Here I am talking about I’LL SAY SHE IS, the Lost Marx Brothers Musical, with Rep Radio’s Darnelle Radford.

I’LL SAY SHE IS, the first production in ninety years of the Marx Brothers’ legendary 1924 Broadway debut, opens August 10 in the New York International Fringe Festival.

Tickets and information:


Hi, folks…remember me? I haven’t been very prolific, as a blogger, in recent years — but that’s just because I’ve been busy with wonderful projects like these:

MARXFEST: I am delighted to be on the organizing committee for Marxfest, New York City’s first Marx Brothers festival, to take place in all five boroughs of this town, throughout the month of May, 2014. There are many exciting Marx-minded events on the schedule, and we haven’t even announced some of the most exciting ones yet! If you love the Marx Brothers, do whatever you can to be in the city of their birth this May! And whatever happens, don’t let another minute go by without following Marxfest on Twitter and Facebook. Check the official Marxfest site every five or ten minutes!

I’LL SAY SHE IS: All of the Marxfest events are exciting, but this is the one closest to my heart. I’ve spent the last five years researching, reconstructing, and adapting I’ll Say She Is, the 1924 Broadway debut of the Marx Brothers, and the only one of their three Broadway musicals never to be filmed or revived. This year, on the 90th anniversary of the original New York opening, I’ll Say She Is returns to the stage — first with a semi-produced reading, May 23 and 25, at Marxfest (tickets and details here); with a full production this fall. I’ll Say She Is is produced and directed by the great Trav S.D.!

I’ll Say She Is should be of interest not only to Marx Brothers and vintage comedy fans, but to devotees of American musical theatre — it’s a real 1920s plotted revue, highly characteristic of its era, and full of great stuff that hasn’t been seen or heard for almost a century.

Below is a short essay I’ve written for the I’ll Say She Is website. There’s more there, and more details soon. I hope to see you in May!


For almost as long as I’ve loved the Marx Brothers, I’ve been intrigued by the legend of I’ll Say She Is.

We think of the Brothers as figures of the 1930s, when they made their classic films. But they had been major cultural icons of the twenties, too. They began that decade as one of the biggest acts in vaudeville; achieved Broadway stardom with I’ll Say She Is (1924), The Cocoanuts (1925), and Animal Crackers (1928); made films of the latter two — and then went out to Hollywood and made all those Marx Brothers movies.

The Marx Brothers as Broadway stars in New York in the 1920s — this is the stuff my dreams are made of. Harpo chumming around with Alexander Woollcott and Dorothy Parker; Groucho writing for The New Yorker in its infancy; the boys performing Animal Crackers every night on Broadway at the 44th Street Theatre, then dragging themselves out to Queens every day to film Cocoanuts.

Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers exist. You can read the published librettos, and you can watch the film adaptations. Frequently, you can see them produced on stage. Those two musicals represent the earliest available Marx Brothers comedy. But I’ll Say She Is has been just out of reach.

Over the years, my passion for the Marx Brothers has informed almost everything I’ve done. But I’ve thought that perhaps it was all in preparation for some big Marx Brothers project, something that served not only to express my love for them and my desire to keep their flame burning, but to contribute something significant to the catalogue, to give all Marx Brothers fans a great big present.

About five years ago, I began a period of intense research into I’ll Say She Is. I wasn’t entirely sure of my intentions, but I hoped that one way or another, this work could be willed back into existence, seen on stage again, and made to occupy its rightful space on the shelf next to Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers.

My primary source was Will B. Johnstone’s 1923 rehearsal typescript, which is housed at the Library of Congress. Assisted by Mikael Uhlin, I obtained a copy of this sacred document: thirty-two pages of rough dialogue, with song titles and cues, but no songs. The typescript is more an outline with dialogue than a working libretto. It was committed to paper in the spring of 1923, prior to the Philadelphia opening, a full year before the show reached Broadway. Undoubtedly, it was embellished in rehearsal and performance.

I interpolated material from other extant versions of certain scenes. I filled in moments and details culled from firsthand recollections of the show. I unearthed hundreds of news clippings related to the original production, some of which described scenes and quoted dialogue. I retrieved whatever ad-libs had been recorded, and filled in the gaps with surviving fragments of the Brothers’ vaudeville repertoire, the earlier Johnstone revues, and the newspaper prose of Will B. Johnstone. I filled still more gaps with my own Marxist intuition, adding things out of necessity or desire or both.

The new score of I’ll Say She Is is an amalgam. I managed to obtain sheet music and/or recordings of about half the songs from the original production. That left a handful of missing numbers, for which I had only the titles, narrative context, and, in some cases, descriptions. I recreated these songs by writing new lyrics to existing music from other Johnstone shows of the period, using phrases and ideas from the Johnstone typescript whenever possible.

In wrestling with the book and lyrics, I was aided invaluably by my great friend and collaborator West Hyler, and by Margaret Farrell, an ethnomusicologist who also happens to be the great-granddaughter of Will B. Johnstone, keeper of his diaries, and a singular source of information and inspiration.

The result is my adaptation of I’ll Say She Is. I can’t claim that it’s a perfectly faithful reproduction of the original. That would be impossible. But when you see it, I hope you’ll agree that it feels right, and that you relish as much as I do the thought of being able to say, “I’ve seen I’ll Say She Is.”

Raise High the Expectations and Salinger - A Reintroduction



As you may know from other recent essays, I’ve been stifled lately by an existentially-troubling repetitive stress injury, and temporarily without the use of my right hand. I’m just beginning to bounce back now. This condition has given me an unprecedented surplus of free time, and deprived me of the means by which I generally fill time. So instead of writing and working, I’ve been reading and thinking.

Atop my neglected reading pile, a few weeks ago, was Kenneth Slawenski’s J.D. Salinger: A Life (2011), loaned to me by my father. I admired this book, with some reservations. Slawenski, the proprietor of the website Dead Caulfields, is too reverential, even defensive, about his subject. But his analysis of Salinger’s writing is sound, and his account of Salinger’s life is serious and poignant. After finishing the Slawenski book, I picked up Salinger: A Biography (1999), by Paul Alexander, but I gave up on this one after about a hundred pages. If Slawenski is too respectful, Alexander goes much too far in the other direction; his book (at least the first quarter of it) is a leering, sensationalized affront. It reads like a celebrity exposé, and seems strangely unconcerned with Salinger the artist. So I put that aside, and spent some days reading sixty years of articles about Salinger, after which there was nothing left to read on the subject but Salinger himself.

I didn’t revisit Catcher, with which I feel an ongoing familiarity. I reread the later Glass stories, in order of original New Yorker publication – “Franny,” “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters,” “Zooey,” “Seymour – An Introduction” – and found them far more meaningful than when I last read them, as a teenager. Now as then, I preferred “Franny” and “Carpenters,” with their rich humor and brilliant idiomatic dialogue, to the formless theological wandering of “Zooey” and (especially) “Seymour.” But that didn’t stop me from tackling Salinger’s last published story, which I’d never previously attempted. “Hapworth 16, 1924” took up almost the entire June 19, 1965 issue of The New Yorker,and was never published in book form. It consists of a seemingly endless, impossibly verbose letter, written by Seymour Glass at the age of seven. It makes “Seymour – An Introduction” look like “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.”

When my father wrote his thesis about Salinger, he got to “Hapworth” by searching libraries for the 6/19/65 New Yorker. Entering my username and password at the magazine’s online archive was less romantic. Anyway, “Hapworth 16, 1924” is an uphill climb, and not a very rewarding one. But I found it more readable than expected, after all I’d read about its impenetrability. I can’t say it’s good, but I still found it strangely compelling – maybe because the story sort of dares you to find it so, dares you to keep reading, despite offering none of the usual incentives. It’s deliberately unengaging. I know I would find it intolerable if it were not written by J.D. Salinger. But it’s unavoidably a key work, the overture to four and a half decades of silence. It does reward the patient devotee with some interesting puzzle pieces. It’s better to have read “Hapworth” than to read it. I followed it with a much-needed dessert of Nine Stories, in their hilarious, heartbreaking, precision-crafted beauty.


