on one's stationery, alarm clocks
that fail to go off, shirts that turn
to
ribbons after three washings,
toothpaste that brings on gingivitis,
chinaware that disintegrates in the
dishwater, so does the songwriting
industry aggrandize the ephemeral
as it ransacks the most barren and
unserviceable ideas of the past.
"Imitation diamonds," wrote Toc–
queville over one hundred years
ago, "are now made which easily
may
be
mistaken for real ones;
as soon as the art of fabricating
false diamonds shall have reached
so high a degree of perfection that
they cannot be distinguished from
real ones, it is probable that both
one and the other will
be
aban–
doned, and become mere pebbles
again." Tocqueville's prediction has
yet to be realized; the relevance
of his metaphor persists. Song–
writers of late have attempted only
the imitation of imitations.
The nervous, gay, compulsive
music of the twenties gives way to
a tastelessness streamlined
be–
yond belief. Gershwin and some of
his contemporaries were greatly
gifted men
for what they were do–
ing,
expressing simple emotions
with a freshness of melodic and
harmonic ideas and with a par–
ticular sense of joy that the thirties
buried (enthralled Stalinist grave–
diggers wielding albums of Josh
White and the Red Army Chorus
under their arms; "folk" operet–
tists; novelty swing combinations;
exponents of calculated corn;
floy-floy hysterics; the composers
617
of the song "everyone" is whistling
-Chi Baba Chi Baba, Chickory
Chick, Open the Door Richard,
Pistol Packin' Mama, People Will
Say We're in Love; Jingle Jangle
Jingle, Deep in the Heart of Texas,
There'll Be Bluebirds Over the
White Cliffs of Dover, I'll Dance
at Your Wedding-an endless and
unspeakable catalogue. There are
few more dependable methods of
obtaining a quick migraine than
by merely reading over a list of the
hit tunes of the last ten or twelve
years.
Monolithic symbol of the whole
period is the juke box: this per–
manent guest in public places that
squats like some ominous and tem–
porarily static beast, afoam with
lights and tubes of colored water;
it might have been built by Andre
Breton in collaboration with some
monstrously sick and divided op–
ponent of industrialism who had
spent a claustrophobic lifetime in
Greek candy stores. There it sits,
booming or silently awaiting a
nickel, ready with "A Rainy Night
in Rio" and Perry Como, where
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