Variety (January 05, 1955)

224 MUSIC Forty-ninth P^TZIETY Anniversary Vet Songsmith’s Closeup On London And New York’s Tin Pan Alley By JIMMY KENNEDY The privilege of membership in both those (formerly) exclusive Clubs, the London and New York Tin Pan Alleys, coupled with a n advanta- geous position enabling the working year to be split be- tween them, thus grate- fully getting the best out of both worlds, is my reason for these jot- tings which Swing to and jimmy Kennedy fro, from al- ley to alley, setting down a few impressions on the current Anglo- American song scene. To the incoming songwriter from Denmark Street the initial impact with American’s Tin Pan Alley is an exciting and startling experience and it takes a little time to come to grips with the change in pace which is the out- standing difference between the terifted-up rhythm of New York and the more relaxed tempo of dear old London. The relationship is about the same as a 1955 mambo to a sedate, tired-businessman’s slow fox trot. There is an electri- fying element in the U.S.—an urge to get on with the business of writing songs that is not found anywhere else in the world. It may be due to the subconscious idea that you are in Eldorado, the fabu- lous gold mine of world hits, hypos and fast promotion where the opportunity to get a bigger and quicker one than ever before is everpresent; or it may be due to the less altrustic instinct that this is where most money can be made; or it may just be the feeling of competition that is part of Ameri- ca, meaning to you. old boy, that the song had better be written now or somebody else’s is going to be recorded first! Whatever it is, the effect of the contact on the visit- ing songwriter cannot fail to in- crease his ambition to write his greatest song and top that Hit Pa- rade. To what extent he succeeds is another matter which now un- happily is as much beyond his con- trol as it is to the native writer because of the changed nature of our business. {Denmark St. in the Old Tradition Migrants or mere visitors from England have invariably expressed the view that New York’s Tin Pan Alley is a fantastic place and a terrific stimulant to work. Erich Maschwicz (‘‘These Foolish Things”). Tolchard Evans (‘‘Lady of Spain”), Billy Read (‘‘The Gyp- sy”), Harry Parr-Davies (“Blue Bird of Happiness”*, Michael Carr ("Dinner for One”), Box & Cox (“Lovely Bunch of Coconuts") and Tommie Connor who made much out of that harmless incident be- tween Mommy and Santa Claus, have been vastly impressed by the hectic operation here. Others who came over and decided to settle include Harry Revel. Ray Noble, Guy Wood, Nicholas Brodzky, Aus- tin (Ginger) Croome-Johnson. the late Will Grosz, Eddie (Piano) Miller and Sonny Cox. American writers visiting Lon- don and finding themselves influ- enced by the more mellow atmos- phere of Mayfair and Charing Cross Road have stayed to woo the * Muse free from the strain and stress of Manhattan. Environment and its effect on the individual has always been a potent factor in the creative world and the best place to write is where inspiration, like hope, springs eternal—and springs easiest! The fact that there are not more British writers at present in New York may seem surprising to ob- servers as in spite of the many hits emerging from Denmark Street, ! this year has not been a constantly i good one for the average writer for although songs over there are still promoted in the traditional way (by plugs on radio shows, band and singer performances, stage productions, etc.) the change is taking place in line with U.S. methods. The voice of the disk Jockey is heard in the land and is rapidly becoming the shortest route into the homes of the listen- ing public, and this trend is not really in favor of the local writer as it tends to assist the imported song which, it must be admitted, dominates the British market to an extent of about 80C&. The British publisher has, how- ever, one great advantage *nf his U.S. opposite number—his judg- ment is taken into consideration by the local a & r men and he can usually get a record or two of his “No. 1 plug” whjch, taken in con- junction with his other media of promotion, enables his song to get a fair exposure, or at least a tryout. Unfortunately, the glamor and su- perior buildup of an important trans-Atlantic record frequently defeats his chance of pushing the native song into a top slot though it does happen sometimes—eg., Vera Lynn’s current “My Son, My Son.” The establishment of U.S. pub- lishers in London (and they are practically all there) has been of little help to local writers, few’ of these publishers having taken im- portant action on British products, w hen or if acquired; only one comes to mind—the recent “Cara Mia” i published by the English branch of Robbins Music Corp. and created by David Whitfield and its com- poser Mantovani, both on the Lon- don label. This could set a pattern, for certainly the hits can be found if not entirely English, perhaps in the Continental type of song or in the ‘‘instrumental” field. Before World War II quite a number of American writers spent time in London with profitable re- sults and many who only made short visits placed songs without difficulty. Harry Woods, A1 Hoff- man. A1 Goodheart and Maurice Sigler worked on films and stage shows under the Campbell-Con- nelly banner, Manning Sherwin wrote several show' scores, and freelance visitors included Nat Simon, A1 Sherman, Mabel Wayne, Abner Silver, Jack Meskill, Mack Gordon, J. Fred Coots, Newell Chase, Kim Gannon, Arthur John- son, the late Billy Hill, Fats Wal- ler, and Spencer Williams, the latter staying for several years. Since the War, in spite or the