If homo sapiens are still around in, oh, 300 years, and if there still are literature survey courses in universities – the iffiness of the second if being that of the first raised to the tenth power, leaving us with a tantalizingly infinitessimal (ifinitessimal) probability – the English majors whose speciality is the 20th century will not be studying Joyce and Woolf, Eliot and Ginsburg, nor any other of the stalwarts of 20th century literature as we know it. They will be studying our songs.
By 2400, the art of the troubadours (1100-1350) will seem as nothing compared with the outporing of song that marks our own time.
Sticking only to what an English major would be dealing with – my grasp of non-English song being very spotty – here is a proposed course plan for a 25th century class in the The Great Age of Song.
1. From the parlor to the music hall and beyond. Stephen Foster to W. S. Gilbert.
2. Innocent sophistication. Carmichael and Coward to Gershwin (Ira) and Mercer.
3. From out of the rockslide. Lennon and Holland-Dozier-Holland to Cohen and Dylan.
4. Country recovery. Nelson to Silverstein.
(Now, remember – this is a literature course, not a music course. We listen to Schubert’s music; the poems he set, even if some of them are not entirely banal, are still just a filip to our enjoyment of the music. The same goes for blues and many rock-and-roll and rhythm-and-blues masterpieces. The difference – oh, okay, a difference – between the music of Schubert and the music of The Supremes, say, is that, thanks to recording technology, it is The Supremes’ performance that we enjoy; the musical composition is secondary.)
The study of The Great Age of Song will be the study of 20th century poetry. (I am afraid that by the 25th century, 20th century prose, while acknowledged to be rich in its own way, will so pale before the glories of song, that it will be a field left to specialists.) And in terms of literary poetry, what can the general run of 20th century poets offer to compare with the glories of popular song lyrics? (I am classifying Yeats as 19th century.) Oh, there are some great works here and there which, in the profundity of their form and content, far outclass the best of the song lyricists. But these are only occasional oases in a desert of failed experimentation, and complicated psychological constructs which already have become anachronistic. And many 20th century masterpieces of poetry fall back on older poetics to achieve their effect. Ginsburg writes like Whitman. Frost writes like Browning. Auden expands on the 18th century Augustinians with a dash of the English Decadents. Many of the second tier 20th century poets indeed are artists of their time – Crane, Stevens, William Carlos Williams – but in the first tier only Eliot is authentically 20th century.
To 25th century scholars, it will be the fecundity of The Great Age of Song that will be seen as remarkable, its quantity, more than its quality – especially when it comes to its love songs.
That is the weakness of the 20th century song: its subject matter is limited. Although there are many exceptions, it deals mainly with eros – as did the songs of the troubadours a milennium earlier. Even at their best, popular love song lyrics cannot match the quality of the greatest love poetry, of Rumi, Donne or Millay (another 20th century poet whose best work depends upon a historic precedent – in this case, the Elizabethans). The canon of popular song is saturated with dross – as is love poetry – and all poetry, for that matter.
An excellent selection of mediocre love poetry through the centuries can be found in Quiller-Couch’s immensely popular but notoriously tone-deaf The Oxford Book of English Verse of 1910.
Compare this, by the Earl of Rochester
By 2400, the art of the troubadours (1100-1350) will seem as nothing compared with the outporing of song that marks our own time.
Sticking only to what an English major would be dealing with – my grasp of non-English song being very spotty – here is a proposed course plan for a 25th century class in the The Great Age of Song.
1. From the parlor to the music hall and beyond. Stephen Foster to W. S. Gilbert.
2. Innocent sophistication. Carmichael and Coward to Gershwin (Ira) and Mercer.
3. From out of the rockslide. Lennon and Holland-Dozier-Holland to Cohen and Dylan.
4. Country recovery. Nelson to Silverstein.
(Now, remember – this is a literature course, not a music course. We listen to Schubert’s music; the poems he set, even if some of them are not entirely banal, are still just a filip to our enjoyment of the music. The same goes for blues and many rock-and-roll and rhythm-and-blues masterpieces. The difference – oh, okay, a difference – between the music of Schubert and the music of The Supremes, say, is that, thanks to recording technology, it is The Supremes’ performance that we enjoy; the musical composition is secondary.)
