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Bert overton

Bert overton


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Herbert Overton foi um soldado na Primeira Guerra Mundial. Ele se juntou ao Partido Comunista da Grã-Bretanha e com a eclosão da Guerra Civil Espanhola juntou-se às Brigadas Internacionais. T.A. R. Hyndman juntou-se ao mesmo tempo: "Tive um encontro estranho com Bert Overton, que tinha sido um grande amigo meu na Guarda. Não o via há quase quatro anos. Ele tinha sido um guarda brilhante, mas isso foi em tempo de paz. No entanto, ele ainda parecia o papel. Durante um chá em Lyon, conversamos sobre os dias do nosso exército, e agora da Espanha. Não me pareceu que os motivos políticos de Bert fossem muito; havia motivos pessoais, mas isso poderia pode ser dito de qualquer um de nós. Combinamos de nos encontrar em Paris. "

Como resultado de sua experiência militar, logo depois de chegar à linha de frente, Wilfred Macartney decidiu dar-lhe o comando da 4ª Companhia de Metralhadoras.

Em 6 de fevereiro de 1937, Tom Wintringham tornou-se o comandante do Batalhão Britânico da Brigada Internacional. Depois de não conseguir tomar Madri por ataque frontal, o general Francisco Franco deu ordens para que a estrada que ligava a cidade ao resto da Espanha republicana fosse cortada. Uma força nacionalista de 40.000 homens, incluindo homens do Exército da África, cruzou o rio Jarama em 11 de fevereiro.

O general José Miaja enviou três Brigadas Internacionais, incluindo o Batalhão Dimitrov e o Batalhão Britânico ao Vale do Jarama para bloquear o avanço.

Em 12 de fevereiro, no que ficou conhecido como Suicide Hill, os republicanos sofreram pesadas baixas. Isso incluía Walter Grant, Christopher Caudwell e William Briskey, que estava no comando da No. 3 Company. Como resultado da falta de munição certa, Harry Fry e Fred Copeman, da No. 2 Company, tiveram que carregar os projéteis individualmente.

Após a morte de William Briskey, cerca de 30 membros da No. 3 Company retiraram-se de seus cargos. O comissário político do batalhão, George Aitken "persuadiu-os a voltar à linha, mas, como ele admite francamente, às vezes forçou alguns voluntários a voltar para a frente sob a ameaça de sua pistola. ''

Jason Gurney apontou em seu livro, Cruzada na espanha (1974): "Durante uma pausa no tiroteio, Wintringham me mandou descer à colina Casa Blanca para obter um relatório da situação de Briskey, pois não recebemos nenhuma palavra dele desde o início da barragem. Eu fui ao longo da estrada afundada e fiz meu através do terreno morto na parte de trás da colina. O tiroteio havia diminuído consideravelmente, mas ainda era pesado o suficiente para ser assustador. Quando cheguei ao topo da colina, a cena que encontrei era realmente horrível. Briskey estava morto e não. 3 A Companhia havia perdido mais da metade de sua força total, mortos ou feridos ... A situação na Companhia de Overton estava pior. Eles tiveram baixas igualmente pesadas, mas pareciam estar fazendo uma tentativa muito menos séria de se preparar para o ataque que deve ser iminente, e eu não conseguia extrair nenhum sentido coerente do próprio Overton. Ele tinha uma lista de requisitos totalmente impossíveis: reforços, suporte de artilharia, comida, água e Deus sabe o que mais, mas parecia não estar fazendo nenhum esforço real para mantê-los a empresa em conjunto. "

Bert Overton perguntou a Tom Wintringham se ele poderia retirar seus homens da linha de frente para a proteção da estrada afundada. A permissão não estava próxima. John Bosco Jones, que atuou sob o comando de Overton, lembrou mais tarde: "Depois do terceiro dia em Jarama, quando entramos em ação, havia muito pouca defesa. Estávamos ao ar livre e as pessoas se levantavam quando deveriam estar se protegendo (...) Eles estavam sendo abatidos e estávamos perdendo um bom número de homens e bem à nossa frente, a cerca de 500 metros de distância, havia uma grande casa branca. Esperávamos capturar aquela casa branca, mas nunca chegamos perto dela. " Jones continuou afirmando que Overton veio até ele e disse: "Esqueci meus binóculos." Jones disse que os pegaria, mas Overton respondeu: "Não, eu irei". Jones enfatizou que "você não pode ir embora e sair da empresa, mas antes que eu falasse mais alguma coisa ele foi embora e foi embora".

George Leeson foi outro soldado que viu Overton sair do campo de batalha: "Não teria sido tão ruim se tivéssemos um flanco direito, mas nosso flanco direito estava vazio porque a Companhia nº 4 de Bert Overton havia desertado e corrido de volta para a estrada afundada. " Jason Gurney afirmou em seu livro, Cruzada na espanha (1974): "Overton ... revelou-se totalmente ineficaz como comandante de companhia." O historiador Cecil D. Eby apontou em Camaradas e comissários (2009): "Quando Overton entrou em pânico no primeiro dia ... o flanco direito entrou em colapso e o batalhão foi quase destruído."

De acordo com o autor de Voluntários britânicos na Guerra Civil Espanhola (2007): “Na noite de 27 e 28 de abril, as ações de Bert Overton durante a batalha de Jarama foram levantadas em uma reunião de batalhão ... Na corte marcial da brigada oficial que se seguiu pouco depois, Overton foi acusado de deserção, promovendo-se ao capitão e recebendo o pagamento, e condenado a trabalhar em um batalhão de trabalho. "

Em Brunete, Overton foi morto enquanto carregava munição "para uma posição avançada". O autor de No Coração do Fogo: Os Ingleses na Guerra Civil Espanhola (2003) argumentou que alguns "se perguntaram se colocar Overton em perigo não era simplesmente um meio expediente de se livrar de um soldado que se tornou um constrangimento perigoso." No entanto, Fred Copeman afirmou que Sam Wild executou Overton: "No final da guerra, Sam Wild concordou em atirar em dois soldados britânicos ... um deles era Overton."

O escritório de recrutamento do partido estava lotado. Giles Romilly e eu logo fomos aceitos, mas outros eram um enigma óbvio. Muito entusiasmo, mas dificilmente alguém que pudesse disparar uma arma. Todos foram contratados. Eles seriam ensinados. Tive um encontro estranho com Bert Overton, que tinha sido um grande amigo meu na Guarda. Combinamos nos encontrar em Paris.

As tropas marroquinas recuaram para fora do alcance, o que pôs fim ao primeiro dia da batalha de Jarama. O Batalhão Britânico suportou sete horas de pesadas perdas, e "Dos 400 homens nas companhias de fuzis, apenas 125 restaram. Ao todo, menos da metade do batalhão permaneceu." estrada afundada, ou a cozinha ao lado da fazenda, desesperada por comida e água. Depois de escurecer, Jason Gurney foi convidado pelo comandante do batalhão, Tom Wintringham, a fazer um reconhecimento da estrada afundada que cruzava o planalto, perto de sua borda dianteira. Aqui Gurney fez uma descoberta horrível; cerca de 50 homens feridos estavam deitados em macas, onde foram deixados e esquecidos nos momentos caóticos e desesperadores durante o dia. Quando Gurney os descobriu, era tarde demais; a maioria estava morrendo ou já estava morta. "

Durante a noite, cerca de 30 retardatários da Companhia nº 3 foram encontrados na cozinha pelo comissário político do batalhão, George Aitken. Sempre que possível, Aitken os persuadiu a voltar para a linha, mas, como ele admite livremente, às vezes ele forçou alguns voluntários a voltarem para a frente sob a ameaça de sua pistola. '' 'No entanto, Aitken nunca realmente a usou; como a maioria das outras figuras importantes do batalhão, ele se opunha veementemente ao fuzilamento de desertores. Aitken afirma que foi abordado em Jarama por oficiais superiores, "e um civil", com a ideia de tentar e possivelmente atirar em alguns dos desertores. Aitken resistiu e afirma que permaneceu totalmente contra a ideia de atirar nos homens que se ofereceram. Posteriormente, ele afirmou categoricamente que "não havia nada parecido enquanto estive lá". No entanto, coagidos ou não, os voluntários eram uma adição desesperadamente necessária à linha de frente.

