Boardwalk Memories: Atlantic City and Beauty Contests

Archivists are frequently baffled by the handwriting and personal, even idiosyncratic, notations in documents. When cataloging color transparencies by Donald Sultner-Welles for the NMAH Archives Center years ago, we relied largely on his labels on envelopes and other containers. They were usually helpful, but frequently incomplete, cryptic, or open to misinterpretation. I was amused in finding that our project manager had misunderstood his notes on a 1950s photograph of friends. He identified the subjects and added in capital letters “ME.” She thought that was a postal code, indicating that the photograph had been taken in Maine, and misfiled it. But I remembered that zip codes and state postal codes did not go into effect until the 1960s (it turns out to be 1963), and even during the early years of postal codes—if you argue that the captions might have been added years later—people had not yet abandoned the established state abbreviations, such as “Ind.” for Indiana, not IN. These abbreviations are still preferred in Library of Congress subject headings and other authorities, incidentally, for anything other than addressing mail. I concluded that he clearly meant “me,” not Maine, since he was shown in the photograph, and there was no historical reason to attribute the location to Maine.

Other captions for Sultner-Welles images are intriguing when they omit significant information, such as with the photograph below.

Photograph by Donald H. Sultner-Welles. "George Buzby, Atlantic City" With Bert Parks, ca. 1964.  Chromogenic color transparency, 2-1/4" x 2-1/4".  Donald H. Sultner-Welles Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

When I inspected a slide identified as “George Buzby, Atlantic City” among the Sultner-Welles color trasnparencies, I looked closely at the two other figures in the photograph. I knew Buzby was a friend of the photographer. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear but the face of Bert Parks, sublime and severe? The two men were shaking hands. I knew which was Buzby, since I was certain that the man in the middle was Bert Parks. You may ask, who is or was Bert Parks? He was important enough to be Google-able--in the words of Wikipedia, “an American actor, singer, and radio and television announcer, best known for hosting the annual Miss America telecast from 1955 to 1979” and considered an American “icon” by many. One of Parks’s primary tasks was to sing the theme, “There She Is” (Miss America: Your Ideal), when the winner was crowned. You can view these momentous occasions on YouTube. I can’t recall ever seeing a Bert Parks movie, but his face was familiar from the Miss America beauty pageants. Bert Parks, crooning that song, was the most memorable part.

Furthermore, the fact that Sultner-Welles identified the location of the image as Atlantic City strongly suggests that it was made at some iteration of the Miss America Pageant from 1955 to 1979. From that I postulate that the young woman whose waist his arm encircles might be a Miss America contestant. Admittedly, other possibilities abound.

Other Archives Center resources are Miss America-specific, including the personal papers of Lenora Slaughter, who revived the pageant in 1935 and served as its director. Two other collections were donated by winners of the Miss America crown, the Miss America 1943 [Jean Bartel] Photographs and the Miss America 1951 [Yolande Betbeze] Papers. A number of smaller beauty pageants, including high school, college, and other local contests, are represented in Archives Center collections.

American Legion Pageant at Lincoln Colonnade [paper photoprint,] 1947. Photograph by Addison N. Scurlock.  Scurlock Studio Records, Archives Center, NMAH. Note the "Miss Americanism" sash worn by the figure at right.

Another reason for my interest in the Miss America pageant was a personal high school memory. While I was a junior at Goshen High School in Goshen, Indiana, a recent graduate was awarded the Miss Indiana title. She was therefore eligible to participate in the Miss America contest. It was the greatest, most exciting, thing that had ever happened to our school, if not the town! The school decided to send the marching band to Atlantic City to cheer our candidate on, and I remember many evenings watching outdoor band rehearsals. She didn’t win the grand title, and therefore Bert Parks never crooned that corny song to her, but she did receive a special civics award as the contestant with the most enthusiastic hometown support.

Given this personal history and my chronic inability to delete that goofy song from my brain, it was an odd feeling to encounter this Sultner-Welles candid photograph of Parks so unexpectedly in the collection; and odder still that the photographer, who was something of a celebrity-hunter, identified only his friend and the location, not the famous host or the event.

David Haberstich
Curator of Photography, Archives Center
National Museum of American History  

Remembering Pete Seeger (1919-2014): A Banjoist’s Archival Connections

Pete Seeger performs at the 1966 Newport Folk Festival. Photograph by Diana Davies.

