Nano Notes: Broadway
As we were getting going this morning, the phrase, “it’s never too late” came up, and Kathleen began singing the song of that name from The Boyfriend. “Where does vodeo-do come from?” she asked. I had no idea, but I really wanted to hear the song.
“If they say I’m too old for you — ”
” — Then I should answer, ‘Why, sir?
One never drinks the wine that’s new;
The old wine tastes much nicer!'”
I’ve always loved this song, but I’ve never really agreed with its premise. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with sexy sexagenarians. But quant à moi, I was a natural octogenarian when I was octeen. Which means that, for me, unfortunately, sex (as distinct, of course, from love) has always been naughty.
Where does “vodeo-do” come from? I tried Google; the results were frightening.
One of my favorite musicals is Happy Hunting. This Ethel Merman vehicle bombed-big time — so big, that Merman wouldn’t let Stephen Sondheim write the music for Gypsy, because he was as unknown as Matt Dubey and Harold Karr, the two first-timers who created Happy Hunting. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Of course, if it had been up to me, Happy Hunting would be as well known as My Fair Lady.
We belong to a mutual
Admiration society
My baby and me.
(How else to explain Fossil Darling?) The musical is a conceit built on the framework of the royal wedding of Princess Grace &c. It is possibly even preppier than Mame. Except for the parts with Fernando Lamas — but maybe even then, for, in the Fifties, Spanish was very preppy (think Franco!). Lamentation à l’Américaine:
We’re
Up to here
With the wedding
Of the year
Up to here
With the wedding
Of the year.
“Give me a nice juicy messy divorce!” Mind you, I was about ten years old when I got my paws on this LP, which one of my parents — I’ve never figured out which — bought after or perhaps even before seeing the show. Original Cast Recordings had a way of materializing in our sweet Bronxville home (16 miles north of Times Square!). And I would listen to anything. Even Gerald McBoing Boing. Just imagine what I made of the following:
Even during our honeymoon
He continued to be polite,
Just as proper as he could be —
Then a year from our wedding night, Â
Came a little tap
Tiny rap
On the door of my bedroom
“Mr Linvingston, I presume.”
Imagine Ethel Merman not knowing who might be walking into her bridal suite.