by Donald Bogle
“Ethel Waters to Make Vitaphone Picture for Warner Brothers” read the banner in the February 15, 1929, edition of the California Eagle. “Musical Comedy Songbird Gets First Big ‘Talkie’ Role” read the headline in the February 23, 1929, edition of the Pittsburgh Courier. Already Blacks in movies were confined to walk-ons or supporting parts as ditzy maids or befuddled butlers. Within the Negro press, there was the assumption that Ethel—along with the stars of Hearts in Dixie and Hallelujah—might pave the way for important roles for Black entertainers—and real star treatment—in the movie capital. But once On with the Show was released, audiences saw that Waters was left completely out of the storyline. Directed by Alan Crosland and starring Sally O’Neill, Joe E. Brown, Betty Compson, Louise Fazenda, and Arthur Lake, the film focused on its white stars. Still, the Black dancers, the group called the Four Covans, which consisted of the brothers Willie and Dewey Covan and their talented young wives, nearly wiped the screen clean with their rousing performance, part stylized vernacular dancing, part jazz dancing. When Ethel performed her numbers, On with the Show went in a wholly new direction.
Coming on for “Birmingham Bertha” with a dapper, handsome young dancer, she was decked out in a snazzy, satiny suit and turban with a festoon of feathers protruding from it. Somewhat campy. Somewhat too flashy and too much an exaggeration of a high-gloss style. Yet it was also glorious. “Birmingham Bertha” touched on the extroversion and high spirits of the rip-roaring 1920s, which were about to end.
Her other number, “Am I Blue?”, which appeared first, was a different story altogether. It was a reflective piece that took everyone by surprise and which—for later generations—sounded as if it was straight out of the Depression. Costumed in a ruffled polka-dot dress with a kind of matching bandanna, she was first seen backstage where she is referred to as Ethel Waters. The idea is that Ethel Waters is playing a character in a show within the show. With a cotton field setting, she goes onstage while carrying a large basket of what looks like freshly picked cotton. With little buildup, Waters quickly glides into the emotional turmoil of the song—and the idea of an emotional plea from a woman whose man has left her. “Am I Blue?” she asks. “Am I blue? / You’d be too. Aren’t these tears in my eyes / telling you.” Before the number ends, she’s joined by a Black quartet, the Harmony Emperors—dressed as field workers in overalls and straw hats—who provide the chorus for the song. The filmmakers still could not leave behind the familiar Old South imagery despite the fact that Waters was performing a very modern song. Nonetheless, it was hard for viewers and later listeners who bought the recorded version of the song not to feel for her. Yet true to Waters the singer, she still held back from emotional chaos or emotional collapse. Her version of the song is edgier and harder here—it was in essence filmed “live” for the camera—than her later recorded version for record buyers. Her heart may be broken, but her style leads one to understand that she’s strong enough to pick up the pieces. The overriding emotion is still that hard-won control coupled with a kind of resignation, which ironically makes her later rendition all the more affecting. In the years to come, Ethel would be quite open about drawing on personal experiences to play some of her most important dramatic roles and also to perform another song of a love gone wrong, “Stormy Weather.” Interestingly, one can only ask if she had reached inside and pulled out memories of past loves in her life, especially Earl Dancer—the freshest emotional wound—in order to put the song across with such feeling. Both “Birmingham Bertha” and “Am I Blue?” best represented the Ethel Waters of nightclubs, the singer-performer that urban audiences could never get enough of.
At Warner, executives viewed Ethel’s dailies and became so excited that the company offered her the job of dubbing the voice of a white star in the film. But she refused, even when they reportedly upped the ante to $10,000.
On with the Show introduced her to a broader audience, in some cases people who were just hearing about her and were eager to see what all the fuss was about. Here Waters was making way for a lineup of other striking African American women who came to Hollywood and somehow retained their originality, their glamour, and their fundamental composure: such women to follow as Theresa Harris in the nightclub sequence of Thunderbolt; Lena Horne in her MGM musicals of the 1940s; Hazel Scott at the piano as she sang “The Man I Love” in Rhapsody in Blue and other movies of the 1940s; Billie Holiday, when she ditched the maid’s uniform and stood next to Louis Armstrong to sing in New Orleans; and the radiant Dorothy Dandridge, performing with Count Basie’s orchestra in The Hit Parade of 1943, with Louis Armstrong in Pillow to Post and ironically singing one of Waters’ later hits, “Taking a Chance on Love,” in Remains to Be Seen. Generally, Hollywood did not know what to do with its Black glamour goddesses. But Waters proved that at least in the musical sequences—despite the costumes—such a woman could hold on to her sense of identity.
