Famous Old-timey singers you may have never heard.

My wife mentioned a singer named Skinnay Ennis one night. "Skinny who?" I said. "You know. Skinnay Ennis. My mother loved him. I loved him. EVERYBODY loved him!" So I looked him up. Sure enough, there was once a very famous singer named Skinnay Ennis. And many more I'd never heard of! 

So here are four. Hope you enjoy them. Old Timey Singers: Skinnay Ennis
Skinnay Ennis is similar to Bob Crosby – men who make the best of their vocal limitations and thus emerge with individual contributions to the art of singing. This may not be trained art singing but it’s nevertheless satisfying and comforting -- pop art at its best. Ennis started as a drummer but in the 30’s became best-known for his unique crooning with the Hal Kemp Orchestra. He’s very breathy and close to the mike, almost making love to it, as he shapes the Irving Berlin song while the band trots along in a friendly manner like so many sweet outfits of those days -- an antidote to the growing frenticism of Swing. Skinnay Ennis and his Orchestra.


Skinnay Ennis and his Orchestra by redhotjazz

Alice Faye
Alice Faye (May 5, 1915 – May 9, 1998) was an American actress and singer, called by The New York Times "one of the few movie stars to walk away from stardom at the peak of her career." She is remembered first for her stardom at 20th Century Fox and, later, as the radio comedy partner of her husband, bandleader and comedian Phil Harris. She is also often associated with the Academy Award–winning standard "You'll Never Know", which she introduced in the 1943 musical film Hello, Frisco, Hello. – (Wikipedia)
Alice Faye sings Moonlight Bay:



The Andrews Sisters
The Andrews Sisters were an American close harmony singing group of the swing and boogie-woogie eras. The group consisted of three sisters: contralto LaVerne Sophia, soprano Maxine Angelyn "Maxene", and mezzo-soprano Patricia Marie "Patty". Throughout their long career, the sisters sold well over 75 million records (the last official count released by MCA Records in the mid-1970s). Their 1941 hit "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" can be considered an early example of rhythm and blues or jump blues. The Andrews Sisters - Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy Of Company B



Helen Humes
With her true young voice, Helen Humes was born in Louisville, Kentucky. Spotted later by guitarist Sylvester Weaver, she made her first recordings in 1927. She moved to New York City in 1937 and became a recording vocalist with Harry James' big band. Her swing recordings with James included "Jubilee", "I Can Dream, Can't I?", and Jimmy Dorsey's "It's The Dreamer In Me". Humes became one of the vocalists with the Count Basie Orchestra in 1938, replacing Billie Holiday as lead female vocalist. Basie, Count & Helen Humes - "If I Could Be With You"



Nick Lucas
Listening to Nick Lucas' high-pitched voice and knowing that he introduced "Tip Toe Through the Tulips" makes one immediately realize that he was a major influence on the infamous Tiny Tim in the late '60s. But there was much more to Nick Lucas than that; even beyond his singing. Born Dominic Nicholas Anthony Lucanese in 1897, Lucas was a musical wizard, learning guitar, banjo, mandolin, and ukulele early in life. He was an American singer and pioneer jazz guitarist, remembered as "the grandfather of the jazz guitar", whose peak of popularity lasted from the mid-1920s to the early 1930s. He became best known as an easygoing singer who was billed as "the Singing Troubadour". During 1925-1932 Lucas' records sold over 84 million copies. – Scott Yanow Tip-Toe Through The Tulips (1929).
    However famous Nick Lucas was, the public will never forget Tiny Tim's version of "Tip Toe Through the Tulips". In 1968 this song gave Tiny Tim his one and only top twenty hit. He appeared several times on the massively popular Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, an American television comedy-variety show.

 

The Day I Met Saint Patrick

Monday, 10 October 1994, Belfast: Only six weeks ago, the Irish Republican Army had declared an unconditional cease-fire although, after twenty-five years of bloodshed and terror, Belfast was still a place of barbed wire, of sheet metal fences, of walls with dagger- and broken-glass tops. As Anne and I left for points south this morning, our prayers, along with those of all Ireland, were that the peace would hold firm. After all, today we wanted to meet St. Patrick himself, the patron saint of Ireland. We wanted to pray as he did: "I arise today, through God's strength to pilot me...through God's shield to protect me."

