along broadway in the height of the theatrical season, but more particularly in that laggard time from june to september, when the great city is given over to those who may not travel, and to actors seeking engagements, there is ever to be seen a certain representative figure, now one individual and now another, of a world so singular that it might well engage the pen of a balzac or that of a cervantes. i have in mind an individual whose high hat and smooth prince albert coat are still a delicious presence. in his coat lapel is a ruddy boutonnière, in his hand a novel walking-stick. his vest is of a gorgeous and affluent pattern, his shoes shiny-new and topped with pearl-gray spats. with dignity he carries his body and his chin. he is the cynosure of many eyes, the envy of all men, and he knows it. he is the successful author of the latest popular song.
along broadway, from union to greeley squares, any fair day during the period of his artistic elevation, he is to be seen. past the rich shops and splendid theaters he betakes himself with leisurely grace. in thirtieth street he may turn for a few moments, but it is only to say good-morning to his publishers. in twenty-eighth street, where range the host of those who rival his successful house, he stops to talk with lounging actors and ballad singers. well-known variety stars nod to him familiarly. women whose sole claim to distinction139 lies in their knack of singing a song, smile in greeting as he passes. occasionally there comes a figure of a needy ballad-monger, trudging from publisher to publisher with an unavailable manuscript, who turns upon him, in passing, the glint of an envious glance. to these he is an important figure, satisfied as much with their envy as with their praise, for is not this also his due, the reward of all who have triumphed?
i have in mind another figure, equally singular: a rouged and powdered little maiden, rich in feathers and ornaments of the latest vogue; gloved in blue and shod in yellow; pretty, self-assured, daring, and even bold. there has gone here all the traditional maidenly reserve you would expect to find in one so young and pleasing, and yet she is not evil. the daughter of a chicago butcher, you knew her when she first came to the city—a shabby, wondering little thing, clerk to a music publisher transferring his business east, and all eyes for the marvels of city life.
gradually the scenes and superlatives of elegance, those showy men and women coming daily to secure or sell songs, have aroused her longings and ambitions. why may not she sing, why not she be a theatrical celebrity? she will. the world shall not keep her down. that elusive and almost imaginary company known as they, whose hands are ever against the young, shall not hold her back.
behold, for a time, then, she has gone; and now, elegant, jingling with silver ornaments, hale and merry from good living, she has returned. to-day she is playing at one of the foremost vaudeville houses. to-morrow140 she leaves for pittsburgh. her one object is still a salary of five hundred or a thousand a week and a three-sheet litho of herself in every window and upon every billboard.
“i’m all right now,” she will tell you gleefully. “i’m way ahead of the knockers. they can’t keep me down. you ought to have seen the reception i got in pittsburgh. say, it was the biggest yet.”
blessed be pittsburgh, which has honored one who has struggled so hard, and you say so.
“are you here for long?”
“only this week. come up and see my turn. hey, cabbie!”
a passing cabman turns in close to the walk with considerable alacrity.
“take me to keith’s. so long. come up and see my turn to-night.”
this is the woman singer, the complement of the male of the same art, the couple who make for the acceptance and spread of the popular song as well as the fame of its author. they sing them in every part of the country, and here in new york, returned from a long season on the road, they form a very important portion of this song-writing, song-singing world. they and the authors and the successful publishers—but we may simplify by yet another picture.
in twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth street, or anywhere along broadway from madison to greeley squares, are the parlors of a score of publishers, gentlemen who co?rdinate this divided world for song publishing purposes. there is an office and a reception-room; a music-chamber, where songs are tried, and a141 stock room. perhaps, in the case of the larger publishers, the music-rooms are two or three, but the air of each is much the same. rugs, divans, imitation palms make this publishing house more bower than office. three or four pianos give to each chamber a parlor-like appearance. the walls are hung with the photos of celebrities, neatly framed, celebrities of the kind described. in the private music-rooms, rocking-chairs. a boy or two waits to bring professional copies at a word. a salaried pianist or two wait to run over pieces which the singer may desire to hear. arrangers wait to make orchestrations or take down newly schemed out melodies which the popular composer himself cannot play. he has evolved the melody by a process of whistling and must have its fleeting beauty registered before it escapes him forever. hence the salaried arranger.
into these parlors then, come the mixed company of this distinctive world: authors who have or have not succeeded, variety artists who have some word from touring fellows or know the firm, masters of small bands throughout the city or the country, of which the name is legion, orchestra-leaders of bowery theaters and uptown variety halls, and singers.
