2 Talking Machines!

After the exhibition of his first crude tinfoil apparatus in 1878–79, Thomas Edison
virtually abandoned the phonograph to work on the electric light. He did not re-
turn to work on it until 1886, when the expiration of his major commitments to the
electric light, and the hot breath of competition from other inventors working on
sound recording, brought him back into the fray. By 1888 Edison had produced an
“improved” phonograph, this one capable of producing permanent recordings on
wax cylinders.
Eventually a sales organization called the North American Phonograph Com-
pany secured the rights to both Edison’s new phonograph and a competing machine
All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted under U.S. or applicable copyright law.

invented by Chichester Bell and Charles Sumner Tainter and began marketing
them. The company divided the country into exclusive territories, each with its own
local distributor owned by local interests. Since early attempts to market the pho-
nograph as a business dictating machine foundered, several of these local compa-
nies turned to producing musical cylinders to be played on “coin-in-slot” machines
that they set up in public places. By 1891 more than 1,250 such machines were in
operation throughout the United States.1
Problems, of course, persisted. The recording equipment was crude and the
sound faint. Patrons had to listen through rubber ear tubes. Stringed instruments
such as pianos and violins, ensembles, and women singers did not record very well
at all. Better results were obtained from brass instruments, flutes, and whistlers. Here
was an opportunity for George W. Johnson’s particular talent.
Enter Victor H. Emerson, a twenty-four-year-old telegraph operator and part-
time employee of the struggling New Jersey Phonograph Company. Fascinated with
the potential of this wondrous new talking machine, he enthusiastically pitched the
idea of making musical recordings to the owners of the company. They initially
resisted but, with their business on the brink of collapse, finally agreed. Emerson
quickly set about finding some “talent.” He later described what happened that
summer day in 1890. “I set up ten recording machines and one day heard on the
street a ‘mud gutter band’ of four pieces playing ‘Boulanger’s Patrol.’ The leader said
that they wouldn’t work cheap—no use asking him. We finally closed the bargain
at $3.50 for all of the four men for the afternoon. We made 500 records and sold
them for two dollars each.”2
Emerson needed more musicians, preferably cheap and loud. What about that
middle-aged black man with the melodious whistle and hearty laugh he’d seen
performing for coins at the Hudson River ferryboat terminal? Johnson listened to
Copyright 2004. University of Illinois Press.

the proposition of the neatly dressed young man and said, “Why, sure . . . how
much did you say you would pay?” “Twenty cents a song,” said Emerson, “and you
can work all afternoon.” “Well, suh, just show me where you want me to go,” said
Johnson, throwing in one of his hearty laughs for free. Emerson had his second re-
cording artist.

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 It was a surprisingly long trip, but Johnson did not complain. A ferry ride across
the Hudson River, then a long trolley ride to Newark. Emerson led him to a small
storefront at 758 Broad Street marked “New Jersey Phonograph Company.” The
front office was modest, striving to look like the home of a prosperous new business
but not quite convincing. In the cluttered back room was the “recording labora-
tory”—a row of half a dozen battery-powered cylinder phonographs, about the size
of small sewing machines, lined up in a shallow semicircle. Their straight black
horns all faced the point where Johnson was to stand, like the rifles of a firing squad
ready to exact a terrible price if he did not do as he was told.
These big, battery-driven phonographs did not look like the tinfoil machine that
Johnson remembered from a dozen years earlier. That was a small, delicate-looking
device that you cranked by hand as you bent over the revolving drum and bellowed
into the small mouthpiece. Groups of them never ganged up on you. But Emerson
assured him that these new machines worked more or less the same way. “Sing
loudly and clearly,” he said, “and don’t make any mistakes. If you do we have to stop,
shave down all the cylinders, and start all over again.” Johnson himself had to an-
nounce each selection at the start, giving the title followed by his name. After all,
the people hearing these disembodied songs on a machine in some distant place,
at some future time, would not be able to see him.
What would he sing? Johnson knew all the popular street songs of the day,
“Down Went McGinty,” “Little Annie Rooney,” “Listen to the Mocking Bird” (a
favorite of whistlers). He could even whistle the new “Washington Post March”
recently introduced by Sousa’s U.S. Marine Band. But Emerson was more interested
in a “coon song” novelty in which the black man made fun of himself. It is unlikely
that Johnson enjoyed singing this insulting song, written a few years earlier by the

The earliest known picture of George

W. Johnson, c. 1892, when he was in
his mid-forties. This cut appeared in
several catalogs. (Phonogram, Dec.
1892)

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 white vaudevillian Sam Devere and featured in touring minstrel shows, but it always
brought a shower of nickels from the white folks. They seemed to find the sight of a
portly, cheerful black man singing about his own fat lips and “cranium like a big
baboon” uproariously funny. When you were hungry and needed money to eat, you
sang whatever they wanted you to.
Emerson seemed like a nice enough young man, but like all the others was oblivi-
ous to what this might mean to a black man. Johnson didn’t let on that it meant a
thing to him. He simply positioned himself in front of the horns, while Emerson
simultaneously started the six machines. As instructed, he announced as clearly as
possible, “‘The Whistling Coon,’ as rendered by George W. Johnson.” Then, as a
bored-looking man at the beat-up piano began to play a tinkly accompaniment, he
launched into his jaunty street song.

The Whistling Coon

Oh, I’ve seen in my time some very funny folks,
But the funniest of all I know,
Is a colored individual as sure as you’re alive,
He’s black as any black crow . . .
You may talk until you’re tired, but you’ll never get a word
From this very funny queer old coon . . .
He’s a knock-kneed, double-jointed, hunky-plunky moke
But he’s happy when he whistles this tune . . .
(Whistles refrain)

He’s got a pair of lips, like a pound of liver split,

And a nose like an injun rubber shoe,
He’s a limpy, happy, chuckle headed huckleberry nig,
And he whistles like a happy killy loo . . .
He’s an independent, free and easy, fat and greasy ham,
With a cranium like a big baboon . . .
Say! I never heard him talk to anybody in my life,
But he’s happy when he whistles this tune . . .
(Whistles refrain)
He’d whistle in the morning, thro’ the day and thro’ the night,
And he’d whistle like the devil going to bed . . .
Why, he’d whistle like a locomotive engine in his sleep,
And he whistled when his wife was dead . . .
One day a fellow hit him with a brick upon the mouth,
And his jaw swelled up like a balloon . . .
Now he goes along shaking like a monkey in a fit,
And this is how he whistles that tune . . .
(Whistles unsteadily)3

For his big ending, Johnson then whistled his way out with a bit of “Way Down
upon the Swanee River” from Stephen Foster’s “Old Folks at Home,” an old favor-
ite written nearly thirty years earlier. The comic third verse (shaky whistling after
he’s “hit upon the mouth”), followed by this unexpected bit of Southern pathos
always wowed the crowd.

