Snake Hips

"The terraced minstrel show set with its lustrous expanse of gold and silver drapes, its fourteen huge jeweled sunbursts, its mammoth spreading fans in red, green and gold, all in a blaze of perfect lighting, is, perhaps, the most notable of the sets and when it is populated by 150 screen personalities all in brilliant and gorgeous costumes, the picture is beyond description."

So described a 1930 newspaper advance publicity placement for Fox's "Happy Days." Once I got past the beautifully descriptive prose, it occurred to me that I hadn't previously thought of the film as originally containing color sequences, but the thought was hugely appealing --- especially when combined with envisioning how the film might have looked upon it's premiere at New York City's Roxy Theater, where it was screened in the 70mm Fox Grandeur wide-screen process as well. Were this true, it's well neigh impossible to imagine the sensory overload that would have greeted 1930 audiences attending that most glorious of a cinema palaces and one which would be demolished after a mere thirty years of life: Color, wide-screen and Fox's unparalleled (in my opinion) Movietone sound process bathing each of the 5,920 upholstered seats in sight, sound and color. Overly dramatic I know, but not far from an early sound film buff's notion of heaven.

With the Roxy Theater long gone (it's entrance now marked by a T.G.I. Friday's) and "Happy Days" barely surviving in openly traded and sold 98th generation dupes --- a mottled, tattered, bleached, garbled and truncated shadow of its former self --- it's no small wonder the film is all but sneered at when written about, and surprisingly, it's even scoffed at by the only fan base it could possibly claim at this late date, that being the legions of Will Rogers' admirers. The film's parent studio apparently didn't think enough of it (or at all) to include it in two DVD boxed sets of Rogers' sound films and that's probably just as well considering the likelihood that the Rogers scenes would simply be extracted from the body of the film and included as an "extra" with little or no explanation.

But, I stray. Did "Happy Days" originally contain color sequences? The introductory paragraph certainly goes out of it's way to suggest so. Then too, not all --- but some period "reviews" for the film (of the variety written by theater owners who pre-screened prints before booking) seem to solidify the press campaign's claim by saying, merely, "Some of the scenes are in Technicolor." Well, perhaps not Technicolor --- but another color process? So, until anyone can offer up real proof pointing one way or the other, we can't be certain.

One of the film's most striking musical and tuneful sequences, in pastel hues or not, is "Snake Hips," which was promoted in newspapers by asking: "Do snakes have hips or not?" and then inviting them to see for themselves in a verbal elbow-nudge fashion.

Starkly designed with two gigantic curled cobras on either side of the set --- with bodies and heads rising and curling upwards to meet in the center forming an exotic proscenium arch, the beauty of the number's design and the shimmering metallic costumes are all but impossible to appreciate or even clearly ascertain in circulating dupes, which reduces individual dancers into undulating blobs without clear face or figure. The film's soundtrack has suffered right along with the visual elements too, and gone are the original Movietone crystalline highs and deep, warm and rich bass notes. Further assault comes in the form of no less than two cuts within the sequence, one of which deletes Sharon Lynn's entire vocalization of the song's chorus. With that warning in mind, and to oblige a reader request, here then is an audio reference for "Snake Hips" in the form it can be found today. No amount of mucking about with audio enhancement can undo decades of damage, but weak as this is it's actually an improvement upon the original source material!

"Snake Hips" (1930)

Scattered and wildly incomplete though surviving examples of early radio are, every once in a great while something comes along that almost effortlessly sweeps away volumes of dry written documentation simply by allowing us the ability to hear for ourselves, and experience something that no amount of prose --- however skillful --- can hope to emulate.


One Tuesday evening in May of 1928, an engineer working at the Thomas Edison Laboratory & Phonograph Works in New Jersey (pictured left) was busily testing a new recording process that would allow for long-playing discs. Seeking a continuous source of recordable material as opposed to recordings that would have to be changed every few minutes, the engineer decided to utilize a radio set in his workroom and at 8PM, he tuned into radio station WEAF, (which was carrying programming from NBC) and began his test recording, which lasted 18 minutes.

