Tag: George White

Times Square Tintypes: Patrick Cain

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Patrick “Patsy” Cain, a man who made a living storing the scenery from closed Broadway shows.

NOT A SHOW IN A CARLOAD

An author spends months writing a play. A producer stakes everything on it. Days and nights of weary rehearsals with stars sweating. The play opens. Evening dress and silk hats. Speculators selling tickets on the sidewalk. Everybody is so happy. A few months later a truck backs up at the stage door. The path of glory leads but to Cain’s.
Caricature of Patrick CainPATRICK CAIN is the owner of that theatrical storehouse. Everybody calls him Patsy.
He attended P. S. 32. Bows his head shamefully when admitting that he didn’t have the honor of receiving a diploma.
His father, John J. Cain, a former policeman, started the trucking business forty-two years ago. He used to help his father just for the ride.
Seldom goes to an opening night. Producers, considering him a jinx, shoo him away. He has attended more closing nights than any other man in the world.
Has a broken nose. This he received in his youth during a block fight.
His warehouse is located at 530 West Forty-first Street. Directly opposite is an old brewery with a statue of a fallen man holding a schooner of beer. He seems to be saying to those show entering their final resting place: “Here’s to Better Days.”
Is happily married and the proud possessor of four children. Has his own home in Flushing. It was built especially for him by a stage carpenter.
He doesn’t drink, smoke or use profane language.
Rarely eat in restaurants. Has breakfast and dinner at home. Has lunch at his sister’s, who lives two blocks from his place of business.
The storehouse consists of five stories and a basement.
The fifth floor is for the shows of Aarons and Freedley, Schwab and Mandel, Gene Buck and the personal belongings of W. C. Fields and Laurette Taylor. The fourth floor holds the last remains of Florenz Ziegfeld‘s Follies and George White‘s Scandals. Their mighty efforts for supremacy rest in peace. The third floor is for Sam H. Harris, Douglas Fairbanks, A. L. Erlanger and the Paramount Theatre. The second floor is occupied by Richard Herndon and others. The basement is for the canvas “drops.” They are rolled neatly and lie row on row. Their tombstone is an identification tag on which is scrawled in pencil: “Garden Drop—Follies—1917.”
He drinks two chocolate ice cream sodas every day. On Sunday evenings he takes the entire family to the neighborhood drug store and treats them to sodas.
Employs only four men—a night watchman, a day watchman, a bookkeeper and a superintendent. He hasn’t a secretary. But the superintendent, attired in greasy overalls, takes great pride in referring to himself as “Patsy’s typewriter.”
He hires his help by the day. Employs exactly the number he needs for that day’s work. While on a job if the men eat before three o’clock they must pay for the meal. If they eat after three he must. Every day he phones his men at exactly one o’clock and says: “Boys, I think you ought to knock off now and get yourselves a bite to eat.”
He has eight gold teeth in his mouth. They make him look dignified.
Reads only two things. They are the dramatic reviews and the cartoons in the New Yorker.
Has the same amount of strength in his right hand as in his left. He can write just as unintelligibly with both.

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Times Square Tintypes: The Broadwayite

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles a character he dubs The Broadwayite.

