Isn't it rich?

Ah, yes. Detox day.

We all need them from time to time, don'tcha think? Just a day to relax, unwind, do whatever makes you happy, forget your troubles awhile.

Planned on getting outside on Saturday -- gotta work on that Dino tan -- but my back had other ideas. Yep. Having some pain down there. Just hoping it's not a kidney stone. Those are bad words in my house after giving birth to 13 of them.

But, all wasn't lost. I caught a complete "Dean Martin Show" and was able to listen to Jonathan Schwartz's birthday tribute to one of my favorite composers, Stephen Sondheim. (I cannot believe that man is 84.)

I'm not a huge fan of Broadway musicals, but I do like a few. Rodgers and Hart and Rodgers and Hammerstein are favorites, but Sondheim's songs touch my soul.

My favorite -- it's hard to pick just one -- is "A Little Night Music," an adaptation of Bergman's "Smiles of a Summer Night." Love that play.

And, although it's a cliche, my favorite Sondheim song is, you guessed it, "Send In The Clowns."

Everybody has their interpretation of the tune. Mine is that it's about a man and a woman looking back at a relationship that didn't make it. She -- in this case Desiree -- runs into the man -- in this case, the lawyer Fredrik -- who has wed but not consummated a marriage with a much younger woman. During the course of the play, Desiree looks back on the disappointments and missed opportunities of her life. It's a universal human theme.

In a 1973 interview at the Lincoln Center, Sondheim said:

"I get a lot of letters over the years asking what the title means and what the song's about; I never thought it would be in any way esoteric. I wanted to use theatrical imagery in the song, because she's an actress, but it's not supposed to be a circus [...] 

"It's a theater reference meaning 'if the show isn't going well, let's send in the clowns'; in other words, 'let's do the jokes.' I always want to know, when I'm writing a song, what the end is going to be, so 'Send in the Clowns' didn't settle in until I got the notion, 'Don't bother, they're here,' which means that 'We are the fools.'"

I've been in that situation once. Right romance. Wrong time. It happens. How you deal with it is what's important.

The song was written for Glynis Johns. I like the covers by Judy Collins, Mandy Patinkin and Barbra Streisand, but -- to me -- the definitive cover is by Francis Albert Sinatra.

Frank recorded it twice. The first attempt in 1973 is fine but flawed. It's a Gordon Jenkins arrangement, and as Schwartz said on his show, it's filled with too many fiddles.

Schwartz sent Sinatra a letter suggesting he record the song again just like he performed it in concert -- quietly, with only Bill Miller's piano as an accompaniment.

So, in May 1976, that's what Sinatra did. It's magic. Listen. See what I mean?

Useless trivia: This is also the only Sinatra song recorded in a studio that features a spoken word introduction.

Anyway. It was good to hear Jon Schwartz tonight. Due to my busy schedule (and frequent migraines), I haven't had a chance to listen to him of late. His was a fitting tribute to a true pioneer. Sondheim's music is magic, his lyrics are lovely, and his plays are (almost always) perfect.

Isn't it rich, indeed!

'Keillor Geography'

OK, y'all. Confession time.

Sometimes -- in the wee small hours, on cold and cloudy days, anytime "Sunday in New York" is showing on TCM -- I dream of disappearing.

I fantasize about moving to Manhattan, working for The New Yorker, begging Charles Osgood for a job on "CBS Sunday Morning," going to see Jonathan Schwartz at WNYC. Other days, I head to Hawaii, Maui mornings, spectacular sunsets.

I've told you before about Garrison Keillor's novel "Love Me." My friend Bridget turned me on to it in 2008. It was my fantasy come to fruition -- writing a best-seller, leaving home for the big time in the Big Apple, working for the late, great William Shawn.

But then I'll receive a note about something I've written from someone down the street. Out of the blue, I'll get a thank you card, or someone will stop by just to shoot the you-know-what. Best of all, my loved ones are here. And I think, "No. At least for now, this is where I need to be."

To my complete and utter delight, Keillor agrees. Read his National Geographic article, folks. This is WRITING. And it has the added benefit of being true.

(Shout out to Fountain City guy Charles Williams for suggesting I read this piece to rid my mind of the fear that we're entering a new Dark Age.)

