By Christopher Caggiano

William A. Everett’s book is well researched but based on a problematic premise.

The Year That Made the Musical: 1924 and the Glamour of Musical Theatre by William A. Everett. Cambridge University Press, 272 pages, $39.99.

When I read the title to William A. Everett’s new book, I knew I had to review it: The Year That Made the Musical: 1924 and the Glamour of Musical Theatre. There are so many things wrong with that title, it’s hard to know where to begin.

First, I should confess a bias on my part. For 16 years, I taught the history of musical theater at the college level. And, in my course, I focused on three things: words, music, and the people who wrote them. I didn’t dwell on production values or performers, except when the production values were all there really was to talk about (e.g. The Ziegfeld Follies), or when the stars had a significant impact on the show’s creation (e.g,. Ethel Merman and Gypsy)

So, seeing that Everett intended to focus on the “glamour” of “musical theatre” (note the British spelling in both, as this book is published by the Cambridge University Press), I knew going in that I had philosophical differences with the author.

But the datum that really caught my eye was the year itself: 1924. I thought back to my syllabus. Which shows, if any, from 1924 had I covered in my two-semester course? The only one I could recall was Lady, Be Good!, a creaky star vehicle — the stars being Fred and Adele Astaire — that nonetheless produced a few tunes that became standards: “Fascinatin’ Rhythm” and “Little Jazz Bird.” What’s more, the only reason I even included Lady, Be Good! in the course was to demonstrate the elements that were lacking in even the best musicals of the period, underlined by the fact that none of the shows have entered the repertoire, although some of their songs have.

As a musical, Lady, Be Good! is pretty much forgotten, except for a 1992 studio recording and a 2015 concert production at Encores! at New York City Center. But Everett builds his narrative toward the premiere of Lady, Be Good!, as though the show were some kind of masterpiece. It isn’t. It’s one of what I call the 1920s Kleenex musicals: tissue thin and disposable.

The rest of the shows of 1924 are pretty much forgotten as well. Countess Maritza, anyone? Yet Everett spends six pages dissecting that operetta. It might perhaps be on the penumbra of a musical theater historian’s consciousness, but otherwise the show is virtually forgotten. The only other works from 1924 that anyone might have heard of are Rose-Marie, with music by Rudolf Friml, and The Student Prince, with music by Sigmund Romberg. But to the average theatergoer — even to many dedicated musical theater aficionados — these productions are footnotes at best.

Notably, the three shows in the previous paragraph are all foreign-written or -influenced operettas. Everett does admit that, in the 1920s, pretty much anything on Broadway that was of decent quality was likely to be an import, especially when it came to sophisticated and meaningful musicality. But more on this later.

Even more damning to Everett’s thesis is the fact that nearly every piece of support he offers for 1924 being a watershed year could easily be applied to almost any other year in the 1920s, if not any year at all. In his introduction, Everett writes:

This was an overlap of the old and the new, the past coming into the present and pointing toward the future. New stars were emerging as established ones were returning to the limelight. The same could be said of songwriters, librettists, and producers.

Yes, 1924 included some early, foundational works by later titans, including George Gershwin, Richard Rodgers, Lorenz Hart, and Oscar Hammerstein II. But so did 1925. And 1926. What’s more, these artists would achieve far greater things in much later seasons. Throughout the book, Everett repeats his “the old and the new” contention, as if repeating a point were the same as proving it.

Although Everett’s book is academically rigorous, it’s not exactly an easy or a fun read. The volume is more a detailed catalog of the 1923 to 1924 season than a compelling exegesis about a supposedly groundbreaking year. From that perspective, it will likely appeal more to musical theater scholars than to a general audience. That said, to Everett’s credit, I’ve never seen one theatrical year so exhaustively explored. But, again, I have to question whether this was the best season to focus on.

Despite the dry approach — or perhaps because of it — the publisher is bent on marketing the book as a breezy romp, complete with a hyperbolic title and a flashy cover design that features a rather exuberant font. Yes, books need to be marketed, but the jaunty cover and exaggerated title are deceptive. What awaits the reader is not a gay romp through the roaring ’20s, but an encyclopedic slog through one rather unremarkable season.

