Seems to me that I ought to start this story with a confession. And it’s this: I’m a steadfast fan of the Great American Songbook. Always have been. So, you might want to take that as fair warning: there will be some bias in this book.
Now, for those of you who are pining for punk rock or revelling in the latest rap rave, I should explain: we’re talking here about a group of literally thousands of tunes known as “Standards.” If per chance you’re new to this, you need to know that the Great American Songbook is the oeuvre of the most important popular songs from the 1910s to the 1960s that were created by George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Harold Arlen, Johnny Mercer, Richard Rodgers, and so many more. They represent the important and influential popular songs and jazz tunes from the 20th century. Most were created for Broadway shows and Hollywood films.
These are songs that have never really gone out of style. But then again, why should they? I mean, we’re talking composers and lyricists who knew how to turn a tune into lilting lessons of love sung by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, Al Jolson, Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday, Judy Garland, Mel Tormé, Sarah Vaughan, and so many others—the Adeles and Bruno Marses and Justin Beibers of their time. And if indeed you are new to this, you may be asking why you haven’t heard about this genre before. Well, that’s because a couple of guys set out to kill it.
First was Mitchell William “Mitch” Miller, a chap who grew up playing a pretty fair oboe and who elevated himself into being the A&R (Artist & Repertoire) man for Columbia Records. As a record producer, Miller gained a reputation for gimmickry. His relentlessly cheery arrangements and his penchant for novelty material—for example, “Come on-a My House” (Rosemary Clooney), “Mama Will Bark” (Frank Sinatra)—has drawn criticism from serious admirers of traditional pop music. In fact, music historian Will Friedwald (see page 51 for his comments on Ruth’s music), a man for whom I have great respect, wrote in his book, Jazz Singing,1
Miller exemplified the worst in American pop. He first aroused the ire of intelligent listeners by trying to turn—and darn near succeeding in turning—great artists like Sinatra, Clooney, and Tony Bennett into hacks. Miller chose the worst songs and put together the worst backings imaginable—not with the hit-or-miss attitude that bad musicians traditionally used, but with insight, forethought, careful planning, and perverted brilliance.
Ouch!
The second guy—the accomplice to the intended slaying of the Great American Songbook—was Robert Zimmerman. You may know him better as Bob Dylan. He set out to change the timbre of music through writing and singing folk songs that connected with a younger generation who did not link to their parents’ style. Result: the Great American Songbook faded with the sunset, just like it was blowin’ in the wind.
Now, before you fire off letters to my publisher, I’m not dissing Dylan. I like his stuff. But it’s a matter of public record that folk songs helped kill standards. That’s all I’m saying. And it’s likely worth noting that when rock and roll finally arrived in the 1950s with Bill Haley and Elvis Presley, no less than famed showman and songwriter Billy Rose would go on record to the U.S. Congress about “corruption in the record industry.”
But surprise: a renewed popular interest in the Songbook has led a growing number of rock and pop singers to take interest and issue their own interpretations. It started with Linda Rhonstat (she of the “Stone Ponies”) who hired arranger extraordinaire Nelson Riddle to fashion a series of “standards” albums for her that have since been followed by Rod Stewart, Annie Lennox, K.D. Lang, George Michaels, Lady Gaga (with none other than Tony Bennett), et al. And, oh yeah, Bob Dylan himself, who’s released a couple of albums of standards associated with Sinatra. What goes around...
Apparently, there’s breath left in the ole Songbook yet.
OK, with that out of the way, let’s move on to the book you’re reading, Until I Smile At You. Strange name for a non-fiction work? Not so when you realize that what I began seeking with this anthology was not so much the smile, but the story behind the smile. That of the late Ruth Lowe who wrote the song that put a wiry kid named Sinatra on the map. You see, as I recently confessed to Tom Sandler, Ruth’s son and a well-known photographer, I have for years hummed or whistled the tune to “I’ll Never Smile Again” nonchalantly, and without realizing it, in the background as I go about my daily routine. With absolutely no warning at all, this infectious melody has become my go-to tune, the one I apparently fall back on easily and without restraint as I seek a melodic background to the daily grind.
But surely this alone fails to qualify me as Ruth Lowe’s biographer. There must be a greater connection. And, indeed, there is.
