La Mer · 6 July 2001
You know how you have this intangible thing with songs: you couldn’t hope to describe why a shiver runs through you, or why it kicks; why you want to dance, why a turn of musical phrase makes sense (in “Africa” by Toto – a band that seems the very antithesis of music – there’s a chord change that causes a surge of pleasure in me, though now I’m a little embarassed for having said so).
I was mulling this: how pointless music criticism is, how it makes so much more sense just to listen; how hard it must be to review music for money, turning instinct and groove into a, b and c, when, recently, I rode in the passenger seat of my friend Turner’s K-car, listening to one of his mix tapes, which are always good. On this day, wedged between the 70’s porn soundtracks and Vince Guaraldi, there came on “ Beyond the Sea” [mp3], a song that’s been spackled all over movies for 40 years, but still, er, kicks.
So we’re driving along, two men nodding slightly to the beat, and Turner starts talking about the recording, the actual session, and in my memory it goes like this: “Christmas Eve, 1958. Picture it: the singer, the band. They show up in the afternoon, have some drinks, some sandwiches. Everyone smokes, constantly. They cut the track live, (there, that’s where the drummer fucks up) and they’re done before 8.”
As the snow begins to fall, Bobby Darin walks into the Manhattan night, 8 pm, Christmas Eve, 1958.
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