The Thorn in Andrew Carnegie's Side--Carnegie Hall

photo by Alice Lum

Andrew Carnegie willingly parted with millions to build libraries to help underprivileged boys—as he himself had been—become educated.   His enthusiasm for endowing the musical arts, however, fell far short  of his interest in supporting practical education.

Walter Damrosch hoped to change the industrialist’s attitude.  The German-born composer/conductor was assistant conductor of the Metropolitan Opera and conductor of the Oratorio and Symphony Societies.   New York City’s problem, as he saw it, was that there was no suitable venue for opera or orchestral music.

Neither the Academy of Music nor the Metropolitan Opera House could stage opera properly, as could the great houses of Europe.  And the remaining recital halls—Steinway Hall and Chickering Hall—were built as showplaces for piano manufacturers.  For several years Damrosch chipped away at Carnegie in an attempt to convince him to provide the city with a free-standing, state of the art concert hall.

The millionaire needed no convincing that a new hall was needed.  He was quite familiar with all the musical venues.  He simply did not want to pay for a new one.  Damrosch wrote in his diaries that Carnegie felt that the importance of science and literature in life far outweighed that of music.  “He always insisted that the greatest patronage of music should come from a paying public rather than from private endowment,” Damrosch wrote.

Finally Carnegie gave in—but only to a point.  Damrosch remembered “He built Carnegie Hall, but he did not look upon this as philanthropy, and expected to have the hall support itself and give a fair return upon the capital invested.”  In other words, it was a business deal.

Plans were begun in 1889.  On March 15 The New York Times happily reported “New-York City will probably soon rejoice in the possession of a music hall.  For several years musical enthusiasts have been trying hard to bring about the result which they now hope to accomplish.”

The article noted that the New-York Oratorio and Symphony Societies “and some other gentlemen interested in the advancement of music” had purchased “a plot of ground composing about nine city lots on the corner of Seventh-avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, upon which it is proposed to erect a magnificent building, suitable in every way for the purposes to which it is to be devoted.”

Interestingly, the newspaper barely mentioned Carnegie.  “All the necessary funds for the erection of such a structure have been pledged, and the actual designing and building will be begun without delay,” it said.  Only the last sentence named him.  “Mr. Andrew Carnegie…is the moving spirit in this scheme.”

The New York Times article noted that the location was “perhaps rather far up town.”  It was not only uptown, it was in a relatively undeveloped area filled with stables, weed-filled lots and coal yards just south of Dickel’s Riding Academy. 

Carnegie assembled a stock company to operate the hall, loaned it the cash necessary (in return he received 90 percent of the stock), and agreed to give the architectural commission to the Oratorio Society’s board secretary, William Tuthill.  At the time the 34-year old Tuthill was well known for his singing but not for his architectural skills.

By June of that same year the company had acquired additional real estate and The Times reported that a “much larger building that was originally contemplated” would be built.

Tuthill's blocky chunk of music hall as it appeared in 1895 -- photograph from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

By choosing a musician as architect, Carnegie and Damrosch had, wittingly or not, ensured that much of the focus would be on acoustics—a factor often lacking in earlier concert halls.  Tuthill carefully studied famous European halls and his finished auditorium would be praised for its excellent acoustics.

Tuthill gets the credit for the design of the “Music Hall, founded by Andrew Carnegie,”, as it was first known; but he did not work entirely alone.  On July 19, 1889 The Times reported that “William B. Tuthill, Richard M. Hunt, and Adler & Sullivan of Chicago, the architects of the Chicago Auditorium, have prepared the drawings for the building…In architectural style the building is to be Venetian Renaissance.”

The corner stone was laid in May 1890 and the hall was completed a year later.  As it rose The Times reported that the main hall would seat 3,300 and be “of the best acoustic properties.  The parquet alone will seat 1,200, and there will be two tiers of boxes and two balconies.  There will be thirteen exits, and the vestibules, corridors, and staircases will be of the most commodious character.”

Andrew Carnegie wished to ensure that his $2 million outlay would pay a profit.  “The great concert hall can be transferred into a magnificent ballroom, adjacent to which will be a grand banquet hall for the accommodation of 1,200 guests, fitted with a complete kitchen service…In the lateral building, as it will be called, fronting on Fifty-seventh-street, there will be a hall for chamber concerts, lectures, private theatricals, etc., having a seating capacity of 550.”

Carnegie Hall opened with a flourish on May 5, 1891—the first of a five-day festival of orchestral and choral concerts the highlight of which was the American debut of Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky who conducted several of his own works.  The same season Ignacy Jan Paderewski was introduced to American audiences here.  It was the beginning of a tradition—Joseph Levinne, Mischa Elman and Ephram Zimbalist would all make their New York debuts here.

