Welcome to the Deep Dive, the place where we
take a massive stack of articles, biographies,
and research and turn them into the most essential,
fascinating, and thoroughly engaging conversation
you'll have this week. That's right. If you want
a shortcut to being truly well -informed, you've
come to the right place. Today, we are undertaking
a deep dive into a man who arguably provided
the soundtrack for the entire American century.
A man whose personal journey is, I mean, it's
the definitive rags to riches story, yet whose
methods were, well, wildly unconventional. We
are talking about Irving Berlin. And when we
say define the 20th century, that's not hyperbole.
Not at all. Berlin, born Israel Isidore Bilen,
had an active career spanning an astounding 60
years. And in that time, he composed an estimated
1 ,500 songs. Just think about that volume, the
sheer reach of it. He penned everything from,
you know, the high society dances of the 1920s
to the somber military anthems of two world wars.
All the way through to your favorite holiday
soundtrack. It's inescapable. And it's not just
the quantity. It's the consensus among his peers.
Before we even get into his journey, you have
to grasp. the sheer magnitude of his influence.
The sources are full of testimonials from other
musical types. Exactly. Like Jerome Kern, the
composer of Show Boat. He didn't hedge his praise
at all. He famously said, Irving Berlin has no
place in American music. He is American music.
Whoa. That elevates him from just a talent to,
what, a national necessity? That's a perfect
way to put it. Yeah. It suggests that if you
remove Berlin's work, a fundamental piece of
the American cultural identity is just... And
George Gershwin, another revolutionary figure,
felt the same way. He called him the greatest
songwriter that has ever lived. And he even went
so far as to dub him America's Schubert. That
Gershwin comparison is fascinating, especially
because of how Berlin created his songs. Schubert
was a master of classical structure. Right. While
Berlin achieved his immortality through methods
that were, frankly, closer to ingenious accident
than any formal training, he really embodied
that American spirit of ingenuity and adaptation.
So what does this all mean for us today? Our
mission in this deep dive is to trace that incredible
trajectory. We're going to follow the Byland
family from fleeing Russian persecution to the
crowded, chaotic streets of the Lower East Side.
We'll spend a lot of time dissecting that bizarre
yet essential mechanical advantage he developed,
that custom transposing piano and his his complete
reliance on the key of F -sharp. And we'll also
analyze how his unique life experience, that
of an outsider who loved his adopted country
so fiercely, allowed him to create these enduring
patriotic statements like. God bless America.
And the single best -selling song of all time,
White Christmas. We want to show you exactly
how this Russian immigrant became the definitive
voice of the American dream. And just to set
the stage for this long career, here's a pretty
intriguing fact to start with. Berlin lived an
incredibly long life. He died in 1989 at 101
years old. And his career wasn't just long, it
was universally celebrated. He is one of the
very few artists to collect all the major honors.
An Academy Award, a Grammy, a Tony. and the Presidential
Medal of Freedom, which he received in 1977.
That kind of longevity and universal acclaim
is just, it's truly unmatched. So to really understand
the architect of the Great American Songbook,
we have to start not on Broadway, but in the
turmoil of the Russian Empire. He was born Israel
Bilen on May 11th, 1888. The sources indicate
his family was Jewish, and they came from a shtetl
called Tolokin, which is in modern -day Belarus.
His father, Moses, was an itinerant cantor, so
he traveled around leading religious services.
And that tradition of oral music and performance
was, you know, it was certainly the first exposure
young Israel had to melody and rhythm. But although
the family was associated with Tolokin, some
biographers suggest Berlin was actually born
further east in time in Siberia. Right, where
his father had taken the family for a time. But
regardless of the exact birthplace, the fundamental
reality was that life for Jews in the Russian
Empire was precarious and often brutal. They
were fleeing the constant threat of pogroms,
of systemic discrimination. It was a desperate,
urgent decision to leave everything behind. The
Baleen family arrived at Ellis Island in New
York Harbor on September 14, 1893. Israel was
just five years old. And when he looked back
on those first five years in Russia later in
life, he had very few distinct memories. But
the one memory that stuck, the one that really
captured the trauma that drove them west, it
was intensely vivid. It's such a striking, painful
detail. Biographer Lawrence Burgreen records
Berlin recalling just lying on a blanket next
to a road, watching his family's house burn to
the ground. That single terrifying image, the
loss of home, the violence, that was the defining
context for his family's entire move to America.
