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Irving Berlin

HOMEWARD BOUND

Our travelling companions, in their many

thousands, are mostly old or middle aged –

here from all parts of this divided land,

here where a local man set off a bomb,

in this utilitarian, concrete arena

magicked into a digital theatre.

 

‘The Mississippi Delta is shining like

 a National guitar,’ sings the elderly,

almost diminutive troubadour

from New York City, still centre stage

with his acoustic guitar, ironic

and lyrical, after all this time.

 

‘And she said losing love is like a window

in your heart. Everybody sees you’re blown

apart. Everybody sees the wind blow…

 

He has a young man’s energy. His voice,

nearly pristine, is rasped with wisdom.

Imagine Cole Porter and Irving Berlin

touring the world with their own orchestras!

 

‘And sometimes when I’m falling, flying,

And tumbling in turmoil, I say, Whoa…

 

He is accompanied by an off-stage host

of engineers, technicians and crew,

and backed by a multi-talented,

cosmopolitan band of angels.

 

‘…I’ve reason to believe we will all

be received in Graceland.’

 

 

DESTINATIONS & DESTINIES

Driving on education business to Crewe,

a quarter of a century ago,

I stopped for petrol on the Nantwich Road,

and there in a rack with Blur, Celine Dion

and Bon Jovi was Fred Astaire, Volume 2.

How my life changed! So many favourites

on one disc! I put the CD in the slot,

drove off the forecourt, and pressed the switch.

‘Heaven, I’m in heaven, And my heart beats

so that I can hardly speak, And I seem

to find the happiness I seek When

we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek…’

and the track finished with his immortal feet

tap dancing in my company car.

 

I thought of Israel Beilin – as I parked

at the college to provide advice

on pedagogical strategies –

leaving school at eight to sell the New York

Daily News on the Lower East Side,

plugging songs at eighteen in Tin Pan Alley,

becoming Irving Berlin, auto-didact,

maestro of the music and the lyrics,

making witty, eclectic American

art from those spirited, Yiddisher streets.

 

When I drove away the car filled again

with Astaire’s light, pellucid voice: ‘Before

the fiddlers have fled Before they ask us

to pay the bill And while we still have that chance

Let’s face the music and dance.’