Why I like him so much...

You know, it dawned on me earlier that I don't think I've ever told you why I like Dean Martin so much.

 Dino was supremo, the king of cool, calm, classy. Longtime readers know how much I love him and his music.

Of the members of the so-called Rat Pack, Dean is my favorite. Before you have a coronary, let me add a caveat.

Sinatra was superb. Nobody, and I mean nobody, resides in Francis Albert's league. He was a stylist, a singer's singer, The Voice, The Chairman of the Board. I own more Frank Sinatra records than any other performer, with the possible exception of Elvis.

But Dean is my favorite.

For one thing, he's funny. You can't help but laugh at the guy. His drunk routine (he usually was drinking apple juice) was classic. His ad-libbing one-liners were hilarious, delivered with pitch-perfect timing. Even his former comedic partner Jerry Lewis said Dino had the "it" that all superstars possess.

His relaxed, "I couldn't care less" attitude was inspired by his hero (and mine), Bing Crosby, updated for the '60s and '70s. There's a classic clip of the two of them together from Bing's 1970 TV show. Look at the admiration in Dean's eyes.

Oh, and don't miss this gem from Johnny Carson's "Tonight Show."

And you'll get a kick out of this. Yeah, I've tried to copy Dean's hair, his performance mannerisms when singing, even his laid-back persona when I speak before an audience. What can I say? Imitate the best!

I ordered the complete Dean Martin roasts, a collection of "The Dean Martin Show" -- both from Time-Life -- as well as the "Collected Cool" box set for my birthday. Best money I ever spent.

Maybe one of the secrets to it is that Dean, unlike, say, Frankie, seemed so accessible.

"I made myself part of the audience," he said. "I didn't act like I was doing them a favor on the stage. I've seen entertainers act like they were doing you a favor by singing for you, which is wrong. If you make 'em feel like they're a part of ya..., I don't know..."

Exactly.

And there's a serious side here, too. You know about my migraines. Won't rehash them here. But, when I get them, I can only listen to four singers: Bing Crosby, Karen Carpenter, John Denver and Dino. There's something about the timbre in each of their voices that doesn't further irritate my head.

One of my favorite things to do is put one of Dino's records on the turntable -- and they usually are records -- ease back with an ice pack, shut my eyes and dream of a day when pop culture wasn't pathetic.

So, I owe the boy quite a bit. He never fails to make me smile -- sometimes belly laugh -- and his music is pure magic.

Salud, Dino. I hope each of you has a Dean Martin in your own lives.

P.S. For the record, my favorite Dino song is his cover of Jim Reeves' "Welcome To My World" and my favorite album is "Dream With Dean." My favorite film is a tie between "Robin and the 7 Hoods" and the first Matt Helm movie.

Everybody loves somebody sometime

"And don't worry, Jeanne, I'll be home soon..."

Yesterday once more

I may have told you this story before, but in lieu of recent events, here it is again.

Eighth grade, English class, Halls Middle School. I hear the most beautiful voice wafting through the cracks in the dual classroom's partitioned wall. The social studies students next door were watching a documentary about the '70s.


Long ago, and oh, so far away, I fell in love with you before the second show...

My heart jumped into my throat. Chills ran up my spine. Birds sang. Bells rang.

And, right then and there, I fell in love with Karen Carpenter.

Hers was a rare gift, that voice precious and pitch-perfect, intimate, awesome. I thought she was singing straight to my soul.

I bought a Greatest Hits disc and began to appreciate Richard's incredible arrangements as well as Karen's angelic articulation. Soon, I bought every one of The Carpenters' A&M albums as well as a couple of imports, the box set and the recordings Richard released after Karen's tragic death. (You know that story, no doubt.)

I wrote to Richard Carpenter in 1995 or '96. His longtime secretary Evelyn Wallace sent me a sealed vinyl copy of The Carpenters' last studio album, "Made in America." I never opened it.

Yesterday, my friend Amy brought me some rare Carpenters recordings, including ones stripped down to the center channel. Oh. My. God.

I told my friend Chuck it used to bug me to no end whenever a Carpenters record would finish playing on the radio and the disc jockey (remember those?) would say, "And that was Karen Carpenter..."

I would yell, "Well, what about Richard, jackass?"

He's never gotten just due for his genius and that's a damn shame.

Hurry, quick, go watch this concert on YouTube, recorded in Budokan, Japan, in 1974. Savor it. Or devour it. Just go listen.

Call them square, I don't care. If you say that you're just proving you're cynical or stupid or, worse, can't appreciate good music when you hear it.

Yes, I fell in love with Karen Carpenter on a day that does seem long ago and oh so far away. I remember it now and will cherish it forever. That moment is mine and even today, whenever I hear that voice, just like before, it's yesterday once more.

Shoobie doo lang lang.

Long ago and oh so far away...

Halls Middle School, eighth grade, 1991.