It really underscores the immense gratitude he
felt later in life for the country that sheltered
them. But the sanctuary they found in New York
was steeped in poverty. The Bailey family first
settled in this cramped basement flat on Monroe
Street. Before moving to a three -room tenement
at 330 Cherry Street, right in the heart of the
bustling and often squalid Lower East Side. It
was life at the very bottom of the economic ladder.
His father, Moses, couldn't find steady work
as a cantor in New York. So he did what he could.
He worked in a kosher meat market. He taught
Hebrew lessons. Berlin later said he didn't even
realize they were poor because everyone around
him was living the same way. But the struggle
was immense. And that difficult support structure
just crumbled when Moses died suddenly. Israel
was only 13. At that point, the responsibility
of providing fell heavily on the children. It's
just a heartbreaking story. His mother worked
as a midwife. His sisters had these grueling
jobs wrapping cigars. While his older brother
toiled in a garment sweatshop. And young Israel,
he started working as a newspaper boy, hawking
the evening journal on the streets. Biographers
highlight this really crucial detail about why
he left home before he was even 14. Because his
meager earnings from selling papers contributed
less to the family budget than his sister's income.
So he felt worthless, a burden. He decided to
strike out on his own, joining the city's vast
population of homeless immigrant youth. He was
living in what you can only describe as Dickensian
lodging houses in the Bowery. These cheap, brutal,
crowded sleeping rooms. And the sources emphasize
his determination even then. There's that incredible
story about him falling into the East River.
Yes, while delivering papers, he paused. just
mesmerized watching a ship depart for china probably
daydreaming of an escape and a swinging crane
just knocked him into the water when they finally
fished him out after he'd gone down three times
he was still fiercely clutching the five pennies
he had earned that day in his clenched fist that
image is so potent it's the sheer will to survive
the absolute value of every single coin that
defined his early existence fortunately he quickly
realized that his best asset wasn't delivering
papers It was his voice, a gift he inherited
from his cantor father. He started singing popular
songs in the saloons and dive bars at the Bowery.
And this wasn't just entertainment, it was market
research. Exactly. He was learning in real time
which simple sentiments appealed to audiences.
Because the quicker they tossed a penny, the
better the song was. He became incredibly streetwise,
just absorbing the American vernacular and culture.
This led him up the ladder to becoming a song
plugger and a singing waiter. By 1906 at 18,
he got a better job at the Pelham Cafe in Chinatown.
Besides pouring drinks, he specialized in singing
these made -up, sometimes blue or suggestive
parodies of hit songs. It was a huge draw for
the patrons. And this is where the journey to
composing really begins. His first published
song, Marie from Sunny Italy, came out in 1907.
He wrote it with the Pelham's pianist, Mike Nicholson.
The sources quibble over whether he got 33 or
37 cents for the publishing rights. A literal
pittance either way. But he did get that important
credit. Aye, Berlin. His talents quickly outgrew
the Chinatown Cafe. Max Winslow from the Harry
Von Tilzer Company spotted his talent. Right.
He recognized his knack for simple, catchy rhyme
and got him a job as a staff lyricist for the
Ted Snyder Company in 1909. For a couple of years,
he was known just as a top wordsmith. But his
pivot into composition was, well, it was entirely
accidental. He had submitted a set of lyrics
to a publisher, and the publisher just mistakenly
assumed the submission was complete music and
all. Not wanting to lose the sale, Berlin scrambled
and quickly wrote a simple melody right there
on the spot. And that initial quick success just...
cracked open his career as a full -fledged composer
despite his, let's say, severe technical limitations.
And that leads us directly into the most unique
and almost mythical aspect of Irving Berlin's
career. The fact that the man George Gershwin
called the greatest songwriter that has ever
lived operated for much of his life with these
incredible musical limitations. It's truly mind
-boggling. For decades, he couldn't read or write
sheet music. He relied entirely on his ear and
a musical secretary. But the most famous limitation
was the piano. He was a restricted player, able
to play comfortably and naturally in only one
key, F sharp. F sharp major, the key of the black
notes. For anyone who doesn't play piano, this
means your hands are primarily on the raised
black keys. Exactly. They're grouped in twos
and threes, and it feels very different, sort
of restrictive, compared to the white keys. Once
he learned that pattern, That was his home base.
