Wednesday 23rd June, 2004

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Thought for Today

Love is still the only easy way through life.

 

This One Does It For Me!

Hi Ken,

I am listening to the Speaking of Love CD and the poem "The Poet In Midsong" is just breathtaking.

I tried a search of the words to the poem and came up empty handed.  The last line, "it is a lovely life and I am hanging on with both hands" just may have to be my new signature line. It just "does it for me" and how my life is today.

If you can post the words to this poem, I'd be tickled pink. I'd like to print and frame it to go with my framed collection of Rod stuff.

Thanks,

Jana

We've featured this poem a number of times, Jana. I can only guess your fruitless search was as a result of you typing MIDSONG instead of MID SONG. Search engines are funny that way!

"Speaking of Love" is one of my favorite albums and here's Rod to tell you more about the songs.

LINER NOTES - SPEAKING OF LOVE

I like the effect words and music have together. A pause in a song coming from a singer of instinct like Sinatra or Jo Stafford can be as breathtaking as an aerial ballet. Marry that with the freedom an arrangement by a Paul Weston or a Nelson Riddle gives you to make those pauses, and little leaps of logic, and you have a musical language with as many possible interpretations as there are people to hear it. More, you have an immediacy of contact that requires no verbal response, only the appreciation of listening or not listening.

I grew up on radio, so sound has always been more important to me than the moving picture. Words from that invisible voice on the radio have great power and mystery. Underscoring a conversation in a film can help the implied become clear, the hinted at be understood. For a long time one of the things I’ve been associated with most is the spoken word album. That is, spoken words set against a score especially written for them. It would be wrong to call Listen to the Warm, Lonesome Cities, In Search of Eros, Beatsville, Time of Desire or The Sea, spoken word albums. The music underscoring the voice is every bit as important as any of the words. Most of the tracks in this collection are taken from the above albums, among others and books I have written, Stanyan Street & Other Sorrows and, a work in progress, September Songs.

In 1965 Anita Kerr did some arrangements for an album I was recording at RCA. I liked her work and working with her so much that I had her do all of the charts for my next album, Through European Windows. It seemed to me that in her arrangements of other people’s songs she wrote enough original music to qualify as a composer in her own right. Most of the arrangers do compose. Paul Weston ( Day By Day, I Should Care, Shrimp Boats & the orchestral suite Crescent City ), Nelson Riddle ( film scores ), Gordon Jenkins ( Manhattan Tower, This is All I Ask, P.S. I Love You ) and the great Victor Young ( When I Fall in Love, Sweet Sue, Stella By Starlight and dozens and dozens of film scores ). I was certainly right about Anita’s ability as a composer. Since then she has written all the music, to my words, for our series with The San Sebastian Strings. Beginning with The Sea in 1967, these albums have been among the most successful artistically, critically and in terms of sales, than what either of us has done - together or apart.

Anita Kerr is a wonder. She’s a singer, a pianist, an arranger and a composer... and, it would be hard to say which of all her talents is paramount. She excels at everything. Give her a three line suggestion for a piece and she’ll come back with a concerto. Suggest an instrument to help give an arrangement coloration and she’ll come up with a family of instruments that can do it better.

Pushing the Clouds Away, Gifts from The Sea and While Drifting are all from The Sea. We wrote Capri in July for The Earth, part two of our ‘elements trilogy’. That’s Anita playing a lovely, understated solo piano on Gifts from The Sea.

Out Beyond the Window is from an album I composed for Frank Sinatra, A Man Alone. It contains nine songs and four word pictures I wrote for him to recite against music. He showed up an hour early for each of the three sessions it took to record the album, to vocalize and go over Don Costa’s arrangements with his pianist Bill Miller. Frank did all of the recitations letter perfect in less than two hours and with the feeling only a great singer or actor can impart. As for the songs, he’s frank Sinatra. You always expect the best and it was better.

I first recorded The Yellow Unicorn in the late 1950's in New York. The producer was Henri Rene and the arrangement was by Gloria Shayne. This track was done in 1969 and later used in the 3 record Warner brothers set, The Essential Rod McKuen. This chart is by Arthur Greenslade and I had planned something else for it until I heard it at the session. It works well here, on the move - but quietly.

I’ve been fortunate to have had two exceptional women in my musical life. Anita Kerr, of course, and in the late 50's and early 60's I worked with the composer - arranger Gloria Shayne, first on demos of my early songs, later on finished masters for my Decca, Imperial and Columbia sides. If the name doesn’t sound familiar, it’s because Gloria finally eschewed an arranging / conducting career to concentrate on song writing. One of those songs, Do You Hear What I Hear, has in a few short years become a Christmas standard. Demonstration records, or demos, are those discs and tapes songwriters and publishers make to show off their work to artists in hopes of getting recordings made. They are always done on a budget and Gloria was a master at making a trio sound like a band. And, oh yes, imagine having Miriam Workman and Eileen Farrell singing obligatos behind you. They probably showed up as I would have, just for the pleasure of being with Gloria. I had a terrible crush on her, but I reckon she didn’t need any more mixed up young men in her life than those I already knew, or imagined, hanging around.