O segundo dia de batalha não seria menos assustador para os voluntários chocados. O comandante do batalhão, Tom Wintringham, preparou as forças esgotadas da melhor maneira que pôde. A Companhia de Metralhadoras de Harold Fry (nº 2) foi mantida em uma posição avançada, com vista para o vale e o rio abaixo deles. A Companhia No. 4, comandada por Overton, foi colocada à direita e a Companhia No. I estava voltada para o flanco esquerdo aberto, agora sob o comando de Andre Diamant após a morte de Kit Conway. O stand-to foi às 3 da manhã. Dave Springhall, o comissário assistente da brigada, trouxe ordens do quartel-general da brigada para que o batalhão se preparasse para um avanço sobre as forças nacionalistas, que, segundo ele, seriam apoiadas por tanques e outra Brigada Internacional.

Ao amanhecer, a companhia de Fry avistou vários soldados rebeldes que haviam subido durante a noite entre o cume e a Colina do Suicídio e os levou de volta com tiros de metralhadora concentrados. Mas, à medida que o dia avançava, os batalhões Franco-Belge e Dimitrov da direita foram gradualmente recuados e o batalhão britânico viu-se novamente cercado por três lados. No final da tarde, Wintringham estava ciente de que um ataque rebelde à posição de Fry era iminente, pois pequenos grupos de tropas nacionalistas podiam ser vistos avançando à direita de Fry, onde ficava a 4ª Companhia de Bert Overton. Nesse ponto, o nervoso Overton finalmente entrou em pânico e retirou sua companhia de volta para a estrada afundada, como ele havia implorado ao comissário político George Aitken para permitir que ele fizesse o dia todo. Isso deixou o flanco da Companhia de Metralhadoras totalmente desprotegido, e as forças rebeldes rapidamente se aproveitaram da situação e os cercaram. Tom Wintringham escreveu uma nota desesperada para Fry solicitando que a Machine-Gun Company aguentasse, mas antes que a nota pudesse ser entregue, eles foram invadidos por forças nacionalistas. Cerca de 30 membros da Machine-Gun Company, incluindo seu comandante, Harold Fry, e seu número dois, Ted Dickenson, foram capturados.

Voltei ao QG de Wintringham e repassei as ordens do brigadeiro. Os corredores foram enviados a 1, 3 e 4 empresas para solicitar o adiantamento. Subi até a trincheira da Companhia nº 2 para observar seu movimento e relatar de volta. A 3ª Companhia de William Briskey na colina Casa Blanca foi a primeira a descer a colina de seu cume, seguida logo depois pela Companhia No. 1 sob Kit Conway. Mas não pude ver nenhum sinal de Overton e da Companhia nº 4, pois eles estavam escondidos de mim por uma dobra no chão. De repente, e sem qualquer aviso, todo o inferno desabou sob uma tempestade de artilharia e tiros de metralhadora pesada. Concentrou-se primeiro na colina Casa Blanca, que ficou completamente obscurecida por nuvens de fumaça e poeira. Gradualmente, ele se espalhou ao longo da linha de nossas posições avançadas. A barragem continuou por cerca de três horas. Da minha posição na trincheira de Harry Fry, eu podia ver o caos da colina Casa Blanca, onde alguns dos homens trabalhavam com baioneta e capacete de estanho na tentativa de produzir uma espécie de toca-raposa para se esconder. Nenhum dos Colts ou shossers estava atirando, e muito poucos rifles, mas o inimigo estava escondido em posições ocultas e ainda não havia começado a avançar. Nossos homens pareciam fascinados com a casinha branca que já estava em ruínas. Eles continuaram se movendo em direção a ela, provavelmente porque era a única cobertura sólida no distrito, e pareciam não se intimidar pelo fato de que o inimigo a estava usando como um alvo de alcance, e que era lá que o bombardeio era mais pesado. 1 A companhia parecia estar um pouco melhor em sua posição na colina. Eles tinham um núcleo de homens experientes, sob Kit Conway, e encontraram uma certa cobertura na encosta reversa. Mas de ambas as posições havia um gotejar contínuo de feridos ambulantes e maqueiros voltando do front. A alguma distância, podíamos ouvir uma tremenda batalha acontecendo ao norte de nós, mas parecia não haver ação em nenhum de nossos flancos imediatos e tivemos a impressão de que havíamos sido deixados sozinhos para lutar em uma guerra particular. Nossas perspectivas não pareciam muito encorajadoras. Sabíamos que à nossa frente estava uma força considerável com um poder de fogo muito maior do que poderíamos reunir, e a situação começou a perder um pouco de sua leveza de dia de campo.

Durante uma pausa no tiroteio, Wintringham me mandou descer à colina Casa Blanca para obter um relatório da situação de Briskey, pois não recebemos nenhuma palavra dele desde o início da barragem. 3 A companhia havia perdido mais da metade de seu efetivo total, mortos ou feridos.

Os sobreviventes pareciam estar de bom coração, mas muito zangados. Alguns deles estavam tentando arranhar algum tipo de cobertura para si mesmos e xingando a falta de ferramentas; outros estavam tentando limpar os congestionamentos nas máquinas de corte - as revistas sobressalentes estavam irremediavelmente entupidas de sujeira e precisavam ser esvaziadas, limpas e recarregadas. Todo mundo estava pedindo água. Ele tinha uma lista de requisitos totalmente impossíveis: reforços, suporte de artilharia, comida, água e Deus sabe o que mais, mas parecia não estar fazendo nenhum esforço real para manter a companhia unida. Eu tinha acabado de voltar para a estrada afundada quando houve uma tempestade de mosquetes. O inimigo havia começado seu avanço.

Na noite de 27 e 28 de abril, as ações de Bert Overton durante a batalha de Jarama foram levantadas em uma reunião de batalhão. A reunião foi presidida por Bert Williams, que substituiu George Aitken como comissário do batalhão em 23 de março, quando Aitken foi promovido a comissário de brigada. Durante a reunião, também foi alegado que, após sua conduta em 12 e 13 de fevereiro, enquanto estava no hospital, Overton havia se promovido de sargento a capitão e desde então reclamava o pagamento. "Bill Alexander relata que" todos foram autorizados a falar " na reunião, porém (aparentemente sem qualquer senso de ironia), ele afirma que Overton não estava presente para fazer sua própria defesa. Na corte marcial da brigada oficial que se seguiu pouco depois, Overton foi acusado de deserção, promovendo-se a capitão e atraindo o pagar e condenado a trabalhar em um batalhão de trabalho. Overton foi mais tarde morto "por um projétil enquanto carregava munições para uma posição avançada". Como James Hopkins aponta, vários brigadistas insinuaram sombriamente que Overton foi, se não realmente assassinado, certamente enviado deliberadamente, "de maneira prejudicial ... [como] ... um meio expediente de se livrar de um soldado que se tornara uma vergonha perigosa".

Houve uma depressão no solo que era completamente invisível e através da qual o inimigo poderia ter caminhado e surgido na nossa frente. Não teria sido tão ruim se tivéssemos um flanco direito, mas nosso flanco direito estava vazio porque a Companhia nº 4 de Bert Overton havia desertado e corrido de volta para a estrada afundada. Tínhamos oito metralhadoras Maxim (geralmente tínhamos cerca de cinco porque elas travaram e as mandamos de volta para os armeiros na estrada afundada). Duas máximas e 12 fuzileiros deveriam ter sido retiradas e enviadas para o flanco direito. O batalhão franco-belga mais à direita foi forçado a recuar 300-400 jardas, então ficamos expostos.

Após contínuos bombardeios de artilharia inimiga e pesados ​​disparos de metralhadoras, que duraram o dia todo, houve uma cessação completa do fogo do lado inimigo. Você pensa, o que o inimigo está fazendo? Ele estava atacando, porque eles não queriam atingir suas próprias tropas. Vimos homens descendo a encosta de uma colina e os ceifamos. Mas o inimigo estava se agrupando no ponto cego e eventualmente fomos cercados e capturados.

Fui trocado em meados de setembro de 1937 e cruzei para a França. Eu queria voltar. Mas então Jimmy Rutherford foi executado e eles não deixaram ninguém que tivesse sido capturado e trocado sair novamente. Então, trabalhei para as organizações de ajuda espanholas

Depois do terceiro dia em Jarama, quando entramos em ação, havia muito pouca defesa. Esperávamos capturar aquela casa branca, mas nunca chegamos perto dela. Nosso comandante, Bert Overton, veio até mim e disse: "Esqueci meus binóculos." Eu era um corredor na época, um mensageiro, e disse que voltaria para buscá-los. Ele disse: "Não, eu irei". Eu disse que você não pode ir embora e sair da empresa, mas antes que eu falasse mais alguma coisa, ele foi embora e foi embora. Não pensei muito mais nisso. Pensei que talvez ele tivesse sido morto. Muitas pessoas foram mortas, principalmente policiais, naquela época.

