My Life in Vaudeville: The Autobiography of Ed Lowry

My Life in Vaudeville

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My Life in

Vaudeville The Autobiography of Ed Lowry EditEd and with an introduction by Paul M. lEvitt

Southern Illinois University Press Carbondale and Edwardsville

Copyright © 2011 by Paul M. Levitt All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 14 13 12 11

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Material from Paul M. Levitt, “Dear Audience,” Gateway Heritage 21, no. 2 (2000), 4–17, reprinted with permission from Gateway Heritage magazine, courtesy of the Missouri History Museum, St. Louis. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lowry, Ed, 1896–1983. My life in vaudeville : the autobiography of Ed Lowry / edited and with an introduction by Paul M. Levitt. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN-13: 978-0-8093-3016-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8093-3016-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-8093-8615-4 (ebook) ISBN-10: 0-8093-8615-1 (ebook) 1. Lowry, Ed, 1896–1983. 2. Entertainers—United States—Biography. 3. Vaudeville—United States. I. Levitt, Paul M. II. Title. PN2287.L665A3 2010 792.7092—dc22 [B] 2010016542 Printed on recycled paper. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Lowry Timeline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxv Filmography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxvii An Old-Timer’s Lament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Johnny Newcomer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 All in One Pocket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Home Again—and Broke Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 No Excuses in Show Biz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Have a Cigar! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Good-Bye, Meal Ticket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 The Palace—at Last! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Next to Closing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 This Is Broadway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 The King and I and Pâté de Foie Gras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .111 Cheerio, London—Hello, St. Louis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .115 Two Strikes—Walked Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 Whereas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .133 The St. Louis Boos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 Farewell to Mr. St. Louis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 Permanent Address—Beverly Hills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Back East for Another Try . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Vaudeville Returns via the GI Circuit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 New Horse—Same Jockey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 A Glossary of Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 A Glossary of Slang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222

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number of people made an effort beyond that of courtesy to assist me in my work. I wish to acknowledge Joan Beam, reference librarian, University of Colorado Health Sciences Library, Anschutz Medical Campus, Denver, Colorado, who helped me trace the background of an elusive doctor. Kristy Bickham, former student, who haunted the Chicago Historical Society to find abstruse references. Margie Bopp, who typed the manuscript and functioned as a part-time research assistant. Allison Caine, whose memories and archives of times past have added to the rich stew of Ed’s life after the death of his first wife. John Cumalat, who assisted with the financial costs of this project. Philip DiStefano, provost, University of Colorado (CU) at Boulder, who generously helped to make the publication of this manuscript financially possible. Warren Garfield, filmmaker, writer, and treasured friend, who has never failed to scour Los Angeles libraries and archives whenever the need arises. His invaluable assistance with the glossary of names cannot be overcommended. Gateway Heritage magazine (Missouri History Museum, St. Louis, Missouri), whose kind editor Victoria Monks allowed me to draw on my article “Dear Audience: The Autobiography of Ed Lowry,” published in fall 2000. Dr. Leo Gordon, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Los Angeles, who helped me locate a death date. Joseph D. Grobeiny, Music Library, CU, who went out of his way to identify old vaudevillians in the music business. Elissa Guralnick, who helped me with the introduction.

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Matthew Hamilton, reference librarian at CU, who never tired of finding reference books that he thought that I could use. Skip Hamilton, English and American literature bibliographer, CU, a longtime friend and librarian, who has always taken on the most difficult tasks with calm and good cheer. William Jacobs, senior librarian for technical services, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center library, Los Angeles, who patiently endured my several calls. Mary Lou Kowaleski, who copyedited this book with precision and discernment. Amy Levitt, my granddaughter in Los Angeles, who spent a summer assiduously tracking down obscure references. A teenager, she exhibited in her fastidiousness and maturity a professionalism that characterizes first-rate scholars. Mary Lou Lowry, Ed Lowry’s daughter-in-law, who put at my service her encyclopedic memory, which allowed me to construct a timeline for Ed’s life. Nancy Mann, whose incomparable editing pointed me in the right direction and saved me from innumerable errors. Tory Matteson, CU student, who worked indefatigably for me as a research aide. Dr. Leon Morgenstern, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Los Angeles, who is still trying to locate information about the later years of Dr. Maurice Kahn. Geneva Pearman, director, membership and professional services, Colorado Medical Society, who provided invaluable leads with the dispatch of a true professional. Hayley Pedrick, CU graduate, who combed the Chicago Historical Society for names and addresses of people and places. Kristine Priddy, acquisitions editor, Southern Illinois University Press, whose suggestions about form and content and whose impeccable proof reading immeasurably improved the book. Bruce Boyd Raeburn, curator, Hogan Jazz Archive, Howard-Tilton Memorial Library, Tulane University, who tracked down Charlie Winehill. Dr. Howard Rosenfeld, a lifelong friend, who has on more than one occasion volunteered to enter the musty history of vaudeville to find a rare gem. Eric Seiferth, reading-room assistant, Williams Research Center, the Historic New Orleans Collection, who graciously went out of his way to try to identify a New Orleans musician.

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Philip Skroska, archivist, Visual and Graphic Archives, Bernard Becker Medical Library, Washington University School of Medicine, who not only answered a number of my questions but also directed me to the Missouri Historical Society, where I found the answers to others. Anthony Slide, the author or editor of more than fifty books on the history of popular entertainment, who has always made himself available for questions on vaudeville. Jason D. Stratman, Missouri Historical Society, who dilated the St. Louis vaudeville references in this manuscript with the exactness of an eye surgeon.

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lthough many of Ed Lowry’s numerous diaries and scrapbooks are missing—the primary sources on which he based the account of his life—we do have the autobiography. His unpretentious record evokes a period when thousands of young people went into vaudeville to escape the boredom of daily life, when star-struck audiences (in particular young women) ran after performers, and when the fickleness of audiences could from one week to the next decide a performer’s future. Ed provides a view of vaudeville not often encountered. His account includes the warts and wens of a form of entertainment with roots in the concert saloons, dime museums, beer gardens, burlesque, minstrel shows, musical farces, circuses, and other types of variety so well summarized in the introduction to Frank Cullen’s Vaudeville Old and New: An Encyclopedia of Variety Performers in America.1 Unlike the major headliners who dined in restaurants and not dives, who stayed in first-rate hotels and not fleabags, and who had publishers begging them for their memoirs, Ed wrote for pleasure—and then tucked his manuscript in a drawer. The stories he tells are not unlike those of Fred Allen, Jack Benny, George Burns, Eddie Cantor, Marie Dressler, George Jessel, Buster Keaton, Harry Lauder, Sophie Tucker, Ethel Waters, Mae West, and others; but lacking the star quality of these people, he saw himself not as an “artiste” but as a hoofer and comic trying to make a living among the hoi polloi. If Ed’s telling rings truer and reads less elegantly than some of theirs, it is because he set out to record “experiences that these other gentlemen never knew”—and because he eschewed a ghostwriter. His sole intention was to capture the life of a foot soldier with big dreams. He hoped, according to his second wife, Florrie, that one day he would open the drawer, remove the manuscript, read what he had written, and, as memory is a homecoming, be transported back to the vaudeville stage, xi

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hoofing, playing a saxophone, cracking jokes (always clean), and in the last days of vaudeville, working as an emcee in the “presentation houses” that mixed vaude with its new rival, film. Variety theater, also called vaudeville, thrived in one discrete form or another from 1880 to 1930, coalescing around the turn of the century. Its audience was principally poorly educated immigrant and working-class people, who wanted entertainment that suited their own tastes. From ancient to modern times, variety acts, whether supported by princes or popes or people’s pennies, have entertained audiences in palaces and in public. Performers exist in every culture, strumming instruments, singing, dancing, juggling, clowning, miming, telling stories and jokes, performing acrobatics, doing impersonations, showing off animal acts, and amusing with whatever talents or means at their disposal. American vaudeville was initially regarded as a lower-class entertainment, though the “superior classes,” not immune to vaude’s infectious energy, did attend. In a country aswarm with disheveled immigrants, the richer classes and earlier settlers were quick to differentiate themselves by all manner of signifiers religious, political, and cultural. The distinctions found in society, not surprisingly, also appeared in the arts. In nineteenthcentury Europe and America, performers committed to the “serious repertoire” found sympathetic audiences in courts and private homes and on estates, as in Russia. When these musicians, singers, and actors eventually migrated to theaters dedicated to high culture, the variety players and buskers moved their acts from the street to tents and taverns. High culture was considered refined, fit for women and children; lower culture, not. It took some clever businessmen—like Tony Pastor, B. F. Keith, and Edward Franklin Albee—to see that if popular entertainment could be sanitized enough to attract the average working family, they had a fortune to make. Capitalizing on Pastor’s idea that refinement and decency would make vaudeville family friendly, Keith issued orders to avoid smuttiness and emphasize gentility (more about the risqué shortly). Albee pitched in by turning rundown theaters into palaces. Keith, often referred to as “the father of vaudeville,” saw early on the promise of organized variety entertainment and began to buy and build theaters that proliferated into chains or circuits. With more theaters came more performers, more auditions, and more bookers and performers’ agents—some respectable, some not. The theater owners and managers, fearing that they would lose control of

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the vaude system, created the Vaudeville Managers Association (VMA), which in turn established the United Booking Office (UBO), to control the flow of talent and to keep salaries low. Vaudevillians, at the mercy of a quasi-monopoly, had little choice but to seek representation or risk unemployment. Similarly, bookers had little choice but to join the UBO or risk marginalization. Although some performers and bookers resisted, like Lauder and the William Morris Agency, the monopoly eventually bought out the independents. Ed Lowry knew better than to enter into the cold night without representation and, during his career, had several agents. But what exactly was this entertainment with the French name, this variety theater that provided a living for thousands, onstage and off? What did this ungainly genre look like, this business of unrelated acts that, under the entrepreneurial hand of Keith, Albee, and others, became a money-making people’s culture for thirty years before it was eclipsed and absorbed by moving pictures, radio, and television? For the internal workings of vaudeville, one can hardly do better than to read John DiMeglio’s Vaudeville U.S.A., which lucidly explains this genre, its gears and pulleys, its managers and machinations. Perhaps the best place to begin is with terminology and an outline. The word vaudeville comes from Vau-de-Vire, the Valley of the Vire in Normandy, noted for its light, convivial songs. The phrase two-a-day means two complete vaudeville shows a day; some theaters actually offered four and five shows a day. The show included eight to ten acts. Each act ran about twelve minutes, though exceptional performers, like Will Rogers, could hold the stage for as long as forty-five minutes. DiMeglio describes the order of the acts: “The opening act . . . was invariably a ‘dumb act,’ one which required no talking. . . . It had to be one that could succeed despite the constant interruptions of latecomers. Thus dancers, jugglers, acrobats, bicycle riders, and sometimes, animal acts were assigned the opening spot.” The second act, DiMeglio explains, was intended to relax the audience and could be almost anything at all; Fred Astaire referred to this position as “the lousy number-two spot on the bill.” The number three position . . . was to wake up the audience . . . a comedy dramatic sketch . . . a magician, a sister act, dancers, a comedy team, even a swimming act. Then came a “corker” . . . a big name, something elaborate. This number four spot would serve as “the first big punch of the show.”

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Number five [was] right before the intermission. The act had to . . . have the audience buzzing, generating enthusiasm for the show. Any headline act would fit here. In some ways, the number-six act was the most demanding because it had to sustain the interest aroused before intermission—and, yet, it could not eclipse the succeeding act, number seven, the spot that every vaudevillian aspired to fill in an eight-act bill. “The last act was universally referred to as the ‘chaser,’ one designed to clear the house quickly . . . and keep the audience happy and talking about how excellent the show had been.”2 But even though vaudeville, by catering to popular tastes, eclipsed all previous kinds of entertainment, the times were not conducive to its survival. Cullen, in the introduction to Vaudeville Old and New, argues persuasively that the death of vaudeville was owing to four events: the advent of film (by 1929, all the film companies were committed to sound); radio (by 1922, the government had standardized all the radio frequencies and eliminated overlapping signals); the stock-market collapse (people could not afford theater tickets and instead bought radios); and vaudeville’s own loss of originality (as the saying goes: what are you going to do for an encore?).3 Others attribute the decline of vaudeville to obscenity, arguing that vaudeville never really cleaned up its act. A clear expression of this complaint, “The Decay of Vaudeville,” is found in Charles W. Stein’s American Vaudeville.4 In Blue Vaudeville, Andrew L. Erdman addresses the tension “between what the promotional mechanism claimed and what the production apparatus actually delivered [sassy acts] to hungry audiences.”5 M. Alison Kibler, in Rank Ladies, acknowledges that women performers, while fighting for equality in contracts and a voice in “whether high or low taste would reign in vaudeville,” were often unwilling to abandon coquetry, suggestiveness, seductive poses, and disrobing, which sold tickets and put the performer’s name in lights.6 Conflict between high and low culture, between clean and bawdy entertainment, has, of course, a long theatrical history, from the closing of the English theaters (1642–60) to the 1907 Abbey Theatre riots over J. M. Synge’s Playboy of the Western World to the Hays Code (1930–68), the film industry’s censorship guidelines. Comedy was the usual culprit. But if purists were scrutinizing blue humor for immorality and lawbreaking, they were looking in the wrong place. The larger problem was joke stealing. Intellectual properties counted for virtually nothing. Comics would run down xiv

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the street, enter a different vaude house, listen to the jokes, and an hour or two later employ them in their own acts—without acknowledging their source. One wonders how gag writers lacking copyright protection survived. Although some attempts were made to keep the comedic fraternity honest— a board composed of performers heard complaints—jokes were hijacked so frequently that one comedian quipped, “I was listening to the radio in order to steal some gags. Some of them came so fast, I almost dropped my pencil.” Today, according to law professors Dotan Oliar and Christopher Sprigman, social pressure provides even more protection than laws: “These norms are not merely hortatory. They are enforced with sanctions that start with simple badmouthing and may escalate from refusals to work with an offending comedian up to threats of, and even actual, physical violence. . . . Using this informal system, comedians are able to assert ownership of jokes, regulate their use and transfer, impose sanctions on transgressors, and maintain substantial incentives to invest in new material.”7 With the increased speed of modern technology, plagiarism has been slowed, and joke stealing virtually arrested. Ed’s own story is a gags-to-riches tale. He started poor, worked hard (purloining jokes along the way), and ended well off. In the Lowry home, all the children had to work to keep the family afloat and to enable one child, of the many, to attend college. The 1920s and 1930s—the principal decades covered in the book—were turbulent years in America: new social freedoms (think Jazz Age and “flappers”) that accompanied the end of World War I, the introduction of Prohibition with its attendant bootlegging, the Nineteenth Amendment giving women the right to vote (1920), the stock-market crash, the Great Depression, and the onset of World War II. In addition to describing an age, the autobiography provides a rich source of theater history. Ed reveals the guts of vaudeville: its grinding repetitiousness, which left one little time to eat or sleep, its bus, train, and foot travel, its packing and unpacking of valises, its loneliness. His dissection of the theater reveals, on one hand, a skinless skeleton and, on the other, a fraternity fat with laughter. Ed looks critically at star power and celebrity fame and makes clear that social Darwinism stalked the vaude houses of America. Of course, competition could often be a source of humor. We learn about the high jinks of actors, as well as their amusing foibles; we hear jokes that are corny and, in some instances, no longer even comprehensible to us; and we learn a new diction, a vocabulary of the theater that has long gone xv

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out of fashion (see “A Glossary of Slang” in the current volume), though to a linguist a tasty stew well worth preserving. Not least, the autobiography is the story of a young boy who grew up trying to live the American dream at the same time that he was trying to understand what it actually meant to be an American. The book makes it clear that like millions of other immigrants and first-generation children, Ed Lowry was feeling his way toward a national identity. From the vantage point of the twenty-first century, when immigration into the United States is relatively sparse, we may find it difficult to imagine a country in which hordes of immigrants brought up in one culture had to negotiate the mores of another, in which the children had to translate for the parents. My mother, more than once, told me the story of taking her mother to the silent films and translating the English screen cards into Yiddish. One day, a man in the cinema turned and hissed, “If you don’t know the language, get out!” My mother swore that her children would never have to experience such humiliation. As a result, she refused to let my sister and me speak anything but English. Every country has its own customs; America is no exception, even though it was less homogeneous than most, especially at a time when Victorian habits of thought were clashing with a changing world, one charging headlong to war. To become an American meant imbibing national attitudes and values and, in some cases, conforming to local mores and dress. When the strict ways of European village life clashed with American cultural values, the parents blamed, in addition to pool and dance halls, barbershops, and other “dens of iniquity,” the vaudeville stage. Why were their children dancing in an unseemly manner, kicking their legs in the air to the buckand-wing and Charleston? Why were they singing, “Ev’ry little movement has a meaning all its own. / Ev’ry thought and feeling by some posture can be shown”? Innumerable institutions devoted themselves to helping immigrants, both parents and children, cast off the old ways and take on the new. The dream of the great melting pot—putting aside for now whether it actually worked or not—was shared by churches, charities, children’s bureaus, citizens’ groups, clubs, unions, committees, councils, societies, alliances, associations, settlement houses, and, of course, public schools. Also vaudeville, much to the dismay of conservative parents and moralists. Yet, immigrants flocked to vaude houses and, later, silent movies, even though their command of English was often not great enough for them to xvi

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comprehend the jokes and puns or the screen cards. The habits, manners, and people satirized on stage—the Scots received the greatest amount of ridicule—helped to teach the immigrants what was acceptable behavior and what was not. The characterization of greenhorns as hicks, of foreign dress as hilarious, of accents as backward, of stinginess as mean-spirited, and of superstition as un-American had a liberalizing effect. In No Applause—Just Throw Money, S. D. Trav thoughtfully observes, “It was the instrument whereby new groups were introduced to the culture—initially demonized and ridiculed, later impersonated, then emulated . . . and eventually appreciated and loved. By thrusting all these groups together, vaudeville became an agent of assimilation.”8 Vaude theaters helped turn immigrants into modern Americans—but not without a struggle. Respect for the old and a desire for the new led to many a family argument. Even today among immigrants everywhere, these tensions persist. Should a young woman be permitted to attend school without a headscarf? May an unmarried man and woman be allowed together unchaperoned? May a couple marry when one is secular and the other orthodox? To negotiate this difficult terrain, the same churches and charities are still providing advice; and still that advice is often at odds with the desire to fit into popular culture, now expressed in television programs, movies, and the Internet. That desire is poignantly evident in Ed Lowry’s autobiography. Trying to find his footing in this wide world, he relied on his brothers and sisters—and the acting fraternity. At one point, Ed confesses that he and his first wife, Teddy, had no conception of the social niceties. He claims that they regarded the Astaires—Fred, Adele, and their mother—as a model of manners and imitated them, just as Ed had taken his older brother as a model and followed him into dancing and show business. The America Ed saw through the dirty windows of provincial rooming houses and scabiesinfested hotels shaped his jaundiced views about the differences between the cities and the countryside. He came away from the road with indelible impressions of the poverty of the provinces and the prejudices of the parochial. On tour, he learned about card sharks and unscrupulous theater managers and business failures, about the Great Depression and hunger, and about acts of kindness that transcended the intractable ignorance of Bible thumpers, political bosses, and boasters. Having played the Palace in New York City, the holy citadel of vaudeville, he knew the difference between the big city and the burgs. xvii

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As vaudeville metamorphosed into presentation houses—which presented variety skits before showing movies—Ed migrated to St. Louis, Missouri, and worked for the Skouras brothers as an emcee responsible for the part of the show featuring a live performance. Although mostly forgotten today, the Skouras brothers at one time owned hundreds of movie houses and assumed top executive roles in some of Hollywood’s biggest studios. Spyros Skouras, for example, engineered the corporate merger between Fox and Twentieth Century Films and served as the merged firm’s president from 1942 to 1962. As with so many immigrant families, one person came first and earned enough money to send for the next person. Charles Skouras, the eldest son, came to the United States from Skourohorian, a small Greek village on the Ionian Sea. He set sail in 1906 for New York, where he worked in a restaurant for fifty cents a day. Dissatisfied with his prospects, he moved to St. Louis for its vibrant Greek community. Working at the Jefferson Hotel as a bartender, he paid for Spyros to emigrate in 1909. Three years later, the brothers brought over George. While Charles tended bar at the Planters’ Hotel, Spyros and George washed dishes. After hours, they moonlighted as newsboys. Living frugally, they saved enough in one year to invest thirty-five hundred dollars, a one-fourth share, in a nickelodeon, where the brothers sold tickets, ran the projection machine, and swept the floors. Before long, they bought out the other shareholders. Shrewd businessmen, they owned more than thirty local theaters by 1926, the same year they constructed the Ambassador. The flagship theater of the Skouras brothers, it was designed by Rapp and Rapp in French Renaissance style, anticipating the subsequent rage for art-deco movie houses. Ed Lowry began his fabulous run as the master of ceremonies in that beautiful house with its beveled mirrors and marble panels. In the first twelve months, the Ambassador Theatre broke all attendance records, attracting more than two million people. The once-familiar designation presentation house has virtually disappeared from the language. Anthony Slide, in The Encyclopedia of Vaudeville, succinctly defines a presentation house as one that “presented vaudeville in support of films.”9 When vaudeville began to lose customers to moving pictures, theaters hedged their bets by combining films with stage shows that still offered live music. Said to have started in San Francisco, this mixed genre came to be known as stage-band policy. The shows, actually recycled vaudeville skits, ran fifty-eight minutes (precisely) and revolved xviii

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entirely around the bandleader, who, as emcee, introduced the different acts and also participated in them. Never off the stage, the emcee was always in the spotlight, which in the case of Ed Lowry enabled him to dance, tell jokes, engage in skits, and play the saxophone. Trav expatiates on the principal reason for this policy. Devastating . . . to the vaudeville industry was the introduction in the mid-teens of the feature-length film. Middle-class audiences took kindly to full-length films, because in format they were roughly analogous to a legit play. Until then, for many, movies were in a class with comic books and amusement park rides—strictly for kids and the uneducated. When a movie was shown on the stage of a Keith theater in 1913, the audience actually booed! They thought it was a gyp—strictly small time—and associated it with those crummy storefronts with the wooden benches. The impact of the feature-length film on straight vaudeville was clearly measurable. One by one, theaters started going over to the enemy.10 Although vaudeville executives, managers, bookers, agents, and performers thought that they could save variety shows by offering in the same venue and on the same dime both moving pictures and vaudeville, they were merely delaying the inevitable. Eventually, hundreds of vaude houses, unable to compete with the growing technical proficiency and popularity of talkies, went under the hammer and converted to movie houses, forcing thousands of vaudevillians to leave behind the greasepaint and stage. Some retired, and some migrated to Hollywood. Others went into radio, nightclubs, carnival shows, circuses, burlesques, and amusement parks. But the displacement of vaudeville by movies meant more than the diminishment of stage entertainment. Vaudeville’s many circuits had functioned as the minor leagues, where performers could hone their skills and perfect their acts. The circuits were open to virtually any performer, man or woman, who had the raw talent to succeed. With the number of venues drastically reduced and the opportunities to improve their techniques limited, variety performers became less polished. Perfectly timed one-liner comedy, for example, disappeared from the big stage and retreated into basement clubs. It was at the Ambassador Theatre that Ed Lowry attained his greatest success (and financial stability), remaining a stage presence from 1926 xix

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until 1931, during which time he helped to develop numerous stars, such as Betty Grable, Dick Powell, Louis Prima, and Ginger Rogers. Although like many others he lost money during the Depression, after St. Louis he became one of the most prominent and sought-after emcees on the presentation circuit, hosting in a day as many as five variety shows before or between films. For several years, he traveled the circuit and appeared on radio, saving enough to start a new life. Hearing the siren call of the west coast, he eventually charted a course for Los Angeles, where he dabbled in real estate, occasionally took out-of-town stage bookings, and years later, in 1945, bought the Burton Way Hotel in Beverly Hills, a business that happily suited him and Teddy, though neither had had any experience as innkeepers. But first came the war. In 1941, America could smell the cordite rising from Europe and by the end of the year suffered the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Young men and women filed into buses and trains to be transported to camps for military training. Many of the recruits were young and innocent, fearful and homesick. To lift their spirits, the U.S. Army made a plea to professional entertainers to volunteer to entertain the troops with live shows. (Movies were too impersonal.) The first group of volunteers filled seven show buses traveling to army camps east of the Rockies. At virtually the same time, a committee composed of Hollywood agents and producers, cooperating with the Screen Actors Guild, staged several large shows at military camps in California. The shows, though much abbreviated, resembled vaudeville, with one discrete act following another. So successful were these shows that army camps across the country requested the presence of the entertainers; but the requests were more than the current system could satisfy. To solve the problem, three groups put their heads together: the Citizens Committee for the Army and Navy, the United Service Organizations (USO), and show-business representatives. At the end of their deliberations, they recommended the creation of an organization called the USO Camp Shows Inc. Officially launched October 30, 1941, the corporation, though independent of the war and navy departments, was affiliated with and supported by the nationwide USO organization. When Ed Lowry was asked to manage the USO Camp Shows, the largest entertainment group ever assembled, he readily agreed. Wanting to give back something to the country that had made him not only a

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financial success but also an American, Ed had always felt that from him to whom much is given, much is expected. So he assumed the responsibility of entertaining those in the service around the world. Drawing on his show-business contacts, he induced dancers, singers, comedians, gymnasts, jugglers, actors, and pinup girls to perform for the American fighting forces in World War II. He reprised the role during the Korean War. Besides lining up the talent, he saw to their transportation and often accompanied them on their journeys. Born in 1896, Ed Lowry died in 1983. He married twice. His first wife, Irene “Teddy” Prince, died in 1967. Ed completed the manuscript before her death. I suppose he felt that their life together provided a natural closure; or perhaps he thought that he had said all that needed to be said. The autobiography survived owing to the good sense of his second wife, Evelyn Florence “Florrie” Mills, who resisted the advice of friends “to get rid of all that old stuff.” In her later years, she lived in a Beverly Hills apartment, where I interviewed her shortly before she died. Although frail, she remained mentally alert. Her encyclopedic memory for theatrical stories, including names, dates, and places, never failed her, even at the end, to the delight and enrichment of all her friends and relatives. It was she who gave me permission to remove from a closet and to use for scholarly purposes a typewritten manuscript, yellowed with age, entitled “Dear Audience: Ed Lowry’s Autobiography.” In the original manuscript, Ed directly addresses the reader as “you,” and more often than not he uses the first person “I.” To dispel the awkwardness, I have changed the title and omitted Ed’s direct address. Except for the opening paragraphs of the manuscript, which I reconfigured, the book is intact. Though not a professional writer, Ed was a dedicated chronicler. His style is journalistic; he read newspapers—and especially Variety—not books. Anyone familiar with Variety knows that Sime Silverman (1873–1933) imbued the magazine and the theater with a special jargon, often referred to as slanguage or varietyese. Examples from the manuscript include “clear our skirts,” “doing a Houdini,” and “gassing.” (To aid readers, I have added “A Glossary of Slang.”) More-recent examples of contemporary show-business slang would be “sitcom,” “payola,” “auds” (audiences), “perf” (performanc-

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es), and “net” (network). On those rare occasions when the meaning of a sentence is unclear, I have slightly altered the words, always keeping in mind the rhythms and style of Ed’s prose. I have also edited Ed’s errant punctuation but not his grammar, which is virtually flawless, right down to his use of “who” and “whom.” He had a remarkably good vocabulary, punctuated with British diction, owing to his stay in London. The hundreds of names that appear in the book have presented quite a challenge, one that I have not completely met in adding the glossary of names in an appendix of this book. Omissions issue not from want of effort but from a lack of information. Without Variety Obituaries, an indispensable multivolume reference work, I would have fared even worse. Fortunately, the context nearly always makes clear a person’s role. Given that the book ends before Ed was widowed, I hazard here a brief postscript. In 1969, Ed married Evelyn Florence Mills, a dancer and singer who used the stage name Florrie Le Vere. Florrie’s first husband, the songwriter Lou Handman, had died in 1956. When Ed and Florrie married, they were both in their seventies. Allison Caine, my cousin and Florrie’s niece on the Handman side, wrote to me on June 8, 2008: Mr. Television, Milton Berle, once said to me that Ed Lowry waited almost 40 years to finally get a chance with Florrie. “Uncle Miltie” said that Ed was always secretly in love with her, from afar. They originally met when Lou and Florrie toured the world with their vaudeville act (Handman & Le Vere) in the late 1920s and on, probably in St. Louis where Ed was that city’s most famous and versatile permanent MC and singer on the theatre circuit. I remember Ed as Mr. Personality. A great guy . . . he was President of the Hollywood Comedy Club and was active in putting on shows there. Everyone adored him. After he passed away, Florrie remained a widow. She passed away at home on June 12th, 1990, at the age of 93. I was there at the end. Curtain down. As so often happens when a previous generation has passed away, we are left with questions that we wish we had asked. I would like to know, for example, how Ed saw so clearly vaudeville’s coming demise and was therefore among the vanguard of those who moved into presentation houses, while xxii

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his fellow vaudevillians believed that film was but a passing fancy. Trav would probably object to my implying that vaude is passé. He avows that it is still kicking and makes a case for its reappearance in different guises. First, it lived on in the aesthetics and attitudes of its most successful veterans, some of whom (George Burns, Bob Hope, Milton Berle) continued to influence American pop culture into the 1980s. Certainly the first decade of talkies . . . was dominated by the vaudevillian sensibility, as were USO shows in the Second World War, television variety show from the 1940s through the seventies, and—eternal, it seems—stage shows in Las Vegas. But, second, vaudeville, like a phoenix, appears to be rising from the ashes, with scores, perhaps hundreds, of new variety venues popping up at alternative theaters and nightclubs throughout the nation. For a growing subculture of young people at least, vaudeville is back.11 Whether or not the age of vaudeville still lives in skits and acts, it undoubtedly survives in the reminiscences of the performers who so loved the variety stage. In his poem “The Task” (1785), William Cowper wrote, “Variety’s the very spice of life.” Certainly it was for Ed Lowry, who repeatedly reminds us in his autobiography that vaudeville lives in the archives of memory. Notes 1. Frank Cullen with Florence Hankman and Donald McNeilly, Vaudeville Old and New: An Encyclopedia of Variety Performers in America (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1994). 2. John DiMeglio, Vaudeville U.S.A. (Bowling Green, KY: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1973), 34–36. 3. Cullen, Vaudeville Old and New, xxv–xxx. 4. Charles W. Stein, American Vaudeville as Seen by Its Contemporaries (New York: Knopf, 1984), 325–28, repr. Marian Spitzer, “Morals in the Two-a-Day,” American Mercury 3 (September 1924): 35–39. 5. Andrew L. Erdman, Blue Vaudeville: Sex, Morals and the Mass Marketing of Amusement 1895–1915 (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2004), 5. 6. M. Alison Kibler, Rank Ladies: Gender and Cultural Hierarchy in American Vaudeville (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999), 4. 7. Dotan Oliar and Christopher Sprigman, “There’s No Free Laugh (Anymore): The Emergence of Intellectual Property Norms and the Transformation of Standup Comedy,” Virginia Law Review 94, no. 8 (December 2008): 1791.

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i n t roduc t ion 8. S. D. Trav, No Applause—Just Throw Money (New York: Faber and Faber, 2005), 10. See also Constance Rourke, American Humor: A Study of the National Character (New York, Harcourt, 1931), 232. 9. Anthony Slide, The Encyclopedia of Vaudeville (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1994), 404. 10. Trav, No Applause, 249. 11. Ibid., 3.

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Lowry Timeline 1896

Born in New York City.

1910

Enters show business as a hoofer at age fourteen.

1911

Marries Irene “Teddy” Prince in Brantford, Ontario, Canada.

1911–21

Works the circuit, first with Teddy and then without. Plays in Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, Minnesota, Montana, Idaho, Washington, California, and along the east coast from Boston to the Carolinas. Spends as much time in small towns as in large cities.

1921–23

Travels to London and performs at the Palladium.

1920s and ’30s

Plugs songs for sheet-music publishers and composers.

1926–31

Emcees at the Ambassador Theatre in St. Louis.

1931

Adopts Eddie Jr. (born 1928 in St. Louis).

1933–35

Opens at the Mastbaum Theatre in Philadelphia after leaving St. Louis and then returns to the circuit, performing on stage and on radio; radio stints in Philadelphia, Newark, New York, and Los Angeles.

1935

Settles in Los Angeles.

1935–40

Sells real estate and refurbishes homes in North Hollywood, Studio City, and Beverly Hills.

1941–45, 1950–53 Organizes USO road shows for troops. 1945

Buys and runs the Burton Way Hotel in Beverly Hills.

1962

Sells the hotel.

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1962–67

Retires, writes Joe Frisco: Comic, Jazz Dancer, and Railbird, and collaborates with the Hollywood Comedy Time, writing gags and routines, editing its newspaper, and creating for its members shows performed at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre.

1967

Teddy dies.

1969

Marries Evelyn Florence “Florrie” Mills.

1983

Dies in Los Angeles.

1990

Florrie dies.

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Filmography Delinquent Bridegrooms. 1916. Actor. John Francis Dillon, dir. Vogue Motion Picture. Kid Snatchers. 1917. Actor. Archie Mayo, dir. L-KO. Ed Lowry with His Orchestra in “Keep Smiling.” 1928. Musical actor. Weiss Brothers Artclass Pictures. Ed Lowry in “The Happy Jester.” 1928. Actor. We Do Our Part. 1934. Musical actor. Universal Newsreels. The House of Mystery. 1934. Actor. William Nigh, dir. Monogram Pictures. Well-cured Ham. 1934–35. Actor. RKO Distribution.

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BLANK

My Life in Vaudeville

BLANK

An Old-Timer’s Lament

L

ike most of the performers in our business, I used to feel sorry for the old-timers, the has-beens. But now that I’ve reached the dreaded milestone where the teenagers refer to me as an “old-timer,” I don’t know why I dreaded retirement. It’s fun! I have so much time to sit around and think about where I’ve been, instead of worrying about where I’m going. Recently, while in one of my nostalgic moods, I remembered a friend telling me that memory dies unless it’s used, and this observation led me to think about my audiences. Although vaudeville offered more contact with audiences than other forms of theater, I always felt, during my many years onstage, the distance between the audience and me, separated as we were by a row of footlights. Theatergoers, with little chance to chat with me, did write regularly. Many of their letters started with, “We feel like we know you.” Well, I feel like I knew them. I don’t recall anyone ever giving audiences credit for the important part they play in show business. Think I’m buttering them up? Listen: Without their help, how could any player steal the show on an opening night? Without their approval, how could an unknown suddenly become dynamite at the box office? Without their inspiration, how could any of us have made the grade? We couldn’t! That fits them into the story quite snugly. Now, let’s see where I fit in, or vice versa. First, I never became an international star like [Maurice] Chevalier, [Clark] Gable, or [Frank] Sinatra, so maybe I’m presumptuous to expect my readers to waste time peeking through these pages. Yet, it’s just possible that my cup is overflowing with experiences that these other gentlemen never knew. Once, my act was cancelled after the first show and, of all places, Twin Falls, Idaho. A long walk from New York. On another occasion, I was 1

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stranded in a major city, known as Elkins, West Virginia; and I got married in Brantford, Ontario, Canada, long before I was old enough to vote. This will give readers an idea of some of the places I have been to and some that I should have stayed away from! The girl I married in Brantford is still my best and only. This establishes a bit of an endurance record, because she, too, was in her early teens when we played together at the Brantford Theatre. That, by the way, was when we decided that two could live cheaper if they both put their shoes under the same bed. You know, the whole thing was her idea, and it’s just possible I may have learned more about love and life from my one woman than some of the famous playboys did in a lifetime of meandering. I remember a day when all I could get to feed her was some salted peanuts from a penny machine. But I also remember a day when I bought her a diamond as big as a grape, or it seemed that big to us. Since there was no unemployment insurance to take us over our rough spots, there were intervals when we were just plain hungry actors. That’s when we had some of the strange experiences and adventures we keep barking about. One summer when we were broke, I worked, through dire necessity, for Jeff Davis, the king of the hoboes, a memory I cherish. He had a nightspot at Coney Island called the Hotel de Gink. I was a singing waiter. Thirty-five songs a night was a fair average, along with serving a couple of hundred beers to thirsty slummers and sightseers. Most of our contemporary actors aim for a standout part in a movie or a good break on TV. With us [back then], the ultimate goal was to play the Palace Theatre. I slugged away with this one burning desire for twelve years. “He’s not Palace material” was the persistent decision of the bookers. Finally came an emergency, and I was called upon to replace a star for one single performance. The anticipated one performance developed into a career. Ever since that day, I have clung to the belief that regardless of the opinions of critics, agents, or managers, if an actor pleases his audience, he has succeeded. Personally, I will always be grateful to audiences. I found it took quite a while before I actually got to know them. We didn’t start off too friendly. I was enjoying my first smell of greasepaint, a young, rank amateur, pushing too hard and hamming it up like an old seasoned pro. They didn’t think much of my talent, so I immediately went on the defense. “I’m over their heads,” I said to myself. “They’re just a bunch of small-town hicks.” But 2

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with all my stumbling and fumbling, it didn’t take me long to realize that if I expected ever to get anyplace in show business, I would have to get audiences on my team. I needed them more than most entertainers because I was an extremely sensitive guy. When I was called upon to audition in a rehearsal hall or a producer’s office, I was always a bust. I used to get selfconscious and flatten out. Our profession is loaded with dressing-room comedians and offstage clowns who will take a pratfall at a funeral just to get a laugh. Whenever I attempted to be an offstage prankster, I ended up with egg on my face. Onstage, however, I seldom laid eggs. I was almost always able to take command. Footlights were my magic. My inhibitions disappeared as soon as I came face-to-face with an audience. All my life I tried hard to be a nice guy because more than anything else in the world, I wanted people to like me. Father’s personality was my endowment. In the lingo of the theater, I was blessed with a big personality, which projected across the footlights. During the late 1920s, there was an exciting new form of show business called the stage-band policy. I believe it started in one of the big motionpicture theaters in San Francisco; but the first great success was registered by Paul Ash at McVickers Theatre in Chicago. These entire shows evolved around the bandleader. Along with leading the band, he acted as master of ceremonies and not only introduced all the acts and specialties but also participated in everything with everybody. The show usually ran for an hour, during which time the emcee never left the stage and was always in the spotlight. A new and lavish show was produced every two weeks with big-name guest stars, but always the fair-haired boy got top billing and was advertised like the old Ringling Brothers Circus. When vaudeville was starting to slip, I set my sights on this form of entertainment and eventually made it big. The Skouras brothers brought me to their Ambassador Theatre in St. Louis, Missouri. The record-breaking run of this engagement made theatrical history. Weeks, months, and years went by and audiences grew enamored of me. They took to me so enthusiastically that I began to think the romance was for keeps. But motion pictures got bigger, radio and TV got better, and stage shows got scarcer. Those are the breaks. To many of us, they were heartbreaks. Stage shows were alive, exhilarating, full of highs and lows. Every performance was a new adventure. I liked everything about our kind of theater, from the lovable old stage-door man to “Props,” a guy who could get you 3

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any kind of a gadget from a mid-Victorian tiara to a potbellied stove. I liked the baggy-pants comic and his glib-tongued straight man. Now I even like what I used to hate, the temperamental prima donna or the earsplitting drummer who always played too loud. My experiences with audiences were colorful and varied, and the memories never seem to dim. Regardless of how secure one may be in some other line of endeavor, show me an ex-performer, and I’ll show you a man who lives in the past. Performers seldom become ex-performers voluntarily. It sneaks up on them. You know, audiences are as fickle as the devil. A fellow spends half of his life courting them, and he is never sure when they’re going to give him the pitch. They keep falling for new fads and gimmicks. I remember when the great Al Jolson was practically an ex. After dropping from the top of the heap, Al went through several years when his career was at a standstill. He was loaded financially, reputedly worth millions; but temporarily at least, the Jolson fame had done a nosedive, and now he was a beat man, completely let down. America’s greatest entertainer had become a lonesome guy. About this time, I was having my own first fling as an ex. World War II was on, and I had just disbanded my show to become the production manager of the west coast office of USO Camp Shows. My job was to line up talent and organize entertainment for our GIs. I soon learned that Jolie loved touring the army camps and entertaining the boys. It gave him back something he missed and wanted. It was a rough kind of show business, but the appreciative audiences made up for everything. Fortunately, the lull in Jolson’s life was not permanent. Before he took his final bow, Al staged so great a comeback that it dwarfed his earlier accomplishments. Once again, Al Jolson enjoyed a performer’s greatest reward, the feeling of being wanted. On one of my last road tours, I shared billing with George Sidney, a grand old-timer many folks will remember as the stage star of Welcome Stranger and half of the once-famous team the Cohens and Kellys. After Charlie Murray, the screen version of Kelly, passed away, George became apathetic. He just lay around like a discarded old sock. George had spent over forty years in show business, which had been his life, his love! Now every day, he would mechanically go through a listless routine. The chauffeur would drive him out to his brother Jack’s home in North Hollywood, where he would sit in the garden and throw a ball for the dog to retrieve.

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Jack is my lifelong friend, and one afternoon while I visited him, George was also there. I made mention of a deal I had cooking to head a twentyfive-person unit for a sixteen-week tour of the large motion-picture theaters. George, his eyes moist, exclaimed, “Oh you lucky stiff! Sixteen weeks. Whew! What wouldn’t I give to be going on the road again?” Then he laughed it off and said, “Want someone to carry your bags, Mister?” That did it! Two weeks later, George and I were trouping together. What a rejuvenation! Every week, George got younger. In each town, his old friends and cronies would crowd the stage door. On the fifth week, we pulled into Louisville and ran into an unprecedented storm, accompanied by subzero weather that the city was unprepared to cope with. We piled off the train and ran for the depot. Every show has its clown. Elaine Arden was ours, an untamed character who should have spent at least part-time in a straitjacket. The week before we hit Louisville, she had pawned her exquisite mink coat so that she could make a heavy bet on a horse that couldn’t lose—it lost! Now she was wearing a lightweight jacket, and, true to form, her teeth were chattering. A pest to anyone who came within a snowball’s throw of her, she laughed with irrepressible joy. Had she been present, she probably would have given Lincoln a hotfoot while he was delivering his Gettysburg Address. A Greek comedienne onstage, she continually clowned “Grick” offstage. “Cheese Sporrrt,” she chided, “this sunny south, she fascinates me. Hooray for Hooey Ville.” Now she sang lustily, “Oh the sun shines bright in my old Kentucky Igloo,” but someone cut the vocalizing short by forcefully feeding her a mouthful of snow. She took it good-naturedly and laughed. I am not saying there was anything wrong with Elaine, but no person in her right mind could get so much fun from such discomfort. The wind howled. The temperature was down to ten below zero, and there we were, all huddled together in a deep freeze otherwise known as a railroad station. No street cars, no taxis, no buses—no nuthin’! It was in the late thirties, but the taxi drivers down there hadn’t yet caught up with antifreeze. In the depot, there was no coal for the furnace. We just stood there and shivered for several hours, but transportation failed to arrive. It finally got to be ten forty-five. Music rehearsal was scheduled for eleven. “Well, the show must go on! C’mon kids,” I urged. “It’s nine blocks to the theater. Let’s start walkin’.”

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Old George Sidney was the first to respond. He tightened the big scarf around his neck, put his coat collar up, and pulled his hat down over his head as far as the ears would permit. Then, he picked up a suitcase in each hand, started for the door, and shouted, “Hit the road, troupers. Yippee!” He looked just like the character he made famous in the show Welcome Stranger. As we trudged down the street, the sleet and snow completed the picture. After we had gone four blocks, I felt as stiff as a refrigerated herring. I loved Old George and was worried over the beating he was taking. “George,” I said, “I’m sorry we left the depot, wanna duck into a doorway? To hell with the rehearsal. The musicians probably won’t even be there.” There were snow and ice on his shaggy eyebrows, and this lovable Jewish character looked just like Santa Claus. He paused for just an instant, looked up to me through the frosty glaze, and contentedly sighed, “Ah—Show business!” “Show business!” Hm, this from a guy who had a hefty balance in the bank and a beautiful home in California. But what was I thinking of? The cold must have numbed my brain, for I, too, had a beautiful home in California and was far from being in need of a benefit. What was I trying to prove? What did I want? I guess George said it all when he said, “Ah—show business!”

6

Johnny Newcomer

I

got my start in show business when I was fourteen years old, the day after I graduated from public school. My brother Hank had already been at it for three years. He was a hoofer in The Jolly Bachelors, a Broadway musical, the first show I ever saw. Jack Norworth sang with the inimitable Nora Bayes. Stella Mayhew and Louise Dresser were tremendous hits, and Al Leach, an excruciatingly funny drunk comedian, made audiences roar. Hank was a humble hoofer in the chorus, but in my eyes, he towered above them all. After the show, I waited for him at the stage door. Here I got my first close-up of theatricals. There were autograph seekers, stage-door Johnnies, friends, relatives, and enthusiastic fans. The place jumped with excitement. Soon Hank came out. There was still a smudge of black on his one eyebrow and some pinkish makeup on the edges of his shirt collar, but I don’t think I was ever prouder of my brother than when we rode home together late that night. I was all atingle from my first impression of show business. I knew for sure that someday I was going to be a part of it. For me, this was love at first sight. Once this show finished its Broadway run, Hank joined the Honey Boy Evans Minstrels and toured all over the country. Instead of pink edges on his collars, he now had burnt cork in his ears. No sissy stuff, this minstrel business. The big brother learned how to chew tobacco, shoot craps, and romance at least one girl in every town. The minstrels, wearing walking suits, top hats, and canes, would parade down Main Street every morning at eleven forty-five. By one o’clock, each one had a gal on his arm. It was nice work, if you could get it, and Hank got it. From each town he would send me a picture, and in my mind I made the whole tour with him. One day, I felt sickish and stayed home from school. Mom called the doctor, whose diagnosis was scarlet fever. This meant isolation. Since I felt 7

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no great discomfort and had very little fever, I drove everyone in the house crazy by continually trying to escape from the bedroom. Hank soothed the savage beast by showing some rare ingenuity. Knowing my love for show business, he started to teach me a dance routine that came from a mailorder course on how to become a hoofer. It was simple. Double tap on right, then hop on left. Double tap on left, then hop on right. Keep repeating. This was the beginning. I was soon proficient at doing a double-time step, then a triple. Progress! Thanks to my brother Hank, I’ve hoofed my way all over the world and in and out of all kinds of company. I’ve dined with presidents and kings, and I’ve been stranded and left penniless in some of the most godforsaken places in what is laughingly called civilization. Throughout these years, successes alternating with reverses, I was nourished by my steadfast love for show business and show people. Believe me, I owe my brother Hank plenty. Some of my most precious memories flow from his love and devotion. After I learned the time step, the next few months in school bored me stiff. It was like turning on a TV set that wasn’t plugged in. I saw and heard nothing. While the English teacher was concentrating on double negatives, I was concentrating on triple taps. At night, instead of doing my homework, I’d find my way to a dimly lighted hall outside a skating rink on 116th Street. A group of would-be hoofers used to meet there and exchange steps. I soon was able to get together a complete routine. I could do the Maxie Ford, [Shuffle] Off to Buffalo, Falling off the Log, and the Ward Brothers, and I could jump over either foot frontward and backwards. When graduation [from elementary school] day arrived and the school principal, Dr. Waters, handed me my diploma, I felt like I had a passport to go crazy. I started to do an Off to Buffalo right on the podium but suddenly saw my dad and pretended I’d slipped. That very afternoon, I saw an advertisement in the New York Telegram, under the caption “Professional Entertainers . . . Wanted . . . Boy singers and dancers under 18 years of age . . . must have working papers.” My brother Hank was still on the road, so I called on my next elder brother, Willie, for a little moral support. He was not only willing but also eager to go along and sort of be my second while I auditioned. I went through my routine for Ted Levey, a former Gus Edwards stage manager. He didn’t think I was quite as good as George M. Cohan, but he hired me at eighteen dollars a week. I was to go on the road with his 8

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vaudeville flash act “A Night in the Park,” which featured Ruth Lockwood. Mr. Levey’s scenery included a cyclorama showing a park scene. Center stage was a fountain that was not a bad replica of the type of fountain you see in many parks. As the act progressed, a huge well-lighted moon rapidly rose over the trees. At the end of the act, Helen Lockwood, Ruth’s kid sister, suddenly appeared as a fairy standing on top of a revolving ball that was supposed to be held up above the fountain by the pressure of the water spray. The ball was hanging on what were meant to be invisible wires. These wires were as invisible as Jimmie Durante’s nose, and the illusion was about as subtle as a potato pancake. After two weeks of rehearsals, we opened at the Hippodrome Theatre in Reading, Pennsylvania. I was given a song to sing that I shall always remember. It was called “My Honey Man.” It was written strictly for a girl, and no one bothered writing a male version for me. I can still see myself, a tall, gawky kid of fourteen with a ton of grease on my hair and too much rouge on my cheeks, wearing a pair of knee-length britches that were most unflattering. How audiences refrained from stoning me for singing this lyric will ever be a mystery. Imagine a member of the male sex singing, I got the finest man, I got the grandest man what’s in the land. There is something ’bout him only love can make me understand. When he calls me cutie, sweetie . . . The chorus was worse. My ever-loving Honey Man, he sure has won my heart and hand. I’m only waiting now for him to name the day, etc. At the end of the chorus, I went into my dance routine but quick. To this day, I keep saying it’s good I learned how to jump over either foot frontward and backwards. At the finish of my dance, I was supposed to bow, then back up, and sit on the edge of the fountain. Instead of the edge of the fountain, my rear end dipped into the fountain. The water was cold, and I quickly jumped to my feet and stood there dripping while the audience rocked with laughter. The hilarity continued all through Ruth’s serious imitation of Anna Held. Then came the big finish, the fairy on the ball. The water presumably pushed the ball higher and higher, and suddenly a stagehand miscued and shut off 9

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the water. The ball was now hanging grotesquely in midair, and there was more water dripping out of my trousers than out of the fountain. Reading was a one-week engagement. Between live performances and daily rehearsals, we steadily improved. I was given some comedy dialogue with another Johnny Newcomer, Felix Bernard, who later won fame by writing a hit song called “Dardanella.” At the conclusion of the Reading engagement, we moved on to Williamsport, Pennsylvania. On the train, the manager paid us our salaries. After letting us hold the money for about twenty minutes, he started a crap game and won the money right back. A few months later, I returned home, wiser and more convinced than ever that the poor devils who weren’t in show business just had nothing to live for. Summer brought its usual layoffs. My brother Hank was home for his customary ten-week vacation between seasons. He hadn’t saved enough on the road to take care of himself for the first ten minutes. We had both sent money home, but home hadn’t prospered. Pop didn’t make much money, but he had wonderful ideals. He insisted that if his two sons were to be in show business, they should be in it together. Every day we’d go downtown to Times Square to look for a job. Instead of giving us each a quarter for carfare and lunch money, Pop made it a point always to hand Hank a halfdollar and always the same line, “You take care of Eddie.” After several weeks of hopeless job-hunting, Pop called a meeting. Hank was the big brother, so Dad directed his plan to him. “I just raised a little money,” he said, “and I can get you a pair of good-looking suits wholesale. If you both got the same suits and you’re both half as good as you say you are, what more do you need?” Hank wasn’t too enthused. He thought I was still pretty green, and he wasn’t too sure of himself, but when Pop made a suggestion to any one of us seven kids, it was an order. After we got the suits, we had to have professional photos and orchestrations and music books, and Pop had to dig up another twenty-five bucks. This time, I think he put the bite on my oldest brother, Arnold, because the big brother made a few sly cracks that maybe it would be good if we tried working for a living, like him. Arnold was right. As a team, we stunk up the theater. Today, an agent would describe our act as “a nothing.” We struggled through the summer, and one day Hank got a postcard. It was the annual call announcing that the Honey Boy Evans Minstrels would start rehearsals the following Monday. Hank was definite: “Thirty-two fifty

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a week for forty-two weeks and this season I’ll really save some money.” Pop wasn’t happy, but he finally convinced Hank to try and get me in the show. He got me a place okay, but I was unhappy. I would have to start for eighteen a week. While we were rehearsing at Lyric Hall on Forty-second Street, another minstrel show was also rehearsing there. During the lunch break, we used to talk shop. This other troupe was reputed to be a turkey, but I got an offer as end man at thirty-five dollars a week, and I grabbed it. Furious, Hank insisted I was going out with a third-rate tanker, but I was stubborn and went right ahead rehearsing hard and trying to learn all the tricks of the blackface comics. We got along very well for the first two weeks, which were half-salary weeks. The third week, we were playing on the pier at Ocean View, Virginia. After the fifth day of bad business, the manager gathered together all the available money that he could get his hands on and did a Houdini. Because the dressing rooms were small and overcrowded, I had changed to my minstrel clothes at my rooming house across the street from the stage door. It seems the boardinghouse mistress knew about our plight before we did. I found my room locked, and when I pleaded for my clothes, she pleaded for her money. It was a deadlock. I was wearing tuxedo pants, orchid-colored socks, patent-leather pumps, and a purple silk minstrel shirt. A guitar player in the show approached me. “Ed,” he said, “you haven’t got a worry in the world. You come down to Norfolk with me, I’ll play and you sing, and I’ll show you how to make nothing but money.” We rehearsed until eleven that night, and then we headed for Norfolk. Not until we arrived there did I learn that his big scheme was to entertain in the brothels in the red-light district. This was all new to me. We’d walk into the house like customers. We’d sit in the parlor, and he’d pull out the guitar and start strumming. Soon the girls would pile in, and he’d coax me to sing. I’d start singing, “They called her frivolous Sal, a peculiar sort of a gal,” and much to my surprise, these dames were really a great audience. The killer-diller at that time was “I Miss You Most of All,” a real tearjerker. He would then pass the hat and not only would they throw in the folding money but in spite of my being a little pink-faced punk, they insisted on buying us drinks. This I didn’t like. I was getting high, and he was getting the money. When I’d turn down a drink, he’d jab me and say, “What’s the matter with you, ya wanna louse up a good deal?”