Shane Salerno’s documentary film Salinger, which opened last Friday, is accompanied by Shane Salerno and David Shields’ 700-page book Salinger, which was released last Tuesday.

Salerno is a Hollywood screenwriter whose credits include Armageddon and Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. (You may lower your eyebrow.) But he proved his seriousness by spending ten years and two million of his own dollars researching, writing, directing, and producing Salinger. The publicity around the project has emphasized that it’s filled with top-secret revelations, wrought by unprecedented access to sources close to Salinger.

David Shields’ signature work is Reality Hunger, which I haven’t read. According to Wikipedia, “Reality Hunger consists of 618 numbered passages…Approximately half of the book’s words come from sources other than the author. Because of Random House’s lawyers, attribution for the quotes is given in a fine-print appendix at the end of the book, but with Shields’ encouragement to cut those pages from the book so as to preserve the intended disorienting effect.”

Uh-huh. This disorienting effect haunts Salinger, the book. Numerous reviews have described it as “engrossing and exasperating.” It purports to be an oral history, derived from Salerno’s decade of interviews, but along with the transcribed comments there are quotes lifted from books and articles, confusingly presented in the same format. The book has no authorial voice; when Salerno and Shields want to editorialize, they just include themselves in the Rashomon of speakers. Buried near the end of the book, there are brief biographical notes; they tell us, for example, that Richard Stayton is the editor of the Writers Guild magazine, but we’re given no reason to accept his seemingly intimate knowledge of Salinger’s youth. Ironically, the anonymous speakers are better-identified, because in lieu of names they’re given useful descriptions, such as “Childhood Friend.” There is no index. The attributions are paltry. These guys didn’t really write a book; they published their research.

Occasionally, the oral history format takes a welcome break. There’s a highly readable, nicely-structured analysis of Catcher, written entirely by Salerno. It’s not the most brilliant analysis of Catcher I’ve ever read, but at least it’s an analysis of Catcher. On the other hand, the absolute nadir of the Salinger book is an unspeakable chapter in which David Shields rewrites every one of the Nine Stories, in the second person, stopping to ask questions like “Why are you so fixated on very young girls, especially young girls’ feet? Does it have anything to do with using girls as time-travel machines to a period before the war and before you perforce became embarrassed about your own anatomy?” Some of the points Shields makes in this essay are worth exploring, but his presentation is, I don’t know, pathologically presumptuous.

This book takes a few basic insights and beats them to death. Salinger was traumatized by the war; therefore every fucking sentence he wrote must be about that. The basic thesis is compelling – Catcher as a “disguised war novel” – but the bravado is embarrassing. The authors suggest not only that Salinger embedded his war trauma in the novel, but that Mark David Chapman and other Catcher-citing gunmen were specifically responding to this coded violence – thereby, I suppose, in the Salerno/Shields view, interpreting it more accurately than those of us who read Catcher and didn’t kill anyone. Whether or not it’s a valid point, surely it can be made without a long replay of the grisly details of John Lennon’s death. I’ve dutifully endured that horrifying story in biographies of John Lennon, where it belongs; its inclusion here is Salinger’s worst descent into vulgar sensationalism. (The book’s description of the concentration camp liberated by Salinger’s division is much more disturbing, but fair enough, because that horror is directly relevant to Salinger’s story.)

If you find J.D. Salinger endlessly fascinating (I do), don’t let these grievances keep you from the book. Despite everything, there is much to savor. Some of it is indeed new. The number of known photographs of Salinger is hereby increased. Associates who have never spoken about him do speak about him here. The bombshell is that five new books by Salinger will be published, beginning in 2015, but that broke early, and it was old news by the time Salinger arrived in bookstores and cinemas.

Reading the Salerno book, I felt a little bad for Kenneth Slawenski. He’s mentioned only once, on page 25, in what is maddeningly presented as an oral-history “quote” from Shane Salerno. He names Slawenski’s book for the express purpose of decrying its “dozens of errors about Salinger’s war record.” Maybe so; I don’t know, and Salerno only cites a couple, which are mainly semantic. Regardless, it seems to me that Slawenski is Salinger’s important recent biographer, and that his voice belongs among the hundreds here. I mean, Slawenski’s book had its flaws, but it was infinitely better than that hack job by Paul Alexander – who is quoted extensively by Salerno and Shields, is identified as “an advisor to this book,” and on whose book the Salinger film is ostensibly based. Well, shit.

III. PARIS 8, 2013

By the time I was standing in line to see the film, on Sunday, my expectations had been pummeled into oblivion. The reviews, with varying degrees of disgust, have been close to unanimous. In the Times, A.O. Scott writes, “Salinger moved to the woods of New Hampshire partly to escape the intrusions and indignities of American celebrity culture. Salinger is that culture’s revenge.” Dana Stevens of Slate says it “leaves the viewer feeling that we’ve been given a tour of Salinger’s septic tank in hip waders without ever getting to knock on his door and say hello.” In Rolling Stone, Peter Travers notes Salinger’s “allergy to cliché, compromise, bombast and every type of fame-whoring bullshit,” and asks how Salerno managed “to turn the author of The Catcher in the Rye…into everything he detested.” Between these bitter assessments, and my own feelings about the Salinger book, I bought my ticket at the Paris Theatre on 58th Street actually dreading the film.

And guess what – it’s really not that bad.

Yes, the film, like the book, dwells on Salinger’s personal life rather than his writing. But that seems more acceptable here, film being an excellent medium for storytelling and a poor one for literary analysis. It’s also true that the bombastic score, by Lorne Balfe, is a severe mistake, more suited to, say, Armageddon. But it’s not true that Balfe’s music blares incessantly throughout the whole movie, as several critics have claimed. It’s heavy at times, especially in the early and late sections, but for most of the running time (two hours), it calms down or disappears. Parts of the film are scored, much more successfully, with period recordings. There are too many literal sound effects; Salerno rarely misses an opportunity to punctuate a spoken line with a gunshot or a slamming door.

Critics have savaged the film’s visual devices, with some justice. But if you accept the premise of a documentary film about the life of J.D. Salinger, you have to grant the filmmaker some degree of creative representation. There’s just not much visual material to work with. There’s a handful of still photos, and Salerno found a handful more. Over the course of his ten-year, two-million-dollar investigation, Salerno found not a single recording of Salinger’s voice, and only a tiny bit of film footage – silent – of the young Salinger, in uniform, accepting a rose from a French woman on V-E Day. I found this quite moving.

Other than that, what can Salerno show? There are talking heads, sometimes in significant locations, like Chumley’s. There’s some nice cinematography around Manhattan and Cornish. There are images of book covers, manuscripts, letters, articles. There are archival film clips to suggest place and time. And then there are showier devices – like sped-up footage of a hand sketching portraits of people in Salinger’s life, and, to the loudest critical derision, “reenactments” featuring an actor as Salinger. He sits at his typewriter and pounds away; he moodily smokes while images flash on a giant screen behind him; he storms out of the New York offices of Harcourt; he pulls a fresh page from his typewriter and hands it to a little boy who is apparently Seymour Glass.

Those reenactments are risky, to be sure. But I sympathize with them, and I think that if you grant the premise of this film’s existence, they are necessary. The standard complaint is that this technique reeks of the History Channel, but that’s the point: When you’re making a documentary about Benjamin Franklin, you run out of paintings pretty quickly, and you need something to look at. These sections of Salinger sometimes made me cringe, and in general I think we saw too much of the actor’s face. We shouldn’t have seen his face at all; then we could have played along more easily with the idea that this figure was Salinger. The face is often well-hidden, but not often enough. The most common setup, with “Salinger” at his typewriter, on a stage in an empty theatre, with words and images appearing behind him, has stayed with me. It felt like theatre. It’s the kind of vocabulary a playwright would employ, to visualize a character’s inner life. Sure, it’s over the top. It’s theatre.

