First, let’s define a few terms that will help along the way in outlining the wellsprings mentioned in the title above, particularly “libretto” or “lyrics” vs. “book.” I’ve run into these terms before and never quite gotten them straight. So the “libretto” (literally “little book” in Italian and typically used for opera) is the text of the sung parts, including the individual songs (or arias, again used primarily in opera) and any recitatives (that is, sung exposition). While an opera is usually all sung (but there are certainly exceptions such as The Magic Flute), musical theater typically has spoken parts as well. So the “book” is the compendium of everything the performers say or sing, as well as the stage directions. And thus the stage is set (ahem) for endless combinations, borrowings and re-workings. You’ll hear about someone getting an idea for a musical or an opera from seeing a play or reading a book and then going through the long and sometimes tortured process that will turn one format into another. Unless the creative mind behind it all is capable of doing everything—the words, the music, the staging—various roles have to be farmed out.
Which leads to the question: Which comes first, the words or the music? You’d think it would be the words, right? Much of the time it is, with a librettist or lyricist writing his part for the opera or musical and then handing it over to the composer, who writes music to fit the words. Like all human endeavors, though, things aren’t always so simple. Some composers have written music and then asked a librettist to come up with words; some have written both words and music (including Irving Berlin for Annie Get Your Gun); others have teamed up with a librettist and worked together, among them of course Rodgers and Hammerstein with their many hits. Sometimes there’s already a play in place, and songs are simply inserted. This is pretty much what happened with My Fair Lady, which used much of the dialogue from George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion.
But for Guys and Dolls the story is really complicated, and we’re not even talking about the plot. G&D borrows its characters and situations from the short stories of Damon Runyon, who wrote in the 1920’s and 30’s about New York’s underworld: gamblers and gangsters and their girls. (I came up with that line. Do ya think I could become a lyricist?) The book had been written already by someone named Jo Swerling, and Frank Loesser, who had spent most of his career in movie musicals, was hired to compose the music. At some point the book was deemed unusable. I don’t really know why this was so, and Swerling is listed as a co-author on the film credits, so there may have been some controversy here. George S. Kaufman had been hired as the director and was notoriously picky, so maybe he didn’t like it. (Read Moss Hart’s autobiography, Act One, to learn about one man’s experience of working with him.) Be that as it may, Loesser had already written quite a few numbers (words and music) to go with the original book, so Swerling’s replacement, a radio comedy writer named Abe Burrows, had to make his version fit in with those numbers. Burrows said, “Frank Loesser’s fourteen songs were all great, and the [new book] had to be written so that the story would lead into each of them. Later on, the critics spoke of the show as ‘integrated.’ The word integration usually means that the composer has written songs that follow the story line gracefully. Well, we accomplished that but we did it in reverse.” Interesting side note on the politics of the time: G&D should have won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1951, but Burrows had fallen afoul of the House Un-American Activities Committee, showing up on a list of suspected Communists, and so the selection was vetoed. No Pulitzer in drama was awarded that year.
Guys and Dolls is centered around the theme of making deals with human souls, although in a much lighter vein than usual. In most stories of this type a character is putting his own soul up for grabs, most often in the context of selling his soul to the Devil to get his wishes granted. But in the Guys version Sky Masterson, the big-time gambler who woos Sergeant Sarah Brown (her title being an obvious reference to the Salvation Army), makes a deal for the souls of others. He bets a dozen men in the floating crap game that is a central motif of the musical the sum of $1,000 against their souls. If he loses, he has to give each man that amount of money. If he wins, all the men have to go to Sarah’s Save-A-Soul Mission. He’s not really interested in converting anyone, though, but is simply trying to help Sarah out and therefore win her love, as her mission will be closed down if she doesn’t get some sinners to come to the revival meeting. He wins the bet after singing “Luck, Be a Lady,” the gamblers head to the mission, and the scene is set for Nicely-Nicely, one of the main characters, to testify (untruthfully—but he’s trying to help!) about the dream that led to his conversion (“Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat”). Sarah and Sky do eventually get married, but there are many plot twists to come before that happens.
The original story of making a deal with the Devil about one’s soul goes back at least to the 15th century with the story of Faust, an embittered philosopher who finds life so unsatisfactory that he sells his soul in exchange for unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures. There are hundreds or even thousands of versions, used in theater, music, film, poetry, art and literature. “The Devil and Daniel Webster” by Stephen Vincent Benét has the great American orator going up against Satan in a trial to determine whether the soul of Jabez Stone will really be lost. (This story has a great line from the foreman of the jury: “”Perhaps ’tis not strictly in accordance with the evidence, but even the damned may salute the eloquence of Mr. Webster.”) The most famous opera on the theme is of course Gounod’s Faust, but I have to say that I prefer Boito’s Mefistofele, because I like the music better and perhaps also because in this opera Faust is redeemed at the end. (It may also be the case that I have a soft spot in my heart for this opera because I got to be in it and grovel at the feet of none other than Samuel Ramey as he sang “Ecco el Mundo.” He made a great Devil. The ending of this opera is sublime, in the literal and figurative sense.) Musical theater has a full-fledged variation on the selling-your-soul-to the-Devil theme in Damn Yankees, in which a man promises the Devil his soul if the Washington Senators can only win the World Series against the Yankees. He gets out of his devilish contract mainly because of the great love he has for his wife.
All this has perhaps led us somewhat far afield from the back alleys of 1920’s New York. I think it’s fascinating, though, to see how serious themes can underlie even the most seemingly frivolous material.
Choral arrangers have mined this musical, as they’ve done for many others, to come up with material for choirs. I’ve sung two of these but don’t have readily accessible videos for either. So here are two stellar performances by high school choirs, one a stand-along arrangement of “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ the Boat” by Mark Brymer and one a more long-form medley with a huge, and hugely-enthusiastic, choir, arranged by Mac Huff:
And, just for comparison’s sake, here’s the boat-rockin’ scene from the film version:
© Debi Simons