So I'm imagining a world where a genius musician
has access to every sound, but can only physically
operate within this one narrow corridor of the
keyboard. So how did he write these sophisticated,
varied songs that span dozens of keys? This is
where the ingenuity kicks in. He circumvented
this massive technical barrier by using a specialized
custom piano. The famous transposing piano. Exactly.
It was equipped with a transposing lever. He
owned three of them over his lifetime, and they
were his essential instruments. Okay, let's unpack
this mechanism. I'm picturing a lever on the
side of the piano. How did it actually work?
It was a mechanical marvel. When he pulled the
lever, the piano's entire internal action would
physically shift. So if he played a melody using
his familiar F -sharp fingering on the black
keys... The lever would instantly translate that
physical input into, say, the key of C or B -flat
or whatever he needed. Precisely. The sound the
audience heard was transposed, but his hands
never had to leave their comfort zone. It was
an instant mechanical cheat that let him explore
the entire harmonic spectrum. It's essentially
the ultimate musical shortcut. It allowed a creative
mind, unburdened by technical difficulty, to
focus entirely on melody and lyric. And even
though he did eventually learn to produce written
music later in life, he famously stuck with his
method, always dictating the final melody to
a musical secretary. What's maybe most fascinating
is that he actually sought advice about this.
He went to Victor Herbert, the famous light opera
composer, and asked if he should get formal training.
And Herbert looked at Berlin, this raw, intuitive
genius, and advised him against studying composition.
He warned that theory might cramp your style.
That advice proved to be prophetic. By avoiding
complex theory, Berlin was forced to keep his
sound pure, direct, and focused on instant emotional
resonance. His philosophy was completely audience
-centric. He said his aim was to reach the heart
of the average American, that vast middle of
the population. Who he saw as the real soul of
the country, not the highbrow or the lowbrow.
And to reach them, his style had to be simple,
uncomplicated, and direct, written entirely in
the American vernacular. He saw complexity as
a barrier. He was also really clear about the
hierarchy of a hit song. He said, it's the lyrics
that makes a song a hit, although the tune, of
course, is what makes it last. The words had
to connect first. And this commitment to simplicity
is what launched his career into the stratosphere
with his first worldwide phenomenon, Alexander's
Ragtime Band in 1911. Berlin, barely out of his
20s, became an instant global celebrity. But
the journey of this song is a masterclass in
the importance of lyrics. It was first introduced
by the singer Emma Chorus. A Broadway producer,
Jesse Lasky, picked it up, but only used it as
an instrumental. And it bombed. Completely. Audiences
were unimpressed, and it was quickly dropped.
Berlin considered it a failure until he added
the famous lyrics. Once the words were there
and the song was performed again in a different
review, the reaction was immediate and explosive.
Variety called it the musical sensation of the
decade. It's interesting, though, because music
critics were quick to point out that musically,
Alexander's ragtime band wasn't actually a true
ragtime piece, right? That's a key distinction.
True ragtime, like Scott Joplin's work, relied
on very strict, almost classical structures.
Berlin's song was musically much closer to a
march. Right. It even quotes the bugle call Reveille
in the old folk song, Swanee River. So why the
title then, if it wasn't true ragtime? Because
Berlin borrowed the feeling and the rhythm of
ragtime syncopation without sticking to the genre's
rigid structure. It was looser, catchier, and
infinitely more accessible to the average ear.
It essentially popularized the idea of ragtime
for a mainstream audience. It revived the genre
and sparked this international dance craze. The
craze was so pervasive that, predictably, it
drew some pretty harsh criticism. The sources
include this hilarious quote from a German newspaper
calling ragtime a form of insanity and a public
menace. They worried the hysteria it produced
could lead to idiocy. The irony wasn't lost on
Berlin. That the country his family had fled
was now captivated by his music. He admitted
he was flabbergasted by the global success. And
George Gershwin, recognizing its innovative spirit,
called it the first real American musical work,
praising Berlin for showing the way forward.