Pete Seeger’s January 27th passing sparked a groundswell of stories and shared memories about the man, his music, and the many causes he supported and pioneered. Of the millions of people impacted by his works, I am one of the countless banjoists who identify Pete Seeger as the reason I became a banjo player. And like everyone else, I too have a Seeger story that I want to share. It moves beyond having had the chance to meet Pete, share a photo, ask for his autograph, and have a conversation. It is a personal story illustrated through archival connections found in the Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections (RRFAC) at the Smithsonian’s Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage.

While I now self identify as an archivist, ethnomusicologist, and a musician, I was in a very different place in the early months of 1994. I was at a personal crossroads. As a high-energy 19-year old who lacked any inspired direction, I had few places to meaningfully focus my artistic and service-oriented disposition. One day, I serendipitously tuned into my local PBS station and began watching the 1981 documentary The Weavers: Wasn’t That a Time!, which featured Ronnie Gilbert, Lee Hays, Fred Hellerman, and Pete Seeger.

The Weavers - Pete Seeger, Ronnie Gilbert, Lee Hays, and Fred Hellerman - perform at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago, Illinois, January 13, 1958. Photograph by Robert C. Malone.

For me, the most moving parts of the documentary were those segments of The Weavers’ Carnegie Hall performance where the entire audience, not just the ensemble, participated actively in the music making. The projected sense of community I saw on my television screen—one that appeared to be inclusive and nurturing—moved me deeply. For whatever reason, the entire experience was embodied in Pete Seeger’s banjo and I knew I needed to get one. Perhaps it had something to do with the message written around the edge of his banjo head.

Pete Seeger plays his banjo at his home in Beacon, N.Y., November 3, 2005. Photograph by Bruce Mondschain, used by permission.

 After saving up a little money, in the fall of 1994 I bought my first banjo. Since that time, I have been working regularly to find ways of recreating that sense of community in as many contexts as I can muster. As I prepare to turn 40 this summer, I am beginning to see the last 20 years of my life as a chapter. It starts with the work of The Weavers and ends with having achieved one of my dreams of working at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage. Now, after two-and-a-half years in the Rinzler Archives, I consider it a privilege to work with a dedicated group of people who are charged with caring for materials whose content continue to shape my identity.

For example, I am part of a younger generation working to better understand the American experience. As I gain a longer view of my own history, my view of the past continues to evolve as well. I remain astonished by the lengths to which people have gone to selectively oppress individuals or entire groups because of who they are. Learning about Pete’s experiences confronting the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), I admire his personal resolve to stand up for his beliefs and the rights of others, which is something he did for his entire life.

Telegram from Pete Seeger to Sing Out! Magazine, 12 March 1962. From the Moses and Frances Asch Collection

Pete was also one of the many notable voices to sing out during the Civil Rights Movement. Pete and his banjo were part of a larger effort to confront the national traumas that began with slavery, whose violence continued through the institutional racism and segregation of the Jim Crow era, and whose legacy in many ways persists. In the 21st century, efforts that proclaim we are moving on to victory are still relevant to people working to overcome many forms of injustice here in the United States and around the world.



Ultimately, Pete Seeger will always be a cherished, essential figure in my life as I continue working as an archivist and an active member of the banjo community. It is reassuring to know that materials found in places such as the Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections provide valued reminders of where we’ve been, where we’re going, and the things we should never forget. That consolation helps me to see how these archival connections can serve as living links to those loved ones who are no longer with us. Thinking about archival materials in this way makes it much easier to welcome the comfort, wit, and sincerity of Arlo Guthrie’s recent Facebook statement about Pete Seeger’s death, “Well, of course he passed away…but that doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

Greg Adams, Processing Archivist
Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections

People march in an anti-war rally in New York City, April 27, 1968. Pete Seeger can be seen center right, Seeger's daughter Tinya is at center, and Arlo Guthrie is center left. Photograph by Diana Davies.

In Memoriam: Richard Meyer

Richard Meyer and Josh Joffen at the Bottom Line, 1992. Photograph by Teddy Lee.

Singer-songwriter and former editor of Fast Folk Musical Magazine, Richard Meyer, 59, passed away on May 14th, 2012 after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. Richard was a key member of the Greenwich Village folk scene from 1982 until his illness made it impossible for him to continue to play.

