Big Salute to ‘Music Man’ Creator Strikes Sour Notes

Former Mayor Carl Miller raises an eyebrow and jerks his head toward the Pleez-All Billiard Parlor. “This,” he says, “is where all the trouble started.”

That’s Trouble with a capital “T” and that rhymes with “P” and that stands for Pool.

And indeed, there it is: a pool table. Enticing young boys to fritter away their chore time. Undermining staunch Midwest morality.

And, just maybe, giving this careworn town--one of the biggest cement producers in the nation--a shot at cultural glory.

For this is not just any pool table. It represents the fictional one that set off such a ruckus in that spectacle of cornfed Americana, “The Music Man.” And it has become the centerpiece of a controversial project to honor the man behind the music.

Mason City, the inspiration for “The Music Man’s” River City, is building a $22-million tribute to native son Meredith Willson, who wrote not only that hit but other snappy tunes, including “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

Willson’s boyhood home has been meticulously restored by local volunteers. A museum filled with his artifacts and music will open this summer to mark the centennial of his birth. And a block of storefronts--some facades, some real establishments--copied from the set of the 1962 movie “The Music Man” (which itself was modeled after Mason City of 1912) woos visitors with marshmallow malts at the soda fountain and displays of vintage bloomers. There’s also a cafe serving old-style tea cakes and a Victorian bed and breakfast.

And there’s even talk about commissioning a sculpture made up of 76 trombones.

Many here are convinced that they have, as Willson wrote, a bang-beat, bell-ringing, big-haul, great-go, neck-or-nothing, rip-roaring, every-time-a-bull’s-eye blockbuster on their hands. Without a dime’s worth of advertising, the Willson home and River City shops have drawn 33,000 tourists since last May. Visitors have come to this isolated northern Iowa town from all 50 states and 14 countries.

Under Miller’s direction, the nonprofit foundation in charge of the tribute has raised nearly $9 million--half from Willson’s widow, Rosemary, who lives in Los Angeles. She has pledged a $2-million endowment plus additional matching funds, calling “the dedication and hard work of all the people in Mason City the most fitting tribute” to the spirit of cooperation that her husband tried to capture in his musicals.

Miller has no doubt he’ll be able to raise enough money to cap off the project with a 500-seat theater and an old-time bakery like the one Willson’s father managed.

“This is a piece of Americana,” he says firmly, as if that settles it.

But Iowans are a famously skeptical lot, “so by-God stubborn,” as Willson wrote, “that we can stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye.” And not everyone in town has jumped on “The Music Man” bandwagon.

A few critics grumble that the project has grown way out of proportion for a working-class town of 30,000. They question whether Willson, who died in 1984, has enough fans to sustain such an elaborate tribute.

“Meredith who?” asks Max Weaver, a former councilman, his voice dripping with disdain.

Weaver is so fed up with the ever-expanding project that he has taken to comparing Miller to the con-artist hero of “The Music Man” who preys on small towns “where the people are as green as the money,” selling them grandiose dreams. “This is a case of life imitating art,” Weaver says. “Carl Miller is Professor Harold Hill.”

Weaver and other skeptics doubt the proposed theater will draw quality acts to what one local called “a little itty-bitty town in a social desert.” They worry that the private funds will dry up, leaving city taxpayers holding the bag. A few flat-out cringe at hooking their town’s reputation to a musical written in 1957 that they consider unbearably sappy.

“When’s the last time you’ve watched ‘The Music Man?’ ” demands Al Duitman, an antique store owner. He snorts and strings out his words for emphasis. “It is the most hokey musical!”

The critics are especially irate over recent decisions by the city and county to kick in $825,000 for the Willson project. Organizers had promised from the start that they would not tap taxpayer funds. But Miller appealed for some public money last month, saying he needed to show local support in order to secure a state grant.

With some reluctance, local politicians signed on. “We would prefer not to commit a penny of taxpayer money to it,” said Mayor Bill Schickel. “But we’re also able to look at the big picture.”

And in the big picture, he believes, the project can transform Mason City.

Some business owners say they’ve already seen a bounce in sales from the tour buses that stop at the Willson home. Even over at the Body Graphix tattoo shop, owner Don Murl expects some spinoff bounty from “The Music Man.” “It’ll probably bring in more of an older crowd. But hey, I just had a 57-year-old in here getting a tattoo of Elvis.”

The presence of that tattoo parlor makes clear--if there was ever a doubt--that Mason City bears little resemblance to the town Willson so lovingly memorialized.

In the River City of his musical, “swell” was about the most depraved slang imaginable, and the arrival of the Wells Fargo wagon was excitement enough for a week. Driving into Mason City today, you pass a Harley-Davidson motorcycle shop, a Rent-A-Dent car lot, check cashing joints and fast food aplenty. The music stores sell Britney Spears CDs.

But attentive “Music Man” fans will note that many of the names given to its characters are still listed in the phone book.

There are cultural attractions quite apart from the Willson tribute.

Puppeteer Bil Baird grew up here, and many of his puppets, including the yodeling ones from “The Sound of Music” film, are on display. There’s a museum of antique trucks, featuring the first known snowmobile, a modified 1917 Model T. And the private foundation that runs the Willson project is set to renovate the 91-year-old downtown Park Inn, the last remaining Frank Lloyd Wright hotel in the world. (Work will take years, but in the meantime, visitors can see other examples of Prairie School architecture, including a home and bank designed by Wright.)

Up the road a few miles, there’s a monument to rock ‘n’ roll star Buddy Holly, whose plane crashed in a cornfield near here in 1959. And every summer, a marching band festival draws hundreds of kids to a Mason City parade with more trombones than Harold Hill himself could conjure.

This year’s festival coincides with the opening of the Willson museum, and organizers had hoped to make the parade a tribute to “The Music Man.” They ran into just one hitch.

With a sheepish grin, Karen Werle, the manager of a music store, explains: “It turned out ’76 Trombones’ was about the only thing he wrote that’s still in print for marching bands. We’re all really proud of Meredith Willson here. [But] most of the rest of his music is out of print.”