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.

Two tunes have been rattling around in my head over the last week or so and I can’t seem to jar them free. The tunes are “Joe Cool” and “Little Birdie”, two songs sung by Vince Guaraldi for those wonderful Charlie Brown animated shows from the 60’s. When I was a kid, I always thought that the songs were being sung by some older, gray-haired black man with a wise gaze and a perpetual grin. I had no idea it was in fact Guaraldi who was singing the tunes.

How awesome was that guy? Guaraldi is one of the main reasons why I love jazz so much. As a kid, I devoured the books of Charles Schultz and the escapades of the Peanuts gang. And I never missed a Charlie Brown special or the perennial broadcasts of the Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas shows. Whether I was consciously aware of it or not, it was Guaraldi’s music that kept me coming back for more. I remember two songs that completely knocked me out as a five or six year old and had me glued to the television each time they played. One was the song “Angela” by Bob James, better known as the theme from the television show Taxi. The other was Guaraldi’s version of “O Tannenbaum”. Pure bliss every time I heard it.

I didn’t watch the Charlie Brown shows simply for the characters or the animation. What really sold me was the music. What a perfect pairing - Schultz’s wonderful ideas and Guaraldi’s timeless tunes. Over forty years later and we’re still drawn towards those early specials, even though more shows premiered after Guaraldi’s untimely death in 1976. In my opinion, the shows were never as good in the later years as they were when Guaraldi provided the musical backdrop.

I guess worse things could be rattling around my head right now.

Joe Cool

Little Birdie

O Tannenbaum

Miles Davis’ seminal album Kind of Blue was released fifty years today. What can I say about this record that hasn’t been stated a million times before?

I purchased this as a cassette around my sophomore year of college and didn’t like it. I had purchased a cassette of Coltrane at the same time and was much more taken with it and its incendiary flavor. Miles’ album was too calm, too melancholy. The statements it made were like whispers in a dimly lit corridor, compared to Coltrane’s album which seemed to scream its urgency across my tiny bedroom. Maybe that is where my head was during that time. Who knows?

Little by little, however, I found myself repeatedly returning to Kind of Blue. In time, I realized that it was an incredibly seamless, warm and dare I say “sagacious” album. The space between Miles’ notes. The swooping grandeur of Coltrane’s tenor. The interplay between Cannonball and Coltrane. And Bill Evans. Such a light and poignant touch came from that old soul’s fingertips. So much was said on an album that runs only forty-five minutes long. Unforgettable music from what deserves to be the best-selling jazz album of all time.

One of the greatest things about Kind of Blue is the fact that it is so accessible to those who may not be at all familiar with the jazz idiom, yet it sacrifices nothing in its approach and contribution to the art form. And fifty years later, it is as relevant (and after hundreds of plays — beautiful) as it was upon its release in 1959. Take that, Kenneth Gorelick.

sidenote: in case you missed it, the Slate website had a nice write up about the album today.

Indulge me for at least five minutes with a conversation about music and my most prized albums and you will undoubtedly witness the huge amounts of adulation I heap upon the 1968 album Astral Weeks by Van Morrison. As I’ve said before, it along with Black Saint and the Sinner Lady by Charles Mingus are, to me, two of the most beautiful albums ever created. And I promise you, I felt this way before I ever read Lester Bangs’ pitch perfect review of the Astral Weeks album. The fact that Bangs completely dug the Mingus album as well is pure coincidence. I must admit that knowing Bangs had such a fondness for both records made me feel like I had, at least, a modicum of good taste.

Here is a link to an interview with Morrison posted by NPR over the weekend. Morrison realizes that Astral Weeks has had such a powerful influence over many people, but he also states that, due to the lukewarm reception and promotion from the record company, he had pushed the album out of his mind. He is basically saying that although the album has completely changed the way many of us look, listen to and feel music, it didn’t mean that much to him. It was just another album.

The fact that Morrison is almost dismissive of the one album that completely knocked me on my ass should bug me. But, it doesn’t. It may not mean that much to him. And that’s okay. He created it. He should be able to feel about it any way he pleases. It still represents the pinnacle of artistic brilliance to me. Probably always will.

Morrison is touring the states now, singing the entire album at each stop. He plays in Waterbury, Connecticut at the end of October — right before my birthday. Ummm….yeah. Trust me, I thought about it. Southwest. Nashville to Hartford. 30 minute drive from Hartford to Waterbury. I could do that, no sweat. Problem is, the round-trip tickets from Tennessee to Connecticut would cost me less than getting a decent seat at the concert. I can’t really justify slapping down a mortgage payment just to see a concert. Can I?

So, unless I somehow encounter a windfall of cash within the next week or so, I won’t be going to the concert. I’m trying to stay in a practical frame of mind. Of course, I could eat bologna sandwiches and not leave my house for the next two months. Become a temporary hermit. I could probably save enough cash within that frame of time to justify making the trip. These are all reasonable considerations.

Like Morrison, I need to push that whole idea out of my mind and just spend that day in October endlessly spinning my favorite cd with my eyes closed, pretending I am in a concert hall in Waterbury. Not the same though, is it? Oh well.

Over the last few weeks or so I have been repeatedly listening to Hank Mobley’s version of “There’s a Lull in My Life” from the A Slice of the Top cd. I’ve heard this song many times before, but for some reason, recently, I’ve really been listening to it. Beautiful. Nevermind the fact that this tune could also be the title of my autobiography (actually, life ain’t too bad right now). Not sure why, but it took me up until now to recognize the real beauty of the tune, the melody and Mobley’s tone. Truly knocks me out.

I could meet the most hideous woman with the most odious personality and disposition, and if we met while this song was playing, I’m sure I’d almost want to take her Broom Hildaish face in my hands and place a loving peck right on her hairy warted face.

I’ve placed the song on the Evening Melancholy MySpace page for all who doubt my veracity. You may completely disagree with me, but at least I got you to listen. :o)