Baby, It's Getting Kind of Creepy Outside

Frank Loesser & his wife and musical partner Lynn Garland

LONDON, ONTARIO – Look, it doesn’t even make my list of Top One Thousand Songs at any time of year, let alone Christmas. But the uncomprehending slander and mean-spirited odium being heaped of late on Frank Loesser’s Oscar-winning yuletide duet from 1944, Baby, It’s Cold Outside – a novelty tune he initially wrote to perform with his wife and which has subsequently been covered by hundreds of warbling couples from Dean Martin and Marilyn Maxwell to Leon Redbone and Zooey Deschanel – compels me to rise to the defense of a song I don’t even really like except on principle.

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Shall we sample the lyrics of this seasonal ditty so that we can see what’s causing such a ruckus?

HER:  I really can't stay
HIM:  Baby it's cold outside
HER:  I've got to go away
HIM:  Baby it's cold outside
HER:  This evening has been . . .
HIM:  Been hoping that you'd drop in
HER:  . . .so very nice
HIM:  I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
HER:  My mother will start to worry
HIM:  Beautiful, what's your hurry?
HER:  Father will be pacing the floor
HIM:  Listen to the fireplace roar
HER:  So really I'd better scurry
HIM:  Beautiful, please don't hurry
HER:  Maybe just a half a drink more
HIM:  Put some records on while I pour
HER:  The neighbors might think
HIM:  Baby, it's bad out there
HER:  Say, what's in this drink?
HIM:  No cabs to be had out there
HER:  I wish I knew how . . .
HIM:  Your eyes are like starlight now
HER:  . . . to break this spell
HIM:  I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
HER:  I ought to say no, no, no
HIM:  Mind if I move in closer?
HER:  At least I'm gonna say that I tried
HIM:  What's the sense in hurting my pride?
HER:  I really can't stay
HIM:  Baby don't hold out
BOTH: Ah, but it's cold outside

HER:  I've got to get home
HIM:  Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
HER:  Say, lend me your coat
HIM:  It's up to your knees out there
HER:  You've really been grand
HIM:  Thrill when you touch my hand
HER:  Why don't you see . . .
HIM:  How can you do this thing to me?
HER:  . . . there's bound to be talk tomorrow
HIM:  Think of my life long sorrow . . .
HER:  At least there will be plenty implied
HIM:  . . . if you caught pneumonia and died
HER:  I really can't stay
HIM:  Get over that hold out
BOTH: Ah, but it's cold outside
            Oh, baby, it's cold outside
            Oh, baby, it's cold outside
 
Well, to give minimal credit where it’s due, the obtuse sisters from the self-appointed Bureau of Musical Right-Think have correctly deduced one manifestly obvious thing. Baby, It’s Cold Outside is indeed a song of seduction in which one human being (in this case a male) tries to persuade another human being (in this case – would you believe it? – a female) to reciprocate the love and attraction that he feels for her. But here’s the thing, you lip-pursing bureaucrats . . . To a greater or lesser extent (and with a few obvious exceptions like Yellow Submarine and Puff, the Magic Dragon) this very same dynamic animates the vast majority of songs that have ever been recorded.
 
Indeed, for those who take a dim view of the banter and play of human conjugation, it must seem diabolical the way this insidious theme turns up again and again in virtually every form of artistic expression known to man. This tiresome drive to give and receive romantic love . . . you’d almost think it must be a major force in the life of every human being who’s ever drawn breath. Small wonder then that the sensible ladies who’ve decided what’s best for all of us, whether we like it or not, are trying to put a stop to these musical shenanigans.

Typical of the modern mis-interpreters of the song is Sondra Miller of the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center (the same city where WDOK Radio 102.1 was one of the first stations to pull the song following listeners' complaints) who declared, "It really pushes the line of consent. The character in the song is saying, 'no' [actually she says, 'I ought to say no' – world of difference there]  and they're saying, "Well, does 'no' really mean 'yes'?" And I think in 2018 [here Sondra invokes Justin Trudeau's calendarial imperative for social adaptation] what we know is consent is 'yes' and if you get a 'no', it means 'no' and you should stop right there."
 
So how did we get so touchy about this corny old song about two people who long to have their way with one another? What has fundamentally changed in the 74 years since this musical dialogue’s debut, to transform what once seemed perfectly acceptable as a mildly risqué song into a repellent anthem of rape culture that must be vehemently censured?
 
Well, partially I blame a galloping humorlessness in whole sectors of the modern populace, as well as an absence of any sense of historical nuance, custom or tone. But most of all I would say, the change in attitude is due to our society's adoption of three new ideas. And while two of these ideas have found broad and even constructive purchase in many aspects of our social and occupational lives, all three have been anything but helpful when applied to the realm of courtship and love.
 
The first of these is the notion of total equality; that there are no differences that deserve to be acknowledged between the sexes. In the workplace, who would deny that an equal wage for women or men who perform the same task is only right and fair? However, total equality turns out to be a bit of a buzzkill in the bedroom where the heart’s deepest desire is for complementarity, completion and adoration of the 'other'. It is the differently expressed levels of longing – the man's more forceful, the woman's more coy – that the song's feminist critics simplistically misconstrue as date rape. But if acts of love can only transpire when both partners want the very same amount at the very same time and by perfectly mutual initiation – if no one dares to sweet-talk anybody into anything and no one leads the dance – then we're going to want to take out our Sharpies and circle any blue moons that turn up on Sondra and Justin's calendars. Or, in the words of that other old songwriter, perhaps we should just call the whole thing off.
 
Another idea we've taken on is an increased concern for safety and control in all aspects of our lives. Back in Frank Loesser's songwriting prime, automobiles did not routinely come outfitted with safety belts. Who can regret that innovation? But cleaving to the idea of 'safety first' will only dampen the prospect of ravishment and adventure when we hit the hay with our CSA-certified partner. You mean, she asked for another drink and he gave it to her? That's not likely to conduce to responsible behaviour, now is it? And what do you want to bet that the pair of them sparked up cigarettes as they lounged in their post-connubial afterglow, blowing damned smoke rings of contentment at the chandelier?  Good Lord, these reckless animals should be locked up.
 
I darkly suspect that what underlies our joyless preoccupation with such supplementary matters as equality and safety in matters amorous – even when those dalliances are fanciful ones playfully conveyed in old songs – is the third new idea our society has taken on; the one that comes with no positive applications in the public sphere. I allude to the soul-rotting idea that physical love is nothing special. It can be enjoyed on a first date before you really know or trust the person with whom you share it. And even if you're not into developing that whole relationship thing (I mean, who needs the pressure, the expectation that you care, the commitment to look out for somebody else's well being?) no one will cast judgement if you hand yourself over in a one-off to a virtual stranger for the sake of physical relief. And once you've signed all the documents of consent ("And how do you spell your last name?"), those are the kind of trysts where it actually might be advisable to ascertain that your partner is certifiably 'safe' and is prepared to affirm your equality as a fellow human being.

And if I drive my spade of suspicion down to another even darker level, I come up with the speculation that perhaps what really incenses the brittle critics of Baby, It's Cold Outside is that their tsk-tsking admonishments about acceptable behaviour and attitudes have just been exposed as so much hollow PC puffery. In the way that this song's old school crooners obviously regard making love as so much more than a cursory handshake that just happens to involve genitals, they are the ones who actually seem to have a clue about the care and the honour that are due.