THE MESMERIZING GRIEF OF KAREN DALTON’S “KATIE CRUEL” & HOW THE APPARITIONS OF THE CHORUS RESEMBLED THE SINGER’S OWN DOWNFALL.

Up the alley of “a folk singer unlike anyone else you’ve ever heard before” we arrive (inevitably) at the complicated, complex figure of Karen Dalton. Virtually all her singing can pierce you, yet her most distinctive work, the traditional folk song “Katie Cruel,” will carve deep into your being. If you’re brave enough to give a damn, the tune will absolutely shatter your invulnerability. No small part of that reaction will owe to the song’s elusive, riddling chorus. Ascertaining its meaning may resemble the impossible feat of trying to catch echoes with your hands, yet may be crucial to comprehending the entireties of Dalton’s tragic demise.


an all-too-brief bio

After leaving Oklahoma in the early 1960s, the part-Cherokee, part-Irish Dalton became a fixture in the Greenwich Village folk scene. Bob Dylan famously referred to her as his favorite singer. Perhaps the most nourishing thing about Karen Dalton’s career is that she cut a reluctant pose when it came to “success” — unwilling or unable to clamber aboard the “ladder of fame.” Handfuls of tragedies (such as heartbreaking stories involving her two estranged children) contrast with the irresistible virtuosity of her music, though ultimately, she drifted into obscurity. Dalton passed away in 1993 near Woodstock, New York. A heroin addict, she had likely acquired AIDS through sharing needles. Some of her recordings and live performances from the 1960s and 1970s have been reissued, underscoring their persistent vitality. Over the last several years, at least three documentaries (film and audio) have accompanied a resurgence of interest in her music.


more on “katie cruel”

The traditional American folk song “Katie Cruel” (sometimes titled “Katy Cruel”) may date back to the eighteenth century. A 1939 work, Folk Songs of Old New England, as presented by folklorist Eloise Hubbard Linscott, situates the tune among the region’s historical “ballads, folk songs, and ditties.” Linscott further describes “Katie Cruel” as a marching song favored during the Revolutionary War. She offers notated music alongside an array of lyrics.

Dalton recorded the song at least five or six times, often accompanying herself on banjo. In some of these versions, she whistles. The most famous rendition of “Katie Cruel,” however, pairs Dalton’s vocals and banjo with the violin of Bobby Notkoff. This recording, captured on the 1971 album In My Own Time, ought to puncture the thickest, most world-weary veneers. Where Dalton may have whistled on solo renditions, Notkoff instead enters on violin, just bursting with reverence for the song’s elegiac carpentry. It could be argued that both he and Dalton understood the song equitably.

A few critics have approached Dalton’s performances of the song. One writer, Rick Moody, correctly characterized “Katie Cruel” as Dalton’s “signature tune,” yet misapprehended Notkoff’s role in the song. He deems the effort “an intrusive fiddle.” Another writer, Barney Hoskyns, offers a welcome improvement. In designating Dalton’s recording of “Katie Cruel” as being both “darkly chilling” and “terrifying[ly] beautiful,” Hoskyns acknowledges the accompaniment of Notkoff’s “spooky electric violin.” And by “electric” he may suggest “plugged in,” or reminiscent of high voltage, or both.

dalton’s lyrics

Here are Dalton’s lyrics for your consideration as you absorb the song. We suggest you especially meditate on the two iterations of the chorus.

     When I first came to town
     They called me the roving jewel
     Now they’ve changed their tune
     (And) call me Katie Cruel

     Through the woods I am going
     Through the boggy mire
     (And) straightway down the road
     Till I come to my heart’s desire

     [Chorus]
     If I was where I would be
     Then I’d be where I am not
     Here I am where I must be
     Where I would be, I cannot

     When I first came to town
     They bought me drinks aplenty
     Now they’ve changed their tune
     (And) hand me the bottles empty

     [Chorus]
     If I was where I would be
     Then I’d be where I am not
     Here I am where I must be
     Where I would be, I cannot

At first appearing in town as an attractive drifter, namely, “the roving jewel,” the speaker subsequently traverses the woods and bogs as an outsider. No longer receiving free “drinks aplenty” at the tavern, the speaker has been callously nicknamed “Katie Cruel.” In an equally damaging turnabout, she is the recipient of empty bottles, a gutting twist of mockery. “Katie Cruel” traffics in both estrangement and the tides of isolation. The potent mystery of the song revolves around whatever led to the “changed tune” of the townspeople. What had the speaker done, to deserve the withdrawal of their kindliness? She’s not being stoned to death, as in Shirley Jackson’s famous short story, “The Lottery,” but she is being shunned to death. 

and the chorus?

