by Donald Bogle
Living with a star like Waters had to be difficult for Matthews. The spouse of a great female star always has to be willing to walk three steps behind her; live by her schedule, her demands, her moods, her whims; and forfeit a part of his own identity. Women in marriages had long understood how questions of personal identity could emerge once they said “I do,” but for men of this period, there was the very question of manhood. Unlike Earl Dancer, Eddie Matthews didn’t have a strong enough presence on the entertainment scene itself. For him, there had to be the suspicion that people viewed him as Mr. Waters. There was also Ethel’s explosive temper. Could anything ever satisfy her? In the end, perhaps out of frustration, perhaps out of a kind of desperation, perhaps simply to have some fun without answering to anyone else, Eddie spent a lot of time at the racetrack. Ethel spent most of her time working. No one could say there was now trouble in paradise because life with Matthews had never been a paradise. The truth of the matter was that—after less than three years—often Ethel and Eddie went their separate ways.
During its first weeks on Broadway, Rhapsody in Black drew crowds, but by its sixth week, its weekly gross slipped to a piddling $7,000. Shortly thereafter, the musical ended its Broadway run. Not discouraged, Leslie took the show on the road. In July, it opened at Atlantic City’s Apollo Theatre on the boardwalk. An irony of this progressive Black show was that it now played at a distinctly non-progressive theater. Like theaters in other parts of the country, the Apollo was segregated. “Negroes sit in the235 gallery—‘it’s their place,’ says the management,” wrote columnist Chappy Gardner, who questioned why no one spoke up about the discrimination, especially “the Negroes who have more political sway than most Negroes have anywhere [but] do nothing about it.” Nor did Lew Leslie do anything. Audiences in this oceanside city filled the theater, but once again Leslie left his cast and crew in the cold. Paychecks were late or missing altogether. “I learned from good236 authority that Ethel Waters did not get her money here,” reported Gardner, “and hadn’t been getting her regular assignment long before ‘Rhapsody in Black’ hit Atlantic City. WHY?”
The money problems must have been resolved, at least temporarily, because Ethel stayed with the touring version of Rhapsody in Black as it made its way to other cities. In September, the musical returned to Washington, D.C., where Ethel and company again found themselves in a segregated theater. From there, Rhapsody in Black opened at the Shubert Theatre in Philadelphia. Arrangements were made for Momweeze and other family members to attend a performance. During an encore that evening, Ethel stepped out of character and addressed the audience. She said the next song would be for her mother. For Ethel, it was another attempt to reach her mother, and, as always, to win her approval and love. But she still couldn’t win the affectionate response from her mother that she craved. The fact that almost thirty-five years had passed since Ethel’s birth didn’t seem to do anything to alleviate her mother’s emotional duress—and shame.
Next stop for the show was Boston, then came an opening on December 25 at Chicago’s downtown theater, the Garrick. There was no special time allotted to celebrating Christmas. Just about every day was a workday. Afterward she traveled to Detroit, St. Louis, Milwaukee, and New York.
While in Chicago, Ethel and Eddie attended—along with such stars as Fred and Adele Astaire—a special tribute held in Al Jolson’s honor. Jolson was then appearing in Wonder Bar at the city’s Apollo Theatre. Various performers entertained, but as the evening progressed, Ethel realized she had not been introduced, nor had she been asked to sing. Then Jolson himself took center stage. For Ethel, Jolson, despite the history of his blackface numbers, remained a consummate entertainer who went all the way with a song and with keeping an audience enthralled. Once Jolson completed his numbers, Ethel suddenly heard the master of ceremonies, Ben Bernie, call out her name but without announcing that she’d perform. Ethel believed that he assumed no one would want to follow Jolson, which was true. But she rose, took center stage anyway, sang several numbers, and had the crowd going wild. Afterward, there came a booking at a club in Cicero, Illinois, that was run by Al Capone and his brother Ralph. By now, Capone was the most notorious gangster in America, a legendary figure in the annals of crime. Not much frightened Ethel, but this engagement was an exception. There was no way she could turn down Capone, yet she asked herself what might happen if she failed to give anything other than a knockout performance, according to his standards? Throughout her whole time in Cicero, she was terrified, as was Eddie. Every time they heard a popping sound, they jumped in fear it might be a gunshot. The tough girl of the streets didn’t feel so tough. She got through her engagement successfully but was more than ready to leave town when it ended.
