1956 Dean Martin: Memories Are Made Of This

'Golden Oldie' is a somewhat pejorative term that's come to describe anything older than about six months. Perhaps I exaggerate, but I find it irksome to hear acts like Phil Collins being described thus, partly because there was never anything 'golden' about the man or his music but mainly because I don't much care to have my teenage years labelled as 'nostalgia'. I don't like that at all.

For my own money, 'Memories Are Made Of This' is the epitome of what I regard as constituting a 'golden oldie'. From the moment it starts up, it's clearly an artefact from times past (the 'oldie' requirement) yet does not sound dated or anachronistic the way something like 'Outside Of Heaven' does (the 'golden' requirement). It's a song I well remember as being staple fodder of the family favourites radio shows when I was growing up and the sort of thing my mother would always be singing along to. This was a state of affairs that, in my eyes, immediately applied a 'THIS IS NOT COOL' branding iron to its hide which would have been at odds to my mother's own generation for whom Dean Martin and the Rat Pack must have stood as the very epitome of cool. I have no doubt they resented their past being repackaged as nostalgia too.

So what of the song then? Well, early prognosis is not good; "Don't forget a small moonbeam, fold in lightly with a dream" - the lyrics could have been lifted directly from the cheapest, tackiest greetings card and, if overdosed with sincerity (as some interpreters have been wont to do), then 'Memories Are Made Of This' oozes a patronising naivety that sticks in the craw. Happiness is all about getting married and producing three kids apparently. But before we all start booking the church, Dino's vocal arrives to puncture this little bubble of joy by carrying it with an amused air that both suggests he's got much better memories than any of this (which I'm sure he did) but that he's also happy enough to purvey this homespun philosophy ("One girl, one boy. Some grief, some joy") to us more easily pleased mere mortals, even if he had no intentions of taking it seriously himself.

Maybe this is being unfair to both the song and the singer, but in truth Martin was a consummate professional who didn't just know hokum when he saw it, he also how to make it palatable. And palatable it certainly is - the nagging vocal harmonies that glide beneath the lead and egg it on are infectious to the extreme and whilst I ultimately find this inessential, it's undeniably enjoyable. Enjoyable enough with a good time verve that gets me singing along whenever I hear it being played anyway, the way my mother did before me. Whether that makes me cool or it's opposite I care not a jot but I guess it proves that every wheel will turn full circle if you manage to live long enough.