I do wish Salerno had made a softer, stiller film – or maybe I wish Ken Burns had made Salinger instead – but I think the critics have pounced with too much vitriol. I guess tearing this film to shreds is irresistible. This film is asking for it. It’s easy to respond with knowing jabs at Hollywood phonies. It’s easy to say Salinger would have hated it – of course he would have hated any documentary made about him, just as he hated every book written about him during his lifetime. It would have been terrible to release this film when he was alive. But he isn’t. Do we all have to hate this film on his behalf? Or can we accept it for what it is – another fascinating, frustrating entry in our culture’s ongoing struggle to understand J.D. Salinger? 


Kenneth Slawenski suggests that Salinger’s World War II experiences destroyed him, psychically, and Vedanta Hinduism healed him. Salerno and Shields write that the war “destroyed the man but made him a great artist,” while “religion provided the comfort he needed as a man but killed his art.”

Salinger’s post-Catcher writing is increasingly preoccupied with “circulating” Vedantic principles. Most of the Glass stories still succeed as literature, but with each story, the religious fixation is amplified. This culminates in “Hapworth,” where Salinger seems to have renounced all of his strengths as a writer: dialogue, behavior, observation, humor, ambiguity, timing. The final published stories feel like the work of an unraveling, disengaged artist, turned utterly inward.

I once heard someone define optimism as checking The New Yorker every week to see if there’s a new story by J.D. Salinger. This has been going on for half a century. In terms of publication, Salinger is still only in mid-career. But when we last left off, it wasn’t going so well. What if the literary revelation of the century yields nothing but incoherent streams of consciousness about Vedantic spiritual principles? Can we put it back in the vault?

The Salinger estate has neither confirmed nor denied Salerno’s claims regarding the publication of “new” writings. Salerno’s information, he writes, has been “provided, documented, and verified by two independent and separate sources.”

He says we can expect five books. One is a novel, described as “a World War II love story” based on Salinger’s mysterious first marriage, and featuring Sergeant X (Salinger’s alter ego in “For Esmé – with Love and Squalor”). Another is “a novella that takes the form of a counterintelligence agent’s diaries during World War II.” Sounds promising, like Salinger did get back to writing from experience. Less promising, as far as I’m concerned, is a third book, “a ‘manual’ of Vedanta.” But perhaps the existence of an explicitly religious text suggests that the other books won’t be too saddled with this stuff.

The two remaining books apparently deal with the Glass and Caulfield families. The Family Glass “collects all the existing stories about the Glass family together with five new stories” and “a detailed genealogy.” One of the new stories depicts a party in 1926, at which Seymour and Buddy are recruited for “It’s a Wise Child” (this story is mentioned, as Buddy’s work in progress, in “Hapworth 16, 1924”); another deals with “Seymour’s life after death.” The new Glass stories, like the old ones, are said to be “saturated in the teachings of the Vedantic religion.” But this can also be said of excellent work like “Franny” and “Carpenters,” in which Vedanta effectively decorates and informs the writing without capsizing it.

The prospect of a new Caulfield book is a real surprise. Salinger seemed to be disgusted by public hunger for more of Holden. According to Salerno, the Caulfield book will include “a complete retooling” of  “The Last and Best of the Peter Pans” (an unpublished 1942 Caulfield story), along with “the six other Caulfield stories,” “new stories,” and The Catcher in the Rye itself. Perhaps “the six other Caulfield stories” (some unpublished, some merely uncollected) have been “retooled” too; they contain material which was later incorporated into, and sometimes contradicted by, Catcher.

It’s not clear whether the “new stories” feature the first-person narrative voice of Holden Caulfield, or whether they continue Holden’s story beyond the events described in Catcher. But this book – these books – represent the hope of reunion with old departed friends. J.D. Salinger has more to say, and now that he’s dead, he’s willing to say it. There’s no longer any risk that by emerging from seclusion, and telling his stories, he’ll start to miss people.

That’s Thunder, That’s Lightning: Lyrics in THE CRADLE

Continuing my investigation of Marc Blitzstein’s The Cradle Will Rock, I’ve arrived at the first difficult subject.  I’m not talking about the ravages of capitalism or the social responsibilities of artists – those are easy subjects.  I’m talking about song lyrics.

I think I’ve made clear that my love for this musical is unequivocal.  (For those of you who have just joined us, see my thoughts on Cradle at the City Center, and my essay about the 1938 cast recording.) But in casting a critical eye toward this work, I’ve mostly explained why I think it’s so great, and why I see some of its apparent defects as strengths, or at least as necessary to its effectiveness. I love Blitzstein’s music, and as I’ve said, I think it accounts for a great deal of the work’s power.  But I can only say so much about music.  I can write in appreciation of Blitzstein’s work as a composer, and I can describe how the music serves the play, and I can document my emotional response to it.  But I do not have a high enough level of musical literacy to produce a detailed formal analysis of this music, and even if I did, evidence suggests it would not be much fun for non-musicologists to read.

But I think I do have a high enough level of lyric literacy.  I care about lyrics, at least as much as music.  I write lyrics, and I think I write them well.  I’m also highly critical of lyrics. I have little patience for failed attempts at rhyme, errors of scanning and emphasis, inverted phrasing for the sake of rhyme, unnecessary words added simply to pad empty syllables in melody lines, and other imperfections which I see as hallmarks of careless or unfinished lyric-writing.  These flaws, if they’re minor and occasional, cannot prevent a great work from being great.  But if they’re more than minor, and more than occasional, I lose interest.  I lose faith in the writer; I feel like I’m not in good hands.  If you want my attention for the full length of your song, album, or musical play, I think you should take the time to do the work correctly, make sure the lyrics sit properly on the music, and that any words which should rhyme actually do. What you say is more important than how you say it.  Therefore, to make sure the content shines through as clearly as possible, it’s important that the form have integrity.

When criticizing songs or musicals which I do not like, I can be merciless in my appraisal of the lyrics.  There are plenty of songs and musicals which I would like, if their crimes against good lyric-writing were less dire or less frequent.  And so, in discussing a work which I do like, but which I feel succeeds in spite of some problem lyrics, I ought to be just as critical.

Marc Blitzstein deserves to be taken seriously as a lyricist.  He was a real lyricist, not just a composer who could get by with words.  Blitzstein’s most commercially successful work, his adaptation of The Threepenny Opera, drew on his skill as a lyricist and librettist and not as a composer.  His Threepenny remains the only, I repeat, the only truly singable English version of that score, because he was not just a translator/playwright; he brought a lyricist’s feeling for the weight of words and their interaction with music.

Many Blitzstein lyrics suffer from the one-bad-line problem.  The lyricist has a beautiful little verse that starts well and ends well, and hopes that those strengths will justify or obscure weaknesses in the connective tissue.  A good example is the final section of “The Nickel Under Your Foot”:

And if you’re sweet, then you’ll grow rotten,
Your pretty heart covered over with soot.
And if for once you’re gay,
And devil -may-careless, and oh so hot…
I know you’ve got
That nickel under your foot.

The first two lines are perfect.  (This is the song’s “change in tone,” which I mentioned in my discussion of the 1938 record.)  I love the fact that this character, Moll, is essentially the ingénue in a musical comedy, and the final verse of her big song is a rueful acknowledgment that life is going to defeat us, and liberty is only really available to those with money.

Blitzstein needed another rhyme for foot.  By this point in the song, he’s already used put twice, and gotten away with it, by setting it in a nice parallel structure with repeated phrases.  So you expect to hear that put/foot rhyme again the last time around, and when it doesn’t happen, it wakes up the ear.  And “your pretty heart covered over with soot” is such a fantastic, poetic, heartbreaking phrase – this is a moment of songwriting perfection.

Of course the song is going to end as it should, with a restatement of the title phrase, and of course that will be satisfying.  Blitzstein also has devil-may-careless up his sleeve – a nice bit of wordplay worthy of Cole Porter or Noel Coward, but slightly diminished by sitting awkwardly on the music.  The melody emphasizes the second syllable in the word devil.  This is the high note.  The only way a singer can possibly deal with this is by drawing out a short i sound, and you hear “deVILMAYcareless.” (The fact that this matches a similar scan in the first chorus – “Oh, you can dream and scheme / And happily put and take, take and put,” with the second syllable of happily corresponding with the second syllable of devil in the third chorus – may be evidence that Blitzstein had some structural intent here, but repeating the problem doesn’t help, and in any case there is no equivalent rhyme buried in the second chorus.)

