by Donald Bogle
But at the Palace, Ethel was beset by new headaches, the biggest of which was Blossom Seeley. Along with such vaudeville stars as May Irwin and Sophie Tucker, Seeley was yet another white star who had attained success initially as a coon shouter. Having been a performer since the early years of the century, she had also recorded at Columbia such songs as “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans, “Everybody Loves My Baby,” and “You Said Sometin’ When You Said Dixie.” Enjoying her reputation for being able to put across a song with a colored sound, she “is considered a great177 imitator of Negroes by some whites,” wrote the Pittsburgh Courier. But now she shared the bill with Ethel—an authentic colored artist who didn’t have to fake an ethnic sound. Worse, as Dancer said, Ethel “was billed over everyone, including Blossom Seeley.”
Backstage was a nightmare for Ethel. The management didn’t know where Ethel should appear in the lineup of white entertainers. At one point, she was told she’d perform just before intermission. Then she learned they wanted her to appear after intermission. Said Dancer: “Ethel was shoved all178 over the bill. From next to closing intermission—to closing the show.” “As is usual in179 placing Negro acts or actors,” reported the Pittsburgh Courier, “the management gave Miss Waters the hardest spot on the program, loaded down with stars, following Pathé News and the intermission.” The paper also commented that Waters was “billed as the ‘greatest actress of the race.’ Why of her race?—ability unusual, unexcelled, unrestrained, like that possessed by this queen of the footlights, knows no race limitation.”
She may have had the hardest spot on the program, but that didn’t faze Waters once she got onstage. Performing “I’m Coming, Virginia,” she had the audience in the palm of her hand “while another number created such vociferous applause” that “it sounded like hailstones falling on the roof.” “On opening performance180,” said Dancer, “Ethel was forced by the audience to do over forty-five minutes, a time which was only topped by Jolson.” In an appreciative yet condescending manner, the critic for the New York Times wrote: “Probably honors went, by181 what might possibly be termed a shade, to Ethel Waters, the engaging dusky songstress, who recently appeared in Africana. Miss Waters was handicapped not a little by the fact that she was placed after Blossom Seeley and Benny Fields, whose specialties are jazz and ragtime done fortissimo, but she delivered ‘Dinah’ and ‘Shake That Thing’ in an easy, slight detached fashion that her auditors found extremely to their liking. It [was] a big afternoon for Miss Waters’ public, who seemed to be there in numbers.”
Blossom Seeley apparently seethed at the way Waters had taken over the whole show. Backstage, she and Ethel clashed. But Blossom Seeley did not understand that if there was a clash with Ethel, only one person would win it: Ethel, who didn’t care now if she clashed with anyone, be it he or she, Black or white. This was Ethel’s first major battle with a white star, but that didn’t stop her from unleashing her temper. She wasn’t going to tone down her act or cut anything out to please anyone.
The Waters-Seeley episode became the talk of the Black entertainment world. “White Star Quits” read the headline in the October 11, 1927, edition of the Pittsburgh Courier. “Ethel Waters at the182 Palace last week sang and danced herself into such favor with the audiences that Blossom Seeley, famous Keith star, Negro song and chatter impersonator, quit cold—refused to continue on program with our versatile Ethel. Just another convincing sign that class will tell. If you’ve got the goods you can deliver. Ethel is broken out as a delivery artist. Sing ’em Ethel! Sing ’em.” The publicity that followed in the Black press no doubt endeared Ethel to Black readers. Here was a Negro woman who would not take a backseat to anyone. At the same time, the incident added to the growing stories about Waters’ hot temper. But the incident drained her and embittered her all the more about racial attitudes even in the supposedly “open” and liberal world of professional entertainment.
In October, she was back in the studio to record “Someday, Sweetheart” and the onetime Sophie Tucker hit “Some of These Days.”
Shortly after the Palace, Ethel and Earl created a new revue in which she starred. Though she was under contract with the Keith organization, a deal had been worked out for her to do the show at the 300 Club at Broadway and 54th Street, reportedly at $1,200 a week. During the engagement, the club was renamed the Ethel Waters 300 Club. Backing her was a white cast, not typical backup for a Black star. Earl might bask in throwing together such a deal, but after one week, Ethel quit the show. The club had failed to pay her.
