Oh, my man I love him so.
I caught vintage Barbra Streisand on YouTube recently. She was singing “My Man,” arguably her signature song. What a diva, what an instrument, a three-octave range back in the day. And what control, meticulous on every note. The phrasing, the texture devoid of harshness or coarseness, the trademark sound so full and resonant, the nasal ring that some dislike but I adore.
It was exhilarating.
Yet the song, which originated in France, its English lyrics dating back nearly a century, cries out for updating to the present:
Oh, my mask I loathe it so
Can’t stay, must go
All my life is just despair
And I do care
When it’s on my face
The world’s not bright, all right
What’s the difference if I say
It’ll go away, when I know
It’s coming back some day?
For whatever my mask is
It’s on my face forever more
It cost not a lot
But there’s one thing that I’ve got
It’s my mask, my mask.
Keeps slipping down you bet
All this I can’t forget with my mask
It’s not much for looks
No fashion out of books
And I loathe it
Got two or three
All the same to me
It’s my mask, it’s my mask
K95
Or one with all the jive
It’s my mask, my mask
Such a hex
Fogs my specs
It’s my mask, it’s my mask
(Sing along)
Oh, my mask
I loathe it so
Can’t stay, must go.
But Fauci says no.
Safe I’ll be
Not hyperbole
Keeps me from bed
And not dead
What’s the difference if I say
It’ll go away when I know
It’s coming back someday
For whatever my mask is
It’s on my face forever more
Until Spring, maybe? Summer?
Rosenbeast 