What’s in a Song? V

That’s Amore by Dean Martin

In 1987, at the age of 39, I was at a low point emotionally.  My wife and I had split up two years before.  After floundering around for a while, I started a new romance with a woman that seemed to be working out.  I’d explained that I had no wish to live with a woman or get married as long as my son was still living with me (he was 14), and she understood.  She was a widow with two daughters and had been alone for a while.  She wasn’t one of the women I’d initially thought of dating, but she called me about some writing advice, and that made me think of her.  Before I could call and ask for a date, she called and asked me.  A good sign.

I would now say about that romance that everything in bed was great, out of bed not so great.  She had a way of negotiating differences that left me feeling I’d been treated fairly, but she always got what she wanted and I never did.  I was casual about trying things like restaurants and movies (my son and I went to a movie every Sunday afternoon under the motto, Any movie is better than no movie, and if a restaurant looked half-decent we’d take a crack at it), but she read reviews, did endless research, and most of the time decided not to do whatever I suggested.  We differed wildly as parents: when her daughters got home, they were each allowed half a grapefruit and a stick of sugarless gum.  My son came home and fixed himself a Phillie Cheese Steak.

After about a year and a half, she moved residences to get in a better school district for her daughters, and began to talk about my moving there with her, though nothing had changed in my feelings.  Pretty soon we were arguing about everything, and things started to go wrong even in bed.  Ultimately we wanted different things, and I can now see it was good that we parted when we did.

I didn’t feel that way at the time.  I’d tried to make two relationships work—one a marriage of fifteen years—and neither had.  I was starting to wonder if I was cut out for this.  Right after this second break-up, I came home to find a sweater sitting on my front porch, a rather expensive item that I’d recently given my lady friend for her birthday.  What did she want me to do, wear it myself?  (I gave it to my ex-wife, who said it had been mean to return it that way and that she’d be happy to wear it.)

It was in that uneasy mood that I decided to go to a movie the following Saturday night.  A friend had said to me, when I split up with my wife: when you can appear in public by yourself, and not be self-conscious, you’ll know you’re okay.  I’d gotten to a point where I could go to the neighborhood restaurant by myself, and I figured going to the movies was the same thing.  I was alone.  Did someone have a problem with that?

It’s hard to remember, or even believe, but in those days the Center Theater in Durham’s Lakewood neighborhood was a thriving movie theater with a big screen and lots of parking, and when I went that night the place was packed, cars all over the place, because a new movie was opening.  I got my ticket and went in to find a seat (I actually saw my former girlfriend with a new guy; she worked fast), hoping to keep my mind off things.  I knew nothing about the movie except who the stars were.  But as it began, the song that came on almost immediately cheered me up, not only because of what it said, but because of the singer’s tone.  The movie, as people will have guessed by now, was Moonstruck, a perfect movie to see that night.  (“Papa, I’m getting married.”  “Again?”)

As soon as that song began, I felt better about myself and about life.

Could anyone else have sung that song?  Has anyone else even tried?

Dean Martin had a beautiful voice—as do a lot of Italian crooners—but what made him perfect for That’s Amore was a kind of lilt to his voice, almost as if he’s laughing: a light touch no one else seems to have, but that makes him the perfect singer for another song that, if anything, I like even more: “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?”  (“I couldn’t feel any better or I’d be sick.”)

I say it again: Could anyone else sing that song that way?  Has anyone tried?

I was crushed—at the age of eight—when the comedy team of Matin and Lewis broke up.  I loved their movies, and figured they got along great.  But as I look back, I can see why Dean wanted out.  He stood there singing beautifully while some guy hung all over him and made fun of the whole thing.  What singer wouldn’t hate that?  I’m sure their break-up was a hard decision because they were pulling in a lot of money, but it turned out to be good for both men.

I loved things Dean did on his own.  I enjoyed the Rat Pack movies, especially Oceans Eleven, and liked the repartee between him and Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr.  I also loved the movie “Some Came Running,” in which he played a supporting role—as did Shirley MacLaine—to Sinatra’s starring role, and years later, on my James Jones kick, I actually read all 2,000 pages of the novel, which I also loved, flawed as it was.[1]

One time I was buying a stack of CD’s at a little store in Asheville, and the owner paused when he saw The Best of Dean Martin.  “Wow,” he said, “Dean Martin,” as if to say, who wouldn’t want that?  I’ve played it a number of times, but the best songs are the two I’ve mentioned, which are at the beginning.

Years ago, I was in the Eckhard Drugstore on Broad Street in Durham not long after Martin died.  I was standing in line to buy something when I guy behind me, looking at one of the tabloids, said—in a tone of shocked outrage—”Dean Martin is not dead!”  I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry man.  I hate to be the one to tell you.  He actually is dead.”

The tabloid got it right.  The guy couldn’t believe it.

But at this point I agree.  Dean Martin is not dead.

[1] James Jones has disappeared from view, but I think he is an underrated and important writer, maybe the most interesting novelist I know of on the subject of masculinity.  His war trilogy tells the truth about war, especially in The Thin Red Line, as no other American novelist has ever told it, far better than Hemingway, and though all his work speaks to the subject of masculinity, Go to the Widow Maker is his most interesting novel on that subject, probably a best seller, but never taken seriously by critics.