The Hammersteins Read online

  THE HAMMERSTEINS

  A Musical Theatre Family

  OSCAR ANDREW HAMMERSTEIN

  I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY WIFE, JENNIFER, AND TO MY CHILDREN, DASHEL, GRACE, AND JACKSON, FOR ENRICHING MY LIFE BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMS; AND TO MY DAD, JAMIE

  Times Square at night

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  1 FIRST STEPS

  2 REAL ESTATE MOGUL

  3 THE FATHER OF TIMES SQUARE

  4 THEATRICAL PHOENIX

  5 OPERA WAR

  6 OSCAR IN FLAMES

  7 YOUNG OSCAR

  8 WHEN I’M CALLING YOU

  9 SHOW BOAT

  10 WHEN YOU FIND YOUR TRUE LOVE

  11 THE 1930s

  12 BEAUTIFUL MORNING

  13 ALLEGRO

  14 THE BOY WHO CAME TO DINNER

  15 AT THE TOP OF THEIR GAME

  16 TRYING TO KEEP UP

  17 ALL YOUR LIVING YEARS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PHOTO CREDITS

  LYRICS CREDITS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INDEX

  INTRODUCTION

  The impact three generations of Hammersteins had on the development of the American musical theatre has no historic equal. It is simply unique.

  The first Oscar Hammerstein was as public and larger-than-life as Times Square itself. An inventor, writer, editor, publisher, composer, speculator, designer, builder, promoter, showman, he was, above all else, an impresario who accomplished his dream of revitalizing opera in America. He pursued his private passion for opera in the public eye: his amazing successes and spectacular defeats made front-page news more often than those of any other entertainment figure of the era. He was not courageous; he was fearless, and that had certain drawbacks. He lived life as a creative process but with no Off button to push. He couldn’t quit while he was ahead. If he had, the Hammersteins would now own much of Times Square, the theatre district that he is generally credited with creating.

  Oscar Hammerstein I (1847–1919)

  Oscar Hammerstein I popularized opera, the musical of his day. With an eye for the scandalous and the new, he launched the morally modern, daring French opera repertoire. He reshaped traditional opera to provide both fine acoustics and a more intimate, dramatic, realistic experience. His company possessed many of the finest singers of that era—Nellie Melba, Luisa Tetrazzini, Emma Calvé, Alessandro Bonci, Charles Dalmorès, Maurice Renaud, Mario Sammarco, and Mary Garden—and he sought in presentations, above all, a greater integration of all the theatrical arts in the service of a more unified dramatic whole. His roster, therefore, was skewed toward singers who could also act and even dance. In addition, Oscar I single-handedly fought to bring the transcendent singspiel of opera to a wider American audience and to wrest it from its upper-class imprisonment by the Metropolitan Opera Association.

  Oscar I’s accomplishments are manifold, but his inevitable failure is in some way even more laudable and lasting than his success. Forced to channel his Herculean energies into operetta, he helped set the stage—build the stage, some might say—for the rise of the American operetta, which began with his commissioning Victor Herbert to write Naughty Marietta and reached its apotheosis with his grandson’s masterpiece, Show Boat.

  Oscar I’s story is not a traditional success story—his is a one-of-a-kind “passion play.” He was one of those rare individuals who believed in his bones that money was a means to an end—never an end in itself. He died penniless, but he left New York City infinitely richer for his efforts. And he inspired, blazing a clear trail for his namesake grandson to follow. Without Oscar I, there would have been no Oscar II.

  If Times Square had a face, it would be that of Oscar Hammerstein I. But his story is only the first act in the Hammerstein family saga.

  The second Oscar carried his grandfather’s genius and passion further. As personalities go, the two Oscars couldn’t have been less alike except in one crucial way: they both shared an irrepressible, workaholic passion for musical theatre, and they both left their indelible mark on its development. Seen from a distance, they, along with the two patient brothers in the middle generation, Arthur and Willy, who learned all they knew from Oscar I and taught all they knew to Oscar II, form a single narrative of one possessed family carrying the art of the sung story from European opera, through operetta and musical comedy, to the decidedly American art of the “book” musical play that we have today.

