by Donald Bogle
Rightly called the “Mother of the Blues,” Rainey was the first distinctive female blues singer that anyone knew of. Born Gertrude Pridgett in 1886 in Columbus, Georgia, she made her debut at the age of fourteen, when she walked onstage and stunned the crowd with her big voice. At eighteen, she married Will “Pa” Rainey, and she was afterward known as Ma as the two traveled together mostly through the South and the Midwest, appearing wherever, whenever they could, not just in clubs and theaters but in circuses, carnivals, you-name-its—sometimes in open fields where platforms could be set up. Dark-skinned with broad features and physically rather squat, she was sometimes called the “ugliest woman in show business.” But no one ever called her that to her face, and they certainly didn’t call her that onstage. Wearing horsehair wigs and dresses studded with sequins and rhinestones, flashing diamonds around her neck, her wrists, and dangling from her ears, she represented an emotional, well-traveled woman who had been everywhere and seen everything and now was coming back to tell her chillun the ins and outs of survival. Black audiences never could get enough of her. With her blues songs, she made a place for herself in popular entertainment. Thereafter, a permanent slot on a theater’s bill had to be reserved for a powerful African American female star.
Vaudeville was now the way most entertainers, Black and white, made their living, hopscotching from one town or city or theater to another, performing on a bill that had many different types of performers. Usually, in such vaudeville productions, there was a little of everything, a hodgepodge of entertainment. There would be dancers: Those long-legged chorus girls. Or loose-limbed comedic dancers, twisting and turning their bodies joyously. Or jaunty cakewalkers or masters of tap. Singers would also be on the bill. Some might perform the still popular coon songs. Others might do sentimental love ballads. But by the time Ethel started working, those singers looked old-fashioned as blues singers came to prominence, performing new-style music that told stories of lives in disarray or tales of those caught in the grip of a passionate love—music that dramatically documented love and life.
On the vaudeville lineup, there would always be comedians, often teams, who would work the audience up. In a team, there would be the low-key, slow-thinking dupe and the jive-talking, conniving huckster. Sometimes the humor was slapstick. Sometimes it was crude. Other times sexual innuendos could fly all over the place. Dialects were thick and heavy. With the comics, the blackface tradition yet endured. “Your makeup was cork28,” explained Lee Young, who performed in blackface in his youth. “You know, it was cork, and you used greasepaint, make your lips white, you know, with white greasepaint.” No one was quite sure why the blackface tradition wasn’t dropped long ago. Some believed it was partly due to the fact that if whites saw the Black companies, they might not realize there were actual colored performers onstage. Regardless, the burnt-cork tradition persisted for too long.
Onstage, individual entertainers might also perform a variety of material. There were also musicians—sometimes just a two-man orchestra or a piano player—to back the singers and help keep the show moving along. Usually, the productions were fast-moving, or at least they tried to be. If the entertainers were not of the top rank—and Ethel felt most the entertainers at the Lincoln in Baltimore clearly were not—then a show could seem mighty slow.
Upon her arrival in BALTIMORE, she was primed for action. In Philadelphia, she had heard a female impersonator sing a new song called “St. Louis Blues,” one despairing woman’s tale of a man who has left her for “that St. Louis woman, with her diamond rings.” Torchy and melodic, “St. Louis Blues” was not the kind of song Waters would become famous for; it wasn’t the narrative of a woman calling the shots, setting the agenda for the man in her life. But the song afforded her a chance to create a character in song. Contacting its composer, W. C. Handy, and his business partner, Harry Pace, she was granted permission to sing it, which meant that Ethel would be the first woman to actually perform what would became a very famous song. For a time, she would make “St. Louis Blues” her signature piece.
Her first sight of the Lincoln Theatre was a disappointment, however. Small and rickety, it wasn’t much of a place, certainly not like the large and grand Standard back in Philadelphia. Nor did it have any of the amenities she might have expected. No real dressing rooms, not even any wings to speak of. Everything about it was makeshift. Performers had to dress and change costumes behind partitions. It was a sign of things to come, of other small broken-down theaters she would play. But Ethel was good at adapting, and she was too much the novice to complain.
