While I admit that the crisp clarity of hindsight often dims as years pass, my memories of October 2, 1939 remain very clear. On that momentous date more than half a century ago, the famed Palomar Ballroom in Los Angeles was destroyed by a blazing fire at 12:45 A.M. - and I was there!
I was among the two thousand fans that came to the beautiful dance palace that evening to enjoy the music of Charlie Barnet and his orchestra. The fire occurred next to the last night of their six week engagement. A large electric sign on the building's roof line announced the next attraction, "COMING - COUNT BASIE & ORCH- OCT. 4."
The headlines in the Los Angeles Times blared: PALOMAR BALLROOM RAZED BY FIRE. MORE THAN 2000 FLEE; ESTIMATED LOSS PLACED AT $500,000 BY OFFICIALS. In a follow-up story, the Times reported, PALOMAR FIRE LAID TO IGNITING OF RESINED RAG. ACCORDING TO ACTING FIRE CAPTAIN E.R. WHELAN OF THE ARSON SQUAD, "THE RESIN-COVERED RAG WAS DROPPED BY THE BASS VIOL PLAYER ON A 150 WATT FOOTLIGHT BULB."
A few days later, the front page story in Down Beat announced:
"The blaze came suddenly. Dancers were forced to flee. Musicians scrambled from the stand with their horns in their hands. Barnet and his boys returned to New York immediately."
A Hollywood nightlife publication, Out With the Stars, reported that:
"The fire started during the intermission when a cloth lying on the equipment of a radio engineer burst into flames and sent dancers scrambling for the exits."
The day after the fire, the Times reported:
"One of the musicians in the orchestra told police he saw a flash in a switch box on the stage a few moments before the drapes began to bum."
According to my research, only the last report was accurate. All of the details in the other stories were incorrect!
Nation-wide press reports of the disaster event also distorted the facts and subsequent references have sustained those errors. Now, for the first time, after fifty-six years, the true sequence of events that caused "the most sensational fire of the decade" will finally be revealed.
The beautiful Palomar Ballroom, on Vermont Avenue between 2nd and 3rd Street, was built in 1925. Originally named the El Patio Ballroom, it boasted being "the largest and most famous dance hall on the West Coast."
The building featured a large mezzanine, a balcony, and a seventy-five hundred square foot patio. The dance floor could accommodate four thousand couples. Admission was 40 cents for gentlemen and 25 cents for ladies. Opening night was attended by 20,000, including many of Hollywood's silent screen stars. The bright kleig lights illuminated the minaret structures on the roof and formed dramatic silhouettes against the sky.
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| Hero-Entertainer, Lionel Kaye, still holding his prop "auctioneer mallet", watches the Palomar burn. (Los Angeles Times photo from UCLA Research Library) |
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The dance hall was renamed Rainbow Gardens by real estate developer Raymond Lewis who purchased the property, added an indoor miniature golf course, and changed the name to the Palomar Ballroom. It soon became a prime venue for the big bands that were rapidly gaining popularity. On August 21, 1935, Benny Goodman began his first Palomar engagement that marked the start of the Swing Era. During the last two weeks in 1937, box office sales exceeded 50,000.
The ballroom hosted popular orchestras including those led by Clyde McCoy, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Ted Fio Rito, Dick Jurgens, Glen Gray, Isham Jones, Will Osborne, Jimmy Dorsey, Kay Kyser, and Buddy Rogers. Nightly radio broadcasts on local station KFLJ attracted large crowds to the "Dining, Dancing, and Entertainment Center of the West." An aircheck from a Charlie Barnet broadcast is included in the LP "Radio Rhythm" (IAJRC 14). The famed structure was the backdrop for several major Hollywood films that included "The Big Broadcast of 1937," made during Benny Goodman's return engagement, and, "Dancing Coed," which starred Lana Turner and Artie Shaw's band.
By 1939, the Palomar had been re-modeled. A modern cooling system was installed, cocktail lounges and soda fountains were added, and the dance floor was enlarged. The exotic Moorish decor was not changed. An advertisement announcing the gala re-opening predicted "A premier audience of more than 20,000 persons - the expected attendance to be on hand for the gayest of all openings!"
Admission charges were 75 cents for gentlemen and 40 cents for ladies. On Sunday nights, a special dinner-dance ticket cost $1.25. It included a reserved table in the posh palm-lined Palomar Terrace for the entire evening, a seven-course dinner, a floor show, and dancing until 2:00 AM. Valet parking was fifteen cents extra.
The management of the Palomar followed a strict color policy. To my knowledge, there had never been a black band booked as a regular attraction. I recall, while still in high school, that a prominent Los Angeles disc jockey promoted occasional matinee dances featuring local bands. On one occasion, he arranged for an afternoon appearance by Floyd Ray, who led a fine band featured at several Central Avenue clubs. This was the first time the ballroom relaxed its color barrier. Unfortunately, a group of teenage hoodlums created an ugly incident reported as a "race riot."
That was the last time a black band appeared at the Palomar. There has always been conjecture that the announced appearance of Count Basie provoked a racist reaction, which the local authorities labeled as "arson."
