I have been singing “hold me closer, Tony Danza” for two decades.
I had never heard of Tony Danza. The name meant nothing. Yet whenever that Elton John song came on—car, store, party—I sang those words. Hold me closer, Tony Danza. I sang it loudly. I SANG THE SHIT OUT OF IT.
I did sing it once when my wife was making breakfast. She stopped cracking eggs.
“What did you just say?”
“Hold me closer, Tony Danza.”
She put the whisk down. “It’s tiny dancer.”
I looked at her. The eggs in the bowl were slowly going cold.
“No,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Tony Danza.”
“Tiny dancer.”
We were in the kitchen. The coffee maker was beeping. It was a song Id been singing since I was a teenager. I had sung it at the wedding of my cousin. I had sung it on the drive home from the funeral of my father.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. And she opened her phone and searched for the lyrics.
There it was. Tiny dancer.
I took a seat with my knees at the kitchen table. The chair was cold. My coffee had gone cold too. I didn’t drink it.
I attempted to sing the correct words that night. My mouth wouldn’t form them. The sounds felt foreign. Wrong. Like wearing someone else’s shoes.
Tiny dancer. The words were too small. Too precious. Tony Danza had weight. It had history. It had lived in my throat for Two decades
I called my friend Saiful.
“Do you know that Elton John song?”
“Which one?”
“The one that sings … hold me closer —”
“Tony Danza!” he shouted into the phone.
“You too?”
He stated, “This song is familiar to everybody.” “Hold me closer, Tony Danza.”
“It’s tiny dancer.”
Long silence.
“No.”
“Yes. I checked.”
“Fuck.”
He hung up. Called back ten minutes later.
“I’ve been singing it since 1997,” he said. His voice was quiet. “I sang it at my wedding. My wife didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe she didn’t know either.”
“Perhaps she knew and simply allowed me to sing it incorrectly.”
That was all we spoke about that night.
My wife has her own song. You may recall a story about the singer singing the lyric “bathroom on the right” instead of “bad moon on the rise” when she was seven.
“It made sense,” she told me. “Like someone giving directions. Bathroom on the right. Very helpful.”
“What is the meaning of the song in your opinion?”
“Rest stops? I don’t know. I was seven.”
I asked her at what stage she found out.
“College. My roommate looked at me like I was crazy.
“Did you feel stupid?”
“No.” She thought about it. “Parte de mi alma siento que me robaron.”
They kept playing ancient Bengali songs at my mothers funeral. Song she sang while she was cooking. I knew all the words. Or I thought I did.
Uncle overheard me singing along. He leaned over.
“What? She’s not talking about you dumbass.”
“What?”
“The line you just sang. That’s not the word.”
I had been singing that song since I was five. I had seen my mother sing it a thousand times.
“What’s the actual word?” I asked.
He told me. I don’t recall his words. I just remember sitting there as they lowered her coffin, knowing that Id never really heard her right. Not once.
My son is four. He performs his cartoon songs. Gets every word wrong.
He was singing something in the tub last week. I couldn’t make out the tune. The words were completely invented.
“What song is that?” I asked.
“The purple song.”
“What’s it about?”
“Purple.”
“What are the words?”
He sang it again. Still made no sense. He was happy though. Splashing water. Making his own thing
I didn’t correct him.
I still occasionally belt out the Tony Danza Not by accident. On purpose. When I’m alone in the car. When I’m alone cooking.
It feels like I am putting on the right words as a costume. Tony Danza is part of me like the skin on my body.
Somewhere between stubborn, sad and just human, I guess.
Last week my wife asked me, “Did your mother know you were singing it wrong?
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t she correct you?”
My mind went to my son, who was in the bathtub. Singing his purple song. Getting every word wrong. Being completely happy.
“I don’t know,” I said.
We were quiet for a while.
Is there a ‘right way’ to hear a song, she asked.
That question hovered in the air between us. The TV was on but muted. Someone was mowing their lawn outside. It was a steady sound, repeating — almost musical.
“I don’t know,” I said again.
She nodded. After that, the subject dropped, and we never spoke about it again.
Yesterday, on the radio, the Elton John song was playing. I was driving. Alone.
This time, I sung unlike the other. Tiny dancer. The words felt smooth. Easy. Like they’d always been there.
But something was missing. Some weight I used to carry. Some aspect of me that had pet a wrong word.
I turned off the radio. Drove in silence.
When I returned home, my son was singing in his room. His purple song. Still wrong. Still happy.
I stood outside his door. Listened. Didn’t go in.
Well perhaps we all sing some wrong notes. Perhaps wrong is simply a synonym for our own.
I don’t know.
I listened until he fell silent then I stood there.