In late October, the news broke that Florence Mills had become ill and was rushed to the hospital. Suffering from acute appendicitis, she was operated on twice. Then on November 1, 1929, Mills, at age thirty-two, suddenly died. Ethel was as stunned by the news as the rest of the theatrical community. Dancer immediately stepped in to help with funeral arrangements and a memorial. Eight female stars were selected to be honorary pallbearers: Cora Green, Edith Wilson, Gertrude Saunders, Maude Russell, Aida Ward, Lena Wilson, Evelyn Preer, and Ethel. At the funeral, five thousand mourners jostled for seats at Mother Zion AME Church. Outside an estimated 150,000 people—many there to see the dignitaries and stars in attendance—lined the streets of Harlem from morning to dusk. For Dancer, Mills’ funeral was something of a major theatrical event. “He had blackbirds flown183 over Harlem,” said performer Maude Russell—in a tribute to Mills’ signature song, “I’m a Little Blackbird Looking for a Bluebird.” Interviewed by the mainstream press, he was quick to discuss Mills’ career, her death, and the tributes to her. Dancer even had a hand in selecting the reported $10,000 casket in which Mills was buried.
But within Black entertainment circles, Earl Dancer looked like an opportunist who had overstepped his bounds. “The white newspapers played184 him up as a special friend of the Mills family,” reported the Negro press, “when it is known among colored performers that Florence was no particular friend of Dancer’s, or his wife, Ethel Waters.” Dancer, however, brushed the criticism aside and continued with plans for memorials for Mills in other cities, but the criticism in the Negro press could not have pleased Ethel—and no doubt added fuel to her growing disillusionment with Dancer.
In a short time, she was back onstage, first in Chicago and then in Africana at the Lafayette Theatre. Aware there was money to be made on the road, Dancer took Africana on tour. An elaborate opening at the Gibson Dunbar Theatre in Philadelphia drew a crush of Black and white Philadelphians to see the hometown girl who had become a Broadway star. One of the city’s major white dailies, the Philadelphia Inquirer, called her “the most dynamic colored185 comedienne.” Held over for a four-week engagement, Africana raked in a reported $100,000. Next the production traveled to the Nixon Theatre in Pittsburgh. Ten years earlier, when Ethel performed with the Hill Sisters in Pittsburgh, she earned $9 a week; now her name was above the title on the marquee. When she moved on to Milwaukee, where the white newspapers never ran photographs of Negro performers, her picture appeared in the theatrical page of at least one white publication. She also made news by breaking the local color barrier when she secured accommodations for herself and her company at the city’s new Plankinton Hotel. Even Ethel must have been surprised by some of the mainstream coverage. Caught up in the excitement and with an eye on future profits, Columbia took out ads for such Waters records as “Smile,” “Satisfyin’ Papa,” “Take What You Want,” and “Some of These Days.”
So promising were prospects for the future that Ethel and Dancer thought the time might be right for her to appear abroad in London and Paris. Negotiations began as Dancer worked on a production to be called From Harlem to Paris. He quickly threw together another play, in which Ethel would perform two roles, called Born Black.
