Love Songs and Ghostly Duets- July 27 2026

 

Love Songs and Ghostly Duets

July 27 2026



I am listening to love songs

from a time before smartphones

television

and even rock and roll.

Back when gas was leaded

and tattoos weren’t a cool fad

 —  only drunken sailors

and fallen women had them.

Popular music

has always been about romance

 — the first encounter,

the thrill of attachment,

the longing and the heartbreak;

the joy of coupledom

and growing old as one.

This preoccupation

demonstrates the power of love in our lives.

Or at least, the idealized version.

Of course the old stuff, compared to today

was far less crude, profane, and vulgar.

There were clever rhymes

frothy wit

and virtuoso players,

voices

we will admire forever.

But for those who aren’t in love

have fallen out

or despair of ever finding it

the lyrics are bittersweet

  — beautiful to listen to

but hard to hear;

love songs

in a lonely world

too often at war with itself.

And I can’t help but think the morbid thought

that though their sound is immortal 

Frank Sinatra is dead

Ella Fitzgerald gone.

That voices from the grave

so full of life and promise

are also a caution

that infatuation stales,

love ends,

and life is not forever.

Yet they sang,

because love is everything

time is short

and today is all that’s real.

And I sing along

out of tune and under my breath;

a hopeful duet

in the ghostly presence

of Ella, Frank, and the rest.

Mumbling unmelodically

while they sing as if they meant it,

hit the high notes

I can only envy.

I’m not in love. Not even in lust these days. Yet my music is a steady diet of jazz from mostly the first half of the 20th century, and they’re almost love songs. One after the other, as if romantic love is all there is to life, all that gives it meaning. I could be listening the Bach’s cello suites, or virtuous folk songs about politics, protest, and social justice — substantial stuff. But instead, I’m so enamoured of this music I subject myself to these sweetly idealistic compositions.

Of course love songs still rule. Always have, it seems. But the contemporary stuff is not nearly as elegant, sophisticated, or beautifully played and sung. (Either that, or I’m just an old curmudgeon who resists anything new! Nevertheless, I can confidently declare that will never learn to appreciate rap, metal, or punk. Don’t even want to try. And don’t get me started on tattoos and piercings!)

Listening, every once in a while the morbid thought creeps into my head that no matter how vital and rich the recordings sound, everyone I’m hearing is dead. Love came and went — it couldn’t save them, it didn’t last. How bittersweet: the idealized hopefulness contrasting with this darkness.  Which, I suppose, is a caution:  not only that love really is all important, but that time is short.