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 A traveling phonograph exhibitor in the early 1890s. Note the eartubes through which
patrons listened to the glass-enclosed cylinder phonograph. Johnson’s laughing and
whistling songs were favorites with such exhibitors. (Library of Congress)

There were more verses to “The Whistling Coon,” but this was all that would fit
in the two- to three-minute recording time of the little brown wax cylinders.
Emerson nodded, reset the machines, and slid on new blanks. Recordings could only
be made one at a time—there was no way to duplicate them—and in order to build
up enough stock to sell Johnson would have to keep singing and whistling this tune
all afternoon. At twenty cents a “round,” that was all right with him. He had strong
lungs and had had plenty of practice. By the end of the afternoon he would be $4.00
or $5.00 richer. That was a week’s work for a lot of people.
Emerson had reason to be pleased, too. He’d paid Johnson an average of five or
six cents for each saleable cylinder (twenty cents for three or four at a time, more or
less) and sold them to exhibitors for $1.00 to $1.50 each. Even taking into account
overhead and the cost of the wax blank, there was money to be made.4 Even greater
profits awaited once the New Jersey company was able to install more of its own

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 musical coin-slot machines in public places that fall. A single popular cylinder might
bring in $20.00, $30.00, or even $50.00 in nickels before it wore out.5
At the same time he was making recordings for Emerson, Johnson was also sell-
ing his talents to another phonograph company. The New York Phonograph Com-
pany, located on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, expanded its recording program dur-
ing the spring of 1890 and upon hearing Johnson’s sidewalk entertainment also
wanted some cylinders. It is quite possible that Johnson recorded for New York first,
since surviving ledgers for the company indicate that it was selling Johnson’s cylin-
ders as early as May 1890. At that time the company (through its affiliate the Metro-
politan Phonograph Company) obtained its musical cylinders from an independent
recording engineer named Charles Marshall, whom it paid and who in turn recorded
and paid the artists. So Johnson may have originally been recruited by Marshall.
New York had Johnson’s “Whistling Coon” and “Laughing Song” both in stock
as of June 1890, and it began paying him directly for its own recording sessions be-
ginning in late July. The first payment is dated July 22, followed by thirteen more
sessions in 1890 alone. The ledgers indicate that Johnson was paid an average of
$4.00 for each session, totaling $55.00 for the last six months of 1890—a healthy
supplement indeed for a street musician used to living on perhaps a couple dollars
a week.6
No files survive for the New Jersey company and no published catalogs earlier
than late 1891. However, we have the rather specific reminiscence of Victor Emerson,
in mid-1907, that Johnson was the second artist he recruited for them, seventeen
years earlier. That would also backdate to mid-1890, when New Jersey was just get-
ting into the coin-in-slot business. Johnson was definitely recording for both com-
panies by the end of the year. Theoretically, since he lived in New York that com-
pany could have claimed him as its exclusive artist, but it apparently did not object
to the New Jersey cylinders.7
Since Johnson began recording in early 1890 he was not, as Emerson later
claimed, “the first man who made commercial records for the public,” although he
was clearly one of the first. The Edison laboratory had begun recording musical
“phonograms” for the benefit of its local agents in late 1888, and the Columbia
Phonograph Company of Washington, the New York Phonograph Company of
New York State, and its affiliate the Metropolitan Phonograph Company of New
York City all initiated their recording programs in 1889, at least on a small scale.
Other local companies may also have begun recording in 1889. By early 1890 both
the North American Phonograph Company and Columbia were publishing catalogs
of their musical cylinders.8
In January 1891 the first industry trade paper, the Phonogram, was launched. It
mentioned few recording artists in that first issue, but an interesting item in a chat-
ter column remarked, “One of the hardest instruments that we have tried to
[record] is the organ, and the easiest is the English concertina. Negroes take better
than white singers, because their voices have a certain sharpness or harshness about
them that a white man’s has not. A barking dog, squalling cat, neighing horse, and,
in fact, almost any beast’s or bird’s voice is excellent for the good repetition on the
phonograph.”9

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 Since no other black person is known to have recorded this early, and Johnson
quickly became very well known, this January 1891 reference is almost certainly to
him. In March a recording of “The Whistling Coon” (presumably Johnson’s) was
mentioned as requiring an encore at a phonograph exhibition given at New York’s
Standard Theatre, and in May Johnson’s name appeared in print for the first time
in connection with recording. A report of a “phonograph concert” held in Pitts-
burgh on May 14, 1891, listed nine titles as having been played for the assembled
audience of two hundred, among them “The Whistling Coon” and “The Laughing
Song” by George W. Johnson. These could have been either New Jersey or New York
cylinders.10
“The Laughing Song” was Johnson’s other big number, and it proved just as
popular as “The Whistling Coon.” It was evidently written by Johnson himself (at
least, it was copyrighted by him, and no other composer was ever credited with it).
Its clever, intricate lyrics, with phrases such as “a quiet bit of chaff” and “if he had
not been a quince,” suggest a talented, literate writer—or someone who had a lot
of help. It was, however, the same “coon song” mockery of the black man.

The Laughing Song

As I was coming ’round the corner, I heard some people say,
Here comes the dandy darkey, here he comes this way . . .
His heel is like a snow plow, his mouth is like a trap,
And when he opens it gently you will see a fearful gap . . .
And then I laughed . . .
(Laughs heartily in time with the music)
They said his mother was a princess, his father was a prince,
And he’d been the apple of their eye if he had not been a quince . . .
But he’ll be the king of Africa in the sweet bye and bye,
And when I heard them say it, why I’d laugh until I’d cry . . . And then I
laughed . . .
(Laughs to the music)

So now kind friends just listen, to what I’m going to say,

I’ve tried my best to please you with my simple little lay . . .
Now whether you think it funny or a quiet bit of chaff,
Why all I’m going to do is just to end it with a laugh . . .
And then I laughed . . .
(Laughs to the music)11

What made this silly little song irresistible was its chorus, in which Johnson
laughed in time with the music. It sounds nonsensical, and it was, but it never failed
to draw grimaces, smirks, and guffaws from the most jaded listeners to the coin-slot
machines. Who would not find amusement in the sound of uproarious laughter
accompanied by a catchy melody?
Moreover Johnson’s performance sounded authentic, just like the black panhan-
dler on the street. This was far more unusual than it might seem, for in the early days
of recording most artists sang in distinct, stilted, almost shouted tones, striving
above all else to make the words very clear and understandable. When they imitated

