- 1,500 songs composed
- scores for 19 Broadway shows and 18 Hollywood films
- songs nominated 8 times for Academy Awards
- songs reached the top of the charts 25 times
Decade after decade, this Belarusian Jew's tunes were belted out by the greatest singers, from Bing (Crosby) to Babs (Streisand). And he was a songwriter's songwriter, praised by the best of them. George Gershwin: "the greatest songwriter that has ever lived". Jerome Kern: "Irving Berlin has no place in American music -- he is American music."
We've all heard them all, from rousing patriotic songs like God Bless America, to romantic ballads like Cheek to Cheek, to brassy show tunes like There's No Business Like Show Business.
Two events give us an idea of how entrenched Irving's music is in the American psyche:
Ironically, this Yiddish boychick is well known for songs celebrating not Passover and Channukah, but rather Christmas and Easter. How popular was his White Christmas?
It's a natural human reaction to feel positive about oneself when one has accomplished a task that one feels particularly proud of, right? (See how I added the word "right", so that my sentence would not end with a preposition? Sneaky devil, aren't I?) So what is the natural reaction of someone who reaches the pinnacle of success in one's field -- and in a field where success means ubiquitous recognition?
The best song that anybody's ever written. I reflect on the sheer magnitude of that statement. Is Irving speaking hyperbolically, or does he literally feel that he has come up with the best song in history, of all of the thousands (millions?) which have been composed over the millenia? Like many of the thoughts that enter our minds, the answer probably lies somewhere in the murky middle of consciousness. In any event, we clearly have a person who seems to have no lack of self-esteem in the area of melody making.
And yet. I read a few years ago about one occasion when Irving Berlin came up with a new tune. As usual, he summoned his musical secretary (Watson, come here; I need you!) so that he could perform the song and the secretary could take it down. Upon completion, the secretary expressed her opinion that the song (I forget which, unfortunately) was not exactly stellar.
Irving's reaction? He put the song in a drawer, where it sat for months.
Izzy, baby! What happened? You are the composer of the best! song! ever! written! remember? How could you possibly take a mere musical secretary's criticism so seriously?
One of life's most intriguing phenomena is the inner conflicts residing within the human mind, wherein we are torn between a dichotomy of diametrically opposed impulses. This mental polarity is illustrated exquisitely and succinctly by Saint Augustine's famous prayer: "Lord, grant me chastity and continence, but not yet".
Why are we so sensitive to criticism, and why do we get so irate when someone insults us? I think at the core is the thought that if someone criticizes us, then there is very possibly some truth to their disapproval. Why would any thought enter someone's mind unless it contained some merit? In other words, we often resent negative judgments about us precisely because -- and precisely to the extent to which -- we agree with them! The critic's censure is a mirror which reveals to us an unflattering reflection of ourselves.
If someone were to walk up to you and mock you over the hand growing out of your head, would that anger you? I think not, because you would be absolutely sure that there was no legitimacy whatsoever to their criticism. You would probably instead simply believe your critic to be not quite right in the head.
But criticism is rarely as patently ludicrous as that, and so, there is frequently a nagging doubt in the mind that perhaps there is some veracity in the other person's negative opinion of us. After all, if everything about me were so wonderful, then how could this person, or anyone, possibly find fault with me?
To a not insignificant extent, our entire opinion of our self-worth is inextricably linked to others' opinions of us. Every day of our lives, we are being appraised, on social, professional, ethical, cultural, financial and a host of other levels. What is peer pressure, if not the fear of the truth of others' opinions of us?
And so the mind double-tracks between our own inner reaction to ourselves, and the external reactions of others to us. On the one hand is the natural tendency, propelled by the ego, to regard oneself positively. On the other hand, we are confronted by the evidence that another person disapproves of something we've said or done.
What is so astounding to me is that not even the great Irving Berlin, a person who had such a high opinion of his musicality that in some very real sense he literally viewed himself as the greatest musical composer in all of humanity was impervious to the derision of others. For the criticism of a simple musical stenographer's directed at such a colossal ego would seem to be analogous to a pebble flung at an unassailable steel fortress. And yet, behold: the tiny pebble topples the magnificent fortress!
Until a few months later, when, presumably, Irving pulled out the notes, looked them over, said to himself: Why on earth have I left the latest best song in the world lying around in a drawer?, and published them to wild critical and popular acclaim.
