The song Over the Rainbow from the Wizard of Oz features prominently in our family’s history. It was a long-standing tradition when my kids were younger that I would sing this song to them at bedtime. It started as a mother’s desperate act to soothe a sick child, diverting her from her febrile misery with sweet dreams of rainbows and bluebirds. It then became a command performance to delay slumber: “Mom, sing the rainbow song!” Later, when my ten-year old daughter was becoming well known locally for her figure skating, she chose the heart-rending Eva Cassidy version of the song as her first invited solo program in the annual ice show. It was a fitting backdrop to her first public performance of a double Lutz.
This beautiful song was written by the great Harold Arlen, with lyrics credited to Yip Harburg. It is a lesser known fact that the writing team was stuck, unable to find a suitable ending for the song that would anchor Victor Fleming’s epic film. A chance meeting with Ira Gershwin (brother and co-collaborator to composer George Gershwin) got the song off the ground and onto the screen. Gershwin encountered Arlen and Harburg at the studio; they played the song for Ira unsure of how to close it out. Off the top of his head, Ira made a bold suggestion. Why not just go—‘if happy little bluebirds fly/beyond the rainbow/why, oh why can’t I?’ Thus, Ira Gershwin became an uncredited lyricist for Over the Rainbow, saving the song that made the Wizard of Oz legendary.
I have always had a particular love for Ira Gershwin because of the 'lyricism' of his lyrics. Though recognized for the purity of his rhymes (he would never sink to rhyming the word ‘time’ with ‘line’), it is the combination of both rhythm and rhyme that distinguishes the Ira Gershwin lyrical signature. This complexity satiates the listener on multiple levels, much like the way you taste a meal with your eyes and your nose as well as your tongue. Consider this passage from my most favorite Gershwin song, Someone to Watch Over Me: “Although he may not be the man some/girls think of as handsome/To my heart he carries the key./Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed/Follow my lead,/oh, how I need/Someone to watch over me.” Gershwin’s style of building internal rhymes on variable length phrases is songwriting at its best. One hardly needs to hear the melody to feel the lilting pulse of the song.
Ira’s genius went hand in glove with that of his brother, himself a master of constructing great musical stanzas. But Ira’s talent survived George’s by almost half a century, forcing the lyricist to find others with whom to create songs. Most notably, Harold Arlen turned to Ira again when his collaboration with Johnny Mercer in the 50s failed to sizzle. Their resulting torch song, The Man That Got Away—immortalized by Judy Garland in A Star is Born—showcases the illustratively vivid rhyming cadence of an Ira Gershwin lyric: “The night is bitter/The stars have lost their glitter/The winds grow colder/And suddenly you’re older/And all because of /The man that got away.”
This quality of song writing is a lost art. Today’s song writers may succeed in capturing the lights and sounds of today's lifestyles, but they are missing the qualities of craftsmanship that unite music and lyrics. For example, consider this verse from a top song by Lady GaGa: “I’m gonna lace up my boots/Throw on some leather and cruise/Down the streets that I love/And my fishnet gloves/I’m a sinner.” Or this hit song by LMFAO: “When I walk on by girls be looking like damn he fly/I pimp to the beat, walking down the street in my new la freak, yeah/This is how I roll. . .” In both cases, the lack of unity between music and lyrics (and one could even argue, a lack of interest) renders the lyrics almost irrelevant in the context of the song. I am reminded of a Nirvana parody by Weird Al Yankovic that helps make this point. Nirvana might have rendered a comparable odor of teen spirit by substituting Weird Al’s lyrics: “Now I’m mumblin’ and I’m screamin’/And I don’t know what I’m singing’/Crank the volume, ears are bleedin’/I still don’t know what I’m singin’”? Today's recording technology is capable of simulating instruments and making singers sound like they can sing in tune, yet it is interesting how many recordings leave lyrics unintelligible. Lyrics are no longer regarded as a selling feature of popular songs.
Despite my disappointment with the general state of modern songsmanship, I have found hope in the most unlikely place: Eminem. Marshal Mathers, the rough, vulgar, violent rapper from Detroit
Take, for example, this opening passage: “His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy/There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti/He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready/to drop bombs. . .” This verse paints a vivid picture of the young man who has hit rock bottom; he knows that he is at a turning point, but fears for his life if he is unable to rise to the occasion.
Later, the lyrics capture the visualization of his dreams: “The soul’s escaping, through this hole that is gaping/The world is mine for the taking/Make me king, as we move toward a new world order,/A normal life is boring. . .” Ira Gershwin would be proud. Certainly this is no love song, but the rhymes, while imperfect by Gershwin standards, are clever, emanating organically from the emotion of the song to create a lasting image. The rhythms of the phrases, consisting of short embedded rhymes built into larger rhyming stuctures, are classic Gershwin. Most notably, he incorporates the minutiae of his life with details that touch the listener’s senses, compelling us for the moment to stand in his shoes. His is not a world of “happy little bluebirds,” but he too hopes to use his wits and awareness to transport himself to a life far, far away from where he started.
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