That Old Feeling
There is a wee pub in Scotland where one evening a month an aged crowd gathers for an evening of jazz and a trip down memory lane.
It’s a simple place. Ragged silk flowers stuffed in milk-bottle vases adorn bare tables. Advertised as open mike during the second half of the evening, the doors open promptly at seven and an orderly queue forms at the bar. By seven-thirty foamy glasses of beer and tumblers of wine are clutched in the hands of an audience that waits patiently for the quartet to begin.
A bass player and guitarist kick off the evening, playing tunes from the war years, while a pianist pounds the synthetic ivories of his Clavinova. His wife, a pretty woman in her forties, belts out tunes so clearly and passionately that if you close your eyes you might think you are in the presence of Ella Fitzgerald.
I scan the audience and wonder who, amongst the sea of wrinkled faces and blue-rinsed hair, will be brave enough to get up and sing a song or two. Will it be the man with sagging jowls that make him scowl like a pug dog or perhaps the woman whose tightly curled hair lays bare the pinkness of her scalp? One thing I happily note—my husband and I are the youngest ones here!
With thunderous applause the first half of the evening ends; hearing aids must be working well! There’s a mad dash to the loo.
We are seated at a round table close to the band. During the break a couple arrive with a much older woman in tow. They ask if they can join us. Chatting with them we discover that the elderly lady is the man’s ninety-three year old mother. She sits quietly, her heavily veined hands folded neatly in her lap. Pure white curls frame her face while the back of her hair is rumpled and flat as if she’s just risen from her bed. She wears a green printed dress with a rose-colored crocheted sweater on top. A tiny lady, she’s cute as a button, as old as the Scottish hills.
Lights dim. The second half begins.
“Let’s put our hands together for Marion!” the gregarious singer, turned master of ceremonies bellows.
Where is Marion? From the far back corner of the room, she springs up and makes her way toward the band. Her sequined blouse catches the floodlights and twinkles.
She plants herself firmly beside the piano player, her thick ankles sturdy and strong in black orthopaedic shoes.
Marion runs her fingers through her tight, gray curls, shakes them from side to side. The pianist hands her the microphone and gives her a cue. The first few notes of Fats Waller’s 1929 song, Ain’t Misbehaving, echo through the hushed room.
Marion starts to sing. Her ample hips sway, she winks and points at an old man in the crowd as she croons,
“I don't stay out late, Don't care to go, I'm home about eight, Just me and my radio. Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you-ou-ou!”
The audience erupts in applause. She’s fabulous! Marion takes her bow, her three minutes of fame, and sashays back through her adoring crowd.
Ian is next. A short man with pop-bottle glasses, he struts through the crowd confidently. Ian spreads his arms theatrically and begins:
“You took my kisses and all my love…” Pausing to pucker his lips, he throws a smooch to a gal in the crowd.
“…so why not take All…of…Me!” Applause. Table-banging. Laughter. Ian is a hit!
I keep my eye on the sweet little lady at our table. Her chair is turned sideways so she can get the best possible view of the singers. She lip-syncs the words to every single song; her hands clap together slowly, beating time. Her deeply creviced face and watery blue eyes rimmed in red look like a mask that has built up over the years, layer upon layer. As she sits listening to the music that was popular when she was much younger, her skin seems to become taut, her complexion silky as the nylons she used to wear.
A woman named Joan makes her way slowly to the front, hanging on to the backs of chairs to steady herself. She grasps the microphone with trembling hands. Joan takes a deep breath and begins.
“I saw you last night and got that old feeling. When you came in sight I got that old feeling…”
Our ninety-three year old tablemate begins to sing along in harmony with Joan.
“There’ll be no new romance for me, it’s foolish to start. For that old feeling is still in my heart…”
My eyes fill with tears; my heart swells. I find it hard to catch my breath. She’s the living embodiment of Lew Brown’s 1937 lyrics.
“We have to get my mother home,” her son says as the song ends. “It’s getting late.”
He wraps the pink sweater tightly around his mother’s shoulders and helps her to her feet. I keep my eyes transfixed on this woman who overflows with memories. She turns back, smiles and waves, those old feelings tucked safely away, alive with each beat of her heart.