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I don’t know what time we ended this new adventure, but I remembered finally hitting the sack in a broken-down hotel with my guitar man as a roommate. In my drunken stupor, I learned that my beloved partner was a homosexual and had designs on me. He started giving me a routine about what all he was going to do for me. I got irked and sobered quickly. He got amorous, and I got vicious. We started to wrestle, and as we rolled on the floor, he grabbed the minstrel walking stick and cracked me over the bridge of the nose with the handle. I went out like a light. When I came to, he was gone, and so was the money. Again I was stranded, and what a sad-looking sack I was. The next day, I got a job as a busboy on the Old Dominion Line boat that carried passengers and freight from Norfolk to New York. The Old Dominion Line docked at Desbrosses Street in New York. It was an eight-mile hike to 120th Street, where my folks lived. Between hitching on the back of horse cars and on an occasional truck, I finally made it. I hadn’t slept for three nights; I was dirty, tired, and still wearing the tuxedo pants and purple shirt. A bruised nose and discolored eye didn’t improve my appearance. It was beastly hot that day. Our flat was on the top floor, but most of the members of the family were up on the roof having iced tea. When the prodigal son returned, Momma took one look and fainted dead away. “What have they done to my baby boy?” she sobbed. Immediately, my three sisters were at work trying to make the kid brother comfortable. Stella, my oldest sister, was a schoolteacher and always took charge of things. “Francie, you make some dinner, he looks emaciated. I’ll take care of this eye, maybe we can do a remodeling job on him before Poppa comes home.” In a jiffy, Stella had a steak on my eye. I would have enjoyed it more in my stomach. My father was a proud man. I was the baby of the family, and his hopes for me were high. Pop was not a bit worldly, and outside of liquor he had no apparent vices. I am sure he had never heard of characters like the guitar man who messed me up, and if he had learned that I had spent a whole night drinking and singing in the red-light district, he would have immediately given up all hope for my salvation. The family loved him dearly, and anytime it looked like he was going to have to face a disappointment, the whole family immediately pitched in to cover up or soften the shock. Pop got home late that night. Because of the heat, the gaslights were turned down quite low, and he couldn’t get a good look at me. He embraced me affectionately, kissed me on the cheek, and then anxiously inquired 12

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about my trip. I quickly flashed the few bucks that my sisters had loaned me strictly for that purpose, and he went to bed happy to have his son back home and thoroughly convinced that I hadn’t done anything to undermine the family name. In less than a week’s time, I was back in a rehearsal hall again, preparing to embark on a new venture. This time, it was a job as a chorus boy in a Shubert show, The Two Little Brides, with James T. Powers. Of all the off casting, this was it. I was a complete misfit. As I think back now, there must have been a great scarcity of chorus boys around at the time. I was entirely too young to dress like a gendarme, and they took me in spite of the fact that all through the show I had to wear a false mustache. I tried to grow my own, but after two weeks, there wasn’t even a deep shadow. The show was loaded with fairies, and they ran me ragged, but there was also a female chorus, and I ran them ragged. We were on the road for five months, and along with sending Momma ten bucks every week, I got a liberal education on what every psychiatrist should know. James T. Powers was truly a great comedian and showman, and all the rest of my show life, I continued to use tricks and stunts that I picked up from him back in 1912. In January 1913, E. J. Carpenter ran an ad in the New York Clipper: “Wanted! Young entertainers to join Gus Edwards’s School Days.” E. J. had bought the rights to the show and had the book condensed into tabloid form. We were booked for a full season to tour the Stair and Havlin Circuit through the South and Midwest. The show played three performances a day and stayed in each town one week. This was a new policy, and wherever we played, the houses were packed for every performance. Thirty-five young eager beavers—Idiots Incorporated! Talk about frustrated kids, we had every type known to the book and a few that hadn’t been caught up with yet. Our manager was a revered old-time showman by the name of Clay T. Vance. His rules were stringent, but none of the kids lived up to them. We all respected him, but because he constantly disciplined us, we pegged him as being both old-fashioned and narrow- minded. Joe E. Marx played the leading part, the little Jewish immigrant boy. Like most little guys, Joe did everything big. He wore a bowler hat, carried a walking stick with a silver dog’s head handle, and smoked Pittsburgh stogies. He was about five feet tall and weighed 110 pounds, and in every town, he would latch himself onto some female version of Man Mountain Dean. 13

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My roommate was Jack Pearl, whom audiences got to know later as Baron Munchausen of radio fame. As a kid, Jack was an oddball. Every night, back at our room after the show, Jack would go through the same ritual. First, he would puncture a raw egg and suck out the contents. Then, he would gulp down a full quart of milk, followed by a tablespoonful of cod-liver oil. Next on the program came his calisthenics. He’d stand by the open window and, with gusto, inhale and exhale about fifty times, interspersed with forward bends and back bends; then he would expand his chest so laboriously that I was always afraid he would bust a gut. This routine was followed by facial gymnastics that accompanied his oral reading of the local newspaper in a German dialect. Add to his oddities the fact that he was probably the most superstitious person that ever worked in show business, an incubator for superstitious people. If you complimented Jack, he would knock on wood until his knuckles swelled. Rooming with me, he always had swollen knuckles because I thought he was great and loved to tell him so. I played the part of Biff Dugan. Biff was a sort of comedy straight man, a part that ran all through the show and participated in most of the songand-dance numbers. In April 1913, a bunch of us kids were standing in front of the stage door of the Bijou Theatre in Birmingham, Alabama. We had just done our matinee, and as usual, we were three sheeting around, waiting for some fairy princess to carry us away. Two baby dolls passed by. Each was carrying a grip. Wisecracks started flying. “Oh, you kid. . . . Does your mother know you’re out? . . . Hot Dog, bring your own mustard.” Bobby Blake made the first pass. He reached for the one kid’s grip and said, “Carry your baggage, Ma’am?” She darn near pushed him on his fanny and said real tough-like, “Twenty-three skidoo!” I tried the other. Reaching for her grip, I said, “Let me carry your coop, Ma’am, I’m the chicken inspector.” She turned and, much too sweetly, said, “You look like such a dear boy, you should go to the dressing room and take the rest of the makeup off your face, and then go home to tell your Mamma to change your diaper!” The next morning at rehearsals, I learned that this cute little snapper was Irene Prince, and she had just arrived from New York to be our new Sassy Little. I had three songs to sing with her in the show. What a razzing I took from the boys. She was certainly well cast as Sassy. At the first rehearsal, Clay said, “I’ll have to watch these two kids, or they will end up killing one another.” What a silly old man! 14

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There was a strict rule in School Days that there be no romancing, in fact no socializing whatsoever, between the girls and boys. Thirty-five kids need lots of watching. My romance with Sassy started in the second act while sitting on the limb of an apple tree. Perched high in the tree, we sang our love song, “If a Girl like You Loved a Boy like Me.” We’d sit up there necking and smooching while waiting for our cue. Got so we kept climbing that ladder earlier and earlier; we just couldn’t wait to get out on the limb. Soon we were sneaking off and meeting on the sly, but there was a darn good reason why Old Clay T. was dubbed the man with a thousand eyes. Never did we plan a rendezvous that he wasn’t there a minute later or waiting for us to arrive. Every time he caught us together, he threatened to send us home, but the show closed, making that unnecessary. It was in Waterloo, Iowa, May 31, 1913. Here we laid Gus Edward’s School Days to rest. The cast was being returned to New York at the expense of the management. The closing of the show saddened us all, but my big interest was in just one member of the cast, Irene Prince. The kids all called her Teddy. Teddy was hardly a fit name for so dainty and feminine a person. Hal Halperin, the Chicago editor of Variety, described her beautifully: “She is so tiny and cute it would be brutal to do anything but love her. Anyone refusing to applaud her should lay himself liable for prosecution to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Dolls.” Baptized Irene Prince, she appeared under that name through her entire career, but offstage, she was never able to shake the nickname “Teddy.” Cockeyed as it sounds, this masculine title was pinned on her after an incident that had to do with an animal act. Teddy, the skating bear, became her new godfather. One evening while the trainer of this skating wizard had ducked out of the theater to get a couple of beers, Teddy the bear got loose. Aboard a pair of ball-bearing skates, it went on a rampage and created a stampede backstage. Half-dressed performers went scurrying. They flew wildly in every direction, upstairs, downstairs, in and out of hallways looking to make a hasty exit. One guy, an aerial artist, climbed up the rigging to the fly loft hoping to put a little extra distance between the bear and himself. Only Irene held her ground. “If you show fear, this animal will come after you for sure,” she shouted to the scattering crowd. Now she shook her finger in the bear’s face and 15

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reprimanded it as though it were a child. Stamping her foot, she yelled, “Teddy, we’ve had just about enough of your nonsense.” The bear responded by playfully banging a wooden chair on the floor and smashing it to bits. “Teddy,” she commanded, “I said that would be enough, now get back over there and sit down on your stool.” The bear faltered for a moment and Irene pursued, “On the stool I said.” To everyone’s amazement, Teddy the ferocious one stopped dead in his tracks, did an about-face, went sheepishly back to the stool, and sat down. There he sat quite docilely while Irene comforted him with kind words of assurance. The trainer returned, and before he could even be apprised of what had happened, the lights flashed, and the theater orchestra started the overture. In another moment, the music segued into “Skater’s Waltz,” and Teddy, the skating bear, was onstage sashaying in between and around rows of bottles and intermittently spreading the eagle, to the delight of the audience. After this short but impressive incident, the manager of the show used the name Teddy more often than a doctor uses his stethoscope. Anytime a member of the troupe displayed a fit of bad temper, he would say, “Now, Teddy, calm down and get back on your stool.” This soon became known as the “Teddy” treatment, and being its founder, Irene was permanently rechristened “Teddy.” I knew way back then that there would be times when Teddy would try to make me back down and sit on my stool, but I didn’t even have as much resistance as the bear. I felt that with her in my corner, being made to sit down occasionally might be good for me. In Chicago while the Parmelle Transfer Company was shuttling the School Days troupe from the Union depot to the LaSalle Street Station, Teddy and I succeeded in getting ourselves lost. We made a pact to try our luck together as a team. We planned to do a boy-and-girl act and decided that Chicago would be a better place to get started than New York, where we feared parental interference. At the Model Theatre on Green Street and Sixty-ninth, we got the chance to break in our act. The salary was twelve dollars for the two nights’ work. The sign painter made a slight error in our billing. Instead of Lowry and Prince, he printed my name with an s, so it read Lowsy and Prince. Unfortunately, audiences didn’t think it was an error. The next day, we got lucky. We found an agent who had not seen our act, and he gave us a job. We left almost immediately to join a tab show in Clarksburg, West Virginia. If ever there was a clambake, it was E. V. Pott’s 16

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Frolics of the Day. Wow wee, what a turkey! Pott sure found some horrible shooting galleries in such metropolitan cities as Shinnston, Weston, and Burnside, West Virginia. On June 25, my little ole diary book records this bit of news. Quote— “E. V. Pott has skipped out of town with all the dough. He borrowed $40 from me just last night.” When I gave Teddy an accounting of our funds, there was no whimpering. “Seventeen cents,” she said. “Oh, I thought we were broke—let’s have breakfast.” We each had a cup of coffee and a chocolate-covered donut, and we still had two cents left. Those two cents came in handy around five o’clock. We both felt completely empty, and the salted peanuts from the penny machine tasted delicious. After our hearty breakfast, I called on the manager of the theater and sold him and also the other stranded members of the show a larcenous scheme. We would give a benefit performance that night. The house was packed because we didn’t charge any admission. After the second act, I went onstage, and here I made my very first pitch for charity. we were the charity. The actors went out in the auditorium and passed the hat. We split the collection—share and share alike. Teddy and I drew down seven dollars each. With our fourteen bucks, we headed right for lunch. We ate like we had been observing Yom Kippur for weeks. “Where do we go from here?” Teddy could ask the darndest questions. Playing the sticks was something to remember, but being stranded in these backwoods was something to try to forget. We were referred to as “them show folk.” This meant—“Pay in advance!” A story apropos of the thinking in those days . . . an actor strolling down a country road attracted the glance of a farmer’s daughter. The mother, who also spotted the strolling actor, flung open the kitchen door and shouted to the daughter, ‘Mary, come into the house—and bring the cow in, too!’” Actors didn’t come through these towns very often. There were no organized circuits. The small theaters depended on one- and two-reel “Flickers” and whatever stage fare happened to drift their way. Theatrically speaking, these were pioneer days in this neck of the woods. The stage shows were pretty bad and would have got the hook in Chicago or New York. When a theater manager took on these extra attractions, the payoff was generally a certain percentage of the take. We never dared dispute the 17

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honesty of the cut. This method of booking was called wildcatting. Teddy and I wildcatted the territory for several months. Seemed like we’d need a spaceship to get ourselves out of West Virginia. After collecting $4.20 for our bit for two days in Ronceverte, we were beat. The next six pages of our diary are clean, and so were our hands from all the dishes we had washed. On July 8, we played Richwood, West Virginia. The way the natives were whooping it up, we figured they might still be celebrating the Fourth. The only comment in my diary was in quotes: “Wild West.” This live show was rougher and wilder than the shootinest Western ever seen on the screen. It was payday for the lumberjacks. By evening, wherever you looked, there were drunken brawls. Men tried to prove their superiority by showing how hard they could kick one another with their heavy, spiked boots. During our performance, a fracas started in the audience. It spread into a free-for-all. In no time, the theater was a shambles. Along with the panicstricken audience, Teddy and I rushed out to the street fully made up and wearing our stage clothes. We huddled in a doorway and watched dozens of blood-spattered men battling one another with all the fury of wild savages. It ended with several of the combatants actually being kicked to death. This scene so frightened us, it scared us out of these famous Appalachian Mountains. We got engagements in Virginia and North Carolina, and then in the Carolina town of Kinston, we came to the end of our rope. We didn’t have quite enough cash to buy two tickets back to New York. There was no further work in sight. Teddy was still only sixteen years old, and she stood four-feet eleven. She weighed about eighty pounds while carrying her scrapbook. “I have an idea,” she said. “If you have the nerve to go through with it, I’ll travel to New York on a half-fare ticket. I’ll wear my kid clothes from our act and pretend like I’m your baby sister. Joe Frisco and Loretta McDermott got away with it once.” The next morning, wearing a child’s dress, white socks, baby-doll shoes, and a big pink bow in her hair, she coyly clung to my hand as we boarded the train. It was the month of July, but no one else on the train was perspiring like me; each time the stern-looking conductor walked down the aisle, I froze. All went well for most of a long, tedious day. Then Teddy started to get silly and have fun. Now, when the conductor passed, she would snore, whistle, and give out with weird sound effects. The old boy smelled a rat 18

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and kept stalling alongside our seat, but I wouldn’t let him get a peek at Teddy’s face. At long last, we pulled into Norfolk—only to learn that we would have a six-hour layover before our train left for New York. Teddy reneged on wearing the kid clothes for the six hours. In the station, she ducked into the ladies’ room and changed to her street clothes. As she emerged in her high-heeled shoes, she bumped smack into the train conductor. He grabbed her by the arm and gave out with a big “Ah ha!” and Teddy fainted. He then blew a whistle to call the stationmaster, and I fainted. Dramatically, Teddy told our tale of woe. The stationmaster was impressed. He not only redeemed the unused part of the half-fare ticket but also lent us the rest to buy a full first-class ticket from Norfolk to New York! P.S. We paid him back! In New York, we were as misplaced as a couple of savages just out of the jungle. We had been indulging in our freedom; now we revolted against the discipline to which we were expected to conform. There was no time for gradual adjustment; our parents went right to work on plans to break up our obvious twosome. We were hostile to their whole way of thinking. Teddy was living in Yorkville with her folks, and I was home in Harlem with mine. Getting together was even tougher than it had been under the close scrutiny of the manager of School Days. We tried to have a heart-to-heart with our parents and tell them of our hopes and ambitions to work as a team and get someplace in show business. My dad decided I was a sick boy and needed guidance, and Teddy’s mother decided that her daughter needed a vacation so she took her on a trip up to the mountains. All they accomplished was to learn for sure that they couldn’t keep us away from one another. Infuriated, we referred to our folks as “squares” and talked about going off by ourselves; but in spite of our frustration, neither of us could entertain the idea of hurting our parents. My father lectured me incessantly and continually reminded me that I was only a seventeen-year-old and had an obligation to my mother. Mom told me how crushed Pop was over my behavior. Each parent prevailed on behalf of the other. After about four weeks of threats, pressure, and hysteria, our determination overcame our guilt. I borrowed fifty dollars from a friend by the name of Artie Rappeport, and Teddy and I laid our plans to run away and get married. We concocted a story for our folks. Each of us told our parents that School Days had started again and that we were going to Buffalo to replace some fictitious person 19

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who had taken sick. I arranged for Teddy to board the train at Grand Central Station, and to make sure our parents wouldn’t see us together, I caught the train at 125th Street. Both our parents believed this was the end of the romance. Our first stop was Buffalo, New York, where we had breakfast. For Teddy, this might very well have been navy-bean soup or clam chowder and apple pie a la mode. We then checked our bags and headed for the city hall to apply for our license. “Too young,” said the clerk. “Come back and see us in five or six years.” We then decided to try elsewhere, only this time we would list my age as twenty-two, and Teddy would be nineteen. We also planned that if they doubted her, we would claim that she was a midget. We boarded an interurban car and rode to Niagara Falls. We figured this town, where the chief industry was honeymooning, would be more sympathetic. We went to the justice of the peace and requested him to marry us. He looked us over and said, “What you kids need is a couple of handkerchiefs.” Several hours later, we realized that the gentleman was implying that we were a couple of snot noses. The next day, I located a booking agent in Buffalo by the name of Verbeck. We walked into his office just in time to fill a “disappointment.” A team that he had booked for a split week in Toronto and Brantford, Ontario, fell out, and the agent was stuck. The salary was seventy-five dollars for the week. We grabbed it. In Toronto, we went to the city hall for a marriage license and again got turned down. We decided to try again in the next town. On Thursday morning, we pulled into Brantford; it was raining cats and dogs, to quote a 1913 cliché. Teddy wore my raincoat, which dragged on the ground, and she pulled my hat down over her head to protect her hair. As we trudged up the hill by the station, both of us with a grip in each hand, we were perfect casting for Two Orphans of the Storm. On the top of the hill was an insurance broker’s office. In the office window hung a huge sign, “Marriage Licenses Issued Here.” We both noticed this sign immediately, and Teddy cracked, “Quick, put on the mustache, and hand me the gray wig.” At the first desk, a clerk who seemed hardly out of his teens instantly informed us that he had just been married the week before. Being a veteran at this marriage business, he voluntarily made himself our sponsor. He filled out the necessary forms and showed us where to sign. He then phoned a Reverend Jonathan Brown to see if he could have it made legal. The reverend had a noonday wedding scheduled but said that if we could 20

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get over to the parish house at once, there would still be time to take care of us. Run? We flew! The reverend took one look at us as we entered his chambers and threw his hands into the air. “Too young, too young, children,” he said, sanctimoniously. Teddy broke into tears. Still wearing my raincoat and hat, she looked pathetic as she sobbed on its sleeve, which dangled limply at least six inches past her hand. The embarrassed reverend called on Mrs. Brown for help. Mrs. Brown was a fattish little woman full of charm and homespun philosophy. “We should be grateful to the Lord,” she said, “that these children are thinking properly. ’Tis better for you to perform the ceremony, Reverend, and give them the spiritual guidance they need. If you turn them out, they may well head down a path that will lead to iniquity.” The ceremony was performed, a Jewish boy, a Catholic girl, a Presbyterian minister, and a Methodist witness. Amen!

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ny oddsmaker would have willingly laid 10-to-1 that this holy bond would come undone in six months. If our first five minutes at the Imperial Hotel had been filmed, the odds would have jumped to 100-to-1. I was in the lead, carrying a suitcase and a grip up a wide staircase. Teddy was at my heels carrying her luggage. As I swung around after reaching the landing, my grip conked her right on the top of her head. The sudden impact threw her back several steps, but in a flash, she regained her balance and came out fighting. She leaped up those remaining steps to the landing and then, with all of her might, kicked me right in the shins. Now she wheeled around and furiously started down the hall. I soon caught up to her and helped her on her way with a good swift kick in the tuchis. We didn’t notify our parents about the marriage for fear they would have it annulled. Instead, we wrote contrived stories home about happenings in School Days. For example, we suggested our folks send all our mail care of general delivery in each town because there was some scoundrel in the show who was opening everyone’s mail. Our only other problem was to earn enough money so that we could send the customary ten-dollar money order home each week. This wasn’t easy. We played one- and two-night stands in and around Buffalo, in such towns as Lancaster, Lackawanna, and Batavia. After several weeks, we contacted the Marshall Booking Agency in Cleveland, Ohio. Marshall booked us for about four weeks. We got a reasonable room at The Inn, a small theatrical hotel, and headquartered there while we played our dates in the vicinity. During the third week, I happened to notice a poster. Suddenly, my eyes popped, my pulse quickened, and I got in a panic as I read “The Honey Boy Evans Minstrels.”

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What would Hank say? I ran to the general-delivery window at the post office. It was there, a letter from Hank: “Just heard from the folks that you’re in Cleveland. Sure will be happy to see you, Kiddo. Reserve a big double room for us. Don’t worry about how much, either, because I’ve had nothing but good luck lately, etc., etc. Your loving brud, Hank.” Teddy hadn’t met Hank, and she was plenty difficult when I broke the news that I was going to have a new roommate to sort of clear our skirts, and then Teddy reluctantly moved into a single room. I retained the double, and the clerk promised faithfully that he would not squeal to my brother that Teddy and I were married. Hank arrived early in the morning, and we had a joyous breakfast together. We had ham and eggs, pecan waffles, and two cups of coffee. We yakked away incessantly. At eleven forty-five, Hank had to show up for his company’s parade. Teddy and I stood on the curb at Euclid Avenue and watched the Minstrels strut by to “Kentucky Days” and “Memphis Blues.” It was thrilling. The people applauded and waved, and I was crying for joy as I chased the parade down the avenue so I could catch up with Hank when it broke up. I introduced Teddy to Hank, and he invited her to have lunch with us. During lunch, I broke the news that we were not with School Days but were doing a double act, and I quickly whipped out some newspaper ads to show our billing as Lowry and Prince. “Good,” he said, “so you’re doing a double act, what’s wrong with that?” Then he reflected a moment. “You seem to be stuck on one another. I hope you’re not getting any silly ideas, you’re just a couple of punks, ya know. Ya better keep your noses clean. You’re both still wet behind the ears.” Teddy got good and riled, and she was just setting herself to get Hank told off when I placed my foot on top of hers and gave with the pressure. The tension passed, and we were soon having a gay time, trading stories, telling tall fibs, and taking pictures. In the show with Hank was a good-looking chap named Paul Van Dyke. Paul was billed as “America’s sweetest yodeler.” He took a fancy to Teddy and started playing up to her. After a little horsing around, he invited her out for chop suey. Hank put his two cents in by encouraging Teddy to go with Paul. “Nice guy,” he assured her. “Go ahead, have a good time.” Teddy gloated over this opportunity to make me suffer a little. She got all

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dolled up, and off they went. I was bleeding. It seemed hours before they returned, and, try as he did, Hank couldn’t get me out of that hotel lobby. The four of us were gassing together while I was shooting Teddy dirty looks. Suddenly, Paul stood up and said to Teddy, “Look, Honey, why don’t we let these two family guys alone. You and I will play a little casino.” I fumed and quickly informed him that we were playing at Elyria, Ohio, the next day and had a 10:00 a.m. rehearsal, and that whenever Teddy didn’t get her proper sleep, she lost her voice. I then saw her to her room, helping her up the stairs gently but positively. Hank and I went to our room and talked for about an hour. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and there stood Paul Van Dyke with the hotel register in his hand. “Well, Mr. Big Brother, cast your glimmers on this,” and he pointed to my signature. Mr. and Mrs. Ed Lowry. Hank glanced at the page, and placing his hand on Paul’s chest, he pushed lightly and said, “Okay, Paul, see you tomorrow,” and closed the door. He turned to me and let me have it smack on the cheek. I stood perfectly still, trying bravely to hold back the tears; then he let go with another smack on the other cheek. I just stood still. “You punk!” he screamed. “You God-damned punk, you wanna go to jail for rape? Did you ever hear of the Mann Act? Shacking up with a child! Are you so hard up? What do you see in this little tramp?” That was it. “She ain’t no tramp!” I shrieked, and I bounded for the door. I raced down to Teddy’s room. Dragging her by one hand and holding the certificate in the other, I was back to confront Hank. “Here!” I shouted hysterically. “If you think she’s a tramp, read this!” Hank took the certificate, and as he looked, I sobbed like a kid. Teddy sobbed. Placing the certificate on the table, Hank put his arms around the both of us, and then he sobbed. After a good cry, the three of us laughed as Hank kissed the both of us and wished us luck. He pulled out a Michigan bankroll and said, “I want to be the first to give my kid brother and new baby sister a wedding present.” He handed us twenty dollars, promised to keep our secret, and traded rooms with Teddy. Then we all said good night. From Cleveland, we moved on to Detroit, where we played several cheap one-nighters, and then we headed for Chicago. It was October 1913. Chicago was jumping with show business. In every neighborhood, there were theaters playing vaudeville. Even the few nickelodeons on State Street were playing two-reelers featuring the Spot Light Singers. An act in Detroit had 24

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recommended the Inter-Ocean Hotel, at State and Van Buren. We got a double room with free coffee and doughnuts every morning for $3.50 a week. The Inter-Ocean was a typical theatrical rooming house. While we were registering, we were delighted because over the din of the passing elevated trains, we could hear a barbershop quartet rehearsing “Last Night Was the End of the World.” In the distance, we could faintly hear an accordion. The walls of the lobby were covered with photographs of vaudeville acts. Featured in the center was a huge picture of Zeno and Mandel. We soon learned that the proprietor was Eva Mandel’s father. Before we had even seen our room, we insisted on telling the clerk all about our act, and we also hinted that we would be glad to give him one of our photos to add to the collection. We had just unpacked and settled comfortably when the buzzer in our room gave the signal that we were wanted on the phone, which was downstairs in the lobby. It was an offer to play a date that very evening. It seems our little talk with the clerk had borne fruit. His friend, a small-time agent, was stuck for an act. The clerk described us and said we had attractive photos and seemed like nice kids. An hour later, we were on our way. A short ride on the “L” and somewhere on the West Side we found our date. I believe it was called the San Souci. Instead of being a theater, it was a spaghetti house. There was a regular stage with a roll-up curtain, footlights, a piano, and drums. For fifty cents, the customers got a full-course spaghetti dinner with wine and four acts of vaudeville. We started working at five in the evening and did a show every hour. Between shows, the performers were welcome to all the spaghetti they could eat. At 2:00 a.m., after nine shows, the place finally shut down. I doubt they would have closed then if Teddy hadn’t eaten them out of spaghetti. Next day, with a list of agents and our photos under my arm, we made the rounds of the many booking offices. At the first interview, the Buchanon, Irving Agency, we scored. Mr. Buchanon was a disarming little gentleman who wore a goatee and looked like a doctor. He booked us immediately for that same night. Since we were new in the territory, he reasoned that this was actually a tryout or a showing, so “Let’s not call it a salary, we’ll just say expenses, say, er, four dollars.” We took it. When we arrived at the Verdi Theatre, out on Thirty-fifth Street, we learned that Mr. Buchanon not only booked the theater and managed it but also owned it. 25

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Mr. B. liked our act. After the show, he came backstage and offered us bookings for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at the Victoria Theatre, on West Twenty-second Street. Twenty-five bucks for the three days. We were elated and went back to our dim, gaslit room, tingling with excitement. Later, we went down to the hotel lobby, which buzzed with troupers. Most of these performers were called “suitcase actors.” The label gave them a definite classification: small-timers who carried all their earthly belongings and practically did their acts out of their suitcases. By midnight, the lobby was swarming with actors, bragging, griping, but all with just one interest, show business. Ted and I sat on the sidelines inconspicuously, intrigued as a couple of youngsters on their first visit to the zoo. What a conglomeration of dogs, blondes, toupees, and people! They greeted one another warmly and obviously had much in common. Ted and I weren’t acquainted with the people, and much of the lingo was new to us. “Hya, Mack, jever play the Harper? Brother, that stage is no bigger than a cigar box. Little Spottie here had no room to wag her tail.” “Don’t beef, be glad you’re workin’, guess ya heard about Blinkie and Stinkie being closed at the Bijou, dint ja? It stinks, no good.” Another voice piped up, “It could happen to any of us. What we need is a union.” Two young guys staggered in, pretending at being drunk. Obviously, a Lewis and Martin of their day. They wore identical suits and seemed popular, judging by the way they were greeted. One fellow knocked on the wall with his knuckles. Quiet prevailed. He knocked again. This time, his partner said, “Okay, sir, we’re packing.” A great howl went up. Teddy and I didn’t get it. We soon learned a knock on the door held great significance. Mr. Irving booked us to play eight or nine of his small theaters. He was more generous than Mr. Buchanon. He paid us $5.50 a night. Here we learned the true meaning of the comedy that had transpired in the hotel lobby. In brief, some of the managers would book in five or six acts, knowing full well they were only going to retain three of them. That tactic put all the performers on the defensive. After the show was over, the actors would sit in their dressing rooms, dreading the knock on the door. Generally, the knocker was the manager. Accompanied by a burly stagehand, he’d hand you back your photographs and growl, “You’re closed.” There was one little castle in Chicago called Schindler’s. Mr. Schindler didn’t bother knocking on your door. He would walk right down the aisle in full view of the audience, hold up his hand like a traffic cop, and shout, “Dot’s enough, you’re shut!” 26

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These little theaters were the varicose veins of show business, but in the profession, they were referred to as dumps. We all knew they represented the smallest of small-time, but they were a means to an end: experience. Sometimes, experience is all you’ve got left after everything else is gone. Teddy and I played over two hundred of these dumps in and around Chicago. We finally got tired of lugging the suitcases in and out and riding every day for miles on the L, so we decided to dust off the old Taylor trunk and go for a change of scenery. We headed for California by way of the Webster, Fisher, and Levy Circuit, and we soon learned that all the dumps weren’t in Chicago. Our tour started at the Unique Theatre in Staples, Minnesota; then came the Bijou Dream in Ashland, Wisconsin, followed by some pips that even RandMcNally hadn’t heard of. It was a pleasure to reach Butte, Montana, where there were six or seven vaudeville theaters. We were delighted to be back among performers in a theatrical boardinghouse. The Nine Crazy Kids were playing at the Sullivan-Considine Theatre. We knew all these kids, and that first night, we had many laughs. We went to bed as happy as a couple of bees in a flower shop. The next night, I made a great mistake. We started playing penny-ante poker, and I was stupid enough to pull out my wallet and flash the Wells-Fargo Express checks that we had saved. The next night, some of the Nine Crazy Kids proved they weren’t so crazy. They cut me up into little pieces with a deck of marked cards. We were playing blackjack, and in the wee hours of the morning, I learned that there was an ink spot on the back of each picture card. My discovery came at the postmortem. I had already lost all my cash and cashed in all my express checks. I never found out which of the kids and how many of them shared the spoils. Several of them grew to be important personalities, and I bear no malice and make no accusations. I learned one lesson from those kids. Never gamble and socialize at the same time. I also learned that the time to plunge is when you’re winning, not when you’re losing. It was daylight when I went back to my room. I dreaded facing Teddy. I was ashamed of myself and full of remorse. I decided I would awaken her and get the whole dirty mess off my chest. I opened the door real quietly, and there was Teddy sitting up in bed and wide-awake. “Oh, honey,” she said in a half sob. “I’m glad you’re home. I’ve been so nervous, I haven’t closed an eye.” 27

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“What’s wrong? What are you worried about, sweetheart?” “Eddie,” she cried, her lower lip quivering. “Oh, Eddie, I’m so frightened,” and then, hysterically, “Eddie, darling, I’m going to have a baby!” Oh, brother, if she was nervous, she had company. It didn’t take a stethoscope to hear the accelerated tom-tom beat of my ticker. My legs started to bend like Rubber Leg Edwards’s. I grabbed Teddy and kissed her and told her how happy I was, but I wasn’t. I was scared stiff. “Come now, darling,” I said in my most paternal manner, “let’s get a few hours’ rest.” Then I started to put my pajama pants over my trousers. To further accent my heebie-jeebies, I put the lit end of a cigarette in my mouth. I finally handed Teddy a laugh. I put on my hat and crawled into bed. Late that night, we left for Pocatello, Idaho. I decided this was no time for making financial reports, so I didn’t tell Teddy that I had lost all our money in that card game. Considerate of me, wasn’t it? Our performances in Pocatello were like my poker hand—we just passed. We were both frightened. Our parents still didn’t know we were married, and we didn’t think it would be very smart to have a baby yet. With no one to confide in, we hadn’t the vaguest idea of what to do about it. I got friendly with a pharmacist in the drugstore, and he recommended some pills that he said worked in many cases. He also sold me some mustard and suggested hot-mustard baths. Teddy followed instructions faithfully, but her condition remained unchanged. Pocatello was the first part of a week that split with Twin Falls, Idaho. Here we got a most unexpected shocker. After the opening matinee, we had started to take off our makeup. Suddenly, that ominous knock came to our dressing-room door. We were closed! When the manager brusquely pushed our photographs into my hand, the whole world crashed in. We had seen it happen to others but not to us. Good God, not now, and in Twin Falls, Idaho, yet! What do we do, where do we turn? I tried to detain the manager, “Please wait a minute, and listen to me.” He didn’t listen. He seemed to enjoy the chore he was performing. To rub a little salt in the wound, he turned and sneered, “Kid, if you’re an actor, I’m a watchmaker.” Now Teddy popped, “A watchmaker, you big bum, I bet you can’t even tell time.” We certainly must have stunk that day to make the manager so belligerent. It was a shoddy, uninspiring dump to start with, and I fear we were not yet mature enough to leave our troubles in the dressing room. I had to do 28

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some fast thinking now, as I was determined Teddy shouldn’t know about our financial plight. I wired the Harvey Hobart Agency in Omaha and had a reply immediately offering three days in Hastings, Nebraska. There were five acts on the bill in Hastings: Phil and Phyllis (acrobatics); Barnes and Lorraine, “The Actress and the Bootblack”; Lowry and Prince, “Just Kids but Some Noise”; and Dean, Dore, and Dea. Ray Dean, the comic, later visited a South Sea isle and actually became king of the island. The closing act was a brother and sister. They did a ballroom-dancing routine while the brother, with his arms around the sister’s waist, played the violin. This was Fanchon and Marco—the same Fanchon and Marco who later became famous producers and motion-picture-theater magnates. After the matinee, our bad luck continued. There was another doorknocking episode. The dressing rooms were in tiers. There were no ceilings. The manager approached the acrobats first but faltered, and he foolishly admitted that five acts had been sent in, though he never played more than four. Phil, one of the acrobats, was a menacing-looking Goliath. He stretched his full height, glared down at the manager, and said, “Make your pitch elsewhere.” Barnes and Lorraine were next. Barnes, an excitable little Italian, lunged for the manager, and, if his wife hadn’t interceded, I think there would have been a throat-cutting episode. I felt I was next on the list, so I rushed to the other room and pretended to be a peacemaker. The manager didn’t have time to work on me before I came up with the idea that each of the five acts should accept a little cut, then the manager could keep the show as it was, and no one would get hurt. This suggestion was strictly self-preservation, but I was desperate. We all stayed. Omaha followed Hastings, and then we shoved off for Chicago. On the trip, Teddy got severe pains, then got deathly sick. There wasn’t a doctor on the train, not even a Pullman car where we could put her to bed. Here she had a miscarriage. I wanted to take her off the train at the first stop, but she pleaded not to be taken off in some small town. We proceeded on to Chicago. Two days later, Irene Prince was carried into the American Hospital, critically ill. Mr. Mandel, the proprietor of the Inter-Ocean Hotel, called Dr. Thorek, head surgeon of the hospital. Mandel informed us the theatrical profession supported this hospital, and, though she was a charity case, she would be cared for with the same consideration as the paying patients. The head 29

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doctor examined Teddy and immediately ordered her prepared for surgery. He then told me she had less than a fifty-fifty chance to survive. Next, Thorek informed me that it would be necessary to come up with one hundred dollars before surgery. By pawning every possession, from a fountain pen to a cameo stickpin, I raised fifty dollars. For the additional fifty, I signed a box-office order that was made possible through a good stroke of fortune. I had been called to replace a comic who fell out of a doubleblackface act at the Colonial Theatre. My salary for the week’s work was to be $62.50, less 10 percent commission. In complete panic, I wired Teddy’s parents. Her mother arrived the next evening. I tried to embrace her, but she stiffened. “Where were you married and when? I want to see the marriage certificate.” After she was satisfied that all was legitimate, she broke down and sobbed, “Oh my poor girl, my poor little Petty.” On the way to the hospital, I found we had one thing in common. We were both broke. She had spent every cent the family possessed for the round-trip ticket. With the $6.25 that I was left with after the doctor collected my paycheck, I kept wondering what we were all going to use for food. The coffee and doughnuts that were served free at the Inter-Ocean Hotel were sure something beautiful to look forward to now. My new partner, Coxie Black, helped ease the tension by advancing me a few dollars each time we booked a date, and we grabbed every date we could get. Teddy pulled through nicely but was in need of rest and care. Mrs. Prince took over as nurse and cook. Our meager funds were in keeping with our poor hotel accommodations, but my mother-in-law performed wonders. Over a can of Sterno heat, she prepared eggs, bouillon from beef cubes, and many nourishing tidbits to help her daughter regain her strength. We knew it would be some time before Teddy would be in action again, and her mother looked after her while I hustled around the agencies trying to line up work for Lowry and Black. We called the act “Fun in Burnt Cork.” For me, it wasn’t fun. I disliked blackface, but I needed the money. It was a means to an end. After Teddy regained enough strength to look after herself, her mother went back home. Coxie and I booked some out-of-town dates to start working our way back East. Teddy traveled along with me. First stop was the Palace Theatre in downtown Detroit. To call this mausoleum the Palace 30

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was a sacrilege. In vaudeville, it was known as a grind house. No names were advertised, just “continuous vaudeville,” grinding out shows from 11:00 a.m. until 11:00 p.m. The entertainment was not very good, and audiences were not inspiring. Few people ever came in just to see the show. Some were salesmen killing time between appointments. Some were members of the world’s oldest profession looking for appointments, and many of the couples would not have been present at all except that motels had not yet become part of the American scene. From Detroit, we jumped into Canada, playing Toronto, Kingston, and other towns in Ontario. We then came stateside to Oswego, New York, at which time I had enough money saved to send Teddy back home. It was good luck that Teddy wasn’t along for our next stand, Jamestown, New York. The theater manager rented rooms to the actors, so upon arrival Sunday evening, we both checked in at his hostelry. Living at the manager’s house wasn’t a “must,” but it seemed like good insurance. However, it didn’t pay off. We had just finished washing up after the Monday matinee when there was a bold knock at the dressing-room door. Before we could even say, “Come in,” the door was thrown open, and the big, strapping manager slapped our photographs down on the makeup shelf. “You bums are closed, and don’t be too long in clearing out, or I’ll throw you out!” My partner very meekly replied, “Yes, sir.” I was shocked and mortified at the manager’s actions and flabbergasted over my partner’s response. Our act had gone over very well with the audience, and I now insisted Coxie go with me to the manager’s office and demand an apology. Coxie pleaded with me to drop the whole matter and assured me he had enough extra cash to take care of our transportation back to New York. I would not listen. He packed our grips, and I went out into the lobby of the theater. The manager tried to shoo me aside, but I hung onto his sleeve and said, “I demand an explanation!” He swung around, grabbed me by my coat collar and the seat of my pants, carried me out on the sidewalk, and dumped me into the gutter. I got up and went right back in for more, and I got it. Again he carried me out, only this time he set me down lightly, bent my head forward, and then gave me a boot in the fanny that sent me sprawling face first. Coxie was there now. He helped me to my feet and urged that we hurry off to the depot to catch a five-forty train for New York. On the train, Coxie confessed that on the previous evening, he had indulged in a short but torrid romance that the manager had quite suddenly 31

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interrupted. Coxie had felt that he had made a clean getaway as far as his identity was concerned. I am inclined to agree. From the way the manager manhandled me, he could very well have entertained the idea that I was the guy who dropped down from that first-floor window. I never did find out who the charmer was in Coxie’s brief courtship, but you can bet she wasn’t a farmer’s daughter. Back in New York, the career of Lowry and Black lasted exactly three days. We played a split week at the Olympic Theatre in Brooklyn. No bookings were offered by any of the bookers who covered our act, so I called it quits immediately. I paid Coxie the price of the railroad ticket from Oswego to New York, and he took off for his hometown of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Teddy was not yet strong enough to work. We were living with my folks in a house where everyone was out of work but my sister Stella. Teaching school didn’t pay big, but it was steady. She kept the entire household together. Hank was doing a double hoofing act with a fellow by the name of Joe Wesley, but they were finding the going real rough. My oldest brother, Arnold, was married and had his own family to provide for. Brother Willie was helping Poppa, who was now trying to establish himself in the business of manufacturing shoe polish. Sister Hattie, learning to be a milliner, earned three bucks a week, and Frances was attending Hunter College. Mom, the miracle maker, still managed to set a table each night that was fit for the proverbial king. Starting with three pounds of soup meat, she’d end up with a succulent something that tasted better than a porterhouse steak. Even after the gas company shut off our gas for nonpayment of the bill, Mom’s magic produced a hot supper. During these lean days, there was never a harsh word in that household. Poppa was always optimistic, though he never made it, and Mom never complained. I had been loafing only a short while when a call came from E. J. Carpenter. He had School Days out on the road again playing one-night stands, and he offered me an immediate job at fifty dollars a week. Teddy was unhappy about my taking off and leaving her at home with my family, but we needed money desperately. I joined the show at Greenwich, Connecticut, rehearsed the next day in Bridgeport, and officially opened with the new show for a New Year’s Eve performance at the Jacques Theatre in Waterbury. The theater manager thought he would do a bigger business with his New Year’s Eve revelers if 32

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he advertised the entertainment as a burlesque show. He was right about the business. It was a complete sellout. The patrons were wild with anticipation. The tag lines used in the ad were “spicy—daring cuties—brazen beauties—a bit of Paris—ooh la la.” Corny even then, the ad packed the house, but when the curtains parted, and our gawky teenagers began singing, “School Days, School Days, Dear Old Golden Rule Days,” the audience thought it was a gag and sat tight, waiting for a ripe payoff. But “School Days” was followed by a medley of nursery rhymes, and then all hell broke loose. The audience went from rough to rowdy to vulgar and revolting. We got catcalls, boos, and raspberries, and finally they started throwing things. It was the longest first act I ever remembered. I kept thinking of that wonderful line from “The Ham Tree,” “If I ever get back to that livery stable, and anybody tells me I got talent, I’m gonna poke him with a pitch fork.” During intermission, a great deal of liquor was consumed. Apparently, several markets must have opened to supply the customers with more ammunition. At the opening of the second act, one of our girls looked offstage and shouted dramatically, “Close the curtains!” “Don’t nobody dare close them curtains,” bellowed Clarence Burdick, our company manager. “This is a sellout, and we’re not refunding any money.” Somehow, despite the bedlam, we survived through the opening number. Then came a love song by a girl and a boy. Sitting on a park bench, they sang, “There Ain’t No Man in the Moon.” These two kids were just sitting ducks for a barrage of well-guided missiles. The boy was a little gun-shy. As soon as the first paper dart glided past his head, he grabbed the girl’s hand and hastily retreated. Burdick started to spout off again. It seems we needed that night’s take desperately. He motioned me over. “Come here, Lowry, I understand you’re a pretty good hoofer. I want you to get out on that stage and hold it. We’re not refunding any of this money to those lousy hoot owls.” Standing five foot ten, I not only looked ridiculous in knee-length pants but I was a pretty sad substitute for Gypsy Rose Lee. There was very little floor space left on which to dance. The stage apron was littered with fruit and vegetables. Add a gallon of sour cream, and this setup would have represented a fortune at Lindy’s. When I made my entrance, the audience yelled and ridiculed me and threw everything that wasn’t nailed down. I was scared silly, but I stood center stage and just looked at the people and grinned. 33

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I wouldn’t move a leg until they quieted down, which they finally did. I started to hoof, and before I could get rolling, pow! I got conked right on the forehead with a turnip. It knocked me staggering, but I wouldn’t quit. Instead, I did the only surefire trick I knew—my knee drops. I leaped high in the air, crossed my legs, and as I landed on my knees, I picked up the turnip, did a double spin off my knees and back up to my feet again, and then did a comedy exit eating the turnip. The audience went for this big. Burdick was standing in the wings chewing hard at his cigar. “Good work,” he said, “get back out there and hold the fort, boy, you got ’em.” I did a little more dancing and softened the audience sufficiently so I could talk to them. When they got real quiet, I said, “Now stay that way, because the only G string you’re going to see tonight is on the violin.” Some mug yelled, “Bring on the wimmen,” and the audience got unruly again, so I resorted to a cornball stunt. I made an exit and then a quick entrance and held my hand up for quiet. I then announced that a wallet had been found containing some papers and twenty dollars but no identification. “If the owner will go to the box office and ask for Miss Hunt, she has your wallet. Er, Miss Helen Hunt, that is. . . . Just go to Helen Hunt for it.” Wham! That was a real whiz-bang. I was in again. Burdick shouted, “Stay out there, boy!” Tapping some of the vegetables with my feet, I commented that we had quite a harvest and that this might be a good cue for “Shine on Harvest Moon,” to which I started doing a soft-shoe dance. Three or four times, I slipped and always looked back to the spot and started over again. Finally, I took it big. I looked at the spot and muttered, “Damn cow!” Not clever but vulgar—a hit! The audience was rough, and this was what they wanted. By my restoring order, School Days was able to stay in business. No money was refunded. We were a greatly relieved bunch of kids when that train pulled out at 3:00 a.m. The audience had gotten rougher and drunker, and it took a score of policemen to escort us from the stage door to the train. Four weeks of roadwork had gone by when the opportunity arose for Teddy to get back her old part of Sassy Little. She jumped at the chance for us to be together again and rejoined School Days at Brattleboro, Vermont. Once again, we were singing and dancing together and drawing down a double salary. We were real happy. It didn’t take long before we were able to buy some new clothes, send some money home, and do a little planning for the future. In two more weeks, we figured we would have a hundred 34

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dollars saved, and, of all things, we’d be celebrating this joyous occasion at Brantford, Ontario, the town in which we were married. Now, I am not a superstitious person, but never again in my life did I write a date in a diary until after I played the engagement. At St. Catherine, Ontario, the town that preceded Brantford on our itinerary, we found ourselves stranded. Burdick slipped across the border back into the States and left us kids holding the bag in Canada. The hotel proprietor immediately put an attachment on all the baggage. Good-bye to our new clothes and stage costumes. Well, that’s show business! Fortunately, we had enough cash to return to Buffalo. Teddy and I were back playing the dumps once again, trying to work our way home. Without any stage wardrobe, I decided that if I used a Jewish dialect, all I would need to give me character was a derby hat. This I picked up at a secondhand store for a quarter. For Teddy’s costume, we bought a pair of rompers that she got on sale for a buck. From the McMahon and Dee Agency, we booked a few small theaters, then we barnstormed in the sticks again and put in some pretty tough licks until we reached Albany. We then took the Albany night boat to New York.

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he pinch was really on. Hank had had a bad spell but was now rehearsing what promised to be a good act, “The Six Military Dancers.” It was in this act that he met Kitty DeLacy, whom he later happily married. Suddenly, Poppa got terribly ill. He developed pneumonia, and within three days, we lost him. Momma and the whole family were in a state of complete shock. Poppa was the head of our household, and after his death, we were hopelessly disorganized. Momma requested me to pitch in with my brother Willie to see if we could salvage anything of Poppa’s shoe-polish business. I started to work as a salesman and didn’t do too badly, but when we sold the stock on hand, Willie discovered that Poppa had never written down the formula. Bill tried vainly to mix the various dyes and ingredients, but after several weeks, we gave up. Now, the family was really broke, and the household depressed. I spotted an ad in the Morning Telegraph: “Wanted! Singers and Dancers. Tryouts between 1 and 4 p.m.” It was a Coney Island address that turned out to be a cabaret operated by Jeff Davis, “king of the hoboes.” He called his place the Hotel de Gink. Jeff was a colorful guy. He was always newspaper copy and a pretty smart operator. This ad, however, drew a lot of stew bums. Jeff got up on the platform and made a little spiel. He said in effect, “I am a hobo, and I am running a hobo cabaret. A hobo is a man who always works for his living but has wanderlust and loves to travel. A tramp is lazy and would rather have a handout than work, and a bum is a guy who is even lower than a tramp. I don’t want any tramps or bums. If there are any hoboes here who sing or dance well enough to entertain respectable people, please raise your hand.” I was confused. I wanted a job but didn’t know if I qualified as a hobo. I didn’t move, but Jeff singled me 36

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out. He said, “You, pretty boy, are you a hobo?” Before I could reply, he continued, “Ever been to Frisco, LA, or Chi?” “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’ve been all over the country. Name a tank town in America, and I’ve been there.” “Okay, Pretty, step up here.” The title “Pretty” was pinned on me then and there. If you had seen the other guys, you’d know it wasn’t so flattering. I started working that very evening as a singing waiter. In between waiting tables, I took my turn at doing a stint on the platform. Alice was no more amazed in Wonderland than I was at the Hotel de Gink. I made twenty-two dollars in tips the very first night. Immediately, I learned a completely new lingo. “Two up, one down,” I’d call to the bartender. That meant two tall beers and one short one. A big shot that was slumming called for his liquor by name: “Bring me a Chartreuse, son.” I hesitated, he repeated. I scratched my head and went to the bartender perplexed and called, “One Charlotte Russe.” The big, bulbous-nosed bartender roared with laughter, then he made like a fairy and said, “Tell the customer we’re fresh out of Charlotte Russes, but I’ll give him a Lady’s Finger, if he’ll supply the lady.” Jeff, ever on the alert, straightened me out. I had one advantage. No matter where the customer came from, I had been there. Of course, I was polite and well mannered, and Jeff liked that. He sold me big, and I started to clean up. Requests for songs were plentiful, and almost every request was good for a dollar tip. Some of the customers were roughnecks, and some were sightseers. The best tippers were a group of icemen who stopped in for their beer every evening after work. It took tons of ice to keep Coney Island going in those days before refrigeration, and the men who handled those huge cakes were really husky. After their work each evening, they would stop off at Jeff’s place. Downing a few beers, they would shout for Pretty to sing “Ireland Must Be Heaven for My Mother Came from There.” Thank God, they never learned that my mother came from Budapest. Sometimes, I would sprinkle sand on the platform and do an Irish jig, and, quite regularly, three or four of the icemen would come up and participate with me. After the Irish touch, I used to get a good laugh by doing a Yiddish comedy song and skit called “Put It On, Take It Off, Wrap It Up, Take It Home.” 37

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In less than one month, I had earned an amount that, at the time, was a fortune to me. After a few days, Teddy came down to Coney to join me. Here, of all places, with the sawdust on the floor, came my first incentive to be enterprising and use some showmanship. As I served the tables, I would inquire where people hailed from. I would go to the platform and sing a song from their state. This routine always sold well. Working in a hobo cabaret shocked my friends and relatives. Granted, the Hotel de Gink was no place of refinement, but this audience had a heart. Here I made my first intimate contact with the people I was entertaining. In this comparatively lowly atmosphere, I ran into more preachments against drink and crime than anywhere else I’ve ever been. One night, Jack Pearl and his father came to see me. Jack had made plans to join a vaudeville flash act called “Live Wires,” and there was a place in the act for Teddy and me. After my working at Hotel de Gink, the salary sounded small, but Jack’s father took over. He liked me, and in his soft-spoken manner, he said, “My boy, money isn’t everything. Your father would be very unhappy if he saw his Eddie working in this dive.” That was the clincher; I quit. Jeff Davis was very cooperative. I think he was happy for me to advance. Two weeks later, we opened at the Orpheum Theatre in Yonkers, New York, with Herman Becker’s “Live Wires.” Fun in a Western Union Office would better describe this act. There were three girl telegraph operators, three messenger boys, and the office manager, played by Queenie Phillips. The format was similar to the many school acts we used to see in vaudeville. Six mischievous kids and the dignified manager. Queenie was chaperoned by her aunt, whom we affectionately called “Nanna.” Nanna, to my knowledge, didn’t carry a shotgun, but she did succeed in marrying Queenie off to the third boy in the act, Herman Myer. Herman saved his money and later opened a delicatessen in Philadelphia. This was good for Nanna because she loved Edam cheese. Jack, whom we then called “the count,” did his German dialect and was a riot. I performed a comedy straight, a song, and my knee drops. Herman did a pansy character. The three boys also did several numbers with the three girls, Teddy, Viola Tree, and Pee Wee Braham. Viola and Pee Wee were wonderful kids. They were very young and giggled and played pranks constantly. Suddenly, a coffee-soaked doughnut would be thrown into an electric fan, and an oyster would be slipped into someone’s pocket. Between 38

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them, they were always cooking up some mischief. The payoff was not the prank but the way they would laugh over it until they were helpless. My stage ambitions were a bit stifled in “Live Wires.” For my specialty, I rated only two and a half minutes. I did a song-and-dance and tried to squeeze in everything I knew. On the way to the Midwest, “Live Wires” played a few weeks on the Gus Sun Circuit, then on to the Butterfield Time, starting at Battle Creek, Michigan. This was a four-week road show, and Bill Robinson was the headliner. The magic of this man’s feet had a neverending fascination for me. I had seen all the famous minstrels dance, but Bill’s style was the greatest. He got complete joy out of dancing, and when you watched him, the joy was contagious. In most of these theaters, the dressing rooms were in the basement under the stage. If I wasn’t in the wings watching, I’d be sitting in my dressing room listening. They used to judge tap-dancing contestants by listening under the stage, so the judges could hear the taps without being influenced visually. When you heard Bill dance, it sounded more like a trap drummer playing a solo. Sure-footed, he had a perfect beat: he never labored, and he never fluffed a tap. One morning, Bill came to the theater early for his mail while I was onstage practicing my knee drops. He watched me for a while and then said, “Mister Eddie, you know what you’re trying to do? You’re trying to squeeze six pounds of flour in a five-pound bag.” Eventually, I got hep to what Bill was trying to tell me. I was giving too much and selling too little. I changed my routine and immediately got twice as much applause for one-half the effort. This was my first real professional advice. Bill was a super salesman, and during those four weeks, I got a liberal education in showmanship. I also learned other things from Bill. For instance, I learned never again to be a matchmaker in a poolroom. I also learned how come Bill could run faster backwards than most people could forwards. This guy got himself into so many tight spots that frequently he had to start running before he had time to turn around. Bill shot pool as well as he danced. In fact, he’d get more puffed up over his performance in a pool hall than in a theater. In show business when someone gets out of line, we generally brush it off with an expression, “Looks like the boy is getting that lousy feeling.” Many performers can be ever so humble when the going is rough, but give them one good break, and, boom, 39

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that lousy feeling overtakes them. To my knowledge, Bill never got that feeling in connection with his stage work, but, brother, could he run off at the mouth when he got into a game of pool or won a bet at a prizefight. When we played Saginaw, Michigan, Bill complained bitterly. The only living accommodations he could get were with a Negro family far out on the outskirts of town. The show was over by about 10:15 p.m., and the poor guy didn’t know what to do with himself. After much persuasion, he sold me on the idea of being his matchmaker. I contacted the proprietor at the best pool hall in town and told him Bill Robinson was willing to bet fifty dollars that he could beat any man in town in a fifty-point game of straight pool. Every pool parlor has its champ, and every town has its share of gamblers. At eleven o’clock that night, the pool hall was jammed, and Bill was in his glory. He pulled out his wallet and made quite a ritual of counting off the fifty dollars. He decided I should hold the stakes, but the owner of the establishment thought that privilege belonged to him. We conceded. Before the match, Bill put on quite a show. He could do countless tricks with a pool cue. When he used it as a musician would a trombone and played a tune on his lips, the crowd was delighted. He also could walk around the table in rhythm and make the taps just seem to roll after him. It was really good fun, and the onlookers or gallery were in a very good mood for the contest. The opponent was quiet, tall, sallow, and as thin as a snapshot. He looked like a fugitive from a B-movie. The game was about to start. The manager requested the gallery to refrain from any remarks or conversation during the match. Bill played first. He chalked his cue, walked around the table, bent down so his vision was table high. Finally, instead of going for a safe break, he announced, “I’ll play the thirteen ball in the left corner pocket.” Shocked by his audacity, the audience watched intently as Bill’s cue went into action. The racked balls broke in every direction. The thirteen ball, as though having eyes, rolled into the corner pocket. Bill took the applause with proper aplomb. One of the spectators cracked, “Boy, what a lucky shot!” Immediately, the lousy feeling came over Bill. He leaned on the pool cue, looked at the gallery like a native Californian looks at a tourist, and inquired, “Who said that?” “I did,” said a bull-necked belligerent. “What about it?”

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Bill pulled out his wallet, slapped it down on the frame of the pool table, and said, “How would you like to put your money where your big mouth is? Rack up the balls, and I’ll do it over again, just for you—that is, if you got some folding money that says I can’t.” Bull-neck turned red, and I was afraid Bill was going to get himself killed. The manager interceded, “Gentlemen, let’s have no more of this, please! There’ll be no more remarks from the spectators. Mr. Robinson, you’ll kindly put your money away and continue the play.” Bill wasn’t slapped down too easily. He pouted and expressed his dislike for sore losers but finally chalked his cue and proceeded to knock those balls into the pockets as if he had them hypnotized. He ran twenty-seven balls before he missed, and the miss was a heartbreaker that just barely hung on the edge of the pocket. Now, it was the opponent’s turn. He was quite good but obviously no match for the champ. Bill got way out in front, and then, instead of being gracious, he started clowning his shots and also banking them when it wasn’t necessary. I was happy when the game was over, because I could feel the tension mounting. “Congratulations,” said the proprietor, handing Bill the money. “That was a very good exhibition.” Bill was gloating and begged for more action. He offered the same player ten points for free and a hundred dollars to seventy-five. The man declined, acknowledging that he knew when he was outclassed. Bill wouldn’t let go. He tried to goad the man on and finally offered him twenty points in a fifty-point match. Resentment was building around the table. It was obvious that the town boys didn’t like Bill’s display of arrogance. I made one more attempt to get him to go home. He was adamant. “Mister Eddie,” he said. “You got a nice room to go home to, but all I got is a dreary room in a flea bag. I’ll find me some fun right here.” I left, hoping for the best. The next morning, when I went to the theater for the mail, there sat Bill. He was holding an ice bag on his forehead, and there was an adhesive plaster on his chin. Once again he was sweet, humble Bill. “Mr. Eddie,” he said. “Would you do me a big favor and take these shoes to the repair shop for me?” He had lost the heels off both his shoes running down the steps of the pool hall.

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Bill was a great artist onstage and certainly no slouch in a pool hall, but when the lousy feeling overtook him, his speed of foot was not enough. What he needed was a bodyguard. Christmas in Kalamazoo also meant farewell to “Live Wires.” One of the actors on the bill had a friend who owned a small Italian restaurant. We all chipped in and took over the place for Christmas dinner. We had a gay time. Stuffed with spaghetti and drenched with Dago red wine, we went back to the Majestic Theatre to do our last performance. We were all feeling silly, so for the final show with “Live Wires,” everyone played everyone else’s part, and we had a circus. At long last, I got my chance to do a German dialect. I rolled each r for a mile and laughed more at myself by far than the audience did. Jack sang my song that, unbeknownst to him, the orchestra had pitched one-third higher. While he sang, Teddy dressed up in Herman Myer’s clothes and did a few ludicrous runs across stage. Herman, garbed in Teddy’s dress, made his entrance as one of the operators. Pee Wee got the electrician to wire that one seat. Herman sat down, and as Jack reached for the top note in the song, the electrician let Herman have the juice. He let out a screech and leaped half way up to the fly gallery. The manager didn’t think all of this was very funny and let us have a good tongue-lashing. Someone had salvaged several bottles of Dago red, so we drank a few toasts, cried a fond good-bye, and took off for Buffalo, New York. At Buffalo, we opened at the Olympic Theatre in Harry Sharrock’s flash act “The Footlight Girls.” Here, Teddy and I received our first recognition as a team. We were a big hit in this act, and, thanks to Bill Robinson, I now had a dance routine that received two and three encores at every performance. We were getting conscious of our audiences. They were making their presence felt; and to confirm their judgment, we were beginning to rate with the newspaper critics. The review in the Buffalo Enquirer stated, “The show was good, but best of all was the comedy furnished in wholesale lots by sprightly Eddie Lowry. Ed topped off the comedy with an extraordinary bit of eccentric dancing which brought down the house.” On the bill in Jersey City, we didn’t figure to rate a mention with the famous operatic singers Rosa Ponselle and Carmella Ponselle or with Emma Dunn, the Broadway star, but to quote the critic, “Keith’s Theatre brought into the spotlight Ed Lowry, a young comic whose work is distinctly original. He should grace a big New York production as soon as the ‘powers that be’ see him.” 42

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After three months of this kind of encouragement, we came into New York to open at Proctor’s Fifty-eighth Street Theatre. How could I figure that so many things would go wrong that Monday afternoon? Eddie Hill, who was cofeatured with me, got laryngitis or a case of nerves or something. Halfway through his ballad, his voice conked out. He was singing, “Turn Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday,” and from the way he sounded, that would have been a good idea. In the opening number, Anna Baker overthrew a high kick and landed on her fanny. Nellie De Yoe did a fine control dance, but on this afternoon, it seems she lost control. In the second ensemble number, while the girls were doing a shuffle exit with their backs to the audience, Margie Bell kept losing her skirt and didn’t know it until the skirt landed down around her ankles, and she tripped over it. This, at least, was a howl. After the show, the stage manager warned us all to remain in our dressing rooms as the theater manager wished to see us. I was a wreck. Was it possible that again we were going to hear that dreaded knock on the door? I thought we had left those miserable days behind us forever. How would I keep face with my folks and friends if we were closed after continually bragging about what a hit we were? “This is Proctor’s Theatre,” I mused, “ . . . don’t tell me they would throw out an act as they did in those dumps we used to work in.” The entrance of Mr. Buck, the manager, accompanied by Sharrock’s agent, Pete Mack, interrupted this gruesome thought. Mr. Mack explained that there would have to be some revisions made in the act. “Everyone will be paid and given sufficient notice.” He then asked me to step into the stage manager’s room with him. Crazy, unpredictable show business! Who can figure it? The sad news turned out to be glad news for Teddy and me. The booking office liked us, and we were to continue as a two act. We were given six weeks’ work immediately in the Keith and Proctor theatres in and around New York City. Pete Mack became our agent. The first date was at the Harlem Opera House at 125th Street, just five blocks from where my parents lived. Every friend, relative, and school chum was on hand to give us the once-over. When I went to Mom’s for lunch, the neighborhood kids followed me like I was the Pied Piper. “Hey, Eddie, my mudder’s gonna take me to the Harlem ‘Op’ to see ya.” The whole street was agog. We preceded Van and Schenk on the bill. These two guys, the hottest team in vaudeville, were signed up to go with the [Ziegfeld] Follies. The 43

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great Ziegfeld, in person, was out front in the audience to catch their act. What an opportunity for Teddy and me. During my turn onstage, I was doing a comedy dance with a broom. I was dressed in a bellhop uniform. At the finish of the routine, I did a split, and then, leaning on the broom handle, I slowly pulled myself up. I tried to spot Mr. Ziegfeld, as the audience gave out with belly laughs. No wonder! I had split the crotch of my pants wide open, and I was the only one who didn’t know it. We were thrilled to be working for the United Booking Office. Though we were not yet booked on the two-a-day, we were delighted to get a route on their family time and recognition as a two act. The UBO was the bigtime circuit, a far cry from such dates as Cloquet, Minnesota, and Medicine Hat, Moose Jaw, or Swift Current, Saskatchewan. We roomed at the Victoria Hotel, Forty-seventh off Broadway, the heart of the theatrical district. Teddy went over to Forty-second Street to Glassbergs and got herself a pair of short vamp shoes. She bought a black velvet suit, trimmed with ermine. Well, not quite ermine, it was white fox. Hm? All right, it was rabbit. She always had bobbed her hair, but now she bleached it blonde and had it in a million curls. I broke out in a check suit, patent-leather dancing shoes, and a chipped straw hat; and I wouldn’t be found dead without a Variety sticking out of my coat pocket. We wanted the world to know we were “Piffawmers”—Lowry and Prince—permanent address, White Rat Actor’s Union. Soon, we were pegged as a number-two act. Invariably, the opening act is a slight act—something visual to kick off the show. The number-two act then breaks the ice with a song or two, some comedy talk, and dancing. Our closing dance routine was a showstopper, even in that modest spot, and, consequently, we became very much in demand with the various bookers. But audiences seldom remember the name of the number-two act. Backstage, the second act is generally popular with the other players, mainly because it is seldom a threat to the others on the bill. Professional jealousy is commonplace in the theater. The important entertainers often are patronizing and refer to the number-two act as such “nice little people.” On a road show, which is a variety show in which the same acts stay intact while on tour, there always comes a town where the next-to-closing act bombs, and to save his show, the manager places them up earlier on the bill. Should he be drastic enough to put them on second, the number-two act

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then goes on next to closing, and history is made. The “nice little people” suddenly grow horns. I remember a famous man-and-woman team who generally headlined and occupied the next-to-closing position. An Irish and Jewish combination, they professionalized this fact and played it to the hilt for audience reaction. He was a boisterous sort of a comic, and she had a hearty, contagious laugh that she used onstage to good effect. They used to patronize us to such an extent that at times we felt like a couple of orphans being visited by prospective foster parents. The day finally arrived. We opened in a new town, and the team just didn’t seem to jell. They just couldn’t make it. The local manager came backstage after the matinee, and before he could tell the team what he was going to do, they told the manager what he couldn’t do—but he did it! Lowry and Prince went next to closing, and our patron saints went on second, where they continued to suffer from acute audience indifference. In the next-to-closing position, we “killed ’em,” which is a modest way for a performer to say, “We did okay.” Sparked by this triumph, we started pushing. The very next week, however, we bounced right back into the number-two spot. It looked like the dice were loaded. It took a good five or six minutes before we could even get a lukewarm response. There were other beefs, too. In most vaudeville theaters, on each side of the lobby were three-sheets advertising the show. Invariably, the “nice little people” had their names billed in small print at the bottom of the three-sheet. Usually, it was just high enough off the pavement for the dogs to reach. I often used to wonder if by some fluke the name Lowry in dog language could be tree, spelled backwards. At Proctor’s Theatre in Elizabeth, New Jersey, we weren’t second—we were first! Only four acts on the bill. Mrs. Ezra Kendall was second, and on third, we had Fred Astaire and Adele Astaire. The Stan Stanley Trio closed the show. This was in June 1916. Fred and Adele did their act, and we stood in the wings and watched. Way back then, as children, they were smart and had style, known in theatrical parlance as class. We thought their mother, who was chaperone, had the dignity of a queen. “We were a bigger hit than they were,” said Teddy, fibbing to herself as well as me. Actually, we were jealous of these kids. Nevertheless, we were conscious of their high polish. Their mannered charm impressed us, and

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before this split week was over, Ed and Teddy Lowry had made many observations and also some resolutions. “Tone down and polish up” was the order of the day. Teddy’s black velvet suit with the white-fur trimming spent more and more time in the trunk. My patent-leather dancing shoes were now worn only onstage. We were teething and getting growing pains. Two years later, we appeared with the Astaires on a Sunday concert at the New York Winter Garden. If Fred and Adele were at all observing, they could very well have decided that the Lowrys had spent those two years in charm school. Proctor’s Fifth Avenue Theatre was professionally known as a toughie. It was continual vaudeville, so after the first show, the position that one had on the program was no longer a factor. We all fared the same and felt good about it—even at the Fifth Avenue. Variety reviewed our turn under “New Acts,” saying that if we could bolster our talent and personalities with some stronger chatter, we would be strictly big time. With the Variety review as a selling point, we convinced Tommy Gray to write us a new act. Tommy had first-rate credits and eclipsed us, but after seeing our act, he took a sort of paternal interest and gave us a wonderful deal. We paid him more in gratitude than in cash. Some of the jokes he wrote for us in 1916 are still kicking around: Girl: I stopped growing when I was ten years old, and I’ve been the same size for the last six years. Boy: (after big take) That makes you sixteen? Girl: That’s right, and I asked the orchestra leader how old he is today. He’s just eighteen. Boy: You’re sixteen, and the big lug down there is eighteen? Girl: That’s right. How old are you? Boy: I’ll be six next Tuesday. Yock! Yock! Yock! Boy: Do you know, when my father was born he weighed only three pounds. Girl: Gee, did he live? These gags were called “nifties,” and Tommy Gray gave us enough nifties to make our act a hit wherever we played, though maybe you wouldn’t think so the way the material sounds here.

