Memories of a Collector, by Terry Hathaway, was originally published
in the Mekanisk Music Museum's Review #4 Catalogue, circa 1974, with a brief
introduction by Q. David Bowers. This revised edition includes information
and details not included in the MMM Review #4 Catalogue. Terry Hathaway,
while not directly part of the MMM, was nonetheless involved in a
background, consultive way circa 1973 to 1978. It was circa 1975 when -- due
to the success of Terry Hathaway's then new, several month old business
venture of selling and restoring automatic musical instruments (located in
Santa Monica, California) -- the new business venture of American
International Galleries, Inc., (AIG) was incorporated, combining the
interests and talents of Terry Hathaway, Q. David Bowers, Claes O. Friberg
and Bonnie Tekstra. American International Galleries, Inc., was soon moved
from Santa Monica, California, circa 1976, to a new and spacious 20,000
square foot building located in Irvine, California.
Memories of a Collector -- by
Terry Hathaway
We all began our interest in instruments in a different way. Dave Bowers,
for instance, saw a charming little Regina disc box at an antique show in
1960--and from that seed a deep interest grew. Claes Friberg's interest
began with the acquisition of a rather decrepit push-up piano player. Terry
Hathaway, co-owner of Hathaway and Bowers, Inc. from 1967 to 1972, and
presently enjoying his "retirement" (1974), while rebuilding Hupfeld
orchestrions and other things of personal interest, tells how his interest
in mechanical music machines started.
Playland
It was a hot summer day at the beach, and in the far distance way across
the bay I could see the top of the Ferris Wheel and many other intriguing
shapes that comprised the Fun Zone amusement area on the Newport Beach
peninsula in Southern California. I was about eight years old. My parents,
my two sisters, Margaret and Kathy, and I were happily spending the day
swimming and sunning ourselves at the waterfront home of friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Kenneth Ball. Their two-story beachfront house was located on Balboa
Island, situated across a narrow bay from the Newport Beach peninsula, or
mainland, as we often called it. Our family had visited the Ball's
beachfront home many times before, but for some reason I had never really
paid much attention to the silhouette of the Fun Zone across the bay.
Later that day I suggested a short trip on the ferryboat, which was
little more than a motorized barge capable of holding three automobiles and
maybe fifty passengers, and that departed every thirty minutes on a schedule
between Balboa Island and the mainland. My father, Kenneth Ball, along with
his oldest son, John, and I scooted on board the ferry. Soon, the whistle
blew and we were off to what I imagined to be a fairytale land of enchanting
amusements. Midway across the bay I remember watching the sister ferryboat
pass us by, simultaneously in route from the mainland to the island, as I
watched the frothy waves from its wake ripple and dance in the bright
sunlight. It was exciting to be whisking across the water, heading toward
what I anticipated would be a fun adventure, one soon to be filled with
whirling horses, scary rides, novelties, and cotton candy. Once the ferry
had safely docked, I was the first to get off, moving briskly toward the Fun
Zone and its numerous amusements, which were now only a short walk away. I
kept my eyes more or less glued to the curious shapes and contours that
described it. Not far ahead a brisk fusillade of clanging sounds issued
forth from a nearby shooting-gallery, and the merry-go-round could now be
seen through the sparse framework of other rides, with its gaily decorated
horses continuously swirling in perfect circles. In a nearby ride a dozen
noisy bumper cars banged against each other, while high above our heads the
happy cries from passengers in the Ferris wheel filtered down upon us. What
an intriguing world this was for me, as the afternoon seemed to fly by
quickly.
Long before I was ready to depart the sun had slipped much further down
toward the horizon and, regrettably, I was told that it was time to leave to
catch the next ferryboat. But, before leaving there were a couple of more
places I just had to explore! With the others trailing behind me I led the
way to a row of arcades along the waterfront. Time was so short that about
all I had time to do was just glance briefly into them, admiring all the
interesting looking, gleaming arcade machines and pin-ball games. The final
arcade to draw my attention was "Playland," which at first glance seemed
just like all the others. But then, wait! Suddenly I saw it! A huge, tall
object reaching the ceiling and finished in black with plentiful gold
colored ornaments and green glass panels caught my eye. I turned to face
this strange and beautiful thing--obviously some sort of a mechanical
device, I thought to myself silently--and I was filled with a sense of
wonderment. Its architecture was indescribably handsome to my eyes. It
glittered with ornate carvings and adornments befitting something regal.
