There was long an impression, fostered by such elegiac biopics as Rhapsody in Blue and Till the Clouds Roll By, that the creation of popular songs was a mystical and arcane process. The crafter of ballads was somehow apart and above the mass of humanity, being touched with divine fire. His muse would practically break down the door to deliver inspiration, which could come from the rhythm of the rails, the cries of street peddlers, the newest catch-phrase that was on everybody’s lips, or even offhand words spoken in conversation. The songwriter would scramble for a pencil and manuscript paper, hurriedly jotting down his creation before the muse fled to visit the songwriter down the block. The song would of course become a hit—a million seller!—as soon as he could barge into Mr. Witmark’s office and commandeer the piano. You all know that song; your mother used to sing it to you.
The Tunesmith by Gary May follows a somewhat different trajectory—that of a songwriter as a salaried worker, whose creation was dictated to him by a director in search of a specific type of song for a star to sing or a piece of music to play during dramatic action.
Maurice Kraus emerged into the world of the Lower East Side of New York in 1893. His immigrant family struggled to gain a foothold in that world, but brought a piano into the house. Moe turned out to be a musical prodigy who blossomed