  Oscar Hammerstein II furthered the transformative power of the musical play by making the believability and truthfulness of the story—the show’s libretto—the organic center around which all the other elements orbited. Moreover, Oscar II’s lyrics were warm, humane, and touched on themes of tolerance and understanding. For these simple reasons, the man who consistently referred to himself as “a careful dreamer” was able to dream up shows like Show Boat, Oklahoma!, Carousel, South Pacific, The King and I, and The Sound of Music.

  Oscar II’s contributions to the development of the musical-play form make him inarguably the most important lyricist and librettist in the history of the Broadway stage. His songs and shows are as popular today as when they were first written and remain the gold standard by which present-day shows are judged.

  Most poignantly, like that of his grandfather, Oscar II’s failure, his show Allegro, may have proved the most enduring part of his legacy. Allegro sparked a flame of fearlessness in his only student, Stephen Sondheim, who, along with other contemporary creators, has carried the torch and pushed the boundaries of musical realism into the twenty-first century.

  All my life I have been told that my grandfather, Oscar II, was a genius—a thing he denied to the skies. He hated the term and was quick to place credit for his success on two more prosaic factors: he worked compulsively for decades, and he made tons of mistakes. It was hard work not divine magic, perspiration not inspiration that he credited for his success.

  He also made what I believe is one of the most remarkable observations about the creative process: that one learns far more from failure than from success. With a hit, nothing is really learned over the din of kudos, but with a flop, one learns valuable lessons the hard way. That wasn’t false modesty; it was real modesty. He used to tell his sons on the tennis court, “Don’t think about the last ball. Think about the next ball.” That is the very essence of optimism, and that optimism sprang from an artist who had the faith and courage to let the narrative process define the theatrical product—not vice versa.

  Oscar Hammerstein II (1895–1960)

  Stephen Sondheim cites three concrete contributions to the musical-theatre-writing craft that Oscar Hammerstein II left in his wake (and who am I to argue?). The first is exemplified with Oklahoma!’s “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.” This song framed the sense of place and put character and fate into motion from the first syllable. Get to your seats—we’re telling a story here! The second is exemplified by Carousel’s “If I Loved You,” Show Boat’s “Make Believe,” and Oklahoma!’s “People Will Say We’re in Love.” With these coy first-act love duets, Oscar II got to have it both ways: there’s a qualified declaration of love, but it keeps the lovers separated until the audience can get to know them better and thereby care more for the love between them and the conflicts they face. But the third, illustrated by Carousel’s “Soliloquy (My Boy Bill),” is the big one—the masterpiece. Into one seven-minute-long, tour-de-force solo Oscar compresses almost a first act’s worth of character development and plot propulsion. This is the story sung!

  “Soliloquy” is like a beautiful oak tree. Admiring its robust height and heft, one may forget just how deep its operatic roots go. Or when that tree’s seed was planted.

  This book aims to
remind.

  Chapter 1

  FIRST STEPS

  On a cold January morning in 1864, an exhausted, grimy sixteen-year-old boy named Oscar Hammerstein stepped off a small rowboat and onto the muddy banks of Manhattan’s Lower West Side. He carried with him only a lice-ridden wool blanket, the rank-smelling clothes on his back, and an address in his head. Passing gas street lamps pasted with Civil War draft-deferment reward offerings and broadsides for the latest theatrical amusements, he made his way to a boardinghouse on Greenwich Street that welcomed Germans. Having no money, he put his blanket up as collateral and secured himself a tiny room for the night. He climbed up the stairs to his room and collapsed.

  No doubt he dreamed of his one treasured possession: his love for opera. This passion, bred in the bone, nurtured by a loving mother, and sharpened at the Music Conservatory of Berlin, propelled the Hammerstein family’s three-generation narrative. It is nothing less than the seed of this musical-theatre family tree.

