Читать книгу They're Playing Our Song - Max Wilk - Страница 14

HE STANDS ramrod-erect on a Beverly Hills street, seventy-seven years after his birth on the Lower East Side. (“In two tenement rooms,” he once remarked, “which I got out of as soon as possible.”) His bushy crop of gray hair crowns his prominent hooked nose and sharp eyes. (“Woollcott was fond of calling me ‘the corrupt Abe Lincoln,’ and my partner, Bert Kalmar, always referred to me as ‘Hook-and-Eyes.’”) His sense of humor and lunatic wit have enraptured a huge collection of friends for more than half a century. His latest lyric runs:

I’ll go without a murmur when

The Good Lord sends for me.

But if I had my life to live over again,

I’d leave town immediately.

Harry Ruby’s passionate love of baseball is famous. As one dedicated fan once put it, “Harry doesn’t want to write the nation’s hits, he wants to hit its homers!”¹

If the songwriting team of Kalmar and Ruby had written only “Hooray for Captain Spaulding,” which has become Groucho Marx’s theme song, that alone should have sufficed to make them immortal. But the record book on Harry Ruby and his late partner shows that they batted over .400 for more than three decades. Before they migrated to California in 1930, they wrote a cluster of hit Broadway scores; their successes include “All Alone Monday,” “thinking of You,” “Who’s Sorry Now?” “I Wanna Be Loved by You,” and “Nevertheless,” not to forget “Three Little Words.” For their own amusement (and later the public’s) they poured out many comedy songs, most of which Groucho will be delighted to render for you— “Show Me a Rose,” “Today, Father, Is Father’s Day,” and “A Doctor Is a Man’s Best Friend,” to cite but a few.

Kalmar died in 1947, but the fabled Mr. Ruby is still one of Beverly Hills’ leading citizens, a lunchtime regular at Nate and Al’s Delicatessen, a popular guest on TV talk shows, a devoted baseball fan, and a tireless sidewalk watcher. “Whenever I see loose change on the ground, I pick it up,” he explains. “In the past few years I’ve found over $300 this way, which I then give to charity. Of course, my friend Groucho maintains that the money I’m always picking up is what’s falling out of my own pockets!”

One particularly bright California afternoon last summer Harry Ruby sat down at a luncheon table, ordered a corned-beef sandwich on seeded rye, and began reminiscing about his songwriting career with equal helpings of philosophy and wry humor.

How had he decided on a career in songwriting?

“The urge to write, or whatever you call it—the talent,” said Ruby, “has always baffled me. I don’t believe in heredity—or maybe I do to a certain extent. I’ve got a big nose, my mother had a big nose. But I do believe in a thing called atavism, which means traits inherited from remote ancestry. Otherwise, how can you explain Irving Berlin? He came from Russia when he was seven, and he was brought up on the Lower East Side. He had brothers and sisters who had no talent, nothing. Same with me. I’m the only one in the whole family who had any talent for music. It must be a trait inherited from remote ancestors. Three generations back, maybe four. I believe in that, and a lot of scientists do. Otherwise, if this thing is based on heredity, why wasn’t everybody in my family or Berlin’s family musical? My sister studied, my brother studied, they all took piano lessons. Nothing!

“In the days when I was growing up on the Lower East Side, you’ve got to remember that all the families around us were poor. But they had pianos. Waters, I think they were called; you could buy one for a hundred dollars and pay it off on time payments. They’d hoist it up to the apartment on a rope. I lived on the same block as the Gershwins—Eldridge Street—that’s how the piano came into their house.

“These people, who had barely enough to eat and pay the rent—for some reason they wanted their children to learn something. Everybody got lessons, in the hope that it would lead to something. You see, it was a struggle; my father was raising a family of six kids, but he wanted his children to be something so they wouldn’t have to go through what he went through. What did he want them to be? A doctor or a lawyer. That would give them a position, prestige. Me?” Ruby chuckles. “Well, you know that old joke, they had to burn down the school to get him out? Well, I was left back so many times that they were going to move the school out of the neighborhood!

“My father—he was a lovely man—wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. I said I didn’t want to be either of those. ‘So what do you want to be, a bum?’ My uncle said, ‘Who knows what’s better for you than your own father?’ I said, ‘I don’t know how to explain this, but I do not want to be a doctor or a lawyer.’ What did I want to be? he asks. I didn’t know, but I guess I wanted something connected with show business. I was probably already stage-struck. But I couldn’t tell them I wanted to be a songwriter; I was still too young to know that. And as far as saying I wanted to be a baseball player, which I’ve always wanted to be, that would be even worse!” Ruby chortles. “‘A baseball player? A bum he wants to be.’

“The trouble with most questions that are put to songwriters,” Ruby says, “is the answers need a lot of explaining.” To wit, the following answer from the Dramatists Guild Quarterly:

Once, on a TV show, I was asked, “Harry, of all the songs you have written, is there one you are sorry you wrote?” Said I, “Yes, there is one song I am sorry I wrote and that song is ‘Three Little Words.’” They thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. In order to explain, I had to tell the following story.

