The Talking Picture

The year 1913 saw renewed attempts to commercialize synchronized sound film, which had mostly disappeared from the American market at least after the failure of the Cameraphone Company around 1910. (For a PDF of contemporaneous article that gives an overview of the earlier period, see . Harvey Middleton, "Pictures That Speak," Technical World Magazine (March 1909).) In the article below, Hugh Hoffman reviews three systems that were available for talking pictures in 1913: Edison's recently introduced Kinetophone (pictured right); the Vivaphone; and Gaumont's latest version of the Chronophone, which had originally been introduced in 1902.

Even in 1908-1910, the primary challenge to sound film had not been synchronization, which could be managed through a reasonably competent projectionist. In this article Hoffman addresses three main issues: the difficulty of damaged film, the lack of good subjects, and the "hollow" sound of the phonograph. According to Hoffman, the Kinetophone and Vivaphone could manage slightly damaged film with only a little difficulty, but the Gaumont system required replacing any damaged film with the equivalent length of blank leader. Of course, this made the Gaumont system somewhat less flexible—though it should be remembered that the Vitaphone system, which would prove successful, had exactly the same requirement. The lack of good subjects was a hard one to remedy because the economic situation in 1913 was not yet favorable. Most top-flight artists were still reluctant to go before the camera (not to mention the sound camera), and the industry did not yet have the money to convince them otherwise. Most problematic, I think, was the sound of the phonograph, or more precisely, the lack of a system of electrical amplification. Regular phonographs were inadequate for any but the most modest theaters, and the means of mechanical amplification (especially compressed air) tended to make the sound "tinny." Larger theaters of the time also were not designed for reproduced sound and the high degree of reflected sound in those theaters tended to make recorded sound in particular muddy and indistinct, which had the effect of making dialogue in particular difficult to follow.

The Talking Picture.

A Review of Some of the Synchronizing Systems Now on the Market. The Edison, Vivaphone, and Gaumont Systems.
By Hugh Hoffman.

The talking picture, meaning particularly the combined and simultaneous action of the phonograph and motion picture, is having a revival. The idea is not new, but new methods have been introduced and advertised to an extent that warrants some attention to the subject. When the Cameraphone Company failed, some four years ago, the incident was considered to be the finish of the talking picture as a practical commercial proposition. There was no great objection to the synchronizing results of the Cameraphone; they were all that could be expected, but the big missing link was the inability to make a phonograph keep time with a patched reel. It cannot be unqualifiedly stated that this condition has been eliminated in any of the new devices now on the market, but it has been provided for in ways that render it a less momentous question than before.

So far as actual synchronized action is concerned, satisfactory results have been obtained by the manufacturers mentioned herein, each in his own way, which is radically different than that of the others. With this fact established, the exhibitor will no doubt wish to know just what can be expected in the way of screen results. We can truthfully say that there is much that can be expected, provided certain other simple faults are corrected. The first failure of the talking picture was not due to any failure to synchronize the phonograph and motion picture. The main cause of the failure was the poor choice of subject. And that very cause will bring about the failure of these new devices if not observed by their promoters. The remedy lies in providing better stuff for an audience to look at and listen to. The public are willing to admit that the talking picture is a great invention, but they refuse to pay their money to witness it and then have their intelligence insulted by the reproduction of a lot of stereotyped, small-time vaudeville acts, and puerile subjects of various kinds.

Mechanically the talking picture is a success. Now it is up to the promoters to make it an artistic success. If the talking picture fails against we will know that it is because its sponsors have overlooked the ends in their attention to the means. Poor choice of subject is the one big drawback, and the remedy is so simple that it will be a great pity if the idea fails again.

Among the mechanisms treated herein there are prices to suit all purses, according to the elaborateness or simplicity of the device, and according to the results that can be obtained therefrom. One of them is complicated, another is simple, and the other is half way between. Each does its work well, but the one is that provided with the right kind of pictures is the one that is going to win out in the long run.

The Edison Kinetophone.

