It is undoubtedly my favorite time of the year. Autumn. It is that brief but colorful window of time between summer’s “back of my neck feeling dirty and gritty” and winter’s “I can’t remember a worse December, just watch those icicles form”. It is the time when the breezes of eventide alternate teasingly between mild and chill. It is the one time when every single tree is given a chance to show off its plumage and distinguish itself from all the others.

Something else I love about autumn are the songs written specifically with that one season in mind. Some of the greatest jazz standards are songs about autumn — Autumn Leaves (Mercer/Prevert), Early Autumn (Mercer), September in the Rain (Dubin), September Song (Anderson), Autumn in New York (Duke), and my personal favorite, ‘Tis Autumn (Nemo). The lyrics themselves without the melody are pure poetry. When great musicians get a go at these tunes, the results are nothing short of ethereal.

I included the lyricists to these songs because songs like these aren’t written anymore. Wait. I take that back. I’m sure songs like these are written all the time. But we now live in a world whose ear has been tuned to the musical preferences of one Simon Cowell. The world has been so inundated with American Idol and its idea of what popular music is and was and what sells and what doesn’t that many of the standards of yesteryear no longer make the cut. Perhaps they are dusted off and showcased for one week, but they’re now a novelty. No aspiring pop star would dare put something like ‘Tis Autumn on their new album and expect to make the Billboard 100.

Of course, I could be wrong. I could be guilty of making martyrs of these tunes when really they are just as revered now as they were fifty years ago. I admit, I can be a bit out of touch musically. I blame Gershwin and Mercer and Kern for that.

Dig these lyrics:

Old Father time checked, so there’d be no doubt; Called on the North wind to come on out, Then cupped his hands so proudly to shout, “La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn!”

Trees say they’re tired, they’ve born too much fruit; Charmed on the wayside, there’s no dispute. Now shedding leaves, they don’t give a hoot - La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn!

(Bridge:) Then the birds got together to chirp about the weather Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm. After makin’ their decision, in birdie-like precision, Turned about, and made a beeline to the south.

My holding you close really is no crime - Ask the birds and the trees and old Father Time. It’s just to help the mercury climb. La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn.

OR

Its time to end my holiday and bid the country a hasty farewell.
So on this gray and melancholy day, Ill move to a manhattan hotel.
Ill dispose of my rose-colored chattels and prepare for my share of adventures and battles,
Here on the twenty-seventh floor looking down on the city I hate and adore!

Autumn in new york, why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in new york, it spells the thrill of first-nighting.

Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds in canyons of steel; they’re making me feel I’m home.
It’s autumn in new york that brings the promise of new love. Autumn in New York is often mingled with pain.

Dreamers with empty hands may sigh for exotic lands;
It’s autumn in new york;
It’s good to live again.

When you combine these lyrics with the haunting shiver of Billie Holiday’s voice, there is nothing more poignant or beautiful.

It’s true, I listen to these songs all year through, but they seem especially touching around this time of the year. Perhaps it’s because I know that time is fleeting, that the months of fall seem to quickly collide and fall apart and shove me without warning into the cold, early evenings of winter where the trees are embarassingly bare and all that seemed so alive and vibrant becomes dolefully lifeless and brown. What can I say? Autumn is it for me. And every time I hear an autumn song, it only solidifies my love for the season.