FOUR OUT OF FIVE

OUT of the mess of broken hearts, out of the string of speakeasies, out of the stage door, out of the glare of the White Lights, there has taken form a strange being. He is the soul of Broadway. He speaks its lingo. He symbolizes its credo. One little block, east or west of Broadway, and he is in another universe. Step up and shake hands with THE BROADWAYITE.
Caricature of The BroadwayiteHe considers it quite an honor if Madame Guinan bounces him over the head with a bottle.
After a two-minute acquaintanceship with anybody he calls the party by his first name.
His philosophy of life is merely a protective covering for his shortcomings. When he dies he still will be waiting for “the breaks.”
He reads Variety from cover to cover. Can tell you where they got that inside story. Also, if it’s true. Is certain his statement is the last word in the matter.
His manners are atrocious. He always keeps his hat on. Thinks it makes him look like a newspaper man.
He is a gag carrier.
Is a sidewalk critic. Stands on the curb during intermissions and gives lectures on the entertainment. Calls all the critics by their first names. He looks familiar to them.
When dining with anyone he orders filet mignon. And can outfumble anyone for the check. When eating alone he orders beans.
Remembers George White when he was only a hoofer. Recalls vividly how George followed his advice. Knows who really picks the girls for Ziegfeld. He informs everyone that Lillian Gish and George Jean Nathan really hold hands.
He talks loudly. Even when he whispers.
He has a repertoire of stories. Uses them again and again. Even employing the same gestures. He gets to be quite boring.
He is unfeeling. His proudest moment was when a chorine jumped from the ninth floor of a hotel because he jilted her. The newspapers spoiled it all by saying she fell.
Looks for his name in Ward Morehouse‘s recording of the celebrities present. Believes the list to be incomplete if his name is not included.
He thinks that dramatic criticism in this man’s town is a matter of personal prejudice and that the Paramount Building is actually at the “crossroads of the world.”
Had a sandwich named after him in a well-known delicatessen.
If given his choice to be anyone in all history he would select himself.
He has never been in the Metropolitan Opera House. Tried to crash it once. It was the Lambs’ Gambol. He couldn’t get by a ticket taker. He went in like a Lamb and came out like a lion.
Nothing has ever been known to embarrass him.
Will often reprimand a waiter in this manner: “How about a little service? Do you know who I am? I’m practically God.”
Let him cough once. Then he believes that the night life has got him at last. That he has tuberculosis. A lozenge clears the throat and he is off again.
His ambition in life is to have his nameplate on a seat in the Chanin theaters.
He has written for almost every magazine in America. Has the rejection slips to prove it.
His favorite expression is “I told you so.”
He is greatly admired by folks who don’t know him.
It is utterly impossible for him to keep a secret.

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Times Square Tintypes: Kelcey Allen

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles drama critic Kelcey Allen.
 

BROADWAY’S WET NURSE

KELCEY ALLEN. He’s the dramatic critic of Women’s Wear, a he-man’s newspaper.
He was on Broadway when Jed Harris was a spindle-legged kid taking violin lessons in Newark. When Shanley’s was situated at the crossroads of the world and didn’t know it. When George White ran away from home to become a jockey. When the mob gathered at the Metropole bar. When Earl Carroll, a big boy for his age, walked the streets of Pittsburgh in a white sailor suit and “Throw ’em Down McCloskey” was the popular tune of the day. Today he’s grandfather to New York’s dramatic critics.
Caricature of Kelcey AllenHe talks with authority on any subject.
His first name is Eugene. But he doesn’t use it because he is a believer in numerology.
Started his theatrical career by carrying copy for the critics. In those yesteryears the critics wrote their reviews in the theater. He called for their copy, delivering it to their respective papers. He received twenty-five cents from each critic. He looked mighty cute riding about town on a bicycle.
Is happily married to a most charming lady.
He types with two fingers. And generally stubs them.
He is the best broadcasting station side of the Rocky Mountains.
He lives at the Hotel Chelsea but gets his mail at the Hermitage Hotel.
Writes his reviews on the second floor of the Fitzgerald Building. It takes him an hour and half to do so. Then takes the review home, places it under his pillow and sleeps on it. A messenger calls for his copy every morning at nine.
He suffers from new diseases only.
Has attended more than 5,000 first nights.
Knows more about Broadway than any man in the Garment Center than any man on Broadway.
His father was a school teacher. Had a degree in philology. Spoke nine languages.
He knows every restaurant in town that serves an eighty-cent table d’hôte dinner. Also knows their daily specials without looking at the menu.
Has a repertoire of stories. Tells them again and again. Employing the same gestures.
He’s the best audience he’s ever had.
Visited Europe last summer and was received by the Pope. His trip was ruined, however, on hearing that a producer had withdrawn his advertisement from Women’s Wear.
He notices legs but can’t carry a tune.
Carries a folding wallet which when spread out would cover the dance floor of a night club. It contains passes for everything in town, from the Aquarium to the Metropolitan Opera House. Also carries various patent medicines with him. No matter what ails you he’s got something that will cure you.
Tells things in detail. Then says: “Now what I mean to say is this—” And he starts all over again.
Smokes cigars and only offers them to people who don’t smoke.
Actually placed himself on every opening-night list. He published a sheet listing all the critics. Mailed it to the press agents for their convenience. He placed his name on the list. Before long he was complaining about the location of his seats.
He perspires freely about the neck. When attending a banquet (his favorite indoor and outdoor sport) he always career an extra collar with him.
Calls people by their wrong names. When corrected says: “I know it’s his wrong name, but I call him that.”
In Sardi’s he once made a flip crack about an Italian who had a mustache which extended fully six inches on both sides. The playboys of the Rialto got busy. They told Kelcey the man had overheard him and threatened him. For two days he stayed away—frightened. On his return he immediately sought out the man with the mustache and said: “That remark overheard wasn’t about you. I’m sorry if you think so and I want to apologize.” The Italian rose, stared at Kelcey and said: “Me no spik English.”
His hobby is collecting newspapers with typographical errors.