Way back in the year 1931, Bert Kalmar and I wrote “Three Little Words” for a movie made by RKO. I cannot remember how many records have been made of the song. It was used as a title of at least three albums. And it has sold quite a lot of copies through the years.

That same year, I received a wire from the one-and-only Walter Johnson, then manager of the Washington Senators, inviting me to play in an exhibition game with the Senators against the Baltimore Orioles. What did I do? I did what any sensible man would do. The very next day I reported, spike shoes, sweatshirt, sliding pads and all, to Walter Johnson at Griffith Park in Washington, D.C.

Well, the afternoon of the day I reported, in the seventh inning of the ball game, Al Schacht, the Senators’ third-base coach, announced over the loudspeaker, “Harry Ruby now playing second base for Buddy Meyer.” Here was the big moment of my life. It was like a dream come true.

As I took my place at second, I could hardly believe it. There was Joe Judge at first, Ossie Bluege at third, Joe Cronin playing short, and Harry Ruby at second: the million-dollar infield. As I stood there beaming and pounding my fist into the pocket of my glove, all I could think of was making a double play. My life would be complete if I could see my name in the box score the following day making a double play.

Just before the inning got under way, the following came over the loudspeaker: “Harry Ruby is the writer of that song ‘Three Little Words.’” It was Al Schacht again. Then, using a baseball bat as a baton, Al led the fans, nine thousand of them, in singing the song.

Right then and there, I went to pieces. I wanted them to think I was a real baseball player. Having been told by Al Schacht that I was a songwriter, they must have thought I was some kind of a clown or something. Now they couldn’t possibly take me seriously. What I called Schacht under my breath I cannot repeat here.

The inning started. The first Oriole up hit a single. The next man up hit a grounder to Ossie Bluege. Ossie was about to throw to me at second, when he saw that I wasn’t there. I hadn’t covered the bag to complete the double play. I was glued to the spot, telling Al Schacht what I thought of him. It was one of the easiest double-play set-ups that ever was. Joe Cronin, seeing that I was not going to cover, dashed over to second, but not in time to make the double play. He got only one man out.

The next day the following banner line appeared in the sports section of the Washington Post: SONGWRITER MISSES DOUBLE PLAY.

And that, folks, is why I am sorry I wrote “Three Little Words.”

“Bert Kalmar was a headliner in vaudeville with his wife,” continues Ruby. “He always wanted to be a magician, but in vaudeville he and his wife did a dance act. He got $1,000 a week, which was darn good money. He also wrote songs, he’d had a couple of big hits, and then he went into the publishing business with a guy named Puck—Kalmar & Puck.

“I got a job there as a song-plugger. I was getting $25 a week. Bert was making his $1,000 a week in vaudeville. I guess you know what happened—if you watch the Late Show, you can see the picture Three Little Words which Jack Cummings made of our life story. Fred Astaire played Bert, and Red Skelton played me. Quite an improvement—for me, that is.

“Well, anyway, here’s how it went. Berg and his wife got together a big new act. He spent almost $11,000 on scenery and costumes; it was a beautiful act. They opened in Washington. President Wilson was there—he loved vaudeville, you know. Coming offstage—this scene is in the picture—Berg hit something backstage and hurt his leg. He couldn’t go on, and they had to cancel the act. He couldn’t dance.

“He came back to New York and he was broke. By that time I was working for Watterson, Berlin and Snyder, and since I knew him from working at his own firm, he asked me if I’d ask Watterson if he’d take him on as a songwriter.

“Watterson said sure, he’d be glad to have Bert, but he could only give him a $60-a-week drawing account. I went back and told this to Bert, and he said, ‘I’ll take it!’

“The first song Bert wrote there was with Edgar Leslie and it was called ‘Oh, What a Pal Was Mary.’ The first statement on it was $90,000! Sold two million copies.

“Then we started writing together. One day the phone rang and it was a vaudeville booker calling up to offer Bert a firm booking on the Keith circuit—$1,000 a week. ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘I turned it down,’ he said, ‘turned it down cold.’ ‘You turned down $1,000 a week, and you’re getting a $60-a-week drawing account here?’ I said. ‘You’re crazy!’ ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘I am through. From now on, I am a songwriter.’ Then he grinned and said, ‘But I have to tell you, it’s a kick—turning down $1,000 a week….”

“They were a marvelous pair,” recalls Robert Russell Bennett. “I remember one day they were waiting in Grand Central Station for a train to go up to Westchester, and I said, ‘Oh, Bert, I just remembered. I owe you a quarter.’ I handed him the quarter. He said, ‘What do you owe me this for?’ I told him I’d owed it to him for a couple of weeks, and tried to remind him when I’d borrowed it. Berg said, ‘Aw, forget it, you don’t owe me any quarter!’ So Harry came up to me, very confidentially, and he said, ‘Do you know that’s how Bert has made his pile—refusing quarters? After a while—it adds up!’