Four slender columns, each fitted with polished brass collars, stood tall
amidst the brightly gilded carvings and striking pearlescent green
chipped-glass panels. Numerous clear glass panels had replaced original
wooden panels in the access doors, so that I and other admirers could easily
peer into the innards of this mechanical music delight, and be further
enticed into paying to see and hear this immense machine operate. It was a
magnificent sight to behold, and I was immediately impressed in such as way
as to never forget my initial experience of an orchestrion.
Visible through a small glass panel, centered in the front of this big
machine, I could see a glistening, beautifully intricate metal mechanism
holding six paper music rolls. A few of the music rolls were green colored,
while others were of either white or bright red paper. Through upper level
windows I could see a large xylophone, drums, a triangle, a tambourine and
many tall wooden (organ) pipes, and way in the back, situated behind the
roll changing mechanism and at the bottom of the machine, was a piano. My
youthful eyes searched the front of this grand machine to find out what it
was and what it did. In gold letters across the front and carved into the
wood was the name "Wurlitzer." Below this was a hand lettered cardboard sign
that read: "This ten-piece orchestra is the granddaddy of the juke box." To
the left of the carved Wurlitzer logo and slightly down was a thin slot with
a tiny sign reading 10-cents, which for me proved to be the key to entering
into the nearly forgotten realm of automatic self-playing orchestras. I had
no money with me at all, but as good luck would have it I was able to
arrange an immediate loan from my father! My heart raced as I placed the
first thin dime in the coin slot. In an instant I heard the whir of a motor.
I watched in complete fascination as some of the intricate mechanical
mechanisms began to pulse and breathe with life. Next, the intricate
automatic roll-changing mechanism revolved to the next station, placing a
new paper music roll in the playing position. Two metal fingers then plucked
up a metal rod fastened to the beginning of the music roll and threaded it
onto the take-up spool. I watched transfixed as the spool started to rotate
and the music roll glide over the wooden tracker bar.
A few seconds passed when I heard a thump, as a large ventil type valve
dropped shut. It was at this point that I could sense the whole machine
becoming alert and alive, as energy surged through its tubular arteries. I
watched spellbound the music roll spool across the tracker-bar, wondering
what was going to happen next. Moments later a group of narrow control
perforations along one side of the music roll became visible. These were
followed immediately by many more holes for musical notes scattered all
across the paper. As the perforations passed over tiny holes in the tracker
bar the room was instantly--indeed my whole world, it seemed to me--filled
with music from the most skilled, most fantastic, most heavenly mechanical
orchestra in existence! At this moment I decided that I must someday have
one of these giant machines, an "orchestrion," a term that I learned about
many years later. It was around 1945 or 1946 when my first visit to the
Wurlitzer PianOrchestra occurred. As the years passed I visited my musical
"friend" many more times. Each time I would take a handful of dimes and
listen to as many tunes as time would permit, working my way though the
30-tunes loaded onto the machine's automatic roll changer. I memorized many
of the melodies and hummed them when I returned to my home. It was not until
1955, when I first got my hands on an original Wurlitzer catalogue, that I
learned that this giant machine was correctly described as a Wurlitzer Style
30-A Mandolin PianOrchestra.
Now, to Find and Purchase an Orchestrion!
During the next several years I sought out and enjoyed listening to other
automatic musical instruments, too. At the Newport Beach Fun Zone alone
there were two other orchestrions on location, a cabinet style Nelson-Wiggen
style 6 and a beautiful Seeburg Style H. In addition, Knott's Berry Farm, in
nearby Buena Park, California, had a bunch of electric coin-in-the-slot
pianos on display, ranging from small Seeburg style L cabinet pianos up to
and including a Mills Violano and a Coinola style X keyboard style
orchestrion. But, for me, no other mechanical music machine that I was able
to find on location locally came close to matching the grandeur and
magnificence of the wonderful Newport Beach Wurlitzer PianOrchestra!