The Edison people do not claim to be the inventors of the talking picture. They do claim, however, that Mr. Edison has taken the original idea as a foundation, and, after having made a study of synchronization in all its phases, has produced an apparatus, embodying original ideas of his own, that is commercially practical. The Edison outfit consists of giant phonograph, an Edison projector, and a synchronizing mechanism. The phonograph is operated by a small motor, for reasons which will appear presently. A large wax cylinder record is used, measuring about four inches in diameter. Some of the phonographs are equipped for disk records. An ordinary phonograph horn is used. The phonograph is located just behind the curtain, and in vaudeville theaters is set below the level of the stage. For operation, the trap door is opened, the phonograph operator sets his horn, starts his motor, waits for his cue, which is in the picture itself, and then throws in a clutch or switch which starts the phonograph. The trap door arrangement is probably used to save the time that would be required to set the phonograph properly, thus avoiding a stage-wait.

The projector used is the regular Edison Kinteograph which is too well known to need description, except that on the take-up pulley there is bolted a gear wheel that is connected to the synchronizer by a chain belt. The main trick is in the synchronizer, one of the most beautiful little pieces of mechanism that ever was made. A mere glance at it is sufficient to convince one that it is an example of the highest type of the machinist’s art. It bulks to about the size of a small cigar box, and the mechanism is encased in a metal envelope. The synchronizer is bolted to the off side of the machine table and is propelled by two different forces; on one side by the moving picture machine, which is turned by hand, and on the other by a belt from the phonograph motor. The synchronizer is all gears, and if these gears are not all traveling at the same rate, they will bind and stop the projector. There is a warning brake that tells the operator to slow down or hurry up, as the case may be. It operates by centrifugal action, like a governor. In addition to this there is a traveling bevel gear, or differential, between the two sets of gears, which is operated by turning a knob. This arrangement enables the operator to catch up or drop behind if there is the slightest variation between the phonograph and the lips of the actor. The operator must keep his eyes on the picture all the time. He also has a telephone receiver on his head which is connected by wire to the phonograph, and this enables him to hear it at any distance.

The same motor that propels the phonograph also drives the phonograph side of the synchronizer. This is done by a belt that travels from it to the operating room and back again. The belt is a strong, black, waxed, silk cord about the size of a heavy fish line. In theaters it passes up through the ceiling, across the dome roof, or inner dome roof, over to and through the proscenium wall, and by various angles it reaches the phonograph from underneath the stage. At every corner, this belt passes around pulleys that are encased in metal, making them dust and water proof. Two belts are usually installed, so that in the case one breaks the other is handy. In the case of small picture theaters, this belt would probably be rigged close to the ceiling. It is not necessary, with the Kinetophone, for an operator to be a mechanical or electrical expert, but he must not be a “greenhorn” by any means. Its operation requires a reasonable amount of common sense and during the time of operation it requires that the operator shall concentrate all of his faculties upon the work.

In case of a patched reel, if the cut-out is not more than a few inches it is easy for the machine operator to drop back enough for the phonograph to catch up. In case of serious or long breaks, the Kinetophone Company provides an extra subject for substitution and the broken reel is taken out of commission until the broken scene is replaced with a new one. One of the principal claims of the Edison Company is that their field of reproduction is practically unlimited, because their records and films are made at the same time and by the same machinery.

The Vivaphone.

The Vivaphone is a device that has been in use for the past couple of years in Great Britain. Its mechanism is extremely simple. The synchronizing device is located in the operating room. It is a sheet metal box that stands on edge. It is about two inches thick, fifteen inches long and a foot high. There is an electric light inside this box that shows a red bulls eye, when lighted, to the phonograph operator, who is located on or near the stage. On the machine operator’s side of this box is an upright slit through which the light shows in its ordinary color. Outside the box, on the machine operator’s side, is an upright pointer about the width and length of a lead pencil, which in its normal upright position always covers the slit in the box and stops off the light. Attached to this pointer are two miniature windows about the sixe of a postage stamp; one on each side of the pointer. These little flag windows or window flags are on a level with the light slit in the box. One window is colored red and the other green. These window flags indicate whether or not the machine and phonograph are in time with each other. When machine and phonograph are in time, the pointer covers up the slit and there is no light. If they get out of time the pointer moves to one side or the other, according to whether the machine is running too fast or too slow. When the pointer moves to the right it brings the little red window across the light slit and produces a red light, which means the machine is running too slow, if the machine is going to fast the pointer goes the other way and brings the green window across the light slit, thus producing the green signal, meaning too fast.