When finished, he filed the disc away with some jotted notes on the recording process and results, without knowing that some seventy-five years later his experiment would be rediscovered and that what he captured --- quite without thought as to posterity, would be the earliest known over-the-air recording of a live broadcast and, as it turns out, a broadcast consisting of popular music.

An entry in the NBC "Eveready Hour," a sponsored anthology/variety program that offered a diverse selection of dramatic, musical and comedy offerings, the captured fragment of entertainment and technological history is listed in the radio guide from that date only in the briefest of forms, without detail as to scheduled artist or theme. From the surviving broadcast itself, we learn that the setting is that of a night-club, and that the featured singer is one Martha Copeland, about whom I could discover nothing further. In researching various radio listings for the Eveready Hour from that same week and month, however, I think I can tentatively conclude that the accompanying vocal group that backs Copeland is The Hall Johnson Choir (a famous choral group of the day that was featured in a variety of entertainment mediums, including --- most notably, the 1929 Bessie Smith two-reeler "St. Louis Blues") and that it's probable that the orchestra was under the direction of Nathaniel Shilkret.

In the following two brief extracts of somewhat reduced quality from the full recording, Miss Copeland puts over a wonderful rendition of the pop standard "I Ain't Got Nobody" (including a disorienting shout of "everybody rock!" during the song) and then, a stirring vocalization of "The St. Louis Blues," performed here in an arrangement that foretells the ultimate Bessie Smith version that would arrive the following year, replete with similar haunting vocal backing by The Hall Johnson Choir.

"The Eveready Hour" (1928) Excerpt 1

"The Eveready Hour" (1928) Excerpt 2

Interested readers should make haste for the home page of the public-radio broadcast that first premiered this recording in 2003, "Thomas Edison's Attic," which is maintained by Edison recording historian supreme, Jerry Fabris. Displaying an unparalleled passion, knowledge and respect for Edison recording artists and their product, Mr. Fabris is as unique a gem as could be hoped for in this incredibly overlooked and underestimated niche of American popular music history. The material he broadcasts, originating directly from the original medium of cylinder or disc, is of astounding quality and variety, and guaranteed to cause any listener to rethink any existing notions they may have about early sound recording. With that in mind, please visit: http://wfmu.org/playlists/TE

Somehow or other, I've not yet managed to see D.W. Griffith's "Lady of the Pavements," a 1929 United Artists release that arrived on screens with a synchronized music and sound effects score and at least one dialogue sequence. Happily, the film survives today (although without it's sound elements) and I've heard that at least in some screenings, the film's lilting theme song ("Where Is the Song of Songs For Me?") the tune is given its due either by interpolation into the live piano accompaniment or by the playing of the film's star, Lupe Velez's 78rpm recording released in conjunction with the film's premiere. Either way, it's an admirable effort to try to correct damage wrought by time and neglect and one I applaud. In tribute to both the film and those who still present it, here's two renditions of the theme song. The first by Lupe Velez --- touching, skilled and exotic, and the second by vocalist Franklyn Baur, clear, resonant and timeless.

"Where Is the Song of Songs for Me?" (1929) Velez

"Where Is the Song of Songs for Me?" (1929) Baur


In a much lighter vein, I introduce vocalist Sid Garry, who recorded for a mind boggling array of "dime store" record labels throughout the 1920's --- and possibly prior and beyond, as concise information on his career hasn't been easy to pin down. What I do know is that no matter the record label he's encountered on --- Banner, Cameo, Domino, Perfect, Regal, Romeo, etc. to name but a few --- or no matter what name he used ("Al Foster" was a common alias), his voice and style is as unique and immediately identifiable as a thumb print... or blood stain. Adding a whole new dimension to the old descriptive term "he sings with a tear in his voice," Sid Garry has been delighting me for years by almost always seeming to be on the verge of weeping as he sings, and by a style of pronunciation and inflection that's his and his alone. I'd love to know more of Mr. Garry (or Mr. Foster,) so if any reader should have additional information, I urge you to share it!.

