The original recording in 1956 (Songs for Swingin’ Lovers) with the Capitol orchestra and trombonist Milt Bernhart is a standard, but lacks the intense emotion of the concert performance. Bernhart’s solo there is fantastic. Don’t get me wrong. But Basie’s trombonist really puts raw emotion into it.

The music is in keeping with the album’s mood…breezy but focused. Basie’s signature sound is there. The orchestra is at ease with the chart but adds an underlying sense of urgency not present in the ‘56 version. This is important, given the song’s subject matter.

Sinatra starts with a simple declaration, matter-of-factly but with what I imagine as a knowing smile on his face. Basie’s brass punctuates the admission that the song’s muse is “really a part” of the singer. From “I’ve tried so, not to give in” to “never will go so well” grows in urgency slowly, but is resolved with “But why…” — as though he is giving up, but will enjoy giving in. Sinatra drags the next line, emphasizing “skin” with a warm, sensual tone that leads to the first run of the repeat verse.

Now we’re to acknowledging the pangs of sacrificing anything to have one near, and Sinatra sounds almost joyfully complacent in his anguish. He’s okay with being led. But the “warning voice” comes after the orchestra builds–a small crescendo for what’s coming, the pounding heart, the futile attempts. The orchestra drops back to a basic riff as Sinatra, as the warning voice, forcefully orders to “use your mentality,” as he “never can win.” His voice softens and the woodwinds transition us as he again acknowledges the recurring thoughts of his muse. Basie’s orchestra throws in a perfect punctuation after “stop.”

A major transition occurs here. Sinatra’s voice decrescendos and warms as he sings “’cause I’ve got you / under my skinnn” — holding the last syllable for several beats and diminishing. The orchestra builds, this time the woodwinds stepping aside for the solo trombone, other brass, and rhythm.

The trombone solo itself seems to channel what the singer couldn’t form into words. Of Bernhart’s studio performance, Will Friedwald (Sinatra! The Song Is You) writes, “the trombonist plumbs the depths of emotion that, at the end of his sixteen bars, we tell ourselves that no mere words could ever reach.” Basie’s trombonist outshines Bernhart in this regard.

Sinatra outdoes his studio performance as well. He comes in after the orchestra resolves the angst of the solo, but it’s not fully put to rest. The orchestra ups the tempo and dynamic and Sinatra dives in. His catharsis comes at the last “But you know” and “wake up, step up” — again, the warning voice, but now spoken as the singer being warned. You can hear the pain and heartache, and the logic. He continues in the singer’s voice, bridging the line with a long “and,” as though he’s taking time to think–or emphasize his own resolve.

Either way, his fate is set. A percussion emphasis is made at “each time” as though to make clear this is how it’s going to be. A pause after “just the thought of you,” then a quick run through “makes me stop” — it’s time to stop deliberation and let things be. The orchestra rests long enough for FS to breathe (just as his vocals on the collaboration with Antonio Carlos Jobim) “because I’ve got you” — a drastic shift from the high emotions of just a few measures ago. He’s wrestled with it, thought it over, and now turns to his muse to surrender. The remainder of the phrase is accompanied by soft rhythm and instrumentation. A quick bass run and a piano chord to say, “That’s all,” and the song is over.

It is swing, longing, machismo, turmoil, acceptance, and resignation.

        

One concept that strikes me is the similarities between a simple menu and a well-crafted manuscript. Kershaw brings up the analogy of music and lyrics, where one may be great but is utterly destroyed by the other (think of a ear-catching pop tune with absolutely horrendous lyrics), and the same may be said for a manuscript. Think carefully about the layout. If your story is about love and the human condition, you probably don’t want a font that is sharp-edged and bold. Or, if you’re going for an academic journal, you don’t want your tracking or leading so far apart that the page looks as though it’s mostly empty space.

A quarrel I have with the way some restaurants mentioned in this article do things is the melodramatic wording in the menu. Saying something is “slammed with flavor” is a turn-off for me, because I appreciate the nuances in food. (You’ll notice that places such as Applebee’s and Huddle House go for the thick wording, while higher-end places go for simple and pithy copy.) I can go to the local supermarket and pick up a Little Debbie cake that is “slammed with flavor,” or I can visit my local baker and get a blueberry scone that has many different flavorful, quality ingredients that work together. One is dominated with sugar and chocolate, the other allows me to experience many of the quality ingredients that the baker uses. I prefer nuance.

