Dance video Analysis

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In addition to the musicals which opened in abundance, revues were hugely popular, and several producers--like Ziegfeld--ran revue series that offered a new edition each year.

George White danced for Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., then broke off in 1919 to start his own revue. Like Ziegfeld, he had an eye for stellar talent. He lured Ann Pennington from Ziegfeld and also debuted Ethel Merman and Ray Bolger--who later play the Scarecrow in the film, The Wizard of Oz. White was one of the first producers to shift focus from the inclusion of a ballet chorus to dancers that did straight “show dancing” (Grant, 2004), and he was the first producer to use one composer for an entire edition of his revue (Maslon, 2004). According to Maslon, George White’s Scandals was the only revue series that rivaled Ziegfeld’s Follies.

White, in an attempt to capitalize on the success of Shuffle Along, hired the show's book writers, Flournoy Miller and Aubrey Lyles, to write a new edition to be titled Shuffle Along of 1923.

The company team would receive $2000 weekly, a hefty increase over their Shuffle Along salary. The sudden defection of Miller and Lyles shocked and dismayed Sissle and Blake, who had been planning a new road edition of Shuffle Along. The Shuffle Along company sued White and successfully blocked his use of the show’s title. Miller and Lyles, however, were legally free to join White’s production. The suit fractured the unity of the Shuffle Along crew. (Woll, 1989, p. 85)

Several performers from Shuffle Along joined George White’s cast. The new musical was called Runnin’ Wild. Like Shuffle Along, Runnin’ Wild was an all-black show.

White was a hoofer, who was always searching for innovative dance numbers (Maslon, 2004). He saw the Charleston in the Harlem play, Dinah, and had a team of songwriters write a new song for the show. The show had its out-of-town tryout in Washington, D.C., on August 23, 1923. Featured performer, Elizabeth Welch, danced the Charleston with a male chorus.

The show opened at the Howard Theatre in Washington, D. C., on August 23, 1923, for its tryout run. Although the critics lavished praise on Miller and Lyles and Adelaide Hall, ticket sales languished. After a losing first week,...

White threatened to close the show unless the eighty-two member cast agreed to work without salary. The company, in an unusual show of solidarity, refused and called White’s bluff. Miller and Lyles negotiated a compromise and sacrificed their weekly $2000 in order to pay the ensemble partial salaries. This seeming violation of “the show must go on” was a realistic reaction. Black performers were learning that producers continually claimed poverty during the tryout period and early run of a show, and, consequently, demanded salary cuts. The truth of the matter was often in dispute. (Woll, 1989, p. 86)

Despite the advances made by Actors’ Equity, producer treatment of actors continued to be poor. In her autobiography, His Eye Is on The Sparrow, star performer Ethel Waters, talked about the tricks producers used to cheat cast members out of money. She recounted her experiences while performing in a musical called Oh Joy! in Boston:

In shows like that one, operating on short, sometimes non-existent, bankrolls, the producers often had to resort to legal but devious devices when payday rolled around.

You'd be called in by the management. “We have your money, Ethel,” they'd say, and they would very kindly show you your money. “But if we pay you off in full, sugar, we can't pay the others. And if we can't pay them, we’ll have to close the show. And you wouldn't want to throw all those other poor, hard-working actors out of work, would you?”

So it would end up with you taking what you could get, fifty dollars or so to pay your room rent and other expenses. Now this routine always amused me. I can’t say it made me hysterical with laughter, but I’d leave smiling.

The other actors, waiting outside to talk to the producers, would see me with that smile on my face. And if the management told them I had insisted on being paid in full and consequently they would have to take a cut, they’d believe them. And they’d blame me for being selfish. At first I wouldn’t know why my fellow performers jumped salty on me, but later on they told me.

Or when the show had a rocky financial going the bosses would assemble everyone backstage and give them (instead of eating money) that old refrain, “If you can only hang on a little longer, we’ll pass the danger point and have a hit.”