But heady as the times were, Ethel’s personal relationship with Earl was still in trouble. She complained that he constantly nagged her about work and that he still wanted to dictate decisions about her career. Curiously, she also appeared to have grown jealous. Ot
her women were always around—at the theater or at parties or at the after-hours clubs. She was aware of the eye contact, the flirtatious smiles, the whispers. At one point, Earl became chummy with a chorus girl named Billy Cain. When the gossip about the two reached Ethel, she approached the young woman, let her know precisely what she thought of her, and by some accounts, physically attacked her. Afterward Earl was on his best behavior, but there was new gossip among theater folk and audiences alike about Earl’s ever-roving eye, which the Negro press also reported. None of these stories were good for the Waters ego. Nor, perhaps, in her mind, was it good for her image. How could it be that some chorus girl had won the favor of the Queen’s man? When it came to Earl and other women—as with just about everything else in her life—Waters seemed always on edge, and her temper was more out of control than ever. At one point, she somehow got hold of a handgun, which she carried with her. One evening in Chicago in 1928, an obviously distressed Ethel ran into Carl Van Vechten at a nightclub. She was carrying “a revolver looking for186 sweet papa Earl, the dirty mistreater,” Van Vechten confided to Langston Hughes. Other times she had to question his professional judgment. When Africana was set to open at the Shubert-Rialto Theatre in St. Louis in May, the performances were canceled because the musicians demanded to be paid in advance. Earl had tried to negotiate, but he still couldn’t come up with the money. The Shubert-Rialto was not a vaudeville house but “a legitimate theater” for classy productions. Running out of money, Dancer also had to cut cast members, from sixty to forty-two. One night, six hundred people seated in the audience were told, in essence, to go home: there would be no show. For Ethel, it was another embarrassment, another nightmare. The plans for London and Paris also fell through. “Everything appeared to be187 in readiness for our departure,” Dancer told the press, “when last week we received word that the English Labor Commission had thrown a monkeywrench into the works. They will not permit the invasion of foreign theatrical stars, and it is because of this fact that our arrangements for a trip abroad had to be cancelled.”
Aside from everything else that upset her, the constant touring was backbreaking. When Ethel returned to Philadelphia to perform at the Standard Theatre in June 1928, she was booked, as always, to do three shows a day—a matinee at 2:30, an evening show at 7:30, and another at 9:30—plus midnight shows on Thursdays and Sundays.
When she returned in Africana at New York’s Lafayette in July, another pay dispute erupted. “At the close of188 the week, everybody was looking for their dough,” reported Black columnist Chappy Gardner. “There was none forthcoming.” Earl announced that salaries were to be paid by the theater’s owner, Frank Schiffman, not him. Schiffman in turn informed the press that he “had paid Miss Waters’ husband, Earl Dancer, the sum of $4,100 for the week and that all money was coming from him. Dancer could not be found when it was time to pay the girls and much confusion was the result.” Earl, however, somehow worked it all out. But for Ethel, the question remained: would this kind of thing never end?
Aware of Earl’s predicament, she could sympathize to a point. He was, after all, a Black producer operating in a business still controlled by white male producers, theater owners, agents, managers, and executives. As a Black woman, maneuvering around in the same business, she understood the particular pressures, his battles just to be granted respect and equanimity from the white men he had to negotiate with. But if he was going to manage her, he had to manage her. If he was going to be her producer, then he had to be her producer. No excuses. Perhaps the breaking point occurred when angry cast members from Africana stood outside her residence on 138th Street and screamed up at her apartment, “We didn’t get paid189! We want our money.”
In mid-July, while in Cleveland, Ethel confided in Van Vechten that she and Dancer were separated for good. Upset by the breakup, she asked Van Vechten’s help in getting her into a show, any show. Surprisingly, she appeared at a loss in finding someone to represent her, but she confessed that Earl had always kept agents and managers away from her. All she needed Van Vechten to do was pass the word around that she was free and available for work. With Van Vechten’s vast array of contacts, she might find someone to handle her professional affairs. Van Vechten most likely put her in communication with the theatrical attorney Harold Gumm, who would soon help her sever her professional ties with Dancer.
In August, Ethel returned to the recording studio for two separate sessions. First, she recorded “Lonesome Swallow,” “Guess Who’s in Town,” and two of her sexiest hits, “My Handy Man” and “Do What You Did Last Night.” A few days later, she recorded “West End Blues,” “Organ Grinder Blues191,” “Get Up off Your Knees190,” and “My Baby Sure Knows How to Love.” The songs were suggestive and raunchy, and so were the splashy advertisements in the Negro press, all of which reinforced the sexuality with their racy illustrations and copy. The advertisement for “Get Up off Your Knees” and its flip side “Do What You Did Last Night” had a drawing of a woman standing above a man who was on his knees. The copy read:
“Get Up off Your Knees”
Sung by Ethel Waters
“Anyhow, stand up when you’re making your pleas.
