Alan Gershwin, 91, who claimed to be illegit son of composer George Gershwin
Add Reply
That Derek
2018-03-07 04:46:52 UTC
Raw Message
https://newyork.funeral.com/2018/03/06/alan-gershwin-who-claimed-a-famous-father-is-dead-at-91/New York USA Obituaries

Alan Gershwin, Who Claimed a Famous Father, Is Dead at 91

Posted on Tuesday, 6th March 2018 | New York

For decades he insisted that he was the illegitimate (and look-alike) son of George Gershwin, and despite the skeptics, he made a career out of that claim.

View Original Notice → Alan Gershwin, Who Claimed a Famous Father, Is Dead at 91

Would somebody with enhanced access to the NY Times cut-'n'-paste this fellow's obit. I just didn't feel this pretender was worthy of expending a free NYT look-up.
A Friend
2018-03-07 10:19:59 UTC
Raw Message
Post by That Derek
Would somebody with enhanced access to the NY Times cut-'n'-paste this
fellow's obit. I just didn't feel this pretender was worthy of expending a
free NYT look-up.
The story is very good, and is much more than an obit. And, like any
good mystery, the solution is saved for the end. Here it is.

Alan Gershwin, Who Claimed a Famous Father, Is Dead at 91

By David Margolick
March 6, 2018

As Alan Gershwin told the story — often — he was hidden away at his
Uncle Ira and Aunt Leonore's house on North Roxbury Drive in Beverly
Hills in late 1945, right after his discharge from the Navy. Ignoring
the orders of his hosts, he headed downstairs to join one of the
parties the Gershwins regularly gave. When a guest spotted him on the
landing, he dropped his glass of Scotch in shock. Or maybe two guests

By then, seven years had passed since the man Alan Gershwin called his
father had died. But all anyone eyeing 19-year-old Alan that night saw
was George Gershwin, reincarnated.

For 70 years or so, Alan Gershwin insisted he was George Gershwin's
long-lost son. And with his death on Feb. 27 at 91 in a Bronx hospital,
the curtain came down on what was surely the Gershwins' most bizarre
show ever, revolving around whether this affable but monomaniacal man
was one of the greatest victims in American musical history, or a
grifter running a long-term con, or someone suffering decades of

Mr. Gershwin contended that sometime in the mid-1920s — the year and
place varied in the telling, but once it was tracked down his birth
certificate stated May 18, 1926, and the Brooklyn Hebrew Maternity
Hospital, respectively — he was born Albert Schneider to a sultry
dancer named Mollie Charleston, who went by the stage name Margaret
Manners. His mother, by his account, was his father's longtime
paramour, whom he had met through his songwriter friend Buddy DeSylva.

Through the machinations of Ira Gershwin, George's brother and
principal lyricist, he said, he had been fobbed off on Mollie's sister
and her husband, Fanny and Ben Schneider of Brownsville, Brooklyn, who
had pretended he was theirs. (By Alan Gershwin's account, Mollie had
masqueraded as her sister when she gave birth, so Fanny's surname went
on the certificate.)

Fortifying his sensational story were purported shards of memory, some
happy — hammering out joint compositions on a piano with his father,
visiting Ethel Merman with him backstage — and some not, like grim men
in black limousines bringing crisp hundred-dollar bills to Brownsville
to pay for his upkeep but warning him to say nothing about it, or else.

After considerable consternation, genetically certified Gershwins and
their loyalists came to see Mr. Gershwin less as a threat to their
millions than as a crank and an annoyance. Occasionally, they'd reach
out to squelch his periodic public appearances. Whenever scrutinized,
Alan's claim wobbled; the faith of even his girlfriend for the past 20
years, Blossom Tracy, sometimes wavered.

A Striking Resemblance

But many continued to credit a story that, while improbable, was also
strangely plausible, and appealing. Though occasionally stuck up about
his claimed lineage, Mr. Gershwin was, despite living in meager
circumstances, good-natured and optimistic — a modern Micawber. He was
also the ultimate underdog, taking on the mighty, unfeeling and — in
some music circles, at least — arrogant Gershwin establishment. And
legions of fans were heartened by the thought that George Gershwin, who
never married, had left something behind besides his music. People
hoped Alan was who he claimed to be.

How, they asked, could the handsome and debonair George, who died in
1937 at the age of 38, not have impregnated someone along his gilded
way? How else to explain Alan Gershwin's encyclopedic knowledge of
Gershwin lore and esoterica and a Manhattan apartment made
uninhabitable by heaps of Gershwin detritus? And the 500, or 800, or
1,200 songs that he said he had written? And his single-minded pursuit
of his claim?

"Very few people are that emphatic about anything," the radio and
television host Joe Franklin once said of him.