“you haven’t got a song that will do for a tenor, have you?”
the inquirer is a little, stout, ruddy-faced irish boy from the gas-house district. his common clothes are not out of the ordinary here, but they mark him as possibly a non-professional seeking free copies.
“sure, let me see. for what do you want it?”
“well, i’m from the arcadia pleasure club. we’re142 going to give a little entertainment next wednesday and we want some songs.”
“i think i’ve got just the thing you want. wait till i call the boy. harry! bring me some professional copies of ballads.”
the youth is probably a representative of one of the many tammany pleasure organizations, the members of which are known for their propensity to gather about east and west side corners at night and sing. one or two famous songs are known to have secured their start by the airing given them in this fashion on the street corners of the great city.
upon his heels treads a lady whose ruffled sedateness marks her as one unfamiliar with this half-musical, half-theatrical atmosphere.
“i have a song i would like to have you try over, if you care to.”
the attending publisher hesitates before even extending a form of reception.
“what sort of a song is it?”
“well, i don’t exactly know. i guess you’d call it a sentimental ballad. if you’d hear it i think you might——”
“we are so over-stocked with songs now, madam, that i don’t believe there’s much use in our hearing it. could you come in next friday? we’ll have more leisure then and can give you more attention.”
the lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, leaving the ground clear for the chance arrival of the real author, the individual whose position is attested by one hit or mayhap many. his due is that deference143 which all publishers, if not the public, feel called upon to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning success.
whence the song
“hello, frank, how are you? what’s new?”
the author, cane in hand, may know of nothing in particular.
“sit down. how are things with you, anyhow?”
“oh, so-so.”
“that new song of yours will be out friday. we have a rush order on it.”
“is that so?”
“yes, and i’ve got good news for you. windom is going to sing it next year with the minstrels. he was in here the other day and thought it was great.”
“well, that’s good.”
“that song’s going to go, all right. you haven’t got any others, have you?”
“no, but i’ve got a tune. would you mind having one of the boys take it down for me?”
“surest thing you know. here, harry! call hatcher.”
now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting down of the new melody in a private room. the favored author may have piano and pianist for an indefinite period any time. lunch with the publishers awaits him if he remains until noon. his song, when ready, is heard with attention. the details which make for its publication are rushed. his royalties are paid with that rare smile which accompanies the payment of anything to one who earns money for another. he is to be petted, conciliated, handled with gloves.
at his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful,144 maybe, but almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities of life and clothing. he is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad.
“say, where’s that gem o’ mine?”
“what?”
“that effusion.”
“what are you talking about?”
“that audience-killer—that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the country like wildfire—that there song.”
much laughter and apology.
“it will be here friday, gussie.”
“thought it was to be here last monday?”
“so it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. you know how those things are, gussie.”
“i know. gimme twenty-five dollars.”
“sure. but what are you going to do with it?”
“never you mind. gimme twenty-five bones. to-morrow’s rent day up my way.”
twenty-five is given as if it were all a splendid joke. gussie is a bad negro, one day radiant in bombastic clothing, the next wretched from dissipation and neglect. he has no royalty coming to him, really. that is, he never accepts royalty. all his songs are sold outright. but these have earned the house so much that if he were to demand royalties the sum to be paid would beggar anything he has ever troubled to ask for.
