SAY IT WITH MUSICThepopular song is never forgotten—except in public. Great events and seven-day-wonders pass into oblivion. Hobson, who was a hero, became a prohibitionist; Aguinaldo, a good citizen; McKinley, a martyr—butGood-by, Dolly Gray,In the Good Old Summer Time, andJust Break the News to Motherare immortal in our private memories and around them crystallize the sights and sounds and smells, the very quality of the air we breathed when these songs were in their high day. A more judicious pen than mine may write about these songs without sentimentality; I cannot. For in addition to the pathos of time past, something else brings an air of gentle melancholy to “words and music.” In recent years a change has come and the popular song is no longer written to be sung, but to be played. The new song that can’t be sung has virtues of its own—on the whole they are virtues I prefer. But I doubt whether it will ever be, as the old song was, a clue to the social history of our time.The popular song is so varied, so full of interest, that for a moment at least one can pretend that it isn’t vulgar, detestable, the ruin of musical taste, and a symptom of degeneracy; we can pretend also thatLess Than the Dustisn’t more artistic thanSwanee. Since the Spanish-American War the American popular song (including the foreign song popular inAmerica) has undergone the most interesting modulations; it has expressed everything exceptfin de siècle. Out of the ’nineties persisted a characteristic song:Ta-ra-ra-ra-boom-de-ay, the chorus and tune of which, woven into mysterious words about “three little niggers in a peanut shell” I must have heard at the same time asDaisywith its glorification of the simple life “on a bicycle built for two.” Since then, for a rough generalization, we have had three types of popular song: the exotic-romantic, the sentimental, and the raggy-gay. The sentimental song we have always with us. “That sweet melody with a strong mother appeal” is advertised on the back of “Those Black Boy Blues” and Irving Berlin writesWhen I Lost YoubetweenAlexander’s Ragtime BandandSome Sunny Day. At moments it is dominant and a fake ballad, with a simple and uninteresting tune, makesAfter the Ball, by Charles K. Harris, a world wonder. Or we have a simplification of the whole history of romantic love inLove Me and the World Is Mine. The curious about social life in America may compare this song withI’m Just Wild About Harry.Beaumarchais, who knew no jazz, makes Figaro say that what can’t be said can be sung—and this applies far more to the sentimental than to the obscene. Think of the incredible, the almost unspeakable idea in the following, presumably spoken by a father to a child:Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,Down by the White Light’s Glare,Down in the something of wasted years,You’ll find your mamma there!Or consider the pretty imagery and emotion ofI’m Tying the Leaves, as sung by a precocious and abominable child who has been told that mother will die when the leaves begin to fall. It would be easy to say that these songs are gone never to return; but it was only two years ago thatThey Needed a Songbird in Heaven—so God Took Caruso Away(“idea suggested by George Walter Brown” to the grateful composers). I do not dare to contemplateA Baby’s Prayer at Twilightor to wonder what constituted theCurse of an Aching Heart; but history has left on record the chorus ofMy Mother was a LadyLike yours, you will allow,And you may have a sisterWho needs protection now;I’ve come to this great cityTo find a brother dear,And you wouldn’t dare insult me, sir,If Jack were only here.It was for songs like this that a masterpiece in anothergenre, the burlesque popular song, was created. I have heardA Working Girl Was Leaving Homecredited to the brothers Smith (the boys the mother-in-law joke invented, according to George JeanNathan, and for their sins they should have written this song) and to the late Tiny Maxwell, and to an unidentified English source. It’s title and chorus at least are immortal:(Then to him these proud words this girl did say):Stand back, villain; go your way!Here I will no longer stay.Although you were a marquis or an earl.You may tempt the upper classesWith your villainous de-mi tasses,But Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.The cure for the sentimental song is the ironic; and irony, it happens, is not what America lives on. Even so mild an English example asWaiting at the Churchgained its popularity chiefly from the excellent tag line:Can’t get awayTo marry you to-day.My wife won’t let me.Yet appearing from time to time we had a sort of frank destruction of sentimentality in our songs. Some, likeI Picked up a Lemon in the Garden of