'At whom should I throw shade today?': possible musings of PG Wodehouse
With this post, Schenkerian Gang Signs ushers in a new series called Throwing Shade Throughout History, in which we examine past cases of shade throwing that we feel merit revisiting by carefully examining primary documents and acknowledging the inexorable and inexhaustible need that we, as people, seem to have to throw shade. The term, of course, derives from the gay/drag ballroom scene that emerged in late 20th-century American culture and is neatly defined in the following colorfully-expressed clip from the 1990 documentary Paris is Burning:
If you haven't seen this documentary, you need to stop reading this and check it out. Don't worry, we will wait for you.
While we have some inkling of the etymology of throwing shade, it is impossible to imagine that we could come anywhere near assembling an exhaustive anthology of the phenomenon that would do justice to its breadth across the eras of history (my brain seems to remember that Catullus threw shade at people during Roman times, although any further details remain foggy). However, we at Schenkerian Gang Signs enjoy tackling these challenging problems within our discipline(s), and so we embark on this journey to identify moments in history when shade was thrown. It is important to note that there is a certain nuance to shade throwing, as Dorien Corey stated in the clip above. To paraphrase: it is not calling someone ugly, for surely that person must already know this indisputable fact. Nor is it akin to the Great Fondue Beef of 2014 that pitted Drake versus Jay-Z in an argument over melty, cheesy Swiss dishes. No, shade is more subtle. More nuanced. More the purview of, say, a PG Wodehouse than a Drake. <-- see what I did there?
And indeed, our inaugural shady post is a salute to PG Wodehouse, who used his power as a writer of comic stories gently mocking England's upper classes to throw some legit shade at Jewish-American often-in-blackface performer Al Jolson. How, you might ask? By selecting one of Jolson's biggest hits as the punchline of an extended joke in his story 'Jeeves and the Song of Songs,' which first appeared in Strand in 1929 (or Cosmopolitan in the same year, if you were in the United States).
If you have not read PG Wodehouse's Jeeves and Wooster books, you need to stop reading this and check it out. Some (although not this one) are available for free via Amazon.
As with most Jeeves and Wooster stories, the plot involves complications between various younger members of the British upper class, particularly with regard to their relationships. Wooster is Bertie Wooster, a somewhat facile character whose enthusiasm well outmatches his capabilities. His valet (or gentleman's gentleman) is Jeeves, a man who works tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure that all turns out well. In 'Jeeves and the Song of Songs,' Bertie's friend Tuppy Glossop is enamored with a professional singer, Cora Bellinger, and is doing his utmost to impress her. His ardor causes consternation with Bertie's Aunt Delia, whose daughter, Angela, was previously the apple of Tuppy's eye. Aunt Delia demands that the Tuppy matter be resolved and while Bertie thinks he may have an answer, of course Jeeves is the one to come up with a solution. Here is where Jolson enters the picture.
Jeeves proposes that Bertie go to a somewhat rough neighborhood of London and perform the song 'Sonny Boy' for charity. Bertie registers his disdain, as he finds the song to be little more than schlock, but he nonetheless obliges:
It's worth noting that Bertie's musical taste is not exactly impeccable. Witness Bertie's glee at the song 'Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors':
Why yes, that is Hugh Laurie singing (and sometimes Stephen Fry sings too). If you haven't seen this series, stop reading this right now and join us again when you're done.
What Bertie does not discover until later is that Jeeves had set up a number of different people to sing 'Sonny Boy,' ending with Cora Bellinger. The crowd, already riled up from having heard the song three times, reacts in the manner that one might expect. Wodehouse could not have arranged this more masterfully, with the oblivious, haughty singer heckled off of the stage by means of rotting fruit and vegetables. People, this is humor! Thinking that Tuppy set her up (as he requested that she sing 'Sonny Boy'), Cora Bellinger stomps off of the stage, never to be seen again. Tuppy returns to Angela and peace is restored.
But why, of all songs, did Wodehouse choose 'Sonny Boy'? It's hard not to think that Al Jolson's maudlin performance of the same did not cross his mind when he was selecting an appropriate tune for his story:
A bit of background: prior to schlocking the bejeezus out of 'Sonny Boy' in the clip above, Jolson starred in the 1927 film The Jazz Singer, which explored the drama of a nice Jewish kid wanting to make it in show biz despite his father's strenuous objections. If you've seen that episode of The Simpsons with Krusty and his father, you've pretty much seen The Jazz Singer.