Foi cerca de seis meses depois, em Mondejar, que conheci Peter Kerrigan, o comissário, que era um comissário muito severo e severo, mas bom. Ele fez coisas para o bem de todos. Ele me disse: "Há um julgamento do batalhão, vá e pegue o prisioneiro". Então eu entrei e tinha um cara sentado lá. Foi Overton. Eu olhei para ele, meio que me lembrei de seu rosto, disse-lhe para vir e marchar com ele. Lembro-me de Kerrigan e um sujeito chamado George Aitken estavam sentados lá. Overton foi questionado sobre isso e ele lhes contou a mesma história que contou para mim: que ele havia deixado seus binóculos e voltou para buscá-los. Foi acusado de covardia, levado à frente do batalhão, despido de suas dragonas de oficial e desonrado. Essa foi a última vez que o vi. Disseram-me que ele foi para outra frente e morreu lá. Depois do julgamento, eu disse a Peter Kerrigan que, como Overton havia dado meu nome como testemunha, eu deveria ter permitido dar um passo à frente. Eu não poderia ter feito nenhuma diferença. Eu teria contado a mesma história, mas parecia um pouco injusto para mim. Kerrigan disse que ele era um covarde e que homens haviam morrido.

Bert Overton pode ter sofrido um destino um tanto semelhante. A brigada levou a corte marcial Overton, um ex-guarda que falhou abissalmente como comandante de companhia no Jarama, custando a vida de muitos por causa de seu medo e incompetência. Ele foi então enviado para um batalhão de trabalho. Em Brunete, ele foi morto enquanto carregava munição "para uma posição avançada". Alguns se perguntaram se colocar Overton em perigo não era simplesmente um meio expediente de se livrar de um soldado que se tornara um constrangimento perigoso.


Local do Orange County Choppers será inaugurado de 25 a 27 de junho em Pinellas Park

A partir da esquerda, Bert King, proprietário do Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson, e os parceiros da OCC Road House & amp Museum Paul Teutul Sr. e Keith Overton visitam o local do restaurante e museu em Pinellas Park. (Orange County Choppers Road House & amp Museum)

O OCC Road House & amp Museum é um novo restaurante enorme e local de entretenimento do famoso executivo de hospitalidade da área, Paul Teutul Sr., do Orange County Choppers, Keith Overton.

Baseado na popular marca OCC de Teutul, o Road House está localizado em um complexo de 9,5 acres adjacente à nova Barracuda Harley-Davidson de Bert, uma das concessionárias Harley-Davidson de melhor desempenho do país. Os dois novos negócios vizinhos na 49th Street North estão unindo forças para dar "a maior festa de 2021" em comemoração às suas inaugurações oficiais.


Aida Overton Walker

Em 1898, Aida Overton começou a cantar e dançar para a dupla de comédia de Vaudeville Bert Williams e George Walker, seu futuro marido. Os dois produziram musicais ragtime com elencos inteiramente negros, que contrastavam com os shows de menestréis da época. Mais tarde, Aida se casou com Walker e desempenhou papéis femininos fortes, recusando-se a ser um estereótipo - um dos primeiros para vaudevillians. Conhecido como "Rainha do Cakewalk, "Walker é considerada uma das maiores performers de palco negro de seu tempo. Ela abriu caminho para os pioneiros da dança moderna e ajudou a estabelecer a aceitação de artistas musicais afro-americanos profissionais no palco de concertos profissionais.


Aida Overton Walker quebrou estereótipos: estágio da era vitoriana

Aida Overton Walker quebrou estereótipos do Palco da Era Vitoriana tanto como afro-americana quanto como artista musical feminina. No vaudeville e no teatro musical, ela era elogiada pela crítica e amada pelo público. Como resultado, ela alcançou sucesso financeiro constante ao longo de sua carreira.

Ela se apresentava regularmente em locais para brancos em Nova York, uma realização que poucos artistas afro-americanos da era vitoriana poderiam reivindicar. Em sua carreira posterior, sua apresentação de uma dança clássica em um palco de concerto compartilhado por atores brancos foi altamente polêmica, mas recebida com grande aclamação. Como tantas mulheres famosas da história, Aida Overton Walker quebrou as regras junto com os estereótipos.

O início da carreira de Aida Overton

Aida Overton nasceu na cidade de Nova York no dia dos namorados de 1880. Ela começou sua carreira aos quinze anos com John William Isham’s Octoroons, um dos grupos de turismo negro de maior sucesso da época. Era 1895, apenas cinco anos depois que Nellie Bly e Elizabeth Bisland retornaram de sua corrida ao redor do mundo.

Em 1896, Aida Overton juntou-se aos Black Patti Troubadours, um ato musical e acrobático com cantores e dançarinos clássicos altamente treinados, malabaristas e comediantes. Matilda Sissieretta Joyner Jones, uma soprano afro-americana, dirigia a trupe de grande sucesso. Seu próprio repertório incluía óperas grandes e leves, bem como música popular.

Jones foi, sem dúvida, um grande modelo para Aida Overton. Além de comandar sua própria trupe de sucesso financeiro, ela abriu o caminho para artistas afro-americanos. Ela teve muitos “primeiros” em sua carreira. Entre eles, em junho de 1892, ela se tornou a primeira afro-americana a cantar no Music Hall, rebatizado de Carnegie Hall no ano seguinte.

Matilda Siseiretta Joyner Jones gerou histórias de sucesso

Muitos The Black Patti Trovador artistas tornaram-se famosos, incluindo a equipe de Jack Walker e Bert Williams. Williams foi posteriormente considerado um dos maiores artistas do Vaudeville e um dos comediantes mais populares de sua época. Ele também foi o artista negro mais vendido antes de 1920.

Enquanto se apresentava com The Black Patti Troubadours, Aida Overton se apaixonou por George Walker. Em um ano, eles se casaram. Eles logo se tornaram um dos casais mais admirados e elegantes do entretenimento.

Aida Overton se junta a Williams e Walker

Bert Williams e George Walker mudaram o entretenimento e o teatro afro-americano de sua época com seu talento e criatividade. Na era vitoriana, quando a desigualdade racial e os estereótipos eram comuns, eles fizeram muito para derrubar as barreiras raciais. Embora seu gênero fosse comédia, Williams e Walker insistiram em produzir teatro de qualidade. Seus cenários, figurinos, iluminação e adereços elaborados eram tão extravagantes quanto os dos teatros brancos.

Em 1898, Aida Overton se juntou à equipe. Com a adição de seu extraordinário talento como coreógrafa e performer, eles alcançaram um sucesso após o outro. Ela apareceu em todos os seus programas de sucesso, incluindo:

  • Os participantes da política-1899
  • Os Filhos de Ham-1900
  • No Daomé-1903 (viajou pela Europa por dois anos)
  • Abissínia-1906
  • Bandanna Land-1907

Aida Overton Walker recusou-se a retratar estereótipos

Como Bert Williams e George Walker, ela considerava a representação de refinados afro-americanos um importante trabalho político. Ela se recusou a jogar estereótipos no palco, como a imagem da mamãe rechonchuda da plantação que prontamente servia a seu mestre.

No Os Filhos de Ham, sua interpretação de Hannah de Savannah ganhou aclamação da crítica por sua habilidade vocal superior e habilidades de atuação. Como em todos os seus papéis, ela apresentou uma imagem forte e positiva das mulheres negras.

A Rainha do Cakewalk

No Daomé viajou pela Inglaterra com grande sucesso de crítica por quase dois anos. Um de seus números apresentava o Cakewalk, que teve suas origens na escravidão das plantações do sul. Os escravos se enfileiravam para formar um corredor no qual cada casal se revezaria em um passeio pedestre para zombar de seus senhores. A paródia apresentava reverências exageradas, flexões para trás, chutes altos e outros movimentos extravagantes com os pés. O mestre sentaria para julgar. O melhor casal ganhou um bolo.

Com seu talento usual, os Walkers coreografaram uma incrível interpretação do Cakewalk. Eles eram conhecidos por andar em linha reta com baldes de água na cabeça, ao mesmo tempo em que executavam difíceis passos de dança. Aida Overton ficou conhecida como A Rainha do Cakewalk. Durante a turnê, as mulheres da sociedade britânica a convidaram para ir a suas casas para aulas particulares de Cakewalk.

George Walker morre

Após uma década de sucesso com a Williams and Walker Company, George Walker entrou em colapso em turnê com Bandanna Land. Ele morreu com 38 anos.

