by Cole Porter
Cole Porter produces this sentimental dynamite methodically, working with charts. The charts, occupying the top of his piano along with a litter of cigarette cartons, throat tablets, and Kleenex, indicate the musical plan of whatever show he is working on and help him to pace the show by writing a comedy number after a romantic song, a fast number after a slow one. Porter’s headquarters in New York is a three-room suite on the forty-first floor of the Waldorf Towers – a kind of streamlined Mecca where a tide of agents, actors, arrangers, managers, and fascinated friends is regulated, but seldom stemmed, by Miss Margaret Moore, Porter’s secretary, and by his valet. Miss Moore’s telephone rings constantly with urgent messages from Elsa Maxwell, William Rhinelander Stewart, Clifton Webb, and other of the boss’s cronies, all of whom must communicate with him through his secretary. Porter has not answered a telephone in years. The living room, where he works, has, besides the piano, a radio phonograph so huge that Porter, who is not very tall, has to stand on his toes to see the machinery in the top of it. A card table holding bottles, glasses, and a cocktail-shaker stands in one corner of the room, and some two hundred phonograph records are stacked indiscriminately on a long table against one wall. Behind the records is a row of dictionaries: English, French, and Spanish, two or three rhyming dictionaries, a medical dictionary, and a thin book called “Words, Ancient and Modern.”
. . . Unlike songwriters who compose over a piano keyboard, Porter stays away from the piano until he has written the words and music of a song in his head and has put them down on paper. Then he plays it and sings it, making changes. He plays cheerfully, with a rhythmic shrug of his right shoulder that suggests at times a hot “I’m Just Wild About Harry” piano player, at other times a simple, ineffable delight in his own work. He has different ways of singing, too. If he is pleased with a lyric, he sings it with a relish that is handsome to see, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. If he is not yet sure about it, he leans forward tensely and listens to each word as it comes out of him. His singing voice is high, true, and slightly metallic, and his own comment on it is brief. “I sing unpleasantly,” he says. Nearly all of Porter’s most successful songs have been written to fit the personality or the vocal tricks of the star who is engaged to sing them. He wrote “Night and Day,” in “Gay Divorce,” to fit Fred Astaire’s voice, which has a small range and sounds best on a certain few notes. He wrote “I Get a Kick Out of You” for Ethel Merman, in “Anything Goes,” when he discovered that her best notes are A-flat, B-flat, and C-natural, and that she has an engaging manner of throwing herself away in the last few bars of a song. Porter long ago abandoned the songwriters’ tradition that a popular number should have a sixteen-bar verse and a thirty-two-bar chorus; some of his songs have had a thirty-two-bar verse and a sixty-four-bar chorus. He likes to add a few extra bars, or “tag,” to a Merman chorus, holding some of the notes twice as long as usual, because he knows that Miss Merman can deliberately flat a long note and make it sound brassy and fine, and that she can work up to an exciting finish with a few unexpected bars. He tries, too, to put the words “very” and “terrific” in the lyrics he writes for Miss Merman; no one, he says, can sing these words as she can. The verse of “It Ain’t Etiquette,” sung by Bert Lahr in the Porter show “Du Barry Was a Lady,” ends with the phrase “Now, for ninstance, Snooks.” Porter feels that syllables like those were obviously created so that Lahr could spray them at an audience.*
In December, Porter and Howard Sturges travelled to South America, as Linda Porter wrote to Jean Howard: ‘Cole and Sturges are in Lima, Peru, having a wonderful time. They fly back to Peru, Indiana the 23rd when we all spend Xmas together.’24 And in the late spring of 1941 Porter was in Hollywood, working on the Fred Astaire-Rita Hayworth vehicle, You’ll Never Get Rich, which was released by Columbia Pictures on 25 September. During the summer he worked on Let’s Face It!; the songs appear to have been nearly completed by late August, at which time Porter wrote to the show’s producer, Vinton Freedley, who had earlier produced Anything Goes (1934) and Red, Hot and Blue! (1936):
22 August 1941: Cole Porter to Vinton Freedley25
Dear Mr. Freedley:
After having been here with me three weeks, Dr. Albert Sirmay finished yesterday. We have written out and sent to New York the following numbers:
(1) OPENING SCENE 1, ACT 1
(2) A LADY NEEDS A REST
(3) JERRY, MY SOLDIER BOY
(4) LET’S FACE IT
(5) FARMING
(6) EV’RYTHING I LOVE
(7) ACE IN THE HOLE
(8) YOU IRRITATE ME SO
(9) BABY GAMES
(10) Reprise of EV’RYTHING I LOVE (in Miss Walsh’s key)
(11) RUB YOUR LAMP
(12) I HATE YOU, DARLING (Miss Walsh’s torch)
(13) LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT LOVE
(14) A LITTLE RUMBA NUMBA
I have finished, but not yet written out, Eve Arden’s solo, entitled PETS.