Building on this incredible momentum, Berlin
quickly diversified. In 1914, he wrote his first
complete score for a major ragtime review called
Watch Your Step. Which starred the decade's most
famous dance couple, Vernon and Irene Castle.
Variety hailed it as the... first syncopated
musical. And this show gave us the foundational
Berlin hit, Play a Simple Melody. What's important
about this song is that it was the very first
of his famous double songs. Where he wrote two
distinct melodies and lyrics that could be sung
at the same time, in counterpoint. Exactly. This
showed a real and sudden jump in his musical
sophistication, proving he could handle complex
structures through purely intuitive means. But
just as his career was taking off, he faced this
immense personal tragedy. In 1912, only six months
after marrying his first wife, Dorothy Goetz,
she died suddenly of typhoid fever. Which she
contracted during their honeymoon in Havana.
This deep, acute grief produced his first serious
ballad hit, When I Lost You. It was an immediate
sensation, selling over a million copies almost
instantly. And the success of this song caused
a fundamental creative shift in Berlin. He realized
that the upbeat rag rhyme style was totally unsuitable
for expressing serious romantic feeling. It forced
him to adapt and start writing the profound,
heartfelt love songs that would define his later
career. By the time we get to 1919, he showed
just how far he'd developed. A Pretty Girl is
Like a Melody from the Ziegfeld Follies became
one of his first big guns in the sophisticated
theater world. It was so immediately popular
that it became the lead song for the musical
and was then adopted as the permanent theme for
all of Florence Ziegfeld's iconic reviews. The
composer Alec Wilder, looking back, commented
that the leap in style and sophistication between
this song and his earlier work was just extraordinary
to have happened in such a short time. Berlin
was moving rapidly from a tin pan alley novelty
writer to a true theatrical master. Entering
the roaring 20s, Berlin wasn't satisfied just
writing music. He was becoming a full -fledged
business mogul. Right. In 1921, he made a landmark
move, partnering with producer Sam Harris to
construct the Music Box Theater on Broadway.
Located at 239 West 45th Street. This move really
spoke volumes about his ambition and his need
for control. One of his biographers, David Leipold,
notes it was the only Broadway house built specifically
to accommodate the works of a single songwriter.
The theater acted as his personal laboratory.
It housed his hugely successful music box review
for four straight seasons, from 1921 to 1925.
By controlling the venue, he controlled the entire
ecosystem. He was the owner, the producer, the
composer, and he was intensely hands -on with
every detail of the show. From casting and costumes
to the complex musical arrangements, he wasn't
just selling songs, he was building a brand.
And meanwhile, the 1920s brought the personal
drama that became a national media sensation.
his second marriage. a Russian Jewish immigrant
who had started life in a tenement, fell passionately
in love with Ellen McKay. And Ellen was a young
author and, critically, a Catholic heiress from
one of the most socially prominent and fiercely
traditional families in America. Her father was
Clarence McKay, the head of the powerful Postal
Telegraph cable company, and he was, to put it
mildly, absolutely furious about the match. The
press, of course, just ate this up. The Lower
East Side boy versus the high society aristocrat.
was front page news. Clarence McKay vehemently
opposed the marriage, famously vowing it would
only happen over my dead body. He tried everything
to separate them, including sending Ellen off
to Europe to get her away from Berlin's influence.
But Berlin pursued her across the Atlantic, not
just with daily letters, but with musical devotion.
He wooed her with songs like Remember and All
Alone, sent over the airwaves. And she wrote
him daily letters in return, proving the parental
opposition was futile. Ultimately, the romantic
connection proved stronger than the social barriers.
They eloped in 1926, choosing a simple, discreet
civil ceremony at the municipal building. Just
to escape the relentless media circus. And as
a wedding present, Berlin demonstrated both deep
love and immense practicality. He gifted Ellen
the full publishing rights to his classic song,
Always. Which was an immediate, guaranteed financial
safety net for her, ensuring she had a steady
income no matter what happened with her family
or his career. The initial rift with Clarence
Mackay only began to mend after a devastating
tragedy struck the young couple. The death of
their infant son, Irving Berlin Jr., on Christmas
Day 1928, less than a month after his birth.
The shared sorrow finally allowed for a tentative
reconciliation. And despite the tumultuous start,
Irving and Ellen's marriage was one for the ages.