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 blacks, in sketches and song, they were so broad and mannered as to be almost
cartoonish. But here was the real thing, a black street singer doing just what he did
for nickels on the sidewalks of New York. More than in “The Whistling Coon” (a
stage song), in “The Laughing Song” Johnson slurred phrases, used broad as and
dropped his gs to great effect: “As I wuz comin’ roun’ the corner, I . . . heard some
people saay / Here comes—a daandy daarkey, here ’e comes this waay . . .”
Later in the song, words like “gently” and “Africa” became “jintly” and “Afriker,”
and when he launched into his deep, full-throated laugh at the chorus he would
interject, almost as if in a drunken slur, “I couldn’a help fr’m laffing, a-ha-ha-ha-ha-
ha-ha!” Miraculously, he did it all in a way that was nevertheless quite intelligible,
no mean feat on the primitive recordings of the day. No wonder these unique
records fascinated the listening public.
Johnson’s two songs, one showcasing his whistling and other his hearty laugh-
ter, quickly became the rage on coin machines around New York. So popular was
“The Whistling Coon” that it was interpolated into the stage play The Inspector, per-
formed by Johnson himself. The play, which opened in November 1890, was said
to be a realistic depiction of New York City police work, and was set in part at the
West 30th Street police station, in Johnson’s real life neighborhood. Johnson also
doubled as a “barker” in the play. The New York Sun commented, “George W.
Johnson, the whistling Negro in the Battery scene of The Inspector, is a familiar figure
on the North River ferryboats, where he whistles for pennies. . . . When dramatist
[Will R.] Wilson approached Johnson on the subject of joining his company the
whistler stuck out for a fair salary. He said that he could pick up over $15 on the boats,
and get a regular salary from a phonograph company for whistling in their ma-
chines. Wilson had to pay him $25 a week. Since his engagement he has had an offer
from Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt, who wishes him to whistle for her one night after
the theater performance. Mrs. Vanderbilt will not go to a variety theatre, but she is
anxious to see all the best performers.”12
The following year brought proof that Johnson’s surprise success with the two
local phonograph companies was no fluke. Unlike the ephemeral popular songs of
the day, his two specialties became instant standards, closely identified with the
emerging entertainment phonograph. They never failed to entertain and their nov-
elty never seemed to wear out; anyone operating a phonograph parlor or display had
to have them. With such great demand—and no way to produce duplicates—the
companies called Johnson back again and again to make more. According to its led-
gers the New York company paid him for twenty-three sessions in 1891, and he prob-
ably did as many or more for Emerson in Newark. In addition, on June 1, 1891,
Johnson spent two and a half hours at Edison’s laboratory in West Orange, New
Jersey, making cylinders for the parent North American Phonograph Company to
distribute to companies around the country. Remarkably, log sheets for this session
exist. No titles are shown, but they almost certainly included “The Whistling Coon”
and “The Laughing Song.” Johnson’s specialty is given as “whistler and song” and
he was accompanied on piano by Edward Issler, a well-known recording accompa-
nist and bandleader of that day.13 Additional sessions were held by North American
in October 1891 and August 1892, and there may have been others.

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 The recording business was as intensively competitive at its birth as it is today,
and Johnson’s sudden success immediately attracted competing versions of “The
Whistling Coon.” This would be no free ride. The most serious threat was from the
Columbia Phonograph Company of Washington, the most aggressive marketer of
musical cylinders in the country. Columbia not only sold its products within its own
territory but it was also accused of “poaching” on the other companies’ exclusive
territories by selling direct to their customers by mail. Almost as soon as Johnson’s
“Whistling Coon” began to catch on in New York, Columbia ordered copies from
the New York company and then rushed out its own versions by its two most popu-
lar stars, the immensely popular U.S. Marine Band in November 1890 (instrumen-
tal), and “artistic whistler” John Y. AtLee in December (vocal and whistling). AtLee,
a government clerk by day, was a diminutive white man with a large, drooping
mustache and an exceptionally loud, piercing whistle. Columbia promoted him
heavily, and his version of “The Whistling Coon” was featured in its catalog for the
next four years. He added a version of “The Laughing Song” in 1892.
Other white artists copied Johnson’s hits. Columbia had a second version of
“The Whistling Coon,” by A. C. Weaver, in its catalog in 1894.14 However no other
recorded versions came close to the success of Johnson’s originals. This is truly re-
markable considering Columbia’s marketing might and the fact that its version was
by a white man who, one might suppose, would be more acceptable to white pa-
trons. In addition, songs were not generally associated with specific singers at this
time; any company that could get its version to the customer first, and cheapest,
would get the order. New Jersey fought back with a daring strategy for those race-
conscious days. It not only publicized the fact that Johnson was black but even
printed pictures revealing his very dark complexion. Johnson’s obvious good na-
ture (he was a “safe Negro”), and the comedy of a black man mocking his own race,
won over listeners everywhere. The songs quickly became his alone. In his own
quietly determined manner, he undoubtedly fought to keep it that way.
The song “The Whistling Coon” was quite popular at this time in live vaude-
ville performances, especially as sung and played by its composer, Sam Devere.
Devere (1842–1907) was an old trouper and banjo virtuoso whose career stretched
back to the 1860s. Evidence of the rough-and-tumble nature of touring shows is
found in the story that Devere once killed a man with his banjo during a brawl in
Texas.15 He was still very popular in the 1890s, and “The Whistling Coon,” pub-
lished in 1878, was his biggest number. A January 1891 review of his troupe at
Miner’s Bowery Theatre in New York reported, “Sam Devere’s company made its
reappearance at this theatre Jan. 26, and packed the house at both perfor-
mances. . . . The Bowery theatregoers are always with Sam Devere. The boys help
him sing and whistle, and we think they would help him play his banjo if they
could.”16 Devere never recorded.
Except for occasional Edison/North American sessions, Johnson seems to have
recorded exclusively for the New Jersey and New York companies from 1890 until
1893. New York’s ledgers show eight Johnson sessions in 1892 and two in the spring
of 1893, after which the financially troubled company began to wind down its op-
erations, eventually going bankrupt. Johnson continued as a best-seller for New

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 Jersey, however, and recorded exclusively for it from 1893 to 1895. Not content to
let North American be its sales agent, the firm soon began shipping Johnson’s cyl-
inders throughout the United States. Many of the local companies developed ex-
clusive “star” talent in a similar manner, distributing their cylinders both in their
own territory and to other local companies for exhibition in other parts of the coun-
try. Few were as successful as New Jersey with its George W. Johnson records.
Johnson’s cylinders found their way all over America. A traveling exhibitor in
New England gave this report in the July 1892 Phonogram. It sheds light not only on
Johnson’s considerable popularity but also on how most Americans first heard the
phonograph.

