How High the Moon – Les Paul & Mary Ford

Introduction

“How High the Moon” by Les Paul and Mary Ford is a timeless jazz standard that showcases the remarkable musical talent and innovation of the duo. Released in 1951, this iconic song features Les Paul’s virtuosic guitar playing and Mary Ford’s enchanting vocals, creating a mesmerizing blend of melody and harmony. With its intricate arrangements and technical prowess, “How High the Moon” remains a shining example of musical excellence and continues to captivate listeners with its timeless charm. Join us as we explore the magic and brilliance of Les Paul and Mary Ford’s rendition of “How High the Moon.”

Did You Know?

“How High the Moon” was originally composed by Morgan Lewis with lyrics by Nancy Hamilton in 1940. Les Paul and Mary Ford’s version became the most famous rendition of the song.
Les Paul’s innovative use of multi-track recording techniques allowed him to create a layered and complex sound, with Mary Ford harmonizing with herself to achieve a unique vocal texture.
The song became a major hit, reaching the top of the charts and solidifying Les Paul and Mary Ford’s status as musical pioneers.
“How High the Moon” has since become a jazz standard, covered by numerous artists and remaining a staple of the genre.

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Lyrics: How High the Moon

Somewhere there’s music, how faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon
There is no moon above where love is far away too
‘Til it comes true
That you love me as I love youSomewhere there’s music, how near how far
Somewhere there’s heaven, it’s where you are
The darkest night would shine if you would come to me soon
Until you will be still my heart
How high the moon

Somewhere there’s music, how faint the tune
Somewhere there’s a heaven
How high the moon
There is no moon above where love is far away too
Until you will, be still my heart
How high the moon

WHEN A NERVOUS KID BACKSTAGE MET LORETTA LYNN, SHE PREDICTED HIS GREATNESS — AND DECADES LATER, HE BROUGHT HER OUT OF RETIREMENT TO CROWN HIM. Long before the multi-platinum albums and Stetson hats became his signature, Alan Jackson was just a wide-eyed kid running nervously through his songs backstage. That was when Loretta Lynn caught him in her crosshairs, looked right past the jitters, and delivered a stark prophecy: “You’re going to be one of the greatest singers in country music.” Years rolled on, and the prediction came true piece by piece. But in May 2017, a sudden stroke forced Loretta into quiet seclusion at her Hurricane Mills estate, canceling her tours and keeping her entirely out of the public eye for months. Then October arrived, and Alan was named to the Country Music Hall of Fame. When the time came, he made one specific request: he wanted Loretta there. Propped up by George Strait on one arm and her daughter Patsy on the other, she broke her long silence to make her very first public appearance since the stroke. Stepping up to the man she had believed in decades earlier, she placed the heavy medallion around his neck and smiled. “This is the first time I’ve been out of the house,” she told the room. “You’re the only thing that could have brought me here.” She looked right at Alan and closed it out with words that said everything: “He hasn’t let me down.”

FOUR YEARS IN THE HOLE AT THE OHIO STATE PENITENTIARY COULD BREAK MOST MEN. FOR DAVID ALLAN COE, IT WAS JUST WHERE THE SONGS STARTED. Locked away behind stone and steel from 1963 to 1967, Coe faced brutal stretches of solitary confinement. The guards could strip away his freedom and lock him in the dark with nothing, but they couldn’t police the inside of his head. While the world outside moved on, he built entire records piece by piece in the silence, letting rhythm and rhyme outrun the concrete walls. When he finally walked free, he took those cell-block creations straight to Nashville. That dark chapter birthed Penitentiary Blues, his raw debut that planted his flag in Music Row. While it didn’t turn him into an overnight superstar, it uncorked a wellspring of grit that the rest of Nashville quickly learned to tap. Other heavyweights carried his writing to iconic heights—Tanya Tucker drove “Would You Lay With Me” to No. 1, and Johnny Paycheck turned “Take This Job and Shove It” into the ultimate working-class rebellion. Meanwhile, Coe carved out his own wild, unapologetic legacy with anthems like “You Never Even Called Me by My Name” and “The Ride.” When he passed away on April 29, 2026, at the age of eighty-six, the ledger was clear: time and iron bars could take his years, but they could never touch the music he forged in the dark.

LYME DISEASE STOLE SHANIA TWAIN’S VOICE IN 2003. FIFTEEN YEARS AND TWO AWAKE OPEN-THROAT SURGERIES LATER, SHE REBUILT HER ENTIRE ARTISTRY FROM THE RUINS.Back in 2003, at the height of her superstardom during the “Up!” tour, a tick bite infected Shania Twain with Lyme disease. It started with sudden dizziness and terrifying blackouts onstage, before silently attacking the delicate nerves governing her vocal cords. Her singing voice began to fray, slip, and ultimately vanish beyond her control.For years, she faced the agonizing reality that she might never sing again. Then came 2018 and a grueling medical gamble: two open-throat surgeries performed while she was wide awake so surgeons could hear her voice in real-time, placing Gore-Tex supports beside her damaged vocal cords to act like internal braces.The operations didn’t give her old soprano back. Instead, they left her with a voice that was deeper, rougher, and entirely foreign. She had to learn how to breathe, pitch, and sing all over again from scratch. Shania didn’t return to the stage because everything had been miraculously restored—she returned because losing the voice the world remembered wasn’t enough to stop her from using the one she still had.

SHE BUILT A LEGENDARY CAREER OUT OF CALLING OUT HER HUSBAND’S SINS ON NATIONAL RADIO — THEN SPENT HER FINAL DECADES LEARNING HOW TO LIVE WITHOUT HIM.Doolittle Lynn bought Loretta her first guitar for seventeen bucks and shoved her onto a stage she never asked for. He loaded a box of her records into the trunk of his car, dragged her across the country to hound radio DJs, and managed her early career through sheer stubborn grit. But Doolittle also brought a heavy share of pain: he drank hard, chased other women, and left scars that would have broken most marriages.All of Nashville knew the details because Loretta broadcasted every single one of them. She didn’t hide behind poetic metaphors. When he came home looking for trouble, she wrote “Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’.” When women crossed boundaries in local bars, she penned “Fist City.” She weaponized her heartbreak into gold records, standing in front of tens of thousands of fans to say the things she couldn’t get out across a quiet kitchen table, admitting it eased her just to finally let the truth fly.Through forty-eight years and six children, they held on. When Doolittle passed away at their Hurricane Mills estate on August 22, 1996, the noise finally stopped. Loretta didn’t write a single song about him for eight long years. Then, at seventy-two, the silence broke with a heartbreaking meditation on widowhood titled “Miss Being Mrs.” — proving that even after a lifetime of hard-fought battles, the only thing harder than living with him was losing him.