prospect of a change from the frus- 1 trations of the New York situation, I few U. S. pop writers have made ! the trip and one can only call to mind Charles Tobias (a semi-offi- cial visit as head of SPA), Stanley Adams (as president of ASCAP>. Sid Lipman, Bob Merrill, Vic Mizzy, Benny Davis and Abner Sil- ver. Kermit Goelle, Hank Fort and Mitchell Parrish. Bob Musel makes London his songwriting headquar- ters and Sam Coslow has tempo- rarily settled down in Mayfair, ! writing successful film numbers as well as show scores for the im- portant Littler Theatre Group. | Talents Across the Sea | In New York a fresh trail has re- ' cently been blazed by Londons latest export. Sandy Wilson, whose current West End musical, “The Boy Friend.” has stormed Broad- j way. This could he the forerunner of a minor invasion by those Brit- ish show writers who can get out of the domestic rut and write for the wider market. This field has long been in the doldrums over there—of course they do have some heavy competition from Rodgers & Ilammerstein. Berlin, ' Porter, Alien, Rome and a few- other “giants of the musical,” but there are signs of new talent com- ing along over there in this medi- um. Apart from “Bitter Sweet.” ; one has to cast back to Chariot’s “1923 Revue” to find a London musical hitting New York with i such impact as “The Boy Friend.” I British writers have considerable facility for the revue style but have produced mostly a domestic type for local consumption rather than the big international musical; there are half-a-dozen quite bril- liant revues running now r in Lon- j don and the hope is, that from ! their writers, may develop the next Noel Coward or Ivor Novello. The recent Broadway revue, the late John Murray Anderson’s ‘‘Alma- nac,’’ starring Hermione Gingold. was originally English-written and a big London success. There will be others. It would be an excellent thing if more U.S. writers got acquainted J with London's Tin Pan Alley and learned its ramifications. They would find it easier to understand why such and such a song wasn’t a hit; why so much money is not made when they do have a hit or perhaps collaboration could be set up with a British writer. Actually, an interchange of writers could be a stimulant for both Tin Pan Al- leys for this is one of the sectors where Anglo-American relations have always been on the friendli- est footing—the British realizing that their trans-Atlantic competi- tors have vastly superior promo- tion. U.S. writers who have visited Charing Cross Road, and that other Tin Pan Alley around Bond Street where the Chappell and Keith-Prowse houses hold court, have been much impressed and particularly by the solid legitimate basis of British music business. In- cidentally, here is an interesting sidelight for snobs; rather similar- ly to the French attitude, the song- writer ranks in the category of the artistic in the same way as painters and sculptors, etc. While in New York, unless he is one of “the greats,” he finds himself bracketed with Runyonesque characters, horse-players, bookies, prizefight- ers and the like. Of course to many, this may not be important for songs don’t care who writes them—the song’s the thing!—and a half-million copy sale is sweet compensation for not having a list- ing in the Social Register. Well—you can write songs any- where and the place for the work- ing writer is where the urge to produce comes most compellingly, whether in the hectic atmosphere of “the Brill” and “1650” or the more decorous environment of London. Long live the two Tin Pan Alleys and both will always be grateful to Variety for its un- failing interests in the world of song and songwriters throughout its 49 years of publication. Music Market Runs Gamut Of Com to Classics By GEORGE R. MAREK The subway started running about the time that Variety start- ed publishing. And one of the big hits of 1905 was “Down in the Subway” by Billy Murray. It ap- peared that “There’s a new place at last to go spooning.” Will we soon have a song about “Petting In the Planet?” “Subway” was only one of sev- eral remarkable hits of that year. And in the newly burgeoning rec- ord business there was already ap- parent one characteristic which has remained fundamental and true to this day; If you want to make the nation’s songs you better make dif- ferent kinds of songs! There is no such thing as music for “the Amer- ican taste.” The American taste is a tree on which all the leaves are different. Not one taste exists, but many tastes. As early as 1905 these many tastes, these many leaves, were, growing. There was a demand for topical songs, such as the dne about the subway, and there was a demand for humorous songs; “Father, Won’t You Speak to Sister Mary” and “Uncle Josh in an Automobile.” But the American public was also as susceptible to sentiment (the opposite of humor) then, as it is now, and the big bal- lad hit of 1905 was “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.” We like to think that our love for classical music is but a recent love and that our grandparents cared for little more than Handel’s “Lar- go”—as Thornton Wilder says in “Our Town.” Well, yes and no. In 1905 several of our great sym- phonic orchestras were giving well- attended concerts—and at those concerts more than the “1812 Over- ture” was being performed. Or- chestral music could not as yet be recorded satisfactorily—but oper- atic songs could, and there were enough Americans who liked them to make it possible to produce and sell “Vest! la giubba” alongside the “Subway Song.” Melba records and records made by the famous tenor Tamagno were imported and cost $3 apiece. Among classical records, Caruso’s “Celeste Aida” and “La