Turning the world on to feminism

It’s a fair assumption that Mary Richards and early feminism had a complicated relationship. The “Mary Tyler Moore Show” character was perhaps a little too refined, a little too feminine (quick to cry, always stylishly dressed) and only a few years removed from its earlier incarnation as the model of urbane, wifely domesticity in the “Dick Van Dyke Show’s” Laura Petrie. Feminism, meanwhile, took on a militancy in the 1970s that contrasted Richards’ (and Moore’s) sunny outlook.

But make no mistake: The “Mary Tyler Moore Show” made an immeasurable contribution to the feminist cause. Through television’s vast influence on the popular culture, Americans were exposed to a female archetype that was nothing short of revolutionary. Men saw a woman in the workplace other than a receptionist — a woman whose considerable responsibilities included supervising other men. Both men and women watched an over-30 single woman proceed through life with no particular desire to be married. This was a time when most women were married in their early 20s and had several children by 30. And most importantly, women were shown a new world of possibilities for themselves, their sisters or their daughters. You could get a job in a male-dominated industry. You could advance, and it was OK to be ambitious in your career. And, unthinkable for many at the time, you could be happy as a single woman. But it helps to bring a smile.

Ah, the famous smile that turned the world on. It was that smile that made “Mary Tyler Moore” so deceptive. Who could object to such a radiant intrusion into the workplace? As her naive optimism wore down gruff male co-workers, it also won over America. This wasn’t a rowdy street protest of butch extremists demanding equal rights. It was Mary. She smiled her way into a producer job for a Minneapolis TV news broadcast, then made the job made her own by countering male bluster with quiet competence. She wasn’t selling out the cause but advancing it with a Trojan horse of charm offensive. Behind the smile, Moore was producer of the show. She was the star — the only actor credited in the introduction via the show’s title — and led a cast that featured three strong (even dominant) female supporting characters. She had an array of female writers posing unique storylines that hadn’t been considered by male contemporaries.

But here’s the thing — it wasn’t exclusively female writers. It wasn’t an all-female cast. It was a vision of real life that, in terms of gender, gave a more balanced presentation than anything TV viewers had seen before. And it did so without compromising quality. The “Mary Tyler Moore Show” remains one of the most acclaimed and beloved series in TV history. Because for a half-hour, we got a peek into a world in which women and men lived and worked in relative harmony, and we found it fun, even comforting at times, and, oddly, not all that threatening.

A brief shining moment: A “Mary Tyler Moore” scene to remember

 

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A change in tune

In his 2012 autobiography “Who I Am,” Pete Townshend relates a revelatory tidbit from the recording of the Who’s breakthrough hit “My Generation.” According to Townshend, the song’s multiple key changes were added at the suggestion of a producer who felt it would otherwise be too monotonous.

That’s saying something for a cut that’s 3 minutes, 18 seconds long. But it shows a canny understanding of the lightweight nature of pop/rock hooks. Good ones immediately catch the ear (and hopefully produce a sale) but often lack staying power. A key change — or in the case of “My Generation,” three key changes — can enable recording artists to extend the 10-15 second essence of their song to a marketable 2-3 minutes.

In most pop music, the general idea of a key change is to elevate emotional impact. It’s not so much a change in tone (from talking to shouting, for instance) as a change in landscape. It’s like staging the scene of a film on a busy city sidewalk, then having the actors recite the same lines in the middle of a forest. While conventional filmmakers typically don’t have that option, songwriters do. After a key change, a song will move through the same chord structure but at an altitude that sheds a different light on the vocals or instruments. Done well, it forwards a sentiment that other songwriting techniques can’t. It can convey new levels of joy — think The Carpenters’ “Close to You” — or profound sadness, as in Classics IV’s “Traces.” Either way, the effect on the listeners is liberating. The first two verses establish a set of parameters before the third shifts them to a new plane. Limits, once comfortable but quickly confining, suddenly become possibilities.

It’s a powerful songwriting tool, and the temptation to overdo it is natural. Last spring, as “research” for a feature I was writing on Barry Manilow, I listened to a dozen or so of his best-known love songs and found that every one of them employed a key change. Manilow was savvy at recognizing, like the Who, when the droning of a refrain needed a kickstart. Unlike the Who, the consistent need for that crutch did not spur Manilow into more sophisticated songwriting. It became a standard part of his playbook, and that of subsequent romance-heavy pop artists like Air Supply.

But it’s not just schmaltzy acts doing it. My Manilow experiment prompted me to monitor more broadly the music I hear at home, in the car, even at the grocery store, and it’s amazing how often key changes occur. Just last week I caught an episode of late-’70s TV sitcom “WKRP in Cincinnati,” and amazingly, the opening theme song climbs a half-step between the first and second of its two short verses. I have to admit, it works. And why wouldn’t it? After all, “WKRP” was a series dedicated to the classic AM radio era, an era defined by catchy pop hooks that, from “My Generation” to “Mandy,” made their way up the charts thanks to a boost up the scale.