163: The Show (Boat) Must Go On: Broadway and the American Musical
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We're at the corner of 54th and 6th in Midtown, New York City, standing outside a true masterpiece of architecture, the Ziegfeld Theater. It's a new build, and floodlights draw our eyes up its stone face. From its smooth, modernist aspects, including its curved but simplistic central facade, to its more ornate Art Deco touches, like its fluted stone encasing that very facade, it's just stunning.

Ah, sorry, you know I'm a sucker for architecture, but we can get moving. We make our way across the street, past the cars and heavily trafficked sidewalks, then finally into the Ziegfeld. Look at the excitement in this lobby. All of these elegantly dressed couples, trailed by the flashing cameras of so many photographers. But I get it. After all, this is the opening night of Show Boat. And this, well, this is something of an experimental treat.

I'll explain just as soon as we get out of this loud lobby and into the theater to find our seats. So look, we don't really know what we're in for just yet, but apparently it's a musical adaptation of Edna Ferber's recent novel by the same title and is the work of three absolute fixtures of New York's Broadway theater scene. Composer Jerome Kern, his librettist and director friend, Oscar Hammerstein II,

and the man behind this theater, producer Florence Ziegfeld. Allegedly, they're looking to break new entertainment ground. See, right now, all Broadway musicals fit, even if loosely, into two categories. One is jazz-infused comedies, and the other is light operettas imported from Europe. But word has it that Showboat, while still a musical, is something else entirely. So, will it be amazing or a flop?

I don't know, but either way, at least we've got good seats. This is us right here, row three in the orchestra section. What can I say? I splurged. Yes, five bucks a pop. No, no, no trouble at all. We don't want to see this from the $1 nosebleeds. Ah, but enough talk. The show is starting. We open on a levee on the Mississippi River in the post-Civil War reconstruction era, the 1880s, where black stevedores, that is, black dock workers, are hard at it, laboring and toiling.

They begin singing. It's an upbeat tune, but those lyrics. They're singing about working endlessly while the white folks play, and loading boats with bales of cotton and getting no rest till the judgment day. Wow. This musical is addressing race in America rather directly.

But then we meet Captain Andy Hawks, his wife, Parthy, their daughter, Magnolia, and the river-traveling entertainers who steam up and down the Mississippi aboard the captain's showboat, the Cotton Blossom. Well, this is a bit more lighthearted. So maybe this experimental musical does have some comedy elements. Maybe it's still like one of those follies for which producer Florence Ziegfeld is so famous.

No, that's looking doubtful. The crew's relationships are proving complex, multi-layered, and thought-provoking. Even young Magnolia's seemingly simple crush on gambler Gaylord Ravenel takes a serious meaning fast when she asks a stevedore named Joe for his take on her gambler. After she leaves, Joe looks out and begins to sing.

In a powerful bass baritone voice, Joe muses on how the Mississippi River, or Old Man River to him, must know something, yet never concerns itself with the suffering second-class life of black southerners sweating and aching under cotton bales along the shore. Joe describes a life in which alcohol is the only solace, a solace that leads to jail. These scenes of misery and paradox, of being so tired of living, yet scared to die.

God, this song is soulful, sorrowful, mournful, and poignant. Okay, this show is something novel indeed. The realistic themes continue. We learn that the Cotton Blossom's leading lady, Julie Laverne, is part black, which makes her marriage to her white husband, Steve, illegal under Jim Crow. The Sheriff of Natchez learns this too, and that means trouble. But what's this? Steve now cuts Julie's hand and sips some of her blood?

The sheriff then arrives, ready to arrest them for having broken Mississippi's miscegenation laws, only for the dutiful husband to swear they haven't because he has some black blood in him. Oh. Is this clever and funny or a heartbreaking social commentary? Maybe both? This musical is not pulling its punches. The plot leaps forward to turn of the century Chicago. We have our laughs along the way, but our cast of characters face serious situations.

Young Magnolia has a child with her handsome gambler, only for his luck at the tables to run out. He leaves her. Our loving interracial couple splits too. For them, the dividing vice is alcoholism. But there are successes. Magnolia and her daughter Kim become entertainment stars while another couple from the old cotton blossom are doing well in the entertainment biz too.

Another 20 years pass. We're now in the present in 1927 and our aging captain arranges a reunion that brings the gang back together. Successful Magnolia and a reformed gambling Gaylord are warm toward one another. But do they get back together? It's unclear. But as for Joe, well, after some 40 years, the cotton blossom Stevedore is still tired, still afraid of dying, and still working on Old Man River.

This isn't another glitzy Ziegfeld musical review, nor a European-style comic operetta. This is more like a serious play with a lush musical score, inhabited by truthful American characters and social issues. Showboat just broke all the rules. So, what does the audience think? It's dead quiet. Then, some applause. We, like everyone else, slowly make our way out of the Ziegfeld Theater.

But the tepid response wasn't an accurate read of the room. The real issue was tonight's performance lacked a proper curtain call, which left us in the audience unaware that the production was actually over. Nearly everyone here loved it, as the mostly rave reviews published tomorrow will make clear. Jerome Kern, Oscar Hammerstein II, and Florin Ziegfeld can rest easy, because Show Boat is a smashing success. One that will change the Broadway scene forever.

Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. As you just heard, the 1927 premiere of Showboat was a huge success. It goes on to have 572 performances and will be revived on stage countless times.