Gloria helped teach me that less, can be more and to respect and respond to the time allotted for a session. I don’t think any of our record dates ever went into overtime. We couldn’t afford it.

As for Gloria Shayne’s abilities as an arranger, they need no elaboration by me. Listen for yourself to Stations and Trains, JimJann. And to in my Early Harvest album. Like Anita, Gloria has her own distinctive style as a pianist. I’m due a trip East so that we can write some new songs and make some new records together. Thirty years, and counting, is a long time between sessions.

Now I Have the Time started as a diary entry in one of my books, Moment to Moment. It was titled, Another Monday, Two Months Later.

This collection features two versions of So Long San Francisco, the first recorded for RCA in 1965 and arranged by Perry Botkin Jr. The second, heard here as a reprise, was done three years later for Stanyan / Warner Brothers with a totally different lyric and an arrangement by Arthur Greenslade. Arthur has arranged more songs and more music for me than either of us can remember and he has conducted my concerts on five continents. During the dozen years we spent doing concerts together his ‘off time’ was spent as Shirley Bassey’s band leader. It got so Shirley and I began conspiring to keep Arthur busy so somebody else wouldn’t steal him from us. And Arthur was every bit as valuable to me with me classical work and film scoring as he was arranging and conducting my concerts and recording sessions.

In the receiving line, at a Command Performance for The Queen of England, Her Majesty said to me “I believe that’s your Mr. Greenslade over there, isn’t it ?” “Yes, Ma’am”, I replied. “He’s very good, I believe”, she continued. Indeed he is. Of course I never told Arthur the details of my conversation with Her Nibs, no point in making him any taller than he already is.

Lonesome Cities was my third book for Random House and my second album for Warner Brothers Records. It won a Grammy as the best spoken word recording for 1967. It’s represented here by three tracks, Cowboys / Cheyenne, The Art of Catching Trains and To Watch the Trains. These are surely three of the best arrangements Arthur Greenslade did for me or anybody else. His charts always have long, clean lines and his writing for strings is second to none. If I have any regrets about things undone with Arthur, it’s that in the hundreds of sides we cut together we never got around to doing an album of 1940's Big Band standards. We will.

Night is taken from the fourth movement of my Suite for Orchestra and Narrator entitled The City. It was commissioned by James D. Hicks for The Louisville Orchestra and had it’s premiere in Danville, Kentucky on October 18, 1973. I wrote the following as part of the program notes;

Night is the shortest movement in this work, just under 50 bars. It is romantic and meant to be so. The instrumentation is sparse, the tempo slow and the over all felling almost one of pastoral. I am a romantic. I can remember early on apologizing for that until something - maybe the process of living - made me realize that to be a romantic is not only the only safe way to get through this age but it makes this time I’m living in, for me, remarkable and worthwhile.

Nothing evokes A Newly Painted Bench more than the cover photograph on this disc, taken at the old pier at Brighton, England by David Nuttier. The arrangement for Night and A Newly Painted Bench is by the versatile Paul Rhuland, my bassist on too many tours to count. The Louisville Orchestra is conducted by Jorge Mester and The City was produced by Columbia Records maestro Andrew Kasden.

I like everything about Song Without Words, the original Jacques Brel lyric, Anita Kerr’s arrangement and Neely Plumb’s production that puts my voice in just the right relationship to the orchestra. Song Without Words is from my RCA album, Through European Windows. What I write about is my own, but Jacques Brel and Johnny Mercer have been and continue to be the prime influences on how I write it.

I can still see the face on the pillow I wrote about in the poem Camera. Why is it the ones that get away are the ones we remember? The question is rhetorical. The music is Thread of a Hope a piece I wrote especially for Sylvette Allart and she plays it splendidly. Shortly before her death, Jeri Southern composed a beautiful musical setting for Camera making it into a very rangy art song. I hope it’s recorded one day.

Apres Vous is from a couple of years ago and The Hills Draw Nearer was written this past spring. Both are from a work I’m in the process of finishing. I recorded them at the end of a 14hour mastering day and they sounded flat to me, almost as though I’m crawling out of a hole. I guess I am. There’s no more time for re-recording right now and I did want something new for this album, so think of these three poems as a work in progress. That’s how I think about you and me, and, honestly, my life in general.

The Poet in Mid Song was recorded September 11, 1994, the last day of mastering. It was done in one take, but I should have done it again.

Rod McKuen, September 1994

You'll find the poem below, Jana, and thanks for writing.

Got a favorite McKuen song or poem you'd like to share? A question, perhaps? Drop me a line at kenb@mckuen.com and I'll do my best to oblige one Wednesday soon.