My fascination for the PianOrchestra in particular turned into a deep
desire to own and enjoy such an instrument, but it was not until the summer
of 1955 that the first real possibility of actually possessing an
orchestrion was to occur. I was on the Balboa Island to Newport Beach
Peninsula ferry ride again, heading from the Island to the beckoning Fun
Zone on the mainland. Just like nine or ten years earlier, my father and
Kenneth Ball were accompanying me this time, too. After listening to the big
PianOrchestra once again we ferried back across the channel. With some
optimism I asked my father if I could have one! His answer was a cool
"maybe." Later on, that Sunday afternoon, while sitting on the beach in
front of the Ball's beachfront home, Kenny Ball mentioned that he had an
idea: "I know this woman," he said, "who might still have some nickelodeons
for sale." Then, after asking permission from my mother, who was sitting
alongside us on the beach, he offered to introduce me to a Mrs. Raney, who
lived in Whittier, which was only a twenty-minute leisurely drive from our
family home in Santa Fe Springs. Kenny apologized to my mother several times
for offering the introduction, in case, he said, he was getting my family
into something that they would later regret. Nonetheless, undaunted, I
insisted that Kenny arrange a meeting with this Mrs. Raney.
Mrs. A.C. Raney was the heir to a large collection of automatic musical
instruments. Kenny explained that her husband, Albert Clifford Raney, had
died in 1949, and that his wife, Ruby Raney, had already sold off most, if
not all, of the collection. At the time of Mr. Raney's death there were
between 70 and 80 large mechanical music machines in the collection, mostly
housed in a large wooden building a short distance away from the Raney's
modest house. It had become necessary to sell the collection because the
State of California was in the process of completing eminent domain
proceedings, so as to soon begin construction on a new Freeway, to be known
as the San Gabriel River Freeway (a.k.a. 605 Freeway). This roadway was to
go right through the center of the Raney's property, obliterating the entire
estate completely. In 1953 Wait Disney visited Mrs. Raney and the
collection, buying outright some thirty prized specimens for use in his new
theme park, Disneyland, which was still under construction in Anaheim,
California. The music machines would be used to enhance the circa 1900
turn-of-the-century main street theme of the new park (Disneyland first
opened to the public in 1955).
The prospect of meeting Mrs. Raney and seeing whatever remained of the
once fabulous collection was a thrilling prospect for me, and I wanted some
kind of immediate action to achieve this goal! Kenneth Ball said he would
telephone Mrs. Raney the next day (Monday) and see if he could arrange an
appointment, promising to telephone my mother as soon as he had made
contact. It was probably about mid August of 1955 when Kenny Ball made that
telephone call to Mrs. Raney, mentioning me as someone interested in buying
a "nickelodeon." I was on pins and needles -- waiting and staying close
enough to the telephone so that I would not miss hearing it ring. It was
Monday afternoon when Kenny Ball finally telephoned. I answered, and he gave
me Mrs. Raney's telephone number, saying that she was expecting my call.
I nervously dialed her telephone number, and after several "rings" she
answered. I introduced myself and stated my interest, probably sounding a
bit tongue-tied due to my nervous excitement. But, undaunted, she said that
she still had two "pianos" for sale: a Wurlitzer Bijou Orchestra and a
Wurlitzer LX. I ask if I could come see them, but she said that they were
not at her home, and were located "across town, at her repairman’s shop." My
heart sank. I did not have a car, being only sixteen years old, and begging
a ride from my mother to get to some mysterious place "across town" would be
easier said than done. But then, for some wonderful reason, Mrs. Raney
volunteered to personally drive to Santa Fe Springs, pick me up and take me
to see the two remaining "pianos," and that she would telephone me as soon
as she was able to do so. I stayed near the telephone for the rest of the
day, waiting, but she did not call. Then, Tuesday morning about 10 o'clock
Mrs. Raney telephoned me. She said that she would stop by at my Santa Fe
Springs home to pick me up, and would leave to do so in a few minutes.