Fun fact: Neil Diamond would later remake The Jazz Singer 1980 with the role of his father played by Laurence Olivier. The historical basis for this decision was most likely tied to the ready availability of cocaine in the late 1970s. You don't need to stop and watch this one (here is a clip, though, to satiate your curiosity).
Flying high on the success of The Jazz Singer, Warner Brothers followed up with the 1928 film The Singing Fool, in which Jolson played a singer who makes it big, then crashes hard, all the while singing 'Sonny Boy' at every given occasion (in truth, he sings it three times). The woman who was with him in the good times leaves him in the bad times, taking his son (aka Sonny Boy) with her. Then Sonny Boy dies. I was not kidding about the maudlin.
This song was a massive hit, selling over three million copies and holding the number one spot as best-selling record for twelve weeks. It is almost impossible that Wodehouse, when penning his 1929 story, was unaware of Jolson's performance, as he was closely tied to Broadway and the cinema.
It's entirely possible that Wodehouse felt antipathy toward 'Sonny Boy' and recorded his frustration as such in a journal or something--I cannot claim to be a Wodehouse scholar, although I can imagine that that would be a particularly enjoyable avenue of study. I can, however, give credit where credit is due. By immortalizing the song in his story, he mocks its faux sentimentality, leaving the reader (and later viewer) with the image of Cora Bellinger exiting the stage as hastily as possible. Credit is also due to the fact that Wodehouse's choice of medium likely helped him in his shade-throwing efforts. His ability to write quickly and cleverly undoubtedly allowed him to capture this moment of history in what would still have been a timely fashion. PG Wodehouse, we salute your ability to turn what could have been a temporal blip of Jolsonian schlock into
a long, long shadow that still casts its shade today.
Kira's posts on the recent collaborations between Nas and the National Symphony Orchestra brought up a number of provocative questions. To me, one of the most interesting was the balance of power: who is benefiting from this arrangement or, to paraphrase Kira's wording, who needs who? Do the benefits fall more heavily toward Nas, in the sense that he is being validated by 'high-brow' musical culture? Or is the orchestra as an institution moving in a new direction, perhaps one necessitated by the current state of classical music? Alternatively, are such collaborations ultimately (and equally) beneficial to both sides? I'm not sure that I have the answers to any of these questions, but I am dedicating this post to a consideration of an earlier collaboration that brought up similar issues, which was that of George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue (1924) and its subsequent history.
(Before I get started here, I would like to mention two important sources for Rhapsody in Blue research. The first is the Cambridge Music Handbook by David Schiff, which offers a great, succinct introduction to the work and contemporary criticism to it. The second is the work of Dr. Ryan Raul Bañagale, whose 2011 dissertation from Harvard examines this piece in considerable detail. His book on this topic will be in print later this year from Oxford University Press. Many thanks to Ryan for sharing material from his book to aid me with this post and, more generally, for his vital contribution to musicological blogging as one of the founders of amusicology. Lastly, thanks to Dr. Andrew Berish for consulting with me about jazz on film; his book on this topic is available from University of Chicago Press).
The premiere of Rhapsody in Blue is heralded as a watershed moment in the history of American music--a topic of considerable debate at the time, since there was no clear vision at the time of what constituted distinctly American music. By fusing together more popular styles, such as early forms of jazz, Gershwin's piece was thought to incorporate an American vernacular music with the venerated symphony orchestra. Prior to Rhapsody in Blue, Gershwin's fame had primarily come from his contributions in more popular forms, such as Broadway reviews and Tin Pan Alley songs. In other words, he was not seen as a composer of high art music, even though he had been trained in this style. Rhapsody in Blue, though, was thought to be a successful example of mixing together high and low art, categories that were significantly more stratified than they are now.
However, Gershwin did not complete this endeavor alone. His work was premiered by Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra on a program that was described as 'An Experiment in Modern Music.' Whiteman had led various dance bands, but retained a more symphonic style in his sound, in contrast with contemporary jazz ensembles, which had not yet entered the big band era. His music was popular and circulated widely on records in the early 1920s.
