Max Wilk - They’re Playing Our Song: Conversations with America’s Classic Songwriters

Its fifteen years since this book was first published, and far too many of the talented people it celebrates have left us. But not their work. American musical comedy, the popular song, our jazz and our bluestheyre all an origination of a purely American culture.

I must confess I feel sorry for the songwriters who are working today. Not that there arent a lot of wonderful new talents around, but theyre going to have it a whole lot tougher than my contemporaries. At one time, the songwriter had control of the ballgame, so to speak. When he wrote a song, he took it to his publisher; then that worthy took it and bet his own money on it. He published the song, put it out in front of the people, and worked to get it on records, or pushed to have it performed by leading stars in cabarets, or on vaudeville, or on radio and TV.

That, alas, is a gone era. Nowadays, the publisher doesnt control anything. Everything is in the hands of the performing and recording artists. Most artists have their own publishing companies, and their own crew of writersthat is, whenever they dont write their own songs. As for the publisher (those few who are left), chances are hes owned by a conglomerate, and when youre controlled by such a massive structure, its what that organization wants done which counts. And conglomerates know only one thingthey want big name stars, with big name hits all the way.

None of the stars of my day, the Doris Days, the Sinatras and the Streisands, started as big names. When they began, they were unknown. But individualsnot conglomeratesrecognized their talents, and nurtured them into stardom. The same went for us songwriters; publishers nurtured us, too. Today, theres nobody around to discover talent and nurse it along, and to take chances with it. Its a conglomerate world.

There are many bookstoo manywritten about show biz, theatre, movies, and performers. But most of them are written by well-meaning people who are on the outside, forever looking in. Since they really dont know, they make a lot of it up. Too much of it.

Max Wilks book has to do with the opinions, ideas, and the philosophies of most of Americas greatest songwriters. Read it because its authentic. He didnt make it up. He sat with us all and listened, and asked us the right questions. He knew which ones to ask because hes been around the business all his life. He was, so to speak, to the manner born; hes written and produced, and hes been there with us. When you find it all laid out by him on the printed pages, know that it was not done by a Johnny-come-lately outsider assembling old newspaper clippings. Max knows us, warts and all, and when youve read the book, youll know us too. If you missed reading Theyre Playing Our Song in its first (long out-of-print) edition, I urge you to grab the book. If you want to be a song-writerand it always seems everyone who can strum or hum does, you owe it to yourself to learn how the successful ones of my era accomplished it.

If you ask me about the future, I have to be bullish about the work of all my songwriting friends of what I am certain has to be called a golden age. Fifty years from now, youll still be hearing Kern and Rodgers, Berlin and Sondheim, and Cole Porter. Believe me, Ive seen proof of the stamina and longevity of my own work. Just in the past couple of years, Ive had two big hits, Linda Ronstadt doing Guess Ill Hang My Tears Out To Dry, and Barry Manilow with Ive Heard That Song Beforeboth forty-year-old songs!

And its heartwarming to know that right now, here in 1986, when weve come through rock-and-roll, and punk rock, and hard rock, and bubble-gum music, and whatever other noise you hear being toted down the street by kids with boom-boxes, or by cowboys with their car-stereos playing full blast in traffic, I could go last night to the Kool Jazz Festival and hear my own Time After Time being played by great jazz musicians for umpteen lovely choruses!

Tomorrow night theyll be playing Gershwin, or Lerner & Loewe, or songs by Arthur Schwartz, perhaps Harold Arlen, Burke and Van Heusen, always more Berlin, and professor, could you give us some Robin and Rainger, or Warren and Dubin, Gordon and Revel, or Johnny Mercer, or Kalmar and Ruby, or even more.

JULE STYNE
June 1986

EARLY IN THE FALL of 1970, a revival of No, No, Nanette opened in Boston and was immediately the surprise hit of the season. Ruby Keeler and Patsy Kelly, Bobby Van and Helen Gallagher, tap dancing, music and lyrics by Vincent Youmans, Otto Harbach, and Irving Caesarthe critics and the audiences adored it all. Faithfully transported to the stage, this 1924 musical comedy, re-created with style, affection, and respect, was the talk of Boston. (And the utter confusion of Broadway, where nobody had expected anything from its revival.)

When I first heard about Nanette from Lester Osterman, who had booked it for his 46th Street Theatre, I called on Irving Caesar at his Brill Building office on 49th Street, where he has been for more than forty years, to congratulate him on the good news from Boston.

Irving is a short, effusive man in his early seventies, gifted with total recall, a deep fund of anecdotes, and a solid sense of social responsibility. He is also a major American songwriter. He stretched out on his Barcalounger and puffed on one of his ever-present cigars. You know why Nanette works today? he demanded. Its the Big Pendulumtasteand, friend, when that starts to swing. Here it comes, swinging back from all the rock music and the strobe lights and raggedy kids and the nudity. Heres a show where the old man takes his wife and up on the stage theres music and pretty people and tap dancing, and hes sitting there telling himself, This is one those damn kids of ours are going to seeand theyll enjoy it or else! Caesar beamed. This is camp backlash!

This whole revival is like a show libretto, continued Caesar. Nanette and methe whole thing was always crazy!

Young Irving was standing outside the old Friars Club, on 48th Street, one balmy spring evening in 1924. Waiting for the afternoon poker game to start. I was a kid, but I was doing all right. Songs in the Greenwich Village Follies, and Id had Swanee with my friend George Gershwin, so I had plenty of money for cards and horses. Then Otto Harbach came along. Wanted to know what I was doing. I couldnt tell him I was waiting for a card game, so I let him walk me over to the theatre where Harry Frazee had Nanette in rehearsal. You know, Irving, maybe you could give us a couple of extra lyrics, Otto said. Vincent Youmans and I are running dry and we could use a little help.

Vincent and I went home that night and in about ten minutes I wrote You Can Dance with Any Girl at AllI can write very fast when it hits me. Sometimes lousy, sure, but always fast. What the hell, Gershwin and I wrote Swanee in about eleven minutes flat!

Then, the next night, we wrote Too Many Rings Around Rosie. Working with Youmans was like with Gershwin. There was inspiration in just being around the guy. Little by little, I supplanted all the lyrics except for a couple of Harbachs.

Now comes the crazy part. We open in Detroit. Disaster. The show dies. Five thousand the first week. Four thousand the second. Harry Frazee, who probably never drew a sober breath in his life but was a hell of a producer, didnt get upset. Why should he? He never looked at the show. But he knew how to produce. He got hold of me and Youmans and said, You guys write me a big hit for the second act by tomorrow, or Im sending for McCarthy and Tierney. They were hottheyd just written