I have never heard elevator music while standing in an elevator. Ever. The term is a gigantic misnomer. But whether it’s called easy listening, mood music or lounge music I have a passion for the stuff. Like most forms of modern music, elevator music has its roots in classical music. Just give a listen to the impressionistic melodies of Debussy and Ravel. Those light, soothing tonalities that you hear have a direct connection to the accessible, laid back harmonies of Henry Mancini. In a sense Debussy’s Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune is the musical grand-mère of Henry Mancini’s Pink Panther.
Well, sort of.
One of my favorite American classical composers, Leroy Anderson, wrote happy, uplifting tunes throughout the twentieth century. His “hits” include songs such as Sleigh Ride, Blue Tango, The Typewriter, Serenata, Belle of the Ball, Bugler's Holiday and Forgotten Dreams. In many ways Anderson could be considered the father of modern easy listening music, if anyone really wanted to be called such a thing.
Anyway, by the time I arrived on the scene in 1952 elevator music was in full flower. With the advent of FM radio, easy listening music became the background score for the Eisenhower administration. In short order orchestrated versions of popular music flooded the airways. Purveyors of this musical art form included such luminaries as Ray Conniff, Percy Faith, Andre Kostelanetz, “Montovani,” and the musicians of the 101 Strings to mention a few.
One of my favorite performers of this period was Fred Warring. Fred was the conductor of a choral group, the Pennsylvanians (was there ever a more humble moniker?) It seems odd today that a choir could gain national recognition without a lead vocal, but the Pennsylvanians were a product of their times. They peaked in popularity in the decade after World War II, the penultimate group effort.
Is it possible that once millions of people sat in front of their radios and listened to the Pennsylvanians vocal interpretation of the Whiffenpoof Song? Hard to believe, but it happened.
Elevator music reached its crescendo with Jackie Gleason and his Orchestra. Gleason had zero musical training. He did, however, have an idea. After watching a Clark Gable movie Gleason noticed that the love scenes were heavily scored. “If Clark Gable needs music,” Gleason figured, “the regular Joe must be desperate!”
Romantic background music for the regular Joes was the raison d’être of Gleason’s musical mission.
Using his clout as an entertainer, Gleason gathered the top jazz musicians of his day and put together his “orchestra.” His contribution to the effort was to provide the vision. In short, he would explain to the musicians what he wanted and leave it to them to figure out the musical stuff.
It must have been a winning formula because throughout the fifties and sixties Gleason produced close to three dozen albums. On the back of one album Gleason is pictured directing his musicians with what appears to be a cigarette.
Perfect.
The sixties put an end to the elevator music era. A combination of rock and roll, bosa nova and country western music rendered the form even more meaningless than it already was. Yet it was a slow death. Peter Nero attempted to breathe life into its dying body with his piano hunt-and-peck versions of the Beatles’ music. Barry Manilow tried valiantly to re-invigorate it with his over the top lyrics and big band-like orchestration. And the Tijuana Brass as well as the Carpenters performed CPR on the corpse. It was all too little, too late. By the end of the seventies elevator music lay dead on the disco dance floor.
And no one cried.
But even though it’s dead, its spirit is still with us.
You can hear the echoes of easy listening in any John Williams score.
You can hear it in every televised Handy Wipe commercial.
You can hear it in the umpteen versions of Leroy Anderson’s Sleigh Ride played endlessly during Christmas.
And what is a Phillip Glass symphony except the same three bars from Montovni’s Moon River endlessly looped?
And if you ever need to listen to Andre Kostelanetz or Percy Faith or Jackie Gleason, just go to your local Goodwill. Head to the back and look in the cardboard box hidden underneath a card table displaying chipped coffee cups. You’ll find all the albums you need, up to and including Herb Alpert’s Going Places.
You see, elevator music is not really dead.
It’s just tucked away.
Forever.