My immediate happiness soon turned to momentary heartbreak, however, when
my mother explained to me that I could not go off alone with Mrs. Raney, who
was a total stranger to us at the time. But, she continued, if I could find
a companion to accompany us I could go. Who, I wondered? Francine, my
cousin, who lived across the street, seemed a good choice, so I quickly ran
to her house, found her at home and hurriedly convinced her to go along for
the ride. Now, back home, there was little else for me to do but wait. It
seemed like hours had passed before Mrs. Raney's tan colored 1940's
automobile finally turned into our long brick driveway. By the time she
reached the backside of the house I was standing alongside the driveway
waiting to greet her. My heart was pounding in anticipation. Inside the
older model automobile was an elderly, pleasantly cheerful appearing woman.
She stopped her car beside me, rolled down the window and asked, "Are you
Terry?" I answered "yes," and she introduced herself. Parking the car, she
then met my mother and Francine, and soon the three of us were off to see
the two remaining "pianos."
The "pianos," she explained, were in the city of Alhambra, and the one
she was most interested in selling was called a "Bijou Orchestra." I asked
if it had a xylophone--a very necessary feature for an orchestrion in my
mind--and she replied, "Yes, and it has violin pipes, a drum, and a piano,
too." My heart pounded as the car threaded its way through the streets of
East Los Angeles, enroute to the mysterious workshop.
Maybe fifteen minutes later she turned onto Alhambra Avenue, then soon
onto a short side street, and then quickly turned again onto a bumpy and
rutted dirt alley that skirted the back side of several old commercial
buildings. To the right side of the alley was a weed strewn railroad
right-of-way with two sets of tracks. After bumping over maybe 100 feet of
jarring dirt we arrived at a most unimpressive looking structure, but a
place that I would visit countless times over the next ten or more years.
The workshop was an old wood frame building with a corrugated metal roof and
sides, and it was partially hidden from the main street by a sprawling
welding shop of fairly recent all steel construction, and which itself
fronted directly on Alhambra Avenue. The new facility more or less wrapped
itself around the old structure, which now prevented access from Alhambra
Avenue.
It was immediately obvious that the old workshop building had been there
long time, and it was in fact the historic old Ross Davis merry-go-round
facility, where repairs on carousels and band organs had been carried out
for a long, long time. The original building had been added to over the
years, enlarging it considerably. A smallish patch of asphalt-topped parking
area adjacent to the workshop was stacked high with carousel parts, covered
by several tarps to keep them "safe" from the sun and rain. Mrs. Raney drove
up alongside the covered parts to an open door and parked her car. Before we
could exit the automobile an elderly and somewhat frail man appeared and
waved to Mrs. Raney. As soon as we were out of the car I was introduced to a
Mr. Vincent, Mrs. Raney's repairman. I soon discovered that Mr. [Herbert N.] Vincent, worked in conjunction with the Merry-Go-Round
shop, but also worked quite independently on his own, too, sometimes
traveling to distant places around the United States to work on band organs
and orchestrions.
With greetings done and out of the way we entered the darkened shop. Only
a few dusty incandescent lights hung from the high ceiling on long cords,
making the spacious interior seem rather mysterious. To the left of the
entry door and along the wall was a long work bench that extended back into
the building's darkness. To the right was an area containing a table saw,
drill press and other assorted woodworking equipment. Looking directly ahead
it was possible to discerned a number of cloth draped and covered forms,
presumably band organs awaiting restoration, which littered the more distant
areas of the shop. Mr. Vincent, and his son-in-law, Ray Thomas, usually
worked at a cluttered workbench near the open door, with sunlight providing
some of the light for the workbench area. Then, when Mr. Vincent opened
several large floor to ceiling loading doors along the East side of the
building, the workshop was flooded with daylight. The first instrument I
paid attention to was a small Wurlitzer band organ, which Mr. Vincent had
just finished rebuilding. This tiny Wurlitzer organ was about the size of
four apple crates put together, so it was amazing to me when a deafening
volume of sound issued forth from such a tiny machine.