In Baltimore, she became friendly with another act that Braxton and Nugent handled, the Hill Sisters. Composed of real-life siblings Maggie and Jo Hill, the Hill Sisters were from North Carolina, had been in show business a few years, and believed they were off on an adventure to see the world. Even though Ethel didn’t have a professional portfolio, she was already tougher and shrewder, less trusting and gullible, than Maggie and Jo.
At the Lincoln, Braxton and Nugent decided to make her the third Hill Sister. But billing her simply as one of the Hill Sisters didn’t say anything about her. Nor was Ethel Waters a name to draw anybody in; nothing enticing or commanding about it. Finally, it was decided to make use of her appearance. She was long, lanky, really skinny, but with curves and good-looking legs. On the Black vaudeville circuit, a husband-and-wife comedy team was called Stringbeans and Sweetie. He wore tight pants that emphasized how skinny and loose-jointed he was. Ethel would become the female version, but she had to have some sexy come-on too. In the end, she was called Sweet Mama Stringbean, a catchy show name that helped give her a stage persona, an evolving identity on the vaudeville circuit.
At the Lincoln, there weren’t long rehearsals. Ethel had to work with the musicians—a two-man orchestra—to make sure they played in the right key, that they understood where her dramatic pauses and surges might be. Shrewdly, she never underestimated the importance of musicians. But there wasn’t much time for discussion at the Lincoln, and besides, she was still too green to make demands. Ethel was recruited to perform a kiddie dance routine with Maggie and Jo. There was safety in numbers. If someone messed up or missed a cue, another could cover for the mishap.
But it was a whole other matter when Ethel suddenly had to perform “St. Louis Blues” alone. Before she went on, she prayed; this would be part of a lifelong preperformance ritual. Even at that, Nugent had to grab her arm and literally pull her onstage. The prelude to her solo was a little comedy skit between Nugent and herself, the kind of husband-and-wife squabble that was typical of vaudeville entertainment as a lead-in to a longer comedy sketch or a song. Once Nugent left the stage, she must have seen the audience for the first time. It wasn’t that group of neighborhood folks she had performed for at Jack’s Rathskeller. Out there was a group of strangers. They had paid their nickels and they wanted a show. For a few seconds, she didn’t know how she’d sing. But a few seconds, which must have felt like hours, was all she had. Braxton and Nugent and everyone else was waiting to hear what came out of her mouth. “I was so frightened29 that I had to sit on a chair to do my song,” she said. Somehow she got through it and she wasn’t half bad. In fact, she was pretty good because the audience threw money onto the stage. Her initiation into professional showbiz had formally begun.
During and after the two weeks at the Lincoln, she learned that a key to performing was to understand the paying customers, adjusting to their whims, moods, attitudes, or demands. If the weather was bad outside, you might have to work like crazy to warm the crowd up. If they weren’t interested in a performer, they’d talk during the show. Or they’d eat. Or they’d make jokes. Or they’d shout at the person onstage. Or they’d boo. The audience demanded the absolute best. With the performer onstage and with the Black patrons in their seats, it was a communal experience. “The audience there was30 called the hardest to please in the country. But when they liked you, you knew it, and when they didn’t you knew it quicker,�
� she recalled. “But they were also31 the most appreciative audiences in the world if they liked you. They’d scream, stomp, and applaud until the whole building shook. Years later, when I first stepped before a white audience, I thought I was a dead duck because no one tried to tear the house down. They merely clapped their hands. Such restraint is almost a sneer in the colored vaudeville world I came out of.”