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After our opening performance, we no longer sat in the dressing room fearing that dreaded knock on the door. In fact, we got so full of confidence that we even sent out our laundry on an opening day before the manager saw our act. Edward Livingston, Artists’ Representatives, made quite an impression on us with his Stutz Bearcat sports car. He claimed he could get us a contract for the entire Loew Circuit. His claim materialized, and he became our new agent. This was a real break. We played almost an entire season around New York, working like mad. Whether we were on second or fourth, whether we did three shows, four, or even five a day didn’t matter. We saved every penny we could and soon were the proud possessors of a Chevrolet Touring Car, which, at that time, sold brand-new for $520. We were a couple of happy kids, more in love than ever, finding pleasure in everything. These were exciting years. We knew how to laugh then. The booking office paid us the compliment of placing us on the opening bill of the Rialto Theatre in Chicago. The new theater was still unfinished when the show started. Such confusion! Teddy, clad in a pair of kid’s rompers, was onstage, acting real cute with a song, “Be My Little Baby Bumble Bee.” Then one of Anita Diaz’s monkeys got loose, causing havoc. Our last week on the Loew time was at the Lincoln Square Theatre in New York. Fred Allen was on the same bill. Fred was a juggler then, but he did a lot of patter, which was entirely too smart for this venue. At the finish of his act, while he took his bows, he had pictures of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt flashed on the curtain. After the fifth show on Sunday night, we packed our duds and dog-tired hopped into our Chevy. It was raining. The streets were muddy and full of ruts. A man started to run in front of the car and suddenly changed his mind. I slowed down almost to a stop, but unavoidably he got splattered with mud. I jammed on my brakes and apologized. Ignoring me, he walked around to the rear and deliberately kicked a vicious dent in the fender, gleefully thumbed his nose, and shouted, “You lousy idle rich.” Work was scarce in July and August in the days before theaters had air conditioning. Actors who could afford it would be off to a summer resort. Our first vacation was at Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey, which boasted quite a theatrical colony. Joe Cook was honorary mayor. Bert Lahr was a Hopatcong enthusiast, and it was he who convinced us to take a place there.

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My brother Hank, his wife, Kitty, Teddy, and I rented a tin-roofed shack at one end of the lake. We called it Hoofer’s Rest. We had a big opening, and if you couldn’t do a time step, you couldn’t get in. The party was going great guns when suddenly at midnight, a motorboat with a big searchlight pulled up to the landing. A uniformed policeman, standing on the bow of the boat, blew his whistle and shouted, “Break it up, you hams, or I’ll throw you all in the hoosegow.” We all fell for this cop, who was wearing a New York City uniform in the State of New Jersey. It was Frank Davis, of Cole, Russell, and Davis. He was wearing the very same uniform he used in his act as a costume for his comedy patter. Next day, we drove to the village and were in the general store shopping when a typical musical-comedy sheriff with a big silver badge and a white goatee entered the store. “Anyone in here own that Chevrolet that’s parked outside?” he inquired. “I do,” I shouted. “Well, you’ll have to move it,” he drawled. “Got to make room for one of the county’s vehicles.” I took one look at this character and was immediately reminded of how I had fallen for Frank Davis the night before. Full of confidence, I reached over and pinched his cheek. “Very funny, Joe, now you can remove the chin piece because I know ya!” Then I turned to the gang and shouted, “Hey, kids, come here and get a load of this makeup.” Positive that this was another practical joke, we joined hands and circled the sheriff. He blew his whistle real hard, and we laughed all the harder. Half an hour later, I paid a twenty-five-dollar fine for disturbing the peace and showing disrespect for a real police officer. James B. McGowan, a Chicago agent, arranged a nice route for us on the Western Vaudeville Circuit at a thirty-five-dollar-a-week increase. Again, we started in Michigan. Here we met Harold Woolf, a legit actor, and Helen Stewart, a dancer. They were man and wife and did a real high-class sketch together. In fact, they were real classy people. Until we started fraternizing with them, Teddy and I didn’t know the difference between anchovy paste and Le Page’s glue. They had poise and sophistication and the faculty of making others feel perfectly at home in their company. After the first week, we lived where they lived and ate where they ate. Some of the finer hotels had frightened us at first, but we soon learned how to enjoy them. We got a liberal education on how to order good food and, even more important, 48

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how to eat it. Thanks to our Harold and Helen, we went through such a refining process that we even stopped stealing hotel towels. We were booked to appear at a Sunday concert at the Winter Garden in New York. I doubt if there has ever been a bigger variety show assembled except possibly for some great benefit. We were in the midst of World War I, and business was booming. Here’s the way the lineup read in the New York Telegram, dated March 16, 1918: Al Jolson

Ed Wynn

Jack Norworth

Frank Fay

Ben Welch

Felix Adler

Hale and Paterson with the original Dixieland Jazz Band Fred and Adele Astaire

Farber Girls

Maurice Abrahams and Eddie Cox Dancing Kennedys

Ada Mae Weeks Schooler and Dickinson

Ed and Irene Lowry

Margaret Joyce

On that show, we figured to attract about as much attention as a flea at an elephant stampede. Nevertheless, it brought a telephone call from Harry Fitzgerald, a big-time agent. He predicted great things for us but suggested revisiting the act a little and recommended that we get some help from a writer. His choice was Walter C. Percival, who wouldn’t try to bite off too big a chunk for himself. We had played on the Loew Circuit with Walter when he did a sketch with Renee Noel. He seemed tickled to hear from me and said, “Ed, if I can’t double your salary, my effort goes for free.” In three days, he had fit all our best material into a cute idea called “Fifty-Fifty.” Walter had good taste and had been around. He came along with us to Perth Amboy when he broke the act in and then saw it again at Plainfield, New Jersey, at the end of the same week. He only comment was, “Kids, you’re ready for any place.” First, to play it safe, we booked some army camps for half salary—camps Dix, Green, Wadsworth, and Meade. The doughboys were the greatest audience in the world. At the Shubert Theatre in Brooklyn on a Sunday night, Harry caught the new act and gave it his stamp of approval. The next day, he booked us for four weeks in town at $250 a week. This was twice as much as we had 49

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received on the Loew Circuit. I called Walter to tell him the good news. He congratulated me but wasn’t surprised. He said, “Eddie, I just had a miserable day at the racetrack. I’m really in hock. If you can dig me up two hundred clams tonight, the act is all yours without any strings attached to it.” I went over to the Princeton Hotel and was greeted by Renee, whom he affectionately called “Kate.” She played the nurse in his act and actually played that role at home for a great part of Walter’s life. She started to apologize for what she called an imposition, but I assured her that I was thrilled to have the opportunity to show my appreciation to Walter. When I handed him the green stuff, as he called it, he heaved a big sigh, kissed the money, and said, “Boy, you saved my life. My bookie will bless you.” Walter jokingly said that I had saved him from his bookmaker. Early in his career, while appearing in England, he was stricken with some awful disease. The British medics didn’t think he would survive for more than a few months. He returned to America, where our doctors were also certain that Walter’s days were numbered. They counted him out twenty-five years before he died. Though always harboring the thought that he was living on borrowed time, he was not one to sit and fret. During that quarter of a century, Walter, a colorful guy and a loveable one, lived it up with reckless abandon and jammed plenty of life into every minute he spent on this earth.

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No Excuses in Show Biz

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oward the end of World War I, we played a week’s engagement at Proctor’s Theatre in Newark, New Jersey. During the morning rehearsal, on opening day, Harry Fitzgerald phoned to say he would be at the matinee with Flo Ziegfeld. “Let’s have a good show, Kid. You’re practically in.” Breathlessly, I broke the news to Teddy. Immediately, our dressing room became alive with excitement. “I knew it, I knew something good would happen today,” she shouted excitedly. “It’s in my horoscope. I read it in the paper this morning. I want to wear my yellow dress. Yellow is my lucky color. Sweetheart, please attach the iron for me. I want to press the dress.” She then grabbed me, we kissed, and she jumped for joy as she squealed, “Honey, this is it. I just know this is it.” Meanwhile, I was fidgety, a bundle of nerves. The only cure I knew in those pre-Miltown days was to busy myself physically. I started hoofing in the dressing room and then went into a limbering routine that was rather violent. In a squatting position, I bounced around like a monkey, spinning, turning, and stretching. Nijinsky himself never went through a more varied assortment of gyrations. Next, I picked up my clarinet and exercised my fingers like a virtuoso. Anything to keep occupied. At last came show time. As we walked backstage, we laughed nervously when we realized we had forgotten to eat lunch. It was almost time now. We embraced, then kissed. and said, “Good luck.” As I turned, I was sure I saw Teddy bless herself. While the preceding act was bowing off, we stood in the wings all keyed up and in position to make our entrance. Suddenly, the front curtains closed, and the lights went out. Then the curtain reopened slowly, and a bluish light gave the stage an eerie appearance. A man solemnly walked to the center and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the management interrupts this performance so that we may all join in silent prayer for our boys, over there.” 51

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The organist played a hymn. Soon it was finished, and so were we! Lights went up, the card boy put our card on the easel—Ed Lowry and Irene Prince in “Fifty-Fifty.” The orchestra started our music. Two introductions, first pianissimo, second double forte, and out onstage, we ran for twelve full minutes of tumultuous silence. I don’t wish to be disrespectful, but when we finished our act, it sounded like the audience was still joined in silent prayer for the boys over there. Our opening routine of nifties went right out the front door. My comedy song, “With his hands in his pockets and his pockets in his pants, he gets a little wiser every day,” and all the topical tag lines that went with it created as much hilarity as a dirge. Then came Teddy’s entrance in her male attire, of which Variety’s Hal Halperin had said at McVicker’s Theatre in Chicago, “Anyone who doesn’t applaud this number should be reported to the Society for the prevention of cruelty to dolls.” Well, my little doll should have stayed in bed that afternoon.We went through our unison dance. Teddy’s outfit was an exact replica of mine, in miniature. As we started for the exit, Teddy jumped on my back, I carried her a few steps and then set her down and said, “Fifty-fifty,” then I jumped on her back, and she carried me off, and I shouted, “Sixty-forty!” No doubt the two people who applauded were her mother and father. We still had hopes because next came our big finish, my knee drops. I never did them better. I remembered everything Bill Robinson had taught me and performed like mad. We rated two quick bows that just gave Teddy time to ask under her breath, “Who does the embalming here?” In spite of the poor audience response, we felt we had given a good performance. I had often heard it said that good producers make their own appraisal of talent and are never influenced by audience reaction. Comforting myself with this thought, I rushed over to New York, anxious to hear Ziggy’s verdict. Fitzie didn’t mince words. “Too bad, kid, but as far as Ziegfeld is concerned, you’re dead.” I immediately went on the defense, but Harry set me right down. He said, “Look, son, I know all the answers and all the alibis, but Florenz Ziegfeld has one stock line with which he always hits us in the puss. Remember it. Quote, ‘There are no excuses in show business,’ unquote.” On the way back to Newark, I kept repeating that line. “There are no excuses in show business.” It’s true, so true! After a show is over, you can’t go out in the lobby and grab each customer and explain that things would 52

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have been different “if.” I guess these situations all come under the heading of “breaks.” One never knows whether the bad break wasn’t actually a good break, or vice versa. “If” we had played Newark two weeks later, the war would have been over. If the war had been over, there would have been no prayer. If there had been no prayer, we would probably have been a hit. If we had been a hit, then Ziegfeld would probably have put us in the Follies, and the whole course of our lives would have been different but not necessarily better. I just happen to be very pleased with the course life took, so why give an “if” about Ziegfeld? At the time, however, we were crushed. When I got back to Newark, Teddy was already in the theater. As I walked into the dressing room, she took one look at me, and I guess my face told the story. This had been our swiftest buildup and quickest knockdown. Not only were we let down but I was griped over the line, “There are no excuses in show business.” I said, “So it’s our fault that there’s a world war.” Teddy cried and tried to console me; I, in turn, tried to console her. Then, as always when we were disappointed and in trouble, we just clung to one another, had another cry and a few drenched kisses, and we were back up and at ’em with renewed determination. So when Ziegfeld dropped us on our heads, we landed on our feet and came out punching like a couple of hungry fighters. We bounced out on that stage an hour later and stopped the show cold. Polly Moran, the famous comedienne in silent pictures, followed us on the bill. She found the going tough, but she was smart. She rushed into the wings and dragged me out onstage. She then made me go through a whole routine with her burlesquing the act I had just done with Teddy. It was a roar! Fitzgerald kept us booked six and eight weeks in advance. We had grown up! We were now next to closing almost everywhere—the Poli Circuit in New England, Wilmer and Vincent time in Pennsylvania, the Delmar time in the South, and all the neighborhood houses in and around New York. The bank account was fattening up, Teddy was now flashing her first diamond ring—a carat-and-a-half solitaire—and our families were enjoying little luxuries that previously had been beyond their reach. A call from Fitzgerald’s office informed us we had been booked into some real big-time theaters on the road. “Big time—two-a-day.” We couldn’t wait. 53

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Our first date was Keith’s Theatre in Columbus, Ohio. As soon as we pulled into town, we eagerly bought the newspaper to see who was going to be on the bill with us. One look at the theater, and we were sick. Our names were in the smallest type on the bill. In front of the theater, we were once again on the very bottom of the three sheet, bull’s-eye for dogs to shoot at. Inside the theater at music rehearsal, we got a real belly drop. We learned we were back in the old deuce spot. Once again, we reverted to those “nice little people.” The next day, the Columbus Dispatch lauded us for some of the best dancing ever seen on the two-a-day. Not a word about the funny little nifties that were written by Walter Percival and Tommy Gray. The big-time treatment was gratifying, however, and we soon forgot the hurt. Here they referred to the performers as artists, and this we liked. The following week at the Mary Anderson Theatre in Louisville, the management gave a big Christmas dinner for the show at the Seelbach Hotel. We drank a toast to Mr. E. F. Albee, the head of the Keith Circuit, and another to our own organization, which he created, the National Vaudeville Artists. We were each presented with an NVA button. The insignia was a handshake. That represented the cementing of friendship between manager and artist. The standard joke backstage was that while the artist and manager faced one another and shook hands, the manager always had his knee raised, ready for use. At night, after the show, a few drinks were passed around, and then someone started a dice game in one of the dressing rooms. Full of food, we all got down on our knees on the cement floor, a fitting posture for praying to the god of fortune. About five in the morning, I reached down to scoop in a poker pot, but instead of getting up, I keeled over. When I came to, I was having a wild ride in an ambulance. At the hospital, my case was diagnosed as “from craps to cramps.” The doctor in charge decided to pump out my stomach. The one time the management gave us a dinner for free it was taken from me. The next engagement was at the Majestic Theatre in Chicago, one of America’s finest. The headline attraction was vaudeville’s greatest dance act, Bessie Clayton, supported by the Cansinos, brother and sister Eduardo and Elisa. (This was before the public knew his daughter, Rita Hayworth.) Lowry and Prince were on number two again, but on this star-studded show, we were where we belonged. Our biggest heartache was that during 54

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this engagement, our best friend came to review the show for his paper and confessed that he arrived a little late and missed our act. This was Hal Halperin, the Chicago editor of Variety. We became friends with Hal when we were real-green kids. Teddy and I started as a team about the same time that Hal started with a Chicago theatrical sheet, the Missouri Breeze. Through the years, we found Hal’s advice invaluable, which was why we decided to turn down the offered tour of the Orpheum Circuit in favor of the not-so-highly-regarded Pantages Tour. Hal’s lingo was priceless. “Go over and see Blood,” he said, “and tell him to call Jimmie the Mick, and tell him I want you kids set up for the Pan time. You’ll get a good spot and more moo than they would pay you on the big time. We’ll get it in your contract that you’ll never go on earlier than the number-three spot on the bill.” Hal loved to talk big, but when he talked big, he generally delivered. “Blood” was the charming tag he had pinned on Sam Kramer, Chicago’s best-dressed agent. “Jimmie the Mick” was Hal’s way of referring to Jimmie O’Neil. Hal probably knew way back then what it took me twenty-five years to learn. Handsome Jimmie the Mick, who had the map of Ireland on his kisser, was born in Milwaukee, and his legal name was Schaeffer, a full-blooded wienerwurst. Jimmie, an ex-performer, used to be the straight man of the act O’Neil and Walmsley. He was now Chicago representative for Alexander Pantages. Through Sam “Blood” Kramer, who acted as our agent, we got a fine deal. We had just one more week’s bookings to fill the Majestic Theatre in Milwaukee. Our headliner was Evelyn Nesbit, beautiful wife of the infamous Harry K. Thaw. Perhaps you have seen the story of her life in the motion picture The Girl in the Red Velvet Swing. On the same bill was my friend Joe Laurie. Joe and I didn’t work alike, and we didn’t look alike, yet folks constantly got confused over who was who. To this day, I get greeted occasionally with, “Hi, Joe.” Jokingly, Joe once told me, “Ed, it’s wonderful, for years you’ve been my alibi. I blame everything on you.” On his last trip to the west coast, Joe and I bumped into one another while crossing Hollywood Boulevard at Vine. In the midst of the traffic, we embraced. He patted my cheek and said, “Hi ya, Joe?” I returned the pat affectionately and said to him, “Nice seein’ ya, Ed.” Then we each ran for opposite sides of the street. This quick visit was the last I ever had with Joe Laurie. A sweet guy. I am sure he must be real popular up there. 55

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From Milwaukee, we went to the Pantages Theatre in Minneapolis, where our road show played the first week of its planned tour. We hadn’t previously met any of the acts on the bill. Teddy was puttering around in the dressing room, and I was moseying about backstage, both killing time while waiting for the opening-day matinee. I got the impression that the Pantages brand of show business was quite a few notches beneath the more highly regarded Keith and Orpheum Circuits. It also missed the personal touch one found on the Loew Circuit. J. H. Lubin, the Loew booker, was a warm, kindly soul who never wielded a whip. Theatrical scuttlebutt had it that Pantages had a stool pigeon on every road show. We had to be cautious and cagey to survive. This opening day, as I walked back to the dressing room, I heard some loud talking. Rucker and Winnifred, the “ebony-hued comedians,” were complaining to the manager about being placed in the second spot on the bill. They would have had my sympathy, as the number-two spot had been a heartache to us for years, but I couldn’t condone the way the one fellow expressed himself. “All as I can say is if dat act ya all got on number three can follie us wid our yodeling finish, den dey is welcome to dat spot!” In vaudeville, performers stop at nothing to make their act the most impressive one on the bill. The lowest stunt for an act to employ is to stop the show and, while the audience is clamoring for an encore, walk away. In a situation of this kind, the following act holds the bag but good. Generally, the audience won’t stop applauding; and if the following act should make an entrance, it is apt to be applauded right back off the stage until the preceding act comes back for a bow or a speech. After this kind of situation, the victim of the trickery will find the going is likely to range from rough to rugged. How to protect yourself in such a situation has given vaudevillians many a sleepless night. The yodel finish turned out to be dynamite, just as the boys said it would be. They milked it good until the applause reached solid show-stopping proportions. Then they walked away, and the one mumbled, “Follow that.” I did. In the opening of our act, I played the part of a stagehand. I walked right out carrying a chair and placed it center stage, then I turned to the wings as if someone were talking to me and said, “Huh?” I turned to the audience and, with a shrug of the shoulders, picked the chair up and carried it back offstage. The audience thought I goofed and started to titter. I 56

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was back a second later, again carrying the chair; I slammed it down in the same spot and looked out at the audience, as if to say, “Everyone’s nuts but me.” I walked for the exit, faked a stumble, took a fall and a forward slide, and got a yock. That was our cue for the music to start. Teddy made her entrance and started singing Tosti’s “Good-bye.” I strolled back on, looked at her in utter disgust, picked up the chair again, and started to walk off. Teddy stopped singing, ran after me, and swung me around indignantly. “How dare you interrupt my singing!” “Your what, lady?” “My singing,” she shouted. “I was singing.” I snapped my fingers and stamped my foot. “Doggone,” I said. Then I looked toward the wings. “You win, Joe, that’s what she was doin’. The lady was singin’.” We got off to a swell start, and the audience forgot all about the showstopping yodel. We weren’t too happy or too enthused, however, about our scheduled trip over the Pantages Circuit. After our act, I changed my clothes quite leisurely and strolled back onstage in time to see the closing act. This was a thrilling circus novelty, professionally known as a “casting act.” The boys hailed from Reading, Pennsylvania, but since a European name was considered more commercial, they were billed as the Four Danubes. While the two casters were tossing a third member to and fro, the fourth chap informed me that his name was Morris. As we stood there in the wings, he told me how happy he was to be back in show business. “Things were tough before we got these bookings,” he complained. “All last winter I had to take a job heaving coal in a furnace.” I don’t know whether any other members of the foursome were part-time stokers, but they did a great act. These guys were mighty attractive up on those bars, in their white tights, and in no time the gals on the bill were elbowing one another for a preferred position in the wings to watch the daring young men on the flying trapeze. Without the aid of any coal, they stoked a pretty good emotional fire in the hearts of several females—and I don’t mean heartburn. That evening, at dinner, we met Bill Zeck and Gladys Randolph. They were featured in the flash act “You’d Be Surprised.” These two seemed like our most logical companions. We had a few laughs together, but we were aware that these road shows could be explosive, so during this first week, we all played it a little cautious. 57

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Of course, there is always an exception. In this instance, it was Helen and Howard Savage, the sharpshooting act. Helen wanted all of us to know that she loved fun and that Howard, her husband, was interested only in bullets, guns, pistols, and rifles. Helen was young, pretty, full of life, and void of any inhibitions. Howard seemed completely oblivious of the spell that Helen cast on everyone else. Personally, I was a little gun-shy! I remember a warning my father once gave me: “Son, never have a gun handy, or someday you’re liable to use it.” Helen was either extremely flirtatious or was trying to incite murder. Most of the men on the bill were scared to death. She’d kid around and get real amorous and turn the steam on right in front of her husband. Then she would walk out onstage and deliberately make eyes at someone offstage, while Howard shot targets out of her mouth. For sixteen weeks, I stood in the wings and shivered, but no hits, no runs, no errors. On the train from Minneapolis to Winnipeg, a bunch of us were sitting in the smoking compartment. Someone started shuffling a deck of cards, but no one responded to the suggestion to play a little poker. A second later, someone started kidding around with a pair of leaping dominoes, and in a few moments, a real-hot crap game was going. That was my night. I couldn’t go wrong. After throwing three straight naturals, I was coming out for twenty dollars. I rolled the dice, and Billy Zeck grabbed them. “Look, Lowry, I don’t know you so well. For my money, throw the dice against the wall, please.” “Sure, Zeck, just keep fading me, and I’ll shoot them into an electric fan if you say so.” I threw the dice against the wall. Ouch! Two sixes. “Hm,” Billy gloated. “That’s different, what are you blushing for, Lowry? Embarrassed?” My embarrassment didn’t last long. I made so many successive passes that soon there were no more faders. I handed the dice to Morris, the boy from the casting act. “These yours?” “They were.” He opened the toilet door and flushed away the dice somewhere between Minneapolis and Winnipeg. After this dice game, Billy Zeck and I became good friends. We didn’t ask for mutual understanding; all we asked for was mutual admiration, and we were generous with that. The girls also kicked it off well together, and soon we were a real close foursome. This warm friendship did much to make the tour bearable for all of us. We generally saw eye to eye.

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While we were appearing in Helena, Montana, we read in the newspaper that Butte was completely paralyzed by a general strike. It also stated that the theater had closed its doors in sympathy with the department-store operators. I made a suggestion to the members of the show that we phone the manager in Butte and try to get some kind of commitment. If we weren’t going to work, it would be cheaper and simpler if we bypassed the town. Most of the actors were apprehensive about participating in any such call, so Billy and I decided to do it on our own. The manager assured us that the strike would be over and the show was expected in Butte as per contract. Upon arrival, we found the strike was still on. Since there was no transportation, we had to walk to the hotel with our luggage. We then found every restaurant in town closed. The manager neither met us nor contacted us. We scrounged food wherever we could and heated it on cans of Sterno in our hotel rooms. The second day, at five in the evening, the manager phoned us at the hotel to rush over to the theater. He planned to open for the two evening performances. The strike was still on, and thousands of people were loafing. As soon as the sign “Open” was put up in front of the theater, the people started lining up at the box office. Backstage, the manager made it clear that the performers would be paid for only two and two-thirds days. Though actors generally don’t get paid when there is a strike, we felt the manager had no right to close down when the dispute didn’t concern show business in any way. He also had no right to bring us into town without making some provision for us to get fed. It was now obvious that he was going to do a land-office business, undoubtedly grossing more money than he ordinarily would have in the scheduled four days. Bill and I decided we should demand full salary, and if the manger wouldn’t concede, then we’d go on strike. The response of the troupe wasn’t too encouraging, so Bill and I elected ourselves to be the delegates who would call on the manager. When we walked into the front office, the manager seemed to know what was on our minds. Seated at his desk, he never looked up, merely grunted, “Well?” I started to review the situation, giving our version of why we felt we were entitled to our full salary. Without even glancing toward us, he picked a gun out of the left-hand desk drawer. “Sir,” said Billy, with a slight tremolo, “are you trying to intimidate us with that gun?”

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“No,” said the manager, still not looking up. “If I were trying to intimidate you, I’d put the gun out here on the desk, like this.” And he did! Billy and I simultaneously decided that discretion was indicated. We were not ready for trigger mortis. We walked to the door, silently but pronto. Outside, we had a quick, nervous conference. Too proud to show our fear to each other, we shouted back to the manger in unison, “You may shoot us, but you can’t make us work!” He shouted back, “When the curtain goes up, the show will go on. I’ll see to that!” Billy and I went backstage to try to organize the strike. Howard Savage complained that we were pinning him to the cross. Since he was the opening act, he felt all the responsibility of refusing to go on would fall on his shoulders. Fearing he would let us down, we had our wives engage him in conversation while we locked the manager’s guns in a dressing room. The manager threatened and stormed, but when the audience started clapping in rhythm and got unruly, he called us all onstage and said, “I think this is outrageous. It’s an out-and-out holdup, but I have no alternative. You’ll get your full salaries. Put on the show!” For three days, the auditorium was jammed. The audience was figuratively hanging from the chandeliers. After the final show, we were all packing and rushing to catch our train, but the manager was nowhere to be seen, and no one had been paid. Suddenly, the stage manger popped up. “Oh, say, folks, I have your pay envelopes.” If Pantages had stool pigeons in that show, there were plenty of tales to carry after we opened our envelopes and found we were paid for only two and two-thirds days. Billy and I needed a twin doghouse after the incident. Most of the troupe blamed the whole affair on us. “We probably would have received full salary if they hadn’t antagonized the manager,” one of them said. When we told how the manager flaunted a gun, Howard wanted to know what caliber. I told him we didn’t know a shotgun from a water pistol, to which he replied, “Humph, then I should think you wouldn’t try to talk for other people.” Morris moaned, “I only hope I don’t land back in Reading, heaving coal in a furnace.” This was my first and last attempt at being an organizer. In the future, my slogan would be, “Speak for yourself, John.” I wrote Mr. Pantages a 60

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letter fully explaining the incident. I expressed my sentiments truthfully and pulled no punches. I concluded with “I am sure your sense of fair play will prohibit you from condoning the manager’s behavior.” That got immediate action from Mr. Pantages, who wrote, “Your contract with the Pantages Circuit expires June 20th, at which time I suggest you seek employment elsewhere.” The letter arrived in Walla Walla, Washington, leaving us plenty of time to plan ahead and arrange further bookings. We were happy to be playing Seattle the next week. Bert Hanlon and several other friends were on the bill at the Orpheum. This gave us a chance to renew old friendships and get away from the tension. Bert was one of the first of many fellows from Harlem who went into show business. The first time I saw him onstage was at the Imperial Theatre on 116th Street and Lenox Avenue. The Imperial was a springboard for many of our great entertainers. It was here that I first saw Walter Winchell, George Jessel, Harry Green, and dozens of others whose names became important in show business. And it was here that I got my first nervous stomach watching my brother Hank in a two-man hoofing act with Percy Brown. Lowry and Brown wore straw hats, wooden-soled shoes, and checked suits, trimmed with black braid. All hoofers sang “Dear Old Moonlight” and did the same buck-and-wing routine. I was in my last term in school when I saw these shows, but I was so impressed that I remember every act as if it were yesterday. I thought Bert Hanlon was one of vaudeville’s top entertainers. His number “Oh How I Hate an Olive” was so believable that I became a confirmed enemy of the beastly things. Green ones or ripe ones, I can’t stand ’em, except in an extra-dry martini. Before we left Seattle, Bert had written us a new version of “Fifty-Fifty” and an opening song that we felt would be a wow. We finished our tour for Pantages as scheduled and were mighty happy to jump right back to the State-Lake Theatre in Chicago for the Orpheum Circuit. As soon as we handed our music books down to the genial Jimmie Henschel at rehearsal time, our spirits rose. We were back in real show business. After Chicago came the Palace and Milwaukee, and then we were through with shop for a while. We headed for home. The Pantages time was no joyride. We were finishing this season ready and anxious for our vacation. 61

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We had fared well financially on the tour, and I decided to help crystallize a dream of Teddy’s Pop. My father-in-law had worked all his life in a cigar factory. Now slightly over fifty, he found himself unemployable. When we arrived back in New York, I offered to finance him in a little cigar factory with a retail outlet. Overcome with emotion, he looked at me as if he didn’t believe I meant it for real. “Does the Cricket know about this?” The “Cricket” was Pop’s title of endearment for Teddy. I assured him the entire matter had been hashed over at home. Several days later, we found a location, and then I accompanied Pop while he bought bales of tobacco and ordered cigar boxes, bands, and equipment. We opened a moderate checking account in his name, and I remained a sort of silent vice president in charge of collecting headaches. With things moving in what we hoped were the right direction, Teddy and I took off for our vacation. Every summer, we seemed to accumulate a bigger family of troupers. This year we had a regular caravan, and we headed for Black Lake, New York, up in the Catskill Mountains. We all got lodgings at the mayor’s house. It became like a branch of the National Vaudeville Artist’s Club. There were Rene “Peewee” and Frank Masters, Dottie and Harry Masters, Elsie and Jack Kraft, four Lowrys, and, later, Billy and Gladys Zeck. Living under one roof, everyone had a built-in knack for making with the practical jokes. If you didn’t find a frog in your bed, you were apt to discover a baby goat in the wardrobe closet. When Billy Zeck arrived, my brother Hank and I were fishing off the boat landing. Billy was still wearing his city clothes. His shirt collar was wilted from the heat. He’d never fished in his life and couldn’t wait. Hank gave him his line and baited the hook. As soon as Billy threw out the line, Hank picked a sunfish out of the bucket and climbed under the boat landing. While I engaged Billy in conversation, Hank cautiously hooked the fish onto Billy’s line and then gave the line two firm jerks. Billy let out a whoop and yanked in this poor little sunfish as if it were a whale. Such excitement! He hopped around like he was standing on a hot tin roof. “Hey, Gladie,” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come down and get a load of this.” It so happens that Gladie was disrobing to get into a bathing suit, but Billy kept yelling and created such a ruckus that by the time he caught the same fish three times, she grabbed a robe and baseball bat and came running. No Dodger fan at a World Series ever screeched, howled,

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or carried on the way Billy did the five successive times he whipped in that same, tired sunfish. Hank felt it was getting monotonous, so he gave the fish a rest, and Billy had the pleasure of hooking in an old pink silk chemise. There were dozens of other performers summering in the vicinity. We used to meet at a hotel over at White Lake. One night, Buddy Doyle, one of vaudeville’s innumerable Jolson imitators, got us all together to do a benefit show. We didn’t even know whom it was for but jumped at the idea of giving off a little steam. It was such fun and such a gravy audience that we would pop over to the hotel several times a week and clown around and improvise a show. These vacationing performers did much to create what finally became known as the borscht circuit, whence came some of our most famous entertainers. One Sunday afternoon, we staged a charity baseball game. We rode all around the countryside and picked up enough players for two teams. We called ourselves the Show Stoppers. We played against the townspeople, who called their team the Sullivan Countyites. We had our regular gang and, in addition, rounded up Jack Pearl, Senator Francis Murphy (the comedian), Joe Browning, Si Browning, Jack Sidney, Sid Gould, Wallace and Cappo, the Harmony Four, Jack Linder, the producer of the Mae West Show, and two agents, Meyer North and Joe Flaum. Everybody wanted to be the pitcher, so we made Dot Masters the manager and let her decide. After due consideration, she decided to pitch herself. Gladie Zeck wanted to play left field. Why? Because it seemed a nice quiet place to read a good book she had brought with her. As things turned out later, four innings passed before she knew we were supposed to change sides. The wives acted as umpires. Peewee was umpiring behind the plate. Wearing a catcher’s mask and a chest protector, she was knitting a sweater. The pitcher would throw a ball, she’d go right on knitting. and, without even looking up, she’d shout, “Sttrrrike!” She liked that word, and so she called no balls. Jack hit a ball and ran to third base instead of first; Teddy called him “Safe.” The opposing captain, pointing to first, said, “Lady, he belongs over there.” “All right,” she replied, “So he’s left-handed.” At one time, we had eighteen men on our side, but the Countyites ended up with twenty-two runs to our nothing. Yet, we made history at bat. Jackie Kraft hit a high fly, and, just as the fielder reached for it, Elsie Kraft pulled

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the guy aside and gave him a kiss. Four of our men started running for first, and by the time they reached third, the whole team was running the bases. Murphy was too tired to run, so he rode the bases on a motorcycle. The mayor supplied the refreshments—a whole barrel of applejack, which is another name for cider with authority. We had no idea this stuff was intoxicating. It was a hot day, and we kept filling up on the cider. Gradually our team got smaller and smaller until finally the mayor announced, “Game called on account of applejack!” A telegram cut our vacation short. Six good weeks’ work, three of which were the choicest summer bookings vaudeville had to offer. From the mountains to the seashore with pay. First, Brighton Beach Music Hall, which was at the tail end of Coney Island, when that place was the crème de la crème. Then a week on the beautiful pier at Atlantic City, with its gorgeous beach and the luxury of being pushed for miles each night on the boardwalk in a wheelchair. This was the real big time. At these fine two-a-day amusement places, work was a beautiful adventure with pay. Before and after the matinee, we would loll around on the beach with other players on the bill and get a suntan while fraternizing with glamorous stars and big name artists, such as Pat Rooney Jr. and Marian Bent, Helen Morgan, Elsie Janis, Emma Carus, the Dolly Sisters, and many others of equal prominence.

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ur bookings kept us around New York for many weeks, giving me an opportunity to help Pop get the cigar business going. I enjoyed selling. Mornings from ten until noon, I made the rounds and created a lot of customers for the Muriel cigar. I’d keep going until the last minute and then rush madly to Proctor’s Twenty-third Street, the Greenpoint in Brooklyn, or even Yonkers or Mt. Vernon, to do our matinee. Before long, the Muriel cigar was on display in every restaurant and café around Times Square. A big bargain in cigar bands and labels from a defunct company explains how we selected the name “Muriel.” I had always had a pocket full of cigars, and every cigar smoker I met got a sample. Thus, “Muriel” built customers for both our cigar-box trade and over the counter. Along Broadway and particularly at the NVA Club, it became a gag to greet me with my own stock line, “Have a cigar.” During the season, we again played Proctor’s Fifty-eighth Street Theatre, and one afternoon received a note from an old classmate of Teddy’s, Ben Shainin. Ben was scouting for his brother-in-law, at that time one of the biggest agents in the business. Just to meet Edward S. frightened us. He handled such stars as Van and Schenk, William Rock and Frances White, Belle Baker, and many others too numerous to mention. A charming man, he liked our act and agreed to represent us but preferred not to take us in hand until after the summer lull. We passed up our pals in the mountains in favor of a hot-weather engagement at Electric Park in Kansas City. Roy Mack was the producer of a pretentious show. Sixteen beautiful girls, gorgeous costumes, fine singing and dancing, plus half a dozen vaudeville acts. The show, the big attraction of the park, was called Electric Park Follies, and we were the stars of the troupe. In addition to our own act, Roy used us throughout the show and 65

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pretty much let me run hog wild. He had sold us big to Mr. Hines, the owner of the park, an oddball who covered up a soft heart with a phony gruff exterior. Mr. Hines spent half the day looking up at the sky. The park was insured against rain, but when the weather was cloudy and threatening, it meant poor business and, of course, no insurance to cover the falloff. At such times, he would get grumpy and pound his cane on the ground or slam it against the back of the seats until it fell out of his hand in splinters. Before the season ended, he had broken numerous canes. The cloudy day on which the show was scheduled to open, Mr. H. was having one of these tantrums. He watched me walking through a rehearsal and kept calling Roy Mack over to complain that I wasn’t doing anything. Roy tried to pacify him with assurances that I sang a funny song, I told a joke, and I did a sensational dance routine. The cane beat a tattoo for a while, and then Hines insisted on seeing my dance. Roy tried to explain that I did trick steps of a type that a performer never goes through at a music rehearsal. “By God!” Hines shouted. “I wanna see what I’m paying for.” “Go on, Ed, “ whispered Roy, “give him a couple of quick knee drops, will ya, the guy’s nuts.” Now I got difficult. “No dice,” I said, “no auditions.” “This show business is crazy,” he shouted, punctuating his point with a cane. “I understand that even if I don’t like you after I’ve seen you, I’m still going to be stuck with you for four weeks. What kind of a swindle is this?” The cane gave out with a trip-hammer beat. He stopped and added, “If you ain’t good, you’ll go out on your ear! And let me tell you something else, maybe Mr. Mack will go right out with you.” “Sir,” I replied with what I thought was sweet reasonableness, “if we’re not a hit, you don’t have to pay us four dollars because we wouldn’t stay here for four minutes. We happen to have pride, and if we’re a flop, we wouldn’t stay in your old park.” He looked up, surprised. “Well, you got spunk, I’ll say that for you.” “And talent, too!” I retorted. “You admit it, do you? Well, we’ll see.” He walked away swinging his cane furiously. At Electric Park in Kansas City that opening night, we had good reason to love the audience. It approved of us so enthusiastically that we remained 66

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at Electric Park for the entire summer. The biggest pushover among our fans was Mr. Walking Stick himself, the boss man who had a heart as big as the park he owned. With the start of the new season, we were enthused about starting under the Edward S. Keller banner. His was a powerful office with a capable staff: Bill Grady, who later went to Hollywood in charge of talent for Metro for a score of years; Ralph Farnum, a star maker regarded as the cleverest young agent on Broadway but handicapped by ill health and doomed to pass on very early in his career; Bert Wishnew, a teenager just starting his professional career as a glorified office boy and later my colleague at USO Camp Shows. Our first date for the office was a return engagement at one of our favorite show places, the Brighton Beach Music Hall. This time we had a good spot on the bill at a twenty-five-dollar increase. Again, we chose to live at the NVA Club, which functioned as a hotel for its members. When we checked in, several people shouted, “Have a cigar!” We got a kick out of this greeting, but an audit of our cigar business was less thrilling. The business was eating itself up. Pop complained that the yield of the tobacco he had bought was very disappointing: there was too much waste. The truth was Pop was a bust at figuring costs; in fact, the auditor informed me that we were losing a penny on every cigar that we sold. By this logic, we could have saved money by not selling any at all. Maybe I’d have been better off by just giving them away. The loss didn’t create any hardship for us, but I did not want to pour money down the drain. We cut out the wholesale end and converted the place into a retail cigar store. The new business staggered along and sustained my in-laws for another year, in spite of two holdups. Retirement, we finally decided, would be less bothersome for all concerned. After Brighton Beach came Henderson’s at Coney Island. Once a glamour spot, it had now deteriorated, but we used to gorge ourselves at the kosher delicatessen adjacent to the theater. Teddy was always annoyed at their custom of serving tea in a glass. After our rehearsal, she ordered a kosher corned-beef sandwich and then emphasized, “I want a cup of hot tea but please in a cup not a glass.” The waiter, with a rich accent, called the order, “One glass of tea in a cup.” The Hamilton Theater, next on our schedule, was on 145th Street and Broadway in upper Manhattan. This location meant dinner at home at Momma’s every night. Oh, how she loved those weeks. Each day, we would 67

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rush home after the matinee for a four-hour visit. We’d walk into the kitchen and sniff the aroma with great anticipation, and this tickled Mom almost as much as when we asked for a second helping at dinner. Three or four nights a week, we took her to the show and sat her in front to see our act for the nth time. Swelling with pride, she would nudge everybody within elbowing distance, “That’s my boy!” New England was next on the route, and the actors looked forward to playing a split week at Brockton. We seldom saw much of the town itself, but the Walk-Over shoe factory gave the players wonderful bargains in slightly imperfect shoes. We used to go wild buying these factory rejects: beautiful shoes for $1.50 and $2.00 a pair. This is one time I ignored my mother’s pet bit of philosophy, “You get poor buying bargains that you don’t need.” A member of a famous quartet bought twenty-one pairs of these shoes. During the last half of the same week in Boston, he dropped dead. When he died, the poor man was still wearing his old shoes. The irony of this tale is that the quartet used to feature a spiritual, “We’re Gonna Walk All over God’s Heaven.” Ben Bernie joined us in Syracuse. As we climbed off the train, he was behind us and shouted, “Have a cigar! Have a cigar!” I recognized the voice immediately, the Ole Maestro. We found Bernie suffering from “Palacitis.” This is an occupational disease that has never been listed in a medical publication. It first manifests itself with a collect wire from your agents that states, “Have booked you to play Palace week after next, confirm immediately.” The first symptoms are flutterings in your stomach, acute attacks of indigestion and heartburn, shortness of breath, and sleepless nights, accompanied by fantastic dreams and even nightmares. Palacitis is incurable until after you have made your first entrance on the Palace stage. In our act, I was using a comedy song title that Ben wanted desperately for the Palace. Unlike so many of our beloved brethren of the entertainment world, the Maestro was honest. Instead of just lifting this one-line gag, he asked for it and, in return, offered me any gag I wanted from his act. We made our trade, and then each night, we sat up in the hotel for hours talking over comedy material. Vaudeville comedy writers were scarce; if you weren’t creative, your career as a comic was ticketed for oblivion. During those days, a guaranteed laugh came from the song title “Never Go Around with a Married Woman unless You Can Go Two Rounds with Her Husband.” Wordplay was popular; so, too, were comic bits. 68

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Bernie’s worked as follows. The orchestra played “Poet and Peasant.” Ben stood poised, fiddle in hand, waiting for the end of each eight-bar passage. Then, during that brief interval, which was like a slight “luft” pause, he would step forward and play one stinkin’ little note. He would then step back again and, with great dignity, wait his turn, repeating the same business. Then, after the orchestra played their heads off, with a big grandiose finish, Ben would clear his throat, step forward very affectedly, and say, “For my next number.” That’s the bit. It used to convulse me, and for years, I did the same routine using a clarinet instead of a fiddle. After this enjoyable week, we headed once again for the Wilmer and Vincent Circuit in Pennsylvania. We didn’t have a merry Christmas in Altoona. Teddy was confined to the hotel room with a mean attack of the flu. The general atmosphere wasn’t very cheery. The melting snow was black with coal dust. The white curtains at the hotel were gray, the drinking water the color of champagne but certainly didn’t taste like it. The doctor ruled against Teddy working. Because three of the five acts worked in full stage, the manager was stuck and asked me to please try to hold the spot alone. Our act worked in what stagehands call “one.” While an act works in one in front of the curtain, it gives the stagehands time to set the scene for the following turn. Ordinarily, I would have been thrilled by the opportunity of getting a whack at the audience all on my own, but in this instance, we had no audience. Christmas fell on a Sunday, and this engagement was for the three preceding days, a time when show business is always poor, a time when you could say, “And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a souse.” Christmas morning, Teddy got a big lift when she opened her Christmas box and found a beautiful Hudson seal coat. She had admired this coat in New York but had no idea I had bought it for her. We exchanged a few more gifts and some hugs and kisses, and then we had our Christmas drink. I had a glass of sherry, and Teddy had a spoonful of Father John’s Cough Syrup. Soon after, we bundled her up in the new fur coat and took off for Allentown. Merry Xmas! The cough and cold persisted, and when the offer came for an eight-week tour of the Delmar Circuit, we did not need much urging. This engagement meant Miami, Jacksonville, New Orleans, warm weather, and sunshine. 69

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Financially, our season was very successful, but now that the wrinkles were out of my stomach, I was getting restless. Careerwise, I didn’t feel we had made any progress with our new agent. Farnum was not sympathetic. He argued, “You’re man and wife, the dough is all in one pocket, and you haven’t had one day’s lay-off. What do you want?” “It’s all in one pocket” was the corny line that every agent threw at you when you did an act with your wife. I wanted to go forward, determined not to be sidetracked. Mr. Keller gave us a little pep talk and what looked like very nice bookings for the new season. We started auspiciously at Erie, Pennsylvania, top billing, on next to closing. The audience ate up everything we dished out. The manager talked of holding us over for an extra week, which, with our bookings, was impossible. It meant much to our morale, though. We were sitting high up on the giraffe’s head. And then we reached Columbus, Ohio. This town was becoming a sort of nemesis where we always seemed to be put right back in our place. Second place. In first place was a monkey act. Not enough contrast, I guess, because we bombed. I was getting bitter. Why resign ourselves to the bottom of the heap when there was still plenty of room on top? I started toying with the idea of taking a whack at doing a single act. I had a premonition that I could go places on my own. This was no reflection on Teddy’s talent. She was a hefty fifty percent of the duo, but man-and-wife acts didn’t reach the top too often. After Columbus came Akron, a repetition of Erie. We were on fourth, and in the flamboyant lingo of an uninhibited hoofer, our act massacred the audience. On Tuesday morning, Teddy had a slight case of ptomaine poisoning. The doctor suggested she remain in bed. I assured him that the slogan “The show must go on” was the bunk. He wrote out a certification of Teddy’s illness for me to show the manager of the theater. She went to bed, and I went to work. It was quite an experience doing my first show alone to a packed house. I was a nervous wreck. I really didn’t have an act, though I had enough material to assemble a workable routine. The response was so good that Teddy feigned illness for two more days so that I could do a little more experimenting with the single. The third day, with a veil over her hat, she sneaked into the theater to watch me work. She seemed quite proud of me and suggested some very good pointers. I must confess that when we walked into Keith’s Theatre in Indianapolis the following week, I was feeling cocky. We were back at number two again, 70

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and that did it! I was convinced that the goal we were striving for as a team was hopeless. We were drawing down $350 per week, and that was good money in anybody’s bank, but we came to a decision. The week at Keith’s Theatre in Indianapolis was the final week for the act of Lowry and Prince.

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pon Teddy’s departure for New York, a few minutes before I left for Chicago, we clung to one another, saddened by the prospect of being separated. Still very much in love and unabashed at our own sentimentality, we were not ashamed of our tears as we said good-bye. We weren’t used to parting—not even temporarily—and when they announced Teddy’s train, we really made the emotional pendulum swing. The temptation to change our plans was so intense that I was about to redeem Teddy’s New York ticket and buy one for Chicago, but she refused. Teddy knew and understood me. I was either blessed or cursed by a driving determination to make good. This arrangement of going in different directions until I got started was a “must.” I knew if Teddy was near and available, the pressure from the agents would defeat my whole purpose. After Variety broke with a short story of our split, Teddy was offered some flattering jobs. Several established entertainers who propositioned her on a partnership basis also approached her. Teddy was not even slightly interested, though she had cause to feel flattered. We had our own understanding. If I made the grade on my own, she would forget her career and share the fruits of mine; if I didn’t make it, “Er, well, let’s forget that thought, because I was determined to make it.” Teddy wasn’t stagestruck and had no inclination to demand a share of the spotlight or fight for bows. She was proud of the fact that I wanted to be the breadwinner for the family. From this point on, being a wife became her profession, and, luckily for me, she made it her career. There was no welcoming committee on hand to meet me in Chicago. I was as popular as a gallstone. Our many friends all seemed to share the opinion that I had gone looney. It was heartwarming to know that Irene, as Teddy was known professionally, rated so well, but the final crusher came 72

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my way in the office of Variety, where I called on Hal. He roared like the MGM lion and really told me off. “Ed Lowry, you must be completely off your rocker. You have just cast aside the greatest meal ticket any man could wish for. I can pick up the phone right now, and in one hour I’ll guarantee you and Irene three years’ work.” There was no use trying to explain that I didn’t covet a meal ticket. This kind of talk merely made me more determined than ever. “Now look,” Hal persisted, “get on the telephone to New York and bring Irene out here, or call the depot and arrange transportation to go back there. Personally, I’m through talking to you until you start thinking like a normal human being.” This was my very dear friend. He had no axe to grind; this was how he honestly felt. I slunk out of Hal’s office, low and discouraged. He had absolutely no confidence in my ability to make the grade alone, and he left me with a funereal preview of what to expect from the various booking agents. Digging around the music publishers to pick up some stock orchestrations I would be needing for the act, I told my plans to a couple of song pluggers, who acted as if I were intending to steal their sheet music. They told me to forget going it alone. It was my conviction that these people were wrong, and I lost no time trying to prove it. I played a two-day stand at the Marlowe Theatre, a small-time dive with an enthusiastic audience. That gave me an opportunity to get organized—that and two additional days at LaSalle, Illinois, where I experimented and switched material until I developed a workable routine. Next day in the Woods Theatre, I got lucky and bumped into Murray Bloom. Though he was in the music business, at the moment Murray was searching madly for a likely person to emcee a big anniversary show in Davenport, Iowa. A few hours later, I was on my way to play a week at the Capital Theatre in Davenport. This engagement turned out to be just my dish. Gravy! Rave notices from two dailies. I was thrilled over these write-ups and amused to find a critic in Iowa using Variety-type slang. “Eddie Lowry Goals ’Em,” was the caption, followed by, “This young comic had the great audience of 2500 people literally on their backs with laughter. He was a riot! It is doubtful if a single act in Davenport ever created such hilarity and applause as Lowry did Sunday. He has surely awakened the town. Unless he winds up as a big-time headliner, all signs fail!” I was walking on air after this opening day, and I am sure that I fell asleep with a smile on my face that night. Later in the week, I dreamed up 73

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a fresh idea for my act and started breaking it in the very same day. My presentation was now to be called “In the Ring.” Likening a vaudeville act to a prizefight, I opened with a song and then told a few prizefighting jokes, implying that I, too, had been a fighter. “Well, aren’t we all a little punchy?” Then, I illustrated that the stage had its counterpart in the ring. The theater manager is the referee, the orchestra leader the timekeeper, and the audience my opponent, who I hoped to knock out. I gave myself six rounds in which to land my hefty punch. The drummer hit a gong, and the fight was on. Each specialty served as a round, after which I shouted, “Time.” “Round one,” I declared, “I’m gonna pepper you with punch lines.” I then sang a fast song with topical taglines. “Round two! I will now try to weaken my opponent’s resistance by softening him up with laughter.” I put on a funny hat and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses and did my funny business with a clarinet and the orchestra. After playing an off-key solo, during which I constantly berated the band for being out of tune, I started playing “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” Now, I blew a toy balloon out of the bell of the clarinet. In the next round, I announced that I was going to steal the style and punch of a great champion. I did a satirical imitation of Ted Lewis. This was the general idea right down to the last round, when I announced, “And here comes the KO!” The orchestra played John Phillip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and I went into my flashy dance, finishing with spectacular knee drops. “In the Ring” may have been corny, but anytime and anyplace in that day, it was certain to be a knockout. Back in Chicago, my enthusiasm landed on deaf ears. I could not get the interest of any of the better bookers, especially the ones who used to favor our double act. Finally, a friend of mine who did the booking for the Jones, Linick, and Schaeffer Theatres let me bend his ear, and I pressured him into a deal. He was to book me at the Rialto Theatre. No contract. No commitment. I merely made this proviso: “I will appear at the matinee, and if I am not a hit, I will quietly slip away without embarrassment to anyone. If I am a hit, my name is to be put in lights on the marquee of the theater right after the matinee. I will then leave it to your honor to make out a contract for what you consider an equitable salary, holding to a twohundred-dollar minimum.” A junior member of the firm, Johnny Jones, admired my courage. He said, “The kid’s got ‘moxie,’ let’s take a chance.”

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After the matinee, I walked out front and saw a man standing on the marquee of the theater fixing the lights. He had already put up two letters. ed. He was calling to his helper at the bottom of the ladder for more letters. “L-O,” he shouted. “L-O.” “’ello yourself,” I mumbled joyfully. Then I half ran and half flew to the Woods Theatre to break the news to a few skeptics. My contract arrived by mail the next morning. It was for $225, which I thought was fair enough. Offers came thick and fast now. I had landed a technical knockout, and my rating jumped accordingly. I figured Elgin, Bloomington, Peoria, and Joliet were just my speed at this stage of the game, as I had lots of hard work to do on my act before any big-time bookers should see it. In Chicago, I met Ruby Cowan, who, with Mack Stark, owned a music publishing house in New York. Ruby was trying to get some of the firm’s numbers popularized in the Midwest. We decided to share a suite at the Sherman House. There was a piano in the large room, and Ruby used to bring performers there to demonstrate his songs. The very first day, I listened to a tune Pete Wendling had written called “Maxie Jones, the King of the Saxophones.” Pete, one of our great ragtime pianists, had a new kind of a beat in “Maxie Jones,” plus an interesting lyric about a strutting saxophone man who played a right kind of jive in a Dixie dive. The tune was exciting. It was different. It was offbeat. I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t incorporate any more new material, but I simply couldn’t shake “Maxie.” Impulsive as usual, I went out and bought a B-flat soprano saxophone. My knowledge of the saxophone was next to nil, and I was too impatient to take time to learn the rudiments. I picked out the chorus by ear. I was so anxious to get “Maxie” into the act that I pounded away until my ears ached, and my throat was sore from blowing. Soon enough, I was able to play and strut at the same time. I wore a crushed high silk hat a la Ted Lewis, and after a hot lick, I’d stop blowing and fan the horn with the hat to cool it off. “Maxie Jones” developed into a priceless piece of material. No matter where or under what condition I was performing, as soon as the orchestra played the introduction to “Maxie,” I was “gone”—off in another world. The auditorium could have burned down, and I wouldn’t have known it. I loved the number, and I loved doing it.