Love, appeal directly to the old “peaches” tradition; but we went further. In the same year as the romanticBeautiful Garden of Roses—it was one of the early years of the dance craze—we heardWho Are You With To-night(to-night?...) down to “Willyou tell your wife in the morning, Who you are with to-night?” and the music perceptibly winked at the words.I Love My Wife (but, Oh, You Kid!)had little quality, but the dramatization of an old joke inMy Wife’s Gone to the Countryrose to a definite gaiety in the cry of “Hooray! Hooray!” So, too, one line in the chorus ofI Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now, a song which skilfully builds up a sentimental situation in order to tear it down with two words:Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,Breathing sighs, telling lies ...where the music pretended to make no difference between the last two phrases, except for softening, sweetening the second. Yet another in the malicious mould isWho Paid the Rent for Mrs Rip Van Winkle (when Rip Van Winkle Went Away)—unforgettable for the tearing upward phrase to a climax in the firstRipwith a parallel high note on the second.The characteristic of these songs is that they were rather like contemporary fiction in giving form to social phenomena without expressing approval or disapproval. Eternal love and fidelity go by the board with “the dreamy, peachy, creamy, Vision of pure delight,” the companion who will not be mentioned to “your wife in the morning.” “Tell me, Mister, Is it your sister....” Well, hardly.There were, beside these realistic treatments of marriage (I continue the professorial tone) a few slightly suggestive songs, and these also were opposed to current morality, and these also were popular. One was called, I think,Billy, and purported to be a statement of virginal devotion: “And when I walk, I always walk with Billy ...” and so following, to “And when I sleep, I always—dream of Bill.” There were delicious implications inRow, Row, Row, as Al Jolson sang it; earlier still was Hattie Williams’s songExperience, inThe Little Cherub. The persistence of these songs is something of a miracle and the shade of difference between the permissible and the impossible is of vast importance in the success of a song. About fifteen years separateWho Are You With To-Night?(I quote all these songs and titles from memory, but I am fairly sure about the grammar of this one; if it was printed “whom” it was sung “who”) andHe May be Your Man (but he comes to see me sometimes), and the second song is more explicit; when Edith Wilson or Florence Mills sang the repeat chorus it shocked her audience. Essentially it is the same thing, only, fifteen years ago, the questionable stanza would have been left to the unauthorized street version.The exotic romantic song in America has little to do with all of this. Before the professional glorification of our separate states began, we had the series of Indian songs of which Neil Moret’sHiawathaisthe outstanding exemplar. The stanza is almost as hard to sing asThe Star-spangled Banner; the chorus—it is always the chorus which makes a song—is banal, a pure rum-tum-tiddy. Yet it was more than popular, for it engendered a hundred others.Cheyenneand (musically)Rainboware its descendants.Hiawathabewilders and baffles the searcher after causes; but its badness as a song explains why the Indian song was submerged presently in the great wave of negro songs which have shown an amazing vitality, have outlived the Hawaiian exotic, and with marvelous adaptability (aided by one great natural advantage) have lived through to the present day.The negro song is partly, but not purely, exotic. Remembering that songs are written on Forty-fifth Street in New York and put over in New York cabarets, it is easy to see howCalifornia in September(a dreadful song) andCarolina(I recall five songs embodying the name of that state; the latest is superb) are also exotic; and howOver on the Jersey Sideand songs about Coney Island came to be written to glorify New York as a summer resort. The rustic period, again, reacts against sophistication asIn the Shade of the Old Apple Treereacts against the exoticism of the sheltering palm. Neither rustic nor local, however, achieves the highest success, and it is left for the Pacific to give the last setting before the shouting song of the negro and his plaintive cry are triumphant in our music.First, however, the era of the waltz song. In earlier days America had little to do with the waltz out of comic opera andThe Merry WidowandMy HeroandBeautiful Ladyand the superb melodies fromGypsy Loveand fromDie Czardas Fürstin, of which I forget the American name, and something fromThe Arcadianscame from anywhere across the sea and