 |
Terry Hathaway is shown demonstrating his Wurlitzer Bijou
Orchestra to other family members, circa 1955. The little
orchestrion was located in the family's two car garage. |
But my interest in this tiny band organ was quickly satisfied, and my
eyes wandered in search of the yet unidentified Bijou Orchestra. "Where is
it?," I asked, hoping that it had not somehow disappeared. Mrs. Raney
pointed to a dusty case standing near the center of the shop. It stood about
eight feet high, and its backside was facing me, giving no visual hint of
what delights the Bijou Orchestra might actually contain. Its smallish size
relative to a Wurlitzer PianOrchestra was slightly disappointing, however,
as I was hoping to at least have something approaching the size and
complexity of the wonderful Playland PianOrchestra. But, still, as I moved
around to observe the Bijou's front side, and looked through the dusty
art-glass in the upper front of the case, I could see that it did indeed
have a xylophone, which was clearly visible in outline form in the dimness,
along with a set of [violin] pipes and other interesting-looking mechanisms.
Thus, while disappointed in its size and extent, it did, nonetheless, have
some of the features I had wanted -- and it did bear the Wurlitzer name.
Unfortunately, the little Bijou Orchestra was quite inoperative, and
needed, more or less, a complete restoration, so there was no way for me to
get any idea of what it might sound like. Moreover, it was partially
disassembled, and to make matters even worse the price was very high -- a
staggering $250.00. To get the machine into playing condition, Mr. Vincent
said that he could recover the pressure bellows and rebuild the main valve
chest and pneumatic stack, all for an additional $125.00. Since I didn't
have the extra money I had many uncertain feelings and reservations about
getting into this kind of long range project. Still, I wanted the little
orchestrion. Maybe, I thought, my parents would help me pay for it, but
perhaps not, too. No matter, though, because I spent the next hour intently
examining this wonderful relic. I could have stayed there for several more
hours, but Mrs. Raney wanted to return home for an afternoon appointment she
needed to keep. So, after inspecting and agreeing to buy the Bijou Orchestra
for the grand sum of $250.00, we then drove back toward Whittier, for a
brief stopover at Mrs. Raney's home, so that she could find the 15 Pianino
music rolls that went with the Bijou Orchestra. And, she said, another 20 or
25 rolls could be acquired for an extra amount of money. Thus, once at her
home I could examine these extra music rolls--about 25 of them, as it turned
out, and make a decision about them.
Nearing Whittier we drove along old and winding Workman Mill Road. In an
area near the main gates to the huge Rose Hills Cemetery we turned westerly
onto a narrow, paved street with a decidedly rural appearance. It was Cliota
Avenue, located at the western skirt of the Whittier hills, and it was
probably considerably less than a mile in length. As we reached the end of
the pavement we turned off onto a graveled road that wound its way through a
dense grove of tall eucalyptus trees. All that remained of the home place
was a modest and old looking, perhaps three bedroom, whitewashed stucco
house. The large music room that had once housed the Raney’s huge collection
had already been demolished, with just a bare patch of ground amidst the
forest of trees as a reminder. I wondered how soon the remaining house,
which appeared to be in the near middle of the eucalyptus grove, providing a
rustic, secluded, and restful country setting, would also be gone. We pulled
up in front of the house, and got out of the car. I glanced around briefly
as we walked toward the house.
Mrs. Raney led us into the house for some freshly made lemonade and to
listen to a few tunes on one or more of the several music box and coin-piano
"remembrances" she was keeping. After that she would take me into the
basement to get at the music rolls. The first of the keepsakes she played
was a beautiful and mellow sounding Seeburg G orchestrion. I will never
forget the tune it rendered: the Beer Barrel Polka. Today I still think of
Mrs. Raney and that long-ago afternoon in 1955 whenever I hear this
charming, toe-tapping Melodie Violin. Other instruments demonstrated
included a sprightly Western Electric Piano with xylophone and a superb
upright disc music box of exceptional tone and brilliance.