I still have to write the number at the end of Scene 1, Act 2, for Jean and Muriel with the ensemble. Actually I have a number for this spot, but I don’t like it enough and I want to do better.
I also have to write the introduction to Danny’s specialty just before the final curtain,* but otherwise I am practically all set for rehearsal.
Best
[signed:] Cole
Let’s Face It! opened at the Imperial Theatre, New York, on 29 October 1941, and ran for 547 performances. John Anderson wrote in the New York Journal-American: ‘In the face of “Let’s Face It” Vinton Freedley’s new musical production at the Imperial last night, let us release all the unshed adjectives that have been held back in a stingy season, let us toss up the verbal banners, slap our grateful sides, already aching with laughter and cry “Hurrah” if not “Bravissimo.” Danny Kaye is terrific. Exclamation point. Cole Porter’s songs are delightful. Ditto! The production is brilliant.’ And Brooks Atkinson reported in the New York Times: ‘Let’s face the facts of “Let’s Face It!” which was staged at the Imperial last evening. It is a wonderfully joyous musical show . . . Cole Porter has shaken some good tunes and rhymes out of his sophisticated jukebox . . . “Jerry, My Soldier Boy” is resounding band music. “You Irritate Me” is “You’re the Tops” [sic] turned upside down. In “Farming” Mr. Porter shakes a wry stick at the sport of smart people. “Let’s Not Talk About Love” restores the patter song to its ancient eminence as a test of memory and wind.’26
As Christmas 1941 approached, Linda reported to Jean Howard that Porter was ‘splendid – he is out every night – theatres music etc. – in spite of a cast which must weigh a ton’.27 And on 3 January 1942 she sent a telegram to Monty Woolley congratulating him on his appearance in the soon-to-be-released The Man Who Came to Dinner (Warner Bros., 1942) – ‘PERFECTLY DELIGHTED WITH YOUR GREAT SUCCESS. HAVE NEVER READ SUCH NOTICES. LOVE HAPPY NEW YEAR=LINDA’28 – while Porter sent a telegram to Johnny Mercer† congratulating him on his song ‘Arthur Murray Taught Me Dancing in a Hurry’ from The Fleet’s In (Paramount, 1941):
9 February 1942: Cole Porter to Johnny Mercer29
DEAR JOHNNY. YOUR LYRIC ABOUT ARTHUR MURRAY IS A JOY[.] PLEASE WRITE MUCH MORE AND MUCH OFTENER[.] BEST REGARDS= COLE PORTER.
About this time Porter became acquainted with the dancer and choreographer Nelson Barclift (1917–93), with whom he had a relationship for several years. A corporal in the U.S. Army, Barclift’s earliest dancing credits included The Eternal Road (1937), Right This Way (1938) and Kurt Weill’s Lady in the Dark (1941); he later choreographed Irving Berlin’s This is the Army (1942) and the Orson Welles–Cole Porter extravaganza Around the World (1946).
19–20 March 1942: Cole Porter to Nelson Barclift30
Thursday–Friday 3AM
Mar 19–20 1942
Do you realize, Barclift, that yesterday was St. Joseph’s day & that today is St. Cuthbert’s day. I haven’t much use for St. Joseph as he resented being called the husband of th
e Virgin Mary & you know what she produced. But St. Cuthbert was a straight guy & I’m so glad it’s Friday instead of Thursday.
My hut* is becoming habitable. Even that nasty guest room is being de-decoraterized & by the time you get here, you can sleep in it without waking up with ribbons in your hair. The West Point program arrived with photograph. Naturally I was proud of your build-up but until I saw that picture of you, I never realized that you were that old Russian dike who used to sing in Paris with a guitar. Her name was – I thing [sic] – Stroeva.† Ask Sturge [Howard Sturges].
