How Can I Be Sure of You
For your visual and aural consumption today I submit one of the world's best songs, by Harry Nilsson. If you aren't familiar with him, you can find him filed under MUSICAL GENIUS, in the "Woefully Under-appreciated" section, under the subset "Died penniless, way too early". Beware however, this stellar song is set to possibly the world's worst video, if measured in terms of visual quality and relevance to subject matter.
It's non sequitor-ialness evokes that genre of film I always secretly loved and wanted to create: the karaoke video. (Which apparently now I can!)
If I were a musical arranger like Nelson Riddle (whose name should have been a character in a novel, by the way) I'd work Nilsson's version together with the song of the same name, originally by the Young Rascals. I tried to find a good live version of that song, but stumbled onto a better performance by Dusty Springfield. (I love when a woman makes a man's song her's, a la Peggy Lee). As soon as I find a time machine and book myself a job as a lounge singer in Acapulco circa 1972, I'll add my little medley to my set list. Until then, enjoy Dusty.
But I must interrupt: can we just talk about her hair for a moment? Some serious architecture was involved in that nectar bun. Let us now praise the men and women who created the elaborate coiffures of those days. Do people still know how to do that? And where might I find such artisans? I think I just might feel most myself in a chiffon, rhinestone-encrusted caftan and thirty two pounds of bouffant. I'm just sayin'.
It's non sequitor-ialness evokes that genre of film I always secretly loved and wanted to create: the karaoke video. (Which apparently now I can!)
If I were a musical arranger like Nelson Riddle (whose name should have been a character in a novel, by the way) I'd work Nilsson's version together with the song of the same name, originally by the Young Rascals. I tried to find a good live version of that song, but stumbled onto a better performance by Dusty Springfield. (I love when a woman makes a man's song her's, a la Peggy Lee). As soon as I find a time machine and book myself a job as a lounge singer in Acapulco circa 1972, I'll add my little medley to my set list. Until then, enjoy Dusty.
But I must interrupt: can we just talk about her hair for a moment? Some serious architecture was involved in that nectar bun. Let us now praise the men and women who created the elaborate coiffures of those days. Do people still know how to do that? And where might I find such artisans? I think I just might feel most myself in a chiffon, rhinestone-encrusted caftan and thirty two pounds of bouffant. I'm just sayin'.
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