PUTTIN’ ON THE ELLA

No series of great singers of America’s Golden Age of Popular Music would be complete without America’s “First Lady of Song,” Ella Fitzgerald, whose reign lasted well beyond that Age to become, in my opinion, THE female vocalist of the ages.

http://www.ellafitzgerald.com/about/biography

Over the years of this blog, I’ve posted a greater number and variety of clips of Ella’s performances than any other singer. For this post, I’ll concentrate on Ella’s recordings of one composer’s songs….for the simple reason that it’s his birthday, and she has sung so many of his songs. His name is IRVING BERLIN (May 11, 1888-Sept. 22, 1989), and these selections are from ELLA FITZGERALD SINGS THE IRVING BERLIN SONGBOOK:

Remember this one?

Seriously, this one is ‘unbelievable’….

So what do we care how music fashions change form? We’ve got Ella to keep the old embers warm….

I LIKE IKE

Those of a certain age may recall the “I LIKE IKE” campaign slogan of Dwight Eisenhower when he ran for President of the U.S. in 1952. Well, I like Ike too– but the Ike I like sang (rather than made speeches) into a mike: CLIFF “UKULELE IKE” EDWARDS, born 1895 in Hannibal, MO (of Mark Twain fame). You probably remember Ike (if at all) as the voice of Jiminy Cricket in Walt Disney’s acclaimed animated feature PINOCCHIO (1940)….but before that, he was one of the most famous singers of the 1920s-early 30s, with his jazzy and novelty renditions of popular songs of the day. In short, he was just great fun to listen to:

Ukulele Ike was past his peak popularity by 1935, but he still had A Little Magic:

By the end of his life, Ukulele Ike had faded into obscurity. But, for a few of us, his memory lives on. So, by Jiminy, remember who could make dreams come true, the next time you wish upon a star:

THE THING ABOUT BING

Having just completed a five-post series of my favorite “Hollywood’s Golden Age” comics, I had nothing in particular in mind for my next post(s)….until I noticed that May 3 (1903) is the birthday of a man who gave me the idea for a similar series — this time, favorite vocalists of the “Golden Age of Popular Music.” That man is Harry Lillis Crosby — better known as Bing.

The thing about Bing is that, despite a 50 year period of great popularity which lasted into the 1970s, he was NOT one of my favorite (far from it) singers of that period’s latter decades. His vocal approach and range changed abruptly from his jazz-influenced, virile style of 1924-39 to his lower octave, more conventional singing style which many of us are familiar with (as typified by his hugely popular recording of WHITE CHRISTMAS in the early 1940s). I much prefer this Bing Crosby from 1931 (particularly notice the free-wheeling way he “gets you” at the end):

There is a lot more I could say about Bing, but I’d rather let his singing do the talking. Here is the romantic Bing crooning a Rodgers and Hart song in the 1935 film MISSISSIPPI (co-starring, btw, W. C. Fields):

Before Bing became a big name on his own, 1926-30 he was a featured vocalist (often as one of “The Rhythm Boys” vocal trio) with the hugely popular Paul Whiteman band. We close with this Irving Berlin song from that period:

My next featured vocalist in this series will be….who knows? Not me (it might have been me, except that I can’t sing….but I can spell — at least, better than whoever spelled the above album title).

LAST, BUT NOT LEASHED

We come now to the last of the five ‘Hollywood’s Golden Age’ comics/comic teams mentioned in the first post of this series: THE MARX BROTHERS. Like Laurel and Hardy (the fourth post), The Marx Brothers threw sanity to the winds in their films — perhaps because there was no sanity clause in their contract.

Both L & H and The Marx Brothers were, in a word — make that two words — lunacy unleashed. But, whereas Laurel and Hardy’s reactions to situations were childishly outlandishy, The Marx Brothers made a mockery of sanctified institutions and human pretense, violating social norms mercilessly. Or, as Groucho put it….

To quote film historian Gerald Mast: “The Marx Brothers could get away with subversion because of their sheer madness.” But (unlike Charlie Chaplin and, early in his career, Buster Keaton) “The Marx Brothers lacked complete control over their material [and] were dependent on their writers. And at Paramount, those writers [including Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby*] gave them very surprising, iconoclastic things to do. Their three best films at Paramount — Monkey Business (1931), Horsefeathers (1932), and Duck Soup (1933) — all hurl comic mud at the gleaming marble pillars of the American temple.”