Asked whether he'd put money on Alan Gershwin's assertion, Mr. Franklin
said he probably would. A lot? "Good question," he replied. "No."

More persuasive than anything else, though, was the jaw-dropping
resemblance between George and Alan Gershwin. It explained why,
according to Mr. Gershwin, an aged black man once approached him in
Charleston, S.C. — where he had been stationed during World War II, and
where George Gershwin had written "Porgy and Bess" — and declared, "Mr.
Gershwin, we always knew you'd come back!"

And why the actor Robert Alda told him that he, rather than Alda
himself, should be playing George Gershwin in the film "Rhapsody in
Blue." And why — again, strictly on his say-so — Rose Gershwin, mother
of George and Ira, had melted at the sight of him shortly before her

"I heard his story, frankly didn't believe it, and then he walked into
my office," recalled the Lincoln scholar Harold Holzer, who consulted
on one of Alan Gershwin's few successes, a musical setting of the
Gettysburg Address performed at the Kennedy Center in 2009 (and at
Lincoln Center in 2015). "And, my God, it was George Gershwin as an old
man. That protruding lower lip — no one has that face but George

Dining with him at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Mr. Holzer recalled,
he half expected one of the elderly women nearby to stand up and
exclaim: "George? Is it you?" One Gershwin family loyalist insisted
that Alan had plastic surgery to look even more like George.

For decades, Robert Kimball, a Gershwin expert and adviser to the Ira
and Leonore Gershwin Trust, dealt with Mr. Gershwin and his claims.
Despite repeated prodding, he said, Mr. Gershwin had never furnished
him with anything — like the manuscripts he said his father had given
him — to back his story.

"His idea of 'proof' is picking up awards in Kankakee or Sheboygan and
using these plaques he got as evidence," Mr. Kimball said.

Nor was he at all impressed that they were doppelgängers.

"There are a lot of Jewish guys in Brooklyn today who look like that,"
he said.

Cruises and Autographs

Mr. Gershwin never took his case to court. And while family members
were not about to fork over any of their DNA, neither did he push them
for it, fearful perhaps of what it might prove. His long Gershwin gig —
signing autographs, reminiscing and lecturing on cruise ships and at
concerts, cadging freebies and attention at jazz clubs and cabarets —
was too enjoyable and, occasionally, lucrative. He'd tease people with
all of the Gershwin gore he knew — claiming, for instance, that Uncle
Ira had killed three people to secure his brother's secret, and that
only he, Alan, knew where the bodies were buried.

The farther he got from home, the more respect he got. There were
reverential interviews in Russia, Israel, Australia, Germany and Italy
and, for several years, red carpets at Cannes. Once, he recalled, as 15
million people watched on French television, he got to descend a spiral
staircase to "Rhapsody in Blue."

"Though this was a grand hoax from the very beginning, I still feel
kind of sad at his passing," said Steve Charleston, 82, a second cousin
of Mollie Charleston's and the unofficial family historian. Though
Mollie was flamboyant — the kind of woman, he said, who "dressed up to
take out the garbage" — Mr. Charleston said he had found no evidence
that she was ever on the stage, let alone that she was Margaret
Manners. She died in 1975.

Mr. Charleston, a retired electrical engineer in Melbourne, Fla., said
that while no one in his family knew of any Gershwin connection, many
recalled Alan Gershwin's eccentricity, beginning with boyhood. He
speculated that his seeing action on Iwo Jima and Okinawa during World
War II — doctors later diagnosed "psychoneurosis, anxiety" unrelated to
combat, and subsequently added "schizophrenic reaction" — turned
weirdness into delusion, and "Alan Gershwin" was born.

"The fact that he kept this thing going for so many years with such
obvious falsehoods is, in a strange way, an accomplishment," Mr.
Charleston said.

But always there were hints of corroboration, heavily laden with
hearsay. George Gershwin's longtime friend and lover, the composer Kay
Swift, once described to her granddaughter a poignant and seemingly
prearranged encounter that she had witnessed between Gershwin and a
woman with a young boy in Central Park. And sometime in the 1950s,
Oscar Levant, the pianist, actor and comedian and another Gershwin
confidant, told one of his daughters that Alan was visiting Ira and
Leonore Gershwin, and how unhappy they were about it.

Alan Gershwin made his debut, anonymously, in Walter Winchell's column
of June 17, 1957. "July 11th will mark the 20th ann'y of Gershwin's
passing," he wrote. "The date when a lawsuit will break alleging he was
the father of an interpretive dancer's son. The chap seeks control of
Gershwin's 15 million $ estate."

"All kinds of mashuganas including columnists," Ira Gershwin's lawyer
in New York, Leonard Saxe, wrote when he sent him the piece.

Ira Gershwin replied, "Ordinarily I would pay no mind to such crazy
items and claims, but it leaves a bad taste."