I bought a treadle machine in Boston, and gave my first show at Haverhill the af-
ternoon and evening of October 1, 1891. I took in nearly $18 that evening and have
done as well many other evenings since. . . . I have taken about $75 in the past six
days in Waterbury. . . . I came here a stranger, looked the ground over, secured a
small open space on a good street, fixed a small platform and cotton canopy over
all and opened up. Business has been good from the start, and I shall stay as long as
it pays. I put up around my stand one or two nicely lettered signs, and the phono-
graph does the rest of the talking. I use no humbug or claptrap to secure attention.
My patrons are of all classes—rich and poor, young and old, male and especially
female. I go to schools, colleges, asylums, etc., etc., wherever I have paying induce-
ments. I have lately had a call to go to a grove near this place for a Sunday exhibi-
tion, but I get about all the work I want during the six days, without [working] the
seventh.
I carry fifty selections and try to have them all good. . . . Johnson’s “Whistling
Coon” and laughing song are immensely popular, and I presume they will always
be. There is more call for them than for any other selections. . . .
My last customer after listening to ten selections remarked, as he laid down the
ear tubes, “Well, that is d——d nice,” and this is about what they all say.17

In July 1892 the New Jersey company, its business thriving, began regular adver-
tising in the Phonogram, and Johnson’s name was prominently displayed. In Decem-
ber he was featured in a pictorial gallery of fifteen “Famous Record-Makers.” This
line drawing is the first known picture of Johnson. He looks his age (about 45), is
well dressed with a cravat, and appears older than most of the others, all of whom
are white. The copy contains brief descriptions of the specialties of most of those
pictured, ending with, “and last but not least, Mr. George W. Johnson, whose ‘Whis-
tling Coon’ has been heard in all climes, even in the wilds of Africa. [It] must be
heard in order to be appreciated.”18 This is the first, though not the last, reference
to Johnson’s cylinders being sold overseas.
In February 1893 a report on a phonograph concert in New England listed
Johnson’s “Laughing Song” as one of the cylinders played, in the all-important next-
to-closing position, right after a quartet recording of “Dixie.”19 In March the New
Jersey ad began referring to his titles as “always popular.”20 These were not mere
passing novelties. They had obviously struck a chord; after two years, the public still
couldn’t get enough of them.
The March 1, 1894, catalog of “original records” issued by the New Jersey com-

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 pany, which was now called the United States Phonograph Company, revealed the
first concrete information on Johnson’s sales. Under his picture (the same one that
appeared in the 1892 Phonogram), and just above the listing of “The Laughing
Song” and “The Whistling Coon,” appeared the words, “Up to date, over 25,000
records of these two songs have been made by this artist, and the orders for them
seem to increase instead of diminish. Whole audiences are convulsed by simply
hearing these songs reproduced. No exhibition box is complete without these two
records.”21
To appreciate what an incredible total this was for 1894, it is necessary to under-
stand the limited scope of the industry in the early 1890s. There were very few pho-
nographs in private homes, so nearly all of the 25,000 had to have been sold to
exhibitors and coin-slot operators who played them over and over again for a fasci-
nated, paying public. They must have worn out a lot of copies of these two songs.
Second, techniques for duplicating cylinders were still primitive, and the New Jer-
sey company promoted the fact that all of its products were “originals.” Most of the
25,000 were apparently original recordings by Johnson.
With only three or four saleable recordings resulting from each “round,” an
afternoon’s work might result in 60–100 saleable cylinders. Simple arithmetic tells
us that to produce 25,000 cylinders for sale over a three-and-a-half-year period
Johnson must have been a very busy man. Three hundred recording sessions, or
about eighty per year, at $4 per session, would have netted him $320 per year.
References in 1898–99 suggest that Johnson was then earning from $10 to $100 per
week for his phonographic work. This exceeded the income of the average white
American worker at the time (about $500 per year), and it was of course on top of
whatever Johnson was able to earn from his regular street singing and odd jobs, with
which he had previously entirely supported himself.22
These figures are, to be sure, entirely speculative. In a marathon recording ses-
sion Johnson might turn out even more copies (and would be paid more). A 1906
article observed that “in the old days, it is said, he once sang the same song 56 times
in one day, and his laugh had as much merriment in it at the conclusion as when
he started.”23
There is little evidence of Johnson’s actual income, aside from periodic reports
that he was doing quite well. The New York Phonograph Company ledgers indicate
that he was paid approximately $40 to $80 per year for his work for that company,
from 1890 to 1892, and his North American sessions netted $6 to $7 apiece.24 His New
Jersey income was no doubt higher. The 25,000 figure could be exaggerated, al-
though the record industry was not as prone to “hype” in those days as it is now.
Also, some of those 25,000 copies could have been—despite New Jersey’s protesta-
tions—duplicates for which Johnson received no additional payment.25 Johnson,
like all artists at the time, was paid by the session. There were no royalties.
Whatever the exact figures, the obscure black street singer from Hell’s Kitchen
had become a well-known name across the United States, and even in foreign lands,
thanks to this newfangled invention. Though he was by no means rich, his income
had risen sharply. As he neared fifty, George W. Johnson must have felt he had
whistled his way into the promised land. These were his salad days!

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 One of the most distinctive characteristics of Johnson’s career—aside from the
fact that he was the first black man to gain fame through recording—was his lim-
ited repertoire. His fame was based on just two numbers, “The Laughing Song” and
“The Whistling Coon.” Most successful artists of the day sang a wide variety of
material, usually any song that was popular at the moment. None sold as many
copies of a single title as did Johnson, however.
Despite the enormous popularity of his two hits, Johnson wanted to expand his
recorded repertoire. Two additional titles by him, “The Laughing Darkey” and
“Uncle Ned’s Dream,” appear in the October 1892 New Jersey catalog, but not there-
after.26 No copies survive. A more significant expansion of his recording career be-
gan in 1894 thanks to an aggressive young hustler named Len Spencer.

Enter Len Spencer

Leonard Garfield Spencer was without doubt one of the most interesting characters
in the early recording industry. Young, white, pushy, even a bit dangerous looking,
he was undeniably talented and had made a name for himself in just a few short
years. Len was the scion of a notable and progressive Washington, D.C., family. His
grandfather had invented the Spencerian system of handwriting, a florid style that
was taught to reluctant schoolchildren all over the country; the family had later
founded the Spencerian Business College in Washington, which it still operated.
Spencer’s remarkable mother, Sara Andrews Spencer, was a political activist, suffrag-
ist, and a friend of Clara Barton. A domineering woman, and headmaster of the
College, she was something most uncommon in the Victorian era—an advocate of
women’s rights.
The Spencers moved in rarefied social circles. The “Garfield” in Len’s name was
in honor of his godfather, President James A. Garfield, a family friend. Len, who was
born in 1867, had taught at the College briefly in the late 1880s but became fasci-
nated with the new phonograph (which was used at the school). He began recording
for the local Columbia Phonograph Company almost as soon as it began operation
in 1889, bringing to recording a distinctive baritone voice, a highly melodramatic
style of delivery, and a talent for writing and organizing material.
He soon sold his talents to a higher bidder, the New Jersey Phonograph Com-
pany, for whom he began recording around 1890. His name quickly filled its cata-
log, alongside George Johnson’s, doing an extraordinarily wide range of material.
The 1892 New Jersey catalog included 140 selections by him, including sentimen-
tal songs (“You’ll Miss Mother When She’s Gone”), topical numbers (“It Used to Be
Proper But It Don’t Go Now”), and currently popular hits (“Ta-ra-ra Boom Der E”).
So that he would not completely dominate the catalog, some of his cylinders were
issued under the pseudonyms Garry Allen and Larry Leonard.
Around 1894 Spencer moved from Washington to New York to pursue his re-
cording career and came up with a proposal for his employers. Minstrel shows were
all the rage in the theater, and there had even been a few attempts to recreate min-
iature versions on cylinders.27 Why not put out a whole series of such cylinders with
a regular company of performers? These records would be based on the minstrel