As it turned out, “Am I Blue?” rather than “Birmingham Bertha” became the big hit. By the time the film was released, the music for “Am I Blue?” was heard under the opening credits. The song—which marked her ongoing shift from blues-jazz to melodious pop—was later recorded on May 14, 1929, with Ethel backed by white musicians: Tommy Dorsey on trombone, Jimmy Dorsey on clarinet, Manny Klein on trumpet, Frank Signorelli on piano, and Joe Tarto on bass. For fifteen weeks, “Am I Blue?” soared to number one on the music charts and endured as a classic for decades.
In Los Angeles, Waters also performed at the Hill Street Theatre, and she enjoyed some of Los Angeles’s social life. A visit to MGM was arranged. Though the Hollywood studios rarely thought twice about the servant roles that African American actors and actresses were relegated to, industry leaders nonetheless respected certain Black stars from the East whose records and nightclub and theater appearances had made the news—and had won the admiration of the critics. Duke Ellington was one of the stars that Hollywood filmmakers were clearly impressed with, even awed by. So was Armstrong. Ethel was another. When she arrived at MGM in Culver City, followed by a now familiar group—Eddie, Algretta, Pearl, and cornetist Dijau Jones—she was accorded major star status. MGM’s first lady, actress Norma Shearer, not only a huge star but also the wife of production chief Irving Thalberg, was on hand to chat with Ethel. So too was Hallelujah’s director, King Vidor, who then informed Ethel that she had been his first choice for the lead in his film. Ethel never quite got over the loss of the Hallelujah role. Technicians, extras, and grips also must have been curious about this colored performer being ushered around the lot and sound stages. Accompanied by Pearl, she also performed some of her music for the studio brass.
She was also in full regalia in March when she attended the Colored Artists Motion Picture Ball at Elks Hall. Now Black Los Angeles’s film colony was eager to meet her. Greeting Ethel were Hallelujah stars Nina McKinney and Daniel Haynes as well as the team of Buck and Bubbles and members of the Lafayette Players, who were in town on a tour, and performers from Hollywood’s Hearts in Dixie. For most in attendance, it was a hopeful evening. More Black films looked destined to be produced by the Hollywood studios. Ethel herself contemplated the idea of future film work, but, sadly, it would be seven years before the studios did another Black feature, The Green Pastures.
The one unsettling occurrence was Pearl Wright’s hospitalization for a surgical removal of a tumor. No one was eager to discuss Wright’s condition, but it marked the beginning of Wright’s health problems. Ethel was alarmed, and during Wright’s recuperation, she canceled several appearances.
Leaving Los Angeles, Waters resumed her tour, which took her to Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Rochester, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and other cities. By June, when she returned to New York for an engagement at Brooklyn’s Albee Theatre, gossip was swirling about her new man, Eddie. In time, perhaps to keep the gossips at bay, she let everyone know that she and Eddie had married, but no details were provided as to when or where such a union had taken place. The Negro p
ress was informed that Ethel, with husband and child, was setting sail for Europe. First stop would be Paris. Later: London. As far as she was concerned, nothing more need be said. That was not the outlook of the Negro press. In a series of headlines in its August 10, 1929, edition, the Baltimore Afro-American posed questions that were on the minds of many:
WHO’S ETHEL WATERS’ NEWEST HUSBAND?
ETHEL WATERS WITH BABY IN PARIS
ACTRESS AND HUBBY AMONG FEW FIRST-CLASS PASSENGERS ON LA FRANCE
SPECULATION HERE
ACTRESS WAS THOUGHT WED TO EARL DANCER, MANAGER
The Afro-American commented on the obvious: “Speculation is rife here as to who is the ‘husband’ referred to. In Miss Waters’ engagements in Baltimore, theatergoers have heard her refer to Earl Dancer, one time her manager, as her husband. The existence of a child, reported in the dispatch is Baltimore’s first knowledge of the event.” The paper also reported something else: “Recently, the engagement and approaching marriage of Dancer and Cora Green was carried in this newspaper, puzzling theatergoers still as no notice of a divorce from Miss Waters has been published.”
