go to sleep.
Usually Kate walked the seven long city blocks to her apartment in Soho just to clear her head, grabbing a donut on the way. Even after a nightmare of a shift, walking was better than riding the New York subway with the pervs and melancholy drunks spilling out of Joe’s Bar. Her Crocs and scrubs had been splattered with enough bodily fluids at the hospital; she had no desire to be subjected to the lascivious Neanderthals who rode the train.
But walking home this morning in the pouring rain was not an option. Stepping out from under the protective awning of the hospital, Kate hailed a taxi. As if by magic, one appeared almost instantly. “Thank God” she sighed, praying the cabbie wasn’t one of those chipper talkative types. She just wanted someone to drive her home in silence.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, miss. And where might ya be goin’?” The cheerful driver’s greeting sounded like Irish angels singing.
Kate groaned quietly and rolled her eyes. “I might be going home if you’d just start driving’’ was her clipped response.
“Yer wish is my command! Where to?” the cabbie asked, undeterred. In a matter-of-fact voice Kate gave the driver her address.
“I’ll have ya there in a jiffy!” he replied and began humming a tune, one which was vaguely familiar to Kate but she couldn’t place it.
How could anyone be so cheerful at the ungodly hour of 5:00 AM? Kate glanced over at the cabbie’s ID card taped to the tinted plexiglass that separated the front and back seats. She read his name was Declan O’Murphy; could it be any more Irish? His photo depicted a rather handsome man, probably early-thirties with tousled brown hair and a shadow of a beard. He wore a somewhat serious expression but there were deep dimples threatening to break out, almost as though he had a private joke to share. His eyes stared back at Kate and she felt goosebumps doing a jitterbug up and down her arms.
Kate sat back in her seat, took out her phone and quickly checked her schedule. Damn! Another 12-hour shift tomorrow night. She peeked over the top of her phone to steal a glimpse of the driver and immediately looked away when she saw he was looking at her in the rearview mirror. He grinned broadly showing dazzling white teeth. He looked extraordinarily handsome.
“Are ya a doctor, then?” he asked, eyes dancing.
“Pfft!” Kate exclaimed. “No, I work a lot harder than most doctors I know. I’m an ER nurse; just came off an all-nighter and have another one tomorrow.”
Declan whistled and pushed his cap back a bit. “ER. That’s pretty heavy-duty stuff now, ain’t it? Well, I’ll leave ya be; just relax. OK if I put on some music?”
Kate shrugged and mumbled “whatever”; she found herself smiling slightly at Declan’s charming accent.She was surprised when rock music filled the taxi. Kate recognized the song as the same one Declan was humming and found she really liked what she was hearing. She was sure she’d heard it before but just couldn’t place it.
She leaned forward a little, talking over the music. “I like this song a lot. Who is it?” she asked.
Declan jokingly gasped and smacked his hand across his chest as though mortally wounded. “Ya can’t be seriously tellin’ me ya don’t know the best rock group to come out of Ireland? Why, this is the one and only Thin Lizzy. Here … take a look at this” and through an opening in the plexiglass he passed Kate the jacket for the CD ‘Jailbreak’. “That there’s the great singer Phil Lynott, gone too soon like so many before and after him.”
Kate really enjoyed the CD and before she knew it they had arrived at her apartment building. Was that disappointment she was feeling?
“Here ya are, safe and sound”. Declan offered to walk Kate to the front door with an umbrella but she said that wasn’t necessary and asked how much she owed him for the ride. They settled up and Kate made a dash for the front door. Declan watched her disappear into the building, then drove off in search of another fare.
It wasn’t until Kate was in her apartment that she realized she still had the CD jewel case. She frowned wondering how she’d be able to get it back to Declan. He only had her address, not her name or apartment number and she didn’t notice which cab company he worked for. “Well, I’ll think of something” she thought. “Right now I need a shower and sleep.”
When she was done, Kate got into bed, reached for her phone and clicked the YouTube app, searching for Thin Lizzy. She fell asleep listening to ‘Jailbreak’.
The following night her shift was just as hectic as the night before. At 5:00AM, dog tired, achy and hungry, Kate left the hospital for her trek home. No rain today and the pre-dawn streets were still deserted except for an occasional car and the lights from a 24/7 donut shop. She was about to stop for a sweet chocolate glazed when she heard two short honks from a nearby car. Looking over her shoulder she recognized Declan’s taxi and immediately smiled.
The window slid down and Declan’s sing-song voice rang out: “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, lassie. Might ya be lookin’ fer a ride home?”
Kate laughed and walked to the cab. Easing into the back seat, she teased Declan a bit, asking if he was hoping to find her or his CD case. Now it was Declan’s turn to tease. ”Could be I was hoping to find both.”
They exchanged friendly banter all the way to her building; there was even a little flirting going on. Kate asked herself if she could be falling for this guy after only two short rides in his cab. What was really weird was she never got a clear look at Declan but she realized to her amazement that didn’t matter. For once she was attracted to a guy for his personality, the things he said, his sense of humor and his appealing Irish accent – not his looks. Usually that was the first thing that drew her to a man but this was different.
“Hey, Declan, you know what I just realized? You don’t know my name!”
“Well, I was hopin’ you’d tell me cos I have something to ask ya” he replied.
“My name is Kate. Kate Sullivan. What do you want to ask me, Declan?”
“Ah, a wee bit o’ the Irish in ya, is there? I knew it! Well, Katie, there’s a Thin Lizzy cover band playing tomorrow night at Paddy Maguire’s and I was thinkin’ it would be grand if we went together.”