 - Ken, Johannesburg, South Africa, June 23

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Rod's random thoughts God has as many faces as the people He looks after.

All of us love and hate, but few of us understand.

Only when we pause to wonder do we go beyond the limits of our little lives.

THE POET CAUGHT MID SONG
Sunday, 20 November,1988

1.

I should be writing reams
                              of velvet
and not so velvet verse.
But this is Sunday,
The Muse, the cats are fast asleep.

I should be staking claims
                                  on sentences
and stocking up on verbs
against the time of feeble mind
                      and end of energy to come.

I know you, Lack Of Inspiration,
by whatever guise or name
         you've chosen or will choose.
                              Age, Apathy,
or highfalutin' nom de plume like
No One To Motivate The Old Man Anymore.

When you were friendlier,
not given to disguise,
and I was younger than the moon was
and twice as quick to rise
I used to write about you all the time.
And rhyme you too.

Don't you remember
all the fond remembering
                         I did back then
            about some week old romance,
                                 day old kiss,
                handshake half an hour past,
as if the long ago was measured
by the second hand and not the hourglass.

All those look back songs,
                         reflective odes,
can't go home again refrains
when neon and nostalgia both were tame.
When love was such a lofty thing
and tangling in legs and arms and legs
was all the height one needed to attain.

Youth was ever naked in the night
                                 and ever innocent.
Delight had no restrictions and no pain.
The rain was heavy or not there.

Way back when,
God didn't damn the rain.

Love was always brief but longed for,
                                 always getting up
                          and going home.
But coming back
in brand new shifts and trousers.
Coming back and coming back again.
As love will do no matter
where it's been.

Long ago when We
was used by linguists to mean two,
                         and not the cosmos.
It was never me and you against the world
                                                 back then.
You were pretty. I was wise. We were comatose.

I remember
my remembering
and what the memories cost
before the table was upended
and the lot was lost.

Would I have written paragraphs like that
                                                 back then?
No matter. I know you, Time,
and you were always flirting, even then.

Excuse me if it seems as though
I'm out to fumigate our long romance.
I only seek the simple luxe
                         of Sunday rumination.

I should be busy now
with building blocks of songs and sonnets
                                  for the fortress.
Else I'll never get through
silly, chilly nights of second childhood
                 when the pen won't navigate
                                  the ruled legal pad.

2.

I scribble little bits,
enough to satisfy a thirsty journal
                                  on most nights,
but not enough to give Ned Rorem pause
                                for second Seconals.

The trunk has lots of started
                                  but unfinished songs.
Some wait in vain for lyrics promised
on some boozy nineteen-sixties night.
                Many are bare-boned
because the cannibal poet needed
one more line for one more
still unpublished song.

In the note books there are poems
                         and poems unresolved.
All that is too involved to speak about.

Billy tells me JA has finished
a single poem of one hundred pages.
Could he have heard MacArthur saying
                                         I Shall Return.
[Another grant & he'll take Richmond]
The news has sent Mc back to his MAC.

              Old soldiers never die, or shouldn't
without a few unpublished manuscripts
stuffed in books, mashed in mattresses
to pay off unexpected taxes,
to help defray the hangman's debt.

I am not cheered
by friends who quote the histories
                         of old composers
penning premier ouvrage
only after humping middle age.

Who knows what middle is
                     until he's seen both ends?

It would not make the music better
                                          if I knew
that I was working on
my own unfinished symphony.

These days
every whole note's hard to part with.
                Am I giving independence
                           to an undeserving air?
Some sonatas come
without legato and in measured time.
Others stall at pencil breaks
for want of rhythm, never rhyme.

I should be penning preludes
                 to ward the calm a-coming.
                 Instead I choose to drift back
                                          to that time
                         when I was happy drifting.

3.

Still, today,
this mid November Sunday
                        with its indecision,
rambling back and forward, wasn't bad.
Could be the middle gear is much abused
by word of mouth but not by seasoned drivers.

I always did like intervals the best.

I always used the space
             between the words
                 to say those things things
                      most needed to be said.

The hesitation
just before the strings come in
is still my favorite mid-song time.

And my, I've had some lovely, lofty
                         high string lines.

What I should be doing
             is doing it.
Instead of all this talk of past deference,
present difficulty, future disposition.

I should be singing
and I am,
inside.

It is a lovely life
and I am hanging on to it
                                       with both hands.

    -
from the CD “Speaking of Love,” 1994 this printed version © 1/12/2000

 
© 1970, 1986, 2000, 2002, 2003 by Stanyan Music Group & Rod McKuen. All Rights Reserved
Birthday research by Wade Alexander o Poetry from the collection of Jay Hagan o Coordinated by Melinda Smith o Sound & Fury Dr. Eric Yeager o Webmaster Ken Blackie
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