Dear folks,

Really tickled to see this thread resurrected. What a treat! My only regret is that many of my favourites have been already cited. I will post my list a little later, after I have a chance to compare it with Akiba's. I think he'll be posting his list as well, so I don't want to mention all our mutual favourites before he takes a whack at it.For now I just want to share a few critical thoughts on specific performances that have been cited. (Maybe we should consider our favourite renditions, as well as songs?)

Three of the songs mentioned, while unexceptionable love songs of their particular genres, have been largely spoilt for me by their most famous presenters. To start with the least of them, "Loving You," by Minnie Riperton, is utterly ruined by the high notes for which she is famous. Her rendition is nothing short of embarrassing. No competent singer would consider notes that must be screeched, part of her vocal range, much less feature them in her performances. Ms. Ripperton is said to have had operatic training, she should have known better.

Next, "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," sung by Roberta Flack, is not exactly bad, but the arrangement is self-consciously drawn out, again, I believe, to demonstrate a feature of the singer's voice, in this case, her ability to sustain a note. I have heard this song done less melodramatically and more straightforwardly. It was thus more affecting, since the words and tune are lovely enough to require little embellishment and no over-arrangement.

Finally, and I am so glad Mark. C. mentioned it first, "I Will Always Love You," Dolly Parton's heartfelt ballad to a love on the occasion of its loss, has been subverted by Ms. Houston in the service of overweening self-importance. What do those belligerently belted "I's" have to do with the *meaning* of this song? Houston is clueless. Maybe a better acquaintance with sorrow is required to do this piece justice. The song records the self-effacement of real love. Even Ms. Parton, whose work usually holds little charm for me, surprised me with this one. Her first popular recording wasn't bad, but when she sang it, many years later, awkwardly interpolated into the movie version of "Best Little Whorehouse In Texas," it was a revelation. Her voice had lost the smoothness of youth, but her interpretation had the depth and poignancy of genuinely painful experience. It was so moving, in spite of the absurd setting and wildly caricatured costuming, that it brought a ridiculous farce to a devastating, sob-in-the-throat full stop. The film never recovered; but the SONG was wonderful.

Which brings me all the way 'round to my point. The latter two of these songs have some merit (the first is sniggeringly suggestive, trite and tacky tripe, end to end), but it is the singers' vanity that appalls me. Prima donna displays have no place in the performance of love songs. There is an intolerable cognitive dissonance of medium and message in these self-indulgent performances. Love, the genuine article, doesn't sing of self. There are hundreds of love songs I like; the ones I love are humble.

Adieu jusqu'à demain,

Shula