The context: A wealthy young ingenue spends her nights in the audience of a run-down theater in the sad part of town. Why is she there? This song tells her story (and gives us a hint at what's secretly motivating her. Dun dun dun...)
A little about the creation of this song: This is the title song to a small, clever show I'm writing. The show is a farce that takes place in the least successful business in the saddest part of town: a tiny old cabaret theater. I'm excited that the show is actually set in (and, God willing, will be performed in) a tiny theater. I love tiny theaters. This song is something of a love letter to those tiny theaters and the people with big dreams who inhabit them. I wanted a grand, theatrical melody, and lots of brief references to classic Broadway shows ("sailors tap" is Anything Goes and "cowboys dance" is Oklahoma! obv). I also wanted it to be a very personal, honest song in the middle of this madcap show. It's written as a mash-up of the sort of sincere, specific song people like to sing in cabarets, but with a big full-throated Broadway finish. (Also, I just moved to New York, and am remembering all of these moments from my own childhood-- not the father leaving part; he stuck around. But T.K.T.S. and The Russian Tea Room, and the orchestra tuning. Is there any better sound in the world?)
A little about the creation of this song: This is the title song to a small, clever show I'm writing. The show is a farce that takes place in the least successful business in the saddest part of town: a tiny old cabaret theater. I'm excited that the show is actually set in (and, God willing, will be performed in) a tiny theater. I love tiny theaters. This song is something of a love letter to those tiny theaters and the people with big dreams who inhabit them. I wanted a grand, theatrical melody, and lots of brief references to classic Broadway shows ("sailors tap" is Anything Goes and "cowboys dance" is Oklahoma! obv). I also wanted it to be a very personal, honest song in the middle of this madcap show. It's written as a mash-up of the sort of sincere, specific song people like to sing in cabarets, but with a big full-throated Broadway finish. (Also, I just moved to New York, and am remembering all of these moments from my own childhood-- not the father leaving part; he stuck around. But T.K.T.S. and The Russian Tea Room, and the orchestra tuning. Is there any better sound in the world?)
Nothing Like Broadway
Music & Lyrics by David Rackoff
Music & Lyrics by David Rackoff
I’D WONDER WHERE WE’RE GOING, BUT BE TOO WORKED UP TO GUESS.
THEN, NEXT THING YOU KNOW, WE’RE LINED UP, AT THE T.K.T.S.!
WE RUSH OFF, MOTHER, DAD, AND ME
TO “PRIX FIXE” AT THE RUSSIAN TEA.
THEY ASK ME HOW MY LIFE IS, AS WE SHARE OUR CAKES OF CRAB.
WE TALK AND WE LAUGH, THEN TAKE OFF IN THE BACK OF A CAB.
WE WALK UP THROUGH THE LOBBY TO THE LOWER MEZZANINE.
THE USHER HELPS US GET SEATED, AND I’M SAFE IN BETWEEN.
THE FLUTE AND CELLO START TO TUNE,
THAT MEANS THE SHOW IS STARTING SOON.
MY FATHER GETS TO GRINNING, AND I SMILE BACK AT HIM.
HE WHISPERS TO ME A SECRET, AS THE LIGHTS START TO DIM:
“THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
KID, NOTHING SO GRAND.
WHERE EACH PURPLE FEATHER IS PERFECTLY FANNED.
COWBOYS DANCE, AND ORPHANS LAUGH
’TIL THE CURTAIN CALL.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY.
NO, NOTHING AT ALL.”
BUT FAM’LY LIFE IS MESSY, NOTHING LIKE A BROADWAY PLAY.
AND LIFE’S LITTLE DISAPPOINTMENTS MADE MY DAD GO AWAY.
I’D TAKE WITH DAD A YEARLY DRIVE.
’TIL ONCE A YEAR WAS ONCE IN FIVE.
THE LAST TIME THAT I SAW HIM, HE SAID, “LET’S GO SEE A SHOW”.
WE WALKED DOWN THE THEATER AISLE, TO THE CENTER FRONT ROW.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY
FOR SAYING GOODBYE.
FOR CALLING IT “SUBTEXT” INSTEAD OF A LIE.
SAILORS TAP, AND GANGSTERS JOKE
TO A TUNEFUL SCORE.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY…
FOR ME ANYMORE.
IN MY TWENTIES, I TRIED TO GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
TRYING POTIONS AND POWDERS, AND BED AFTER BED.
BUT WITH SALLOW-ING SKIN, AND WITH DARKENING THOUGHT:
IF “TO BE OR TO NOT BE” MEANS BETTER TO NOT?
AFTER LIVING MY LIFE IN A SUMPTUOUS SLUMP,
THEN I FOUND MYSELF HERE IN THIS DUSTY OLD DUMP.
SO THE STAGE ONLY HAS, MAYBE, SEVENTEEN LIGHTS.
AND THE DAYS ARE DEPRESSING, BUT, OH MAN, THE NIGHTS!
THE DRUNKEN CONVERSATIONS IN THE BATHROOM IN THE STALL.