Showboat's genre-shattering innovations make it a key moment in the evolution of Broadway, and frankly, the musicals you and I will know and cherish a century later. But none of that would have been possible without the talented composers, lyricists, authors, producers, directors, choreographers, and so many other creative professionals who laid the groundwork for the thriving New York City musical theater scene during the Roaring Twenties. In other words, to grasp the full significance of Showboat in 1927,

we need to get the backstory. We'll start by backtracking several decades to post-Civil War New York City for a showing of what many consider to be the first official musical. From there, we'll familiarize ourselves with the three main forms of live theater in the U.S. at the turn of the century. Minstrel, vaudeville, and burlesque. We'll then poke our heads into the theater for a taste of Broadway's next big evolution, The Review.

But as we'll see, it's after the Great War, as we enter the 1920s, that Broadway's innovations really start to explode. From Irving Berlin to Jerome Kern to Florence Ziegfeld to Oscar Hammerstein II and many more, we've got a star-studded lineup for today. In fact, these stars include two old war buddies of ours. No spoilers, but you could say they sure do rattle a good tune.

And once we get through all of this innovation, we'll be ready to return to Show Boat with a far greater appreciation for its massive impact on Broadway and American theater. So, places everyone, the curtain is about to go up. Rewind. Ah, Broadway. That ancient New York City thoroughfare. Running north from the Battery, it dances about, sometimes acquiescing but more often defying Gotham's grid before continuing past Manhattan Island itself.

No matter where you define its cutoff, and opinions vary, Broadway is undoubtedly among the longest streets in the nation. But our interests won't take us that far north today. In fact, we won't even head north of Central Park, and much of where we'll go in this episode doesn't even exist in our current decade, the 1860s. But I tell you what, if you'll join me for a roughly three-mile stroll from the southern edge of Central Park south along Broadway, I'll point out a few future places of interest we'll want to keep in mind.

Several blocks south but still in midtown, we come to where Broadway intersects roughly 45th through 42nd. Generally speaking, this is where the sprawling theater scene you likely think of when saying Broadway will later exist. That will come toward the end of the century when a Prussian immigrant named Oskar Hammerstein, as in the father of the future director of Showboat, whom I mentioned in this episode's opening, brings his business prowess to bear.

We continue south to Broadway and 28th. This is one of those points where Broadway betrays the street grid, cutting its way across 5th and 6th Avenue. It's called Tin Pan Alley, or will be in another 20 or 30 years. The name will arise from the wafting sound of songwriters banging out tunes on pianos from the cluster of music publishing houses in the neighborhood.

Bordering the theater district of the West 20s, shops throughout Tin Pan Alley will sell sheet music to wannabe performers from the 1890s until 1914. If you want to be a part of the turn-of-the-century NYC music scene, selling your compositions through Tin Pan Alley shops will be a must. And most of today's historical figures, our cast members if you will, are going to get their big break here. But again, that's ahead.

Our southern descent continues. We're now in Soho, or south of Houston Street, to define the neighborhood nickname. Now we won't walk it, but let me point out from here that a few blocks to the east is New York City's Lower East Side. Even in the 1860s, this Manhattan neighborhood has a burgeoning immigrant population.

It will provide many great musical plots in future decades, but even in the mid-19th century, these newest Americans put on ethnic shows for their local communities that draw on themes from a variety of different cultures. Take, for instance, Irish descent Edward Ned Harrigan and Tony Hart. In a few years, their knock-down and slap-bang short performances about Irish New Yorkers will be the talk of the town. The lower part of the town, that is.

Well, that was quite the stroll down Broadway. But I confess, I didn't just want to show you Broadway's future theater district, Tin Pan Alley, and the nearby Lower East Side. We're in Soho because, arguably, this is where the modern musical is being born, and in a fantastic venue at that. Come on, I got us tickets. It's an unspecified day in mid-September, 1866.

We're at the corner of Broadway and Crosby Streets at a large 3,200-seat theater called Niblo's Garden. Tonight, this massive venue is chock-full of New Yorkers, all eager to see what the New York Herald has proclaimed the indecent and dazzling brilliancy of the newly opened show, The Black Crook. Looking around, we see women who, at this time, rarely go to the theater, are wearing thick, heavy veils.

Ah, that's to disguise their identities so no one spots them at something so indecent. Oh, and it's starting. The curtain goes up on the music-accompanied melodrama. Lasting five and a half hours, the show critiques feudalism in Germanic Europe while celebrating American ideals of self-reliance and equality. It does so amid a classic damsel-in-distress love story that these New Yorkers are loving. Though, honestly, the plot isn't captivating.

The visuals are amazing though. A hurricane rages in the Germanic Pars Mountains. Demons reenact a satanic ritual. Fairies rise and fall on silver couches amidst angels and gilded chariots.

and 70 beautiful ballet dancers prance across the platform in what Mark Twain calls, quote, "dazzling half costumes," displaying all possible compromises between nakedness and decency, with a meagerness that would make a parasol blush. With more tights in view than anything else, Mark Twain isn't kidding. Sheer tights that look like skin, drawers barely long enough to be called drawers, and bodices revealing women's bare arms and backs are all on scandalous display.

In Act 1, Scene 4, actress Millie Cavendish saunters up to the front of the stage, wagging her finger and singing "You naughty, naughty men." As she does, the men in the front row eagerly look upon the skimpily dressed star. Many future scholars will scoff at this being called the first musical. After all, it's hardly the first production to mix music with a play. And The Black Crook doesn't even mix them well, nor have a particularly riveting or clear plot.

