There's a lot of nostalgia for an imaginary 50's of gee-whizz and golly-shucks, as if it were ever so pure and innocent, and girls never said "Yes!" till their wedding night. Gunn me down, daddy-o.
Henry Mancini, "Theme from Peter Gunn"
It's all class, the coolest hip and the hottest swing on the back side of the sixties. Man Oh Man. The cats are crazy and the chicks can dig it. Just down the steps, grab a table, pull up a listen to the jazz at Mother's. Waa-waah! Waa. Smooth jazz, easy and smart. The fifties: when guys had haircuts, wore suits and fedoras; the gals in tailored dresses, high heels and hairspray. The hoods were snazzy and sleazy and died in gun fights on rain-slick streets with the cops blazing justice; the homeless were hobos who guzzled Thunderbird by the gallon and died in ditches on the wrong side of the tracks on the far edge of town. What a happening time it had to be.
Father Knows Best? Ah, to be at Mother's with Peter Gunn.