Two events give us an idea of how entrenched Irving's music is in the American psyche:
- The secret pre-arranged signal for the 1975 U.S. evacuation from Saigon at the close of the Vietnam War was a radio broadcast of White Christmas
- A broadcast the day of the September 11, 2001 attacks closed with the U.S. Congress singing God Bless America
Ironically, this Yiddish boychick is well known for songs celebrating not Passover and Channukah, but rather Christmas and Easter. How popular was his White Christmas?
According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the version sung by Bing Crosby is the best-selling single of all time, with estimated sales in excess of 50 million copies worldwide. All other versions of the song, along with Bing Crosby's, has estimated sales over 100 million copies.What fascinates me about Mr. Berlin is his estimation of his own songwriting prowess. Here is what he had to say to his musical secretary about White Christmas:
Grab your pen and take down this song. I just wrote the best song I've ever written -- heck, I just wrote the best song that anybody's ever written!Is it surprising to hear Izzie speak so boastfully? Well, if year after year, for the past 3 decades, your songs were sung by the country's greatest singers, purchased by the million, performed on Broadway and in film after film, danced to in clubs across the land, and whistled, hummed and warbled every day by people on the street, don't you think you might develop a somewhat favorable opinion of your musical ability?
It's a natural human reaction to feel positive about oneself when one has accomplished a task that one feels particularly proud of, right? (See how I added the word "right", so that my sentence would not end with a preposition? Sneaky devil, aren't I?) So what is the natural reaction of someone who reaches the pinnacle of success in one's field -- and in a field where success means ubiquitous recognition?
The best song that anybody's ever written. I reflect on the sheer magnitude of that statement. Is Irving speaking hyperbolically, or does he literally feel that he has come up with the best song in history, of all of the thousands (millions?) which have been composed over the millenia? Like many of the thoughts that enter our minds, the answer probably lies somewhere in the murky middle of consciousness. In any event, we clearly have a person who seems to have no lack of self-esteem in the area of melody making.
And yet. I read a few years ago about one occasion when Irving Berlin came up with a new tune. As usual, he summoned his musical secretary (Watson, come here; I need you!) so that he could perform the song and the secretary could take it down. Upon completion, the secretary expressed her opinion that the song (I forget which, unfortunately) was not exactly stellar.
Irving's reaction? He put the song in a drawer, where it sat for months.
Izzy, baby! What happened? You are the composer of the best! song! ever! written! remember? How could you possibly take a mere musical secretary's criticism so seriously?
One of life's most intriguing phenomena is the inner conflicts residing within the human mind, wherein we are torn between a dichotomy of diametrically opposed impulses. This mental polarity is illustrated exquisitely and succinctly by Saint Augustine's famous prayer: "Lord, grant me chastity and continence, but not yet".
Why are we so sensitive to criticism, and why do we get so irate when someone insults us? I think at the core is the thought that if someone criticizes us, then there is very possibly some truth to their disapproval. Why would any thought enter someone's mind unless it contained some merit? In other words, we often resent negative judgments about us precisely because -- and precisely to the extent to which -- we agree with them! The critic's censure is a mirror which reveals to us an unflattering reflection of ourselves.
If someone were to walk up to you and mock you over the hand growing out of your head, would that anger you? I think not, because you would be absolutely sure that there was no legitimacy whatsoever to their criticism. You would probably instead simply believe your critic to be not quite right in the head.
But criticism is rarely as patently ludicrous as that, and so, there is frequently a nagging doubt in the mind that perhaps there is some veracity in the other person's negative opinion of us. After all, if everything about me were so wonderful, then how could this person, or anyone, possibly find fault with me?
To a not insignificant extent, our entire opinion of our self-worth is inextricably linked to others' opinions of us. Every day of our lives, we are being appraised, on social, professional, ethical, cultural, financial and a host of other levels. What is peer pressure, if not the fear of the truth of others' opinions of us?
And so the mind double-tracks between our own inner reaction to ourselves, and the external reactions of others to us. On the one hand is the natural tendency, propelled by the ego, to regard oneself positively. On the other hand, we are confronted by the evidence that another person disapproves of something we've said or done.
What is so astounding to me is that not even the great Irving Berlin, a person who had such a high opinion of his musicality that in some very real sense he literally viewed himself as the greatest musical composer in all of humanity was impervious to the derision of others. For the criticism of a simple musical stenographer's directed at such a colossal ego would seem to be analogous to a pebble flung at an unassailable steel fortress. And yet, behold: the tiny pebble topples the magnificent fortress!
Until a few months later, when, presumably, Irving pulled out the notes, looked them over, said to himself: Why on earth have I left the latest best song in the world lying around in a drawer?, and published them to wild critical and popular acclaim.
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