A
breeze from San Francisco Bay and the life of the greatest minstrel
that America has ever known is in the balance. A turn of a card -- a
telling of a gag -- and within a few moments, a wife, a legion of
friends, and a nation are broken-hearted. So it was and so, alas, it
is the passing from this earthly scene of Al Jolson. And the voice
that once put majesty into the American popular song must from now
on come from a disc instead of the heart, from whence it came.
Oh, my friends, I know it is the
purpose of the speaker at times like these to voice lofty phrases of
consolation about a life full lived and a happy conclusion to a
great career. But I, contemporary of Al's, find myself too shocked
and torn within to say that all is well, and I dare not lie from
this sacred platform to say that I, and we, must rejoice in the fact
that now he is at peace. It would be far from the truth, and I would
need the spiritual strength of a rabbi, a minister, and a priest
combined to do so. The human flesh and the frailty of human nature
seem to be the sad order of the day as far as I am concerned.
It will take a long time for the
people in my business who have been wounded by this event to become
reconciled that this dynamic bundle of energy with its God-given
talent that called itself Al Jolson is at peace. The very humanly
emotional heart of the theatrical business does not heal so easily,
and the tears that must fall from the eyes of the many who miss him
already cannot be halted by the spoken word. No, the word will not
take the place of his song.
And not only has the entertainment
world lost its king, but we cannot cry, "The King is dead -- long
live the King!" For there is no one to hold his scepter. Those of us
who tarry behind are but pale imitations, mere princelings. And
American Jewry suffers as well and I must psychologically inform you
of the great inspiration that Al was to the Jewish people in the
last forty years. For in 1910 the Jewish people who emigrated from
Europe to come here were a sad lot. Their humor came out of their
own troubles. Men of thirty-five seemed to take on the attitude of
their fathers and grandfathers, they walked with stooped shoulders.
When they sang, they sang with lament in their hearts and their
voices, always as if they were pleading for help from above, And the
older they got, the more they prayed for the return to Jerusalem. Or
yearned for the simple little villages where they spent their
childhood. And the actors, even the great ones, came on the stage
also playing characters like their fathers. Vaudeville and the
variety and the musical-comedy stage and the legitimate theater had
Ben Welch and Joe Welch, monologists with beards and shabby clothes
telling humorous stories that had a tear behind them. Likewise did
this happen in legitimate theater. David Warfield in The Auctioneer
and many others in plays bewailing the misfortunes that had happened
to the Jew. And then there came on the scene a young man, vibrantly
pulsing with life and courage, who marched on the stage, head high
with the authority of a Roman emperor, with a gaiety that was
militant, uninhibited, and unafraid, and told the world that the Jew
in America did not only have to sing in sorrow but could shout
happily about Dixie, about the Night Boat to Albany, about coming to
California, about a girl in Avalon. And when he cried "Mammy" it was
in appreciation, not in lament. Jolson is the happiest portrait that
can ever be painted about an American of the Jewish faith. Jolson
was synonymous with victory at the race track, at the ball game, at
anything that he participated in, he would say, "I had the winner,
ha, ha, why didn't you ask me?" This was not in bravado alone: this
was the quintessence of optimism. Whatever you're in, whatever game
you play, feel like you are the winner.
The history of the world does not
say enough about how important the song and the singer have been,
from the days of old when a man first sang "Yankee Doodle" on the
streets of Boston or the soldier in France who first sang "The
Marseillaise." But history must record the name Jolson, who in the
twilight of his life sang his heart out in a foreign land, to the
wounded and to the valiant. I am proud to have basked in the
sunlight of his greatness, to have been part of his time, and to
have only a few days ago -- this last Sunday night -- hugged him and
said, "Good night, Asa, take care of yourself." And now, my friends,
I find my faith in good coming back to me. I feel strengthened in
heart and mind -- and I would lay my sackcloth and ashes aside and
therefore say to my fellow mourners and the little lady who bears
Al's name that I am thankful to God that there was and there is an
Al Jolson. And I have faith that he will never die in the hearts of
people. No, no. No such blot will ever fall on the fair charter of
American memories. Baruch adenoi. Praise the Lord. Good
night, Al.
Click on the earphones icon and hear
the moving eulogy given by Jessel (slightly different version than
that shown above.)
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