At the end of the first week, a jubilant Ethel collected her $10 pay. Part of it was immediately sent home to Momweeze. That was how it was to be for the rest of her life. No matter how conflicted she felt about her family and no matter how much or how little she earned, she sent money home and eventually supported them. By the end of the second week, Ethel was gearing for the next stop on the schedule that Braxton and Nugent had set up. But after most of the entertainers had left the theater that night, Ethel overheard a conversation between the two men, who argued about splitting up profits from her salary. The theater was paying Ethel $25 a week, not $10. The two men were dividing the other $15. Waters cursed them out. They could forget about her goddamned future bookings. She was walking out.
When she explained to Maggie and Jo Hill what had happened, they also decided to leave Braxton and Nugent and invited Ethel to join their act, again as a third Hill Sister. The young women had contacts at theaters and set up bookings themselves. They believed they could earn $50 a week, which they would split three ways. Though Ethel had no idea where any of this might lead, she joined them. And now, as she and the Hill Sisters traveled to such “faraway” places as Cincinnati, Lima, Ohio, Chicago, Lexington, Richmond, Charleston, Savannah—even a quick stop at Gibson’s North Pole Theatre in Philadelphia—her real indoctrination into show business began. It was her college education, her apprenticeship, her period of learning the ropes—and, ultimately, mastering all the basics for building a career and surviving in a business that could be debilitating and humiliating. Mainly, it was becoming attuned to life on the road.
Right away with this first tour, there were things to learn that quickly became second nature to her. In the beginning, she and the two sisters made their own travel arrangements. The money for the train tickets would be deducted from their pay. Always there would be suitcases and trunks to pack. She had to learn to stock up on cosmetics, toiletries, personal items and to be prepared for weather changes in various cities. Also there had to be things to occupy her during her off time. Perhaps a deck of cards. Or a magazine to read. Or writing paper to send notes or letters to people back home, letters in which she also sent money. On the road, she had to learn how to use makeup, how to apply it in a dressing area that might not have a mirror, how to pick the costumes—or stitch them together herself—that best caught an audience’s eye or further expressed the songs she sang. On the road, she had to learn to quickly check out a theater where she performed. What was the backstage area like? Where would she change clothes? Were there dressing rooms? Or dressing areas?
Then, having grown up in the North, she had to learn the ways of the South: its racial rules and color codes. Baltimore was part of the South even if she hadn’t thought of it as such. Still, the city—and the state of Maryland—was not the Deep South. That she’d encounter and the Jim Crow laws and the open racism that came with it. Sometimes she traveled by car, but on trains she learned to go to the colored section, where there were often families traveling together, which meant crying children or bickering couples. Food had to be packed for the train rides too: dining cars were off-limits. Once they arrived in a town or city, they headed for the local colored boardinghouses, where there might not be any indoor plumbing or electricity. Once at the boardinghouse, she would have to quickly unpack and head to the theater to do a spot-check. She had to make sure she got paid, and if that meant arguing with the man who ran the theater, she’d have to do that too.
Though in some respects she was shy, especially around people who were more educated and experienced, she had to master a certain showbiz etiquette, learn how to constantly meet new people she might have to work with. Never a trusting or naïve girl, she kept her guard up. With her natural suspiciousness, it didn’t take her long to become distrustful of all the men who owned or operated the theaters and clubs.
During this time, she also saw Negro entertainment for what it was, its contours, parameters, borders, and barriers. For a Negro to make it in the big time was not the same as for a white, in terms of the theaters that a Negro played or the money a Negro made or the respect accorded a Negro by the whites around. Major white entertainment circuits like the Keith and the Orpheum booked acts into their vast network of theaters around the country. For most Black entertainers, it wasn’t easy to crack the color barrier. With his smooth, polished taps, a dancer like Bill “Bojangles” Robinson was able to work his way up into white vaudeville, but he was an exception. Scattered smaller Black circuits existed but were not well organized. Most prominent was the Theatre Owners Booking Association, known as TOBA, which booked Black acts into the South and Midwest. Black entertainers said TOBA stood for “Tough on Black Actors” or “Tough on Black Asses.” Most theater owners on the circuit were white, and the theaters themselves often looked as if they were on their last legs. Some of the owners genuinely appreciated the talents of the colored performers they employed. Others simply wanted to make a quick buck. Often enough there were scheduling hassles. Or there were several shows a night—more than performers might have expected. Then, too, the entertainers knew they better get their paychecks right away. Sometimes they might arrive in a town and find out that, for whatever reason, the show was canceled. But the theaters pulled in Black audiences.
