The Cavalcade of America. This evening's broadcast in the Cavalcade of America brought to you by DuPont is a tribute to American music and American composers. In a very real sense, this broadcast likewise is a tribute to our Cavalcade Orchestra, a symphony group under the direction of a distinguished conductor, Harold Levy. The symphony group has been assembled from master musicians. A number of them are members of the New York Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra. Mr. Levy was formerly conductor of the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra and is known as an authority on concert music, operettas, and motion picture music. He has composed or arranged most of the music used from week to week as the background to the dramatic episodes in the Cavalcade of America. Art and science are very much akin, and so it is fitting that this story of American music should be linked by its sponsor, DuPont, with the science of chemistry to typify the ideal of DuPont's research chemists. Better things for better living through chemistry. Many years ago, a philosopher named Andrew Fletcher wrote, if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. Truly music has been a vital factor in our national life since our Puritan forefathers sang their songs of thanksgiving in the New England wilderness. But it was many years before any American writer of songs rose to fame. It is the year 1826. A Fourth of July celebration is being held in Lawrenceville, Pennsylvania, a small town near Pittsburgh. The mayor is introducing the speaker of the day. It is my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce the speaker of the day, member of the state legislature, our esteemed friend, neighbor, and fellow citizen, William B. Foster. Mr. Foster will respond to the toast, the independence of the United States. Foster's a good speaker. He'll tell him something. My friends, ladies and gentlemen, on this 50th anniversary of the birth of our great republic, may I remind you that the independence of our nation was acquired... I want to speak to Mr. Foster. Keep still. Can't you see he's speaking? No, but this is important. Nothing is important to Bill Foster just now as celebrating the 50th birthday of our nation. Well, he may think differently. He's wanted home to celebrate the birthday of a new son. A new son, born on the Fourth of July. Say, well, he ought to do something for his country. That baby born on the Fourth of July was Stephen Collins Foster, who may well be called the father of American song. It was appropriate that he was born as the band's blared forth the national anthem and proclaimed the birthday of liberty. His songs became a part of our nation's very life and even during his lifetime were sung by thousands. He was only a little over 20 when the covered wagons moved westward. The gold rush to California is symbolized today by a Foster melody. Well, hold up there. Hold up. Here's a place to camp, folks. Pull your wagons around in a circle and we'll build our fires in the center. Joe? Yeah? Get that old banjo of yours out and let's have some music while we work. All right, Tim, what'll it be? Well, do I need to tell you? All right. All join in. Oh, I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee. I go out to Louisiana, march through the sea. It rained all night today, I left the weather, it was dry. The sun so high, the frozen death, so hell don't require. Oh, Susanna, oh, don't cry for me. I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee. Oh, Susanna, oh, don't cry for me. I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee. Yeah! Yeah! Oh, Susanna, open thy lattice, love, camp town races. Nellie was a lady, Uncle Ned, all were written before Foster was 25. But there was one song that was to surpass all others in popularity. One day in Pittsburgh in 1851, young Stephen Foster enters the office of his elder brother, Morrison, a cotton merchant. Oh, uh, Morrison. Morrison, are you busy? Am I disturbing you? Why, no, Steve. I'm never too busy for you and your music. What is it, a new tune? I see you have your banjo with you. I've been writing a song that I think should be popular if I can only get the right words for it. Do you know a good two-syllable name for a southern river? A southern river? Hmm, let me see. It has to be two syllables. I thought of Petey, but it didn't seem to fit. Too harsh a name. How would Yazoo do? Yazoo? Hmm, hmm, upon the Yazoo... No, no, no, I don't care much for that. I think the name's been used before, anyway. You're hard to please. Remember, there's an atlas over there. You might find a name on a map. Oh, an atlas? Good. Yes, let me see. Is there a map of the southern states? Oh, yes, yes, here it is. Ah, let's see. Well, there's a river in Florida emptying into the Gulf of Mexico. See where my finger's pointing? Oh, yes. I never heard of it before, but... Swanee. That's it. Swanee. That's good. Thanks, Morrison. Oh, wait a minute, Steve. Aren't you gonna let me hear your tune