Read P.S. Online

Authors: Studs Terkel

P.S. (18 page)

BOOK: P.S.
6.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
 
She was great, impeccable.
 
Could not do it; could not do lyrics for a song.
 
Well, to make the transition from verse writing to songwriting is like a leap from Peter’s foot to Satan’s knee, or Satan’s foot to Peter’s knee. It’s an altogether different medium. Verse writing is an intellectual pursuit. You sit at home with a book, you are quiet, you absorb the thought, you chuckle to yourself. A song done in the theater is an emotional explosion. At the end of it you expect applause. You’ve got to move an audience, not only with the words, but with the emphasis on the music.
 
So there’s both. Whereas verse could be for reading and for offering, reciting, the lyric of a song is theatrical. It is very, very oral, audio.
 
Right. That’s why we call it act one, act two. You act things out. When you act things, you’re dramatizing, to have drama, song, give you that extra dimension that plain conversation does not give you. It’s the same as novel writing and histrionic writing,
dialogue writing for the stage. They’re two different things. One has to have movement, emotion, drama, force, explosion. The other has to have intellectual perception, peace, absorption, in a quiet way. And that’s why for every thousand novel writers and prose writers, there’s one playwright, all right.
 
Shaw did both, of course; he could do both.
 
Shaw was a master of both. But not only that; he was not only a master of prose and the stage, but he was a master of political science; he was a master of what the world was about. He knew the theory of evolution, the Darwinian theory. He knew Freud. In other words, he was a total man. And to be a good writer, even a lyric writer, you must be a total man. You must know you’re living in a world of Darwin, and Freud, and Shaw, and Einstein. If you don’t know that, and if you don’t combine all these things in an entertaining way in what you do, then you’re meaningless; then you’re only getting a hit record and making a million dollars.
 
You’re what Lillian Hellman called “a kid of the moment.”
 
That’s right; that’s right.
 
But you are a kid of many, many moments, sir. Yip Harburg. More of that verse. I’ll take a whack at the earlier book, too. While you’re looking for a verse, this is from an earlier book that I hope is available. There are three brief ones here. I’ll read “Agnostic,” “Atheist,” and “Realist.” “Agnostic”:
No matter how much I probe and prod,
I cannot quite believe in God.
But, oh, I hope to God that he,
Unswervingly believes in me.
“Atheist”:
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
And only God who makes the tree,
Also makes the fools like me.
But only fools like me, you see,
Can make a God who makes a tree.
And here goes “Realist”:
For what we are about to receive, oh, Lord, ’tis thee we thank.
Said the cannibal, as he cut a slice off the missionary’s shank.
The realist in me.
 
What have you from
At This Point in Rhyme
?
 
Well, here’s a couple I seem to like. This is called “Fail Safe.”
It’s a hundred billion dollars,
Every year at your expense,
For the Pentagon to gadget up,
Our national defense.
But it’s comforting to know,
That in the up and coming war,
We’ll be dying far more safely
Than we ever died before.
That’s almost Shavian, too. Yet it’s yours, so it’s Harburgian, though; that’s the irony. Just connecting that, a postscript to that one is one of yours here, “Fish and Fashion.”
When the nuclear dust
Has extinguished their betters,
Will the turtle surviving
Wear people neck sweaters?
That’s a fashion note.
 
This one is called “The Enemy List,” of which I happened to be a victim once.
Lives of great men all remind us,
Greatness takes no easy way.
All the heroes of tomorrow,
Are the heretics of today.
Socrates and Galileo,
John Brown, Thoreau, Christ and Debs,
Heard the night cry “Down with traitors!”
And the dawn shout “Up the Rebs!”
Nothing ever seems to bust them,
Gallows, crosses, prison bars.
Though we try to readjust them,
There they are among the stars.
Lives of great men all remind us,
We can write our names on high.
And departing, leave behind us,
Thumbprints in the FBI.
Oh, yeah. That’s, I would say, quite contemporary. You wrote that a year or so—a couple of years ago. There again, that’s the old story, isn’t it? There, in your seemingly lighthearted way, that’s the old truth, isn’t it? Those that call the shots at an early time are called traitors—
 
And years later they’re called patriots. Yeah. That happened to a fellow named Tom Paine, remember? Galileo.
 