Also tell Sturge you want to meet Jean Feldman [Howard]. She will be in N.Y.C. on Monday next, St. Victoria’s day. I’ve told her that you’re my Passing Fancy so if you suddenly fly out the window she will probably fly with you. But don’t miss her. She’s one of America’s Great Women. Don’t bring up Sylvia* as she hates Sylvia’s guts & its [sic] so sad because poor little Sylvia is all alone in the world whilst Jeannie has a nice alive husband & infinite Texas relatives.
I have the damnedest [sic] record on that Capehart.† It’s called In The Village. It was written by Ippolitow-Iwanow‡ [sic] & he should be ashamed of himself. But I’m in my sitting-room & that Capehart is in the bar. Also the record is on the Repeat. How does one deal with such crises?!?
Call up Ben, please. And Ollie.§ They love you dearly but don’t know how to get hold of you. Ben’s telephone number is Plaza 3-0041. Ollie is El dorado 5-3871 [this practically never works, but try from year to year.] It would make me worry less about you if I knew you were in occasional touch with them because they are the only two people in N.Y.C. [excepting always Sturges] who are good.
‘Way out here, one gets that wicked city idea about New York & all those purlieus. Have you been in a purlieu, tonight? Confess. Say “Guilty.” But do write me soon that you reported it all to Ben & Ollie for, for some intangible reason, they cleanse the impurity out of all they touch. And they touch plenty.
It’s bed-time now. The ole open-fire is a-fadin’. ‘Cross the cotton-fields, the darkeys are singin’ their lullabyes. Night’s a-fallin’, sugah. – So sweet dreams, puss.¶
Your Chum & Still Your Fan [in spite of that scarf around your neck, Babushka]
Albert.
Barclift, – Barclift,
I just heard a meadow-lark lift
Her voice and sing a song in praise of thee,
So Barclift, – Barclift
I, a glass of Cutty Sark lift
And drink to the meadow-lark
not thee
C.
In March 1942, Porter signed a contract to compose seven songs for Gregory Ratoff’s* film Something to Shout About (at the time of the contract called Wintergarden), and on 27 June a contract for two additional songs. Something to Shout About was released on 25 February 1943; Porter’s ‘You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To’, written for the film, was nominated for, but did not win, an Academy Award. Porter mentioned his work on the film in a letter to Barclift:
1 June 1942: Cole Porter to Nelson Barclift31
June 1st 2. A. M. after a dull dinner, but a long one
Barclift –
All your news is grand & thank you for the Berlin numbers.† It seems to me that the Sleep number is even better than the Canteen but I’m old enough never to know.
I haven’t written you lately because my Ratoff job is so crazy that it has nearly got me down. And yesterday, Arthur Lyons‡ called up to say that M.G.M. had a stint for me, that being to write new songs for Du Barry,§ but that they had offered so much that if I accepted the offer, my income tax for 1942 would be so big that I’d starve. He’s trying to wangle a new deal but the rub about M.G.M. is that they won’t make those nice contracts that spread over the years, such as my present one.
Forgive all this about Ole Cole & believe the fact that I’m much more interested in anything that concerns you.
So perhaps it’s better that you telephone me, any Sunday, reversing charges, around seven o’clock, your time.
You tell me that you think of me a hundred times a day. I like that. But I like more that whether I think of you or not you are always here.
I can’t worry with you about your present opus.* Berlin won’t make a fool of you. And if by some chance, he should, you can always come back to the shelter of Hedges Place.†
I say good night to you now. If you have time, call up Linda at Williamstown,‡ Mass (there are infinite Williamstowns) and if you’ve got any spare days, ask her to ask you up. The reason I mention this is because I love you so much & I know that the more you know her, the happier you will be.
I said good night to you before. But I repeat, with a reat-pleat and a rough-cull that everything that you do is my twenty-four-hour-a-day delight.
Good morning, Edgar. And bless you for being alive.
Mrs. Harrington-Carrington.
C.
In the summer of 1942, on 23 July, Porter sent a telegram to Ethel Merman, congratulating her on the birth of her daughter Ethel32 – ‘DEAR ETHEL CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NEW SUPER PRODUCTION WHAT IS HER VOCAL RANGE LOVE = COLE’33 – and he wrote to the dancer William Skipper*:
29 July 1942: Cole Porter to William Skipper34
Dear little Skipper:
Forgive me for not answering your letter sooner. I must blame it on my studio.
Freddie Nay and Lew Kesler are both here and they tell me you were wonderful in “Star and Garter”.†
They also tell me that Aunt Sam‡ just got you and that you are going to be one of our superior sailors. Please keep me posted as to your address, as I don’t want you to get lost in the crowd.