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 Len Spencer, Johnson’s
friend and benefactor, in
the early 1890s. (Author’s
collection)

“first part,” beginning with the traditional “Gentlemen, be seated!” followed by

jokes, songs, and stories in which the cast interacted. (The minstrel second part, or
“olio,” consisted of stand-alone variety acts, while the finale was generally a
walkaround or similar production by the entire cast.) Spencer put together an ex-
ceedingly slick package, complete with interlocutor, jokes by the endmen, and a
featured number by a soloist (often himself), capped by a rousing chorus by the
entire company. Only three minutes in length in order to fit the short playing time
of a standard cylinder, these little productions were ingeniously paced to give the
illusion of the variety and naturalness of an actual stage performance.
The first cylinders by the “Spencer, Williams and Quinn Minstrels” (later re-
named the Imperial Minstrels) were announced in 1894. Len’s little troupe included
vaudevillian Billy Williams, tenor Dan W. Quinn, and George W. Johnson. It was
described enthusiastically in the catalog:

These gentlemen have together produced a most decided novelty in their new min-
strel records. Spencer and Quinn are well known to all users of the Phonograph, and
comment on their work is unnecessary. They are ably assisted by Mr. Billy Williams,
the aged-Negro delineator and comedian, as well as by George W. Johnson in his

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 son in his inimitable laughing specialty. Each record contains a complete minstrel
first part, embracing overture with bones and tambourine accompaniment, several
jokes and witty sayings, interspersed with laughter and applause by the audience,
and finishing either with some comic Negro song or story by Spencer, or a pathetic
song by Quinn or Williams. Wherever reproduced these records have made an in-
stantaneous hit.28

Six records were initially announced, with the first described as follows. Note the
prominent mention of Johnson.

No. 1. “Be seated, gentlemen.” Introductory Overture; the Black Serenaders, followed
by applause; the Interlocutor ventures to ask Bones “How he finds things?” to which
Bones replies, “Oh, I look for ’em.” This strikes the audience as being a witty sally,
and they applaud and laugh vociferously, Mr. Geo. W. Johnson’s hearty laugh par-
ticularly being heard above the din and confusion. “How is business down at the
tailor shop, Billy?” “Oh, sew-sew,” which reply also invokes the risibilities of the au-
dience. “How do you feel tonight, Dan?” “Kind of Chicago.” “Why, how is that?”
“Oh, fair.” The Interlocutor then announces that Mr. Spencer will sing “A High Old
Time,” all joining heartily in the chorus, at the conclusion of which the audience
show their approval by round after round of applause, laughter, whistling, etc., etc.29

The sixth cylinder in the original series featured Johnson’s own “Laughing
Song.” The performance was raucous and fast-paced, with Spencer and Williams
trading jokes in broad black dialect.

Announcer: The Imperial Minstrels, introducing their original minstrel first

part. Be seated, gentlemen! (Music)
Announcer: Introductory overture (orchestra plays, followed by enthusiastic
clapping and whistling.)
Len: Well, Billy . . .
Billy: What issit, Leonard?
Len: Thas’a, thas’a very ferocious necktie that yo’ got on there.
Billy: Tha’s one hand . . .
Len: I-I-I bet I know where you got it . . .
Billy: Come on, where, where?
Len: ’Round your neck! (great laughter)
Len: Hey, Billy . . .
Billy: What issit, Leonard?
Len: You’se very much intellectuality, can you tell me what it is that makes a
coon dog spotted?
Billy: No, Leonard, I say, what is it that makes a coon dog spotted?
Len: Why, his spots! (great laughter)
Billy: Hey, Leonard . . .
Len: What is it Billy?
Billy: How long this intellectuality must go on . . . Did you ever notice down in
a yard how the dog run around on the leash?
Len: Yeah.
Billy: Did you ever notice how fast he run when he go ’cross?
Len: I do, certainly.
Billy: What makes him do that?
Len: I don’t know, Billy, what makes dem dere dogs go so fast?

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 Billy: Why he’s just in a hurry to get to the other side! (laughter)
Announcer: Mr. George W. Johnson in his great “Laughing Song” . . .
(Johnson sings two verses and choruses)30

The minstrel records were an immediate hit, and Johnson became a regular
member of Spencer’s company. Frequent mention was made of his “hearty laugh-
ter” as an integral part of the show. But Johnson gained more than additional em-
ployment from his association with Len Spencer. Spencer, twenty-seven and wise
to the ways of show business, seems to have “adopted” the cheerful, friendly, black
man who was nearly twice his age, using him in various phonographic ventures and,
as we shall see, caring for him in his declining years. They remained friends for the
rest of Johnson’s life.
As remarkable as the early 1890s had been for George Johnson, the second half
of the decade was even more so. In 1894 the North American Phonograph Company
and its network of exclusive local franchises collapsed in a storm of lawsuits and
bankruptcies, and it was every man for himself in the newly competitive industry.
Compounding the problems was a severe economic depression which lingered
through 1893 and into 1894. Nevertheless, as soon as it was legally possible for it to
operate nationally, the aggressive Columbia Phonograph Company, which had
most heavily promoted musical cylinders, opened a studio in New York and began
buying up competitors or driving them out of business.
One of its first victims was the New Jersey company. Chief recording engineer
Victor Emerson was lured away in 1896, and best-selling artists followed. Len Spen-
cer and his minstrels moved in June 1897 and began making even more elaborate
productions for Columbia, still featuring George W. Johnson. The Columbia ver-
sion of “The Laughing Song” minstrel routine was more mainstream than the com-
parable New Jersey cylinder, less raucous and definitely less “black.” In it Len and
his brother Henry Spencer (also a recording artist), speaking now in proper English,
cracked a rather staid joke, Len did a little flag-waving, and then introduced his
friend Johnson. The routine stayed in the Columbia catalog, in cylinder and disc
versions, virtually unchanged for almost twenty years.

Announcer: The Imperial Minstrels, introducing their original minstrel first

part, for the Columbia Phonograph Company of New York City. Gentle-
men, be seated!
Len: I say, Mr. Henry, money is mighty cheap nowadays.
Henry: Money cheap, Leonard? Ha! I fail to get any of it.
Len: Why, you can get silver dollars for forty-five and fifty-five cents.
Henry: Why, that’s absurd, nonsense.
Len: Everybody knows that forty-five cents and fifty-five cents makes a hun-
dred cents, and you can get a dollar anywhere for that! (great laughter,
whistles)
Len: Tell me, sir, why are the stars and stripes like the stars in the heavens?
Henry: Well, Leonard, why are the stars and stripes like the stars in the heav-
ens?
Len (melodramatically): Because, sir, it’s beyond the power of any nation on
earth to ever pull them down. (cheers)
Len: George W. Johnson in his great “Laughing Song” . . .31