The social pleasantries and wonderful entertainment aside, Mrs. Raney led
me outside and around into the back yard, whereupon she opened a large
inclined (not quite horizontal) cellar door. We then walked down a short
flight of cement steps into a darkened basement. In the dimness I could
discern lots of old cardboard boxes of indiscriminate size that were
scattered about the concrete floor, some piled high and tottering as if
ready to topple over. After some groping around for a moment at the foot of
the stairs Mrs. Raney found the dangling light cord and jerked it, turning
on the only electric light bulb in the basement. Once the room was
illuminated I was startled by the multitude of music rolls and music box
discs -- piles and piles of them, some stacked up halfway to the ceiling.
There may have been as many as ten stacks of Regina, Polyphon, Symphonium,
and other makes of music box disks, of varying size, some stacks several
feet high, all sorted by make and size. What remained of the music roll
collection was amazing. Against the walls were seemingly countless cardboard
boxes of orchestrion and coin piano rolls, representing many types of
machines. Even to my untrained eye, I was astonished at the quantity and
variety that confronted me, but I was too young and innocent then to realize
the real significance of the music stash that lay before my eyes.
In just a short time Mrs. Raney found several aged cardboard boxes filled
with Pianino rolls, although to get to them she had to rummage though
several stacks of other kinds of boxed music rolls, pushing aside piles of
stuff in the process. So, I now had my 15 Pianino rolls, in a variety of
colors: red paper rolls, white rolls, a few orange colored rolls and
numerous green paper rolls. Additionally, there were another 25 Pianino
music rolls that would hopefully also soon be mine to enjoy. But before I
had much of a chance to examine the rolls, Mrs. Raney and I picked up the
boxes and headed off to her automobile, so that she could drive me back to
my home in Santa Fe Springs and still have plenty of time to keep a
previously scheduled appointment later in the day. As we rounded a corner of
the house I asked where the music building had been, imagining that there
ought to still be observable some sign of existence. Mrs. Raney pointed in a
direction southwesterly from the house and said "it was over there in the
trees." But there was nothing for me to see, no splintered remnants or trace
remained, just a bare patch of ground, freshly leveled, and a gaping hole in
the thick grove of trees. We moved on toward the car, and Santa Fe Springs.
Once back at my home, my mother cordially invited Mrs. Raney into the
house and we all happily chatted about the little Wurlitzer Bijou Orchestra.
The financial arrangements were settled, and with a sparkle in my eyes I
thought of the day when the Bijou Orchestra would arrive in Santa Fe Springs
and would be mine to touch and enjoy as I pleased. The Bijou Orchestra was
officially mine now! However, my mother couldn't see spending any additional
money for the box of 25 additional dirty old music rolls, especially since
so many (15) came free with the orchestrion. But I pleaded, and before long,
as would be the case with most mothers, my mom relented and I had my first
orchestrion, along with a collection of some 40 music rolls to go with it!
[Sadly, Mrs. Raney died November 8, 1955, just a few months after I met her, and just three days before she was planning to move away from the old home place on Cliota
Avenue. Many years later I was told that someone found her lying on her side
in bed, peacefully asleep forever in the old, tree shrouded, home place that
she had loved, at the end of the street and situated alongside nearby San
Juan Creek. In 1957 I purchased the remaining Wurlitzer LX, with Mr.
Vincent’s help. He put me in touch with A. Clifford (Cliff) Raney, Jr., the
son, who lived in Northern California on a foothill ranch near Madera,
California. Clifford Raney, Jr, handled the sale of the last Raney
instrument offered for sale. Cliff Raney, Jr. passed away in July of 1992.]
Hauling Home the Prize
I was riding along the Santa Ana Freeway (I-5) headed toward Los Angeles.