after I found your river for you? Oh, yes, of course. Now, I'll play it on the banjo. I have an idea that people will like this tune. Way down upon the Swanee River Far, far away This is where my heart is turning, never This is where the old folks stay All the world and sad and dreary Everywhere I roam Oh, doggies, how my heart grows weary Far from the old folks at home All the world and sad and dreary Everywhere I roam Oh, doggies, how my heart grows weary Far from the old folks at home Old folks at home and many other songs of Stephen Foster became famous through Negro minstrelsy, and his were not the only ones that were first introduced through this form of entertainment. Let us go behind the scenes of one of these shows, Dan Bryant's famous minstrels, which is playing at Mechanics Hall, New York City, during the winter of 1859. Here is Bryant, the manager, talking to Daniel Decatur Emmett, one of the company. Yes, Dan, we need a new walk around to liven up the end of the first part there. Something that has the spirit of the south in it. I wish you'd try your hand at it over Sunday. That's pretty quick work, Mr. Bryant. Songs don't just come to you, you know. Well, you're usually fast with your verses and your jokes. Why not with a tune? I'll try, Mr. Bryant, but you're asking a lot when you expect a man who was born and brought up in Ohio to write convincingly about a place below the Mason-Dixon line. All that night, Dan Emmett tried to write a song that he thought would please the manager of the Bryant minstrels. Tune after tune, he tried on his violin and quickly discarded. We find him with his wife and their boarding house early on a snowy Sunday morning. Dan, are you ever going to stop? You've been at that all night. I can't seem to find the right idea. I can't think of a tune, and when I think of a tune, I can't think of a name. The weather outside isn't any help. Imagine trying to write about the south with the wind whistling and the snow falling. Oh, yes, and if you haven't been too busy to notice, there's no heat in this room either. Oh, I've noticed it, but I can't stop. Dan, I'm surprised I haven't heard you complaining like all show folks do at this time of year. The old slogan that you wish you were in Dixie is... Wait a minute. That's an idea. That's it. You've got it. What? I wish I were in Dixie. That's my song for the walk around. Get a pencil and a piece of paper. There's a tune that's been going through my head all night. I'll try it on a fiddle, and you write down the words as I give them to you. Are you ready? The mechanics call the following night. The Bryant Minstrels come to the end of their first part. Ladies and gentlemen, grand closing chorus and walk around, specially composed and written for this occasion by our talented singing member, Daniel Decatur Emmett. I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times down and not forgotten. Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland, Dixieland. For I was born in early Alma, drossy morning. Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland. I wish I was in Dixie. Hooray, hooray. In Dixieland I'd take my stand to live and die in Dixie. Away, away, away down south in Dixie. Away, away, away, away down south in Dixie. I wish I was in Dixie. Hooray, hooray. In Dixieland I'd take my stand to live and die in Dixie. Away, away, away, down south in Dixie. Away, away, away, away down south in Dixie. And so the anthem of the south was written by a minstrel singer from Ohio during a New York winter. Dan Emmett lived to a good old age and received many honors as the composer of one of the greatest of all American songs. In 1854 in Washington, D.C., while the songs of Stephen Foster were the rage, a man was born who was to set the feet of a nation in marching rhythm. John Philip Sousa, later to be acclaimed the March King. At 13 he had assembled a small dance orchestra, all grown men, under the baton of a mere boy, which became popular at Washington function. John Philip himself played the violin, and one day as he is practicing, opportunity knocks at the door. Come in. Well, I'm sorry to disturb you, young man, but I've been outside listening to your playing. I'm the leader of the circus band. We're showing over near Pennsylvania Avenue. If you'd care to join, I have a place for you. Well, I'd like to join all right, but I don't think my father would let me. Then why tell him? Oh, I couldn't go away without asking him. My father's an awfully fine man. Yes, but he wouldn't understand the advantages of a boy joining a circus. He'd be sure to object. Yeah, I'm afraid he would. I'll tell you. Here's what you can do. When we strike the tenth tomorrow, you come over and join us, and after you've been gone a day or two, you can write your father, tell him what a great time you're having, and then it'll be too late for him to object. How about it? Sounds wonderful. Slappling with a circus and being paid for it. The next morning, John Philip's father awakens him bright and