From Stephen Colbert to Jonathan Antoine to this, “Caruso”, written by Lucio Dalla.  What more needs to be told?  I first heard this performed on the album “DallAmeriCaruso” akmost 30 years ago when we regularly spent our weekends together at our condo in the By Ward Market, Ottawa sipping martinis by the fireplace. It still brings tears to my eyes. It speaks to the eternal magic of music for me.

“Caruso” is a song written by Italian singer-songwriter Lucio Dalla in 1986. It is dedicated to Enrico Caruso, an Italian tenor. Following Lucio Dalla’s death, the song entered the Italian Singles Chart, peaking at number two for two consecutive weeks. The single was also certified platinum by the Federation of the Italian Music Industry.

Meaning of the song

The song simply tells about the pain and longings of a man who is about to die while he is looking into the eyes of a girl who was very dear to him. The lyrics contain various subtle references to people and places in Caruso’s life.

Lucio Dalla told the origin and the meaning of the song in an interview to one of the main Italian newspapers, the Corriere della Sera. He stopped by the coastal town of Sorrento and stayed in the Excelsior Vittoria Hotel, coincidentally in the very same room where many years earlier the tenor Enrico Caruso spent some time shortly before dying. Dalla was inspired to write the song after the owners told him about the last days of Caruso and in particular the latter’s passion for one of his young female students.

Solicitors in Scotland were previously known as “writers”; Writers to the Signet were the solicitors entitled to supervise use of the King’s Signet, the private seal of the early Kings of Scots. Records of that use date back to 1369. In 1532, the Writers to the Signet were included as Members in the newly established College of Justice, along with the Faculty of Advocates and the Clerks of the Court of Session. The Society was established in 1594, when the King’s Secretary, as Keeper of the Signet, gave commissions to a Deputy Keeper and 18 other writers.

Writers to the Signet began as clerks to the Keeper of the Signet, and were afforded the privileges of freedom from taxation by the Burgh of Edinburgh, exemption from military duty, and rights of audience (to appear as lawyer on behalf of another) before the bar of the College of Justice. Writers were involved in drawing up summonses to the Court of Session (civil trial and appeal court). Writers were, however, de jure prohibited from acting as procurators (barristers/lawyers) but de facto this was often ignored.

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Often I have speculated to be metaphorical about life; you know, expressing oneself in a fictional or figurative way while drawing upon one’s experiences, attempting to elevate an otherwise humdrum diary or biography to something literary or allegorical, something more intriguing, perhaps with a lesson or at least a point. But I can never detach myself sufficiently from either the currency or the reality of my monotony to invoke a more imaginative production.  No doubt the dilemma is that I unvaryingly attach complacent significance to what has transpired in my life without the persuasion of metaphor.

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“There’ll Be Some Changes Made” (“Changes“) is a popular song by Benton Overstreet (composer) and Billy Higgins  (lyricist). Published in 1921, the song has flourished in several genres, particularly jazz. The song has endured for as many years as a jazz standard. According to the online The Jazz Discography (an index of jazz-only recordings), “Changes” had been recorded 404 times as of May 2018. The song and its record debut were revolutionary, in that the songwriters (Overstreet and Higgins), the original copyright publisher (Harry Herbert Pace), the vocalist to first record it (Ethel Waters), the owners of Black Swan (the record label), the opera singer (Elizabeth Greenfield) for whom the label was named, and the musicians on the recording (led by Fletcher Henderson) were all African American. The production is identified by historians as a notable part of the Harlem Renaissance.

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Knowing that there is no guarantee of eternal sunshine might reasonably encourage a lackadaisical approach to life. One may at least rest more confidently without especial concern for the outcome.  Any way you look at it, the result of one’s efforts has no guarantee of success.

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What it is that translates a day to something special is by no means predictable. Yet there are standard indicia which over the years I have found to be reliable. For one thing – and I confess I consider this crucial to one’s well being – it is adherence to the adage, “First things first” or doing what has to be done before doing anything else.  While this might at first appear to be a simple mandate, it is however sometimes – indeed often – knotted by the failure to acknowledge that what is of primary importance in one’s life is as frequently what must of necessity be accomplished. This in turn regularly conflicts with not only what one may otherwise consider to be a priority but also what others consider to be of importance.  Hence the conflict; namely, does one persist in pursuit of one’s own heartfelt requirements or, in the putative interest of accommodation or other social generosity, bend to whatever other popular or associated alliance commands? Not to mention the barrier of one’s own catalogue of desires. We are after all as frequently driven by passion as rationality.

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There are not many things I can say with certainty. Yet I am in this instance convinced of my perspicacity. Humanity as we know it abruptly alters upon a power outage.  At the moment for example I am staring out the drawing room window into utter darkness. The sky is black with only an occasional glaze of grey.  In the distance are the isolated headlights of one or two automobiles meandering along the country road. This is a huge power outage affecting every foreseeable residence in town and the country estates beyond. Even the upriver Village of Appleton appears to be entirely in abject gloom.

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Productivity has forever been a compass and compassion of mine. I do not mean the ability to maximize output by working efficiently. I distinguish the preoccupation from making a living (though that is naturally one of the signal absorptions in the arena of productivity); rather my focus is more broadly upon creativity (though again not distinguished by remarkable artistry but instead ongoing individuality of whatever expression). The incontrovertible reality is that there’s only so much time in a day, a year or a life. I suspect I am safe to observe that each one of us has a wish to be productive in one dimension or another; that is, I consider it tautological that human nature (indeed nature by any other name or description including for example animals, insects or plants) is inherently devoted to fulfilment of some personal expression which achieves not only that goal but by extension the very purpose of our being.  As such the ambition is far from being selfish or insular but may instead be characterized as bordering altruism and universal truth (though again those traits may in many instances be pushing the envelope). Keep in mind however that many of the greatest developments of this world are no more or less fantastic than the bloom of a rose or the splitting of an atom or the composition of our favourite music).

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We’re in Harrisonburg, Virginia overlooking the Shenandoah National Park from our hotel room on a brilliantly sunny day. This year we changed our driving plans by limiting the number of hours we’re on the road pointedly taking into consideration not only the estimated driving time between points A and B but also including in the calculation the estimated time spent at a restaurant, gas station and rest stops. The latter inclusions add easily 2 hours to the overall driving time. Thus a standard daily drive of 300 miles (5 hours @ 60 mph) plus 2 hours for stopovers will easily consume 7 – 8 hours.  That happens to be almost precisely what transpired today (including the car wash).

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It’s time to go home. But we’re not running from Hilton Head Island. Oddly leaving this magical subtropical vista feels more like closing the door on a family cottage; a place we’re only leaving behind temporarily. After having come and gone numerous times over the cross-island bridge in the past decade we have begun to blend with this barrier island just as it has insinuated our veins.

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