Most of my favourite associations of the nocturnal with the musical have been in autumn and winter. Monsoons meant being locked indoors with power-cuts, and I had learnt to equate the sadness of confinement with Sultan Khan playing the Desh on the Sarangi. Etta James's Stormy Weather, listened late one night a couple of years later, would take on a completely different meaning. And on one late autumn, I listened to Bach's Mattheus Passion for nights on end from Martinstag until Christmas, relentlessly repeating the aria Erbarme dich, mein Gott. The seductive strawberries, cherries, and an angel's kiss in spring sprinkled in Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazelwood's Summer Wine made the long, heady, summer nights only that much more palpable and alluring.
Nights make one unapologetic and reckless, inducing a certain amount of flair and a debonair defiance. When Frank Sinatra sings
We'd be sharing love before the night was through
Something in your eyes was so inviting
Something in your smile was so exciting
Something in my heart told me I must have you
he makes sure that these two lonely people are strangers in the night. For Ella Fitzgerald it's only the Blue Moon that would shelter the heart-broken. For, the days and the seasons of the sun are for the boisterous achievers; the nights are subtle.
Like O. Henry's short story, I have often wondered about the voices of the cities I've lived in or visited. On that bright afternoon when I was sitting at the Piazza San Marco, I heard a local band play Vivaldi's Four Seasons. By late night, after most of the tourists and the workers had returned to the mainland, I imagined that the music that would live on in the alleys of Venice would be, however, of an immigrant softly playing the Godfather theme Speak softly love on his accordion, and a distant, discreet splash of a gondolier as he maneuvers on the canal. Although Audrey Hepburn's Sabrina had written to her father that she could hear la vie en rose being played one night at Paris, the song that kept playing in my head when I had reached my hotel on the outskirts on the city, past midnight that autumn (yet again), was Sarah Vaughan's 1954 version of April in Paris with Clifford Brown on the trumpet, one that goes on for eight minutes. Ella's I love Paris every moment of the year is just so diurnal; like those souvenir shops near the Eiffel Tower that only attract tourists. As Paris sunk in, the song that haunted my mind more starkly was Rod Stewart or Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong crooning The Nearness of You. The version would depend on the Paris sky that night.
While driving through Tuscany late one full moon night, I hummed Killing me softly with his song (Roberta Flack's version of course), Don Mclean's And I love you so and Starry starry night, Nat King Cole's Unforgettable, Mme. Edith's non je ne regrette rien (and quite meant it), Eric Clapton's Wonderful Tonight, and rested my tired but contented mind with Doris Day's version of When I fall in love. I rediscovered Lara's Theme from Doctor Zhivago in the heart of Schwarzwald when my friend and fellow flaneuse found a wooden jewellery box which played the theme when its lid was opened; and the beautiful fall colours reminded me of Clapton's soulful Autumn Leaves.
Yet there are quiet nights, when you turn off the lights and listen quietly to Chopin's Preludes; you think of such people as Rosemary Clooney and Fred Astaire; you travel with the rhinestone cowboys, with Bobby Gentry, Glenn Campbell and Paul Anka; dream about Jamaican sunshine, of the Kingston Trio and Harry Belafonte; and know that the lady in you is a tramp, true-blue Lena Horne style. You move from Julie London's Days of wine and roses to Cry me a river, and end with Around midnight; twirl around with Mary Jane Carpenter, and travel to the top of the world with the Carpenter siblings. On certain nights Kenny Rogers willingly agrees to be 'the knight in shining armour' to his Lady, and Perry Como catches a falling star while being a Prisoner of love. On some nights you listen to Marta Sebestyen crooning beautiful songs in a language you do not understand, and marvel at la mer, or finally accept la tourbillion. You listen to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, are wooed out of your comfort zone by Beethoven's 9th, and seek respite in Connie Francis singing Die Liebe ist ein seltsames Spiel because Billie Holiday just sang I'm a fool to want you. For nights, like Chopin's Nocturnes, are ubiquitous, come rain or come shine, and despite Al Bowlly singing Guilty of loving you the nocturnal will never be acquitted of their clandestine addiction.
At dawn a few days ago, I was in the twilight zone between sleep and awakening. I did not want to rise and greet the glaring sunshine, and my mind suddenly crooned after many months,
I thought that love was just a word
They sang about in songs I heard
It took your kisses to reveal
That I was wrong, and love is real.
La vie en rose? Really?
Picture: Marc Chagall's le violoniste bleu
This post also appears in The Seagull School's blog.