The Flip Side

Just to look at Ginny Lane, you would be bound to say that she was intended for better things than singing a song called Scrambled Eggs. But what those better things might be, nobody in the music world was likely to tell you, for on a recent Thursday Ginny's record of Scrambled Eggs sold its one millionth copy. This meant that to date the American public had shelled out $890,000, exclusive of what vanished into the maw of juke boxes, to hear Ginny sing:

I love coffee, I love tea,

English muffins too.

But I could live on whole wheat toast

And scrambled eggs with you.

There were five other choruses and two bridges, which need not be reproduced here. Suffice it to say that Ginny Lane's recording of Scrambled Eggs meant many things to many men. In Ohio, it was chosen as a campaign song by a gentleman running for Congress in opposition to the powdered egg lobby. In the British Parliament, it was held up as belated proof that George III might have had something there when (continued on page 66)Flip Side(continued from page 51) he said the colonists made no sense at all. And along Tin Pan Alley, it was regarded as conclusive evidence that Harry Smollett, vice president of Magna Records, Inc., could fall into a vat of sheep dip and come up clutching a rose.

Until the moment when he decided that Scrambled Eggs would be a good number for Ginny Lane, Harry Smollett had been Magna's vice president in charge of recording. Now he was vice president in charge of Ginny Lane, an advancement which forced no complaint from his lips. It was now his exclusive task to study the novelty songs that crossed his desk, distinguishing between those that might be likely hits for Ginny and those which obviously had been composed in quieter surroundings, with padding on the walls. The difference between these two broad categories was not always discernible to the naked eye.

On Harry Smollett's desk today, for example, was a number entitled Down by the A E I O U, composed by the same Herbert Gideon who had authored Scrambled Eggs. It would be moot, from a cursory inspection of the new number, to say that Herbert Gideon was slipping. Harry Smollett, who at the age of 46, had outlasted two wives and three analysts, was keenly aware of his new position in life, and he had to be careful. Every song henceforth had to be a hit. Already, he was more famous than Herbert Gideon and almost as famous as Ginny Lane. The columnists now called him "The Song Demon," pointing out that Scrambled Eggs had been turned down by 19 reputable publishers and seven disreputable publishers before Smollett espied its potentialities as a smash success.

What complicated matters, in what for Smollett was an exceedingly delightful direction, was the fact that the newspapers now linked him romantically to Ginny Lane. A week or so ago, Smollett told representatives of the press that he had decided Scrambled Eggs would be a hit while visiting Miss Lane one evening at her apartment. He did not mention the fact that he had not visited her alone; that, in truth, he had barged in while Ginny Lane was entertaining her dear mother and two maiden aunts. But the newspapermen did not inquire further. Instead, they took Harry Smollett's testimony at face value, and what was published, as a result, was highly diverting. Inspired by Tryst, one of the headlines said.

It ought to be said at this juncture that Harry Smollett and Ginny Lane were not precisely a pigeon pair. Smollett was gray and lean, his features sharply drawn, like something a fourth-grade scholar might perpetrate with a jigsaw in Shop Class. Ginny Lane, on the other hand, was 24 years old, slender except where it was needful not to be slender, red of mouth, black of hair, bright of eye-intended, in short, for something better than Harry Smollett. But here again, no one in the trade had the slightest idea what that something might be.

Neither did Ginny Lane. At 11 o'clock of this certain morning, she entered Harry Smollett's office.

"Hello, Harry," she said, and regarded her benefactor hopelessly.

"Darling," Harry Smollett said, and came around his desk to kiss her.

"Harry," Ginny said, and avoided him. "I hear you have a new song."

"Yes," he said, resignedly. "It's called Down by the A E I O U. Herbert Gideon wrote it."

"Oh," Ginny said. "Before or after his breakdown?"

"Betimes," Harry Smollett said. "Shall I get Archie in here to play it for you?"

"Archie had a breakdown too," Ginny said. "His wife phoned in today."

"Well," Smollett said, "there must be somebody else around here who can play the piano. Hold the phone." He got up and came around the desk again, tried a kiss in passing and in vain, and went out the door.