De acordo com Wells Thorne em Black Acts, a maioria dos relatos da carreira de Aida Overton Walker termina com a morte de seu marido. Na verdade, ela teve muito mais sucesso depois que ficou viúva.

“Aida cantou o número drag“ Bon Bon Buddy ”, originalmente popularizado por George Walker em Bandana Land. Quando George adoeceu e Aida assumiu seu papel no programa, muitos jornais publicaram caricaturas de Aida vestida com o traje que George usava em sua canção característica, "Bon Bon Buddy". Sua interpretação se mostrou tão popular que Aida manteve a música (e o figurino) como uma parte muito querida de seu show de vaudeville. ”

Carreira posterior de Aida Overton Walker

A carreira solo de Aida Overton Walker decolou com seu papel em Sua Excelência o Barbeiro em 1909 com a Smart Set Company.

“O crítico Sylvester Russell comentou que a turnê de Aida com a Smart Set Company“ demonstrou que ela [é] a característica dominante do [show] e a atração de bilheteria. Sem sua última temporada, não teria havido nenhuma atração de bilheteria ”Thorne

& # 8220O New York Dramatic Mirror disse que Aida Overton Walker foi a melhor comediante negra de sua época. & # 8221 Thorne

Aida Overton Walker toca Salomé Contra Tipo

Em 1912, Aida Overton Walker apresentou sua interpretação da dança "Salome" no Victoria Theatre de Hammerstein. Ela apresentou sua dança pela primeira vez em Bandana Land em 1908. Sua dança foi bem recebida no contexto do show totalmente negro. Mas uma mulher negra executando uma dança clássica em um palco de concerto compartilhado por atores brancos era altamente controversa.

& # 8220Ela assumiu a responsabilidade de pavimentar o caminho para os artistas afro-americanos a sério. Aida Overton Walker “se esforçou para combater o estereótipo pernicioso de que as mulheres afro-americanas em geral, e as atrizes negras em particular, eram imorais e obesas”. Thorne

Como resultado, ela optou por minimizar os tons sexuais da dança, em vez de enfatizar o estado emocional de Salomé em sua coreografia. Apesar de qualquer oposição à sua inclusão no palco branco, seu noivado foi estendido de uma semana para três.

Aida Overton Walker desenvolve seu próprio grupo de apresentações

Aida Overton Walker seguiu os passos de sua primeira modelo, Matilda Sissieretta Joyner Jones. Ela começou sua própria trupe de vaudeville de dançarinas, da qual foi líder e coreógrafa-chefe.

Como prova de seu desempenho de sucesso no Victoria Theatre de Hammerstein, um espaço antes restrito a artistas brancos, sua trupe se apresentou naquele palco no ano seguinte. Os críticos e o público a amavam e seu novo trupe. A única crítica deles era que ela não estava no palco o suficiente. Ela deixou seu público querendo mais.

Aida Overton Walker morreu em 1914, aos 34 anos.

Racing Nellie Bly
Os segredos vitorianos das notas de rodapé da história
Conheça o passado para inventar o futuro

0 respostas

Estou apaixonado por ela e por todas as suas informações sobre ela. Por que nenhum filme não foi feito sobre ela e suas contrapartes ..

Concordou! Ela era linda, elegante e tão talentosa. Eu adoraria ver um filme dessa época.

Uau. Ela e o marido morreram tão jovens! Que vida fascinante eles levaram.

Eu pensei a mesma coisa. Mesmo hoje, muitos músicos e performers parecem morrer jovens. Mas achei essa história particularmente trágica. Eles eram um casal tão lindo. Eu só gostaria que tivéssemos gravações de suas apresentações. Muito obrigado por visitar o Racing Nellie Bly. Se você tiver algum tópico que deseja que exploremos, informe-nos.


(Travalanche)

Hoje é o aniversário de Bert Williams e # 8217.

George Walker e Bert Williams são figuras importantes não apenas na história do show business, mas também na história cultural americana. Williams, o mais talentoso e com vida mais longa dos dois, era o Jackie Robinson do show business americano, e em sua música-tema “Nobody” (letra de Alex Rogers), deixou o mundo com um padrão que ainda está sendo abordado hoje (por exemplo, por Johnny Cash em seu Americano III: Homem Solitário álbum).

Quando a vida parece cheia de nuvens e chuva

E eu não estou cheio de nada além de dor,

Quem acalma meu cérebro batendo, batendo? Ninguém!

Quando o inverno chega com neve e granizo

E eu com fome e pés frios,

Quem disse: “Aqui estão 25 centavos, vá buscar algo para comer?” - Ninguém

A suprema ironia é que, embora Williams seja o homem negro mais famoso a sair do vaudeville (além de Bill Robinson), ele tinha ancestrais principalmente caucasianos. Seu avô paterno era o cônsul holandês em Antígua, Índias Ocidentais. Sua avó paterna e sua mãe eram mestiças - um quarto negra. Isso faria de Williams algo como 3/16 africano, mas no mundo racista que ele herdaria, isso era o suficiente para tornar sua vida um desafio supremo.

Ele nasceu Egbert Austin Williams no ano de 1874. Em 1885, a família mudou-se para a Califórnia. Quando adolescente, Williams esperava ir para a Universidade de Stanford. Ele se tornou um artista para arrecadar dinheiro para pagar suas mensalidades. Como ele não tinha experiência, os cinemas não o contrataram. Em vez disso, ele começou no mundo difícil dos salões da Costa da Bárbara, onde sua postura, dignidade e classe eram apenas deficiências. Uma turnê de 1893 pelos acampamentos de madeira, onde apresentou esquetes e canções, dificilmente se saiu melhor. Nesses anos, foi aos poucos tendo a horrível revelação de que era vítima das expectativas racistas do público e que, para ter sucesso, teria que se rebaixar a retratar o tipo de estereótipo baixo que os brancos esperavam. Enquanto Williams tinha pele clara, predominavam os traços africanos - para o público ele era um “homem negro” e, na América, os “homens negros” se comportavam de uma certa maneira. O problema era que Williams era bem-educado, era de classe média alta e era sofisticado. Para ter sucesso no show business, ele realmente teve que lutar para aprender o que era para ele um dialeto e maneirismos estranhos.

Nestes primeiros anos, Williams exibiu poucos dos dons pelos quais mais tarde foi distinguido, não era grande coisa como cantor, dançarino, músico (ele tocava banjo) ou comediante, mas sua alta inteligência conseguia carregá-lo. Com sua nova personalidade "darky" em evolução (que sem dúvida o irritava), ele começou a receber suas primeiras reservas decentes, primeiro alguns meses no Museu de São Francisco, depois com Martin e Seig's Mastodonte Minstrels.

Foi nessa conjuntura inicial e embrionária que Williams conheceu George Walker, um ano mais novo que Bert, mas já um veterano de menestréis e programas de medicina. Os dois se deram bem e criaram uma atuação. George cantou uma música “See Yer Colored Man”, enquanto Bert tocou banjo. Bert foi o homem hétero em suas primeiras rotinas de comédia crua. Por quase dois anos (1893-95), os dois executaram suas canções e esquetes em Jack Halahan's Teatro Cramorne (mais tarde conhecido como Midway Plaisance).

Quando a dupla ouviu falar de um show de sucesso em Chicago, ligou The Octoroon isso era a contratação de artistas negros, eles decidiram arriscar e se mudar para lá na esperança de poderem blefar para entrar. O plano era seguir para o leste com um programa de medicina itinerante. The scheme was rudely interrupted in Texas by a lynch mob, however, who were offended by Williams and Walker’ flashy, expensive clothes (which, by the way, were a professional necessity for vaudevillians). The mob tore off their clothes and gave them burlap sacks to wear. The good “doctors” of the medicine show did not defend them, and so they were left naked and penniless to make their way to the next town. How they managed to do so is not recorded for posterity. After this incident, the boys vowed never to work the South again, a promise on which they made good.

Miraculously, they managed to make it to Chicago and get a week’s try-out in The Octoroon – but they flopped and were let go. The set-back provided them with an opportunity to take stock of their act and decide on some improvements. In the next few months, they developed the basic characteristics of the act that would make them world famous.

