American

The fragile dreams, the strength in tenderness. Waking up in the morning and knowing that the one you love is right there, even before you open your eyes. Feeling the warmth, the body close, the skin so smooth. And yet it is just the body. Waking up much earlier, I baked some bread rolls. And coffee. Waking up to a kiss, the first kiss of the day, the first kiss of the universe, for this is how the world begins, in a flash of love that stretches through the day, the dream that keeps on becoming life.

And yes, it may be an autumn day, gray and rainy, but it is made all the more lovely by the contrast when you are aware of the warmth inside, the gratitude; thank you for letting me love you. It seems too glib to say it out loud, or wrong in other ways. Love is a choice, and letting someone in is a choice. Thoughts and impulses are seeds that you may choose to nourish or wilt, and the tree grows into heaven, here in the bedroom, the mornings spent together, holding each other, whether it is for a long time or just for two minutes before the breakfast. It is a choice made each day, and yet it doesn’t feel like a choice but something inevitable because it keeps happening every morning until you can’t imagine a future without this intimacy that makes the world more colourful, the sounds brighter, the scent of the loved one incomparable to anything.

There are no demands at this moment, and gratitude of your existence, of your presence near me, of your willingness to stay beside me, is not a demand either. If such a thing as purity can be real in the human condition, it is this hazy mood, the feeling of surrender and the experience of our souls blending, the secure feeling of always having someone on your side which makes you all the more independent. Because you can dare to do anything, or attempt it, to dream, to fall. No requirements except the willingness to be loved. How ridiculous people’s demands seem: must have certain height, certain weight, a job with good salary, personality traits that are compatible with mine in some internet questionnaire. Yet this is all that matters, the humour of it all: the recognition of value in what we cannot value in ourselves, the shape of your hips compared to mine, the femininity, the masculinity, the different places of softness, the subtlety of shapes, and the sounds you make when breathing happiness, a kiss on the neck, fingers slow on the thigh, with no aim but to express this desire for unity, for connection. How the day begins. How life begins.

We discover each other, discover ourselves as lovable. This is what we could be. One is capable of feeling complete in solitude as well, but as a couple it is something more, shared completeness. The recognition of beauty in a universe in which all beauty is a subjective experience. There you are, opposite me eating the bread roll. Touching your hand, smiling. This is real. I am more real at this moment, being seen, being loved.

And all it takes is letting someone in, though it has to be mutual, otherwise there’s nothing. Touching the skin, but more importantly, touching the soul, how vulnerable it makes us feel, how complete.

The real names of Paul and Paula are actually Ray Hildebrand and Jill Jackson, but their duo was named after the song. The melody and lyrics are simple, yet contain clever tricks that make it memorable. For example that repeated “Hey hey hey Paula” in the second line, an emphasis that is gentle yet creates a feeling of urgency, how “Paul” really has something important to say. Naming the characters Paul and Paula also creates a sense of unity, as if they’re almost the same person.

As such it represents a feeling that is common when a relationship is young, sometimes called limerence. It’s a feeling that you have found someone so special and complementary that you’re melding together. Some people find the emotion extremely distressing, because it also implies losing control and the sense of one’s boundaries. In fact, if one of the partners has a poor sense of boundaries it may feel like drowning or disappearing into the lover’s overwhelming presence. It’s one reason for fear of commitment, which manifests by creating distance to the object of love, constantly wanting someone, yet pushing them away.

But no such things here. Instead, we’re given a glimpse of a dream in which everything is resolved once people get married. In the song it’s a vision of people still at school, presumably high school, but often it’s people who are much older who find the song inspirational. It may be unrealistic to expect that life could be so simple: that there is this true love you find at school, then get marriage and share your life every day, and everything’s just swell forever. Yet growing older I’ve learned that unrealistic dreams are important. They’re visions that make us strive toward a future that wouldn’t be possible at all without the dream. No, everything will not go as planned, such is life, but without the dream things could be much worse.

