My Life in Vaudeville: The Autobiography of Ed Lowry

The King and I and P

111 The King and I and Pâté de Foie Gras On arrival in London, as we walked into the Piccadilly Hotel, we found Con Conrad, the songwriter, waiting for us. Con had a nice-looking, mild-mannered guy working for him and simply insisted that I hire this chap to work for me. “I’ll have no valet or chauffeur doing maid service for me,” I spouted. “Not if I make ten thousand a week.” But before Con boarded his plane for Switzerland, David Asquith Walker had become a part of the Ed Lowry entourage. Things at rehearsal didn’t go too well. Ray Sinatra and his band had too much to rehearse in too little time, and my nerves were jumping like dice in a croupier’s cup. At curtain time, David Walker came in breathlessly. “Boss, the Prince of Wales and his brother, George, are seated right up front!” Agent Charles Tucker was on hand with a Mr. Hayman, for whom I was booked to play the Victoria Palace. There were several American and British stars, also Jack Hylton, famous British bandleader, and many “name” personalities not yet familiar to me. This was the beginning of the Charleston era in England, and the timing for me was perfect. I set a nice easy pace until I came to my saxophone strut number, the typically American “Maxie Jones, King of the Saxophones.” When I finished it, the staid, provincial Piccadilly sounded more like the old Famous Door on Fifty-second Street. Now came the comedy clarinet bit. When I blew the balloon out of the horn in “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” the audience screamed. It finished with a storm, and I milked ’em for plenty of bows before I encored with “I’m Looking at the World through Rose-colored Glasses.” On the second chorus, during my dance routine, I hit them with two knee drops. This move cinched everything for me. “’core” and “Bravo” reverberated through the house. 112 Th e ki ng A n d i A n d PâT é de FOi e gr A s Once, I saw a demonstration showing how two eels in a fishbowl generated enough electricity to light up a sixty-watt bulb. Properly hooked up that night, after my performance, I believe I could have lit up Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace. Even today, I get nervous recalling my excitement when I was invited to sit at a table between the Prince of Wales and his younger brother, Prince George. That tall, gangly kid became the King of England. It’s hard to believe—“Little Stinkey” from 115th Street eating pâté de foie gras and sipping champagne with the future monarch of the British Empire. This was probably the most exciting hour I ever knew. I met so many famous people and got so stirred up that before I left, I didn’t know Lady Edwina Mountbatten from Sir Oswald Mosley. It’s a good thing David was a masseur. He rubbed me into condition for my next performance. This trip to London was full of pleasantries and no end of offers for additional engagements. Major Ledley, Piccadilly’s manager, spoke of exercising his option to hold me over during my very first week. Lew Leslie, planning an international revue, offered me a flattering proposition . After opening at the Victoria Palace, I got a contract from the British Broadcasting Corporation to do five, fifteen-minute broadcasts a week. At the Piccadilly, there were huge suction fans, and I soon learned that while these fans were on, the suction took my breath away. When I sang, I felt and sounded asthmatic. We requested that these fans not be used while I was performing, and the management agreed. On several occasions, the fans were turned on while I was doing my act, and when I made my first exit, I shouted to David, “Get those fans off!” David learned that Ray Sinatra’s brother, who played the drums, sat next to the fan switch, and, when he felt warm, he simply pulled the switch. The third time this happened, David crawled under the bandstand and stuck his head up to where the drummer sat. He tugged at Sinatra’s leg and shouted, “Hoy, psst, boy, the boss wants the fans off!” “Well, ain’t that too bad,” said Sinatra and continued drumming. “The boss wants the fans off,” insisted David. “Tell your boss, in his hat,” said Sinatra. David...