Some Old Musical Theatre Songwriting Tropes We Should Be Using More

1. Flip the Title Around, and/or Gently Pun Upon It

Punning on a song’s title used be quite the thing, back when lyricists were allowed to be clever for the fun of it. Here’s an attention-getting example from Ira Gershwin:

Beginning of refrain …

They’re writing songs of love,
But not for me.
A lucky star’s above,
But not for me.

By refrain’s end …

When every happy plot,
Ends with a marriage knot
And there’s no knot for me

That’s “But Not For Me”, from Girl Crazy (1930), and I doubt you could get away with that sort of pun today, outside of a cabaret act or a topical revue. It throws character aside, and pulls the audience out of the story. But Ira Gershwin could be beautifully subtle when he wanted to. This is “Long Ago (and Far Away)”, from the movie Cover Girl (1944):

Refrain starts …

Long ago and far away
I dreamed a dream one day
And now that dream is here beside me

Refrain ends …

Just one look and then I knew
That all I longed for
Long ago was you.

Notice how, apart from the downright dreamy sentiment, playing with the title like this gives Gershwin a fresh rhyme for the final syllable, and on a lovely vowel?

One more: here’s Stephen Sondheim in “Good Thing Going”, from Merrily We Roll Along (1981), avoiding the trap of rhyming the last word of a song with the pinched sound of “going”, while also breaking our hearts.

Beginning …

It started out like a song.
We started quiet and slow, with no surprise,
And then one morning I woke to realise
We had a good thing going.

Ending …

It could have kept on growing,
Instead of just kept on.
We had a good thing going, going,
Gone.

Advantages of this trope: It obliges you to move the song’s ideas forward. Let me repeat that. It obliges you to move the song’s ideas. Forward. An AABA theatre song should do something like this:

A – only some of what you need to know,
A – a little more of what you need, extra details, elaborations,
B – a fresh perspective, alternative view, dissenting opinions,
A – the last of what you need to know, maybe with a revelation, or a twist.

Here’s what too many contemporary AABA theatre songs do:

A – everything you need to know.
A – what I just told you, only more of it.
B – what you already know, seen from a different vantage point.
A – what you know, louder and higher.

A score that coulda used it: Catch Me If You Can (2011, Shaiman / Wittman)

The central conceit of Catch Me If You Can is that Frank Abagnale, Jr is presenting his life story, through the 1950s and 1960s, as an old-fashioned TV variety special, so it’s understandable that most of the songs use some variation of AABA form. But out of sixteen numbers, guess how many songs end their refrains by rhyming with the title, or the same few words added to the title, every single time? Go on, guess.

Eleven. And that number goes up to the thirteen if I include two songs in verse-chorus form (“Seven Wonders” and “Fly, Fly Away”) that use a repeated ending line which happens not to be the title.

In these thirteen songs, there’s no playing with the words in order to push ideas forward, or to create fresh rhymes at the end. Over and over, these thirteen songs do this:

Here’s a thing I think, and in a style you might enjoy,
Couched in all the language you’d expect me to employ,
So the thing I have concluded is (and was there any doubt?):
The Title of This Song is What This Song is All About.
Yes, The Title of This Song is What This Song is All About

2. Not Much More Than An Octave, And Not Often

I’m going to assume you don’t read standard music notation, but if you don’t, I’ll also let you in on a little secret: the little diagrams you’re about to see work in exactly the same way, as far as timing and pitch go. From left to right, they show when the notes occur. From bottom to top, they show how high they are.

But first, here’s Fred Astaire introducing Irving Berlin’s “Change Partners” in the 1938 movie Carefree. The song is near the start of the clip, and if you stay for the dance routine I’ll understand completely.