Walter Mitty dreams for a day

A few years ago I read a Garrison Keillor novel called "Love, Me" that played out one of my Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dreams.

It's about a small-town scribe who writes a best-seller, moves to New York and works for Mr. Shawn at The New Yorker. I was so taken with it that I nearly moved to Manhattan. (I'd have been broke by the end of the week, but hey...)

Every Sunday (and every day if I wish), I play out another Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dream listening to Jonathan Schwartz on WNYC-FM and/or his new The Jonathan Channel. He's forgotten more about The Great American Songbook than I will ever know, and he likes the Red Sox. 

Tonight, and most nights over the last 20 years, I've played out another Walter Mitty (Danny Kaye version) dream by watching Robert Osborne on Turner Classic Movies. 

For the channel's anniversary, TCM aired a special "Private Screenings" on Osborne, interviewed by his best "Essentials" co-host, Alec Baldwin. 

Osborne's life is better than even a black-and-white MGM movie. He wrote for the Hollywood Reporter back when that meant something. He had a special relationship with Natalie Wood. He hung out with Peter Lawford at Louis B. Mayer's old mansion. He moved to New York and had a morning movie moment on CBS. He talks to Olivia de Havilland each week. 

And, nearly every night for the last two decades, he's hosted primetime introductions of the creme de la creme of classic cinema on TCM. 

Some guys have all the luck, as they say. 

Nice and easy

Like the old song says, let's take it nice and easy.

This weekend has been quiet, comfortable, cool. Other than an impromptu performance of "Suspicious Minds" at Casa De Frith on Friday night and a migraine last night that didn't make the morning, I've taken it nice and easy.

Yesterday afternoon, Jon Schwartz was playing somebody -- I missed her name -- singing "You're The Top." I hummed along, laughing at a memory of Larry Matthews (the kid who played Ritchie Petrie on "The Dick Van Dyke Show") learning it for a school play on one show. I hated that little guy. (Ritchie, not Larry.)

Snow fell in Philadelphia during the Army/Navy game. I spotted Roger Staubach and was treated to Tracy Wolfson using the word "here" three times in one sentence.

Hear, hear, Tracy!

Before the Big M kicked in, I watched Thomas Sullivan Magnum try and fail to get to the Army/Navy game in Season Four's "No More Mr. Nice Guy." I still convulse into maniacal laughter when Magnum throws his popcorn bowl in the air after Higgins tells him the score.

Today, I woke up late, drove to Shelton's, read the papers, watched Miami beat New England, put the penultimate punctuation on my plans for the last weekend of the year.

Tonight, I'll enjoy dinner with the Giant Rat of Knoxville, head home, watch "CBS Sunday Morning" and "60 Minutes" and  drift off to dream.

Nice and easy does it, baby, every time. 

'Smiling faces try to understand...'

Well, it really is Wednesday morning, 3 a.m., and I'm listening to the album of the same name by Simon and Garfunkel.

Can't sleep. Tough day. Such is life.

I put the record on to wind down, to listen to "Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream," to seek healing in haunting harmony.

And then I heard "Bleecker Street."

"Voices leaking from a sad cafe; smiling faces try to understand..."

Somehow it fits.

Vinyl Side A's final is "The Sounds of Silence" (sic). This is long before "The Graduate." The title is still plural -- sounds. Mystic melody.

"It's theme," Art Garfunkel wrote, "is man's inability to communicate with man.

"There is no serious understanding because there is no serious communication -- 'people talking without speaking -- hearing without listening.' The words tell us that when meaningful communication fails, the only sound is silence."

Written on Feb. 19, 1964, nearly 50 years ago, a song for today.

Jonno Schwartz just reminded me of something.

"'How do you know so much?' John Guare once asked Stephen Sondheim. 'I listen,' was the reply."

Points to ponder on Wednesday morning at 3 a.m., or any ol' day of the week.

Suddenly, Schwartz, seven days a week

Jonathan Schwartz and I have been spending Sundays together for many moons now.

No, I've never met him. But, thanks to the intimacy of radio, Jonno feels like a friend.

Through thick and thin he's been there, playing the good, the gold, the Great American Songbook, while pop music has plummeted.

I was more than a bit bummed earlier this year when Schwartz said goodbye to his daily show on Sirius/XM.