The oppositional values of the lyrics may correlate with Dalton’s own clashing presences. She was Dylan’s favorite singer, on the one hand, yet didn’t succeed as a popular musician. As “the roving jewel,” Dalton arrived in Greenwich Village and became a fixture during the American folk revival, but years later, by then largely forgotten by her community, she grappled with the vagaries of addiction and terminal illness. Her physical appearance, though marred by missing teeth, was undeniably beautiful. Dalton therefore resembles the character she sings about, in “Katie Cruel.” That she listed too deeply into the fictional world of the song and began to resemble (or embrace) its outcome, cannot be conclusively thrown aside. The lyrics are mournful without specifically mentioning death, yet the tune obviously conjures the acids of loss through the devastating grief of the music.

Dalton, of course, did not invent “Katie Cruel.” She adapted the lyrics from the tune’s traditional form. It may be helpful to compare the 1939 anthologized chorus (from New England) with the chorus that Dalton frequently recorded, as there are minor differences:

      Oh, that I was where I would be
     Then should I be where I am not
     Here I am where I must be
     Where I would be, I cannot
     —Linscott, 1939

     If I was where I would be
     Then I’d be where I am not
     Here I am where I must be
     Where I would be, I cannot
     —Dalton, 1971 (among other times)

The most important word in both renditions — given its repetition — might be the indistinct locator, “where.” The speaker, accordingly, searches for footing. “If I was where I would be” relies heavily upon the conditional word, “would.” It imagines an impossible alternative journey, or era, and in doing so, confers a gloomy sense of irony on the ensuing line: “Then I’d be where I am not.” Dalton alleges a certain inescapability when she sings “Here I am where I must be,” that is, in the world of being dubbed Katie Cruel and trudging the desolate landscape as an outcast. “Where I would be, I cannot” trails off, cementing the singer’s demise. Since Dalton “cannot” situate herself in the place “where [she] would be,” the listener, of a sudden, apprehends the doom, the blow the singer cannot overcome.


coda

“Katie Cruel” drifted towards Karen Dalton perhaps from the distant days of the Revolutionary War. She embraced the tune and made it the “jewel” of her repertoire. She may have even resembled the “roving jewel” she sang about, enduring multiple tragedies akin to those revealed in the lyrics. The chorus itself doesn’t merely reinforce these tragedies, but deals in multiple presences. It may conjure the way Dalton’s song hovers about us now, preparing each of us for that solitary “going,” the way we would be and the way we must be, as the late-day sunshine glances off our fingertips and the love, like a fierce echo, escapes our grasp.

sources of information:

BBC audio documentary Sweet Mother KD (2016).
The Guardian article on the 2021 Karen Dalton documentary film.
Barney Hoskyns. Small Town Talk. Da Capo Press, 2016.
Eloise Hubbard Linscott. Folk Songs of Old New England. The MacMillan Co., 1939.
“Rick Moody on Karen Dalton.” icon. Amy Scholder, editor. Feminist Press, 2014.
Washington Post article on Dalton’s mysterious life (and 2021 documentary).
Wikipedia page for Karen Dalton.

Discographic information for “Katie Cruel.” Karen Dalton, In My Own Time, fourth track. Traditional lyrics, arranged by Karen Dalton. Recorded in New York, 1970-1971. Released 1971 on Paramount Records. Dalton: banjo, vocals; Bobby Notkoff: violin. Dalton recorded other versions of the song at other times and performed it often during live appearances.

Karen Dalton was also featured in our “Unassailable Vocalists” post from 2017.

LET ME IN: THE ROOTS, RECORDING FRENZY, AND LEGACY OF “OPEN THE DOOR, RICHARD!”

 

prelude

How did a self-deprecating African American comedy skit about a drunk, who can’t convince his offstage roommate, Richard, to unlatch the door, rocket all the way to the top of the charts in 1947? Well, I’m not really qualified to answer that question, but when has that ever stopped me? The performative roots of “Open the Door, Richard!” may date back to the nineteenth century, well before a fellow nicknamed McVoutie first converted the routine into a novelty song, and before the phrase became a Civil Rights slogan. The song influenced Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg, not to mention Yosemite Sam, in the haunting ether prior to Bugs Bunny sending him off the high dive with the crucial task of carrying an anvil all the way down. 
 

the skit before the hit

It would be unthinkable today for performers of any race to apply burnt cork makeup and appear, insincerely or otherwise, in “blackface” routines. Yet during another era, it wouldn’t have been uncommon to do so, for African American comedians like Dewey “Pigmeat” Markham, John “Spider Bruce” Mason, and Clinton “Dusty” Fletcher, all three of whom entertained audiences with “Open the Door, Richard!” in a number of venues, including the waning minstrel circuit of the early twentieth century. Their versions of the skit may have derived from Bob Russell, a legendary writer whose career dated to the Civil War era.

