Martin Denny “Romantica”

Or, more accurately: Romantica – The Lush and Exotic Sounds of Martin Denny. From 1961. I sure can’t keep track of these Martin Denny records—which ones I like best, which ones I’ve heard, which ones I have, and which ones I’ve lost. There are a lot of them. And I’ve heard a lot. I haven’t yet heard one and thought, “What happened there?” As in, it was inferior. But I also haven’t heard one and said, “That’s way better than the rest!” But there must be both profound and subtle differences between them. (I haven’t heard any later ones.) There must be a good Martin Denny list out there. Should I look? Another time. Another rainy day. What did occur to me is that I might have reviewed this one—so I looked back—no, but I wrote about an earlier one—and wrote almost exactly what I wrote above! Am I a person who just keeps repeating himself? I guess so. I guess I should go back and read my own bullshit once in a while! So, what I decided I’d do, is take the same approach as the earlier one—I’ll listen to it and describe my feelings—the audio journey it takes me on. But first, a quick description of the cover—It’s dominated by a bare-shouldered woman who’s staring right at us, and behind her, a multidose of out-of-focus colored balls—could be pills, or lights, or beads, or balloons, or caviar. I’ll go with the caviar.

The back cover says: “…twelve selections that are ideal for a dream voyage on an ocean of serene romance.” So here we go. Oh, wow, I’m literally on the ocean, in a big ship—I guess it’s dated by modern standards—but would have seemed futuristic when I was one year old. Sixty-some years later, but the same things appeal to me: the salt air, and fish leaping from the sea, and a young woman I see who I focus right in on, as if she was top-billed in a movie or something. In typical rom-com fashion, we don’t hit it off—I guess she thinks I’m old enough to be her grandfather. I say when it comes to romance, the spirt of the heart, there is no age. Sure, as an organ, the heart wears out, but it’s all relative. She agrees to share a cocktail on the foredeck, or maybe it’s not there—I don’t know the names of ship things. We get out of the sun. The sun is intense. Did I say what ocean? Actually, I don’t know, but it’s not the North Atlantic. The weather is balmy. I guess when we reach an island with palm trees we’ll know the ballpark. The drink had pineapple juice, coconut, some other exotic fruit juice you can’t even get at Trader Joe’s. And did I mention rum? Now it is night. There’s a lot of sneaking around, due to the nature of this illicit romance. How was I supposed to know she’s both married and a spy? There’s a guy with a fez slinking around, as well. He takes me to a guy who will forge my papers so I can gain entry to the port we are destined for. While he’s at it, I ask him to change my age—subtract 20 years—why not? That’s what this voyage is doing for my heart. I may pick a new name, as well.

After the intermission, we’re running around the island, me and the woman I met on the ship. Someone is after us, and we dart, and dodge, in and out, through narrow streets, and finally into a small club and out on the back veranda. More rum drinks. I guess the woman saw my forged papers and was fooled by my new identity. I’m in decent shape for all this dashing here and there, as well. Now it’s the middle of the night and we’re telling stories to each other about our past—of course I’m making mine up and I suspect she is, too. While she goes to the bathroom (for like 45 minutes) I have a comic interlude with a man trying to sell me a trained bird that sits on his shoulder. Of course, I don’t believe he’ll part with the bird, but I go along with it and part with a few dollars. Apparently, not only did I get new papers, the guy also put some kind of spell on me to reverse aging, and I’m now a teenager, hanging out in my parents’ Tiki room, with the fishnets and glass buoys and dried starfish. The woman finally comes back from the bathroom. I suspect something funny is going on, but she assures me she is madly in love with me—or would be if I wasn’t too young for her. She says I shouldn’t be drinking all these rum drinks, but I tell her, I’ve already done my time as an old person—just trying to stay alive—but now I want to live! The thing is, I can’t remember my new name—it as too unmemorable—but I can’t remember my old one, either. Perhaps it’s time for another reinvention!

2.28.23