368
pages, Random House, Inc., ISBN-13: 978-1400061051
In The House That George Built: With a Little Help from Irving, Cole, and a Crew of About Fifty (whew!), Wilfrid Sheed tries to recapture the era that
spawned those marvelous songs we now call "The Standards" - and he
succeeds beautifully by taking us into his confidence as he tells his stories.
Reading this book is like sitting down with Sheed as he spins his yarns about
this composer and that lyricist, many of whom he had personally known. OK, so
it's not a work for the expert or the specialist in this genre; it is a work
for people like me who may not know a diminished 7th from a triplet and don't
really care as long as the song speaks to you. And to know how these beauties
were given birth was for me one revelation after another (suffice it to say I
now have a greater appreciation for the genius of Gershwin and his heirs). If
you love the classics of popular music of that era, buy this book. You will not
be disappointed
Sheed is a witty (but not self-indulgently
or distractingly so) prose “stylist”, not a musician. In that capacity he's like
a jazz musician riffing on a familiar theme (it's tough to come up with new
material about the Great American Songbook and its composers) and of particular
use to those readers who love the music and wish to express what it means to
them as much as it expresses its meanings to them. Sheed is such a reader's
voice, and probably a more welcome one than that of the historians,
musicologists, composers and lyricists. I don't think he's disparaging
the musicians by showing us their flaws and vices. A Charlie Parker or Miles
Davis is certainly no less an artist to me because of a drug habit or even,
as in the case of Bird, his selfish, childish and exploitive ways. If
anything, the unpleasant behaviorisms of artists ranging from Buddy Rich to
William Faulkner make it easier to relate to them as well as to sustain
interest. If they were any better as human beings, their overwhelming talent
and, even genius, would simply be too much to bear. Sheed also knows that while
it's misguided to judge a book by its cover, in the case of the creative artist
the book would no doubt be entirely different, most likely inferior, were the
cover not what it is.
As for the melody vs. lyric flap,
he's right. The most recorded popular song in American music history – Body and Soul – has an embarrassingly
bad lyric (My love a wreck you're making/My
heart is yours for the taking…Ugh!) many times over. What counts most in
the language of music are the notes, not the words. A song has to be able to
stand on its own, apart from the lyrics (and John Coltrane certainly felt that
Rodgers' music for Hammerstein did just that). Since the ‘60s we've been
inundated by little more than bad recitative (ask any bar pianist or Saturday
night saxophone player). On the other hand, great lyrics can: 1) Make a great
melody an even richer experience; 2) Help shape an infectious melody (for
example, Porter's repetition of melodic motifs to fit the theme of
"obsession" in countless numbers of his tunes); 3) Bring to the
melody the attention that it deserves if not requires to become a standard. Body and Soul got lucky – a great melody
and set of chord changes performed by an artist (Coleman Hawkins) whom every
great player wanted to emulate.
All of the composers Sheed
chooses to discuss are deserving, though it would be nice to have fuller
consideration of Van Heusen, Styne, McHugh, Victor Young (When I Fall in Love, My
Foolish Heart, Stella by Starlight),
and greater focus on isolated sublime melodies that have become jazz standards
(e.g. Bronislaw Kaper's On Green Dolphin
Street). What the music could use at this stage is a Ken Burns or another
director's 20-part PBS series about these leading composers of American music
and their songs. Just as Burns' jazz series showed us as much about race,
ethnicity and adversity as about the music, the history of American song, with all
of the Jewish immigrants who either worked their way up to Tin Pan Alley or
were forced by economic necessity to temper their aspirations as serious
composers, is equally fascinating and of no less significance. The Great
American Songbook us an essential complement to the African-American classical music
(jazz) that is America's gift to the arts; it's the indigenous real deal, an
art form, not a folk expression, and for far too long it's either been taken
for granted or simply dismissed as inconsequential tripe.
In fact, reading books like
Sheed's and going back to the songs themselves can't help but lead to an
inescapable sense of the enormous influence of African-American cultural
traditions on virtually all of the major American composers of the first half
of the century. Arlen escaped from cantoring at the synagogue to writing shows
at the Cotton Club; Gershwin thought he was writing jazz; and even the elitist
and very European Kern is best remembered for, what else, Old Man River (though seeing Irene Dunne perform Kern's Can't Help Lovin' That Man is to
discover the indebtedness of the composer not just to spirituals but to the
coon song tradition). So deep was the attraction to and love of indigenous
African-American music that it's not much of a stretch to think of the most
seminal songs of the Great American Songbook as primarily black music.
Ironically, the primary exception is Cole Porter who, according to Richard
Rodgers, thought he had to learn how to write more Jewish music before he'd master
the idiom (perhaps contributing to the relative lateness of his first hit, Let's Do It, in 1928). He'd have done
better to put his ear to the ground and go directly to the source (though the
effect of Robert Browning's poetry on his original syntax is undeniable).
Whatever, it's a fascinating,
fruitful subject and adventure, and it's time to take more people along on it.
Only a tiny percentage of us read books like Sheed's and are familiar with and
care about the songs and their composers. Most college students I meet in the
latter days of civilization as we once knew it have never heard of Crosby
(unless it's his association with David Bowie) or Berlin or Gershwin or even Body and Soul. At best, they just might
know a single standard Over the Rainbow.
But those bluebirds certainly aren't singing on this side. They don't know any
tunes.
No comments:
Post a Comment