For the uninitiated, here's two familiar standards of the late 1920's as I suspect you've never heard them performed before. Typically, Mr. Garry either selected or was wisely called upon to vocalize tunes of an emotional or sentimental nature, and these two melodies, "Mean To Me" and "Tip Toe thru the Tulips" are prime Sid Garry. (Pictured right, Mr. Garry/Foster, himself.)

"Mean to Me" (1929)

"Tip Toe thru the Tulips" (1929)


Closing out this post, two additional requests that I'm pleased to be able to meet. In relation to my earlier posts regarding The Duncan Sisters, I was reminded that I overlooked one of their finest recordings, "Dawning" of 1927 --- and I'm glad this oversight was mentioned. A simple melody, the theme of which dwells upon dawn, early morning, mother's arms, yawning babies, and the rooster's call to awaken, it's comfort food of the musical sort that effortlessly stirs memories of childhood and home --- our first home --- that dwells within all of us, somewhere. As described in the Victor record ad at the left, the Duncan Sisters "each has a piano to accompany her --- that is, there are two pianos, while Vivian plays the uke. Against this background, they sing two of the charmingest ditties." The flip side tune, "Baby Feet Go Pitter Patter" is just a wee bit too charming, even for me. "Dawning," however, is magnificent and just charming enough.

"Dawning" (1927)

Lastly, for a flash finish, a high spirited medley of selections from the 1930 United Artists film "Puttin' on the Ritz," consisting of "With You," "There's Danger In Your Eyes Cherie" and of course the seemingly indestructible title tune. Of passing interest, in the ad below, note that the credit listings for a coming attraction, "Second Wife," has the odd billing "The New Lila Lee" for the extraordinarily prolific and skilled actress. This "new" tag, although of questionable taste, refers to the fact that the actress had underwent what amounts to a nervous breakdown (highly publicized too) following a grueling stretch of work in film upon film, in support of the likes of Texas Guinan in 1928, Sophie Tucker in 1929 and Lon Chaney in 1930 --- just to name a few. This "new" billing is an idea before its time, although if in use today it would likely have to read: "The Newest New, Really New, New as Today, _________." Ah, just as well it hasn't been borrowed, I suppose!

Medley - "Puttin' on the Ritz" (1930)

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Distant Voices

The phonograph and later, the talking film, would serve as a repository for vaudeville era performances that would be otherwise lost forever. True, archived newspapers and periodicals provide an invaluable record of these performers and the time in which they worked and lived, but no amount of prose --- however descriptive, can replace or duplicate hearing what we can't possibly experience from our present position in time.

Vaudeville and vaudeville-type performances always seemed to go hand-in-hand with technical advances that appeared during the format's lifetime. From the birth of recorded sound and soon thereafter the motion picture film, and throughout the development of the talking film, vaudeville routines were captured in great numbers, either by the original performers or interpreted by others. Most curiously, all of this happened seemingly without much thought given to the fact that a live and original performance, once caught on shellac or celluloid and then duplicated and widely distributed, made the original performance something vastly less the "event" it once was --- it's commercial value immediately diminished by a competing form of public entertainment.

Indeed, by the time talkies firmly took hold and countless theaters ceased vaudeville performances in favor of continuous talking film presentations, how many vaudevillians faced the odd dilemma of being thrown out of work, replaced by their own images, in short films that they so willingly agreed to appear in months before? Many would migrate to radio, others would gamely plug on aboard a train destined for oblivion, and the great majority would simply move on with their lives and leave behind yellowed scrapbooks and recordings ultimately destined for destruction or rediscovery decades ahead in the future.

Here then, a sampling of voices you may have never heard, from another time and place...

The unrivaled beauty of her day, Lillian Russell (1860-1922).. Voluptuous, elegant and possessing a certain indefinable something that captured the public fancy in a way we can't easily understand today. Actress and contemporary Marie Dressler would later remember, "I can still recall the rush of pure awe that marked her entrance on the stage. And then the thunderous applause that swept from orchestra to gallery, to the very roof." It's difficult to equate the tremulous, unremarkable voice heard in the following 1902 recording with a woman widely accepted as the sensation of her day, but perhaps --- in the end --- that fact says much more of us than of Miss Russell.