They remained married for 63 years until her
death in 1988. And throughout all this personal
drama, Berlin was just relentlessly defining
the American songbook. The period from the 20s
to the mid -30s saw him generate standards that
are still ubiquitous today. Let's talk about
some of those hits. Take What'll I Do from 1924.
This was a classic ballad of longing and loneliness.
A massive hit for Paul Whiteman's orchestra and
later became standard repertoire for vocal giants
like Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra. It perfectly
captured the sophisticated sadness of the jazz
age. Then we have Blue Skies from 1926. This
song was born of pure, unadulterated joy. He
wrote it immediately after the birth of his first
daughter, Mary Ellen Barrett. That feeling of
optimism is crystallized in the lyric. Blue days,
all of them gone. Nothing but blue skies from
now on. And it's interesting to note the cultural
connection of this song, its inherent musical
sensibility, that mix of simple optimism with
a complex underlying emotion. It resonated deeply
with Jewish American culture. It signaled hope
after dark times, a theme that really speaks
to the immigrant experience. And its debut was
utterly iconic. In 1927, Al Jolson performed
Blue Skies and the Jazz Singer. Not just any
film, it was the very first feature sound film.
The song was instantly catapulted into cinema
history. And to show its timeless quality, Willie
Nelson took it to number one on the country chart
52 years later in 1978. Then there's the sophisticated,
intricate syncopation of Puttin' on the Ritz
from 1928. This song required real musical precision.
It's permanently associated with glamour and
escapism. Fred Astaire famously sang and danced
to it in the 1946 film Blue Skies. It was later
featured in Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein in
1974. But the longevity statistic that truly
defines Berlin's reach is that Puttin' on the
Ritz was a number four hit for the synth pop
artist Taco in 1982. When Berlin himself was
95 years old, the material simply never aged.
That ability to transcend genres and decades
is a recurring theme. Jumping to 1932, we find
Say It Isn't So. This song was introduced by
Rudy Vallée on his popular radio show. And the
romantic lyrics were so potent that they were
actually credited with saving Vallée's own marriage.
The early 1930s also saw Berlin return to the
stage with powerful themed work. As Thousands
Cheer from 1933 was a hugely successful review.
Where, conceptually, each musical number was
framed as a newspaper item or headline. This
gave us hits like the perennial Easter Parade
and the jazz staple Heat Wave. But the show also
contained a moment of profound, startling social
commentary that often gets overlooked. I'm talking
about the powerful song, Supper Time. This was
not standard Broadway fare. Supper Time was an
extremely serious, stark song about racial violence,
directly inspired by a newspaper headline about
a lynching. And the power of the piece was undeniable,
especially when performed by the legendary Ethel
Waters. The lyrics tell the story of a black
woman waiting for her husband, only to be told
he's been lynched. Waters herself emphasized
the gravity of the piece, stating that the song
told the whole tragic history of a race. That's
incredibly powerful and a statement that must
have been highly charged in 1933 America. It
speaks volumes about Berlin's longstanding advocacy
for civil rights. And his willingness to use
his platform, even in a comedy review, to force
audiences to confront ugly realities. It showed
that his simple style could convey profound,
complex emotions. As the decade progressed, the
focus shifted to Hollywood. Top Hat in 1935 marked
the beginning of a fantastic series of Berlin
film musicals, often starring the perfect pair.
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Berlin provided
an entirely new score for Top Hat, with iconic
hits like Cheek to Cheek. These films didn't
just use old songs. They relied on his ability
to craft music that was inextricably linked to
the visual rhythm of the dancers. We mentioned
earlier that Berlin was an intensely grateful
and patriotic citizen, and this was evident from
the very start of his career. It began bubbling
up during World War I. Absolutely. When the U
.S. declared war in 1917, he felt a genuine sense
of civic duty. He immediately wrote For Your
Country and My Country in a song aimed at unifying
immigrant groups titled Let's All Be Americans
Now. And when he was drafted into the U .S. Army
at age 30, it was major news. The headlines screaming
Army Takes Berlin were not lost on anyone. But
the Army quickly recognized the value of their
famous new private. He was assigned the task
of boosting troop morale at Camp Upton. So he
composed and starred in an all -soldier musical
review called Yip Yip Yefank in 1918. The show
was a massive success. It played on Broadway
and raised $150 ,000 for a service center, a
huge sum at the time. It featured lasting hits
like Mandy and Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the
Morning, which Berlin often performed himself,
even though he disliked being in the spotlight.