“And Harry once really put me down. I said to him, ‘You know, the trouble with all of you popular songwriters is that you get an eight-bar phrase and you have to plug it all afternoon. You write a strain like “Some Enchanted Evening,” and then you say a few bars later, “All right, now in case you didn’t hear it, you dumb clucks out there, ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ here it is again.” And then a little bit later you say, “All right, I know you’ve forgotten it by now, so you say ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ again.” ‘But,’ I said, ‘you take a thing like “La Donna è Mobile” from Rigoletto—listen to Verdi, he never goes back, never returns to the original statement; keeps on going, always something new!’ And Harry quieted me down right away; he said, ‘Well, there’ve been popular songs like that. Have you ever listened to “School Days,” by Gus Edwards?’ And he was so right!”

“Of course, everybody knows about us,” says Ruby, “the two songwriters who always wanted to be something else. When Jack Cummings decided to make our story into a movie, he went into Louis B. Mayer and he said, ‘This is gonna be a good musical, because for once we’re gonna do a story about songwriters that has a story!’ And when Mayer asked him what story he had in mind, he said, ‘It’s a natural—two successful songwriters. One schmuck wants to be a magician and pull rabbits out of a hat; the other one would rather play professional baseball than eat!’

“And it was true. Once we had an appointment to go to meet a producer for a Broadway show—I think it was Charles Dillingham. Very important man, wanted us to do a whole score—a big job for us. Bert said, ‘I’ll be there a day later.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Harry, I gotta take care of something. But I’ll be there, I promise.’ He didn’t show up to meet Dillingham or sign contracts for three days! I was furious. When he finally showed up, he couldn’t understand why I was sore. ‘Where were you?’ ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there was a big convention in Chicago, magicians came from all over the world—Australia, London. I couldn’t miss it!’

“And listen to this. We were living up in New Rochelle. I was in a semi-pro game, playing second base. The game is going on, and suddenly we hear horses’ hooves. Turn around, we see a horse coming through center field. Kalmar is riding! I’m furious. I take my baseball seriously, and here’s my partner being funny about it, riding through the diamond on a horse! Everybody’s looking. The game stops. He rides up to me and says, ‘Hi, Harry.’ I said, ‘Hi.’ He says, ‘Sign this.’ I said, ‘Sign what?’ He tells me it’s a contract to do a show for Florenz Ziegfeld. Puts the contract on the side of the horse, gives me the pen, I sign the contract, he takes it back and then says, ‘Go ahead, Harry—have a nice game!’ And rides off the field … Oh, we were crazy, but we had fun.

“Bert loved animals. Even when he was a headliner in vaudeville, he’d always traveled with a monkey. Later on, when he and I moved out to California to work in pictures, he bought himself a ranch out in the Valley, had all sorts of animals. Horses, dogs, a big monkey named Brutus, a parrot. ‘Animals love me,’ he used to say. ‘I got a way with animals.’ The parrot bit him, the monkey bit him, but he insisted he had a way with animals! Eight-acre place in Encino, full of animals. I wish Bert had hung on to those eight acres—he’d have been rich. But one day he decided it was too large a place, so he sold it and moved to Beverly Hills, into a smaller place. Couldn’t bring the animals with him, so he sold them too, to the man who bought the ranch.

“But Bert loved Brutus, the monkey. One day he’s in Beverly Hills, and he says to his wife, ‘I miss Brutus. The rest of ’em I don’t much care about, but I really miss Brutus.’ And she says, ‘Why don’t you go out and visit him?’ And Bert says, ‘I think I will.’

“Now, you have to know that things weren’t so good with any of us about that time. Musicals weren’t so popular out in Hollywood in the late ’30s, Bert’s not working, I’m not working. Bert’s son is looking for work and not finding anything, and his daughter, a beautiful girl, is also looking for a way to get started. Nobody in the family can get a job—including me.

“Bert goes out to Encino and rings the bell. ‘Remember me?’ Sure, the guy remembers him. ‘I hate to bother you, but I just thought I’d drop in and visit with my old friend Brutus, the monkey,’ Bert says. ‘Is that all right?’

“‘Oh, he’s not here,’ says the guy.

“‘What’s the matter, is he sick or something?’ Bert asks.

“‘Oh, no, he’s in a picture!’ says the guy. ‘He got a job at one of the studios, and he’s over there today shooting his scenes!’

“Bert comes back to our office laughing. The only one in the whole crowd who was working was Brutus, the monkey! ‘I don’t know about you and me,’ he said, ‘but Brutus is doing fine!’”

Having finished his energy-building corned beef on rye, Mr. Ruby waves cheerfully, and walks out of the restaurant, a Beverly Hills boulevardier ready to stroll back home. There’s a baseball game on TV this afternoon, and he doesn’t want to be late for the opening pitch.

Hooray for Captain Spaulding … and hooray for Kalmar and Ruby.