Ginny Lane, left alone, wandered unhappily about the room. After a time, she sat down at the piano and examined the copy of Down by the A E I O U that was on the music stand. The perusal brought to her something akin to physical pain.

Down by the A E I O U

Sweetheart, you and I,

We were so oo ah ee

Waiting for the bye and bye.

I said kubaba

And said it with a sigh—

Down by the A E I O U

Baby, you and I!

"I won't do it," Ginny said aloud. "I will not do it. I don't care if it costs me a million dollars. I will not be caught dead saying we were so oo ah ee. That's all there is to it. I have never said kubaba in my life. I simply and absolutely decline to ..."

Then she realized she was no longer alone.

A voice behind her said, "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to interrupt anything." Ginny looked up and saw a tall, rather doleful-looking young man. "My name," he said, "is Sad Sam Weaver. Mr. Smollett asked me if I would play the piano for you."

"Oh," Ginny said, and thought about it for a moment. "Sad Sam? Why?"

"Because," Weaver said, "my name is Sam and I'm sad."

"What about?"

"Many things. May I sit down here beside you?" Sad Sam Weaver sat down. "One of the things is that you recorded a song of mine, entitled Always Only You. You sang it beautifully."

"Always Only You," Ginny said. "I remember it."

"You're the only one who does," Weaver said. "It wound up on the other side of Scrambled Eggs."

"I see," Ginny said. "Well, you can call me Ginny, and I'll call you Sam. Does that make you any happier?"

"Yes," Sad Sam Weaver said. "What is that song you have there?"

"Down by the A E I O U," Ginny said. "Herbert Gideon wrote it."

"Herbert's outside in the hall with Mr. Smollett," Weaver said. "He was very excited about something."

"Well," Ginny said, "do you want to run through this while we're waiting?"

"No," Weaver said.

"Neither do I," Ginny said.

The tall young man reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and drew forth a folded piece of music manuscript. He straightened it tenderly, held it with care, and placed it against the music stand.

"Just a little something," he said.

"Yours?" Ginny said.

He nodded. "Ballad."

"Love?"

Weaver nodded again. "Very difficult to get this type of song published nowadays. Did you know Irving Berlin went more than eighteen months between records?"

"Not a Star," Ginny said, reading the title of the song. "That's a pretty name for a song."

"It's a pretty song for a song," Weaver said. "If I do say so myself, and I'm afraid I do."

He began to play, and Ginny, reading over his shoulder, sang,

Not a star, my love you're not a star,

A star is much too far for me.

Not the sky, my love you're not the sky,

The sky is much too high for me.

I'm an earthling bound by land and

ocean,

I'm a simple soul among the crowds.

If my heart's surrounded by emotion,

Still my head is not above the clouds.

Here you are, my love, you're not a

star,

I don't know what a star is worth.

You are not the heavens up above,

But you're heaven on earth.

"I love it," Ginny said.

" 'Bound' and 'surrounded' make a nice interior rhyme," Weaver said. "Not quite up to Ira Gershwin, who once rhymed 'seraphic' with 'traffic', but a happy touch, nonetheless. This I do confess. I hope I don't sound boastful. Somebody has to say something nice about my songs."

"That somebody," Ginny said firmly, (continued on page 82)Flip Side(continued from page 66) "is going to be me. Let's try it again."

Sad Sam Weaver, looking as though he did not quite believe any of this, launched soulfully into another vamp intro. Ginny began to sing. The door opened, and Harry Smollett came in. He was accompanied by Herbert Gideon, a little man who looked like an otter with eyeglasses.

"What," Gideon said to Ginny Lane, "are you singing?"

"Not a Star," Ginny said. "Mr. Weaver here wrote it. It's beautiful."

"Thank you," Weaver said to her. "You can call me Sam."

"It didn't sound beautiful to me," Harry Smollett said. "What is it?"

"A love song," Ginny said to him.

"Ah," Smollett said. "A love song." He turned to Herbert Gideon. "Do you have an extra one of those pills?"