"Come Down, Ma' Evenin' Star" (1902)
From "Twirly Whirly"
Weber & Fields' Broadway Musical Hall
247 Performances
"Come Down, Ma' Evenin' Star" (1902)

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In July of 1908, visitors to Washington D.C.'s Luna Park amusement area could end the evening by visiting an all-star vaudeville entertainment that included a dog & monkey act, acrobats and one Miss Florence Gibson, who was buried alive ("six feet underground") at every performance. The Master of Ceremonies, Press Eldridge, billed himself as "The Commander in Chief of Fun," and at least a small portion of his performance would be forever entombed within the grooves of a wax cylinder in 1909.


"A Confidential Chat" (1909)
Press Eldridge
Edison Cylinder Recording
"A Confidential Chat" (1909)

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Stage performer Raymond Hitchcock (1865-1929) appeared in over thirty major Broadway productions between 1898 and 1928, various motion pictures (both silent and sound) and toured the globe with countless personal appearances, with a unique style and wit that's difficult to describe. Imagine a Yankee version of Will Rogers or a somewhat more refined George M. Cohan, if you will. But why explain, when you can listen for yourself?

"In the Days of Old" (1910)
Raymond Hitchcock
From "The Yankee Consul" (1904)
The Broadway Theater - 115 Performances
"In the Days of Old" (1910)

Nora Bayes' solo recording of "The Japanese Sandman" (1920) is, despite the audio limitations of the acoustic recording process, a vaudeville performance come to life and a moment in music history, somewhere between the fading influence of ragtime and the emergence of jazz, captured forever. The dawn of the 1920's. While listening, try and see if you can't visualize a dim theater stage and the figure of the vocalist standing before a dim backdrop of Asian design. As the opening refrain draws to a close, a lighting effect reveals the images spoken of in the song, interpreted by a papier mache tree bearing crepe paper cherry blossoms.

"The Japanese Sandman" (1920)
Nora Bayes & Orchestra
78rpm Disc - Recorded 25 August 1920
"The Japanese Sandman" (1920)
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Clarence Senna, a pianist and humorist of the 1920's, seems to have spent much of his performing career offering musical support to vaudevillian Ruby Norton, perhaps his wife, who toured with an act titled "A Song For Everyone." Playing small venues in the South that offered a film and vaudeville for the price of admission (see ad below) one can imagine the frustration involved in delivering a song or monologue while audiences busily entered and exited at will! Through luck or ability (and he was, after all, decidedly clever) he landed a contract with Columbia in 1927 that produced at least one two-sided record containing two abbreviated musical routines, one of which is heard here. Beyond 1927, what became of Mr. Senna -- and Miss Ruby Norton for that matter, is unknown to me.

"How to Write A Popular Song" (1927)
Clarence Senna
Columbia 78rpm Disc #1277
Recorded 29 December 1927
"How to Write a Popular Song" (1927)

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For the final entry in this post (and I suspect there will be others of this sort eventually, as the topic is irresistible and vast), allow me to introduce two vaudevillians of the highest order, Blossom Seeley and Benny Fields. Partners in life and career (a fact which formed the basis for a grossly inaccurate 1952 film entitled "Somebody Loves Me"), they were the ultimate professionals. Always delivering an incredibly polished performance as finely tuned and timed as a clockwork mechanism, but never seeming anything but fresh, immediate and vital. In the following audio excerpt, from a 1928 Vitaphone short subject appearance, Seeley & Fields' exuberance and sheer joy in performing for a new medium is very much in evidence, and positively infectious. It is moments such as these that has power enough to make the "days of old" which Raymond Hitchcock spoke of seem as though they were only yesterday.

"In A Little Spanish Town" (1928)
Excerpt from "Blossom Seeley & Benny Fields" (WB-Vitaphone-1928)

"In a Little Spanish Town" (1928)


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Raymond Hitchcock photo #DN-0054391 Courtesy Chicago Historical Society

An Organ Interlude

The mighty cinema organ couldn't help but look upon the arrival of talking pictures with some measure of suspicion, and for good reason too... for the "talkies" would slowly and at first imperceptibly, ultimately sound a pre-recorded death knell for the organ, the cinema orchestra, and those who played and operated them.