The ability of the concert hall to transform into an assembly space was exhibited later that year when the Kunstlerfest, or Artists’ Festival, was held here.  The German-American event culminated in a great ball “as brilliant as wealth and beauty could make it,” said The New York Times.

“It was a veritable indoor Eden that the guests entered when they began to arrive about 9 o’clock,” the newspaper reported on December 4, 1891.  “A false floor had been built over the entire auditorium, making it a great, smooth dancing surface.  To the height of the first tier of boxes sweet-scented pines had been banked and filled the air with a most delightful odor.  Around and under the pines settees were placed.  On either side of the proscenium arch the musicians were placed, screened from the view of the guests by masses of green stuffs.”

The Philharmonic Orchestra took the stage the following year with Anton Seidl as conductor.  But despite large crowds and rented space, the Music Call was not making money.  The solution: enlarge the building.

On September 19, 1892 Morris Reno who “bore with him full authority from Andrew Carnegie to act as his judgment prompted in any matters concerning the enlargement or alteration of the Carnegie Music Hall," announced that changes were coming.

“Our plans include the raising of the building several stories to allow us to fit up a number of artists’ studios, for which there is a demand.  Refitting the stage may also require some alterations of the boxes near the proscenium arch,” he told reporters.

By 1897 the tower and additional studio wings had been completed -- NYPL Collection

By 1897 two additions would provide for offices and income-producing studios, all continuing Tuthill’s original design—what the AIA Guide to New York City would a century later call “dour Renaissance Revival.”

In 1906 the New-York Tribune advertised studios in the Hall -- copyright expired

Carnegie Hall was not simply the venue of classical music.  In March 1905 Bronco Charlie took the stage.  The New-York Tribune noted “he has had an interesting career.  He was formerly a star rider of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.  He won the horse and bicycle race at the Royal Agricultural Hall, London, against the world’s champion cyclist.  King Edward was a spectator of his performance.  Wherever he has gone, ‘Bronco Charlie’s’ feats of horsemanship have called forth wonder and applause.”

E. Presson Miller coaches an aspiring songstress in his studio in 1916 -- photograph from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

The hall was a favorite of lecturers.  In November 1907 Dwight Elmendorf delivered his series of “entertaining and instructive lectures, the subject being ‘Old Mexico,’” reported the New-York Tribune.  And in 1913 the “Kodak Exhibition” was held here, featuring “hundreds of pictorial enlargements” and illustrated lectures by Dr. William Torrence Stuchell with “fascinating motion pictures.”

But the profits Andrew Carnegie hoped for were never realized.   Years later, in 1939, the Works Progress Administration’s New York City Guide noted that Carnegie built the hall “in the belief that a patron of the arts could profit financially.  Continuing operating deficits dispelled his hope of profit.  Despite crowded houses, the hall never paid its way and had to depend upon private subsidization in order to survive.”

Carnegie was further infuriated when, in 1907, Carnegie Hall was assessed by the city at over $1.54 million.  Through his attorney, Robert L. Cutting, he said the assessment was over-estimated by $1.5 million.  In plain terms Carnegie was saying that the structure which paid no return was, in fact, worthless.   Cutting said “the steel man felt keenly the excessive valuation of the Carnegie Music Hall, as that was not a business proposition, and was of far more benefit to the city than to the corporation.”

When Andrew Carnegie died in 1919 the concert hall he never wanted to build had not provided him a dollar profit.  In 1925 it was purchased by a syndicate that made extensive renovations.  Among other alterations, the banquet hall became an art gallery for the tenants of the studios.

The following year Arturo Toscanini came to Carnegie Hall as guest conductor of the Philharmonic Orchestra for the 1926 and 1927 seasons.   He stayed on as permanent conductor until his farewell performance on April 29, 1936. 

Throughout the decades the hall continued to host a variety of musical notables.  In 1938 the auditorium was filled with “jitterbugs” who came to hear Benny Goodman’s swing orchestra.   The list of performers is the Who’s Who of music:  Rachmaninoff, Rudolf Serkin, Horowitz, Rubinstein, Heifetz, Pablo Casals, Andrews Segovia, Enrico Caruso, Lily Pons, Marian Anderson, Maria Callas, Paul Robeson, John Sutherland, Josef Jofmann, Leontyne Price…a seemingly endless list.