captured us. TheVelia SongandThe Girl from the Saskatchewanwere better than their corresponding waltzes;The Chocolate Soldierhad pages of music as good asMy Hero—many better. OnlyThe Dollar Princessmanaged to put over its less ostentatious pieces—and that is rather amusing, since Leo Fall is held by the Viennese to be the true successor of Johann Strauss.The mention of that great name makes it clear that the waltz song itself is a hybrid; for whatever words have been sung toThe Beautiful Blue Danube, the music was meant to be played and for the dance; it was not meant for song. Yet the slow tempo, the softness, the gentle sentimentality of the waltz lends itself peculiarly to song—and to memory. I do not think it has anything to do with the really great things in our popular songs, but I cannot resent its success—any more than I can resent the success of another song, wholly out of our American line—Un Peu d’Amour. This was the last great song before the war; it held France and England and America enslaved to its amorous longing. Somethingmore cheery and more male had to be found for the English soldier, who eventually picked upTipperary(also a song of nostalgia), and for the American something snappier; butUn Peu d’Amourpersisted during the war. To hear a soldier standing on the fire-step on a dark night, leaning his cheek against the disc of his Lewis gun, and softly hummingUn Peu d’Amour, was to recognize that for actual millions that song and a few others like it, and not the great music to the condition of which all art aspires, were all of beauty and all of exaltation they were ever to know. The materials in this particular case were not tawdry, only equivocal. For it was a better song asA Little Lovethan in the French. The wordamourmeans, but does not signify, the same thing as the word love, and “pour t’entendre à ce moment suprême, Murmurer tout bas, tout bas: Je t’aime” has connotations not transferred to the English. The song is a fake French and a good Anglo-Saxon piece of sentiment, precisely the counterpart of the waltz song. Like them it conquered a world.Lehar and Monckton and Caryll and Fall and Kalman followed successes with moderate failure, and at the same time revues and American musical comedies stepped out grandly. I note three songs from this source which actually claimed all of the popular attention. The song to be sung was at its best in the Princess shows—best of all inThe SirenSongfromLeave it to Jane. It is Mr Kern’s masterpiece, a sophisticated, tidy score with amusing and unexpected retards and pauses, with a fresh freedom of tonalities.The Siren Songnever actually came up toThe Love Nestin acclaim; Mr Hirsch’s bid for immortality is almost contemptible in words and music and has only a single point of interest—the three notes against two in the second line of the chorus (“cozyandwarm” instead of, say, nice—and—warm). It is impermissible in a man who only a year later wroteIt’s Getting Very Dark on Old Broadway.The third song isSay It With Music. Mr Berlin is as much responsible as any one for the turn from the song-to-be-sung to the song-to-be-played; yet he is so remarkable that he can reverse himself, and just as in 1915 he produced a whole revue (Stop! Look! Listen!) from which not one song became really popular, so, seven years later, when the singing-song had gone out, he produced a revue and gave us one more of his tributes to the art he adores. It isn’t musically half as interesting asI Love a Piano; but it is much more singable and it has great virtues. Nothing that a jazz orchestra can do has any effect on the purity of its musical line. I wonder whether it may not be the last of the songs; for we are now full in the jazz age and darkness has set in.
SAY IT WITH MUSIC
Thepopular song is never forgotten—except in public. Great events and seven-day-wonders pass into oblivion. Hobson, who was a hero, became a prohibitionist; Aguinaldo, a good citizen; McKinley, a martyr—butGood-by, Dolly Gray,In the Good Old Summer Time, andJust Break the News to Motherare immortal in our private memories and around them crystallize the sights and sounds and smells, the very quality of the air we breathed when these songs were in their high day. A more judicious pen than mine may write about these songs without sentimentality; I cannot. For in addition to the pathos of time past, something else brings an air of gentle melancholy to “words and music.” In recent years a change has come and the popular song is no longer written to be sung, but to be played. The new song that can’t be sung has virtues of its own—on the whole they are virtues I prefer. But I doubt whether it will ever be, as the old song was, a clue to the social history of our time.