But here is the fascinating twist of fate, the
crucial link between WWI and WWII. Berlin wrote
another song for that 1918 review, a patriotic
piece called God Bless America. But he didn't
use it. No. He felt the tone, which was more
solemn and hymn -like, didn't quite fit the lighthearted,
upbeat tone of the show. So he simply filed the
sheet music away in a trunk. So for two decades,
God Bless America just sat there, dormant. That's
a powerful lesson in timing, isn't it? The song
was ahead of its time. It wasn't until 1938 that
the moment for that song finally arrived. Exactly.
The famous singer Kate Smith needed a new patriotic
song to perform on her radio show to mark the
20th anniversary of Armistice Day. Berlin, searching
through his archives, rediscovered the old tune.
He slightly revised the lyrics and introduced...
God bless America to the world. And the reaction
was immediate. This was 1938, a time when global
tensions were rising dramatically. Americans
were looking for a statement of national unity.
His daughter, Mary Ellen Barrett, stressed that
for her father, the song was very personal, a
deep expression of gratitude. I mean, think about
his journey, fleeing persecution, growing up
poor, achieving massive success. Berlin himself
said he owed what I have and what I am to the
country. The song was a thank you note. Because
of that deep personal connection, it quickly
transcended mere popularity and became known
as the second national anthem, especially once
America officially entered World War II. And
his financial decision regarding the song perfectly
mirrored his patriotism. Famously, he assigned
all royalties from God Bless America to the Boy
Scouts and Girl Scouts. This single selfless
act has earned those organizations millions over
the decades, over $10 million by 2005 alone.
That's a staggering charitable legacy tied to
a single song. And in recognition, he was awarded
a special congressional gold medal by President
Eisenhower in 1954. And we see the song's enduring
relevance even today. Its popularity resurged
powerfully after 9 -11. It was sung by members
of Congress on the Capitol steps. And it's used
by sports teams, most famously the Philadelphia
Flyers, and was spontaneously sung by the 1980
Miracle on Ice U .S. Olympic hockey team. When
Pearl Harbor brought the U .S. into World War
II, Berlin, now in his 50s, immediately sprang
back into action, focusing his entire energy
on the war effort. He continued his pattern of
assigning royalties to government agencies. He
wrote Any Bonds Today for the Treasury Department,
Angels of Mercy for the Red Cross. Even a cleverly
rhymed song encouraging fiscal compliance, I
Paid My Income Tax Day, also for the Treasury.
But his greatest contribution was the stage show
and later film This Is the Army. This was a colossal
undertaking, a morale boosting review with an
all -soldier cast of 300 men, for which Berlin
wrote nearly three dozen new songs. But his involvement
went way beyond composing. He personally supervised
the entire production and, despite his age and
status, he toured extensively with the cast for
three and a half grueling years. They traveled
globally, often near battle zones in North Africa,
Italy, and the Pacific. And here's the critical
detail. He refused to take a salary. or even
claim expenses for his work during that entire
period. That sacrifice amplified the show's charitable
impact. It was adapted into a 1943 film starring
a recognizable young Army lieutenant who would
later occupy the White House, Ronald Reagan.
Between the stage show and the movie, they raised
over $10 million for the Army Emergency Relief
Fund. And on a social note, this production was
pioneering. This is the army featured the first
integrated division army unit in the United States,
which allowed black and white soldiers to perform
together on the same stage at a time when the
entire U .S. military remains strictly segregated.
This cemented his reputation as an advocate for
civil rights. For this unparalleled contribution,
he was awarded the Medal for Merit by President
Truman. He was genuinely viewed as a national
asset. Even after the intense multi -year commitment
to This is the Army, Berlin was pulled back into
the spotlight for what many consider his ultimate
masterpiece, Annie Get Your Gun in 1946. And
the story of Annie Get Your Gun is incredible
because he wasn't the original choice. Not at
all. The job became available tragically when
the composer Jerome Kern died suddenly. Producers
Rodgers and Hammerstein were desperate to save
the show, and they persuaded Berlin to take over
the score. That seems like a massive risk. Berlin
was famous for writing uptown, jazzy New York
hits. How did they convince him? He initially
refused, right? He did. He claimed he knew nothing
about hillbilly music and felt unqualified to
write for a rustic sharpshooter like Annie Oakley.