And then we have the connective tissue.  “And if for once you’re gay” is a true copout.  The corresponding line in each previous chorus internally rhymed dream and scheme on the high notes (somewhat marred by scheme’s instead of scheme in the second chorus), and here Blitzstein makes the mistake he avoided with soot.  He doesn’t even attempt to match the internal rhyme, and the words are just filler.  “And oh so hot” is even worse: Hot is not a precise enough word here, and we don’t really know what Moll means by it; and in oh so we have two unnecessary syllables, propping up the poorly-chosen hot, which is only there to rhyme with gotHot and got are too close in sound to foot, so this winds up sounding like a failed attempt at rhyme, even though it isn’t; foot is supposed to rhyme with soot, and so it does.

I go into all this detail because I think this characterizes Marc Blitzstein’s lyrics, in Cradle, in Threepenny, in Regina, and in general.  They are often excellent; they are rarely perfect.  There are beautifully crafted passages of wit and elegance and power, and then there are places that make you wonder why this highly capable lyricist keeps letting himself off the hook.

Rhyme, however, is not Blitzstein’s problem.  He is almost impeccable in this department.  First, and most importantly, he deals almost exclusively with actual rhymes.  (I don’t address “perfect rhymes” versus “slant rhymes,” because the former is redundant and the latter is a misnomer.  If it’s not perfect, it doesn’t rhyme.  A so-called slant rhyme is not a rhyme at all.) In the score of The Cradle Will Rock, there are only four or five failed attempts at rhyme.  The first – seven and given – is inexcusable, and it really stands out, coming early in the first song at the very beginning of the show.  Later, we get a buried mistake involving press and best, and a forced attempt to rhyme sun with the last syllable of Solomon.  And in the otherwise elegant title song, there is an identity (surround and around) where there should be a rhyme.  But this is still an excellent scorecard.

Blitzstein more often has problems with emphasis and scanning.  A good portion of his lyrics are smoothly metered, but there are serious lapses.  The most egregious scanning errors tend to coincide with the most angular melodies.  “The Freedom of the Press” has a very angular vocal line, and poses a real challenge to the lyricist;  Blitzstein doesn’t quite rise to it, and the number is full of awkwardly-emphasized passages like this one, which features missed accents, and ends with an unnecessary word added to pad empty space:

I believe newsPAPers
Are GREAT mental SHAPers
Is dePENdent on them, REALLY

This liability also haunts many of the recitative sections in the nightcourt scenes (there is no reason for Moll to drag the word scared out for three syllables, except that Blitzstein has to fill three syllables), as well as the song “Honolulu” (“JUNior’s going to BE a journaLIST”).  Worse, it nearly destroys the impact of “Art for Art’s Sake,” which is substantively one of the most important points in the show.  I’ve always admired Blitzstein’s willingness (apparently at Brecht’s suggestion) to include artists in his attack on the prostitutes of capitalism, and the message of “Art for Art’s Sake” is still vital for creative people. If more of us had the integrity and conscience of Marc Blitzstein, the cultural climate of the United States would be much better.  But the point of this short song is obscured by the uneasy marriage of its words and music.  It consists of only ten lines, each of which ends with the phrase “for art’s sake,” but the s at the end of art’s slurs together with the s at the beginning of sake, and it sounds like “for our steak,” or something.  Too bad.

But in considering these defects in Blitzstein’s lyrics, it’s worth noting that there are several “golden age” lyricists, much more revered than Blitzstein, who were worse offenders.  His lyrics are plainly superior, in grace, wit, technique, and substance, to Ira Gershwin’s; and in craft, at least, he leaves Lorenz Hart far behind.  In smoothness of technique, Blitzstein generally falls short of Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, and Dorothy Fields; and in wit and invention, of Porter and Yip Harburg; but he compares favorably with other contemporaries.  For lyrics of political and social commentary, he is tops among Broadway songwriters, his competition in this area coming mainly from elsewhere, earlier, and later: W.S. Gilbert is comparable as a social satirist, but inferior to Blitzstein in technique; Tom Lehrer is a sharper satirist, but not a dramatist; some of the protest singers of the 1960s matched Blitzstein for well-intended social commentary, but are nowhere near his level of lyric craft.

If Blitzstein the dramatist has an heir in the latter-day musical theatre, I think it’s Jonathan Larson.  Like Blitzstein, Larson was able to express social and political convictions through his characters, and he did this without apology, and without sacrificing the entertainment value of his work.  Like Blitzstein, Larson had a Brechtian interest in dissolving the artifice of the theatre, in being honest about the fact that actors are on stage in front of an audience.  Like Blitzstein, Larson had a strong sense of the artist’s social responsibilities, and of the conflict between art and commerce. And Larson, like Blitzstein, occasionally seemed so driven by the urgency of what he was saying that he neglected to sufficiently refine his craftsmanship.


The lyrics for The Cradle Will Rock are rich in variety and invention.  Each character expresses herself or himself in a distinct voice, which helps put them across as individuals even though they’re archetypes.  The score is a tapestry of techniques: Traditional song; blank verse accompanied or punctuated by music; spoken rhymed verse, with or without rhythm or music; counterpoint; choral response; spoken or sung rhymed or unrhymed dialogue.  In contrast to the operettas which were forerunners to the American musical, Cradle resorts to unison choral singing only when it’s dramatically justified, as when the Liberty Committee explodes with impatience (“Oh what a filthy nightcourt!”), or when the entire company reprises the title song as a kind of protest chant.  The spoken rhythmic sections of the score (“Hurry up and telephone to Mr. Mister / To hurry up and come to the rescue!”) are particularly deft and innovative.  To my knowledge, this technique is not used as extensively or as successfully in another Broadway score until Meredith Wilson’s The Music Man, twenty years later.

Like all good writers, Blitzstein was a good rewriter.  The evolution of the song “Joe Worker” demonstrates his ability, however inconsistently applied, to work out a lyric until he got it right.  This song, which might be referred to as a show stopper in a different kind of show, was written earlier and interpolated into Cradle.  Its original title was “Poor People.” In Blitzstein’s initial 1936 Cradle typescript, it has become “Workpeople.” The title refrain “Joe Worker” is a great improvement; it scans better, and by singularizing the pronouns, Blitzstein more surely invites us to identify with his story.  When the character Ella Hammer sings, of her archetypal worker, “they feed him out of garbage cans / They breed him in the slums,” we feel the dehumanizing indifference with which capital treats labor in Ella’s parable.  In the earlier draft, with “they feed them” and “they breed them,” the song seemed to participate in, rather than protest, the dehumanization. Elsewhere between the two drafts, Blitzstein makes the kinds of adjustments and refinements known to all meticulous lyricists.  “Workpeople will go / And stand outside stores they know” becomes “Joe Worker will go / To shops where stuff is on show.”

The end of “Joe Worker” is a devastating emotional climax, made effective by the indescribable power of the music and the inventive rightness of the words.  Musically, the penultimate line is a restatement from the first chorus, whose lyric asked, “How many toiling, ailing, dying, piledup bodies, / Brother, does it take…?” Having established his pattern, Blitzstein is able to conclude the second chorus with a surprising and heartrending variation: “How many times machine guns tell the same old story, / Brother, does it take…?” The notion of deadly weapons “telling the same old story” is a masterful piece of lyric invention.  The irregular grammar of “how many times machine guns,” complemented by the gathering intensity of the music, uncannily communicates the rage and despair of the character and the situation.