I was sitting in an English class, near the back of the room, writing God knows what. Two classrooms were joined together by a partition. I could hear Dave Lewis lecturing next door.

After a few minutes, he showed a video -- one of those "Twentieth Century" documentaries hosted by Linda Ellerbee and a guy who's name I can't remember -- all about 1970.

Then the voice floated into the room. I was so taken by it I couldn't concentrate.

"Long ago, and oh so far away, I fell in love with you, before the second show..."

She was singing just for me, pure and honest, pitch-perfect and full of talent. I couldn't move. You know how it is when a good song envelops you, pulls you in like the undertow of a tidal wave. (This has happened exactly two other times; I'll tell you about them some other time.)

I didn't know her name. I went to the front of the room to ask Mrs. Clapp. I had to know who this singer was that had so stirred my soul.

It was my introduction to Karen Carpenter.

People tell me all the time I'm a walking anachronism. Born out of my time, they say. Kinda corny. Kinda crazy. I plead guilty to all of the above. And there's no good reason why I should have ever been stirred by a singer popular in another generation.

Oh, but that's not true. Talent lasts through the decades, remains just as powerful as it was "back then," rising above the fleeting fly-by-night junk that passes for pop music.

And I took to the Carpenters like peas and carrots.

I was touched by the lyrics, by way she seemed to crawl up into your lap and sing into your ear (to quote Herb Alpert), by the innate sadness in the timbre of Karen Carpenter's voice.

I couldn't get her out of my head. Kept humming what I later learned was a Leon Russell song. Wouldn't let it go.

A few hours later, Dave showed that same video to my class. And I learned all about Karen Carpenter's career, and her struggle with anorexia, and her untimely death at 32.

And, as is my custom, I dove head first into another obsession.

Had to have everything she'd ever recorded. Played it over and over. Ordered rare and out-of-print albums from overseas. All the crazy stuff you do when you're obsessive-compulsive.

What struck me is the all-knowing melancholy of a voice that must have hidden an inner pain. I still find it amazing that she could sing "Rainy Days and Mondays," a lyric that in some ways belongs to a mature performer somewhat weary of life, when she was all of 21 years old. It was as if she already understood something about the world that most of us later wish we'd never learned.

The other night, surfing around on You Tube when I couldn't sleep, I found a clip of Karen singing "Superstar" years ago on the BBC. I was just as taken by it as I had been that spring morning in the eighth grade. I thought back to that too-skinny little boy I was then, painfully backward in his naivete, and wondered how 16 years had slipped away.

And I thought about Karen Carpenter, about the tragic story of her life, and wondered for the 100th time why the special ones seem to leave too soon.

'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 Last Time I Felt Like This'

I used to think that no singer would haunt my dreams like Karen Carpenter.

Then came Alison Krauss. Then "Teardrops" and RobinElla. Then -- well, you get the idea.

But there is a special place reserved in the part of my heart forever in love with good music for Jane Olivor. Here, let me slide down a seat. You sit right there, get comfortable and I'll tell you the story.

Some time ago (15 years, I guess), while going through a stage wanting to be Alan Alda (don't ask), I watched a movie called "Same Time, Next Year." Starring Alda and Ellen Burstyn, the film follows a 25-year affair between two people who meet at the same quaint little cottage on the shores of the Pacific in California once a year. I'll tell you more about the movie sometime, but what's important here is the film's theme song, "The Last Time I Felt Like This," performed by the venerable Johnny Mathis and Olivor, she with the ethereal, haunting vocals.

The song is sentimental, but also beautiful, full of the naive bliss of love that sadly seems as antiquated today as leisure suits and 8-track tapes. Mathis and Olivor work magic as the harmony blends together. Somebody once compared it to two birds mating; as silly as that sounds, it's an apt description.

Olivor seemed on the brink of superstardom when she recorded that duet with Mathis nearly 30 years ago. She had a sweet recording contract with Columbia and was being compared favorably with Streisand and others.

But she swallowed a big dose of stage fright and couldn't adjust to the attention that came with an Oscar-nominated song and a concert tour with Mathis. Her husband's illness provided the perfect excuse. Jane Olivor disappeared.

They tell me she is singing again; Columbia has also remastered some of her late 70s/early 80s material. There are some gems buried here and there, including "The Best Side of Goodbye," a stunning reading of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Some Enchanted Evening," a live performance of a beautiful song called "Seasons" and mighty fine covers of Don McLean's "Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)" and Neil Sedaka's underrated "Solitaire."

But it's that sweet three minute masterpiece with Johnny Mathis that has become the moment in Jane Olivor's career. I hear those opening piano notes and lose my heart awhile as it soars into the sky. I close my eyes and pretend that Olivor is singing just for me while I remember a face I haven't seen in many moons.

It's deja vu; I've been here before. When was it? Oh, yes. I remember now.

The last time I felt like this, I was falling in love...