First, Williams bit the bullet and decided to black up. It was common for African Americans to wear blackface in those days. In fact, that was how blacks broke into show business in the first place, by performing in minstrel shows as “genuine coons”. As with so many performers, the blackface seemed to work a miracle on the naturally shy and introverted Williams – it released his inhibitions and freed him up to be funny. He finally let go of his dignity (which is a fine thing for a man to possess, but a handicap for a clown), and started going for the bellylaughs. The character he became known for was a loser, a sort of shabby pessimistic everyman in threadbare clothes, or as he sang in one of his more popular songs, “The Jonah Man” – the guy to whom everything bad happens. In contrast, Walker was a flashy dude in smart clothes, a ladies’ man, a talker, a schemer, the eternal optimist, and the motivating force behind the plots of all their stories. The two characters, of course, were exaggerations of the men’s actual personalities.

Billed as “Two Real Coons”, the two traveled with their constantly improving act starting in 1896. In 1898 they were spotted by a scout in French Lick, Indiana and tapped to perform in a Broadway show The Gold Bug which lasted one week. A succession of prestige vaudeville gigs followed, though: Koster & Bial’s, Proctor’s, Hammerstein’s Olympia, Tony Pastor’s Music Hall, the Keith Circuit. They were credited with introducing the cakewalk to mainstream America in their act, a popular dance which evolved from the minstrel show walkaround. Comical dancing became a highlight of their act, Walker high-stepping and lively, Williams, shuffling and clumsy.

In 1898, they toured with Clorindy, or the Origin of the Cakewalk, a book musical that further helped to legitimize African Americans on stage. They followed this up with a tour of “A Lucky Coon” , a sort of compendium of their minstrel bits, in 1899.

In 1901, Williams and Walker made history by becoming the first major African American stars to become recording artists, and the tracks they laid down were major hits. Williams and Walker went on to star in and produce many important musicals over the next few years, including The Sons of Ham (1901), In Dahomey, the first all-black musical to open on Broadway (1902-05), and Bandanaland (1908). In 1903, Williams and Walker became the first African Americans to give a command performance for an English Monarch (Edward VII) George Bernard Shaw said of their performance: “the best acting now in London is that of Williams and Walker in In Dahomey.

In 1905, Williams started singing Nobody, which was to be his theme song.

When I was in that railroad wreck

And thought I’d cashed in my last check

Who took that engine off my neck? Hm…not a soul…

In 1908, Walker contracted syphilis, which in those days was without a treatment. By 1909, the condition was affecting his performance and though he struggled valiantly to control the symptoms, he began to stutter, forget his lines, and lose his motor control on stage. That year, he retired from the act. By 1911, he was dead.

For a brief while, his wife Aida Overton Walker (a dancer who had performed with the team for years), went on as his replacement in drag. After a period of uncertainty, Williams developed a solo act, and in so doing, revealed himself to be one of the great comic artists of the 20 th century. In addition to his classic character songs like Nobody with their distinctive mix of pathos and humor, he also told dialect stories, (or “lies” as he called them) in the great tradition of African American folklore, and pantomime, which he claimed to have learned in Europe from a man named Pietro. His “poker routine”, in which he silently portrayed every player in a card game, conveying several distinct characters right down to what hand each man was holding, was legendary (and, luckily, was preserved on film). He toured the country in vaudeville with this material, almost never receiving the top billing he deserved because of the prejudice of the times, although there times when he was next to closing at Proctor’s Fifth Avenue and Hammerstein’s. From now, through the rest of his life, Williams was in the strange position of being hailed as a genius, universally beloved and respected by his colleagues, adored by his audiences…yet forced to leave the theatre by the back door, stay in separate “colored” hotels and boarding houses (in towns that had them), and avoid local troublemakers (including law enforcement officers) who relished making life hell for “uppity” Negroes. A touching anecdote has Joe Keaton finding himself sitting at the same bar with Williams and noticing that they are opposite ends. “Come down and have a drink with me, Bert,” Keaton offered. But the bar was segregated and Williams was at the black end, so he mumbled an embarrassed but polite refusal, and Keaton, realizing the situation, came down to his end of the bar to join him.

Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division

In 1910, Williams became the first major black star in motion pictures, a series of one-reel silent shorts for Biograph. In 1911, Ziegfeld hired him for his Follies – the first black to be so honored. When most of the cast threatened to leave, Ziegfield is reported to have said, “Go if you want to. I can replace everyone of you, except the man you want me to fire.” Though getting his foot in the door at Ziegfeld’s was an achievement, it didn’t spell the end of racism in his life. In the show, while given many chances to shine, they were plenty of times when the roles he was given to play were an unfortunate reflection of the attitudes of the times: red caps, cab drivers, or some other type of lackey to his white co-stars were the typical parts given to this grandson of a diplomat. In 1914, he headlined at the Palace, another first for an African American, and the very pinnacle of success for a vaudevillian. Perhaps it was such triumph that gave him the serenity of mind to best a racist bartender in St. Louis. In a not-too-subtle effort to oust Williams from the bar on account of his skin color, the barkeep attempted to charge him $50 for a glass of gin. Williams calmly put a $500 bill down on the bar and said, “I’ll have ten of them.” On another occasion, Lionel Barrymore was backstage watching Williams work, and a stagehand came up and said, “Like him, huh?” Barrymore said, “Yes, he’s terrific.” Just as Williams got offstage the stage hand said loudly, “Yeah, he’s a good n–ger, knows his place.” and Williams said, “Yes. A good n–ger. Knows his place. Going there now. Dressing room ONE!”

The racism becomes even more risible when you contemplate the fact that he was one of the great performing geniuses of his day. Fortunately, there is just enough visual record to verify the contemporary raves. The best is the circa 1913 feature Lime Kiln Field Day, which only saw the light of day a few years ago when it premiered at the Museum of Modern Art. I was there for the historic occasion my account of the film is here. And there are the two well-known shorts, A Natural Born Killer (1916) e Peixe (1916). Would there were more, but at least there’s these three performances.

Williams’ last years were spent working the Follies, a Frolics and the Keith vaudeville circuit, but by the late teens his health began to fail. He died of a combination of heart failure and pneumonia while performing in Under the Bamboo Tree,­ a Shubert show in Detroit. He was only 47. I visited his grave at Woodlawn Cemetery in 2015 — a very moving experience.

To find out more about the history of vaudeville and great vaudeville acts like Williams and Walker, consult No Applause, Just Throw Money: The Book That Made Vaudeville Famous, available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever nutty books are sold.


OCC Road House & Museum Roaring into St. Petersburg

St. Petersburg, Fla. (Nov. 17, 2020) – Paul Teutul Sr. of Orange County Choppers fame and area hospitality executive Keith Overton today announced plans to open the OCC Road House & Museum, a new restaurant and attraction based on Teutul’s wildly popular OCC brand. Located adjacent to the 9.5 acre complex that is home to Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson, the one-of-a-kind destination restaurant will be decked out with a fleet of Paul Sr.’s custom choppers featured on the hit Discovery Network series “American Chopper,” along with hundreds of rare items from his vast collection of biker memorabilia, many never before seen by the public. With more than 11,000 square feet of indoor space, the family-friendly OCC Road House will be one of the area’s largest full-service restaurants, with indoor and outdoor seating for more than 325 guests to enjoy a full menu of classic American fare. The restaurant will also feature a massive 25,000-square-foot pavilion for concerts, outdoor dining, a billiards hall, floor games and other entertainment, and a retail store loaded with merchandise and collectibles for bikers, friends, and fans. The new OCC Road House & Museum is expected to break ground by the end of the year, with an anticipated opening in May 2021.

“As a long-time biker and St. Pete resident, I’m fired up to partner with Paul Teutul Sr. and bring something new and exciting to the dining and entertainment scene that will appeal to locals looking for great food, fun and live entertainment, and to motorcycle enthusiasts and OCC fans from all over the world,” said Keith Overton, owner and developer of the OCC Road House & Museum. “We expect this unique, destination experience to be an instant success, and a concept we will plan to immediately license to other interested restaurant owners throughout the U.S. and Europe.”

Overton, a 35-year veteran of Florida’s hospitality industry, served as President at TradeWinds Island Resorts for the past 25 years. During that time, he and his team worked with Bert King of Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson and Paul Sr. to create the overwhelmingly successful St. Pete Beach BikeFest, which attracted 75,000 visitors to the area annually. “That experience got me thinking about other opportunities to build on the synergies from St. Pete Beach BikeFest and Bert’s brand-new destination dealership, and to further collaborate with Paul Sr. on something bigger and badder,” said Overton.

Partnering with entrepreneur, TV celebrity, motorcycle builder and founder of Orange County Choppers Paul Teutul Sr. was an easy decision for Overton, as the two have become friends over the past decade. According to Overton, Paul Sr. has long-standing ties to Florida and the local community, and a huge following in the Sunshine State. The OCC Road House & Museum will be an extension of the OCC brand, showcasing Teutul’s one-of-a-kind creations in an upscale, industrial environment that will make guests and fans “feel like they’re hanging out with Paul in his workshop.”