Children join a group of grown-ups studying the Saturday matinee program in 1944 -- photograph from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Then, in the mid-1950s a group of developers purchased the hall with the intention of demolishing it for an office building.  Although the deal fell through, Lincoln Center was being built further uptown and the New York Philharmonic Orchestra would soon vacate Carnegie Hall.  The building was listed at $3 million; but there were no buyers.  Demolition seemed certain.

Violinist Isaac Stern was determined that the historic building would not be bulldozed.   He rallied public and artistic support to form the Artists’ Committee, the spearhead group of the Committee for Carnegie Hall.  After much negotiation and endless meetings, on April 21, 1960 The New York Times reported that “The Board of Estimate has approved in principle the preservation of Carnegie Hall by having the city acquire it, Mayor Wagner announced yesterday.”

Under the deal approved by Governor Rockefeller, the city would own the concert hall and the Carnegie Hall Corporation would rent it.  Rockefeller said the building was “a fitting monument” to “the great musical artists” who performed there over the years.

photo by Alice Lum

In 1985 a 17-month, $50 million remodeling and restoration was undertaken.  On December 15, 1986 the hall reopened with a gala performance including Leonard Bernstein, Yo-Yo Ma, Isaac Stern, Marilyn Horne, and Vladimir Horowitz among others.

In reporting on the reopening, Donal Henahan of The New York Times said “Rest easy, Andrew Carnegie.  Your great music hall has survived another crisis.”  But despite his name being inextricably connected to the venerable hall, Andrew Carnegie could possibly have cared less.

photo by Alice Lum

The Bizarre Tale of the Medical Arts Building - No. 57 W 57th St

photo by Alice Lum

In 1928 West 57^th Street was no longer the mish-mash of small brick buildings and undeveloped lots it had been a generation earlier.  Midtown was booming and 57^th Street had earned a reputation as an arts center with Carnegie Hall, the Architectural League, the Fine Arts Society, and the Rodin Studios building, among others, lining the thoroughfare.

The fine arts would meet the medical arts that year when Alain E. White’s Medical Arts Building, also known as the Professional Centre Building, was completed at 57 West 57^th Street.  Designed by the architectural firm of Warren & Wetmore, the 18-story structure was specifically intended for physicians, dentists and related medical professionals. 

Above a Greek-style "temple" an enormous shield displays a caduceus, the Greek symbol of medicine - photo by Alice Lum

Immediately private doctors—some with their own mini-hospitals and sanitariums—and medical institutions moved in.  Engulfing the entire 14th floor was the Medical Arts Sanitarium, opened on November 21, 1928 and run by Dr. George E Browning.  (The facility was sometimes referred to as “Dr. Browning’s Sanitarium.)   Marketing itself as “Luxury at Moderate Cost,” no room cost more than $10 per day.  “The institution is open to all physicians, where they may treat their own medical and surgical cases,” reported The New York Times.   The article added “All rooms are equipped with radios.”

Shortly after opening, the Medical Arts Sanitarium was the scene of tragedy.  27-year old Esther Glasser was admitted when she fell into deep depression when her hopes of becoming a teacher were dashed after she suffered a nervous breakdown (due to, it was felt, over-study).

On February 3, 1929 she told her nurse that she felt ill.  When the nurse left the room to go for medicine she jumped from her bed and headed toward the open window.  Her sister, Leah, grabbed her arm, but she broke free.   A taxi driver, Martin Newman, saw Esther’s body hit the pavement fourteen floors below the window.

But more drama was unfolding above the Sanitarium level.  Upon the completion of the structure, Department of Buildings records documented “two housekeeping apartments” on the 17^th and 18^th floors.  The two luxurious penthouses within a building of medical offices and hospital rooms would be the scene of incredible drama.

Albert Champion had been a professional bicycle racer, but he acquired a staggering fortune when he invented the spark plug.   On a business trip to New York, the aging and married Champion ran into the much younger Edna Crawford—a girl who had come to the big city looking for a wealthy man.

Before long Champion persuaded his wife to agree to a divorce, giving her $1 million to sweeten the deal.  He married Edna, but the autumn-spring romance quickly soured.  Intensely jealous, he lavished his new wife with clothing and jewels, but refused to provide her own spending money.

While the pair was in Paris, Edna met the dashing Charles Brazelle and started an affair.  Ironically, Brazelle was a fortune hunter just as Edna had been.  Champion learned of the affair and threatened to leave Edna penniless.  When he found the lovers together at the Crillon Bar, a violent confrontation ensued during which Brazelle punched the older man.  A few hours later Champion was found dead in his hotel room.  Edna and Charles persuaded authorities that Champion had died of a “weak heart” and the investigation went no further.