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Times Square Tintypes: Irving Berlin

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles perhaps the greatest of American songwriters, Irving Berlin.
 

THE BIRTH OF THE BLUES

HE has a name that will live forever and he bought it for a song. IRIVING BERLIN.
Came to this country at the age of four, the youngest of eight children. In Russia his father was a cantor. Here a kosher butcher.
He has yet to find a hat to fit him.
He eats a lot for one of his size.
Plays the piano by ear. And only in F sharp. Has a specially constructed piano with a sliding keyboard. When the music calls for another key he merely moves the lever.
He is not a one finger player. Uses all his fingers badly.
Has a scar on his forehead. It was received on a Washington’s Birthday in Cherry Street, trying to start a bonfire.
Thinks he is a good stud poker player. His friends say he’s lucky.
His pet aversions are riveters and second verses.
Ran away from home at the age of fourteen. His first stop was Callahan’s saloon. Here he sang “The Mansion of Aching Hearts” until enough coins were tossed at him to pay for a night’s lodging. Later became a singing waiter at Nigger Mike’s place, 12 Pell Street. The barker on the trip to Chinatown bus now points out the place.
He wrote “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” credited with starting the jazz vogue, at the age of twenty-three.
Crowds frighten him. So do certain individuals.
His idea of a great achievement is writing a song that reaches the million copy mark.
Maintains a home in West Forty-sixth Street. But lives elsewhere. The first of every month generally finds him moving.
His square moniker is Israel Baline. For a time, he went under the name of Cooney. Became Berlin because that was the way the Bowery pronounced Baline.
As a singing waiter he kicked a hoofer named George White out of the place for being a pest, and he served Al Smith.
Is always chewing gum. This can be observed by merely watching the funny way his hat moves on his head.
His favorite biographer is Alexander Woollcott.
He composes in this fashion: First playing the song on the piano. Then singing it to Arthur Johnson, his right and left hand man, who records upon paper what he hears. Then Johnson plays the written manuscript. This is the first draft. From this Berlin works on to the final version. Often after a song has been published he changes it.
His bill for flowers for the Mrs. is $1,000 a month.
His patent leather dinner shoes have more cracks than his hair has waves.
Of all the songs he has written, a figure exceeding four hundred, his favorite is “The Song Is Ended But the Melody Lingers On.”
Is very restless. Can’t sit or stand still. Always paces the floor. He walks miles in any room he is in. It is the only exercise he gets.
As far as playwrights go, his taste begins and ends with George S. Kaufman. As for music, he’ll whistle anything by Jerome Kern. For lyrics he hands first prize to B. G. De Sylva. And if asked to name the swellest guy in the theatrical game, he’d shout Sam Harris.
He has had to change his entire working schedule since he became a father.
He has never worn a diamond. The only jewelry he wears is, occasionally, a pearl tie pin.
Never eats the crust of bread or rolls. Always plucks the filling. This can be seen circled about his plate.
After finishing a song he sings it to the first person he meets. A bell boy at Palm Beach was the first person to hear “Lazy.” A Broadway taxi driver was the first to hear “All Alone.” A bewildered stranger, occupation unknown, was the first to hear “Say It With Music.”
He never writes anything in longhand but his signature on a check. Everything else he prints.
The one thing in life he is looking forward to is walking into a restaurant with his daughter, Mary Ellen.
Of all the songs ever written the one he’d love to be the author of is “The Rosary.”
On the fly leaf of a book containing every song he wrote there is this ditty which he believes sums up everything:

Let Me Be a Troubadour,
And I Will For Nothing More
Than One Short Hour Or So
To Sing My Song And Go.