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With the holiday season approaching, Teddy and I were getting lonesome for each other. We burned up the telephone every night, and I finally decided to wire the Keller office to arrange some bookings for me back in New York. They booked me in the Big Town for Christmas—a split week in the Franklin and Coliseum theatres. The Franklin, in the Bronx, catered to an enthusiastic vaudeville audience. The Coliseum, in Washington Heights, also drew a warm, responsive crowd. Pardon my modesty, but I killed them every show in both spots. Farnum caught my act and after the show was noncommittal. He had the knack of saying nothing very eloquently. The next day, however, he had me booked for twenty weeks. I was sentenced to five months on the road. My salary was upped to exactly where it had been for the two-act, but Farnum said the office felt my act needed considerable polishing. Agents have the persistent faculty of quoting “The Office.” I have still to discover who “The Office” is or was. These theaters in the Bush League were not dives or cracker boxes. All the big-name acts had to play a certain number of these dates to round out a complete season. Some were full-week stands, and many were split weeks and three-a-day. There was enough audience variation in these towns to help me tighten up my act and make it highly attractive. Late in June, I ended my season in Toledo, Ohio, where I picked up delivery of a Nash car. Teddy joined me, and we made a holiday out of a leisurely drive back to New York. Our first night at home always called for a celebration. Mom had the usual fiesta. With my mother on one side, Teddy on the other, a heart full of love, and a stomach full of strudel, this was a real Old Home Week. My brothers and sisters were on hand, and after dinner, they all grouped around and pumped me for a blow-by-blow description of my experiences on the road. Mom drew up real close and devoured every word. Through the newspaper clippings I had mailed home from the various cities, the folks remembered many of the acts and the people with whom I appeared. They took turns at shooting questions at me. Mom was interested in the Eddie Foy family because, like us, it had seven children. I gave them an imitation of the Old Gent doing his famous curtain speech. After the kids all lined up alongside of him, Foy would look out at the audience and quip, “It took me a long time to get this act together.” Mom loved that. We never indulged in vulgarities at home, but she laughed until she cried when I told her how, in Indianapolis, the older Foy went through about ten minutes of the act with his fly open. 76

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My sister Frances couldn’t wait to hear about the Siamese Twins, Daisy and Violet Hilton. These two kids, who were joined together from birth, knew how to laugh and to love life; they were crazy about show business. We became great friends. My family enjoyed hearing the gags I had pulled when I followed the twins on the bill, such as, “I had a date with the one kid but I couldn’t get her away from her sister”; or when I kissed Daisy, Violet sighed. I described the clever waltz they did with two boys, but it didn’t occur to me then to tell them that one of the boys was a chap by the name of Bob Hope. Several years after this first meeting with the Siamese twins, they visited me backstage in St. Louis. Violet said, “Gee, Ed, we’re getting to be fans. This is the third week that we’ve caught your show.” “How come you didn’t come back and say hello the first week?” I inquired. Daisy replied, “Well, er, we were afraid you might not remember us.” My brother Willie was excited over the fact I had met Al Capone while appearing at a banquet in Chicago. Arnold, my oldest brother, met a salesman who had caught my act in Dayton and told him I was the hit of the show. Though pleased and proud of me, Arnold always complained I was not getting enough money and it was all because I was an actor and not a businessman. Sister Stella, as usual, just sat and grinned, waiting for me to say, “I seen.” Without stopping the tempo of the story, she’d cut in with “Saw, Eddie, saw!” If there were a lull, she’d inquire, “Was Eva Tanguay really a wild one? What is Sophie Tucker like?” My sister Hattie knew a boy who was a cousin to Belle Baker. Did Belle cry for real when she sang about her kid? “Yes,” I assured her, “Belle loved to cry.” Hank preferred to hear all about Eddie Leonard and the Four Fords and Pat Rooney Jr. His interest was principally about dancers, until we got on the subject of relatives and talked about my aunt and uncle in New Orleans. Did I make all the spots on Rampart Street, and was Charlie Winehill still entertaining down there? How about those musical combos and some of those jug bands? My aunt and uncle knew every spot that jumped. Much of that music and many of the musicians eventually became famous. Around eleven, Mom would squeeze my hand affectionately and start yawning, our cue to break it up. For Ted and me, the night was just starting. A welcome-home party was scheduled for midnight at Ben and Goldie Shainin’s with more eats and cold cuts stacked to the ceiling. In those days, 77

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we never touched hard liquor, but oh, that sacramental wine. At Shainin’s, I elaborated on what I had ad-libbed at Momma’s. The stories got a little broader, the tales a little taller, and the gags a littler snappier. We headed for home at 3:30 a.m. Home at that time was the NVA Club on Forty-sixth Street, between Broadway and Eighth. While walking the three blocks from the garage, we’d meet someone at every corner. Broadway was wide awake. As we turned onto Forty-sixth Street, we bumped into Peewee and Frank Masters. Now, at almost 4 a.m., we sat on the empty milk cans outside the Riker Hegeman Drug Store and had a good old-fashioned coffee klatch, without the coffee. We were all feeling a little high, loaded with affections and emotion. Peewee was slobbering all over us and insisted she couldn’t love us more if we were related. “In fact,” she added, “not as much,” and she wouldn’t go to England with Frank unless we went along. Her continuity wasn’t very good, but neither was our listening. Eventually, we learned that Frank was leaving almost immediately to join George M. Cohan’s Little Nellie Kelly in London. Teddy assured Peewee she loved her with all her heart, but she’d love her even more if she could convince me that this would be a wonderful way to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. We sat up the rest of the night dreaming, planning, scheming, and anticipating. At 8 a.m., I sold my new Nash. The following Saturday, the impulsive Lowrys, along with Peewee and Frank, were tearfully leaning over the rail of the SS Olympic, waving good-bye to friends and relatives. Seven days of heaven in a brand-new world. Seven days and seven million laughs that started at our first meal. The steward handed us a French menu that we tried to translate into English while he attempted to help in French. The only French we knew had been acquired from labels on perfume bottles. Asked for a suggestion, he pointed to hors d’oeuvres. We were afraid to even try to pronounce this little delicacy, still less eat it. Of course, we were completely ignorant of the fact that earlier, in the salon, we had been gorging ourselves on the very same little tidbits that on the French menu read as horse’s ovaries. Our steward cast a jaundiced eye at our behavior, but that fazed us not at all. Instead of being embarrassed by our ignorance, we enjoyed it and laughed at everyone else. Eventually, it was made clear that we were leaving ourselves completely in his hands, and that restored his poise, which was impeccable. Thereafter, we were a well-fed foursome, even though we couldn’t spell what we were eating. 78

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A ship’s concert put us on the social map, enhancing our popularity. I was listed as chairman, which was the British way of dignifying an emcee. It was my pleasure at that concert to introduce one of the world’s all-time great singers, Chaliapin. Frank and Peewee improvised a dancing act. I also did my act and, with Teddy’s aid, interspersed skits and blackouts in which we kidded both crew and passengers. They loved it. For the balance of the trip, our only difficulty was to remain sociable and still keep our heads above alcohol. It was interesting to meet such a varied group of people as those on board. There were two hearty Englishmen who, in their plus fours, walked the deck tirelessly. These two we called the “Dolly Sisters.” To a wealthy meatpacker from Omaha, we gave the title “Butch.” Always on hand was the Australian bushman. The counterpart of a Texas cowboy, he told us so often he was a bushman that we christened him “Frances X.” From Chicago, there was a Mr. Neal. He wore a green beaver fedora hat, down on one side, up on the other, pince-nez glasses secured with a wide black ribbon, a Norfolk coat with a belt in the back, and knee-length knickers. His stockings had lumps in them from his long drawers. We called him “Neal the Schlemiel.” Two smart-looking French women seemed to enjoy our antics but never came close enough to participate. One balmy evening, during a dance on the deck, Teddy noticed the two French women standing on the sidelines, watching hungrily. She persuaded me to ask one of them to dance. I didn’t have to be prodded—they were stunning. Walking over to the prettier one, I smiled, bowed, and gestured toward the dance floor with my left hand while I twirled my right descriptively. She understood and seemed quite pleased. She danced divinely, in fact, I might say heavenly, in a tropical sort of a way. When the dance ended, we applauded madly for an encore. Her enthusiasm was flattering. Then, for the first time, I attempted conversation. “No speakie English, huh?” She smiled warmly. “Why, certainly, my deah, fluently. Et vous, monsieur?” (And you, sir?) Wow! Was my tongue tied! Our arrival in London provided a new kind of a thrill. Piccadilly Circus was as exciting as Broadway and yet so different: the traffic running on the left, the odd-looking double-decker buses, the old-fashioned hansom cabs and cabbies, the bobbies, and the strange spectacle of all sorts of people in varied types of attire riding on bicycles. 79

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At this time, American talent abounded in London. American shows and entertainers were appearing everywhere, and we did everything but stop the clock to cover all we had our hearts set on seeing. The very first night in London, walking down the hotel corridor to get to our quarters, we noticed that outside the door of most rooms, there were shoes, which had been set out for the porter to shine. Peewee just looked and then leered at me with that mischievous grin, and I knew things were going to happen. Not only did Room 416 find Room 411’s shoes in front of his door the next morning but also none of the laces fit the shoes they were in. Some were too long, others too short. Tan shoes had one black lace and one white one. The next morning, we left for a weekend in Paris, or there very well might have been four mangled Americans in a London hotel. Paris, seen from an open cab, was full of surprises. We were riding slowly along the boulevard on the outskirts of the city when we reacted to a sight that we learned was a commonplace. A man was relieving himself at a urinal on the street. You could see his legs from the knees down, and his head from the chest up. Peewee stood up in the cab, arms outstretched, and shouted, “Antoine.” Very much the boulevardier, he tipped his hat with an elaborate flourish and said, “Bon jour, Mademoiselle.” That was Peewee. Peewee? Come to think of it—a natural moniker for that occasion. She was a constant source of merriment, from the moment we walked up the gangplank of the SS Olympic until we walked down the same gangplank ten weeks later. This girl loved life in a fabulous, offbeat way that gave pleasure to everyone around her. It’s consoling to think that Peewee crowded in a rich lifetime during her brief thirty years on this earth. England at this time was in the throes of an economic depression, a lingering consequence of World War I. We were shocked at the poverty in the heart of London. Anyone walking down the street smoking a cigarette was followed by a sniper ready to pounce upon the discarded butt. At the back of the hotel each evening, dozens of hungry people would wait for the garbage cans to be brought out. It was appalling to see them grab and devour anything that was edible. The streets were crowded with beggars who could spot an American a block away, resulting in a steady handout of coins or cigarettes. In the theaters, there was a popular vogue of anti-American humor. One show in particular that infuriated us was “So This Is London,” a lampoon 80

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of an American that was both ridiculous and cruel. The protagonist of this extravagant spoof was portrayed as a tortoise-shelled, diamond-studded, gum-chewing idiot who wore a ten-gallon hat and tossed dollar bills around and threw away his diamonds because they got dirty. At the Palladium, we saw some more gum-chewing mimics who thrived on gags about money-grabbing Yanks. There was also a reference to the invasion of England by American actors. A comic at the Palladium, after stopping the show, cracked, “Thank you, talent lovers. I would be receiving a much-bigger weekly stipend for my efforts, only I am not an Amurikan.” Perhaps I was too immature politically to appreciate the feelings of the British people, particularly the actors. English acts were plentiful on our side, but, of course, so was work; whereas, in England, thousands of actors were unemployed. The general atmosphere at the Palladium enthralled us. The overture was beautiful, and so was the conductor in his tails and white gloves. The show opened with the Tiller Girls, who seemed wonderful at the start but lost their appeal as the show wore on. All this time, a bee was buzzing around in my bonnet. In brief, I was determined to play the Palladium Theatre. The next morning, complete with scrapbook, I hounded a famous gentleman by the name of Mr. Charles Gulliver. Gulliver certainly made me travel but finally granted me an interview. “I don’t book the acts,” he said, trying to get rid of me immediately. “Well, whoever does,” I said, “is suffering from just one handicap—lack of show sense!” “Er, what’s that?” “Nine acts,” I said, “and no diversification. One single after the other, inexcusable stage waits, conflicting talents, no pace, and a dearth of laughs.” “Very flattering,” he grouched. “You’re certainly insolent, typically American, and no joy to my disposition.” The following week, Ed Lowry preceded Nora Bayes on the bill at the London Palladium. As the opening day drew near, my stomach started doing nip-ups, accompanied by a pronounced loss of power, just as if I had blown a couple of gaskets. What I needed was some spot where I’d face a British audience for at least one performance. On the Saturday preceding the Palladium engagement, I convinced the managing director of the Stratford Empire to let me sneak in and try two 81

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evening performances before a London audience. At the stage entrance, Teddy and Peewee were with me as I was greeted by a doorman who wore a toupee made of rope. Teddy immediately started cracking, “Get a load of the hairdo on Willie.” Peewee topped her with, “Now I know what happened to the family mop. He’s probably using the handle for a walking stick.” Being extremely nervous, I laughed at everything. Backstage, they weren’t sure whether I was real jolly or downright silly. I always giggled when I was nervous, and when I ran onstage for my first number, I was quite the happy boy. “Clarence,” my opening song, was about a flapper who was imploring her sweetheart to take it easy. The alternate title for the song was “Don’t Tweat Me So Wuff.” When I got to the chorus, not a ripple from the audience, who looked at me like I was off my rocker. Next came my monologue, which was as far off the beam as “Clawence.” As I proceeded, my throat got drier, and my tongue got thicker, but I kept pounding away. I might just as well have been talking Zulu until I came to my clarinet comedy bit. That got them. They went for this comedy, lock, stock, and belly laughs; when I did my mock dramatic interpretation of “Three O’clock in the Morning,” I was in and over. The manager was delighted with me, but he confessed that my opening song was too foreign for British tastes, and the opening monologue too fast to understand. I tried to adjust at the second performance, but the results were identical. At least, I knew I could be a big hit if I could dig up an opening before Monday. At the opening matinee, Monday, the Palladium callboy knocked on my dressing room door. “Mr. Lowry, yours is the next turn, sir!” “Thank you,” I replied. “How soon until the act that I follow finishes?” “Oh, they have finished, sir, but don’t rush, it’s quite all right.” “My God,” I thought. “I don’t want a stage wait before my act.” I tore my drawers getting downstairs, where the stage manager informed me with typical British calm, “Mind your ’ead, there’s no need to ’urry.” Over the weekend, I had dug up an orchestration of “You Tell ’em ’cause I Stutter.” When the orchestra played the introduction, it took a few seconds before I realized that it was my music. In another moment I was onstage singing, “You, you, you, you, you tell ’em ’ cause I, I, I, I stutter and, and, and. . . .” Now I pretended that no words would come out. I mugged as if exasperated, then kicked the back of my own leg, and made a squeaking sound with my lips. 82

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They laughed so hard at this effect, you couldn’t hear another word for about sixteen bars. This opening song clicked so beautifully I decided on impulse to tell some stammer stories in place of the material that had flopped at the Stratford Empire. I gave out with a routine of stories about my friend Joe who stuttered so badly that he only said his prayers on each New Year’s Eve, and from then on every night, he’d get down on his knees and say, “Ditto.” For the next fourteen minutes, I had a real comfortable ride on the good ole gravy train. When I came to the finish and took my regular quota of bows, the audience gave me three calls in front of the curtains. At the Palladium, this was most complimentary, especially preceding an international star like Nora Bayes. Backstage, Miss Bayes was standing there waiting for me. She placed both her hands on my cheeks, pulled me toward her, and kissed me on the forehead. “You’re a sweetie,” she said, “a real sweetie.” She then made her entrance through the curtains to a tumultuous reception. How thrilled I was over this affectionate demonstration would be hard for anyone else to understand, even Nora Bayes herself. She was the star of the very first show I had ever seen. I don’t think the indelible impression we get as a kid is ever erased. When I first saw her in the “The Jelly Bachelors,” she exemplified the epitome of loveliness, charm, and glamour. Now, fifteen years later, when she grabbed me and kissed me, I wilted. Teddy came flying backstage just bouncing with enthusiasm. She said the audience reaction was simply thrilling. I never saw her more excited. Arm in arm, we fairly floated up to my dressing room. Suddenly, Teddy stopped like a rundown clock as she noticed the smudged lip rouge on my forehead. I explained how Miss Bayes had planted it there, and Teddy was happy over it, too. As the week progressed, however, Teddy developed a good-sized “burn.” It seemed every time she came backstage, she found me having tea in Nora’s dressing room. Teddy knew I hated tea, and pretty soon Teddy hated Nora. Undeniably, I was flattered over Nora’s attention, but I wasn’t too far gone to realize that whenever Teddy appeared on the scene, Nora made no attempt to invite her to join us. This left me feeling quite clumsy. Moreover, the great star became real possessive, and before I could slow her down, she was putting a damper on my so-called successful invasion of England. One Thursday afternoon, just after my show, a knock came on my dressing room door. I opened it and was confronted by a man who wore a bowler 83

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hat and displayed a gold badge. He informed me that I had violated the immigration laws by accepting employment in Great Britain and that he would have to take me to headquarters. While I changed to my street clothes, he volunteered the information that I would undoubtedly be deported. At headquarters, I was confronted with the affidavit that I had signed at Southampton. After confirming my signature, I was ushered to a bench where I sat with the officer. Assailed by mixed emotions, my first thoughts were of Teddy. I hadn’t told her that I had knowingly and deliberately taken this engagement at the Palladium in reckless defiance of the law. When we had docked at Southampton, the inspector had asked me what was my reason for coming to England, and I naively said, “Pleasure and business.” “What sort of business?” he inquired. “I’m in show business,” I said. “Of course, I’m here on a holiday, but I also hope to play a few music halls while I’m at it.” “Have you a labor permit?” “Why, er, no.” The inspector then explained one couldn’t work in Great Britain without a labor permit granted by the government prior to entering the country. Two other inspectors joined the discussion, which finally ended in a decision against my embarking in England. This meant I would have to stay aboard the SS Olympic and continue to Cherbourg, France, an unexpected turn of events that shook me right down to my ankles. I hadn’t the slightest idea how to contend with the situation and was ready to throw in the towel when the man we called “Neal the Schlemiel” came to my rescue. He suggested to the inspector in charge that I sign an affidavit stating that I would not accept employment while visiting in England. I signed the paper, and they okayed my landing. All of this had happened while Teddy was making the rounds with Peewee to say good-bye to the friends we had met aboard. They were both so happy over our anticipated vacation that I decided not to mention the incident. Now, I was sitting in headquarters scared stiff, feeling like a condemned criminal. I had plenty of guts as a kid, but I’d never before fooled around with the law. Nor did I have the slightest excuse for violating the law in this instance for it had been made plain to me that I was not to work while visiting Great Britain, and I had clearly understood the content of the affidavit I had signed. Had I been asked to make some explanation of

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my behavior, I would have confessed that the real villain of the piece was the actor’s proverbial ego. In other words, after I had seen my first show at the famous Palladium, the ham in me just had to be cured. So strong was this egotistic urge to get a whack at a British audience, I lost sight of all other considerations. What pricked my conscience most was that I hadn’t confided in Teddy. What a cockeyed adventure. It was incredible that I, a completely unknown entertainer who didn’t even have an agent, had been able to book myself into London’s most highly rated music hall. All I had on my side was an urgent drive to test my talents on a British audience and a ruthless disregard for consequences. Well, I had succeeded only too well, and here I was sitting on this hard, wooden bench awaiting my fate. I had been taken to three different clerks for identification. My passport and police book [landing permit] were confiscated, though no one asked me any further questions or showed any inclination to carry on any conversation. Sitting and looking into space, I wondered how it would all end. To sort of justify myself, I was pouting over the lack of reciprocity between England and America. I knew hundreds of British entertainers who worked almost entirely in America. This stringent ruling appeared terribly one-sided. It was getting late, and no one seemed to know what to do with me. After a spell, during which I pictured myself being forever barred from England, a young pageboy told me to follow him to a desk in another room. Here I was informed that arrangements had been made for me to do my evening performances at the Palladium. Before I was released, I was ordered to appear at the British Home Office the next morning at 10 a.m. Upon arrival at the theater, I found a badly frightened and hysterical wife, an impatient manager pacing back and forth waiting for my appearance, and Mr. Gulliver himself, who, I learned, had arranged for my release. With only ten minutes to get dressed for the show, now was no time for talk. After the performance, Teddy and I hurried out for dinner, but on the way out, the stage doorman handed me a note from Nora Bayes telling me to come to her dressing room at nine thirty to have a talk with Mr. Gulliver. Now I realized that Nora’s fine hand had figured in getting me out of my mess. Gossip had it that she and Mr. G. were a “woosome twosome.” My meeting with Mr. G. was very brief. He was firm in his denunciation of my behavior, but he assured me he would arrange for my finishing

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the week at the Palladium. When I reported to the Home Office, the clerk returned my passport and police book. “That will be all,” he said, with impeccable courtesy. “Thank you, sir.” I finished the week at the Palladium without further incident. It certainly seemed easy to turn wheels if you knew the right people. On closing night, when Nora and I were having our last “spot of tea” together, she coyly said she had something for me and gave me an autographed photo: “For Eddie, A real little Yank, whom they couldn’t spank,” signed Nora. To this day, I don’t know how the theatrical trade papers got hold of my story, but the near incident rated international publicity. Variety carried a banner, “England Deports Ed Lowry.” There was much controversy over the fact that I was prohibited from accepting any further engagements, in spite of having received the acclaim of the British press. When I arrived in New York, my name was real hot. I was swamped with offers. My dear friends Meyer North and Joe Flaum had a few exciting propositions, but I always had great respect for Eddie Keller and, again, left my destiny in his hands. I opened almost immediately at B. F. Keith’s Royal in the Bronx. Things started popping when I got a call from Ralph Farnum.

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The Palace—at Last!

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ne man’s drink is another man’s opportunity. An Irish tenor, just call him Joe Nipps, was imported from England to play New York’s Palace Theatre at a fabulous salary. When it came time for his opening matinee, he was so deep in his cups there was no alternative but to pour him back in the bottle and get a replacement but fast. Eddie Darling, the booker, was over a barrel. What could he do? In desperation, he sent for me. It was as unpredictable as that and next to closing, too. I had just finished my turn at B. F. Keith’s Royal, where I was on fourth, when Ralph Farnum’s call came. “Don’t turn me down now, Ed,” he said. “I want you to jump into the Palace as a special favor to Eddie Darling. It will be for only one performance, Ed, but I want you to say yes. It’s for your own good, understand?” “Only for one performance!” That line, which was emphasized, just about curdled me, but this was no time for me to go sour. I did a Paul Revere from the Bronx to Forty-seventh Street in a Yellow Cab, arriving just in time to go onstage without so much as a music rehearsal. The theater was packed with the usual opening-day mob: critics, bookers, agents, celebrities, and Broadway denizens. With my music under my arm, I rushed onstage, shook hands with Benny Roberts, the orchestra leader, and then distributed my music books over the footlights to the various members of the orchestra. I talked over the tempos and cues as though it were rehearsal time, ignoring the audience with elaborate detachment. “Benny,” I said, “just do the best you can. I’ll pound out the temps, and if I give you any trouble, bear with me, will ya, please? It’s the first time I’ve ever played here, and I wanna do a good job.” Then, I looked out into the jammed auditorium and acted mildly surprised at discovering an audience there. I said casually, “Oh, hello.” That was it! The audience yocked and 87

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rocked for the next sixteen minutes as if they’d got in for free. They were real dolls that day. Sime Silverman, editor of Variety, wrote, “Lowry knocked them cuckoo. Brought him back for a speech after the curtain had been up for the following act for a full minute or more. A wow! The world can be told, a whole basket full of wows!” The following act was the famous Elsie Janis. Zit, a well-known critic, said, “One of the most versatile entertainers in America, with a future brighter than the diamonds worn by Delilah. He will someday do a one-man show.” I never found out whether or not Eddie Darling blushed or showed embarrassment over the way the audience reaction completely reversed his earlier convictions. I do know, however, that as soon as I took my final bow, I was hustled into a little room while I was still dripping with perspiration and panting. There I signed a three-year contract at $350 a week with an automatic raise of $50 a week each year. Suddenly, the audience carried on like it couldn’t get along without me. I stayed on at the Palace, bicycling back and forth from the Royal. In addition, during the same week, I made three appearances at private clubs, all arranged through the same booking office. The following week, Eddie Darling broke all precedent for an act of my type and held me over for the second week at the Palace. I also doubled for that week at the Riverside Theatre, up on Ninety-sixth Street, and for Sunday, a schedule was worked out so that I could also do my act at the regular Sunday concert at the Columbia Theatre across the street from the Palace. The club department came through with three more casuals, and the weekly $350 pyramided to over $1,200. Forgive me the luxury of thinking that this was a commentary on those who had prejudged me as something less than Palace material. Looking backward, I shudder at the possibilities of my career if Joe Nipps had not been a nipper. His misfortune made me available for that Palace performance, which enabled me to persuade the audience that I deserved this patronage. One afternoon, as I turned the corner at Forty-seventh Street, I ran into Jay Simon, a comic whom I had met on the old “aching heart” circuit! In a southern dialect thicker than a Virginia ham, he always called me “Little Eddie.” This day, he exclaimed to his wife, “Honey, looka heah, our ole

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friend, Little Eddie.” They were genuinely happy to see me. She and I kissed, and he shook my hand vigorously and affectionately inquired, “Well, Little Eddie, whatcha doin’?” Shyly, I motioned to the three sheet in front of the Palace. When he read my name, which was in bold type, his eyeballs popped out so far I feared I’d have to pick them up off the sidewalk. “My Lord,” he said, “Little Eddie, ahm happy for ya, deed ah am.” He meditated a moment and then continued rambunctiously, “Boy, Little Eddie’s Big Eddie Now!” That was the Palace. Chronologically, “Little Eddie” became “Big Eddie” in exactly sixteen minutes. That was the running time of my act. The transition, however, was a fermenting process. The Palace was the yeasty climax to many years of effort and desire. In the audience, on those opening days, you would find George M. Cohan, Ziegfeld, Dillingham, Earl Carroll, and such stars as Will Rogers, Al Jolson, Ed Wynn, and Eddie Cantor. If you were a hit, no longer did you have to scrounge around for the last half of a split week. There was no TV and no radio, but Broadway had its own communication system. When a new face clicked at the Palace, everyone along the street who was even remotely connected with show business got the report. The newsman on the corner gave you a bigger smile; the moocher who loitered outside the stage door gave you a bigger touch. Even the restaurateur knew. As I walked into the always-crowded Wolpin’s, he shouted, “Ah, ha, congratulations! Got the star’s table ready for the new Prince of Broadway!” On this particular evening, a big, lopsided man, toting a box of cigars, greeted me, “Have a cigar, have a cigar.” I laughed at the line, which I hadn’t heard since Pop’s cigar business had folded. Wolpin laughed wryly because he was still stuck with three boxes of Pop’s cigars, which I had sold him. The big man seemed perplexed. He said, “My, you people laugh before you hear the joke. Let’s try it again, Ed, only this time be my straight man. Ask me why I’m so generous.” He went through the same routine, “Have a cigar, have a cigar.” “Thanks,” I said, “why all the generosity?” “Remember when I saw you yesterday? I said I was gonna get married today? Well,” he yelled joyously, “it’s off!” He tossed out half a dozen cigars, “Have a cigar, have a cigar.” The restaurant reverberated with laughter. I figured this guy was suffering from a deficiency of the noodle, and I turned away, but he pursued me. “My name is Al Boasberg. I’m gonna be

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the biggest comedy writer in this business,” he said modestly. “The bit I just did is a present from me to you. Here are the cigars to go with it. Just tell the boys where you got it.” That night at the Palace, I opened my act by tossing cigars out to the audience. Benny Roberts, the orchestra leader, asked, “Why all the generosity?” I pulled the Boasberg gag, and it was a howl. I used it as the opening of my act for several years. Al shrewdly used this occasion to get himself started. That very night at the Friars Club, he made the rounds boasting about the Boasberg success via Ed Lowry at the Palace. As a result of this enterprising stunt, Al got off to a flying start. I think Jay C. Flippen was the first fellow to whom he sold a routine. Al soon made clients of George Jessel, Jackie Osterman, Burns and Allen, Jack Benny, and the Marx Brothers. You might say Boasberg started at the Palace. Frances Rockefeller King, who was in charge of the club department for the Keith Circuit, booked the talent for all the important social events and conventions. She always favored attractions that were currently or recently at the Palace. I played many exclusive affairs and got to know many important people. To me, the big theatrical names were the most exciting. At Keith’s Boston, I appeared with May Yohe, the one-time owner of the famous Hope Diamond. While playing at Keith’s Washington, along with clever Irene Franklin, we entertained the President of the United States, Calvin Coolidge. Silent Cal did not guffaw; let’s just say he smiled out loud once or twice! Little did I dream that I would ever share billing with the great Eddie Leonard. It was at the Orpheum Theatre in Brooklyn, and after the matinee, he paid me a left-handed compliment in the form of a snarl to the manager: “Put that Lowry boy on after my act tonight, or I won’t make an appearance.” Leonard was great box office and generally got what he demanded. That night, his act preceded mine. I wouldn’t have traded this thrill for the deed to the building. From the Flatbush Theatre in Brooklyn, I went to the Maryland in Baltimore with Bell Baker, a truly great singer and a fabulous entertainer. Belle loved to toy with an audience. We started doing a five-minute bit together, which, by the end of the second week, spread into a half-hour show. Then, I went on to Keith’s Philadelphia, also featuring Pat Rooney Jr. and Marian Bent. Here at a private club, I met the head of a big building-and90

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loan association, who became my good friend. Upon his advice, I invested no small sum in a highly recommended organization and eventually was happy to settle for thirty cents on the dollar. While appearing at Keith’s Theatre in Atlantic City, I was awakened one morning at nine. That’s the middle of the night for a trouper. The voice on the phone said, “Hello, Eddie boy, this is Al Jolson.” I was furious. I said, “That’s very funny at nine in the morning. If you’re Jolson, sing ‘Mammy.’” Darned if he didn’t and with as much schmaltz as I ever heard Jolie put into a song. Al came right to the point. He informed me that he had invested eighty thousand dollars in Hassard Short’s Ritz Revue and that the show was floundering badly. He thought I was just the guy to give it the lift it needed before it opened on Broadway. My contract with the Keith Circuit had over two more years to run, but Al could handle anything in those days. E. F. Albee agreed to lend me to Jolson, and Jolson agreed to give me fifty more a week, and the deal was made. Al was the most exciting personality I had ever met. We rode to Providence, Rhode Island, in a compartment, and I hung onto every word he uttered. He was very complimentary and made big predictions for my future. In Providence, Lew Schreiber, Al’s handyman, met us. Al assigned him to look after me, whereupon Lew took charge of everything from my luggage to making arrangements for my accommodations at the hotel. He gave me my first taste of the luxury of having a good man Friday. Lew became one of the top executives at Twentieth Century–Fox. During the short ride from the station to the stage door, I worked my expectations up to such a pitch that I was sure Hassard and his entire male chorus would be standing at the other end of a red carpet with outstretched arms shouting, “Welcome!” Boy, was I wrong. If there had been a carpet, they’d have pulled it from under us. Al was first in the stage door, and he was also first out. The doorman said, “Mr. Jolson, I have orders not to permit you backstage. Please don’t give me a hard time.” In a flash, there were flailing fists and a quick scuffle, and Al was on the outside. I was taken completely by surprise. Had Al alerted me, I would have fortified myself with a crocheting needle or a hatpin. The beef was that Hassard objected to Al’s trying to participate in the producing, casting, and directing of the show. Mr. Short assured me it was no reflection on my ability, but he simply would not permit anyone in the show that was sponsored 91

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by Jolson. There were name-calling, more fistfights, and then lawyers and injunctions. I was in the middle. Jolie kept saying, “They can’t do this to me, Eddie boy.” But they did! On the fourth day, J. J. Shubert arrived in town, and I got a phone message that I was to appear in the Revue that night. They told me to plan on splitting my act so I could work in two spots. It was consoling that at last I was going to get a whack at an audience. I figured if I were a big enough hit, maybe Mr. Short would have a change of heart. I stood in the wings waiting to make my appearance just prior to the finale of the first act, but when the sketch that was to precede me finished, the orchestra went right into the finale. I was bypassed. Moreover, before I could get out of the entrance, I was swept off my feet by a seminude chorus of boys and girls who were in a frantic rush to reach center stage, where they did some modern gyrations that looked like a tug of war over a piece of silk. The orchestra leader called my “bypass” an error made in the front office. There were some more wrist slapping, another huddle, and finally a compromise. It was agreed that I should do my complete act in one spot in the second half of the show. This time, Mr. Shubert took charge, and I was actually hopeful. When I made my entrance, the music was played perfectly, but by an odd coincidence, something went wrong with the lights. I tried desperately to get funny in the dark. I cracked to the audience that it was difficult for me to be humorous in the dark because I was a light comedian. Nothing! Now I reverted to an old gag that I had used on the small time. “Oh, Al, Aleck, Alectrician.” No laugh and no lights. I started lighting matches, holding them in front of my face while I told a story. This must have shocked a fireman into action, because suddenly the lights went on. I shouted, “Hurray!” and said to the audience, “Now let’s get acquainted.” I introduced myself and started telling a surefire story, but as I came to the punch line, there was a crash backstage. Something fell to the floor with a thud, and so did my story. Another crash backstage was followed by a sound that resembled a piano being dragged. I leaned over the footlights and whispered fearfully to the audience, “Gee, I hope they’re not moving out and leaving me here alone!” This crack was a yell. Now I introduced “Maxie Jones, the King of the Saxophones.” As the orchestra played the introduction, I walked with renewed confidence to the wings to pick up my saxophone, only to find that someone had snatched it. 92

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This kind of shenanigan was as subtle as a hit in the face with a custard pie. The audience must have thought I was a mixed-up kid when I came back onstage and played my clarinet to prove that “Maxie Jones was the king of the saxophones.” After playing the clarinet straight, I came right back for the comedy bit in which I played off-key. This didn’t make much sense. My dance followed, and this stopped the show. I really tied the audience up in knots and, for once, played it dirty and wouldn’t go back for a bow. This was rough on the next sketch, which the audience ignored, convinced that I had been abused. Ralph Farnum, who had come from New York and had arrived at the theater just as I finished my act, was thrilled over the hit I had scored, but when I acquainted him with a detailed description of what had actually happened, he decided we should call it quits at once. Jolie was disappointed, and Shubert was surprised that I would bypass a fine opportunity on account of my unwillingness to fight through a bad situation. “I’m an entertainer,” I told him, “not a fighter. If you want a fighter, get Benny Leonard. I’m through being a sucker for the manly art of modified murder.” Jolie apologized for the discomfort he had caused and handed me an envelope that contained his personal check for one thousand dollars. When we got on the train, Farnum and I found iced champagne awaiting us, with Jolson’s compliments. Farnum had phoned Eddie Darling in New York to say I’d be available immediately. Eddie put me back into the Palace the following week, doubling my salary because I had to bicycle from the Palace to the Riverside Theatre on Ninety-sixth Street. The week at the Palace gave my ego a muchneeded lift. Our headliner was Ruth Draper, at five thousand dollars per week. Aided by an ordinary shawl, she performed characterizations that held the audience spellbound. It meant much to me to appear on the same program with this great artist. Included on the bill were two Broadway-musical-comedy stars who were tops—Julia Sanderson and Donald Brian. Miss Sanderson was loveliness personified. When she watched my act from the wings, I found myself ignoring the audience and trying to “cute it up” for Julia. At the next show, as I made a hasty exit between numbers, she mopped my perspiring brow with her dainty little lace handkerchief. The second time this happened, I began to like it and looked forward to my next exit, but our romantic 93

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little flirtation came to an abrupt stop when my darling little wife stepped between us with a huge Turkish towel. The Four Fords, one of America’s most famous dancing families, were a smash, and so was Karyl Norman, the Creole fashion plate. I recall, too, Irene Ricardo, a clever comedienne, and the show-stopping Four Diamonds. After this wonderful array of talent, my turn came next to closing, and according to Variety, I was “Boffo!” Vaudeville fans were as abundant as baseball fans, and by now I, too, had a few rooters. Yes, seldom did I make my first entrance without the encouragement of a warm reception. In and around New York, my fans would follow me from the Bushwick in Brooklyn to the Colonial in New York and a few weeks later might turn up at the Royal in the Bronx or down at the Music Hall in Brighton Beach. These were busy days, when I often doubled at two theaters during the same week, plus extra club dates, casuals, and endless benefits. These multiple activities nourished my bank account beyond our expectations. Teddy was wearing mink, and, if diamonds are a girl’s best friend, she had lots of friends. Mom picked out a Hudson seal coat and some costume jewelry. All I wanted was an extra bow and a good write-up in Variety. This self-centered way of thinking may very well be the answer to many of the broken marriages in show business. That constant basking in the spotlight and looking for more and more glory while neglecting occasionally to stoke the home fires. A succession of incidents clobbered me into a sad awakening. While appearing at the Riverside Theatre, I received a mash note. Bolder than most of her contemporaries, this floozy assured me she was smitten and after writing out the address of her apartment concluded with, “I simply must have you—over for cocktails, that is. Love, Polly.” Generally, if you don’t respond, these gals immediately fall for some other guy in the show, but Polly was persistent. She sent messages in before each performance informing me which seat she would occupy and where I should meet her after the show. One Wednesday night as I walked out of the stage door, a strongly perfumed girl leaped out of the shadows, grabbed me, and said passionately, “You, Doll, you wouldn’t come to me so I came to you.” In no time flat, she had her arms around my neck and her tongue down my throat. I don’t know much about the battle between impulses and reflexes, but eventually I broke loose and said, “Down, girl, cut it, my wife is sitting in the car right out front, wanna get me hung?” 94

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She relinquished her hold on the Hart, Schaffner, and Marx and said, “Oh gee, Doll, I’m sorry.” The next matinee while I was still onstage doing my act, Teddy decided to go directly to my dressing room and wait for me there. On the makeup shelf was a note: “Our meeting was oh so short but at last our lips have met. Please, please make it tonight. Till then, Love, Polly.” That did it. Try to explain this away to your wife. Teddy was a proud person and not much for arguing. Everything I said fell on deaf ears. She didn’t even bother to reply. She always got much further with the silent treatment. Nothing she could dream up to say ever hurt me as much as when she said nothing. If she felt hurt, she was as incommunicative as Harpo Marx. On the following Monday night as I left the stage door of the Orpheum Theatre in Brooklyn, I was besieged by the usual quota of song pluggers. These men, hired by the music-publishing firms, continually crowded the entertainers in an effort to get them to sing their particular songs. By now, I was considered a pretty good plug for a popular song, and this was a persistent group of men. Some were dignified in their approach, but the average song pluggers stopped at nothing. They begged, bribed, cajoled, and pleaded, and then there were a few who became procurers. In an attempt to curry your favor, they invariably said, “I just met a beautiful dame who goes for you big. She’s standing out in the lobby waiting to meet you.” This particular Monday night when I emphatically informed Mr. Song Plugger that I wanted no part of his matchmaking, he prevailed on me to give the girl he was “managing” a lift back to town. What a sucker I was. It was raining and foggy, and, sure enough, I stopped suddenly while crossing the bridge, and bang, my car got smacked in the rear but good. It was thrown about fifteen feet forward and crashed into the car ahead. The impact threw me forward, and I cracked my head on the side, ending up with a bump on my forehead and a black-and-blue eye. The girl was unhurt; she just giggled a little nervously. Fortunately, the Cadillacs in those days had bumpers that could take a bump. My car was not damaged, nor was the man’s who hit me. The chap I hit had a dimple in his fender, and he was glad to settle for the twenty-dollar bill I offered. I didn’t want any exchanges of cards and licenses, fearing that the cargo I was transporting might be called as a witness. When I arrived home, Teddy was sympathetic and came out of her freeze. She bathed my eye and gave me the first conversation we’d had together in five days. For 95

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the moment, I was pleased over the accident and took advantage of the situation to tell Teddy what a hit I was at the Orpheum. I also tried again to square the Riverside incident, but this subject was still taboo. Our lives became normal again but not for long. Only three days had passed when I was served with a summons. The gal I had taxied to New York was suing me. She and her husband had made depositions to the effect that she was pregnant and owing to the accident in my car she had had a miscarriage. I was warned that there might also be other charges. Woe is me! The insurance company handled the case and insisted on a quick settlement out of court. The couple was given twelve hundred dollars. It seems I didn’t have a chance if the case was tried, and I didn’t have a chance with Teddy, either. She decided I was a liar and a cheat and made plans, at least temporarily, to leave me. She went to a resort hotel up in the mountains with her mother. This was history repeating itself. Ten years before, I had climbed the mountain to get back my loved one, and I was a success, but on this occasion, the mountain was too high. I cancelled a few engagements to try to impress on Teddy that if she didn’t come back to me, I would chuck my career and become a bum. She wasn’t impressed. My bookings in the east were coming to an end, and I was scheduled to go on an extended tour of the west. When leaving time arrived and Teddy still wouldn’t make up, I left for Chicago alone, a pretty sad guy. Life would have been terribly drab if it hadn’t been for the fact that I still got excitement out of my act. It seemed foolproof. It had been a winner for almost two years around New York and the East, and now I was off for new triumphs in Chicago and the Orpheum Circuit.

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he Palace in Chicago marked my first visit back to the Windy City. McIntyre and Heath, famous minstrels, were the headliners, celebrating their golden anniversary as partners. Hal Halperin’s sister, Nan, was the extra added attraction. The theater management had built the McIntyre and Heath appearance into a civic event. Following their lengthy act, a celebration took place. The stage was full of dignitaries, who presented them with loving cups and trophies and who praised them with speeches. Among the speakers was Mayor “Big Bill” Thompson, who fanned the air with his tengallon hat. The only missing Chicago characters were Al Capone, Colonel Gimp, and the cow that kicked over the lamp that caused the big fire. By the time the revered old-timers made their final speech, it was past five o’clock, and one-third of the audience was already on the L riding home. Upon my entrance, another third exited. Before I finished, I think the only ones left in the theater were Dan Russo, his orchestra, and me. Laying my egg, I could think only of Ziegfeld’s immortal line, “There are no excuses in show business.” I feared facing my old pal and critic Hal Halperin. Knowing his tendency to be bombastic, I shuddered at what he might say in his Variety review. I had visions of reading about the bomb I had laid and anticipated a good verbal spanking for dumping my meal ticket. He always referred to Teddy as my meal ticket. Little did he know, I thought to myself, that the meal ticket had dumped me. As I walked to my dressing room, Hal was just coming in the stage door. He greeted me warmly. “How is that darling Irene?” Before I could reply, he continued anxiously, “How did Nan do at the matinee?” “Great,” I replied. “Didn’t you see the show?” “No, I’m going to cover it tonight.”

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That night when Hal saw the show, I had been moved to the number-four spot, and Nan Halperin was placed next to closing following McIntyre and Heath. Nan was a bigger name and got a much-bigger salary. Besides, she was one of Chicago’s own and really belonged in the next-to-closing spot. I had felt flattered when it was assigned to me and now being knocked off the perch hurt my pride. But that night, I hit uranium with a gravy audience that should have been admitted free. Unfortunately, the next day, I bounced right back into the late slot, and the flavor from that one taste of gravy didn’t last through this long, heartbreaking week. Every night after taking my beating at the theater, I’d phone Teddy in New York and take another beating. I could not thaw her out, couldn’t get a word of sympathy. I tried drowning my grief, but I wasn’t a bottle baby, I guess. Instead, I spent almost every minute of every day just moping and sympathizing with myself. After about four weeks, I received a call from Teddy. She had exciting news. An insurance investigator had informed our agent that the couple who had sued me had framed me. They had been making a racket out of fleecing insurance companies and getting out-ofcourt settlements. My case was easy pickings for them because the girl really was in the car at the time of the accident. But she had been divorced from this man for three years and was not pregnant. With this news as a wedge, I finally convinced Teddy to join me for the balance of the tour. It turned into a second honeymoon. And we lived happily ever after! The Orpheum Circuit was mostly sightseeing and fun. I had no nervous tension until I reached the west coast. San Francisco, always a great show town, loved vaudeville. The atmosphere at the Orpheum was similar to the Palace in New York. We had a first-rate show with two headliners, and both were Leonards, Eddie Leonard and the lightweight champ himself, Benny Leonard. Benny went on after Eddie, and this Eddie went on after Benny. Christmas week, we played the Orpheum in Los Angeles. Each night, the auditorium was studded with stars of the silent movies, Doug Fairbanks, Dolores del Rio, Harold Lloyd, Frances X. Bushman, to name only a few. This was a new thrill for us, like appearing before royalty. No vaudeville star was too big to look through the peek hole and exclaim excitedly, “Oh, look, there’s Mary Pickford, Gloria Swanson, Rudolph Valentino, Fatty Arbuckle, Buster Keaton . . .”

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The movie stars went all out to entertain Benny Leonard. The champ rated with guys like Fairbanks and Chaplin, and I rated with Benny. Where Benny went, I went. Every day, we visited on the sets at a different studio. We watched Valentino break the heart of Natasha Rambova while three tired musicians soulfully played “Hearts and Flowers.” The pictures were silent, but the stars acted to the accompaniment of music. Even in the stars’ homes, the musicians seemed to be as much a part of the romantic side of Hollywood as the palm trees. Guitar-playing caballeros would serenade you with gooey songs while you slobbered over a barbecued sparerib. Our Los Angeles engagement completed, we jumped to San Jose and continued for eight more weeks on the Orpheum Circuit route. By the time we got back to the Palace Chicago, we forgot all about our pledge to return to Hollywood for a screen test. These were the dwindling days of the Roaring Twenties, and that roar certainly echoed through show business. Vaudeville was gradually fading, but the big motion-picture theaters were more than taking up the slack with large orchestras and lavish stage shows. Also, about this time, every other bootlegger became an impresario and either was running a cabaret or had a piece of one. Entertainers were in great demand, and salaries for headliners were hitting new highs. My three-year contract was nearing its end—after Chicago, just one more week. The Keith Orpheum Circuit wished me to continue at the same sliding scale, and I was holding out for a bigger raise. On Wednesday night, as I walked out of the Palace stage door, a gruff voice stopped me. “Wait a minute, Bud!” Oh, oh, I thought, good old Chicago, this is it! It was dark in the alley but not too dark to see the outline of the husky who was heading toward me. “Hya, Boy,” he said, extending his hand. We shook and my knees buckled. “My name’s Bill Rothstein. I just seen your act ’n’ I liked it. I got a joint over on Wabash Avenue, and I think the room’s made to order for ya. You’re a big-time boy. Whatever they’re payin’ ya at the Palace, I’ll top it by a C note.” Bill Rothstein and a man we seldom saw, Frankel, owned the Moulin Rouge at Harrison and Wabash. It was located catty-corner from Mike Fritzel’s Friar’s Inn, a real hot spot. Fritzel’s joint was just an upholstered basement, with tremendous patronage. Women in formals and men in dinner suits and tails were commonplace. The Moulin Rouge also drew a dressy crowd, but at that time in Chicago, the man wearing a tux could

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very well have had a gat in his pocket and a sawed-off shotgun in his car. The room was quite attractive. The designer had tried to create a Parisian atmosphere, and, though a bit garish, it had an intimacy that, as Rothstein said, was made to order for me. The first night I walked into the place, Paulette La Pierre was standing against a post and singing “My Man” in French. It was quite impressive. Every table was occupied. After hearing Eddie South, fronting for a fine Negro orchestra, and then watching Evelyn Nesbit Thaw make one of her infrequent personal appearances, I was sold. Rothstein and I made a deal that very night, and a fellow never had a finer boss. Rothstein saw to it that I had a gala opening. He enlisted the aid of Rasputin, a well-known character around Chicago’s Loop, who for such an occasion could come up with more celebrities than the Hollywood coordinating committee. There were also many café owners on hand hosting big parties. Patronizing a competitor on an opening night had become a tradition with these men. Wine flowed freely. I was a big success with the audience. Apparently, I had something fresh and new for this clientele, because after the first performance, offers for engagements in other cabarets were plentiful. The boss gave me permission to play theaters in conjunction with the Moulin Rouge engagement. I booked the Kedzie Theatre on the West Side for the last half of the very first week. That left me with little time to sleep, but the important money came from Rothstein, who couldn’t have made me happier than he did when he said, “Kid, the joint is yours, stay as long as you like.” I made it a point to mingle with the patrons. When I wasn’t on the floor working, I was table-hopping and enjoying the action and excitement. In this type of establishment, one found a potpourri of people as varied as fingerprints: bootleggers, bookmakers, a few socialites; a manufacturer and an out-of-town buyer with a couple of models; young couples in town, other couples from out of town; the usual quota of misunderstood husbands getting consolation from a bottle and some other guy’s wife; the scion of a wealthy family on a binge; and no dearth of two-fisted drinkers. One fly in this rich ointment was that I got to know too many gangsters intimately. They threw big parties and declared you in, and when they did, it was difficult to bow out. Bill Rothstein had a way with them. Believe it or not, he made them check their guns at the door. Nevertheless, there were many tense occasions because some bad boy would get out of line. 100

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Mack, the headwaiter, was a charming little gray-haired guy who could handle everybody’s problems but his own. Mack survived many shootings and then ended up shooting himself. After years of carrying the torch for a woman he loved, he finally chose suicide as the only effective cure for a broken heart. Dozens of hostesses were on hand to keep any stray “umpchay” company. Most of them had pretty faces and strong stomachs. The waiters always served them tea and charged the chump for Scotch. These girls worked on a percentage basis; the more liquor sold, the more they earned. Though this system was profitable, I soon noticed that in spite of being served Lipton’s tea, these gals generally managed to finish the evening all juiced up. We had a spotlight man by the name of Leo, who doubled as a bootlegger. No liquor was stored on the premises. When a call came for a bottle, Leo would slip out the backdoor and quickly appear with the stuff. Next door was a Chinese laundry, and next to that a watch repair shop. I never found out where he got the stuff, but he always delivered—and it was mellow. Leo also acted as a bouncer. During the bootlegging and Prohibition era, nothing frightened a proprietor more than an obnoxious drunk. He killed your business if you kept him inside, and you were flirting with a padlock if you let him get on the outside. Leo was quite ingenious. When he wanted to subdue a drunk who wouldn’t be tamed verbally, he would casually pick up a napkin, put two saltcellars in it, and then, holding it by the four corners, he’d swing it like a slingshot, tapping the drunk on the noggin. A couple of waiters would carry the victim to the back of the building and let him sleep it off. Jimmie Ray first brought this noggin-tapping to my attention. A sentimental kid from Brooklyn, Jimmie had taken Horace Greeley’s advice. Hoofing his way to Chicago by winning Charleston contests en route, he had developed into one of the fastest and flashiest dancers in show business. On that opening night at the Moulin Rouge, he walked up to me and said, “How do I look, Mr. Lowry?” Jimmie was wearing a tuxedo that he’d borrowed from a waiter, tan shoes, and a polka-dot bow tie—and he had no idea how bad he looked. We raided my wardrobe trunk, and when Jimmie made his entrance that night, he looked like Dapper Dan. One night, I saw a guy get conked extra hard with the saltcellars, and there was plenty of anxiety before the victim came out of it. I didn’t like this way of dealing with drunks, and I took it upon myself to talk to Rothstein, who 101

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stopped the practice. Since there still had to be some quick way of subduing a belligerent drunk, the establishment used Mickey Finns. A Mickey is messy, but it’s less lethal than a brain concussion. The change of policy came just in time. I had a friend who was the junior member of a famous banking family. I prefer to call him Mister Moneybags. I invested my savings in his firm’s bonds. Their slogan: “Never a failure in thirty-three years.” When I left vaudeville and started my run at the Moulin Rouge, Moneybags became a frequent visitor. After several trips, he got difficult. He drank heavily, bought wine freely, and hung up a seventy-two-dollar bill. I guaranteed the tab and hustled him out of the place and into a cab. The next day, on the phone, he apologized profusely, and a few nights later, he returned to settle his bill. He then ordered a drink, soon multiplied by many more, with the result that he topped all his previously abusive and offensive behavior. Again, he was hustled into a cab, and the next day, Rothstein went to the company office to call on him. Again, Mister Moneybags apologized and paid his bill, but he pressed his luck the following week by staying after Bill and I left. During the wee hours, he had advanced from verbal abuse to carefree calisthenics, or as one waiter put it, “He wuz bustin’ up the joint.” Result: he was treated gratis to a good old Mickey. I was grateful that they no longer used saltcellars as persuaders. I don’t know why I felt that this man deserved more-delicate treatment than any other rowdy, or hoodlum, for that matter. He was just as selfish and just as inconsiderate. As a personal postscript, I might add that, though his business was within the law, many people were left destitute when the depression came. I, for one, was glad to get back two thousand for my tenthousand-dollar investment. In retrospect, I would personally like to give the stinker a Mickey. Going from stinkers to inhuman monsters, I ought to mention a frequent patron at the club, Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn, the notorious killer. The golf-bag title was pinned on Jack because wherever he went, his golf bag went with him. McGurn played golf like a pro, but inside the bag along with a few golf clubs, there was always a tommy gun. He was said to be mixed up in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and many other horrible killings but eventually was himself tommy-gunned to death. It was whispered that he was involved in the shameful slashing of the beloved comic Joe E. Lewis. When Joe finished at the Frolics, I followed him as the stellar attraction. 102

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We had been going great guns at the Moulin Rouge, and I kept doubling into all the vaudeville and Balaban and Katz theaters, when one night I came to work and found the place padlocked. This could have been avoided except for a flannel-mouthed radio announcer. Bill Rothstein had bought time on a local radio station. I can’t recall the name of the announcer, but several times a night, he would give the place a plug with a short, colorful item about the show, the dance music, and the food. Then suddenly one night, he ad-libbed the Moulin Rouge into oblivion. In an attempt to take a potshot at a local politician, he said that this man was at the bar imbibing and having a hilarious time with a comely blonde. At this particular moment, the man he named was sitting at home with his wife and family listening to the program. In just a few moments, there were sirens and police cars on the scene and then the padlock. Ralph Gallet and Jake Adler, owners of the Midnite Frolic, had become once-a-week visitors at our show. They had often expressed a desire to have me work for them, and now that the Moulin Rouge had folded, I bounced into the Frolics. I don’t remember the show too well except for the Williams Sisters. These kids were great. I was mad about Hannah, who later became Mrs. Jack Dempsey. My lifelong friend Roy Mack was the producer and did a swell job, but this place was not for me. Opening night with a handpicked audience, I was a riot, but it didn’t fool me, though it did Gallet and Adler. Owning a place doesn’t necessarily make you a showman. This was a spot where it didn’t matter how much they dressed up their show or how much money they spent, it was still just a high-class slum joint. When people went out to Twenty-second Street to the Frolics, it was to let their hair down and raise hell. I wasn’t broad enough, brash enough, or bold enough for this room. I got big applause for my songs and dances, but my humor went right out the front door. The bosses liked me and insisted the audience would get used to my mild manner and quieter style of delivery. There were more hoodlums here than in the Joliet jail and much more excitement. Something was always happening. I remember one night, Gallet, Adler, and another partner, Sapho, were having a meeting. Gallet hated Sapho and decided to give him a Mickey. Ralph gloated over the thought and confided in someone who, in turn, got word to Sapho. The drinks were switched, and Gallet drank his own Mickey. Gallet always felt like a fugitive from an embalming table—which is to say he feared he was going to get killed. At the curb, he always stood with his back against the wall; likewise, 103

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when he sat down at a table, his chair was always against the wall. He finally got killed but not by a bullet. It happened in an automobile accident. One night, I was onstage singing Irving Berlin’s ballad “Always.” A hoodlum was trying to impress his moll by showing her a new gun he had acquired, and it accidentally went off. The bullet hit the dance floor, ricocheted, and struck the headwaiter, Harry Divine. “They got me!” cried Harry dramatically, grabbing at his heart. “I’ll be loving you always,” I kept singing over and over, like a broken record, but no one noticed it. With a room full of characters like McGurn, Bugs Moran, Sammy Hunt, and many others, a guy never knew when the lid was going to blow off. Harry’s wound was superficial, but the expression “They got me” has been used in a thousand pictures since then, and I think Harry Divine should get a royalty check. After three hectic weeks, I got lucky. A. J. Balban made me an offer to tour all the Publix theatres as master of ceremonies and headliner of a unit. Gallet and Adler released me from my contract, and I was soon on my way to the Rivoli Theatre in New York—but that’s another story.

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eturning to Broadway and excited over the thought of invading a new field, I felt like a pioneer. None of my friends had yet strayed from vaudeville. They were such diehards and so steeped in tradition that you couldn’t convince them that their entertainment days were numbered. The vaudeville profession was loaded with pride and sentiment. Its people lived in their world. Their lives were dedicated to the Cause, as if the profession were a religion rather than an industry. An odd conglomeration, they fought with one another, about one another, and for one another. They thought I was touched in the head for turning down a route on the two-a-day and signing for a tour of the motion-picture theaters. This, to them, was forsaking your profession for a job in a factory. “Music rehearsal at 8:00 a.m.,” they giggled. “What are you supposed to do—stop in on your way home?” Backstage, the Rivoli Theatre, which combined stage shows and movies, was jumping with activity. A dozen stagehands had been hard at it all night. Over thirty musicians were already rehearsing “Scheherazade” for the overture. This theater was well equipped. There were exceptionally fine lighting, luxurious stage décor, and clean, spacious dressing rooms. I felt like an outsider, not seeing a familiar face among the musicians or stagehands. Where did they all come from? How strange that the Rivoli, practically next door to the Winter Garden and around the corner from the Palace, was no more like Broadway than Danbury, Connecticut. After rehearsal, I walked out of the stage door and was surprised to see hundreds of people standing in line waiting to buy tickets. I looked at my watch again—10 a.m. Is this for real? I couldn’t get over it. This was certainly a new kind of show business.

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I went to Freeman’s Restaurant, a performer’s hangout right by the Palace Theatre. Here I was having my second breakfast, but none of my old cronies were around. Hm, still sleeping, I guess. At twelve forty, the curtains opened at the Rivoli, and the show, advertised as the bargain matinee, began. In the first few moments, I noticed that the audience was neither discriminating nor critical. An old joke got just as hefty a wow as a new one. In these presentation theaters, most of the audience came to see the movie; the stage show was thrown in extra. There was no time for little personal touches, innuendos, professional subtleties, or tongue-in-cheek humor. In a dance routine, every step that looked difficult paid off with a round of applause. Every song that was sung was a sock, every joke was a yock, but hot or cold, the show had to be completed in fifty-eight minutes. We were constantly warned to conform to our schedule, which was adhered to just as strictly as a railroad timetable. The slogan was “get ’em in and get ’em out”—four shows a day, five on Saturday and Sunday. It was all so new. The Palace had been a showplace that was like a “sample room” where you showed your wares for the theatrical market. This seemed more like playing in a supermarket. Our show was reviewed in the dailies by motion-picture critics and also by the film trade papers, like the Motion Picture Herald and others. Michael L. Simmons, editor and critic of Film Daily, was an old school chum and lifelong friend. He was known as “Six-syllable Simmons.” When I finally deciphered his review, I knew the reason for his nickname. A half-dozen times, I had to refer to a dictionary before I knew whether I was a hit or a miss. It was a hit. No one before or after ever described my talent more vividly and with richer prose. The show, called Take a Chance, was cute and enterprising and got good results everywhere. No names were displayed on the marquee or in the advertisements. The public was challenged to take a chance on the show with no hint of who or what they were going to see. The idea was exploited arrestingly in advertisements that stressed the gambling theme. There were dice, question marks, racehorses, roulette wheels, and playing cards. The public was urged to take a chance and guaranteed against loss by a sign, “Money refunded if dissatisfied.” The novelty caught on. In addition to four and five shows a day, we also did at least one midnight show in almost every city.

