Ours is the age of Mr. Tweedly. (For those unfamiliar with that particular killjoy, just say, “Alexa: Play ‘Elderly Man River’ by Stan Freberg.”) Our self-appointed, self-important censors, and goodness knows there are a lot of them, seem to get about as much shut-eye as rust.

The Christmas season just past, some Tweedlys set their sights on a favorite song, one that my big band has performed for years at our annual jazz club holiday show: “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” As the gig approached, I didn’t seriously consider abandoning the song. But I wondered whether audiences would be offended by lyrics they had enjoyed in the past, lyrics that had now been declared inconsistent with the movements of the moment.