He has a form-fitting couch which was especially designed for him.

Times Square Tintypes: George White

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles George White, a theatrical producer who is perhaps not as well remembered today as the man who served as his primary competition in the 1920s and ’30s, Florenz Ziegfeld.
 

SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

 
A HOODLUM was picked up on the streets of Toronto for raiding fruit stands. A stern judge saw that the law took care of him and said: “You’re a bad egg. No good will come rom you.” The bad egg was GEORGE WHITE.
He has 140 neckties. They are all black.
Weighs 140 pounds. Has never been known to eat fast or walk slowly.
His father was a Jewish garment manufacturer on Delancey Street. There were ten other children in the family. He stole fruit, blacked boots, danced, sold flowers and papers. As a kid he had no great ambition.
Delights in playing practical jokes on his stars. Almost to the point of ruining their performance in his own show.
He has a patent-leather hair comb. Pays great attention to his hair. Always carries a bottle of petroleum oil which he alternates between rubbing on his hair and drinking.
His début as a dancer was made in “Piggy” Donovan’s saloon on the Bowery. He was then “Swifty,” the messenger boy. Was delivering telegrams when he asked the piano player to let him hoof. He collected 12.30 which was tossed at him. He threw away the remainder of the telegrams. Two were marked: “DEATH—RUSH.”
Is thirty-eight years old. The first thing he notices about a woman is her legs. Then her form. After that her face. Is on the credit side of the matrimonial ledger and never expects to get married.
He has a Jap butler, Shei, who gets tight on his best Scotch. He won’t fire him. He likes his cooking.
Once was kicked out of a saloon by a singing waiter named Irving Berlin.
Was a stable boy and a jockey. He followed the horses around the country. Later, his love for the races cost him $850,000 in eighteen months. Once dropped $100,000 on one race. Then he swore off. Hasn’t been at a race track for the past five years.
He was the vaudeville performer to do a dance on skis.
Generally gets to bed at about four in the morning and is up at twelve. Spends a part of each day playing with the mechanical toys he brings back from his yearly trips to Paris.
His hobby is selling tickets in the box office. Some day he hopes to be able to tell Ziegfeld there is “Standing Room Only.”
Does things on the spur of the moment. Five minutes before he sailed for Paris a year ago he purchased a Park Avenue apartment house. Merely because he liked one apartment in the building. He lives in an apartment on Seventh Avenue because he doesn’t want to pay the Park Avenue rent he charges.
His middle name is Alviel which he uses only on checks.
Among his major hates are first nights, paper napkins, barbers with a selling complex and crowds—except at his own shows.
He owns a Rolls-Royce which can be seen standing outside of his own theater. He generally walks home between the car tracks in Times Square. He won the auto on a bet. On first hearing “The Birth of the Blues,” he bet a music publisher a Rolls-Royce it would be a song hit. It was.
Produced and operated six annual editions of his Scandals, each doing an approximate gross business of $1,250,000 without an office. In those days his office was in his pocket.
In selecting chorus girls he generally allows Lew Brown to help him do the picking.
He hasn’t read a book for as long as he can remember. He never attends a performance of a dramatic play. He sees all the musicals.
Cried only once in his life. That was when he read Burns Mantle’s criticism of his first show which said: “The Scandals of 1919 prove that a hoofer should stick to his dancing.”
His sole exercise is a walk around the Reservoir in Central Park. On these occasions he takes along a male companion or a thin walking stick.
Always wears blue serge suits, black shoes, white silk shirts and black ties. One day he wore a gray suit and the stage doorman, failing to recognize him, wouldn’t let him in.
His favorite meal is one consisting of caviar and champagne. He can eat a pound of caviar at a sitting. Is a very slow eater. It takes him an hour to consume a sandwich.
Not so long ago a women, Rose Janousek, sent him a package containing a revolver and a few rounds of ammunition merely because she admired him.
On Sunday nights he generally takes his best girl to the Roxy. While looking at the picture they hold hands.
When his ego rises, he modestly enough calls Broadway—The Great White Way—believing it was named after him.