Whatever it is, who knows, but there is something about guys named George, who have influenced my life a great deal. Three of them, to be exact. I’ve written about the first two, George Washington and George Patton. Those two were American generals who influenced me in two different ways. Washington was a guy who, in that great American tradition, was an innovative risk taker. But not without getting a consensus from his staff would he take a risk. Patton was the quintessential philosopher-general, the essence of no nonsense personified. I have studied Washington’s battles, and read Patton’s philosophy. They are my teachers.
My fantasy has been that I walk into a tavern one night, in some out-of-the way place that exists only in the mind, and belly up to the bar in between those two Georges. I’m not there to talk, I’m just there to listen to those two. At the end of the evening, I would learn as much as if I had repeated my university days.
Actually, more. Uni professors are on the theorist side, not practical. Even when it comes to the study of such things as history, science has turned the past into a moving target. Listening to a couple of practitioners who had put their hands on a problem, winning a war, and then had actually won that war, well, that’s what I call good information.
In that tavern, at the piano, there would sit a guy, also named George, who would tinkle the keys. Where the first two George’s stimulated me, intellectually, this third George is all about the soul. His brother, Ira, is all about the intellect. The two of them together, helped shape a body of music that is as classical as Beethoven and Mozart.
George Gershwin was a creator. A creator god, in my humble opinion, sent down to give shape to 20th century music. He fulfilled his mission, so the gods called him back to the pantheon. And left us grief stricken in our greed for more of what he brought us.
I miss George. I may have been born, after his time, but then I wasn’t born to be hemmed in by that era that spawned me. George was the pop music of his time, but like Mozart, he wrote for the symphony and for the musical theatre. I sang them all. Jazz, musicals, and opera.
Amadeus and George, both died before they were 40. Is there a correlation there? They made a living with innovative and charming music. I made a living by singing their songs whenever a buck was pressed into my hand by a saloon keeper. Or a maestro.
I had not thought about that first career of mine, for years, when I opened my email the other day, and my eyes fell on the title of the Words & Song column of the day. Word & Song is the brainchild of the Esolens, Anthony and Debra. Debra’s column for that day was titled, “’S Wonderful,” which is a Gershwin song.
It was the paragraph quoted below, from that column, that struck me, so much, I had to go search for my anthology of Gershwin songs. Debra wrote:
And here I am now, for a third time, bringing you “a Gershwin tune” instead of one of the composer’s major works. But then, I find it impossible to think of any Gershwin song as a “mere” tune or a minor piece, when every note he composed was golden. What breadth and variety George Gershwin gave us in the musical output of his brief 39 years.
Dear Debra, that last sentence is an understatement.
Deep down, imbedded in my psyche, at full rest, is George and Ira. Debra’s statement jolted me, and so off I went to find my Gershwin anthology. I didn’t find it. It may still be in the piano bench in my son’s home. He has my old piano. That old girl has been in this family for nearly 70 years. I learned to play sitting on that bench, with my little fingers barely reaching half an octave. I took piano lessons until I was a teen. That’s when they discovered I have a voice. I was switched to voice lessons.
It was a time when choral teachers ordered me to sing with their choir, giving me my first solos. In high school, the teachers taught me harmony, and I sang with a madrigal group. Ah, the madrigals were pure heaven. So was learning about augmented 9th chords. That sound the aug 9th makes? Oo-la-la!
Music is magic. Music was good to me for many years. Especially when singing the songs of the Gershwin brothers, and others, like Harold Arlen, Billy Strayhorn, J. Fred Coots and Haven Gillespie.
Coots and Gillespie’s “You Go to My Head,” now there’s one of those perfect love songs. All the men composers of that era had love nailed down in joy and frustration, and every nuance in between. Gillespie and Ira were lovers of words. They crafted them like a cake decorator, making them so gorgeous, you had respect when you bit into them.
Harold Arlen was another such composer I could not sing enough of. Ironically, one of the songs in my repertory was The Man That Got Away. Those lyrics were penned by Ira Gershwin. Another irony in another song I adored was Arlen’s, One for my Baby. Johnny Mercer, a relative of George Patton, wrote those lyrics. Both men were the descendants of General Hugh Mercer, a friend of George Washington. General Mercer died of wounds sustained during the battle of Princeton. Mercer’s daughter married into the Patton family.
Small world.
I was born in the wrong era. It is not only the music, it’s the clothing and the cars too, the movies, the nightclubs, the social life. What a time to be alive! The richness and texture of the creative world filled out the quiet spaces.
I was born with the wrong genes. Deafness runs in the family. Not tone deafness, mind you. But the kind Beethoven had. I cannot hear things. The good news is that I’m born in an era of grand technology. For that right ear, I have this engineering genius device sitting in it.
My left ear is a total loss. The audiologist said, “Don’t waste your money on that left ear.”
I don’t.
What did the gods have in mind when they gave me this voice, and those ears to go along with it? What was their meaning, what was their plan, when they blessed me with an adoration for words, and their meaning, and then cursed me with this inability to hear well? Was it a sin committed in a previous life that led me to this dichotomy? Truth is, I am lucky. I am alive, and can hear in one ear. George Gershwin died when he was a young man, at 37. Beethoven went deaf by the time he was 40. Completely deaf.
George’s end came quickly. Ludwig’s was a struggle for some 17 years. His struggle produced the 9th symphony.
That Gershwin anthology is somewhere, where it will be found later. What did turn up was a Gershwin pocket songs CD. Twelve, count ‘em, 12 songs by the magical writing team of George and Ira. Of the 12, 5 are in my repertory. (There are more, but I refer to the CD.)
The first Gershwin song I sang was, Summertime, which Debra mentions in her essay. Summertime was the gateway drug. I did others from Porgy and Bess. When Tom Bates was my piano player, he arranged three songs from P&G, that we sang during our sets: “Summertime,” “A Woman is a Sometime Thing,” (I sang it as a mother, “Listen to your mama tell you…” and, “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” Tom and I traded the scats back and forth on that one.
Yes, me and George had a relationship. It was good, it was strong. We were in love. From someplace, wherever geniuses go when they pass out of this life, he’s called me back. Whatever this pull is, I won’t resist it. That’s what happens when you get older. You stop resisting. As Jung said, “Whatever you resist, persists.” So what happens when you stop resisting?
You enjoy.
My little enjoyment, which you can listen to, was a great deal of fun. Thanks to Debra Esolen. She is the conduit.
It’s been decades since I recorded a bit of music by George, and his brother. The voice still works! However, listening to the playback was hell!
How Long Has This Been Going On?
The song was originally written for a musical, Funny Face, (1927). The song was bounced from that show, and placed in another show, titled, Rosalie, (1928.) The version here is a nice, steady jazz arrangement. Indeed, the song has been a jazz standard for decades. I hope you enjoy the recording.
Now I’m thinking, side gig, in both senses of the word. All it takes is someone with a guitar, or a piano, and some practice.
I wonder whatever happened to Tom Bates….
You can read the inspiration for my essay below.