“i wouldn’t take no royalty,” he announces at one time, with a bombastic and yet mellow negro emphasis, which is always amusing. “doan want it. too much145 trouble. all i want is money when i needs it and wants it.”
seeing that nearly every song that he writes is successful, this is a most equitable arrangement. he could have several thousand instead of a few hundred, but being shiftless he does not care. ready money is the thing with him, twenty-five or fifty when he needs it.
and then those “peerless singers of popular ballads,” as their programs announce them, men and women whose pictures you will see upon every song-sheet, their physiognomy underscored with their own “yours sincerely” in their own handwriting. every day they are here, arriving and departing, carrying the latest songs to all parts of the land. these are the individuals who in their own estimation “make” the songs the successes they are. in all justice, they have some claim to the distinction. one such, raising his or her voice nightly in a melodic interpretation of a new ballad, may, if the music be sufficiently catchy, bring it so thoroughly to the public ear as to cause it to begin to sell. these individuals are not unaware of their services in the matter, nor slow to voice their claims. in flocks and droves they come, whenever good fortune brings “the company” to new york or the end of the season causes them to return, to tell of their success and pick new songs for the ensuing season. also to collect certain pre-arranged bonuses. also to gather news and dispense it. then, indeed, is the day of the publisher’s volubility and grace. these gentlemen and ladies must be attended to with that deference which is the right146 of the successful. the ladies must be praised and cajoled.
“did you hear about the hit i made with ‘sweet kitty leary’ in kansas city? i knocked ’em cold. say, it was the biggest thing on the bill.”
the publisher may not have heard of it. the song, for all the uproarious success depicted, may not have sold an extra copy, and yet this is not for him to say. has the lady a good voice? is she with a good company? he may so ingratiate himself that she will yet sing one of his newer and as yet unheard of compositions into popularity.
“was it? well, i’m glad to hear it. you have the voice for that sort of a song, you know, marie. i’ve got something new, though, that will just suit you—oh, a dandy. it’s by harry welch.”
for all this flood of geniality the singer may only smile indifferently. secretly her hand is against all publishers. they are out for themselves. successful singers must mind their p’s and q’s. payment is the word, some arrangement by which she shall receive a stated sum per week for singing a song. the honeyed phrases are well enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded need something more.
“let me show you something new. i’ve got a song here that is fine. come right into the music-room. charlie, get a copy of ‘she may have seen better days.’ i want you to play it over for miss yaeger.”
the boy departs and returns. in the exclusive music-room147 sits the singer, critically listening while the song is played.
“isn’t that a pretty chorus?”
“well, yes, i rather like that.”
“that will suit your voice exactly. don’t ever doubt it. i think that’s one of the best songs we have published in years.”
“have you the orchestration?”
“sure; i’ll get you that.”
somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. the singer has not enthused. he must try other songs and give her the orchestrations of many. perhaps, out of all, she will sing one. that is the chance of the work.
as for her point of view, she may object to the quality of anything except for that which she is paid. it is for the publisher to see whether she is worth subsidizing or not. if not, perhaps another house will see her merits in a different light. yet she takes the songs and orchestrations along. and the publisher turning, as she goes, announces, “gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. get her to sing anything for you for nothing?—nix. not her. cash or no song.” and he thumbs his fingers after the fashion of one who pays out money.
your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. if you wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified by the gentlemen of the road, see these individuals arrive at the offices of the publishers. the radiance of half-hose and neckties is not outdone by the sprightliness of the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in the shirt-front. fresh from chicago or buffalo they arrive, rich148 in self-opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed of a new droll story, always loaded with the details of the hit they made.
“well, well! you should have seen how that song went in baltimore. i never saw anything like it. why, it’s the hit of the season!”
new songs are forthcoming, a new batch delivered for his service next year.
is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the house holds his services? you will hear a sequel to this, not this day perhaps but a week or a month later, during his idle summer in new york.
“you haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me have, have you, pat? i’m a little short to-day.”
into the publisher’s eye steals the light of wisdom and decision. is this individual worth it? will he do the songs of the house twenty-five dollars’ worth of good next season? blessed be fate if there is a partner to consult. he will have time to reflect.
“well, george, i haven’t it right here in the drawer, but i can get it for you. i always like to consult my partner about these things, you know. can you wait until this afternoon?”
of course the applicant can wait, and between whiles are conferences and decisions. all things considered, it may be advisable to do it.