"Well," I thought, "we'll always have Sundays."

And, now, suddenly, Schwartz, seven days a week, anytime I want. The fun begins Friday.

Christmas came early this year.

Jonno introduced me to Nancy LaMott, to Brian Stokes Mitchell, to Eva Cassidy, to others. He knows more about Sinatra than Sinatra did. He once made music with Mel Torme at Marty's in Manhattan. You can look it up.

His father was composer Arthur Schwartz, and he grew up among the greats. Read his memoir. It's a masterpiece.

And, above all else, listen. Listen to the music. Listen to a master play the masters.

But, by all means, listen. Listen seven days a week. Anytime you want.

Second acts

Didn't sleep a wink last night. Didn't feel well. Finally nodded off about 7:30.

But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Hope you're having a good day.

I'm spending Sunday afternoon the way I usually do, with the papers and Jonathan Schwartz.

Interesting news from the literati today. Looks like the late J.D. Salinger, reclusive and retreating in life, may publish again. If this New York Times story is true, all those hidden works we have heard about may see the light of day. (For you "Field of Dreams" fans, the Terrence Mann character in the movie was actually named J.D. Salinger in the novel, "Shoeless Joe.")

How about that?

 The director of a to-be-released film on Salinger is quoted in the article as saying this is going to be a second act unlike any other, especially for a writer. Jonathan Karp, publisher of Simon & Schuster, says it will be the publishing event of the decade. Schwartz just corrected him on his radio show:

"Of the century!"

Second acts are relatively rare in American life. Scott Fitzgerald claimed there aren't any, although scholars have argued for years over what he meant.

Sinatra had one. So, too, did Tony Bennett. And Elvis.

And Churchill. And Nixon. And a few others.  

So, in the truest sense, they happen.  But rare they are. Rare indeed.

For some reason, we as a country love to build up people, then watch them fall. I never have understood that.

Still don't, on a Sunday afternoon or any other day of the week.

Quiet Saturday night

What's shakin' on this Saturday night?

It is relatively quiet here. Mel Torme (and Friends!) is on the turntable. "Porgy and Bess Medley." Doo be doo be doo dah. Remind me to tell you a Torme tale here in a minute.

Hate we couldn't make it to Brent and Katie's wedding in Music City. Of all things, I passed a small kidney stone. And I'm getting over an infection. Hey, at least I passed the darn thing. It's only the second of 14 I've been able to get rid of naturally.

Thank God for Spencer Solomon. Not only does the 20-something give me hope for the future in terms of his musical taste, but he's also a darn good guy.

Spencer brought over 15 DVD volumes of "The Dean Martin Variety Show" for me to watch while I'm laid up this weekend. How about that?

Everybody loves somebody, sometime...

As I told somebody earlier, I was a little disappointed when my condo didn't have a pole on which I could swing down from the upstairs to the living room, like Dean did. Maybe I can get Jenn to buy me an orange couch, "Mad Men" era, though.

I mentioned Mel. True story: A friend of mine went to see Torme years ago here in Knoxville. He was single at the time and brought along a buddy who, uh, had bent one elbow too many earlier in the day.

After the show, my pal got to meet Mel. He said Mel was nice, gracious, welcoming ... until the bombed buddy said, "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Bennett."

And off the bus went into the night.

Also, I had forgotten that my favorite disc jockey -- WNYC's Jonathan Schwartz -- shows up on "Mel Torme and Friends Live at Michael's Pub New York." Talk about the best of both worlds.

Let's toast one to Brent and Katie. We're there in spirit, y'all.

Have a good weekend.

Walter Mitty dream jobs

OK, let's get one thing straight:

I've got the best job in the world.

Sure, the pay isn't great, the hours are long, you hear more complaints than applause, and when you screw up 100,000 people can potentially see it.

But that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I tell tales for a living. Doesn't get much better than that.

Still, I have my Walter Mitty moments. So, here are a list of jobs I sometimes dream about on cloudy days.