Fletcher’s version may have been the most iconic; it was filmed in 1945. Wearing shoes twice the natural length of his feet, Fletcher plays a clown or buffoon character, evicted from a bar for the umpteenth time. Despite pleading and knocking, he cannot rouse his roommate Richard to let him inside. He’s a proud, spectacular mess for yet another offstage character, the meddlesome woman across the street. He climbs a ladder, adding that he’s “high as a Georgia pine,” but ultimately, he and the ladder clatter to the stage floor. The audience chuckles. Over and over, Fletcher appeals to his roommate: “Open the Door, Richard!”

While white audiences may have fathomed some of the humor, the gags may have been particularly relevant to the African American experience, through their references to squalor and shortages. The drunk is wearing the only suit shared by the two men, thus Richard must be at home. The duo owe so much back rent that the landlady has asked for it over and over again, but the drunk insists—never mind the back rent—she ain’t gonna get any front rent. Fletcher draws from the “dozens,” playground games, and other oral tradition.

What was Richard doing, in there? Perhaps Richard had been in a deep slumber, or perhaps he’d been entertaining a lady friend, but either way, great power rests in his classical status as an unseen character. In never speaking, in never appearing to unbolt the door, Richard’s absence forces the monologue to keep unfolding, so long as the jokes continue to elicit laughter. 

enter jack mcvea

We like Jack McVea because he played baritone sax on Lionel Hampton’s visionary jump tune “Flying Home” in 1942, but also because Slim Gaillard dubbed him “McVoutie” during a recording session with Charlie Parker. We enjoy saying McVoutie. (For this reason, we like Slim Gaillard, too.) McVea knew the “Richard” skit quite well as he often shared the stage with Dusty Fletcher, during tours. He affixed music to Fletcher’s routine and began performing the song “Open the Door, Richard!” as leader of his own band in the mid-1940s. During a 1946 recording session for Black & White Records, the producer suggested that the group record the song.

 

In this version, McVoutie and his bandmates had been out “having a ball” but Richard went home early, carrying with him the only key to their place. Thus, McVea preserves the comedy skit’s tradition of highlighting shortages; namely, there is only one key to go around, and apparently, several bandmates are living together in tight quarters. The bandmates can hear Richard breathing in there, so why can’t he come to the door? They knock again and again: “Open the Door, Richard / Open the door and let me in.”

 

Officially, Jack McVea & His All Stars recorded “Open the Door, Richard!” in Los Angeles. The September, 1946 session likely included Tommy “The Crow” Kahn (piano), Gene Phillips (guitar), Frank Clarke (bass), and Rabon Tarrant (drums). The lead vocal is handled by Jack McVea, with assistance from Rabon Tarrant and Joe “Red” Kelly. Writing credit goes to McVea and bassist Clarke. It was bundled with “Lonesome Blues” on the B-side, a competent lament with fine ensemble playing and strong hollering by drummer Tarrant.

                                                  

Billboard reviewed the release in October 1946, writing that, “[The] tale of the locked-out drunk is altered for waxing purposes, deleting all reference to liquor.” The reviewer insists that, unlike the comedic versions, McVea doesn’t portray a “pie-eyed” (drunk) character, but that he’s simply late in returning home. “[The] Rhythm section sustains the moderate but contagious beat.” And that might’ve been it. Yes, McVea and his bandmates wore sombreros onstage, but otherwise, there wasn’t too much action in 1946, to propel the song upward. Little could predict the “Richard” phenomenon that would ensue.

The song was recorded by royalty. 

1947

Just scant weeks into the new year, in early February, McVea’s version rose to No. 2 on the R&B chart, and No. 3 on the pop chart. Noting the sensation, other musicians rushed into the studio to record versions of the song. In the weeks to follow, six different versions rose into the R&B top 10, almost simultaneously. These would include discs by the great Louis Jordan as well as Dusty Fletcher (one of the original skit comics). Versions by the great Count Basie and The Three Flames would both reach No. 1 on the pop chart.

As big money entered the equation, a lawsuit arose over royalties. After the lawsuit, recordings generally had to credit Dusty Fletcher, John Mason, and Jack McVea, not to mention a fictitious character, Dan Howell, with “Howell” likely being a lavishly-rewarded stand-in for Decca owner Dave Kapp. Perhaps it was better to be fictitious, in the end. McVea claimed to have received less than $4,000 in royalties, over the course of his career.