The simple message may thus seem superficial, but I don’t believe cynicism would be any more profound. It’s just a different viewpoint in which such daydreams are given little significance. The claim of superficiality is rather based on the assumption that people aren’t rooted in reality, that they let fluffy dreams dictate everything they see. But that’s not self evident. Daring to dream of happiness can be a choice, it’s not a sign that one is incapable of other kinds of thoughts.

There’s also certain charm in the song not beating around the bush. We get straight to the point in the verse, whereas most songs defer the enunciation of the main idea until the chorus. This kind of song structure declined in popularity in the early 60s. It has a clear A and B section, but it’s not obvious whether there’s a chorus at all. The message and main desire is commitment, and it’s hard to find a modern song that would extol marriage as the highest desire.

I’m reminded of another song that also was a no. 1 hit in 1963: I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles. On the surface it sounds just as innocent, but comparing these two songs, how they’re sung and how the argument is presented, it becomes obvious that The Beatles is a lot raunchier. They’re singing: “I think you’ll understand when I say that something: I want to hold your hand”. I don’t know how the contemporaries heard it, but to me it sounds like: “You must understand that holding hands is just a veiled reference for sex”. It’s so suggestive that it’s no wonder people had extreme reactions to it. And also it’s a part of the change in pop music, how first the veiled references were presented as the highest point of human experience, and then later some sexual act itself.

What’s fascinating about the age of innocence in pop music is that there was so much extolling of holding hands and slight kisses on the cheek, and the rest of it was just implication, so depending on your age and mindset you can interpret it however you like. It also would have been an age of censorship. But a song about marriage is undoubtedly wholesome although it also implies sex. It’s almost like sex is not mentioned, not because it would be wrong to sing about it, but because it’s a small thing compared to the feeling of unity that this song praises. It’s such a rare topic in today’s pop music that it feels almost rebellious despite being conservative.

Laughter in the Rain is a song that revels in its innocence. At the time of its release in 1974 Neil Sedaka had been largely forgotten; he had major hits in the early 60s, when the times and music were altogether different. While I do not know how people might have heard it in the 70s, I imagine the song was to many people a reminder of simpler times. And it still feels like that today, only now the 70s themselves have an image of innocence and simplicity. This shift in the perception of innocence is indicative of how people tend to see earlier times, their youth and time before we were born, in contrast with the adult responsibilities.

Reportedly Phil Cody, who wrote the lyrics, penned them in just 5 minutes after taking a walk. He had just fallen in love and didn’t really want to spend time with Sedaka to write the song. Maybe the whole situation is reflected in the story: it retains that feeling of first falling in love when life seems so much simpler than other times. And in some ways it really is: when the feeling is overwhelming, everything else becomes insignificant, including all your worries. The rain is sweeter, warmer, or if it’s cold, that too is an opportunity to get close, to feel the support and warmth of the one you love. The world may not be reduced to laughter and gentle kisses, but nothing else matters anymore, not even the task of writing a love song.

And that’s just where the song receives its strength from, although the pentatonic melody also contributes to the feeling of innocence and simplicity. In that sense the lyrics and the melody support each other nicely. There’s a sense of ease similar to just walking with someone and feeling like everything is understood, everything is interesting.

What is especially lovely about the song is that there are absolutely no hints of complications. Listening to this I’m struck by the realization how rare that is in a love song. Even if there aren’t any current bumps in the relationship described in a song, doubts and insecurities are often present, whether they are about the narrator, the loved one, or obstacles set by other people. Falling in love we get a glimpse of this presence that could be a reality even without the loved one: the rain is beating on the leaves, but the sky is not furious. There is just love of raindrops, the understanding of how we can laugh. “Sharing our love under stormy skies” could mean that the love is already there within each person. It’s just that finding that special someone we can finally share it, reveal it, and discover our own happiness when seeing each other and laughing together, no matter what the weather is like.

Thus the song is a nice reminder of what matters, walking hand in hand with someone, and just remembering that is enough to make you happy. Remembering the rain, the myriad possibilities present in a kiss, all of them wonderful. The light shines through, the woods have a fresh scent. We shiver; we are warm. We want the same thing, to feel intimate. And in that wish we are never alone, but a part of the same humanity, same possibility to love and be loved.