The popular song is so varied, so full of interest, that for a moment at least one can pretend that it isn’t vulgar, detestable, the ruin of musical taste, and a symptom of degeneracy; we can pretend also thatLess Than the Dustisn’t more artistic thanSwanee. Since the Spanish-American War the American popular song (including the foreign song popular inAmerica) has undergone the most interesting modulations; it has expressed everything exceptfin de siècle. Out of the ’nineties persisted a characteristic song:Ta-ra-ra-ra-boom-de-ay, the chorus and tune of which, woven into mysterious words about “three little niggers in a peanut shell” I must have heard at the same time asDaisywith its glorification of the simple life “on a bicycle built for two.” Since then, for a rough generalization, we have had three types of popular song: the exotic-romantic, the sentimental, and the raggy-gay. The sentimental song we have always with us. “That sweet melody with a strong mother appeal” is advertised on the back of “Those Black Boy Blues” and Irving Berlin writesWhen I Lost YoubetweenAlexander’s Ragtime BandandSome Sunny Day. At moments it is dominant and a fake ballad, with a simple and uninteresting tune, makesAfter the Ball, by Charles K. Harris, a world wonder. Or we have a simplification of the whole history of romantic love inLove Me and the World Is Mine. The curious about social life in America may compare this song withI’m Just Wild About Harry.
Beaumarchais, who knew no jazz, makes Figaro say that what can’t be said can be sung—and this applies far more to the sentimental than to the obscene. Think of the incredible, the almost unspeakable idea in the following, presumably spoken by a father to a child:
Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,Down by the White Light’s Glare,Down in the something of wasted years,You’ll find your mamma there!
Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,Down by the White Light’s Glare,Down in the something of wasted years,You’ll find your mamma there!
Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,Down by the White Light’s Glare,Down in the something of wasted years,You’ll find your mamma there!
Down in the City of Sighs and Tears,
Down by the White Light’s Glare,
Down in the something of wasted years,
You’ll find your mamma there!
Or consider the pretty imagery and emotion ofI’m Tying the Leaves, as sung by a precocious and abominable child who has been told that mother will die when the leaves begin to fall. It would be easy to say that these songs are gone never to return; but it was only two years ago thatThey Needed a Songbird in Heaven—so God Took Caruso Away(“idea suggested by George Walter Brown” to the grateful composers). I do not dare to contemplateA Baby’s Prayer at Twilightor to wonder what constituted theCurse of an Aching Heart; but history has left on record the chorus of
My Mother was a LadyLike yours, you will allow,And you may have a sisterWho needs protection now;I’ve come to this great cityTo find a brother dear,And you wouldn’t dare insult me, sir,If Jack were only here.
My Mother was a LadyLike yours, you will allow,And you may have a sisterWho needs protection now;I’ve come to this great cityTo find a brother dear,And you wouldn’t dare insult me, sir,If Jack were only here.
My Mother was a LadyLike yours, you will allow,And you may have a sisterWho needs protection now;I’ve come to this great cityTo find a brother dear,And you wouldn’t dare insult me, sir,If Jack were only here.
My Mother was a Lady
Like yours, you will allow,
And you may have a sister
Who needs protection now;
I’ve come to this great city
To find a brother dear,
And you wouldn’t dare insult me, sir,
If Jack were only here.
It was for songs like this that a masterpiece in anothergenre, the burlesque popular song, was created. I have heardA Working Girl Was Leaving Homecredited to the brothers Smith (the boys the mother-in-law joke invented, according to George JeanNathan, and for their sins they should have written this song) and to the late Tiny Maxwell, and to an unidentified English source. It’s title and chorus at least are immortal:
(Then to him these proud words this girl did say):
Stand back, villain; go your way!Here I will no longer stay.Although you were a marquis or an earl.You may tempt the upper classesWith your villainous de-mi tasses,But Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.
Stand back, villain; go your way!Here I will no longer stay.Although you were a marquis or an earl.You may tempt the upper classesWith your villainous de-mi tasses,But Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.
Stand back, villain; go your way!Here I will no longer stay.Although you were a marquis or an earl.You may tempt the upper classesWith your villainous de-mi tasses,But Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.