Interestingly, the reporter who broke the story was entertainment writer Maurice Dancer, Earl’s brother. “To the best of204 my knowledge Miss Waters was married some years ago in Philadelphia to a man named Burke,” wrote Maurice Dancer. “That was some years before she met Earl Dancer. She is not married now to anyone. In regards to the baby, Algretta, Miss Waters legally adopted her a year ago in Detroit, Michigan, and she is three years old.” No one then or later had any idea who this Burke was, if such a person existed. Indeed, no such person did. Ethel had managed to keep Merritt Purnsley’s name out of the public record. Another writer, Floyd Snelson, however, stated emphatically: “Ethel Waters not married. She legally adopted five-year-old child last year in Chicago.” But no one was able to say with certainty what Ethel’s marital situation was. Nor did anyone know Algretta’s actual age. Some years later, Ethel said the adoption had taken place when Algretta was eighteen months old, which meant the child was about three and a half years old in 1929.
In Black entertainment circles and within the African American community at large, this, of course, was a juicy scandal. If she and Dancer had not married, had they been living in sin? If they had married, was Ethel now a bigamist? Was Algretta a secret love child? All the debate and discussion about her personal life added to the image of Ethel found in her risqué songs: that of a headstrong, sexually liberated, high-minded, hincty star who didn’t play by anybody’s rules but her own. Silent screen stars like Gloria Swanson and Pola Negri had made headlines with their love affairs and marriages. But few, if any, Black women drew such attention. In its own way, the Waters-Dancer-Matthews triangle was the kind of high-flung romantic shocker that would make headlines decades later with such highly publicized “mainstream” tales of sexual intrigue and marital switch-hitting as that of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini in the late 1940s or Rita Hayworth and Aly Khan in that same era or the scandal to end all scandals, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Rome while filming Cleopatra in the 1960s. Like Ethel, these women openly challenged the attitudes and assumptions of their eras, when gender roles were strictly proscribed and when any deviation from them could bring condemnation.
Bergman and Taylor met with brutal public censure. Ethel, however, in this era before an international press corps could pursue anyone everywhere and before Black stars’ intrigues were fodder for the mainstream press, had simply skipped town and escaped such scrutiny from the Negro press. By not offering an explanation for her behavior, she also seemed to be telling people she didn’t give a damn what anybody thought or what questions anyone had. To readers of Black newspapers around the country as well as those who listened to the stories on the Black grapevine—that blogosphere of an earlier age—when all sorts of rumors, stories, and tall tales flew about with a wild abandon, there was, ironically, not so much censure but curiosity about her. What had gone on behind closed doors between Ethel and Dancer? What now transpired behind closed doors between Ethel and Matthews? Did she pick up and discard men at her whim? Of course, ironically, as this “scarlet woman” traveled abroad, she carried her Bible with her. She still prided herself on her staunch religious faith and her relationship with her God. A week after the article in the Baltimore Afro-American, the Chicago Defender ran a photo of Ethel in her giddy fluted dress and towering headdress from Africana with a banner that read: “Hits Boulevards of Gay205 Paree.”
***
Her apparent “marriage” to Matthews may have been impulsive, but her decision to travel abroad had not. Her association with theatrical attorney Harold Gumm continued to produce solid results. She was now also represented by the William Morris Agency. Perhaps an agreement could be worked out finally to secure her engagements in France and England. But another far more important matter was on Ethel’s European agenda. The voice problems that had plagued her for so long had taken a turn for the worse. The itchy throat. The hoarseness. The laryngitis. Few things frightened her, but now she feared that her very future as an entertainer was in jeopardy. Eddie was alarmed. In New York, her physician206 had recommended a long rest—and a consultation with a prominent French throat specialist, Dr. M. Wicant in Paris. “As well as being my husband,” Ethel told writer J. A. Rogers, it was Eddie “who saw my voice failing and arranged to give me five or six months of complete rest.” There may also have been another condition that she dared not discuss publicly.
