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[0:00] Paul Lazarus: Hi, this is Paul Lazarus. In the 1980s, I produced and hosted a radio series called Anything Goes, a celebration of the American musical theater. Now, the Broadway Podcast Network is bringing back these shows. This is the first of a three-part tribute to musical theater legend Lehman Engel. Engel was Broadway's true jack-of-all-trades, composer, conductor, author, teacher. Tony Award-winning Engel is perhaps best known for founding and leading the BMI Musical Theater Workshop. This tribute originally aired in 1982.

[0:59] Paul Lazarus: Good afternoon, and welcome to Anything Goes. I'm your host, Paul Lazarus. Today, we're celebrating Lehman Engel, who passed away on August 29th. Lehman Engel was best known as a conductor, composer, author, and teacher. He conducted over 150 shows on Broadway in stock and around the world, and made countless recordings. He composed ballets for Martha Graham and incidental music for numerous plays. In his books, he was the first to analyze the craft of writing for the musical theater. He was a mentor to hundreds of writers and performers. On September 13th, a tribute was held for Lehman Engel at the Schubert Theater. Florence Rome spoke of her feelings for Lehman.

[2:06] Florence Rome: My name is Florence Rome, and I'm speaking for Harold as well as for myself. Grief is a very private matter. We've had two weeks to experience it in our own way, and all of us who love Lehman will continue to experience it forever, each time something happens to remind us of him. For Harold and for myself, those times will be uncountable. An early morning phone call will remind us of Lehman saying, "'Tis I, young Strephon." People playing cards will bring back Lehman, his big cigar smelling up the room, saying, "'Is this a hand which I see before me?' When a conductor raises his baton to start the overture, when someone stifles a yawn or peeks at his wristwatch, whoever goes on a diet will remind us of Lehman, and we will grieve, grieve that he is not there to share a joke, a tidbit of gossip, a confidence, a joy, a sadness, as he always has been for 45 years.

He was our friend. He was our brother. All the people who Lehman worked with were his children, orchestra, cast, workshops, all of them. He praised them, and he loved them, and he scolded them, and he made them toe the mark, as a loving, concerned father would do. And they loved him back. Arnold Auerbach, who wrote the sketches for Call Me Mr., told me that he visited backstage once when Lehman was on vacation. While chatting with some of the cast, the overture started. There was a silence, and suddenly everyone called to each other, hey, Lehman's back. The beat. The sound told them that Papa was back on the podium, and all was right with the show.

[4:23] Paul Lazarus: The year was 1927, the year that saw Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs and Lindbergh fly the Atlantic. On Broadway, Ziegfeld opened the theater that bears his name, and Fatty R. Buckle starred in Baby Mine. In 1927, Lehman Engel went to Cincinnati. He would become a musician. It was no hasty, will-o'-the-wisp, pirouette-of-the-minute decision. How did he arrive at it? Or, should we say, how was it arrived at for him? Let us hear in his own words.

[4:46] Lehman Engel: I took an aptitude test to find out what I do best, exactly what I was suited for. They checked my IQ, my sweet psyche too, and then they let me know my score. I wanted to be a psychiatrist, but they told me I was out of my mind. I wanted to be a flagpole sitter, but the chair was too small for my behind. I wanted to be a master chef, but the souffles all went up in flame. I thought figure skating would be nice, but in Mississippi there's no ice. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my game. I wanted to be a famous painter, but I look like Helena Baret. I wanted to join Dad in business, but Daddy couldn't see it my way. I planned to become a rough, tough gangster, but they wouldn't let me in the mob.

A big game hunter I thought I'd be, till a pussycat chased me up a tree. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my job. I might have been a maker of bootleg gin, but that plan went awry. I drank the business dry. I wanted to be a paper hanger, but the paper hanging business went kaput. I wanted to be a mighty athlete, but all I had athletic was my foot. I might have made a great optician, but everything I did was half-glassed. I thought I'd like to be a cop, but they wear dresses and that's the trop. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my sole source of income. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my game. I must confess, I excelled at checkers and chess, and tiddlywink, till my tiddly went on the blank.

I wanted to be a tea room owner, but the ladies didn't like the way I swear. I could have been a famous model, but something dreadful happened to my hair. I might have been a brilliant playwright, but Mississippi Engel sounds absurd. A rabbi I could have been as well, but scissors make me nervous as hell. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my sworn occupation. That's why Engel's the name, and music's my game.

[8:08] Paul Lazarus: And then, 1929. New York was hit by depression, dance marathons, soup kitchens, bread lines, and Lehman Engel. Depression dance marathons, soup kitchens, and bread lines have since disappeared. At first, it wasn't easy. Can a boy from Jackson, Mississippi, find happiness in the big city with nothing but talent, charm, good looks, a Cincinnati conservatory of music degree, and a great thirst? The answer seemed negative.

