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I and moonlight ain’t dumb!
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I and moonlight ain’t dumb!
  I just listened to “Moonlight in Vermont.” Beautiful song, whether sung by Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, Mel Torme, or any of dozens of other artists who have recorded it. The version my computer just played for me was Willie Nelson’s.  But, as always, when Willie sang the last line—“You and I and moonlight in Vermont”—Into my brain popped the image of Graziella in West Side Story, nasally proclaiming, “I and Velma ain’t dumb!” We all know the rule for determining whether it should be “you and I” or “you and me”—“I and moonlight” sounds like Graziella and Velma to me.  Another song I love is Otis Redding’s “Try A Little Tenderness.” But when he sings, “Young girls they do get weary/wearing that same old shaggy dress,” I can’t help envisioning the poor, weary young girl dressed in a particularly vile, avocado-colored shag carpet that had been installed in a Dallas apartment where I lived in the early seventies.  Shaggy can refer to a rough nap on cloth, but usually refers to long, unkempt hair or fur, and I really think “shabby” would have been a better word for that lyric. Michael Buble evidently agreed with me, and changed the word to “shabby” when he covered the song. But I don’t like his version, I like Redding’s. Here’s a lyric that’s bothered me for ages, or at least since 1961, when Pat Boone released it: “Moody River, more deadly than the vainest knife.” The vainest knife? What the hell does that mean? I’ve looked up “vain” in a half-dozen dictionaries, and there is no definition that fits that use of the word. Was it an “excessively proud” knife? A knife with “no real significance or value”? Perhaps it could have been an “ineffectual or unsuccessful knife,” but in that case, the metaphor is blown. In Archaic, a language in which I am fluent, it could be a “senseless or foolish” knife.  There is a tissue-thin chance that the writer used vain as in “in vain,” to mean ”in an improper or irreverent manner,” like “taking God’s name in vain.” But we’re talking about a deadly knife here, so then we’re talking about stabbing someone in an improper or irreverent manner, as opposed to stabbing them properly and respectfully. I think that word just ended up there because one of the three people credited with writing the lyrics couldn’t think of another word that fit. Like “sharpest.”  That’s also probably why “the pompitous of love” appears in Steve Miller’s “The Joker.” It just fit. Thousands of words have been written about “pompitous.” Its history has been tracked and charted. Check the Internet if you’re interested—pompitous doesn’t bother me at all: It isn’t a word, so it can’t be misused; I have no idea what it is, so it can’t cause images, incongruous or otherwise, in my head. I don’t suppose lyricists can be held responsible for the images that appear in my head, and these little flaws in no way detract from the overall beauty of the songs. Well, some songs. I’m not that crazy about “Moody River.”  And really, these little flaws in lyrics are nothing to some of the lyrics I’ve misheard in my life. In 1967, or thereabouts, I thought the Everly Brothers’ hit that played on the radio way too often was “Golden Green.” It turned out to be “Bowling Green,” and my friend Nancy laughed at me. I was wrong and she was right, but I maintain it was not a laughing offense: Golden Green makes every bit as much sense to someone who’s never been to Kentucky as Bowling Green. Maybe more. Plus, Google tells me that there is now a song called “Golden Green,” by a band called Wonder Stuff. I’ve never heard it, but I take its existence as proof that “Golden Green” was a viable song title, even if it was wrong.  So there, Nancy. Evidently I am not well-traveled enough, because years later I thought the Doobie Brothers had a hit song called China Gold. I wasn’t a big fan and didn’t pay any attention to the rest of the lyrics. I figured it was a drug reference. At some point over the next 35 years I learned it’s about a suburb of San Antonio. Really, in 1973, the drug reference made more sense. I don’t think I have ever misheard a lyric as badly as a friend in Tulsa, who in 1967 sang along enthusiastically with the Beatles’ “Take A Bath Liza” which, to his lasting shame, turned out to be “Paperback Writer.”  The beauty of music is, it doesn’t have to make sense, or be perfect or even correct, to be enjoyed. How else could “Ooby Dooby” have become a hit, even for Roy Orbison? And none of these problems can stop me from singing along with a song I like: I sing along with “Louie Louie” and “Dirty Water,” and I have no idea what they’re saying. When I sing “Moonlight in Vermont,” I sing, “you and me.” When I sing “Try A Little Tenderness,” I change shaggy to shabby. Once in a while I even sing a rousing chorus of “Take A Bath Liza.” It’s all good.  |
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