early, and after donning his Sunday clothes at his father's bidding, the two start out for a walk. Where are we going, Father? You'll soon see, son. But this is the Marine Barrett. Yes, Commandant's friend of mine. I've played trombone in the Marine Band myself. We were talking about you last night, and we came to the conclusion that you'll keep out of mischief as an apprentice of the Marine Band, and learn more about music than you ever would in a circus. Father, you knew? Yes, son. Well, how about it? Just as you say, Father. I promise, I won't desert. As an apprentice, John Philip Sousa joined the Marine Band, and later he became its most famous bandmaster, serving under five presidents. But a greater audience was calling for the music of this talented young man. Sousa resigned from the Marine Band and founded the great organization that bore his name. He wrote a number of successful musical comedies, but his real fame was as a composer of marches. Semper Fidelis, the Liberty Bell, the Washington Post, El Capitan, the high school cadets, all our favorites. But it was in 1896 that the most famous march of all times was to be written. Sousa's band had been traveling through Europe, and Sousa himself was planning to visit Sicily on a well-earned vacation. We find him and Mrs. Sousa in a hotel in Naples. He has been reading the Paris Herald. Jenny, did you see this? What is it, dear? It's a report that David Blakely dropped dead in his office. David Blakely, your manager? Why, why, that's terrible. This paper is four days old. I'll cable it once for confirmation. Poor old Blakely. He had a great many quarrels and disagreements, but he's been a loyal friend and a good manager. But Philip, how will it affect the band? It means that I will have to take hold myself. I'm sorry, dear, but our little holiday to Sicily is off. We'll make arrangements to sail Saturday on the Teutonic. As the ship sails for the United States, day after day John Philip Sousa paces the deck, absorbed in the problems he must face on his arrival. He whistles softly to the rhythmic beat of his footsteps, and deep in his brain he hears the melodies and counter melodies that are to form the march of all marches. As the vessel enters New York Harbor, he and Mrs. Sousa watch the passing shore. You've been preoccupied all through this trip, Philip. I'm sure you'll find everything all right. It hasn't been business alone, dear. It's a tune. A tune that's been echoing and reechoing in my brain since I left Europe. I can hear it, hear it distinctly, as if the band were actually playing. The trumpets here, the piccolo coming in, the trombones, the clarinets. What, have you thought of a name to call it? Not yet. But it's so clear in my mind that I can write it down fully orchestrated just as I hear it, without changing a note. Oh, look, dear. There's the first American flag we've seen for a long time. Beautiful, isn't it? The most beautiful flag in the world. The Stars and Stripes. The Stars and Stripes forever. The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont moves on. Just as John Philip Sousa set the feet of a nation stepping to his martial airs, so another young man was to set the feet of a nation dancing to a new and fascinating rhythm that stamped a new character on American music. Let us take a quick trip around the country in the year 1911, a small suburban home. Honey, here's a phonograph record I bought. It's that new song everyone's whistling. You want to hear it? Of course I do. Well, Mrs. Smith was telling me that her husband did. Well, here you are, dear. Now listen. Oh, Betty, it's catchy, isn't it? Hmm, makes you feel like dancing. It certainly does. Let's try it. Why, George, you haven't danced with me for years. A western mining town. Here you are, boys. Mail from the East. It's about time. Anything for me, Bill? Sure, a couple of letters from this. Looks like a newspaper. Newspaper, eh? Maybe we'll find out what's going on in the world. No, it isn't a newspaper. It's some sheet music from my sister. She says, I'm sending you the latest song hit from New York. Try it over on your piano. And maybe we won't. Hey, Jim, dust off those ivories in the corner there and let's see what we've got. I sure will. Give me some music. Hey, this song has the sway here. Makes me feel like dancing. See, if I had a girl here, would I show you some steps? A diplomatic ball in Washington, D.C. What's that tune they're playing? I don't know. They've repeated it several times this evening. Well, the young people seem to like it. Look at that daughter of ours. It's the first time in weeks I've seen her without that bored debutante expression of hers. Howard, do you think she's dancing, well, quite in a ladylike manner? Shaking her shoulders that way? Well, she seems to be enjoying herself at any rate. That's good exercise, too. Say, that has a fascinating sort of rhythm. Insinuating, you might say, huh? Fix my feet while I keep time. Do you think we're too old to dance? I don't know if you