In March 1932, a poll taken by the Pittsburgh Courier asked its readers to name their favorite male and female stars. In third place were Adelaide Hall and Stepin Fetchit. Second-place honors went to Nina Mae McKinney and Richard B. Harrison, the star of The Green Pastures. The first-place winners were Ethel and the singing quartet, the Mills Brothers. The poll confirmed what many already believed: Ethel had become Black America’s most famous female star, bigger than Bessie and all the blues singers of the past decade, bigger than an up-and-comer like Valaida Snow, bigger than singers Ada Brown and Alice Whitman and actress Evelyn Preer, also as big as such male stars as Ellington and Armstrong. Though she had crossed over and was well known among white theatergoers and record buyers, there remained a level of crossover stardom that she had not yet attained.
In May, when Rhapsody in Black again played Chicago, she was asked by the Chicago Defender for her opinion on Negro accomplishments in entertainment. In comments that appeared under her byline, she cited Negro spirituals “as one of the237 foremost contributions to American music.” She spoke about the serious dramas of Eugene O’Neill, Paul Green, and DuBose and Dorothy Heyward but added that she believed “the field in which our people have shown to greater advantage is on the musical stage. From the crowded dance halls of Harlem in New York City to the star-lit cotton field of Georgia, the Race has proven itself the finest natural singers in the world.” She praised Jules Bledsoe, Taylor Gordon, Daniel Haynes, and especially Paul Robeson, “who has shown that his voice can be heard to advantage on the concert stage and has raised his own folk songs to the dignity of classical music. And on the popular musical stage he is unsurpassed in the natural exuberance of his singing and dancing.” She was now considered something of a spokeswoman for the race. Yet she would always steer clear of direct comments on the nation’s politics or its social and racial questions.
By June, Rhapsody in Black was back in New York at the Paramount. Leslie had created a shortened version that could play the movie houses and proved a huge success, which was a windfall for Ethel. She still collected 10 percent of the show’s gross. Leslie grew even more resentful of the deal he had made, but she had too much else on her mind to think much about Leslie. During these tough times, the main thing was to continue working and rebuild her financial base after the Africana fiasco, which meant that she always had to decide what engagement would follow the current one. Her other concern was her relationship with Eddie. The two had grown even further apart. But she didn’t seem to know what to do about the situation.
Then an incident occurred that unsettled her. Following her last performance at the Paramount—when she was believed to be carrying anywhere from $2,000 to $3,000—she entered her apartment building in Harlem and was heading to the elevator when a group of young toughs stopped her in the hallway. One grabbed the elevator operator. The others pulled revolvers on Ethel and a companion. The men grabbed her purse and then ran off. But as Ethel later told the press, she had been carrying only about $25. The large sum of money she had received earlier in the day had already been deposited at the bank. The Negro press let readers know that the gang of robbers had been white and had preyed on other well-to-do Harlem residents. Ethel was left shaken.
As she continued with the show,
Lew Leslie was back to his old tricks. He kept reshaping the revue, changing its name, and bringing in new cast members. At one point, Ethel was now publicized as the star of Dixie to Broadway with costars Adelaide Hall and the Mills Brothers. When the show played the Lafayette in late November, it was called Broadway to Harlem. Another time, Leslie changed the title simply to Blackbirds. When it again played New York City’s Paramount in 1932, Ethel was not billed at all. The reason for all these changes? Leslie didn’t want to pay her the weekly salary or her percentage of the gross. The only way to handle Leslie was to threaten him. Harold Gumm let the producer know he had set up a deal for Ethel to play the Roxy Theatre, the great rival of the Paramount, at the same time that Blackbirds was set to start. Leslie backed down, and Ethel was back in the show.
As 1932 drew to a close, the nation’s financial crisis had deepened. Some 2 million people were left without homes or farms or jobs. The banks had foreclosed on many of them, and then the banks themselves closed. People roamed the country, dazed and disoriented as they struggled to survive. Others resided in Hoovervilles, the name given to communities of makeshift shelters set up along river banks or railroad lines. Some spoke of revolution against the capitalist system itself, looking to communism or socialism as a remedy for the nation’s economic and social ills. But mainly the populace seemed numbed by their despair. A sign of hope was the election in November of Franklin Delano Roosevelt as the next president of the United States, to be sworn into office in March 1933.