Here’s a diagram showing how this song’s melody works, through its AABA form – I’ve joined the phrases together for simplicity. Look at how beautifully Berlin tackles a practical and commercial consideration of melody: his leading man does not have a big singing range, and neither does the average music customer, so Berlin is very careful about where his tune ascends to an octave or more above the melody’s lowest note. Click if you like full size:

change partners

By heaven, that’s how you write a tune that doesn’t go much over an octave, and doesn’t do it often.

Advantages of this trope: Let’s say you have a character who won’t be hitting the big notes – and a leading character, too, not a bit of Thénardier comic relief. Without the applausebait of loud, high belting near the end of the tune, what will you give this character’s performer to help put the song across? How will you convey emotional intensity and depth of feeling?

Maybe you’ll use dance, as above, or explore more specifics of character, or reveal some new plot, or give better fodder for acting. It’ll have to be real acting, too, and not just emoting. It’ll be worth it, though, because you’ll end up with a character (and a show) that doesn’t sound like all the others. But even better, you’ll have more casting choices, since it won’t be all about the eight bars of high F. One of your stars won’t need so many days of vocal rest. More performers will be able to sing your song, reliably. More audience members too.

A score that coulda used it: Chess (1984, Andersson / Ulvaeus / Rice)

All the main characters in Chess have big singing ranges, and all of them indicate emotional intensity by singing loud and high. Fair enough: a singer can’t croon in a rock/pop score; they’d never be heard over the instruments. Also, scores that use repeated melodic chunks often ask one character to sing another character’s tunes, so if one character sings over a wide range, chances are the rest will too.

And yet. And yet.

Consider the Russian, Anatoly, who does not express his feelings as readily as his American counterpart, Freddy. Anatoly’s first big number is “Where I Want To Be”, and the melody of its verses is in a nice register, and prettily shaped, as you’d expect from Benny and Björn. But in the chorus the vocal melody does this:

where i want

This number actually has a smaller range than Berlin’s “Change Partners”, but as any baritone will tell you, it’s not about the height, it’s about how long I have to stay up there. It’s about the tessitura. In the case of “Where I Want To Be”, maybe the Musical Director could transpose the whole thing down, but that wouldn’t help much with Anatoly’s big aria at the end of Act One. Look again at how Berlin prepares the singer’s voice (and your ear) for the higher notes in his song, and then consider this, near the end of Anatoly’s “Anthem”. You know the bit – “how could I leave her …”

anthem

That’s almost the song’s entire range, within four beats. It’s the melodic equivalent of a doctor with cold hands. Later, in “End Game”, Anatoly will traverse an even wider range, an octave and a major sixth – the entire range of “Ol’ Man River” – within six bars. And this is the guy who doesn’t have to sing “Pity the Child”.

3. The Song That’s Not About Sex (Except It Is)

In Guys and Dolls, the rakish gambler guy Sky Masterson takes the Salvation Army doll Sarah Brown to Havana, thereby winning a bet. He plies her with a local drink, “Dulce de leche”, including its “native flavoring” of Bacardi, and she elaborates on its effect with the following examples of the subjunctive mood. In summary:

Ask me how do I feel
Ask me now that we’re cosy and clinging
Well sir, all I can say, is …

If I were a bell I’d be ringing
If I were a lamp I’d light
If I were a banner I’d wave
If I were a gate I’d be swinging
If I were a watch I’d start popping my spring
If I were a bell, I’d go ding-dong-ding-dong-ding
If I were a bridge I’d be burning
If I were a duck I’d quack
If I were a goose I’d be cooked
If I were a salad, I know I’d be splashing my dressing
If I were a bell, I’d go ding-dong-ding-dong-ding

We know Sarah is physically attracted to Sky, but look at how composer/lyricist Frank Loesser flirts with, yet avoids, overtly sexual imagery. That’s because he knows two things about a crass possibility like “If I were a camel, I’d hump”:

1. Drunk or not, Sarah Brown would never say such a thing.

2. Sexy songs are sexier when you let the audience supply the sexy details.

Advantages of this trope: I know, it’s no longer 1950 – surely we can be more candid? But if you have a character who, deep down, wants to dance the no-pants dance, and you make them sing a song all about how, deep down, they want to dance the no-pants dance, what have you given the actor to play?