There is a particular spot on the film that must be threaded in the machine directly over the aperture for a starting point. Likewise there is a marked starting point on the phonograph disk. The machine operator signals the phonograph man that he is ready, by turning on the light in his synchronizing box, and that shows the red bulls-eye to the stage. The moment the phonograph starts, the synchronizing box begins to tick slowly, like a clock. A special handle is required for turning the machine. This handle is electrically connected, by wire, to the synchroniz- [1348] ing box, in a way that affects the pointer and its little colored windows. It is the operator’s business to see that the pointer stays perpendicular, which means that he is in time with the phonograph.

The only connection between the phonograph and the synchronizer is an ordinary double bell wire. This wire is attached to a skeleton casting, bearing a magneto. One end of the casting rests upon the solid part of the phonograph, and the other end fits over the pin in the center of the disk record. The revolutions of the disk establish a make-and-break circuit that travels through the magneto back to the synchronizer and causes it to tick. The handle of the machine also establishes a make-and-break circuit with the synchronizer at the same time. The phonograph travels at the same speed always. If the machine goes too fast the extra magnetic force generated by the speed pulls the pointer to one side. If the machine goes too slow the phonograph magneto, by its greater excitement, pulls the pointer the other way. On reasonably short film patches the operator can slow down until the phonograph catches up. On bad breaks a new subject should be used.

This entire device is very compact. It can all be packed in half the space of a dress suit case, and weighs only eight pounds. It can be attached to any standard projector without previous preparation, and can be made ready for operation within twenty minutes, with temporary wiring. The electrical power is furnished by an ordinary bell battery and the wire is common bell wire or extension lamp cord. There are three pairs of binding posts on the synchronizer. One pair for the machine handle; one pair for the phonograph and one pair for the battery. Any ordinary Victrola talking machine, such as are sold for home use, can be used with this outfit. The machine operator who gave the demonstration learned to handle the apparatus in half a day. Anyone who can operate a Victrola at home can operate one with this device. Mr. Albert Blinkhorn, formerly of London, has the American and Canadian rights.

The Gaumont System.

The Gaumont system of talking pictures has been in vogue for several years. The present device is an amplification of the Gaumont Chronophone which made a brief American appearance in 1910. Since that time Mr. Leon Gaumont has been experimenting continuously with synchronizing machinery. The recent revival of talking pictures prompted him to bring his device to America, principally as a matter of pride and to remind the American public that for more than two years he has been giving such exhibitions in Paris. He recently leased the Paris Hippodrome for that purpose. The new Gaumont talking pictures were given their first American showing in New York, at the 39th Street Theater, on June 10. Mr. Gaumont is not certain at this time when and how he will market his apparatus, or whether he will market it at all.

The Gaumont system can properly be called a scientific instrument. In its working it has been brought right down to the ultimate of scientific perfection. It has been before the French Academy, and the learned scientists there have marveled at its infinite precision points. From this viewpoint it is entirely praiseworthy, but at the same time it is complicated and it is doubtful whether very many operators could be found who have the necessary mechanical knowledge to successfully manipulate it. Exceptions may be taken to the last statement because the Gaumont mechanism is almost entirely automatic. After the film and the phonograph disk have been placed in position there is nothing for the operator to do except turn on the electricity, and the machine does all the work itself. Still there must be some one around to keep it in working condition, and, unless the operator is a pretty thorough many, there is likelihood that he would do more harm than good.