When a producer decided to cop that plea he talked on and on. I’d never stay to listen, knowing that the only important point he was going to make was that we weren’t going to get our money in full and toto [sic]. Such apologies and explanations bored me.

If we’d been playing to crowded houses the producer would swear on his children’s bones that the house was almost all paper [complimentary tickets given out for publicity purposes or to fill seats]. If he wanted us to work our heads off he’d pass the word around that the Shuberts [wealthy, well-known producers] were going to take over the show, making us all rich and famous. And “Mr. Schubert” was catching the show that very evening!

He would pull in any frowzy-looking, ragged old white bum he found on the corner. He would dress the bum up, sit him in a box [seat, located high on the side walls of the theater], and that would be “Mr. Lee Schubert” for that performance. The actors would then go out and kill themselves [performing]. (Waters & Samuels, 1992, p. 152)

Like Shuffle Along, Runnin’ Wild had integrated audiences. Considered a “black show,” the audience was often three quarters white. Also, like Shuffle Along, Runnin’ Wild ran midnight shows to entice black audience members, who worked during regular show hours (Woll, 1989).

Many black shows opened in the 1920s, a reflection of the impact of the Harlem Renaissance. But even while advancements in black opportunities and integration were evident, and boundaries were expanded, walls between the white and black worlds still held strong. So did viewer expectations of black shows. Criticism from both black and white reviewers of Sissle and Blake’s new musical comedy, The Chocolate Dandies (1923), illustrates this point:

The absence of spirited stepping, except by a lively group of eight chorus girls, looks as though it were deliberate in a plan to make the whole piece “high toned.” It is that, but the results are achieved at the expense of a genuine negro spirit…In short it is a negro piece for the most part uninspired by the native spirit… The whole business is “white folks” material of which there is plenty and then some in the show world, and not good darky entertainment, of which there is little enough of the best. ( Variety, cited in Woll, 1989, pp. 91-92).

Eric Walrond, a black reviewer, wrote this in Opportunity:

Setting out (it is obvious) to cater to the jaded desires of white comedy lovers [Sissel and Blake created something] that didn’t seem like a colored show at all… The life of the Negro as it is sketchily presented in a show like this is false. All those elements of vital spiritual and emotional content that distinguish it from that of other racial groups are taken out. A feeble half-white misanthrope is substituted. Anyone who is familiar with the vaudeville shows given at the Lafayette or the Lincoln in Harlem, knows that there is a reservoir of talent and of material up there lying waste that, if properly commandeered and utilized in a production like The Chocolate Dandies, would create a distinct sensation.” (Cited in Woll, 1989, p. 92).

The popularity of nightclub entertainment during the 1920s related directly to the popularity of black musical revues on Broadway. Revues (having little or no plot) were at least as popular as musical comedies with a book [storyline]. Harlem nightclubs also proved to be rivals to black revues and musicals that were found lacking in the expected black entertainment elements. A Herald Tribune review of the musical Bottomland stated: “There is nothing in the show, except, perhaps, some meritorious tap dancing…, that you cannot see in more engaging performance at several of the Harlem night clubs” (cited in Woll, 1989, p. 118). The popularity of black entertainment in Harlem nightclubs, mentioned earlier, continued to build black and white audiences for black revues on Broadway. Many black dancing and singing artists made their reputations during this period.

White expectations of the sensuality and “primitiveness” of black dancing enabled black performers to express themselves through dance in a manner that would have been shocking in white dancers. Bolstered by the attendance of white audiences at Harlem nightclub revues, producers felt confident in the reception of these audiences for the same sensual, jazzy entertainment on Broadway.

Hot Chocolates (originally Tan Town Topics), was created and fine-tuned at Connie’s Inn--another Harlem nightclub--before it opened at the Hudson Theatre (1929 - 219 performances). As its title suggests, Hot Chocolates was notable for its eroticism and double entendre as well as its straightforward, sensual songs. Jazz music and dance were the featured stars of the show.