are, but I'm not. A famous restaurant on Broadway. Well, how about this table? I'm sorry, sir. That table is reserved for Diamond Jim Brady. And the president himself couldn't have it. That's it, George. Good evening, Mr. Brady. Say, what have you done with this place? It looks like a dance floor. That's right, Mr. Brady. We had to do it. The town is dance crazy. People won't come anymore unless they can dance. And that tune did it. Alexander's Ragtime Band. And I know the young man that wrote it. His name is Irving Berlin. A few years ago, he didn't have a nickel. If he keeps up, he'll be able to buy more diamonds than I have. It's progress, George. The day of the lobster palace is gone. I'm afraid if I want to keep up with the rest of the world, I'll have to learn to dance. Come on along, come on along. Let your feet just rise up in a tune band. A tune band, the leader of the band. Let's hear it to him, a one-eared riverbend. It's Ragtime. Come on and hear it. Come on and hear it. Alexander's Ragtime Band. Though reluctant to confess it, we Americans are a sentimental people, and that trait is reflected in our songs. There is an instance of this form in a composer who wrote because of her love of family. It is in Iron River, Michigan, in the year 1895. A charming lady, recently widowed, is talking with her lawyer. Mrs. Bond, I'm afraid there's little left of your husband's estate after the debts are paid. I wish there was something I could do. A woman left with a young child faces a pretty hard struggle. I can face it, Mr. Bruce. Have you any plans? I'm going to write a song with my music. But music isn't really a business. At best, it's a hobby. It's going to be my business. I know, of course, that you're talented. But so are hundreds of others. I've written four songs. No one else will publish them, so I'm going to have them published myself. At least, that's a start. Even when a song is published, one can't be sure of its success. One in a thousand is a moneymaker. My songs must succeed. I've written memories of the past, and my hopes for the future are in them. Even their titles have been chosen because they remind me of my life, my husband, just a Wirian for you, my boy. I love you truly. My hope for the future, a perfect day. When you come to the end of a perfect day, and you sit alone with your thoughts. They come from my heart, Mr. Bruce. I had to write them, even if I'm the only one who will ever sing them. Never fear, dear lady. Someday the whole world will be singing them. Soon, do you think what the end of a perfect day can be? Let others write the nation's laws. Let me write its songs. All honor to the minstrels who have given voice to the undying harmonies that have cheered and inspired the countless millions marching onward in the cavalcade of America. In this evening's program, we have heard how America began to win a place in the world of music. Similar stories could be told of America's progress in other arts and sciences. The art of pottery making or ceramics is no exception, and it also happens to be an industry in which chemistry plays an important part. The principles of pottery making are based on the crude experiments that primitive man made 4,000 years or more ago. Much of your pleasure from this art comes from the colored decorations. How often you hear someone say at a dinner party, for instance, what lovely plates. The speaker little realizes that the discovery of decoration came because different districts produced different colors of clay, and the primitive potter simply daubed one clay upon another to satisfy his sense of the artistic. With the discovery of the art of glazing, other native earths containing coloring material were used to secure a beautiful effect. Modern ceramic technique has greatly extended the process of glazing, and the skillful potters of today would be the first to tell you that much credit for this advance in their art must be given to the science of chemistry. Chemists working with manufacturers of ceramics have produced entirely new coloring materials and created new varieties of pottery, china, glassware, and porcelain. Chemistry has made these products more durable and less expensive, so that even modestly priced ware can now be obtained in a wide range of artistic effects to harmonize with home interiors. DuPont chemical processes produce a number of the colors and metallic decorations used in the ceramics industry, thus affording another apt example of the DuPont chemist's pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. We have been receiving some very interesting letters from our listeners, and now again we invite each one of you to send us your comments on this program. Your letter will be greatly appreciated. Just address it to DuPont, D-U-P-O-N-T, Wilmington, Delaware. Perseverance, a dramatization of incidents in the lives of American inventors, will be heard next Wednesday evening at this same time when DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System. WABC, New York.
