Ashes to Ashes.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Ron Hynes died recently. His song “Sonny’s Dream” is truly the great Canadian song — unfortunately, since I associate it strongly with my late brother I can barely stand to listen to it. The lyrics just kill.
In tribute (and have some kleenex handy).
Today is Reformation Day. It is also the third anniversary of my brother Alan’s death. I will post more about him tomorrow, but I wanted to make a reference to this day and to this hymn — in my opinion one of the most magnificent — because on the day he died, I had posted this same hymn and a reference to the Reformation on my Facebook page. This was before I knew Alan was gone and I remember clearly that the fact that he was not commenting on the post gave me a sick feeling. I knew something was wrong because it was the sort of topic upon which he would usually offer a witty or brilliant observation.
I hadn’t known he had recorded this song — I knew the Glenn Miller version only. Well, Frank rocks it.
I direct you to my latest post at My Uncle’s Letters from the War, wherein my uncle mentions a trip to Winchester and a visit to its cathedral.
Made me think of this song, in which hippies are nostalgic for the days of vaudeville. Rather like when we are nostalgic for hippies, though God knows why we would be. The 1960s, as my late brother used to say, have a lot for which to answer.
But this song is cute.
I could listen to this Lucio Dalla song on a continuous loop. In fact, that is pretty much what I have been doing.
Hello, dear readers, and welcome to the third incarnation of my website. My previous incarnation has not been destroyed, but I am trying to decide whether to link to it or not. There is something to be said for cyber-decluttering, yes? Currently, this site is a tad bare-bones, but for now that should do.
For my first post, I’d like to pay tribute to Rod McKuen, who died recently, and who, throughout his career, got much mockery as a poet. There was a scene in Woody Allen’s wonderful Sleeper, where Diane Keaton, as a poet of the future, recites one of her terrible poems and someone tells her he can hear the influence of McKuen in it.
But heck, he wrote some lovely hokey songs. One of my favourites, sung by the genius himself, Frank Sinatra.