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 Johnson also recorded his “Laughing Song” and “Whistling Coon” specialties
as solos for Columbia. Previously Columbia had promoted John Y. AtLee’s versions,
but as soon as it opened a New York studio in 1895 the label replaced them with
Johnson’s. The aging black man clearly had the patented versions of the songs, and
with Len Spencer backing him he was determined to hold on to them.
A significant development in the fall of 1894 was the first wide sale of disc records
by their inventor, Emile Berliner. Although discs did not offer the sound quality of
the rapidly improving cylinders, they were louder, more durable, and could be pro-
duced in quantity. After a single recording session duplicates could be stamped out
like pancakes, although at first this was limited to a few hundred copies. Johnson
entered the Berliner studio in October 1895 to make his first discs, the ever-popular
“Laughing Song” and “Whistling Coon.” They sold so well that Berliner had him
travel to Philadelphia to rerecord them in 1896, with additional sessions in 1897 and
1898. They also had him record a new title, “The Mocking Bird,” but this does not
appear to have sold very well.
Berliner’s disc machines were small, cheap, and intended for home use. Edison
and Columbia countered with low-priced, easy-to-use cylinder players in 1896, and
the battle between cylinders and discs was on. Phonographs and records, including
Johnson’s, at last began to find their way into private homes in large quantities. Sales
of Berliner’s little seven-inch discs skyrocketed from about 25,000 during the first
few months, to 100,000 in 1896, 250,000 in 1897, and over 700,000 in 1898.32 Sales
of cylinders, still the predominant medium, were probably three times this amount.
The record industry was booming.
Since no one had an exclusive contract for his services, George Johnson also
began appearing on other cylinder labels in the late 1890s—the Chicago Talking
Machine Company in 1895, New York Cylinders (sold by Walcutt and Leeds) in
1896, Edison and Consolidated in 1897, Bettini in 1898, and probably others. Some
of these, such as Chicago and Consolidated, may have been reselling another
company’s products under their own name, but the list illustrated the wide appeal
of Johnson’s titles. Columbia catalogs of 1895–97 said that the “Laughing Song” and
“Whistling Coon” “have had a wider sale than any other specialties ever made.
Johnson’s laugh is simply irresistible.” Walcutt and Leeds in 1896 called them “two
great specialties that have been sold all over the world.” Berliner in 1898 added, “Of
all successful singers to the talking machine, no one has ever made two such popu-
lar records as his whistling solo and laughing song.”
Sales figures were seldom published in the 1890s, but the success of Johnson’s
cylinders and discs was so great that several references to their actual sales do exist.
In late 1895 the D. E. Boswell Company of Chicago, apparently reselling Johnson’s
New Jersey cylinders, reprinted the familiar 1892 picture and said, “Up to date we
have made over 30,000 of his two songs. The demand is undiminished.” Another
unidentified catalog from the same period (probably from New Jersey itself) cited
38,000 made.33 An even more aggressive claim was made on the cover of sheet music
for the “Laughing Song,” which was published in the late 1890s. It reads, “Over
50,000 records up to date for phonograph use all over the world.”
This is a high but not impossible total. The new industry trade paper the Phono-

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 scope reported in 1896 that up to that time Len Spencer had made more than 62,000
records (that was, of course, the cumulative total sold of the estimated 600 titles he
had recorded).34 If we are to take the wording on the sheet music literally, however,
the 50,000 figure refers just to “The Laughing Song” and just to cylinders, which
were in those days identified as for use on the “phonograph” as opposed to the disc
“gramophone.” That would be incredible.
What is clear is that as of mid-decade, Johnson’s two numbers remained the best-
selling records in the country. The Edison Phonographic News, a publication of the
Ohio Phonograph Company, commented on this directly in late 1894, saying, “‘The
Whistling Coon’ sung by George W. Johnson . . . and (his) ‘Laughing Song’ are the
most popular phonograph records ever taken, and seem always to be in demand.”
In answer to a reader’s question about best-selling cylinders, it added, “We believe
the ‘Laughing Song’ by Geo. W. Johnson has had the largest sale of any phonograph
record made, and next ‘The Whistling Coon’ by the same individual—and a colored
individual too. ‘The Night Alarm,’ by Holding’s Band, no doubt comes next in or-
der. Beyond this we can give no opinion on the respective sales of popular records.
Just now ‘Sweet Marie’ seems to be ahead.”35
Unable to steal these enormously popular titles, which had become so closely
identified with Johnson, others imitated, translated, and even pirated them. In 1897
Reed and Dawson, a New York company, announced, “The New Laughing Song, or
‘So Do I.’ This is the only successful rival of Johnson’s famous Laughing Song, and
is regarded by many as far superior. The laughing is very natural and infectious,
setting whole audiences in a roar.”36 Apparently “So Do I” sank without a trace. No
copy has ever been found.
No more successful, but even more bizarre, were foreign-language versions of
“The Whistling Coon.” In late 1896 New Jersey announced a cylinder by Sr.
Guiseppe Stoppa, an Italian tenor, singing the song in French. In May 1898 William
Mattison attempted it in Swedish, calling it “Karl August,” on Berliner disc no.
2981.37
The Berliner disc company was beset by pirates in the late 1890s who made coun-
terfeit copies of its products with the manufacturer identification removed. There
were no paper labels at this time; instead title, artist, and manufacturer were em-
bossed in the center area of the disc. On the counterfeit copies, the embossed manu-
facturer information was removed by buffing. Not surprisingly, Johnson’s best-sell-
ing titles have been found on these pirated discs. His cylinders were probably pirated
as well, an even easier process achieved by simply dubbing from one cylinder player
to another.
The publication of the sheet music for the “Laughing Song” must have been a
particularly proud day in Johnson’s life. On the cover was a new photograph of him,
laughing heartily and identified as the “Whistling Coon and Laughing Darkey.” The
copyright date is given as 1894 (although he had recorded the song before that), and
words and music were listed as by Johnson himself. The poor, black street musician
was now a published composer. A clue as to who might have helped him with the
complicated song may be found in the additional credit, “arranged by Frank Banta.”
Banta (1870–1903) was a young pianist who was extremely active during the

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 George W. Johnson’s proudest moment? Cover to the sheet music for “The Laughing
Song,” published in 1894. (Author’s collection)

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 phonograph’s first decade, accompanying artists on Edison and other labels. The pia-
nist accompanying Johnson on many of his early cylinders and discs may well be him.

Two New Songs

In 1897 Johnson was finally allowed to add two new songs to his permanent reper-
toire, recording “The Laughing Coon” and “The Whistling Girl” for Edison and
Columbia. Although these new songs did not approach the enormous popularity
of his first two specialties, they remained in print for many years. The author of
neither is known. Perhaps it was Johnson himself, as both were uniquely tailored
to reflect his image as “The Whistling Coon and Laughing Darkey.” Both were
jaunty numbers. “The Laughing Coon” was sung in “cut-four” rhythm, rather like
“Little Brown Jug.” Although sheet music has not been found, the lyrics are as fol-
lows, as closely as can be made out from the records.

The Laughing Coon

Away down south, where I was born,
We used to hoe and weed that corn . . .
Always low, walking slow, ha-ha-ha do you hear me now?