Doo-wop, hillbilly, calypso, French, Spanish, Swedish, Hungarian, and Yiddish versions emerged. Jimmy Durante, Bing Crosby, Jack Benny, and Burl Ives either took an interest in “Open the Door, Richard!” or recorded the song themselves. In his 1947 recording, Louis Jordan famously quipped: “I know I ain’t common, cause I’ve got class I ain’t never used yet!” All attempts at answer songs flopped. Understandably saturated, Radio stations began to ban the originals!

The song was recorded by a Nobel laureate.

legacy

In time, “Open the Door, Richard!” became an African American catchphrase, referenced during the Civil Rights Movement. It became emblematic of doors—to equal opportunity and increased representation—that were closed to Blacks. Segregation would not end, as well, until the door opened.

Bob Dylan recorded “Open the Door, Homer” in 1975 as homage to the song; his deviation in title might’ve recalled Dusty Fletcher, who apparently experimented with different names, including Homer, until he settled on the crowd-pleasing Richard. Despite the intrusion of Homer in his title, Dylan sings about Richard, throughout the song.

A few years earlier, poet Allen Ginsberg referred to the song in his poem, “Elegy for Neal Cassady.” In a 1987 interview about his musical roots, he revealed that he “…was following the development of rhythm & blues, stuff like “Open The Door, Richard” – [Allen begins singing] – ‘Open the door, Richard / Open the door and let me in’ – You know that one? – To me, it was some sort of apocalyptic opening of the gates of heaven!”

...And the song influenced rabbits. 

high-diving hare

 

Imagine that you are the gun-blazing outlaw, Yosemite Sam. You’ve paid good money to see the show, and dadgummit—pistols popping off overhead—you’re going to see the show! Yet when a slippery emcee, Bugs Bunny, attempts to cancel the show, a series of aggressions must ensue. This is an old west show about—high diving? Yes, high diving. So you charge up the long, long ladder—pistols popping off overhead—only to be sidestepped by the foxy bunny over and over. Down you fall, into the little barrel of water, over and over.  

 

Once again, you charge up the ladder and discover that Bugs has installed a locked door between you and him. “Open up that door!” you shout. Behind it stands Bugs Bunny, on the end of the diving platform. But before you charge into the door, you turn aside, to the audience, and kindly reassure them: “You notice I didn’t say Richard?” Well, you get up a head of steam and charge the door, only for Bugs to hold it open. There you are, scratching for a handhold, in mid-air, when Bugs hands you an anvil. Down you go, while that rabbit munches a juicy carrot.

Don’t even get me started on Henery Hawk.



sources of information

500 Songs podcast, Episode 10 on “Double Crossin’ Blues” (Johnny Otis)
500 Songs podcast, Episode 46 on “Brown-Eyed Handsome Man” (Chuck Berry)
The Billboard, issue for October 12, 1946
Black Grooves review of Open the Door, Richard! – The Story of a Showbiz Phenomenon
Cinema 4 Cel Block article on “High Diving Hare”
Jim Dawson, “Richard Opened Doors,” article in L.A. Times
Discogs entry for “Open the Door, Richard!” by Jack McVea
Dreamtime Podcast article on “Open the Door, Richard!” 
Bob Dylan Haiku article on “Open the Door, Richard” (or “Homer”) 
Dusty Fletcher film “Open the Door, Richard” comedy routine 1945
Allen Ginsberg poem “Elegy for Neal Cassady” in The Paris Review, 1972
Allen Ginsberg Project article on Ginberg’s musical influences, 1987
Marv Goldberg’s R&B Notebooks, article on “Open the Door, Richard!”
Jazz Archaeology discography for Jack McVea 
Stephen Koch, “Arkansongs – It’s Another Song of Arkansas: ‘Open the Door, Richard,’” article in Arkansas Daily Record
Looney Tunes cartoon “Crowing Pains,” featuring Henery Hawk & Foghorn Leghorn (1947)
Looney Tunes cartoon “High-Diving Hare,” featuring Bugs Bunny & Yosemite Sam (1949)
RJ Smith chapter “Richard Speaks: Chasing a Tune from the Chitlin Circuit to the Mormon Tabernacle,” which appeared in This Is Pop: In Search of the Elusive at Experience Music Project
Vaudeville old & new: an encyclopedia of variety performances in America, entry for Dusty Fletcher
Paul Watts liner notes for Open the Door, Richard! – The Story of a Showbiz Phenomenon
Joel Whitburn’s Top R&B Singles, 1942-1988
Wikipedia article for “Open the Door, Richard”

 
this post is part of a triple issue. also see:
got you on my mind
roughshod