My 45s: Seasons in the Sun

by editor Michele Catalano

[I will occasionally be visiting the 45s of my childhood. This is the 2nd installment.]

I started thinking obsessively about death when I was about nine. By the time I turned 12, I was an expert in holding off the panic attacks that threatened every time death entered my mind. One summer night, I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if my inevitable death would be part of a horrific tragedy, or if I’d die quietly, quickly, alone. The radio was on. Probably WABC-AM with Cousin Brucie. And then I heard it. 

Goodbye to you my trusted friend

My ears perked up. We were in sad song territory. I loved a good sad song, even back then.

Goodbye my friend it’s hard to die

Oh no! It was a song about dying. The worst kind of song there is. My mother knew so many of these songs—people loved a good car-wreck tune in the ‘50s—and they troubled me so much. I thought enough about dying; I didn’t want to sing about it. Music and singing were my escape from my obsessive thoughts about death.

The song went on, and I took it all in, too mesmerized by the lyrics to turn the channel. The singer, Terry Jacks, was saying goodbye to the people he loved before he died. Like, he had totally accepted his death already and was telling other people to accept it as well. To me, this was a new way of thinking about dying.

The refrain of “We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun” broke my young heart a little. He’d never have that fun again. His seasons were over.

Goodbye Michelle, my little one

My name. He sang my name! It was a weird thing to hear. My name wasn’t very popular. The only other instance of it in song was the Beatles tune, which my neighbor used to taunt me with by playing it on the trumpet every time I passed his house, causing me to hate the song. But this, this was a song about death and loss. To hear my name associated with it gave me sort of a thrill.

And then:

Goodbye Michele it’s hard to die

I screamed. My mother came running into my room and asked what’s the matter.”

I looked her in the eyes and said, “You have to take me to the record store tomorrow.” I hastily added, “Please.”

The next day, I was the proud owner of the 45 of “Seasons in the Sun,” a record I would love deeply, even though I was a burgeoning rock fan. A song about death that mentioned my name was to be treasured. 

I must have played that record 100 times that day on my little sister’s flip-and-play record player. I memorized the lyrics, cried, and squealed in delight every time Terry Jacks said my name. I thought Mr. Jacks was a poet. That’s when I finally decided to flip the record over and see what kind of wonder Terry had for us.

I read the title out loud. “Put the Bone In.” I said it to myself several times. It just didn’t sound like the title to a song I wanted to hear. In my child’s mind, it was a song about something I wasn’t supposed to know about. The title felt vaguely sexual to me. I listened to it anyhow, sure that Terry Jacks, poet extraordinaire, wouldn’t disappoint me.

Put the bone in she asked him at the store

‘Cause my doggie’s been hit by a car

I gasped again and lifted the needle up. I put it down at the beginning, unsure if I heard right. I put my ear up against the speaker. 

No, that was it. Her doggie got hit by a car. And for some reason, I started giggling. Then outright laughing. It just felt so absurd, a song about a dog and a car and a bone, sung in this depressing cadence. I laughed for about five minutes, then played the song in full, just to make sure the dog doesn’t die. Then I never listened to that B-side again. I still played “Seasons in the Sun” endlessly, at least until I got sick of it about six months later. 

Things I have learned about “Seasons in the Sun” as an adult:

• Terry Jacks did not write the song, per se. It’s an adaptation of the 1961 Belgian song “Le Moribond” (“The Dying Man”) by singer-songwriter Jacques Brel
• In 1963, the lyrics were rewritten by Rod McKuen
• In 1974, Jacks altered McKuen’s lyrics
• The Beach Boys record it in 1971, and it didn’t see the light of day until 2021
• Nirvana covered it in 1993
• Irish boy band Westlife covered it in 1999

“Seasons in the Sun” is an artifact of its time; a cheesy, corny, overwrought piece of drivel that 12-year-old me thought was deep and ironically life affirming. But damn, I wish I still had that 45.

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