It’s strange how Johnny Mathis isn’t mentioned as often as some other crooners whose repertoire had many love songs. The reason might be because Mathis rose to prominence in the late 50s when the popular taste was changing and would rapidly start to favour rock music. So even though he’s had a long career, the limelight didn’t shine on him quite as many years as the likes of Nat King Cole or Frank Sinatra. And yet many original Mathis recordings became well known jazz standards, and his singing style cannot really be compared with anything else.

Misty was first a jazz piano piece by Erroll Garner before Mathis recorded it, arguably his biggest hit. And you can still hear its origins in the gentle dissonant chords and the quirky melody. There’s sweetness and peace in the way it’s sung, and yet the melody has tension. The whole situation seems fragile, just like having a strong infatuation and feeling all the more vulnerable because of it, like a kitten up a tree.

This uncertainty is present from the very first phrase: when Mathis sings “Look at me,” the melody rests on the seventh note of the scale, or the second, if the song is thought to be in the relative minor key. There is some ambiguity in that sense. Not only does the melody rest on a tension, but the song itself seems to hover in that misty area between C minor and Eb major. At least to my ear it largely sounds uncertain whether it’s going to resolve in C or Eb. And as the song ends, we’re given the beginning phrase again, leaving the melody hanging in the mist. This feeling is strengthened throughout the song. Singing “you can say that you’re leading me on, but that’s just what I want you to do” the melody goes even deeper into dissonance. You can hear it as the song going to a different key (Db) for two bars, or just resting in b9 or b7 for a moment.

Perhaps the music theory perspective means nothing to the average listener, but the gist of it is this: the lyrics in themselves are naive, but because the music goes to such unusual places, the naivety sounds fresh and intriguing. And in the first grip of love our thoughts are usually idealizing and naive, so it fits the mood perfectly.

We also have the arrangement and the voice to enhance the mood: the sweeping violins, which were a feature of so many love songs of the time, and the first violins enter just when he’s singing “and a thousand violins begin to play”. There’s also a harp in the background, enhancing that heavenly feeling. And then the oboe solo which ends with a subtle fade-in of Mathis singing in falsetto. Apparently that was an accident – he simply came in at the wrong time, and yet it fit the arrangement perfectly

And this combination of sweetness and tension, infatuation and uncertainty, has raised the song to be one of the classics. To hear music when your lover says hello, to be confused about your right and left foot, so in love that you’re completely misty. It works both as a fantasy and as a description of what love does feel like, when you can’t believe your luck that something like this has happened. That all this time somewhere there was this person so wonderful, and now just thinking of her it seems like the whole world has been transformed because you are so different feeling that way, so much in love. There’s the longing to be seen in the hope that both could share that feeling, make it even more intense perhaps by the mutual recognition. It’s like Misty is not even a song, but one of the greatest dreams written, just under 4 minutes of bliss in uncertainty.

Written for the romantic comedy Tammy and the Bachelor and sung by its heroine, Tammy captures that moment of sweet melancholy when a relationship is still out of reach, but seems entirely possibly based on the strength of emotion alone.

There are many songs with a woman’s name in the title, but this is the only one I know in which she is singing about herself in third person. Or is she? Her emotion is so overwhelming that it seems like the whole world is singing it. The cottonwoods, the hootie owl, the whippoorwill, the breeze, everything in existence knows that Tammy’s in love… except the man himself. Yet it is the projection of her own dreams, the passion that makes her heart beat so loudly that surely he must hear. Dare she even dream that he might reciprocate her feelings?

Debbie Reynolds who acted the lead role sings the tune sweetly, balancing well the joy of infatuation and the sadness of uncertainty, while the moody violin emphasizes the latter. This song actually has a connection to Sixteen Reasons by Connie Stevens: both singers were actresses who married Eddie Fisher, himself known for romantic songs, though I haven’t heard a song of his that would be as touching as these two. Reynolds and Fisher also had a child who became famous, Carrie Fisher.