Being Rob Petrie -- I don't want to be just any ol' comedy writer for a TV show. I want to be Rob Petrie from "The Dick Van Dyke Show." Let's face it: He sits around all day thinking up jokes with Rose Marie and Morrie Amsterdam. Every now and then they get to make fun of bald guy Mel. They work for Carl Reiner's Alan Brady. At night, Rob goes home to Mary Tyler Moore circa the 1960s Capri pants era. (OK, we'll forget that he also trips over the ottoman -- sometimes! -- and for some strange reason has to sleep in a single bed next to Mary's.) His neighbor is Jerry Paris. What a life!


Being Jack Benny -- I'm a big radio guy and missed out on its Golden Age. Thank God I can listen to endless hours of Benny's classic comedy. Picture perfect timing, classic routines, the self-confidence to make yourself the butt of every joke, Jack Benny's show created the sitcom. He was everything his radio/TV character wasn't -- warm, generous, even talented on the violin. I would have loved to have had a radio show like Jack's, Sunday nights at 7. LSMFT!

Being Harry O/Magnum, p.i./Jim Rockford -- Yes, I would like to be any member of this trio of TV detectives. Oh, I know it's a fantasy. The work is hard, tedious, dangerous. But, I'll take a beachfront cottage in San Diego (Orwell), a guest house in Hawaii (Magnum) or even a seedy trailer by the highway in Los Angeles (Rockford). Shows about quirky detectives have given way to a saturation of rote procedurals. It's such a shame.

Being Jonathan Schwartz -- He's been a fixture on New York radio for decades. Jon Schwartz is one classy cat. Saturdays and Sundays on WNYC, he spins everything from Sinatra to the latest showtune singer. He used to be a cabaret singer himself. His dad was a famous composer. He lives in Manhattan. He likes baseball. He writes books. Yes, sir. Yes, indeed.

Being Robert Osborne -- Need I explain it? Although he's finally slowing down, Osborne has been the host of TCM since its inception. He waxes poetic about classic cinema. And he does it with class, confidence and cogent comments. Roll the next clip!

Being Vin Scully -- Oh, that sounds too pretentious, but I'd love to be a radio/TV play-by-play announcer for a major league baseball club. The national pastime is tailor made for radio really, and Vinny and the late Ernie Harwell and a couple of others are the cream of the crop. They knew what to say, they knew when to shut up and they did it (and in Vin's case is still doing it) with class and competence.

Having said all this, being Jake Mabe is pretty darn good.

But I can dream, can't I? (To coin a phrase.)

'The Art of Excellence'

The Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli was on PBS last night singing at a concert recorded in Central Park.

It was quite the show. We missed the first part of it, but managed to hear him sing "The Prayer" with Celine Dion and "Amazing Grace" and a few others. I looked up a nice version of "Ave Maria" on YouTube after the show ended.

I perked up when 85-year-old Anthony Dominick Benedetto, better known as Tony Bennett, strolled out on stage to help Bocelli belt out "New York, New York." For some reason, it made me think of Tony's "comeback" album, "The Art of Excellence" (1986), his return to Columbia Records, which kicked off a professional second wind that kept going through "MTV Unplugged" and "Live by Request" to the present day.

I'd never heard of the album until Jonathan Schwartz was playing it one Sunday on his radio show. I used to think my favorite track was "How do you Keep the Music Playing," but another listen drew me to "A Rainy Day" and the "Why Do People Fall in Love/People" medley and "I Got Lost in Her Arms" and "When Love was All we Had."

We started out as children on a carousel...

I sometimes wonder whether singing like this is on the verge of extinction, but I think it will endure. Both younger and established artists continue to draw from the Great American Songbook. Over the weekend, I saw Streisand and Michael Buble and a couple of others on TV singing from it.

Oh, heck. If nothing else, I have my tapes and discs and iTunes and records.

Sing it, Tony...

It really was worthwhile to live when love was all we had...

'Fields of Gold'

It's happened four times.

The voice hits you like a tidal wave, drowning you in the undertow, clutching you in its magnetic pull.

Four times I've heard it: Karen Carpenter, "Close to You," middle school. Alison Krauss, "Ghost in this House," Tennessee Theater, 2001. Robinella, "Teardrops," Barley's, 2006.

And, last night, Eva Cassidy, "Fields of Gold," YouTube.

I first heard Eva on Jonathan Schwartz's "Sunday Show." I've forgotten the song, but it made me stop in my tracks. I wrote down her name and the album title, but never got around to buying it. You know how you do.

