“Listen to this.” My wife Becky motioned me over to her chair, holding out some wired earbuds. I put them in and heard the tinny, far away sound of a woman singing in a vaguely operatic style with some sort of string section wavering louder every other second. There were also people talking. It was a mess. “I just know that’s her!” Becky said, looking into my face, waiting for me to agree.
“Who?” I had to ask, because I’d already forgotten about that long-lost relative she’d mentioned the other night. I have a bad habit of doing that. Becky says it’s a common trait amongst new husbands, and if so, I’m sorry for the ladies, but my problem is that I only remember things that specifically concern me or interest me. I cannot work up any interest in Becky’s long-lost relatives. My love for my wife does not extend that far into the unknown and unwanted.
“Allen! I told you the other night I thought I had a recording of my Great Aunt Sarah from the soundtrack of a 1930s movie! She was a glorified extra, but you can hear her singing, can’t you?” I could, so I said that I could, indeed.
“The film was lost in the 1965 fire at MGM, so it was never copied or digitized,” Becky went on. “The original soundtrack-- what you just heard-- was kept in a different place. I mean, we don’t even know if every part of it was used in the movie.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Allen, I’ve TOLD you before that I’m working with my cousin Bernie to piece this together. You don’t care about this stuff, do you?”
I removed the earbuds and handed them back. “Of course I care about whatever you are interested in, but I can’t remember everything you say!” I hadn’t intended to get worked up, but my reaction was embarrassingly defensive, I realized. It was going pretty far to declare I cared, and I was worried about that, too.
Becky sighed. She had a scrapbook on her lap. It looked ancient; the kind that kept deckle-edged photos adhered to black pages with pasted-on corners. She flipped a page and pointed to one. “Look at this, Allen. Just LOOK!”
I saw an attractive, haughty-looking, cropped-haired young woman in a form-fitting white dress. She was standing on a lawn next to a white table. There was a little dog in the background facing away from the camera. I could see the edge of a porch on the left, and a tree on the right. “Is that Aunt Sarah?” I hoped that was the right question.
It was. Becky smiled, and her eyes went soft. “Before she left for Hollywood she sang in musicals at the Lancaster Opera House in New York state. This was taken after a performance, I think. She’d already decided to leave for California, Bernie told me. She changed her name from Sarah Berman to Sandy Brent. She wanted to sing in the movies. And she did!”
“Did she become— famous?”
“Allen, fame is not the only goal there is. To participate, to perform, to be a part of the movie world! That’s what it was about. To express herself! Anyway, from what we can find, there was a club scene in the movie that called for a singer in the background while the main actors were shown up close, talking, and she was given that role because she was pretty and could sing. Bernie’s going to get a copy of the original, actual script! It’s on eBay for only $350. It was called “Jazz in the Jungle.”
I was surprised. “Becky, have you spent money on this sort of memorabilia? We’re supposed to be saving for a down payment on a house.” What a stick-in-the-mud I was turning out to be.
Becky was irritated. “Bernie’s taking care of any costs.”
“So, what was the song she was singing there?”
Amazingly, Becky had the answer. “It was called ‘Heart o’ Mine.” It was an old-style, very conservative kind of song that some people still liked, while everyone else was into ragtime and jazz. But Aunt Sarah was good at the older songs. So, in the scene, the main actors are visiting a club-- probably in some exotic location-- that featured this old-fashioned kind of music, but they’re arguing about it. And obviously, the movie was promoting the new music.” Becky looked sad.
“Honey, let’s listen to some old-fashioned music tonight. You want to?”
“You trying to get into my pants, Allen?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send you a playlist.” Becky picked up her phone and pressed some buttons. “This is all early 1900s stuff. I just love it.”
Maybe we were still in our honeymoon phase after all.
— Macoff
“Who?” I had to ask, because I’d already forgotten about that long-lost relative she’d mentioned the other night. I have a bad habit of doing that. Becky says it’s a common trait amongst new husbands, and if so, I’m sorry for the ladies, but my problem is that I only remember things that specifically concern me or interest me. I cannot work up any interest in Becky’s long-lost relatives. My love for my wife does not extend that far into the unknown and unwanted.
“Allen! I told you the other night I thought I had a recording of my Great Aunt Sarah from the soundtrack of a 1930s movie! She was a glorified extra, but you can hear her singing, can’t you?” I could, so I said that I could, indeed.
“The film was lost in the 1965 fire at MGM, so it was never copied or digitized,” Becky went on. “The original soundtrack-- what you just heard-- was kept in a different place. I mean, we don’t even know if every part of it was used in the movie.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Allen, I’ve TOLD you before that I’m working with my cousin Bernie to piece this together. You don’t care about this stuff, do you?”
I removed the earbuds and handed them back. “Of course I care about whatever you are interested in, but I can’t remember everything you say!” I hadn’t intended to get worked up, but my reaction was embarrassingly defensive, I realized. It was going pretty far to declare I cared, and I was worried about that, too.
Becky sighed. She had a scrapbook on her lap. It looked ancient; the kind that kept deckle-edged photos adhered to black pages with pasted-on corners. She flipped a page and pointed to one. “Look at this, Allen. Just LOOK!”
I saw an attractive, haughty-looking, cropped-haired young woman in a form-fitting white dress. She was standing on a lawn next to a white table. There was a little dog in the background facing away from the camera. I could see the edge of a porch on the left, and a tree on the right. “Is that Aunt Sarah?” I hoped that was the right question.
It was. Becky smiled, and her eyes went soft. “Before she left for Hollywood she sang in musicals at the Lancaster Opera House in New York state. This was taken after a performance, I think. She’d already decided to leave for California, Bernie told me. She changed her name from Sarah Berman to Sandy Brent. She wanted to sing in the movies. And she did!”
“Did she become— famous?”
“Allen, fame is not the only goal there is. To participate, to perform, to be a part of the movie world! That’s what it was about. To express herself! Anyway, from what we can find, there was a club scene in the movie that called for a singer in the background while the main actors were shown up close, talking, and she was given that role because she was pretty and could sing. Bernie’s going to get a copy of the original, actual script! It’s on eBay for only $350. It was called “Jazz in the Jungle.”
I was surprised. “Becky, have you spent money on this sort of memorabilia? We’re supposed to be saving for a down payment on a house.” What a stick-in-the-mud I was turning out to be.
Becky was irritated. “Bernie’s taking care of any costs.”
“So, what was the song she was singing there?”
Amazingly, Becky had the answer. “It was called ‘Heart o’ Mine.” It was an old-style, very conservative kind of song that some people still liked, while everyone else was into ragtime and jazz. But Aunt Sarah was good at the older songs. So, in the scene, the main actors are visiting a club-- probably in some exotic location-- that featured this old-fashioned kind of music, but they’re arguing about it. And obviously, the movie was promoting the new music.” Becky looked sad.
“Honey, let’s listen to some old-fashioned music tonight. You want to?”
“You trying to get into my pants, Allen?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send you a playlist.” Becky picked up her phone and pressed some buttons. “This is all early 1900s stuff. I just love it.”
Maybe we were still in our honeymoon phase after all.
— Macoff
Comments
Post a Comment