It’s been a month of heavy loss for musicians and songwriters, but I’m particularly saddened by the departure of Tom Lehrer. When I told my wife of his death this morning, she responded with “…wings of song?” (a reference to the spoken introduction that I sampled on my 2022 release Awful Pompous & Artificial) — I feel Tom would have appreciated being remembered by this single pigeon-related phrase.
Tom’s voice is the only sample in my discography. Rather than sample any of his music—which was done frequently enough to provoke Tom (who famously wanted nothing to do with fame) to unceremoniously shove all of his work into the public domain in 2020, and thereby spare himself the attendant licensing fuss—I thought it would be fun to sample his spoken introduction to “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” (off of his live album An Evening Wasted with Tom Lehrer). The conundrum was that since I wasn’t sampling music or lyrics, whose permission did I need to use his recorded speech?
Shortly after I had recorded an iPhone demo of “The Pigeon,” I sent it to my friend, and journalist, Jonathan Krohn. His response was to note the similarities between my song and Tom’s, and to suggest that I sample it. Until that conversation, I had no idea who Tom was, and though I had heard “The Elements” (which was briefly featured in the show Breaking Bad), I was completely ignorant of his work and the indirect influence he had played upon my own songwriting via (noted Lehrer disciple) Randy Newman. I listened through Tom’s records, and almost immediately fell in love.
I began sending emails to any and all publishing companies that were involved with An Evening Wasted with Tom Lehrer, but mostly met dead ends. Everyone agreed that the rights to what I wanted lay with Tom alone, so if I really wanted to clear my usage, I had to talk to Tom. Jonathan Krohn (with the aid of dark magic) somehow managed to track down Mr. Lehrer and his home phone number. He called and left an introductory message, and then I called and left a message. His answering machine message was wry enough to convince us that we had the right number, but I don’t remember what it said. Meandering on for far too long, I explained the situation, addressed him as “Mister Lehrer,” told him I loved his work and that I couldn’t believe I was talking to his voicemail, and then gave him my email address in the event that he didn’t want to talk on the phone.
He did not want to talk on the phone. But within a few days, I received an email with the subject line: “Tom Lehrer replies.” I was elated! We had reached out to request an audience with a hero and had gotten a response! Without giving away the spelling, I think it’s not entirely inappropriate to reveal that his email address was “Living Legend [at] aol” — a joke that’s only funnier now. He was nice enough to simply grant his permission, and that was the end of it.
I did receive another email from him, but I neglected to respond until too much time had gone by, and he never revisited the thread. It seems he was a good deal more friendly than his reclusive nature had led me to believe, but I imagine his interest in email exchanges with strangers waned with his declining years. It would have been cool to have interacted with him more, but I’m thankful for the time he gave me.
I suppose the point is that even if someone only very recently became your artistic hero, it’s never too late to have your journalist friend track down their private telephone number. It’s never too late to invade your hero’s privacy with a brazen phone call that ends in being directed to your hero’s public website in an impersonal email that essentially says, “See the syllabus.” But to know that the dulcet tones of my voice reached the declining ears of Mr. Lehrer and provoked him to send me an email, is more than enough for me to die happy — for I did make a difference in this world; I mattered.
Rest easy, Mr. Lehrer.