When creating your manuscript, I suppose you could ask yourself, “Do I want the equivalent of a laminated chain restaurant menu the size of a legal pad, or a simple, cogent menu from a quality independent place?”

        

My Dad drove me to school most every morning of my young life, at least until I could drive myself. He worked nearby, at the administrative offices, so it was a natural fit. I was always pushing the clock every morning. I can remember him announcing the time every few minutes, and thinking to myself, “I have a clock. I know.” On the mornings I didn’t push his patience, we would stop at Hardee’s and get breakfast.

I remember the lights on the tile floor, the air conditioning, and the reds & oranges of the old Hardee’s decor. It was early morning and I wasn’t comfortable until I sat down with my Cinnamon ‘N’ Raisin Biscuit. It was usually too hot, so I drank my orange juice for a while, the acidic feeling on my stomach making me appreciate what I was about to eat. The biscuit, once cool enough–you know, when the icing is somewhat solidified on top, but still gooey right below that thin shell–was a real treat. I sat at the table with my Dad, eating breakfast in a hurry as though I was heading to the office with him to solve the day’s problems.

The time was short, always, but we did it enough to make it a favorite childhood memory of mine. That memory was locked away until a few days ago. (I quit going to Hardee’s when their burger commercials started implying that men had to have an IQ below 70 and think about sex all day to eat there. But their biscuits are hard to beat, and I have a strong association between Hardee’s biscuits and childhood.) I noticed that the CNR’s were back, so I gave them a try. The taste was exactly the same as twenty years ago. Sitting at my desk in my office, I could see the lights and tile and decor in my mind, and almost feel the orange juice on an empty stomach.

        

But what of digital books? E-books vary in definition from an unsecured PDF on a website to a DRM-protected work on Amazon’s Kindle. In between is a myriad of proprietary licensing models and content management solutions, the most prominent of which are Adobe and Mobipocket. Neither offer a solution solid enough to bet on in five years. Publishers must step in, says Bill Rosenblatt in Copyright and Technology:

If publishers don’t act quickly, they face two alternatives, neither of which is very pleasant.  In one, Amazon succeeds in emulating Apple’s success in music and takes control of e-book business models.  In the other, excessive fragmentation leads to confusion, frustration, angry pieces from the blogosphere about the evils of DRM, and a limited market.

But is DRM even worth pursuing? Imagine downloading a PDF from an emerging author’s website. You pay a modest fee and are given a password to access the content. Excited about the read, you share it with friends. You bought a paperback before and did that–why not do it with a PDF? What’s stopping a friend from buying his own copy if he likes what he read? On the flip side, though, what’s stopping him from emailing it to all his friends?

Rob Beschizza, of Wired.com, predicted this dilemma way back in 2007:

Book publishers, scared of the ease of cut, paste, send, demanded it. Understandable. But few customers wanted locked-down devices, or bizarre file formats that offered nothing over plain text, Word documents or Adobe’s PDF.

In short, free copies are acceptable risks. As an emerging author, unless you’ve got enough cash to sink into publishing hard-copy books or setting up sales through Amazon.com, you’re probably going to post an E-book on your website. Be prepared to take the loss. Readers of new authors aren’t going to pay big bucks for someone they’ve never read before, so your first e-book on the market should probably be considered a free sample. If you get paid for a few copies, fine. Just promote your site and e-book until you are blue in the face and get your readers hooked. Then move to a more secure sales solution.

If you don’t bend a little, you may wind up killing your potential sales before they’ve had a chance to start. Eric Lai of Computerworld has a solid analogy, from the perspective of the potential consumer:

Imagine bringing home a music CD from Best Buy and discovering that it will only play on some of your stereo equipment. Moreover, you’re limited in the number of times you can switch the CD from one stereo to another.

Bottom line? In the interest of building a reader base, don’t get bogged down with DRM. Be snobby with your e-books when you can afford it.

        

We become slightly more introspective. Our patios and back yards are carefully covered with tarps and strewn with leaves. We are inside, eating warm comfort food, thinking a lot about ourselves. The church year gently pushes this along–bright Spring music moves to more somber tunes of Advent and Lent. We wait. Gently.