THE ELDERLY MAN WHO WARMS UP, DOING SCALES IN THE HALL.
THE UPRIGHT WITH THE MISSING KEYS,
THE HIGH SCHOOL KIDS WITH FAKE I.D.S.
IT ISN’T QUITE A THEATER, BUT IT’S CERTAINLY A SPACE.
I CAN’T SEEM TO SHAKE THE FEELING HE’D HAVE HATED THIS PLACE.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY.
NO, NOTHING AT ALL.
THE FANTASIES LIVED HERE ARE PRETTY DARN SMALL.
VOICES CRACK, AND WORDS ARE DROPPED.
HE WOULD CALL IT SAD.
IT SURE ISN’T BROADWAY.
BUT I’M NOT MY DAD.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
IT’S MESSY AND REAL.
THERE’S NO SAPPY STRING PART, TO SAY HOW TO FEEL.
I CAN FALL, AND I CAN CRY.
AND I CAN FAIL, BUT I CAN TRY,
AND I’LL STILL BE FINE.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
BUT IT’S A LIFE
AND IT’S MINE!
THEN, NEXT THING YOU KNOW, WE’RE LINED UP, AT THE T.K.T.S.!
WE RUSH OFF, MOTHER, DAD, AND ME
TO “PRIX FIXE” AT THE RUSSIAN TEA.
THEY ASK ME HOW MY LIFE IS, AS WE SHARE OUR CAKES OF CRAB.
WE TALK AND WE LAUGH, THEN TAKE OFF IN THE BACK OF A CAB.
WE WALK UP THROUGH THE LOBBY TO THE LOWER MEZZANINE.
THE USHER HELPS US GET SEATED, AND I’M SAFE IN BETWEEN.
THE FLUTE AND CELLO START TO TUNE,
THAT MEANS THE SHOW IS STARTING SOON.
MY FATHER GETS TO GRINNING, AND I SMILE BACK AT HIM.
HE WHISPERS TO ME A SECRET, AS THE LIGHTS START TO DIM:
“THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
KID, NOTHING SO GRAND.
WHERE EACH PURPLE FEATHER IS PERFECTLY FANNED.
COWBOYS DANCE, AND ORPHANS LAUGH
’TIL THE CURTAIN CALL.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY.
NO, NOTHING AT ALL.”
BUT FAM’LY LIFE IS MESSY, NOTHING LIKE A BROADWAY PLAY.
AND LIFE’S LITTLE DISAPPOINTMENTS MADE MY DAD GO AWAY.
I’D TAKE WITH DAD A YEARLY DRIVE.
’TIL ONCE A YEAR WAS ONCE IN FIVE.
THE LAST TIME THAT I SAW HIM, HE SAID, “LET’S GO SEE A SHOW”.
WE WALKED DOWN THE THEATER AISLE, TO THE CENTER FRONT ROW.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY
FOR SAYING GOODBYE.
FOR CALLING IT “SUBTEXT” INSTEAD OF A LIE.
SAILORS TAP, AND GANGSTERS JOKE
TO A TUNEFUL SCORE.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY…
FOR ME ANYMORE.
IN MY TWENTIES, I TRIED TO GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
TRYING POTIONS AND POWDERS, AND BED AFTER BED.
BUT WITH SALLOW-ING SKIN, AND WITH DARKENING THOUGHT:
IF “TO BE OR TO NOT BE” MEANS BETTER TO NOT?
AFTER LIVING MY LIFE IN A SUMPTUOUS SLUMP,
THEN I FOUND MYSELF HERE IN THIS DUSTY OLD DUMP.
SO THE STAGE ONLY HAS, MAYBE, SEVENTEEN LIGHTS.
AND THE DAYS ARE DEPRESSING, BUT, OH MAN, THE NIGHTS!
THE DRUNKEN CONVERSATIONS IN THE BATHROOM IN THE STALL.
THE ELDERLY MAN WHO WARMS UP, DOING SCALES IN THE HALL.
THE UPRIGHT WITH THE MISSING KEYS,
THE HIGH SCHOOL KIDS WITH FAKE I.D.S.
IT ISN’T QUITE A THEATER, BUT IT’S CERTAINLY A SPACE.
I CAN’T SEEM TO SHAKE THE FEELING HE’D HAVE HATED THIS PLACE.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY.
NO, NOTHING AT ALL.
THE FANTASIES LIVED HERE ARE PRETTY DARN SMALL.
VOICES CRACK, AND WORDS ARE DROPPED.
HE WOULD CALL IT SAD.
IT SURE ISN’T BROADWAY.
BUT I’M NOT MY DAD.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
IT’S MESSY AND REAL.
THERE’S NO SAPPY STRING PART, TO SAY HOW TO FEEL.
I CAN FALL, AND I CAN CRY.
AND I CAN FAIL, BUT I CAN TRY,
AND I’LL STILL BE FINE.
IT’S NOTHING LIKE BROADWAY,
BUT IT’S A LIFE
AND IT’S MINE!
(For another random link, click here.)