The entire apparatus operates and is controlled by electricity. There is a wonderful electrical affinity between the phonograph and the projector. With this system the phonograph man is the engineer, instead of the man in the operating room. He sits on the stage behind the screen directly under the projection surface. Before him is a low aluminum machine foundation resembling a lathe. At each end of this base is a round solid metal plate for the support of a disk record. These are revolved by a motor which keeps exact time with the motor that operates the projector. Between the two disks is an upright electric switchboard, with many contacts. This apparatus controls itself and the synchronism automatically. It is delicate and complicated and contains presumably many relays, magnets, inductors, circuit breakers, etc. Connected to each one of these is a wire, and there are many wires; enough to make one large cable when all bound together.

When the exhibition begins the phonograph operator switches in his record. The instant the record starts there is a clutch thrown in at the projection machine propeller and the film starts at full speed, getting its momentum from its own motor, previously started. Then the wonderful switchboard begins to work. It resembles accordeon keys playing themselves. There is no chance for the film and the record to get out of time, except by a bare chance that the pin should jump ahead or behind on the record. In that case the mechanism will adjust itself. In the matter of patched film, whatever is cut out must be replaced by an equivalent length of film, whether it be blank film or a duplicate. The exact relation of the picture to its corresponding dialogue or music must be maintained. To insure absolute precision, the phonograph operator has a dial board beside him on which are two instruments resembling ammeters or voltmeters. These tell him to a hair’s breadth how his film and phonograph are traveling. The machine operator uses a head telephone receiver connected to the phonograph. The double phonograph idea is for alternating purposes on long pictures. The change from one to the other is also made automatically.

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In concluding the subject it cannot be said that any of these devices has succeeded in evading the hollow sound of the phonograph. Perhaps it is asking too much to expect absolute perfection in that direction. If no improvements are forthcoming it behooves everybody to make the best of what is available. Phonographs are enjoyed in the home; why not in the theater? It is quite probable that any audience would not object to a phonograph if the subject were interesting enough to hold their attention, but it is asking rather a good deal of them to sit and look at a musical act, or a synchronized song and dance, with the feet cut off, when they may have seen the same thing in real life on the same bill thirty minutes before. The fault of the talking picture lies in the lack of variety. To hold its own it must offer something that is not common to a vaudeville bill. Something worthy of it. We are not prepared to say what this should be, but is quite probable that tabloid grand opera would be a good beginning. The grand opera records seem to be the most satisfactory so far, and the great majority of picture or vaudeville devotees have little opportunity to attend grand opera. Addresses by prominent men; solos and monologues by famous artists; scenes from classic dramas; all would be well received. The people are willing, even eager, to admit that synchronism is possible, but they want to see something worth looking at. Why not give it to them?

Source: Hugh Hoffman, “The Talking Picture,” Moving Picture World 28 June 1913, 1347-48.
Image Source (1913 Kinetophone): Edison National Historic Site.

Drums and Traps

Today we will take a break from the music columns. Instead, we have a reasonably long article by H. F. Hoffman on the role of drumming in the picture house. Though a drummer himself, Hoffman is somewhat ambivalent about how the art is being practiced in movie theaters. (This ambivalence would come out even more forcefully in the illustrations he drew to accompany Louis Reeves Harrison's "Jackass Music".)

Hoffman understands the role of drumming in general and sound effects in particular as serving the needs of the story. This has an important ramification: sound effects, he thinks, should be chosen to illustrate the main point of the story rather than on the basis of the fidelity to the image. This will become the classical paradigm that determines the practice even in sound film: clarity of the storytelling trumps fidelity to the scene depicted. In particular, Hoffman makes this statement:

It is almost funny to observe the diligence with which some prop-workers watch a horse when he comes into the picture. Every step is caught with a keenness that soon attracts the attention of the audience to the horse’s feet and way from the actors. The lover may be pleading with the Squire’s daughter to elope with him, during which the horse is grazing in the background, but nevertheless every step that horse takes must be faithfully recorded by the loud pop of a cocoanut shell, without regard whether the horse be walking on ground, gravel or granite.

Although the criticism ends with a charge of infidelity (the indifference to the surface on which the horse is walking), the main thrust of the Hoffman's remarks in this passage has to do with the way synchronizing the hoof sound draws attention to the horse, which is incidental to the story, and away from the discussion between the lovers, which should be central. In that respect, Hoffman is pointing out that, all things being equal, the appearance of synchronization has the effect of marking whatever is synchronized for foreground attention. This will prove to be an important principle for musical accompaniment as well.

