Be Thankful
Just grabbed my laundry basket, headed downstairs to the washers and dryer — and grimaced when I came across my tuxedo shirt. On Monday, November 15, I was wearing it at a tribute to Cy Coleman at the Rainbow Room. The great composer got up at the end of the evening and was all smiles as he introduced a new song from Pamela’s New Musical, his project with Wendy Wasserstein and David Zippel. The song turned out to be catchy and heartfelt — well, it was a Cy Coleman song, after all — and the capacity crowd greeted it warmly. We were unaware, as was Mr. Coleman, that he only had three more days to live.
And so another giant leaves us, much more quickly than we would have expected. The composer, whose last Broadway effort was The Life, had quite a life in pop, jazz, and Broadway, and his songs breathed wonderful life into many a project — not to mention our hearts, brains, and souls. What other Broadway composer could have come up with that jazz noir score for City of Angels? In a kinder, gentler era of radio play and TV variety shows, “With Every Breath I Take,” with its angular but accessible melody, would have become a certified standard. But does that song sound as if it could have been written by the same man who delivered the jaunty polka “Our Favorite Son” (The Will Rogers Follies), the tender waltz “Real Live Girl” (Little Me), the operetta-like “Our Private World” (On the Twentieth Century), the brassy attention-getter “Big Spender” (Sweet Charity) with its distinctive and much-quoted seven-note vamp, the countrified “Someone Wonderful I Missed” (I Love My Wife), or the thoroughly infectious “Come Follow the Band” (Barnum), which asks the perfectly justifiable question, “Ain’t it drivin’ you crazy?” The melody sure does that to me.
At this time of the year when we count our blessings, let’s be thankful that Coleman wasn’t like Burt Bacharach, another composer from the world of pop, who did one Broadway show and then said adieu because he found the experience too difficult. The irony is that Bacharach had a smash with Promises, Promises while Coleman had to see his terrific score for Wildcat wither because of a bad book and unreliable star, and Little Me die because of an even more unreliable star. Sweet Charity was his first hit, but it was overshadowed that season by Mame and Man of La Mancha. Seesaw was trumped by Raisin, I Love My Wife by Annie, and On the Twentieth Century by Ain’t Misbehavin’. At least for the last contest, I suspect that the Tony voters wish that they could take their decision back. Still, Cy Coleman never turned his back on Broadway but kept on being inspired by new ideas and projects. So while he’s no longer with us, let’s be thankful that he at least stayed around long enough to attend the two recent ceremonies in his honor, on November 6 in Los Angeles and November 15 in New York, before he died on November 18. And, of course, let’s be thankful for those hundreds of songs from his many musicals that always showed us a real master of melody.
Many of us had heard for much of this past year that Fred Ebb was ailing, but no matter how much we’re told that someone is ill, we’re still shocked when the news comes that the person has died. What a sad and eerie irony that the man who penned the never-to-be-forgotten lyrics for “New York, New York” died on September 11 — a day that will, sadly of course, always be associated with New York, New York.
In the 43 years that I’ve been avidly following Broadway musicals, I’ve heard thousands upon thousands of songs — but whenever anyone asks me what my favorite is, since 1970 I’ve always said, “‘Yes,’ from 70, Girls, 70.” For I too believe that “Life keeps happening ev’ry day” and that “when possibilities come your way,” you should “say yes.” I’ve made plenty of lovely decisions since 1970 because I didn’t say “Why?” but, rather, “Why not?” And while I wish that Ebb had written those lyrics long before I’d turned 24 — since I therefore would have had many more lovely experiences — I’m thankful to him for writing it at all. I hope that all the people for whom I’ve played the song over the decades — people who wouldn’t otherwise know it — have been influenced by it too and had their lives enhanced by saying “Yes.” I do know this: Many times, I’ve asked a person to accompany me to an event and he’s hesitated because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make the effort or because he was busy with some trivial task; but after I quote a few lines from “Yes” and then augment it with yet another Fred Ebb lyric — “What good is sitting alone in your room?” — many have laughed and said, “Oh, all right, I’ll come along.” And most of the time, they’ve been happy that they did. They, like me, have Fred Ebb to thank.
Not that Ebb was overly sentimental. In 1966, when he was in his early 30s, he showed that he already understood a great deal about human nature: He wrote, “And you learn how to settle for what you get.” Two years later, he did write “Life is what you do while you’re waiting to die,” but that sentiment eventually struck Ebb as too bleak, so some years later, he changed it to “Life is what you do till the moment you die.” That’s what he was doing with his life, continuing to write wonderful songs when he easily could have retired. At his recent memorial at the Ambassador, we heard five that haven’t made it to Broadway — yet. Producers, say yes! Show that you, like me, are thankful for Fred Ebb.
We also lost this month a performer who was, I’ll admit, far less involved with Broadway than he was with Hollywood. Still, Howard Keel helped to bring the Broadway musical into many hamlets around the country by essaying roles in the film versions of Annie Get Your Gun, Show Boat, Kiss Me, Kate, Rose Marie, and Kismet. Granted, he returned to Broadway only when Hollywood didn’t want him anymore: First came the 1959 disappointment Saratoga, then he succeeded Richard Kiley in No Strings in 1963. And then, 32 years ago this week, Keel opened and closed in Ambassador, a musical that he’d done a year before in London for 86 performances — more than nine times longer than the nine-performance run he’d have at the Lunt-Fontanne. There’s no question from the show’s London cast album (we didn’t get one here) that Keel’s voice had gone a bit prematurely gray, but he and the album do have its charms. Alas, it’s not available on CD, and I certainly wouldn’t say that it’s worth buying a turntable for; but if you do have the equipment, the record is a genial affair.
Keel played Lambert Strether, an uptight, turn-of-the-(last)-century Boston lawyer. Lyricist Hal Hackady gave him a nifty opening lyric (at least for the London version) in which he proclaimed with pride that he’s “A Man You Can Set Your Watch By” — though, in the last line of the song, he does add “…assuming a man has to set his clock,” thus giving us a hint that he’s open to change. Still, when a client asks him to go to Paris because her son is cavorting with some French woman, he wonders in “Lambert’s Quandary” what he should say to the kid once he gets there. He just about talks himself into not making the trip, but once again, his last line is one of reconsideration: “But then, I may never have the chance to see Paris again.” Sad to say, Broadway never saw Keel again, for he and Ambassador were victims of an era when the traditional Broadway sound wasn’t welcome. Many musical theater enthusiasts I know who turned up their noses at this score in 1972 have openly admitted to me that they’ve come to quite enjoy it now, and Keel’s performance on the recording is certainly one of the reasons.
Ambassador has pretty music by Don Gohman. He’s best known as the pop songwriter who provided the music for “Never, My Love,” but even that standard couldn’t keep him from feeling so despondent after the failure of Ambassador that he took his own life. What a shame and what a waste. As Cy Coleman, Fred Ebb, and Howard Keel showed us, living life to a ripe old age is its own reward, and they positively impacted the lives of many people by being here. Thanks, guys, for jobs very well done.
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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]
