{"id":3378,"date":"2009-02-19T10:13:24","date_gmt":"2009-02-19T15:13:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=3378"},"modified":"2022-09-29T15:43:46","modified_gmt":"2022-09-29T19:43:46","slug":"whats-in-a-song-i-get-along-without-you-very-well-part-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2009\/02\/whats-in-a-song-i-get-along-without-you-very-well-part-2\/","title":{"rendered":"What’s in a Song: I Get Along Without You Very Well<\/em>
(Part 2)"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Excerpt[This is another in an occasional series on popular songs with long histories. Part 1 — on the song itself as finally recorded by numerous artists — appeared<\/a> on Tuesday.]<\/em><\/p>\n

Hoagy Carmichael published “I Get Along Without You Very Well” in 1938. (The copyright date was November 18.) But the song’s history stretched back over 15 years earlier, and the sheet music as published bore two signs of this past:<\/p>\n

    \n
  1. The full title of the song included, at the end, “(Except Sometimes)” — a phrase which appears nowhere in the lyrics.<\/li>\n
  2. Following Carmichael’s name as the songwriter appeared the note, “Words inspired by a poem by J.B. (?)”<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    Why “Except Sometimes”? Who was J.B.? And why that trailing question mark?<\/p>\n

    W<\/span>hen we think of Life Magazine<\/em> anytime from the Depression onward, we think of the apparently now extinct, large-format sister to Time Magazine<\/em>, the other half of the Time-Life Corporation. But there was an earlier magazine called Life<\/em>, which ceased publication in 1936 when rights to its title were bought by Henry Luce for his new version. Says Wikipedia<\/a>:<\/p>\n

    \n

    The Life<\/em> founded in 1883 was similar to [the humor magazine] Puck<\/em> and published for 53 years as a general-interest light entertainment magazine, heavy on illustrations, jokes and social commentary.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    It also included some poetry. And 1924 saw, in particular, the appearance of a poem called “Except Sometimes”:<\/p>\n

    \n

    Except Sometimes<\/strong><\/p>\n

    I get along without you very well,
    Of course I do.
    Except the times a soft rain falls,
    And dripping off the trees recalls
    How you and I stood deep in mist
    One day far in the woods, and kissed.
    But now I get along without you — well,
    Of course I do.<\/p>\n

    I really have forgotten you, I boast,
    Of course I have.
    Except when somone sings a strain
    Of song, then you are here again;
    Or laughs a way which is the same
    As yours; or when I hear your name.
    I really have forgotten you — almost.
    Of course I have.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    (For comparison, and so you don’t have to flip back to Part 1 of this post, here’s the text of the song as published:<\/p>\n

    \n

    I get along without you very well,
    Of course I do,
    Except when soft rains fall
    And drip from leaves, then I recall
    The thrill of being sheltered in your arms.
    Of course, I do.
    But I get along without you very well.<\/p>\n

    I’ve forgotten you just like I should,
    Of course I have,
    Except to hear your name,
    Or someone’s laugh that is the same,
    But I’ve forgotten you just like I should.<\/p>\n

    What a guy, what a fool am I.
    To think my breaking heart could kid the moon.
    What’s in store? Should I phone once more?
    No, it’s best that I stick to my tune.<\/p>\n

    I get along without you very well,
    Of course I do.
    Except perhaps in spring.
    But I should never think of spring,
    For that would surely break my heart in two.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    Pretty close, hmm? Also better, in my opinion — but I’m qualified to judge poetry only marginally more than music!)<\/p>\n

    And the poet behind “Except Sometimes” was identified only by his or her initials: “J.B.”<\/p>\n

    I<\/span>n Carmichael’s 2003 biography, Stardust Melody: The Life and Music of Hoagy Carmichael<\/em>, author Richard M. Sudhalter recounts the story as it’s come down to us. A friend of the composer’s had seen the poem in the old Life<\/em> and, thinking Carmichael would like it, had clipped it out and passed it along. Carmichael forgot about it until (as Sudhalter says) “in 1938 it again fell under his gaze.”<\/span><\/p>\n

    You can see drafts 1 through 3 of “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” in Hoagy Carmichael’s handwriting, online at the Hoagy Carmichael Collection<\/a> of Indiana University (his alma mater).<\/span><\/p>\n

    The image at the top of this post is a higher-contrast view of a portion of the first draft<\/a>. It highlights the section towards the end of the song where the melody and lyrics depart from what comes before and after; nothing like this section appeared in the original poem at all, and in the song’s final version in different form than in this draft. Here’s what it says (I think) — with lines 5 and 6 clearly meant as alternative versions of the fifth line:<\/span><\/p>\n