When passage was booked on the luxury liner Ile de France to take her from New York to Paris, she decided to go in style. First-class accommodations were what she required. The sight of a stylish Negro woman, with a well-dressed husband and an adorable child in tow, in the first-class section was not an everyday occurrence. Ethel remembered the stares she drew—and the gratuitous, cruel insults. Seated at the dinner table in the first-class section, she endured the chatter of the white women around her, who looked her up and down, if they looked at her at all, and talked about how wonderful their maids were. Clearly, they intended to let this colored woman—Ethel’s professional identity was unknown to the other passengers—know that she was out of her element. But that didn’t deter her. She had earned the right to travel this way, and once again to hell with what anyone had to say. An exception to the snobbishness and cruelty was the kindness of a young officer on the ship. Each morning, he graciously inquired how she felt. Also on board were Ethel’s fellow entertainers—all white—Tess Gardella, who was known for performing in blackface, and Lou Clayton. Ethel spent time with both.
Just before the voyage ended, a special benefit concert was arranged to aid the widows and children of seamen. When Ethel was asked to perform, she at first took it as an insult because she had not received a formal invitation from the ship’s chief purser. Finally, that was rectified when flowers and a note with the request were sent to her stateroom. As she was about to enter the room for the benefit, the young officer, who had always been so gracious, escorted her. Only then did she learn that he was the chief purser. True to her nature, she never forgot his kindness, but also true to her nature she never forgot how others had treated her. That evening many of the women who had snubbed her sought her out after her performance. “None of you spoke207 to me. Not one of you,” she told them angrily. “Yet I’m the very same person as I was yesterday. I have the same face, same body, and same color.” When she debarked from the ocean liner, “several of Europe’s leading208 managers met her at the pier,” said writer J. A. Rogers. As she stepped onto foreign soil, it was obvious she would not get as much rest as she had hoped.
Once in Paris, she delighted in seeing the City of Lights, its sweeping boulevards, its chic cafés, its towering monuments and landmarks, from the Eiffel Tower to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Also in the city were such other African American entertainers as trumpet player Valaida Snow and the whirling Berry Brothers, great dancers, second only to the Nicholas Brothers, who
were appearing in a French production of Lew Leslie’s Blackbirds of 1928. She also spent time with the bantamweight boxer Al Brown, who took her out dancing. Eddie didn’t seem to be around while she cavorted with Brown. Nor did Ethel ever say anything about where he was when she was introduced to writer Radclyffe Hall, whose tale of lesbian love in the novel The Well of Loneliness had been a scandalous success. Of all the people she met in Paris, Ethel always maintained that Hall was the most interesting.
Then there was Bricktop, the light-skinned, red-haired, gregarious entertainer from West Virginia and Chicago who had made a name for herself as the proprietor of a very successful nightclub in Paris. She had helped the teenage Josephine Baker learn the ropes—and the pitfalls—of being in the spotlight in France. Through the decades, Bricktop would teach the Prince of Wales the black bottom, wear the gowns of designer Schiaparelli, and wine and dine with a who’s who of twentieth-century artists and celebrities: Gloria Swanson, Barbara Hutton, John Steinbeck, Frank Sinatra, Jelly Roll Morton, Tallulah Bankhead, Legs Diamond, Mabel Mercer, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton (in Rome) and Europe’s crowned heads, some on their best behavior, others on their worst. Salty and brassy, Bricktop loved the big names, be they famous or notorious. Ethel’s reputation had preceded her. Bricktop, like all of Paris, was ready to open her arms to Ethel. “She was the talk209 of the town,” recalled Bricktop, “but she took me aside and confided, ‘Brick, I’m starving to death.’ It wasn’t a matter of money, but of food. Right in the middle of Paris, with all those fabulous restaurants, Ethel was starving for some real American food, so I let her move into my place for about three weeks and she cooked greens to her heart’s content. Ethel was never one to stay out or to drink. I was able to turn Paris for her from a nightmare into a place where she could really enjoy herself in her own way.” During Ethel’s well-publicized stay, La Baker, as Josephine Baker was now known, was out of the city, which probably was for the best, although both women were such professionals that had they run into each other, they no doubt would have smiled for the public, kissed and embraced, and afterward expressed their real feelings about one another to their entourage.