The restaurant and museum will be packed with motorcycle memorabilia Paul Sr. has personally collected over the past three decades, including an enormous “patch wall” with tens of thousands of patches he has been gifted by members of the military and first responders over the years. Overton and Paul Sr. welcome military personnel and first responders, past and present, to help continue to fill the patch wall, leaving their mark for others to see. An Orange County Choppers Wall of History will feature custom choppers in a “chronology of chrome” detailing the brand’s more than 20-year evolution.

Building the OCC Road House & Museum adjacent to Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson dealership was a natural choice for Overton as well. One of the top performing Harley-Davidson dealerships in the country, Bert’s Barracuda has a loyal following and attracts a steady stream of bikers and brand enthusiasts from far and wide. In addition to this built-in customer base and the region’s enduring tourism appeal, the restaurant’s central location in Pinellas County will make it a convenient option for lunch, Happy Hour, dinner, and late-night entertainment for the many nearby businesses and residents of the greater Tampa Bay area. A full year-round calendar of live nightly entertainment, major concerts featuring regional and national acts, and other charity and special events at the campus pavilion is also expected to generate additional traffic to the restaurant and museum.

At a cost of more than $6.5 million to build, Overton expects the OCC Road House & Museum to provide a significant economic benefit to the City of Pinellas Park and the entire area by creating more than 50 construction jobs, and roughly 90 full-time and 20 part-time restaurant positions. “The timing of this announcement and the project is intended to bring some very positive news to residents and businesses in this community who are dealing with the negative effects of the pandemic. Paul, Bert and I are very confident about Florida’s recovery and the success of this newly created concept,” added Overton.


A Brief History of Vaudeville

Vaudeville was more than an assembly of ragtime pantaloons, monologists, eccentric dancers, barrelhouse songbirds, ventriloquists, magicians, tumblers, and jugglers, more than a coast-to-coast network of once-gilded theaters now shambling into plaster dust. Vaudeville was a people’s culture.

Some scholars have focused on France as the birthplace of vaudeville. The word itself is thought to derive from the val-de-Vire, a river valley in Normandy, home to the 15th-century poet Oliver Basselin. He wrote popular songs, some say drinking songs, which he named chansons du vau-de-Vire, after his native valley. At agricultural fairs, around the close of the seventeenth century, these songs, refreshed with topical lyrics, were put together with sketches and called vaudevilles.

To say that vaudeville originated in Normandy or Paris does little to explain American vaudeville. The entrepreneurs who first labeled their entertainments vaudeville, likely had no clear understanding of the word’s origins. These men were street-smart promoters, not cultural anthropologists, and they were persuaded to call their offerings vaudeville because it sounded French, and if something were French, it was presumed classy, fancy and lively.

Variety and vaudeville were unlike plays and opera because they brought together a series of unrelated acts on a single bill. There was no unifying theme or scheme, as was found in classic drama, melodrama, comic opera, operetta, and burettes (burlesque). The bills were a mixture of recitations, ballets and hornpipes, songs from the concert repertoire as well as lighter melodies, and dramatic and comedy sketches. (Ed: Many of these acts featured performers, both black and white, appearing in blackface, as well as comedy and dance based in cruel and exaggerated ethnic stereotypes.)

Vaudeville developed into a big business. Its growing popularity prompted the building of more and ever-larger theaters. Modern American show business had arrived. It was a by-product of a uniform system of railroads, the telegraph and telephones, willing bankers, aggressive lawyers, a popular daily press and a nation expanding in size and opportunity. As more people with theatrical ambitions turned to vaudeville, they found talent was not enough. They had to have an act, and an act could only be developed through the experience of playing to vaudeville audiences to discover what they liked and what they did not.

It is difficult to estimate the number of theaters that played vaudeville at any given time between the 1870’s and the 1930’s. There are approximately 800-1,200 big-time vaudeville houses that more or less maintained a two-(shows)-a-day policy. In addition to the recognized vaudeville chains and theatres, there were more than 1,000 other venues that booked vaudeville. On most weekend nights in the hundreds of small towns down south, on the Great Plains, and in the Rocky Mountain states, shows were put on in converted churches and grange halls, tents, auditoriums, or any space that could accommodate enough folks to make the venture pay.

There were four major factors at play in the decline of vaudeville: First was Hollywood. Silent films, already jostling vaudeville for popularity, added sound in 1926. A second factor affecting vaudeville’s viability was radio. By the early 1930’s, people were staying home to listen to Rudy Vallee, Amos ’n Andy, and Kate Smith. A third event was the stock market crash of 1929. What little money families could spend on entertainment went for a new radio or cheap movie tickets. There was another reason for vaudeville’s slow eclipse, one that sometimes has been ignored or denied. Vaudeville, once the cheeky upstart of show business, had lost its novelty as it grew more polished with the decades. Critics and customers complained that it had become too homogenized, too predictable, complacent, hackneyed, and stale.

The institution of vaudeville was peculiar to its time and places and there will never again be vaudeville as the people of the USA once knew it: a vibrant branch of show business filling theaters coast to coast. In the last four decades of the twentieth century, however, a small-scale revival of the vaudeville spirit and skills began. Whether as street entertainers, fairground re-creators or performance artists, the variety arts and new vaudevillians are heirs to thousands of years of traditional skills, and they restore vitality to old arts by adapting them for their own time and place.


‘Shuffle Along’ and the Lost History of Black Performance in America

N inety-­five years ago in New York, a journalist named Lester Walton bought a ticket to see a much-­buzzed-­about new show, a “musical novelty” that had opened about a week before at the Sixty-­Third Street Theater. Or the Sixty-­Third Street Music Hall, as it was more properly called. A kind of multipurpose performance space, not very big, not very nice, “sandwiched in between garages,” Walton wrote, and “little known to the average Broadway theatergoer.” You could rent the place for the night. It had philosophical lectures, amateur violin recitals and religious meetings, and during the day it showed silent movies: “ ‘Pudd’n Head Wilson,’ with Theodore Roberts, tomorrow.” But on this evening — and for many months to come, as it turned out — the stage belonged to an all-black show called “Shuffle Along,” a comedy with lots of singing and dancing. A problem: The music hall had no orchestra pit, and this show needed an orchestra. It needed space for the band, which happened to include a 25-year-old musician known as Bill Still, later to become the famous composer William Grant Still, but in 1921 a mostly unheard-­of young man from Arkansas, switching among the six or seven instruments he taught himself to play. The production was forced to rip out seats in the front three rows to make room. These were people used to improvising. Among themselves, they referred to the show as “Scuffle Along.”

Les Walton, the journalist in the audience that night, was also a theater man. In St. Louis, a city he left behind 15 years before — and where he got his start as America’s first black reporter for a local daily, writing about golf — he had somehow come to know and collaborate with the legendary Ernest Hogan, a.k.a. the Unbleached American, an early black minstrel and vaudeville comedian who (by some historians’ reckoning) was the first African-­American performer to play before a white audience on Broadway. Walton and Hogan wrote songs together, and it was Hogan who first brought Walton to New York, as a kind of business manager. Hogan was not so much unbleached as the opposite of bleached. He was a black entertainer who painted his face — with burned cork or greasepaint (or in emergencies, lampblack, or in real emergencies, anything black mixed with oil) — to make it appear darker. Or at least to make it appear different. In one picture of Hogan, from the 1890s, he looks more like a sock puppet, wearing a clownish pointed cap.

The blacks-­in-­blackface tradition, which lasted more than a century in this country, strikes most people, on first hearing of its existence, as deeply bizarre, and it was. But it emerged from a single crude reality: African-­American people were not allowed to perform onstage for much of the 19th century. They could not, that is, appear as themselves. The sight wasn’t tolerated by white audiences. There were anomalous instances, but as a rule, it didn’t happen. In front of the cabin, in the nursery, in a tavern, yes, white people might enjoy hearing them sing and seeing them dance, but the stage had power in it, and someone who appeared there couldn’t help partaking of that power, if only ever so slightly, momentarily. Part of it was the physical elevation. To be sitting below a black man or woman, looking up — that made many whites uncomfortable. But what those audiences would allow, would sit for — not easily at first, not without controversy and disdain, but gradually, and soon overwhelmingly — was the appearance of white men who had painted their faces to look black. That was an old custom of the stage, going back at least to “Othello.” They could live with that. And this created a space, a crack in the wall, through which blacks could enter, because blacks, too, could paint their faces. Blacks, too, could exist in this space that was neither-­nor. They could hide their blackness behind a darker blackness, a false one, a safe one. They wouldn’t be claiming power. By mocking themselves, their own race, they were giving it up. Except, never completely. There lay the charge. It was allowed, for actual black people to perform this way, starting around the 1840s — in a very few cases at first, and then increasingly — and there developed the genre, as it were, of blacks-­in-­blackface. A strange story, but this is a strange country.