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From the Rivoli, we went to the Metropolitan in Boston and for four months toured all the deluxe picture theaters, including the Chicago in Chicago, Newman’s in Kansas City, and the Missouri Theatre in St. Louis, where I first met the Skouras brothers—Charlie, Spyros, and George. Little did I dream that eventually I would return to St. Louis and break all existing box-office records, as well as establish the unheard-of precedent of appearing in one theater for almost five years. Charlie Skouras made friends with me, and when he learned where we went after the last show for our nightly snack, he made it a point to join us. Charlie was very complimentary, and he would accent all his conversation with a pat on the cheek or the back. “Kit,” he kept saying, “you for dis business, some day you gonna come bock here ’n’ work for us boys, ’n’ you gonna for to make a fortune.” In those days, his Greek accent was rather too thick for my comprehension. Each night, he would insist on paying my check. When I would tell him, “Good night,” he’d say, “Go right to sleep, Kit, you hard worker, you must got for to have good rest.” Boris Morros, who later became a motion-picture producer, was our musical director. He, too, was an emotional, affectionate guy, who emphasized everything with a pat on the cheek and a “potch” on the fanny. Russell Markert, our dance director, also was expressive with his hands. It’s too bad we didn’t know how to play charades in those days. Russell and his Rockets later went with Joe Cook’s Rain or Shine, a Broadway musical, and from there to Radio City Music Hall. After Take a Chance completed its tour in Atlanta, I had offers for return engagements at several of the theaters we had just played, but I had already committed myself to take another crack at a nightclub. This time, I was enticed by Ralph Farnum, who described the Rendezvous as a real swank spot right in the heart of Times Square and assured me the owners were aiming their entertainment strictly for the Park Avenue set. The entertainment consisted of Marian Harris, yours truly, and Jimmie Morgan and his band. Opening night was a sellout at a fifteen-dollars-per-couple charge. The place scintillated with names from the social register, but I was more concerned over a customer by the name of Irving Berlin. I was singing two of his songs. I had always had him pegged as one of our greats, and his few words of praise meant more to me than the applause of all the Park Avenue royalty.

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Out on the floor, Marian Harris was a joy to behold. She needed no microphones, no special arrangements, no gimmicks. This gal sang for the gods, quiet, easy, rhythmic. You could hear a pin drop when she turned on the charm. Perfect in enunciation and a master at projection, she invariably had the audiences clamoring for more. Along with the white ties and tails, there was some infiltration of sinisterlooking characters. A gangster in a club tries to prove he’s a good fellow by inviting you to his table and buying you a drink. Patronizingly, he might say, “You so-and-so, you’re all right. I like ya. Sit down and have a drink.” So, to keep healthy, you had to fraternize with a no-good thug with whom you wouldn’t be found dead in the same cemetery. Jim Redmond and Jack Kennedy owned the Rendezvous. Redmond, whom I seldom saw, was the social contact. A big, handsome guy, he was reputed to be an excellent golfer and a good mixer. Jack was the rougher type. Brought up in Hell’s Kitchen, he came up the hard way. He adopted me the very first night, and from then on, sitting with him until dawn became a must. His company was interesting but also a little frightening. His kid brother had been found in the Hudson River weighted down with cement. Jack, apparently figuring he was eligible for the same kind of ending, always carried an automatic, which he called “Oscar.” Each night after the last guest left, he’d insist we sit down together and split a bottle of champagne. I loved champagne and became fond of Jack, but I disliked the fact that each night he’d put Oscar on the table and leave it there until we left. Every time we walked out of that door, I was in a fearful, clammy sweat. Two drinks and this tough guy’s mother complex would begin to show. He’d get real maudlin about his mom, who, I found out, was a loveable doll, as sweet as an angel and twice as good-looking. Sometimes, Jimmie Morgan would stay and play piano, and I’d sing a mother song, and Jack would blubber. He loved a little sob-ballad called “My Old Lady”: My Old Lady, She’s my goil . . . There’s not anudder like her in dis wide, wide world . . . I know dat she would gladly die For good-for-nuttin’ me, And I would do da same . . . For My Old Lady.

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After three weeks, Marian Harris left, and business started to fall off. I was looking for an out, but Jack clung to me, saying, “No dice, Kid, you stay right here, we got it made.” Late one afternoon, I was stopped on Broadway by an English agent, A. J. Clark, who had seen my act in Philadelphia. Clark offered an eightweek contract for the Piccadilly Hotel in London at a thousand dollars per week. Since Mr. Clark was a stranger to me, I insisted that our deal be handled through the William Morris Agency, which handled my bookings until the end of my career. After I quit acting and took a job as executive producer for USO Camp Shows during the war, Abe Lastfogel, head of the Morris Agency, became my boss. Lastfogel was lucky to have served his apprenticeship under William Morris, one of the all-time greats in show business. A superb showman, Abe’s boss exemplified everything that was fine. Mr. Morris had many attributes, but, above all, he was a charitable man. The Will Rogers sanitarium at Saranac Lake, New York, stands as a monument symbolizing his tireless efforts to improve the world. Shortly after our first meeting, Mr. Morris called me to his office. “Ed, have you any idea how important a contribution Variety makes to show business?” “Well,” I replied, “to me it’s the theatrical bible, encyclopedia, and almanac.” That suited Mr. Morris perfectly. In another moment, I was writing a check for a hundred dollars payable to Variety. In this way, a hundred thousand dollars was raised for Sime Silverman, Variety’s editor, who was obviously having financial pains. William Morris won my everlasting admiration for an elegant demonstration of philanthropy. Variety continued to respect the memory of this incident. Over twenty-five years have passed, and a complimentary copy of the paper is mailed to my home every week. A life subscription they call it. The trip to England on this occasion was done in style on the SS Aquitania. We sailed at midnight on a Saturday. Our cabin was loaded with flowers, fruit, and every type of liquor, from bathtub gin to nauseating chartreuse-colored crème de menthe. Friends and relatives were on hand for the farewells. The good-bye was turning into a drinking contest, and I was doing my darndest to unload the parents. Teddy’s Pop was shocked, because he caught his “Cricket” taking a drink. I was afraid that in spite of her being an old married lady, he was going to give her the back of his hand. Her mother, meanwhile, kept yanking at the back of Teddy’s dress and

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saying, “Don’t you drink that stuff, Petty.” Teddy kept saying, “Momma, please be quiet,” but Momma kept yanking, and before we left, Teddy was wearing what appeared to be a two-piece dress. My mom wouldn’t leave, either. The more people who pushed into the cabin, the prouder she got. Finally came the official order, “All ashore that’s goin’ ashore.” I kissed her good-bye and said, “Mom, darling, I’m ashamed, I’m drunk as a goat.” She clung to me and said, “A goat wouldn’t know enough to apologize, and, besides, you have six days in which to sleep it off.”

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The King and I and Pâté de Foie Gras

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n arrival in London, as we walked into the Piccadilly Hotel, we found Con Conrad, the songwriter, waiting for us. Con had a nice-looking, mild-mannered guy working for him and simply insisted that I hire this chap to work for me. “I’ll have no valet or chauffeur doing maid service for me,” I spouted. “Not if I make ten thousand a week.” But before Con boarded his plane for Switzerland, David Asquith Walker had become a part of the Ed Lowry entourage. Things at rehearsal didn’t go too well. Ray Sinatra and his band had too much to rehearse in too little time, and my nerves were jumping like dice in a croupier’s cup. At curtain time, David Walker came in breathlessly. “Boss, the Prince of Wales and his brother, George, are seated right up front!” Agent Charles Tucker was on hand with a Mr. Hayman, for whom I was booked to play the Victoria Palace. There were several American and British stars, also Jack Hylton, famous British bandleader, and many “name” personalities not yet familiar to me. This was the beginning of the Charleston era in England, and the timing for me was perfect. I set a nice easy pace until I came to my saxophone strut number, the typically American “Maxie Jones, King of the Saxophones.” When I finished it, the staid, provincial Piccadilly sounded more like the old Famous Door on Fifty-second Street. Now came the comedy clarinet bit. When I blew the balloon out of the horn in “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” the audience screamed. It finished with a storm, and I milked ’em for plenty of bows before I encored with “I’m Looking at the World through Rose-colored Glasses.” On the second chorus, during my dance routine, I hit them with two knee drops. This move cinched everything for me. “’core” and “Bravo” reverberated through the house. 111

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Once, I saw a demonstration showing how two eels in a fishbowl generated enough electricity to light up a sixty-watt bulb. Properly hooked up that night, after my performance, I believe I could have lit up Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace. Even today, I get nervous recalling my excitement when I was invited to sit at a table between the Prince of Wales and his younger brother, Prince George. That tall, gangly kid became the King of England. It’s hard to believe—“Little Stinkey” from 115th Street eating pâté de foie gras and sipping champagne with the future monarch of the British Empire. This was probably the most exciting hour I ever knew. I met so many famous people and got so stirred up that before I left, I didn’t know Lady Edwina Mountbatten from Sir Oswald Mosley. It’s a good thing David was a masseur. He rubbed me into condition for my next performance. This trip to London was full of pleasantries and no end of offers for additional engagements. Major Ledley, Piccadilly’s manager, spoke of exercising his option to hold me over during my very first week. Lew Leslie, planning an international revue, offered me a flattering proposition. After opening at the Victoria Palace, I got a contract from the British Broadcasting Corporation to do five, fifteen-minute broadcasts a week. At the Piccadilly, there were huge suction fans, and I soon learned that while these fans were on, the suction took my breath away. When I sang, I felt and sounded asthmatic. We requested that these fans not be used while I was performing, and the management agreed. On several occasions, the fans were turned on while I was doing my act, and when I made my first exit, I shouted to David, “Get those fans off!” David learned that Ray Sinatra’s brother, who played the drums, sat next to the fan switch, and, when he felt warm, he simply pulled the switch. The third time this happened, David crawled under the bandstand and stuck his head up to where the drummer sat. He tugged at Sinatra’s leg and shouted, “Hoy, psst, boy, the boss wants the fans off!” “Well, ain’t that too bad,” said Sinatra and continued drumming. “The boss wants the fans off,” insisted David. “Tell your boss, in his hat,” said Sinatra. David grabbed hold of Sinatra’s ankle, pulled him down, stepped over his body, and flipped the switch. Pale and trembling, he concluded, “The boss wants the fans off, Sir.” As of that moment, David’s salary was doubled—from two pounds ten to five pounds a week. 112

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My broadcasts over BBC spread my popularity, but at the Alhambra in Leicester Square, I ran into difficulty. Sir Oswald Stoll, the theater magnate, had me banned from the air, claiming he had priority over the BBC. The hassle brewed up enough publicity for Sir Oswald to hold me over at the Alhambra indefinitely, and he increased my salary twenty-five pounds. During my sixth week at the Alhambra, I overheard a stagehand say, “Blimey, just look out ’ere at that audience. This Lowry bloke draws in all the ’ores off the street.” A dubious compliment. After all, these ladies of the oldest profession had received the street franchise from Madame Morality herself, Queen Victoria. History tells us that by her command, they were to be permitted to pound the pavement as long as there’s an England. Looking at some of these ladies of the night, I thought they might have been there when Victoria so commanded. At Leicester Square and Piccadilly, it was an endless parade. If I drew a few of them into the theater, I figured I accomplished some good, resulting in a more respectable way to get the poor girls off their feet. In the spring, Lew Leslie announced rehearsals for his huge production White Birds. We were scheduled for a run at His Majesty’s Theatre, at Haymarket. This theater had been the home of Britain’s beloved actor Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree and was so steeped in tradition that the mere thought of walking in the stage entrance made David pallid. Compared to the deluxe motion-picture theaters in the States, His Majesty’s Theatre looked like an auditorium left over from the old minstrel days. Anyway, that’s the way I felt about it; my ignorance served to free me of opening-night jitters. White Birds, I believe, would have been an immediate sensation if Lew Leslie had not antagonized the British theatergoing public. The opening of the show was postponed four times, and in each instance, the announcement was made at the last minute. In London, theater lovers traditionally queue up ten and twelve hours in advance to get choice seats for an opening night. For instance, the Gallery First Nighters, an organization of rabid enthusiasts, justifiably felt imposed upon when the show repeatedly was set back after they had lined up for many hours. Following each postponement, the dailies would quote Leslie. If what they said was true, he was guilty of vicious tirades about the “bungling British.” Opening night finally arrived, and the curtain rose at 9:30 p.m., one hour and fifteen minutes late. By now, an already hostile audience was noisy and belligerent. In brief, instead of being cheered, the opening was jeered. In 113

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a short sketch, British comic Masie Gay and Chick Farr weren’t audible over the din. Even while charming Maurice Chevalier sang his famous “Valentino,” there were sounds of “Sing it in English.” Lucky me, I didn’t make my first entrance until after Anton Dolin and his ballet had concluded a superb exhibition of artistry called “Traffic in Souls.” My first sketch was short and punchy—a howl. My specialty followed. The London trade paper the Performer stated, the reason “[T] he show saved its face was really due to Mr. Ed Lowry, a most capable entertainer. Every time he made an appearance, the audience returned to docility.” The British correspondent for Variety wrote, “Ed Lowry was the single outstanding hit. Other than Lowry, the only applause demonstration went to Anton Dolin.” White Birds improved greatly during its first week but ran only ten weeks in all. Notwithstanding Chevalier’s drawing power, a fabulous cast, and a lavish production, we were unable to overcome our poor start. I hated to see the show close. Although a financial bust, it was certainly a social success for me. I was entertained by many people I had heard and read about but had never dreamed of meeting.

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Cheerio, London—Hello, St. Louis

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fter the White Birds’ closing, I booked a return at the Alhambra, where my loyal ladies of the pavement again hailed me. The theater billed this as my “Farewell Appearance.” At every show, the audience shouted for “Hello, Bluebird.” At the last performance, when I reached the second chorus, as usual I waved my handkerchief and sang, “Bye, bye, bad days, bye, bye, sad days.” Suddenly, the entire audience rose and waved their handkerchiefs back to me as a farewell tribute. It was very touching. During the last week of White Birds, a cable had come from the William Morris Agency. The timing was perfect; we booked passage on the SS Paris. After the Alhambra engagement, we headed for a four-week stay at the Ambassador Theatre in St. Louis, Missouri. Poor David Walker, who had become a superb one-man organization, was left behind. For eleven months, I had been building him up for a trip to America, but we were blocked by immigration problems. “I shall go to Canada,” David said. “One day soon you will see me in America.” Sure enough, David not only found his way to St. Louis but also never returned home. For the ten years he stayed in my employ, he was regarded as a member of our family. St. Louis was the beginning of a new life that began when the SS Paris steamed into New York harbor. A Paramount news cameraman came on board and took movie shots of me. When the boat docked, sixteen beauties from the New York Paramount carried me down the gangplank for some more newsreel footage. Although I had not attached that much importance to this engagement, I grew excited when I reached St. Louis and saw my face on every billboard. Quite a schedule had been planned. I was presented to the mayor and judged a beauty contest and chose “Miss Personality”; at the railroad 115

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depot, I posed for publicity photos with Miss Universe before she departed for Hollywood. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign designed for a railroad crossing that said, “If it’s a tie, you lose!” I’ve never forgotten that. Most impressive was my first visit to the Ambassador Theatre. When the lights went up after the movie, I tingled. This was the answer to a performer’s dream. Most of the seats were filled with women. Feminine restlessness made the auditorium pulsate. In pairs or trios, they darted for the ladies’ room or the water fountain or just fluttered nervously from seat to seat. Teenagers predominated, with adults of all ages not far behind. They smacked their chewing gum and giggled and gabbed and relaxed quite noisily, as if to take full advantage of the three minutes. The lights now dimmed, and except for a few tardy ones who rushed back to their seats, quiet again prevailed. Colorful lighting showered the ornate front curtain as the orchestra rose on the pit elevator. A hush held the house as Dave Silverman directed his symphony orchestra through a Sigmund Romberg medley. To tremendous applause, the orchestra descended and disappeared on the pit elevator. Now, on another elevator, Stuart Barrie rose into view seated at a huge pipe organ. Community songs mingled with parodies, and it took no persuasion to get audience participation. They sang as if they were home in their own bathtubs. Next came the stage show. Herbert Rawlinson, debonair moving-picture star of the silent days, handled the emcee chores. Sitting in this auditorium and viewing the stage show from the front of the theater gave me a frantic desire to appear before this audience. I found it difficult to control my emotion. I resembled a punchy prizefighter that keeps pulling away from his seconds shouting, “Let me at ’em, let me at ’em.” I was all primed and couldn’t wait to mix my batter and bake cake. The next morning, I was asked to attend a production meeting. After half an hour of this meeting, I felt like dumping the whole deal and heading for Death Valley. The Brothers Skouras took turns at ranting and raving and desk pounding. They screamed at the help as if they were driving cattle. Every member of the organization caught hell, and, at one point, Spyros got so rambunctious in criticizing a certain orchestra leader that he broke the glass top of his desk with his fist. After this meeting, they invited me to lunch, and Spyros inquired how I liked my first business conference. I let him know quickly that I loathed it.

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It was a slugfest, not a conference. I told him I got the impression that he had a spineless bunch of nincompoops working for him or they wouldn’t permit him to humiliate them in front of a room full of people. I assured him that whenever he wanted to get rid of me, all he needed to do was raise his voice, pound the desk once, and I’d be packed and out of the theater before his fist hit the glass top a second time. “Don’t worry, my boy,” laughed Spyros. “Us boys know our customers. I am sure I’ll never have to holler at you.” Although the Ambassador Theatre was a deluxe moving-picture palace, the Skouras brothers featured me over the stage show and the stage show over the picture. We had a new show every week, and, at each show, I did new songs, stories, and band numbers, participating in dialogue bits, hoofing, and even acrobatics with the visiting acts. This was called the stage-band policy, which throughout America was pushing vaudeville out of existence. My opening show was a big event. For four weeks, starting with my departure from London, a teaser campaign advertised, “Coming! Coming! Coming! He’s here!” In a packed theater, my ego swelled to new dimensions as sixteen Rockettes carried me onstage for my first entrance. I loved leading the band, and, needless to say, the ham in me had a complete field day. At the meeting after the show, desk pounding had been replaced by backslapping. Congratulations, love, and kisses were much in evidence. As I departed to go backstage for my next show, I heard Charlie Skouras murmur to Cullen Espy, the theater manager, “Take care of dis boy, I want him for to be hoppy. . . . He gonna be here for long time.” During the next few weeks, though glass tops continued to remain unshattered, the Skouras Brethren were not timid in trying to indoctrinate me with their own pet ideas. To begin with, they kidded me out of wearing spats, which all the dudes wore in those days. My double-breasted vests and other British accoutrements landed in the ash heap. My beautiful Malacca walking stick never saw the light of day again until I lent it to Charlie Skouras when he sprained his ankle. How old should I be? Where should I live, and where should I dine in public? These and other world-shaking topics were thrashed out in lengthy conferences. I was made to feel like a commodity rather than a flesh-andblood member of the human race. I had to ditch all obvious professionalism and become a nice boy from the neighborhood. In trying to remake me,

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they emphasized that the success of the show was much more important than my individual success. They thought I should willingly subscribe to this logic since the advertising described it as my show. By the fourth week, I could no longer do wrong. The reaction was crazy. The customers lined up in front of the box office as early as nine in the morning. The four weeks stretched into four months and the four months into four years. Babies were named after me. The Wolff Wilson Drug Stores featured an Ed Lowry Sundae in a full-page ad. I endorsed cigarettes and hair tonic. In the Post Dispatch, the Pennsylvania Railroad boasted that their crack train had brought me to St. Louis. During my fifth or sixth week, a tornado hit St. Louis and did great damage. Many homes were leveled, creating particular havoc in the poorer sections. Conscripting a piano player and a group of our Rockettes, I rushed to ten and twelve theaters a day, sang one song, made a pitch for the tornado victims, and had the Rockettes go through the audience getting donations. We performed over eighty times that week and raised thousands of dollars. The song I sang at each performance was especially fitting for the occasion: “Muddy Waters.” It was a blues number about the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. It became my theme song and identification tag. Later, after my popularity was firmly established, all I had to do was shout the first eight bars of this tune, and the audience would applaud and yell through the next eight. During the last half of the chorus, I used to stomp out the beat while I pounded my chest in rhythm. Dramatically, I’d look up to heaven and plead with the Lord to send me back to the delta because my heart was out there crying for the muddy waters. The applause for this song made anything else I ever did seem weak by comparison. Our entertainers at the Ambassador were young and fresh. Lack of experience wasn’t considered a disqualification as in the Old School. Young performers were rarely seen at the Palace. You were expected to serve a lengthy apprenticeship to prove your worth. Tradition decreed that you come up the hard way. By the time you earned your place on the Big Time, you were mature in both years and artistry. But here we catered to teenagers, and we made it a point to use a preponderance of teenage talent. Our crystal ball never forecast that the tiny tow-headed Betty Grable or the little flat-chested Ginger Rogers would zoom to the top box-office brackets. Audiences screamed hilariously at a new family of funsters, the Three Ritz Brothers. They laughed at Ray Bolger and were so keen for Joe Penner 118

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that we kept bringing him back for return engagements. Every time he said, “Wanna buy a duck?” his salary jumped fifty dollars. When he was drawing down three hundred a week, he had an inferiority complex that was as noticeable as a policeman’s badge. Who could foresee that there would come a day when this little, apologetic guy would draw down as high as ten thousand a week? Who could predict that Martha Raye would reach an equally crazy payoff and even double it? Or that beautiful Harriet Hilliard would win fame playing a wife and mother in the TV series Ozzie and Harriet? Then there was Ruth Roman. Her success was no surprise. She showed promise right at the outset. St. Louis had become a hot show town. There were always four or five masters of ceremonies competing for honors. I was never quite sure whether my bosses were trying to knock me off or just keep me in line. They were creating most of the competition within their own theaters. The first opponent was a former Ziegfeld star, Brooke Johns. A big, handsome guy, he had the town sewed up long before I ever arrived but made the mistake of taking a four-week vacation. During his absence, I stole off with his audience. Sneaky, wasn’t it? But as we say about audiences, “They’re as fickle as a tickle in a bickle.” I have no idea what that last word means. Frank Fay, later of Harvey fame, was the toughest competitor. His sophistication won much admiration but little affection. Frank possessed lots of know-how, but in Missouri, he would have fared better with more of his Harvey characterization. As for his Broadway-raconteur personality—well, if you opened the dictionary, and the word blasé suddenly grew legs and strolled toward you wearing striped trousers and a gray coat, that would be Fay. After about ten weeks, “Broadway’s adopted son” returned to his foster parents. Jack Haley was a much homier type and knew how to tug at your heartstrings. Jack substituted for me at the Ambassador for a healthy little run. He moved in on my home grounds real solidly, and it’s good I didn’t loiter a day longer, or I might not have attained the crown for establishing the record sale of over ten million admission tickets to one theater. Harry Rose was my friendliest competitor. We worked together, had fun together, and were nicknamed the Damon and Pythias of ceremonies. There were also Eddie Peabody, banjo virtuoso, Dick Powell, who, in a brief visit, proved a fine friend and a neighborly guy, Wally Vernon, Bert 119

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Frohman, Al Lyons, Frank Masters, Teddy Joyce, Jay Mills, Wesley Eddy, and many others. Some forged ahead, and some faded en route. I can still recollect a Greek screwball busboy who used to bring the sandwiches backstage from Barbakos’s ice-cream parlor next to the stage door. How could we even dream that one day we would pay eleven bucks to see this guy in the Broadway show A Streetcar Named Desire and in an important role yet. His name, Nick Dennis. Helen Kane “ boop-boop-a-dooped” her way into a tidy five thousand a week. Lyda Roberti was cancelled at one of our theaters when an opposing emcee objected to working with her. He complained that the audience laughed at her broad Polish accents, though it was considered good showmanship to play up such a dialect. I requested that she be transferred to our show and introduced her as “an adorable little Polack who just came off the boat, all alone by herself together with her sister Lidgie.” The same girl, a flop in the other house, was now a smash. Upon my suggestion, Jack Yellen, a songwriter who was preparing a musical for Broadway, came to see her. He booked her instantly. Three months later, Lyda was a star getting a thousand a week. Next came a big movie contract and more offers than she could handle. All this because the audience laughed at her. Her career came to an early tragic end, and another star was added to the galaxy up above. A few years later, she was joined up there by another gal who massacred the King’s English, Elaine Arden, with her Greek accent. Audiences also laughed at her, particularly in St. Louis, where they got the impression she was imitating the Skourases. Myrtle Gordon, a young Sophie Tucker, played almost as many repeat engagements as Ginger Rogers, but tops of all the youngsters at that time was Peggy Bernier. “Wacky Peggy,” a female jerk but lovable and talented, made $600 a week when the other kids were getting $75 and $100. In my opinion, she was one of the most imitated entertainers I ever knew; yet she never made it. Oh, what this gal could do to a popular song! She used to tear it apart, put it together again, and then rip it wide open. A fabulous personality, she was a hellion onstage as well as off, as uncontrollable as a cat in a bin of catnip. Sometimes, it took both my wife and Milton Watson, her husband, to keep us from killing one another. One minute, honey oozed from her lips, and a second later, she was a sadistic imp. On one occasion, while we were sitting on a park bench singing an affectionate love song, she decided it would be fun to dig her fingernails into the back of my neck until she 120

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drew blood. I placed my arm around her back and twisted her wrist until her eyes teared. In this manner, we finished our duet. “Gee, Uncle Eddie,” she apologized, “I don’t know why I did it. I must have rocks in my head. I have a brain like a rubber band, and sometimes it snaps. Ha, Ha, I made a funny.” Then we laughed and kissed and made up. Charlie Skouras agreed that Peggy was a great talent, and we kept bringing her back for return engagements, to the delight of our patrons. One night, Charlie, in his fractured English, complimented her, “Peggy, I want you for to know thot tonight you were wonderful.” “Thanks, Mr. Skouras,” said Peggy with verve. “And I want you for to know that with your dialect, you could get a straight man and play the theater yourself.” That was Peggy’s last appearance at the Ambassador Theatre. Although Peggy didn’t drink or use any drugs, at the time you would have thought that she was completely charged. Charlie Skouras was the showman of the Skouras clan. He looked after me as if I were a baby. He usually spent several hours a day in my dressing room. Charlie loved to laugh, was very much alive, and participated in the fun and bantering that went on backstage. Charlie made it a point to watch the stage show at least once every day and saw many unprecedented demonstrations of audience approval, affection, and even adulation. The longevity of my engagement made history. Weeks, months, and even years went by, and the theater seldom had a vacant seat. Though I was now a top box-office draw, I was still playing it scared. The early years of struggle had left their scars. I always kept two H&M wardrobe trunks in my dressing room, and this bothered Charlie, who regarded the presence of the trunks as a sign of transience. He became even more disturbed when I insisted that fans are fickle and might start throwing peanuts at me any time. “When and if they do,” I explained, “I’m ready to start packing.” Spyros Skouras, unlike Charlie, had no sense of comic timing. He’d laugh heartily at a joke and then completely louse it up in trying to repeat it. Though not the showman the older brother was, he was a keener businessman and a more daring operator. A handsome man with an abundance of charm, he swept you off your feet. Spyros invariably chose a stag audience as the proper setting to boast of his marital faithfulness and to express his disdain for any man who was less than saintly. In business, he was a toughie, with more drive and determination than any man I’ve ever dealt 121

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with. I remember my first little clash with Spyros Skouras. After I concluded my fourth week at the theater, nothing was said about a new deal. The original bookings were for four weeks, and at the end of that period, we just continued. We were clicking beautifully, and my salary was certainly not commensurate to the drawing power I had established at the box office. After eight weeks, I thought it time to talk turkey about a new deal. Charlie passed the buck to Spyros, and Spyros insisted they had an option on my services for one year. This didn’t coincide with my way of thinking, so I decided I was tired and needed a week’s rest. Paul Whiteman and his band were then one of America’s top attractions; they were booked to fill the spot. I went east to visit my mother. Paul’s salary was three times as many thousands as my salary was hundreds. The week’s business was considerably below the amount I had tabbed the previous week. Upon my return to St. Louis, I went backstage to greet Whiteman in his dressing room, where Spyros also happened to be visiting. “Lowry,” said Paul, in disgust, “this joint has turned out to be an ice palace for me. They’re just waiting to get you back.” “Eddie, my boy,” Spyros cut in, “Paul is very modest. He’s done terrifical business. The people love him.” “Gee,” I retorted, “I’m happy, happy, happy. I’ll stay around and help you count your money.” There was obvious tension, and Spyros broke it by inviting me to Mustika Jim’s, a Greek restaurant. Here he ordered wine and specially prepared Greek dishes. Several hours later, I went home very well buttered. The next week was dynamite. It was my first of a series of “Welcome Home” shows. We stood them up [got them to their feet] four times a day, and audiences sure delivered the message to my bosses. Business zoomed! Spyros presented me with a new deal—$1,100 a week, a far cry from Whiteman’s $20,000, but a $350 increase served to keep me happy, temporarily, that is. Some years later, on a Sunday afternoon, I was visiting Spyros at his home in Mamaroneck. He confided that during the first three years of my engagements at the Ambassador, the theater cleared an average profit of seventeen thousand dollars a week. It was a hot, sunny day, and the Scotch and soda had been flowing. Baring his soul further, Spyros revealed his ambitions, working himself up to a high pitch and reverting to his old form of pounding the table for emphasis. 122

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“Eddie, my boy, I am going to be the biggest man in this whole industry, and nothing is going to stop me. Nothing!” I knew way back then that this man wasn’t kidding, and he wasn’t. He went on to become president of Twentieth Century–Fox Film Corp. George, the youngest Skouras brother, didn’t participate in the operation of the deluxe theaters. In those days, he had little taste for the commercial, preferring to recite poems about bees, butterflies, and bupkus [nothing]. He went on a reading binge that lasted two years, and during that time, his big brothers couldn’t make him work. George used to like to come backstage and visit in the dressing room, too, but when he heard the voice of Charlie or Spyros, he would disappear quicker than Houdini. In 1929, Paramount Picture Company held its annual convention in St. Louis, and we were called upon to do a show for the visitors. Harry Rose was appearing at the Ambassador with me, and Frank Fay was at the Missouri Theatre. We joined in a comedy skit entitled “Skouras Brothers, Incorporated.” Fay played Spyros, Harry Rose was supposed to be George, and I played Charlie. Fay opened the skit with a satirical monologue in which he told about their brotherly love and how it was always share and share alike. I entered, carrying a black bag, and said in Greek dialect, “Well, Spyros, we had a good week.” Spyros inquired, “How much we gross, Charlie?” “What was our deal with Paramount, Spyros?” asked Charlie. “Well,” said Spyros, “we had a flat price up to thirty-five thousand, then a fifty-fifty split.” “That’s what I thought,” said Charlie, “We did thirty-five thousand nine hundred.” “Hm,” Spyros commented. “Isn’t that a co-hinkie-dinkie!” We then started splitting the loot between the two of us, each getting a bundle of bills, and Harry, as George, repeatedly trying to push in, and we kept muscling him out. He kept annoying us for his share, and finally I said, “Okay, George, but now stop bothering us.” I threw a couple of coins to the floor, and George dove for them. Black out! The skit was a riot, but I thought they would have to put George in chains to subdue him. He wanted to tear Fay limb from limb for writing the skit; in fact, he was so furious that I never did tell him that I was the author of the opus. 123

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Reeves Espy was director of publicity for the Skourases, and he had a good organization. Thornton Sargent was assigned to my beat at the Ambassador Theatre. He was a gentle, mild-mannered guy whom Charlie, half in pride and half in mockery, would refer to as “the professor.” Thornton, still in his twenties, had been an English instructor at the University of Missouri. In spite of a spreading mustache, he looked more like a quiz kid than a publicity man and hardly seemed to fit into this jazzy, tinseled hodgepodge. But with his subdued and apparently frightened approach, he garnered more free newspaper space than the Brooklyn Daily Eagle gave “dem bums” when they won the pennant. Space in the dailies wasn’t all that Thornton promoted. There was a new Kuppenheimer suit each week, as well as Florsheim shoes and custommade shirts. I was presented with so many radio sets I could have started in business. I also received a piano, a silver clarinet, a gold saxophone, a diamond-studded baton, and finally a beautiful sports-model car. “Our Eddie” was the way the patrons referred to me, and to a large percentage of the St. Louis populace, a weekly visit to the Ambassador became a must. One day, a banjo player, while doing a comedy bit, swung around quite suddenly, and his banjo clipped me right on the eye. The impact of the blow knocked me to my knees and cut a deep gash in my eyebrow. I knew I was hurt but, traditionally, I knew I must cover up the accident, so I did a comedy walk off on my knees to tumultuous applause and laughter. However, when I failed to come back onstage for the next scene, the house started to empty. In less than five minutes, there was an angry mob at the stage door. It took a dozen policemen to disperse the crowd and escort the unfortunate banjo player to his hotel. I had my eye stitched up, and at the next performance, with the assistance of the drummer and flutist, we did a takeoff on “The Spirit of ’76.” The enthusiastic reaction would have better befit a hero. The bruised eye healed, and during the week, I received flowers, cakes, and hundred of sympathetic letters. The banjo player battled a belligerent audience for the rest of the week, all because he accidentally hurt “our Eddie.” Just about now, an opposing emcee hit me another blow—only this was a low one and threatened to foul me right out of town. But, first, let me set the groundwork with Ginger Rogers. Ginger, at the beginning of her career, had been booked with us for one week. She was new and fresh and 124

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could be referred to as delightfully amateurish. She was a darling foil and got off with a good fast Charleston. We held her over for many weeks, and each week, she and I did a new routine together. We did cute boy-and-girl jokes and kidded the romantic angle, and the audience went gaga over the combination. She would play three or four weeks, then leave for a month or two, when we’d bring her back for a return date. At this time, Eddie Jr. was added to our household, and the entire city seemed to share our joy with us. We kept nurseries and orphanages supplied with the surplus of lovely gifts that were sent to Junior. But on the heels of the joyous event, scandalous gossip was rearing its ugly head. I was unaware of it until some of the gossipers got so bold as to talk up to me from the audience and wisecrack to Teddy on the streets and in the stores. One day, a reporter from an important newspaper came backstage for an interview. Persistent rumor had it, he said, that Ginger and I were sweethearts and that Eddie Jr. was my son by Ginger and that Teddy wouldn’t give me up to Ginger, so we had legally adopted the baby. This vicious rumor presumably started as a jest by an emcee at another theater. His warped sense of humor was nurtured by gossipmongers, whose snide activities ultimately threatened my career as well as our domestic happiness. Another incident in kind happened the week I was working with Helen, the famous “boop-boop-a-doop” girl. She was twirling my necktie around her finger and fussing over me to the delight of the audience. Simultaneously, a girl sitting in the row in front of my wife said to the girl on her left, “That dame can fuss over him while he’s up there on the stage, but he was all mine last night.” Teddy reacted like a nerve that’s been touched by a needle, then held herself in check as the girl continued. “I tell you, he’s a real doll. First he took me out to Busch’s Grove, and then we had some drinks and—er—well, we were together until five this morning.” Unable to contain herself any longer, Teddy leaned over and tapped the girl on the shoulder. “Look, Honey,” she said, “nobody can stop you from dreaming, but don’t dream out loud. I happen to be Mrs. Lowry, and my husband was never out of my sight last night.” The dreamer nudged her friend, “Get what says, she’s Mrs. Lowry.” Then, addressing Teddy, “Hm, I’m glad to meetcha, Ma’am. I’m Mrs. Calvin Coolidge.” 125

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Such incidents were becoming commonplace. Fortunately, Teddy knew how to handle these kids. On one occasion, in a beauty parlor while getting a permanent, she overheard a loudmouth tell the beautician that I had ditched my wife and I was now going steady with this new charmer. Suddenly, she reminded herself, “Oh, I should have called Ed a half hour ago. Will he burn. May I use the phone?” The beautician acquiesced and handed her the phone. The young lady stalled a moment and then exclaimed, “This is crazy! We talk ten times a day and now I can’t think of his number.” Sticking her head into the booth, Teddy said, “central 9227.” For five successive days, I received a dozen American Beauty roses, accompanied by a note, “I’ll be in the second seat in the fourth row—a kiss for every rose—I love you.” After several days, the musicians, the Rockettes, and in fact everyone in the show leered at the poor gal, but the next day, she was right back in the same seat. On Saturday, two men in white coats tapped her on the shoulder and quietly took her out. She protested, insisting that she was my wife, but our little lovebird was returned to the state mental institution, where they gently clipped her wings. A rash of cash was the bait in one situation involving a nympho that got a crush on me and wouldn’t be discouraged. Finally, in despair, she tried to buy me, propositioning my wife as the agent. In all my show-business experience, I had played all sorts of parts, but this was the first time someone wanted to book me as a stud horse. She literally told my wife over the phone that if she could borrow me for three months, she’d take care of Mrs. L. so she’d have no financial worries as long as she lived. She further stated that if and when the stork hovered over our love nest, she’d pay a bonus because her real desire was to have a child by me. “I don’t think my husband is the type for the role,” said Teddy. “And if he is,” she added quickly, “I’d better hang onto him for myself,” and she hung up. She paused and then took the receiver off the hook again to call the state mental institution to inquire if there had been another escape. No one got so much fun out of the crazy incidents that took place at the Ambassador as Leto Hill. Leto became the manager after I was there a month or so. He and his wife, Mae, and Teddy and I became a foursome almost immediately. Leto was a swell egg, and he had a magnificent sense of humor. Whenever Teddy was burdened with an overdose of rumor or annoyance, he used to rib her, and thanks greatly to his facetious point of view, she’d laugh away what could have caused her grief. 126

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Charlie Skouras was very possessive, and my close friendship with Leto didn’t improve Charlie’s disposition. It got so Leto didn’t dare come back to my dressing room unless Chuck was either in a meeting or out of town. Eventually, there was such ill feeling that Leto switched over to Warner Brothers, where he did much better for himself. Leto was very religious, and if he wasn’t with our mutual pal Gene Cronk, who took care of my tax worries with Uncle Sam, he was most likely to be found with Father Sullivan or Father Kane. It was a pleasure to fraternize with both of these gentlemen of the cloth. They were two swell fellows, wonderful storytellers, and equally good listeners. Regardless of our difference in faith, we enjoyed a close friendship. Another close friend was Dr. Jacob Probstein, whom I met through his brother-in-law Harry Koplar. Harry had interests in the theater business with Skouras. The doctor, who looked after my health with affectionate concern, refused to bill me for his professional services, so I made it a point to pay him off with engraved watches and other personal trinkets. Dr. Probstein, devoutly religious, was quite active in an orthodox synagogue. Just prior to Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, the doctor invited me to attend his temple for part of the day’s services. Between shows, I drove out to the synagogue, where I found the doctor waiting for me by the curb. This was the day’s first sin. An orthodox Jew does not ride in a vehicle on the Sabbath. Now, out of nowhere, came dozens of boys and girls clamoring for autographs. This was sin number 2. A Jew does not write on the Sabbath. The doctor and I tried to fight our way through the crowd and into the temple, but the kids started pulling buttons and reaching for my handkerchief and fountain pen or anything else they might consider a souvenir. One teenager got my hat and victoriously dashed down the street with it. It is also a sin to enter a synagogue with your head uncovered. With the help of a shamas, we finally succeeded in getting inside. Now I was embarrassed for real. As I walked down the aisle, a chain reaction of recognition brought turmoil to this hallowed hall. Worshippers paused in midprayer, and I was being greeted like the potentate at an Elks convention. Flustered and blushing, I was glad to take refuge in a pew. The congregation was now standing in spiritual reverence. In front of us stood a bewhiskered old patriarch wearing a skull cap, his shoulders wrapped in a huge tallith [prayer shawl] flowing clear to the floor, partially covering his shoeless feet. In one hand, he held his Bible, to which he seldom referred, 127

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for it was engraved in memory. He wailed and chanted poignantly as he rocked to and fro, gently pounding his heart with his fist. Still murmuring, he turned slightly and spotted me. “Hello, Lowry,” he fairly shouted. In an instant, he got right back to his praying, again oblivious to any other presence but the Deity’s. “My Lord, how would he know me?” I whispered to Dr. Probstein. The doctor leaned over, tapped the old gent on the shoulder, and inquired in Yiddish, “From where would you know Lowry?” He continued his prayer until he apparently came to the end. “Ambassador Theatre, where else?” he intoned in a heavy accent. “I go every week.” Following this incident, I occasionally ran into the old fellow. One day, he inquired, “Well, Lowry, how’s business?” “Very good,” I replied, “considering that it’s Lent.” “Lent,” he commented laughingly. “Huh, over by Lowe’s Theatre they got Lent.” Strangely, the first public rebuff I encountered in St. Louis came from a rabbi. The Community Chest had fallen short of its quota, and in an effort to raise more money, the committee was having a luncheon to discuss strategy. In a speech, Mayor Victor J. Miller suggested that there was one man present who could do a solo job and extricate the committee from its dilemma. “This man’s name has become a household word. I give you Ed Lowry.” Representatives of varied faiths were present, but the only dissenting voice was that of Rabbi Harrison. When the applause subsided, he stood up and said, “Gentlemen, it’s a sad commentary when the City of St. Louis can’t handle a project as noble as the Community Chest without enlisting the aid of and capitalizing on the cheap publicity of an actor.” In an attempt to raise the needed $260,000 shortfall, this actor took to the airwaves that very night. He gave out with the songs and stories for about twenty hours, establishing what may well have been the first marathon charity drive on radio. The appeal was a success, going well over the top. The results proved that the rabbi had expressed his own views and not the sentiments of his people. The big money started rolling in when I became very hoarse, and Judge Harry Rosecan pledged a thousand dollars for me to call it a night. Mark Steinberg called to offer two thousand dollars for me to stay on. Jack Langer called to say that Mr. Murdoch, the owner of 128

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the Mounds Club, was sending three thousand. Apparently, these generous people were not allergic to an actor. Dad always said if a man had influential friends, his success was assured. I found this was not necessarily the rule regarding financial advice. I’ve read and heard of actors and ballplayers making fortunes through the advice of influential friends. Following the Paramount convention in St. Louis, I met Mr. Adolph Zukor, president of Paramount Pictures. He arranged for me to get one hundred shares of Paramount stock, seven points lower than it was listed on the stock exchange. Later, I practically gave the stock away in order to declare the loss for tax purposes. John Sills, a local bank president, insisted he wished to reciprocate for the pleasure my performances gave his mother. He showed his appreciation by giving me financial counsel. I bought a stock called International Match. The story of the Match King, who was the world’s biggest swindler, is now old hat. It cost me about fourteen thousand dollars. It cost Mr. Sill’s mother much more, I am sure, and it cost John his life. Heartbroken, he chose suicide as his way out. I met Harry Warner when he came to St. Louis to buy out the Skouras brothers. “Son,” Mr. Warner said, “dig up all the cash you can get your hands on, and invest it in a stock called Goldman-Sachs.” The next day, I sold sixty thousand dollars worth of government bonds and bought Goldman-Sachs at $116 per share. When the market started to fall apart, I bought more to cover my losses. A few years later, I unloaded the whole stinking mess at $2 a share. This was my swan song in the stock market. I decided my business was show business. With so much lost moola to make up, I went to work more diligently than ever. In three years, my bank showed some tidy assets, and ironically enough, I earned most of it playing in Warner-owned theaters.

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arner Brothers bought out Skouras brothers, but the Skourases ran the theaters, and I wasn’t affected at all until our second musicians’ strike. My contract called for pay under any conditions, so I was shipped off to the Stanley Theatre in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. John H. Harris, later owner of the Ice Capades, had just taken over the post of zone manager of all the Warner theaters in the Pittsburgh area. J. H. came from an illustrious theatrical family. His parents, on both sides, were pioneers in the vaudeville field. The Harris and Davis theaters dated way back. Dick Powell, who was not yet established as a name attraction, had been the permanent emcee. He was moved out to East Liberty, Pennsylvania, and I took over Dick’s spot at the Stanley. To put this theater on a paying basis was quite an undertaking. Meaning: it was a huge mausoleum. It seldom enjoyed two successive winning weeks. Loew’s Theatre in Pittsburgh had caught on with a stage-band policy, and attendance for the Stanley Theatre was poor. Spyros Skouras came to town for the opening and decided to use the same formula we employed in St. Louis. I had been converted to this policy, but Harris became difficult. After the first show, he was disgusted. “How you gonna win over a town,” he beefed, “if you leave all your stuff in the dressing room?” John was used to seeing me in vaudeville, where I unloaded everything I knew in fifteen minutes. I had since learned to sell myself as a personality who could weave a show together in a showmanlike manner and fill every void or weak spot with whatever ingredient the show needed. By praising the other entertainers, I ingratiated myself with both actors and audience. As time went on, my versatility got across, and the surrounding show was usually a success. Skouras figured it might take ten weeks to get rid of the 130

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pool-hall element out front and draw in the hausfraus and flappers. The change was gradual. Strangers on the streets were beginning to call me Eddie, and I could feel the frigid atmosphere thawing out. Harold Cohen, Variety critic and drama editor for the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, became an enthusiastic booster and a wonderful friend. To quote Cohen, “Lowry is the smoothest M.C. ever to hit this burg. The others can all take lessons from this personality.” There was a time when John Harris wanted to resign because he felt his hands were being tied, but time worked in our favor and in spite of the discordant start, John and I became real pals. Our business zoomed and, in the lingo of the trade, I was box office. We had it made! Johnny and I had much in common. We both loved show business. He hated to go to bed at night and was full of unexpected capers. You never knew when he’d suddenly appear on the scene with either Vince Barnett or Luke Barnett for one of his practical jokes. The Barnetts could dig up more crazy makeup than Max Factor. After they had fooled the same person for the third and, sometimes, the fourth time, Johnny’s big, robust laugh would rock the building. Before long, it was my turn to fall victim to John’s jocular pastime. First, he prevailed on me to visit with him at his penthouse after the show. I sent my car to the garage, and John promised to drive me home. “Ed, call down for some ice and ginger ale while I make a long-distance call on the other phone, will ya?” Sucker that I was, I fell for one of his pranks. Up came an odd-looking character with a mongrel dialect impossible to identify. He was surly, clumsy, and impudent. I was gradually simmering and getting ready to come to a boil, when he dropped the bucket of ice on the floor. He started picking up the dirty ice cubes and dropping them into the glasses. As I remonstrated with him, he was opening a bottle of ginger ale that he succeeded in squirting right in my face. I was just grabbing a chair to let him have it when Johnny bounded back into the room and pounced on Barnett, who, in turn, took a beautiful pratfall. Johnny then sat on top of him and pretended he was banging Barnett’s head on the floor. I started pulling at Johnny, pleading with him to let up, and when I was on the verge of hysterics, Johnny let out that big blockbusting laugh. “Well, chump,’’ he gurgled, “you did it again. This is Vince Barnett.” The night was still young. We had some drinks and a snack. At 2 a.m., I said, “Johnny, drive me home now, will you? I must get some shut-eye.” 131

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Johnny claimed he was waiting for a return long-distance call and would appreciate it if I would permit him to call me a cab. I consented and in a few minutes was on my way. Suddenly, I found myself in some godforsaken part of town I had never seen before. I said, “Say, driver!” “Whaduryou want?” The menacing cabbie strained his words through a guzzle mustache. “Schenley Hotel,” I shouted, “not Philadelphia!” He stopped the car dead, opened the front door, stepped into the street, and literally snarled at me. “You don’ like der way I dwive. You dwive!” He walked a few steps and then turned back and shouted, “You dwive! I got der key to der car, see!” He thumbed his nose and disappeared into the darkness. I was petrified. I sat frozen to the seat for what seemed a couple of lifetimes, when a big, black car pulled up alongside me. “You need a lift, Bud?” It was Johnny. Seated beside him was Vince Barnett, wearing a guzzle mustache. In a few months, the strike was settled in St. Louis. Charlie Skouras, who had remained in charge of the territory for Warners, kept insisting that I return. Pittsburgh had become a happy hunting ground, but I was reluctant to lose my hold in St. Louis. John Harris was furious over the deal. He went to New York to try and convince Spyros that it was wrong to take me out of the Stanley Theatre, but Charlie Skouras was still the big brother and, as usual, got his way. The Lowry entourage drove leisurely toward the state of Missouri. According to the St. Louis newspapers, an argument as to whether my homecoming constituted a civic event took place at a meeting of the Board of Aldermen. They compromised by declaring it a half holiday. It was estimated that fourteen thousand people lined the streets to welcome me home. I suppose it sounds as if I’m bragging. Perhaps, but this is the way I got it from the newspapers, and a performer can find nothing so pleasant as believing his own press stories.

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hen our car reached the Missouri state line on the Free Bridge, which joined St. Louis to East St. Louis [Illinois], we saw a tremendous crowd. Drawing closer, we heard music. Through the din, above the cheers, and in spite of the bedlam, we recognized “Muddy Waters.” Practically every member of Musicians’ Local Number 2 was on hand. We were joined by six motorcycle cops, who acted as escorts. A motor cavalcade headed toward us, then stopped. From the first car, heading a long parade, stepped His Honor, Mayor Victor Miller. After the usual salutations, the mayor presented me with a scroll. Radio station KMOX had made arrangements to pick up the mayor’s speech. Over the public-address system, you could hear his honor orate, “Ed Lowry, we welcome you back to the City of St. Louis, and we present you with this scroll as a civic recognition. As mayor of this city, I issue the following proclamation: “Whereas, you have established a world’s record of over four thousand performances in one theater; whereas, you have contributed your talent, time, and energy to every worthy civic cause and charity; whereas, you have won the admiration of all St. Louis for your charm and entertainment; and whereas, you have caused many visitors to come to this city, I, Victor J. Miller, proclaim this Ed Lowry Happiness Week and urge the citizens of St. Louis to honor you, Ed Lowry, for your creation of such an enviable record.” The mayor then handed me the microphone. “Your Honor, Mayor Miller, and ladies and gentlemen,” I responded. “Whereas, I am overcome with emotion, and whereas, if I don’t sit down I fear my knees will buckle, I hereby proclaim this to be Ed Lowry Gratitude

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Week. I extend my deepest thanks and gratitude to the entire populace. I will always cherish the memory of this occasion. Thanks!” Again, the band played “Muddy Waters,” and the parade proceeded along Washington Boulevard. Many of our Rockettes were back in their old majorette costumes and swinging their batons and adding pageantry to the demonstration. Along the way, the people shouted all kinds of warm greetings. It was like a hero’s welcome. I said to Teddy, “Look at those crazy kids carrying that huge dummy. Ha! That’s me in effigy. Thank heavens, they’re not burning or hanging me. On the dummy it says, ‘Our Eddie,’ and on the back it says ‘The ELFs.’ That’s a cute title—ELFs—Ed Lowry Fans.” Various fan clubs turned out with signs of greetings. The Lowrians. The ELCs, the Ambassadorables, Ed’s Co-eds. My goodness, they even had “Welcome Home” banners flying from the department stores. “There’s Stix, Baer, and Fuller’s,” I exclaimed. “Golly, look who’s hanging out of the window waving—Sidney Baer. Hi, Sidney! There’s Arthur Baer, too. Oh, gee, there’s Famous-Barr. Never realized that store was so big. Doctor Probstein is there for an hour every day. Golly, I’ll want to see him. I’ll need a sedative after all this excitement.” There were more intimate salutations backstage, where the whole organization, including the Skourases, the staff, the musicians, and the stagehands, had a buffet lunch in my honor. Next morning, ice water was piddled over my exultation when I picked up a copy of the Post-Dispatch and read an editorial by Harry Niemeyer describing and ridiculing the homecoming celebration. “The humble followers,” wrote “Nile,” “lined along the curb while the conquering hero rode by in his golden chariot tossing coins to the peasants as was the wont of his race.” Nile had always been most complimentary and on many occasions had editorialized on how modestly and wisely I had behaved myself during these record-breaking years. His writings were often brilliant, and he was a fine juggler of words. Now, however, in baring his journalistic teeth, it seemed that his rational intelligence had snapped. Whatever possessed him to drag his typewriter into a sewer to spew up his malignant religious comments is beyond me. The parade was no brainchild of mine. Reeves Espy or Thornton Sargent engineered the idea, and both were merely following the dictates of good showmanship, one of the countless exploitation stunts that stamped them 134

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as great showmen. It was smart promotion to line up the mayor, the Board of Aldermen, the police department, the musicians’ union, the radio station, and the shopkeepers, all of whom benefited from this hoopla. As for the thousands who lined the curb and threw tickertape out of the windows, the Constitution guaranteed them the right to participate as they did or to simply ignore it if they felt so inclined. Granted, I didn’t rate this Lindbergh-type of demonstration any more than the behavior of my ancestors had the remotest connection with the whole affair. Following the welcome-home campaign, we compressed five thousand people into the three-thousand-seat theater for the opening performance. In contrast to the vindictive article by Niemeyer, Tom Bashaw, dramatic editor of the Times, described the audience reaction during my opening show under a two-column boldface head, “Lowry Ovation Sets Theatre Record Here.” He compared the unprecedented applause to what one might hear at a presidential political rally: “It must have been a revelation to the Skouras Brethren. It certainly was for the rest of us, even the young man’s most ardent admirers. There he stood, the man who seems to have got a grip on the heartstrings or whatever it is that theatergoers have that makes them cling to an entertainer they love. For two whole minutes, by actual timing, of the watch, the demonstration continued. The emotion which he must have felt was almost overcoming him; he swayed from one side to the other, raising his hand pleadingly for the audience to let him speak, but the audience continued, and he stood as though paralyzed with the thrill of it all.” Yes, these demonstrations did paralyze me. I was sentimental as the audience showered me with affection. It was like being in love. At the conclusion of my opening performance, I received so many floral pieces that the staff of ushers couldn’t handle them all. The most impressive of these was the one sent by the stagehands, impressive not because of the makeup of the offering but because stagehands are generally crusty types who seldom send flowers to men who are still living. Along with this complimentary tribute, they also presented me with a solid-gold card making me a “Life Member of Local Number 6.” The sixteen men employed backstage at the Ambassador were rough stock if you crossed them, but from the notorious head of the local, Joseph Nick, to the more genteel Orville Newlin, I had been extended not only a friendly hand but also a protective one. 135

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Being a supersensitive guy, I noticed that during my opening performance, one particular stagehand was showing no interest in the show. He pretended complete indifference and sat there reading a newspaper. When the curtains closed, the others rushed to offer congratulations, but “Little-bit” sat with his face buried in the paper. As I passed, I gave him a friendly whack on the back but got no response. Glancing down at the paper, I noticed it was three days old. He was reading Niemeyer’s column about the parade. The next day, I confronted Little-bit, a big, handsome galoot who weighed about three hundred pounds and stood six feet four. “Come on, kid,” I said, “let’s hear it. What’s eatin’ ya?” “Nuthin’ eatin’ me,” he replied evasively. “What do you want me to do, kiss ya?” “Little-bit,” I said, “we’ve been friends for four years. Now spill it. What’s happened?” “Well,” he blubbered, “you’ve had your inning, so you went away, and another guy took your place. You got all the dough you need, why in hell couldn’t ya stay away and give an American a chance?” Someone once said the pen is mightier than the sword. One crack in a paper made this man so religion conscious that he had already relieved me of my citizenship. I tried to get some sympathy from Charlie Skouras about these disturbing elements, but he laughed at my sensitiveness. “People only show their hate when you are a success,” he commented. “Why, if us boys had a dollar for every time someone calls us goddam Griks, it would make us for to be millionaires.” All attendance records were being broken at the theater. With renewed success came renewed enthusiasm. Evil thoughts and words evaporated. Even Niemeyer lost his poison pen and wrote as if he had become my praise agent. Sargent, who was having a field day with the newspapers and advertising agencies, had me tied up with every worthwhile product. The St. Louis Times ran a daily column called “Ed Lowry Muses.” Without the aid of a ghostwriter, I hacked out my own material. The Times advertised it big, but the reputation of Will Rogers wasn’t threatened, not even slightly. A real scoop came through Harry T. Brundige, who was tops as a feature-story scribe. Harry wrote my life story, which ran in daily installments for four weeks and zoomed the paper’s circulation, as well as my own popularity. 136

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Brundige used a Horatio Alger approach, the rags-to-riches formula, which hit a responsive note. The Depression was gradually creeping in, but our business prospered, and there was still plenty of lush living around. For example, in East St. Louis, there was an elaborate gambling casino called the Mounds Club, where I used to make occasional guest appearances. For five- or ten-minute stints at eleven thirty at night, I’d get a thousand dollars. This was long before Las Vegas stole the spotlight as headquarters for stars and celebrities who acted as shills and chimps to draw in the chumps. The owners of the Mounds Club would toss me five hundred dollars worth of chips free, because they knew I loved to shoot craps. Then, they let nature take its course as I worked myself into a lather rolling dice, for they knew that before long, the table would be surrounded by many of the town’s moneyed people. I’ve seen enough money lost on some of these occasions to make honest work seem ridiculous. Spyros would never step foot into such a rendezvous, but Charlie Skouras tagged along one night, and it depressed him. He realized I had been used as bait and felt badly that many of my fans and friends had lost money, including Charlie Skouras. Of course, he knew that pikers weren’t even allowed in the front door of this club, but with the Depression gaining momentum every day, Charlie thought the public might look unfavorably on my making any more appearances at the Mounds. This decision gave me something to think about, and I came up with a stunt that we called “Find a Job.” Sargent promoted daily radio time for me to find jobs for the unemployed. We got wonderful results and created hundreds of jobs for needy men and women, and I do admit that this campaign helped solidify my own job.

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efore we knew it, Labor Day rolled around again and with it another musicians’ strike. The previous season, someone had come up with a solution that resulted in Skouras hiring three standby musicians in a number of outlying theaters. These trios never got to play a note of music but got a weekly salary. We used to call them “the Pinochle Players.” Now, apparently, they were tired of pinochle and wanted to play bridge or poker. Notices were served on all members of Local Number 2 to be on hand for a mass meeting at eleven o’clock at night to vote for or against the anticipated strike. Our band decided to attend en masse to see if we could avert the strike. The musicians from the Ambassador and Missouri theatres appointed me to address the membership. “Boo!” That was the choice word of more than a thousand voices that greeted us as we entered the union hall. Continuous catcalls alternated with other questionable impressions of endearment. When the union president stepped up to the dais, the boos changed to cheers. Waving for quiet, he chewed on the plug of tobacco in his mouth until silence prevailed. “Gentlemen!” he shouted as he strode from one side of the podium to the other. “Look around you. See a stranger? I don’t mean a stranger in our town, I mean a stranger in these union headquarters. Never been here before to my knowledge, what brings him here tonight?” Now, a dramatic pause and an expression of deep thought accompanied his vigorous chewing. “Tonight,” he continued, “for the first time, this man pulled up to the front door in his big, red Cadillac, which was driven by a liveried chauffeur. How many of you men got Cadillacs? How many you men got jobs?” This inquiry brought an outpouring of boos and catcalls that succeeded only in raising my temperature.

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“Of course,” said the speaker, “this man is here with all his cohorts to try to convince you men to vote against the strike. If you were earning more money than the president of the United States, would you want to give it up? Of course not, and neither does he. He should worry about you. Right now, Charlie Skouras is sitting over in this man’s luxurious apartment at the Coronado Hotel, waiting for him to return from this meeting to tell the results of his influence on your thinking. Are you going to let him sell you a bill of goods like he sells those giddy front-row flappers, or are you gonna shout him down and vote for your strike, which is our way of saying, ‘Mr. Skouras, you’re not going to be permitted to give work to a select few any longer. We demand an equitable deal for all members of this local!’” There was foot stamping, cheers, and whistles. Kenneth Albrecht, our arranger, raised his hand to ask for the floor. He was ignored, but he wouldn’t give up. He stood on his chair. Every time he tried to talk, the members jeered. In desperation, our group urged me to try to get the floor. I was scared stiff. The scene resembled a lynching, such as one sees in the oldtime movies. I had no say in the matter. I found myself standing on a chair—serving as number-one whipping boy. Compared to the response I drew, the boos that Albrecht received were refined. At the sight of me, our antagonists started to surge forward and close in on us. I never got a chance to say “peep.” The motion to declare a strike was voted for unanimously. My only motion was that of my feet pushing toward the door. Out on the sidewalk, the air smelled beautiful. I hustled to my car, but eight or ten guys got there ahead of me. I excused myself and attempted to push through, but they started jostling me. In a moment, John, my chauffeur, and the dependable David were on the sidewalk. John was brandishing a tire iron. “Step back, or I’ll let you have it!” They didn’t contest John. I got home whole, allowing for the shakeup of my nervous system. A big, red Cadillac comes in very handy, especially when it takes you to the Coronado Hotel and not the city morgue. The next day, conditions were more complicated and just as frightening. The musicians were ordered to engage in a walkout just before curtain time. In the show that week, Joe E. Brown was a guest artist. He made it clear that he intended to fulfill his contract, so he walked onstage and did an act for about ten minutes without the aid of any music. It seemed eerie.