Amazingly, the sun shone strong and clear all day.

Our plan was to drive east around the Ards Peninsula through Saint Patrick’s Vale to Downpatrick (pop. 8,500). As we crossed the Narrows of Strangford Lough by ferry, I thought about the small boat that Saint Patrick and his followers steered through these strong tidal currents back in 432 A.D. They landed north of us at the mouth of the Slaney River where Patrick, first mistaken as a pirate, persevered with his dream of converting all of Ireland into a Christian nation. He ultimately became a national hero and is now a world-wide saint.

We drove off the ferry onto Lecale Peninsula, which is unequivocally Saint Patrick territory. I wondered how Patrick felt when he first came ashore. Legend says that his first conversion was Dichu, a tribal chieftain, who gave Patrick a small barn for his first church in an area called Saul. Patrick began preaching the Gospel throughout Ireland, converting thousands as he and his disciples began building churches all over the country. Kings and kingdoms alike converted to Christianity when hearing Patrick's message.

After forty years of preaching, traveling, living in poverty, and enduring much suffering, Patrick came full circle, dying in Saul on March 17, 461 where – tradition says – he received his last communion from Saint Tassach. Patrick is said to be buried in nearby Downpatrick in Down Cathedral's old graveyard.

And that is where I first met Patrick.

We drove nine miles west to Downpatrick and soon found the graveyard where Patrick is reputed to be buried, alongside St. Brigid and St. Columba (although this has never been proven). A large Mourne granite slab placed there as a memorial in 1900 marks the spot.

We found it under a giant weeping willow tree; it is inscribed with a Celtic cross and the word “PADRAIG” (Irish for Patrick). A plaque read:

“According to tradition the remains of Saint Patrick with those of Saint Brigid and Saint Columba, who is also known as Columcille, were reinterred on this site by John De Courcy in the twelfth century thus fulfilling the prophecy that the three saints would be buried in the same place.”

I'm not a saint – just a sinner who keeps on trying. But I'd finally found my namesake, a man of peace indeed.

My Mom, the Writer

My Mom, Alma Ready, LOVED Arizona! In fact, she loved everything West. And she loved to write. She passed that love on to me, even though I barely knew her as a child. My parents divorced when I was only five and my father moved back East, taking my brother Jim and I with him. I didn't see Mom again until I was twelve and then again when I was eighteen when – for a short time – I lived with her and Teddy, her fourth (and last) husband.

I’d always resented having to grow up 2,400 miles from her. But we always wrote to each other. And sometimes called each other. She sent pictures of the West and I would look at them. She wrote stories of the West and I would read them. She was a photo-journalist – and a good one I might add. She contributed to newspapers such as the Arizona Republic, the Nogales International and – most spectacularly, I must add – Arizona Highways Magazine, the "official source for Arizona travel information, stunning Arizona photography & unique feature articles."

One day, while trying to put together a portfolio of pictures of Santa Cruz County for the Arizona Republic, she learned from a Nogales librarian that – much to her surprise – the county's history had never been written. So, "to do the job right," she wrote, "I needed to live in Santa Cruz County!"

So, at age sixty, she moved south from Tucson to Nogales where she researched, wrote and photographed everything West, even doing a series of picture pages for the Arizona Republic's Sunday Magazine, "Days and Ways." She published her county history, Open Range and Hidden Silver, in 1973. It was followed by Calabasas: A True Story in 1976 and A Very Small Place in 1989 – as well as much more.

Nogales never knew what hit it. Soon after becoming president of the Pimeria Alta Historical Society, she realized it needed a great deal of space for a museum. After learning that the old Nogales City Hall was available, she ram-rodded a successful effort to move in. Today it occupies the entire bottom floor!

Meanwhile, after years of separation, I’d actually written a draft version of my first book. Not knowing what to expect, I called her and asked, “Mom, would you proofread it for me?” Without hesitation and much to my relief, she said “Yes.” So I mailed it to her and she returned it, section by section, with all changes, suggestions and errors meticulously written or underlined in red. From that moment on, we became “buddies.”

