Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I Was Here
When I wrote the lyric below I was relatively “a kid,” one under great pressure from a team of distinguished Broadway theater veterans impatient for me to produce the lyric that, set to music, would complete the score for a musical intended for Broadway. The song called for was a swan song for a former vaudeville star. In theater terms it was the eleven o’clock (“closing”) number a la “Rose’s Turn” in “Gypsy,” and like it, its purpose was to stop the show by tearing the audiences’ hearts out.
“What do I know about an old man at the end of his life?” I protested to the composer, Albert Hague, a man many years and awards my senior. I sat down at my desk to address that question and my father came to mind. The lyric flowed as I cried.
When I presented it to Albert, he cried. When we played our finished “aria” for the producers, they cried. As did everyone else. It got to the point that after we played it for the great director of the day, Joshua Logan and, safely out of his earshot, I remarked, wonderstruck, to Albert, that he cried, Albert said, “They’ll all cry. I no longer let people judge the song, I let the song judge the people.”
All these years later, it’s come back to me with profound meaning I never imagined at the time. It’s no longer about my father—it’s about me.
LEGACY: I WAS HERE
I, JACK JUDSON, BEING OF SOUND MIND,
DO HEREBY MAKE, PUBLISH AND DECLARE.
I, JACK JUDSON, BEING OF SOUND MIND,
DO HEREBY GIVE, DEVISE AND BEQUEATH,
ALL MY… ALL MY WHAT?
I WANT TO LEAVE SOMETHING BEHIND
TO LET THE WORLD KNOW I WAS HERE.
THEY SAY YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU,
I DON’T WANT TO TAKE IT WITH ME.
I WANT TO LEAVE SOMETHING BEHIND,
SOMETHING THAT SAYS…
I WAS HERE,
MAYBE ONLY PASSING THROUGH,
BUT WE’RE ALL JUST PASSING THROUGH
UNTIL WE’VE DONE WHAT WE CAN DO,
AND I DIDN’T GET HERE STANDING STILL.
I COVERED GROUND
BEFORE THE GROUND COULD COVER ME,
I WAS HERE.
YOU MAKE A PLAN
TO REACH THE TOP OF YOUR PROFESSION IF YOU CAN.
YOU STAKE A CLAIM,
AND NOW IT’S UP TO YOU TO LIVE UP TO YOUR NAME.
YOU STOP AND ADD,
SO YOU CAN COUNT HOW MANY UPS AND DOWNS YOU’VE HAD.
FOR WHAT?
SO YOU CAN LAUGH…
AT WHAT?
TO KEEP FROM CRYING WHILE YOU’RE SETTLING FOR HALF…
FOR WHAT?
FOR HALF…
FOR WHAT?
I WAS HERE!
IS IT SELFISH AT MY AGE
TO INSIST ON FILLING EVERY LINE
BEFORE THEY TURN THE PAGE?
AND TO ADD THESE WORDS BEFORE I SIGN:
LIFE CAN BE FULL,
AND NOW I’VE LIVED IT TO THE FULLEST…
I WAS HERE…
I WAS HERE…
I...WAS HERE!
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I will pass this on! Just gorgeous Ray! Thank you, Kate Kennedy
ReplyDeleteVery nice. As a struggling artist myself, I think it is the goal/hope/aspiration of many artists to leave something behind so that once they are gone they will not be--GONE. It is, of course, the heart of your line, "I write to live longer than I can live life."
ReplyDeleteLately, I've been listening to the song "Finishing the Hat" from Sondheim's "Sunday In The Park With George", and the last few lines of the song always strike me very deeply as an artist:
HOWEVER YOU LIVE,
THERE'S A PART OF YOU ALWAYS STANDING BY,
MAPPING OUT THE SKY,
FINISHING A HAT...
STARTING ON A HAT..
FINISHING A HAT...
LOOK, I MADE A HAT...
WHERE THERE NEVER WAS A HAT.
I don't think people without that drive to create so that they can go on living after they've died can understand the full meaning of "Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.", yet when I stand in the Art Institute of Chicago and see all the people admiring "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte - 1884" over a century after the creator has died I am totally reminded of the impact Seurat (and also Sondheim) have left on the world.
Is a recording of this song available Ray? Which musical is it from?
What a wonderful sentiment to pass on to the generations to follow. A philosophy to live by.
ReplyDeleteThis is truly astounding.
ReplyDeleteWhile I am as moved by your lyrics as the next person will be, it leaves me with an emotion far different than I would have expected. It does not give me with the slightest hint of sadness to hear this vaudevillian's last lines. No, it makes me want to stand up and cheer! I read this as a triumph against mortality, and I will tell you why:
When I was 10 the death of my grandfather was the first major tragedy I faced with my family. He was dearly loved by all that knew him, so my extended family and I spent much time together in Brooklyn to help each other through.
It was during this time in January that I was at my grandmother's in Bay Ridge. Emotionally drained and alone, I walked down her stairs to find my parents, grandmother, aunts, and uncles arguing over the dining room table. The source of their frustration: they could not agree on what my grandfather's headstone should read.
I have never been a fan of raised voices, and seeing my family arguing over such a topic was particularly upsetting. Wanting nothing more than for all the shouts to cease, I offered by small, skinny opinion: "Instead of fighting over who he was, how about we just say how he is right now? Like, 'Echoing in our hearts.' He is." (I used the work 'like' quite a lot back then.)
Just as I had hoped but not at all as I expected, the room fell completely silent. The argument was over. To this day, you can find an Ignazio DeCaro interred in Brooklyn's Green-Wood Cemetery mausoleum with the words 'ECHOING IN OUR HEARTS' inscribed under his name.
It has been a long time since I revisited this memory, and I think this is the first time I have ever shared it. After studying your lyrics, however, I think those words I spoke so long ago have a different meaning than I imagined.
I do not think that I was old enough to appreciate man's mortality at that moment. Our life is but a whisper in the annals of history, but how will it be remembered? Through a play? A film? A skyscraper? A city we erected (or destroyed)? In my grandfather's case, a family? It is entirely up to us how to speak this voice ours, but we must be aware that, with death, this voice becomes an echo.
What I gather from your lyric: we should not cross the river quietly. In our last moments we should send forth a holler deep!
"I WAS HERE!"
Seriously, Ray, what a curtain call that is!
My favorite lines from a play that opened my eyes; a woman takes her alien tourists to see a show so they can experience the awe of goosebumps:
ReplyDelete"Yeah, remember that night I took 'em to the theatre. We're standing there in the dark, I feel one of 'em tug my sleeve, he whispers, Trudy, look.' I said, 'Yeah, goose bumps. You really like the play that much?' They said it wasn't the play gave 'em goose bumps, it was the audience. I forgot to tell 'em to watch the play, they'd been watching the audience.
Yeah, to see a group of strangers sitting together in the dark, laughing and crying about the same things just knocked 'em out. They said; 'Trudy, the play was soup - the audience - art.'"
When you find the words that hit the same note in every person, that is magic. To be able to make an entire audience laugh at once, or cry at once, or sit back and contemplate their life at once is the Andy Warhol painting of the can. The words he used to make magic was just a can of Campbell's.
Albert was right, no one can judge your words, but your words, without a doubt, unleash the vulnerability pulsating in every person's body who casts their eyes, ears, and hearts to you. That song gave me goosebumps, and that's magic.