Category: Fridays with Rudy

Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, pt. 6

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In Chapter Six of Rudy Vallée’s 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, Rudy continues his tutelage on organizing and leading a dance orchestra in the 1930s (we can’t help but wonder how many of Rudy’s “lessons” would still apply today).

Rudy discusses the role showmanship, and especially clowning, plays in a successful orchestra’s performance. And it’s interesting to note from Rudy’s remarks that, even in 1930, most fans attending a live show by their favorite performers made it a practice to request the orchestra’s most popular hits. We wonder if they held up cigarette lighters when requesting an encore at show’s end?

P.S. If you read till the end, you’ll find a streaming recording of one of the songs Rudy discusses in this chapter, “You’ll Do It Someday, So Why Not Now?” (He cleans up the title a little in the book, calling it “You’ll Love Me Someday, So Why Not Now?”, but he’s not fooling us.)

Chapter VI

PAGING MR. BARNUM

Closely indentified with showmanship, in fact practically part of showmanship (and vice versa) is what the professional terms “hokum”; that is, something to amuse, to attract the eye and to tickle the sense of humor. Very few dance orchestras really use hokum at all, or at least to any extent, and most of those that do use it put it in either between dances or at intermission.

A few, however, were wise enough to realize that as the couples dance around there is very little to occupy their minds unless they are engaged in conversation. Usually I find that the fellow and girl do not converse as they dance; rather does the eye seek something to engage its attention. Of course one may watch the other couples, or those on the side-lines, or the orchestra.
I firmly believe that the dance orchestra will never be replaced by any form of mechanical music, regardless of how lifelike the mechanical orchestra may be; and the reason is not hard to find. The dancers want to watch the music being made and in turn enjoy being watched by the producers of the music. Put several couples in a room with a large orthophonic phonograph and see how quickly they become tired of dancing. Unless it is absolutely impossible to secure a dance orchestra composed of human beings, a crowd will not be content to dance to mechanical forms of music.
That is where hokum comes in. The band that can put on little skits and comedy numbers with props and apparatus while the crowd is dancing has a tremendous edge on dance orchestras that simply produce beautiful, rhythmic music. Such an orchestra may rightly be termed an entertaining orchestra because they engage the eye while they entice the feet to dance and soothe the mind with music.
After the success of our first comedy number I saw that we had the ingredients for a “hokum” band as well as a “sweet” band, and proceed to develop this side of our work.
My little violinist, De Vorzon, is a sort of buffoon. He has a personality that bubbles over and expresses itself in a dozen and one crazy antics and ideas, and as we play up to each other in our comedy numbers he reacts upon me and makes me quite a different individual for the moment.
Then my drummer, Toland, with his extreme size and happy-go-lucky personality, and Miller, my tenor sax, who has a mania for making almost as faces as Lon Chaney, have help make many a comedy number extremely laughable.
The germ of the idea is often mine and the subsequent outline I usually develop, but it is the little extemporaneous bits that the boys themselves think of, that top off or complete the comedy sketches which we present even while the crowd is dancing.
Our first comedy number was a tune which I had been playing for several years. It was an old college tune which had only been played by two bands, our own and the orchestra directed by the boy who wrote the tune. Years before I heard it with each word and or line capable of illustration in pantomime in songs at dances.
The first tune which gave me this idea was a number from one of the early editions of the “Scandals” called “The Gold Diggers.” In this number the word “dig” was illustrated by pantomime digging; the word “swim” by the movement of swimming; “Fifth Avenue” by five fingers of the hand held upright, etc.
Gestures done by one man alone are hardly noticed, but when done by the front line of the band in perfect unison they hold the audience quite spellbound, and it was nothing unusual for the crowd to stop dancing and gather around us during the course of such a chorus.

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Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, pt. 5

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In Chapter Five of Rudy Vallée’s 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, Rudy discusses showmanship and his limited use of it.

He also goes out of his way to poo-poo phonograph records, which he insists few people cared to listen to because there was no visual element to the experience, and predicts that television (kind of cool, no, that he was making predictions about the impact of television in 1930?) will quickly outpace radio for the same reason: visual stimulation.

Chapter V

SHOWMANSHIP

THE TERM showmanship is generally used with reference to someone in the theatrical or musical world but it is evident in practically every walk of life. The drugstore clerk who juggles the drinks, pouring the liquid from one glass high up to another glass lower down, is really showman. While he is trying to impress you with his cleverness he also makes the drink seem more attractive, or something that you are lucky to get if he juggles it right. Whenever someone tries, by exhibiting much physical activity, to attract attention and to captivate the admiration of others, this is showmanship; this is based on one positive fact: that the eye is about four times more efficient than the ear as a gateway to attention, memory and interest.

