Читать книгу They're Playing Our Song - Max Wilk - Страница 9

After the many months spent on this work, one is left with a sense of accomplishment, but also a certain measure of frustration. The ASCAP Biographical Dictionary of 1966, which lists that organization’s members and their songs, runs 814 pages. Broadcast Music, Inc., represents another phalanx of active members.

No matter how much one would wish it to be all-inclusive, this collection or oral histories is far from definitive. Space, time, and physical effort have arbitrarily dictated its cast of characters and their vast contributions to the area of half a century’s history.

Before angry critics and single-minded partisans descend on me, demanding to know why Mr. X has received longer shrift than Mr. Y, and where is the in-depth study of Mr. Z—a final word.

Those who don’t appear on these pages are men whose biographies or personal stories already exist on library shelves. There are others, such as Duke Ellington, Arthur Schwartz and his witty partner, Howard Dietz, who were known to be writing their own books. Cheers, gentlemen. There are far too many of your fellows whose wisdom and experience are lost to us, primarily because no one thought to start them writing it all down. Let’s hope that, from now on, American songwriters will cast off their somewhat anonymous existence.

Mr. Abe Burrows, a demon etymologist, picked me up on that particular word. “Anonymous?” he complained. “I don’t think it’s right to call them that! Just remember, they did it, man!”

But hadn’t far too many of those talented creators been reduced by time to an ignominious silence, mere printed names atop pages of yellowing sheet music?

“Maybe,” agreed Abe, “but let’s face it, nobody can have a better reward than to have somebody, years after, singing his song!”

When an author completes a work of fiction, he has usually no one to thank except his loving wife (for having kept the house quiet during moments of creative stress), his publisher (for the underwriting), and his faithful typist.

But with an assemblage of personal reminiscences such as this book, a great many more obligations are incurred. Having spent the past eighteen-odd months recording and writing down this collection of profiles of American songwriters, I have a long list of debits against my personal account. Herewith I would like to try and settle them. Or at least to let my creditors know I am aware of the obligations.

First off, to those who are no longer present, but whose accounts are long-standing….

To my father, the late Jacob Wilk, who had the foresight to leave Minneapolis and come to New York and take up a career in show business. Thus, when other youths of my tender pre-teens were involved in Saturday games, I was gorging myself in free seats at Saturday matinees in New York, developing a massive taste for the American musical comedies of the 1920s and ’30s—a vice that continues to this day. For having constantly encouraged me in this pursuit rather than insisting that I play baseball, I will always owe my father my heartfelt thanks.

To the late Lee Shubert, who, remarkably, provided me with a pass to his local theatre in New Haven, Connecticut, for the entire four years of my stay at Yale, 1937-1941, where I matriculated in musical comedies by Rodgers and Hart, Schwartz and Dietz, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, et al., again, thanks.

To my late friend and employer Leland Hayward, master agent, theatrical producer, and raconteur, whose original notion it was to have me do a magazine article about Irving Caesar, the lyricist of No, No, Nanette, and who took it upon himself to sell said article, sight unseen, to Clay Felker at New York magazine, thank you.

And to the late Robert Emmett Dolan, who was not only a skillful and wise teacher, a constant source of ideas, as well as an open-handed donor of his time, his experience, and his considerable store of anecdota about Broadway and Hollywood (Bobby worked on both coasts for four decades, as musical director, composer, film producer, and author), the mere word thanks seems inadequate … especially since he’s no longer around to take his bow in person.

Wherever these gentlemen have gone, I hope it’s a paradise where every tryout is a winner and every song an immediate hit.

And now for some of those who have assisted in the mammoth task of getting me to the printer on time (well, only six months late).

P. G. Wodehouse, who took time out from a busy schedule involving his ninetieth birthday and a new novel to write his reminiscences of the late Jerome Kern and their joyful collaboration on the Princess Theatre musicals. Who could ask for a more stimulating pen pal? Thank you, sir.

To Abel Green, Ye Ed of Variety, who opened up his newspaper files to this wandering quondam stringer, and who was generous with his advice, counsel, and recollections. Sans Abel and Variety, one would be steering through show biz like some tourist trying to fight his way in and out of the Paris Métro without a Frenchman. Thanks!