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In fact, he did an acrobatic dance with no accompaniment, and it actually created a macabre effect. After Joe E. made his exit, the whole affair seemed even more ghastly. I had been made a life member of the stagehands union and, of course, was also a member of the musicians’ union. Though both organizations belonged to the American Federation of Labor, they were in complete disagreement. I was carrying the ball now, and it was time to make a decision. One business agent ordered me, “On.” The other business agent said, “Off.” I walked to the center of the stage and told the audience that the performance would be called off because the musicians’ union had again called a strike. I heaved a big sigh and then jokingly said, “You all know the rules: Three strikes and you’re out!” Frankly, I felt a good deal less facetious than I sounded. Paraphrasing Abe Lincoln, “I was too hurt to laugh and too proud to cry.” My heart was too heavy for any humor. This was my swan song, and I knew it. At the stage door, a curious crowd had already gathered. There had been no violence in any of the previous strikes, but on this occasion, there was more tension, and Charlie feared for my safety. Teddy called David to say there had been several threatening telephone calls at the hotel, so David stayed at my heels like an Airedale. Several of the stagehands accompanied me to my car. Quite a mob had gathered outside, and as I pulled away, mixed with the good-byes, so-longs, and good cheers, there were several boos. Arrangements were soon made for me to move on to Philadelphia to finish out my Warner Brothers contract. David was busy packing those two H&M wardrobe trunks. On the previous occasions when I went to Newark and Pittsburgh, the trunks had stayed behind where they had gathered dust. This time we all had a different feeling. The Skourases were feuding with the Warners; the organization was dwindling, and so was the enthusiasm.

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big farewell party, arranged in my honor at the Chase Hotel, was more like a wake than a funfest. It seemed like everyone who got high began to cry, and laughter was at a premium. Among those present was a wellknown undertaker who succeeded in getting himself a sentimental snootful. He couldn’t have been stiffer if he had drunk his own embalming fluid. He singled out my wife and, slobbering with sentiment, sobbed, “Mrs. L., I love that guy. You know I’m an undertaker and a darn good one. Promise that when Eddie dies you’ll let me bury him, will ya?” He staggered away and then suddenly wheeled around and sniffled, “I won’t charge him either.” Before the party got out of control, Reeves Espy called for quiet and requested that I step up to the dais. “Eddie,” said Reeves, “I have a gift for you from your very dear friends here in St. Louis. This particular gift was decided on with one thought. Should you and yours ever be confronted with misfortune, wherever you may be in this world, you may have this gift melted, and it will furnish you with the financial means to bring you back here to us, your St. Louis friends.” The gift was a solid-gold book that weighed six pounds, with three hundred names engraved on four pages, four inches wide and six inches long. I gasped in astonishment. Although I tried to read the entire engraved verse on the first page, “Our Eddie, Thank God for the happy hours, for joy at the journey’s end, thank God for the gift of song, but most of all for a friend,” I couldn’t make it. I found myself blubbering and had to leave off. This memento is still my most prized possession, a souvenir that symbolizes love and friendship. I am sure I will never have it melted, and I hope Eddie Jr. will cherish it and pass it on to his junior. The morning after my farewell party, we were Philadelphia bound. Teddy, Sonny, and the governess took the train, and David drove the car. 141

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By a coincidence, Warner Brothers were having an organizational meeting in Philadelphia, so Charlie Skouras and I flew east together. During the several years that we had been pals, Charlie never impressed me as being religious, but just before we stepped onto the plane, he got down on one knee and blessed himself frantically. I thought he was trying to get funny. “Oh brother,” I said. “Nice going, that should at least get us to Indianapolis safely.” Charlie got white with fear and anger. “Dot’s not funny, Kit.” Whereupon he again kneeled and blessed himself. Bill Goldman was in charge of the Philadelphia zone for Warners. Since his departure from St. Louis, he had done a tremendous job. Among Philadelphia’s showmen, he was top banana. There was nothing modest about Bill. He wore his success on his sleeve. He had once been way up on top in St. Louis, but the Skourases bought him out, sold him out, or kicked him out, and then hired him. Now, when they met, sparks flew, sarcasm predominated, and the humor was biting. After the big meeting, Spyros and George Skouras returned to New York that same night. Charlie and I took advantage of Bill Goldman’s offer to have his chauffeur drive us to New York the next morning. The temperature was hovering around ninety when Bill’s long, flashy Pierce Arrow pulled up in front of the hotel. The liveried chauffeur stepped out wearing black leather puttees, with gauntlets to match. “Humph,” Charlie caught my eye. “How you like dot?” Then, turning to the chauffeur, he inquired, “You gotcha long underwear on, kid?” About twenty miles out of Philadelphia, a motor cop gave us a ticket for speeding. He probably would have permitted us to go with just a warning, but Charlie delighted in antagonizing him just for the sheer joy of sticking Bill with the ticket. When we reached Princeton, New Jersey, Charlie spotted another cop and egged the unsuspecting chauffeur on, and we got another ticket. The chauffeur now started to drive real cautiously, but Charlie assured him that we would take care of any tickets, and by the time we reached Newark, we got nabbed again. This cop was also ready to dismiss us with a warning, so Charlie slipped him a razz. “My name is Goldman,” said Good-Time Charlie. “Write out the ticket, don’t do me no favors.” The cop gave it to him but good! “Thank you, officer,” said Charlie, “you don’t know how good dis makes me feel.” As we pulled away, I never saw a cop look more confused. 142

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Upon arrival in New York, Charlie put the three citations in an envelope and addressed them to Bill Goldman. Handing the chauffeur a ten-dollar tip, he said, “And give your boss this letter with my compliments.” The Mastbaum Theatre in Philadelphia would have made a beautiful ballpark. It was big and cold and could accommodate over five thousand people. All it needed was an audience. The night before I opened, I saw a huge “Roxy” extravaganza [chorus girls, dance numbers, music]. Preceding this elaborate presentation, Leopold Stokowski directed eighty musicians through a stirring overture. I got the impression that there were more people onstage and in the orchestra than there were in the house. The next day, I made my debut. I envied Stokowski for being surrounded by so many people. During my opening monologue, I felt lonesome. The empty orchestra pit gave me a feeling I was standing on the brink of the Grand Canyon, and the silent thuds that followed some of my gags made me feel like jumping in. Bill Goldman was my best audience. In due time, pounding away industriously, we acquired a nice following. The critics were all generous. Eric Knight, who later won fame as author of This Above All, became a friend and booster. “Philadelphia certainly reached out to give Ed Lowry a hearty welcome,” wrote Knight. “Ed is, without doubt, the ablest M.C. to ever appear here. A master showman, clown, singer, dancer, acrobat, with a personality as big as the Mastbaum itself.” After a very few weeks, the Skouras brothers separated from Warner Brothers. These were the early 1930s, the Depression years. The Skouras brothers, it was rumored, had lost all their money and were now struggling to make a go of the defunct Fox theatres. One day, Spyros came to me with a proposition. He had a friend who ran one of the swank hotels on Central Park South. This gent, also Greek, was caught in the Depression and needed money desperately to save his hotel. Spyros hoped that Jim Londos, the famous Greek wrestling champ, and I would put up forty thousand dollars each. The eighty thousand would supply the immediate need, in return for which we were to get an interest in the hotel. Upon investigation, my attorney reported that the proposition was so vague and the hotel operation so shadowy that he would not be party to the deal. That was all I had to hear. I was still recovering from my own stock-market crash and preferred having no investments in anything. 143

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Spyros, trading on our friendship, wouldn’t let me off the hook. He asked me to lend him the money. Put on a personal basis, I seemed to have no alternative. After deliberating with Teddy, I compromised by lending Spyros part of the money. Oh, how this man could sell a bill of goods. Before he got through, he had me feeling ashamed of myself for not having come up with the full amount that he had asked for. Suddenly, after several months, George Skouras showed up in Philadelphia, with a proposition. He was running Skouras Brothers Enterprises in New York and suggested he would like me to come back to the fold. Always fond of George, I acquiesced immediately. The Skouras clan had cast their spell over me. After the years we had spent together in St. Louis, the joy of being reunited in show business was irresistible. The new address was to be the Fox-Audubon Theatre in Washington Heights in New York City. Completely oblivious to the changes that had taken place in that part of New York, I was in for a real shock. Opening week, Variety told the story. “Here’s Sophie Tucker at her best. Ed Lowry, as permanent M.C., established himself as a ‘fav’ at the first hop but the Skouras brothers have a white elephant on their hands. The Audubon has been a bust since the first day it opened. If they’re gonna make this consistent loser hold up for full-week shows, they’ll have to draw audiences from Jersey.” We attracted good audiences but not enough of them. The Skouras brothers next acquired the Fox Theatre in Philadelphia, and Spyros thought this would be a fine opportunity to cash in on the spadework that I had done at the Mastbaum. A couple of thousand people could get lost in the Mastbaum but would spell success at the Fox. My opening show was called “Hello, Eddie,” and the audience gave me a mighty warm hello. I especially felt flattered when during my singing spot in the show, the audience shouted for half a dozen songs I had introduced at the Mastbaum. Here, for the first time, we witnessed and participated in television. It was called Sanabria’s Televizer and was shown at Gimbels Department Store. The artists appeared on the main floor of the building, and the audience viewed the performance in an auditorium on the third floor. The program consisted of Stokowski and orchestra, Vivian Segal, star of the Chocolate Soldier, and Ed Lowry, master of ceremonies. Appearing in an intimate theater made the whole town seem warmer. Now I could appreciate why Philadelphia was known as the City of Brotherly Love. We landed a radio show, sponsored by a department store. A 144

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big, handsome guy by the name of Paul Douglas was my announcer and straight man. The store’s slogan was “Buy from Stern, and pay as you earn.” Paul, however, didn’t really start to earn until he moved on to Broadway. I, too, was soon lured to Broadway. My old friend and orchestra leader Boris Morros had become production head for Paramount-Publix Theatres. He hired me to move back into the big town and take over the permanent master-of-ceremonies chores at the Paramount theatres. During our first production meeting, Boris and I clashed head-on, in complete disagreement. For my opening week, Boris requested that I wear white tie and tails. I insisted that my biggest asset was informality, and I made my best impression when I was plain old me. A breach was created over who knew what was best for whom. “But, Addie, dis is New York,” he persisted. Ironically, only five years earlier, he was orchestra leader while I was the star attraction in a show on the same street. Here was an immigrant who had spent the biggest part of his life in Russia who was persistently telling a native-born New Yorker the qualifications for success in New York. After one discordant week, Boris lost patience over my lack of cooperation. It was decided I should complete my contract at the Brooklyn Paramount, a form of banishment. So what happened? Enjoying instantaneous success, I proved to Borro’s satisfaction that I belonged in Brooklyn and that I didn’t belong in New York. He did! In Brooklyn, I had the biggest billing I have ever seen in front of a theater. My name was in lights, twelve feet high, featured over Sophie Tucker, Bert Lahr, Rudy Vallee, and other top names of that era. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle said, “That Lowry person made his debut in this borough with a million-dollar personality, which he sells for all it’s worth. This boy has what it takes. His assignment placed him in a tough spot, considering he follows such talent as Russ Columbo, Bing Crosby, Harry Richman, and George Jessel. When he stepped out on the Paramount stage last night, he was an unknown. By the time he left, he had the huge audience literally eating out of his hand. Make no mistake about it, Ed Lowry is good. Like Caesar, he came, he saw, he conquered.” The engagement in Brooklyn lasted for ten weeks. Then, after giving the town back to the Dodgers, as per contract, I moved on to Chicago for Balaban and Katz. Before the Brooklyn date had finished, I approached Spyros Skouras about the money he had borrowed. Though the hotel was again a fabulous 145

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success, I was a paying guest. Spyros told me he was short of cash, but he would have our hotel magnate give me a check. Emphasis was put on the crying shame that I hadn’t put up the full amount of money that would have given me a participation in the hotel profits. Now, however, Spyros was showing an inclination to transfer the debt back to his friend, who chided me but never came forth with any money. Instead of paying my hotel bill, which was a tidy sum, I deducted the amount from the money that was due me. Unfortunately, I left town several years too soon to balance the account. Angered at his pal, Skouras assured me that as soon as possible, he would take care of the obligation. One didn’t have to be clairvoyant to read Spyros’s feelings. You could tell how he was thinking from the way he stated his sentences. When he was pleased with a man, he proudly referred to him as “my friend.” When displeased, “my friend” immediately became “your friend.” On this particular day in referring to his pal and countryman, he said, “Eddie, my boy, I don’t like the way your friend is behaving.” It was time to move on to Chicago. Teddy and I were itching for a change of scenery and had no regrets over leaving New York. With my opening at the Oriental Theatre in the Windy City came an unprecedented bit of promotion in the form of unusual publicity. The Chicago and Alton Railroad ran a weekend train that they called the Ed Lowry Inaugural Special. For several weeks, there were ads in the St. Louis papers heralding this trip and urging my fans to come to Chicago for my opening at the Oriental Theatre via the Chicago and Alton Special. When the scheduled evening arrived, a trainload of anxious fans departed from St. Louis at night, arriving in Chicago the next morning. There were refreshments served on the train, and breakfast and accommodations were provided upon arrival at Chicago’s Sherman House. A day of sightseeing on buses followed and then a trip to the theater to see my show. Afterwards, a handshake at the stage door, a bit of reminiscing, some amateur photography, an autograph or two, and the St. Louis fans were whisked back to their special train and homeward bound. All this excitement cost seven dollars round-trip, including the sightseeing and theater admission. I am the only one who got rich on the project, rich in happiness because the cargo carried on this special was labeled “friendship.” A ten-week run in Chicago stretched into ten months. From the Oriental, I moved over to the Chicago Theatre. At both theaters, Balban and Katz ran big shows. Here I hosted and shared billing with the box-office greats 146

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of show business. Opening week, it was Fanny Brice, and the parade of stars included Mary Garden, Mae West, Kate Smith, George Raft, Jane Froman, Joe E. Brown, and many others. Mary Garden, as our guest artist, was a honey to work with. After she sang “Carmen,” she kidded around with me like an eager little personality girl. We sang a duet and told gags, and she even tried to dance. Unforgettable is that Friday afternoon when I was clowning with the BeeHee and Rubyatte troupe, Arabian acrobats. We had just completed a crazy trick the boys had taught me, followed by a silly burlesque walk to the accompaniment of Arabian music and tom-tom drums. Miss Garden had been talking to someone in the wings while waiting her turn. Suddenly, hearing this music, she mistook it for the introduction to “Carmen” and rushed onstage just in time to get caught in a grotesque traffic jam with seven Arabs and one master of ceremonies. The Arab burlesque was always hilariously funny but especially so when the dignified Mary Garden got snarled in it. The audience howled with glee. Mary, however, regarded this kind of horseplay as beneath her dignity. Compounding this comedy of errors, she blamed it all on Louie Lipstone, the production manager, who was no more responsible for this misadventure than King Tut. The fact is that Louie had been around the corner in a kosher delicatessen having a salami sandwich. Miss Garden refused to make her legitimate appearance at this performance, and the management had to refund quite a bit of money. Eventually, she laughed along with the rest of us, and then Louie went around to the delicatessen and got Mary a salami sandwich. One day, Spyros Skouras dropped in for an unexpected visit. Spyros was now head of National Theatres in New York, and Charlie was head of Fox West Coast Theatres, a part of the National theater chain. Spyros made me feel I had a moral obligation to be out in Los Angeles with Charlie. We were close friends, and I liked the idea. The brothers always referred to me as “Mr. Show Business,” and Spyros used to call me his encyclopedia. This title was pinned on me because I could generally supply identification and background for theatrical names unfamiliar to my bosses. Spyros made no specific commitment, but from his generalization, I got the impression that I was about to embark on a new career. Teddy and I talked it over, and I won out despite her protestations. I had visions of the Hollywood I had gotten a quick taste of a few years previously, when I had received twenty thousand dollars for my participation in 147

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two two-reel shorts that took exactly two hours to make. From the minute I arrived for that visit and was met by Brynie Foy in a big, shiny Cadillac until I returned to St. Louis three days later, I had been living in a dream world: palm trees, moonlight, and parties. Wherever we went, we seemed to be just in time for a party. We were so busy living it up we nearly forgot to make the two short subjects. Now I was to return to this wonderland and probably stay permanently. Charlie wanted me with him, at least that was the impression I got from Spyros, and that was good enough for me. A month later, I was en route by train with Spyros Skouras as my traveling companion. We stopped in Kansas City, where Spyros made an inspection tour of the Mid-West Theatres, while I rested at the hotel. Shortly after noon, Spyros phoned to inquire if any messages were there for him. I told him a telegram had arrived, and he asked me to open and read it to him. Oops! The wire was from the coast; it was about me. I was to open at Loew’s State Theatre, and Spyros to get a cut from a shyster agent whose office was a phone booth in the Gaiety Theatre Building. I finished reading the message, too stunned to comment. On the other end of the phone, there was complete silence. I was embarrassed for Skouras. In fact, I found myself blushing over his confusion. But I had still failed to reckon with that man’s resources—and my gullibility. A little Skouras chest pounding and a bit of double-talk and I was on the Santa Fe Chief, heading for California. Had Teddy been with me then, I would have headed east, not west. On my own, I was the original pushover. Teddy, Sonny, and the nurse were on their way by car. David, the old reliable, was driving. When they left Chicago, Teddy said, “For three months we’ve been devouring booklets and pamphlets in anticipation of our life’s dream, a tour around the world. Now, suddenly we’re on our way to California. I hope we’re not making the wrong decision.” “Mrs. L.,” David assured her, “I’ve been working for your husband for a long time now, and I can only say the boss has a bad habit of being right.” Little did David know that if what I had agreed to was right, then being right was a bad habit. Often during the years that followed this incident, I reflected over a controversy that took place between George Skouras and Phil Baker. I was emcee at a monster benefit show in Pittsburgh, and Baker, famous quizmaster of the $64 Question, was a guest star. George Skouras was visiting 148

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me backstage, and I introduced him to Phil. After exchanging greetings, George affectionately put his arm around my shoulder and inquired of Phil, “What do you think of our boy?” “Well,” said Baker, “the worst thing that ever happened to Eddie was that he met you guys.” Before I could intercede, sparks were flying. Phil contended that when an entertainer was hot, he belonged in New York and not wasting himself in the hinterlands. “Talent like this belongs on Broadway, and I mean now,” he insisted. “Later may be too late.” “While he works for us boys, Eddie makes plenty of money,” countered George. “He’s got a contract that means independence for life. How are you fixed, Big Shot?” Phil jumped him, “Money, money, money! That’s all you guys think of. Believe me, talent means more than money.” I had to rush back onstage to catch a cue and missed the finish of the heated debate. Now, with the perspective of the passing years, I still can’t say whose reasoning had the most logic. What’s more important than money to an actor? If you were able to ask Al Jolson or George Sidney, they would probably say, “Being wanted.” Of course, money is important, but if you want show business, it’s also important to be in the proper place at the proper time. I was about to learn that I hadn’t come to the proper place.

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ur family was reunited at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Charlie Skouras seemed very happy to see me, and I was a sucker for Charlie. He convinced me that the telegram that upset me was bungled by someone in the office and for me to forget all about Loew’s State Theatre. He helped us rent a house in Beverly Hills, which we bought a month later. We were entertained royally and did some royal entertaining in our new home. Everything was just ducky, and in much less time than a PFC could become a corporal, my name was on the marquee of Loew’s State Theatre. By a curious coincidence of superior salesmanship, the terms of the agreement were just as quoted in the wire to Kansas City. Skouras always got his man. I was receiving half my regular salary, with a verbal understanding that I would get a fifty-fifty split with the management when, and if, the gross business reached a stipulated figure. On the basis of the prevailing business at the time, I soon learned we were reaching for the moon. Our organization was tops for making this stage-band policy click, but in the vicinity of Hollywood, where the desire to display genius is epidemic, anything could happen. A plan had been decided upon that completely reversed our former methods. “Don’t try to sell Lowry, and the stage show is too big in Hollywood,” they decided. “Let him sneak in. Let Hollywood think they discovered him, and we’ll build this up as solidly as we did in St. Louis.” The first thing I learned was that downtown Los Angeles was not Hollywood. People who lived on the west side of town seldom went east of Vine Street. To the movie colony, downtown Lost Angeles was Keokuk, Iowa. Though far from being an experienced audience, the downtowners were appreciative. Judging by their responsive enthusiasm, I am sure that the proper selling of the show would have made Loew’s State into a bonanza.

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But who can argue with genius? So we were going to make it the hard way, even if I had to wither while waiting. During my opening week, Variety said, “Lowry, based on his successful debut, ought to go a long way in these parts. Here is a unique type of stage M.C. possessing personality, a breezy style, an infectious smile, loads of showmanship and ability. Lowry’s opening day can be rung up as a solid click. There’s plenty enough diversity of fare to make it something worthwhile at the wicket.” There were many newspaper raves, but maybe Angelinos don’t read; anyway, these write-ups didn’t spell immediate box office. Our budget was small for the stage show, and our motion pictures were mostly run of the mill. Nevertheless, without the aid of any big-name attractions, we cooked up some palatable entertainments. My files were bursting with ideas and routines, and we booked in most of the medium-priced entertainers who had clicked solidly in the east. Opening week, for example, we booked my favorite troupe of Arabs. They were wild, and I used to take quite a beating participating in their furious tumbling. Audiences laughed when suddenly I was swept off my feet and whisked to the top of the shoulders of a bony-kneed Arab who was already standing on three other men. The BeeHee and Rubyatte tumblers were the fastest things I’ve ever seen on legs. After several weeks, there were indications that we were clicking, because I could now get a table at the Brown Derby without a reservation. This was a barometer in Hollywood, where the tourists were roped off like cattle. At the Cocoanut Grove, there was a special night in my honor, topped by Governor Frank Merriam awarding me a gold medal for special service to the community. My big beef during this interlude was that I missed the supervision of Charlie Skouras. He was too busy running Fox West Coast Theatres, a huge organization. There was no time for the personal touches anymore. I was learning about the law of diminishing returns in my first baptism of chain operations. In the past, we used to argue things out during meetings, and many ideas developed in the hot fire of give-and-take. Now, he would be talking to me over the phone and running at the same time. Before I could finish my suggestion or complaint, he would cut in with “Okay, Addie Boy, anything you say.” I could have anything I asked for, anything but money. Among the steady patrons that we developed were many interesting folks whom I got to know. Clem Peoples, warden of the city jail, was a weekly visitor. I finally accepted an invitation to visit him at the jail.

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“I have a real bad one here right now,” said Clem, while showing me around. “He’s the smoothest article you’ve ever met. Good looking, well spoken but has no more regard for human life than you have for a fly. I want you to meet him.” Though ill at ease about the whole visit, I was trying to act composed. As we walked down the corridor, Clem said, “It’s the chap in the last cell.” We got closer, and the jailbird shouted, “Good Lord, if it isn’t the St. Louis kid himself! Our Eddie, how are ya, pal?” He stuck his hand through the bars for a shake. As I offered my hand in return, I seemed to have lost my speech and felt like I was having a hot flash. Such intimacy! The inmate shot questions at me. “What do ya hear from the boys? How’s the little wife, Ed? Hey, how’s that sweet kid of yours?” It was all incredible—this likeable guy, later extradited, tried, and executed. “Hm,” Clem chided, “I bet some folks didn’t think you appealed to the elite.” Speaking of the law, I should mention that Police Chief Clinton Anderson was also a weekly visitor of the stage show. The chief was the J. Edgar Hoover of Beverly Hills, and, I might add, a great feeling of security went along with having him. Jimmy Starr, Hollywood columnist, had a yen to be an actor. Ed Sullivan and Walter Winchell were making theater appearances. Why shouldn’t he? A bargain was struck. The only weeks that made me a few extra dollars over my guarantee came as a result of Jimmy’s two-week engagement at the theater. Jimmy played up his engagement big in his daily column in the Los Angeles Herald-Express. We advertised the appearance of motion-picture stars at each performance, and Jimmy delivered some of Hollywood’s biggest names, who gave our business a big lift. Some weeks later, we premiered a film called Tug Boat Annie, starring Marie Dressler and Wallace Beery. This proved to be a box-office sleeper that took off like a rocket. We packed and slammed them in five shows a day and held the picture over for several weeks. It looked like I finally had struck pay dirt. Now, with hindsight, my poor percentage deal made me look like a Hollywood genius. After the first week, I was looking for a box-office statement, but Charlie Skouras had suddenly departed for New York. Two weeks later, when Charlie returned, we had a private meeting in his home. Dramatizing himself, he acted like a little boy who had just been punished by his teacher. Gradually, he let it leak out that the Skouras management was going to break faith with 152

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me over our percentage deal. He conceded I had a big, fat bundle coming to me, but he harped on how he had provoked Nicholas Schenk’s wrath over the stupid deal he had entered into with me. Once again, I found myself sympathizing with Charlie for my misfortune. I remained calm until he clumsily offered me a settlement in lieu of the percentage money that was due me. I fumed! It felt like fire was coming from my nostrils. The sudden change of expression on my face should have stunted his growth for the next few years. Then, I really flipped, and all hell broke loose. He let me talk and scream and storm while he paced the floor in the familiar routine of breast-beating. “Take a knife and cut my heart out, Addie boy, but don’t talk to me like this.” I had no knife, and he had no heart, at least not where his wallet was concerned. Fool me once, shame on you, Fool me twice, shame on me. footnote: Charlie Skouras was America’s number one-wage earner. For several years, the Income Tax Department placed him at the head of the list, topping 160 million people. Woe is me! A couple of highballs, more golden promises for the future, a few pats on the cheek, and I was off to the theater to do my scheduled show. The lift of the drinks waned, and a mood of disheartenment took over. This man, my very close friend, had let me down. I had served the brothers very well. Whatever salary they paid me, it was disproportionate to the contribution I had made to their financial success and to their reputation as showmen. As a team, we had established box-office and attendance records that have yet to be equaled. On the way downtown, I found myself laughing at my own plight because, out of the clear, I suddenly thought of an ex-vaudevillian by the name of “Butch” Tower. Butch, quite a well-known Broadway character, became a professional gambler. One day, he had a surefire tip on a long shot and had made a healthy bet. The horse led the field all the way around the track. Butch was already counting his money. Suddenly, about two lengths from the finish line, the nag not only stopped but also backed up, and a rank outsider won the race. Butch slapped his thighs, let out a grunt, and shrugged his shoulders; then he turned to a pal and moaned, “Show business!” Now I was doing a Butch. The only expression I could find to explain away my heavy heart was “Show business!” The previous day, I’d deputized 153

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for Will Rogers as toastmaster for the Governor’s Conference and was a huge success. Yesterday, I was floating; today, I was as buoyant as a cobblestone. In two weeks, I packed out of Loew’s State Theatre. I received offers for other engagements but couldn’t get interested. I was crushed. Charlie called me constantly. He would never permit me to stay angry. The possessive son-of-a-gun seemed to get satisfaction out of keeping me in tow—and I am afraid I liked it. “Come over the house, Kit, we play a little pinochle.” Or it was golf, or a house party, or a picture premiere. I became a loafer for the first time in my life and enjoyed it or at least tried to make myself think I did. Actually, I was a very mixed-up guy and should have sought the advice of a psychiatrist. Occasionally, in Charlie’s presence, I’d berate myself for neglecting my career. “Keep you pants on, Kit,” he’d say. “Before you’re through with us boys, you’ll make millions.” One day, I met an old St. Louis fan. His son was Trem Carr, head of Monogram Pictures, and he insisted that we meet one another. Six weeks later, Trem and I were sitting in a picture theater in Santa Barbara, watching a sneak preview. On the screen came a Monogram whodunit entitled The House of Mystery, starring yours truly. This was a nightmare dreamed up out of the book of horrors. I’ve seen low-budget pictures, but in this epic, some of the cast merely changed their hats to portray a different character. In all my life, I never heard so many sirens, and I don’t mean the fair sex. I seemed always to be riding in a police car, hell-bent to save beauty in distress. “This is sabotage!” That was my reaction at seeing the first of what looked like a “swish” prizefighter—me! The corny, spine-tingling mystery ultimately had me pulling my girlfriend from the arms of a huge ape. Then came a wrestling sequence between the ape and me. Here I no longer looked like a prizefighter, just a swish. I slipped lower in my seat, and my temperature rose higher while I communed with humiliation. Finally came the finish, and, with twitching fingers, I stashed a Phenobarbital into my mouth to deaden my jumping nerves. “This picture will make a lot of money,” Trem said as we walked out of the theater. I thought Trem was either nuts or just dishing out soothing syrup, but I was wrong on both counts. Today, I wish The House of

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Mystery paid royalties because it bounces back periodically on television to haunt me. Following this big career as a motion-picture star, I was happy to get an offer from NBC to do a radio show in New York. After viewing my first full-length motion picture, I was quite enthused over the prospect of being heard and not seen. We rented our Beverly Hills home to a motion-picture executive and moved the whole family east. We luxuriated in a beautiful terraced apartment on the thirty-second floor overlooking Central Park. The terrace was big enough for Eddie Jr. to play in his sandbox and even ride his bicycle. The very first day, Joe Flaum, my friend and agent, came to say, “Hello and welcome home,” and Junior playfully conked him on the head with a toy. Joe pretended he was going to chase him, and Sonny ran for the French door and jumped out. Joe didn’t know there was a terrace outside that door. Joe fell on his face in a dead faint. Little Eddie thought this was very funny and repeated the stunt so often that we had to get in a supply of smelling salts for the guests. The experience with NBC was very exciting. I was master of ceremonies on an hour show called Going to Town. We were on each Sunday evening from eight to nine, competing against Eddie Cantor. We opened to fine reviews, but the Cantor hour at that time was tops and insurmountable competition. After six months, I decided to make some well-paying personal appearances. The exposure from the radio show kept my salary up, but the theater engagements were sure losing their zing. It seemed like rigor mortis was setting in. Managers were reaching desperately for freak headliners. For instance, at the Fox Theatre in Detroit, we had a personal appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Dionne, parents of the famous quintuplets. This pair may have been great in bed but onstage it all started with nil and ended at dull. Neither Momma nor Poppa spoke a word of English. I introduced them, and then they stood onstage like mummified exhibits A and B while I talked about them. It would have been more fitting to give a lecture on animal husbandry. Mom Dionne was built like Kate Smith, and Pop like Jockey Pierson. When they entered, I bowed graciously to Momma and greeted Pop with, “Hya, Jockey.” The audience immediately made it dirty, and from then on, they found a suggestive interpretation for everything I said.

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Following Detroit, I returned to St. Louis for a two-week engagement at the Ambassador, which was being run temporarily by Fanchon and Marco. The management had promised a strong supporting show, but this was just sweet talk. I ended up with an amateur contest the first week, and the second week, I presented the winners from the first week. At this time, the country was addicted to amateur contests. Major Bowes’s units were drawing so well that many little-known professionals pretended they were amateurs as a means of getting work. Before presenting the amateurs, I did a half-hour act on my own. The audience response was heartwarming, and the boon at the box office was a tribute, but I twinged like a drilled tooth at the cheap presentation we were offering. On this stage, we had presented some glorious shows. Now, it became my lot to introduce “Miss South St. Louis, the dancing waitress from the Hamburger Hamlet,” and “From Anheuser Busch Brewing company, we bring you Fritzie Finklehoffer, who will juggle four full steins of beer.” Show business, phooey! The enthusiasm for my beloved calling was going gradually downhill. Backstage was deathly inert, unlike the days with professionals. There had always been some excitement, laughter, and wisecracks. When we were kids, if things were too quiet, someone would have the good sense to stick an eyebrow pencil into a light socket. The circuit would blow out, the stage manager would blow his top, and signs of life erupted. Backstage during these two weeks was just like working in a morgue. Several days before ending my engagement, I received an offer to participate in a brand-new venture: the world’s largest café, the Congress Restaurant, at Fifty-first Street and Broadway in New York. A quarter of a million dollars was poured into this spot before it even opened the front doors. The owner, a Hungarian, was reputed to have more gold than we have stashed away at Fort Knox. He and his wife had seen the show at the New York Paramount when I was the master of ceremonies. A sharp agent negotiated a lucrative deal for me. I had a rendezvous with big money. A lavish, star-studded show boasted personalities from stage and screen. There were a huge chorus, beautiful models, and an extra novelty, twenty-four handsome ushers. At a given cue, this impressive gang of “he-men” swooped on to the stage to participate in a thrilling number with the chorus. For a finale to the show, I sang a specially written number called “The Cavalcade of the Blues.” This was a pretentious effort. The producer had about sixty 156

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people in the number, which concluded with a nude girl, her body painted blue, posed on a turntable. At the auditions for this nude bit, a fourteen-year-old girl was chosen. I took it upon myself to remonstrate with the producer for exploiting this youngster. He told me I was thinking like a prude and talking like a deacon. I spoke to the child’s mother similarly, and I never saw anyone so indignant. She rebutted that her daughter’s body was beautiful and that she was proud to have the world see it. Show business! The auspicious opening took place on December 28th. A sea of white tablecloths covered two thousand tables. Every seat was occupied. In addition to emceeing the show, I introduced many famous New Yorkers, Hollywoodites, and socialites. We thought we had reached an all-time peak at this premiere, but a few nights later, on New Year’s Eve, we “topped tops.” This four-week contract spread into ten weeks, at which time I had to pull up stakes and move on to Chicago. Charlie Yates, an agent, owned a unit that featured Ben Blue, and I had committed myself to replace him. The unit opened at the State-Lake Theatre, which is directly across the street from the Chicago Theatre, where I had previously enjoyed a lengthy run. It was apparent during the week that I was the cause of many customers braving the traffic to come over to the wrong side of the tracks. The State-Lake engagement was depressing; it exhaled the bad breath of decadence. This theater was like the cadaver of a form of entertainment that was once very much alive, vaudeville. Our tour took us on the circuit that had been known as the Western Vaudeville Time. It had deteriorated beyond recognition. We were about fifteen years too late. Now, I didn’t even feel like going back to pick up the memories. I finished the tour but must admit that every other day I was tempted to decamp. A shot in the arm came in the form of a call from John Harris in Pittsburgh offering me an engagement. This was just what I needed. A few weeks back with John, a real showman, and I was winging like a bluebird. Variety reviewed the show: “Harris can thank Lowry and Lowry alone for the lift in the business at the Alvin Theatre.” I preferred to thank John Harris for the lift the Alvin Theatre gave me. Next stop, Beverly Hills. Here we reclaimed our home after having rented it for a year. Back in it, we agreed with my mother’s description when she first saw it, “I thought you bought a house. This is a castle!” 157

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Al Boasberg, then one of Hollywood’s top comedy writers, lived four houses down the street. At least once every day, Al would bounce into our place, always trying out some gag or comedy bit. His home was loaded with crazy gimmicks. When you closed the door in his guest bathroom, the light would automatically go out. When you sat down on the commode, the light would go back on, and the door would fly open. Another Boasberg delight was the music-box effect when you pulled the toilet tissue from the roll. On the chimney of the house, Al had replaced the weather vane with a metal squirrel. “That’s my business sign,” Al gloated. “It indicates that I’m nuts, and being nuts is my business.” Through Ned Depinet, one of the top brass at RKO, I received an offer to make a film short, and by a strange coincidence, Boasberg got the assignment to write and direct it. Al came up with a hilariously funny script called A Well-cured Ham. We enjoyed perfect harmony and understanding on the set, and we were quite optimistic about the results. This was Al’s first directing job, and we thought we were a good commercial combination. I played a young egotistical “ham” who was constantly telling the boys at the Friars Club how he knocked ’em dead at Keith’s Philadelphia or stopped the show cold at the Flatbush. The boys got sick of hearing what a hit and a lady-killer I was, so they decided to cure me. I was enticed into a luxurious limousine by an exquisite gal right in front of the club. Six or seven of the members stood by and watched me shine and take it big. The chauffeur had barely whisked me away when the girl cuddled me. “You, dear boy, at last I’ve found you. I am a widow. I want you to meet my husband.” Before I could fully assimilate that, the chauffeur got into the act. “The roads are closed, Ma’am, shall we fly?” Without waiting for a reply, he jammed on the brakes in front of a brownstone house. “Here we are.” She hooked onto my arm and all but carried me up the steps. The front door opened, and there stood a sweet-looking old lady smoking a cigar. “Hello, Daddy Dear,” exclaimed the girl. “Oh, there is Auntie!” The girl now gestured toward a man in the living room, sitting in front of an easel and painting. They sort of jostled me into the room, and the man arose and extended his hand to greet me. He then scrutinized my necktie. 158

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“Beautiful,” he said. “I must have a piece of that.” In a flash, he whipped out a pair of scissors and cut off the bottom of my tie. As he sat down before the easel, he stuck the piece of tie in his mouth and chewed meditatively. “Hm, delicious.” He now went through the motion of painting on the canvas. The brush was dry, and the canvas blank. “Isn’t it beautiful?” the girl inquired. My Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as I summoned up enough courage to inquire what it was. “Little Boy Blue,” she said proudly. “I don’t see anything.” This time the man spoke. “It’s happened again, the little boy blew.” I was subjected to a wild bit of hazing, much of it physical, and eventually returned to face the boys at the club “a well-cured ham.” The picture was mad and offbeat but played everywhere, including Radio City Music Hall. I saw it at the Palace Theatre in New York, and the house rocked with laughter. Shortly after making this short film, I got an offer from Harry Greenman in St. Louis to play for four weeks at thirty-five-hundred dollars per week in a theater that competed with the Ambassador. Before I could okay the date, Spyros Skouras reached me long distance. He made a frenzied pitch over the phone, reminding me that the Ambassador had just been repossessed by the Skourases. He spoke of loyalty and how unforgivable it would be for me to appear at another theater in St. Louis. He concluded by saying, “After all, Eddie, you are practically a member of the family; why, even your fans will hate you if you do that to us boys.” Did you say gullible? I wired Harry Greenman that I was not interested in his offer at any price. Teddy was frantic. She insisted I was a “Patsy Bolivar” for Skouras. Patsy Bolivar was a nitwit character in the School Days show where we first met. I wasn’t happy being compared to an idiot and shamefully had to admit I was short on resistance. We were four brothers in our family and had a tremendous affection for one another. Never at any time in my life did I have occasion to question the intentions of any of my brothers. I somehow felt a similar tie to the Skouras boys. Teddy ridiculed my sentiment. She could never buy any of that brotherly love talk. It left her cold. The next day, Spyros again telephoned long distance. Teddy was at my shoulder immediately, listening. Casually, Spyros inquired whether I would like to return to the good old Ambassador in St. Louis for a few weeks. While he was buttering me up in one ear, Teddy was buzzing into my 159

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other ear. When he suggested a salary that was less than half the one he convinced me to turn down the day before, Teddy heard him. She fumed and started to shout almost hysterically. “If you let that man chump you into saying yes, I will—” “Sh, Sh!” I pleaded, at the same time literally shouting into the phone myself, “but, Spyros, how in the world can you offer me—” Teddy was emphatic, “The answer is no! no!” I was trying to cover the mouthpiece and talk at the same time, but he was also talking, and Teddy continued, “And tell him it’s high time we got back our money on the hotel loan. The years have rolled by.” I was still trying to get my licks in. Spyros was popping off at the same time. It became an angry conversation. We were getting nowhere, and finally we both hung up in disgust. St. Louis was out. I was exasperated. After it was all over, I stood there perplexed trying to think of an answer or an explanation. I could come up with only the same old cliché, “Show business!”

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bout six months later, I was back appearing in New York, and Spyros sent for me. Our greeting was short and strained. Although there was no wind, I felt the chill as I appraised his sumptuous office. “Eddie,” he said, “I want to pay you what I owe you.” “Thank you, Spyros.” He paid me in full, plus 6 percent interest. I picked up the check from the desk, folded it, and put it into my pocket. He then stood up. When an executive stands up behind his desk, that means the interview is over. There were no words. I walked to the door. “Good-bye, Spyros.” “Good-bye, Eddie.” After that visit, we saw one another only at weddings and funerals. When Spyros invited me to his office, I was playing for Loew’s Inc. I had come back east with my own unit, a real good show with George Sidney, Eleanor Powell, Elaine Arden, Lillian Dawson, and sixteen Danny Dare Dancing Girls. This tour lasted for sixteen weeks, and there were plenty of nice words said about the show. They loved George. Eleanor was a sure showstopper. To quote newspaper critic Florence Fisher Parry of Pittsburgh, “All of this was presented by Lowry, the nicest Emcee I ever saw. There’s a quality about him which makes him great. It’s the sun. It’s something incandescent that lights up everything around him. He has one of the most generous personalities I’ve ever felt the spell of.” During our week at Loew’s State Theatre in New York, Louis K. Sidney offered me another crack at the stage-band policy: a ten-week contract to appear at Loew’s Paradise Theatre, in the Bronx. L. K. was head of production for the circuit. Working with Louis was duck soup. We were good friends and pretty well shared the same opinions of what constituted good 161

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showmanship. As for the reaction of the Bronxites, all I can say is appearing at the Paradise was a real paradise for an entertainer. We had planned on going back to California in July, but a call from Gus Edwards changed this decision. Paradoxically, Teddy and I met in Gus’s first legit show; now, I was destined to be in his last, Gus Edwards’ ShoWindow. One visit to a rehearsal and I was sold. Backstage was jumping with teenagers. Talent was abundant. The “16 Sweet 16’s” were each fresh, beautiful, and dance happy. At a quick glance, I thought I saw Ray Bolger back working for his old boss, but it turned out to be Joe Dorris in an uncanny imitation of Ray. In a corner was Joe Cook Jr., a dead ringer for his old man, practicing on his unicycle. Beautiful Armida and Mark Plant were in a corner rehearsing a scene. Al Verdi, the wild-looking musical clown, was explaining a comedy bit to his partner, Thelma Lee. The whole scene, the atmosphere, all these eager beavers, took me back to my own days in that age bracket. They all had that healthy desire to make good. None of the performers beefed that they found the work demanding or that they were tired and hungry, a far cry from many of the Johnny-come-latelies who hope to dream their way to stardom. Gus Edwards knew how to make kids move in a lively fashion. I had gone to this rehearsal with my agent, reluctantly, because I was uncertain about hooking up with Gus. But after seeing the opening number, “Following Famous Footsteps,” I couldn’t wait to join that parade of irrepressible young talent. Although Gus knew pace and had good taste, he was, unfortunately for all concerned, a very sick man. He needed a business manager to rule him with an iron hand. The sheriff was in the box office before the show even opened. The take for the advance sale was being spent before the curtain ever went up. The newspapers gave ultimatums, “Pay your bills or no further ads.” There were no more ads. Herb Ebbenstein, a friend of Gus’s, came up with some dough but not enough to match the Edwards extravagance. The opening-night audience cheered. But the rumor that the show was a hit didn’t circulate nearly as fast as the word that money was scarce. On the second night, the business agent of the stagehands union appeared on the scene. He wouldn’t permit the curtain to go up unless the stagehands were paid in advance. Each night, it would be 9:15 or 9:30 before the complicated financing was taken care of and the stage manager received his cue to signal the orchestra to start the overture. Money troubles kept multiplying. Now the musicians’ union also 162

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demanded being paid each night in advance. Gus couldn’t catch up. By the end of the first week, when the cast’s salaries were due, and many of them needed eating money, I think the roof would have caved in if Ebbenstein hadn’t again come to the rescue. We staggered along under this burden of uncertainty until the inevitable night when we waited and waited for the curtain that never went up. And so, in spite of impending success, a good show was made and bungled by the same man, contributing another flock of write-ups to my scrapbook, important ones written by Broadway’s legitimate critics. My scrapbook is rich with all these beautiful notices, properly titled and dated, but I ask myself who, besides my mother, will look at the scrapbook? Reading is generally regarded as broadening to the mind. But a scrapbook is more broadening to the behind. Ben Shainin, longtime friend who had turned agent, came up with a four-week engagement at the Paradise Restaurant at Forty-ninth Street and Broadway. The salary was good, and the job challenging. I was to replace Milton Berle as master of ceremonies. Berle, already a powerful Broadway attraction, was the feared rival of almost all other comics. When I displayed some hesitance at the idea of succeeding Berle, I was immediately reminded that I had once said, “Berle doesn’t do anything I can’t do, but he does lots of things I won’t do.” The night before my opening, I went to see Milton’s farewell performance. His audacious striptease revolted me, but to his fanatical fans, it was a riot. Milt had been at the Paradise for eight weeks, yet the proprietor laughed uproariously, as though he had never before seen this inelegant bit of buffoonery. Piece by piece, Berle provocatively shed his clothes. Prancing and parading with all the affectations of a Minsky stripper, he tossed off another garment each time he reached the exit. When he had taken off everything but his socks and a pair of brief lady’s panties, he bowed and teased and, finally, unloaded the socks. Despite what I thought of it, this “strip” bit was a sensation. As Milton came back for a bow, his valet handed him a robe. Instead of covering his naked, perspiring body, he chose to toss the robe nonchalantly over his arm. So attired, he made a serious speech of thanks with all the dignity of a bare Bowery Barrymore. “And none of this would have been possible,” said Berle, “if it were not for my best audience—my mother. Take a bow, Mom.” 163

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There was more applause, and then some guy, possibly a plant, gave out with a loud Bronx cheer. There was a pause, and then Mom got into the act. “Miltie,” she shouted, “give him the toast!” “Thank you, Mom.” Milt turned in the direction of the offender and said, “Mister, a toast.” Here’s to you, Ladies and Gentlemen. Believe me, you’ve got class. From my heart I say “God bless ya,” And you, Mister, kiss my ass. “Good night, all! Good night, Mom!” Wafting a few kisses to the howling patrons, Milton exited. A solid smash hit, a big success, and the Berle career was just starting. “How can anything so wrong be so right?” I kept saying to myself. But the audience clamored for more. A few nights later, when I was in the same spot, the audience didn’t clamor. I therefore reversed the refrain. How can anything so right be so wrong? As Butch said, “Show business.” My opening night was very good. Thanks to tradition, these first nights always drew some friends, song pluggers, and show people in general who whooped it up enough to make the opening exciting. The second night, the going got rough. I didn’t like following Faith Bacon in her Dance of the Orchids. Three orchids, worn in three vital spots, constituted Miss Bacon’s complete wardrobe. One orchid at a time was tossed to the audience . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . and then there were none! She ended up wearing less than Berle . . . and she was so much prettier. Faith’s act uncovered much, including the fact that the following act was apt to bomb. In my tuxedo, I felt overdressed, but undaunted, I dug out all my reliable gags and shot them at the audience with the speed of a machine gun. Wow, bank, zowie! Like a wet firecracker. Nothing! After a few days, the manger started egging me. “Come on, Lowry, dirty it up a little, get going, and stop acting like a cutie pie.” I had never used dirty material and kept myself in a good humor by humming that little song, “Taint that I couldn’t, it’s just that I wouldn’t, because I think I shouldn’t.” One night as I ran onstage to do my show, I was surprised to see Charlie Skouras and his wife, Florence, seated at a ringside table. The audience that night was frigid. After the performance, I joined the Skourases at their table, and we all had a drink together. Charlie read me the riot act. He 164

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said he was disappointed in me for prostituting my talent in a place that featured naked women. “This you do only if you are hungry—and even then it’s unforgivable.” The Skouras family went to the hotel, and I went backstage to do my late show. I didn’t get home until after 3 a.m., and to my surprise sitting in our apartment with Teddy was Charlie. For an hour or more, I was the recipient of a lecture on the unimportance of money compared to decency and self-respect. He pleaded with me to chuck it and go home. Contradictory Charlie, the character enigma! With all the flaming affection of a crusading big brother, he stayed up all night to convince the prodigal son to come home. It worked! “California, here I come.” I guess this was the answer to the Phil Baker–George Skouras debate: Good-bye, Broadway! We all decided that on each trip to California, Beverly Hills and the west coast looked better to us. This time, I hoped fervently that we could stay out west permanently. Ed Jr. was enrolled in Hawthorne School. Ed Sr. joined the Hillcrest Country Club. As for Teddy, she found that running a home and being a full-time momma kept her plenty busy, and she loved it. My friend Jack Sidney, looking for a business opportunity, dragged me along to see a piece of property in North Hollywood, only three miles from Hollywood and Vine. The asking price for a six-room house on a full acre of land was five thousand dollars. He asked me my opinion. “What can you lose,” I said. “Grab it.” “Will you go in with me?” he asked quickly. The next day, as we left the escrow department of the Bank of America, we shook hands to seal our partnership. We built half a dozen houses, and conceding the usual headaches, our venture was a success. Our partnership worked out perfectly, but it’s good we were able to bounce laughs off one another. Otherwise, it would have been a very dull way of making our cakes. The skilled laborer can be just as difficult and temperamental as the actor, but watching him mix cement or shingle a roof isn’t nearly as rewarding as listening to a sock chorus of Dixieland or seeing a hoofer do a good dance routine. One night while I was visiting Charlie Skouras, he confided that his organization was toying with the idea of sponsoring a radio show. Thornton Sargent was back working for the company and had promoted a tie-up with the Don Lee Broadcasting System. Charlie offered to star me in the 165

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show, for which I was to provide my own script and cast. The budget was small—what else? Nursing the thought that this could serve me as a fine showcase, I went to work. We called the show Singtime. Jay C. Lewis Jr., our producer, came from a vaudeville family, and we kicked it off together perfectly. Handsome John Conte was the announcer, and Emil Seidel took care of the music. Peter Lind Hayes and his mother, Grace, were our guests at the opening show, which got us off to a promising start. The next week, we had Tony Martin, and we also borrowed the Trojan Male Chorus from USC. Our constant but inoffensive plugging of the Fox West Coast slogan, “The Place to Go,” hit a responsive note with the organization, so Charlie decided to spread out. A little more was added to the budget, and we ended up with a good band: Spike Jones on the drums and Matty Malnick with his violin. After several more months, the program was increased from thirty to sixty minutes. The budget was “upped” again, but now we needed more actors. As a result, my personal wallet didn’t swell one iota, but I did end up with a lengthy list of available talent. So many clever people had succumbed to the lure of Hollywood that they would accept any salary in the hopes of being discovered for pictures. Mel Blanc, who had just come to town, did two shows for a salary that wouldn’t buy him a good pair of shoes. However, he was soon to become the most famous voice in Hollywood’s animated-cartoon industry. As the train announcer of Jack Benny’s show, he put Azusa and Cucamonga on the map. Harry Savoy, a comic, got $25 to do a guest shot for us and, during the same week, did a repeat performance with the same material on the Eddie Cantor show for $450. Louis Prima and his combo also caught Hollywood’s attention on Singtime, and there were many more people who went on to become famous. Skouras would not hire a writer. He insisted he wanted me as he knew me, not as some writer might characterize me. This was another way of saving a buck, but he also knew I would dig my own way out. Eventually, I got his consent to bring on Billy Zeck, my old friend of bygone days. Billy was an actor but also pitched in with me on the writing. Very helpful was my good old black book that was loaded with skits, bits, and sketches. Also very handy was a copious cross-indexed comedy-gag file, which I eventually sold to Eddie Cantor. Zeck established a good comedy character as my shiftless brother, and we now set up a sort of stock company with a fine group of performers whom we 166

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used as the occasion required. One day, Sargent handed me a script to read. I was impressed by its sparkling freshness. “This will cost you a cheeseburger sandwich and an autograph photo,” said Sargent, “but if you wish any more, each contribution will cost you a weekly steak dinner at Romanoff’s.” “You got a deal,” I replied joyfully. The writer was Morton E. Feiler, an attorney in the employ of United Artists. He had a bug to write comedy material and was such a natural that soon Billy and I would sit and wait for Mort’s contribution to come in before even starting to work on the next week’s program. He always came up with fresh ideas. A wonderful guy, a great friend, he became my legal mentor. Though the salary was far from exciting, I was happy doing this show. Occasionally, we cashed in through some casual dates—for example, a big juicy week’s payoff at the Pomona Fair and a boffo week at the Orpheum Theatre in Los Angeles. I was still able to play golf, go to the races, and also enjoy the comfort of a luxurious home. One day, beating my brains out over a script, I dropped it in disgust and decided to take a walk. Three blocks from home, an old gent bid me the time of the day, and I said, “Good afternoon.” He buttonholed me to assure me that it was not a good afternoon for him. He was in great financial distress, and before we said “Good-bye,” he had convinced me to purchase his home on North Crescent Drive for an amount that I believe was an all-time low for a piece of property in the opulent area of Beverly Hills. This little curbstone deal proved more profitable than six months’ pay of Singtime. In 1936, there were distressed properties in Beverly Hills, and it became almost a habit with me that when we would come to an impasse in the writing of our script, I’d go out for a walk and end up buying a house. This dabbling in real estate was a new experience, and Teddy and I found it exciting. We would buy an old home, give it a face-lift and then either sell or rent it. Teddy showed unusual talent in this field. She could furnish a house with crepe paper and a pair of scissors. Several years later, by the time that Singtime had gone off the air, we had acquired quite a bit of real estate. I had also acquired a surging urge to get back on the road. This is a trouper’s perennial occupational disease. In no time flat, I was off again, making with the songs and the jokes. The bookings included the Civic Auditorium in St. Louis. Alex, the chubby little Greek boy who used to run errands backstage at the Ambassador Theatre, had become an impresario. His driving ambition 167

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in life was to emulate the Skouras brothers. He had promoted funds, rented the auditorium, and now wanted me—his boyhood idol—to star in his first venture. My salary and the supporting show were both good. Pregnant with ideas, Alec got off to a flying start. He hired many of the local musicians who had been popular in our old band and assembled a good line of girls, including some of the former Ambassadorables. For me, it was Old Home Week! After St. Louis, it became obvious that each engagement was a promotion by some individual who had the funds and the courage to gamble. The big circuits had almost entirely quit promoting stage shows. Stage doors were opened now only to occasional big-name drawing cards. For others, engagements were scarcer than pratfalls at the Metropolitan Opera House. During these slow years, Charlie Skouras was always underwriting my future. “You never have to worry, Kit, as long as us boys live, you’re set. Just keep your pants on.” Had I listened to Charlie, I’d have slept in my pants instead of my pajamas.

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t’s a sad commentary, but it took a second world war to bring back vaudeville. One day, Margaret Young, former headliner, approached me with the suggestion that we organize a volunteer troupe to play the army camps and naval bases. Two days later, we were entertaining twelve hundred uniformed kids who for an hour and a half acted as if they were happy to be in the service. We put together a diversified group of entertainers. I opened the show as the master of ceremonies and then introduced Geraldine and Joe, two talented kids. I teased that with each succeeding act, the performers got a little older and that before we were finished, we’d be wheeling ’em in. When we finally reached the back end of the show, my introduction was unkind: “Now here she comes, the old bag herself, Maggie Young.” This was the introduction she wanted. “After all,” she persisted, “Baby Peggy, I’m not!” Maggie annihilated the audience. She would single out an older sergeant or officer with graying temples and sing, “You’re over the hill, Brother, over the hill,” and those GIs used to prostrate themselves with laughter. Pat Moran, also in the show, did his comedy acrobatics and a hilarious slow-motion prizefight. Miss Young’s niece Margaret Whiting was pretty and still had dew behind her ears but was coming along briskly under the guidance of Aunt Maggie. Vivian Blaine, also very young, pretty, and bubbling over with stuff, had a form that would give you ideas even if you weren’t a GI. Then there was George Dunn, with his rope spinning, hoofing, and harmonica, and the Fanton sisters, who danced while they played xylophones. The show was a smash! Every night, we were on a bus riding to an army camp or naval base in the vicinity of Los Angeles. These first few months thrilled us with rewarding 169

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satisfaction. The reaction of the GIs well nigh overwhelmed us. These kids, most of whom had never before seen a performer in the flesh, applauded long and loud. They laughed and roared and slapped their thighs, and when the girls made their entrances, the whistles and wolf calls could be heard from here to Vladivostok. What more could an entertainer want? Without doubt, all of this good cheer did more for our morale than it did for the soldiers. Even Eddie Jr. was rewarded. Every night, I would bring him a different insignia or arm patch. Several hundred troops were training in the Mojave Desert under General [George S.] Patton. The area seethed with the menace of charging tanks, armaments glinting in the flashing sun, staff cars and jeeps racing in every direction. It was hard to believe that we were still in America. There were no towns here, and during maneuvers, the discipline was just as rigid as in an active battle area. We performed over a dozen shows. In one spot, eighteen thousand boys sat in the broiling sun while we did our stuff on a makeshift platform. The temperature hovered around a hundred degrees. A girl was doing a backbend during a control dance. Something snapped! The huge audience roared in delight. The dancer attempted to retain her dignity; instead of making a hasty exit, she tried to improvise her getaway, playing it real cool. Unwittingly, this little cutie was giving a performance that would make a seasoned stripper blush. When she finished, it sounded like a burst of artillery, then complete bedlam. It took me some time to make myself heard over the din. “There will now be a five-minute lull while you guys sit in the sun and cool off.” I rate this ad-lib crack as the biggest yock of my entire career. Upon returning from the desert, I received a call from Abe Lastfogel, who was serving as president of USO Camp Shows. He was the powerhouse of the organization, and he was also one of the driving forces behind the Hollywood Victory Committee. Abe asked me to take a job with Camp Shows, which was spreading rapidly and needed manpower. “If you expect to get rich, don’t take it,” Abe said. “If you want to make a worthwhile contribution to the war effort, join up. We need a showman with your background desperately.” I was somewhat apprehensive about accepting this new role because I was more at home behind the footlights than behind a desk. But I agreed to try it, and during the break-in period, I worked with the men who handled the daily spot shows. My job called for lining up volunteer talent into a formi170

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dable one-night show, arranging transportation, and then accompanying the troupe as manager. These spot shows were presented at Fort MacArthur, El Toro Marine Base, Terminal Island, Point Mugu, and other military installations, which were more numerous than we could normally service. After several weeks, I was placed in charge of the spot-show department. A swell bunch of guys, almost the entire staff came from the motion-picture industry, and all had certain stars to whom they were partial, and vice versa. For example, Bill Smith would always come up with Frank Morgan, even if he had to carry him to the bus, and most of the times he did! Cubby Broccoli, who was loved by the film crowd, had some important names on his list. Howard Deighton, a former stage manager for Earl Carroll, was the only man in the office with stage-show experience. He always had Harpo Marx on tap and could generally dig up a dancer or a prima donna he knew from Broadway shows. Max Bercutt was the high-pressure guy. He would stay on the phone for hours, and invariably this would pay off with a Claudette Colbert or Marlene Dietrich. Some of those fabulous spot shows were like “monster benefits.” The artists loved doing them, except for the wild bus rides during a blackout. For instance, speeding to Fort MacArthur in those recon cars was like riding on a roller coaster in the dark. On one of these trips, I introduced Vivian Blaine to Manny Franks, an agent. They must have enjoyed it, because he became, first, her agent, second, her husband. We were long on big names but short on specialty people to make those spot shows play well. Finding such people became my responsibility, and soon we had rounded up a long list of jugglers, hoofers, acrobats, comics, mimics, and novelty acts. There were dozens of good entertainers who were eager to share their acts with a star. Cary Grant was always ready to make an appearance, if he could have Don Barclay along. Don, a former Ziegfeld comic, had a burlesque mind-reading act that Cary enjoyed as much as the audience did. Joe E. Brown liked working with Bobby Gilbert and his talking fiddle. On the bus en route to the show, Pat Moran taught many a star how to do his slow-motion wrestling bit. Billy Gilbert, screen comic who pleased when he sneezed, had his wife playing straight for him. His sister-in-law, Fay McKenzie, sang a good song and was a solid hit on her own. Whenever the monotony of office work got me down, I’d give Billy the signal. He would then insist that I go along with his troupe. As soon as the bus pulled out, 171

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I was the actor again, impatient to get at those audiences. They were such gravy. and I was still ham enough to wallow in it. With three or four shows under my belt, I was able to generate and sustain enough self-satisfaction to carry me for some time. Lastfogel, well pleased with my work, had me added to the payroll of the Hollywood Victory Committee. The Screen Writers Guild gave me scripts that were made available to our volunteer actors. The Bob Hopes, Jack Bennys, Dinah Shores, and Betty Huttons didn’t require our assistance. We merely supplemented their shows with a few additional acts. Our big concern was such stars as Gary Cooper, Errol Flynn, and Spencer Tracy. This type of actor was seldom a song-and-dance man, but the boys in uniform sure wanted to see and meet them, and, of course, this was something to write home about. Writing home had been one duty the GIs neglected, causing great parental anxiety. After seeing a show and particularly with stars, the amount of mail to the folks back home just zoomed. The Pacific Coast became an armed camp, and Hollywood was eager to make its contribution. Chester Morris became a magician, and Bert Kalmar, a famous songwriter, became a card manipulator. Ricardo Cortez was a straight man for Harpo Marx. Marlene Dietrich sang and talked like an experienced variety artist. Judith Anderson deserted Shakespeare to become a mistress of ceremonies. Peter Godfrey, Warner Brothers director, would rush off his set each night anxious not to miss his bus. His “magical” illusions were reminiscent of Howard Thurston’s. Orson Welles materialized with a night of magic that was comparable to a performance of the Great Houdini. Arthur Treacher and Alan Mowbrey, two of the screen’s most famous butlers, strayed from the role of “gentleman’s gentlemen” to become typical English music-hall comics. Dennis O’Keefe replaced Dennis Morgan as sidekick to Jack Carson. There was a family reunion between Joan Blondell and her sister, Gloria. We also had Jane Wyman, Linda Darnell, and Merle Oberon. All were happy to turn vaudevillian to boost the morale of our armed forces. Max Bercutt, who was liaison for the navy under Commander A. J. Bolton, took a show to the San Diego area for four days each month. The office was accused of showing partiality to the navy, so I was instructed to accompany the show and make a report. Pardon my presumption, but I immediately booked myself as emcee.

