The Boulevard Room

Odd name for a restaurant—I suppose because of its French origins, it seemed like a fancy-pants name for street—so it does have a nice ring to it. The funny thing about that word, depending on how deeply you look, it merely refers to wide road, maybe with trees along it. But growing up, my parents called the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the street “the boulevard.” (It was always unclear to me if this was our property or the city’s—and if we were required to mow it or not—of course we did. It was also where you could have cars park if you had a party and your driveway was full.) I assumed this was another of my parents’ odd, made-up words, unique only to them (which turned out, in every case, to have some antecedent, somewhere). And it turns out, when you look more deeply, it sometimes does refer to the grassy area in the middle of some streets—and, also, the strip between the sidewalk and the street. So, where’d my parents get that? I suppose from their parents, or teachers, or maybe TV, or books.

It’s a word that still amuses me. It occurs to me that it would be a good word to include in the title of something… but what? My new (this year) novel already has a name (still a secret). My band, of course, is Love Me Avenue (incidentally the same name as what you’re reading now). Maybe I should start out with the name, and then figure out that story later. Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Sunset Boulevard, Heartbreak Boulevard, Boulevard of Death… all taken. How about…The Boulevard Room? It could take place in its original location, Hotel Jefferson, in St. Louis. It’s seen better days, live music, jazz, in the ballroom and The Boulevard Room. I found a 1960s cocktail menu, online, that’s interesting. I noticed, there, the “Golden Glow” cocktail, which I don’t believe I’d ever heard of. The 1955 Ford Treasury book (the source of my random pick) shows an elegant dining room where Chef Mauclair serves Indian inspired cuisine. The recipe is for “Rice Mangalais with Curry Sauce.”

The funny thing is, one of my job notifications this week was at an office in St. Louis, and then I find myself looking up this place—it’s right downtown—the old (originally built in 1904 for the World’s Fair) Hotel Jefferson is still standing, but has been closed and neglected for a couple of decades. But apparently it is just recently undergoing renovations—by the time I get this job, it might be the place to move to! Oddly, there are not a lot of paranormal stories that I could find—but a place that old, it’s got to be haunted, to some degree. Maybe the ghosts are just waiting for the new generation of residents. I can only hope they don’t do a bullshit job, renovating, like seemingly every other old place that gets an overhaul for… well, don’t get me started. St. Louis is probably way too hot, for me, in the summer, and doesn’t get enough snow in the winter. Nowhere does, anymore.

Since I wrote about the Frank Sinatra “Only the Lonely” album, this week, for my long-suffering record review blog, DJ Farraginous, I thought I might find another Sinatra review in the archives that might be in the spirt of the haunted/not haunted, once elegant, now neglected Boulevard Room. How about this one, from February 10, 2023? The record is from 1965.

Frank Sinatra “September of My Years”

This is one melancholy Sinatra record! It’s the work of a man looking back at his life, and ahead at the days left, and realizing there are one hell of a lot more days behind him. I wonder what the typical age of a person is when that realization hits them? For some, I suppose, it’s the big FOUR O. For me, I guess that was classic midlife crisis time—in that I was acting pretty much like an escaped clown for a few years. So… I wonder how old Sinatra actually was when this record came out? This a 1965 record—and Francis Albert was born in 1915, so that’s easy math. So, this is his turnin’ the corner at 50 record, I get it. It’s a milestone for anyone—though now that I’m 63, I maintain that 50 is decidedly not old. Though, if you drink and smoke and carry on, you might be feelin’ it. A lot of popular standards, here. The songs that make up a large part of Sinatra’s repertoire are songs about seasons, it always seems like—weather, rain, seasons, and the time of day. “It Gets Lonely Early” was always one of my favorites, as is “Last Night When We Were Young.” The record starts with “September of My Years” and ends with “September Song.” The album cover is a classic—an illustration of Sinatra in the shadows, blue suit and tie, blue background—a good likeness, serious, not sad, looking off toward the horizon. The back cover has an odd description: “Frank Sinatra sings of days and loves ago.” The orchestra is Gordon Jenkins, and there are liner notes by Stan Cornyn—this might have been one of his award-winning bits, for what it’s worth. A descriptive and poetic account of the recording session, a little funny and a little weird, and of course very loving. Here’s an excerpt: “Of the bruising day. Of the rouged lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines.” This is a good record for lonely times, and cold, dark winter evenings.

As ever,

Randy