Unforgotten in song

How can I become immortal? I know. I should write or sing a Christmas song.

The music goes on for generations. If it weren’t for their holiday songs, how many young people would have heard of Bing Crosby (“White Christmas”), Burl Ives (“A Holly, Jolly Christmas”) or Gene Autry (“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”)

When I hear one of my favorite singers, Mel Torme, I think of what his heirs must be collecting from a song he co-wrote starting “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”

So, what would I like to write about? Well, the commercialism of Christmas.

But I recall now that it has been done already. Satirical song writer Stan Freberg published one called “Green Chri$tmas$”  in 1958. Some excerpts:

“Deck the halls with advertising, fa-la-la-la la la la la la. Get the money, ‘tis the season, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.”

“On the firth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .five tubeless tires.”

“We wish you a merry Christmas and please buy our beer.”

Why haven’t you heard that song on the radio? Well, most stations banned it way back then. Their advertisers didn’tlike it.  Itdid sell a lot of records but then disappeared.

So, skip that idea. No immortality for me!

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I was becoming a Grinch this Christmas after listening to the same music I have been hearing every December for maybe 80 years. IUntil I discovered Pentatonix and its Christmas music on YouTube. Their a capella harmonies are wonderful! (No, they don’t sing “Green Chri$tma$.”)

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Last week, I wrote about the secret diaries I uncovered of Santa Claus. Well, through some investigative reporting, I have uncovered some more lost writings. Excerpts:

Humpty Dumpty: “If I do fall, I don’t want to be scrambled. I want to be sunny-side-up.”

Julius Caesar: “That guy Brutus is such a pal. I would trust him with my life.”

Napoleon: “If they will give me some growth hormones, I won’t invade Russia.”

Dorothy (Wizard of Oz): “A tornado? Let’s not worry about it, Toto. I don’t believe in weather forecasts.”

Abraham Lincoln: “Let’s go see a play tonight, Mary. I think that John Wilkes Booth is going to be famous some day. Let’s give it a shot.”

 

Secret diary uncovered

 History is full of fake diaries - works supposedly written by Adolf Hitler, Howard Hughes, Abraham Lincoln and Queen Victoria.

The writers generally ended up in prison. But I don’t expect to get caught for a book  I would like to write. Who is going to disprove my  diary of Santa Claus?

So here goes: If he likes it, I expect my stocking to be full of goodies on Dec. 25.

Dear Diary: When I lived in Florida, I longed for relief from the heat. Then the good fairy came and told me about a job I could get in a cooler climate.

Yes, the North Pole was cold, but I survived with a long beard and my Santa Claus outfit. My employees, the elves, rounded up a herd of reindeer to help me. Hm, does that one with the red nose have a drinking problem?

But this year, half of my elves have gone on strike asking for the minimum wage. Well then, they can go look for a job at the South Pole. The other half have been deported.  Do I have to do all of this myself?

To save time, I have created a spreadsheet rating everyone who is naughty or nice.  Instead of opening letters, I am requiring kids to use the Santa app on their phones, and AI will decide who gets what.

If I am late this year, blame the Federal Aviation Administration. How am I supposed to avoid air space around all of those airports?

On Christmas Eve, I will still fly my sleigh all over the world, climbing down sooty chimneys and leaving gifts for children everywhere.

If any kids spot me putting gifts under the tree, I will make a deal: keep quiet and I will give you extra candy, but you must sign a nondisclosure agreement (NDA). If you break it, I won’t come again.

The pact was violated only once, by that awful kid who wrote “The Night Before Christmas.” No more toys for him!

As I get older, I am thinking of retiring from his job, which I do only one day a year. I think UPS and Federal Express could be more efficient, though you might get presents at 3 in the afternoon.

And the warming planet means the North Pole may not be a good home anymore either. I may have to live on a sailboat!

But enough of my complaints: Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

 

So I’m not Leonard Bernstein

I can’t believe this is really happening. When I was 10 years old, I used to pretend to put on a show on our front porch. Just like Ed Sullivan and Steve Allen. Now I’m really doing it in my dotage.