Yet it did so with such spectacle. And as religious leaders and newspaper correspondents rushed to denounce the risqué performance, they only make it all the more popular. So, for better or worse, the commercial success and visual elements together make The Black Crook become our go-to for the first musical. That said, the mid-to-late 19th century NYC theater scene has other important music-infused shows. Three dominate.

minstrel shows, vaudeville, and burlesque. Going strong since the antebellum days, minstrel shows are variety acts and song routines that, at their core, mimic and mock Black Americans, specifically plantation life. The actors are typically white and wear blackface makeup. Perhaps nothing illustrates their popularity more than the fact that the nation's segregation laws derive their name from a popular minstrel character, Jim Crow.

But as we get into the 1890s to 1920s, and I can't stress this enough, vaudeville is the most popular form of entertainment. Vaudeville also consists of variety acts and songs, and many entertainers in the first half of the 20th century begin their careers as one of vaudeville's traveling performers. Now, vaudeville may include a minstrel skit, but it is decidedly more than that. Indeed, some vaudeville performers even mock minstrel shows, like Bahama-born Burt Williams and George Walker.

Their double act, called "The Cakewalk," flips the white man in blackface trope by spoofing white performers imitating black dancing. It's beloved, the 1890s equivalent of going viral. Another important vaudeville success is "The Four Cohens," a family act of semi-skilled dancing, Irish puns, and corny skits that tours the country.

According to leading man George Cohan, their target audience is "the 15-year-old, clean-faced, fresh-minded, full-of-life American boy or girl." And why? Because whatever that crowd enjoys, George continues to explain, the average American audience will like. And a fun side note about George, he eventually becomes famous for his show, Little Johnny Jones, which includes a song in which the main character will want to give his regards to Broadway.

Ah, but I digress. To George's point, these vaudeville shows are fun for the whole American family. But if minstrel and vaudeville are G-rated in the 19th and early 20th centuries, then our third genre, burlesque, is decidedly R. These shows are full of dirty jokes, suggestive dancing, and skimpy on the clothing. And no one is better at putting these performances on Broadway than the future showboat producer I mentioned at the start of this episode, Florence Flo Ziegfeld Jr.,

The eldest child of German immigrants, Flo Ziegfeld, was born in Chicago in 1867 and quickly immersed in the world of the arts. His father was a concert pianist and founder of the esteemed Chicago Musical College. In 1883, while busy working for his father at the World Columbian Exposition, the teen met famed German strongman Eugene Sandow and talked his way into promoting the first modern bodybuilder.

It was a good gig. By 1886, Flo had saved enough money to move to the greatest entertainment city in the country, New York City. In London that same year, young Flo met the petite Polish-Parisian performer Anna Held at the Palace Theatre, where she undoubtedly scandalized the Victorian-era crowd with her provocative moves. Flo then persuaded the burlesque dancer to come back to New York City with him.

Moving into the next century, in 1907, Anna convinces Flo to bring the spirit of the seductive French chorus called Folies Bergères to the U.S., or to base a new show on the newspaper column Follies of the Day. It's a bit unclear. Regardless of the etymology, Flo strikes with a bit of marketing genius by giving their emerging genre its own French-inspired name, A Revue, spelled R-E-V-U-E.

It's definitely similar to Vaudeville. It's still variety show based, but a key difference is that the Revue is distinctly for the big city theater. Revues can't travel because of their massive scale. Later that summer, the first of Flo's Revues, his Follies, opens. And from 1907 to 1931, more than two dozen iterations of the show will dazzle American stages.

His success enables Flo to snag the best composers, the most talented comics, and the most beautiful girls on the performing circuit.

Unlike the black crook, Ziegfeld's follies doesn't have one consistent storyline. Rather, they are an amalgamation of skits that poke fun at modern politics, dances that show off scandalizing parts of the female body, and songs that are right off the press from Tin Pan Alley's top composers. If you can be featured in one of Flo's performances, you are guaranteed to be a star. But don't get your hopes up. The producer doesn't let just anyone get on stage.

No, as Flo Ziegfeld puts it, it is necessary for a girl selected for the follies to have personality and have grace. I do not care if the hair is long or short, blonde or brunette, as long as it frames the face becomingly.

The eyes should be large and expressive. A regular profile is a decided asset. Back and shoulders, of course, should be beautiful, and a rounded neck is also essential, while graceful hands are quite necessary. The legs must be shapely, and last but not least, the proportions of the figure must be perfect. Close quote. Okay, so the women in Flo's follies are basically the early 20th century equivalent of the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Got it.

In 1910, Flo signs two of his most famous talents. The first is a 19-year-old Jewish comedian and burlesque performer named Fanny Borak. She's made a name for herself by performing in a Yiddish accent, despite not speaking a word of the language. But to be clear, Fanny Bryce, that's right, she's given herself a stage name, is not mocking.

As she explains, quote, in anything Jewish I ever did, I wasn't standing apart making fun. What happened to me on stage is what could happen to my people. They identified with me, which made it all right to get a laugh. Close quote. Flo's second big signee is the cakewalking vaudeville star we met a few minutes ago, Burt Williams. Burt is known for his dignity and representation of the painful parts of being black in America, even as the black comedian performs in blackface.

