Peace and Change, April 2014
E.
Y. (Yip) Harburg (1896-1981) largely wrote the lyrics to the
soundtrack of the 1930s. From the social realism of "Brother,
Can You Spare a Dime?" to the wistful romanticism of "It's
Only a Paper Moon" to the bawdy comedy of "Lydia, the
Tatooed Lady" to the wishful escapism of "Somewhere Over
the Rainbow," Harburg worked with a variety of collaborators to
limn the dreams and realities of Americans facing the Great
Depression. And throughout his career, as Harriet Hyman Alonso makes
clear, Harburg consistently viewed his lyrics as a means for
expressing his opinions against war and in favor of racial equality
and economic justice.
From
the beginning of his career, Harburg worked steadily on Broadway,
collaborating with a variety of composers, including Vernon Duke
(“April in Paris”), Harold Arlen (“If You Believe in Me,”
later titled “It’s Only a Paper Moon”) and Jay Gorney, with
whom he wrote the memorable portrait of the dark years of the early
Depression, “Brother Can You Spare a Dime,” contrasting the past
accomplishments and present condition of American workers.
Once
I built a railroad
Made
it run
Made
it race against time
Once
I built a railroad
Now
it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?
By
the late-thirties, Harburg was also working regularly in Hollywood,
where he and Arlen collaborated on the soundtrack to The Wizard of
Oz (1939). Alonso includes several interesting facts concerning
the making of this classic. For instance, W.C.
Fields originally was supposed to play the Wizard, but he wanted
$75,000 while the studio would offer only $50,000. Thus, as Harburg
commented, he is another “example . . . of a man giving up
immortality for a lousy few dollars he didn’t need.” Also,
director Victor Fleming originally cut out the song “Over the
Rainbow” because he felt it made the first section of the movie
drag. Harburg and Arlen threw a fit and ultimately Louis B. Mayer
himself intervened and, mainly to mollify the composers, agreed to
leave the song in. A wise decision, as it turned out, as “Over the
Rainbow” won the 1940 Academy Award for best song and, in 2001 the
Recording Industry Association of America and the National Endowment
for the Arts named Judy Garland’s recording of the song the top
recording of the twentieth century.
In
the 1940s, Harburg continued to write for Hollywood, including such
songs as “And Russia is Her Name” (Jerome Kern, composer) for
“Song of Russia” (1944). He also continued to speak out against
racism in such songs as “Free and Equal Blues” (music by Earl
Robinson). And he returned to the stage in such shows as Finian’s
Rainbow, with music by Burton Lane, in which Harburg addressed
issues of racism and economic justice with his typical wit and good
humor. But as American politics shifted rightward in the late-1940s,
not everyone was so beguiled by Harburg’s wit and he found himself
blacklisted and unable to work in Hollywood. While he continued to
write for the stage with some success, the economics of staging
musicals meant that by the mid-1960s Harburg’s career as a lyricist
gradually dried up.
This
book is advertised on the dust jacket as “an interview-based
biography,” and that represents both its strength and weakness.
Alonso forgoes the critical role of biographer, seeming content to
let Harburg speak for himself, with quotes sometimes running
virtually uninterrupted for several pages. And while he can be a
charming raconteur, Harburg can also come across as cranky and not
very likeable, as when he complains that gay directors don’t know
how to portray heterosexual love scenes. When Alonso occasionally
quotes Harburg’s collaborators, he often comes across as
overbearing and difficult to work with, prompting Alonso to wonder
about what she terms “the intriguing and unanswered questions”
raised about the relationship between Harburg and his partners. But
isn’t it the job of a biographer to answer just such intriguing
questions?
When
his songwriting career faded in the 1960s, Harburg turned to writing
poetry, publishing two books of verse. His politics remained
pointed, focusing on such targets as Presidents Johnson and Nixon,
the Pentagon, and the Vietnam War. But as always, his tone remained
whimsical as he delighted in the sheer pleasure of language, as in
this “Epitaph”:
I’ve
whittled my wit
And
whipped my rhymes,
For
a small obit
In
the New York Times.
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