Mr. Berlin turns 119
My body seized. Two capilaries in my left eye burst. I blew a lung. The cause: the funniest musical scene from any movie I’ve ever seen. Frankenstein in a tux, top hat, and cane, singing, “Puttin’ on the Ritz”. Sure, we have to thank Mel Brooks for his direction, Gene Wilder for his screenwriting, and Peter Boyle for his portrayal of the monster, but none of this would be possible without Irving Berlin. Without him, there would be no “Puttin’ on the Ritz”. Today would have been his 119th birthday. So, it is only fitting that we pay tribute to one of the great 20th century songwriters.
What anecdote jumps to mind when you think of this man? None. Most of my generation doesn’t know who he is and couldn’t care less. Maybe we would care if we knew more about him, his story, his passion. Or do we (the youtube generation) hate everyone from the “greatest generation” (our own personal grandparents excluded)? Or are we dazzlingly apathetic? I don’t know. I wouldn’t underestimate either our ability to empathize or despise.
By now his rags to riches story is cliche. We’ve heard it so many times it’s lost its punch. His father died when Israel (Irving Berlin was born Israel Baline) was young. In addition to other odd jobs, he sang for the money not to starve. He made a career out of writing songs for stage and screen. Among the more famous songs he penned: the jazz standards ”Cheek to Cheek”, “How Deep is the Ocean?”, Broadway tunes such as “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)”, cannonized Americana “God Bless America” (a song so popular it rivals our official national anthem), and the song that was the best selling single in the world for almost 50 years, “White Christmas”. It is said he did all this without the ability to write in any key other than F-sharp major (A.K.A. D-sharp minor) because he could only play on the black keys.
His highs include opening his own winning Oscars envelope (the only one ever to do so) and having lunch with Winston Churchill. Lows: the death of his 20-year-old wife after she contracted a fatal disease on their honeymoon, the death of his son on Christmas day, and finding out that he was given an audience with Churchill due to a mistake (Churchill mistook Irving for Isaiah Berlin, the political philosopher).
His story seems too outstanding to be true and his songs are so long standing it’s easier to believe they always existed. We take for granted men like him struggled thru hardships while we are unwilling to do the same (for truly what did our fathers fight to secure for us if not ennui). Thank you, Mr. Berlin, for representing my grandfathers’ generation. Happy birthday.
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The quote I believe sums him up best (if I remember it correctly), “Irving Berlin does not have a place in American music…he is American music”.
His music is what makes The Cocoanuts (for all you Marx Bros fans out there) still watchable to this day (well, his music and, of course, the inimitable Groucho Marx).
ok Tuck. you’re kilin me here. I LOVE Irving second only to how i love Gershwin.
Our generation is “dazzlingly apathetic” and it’s their loss. They could be out together dancing cheek to cheek, but instead they are commenting on other people’s blogs. Doh. See? Even the girl with the collection of Glenn Miler records is guilty. If only pop culture today was as tasteful and elegant and lovely as it was then…
I recently saw an old sign in a public restroom. It said: “State Law and Common Decency requre all employees wash their hands.” That’s what we’ve lost: Common Decency. I wish there was a Department of Common Decency. They’d tell the Pussycat Dolls to get dressed. They’d wash Sarah Silverman’s mouth out with soap. They’d make publicists and “entertainment news” shows extinct. They’d put great movies like A Philadelphia Story at the cinema. They’d make men feel good about opening doors and women feel good about letting them. We’d don hats and go dancing while the orchestra played Berlin…
It would be Grand.