Note: The world learned yesterday that a great musical icon, Tony Bennett, had passed away at the age of 96. Ironically, I had composed the following blog post a day earlier, and I have chosen not to delete the reference to Mr. Bennett, as a small tribute to him. -Brendochka

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Not surprisingly, Taylor Swift made headlines again this month, breaking all records with her concert in Singapore. She writes much of her own music, a great deal of it about love and the loss thereof, and is a multi-talented performer. And thank goodness as well for other outstanding singers such as Adele and Lady Gaga, and the immortal (we hope) Tony Bennett, who has only improved over the many decades of his career. They keep music — real music — alive.

But most song lyrics today are a total mystery to me. Between “gangsta” rap, hip-hop, heavy metal, and God-only-knows-what-else, I haven’t been able to distinguish a single word in more years than I can remember. And I’m not sure I want to.

Of course, it’s quite natural for someone of my generation (decrepit) to harken back to those good old days when pop music had melodies you could actually hum, and lyrics you could understand. They may have been corny and mushy, but they were also sweet and soothing.

Well . . . most of the time, anyway. In my day, we had the music of Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and Frank Loesser, among others. They wrote the most romantic ballads, and fantastic show tunes that I can still sing today, verbatim — though not, to my eternal distress, on-key. But occasionally someone would sneak in a novelty tune, whose lyrics were . . . well . . . puzzling. I don’t know who the composers or lyricists were, but let me give you a few samples (with no guarantee that I’ve spelled any of them correctly, but I can’t imagine that it matters):

– Marezy dotes and dozey dotes and little lamzey divey, a kiddly divey too, wouldn’t you . . .

– Abba dabba dabba dabba dabba dabba dab, said the monkey to the chimp . . .

– Chickery-chick cha-la cha-la, checkalaromi in a banana, kabolicka wolicka can’t you see, chickery-chick is me . . .

– Down in a meadow in a iddy-biddy pool, fam fwee widdle fishies and a momma fishy too . . .

– He was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin’ purple people-eater . . .

– She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini . . .

And the immortal:

– Does your chewin’ gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?

What does that even mean??!!!

I could go on, but you’re probably anxious to Google these to see whether I’m yanking your chain. I assure you, I am not. My point being, I suppose, that “crazy” is not limited to any single generation or sociological group. Like a cold, you just have to live with it until it passes . . . and try not to think about what might be around the next corner.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/22/23