No use wearing out your knees.”
All you straying papas better listen to this one.
Ethel sure does her stuff. And listen, Mamas,
before you tell papa to turn in his keys, give him a chance to be a caveman.
The coupling, “Do What You Did Last Night,” is sizzling hot.
The illustration for the advertisement for “Organ Grinder Blues” depicted a woman lounging on a chair with one arm behind her head. In the background, to the right, a man was seated at an organ. The copy read:
“Organ Grinder Blues”
Sung by Ethel Waters
Here’s the song about the wonderful organ grinder man—
Put over as only Ethel can do it.
He’s just the organ grinder you’ve been waiting for.
Invite this record in today.
The coupling is “West End Blues.”
Though she may have been annoyed by the company’s reliance on an old image, her records still sold, and Columbia’s promotion of her as a sexy, take-charge goddess remained part of the publicity machinery that helped keep her on top.
Once she fulfilled her recording dates, she was faced with yet another publicized incident. In September, a warrant was issued for her arrest on the charge of “secreting mortgaged property192.” The complaint had been filed by a woman who said Waters had purchased furniture—on an installment plan—in the amount of $530 from Levine Brothers on August 20, 1926. The furniture was for Momweeze, who was at the time staying at Ethel’s home on St. Nicholas Avenue. When Ethel had fallen behind on her payments and still owed $195, the woman seeking redress had confronted Ethel backstage at the Lafayette Theatre. Arguing with the woman, who was white and identified as Jessie Brinn, an enraged Ethel was “said to have slapped Miss Brown across the face.” Before an arrest could be made, Ethel turned herself in to the authorities.
Appearing before the magistrate, Waters said she had no intention of defrauding anyone, that she had made an additional payment the previous week, that the furniture was in the possession of her mother, who had returned to Philadelphia, that there had been a similar charge against her in July of that year, and that the charge had been dropped. The magistrate dismissed the case and advised the complainant to seek redress in civil court. Not a major story—but a story nonetheless that was reported and was yet another embarrassment.
A major story, however, occurred in late September. Faced with seemingly insurmountable financial problems from Africana, Ethel filed a petition for bankruptcy. Listed were $143,812 in liabilities and $40 in assets. The petition stated: “Miss Waters owes 193$50,000 to her husband Earl Dancer, who was the nominal producer of ‘Africana.’ She also assumes responsibility for any liabilities arising out of the actions or conduct of her husband and his two brothers, John and M
aurice Dancer.” Additional liabilities included the $10,000 that Daly’s Theatre demanded plus $15,000 for the Brooks Costume Company, $5,000 to the Shubert Theatre Corporation, plus other theaters. It all sickened her to the stomach, no doubt literally.
Other pressing matters were on her mind: the kind that had nothing to do with contracts or court cases or show business itself. For the past few years, with all the traveling and even more press coverage, she believed her life was incomplete. She became preoccupied with long-held hopes of being a mother and a real wife. “I thought that being194 a wife and mother would convince me that I belonged to the human race,” she later said. Nothing, however, could really compete with her career. But she was struck an emotionally devastating blow, from which it took a long time to recover, when her sister Genevieve’s daughter Ethel—whom Waters still adored—suddenly died of diphtheria and whooping cough. That threw her equilibrium off and proved to be a test of her faith. “I was bitter with195 God,” she said. “I told Him. He was unkind to take her because I would have brought her up good if He hadn’t interfered. But in the end, of course, I made my peace with Him.” That had been her chance at motherhood, and she grieved for a long time.
As 1928 was drawing to a close, Ethel was about to turn thirty-two years old—not ancient, but time was moving on. A total reassessment of everything in her life had to be made. First, she put professional matters in order. To get out of the legal entanglements still pending on Africana, she signed with Harold Gumm of Goldie and Gumm, whose theatrical agency handled such Black performers as actress Georgette Harvey and later Lena Horne. Tough, shrewd, and knowledgeable, Gumm knew his way around town. In agreeing to set her affairs in order, Gumm asked for 5 percent of her earnings “exclusive of my pay196 for vaudeville dates.” He proved effective.
