In his 90s, Irving Berlin is the most successful songwriter in history. But he’s also become a cantankerous old recluse, who believes the world has passed him by. He begins dictating recollections to his long-suffering secretary, and for him the years start to slip happily away. He relishes recalling his rags-to-riches life— the immigrant kid from Russia who became an American institution.

He remembers it like it was yesterday— the early 20th century, when “Everything in America was Ragtime,” and he was being hailed as its king. He tells how his idol, George M. Cohan, “the man who owned Broadway,” championed him, and gave him a chance to introduce any new song of his in the “Friars’ Frolic.” And the song Berlin came up with became the biggest hit in a generation, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” He becomes internationally famous. Pictures of him at his beloved piano run in countless newspapers and magazines (“I Love a Piano”).

He’s lionized on his first visit to England. British reporters are surprised that they seem to know Berlin’s songs better than he does (“Araby,” “I’m Down in Honolulu…”), and when they hand him sheet music, he’s unable to play it. He confesses he can neither read nor write music; he plays the piano by ear— and not too well, at that. When he creates songs, a musical secretary puts on paper whatever songs he plays, sings, or hums. The skeptical reporters ask if they can witness the process; Berlin proceeds to create a song for them on the spot, on a subject they provide (“That Dying Rag”).

A fierce attack of homesickness forces him to cut short his visit to England, and he’s glad to get back to his home in NYC (“I Beg Your Pardon, Dear Old Broadway”). Home is important to Berlin, and he hates being away from his home any more than is absolutely necessary. He’s felt that way ever since he witnessed, as a small boy in Russia, his own family’s home being burned to the ground during a pogrom. The impoverished family made their way to America and started over. He sang for pennies on the street (“The Schoolhouse Blues”), and wherever else he could.

By his mid-teens, “home” for Berlin is a rough beer hall (with an opium den and whorehouse above it) on the Lower East Side, run by the local “fixer,” Mike Salter. For several years, Berlin works as a singing waiter for Salter, whom Berlin says is like a second father to him. (Berlin’s father died when he was young.) Berlin begins making up songs, which he sings, and which others at the joint sing as well (“I’ve Got to Have Some Lovin’ Now”). Berlin keeps singing, even when one customer is murdered right in front of him (“Everybody’s Doin’ It Now”).

With the help of musician friends, he gets his first songs published. He has no intention of becoming a professional songwriter; it’s just a little sideline. But when he gets fired from Mike Salter’s place, he scrambles to turn out as many songs as possible, desperate to make a living. He’s surprised to find his songs sell well. He’s amazed when he realizes it’s possible to make thousands of dollars from a single song (“My Wife’s Gone to the Country”).

Other performers start seeking out Berlin for songs to sing, from vaudeville stars like Sophie Tucker (“Stop! Stop! Stop!”) to an aspiring 19-year-old singer named Dorothy Goetz, with whom Berlin falls in love. Within a few weeks of their meeting, they’ve set a wedding date and are dreaming of married life together (“In a Cozy Kitchenette Apartment”). Dorothy’s father urges Berlin to take good care of his daughter (“Always Treat Her Like a Baby”).

On their honeymoon, Dorothy contracts typhoid fever. And she dies from it. Inconsolable, Berlin is unable to work at all for months. Eventually he pours his feelings into a song, in remembrance of Dorothy. And he returns to his work, full-time. It will be ten years before he so much as looks at another woman. But the song he’s written in remembrance of Dorothy proves to be an enormous hit— and his first mature ballad: “When I Lost You.”

Always deeply patriotic, Berlin serves his nation in the First World War by creating, producing, and appearing in an all-servicemen show, designed to boost morale and raise funds for the war effort (“We’re on Our Way to France”).

After the war, in the booming Jazz Age, Berlin becomes a major force on Broadway. He builds his own Broadway theater, the Music Box, and keeps it filled with revues he creates (“Bring on the Pepper”). He writes often for famed Broadway impresario Flo Ziegfeld, as well, creating the theme for the Ziegfeld Follies, “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.”

He eventually falls in love with Ellin Mackay, and they hope to marry (“Settle Down in a One-Horse Town”). But her fiercely anti-Semitic father, tycoon Clarence Mackay, does everything he can to thwart their romance, from threatening to cut her off financially, to putting physical distance between her and Berlin. Berlin worries their romance might not survive (“Someone Else May be There While I’m Gone”). But— in defiance of her father— she marries him and will remain his faithful partner for life.

Berlin is a major contributor to American popular culture of the 1920s, ‘30s, ‘40s, and ‘50s… For him, the greatest satisfaction is that he gets to know and work with the greatest performers of his time. He recalls legendary stars, and numbers of his that they sang, such as Broadway’s longtime king, Al Jolson (“This is the Life”); endearing song-and-dance comedian Eddie Cantor (“Mandy”); Ziegfeld star Fanny Brice (“Wild Cherries”); two of his all-time favorite screen stars, Judy Garland and Fred Astaire (“When the Midnight Choo Choo Leaves for Alabam”); Hollywood icon/sex symbol Marilyn Monroe (“You’d be Surprised”); and musical-comedy queen Ethel Merman (“The International Rag”).

But of all the accomplishments in his life, the one he’s proudest of, Berlin says, is the all-servicemen show This is the Army that he created, produced, and appeared in during the Second World War, which raised ten million dollars for the cause. Servicemen got to express their feelings through songs by Berlin (“I’m Gonna Pin a Medal on the Girl I Left Behind”), and Berlin himself got to reprise a song he introduced during the First World War, “Oh! How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning.”

But with the rise of rock ‘n’ roll, Berlin found his role in popular culture changing. The phone wasn’t ringing as often. Young performers weren’t calling, asking to record the newest Irving Berlin songs. He found himself spending more and more time alone at home, writing quality songs that no one seemed to want. He was slipping into an unchosen retirement (“Lady of the Evening”).

Old friends at MGM give him hope. They pay him the largest sum ever paid a composer for a film. They’re planning a new Irving Berlin musical, with a mix of old and new songs that will be the biggest thing in MGM history. Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Julie Andrews will head an all-star cast. The film will be called Say It With Music. And they’ve commissioned top writers for the script. He can see it now(“Say It With Music”).

But there’s a corporate upheaval at MGM. Berlin’s old friends are forced out. A new young regime comes in. They cancel the plans for Say It With Music. They don’t want to spend a dime on an Irving Berlin musical. The times, they are a-changing. And the new management is focused on the youth market. To them, Berlin is passé.

Berlin can’t believe his career might end like this. He’s still writing new songs and touching up old ones, hoping— in his 90s— that there might still be one last hurrah, whether on Broadway or in Hollywood (“Everybody Step”). He wonders if everyone has forgotten him.

It’s now Christmas Eve. He hears carolers approaching his home. He is surprised and touched when he realizes they are serenading him with his songs (“Say it with Music— Reprise”). And Berlin, who has been a recluse for many years, opens his door, invites them in, and tells them they’ve given him the best possible Christmas gift.

Berlin died in 1989, at the age of 101. But his music lives on. As we’re reminded in an encore (“Play a Simple Melody”/“Musical Demon”).