While some things in life are apodeictic, they are not always things we’d prefer to know or acknowledge. I suppose truth by any distribution is certain to be a heady topic no matter what the conclusion or observation. It is a blunt certainty at best. This is especially so I find when the revelation or affirmation is unintended. Like discovering you’re ¾ of a century old.  It is a distinction, yes; but it turns out to be a perilous one if you haven’t kept a clear eye upon the road ahead. Predictably things change faster by the day. There are rapid alterations.

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By a coincidence which I cannot now recall (it’s unimportant in any event), I recently communicated with two fellows whom I met in Provincetown, Cape Cod about 40 years ago.  The relevance of this happily sustained acquaintance is that this time of year (late August and early September when the temperatures start to drop and the days begin to shorten) inevitably puts me in mind of Cape Cod where Rocci, John and I first met. And of Patti Page naturally!

In the interest of disclosure I am bound  to account the abrupt though comical occasion of my initial encounter with Rocci (not Patti obviously).  It was late one evening in a so-called leather bar on Atlantic Avenue in Provincetown though it may have been on Masonic Place because by further coincidence on another occasion I had (in the same bar) been welcomed by a Brother into the ancient Masonic Lodge in Provincetown located on the same street as the bar. The Lodge by the way had been chartered by Paul Revere who was then the Grand Master of the Boston Lodge across the Bay. I marvelled to have stepped across the identical floor boards once struck by the heels of Paul Revere.

Paul Revere

Anyway, Rocci and I happened to be standing at the bar next to one another waiting to order a drink. He turned to me and said, “Gimme a cigarette. And light it.” We’ve been laughing ever since.

Rocci is a writer.  John is a realtor. We each harbour an undying affection for Provincetown. In later years I returned to P-town deeper into the autumn season when the place was less busy. I was asked to play the piano as background music for a congregation of some sort.  The town quickly assumed a far more rustic flavour among the predominantly local inhabitants

What however never changes is the serene nature and quaint atmosphere of the Cape.  The effects of the Ocean are impossible to ignore. P-town never loses its small-town feel. And the food is guaranteed superb! Basically everything Patti says is true!

When looking for a rendition of Old Cape Cod on the internet today I came across this note by Paul Brewer who I understand is a musician of considerable accomplishment himself.  It was an interesting read so I thought I’d share it with you.

Paul Brewer (6 years ago on Twitter):

In March of 1972, I was 20 years old and in school at North Texas State University in the great jazz program there (I’m a trombonist). During that time, I got a call to play a two-week tour with Patti Page. I really needed the money, so I was able to arrange my schedule to do the tour, make a little money, and then go back to school. Patti was 45 years old at the time as I recall. And all I knew about her were her two hits, The Tennessee Waltz and How Much Is That Doggie in the Window? So, I expected the tour to be dull and lacking in musical integrity. I was far too hip, you see, as an aspiring modern jazz musician playing in one of the top bands at one of the top jazz schools in the world to take seriously some pop star who had recorded some silly tunes in the 1950s. Man, was I wrong. Was I ever so ridiculously wrong! During the first rehearsal, the arrangements turned out to be very hip and featured many really beautifully composed standard songs that I had never heard Patti sing. Patti did sing her hits, for sure, but she did very much more than that – and sounded so damn good! Patti was a lot of fun be with, too! She was like one of the guys after our performances and spent a lot of time with us. She was a gem. At the end of that tour, I found myself wondering if there was any song from The American Songbook that Patti didn’t know. She seemed to know so many. And she sang them all so beautifully. And when she first sang this song, “Old Cape Cod”, as we accompanied her, she won us over and gained our unequivocal respect. Never again after that tour did I underestimate anyone from the world of pop music when I happened to get a gig with them. Patti changed my young mind about that forever. When I got the news that Patti died on New Year’s day, 2013, tears welled up in my eyes. But, in large measure, they were tears of gratitude for what I had learned from her about how never to prejudge or underestimate anyone in the world of music. Artistic greatness can come from anywhere. It was such a surprise and such a joy when I was a very young man to hear it flow continuously from the voice of the sweet and endearingly ingenuous Patti Page.