Here’s one, on this very point. You open up with the question of Pontius Pilate. The question: What is truth? And here are your four lines.
The truth is so top secret,
It only stands to reason,
That anyone exposing it,
Is culpable of treason.
I have one. I have some people who are my favorite poison ivies, if you’ll forgive me. And this is called “A Saint He Ain’t.” It’s a person I have to listen to every time I turn the radio on, once in a while, by mistake.
Good St. Paul and Vincent Peale,
Are men of wholly different steel,
Yet both of holy calling.
St. Paul is most appealing,
And Peale is most appalling.
[
Chuckles
]
Here’s one. It’s about critics. This is Shaw—you’re quoting Shaw at the beginning.
 
“The professional critic is a frustrated writer”—GBS. Here’s Harburg.
When the critic, with all his frustrations,
Is but phosphate and lime under earth,
When this victim of fertilization,
Can no more thwart the process of birth.
Will some frail little daisy he sires,
Now proclaim him expressed and fulfilled,
And release all his hostile desires,
From his fellows who fashion and build?
Will the tunes and rhymes he so humbles,
Still annoy him there under the ground?
Where his critical cranium crumbles,
While the songs still survive all around.
[
Chuckles
]
Shaw would have liked that very much.
 
Yes. He influenced me a great deal, this kind of thinking. Here’s one I like, a little quick one called “Of Thee I Sing, Babel.”
Build thee more stately mansions, little man,
More grandioso, more gargantuan.
But as the towers rise, and derricks roar,
Remember there was once a dinosaur.
You know, there’s a marvelous writer of nature, Hal Borland, who died recently. This verse of yours reminded me of Hal Borland’s articles he wrote so often. He said: What has made man feel so arrogant that he thinks that his species won’t go if he fools around too often? Other species
have gone. He speaks of the dinosaur. He’s certain that other species once ran the world or inhabited the world, but they went, the time went, it was over. And he says, well, if man behaves the way he does now, why don’t they think their time won’t be over, too? And that’s the point you made right there.
 
There’s no doubt about it. From all my reading, from all my thinking, and don’t forget, I’ve reached an age now where I can claim a little wisdom.
 
You are eighty-two, but who would believe it?
 
And I think that the world is an experiment. That the way a man in a laboratory experiments with a test tube, the world is an experiment for something on the outside, for nature. Nature wants to survive. Nature wants to have birth, creation, growth. And it is constantly trying to find a species that will live in harmony with its laws and all its elements. And she is trying very hard to get that superman, the man that will live in conjunction with nature, with all its elements. So that he won’t be neurotic. So that he will be at peace. So that he can enjoy the beauty of all that life offers us. And so far, she has tried many species. She has tried the albatross, and the albatross went out of business. She has tried the dinosaur; the dinosaur went out of business. As soon as they get too big for themselves, and too powerful, something happens to the species. In fact, nature has tried hundreds and hundreds of species. Man is nothing more than another species of nature, which so far has shown the greatest acumen for survival. But he is not beyond all the others; he is not any greater than any of these other species. And nature has no use for a guest that is not a good guest in its logistics.
 
Not a courteous guest.
 
Right. If we can’t be decent human beings and have respect for one another, and know the laws of nature, and the laws of mankind, nature’s got no use for us and will wipe us out as easily as she did any of the insects.
 
I’m thinking
At This Point in Rhyme
really wittily, funnily, nimbly says all this with humor. One more from that, and then I’ve got to ask you about
Bloomer Girl.
 
Well, now here is a poem, I think, in which I offer, “The Far Out Generation,” in respect to what we’re saying.
The freak out,
The flop out,
The psyche out,
The drop out,
The black out,
The fall out,
The conk out,
The cop out,
The wipe out,
The sweat out,
The strike out,
The sell out,
Are warning the world,
We may all get the hell out.
But then, as you say that, you also are saying, you speak always of the beauty. I’m thinking of that song from
Finian’s
, “Look to the Rainbow.”
By the way, we haven’t talked about
Bloomer Girl. Bloomer Girl
dealt with the suffragists, Seneca Falls, and abolitionists all at the same time. If ever there were a contemporary musical . . . When was
Bloomer Girl
written?
 