For innovation in the musical theater, the most significant individual song in Cradle is probably “Hard Times.” It presents three conversations taking place over three years, between Mrs. Mister and Reverend Salvation, with chorus, and contains some of the sharpest lyrics in the score. The number alternates between musical comedy (for Mrs. Mister) and arioso liturgical pastiche (for Reverend Salvation). Its penultimate line is Mrs. Mister’s hilarious, spoken, unrhymed “I can see the market rising like a beautiful bird!” “Hard Times” is also some of the most satirically pointed work in Cradle.  It comes early in the show, as the first flashback from the nightcourt, and I take this as a sign of Blitzstein’s daring: Before the evening is over, he will identify members of the press, the arts, medicine, academia, and small business as hypocrites and prostitutes, but he starts with the church.

Scene Six, featuring Mrs. Mister and the two artists, Yasha and Dauber, is almost as sharp.  The scene culminates in “Art for Art’s Sake,” which is marred by the aforementioned scanning problem.  But before we get there, there are two songs whose effectiveness is not dampened: The brief “Ask Us Again,” and the main content of the scene, a number sometimes identified by its first line (“Don’t Let Me Keep You”) and sometimes by the title “The Rich.” Yasha and Dauber, like so many of Blitzstein’s peers and ours, are more concerned with being artists than with creating art.  They fret openly about their careers, and have little to say about their craft.  Reliant upon Mrs. Mister’s patronage, they quickly agree to join her husband’s Liberty Committee, but have no interest in its substance (“Politics?  Cora, we’re artists!”).

For there’s something so damned low about the rich!
It’s incredible, the open way they court you.
All these millionaires, I can’t tell which is which.
What can they do?
What can they do?
What can they do?
Support you.

Without directly stating it, Blitzstein establishes with these lyrics that Yasha and Dauber have the right amount of contempt for Mrs. Mister, but for the wrong reasons.  They snidely mock her ignorance and philistinism (“What she doesn’t know about music / Would put Heifetz back on his feet again!”), but take no issue with the social injustice wrought by her family’s stranglehold on the town; they don’t even seem to be aware of it, concerned exclusively with their own careers and welfare.  There is “something so damned low” about their patrons, but apparently it isn’t the murderous oppression of the middle and working classes.  “Moneyed people,” as Mrs. Mister refers to her crowd, are relevant to Yasha and Dauber’s worldview only for their ability to support Yasha and Dauber.  Even the content of their art can be dictated by their backers.  This blithe ceding of civic duty among artists is something Marc Blitzstein fiercely protested, not only in his work (especially “Art For Art’s Sake”) but by example.  If the lyrics in Scene Six of Cradle include some of his best writing, perhaps it’s because he knew this criticism of artists could not be taken seriously unless it was also a demonstration of his own creative facility.


The title song, “The Cradle Will Rock,” is a straightforward musical monologue, not really noteworthy for structural or dramatic innovation, but it is my favorite song in the score, and it contains some of Blitzstein’s best lyric-writing.
  The verse/intro, which emerges naturally from the spoken lines leading up to it, establishes the song’s central metaphor with playful intensity:

Upon the topmost bough of yonder tree now,
Like bees in their hives,
The lords and their lackeys and wives –
A swingin “Rockabye Baby” in a nice big cradle.

Here we have another example of idiosyncratic phrasing – “a swingin ‘Rockabye Baby,’” on which the vocal line shifts to a singsong simplicity which evokes, without directly quoting, the lullaby from which the title is derived.  The phrase “nice big cradle” corresponds with a slowing, descending line in the melody, and it’s left hanging, deliberately unrhymed, setting the scene.  The verse goes on to introduce the birds who will figure in the chorus, with more idiosyncratic phrasing, consistent with the character’s spoken language (“a birdie ups and cries…”); then it builds, lyrically and musically, to the explosive chorus:

That’s thunder, that’s lighting,
And it’s going to surround you!
No wonder those stormbirds
Seem to circle around you!
Well, you can’t climb down, and you can’t sit still;
That’s a storm that’s going to last until
The final wind blows…and when the wind blows…
The cradle will rock!

The aforementioned identity (surround/around) notwithstanding, this is crystalline work, the lyric as exquisite in its simplicity as the music in its sophistication.  The words, no less than the music, give this number its heart-racing power, its bracing mixture of anger and optimism.  I think any other lyricist, including me, would have written “that thunder, that lightning.” It seems good, and correct, and obvious.  It is good, and it is correct, and here’s our problem – it is also obvious.  Blitzstein’s lyrics were sometimes careless, but they were almost never generic or drab.  His words, like his music, do not always wind up where you think they’re heading.  They’re full of quirky phrases and unexpected word usage, and pulling this off successfully is one of the most difficult tasks for a lyricist.  Very few of Broadway’s canonical wordsmiths even attempted it.

“That’s thunder, that’s lightning” – We are not describing the weather; we’re pointing directly at the sky and telling you what’s what.  The character, union organizer Larry Foreman, is not waxing poetic.  He’s gloating, reveling in his fantasy of the oppressors’ downfall.  At the end of the chorus, Blitzstein has a particular challenge: He has to drive home his cradle metaphor, and end the chorus as a galvanizing battle-cry, even though we all know what’s coming.  He achieves this through the perfect interplay between great words and great music.  “That’s a storm that’s going to last until / The final wind blows” –Blitzstein begins this couplet with the word that’s, referring back to the first lines of the chorus, and giving the whole passage some structural integrity.  The tempo and intensity of the music make it possible for Blitzstein to gracefully split “until / The final wind” over two lines without an awkward break.  It’s correct for until to be the rhymed word here (rhyming with the previous “you can’t sit still”), because it leads into the key phrase of the show.  The accented rhyme on until provides the sense of an anticipatory pause, which is necessarily missing from the music.  (In an earlier nightcourt scene, Blitzstein is less successful with the same technique: “And see that goes for you too” / “I must admit they’re new to / This place…” The words emphasized by the rhymes needn’t be emphasized, and the melody line creates an unnatural break in the middle of the phrase “new to this place.”)

“The final wind blows…and when the wind blows…” – The repeated lyric corresponds with a repeated musical phrase, and then both explode into the inevitable, but still thrilling, exclamation of the title.  The music is all sharp, bouncing, forward momentum, and so is the lyric. The phrases which straddle line breaks are the connections between ideas.  Blitzstein is using song to dramatize the character’s thought process.  The conclusion is a quote from a universally-known, seemingly benign children’s lullaby (which is in itself kind of terrifying, if you think about it).  In sharing his vision of what the future holds for the Liberty Committee and their like, Larry Foreman is drawing on something every one of us has known since childhood.  We all know what happens when the wind blows.  This is also an illustration of the power of music and lyrics to inform a worldview, something Blitzstein had eschewed in his avant-garde period, but had come to care about deeply by 1936.

The second chorus begins the same as the first one, but wraps up with a slightly different and less ingenious lyric.  The second time around, we get the end of a thought where we were previously left hanging with until.  Therefore, “the wind blows” no longer seems like the conclusion of a thought process.  There’s no longer any dramatic justification for repeating the phrase, so it now feels like a poetic affectation: “For when the wind blows…Oh, when the wind blows…”

“The cradle will rock” is an incredible phrase.  It combines the soothing gentleness of a baby’s lullaby with a sense of menace.  In Blitzstein’s appropriation, the cradle contains not an innocent child who deserves safety and protection, but corrupt professionals who profit at the expense of the less fortunate, and have built their cradle out of blood and money.  Since the impending doom inherent in the phrase “the cradle will rock” is theirs, the spirit of the title song is both dark and joyful.  This is an assurance about the future, as opposed to reassurance about the present: Right now, we are the victims of great injustice, but we’re not helpless, and if we take collective action, the cradle will rock.  This is great art as well as great agitprop.