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My son was now attending school at Brown Military Academy at San Diego. I got permission to take him out of school, and he was with me for the four days. Seeing Sidney Greenstreet, star of The Maltese Falcon, in person intrigued Junior more than visiting his dad. On this show, we also had Jinx Falkenburg, with whom I did several comedy skits. In the four days, we played seventeen performances, and there were still hundreds of boys turned away. At every show, the installation rocked with applause and laughter. A guy couldn’t dream of a more wonderful setup for his farewell and final “kiss off” as an entertainer. I didn’t know I had made my final appearance until I got back to our Beverly Hills office, where Abe was on hand waiting for me. I was promoted to the job of executive secretary of the west coast. This position made me head man, and the responsibility was great. My new salary was hardly commensurate with the long hours and the pressure that soon became mine. The compensation, compared to theatrical income, was considered mere pocket money. This operation had developed into fabulous proportions. It was now the largest circuit of entertainment the world had ever known. A survey revealed that on one single day, five hundred separate shows had been given under our auspices in various military installations around the world. We acquired more help. Roy Mack, old-time friend and a former director and producer, became my top man. There was also John Butler, legit actor and loveable guy; C. B. Maddock, who had produced countless vaudeville flash acts; Ben Black, bandleader and composer of “Moonlight and Roses”; Charlie Melson, former emcee and song plugger; and Jesse Colbert, pianist. Abe had a small, auxiliary desk put in my office, where he sat in for an hour or two each day. Flatly refusing to be my boss, he invested me with a great deal of responsibility and, in a crisis, never divested me of any authority. Abe would never hold still for any star throwing his weight around nor permit Army brass to bypass me in an attempt to get special concessions. On the left of my desk was a TWX, better known as a Teletype machine [a teletypewriter]. Through this iron monster, I got to know my New York boss, Lawrence Phillips, executive vice president of the organization. We worked together in perfect harmony for over a year before I knew what the man looked like. L. P. made all the arrangements with Special Services and the Pentagon. I dealt directly only with the military regarding appearances

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on the west coast. We had three complete domestic circuits that played three different-sized camps or bases. These were called the red, white, and blue circuits. There were also a hospital circuit and, our most important effort, our overseas tours. To complete these shows, we were always desperately in need of moderately priced entertainers. In due time, I had dug up every ex-vaudevillian who lived on the coast. Many were former headliners who had given up. After appearing in two or three spot shows, they would get back their sense of timing, and the glint would reappear in their eyes. After four weeks, most of ’em were cocky as hell and forgot they had ever been out of the running. When they started to fight me, I knew they were ready. Hundreds of performers were rehabilitated. Many worked steadily for three or four years and saved enough money to get a fresh start in life. I stayed at my post at USO Camp Shows for over three years. It was all work, and I was paid mostly in satisfaction. We had made a vital contribution to the morale of our servicemen. Audiences saw Jim Burke or Dick Lane at Fort MacArthur, Al Jolson in the Caribbean, or Bing and Dinah on the beach on “D” Day; maybe George Riley and Helen Heller or Al Herman in one of our blue-circuit units; or Pat O’Brien or Joe E. Brown in China, Burma, or India. Soldiers may have been stationed at an outpost in some godforsaken part of the world, where Jack Cavanaugh, a one-man show, entertained them all by himself. I admired our people for the guts they displayed in making their contribution. Many of them left families and a lush living behind, and these trips on military aircraft temporarily voided their insurance policies. They subjected themselves to many hardships that even military servicemen found hard to endure. Some of them suffered severe injuries, and several gave their lives. Our entertainment army consisted of a flock of well-intended rookies who wore brassieres and funny hats and carried makeup kits instead of muskets. Under pressure, some of our people did queer things, no less than thoroughly trained GIs who were known to flip their lids when the heat was on or for no apparent reason. We had a famous screen actor, for example, get tight in Italy and to show how tough he was, conk his bride over the head with a chair. Two officers interceded, and he grabbed a pistol out of a colonel’s holster and shot bullet holes through the top of the tent. This bit of pleasantry took place in an active area during a blackout yet! 174

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A big Hollywood he-man who won fame for his portrayal of a fearless rugged Western type traveled four thousand miles and before ever doing a performance, worked himself up to a such a nervous pitch that he cracked up. An army psychiatrist recommended that he be shipped right back to the States. Such occasional misfits, however, were heavily outnumbered by gals like Martha Raye, Carole Landis, Kay Francis, and Mitzi Mayfair, who did their stuff under fire in North Africa. An important foreign-cinema actress volunteered to go to Alaska, and we sent her there. She could not sing or dance, so it was arranged for her to emcee the show in addition to doing some of her favorite readings from Hans Christian Andersen. In her unit, we planned to include a pretty eighteen-year-old acrobatic dancer. “Take her out,” the star demanded. “I’m a mother. There will be no legs displayed in my show.” Contrast this with what happened to the John Garfield–Eddie Foy Jr. show in Italy. In one spot, hundreds of boys were given forty-eight hours respite from the front lines, R and R [rest and recreation]. After weeks of bloody fighting, the guys were more like animals than the kids we knew at home. With his pass, each boy was given a small kit that contained several preventatives, including condoms. This kit virtually gave the guys license to swoop into town to look for women whom they didn’t find. Beer was the next best bet. Half loaded, they piled in to see the show. One mischievous devil inflated a condom, tied a knot on the end, and shot it into space. In a chain reaction, dozens were soon floating through the air, directed at the actors. Several, partially filled with beer or water, exploded onstage. Our entertainers may have blushed a bit but, like good troupers, took the Rabelaisian incident in stride. When I heard this story, I said, “Thank Heavens a certain actress went to Alaska instead of Italy.” Some time later, our little acrobatic dancer had her payoff. Charging into my office, she shoved a newspaper under my nose. “Mr. L.,” she exclaimed in delight, “read this.” The front-page headline blared with the most disgraceful scandal that had hit Hollywood in years. The star of the scandal was the same woman who didn’t think our boys should see girls’ legs. I recalled Horace Mann. “It is well to think well; it is divine to act well.” From the west coast, starting with the first overseas foursome, we sent Harry Mendoza, Bobby Gilbert, Pat Lane, and Barney Grant to the South Pacific, where they spent most of their time up to their knees in mud. June 175

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Brunner and Billy Wayne were but two more of the many hundreds that audiences probably can’t recall or never knew. They also slogged through mosquito-infested climes. If they left from our west coast office, I not only remember their names but most of their phone numbers because these were the folks I called on when I was trying to do my job. At the finish of the war, I felt my contribution was over, and I wanted out, but before I could catch a breather, we were confronted with postwar problems. The need for entertainment in the hospitals was urgent. I was down from a normal 170 to 140 pounds. In brief, I was bushed and felt that I was coming unglued. Every time I passed Pierce Brothers Mortuary, I felt I drew an appraising look from one of the men in the striped trousers. I learned I had developed a thyroid condition, and an operation was imperative. Roy Mack moved into my office, and I moved into Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. Dr. Maurice Kahn, a highly rated surgeon, relieved me of a big part of my thyroid gland and pretty much of my year’s salary from the USO. But thanks to his genius, I was soon completely made over. While I was recuperating at Palm Springs, Teddy and I spent a week with Al Jolson, who was also convalescing. We all stayed at the same retreat, the Lone Palm, a well-known Hollywood hangout. Each day, we gathered around the swimming pool, where Al, always “onstage,” unloaded stories about his trips overseas to entertain our troops. Bless Jolie for his priceless contribution to our war effort, but it is just barely possible that there were times when Al saw himself, and not the war effort, as the major concern of a world in conflict. In telling his tales, he delighted in boasting about breaking regulations, with the childish bravado of a schoolkid playing hookie. Al bragged how he ignored orders from Camp Shows and the War Department when they sent him to tour North Africa. Gloating, he explained how he stopped off at Washington and prevailed on Mamie Eisenhower [wife of then General Dwight D. “Ike” Eisenhower] to write a note for him to deliver personally to Ike. “This note,” he explained, lighting up, “served as my passport to England, France, and Germany, where I finally caught up with the general.” Although he surprised many GIs by suddenly appearing where he wasn’t scheduled, he disappointed just as many by not appearing where he was expected. Al was a nonconformist, but on him it looked good. As an entertainer, he was the greatest and showed us all the way. 176

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Upon my return to town, I put in six more months. My resignation brought the following letters that to me were the equivalent of receiving an Oscar: First, from Abe, president: Dear Ed: It is needless for me to tell you how sorry I am that you are leaving the fold. You contribution to USO–Camp Shows for the past several years has not only been outstanding but, in my opinion, ranks as number one from the West Coast. It would be impossible to find a more loyal, conscientious worker than you—not to mention your outstanding ability. The most important thing any of us can make of our work is a friendship which we can value throughout our life; our association has given me this. And, Ed, I shall be everlastingly appreciative of your help which made it possible for me to carry my responsibility. Affectionately, Abe From Lawrence Phillips, executive vice president: Dear Ed: I thoroughly understand that you have your own good reasons for resigning, but this does not make your departure any more welcome. I know that you have made substantial sacrifices in order to make a real contribution to the war effort, and both officially and personally I want to thank you for what has certainly been a response to the call over and above duty. I can assure you that you leave us with the sincere affection and respect of all who have had the pleasure of working with you. The loss is partially mine, since you held the fort ably and well, and your going leaves a vacancy that will be hard to fill. With all best wishes and sincerest regards, I am, Most cordially yours, Lawrence Phillips 177

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From Colonel Marvin Young and other members of the Special Service Forces, there were more kind words. I left my job feeling well rewarded. When I got away from Camp Shows and my contact with the armed forces, I had no idea that Eddie Jr. was going to bring us the picture right into our own backyard. In 1946, attending his graduation exercises at Brown Military Academy in San Diego, we were elated in anticipation of his coming home. He had attended school down there for three years, and though we visited quite frequently, we both missed him greatly. After the commencement exercises and barely able to suppress our impatience, we wanted to pile his belongings into the car and head for home immediately. “Father,” Eddie said sheepishly, “I am not going to be able to go home because tomorrow morning I am going to be inducted in the army.” Later, we learned that almost the entire graduating class had volunteered for service. A sharp recruiting officer had promised each boy he would be placed in the branch he most desired, and all were assured that they would be kept intact as a group. They were also misled into believing their credits would give them all an immediate rating of sergeant. Young Eddie had signed the papers and was due to leave for the induction center at dawn. We had waited three years to get him back, and now he was off again. All our hopeful plans had dissolved in five minutes. His mother didn’t mention the many nice things she had bought to make his return to the household a happy one nor the dreams that went with those purchases. I didn’t mention the matched set of golf clubs and bag that were waiting for him, along with junior membership in the country club. It was on the golf course I thought I’d be able to cement our relationship on an adult level and, indirectly, give him parental guidance and advice. All these plans were over now as we made a sort of three-way huddle. His mother kissed him, and I gave him an embrace, which he fondly returned. I forced twenty dollars on him, and he was off into the darkness. The war was over, and he was off for a three-year stretch, in a peacetime army. Teddy and I stood for a good ten minutes, bathing in tears. We then drove to our hotel in La Jolla and headed for the cocktail room. With no decisions to be made now, we thought this was a good time to numb our brains a little, and we made good time.

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On a trip back to New York to visit my folks, I was tempted by some proffered engagements, but I couldn’t make up my mind to try for a comeback. Since turning in my makeup kit, I had put on about twenty-five pounds, my hair had turned gray, and I found it difficult to make the transition from the fast-moving vitamin pill to the retarded pace of a genteel, whitehaired Miltown. I had never been known to walk onstage. I used to run. Now, I was offered a role in a legitimate show, which called for a sedate guy who sat in a swivel chair for most of the action. I decided if I was going to project from a chair, I’d better do it for real as an executive, not behind the footlights. So, we headed west and set up for a nice lengthy vacation in Las Vegas. The very first evening, while waiting for a confirmation of our dinner reservation, I moseyed over to a dice table. Nicky Hilton, son of the famous hotel operator, was rolling. The first finger on his crap-shooting hand was in splints, and, for reasons I can’t explain, it gave me a sort of hunch. I placed a silver dollar on the hard six. “Hah!” Hilton came rough out with two threes! With this good omen, how could I lose? So I let the ten ride, and on the next throw, he did it again and pyramided my ten into one hundred. The croupier started to bait me. “What do you say, Mr. Lowry, wanna parlay that little dollar to a thousand?” “Ride it,” I shouted, and Nicky Hilton came right back with two threes. I had parlayed one dollar to a thousand in three rolls of the dice. After dinner, I couldn’t wait to resume my crusade to take over Las Vegas. It was all so simple: all I had to do was segue three hard sixes and thus parlay single dollars into thousands. Well, you guessed it. The lightning just never struck again, but, oh, the thunder of Teddy’s roar when she heard how much I had donated. Three weeks later, I drove back home poorer but wiser. Anyway, I decided against any more loafing. A 1945 advertisement in the Beverly Hills paper caught my attention: “Small hotel for sale—right in the heart of Beverly.” Right in the heart of a longtime dream of mine! I immediately got in touch with two longtime friends, Harry and Dotty Masters, who had just returned from their fifth USO tour. From the very start, I had booked them in our shows and kept them going steady, and they had saved their money. With Camp Shows now in the past, they were looking to get into some

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business. We made a deal and bought the hotel [the Burton Way Hotel]. I put up the major part of the cash, and Harry and Dotty put in ten thousand dollars. The attorney worked out a partnership allocating the percentage according to our investments. The Masterses moved into the hotel and took over active management. Harry got a weekly salary, and Dotty got the same monthly salary as her predecessor. Teddy relieved Dotty in the afternoons, for which she drew a small stipend. I held the title of managing director but received no pay. I wanted to remain free to engage in other activities. We started off very successfully, but by the time our first anniversary arrived, business had gone from steady capacity to something less than tolerable; in fact, business had fallen apart. The only positive thing I knew about the hotel operation was that actors steal towels. Nevertheless, Teddy and I decided to buy our partners out and try it on our own. We leased our home and moved into the manager’s apartment. I didn’t carry my bride over the threshold, but we were just as thrilled as the first time I did. We believed in one another and as a team worked together in perfect harmony. The very idea of again being a double act filled us with confidence. We had grown together so that our emotions were almost identical. We craved activity and disliked idleness. Loaded with determination and the full responsibility for our own destinies, we went to work. Our first effort was to redecorate and dress up our hostelry so that we could enjoy pride of ownership. Putting in additional time and money, as well as effort, we soon had our house in order. Before long, we were enjoying a fine patronage. The first day we took over, we were presented with a small hand-painted ceramic plaque. It was designed to look like an open book. On one page was the picture of an inn. On the opposite page it said, “Our house is open to sunshine, guests, and friends.” I don’t know whom to credit for this line, but it became our creed. Sunshine was bountiful, guests were plentiful, and we called all our guests friends. As in show business, much of your success is predicated on your ability to ingratiate yourself with your guests. So the emcee became a host, and our new audiences became dear guests. As a going concern in Beverly Hills, we were far from being completely divorced from things theatrical. The hotel register showed no dearth of greats. Though I am sure Mr. Hilton had never heard of our place, we called it Beverly’s biggest little hotel. We were warmed when we read that Joseph Kramm had received the Pulitzer book prize for The Shrike, which he had 180

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written while residing at our hacienda. We applauded our TV set when we saw a former guest had received an Academy Award, Gloria Grahamme. While watching the tennis matches from Forest Hills, we applauded every stroke of another former visitor, Miss Doris Hart, who won the U.S. Open championship. We were equally proud of Michael Dyne, who authored many of the fine plays seen on Studio One. While watching our television screen, we have on innumerable occasions pointed joyfully to the credits of many of our guests. [Former first lady] Eleanor Roosevelt saw fit personally to chat with and thank Teddy for making her secretary’s stay at our hotel pleasant. Teddy says that that call was a bigger thrill than stopping any show. As if this memory wasn’t enough, I remember the day there was no porter handy, so Jimmie Roosevelt [Eleanor and FDR’s son] insisted on turning bellhop and carrying the luggage. Graciousness, a tradition of the family. Less boastfully, we admit that we had a genteel doctor who was taken away by the FBI to face a charge of espionage. Our patronage was diversified but ever interesting. I had thought in the past that I had seen many types of people with varied aims and emotions, but every psychiatrist should put in time as clerk in a small hotel before practicing his profession. A change of pace, however, is always welcome, so I was happy to learn that the New York office of Camp Shows was reorganized with a new outfit called Veterans Hospital Camp Shows Inc. When Lawrence Phillips got the idea he wanted me to produce a unit, I played hard to get: I waited until he asked me. “Honey,” I said to my wife, “run your hotel, I have work to do.” You might think the following letter was the payoff for my efforts, and you are right. May 11, 1949 Dear Ed: Congratulations on Nations in Review. I have received a letter from the manager in which he says this is the best show on Veterans Hospital Camp Shows and probably the best we have had. I am sorry I am not in a position to send you a handsome producing and royalty check, but I know that the poor guys in the hospitals are going to be grateful to the fellow who turned 181

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out the show, even if they do not know his name. That sort of compensation is good for the heart, however unsatisfactory it may be for the pocketbook. With all our thanks and kindest personal regards. Sincerely, Lawrence Phillips Vice President In 1949, Eddie Jr. was about due to be mustered out of the army, but this time he didn’t let us build up any false hopes. He phoned us from Rapid City, South Dakota, where he was stationed, to break the news that he was soon to have a bride. Like proverbial parents, we forgot he had grown up, and we were sure he had been trapped. The next day, we were in our car on our way to Rapid City, determined to break up the puppy romance and bring our baby back home. When we arrived, it didn’t take long for us to realize that Eddie meant business. The young couple had all their plans set. She was going to work, and he was going to take advantage of the GI Bill and go back to school. On the third day of our visit, while the four of us were having lunch, Eddie’s mother slipped him a ring under the table. When Eddie presented it to Mary Lou, she gasped and said, “This is the biggest diamond that was ever in Rapid City.” The newlyweds moved to Beverly Hills, where we became an inseparable foursome, then a fivesome, and then a sixsome. Two darling granddaughters, Jaime and Ann Lowry, have added an abundance of sunshine, and still we hope for more company. Eddie Jr. finished school, got his degree, and is enjoying his profession as an electronics engineer. Eddie Sr. went back to work for Camp Shows.

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n 1951, Lastfogel phoned to ask if I would care to get in and pitch again. This time the action was in Korea. The Hollywood Victory Committee had become the Hollywood Coordinating Committee. Capable George Murphy held the post of president. Irving Lande, a holdover from HVC, was still there, and Stanley Richardson had replaced Frances Ingles as manager. Temporarily, I moved into an office in their quarters. I was fortunate in my secretary, Marianna Schauer. She, too, had been with the old committee as secretary for Marco, of Fanchon and Marco. He was one of our most dependable volunteer workers. The first Christmas, we sent more than a hundred players overseas to entertain the boys during the holidays. The coordinating committee delivered some good names, and I dug up a gang of “hep” musicians and about thirty well-paid entertainers to round out the shows. This was our first effort since being reactivated, and we worked unstintingly to make the shows outstanding. I was constantly on a mad merry-go-round to studios and to the homes of stars to assist with material. For several weeks, we rehearsed tirelessly at the Rainbow Studios in Hollywood. These studios were owned by Bill and Gladys Ahern, good friends from back in the vaudeville days. In their prime, they were showstoppers. Bill and Gladys had made numerous tours during World War II and now, again enthused over the activity and excitement, they closed their studios and trouped along with one of the units. The day before the Christmas shows departed, there was a big farewell luncheon at MGM Studios. In our offices during the war, we had a running gag among the actual workers, making bets on who would turn up to take the bows at departure time, basking in the glory of the departing star. Now here with the beginning of the Korean effort, the dais at the 183

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MGM luncheon was loaded with speechmakers and bow-takers. Only one or two had even flexed a muscle toward the effort. Top executives from several motion-picture studios surrounded Lieutenant Governor Goodwin Knight. They slapped each other’s backs while flashbulbs popped, underlings cheered, and the studio photogs had a field day. Seated at the tables out front—identified with banners reading “Korea,” “Alaska,” “Europe”—were stars and players like Debbie Reynolds, Ray Milland, Paul Douglas, Jan Sterling, Walter Pidgeon, Piper Laurie, Molly Picon, and over ninety others, including Keenan Wynn, Raymond Burr, and Johnny Grant. Johnny Grant made so many tours to the Far East that he practically commuted between Hollywood and Tokyo. Of the players, only the big names were camera fodder. The rest of the talent didn’t rate a smell or a lick. Immediately after Christmas, USO Camp Shows operation was fully reactivated. We moved into our own offices and went to work, never dreaming that six years later we’d still be at it. In addition to Mrs. Schauer, we added a stenographer. I picked up where we had left off, though now I was west-coast manager, casting director, producer, writer, publicity man, and musical adviser all rolled into one. Our first effort was a five-person unit: four girls and a comic. Billed as “Four Queens and a Joker,” the unit blazed a trail to the Far East for the west coast’s contribution. Soon we accelerated our effort, sending out bigger shows and more of them. Many friends in our business decided I was “cracked” because I preferred this post to a well-paid commercial job. What they didn’t realize was that the varied aspects of this undertaking were both challenging and rewarding. A man who was in a good position to know, Lawrence Phillips, had expressed it admirably: “That sort of compensation is good for the heart, however unsatisfactory it may be for the pocketbook.” My pocketbook was not bulging, though it was not flat. If I seem to be baring my heart unduly, it is only because my heart was in my work—and why I remained on the job. The kind of work I was called upon to perform was my craft, and I had in my craft and still have a pride. Working at it made me feel useful. My bosses knew this, and they rewarded me with cooperation and confidence. In our organization, there was no graft, no kickbacks, and no distasteful internal politics. Our troubles were caused mostly by conflicting personalities among the entertainers and, occasionally, bad displays of temperament. Our troupers were forced to live too close to one another, and after breathing 184

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down each others’ necks for four or five months, they sometimes started to sandpaper each other’s nerves and became unruly, giving the military cause to censure them. My effort, however, paid off in the best sense. My entire potential came alive in putting a dozen performers through their paces in a rehearsal hall and, in several days, delivering a show that would appear at a base in Formosa, Seoul, Tokyo, or the Aleutians, making our boys yell for more. At regular intervals, we also sent out units with four and five people. These troupers entertained small groups of enlisted men stationed at radar sites in Korea, Japan, and Alaska. During the winter, some of these sites got snowed in, requiring food and supplies to be dropped by parachute. Often, our performers had to contend with trying transportation problems to reach remote installations manned by as few as thirty or forty men. We never relaxed in our effort to keep up-to-date and maintain all the essentials that typify good, clean show business. Ever interesting was the spectacle of the old-timer fighting hard to keep abreast of the changing times while Johnny Newcomer was trying hard to pick up what the oldtimer was trying to lose. With every flop show, I died eighty deaths, just as in the days when I was the one laying the eggs. With every poor report, I felt the same chagrin I suffered as an entertainer. On one occasion, I sent fourteen people to the Far East for a six-month tour. The show broke in beautifully at the Wadsworth General Hospital in Sawtelle. Catherine Brown, who handled the shows there, phoned enthusiastically: “Oh, Ed, this one is really the best ever.” The next day, we performed at Long Beach for the Navy. It was a sensation. I couldn’t have been happier if I had written, directed, and produced Oklahoma or South Pacific. The show opened at Camp Drake in Tokyo six days later and was a complete bust. What happened? Well, our show opened with a dance routine and some choreography by the entire cast. After an eight-bar introduction, the kids went into their routine. The front curtains failed to open; in fact, they didn’t open until the first chorus was nearly over. When the curtains finally did part, the cast was in the dark. The lights never did come on until the last half of the second chorus. Then, half the kids decided to start all over while the others decided to continue. The result: bedlam. When we received the report on this show, my spirits plummeted. I developed a tic, as well as butterflies in the stomach. Mrs. Schauer, always 185

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consoling, tried to get me to strike a happy medium between my downbeat and my uproar. She popped in with a glass of water. “What’s this for?” I inquired. “Thought you’d want to take a Miltown,” she replied meekly. “Come on, Mr. L., drink it down so we can burp you. The report states that the manager got the signal to start, and he started. So, if the curtains fouled and the lights failed, we certainly have an excuse for what happened.” What a laugh. To an ex-performer, there are no excuses in show business. I remembered Mr. Ziegfeld saying that thirty-five years ago and breaking my heart. The show I decided was bad. A show is merely a routine. If your opening is weak, it naturally affects the second spot. If your finale is a satire on your opening, which the audience never actually saw, how in the hell can you—oh, nuts! Mrs. Schauer was in with the smelling salts again; she said, “Please, the next one will be better.” “There won’t be a next one!” I kept storming and pacing. “I’m through! Who needs this kind of aggravation? I’m going to call New York and tell Phillips to get a new boy. That’s definite.” The buzzer broke it up. I picked up the phone and said, “Marilyn, I don’t want any calls.” “It’s New York, Mr. Lowry,” she sweetly replied. “Oh, hello, Lawrence. Yeah, this is Ed, fine, how are you? Good—when? Go into rehearsal on the eighteenth? What? Leave on the eighteenth! Pardon? For the Far East and then Alaska. Fourteen people in each. Sure, fine. What do you mean, can I? Don’t be silly . . . love to . . . I’ll get right to work. Thanks . . . you, too . . . so long. “Marilyn, get me my list of availabilities. Quick! Mrs. Schauer, have you got the security clearances handy? please! C’mon, let’s get going! we’ve got some shows to do!” note: Not long after I wrote this last episode, USO Camp Shows Inc. was discontinued. Toward the end of 1958, I again started to work full time in my hotel. Under my name was the title “Proprietor.” Teddy said it should also read, “Ex-performer,” as I suggested at the outset.

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Abrahams, Maurice. 1883–1931. Piano accompanist, songwriter, music publisher. Married to Belle Baker. His songs include “Ragtime Cowboy Joe” (1912) and “Hitchy Koo” (1913). Adler, Felix. 1898–1960. Circus clown. Act included a trained pig that climbed a small ladder and slid down a greased slide to receive a sip of milk from a baby bottle as a reward. Adler, Jake. ?–1934. Chicago nightclub owner, part-time owner of the Club Royale. Also associated with the old Midnite Frolic and Freiburg’s Dance Hall and Ballroom. Ahern, Gladys. 1897–1989. Dancer. With husband Will Ahern performed an act that used all of Gladys’s former skills and included her speaking with a Mexican accent and dancing inside a spinning rope. Ahern, Will. 1896–1983. Comedian, dancer, actor, performer of rope tricks. Worked in vaudeville and films. Teamed with chorus girl Gladys Reese (see Ahern, Gladys). Owned a rehearsal studio in Hollywood with Gladys. Albee, Edward Franklin. 1857–1930. Theater impresario. Ran the B. F. Keith chain of theaters and during his heyday monopolized booking arrangements. One of the giants in vaudeville management. Albrecht, Kenneth F. 1910–50. A musical arranger for Paul Whiteman’s band. Studied medicine and became the physician editor of the new journal General Practice. Alger, Horatio. 1832–99. Author. Wrote rags-to-riches boys’ stories typically dealing with a young lad advancing from poverty to wealth and acclaim. Allen, Fred. 1894–1956. Started his career as a writer for Variety, then turned comedian. Played vaudeville and Broadway. Radio shows (1942–49) had a large following, especially Allen’s Alley. Allen, Gracie. 1895–1964. Comedienne in vaudeville, film, radio, and TV. Appeared with husband and partner, George Burns, for thirty years. Used linguistic humor in which words were misconstrued. 189

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Andersen, Hans Christian. 1805–75. Danish poet, novelist, and writer of fairy tales. Famous for stories “The Little Mermaid,” “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” and “The Ugly Duckling.” Anderson, Clinton H. 1903–89. Chief of the Beverly Hills Police Department for thirty years. Founding president of the California Police Chiefs Association. Wrote a memoir, Beverly Hills Is My Beat (1962). Anderson, Judith. 1897–1992. Australian-born classical actress of stage and screen. Won Tony and Emmy awards and nominated for a Grammy and Oscar. In 1959 titled a British dame. Arbuckle, Roscoe “Fatty.” 1887–1933. Comic silent-movie star. In 1931 joined Mack Sennett’s Keystone Cops, subsequently wrote and directed many of his own films, endured three manslaughter trials owing to a sex scandal in 1921. Arden, Elaine. ?–?. Zany vaudeville, radio, and film comedienne and madcap clown. In 1936 and 1937, signed by Brooklyn Vitaphone for six shorts. Had the feminine lead in the Broadway Brevities series. Ash, Paul R. 1891–1958. Orchestra leader in movie theaters in the 1920s and 1930s. Sometimes billed as “the rajah of jazz.” Played the violin and piano. Astaire, Adele. 1896–1978. Dancer and entertainer. Fred Astaire’s elder sister. Performed with Fred in vaudeville and on Broadway. Retired early to marry Sir Charles Cavendish, taking the title Lady Charles Cavendish. Astaire, Fred. 1899–1987. Dancer, choreographer, singer, actor. Moved from vaudeville to Broadway to films. Adored for his acting and dancing partnership with Ginger Rogers. Bacon, Faith. 1909–56. Vaudeville and screen actress known for her beauty. Appeared in Earl Carroll’s Vanities of 1930 and the film Night Train (1938). Created the fan dance. Committed suicide in Chicago. Baker, Anna Auer. 1860–1944. Actress. Appeared on the legitimate stage, in silent films, and in traveling shows. Baker, Belle. 1893–1957. Actress, singer. Played in vaudeville, movies, and TV. Best remembered for her film roles in Charing Cross Road (1935) and Song of Love (1947). Baker, Phil. 1896–1963. Vaudeville actor, composer, songwriter, accordionist, and author. Popular comedian and emcee on radio. Also appeared in many Broadway musicals. Balaban, Abraham Joseph. 1889–1962. Chicago theater operator. Joined Paramount in 1929. Constructed Chicago’s Esquire Theatre, worked as a director of the Roxy Theatre in New York City. Barclay, Don. 1892–1975. Comic, character actor, dialectician, and creative cartoonist. Played Mr. Binnacle in Mary Poppins (1964) and made voiceovers for several Disney musicals, including Cinderella (1950). Barnett, Luke. 1877–1965. Comedian who used a Polish accent to berate his audiences and pull pranks on them. Professional nickname “Old Man Ribber.”

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Barnett, Vince. 1902–77. Actor. Son of comedian Luke Barnett. Played in Tiger Shark (1932), Scarface (1932), The Affairs of Cellini (1934), and Gas House Kids Go West (1947). Barrie, Eugene Stuart. ?–?. Organist. Engineered the specifications for several notable Wurlitzers. In 1927, designed a twenty-seven-rank instrument for Pittsburgh’s Stanley Theatre. Barrymore, John. 1882–1942. Actor. Frequently called the greatest of his generation. Played in both silent and sound films. Lauded for his portrayals of Hamlet and Richard III. Bashaw, Tom. 1882–1942. Drama editor of the St. Louis Times. Started with the Post-Dispatch, moved to the Chicago Herald and Examiner, then returned to St. Louis to work at the Times. Bayes, Nora. Originally Eleanor Goldberg. 1880–1928. Famous singing comedienne. Performed songs that ranged from semiclassics to comedy. Played Broadway. Made numerous recordings. Becker, Herman. 1891–1957. Personal agent. Partner in the Rugoff and Becker Circuit, which operated twenty theaters in the New York City metropolitan area. BeeHee and Rubyatte. Troupe of six Arab acrobats. Act included sock tumbling and pyramid building, accompanied by Middle Eastern music and tom-toms. Beery, Wallace. 1885–1949. Actor. Joined Ringling Brothers circus at sixteen. Played in musical variety and films. Appeared in over two hundred movie roles and won an Oscar in 1934. Benny, Jack. 1894–1974. Celebrated comedian of radio, television, and occasional films. One of the first to use the comedy of self-deprecation. Bent, Marian. 1879–1940. Performed with her husband, Pat Rooney Jr., in a popular song-and-dance routine. Noted for her generosity. Retired early owing to arthritis. Bercutt, Max. 1909–92. Writer. Worked in Warner Bros. publicity 1948–68, heading the department for fifteen years. Served as unit publicist for My Fair Lady (1964). Berle, Milton. Originally Mendel Berlinger. 1908–2002. Comedian in all the venues: vaudeville, Broadway, films, television. Known as “Uncle Miltie” to millions during TV’s golden age. Berlin, Irving. 1888–1989. One of America’s most popular songwriters. Wrote music for vaudeville, Broadway, and films. Biggest song hit is “White Christmas” (1942). Bernard, Felix. 1897–1944. Composer, conductor, pianist. Worked in vaudeville, writing one-act musical comedies. Composed “Dardanella” (1919) and “Winter Wonderland” (1934). Bernie, Ben. 1891–1943. Master of ceremonies, violinist, orchestra leader. Performed as a classical musician, vaudevillian, bandleader, and radio host. His signature greeting, “Yow-sah.”

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Bernier, Peggy. 1907–2001. Singer, comedian, film actress. Known as “wacky Peggy” for her frenetic, often irrational behavior on- and offstage. Other singers often imitated her style. Black, Ben. 1889–1950. English composer of popular songs, author, publisher, producer, impresario, and music director for Paramount. Wrote “Moonlight and Roses” (1925) and “Hold Me” (1933). Blaine, Vivian. 1921–95. Actress and singer best known for originating the role of Miss Adelaide in the musical stage production of Guys and Dolls (1950) and reprising the role in the film (1955). Blake, Bobby. 1934–75. Ballet dancer. Choreographer. Became company manager of the English National Opera. Blanc, Mel. 1908–89. Called “the man of a thousand voices.” Created voices for different characters on radio and moved on to animated films, becoming the voice of Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, and others. Blondell, Gloria. 1915–86. Actress. Joan Blondell’s younger sister. Played Meta Bauer on radio’s Guiding Light. Appeared in films and numerous television shows, including I Love Lucy. Blondell, Joan. 1906–79. Model. Broadway and Oscar-nominated film actress known for her sexy, wisecracking blonde persona. Appeared in more than a hundred films. Bloom, Murray. ?–?. In the music business. Placed acts in theaters. Blue, Ben. 1901–75. Born in Canada. Started as a drummer who cracked jokes. Became a solo comedian portraying—in films, TV, and nightclubs—a bald-headed dunce with a dopey expression. Boasberg, Al. 1892–1947. Journalist, director, and prolific gag writer. Introduced first commentator or gossip stage act that humorously treated Hollywood goings-on. Bolger, Ray. 1904–87. Dancer and comic ad-libber. Appeared in films, television, and nightclubs. Famous for his role as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz (1939). Bolivar, Patsy. A character in a popular nineteenth-century minstrel show who always ended up being blamed for everything. Gus Edwards adapted the character for School Days. Bolton, A. J. or John, Commander. ?–?. Bowery, The. A street and district both associated with drunks and vagrants and located in Lower Manhattan of New York City. Bowes, “Major” Edward L. 1874–1946. Originated radio’s weekly Amateur Hour, initially booking the winners into local theaters but later employing them profitably in his own vaudeville groups. Braham, Horace “Pee Wee.” 1892–1955. English-born comedian and dancer. Stood five foot, six inches tall.

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Brian, Donald. 1877–1948. Actor, dancer, singer. In 1907, crowned “king of Broadway” by the New York Times. Taught Teddy Roosevelt how to relax in public. Instructed Frank Sinatra in dance. Brice, Fanny. 1891–1951. Singing comedienne famous for her pantomimic looks and gestures that reduced audiences to hysterics. Played the mischievous brat Baby Snooks on stage and radio. Broccoli, Albert R. “Cubby.” 1909–96. Academy Award–winning film producer of the James Bond series. Made more than forty films, most of them in England. Brown, Catherine. ?–1953. Booked shows for the military patients staying in the Wadsworth General Hospital, Sawtelle, California. Brown, Joe Evans. 1892–1973. Acrobat, comedian, actor. Enriched his broad slapstick style of humor with his elastic face and wide expressive mouth. Browning, Joe. ?–?. A British-born “cockney” rock-and-roll singer and guitarist. Performed on stage and, in the late 1950s, on TV. Band called Joe Brown and the Bruvvers. Browning, Si. 1940–86. Brundige, Harry T. 1897–1975. Investigative crime reporter for the St. Louis Star. Won the Pulitzer Prize in 1926 for his articles that forced the resignation of a corrupt federal judge. Brunner, June. 1890–1964. Buchanon, Mr. ?–?. Manager and owner of the Verdi Theatre in Chicago. Partner in the Buchanon, Irving Agency, which booked talent into the Verdi Theatre. Burdick, Clarence. ?–?. Stage manager for a short time of the Jacques Theatre in Waterbury, Connecticut. Burke, Jimmie. 1886–1968. Actor. Appeared on stage, screen, and TV. Made over two hundred appearances in films, including The Maltese Falcon (1941). Burns, George. 1896–1996. Singer, dancer, comic. Career spanned vaudeville, radio, film, and TV. Famous for his cigar, arched eyebrows, straight-man role (“dumb Dora” act) with his wife, Gracie Allen. Burr, Raymond. 1917–93. Canadian-born actor and vintner. Appeared on Broadway, in films, and on television. Famous for his roles in the TV dramas Perry Mason and Ironside. Bushman, Frances X. 1883–1966. Actor. Went from stock to silent films. Became a matinee idol (once called the handsomest man in the world). Later appeared on radio and in small film roles. Butler, John. 1884–1967. Actor. Appeared in well over a hundred films from 1920 to the 1950s. Finished his career in television. Butterfield Time. One of the many smaller vaudeville circuits, excluding Chicago, found throughout the Midwest and especially in Michigan. Frequently booked short musical comedies for a week or two.

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Caesar, Gaius Julius. 100–44 b.c. Roman general, statesman, and author. Dictator, Roman Empire, 49–44 b.c. Assassinated. Cansino, Eduardo. 1895–1968. Actor. Father of Rita Hayworth. Worked on movie sets from the 1920s to the 1950s. Cansino, Elisa. 1896–1990. Dancer. Ran a dancing school in San Francisco. Sister of Eduardo Cansino and aunt of Rita Hayworth. Cantor, Eddie. 1892–1964. Immensely popular pop-eyed singer-comedian. Started in vaudeville. Moved to Broadway, radio, film, and television. Capone, Alphonse “Al.” 1899–1947. Gangster. The man behind the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. Made a fortune during Prohibition. Died in Alcatraz. Carpenter, E. J. 1869–1936. Theater producer associated with Gus Edwards’s School Days. Carr, Trem. 1891–1946. Low-budget filmmaker, production chief of Monogram Pictures, which became Republic Pictures, and then again Monogram. Partnered successfully with W. Ray Johnston. Carroll, Earl. 1893–1948. Lyricist and producer. Famous for the Vanities of 1923 and later editions. Built two theaters, both of which he named for himself. Carson, Jack. 1910–63. Actor, popular radio comedian in the 1940s. Appeared on television in The Twilight Zone and in films, including Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958). Carus, Emma. 1879–1927. Singer with a big, deep voice. Could move from a contralto to a baritone and sing in numerous dialects. Alternated between the legitimate stage and vaudeville. Cavanaugh, Jack. 1888–1964. Canadian-born actor. Appeared in films for thirty years. Best known for Broadway Melody of 1936 (1935) and Champagne Charlie (1936). Chaliapin, Feodor. 1873–1938. Opera singer (bass). Considered Russia’s greatest in the twentieth century. Famous for his powerful and flexible voice, superb naturalistic acting, and mesmerizing presence. Chevalier, Maurice. 1888–1972. Belgian-French actor, singer, and popular entertainer. Played stage, screen, and clubs, usually in his trademark straw hat and tuxedo. Remembered for his role in Gigi. Clark, A. J. ?–?. English booking agent. Clayton, Bessie. 1878–1948. Athletic ballerina. Performed from 1895 to 1915. Pursued most of her career on vaudeville stages and on Broadway. Called “the nation’s firstborn prima ballerina.” Cohan, George M. 1878–1942. Actor, playwright, theatrical producer, composer of popular songs, writer of musical comedies. Started in vaudeville and moved on to the theater. Cohen, Harold. 1897–1972. Film critic for the Pittsburgh Post Gazette from 1926 to 1969. Television personality. Helped to establish TV Guide magazine in 1950.

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Cohens and Kellys, The. Silent and sound films, including The Cohens and Kellys (1926), The Cohens and Kellys in Atlantic City (1929), and The Cohens and Kellys in Trouble (1933). Colbert, Claudette. 1903–96. French-born actress. Appeared on Broadway, in films, and briefly on television. Won the Academy Award for Best Actress in 1934. Colonial Theatre. Located in New York City. Known for its extremely tough audiences who would often employ the “Colonial clap”—an even, synchronized clap meant to drive performers offstage. Columbo, Russ. 1908–34. Singer, violinist, actor. Famous for the song in Going Hollywood, “You Call It Madness (but I Call It Love)” (1933). Died accidentally from the discharge of a dueling pistol. Conrad, Con. 1891–1938. Songwriter, producer. Received the first Academy Award for Best Song for “The Continental” (1934). Inducted (1970) into Songwriters’ Hall of Fame. Considine, John. 1868–1943. Began the first popularly priced vaudeville chain, with ten- and twenty-cent admissions. Considine Theatre. Originally Edison’s Unique Theatre in Seattle. Conte, John. 1915–2006. Appeared on the Broadway stage, acted in films, and toured with Burns and Allen. Began a UHF station, KMIR, that became a successful affiliate of NBC. Cook, Joe, Jr. ?–?. Juggler. Appeared in a 1958 episode of the TV series Toast of the Town. Worked in the movie industry and played in a few minor film roles. Never attained the success of his father. Cook, Joe Lopez. 1890–1959. Began as a juggler on ice skates and a comedian. Wire-and-ball walker, dancer, musician, monologist. Famous on Broadway but less so in films. Coolidge, John Calvin. 1872–1933. Thirtieth U.S. president, 1923–29. Restored confidence to the office after previous scandals. A small-government conservative. A man of few words, “Silent Cal.” Cooper, Gary. 1901–61. Cowboy, cartoonist, film actor. Screen trademark: the typical taciturn, slow-speaking, deep-thinking American man of action. Reputed to be a great lady’s man. Corbett, James “Gentleman Jim.” 1866–1933. Boxer, actor, writer. Changed prizefighting from a brawl to an art form with his innovative techniques. Won the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship in 1892 by knocking out John L. Sullivan in the twenty-first round. Cortez, Ricardo. 1899–1977. Actor. Born Jacob Krantz in Austria. Supposed successor to Rudolph Valentino. Played in romantic comedies. Only actor ever to have his name appear above Greta Garbo’s. Cowan, Ruby. 1882–1969. Music publisher in New York City (Stark and Cowan) and composer of “You’ll Always Find a Lot of Sunshine in My Old Kentucky Home” (1918).

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Cox, Eddie. 1894–1958. Song-and-dance performer. Started as a child actor in a minstrel show. Later teamed with Joe Frisco. After vaudeville, played nightclubs. Crosby, Bing. 1901–77. Pop singer, actor. Except for legitimate theater, appeared in every form of entertainment, from presentation houses and nightclubs to radio, films, and TV. Academy Award winner for best actor for Going My Way (1944). Danny Dare Dancing Girls. A 1920s dance troupe started by Danny Dare, 1905–96. Dapper Dan. Originally Danny Hogan. 1880–1928. Boss of the Irish mob in St. Paul, Minnesota, during Prohibition. Ties with the police enabled him to forge documents that gave him access to liquor. Darling, Eddie. 1890–1951. Began as confidential secretary to E. F. Albee and rose to become chief booker for all Keith theaters, including the Palace. Had a reputation for fairness. Darnell, Linda. 1923–65. Model (as a child), actress. Appeared in films and occasionally on stage. Except for Unfaithfully Yours (1948) and A Letter to Three Wives (1949), acting career uneventful. Davis, Jeff. ?–?. Known as “king of the hoboes.” Embodied the qualities of itinerant workers while lobbying the government for the rights of hoboes. Ascended his throne at the Hotel de Gink in 1915. Dean, Ray. ?–1960. Comedian. Deighton, Howard. 1902–67. Dancer, choreographer, stage manager. Choreographed the film She Shall Have Music (1936). Delmar Circuit. Small-time vaudeville circuit centered in Alabama. del Rio, Dolores. 1904–83. Mexican actress. A great beauty. Achieved fame in silent movies and less in talkies. Later in life succeeded in films made for Mexican and Hispanic-American audiences. Dempsey, Mrs. Jack. Stage name Estelle Taylor. 1894–1958. Actress. Achieved success in silent films, such as, The Ten Commandments (1923), but failed in talkies. Married Jack Dempsey in 1925 and divorced in 1933. Dennis, Nick. 1904–80. Greek-born supporting actor known for playing ethnic types on screen and TV. Appeared in Sirocco (1951) and Kiss Me Deadly (1955) and the detective show Kojak. Depinet, Ned. 1890–1974. President of RKO Radio Pictures and then president in 1942 of RKO film company with offices in New York City. Diaz, Anita. Married name Mrs. W. H. Wincherman. 1882–1933. Had a popular vaudeville act of performing monkeys, which her husband helped tend. Dickinson, Louise. (?–?). Performed with the pianist Dave Schooler in nightclubs and USO camp shows and on television. Dietrich, Marlene. 1901–92. German-born film actress who became an international icon. Started as a cabaret singer and moved to film and then to stage shows. Sexually involved with many famous men.

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Dillingham, Charles. 1868–1934. Producer, theater owner, operator, director. Influential reviewer for the New York Evening Post. Manager of Julia Marlowe. Partner in the Diller Theatre Corporation. Dionne quintuplets. 1934–. Annette, Cecile, Emilie, Marie, Yvonne (died 2001). First set of identical quintuplets to survive infancy. Born to a poor Canadian family, supported and exploited by the government. Divine, Harry. ?–1950. Headwaiter at Chicago’s Midnite Frolic cabaret. Dolin, Anton. Originally Sydney Francis Patrick Healey-Kay. 1904–83. English ballet dancer and choreographer. First dancer in the twentieth century to achieve world recognition. Dolly Sisters. Rosie and Jenny. 1892–1970 and 1892–1941, respectively. Hungarian-born identical twins who started as vaudeville dancers, acted in Hollywood, and concluded their careers touring through Europe. Don Lee Broadcasting System. A twelve-station network run by Donald Musgrave Lee (1880–1934) that operated alongside CBS from 1929 to 1936, until it became an affiliate of the Mutual Network. Dorris, Joe. ?–?. Film actor. Appeared in Salt Shakers (1938) as a dopey sailor. Douglas, Paul. 1907–59. Stage and screen actor. Memorably turned down the film role in Born Yesterday (1950) that he had played on Broadway because it had been watered down. Doyle, Buddy. 1901–39. Singer and comedian. Appeared in musicals and films. Famous for his impersonations of Eddie Cantor, whom he played in The Great Ziegfeld (1936). Draper, Ruth. 1884–1956. Dramatist and actress known for her characterdriven monologues and monodramas, including The Italian Lesson (1925) and A Church in Italy, based on her many stays in Italy. Dresser, Louise. 1878–1965. Blonde, blue-eyed vaudeville singer known for her rendition of “My Gal Sal,” stage and film actress. Received an Academy Award nomination for best actress for A Ship Comes In (1929). Dressler, Marie. 1868–1934. Canadian-born comedienne and serious actress. Began her career on Broadway, became a major vaudeville star, appeared in silent films, and later succeeded in talkies. Dugan, Biff. Fictional character in the 1914 film The Gangsters. Eldest son of a poor family, who leads a gang of hoodlums, is wrongly convicted of murder, and dies in the electric chair. Dunn, Emma. 1875–1966. Stage and film actress. Appeared in three productions with director David Belasco. Authored two books on diction and voice quality. Dunn, George. 1914–82. Actor who appeared in more than forty TV shows from the 1950s to the 1970s and only occasionally in movies. Durante, James Francis “Jimmie.” 1893–1980. Comedian and pianist. Famous for his big nose. Performed in vaudeville, Broadway musicals, nightclubs, radio, films, and television.

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Dyne, Michael. 1918–89. Writer and actor. Nominated for Broadway’s Tony Award for his play The Right Honorable Gentleman (1956). Ebbenstein, Herbert. ?–?. Theater “angel” who helped Gus Edwards to finance his shows. Eddy, Wesley. 1903–34. Silent-film actor, emcee at picture houses and theaters, including the Roxy in New York City. Suffered for years from the death of his mother in 1926. Shot himself at her gravesite. Edward VIII, Prince. 1894–1972. Became the Prince of Wales on May 6, 1910, and King of England on January 20, 1936. Less than a year later, abdicated the throne to marry Wallis Simpson. Edwards, Gus. 1879–1971. Songwriter and producer. Wrote “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” (1909). Organized vaudeville acts consisting entirely of youngsters, many of whom became famous. Eisenhower, Mamie Geneva Doud. 1896–1979. Popular first lady, married to Dwight D. Eisenhower, thirty-fourth U.S. president, who had led Allied forces in the European theater during World War II. Known for her love of pretty clothing and handsome jewelry. Espy, Cullen. 1895–1958. St. Louis theater manager for the Skouras Brothers. In 1934, moved to Los Angeles and eventually became chief film buyer for National Theatres. Espy, Reeves. ?–1940. Publicity director for the Skouras Brothers. In California, rose to the position of film executive. Brother of Cullen Espy. Evans, George. 1870–1915. Welsh-born minstrel, monologist, songwriter. Bought the Honey Boy Evans Minstrels. Cowrote “In the Good Old Summertime” (1902). Debuted Memphis blues on the vaudeville stage. Factor, Max. 1877–1938. Called the father of modern cosmetics. Began with the Russian royal ballet and in the 1920s and 1930s moved to films, where he became the monarch of makeup. Fairbanks, Douglas. 1883–1939. Flamboyant actor known for his leaps and jumps. Played in a number of Broadway shows before turning to films, where he appeared as a dashing, romantic hero. Falkenburg, Eugenia Lincoln “Jinx.” 1919–2003. Spanish-born model and actress. Appeared in over twenty-five movies and in TV shows. Innovator in talk-show genre. A favorite pinup of World War II soldiers. Fanchon and Marco. See Wolff, Fanchon and Marco. Fanton Sisters, The. Danced and played the xylophone at the same time. Farnum, Ralph “Death Valley.” 1890–1936. Talent agent for vaudeville, Broadway, and motion pictures. Casted for the Florenz Ziegfeld and Earl Carroll shows. Poor health forced him to live in desert communities. Farr, Chick. ?–1948. British-born film actor. Appeared in The Fortune of Christina McNab (1921), The Fighting Fool (1932), and Murder at the Cabaret (1936).

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Fay, Frank. 1897–1961. Started acting as a child. Became an onstage storyteller of daffy yarns. Found fame on Broadway in Harvey (1944) as the drunken Elwood P. Dowd, whose best friend is an invisible rabbit. Feiler, Morton E. 1905–75. Attorney for United Artists. Comic screenwriter. Fields, W. C. Originally William Claude Dukenfield. 1880–1946. Juggler, comedian, actor, writer. Played vaude, radio, and film. Famous for his comic persona as a hard-drinking curmudgeon who dislikes dogs, children, and women. Fitzgerald, Harry. 1881–1936. Major talent agent for over twenty years. Launched new styles in acts and entertainment. Booked Will Rogers for Florenz Ziegfeld. Represented W. C. Fields and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson. Flaum, Joe. ?–1945. Vaudeville, café, and theatrical agent with the Miles Ingalls office. Flippen, Jay C. 1899–1971. Actor. Played in criminal, musical, and comedy roles. Appeared on the radio, on the Broadway stage, in movies, and on television. Flynn, Errol. 1909–59. Australian film actor. Famous for his swashbuckler roles in Hollywood films—for example, Captain Blood (1935)—and his flamboyant activities, namely, womanizing and drinking. Four Dancing Fords. Johnny, Maxie, Edwin, Dora, and Mabel. A five-person interchangeable dancing troupe. After 1913, Dora and Mabel continued as a sister act. Foy, Bryan “Brynie.” 1896–1977. Producer, director, writer of screenplays and gags. Directed Lights of New York (1928), touted as “the first one hundred percent all-talking picture.” Foy, Eddie, Jr. 1905–83. Actor, dancer. Started in vaudeville. In 1929, made his Broadway debut in Florenz Ziegfeld’s Show Girl. Appeared in numerous films in supporting roles. Foy, Eddie, Sr. 1854–1928. Stage comic and musical comedy actor. Famous for his exceptional mimicry, drollery, pantomimic clowning, and eccentric dancing. Used his seven children in later acts. Francis, Kay. 1905–68. Actress. Starred on Broadway and in films 1930–36. Usually played suffering heroines. Known for her lavish costumes. Frankel, Louis. ?–?. One of the owners of Chicago’s Moulin Rouge Gardens Bar, 4814 North Clark Street. Franklin, Irene. 1876–1941. British-born singer, impressionist, comedienne. Winner of a 1908 contest “Most Popular Woman Vaudeville Artist.” Died penniless in Actors Fund Home in New Jersey. Franks, Manny. ?–?. Vivian Blaine’s husband and agent. Twenty years older than she. Frisco, Joe. 189?–1958. An eccentric dancer with a derby and cigar. A standup stuttering comedian who excelled at retort humor. Played vaudeville, Broadway, and nightclubs. Appeared in films.

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Fritzel, Michael J. 1881–1956. Colorful Chicago restaurateur and nightclub owner. Said to have invented the nightclub with the Arsonia, frequented by Lillian Russell, James Corbett, and Francis X. Bushman. Frohman, Bert. 1900–74. Actor and singer. Appeared in the 1939 film Back Door to Heaven. Froman, Jane. 1907–59. Singer and actress. In 1934, rated the top “girl singer.” Made three movies and appeared on TV. In 1943, flying to the front lines of WWII, was terribly injured in a USO plane crash. Gable, Clark. 1901–60. Iconic actor called “the king of Hollywood.” Worked his way up from stock companies to films. Greatest success came in 1939 as Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. Gallet, Ralph. 1890–1935. Part owner of Chicago’s Midnite Frolic cabaret, the Royale Frolics. Died in an automobile accident. Garden, Mary. 1874–1967. Scottish soprano who enjoyed careers in America and France. Known as the Sarah Bernhardt of opera. Garfield, John. 1913–52. Stage and Academy Award–nominated screen actor. Group Theatre member. Known for his brooding roles. Blacklisted for his liberal politics. Entertained troops overseas. Gay, Masie. 1883–1945. British comic actress and singer who made her last London stage appearance in 1932. George V, Prince. 1865–1936. King of England 1910–36. First British monarch who belonged to the House of Windsor. Also held the titles Emperor of India and King of the Irish Free State. Gilbert, Billy. 1894–1971. Comedian and actor. Well known for his comic sneeze routines. Started his career at age twelve in vaudeville and at age thirty-five acted in his first film. Gilbert, Bobby. 1898–1973. Actor. Appeared at Pantages, Paramount Publix, and Fanchon and Marco. One of the first actors to entertain troops in the South Pacific on World War II USO tours. Gimp, Colonel. A character in the British comic strip The Beezer. Subsequently became Colonel Blink and finally Colonel Blimp. Godfrey, Peter. 1899–1970. Actor, director, and producer. Spent most of his career working for Warner Brothers mostly directing melodramas. Later directed for television. Goldman, Bill. 1931–. Novelist, playwright, screenwriter. Won two Academy Awards: best original screenplay, Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid (1969), and best-adapted screenplay, All the President’s Men (1976). Goldman-Sachs. A global investment banking, management, and securities firm. Founded in 1869 by German immigrant Marcus Goldman, who was later joined by Samuel Sachs. Gordon, Myrtle. 1902–93. Blues singer, comedienne. Called a young Sophie Tucker.