We assembled a great cast for “Guys and Dolls Senior,”, made up of over-55 actors, who all seemed to know each other from the Clarksville Community Players.

As the music director, I’m trying for the first time ever to get people to sing correctly. Who, me? I have never done this before. Which way do my hands move—up and down or sideways? When will someone say, “Who is this impostor from South Boston”? When will I get caught? (I’ll bet you know the feeling!) Complicating things: many of the cast insist that they aren’t singers. We’ll see about that!

At the read-through, we decided the actors should be educated about the underlying theme. What could that be? Oh, gambling. Craps—throwing the dice.

As a Las Vegas veteran, I was asked by the director, Monica Walter, to show everyone how it was played. Only one person already knew.

I took out some Monopoly money and dice and had two actors bet against each other. If you throw a 7 or 11, you win. If you throw a 2, 3 or 12 you lose. Then it gets more complicated. I told everyone to gamble on their break (Not serious.)

At the next rehearsal, seven “crapshooters” assembled, and we went through some music. First, we spoke the songs through, then sang them without the background track.

Some kept speaking the music instead of singing it. But repetition works. I was hearing melody!

Another had trouble finding her first note. An actor not in the scene helped her out. I am not alone! We finished another song. I kept forgetting the words . . . got to work on that!

Everyone seemed discouraged. Except me. Am I missing something? These non-singers are together with a melody. Yay! Lots of practicing ahead.

One said, “Thanks for putting up with me.” I said, “You were great.” I meant it. We’ll do that song over and over.

We’ve got this!

(The show is Feb. 14-15 at 2 p.m. at the Clarksville Fine Arts Center. Free but donations accepted.)

Hoagy on My Mind

Of my interviews over the years, I think my hour-long chat with song writer Hoagy Carmichael is the most important to me now.

As the 27-year-old Associated Press correspondent in Las Vegas, I was assigned to write about this famous musicianon on his 70th birthday in 1969.

We met for breakfast at poolside at the Desert Inn hotel—not bad, huh? It sure would beat covering a war! A phogo was taken by the Las Vegas News Bureau as Carmichael sat across the table. No selfies or autographs for me!

I don’t remember a lot from the interview, except that he hated rock ‘n’ roll music, which eclipsed his own writing since the late 1950s. Most of all, I noticed how sophisticated he seemed compared with the country-boy small-town hick he seemed to portray in his 1950s television show. He was in numerous movies too.

Carmichael seems more important to me now as I play or sing his songs, such as “Georgia on My Mind,” “Stardust,” or “Skylark.” Why did he put in a chord change from F to A minor at this point? I would have liked to have asked.

I almost got a chance to be Hoagy Carmichael myself! The Double Nickel Players (over 55) in Clarksville were going to do a play in which he was a character, and I insisted on playing him. But the kids in the group (age 55 to 65) never heard of some of the old-time stars, including Gloria Swanson or Wallace Beery, so we dropped it.

(In case you were wondering, the sandwich was not named after him and he wasn’t named after the sandwich.)

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Speaking of Las Vegas stories, imagine you were my date at an opening night in the same year—1969. I needed someone to join me for the debut concert of Nancy Sinatra, who had just had a hit record, “These Boots Are Made for Walking.”

So I invited a young lady in the advertising department of the Las Vegas Review-Journal, whom I had met in the lunchroom.

She was only in town for a few months, while her parents were also on a temporary assignment in Sin City. 

We were both blown away by the celebrities that Nancy’s dad, Frank, coaxed to the International Hotel theater. We sat at a table across from two of the Supremes (but not Diana Ross). I especially remember Sergio Mendez (of Brazil 66) sitting on the floor because there were no chairs left. Fred Astaire, Burt Lancaster, Milton Berle and Kirk Douglas were also there.

At the after-show party we sat at a table with Mac Davis, who had his own TV show. Several tables over were Elvis Presley, Colonel Tom Parker, Nancy Sinatra, Nancy Sr., and Frank. Try to top that!

After my date (whose name I don’t recall) moved back to Mississippi, we still corresponded. I’ll bet she is entertaining her grandchildren with this story. (If they even know who Elvis Presley was.)