(disclaimer: I write for and about adults – the complexity of our lives, experiences, and themes. This narrative may contain language and situations unsuitable for younger or more sensitive readers).
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YM90KWc1x9c - "Lujon" Henry Mancini
I was 27 when I was told I had an “old soul.” At that time, most of my friends were 15 to 20 years older than I. Not quite my parents group, but the one’s just under them. I liked hanging with that crowd. I liked their music, their rap, their smooth style of dress and manners, the use of perfume and cologne, and the way alcohol smelled on the breath. It smelled like the potential for sex.
Back then, people still dressed up to hit the streets on Friday night – especially when the eagle flew (payday); me too. While I loved the music of my generation, I loved the sound of jazz more. Sinatra, King Cole and Johnny Hartman were my favorite male swingers. And “The Count of Basie” (thank you Daddy-O Daylie) was one of my fave bands.
Sinatra & Basie – “Fly Me to the Moon”: video.google.com/videoplay?docid=436017252047612043 (Please, please, please - dig the man's phrasing and timing!!!!)
I spent many years with the older crowd, learnin’ from the older cats. I also learned from the older women (40’s – early 50’s) that I found in my bed: the ones with those incredible, enticing laughs: alternately purring and growling - a woman’s laugh, not a girl’s giggle. The women that allowed me the honor of thinking I had seduced them. They’d even buy me gifts. I must admit – I felt so damn sophisticated and slick.
And when i hear the sounds of those great jazz voices and music of those feelings of "being cool, Daddy-O", still resonate within me.
These days we have no where to go where one can dress up, eat, drink, smoke and dance to jazz. No where to find young women (late 20’s to 30’s) who think they are so damn sophisticated and slick. Lithe and lissome, furry-fucky, little dolls whose giggle has not yet developed its enticing/intimidating purr and growl. Women upon whom an oldster might allow the honor of thinking that they have seduced us into their beds, and induced us to bring forth gifts from our wallets.
Naw, Baby-Girl. It isn't your power. It is, indeed, only money, the power of Dead Presidents and I eventually learned the older partner really gets the better of that deal. :-)
This is not a lament, mind you. I got in on it. It was the tail end, the lingering echoes, of that 40’s, 50’s and 60’s era of Friday night glamour, but I got enough to give me a genuine, deep, and long-lasting appreciation for the “art of seduction”: where the “journey and the end” are equally magical and both should be practiced and deeply savored.
Wes Montgomery, Bumpin’ (1966) – “Bumpin’ on Sunset”: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwPqrx1AvRI
Love has always been for sale, in one way or another. It just feels as if the sale used to be conducted with more class and style, wit and guile, an arched eyebrow and a come hither smile.
So, now I sit on the back porch at sunset - on these smooth, silken-breezed, Friday summer’s eves. I’ll sip some chardonnay, put on the some of that finger-snappin’, toe-tappin’, back-crackin’ jazz - kick back and watch the sun, set.