Old Song's Magic

There, that songwriter-singer again, this late-night song-talk show on TV, he must be in his mid-forties still, but looks much older than seventy. He's got this strong smug air about him, squinting straight out of the tube at you, condescending, so presumptuous, like you ought to have known who he is. Cued by the host's curt, scripted coaxing, the guest ponders then coughs a little, rambles through a litany of names: known crooners, belters and balladeers who had sung, interpreted his songs, rues how they lack just the right phrasing, the crisp tempo, the subtle rhythm, the sheer passion of his own version. Then he gets to sing his favorites, savors the flow of tune in a trance, awed by his own versatility, under the gray spell of his own voice; but the cracked vocals disappoint you, the lyrics so cloyingly corny even amateur poets would wince in guilty amusement or pity. Yet you truly wonder how and why his pathetic croaking through a song makes you feel good all over, somehow, a soft surge of blurred recognition of a treasured figment of your past: you were young, gallant, so heroic, with her in your arms, you in her heart, lost in the magic of an old song!