Ernest Hogan died not too long after bringing Les Walton east to New York, but Walton maintained his interest in the theater and songwriting and had managed a theater in Harlem, the Lafayette. A progressive theater — it was the first major venue in New York to desegregate its audiences, i.e., to let blacks come down from the balcony and sit in the orchestra seats — and Walton worked hard to put serious black theater on the stage. At the same time, he had been making a name for himself as one of the first black arts critics in America, writing for The New York Age, a black newspaper. (His life would get only more interesting — over a decade later, Franklin D. Roosevelt named him an American minister to Liberia.) That evening, he went to see “Shuffle Along” on assignment. It was late May. That week, the Tulsa race riots had erupted more than a thousand miles away. A white mob torched one of the most prosperous black neighborhoods in America.

Walton had already seen the show, with more or less the same cast. He had caught it in Philadelphia a month or so before, near the end of a long road tour meant to shake out the performers’ nerves and generally get the production battle-­hardened for New York. And he loved it — he saw it several times in the end. Which is surprising, maybe, given his interest in serious black theater and in ennobling the black community (in 1913, he campaigned to have the “n” in the word “Negro” capitalized as a matter of journalistic style), because “Shuffle” wasn’t exactly forward-­thinking on race. It broke boundaries, no doubt, but mainly through its success, and by having great pop tunes. Otherwise, it was a blacks-­in-­blackface production. Walton even mentions that there were “more than the usual number of comedians under cork in one show.”

There was, however, an area in which the show genuinely pushed things forward: romance. In “Shuffle Along,” two black people fell in love onstage, and Walton wanted to see how a white audience would handle this. He came to the music hall expressly for that reason, he told us. The theater he had gone to in Philadelphia, the Dunbar, was a black place. Now, Walton wrote, he was “curious to learn if ‘Shuffle Along’ would find its way into the category of what is known, in the language of the performer, as a ‘white folks’ show.’ ” Could the production, in other words, manage to be both black enough to have “it” and at the same time white enough to make loads of money? Specifically, Walton wanted “to observe how the white people in the audience took to Roger Matthews, the tenor, and Lottie Gee, the prima donna, singing ‘Love Will Find a Way.’ ”

What he expected to see was not rage or revolt but something more ambiguous, an occasional discomfort passing through the room, and perhaps at certain moments a holding-­back too, on the part of the cast. “White audiences, for some reason,” Walton wrote, “do not want colored people to indulge in too much lovemaking. They will applaud if a colored man serenades his girl at the window, but if, while telling of his great love in song he becomes somewhat demonstrative and emulates a Romeo — then exceptions are taken.” Black sexuality was dangerous.

Walton was among the first critics of “Shuffle Along,” our first eyes on its original production. His response to the show was positive — “Speaking as a colored American,” he wrote, “I think ‘Shuffle Along’ should continue to shuffle along at the Sixty-­Third Street Theater for a Long Time.” And when he went back in October, he celebrated that the show was now “in its sixth month” at the music hall, assuring readers that the fact would be “pregnant with historical significance” for anyone “conversant with the ups and downs of colored theatricals” and all “the abortive, yet well-­intended efforts of the past.” But Walton’s response was complicated too, or shadowed by something. Facets of the show must have made him uneasy, just as the black-­on-­black romance had made some of the whites in the crowd uneasy. “Shuffle” seemed at times to have one foot stuck in the mire of a murkier racial past, even as it strode boldly forward with the other.

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Savion Glover slouches a little. It’s not the slouch of an old man, not stiff — or the diffident slouch of a young one, for that matter — it’s somehow part of his movement, closer maybe to how boxers crouch, but relaxed. It suggests a body that’s resting slightly because it’s about to burst into motion, which he kept doing throughout the morning (this was late last summer).

If the slouch was noticeable, it could have reflected the fact that Glover, the genius child at 42, had been spending hundreds of hours bent forward and pacing around like this, staring down at other people’s feet. For the last few months, he’d worked pretty much exclusively as a choreographer and would stay in that role for months to come as he conceived and staged a wildly ambitious revival of “Shuffle Along,” one of the most significant musicals of the 20th century. He would not appear onstage for this show. Except maybe, it was rumored, for a sort of cameo. There was one dance he liked so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay away from it entirely.

We were in a rehearsal space at the New 42nd Street Studios in Manhattan. A long open room with extremely high ceilings (productions have to be able to wheel in huge Broadway props sometimes). Giant windows at the front looked out onto 42nd Street, but no one looked out of them. It was dark and gray and pounding rain that day, as hard as I had ever seen it rain in New York. The noise of it made a strange effect when the dancers were actually dancing, because the sound of all their tap shoes was also loud, body-­shaking, so the two different thunders, theirs and the storm’s, were mixing and fading, creating illusions, and when the tap would stop abruptly, the rain outside for a second seemed like an echo or a rumbling of it.

This happened most often when Glover would spot a mistake or something in his own choreography that he didn’t like and clap his hands to make everything quiet. In front of him in three rows, 15 or so of the most gifted young singer-­dancers in the country would come to an abrupt stop. Their eyes watching him were hard to look away from. Awe was there, but equally something that couldn’t afford to be awed, that was having to pay too close attention and was too professional to indulge it, and the two registers chased each other across their faces. To sit five or six feet away made a person want to reel back decades of career choices and become the world’s most passionate talentless tap dancer. Glover would slide forward into the crowd of dancers toward the person or group of people whose steps he wanted to change. Big loose dreads, tight V-neck T-shirt, tap shoes, sweats. He would stop and flash out some blazing routine. "Gostar naquela, like naquela,” talking while he danced. “Not da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-DA. It’s da-da-da-DA-da-da-da-DA-da-da.” The changes often seemed less rhythmical than mathematical. At tap’s higher levels, a dancer can hit an ungodly number of beats per second, so the variations of pattern that are potential in just two or three seconds’ span can quickly jump beyond a normal person’s ability to follow. “We have seven, so you’re actually coming in on the two.” The dancers picked up Glover’s minuscule tinkering within two to four tries. Some could do it right off. In particular, one young woman, a 22-year-old from Texas named Karissa Royster, had clearly been recognized by the group as having a Rain Woman knack for memorizing Glover’s choreography. She would watch it, do it, then sort of drift around the room repeating it. Everybody’s hands floated at their sides.


Before the late 1890s, the image portrayed of African-Americans on Broadway was a "secondhand vision of black life created by European-American performers." [1] Stereotyped "coon songs" were popular, and blackface was common.

Will Marion Cook and Bob Cole brought black-written musical comedy to Broadway in 1898. Cook's Clorindy, or The Origin of the Cake Walk, an hour-long sketch that was the first all-black show to play in a prestigious Broadway house, Casino Theatre's Roof Garden. Cole's A Trip to Coontown was the first full-length New York musical comedy written, directed and performed exclusively by blacks. The approach of the two composers were diametrically opposed: Cole believed that African Americans should try to compete with European Americans by proving their ability to act similarly on- and offstage, while Cook thought African Americans should not imitate European Americans but instead create their own style.

Bob Cole and brothers John Rosamond Johnson and James Weldon Johnson focused on elevating the lyrical sophistication of African American songs. Their first collaboration was "Louisiana Lize", a love song written in a new lyrical style that left out the watermelons, razors, and "hot mamas" typical of earlier "coon songs." [2]

Cole and the Johnson brothers went on to create musicals such as The Belle of Bridgeport, The Red Moon (with Joe Jordan), The Shoo-Fly Regiment, In Newport, Humpty Dumpty, e Sally in Our Alley (featuring Bob Cole's "Under The Bamboo Tree"). Bob Cole's suicide in 1911 ended "one of the promising musical comedy teams yet seen on Broadway". [ citação necessária ]

Bert Williams and George Walker, called the "Two Real Coons", found fame in 1896 with a musical farce called The Gold Bug. The duo's performance of the cakewalk captured the audience's attention, and they soon became so closely associated with this dance that many people think of them as its originators. Williams met Walker in San Francisco in 1893, while they played Dahomeyans in an exhibit of the California Midwinter International Exposition of 1894. They played different venues while putting together their act.