The passenger-side window was rolled down, so that a cooling breeze would
blow into my face. It was a hot summer day. As I watched the scenery whiz by
I would frequently glance ahead looking for the sign marking the Eastern
Avenue exit, an off-ramp that was maybe a mile ahead. Driving the tan
colored Ford pick-up truck was Arthur Martinez, a man who worked for the
Hathaway Oil Company [no longer in business] and who made deliveries and
pick-ups of parts and equipment from suppliers located around the Los
Angeles area. Luckily for me, for a few short hours Arthur was being allowed
to help me bring home, on Hathaway Company time, my newly acquired Wurlitzer
Bijou Orchestra. It had been several very, very long days since I had
purchased it, and I was eager with anticipation to see it again, and to haul
it home. How would the Bijou Orchestra look to me when I saw it again? I
could remember its every part, or so I thought. The thirty-minute ride to
the old merry-go-round shop building seemed to be long and it was very hot
day. Once on Alhambra Avenue we missed the turnoff street. Thus, we drove up
and down the main street several times before I finally spotted the shop
building and the turnoff street that accessed the dirt alley leading to our
destination. When we arrived, Mr. Vincent came to the door and waved. I
bounded into the shop and excitedly pointed at the Bijou Orchestra, while
all the time motioning to Arthur to hurry. Yes, happily the little
orchestrion was still there unchanged and safe from harm.
To get an idea of how heavy it was I put my body up against it and nudged
it. The little Bijou Orchestra barely moved at all, even though all the
original castors underneath the machine were all intact and looked to be in
good working order. Now I sensed for the first time just how heavy this
little orchestrion actually was, and seriously wondered if we would be able
to get it loaded into the pick-up truck. Anything loose or easily removable,
such as the front casework panels, was taken off and set aside to reduce the
weight and make it easier to grab and manipulate the thing. Ray Thomas (Mr.
Vincent's assistant and son-in-law), Arthur and I struggled to push the
Bijou out the door and up next to the bed of the truck, while Mr. Vincent
stood to one side and smiled, watching our amateurish attempts at
manhandling the awkward machine. Tipping the Bijou onto its back and
wrestling its height lengthwise over the truck bed was our final solution,
since it was too wide to fit down into the narrower bed of the pick-up
truck. All this pushing, lifting, and grunting took the better part of a an
hour, before we were ready to pack up the smaller pieces, tie the machine
securely to the truck and wave good-bye to Ray and Herbert Vincent, both of
whom stood by the shop door showing obvious amazement that we were
successful in loading the machine onto a truck so ill suited for the task at
hand. Looking back, how we managed to get it aboard without wrecking it
remains a mystery to me.
The little orchestrion, secured with multiple old hemp ropes, seemed to
ride okay, although I was a bit scared what might happen if Arthur veered
abruptly one way or another. So, I admonished Arthur to drive carefully, and
relatively slowly, as we began our journey back to Santa Fe Springs and
home. As we drove along I would look back every few minutes or so, to make
certain that the Bijou Orchestra was still securely and safely tied down. I
had horrid visions of it falling off the truck, breaking apart and
distributing itself over the roadway. Luck was with us though, and we made
it back to Santa Fe Springs without incident. Moreover, the two of us
unloaded it fairly quickly, without dropping or damaging it, then pushing it
into and storing it in my family's spacious two-car garage. I had wanted to
put the Bijou Orchestra in my bedroom, where it would be convenient to play
and work with it, but my father said "no" to that idea, summarily banning it
to the far corner of the garage.
 |
The Wurlitzer Bijou Orchestra located
in a back bedroom of the Hathaway
home, circa 1966. |
 |
| Interior view of the Wurlitzer Bijou Orchestra. A rank of 21
violin pipes is just behind the snare drum, and a 21-note xylophone
is immediately below it. |
That evening when my father came home from working in the oil fields I
hastened him into the garage, so that he could see and maybe appreciate for
himself my wonderful Bijou Orchestra. He peered into the partially empty
case, looked over the boxes stuffed with dirty parts and shook his head. He
wondered out loud if I could ever get the complicated looking thing back
together again. I imagine he visualized the $250 investment gone down the
drain! But to everyone's amazement I prevailed, and did quickly learn to
understand and then begin to work with and reassemble what parts I had of
the instrument.