Nothing. There’s no tension. They, and their director, will be forced to come up with all sorts of “comedy” “business” to help the time go by.

On the other hand, if you have a song about two characters buying the firm’s annual office supplies together, and one character deeply, deeply wants to jump the other one’s bones, you’ve got possibilities. Think of what a gift this situation could be to a performer and a director. Think of all the wholesome joy your audience can have supplying filthy, sexy details.

A score that coulda used it: Victor/Victoria (1982, 1995, Mancini / Wildhorn / Bricusse)

Victor/Victoria is all about sexual attraction, from Victoria, who’s attracted to a real man’s man, King Marchand – but can’t reveal it because she’s masquerading as a man herself – to King Marchand, who’s attracted to Victoria, thinking she’s really a man, and is wrestling with this hitherto unsuspected side of his sexuality.

The score gets it right at first with “Le Jazz Hot”, a song all about the hotness of jazz, but really about the hotness of Victoria. Then, later (and to everyone’s credit, this song was later cut), King Marchand’s lover Norma tries to tempt him into bed with “Paris Makes Me Horny”:

Rome may be hot –
Sexy it is not!
Paris is so sexy!
Ridin’ in a taxi
Gives me apoplexy.

Been ta Lisbon
An’ Lisbon is a has-bin!
Schlepped ta Stockholm
An’ brought a lotta schlock home!
Also Oslo
An’ Oslo really was slow!

Paris makes me horny!
It’s not like Californy
Paris is so dizzy, Jack,
It’s such an aphrodisiac!

There it is. A character who wants sex singing about how she wants sex. Even if the song were good, there’d be no tension, and sure enough, performer Rachel York and her director Blake Edwards were forced to come up with all sorts of “comedy” “business”.

There’s a simple fix, though, if this scene is to contain a song, because the wrong character is singing: it should be King Marchand. After seeing Victoria as Victor, he should be singing about he’s not worried about that handsome Victor guy, because King Marchand is a real man, who likes manly things, like football – yeah, King Marchand, grabbing other guys, pulling them to the ground and … no, wait … poker – yeah, poker, King Marchand, with all the fellas, staying up all night, drinking, sucking on cigars, gazing at each other’s hands, looking real deep into each other’s eyes … no, wait, dammit … a sharp, tailored suit – yeah, King Marchand, buying expensive fashionable clothes, and all the guys saying how good he looks …

Then Norma can invite him into bed.

An Open Letter to Howard Sherman, Executive Director of the American Theatre Wing

First, congratulations on a terrific Tonys telecast. It was fast, bright and funny.

Second, please put the award for Best Original Score back in the middle of the evening, where it belongs.

I believe I know the main arguments against reinstating this award, and I think they’re all inadequate. Here they are:

1. Nobody cares about original showtunes any more. Audiences want songs they already know.

In the last five years, four of the Tonys for Best Musical have gone to the show that also won the Tony for Best Original Score. Four times in five years, and in all those years there were a healthy four nominees for Best Original Score. Do you know how far back you have to go to see that again, four out of five, all in years with four nominees?

1964-1968.

Yes, you have to go back to the end of the musical’s so-called Golden Age, to the seasons that began with Fiddler on the Roof and ended with the arrival of Hair. Granted, there’s been some help from the American Theatre Wing and The Broadway League themselves, nominating Enron and Fences last year for Best Original Score, but you can’t argue that the jukebox musical is the dominant force on Broadway today. I know it’s hard to believe, but we are in the middle of a minor Golden Era for original scores on Broadway, and the Tonys don’t seem to know it.

The success of these doubly-awarded shows indicates that audiences do care about original showtunes, that they want songs they don’t already know, and they want them in award-winning hit musicals. The American Theatre Wing should be trumpeting this news every year, and instead everyone is behaving as if original showtunes are endangered, and too thin on the ground to celebrate.