I have no news except that I shall be back in New York again on September first, and if you are anywhere near, please telephone me.
Goodbye, dear Skipper, and the best of luck.
Love,
[signed:] Cole
Throughout his career, Porter was concerned to protect what he saw as essential to his songs, their harmonies and in particular his melodies. He was also concerned that poor performances would be detrimental to his songs’ successes, writing to Harry Goetz, production manager at Columbia Pictures, in the summer of 1942:
4 September 1942: Cole Porter to Harry Goetz35
Will you please insist with me that Hal McIntyre’s Victor record of “You’d be so nice to come home to” not be released. It will do the tune great harm as the melody and harmonies are completely distorted.* Best regards,
Cole
The previous January, Porter – with financial backing from Len Hanna, Dwight Wiman, Mrs Paul Mellon and others – had opened the 1-2-3 Club at 123 East 54th Street: ‘Roger Stearns plays the piano and other people play gin rummy in this big, low-ceilinged, softly lighted room.’36 It was also, apparently, a safe meeting place for Porter and other homosexuals. On 14 September 1942, Porter invited Barclift to meet him there:
14 September 1942: Cole Porter to Nelson Barclift37
COME TO “123” TONITE = COLE.
In October and November, Porter wrote again to William Skipper:
4 October 1942: Cole Porter to William Skipper38
Skipper –
Your letter arrived. I can’t tell you how happy I am that, at long last, you have discovered the whimsies of old New Orleans. For years I have been told about the charm of this hot-bed of vice but when I was there as a child, I was at a definite disadvantage.
The New York news is not so hot. I saw two musicals in Boston – Count Me In and Beat The Band. Bob Alton’s work in Count Me In was swell and Lichine, who did the dances for Beat The Band delivered once in a number called The Steam Is On The Beam, but otherwise his work was unbelievably old hat.
My show is temporarily off because Freedley has suddenly decided that he doesn’t like the book.
But why do we even mention such trivial matters? There you are, in the wilds of New Orleans + here am I, in the Berkshires, just about to milk a cow.
Goodnight, dear Skipper. My love to your Ma whe
n you write her. Address me always – Waldorf – Love – Cole
9 November 1942: Cole Porter to William Skipper39
Dear Skipper:
Lew’s address is – 155 East 48th Street, New York City. Freddie Nay* is in California. He can be reached at 1746 Van Ness Avenue, Hollywood, California. He has had constant work since he arrived there about four months ago, and I do not believe he will come East for a long time.
Between each picture, Tito† threatens to hit New York again, but he makes such good money while he has worked that it seems unlikely we shall see him again here. I doubt also if he will be drafted, as he is an alien.
No moew [sic] news now, but if you get a telephone call from me in New Orleans one day, don’t be surprised as I might go to California after a stop-over at the St. Charles Hotel,
Love,
[signed:] Cole
In late 1942, Porter was approached by Warner Brothers to write a musical film, Mississippi Belle. Although Porter did not sign a contract until 28 December, a letter of 4 November to him from the film’s producer, Benjamin Glazer,* shows that work on the film had started sometime earlier. Glazer reported to Porter that he considered the story difficulties with the film ‘to be solved at last’, and suggested a musical number based on an eighteenth-century story he had recently come across:
Back in 1730 there was published a musical composition which purported to be the last Will and Testament of a Mr. Matthew Abby who died at Cambridge in a very advanced age after having for a great number of years “served the College in quality of Bedmaker and Sweeper” in which he left to his wife his whole estate: “To my dear wife, / My joy and life, / I freely now do give her / My whole estate, / With all my plate, / Being just about to leave her.” For some seven stanzas he enumerates his possessions, and touchingly concludes: “This is my store, / I have no more, / I heartily do give it, / My years are spun, / My days are done, / And so I think to leave it.” Perhaps this delightful composition turned up among the research material you have gathered. If not, I will be glad to mail you a photostatic copy from here. What we had in mind was melody and verse of yours along somewhat similar lines. Our heroine’s father, you will remember, was a roaring, fighting, singing Mick, who died when she was young, and left his all to the Bishop in trust for her. If such a man had made a will it might easily have been a musical one, in which rather than enumerate the items of his bequest, he chose to give her salty advice as to how to live her life, what manner of man to choose, and what to avoid. He could have written it in many moods and many strains, and Caitlin would sing it all her life. In fact, practically nothing could happen to her in which her father’s Will his wisdom had not anticipated.40