And it's not like his time with the Follies is a cakewalk in the park either. He's careful never to appear on stage alone with a white woman out of fear for his own safety and he convinces Flo to let him skip the show's southern performances. He worries his act won't fly there. Fair enough. It's also about this time that another future Ziegfeld Follies star starts to make a name for himself. This is Israel Bailein. Not that he'll use that name.

Before joining Flo Ziegfeld's crew, the young Russian Jewish immigrant and composer sees his name misspelled on some sheet music and decides that he's now Irving Berlin. In 1911, Irving writes Alexander's Ragtime Band, and it reportedly sells one million copies in a month, thereby propelling his name to fame. Three years later, in 1914, Irving, or the King of Tin Pan Alley, to use a new nickname, creates a revolutionary show of his own.

With its emphasis on the offbeat, syncopation was already plenty popular thanks to Ragtime and to John Philip Sousa. So to Irving, well, the Russian immigrant saw this as the American sound. To quote him,

"Syncopation is in the soul of every true American. I believe the great American opera of the future will be deliberately based not on European standards as now, but on typically American standards." With a war in Europe brewing, what better time for the country to embrace its own unique style on Broadway? Americans seem to think so too, and Watch Your Step transforms Irving Berlin into a composition star.

But speaking of the Great War, Broadway rallies to support the cause when American doughboys start heading over there in 1917. That includes Flo Ziegfeld. The finale to Ziegfeld's 1917 follies becomes a song titled "Can't You Hear Your Country Calling" and future shows include wartime images of soldiers in battles. Meanwhile, Russian-born Irving's new status as an American citizen leads to him getting drafted in 1918.

Ah, but he's not headed to no man's land. The composer's commanding officer lets him put his musical gifts to use with a show to help boost troop morale. Yip, Yip, Yap Hank premieres at the Century Theater on West 62nd Street to a rowdy crew of soldiers waiting to be shipped off to the European Theater. Variety describes it as, quote, "one of the best and most novel entertainments Broadway has produced," close quote.

It's after Germany surrenders later in 1918 that Flo and Irving finally cross paths. Broadway is ready to return to its pre-war shows and glory, and Flo Ziegfeld is planning an extravaganza like no other. He spends 20 grand a week, 17,000 of which alone goes to costumes, for his roaring return to the Broadway stage.

The producer also hires the already successful, recently discharged, and famous for the speed with which he churns out songs, Irving Berlin. Well then, let's check it out. It's June 16th, 1919. We're in the nearly 20,000 square foot New Amsterdam Theater at 214 West 42nd Street, New York City, enjoying Florence Ziegfeld's 1919 Follies. And act two is just beginning.

We see a few short skits, songs, and dances. Then, the dark-haired, pale-skinned John Steele takes the stage. As the music begins to swell, John takes a deep breath and begins singing what will soon be the most famous Irving Berlin-written Follies tune of the day. A pretty girl is like a melody

haunt you night and day. Just like the strain of a haunting refrain, she'll start upon a marathon and run around your brain. You can't escape. She's in your memory. A morning night

Yes, with the Great War over, the 1920s are filled with promise. And Ziegfeld's Follies is just a taste of it.

Between new musical influences from Europe, the burgeoning Harlem Renaissance, and young Doughboy and Molly Maureen performers back on American soil, Broadway's stage is set for what just might be the most transformative decade in the history of American theater.

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As Prohibition ushers in the 1920s, watching a Broadway show becomes the opening act to an evening destined for a speakeasy or nightclub. Many of the shows feature themes from various racial tropes, religious stereotypes, and other popular subjects.

We won't care to revive many of those in the 21st century, but the rise of radio, the National Broadcasting Company, or NBC, and talking pictures over the course of the Roaring Twenties means that Broadway's most popular shows and songs are reaching across the country by the end of the decade. Meanwhile, the 1920s also sees the spread of flashy, scandalous reviews.

They're popping up just as fast as producers can find songwriters, which is part of the reason that so many famous Broadway-ins arise from this genre. Reviews often try to copy the famous Ziegfeld Follies by featuring a racially and religiously diverse set of comedians, dancers, and performers. But don't mistake these reviews' multiracial casts as a sign that New York City and the theater scene are respectful toward black performers.

Many are left with a bleak choice: perform racially degrading skits or don't work in theater. Even then, Black performers are not valued in the way their white counterparts are. But a few Black artists are out to change that, like our old friend, Noble Sissel. Ah, Noble Sissel. In case you're drawing a blank, we met Noble, or just Sis as his friends call him, back in episode 138.

During the Great War, Sis was a part of New York's legendary Black Regiment, the Harlem Rattlers, or Harlem Hellfighters, and played in its phenomenal jazz-spreading band led by his dear friend, Jim Europe. Well, following the war and Jim Europe's tragic death almost immediately thereafter, Sis puts an act together with another pre-war friend and musician named James Hubert UB Blake. They tour the nation as America's favorite society entertainers.

While performing their elegant vaudeville act, Yubi and Sis meet Flornay Miller and Aubrey Lyles. The four get to thinking: could they bring a sophisticated musical featuring an all-Black cast to Broadway? Flornay and Aubrey have a story in mind. Can Sis and Yubi make it a musical? Yubi describes the creative scriptwriting process, saying that he and Sis work together in his apartment. On 138th Street, we don't know what Miller Lyles is gonna write.