[8:43] Lehman Engel: Yes? Mr. Ziegfeld, my name is Lehman Engel. Why should I care? Yes, make it fierce, please. Mr. Belasco is not in the office. I'm on the phone with him now. Tell him, uh, my name is Lehman Engel, and, uh... Mr. Belasco, he says his name is Lehman Engel. I'll tell him. Sorry, Mr. Engel, he says that's not enough to bring him back from Sardi's bar. Mr. Schubert, my name is Lehman Engel, and I'm just crazy about Blossom Time, and you've just gotta hire me. Young man, there are no rules. In my case, I was a young conducting student and a young composer, and I had a chance, through a very strange set of circumstances, to write a great deal of music for Sean O'Casey's play Within the Gates, and it turned out to be quite a score, with lots of choruses and several songs and some dances, and somebody had to conduct it, and so I did, and I got wonderful reviews, and the following year I wrote a score for T.S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, where I had bigger forces, a big singing chorus, a big orchestra, and all this, and I got more attention, and the two things were tied together, and then really with children, I did at a settlement school in New York, a production of Kurt Weill's children's opera called Der Jahrsager, and Kurt Weill came to America the following year.

He knew about this. He came to meet me. It was so funny, because I was a young student, and he was an established international composer, ten years older than I exactly, and he came to see me, and it so happened that the group theater then, which contained people in the chorus, like Elia Kazan, and Sanford Meisner, and John Garfield, and oh, lots of luminaries, he was writing his first American show for that company, and I was asked to conduct it, and that was my first Broadway show, which I conducted, that I didn't write also. So from that point on, I became someone who was in demand for it. I have truly never asked for a job, ever in my life, and my advice to everybody is, don't.

[11:27] ♪ Musical number: "The Blue Danube Waltz" — performed by Lehman Engel ♪

[11:37] ♪ Musical number: "Call Me Mister" — performed by Lehman Engel ♪

[11:59] Lehman Engel: When I got out of service in World War, after World War II, the first thing I conducted was a review written by a friend, and actually a former student of mine, named Harold Rome, called Call Me Mister, and that was such an enormous, fantastic success, that it was practically unbelievable. That became a sort of historic monument, and it was so successful in New York, that I remember we made, I chose, and supervised, and opened a touring road company that was also a great success. Lehman Engel, in his autobiography, This Bright Day, writes, "My old neighborhood playhouse student Betty Garrett was the female star, and Jules Munchen played opposite her. Maria Karnalova was prima ballerina. Dodie Goodman was in the chorus.

This was the happiest, most in-love-with-each-other theater family I have ever known. The auditions and rehearsals of Call Me Mister were equaled only by the run for continuous fun, comradeship, peace, and pure joy. The whole experience was a quiet and beautiful love affair, and laughs, and empathy, and fun and games. During rehearsals, the director and I believed the show in need of a lively tune late in act two. Disagreeing, Harold Rome argued. Finally, in desperation and fighting all the while, he brought out of his trunk something called South America Take It Away, which he reluctantly said could be used if anybody wanted it. This was the song that made the hit parade, and Call Me Mister became a big hit.

[13:30] ♪ Musical number: "South America, Take It Away" — performed by Lehman Engel ♪

[14:55] ♪ Musical number: "South America, Take It Away" — performed by Betty Garrett ♪

[16:48] Paul Lazarus: You're listening to a tribute to Lehman Engel. I'm your host, Paul Lazarus. Lehman won his first of two Tony Awards as musical director for Giancarlo Menotti's opera, The Consul. In an interview, Lehman remembered opening night.

[17:03] Lehman Engel: To walk into the pit of the theater that opening night where expectation was very high because word had got about. And the first person I saw when I walked into the pit before I mounted the podium was Toscanini. And the place was filled with people like that. And afterwards, it was such a fantastic success, too. That was another great moment.

[17:29] Lehman Engel: Papers, papers, papers. But don't you understand?

[17:37] What can I tell you to make you understand?

[17:44] My child is dead. John's mother is dying.

[17:54] My own life is in danger. I ask you for help. And all you give me is papers.

[18:05] What is your name? Magisterial, age 33. Color of hair? Color of eyes?

[18:12] Single or married? Religion and race? Place of birth? Father's name? Mother's name?

[18:17] Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper! Paper!

[18:29] Look at my eyes. They are afraid to sleep.

[18:42] Look at my hands. Half people, all man's hands.

[18:58] Why don't you say something? Aren't you secretaries human beings like us?

[19:09] What is your name, Magisterial, age 33? What will your papers do?