The study of The Great Age of Song will be the study of 20th century poetry. (I am afraid that by the 25th century, 20th century prose, while acknowledged to be rich in its own way, will so pale before the glories of song, that it will be a field left to specialists.) And in terms of literary poetry, what can the general run of 20th century poets offer to compare with the glories of popular song lyrics? (I am classifying Yeats as 19th century.) Oh, there are some great works here and there which, in the profundity of their form and content, far outclass the best of the song lyricists. But these are only occasional oases in a desert of failed experimentation, and complicated psychological constructs which already have become anachronistic. And many 20th century masterpieces of poetry fall back on older poetics to achieve their effect. Ginsburg writes like Whitman. Frost writes like Browning. Auden expands on the 18th century Augustinians with a dash of the English Decadents. Many of the second tier 20th century poets indeed are artists of their time – Crane, Stevens, William Carlos Williams – but in the first tier only Eliot is authentically 20th century.
To 25th century scholars, it will be the fecundity of The Great Age of Song that will be seen as remarkable, its quantity, more than its quality – especially when it comes to its love songs.
That is the weakness of the 20th century song: its subject matter is limited. Although there are many exceptions, it deals mainly with eros – as did the songs of the troubadours a milennium earlier. Even at their best, popular love song lyrics cannot match the quality of the greatest love poetry, of Rumi, Donne or Millay (another 20th century poet whose best work depends upon a historic precedent – in this case, the Elizabethans). The canon of popular song is saturated with dross – as is love poetry – and all poetry, for that matter.
An excellent selection of mediocre love poetry through the centuries can be found in Quiller-Couch’s immensely popular but notoriously tone-deaf The Oxford Book of English Verse of 1910.
Compare this, by the Earl of Rochester
I cannot change as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no; your heart to move
A surer way I’ll try;
And, to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on and die.
When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall –
That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.
with this, by Otto Harbach:
They asked me how I knew
My true love was true.
I of course replied
"Something here inside
Cannot be denied"
They said someday you'll find
All who love are blind.
When your heart's on fire
You don't realise
Smoke gets in your eyes
So I chaffed
And I gaily laughed
To think they would doubt my love
Yet today,
My love has flown away
I am without my love.
Now laughing friends deride
Tears I cannot hide,
So I smile and say,
"When a lovely flame dies,
Smoke gets in your eyes."
And this is where I stopped.
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no; your heart to move
A surer way I’ll try;
And, to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on and die.
When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall –
That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.
with this, by Otto Harbach:
They asked me how I knew
My true love was true.
I of course replied
"Something here inside
Cannot be denied"
They said someday you'll find
All who love are blind.
When your heart's on fire
You don't realise
Smoke gets in your eyes
So I chaffed
And I gaily laughed
To think they would doubt my love
Yet today,
My love has flown away
I am without my love.
Now laughing friends deride
Tears I cannot hide,
So I smile and say,
"When a lovely flame dies,
Smoke gets in your eyes."
And this is where I stopped.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not all of the above, but most of it, is bullshit.
It’s an idea I’d worked over in my head from time to time for many years but, as is often the case, once I began to put it down on paper (a euphemism, of course) its flaws and inconsistencies emerged.
Nevertheless, I ploughed ahead, trying to fit the complex reality of the relationship between song and poetry into my brilliant simplification.
One change I had to make was the substitution of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” for “I’ll be Around.”
It was listening to a performance by Jane Monheit of Alec Wilder’s “I’ll be Around” on satellite radio as I was crossing the Hudson that moved me to write a post on The Great Age of Song for the Blah Blah Blague. But, once they appeared in black-and-white on the screen, it was clear that the lyrics to “I’ll be Around” were too thin and banal, so I replaced them with the meatier, more literary “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
I'll be around,
No matter how
You treat me now
I'll be around from now on.
