Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Ukelele Ike was as big a music star as ever hit Hollywood and broke into the movies. He sold over 70 million records in the 20's and 30's. He worked all the time, first in vaudeville, then on the screen, was in demand, and made top dollar.

He was also a remarkable, original, and unique vocal talent. In 1928 he scored a number one national hit record with "I can't Give You Anything but Love," (though it's the "B" side's "That's My Weakness Now" that has the real fireworks, with a scat chorus that goes straight through the roof). The following year his smooth, upbeat rendition of "Singin' in the Rain" topped the charts for three weeks.

But Cliff Edwards, for such was Ukulele Ike's real name, derived neither happiness nor fulfillment from his notoriety and fortune . He lived carelessly and thoughtlessly, drank too much and played too hard, married too often and spent recklessly. And though he reinvented himself several times over, turning from a crooner into a "B" westerns sidekick-type character actor, and finally in 1940 becoming the voice of Jiminy Cricket in the Disney feature "Pinocchio," nothing could compensate for the ongoing train wreck of his personal life, dominated by divorces, bankruptcies, drugs, and that old devil alcohol.

In the fifties Edwards got a little work from Disney, mostly on the Mickey Mouse Club, and continued to record, but by the time he died in 1971 at age 76 he was alone and forgotten, a welfare ghost whose body lay unclaimed for several days in the indigents' nursing home from which he invisibly exited stage left. The Screen Actors Guild eventually got word of his passing and arranged services, and Disney Studios put up the money for a modest grave marker.

Ukulele Ike's story is a Shakespearean-sized tragedy conveying an admonition we can't hear too many times: wide celebrity, high fortune, and the attentions of beautiful but inconstant lovers -- these are the glittering but superficial attractions of our modern lives. Even worse, fame and fortune are dangerously destructive if poured into a vessel that sits on a shaky foundation, and that lucky person who appears to be living high, wide, and God knows what, is likely to be more miserable than the humblest wage worker.

Consider the fate of Ukelele Ike, one of the biggest star-celebrities in the history of American showbiz, then note that he personifies the words of the Buddha: "At first a fool's mischief is sweet -- sweet as honey. But in time it turns bitter, and how bitterly he suffers."

This lesson is repeated ad infinitum in our cultural heavens, dominated by oversized stars. Is there anyone reading this who doesn't feel grateful on reflection not to have been Michael Jackson?