My friend and Fountain City historian Dr. Jim Tumblin, a fellow audiophile, sent me a YouTube clip of Cassidy singing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" from YouTube. That got me exploring and I came across her live cover of "Fields of Gold."

And, my god, it happened again.

Eva's life is a tragic tale. Like Karen Carpenter and Nancy LaMott, Eva's voice was taken from us too soon. She was virtually unknown outside of the Washington D.C. area when she died of melanoma in 1996. But, word spread, and she's become a favorite among fans and critics of a certain musical bent.

Her voice is haunting, full of emotion and depth, capable of soaring higher and higher, giving the listener the "wow" factor that sends chills up the spine. Hers is the kind of performance that gives the illusion of intimacy. This moment is just for you.

Go to You Tube and search for her and the song "Fields of Gold" if you like this kind of music.

I just hate she's no longer here to brighten our lives with her talent.

The Sunday Show

Sunday afternoons, if I am home, are often reserved for music.

If I tire of the NFL game of the week or the baseball game or whatever sporting event is being played at a particular point in the calendar year, I'll stay with Jonathan Schwartz's "Sunday Show" on XM. This afternoon, he played a cut from Nat King Cole's album "Sings For Two In Love" early in the game.

Out of a dream, straight into my heart...

Schwartz is treating us today. He's playing Johnny Mercer singing a medley of his own hits, at some forgotten concert at a New York hotel.

Jon says it was 120 degrees that night (the air conditioning wasn't working or something) and Frank Sinatra, also on the bill, was in his shirt-sleeves. He got a tape, he says, because he knew the sound guy.

It's something to hear Mercer sing his own work. Means a little more, you know? This might be the late, great Bill Miller accompanying him on piano. I can't tell.

It's going to be tough to break away to the Colts game at this rate.

Tonight, if nothing happens, I'll meet a dear friend at Barley's about 7 to enjoy dinner and that sweet Appalachian sound. You know what (and who) I mean.

And, if that falls apart, I'll lean back in the easy chair, put "Sinatra Sings For Young Lovers" on the turntable and swing easy into the night.

I love these lazy Sunday afternoons, in case you can't tell.

Without a song...

It's early afternoon and I'm eased back in my recliner. Didn't feel like brunch today.

So I've turned on the XM and am continuing my week-long New York state of mind by tuning into the disc jockey of the City.

Jonathan Schwartz still does his Sunday show. He's been around, it seems, nearly as long as the Great American Songbook music he plays.

Today he opens up with an eclectic gem. Bernadette Peters doing Bob Dylan.

And I'll be your baby tonight...

First time I heard that song, Bobby Darin was doing it at the Desert Inn. Mack the Knife turned Dylan's folk song into a blues number. He was good.

Now Schwartz is playing Ben Webster. He's taking off on a Richard Rodgers tune. I can't remember the name and I'm too lazy to get up and look.

I wonder if kids listen to the radio anymore in this iPod, MP3, download it now! world. I don't even listen to the radio like I once did. That's because Knox Vegas radio sucks.

But I digress.

When I was a kid, every night at 8 or so, you could find me in front of the big dial, usually tuned to some oldies station. I used to call one particular show every night while doing homework. My moniker was "Jake in Halls." (Imagine that.)

One night I coaxed DJ Tony Lawson into digging up Elvis Presley's "Promised Land." He had to go down to the basement and find the 45 RPM single. But he played it.

Left my home in Norfolk, Virginia, California on my mind...

Johnny's got somebody -- it isn't Patsy Cline -- singing "Walking After Midnight." Pretty good. Real jazzy. Something you'd hear in a joint.

Tonight we're going to hear Robin. I hear she's got a new band. Can't wait.

Robin sang me to sleep last night.

Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound, when they roll down my cheeks and they fall to the ground...

Whenever I die, my funeral is going to be a wall-to-wall sound of music that will make Phil Spector blush. You'll think you've come to a concert, and that's the way I want it. No tears. No fuss. Just tunes.

Schwartz is playing Astaire. Now it's k.d. lang, of all people, belting out Sinatra's classic saloon song, "Angel Eyes." Where does he find this stuff?

I'm thinking about turning it off. I want to hear the Chairman of the Board himself.

Without a song, the day would never end...

You're so right, Frankie. You're so right.