“Duck Soup is even more striking [than Horsefeathers] in the thoroughness of its conception. Every action in the plot is a burlesque of some important governmental function. The film climaxes when Sylvania declares war on Freedonia (“the land of the free”) for some absurd breach of etiquette (a comment on society’s worship of honor and propriety). The immense war that follows is a multilevel parody. But beneath the parody is a reduction of the solemn events of American history to total nonsense. At the end of the film (and war), after Freedonia achieves a miraculous — and inane — victory, Mrs. Teasdale (Margaret Dumont) bursts into a stirring chorus of Hail, Hail, Freedonia”…. and the world is again safe for democracy (and for laughing my ass off).

• Kalmar and Ruby were a famous 1920s-30s songwriting team, including such hits as WHO’S SORRY NOW and THREE LITTLE WORDS. They met the Marx Brothers in 1930 and wrote the scores and screenplays for Horsefeathers and Duck Soup, as well as several other films.

RESTING ON MY LAUREL’S (AND HARDY’S)

Continuing my series of classic Hollywood comics, I’ve been caught up in Laurel and Hardy films since I was knee high to a piano — which, by the ‘weigh,’ was the ‘heavy’ in their Oscar-winning short, THE MUSIC BOX. If you don’t think this scene from the film is funny, take steps to trade in your high hat for a whoopee cap — you are way too ‘sober’:

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy were first teamed at Hal Roach Studios in 1927. Film historian Gerald Mast calls them “the most artful practitioners of the Roach structure of accumulation” — in other words, with L & H, it’s just one damn thing after another. Mast continues: “The starting point of every Laurel and Hardy film is that they are overgrown children, simply incompetent at any human task. They are terrible carpenters (The Finishing Touch), terrible salesmen (Big Business), terrible automobile drivers (Two Tars), terrible escaped convicts (Pardon Us), terrible soldiers (Beauhunks), terrible furniture movers (The Music Box), and terrible husbands (Sons of the Desert).” The latter film and title subsequently became the inspiration for: https://sonsofthedesertinfo.com/
Here is the film’s trailer:

My two favorite L & H feature-length films are BABES IN TOYLAND (1934) and WAY OUT WEST (1937). Here, Stan and Ollie do a wonderful soft shoe dance in a scene from the latter film:

Like his one-year older contemporary, Charlie Chaplin, Laurel was born in England and became a member of the British theatrical troupe, Fred Karno Company (where he was Chaplin’s understudy). Hardy was a Georgia-born American actor, a year and a half younger than Laurel, usually playing the villain or minor roles until his 1927 teaming with Laurel. The rest is film history.

I can think of no more fitting way to end this post than with these achingly beautiful strains….

….and these immortal words:

THE GREAT STONE FACE ROCKS!

When I published a post about W.C. Fields (HAVING A FIELDS DAY) on his birthday (April 9), I counted him among the preeminent comedy film stars of his time….but I didn’t think of it as the first in a series of connected posts. Several days thereafter, I noticed that April 16 loomed as the birthday of another comic star I’d referenced — thus I came to publish LAUGHING AT A LITTLE TRAMP (Charlie Chaplin). Now I find myself writing yet another such post, thanks to a reader who commented on April 17 that he watched and loved many old movies with his dad as a kid, particularly BUSTER KEATON, the deadpan comic known as “The Great Stone Face.” I agree with that reader: Buster Keaton rocks!

The above scene (from the 1925 film SEVEN CHANCES) is all the more extraordinary when you realize that Keaton did his own stunts. “He was a fatalist. Ever since he was an infant, Buster had miraculously survived train wrecks, fires, and dangerous storms. He firmly believed that no matter what he did, fate would determine the outcome.” –Frank Manchel, author of YESTERDAY’S CLOWNS (subtitled The Rise of Film Comedy).

