Play that Barber-Shop Ad

There’s a new commercial for DIRECTV starring Peyton Manning, quarterback for the Denver Broncos. As with other ads in the series, we have two versions of the star—Manning in this case: one is a suave, well-adjusted customer of DIRECTV; the other is a pathetic version of himself who is a cable customer. In this new ad, the pathetic Manning’s defining characteristic is his freakishly high voice. Instead of being able to watch all the NFL games on his mobile device like DIRECTV Peyton, really-high-voice Peyton sings with the Four Tunesmen—a barbershop quartet, appearing complete with Shakey’s uniforms. We get to hear them sing “The Camptown Races.” Well, that got our attention.

Countertenor Will Oakland, one of two male pioneer recording stars with naturally very high voices. (Archeophone Records Collection)

Countertenor Will Oakland, one of two male pioneer recording stars with naturally very high voices. (Archeophone Records Collection)

We looked around to gauge the “buzz” on the ad and found a Fox program that seemed to be having a lot of fun with it, heaping on mock indignation about the slight against barbershop quartets. They even interviewed a barbershop expert who tried to look serious as he condemned the ad for erroneously having Peyton, in the job of first tenor, carry the melody. Now, we’re not aficionados of the genre—we just love our American, Peerless, and Haydn Quartets—but yes, the second tenor would usually be the one carrying the melody in most of the arrangements. That means second tenors Billy Murray, Henry Burr, and Harry Macdonough of the American, Peerless, and Haydn, respectively—instead of first tenors John Bieling, Albert Campbell, and John Bieling (he was in demand).

But that wasn’t always the case with all quartets. The most notable example we can think of would be the Fisk University Jubilee Quartet. Director John Work II was the group’s first tenor on the records made between 1909 and 1916 for Victor, Edison, Columbia, and Starr, and he sings lead on a number of the arrangements. It is indeed a very odd thing to hear at first. Once you get used to it, of course, these songs have a beautiful, disarming quality.

The commercial really plays up the high speaking voice of Peyton. Some first tenors have higher-pitched speaking voices, but they are not usually so comically high-pitched (in fact, these days a lot of the first tenors are just regular tenors or even baritones who are faking it with falsetto). We wondered whether the ad-maker were really suggesting Peyton was a counter-tenor—that is, a male voice in the range of a female contralto or mezzo-soprano. The most famous counter-tenors of the early recording period were Richard Jose and Will Oakland. If you’ve never heard these two, they’re something else.

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Introducing Joseph C. Smith

For you lovers of physical media, we want to tell you that our next CD, Dan W. Quinn’s Anthology: The King of Comic Singers, 1894-1917, will be released next Tuesday, June 16, 2015. It’s a beautiful digipak edition with a 52-page color booklet that will be offered at a discounted price for the first couple of weeks, so strike while the fire’s hot!

Our next project, slated for later this summer, is Songs of the Night, a two-CD overview of Joseph C. Smith and His Orchestra. With 47 songs from 1917 through 1925 provisionally lined up, this represents about a third of Smith’s complete recordings.

Joseph C. Smith

Joseph C. Smith (Archeophone Records collection)

Smith is one of those guys that we regularly get requests for. Fans who love the dance music of the 1910s and 1920s regard him as one of the most seminal figures of the American dance scene—a consummate professional and an innovator at the same time, one whose time in the spotlight was too brief, owing to the winds of fickle postwar fancy.

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It Was 48 Years Ago This Week

The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was released on June 1st, 1967—or was it the 2nd? I seem to recall that it came out at midnight on the 1st, which means it was really the 2nd. Either way, it was this week, 48 years ago.

Adding in the 20 years it had been since the esteemed band leader educated his personnel, it’s actually been a total of 68 years—this week—since Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. How McCartney was able to pin down the actual day of instruction is a mystery; I’m sure some researchers and genealogists out there would like to check his sources.

Illustration of a bandleader

Perhaps Sousa instructed Sgt. Pepper? (Edison Phonograph Monthly, January 1907)

We were talking about this subject last week at the annual conference of the Association for Recorded Sound Collections (ARSC) in Pittsburgh with our friend, Elijah Wald, author of How the Beatles Destroyed Rock ‘n’ Roll. If you haven’t read that book, don’t worry, it’s not a screed against the Beatles: Wald’s argument about the mop tops is that they destroyed “rock ‘n’ roll” and gave birth to “rock”—the version of popular music centered more on enjoying medicinal herbs and listening to concept albums and less on dancing.