Perhaps it is so touching because the song is so tender while love is so powerful that it encompasses everything. In loving him, Tammy is a part of everything. And seen from another perspective, when you are loved by just one person, the whole world seems a bit kinder, and in some ways it is. Perception is changed by loving someone as well as being loved, and never does it feel more complete than when there’s a degree of mutuality, even if just for a moment. Having that experience transforms a person forever. Even if years of solitude would follow, it offers us a glimpse of what is possible, what is the meaning of beauty, what can appear as a purpose emerging from the doubt and ignorance. The night is warm, anything is possible, and this relationship must become real. It is the dream that if we love someone strongly enough, surely we will be loved back. The real world teaches that it isn’t so, but for a moment in romance it seems possible: love alone is enough.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;”
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

From Maud by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

My Funny Valentine has always disturbed me. The sweet melody of this jazz standard is such a big contrast to the lyrics which are a confession of love, yet profess an absolutely judgmental attitude, even controlling. Yet the lyrics are ambiguous enough so that each singer can change the meaning slightly with lyrical variation and vocal interpretation, which must be one reason why the song has been recorded many times.

Most versions I’ve heard have been sung by men, and most omit the first verse, which Johnny Mathis chose to include with one small change. The song was composed by Richard Rogers, with lyrics by Lorenz Hart, for the musical Babes in Arms, first performed in 1937. It was written for a female character to sing, and the “Valentine” of the title is actually the name of the male protagonist. The belittling of the object of love is reminiscent of Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 (My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun). The sonnet is a parody of 16th century clichés in love poems, how the mistress is compared to beautiful objects in nature. Shakespeare claims that even though his mistress is not pleasant to look at, hear, or even smell, he still loves her. It is an unpleasant statement even while it takes the form of a love confession, much like some other Shakespeare sonnets considered romantic, but which are mainly about the poet’s own greatness in writing love confessions, for example, sonnet 18 (Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?).

So, there is a long history of such love confessions in literature: your looks are laughable, and you aren’t smart, but I love you anyway. The attitude feels like the speaker is above the one who is supposedly loved. Moreover, this song has another romantic cliché that undermines the sincerity of feeling: the plead for the lover not to change at all. What kind of love is so weak that it must tout its own strength by insinuating it does not want change, even in negative qualities, altering when it alteration finds?

The first verse is actually significant in softening the statement. The melody sounds like an English folk song, and use of “thou” gives the song a hint of irony, as if it was also a parody. The Mathis version softens it even more. The last lines in the original verse are:

Thou noble upright truthful sincere,
And slightly dopey gent

But Mathis sings “I’m your noble, upright…”. It makes the singer appear more self-conscious, proud and arrogant, yet admitting it, but also admitting being slightly dopey.

Further, the meaning can be also reversed. I’ve read that Lorenz Hart was possibly writing about his own insecurity, and it is certainly possible. After all, it is more common to disparage oneself in such a way than other people. The lyrics may be an expression of a wish: I see myself this way, unattractive and unlovable, but I am hoping someone could love me as I am anyway. It does sound more sincere that way, and it is striking how the ruthlessness of such self-denigrating thoughts is revealed when sung to another person.

The most famous version of the song is probably the one by Chet Baker. He sings softly, with a pretty voice that has a similar velvet tone as that of Mathis. But the feelings is very different. Despite its softness the delivery is somewhat deadpan; the tone stays the same throughout the song. The more softly he sings, the more disturbing the lyrical content becomes when every hint of irony is stripped from it, creating a mood in which the singer sounds like he’s absolutely believing in himself as a great lover even while putting down the object of his love.

In contrast, the Mathis version has a lot more emotional variation and the range of vocal techniques used reveals it more as a performed gesture. And strangely enough, that makes it sound more sincere, as if all the variation and performance aspects made it clear that the singer is actually vulnerable, having to hide behind the mask of performance. That is one of the fascinating aspects of performance: the more we try to perform technically perfectly, the more we are revealing vulnerability behind it all. And the performance that actually sounds vulnerable may be just as much for show. It is not always easy to determine who is being more sincere: those who most bravely appear to confess their love may only be brave not out of strength of feeling, but because of indifference. And they who have the least to lose when rejected can sound very convincing, turning a confession into a performance without shyness.

