SINGING TO TALKING MACHINES.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXVI, Issue 21, 29 May 1913, Page 3

SINGING TO TALKING MACHINES.

The latest penalty that fame exacts from theatrical and music hall “stars” is that of singing to talking machines. For gramophone agents descend in shoals on the “star” who comes out with a new song , success or talking scena that takes the public fancy. Most artistes will tell >ou —and hardened ones too—that singnig to a reproducing machine is u, them a far greater ordeal than performing to a crowded theatre. It is the strange conditions under which tiiese voice reproductions are carried out that so often unnerve the most experienced performers. The setting —a bare barn-like hall—in itself scarcely inspires confidence. One end is screened from the gaze of the occupants by a long curtain through which a monstrous horn of brass extends out into the room, being suspended from the ceiling. —Musicians with Weird Instruments.—

Giouped around are a motley assemblage ot musicians with instruments of weird design. Somehow these instruments seem familiar, yet no one ever saw their like in a theatre orchestra. They are specially constructed to produce soft sound waves that' do not drown the singer’s voice. The violins no longer possess the familiar curves and sturdy frames. They are peculiar hollow ftube-like affairs with strangely-arranged strings. The ’cellos are in a similar emaciated condition, their ample sidei having apparently dwindled into slight wooden supports. Every instrument, however, boasts a little aluminium horn directed towards the parent trumpet, in order to concentarate the sound waves at one common point. Perched on a high platform near the roof is the conductor, whose lofty position is chosen to take him out of the way of the allimportant sound waves. —Silence for the Singer.— The performer stands on a little wooden platform right at the mouth of the receiving trumpet. A few hurried directions and then strict silence is the rule. No human Voice or sound but that of the singer must now disturb the atmosphere, for the little machine behind the curtiyn relentlessly records every little sound wave. A red light is flashed and the attenuated little orchestra gets to work. And then the artiste has to igijjg to this strange little assembly with abandon and zest as though the , inspiration of the. brilliant light, of , beautiful clothes, and scenery and ; applauding audience were all there. It js a/great ordeal, for one has to sing with far ■ *. . ' J - A'i greater care in front of a talking machine than is requirei|,iwhetf audiences of flesh blood are to jie pleased. V , ' . i 1 . ill -■.n Ii i (>iii , . ! ■, —Even Shuffjing; Jfeet are.PteQorded — With fiendish cruelty the revolving wax recording disc gathers in every little fault. A slight clearing of the throat or little swallow, every deep breath or slight shuffle of the feet,, are sufficient to form sound waves that imprint theirs message on, the yielding wax: - Such things l an. audience would not note, but the obedient record-maker makes no distinction between the actual and the intended. When the artiste has -finished the record is played over and the i inevitable imperfections criticised. The weak spots are then rehearsed and the whole trying business, commenced over again. If the performer makes a mistake during the song, a bell rings and a fresh start is oiiade. Not until a record of pure and distinct tone is ob-, tained does the artiste’s ordeal end. Big artistes such as Caruso, Melba, and Tetrazzini make many thousands of pounds by records of their voices, while even the' smaller fry in the theatrical and concert worlds cosiderably augment their incomes by royalties on records ,pf their performances. Several of the most famous reproductions of Caruso’s and Melba s voices have been placed .in, a sealed tomb beneath the Opera House in Paris in order that future generations a hundred years hence, may, knew the singing talent that existed in the nineteenth century.