Edna, now $12 million richer, returned to New York with the still-married Brazelle in tow.  He expressed his wish to live in a glitzy modern apartment and when they found the penthouse of the Medical Arts Building he fell in love.  But the apartments were not for rent—so Edna purchased the entire building for $1.3 million in cash.

Decorators and architects were hired to renovate the two apartments, including a secret stairway to connect them.  Edna took the upper apartment, Charles the lower.  The terraces were landscaped with exotic plants, and the interiors were overdone with gold and silver walls, fountains under “artificial moonlight,” and live monkeys and peacocks roaming free.   Edna’s carved bed featured a canopy of gold cloth made from $30,000 worth of Russian clerical vestments.

High above 57th Street were the lavish apartments of Edna Champion and Charles Brazelle -- photo by Alice Lum

In one room Edna commissioned a 40-foot mural depicting a Venetian carnival.  The central figures were she and Charles, with Edna stark naked other than a pair of high heels and a mask.  Elsewhere, antique European tapestries, custom floors, marble mantels and stained glass windows were installed.

The remodeling of the apartments would take years.  In the meantime. “Charlie” Brazelle installed a brokerage office on the second floor to handle his accounts and collect the building rents, and he opened a nightclub in the basement of the building in 1934.  Based on a club in Paris it even took the same name, the Boeuf sur le Toit.  The opening was held on December 13 that year with a benefit dinner and show for the Social Service Department of the Roosevelt Hospital and the Post Contagion Unit of the Speedwell Society.   The New York Times headline read “New Club’s Opening to Attract Society, Many Dinners Will be Given at Tomorrow’s Celebration in the Boeuf Sur Le Toit.”

Things weren’t going so happily upstairs, however.  Like Edna’s marriage to Albert Champion, this relationship had taken a dark turn.   Charlie kept Edna a prisoner in her apartment and hired French servants who reported her movements to him.  The pair had repeated drunken fights and during one such incident he threw a telephone and struck her.  When Edna’s relatives discovered what was going on they had him ejected from the building and hired bodyguards to protect her.

But Charlie had keys to all the medical offices and would sometimes hide for days in the building, moving from one suite to another.  Finally, on the same night she died from drugs and alcohol (and a telephone injury), Charlie made his final attempt to get to her.   The bodyguards caught him and he was flung from her bedroom window onto the terrace below.  He died not long afterward and it would be ten days before his body was identified in the morgue by a brother.

The bizarre apartments high above 57^th Street sat unoccupied for some time.   Carlton Alsop was a radio and film producer who was close friends with celebrities like Judy Garland.  Just married, he rented the Champion apartment for himself and his bride, a relative of Mrs. John D. Rockefeller, Jr.   He was drawn, too, to the terraces which would provide outdoor space for his four Great Danes.

The two top floors were redecorated into a stylish, sleek home.  The gaudy, overblown décor was ripped out—all except for, oddly enough, the 40-foot mural with the nude Edna Champion.  But the atmosphere was strained.

The dogs whined and stared at windows or walls during the night and Mrs. Alsop exhibited strange behavior.    Both of the newlyweds reported hearing high-heeled footsteps in the night and the sounds of arguing.  Within a year an unnerved Mrs. Alsop packed her bags and moved out.

Alsop threw cocktail parties to cheer himself up after his short marriage failed.  According to Danton Walker in his Spooks Deluxe, “At one of these a guest went upstairs to visit the bathroom and returned, white and shaking, unable to explain what had come over him.  On another occasion, a woman guest—an English-woman with a high-sounding title—vowed that someone had followed her down the stairs.  When all present denied any complicity, she indignantly stated that she ‘disliked practical jokes.’”

The sound of footsteps eventually drove Alsop nearly mad and he ended up in the hospital below his penthouse.   After his treatment and release, he sublet the penthouse “at no matter what financial loss.”

While the bizarre stories played out in the penthouse apartments, the medical offices continued on downstairs.  In April 1930, the 57 West Fifty-seventh Street Sanitarium opened on four floors “devoted to inexpensive rooms” for middle-class patients, as reported in The New York Times.

A gilded frieze includes bas reliefs of historic physicians -- photo by Alice Lum

“No city in the world provides better than New York for the rich and the poor classes, but the middle class has been absolutely neglected,” said Dr. Max S. Rhode, a director.

The impressive two-story Art Deco entrance survives -- photo by Alice Lum

In 1938, the nightclub below ground became La Conga, called by The New York Times “a new Cuban club.”   The New Yorker magazine said “If your soulful moods involve clasping your loved one in your arms and swaying to rumba music, La Conga at 57 West Fifty-seventh Street has the atmosphere.”