He would say, "We gotta say, the cow jumped over the moon. Sissy, what do you think would fit there?" He'd say, "So and so," and write the title down, and I'd write that. Sis remembers the writing process feeling long, and even though... Very few people of the Broadway theatrical managerial staff believed in us, and there were few among our own people who felt we had a chance.

The music comes together. Yubi and Sis then get themselves a producer named Harry Court, and he, in turn, finds them a theater. A little off the beaten Broadway path, but it's not that easy to open a Broadway show when you're not even wanted on Broadway.

Sis describes their idea to Syme Silverman, the editor of Variety, as, A book show, like a review, but it has a book. But a very thin book. Not the best description, but as I understand it, the show, called Shuffle Along, is about shenanigans in a mayoral race. I'm intrigued. And we've got tickets for opening day. It's May 23rd, 1921.

We're just around the corner from Columbus Circle in New York City's Upper West Side, outside a 63rd Street theater known as Dally's Music Hall. Cars are everywhere. A lot of auto shops are located in the area. Surrounding sites are certainly not what the average theater goer is used to. But frankly, this is about 20 blocks north of the standard Broadway theater, so the whole production is pretty atypical.

In fact, before the curtain goes up for the first time, let me give you a glimpse of what had to happen inside to make this production come to life. When UB Blake, Noble Sissel, Florene Miller, and Aubrey Lyles first arrived, they found that Dally's Music Hall had a tiny stage, little to no backstage area, and actually no orchestra pit. It wasn't even close to ideal. But the four got to it, removing the first three rows to accommodate the musicians.

As for choreographer Lawrence Dees, the poor man has to work with a skinny stage that forces the dance numbers to be organized horizontally across the width of an already small stage. Nor did the stage even have a curtain. But they improvised. The backdrop has issues too. To quote Yubi, The grocery store was on this side and the hotel was over there. But in the scenery, they had it wrong. But we had to take it because that was the way they had it from the other show where they got the drop from.

And the cherry on top, the costumes are an amalgamation of the producers previous shows. They're dusty, faded, smelly, and riddled with suspicious stains. Reportedly, chorus girls cry every time they dress. In short, everything is jerry-rigged. Yubi is right to say that the theater violated every city ordinance in the book. But even this humble setup has run the show $21,000 in debt, roughly equal to $350,000 in the early 21st century.

So, the show must go on, as the saying goes. Let's see how it does. As the 63rd Street Theater's metal doors open, we make our way inside with other excited spectators. Proper New York ladies take their seats in the lower orchestra, behind the band, directed by Yubi, that is, craning their necks and looking through lorgnettes, or opera glasses, to see who else has dared venture north for the occasion.

Meanwhile, black New Yorkers pack the balcony seats, antsy to watch a musical that, for the first time in Broadway history, features a cast entirely of people just like them. And with that, the whole theater gasps as the makeshift curtain rises. A chorus featuring a not-yet-famous Josephine Baker begins to sing their opening song on the street in front of Jimtown Hotel. All of a sudden, the drab, sweaty old costumes no longer matter.

It's almost as if a fairy godmother has come and waved her magic wand. Just the magic of live theater, I suppose. The first few minutes go smoothly, but Sis is worried about one particular song. Love Will Find A Way. To quote him, We were afraid that when Lottie G and Roger Matthews sang it, we'd be run out of town. Miller, Lyles, and I were standing near the exit door with one foot inside the theater, the other one pointed north toward Tarlem. We thought Blake stuck out there in front leading the orchestra.

His bald head would beget the brunt of the tomatoes and rotten eggs. But no tomatoes or rotten eggs soar through the air. Only the music does. As he stands back, Sis watches the backs of the heads of the audience nod and sway, enraptured by the first ever romantic musical duet sung by two black characters on Broadway. Or at least off-Broadway, as shows in venues this small and this far out will later be known.

As the curtain falls for intermission, Yubi hears a white audience member murmur, "I would like to touch him, the man who wrote the music." Yubi will later recall this as, "The proudest day of my life. At last, I'm a human being." The fox-trotting second act only brings more success. The number "I'm Just Wild About Harry" becomes one of the most popular songs in the 1920s. Frankly, it transcends the decade.

Harry S. Truman will use it as his 1948 presidential campaign song. UB and Sis also include a rendition of a song that Sis and their dearly departed friend, Jim Europe, first worked on together. On Patrol in No Man's Land. Gone too soon, Jim. But you're loved and missed, as this tribute proves. But according to Sis...

The biggest moment of all came near the end of the show with a number called the Baltimore Buzz. I sang it while Blake and the orchestra played like fury and the girls danced up a storm. People cheered. I almost fell off the stage when I looked out into the auditorium. There was old John Court dancing in the aisles. His faith in us had been borne out. That night, it looked like we were home. Shuffle Along is a hit. While most shows open and close quickly on Broadway, UB's and Sis' masterpiece is on night after night.

Yubi seems to think their success is a testament to the music. To quote him: "The successful songwriter today must be something more than a mere juggler of harmonious sounds. He must be a student of what the public wants, a sort of a psychologist. The mushy, sobby, sentimental love songs of 20 or more years ago would not be at all popular today.

Nor would the semi-martial music of songs popular during the United States participation in the war make it a hit now. What the public wants today are lively, jazzy songs. Not too jazzy, with love interest, but without the sickly sentimentality in vogue a generation ago. And Yubi couldn't be more correct. Sis and Yubi are paving the way for other shows produced by Black Americans to shuffle on over to Broadway.