Meyer, who was born in 1952, had a background in theater production and set design. After spending four years in Los Angeles trying to make it as a songwriter, he returned to New York in 1982 and became involved with the Songwriters Exchange (members would endeavor to write a song a week) and a cooperatively run folk club (called, appropriately, “the CooP”) operated out of the SpeakEasy in New York’s Greenwich Village (the space was shared with a falafel stand and a belly dance venue). “There was always someone writing a song. For a $2 membership and some bathroom-cleaning/calendar-folding, you could see every show for free,” Meyer recalled in the liner notes for  Fast Folk: A Community of Singers and Songwriters (SFW40135).

Just a few months before Richard Meyer joined the ranks in 1982, the CooP started producing a monthly magazine-and-LP which sold for two dollars at shows at the SpeakEasy. Before the internet brought with it the endless possibilities for promotion and networking,  new songwriters needed an avenue to get their music noticed, and putting out your own album was expensive. The CooP/Fast Folk model was bare-bones: recordings were usually done in one take, and if another take was needed, it was recorded over the last. Most of the work depended on volunteers. “Commercial potential did not enter into the equation…there is always an audience for a good song,” said Jack Hardy (SFW40135).

Hard-working and industrious, Meyer fit right in to this ambitious effort. He began to take on more and more responsibilities, writing and designing for the magazine, managing the annual Fast Folk Revue, and eventually becoming its editor.

The purpose of Fast Folk was to create a myth of a contemporary scene in the Village with a club, recordings, and press, and then live up to it. Songs that had been casual standards around the club became "legitimized" by national airplay and existence on vinyl. Folk music wasn’t just something that happened in the 1960s. The editors encouraged ambitious songwriting, and guided experienced as well as beginning writers to their best material. The process built a community that had an extraordinary effect on American singer-songwriters in the 1980s and 1990s. (Richard Meyer, SFW40135)

In Fast Folk's early years, the covers were generic white sleeves. Founder Jack Hardy and the group wanted to start producing illustrated covers. Meyer, still new to the scene, volunteered that he had a background in graphic design and took over those duties for the magazine. He would also screen demos with Jack Hardy, wading through tapes upon tapes of artists hoping to be a part of the publication. They were looking for well-crafted songs: the artist and their image were secondary—the music had to stand up on its own. Sometimes what a songwriter would think was their best song was trumped by the vision of Meyer and Hardy, and the magazine was a reflection of their editorial eye. Meyer, an accomplished songwriter in his own right, was able to continue making his own music within this process, and many of his songs were issued. In addition to the magazine, Fast Folk sponsored shows of Fast Folk artists including their popular annual Revue at the Bottom Line in Greenwich Village, which Meyer produced and promoted. They also held shows in different cities and recorded the proceedings for special on-the-road issues.

Meyer took over the editorship of the magazine in 1986. He oversaw the magazine’s “controversial” move to begin distributing the recording portion of Fast Folk on CD (it began as vinyl). Their subscribers voted against the move (there are many an impassioned letter in the Fast Folk collection predicting apocalyptic repercussions for changing formats, a subject we’ve written about in the past), but due to cost constraints, the rapidly changing industry, and the benefit of being able to fit more songs on the new format, the switch was made. He remained its editor until 1997, when, after 105 issues and recordings,  the magazine could no longer sustain itself on dwindling volunteer labor.

As the 1990s waned, changes in the industry and the growth of the DIY music business made an organization like Fast Folk less necessary. Richard Meyer and the board of Fast Folk were looking to what to do in the future with the materials and recordings they had made. There was still talk of continuing some of the shows, if not the magazine. In 1999, Richard Meyer facilitated the donation of Fast Folk’s recordings, business records, press clippings, magazines and photographs to the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage, creating the Fast Folk Musical Magazine records (for a more detailed description of the collection's contents, see the finding aid).  Though the Folkways label, the Smithsonian already owned and represented many singer-songwriter and folk song revival singers of the 1960s and 1970s. The addition of Fast Folk would add key musicians from the later decades. Richard Meyer oversaw the digitization of all the recordings and fully cataloged each recording in a database. The label came to Washington and is now available the the public in perpetuity.