Charlie Barnet's booking occurred during the peak of the swing craze. It was shortly after he had recorded Billy May's arrangement of "Cherokee," which became a mega-hit and firmly established the Barnet name. Radio personality Al Jarvis, heralding the Palomar date, played Barnet's popular Bluebird recordings daily on his program, "Make Believe Ballroom."
The band, making their first appearance to the West Coast, attracted six thousand people when they opened on August 23, 1939. The attendance topped all previous figures except the record established by Artie Shaw a few months before.
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| Palomar patrons and evacuated tenants from adjacent apartment house apparently enjoying the spectacle. Note women in night clothes and one lady seated atop the ladder truck. (Los Angeles Times photo from UCLA Research Library) |
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| Charlie Barnet and his Orchestra photographed the night of the Palomar fire (bassist Phil Stephens at right) (Photo courtesy Gordon Salyer) |
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An opening night band review in the September issue of Tempo said:
"With its seven brass and six saxes (with Barnet), this band is loud and lusty, but it swings. The band can tone down when they try, but the Palomar is no place to tone down, and Barnet keeps the throttle wide open practically all night. Barnet, whose alto work is nearly as good as his tenor (and that's about as good as any) is the leading solo highlight with close competitors in Bill Miller (piano) and Bob Burnet (trumpet), a youngster from Chicago playing his first job with a name band."
On October 2, 1939, I was almost 17 years old and had recently graduated from high school. I considered myself an expert on big band music. My large collection of 78rpm recordings included several by Charlie Barnet. On previous visits to the Palomar, I heard Benny Goodman, Glen Gray, Clyde McCoy, and Gene Krupa.
During most of the evening, I stood against the bandstand enjoying the thrill of listening to the live sounds of the very familiar recordings Al Jarvis played every day. I was not aware at the time, but the band's cherubic trumpet player Billy May, who had recently joined Barnet, would soon become one of the era's greatest arrangers and band leaders.
The fire occurred during intermission before the last set. The master of ceremonies, comedian Lionel Kaye, was entertaining on the stage in front of the curtain that covered the empty bandstand. We were seated on the dance floor in front of him. During his "daffy auction" he "sold" souvenir matches, napkins, and candles from the Palomar Terrace tables.
During his comic routine, a quiver of smoke emerged from beneath the curtain on the left side of the stage behind Kaye. A fan called it to his attention and he quipped about the Palomar being "the hottest joint in town!" As the smoke increased, he realized that a problem existed. He remained calm and suggested that we slowly leave the building through the Third Street exit, "until this situation is corrected."
As we were moving towards the doors, Kaye stayed at the microphone casually instructing us not to rush. He continued his witticisms and calm assurance that we were not in danger. As we neared the exit, a few wisps of flames flickered beneath the curtain at his back. When I reached the door, Kaye was still on the stage. The curtain behind him was beginning to blaze, and a cloud of smoke was filling the ballroom. He continued to say, "Walk slowly! You can all return soon when this little fire is under control."
Lionel Kaye continued his banter until the last patron was safely outside. He was later observed seated on a fire truck's tender bleakly watching the flames consume the building.
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| Palomar Ballroom, 1936 (Photo courtesy Floyd Levin) |
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Contrary to the published reports, we were not "forced to flee." There was no rushing - no panic. No one was injured. The heroic Lionel Kaye prevented potential chaos as two thousand frightened patrons might have been trampled while dashing for the exits. Except for brief newspaper accounts, this is probably the first time Kaye has received proper credit for his courageous conduct.
We stood in the parking lot watching the quivering fire redden the early morning horizon and wondering why the fire engines had not arrived. As the sirens announced their approach, the flames were leaping high into the sky. Several adjacent apartment houses were threatened.
Shortly after the firemen arrived, the roof of the Palomar collapsed. A quivering shower of brilliant sparks splashed down on us. They ignited the roof of a convertible in the parking lot. In less than an hour, only embers remained within the Palomar's outer walls. Beneath the rooftop minarets, a darkened electric sign announcing the forth-coming opening of Count Basie was clearly visible in the amber haze.
During a recent interview with noted bassist Phil Stephens, who was with Charlie Barnet during the 1939 Palomar date, I learned many facts behind the disastrous fire. Stephens, now 88, has been retired from the music business for several years. This is his story:
"Barnet's band was a young band - a swinging band, and the guys loved to play - that's why I joined in 1938, after I left Benny Meroff. I started at $125.00 a week - a lot of money in those days! They called Charlie the "White Ellington." He played many of Duke's tunes - he was one of the Duke's best friends."
(Stephens told me that Barnet had pioneered the breakdown of racial segregation then prevalent in the music business. As eady as 1934, he included Benny Carter in his reed section. In 1938, "Dizzy" Gillespie and Charlie Shavers were in the band.)
"On that night, during our last intermission, many of us went out the side door and had a couple drinks at "Smitty's Bar" across the street. I ran into the arranger Phil Moore and I was talking to him. I looked out and saw people running from the Palomar - I said "What the hell's going on ?" So I ran back in (I was quite athletic then).
