Last night's discovery: Elsa Lanchester and the Turnabout Theatre. I knew she'd done cabaret and music-hall in her youth, but I had no idea she'd ever recorded any of it. Imagine my delight to discover Songs for a Smoke-Filled Room (1957) and Songs for a Shuttered Parlor (1958)—as I wrote to
nineweaving, "I don't know who wrote most of these, but I'm going to have to find out. They make me incredibly sorry that Elsa Lanchester and George Formby, Jr. were never on the same stage." To wit—
Never go walking out without your hatpin
The law won't let you carry more than that
For if you go walking out without your hatpin
You may lose your head as well as lose your hat
—"Never Go Walking Out Without Your Hatpin"
If you peek in my gazebo as you are passing by
You will see a sight that will delight the most fastidious eye
If you peek in my gazebo, you'll no longer be a free beau
If you think that you will be, oh, why not try?
—"If You Peek in My Gazebo"
When you own a porch and a garden wall
And friends like Pottington and MacFaul
You're being pretty wise
For when you sit, you can pick and choose
Oh, it's so much easier on the shoes
Than too much exercise
—"When a Lady Has a Piazza"
And why get tangled with electric cords and a blooming billowing bag
When all you need is a bit of spit and your finger and a rag?
—"If You Can't Get in the Corners"
Linda was a lady with loads and loads of charm
At parties she was always in demand
She had one parlor trick her lady friends viewed with alarm
But the gentlemen all thought that she was grand
—"Linda and Her Londonderry Air"
Who wrote most of these songs, it seems, was Forman Brown, who I really should have heard of before now, because he sounds awesome. Ditto the Turnabout Theatre, which closed in 1956 after fifteen years of sold-out shows—what's not to love about an evening of marionettes plus double entendre? And Lanchester's capacity for character voices, which I would not exactly have guessed from Bride of Frankenstein. I only wish I could have seen the skits that went along with them. Time machine, somebody. Is that too much to ask?
I'd follow it to Boston, but that would never do
I shouldn't like competing with the entire Harvard crew
Your face may be your fortune, but I like a different view
I'm glad to see your back . . .
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Never go walking out without your hatpin
The law won't let you carry more than that
For if you go walking out without your hatpin
You may lose your head as well as lose your hat
—"Never Go Walking Out Without Your Hatpin"
If you peek in my gazebo as you are passing by
You will see a sight that will delight the most fastidious eye
If you peek in my gazebo, you'll no longer be a free beau
If you think that you will be, oh, why not try?
—"If You Peek in My Gazebo"
When you own a porch and a garden wall
And friends like Pottington and MacFaul
You're being pretty wise
For when you sit, you can pick and choose
Oh, it's so much easier on the shoes
Than too much exercise
—"When a Lady Has a Piazza"
And why get tangled with electric cords and a blooming billowing bag
When all you need is a bit of spit and your finger and a rag?
—"If You Can't Get in the Corners"
Linda was a lady with loads and loads of charm
At parties she was always in demand
She had one parlor trick her lady friends viewed with alarm
But the gentlemen all thought that she was grand
—"Linda and Her Londonderry Air"
Who wrote most of these songs, it seems, was Forman Brown, who I really should have heard of before now, because he sounds awesome. Ditto the Turnabout Theatre, which closed in 1956 after fifteen years of sold-out shows—what's not to love about an evening of marionettes plus double entendre? And Lanchester's capacity for character voices, which I would not exactly have guessed from Bride of Frankenstein. I only wish I could have seen the skits that went along with them. Time machine, somebody. Is that too much to ask?
I'd follow it to Boston, but that would never do
I shouldn't like competing with the entire Harvard crew
Your face may be your fortune, but I like a different view
I'm glad to see your back . . .