“we will get twenty-five out of him, any way. he’s got a fine tenor voice. you never can tell what he might do.”
so a pleasant smile and the money may be waiting149 when he returns. or, he may be put off, with excuses and apologies. it all depends.
there are cases, however, where not even so much delay can be risked, where a hearty “sure” must be given. this is to that lord of the stage whose fame as a singer is announced by every minstrel billboard as “the renowned baritone, mr. calvin johnson,” or some such. for him the glad hand and the ready check, and he is to be petted, flattered, taken to lunch, dinner, a box theater party—anything—everything, really. and then, there is that less important one who has over-measured his importance. for him the solemn countenance and the suave excuse, at an hour when his need is greatest. lastly, there is the sub-strata applicant in tawdry, make-believe clothes, whose want peeps out of every seam and pocket. his day has never been as yet, or mayhap was, and is over. he has a pinched face, a livid hunger, a forlorn appearance. shall he be given anything? never. he is not worth it. he is a “dead one.” is it not enough if the publisher looks after those of whose ability he is absolutely sure. certainly. therefore this one must slop the streets in old shoes and thin clothing, waiting. and he may never obtain a dime from any publisher.
out of such grim situations, however, occasionally springs a success. these “down and out” individuals do not always understand why fate should be against them, why they should be down, and are not willing to cease trying.
“i’ll write a song yet, you bet,” is the dogged, grim decision. “i’ll get up, you bet.”
once in a while the threat is made good, some mood150 allowing. strolling along the by-streets, ignored and self-commiserating, the mood seizes them. words bubble up and a melody, some crude commentary on the contrasts, the losses or the hopes of life, rhyming, swinging as they come, straight from the heart. now it is for pencil and paper, quick. any old scrap will do—the edge of a newspaper, the back of an envelope, the edge of a cuff. written so, the words are safe and the melody can be whistled until some one will take it down. and so, occasionally, is born—has been often—the great success, the land-sweeping melody, selling by the hundreds of thousands and netting the author a thousand a month for a year or more.
then, for him, the glory of the one who is at last successful. was he commonplace, hungry, envious, wretchedly clothed before? well, now, see! and do not talk to him of other authors who once struck it, had their little day and went down again, never to rise. he is not of them—not like them. for him, now, the sunlight and the bright places. no clothing too showy or too expensive, no jewelry too rare. broadway is the place for him, the fine cafés and rich hotel lobbies. what about those other people who looked down on him once? ha! they scorned him, did they? they sneered, eh? would not give him a cent, eh? let them come and look now! let them stare in envy. let them make way. he is a great man at last and the whole world knows it. the whole country is making acclaim over that which he has done.
for the time being, then, this little center of song-writing and publishing is for him the all-inclusive of life’s151 importance. from the street organs at every corner is being ground the one melody, so expressive of his personality, into the ears of all men. in the vaudeville houses and cheaper concert halls men and women are singing it nightly to uproarious applause. parodies are made and catch-phrases coined, all speaking of his work. newsboys whistle and older men pipe its peculiar notes. out of open windows falls the distinguished melody, accompanied by voices both new and strange. all men seem to recognize that which he has done, and for the time being compliment his presence and his personality.
then the wane.
of all the tragedies, this is perhaps the bitterest, because of the long-drawn memory of the thing. organs continue to play it, but the sale ceases. quarter after quarter, the royalties are less, until at last a few dollars per month will measure them completely. meanwhile his publishers ask for other songs. one he writes, and then another, and yet another, vainly endeavoring to duplicate that original note which made for his splendid success the year before. but it will not come. and, in the meanwhile, other song-writers displace him for the time being in the public eye. his publishers have a new hit, but it is not his. a new author is being bowed to and taken out to dinner. but he is not that author. a new tile-crowned celebrity is strolling up his favorite broadway path. at last, after a dozen attempts and failures, there is no hurry to publish his songs. if the period of failure is too long extended he may even be neglected. more and more, celebrities crowd in between him and that delightful period when he was greatest. at last,152 chagrined by the contrast of things, he changes his publishers, changes his haunts and, bitterest of all, his style of living. soon it is the old grind again, and then, if thoughtless spending has been his failing, shabby clothing and want. you may see the doubles of these in any publisher’s sanctum at any time, the sarcastically referred-to has been.
