Sweet B and I do music a lot. Mostly, this is music defined in its broadest possible sense...I “sing” impromptu doggerel to her as we waltz around or while I snuggle her toward sleep. But sometimes we listen to the real stuff. She likes rhythm more than melody, but she’s definitely not yet into jazz. She does like the three Glenn Miller tunes on my iPod (Benny Goodman, not so much), and today I discovered she’s a big Fred Astaire fan.
For some of our jam sessions, I lie on my back and prop her up on my knees. I hold her by her feet, sing along as best I can, make rhythm noises and whistle some. Yesterday, she especially enjoyed a recorded and essentially vocal version of this:
I sang along, of course. I’ve always gotten a special chuckle out of:
Come let’s mix where Rockerfellas,
Walk with sticks, or umberellas,
In their mitts,
Puttin on the Ritz.
But a lightly drooling B was the star of our performance. No high hat or white spats, but some pretty fancy footwork. And the contrapuntal gurgling was a brilliant touch.
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