To Joshua Logan, Renaissance man of the theatre, who cheerfully shared his recollections of the various shows with which he was associated, thank you, sir. And the same gratitude must be shown to Larry Adler, virtuoso of the mouth organ; to Robert Russell Bennett, the dean of American musical arrangers and a composer in his own right; to William Hammerstein, son of the late, great Oscar, who gladly spent many hours discussing the personal life of his father; to Margaret Whiting, daughter of the late Dick, who illuminated the work of her father; to Bernard Herrmann, composer of the scores of Citizen Kane and Psycho, who was especially helpful on the subject of Vincent Youmans; to John Fearnley, the director, for background information on Rodgers and Hammerstein; and to Edward Eliscu, for encouragement and for directing me to others…. Thanks.

Richard Lewine, who with Alfred Simon compiled the valuable Encyclopedia of Theatre Music (a new edition of which is due soon), deserves special thanks for long and friendly assistance. To anyone interested in our pop music, the Lewine-Simon book is as vital as a scuba outfit to a diver.

Mrs. Pat Englund Lefferts helped me a great deal to amass tapes; if you can’t get there to do the interview yourself, I recommend highly this attractive, witty actress. Walter Wager, a successful author, as well as editor of ASCAP Today, the bulletin of that society, helped with photographs, and with certain extracts from interviews of his own, published in that magazine. I am indebted to the Dramatists Guild Quarterly for use of material originally published in its pages.

Buddy Robbins, of Chappell, Inc., who is the son of the late, great music publisher Jack Robbins, was truly helpful with the ever complicated problem of clearing away certain copyright restrictions on quotations of lyrics printed herein, as have many other music firms. Knowing full well how difficult they might have made it, I appreciate their cooperation.

Producers Cy Feuer and Ernie Martin, composer Burton Lane, and the jovial Abe Burrows have all contributed their reminiscences of the late Frank Loesser with lavish enthusiasm. Lee Adams, Harold Rome, Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock, Saul Chaplin and Jay Gorney, lyricists and composers all gainfully employed, have taken valuable time off from their professional labors to indulge this author’s curiosity and often naïve questioning. Far too many of their contributions have, alas, not reached the printed page because of time and space limitations, but they all have my deepest gratitude.

And to return to my opening thesis, this is not fiction—ergo, not a oneman job. To Miss Pat Irving, who has miraculously brought a certain amount of order out of the 220,000-odd words of material, the author’s awe-struck thanks. To Miss Louise Stein, who cheerfully transcribed some sixty-odd tape cassettes onto manuscript paper, likewise. And to Mrs. Barbara Wilk, the author’s wife, who did manage to keep the house quiet for all those months without complaint, a low bow.

Now, to all those people whom I’ve seen and talked with and whose personal reminiscences and herein set down, one small confession. It’s been a positive pleasure to be with you all—a dream assignment for anyone who’s been humming and whistling your works for all these years. How could it be anything but joyful to chat with Ira Gershwin? To have Harold Arlen relate how he broke into songwriting? (He still insists it was purely accidental.) To have Leo Robin report on the very first stirrings of the film musical, back in 1929 at Paramount, when he supplied lyrics to the young Maurice Chevalier? To schmooze with Harry Ruby about his hilarious collaboration with the late Bert Kalmar? To spend hours with the venerable Harry Warren, who started the tidal wave of Hollywood musicals when he and the late Al Dubin sat out in sun-baked Burbank and turned out the score for 42nd Street? To listen to Johnny Mercer reminisce, to talk with Richard Rodgers, and to travel backward in time to the early origins of Messrs. Berlin, Kern, Youmans, Hammerstein, Larry Hart, and the rest? I can only hope that they all give my readers as much pleasure as they have given to me.

But actual credit for the origin of this book does not rest with me. The initial spark was ignited by an energetic gentleman named Irving Caesar, lyricist, scholar, raconteur, enthusiastic performer of his own considerable body of work (“Tea for Two,” “Sometimes I’m Happy,” “Swanee,” “I Want to Be Happy,” et al.), and a very good friend. Mr. Caesar, the subject of that first interview in New York magazine, it was who got me in here, so to speak, on yet another pass.

So, to paraphrase the great Brahms, if there’s anybody else I’ve forgotten … I thank you!

WESTPORT, CONNECTICUT

NEW YORK

LONDON