At the start of 1933, Rhapsody in Black was back on the road. But Ethel had a new song in the first act, the somber “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” which was almost an anthem of the Depression. The show moved east in February.
Relieved once she was in New York again, she wasn’t sure what was next for her. No doubt she’d have to pack her bags again and hit the road. Without a flood of offers pouring in, her career was in a slump. She’d stick with Rhapsody in Black for as long as she could. But when the show played at the Lafayette Theatre, she clashed again with Leslie, who insisted she take a pay cut. She quit the show. She knew such bookings were fillers, something to bring in the money and keep her before the public. But a career needs more than fillers; it has to have new peaks, new challenges. Broadway was still a destination point, yet it remained difficult for a Negro star to sustain a Broadway career. Ethel also had to deal with another fact: before the end of 1933, she would turn thirty-seven. Not ancient. But in show business, a crop of fresh faces was always standing in line, waiting for the big break, the opportunity to replace whoever had previously stepped out of that line to make a name for herself. “Who Will Be the Bojangles, Waters or Mills of Tomorrow?” was the question the Pittsburgh Courier had asked two years ago in its October 3, 1931, edition. Other Negro publications had written of young, upcoming women as being the future Ethel Waters. Too ambitious to rest on her laurels, Waters still sought new ways in which to showcase her talents, to keep herself on top and ahead of the pack. She also became suspicious and distrustful of the young women then making records or appearing in shows. Unknown to her was the fact that right around the corner, in the midst of the Great Depression, was a prized booking that would lead to an even higher level of stardom and also a return to Broadway.
Chapter 8
Broadway Star
IN EARLY 1933, HERMAN STARK, the manager of the Cotton Club, contacted Ethel about the possibility of appearing at the famous nightclub. For Ethel, no establishment could match the Cotton Club in sophistication, top-notch entertainment, and sexy exoticism. Its moneyed, glamorous patrons demanded the best. Located at 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue, its space had formerly been occupied by the Douglas Casino and the Club Deluxe. The latter had once been under the management of heavyweight champ Jack Johnson. Run by the gangster Owney Madden—who at first used the nightclub mainly as a place to unload his bootleg beer at steep prices—the Cotton Club’s extravagance was unprecedented for a Harlem nightclub: it seated over seven hundred people, had elaborate floor shows that offered “the cream of sepia238 talent, the greatest array of creole stars ever assembled, supported by a chorus of bronze beauties.” Its knockout chorus girls were celebrated for being “tall, tan, and terrific.” The club had an exotic interior that would have been the envy of any Hollywood set designer. Its main room—designed by Joseph Urban—was shaped like a giant horseshoe and filled with fake palm trees, which helped give the club its naughty jungle-style motif that was talked about everywhere.
From the year it opened, the stage was alive with the brilliance and razzle-dazzle of legendary Negro musicians and entertainers. There were the bandleaders Duke Ellington, Jimmy Lunceford, Cab Calloway, and Ethel’s old orchestra leader, Fletcher Henderson. There was the fiercely innovative musical genius Louis Armstrong. There were the great dancers: the smooth-as-silk Bill “Bojangles” Robinson; the perfectly coordinated team of Buck and Bubbles, with the superb Bubbles tapping up a storm; and those precocious, shockingly talented wunderkinds the Nicholas Brothers, who would later tap, spin, twirl, flip, and somersault their way to major stardom on Broadway, in Hollywood, and around the world. There were also singers like the mellow and moody Ivie Anderson as well as Adelaide Hall, Aida Ward, George Dewey Washington, and Leitha Hill. And in 1933, there was a very young, very pretty chorus girl named Lena Horne. The Cotton Club’s shows were the talk of the town, covered by major columnists, including Ed Sullivan, Walter Winchell, and Louis Sobol. “There was good food too,” said Cotton Club producer Dan Healy, “and a cover charge of $3. There was practically every kind of drink. Good booze, too—it was the real McCoy.”
