Songs get stuck in my head from time to time. With the weather we’ve had lately, it’s been Nat King Cole singing about those “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.”
That dates me, of course, as will this general lament about how we don’t have these iconic summertime songs anymore. And what we do have gets too easily involved in the ongoing culture wars.
Music seemed to play a bigger role in our lives a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. The Beach Boys practically provided a summer sound track all on their own. Still do. Their “Endless Summer” CD remains a favorite while I’m cruising around town with the windows down.
But there were many others. Connie Francis taught us to spell: “V-a-c-a-t-i-o-n, in the summer sun.” I was at the age that I needed that help, methinks. My early memories also include a tune that starts out: “Summertime, summertime, sum-sum-summertime.” Mrs. Google says that came out in 1958. A few years later the “itsty-bitsy yellow polkadot bikini” created a bit of a scandal. By the time I got to be a teenager, schmaltzy laments for your girlfriend gone for the summer were popular — “A Summer Song” by Chad and Jeremy and “See You in September” by some group called the Happenings.
Those, and “Summer in the City” easily come to mind and an internet search will trigger more memories.
We had our doomsday songs too. I took guitar lessons in high school and one of my favorites was “Eve of Destruction.”
The Eastern world, it is explodin’
Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’
You’re old enough to kill but not for votin’
You don’t believe in war,
but what’s that gun you’re totin’?
Very profound for a 15-year-old. Unfortunately it seems more fitting today.
These thoughts surfaced this past week while watching the news with Nat King Cole in my head. It seems a country song titled “Try That in a Small Town” is creating a stir, not so much by the song’s lyrics but the music video that includes old news clips of police dealing with civil rights protests in the 1960s. Jason Aldean, the singer/songwriter, defends his lyrics, which he says have no racial connotations at all. A sampling:
Cuss out a cop, spit in his face
Stomp on the flag and light it up
Yeah, ya think you’re tough
Well, try that in a small town
See how far ya make it down the road
Around here, we take care of our own
You cross that line, it won’t take long
For you to find out, I recommend you don’t
Try that in a small town
Another verse includes a word I would have to type as “****” — which you would have never heard in a song in that other galaxy. But I show my age again, I suppose.
To a certain extent, Mr. Aldean is right — nothing even racially related about his lyrics, but a) they have that country “tough guy” tone that only feeds on the urban vs. rural divides — progressives vs. conservatives, us vs. them; b) it represents this behavior is accepted as normal in our cities; c) why can’t he or someone else produce a nice, uplifting song about summer, and d) why would he allow his song to be played alongside video involving race riots and demonstrations from 60 years ago? The video seems to say that we small-town people would have put the proper end to that? Argh.
And the tune — let alone the lyrics — is not something I think today’s teenagers will have stuck in their heads 50 or 60 years from now.
Inevitably, Nat’s lyrics have a different meaning than they did back then. When I was singing “sum-sum-summertime” to myself in 1958, the “lazy” days of summer were mostly spent at the community ballpark in Linn Grove or biking over to Pine Lake. “Hazy” was caused by the heat, not some faraway wildfires in Canada. And “crazy?” It just rhymed. Didn’t really mean anything then … a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
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I always worry that such musings will make you think I’m a grumpy old man. Really, I’m not. Most days. Because there is hope.
My wife drove over to the north side of Columbus, Ohio, earlier this week for some grandma duties. The orange “engine” warning light came on. There are two Ford dealers in that immediate area, neither of which could fit her in for at least two weeks, even just to plug the car into their whizz-bang computer to diagnose the problem.
Our son and daughter-in-law recommended a nearby Midas Muffler franchise they’ve found friendly and helpful. Kathy called, got an appointment for that afternoon. They diagnosed it as a minor issue — no harm in driving it back to Indiana.
“What do I owe you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” the young man said. “Have a safe drive home.”
“You made my day,” she told him.
Mine, too. In more ways than one.
miller@news-banner.com
