How to be a success in Vaudeville?

How to be successful in vaudeville was a burning question in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Many people, rural and urban, thought they had talent or a special trick that could make them a fortune on the stage, but few knew how to go about getting there. Frederic La Delle of Jackson, Michigan, wrote a how-to book for those people in 1913. Fred claimed to have spent 30 years on the vaudeville stage–might be true, but I couldn’t find a shred of information about him on line. He probably made decent money on this publication, but I doubt it propelled anyone to a successful career.

According to Fred, “Special talent is not necessary for acting any more than it is for any other profession.” Oh, good. No talent needed. And I smiled at the advice on how to write press notices: “It is an excellent plan to spend some of your spare time in writing up a number of clever anecdotes in which of course you figure prominently . . . A friendly newspaper reporter will generally help you in this.” Sure he will. Newspaper reporters are always looking to do free work for aspiring performers. And many pages are devoted to obscure, nonsensical descriptions of the various sorts of acts one supposedly sees in vaudeville, meant, I suppose, to inspire the talentless. Acts like Paper Tearing, Rolling Globe Acts, Statuary Posing, Iron Jaw Acts, Tambourine Throwing, and Chapeaugraphy (taking a hat and “by a simple twist” shaping it into “hundreds of different forms. . . a very realistic act.”) Sure it is.

But in my line of work (writing mysteries with a vaudeville backdrop), I found the book quite valuable. The section on vaudeville slang was useful, as were the pages on theater terms. I wouldn’t have known some of them, as they are only relevant to vaudeville, like “split week,” which my character, Jessie, and her partners play in book 3, Renting Silence. “Working in one” or “working in two” are also phrases I used in that book, with suitable explanations. Like this:

The three of us arrived at a seedy theater in Dayton, ready for our split week—a Sun Time innovation despised by all Small Timers. We started with the usual Monday morning rehearsal. No costumes, no makeup—just a run-through to get the orchestra familiar with the music for each act and let the theater manager determine their order for the program. At this theater, the “orchestra” consisted of a pianist, a fiddle player, and a boy pounding away on the drums.

“You gals working in one?” the manager asked. April looked at me, alarmed.

“No,” I answered. He made a note on his clipboard.

“’In one’ means in front of the curtain,” I whispered to April and June. “We’re working ‘in two,’ using the full stage. He needs to alternate the acts so they can set up for a flash act or a tab act—those come with their own scenery and props—while the preceding act is working ‘in one,’ in front of the curtain.” They still looked confused but we were up. “I’ll explain later. Now, give it your best,” I hissed. I almost added, “We don’t want to get stuck in the deuce spot,” but I figured that’s where we’d land, so I kept my mouth shut.

 

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Published in: on September 16, 2017 at 1:16 pm  Leave a Comment  
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