"Drums and Traps"

I’m going to take a fall out of the man behind the drum to-day. Some weeks ago I took a fall out of the operators and they have never forgiven me. I do not despise the operator, because I have been one myself and know the ups and downs of it. Neither do I despise the trap drummer, because I am one myself. It was the drums that gave me my start in the amusement world, and it is to them, directly or indirectly, that I owe many fond memories and some knowledge of the world, both at home and beyond the seas. There is nothing I love better than to sit in a big band and go through a heavy overture, but I always seemed to be able to make more money doing something else.

The advent of the moving picture theater brought the services of tympanists into very sudden demand. The demand was greater than the supply, and consequently, to full up the gaps, many raw recruits were pressed into service. Most of them served their purpose by making a noise of some kind, and it is barely possible that among the lot there may be a certain percentage who will in time become first class performers. Therefore, in case this article is scanned by the old-time drummer, whatever I may have to say of an instructive nature is put down for the benefit of this new crop of tympanists and not to demonstrate any superior wisdom to the oldsters, although some of these, too, have their faults which may be mentioned therein.

There are two general classes of drumming; the regimental, or military, and the professional, or band and orchestra. For the purposes of this article we may as well dismiss the regimental in a few words. While it is the lower of the two classes of drumming, it is the best training school for future professionals that I know of, so far as technical skill is concerned. It does not make a musician of a man, but it teaches him how to handle his sticks. It teaches him the various beats and rolls, from the five to the eleven stroke, and other tricks that a man who considers himself a full-fledge should know, but at the same time a regimental course is not absolutely necessary. The close roll is the easiest to master and if you get that down fine you have your start for indoor work.

In drumming, as in every craft, there is a right and wrong way. It varies from the laborious thump to the skillful and sympathetic touch of the artist; the difference between the employment of mere muscle and brains. The drummer who executes well but does not know his notes is almost sure to be a thumper, or “athletic drummer,” as the wise ones say. The kind who imagines that the audience came to hear him and him only. His object is to drown the piano player and prove his worth by the amount of noise he can make and he always succeeds. Later, when he learns his notes, his noisy fault is apt to abide with him, and that is why we have so many irritating men behind the drums at moving picture houses. This is particularly true when he comes to playing the bells. On more than one occasion, in some of the biggest and best houses, I have listened to the most ear-splitting hammering on bells, ranking second in noise only to the circus calliope.

All this noise is unnecessary. The drummer must learn that he is only a subordinate item and should keep his proper place. The singer who yells his lungs out and the cornet player who blows his head off are much scarcer than the drummer who drowns out the pianist. The skillful man with the delicate touch can put life into a show that the other man would kill. The real drummer knows that a drum tap carries very far and he does not overdo it. If you watch him you will notice that his elbows never move; he can play for hours with nothing but the motion of his wrists, and his clean, even roll is like the patter of raindrops on a tin roof. He also knows the value of accent and is always playing with light and shade; short crescendos are his stock in trade and occasionally he gives his bass drum a moment’s rest instead of pounding straight through like a machine from start to finish.

When the finished player handles his bells he gets the sweetness out of them by his lightness of touch, and if he can keep the sound down to the tinkle of a music box the effect with the piano is very pretty. In like manner he handles his triangle, clogs, castanet, tambourine and all minor accessories, which are very musical if they are kept down below the battering point.

Sound effects come in for some of the most stupid handling of all, both by professionals and novices. The most abused of any is the horse-hoof imitation. It is almost funny to observe the diligence with which some prop-workers watch a horse when he comes into the picture. Every step is caught with a keenness that soon attracts the attention of the audience to the horse’s feet and way from the actors. The lover may be pleading with the Squire’s daughter to elope with him, during which the horse is grazing in the background, but nevertheless every step that horse takes must be faithfully recorded by the loud pop of a cocoanut shell, without regard whether the horse be walking on ground, gravel or granite.