© Virginia Foley
It’s a simple place. Ragged silk flowers stuffed in milk-bottle vases adorn bare tables. Advertised as open mike during the second half of the evening, the doors open promptly at seven and an orderly queue forms at the bar. By seven-thirty foamy glasses of beer and tumblers of wine are clutched in the hands of an audience that waits patiently for the quartet to begin.
A bass player and guitarist kick off the evening, playing tunes from the war years, while a pianist pounds the synthetic ivories of his Clavinova. His wife, a pretty woman in her forties, belts out tunes so clearly and passionately that if you close your eyes you might think you are in the presence of Ella Fitzgerald.
I scan the audience and wonder who, amongst the sea of wrinkled faces and blue-rinsed hair, will be brave enough to get up and sing a song or two. Will it be the man with sagging jowls that make him scowl like a pug dog or perhaps the woman whose tightly curled hair lays bare the pinkness of her scalp? One thing I happily note—my husband and I are the youngest ones here!
With thunderous applause the first half of the evening ends; hearing aids must be working well! There’s a mad dash to the loo.
We are seated at a round table close to the band. During the break a couple arrive with a much older woman in tow. They ask if they can join us. Chatting with them we discover that the elderly lady is the man’s ninety-three year old mother. She sits quietly, her heavily veined hands folded neatly in her lap. Pure white curls frame her face while the back of her hair is rumpled and flat as if she’s just risen from her bed. She wears a green printed dress with a rose-colored crocheted sweater on top. A tiny lady, she’s cute as a button, as old as the Scottish hills.
Lights dim. The second half begins.
“Let’s put our hands together for Marion!” the gregarious singer, turned master of ceremonies bellows.
Where is Marion? From the far back corner of the room, she springs up and makes her way toward the band. Her sequined blouse catches the floodlights and twinkles.
She plants herself firmly beside the piano player, her thick ankles sturdy and strong in black orthopaedic shoes.
Marion runs her fingers through her tight, gray curls, shakes them from side to side. The pianist hands her the microphone and gives her a cue. The first few notes of Fats Waller’s 1929 song, Ain’t Misbehaving, echo through the hushed room.
Marion starts to sing. Her ample hips sway, she winks and points at an old man in the crowd as she croons,
“I don't stay out late, Don't care to go, I'm home about eight, Just me and my radio. Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you-ou-ou!”
The audience erupts in applause. She’s fabulous! Marion takes her bow, her three minutes of fame, and sashays back through her adoring crowd.
Ian is next. A short man with pop-bottle glasses, he struts through the crowd confidently. Ian spreads his arms theatrically and begins:
“You took my kisses and all my love…” Pausing to pucker his lips, he throws a smooch to a gal in the crowd.
“…so why not take All…of…Me!” Applause. Table-banging. Laughter. Ian is a hit!
I keep my eye on the sweet little lady at our table. Her chair is turned sideways so she can get the best possible view of the singers. She lip-syncs the words to every single song; her hands clap together slowly, beating time. Her deeply creviced face and watery blue eyes rimmed in red look like a mask that has built up over the years, layer upon layer. As she sits listening to the music that was popular when she was much younger, her skin seems to become taut, her complexion silky as the nylons she used to wear.
A woman named Joan makes her way slowly to the front, hanging on to the backs of chairs to steady herself. She grasps the microphone with trembling hands. Joan takes a deep breath and begins.
“I saw you last night and got that old feeling. When you came in sight I got that old feeling…”
Our ninety-three year old tablemate begins to sing along in harmony with Joan.
“There’ll be no new romance for me, it’s foolish to start. For that old feeling is still in my heart…”
My eyes fill with tears; my heart swells. I find it hard to catch my breath. She’s the living embodiment of Lew Brown’s 1937 lyrics.
“We have to get my mother home,” her son says as the song ends. “It’s getting late.”
He wraps the pink sweater tightly around his mother’s shoulders and helps her to her feet. I keep my eyes transfixed on this woman who overflows with memories. She turns back, smiles and waves, those old feelings tucked safely away, alive with each beat of her heart.
© Virginia Foley