In 2002, working with Jack Hardy and Jeff Place, Meyer produced a two CD set for Smithsonian Folkways called Fast Folk: A Community of Singers and Songwriters (you can listen to samples on the Folkways website). The CD was in keeping with the ongoing philosophy of Fast Folk not to solely focus on the “stars” who had come from their midst but to  feature other lesser known writers that they thought should be better known. All 105 Fast Folk albums are available on CD and digital downloads through Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, a resulting legacy of Richard Meyer’s efforts. Richard was a highly dedicated worker, music advocate, and a great supporter of all his artistic friends. He will be missed.



-Jeff Place and Cecilia Peterson, Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections

ARCHIVING THE HISTORY OF AN EPIDEMIC: HIV AND AIDS, 1985-2009

The National Museum of American History’s Archives Center’s collections document diverse
aspects of the history and culture of the United States.  The oral histories, ephemera, and
popular culture materials housed here provide researchers an opportunity to learn how
individuals and society are affected by—and cope with—the epidemic. 

Trading cards are a popular form of entertainment, but are also used to educate a segment of
the population that may not be reached through more traditional methods. AIDS Awareness
Cards, a set of 110 trading cards designed for young adults, depict persons who died from AIDS or were involved in the fight against AIDS, as well as a variety of HIV- and AIDS-related topics and organizations. The reverse side of the card carries biographical information or information on the topic or organization depicted.

One of those personalities depicted is Ryan White, a young man with hemophilia. Born in
Kokomo, Indiana in 1971, White caught HIV through contaminated blood products. He was
diagnosed with AIDS in 1985.  He became a vocal and visible symbol of AIDS.  Through his
illness he became friends with Elton John and Michael Jackson, among others.  He died of
AIDS in 1990.  The Ryan White Comprehensive AIDS Resources Emergency (CARE) Act of 1990 was named for him.
  
The reverse of his card reads, “He was taunted and ostracized at school and was finally expelled. Neighbors pelted the Whites’ car, and a bullet was fired into their home. Fleeing Kokomo, the family moved to nearby Cicero, where they were welcomed, and Ryan attended school for the rest of his short life.”

He was quoted as saying, “I’ve learned that God doesn’t punish people. I’ve learned that God doesn’t dislike homosexuals, like a lot of Christians think. AIDS isn’t their fault, just like it isn’t my fault God loves homosexuals as much as He loves everyone else.”

This card is part of the current exhibit, "Archiving the History of an Epidemic: HIV and AIDS, 1985-2009," near our entrance on the first floor, west wing, of the National Museum of American History  The Archives Center houses more than 1,300 study collections and is open to researchers daily, by appointment, except Friday.  Please check our website at www.americanhistory.si.edu/archives for more information.

Franklin A. Robinson, Jr., Archives Specialist, Archives Center, National Museum of American
History

In Her Own Words

On the morning of April 22, bluegrass singer Hazel Dickens passed away from complications from pneumonia. Her clear and powerful voice challenged the then male-dominated world of bluegrass music, and unflinchingly drew attention to the struggles of the working class.

Born in West Virginia in 1935 to a coal mining family, her upbringing would influence her music for the rest of her life. Hazel grew up singing with her family (she was the eighth child of eleven). With her father, she and her siblings would sing hymns. When she and her brothers and sisters sang on their own, it was the country songs that played on the radio. Beating on bucket lids and playing a comb with a piece of paper wrapped around it, she and her siblings would sing different parts. Sometimes they would sneak out to dances at other people's houses.

It was difficult to find work in her hometown after many of the mines closed down. Options were especially few for women. When she was 16, she followed one of her sisters north to Baltimore to work in a factory. More members of her family would eventually join them. It was in the Baltimore area that Hazel began playing music outside the home with her family and Mike Seeger, whom her brother had met while receiving treatment for tuberculosis at the Veterans Administration hospital. They would travel around the region to country music parks and contests, and played at a few bars. Once Seeger left to form the New Lost City Ramblers, Hazel played bass with a few bands, but found the harassment on the part of the male-dominated scene difficult to deal with (at one point, she was chased around the room by a drunken fiddle player). She later wrote "Don't Put Her Down, You Helped Put Her There" as a result of these experiences.