When Ethel started, TOBA was just growing. Within a few years, though, it would prove important for Black stars. “I think it was32 a godsend, really, for professional Black performers at the time, because that was probably the only chance they had to work, other than working on carnivals and circuses,” said Lee Young. “In the South and the Midwest, for a Black performer [there was TOBA]. Ethel Waters came off of it. The Whitman Sisters. Butterbeans and Susie.”
Ethel also had to learn how to deal with men because show business was a man’s world. They were the producers, directors, writers, agents, managers, theater and club owners. Women like Black Patti and Ada Overton Walker could call some of the shots. The Whitman Sisters, whom Ethel admired, were shrewd enough businesswomen to launch their own company, creating new shows almost every year and deciding what worked and what didn’t. The great blues singer Ma Rainey also had clout. And another blues singer, Bessie Smith, still on her rise to stardom, was known not to take much guff from anyone. Still, these women were exceptions to the rule of life in entertainment, and the women who did make it to the top of their profession could find themselves locked in fierce battles with the men, who still controlled the purse strings and the bookings, to express their ideas and mold their destinies.
The producers, the stage managers, and the theater owners were in pursuit of pretty young things on the road. And then there were the stage-door johnnies—the flashy sporting men, the gamblers, the connivers, even the young college boys who were forever hot on the trail of women in show business. The men would buy them drinks, flirt, snuggle up to them, whisper sweet nothings in their ears, basically working overtime to see if they could get from first base to second to third and then make it home. There was never anything very subtle about what the men wanted.
On the road, Ethel was also exposed to the aspect of show business that she declared she detested—the professional rivalries, the backstage feuds, the shouting matches, the malicious whispers, the days when no one wanted to talk to anyone else, the times when actual fights broke out. Every entertainer heard not only his or her applause but also the applause accorded another performer. They all knew they had to claim their turf and then own it. There was only so much room at the top, and if you moved an inch up the ladder, you had to stay ahead of those behind you. Sometimes you had to walk twice as fast just to stay in place. Yet
as much as Ethel might be loath to admit it, once she staked her claim, once she had the first glimmer of her power over audiences, she was determined not to let anyone else get anywhere near her territory. She respected talent and wanted to have it around her in her shows—but as support. In the years to come, she became notoriously tough on other entertainers, especially young women.
But at this point in her career, she was still trying to find her bearings. Yet it wasn’t long before she, Maggie, and Jo were billed as
The Hill Sisters
Featuring Sweet Mama Stringbean, singing “St. Louis Blues”
Neither Hill sister was happy with the billing or the crowds that called out for Sweet Mama Stringbean—and threw all those coins her way. But otherwise Maggie and Jo loved all the attention and luxuriated in the flattery, especially when it came from the college boys who were studying to be doctors, lawyers, teachers. Of course, Ethel still couldn’t abide the dictys. Nor did she care much for the other men hanging around. She had seen too much on Clifton Street to be taken in. In no uncertain terms, she let them know she neither drank nor smoked. She didn’t even like being around people who smoked because she was always concerned about her voice. Though she loudly professed not to be susceptible to any sweet talk, she enjoyed at least some of the come-ons. In Pittsburgh, she dated and actually grew fond of a young man who wanted to be a boxer. The two would spar together, and she enjoyed the sexy physical give-and-take. One day he asked her to marry him, but Ethel wasn’t ready for another union. To get him to back off, she told him she had syphilis, which wasn’t true. But he still wanted to marry her! He’d wait, he said, until after her treatment for the disease.