Kate didn’t hesitate for a second. “I think it would be grand as well. I’d love to go, Declan. I want to get to know more about you.”
“Aye, Katie, that you will. I’ll pick you up right here tomorrow night at 8:00. And, Katie – my friends call me Murph.”
No one ever called her “Katie”; she felt little butterflies in her stomach when Declan called her that.
Kate wanted to look great for her date but didn’t want to look like she tried too hard. She chose a sunny yellow camisole, her favorite pair of skinny jeans and dangerously high-heeled sandals. She hoped Declan would appreciate her look.
At that same moment Declan sat in his taxi waiting for Kate; he was so nervous he got there 20 minutes early. This was a bold move for him, rarely acting so impulsively, but he felt he and Kate clicked after spending only half an hour riding in his cab. He thought about his grandparents who met on a train in Belfast and were madly in love by the time they reached Dublin. He hoped Kate wouldn’t be disappointed.
When Kate spotted Declan’s cab, she stopped for a minute to compose herself; she hadn’t been this excited about a date in eons. It was crazy – she barely knew the guy. Declan saw her standing in the doorway of her apartment building and his heart started pounding; she looked amazing, so understated yet elegant.
Kate started approaching the cab. “Well, it’s showtime, boyo” Declan whispered to himself as he got out of the cab and walked around the front to greet Kate.
“Wow! You’re a fine thing tonight, Katie!” Declan said breathlessly.
Kate stared at Declan in disbelief. “And you’re … you’re …”
“Ah, so you’ve noticed I’m a little person, have ya? All 4 foot, 5 inches of me.” Declan gave her a crooked smile. “Achondroplasia; I’m sure yer familiar. Katie girl, if this is a deal-breaker, I understand.”
All Kate could do was stare. Neither one spoke. Kate laughed nervously and said “Yeah, this is quite a surprise. Oh, damn! Sorry! I just remembered something.”
Before Declan could respond, Kate ran back inside her building. “Well, I suppose that’s it then, ya eejit! Shoulda said something before now!” he chastised himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking back to his side of the cab.
“Murph! Wait!” It was Kate calling out to him. Declan turned around to see Kate running back to the taxi. Catching her breath she said “Here. I forgot your CD case.”
Taking the case from her outstretched hand, the first thing Declan noticed was Kate had switched her 6″ high heels for flat sandals. He looked up at her and she smiled broadly.
“Declan O’Murphy, if you think a little thing like this is going to change how I feel about you, you’re dead wrong. Now drive. Our night is just beginning.”
What can I say about Frank Sinatra? Enough to fill a book, and there are plenty of bios written about Frank. The song I have selected for you today is not Sinatra’s signature piece, “My Way”, nor is it one of his tributes to New York or Chicago.
Nope, I decided to go with one of Frank’s songs that has some real grit to it, a great little melancholy number with a sad story attached. And I chose this song specifically to show off Sinatra’s acting chops.
Most of you know that Sinatra starred in quite a few movies but did you know he won an Oscar for his performance in “From Here To Eternity”? Today’s song perfectly showcases Frank’s Oscar-winning acting ability. Have I given you enough clues to guess which song I’m talking about? It’s the legendary “One For My Baby”, written by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer and first recorded by Frank in 1947.
In the video you’re about to see, Frank is singing live in front of hundreds of people and yet he manages to turn the song into an intimate conversation. Here now is the one and only Frank Sinatra performing “One For My Baby” live at Royal Festival Hall in London.
Just a man pouring out his heart to his confidant … a bartender named Joe. This is the consummate showman, putting 100% of himself into his songs, transforming each one into a musical vignette. In my book he was pretty great!
Now for the easy-peasy question of the day:
What is your favorite Frank Sinatra song?
Share a comment or a video, if you like. For me it’s “Nancy“, of course! The song, written in 1942 and recorded by Frank in 1944, was originally called “Bessie (With the Laughing Face)”; the name change was inspired by Frank’s daughter, Nancy Sinatra.
When I was a kid, I thought Frank was singing this one just for me. ☺️
That’s it for today In The Groove, my friends. It’s always a blast spending Tuesdays with you!
Dedicated to my sister for her ceaseless loving care.
My elderly mother stood by the window, her hand pulling back a section of curtain. “Mom, what are you doing up? It’s nearly 3AM.”
Without turning to look at me, she replied. “I’m waiting for my husband. He’s returning from the war and will be home any minute.”
I closed my eyes and sighed in resignation. One moment she was lucid, the next her mind clouded over like wintry days. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth again.
My father never paid me much attention. It was no secret he wanted a son, not me. Years later, my mother died and Dad took up with Paulette Gardner, a nurse with a taste for Marlboros and Rheingold.
Right around Fourth of July weekend, Dad brought Paulette back to our place. She said “Hi, honey” to me and started making herself right at home. I was looking forward to a barbecue and fireworks but Dad and Paulette only came out of the bedroom for beer and cigarettes. That Sunday night I packed a few things in Mom’s old suitcase, took her address book, whatever money I could find and softly left my home in Schenectady.
I was 13 years old.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I called Mom’s cousin Trudy in Brooklyn. She didn’t hesitate for a second, taking me into her home and caring for me like I was her own daughter. She also gave me a job in her bakery on Nostrand Avenue. When Trudy retired she put me in charge and I eventually became the owner.
A dozen years went by when I got a call out of the blue. It was Paulette letting me know my dad had died. There was no love lost between us but I felt I should drive up to say farewell.
I stood just beyond the honeysuckle-covered arch and silently watched my father’s funeral; only Paulette was in attendance. I felt nothing but the cool breeze on my face.
The Elephant's Trunk 