"They aren't very good pills," Gideon said, reaching into his pocket.

"They're tranquilizers, aren't they?" Smollett said to him.

"Supposedly," Gideon said. He sighed. "They don't tranquilize me."

"A love song," Smollett said heavily. "What do you think this is? Vienna or someplace?"

"There's always room for a love song," Ginny Lane said.

"Let me tell you something," Harry Smollett said to her. "I address you as your future husband." He looked challengingly around the room. "Popular songs go in cycles. We are now in the rock-and-roll cycle, footwear sub-cycle—motorcycle boots, blue suede shoes, and so forth. You do not tell somebody in a hit song nowadays that you are in love. You tell them instead what kind of shoes you are wearing and please don't step on them. Or you tell them..."

"I beg your pardon," Herbert Gideon said to him. "Down by the A E I O U is a love song."

Smollett said, "It is?"

"Certainly," Gideon said. "See how the words go-'Sweetheart, you and I.' "

" 'We were so oo ah ee,' " Ginny Lane said.

"Exactly," Gideon said.

"Well," Harry Smollett said, "all I can say is, there are love songs and then there are love songs. This thing you were singing when we came in, Ginny, my pet. It'll have to go."

"Him too," Herbert Gideon said, eyeing Sad Sam Weaver.

"No," Ginny said quickly. "Sam has to stay. He's the piano player."

"All right," Smollett said, in businesslike tone of voice. "Let's get going on the thing. Recording's at three this afternoon."

Herbert Gideon said, "What are you going to do on the flip side?"

Sad Sam Weaver said, "Were you talking to me?"

"He means the other side of the record," Ginny said to him. She smiled sweetly at Herbert Gideon. "Perhaps you have another tune? Down by the X L M H F, or some such?"

"Never put two hits on the same record," Gideon said stiffly.

"That's right," Harry Smollett said. "Look for the worst tune you can find, is my motto, and stick it on the other side. Some song nobody will..." He stopped, gazing thoughtfully at Sam Weaver. "Would you care to play that number of yours again?"

"Delighted," Weaver said, and played Not a Star.

Ginny Lane said, "It makes me want to cry."

"What do you think, Herb?" Smollett said to Gideon.

"It's all right," Gideon said. "A nice, quiet, wretched number. Nobody'll notice it."

"My boy," Smollett said to Weaver, and held out his hand. "Congratulations. Your song goes on the flip side of Down by the A E I O U. You'll be famous."

"I'm already famous," Weaver said. "I'm on the flip side of Scrambled Eggs."

• • •

Distribution of Ginny Lane's newest recording, Down by the A E I O U, began one week thereafter. Therefore distribution of Not a Star commenced at the same time. The week itself was distinguished by the fact that Ginny Lane and Sad Sam Weaver had five dates—though none of them was destined to attract the attention of the columnists, who still regarded Ginny and Harry Smollett as the same old item. Sam Weaver took Ginny one night to Palisades Amusement Park, where they rode a roller coaster named the Cyclone; another night they spent at the Polo Grounds, watching the Reds dismember the Giants; another time they went to a Fernandel movie. So forth.

"The first time I laid eyes on you," Ginny sighed. "It was so..." She searched for the proper expression.

"So oo ah ee," Sad Sam Weaver said. "I felt the same way. I said kubaba."

"Only when they said your song could be on the other side," Ginny said. "Only then was I willing to sing that other song with the vowels in it."

"Bless you," Sam said to her.

"We'll be married," Ginny said happily. "Think of what a musical family we'll have."

A cloud crossed Weaver's brow. "No," he said. "I am one of those horrible old-style miscreants who believes the husband should support the wife. My royalty picture won't permit."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ginny said, and kissed him. "You're too old-fashioned. I suppose you think the girl you marry will have to come live with you in Fall River, just because it's a nice, sleepy, old-fashioned town."

"It's New Bedford," Sam said. "And it's not so sleepy."

Ginny began to cry. "I think your songs are beautiful. It's not my fault they don't make money."