I recently became aware that Mr. Sandler makes Toronto his home—that city being my former bailiwick where I lived and breathed before moving away from the Big Smoke a few years ago. With 2015 being heralded as the 100th anniversary of Sinatra’s birth, I had planned a fund-raising concert to commemorate the singer out in the boonies where I live. A friend told me about Sandler, and I arranged to meet him to share my plans for this event. We hit it off easily and, to cut to the chase, I not only convinced Tommy (he was named by his mom for Tommy Dorsey, after all) to appear with me so I could interview him along with his memories and priceless heritage photos, but—wait for it—I actually convinced him to sing “the song” live before our audience. He’d never done this before, and, indeed, it took some persuasion. But Tommy came through, sat for the interview, and then stood nervously before an appreciative audience who broke into a standing ovation at his recitation’s completion. It was a magic moment.
Figure 2: Tom—I'll Never Smile Again
Later that evening, as the musicians who had participated gathered at my place for drinks to celebrate our accomplishment, Tommy told me he’d been trying for years to get a book written about his mom. “You’re a writer,” he told me, “and you love the Great American Songbook. And you love mom’s song. Could there be anyone better to write her story?” He looked down for a moment, then eyed me straight on and said six words I’ll never forget. “I don’t want mom’s story forgotten.” As I considered this, he added: “I now know I’ve met the man to ensure her life will continue to shine.”
The dawn came up like thunder, and I expected Tommy might ignore the revelry of the night before. But no, he was on it like a cur savouring a bone. “Peter, I’ve thought it out. You’re the man! You’re the one to write mom’s story.” He looked me in the eye: “Will you do it?”
It took—oh gosh, maybe two seconds—for me to reply, “Tommy, if you’re keen, count me in. I’d be honoured. It’s a writer’s dream!”
Sandler then explained he had links to people I could meet who would fill in the blanks about Ruth Lowe’s life. Folks like Ruth’s kid sister, 96-year-old Muriel Cohen, whom he knew would be happy to meet with me and share her memories. And Seymour Schulich, legendary billionaire philanthropist who’d learned his trade at the feet of Tommy’s father, Nat Sandler, Ruth’s second husband. And with these luminaries, it was clear we were just scratching the surface.
OK, enough said. “Until I Smile at You” is the result of this serendipitous experience. And it’s about time too, since the full story of Ruth Lowe’s amazing life—and the legacy she left for the world—has never been told until now.
And there’s one last thing. Having immersed myself in research about Ruth Lowe, having talked with so many people who knew and admired her, and after spending time with Tommy sharing what an amazing person his mom was, I feel cheated that I never got to meet her, to know her. How wonderful it would have been to spend time in her company, being part of that realm she occupied. But, alas, like you, I will have to satisfy myself by getting close to Ruth Lowe in the pages that follow.
Now, just before we get to our story, a note about the people I talked with in compiling this book. Chapter 8 features commentary from several well-known song writers, performers, and entertainers. I sought them out and interviewed them to gauge their impressions of Ruth Lowe’s talent. Why? It still blows me away that “I’ll Never Smile Again” eclipsed all other songs of the time with such power. Not that Ruth’s effort is undeserving of huge commendation: it is an absolute masterpiece that endures to this day. But the famous Dorsey/Sinatra version recorded in 1940 is filled with slow-moving anguish. Chart that against the upbeat songs that competed for dominance that year and you have to wonder: how could heartbreak out-sell the verve, vigor, and gusto of virtually every other tune of the day? I figured there was only one way to solve this poser, and that was to ask people whose knowledge of music is more profound than mine. In short, their opinions solidified what is fact, just as Nancy Sinatra says in the Foreword, “It was a perfect song, interpreted by the perfect singer at the perfect time.”
I’d like to publicly thank each of the participants who talked with me and shared their enthusiasm for Ruth’s ability to write such a classic piece. Each of them was only too happy to go on the record and contribute to this, the only complete record of Ruth Lowe’s amazing life. Your thoughts and conclusions make this story so much more thorough. (Source information is covered in the Acknowledgment section at the end of this book.)
Ok, read on. Tom Sandler and I hope you enjoy this story as much as we did composing it.