Life — November 9, 1928 — page 27: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LIFE “T Said the Blues... .” Tuis is js to let the song- writers know that they are Agnes breaking my heart. Isn't Smith there enough unhappiness in the world without having to listen to sad songs every night over the radio? Isn't there anything to write about except devoted sons parted by rude destiny from their mothers down in Dixie, un- faithful girl-friends, dying children and the graves of pals who died in France? The whole tribe of song-writers seems to be suffering this season from low pres- sure and an absence of green stuff in the diet. Moreover, they all seem to be the victims of thwarted sex lives. The radio these evenings is just one wail of frustra- tion. Give me the heartier days when they rowed, rowed, rowed up the river and when they could triumphantly shout, “Pa and Ma have left me all alone.” For sheer gruesome tragedy some of these allegedly popular songs haven't been equalled since “And there sits my sister, by who murdered me, Binorie, ch, Binorie!”’ | | bow ’Round My Shoulder,” “Crest of the | Wave,” and “Ten Little Miles from Take this couplet from a ditty called “M Memories of France”: “I see her still placing roses, Where many an old pal reposes.”” Or these cheerful words from an older hit, “My Dream of the Parade”: “I saw one-legged pals, Coming Big | home to their gals, In my dream of the Big Parade.” And yet this is the generation that laughs at “Scenes that are brightest” from |. “Maritana,” or “When other lips and other hearts,” from “The Bohemian Girl’! But it will stand for “Sonny Boy” ten times an evening over the radio and then telephone in for more. And, at the top of its voice, it is “tired of livin’ and "feard of dyin’.” If the songs reflect the emotions agitat- ing the heart of the nation, the most ter- rible current curse is being stuck for the evening without a date. The old bachelor, with his pipe and his glass, who spent a riotous evening secing the faces of former sweeties in the dancing flames has been supplanted by a young fellow who kicks the plaster off his four walls when his heart stands him up. Take this holler from “Get Out and Get Under the Moon”: “What d’ ya do in the evening When you don't know what to do? Read a book? play a game? Every night is just the same."* The implication is that to be left alone in a room with a strange book is courting madness; and that it is better to dash any- where out, out into the night, where the worst that you can catch is a cold and a slight case of melancholia. In this welter of depression, there are three songs coming over the radio that are light in the darkness, They are “Rain- Town.” As for the rest of the crop, I pre- fer the old songs. At least Ben Bolt knew that Alice was under the sod and not out necking with another fellow. Stranveo Trans-Oceanic Fryer: Thanks awfully, but I can't be saved for eight days— I'm under contract to the Hearst papers. WHAT? NO MOA? BANG! Tue Moa is a prehistoric bird, Extinct by now for many years; al- though a Fossil now and then is found, I’ve heard “That's all there is—there isn’t any Moa!” Roe Fowler, Tue sturr a lot of speakeasies are selling now is nothing but near-bier. me when he's driving so l came %e Observation Ward but ‘twore be nice an’ green like this but we can't have everything in this world can B| we heheheh—Junior you quit scratching that varnish if you don't want a good slap—but =a |Ido like some shape to a coun- DAY SNOOZE PREVENTIVE IN A PULLMAN kine nice country through here isn't it? Yeah kinda | flat but the green looks nice dort it? Yeah but tomorrow we'll be in—Junior you wanta keep on eatin’ that candy if an’ sick—we'll be in Wyomii j tomorrow with plenty of hil try except a straight line dont you, yeah, d’you know you look like a Mrs. Wowch that lives across the street from my brother’ wife's sis- you wanta make yourself good/ter in Blahville you're real-| spend our winters in Long Beach ly no relation are you—Snod- weed, you say? not one of the Connecticut Snodweeds? No? My name is Bilblatt we're going, to Los Ang—Junior get your feet off my dress get down off the back of that seat wipe off your mouth and go wash your sticky hands and use your han- ky—my husband used to have the leading dairy in Blahville but he took on a sideline with his milk delivery and now we we were going to drive out a- @in but husband never answers on the train where lcan meet people and use my intellect some —Junior quit settin’ on them chocolates they wont be fit to eat get ovt of my dres- sing case quit scratchin them bites an’ read somethin’ or draw pitchers—I just love to meet people dont you Mrs. Knockneed— Junior! there’s the call for lunch run quick an’ grab a table or I'll wring your neck see you later Mrs. Sockfeed I do get so ravenous onatrain heheheh. . . . comicbooks.com