Mea Maxima Culpa, Mel

Time was (back when I was a know-it-all and didn't need to shave, as opposed to now when the breadth of my ignorance grows daily along with my disdain for shaving) when my sister and I could elicit peals of laughter from each other by simply uttering three measly syllables: Mel Torme. This was back in the 1970s, at the end of the great TV variety show era and when Merv Griffin ruled the afternoon airwaves, so even with only about six channels to work with, Mel Torme viewings were rather plentiful. If at the time I had been familiar with the word schlock, that's the word I would have used to describe the ever ebullient jack-o-lantern with his hokey (to my inchoate sensibilities) scat singing and inevitable interjection of some showbiz wink ("Love ya, Merv") into perfectly decent if unhip songs. In short, he seemed to be everything a kid would fear about growing old uncooly. Three measly syllables, Mel Torme, were the ultimate shorthand for my sister and me, representing all the horrors of the aging process and one's perpetual battle with cool.

Well, I did grow up some since those days, gradually. As I learned more about music I realized Mel, "The Velvet Fog," had some standing in the big band jazz singer mode that, while it never did much for me, I could respect. So over time, I guess Mel for me went from schlock to schmaltz, no little difference there. Somewhere along the way I picked up the knowledge that he had written (co-written, actually, with a guy named Bob Wells) "The Christmas Song" (aka "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."), which upped Mel's reputation in my regard another notch or two: a schmaltzy, effervescent guy with some creative talent. That's where Mel remained for me for a long time, up to and long after his death in 1999.

Then last year, an epiphany. After hours and hours, years and years, of working retail during the holiday season, one becomes hardened to the charms of "holiday music." The first phase is sheer hatred of the music, then, as time goes by, the second phase kicks in: deafness. You don't even hear it. But for some reason, amidst all the various renditions of all the old standards, Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song" made it through the fog of indifference; that, I remember deciding definitively, is the greatest Christmas song of all-time, secular division. Well, considering that just about every day of my life I'm designating one song or another, one album or another, as the greatest whatever song/album in history, my pronouncement regarding Mel's ditty probably didn't hold much lasting currency. However, today I must have heard the song three or four times, not only Nat's version but assorted other ones, and a year later the verdict not only still stands, but is here and now being set in the stone that is the world wide web. No arguments will be accepted.

What a song! I'm always drawn primarily to lyrics, and upon hundreds of repeated listens, I must say, the lyrics hold up. No schmaltz whatsoever, just genuine sentiment, and there's nothing wrong with that. But my God, that melody. Sort of like watching a lone beautiful skater on a rink work her way up to some brilliant move, and then kind of slowly recover to do it all over again. Or like the surf coming in and going out again. I'm convinced that no one could screw this song up without really trying. It's the equivalent of a cool drink of water on a hot day: timeless, unimpeachable, classic.

Ironically, a little research reveals that the song was written on a very hot day, when Torme saw some lines Wells had written--only to make him feel less hot, supposedly. Mel took over and said he wrote all the music and some of the rest of the words; in an hour the song was complete. Here's the kicker, to me, though: at the time he was 19! My God, even my god Bob Dylan didn't write a song worth anybody ever covering until he was nearly 21. One hour of work when he was nineteen--imagine how much money those sixty minutes have earned. Amazing.

So Mel, I'm here to tell you today I'm sorry for making you the butt of so many jokes over the years. I was lost but now I am found. For your sole contribution of "The Christmas Song" (I hereby suggest the title officially be tweaked to "The Christmas Song"), to popular music, Christmas music, the Christmas experience in general, you have earned my deepest respect and highest regards. Love ya, Mel.

Mel Torme-The Christmas Song