But Rodgers and Hammerstein were persistent.
They showed him the core of the story was about
a universal conflict love versus career that
Berlin knew intimately. He finally agreed, and
clearly he was wrong about his limitations because
the show was an undeniable triumph. It ran for
an astonishing 11 ,147 performances. It became
his most successful score and his biggest box
office success. It cemented Ethel Merman's career
as a star. And the show gave us, perhaps, the
ultimate up -tempo show tune. There's no business
like show business. And there's a fascinating
anecdote about this song. Berlin actually almost
left it out of the score. He did. You mistakenly
thought the producers weren't enthusiastic about
it. Can you imagine removing that song from the
American lexicon? Of course, it became Merman's
signature piece. And another iconic piece was
born almost spontaneously. The crucial duet,
anything you can do, I can do better. That's
pure Berlin ingenuity. The director and Hammerstein
were discussing how they urgently needed a competitive
duet. Berlin simply overhearing them. walked
off and wrote the song just a few hours later.
The quality of the score was undeniable. Even
the famously rigorous Stephen Sondheim praised
the show's sophistication calling. You can't
get a man with a gun as good a comic song as
has ever been written by anybody. The show marked
a profound development. The music didn't just
entertain, it successfully combined character
and plot, advancing the narrative, a critical
step in the evolution of the American musical.
Speaking of ultimate hits, we cannot discuss
his peak career without the song that is the
very definition of the American holiday season,
White Christmas from 1942. Introduced by Bing
Crosby in the film Holiday Inn, this track achieved
a level of commercial success that is almost
impossible to replicate today. Crosby's version
holds the undisputed record as the best -selling
single of all time, selling over 50 million copies,
5 -0 million. Why did this song, above all others,
strike such a powerful chord? It was timing and
simplicity combined with emotional depth. Music
critic Stephen Holden said it evokes a primal
nostalgia, a pure childlike looking for roots,
home, and childhood. And the context of its 1942
release is critical. World War II had just pulled
millions of young men overseas. Richard Corliss
noted that the song connected profoundly with
GIs who were away from home for that first winter
of the war. It gave voice to the specific ache
of separation. The poet Carl Sandburg famously
observed that the song captured the feeling of
being a little sad and a little lonesome without
being sickly about it. It was perfectly pitched.
And the song earned Berlin the Academy Award
for Best Original Song, which leads us to a truly
bizarre piece of Hollywood lore. The infamous
Oscar moment. Yes. Berlin is the only person
in the history of the Academy Awards to open
the envelope and read his or her own name as
the winner. I have to stop you there. Can you
imagine the internal panic? He literally handed
the highest honor in the film industry to himself.
The ultimate awkward moment. It was so awkward,
in fact, that the Academy changed the rules the
very next year to prevent it from ever happening
again. It's a hilarious, slightly embarrassing
footnote attached to the biggest hit in recording
history. And if you analyze the lyrics, you see
his philosophy of simplicity executed perfectly.
White Christmas contains only eight sentences
in the entire song. It's direct, concise, and
emotionally devastating. Berlin maintained his
successful run through the early 1950s with Call
Me Madam, again starring Ethel Merman. That was
his second greatest box office success and earned
him a Tony. However, the magic didn't last forever.
Mr. President in 1962, his final stage musical
was less successful. That prompted his official
retirement from composing at age 74. His final
published composition was An Old Fashioned Wedding
for the 1966 revival of Annie Get Your Gun. After
that, he maintained a very low public profile.
He spent his final decades in his New York townhouse,
although he diligently maintained control of
his massive music publishing company until the
very end. When we synthesize the totality of
Berlin's life and work, the word that continually
surfaces is institution. He became a genuine
fixture of the American identity. Well, Tark
Cronkite articulated this perfectly. He said
other nations are defined by their classical
composers, but America is appropriately defined
musically by this Russian immigrant. America
has Irving Berlin. He sits alongside the greatest
chroniclers of American culture. Composer Douglas
Moore included him with Stephen Foster, Walt
Whitman, and Carl Sandburg as a great American
minstrel. A figure who caught, distilled, and
immortalized in his songs what Americans say,
what we think about, and what we believe. And
consider the volume again. An estimated 1 ,500
songs, 20 Broadway shows, 15 Hollywood films.