I would visit her while on business trips from Raleigh and we even did the three-mile round-trip hike at Fort Bowie National Historic Site. (She was in her eighties!) She wanted to show me her West and did so over the next few years. My wife joined me more than once as I drove while Mom navigated – from Nogales day trips into Mexico to overnight trips north to Navajo country and Lake Powell. Mom was tireless! And by now, Teddy had died but she already had a new boyfriend.

The last time I saw Mom was at a nursing home in Nogales; she was 95. But, on May 29, 2003, Mom died. I’ll never forget her memorial service, held on the bottom floor of the very museum she’d helped found. Even though she’d outlived most of her contemporaries, over forty people – friends, admirers, co-workers, several young people – came to pay their respects. The museum’s large research library was dedicated and renamed the Alma D. Ready Library. In a special presentation a beautiful stone plaque, created by Mexican artist “Alonzo”, was mounted at the library entrance. It featured a windmill taken from one of Mom’s photographs.

I’ll be forever thankful to then society president Axel C. F. Holm, who did an incredible job of arranging the service.

Mom had many friends and was a lover of art, music, poetry and everything Arizona. She will be deeply missed by her family and the many people whose lives she has touched over the years. About Nogales she wrote: "I have been very happy here. The country is beautiful, the 'Border Culture' fascinating, the people friendly, and the climate near-perfect. This is where I feel at home."

They say that home is where the heart is and Mom's heart had indeed found a home – in a place called Nogales. And my heart has found forgiveness – and love. In the words of Jesus: "honor your father and mother..." (Matthew 19:19, NIV). I love you Mom!

Tara! Home!

Wednesday, 12 October 1994: 

Remembering Scarlett’s “Tara” from Margaret Mitchell's novel, Gone with the Wind, we planned to visit a place we'd always wanted to see, the fabled Hill of Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland.

We drove (crawled) endlessly that morning through fat rolls of fog. Suddenly the sun broke through and there it was – Tara! We were excited.

But it looked very closed.

We found a path leading up to a place marked on my map as Saint Patrick’s Church, used as a visitors center next to the site. The car gate was locked but the footpath was open so I lifted Anne's wheelchair over the wall and we were on our way. A young man greeted us at the church.

“Oh, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “We’re open. Must’ve forgotten to unlock the gate.” He was friendly enough, but I think he was taking a nap. “The church is no longer a church,” he said, “but a visitors center. The tour includes a good audiovisual show as well. I’ll start it up for you.”

We sat in one of the church pews and he disappeared into the church somewhere. Suddenly, long black window shades began to lower on all the windows at once, shutting out the sunlight. Simultaneously, a movie screen lowered to the altar in front of us and, when all was ready, the show began. It was a good audiovisual indeed: Tara, Meeting Place of Heroes. The story unfolded like a dream; we learned that nearly two thousand years ago, Tara was the seat of the most powerful rulers in Ireland. Here the high king and his royal court lived in their ceremonial residence while they feasted and watched over the realm. They were gone now, but the sense of their commanding presence remained.

The show was especially good for Anne because it gave overall aerial views of the place and was about the only way she could see it. The Hill of Tara was grass-covered and bumpy, as we could see from the film, and not friendly to wheelchairs. Afterwards she looked longingly at the gentle sloping hill from the church door. She sighed “If I only had wings …”

The young man sensed her yearning for two good feet. “Sorry about that,” he said, almost inaudibly. Then he smiled. “Here, let me push you back to your car while your husband has a look around.”

I wandered out into the wide meadows. We were together, Tara and I, three hundred feet above the plains of Meath. After fifty centuries of pagan rulers and powerful kings, I alone was left standing here this day; among the grassy mounds and depressions that once were Stone Age passage tombs, Iron Age forts, and ruined houses of kings. Fifty centuries of living had once filled the air with wild shouts of war and pagan revelry – later to be stilled by St. Patrick’s reverent voice of prayer as he baptized thousands here. Tara’s influence declined soon after Christianity took root in the country but more recently, in 1843, Daniel O’Connell, the “Liberator” and leader of the opposition to union with Britain, held one of his “monster meetings” here and drew a crowd of 750,000 people.

All were distant memories now. I stood alone with the fading echoes of the past. After one last look, I too, was gone.

(Excerpt from Wheelchair Around the World, by Patrick Simpson)