[185] Without judgment in the use of sound effects they are worse than none at all. Where a sound will have a direct bearing and effect upon something that is happening in a picture, such as the ringing of a door bell, the shot of a gun, wind in a storm, etc., then by all means come in with it strong, but on the other hand, when you see a calf in the background of a pretty farm scene don’t detract from the acting by jangling a cow bell when it has no bearing on the picture. If your bass wants it, muffle it inside a box and you will get the right effect. The horse-hoof his all right for a run-away or exciting gallop, such as a fire apparatus in motion, but don’t overdo it. If you stop to think, a man walking on a pavement makes nearly as much noise as a horse and you do not think it necessary to imitate him at all.

I was lecturing once at a large theater that held a thousand people on the ground floor and it required some vocal effort on my part. Behind the screen they had a prop-worker who felt the importance of his position, very much to my discomfort. He never missed a horse’s step; every time a door closed he would rap on a box; the waiter’s tip always jingled on the table; the chickens out-cackled me; the cows “mooed” me into silence, and I was lost in the ocean’s roar. I said nothing to him because he was peevish and very jealous of his play-things. One evening we had the interior scene of a peasant’s cottage, and a painful parting between two lovers was taking place. All at once a bird began to sing with great violence. I looked at the piano player in wonderment and found him looking the same at me. “What’s that for,” he asked. “You’ve got me,” I replied, “I’ll go and see.” I found my friend with his cheeks and his eyes bulging out, blowing for his very life. “What’s the trouble?” says I. “The bird! The bird!” says he, without removing the whistle. “Where?” says I. “There!” says he, pointing triumphantly with a stick to a diminutive canary in a tiny wooden cage on a top shelf at the far corner of the room. “Good boy!” I cried, giving him a wallop on the back that made him almost swallow his blooming whistle.

If you err in sound effects it is better to err on the side of silence. Do not pay so much attention to trivial things just because they happen to be in the picture. Get in with the sound that ought to be there and play good drums for the rest. Furthermore, I notice that while many drummers imitate objects and animals very commendably, they seldom think of imitating a man. Whether they are afraid of the sound of their own voices or not, I cannot say, but there are many cases where a shout, a laugh, a command or a sneeze could be put in with the voice that are not taken advantage of at all.

In every craft the workman should have the best of tools and take the best care of them, but it seems to be the fate of drums, especially bass drums, to be at upon, rained upon, worked upon, generally abused and left to shift for themselves. Some of the drums I have been listening to at picture houses could be replaced by butter tubs and the audience would never know the difference. You may have noticed that musicians on all other instruments take special care of them and are ofttimes inclined to brag a little about the rarity of their particular one, which means that they have tried a good many before they were entirely satisfied that they had selected the best one that could be had. This is particularly true of violinist who guard their violins with jealous care and seldom trust them to other hands than their own for any reason whatever. Drummers are not usually so particular in this respect but the fact remains nonetheless, that the best results cannot be obtained with poor drums. It is not so much a matter of cost as in the constant trying out of different ones until the rare one is found. There is not one drum in twenty that is worth owning.

Bass drums in particular almost always escape proper selection, being often ordered by mail to be of a certain height and depth in inches, instead of being personally tested for the deep toned vibration which carries that resonant musical boom to the farthest corners of the auditorium, no matter how lightly tapped. Needless to say, that the bigger the bass drum the better.

There is a wide different of opinion as to the relative merits of single and double headed drums, among professionals, but in the last analysis I believe that it all depends upon the many who uses them. The two headed drum has a softer and more musical quality and is much the easier to play upon. The single headed drum is harsh and you have to change your style to get anything out of them. There is very little bounce to them and therefore to get a rebound it is necessary to strike hard, and in striking hard to much noise is made, so it really require muscular control and more skill to get music out of them than from the two headed kind, but they are fairly satisfactory when one gets used to them. The single headed bass drum is an atrocious failure. In the single headed tenor drum the vibration is small, but in the bass drum it is practically nil. One may as well have a barrel hoop with a skin stretched across, for al the sound you will get from either will be a dull, sickening thud.

