The mirror., December 27, 1923, Image 1

About The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925

Image provided by: Minnesota Historical Society; Saint Paul, MN

                
Established 1887
QUARTERLY MEETING
Pierian Chautauqua Circle
Pound, he of the gestures and
widffom of habitue, has pointed out
with an easy freedom, a careless
wave of the hand, that certain things are
worth while; that certain other things are
not worth while. The worth while, the
cult of beauty, he compares to the cult of
cure in medicine. The cult of diagnosis
then becomes the cult of ugliness, the
sham, criticism, satire. Music is of the
cult of beauty. The two thousand persons
who heard the Minnesota State Prison
Concert Band in the prison auditorium on
last Sunday were participants in the cult
of beauty. It is rather more than possible
then that beauty may at times be enter
tainment.
The point to the above prefactory re
marks is that this “report” is concerned
with what is obviously worth while,
albiet is “only” entertainment.”
I
At two o’clock, before a packed house,
Mr. O. N., as president, formally opened
the quarterly meeting of the Pierian Chau
tauqua Circle in an address of welcome
which, .for the spirit and information it
contains, is quoted in full:
“Ladies and Gentlemen:
The Pierian Chautauqua Circle is very
happy indeed to meet again this year its
many friends and well wishers. It has
become an established custom, through the
kindness* and progressiveness of our War
• den, Mr. J. J. Sullivan, to meet every now
and then with our outside friends and en
joy the beauty and delight of a musical
program, so capably and artistically ar
ranged by our Musical Director, Professor
R. J. Reichkitzer.
“The talented professor, whose artistry
is plainly exemplified in the high per
fection of the Minnesota State Prison
Concert Band and Orchestra, has proven
unquestionably that, of all the Arts,
Music is by far the most elevating and
inspiring because of its exalted satisfaction
to the hungry and unquiet soul. And this,
chiefly, along with other artistic* pursuits,
is what the Pierian Chautauqua Circle
stands for.
“I am deeply sensitive to and profoundly
Appreciative of the signal honor that has
come to me, as President of the Chautau
qua Circle, to welcome today this large
gathering of friends who, by your presence
here, some from a great distance, have
revealed to us your understanding patron
age of the arts and your warm friendship.
“Therefore I am extremely pleased and
honored, in behalf of the Pierian Chau
tauqua Circle, to bid you, one and all, a
most cordial welcome. And permit me to
thank you for your presence, and let us
hope that when the program is concluded
you can well say to yourselves: An after
noon well spent.
“I now have the honor to introduce
Professor Reichkitzer, who, with his splen
did organization, will entertain us with
his poems in music. . . .”
The musical concert opened with Sousa’s
Stars and Stripes, and closed with
Gounod’s Faust. The time consumed,
something like two hours, was never for
a moment dull, although it is customary
for straight musical programs to have
weaker moments. Such a lapse wsjs on
$
• -
this occasion avoided by the director’s
variety of arrangement which included
some highly interesting individual talent.
And it may well be taken as further proof
of Professor Reichkitzer’s sense of balance
and filling for .program effect —a too often
rare quality among musical directors —
that he saw h#s way into giving the in
dividual artist a chance without seeming
to play the patron.
Mr. G. F., in That Old Gang of Mine,
showed himself to have a well modulated
and pleasing voice both in singing and in
speaking to music. As he, accompanied
by Mr. W. K. at the piano,has been heard
before, it may be recalled that a lapse of
tempo occasionally took place in the speak
ing parts; but this difficulty has been over
come so that nothing came in the way of
the appreciative auditor. Mr. F. has a
parody which is something like the best
part of his act, —pathos raised to the ab
surdities of gallows wit. To judge from
the applause, although his part was full
in itself, he would de well to add an
encore.
Mr. J. L. reminds one enough of a
Spanish don so that one would wish to
see him in costume behind lights other
than those generated here. He has the
languor of a persian cat which, to unmix
a metaphor, is to say that he is in a nat
ural mood when entertaining or acting.
His voice, one hopes merely through lack
of practice which is remediable, seems to
have fallen off somewhat from its former
volume, although his yodle in Sleep Baby
Sleep sounds almost as good as ever. My
Name’s Morgan (but it ain’t J. P.) is a
saucy little song with a satirical twist, yet
it is probably as difficult to put across as
any of the lighter pieces. Mr. L. accom
panies himself on a guitar and is an ex
ceedingly pleasing combination. His Ha
waiian instrumental selections, Aloe Oah
JVac and One, T<wo, Three, Four, which
he, plays on an Hawaiian steel guitar, are
decidedly “there.” In so large an auditor
ium a ukelele or bass banjo accompani
ment would have gone well as a filler or
background for these instrumental selec
tions, yet Mr. L.’s technique is such that the
slightest nuance was scarcely noticeable.
As an entertainer Mr. L. should be classed
as a professional and a mighty good one.
His exceptional pleasing stage personality
is a great asset.
This institution has, in Mr. K., a
pianist of unusual skill and talent. How
sVell he understands music other than
jazz may be seen in his work with the
orchestra. On this occasion his ability to
handle several difficult popular numbers
and the applause he received should have
brought him back for two encores. Kitten
on the Keys, his first piece, is one of the