Donna e Mobile” were the most popular, followed at some distance by the “Jewel Song” from “Faust,” sung by Marcella Sem- brich. The point of this retrospection Is this: even in those early days dif- ferent kinds of music had to be composed, performed and recorded to satisfy the public, just as Va- riety from the very beginning had to report on different branches and January 5, 1955 When I first started writing amateur prose And my lyrical brain started whirlin’, I wrote a parody—you know how one goes— From a song by Irving Berlin. No sooner done than my conviction was strong That I could write as good as he could, Said I to myself as I finished a song “I’m the genius this world sorely needed” Then I’d go to a printer in my old home town Who’d print and get paid for his labors Then from door to door I’d keep going around Plugging my song for my neighbors. t That w r as one way to get a song played But I found a way even greater At Woolworth and Kresge’s I soon made the grade, As a “music counter” demonstrator. And then came a job as a new contact hand, When vaudeville was at its height I covered the acts—when I’d sing with some band With a megaphone—night after night. I’d sing and I’d sung—songs that sold for a dime— (In those days that’s how song hits were born) And then late at night I’d have plenty of time To gargle my throat ’til the dawn. » And then came a time when Paul Whiteman was king “Those were great music days,” some insist, When Whiteman or Lopez or Vallee could bring A song to the top of the list. What is that “rig-of-a-thing-a-ma-jig,” Those crystal set earphones, I mean. Well here’s what it is, it’s a new music biz, As radio walks on the scene. Glenn Miller, Dorsey, or maybe Kate Smith, Or maybe a singer like Bing Would step to a mike, and then orders poured in For the songs that they played or they’d sing. And then came a shock as the movies gave out With a gimmick called talkies—and soon At the movies’ request—all the tunesmiths went west ’Twas a new way of making a tune. But even that changeth—and fate then arrangeth A new change—according to plan All hands that wrote music, all hands that made music. Were in the hands of the A & R man. Now the music world chatters Of deejays and platters A song has to “send you” today With Hi-Fi and LP—I’ll tell you— Don’t tell me, it’s still plugging Though in a new way. Now the rumor is spreading This business is heading For pastures as green as a pea So many have sensed it So don’t bet against it A song will be made by TV. Etcetera—etcetera—and so on and so forth That’s where I came in—or was it? Which goes to prove, as if you didn’t know The old order changeth—or does it? HOW NOT TO BE A SONGWRITER Bv PAT BALLARD — We spent many years trying to write songs like Irving Berlin. This is a mistake. Then we tried to write hillbilly songs like hillbil- lies, also a grave error. Then we tried to use big words with 3 or 4 inner-rhymes (which is a nice way to entertain a few drunks but is doomed to failure if you want kids to sing your stuff in the streets.) When “Dardanella” was a hit we tried to copy it. and for a number of years specialized in “followup” songs. If a guy had a hit called “Little Red Hen” we wrote one right away called “Big Black Hen.” Eggs, by the dozen! The wife of the late Winchell Smith gave us a letter to our idol, Mr. Berlin, when we first came to New York many years ago and he gave us some sage advice but we thought he was crazy. Among other improbable things was his statement that he w r as capable of writing a lousy song once in awhile. So we wrote 248 lousy songs in a row just to squeeze him out of business. It didn’t work. We have Mr. Berlin’s picture on our wall, receiving a gold medal from President Eisenhower. He didn’t get it for writing lousy songs. Imagine that fellow! Midway tastes of the entertainment world. In the nearly 50 years, quite nat- urally, the tree of music has grown. There are many more leaves, and they are still leaves of various shape and hue. On this Anniver- sary it is perhaps well for us to remember this variety of taste. Variety itself is well titled because It has adopted the policy of report- ing all show biz, from the bur- lesque show to the opera. Uni- formity is the death of entertain- ment. in his career he created an entirely fresh and new pattern of song con- struction—in the smash score of “Top Hat” for Fred Astaire—and nobody can copy it successfully. And those other great old masters: Grant Clarke, Jimmy Monaco, Mort Dixon, Harry Woods and the late Jimmy Hanley. They knew how to write ’em and tear ’em up. The reason we wasted so many years in the business is because we couldn’t tear anything up—like the Collier Bros. Who wants to buy seven bales of lousy songs, per pound? If there is any reason why we were lucky enough to have two hits in the past year it is be- cause we now submit all song* with the claim that they’re lousy. With this approach some wdse guy begins to think you're trying to con him and that you may have a big deal elsewhere. So anybody with Brill Bldg, feet (a horrible malady) who wants to take the brushes and not feel bad, just dash up to Mr. Big and say, “Here’s a stinker!” The shock might get you in his front office. All of this advice is gratis, and for the trade we have composed a poem because now we’ve got a new idol (Nick Kenny): If you've never got the brush in the Brill, You’ve never had a brush ; The brushes they can give in the Bull Would clean encrusted plush. A writer with a tune in his mitt Is as welcome as a lush with a fit, So why fight City Hall? Either write no songs at all Or deny you have the knack te write a hit (Goodbye to Peatman) Deny you have the knack to write a hit!