(YouTube's guess is that the instrument starting at 1:00 is a musical saw. Experimental sounds were a feature of much 1920s and 1930s jazz).
Whiteman, then, was retaining a sound that was closer to the symphony orchestra as integral to his music, so perhaps it is not surprising that he would seek to find a composer/collaborator who could work fluidly in both worlds. After all, a success in the classical sphere could only extend his influence beyond that of the dance-music hall. This blend between these two styles is apparent even in his choices of orchestration. While his orchestra mostly sounds like a standard symphonic one in 'Whispering,' you can also hear instruments that reflect new, jazz-influenced sensibilities, including the banjo (the banjo will come back).
The importance of Rhapsody in Blue for Whiteman's orchestra was not limited to this first performance (ed. note: be sure to check out Ryan Bañagale's forthcoming book, which details the many arranged versions of Rhapsody in Blue that were generally available for the market, as well as a comprehensive documentation of record sales). Whiteman also performed it in two different film versions: one for the 1930 revue King of Jazz and the second for a 1945 fictionalized biography of Gershwin's life entitled (of course) Rhapsody in Blue. The King of Jazz performance emphasizes the modernity of this 'experiment.' Prior to hearing the piece, a narrator explains that Gershwin has successfully fused together not only jazz and classical, but music stemming back to ancient origins, since jazz is a form of 'primitive' music. In fact, to become the 'king of jazz,' Whiteman had already battled against primitive forces, as depicted in the film through a cartoon scene that features him 'in darkest Africa' on a safari trip. However, he does not wind up killing the various animals that he sees, but instead puts all beings in the vicinity under his spell as he plays jazz violin. 'Beings' in this sense includes two human beings, in the form of two 'African' tribesmen. The music in this scene ranges widely, including military-inspired fanfares, a brief clip from Rhapsody in Blue (0:57), and even a moment (1:37) from the second movement of Dvořák's Twelfth String Quartet ('American'). When Whiteman breaks out his violin at 1:51, he is accompanied by banjo, a distinctive aural marker for a jazz section; it is worth noting that prior to this point, the orchestra has played very little that resembles jazz, making a better case for the orchestra as a traditional ensemble rather than what would be expected in a dance hall:
The lion's 'Mamie' (2:02) references Al Jolson, since this song was one of his enormous hits when he performed in blackface and was prominently featured in the 1927 film The Jazz Singer. The scene with the snake (2:22) can best be summarized by a phrase that esteemed anthropologist Dr. Heide Castañeda coined yesterday in describing another exotic moment that made no sense: 'Because the Other.'
That Whiteman conquered this 'primitive' Africa is a theme that returns in the preamble to Rhapsody in Blue, heavily emphasized in an extended drum solo that opens the number--and that is not typically performed when hearing this composition. The audience sees a silhouette of a figure dancing on a drum. There can be no question that this is a 'primitive' dance, seeming to descend from a tribal ritual with an elaborate headdress. The dancer is extremely darkly colored, particularly because of the dark blue set. This is the 1930s depiction of 'deepest, darkest Africa,' at its most primitive:
I will give you a moment to collect your thoughts, which I'm sure stem mostly in the 'WHAT ON EARTH WAS THAT????????' direction. In case you need a palate cleanser:
So: we had primitive with our dancer at the start. Then we had modern, and a very classy, feather-filled version of modern it was, complete with chandeliers and headdresses (non-tribal variety). If you are curious, the film was in color using an early duo-tone technique, so the 'blue' in the piano would have been seen by early audiences. I am still not quite sure what to make of the multiple pianists playing the giant blue piano, but for that matter, I am still not sure what to make of the giant blue piano--or, perhaps more importantly, the gargantuan electric fern tree to its right. I do like that the orchestra fits neatly inside. From the primitive, then, we transcended to the modern in a most formal appearance, one flanked with tuxedos, classy dames, and so very many feathers.
