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Fame had come early and easily to George M. Cohan.
In 1900, he was emerging as the star of a family traveling music
ensemble known as The Four Cohans. Literally having been born into
the business, on stage by the time he was walking, he was a theater
natural. Even though he received no formal education, by his teens
Cohan was writing and selling songs, organizing shows and working
with newspapers on publicity. At twenty, Cohan moved to center
stage, he was not just the star of the show, but he had replaced his
father as manager as well. With George in command, The Four Cohans
were playing the best theaters from coast to coast and commanding as
much as $1000.00 per week. This was an astounding sum considering
that most common laborers made less than a dollar a day.
Cohan, who rubbed many people the wrong way, often pointed to his
Irish genes as the reason he was opinionated, brash and arrogant.
Yet most thought it was just George being George. He knew he was
talented and spent a portion of every day selling that fact to
others. It was probably his salesmanship and talent working in
tandem that helped make the Cohan family headliners. Yet even though
things were running smoothly and continued success seemed assured,
George sensed that times were changing and the act had to as well.
With this in mind he began to look and work toward the time when he
would be the whole show.
In 1901, Cohan wrote and starred in his first real musical play, The
Governor's Son. It failed at the box office. Two years later he
penned another full length musical, Running For Office. Again his
politically inspired effort failed to draw a crowd. Cohan would have
probably been forced back on the road if he hadn’t teamed with
businessman Sam Harris. Cohan and Harris combined talent with
pragmatism and ended up with the Broadway hit Little Johnny Jones.
In 1905, George M. Cohan was on top of the world riding the success
of Little Johnny Jones, and its two hit songs "Give My Regards to
Broadway" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Even thought the singer/writer
was quickly becoming one of the hottest commodities on the New York
Stage, Cohan realized that while he might have a major hit under his
belt, a performer was only as good as his latest play. Therefore he
had to come up with a follow up act. He found his inspiration in a
very unexpected place, lifted from the words of a very unusual man.
Cohan’s first Broadway success allowed him give up horse drawn
carriages and become a part of the motoring generation. Over the
remainder of his life, his love of cars would lead to his owning
scores of them in every color and style. He was riding in one of his
first automobiles one day when he spotted an elderly man walking
along the road. The star ordered his driver to stop. Cohan then
inquired if the man would like a ride.
By looking at his clothes, Cohan realized that the man was obviously
not well to do. He also figured that this was probably the first
time the old gentleman had ever been given the opportunity to ride
in a car. Though neither man considered it at that moment, this was
really a unique meeting of generations, a person from a past period
of rural American pioneering and the young energetic writer who
couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow had to offer.
Cohan was used to being the center of attention on stage and off and
usually dominated every conversation. He often spoke so fast that
his words came out like bullets from a machine gun. Yet this time
the songsmith listened rather than talked. What he heard would
impact not just his own life by inspiring his second Broadway hit,
but bring something very special to the fabric of American life as
well.
Cohan, seemingly fascinated by his guest, studied him carefully. He
looked just like another grandfather type except for one peculiar
quirk. As he rode down the highway, the gray-headed man, his body
bent, his skin wrinkled, held a tattered old piece of multicolored
cloth in his hands. The man’s hand never stopped moving, continually
petting the rag as if were a favorite pet. After a while, as he grew
used to watching the world race by at almost ten miles an hour, the
old man began to talk. Over the next few minutes Cohan was only
mildly surprised to discover that his guest had fought in the Civil
War. The man was proud of that fact too. His stories clearly showed
that he clung to his past in the Grand Army of the Republic like a
child clutched a favorite toy. In a voice weakened by time, he told
the "Toast of Broadway" many tales, including one that centered on
the battle of Gettysburg. That was the day that, as a much younger
man, he had charged the Confederate forces with the famed General
Pickett. The veteran then pridefully shared with Cohan that he had
been the flag bearer. As others around him fell to the ground,
injured or dead, as the banner he held high was shot by hundreds of
rounds of lead balls, and as the battle slowly turned in the Union’s
favor, the young man was shaken to the core. How he had survived he
didn’t know. He heard scores of bullets fly passed his head on
several occasions. Yet to him surviving was not as important as was
the fact he had never dropped the American flag. He had held the
country’s banner high throughout the entire battle.