Here is a telling review by Bide Dudley:

In the stepping division, one Jazzlips Richardson stopped the proceedings with his unique gyrations, and the very scantily clad young woman named Louise Cook shook and twisted until I was reminded of a certain sideshow on the Midway…at the Chicago World’s Fair. Little Egypt [an exotic dancer] had nothing on Louise Cook, who as indicated, had very little on herself.” (Bide Dudley, cited in Woll, 1989, p. 132)

The following reading examines one producer, Lew Leslie, and the way in which he capitalized on the craze for black entertainment. Pay particular attention to the threads of prejudice that weave through the quotes and through Leslie's choice of creative teams, format and content of his revues.

Also important in this chapter are Florence Mills and Josephine Baker.

The 1926 edition of the Blackbirds revue featured Florence Mills and made her an international star. The show opened in Harlem, then toured Europe.

Lew Leslie knew how to sell tickets. Content for Blackbirds of 1926 was adjusted for each venue/tour:

After a sellout run in Harlem, Leslie moved the company to London, where it received considerable acclaim. Several changes were introduced for British audiences. “The average Englishman,” noted Leslie, “looks on the Negro singer as the real exponent of native American music. [He] thinks of a Negro show in terms of art and wants to hear spirituals sung… When I put on a review in England I have plenty of the ‘Old Black Joe’ and ‘Go Down Moses’ type of spirituals. Even the dancing is of the less lowdown type.”

After the tour of the continent was completed (and after the death of Mills), Leslie put on Blackbirds in his nightclub, Les Ambassadeurs, on West Fifty-seventh Street. Revisions were again necessary: “Americans think of Negro revues in terms of fast dancing and swing songs. They seem to prefer the traditional Negro comedian with burnt cork make-up, big shoes and a razor, who plays craps and steals chickens.” Leslie emphasized these characteristics in his advertisements for Blackbirds. (Woll, 1989, pp. 124-5)

Although Leslie’s revues offered employment to many blacks, Lew Leslie’s Blackbirds presented blacks in non-threatening stereotypical ways that provided “the same comforting effect for white audiences in the ‘20s and ‘30s as they had in the days of minstrelsy, allaying fears of a vigorous black community just uptown” (Jones, 2003, p. 73).

Blackbirds of 1928 was originally meant to feature Florence Mills, but in a tragic loss to the musical theatre stage, Mills died of tubercolosis-related illness in 1927. A doctor had warned Mills that she needed a rest, but professional and personal commitments postponed her checking into the hospital. By the time she did, even surgery couldn't prevent her death on November 1, 1927. On her deathbed, Mills' final words were: "I don't want anyone to cry when I die. I just want to make people happy, always." Her funeral in Harlem was the largest that community had ever seen. It is said that flock of blackbirds flew over the funeral procession.

The show went on. Blackbirds of 1928 opened on May 9, 1928, and “became the longest running black musical show of the 1920s” (Woll, 1989, p. 125).

Lew Leslie often scouted talent from high profile Harlem clubs and vaudeville theaters. He had no qualms about appropriating performers from other shows. For Blackbirds of 1928, he recruited/lured/stole Aida Ward from Connie’s Inn and Adelaide Hall from her Broadway show, My Magnolia. But it was Bill Robinson who stole the show with his closing act and helped the show to a 518-performance run.

Bill Robinson is one of the most famous tap dance entertainers in American history. He brought recognition to the Negro performer through his many appearances in movies and on stage. Robinson danced with clear and percussive rhythms, and he changed the future of tap by changing the placement of tap steps from full foot to the ball of the foot.

Robinson was born in May, 1878, in Virginia. When his parents died, young Bill and his younger brother went to live with their grandmother, Bedelia. She did not want them. She went to court to argue against taking custody of the children. The brothers ended up living with the judge who heard the case. This living situation may have been for the best. Bedelia was a former slave and a religious Baptist, who believed dancing was evil. She would not allow Bill to dance in her house or even say the word “dance” (Haskins and Mitgang, 1988).