Your latest love
Can never last,
And when its past,
I'll be around when he's gone
Good-bye again,
And if you find a love like mine
Just now and then,
Oh drop a line to say you`re feeling fine
And when things go wrong
Perhaps you'll see
You're meant for me
So I'll be around when he's gone.
Good-bye again,
And if you find a love like mine
Just now and then,
Oh drop a line to say your feeling fine
And when things go wrong
Perhaps you'll see
You're meant for me
So I'll be around when he's gone.
(I chose the Earl of Rochester poem because its theme of unrequited love was similar to that of “I’ll be Around”. “Old Black Magic’s” better-to-have-loved-and-lost sentiment seemed to fit right in.)
Finally, I came to the point where it seemed I was going to have to acknowledge that, well, the music does play a large role in giving depth and meaning to what otherwise would be second-rate poetry. Then it occurred to me that probably much of the second-rate poetry in The Oxford Book of English Verse was actually intended to be sung – especially the 17th and early 18th century pieces.
Which meant that in one sense Quiller-Couch was quite literally tone-deaf.
Sure enough, a search on e-music disclosed a recording, just one, of the Earl of Rochester’s poem.
(I’ve never been able to appreciate 17th century lute songs. They seem to me both overwraught and uninteresting – a deadly combination. But that’s my problem; I’m assuming there’s something there which I just don’t get.)
Not all of the above, but most of it, is bullshit.
It’s an idea I’d worked over in my head from time to time for many years but, as is often the case, once I began to put it down on paper (a euphemism, of course) its flaws and inconsistencies emerged.
Nevertheless, I ploughed ahead, trying to fit the complex reality of the relationship between song and poetry into my brilliant simplification.
One change I had to make was the substitution of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” for “I’ll be Around.”
It was listening to a performance by Jane Monheit of Alec Wilder’s “I’ll be Around” on satellite radio as I was crossing the Hudson that moved me to write a post on The Great Age of Song for the Blah Blah Blague. But, once they appeared in black-and-white on the screen, it was clear that the lyrics to “I’ll be Around” were too thin and banal, so I replaced them with the meatier, more literary “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
I'll be around,
No matter how
You treat me now
I'll be around from now on.
Your latest love
Can never last,
And when its past,
I'll be around when he's gone
Good-bye again,
And if you find a love like mine
Just now and then,
Oh drop a line to say you`re feeling fine
And when things go wrong
Perhaps you'll see
You're meant for me
So I'll be around when he's gone.
Good-bye again,
And if you find a love like mine
Just now and then,
Oh drop a line to say your feeling fine
And when things go wrong
Perhaps you'll see
You're meant for me
So I'll be around when he's gone.
(I chose the Earl of Rochester poem because its theme of unrequited love was similar to that of “I’ll be Around”. “Old Black Magic’s” better-to-have-loved-and-lost sentiment seemed to fit right in.)
Finally, I came to the point where it seemed I was going to have to acknowledge that, well, the music does play a large role in giving depth and meaning to what otherwise would be second-rate poetry. Then it occurred to me that probably much of the second-rate poetry in The Oxford Book of English Verse was actually intended to be sung – especially the 17th and early 18th century pieces.
Which meant that in one sense Quiller-Couch was quite literally tone-deaf.
Sure enough, a search on e-music disclosed a recording, just one, of the Earl of Rochester’s poem.
(I’ve never been able to appreciate 17th century lute songs. They seem to me both overwraught and uninteresting – a deadly combination. But that’s my problem; I’m assuming there’s something there which I just don’t get.)
And here is what got me started:
Footnote: I met Alec Wilder in the late ’50’s, when my friend, Don, and I were taken under their wing by Don’s sophisticated cousin and his wife. They knew Wilder from the Algonquin Hotel, which – sophisticates that they were – they frequented. We were introduced to him there.