  Lower Manhattan, ca. 1864

  At the boardinghouse the following morning, Oscar struck a deal with his landlady. He would shovel coal into the furnace every morning and do other odd jobs in exchange for room and board. But he also needed a paying job. He obtained a German-language newspaper and started scanning the employment listings.

  Oscar had good timing. During the Civil War, the city’s elite avoided military duty by paying roughly $600 to volunteers who would take their places. Thousands had accepted this awful choice and joined the blue line marching south. As a result, the city’s work force had been drained. Unskilled, low-paying jobs were relatively plentiful.

  The advert that caught Oscar’s eye was for a job that required the applicant be only a “wide-awake young gentleman.” Deeming himself to be overqualified, Oscar made his way to the Pearl Street doorstep of M. W. Mendel & Bros. manufactory. Manufactory was an arcane term used to describe a factory that produced handmade items—in this case cigars. There he found the work he was looking for, and other Germans. “Wide-awake,” young Oscar grabbed a broom and began sweeping the cigar manufactory floor for $2 a week.

  Within a few months, Oscar’s swift promotion to floor manager put some money in his pocket. He was soon able to move from the Greenwich Street boardinghouse to a small apartment on Ann Street, four blocks from the manufactory, which he shared with a coworker named Adolph Blau. Among other things, Blau had an adorable younger sister named Rosa.

  Rosa Blau (1850–1879), not yet seventeen years old

  The three young folks all shared the industrious rhythm of life in a cigar manufactory. A love blossomed between Oscar and Rosa Blau. He proposed to her, she accepted, and in 1868 Oscar and Rosa were married.

  All that remains as evidence of their eleven-year marriage are the children’s birth and death certificates, which tell a grim tale. Between her wedding in 1868 and her funeral in 1879, Rosa was continually pregnant. Three of eight children survived, all boys.

  In the hundreds of interviews Oscar gave, he never offered even a tidbit regarding the love of his life and the mother of Harry, Arthur, and Willy. Oscar completely edited out his first marriage from his public biography, if not from his private heart.

  Oscar Hammerstein at twenty-two years of age. Muttonchops, yes; Vandyke beard, not yet.

  During those eleven years of marriage, Oscar had continued to advance in the cigar business. He’d begun to apply his overactive mind to mechanizing the process of rolling cigars. Bent over lathe and vise, Oscar churned out laborsaving devices. While he made the mistake of selling his early inventions for cash, Oscar soon corrected that mistake and began applying for patents, forty-four of which were cigar-related. His first was for a simple silver cigar case that held eleven cigars. It probably didn’t make him much money, but he was determined that it would make no one else any, either.

  Oscar Hammerstein, 1878

  During those years I labored at my experiments in my little shop, using up every dollar of my earnings. Just when I began to look upon my efforts as an inventor as a failure, and my expenditures having brought me to almost unendurable poverty, strikes broke out in the trade. My inventions became of importance to the cigar and tobacco manufacturers. A scramble for my patents followed.

  —OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN

  Oscar’s first patent—an adjustable cigar case

  Oscar inventing, ca. 1896

  It would be the income from Oscar’s patent-producing insomnia that would perpetually refill his coffers and finance his lifelong operatic ambitions. He often responded to questions about his sleeplessness by saying simply, “I like my dreams wide-awake.”

  Now, with some money in his pockets, Oscar was once again able to indulge his passion for opera, a passion he had not been able to fulfill since landing in New York. It was through his frequent attendance of opera productions in the late 1860s that Oscar made the acquaintance of a man with whom he would partner in his first theatrical efforts: Hamburg-born Adolph Heinrich Anton Magnus Neuendorff.

  Neuendorff began his musical education at the age of eleven, upon his family’s arrival in America. A musical prodigy, by the age of sixteen he played violin in an orchestra and served as its chorus master. He then switched to piano while he studied music theory and composition under Gustav Schilling and soon made public appearances as a pianist. Neuendorff had spent the last decade first acting as chorus master and then conducting for Karl Anschütz’s German Opera Company as he marshaled his resources and maneuvered himself into position for a stab at opera management. By 1867, he had attained the position of music director of the enormous New Stadt Theatre. Neuendorff eventually replaced Herr Anschütz as general manager at the Stadt and soon began presenting operas; his first being Tannhäuser, followed by the unheralded American premiere of Lohengrin.