You have only to realize that the silent movie has been successful for many years, in fact has paid for the cathedrals that now show talking pictures, to understand the importance of satisfying the eye.
That is the reason so few people enjoy phonograph records; in fact it is really only orchestra and band musicians who are studying the parts and have only ear interest to be satisfied, that can sit and listen with complete attention to phonograph records.
This is one of the reasons that the makers of radio programs have the devil’s own time to keep the interest of their listeners: because there is no band or speaker to see, attention lags if the program becomes at all dull. Unquestionably television will add greatly to the attraction of the radio, because people must see that which is giving them something for the ear. That is why an attractive vocalist, either man or woman, with beauty of face or figure or eccentricity of pose and delivery will be twice as successful as a homely one with twice the vocal or speech-making ability.
Ted Lewis, to my mind, is the greatest showman in the theatrical game. He will tell you himself that from the standards of artistry he is not a great saxophonist or clarinetist, nor does he claim to have a beautiful voice. But he holds me and thousands of others actually spellbound by his inimitable wizardry of presentation. No one could sell his band, his number or himself in quite the same way as this magical fun-maker can. It is hard to say just what feature or features are most responsible for his success; perhaps it is just his joviality, or the pathos of his voice, or the fact that he is always on the move, juggling his hat and cane, and injecting into his act little comedy bits and byplays with the members of his orchestra. He has made a fortune and he can thank one thing, the fact that he was born with more sense of showmanship than a score of average men would have. I can think of dozens of others but none of them so well-known and quite so clearly a good example as the high-hatted tragedian of song.
Sometimes showmanship is used as a cloak to prevent the exposé of a great weakness. Many a trombonist, whose lips cannot produce the tone, makes up for the lack of what should be coming out of the end of the horn in actual music, by grandiose motions of his arm as he moves the slide, thereby earning the title among musicians of “Joe Motion,” meaning that he is only good for motion to conceal the fact that he is really unable to play his instrument. Likewise many another instrumentalist has secured an engagement and become a big hit in the eyes of his public by elaborate, graceful or even awkward motions and contortions that so catch and impress the eye that his weak musical delivery is forgotten. You yourself can probably recall the obvious and concrete example of the beautiful girl with no voice who becomes a tremendous sensation, or at least very popular, in musical comedy, admittedly due to the silent showmanship of the beauty.
I suppose the same trick of delighting the eye is responsible for the great popularity that eccentric dancing, of the type that one sees between the episodes of a musical comedy, is so popular. There is nothing that will bring great applause so completely as a dancer who knows some odd and hard steps. The eye seems to be so impressed with the unusual physical exertion that the hands feel they must applaud loudly.

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Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, pt. 4

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In Chapter Four of Rudy Vallée’s 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, Rudy offers more insights on the trials and tribulations of being a dance orchestra leader.

He discusses the impact that the then-new practice of “cutting in” had on the culture of dancing and shares a few thoughts about how an orchestra director can bring some “pep” to the program (here’s a hint: Tempo ain’t, in Vallée’s considered opinion, the answer.)