A production of Runnin' Wild in 1923 debuts the Charleston, a dance that, like the Cakewalk, goes on to become a national craze throughout the years. Meanwhile, another jazz prodigy is bursting onto the scene. He's got rhythm, he's got sunshine, and though too humble to ask, he's actually bringing a whole lot more.

It's Intern John. Celebrate the coziest season with Safeway. They bring all the fall flavors to you, from pumpkin everything to caramel apples and all of your seasonal favorites. Make the most of those fireside dinners, game-winning touchdowns, and warm family gatherings. All you got to do is visit your neighborhood Safeway today or shop online for easy pickup or delivery. They're here to help you spice, season, and savor every moment.

Sincerely, Safeway, your favorite local supermarket. Hello, everyone. My name is Wesley Levesay from the History of the Second World War podcast. My podcast is a mostly chronological retelling of the Second World War, and I hope you will join me on a journey through the most cataclysmic conflict in human history as we try to answer the questions of not just what and where, but how and why.

Join me on a journey not just through the famous campaigns, battles, and events, but also on a trip around the globe as we broaden the scope of Second World War history beyond the well-known battlefields of Europe and the Pacific. During weekly episodes, I seek to provide new insight for long-time students of the war while also being a great jumping-on point for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of the Second World War.

This podcast has made it to the invasion of Poland in 1939 and start listening now to find out how the world would find itself embroiled in its second worldwide conflict in just 20 years. You can find History of the Second World War on all major podcast platforms or at History of the Second World War. Born into an East European Jewish immigrant family, Ira and George Gershowitz, or Gershwin as it's Americanized, grew up in New York City.

It was a modest childhood, yet the family had a piano. Everyone assumed that the intellectually inclined Ira would be the piano star, but it was young George who really took to it. All grown up by 1922, the music-loving, Broadway-working brothers have developed a solid workflow. George composes, Ira writes the lyrics. The brothers partner with review leader George White for a bit, and although that relationship sours in 1924, it's still a monumental year.

That February, George Gershwin writes one of his most famous works, a jazz-influenced orchestral called Rhapsody in Blue. It catapults him to the next level overnight. And as the year continues, the still-collaborating Gershwin boys crank out a Broadway musical called Lady Be Good. It's a great success and even stars the Astaire siblings Fred and Adele. Thus it is that, by the mid-1920s, the Gershwin brothers are pillars of the music community.

But it's George in particular who is changing the Roaring 20s New York music scene. Now, it doesn't hurt that he's so likable. Asked about his brother, Ira answers that, quote, Close quote.

But more than that, the gifted, brilliant musician is also accepted within the city's upper class and white society, yet also a respected musician in the Harlem jazz scene, which allows the younger Gershwin to be a conduit for jazz to a white downtown audience that, frankly, unfortunately wouldn't have fathomed enjoying it before. You know, I can't describe George's impact better than actress Kitty Carlyle Hart. To quote her,

Where the slightly bumptious Irving Berlin made the perfect celebrity songwriter for the early days of the rough-and-ready century, Gershwin embodied the pace, the energy, the sleekness of the 1920s. He underscored the beat of the entire decade." I know it seems like these musicals are all jazzy and lighthearted, comedic you might say, but that's certainly not the case.

We also have the ever-so-European operetta, basically opera light, and apart from a dip during the war years, it's done quite well since coming to the US about the turn of the century.

Meanwhile, there are others in the 1920s who are also pushing the boundaries. Oscar Hammerstein II loves to write lyrics for songs that are a part of a serious plot, not just alongside it. Richard Rodgers and his partner, Lawrence Hart, write about innocent characters who are tempted by sinful acts. Cole Porter writes about the sinner committing said act. And the Schubert brothers, Lee and Jacob, are the cash that keep the system running.

These five and countless others make up a new generation of Broadway, one that refuses to play by the traditional comedic and operetta rules, even if their stories often fall into the usual boy-meets-girl trope. And while Oscar, Richard, Lawrence, Lee, and Jacob are busy writing, a man by the name of Jerome Kern is listening. Let me properly introduce you to Jerome Kern. Born in New York City in 1885, he differed from many of the other showbiz stars we've heard about today.

He was born into money. The bespectacled Jewish composer's first big hit, How'd You Like to Spoon With Me, came out when he was only 20. And between 1905 and 1912, Jerome had over 100 songs featured in 30 Broadway musicals, including Ziegfeld's Follies. When the British-originating show The Girl from Utah came to Broadway in 1914, Jerome was able to give an American twist to the score.

His They Didn't Believe Me had dialogue moving seamlessly into song, a revolutionary concept. The following year, he was supposed to be on board the Lusitania with producer Charles Froman, but the songwriter overslept and missed the ship. Yeah, that was the day to sleep in. Talk about good luck. After this brush with death, Jerome stayed busy during the war years, writing for the Princess Theatre with the English librettist Guy Bolton.

Their shows were far simpler than the opulent reviews or dense fairytale operettas. Instead, they wrote stories that were grounded in daily life. You know, things that their American audience could really relate to. So now, in the 1920s, Jerome is a struggling artist in NYC.

Then, one day in 1926, he happens to pick up Edna Ferber's novel that highlights the lives of three generations of performers on a floating theater, a showboat, if you will, on the Mississippi River, in Chicago, and in New York, running from the late 19th century into the present. The exciting and very American storyline and dynamic characters are just what our down-on-his-luck writer is looking for. Sound familiar?