Old Cape Cod

Lyrics

If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages here and there
(You’re sure) You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
(Old Cape Cod, that old Cape Cod)

If you like the taste of lobster stew
Served by a window with an ocean view
(You’re sure) You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod

Winding roads that seem to beckon you
Miles of green beneath the skies of blue
Church bells chimin’ on a Sunday morn’
Remind you of the town where you were born

If you spend an evening you’ll want to stay
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod

If you spend an evening you’ll want to stay (on Cape Cod Bay)
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
You’re sure to fall in love, you’re sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod

Songwriters: Claire Rothrock / Milton Yakus / Irwin Pincus
Old Cape Cod lyrics © Round Hill Songs, George Pincus & Sons Music Corp., Pincus G & Sons Music Corp

I’m having one of those days! It’s a day when seemingly magically everything just goes right.  I mean, it started by getting out of bed well before nine o’clock this morning.  And I was well rested.  This improvement though I hadn’t hit the sack until after eleven o’clock last evening when I had remained in the drawing room and persisted to do whatever useless exercises I contrived to do on the internet, everything from searching for luxury sticks (I found one in London, England naturally) to skipping through TikTok (which to my eternal surprise amazes me with its unanticipated and useful information and narratives; that is, apart from the endless selfies made by the magazine models, admiring themselves doing singularly uneventful things), then glancing at Country Life (always a redeeming anodyne) and finally succumbing to whatever sleep is, exhausted from my daily obsessions and preoccupations, distracted enough to contemplate nothing but the strength of the feather pillows and the warmth of the down duvet.

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It’s strange how things happen, how friendships disappear, how people are privately erased from the tableaux of one’s mind and connections, how people seem almost to have vanished from the globe. The curiosity is as often accompanied by mutual estrangement, evaporation of warmth and meaningfulness. The telephone calls and emails stop. The urges to call or write quit. The memories begin to fade. The link is lost. The barque has sailed.

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Music does it to me.  Today I wept while listening to Caruso sung by Lucio Dalla in his Dallamericaruso (live) appearance. But it doesn’t require a Luciano Pavarotti or Placido Domingo to agitate my emotions. I am as excitable by the thought or recollection of a seaside table and a wistful gaze upon the horizon. I think not only of us but of others whom I know have done the same thing. And the music needn’t be opera but instead Bobby Darin signing Dream Lover, the words of which I can remarkably repeat from memory having learned them some sixty-five years ago when no doubt I instructed myself with obsessive application.

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Propriety is an evolving manifestation. Foremost I believe it exhibits at the outset what thrives upon the tips of personality and sentimentality. In that respect it is a distillation, a fermentation of base elements. Like most social graces, propriety is never intended or expected to capture what lies beneath the surface, within one’s soul. It isn’t an investigation of one’s private affairs. It is after all a purely mechanical device, a tactical assurance of decency; it is not a reflection of depth or insight. It is however more than a theory; it is an expression not only an exemplification. Propriety establishes borders and insinuations which do as much to advance as limit behaviour.

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Among the many things I have enjoyed in particular throughout the preceding summer (as we adjust to our new digs in Riverfront Estate along the Mississippi River) is the ineluctable formulation of patterns of conversion and clarity. The expressions are at times as patent as the arithmetic precision of a farmer’s field; and, at other times as whimsical as the beauty of a child. The collation however is always assured to create an identity which is at once both undeniable and fanciful.

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For as long as I can recall, the spectacle of a misty day has forever contented me.  It is admittedly a curious – or at least unusual – recognition of favour to announce so emphatically that one enjoys a misty day. Nonetheless I do.  The first time I recall looking out a window upon a rainy, foggy day was appropriately enough in Halifax, Nova Scotia, an ocean coastal territory known for its North Atlantic gales, driving rains and floating mists which come and go in an instant propelled by the strong winds. A brilliantly sunny day afterwards was always assured following the sweep of the clouds. Significantly too in the context of this discussion is that my absent and somewhat mournful regard of the foggy atmosphere that day long ago through the water-dripped blurry window was from the kitchen on the third floor of Domus Legis where I resided in my first year of law school at Dalhousie University.

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Yesterday by coincidence – or perhaps it was grâce à Siri delivering music through its always perspicuous algorithms – I listened to melancholic themes by Rodgers and Hart or Ivor Novello such as “There’s a small hotel”, “I can give you the starlight!” and “We’ll gather lilacs”. I don’t know about you, but for me these a crushing numbers. They are the perfect accessory to a wistful afternoon reflection.

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There are those for whom the gulf between convention and corruption is one between right and wrong; for others it is merely the gap between convenience and opinion. Corruption is in many instances of society solely in the eyes of the beholder. Otherwise than its absolute degeneracy, corruption so-called may amount to no more than dissimilarity or divergence, a modification rather than an impurity of the other. Nonetheless the question whether one stands against something or comes together is in the result frequently considered the paradigm of orthodox social conduct. The issue accordingly is not one of propriety per se so much as a scheme of utility; that is, there can be no question that if we were all to behave in the identical manner we would ostensibly and perhaps axiomatically overcome any conflict or confusion of thought and performance.  Consequently same is good; difference is bad.

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