By his cymbal you will know the drummer. After going the rounds and hearing the miserable chinkety-chink of the $1.50 brass cymbal it is a pleasure to come across a man who uses the real Turkish. The Turkish cymbal quivers and shivers for a full minute after being struck. It sings like a human voice and its song carries with a musical sweetness to the farthest corner. One of these coupled to a deep, full toned bass drum means a quality of tone that cannot be surpassed. One 12-inch Turkish cymbal will cost you in the neighborhood of $10, but you have my word for it that once you buy one you will cast away your brass or German silver, and love the song of the Turkish.

Pedals. There are many varieties, the principal fault of the majority being lost action. Nearly all of the knuckle joint pedals have this fault. One of the most reliable pedals is the old-time top rigging. There is no lost action to it and it answers the lightest touch of the toe with the most delicate response. On account of its bulk it is not used as much as formerly, but many old-timers still cling to it. A drummer must know his pedal as a mother does her child. There are no two in the world alike and it is difficult to get used to another man’s apparatus. The principal sin in the use of the pedal is that of smothering the drum and cymbal. As with the piano key, the reaction should be instantaneous so as to give them a chance to vibrate. The moment your beater strikes the drum and cymbal get it out of the way and let them sing, otherwise you get the same old chink-chink-chink that is the sure sign of a careless drummer.

Source: H. F. Hoffman, “Drums and Traps,” Moving Picture World 23 July 1910, 184-85.

Jackass Music

This is the infamous (if somewhat misnamed) "Jackass Music." Although Louis Reeves Harrison does attack "Lilly Limpwrist" and her ragtime piano, he hurls more invective in the direction of "Percy Peashaker," the drummer who won't shut up. (He also takes aim at Freddy Fuzzlehead, the vaudeville pianist, though his attack here seems to me less trenchant.) In any case, the piece is highly entertaining, and the accompanying illustrations by H. F. Hoffman may be more damning than the article itself.

Civilization is not a crab, but theatrical managers walk sideways if not backwards when they allow their musicians to play the wrong accompaniment to the right composition whether of song or picture. O, what a noise when the lights are turned low and Lily Limpwrist takes her place at the usual instrument of torture! With a self-conscious smirk she gives a poke to her back switch, dabs her side teasers with both patties, rolls up her sleeves and tears off "That Yiddisher Rag." She bestows a clam smile on the box-of-candy young man in the first row, but the presentation on the screen fails to divert her "I-seen-you" glances any more than if it was the point of a joke.

The chorus-girl who attempts to pose as a prima-donna with little more equipment than a tuft of bleached hair, a pair of high-heeled slippers and a cigarette voice can be tolerated, we often endure the howling and screeching of a Tommy trying to sing "Come into the garden Maud," but when Lily Limpwrist assails our unprotected organs of hearing with her loony repertoire it seems a shame to throw away ten cents on such a performance, to say nothing of the time wasted. We sit patiently through the act of an imported star, who commends to our attention the interesting intelligence "Me Rag, Moy Bess usedter droive em cryzy at the Croiterion," we submit to the inanities of the chin-whiskered, pillow-paunched Dutch comedian, who says: "Vot it is, is it? Ask me," and we even tolerate the Irish comedian, shaved yesterday, who looks like an undertaker out-of-a-job when he wails in a hold-over voice: "Where thuh dear-ol Sha-hamrock gurrows," but there is a limit.

Lily is all right at home, when her mother importunes her to "play something and don't wait to be teased," or still better as a summer-eve girl on a Coney-Island boat, but no man will ever marry a girl who plays a dance while the pictured man is in a death struggle; she would probably be at one when the real one was in trouble. The girl of sympathy will play music in accord with the pictured story, the girl of ambition will try to improve the quality of her work, the girl of sense will try to improve the quality of the performance, draw patronage instead of driving it away, benefit the management, and show to others who are looking for pianists that she is not a fat-wit but a woman of ideas and good taste.