most complicated jazz numbers that is to
OUR
OTTO—“IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.”
Stillwater, Minnesota, Thursday, December 27, 1923
cT. HAPPY NEW YEAR
■p By Katherine Edelman
✓
JN the New Year that is dawning little time for friendship,
May you find each passing day For gladness and good cheer—
A little time for work and rest, But not a single moment
A little time for play; For worry or for fear.
be found, and Mr. K. runs through its
intricate rythms as though he and not
Confrey were its composer. If one doesn’t
itch or tingle or something similar to dance
to his interpretation of No! No! Nora! the
lapse is probably due to stone as Well as
tone deafness. In this age of jazz pianist
virtuosi Mr. K. is well up in the field
for place.
The first thing to attract , attention in
Mr. A. J. C’s. playing, be: it traps or
clarinet or xylophone, is his remarkably
acute sense of tempo ahd rythm. And that
is the remembrance which remains longest
with one after listening to him perform. As
a member of the concert band Mr. C.
plays the clarinet as a member of the or
chestra he plays the traps, and as an in
dividual entertainer he plays the xylo
phone. Which of these one prefers to listen
to would govern a personal estimate of his
musical ability, yet the result must invari
ably be the same. For Mr. C. is a coming
performer of the first order and an artist
of unusual talent. Assisted by the band
he played on the xylophone Air Varie,
My Old Kentucky Home with a fine dis
play of intricate rythm and tonal proper
ties. The difficulties of playing to an
accompaniment behind one’s back, as
necessarily happened on this occasion, is
apparent, and much credit must go to
the musical director and Mr. C. for pro
ducing so blended and harmonious an
effect. The selection is a very beautiful
example of musical composition, rising
towards the close to a prestissimo finale
of startling splendor. Mr. C. is the sort of
musician who makes possible a Jones or a
Whitman orchestra. One who hopes to
see him perform some day on the Century
roof.
Since Mr. Bert Williams no longer sings
there appears to have come a lapse in his
particular field of entertainment.. It is
seldom that one is able to witness a per
former who approaches his ability to make
a song actually live. There are singers
a plenty who can sing, and much better no
doubt than the late‘Bert, but on his par
ticular branch of the tree of art they
scarcely dare trust the weight of their
voice. For Mr. Williams hfd that rare
quality which, in voice, expression, and
gesticulation happily combined, impersonv
r.tes a song. A song for him became not
a song but a personality, and those who
have heard him cannot separate the per
sonalized figure who sang it from the
words and the term itself. He was an
qrtist and like him in many respects is a
performer, Mr. E. W. who appeared ,on
Sunday’s program. Mr. W. has an almost
equally persuasive way of getting life into
his selections. How broad his talent as a
comedian, remains a matter of conjecture
since he confined himself to (Page 4, Col. 1)
Vol. XXXVII: No. 22
THE ALASKAN
A Moving Movie in Which the Thrillai*
Triumphs and the Dandruffian
Meets an Untimely End.
THE colyumist of Pipefuls has edited
the following abridged version of
Christopher Ward’s story The Alas
kan, in five thrilling reels of riot, which
is not so long that it may not be mitigated
by an accompanying pipeful of his reader’s
favorite blend. '
REEL I.
The Dear Deer
The steamship, with as slow and cau
tious glide as a cat on a fence, picked its
way northward. Standing at the rail,
Alan Holt seemed strangely in keeping
with his surroundings—cold as a glacier,
lithe as an Indian, if not lither, a stem
faced man on a stern-wheel boat. Suddenly
a soft-*"*iled voice asked: “What is this
place r uming, he saw a girl with a
cameo face. Her lips were parted in the
middle.
“Alask'a,” he said simply.
“I am Mary Standish. I’m a D. A. R.
and a Colonial Dame,” she continued, as
she modestly took his arm and cuddled
chastely up to him. “Come closer, can’t
you?” she said timidly. “Now—what is
Alaska?”
In his cool casual way Alan put his arm
around ner waist. “Alaska,” he answered,
“is so big that if I put it down on the
United States Juneau would be in Palm
Beach and Nome in Hollywood.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be an improvement %
—in every way. Why don’t you do it?”
she carolled with a bird-like note.
“And it’s full of reindeer and tundras—
hundreds of tundras and thousands of
reindeer. I have ten thousand.” ,
“What for?” she exclaimed, giving her'"
head a bird-like tilt.
“For the kiddies —God bless them. But,”
his sudden enunciation made her jump like
a startled fawn or frog, “I have an enemy!
There is a man—a monster —who wants
to corner the reindeer—the president of
the Christmas Tree Trust—John Graham.”
“John Gaham?” The terror in her voice
split the siienoe of the night. Ere he could
stay her, she fled.
For a space Alan Holt did not move or
speak, but a great loneliness came upon
him, for now he knew that he loved Mary
Standish with all his soul.
REEL 11. *
Kodak, The Sharp Snap-Shooter
Immeasurable, the Barren Lands stretch
ed ahead of him and on every of him
and behind him. Ever with him abode
the spirit of Mary Standish.
But now there was naught for him but
his people, his Thlinkit, Indians, his dear
deer herds. How they loved him and he
them! Soon he would see them and they
him —old Kodak, the chief, and Hardluk
and Yalelok, and Hatrak and Runamuk.
Ah me! Ah hem! Ah them!
It was late in the afternoon when he
approached the home of him. He came
nearer. He could see them now—dear
old Puddleduk, the giant brave Motortruk,
Hafbak and Thumtak and feeble old
Jumpinjak, and—he was not disappointed!
For there was Mary Standish —of
course. (Page 4, Col. 3)