The same song as a scratchy recording in case the video above is blocked in your country:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhwOw-yAwfQ

A song that is at the same time sweet and sad, L’amour qu’il fera demain feels like an antidote to cynicism. This is a rare type of song, admitting the impermanence of love without a hint of numbness or anger. It starts by stating that love changes quickly like good weather, and ends by an exhortation to not waste any moment because we cannot know what will happen tomorrow, or even tonight.

The refrain varies confessions of love from the romantic notion of eternity to a more pragmatic attitude. It uses anaphora, the rhetorical device of repeating a phrase at the beginning of each sentence, to drive home the idea that we convince ourselves and each other that love still exists even while it’s crumbling:

“You will love me, you will always love me
You will love me until the next love
You will love me as many days as you can love me”

Yet it doesn’t feel cynical. Instead Laforêt’s voice sounds thin and fragile. It is sadness without despair, for there is strength and determination to keep on believing as long as the two people can somehow make it through until the next day, the next spring, as long as possible. The melody and the waltz time also bring out the beauty in impermanence, softening the blow.

I mention the absence of anger or numbness because nowadays such songs much more commonly express one of those attitudes whose function is to disguise sorrow. Sadness is difficult to control, and two common ways to hide our vulnerability is to deny it altogether or to claim agency and strength through anger. Another way is to give in to the sorrow too much and to give up altogether. And there are many songs that express only hopelessness in the face of adversity. This song is special because it admits the sorrow without falling into it completely, and also avoids emotional diversions.

Love is here and now, so let’s enjoy it while we can. It is an age-old notion, and yet each generation must find it anew. Even when it sounds like wisdom, staying with that feeling of vague melancholy is not wise in itself. The sadness of impermanence is itself impermanent. We love, we grieve, we lament. And then we move on to love again, even if more laments would follow.

Mystery and longing, aching and passion. Michael Martin Murphey’s Wildfire is a story about a woman who lost her pony called Wildfire, but it is easy to hear the song also as an allegory of love that was either lost or has never been. The melancholy piano and the lilting guitars also contribute to the feeling of indeterminate longing.

It is not exactly clear what is lost, what Wildfire signifies, but it is important. The night is empty, the call of the hoot owl sounds meaningful as the farmer is still working when the moon comes out. Life is hard as the narrator is sodbusting (breaking the sod to make fields), and thinking of a way out. Not necessarily a physical change, but getting “these hard times right on out of our minds riding Wildfire”.

I think of the pony itself as a symbol of love. The woman comes at night with a whirlwind by her side, she’s been even presumed dead because she went out into the blizzard looking for the pony, calling for it, yearning, risking her life. For Wildfire was more important than her safety. It is her companion, her meaning.

And the narrator understands. He is waiting, hoping that the woman comes for him too, and they’ll both be riding Wildfire. The image of just waiting in solitude for the woman and Wildfire is touching. One could argue that the narrator is being too passive, just longing for happiness amid his toil. But where could he go? He does not even know whether the woman is real anymore. Maybe she is dead, just a ghost from the mountains. But he must believe. Love is real, and one day Wildfire will be here.

Murphey has himself stated that he doesn’t know what the song is about, and he’s heard many interpretations. That is what makes sparse storytelling fascinating; it leaves room for the audience to insert their own meanings into it.

The song came to him in a dream, and it reminds him of a ghost story he heard as a kid. In that story the horse is a symbol of Jesus carrying people through hard times. While that interpretation could somehow fit also the song, it would make the lyrics even more mysterious. If it was a religious allegory, who would the woman be? It is her, after all, who’s the focus of the narrator, though Wildfire is also essential to the story. Nevertheless, even taken like this, the song is about love, albeit a different kind.

The song was actually finished with the co-writer Larry Cansler, which may explain the discrepancy. If the third verse was removed, it wouldn’t be a love song at all, but more in line with what Murphey is saying. So I think it’s possible that the verse that actually explains the narrator’s position was added only after the second songwriter came onboard. Still, the way the story is told now, I consider it to be a love song, if only for a woman the narrator doesn’t even know to be real.