Even when dealing with smaller points, Everett has a tendency toward hyperbole. In discussing the intimate revue Andre Charlot’s Revue of 1924, Everett waxes unconvincingly rhapsodic:

Charlot was in New York preparing to make musical theater history. He hoped that his quintessentially English-style revue would succeed on Broadway, but even he almost certainly could not have envisaged what a triumph it would be. [Emphasis mine]

Yeah, who could forget the Andre Charlot revue that changed theater forever? Anyone? With Beatrice Lillie? And Gertrude Lawrence? Songs by Ivor Novello? Anyone? Yes, all of these people were important and famous in their day. And, to many show queens of a certain age, these names are still legendary. But to the average theatergoer they are now all but forgotten.

Everett’s book does have many commendable aspects. This is one of the few musical theater books I’ve read that addresses shows outside the United States. Everett discusses 1924 in a truly international fashion, devoting a great deal of space to productions in England, Italy, Spain, France, Austria, Germany, and more. One of my main takeaways from Everett’s work on this topic is how expansive the reach of musical theater was, far beyond New York City.

As an emeritus professor of musicology at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, Everett unsurprisingly explores in depth the musicality of the shows he covers. In particular, he highlights the meaning behind the music, although, of necessity, he must turn his analytical gaze mostly on non-US shows. Musicality in domestic shows was still in its infancy. Everett demonstrates how musical styles and contours grew to reflect the contrast between different roles, the deepening of characterization.

For example, in his discussion of the aforementioned Andre Charlot’s Revue of 1924, Everett deconstructs the song “Limehouse Blues,” a plaintive song performed by Gertrude Lawrence. Everett observes that the tune’s “pulsating drone fifths, chromatic melodic descents, syncopated rhythms and harmonic quirkiness create an aural sense of Otherness.” This is not only aptly noted, but also quite elegantly phrased.

Everett also discusses the increasing influence of jazz on the Broadway sound, and even credits Black musicians and dancers for instigating that innovation, which white producers and creators wasted no time in appropriating. In fact, Everett goes into admirable detail about numerous underrepresented groups, detailing the rampant racism, sexism, and homophobia in the shows of the time. Everett also points out that these unfortunate tendencies were not exclusive to the US but manifested in British and European productions as well.

In particular, Everett looks into the racist elements of the Chocolate Dandies, one of many all-Black musical comedies of the time, which reflected the stereotypes that the white audience would have expected. These racist tropes also showed up in operettas, such as Rose-Marie. Set in the Yukon, that show portrayed the indigenous people of Canada as two-dimensional savages: childlike, violent, and dissolute. In most of his examinations, Everett digs deep into the larger sociological implications of these racist portrayals, which few would have questioned at the time.

Everett also points out many of the now-forgotten contributions of female show creators. For example, he credits composer Clare Kummer and playwright Zelda Sears, two of a “small but significant number of women writing for Broadway in the 1920s.”

So, what year should Everett have focused on? Well, Everett rightly points out that, during the ’20s, musical comedy and operetta were in the process of merging to create a new genre: the musical play. This new type of show not only reflected the quality musicianship of foreign imports, but also the showmanship and entertainment value of American musical comedy. And no other show of the period demonstrates this merger more effectively than Show Boat in 1927.

But Everett goes out of the way to dismiss Show Boat, saying that this fusion “is often ascribed to musicals beginning with Rodgers and Hammerstein in the 1940s, or sometimes to Show Boat from 1927. What is evident here, though, is that the so-called new idea was already being practiced in 1923.”

Yes, Dr. Everett, but not well. Show Boat was the first show that did this well. What’s more, the Jerome Kern/Oscar Hammerstein II musical is still performed today, albeit in significantly revised form. Name me one show from 1924 that anyone would be interested in producing today, beyond the occasional concert staging.

I’ll wait.

---

Christopher Caggiano is a freelance writer and editor living in Stamford, CT. He has written about theater for a variety of outlets, including TheaterMania.com, American Theatre, and Dramatics magazine. He also taught musical-theater history for 16 years and is working on numerous book projects based on his research.