Picture this: it’s the mid-1950s, and Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe are nervously previewing a few new songs for My Fair Lady. Their guests? Broadway royalty Mary Martin and her husband, producer Richard Halliday.

Mary listens politely. She smiles. And then… nothing. She and Richard leave without much comment. The poor composers are left to wonder if they’ve struck gold—or struck out.

That night, as the story goes, Mary paced the floor, finally turning to her husband with a sigh:

“Richard, those dear boys have lost their talent.”

Ouch.

Halliday passed the line along a few days later, and it instantly became Broadway lore. Some say Lerner and Loewe even turned it into a running joke between themselves—whenever inspiration ran dry, one would quip to the other: “You, dear boy, have lost your talent.”

Of course, My Fair Lady would go on to become one of the greatest musicals ever written. Mary Martin, who turned down the chance to play Eliza, probably never regretted it—she had Peter Pan to fly away with. But her devastating little comment lives on, a reminder that even geniuses sometimes get a bad review… from a friend.

And somewhere, you can almost picture Lerner and Loewe still chuckling about it in musical-theatre heaven.

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As a Broadway enthusiast and historian, I’ve always been fascinated by how popular culture and politics intertwine. One of the most enduring examples of that fusion is the link between John F. Kennedy’s presidency and the Broadway musical Camelot.

The association between Camelot and the JFK  Presidency is  so strong that many people assume Camelot was the unofficial soundtrack of the Kennedy White House — but the story behind that connection is more complex, and far more poignant.

Camelot and the Kennedy Presidency

When JFK was assassinated in November 1963, the country was stunned — and so was Jacqueline Kennedy. In the fog of grief, she granted a rare interview to Life magazine’s Theodore H. White. She wanted to help the nation understand not just her husband’s death, but his legacy. In that conversation, she recalled how JFK loved to play the Camelot cast album before bed. Quoting the show’s final lines, she said:

“Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.”

That quote — just twelve words from a Broadway show tune — shaped the Kennedy legacy for generations.

The musical, written by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, had opened in 1960, the same year JFK was elected. It tells the story of King Arthur, who builds a realm rooted in justice, courage, and idealism — only to see it collapse under the weight of human frailty. Jackie Kennedy, a devoted student of history and the arts, understood how powerfully that narrative could resonate. By invoking Camelot, she turned her husband’s presidency into a modern American myth: a young, visionary leader cut down in his prime, surrounded by elegance, promise, and tragedy.

The Camelot image was not an organic nickname like “The New Deal” or “The Great Society.”
It was carefully constructed by Jackie Kennedy in a moment of grief to cast JFK’s presidency as a fleeting, noble experiment — a “brief, shining moment.”
It has had tremendous staying power, shaping the Kennedy mythos in American memory.

While other presidents have intersected with Broadway — Call Me Madam playfully nodded to the Truman administration, Mr. President was Irving Berlin’s good-natured tribute during JFK’s tenure, and shows like George M!and Annie offered musical glimpses of the FDR era — none have been so powerfully and enduringly linked to a single show the way JFK has with Camelot.

There are retrospective portraits like 1776 (featuring actors playing George Washington, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson) and Abe Lincoln in Illinois, but they function more as artistic biographies than American cultural shorthand.

P.S.   First Ladies of Broadway: Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton’s

Theatrical Contributions

While presidential connections to Broadway have historically been symbolic or thematic, Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton have each made tangible contributions to the theater world. In 2009, Michelle Obama invited Lin-Manuel Miranda to perform an early version of what would become Hamilton at the White House Poetry Jam, providing a national platform that helped propel the musical into the cultural zeitgeist. Her continued support included hosting the cast for educational workshops and praising the show as “the best piece of art” she’d ever seen, according to actress Phillipa Soo.

The Only First Lady To Win A Tony!

Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, took a more direct role in theater production. In 2024, she served as a co-producer for Suffs, a Broadway musical by Shaina Taub that chronicles the women’s suffrage movement. Clinton’s involvement brought attention to the show’s themes of activism and voting rights, and she introduced a performance at the Tony Awards, emphasizing the importance of civic engagement.

These contributions by Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton represent a modern evolution of the relationship between American political figures and Broadway, moving beyond inspiration to active participation in the arts.

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I turned to the girl’s mom, who was standing nearby, and said, “Hi, I’m Barry, and that’s my daughter EJ. Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Audra McDonald?”

She smiled warmly  and said, “Well, since that’s the name my parents gave me, I’ve actually heard that quite a bit.”

I just stood there for a second. There she was—Audra McDonald—in a half-empty suburban mall, being exactly what she always comes across as: gracious, smart, and down-to-earth.

We did what parents do in that situation—we chit-chatted. She was wearing a John Kerry button, and we talked about politics, our kids, the weather, and my work in history. The girls were having a blast, so we decided to sit down. She was surprised I recognized her; I was still surprised she was in that obscure mall.

She watched the girls while I ran to grab her a coffee and myself a hot chocolate. I picked up some pretzels for everyone. It was the kind of interaction you dream about having with someone famous—easy, warm, and human. And she was just that.

As we packed up to leave, she noticed EJ’s ponytail slipping out and reached down to fix it—definitely not one of Dad’s specialties. My daughter, ever polite, said, “Thank you, Miss McDonald,” and Audra turned to her own daughter and said, “Say thank you to Mr. Bradford—he got us treats!” Zoe was as polite as she was energetic.

I’d love to say that a lifelong friendship ensued. It didn’t. But Audra McDonald often speaks about how close she is with her daughter, Zoe, who frequently joins her at the Tonys and other award shows. And EJ? She loves to point to those photos and say, “There’s my old friend!”

It was one of those unexpected, joyful moments you never forget—not because I met a star, but because I met a kind, warm mother who just happened to be one of the greatest performers of our time.

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Before taking the helm of The Tonight Show, Steve Allen was already a rising star in radio and television. Born in 1921, Allen had a background in comedy, writing, and music. He was known for his quick wit, intellectual curiosity, and improvisational skills. His success as a local TV host in Los Angeles and later in a national variety show convinced NBC that he was the right person to lead this experimental venture into late-night programming. His unique blend of brainy humor and musical talent offered something different from the standard network fare.

The First Tonight: September 27, 1954

The very first episode of The Tonight Show aired live from Broadway’s Hudson Theater. NBC’s Studio 6B in Rockefeller Center. Allen opened the show by simply saying, “This is Tonight, and I can’t think of a better name for it.” The format was loose and unscripted from the start, combining interviews, comedy sketches, musical performances, and playful interactions with the studio audience. Bandleader Skitch Henderson and announcer Gene Rayburn joined Allen. The chemistry between the cast and the spontaneity of the content helped define a genre that didn’t quite exist until that night.

Allen’s versatility set a standard that future hosts would echo in various ways. Jack Paar took the show in a more sophisticated and intellectually probing direction—traits Allen shared as a prolific writer, philosopher, and thinker. Johnny Carson brought Midwestern charm and a keen sense of timing, echoing Allen’s blend of accessibility and humor. While Jay Leno focused more on topical monologues and broad appeal, Conan O’Brien’s reverence for show business and irreverent wit felt closer in spirit to Allen’s unpredictable edge. Jimmy Fallon’s musical talent and ease in blending sketches with music is impressive, but even that traces back to Allen’s pioneering use of music and comedy in late night. In many ways, Allen embodied pieces of all the hosts who followed.

Vanishing History

Unfortunately, very few full episodes of Steve Allen’s original Tonight Show exist today. In the 1950s, the concept of archiving television for posterity was not yet a common practice. Most shows aired live and were either never recorded or were taped over to save costs. Only a handful of kinescopes—recordings made by filming a television screen during broadcast—remain.

As a result, much of Allen’s pioneering work in late night survives only in fragments, anecdotes, and its influence on the format. Steve Allen told me he was furious when he learned that NBC had destroyed the tapes and “raised the roof” with them to preserve the few remaining tapes.

Still, the legacy of that first Tonight Show is profound. Steve Allen set the tone for decades of late-night television by showing that it could be smart, spontaneous, and, above all, entertaining. His mix of satire, music, celebrity interviews, and absurdist comedy paved the way for generations of hosts to come. While later hosts like Johnny Carson and Jimmy Fallon may be more familiar to today’s audiences, they’re all building on a foundation laid by Steve Allen’s groundbreaking debut.

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Born in poverty in New Orleans, Armstrong found support and kindness from the Karnofskys, a Lithuanian-Jewish immigrant family that employed him as a young boy. They not only gave him meals and stability but also encouraged his love of music—helping him buy his first cornet on an installment plan.

Armstrong never forgot their generosity. Later, he wrote about the kindness and discrimination the Karnofskys faced, which mirrored his own experiences as a Black man in America. Although he was a Baptist, In gratitude, he wore the Star of David throughout his life, a symbol of his appreciation and a reminder of the lessons of compassion and resilience they instilled in him. Armstrong’s story is a testament to how small acts of kindness can change a life forever and how bonds between communities can transcend race, religion, and time.

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