It’s an odd thing about which to worry, but I’ve spent a little bit of time lately wondering what’s going to happen to what used to be called “the standards”. I’ve played the above song a few times in public and at least twice have compelled some unlucky piano player to cover the tune while I belted it out to crowds ranging from perplexed to dismayed. It’s a brilliant tune. It’s about (uh-oh, I’m about to cover some extremely familiar ground) yearning and longing.

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song

You are the angel glow that lights the star
The dearest things that I know are what you are
Someday my happy arms will hold you
And someday I’ll know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine

Jesus. I mean, that’s hard to read, right? If you’ve ever felt that way about anyone. Someday, my happy arms will hold you. And someday I’ll know that moment divine. But let’s face it, we’re in the era of the instant hookup now, the era where an attractive woman will have a “date” with you that consists of riding your bicycle to her house, because you don’t own a car, and knocking it off.

You are the chick I’m hooking up with
After I ride my bike to your place
You are the woman I just came in
I don’t know your name I just know your face

Give me some romance. Which, as my faithful readers know, requires an obstacle. But even if there isn’t an obstacle. Give me something beyond the ordinary. Give me the long night with the drinks in hand, the piano player standing by, the restaurant empty except for two. Give me the situation which requires tremendous effort to construct yet feels effortless once you reach it. A kiss in a sort-of-secret park near the reflecting pool of the Washington Mall. The space behind a waterfall. The five-star room and the wine-soaked sheets. Let’s have something worth remembering here.

A song — a vocal song — is just a story, really. It’s a meme. And like any meme, it disappears and dies when it is no longer continuously reinforced by society. A song about yearning and longing has about as much relevance in the modern era as a song like “Maybelline”, where the plot turns on the cooling capacity of the flathead Ford V-8. We live in a world where you can drive compact SUVs flat-out across the desert without moving the temperature needle and where the women are waiting for you to ride your bicycle over for sex. I am the last generation that will sing “All The Things You Are”. In fact, I have a version of it I’ve recorded, but I’ll save it for myself, it’s not quite good enough. I’ll sit down and try it again. I don’t have any trouble playing it, but I have trouble singing it in a zone that is neither uncaring nor halting. But no matter how many times I disinter the tune, it’s in the past. This is the future:

What do they make dreams for
When you got them jeans on
What do we need steam for
You the hottest bitch in this place

Christ. How depressing. Over to you, Mr. Thicke. But wait:

OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you’re an animal, baby it’s in your nature
Just let me liberate you
Hey, hey, hey
You don’t need no papers
Hey, hey, hey
That man is not your maker
Hey, hey, hey

This deal is not yet closed. It’s a plot older than Giovanni Boccaccio by a long shot. She has a boyfriend. Sadly, he’s tried to domesticate her. Which I imagine is something a lot like: moving in together, parenting children together, saving pennies for the “date night”. But Robin Thicke, in his louche, middle-aged way, still sees the animal in her. He’s fairly worked up; after all, she’s the hottest bitch in this place. We have yearning of a sort. Possibly even longing. And there’s definitely an obstacle. But, I suspect, not for long.

Rodgers and Hammerstein have long ago closed up shop.
But the chance for romance is still there.
Hey, hey,
Hey.