"I know," Sad Sam Weaver said. "It's the times. This thing is bigger than both of us."

On that note, they parted; Ginny to go to the nationwide television program Show Time, on which she was the featured singer this week, and Sam, in utter misery, to go watch the Giants again.

Harry Smollett was waiting for Ginny when she reached the television studio. "Baby," he said to her, "where you been all week? The newspaper boys been asking."

"For one week," Ginny responded, "I have been happier and unhappier than any million-dollar girl singer of crazy songs has a right to be. Do you understand?"

"No," Smollet said. "No, I don't. But I have a table reserved at the Stork, for after the show. The show'll be a snap lot you. One rehearsal, inside in there now. You do Scrambled Eggs, and then for your encore you introduce the new one. Big sendoff. Forty million people watching. Down by the X Y Z, or whatever it is. You'll sell a quarter of a million records off this appearance alone. Don't forget to plug the label."

"I won't," Ginny said, and went inside to rehearse and make sure the orchestra had the sheet music it needed. Harry Smollett rejoined her after rehearsal, and they had a cup of coffee. "How'd it go?" he asked. "Easy?"

"Yes," Ginny said, and started to cry.

"Those lyrics must be very moving," Harry Smollett said. "I never thought of them in quite that way. Oo ah ee. Ku-baba. Yup." He nodded. "Charged with emotion. No two ways about it."

The show itself, a typical big-time variety hour, went swimmingly. Ginny Lane won a vivid hand when she appeared, and she sang Scrambled Eggs as only Ginny could sing Scrambled Eggs.

"Well, Ginny," the master of ceremonies said to her, when the applause had died down, "I hear you've got a new record."

Ginny nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

"Understand it'll sell a million copies, just like Scrambled Eggs did," the m.c. said.

"I hope so," Ginny said; this being the only thing to say under the circumstances. She cast a glance askance, and from the wings, Harry Smollett nodded encouragement.

"Is it like Scrambled Eggs?" the m.c. wanted to know.

"Nothing could be quite like Scrambled Eggs," Ginny Lane said.

The m.c. guffawed. "Well. Tell us a little about it."

"It's an old-fashioned song," Ginny said. "A love ballad."

"You don't say? What's it called?"

"Not a Star."

"Well," the m.c. said. "Been quite some time since we've heard a good old-fashioned love song. What do you think, audience? Want to hear Ginny sing it?"

There was a startling crescendo of applause.

Ginny nodded to the band leader, who at her urging during rehearsal had sent out a hurry call for score sheets of Not a Star. The conductor raised his baton, and Ginny sang Sam's love song.

The roaring applause from the audience was still going full blast when the show cut out to a commercial break.

Ginny found Harry Smollett waiting in the wings. "All right," she said to him. "You don't have to say it."

He looked at her. "Say what?"

"I did the wrong side of the record." She looked at him defiantly. "And I'm glad."

"Lady," Smollett said to her, with feeling, "so am I. The way the audience went for that number. I've been saying it for a week. Love songs have got to make a comeback. You'll sell more than a million records. I'm so happy I'm delirious. That silly piano player, he'll make himself a pot of money and I'm even happy for him. Come on. The Stork Club. We'll celebrate."

"No," Ginny said.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean no."

"Why not?"

"I have someplace else to go."

"Where?"

"The bleachers at the Polo Grounds," Ginny said, "if you must know."

"Did you say the bleachers at the Polo Grounds?"

"Yes."

"May one inquire why?"

"To find somebody."

"Isn't that sort of a crowded place to look?"

"Not the way the Giants have been going," Ginny said. "Good bye, Harry."

He stood there, watching her go out the door. Shortly, the door opened again, and Herbert Gideon came in.

"Harry," he said to Smollett, "I have just composed my greatest number."

Smollett looked at him. "Is it a love song?"

"In a way."

"What way?"

"It's called The Diner's Lament," Herbert Gideon said. "Subtitle: There's a Rock in My Roll. Is that great? Is it wonderful?"

"Give me one of those pills you carry," Harry Smollett said to him.