Irving Aaronson Archives ⋆ Cladrite Radio

Sometimes, no matter how silly an idea is, you just have to go for it. Sell it like you mean it, brother, and there’s no telling how far your idea might go.

We were recently musing on how committing to a concept can pay off as we listened to a song we’re fond of, though we can’t deny it’s sheer fluff.

“‘Way Back Home” was written in 1935—the corny but infectious lyrics are by Al Lewis (not the actor who played Grandpa on The Munsters, but he did write the lyrics for “Blueberry Hill”) and music by Tom Waring, Fred‘s brother—and though it uses the same lyrical idea over and over and over, it is one catchy ditty.

You may not think so at first listen, but believe us, the gimmick grows on you.

To prove it, we’re offering five versions of the song. Listen to them all, and believe us, you’ll be hooked but good.

We start you off with a recording by Irving Aaronson and His Commanders, featuring Skippy Carlstrom on vocals. This one’s nice and bouncy and relatively straightforward.

Next up are the Boswell Sisters, and they were never straightforward, but they did include the intro verses in their version of the song.

Ambrose and His Orchestra, with Jack Cooper on vocals, recorded the third among the renditions we’re sharing with you, followed by the Decca All-Star Revue, which is a two-sided recording featuring the Victor Young Orchestra, with Bob Crosby, Ella Logan, Johnny ‘Scat’ Davis, Cleo Brown, and the Tune Twisters taking turns on vocals.

The final recording is the Victor Young Orchestra again, this time with Milton Watson on vocals.

Which one’s your favorite?

Irving Aaronson and His Commanders—‘Way Back Home

The Boswell Sisters—‘Way Back Home

Ambrose and His Orchestra—‘Way Back Home

The Decca All-Star Revue—‘Way Back Home

Victor Young and His Orchestra—‘Way Back Home

* * * * *

‘Way Back Home

Intro:
I wrote a little song, a homesick little song,
About a place I never should have roamed from;
Skies are just a little brighter there,
Hearts are just a little lighter there.

A wanderer am I, beneath a foreign sky,
A lonely soul among a world of strangers;
From the pages of my memory,
I can hear a voice reminding me.

The roads are the dustiest; the winds are the gustiest;
The gates are the rustiest; the pies are the crustiest;
The songs, the lustiest; the friends, the trustiest,
‘Way back home!

The trees are the sappiest; the days are the nappiest;
The dogs are the yappiest; the kids are the scrappiest;
The jokes, the snappiest; the folks, the happiest,
‘Way back home!

Don’t know why I left the homestead, I really must confess.
I’m just a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness.

The grass is the springiest; the bees are the stingiest;
The birds are the wingiest; the bells are the ringiest;
The hearts, the singiest; the arms, the clingiest,
‘Way back home!

The sun is the blaziest; the fields are the daisiest;
The cows are the graziest; the help is the laziest;
The boys, the wittiest; the girls, the prettiest;
‘Way back home!

The pigs are the snootiest; the owls are the hootiest;
The plants are the fruitest; the stars are the shooiest;
The grins, the funniest; the smiles, the sunniest,
‘Way back home!

Don’t know why I left the homestead, I really must confess.
I’m just a weary exile, singing my song of loneliness.

The food is the spreadiest; the wine is the headiest;
The pals are the readiest; the gals are the steadiest;
The love, the liveliest; the life, the loveliest,
‘Way back home!

In Chapter 12 of his 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, Rudy Vallée finally gets around to providing some typical memoir material, sharing tales of his boyhood in Westbrook, Maine, and offering accounts of his experiences traveling west to Hollywood to make his first picture, The Vagabond Lover (1929).

Chapter XII

From Westbrook to Hollywood

IN EVERY interview that I have ever given I have been careful to state that my birthplace was a small town in Vermont called Island Pond. Most peculiarly, however, the interviewers have seen fit for some reason to omit this fact and to refer to me as a Maine boy. Probably this is due to the fact that i spent only two years of my life in Vermont. Although I grew up in Maine, I am very proud of my Green Mountain birthright, and the vacations that I have spent in Island Pond were some of the most wonderful days of my life.

However, it was during my boyhood in Westbrook, Maine, that I first began to dream of the theatre. I must have inherited a love for all things theatrical from my father who, though a druggist all his life, had been associated with several theatres in various small business ways. Anyway it was always in the back of my head, and even when I was in the early grades of grammar school I used to climb up by the door of the motion picture booth and peek in to watch the film with fascinated eyes as it went past the aperture plate, with the bright light from the arc lamp shining on it; and the hum of the machine as the operator cranked it by hand, and the smell of film and film cement meant as much to me as the picture itself.

My idea of perfect happiness in life was to be the manager of a theatre, who not only selected the films to be shown, but could sit in the theatre all day and watch them.

My last years of grammar school I knew I would have to help father in the drug store. I had grown into long pants and I began my first work in the drug store. Being rather dexterous with my hands and quick of mind I proved to be one of father’s best clerks, but I never liked the work. It was that I actually disliked manual labor; I never minded chopping eighteen pails of ice every day and bringing them upstairs and then packing the ice around the things that had to be kept cold (this was in the days before they had iceless refrigeration) nor did I mind opening the boxes containing countless small boxes and bottles which had to be put away in a thousand and one places in the store.

I enjoyed making the syrups, and usually gorged myself on them as I drew them from the large bottles in which they came—I was particularly fond of chocolate syrup and usually became sick from overindulgence.

But it was the fact that there was little of romance in waiting on customers who were slow in making up their minds, and who were cross and disagreeable at times; it made me miserable. Then again there was nothing fixed about the hours, we worked from early morning until late at night. Many a time father and I were just about to close the store when a street car would stop in front of our place filled with people coming back from a near-by dance hall and rust theatre, and again we would put on the lights, open the doors, and in a breathless rush serve forty and fifty people at the soda-fountain.

I had to rush out on cold days and pump gasoline, as we were one of the first drug stores to have a gasoline filling station. The only happiness I knew in the store was when father took on the sale of Victor photograph records and I had a chance to give demonstrations to possible purchasers of these records. After I had played them twice over, I usually knew all the good and bad features of the records and could invariably whistle and hum along with them. I knew the selling points of each and very rarely failed to sell a record when i attempted to do so. The thing lasted all too short a time but its effect upon me was profound and tremendous.

A small event of great future import took place a the beginning of school vacation when a disagreement with the head clerk affected me so that I walked out of the store and went out swimming with the boys.

Tag: Irving Aaronson

You’ve Got to Have a Gimmick

Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, Ch. 12