Chapter IV

PLEASING THE MAJORITY

TO BELIEVE in the myth of one hundred per cent satisfaction in entertainment is the quickest way to insanity. Nothing has ever turned out perfectly right, and in the field of dance music and stage work, to expect that it is possible to please everybody is a pipe dream. There will always be those extremists on either side of the great majority who can make life very tragic for the one who listens too closely to them.
I pay very little attention to those who with a sweeping gesture of dogmatic finality condemn our efforts as being terrible, or to the type that gushes always in superlatives and makes everything “just gorgeous,” “too wonderful,” or “too perfect.” Very rarely does anything merit these statements, for everything has some redeeming features as well as some bad ones.
Rather do I watch the vast majority, and when I see clearly indicated either by their applause or their silence, what they like or dislike, then do I change and not until then.
I have found from past experiment that my taste is pretty much average taste. By that I mean I have heard tunes and have picked them as being prospective hits, and the subsequent success of my choices has shown me that what I like I may safely predict will be enjoyed by this majority. If I were to listen to every suggestion—and it seems that everyone is only too anxious to offer them, especially in the matter of what to wear and what to play—I would have committed suicide long before this. Bearing in mind the universal truth that after all pretty nearly everything is a matter of taste, individual taste at that, scattered individual opinions should not make one unhappy. They roll off me like water off a duck’s back.
One management was the most conscientious I ever played for and placed such a close ear to earth, in the attempt to satisfy every patron who entered our supper club, that I was in perfect misery. It did not matter to them that in their attempt to secure the patronage of what they would term the aristocrat (although Heaven knows just what that species is!) they had antagonized a great many very fine people by making their establishment accessible only to the crowd they were catering to. But to those within our doors they certainly did attempt to give everything that their pennies had paid for.
They and I could never agree on certain various points, among them the length of the dance.
I go on the assumption that the crowd dancing on the floor is composed of happy couples. It is pretty safe to assume that in the majority of cases the man and girl dancing together came to the club together (except for certain parties where there is a courteous exchange of partners, so that every woman has danced with every man). But even that custom is losing out to the custom called “cutting in,” which has several advantages over any other form of interchange.
At the smartest country club and society affairs the cutting-in dance is the accepted mode. One of its disagreeable features is the fact that there are always plenty of those cheap stags who, rather than entertain a girl themselves, delight in coming and “cutting in” on every attractive woman they see, whether they have met her or not, thus having a good time as the expense of the other fellow.
Of course, at a more formal affair where the stags must be introduced before they cut in, it is not so bad. Although, if a dance couple is approached by a man, fairly sober and respectable in appearance, he is usually permitted to “cut in” by the couple that is dancing because each assumes that the other knows him. In any case, rather than cause a scene, the smart thing to do is to permit him to have his way. When young college men are home on vacation and are entertained by society, it is often announced that everyone may assume that all introductions have been taken care of and that everyone is free to cut in.
But to get back to our supper club.

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Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, pt. 3

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In Chapter Three of Rudy Vallée’s 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, we are, er, um, honored with a treatise on leading a band—specifically, on informing the band members of the next song and the key in which it is to be played.

Fascinating? Well, to a niche audience, perhaps. Our Mr. Vallée could be a bit obsessive, and I can’t imagine that the experience of being one of Rudy’s Connecticut Yankee was always a pleasant one. And I wonder about all the young women who carried such a torch for this popular crooner in 1930. One spin through Chapter 3 of his memoir surely put a damper on any ardor they felt for Rudy.

Chapter III

TWO THINGS AT ONCE

TRULY my problem as saxophonist and director of the Connecticut Yankees is a difficult one, in fact I really am busier than the proverbial one-eyed dog in a sausage shop. This will be more apparent if I explain my predicament in detail and then show you the system that I evolved as my only solution.
In the first place we have only eight men, including myself and there are only four of the instruments contributing a musical voice to the general ensemble, that is, the two violins and the two saxophones, of which I am one. Th rest constitute was is known in orchestra parlance as the “back row.” The “back row” is the rhythmic section consisting of piano, banjo, drums and string bass; these four contributing practically nothing but rhythm, except when the piano “cues in” to help the melody out.
Though the four voices (as I term the two violins and the two saxophones) always play at the same time, I only permit two of them to carry the melody simultaneously; usually the first violinist and I take the melody against the harmony supplied by the second violin and the tenor saxophone. The last two boys may each play a separate counter melody simultaneously, but they must be sure their obbligatos (which they usually improvise themselves) do not conflict at any point. Then on the next chorus I shift to obbligato, the tenor saxophone shifts to melody while the first violin stays on the melody, the second violinist and I contributing the harmony, being careful likewise not to let our respective harmonies conflict.
Now, quite obviously, if any one of those four instruments ceases to play, even for a few measures, a valuable voice is missing and its absence is usually noted by even those patrons engrossed in eating, or in talking as they dance. The feeling that something is wrong is instantly in the air.
So I demand of the boys that they play at all times with no “lay outs” and no rest choruses for anyone. That goes for myself, too.
This might seem very hard, but it really isn’t, when you consider that we play only for short periods and that six of us secure a rest about every third or fourth chorus when I turn my pianist loose for a chorus featuring the piano with the drums playing a soft rhythmic background. Even without this rest, it would not seem difficult to us because most of us have played many club jobs in our earlier days, where we did not drop the instruments or take them from our mouths for hours at a time.
The word “fullness” and “sustained tone” have been cardinal points in my direction of the boys. I abhor what I term “gaps,” that is empty spaces between the phrases of a song where the whole band seems to have gone out for a haircut or shave. It was some time before I conveyed to the boys just what I expected of them, that is, a fullness of tone giving the impression of twice the number of men, which is secured by the proper blowing and bowing on the part of the four voices with the proper rhythmic background.
That we have succeeded in this endeavor is shown very clearly by the surprised remarks of many people who, upon seeing the band for the first time, have asked me where the rest of the men were. Most of them have been laboring under the impression that we had twice as many players.
This effect of continuous, sustained tone is a beautiful one and easily achieved. But the value and importance of each individual in a small unit giving his best (and that with hardly a pause for breathing) to secure a richness of volume, is seldom realized.
The problem that confronted me was this: I must direct the band, that is, tell the boys what we were going to play and how we were going to play it, and yet play my sax.
I have told you that the style which we had adopted was to play only the choruses of each particular piece. To play more than three choruses of the same tune is to risk monotonous repetition and to bore our listeners. Therefore after two or three choruses, we go right into another tune, being careful to choose one of contrasting type and key; that is, if the tune we were first playing was one of smooth sustained notation, such as all half-notes and whole notes, and of a dreamy nature, I would consider while we were playing it what would be a good tune to go into,—obviously something of the staccato type, with many rhythmic accents. A tune that would sound broken up, and what we term “peppy,” would be an ideal contrast with the tune we were playing. The name of such a tune occurring to me, I must convey it and its key to the boys.