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Gould, Sid. 1912–96. Appeared in nearly thirty films and often on The Lucy Show with his cousin Lucille Ball. On The Dudley Do-Right Show, name became a synonym for “Snidely Whiplash.” Grable, Betty. 1916–73. Dancer, singer, actress. Twentieth Century–Fox’s top star in the 1940s. Also worked in TV, Las Vegas, and stock stage shows. Favorite leggy, chesty pinup girl of American servicemen. Grady, Billy. 1896–1973. Dean of Hollywood talent directors and chief caster at Metro for thirty years. Authored an autobiography, The Irish Peacock (1972). Grahame, Gloria. 1921–81. Oscar-winning actress in The Bad and the Beautiful (1952). Also acclaimed for roles in Oklahoma! (1955) and It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). Grant, Barney. Originally John Leo Younger. 1902–97. Singer, dancer, and comic. Grant, Cary. 1904–86. British actor. Worked stage and screen. Trademark: debonair, charming, often unreliable man. A favorite of Alfred Hitchcock. In 1950s formed his own production company. Grant, Johnny. 1923–2008. Radio personality and television producer. Known as the “Mayor of Hollywood” owing to his presence at Hollywood functions. Gray, Tommy. ?–1953. Skit and joke writer. Started with the Monroe and Grant vaudeville act. Well-known for his “nifties,” short comic skits five to ten lines long. Greeley, Horace. 1811–72. Newspaper editor, New York Tribune, America’s most influential newspaper from 1840s to 1870s. Reformer, politician. Memorably advised, “Go west, young man.” Green, Harry. 1892–1958. Actor. Performed principally between 1920 and 1950, appearing in such films as The Light of Western Stars (1940), The Man I Love (1947), and Next to No Time (1958). Greenman, Harry A. 1898–1969. Loew’s Theatre manager for over thirty years. First manager of the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Greenstreet, Sidney. 1879–1954. English stage actor. Performed Shakespeare and musical comedy and films. Played Kasper Gutman in The Maltese Falcon (1941) and detective Nero Wolfe on radio. Gulliver, Charles. 1882–1961. Secretary of the Variety Agents’ Association and the London Theatres controlled by Variety. Managing director and chairman of the London Palladium. Gus Sun Circuit. A father-son operation that owned eight theaters and booked over a hundred. Introduced “split weeks,” whereby a performer could split a week between two theaters. Hale and Paterson. Frank Hale and Signe Paterson. 1900–72 and ?–?, respectively. Jazz duo. Worked with the Original Dixieland Jazz Band on the Keith-Albee Circuit. Introduced the “Shimmy-She-a-Wabble” (shimmy), a popular stage dance.

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Haley, Jack. 1889–1979. Vaudeville song-and-dance comedian. Made comedy shorts for silent films. Famous for his portrayal of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz (1939). Halperin, Hal. 1897?–1945. Editor of Variety in Chicago. Diminutive dynamo called Chicago’s “assistant mayor.” Midwest representative for USO Camp Shows. Halperin, Nan. 1898?–1963. Russian-born singer and impersonator. Played Broadway in musicals such as Make It Snappy (1922), Spice of 1922, and Little Jessie James (1923). Wife of Hal Halperin. Handsome Jimmie the Mick. See Schaeffer, Jimmie. Hanlon, Bert. 1895–1972. Composer, author, actor, director. Appeared in vaudeville, Broadway musicals, and films. Harlem Opera House. Opened in 1889 by Oscar Hammerstein on 125th Street, the location of a number of other famous theaters. Later became part of the Keith-Albee Circuit. Harris, John H. 1889–1969. Scion of a theatrical family. Managed all the Warner theaters in the Pittsburgh area. Entrepreneur. Founded the Ice Capades in 1940. Harris, Marian. 1896–1944. Jazz singer in the 1920s and 1930s. Popularized such songs as “After You’ve Gone” (1918) and “It Had to Be You” (1924). Harrison, Rabbi Leon. 1866–1928. English born, Brooklyn raised. Presided over Temple Israel in St. Louis. Orator. Actors’ Church Alliance member. Defended actors against the charge of immorality. Hart, Doris. 1925–. Tennis singles champion (Australian, French, Wimbledon, and U.S.), women’s doubles, and mixed. Made the quarters in at least thirty-two of thirty-four Grand Slam Singles. Harvey Hobart Agency. Booking agency for vaudevillians touring the Midwest. Lesser talents, unable to find work in the big cities, depended on agencies like Hobart for bookings in smaller venues. Hayes, Grace. 1895–1989. Sang and acted in vaudeville. Mother of the actor Peter Lind Hayes. Hayes, Linda. 1918–95. Actress. Born Rachelle Mendenhall, changed her name when she won the 1939 regional competition of “Star Search.” Hayes, Peter Lind. Originally Joseph Conrad Lind. 1915–88. Actor, author, entertainer, songwriter. Appeared in vaudeville, films, night clubs, and theaters and on radio and television. Hayworth, Rita. 1918–87. Dancer, actress, sex symbol. Known as “the love goddess.” When a child, danced the flamenco with her father, Eduardo Cansino Sr. Played in vaudeville and films. Held, Anna. 1872–1918. Polish-born singer, known for her risqué songs, flirtatious nature, and willingness to show her legs on stage. Common-law wife of Florenz Ziegfeld.

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Heller, Helen. ?–?. Secretary-treasurer of the Los Angeles chapter of the American Guild of Variety Artists. Henshel, Jimmy. 1884–1946. Prominent vaudeville agent. Helped to found Agents Assistance. Herman, Al[an]. 1883–1967. Played vaudeville as a blackface comedian in the manner of Jolson. In later years, appeared in clubs. Hill, Eddie. 1895–1931. Singer. Played vaudeville. Associated with the acts of Hill and Cameron (Tudor) and Hill and Rose. Hill, Leto. 1896–1972. Manager of the Ambassador Theatre in St. Louis under the ownership of the Skouras Brothers. Subsequently worked for Warner Brothers. Hilliard, Harriet. 1909–94. Singer and actress. Appeared in vaudeville, on radio, and in films, especially World War II–escapist musicals, comedies, and mysteries. Married Ozzie Nelson. See also Nelson, Ozzie, and Harriet (née Hilliard) Nelson. Hilton, Conrad “Nicky.” 1926–69. Heir to a fortune that his father Conrad made in the hotel business. Married Elizabeth Taylor in 1950 and was divorced nine months later. Hilton, Violet, and Daisy Hilton. 1908–69. English-born twins conjoined at the base of the spine. Worked the major vaudeville circuits with a song and dance act. Later added instruments to their routine. Honey Boy Evans Minstrels. See Evans, George. Hoover, J. Edgar. 1895–1972. First director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), an office he helped create and held for eight administrations. In later years, accused of being unscrupulous. Hope, Bob. 1903–2003. Comedian and actor. Worked vaudeville, Broadway, radio, television, movies, and live concerts. Honored frequently for his humanitarian endeavors. Hotel de Gink. A hotel in Coney Island, New York, that catered to itinerant workers. On opening night, at least a hundred hoboes attended, as well as numerous city officials. Houdini, Harry. Originally Ehrich Weisz. 1874–1926. Great escape artist, famous for extricating himself from handcuffs, chained trunks, straitjackets, jails, water tanks, and paddy wagons. Hunt, Helen. See Helen Hunt in the appendix “A Glossary of Slang.” Hunt, Samuel “Golf Bag.” ?–1956. Hit man for the Capone mob. Nickname originated from his carrying his weapon, usually a shotgun, in a golf bag. Hutton, Betty. 1921–2007. Actress and brassy singer. Sang in the family speakeasy at three. Worked in bands, nightclubs, radio, television, and films. Annie Get Your Gun (1950) her biggest success. Hylton, Jack. 1895–1965. British impresario and bandleader. A televised tribute to Hylton, The Stars Shine for Jack, held in London, May 30, 1965, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.

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Irving, Mr. ?–?. Booking agent and talent scout. Co-owner of the Buchanon, Irving Agency in Chicago. Janis, Elsie. 1889–1956. Mimic, revue artist, author of screenplays, songs, and books. Headliner in vaudeville and on Broadway with her remarkable imitations. Created one of the first one-woman shows. Jessel, George. 1898–1981. Actor in vaudeville and silent films. Entertainer and songwriter in radio and TV. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, producer of musical films for Fox. Johns, Brooke. 1893–1987. Played banjo in vaudeville and with the Ziegfeld Follies (1920s). Developed the Brooke Manor Country Club. Had his own television show (1950s) on WRC-TV in Washington, D.C. Jolson, Al “Jolie.” 1886–1950. Singer, actor, entertainer. As a child sang in synagogues, the circus, cafes, and vaudeville. Rose to stardom on the New York stage before entering films. Starred in The Jazz Singer. Jones, Johnny. 1900–71. Columnist for the Columbus, Ohio Dispatch, theater manager, publicist for the Jones, Linick, and Schaeffer Theatres organization. Jones, Spike. 1911–65. Popular musician and bandleader. Satirized popular songs by performing them with the addition of gunshots, whistles, cowbells, and ridiculous vocals. Joyce, Margaret. 1894–1957. Showgirl, actress, socialite. Appeared in Ziegfeld Follies and Earl Carroll’s Vanities, stage plays, and movies. Numerous marriages grist for the gossips. Joyce, Teddy. 1905–41. Dancer and actor. Nicknamed “Hollywood’s dancing bachelor.” Appeared in several films, including Crooner (1932) and Business Is a Pleasure (1934). Kahn, Dr. Maurice. 1873–?. A founder of Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, Los Angeles. Chief of staff and surgery in 1913. Clients included Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, and Fatty Arbuckle. Kalmar, Bert. 1884–1947. Vaudeville dance performer, scriptwriter, and lyricist. Wrote for Tin Pan Alley, movies, and early television. Started the music publishing company Kalmar and Puck. Kane, Helen. 1903–66. Singer. Known for her signature song “I Wanna Be Loved by You” (1928). Trademarked “boop-boop-a-doop” served as the model for Betty Boop. Keaton, Buster. 1895–1966. Comic actor, filmmaker, director. Born into a vaudeville family, performed as a child. Best known for his silent films. Trademark: stoic, deadpan expression. Keller, Edward S. ?–?. Talent agent. Had a stable of agents working for him. Kendall, Mrs. Ezra. Originally Florence Kinkley. ?–?. Wife of Ezra Kendall Jr., a blackface monologist. King, Frances Rockefeller. ?–?. Agent who booked acts for private parties. Became the well-known and respected head of NBC’s Artists’ Bureau at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, New York City.

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King Tut. Shortened name of Tutankhamen. Flourished ca. 1333 b.c.e. Egyptian king of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Discovery of his tomb in 1922 created interest around the world. Knight, Eric. 1897–1943. English-born newspaper reporter, screenwriter, author. Best remembered for his fictional books about Lassie the collie. Knight, Goodwin. 1896–1970. California lieutenant governor 1943–53, governor (Republican) 1953–59. Koplar, Harry. 1915–85. Associated with the Montgomery Theatre in St. Louis, which was built for O. T. Crawford and later taken over by Harry Koplar. Kramm, Joseph A. 1907–91. Actor, playwright, and director. Received the 1952 Pulitzer Prize in drama for The Shrike. Lahr, Bert. 1895–1967. Played burlesque, vaudeville, Broadway, and subsequently television. Appeared in comic and straight roles. Famous for his part as the cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz (1939). Lande, Irving. 1905–2001. Casting director in the 1970s. Producer of Broadway plays, including The Crooks’ Convention (1929), Two Seconds (1931), and Carnival (1961). Landis, Carole. 1919–48. Actress. Started as a nightclub singer and hula dancer. Appeared in over fifty films. Book and magazine writer. Entertained more servicemen during World War II than any other star. Lane, Dick. 1899–1982. Actor and television announcer who broadcast roller derby and wrestling shows on KTLA, Los Angeles. Lane, Pat. 1901–53. Actor and stunt actor. Active from the 1930s to the 1950s. Langer, Jack. 1894–1964. Associated with the St. Louis Mounds Club and Plaza Amusement Co., which were found to be fronts for the gangster Frank Leonard Wortman. La Pierre, Paulette. ?–?. Singer. Member of the La Pierre Sisters singing group, which played vaudeville and the Midnite Frolic cabaret (Ike Bloom’s) in Chicago. Lastfogel, Abe. 1898–1984. Long-time president of the William Morris Agency. In 1912, started as an office boy when vaudeville was king. Moved to Hollywood in 1932 to manage the agency’s Los Angeles office. Lauder, Harry. 1870–1950. Scottish comedian, actor, singer, songwriter, and author. Toured the world and performed in Highland regalia, singing songs with a Scottish theme. Knighted 1919. Laurie, Joe, Jr. 1892–1954. Vaudeville monologist who later performed on Broadway. Became famous as one of the radio panelists on the popular joke-telling series Can You Top This? Writer. Laurie, Piper. 1932–. Actress. Worked in films, television, and stage plays. Received two Oscar nominations for Best Supporting Actress and won an Emmy Award. Leach, Al. ?–1986. Comedian.

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Ledley, Major. ?–?. English theater manager of the Piccadilly Theatre, London. Lee, Gypsy Rose. 1911–70. Actress, burlesque entertainer, writer. Stripped casually and wittily, emphasizing the “tease” in striptease. Memoir became the stage musical Gypsy. Lee, Thelma. ?–?. Worked with Al Verdi in a comedy routine. Leonard, Benny. 1896–1947. Prizefighter. Called “the ghetto wizard.” Considered one of the greatest lightweight fighters of all time and one of the smartest. Held the crown 1917–25. Leonard, Eddie. 1870–1941. Composer, author, singer, vaudeville minstrel, film actor. Well known for his songs “Roly Boly Eyes” (1919) and “Ida! Sweet as Apple Cider” (1932). Wrote autobiography, What a Life (1934). Leslie, Lew. 1888–1963. Vaudevillian (patter act). Broadway writer and producer. The first man to put black artists on stage. Became famous for his shows at the Cotton Club. Levey, Ted. 1885–1946. Stage manager and set designer for Gus Edwards and for Broadway plays The Little Show (1929), The Gay Divorcee (1934), No, No, Nanette (1940), Dear Ruth (1944), and other musicals. Lewis, Jay C., Jr. ?–?. Radio producer. Son of prominent vaudeville acrobat J. C. Lewis Sr., who was partially paralyzed from an accident. Lewis, Jerry. 1926–. Slapstick comedian, actor, film producer and director, writer, and singer. From 1946 to 1956, paired successfully with the singer Dean Martin, who played the straight man to Lewis’s antics. Lewis, Joe E. 1901–71. Nightclub comedian and sometime singer. Famous for his off-color jokes about “booze, broads, and bang tails [horses].” Beloved for his generosity. Lewis, Ted. 1892–1971. Entertainer, bandleader, singer, musician. Led a popular band that played music that combined jazz, comedy, and sentimentality. Lincoln, Abraham. 1809–65. Sixteenth U.S. president. Assassinated for launching the American Civil War to save the Union. Famous for his oratory and sagacity. Lindbergh, Charles. 1902–74. Test pilot, aviator, conservationist. First person to fly the Atlantic solo and, simultaneously, to fly from New York to Paris in a heavier-than-air craft (May 20–21, 1927). Linder, Jack. ?–1927. Theater producer and general manager. Staged a number of plays, including Cortez (1929) and Diamond Lil (1949). Lipstone, Louie. 1892–1954. Theater manager. Lloyd, Harold. 1893–1971. Actor, producer, director, writer. Appeared in over two hundred films, from silent to talkies. Specialized in deadpan comedy and often did his own stunts. Lockwood, Helen. 1898–1971. Actress. Ruth Lockwood’s younger sister. Lockwood, Ruth. 1890–1984. Actress. Nominated for an Emmy in 1972 for her role in The French Chef.

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Loew Circuit. Founded by Marcus Loew, the “small-time king.” Theaters were known for ugly exteriors with extravagant ladies’ dressing rooms. Offered first-class acts at lower prices than other circuits. Londos, Jim. 1877–1975. Known as “the golden Greek.” A handsome man, wrestled ugly opponents to further profit from his looks. Enormously popular in his native Greece. Lubin, Jacob H. 1874–1953. General vaudeville booking manager for the Loew’s theater circuit. Insisted that for an act to be booked, it had to have action. Lyons, Al. 1897–1971. Famous bandleader of the Al Lyons Band, which recorded the soundtrack for the film Hollywood Party (1937). Musical director of Orpheum Theatre, Los Angeles, in the era of band shows. Mack, Roy. 1892–1962. During the 1930s, a prolific director of short (around twenty minutes) musical films that included a story, characters, and songand-dance numbers. Maddock, C. B. ?–?. Writer and producer. Began in vaudeville with flash acts. Moved on to films. Wrote and produced Rubeville Night Club (1929–1930) and produced Fifty Miles from Broadway (1929). Malnick, Matty. 1903–81. American jazz violinist and songwriter who worked with Paul Whiteman and later had his own band. Best known compositions are “Goody Goody” (1936) and “Hey, Good Lookin’” (1951). Mandel, Eva. 1895–1931. A plump vaudeville-singing comedienne. Man Mountain Dean. Originally Frank Simmons Leavitt. 1891–1953. First started wrestling in 1914. After serving in WWI, briefly played professional football and then turned to professional wrestling. Actor. Soldier. Mann, Horace. 1796–1859. Abolitionist, educational reformer, lawyer, member of U.S. House of Representatives, college president (Antioch). Called the father of American public school education. Markert, Russell. 1899–1990. Founder, director, and choreographer of the Rockettes of Radio City Music Hall. Martin, Dean. 1917–95. Crooner, actor, and comedy partner to Jerry Lewis. Played stage, screen, and TV. Member of Frank Sinatra’s “Rat Pack.” Martin, Tony. 1912–. Actor and pop singer. Appeared on radio and in films. Featured vocalist on the George Burns and Gracie Allen radio show. Starred in several musicals and recorded many records. Marx Brothers. A popular team of sibling comedians who appeared in vaudeville, stage plays, film, and television: Leonard (Chico), Adolph (Harpo), Julius (Groucho), Milton (Gummo), Herbert (Zeppo). Marx, Chico. 1887–1961. Comedic actor. Originally nicknamed “chick-o” owing to his love of the ladies. Marx, Groucho. 1890–1977. Comedic actor. Nicknamed for his grouchy nature. Marx, Gummo. 1892–1977. Comedic actor. Nicknamed for his frequently wearing galoshes, called gummos.

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Marx, Harpo. 1888–1964. Comedic actor. Nicknamed for his harp playing. Marx, Joe E. 1891–1973. Actor. Active from the 1930s to the 1960s. Marx, Zeppo. 1901–79. Comedic actor. Originally nicknamed for a vaudeville monkey called Zippo. The name altered in deference to his objections. Masters, Frank. Originally Frank E. Masterman. 1904–90. Banjo player, orchestra leader. Personality, vocals, and band evoke such words as “amiable,” “pleasant,” and “easy listening.” Masters, Harry. 1894–1974. Film actor and dancer. Films: The Beauties (1930), Rosalie (1937), and Coney Island (1943). Masters, Rene “Peewee.” 1901–30. Singing and dancing comedienne. Worked in vaudeville with the Masters and Grayce act “Memories.” Debuted in Live Wires. Acted in several Winter Garden shows. Mayfair, Mitzi. 1914–76. Tap dancer. Appeared on Broadway in the 1930s and 1940s in several shows, including The Show Is On (1936) and Take a Chance (1940). Acted in a few minor films. Mayhew, Stella. 1875–1934. Began as a child actor. Starred in vaudeville and Broadway musical comedy. Stage career ranging from The Man from China (1904) to Hello, Paris (1930). McDermott, Loretta. ?–?. Appeared in a ballroom dancing act with Joe Frisco, an act credited with introducing dinner dancing to New Orleans and Chicago. McGowan, James B. 1888–1968. Theatrical agent who worked in Chicago. McGurn, Jack “Machine Gun.” 1902–36. Killer for Al Capone. Rumored to be an assassin in the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. McIntyre and Heath. James McIntyre and Thomas K. Heath. 1857–1937 and 1853–1938, respectively. Minstrels famous for their blackface duo act. Played numerous vaudeville houses and eventually Broadway. McKenzie, Fay. 1918–. Actress. Screen name Fay Shannon. Appeared in over fifty films. Best known for appearing as Gene Autry’s leading lady in several Westerns. McVickers Theater. Chicago. Launched in 1857 by famous figures such as Peter Palmer, Marshall Field, and George Pullman. Begun as a vaudeville house, eventually hosted films and stage shows. Melson, Charlie. 1898–1956. Emcee and songwriter. Worked in vaudeville and USO Camp Shows during World War II. Mendoz, Harry. 1905–70. Actor. In the 1940s and 1950s, appeared in films as a magician. Merriam, Frank F. 1865–1955. Twenty-eighth governor of California, 1934–39. During the Great Depression, defeated novelist and socialist Upton Sinclair for governor in the 1934 elections. Milland, Ray. 1907–86. Born in Wales. Actor, director, horseman, marksman (rifle). Appeared on stage and TV and in films. Won Academy Award for Best Actor in The Lost Weekend (1946).

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Miller, Victor J. 1888–1955. Politician. Mayor of St. Louis, 1925–33. Mills, Jay C. 1898–1951. Vaudeville performer and composer. Moran, George Clarence “Bugs.” 1891–1957. Chicago Prohibition-era gangster. Temper earned him the nickname “Bugs,” slang for “completely crazy.” Died in Leavenworth. Moran, Pat. 1901–65. Actor and comedian. Appeared in films from the 1930s to the 1960s. Morgan, Dennis. 1908–94. Actor and singer. A leading man with Warner Brothers in the 1940s. Often starred with Jack Carson, his best friend. Morgan, Frank. 1890–1949. Actor. Famous for his roles in The Wizard of Oz (1939), including Professor Marvel, the Gatekeeper, and the Wizard. Morgan, Helen. 1900–41. Singer and actress. Appeared with the Ziegfeld Follies, in films, and most famously in nightclubs. Popular torch singer, despite her high, wobbly, thin voice. Morgan, Jimmie. 1907–56. Piano player, orchestra director, bandleader. Formed his own band. Morris, Chester. 1901–50. Actor. Famous for his role in the 1940s detective series Boston Blackie. A favorite because of his dark, handsome, firm-jawed appearance, and humorous personality. Morris, William. 1873–1932. Began as a vaudeville agent. Urged his clients to explore film and radio. Trained new agents. Managed the largest talent and literary agency in the world. Morros, Boris. 1891–1963. Producer at Paramount Studios, Soviet agent (1934– 47), and counterspy (1947–49) for the FBI. Produced such films as The Flying Deuces (1939) and Second Chorus (1940). Mosley, Oswald. 1896–1980. Sixth Baronet of Ancoats. British politician and member of parliament. Elected as a Tory, changed to Labor and Fabian socialism. In 1932, founded the British Union of Fascists. Knighted. Mountbatten, Lady. Edwina Cynthia Annette Mountbatten. 1901–60. Descendant of the earls of Shaftesbury. Served as vicereine with her husband, Lord Louis Mountbatten, as viceroy of prepartition India. Mowbrey, Alan. 1896–1969. English stage and film actor. Made American film debut in 1931. Character actor in more than 140 films and also on the TV show The Adventures of Colonel Flack. Munchausen, Baron. See Pearl, Jack. Murphy, Lloyd George. 1902–92. Dancer, actor, politician. Appeared in nightclubs, Broadway, and films. First actor turned serious politician U.S. Senator from California, 1965–71. Inspired Ronald Reagan. Murphy, “Senator” Francis. Originally Samiel Letravnik. 1888–1961. Known in vaudeville as “senator” because he satirized politics. The Mort Sahl of his day. Murray, Charlie. 1872–1941. Actor. Began work in silent films (1912) with the Biograph Company. Appeared in Keystone films as the Hogan character.

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Myer, Herman. ?–1935. Child actor. Appeared on stage in Live Wires as a mischievous kid in a telegraph office. Later opened and operated a delicatessen. National Vaudeville Artists. Created in 1916 in New York City by E. F. Albee to weaken the White Rats, an antimonopoly acting group. Nelson, Ozzie, and Harriet (née Hilliard) Nelson. The principals of a longrunning (1952–66) television series The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, starring the real life Nelson family. Nesbit, Evelyn. 1884–1967. Artists’ model, chorus girl, vaudeville performer, silent-film actress. Liaison with acclaimed architect Stanford White led to his murder by Harry K. Thaw, Nesbit’s first husband. Newlin, Orville. 1908–81. St. Louis union member whose territory included the Ambassador Theatre. Nick, Joseph. 1887–1952. Member of the St. Louis Theatrical Brotherhood (AFL), Local Number 6, during the Great Depression. Niemeyer, Harry. 1894–1974. Journalist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Editorial writer who on more than one occasion exhibited anti-Semitic opinions. Nijinsky, Vaslav. 1889–1950. Russian ballet dancer and choreographer. Celebrated for his virtuosity, intense characterizations, leaps, and en point skills. Nine Crazy Kids. Vaudeville act with a dopey teacher and eight frenetic students, including Smith and Dale, Bert Lahr, and George Wallach, whose comedy issued from puns, dialect, and slapstick. Noel, Renee. ?–?. Actress in silent films. Appeared on stage with Sam White in an act called “Hackett and La Marr.” Films: A Man Afraid (1915) and The Blindness of Virtue (1915). Norman, Karyl. 1897–1947. Impersonator and nightclub host. Started in vaudeville. Known for impersonating women and, as he alternated genders, switching from a baritone to a soprano voice. North, Meyer. ?–1961. Actor’s agent. Represented a number of famous headliners when they had finished their playing days on the Orpheum Circuit. Norworth, Jack. 1879–1959. Composer, vaudeville and musical-comedy performer. Wrote lyrics for “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” (1908) and, with Nora Bayes, “Shine On Harvest Moon” (1908). Worked also in radio, television, and film. Oberon, Merle. 1911–79. British film actress from a mixed-race Indian background. Nominated for an Oscar (1935). Made over fifty films. Remembered for her role as Cathy in Wuthering Heights (1939). O’Brien, Pat. 1899–1983. Movie actor with over a hundred screen credits. Appeared on television. Best remembered for his title role as a football coach in Knute Rockne, All American (1940). O’Keefe, Dennis. 1908–68. Played vaudeville as a child. Wrote stage skits. Acted in films in tough-guy roles and comic ones. In the 1950s, directed, wrote mystery stories, and had own TV show.

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Orpheum Circuit. A string of theaters stretching across the country and operated by Martin Beck, who liked to have his actors stay in the finest hotels in town to bolster the circuit’s reputation. Osterman, Jackie. 1902–39. Comedian. Known as the “bad boy of Broadway.” A highly paid headliner in the 1920s who appeared in many musical comedies and at the Palace in 1924 and 1932. Ozzie and Harriet. See Nelson, Ozzie, and Harriet (née Hilliard) Nelson. Palace Theatre. Real name Michigan Theatre. An architectural gem in Detroit seating four thousand with a ceiling eight stories above the auditorium floor and four, twenty-five-hundred-pound brass-and-crystal chandeliers. Pantages, Alexander. 1867–1936. Greek-born producer of vaudeville shows and motion pictures. Created an extensive and influential circuit of theaters across the western United States and Canada. Pantages Circuit. Founded by Alexander Pantages in Seattle. A fierce rival of the Sullivan-Considine theaters until Pantages’s daughter married John Considine’s son. Parry, Florence Fisher. 1899–1972. Journalist. Theater critic for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Pastor, Tony. 1873–1908. Theater owner and impresario, singer and songwriter. A major force in changing variety theaters from a bawdy venue for men to one that appealed to women and children. Peabody, Eddie. 1902–70. Musician. Famous for his ability to play the plectrum banjo (plectrum: a piece of metal, bone, or plastic used for plucking the strings). Pearl, Jack. 1894–1984. Comedian. Appeared on radio as Baron Munchausen, known for his famous line, “Vass you dere, Sharlie?” Penner, Joe. Originally Josef Pinter. 1905–41. Hungarian-born comedian. Appeared in burlesque, in vaudeville, and on radio, which made him popular. Catch phrase, “Wanna buy a duck?” Peoples, Clem. 1888–1967. Law-enforcement official. County jailer in California. Percival, Walter C. 1887–1934. Actor, writer, producer. Performed in theater productions, including A Venetian Romance (1904), Mlle. Modiste (1905), and Come to Bohemia (1916). Phillips, Lawrence. ?–?. Executive vice president and secretary for New York office of USO Camp Shows Inc., a nonprofit agency formed by the Citizens Committee for the Army and Navy. Phillips, Queenie. ?–?. Child actor. Played on the vaudeville stage. Pickford, Mary. 1893–1979. Started as a child actor. In silent-film era, known as “America’s sweetheart.” Won 1929 Academy Award for best actress, Coquette. Cofounder of United Artists film studio.

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Picon, Molly. 1898–1992. Stage, screen, and television actress. Lyricist. Appeared mostly in Yiddish theaters and films but also performed in Englishlanguage productions. Pidgeon, Walter. 1897–1984. Canadian-born singer and actor. Appeared in silent films and, owing to his pleasant singing voice, transitioned easily into talkies. Later in life, worked in television. Pierson, Newbold L. 1917–65. Jockey. Associated with the great Calumet Farm. Called a “money rider.” Finished second in the 1948 Kentucky Derby riding Coaltown (Citation won). Plant, Armida. ?–?. A strikingly beautiful actress who during a brief period performed with her husband, Mark Plant. Plant, Mark. 1898–1986. Singer. Played the Catskill summer circuit with Joey Adams as a song-and-comedy team. Ponselle, Carmella. 1892–1977. Operatic mezzo-soprano. Sang with the Metropolitan Opera Company. After retirement, became a prominent voice teacher. Sister of Rosa Ponselle. Ponselle, Rosa. 1897–1981. Operatic soprano, who enjoyed great success from the time of her debut in 1918. Known for her powerful and expressive voice and her handling of lower tones. Sister of Carmella Ponselle. Post, Emily. 1873–1960. Author of articles on architecture and interior design, stories and serials, light novels, humorous travel books, and Etiquette (1922), her groundbreaking book. Powell, Dick. 1904–63. Singer, actor, producer, director. Early films exhibited his crooning ability. Later reinvented himself as a tough guy working in the film noir genre, which he liked. Powell, Eleanor. 1912–82. Dancer and actress. Reached Broadway at seventeen and Hollywood at twenty-three. Tap-danced through films until the mid1940s, when her popularity declined. Powers, James T. 1862–1943. A small, red-headed, rubber-faced comedian attached to the Casino Theatre Company. Played in vaudeville and in circuses. Prima, Louis K. 1910–78. Entertainer, singer, actor, songwriter, and trumpeter. Called “king of the swingers.” Played mostly nightclubs and theaters. Followed the musical trends of the times. Probstein, Dr. Jacob. 1894–1993. Surgeon on the staff of Jewish Hospital. Member of St. Louis American College of Surgeons. Last team doctor for St. Louis Browns and first for St. Louis Blues hockey team. Raft, George. 1895–1980. Began as a prizefighter, then became a ballroom dancer before moving on to nightclubs, Broadway, and films. Often cast as a gangster. Owned gambling clubs. Rambova, Natasha. Originally Winifred Shaunessy. 1897–1966. Actress, set designer, dance teacher, Egyptologist. Second wife of Valentino. Disliked by studio executives for her frequent interference on the studio lots. Randolph, Gladys. 1898–1992.

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Rappeport, Artie. 1921–2002. Rasputin, Harry. Originally Victor Weinshenker. 1889–1957. Chicago press agent, bon vivant, go-between, night clubber, theatergoer, stage-door Johnny. Publicist for Louis Armstrong. Rawlinson, Herbert. 1885–1953. English-born actor. A leading man in Hollywood silent films. Played character roles in talkies. Ray, Jimmie. ?–?. Dancer. Specialized in the Charleston and other fast dances. Raye, Martha. 1916–94. Wide-mouthed, boisterous comedienne and vocalist. Played burlesque, nightclubs, films, television, and Broadway in Hello Dolly (1967) and revival of No, No Nanette (1972). Redmond, Jim. ?–1935. Part-owner of the Rendezvous Club in New York’s Times Square. Revere, Paul. 1735–1818. Famed American silversmith and patriot. Rode from Boston to Lexington April 18, 1775, to warn the colonists that British troops were coming. Reynolds, Debbie. 1932–. Actress, singer, dancer. Recipient of a gold-record award, two Oscar nominations for Best Actress, a Golden Globe Award, and a Lifetime Achievement Award in Comedy. Ricardo, Irene. 1896–1933. Singing comedienne in vaudeville and on musical stage. Partnered Max Cooper in vaudeville. Appeared in Earl Carroll’s 1923 Vanities. Richardson, Stanley. 1905–72. Talent coordinator for USO Camp Tours. One of the founders of Hollywood Radio and Television Recording and Advertising Charities. Richman, Harry. 1895–1972. Song-and-dance man and songwriter. Performed with top hat or straw hat, tails, and cane. Reveled in being a lady’s man. Riley, George. 1897–1972. Vaudevillian. Married to vaudeville performer Helene Heller, with whom he appeared in an act called “Heller and Riley.” Ringling Brothers Circus. Founded in 1884 by seven brothers. Rail travel increased its reach and size. Bought out Barnum and Bailey in 1907, operating the two separately until they merged in 1919. Ritz Brothers. Al, Jimmy, and Harry. 1901–65, 1903–85, and 1906–86, respectively. Comedians. Combined zany, slapstick, acrobatic comedy with rowdy dancing and singing in clubs and films and on stage and television. Roberti, Lyda. 1906–38. Polish-born stage and screen actress. Began as a trapeze artist, singer, and chorus girl. Moved to stage and film; appeared in George White’s 1935 Scandals. Roberts, Benny. ?–?. Started as a violinist and graduated to conducting in New York for every major vaudeville act. Considered one of the great musical conductors. Robinson, Bill “Bojangles.” 1878–1949. Tap dancer, actor, entertainer. Famous for his stairway dance. Played vaudeville, musical stage, and films, appearing memorably with Shirley Temple.

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Rock, William. 1867–1922. Dancer. Performed in vaudeville as a headliner with Maude Fulton and Frances White. Rogers, Ginger. 1911–95. Film and stage actress, dancer. Academy Award winner for best actress for Kitty Foyle (1940). Remembered as Fred Astaire’s romantic interest and dancing partner in ten films that changed the genre. Rogers, Will. 1879–1935. A Cherokee American cowboy, comedian, humorist, social commentator, vaudeville performer, and actor. Became a worldfamous actor and writer. Roman, Ruth. 1922–99. Actress. Appeared on stage, in films, and on television. Honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Romberg, Sigmund. 1887–1951. Composer best known for his operettas, in particular, The Student Prince (1924), The Desert Song (1926), The New Moon (1928). Also wrote music for films. Rooney, Pat, Jr. 1880–1962. Dancer, singer, songwriter. Often performed in musical comedies and revues with his wife, Marion Bent. Famous for a clog dance in which his hands remained in his pockets. Roosevelt, (Anna) Eleanor. 1884–1962. Wife of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Humanitarian. Active proponent of the New Deal and progressive legislation. Writer. Delegate to the United Nations. Roosevelt, James “Jimmie.” 1907–91. Eldest son of Eleanor and FDR. Marine, WWII. Worked for Samuel Goldwyn. Served as a congressman from California and as a delegate to the United Nations. Roosevelt, Theodore “Teddy.” 1858–1919. Historian, naturalist, explorer, author, soldier. twenty-sixth president of the United States. Known for his celebration of the outdoor life and his creation of national parks. Rose, Harry. 1893–1962. Actor. Prominent in the 1940s and 1950s. Appeared in numerous films, including An Angel Comes to Brooklyn (1945) and International Burlesque (1950). Rosecan, Harry. 1891–1952. St. Louis judge. Known for his humorous comments from the bench and for his love of the theater. Rothstein, Bill. 1877–1965. Restaurateur. Owner of the Moulin Rouge in Chicago. Rucker, Eddie, and Carolyn Winnifred. ?–?. African American comedians and dancers. Appeared in vaudeville and dance halls. Russell, Lillian. Originally Helen Louise Leonard. 1861–1922. Actress, singer, advocate of women’s suffrage. Buxom beauty pursued by countless men. A major force in the growth of comic opera and musical theater. Russo, Dan. 1885–1956. Violinist. Merged his band to form Russo–Fio Rito Orchestra. First to play the Aragon Ballroom (1926). Composed, with G. Kahn and E. Erdman, “Toot, Toot, Tootsie (Goo’bye)” (1922). Sanderson, Julia. 1888–1975. Singer and Broadway actress. Appeared in Jerome Kern musicals. Had a hit radio show, The War of the Sexes. Awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

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Sargent, Thornton. 1902–93. Writer. His comic story “Let’s Talk Turkey” (1939) made into a movie. Savage, Helen. ?–?. Sharpshooter. Appeared on stage with her husband, Howard Savage. Savage, Howard. 1897–1969. Sharpshooter. Formed an act with his wife, Helen. Savoy, Harry. 1898–1974. A comic on the burlesque circuit. Radio broadcaster for the Camel Program. Had his own NBC radio show in 1944. Schaeffer, Jimmie. ?–?. Known as “Handsome Jimmie the Mick.” Appeared as part of the O’Neill and Walmsley act. Representative for Alexander Pantages. Schauer, Marianna. ?–?. Secretary in Los Angeles office for the United Services Organization (USO) Camp Shows, which brought one-night shows to servicemen stationed at home and abroad. Schenk, Joe. 1891–1930. Comedian. Partnered with Gus Van (1887–1968) to form the Van and Schenk vaudeville and Broadway comedy team. See also Van and Schenk. Schenck, Nicholas. 1881–1969. Russian-born motion-picture mogul and impresario. Helped operate Marcus Loew’s theaters. Briefly owned Palisades Park. At Loew’s death, became president of MGM. Schindler, Ludwig. ?–?. One-time actor, theater manager. Owned Schindler’s Theatre in Chicago, 1009 West Huron. Famous for his abrupt manner in dismissing vaudevillians. Schooler and Dickinson. David Schooler and Louise Dickinson. 1897–1961 and ?–?, respectively. Husband-and-wife vaudeville team. David, a concert pianist; Louise, a soprano. Appeared in USO Camp Shows, on TV, and in nightclubs. Schreiber, Lew. 1901–61. Aide to Al Jolson. Began as a vaudeville booker. Worked as a song plugger. A pioneer showman of talking pictures. Casting director for Zanuck. Helped run the Twentieth Century–Fox Studio. Segal, Vivian. 1907–2001. Dancer. Member of the Ziegfeld Follies in the 1930s. Seidel, Emil. ?–?. Pianist. Formed and led his own band, Emil Seidel and His Orchestra. Recorded a number of records in the 1920s. Wrote the incidental music for the film Silver Skates (1943). Shainin, Ben. 1920–86. Talent scout, literary agent. Shainin, Goldie. 1898–1971. Wife of Ben Shainin. Shakespeare, William. 1564–1616. Considered the greatest dramatist in the English-speaking world, perhaps in the entire world. Sharrock, Harry. 1879–?. Vaudevillian. Toured with his wife, Emma, in a mind-reading act and on Broadway in Over the Top (1940). Assistant director and production manager on a number of films. Shore, Dinah. 1916–94. Singer, actress, and TV personality. First singer of the pop era to succeed as a solo singer (eighty popular hits). Appeared in every medium and had her own television show.

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Short, Hassard. 1878–1956. English-born stage and film actor. Broadway producer and director. Credited with first use of a revolving stage and backstage elevators. Shubert, Jacob J. 1879–1963. Theater owner, manager, and producer. With other members of the family built the largest theater empire of the twentieth century. Sidney, George. 1916–2002. Film director and producer. Spent most of his working years at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Sidney, Jack. 1910–83. Vaudeville performer with his wife, Irene Sidney. Managed USO shows from 1944 to 1946. Touring show manager and president of the Jack Sidney Organization Inc. Sidney, Louis K. 1891–1958. Film producer and brother of actor and director George Sidney. Films included Hullabaloo (1940) and The Big Store (1941). Silverman, Dave. ?–1949. Film producer and bandleader. Formed his own musical group and at one time played with the Gene Rodemich Orchestra. Silverman, Sime. 1873–1933. Founder and editor of Variety. Prided himself on his distinctive style, with its slang, tempo, unconventional grammar, nouns used as verbs, and clever abbreviations. Simmons, Michael L. ?–?. Screenwriter. In the 1930s and 1940s, wrote the original story or screenplays for dozens of drama and crime films. Simon, Jay. ?–?. Comic. Played vaudeville. Used his southern roots as a source of comedy. Sinatra, Frank. 1915–98. Singer and award-winning film actor (three Academy Awards and Golden Globe Awards). Producer. Director. Played clubs, theater, stage, radio, film, and TV. Sinatra, Ray. 1904–80. Italian-born bandleader and arranger. Played clubs, Broadway, radio, and television. Frank Sinatra’s second cousin. Skouras Brothers. Charles, Spyros, and George. Arrived in St. Louis in 1910, lived frugally, built a nickelodeon, slowly acquired other theaters, and by 1924, owned thirty local theaters. Skouras, Charles. 1889–1954. Theater impresario. Headed National Pictures. Became president of Fox West Coast theaters. Paid for the building of the Santa Sophia Church in Los Angeles. Skouras, George. 1896–1964. Theater impresario. President of United Artists Theatres. Like his brothers, a rags-to-riches story. Skouras, Spyros. 1893–1971. Theater impresario. As chairman of Twentieth Century Fox (1942–62), merged the two studios. Oversaw the production of several epic films, which bankrupted him. Helped build Century City. Smith, Bill. 1903–63. Part of the USO Camp Shows organization. Known professionally as “Little Billy Smith.” Worked in vaudeville and nightclubs. Produced, directed, and appeared in numerous revues. Smith, Kate. 1907–86. Singer. Famous for her rendition of Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” Made numerous records. Major radio figure. Appeared in all the other entertainment forums. 216

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Sousa, John Phillip. 1854–1932. Composer and conductor. Famous for his military and patriotic marches. Initially conducted the marine band and then his own. Radio appearance in 1929 a hit. South, Eddie. 1904–62. African American trained as a classical violinist who could find work only in jazz. Took his inspiration from gypsy folk music. Led the band Eddie South and the Alabamians. Stair and Havlin Circuit. Vaudeville circuit that focused on the popularpriced drama houses of the south and Midwest. Managed by Edward W. Stair (1859–1951) and John H. Havlin (1847–1924). Stan Stanley Trio. Stan Stanley later had his own orchestra. Stark, Mack. 1902–83. President of the Green and Stept musical publishing house. Starr, Jimmy. 1904–90. Journalist, author (mysteries), motion-picture editor of the Los Angeles Herald-Express. Steinberg, Mark C. 1881–1951. Businessman, investment banker, St. Louis philanthropist, baseball fan. Lost a fortune in the Great Depression and then succeeded, eventually paying off all his creditors. Sterling, Jan. 1921–2004. Actress. Nominated for an Academy Award and winner of the Golden Globe for her performance in The High and the Mighty (1954). Stewart, Helen. ?–?. Dancer. Admired for her high style and elegant manners. Stokowski, Leopold. 1882–1977. Famous orchestral conductor. Spurned the use of a baton and led with his hand. Founded the New York City Symphony Orchestra. Conducted the music and appeared in Fantasia (1946). Stoll, Sir Oswald. 1866–1942. British theater manager and cofounder of the Stoll Moss Group theater empire. Sullivan, Edward “Ed” Vincent. 1901–74. Entertainment writer and host of the variety show The Ed Sullivan Show, one of the longest-running in U.S. history. Swanson, Gloria. 1899–1983. Screen actress. Nominated for an Oscar and a winner of the Golden Globe Award. Prolific in the silent film era but career declined with the introduction of talkies. Tanguay, Eva. 1878–1947. Singer, dancer, frenetic personality considered by some to be the preeminent personality in vaudeville. Famous for her rendition of the song “I Don’t Care” (1905). Thaw, Harry K. 1871–1947. Immensely wealthy playboy. Known for the murder in 1906 of the architect Stanford White, who was courting showgirl Evelyn Nesbit, later Harry’s wife. Thompson, William Hale “Big Bill.” 1869–1944. Chicago mayor, 1915–23, 1927–31. Terms coincided with the Chicago race riot, 1919, and the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, 1929. Thorek, Dr. Max. 1880–1960. Born in Hungary, practiced in Chicago, principally as a plastic surgeon. Wrote numerous medical books. Founded the American Hospital in Chicago, later named the Thorek. 217

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Thurston, Howard. 1869–1936. Stage magician. Largest traveling vaudeville magic show, requiring eight train cars to carry props. Famous for his card tricks. Called himself the “king of cards.” Tiller Girls. Popular precision-dance troupe formed in 1890 by John Tiller (1854–1925). Famous for its high-kicking routines. Trained twenty-five thousand women and influenced the Radio City Rockettes. Tower, “Butch.” ?–?. Started in vaudeville and migrated into professional gambling. Tracy, Spencer. 1900–67. Stage and screen actor. Considered one of the greatest male stars of all time. Won two Academy Awards and appeared in seventy-four films. Had a long affair with actress Katharine Hepburn. Treacher, Arthur. 1894–1975. English-born actor. Worked as part of a musicalcomedy revue called Great Temptations. In films played a butler. Regular guest on the Merv Griffin Show. Tree, Herbert Beerbohm. 1853–1917. Stage actor and director. Associated with His Majesty’s Theatre and its elaborate and scenic Shakespeare productions. Started Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, 1904. Knighted 1909. Tree, Viola. 1884–1938. British actress. Made her last London stage appearance in 1930. Member of the legendary British theatrical family, the Trees. Trojan Male Chorus. Originally the University of Southern California’s Men’s Glee Club. Joined the Trojan Band to play at USC football games. Tucker, Charles. 1891–1979. Played vaudeville as the “singing violinist.” Later worked in London as a variety talent agent. Played the London Palladium, Victoria Palace, Alhambra, and Holborn Empire. Tucker, Sophie. 1884–1966. Singer. The “red-hot mama” of vaudeville owing to her saucy songs and repartee, which blended energy and movement with sentiment and sex. Appeared in films. Unique Theatre. Popular San Francisco vaudeville house built in an L shape. Owner Dave Grauman served his performers free meals in return for their mentioning the contributing restaurants. United Booking Office. Originated in 1906 in Maine. For a commission, booked all east and Midwest acts. In 1918, became B. F. Keith’s Vaudeville Exchange. Valentino, Rudolph. 1895–1926. Dancer, silent-film actor, romantic idol. Began as a taxi driver. Several women committed suicide on learning of his premature death. Vallee, Rudy. 1901–86. Crooner, actor, lyricist. Media included vaudeville, radio, film, and Broadway. Eulogized by President Ronald Reagan. Van, Gus. 1887–1968. Comedian. Partnered with Joe Schenck to form the Van and Schenk vaudeville and Broadway comedy team. Van and Schenck. Popular New York singing duo known for incorporating various dialects into their act. See also Van, Gus, and Schenck, Joe.

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Vance, Clay T. 1860–1928. Producer, manager, advance agent of shows. In later years, worked with road films. Van Dyke, Paul. ?–?. Nicknamed “America’s sweetest yodeler.” Vaudeville Managers Association. See Western Vaudeville Circuit. Verdi, Al. 1900–61. Comedian. Associated with the slapstick comedy team Coscia and Verdi. Played all the major vaudeville circuits. Vernon, Wally. 1905–70. Comic actor. Started in show business at three years old. Worked in minstrel shows, burlesque, vaudeville, legitimate stage shows, and films. Victoria, Queen. 1819–1901. Queen of England and Ireland and the first Empress of India for 63 years. Reigned longer than any other British monarch. Known for her conservative views. Wallace and Cappo. (?) Wallace and Joe Cappo. ?–? and 1902–51, respectively. Cappo, an orchestra leader, known as the leader of the “Egyptian Serenaders.” Performed in ballrooms. Warner Brothers. One of the world’s largest film and television producers. Honors the four founding Polish-born brothers: Harry (Hirsz), Albert (Aaron), Sam (Szmul), and Jack (Itzhak). Warner, Harry M. 1881–1958. A founder of Warner Brothers, the first studio to introduce genuine talking pictures (1927), though he was skeptical. Received an honorary Oscar in 1938 in recognition of patriotic service in the production of historical short subjects. Washington, George. 1732–99. “Father of the nation.” First U.S. president, 1789–97. Commander of the Continental Army. Fearful of monarchy and its evils. Watson, Milton. 1902–82. Actor. Played a French officer in The Firefly (1937) and appeared in the musical comedy Sons O’ Guns (1941). Married to Peggy Bernier. Wayne, Billy. ?–?. Actor. Usually cast as a chauffeur or a cabbie. Worked principally at Universal, 1935–55. Weeks, Ada Mae. 1901–78. Dancer. Appeared on stage in musical comedies 1915–33. Welch, Ben. 1877–1940. Comic. Well known for his Jewish and Italian characterizations. Went blind but continued to work in vaudeville with the help of his straight man, Frank Murphy. Welles, George Orson. 1915–85. Academy Award–winning director, writer, actor. Produced for films, stage, radio, and TV. World famous because of his acting and directorial work, for example, Citizen Kane (1941), which he helped script. Wendling, Pete. 1888–1974. Composer and one of the top pianists of his time. Set a record for appearing at the London Hippodrome for eight consecutive weeks.

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Wesley, Joe. 1900–77. Dancer. West, Mae. 1892–1980. Buxom stage-and-screen sex symbol. Famous for her enjoyment of sex and her frankness about it. Driven from the screen by censors. Wrote her own successful stage shows. Western Vaudeville Circuit. Created by Martin Beck to book performers directly. Charged each act 5 percent commission. Eventually grew into the Orpheum Circuit in the west and the B. F. Keith–E. F. Albee Circuit in the east. White, Frances. 1938–. Actress. Played in television shows such as The Courtroom, Dangerfield, May to December, and Doctor Who. White Rats Actors’ Union. Operated out of New York City. Organized by eight vaudevillians who wished to counter the rule of the United Booking Office and the Vaudeville Managers Association. Whiteman, Paul. 1890–1968. Bandleader, author. Made numerous recordings. Appeared in films. Rode horses, raced cars. Said to have “made a lady out of jazz” owing to his symphonic syncopations. Whiting, Margaret. 1924–. Singer. Discovered at age seven by Johnny Mercer, for whom she later recorded, on the Capitol Records label, “That Old Black Magic” (1942) and other classics. William Morris Agency. Literary and talent agency founded in 1898 as William Morris, Vaudeville Agent. Expanded into films and other forms of entertainment. At one time, the largest talent agency in the world. Wilmer and Sidney Circuit. About twenty theaters in New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia run by Sidney Wilmer, 1876–1941, and Walter W. Vincent, 1869–1959. Began as writers of vaudeville sketches and then fulllength comedies. Winchell, Walter C. 1897–1972. Columnist, newscaster. Chronicled the activities of celebrities. Syndicated in over a thousand papers. Made and destroyed careers with a single article. Winehill, Charlie. ?–?. Musician. Mostly played in and around New Orleans. Real name Clifford J. Winehill. Listed himself as an actor. Winnifred, Carolyn. See Rucker, Eddie, and Carolyn Winnifred. Wishnew, Bert. 1907–98. Organized shows for servicemen. Worked in USO headquarters in New York City and later in Los Angeles. Wolff, Fanchon, and Marco Wolff. 1892–1965 and 1894–1977, respectively. Sister-and-brother ballroom-dance team. Produced and performed vaudevillestyle prologues (one-act revues) for motion pictures in presentation houses. Woolf, Harold. 1890–1957. Broadway actor and stage manager. Appeared in numerous plays and films, including the movie The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942). Wyman, Jane. 1917–2007. Film actress and first wife of President Ronald Reagan. Won an Oscar for Johnny Belinda (1948). Played in TV series Falcon Crest.

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Wynn, Ed. 1886–1966. Comedian. Went from vaudeville to radio to films to television. Reputedly never told an off-color joke. In the 1950s, played fey old gentlemen. Had his own TV show (1958). Wynn, Keenan. 1916–86. Son of Ed Wynn. Character actor with trademark bristling mustache and expressive face. Appeared in hundreds of movies and TV shows. Active in philanthropic groups. Yates, Charlie. 1903–55. Bob Hope’s agent and a favorite of many bookers. Clients included Bing Crosby, Jerry Colonna, Gypsy Rose Lee, and other celebrities. Yellen, Jack. 1892–1991. Lyricist and screenwriter. With Sophie Tucker wrote “My Yiddishe Momme” (1925). Also wrote “Ain’t She Sweet” (1927) and “Happy Days Are Here Again” (1930). Yoe, Nellie De. 1907–92. Dancer. Young, Margaret “Maggie.” 1900–69. Singer. Popular in the 1920s. Became one of the first singers to start recording professionally for the Victor Talking Machine Company. Young, Marvin. 1889–1984. U.S. congressman and senator who served as a colonel in the army during World War I and in army operations against Pancho Villa on the Mexican border in 1916. Zeck, Billy. ?–?. Veteran vaudeville actor. Zeno. ?–?. Stage performer. Owner of the Pershing Hotel in Chicago. Married to Evan Mandel. Ziegfeld, Florenz “Flo.” 1867–1932. Famous Broadway impresario. Created the Ziegfeld Follies, patterned after the Parisian Folies Bergère. Launched innumerable careers. Zit. Originally Carl F. Zittel. 1876–1943. Journalist, publisher, entrepreneur, restaurateur. Published Zit’s Theatrical Weekly, a gossip paper famous for its grading sheet rating vaudeville performers. Zukor, Adolph. 1873–1976. Hungarian-born film pioneer and producer. Formed his own production company and later merged with Jesse Lasky to create Paramount, where he served as president.

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A Glossary of Slang

big personality. A performer whose stage presence is large; also someone with strong charitable instincts. boffo. A success, highly favorable, laudatory. borscht circuit. The Catskill Mountains hotels that catered to a Jewish clientele. buck-and-wing routine. A solo tap dance emphasizing sharp taps, arm waving, and shooting out one leg making a “wing.” Butterfield Time. One of the many smaller vaudeville circuits, excluding Chicago, found throughout the Midwest and especially in Michigan. Frequently booked short musical comedies for a week or two. See also time. casting act. A trapeze act, often in third position, in which one member is thrown, does a mid-air somersault, and is caught by the other members. chump. A fool, a mark, a pigeon. clambake. A happy and noisy party, meeting, get-together. clear our skirts. To tell the truth, to come clean, to be frank. cyclorama. A series of large pictures, as of a landscape, projected on the wall of a circular room so as to appear in natural perspective to a spectator standing in the center. doing a Houdini. Disappearing, leaving, exiting. doing a Paul Revere. Moving quickly, leaving in a hurry, beating a quick retreat. end man. The last dancer in a line and therefore the most easily overlooked. Falling off the Log. A tap dance that approximates a person falling off a log. The feet alternately brush backwards and tap as the opposite arm swings forward. Finn, Mickey. See Mickey Finn. flash act. “A song-and-dance act, usually either two men or a single male and female duo, that added some scenery and lighting effects along with a . . . chorus of dancers to appear like a big production act. It was said the entertainers added flash to their act” (Cullen, Vaudeville Old and New, 387). flickers. Movies, from the flickering effect of early cinema films. fly gallery. A narrow elevated platform at the side of the stage from which a stagehand works the ropes and controls the equipment in the flies.

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fly loft. The area above the stage where scenery is “flown”—lifted by ropes and pulleys—and stored; houses all the rigging and grid machinery. gassing. Lengthy but empty talk, gabbing, shooting the breeze. glimmers. Eyes. grind house. Grinding out numerous shows in one day. grip. Suitcase, valise, traveling bag. guzzle mustache. A mustache that hangs down over one’s mouth so that liquids—for example, soup—are strained through its hairs; the image of a mustache that is left on the upper lip after one drinks milk or a similar liquid. hamming it up. Emoting, overacting, playing to the audience. Helen Hunt. A trick name as used in the following: “You want a booking in this theater? Ask Miss Helen Hunt. Just go to hell and hunt for it.” hep. Cool, with it, in the know. hold/holding the fort. To take responsibility for managing a situation while under threat or in crisis, especially on a temporary or deputy basis, or while waiting for usual/additional help to arrive, or used informally, as in, “Look after things while I am gone.” hot-mustard bath. A folk remedy recommended for terminating a pregnancy. jug band. From the jug used to produce bass notes by blowing across the opening; a kind of small string band or jazz band using simple instruments, as guitars, harmonicas, and kazoos, and makeshift ones, as washtubs or empty jugs. Lindy’s. A New York City delicatessen that attracted famous people. luftpause. From the German, meaning a comma-like symbol instructing a performer to pause briefly, creating an effect similar to that of a comma in speech; a short, breath-like pause; literally “air break.” Maxie Ford. A tap dance step that consists of the step, shuffle, leap, and toe. Michigan bankroll. A bankroll folded up in a wad with a bill of a very large denomination on the outside to make other players think that this player is a high roller and carries a large bankroll. Mickey Finn. A drink of liquor to which a powerful knockout drug has been added. Given to an unsuspecting person. Often shortened to Mickey. Miltown. Popularly called “happy pills,” Miltown was a best-selling minor tranquilizer from 1955 to 1970. moo. Money. moola. Money. nifties. Short comic skits five to ten lines long. off casting. Casting against type; as studio contracts expired and were not renewed, stars found themselves free to play a broader range of roles. off to Buffalo. The phrase comes from the tap dance “Shuffle Off to Buffalo”; in slang, means to make an exit, to shuffle off stage. one sheet. A theater poster (27 by 41 inches) designed for use in glass display cases inside and outside of vaudeville and movie theaters.

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pansy character. An effeminate male homosexual. Phenobarbital. A barbiturate used as a sedative, sleeping pill, or anticonvulsant. piker. A cheapskate, a stingy person, a tightwad. soft-shoe dance. Tap dancing done without metal taps on the shoes. song plugger. A piano player or emcee employed by music stores or composers to promote and help sell new sheet music. split week. Small theaters that could not support six nights of vaude (Monday through Saturday) “either changed their bills twice a week (Monday through Wednesday and Thursday through Saturday) or, far more often, booked only a weekend show, hence splitting the week” (Cullen, Vaudeville Old and New, 1059). spot show. A one-night show, as distinct from a longer booking. spreading the eagle. In the context of this book, the spreading of the legs with the derrière prominent. stage-band policy. The combination of movies and variety acts; the movies used as “teasers” before the extravagant stage shows, which were actually vaudeville skits that revolved entirely around the bandleader, who also served as the master of ceremonies. stew bums. Drunks. swish. An effeminate male homosexual. tab show. Abbreviated version of a full-length show. Musical comedies often condensed for showings in vaude theaters. Tab, short for tabloid, a reducedsize newspaper. tank town. A small, unimportant town. third-rate tanker. An incompetent performer who plays in small towns. three sheet. Theater poster (41 by 81 inches) used for theater advertising. three-sheeting around. Male actors loitering in front of the theater where they performed, hoping to be recognized, especially by attractive, young women. time. The length of a contract and playing the different theaters in that circuit, for example, as in Butterfield Time. Sometimes used pejoratively, as doing time in prison. trap drummer. One who plays an integrated set of drums and cymbals. twenty-three skidoo. Leave, take off, exit. two-a-day. Two shows a day, six days a week; the shows came before and after the movies. two-reelers. The length of a motion picture, which is measured in reels, running a total of twenty to twenty-four minutes. umpchay. A chump, a mark, a pigeon. wag her tail. Show her stuff, do her thing, parade her wares. Ward Brothers dance. Most probably a clog dance, of which there were many. wildcatting. A reference to those performers who performed for no fee for rather a percentage of the take. yock. Laugh.

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Paul M. Levitt is a professor of English at the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he teaches courses that range from modern drama and theater history to the gangster novel. Levitt has also written books and articles on theater, essays on literature, radio plays for the BBC, trade books on medicine, tales for children, and five novels. He is the editor of Joe Frisco: Comic, Jazz Dancer, and Railbird by Ed Lowry and Charlie Foy and Vaudeville Humor by Ed Lowry.