When we venture out, we have retreated from our shorts & flip-flops, now nestled in jackets and clogs. The trees, once brilliant with buds and green leaves, pull life into themselves, leaving a dappled mark of death, celebrated by long drives and countless photos. Under the falling, speckled canopy, we contemplate home improvement, the crisp air flecked with coffee and sawdust.

        

At first bite, I was immediately taken back to when my Dad and I would go to Hardee’s on our way to my elementary school. If I was dressed early enough, we would go and have breakfast there as a treat. I remember the smell of the dining room, the sweetness of the icing, the cold orange juice on my otherwise empty stomach, and the fact that I would wait for the icing to cool before I ate the biscuit. I preferred my icing a little thicker than it was served.

        

First, I needed to decide how I thought about my music. Classical music doesn’t lend itself to the same sorting rules as pop or rock, or even standards, because the artists tend to be of secondary importance to who composed the work. Thankfully, with the help of Smart Playlists, I was able to create a subset of my library, strictly for classical, and then change the View Options to see the Composer field first, rather than the Artist.

Another key issue is Genre. “Classical” is about as helpful in sorting classical music as “Music with horns” would be in sorting jazz. A good formula for classifying Genre is here, and although I don’t use it exactly as written, it has been a tremendous help. My “Classical” genres have been replaced with tags such as “Choral/Romantic/Austrian” and “Organ/Baroque/German.” I have Smart Playlists (in a “Classical” playlist folder) that show all the Choral stuff (called “+Choral” . . . the “+” keeps it at the top of the folder list and lets me know it’s a genre search), all the Romantic stuff, and so on.

Once you get these two figured out, it’s time to fiddle with the individual track information. I had a few rounds of trial-and-error with this on my iPod. One problem I ran into, which this particular scheme fixed, is having two works by the same composer on my iPod. I had a Shaw and Herreweghe recording of Brahms’ German Requiem that didn’t sort correctly; the first track of Shaw was followed by the first track of Herreweghe, then the second track of Shaw, then the second track of Herreweghe, and so forth. This scheme prevented that.

In the metadata fields (Command+I in iTunes), I have the following (found in both the “Info” and “Sorting” tabs). This is the metadata for the first track from Brahms’ German Requiem, performed by Robert Shaw & the ASO:

• Name: individual movement, track name, et cetera (”1. Selig Sind, Die Da Leid Tragen”)
• Artist: conductor: ensemble (”Robert Shaw: Atlanta Symphony Orchestra”)
• Album Artist: composer last name (”Brahms”)
• Album: composer last name: work (”Brahms: Ein Deutsches Requiem)
• Composer: composer first & last (”Johannes Brahms”)
• Sort Album Artist: conductor last name (”Shaw”)
• Sort Composer: composer last name (”Brahms”)

This particular scheme works for me. As with all personal library organization schemes, you may find that this is a good starting point, then tweak it a bit. No problem. The important thing is that your music is arranged in a way that makes sense to you.

        

So what’s the bottom line story? Simple. Sanford is in love. Palin is in pain. Sometimes what it seems to be is what it is.

I’m no fan of Sanford or Palin. I won’t go into details, but one problem I have with both of them, relevant to this discussion, is that they both seem so insulated from their constituents. Both show signs of narcissism, and (at least with respect to Sanford), I’ve come to doubt that they have any ability to connect with individuals outside of political purposes. In Sanford’s case, I have been proven wrong, and quite to the extreme. I saw him as an “everyman” while watching him ramble on about his infidelity. I’m not saying every man cheats, nor that it is excusable, but an affair and a very public apology/longing really brings out the humanity in people, right?

As for Palin, as much as she has been maligned in the public eye (and I’m not saying that isn’t all without merit), it is indeed possible that she is ready to say “the hell with it” and move on. The unwillingness to take her ramblings at face value might be a double standard (we’re led to believe, in many instances, that she simply must be shrewdly calculating her moves, something women in public life seem to be accused of more often than men). I believe she’s frustrated. She might be calculating, and this might be an early move towards 2012, but who cares? She wants out. But if she believes Alaska is better off without her, why can’t we agree that America would be, too, and forget any sort of 2012 run?