We children of the Sondheim revolution are slow to realize how recently the master’s breakthroughs took place.  Certainly, when Blitzstein wrote Cradle in 1936, there was no precedent for this level of storytelling, characterization, and integration of elements in musicals.  It was not really a musical, according to what that term meant at the time.  Blitzstein, at a loss for words, described the work as an opera, or “a play in music.” What premiered at the Venice Theatre on June 16, 1937 was not just a new work, but a new form.  Hallie Flanagan, the visionary director of the Federal Theatre Project, recalled in her memoir: “This was not just a play set to music, nor music illustrated by actors, but music and play equaling something new and better than either.” And here’s Orson Welles, from his 1938 preface to the published libretto:

“The work is apparently indestructible. And what is more interesting, it is certainly entirely new. The arts of Music and the Play have had efficient business relationships in the past, an occasional partnership and a few happy marriages. Here, finally, is their first offspring. It is a love-child, and besides being legitimate, it looks like both its parents, and it is called a ‘music drama.’ As a matter of fact, it isn’t easy to find a title for a new art form. Just now of course this one has only one real name: The Cradle Will Rock.”

Orson Welles had a social conscience, though he was not above working the street corner (what evil lurks in the hearts of men?) and ultimately was more interested in art than in social causes.  It’s still remarkable, and a measure of Cradle as a leap forward for its form, that Welles chose to emphasize not the show’s political messages, or the behind-the-scenes drama of its original production, but its formal originality as a work of art.

Steroids: What’s So Terrible?

I don’t like sports; I don’t understand sports.  I’ve been contemplating this for most of my life, and at times I have made real, open-minded efforts to learn what these games are about and appreciate them.  No luck at all. I know people who are smarter than I am, and have better taste than I do, who love sports, and find them endlessly fascinating. My wife is a sports fan. So is my father. And some of my siblings. Many of the writers and entertainers who are my heroes have also been big sports fans.  So it’s me. I’m missing something.  When I look at a ballgame, I see nothing but machismo and pointless violence, all governed by arcane and arbitrary rules and set to the strains of fifty thousand people screaming.  I find the game tedious, the outcome meaningless.

So, the following comments are not coming from someone who understands or cares about sports.  But just as I fail to understand the games and their appeal, I am baffled by the outrage over steroid use. 

It’s on my mind because a baseball player who used steroids has been in the news recently.  I believe his name is Alex Rodriguez, but people call him A-Rod, for reasons which…well, let’s not get distracted by that.  The point is, he was a beloved hero, but he took performance-enhancing drugs, so now he is being punished and everyone hates him.

Of course, stories like this pop up all the time.  Not long ago, everyone was outraged to learn that Lance Armstrong took drugs before riding his bicycle. Apparently this made him ride the bicycle somewhat more impressively.  All the people who enjoyed watching Lance Armstrong ride the bicycle felt betrayed, swindled.  That’s the tone of the response to Mr. Rod, too.

Athletes are entertainers. It seems to me that their responsibility is to entertain, and that they’d be more entertaining if they were on drugs. Do fans feel betrayed when they learn that John Lennon was high when he wrote “I Am the Walrus?” Could “I Am the Walrus” have been written any other way?  What athletes put their bodies through, for the pleasure of their fans, seems brutal and dangerous. If there’s some drug that makes it easier, shouldn’t their fans and employers encourage it?  Why do people who enjoy watching violence suddenly become pearl-clutching moralists on the subject of steroids?

I know there are people who think drugs are always bad, except when prescribed by a doctor or a bartender. But if the deal is that athletes are not allowed to artificially enhance their performances, can’t we at least be consistent and stop them from training and working out too?  On steroids, an athlete will perform beyond his natural abilities, and that makes his performance somehow deceptive or dishonorable — that’s the argument, right?  Well, isn’t it also true that his natural abilities could be enhanced by an exercise regimen, or dietary choices?  Why isn’t weightlifting forbidden as a performance-enhancing activity?  I’m sure there is no drug available that is less natural than P90X.

If athletes with the stature of A-Rod and L-Arm have found it necessary to take performance-enhancing drugs, in full awareness of the risk to their careers and reputations, maybe the problem is not with these guys, but with the games they play.  Maybe professional sports are just bad for you, at least in their amped-up contemporary incarnations.  Football players are walking around with concussions.  These people are expected to kill themselves for the amusement of their fans.  I think they should be allowed to use whatever substances they find helpful.

But I should probably get off this topic.  Perhaps someone with a keener grasp of the gladiatorial arts can set me straight.  Until fairly recently, I thought Lance Armstrong was someone who made bracelets.

Text-to-Text Textnology

It’s now been eleven days since I was last able to use my right hand.  My problem, tendinitis from repetitive stress, is slowly resolving, and I’m getting medical attention, and hopefully this will soon be behind me.  But in the meantime, I’ve had to adapt to a strange, temporary lifestyle that permits almost none of the activities that generally dominate my waking hours.

One of the things that’s kept me reasonably sane — or at least not much crazier than usual — is this speech recognition program.  It’s frustrating and cumbersome, but at least I can write.  Most of what I’ve written in this fashion over the last eleven days has not added up to anything presentable, but it’s still good to do it, and it keeps me feeling like myself.  Last week’s long essay about the 1938 recording of The Cradle Will Rock, though written in a slightly different voice than if I had typed it or used a pen, came out well enough to publish.  My desktop is littered with half-baked dictations, on such subjects as capitalism, the New York City mayoral race, and the pope.  Most of these are so poor I won’t even let myself read them.

But now I really have something worth sharing.  Through my experiments with voice recognition technology, I have discovered a revolutionary new content delivery system which I feel has the potential to blow the whole Internet right open in your face.

Inspiration struck last night.  I was sitting at my desk, dictating an essay about the miraculous therapeutic benefits of whining, when I was interrupted by Amanda Sisk, who of course is my stunning wife and the future President of the United States.  She was asking if I wanted to order a pizza, and there ensued a rich dialogue about spinach, mushrooms, and olives.  Sisk was playing the Hawaiian card again; I’ve always felt strongly that pineapples should not even be in the same room as pizza.  In order to prove my point, I began thumbing through a volume of Whitman which I keep beside me at all times.  I found the line which corresponded to my feelings about pineapple (“All you are doing and saying is to America dangled mirages”) and read it aloud.

Obviously, no Hawaiian pizza could be ordered in the face of this argument.  But then, as I absently glanced at my computer monitor, I became so surprised and delighted that I would not have minded if someone dumped an entire fruit salad on an eighteen-inch pie.

Distracted from my writing, I had left the speech recognition program running, and it had faithfully recorded everything I had just said.  There it was on the screen: The declarations of hunger, the discussion of money, the case for mushrooms.  And then, most astoundingly, the quote from Walt Whitman.

I had never seen anything like this before.  One minute, the poet’s immortal words were there on the page, as he intended, and now here they were on my computer, simply because I had read them aloud.  The gears in my mind began to spin.  Maybe this speech recognition thing could do more than simply transcribe what I dictate.  Maybe I had inadvertently stumbled into a profound discovery – which I am calling Text-to-Text Textnology.

Just think how this remarkable breakthrough changes everything you thought you knew about the power of words.  Now, in the twenty-first-century, you can pull a dusty old book off the shelf and instantly convert its contents to real text simply by reading it out loud! 

Now watch as I demonstrate by reading the first paragraph of Mark Twain’s classic The Mysterious Stranger:

“It was in 1590 the winter Austria was far away from the world and to sleep it was still the middle ages in Austria and promise to remain so for ever some even set in a way back centuries upon centuries and said that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the heat of belief in Austria but they meant it as a complement not a slur and it was so taken and we’re all proud of it I remember it well although I was only a boy and I remember to the pleasure it gave me”

Never have those words soared so high or sung so proudly!

We may never get around to ordering pizza, because I am now a new man with a new mission.  I am diligently making my way through our entire library, using Text-to-Text Textnology to convert every volume from text to text.  Despite my compromised right hand, I feel more in tune with the times than ever before, and closer than ever to the precipice of tomorrow’s future.

At the moment, I’m still on the As, but I will eventually run out of books here, and if my hand has not yet healed, I will need an alternative to my usual freelance work.  For a price, I will use Text-to-Text Textnology to convert your collection of printed materials as well.  Just drop off your books, and in no more than the time it takes to read every single one of them out loud, I will create ultramodern digital versions, free of such cobwebbed relics as punctuation and formatting.  Call now, because an offer like this is too stupid to last.