[19:19] They cannot stop the clock. They are too thin an armor against a bullet.

[19:27] What is your name, Magisterial, age 33? What does that matter?

[19:34] All that matters is that the time is late and I'm afraid and I need your help.

[19:39] What is your name? What is your name? What is your name?

[19:46] This is my answer. My name is woman, age still young.

[20:05] Color of hair? Gray. Color of eyes? The color of tears.

[20:17] Occupation? Waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Waiting!

[20:31] Hey! The leader I know! Where are the wings?

[20:45] Real blood goes in the chains!

[20:51] War the!!!!

[20:56] Where we won him!

[21:01] The day he brings us still!

[21:07] The day the sun!

[21:13] The day will come!

[21:20] The day will come!

[21:29] ♪ Musical number: "To This We've Come" — performed by Patricia Newey ♪

[21:52] Paul Lazarus: Lehman won his second Tony in 1953 for conducting Wonderful Town, and a series of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas starring Martin Green.

[22:04] Lehman Engel: Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest. Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers.

[22:28] Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest, and weaves itself into my midnight slumbers.

[22:53] When you're lying awake with a dismal headache and repose is tabooed by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety. For your brain is on fire, the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you. First the counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, then your sheet slips demurely from under you. The blank dink tickles, you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking. You're hot and you're cross and you tumble and toss till there's nothing to extort you and the ticking. Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap and you pick them all up in a tangle. Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle.

Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze with hot eyeballs and head ever aching, but your slumbering teems are such horrible dreams that you'd very much better be waking. For you dream you are crossing the channel and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich, which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage, and you're giving a treat, penny ice and cold meat to a party of friends and relations. They're a ravenous fort and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington stations, and bound on that journey you find your attorney who started that morning from Devon. He's a bit undersized and you don't feel surprised when he tells you he's only eleven.

Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad, by the by the ship's now a four-wheeler, and you're playing round games and he calls you bad names when you tell him that ties pay the dealer. Well, this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand and you find you're as cold as an icicle in your shirt and your socks, the black silk with gold clocks crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle. And he and the crew are on bicycles too, which they've somehow or other invested in, and he's telling the Tars all the particulars of a company he's interested in. It's a scheme of devices to get at low prices all goods from cough mixtures to cables, which tickled the sailors by treating retailers as though they were all vegetables.

You get a good spaceman to plough a small tradesman for stake of his boots with a boot tree. His legs will take root and his fingers will shoot and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit tree. From the green grocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple and cranberries. The paste you cook plant, cherry brandy will grant, apple puffs and three corners and bambories. The shares are a penny and ever so many are taken by Rothschild and Baring, and just as a few were allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing. You're a regular wreck with a quick in your neck and no wonder you snore for your head's on the floor and you needles and pins from your soles to your shins. Your flesh is accreted and your left leg's asleep and you cramp in your toes and a fly on your nose, some fluff in your lung and a feverish tongue and a thirst that's intense and a general sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover. But the darkness has passed and it's daylight at last. The night has been long. Ditto, ditto, my song. And thank goodness they're both autumn over.

[25:42] ♪ Musical number: "The Nightmare Song" — performed by Martin Green ♪

[25:57] Paul Lazarus: One of Lehman's happiest experiences was working on Harold Rome's Fanny, which had a book by S. N. Behrman and Joshua Logan. Lehman Engel, in their words or music, talks about one of the songs. To my wife seemed to go well in rehearsal and the cast thought it touching. On opening night in Boston, the audience was embarrassingly silent at the end. The feeling at the production meeting afterward was that the song had failed and should be abandoned. I believe it was my idea to try expanding it a bit at the next performance. The orchestra reprised the chorus and Panisse spoke a toast over the music, singing only the last few bars. We tried this at the second performance and because of the song's increased exposure, it was received cordially and remained in the show.

[27:05] Lehman Engel: To my wife, who walks so gently through my thoughts all day long, clean and fresh and white, soft and strong, makes me feel that there is nothing I can't do if I try with my wife and son standing by. She may scold, say I eat too much, find some fault, give free advice, but a meal needs that added touch of salt and spice to be extra nice. Words won't do. There's so much I must thank her for. Where to start? How am I to say from the heart what I owe? To my critic, my partner, the flavour of my life, to my wife.

[28:09] Walter Slezak: Fanny, a famous Greek philosopher once said, a wife is someone who will stick by you through all the troubles you would not have had, had you not married her. But I don't agree with him, because every night before I fall asleep, and every morning when I wake up, I raise an invisible glass to the sunlight that brightens the autumn of my life, to my wife.

[28:52] ♪ Musical number: "To My Wife" — performed by Walter Slezak ♪