Hazel accompanied both Ralph Rinzler and Mike Seeger on road trips throughout Appalachia to collect and record traditional music. The photographs featured here (from the Ralph Rinzler Papers) were taken around 1960 while on a trip to record Clarence Ashley and Doc Watson. They are pictured on the porch of Sophronie Miller Greer, a neighbor of Watson's. Greer and her grandchildren surround Ralph and Hazel as they play. Earlier that day, they had recorded Greer singing "The Triplett Tragedy," a ballad written about the murder of her own husband. Hazel admitted that she was amused by Rinzler and Seeger's enthusiasm for collecting old songs ("Why would anybody want this old stuff?" she remembered thinking at the time), but years later she came to understand the music was more than just a bunch of old songs, it had historical and cultural importance. She tried to learn more of the old songs from her own father before they were lost with him, but at that point his voice had deteriorated, and she was only able to collect fragments.

She eventually made friends and moved in with a group of people involved in the burgeoning folk music community that was blooming around the Baltimore-Washington area. They often hosted house parties where every floor had a cluster of guests playing old-time, bluegrass, and folk music. Hazel became a familiar voice at these gatherings. Reflecting on this time of her life, she said:

"I remember singing and playing all night long with anyone who wanted to sing with me. One city guy said, 'One thing I like about Hazel, she will sing with you no matter how bad you sing.' He didn't realize it was giving me a life. [In the men's bands] I was generally shunted aside. In this situation, I could be the star of the show."

It was at one of these house parties that she was introduced to Alice Gerrard, with whom she would form a historical musical partnership. In the liner notes to the Smithsonian Folkways reissue of Hazel and Alice's early recordings for Folkways (SFW 40065, Pioneering Women of Bluegrass), Gerrard remembers her husband, Jeremy Foster, saying to her, "There is this little girl with an incredibly big voice that you've got to meet."

The two women began performing together in 1962. Though they couldn't take too many jobs, Hazel had to work and Alice had children, Hazel found freedom in playing with Alice.

"It was not easy, having to practice over kids hollering...[but] I think that finally I found something that I could do [with the music]. And there weren't threatening people around...we could make our own decisions, making up our own arrangements as we went along, picking out our own songs and it was real exciting."

They were encouraged by Peter Siegel and Dave Grisman to record their music, and it became apparent that the only place where they would have total creative freedom was with Moses Asch at Folkways, whose only request was not to spend all of his money. In the reissue's liner notes, Hazel said of the recording, "I think this is one of the all-time historic records. To my knowledge, it was the first time that two women sat down and picked out a bunch of songs and had guts enough to stand behind what they picked out and say, 'We're not changing anything. You have to do it or else.'"


After cutting the record, they performed for the first time at the 1964 Newport Folk Festival, where Asch watched from the front row.


Hazel went on to record and perform by herself and with others. She wrote many songs with powerful messages that drew attention to the hardships of working men and women. "Black Lung" was the first of these she wrote and performed, and she was nervous about how such a politically charged song would be received:

"And I looked up and there was Merle Travis and Mother Maybelle [Carter] and I was scared to death...It was from the gut. It was watching my oldest brother and two brothers-in-law die, it hadn't been too long. And after that I had two other brothers that died with lung disease that worked in the mines."

Dickens was also heavily involved with the Smithsonian Center for Folklife and the Smithsonian Folklife Festival. She performed often at the Festival (about 15 times) and participated in the Working Americans program workshops and panels during its run in the 1970s. Her last Festival performance was with Alice Gerrard at the Ralph Rinzler Memorial Concert on a beautiful summer evening in July 2010. I sat near the front and would periodically turn around and look at the hundreds of faces sitting enthralled by their harmonies.

All of us here at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage will remember Hazel for her warmth and tenacity, her ringing voice and her humor, her deep love for playing music. Many of the quotes and stories from this post were pulled from Kate Rinzler's 1996 interview with Hazel located in the Ralph Rinzler Papers. In the interview, she speaks candidly about her life and journey. I will remember Hazel Dickens in her own words.

"I tried singing popular style along with the hit parade, but I never could get any satisfaction out of singing that way. My heart was not in it...we were [playing music] for love...and also as a means of expression to alleviate some of the loneliness that we felt by being taken out of our culture, and the only thing of substance we had to bring was the music. And that's what we knew and that's what we loved and that's what we got together in these clusters of people to do."

-Cecilia Peterson, Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections