Last Sunday’s Turkish referendum, echoing shifts in global power dynamics, brings to mind a catchy tune that, much like news from that region, resonates with historical transformations. This song, which almost made it into America Alone: The End Of The World As We Know It, gained unexpected notoriety when it was cited in a complaint to Canadian “Human Rights” Commissions – a claim few novelty songs can boast. This earworm first hit the charts in October 1953:
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, ol’ Constantinople
Now it’s Turkish delight on a moonlit night…
For many in the English-speaking world, “Turkish delight” evokes a specific, almost nostalgic imagery. Unlike some modern interpretations, the original “Turkish Delight” experience was less about mass-produced sweets and more about a traditional treat: a wooden box filled with pistachios, dates, or other delicacies, bound in delicate, powdered cubes of rosewater or lemon gel. This authentic version, a far cry from the mass-marketed candy, represents a richer, more culturally significant confection.
The last time this song surfaced in broader discourse, it wasn’t about sweet treats. Mentioned in a Maclean’s piece that stirred considerable debate, “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” was invoked alongside Oriana Fallaci’s stark depiction of Constantinople’s fall in 1453. This historical event, marked by significant cultural and political upheaval, mirrors the sentiment captured in the song’s seemingly lighthearted lyrics. The song’s couplet encapsulates a certain Western nonchalance towards such historical shifts:
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That’s nobody’s business but the Turks.
This lyric, penned by Jimmy Kennedy, belies a deeper commentary on historical change and cultural perception. While “Istanbul” didn’t make it into America Alone, another of Kennedy’s songs, “Red Sails In The Sunset,” did inspire a chapter subheading, showcasing the songwriter’s broader cultural influence. “Red Sails In The Sunset” originated from Kennedy’s observation of a yacht, the Kitty of Coleraine, sailing into the sunset at Portstewart, County Derry. This scene is now commemorated with a plaque and statue, celebrating the song, the ship, and its creator.
Born in Omagh in 1902, Kennedy, son of a Royal Irish Constabulary policeman, found his songwriting success in London’s Tin Pan Alley, the vibrant heart of the British music industry. While he occasionally drew inspiration from his homeland, like in “Red Sails In The Sunset” and the Irish mother tribute “Did Your Mother Come From Ireland?” (a hit for Bing Crosby), his repertoire spanned diverse locales. His catalogue includes “Isle Of Capri,” “April In Portugal,” and “South Of The Border.” The latter, inspired by a postcard from his sister in California, wasn’t about Irish partition but about a cultural shift: “Today we’ve gone Mexican – we’re south of the border…” Kennedy possessed a keen sense for catchy titles:
South Of The Border
Down Mexico way
That’s where I fell in love
When stars above
Came out to play…
“South Of The Border” became a signature song for Sinatra early in his career. Kennedy’s songwriting prowess attracted a constellation of stars, including Nat Cole, Perry Como, Ella Fitzgerald, Elvis Presley, and The Platters (“My Prayer”). Despite not being a household name today, Kennedy reigned as Britain’s most successful songwriter before the era of Lennon & McCartney. Prior to the Beatles, the British pop music scene was relatively small, often overshadowed by American imports. The Performing Right Society even advocated for protectionist measures against American songs, a situation that drastically changed with the British Invasion led by the Fab Four and others. Yet, for three decades, Kennedy stood out as a prominent British songwriter in the American-dominated landscape of popular music standards.
“Istanbul” shares with “South Of The Border” and “Isle Of Capri” a place in Kennedy’s collection of novelty songs with an exotic flair. He co-wrote it in 1953 with New York composer Nat Simon, known for hits like “Poinciana” and “The Old Lamplighter,” as well as the more whimsical “Her Bathing Suit Never Got Wet” and “No Can Do.” It’s somewhat surprising that Irving Berlin, a major figure in music publishing, didn’t perceive “Istanbul Not Constantinople” as too close to his own work. Indeed, listening to “Istanbul,” one might inadvertently find themselves humming:
If you’re blue
And you don’t know where to go to…
This is because the central melody of “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” bears a striking resemblance to the opening bars of “Puttin’ On The Ritz,” both in melody and rhythm. Such similarities have often led to successful plagiarism lawsuits, and “Istanbul” was undoubtedly a hit. (The revival by They Might Be Giants even led some to believe it was a cover of Taco’s 80s rendition of “Ritz.”)
However, the lyrics of “Istanbul” give it a distinct identity. Kennedy excelled at crafting songs with unique and memorable concepts. After all, there aren’t many English-language songs centered around the theme of Turkish allure:
Ev’ry gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul Not Constantinople
So if you’ve a date in Constantinople
She’ll be waiting in Istanbul…
Musically, Nat Simon attempted to infuse a Turkish flavor into the tune, perhaps inadvertently echoing Irving Berlin in the process. The Four Lads’ famous rendition of the song incorporated mosque-like ululations, which, in today’s climate, might be considered controversial. Nonetheless, “Istanbul” quickly spawned numerous covers in late 1953, with British artists like Frankie Vaughan and Edmundo Ros among those who recorded it. The song’s middle section broadens its scope, suggesting the name change is part of a larger pattern:
Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it, I can’t say
People just liked it better that way…
This perspective offers a simplified view of history. In reality, both name changes—Constantinople to Istanbul and New Amsterdam to New York—signify shifts in power, though the former was considerably more turbulent. Jimmy Kennedy’s perspective on contemporary conflicts is open to interpretation. As someone from Ulster, he was familiar with sectarianism and conflict. Yet, unlike many in today’s entertainment industry, Kennedy had a clear sense of allegiance. In 1939, he penned “We’re Gonna Hang Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line” for British soldiers, a song brimming with wartime optimism. While perhaps overly optimistic, it reflected a clear sense of patriotic sentiment, a contrast to the often-pessimistic and ambiguous stances prevalent in today’s showbiz world. Kennedy served as a captain in the British Army and, during the war, also wrote an enduringly popular song, a quintessential British singalong: the “Hokey Cokey” (or “Hokey Pokey” in America), a lighthearted tune to boost morale during challenging times.
“Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” remains unique in Kennedy’s oeuvre, deserving of rediscovery. They Might Be Giants offered a modern take on it, and Ska Cubano even created a Spanish version. While They Might Be Giants’ rendition tones down the original’s rhythmic vibrancy, it has found its own audience. However, the Four Lads’ 60-year-old recording still captures the song’s essence—a polished vocal quartet delivering a performance that evokes a sense of courtly deference to a somewhat eccentric ruler. It’s a clash of civilizations encapsulated in a piece of mid-century pop culture. The final couplet succinctly captures the essence of the song, acknowledging transformation while also reflecting a reluctance to delve too deeply into the reasons behind it:
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That’s nobody’s business but the Turks.
Perhaps not anymore. While “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” may not have made it into America Alone, that book implicitly extends Kennedy’s observation, prompting reflection on future transformations: when will old Amsterdam, or other cultural touchstones, face similar “works”?
