The Les Paul and Mary Ford cover of “How High the Moon” came out in the year of my birth. It became a number-one hit.

I loved the song because Mary Ford’s overdubbed vocals made little-kid-me laugh. A whole lot. Which was important because my household wasn’t humor-driven. At all. Mine was a dark, Dickensian world, ruled by dour dullards.

No wonder I flipped over Mary Ford’s vocals. They sounded funny, in the way that “The Chipmunk Song” by Alvin and the Chipmunks would when I was a man-of-the-world second-grader in P.S. 86.

I also liked the lyrics to “How High”. This song first came out in 1940, and was a “serious” song, but for the little guy that was me, this version was “up” and aspirational:
“Somewhere there’s music / How faint the tune / Somewhere there’s heaven / How high the moon?”

I learned, however, that life is always one step forward/two steps back. As the Dead sang “…’cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door…”

Still, I hoped that, somewhere, there might be a “heaven”: better things ahead, with music, and laughter, and love, and — dare I say it — FUN!

The mindless movies of the era told me that my teen years would be a hoot. Cars. Girls. Beer on the beach. Life told me otherwise. My teen years were marinated in “uh-oh-the-draft” Viet Nam panic. The sixties exploded, as I nearly did.

I held on tight to the thought that “somewhere there’s music, how faint the tune…” Every week, the Village Voice print ads — and radio spots on WNEW-FM — offered a smorgasbord of music. I feasted as best I could.

The Fillmore. Vanguard, Bottom Line, Sweet Basil, Cookery, Blue Note, Max’s, Cedar Tavern, West Boondocks, Schaefer Festival. (Never made it to Corso on 86th to see Hector Lavoe.)

The music was excellent, plentiful, and affordable. And logistically simple. For the Fillmore, and Schaefer concerts, I’d march down to Cousin’s on Fordham Road, and the clerk would pull a stack of printed tickets held by a thick red rubber-band from a counter drawer and peel off my ducats.

Live music was ubiquitous. It was fun. And it provided the sense of generational community that helped us hold it together during daunting periods of history. I think about those days now when ticket prices for the Stones at MetLife Stadium next spring start at $199 and reach $1,700 (plus fees). That would be $25 to $230 in 1970 dollars. My 1970 CSN&Y tickets were $5.50, no fees.

I am reminded of the New York music scene and its power by today’s edition of Lucian Truscott Newsletter, https://luciantruscott.substack.com/. I urge you to check it out and subscribe. Lucian is the man.

Music is more important than ever, especially in these times of tension. It’s too bad that live performance tix for major artists are so pricey.

The good news is that so much quality music, by uber-talented though lesser-known acts, is available at intimate venues. My 2024 hope is to get out more and thrill to the sound of the snare and bass just before the leader counts down and the fun begins. GOOSEBUMPS!!!

Les Paul and Mary Ford were right: “Somewhere there’s music/How faint the tune/Somewhere there’s heaven/How high the moon” .