Is there a better known, more revered songwriter, even today, than Irving Berlin?
We think not.
But it’s intriguing to read the following profile, which dates from 1935. Berlin was already a giant in the world of music and theatre, but many of his greatest accomplishments still lay ahead of him.
In fact, of the dozens of titles of Berlin’s hit songs mentioned in this profile, very few were familiar to us (and we bet you’ll find them as unfamiliar as we did).
It was quite a life that Mr. Berlin led. And quite a career.
HE came from a burning village in Russia to the freedom of America. From a basement in Monroe Street to a palatial theatre on Broadway. From a little newsboy calling out his afternoon papers along the wharf to his rightful kingdom in Tin Pan Alley. From a singing waiter’s job on the Bowery to playing host to Park Avenue’s society. Irving Berlin.
But a change of address didn’t do it. It took courage.
First, let’s have a look at Irving Berlin. It is easy to picture a long line of singing poets back of his fathomless, dark eyes. Cantors, singing their hearts out in prayer, even as Berlin in his songs free our everyday emotion—sings out for us the loneliness, the love-making, the fun, and the stifled sobs that we are too timid to express.
“I Never Had A Chance,” “How Deep Is the Ocean, How High Is the Sky,” “Not For All the Rice in China,” and “Say It Isn’t So,” are just us thinking out loud.
See Berlin’s sensitive mouth; his ear, quick to the rustling of a leaf. Yet, for all his deep feeling, his responsiveness, Berlin is cool-headed. He is easier to talk to than is the average big man’s secretary. Without any fan-fare, he is standing quietly before you. Immediately you are aware of an unsuspected strength in him. He has tremendous poise. A keen, clear thinker, he makes lawyer-like decisions.
When the sad, refugee Cantor Baline and his family came to America back in 1892, our hero was little four-year-old Israel Baline, the youngest of eight children. It was not long before each, after the manner of their stout-hearted stock, was contributing her or her share to the family bank, Mother Baline’s anxiously waiting lap.
Israel was selling afternoon papers along the East Side wharves. One day, with five pennies held tightly in his manly fist, he felt optimistic. He was tempted to “Wanna Be Lazy.”
Idly, he stood watching a beautiful ship. A big crane came swinging overboard. Suddenly it caught up the little child. It dashed him through the air and dropped him in the deep waters of the East River. He went under quickly. Once. Twice!
A game, unidentified little Irish boy pulled off his shoes and jumped in the river after him. He saved the life of America’s king of popular songwriters—our own Irving Berlin.
Grief, in the death of the father, soon came to the Baline family. Israel was only eight years old. But his father, hoping he would follow the family tradition and became cantor, had already started the training of the small, sympathetic voice.
When the boy was fourteen, he wasn’t very big and he wasn’t very strong. Perhaps he was feeling “All Alone,” or like “Nobody Knows and Nobody Seems to Care,” the day he ran away from home and headed for the Bowery. The older children were bringing more money home to their mother’s lap. Pride had led the way, but it took grit, courage to go.
“If The Managers Only Thought the Same As Mother” along the Great White Way of the Bowery! Anyhow, Irving Baline who grew up to be Irving Berlin was “Wishing.”
Irving became a “busker;” in today’s parlance, a song plugger. Tony Pastor once paid him five dollars a week to join in the chorus of a song being sung on the stage, from his place in the balcony. It was tough being away from home. Not high living on five dollars. But the boy probably said: “Thank you, kind sir.”
First, Berlin worked in Callahan’s place. The, in 1904, when “Nigger Mike” (a white man, of course) opened the Pelham, a show place for slummers and a night club to Fifth Avenue patrons, Berlin went to work there. He was a singing waiter.
One night Max Winslow, a song plugger for Harry Von Tilzer, dropped in. He heard Irvin singing an original parody on “Mary Ann.” Winslow hurried back to Von Tilzer and begged him to employ the boy. At fifteen dollars a week. But Von Tilzer couldn’t see it.
Berlin and Winslow became fast friends from the time of this meeting. Theirs is still one of the finest friendships known along Tin Pan Alley.
From Salter’s, the young minstrel found work at Jimmy Kelly’s. It was while here that he wrote the words of “Marie from Sunny Italy.” It was his first published song and brought the hopeful singer the large sum of thirty-seven cents.
Undaunted, Irving, now nineteen, kept us working and scribbling away at his lyrics.
HE hottest boys in town are members of that rootin’, tootin’ outfit of blue-blowers called the Casa Loma orchestra. How they got their start made band history.