The performance of Lily Limpwrist is a poetic dream compared to the diabolical dipso-mania Freddy Fuzzlehead and Percy Peashaker when they cut loose between the "vodeveal" acts. Gee! Non compos mentis and le diable au corps for theirs and and a free pass to Matteawan for what they have done to kill the box-office receipts at moving-picture shows. Percy is really a wonder. When there is water in the picture it goes to Percy's cerebrum. If there is a lake shown on the screen, no matter if it is a mile away, calm or stormy, he shakes his box of peas so that we may know that it is principally made of water. Realism becomes intense when a vessel appears and Percy blows a whistle "Oo-Oo" to enforce the fact that it is a steamer and not a full-rigged ship. "Bow-wow" indicates that we are looking at a dog and not a door-mat, "Honk-honk" gives one a thrilling remembrance of crossing Broadway after the theatre with fifty cow-boy taxis in full pursuit, and he is a master of such startling effects as clapping two blocks of wood together when an old nag candidate for the glue factory trots along a country road. But Percy's star act, the one that gets a laugh, is his imitation of a baby crying, no matter whether the one on the screen is nursing or merely dying. Percy is a comparatively new type of ego-maniac, but whether we must humor him or put him in a padded cell must be left to the alienists.


If you were to ask a large proportion of the audience what should be done to Freddy Fuzzlehead they would vote to shoot him, but I am in favor of slow torture, making the punishment fit the crime, put him in a room where there is another of his kind playing with the piano and let him die a lingering death. Ten thousand dollars a day is spent to amuse people with the moving pictures, good, bad and indifferent, but all are bad or indifferent when Fuzzlehead does his long-eared stunt. Ten millions of people pay their nickles and dimes to see the moving pictures, and these shock-headed kleptopianoacs steal their pleasure away in order to practice the accompaniment for the song-and-dance comedians, those who come on the sage [sic] and say "I will now sing you a little ballad entitled 'Show you are a clod-hopper by keeping time with your feet.'" The same comedian who gets no applause from the long-suffering audience and asks if they are hand-cuffed, or says to the piano man, sotto voce, "Did y'ever s-see sucha lotta dubs?" The hallroom lobster on the stage is "great" to Fuzzlehead, the

[125] boob action exactly suits the boob at the piano, the moving pictures are rot, he could do better himself if he had time, but he would say the same thing if he was shown the treasures of the Louvre or the Palace of Luxembourg. Ten thousand dollars a day is spent to produce the moving pictures, and it would be impossible to say how much more to keep going the ten thousand motion-picture theatres throughout the country. These pictures are not all masterpieces, many of them are very crude, but the whole art is in a primitive state, is constantly improving, and the exhibitions are kept alive by their production. People go every day to see the pictures, once in a while for the variety entertainment, and it is not only asinine but unbusiness-like to lower the grade of musical accompaniment when the lights are turned down. Inappropriate music may "do" for an unintelligent part of the audience, but what is the use of driving away the intelligent portion? All other parts of the theatrical working force move in harmony, like the wheels of a clock, but these fatheads against the stage apron are like the clock alarm that goes off when you don't need it and never when you do. Attention of managers to the comfort of patrons would help matters some, and little higher salaries would help a great deal to get suitable music. Better music means better patronage and more of it, and superior patronage means a demand for superior photoplays. Suitable music is an essential. If the drummer can not be taught to subordinate his morbid craving for attention to the general effect, cut him out altogether and pay more for a pianist who can improvise softly during the scenes of pathos or utilize opera selections for the dramatic effects.

Bangity-bang-bang. Bing-bang-bang.

Desperate Desmond has got Claude Eclaire in a tight place, but no mater, the "rag" is on, "hit it up."

Bangity-bang-bang! Bing-bang-bang!

There is a tender-hearted mother dying in the little play the world around her is subdued and silent, her face is pale, her frame attenuated, her respiration is heavy with sighs of sorrow and unsatisfied desire to have her children properly cred for. Tears are falling like her life illusions, she is overcome with her double burden of pain and sorrow, her eyes, inflamed by the fever of unattained hopes, turn beseechingly to the infinite power above, a last faint sigh, the eyes close foreer:

Bangity-bang-bang! Bing-bang-bang!

Source: Louis Reeves Harrison, "Jackass Music," Moving Picture World 21 January 1911, 124-25.