Later the club would become Dario’s La Martinique and it was here that Danny Kaye made his New York debut (for $250 a week for a one-week booking).   

Today there are still a few medical offices in the building, but the private sanitariums and hospitals are long gone.   The former penthouse apartments became home to an art gallery, fordProject, in 2011.  While art and sculpture now fills the rooms were two lovers died; the address still holds special meaning to those addicted to ghost stories.

photo by Alice Lum

 many thanks to reader Holly for requesting this post

The Lost 1882 Casino Theatre -- 39th Street and Broadway

Postcard from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York  http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

In 1882 New York City’s entertainment and theater district was firmly rooted along 23^rd Street.  But that year Rudolph Aronson made a daring and risky move.  He built a grandiose theater sixteen blocks to the north—far too remote to be successful, according to common opinion.

Aronson, who was a prolific composer, had been the manager of the Metropolitan Concert Hall.  Now he sought to create a venue for mostly light musicals and operetta.   He convinced influential Manhattan businessmen—among them Jay Gould, Louis C. Tiffany, Cornelius Vanderbilt and J. P. Morgan—to finance the precarious project.   Architects Francis Kimball and Thomas Wisedell were given the commission to design the uptown theater.  And if the location did not draw patrons, the architecture certainly did.

The fantastic structure sat at the southeast corner of Broadway and 39^th Street and was called by some “the best example of Moorish architecture in the country.”  The description was a bit overstated, but the brick and terra cotta building was indeed eye-catching.

In 1896, when this photograph was taken, the roof garden had been added -- Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York, http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

Horseshoe arches, arcades and a soaring corner tower combined to make the theater unlike any other of the time.  The architects compounded the Moorish theme inside with brilliant metallic colors, a jewel-laced velvet stage curtain, boxes encrusted with carved arabesque patterns, and an intricate auditorium ceiling of fans, arches and filigree details.

The ornate plasterwork was studded with artificial jewels -- Byron Company, photo from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York, http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

Aronson’s forward thinking resulted in firsts for New Yorkers.  The 1,300 seat theater would become the first in to be lit by electricity.  It boasted an attractive café; it too smothered in Moorish detailing.

Opening night was on October 21, 1882 with the Strauss operetta Queen’s Lace Handkerchief.    Unfortunately, it was a stormy night and construction had not been completed.  Well-dressed patrons sat below a dripping ceiling.  Despite the less-its less than perfect debut, the theater endured.

Fancy wicker furniture (albeit non-matching) furnished the orchestra boxes.  An electric fan provided air circulation -- Byron Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

Aronson’s initial productions were lavish adaptations of European and British comic operas.   The gamble paid off.  Later The New York Times would remark that “The Casino became the recognized home of light and comic opera in New York.”  Aronson scored tremendous hits with Nell Gwynn and the enormously successful Erminie which ran some 1,200 performances.

The Moorish motif spread into the cafe -- Byron Company, p hoto from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York  http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

Throughout the years the Casino would be responsible for the stardom of entertainers like Lillian Russell, De Wolf Hopper, Jefferson De Angelis, Marie Dressler and Francis Wilson.  In 1890 Aronson introduced another first—the first roof garden in the country.  The breeze-cooled roof venue meant that Aronson could operate year-round.

The roof garden audience stands to get a glimpse of the performance -- photo by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

That same year unknown Italian composer Pietro Mascagni took Rome by storm when his Cavalleria Rusticana won a competition staged by publisher Edoardo Sonzogno.  The one-act opera premiered on May 17, 1890 in the Teatro Costanzi and was a phenomenal triumph.  It was just the sort of production Aronson looked for.

photo by Bryan Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

On October 1, 1891 The Casino premiered Cavalleria Rusticana in America with a matinee performance.  That evening Oscar Hammerstein opened his house with a production of the same opera.  It created what The New York Times would gently describe as “a famous incident.”

The mosaic floor of the lobby imitated an Oriental carpet -- Kurtz Brothers, photo from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

In 1894 came another first.  The Passing Show was the first American revue.  Then four years later the roof garden staged the premier of The Origin of the Cake Walk; or Clorindy.  It was the first African-American musical to be presented before a white audience.

The Casino would break ground again in 1899 when it staged the English musical Floradora.  It introduced the chorus line to America and became one of the most famous productions in Broadway history.  The “Floradora Girls” ignited the trend of chorus girl revues that lasted throughout the 20^th century.

