The Billy Murray Story

Double Middles

This week’s Three Tune Tuesday is personal, political, and unapologetically defiant. When Donald Trump attempted to stage a partisan concert and seven of nine scheduled artists declined to participate upon learning its true nature, it was a reminder that saying “no” is one of the most powerful things an artist can do. That act of refusal — of drawing a line and refusing to let your name, your talent, or your reputation be used for something that conflicts with your convictions — is the thread that ties together this week’s three selections. We open with Eva Tanguay’s “I Don’t Care” (1922, Nordskog Records), the only recording ever made by the woman known as the Queen of Vaudeville, whose entire career was built on the radical act of not giving a damn what anyone thought of her. From there we move to Gus Van’s “Promise Me Everything, Never Get Anything Blues” (1923, Columbia), a Tin Pan Alley blues complaint about being strung along by someone who talks big and delivers nothing — a sentiment that needs no further explanation in the current moment. We close with Bert Williams’ “Never Mo’” (1920, Columbia), a song monolog by the greatest Black entertainer of the early twentieth century, a man who spent his entire career navigating a system designed to exploit him while denying him basic dignity. “Never mo’” — nevermore — is the final word, the line drawn in permanent ink. Sometimes the most important thing an artist can say is no. Sometimes the most eloquent gesture is a double middle finger. BERT WILLIAM’S SILENT MOVIES * Fish (1916) [https://peertube.blindskeleton.one/w/fp7ckcLag37jA98WoaV7qX] * Natural Born Gambler (1915) [https://peertube.blindskeleton.one/w/eerzP8nEVUKSaJ8YdZaAne]

The Billy Murray Story

Today would have been his 149th birthday, and we are marking the occasion by telling the story of Billy Murray — the Denver Nightingale, the Phonograph King, the Irish-American kid from Colorado who talked his way into a New York recording studio in 1903 and never really left. We open with a song he recorded on his own birthday in 1922, a comic gem that catches him at the height of his powers and right on the edge of the upheaval to come. From there we travel back to one of the defining recordings of the acoustic era — a love song to the automobile that became so embedded in American culture it outlasted practically everything around it. And we close with the song that proved he still had it, a Jazz Age novelty that put him back on the charts at 47, even as the industry was quietly pulling the rug out from under the technique that had made him famous. Three songs, three decades, one remarkable career — happy birthday, Billy. LYRICS I CERTAINLY MUST BE IN LOVE Mamey McShane was a dumb, dizzy dame that lived over on Hoist Avenue. She couldn’t be beaten for dancing and eating those two things was all that she knew. She met Jimmy Peter, a nifty cake eater, one night at the gasp at a stall. That guy danced her lame, now the girl’s all kidmame, but here’s how she answers them all. Since I met that kid, I’m clean off a mean litchie, I certainly must be in love. I can’t do me work and I can’t sleep at night, I’m dreaming of moiders and boiklers and fights. That guy’s got me vamped when he looks in me lamps, I feel like I’m in heaven above. We go to a dance and get home about two, but I don’t get upstairs till the boys start to coo. When I stand in cold hallways and flight with the blue, gee, I certainly must be in love. Jimmy’s not smart, but that guy’s got a heart that’s as big as a homemade mince pie. And gee, ain’t he jealous of those other fellas that speak to me when I pass by. But he needn’t fear him, I wouldn’t go near him if they gave me diamonds and coins. I’m strong for me, Kim, and I’ll stick right to him as long as he don’t flight with girls. Me whole life is spoiled, I’m not long for this while, gee, I certainly must be in love. I carried his picture right next to me heart, I kissed it so much that it all fell apart. Me bottle bounced me, I can’t add three and three, there’s just one poison I’m thinking of. I jumped in the bathtub and scrubbed myself white, and now I’m convinced that me mind isn’t right. Cause when I take a bath before Saturday night, gee, I certainly must be in love. IN MY MERRY OLDSMOBILE Young Johnny Steele has an Oldsmobile He loves a dear little girl She is the queen of his gas machine She has his heart in a whirl Now when they go for a spin, you know She tries to learn the auto, so He lets her steer, while he gets her ear And whispers soft and low… Come away with me, Lucille In my merry Oldsmobile Down the road of life we’ll fly Automobubbling, you and I To the church we’ll swiftly steal Then our wedding bells will peal You can go as far as you like with me In my merry Oldsmobile They love to “spark” in the dark old park As they go flying along She says she knows why the motor goes The “sparker” is awfully strong Each day they “spoon” to the engine’s tune Their honeymoon will happen soon He’ll win Lucille with his Oldsmobile And then he’ll fondly croon… Come away with me, Lucille In my merry Oldsmobile Down the road of life we’ll fly Automobubbling, you and I To the church we’ll swiftly steal Then our wedding bells will peal You can go as far as you like with me In my merry Oldsmobile DON’T BRING LULU Go bring Lulu! Go bring Lulu! Your presence is requested, wrote little Johnny White. But with this invitation, there is a stipulation. When you attend this party, you all be treated right. But there’s a wild and wooly woman you boys can’t invite. You can bring Pearl, she’s a darn nice girl, but don’t bring Lulu. You can bring Rose with a turned up nose, but don’t bring Lulu. Lulu always wants to do what the folks don’t want her to do. When she’s brought herself around, London Bridge is falling down. You can bring cake for a porterhouse steak, but don’t bring Lulu. Lulu gets blue and goes coo-coo like the clock upon the shelf. She’s the kind of smartie, greats up every party. Colorful Lulu, don’t bring Lulu, I’ll bring her myself. Last week we had a party, a real heist on the fair. And then along came Lulu, wild as any Zulu. She started into Charlton and howled the voices there. But when she did the hula-hula, then she got the air. You can bring Flo, her dad’s got dough, but don’t bring Lulu. You can bring Milk, she’s an awful kill, but don’t bring Lulu. Lulu has the reddest hair, auburn ear and tenor there. How can we boys keep our heads full so wild when they see red? You can bring peas and crullers and cheese, but don’t bring Lulu. When she gets door and slams the door, the plates lie off the shelf. She can make a fella wild on Sapperella. Colorful Lulu, don’t bring Lulu, she’ll come here herself. Don’t bring Lulu. Don’t bring Lulu. You can bring ham and crackers and jam, but don’t bring Lulu. Lulu goes wild and when she’s wild she climbs up on the shelf. She can make a passer, be a dancing master. Colorful Lulu, don’t bring Lulu, I’ll bring her myself. I’ll bring her myself.

