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.

Video

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

You Missed

BOB DYLAN AND JOHNNY CASH SHATTERED THE WALLS OF NASHVILLE WITHOUT FIRING A SINGLE SHOT. Columbia Studio A sat thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke on a February morning in 1969. While the rock world was chasing ghosts in psychedelic haze, Bob Dylan stepped into the epicenter of American country music with a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel. He wasn’t there to challenge the gatekeepers at the Opry; he was there to find the heartbeat of a sound he had loved from afar. Johnny Cash walked through the heavy studio doors, guitar in hand, and for two days, the rigid borders of genre simply dissolved into the air. They didn’t record some grand manifesto to change the industry. Instead, they sat on stools and tore through old folk standards and each other’s deep cuts, letting the microphones capture the loose, unvarnished truth of a collaboration that felt more like a porch gathering than a major label session. Carl Perkins added his own licks to the mix, blending the percussive snap of rock and roll with the lonesome ache of a country ballad. It was a deliberate, quiet rebellion that treated the traditions of both worlds as neighbors rather than strangers. When the tape stopped rolling, they walked away having proved that the lines drawn by radio programmers were mostly make-believe. The Ryman Auditorium stage eventually welcomed a new kind of guest, and the air in Nashville felt lighter, forever changed by two men who knew that music didn’t need permission to belong everywhere at once.