But with all its glamour, the Cotton Club was also notorious for the fact that while it spotlighted great Negro entertainment, few African Americans were actually allowed in as patrons. “There were brutes239 at the door,” Carl Van Vechten said, “to enforce the Cotton Club’s policy which was opposed to mixed parties, [although] sometimes somebody like Bill Robinson or Ethel herself could get a table for colored friends.”
Each year, the Cotton Club offered two new productions. And every night, two extravagant shows were energetically performed: the first at midnight, the second around 2:00 a.m. In the early 1920s, Lew Leslie had produced many of the shows with songs by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields. In 1926, Herman Stark hired Dan Healy to produce the production, and much then changed. Healy was credited with creating the type of show that the Cotton Club would remain famous for. “The chief ingredient was240 pace, pace, pace!” Healy once said. “The show was generally built around types: the band, an eccentric dancer, a comedian—whoever we had who was also a star. The show ran an hour and a half, sometimes two hours. We’d break it up with a good voice.” There would also be a “special singer who gave the customers the expected adult song in Harlem, a girl like Leitha Hill.” The year 1930 marked another changing of the guard as Healy brought in songwriters Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler, who then created music for the club’s dazzling floor shows.
In the years to come, Arlen would be considered one of America’s great but sometimes underrated composers; to some music critics, he would be as important as Irving Berlin, George Gershwin, Richard Rodgers, and Cole Porter. The son of a cantor and his doting wife, Arlen had been born Chaim Arluck in Buffalo, New York, in 1905. His twin brother had died the day after their birth. His name, Chaim, was Hebrew for “life.” Growing up around music, he sang, at age seven, in the choir at his synagogue. At nine, he was playing the piano. By fifteen, he formed his first band, Hyman Arluck’s Snappy Trio. A year later, he left home. At age twenty-three, in 1928, he was a vocalist, a pianist, and an arranger. He had also become Harold Arlen. His breakthrough came when he was teamed with lyricist Ted Koehler, and the two created the song “Get Happy.” Throughout his career, Arlen would write eight Broadway shows and thirty movies, and working with a series of talented lyricists, he would create such classic popular songs as “I’ve Got the World on a String,” “One for My Baby (One for the Road),” “Ac-C
en-Tu-Ate the Positive,” “That Old Black Magic,” “Blues in the Night,” and “Over the Rainbow.”
When working with Koehler, Arlen was always thinking music. One evening at a party, Arlen fooled around with a melody that he thought might be perfect for Cab Calloway at the Cotton Club. Before the party ended, Koehler came up with the lyrics. “Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky,” was the opening line. Both men realized that what they were creating was really not a guy’s number at all but a soulful ballad for a woman. The song was “Stormy Weather,” and when Herman Stark heard it, he knew he had to find the right woman to sing it—and to draw in a large audience at the same time. He knew that woman was Ethel. Before it would be heard at the club, “Stormy Weather” was recorded by the Leo Reisman Orchestra for RCA Victor in February 1933. It was a hit, but Stark, Arlen, and Koehler must have realized that with Ethel singing it, “Stormy Weather” could become an entirely different kind of hit. The Cotton Club had previously done a special “Ethel Waters Night” tribute, which Ethel had enjoyed. Perhaps this would help the club sign her for its new edition. In the end, that may have helped, but so did the fact that Herman Stark was willing to agree to her salary demands. A meeting was set up. Different parties would claim credit for working out the details of the deal. According to one version, Ellington’s manager, Irving Mills, stepped in to handle Waters’ negotiations. Ethel, however, credited Gumm.
Accompanied by Pearl Wright, Ethel met with Herman Stark, Arlen, and Koehler. She liked Arlen, his style, his attitude, his music, his relaxed down-to-earth way of relating to her as an African American woman. He is “the Negro-est white man241 I know,” she said. Sometimes she referred to him as “my son.” With his dark, wavy hair, his broad nose, and his dark coloring, Arlen even looked to some like a light-skinned Negro. While she was openly impressed with “Stormy Weather,” she didn’t like the concept for presenting it. There were plans for special effects, with the sound of thunder and wind. The effects should be dropped, she informed them. What was important was the human emotion of the song.