Victoria Day

This week’s Three Tune Tuesday takes us back to the origins of Victoria Day — not the long weekend, not the fireworks, but the woman herself. We open with an “On This Day” entry: “June Brought the Roses,” recorded by contralto Marcia Freer on May 19, 1924, one hundred years to the day before this episode was released — nothing to do with Queen Victoria, but everything to do with the warmth her holiday signals for Canadians. From there we travel to Montreal in 1902, where the Kilties Band of Canada pressed “The Maple Leaf Forever” onto a maroon disc with a tartan paper label for the Berliner Gramophone Company — one of the rarest and most distinctly Canadian objects the early recording industry produced. We close with the song that was Victoria herself: Ian Colquhoun’s “Soldiers of the Queen,” captured in London around 1900, the sound of an empire that believed without question in its own permanence. A New Zealand newspaper noted in 1901 that the death of Queen Victoria had rather interfered with the popularity of the song. It had. Nothing could have replaced her. BERLINER TARTAN LABEL [https://blindskeleton.one/wp-content/uploads/tartan_label.png]

Preventative Health (The Purge)

This week on Three Tune Tuesday, we’re thinking about health — specifically, the kind of health check that requires preparation, a gown, and a level of personal exposure that no one particularly looks forward to. We open with a piece of good timing: “By the Saskatchewan,” recorded on this very date in 1911 by baritone Andrea Sarto, taken from the hit Broadway musical comedy The Pink Lady, with music by Ivan Caryll — who, as it happens, was also born on May 12, making this a double centenary of sorts. From there we move to Rosa Henderson’s 1923 Victor recording of “Good Woman’s Blues,” a spare and dignified classic blues performance written by George Butts and Hulbert Esmere, in which a woman of considerable self-possession states her case plainly, accompanied by nothing more than Wendell Talbert’s piano. We close with Dame Clara Butt, whose vast contralto fills Samuel Liddle’s setting of Henry Francis Lyte’s immortal hymn “Abide with Me” — written by Lyte on his deathbed in 1847 and first sung at his funeral. It is, in short, a playlist assembled in the spirit of a colonoscopy: you go in hoping for reassurance, you endure what must be endured, and you emerge, if all goes well, with a clean bill of health and a renewed appreciation for being upright.

Cinco de Mayo

This week’s Three Tune Tuesday heads south of the border for Cinco de Mayo, tracing the sound of Mexican national pride through three recordings from the acoustic era. We open with a happy accident of the calendar: Arthur Pryor’s Band recorded Franz von Suppe’s “Jolly Robbers Overture” on this very date in 1909, a piece of spirited Viennese theatricality that had been delighting concert audiences since 1867. From there we travel to Mexico City and July 1907, where Victor dispatched a recording team to capture the country’s musical culture on disc — baritone Manuel Romero Malpica delivering Miguel Lerdo de Tejada’s danza mexicana “No lo diré,” followed by the Banda de Policia de Mexico under Velino M. Preza playing his march “Viva Mexico!” Together, these three recordings offer a rare glimpse of how Mexico sounded to itself, and to the world, at the height of the Porfiriato.