THE CRADLE WILL ROCK: The 1938 Recording


Olive Stanton, 1937

Since seeing the recent City Center production of The Cradle Will Rock, this enigmatic favorite of mine has continued to rattle around in my mind.  I’ve been thinking about it, reading about it, and listening to it. Just before I hurt my hand, I was finally updating my Cradle website, which has languished for years.  There are some musicals I love more, and many which are technically better, but I get stuck on this one like no other.  Cradle is such a strange mix: Unapologetic agitprop, broad comedy, bitter anger, giddy idealism, cutting satire, emotional testimony…it’s so many different things, yet it’s so ridiculously simple.  In fact, it’s not just simple — it’s simplistic, with cardboard characters who have descriptive names standing up and explicitly announcing who they are, how they feel, and what they want.

I think it works for two reasons. First, today as in 1937, it’s refreshing and exciting to encounter a work of art that is frank about its agenda.  A great artist and socialist thinker said, “If it isn’t art, it isn’t propaganda.” (The line has been attributed to both Upton Sinclair and Diego Rivera, and I’m sure they would be willing to share it equally.) It can be a wonderful experience when a work of art makes you feel something by involving you in a dramatic story and making you identify with complex, fully-realized human characters.  But that’s just one approach.  Cradle makes you feel something in another way, by the power of its convictions, the strength of its ideas, and the entertainment value of its individual components.  Which brings me to the other reason this work continues to resonate and fascinate: The music, which remains excellent and challenging and infectious.

Much has been made of the connection to Kurt Weill, which is undeniable.  In Blitzstein’s early, avant-garde period, he had expressed disdain for would-be elite composers who, like Weill, appropriated jazz and other popular forms to make their work more accessible.  On his return from Europe, Blitzstein was newly interested in writing accessible work, because he was suddenly burning with social conscience and wanted to reach people with his art.  From there, Kurt Weill rose in the younger composer’s estimation; Blitzstein openly admired The Threepenny Opera, which he would later translate to great success, and befriended Weill’s collaborator Bertolt Brecht.  Blitzstein’s wife, Eva Goldbeck, had translated a number of Brecht works (including Threepenny Novel) into English, and Blitzstein was able to show Brecht his song sketch for “The Nickel Under the Foot.” It was Brecht who suggested expanding the sketch into a longer work which equated prostitution and capitalism.  The Cradle Will Rock, written “at white heat” after Eva’s death, was dedicated to Brecht, and it did sound something like Kurt Weill.

Most critics have picked up on the sonic and tonal (occasionally atonal) kinship, but it’s rarely pointed out that Blitzstein’s use of this sound is significantly more sophisticated than Weill’s.  The Threepenny Opera is song, scene, song, scene; and, Brecht being Brecht, the songs are commentaries, interruptions.  Blitzstein, as composer, lyricist, and librettist, weaves his songs and dialogue together to a degree unprecedented in the musical theater in 1937, and still rare.  He was a master of the concise statement; Cradle is full of very short songs that say what they have to say and then stop, sometimes to set up other songs, as in the abrupt transition from “Let’s Do Something” to “Honolulu,” which always gets a laugh.  Until Sondheim, nobody in musicals came close to Blitzstein’s level of compositional design, his use of themes and motifs, and his ability to express character and advance a story through songs  – except, of course, for Gershwin.  Porgy and Bess predated Cradle by one year, and its authors, like Blitzstein, always referred to their musical as an opera.  As for Kurt Weill, his sound was always revolutionary, but he did not become an innovative craftsman of musical theater until Lady in the Dark in 1941, for very different reasons.


In my recent exploration of The Cradle Will Rock, I’ve developed an appreciation for its original cast recording which had eluded me before.  (You can listen to it here, here, or here.) It was recorded in 1938, with Marc Blitzstein and the original cast, during the show’s run at the Windsor Theatre.  It’s considered the first Broadway musical cast recording.

The record has often been dismissed as a curiosity – an artifact of historical interest, but not much for your listening pleasure.  I listened to it once, years ago, and went along dismissing it with everyone else.  But having carefully revisited the recording, I’ve found much to love. Because it’s primitive and scratchy, the best way to enjoy the original Cradle record is to know the material well before you listen to it.  I am now so familiar with the score from repeated listenings, mostly to the excellent 1985 Acting Company recording, that I can enjoy the 1938 record without frustration.

It’s made me feel closer than ever to the night of June 16, 1937.  Despite the strengths (and weaknesses) of Blitzstein’s work, it’s true that a great deal of Cradle’s appeal has to do with the circumstances of its original production and its first public performance – certainly one of the greatest theatre stories ever told.  (I will tell it myself properly someday, but until then here’s a half-baked attempt written a long time ago for my Cradle website.) So, what I find overwhelming about the original cast recording is that this is the original cast.  These are the actual members of Federal Theatre Project 891, who rose from their seats at the Venice Theatre on June 16, 1937, in defiance of their government, their employer, their union, and their economic self-interest, and lent their voices to Blitzstein’s songs.  That’s the real Olive Stanton.

Based on the written reminiscences of John Houseman, Orson Welles, and Marc Blitzstein, and the wonderful Tim Robbins film freely adapted from these events, I had come to regard Olive Stanton as an accidental revolutionary hero.  Houseman calls her “an inexperienced performer” who “held no political views whatsoever,” and quotes original cast member Hiram Sherman: “If Olive Stanton had not risen on cue in the box, I doubt if the rest of us would have had the courage to stand up and carry on.” Tim Robbins fictionalizes her as a homeless waif who can barely sing.  Blitzstein biographer Eric A.  Gordon says that she “had never appeared on Broadway before,”but the Internet Broadway Database has her in Class of ’29, a Federal Theatre production that ran for fifty performances in 1936.  That’s more experience than some other members of the company had.

Maybe we call it a draw on the question of her inexperience, but I think Olive Stanton is wonderful on the record.  Most accounts of June 16, 1937 describe a quavering soprano joining Blitzstein’s tenor during the opening song, but maybe it was nerves – the record shows that Ms. Stanton had a husky, sighing alto voice, full of the same combination of optimism and world-weariness that pervades Blitzstein’s writing.  In the very first sung line of the show, her voice rises up on the word “home,” and it’s instantly moving; it makes perfect sense that Welles saw in her the quality of a plaintive survivor.  Her singing is unpolished, honest, and very expressive. On “The Nickel Under The Foot,” she sings with a drawn, weary, unsteady voice that suggests Blitzstein was grooming his own Lotte Lenya.  Listen to Lenya on Threepenny, and listen to Blitzstein’s own recording of “The Nickel Under The Foot,” and they sort of add up to Olive Stanton.  Blitzstein seems to have liked her; he later cast her in a concert version of his I’ve Got the Tune, and thought of her as a standard against which to measure future interpreters of the role of Moll in Cradle.

It is, I suppose, the definitive rendition of “The Nickel Under The Foot,” and it’s almost the best. It seems to me there is a change of tone built into the final verse of this song, and  only Patti LuPone has marked it with the proper rueful vocal surge.  Olive Stanton just marches to the end.  It’s probably not fair to compare Olive Stanton to Patti LuPone, but listen to the 1964 Blitzstein memorial concert – Barbara Harris is a pro, and she doesn’t come close to Stanton in emotional expression.

Elsewhere where I’ve written about Cradle, I’ve declared my love for Howard da Silva.  It is impossible for me to hear the name Benjamin Franklin without thinking of da Silva’s brilliant performance in 1776.  He also created the role of Judd Fry in Oklahoma!  and appeared in dozens of films and TV shows.  But the role he was actually born to play was Larry Foreman in The Cradle Will Rock.  Da Silva had been a steelworker before he became an actor, and during the original production of Cradle, he impressed John Houseman as one of “the stalwarts” who believed in the show’s message and could be counted on to help make history that night at the Venice Theatre.  Da Silva kept Cradle with him throughout his career, reprising the role of Larry Foreman whenever possible, and later directing numerous incarnations of the show, on and off Broadway.

