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author’s฀note George Gershwin lived his life with purpose and gusto, but with melancholy as well, for he was unable to make a home for himself—no familial home and no home in music. The contrast between his élan and these struggles, ending in the horror of his final days, gives a dramatic arc to his biography and gives it the shape of a story. This book has emphasized that story and, in doing so, has been less concerned than other biographies with the details of his workaday life in the theater. Such particulars are available in longer accounts, some of them very good, and the best—by Edward Jablonski, William Hyland, and Howard Pollack—are essential reading for anyone who wants to know more about the man. Gershwin’s musical dilemma was not, as is so often stated, about whether to choose between jazz or classical, songs or concert works. He had no need to split his musical personality. He wrote in the Gershwin idiom, which was as personal and original a musical voice as Chopin’s. The conflict, rather, was about whether he would make full use of his powers, becoming, in Anne Brown’s words, “the person he was supposed to be.”1 On Broadway, he spent a lot of his time composing works he knew to be forgettable—ephemeral numbers for quickly forgotten shows. Composer Meredith Willson mused, “I know, I know—of course ‘he did all right,’ but he might have left the world some four hundred–odd symphonies like Papa Haydn instead of a handful of beautiful melodies.”2 There was the sense—and Gershwin felt it—that he was not doing right by his gift, it being a profound talent that thrived best on ambitious undertakings. He seems to have understood from the beginning that this conflict would have to eventually resolve itself in a work such as Porgy and Bess. But he knew too that when that resolution came, it would be up to professional music critics to validate it. As it turned out, they were not up to the job. 176 author’s฀note The other problem was his desire for family. All four Gershwin siblings longed for a home. Their parents had done well enough in providing for their material needs, but there was little love from their mother, Rose, and no direction from their father, Morris. Ira made a home for himself when—in something of a Faustian bargain—he married Leonore Strunsky. George made a home of sorts—an illusory one—through his longtime relationship with Kay Swift. He loved her but could not comprehend— until the last minutes of his life—how much he really needed her. Some things about him we do not know. For instance, there is a man who calls himself Alan Gershwin (born Albert Schneider) and who claims to be the composer’s illegitimate son, born to a chorus girl named Margaret Manners in 1926 and raised by an aunt, Fannie Schneider. Alan Gershwin has never submitted to blood or DNA testing to prove this assertion. Two facts do favor his contention. One is his remarkable resemblance to George Gershwin. The other is that Paul Mueller, in his old age, signed an affidavit attesting to the validity of Alan’s claim. But it is doubtful if we will ever know the truth about this. Another unanswered question is whether George and Ira really were about to split up. Some evidence argues yes. “I think there is no doubt that George and Ira had come to a parting of the ways,” concluded Lawrence D. Stewart, Ira’s secretary.3 Certainly, George wanted to concentrate on symphonic works and opera, and when he discussed ideas for new operas, he did so with writers Heyward and Riggs, not with Ira. Most telling is Ira’s decision to remain in California, made in the full knowledge of George’s determination to go home to New York. This must have had something to do with a need on his part—or Leonore’s—to be away from George. Yet, there is evidence that they were not breaking up. In the spring of 1937, the brothers were talking to Kaufman and Hart about doing a new Broadway show. And, had Paulette Goddard said yes to George, he was prepared to remain in Los Angeles.4 Some things we can know for sure. In the end, George was grievously mistreated by Leonore while Ira stood by, immobile and transfixed...

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