Williams and Walker were dropped from "Isham's Octoroons", one of the first African American companies to break from the minstrel style performance. [3] They then put together a number of small productions including A Lucky Coon, Sons of Ham, e The Policy Players, but their ultimate goal was to produce and star in their own Broadway musical. So they thought back to the times in San Francisco and produced In Dahomey (1903) alongside Paul Laurence Dunbar, Jesse A. Shipp, and Will Marion Cook. Abyssinia (1906) and Bandanna Land (1908) also stood high in the Williams and Walker claim to fame. Their dreams of stardom come to life and they took musicals in a new direction, back to Africa. George Walker died during the run of Bandanna Land and his wife Ada Overton Walker substituted for him during the final week of the run. [4]

By 1911, Ernest Hogan, Bob Cole, and George Walker had died. Will Marion Cook and the Johnson brothers, James and J. Rosamond, had pursued new careers and Bert Williams moved to the Ziegfeld Follies and black musical theater went into a hiatus. [5]

In 1915 ragtime composer Scott Joplin attempted to stage an opera Treemonisha in Harlem but the show was a financial and critical failure and Joplin was ruined and retreated into retirement until his death in 1917. [ citação necessária ]

In May 1921, the surprising hit Shuffle Along made its way to New York City with almost $18,000 in debt. "One of the most popular black shows of the 1920s began to tinker with the pattern of segregation". The creators of the astronomical point in history are The Dixie Duo, Noble Sissle and Eubie Blake, who met at a party in Baltimore, Maryland in 1915. Their career was brief but successful. "Shuffle Along was a milestone in the development of the black musical, and it became the model by which all black musicals were judged until well into the 1930s." [6] F. E. Miller and Aubrey Lyles, who wrote the book for Shuffle Along (1921) had met in 1906, and began performing at the "Pekin Theater Stock Company" near Chicago from 1906 to 1909, along with other African American stars such as Harry Lawrence Freeman.

In 1921, Miller and Lyles appeared in a short film made in Photokinema, a sound-on-disc process, singing their composition "De Ducks", while Sissle and Blake made three films in the Lee De Forest Phonofilm sound-on-film process in 1923. These short films are a record of music similar to the work these four men were doing on stage at the time.

Rang Tang was premiered July 12, 1927, on Broadway at the Royale Theater and ran for 119 performances, including a 14-week overrun, finishing at the Majestic October 24, 1927.

In 1928, white producer and director Lew Leslie staged the first of a popular series of Blackbirds revues, featuring such talents as singers Adelaide Hall and Aida Ward, dancer extraordinaire Bill "Bojangles" Robinson and top-flight funnyman Tim Moore. Avançar Blackbirds revues were staged in 1930 with Ethel Waters, Buck and Bubbles, and Flournoy Miller, in 1933 with Edith Wilson, and in 1939 with Lena Horne and Tim Moore. [7] The key to Leslie’s success was the exceptional talent he found. “Leslie managed to build his black revues around one or more dynamic performers, who could carry a modest show to success.” [8] Although these productions showcased black talent, they were almost completely created by white writers and composers. In an interview, Leslie made a remarkable claim that “They (white men) understand the colored man better than he does himself. Colored composers excel at spirituals, but their other songs are just 'what' (dialect for 'white') songs with Negro words." [9]

George Gershwin's Porgy and Bess (1935) – starring Will Marion Cook's wife Abbie Mitchell among many others – is the most famous black musical of the 1930s. It is called a black musical because of the African American cast, even though neither the music or plot is of the “Negro inspiration” like the creators proclaim. "Porgy and Bess marked the nadir in the history of black musical comedy, symbolizing the end of tradition and experimentation in black musical theater on Broadway". [10] This also led the Works Progress Administration to start the Federal Theater Project that established the Negro Unit with programs in 22 cities. This gave a new break to the struggling artists. The Negro Unit avoided musical comedies, but had a few musicals with black cast including Eubie Blake’s Swing It, which closed in 1937 and lessened hope for the Federal Theater Project.

However, one black musical comedy succeeded and twisted the new realm of musical theater, The Swing Mikado (1937), a "modernization" of Gilbert and Sullivan’s classic operetta, The Mikado. Este foi seguido por The Hot Mikado (1939). [11] Another modern version of the classics was Oscar Hammerstein II's Broadway musical Carmen Jones (1943), a version of Georges Bizet’s Carmen with an all-black cast. [12]


OCC Road House & Museum and Bert's Barracuda Harley-Davidson Rev Up For Joint Grand Opening Weekend

ST. PETERSBURG, Fla. (May 21, 2021) – The OCC Road House & Museum and Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson are rumbling full-throttle toward their combined Grand Opening Weekend, scheduled for June 25-27. The OCC Road House & Museum is a massive new restaurant and entertainment venue from Paul Teutul Sr. of Orange County Choppers fame, and area hospitality executive Keith Overton. Based on Teutul’s wildly popular OCC brand, the Road House is located on a 9.5 acre complex adjacent to the new Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson, one of the top performing Harley-Davidson dealerships in the nation. The two new neighboring businesses are joining forces to throw “the biggest part of 2021” in celebration of their official openings. Details on the Grand Opening Weekend can be found here.

“It’s been a wild ride to get here, but now it’s time to celebrate all the hard work, planning and dedication of the teams that are making this day a reality, and Paul Sr., Bert and I agreed that calls for one hell of a party,” said Keith Overton, owner and developer of the OCC Road House & Museum. “We’ve put together an event everyone will love – OCC fans, Harley fans, and anyone who loves good food, music, memorabilia, and fun. It’s a great chance to get a taste of what’s to come at this one-of-a-kind entertainment and dining destination.”

Overton, a 35-year veteran of Florida’s hospitality industry, served as President at TradeWinds Island Resorts for the past 25 years. During that time, he and his team worked with Bert King of Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson and Paul Sr. to create the overwhelmingly successful St. Pete Beach BikeFest, which attracted 75,000 visitors to the area annually. “That experience got me thinking about other opportunities to build on the synergies from St. Pete Beach BikeFest and Bert’s brand-new destination dealership, and to further collaborate with Paul Sr. on something bigger and badder,” said Overton.

The Grand Opening Weekend continues Saturday and Sunday, June 26-27, with the OCC Road House & Museum and Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson both open to the public with free tours and live entertainment from bands including Horses Wild, Florida Country, The Little Kings, Doug South Band and more. Visitors can tour the new state-of-the-art showroom and motor clothing showcase at Bert’s Barracuda Harley Davidson dealership, along with all the latest 2021 models.

Guests will also be able to check out the new OCC Road House & Museum, which will be decked out with a fleet of Paul Sr.’s custom choppers featured on the hit Discovery Network series “American Chopper,” along with hundreds of rare items from his vast collection of biker memorabilia, many never before seen by the public. The $7 million restaurant and museum will be packed with motorcycle memorabilia Paul Sr. has personally collected over the past three decades, including an enormous “patch wall” with tens of thousands of patches he has been gifted by members of the military and first responders over the years. Overton and Paul Sr. welcome military personnel and first responders, past and present, to help continue to fill the patch wall and tribute area with their personal keepsakes, leaving their mark for others to see. An Orange County Choppers Wall of History will feature custom choppers in a “chronology of chrome” detailing the brand’s more than 20-year evolution.

Honoring Paul Sr.’s love of animals, a portion of the museum will be dedicated to the hundreds of animals he and his family have saved over the years, as well as to those no-kill shelters they will continue to support in New York and the Tampa Bay area. The museum’s retail store will feature official OCC Road House Nation clothing for guests, and special OCC “Dog House” Nation items for their pets. Proceeds from pet retail sales and dedicated events will support local no-kill shelters and animal adoption organizations.

With more than 11,000 square feet of indoor space, the family-friendly OCC Road House & Museum will be one of the area’s largest full-service restaurants, with indoor and outdoor seating for more than 370 guests to enjoy a full menu of classic American fare. The restaurant will also feature a massive 25,000-square-foot pavilion for concerts, outdoor dining, a billiards hall, shuffleboard tables, floor games, steel darts, ringer games, foosball and other entertainment and a retail store loaded with merchandise and collectibles for bikers, friends, and fans.


Assista o vídeo: In memory of our friend and colleague: Bert Overton (Pode 2022).


Comentários:

  1. Aldred

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  2. Yarema

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  3. Daishya

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  4. Zenas

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  5. Boukra

    Peço desculpas, mas não vem no meu caminho. Existem outras variantes?

  6. Dozuru

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  7. Konnor

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