Page 8-Tuesday, June 6, 1978--The Michigan Daily Harburg delightful (when singing) By JEFFREY SELBST Ernie Harburg - not to be confused with Ernie Harwell, the Tiger baseball announcer - is part owner of the Earle, Ann Arbor's jazz nightclub. E. Y. 'Yip' Harburg is his father. Sonny calls Papa. The deal is made. Ernie charges $5.50 per seat. And E. Y. Harburg joins the vast number of comosers or lyricists-cum-entertainers, following in the footsteps of Comden and Green, Sammy Cahn, and others. Actually, it wasn't as cynical as all that When he sang he was very, very good. But when he yakked he was horrid. I'M SURE Harburg the Younger ac- tually persuaded his father to come out and entertain not for mere thoughts of avarice but because he sincerely thought it would be delightful and in- teresting. In truth, ninety per cent of it Michigan DAILY was. The only really annoying thing was the elder Harburg's opening monologue, which did nothing more than display a sentiment fogged over by years (and Yip has over eighty of them under his belt) and take cheap shots at everything modern. This sermonette went -on, in winding and garrulous fashion, for just under two years. For the unitiated, E. Y. Harburg is the lyricist for all the Wizard of Oz songs, the songs from Finian's Rain- bow, and such popular standards as "(It's Only A) Paper Moon," "April in Paris," "Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?", and, from the Marx Brothers' movie At the Circus, the witty "Lydia the Tattooed Lady." When he sang these songs, he was simply terrific. An old and wrinkled- looking fellow, Harburg affects (and, astonishingly, carries off) an impish, pixie-like air. He leers, he winks, and although he sometimes forgets a lyric or two, Harburg projects such an in- formal tone that his occasional mistakes don't seem important. Some of the highlights of the evening included his performance of a song which illustrated the unimportance of any given person in time. I don't recall the name, but the chorus remains in my mind: Napoleon's a pastry, Bismarck is a her- ring,. Hoover's a vacu-um The song contained other lines like "Cleopatra's a black cigar," and "Venus de Milo is a pink brassiere." SPRING ARTS STAFF ARTS EDITOR Owen Gleiberman ARTS STAFF: Michael Baadke, Bill Barbour, Susan Rarry, Karen onstein, Patricia Fabrii, Douglas Heler, Paula uter, Mathew Kleter Peer Mans. Joshua Peck, Stephen Pickover, Christopher Potter, Jeffrey Seths, Anne Sharp, Eric Smith, R. J. Smith, Kerry Thompson, TimsYagle- The audience, which was familiar with his other songs, seemed not to know this one at all. But it was terrifically amusing, and they took this one to heart. The disappointing thing about all Harburg's conversation is that he didn't talk much about what everyone wanted to hear-those little inside stories about how this or that came to be written, or What It Was Like, or anything like that. He talked about how proud he was of his son the social psychologist, and about how he hates Muzak-all of which is very nice; none of which makes him the least bit remarkable. IT WAS almost as though he were saying, "Accept me as just a nice loveable old gramdpaw and not the E. Y. Harburg." But that is what filled up seats-his being Yip Harburg-and not Grandpa McCoy. Ah, well. Nitpicking. I enjoyed the show, after the opening diatribe had wound itself down to a whimper. As Harburg himself said, he cannot sing, but the point is that we had in front of us a songwriter giving us what may perhaps be the definitive statement on his works-his songs-his contributions to popular art and culture, and as such it was a unique experience. Ernie Harburg should lower his prices. Three ninty-five for a cold meat platter is just short of simply sticking a gun in the back. by JOHN KNOX Lyricist E. Y. Harburg, most famous for his lyrics to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and "Brother Can You Spare A Dime?", performed Sunday night at the Earle. 0'Neill en tertains atArk By R. J. SMITH Good folk music goes far beyond the barrier that exists in some amphitheater, with a performer isolated on stage; good folk music takes the nature of their om- nipresent distance, and somehow obliterates it. With a great amount of American music-blues songs, for instance, or many bluegrass tunes - there is little separation between artist and audience. What distance does exist is defeated by a singer relating things about hid life, exorcising pains, and illuminating what is left. BUT A singer of old British, Irish, and Scottish folk songs is another situation entirely. At the Ark Saturday night, Barry O'Neill was not singing about anything generally even remotely connected with his life. And he sat in a chair, with a consistently plain look on his face, spinning tales with not much more than a chuckle or nod of the head. But make no doubt: There were few barriers at the Ark Saturday night. The distance was dispelled by O'Neill's sincerity, and the quiet enthusiasm he instilled in whatever he was per- forming. He did many things - play concertina, sing, play bagpipes, tell stories and jokes, recite poetry - and, for the most part, with great flair. But if his vocal chords every now and then gave one to wonder, his expertise on the concertina and the bagpipes never did. casionally seemed careless about his pitch; frequently, he would drop off the final words of a song, talking them in- stead of singing them. Generally using the brisk, thin sound of the concertina to support his songs, he nonetheless could play stirring accompaniments with confidence whenever the song called for it. He did not tie his music too firmly to a meter; instead it would rise and fall with little predictability - but always with an acute musical sense. AND ON THE Scottish bagpipes, he was very enter- taining. Using his pipes, which were nicely trimmed in black velvet and gold material, he played-several horn- pipes - lively dances once associated with sailors - and displayed very fine technique. , "The Rocky road to Dublin," the second half of a pair of hornpipes, was especially impressive, showcasing a win- ding and dervish-like melody, played over a chordal base that O'Neill described as "a drone that acts like a referen- ce point for the song's melody." Throughout his songs, et al, O'Neill prominently let loose an uncomplicated, affectionate humor. In one very old song (that certainly must predate the birth of Randy Newman), O'Neill sang: You're a little too small, young man Bound never to answer at all You re-young now, you know And perhaps you will grow But at present you're a little too small "There seems to be some kind of magical thing going I SAY for the most part, because he seems to do some through them," O'Neill said at the Ark about the kind of unnecessary things with his voice and phrasing. Although songs he liked to sing. And there was an intoxicating aura it didn't happen with his musicianship, O'Neill oc- about O'Neill's spngs. I think it is a thing called caring.