“We need a dance floor for this one,” I whispered to Kelly. She nodded. Her husband Chris, who plays the flute, was in the middle of a recital that featured, among other things, a set of Gershwin tunes arranged for flute and piano. The song was “Liza.”
Standards from The Great American Songbook have felt important to me since the first time I heard them. I didn’t grow up with the classics—my family preferred Christian radio, and I dabbled in Top 9 at 9, as one did in the ‘90s—but once I started voice lessons in 9th grade, they became core to my life. I spent my senior year of high school at a public arts boarding school where the kids were cool enough to recommend artists like Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, and Billie Holiday. I played them on repeat, and I was hooked.
My first performance at art school was on a recital highlighting Cole Porter favorites, where I was chosen to sing “So In Love.” I can still feel the rhythm of the opening chords when I think of it, like it’s part of my bones and might sweep me away, far away, lost in romance, just as that song should. The pianist never forgot that performance and would bring it up years later whenever I ran into her, which made me feel like a singer even after I’d stopped pursuing music professionally. After all, the way we make money in the world does not qualify who we are.
Easy to say, easy to forget.
At boarding school, we spent all morning together in academic classes, all afternoon together in arts classes, all evening together in the dorm, and after curfew, all night together on LiveJournal and AIM. It was life-changing to be among my people for the first time ever, several of whom remain my closest friends to this day. Even my LiveJournal, a critical place for telling the world what mattered to you in the early aughts, reflected my interest in American standards; the lyrics to “Someone to Watch Over Me” were plastered front and center on the home page.
There's a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we're often told, "seek and ye shall find"
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mindLooking everywhere, haven't found him yet
He's the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regretI'd like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?There's a somebody I'm longin' to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me
For those of us who came of age on the internet, especially in its infancy, song lyrics—in case you’ve managed to forget—were a critical means of expressing who you were. Or maybe who you wanted to be. But this little lamb was lost, indeed; clearly I would not discover feminism until a few years later. I wanted love, and I wanted music. Is that such a crime?
“Someone to Watch Over Me” remained a standby, and at the very end of high school, I sang it at the art school’s after-prom party. Three of my friends had a jazz combo and let me be their singer for a night. Recently Abby, who makes frequent cameos in this column and was in attendance that evening, reminded me that I chose that moment to try scatting out in public. I had forgotten, but now I remember that I was mortified for weeks afterwards.
“I couldn’t believe you were brave enough to scat for the first time, right there on the spot!” she said.
“Neither can I,” I answered. Neither can I.
Next came college in Spartanburg and graduate school in Baltimore, where in 2008, I was invited to teach voice at a summer music camp for kids in McAlester, Oklahoma. In those days McAlester had a Walmart, a federal penitentiary, and an army ammunition plant that could not be missed due to its daily detonation of demilitarized ammo. Yes, detonation. Of ammo. We looked around uncomfortably at each other every afternoon when we heard the first boom.
McAlester was the place where I got to know my wonderful husband, whom I’d met briefly in New Haven earlier that year, so it will always be special to us. We made a point to drive through on our trip west this fall and found that it has grown, just like we have. But it still has large signs on the highway warning that HITCHHIKERS MAY BE FEDERAL INMATES, so it retains some of its original charm.
John and I taught at the camp for two summers, where it was customary for faculty members to give a recital in the closing days. I was steeped in operatic repertoire at the time as a graduate student, so I chose songs that felt a little more lighthearted and fun. It was summer break, after all. Our pianist joined me for “Summertime” and—a set of standards wouldn’t have felt right without it—“Someone to Watch Over Me.”
We performed at a church, where the audience filled with strangers—parents, grandparents, and cousins of the kids attending our camp. They were excited about our performance and we were delighted to give it. After “Summertime,” it was time for my favorite song, a kind of personal anthem by that point. After the opening I lost myself in the lyrics I’d loved for so long and offered whatever I could to that welcoming audience.
I’ll never forget what happened next. As I sang the chorus, warm and familiar, I looked out into the crowd and saw a man singing along. He was in his 70s or 80s, and though I couldn’t be certain, it looked like his cheeks were wet. His eyes were aglow, and he mouthed the words with abandon, clearly moved by some memory, unbeknownst to me, forever attached to the tune.
Hearing Chris play “Someone to Watch Over Me” on his recital recently reminded me of performing that night in McAlester, and of the man who wholeheartedly joined me in song, at least in spirit. Anyone who puts time and energy into the act of creation, who makes music, manipulates color, or writes words, anyone who tries to say something about the human condition, for the sake of beauty and pleasure—in the name of transcendence, however brief it may be—will know what I mean when I say this:
At the end of the day, matters of survival and sustenance aside, this is all an artist wants. To look out in the audience and see that somebody, somewhere, is singing along.
Between you and me—
Greetings, dear people! My week of having a mystery virus turned into two weeks. I’ve been totally zapped but tested negative for Covid again in the second week, thankfully, and finally have medication in hand. I expect to turn a corner this weekend. Still, I am going to take my own advice, and rest.
This week, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you without a song.
Take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider supporting it by becoming a sponsor. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!