You Call It Madness The Sensuous Song of the Croon

Chapter 1 THEME SONG I'm cruising along the interstate when I first hear his story. Predawn. We are introduced randomly over the airwaves, radio on the far side of the dial. The hindsight of fate. I could've been on another station, or tuned out; he might have lived. There are the letters to his mother. His association with Carole. The dark, husky grain of his voice; a nostalgia for a moment I have never known firsthand, have yet to experience. He intrigues me. The in-trigger. "I can't forget the night I met you . . ." Memory's overwhelming obsession. "It's all I'm dreaming of." All. What every woman wants. You c-all it. Heads or tails. Madness. Love. Is there a choice? He's a "baritone with orchestra." Buh-buh-buh baritone. The way of the crooner. He lives for you. There is no existence without your presence. "I know my heart won't beat again / Until we meet again . . ." Auf Wiedersehen. My dear. Take a photo. It outlives you. A shot: set and shoot. A match sparking on a cocked hammer. A pair, as dueling pistols go. The complete set. They're meant for close firing. One on one. Not random protection, or the anonymous carnage of war. This is an intimately twinned weapon, each meant only for the other. The you of duel. The total absorption; the ultimate mating. Me, you. You, me. Which is to be who. We could even trade places, across this table that separates us. That is our intention, to penetrate and become you, in much the same way this light becomes you, or that color becomes you. It is the becoming that interests us now. This could be a smoky nightclub at 3:00 a.m., the Brown Derby or Danny's Hideaway, band choogling in the background, he leaning across the table to ignite her cigarette with a silver lighter. A flared glint. The pinpoint reflection from the lighter intersects the white light flash of a photographer from Screenland snapping an exclusive photo. For a moment they're framed by what seems a backlit silver screen, the blinding bulb glare of looking into the mouth of a klieg. A still projected. Neither notices because they're in full linger, time braked until its slowing motion is combusted by the nova-beamed flame edging them each toward their spotlit other. Dual. He could feel their bloods roaring as he opened his eyes on her. When he sang. He played the gypsy instrument and came from the hot countries; there were three o's in his given name. He had darkened in the gibraltar sun of Hollywood, even as he had lightened under New York's noon moon. He spoke the romance of Latin, the language of chimera; as in Latin Lover. The Romeo of Song: wherefore art the next Valentino? The knowing Ah before . . . but I Call It Love; and then the ba-dah-dahs. The croon. A most sensual singing. 1933 He is his song titles, his movie themes. Every chapter can have its own heading. They all fit. Broadway thru a Keyhole. Peeping through a boudoir door with a moon-shaped microphone clutched in his right hand. Got the key to the lock, hovering, ready to insert. His eyebrows are swept back, a comet's tail parting only to let the eye's vein pass through the dark shadow of his upper lids. But Russ Columbo isn't really looking at anything. He's listening; he's hearing the song come to mind and he's following its melody, humming it in the back of his throat, hoping to tune it clearer. The human radio tube. Pure vacuum. To bring it to the surface so he can sing it. A pinkie ring. A tuxedo and bow tie. Hair a smooth black sheen brushing backward. He is sleek, like a seal coat. Broadway thru a Keyhole is Winchell's baby, a film based on his tell-all tattle. To Russ, it's a trade-off for column inches and a chance to sing for, ironically, his old friends in Hollywood. Back to the movies. A comeback; that's whatKaye, Lenny is the author of 'You Call It Madness The Sensuous Song of the Croon', published 2004 under ISBN 9780679463085 and ISBN 0679463089.