Months ago, I was bemused in a musical theatre lyric-writing class with the brilliant John Dietrich, and one of the assignments began with a photograph.
The challenge was simple: study the image and write a song inspired by the world it suggested.
My photograph showed a well-dressed gentleman driving through a polished Connecticut town with his poodle seated proudly beside him. From that single image emerged a comic Tin Pan Alley-style number about gossip, appearances, and the steadfast loyalty of dogs.
In class, we refined the lyric and staged it as a complete scene. What began as a simple songwriting exercise blossomed into a miniature theatrical world: ladies in a beauty salon singing from the windows, slightly tipsy men in a tavern offering their commentary, and a wonderfully clunky tuba blast punctuating the final word: “DOG.”
The piece was inspired by the musical language of Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, and the great Tin Pan Alley songwriters of the late 1920s and 1930s. It uses the classic AABA form, elegant internal rhymes, and a comic ending that deliberately breaks the expected rhyme to land with a musical wink.
One of the things I loved most about studying with John was discovering how quickly a single image could become an entire dramatic world.
A photograph becomes a lyric.
A lyric becomes a song.
A song becomes a scene.
That, to me, is the magic of musical theatre.
High Hats, Low Hearts
An immaculate Connecticut town on a bright morning. A ladies’ salon hums on one side of the street; a tavern stands across the way. Townspeople move with practiced civility, smiling, waving, and quietly minding everyone else’s business.
Light swing — piano and brushed snare.
THE GENTLEMAN glides through town, gloved and ramrod straight, his POODLE perched beside him like visiting royalty. He tips his hat with the easy confidence of a man admired by all and questioned by many.
GENTLEMAN
He drives through town with a gentleman’s flair,
His poodle beside him, proud as an heir.
His wife’s at home — or so they say,
I’ve heard she’s not alone today…
Heads turn. Smiles sharpen. Gossip slips effortlessly into time.
LADIES
Oh, he’s got class, his girl’s got curls,
The envy of the uptown girls.
She’s poised and pretty, loves a treat,
She’s at his side come rain or sleet.
In the salon, women lean toward the window, singing as they set curls and trade opinions. Across the street, tavern regulars tap their mugs in rhythm, eager to add their two cents.
Music softens; upright bass and cymbal brushes.
TAVERN MEN
(taking turns, a bit tipsy)
That wife’s long gone, prolly run off or dead,
She lies beneath the garden bed.
Now it’s just him ’n’ his not-so-stray,
A dog’s love never runs away.
The POODLE spots another dog passing by and nearly launches himself through the window.
GENTLEMAN
When you ask ’em to stay… they stay.
(spoken, mildly) Stay.
The POODLE freezes mid-pounce and sits at once. The town approves.
The swing returns, brighter and just a touch smug.
GENTLEMAN
She’s chasing high hats — a low-heart affair,
Some women play, oh, a harlot don’t care.
Let ladies go mad for a kiss or façade —
He’s better off with his DOG.
On the word DOG, the tuba lands with a gloriously clumsy BLAT in perfect unison with the singer. The note is the joke.
The POODLE leans out the window, tongue wagging, entirely pleased with himself.
Blackout.
