The 1920s was one of those decades that called forth great waves of nostalgia afterward. Sandwiched between a world war and an economic depression, it came to be seen as an all-too-brief respite of fun and freedom. The times were prosperous; even many working people had money to spend; and Prohibition added the thrill of law-breaking to urban night life.
In the clubs and theaters of Chicago's South Side, a set of female blues performers exposed their loves and passions in their music. They sang of men with roving eyes, of women who expected a good time from their daddies, and of lives pulsing with emotional and sexual yearnings.
Most of this music told stories of heterosexual desire. But sometimes queer motifs surfaced. "Prove It on Me Blues," a song composed by Ma Rainey and recorded in 1928, is a case in point. Here are some of its lyrics:
They said I do it, ain't nobody caught me
Sure got to prove it on me.
Went out last night with a crowd of my friends
They must've been women, 'cause I don't like no men. . . .
Wear my clothes just like a man
Talk to the gals just like any old man
'Cause they say I do it, ain't nobody caught me
Sure got to prove it on me.
The ad that ran in The Defender in 1928 to promote the song made the picture clear: there was Ma Rainey, in shirt and tie and a tailored men's jacket, picking up two dolled up femmes.
The open expression of same-sex love was part of Southside Chicago's social world in the 1920s and 1930s. Some of the most famous female blues singers of the era were known to have taken up with other women. Ethel Waters and Alberta Hunter had women partners. Bessie Smith, who had many relationships with men, also had affairs with women. And Ma Rainey, called the "mother of the blues," had a series of female lovers.
The era wasn't preoccupied with putting a name on these desires and relationships. Folks didn't label Ethel Waters or Ma Rainey a lesbian, anymore than they did Jane Addams, who lived with her female partner just a few miles away from these Southside women. But in a community where these stars were accessible and visible, gossip about the love affairs of the famous spread quickly and made same-sex love one more part of life as it was.
One of the pathways of gossip was the buffet flat, an institution of sorts that sprang up on the Southside and in other urban black communities in the north during the 1920s. These were informal unlicensed after-hours clubs that operated out of someone's apartment. People paid to get in. Think of these late night gatherings as a creative way of earning a living and supplementing one's income at a time when folks had money to spare for a good time.
Performers often made their way to one of these apartments after the theaters and clubs closed. There was plenty of food and plenty of illegal booze. There was singing and dancing and, in the bedrooms, plenty of sex as well. Interviewed in the 1960s, Bessie Smith's niece, Ruby, recalled the buffet flats of the era this way: "Everything went on," she said. "Buffet means everything, everything that was in the life."
One night, one of these gatherings got especially noisy, and neighbors complained. The police showed up. They found Ma Rainey partying with a group of young women in various states of undress. There was a rush to escape out the windows and down the back stairs, but the cops caught Rainey, and she spent the night in jail.
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Where are the men in all this? In the 1920s, there was no comparable group of male performers. Ma Rainey did record a song that tells the story of a woman who lost her man to a sissy. Here are some lyrics from the aptly named "Sissy Blues":
I dreamed last night I was far from harm
Woke up and found my man in a sissy's arms . . .
Some are young, some are old
My man says sissies got good jelly roll . . .
My man's got a sissy, his name is Miss Kate
He shook that thing like jelly on a plate . . .
Now all the people ask me why I'm all alone
A sissy shook that thing and took my man from home.
Could a song be more direct?
Bu jump ahead a decade, into the 1930s, and you'll find that a central feature of Southside night life were men who impersonated women. The Defender promoted female impersonators with great gusto. It followed the careers of some of them, like Walter Winston who got his start on the Southside, but then moved on to Harlem, or Dick Barrow, who performed around the country but kept Chicago as his base. A common characteristic of these entertainers was their assuming the identities of established Hollywood film stars. Winston, for instance, billed himself as "Gloria Swanson" and Dick Barrow took on the persona of "Mae West." They weren't the only ones to do this. There was also Frances Dee and Joanne Crawford and Mary Pickford. Playing off the laughs of a performance that crossed not only gender boundaries but racial lines as well, these African American men made a place for themselves at the heart of the Southside's club circuit.
While there were a number of venues that featured revues of female impersonators ( this was the term universally used in the press at the time ) , the Cabin Inn seemed to be in a class by itself. First in the 3100 block of Cottage Grove and later moving to 3353 State Street, it had a lead impresario, "Miss Valda Gray," who staged a new show every few months. Valda had a regular set of performers. Besides Joanne Crawford, there was Dixie Lee and Petite Swanson and Doris White and Jean LaRue. The Defender always heaped compliments on Gray's efforts. "Every bit snappy" and "plenty hot" were just two of the descriptors. The paper praised the performers at the Cabin Inn as "America's most outstanding female impersonators."
It's a mistake, of course, to assume that working as a female impersonator necessarily tells us anything about the performers sexual or gender identity. After all, there are whole subcultures of cross-dressing heterosexual men. Still, there are clues in the sources that, whatever the identities of the performers, these stage impersonations were magnets for those whose sexual and gender identities made them different. One of the most fascinating bits of evidence comes from how The Defender regularly described the Cabin Inn: "Chicago's oddest nitery"; "the oddest night club in Chicago"; "Chicago's most unique night spot"; "Chicago's oddest night spot." The sheer repetition makes a point. The paper was telling its readers something, letting them know that the Cabin Inn was not like other places. It was different, and it welcomed the different.
But don't for a minute think that impersonators were cordoned off in a separate queer space. For instance, during the holiday season in 1936, The Defender sponsored a major midnight benefit to help needy families. Seven thousand Southsiders attended, and thousands more had to be turned away. The show brought together a galaxy of stars, including such luminaries as Louis Armstrong. Valda Gray, along with the rest of her troupe of impersonators, was there. When The Defender reported on the benefit the day after Christmas, it featured a page of photographs of "Doris" and "Peaches" and "Dixie" and Petite," all dressed in their glamorous best.
This golden age of stage impersonation didn't last forever. By 1940, stricter enforcement of cabaret licensing laws was making it hard on many of these night spots. The Defender reported that Valda Gray's new show was on hold, and twenty-five performers were out of work. But, for at least a few years on the South Side, female impersonators were high profile entertainers, creating spaces where "odd" crowds gathered every night.
Copyright 2009 John D'Emilio