Robinson began his dance career by trying out steps on street corners to get pennies. He ran away from his home at the age of 12, stowing away on a train to Washington, D.C.

Bill’s first break came when the impresarios Whallen and Martel hired him for their show The South Before the War around 1892. Eddie Leonard had used his influence to get Bill a job as a pickaninny [in this context, a young black child performer whose job it was to be “cute”] with the show, which was advertised this way:

Don’t fail to see Whallen and Martel’s The South Before the War, the greatest production of the century, not excepting Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

In ante bellum times—before the war—the colored people assembled from the various plantations for the annual festivities, and “Cake Walks,” “Wing and Buck Dancing” and other characteristic sports were introduced.

These are all faithfully reproduced in the great picturesque spectacular "The South Before the War."

A colored camp meeting, surely a great treat to attend. Those who have never witnessed it can see its real life depicted—the shouting, the singing, the exhorting of dominoes, the drawing of razors, the firing of pistols, the dancing of quadrilles to the accompaniment of a tin horn band, are all introduced in this show.

What can be more enjoyable than listening to the singing, by genuine colored people, of the good old fashioned melodies which were sung on the plantation years ago. Such tunes as Nancy Teel, Hard Times, Yellow Rose, Rose Lee, and many others, accompanied by the old-fashioned sheepskin banjo and the home made fiddle.

Hear whoops of terpsichorean ecstacs [sic], shrill whistles, catcalls, the rhythmic clapping of hands, and see the colored folk shuffle their enormous feet on sanded floors, do live gigs, sing, and do comical antics of niggerdom.

Within his lifetime, he [Bill] would be stabbed, slashed and shot, but he never missed a performance on account of the wound. He had a quick temper and admitted that he fought freely when it was necessary. Bill was almost always armed with a gun, but he is not known to have inflicted any critical injuries. (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, p. 43-5)

Robinson used dance and vaudeville skits to change the tide of racism. Sometimes the methods he chose to forward his goal were quite astonishing:

Around 1902, Robinson teamed up with George W. Cooper, a well-known black vaudevillian. Cooper and Robinson performed on the Keith circuit, the biggest and most well-known vaudeville touring company.

Their skits were heavy on ethnic humor—Negro, Jewish, Irish…They once dressed up like “Hebes” (Hebrews) and did a heavy dialect. They were not alone in relying on the lowest ethnic humor to get laughs. Comedy routines burlesquing “micks” and “kikes" and “wops” were almost as common as “coon” routines in the early years of the century… Such practices were so offensive to ethnic communities in Boston and New York that both municipalities passed ordinances banning racial epithets on stage. According to Tom Fletcher, Cooper and Robinson’s act “Yoi Yoi Yoi Yoi Mary Ann” was introduced not long before these ordinances were passed: “Many people give Cooper and Robinson credit for speeding up the passage of the ordinance through their introduction of this particular number. Bill's own shrewdness in meeting and overcoming the problems of racial and religious prejudice subsequently helped to strengthen the suspicion that the number was introduced for that purpose. Bill has never said.” (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, p. 59-60)

Robinson also had another method for progressing racial tolerance—he never wore burnt cork.

Robinson made very good money on vaudeville tours. While on tour, he received a telegram from Lewis Schurr, who was casting a new musical, Showboat, produced by Florenz Ziegfeld. Schurr was confident in Bill’s talent and in casting him for a role in the new show, writing, “kindly advise immediately how soon you will be available and what is your salary” (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, p. 181). Robinson turned down the show and stayed on the vaudeville circuit.

Robinson's dancing and dazzling smile won him the admiration of audiences wherever he traveled. In this reading, Constance Valis Hall describes the innovative Bill Robinson-style of dance:

When the next offer from Broadway came, Robinson’s agent jumped at it. Broadway fame came with the all-black revue, Blackbirds of 1928, in which he sang and danced "Doin' the New Low Down." Success was instantaneous. He was hailed as the greatest of all dancers by at least seven New York newspapers.