Chorus:
I’se gwine away to leave you, goodbye, goodbye,
I’se gwine away to leave you, goodbye Liza Jane . . .
I am the happy laughing coon, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,
I’m out in the valley and I look for the moon, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,
(laughs to music)

The ducks play cards, the chickens drink wine,

The monkeys doze on a large grapevine . . .
Walk down low, always slow, ha-ha-ha do you hear me now?
(repeat chorus)
We went to walk, you and me,
You got stung by a bumble bee . . .
(unintelligible), sting me too, I’ll not walk with you anymore . . .
(repeat chorus)

The nonsense lyrics of “The Laughing Coon” have deep roots in folk music and
minstrelsy. Essentially, the song seems to be a combination of preexisting songs and
phrases, a common practice at the time. The first two verses and first two lines of
the chorus are taken almost verbatim from “Good Bye, Liza Jane,” as printed in
Delaney’s Song Book in 1896, the year before the Johnson recording. Delaney was
widely distributed and may have been the source of Johnson’s “inspiration.” The
song “Good Bye, Liza Jane” is much older than this, however, having been a favor-
ite of minstrels since it was first published in 1871. The author is unknown; the origi-
nal sheet music simply credited the arrangement to Eddie Fox.38
“The Whistling Girl” was a more traditional coon song, replete with stereotypes
of high-dressing ladies, gambling (“4-11-44”), cakewalks, and razors. Though abhor-

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 rent today, such imagery was common and unquestioned in popular song at the
turn of the century. At least it gave Johnson another opportunity to exhibit his
whistling prowess.

The Whistling Girl

I know a little daisy, who lives in our street,
And when she hears the music, she cannot keep her feet . . .
I asked her if she’d marry me, she answered very soon,
I will marry you my dear, if you’ll whistle me this tune . . .
(whistles chorus)
This gal of mine is dressy, and always looks so fine,
And soon we will be married, she has promised to be mine . . .
She’s a reg’lar hot potater, a jolly, sporting coon,
And it’s four-eleven-forty-four, and then whistles me this tune . . .
(whistles chorus)

The coons are getting jealous, you oughta heard ’em talk,
When the other night we took first prize down at the grand cake walk . . .
They all drew out their razors to carve the whistling coon,
Say don’t you fear for I don’t care, just whistle up this tune . . .
(whistles chorus)39

The cut-throat competition between phonograph companies in the late 1890s

led to a surprising development in 1898, one that foreshadowed modern practices.
Columbia announced that it had signed fifteen leading recording artists to make
cylinders exclusively for its label during the coming year (although they could con-
tinue to make discs for Berliner).40 An advertisement dated May 1, 1898, showed
pictures and signatures of most of the artists, including George W. Johnson—as
usual, the only black face in the crowd. The photo shows him smiling happily, while
his signature looks rather stilted, as if he were a “lefty.” In contrast, Len Spencer’s
ornate signature is a flowing work of art.
Johnson had been singing his original two songs for eight years, but their popu-
larity showed no sign of waning. He was an established fixture in the burgeoning
talking machine world. The July 1898 Phonoscope found a new term to describe him.
“Geo. W. Johnson is sui generis. He sings ‘coon’ songs with a naturalness that is prob-
ably due to the fact that they were born in him. His specialties are laughing and
whistling songs. He has a remarkable laugh which would make the fortune of any
white minstrel performer who could successfully imitate it. Mr. Johnson has had
considerable experience on the stage, where his peculiar ability has enabled him to
make a decided hit. He is the only colored man who has achieved distinction in
making records for talking machines and his fame is so well established that there
will probably always be a demand for his coon songs.”41
The reference to “considerable experience on the stage” is curious, as nothing
has been found to corroborate this. Perhaps it is a polite way of referring to his “street
theater”; or perhaps occasional engagements whistling and singing on stage. A
newspaper in 1899 said that he was “known throughout the country as the ‘Whis-

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 This blurry photograph may be the only shot of Johnson at work in the recording stu-
dio. It is much enlarged from a tiny, thumbnail illustration in the July 1898 Phonoscope
accompanying an article on current record-makers, including Johnson. He was not
specifically identified as the subject of the photo, but the physique and general ap-
pearance match his. (Library of Congress)

tling Coon’ because of his appearance with theatrical companies,” but this simply
appears to be a garbled reference to his renown from the widespread coin-slot pho-
nographs.42
As the 1890s came to a close America was in a very expansionist mood, and sev-
eral of the phonograph companies were moving aggressively to establish overseas
offices. Most of these foreign branches did their own local recording, but some U.S.
best-sellers were exported, including George W. Johnson’s two enormous hits. One
wonders what proper Britons thought of his “Laughing Song” and “Whistling
Coon,” with their American racial stereotypes. Both were included in one of Ber-
liner’s first English catalogs, dated November 16, 1898.43
The French might be excused for being even more perplexed. The Bettini Com-
pany, which specialized in fine operatic recordings, included both titles (recorded
in New York) in their French catalog of June 1901, along with a picture of Johnson.
He looked distinctly out of place alongside the mustachioed operatic tenors and
glamorous divas. His two “specialites Americaines” were presented to the French as
“Le fou rire” and “La Chanson du sifflet,” and priced at three francs each (about
seventy-five cents).44 They did not find many buyers on the Champs-Elysées.

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 Johnson’s Personal Life in the 1890s
Although the widespread success of George W. Johnson’s recordings in the 1890s
substantially increased his income, it did not make him rich. As noted, performers
were generally paid a flat fee for each session, royalties being unheard of. Those
leather-lunged singers who landed the most recording sessions did the best, but no
one became truly wealthy from recording, except perhaps the owners of the record
companies.
Throughout the 1890s Johnson continued to live in cheap boardinghouses and
tenements, mostly on the poor west side of Manhattan. From 1892 to 1895 he is
found at 319 West 39th Street, in 1897 at 198 East Houston Street, and in 1899 at three
addresses on West 41st Street. He does not seem to have ever been legally married
or had any children, but he did have at least two “common law” wives, women with
whom he lived for extended periods. The first relationship was described by police
officer William Boyle during Johnson’s legal problems in 1899: “He was living with
a German woman in 1894–95, whom he quarreled with and beat frequently. This
woman was found dead in bed in the fall of 1894 or spring of 1895. Johnson was
arrested on suspicion of having caused her death, but the matter never got as far as
the Police Court.”45
In a separate statement Boyle said that he had known Johnson since 1893 and had
also known the “German woman” (who was not named).46 Because of the lack of a
name, a precise date, or any charge being entered in the case, I have not been able to
trace anything further about this woman. Also, we should not take too literally the
statement about Johnson beating her, as it is both hearsay and at considerable vari-
ance with descriptions of him by his neighbors during the 1899 investigation.
Johnson’s real problems began when he took up with a mulatto woman named
Roskin Stuart in 1896. He was nearly 50, she was about 35. She was a real hell-raiser,
and he, judging by later testimony, became almost a father figure to her. Their rela-
tionship was tumultuous.
Stuart was apparently a drifter. No one at Johnson’s trial knew much about her
background, and her death certificate gives no mother or father or place of birth
(other than “U.S.”). She seems to have lived in New York most of her life, and worked
as a maid or housekeeper. According to later statements, she drank heavily. One of
Johnson’s neighbors, James Morton, contrasted her with Johnson, who he said had
“a very good reputation.” He added, “I have known Mr. Johnson for six or seven
years and he always appeared to be a nice kind of a man, and I never knew him to
have any trouble. Johnson never treated that woman bad. I have been around there,
and Johnson never treated her bad and always treated as a father. I have seen him
at the door of No. 236 telling her she ought not to bring [home] so much gin in her
apron. She would cuss and say she bought it with her money and she would do as
she chose, and Johnson laughed and came on the stoop with me.”47
Another neighbor told the police, “I heard them quarreling many times. She usu-
ally started the quarrels, as a rule. She was full, and when she got any liquor in [her]
she would start.” A third added, “I have often told [Johnson] the woman was crazy.
When she got gin in her she would yell and holler and whoop and abuse him.”48

