And so, for you’s mortals who may turnto this page for some kind of savvy succulent, I present to you the followingrecording that’s been long out of print but that is now available for a shorttime only via the remastered version that goes something like this:
It’s very clear to me that, lo, thesedays do conjure words from a George & Ira croon tune that begins, “The moreI read the papers, the less I comprehend, the world and all its capers and howit all will end. Nothing seems to be lasting…” Jeez louise, ain’t that thetruth. Yeah, the song’s chorus veers into a boy/girl with-the-hots lyricaldeal, but what the fock. It’s still got a damn nice melody though, not likethese songs I got to try to hum today that sound like some kid’s crammed hiscat into the Veg-O-Matic and cranked it up to puree for christ sakes.
Cripes, did the goddamn Congress passsome kind of amendment when I wasn’t looking to make it against theConstitution for musicians these days to put out a song with some fockingmelody to it once in a while? I got the radio on, and I wish I was deaf.
Which reminds me that commencing soonis the perennial Summerfest down by the shore of Lake Turd-again(as brought to you by the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District). Some ofyou’s can probably guess what I have to say about that, which I’ll express asan equation: No Bourbon Tent No ToplessTent = No Art Kumbalek.
The music? No thank you.I’m guessing Mr. Porter, Mr. Arlen, Mr. Kern, Mister Ellington, Mr. Berlin,Misters Rodgers and Hart will be absent from the grounds; so, so will I. A guylike me desires to walk away from a music event on some enchanted evening andbe able to carry a tune or two inside his head that he might feel like humminga couple, three bars of later whilst patronizing a couple, three bars.
Listen, I’ve got atheory of American popular music history that I call My Theory of AmericanPopular Music History that seeks to help explain why a guy like me has a toughtime getting his hum on.
My theory says it started back whenthey gave the goddamn 1971 Academy Award to “Theme From Shaft” for Song of theYear. That was no song. That was some guy cranked clean out of his ever-lovinggourd dicking around with one of those guitar wah-wahs of equipment. And eversince, anybody with a hankering for a little melody with their music has beengetting the musical shaft uptight and clean-out-of-sight sideways.
And not only no melody, but how ’boutthose lyrics, ain’a? Let’s see if I can recall: “Shaft. John Shaft.” That’s theshort and long of it, yes? Hold on. Later, I think there were some more lyrics:“Shaft. John Shaft” and “shut your mouth.” Yeah, that’s it. (Not exactly “Youare the promised kiss of springtime/ That makes the lonely winter seem long.You are the breathless hush of evening/ That trembles on the brink of a lovelysong,” what the fock.)
Now I ask you to tell me how the hellsome show-biz greaseball out Vegas way circa ’70s was supposed to sing “ThemeFrom Shaft” when he was ready to bring down the house with his showstoppingOscar-song medley? I tell you, “Theme From Shaft” wrote “yesterday’s news” allover the careers of great crooners like your Andy Williams, your Dinah Shore,your Jerry focking Vale, I kid you not.
Yes sir, used to be years ago you’dhear these songbirds on the radio and on the TV, every day of the weekbutnow, you got to haul your sorry ass down there to Branson, Mo., and try to geta seat at the Great American Washed-Up Entertainment Good Ol’ American-StyleOur Specialty Theatre to essence a previous generation’smusical greatness, ’cause they sure won’t be at Summerfest.
And those Branson shows are sold outfor years to come to the mature kind of crowd who call Tony Bennett “Sonny.” Ifyou want to go but you’re not in the will, you’re not getting tickets.
Anyways, I’ve run out of theory solet’s call the whole thing off. All I know is I don’t know, but maybe this:They’re writing songs of lovebut not for me; ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and Itold you so.