But, for a brief time --- at the dawn of the sound film, the two elements not only co-existed, but did so peacefully... if not a bit uneasily. Established cinema orchestras would record elaborately arranged medleys and overtures for early musical films that would, in turn, soon make them obsolete, and cinema organs in virtually every theater in which one was installed, would entertain and lull arriving and departing audiences with tunes from recent and forthcoming films. Most established radio stations had one too, which was called into use whenever air time needed to be filled --- in addition to setting the appropriate mood and theme music for numerous early radio shows. So accepted and appreciated was the sound of this instrument, that it's rare to see an early radio broadcast schedule without noticing one or more "Organ Interludes" placed throughout the broadcast day.

Among the comparatively few recorded examples that survive today (radio transcription discs of the late 20's and early 30's have an especially low survival rate) a few have struck me as especially evocative and are well worth sharing here.

On a cold day in late March of 1929, a day that I imagine looked not far different than the view seen here, performer John Gart was called upon to play the installed Morton Organ at the Loew's Valencia theater (Queens, New York and still extant, remarkably) for the purpose of recording a disc for the Edison Phonograph Company, an organization soon to cease operation forever for a variety of sad yet inevitable reasons.

Edison's relatively new "Needle Type" electric records, while of superb quality, would come far too late in the game to make much of an impression, aesthetic or financial, and would prove to be the last dying gasp of a company that served to introduce recorded sound to much of the world's population.

It's a bittersweet experience to listen to this recording when you pause to consider the bleak outlook for both the recording company and the instrument being played --- and even more so, perhaps, when it's discovered that the selected tune is a "theme song" from an early hybrid form of sound film, the part-talkie. Bittersweet because it was the Edison company that attempted to develop and nurture the medium of the talking film long before it was technologically possible and was, in effect, a stillborn life. And yet, at the very end of the Edison company's life, here it was... witnessing and promoting the very medium it helped to create.


The tune, "Weary River," is from the Warner Bros. & First National photoplay of the same name, a part-talkie released early in 1929... and a film which somehow managed to beat the odds and survive intact today, looking and sounding much as it did when first released: sharp, clear and vibrant.

As with most part-talkies, and indeed early talkies in general, it's an easy target for derision by a modern audience clearly divided between a fondness for the silent film and the smooth, established talking film that would emerge by 1930. Therefore, it can't help to not entirely satisfy either faction in some way... and, as with most things, it's easier to find fault and laugh at something rather than attempt to understand it as best we can.

That aside, there's no denying that for the audiences who originally attended the film, it must have been a startling revelation to hear the long established star of the film, Richard Barthelmess, speak from the screen for the first time, as he did some ten minutes into the film's running time. The film, when seen from this difficult but rewarding viewpoint, is a fascinating artifact of both cinema and technology history --- not to mention moderately painless entertainment.

Audio addendum:

1) Theme song of the Photoplay "Weary River," as performed by John Gart on the Loew's Valencia Theatre Morton Wonder Organ in March of 1930. (Pictured right, Richard Barthelmess and Betty Compson in a scene from the film.

"Weary River" (1929)

2) "My Song of the Nile," the theme song of the 1929 Warner Bros. film "Drag," a lost silent film (also starring Richard Barthelmess) that was released with a synchronized Vitaphone music and vocal effects soundtrack. Performed here in October of 1929 by Newell Alton on the Capitol Theatre, Melbourne, Australia. A fine vocal refrain is also featured, although whether or not it's provided by the organist is unknown. One needs an exceptionally robust voice to sing with a pipe organ, and the fellow here, whoever he may be, is more than up to the task!

"My Song of the Nile" (1929)

3) "Am I Blue?", from the 1929 Warner Bros. All-Technicolor film "On With the Show!," as performed by Jean DePayne on the 23rd of August, 1929 and released on the Romeo 78rpm label. Again, it's unknown if the plaintive vocal is by the organist. Should anyone be able to verify the vocalist on this and the previous recording, you're invited to contact me.

"Am I Blue?" (1929)

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