As he finished his story, Cohan watched the man continue to gently
pat the carefully folded ragged pieced of cloth that sat in his lap.
"It was all for this," the old vet sighed. "She’s a grand old rag,
Mr. Cohan. Yes, she’s a grand old rag." It was only then that the
songwriter realized that the cloth the man held so carefully was not
just a piece of material from an old shirt or coat, it was the flag
that he had carried but never dropped during Pickett’s charge.
Cohan had always and would so in the future write his plays before
he composed the music to put with his stories. Yet the image of the
man in the car would not leave him alone, thus forcing him to
reserve his normal creative process. Within hours of having stopped
to offer the old man a ride, the composer scribbled down his initial
concept — a number based on the old man’s experience and his genuine
love of country. Once he finished the song, he then went to work
writing a play that could frame and spotlight this new composition.
The resulting musical was named after a fictitious relative of the
"Father of the Country."
George Washington Jr. was not just another Cohan comedy, it was in
fact a "who dun it" musical comedy. This minor detective yarn also
managed to do what George knew best, embrace patriotism and the
American Dream. Best of all it was very funny. At one point one of
the actors tells the story about George Washington tossing a silver
dollar across the Potomac River. When another actor comments that
the river was very wide and that it would have seemed to have been
impossible for even the great general to throw a dollar that far,
the first character replies, "A dollar when a lot further then." Cohan’s vaudeville background served this project well, as jokes
like that continued throughout the whole play.
Yet the highlight of this musical was not the humor or the who dun
it plot, it was the moment when an actor costumed as a Civil War
veteran handed Cohan a tattered battle flag. As everyone looks at
the old banner, the old man says, "It’s a grand old rag." Then, as
if by magic, Cohan and company launched into the song that had
inspired the play.
The audience was not just enthralled, many were moved to tears while
others shouted and pumped their fists. Chills ran up and down
hundreds of necks and applause sounded from every corner of the
theater. It was obvious from the response that Cohan had a winning
show on his hands, as well as a song that could follow "Give My
Regards to Broadway" and "I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy" on the hit
parade charts. He went to bed convinced that he had written and
starred in his most successful play yet. Yet he woke up wondering if
the musical’s pivotal song wasn’t going to haunt him forever.
The next day several reviewers questioned Cohan’s regard and respect
for the American flag. One reporter wrote that Cohan had slandered
the nation itself by calling the Stars and Stripes a "rag." The
Broadway tunemaster immediately sensed that George Washington Jr.
might well be booed off stage if "The Grand Old Rag" created a
firestorm of controversy and called into question Cohan’s own love
of country. He had to act and act quickly.
That night the play continued, but this time Cohan replaced "rag"
with "flag." This revision not only saved his play, but also paved
the way for the tune that anchored the Broadway musical becoming
something more than just another White Way standard. Bill Murry
rushed into the recording studio and cut a solo version of the
newest Cohan song. His cut would hit #1 in the nation in January,
1906. Scores of other artists would also record "You’re A Grand Old
Flag." The Prince’s Quartet and Arthur Pryor’s Band hit the top ten
as well. Within months, thanks to Victrola records and sheet music
sales, millions who had never heard of George Washington Jr. knew
both the words and the music to "Grand Old Flag." Within a year of
the opening of the musical it had inspired, the Cohan tune had
become the most recorded and beloved patriotic ode in the country.
Though "You’re a Grand Old Flag" would have remained an important
American standard without any help from history, World War I assured
this tune’s place as the country’s most upbeat and uplifting
patriotic song. Though it is neither maudlin nor deeply sentimental,
along with "The Star Spangled Banner," it is simply one of the most
beloved songs in American history. This should be hardly surprising
considering that it was inspired by a single man’s courage and
devotion to his country. Thanks to George M. Cohan, the flag bearer
at Pickett’s charge didn’t just carry his flag on the day of the
battle at Gettysburg, but his spirit is alive and carrying the Stars
and Stripes even today.
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