        

Nearly two weeks ago, my father and I planted twenty waxleaf ligustra at the edge of my back yard. That was the inaugural act of the new back yard, done after nearly a year of dirt moving. We still have to plant grass seed, but that will come in the Spring. Until then, there’s a vast expanse of topsoil between my patio and the new ligustra hedge. Since that workday, from which I’m still sporting a deep tan, I’ve been watching the skies for precious rain. I’ve been disappointed.

My rain barrel, used to water the front porch plants, is dry. The dirt out back is dusty and will spawn a dirt devil at the slightest breeze. My hedge is at the mercy of a soaker hose I made myself, which is uneven, but gets the job done. I’ve watched big splotches of dark green, yellow, and red pass us on the radar several times. I just can’t get any rain. All of these concerns were foreign to me a few years ago, when the extent of my landscaping responsibilities was to water the plants on the back patio and make sure the front sidewalk was swept. I don’t miss those days; in fact, I’ve relished my summer days off so far, most of which have been spent in my yard, working until I ache. But they seem so foreign to me now.

Go back further, and picture this kid looking rather despondently at a pile of mulch, just delivered, and his dad dumping wheelbarrows full into the planting beds. That was me, and my Dad always enlisted me to spread the stuff around. I hated it. Pitching it into the wheelbarrow wasn’t much better. I got so sick of mulch that I swore to have grass all around my house when I grew up, so I’d never have to be around the hot, stinky stuff.

Fast-forward to planting that hedge. I knew I needed moisture retention, so two days after planting, I had a big steaming pile of mulch dumped in my back yard. I’ve mulched every possible shrub in my yard now, and I still have mulch left over. As I was pitching it into my lawnmower trailer, the sun beating down on my brown arms, I was deeply satisfied with my work. I thought of my previous experience with mulch, and my Dad. I knew exactly how he felt at that point. If I had a son, he would be evening out the mulch I’d already spread at that point. And probably swearing to have a yard paved with concrete.

My wife & I were stepping out of a local restaurant in the pouring rain a couple of days ago, and a woman beside me was singing “Rain, rain, go away” to her small child as her husband pulled the family SUV around. On my way to the car, to pick my wife up at the door, I said something rather negative aloud, admonishing the woman (to myself) for wishing something so precious away so that she could be spared a split-second of inconvenience. I needed that rain back home. (It stopped halfway there, and the streets around our home were dry.)

I wanted that rain because my ligustra could use an even soaking, the dirt needed settling, and the mulch could use some moisture.

        

We often think of Iran and the Middle East as a far-off place that will never be settled. I’m sure we would probably all agree that Ahmadinejad is a problem, and that Iran could use a better government, but that’s a cool observation made from our skimming of headlines. Here, in upstate SC, what sort of connections do we have to the place? What would push us a little further into the fray, and make us follow the news as if we cared? Certainly, we all care about Iraq and Afghanistan, but our men & women are over there in harm’s way right now. Of course we care. People we know and support are being shot at.

Elections aren’t a foreign thing, nor are rigged elections. I don’t believe for a minute that Ahmadinejad won. Protests aren’t foreign things either. So you have people protesting a bogus election. People protest in America all the time, and (barring the 1960s), most everyone nowadays is able to drive back home after the protest and have dinner with the family. In Iran, people are dying because they’re protesting a bogus election. Neda, the girl in the video, went out with her dad to exercise what we consider a basic human right. Next thing you know, she’s covered in blood and her dad is hysterical. Folks, this is not excusable.

We can’t go over there and join in protests, nor am I suggesting that we should. If you don’t feel any sense of pain for what’s going on halfway across the world right now, fine. But if you’ve ever protested anything (and we had a wave of that stuff over the past few months here) and not been killed, thank God, and pray for the families in Iran (such as Neda’s) that are caught up in this mess. Pray for the country. (I know there are people of different faiths over there, but don’t we still believe that God has the WHOLE WORLD in his hands?) Start following the news stories. Join a Facebook group in support.

Most of us enjoyed a good bit of comfort today with our fathers. Many fathers in Iran are mourning the loss of their kids, who were shot in the streets. If you’ve never paid attention to world news, now is certainly the time to perk up your ears.