One day, an extremely talented young Jewish composer interviewed with Irving Berlin for a job as his secretary. Berlin turned him down, telling him he would never be content working for a self-taught composer of popular songs. Undeterred, the young composer then approached Yiddish composer Shalom Secunda, only to be rejected again—this time for being “too much American, too little Jew.” Having been turned away by both the reigning giant of American popular music and a leading figure in Jewish music, this young composer, George Gershwin, was left with no choice but to forge his own path.
Born Jacob Gershovitz in Brooklyn in 1898 to Eastern European Jewish immigrants, George was the first generation of his family to be born in America. That distinction carried a profound significance. While anti-Semitism certainly existed in America, it paled in comparison to the systemic restrictions imposed on Jews in Russia, where they were often barred from citizenship and free travel. (One of the few exceptions was Gershwin’s paternal grandfather, who was granted those rights after working as a mechanic for the Imperial Russian Army.) In America, however, the Gershwins finally belonged.
Seven years after its dedication, the Statue of Liberty was imbued with a new meaning when a poem by Jewish activist Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus,” was inscribed on its base. Originally a mere symbol of Franco-American friendship, the statue was now transformed into a beacon of hope for immigrants, a monument to America as a refuge for the oppressed. As Ben Sidran writes in There Was A Fire: Jews, Music & The American Dream:
"Suddenly the statue was no longer about two economic powers; it was a powerful welcome to the international outsider, a beacon of hope for the poor and disenfranchised everywhere...Emma’s poem had recast the discussion: America was now to be the homeland for all those in exile, the poorest of the poor; it was about the opportunity to change; it was about social justice. In short, it was about the Jewish narrative. No longer just a former British colony, not simply a remnant of the French or Spanish or Dutch colonial expansion, but a new America; the promised land for a people who traditionally traveled with little more than the skin on their bones and the ideas in their heads."
Gershwin embodied this new American identity. He once declared, “My people are Americans. My time is today.” Some interpret this as a rejection of his Jewish heritage, but in reality, it reflects an evolution of identity—an attempt to define what it meant to be both Jewish and American. Gershwin never denied his Jewish influence; in fact, he openly acknowledged it. He told composer Lazare Saminsky, “I think that many of my themes are Jewish in feeling,” and in a 1925 interview with The American Hebrew, he stated, “The traditional Hebrew religious melodies have had a marked influence upon modern music.”
Gershwin’s experience aligns with what music industry titan George Wein once told me:
"If you grew up Jewish, and you went to Yom Kippur, you never forget it. It’s part of your life. It doesn’t mean you’re thinking about being Jewish all the time. That’s in your soul, and you’re hearing it different from how the gentile is hearing it. They’re listening to it intellectually; you’re listening to it emotionally."
Being rejected by Secunda and Berlin was a blessing in disguise. It forced Gershwin to chart his own course, blending his subconscious Jewish influences with the vibrant new sounds of America. This journey culminated in a pivotal conversation with big band leader Paul Whiteman, who suggested that Gershwin write a “jazz concerto” that would bridge jazz and classical music. Initially, Gershwin declined.
That changed in 1924 when Gershwin was playing pool with his friend, lyricist Buddy DeSylva, and his brother, Ira, happened upon an article in The New York Tribune stating that a new jazz concerto composed by Gershwin would be featured at an upcoming concert at Aeolian Hall. The problem? Gershwin had no idea about this supposed piece and only six weeks to compose it.
After some persuasion from Whiteman, Gershwin set to work. He later described how a train ride from New York to Boston sparked his creative breakthrough:
"It was on the train, with its steely rhythms, its rattle-ty bang, that is so often so stimulating to a composer... I frequently hear music in the very heart of the noise. And there I suddenly heard – and even saw on paper – the complete construction of the rhapsody, from beginning to end. No new themes came to me, but I worked on the thematic material already in my mind and tried to conceive the composition as a whole. I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America, of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our metropolitan madness. By the time I reached Boston, I had a definite plot of the piece, as distinguished from its actual substance."
Miraculously, Gershwin completed Rhapsody in Blue in time for its premiere. The audience that night included luminaries like Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky, and the brilliant pianist and African American cantor, Willie “The Lion” Smith. By the end of the performance, they were on their feet in thunderous applause.
Reflecting on the work, Gershwin wrote:
"There had been so much chatter about the limitations of jazz, not to speak of the manifest misunderstandings of its function. Jazz, they said, had to be in strict time. It had to cling to dance rhythms. I resolved, if possible, to kill that misconception with one sturdy blow. Inspired by this aim, I set to work composing with unwonted rapidity. No set plan was in my mind – no structure to which my music would conform. The rhapsody, as you see, began as a purpose, not a plan. I tried to conceive the composition as a whole. I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America – of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our blues, our metropolitan madness."
Just as Emma Lazarus’s dual identity as both a Jew and an American enabled her to craft a poem that redefined the Statue of Liberty, so too did Gershwin’s Jewish and American experiences allow him to create Rhapsody in Blue, a piece that transformed the course of music history. He was rejected by both the Jewish and American music establishments, yet it was precisely that rejection that led him to create something entirely new.
Now, 100 years later, humanity continues to be enriched by this masterpiece. And on June 11th, Neranenah is thrilled to present Rhapsody in Blue in a groundbreaking new way—with Bela Fleck’s incredible banjo playing as the lead instrument. Join us for this historic reimagining!