How does one assess Keaton compared to Chaplin? Here’s how film historian Gerald Mast (in his book THE COMIC MIND (subtitled Comedy and the Movies) sees it:

“It is difficult to compare Chaplin’s and Keaton’s gifts. Chaplin’s fertile period lasted 38 years; Keaton’s lasted about ten. Chaplin’s art depended upon a minute perfection; Keaton’s relied on speed and and a tumult of imaginative, farfetched ideas.”
“Keaton never took the world as seriously as Chaplin did. Whereas Chaplin’s films, even his individual comic bits, are pointedly social, intellectual, concerned with hunger, humiliation, justice, and freedom, Keaton as an artist was never conscious of trying to say something; he merely tried to do something that he found funny. But beneath the surface there is more. The situations that Keaton found funny, the way he comported himself in relation to objects and the world, the way he solved his comic problems — all these imply an attitude toward human experience, whether Keaton was conscious of it or not. The tension between surface and depths begins with the Keaton face. The fact that Keaton’s face reflects no reaction to any event around him — no smile, no laugh, no tear, no puzzlement, no inquiry, no anticipation, nothing — lures some into assuming that Buster neither feels nor thinks. But he is not unfeeling, and he is certainly not stupid.”
“In The General (1926), for example, two little town lads tag along behind Buster as he goes to visit Annabelle, his girl. They walk behind him into her parlor and sit down. Buster, without changing the look on his face, stands up, puts on his hat, and starts to walk toward the door. The two boys stand up to follow. Buster opens the door and the two boys walk out; Buster then closes the door behind them, takes off his hat, and goes back to sit beside Annabelle, again without changing the look on his face. The objective has been accomplished.”

If Keaton’s films were less “pointedly social, intellectual,” etc. than Chaplin’s, I ask you: does that leave “The Great Stone Face” in “The Little Tramp’s” artistic dust? Far be it from me to cast the first stone.

LAUGHING AT A LITTLE TRAMP

“We must laugh in the face of our helplessness against the forces of nature – or go insane.” –Charlie Chaplin

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I began my previous post (HAVING A FIELDS DAY, 4/9/21) by proclaiming my amore for the great film comedians of yesteryear, starting with the irascible W.C. Fields, who was born on April 9 in 1879. Ten years and one week later (4/16/1889), there arrived on life’s stage Charlie Chaplin, the London-born comic genius* who became known the world over for his portrayal of a shabbily-dressed character who walked funny: the Little Tramp.

“His conception of the Little Tramp was so advanced that it could take its place with the great comic creations of all time. In the [silent] films of this period and in the films he made later, we can sometimes find the dimensions by which masterpieces are measured. Chaplin has come very close to achieving these dimensions many times, and did it in perhaps what is the hardest way, comedy.” –Gerald McDonald, author, THE PICTURE HISTORY OF CHARLIE CHAPLIN

• Not just my opinion; Chaplin was considered a “genius” by many distinguished contemporaries, including no less a personage than George Bernard Shaw, who called him “The only genius in motion pictures.”

Again quoting Gerald McDonald (while Chaplin was still living): “Chaplin reached the heights, but during the course of his remarkable career, he has often left himself vulnerable. Attacked sometimes fairly, sometimes most foully, he has had his own war with the world [shades of W.C. Fields!]. He believed in himself, but as an egoist was never able to see himself through the eyes of others. If he has made it difficult to be happy over his public image, perhaps it may not greatly matter. The best of him is in his films.”

Speaking of his (feature) films — he made many ‘shorts’ prior to his first full-length THE KID (1921) — my favorites are THE GOLD RUSH (1925), CITY LIGHTS (1931), MODERN TIMES (1936), and THE GREAT DICTATOR (1940). I close with the iconic ending of MODERN TIMES, which I confess brings a tear to my eyes although I’ve seen it many times before:

HAVING A FIELDS DAY

“The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.” –W.C. Fields

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As far back as I can recall, I’ve been a fanatic fan/addict of the great comedy stars of the 1920s to early 40s: Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, The Marx Brothers, Laurel & Hardy — and the most irascible of them all, Wm. Claude Dukenfield (better known as W.C. Fields). On this, his birthday, I mean to stay awake, have a Fields day with this post, and drink a toast to the man who “Once during Prohibition, was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water”….and also contrived to “gargle with whiskey several times a day, and I haven’t had a cold in years.”