Stand back, villain; go your way!
Here I will no longer stay.
Although you were a marquis or an earl.
You may tempt the upper classes
With your villainous de-mi tasses,
But Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.
The cure for the sentimental song is the ironic; and irony, it happens, is not what America lives on. Even so mild an English example asWaiting at the Churchgained its popularity chiefly from the excellent tag line:
Can’t get awayTo marry you to-day.My wife won’t let me.
Can’t get awayTo marry you to-day.My wife won’t let me.
Can’t get awayTo marry you to-day.My wife won’t let me.
Can’t get away
To marry you to-day.
My wife won’t let me.
Yet appearing from time to time we had a sort of frank destruction of sentimentality in our songs. Some, likeI Picked up a Lemon in the Garden of Love, appeal directly to the old “peaches” tradition; but we went further. In the same year as the romanticBeautiful Garden of Roses—it was one of the early years of the dance craze—we heardWho Are You With To-night(to-night?...) down to “Willyou tell your wife in the morning, Who you are with to-night?” and the music perceptibly winked at the words.I Love My Wife (but, Oh, You Kid!)had little quality, but the dramatization of an old joke inMy Wife’s Gone to the Countryrose to a definite gaiety in the cry of “Hooray! Hooray!” So, too, one line in the chorus ofI Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now, a song which skilfully builds up a sentimental situation in order to tear it down with two words:
Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,Breathing sighs, telling lies ...
Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,Breathing sighs, telling lies ...
Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,Breathing sighs, telling lies ...
Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,
Breathing sighs, telling lies ...
where the music pretended to make no difference between the last two phrases, except for softening, sweetening the second. Yet another in the malicious mould isWho Paid the Rent for Mrs Rip Van Winkle (when Rip Van Winkle Went Away)—unforgettable for the tearing upward phrase to a climax in the firstRipwith a parallel high note on the second.
The characteristic of these songs is that they were rather like contemporary fiction in giving form to social phenomena without expressing approval or disapproval. Eternal love and fidelity go by the board with “the dreamy, peachy, creamy, Vision of pure delight,” the companion who will not be mentioned to “your wife in the morning.” “Tell me, Mister, Is it your sister....” Well, hardly.
There were, beside these realistic treatments of marriage (I continue the professorial tone) a few slightly suggestive songs, and these also were opposed to current morality, and these also were popular. One was called, I think,Billy, and purported to be a statement of virginal devotion: “And when I walk, I always walk with Billy ...” and so following, to “And when I sleep, I always—dream of Bill.” There were delicious implications inRow, Row, Row, as Al Jolson sang it; earlier still was Hattie Williams’s songExperience, inThe Little Cherub. The persistence of these songs is something of a miracle and the shade of difference between the permissible and the impossible is of vast importance in the success of a song. About fifteen years separateWho Are You With To-Night?(I quote all these songs and titles from memory, but I am fairly sure about the grammar of this one; if it was printed “whom” it was sung “who”) andHe May be Your Man (but he comes to see me sometimes), and the second song is more explicit; when Edith Wilson or Florence Mills sang the repeat chorus it shocked her audience. Essentially it is the same thing, only, fifteen years ago, the questionable stanza would have been left to the unauthorized street version.
The exotic romantic song in America has little to do with all of this. Before the professional glorification of our separate states began, we had the series of Indian songs of which Neil Moret’sHiawathaisthe outstanding exemplar. The stanza is almost as hard to sing asThe Star-spangled Banner; the chorus—it is always the chorus which makes a song—is banal, a pure rum-tum-tiddy. Yet it was more than popular, for it engendered a hundred others.Cheyenneand (musically)Rainboware its descendants.Hiawathabewilders and baffles the searcher after causes; but its badness as a song explains why the Indian song was submerged presently in the great wave of negro songs which have shown an amazing vitality, have outlived the Hawaiian exotic, and with marvelous adaptability (aided by one great natural advantage) have lived through to the present day.