    \n

    What a guy!
    What a fool am I
    Making these sour faces at the moon
    What a sin
    Should I try again [or?]<\/em><\/span>
    Why not make a new try
    No, I’d better stick right<\/span> to my tune.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    After reworking the lyrics and melody a couple more times, Carmichael was ready to set the song in stone. But he had a problem, a big one: to publish a song with lyrics based so obviously on a pre-existing work by someone else, he’d have to acquire the permission of that person (or, if deceased, from his or her estate).<\/p>\n

    So who was J.B.?<\/p>\n

    Carmichael didn’t know. But with the song’s radio debut already scheduled, he needed to find out fast. At his disposal in 1938, obviously, he had no Internet in general or Web in specific; he had access to no one from the old Life<\/em> who might answer a tiny question with (perhaps) no definitive answer in old paper records — assuming those records even existed. And time was so short he could hardly hire a detective to go knocking on doors.<\/p>\n

    \"\"But he could turn to a friend, the fast-talking and “hard-boiled” radio and newspaper commentator Walter Winchell. Everybody<\/em> listened to or read Winchell’s entertainment and gossip reports. It was an obvious solution.<\/p>\n

    Sudhalter again, in Stardust Melody<\/em>:<\/p>\n

    \n

    On Sunday, November 27, 1938, little more than a week after copyright was registered on the song, Winchell read the first of several items devoted to “J.B.”:<\/p>\n

    Attention, poets and songwriters!<\/p>\n

    Hoagy Carmichael, whose songs you love, has a new positive hit — but he cannot have it published. Not until the person who inspired the words communicates with him and agrees to become his collaborator… I hope that person is a listener now.<\/p>\n

    He lists some of Carmichael’s past hits, quotes part of “Except Sometimes,” and winds up with an exhortation:<\/p>\n

    If you wrote those lines in a poem, tell your Uncle Walter, who will tell his Uncle Hoagy, and you may become famous.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    After a couple of months of further on-air pleas — and discounting the responses of numerous pretenders — Winchell was finally able to announce:<\/p>\n

    \n

    Well, we’ve found the lady who wrote… the verse which inspired Hoagy Carmichael’s new love lilt. At least “Jane Brown” (it was signed “J.B.”) claims authorship. She will rate 3\u00a2 a copy on the ditty if her claim holds up.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

    It turned out that the former Jane Brown was now a widow — married name Thompson — age 71, and living in Philadelphia. She didn’t read Winchell’s columns or listen to his broadcasts and had no telephone. Two retired staff members of the old Life<\/em> had managed, miraculously, to locate her; and through her attorney, she agreed to the terms of the contract (dated January 6, 1939) which Carmichael offered her.<\/p>\n

    …at which point, things get fuzzy once again.<\/p>\n

    Oh, the legend is clear enough: It holds that “I Get Along Without You Very Well” debuted on the air on Dick Powell’s radio program of January 19, 1939. But — alas — Jane Brown Thompson died the night before. Thus, she was robbed by a mere 24 hours of the chance to hear “her” own song.<\/p>\n

    Sudhalter argues differently, and I think persuasively. For the details, see page 213 of Stardust Melody<\/em> (Google Books<\/a>). But broadly, he contends that the song actually was broadcast a month earlier, by Guy Lombardo’s band — and that both Winchell and Carmichael knew of it, and at that time mentioned no “mystery” of the elusive original poet.<\/p>\n

    W<\/span>ell, whatever the truth: I’m delighted that Jane Brown wrote her poem and published it in the old Life<\/em>; I’m delighted that Hoagy Carmichael’s friend slipped him a copy; and I’m delighted that many years later, he remembered it, found it again, and recast it into the wistful treasure we have (and which performers continue to rediscover) now.<\/p>\n

    ______________________<\/p>\n

    Whew. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling the need for a little diversion. How about some… I know, some British comedy!<\/p>\n

    This clip is the start of episode 5 of the first season of Goodnight Sweetheart<\/em>. The series centered around one Gary Sparrow, an “accidental time traveler” (per Wikipedia<\/a>) who keeps shuttling back and forth between the 1990s and 1940s. One distinguishing feature of the program was that each episode was titled after a popular song from the earlier era.<\/p>\n

    Want to guess which song title was commemorated with this one?<\/p>\n

    (Parts 2<\/a> and 3<\/a> of the episode, unsurprisingly, also put in an appearance on YouTube.)<\/p>\n