Whiteman would record Rhapsody in Blue again for film, this time as part of an eponymous (fictionalized) biography of George Gershwin:
My favorite part of this clip--apart from the dramatic pan-out--is at the end, where an audience member declares that the piece is 'fourteen minutes and five. A very important piece'--in other words, a legitimate composition instead of a dance number. Earlier in the film, we did see that Gershwin's music was popular, but that it commanded little respect in part because it was from a 'lower' genre. In fact, Gershwin was fired for playing his own music when he should have been promoting the works of others. However, its intrinsic value was recognized by Al Jolson--appearing blatantly in blackface--who was enchanted by the melody from the first time he heard it:
There is a lot to untangle here. 'Swanee' was, of course, one of Jolson's big hits when he was a stage performer and I am certain that one of the primary reasons that this scene would have been included in the film was as a token of nostalgia for older audience members, who would have grown up seeing Jolson perform this number. That he was in blackface might have been less shocking then, even though by 1945 the practice had abated in live film, but Jolson was already known for his performances in this role. The popularity of 'Swanee' is immediately evident from the applause offered by the audience, although Gershwin remains stoic in the face of his success, claiming that he will write 'something better than that.' The 'something better,' of course, is Rhapsody in Blue, which becomes the focal point in the film for Gershwin's ability to conquer classical audiences at long last.
Undoubtedly, you have picked up on the very bizarre race relations that are emerging in this film, particularly concerning the appropriation of jazz by a bunch of white guys (including one white guy who is wearing blackface. Because the Other). While this post is not the place to address the complexity of the blackface topic (don't worry, there will likely be a follow-up), the fact that the audiences are exclusively white for both performances is noteworthy--although not surprising, considering that this was still the age of segregation, through formal and informal means. Regardless, jazz, in this case, is being elevated. It can join the rank of prestigious music, so long as it is presented in a Rhapsody in Blue-type manner. Indeed, by doing so, Gershwin transcends the 'mere' dance music that he wrote before, winning over even the concert-goers with his very important fourteen-or-so minute composition.
Looking more closely at both performances, I would argue that Whiteman is, in fact, privileging the classical over jazz. In some respects, jazz elements are present, such as the extremely prominent banjo literally sitting front row, center. The seating for the Rhapsody in Blue film performance is quite similar to how a big band would sit, featuring the musicians on risers (although they lack fancy music stand monikers). Even more jazz-like is the focus on soloists, who not only rise when they play, but are also featured in the spotlight. However, one crucial classical feature remains, which is the conductor. Whiteman's baton is particularly prominent in this scene, demonstrating that he is in charge of the ensemble. The same can be said of the 1930 King of Jazz performance; in this case, the whole scene is based on his preeminence as the 'king of jazz' who fought off the savage 'beasts' in the African jungle. While Whiteman does not emerge until later in this scene, when the orchestra rises up from the piano (2:52), he is raised even further above the ensemble and his (possibly oversized?) baton can be seen.
Whiteman's leading of the ensemble as a classical conductor differs from what audiences would have seen from African-American band leaders at the time. For instance, in Black and Tan Fantasy (1929), Duke Ellington leads from the piano when we see him with his band. Even from the very beginning of the clip, Duke is not the 'king of jazz,' but is seen collaborating with Arthur Whetsol, his trumpet player:
Count Basie, too, performed at the piano and had those fancy monikered music stands that immediately scream 'jazz band' to me. This example is from the 1943 film Reveille with Beverly:
Whiteman, then, is presenting his ensemble as an orchestra, not a band, since he retains control as its conductor and leader. I would argue that this distinction is an important one. An orchestra, after all, is a marker of a prestigious cultural product, an association that I feel is still present today. It was the orchestra that allowed Gershwin to present his 'very important' piece, for instance. Why the orchestra? It has a long history of being the premiere ensemble, going all the way back to the nineteenth century in German writings. I find it noteworthy that Nas' collaboration was with an orchestra; you don't often hear so much about collaborations between hip hop artists and a prestigious string quartet, for example, or Renée Fleming providing the vocals for the latest 50 Cent track (Dear Renée and 50, Get. On. This.). No, it is the orchestra that conjures up an image of high art almost instantaneously, and I think that this is part of its cachet when it comes to collaborating with more popular forms of culture. In the Whiteman example, it elevated his ensemble beyond the dance hall. In Nas' case, I like to think that we have moved beyond these distinctions of high and low art, and where these types of arts can and/or should reside. However, it is difficult to ignore the fact that yet again, the (prestigious) symphony orchestra was called into play for a collaboration.