I used to have a record, a 10-inch 33rpm, of Frank Sinatra – of all people – conducting Alec Wilder. Music for octet. (Hardly needing a conductor, you’d think.) I may still have it in storage. A lovely record. Not available as a download. Evidently there was a CD made, but that is out-of-print, although still available on Amazon for $30+.
Around the same time, I became a fan of Mabel Mercer, and I and my girlfriend would go to hear her sing in smokey and elegant clubs in the East Fifties or in various hotels bars. One song of hers, in particular, touched me. Much later I found that it was written by Wilder. “Did You Ever Cross over to Sneden’s” (Sneden's is misspelled in the track title.)
I used to have a record, a 10-inch 33rpm, of Frank Sinatra – of all people – conducting Alec Wilder. Music for octet. (Hardly needing a conductor, you’d think.) I may still have it in storage. A lovely record. Not available as a download. Evidently there was a CD made, but that is out-of-print, although still available on Amazon for $30+.
Around the same time, I became a fan of Mabel Mercer, and I and my girlfriend would go to hear her sing in smokey and elegant clubs in the East Fifties or in various hotels bars. One song of hers, in particular, touched me. Much later I found that it was written by Wilder. “Did You Ever Cross over to Sneden’s” (Sneden's is misspelled in the track title.)
And then, naturally, I had an internet adventure. Looking for Wilder’s “Sneden” I came across this, from a blog called Anecdotal Evidence.
In 1947, Alec Wilder wrote the music and words to “Did You Ever Cross Over to Sneden’s” for his friend Mabel Mercer, whom Whitney Balliett called “the matchless but largely unknown doyenne of American popular singing.” The preceding sentence probably contains not a single signifier, as the semiotic boys say, for most readers, certainly young ones. Wilder’s biographer, Desmond Stone, calls “Sneden’s” “a difficult art song,” and even Wilder deemed it “far-out. . .
The song has always reminded me of Cheever’s Wapshot novels. It’s evident that the man who wrote it had a gift for melody and rhythm (in language, I mean), some familiarity with the pastoral tradition in English poetry, and came of age in the decades before rock and roll, though the language is modern and conversational. To my ears, only “And the soft rolling land did sleep” sounds tritely archaic, and I like Wilder’s second mention of the elms. All but three of the song's 18 sentences are questions, which ought to be monotonous but isn’t. Using simple language, Wilder evokes a wistful, never melodramatic or self-pitying, sense of time and opportunity lost. Housman is not far away and I love the song dearly but it’s not poetry.
Great stuff. I’ll be adding this blog, by a fellow in Texas named Patrick Kurp, to my list of recommendations in The Flying Shuttle.
In 1947, Alec Wilder wrote the music and words to “Did You Ever Cross Over to Sneden’s” for his friend Mabel Mercer, whom Whitney Balliett called “the matchless but largely unknown doyenne of American popular singing.” The preceding sentence probably contains not a single signifier, as the semiotic boys say, for most readers, certainly young ones. Wilder’s biographer, Desmond Stone, calls “Sneden’s” “a difficult art song,” and even Wilder deemed it “far-out. . .
The song has always reminded me of Cheever’s Wapshot novels. It’s evident that the man who wrote it had a gift for melody and rhythm (in language, I mean), some familiarity with the pastoral tradition in English poetry, and came of age in the decades before rock and roll, though the language is modern and conversational. To my ears, only “And the soft rolling land did sleep” sounds tritely archaic, and I like Wilder’s second mention of the elms. All but three of the song's 18 sentences are questions, which ought to be monotonous but isn’t. Using simple language, Wilder evokes a wistful, never melodramatic or self-pitying, sense of time and opportunity lost. Housman is not far away and I love the song dearly but it’s not poetry.
Great stuff. I’ll be adding this blog, by a fellow in Texas named Patrick Kurp, to my list of recommendations in The Flying Shuttle.
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