"It had begun like the World Soft Championships. The songs, mostly by Antonio Carlos Jobim. Tender melodies. Tender like a two-day, lobster-red Rio sunburn, so tender they'd scream agony if handled rough. Slap one of his fragile songs on the back with a couple of trumpets? Like washing crystal in a cement mixer.
Seemed like the whole idea was to out-hush each other. Decibels treated like daggers. The arranger tiptoeing about, eliminating some percussion here, ticks there, ridding every song of clings, bings, bips, all things sharp. Doing it with fervor matched only by Her Majesty's Silkworms.
And Sinatra makes a joke about all this. "I haven't sung so soft since I had the laryngitis."
Singing so soft, if he sang any softer he'd have to be lying on his back."
I'll make it to Corcovado one day, Tom, and I'll blame it on the bossa nova. Until then, happy birthday; I'll listen to you and Frank all day and toast you with Guaraná tonight.
Seemed like the whole idea was to out-hush each other. Decibels treated like daggers. The arranger tiptoeing about, eliminating some percussion here, ticks there, ridding every song of clings, bings, bips, all things sharp. Doing it with fervor matched only by Her Majesty's Silkworms.
And Sinatra makes a joke about all this. "I haven't sung so soft since I had the laryngitis."
Singing so soft, if he sang any softer he'd have to be lying on his back."
I'll make it to Corcovado one day, Tom, and I'll blame it on the bossa nova. Until then, happy birthday; I'll listen to you and Frank all day and toast you with Guaraná tonight.
