I once thought we’d be fine if new songs were never written; the old ones had said it all—and better. Old songs can be sung again and again, by different singers, and reinterpreted without violating the intent of the original. It’s been done to many love songs, which, however sung, still appeals to lovers of all ages.
I’ve just been listening to new renditions of some of them—“All the Things You Are, “Always,” “Day by Day,” “The Nearness of You,” theme songs of young couples of our time, a time when it was cool to have a theme song to mark the exchange of college rings and seal the vow of mutual exclusivity.
Unfortunately, Vergel and I are a relatively modern couple, having come together already over the hill of first love and past the age of theme songs—If Vergel tells you it’s “Jailhouse Rock,” he’s actually knocking the whole saccharine idea. Actually, it’s with him that I have developed a deeper understanding and appreciation of music, which definitely has a place in our home, very much a part of our lives.
But nothing affects me like old-fashioned love songs of my generation. Those were happy, innocent times, worth recapturing through music. Thank heavens there are television and radio shows dedicated to the tunes of our era.
‘Mona Lisa’
Once I chanced upon Nat King Cole singing “Mona Lisa,” which brought to mind a movie starring Alan Ladd. I saw it at Scala, a good walk from the apartment—now called townhouse—my folks lived in. I was in upper grade school and lived with my paternal grandparents in Pasay City, but I looked forward to weekends at Mom and Dad’s. My grandfather’s family owned a first-run theater, Ideal, but the second-run Scala of my parents’ neighborhood showed double features. I went there with a maid.
Very recently I caught an older Don McLean, best known for his album “American Pie,” c. 1971, being interviewed on TV. He was explaining why, after singing other people’s songs, as Sinatra did, he had decided to write his own. “Old songs didn’t say enough—so I felt I had to write my own.” Well, I, for one, among his throngs of fans, am glad he did, and stand, at least in his case, corrected. Imagine for instance if “Vincent” were never written!
“Vincent,” he explains, “is a calm place to be… a place of sanity.” To him the battle of life is a “fight for people’s sanity” amid all the troubles of the world.
A video of the song sung by McLean himself was set against a tapestry of paintings, some I haven’t seen before, by the Impressionist Van Gogh, the Vincent of his song, whose melody and poetry combine to bring out his personal and artistic angst and tragic genius. Indeed, it offers the best defense of Vincent’s sanity and is so powerful it moves me to tears:
. . . For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you Vincent
The world was never meant for
One as beautiful as you . . .
Poetry and romance
McLean believes people still flock to listen to him because they’re looking for lyrics and melody in songs that resonate with genuine emotions they can relate to. For them, he says, “I want to bring back poetry and romance.”
I myself can hardly wait for the revival of his songs, particularly, the consummate love song “And I Love You So,” which took five years before finally taking its place in the charts, overpowered as it had been by louder songs by trendier groups of the time.
“My past is my future; I’m getting all my songs back,” Don McLean promises, meaning reacquiring the rights to them. I can’t wait to hear them all over again, sung by the original songwriter in his mature years.
A clip of him singing, his hair all white and straggly, reveals a rounding out of character, which brings to mind the special thrill to hear Tony Bennett, in his 80s, when he was here, singing his songs in the same pitch but in subtle, new ways.
Love songs are timeless and somehow stay with us. Whether about love found or love lost, they help us celebrate or ease old pain, possibly heal old coronary wounds—if not to love again.
As if catching my vibes, Celia Barrientos texts me. She and her husband, Rene, and their favorite neighbor, Clipper, all favorite friends, who make up our occasional Sunday breakfast company, invite us to the lobby of the Makati Shang to listen to an all-woman—except for a young man on bass— string orchestra over tea, from 3 to 6 p.m.
With too many years and memories, we can’t help but converse above the music about family, health and politics, but we don’t miss a single song—each one is immediately recognizable. The music ends at about sunset, just about the time we are ourselves ready to call it a day, though not waning in energy; on the contrary, upbeat. Before leaving, Rene suggests we order a club sandwich to share, so we can forget about dinner. But after three hours of music, we don’t want anything. Even our stomachs feel full.
Love is love for all times and people of all ages. But nothing does it better for seniors than old songs in the company of good old friends.