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Fridays with Rudy: Vagabond Dreams Come True, pt. 2

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In Chapter Two of Rudy Vallée’s 1930 memoir, Vagabond Dreams Come True, we’re there as Vallée’s band of musicians begin the engagement that would bring them fame and acclaim, at NYC’s Heigh-Ho Club.

Chapter II

THE YANKEES MEET

I was not a bit hurt when I saw the change of expression that came over the faces of the five boys who did not know me, because I realize only too well that I do not look like an orchestra leader. The other two, Cliff Burwell and the tenor saxophonist, Joe Miller, had played with me and knew that I had some ideas and liked my work. I had played many engagements with Cliff Burwell at the Westchester Biltmore during my college years. In fact, I regarded his pianistic ability so highly that had I been unable to secure him I would not have taken the Heigh-Ho engagement.
To me the piano is the and soul of the orchestra, without which you have nothing. And as I had for a long time had the idea in my head which I was now about to put into practice, I knew I would need a pianist who knew his keys thoroughly, and had a good memory for old pieces; one who could learn new pieces quickly, could play a tune in any key and, above all, could take piano choruses alone with only the drum accompanying him and play them in a way that would sound like four hands at the piano.
In all my dance orchestra experience I had played with the best of pianists. In London, our pianist was England’s best. The American with whom I had sailed to London, who was one of America’s greatest. The men I played with while at Yale were the best. I had become quite spoiled, and since this was the first band of my own, I felt that to start with a poor pianist would be to whip me before I began.
I had wired Burwell, who was in New Haven, playing very little as work was at a standstill. He was a wonderful man who had never been sufficiently featured and brought out where the public could appreciate his marvelous artistry. Today I think he thanks me for doing just that. I was very greatly relieved when he wired back that he would come, and that he could also secure Joe Miller, the tenor saxophone who lived near him and to whom I had also wired.
The rest of the men were strange to me.
There was Ray Toland, drummer, six and one half feet tall, size fifteen shoes. For several years he had played with Mannie Lowy, our first violinist, who has a wonderfully sweet tone and a loyal and energetic personality.
Next came Charlie Peterson, our banjoist, who came in from the middlewest with a Minnesota accent and the taste of several colleges; good-natured and always day-dreaming.
Then there was Harry Patent, our little bass player, quite as devoted to the study of music as my pianist. Harry had played the violin in junior symphonies and had decided to take up the string bass at the age of seventeen. He had practiced long and faithfully but had failed to secure an engagement anywhere, because he looked too young; so he conceived the bright idea of growing a mustache, which did indeed lend him an air of sophistication. Someone had recommended him to us and we gave him his first opportunity. Today he is rated as one of the world’s finest string bass players and has never failed to evoke admiration from other musicians.
Finally came one of the boys who is the bane of my existence and at the same time a great personality. With a name like Jules De Vorzon you would look for no less than one of the descendants of the old Canadian fur trappers who would have difficulty in eliminating a “Canuck accent”; instead you find a pop-eyed individual whose face is a puzzle. He might be Italian, or French, or even Jewish, which he really is. Jules—always late, always making engagements at the last minute; wrapped up in his girl whom he loves more than life itself—but little Jules, irrepressible, buoyant, with a vitality that expresses itself in a thousand ways that always brings a smile and an invitation to the tables of our guests.
These were my recruits, and I saw they looked at me in a disappointed sort of way because that is the first reaction of the average person who sees me for the first time. My appearance was never calculated to inspire awe or respect in anyone. It has given me a great humorous kick, when, in the course of our vaudeville engagements, we have gone to the stage door of a new theatre to find our dressing rooms and the stage door man has invariably said to me, “When will Mr. Vallée be here?

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