  For Adolph and Oscar, friendship mingled with opportunity. Oscar was not satisfied just attending opera productions; he wanted to produce them himself. The two men shared a passion for opera and each had something the other needed. Adolph had the theatre venue and Oscar had the cigar money to invest.

  Within the year Oscar took the management reins of the Stadt Theatre from Neuendorff and prepared his first production. He purchased the American rights to a German farce that had been a hit back home. Oscar assumed, wrongly, that the local German-American community would throng to the box office. Bad weather further dampened turnout, and the production was plagued by technical misfires. Within days of its opening, the venture mercifully died. When his opera money ran out, Oscar limped back to the cigar manufactory, where he knew he would always be welcome.

  Oscar had long observed that tobacco wholesalers had no reliable perspective on the supplies and demands of the tobacco retail market. They were often bilked and conned by retail companies that formed and dissolved in an endless corporate shell game. The existing trade paper, The Leaf, was less than helpful. The Leaf represented the interests of its local retail advertisers and could be counted on to promote the retailers’ views of the overall market. This imbalance within the trade translated into an opportunity for young Oscar. Knowledge, after all, was power.

  With $50 in capital, his wife’s guarded blessing, and the assurance of a trusting printer, twenty-seven-year-old Oscar signed a lease for a basement on Maiden Lane and founded and edited the United States Tobacco Journal. The Tobacco Journal was a one-man show—Oscar sold subscriptions door-to-door and wrote and reported on almost every single feature himself. The genius of the Journal was that it provided wholesalers with their first unbiased view of the tobacco markets.

  The United States Tobacco Journal, August 10, 1878

  Appalled and panicked retailers had lost their advantage overnight and, ironically, found themselves compelled to advertise within the Journal’s pages in order to maintain their brand identity and market share before the newly empowered wholesalers. Oscar’s Journal quickly became the invaluable source of comprehensive “seed to segar” international tobacco-trade information. He had profited from de
mocratizing the trade by leveling the wholesale-retail playing field.

  The Journal also offered Oscar a forum for the unleashing of his pen, and he waged a pungent war of words against The Leaf.

  Oscar’s barbed editorial broadsides landed him in court for a day or in jail for a night. But it never dampened his enthusiasm for the battle. Even in these early days, Oscar was at his absolute best when he had enemies against which to rail. Enemies concentrated the mind for him and marked the battle lines to be breached.

  In 1879 tragedy struck. The birth of Rosa and Oscar’s fourth boy, Edward, proved decisively traumatic. Rosa lost a lot of blood, sepsis set in, and, nine days after delivery, she suffered a heart attack and died. Oscar was absolutely devastated by the loss and utterly overwhelmed by the predicament. Harry was nine years old, Arthur was six, Willy three, and newborn Edward was ten days old.

  Illustration lampooning the editor of a rival trade journal

  Oscar’s younger sister Anna Hammerstein Rosenberg came to his aid. The previous decade, Anna, too, had left behind their father, Abraham; his horror of a wife, whom they called the “Dutch Widow”; and her German homeland and had made her way to America. She had settled in Selma, Alabama, and had married a harness maker named Henry Rosenberg.

  Given the swiftness with which she arrived on the sad scene, it was more than probable that she was summoned days before Rosa took the final turn for the worse. Within days of Edward’s birth, Anna parted temporarily from her husband and came up to New York City, to Oscar’s emotional rescue. She brought along her three-year-old son, Abraham.

  Anna Hammerstein Rosenberg and Henry Rosenberg

  Six months after Anna’s arrival, cholera claimed Edward. Nevertheless, Anna stayed on for another two years to continue caring for the other boys. In those two years, young Abraham was folded in with the other three Hammerstein boys and became like a brother to them. Anna’s husband, Henry, was brought up north a few years later, but he gracefully let the arrangement rest; Abraham stayed in Oscar’s household.