Floradora would become on of Broadway's greatest hits -- Byron Company, photo from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

So popular was the beautiful chorus line that a musical, The Casino Girl, was written in 1900, based on the fictitious exploits of one of the girls.

Early in February that year the curtain caught fire from the footlights during a performance.  One patron described the scene.  “The house was packed, with seats all full and hundreds standing in the rear.  As the flames spread and crackled it was almost beyond human sense to hope for safety.” 

Cool heads prevailed however.  “The men on the stage acted with the utmost coolness, and must have credit for their share in averting a calamity, but their bravery would have availed little had not their efforts been seconded by the people on the floor.  At the first sign of fire men in all parts of the house stood up on the seats and urged the people to keep cool and not stampede.

“Women, more excitable, as a rule, attempted to make their way to the rear, but men stood in the aisles and prevented a stampede and panic  It was a spectacle to make every one proud of our American type of manhood.”

Disaster was averted; but five years later the theater, now managed by the Shubert organization, would be less lucky.  On February 12, 1905 The New York Times reported that “Broadway between Herald Square and Times Square was thrown into wild excitement shortly after noon yesterday by a fire in the Casino Theatre, where Lillian Russell has been playing in ‘Lady Teazle.’”

Over one hundred chorus girls were in the house rehearsing, but everyone escaped unharmed.  The theater itself did not fare as well.   Stage hands scrambled to rescue props and expensive sets.

“Seldom has Thirty-ninth Street witnessed such a scene,” said The Times.  “Out of the stage entrance came a line of men, bearing everything, from pink silk slippers to bulky scenery…There were the ancestral portraits which Charles Surface auctions off  in the play and silk goods of every hue.  There were beflowered skirts and powdered wigs, decanters, ribbons, and petticoats, picture hats—and everything else that has any part in the setting of ‘Lady Teazle.’”

Although the magnificent auditorium was not threatened by the fire, it was heavily damaged by water.  “After the firemen turned off their hose it was more like a swimming pool than a theatre,” said the newspaper.  “The red plush seats had become red sponges, the marble floors were three or four inches deep in water, and streams fell from the ceiling to add to the flood.”

The serious damage prompted Fire Chief Croker to tell reporters that “the fire would lead to certain alterations that the Fire Department had long demanded.”  Lillian Russell looked on the bright side.

“Just think of what it would have been two hours later.  Personally, I consider that I got off very light.  Not only was I not in the fire, but my costumes, valued at about $5,000, were all saved. Lillian Spencer, a girl who played with me thirteen years ago, got them out of my dressing room.”

The building was closely examined by the fire department and the main structure was deemed “absolutely perfect.”   Nevertheless it would be ten full months before the renovated theater reopened. 

Over the next two decades the Casino would stage memorable performances like Vagabond King in 1925 and Desert Song the following year.  It was also the highly-anticipated scene every year of the Kiddie Klub Christmas performance.  The management donated the use of theater for free Christmas presentations for New York children. 

The operators of the Kiddie Klub understandably desired to maintain good favor with the Casino.  On December 12, 1922 it reminded its little club members that “There are one or two ways in which we can show our gratitude to Messrs. Shubert for having given us their fine, big playhouse.  The first is to be very quiet and well behaved, another is to keep the theatre clean.”

Ironically, by the time of the Great Depression, the Casino Theatre was again in a remote neighborhood from the entertainment district.  On January 4, 1930 The Times reported that “The Casino, once the furthest north of the uptown playhouses, has seen the theatrical district march by it, until now, with the passing of the Knickerbocker, only the Garrick, of the so-called Broadway theatres, remains below it.”

The theater, which the newspaper said “has housed some of the biggest musical comedy successes of the American theatre,” was doomed.  “Lee Shubert said yesterday that he understood the theatre would be torn down and a large commercial structure erected on its site.”

photo by Bryon Company, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915#/SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UP1G3M68RH&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915&PN=1

Two weeks later the final performance was held.  The Times reported “With a performance by the American Opera Company of ‘Faust’ last night at the Casino Theatre, the career of that house was brought to a close after almost fifty years in which it had been devoted principally to musical productions.”

In place of the Casino Theatre rose a soaring modern office building.  Before long the theater that introduced the roof garden, the chorus line, African-American casts and electrically-lit theaters to American audiences was forgotten.

photo by the author

The Theodore B. Starr Bldg. Extension - No. 1126 Broadway

The block between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, 25^th to 26^th Street got its odd trapezoid shape from Broadway’s diagonal, northwest bearing.  When the three commissioners laid out the grid plan for Manhattan’s streets and avenues in 1811, they simply laid the grid over the ancient thoroughfare.  The result was a series of bow tie configurations and geographical headaches for architects and real estate developers.