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 Stuart, it should be noted, gave at least one neighbor a different account of what
was happening. Neighbor Lena Small reported that Stuart “quite often told me that
Johnson used her badly. I saw her face black and blue. I didn’t ask her who had been
guilty of doing it, [and] she didn’t tell me how it happened. She simply told me
Johnson had been beating her, she told me that several times.”49 Interestingly Lena
Small made no reference to Stuart’s claims in later statements or on the witness
stand. Perhaps because Stuart was known to hang out with a rough crowd, and no
one believed that the friendly, easy-going Johnson would do such a thing, no one
gave much credence to Stuart’s complaints.
Johnson’s domestic troubles soon escalated. At some time after the couple
moved to 236 West 41st Street, Stuart fell or was pushed from the window of their
second-floor apartment during a quarrel, into the yard on 40th Street. Some of the
neighbors thought he had pushed her, and Johnson was arrested. However despite
the fact that Stuart was in the hospital for twelve or fourteen days, “she refused to
make any complaint, saying she would get ‘hunk’ with him when she got out.”
There were no witnesses, and the charges were dropped. A humorous item appeared
in the February 1898 Phonoscope about an unnamed phonograph whistler “being
arraigned for pushing a woman out of a second-story window recently”; this may
refer to Johnson.50
By the summer of 1899 Johnson and Stuart were living at 234 West 41st, in the
rear, and still quarreling. Then, apparently, she decided how to get “hunk.” Herbert
Small testified that one day, “She was drunk; I don’t know whether he was drunk
or not. I heard him say that she had his gun out of pawn. On this occasion Mrs.
Johnson shot at Johnson with the pistol, and then he took the pistol from her and
ran out on the street. . . . She was dispossessed out of No. 234 for disorderly conduct
and general nuisance.”51
Johnson, apparently struck in the ankle, was not seriously hurt. He moved to a
basement apartment at 262 West 41st, where Stuart joined him a few weeks later.
In the early morning of October 12, 1899, they had another of their loud arguments.
Later that day Stuart was found beaten and unconscious in the apartment. She was
taken to Bellevue Hospital where she died a few hours later. Johnson was arrested
for murder.
Word traveled fast around the Tenderloin. The next day several New York pa-
pers carried stories about the incident, with the following headlines:

Woman’s Mysterious Death—New York Journal

Woman Dead, Husband Held—New York Herald

Whistler Charged with Woman’s Death . . . Found Insensible After Quarrel—

New York Evening Telegram

A Negro Whistler Held on Suspicion of Killing His Common Law Wife—

New York Tribune

George W. Johnson, the “Whistling Coon,” In Trouble—New York Times

Most of the stories garbled the details, misspelling Stuart’s name and giving vari-
ous causes of death including poisoning and strangulation. There were apparently

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 no witnesses. However, the reason Johnson was arrested was clear. Neighbors said
they had heard him threaten to kill her during the heat of their late-night argument,
and as Victor Emerson recalled years later, “two wives prior to this last one had met
with violent deaths, and in New York when the third wife meets with a violent death
the police sometimes become suspicious and so the poor man was arrested.”52
(Emerson was incorrect in referring to two previous wives; there was one, the “Ger-
man woman.”) The irony of the line in one of his great hits—“and he whistled when
his wife was dead”—must not have been lost on Johnson or on those around him.
Johnson was arraigned in West Side Court, where he pleaded not guilty. He was
held pending a coroner’s inquest into the cause of Stuart’s death. The inquest was
held five days later, on October 17, by Coroner Jacob E. Bausch in the Criminal Court
Building. Johnson, who was represented by an attorney named Edmund B. Brown,
again pleaded not guilty. Statements were taken from five black neighbors and two
white police officers—Herbert and Lena Small, John and Hattie Thomas, James
Morton, and officers Michael McManus and William Boyle. The ten-person coro-
ner’s jury concluded that death was due to “cerebral hemorrhage, caused . . . at 262
West 41st St. by bodily violence at the hands of George W. Johnson.” Johnson was
remanded to New York’s Tombs prison to await action by a Grand Jury.
Several other statements of interest are contained in the inquest file. Johnson
stated he was 53, born in Virginia, and by profession a musician. An attending
physician’s statement from Bellevue Hospital stated that Stuart was admitted un-
conscious, suffering from “pulmonary ordinaria” with “contusions of face, neck and
both arms and left shoulder.” Her age was given as thirty-eight.
On November 13, 1899, a grand jury handed down an indictment of Johnson for
murder in the first degree. The indictment painted a scenario in which Johnson “did
then and there willfully, feloniously and of his malice aforethought strike, beat and
kick with the hands and feet . . . upon the head, breast, belly, sides and other parts
of the body of the said Roskin Stuart, and did . . . cast and throw the said Roskin Stuart
down unto and upon the ground with great force and violence there, giving unto the
said Roskin Stuart with the said beating, striking and kicking of her . . . divers mor-
tal wounds . . . of which [she] did then and there die.” Two days later new statements
were taken from the seven persons who had testified at the coroner’s inquest.
By the time of the indictment, something remarkable had begun to happen.
Numerous people, black and white, had begun to rally to Johnson’s side. According
to a report in the New York Sun, “Victor H. Emerson, superintendent of records of the
Columbia Phonograph Company, collected about $1,000 from men all over the
country who knew and liked Johnson. This fund was used to hire counsel and make
any fight on appeal that might be necessary. Rollin C. Wooster, one of the company’s
attorneys, gave his personal attention to the preparation of the case. . . . Lawyer
Wooster said that probably twenty-one men of standing in this city, or who had
come here for the trial, were ready to testify to Johnson’s unfailing good nature.”53
Emerson himself later recalled that “Johnson was always sober, industrious and
gentlemanly, and nobody believed that Johnson would do it on account of the risk
involved. Some of the talent held a meeting to provide ways and means to help him
and after the object of the meeting was stated one of them said, ‘Well boys, we ought

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