2. It’s the performances that rate well on Award night. The writers aren’t good TV.

Except that this year, some of the finest moments of the telecast were courtesy of writers of showtunes. An original opening number, by Tony Award-nominated songwriters? A closing number, edited to suit the evening’s events, by a Tony Award-winning songwriter? No other Awards show can make use of this kind of talent, but the talent goes un-named. Here’s what should happen:

Two men approach the podium.

Man 1: Hi. We’re David Javerbaum and Adam Schlesinger.
Man 2: And we wrote that opening number for tonight’s show.

Applause.

Man 1 (David): The nominees for Best Original Score are …

3. There isn’t time.

Yes there is, if songwriters matter to musicals. If there is time to repeat a number from a show that already won last year, and if there is time for a number from a high-profile production that has yet to open, then there is time to award songwriters who have a) not already been awarded and b) wrote shows that have actually opened.

4. The telecast is primarily about attracting tourists, and only secondarily about rewarding talent.

If this cynical view is an accurate one, it is even more important to reinstate the writers – all the writers, whether they write revues, jukebox shows, special events, book, music or lyrics. If they are not celebrated they will move elsewhere, and without their new shows what will the tourists come and see?

5. But there were several songwriters featured in the telecast!

There were, and here’s who they were:

Paul Schaffer
Bono and The Edge
Trey Parker, Matt Stone and Robert Lopez

The message to would-be theatre songwriters is clear: be already famous. Be rock stars or be television-famous. Or be the winners – two of whom are already television-famous.

Here’s a sobering thought: if Cole Porter and Frank Loesser were still alive, they would not have been seen last night, even though their work was featured. Can I be sure of this? Yes, because John Kander, who is still alive, was named but not shown in any way. On a night when the (almost certainly) last Broadway Kander and Ebb score was nominated, John Kander was not shown, but non-nominees Bono and The Edge were.

5. Every award can be seen on the web.

Indeed, and soon a telecast and a webcast will be the same thing. I reckon you’ve got five years – ten, if all the TV networks really drag their feet. Once the two join together into one live-tweeted/blogged/webcasted/TV event, anything that’s not included in the main portion of the evening will be sought out only by completists and buffs willing to search archived videos. In other words, the songwriters will become even more obscure than they already are, and we’ll still only see the winners, rather than all the nominees.

6. So if the whole thing’s going online, who cares where the awards are placed?

It matters because the placement emphasises the award’s importance. The award for Best Musical is right at the end of the night. Clearly, musicals matter to the evening, commercially and artistically. And note that, while they are called musicals, we do not see who writes the scores  unless they win something else later. We see actors, directors and producers. We see presenters with a tenuous connection to the production. But we don’t see most of those who make musicals, well, musical.

The opportunity is here, and it is now. Put the writers back in the centre of the action, a place their efforts have earned. Do it before the whole business moves online. Do it while musical theatre still has the internet’s attention. Don’t demonstrate that the musical theatre is a thriving form that apparently writes itself; instead, demonstrate that the form is thriving, and celebrate the writers who are making it thrive.

7. I suppose you’d also like to see a reinstatement of Best Choreography?

Yes, I would. But first things first.

Regards,

Peter J. Casey
A writer of showtunes

Some Broadway Clerihews

Frank Loesser
Was unable to repress a
Desire to mentor in later life.
A shame about the wife.

 

Lord Lloyd Webber,
A hack? Nay, nebber!
Near the start of Superstar
Is one very good bar.

 

Oscar Hammerstein II
Is forever under-reckoned.
But he revolutionised
Without becoming douchenised.

 

Wildhorn, Frank:
His melodies stank
Of Cheez Whiz and sherbet;
A less butch Victor Herbert.

 

And, last of all …

Thanks a lot, Steve,
For the legacy you leave.
We’ll escape it
By writing shit.