After the Civil War the neighborhood was replete with mansions and fashionable hotels.  The house at No. 206 Fifth Avenue, owned by the Perry family, sat just above the narrowest point of the block.  A 40-foot rear yard extended to Broadway—the plot being too narrow to accommodate another house on that street. 

In the meantime firm, Starr & Marcus was selling jewelry and silverware at No. 22 John Street to New York’s wealthy carriage trade.  Founded in 1864 it had established a reputation as one of the city’s finest jewelry stores.  In 1877, just as commercial interests were inching northward along Fifth Avenue, Theodore B. Starr bought out his partner and moved the operation to the Perry family’s mansion.

It was a brilliant move for Starr.  No. 206 Fifth Avenue faced Madison Square and the still-intact residential façade melded unobtrusively with the mansions around it.  An employee, William H. Jennings, described it as “a four-story, high stoop, brown stone residence, running back to a court yard on Broadway.”

The rear “courtyard” at No. 1126 Broadway faced two blocks of Manhattan’s most fashionable and expensive hotels—the Fifth Avenue Hotel at 23^rd to 24^th Street, the Albermarle Hotel at northwest corner of 24^th and Broadway, and the Hoffman House which consumed the rest of that block to 25^th Street.  The exclusive nature of the neighborhood was reflected in Starr’s annual rent.  In 1877 he was charged $10,000—over $200,000 today. 

William Jennings said of the location, “Our customers are wealthy and fashionable people who purchase expensive luxuries in the way of diamonds, jewelry and plate, and this is an excellent location for that business.”  The store offered “fancy goods” as well.  Jennings explained the term:  “that means bronzes, paintings furniture, etc., and things of that sort.”

Before moving in Theodore Starr built an extension to the house, described by Jennings as “a corresponding building in brick to match, making it all one floor.”   Starr’s addition, which cost around $60,000, was a handsome red brick building with a cast iron store front.  Expansive windows allowed ample sunlight into the sales rooms.  The architect deftly used brick to create most the decorative elements – pilasters, pseudo-rustication and an attractive blind arcade above the topmost floor.

Theodore B. Starr rivaled the other exclusive jewelry establishments like Tiffany & Co. and Dreicer & Co.  On December 20, 1890 The New York Times remarked on the store and its offerings.  “All that refined taste can do has been done to make the place attractive.  The appointments are in keeping with the character of the goods, for which this store is well known, and the articles are shown in a way that makes it a real pleasure to examine them.  Those who stop with[in] the first floor, where the silverware is shown, really fail to get beyond the vestibule to the store.”

The second floor was devoted to porcelains, jewelry and precious gems.  On the third floor were bronzes, clocks—from desk clocks to tall case clocks-- and statuary.  The Times article pointed out “Two valuable pieces of marble statuary by Prof. Cambi of Florence, entitled, ‘The Shepherd Boy’“ and ‘The Spring of Life,’ are on this floor.”

The writer was also taken with a particular necklace.  “Among the unique articles of great value to be seen here is a necklace made of pearls alternating with Rondelles diamonds that have been cut flat and perforated.  A pair of earrings made of giant pearls goes with this necklace.”

An 1885 advertisement lists the extensive selection -- (copyright expired)

The Times article concluded, rather editorially, that “Starr’s establishment, which has no duplicate in this country, and probably not in the world…would be a delightful place for those who have never explored its mysteries to spend a quiet half hour.”

Before the 1897 fire the upper floors of Theodore B. Starr's Fifth Avenue entrance (with the large, folded awning) still retained their residential facade--photograph NYPL Collection

Business was interrupted when a fire broke out in the building on December 30, 1896.  The jeweler was forced to close for four months while “repairs and alterations” were made to the building and showrooms.  It was most likely at this time that the old brownstone façade was stripped off the Fifth Avenue side and replaced with a modern commercial front.

The Holland House Hotel was a favorite among the city’s Democrats, while the Fifth Avenue Hotel attracted the Republicans.  A year after Starr reopened for business the Democrats got on his nerves.  The Democratic State Committee erected two large poles on either side of Broadway, directly in front of Starr’s entrance.  A political banner was stretched between them that spanned the avenue.

Theodore Starr protested to the Commissioner of Highways, arguing that if the Committee wanted a banner, they needed to erect it in front of the Holland House, where its headquarters was located, and not in front of his business.