Robinson also recorded “Doin’ the New Low Down” for the radio. As mentioned earlier, Broadway hits were often appropriated by established recording stars for release on the radio. This fact—when coupled with Robinson’s race—made his recording of the hit a rather historical event.

Blackbirds of 1928 also featured what was by then a signature Robinson dance: the Stair Dance. This dance, and others like it, became a staple of the Broadway stage. [Remember the video from Will Rogers' Follies?]

Video: Bill Robinson Stair Dance (filmed in 1932)

(2007)

Blackbirds of 1928 established Robinson as a Broadway star and gave him the publicity he needed to ensure an international career. He dealt diplomatically with racial biases in the industry. He publicly thanked “Mr. Leslie” for giving him a shot (although Leslie had pursued Robinson) and gave minor credit to white influences for his tap dancing. But Robinson was also known to have a short temper.

When Lew Leslie asked Robinson to go on tour with Blackbirds, Robinson demurred. He was able to make much more money touring on his own. Lew Leslie hired Eddie Rector to fill Robinson’s place in the show.

Leslie wanted [Rector] to do a stair dance. Bill sent Rector a telegram: DO MY STAIR DANCE AND YOU DIE. Leslie insisted that the stair dance be used, and it was. Bill was furious with Leslie, and most sources say that this was the incident that started a long feud between them. Marty Forkins Robinson's agent] arranged to book Bill against Blackbirds in each town it played, and everywhere, Bill outdrew the show. Years later, Bill also got back at Eddie Rector, who was famous for dancing on drums. In the film Stormy Weather, he imitated Rector by dancing up and down a staircase of huge drums. (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, pp.191-2)

When it came to inhumane treatment, Robinson had a short fuse. U. S. Thompson, widower of the legendary Florence Mills, remembered one night during a performance of Blackbirds, members of the audience…

…were making fun of the girls—“I’ll take this one and that one’s got pretty—and that one’s got skinny—and I don’t like that one and—” they were making a lot of noise and interrupting the performance. So when Bill came on—he was way down in the last part of the show—he told the orchestra to stop. And he told those fellows, “Now, you wouldn’t do that at Ziegfeld’s and you ain’t gonna do it here no more! If you do, then I’m putting you out.” They started making noise again, and Bill jumped down off the stage and carried them out. When he got back, he told the orchestra to begin again, and they did. (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, p. 189)

Robinson was a member of many clubs and civic organizations, and he was a staunch and public advocate for equal rights. He was a founding member of the Negro Actors Guild of America. His participation in benefits is legendary, and it is estimated that he gave away well over $1 million dollars to charities. During his long career he never refused to play a benefit, regardless of the race, creed, or color of those who were to profit by his performance.

Claiming to have taught tap dance to Eleanor Powell, Florence Mills, Fayard and Harold Nicholas and Fred Astaire, Robinson also profoundly influenced the younger tap dancers at the Hoofers Club in Harlem, where he gambled and shot pool. Robinson’s gambling problems were as well-known as his dancing. However, Robinson was an honorary member of police departments in cities across the United States. When kidnappers were arrested for the kidnapping of Harlem’s chief black racketeer, Bill Robinson’s name was found to be second on the list of “future prospects.” “Not long afterward, the men of the 132nd precinct in Harlem presented Bill with a pearl-handled, gold-plated revolver and a magazine filled with gold bullets. It was, in Bill’s opinion, the greatest honor he had ever received” (Haskins & Mitgang, 1988, p. 190).

Robinson was such an inspirational figure in New York, that he was named the “Mayor of Harlem” in 1933. "To his own people,” Marshall Stearns wrote in Jazz Dance, “Robinson became a modern John Henry, who instead of driving steel, laid down iron taps."

When Robinson died in 1949, newspapers claimed that almost one hundred thousand people witnessed the passing of the funeral procession. The founding of the Copasetics, a fraternity of male tap dancers formed the year Robinson died, ensured that his excellence would not be forgotten. (Gates & Higginbotham, 2009, 430)