here, also, the disengaged ballad singer, “peerless tenor” of some last year’s company, suffering a period of misfortune. he is down on his luck in everything but appearances, last year’s gorgeousness still surviving in a modified and sedate form. he is a singer of songs, now, for the publishers, by toleration. his one lounging-place in all new york where he is welcome and not looked at askance is the chair they may allow him. once a day he makes the rounds of the theatrical agencies; once, or if fortune favors, twice a day he visits some cheap eating-house. at night, after a lone stroll through that fairyland of theaters and gaudy palaces to which, as he sees it, he properly belongs—broadway, he returns to his bed, the carpeted floor of a room in some tolerant publisher’s office, where he sleeps by permission, perhaps, and not even there, too often.
oh, the glory of success in this little world in his eye at this time—how now, in want, it looms large and essential! outside, as he stretches himself, may even now be heard the murmur of that shiny, joyous rout of which he was so recently a part. the lights, the laughter; the songs, the mirth—all are for others. only he, only he must linger in shadows, alone.
to-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with153 him. it is in the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy ladies are trying songs, or on the street, where others, passing, notice him not but go their way in elegance.
“i had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “i had my handful. you bet i’ll get it next year.”
is it of money he is thinking?
an automobile swings past and some fine lady, looking out, wakes to bitterness his sense of need.
“new york’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? you never get a glance when you’re out of the game. i spend too easy, that’s what’s the matter with me. but i’ll get back, you bet. next time i’ll know enough to save. i’ll get up again, and next time i’ll stay up, see?”
next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams come true. if so, be present and witness the glories of radiance after shadow.
“ah, me boy, back again, you see!”
“so i see. quite a change since last season.”
“well, i should smile. i was down on my luck then. that won’t happen any more. they won’t catch me. i’ve learned a lesson. say, we had a great season.”
rings and pins attest it. a cravat of marvelous radiance speaks for itself in no uncertain tones. striped clothes, yellow shoes, a new hat and cane. ah, the glory, the glory! he is not to be caught any more, “you bet,” and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming upon his merry body.
they will catch him, though, him and all in the length of time. one by one they come, old, angular misfortune grabbing them all by the coat-tails. the rich, the proud, the great among them sinking, sinking,154 staggering backward until they are where he was and deeper, far deeper. i wish i could quote those little notices so common in all our metropolitan dailies, those little perfunctory records which appear from time to time in theatrical and sporting and “song” papers, telling volumes in a line. one day one such singer’s voice is failing; another day he has been snatched by disease; one day one radiant author arrives at that white beneficence which is the hospital bed and stretches himself to a final period of suffering; one day a black boat steaming northward along the east river to a barren island and a field of weeds carries the last of all that was so gay, so unthinking, so, after all, childlike of him who was greatest in his world. weeds and a headboard, salt winds and the cry of seagulls, lone blowings and moanings, and all that light and mirth is buried here.
here and there in the world are those who are still singing melodies created by those who have gone this unfortunate way, singers of “two little girls in blue” and “white wings,” “little annie rooney” and “the picture and the ring,” the authors of “in the baggage coach ahead” and “trinity chimes,” of “sweet marie” and “eileen”—all are here. there might be recited the successes of a score of years, quaint, pleasing melodies which were sung the land over, which even to-day find an occasional voice and a responsive chord, but of the authors not one but could be found in some field for the outcasts, forgotten. somehow the world forgets, the peculiar world in which they moved, and the larger one which knew them only by their songs.
155 it seems strange, really, that so many of them should have come to this. and yet it is true—authors, singers, publishers, even—and yet not more strange is it than that their little feeling, worked into a melody and a set of words, should reach far out over land and water, touching the hearts of the nation. in mansion and hovel, by some blazing furnace of a steel mill, or through the open window of a farmland cottage, is trolled the simple story, written in halting phraseology, tuned as only a popular melody is tuned. all have seen the theater uproarious with those noisy recalls which bring back the sunny singer, harping his one indifferent lay. all have heard the street bands and the organs, the street boys and the street loungers, all expressing a brief melody, snatched from the unknown by some process of the heart. yes, here it is, wandering the land over like a sweet breath of summer, making for matings and partings, for happiness and pain. that it may not endure is also meet, going back into the soil, as it does, with those who hear it and those who create.
yet only those who venture here in merry broadway shall witness the contrast, however. only they who meet these radiant presences in the flesh will ever know the marvel of the common song.