The neighborhood was thrown into confusion and excitement when a chase involving a dozen policemen and “several hundred other persons” took place on July 16, 1900.  A few days earlier two men, Frederick Titus and Ethan Obadisk, had stolen a valuable camera from Kotchkiss & Reynolds at No. 416-1/2 Sixth Avenue.  The dim-witted thieves then returned to the scene and tried to sell Reynolds a $40 lens for $12.

Reynolds recognized the men and his brother rushed out to summons a policeman.  When the thieves saw Policeman Evans approaching, they rushed out of the store, up 25^th Street towards Broadway where they separated.

The New York Times reported “A crowd of 100 men started after the fleeing suspects…Cable cars were stopped by the crowd which joined in the pursuit, wagons pulled up, Policeman Evans knocked over two women carrying baskets, another policeman stepped on a dog which tried to bite him and then stole into an alley, policemen came up on every side to join in the chase, and Broadway and Fifth Avenue were in a state of excitement for some minutes.”

Titus ducked into Starr’s through the Broadway entrance and was found “under a lot of women’s clothes in a closet” on the second floor.  It was the sort of stimulation Theodore B. Starr’s sober customers were unaccustomed to.

The year 1905 initiated a series of substantial changes to the building.  In January that year the estate of Adeline Perry sold the building.  The Times noted that “The parcel just sold has been held in the Perry family for over fifty years.”  Two years later the sons of Theodore Starr incorporated the business and In 1911, after more than three decades here, moved to a new building at Fifth Avenue and 47^th Street.

The following year Elmer A. Darling bought the building.  Darling already owned the adjoining Lincoln Trust Building that stretched through the block from No. 208 Fifth Avenue to No. 1128 Broadway.   The building where Theodore Starr had displayed silver tea services, diamonds and bronze clocks was now home to a United States Army surplus store.  Goods “from U. S. Government Arsenal” were advertised with creative uses.

An advertisement in The Evening World on December 16, 1912 suggested converting “Rifle Barrels into Smoking Tables; Rifle Bayonets into Candelabra; Carbine Sockets into Cigar Holders; Rifle Bayonets into Scones; Revolvers into Paper Weights; Rifles into Hat and Coat Racks; Projectiles into Mantel Ornaments.”

The imaginative advertiser envisioned turning “cannon projectiles into flower vases.”

The government surplus store closed on January 11, 1913 and by 1920 the building was home to a new-fangled fad—the phonograph.  The Emerson Phonograph firm announced that “Within this handsome, modern building stand the various models of the new Emerson Phonograph—all waiting to delight you with their full, clear, round tone.”  The store—which called itself the Fifth Avenue Exhibition Shop—offered records and a variety of phonographs.  The machines were priced from $80 for a table model to $1000 for a “luxuriously handsome Period Piece.”

A parapet announces "Emerson" on the Fifth Avenue facade in 1920--The New-York Tribune, Sept. 19, 1920 (copyright expired)

While the Emerson company was demonstrating its phonographs here, Charles H. Weeghman was suffering a reverse of fortune in Chicago.  Born in Richmond, Indiana, he had traveled to Chicago after graduating high school and got a $10-a week waiter job in King’s restaurant.  Within a few years he had saved enough money to open his own restaurant.

The far-sighted young man sought to serve as many customers as possible and as quickly as possible.  So he devised the “one armed restaurant”--lunchrooms with one-armed chairs.  The gimmick made him a millionaire and earned him the nicknames “Lucky Charley” and the “Quick Lunch King.”  But in 1916 he purchased the Chicago Cubs (who won the pennant the following year) and began funneling his money into baseball.

The New York Times later noted that “During the time he was occupied with the baseball teams and spending a large part of his fortune on them, his restaurant finances were said to have become disordered.”  In 1919 William Wrigley Jr. acquired the controlling interest in the ball team and a year later Weeghan’s restaurant chain went bankrupt.

Now known as “Unlucky Charley,” Weeghan moved to New York and in October 1921 signed a 21-year lease on the old Theodore Starr building for $1 million.  The deal gave the Emerson Phonograph Company the top three floors.  The New-York Tribune said that Weeghan intended to start a new chain of restaurants in New York with this being his first location.

Within the year Unlucky Charley’s new venture failed.

The building was home to a variety of small showrooms and offices throughout the rest of the century.  Today a tawdry souvenir business engulfs the Broadway street level where Theodore Starr‘s expansive silver services were displayed.  No. 1126 Broadway, which bears no architectural similarity to its Siamese twin on Fifth Avenue, is somewhat neglected; but the distinguished façade erected by Theodore B. Starr in 1877 survives beautifully intact under a layer of grime.

non-vintage photographs take by the author