Nineteen forty-four.
 
So that’s thirty-four years ago. Can it be that long ago?
 
That’s right.
 
If ever there were a woman’s movement musical . . . Now, you called the shots then. That could run for years, it seems to me. If
MS
magazine could sponsor a month of that, and now could sponsor a year of it.
 
Well, I’m hoping that somebody will revive it again because it’s so apropos now. It’s everything that the people working for the ERA are saying.
 
You know, just as everything is related, and I think . . . you speak of the whole man—you’re a whole man, all around. In
Bloomer Girl
, just as you were saying a moment ago about the human species and the need for a whole man, your artistry reflects that. Because in
Bloomer Girl
is a song the slave sings—Dooley Wilson, “the runaway slave.” It’s about when the world was an onion, the eagle and me. And you describe in a way—you remember how those lines go again?
 
Yes. We showed that the women’s movement was part of an indivisible fight for equality. Equality cannot be divided. If there’s no equality for the black man, there is no equality for
anybody, because if you can do that to one minority, you can do it to all. And the women knew that, and so they kept an underground railway in 1860, and they helped the runaway slaves to get across the border. So one of the songs in
Bloomer Girl
was “The Eagle and Me,” which went . . . I wish I had some music to keep me on pitch. [He recites]
What makes the gopher leave its hole
Trembling with fear and fright?
Maybe the gopher’s got a soul
Wanting to see the light.
That’s it, oh, yes, oh, yes, that’s it.
The Scripture has it writ,
Bet your life that’s it.
Nobody likes hole,
Nobody likes chain.
Don’t the good Lord, all around you
Make it plain?
[Sings]
River it like to flow,
Eagle it like to fly,
Eagle it like to feel its wings,
Against the sky.
Possum it like to run,
Ivy it like to climb,
Bird in a tree and bumblebee,
Want freedom in autumn or summertime.
Ever since that day,
When the world was an onion,
’Twas natural for the spirit to soar,
And play the way the Lord wanted it.
Free as the sun is free,
That’s how it’s gotta be.
Whatever is right for bumblebee, and river, and eagle
Is right for me.
We gotta be free,
The eagle and me.
A GATHERING OF SURVIVORS, 1971–72
FRAN ANSLEY, 21: My mother had a really big family . . . she was one of seven kids. And she brought me up, not on fairy tales, but on stories about what she and her family used to do, and that meant the Depression, and other stuff, too. So they feel almost like fairy tales to me, because she used to tell me bedtime stories about that kind of thing.
 
TOM YODER: My mother has a fantastic story, in my opinion, of growing up in the Depression in a small town in central Illinois. And, I don’t know, from what she says, and I don’t think she tries to glamorize it . . . these were times that were really tough. And it just seems absolutely . . . it’s almost, in a black humorous sense, funny to me that, to realize that, you know, a hundred miles from Chicago, about forty years ago, my mother’s older brothers, whom I know well now, were out with little rifles hunting for food to live on. And if they didn’t find it, there were truly some hungry stomachs. And this is just . . . this is just too much as far as I’m concerned. I don’t
think that my generation can really fully comprehend exactly what all this means.
 
PAM: It’s weird, because my mom is very much ashamed of the hard times in the Depression. But my aunt and uncle are very different; they’re very—they’re almost proud of it, and I think a lot of that is because they made it, and they got a lot of money. So they say to me . . . they talk about lazy people, and I know my parents sit there and think: Well, does that mean I’m lazy, you know, and that kind of jazz. And yet, they know they’ve really worked their hearts out. And I think, thinking back on that, and on my parents’ feelings, and on finding out what happened, had a lot to do with my feeling like you gotta have money to make it. And my mom had the habit of having little piles of money stashed away around the house, and we thought that was really weird.
BOOK: P.S.
6.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Ramon by Lexi Buchanan
A Knight to Remember by Christina Dodd
Now and Always by Lori Copeland
Winds of Enchantment by Rosalind Brett
Fear Familiar Bundle by Caroline Burnes
Shark Wars by Ernie Altbacker
Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein
Hot Licks by Jennifer Dellerman