He put a detective on the case and opened what he labeled the "Impostor
File," in which Mr. Gershwin is variously referred to as "the idiot,"
"this jerk," "this imbecile," the "phony," "this Schneider guy," "the
rogue" and "that mental case."

But his real coming out came in early 1959, when Confidential magazine
published a first-person plea. "I AM GEORGE GERSHWIN'S ILLEGITIMATE
SON," it shouted, over superimposed profiles of George and Alan in
which their respective hairlines, foreheads, noses, lips and chins ran
along perfectly parallel paths.

"Everybody who knew my father jumps at the sight of me," wrote Mr.
Gershwin, who in this telling had been born in California in 1928. "But
none acknowledge ever having seen me before. … I wonder if I am a real
person at all." He pleaded for help; none ever came.

In October 1960 he married Edith Sadoyama, a graduate student at
Columbia University. Their three children, Daniel, Maile and Emily,
survive him, as does another son, Adrian, from another relationship,
along with three grandchildren. At his death he lived in Midtown on the
West Side.

A Biographer Steps In

For years Mr. Gershwin plugged his songs — with titles like "The
Loneliest Heart in Town" and "I Want a Humdinging, Bell-Ringing,
Singing and Swinging Love" — around the Brill Building; Frank Sinatra,
Tony Bennett and others flirted with them, he claimed, but either never
recorded them or failed to release them.

He said he had helped write hits like "I Want You, I Need You, I Love
You," which Elvis Presley immortalized, but had sold off his rights
before getting proper credit. He worked as an agent, sometimes pushing
Gershwin-related acts abroad.

"Embassy should avoid taking any official position on validity of
Alan's claim to be son of George Gershwin," said a State Department
memo from 1973 signed by Secretary of State Henry A. Kissinger.

But he held no full-time job and lived largely off disability payments
from the military.

In 1988, George Gershwin's former valet, Paul Mueller, asserted that
Mr. Gershwin was indeed his boss's son — but only, an eyewitness
recalled, after Mr. Gershwin had badgered the old man unrelentingly.

That nonetheless helped persuade the New York-based musicologist Joan
Peyser, looking to recover from a critical drubbing she had taken over
her salacious biography of Leonard Bernstein, to tackle George (and
Alan) Gershwin next. The stress of concealing his son, she argued, had
fed the brain tumor that had killed the other.

Her book, "The Memory of All That," came out in May 1993 and was
heralded by the gossip columnist Cindy Adams in The New York Post.

Ms. Peyser's case for Mr. Gershwin was also skewered, and with a
redemptive paperback edition in mind, she set out to buttress it with
irrefutable DNA.

There were setbacks: Blood tests revealed that the cousin with whom Mr.
Gershwin claimed to have been reared was his brother after all. (He
then argued that George Gershwin must have fathered the brother, too.)
Meantime, assisted by a Yale medical school professor, Ms. Peyser tried
procuring slides of George Gershwin's brain, from which genetic
material might be extracted. An investigator paid nearly $3,000 for a
postcard that George Gershwin had sent from Atlantic City in 1918,
propelled by a stamp he had presumably licked.

Most dramatically, in January 1999, moments before the place closed for
the day and her body was removed, a former F.B.I. agent who had been
enlisted in the cause yanked a small tuft of hair from the head of
George Gershwin's sister, Frances Gershwin Godowsky, as she lay at the
Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. The hair, paired
with a swab taken from the reluctant Mr. Gershwin's mouth, was sent to
a lab in Boston.

Mr. Gershwin's lawyer had devised a sliding scale to calculate his take
once he had proved Mr. Gershwin's case, running from 40 percent of the
first $5 million Mr. Gershwin collected to 35 percent of the next $5
million, down to a quarter of anything over $25 million. But the lab
dashed all such dreams: Ms. Godowsky and Alan Gershwin, it found, were
not related.

At that point, an embittered Ms. Peyser gave up on Alan. She died in
2011, and, to the astonishment of those who knew her, her files on him,
which she told Mr. Gershwin he could consult in his own defense, had
mysteriously vanished (as had materials on all of her other books). Her
efforts nonetheless proved a boon for him, bringing him new visibility,
and credibility, and adulation.

There was, for instance, the "Gershwin Celebration" presented by the
Cincinnati Pops Orchestra in June 2003, at which Mr. Gershwin — for
$1,000, round-trip airfare and two nights in a nice hotel — introduced
"An American in Paris," "Rhapsody in Blue" and selections from "Porgy
and Bess." The program, The Cincinnati Post reported, "even had DNA in
the person of Alan Gershwin, who shared recollections of his famous

"It seemed a little bizarre," Peter Throm, the orchestra's general
manager at the time, later recalled. "We were all a bit skeptical."