Musing over the success of this work, composer Bart Howard later noted that it took him 20 years to learn how to compose a hit song in 20 minutes. “Fly Me to the Moon” exemplifi es the paradox of this revealing quip. The song opens with a pattern of descending phrases—in essence, the hook of the song—pre- sented with a soothing predictability, almost as if the future direction of the melody is dictated by the opening fi ve notes. The harmonic progression, for its part, rarely departs from the circle of fi fths. Put them together on the band- stand, and this song almost seems to play itself. I can easily imagine that com- posing “Fly Me to the Moon” was almost as eff ortless.
But this tune has traveled far since then. It has been translated into Span- ish (“Llévame a la Luna”), has been a hit in Germany (“Schiess mich doch zum Mond”), employed as a theme in a Japanese anime series ( Neon Genesis Evangelion ), and has—yes, literally!—fl own to the moon, brought there by the Apollo 11 mission. That’s a long way from where Howard started a music career that, at fi rst, showed little potential for that kind of truly astronomical stardom. Born in 1915 as Howard Joseph Gustafson in Burlington, Iowa, the future songwriter fi rst went on the road as part of a band backing the Siamese twins Daisy and Violet Hilton. A later gig found him working with female impersonator Rae Bourbon. Needless to say, these are hardly the kind of en- gagements that serve as a springboard to fame and fortune. In 1951, Howard found himself as master of ceremonies and pianist at the Blue Angel in New York, where he was an accompanist rather than a headliner, and seemingly destined for permanent second-tier or third-tier status in the musical life of Manhattan.
But “Fly Me to the Moon”—then known as “In Other Words”—was sung at the Blue Angel by Felicia Sanders, and other vocalists picked up on the catchy tune. Nancy Wilson recorded it in 1959, but the turning point came the fol- lowing year when Peggy Lee performed the song on The Ed Sullivan Show , then the most popular variety program on TV. Others jumped on the bandwagon. Among the many cover versions, Frank Sinatra’s 1964 recording with Count Basie (and a chart by Quincy Jones), must rank as the best-known version of “Fly Me to the Moon”—and was the rendition that Buzz Aldrin brought along as a personal soundtrack for his lunar visit. Sinatra also established that this song works just as well in 4/4 as in the original waltz time envisioned by the composer.
I am not immune to the appeal of this piece, and it possesses a satisfying sense of forward movement that makes it fun to play. Yet an ineradicable Las Vegas showroom quality permeates the tune, the cumulative result of record- ings by Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Louis Prima, Doris Day, Connie Francis, and
116 Fly Me to the Moon
other singers with varying degrees of jazz credibility, but each the kind of artist your great aunt used to talk about after returning from her vacation in Sin City. Rich Little has done a devastating take-off , off ering impressions of various celebrities swapping stories of their sexual prowess while a big band plays “Fly Me to the Moon” in the background. Little pauses every once in a while to encourage the musicians (“Hit it, Count, hit it!”), and you could hardly pick a better song for such a put-on. The exaggerations of the lyrics— do we really need to know what love is like on Jupiter and Mars?—contribute to the eff ect.
As a result, this song seems to invite campy or shallow performances from even the most sober-minded artists. Wes Montgomery is saddled with a corny baroque chart for his 1968 recording, but overcomes it through the sheer cut- ting power of his guitar lines. Nat King Cole and George Shearing are hardly so successful on their 1961 collaboration, where they battle desperately against the strings and are hopelessly outnumbered. Then again, this song almost begs for parody or even ridicule, and its inescapable history will always make decon- struction an inviting path for a jazz player.
But you can also play it without an attitude and just let it fall into a groove— in either 3/4 or 4/4 time—which seems to happen quite naturally when this song is called on the bandstand. For suitable examples, listen to three especially moon-worthy performances from the Apollo program years: Roy Haynes’s 1962 version with Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Vince Guaraldi’s trio recording from 1964, and Hampton Hawes’s spirited treatment from 1965.
recommended versions
Peggy Lee (recorded as “In Other Words”), from Pretty Eyes , Hollywood, February 15 and 18, 1960
Roy Haynes (with Tommy Flanagan and Rahsaan Roland Kirk), from Out of the
Afternoon , Englewood Cliff s, New Jersey, May 16, 1962
Frank Sinatra and Count Basie, from It Might as Well Be Swing , Los Angeles, June 9, 1964
Vince Guaraldi, from Jazz Impressions of a Boy Named Charlie Brown , San Francisco, 1964
Hampton Hawes, from Here and Now , Los Angeles, May 12, 1965
Wes Montgomery, from Road Song , Englewood Cliff s, New Jersey, May 7, 1968 Ray Brown (with Benny Carter), from Some of My Best Friends Are . . . Sax Players ,
New York (November 20–22, 1995), and Los Angeles (February 13, 1996) Diana Krall, from Live in Paris , live at the Olympia, November–December 2001 Joey DeFrancesco, from Snapshot , live at the Kerr Cultural Center, Scottsdale,