But the book is much more: it’s a treatment of popular music through the entire 20th century. One of the most brilliant things Elijah does is to schematize the difference between a “standard” and an “oldie” (he claims not to have invented the distinction, only to have discussed it). A standard is about the song, an oldie is about the record. Unsurprisingly, we find most standards before the advent of rock and most oldies after the emergence of rock.

The other thing we find in the rock era is a turn toward artistic personalities and their craft. After Buddy Holly, a self-respecting rocker wouldn’t be caught dead singing other people’s songs (with maybe an exception here or there). You had to write and perform your own songs and create a unique, unrepeatable body of work. Somebody sings or records your song now, and it’s a lowly “cover.”

Contrast this to the beginnings of the industry, all the way through the early 1950s. If there was a hit song in the air, all the labels wanted to have their own version on the market—fast. And looking back on those songs today–the standards—we may prefer one or another but also don’t feel obliged to call one “definitive” over another. Aren’t there many great readings of “St. Louis Blues”? Which one is best? Marion Harris’ version? Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong’s? How about W. C. Handy’s version of his own composition? We don’t need to choose. Not so with “Sgt. Pepper.” Anyone other than the Beatles doing it is going to sound silly.

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Gauging the Popularity of 1890s Recordings, Part 2

Businesses are always in a hurry: they need to know this week, this month, this quarter, this fiscal year—is my product a success? With the mystifying exception of the latest iPhone, this is not a concern for consumers. You’ve been meaning to read Thackeray’s Vanity Fair for 30 years but only got around to downloading it on your Kindle last week. You hope to start reading it by Christmas. Or this one:

“What happened to that new fusion restaurant we were going to try out?”
“They closed six months ago.”

Sometimes businesses bend us to their will, sometimes they go bankrupt. In the case of the recording industry, for decades they’ve managed to get us to check out what’s new on a weekly basis, and trade magazines have devised popularity charts to quantify what we like—on a weekly basis. That’s not how it worked in the 1890s.

For most of the first decade of the commercial industry, the record companies had to figure out in a trial-and-error manner what kinds of records the public wanted to hear. After all, there was no roadmap, and music consumption in those days was more active than it is now: a typical household owned a piano or other instrument, and family members learned and played music. Did consumers want to hear the standards they’d played on the piano? Or the latest hits coming off Broadway? Or some kind of music with which they would ordinarily have no contact? The companies tried a smorgasbord to see what would stick.

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Gauging the Popularity of 1890s Recordings

We’ve gotten a lot of questions lately about the “big hits” of the ’90s. The questions seemed to be mostly of the nature, “Why haven’t they been found?” rather than “Which ones are they?” The assumption seems to be that we all know what these hits were and that—besides locating good copies, transferring and restoring them—it’s a settled matter. This is problematic for several reasons.

It’s a conceptual problem, first and foremost. Popularity charts, which didn’t really get started until 1940 with Billboard, try to gauge the success of a given record by comparison with other records over a short sample period—usually a week. Key elements have to be in place for this to work. A chart compiler sorts through reasonably reliable sales data from trusted sources in 1) an established industry with 2) standardized business practices and 3) predictable patterns of consumer behavior. So, for instance, in 1983 the recording industry was a multi-billion-dollar industry that knew how to record effectively, distribute media efficiently, and market product meaningfully to potential customers. So when a big star like Michael Jackson put out “Billie Jean,” consumers could hear it all over the radio, they lined up to buy it when it first went on sale, and there’s no doubt it was a runaway #1 hit.

None of these things was true about the phonograph business of the 1890s. The industry was not “established”—at first being limited to the East Coast. Practices were not standardized: when territory companies began springing up, they had to get supplies of records from the East, which could take weeks or months. And consumers had very limited choices in interacting with the product: the only way to “buy” a recording for several years (unless you were a well-to-do individual who had invested in one of the very pricey and complicated phonographs for sale) was to patronize exhibitors or parlors and make a selection to hear. Lastly, sales of records were not as personality driven at the beginning, as they would be later on. If a consumer wanted to hear “Sweet Marie,” he or she did not ask for a specific version—other than possibly to indicate preference for a vocal or an instrumental version.

A phonograph exhibitor in the early 1890s. Does this man have a #1 record in his collection? (Library of Congress)

A phonograph exhibitor in the early 1890s. Does this man have a #1 record in his collection? (Library of Congress)

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