The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1898-03-13

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What I miss most in the Primrose &
West Minstrels is Mr.. West. They
have a new interlocutor this time, Mr..
B. S. Cairns, q fine figure Of man
himself, large, genial and really assist
fl1l to the end men and their jokes, but
still long jump short Of Mr.. West.
Mr.. Cairns has not that beaming pride
which so distinguished Mr.. West from
other interlocutors; he does not seem
assured that the world is his; he has
legs that make quite a seemly show
ing in their silken hose, but he seems
never to be enthralled by them; he
scarcely notices them at all, in fact;
and he fans himself in a practical bus
inesslike way quite different from the
lures and Establishments with which
MI West used to- invest this innocent
affectation. I never can think OF Mr..
West apart from his sumptuous person
and the arch delight he took in 1t. TO
him the world was always fresh ana
glad so long as he had his health ana
his beauty and those splendid legs and
heaving shoulders and just that hint
of gentlemanly embonpoint beneath the
waistcoat He is a strange institution,
anyway, the interIocutor. 1 remember
in the old days when the interlocutor
would sometimes be the bass singer,
too, and would herald with fine speech,
not only the efforts of the boy soprano,
the London tenor, the Russian barytone
and the fabulous comic singers, but his
own turn as we'll with impartial en-
thusiasm; and would belch forth In
deep, abdominal tones Rocked in the
Cradle Of the Deep" or some grim bal
lad that dealt in grave diggers and the
dead. l remember one Of these basso-
INTERCHANGEABLE was gigantic fellow,
close on to feet and with a voice on
him to lift a fog-singing an embalm-
ing-party ditty whose hilarious motto
was six feet Of earth make us all of
one size" 1t got so that undertaking
by land and sea were inseparably asso-
ciated in my appreciation Of the inter-
locutor l used to wonder when the
end men found the heart to, make him
the cue and butt of their rude jokes,
when. as I thought. he could easily
swallow any one of them and comfort
ably bury the luckless devil beneath
the low D in one of his graveyard
songs But J0e WOTlQ, lIlS IllIlSll S1
shows and I aged together, and finally
I saw evolved the satin-upholstered
ninstrels that obtain to-day, with the
handsome and harmless Mr.. West IN
the interlocutor's chair. l can't say
that modernity has improved the min
strel show, but 1 can say that in my
experience Mr.. West is the most en-
gagtng personality that ever adorned
the modern performance, and I miss
him sadly.
At best the modern Ministries, for all
their fine clothes and scenery, are
long way behind the old-timerS IN point
of characters and real fun. For several
seasons 1t was a trustful device Of
Primrose and West to preface their
own spectacular show with a short
performance by real niggers. The mig
gers were exposed as the horrible ex-
ample" of minstrelsy in the past, and
the modern burnt-cork artists got the
applause and rich flowers. But this
was hardly convincing evidence of
the superiority Of the new. When min
strelsy was in it's palmiest day. when 1t
had individuality, local color and hu-
NOR unborrowed and all its own, the
rninstrels were white, not black. men.
To-day 1t has no color. no individual
process; In fact, the old traditions of
the business practically have been
abandoned until the performance is a
variety show pure and simple. Taken
from it's own variety standpoint 1
think the Primrose and West perform
ance quite as good this season as 1t
was last, and surely it fits the Column
bias clientele and prices much better
than 1t did the Baldwin's. But the
songs are notably weak. The only one I
can recall is Mr.. Primrose's "Nigger,
Niger, Never Die" and that although
by Metz, the man who wrote 'There'll Be
a Hot Time" is lamentably easy to for
get; and the living sheet-music" which
goes with this song is not oonspicu-
ously alive either, as most of the coon
faces are bogus. The best work is done
by the Mowatt trio Of Indian club Jug
glers and George Wilson. the inde-
Btructible endman, who were here last
season, and E. M. Hall, the best Of
all the oldtime banjo-players.
At the Orpheum they manage the
living sheet music better by supplying
Sabel with something close to the ad-
vertised quota Of live coons. but, as
in the Ministries, the act does not get a
fair trial for the lack Of a catchy song.
Sabel is all her old self and even a little
more; she sings like a steam whistle.
shouts like two, and is entirely some
thing immediate, galvanic and special.
This week she will increase the number
of coons to sixty-five and try a new song.