Photo courtesy of Richard G. Carter
1991 Black History Month, Apollo: From left: Teddy Shelton, Richard G. Carter, Billy Shelton, James (Pookie) Hudson, Willie C. Jackson, Gerald Gregory, Opal Courtney Jr.
Black History Month in February brings back fond memories of my experiences at, to and from, and around Harlem’s legendary showplace, the Apollo Theater. This includes its famous Wednesday Amateur Nights.
Over the years, many stars beginning their careers risked being booed off the stage by discerning, mostly black audiences—not judges—deciding if the new talent was worthwhile. Nobody escaped the booing, not even child performers.
The storied Apollo was born in 1910 in an old burlesque house at 253 W. 125th St. Unlike famous Harlem venues such as the Cotton Club, which catered to all-white audiences, the Apollo welcomed the area’s growing black population.
Well-known amateur night performers the audience loved included 17-year-old Ella Fitzgerald (1934); Billie Holiday (1935); Sarah Vaughan (1943); Gladys Knight and the Pips (1952); James Brown (1953); the Isley Brothers (1957); Jimi Hendrix (1964); and The Jackson 5 (1967). On the other hand, those who endured audience booing but went on to fame and fortune, include Lauryn Hill, 16-year-old Dave Chappelle and Luther Vandross who was rejected a record four times.
Milwaukee’s Answer to the Apollo
Born and bred in Milwaukee, the audiences in this storied Harlem showplace took me back to the old Regal Theater, at N. 7th and W. Walnut streets. As a regular patron of the compact venue in the 1950s-’60s—easy walking distance from my inner-city home—I loved how the black crowds loudly demonstrated their pro-and-con feelings about what they were seeing on the movie screen. Males and females alike would loudly cheer, jeer and moan with alacrity.
In New York, I’d head to the Apollo by subway from Grand Central Terminal near my office, get off at 125th St. and walk about six blocks to the theater around the corner from the Amsterdam News, for which I wrote a weekly column. While thoroughly enjoying being part of the 1,500-seat Amateur Night audience on several occasions in the 1970s and early ’80s, I have fond memories of the Apollo of a more personal nature.
For example, I was on stage in 1989 as a guest on the nationally televised Morton Downey Jr. TV show, and in 2001, I was pointed out in the crowd as the authorized biographer of the Spaniels (“Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight”) by emcee-DJ Bobby Jay—bass singer of the Laddins—during the Smithsonian Institution’s Rhythm and Blues Foundation’s 12th Annual Pioneer Awards.
During one Black History Month, I posed for pictures in the Apollo lobby—festooned with photos of historical performers—with Mary Wilson of the Supremes; Jerry Butler (Impressions); Harvey Fuqua (Moonglows); Willie Winfield (Harptones), and Gene Chandler (“The Duke of Earl”), Bonnie Raitt ( “Nick of Time”), Ruth Brown (“Have a Good Time”) and Gloria Lynne (“I Wish You Love”).
My most cherished memory of Black History Month at the Apollo was backstage in 1991 as the original Spaniels—featuring lead singer-songwriter James “Pookie” Hudson and bass Gerald Gregory—performed in an “R&B Reunion” after being honored by The Foundation with its first Pioneer Award for a lifetime contribution.
Electricity filled the packed theater as the Spaniels opened their set with 1953’s “Baby, It’s You,” the Gary, Ind., group’s haunting, initial doo-wop hit. And when they sang their classic a cappella version of “Danny Boy”—amidst audience shouts of “Do it, Pookie” and “Get down, Gerald”—they brought down the house.
The Spaniels was the only act among the Coasters, Shirelles, Harptones, Bobbettes, LaVern Baker, Chuck Jackson and Hank Ballard and the Midnighters, that the audience called for an encore after hearing “Goodnight, Sweetheart.” Shouts of “more, more” caused Pookie to lead them back for “You’re Gonna’ Cry,” and the crowd went wild.
A few hours later, after dinner with the group at Harlem’s famed Red Rooster restaurant, Janice and I headed home to Westchester County by commuter train. To the amusement of other passengers, she played some of the Spaniels’ tunes, and a man with a deep voice emulated Gregory’s booming bass line which introduced “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”
All original Spaniels are gone, but the Apollo—and Black History Month—live on.