I should think so, but we still have more of Showboat's behind-the-curtain story to absorb before we return to the premiere of this groundbreaking Broadway musical. It's an unspecified night in mid-October 1926. We're at the Globe Theatre. No, not the Shakespearean Globe in London, though it was this Globe's inspiration. This theatre is on West 46th Street and boasts a retractable roof that allows for some airflow while performances play in the scorching New York City heat.

That's not an issue on a cool October night like today, but certainly a feature worth noting. Anyhow, this evening, our New York City Globe is presenting up-and-coming, but certainly not unknown composer, Jerome Kern's newest musical, Criss Cross. It premiered a few days ago, on the 12th, but Jerome has a special plan for tonight. It has nothing to do with the musical on stage, though. Rather, it's about a special guest.

Jerome has asked Alexander Woolcott, a theater critic for the New York Times, to bring author Edna Ferber to see the show. The show comes to its end, and not long after the curtain falls, Edna finds herself standing alone in the lobby, waiting for the critic to finish up a conversation with one of his peers. It's at this point that, as the author will later recall, a pixie-looking little man with the most winning smile in the world and partially eclipsed by large, thick spectacles now fought his way through the lobby throng.

Yes, this is Jerome Kern. Indulging his taste for the dramatic, the composer approaches his theater critic friend and says, "'Look, Alec, I hear you are a friend of Edna Ferber. I wonder if you'll kind of fix it for me to meet her. I want to talk to her about letting me make a musical from her showboat. Can you arrange an introduction or a meeting or something?' Alexander smirks. "'Mm-hmm. Well, I think I can just arrange it, if I play my cards right.'

Raising his voice to be heard over the crowd, he calls out, Ferber. Hi, Ferber. Come on over here a minute. Edna approaches, and as she does, Alex makes the intros. This is Jerome Kern. Nice to meet you. Edna Ferber. Edna clearly enjoyed crisscross and meeting Jerome because on November 17th, she signs off on the legalities needed for the composer to make a musical of Show Boat.

And since Jerome wants songs that will help further the plot of the story, he calls up his gifted, boundary-pushing buddy, Oscar Hammerstein II. On November 26th, the duo presents their material to Flo Ziegfeld, since he's one of the few on Broadway who could fund such a project. The famed producer is discouraged by his old friend, Irving Berlin's view that the themes of miscegenation are too much for Broadway. But after listening to Jerome's music, he dismisses those concerns and signs on.

To quote Flo, last night, I heard the first act of The Showboat and Jerome Kern's music. This is the best musical comedy I have ever been fortunate to get a hold of. I'm thrilled to produce it. This show is an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime. But the well-established and sometimes mustachioed producer knows the show needs a few tweaks in order to be successful. He insists that we cannot do this musical with all this sadness.

Now, Jerome is known to have a bit of a temper and doesn't like it when his songs aren't performed exactly as written, but he realizes it's best to play nice with the great Flo Ziegfeld on this one. Jerome and Oscar have their work cut out for them. While lighthearted stories are often adapted to the stage, no one on Broadway has ever adapted a serious novel into a musical. And even after giving Jerome permission, Edna isn't so sure it's a good idea. So Jerome plays the music he's working on to try and win her over.

Sitting at the piano, he plays the song that we heard in this episode's opening, Old Man River. And according to Edna, the music mounted, mounted. My hair stood on end. The tears came to my eyes. I breathed like a heroine in a melodrama. This was great music. This was music that would outlast Jerome Kern's day and mine. Oh, that it will, Edna. That it will.

And so, with the author's second blessing, work on the tentatively titled "Showboat Musical" steams along. While Oscar's lyrics are impressively similar to and reflective of Edna's novel, it is Jerome's score that stands out. Together, the two have combined the best aspects of operettas and comedies to create the first true dramatic piece of musical theater. And soon enough, rehearsals begin. It's an unidentified day, 1927.

We're in the dim, green-tinted New Amsterdam Theater in New York City. Yes, the same one that, almost a decade ago, hosted Florence Ziegfeld's joyous return to Broadway after the Great War. And right now, Edna Ferber is lingering somewhere in the back. The illustrious author has snuck through Shubert Alley to catch a peek of a rehearsal of the musical adaptation of her book, Showboat, and she's surprised to see just how hard everyone is working.

On one part of the stage, the dance director has chorus girls in pinafores working on a routine. Elsewhere, Eva Puck and Sam White practice their cakewalk. Nearby, Jerome is helping Norma Terrace and Howard Marsh clear up any questions they have with the score, and Oscar is walking Edna Mae Oliver through his lyrics. A dialogue coach is helping another actor articulate his lines properly. It's probably a bit like Gene Kelly's "Moses Supposes" from "Singing in the Rain."

Actor Charler Winninger is, according to Edna, "clutching himself by the back of the neck, throwing himself head over heels to the floor, then scrambling up and doing it all over again. After about a half hour of this, red-faced and breathing hard, he muffles himself in a heavy bathrobe, swathes his throat in a bath towel and subsides." A touch eccentric, but he's putting in the work.

All this cakewalking, singing, piano playing, and falling has worn out the actors. They pause. As they do, Flo Ziegfeld appears on the scene, and the famed producer can sense their dip in energy. The broad-shouldered, imposingly framed Flo quietly walks down the aisle. As he does, everyone turns to look at him in the dimly lit theater.