Fields was born April 9, 1879 in Philadelphia. Although he ran away from home at an early age, he thought often of his hometown. For example , many years later, he remarked that “Last week, I went to Philadelphia, but it was closed.” On another occasion, he said “I once spent a year in Philadelphia–I think it was on a Sunday.” Asked what he wanted for the epitaph on his tombstone, he replied “On the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” To prove it, here’s his last request (about 50 seconds into this trailer):

According to film historian Raymond Rohauer, “Fields always presented himself on screen as a braggart, a windbag, and a schemer–and perpetually in need of or in search for a drink. And if he happened to have emerged from his perennial fight with a hostile world, then surely it was by accident. Still, the audience sympathized with him, not because of any hectic antics, but because he was invariably surrounded by such repulsive villains and sheer imbeciles that his own vices appeared, if not necessarily endearing, at least comparatively acceptable.”

Earlier, we touched on Fields’ “last words.” In the spirit(s) of this celebration, we close with more quotes to pour over:

“I never worry about being driven to drink; I just worry about being driven home.”

“What contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?”

“Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snake bite, and furthermore always carry a small snake.”

“A woman drove me to drink and I didn’t even have the decency to thank her.”

“It is hard to lose a mother-in-law. Almost impossible.”

“Women are like elephants. I like to look at ’em, but I wouldn’t want to own one.”

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again; then quit–there’s no use being a damn fool about it.”

“Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.”

“If I had my life to live over, I’d live over a saloon.”

“The world is getting to be such a dangerous place, a man is lucky to get out of it alive.”

Fields didn’t get out of it alive — but luckily, the words of his war with the world did….and even in Philadelphia, that’s PA (pretty acceptable).

DEAD MEN LEAVE NO ENTRAILS

“Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.” –Somerset Maugham

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Once upon a time, I published a very dreary little book of poems and epitaphs, titled GONERS. Today, April 6, being PLAN YOUR EPITAPH DAY, and April being NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, I thought I’d dig up what’s left of that cryptic tome and (having nothing better to post) see what I could do with a slew of its bygone remains. I’m counting on findng good bones, because no doubt the meat of the missive has long since become the diet of worms.

OLD ED YOUNG

Dismissed as “minor” poet
By critics half his age,
Young, Edward, found no solace
Could pacify his rage.

Yet, his epitaph managed
Homage to his skewers:
Those who can are poets;
Those who can’t, reviewers.

LET NO MAN WRONG MY EPITAPH

Here, for good, lies Chastity Wood,
Her casket wood, sin’s snares withstood.
The wood without is without flaw.
The Wood within, men never saw.

SATAN NEVER SLEEPS

So. Help me God!

IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT

Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray there’s been ONE HELLUVA MISTAKE.

POETIC LIAR-SENSE

The Great American Novel
Is the Everest of climbs;
I have written it myself
Any number of times.

And I have written lyrics
To the music of the Spheres;
The sound is magic to the soul
….and yet, tragic for the ears.

One last triumph yet remains
When, at my mortal ending,
Doth expire the greatest lyre
Since Orpheus descending.

HELL TO PAY

Ego
Ergo
We go.

ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO?

Lord, what fools these mortals be
….and You get to watch for free.

JOURNEY’S END, JOGGINS, NOVA SCOTIA

On the fossil beach at Joggins,
One finds fossil bods and noggins.
Comes high tide, the sea Atlantic
Summons sleep with the Titanic.

IMPOLI-TICK

Tempus fugit.
Please excuse it.

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Please excuse it? Hold on. Where is the life that late I led?

E-Z P-Z PLEASE-Z ME-Z

If you (like me) have noticed the growing trendiness lately of the term “easy peasy,” you (like me) may have wondered where this seemingly recent phrase originated….so I decided to check into it. Turns out that it’s not all that recent. I was in fact please-zeed to learn that its first known appearance was in the January 17, 1953 edition of my hometown newspaper, The Cincinnati Enquirer: in a review of the 1952 film BREAKING THE SOUND BARRIER, journalist Ellis Radcliffe wrote “The flight is such an easy-peasy affair for the air travelers….”

It should come as no surprise to my regular readers to hear that this gave me an idea for a ‘songs’ post — specifically. a post about songs with the word EASY in the title. Lucky for you, I remember several such songs from the Golden Age of Popular Music, and they are decidedly….

Listening to a great vocalist sing a great song by a great composer — now that’s what I call….

It is said that When you gotta go, you gotta go — but why not go as we came?