Songwriter Sammy Cann provided that fantastic
metric. If a man can point to six songs that
are immediately identifiable, he has achieved
something. Irving Berlin can sing 60 that are
immediately identifiable. That is an unbelievable
density of enduring, recognizable hits. And his
unique style also solidified his place as a pioneer.
He's broadly credited with helping to develop
jazz music and for his early effective incorporation
of Afro -American musical references into mainstream
popular song. George Gershwin provided great
context, arguing that Berlin was the first to
free the American song from the nauseating sentimentality
that preceded him. By perfecting an accessible
form of ragtime, Berlin gave the US its first
germ of an American musical idiom. He professionalized
American pop music. And his influence extended
far beyond the stage door. He was an intense
civic actor, a staunch advocate of civil rights,
recognized with honors from the National Conference
of Christians and Jews. His commitment to civil
rights. visible in his integrated This is the
Army unit. And his willingness to address lynching
in suppertime was so visible, in fact, that he
became a target of the FBI. J. Edgar Hoover continuously
investigated him for years, trying to find some
grounds for suspicion, but never succeeding.
And his famous patriotism was utterly unquestionable.
He rejected tax shelters, famously saying, I
want to pay taxes. I love this country. His habit
of assigning profits from patriotic songs to
charity or the government was unprecedented.
And he was devoted to the American political
process, voting for both Democratic and Republican
candidates. He even wrote the campaign song I
Like Ike for Dwight D. Eisenhower. One of the
most unexpected yet legally profound parts of
his legacy is in the area of copyright and free
speech. This involves a landmark case from 1961.
That's right. Berlin's publishing group, fiercely
protective of their catalog, sued Mad Magazine
for copyright infringement. Mad had published
parody lyrics, taking his famous tunes and changing
the words to be satirical. The case, Irving Berlin
et al. VEC Publications, Inc., was a crucial
test of artistic freedom. against property rights.
And he lost at every level. The courts ultimately
established a strong precedent for the rights
of parodists and satirists to mimic the meter
and style of popular songs. The quote from Judge
Irving Kaufman is legendary, cutting straight
to the heart of the issue. We doubt that even
so eminent a composer as plaintiff Irving Berlin
should be permitted to claim a property interest
in iambic pentameter. Essentially, you can't
copyright common musical rhythm. It was a key
victory for free speech and artistic expression.
In the final analysis, we have to return to that
consensus. Berlin took the vibrations emanating
from the people, as Jerome Kern put it, and then
gave him back simplified, clarified, and glorified.
Irving Berlin died peacefully in his sleep in
his Manhattan home on September 22, 1989. He
was 101 years old. Broadway lights were dimmed
in his memory, and his three daughters solidified
his historical significance by donating his massive
collection of 750 ,000 items, including his transposing
pianos, to the Library of Congress. What an astonishing,
improbable journey. From Israel Bilen fleeing
violent persecution in Russia, arriving at Ellis
Island with nothing. To Irving Berlin, sitting
at his mechanical transcosing piano, limited
to the key of F sharp, yet writing the score
for America's greatest romances, wars, and deepest
holiday nostalgia. His career is the ultimate
expression of gratitude, a testament to the power
of his chosen home. His songs transcended his
own immigrant identity and became the musical
shorthand for the nation itself. He achieved
his stated ambition. he reached the real soul
of the country, capturing the simple sentiments
that unite us. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?
Berlin was forced to leave Russia, he was restricted
almost entirely to the key of F sharp, and he
famously rejected formal training. If his musical
talent had been conventionally developed, if
he'd been taught to read and write complex music
in every key, would that purity, that simplicity,
that directness that spoke so universally to
the average American, would it have been lost?
Was his profound technical limitation actually
the very foundation of his inimitable simple
genius? The immigrant who had to leave his home
yet proved that America was truly the place where
an outsider's deepest feelings could become the
nation's permanent and simplest soundtrack. Something
to mull over until our next deep dive.