Edna remembers his flat, plangent voice booming. What the hell's this? You're dragging around like a lot of corpses. This is a rehearsal you're supposed to play as if you were giving a performance. If you let down in rehearsal, you'll do the same thing a week after we've opened. Any of you boys and girls too tired to go on, please get out. Go home and stay there. Sounds harsh, but don't worry. Flo doesn't mean it, and the cast knows it.

He's just encouraging the cast and crew to keep rehearsing diligently, since everyone here is worried about the success of this new genre-breaking musical. Now, as we know, those worst fears won't come to pass. Taking us full circle to where this episode began, Showboat is a smash hit when it premieres on December 27th, 1927.

But now that we have a grasp on the basics of Broadway, going all the way back to the alleged first musical, The Black Crook, perhaps we can better appreciate what makes Show Boat such a rule-breaking next-level game changer that both delights and shocks its roaring 20s audience. Allow me to summarize. For one, there's the storytelling. Jerome Kern wanted the music to move the plot itself along, and that happens left and right because he has the good sense to bring Oscar Hammerstein II on board.

Meanwhile, a number of racial barriers are being broken. Unlike minstrel and vaudeville shows, Showboat's black characters aren't minimized or mocked. Shuffle Along had recently broken the same ground, and let's not minimize that, but Showboat brings black characters whose identities and life experiences elicit sympathy to the heart of Broadway.

I mean, you can't have a soul and not be moved when Joe sings "Old Man River." That beautiful, poignant, and powerful modern-day spiritual describing the harsh realities of being black in Jim Crow America. Likewise, when Julie Laverne sings "Can't Help Lovin' That Man," and the song itself reveals the leading lady's secret: that she's part black.

Oh, that has to make more than a few audience members reflect on the nation's laws against interracial marriage in a way that they had never done before. And to put the cherry on top, Shobo is the first racially integrated musical. Yeah.

While Shuffle Along had an all-black cast, and Ziegfeld's Follies featured black performers, it's Showboat that dares to give us complex black, white, and mixed-race characters, and to feature a white chorus on stage right next to a black chorus. Now, Showboat isn't perfect. The writers and producers, all of whom are white, still rely on some stereotypical tropes. For instance, Oscar's choice to write the black character's speech in a plantation dialect.

Though new and inventive for the time, it opens a whole 'nother can of worms. But Show Boat nonetheless tackles racism in a way that popular theater in the 1920s never had before. It doesn't shy away from serious conversations. It forces audiences to see miscegenation on the stage and otherwise engage real societal and racial issues of the day. Knowing that most Broadway-goers expect a fluffy, romantic musical, it's little wonder that everyone involved had real concerns before the premiere.

And yet, Show Boat proved a screaming success. It's a credit to New York City audiences who were clearly more ready for things to get real on stage than anyone had previously realized. And Show Boat will only continue to thrive. In the 21st century, it will become the third most revived show in Broadway history. And so, we come to the end of our Broadway tale for today.

As we do, I cannot overstate how essential and impactful the 1920s were for creative professionals in New York City. Racial barriers were both broken and reinforced. New styles of music emerged as syncopation and jazz began to reach a broader, more diverse audience. And young talents got their big break, so to speak.

Meanwhile, many of the brilliant writers, composers, lyricists, and producers we've met today—Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Oscar Hammerstein II, and Richard Rodgers, to name a few—will go on to become some of the biggest names in Hollywood and musical theater history. Though, sadly, Flo Ziegfeld leaves us all too soon. He dies in a Hollywood, California hospital after a long battle with pneumonia in 1932.

And speaking of Hollywood, remember that talkie signaling the end of the silent film era we learned about in the previous episode, The Jazz Singer? Well, guess what? It was on Broadway before it hit the silver screen. And Broadway will give more to Hollywood. When the stock market crashes in 1929 and the Great Depression comes, Broadway talent will head out west, heavily contributing to Tinseltown's golden age.

So it's entirely possible that, if not for the Great Depression, we might be looking forward to episodes on the golden age of musical theater instead of the golden age of film. But that's not how it goes. Rather, Broadway will see a 15-year, nearly dead period that only breaks when Oklahoma hits the stage in 1943. But all of that entertainment history is far ahead, and we still aren't done with the roaring 20s musical, social, and cultural innovations. In fact, we aren't even done with New York.

Next time, we'll take the A train uptown to Harlem, where we'll experience a full-on cultural renaissance.

History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. UB Blake and Noble Sissel, read by special guests Ray Christian from the podcast What's Ray Saying? and Raylan Christian. Episode researched and written by Greg Jackson and Riley Neubauer. Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit htdspodcast.com.

David Rifkin, Denke, Durante Spencer.

Donald Moore Donna Marie Jeffcoat Ellen Stewart Bernie Lowe George Sherwood Gurwith Griffin Henry Brunges Jake Gilbreth James G. Bledsoe Janie McCreary Jeff Marks Jennifer Moods Jennifer Magnolia Jeremy Wells Jessica Poppock Joe Dobis John Frugal-Dougal John Boovey John Keller John Oliveros John Radlavich John Schaefer John Sheff Jordan Corbett Joshua Steiner Justin M. Spriggs Justin May Kristen Pratt Karen Bartholomew Cassie Conecco Kim R. Kyle Decker

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