The negro song is partly, but not purely, exotic. Remembering that songs are written on Forty-fifth Street in New York and put over in New York cabarets, it is easy to see howCalifornia in September(a dreadful song) andCarolina(I recall five songs embodying the name of that state; the latest is superb) are also exotic; and howOver on the Jersey Sideand songs about Coney Island came to be written to glorify New York as a summer resort. The rustic period, again, reacts against sophistication asIn the Shade of the Old Apple Treereacts against the exoticism of the sheltering palm. Neither rustic nor local, however, achieves the highest success, and it is left for the Pacific to give the last setting before the shouting song of the negro and his plaintive cry are triumphant in our music.
First, however, the era of the waltz song. In earlier days America had little to do with the waltz out of comic opera andThe Merry WidowandMy HeroandBeautiful Ladyand the superb melodies fromGypsy Loveand fromDie Czardas Fürstin, of which I forget the American name, and something fromThe Arcadianscame from anywhere across the sea and captured us. TheVelia SongandThe Girl from the Saskatchewanwere better than their corresponding waltzes;The Chocolate Soldierhad pages of music as good asMy Hero—many better. OnlyThe Dollar Princessmanaged to put over its less ostentatious pieces—and that is rather amusing, since Leo Fall is held by the Viennese to be the true successor of Johann Strauss.
The mention of that great name makes it clear that the waltz song itself is a hybrid; for whatever words have been sung toThe Beautiful Blue Danube, the music was meant to be played and for the dance; it was not meant for song. Yet the slow tempo, the softness, the gentle sentimentality of the waltz lends itself peculiarly to song—and to memory. I do not think it has anything to do with the really great things in our popular songs, but I cannot resent its success—any more than I can resent the success of another song, wholly out of our American line—Un Peu d’Amour. This was the last great song before the war; it held France and England and America enslaved to its amorous longing. Somethingmore cheery and more male had to be found for the English soldier, who eventually picked upTipperary(also a song of nostalgia), and for the American something snappier; butUn Peu d’Amourpersisted during the war. To hear a soldier standing on the fire-step on a dark night, leaning his cheek against the disc of his Lewis gun, and softly hummingUn Peu d’Amour, was to recognize that for actual millions that song and a few others like it, and not the great music to the condition of which all art aspires, were all of beauty and all of exaltation they were ever to know. The materials in this particular case were not tawdry, only equivocal. For it was a better song asA Little Lovethan in the French. The wordamourmeans, but does not signify, the same thing as the word love, and “pour t’entendre à ce moment suprême, Murmurer tout bas, tout bas: Je t’aime” has connotations not transferred to the English. The song is a fake French and a good Anglo-Saxon piece of sentiment, precisely the counterpart of the waltz song. Like them it conquered a world.
Lehar and Monckton and Caryll and Fall and Kalman followed successes with moderate failure, and at the same time revues and American musical comedies stepped out grandly. I note three songs from this source which actually claimed all of the popular attention. The song to be sung was at its best in the Princess shows—best of all inThe SirenSongfromLeave it to Jane. It is Mr Kern’s masterpiece, a sophisticated, tidy score with amusing and unexpected retards and pauses, with a fresh freedom of tonalities.The Siren Songnever actually came up toThe Love Nestin acclaim; Mr Hirsch’s bid for immortality is almost contemptible in words and music and has only a single point of interest—the three notes against two in the second line of the chorus (“cozyandwarm” instead of, say, nice—and—warm). It is impermissible in a man who only a year later wroteIt’s Getting Very Dark on Old Broadway.
The third song isSay It With Music. Mr Berlin is as much responsible as any one for the turn from the song-to-be-sung to the song-to-be-played; yet he is so remarkable that he can reverse himself, and just as in 1915 he produced a whole revue (Stop! Look! Listen!) from which not one song became really popular, so, seven years later, when the singing-song had gone out, he produced a revue and gave us one more of his tributes to the art he adores. It isn’t musically half as interesting asI Love a Piano; but it is much more singable and it has great virtues. Nothing that a jazz orchestra can do has any effect on the purity of its musical line. I wonder whether it may not be the last of the songs; for we are now full in the jazz age and darkness has set in.