It’s interesting to compare the 1938 performances of Howard da Silva and Will Greer (as the villainous Mr. Mister) with their renditions of the same roles in the 1964 Blitzstein concert.  A quarter century later, da Silva is endowing Larry Foreman with the same vigorous indignation, but shading him much more subtly.  Greer, on the other hand, goes from sly and sinister in 1938 to a crazed, crusty monster in 1964.  Both actors are great on both recordings, but I’d really like to hear 1938 Howard da Silva play the climactic scene with 1964 Will Greer.*

The third of Houseman’s stalwarts was Hiram Sherman, who originated the roles of Reverend Salvation and Junior Mister.  He was in the cast at the Venice, and in the subsequent run at Houseman and Welles’ Mercury Theatre, but he does not seem to have followed the show to the Windsor, and I don’t think he’s on the 1938 recording.  I haven’t been able to find an authoritative cast listing for this record, but it does sound like the same actor is playing those two roles, though IBDB lists Maynard Holmes as Junior Mister and Charles Niemeyer as Reverend Salvation for the Windsor run.  In any case, Hiram Sherman definitely does sing Reverend Salvation in the 1964 concert, and he doesn’t sound like anybody on the earlier record.

Whoever is playing Reverend Salvation – let’s call him, oh, Charles Niemeyer – his performance is one of the weaker ones.  Another is Blanche Collins, who sings what should be the show’s angriest and most emotional song, “Joe Worker.” Both of these roles were better served by later interpreters with bigger, more soulful voices.  John Adair as Harry Druggist is doing something weird with his voice that I don’t like, and Howard Bird as Stevie speaks his lyrics as though he is attending a robot seder.  Peggy Coudray, as Mrs. Mister, has an interesting sound, but she rushes through the material and misses a lot of the humor.  Both of the comic twosomes— Maynard Holmes and Dulce Fox as Junior and Sister Mister, and Edward Fuller and Jules Schmidt as Yasha and Dauber – are terrific, with Fuller and Schmidt in particular setting the tone for all future interpretations of their roles.

But that can be said generally about the entire 1938 album, and that’s part of its value.  It is the seminal document of Cradle as a performance style.  There’s a Cradle Will Rock style that’s unique to this show, that I think has a lot to do with the manner and diction of Marc Blitzstein himself, and also with original director Orson Welles’ flair for explosive drama.  It’s amazing how often different actors give the same line readings in different productions of Cradle, especially those directed by da Silva or Houseman.

The most powerful presence on the 1938 record is Marc Blitzstein himself.  In addition to playing the piano (which is, per tradition, the only accompaniment), he narrates the story and plays a few of the smaller roles, as he did at the Venice Theatre.  He has a lot of fun at the piano, and I can almost see his smile during some of the score’s percussive, dissonant passages.  His voice is high, his diction clipped, but he sounds much more natural and at ease than on his “Nickel Under the Foot” demo, where the singing is so affected it’s hard to take.

No other composer in Broadway history has wound up so literally in the middle of his own musical.  Marc Blitzstein was not a member of the cast or the orchestra of the original production of The Cradle Will Rock, until the events of June 16, 1937 rewrote Orson Welles’ concept.  What was to be an enormous, high-spectacle production became the composer at the piano. It was minimalism, the antithesis of the Broadway musical, and it turned out to be the perfect approach for this Broadway musical which attacks greed and excess.

I mean: Imagine a show that begins with a bare stage, some empty chairs, and a piano, and then the author of the show walks out on stage, sits down at the piano, and presents his work. He summons actors as if from his imagination. It’s the writer as god, with the aesthetics of a backers audition. It’s a portable musical, and it’s been unpacked many times over the years, and it always sounds the same. The Project 891 cast emotes and declaims just as all future Cradle casts will, including just a few weeks ago at the City Center. That production had no direct pedigree from Project 891 (though it was nice to see Henry Stram, who was in the Robbins film). But most of the cast delivered their material in this same Blitzstein trance, that combination of sarcasm and earnestness that puts this particular piece across. Maybe it’s in the music; maybe it’s in the air. But somehow, this guy is still singing to us. 


* Addendum (July 29, 2013): I’ve just read, in Howard Pollack’s recent biography of Blitzstein, that it’s actually not Will Greer on the 1938 record. Apparently he was succeeded in the role by Ralph MacBane for at least part of the Windsor Theatre run. So that explains the differing interpretations. Pollack also clarifies that the recording was made just after, not during, the Windsor engagement. 

The actress Olive Stanton with the original poster for “The Cradle Will Rock” in 1937.(x)

The actress Olive Stanton with the original poster for “The Cradle Will Rock” in 1937.(x)

Out of Hand

For the last few weeks, I’ve been aware of some soreness in the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.  This seemed appropriate, and not really noteworthy. On a typical day I spend twelve to eighteen hours gripping a pen, mouse, or mobile device – writing, designing, drawing, and so on.  I do these things for eight hours a day for money, and then I come home and throw myself into the creative projects which are my real work.  I never relax. I barely sleep (which is not to say I sleep barely).

So, it’s always been clear that I am at risk for some kind of repetitive stress injury, and mild discomfort of the dominant digits has been a frequent annoyance.  It has never been severe or debilitating; just something I’m aware of when I’ve been working particularly hard for many hours in a row.  In the last few months of writing and drawing Love Marches On, it was common for me to follow eight hours of my day job with ten or twelve hours of intense work on the comic strip, followed by an hour or two of sleep, and then again, and again.  But it was never more than mild discomfort, mitigated by shifting positions occasionally, and by my determination to do the work.

And then, last Sunday, the right thumb and forefinger started to really hurt.  By the afternoon, bending them, gripping anything, moving the mouse around, or operating my BlackBerry was too painful to attempt.  That was four days ago, and I’m still unable to use my dominant hand, or to do almost any of the things I do.  Part of my hand is red and swollen.  The resting pain is mild, but if I push on it or try to use it, it hurts a great deal.  In a very limited way, I’m able to use the computer with my left hand, and I can write by yammering into a speech recognition program, which is what I’m doing right now – please pardon the choppy prose.  (When I said “prose” just now, it gave me “pros,” and then “prowess,” and then “Perot’s.”) 

An xray showed no fracture.  I saw a hand surgeon, who said my range of motion is good and there is no infection and no need to operate (though the tests he put me through to determine this were excruciating).  The diagnosis: tendinitis from repetitive stress.  The prescription: ibuprofen, ice, and rest until it heals.

I don’t know how long this will last.  There has not been much improvement since Sunday, and even when there is, it would obviously be a mistake to plunge right back into long days with pen and mouse.  But in the long run, this is my life – I’m not going to stop writing, or any of my other creative and theatrical endeavors, and until the day I make a living doing those things, I can’t stop freelancing during the day.  I suppose I’m looking at adding more breaks, prevention, and maybe physical therapy to my lifestyle, but any way you slice it my activities are going to be a strain on my right hand.

(If I could use my right hand right now, I would fix the preceding paragraph.  ”This is my life” is precious and melodramatic; “freelancing” doesn’t quite capture what I’m trying to say; “in the long run” and “any way you slice it” are clumsy cliches.)

At first, I thought that on some level this forced hiatus might be good for me.  Yes, I am a busy man, but in addition to that I suffer from the common contemporary curse of constant compulsive activity.  (Also a nasty case of alliteration.) I can’t even sit on the subway for thirty minutes without frantically filling in crossword puzzles on my BlackBerry.  So maybe I needed to be forced into sitting still.  Maybe I could use this as an opportunity to test some of the Buddhist principles I learned from George Harrison songs.  Well, it’s all true, folks – without going out of your door, you can learn all things on Earth.  But this has been going on for a while; I learned all things on Earth on Tuesday, and now I’m antsy.

I will leave it there for now, lest it sound like self–pity.  I’m not despondent, just frustrated.  It certainly could be worse.  Since talking is, for the time being, one of my few practicable skills, this may not be the last awkward, dictated essay I generate in the near future.  Perhaps next time, I will find something to gaze at other than my navel.