I spent weeks, where I would often go well into the night, cleaning and
working on the pile of loose parts. In the meantime, Mr. Vincent was doing
his part of the job: rebuilding the wind-pressure pump and the main chest.
For my first attempt at restoration I used the standard items any
inexperienced re-builder tends to use, you know, caulking compound, baling
wire and liberal amounts of resin glue. Once the main chest and
wind-pressure pump arrived, about one and a half days were spent crowding
all of the pieces back into the Bijou's furniture case. The big moment then
arrived--it was ready to play -- or so I thought. I put six music rolls on
the automatic roll changing device, plugged the orchestrion into an
electrical outlet, and dropped a nickel into the coin slot. Clink, clink,
clink, and the motor began to whirr. Gears churned, the feeder bellows
throbbed and a music roll was fed over the tracker bar and onto the take-up
spool. Shortly thereafter, perforations in the music roll representing the
recorded music information rolled across the tracker bar, and apart from the
noisy mechanical clatter, the little Bijou Orchestra remained musically
silent. There was a lot of churning activity, but there was nothing musical
about it whatsoever, only an occasional hint of motion could be noticed in
an a few piano hammers that feebly attempted to move.
I felt crushed, what a disappointment! My confidence was broken. All of
those weeks of work seemed wasted. What did I have? Gear noise and a
thumping pump, along with a few near squeaks here and there. As I look back
on the whole experience I am amazed that the Bijou Orchestra survived my
early attempts at restoration, or that it ever played a single note. But
from those frustrating early days of ignorance came a lot of learning out of
direct experience. Each failure was also a tool that I could use for my
eventual success, and learn I did. Now much older and wiser, I can say that
I gained much from those early years, developing skills and honing
methodologies that became valuable later on. The caulking compound, baling
wire and crude techniques soon evolved and gave way to true craftsmanship.
And in my process of learning about the mechanical mechanisms, I also grew
to appreciate and love the historical and musical aspects, too.
I consider myself very lucky indeed to have known the thrill of discovery
and the satisfaction of taking a forgotten relic, usually covered with dirt
and often with many missing parts, and return it to its former glory. I
never fail to wonder about the sorrows, the happiness and the pleasures that
these magnificent instruments have seen. In the years since that long-ago
day when the Bijou Orchestra made its debut in my life, I have had many
experiences with all kinds of coin-in-the-slot pianos and orchestrions, as
well as the collectors who have owned them. I have spent many years studying
methods of piano and orchestrion construction, such as the composition of
metal alloys used, the details of the woods (some of which are rare today)
that the original makers found best, the ways to regulate an instrument so
it sings as when new, and so on. In the process I've rebuilt some of the
most sophisticated and wonderful orchestrions ever to grace this earth--and
I've loved every minute of it.
I have been asked countless times why orchestrions have such a
fascination. Why would anyone want to collect them? If you had asked me this
in 1955, when I first acquired the Bijou Orchestra, I would have said
something like, "I enjoy the music." While this may be a good answer, it
doesn't reflect the deeper reasons. As I've mellowed over the years (I am
now a "ripe" 35 years old) [circa 1973, when this article was originally
written] I have learned that life is more than just being on this earth or
existing from day to day. Life is in the living and enjoying of every day
and every hour. It means looking deeper than a dusty surface and seeing
something--a vision perhaps--that not everyone else sees. Life is
recognizing hidden beauty, clearing away the dust and letting the joy of
life express. In the case of an orchestrion, it means bringing it to the
place where it can sing from its heart once again. That is why I collected
orchestrions. They were not just wood and metal mechanical contraptions.
They are wondrous hand-crafted automatic musical instruments, although
perhaps the glories may be well hidden behind many years of neglect. Still,
they have their own personalities, a marvelous past to learn from and the
capacity to bring happiness to all who hear them perform.
Terry Hathaway, 1973
Extensively Revised in June of 2002
Minor Corrections, January 1, 2024