"I ran in. The bandstand was full of flames. I jumped up on the bandstand and grabbed my old Italian bass - it was burning, and I grabbed Johnny Owens' trumpet and Charlie's mouthpiece, and I ran out. There was a gas station right across the street on the corner and I used the hose to put out the fire. I carried the smoking instrument back to the Palomar parking lot - and played "Throw Another Log on the Fire." Everyone got a kick out of that. Soon, we watched the roof collapse! The Palomar was burning furiously - and finally the fire engines came. They had gone to 3rd and Fremont - instead of 3rd and Vermont!
"All the firemen did was run in and grab the booze from the bar - we watched them loading up the fire truck with all that liquor! Later the fire got worse and they tried using the ballroom's fire extinguishers. Not one of them would work! They didn't give a damn about the place! They let it burn!"
While there is no way of confirming these incredible assertions, Stephens assured me that they are accurate in every detail.
"As far as the fire is concerned, they tried to blame it on me. They said "the bass player threw a resin rag in the flood lights." I never owned a resin rag! Here is the truth about how that fire started: "We heard that a potential fire was averted during the engagement of a band that preceded us. Their vocalist was seated on the left side of the bandstand next to an electrical outlet. It began throwing sparks that scorched the coat draped on her chair. Fortunately, the sparks subsided.
"One night, about two weeks after we opened, the sparks started again, Charlie ran over and threw a pitcher of water on the source. We asked the management to repair the faulty outlet, but they didn't do a damn thing about it! And that's where the fire started the night the place burned down - in that same electrical outlet.
Sound engineer Cecil Charles, who was employed at Kelly Music, across the street from the Palomar, also knew about the ballroom's electrical problems. He recalls servicing their sound system and advising them that the circuit was dangerously overloaded. Apparently, as Stephens said, the problem was not corrected.
Stephens continues:
"If we had been on the bandstand instead of taking a break, we'd have been able to put it out again. They said I threw a rag in the footlights - but the fire started on the other side of the stage and I was across the street at the bar when it started. The newspapers said, "Hot bull fiddle player causes fire." That was a lotta crap! I was on the other side of the stand on a riser in the curve of the piano. Later, a police officer came to see me and wanted to know who paid me to start the fire!"
Despite press accounts indicating that the band's instruments were all destroyed, according to Phil Stephens, most of the horns were recovered.
"Charlie's sax was slightly damaged, but we were able to do a Bluebird recording session just a week later. Our library of 300 tunes was lost. But, 80 percent of them were "head" arrangements. We knew most of our numbers by memory - so the recordings were made without too much trouble."
(Ironically, "Are We Burnt Up?" was one of the numbers recorded that day. It was never issued.)
"After we recorded eight tunes, we got some arrangements from Count Basie and Benny Goodman and worked our way back to Boston."
Phil Stephens (they called him, "The Chief,") was with Barnet for about two years; he left to join Tommy Dorsey shortly after the band returned to NY. He returned to Los Angeles in 1941 and became a very successful studio musician. Stephens worked with Bing Crosby for 17 years and accompanied Fred Astaire on many RKO soundtracks. His Capitol recordings with Pete Daily have become sought-after collectors items. Stephens retired a dozen years ago. He said:
"I got too old and I ran out of leaders! Gordon Jenkins died. I was with David Rose for 40 years! I was on everything Gordon Jenkins ever recorded. He was a wonderful man."
At the time of his retirement, Stephens was still using the fire-scarred 19th Century Tyrolian-Lombardian bass that he bought for $400.00 in 1930 while with he was in Benny Meroff's band. He sold it to a dealer for $18,000.
"It had a wonderful sound. That instrument is probably still being played today."
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| Palomar Ballroom, 1936 (Photo courtesy Floyd Levin) |
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Billy May has clear memories of the incident. He also recalls the bandstand's electrical problem about a week before the big fire. He told me that he arranged "The Wrong Idea," ("Swing and Sweat With Charlie Barnet,") the hilarious spoof of "Mickey Mouse" bands, recorded by Barnet right after the fire. (it was backed by "The Right Idea," arranged by the band's saxophonist, Skippy Martin.)
When I spoke to Barnet's pianist Bill Miller, who has been Frank Sinatra's accompanist for many years, he substantiated many of Phil Stephens comments. He, too, along with many of the musicians, was at Smitty's bar when the conflagration occurred. Most of the band members had no knowledge of the drama that took place at the outbreak of the fire. Miller, May, and Stephens are probably the only survivors of that great Charlie Barnet Band. Barnet died in 1991. For several years, the elongated sign "Coming Count Basie - October 4" could be seen on the building's charred exterior wall. The October 15 issue of Down Beat reported that "The Palomar was uninsured, companies having refused to risk it because they lacked proper safety devices." Conflicting reports indicated that there had been an insurance settlement of $400,000. There were frequently publicized announcements that construction would soon be underway, but the remaining walls were eventually razed and a large supermarket was constructed on the site.
Despite the many years that have passed, I will never torget the glamorous Palomar Ballroom and that calamitous event on October 2, 1939.
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Acknowledgments:
In addition to those mentioned, this research could not have been completed without invaluable help from the following:
Lilace Hatayama and Octavio Olvera at The UCLA Research Library, Howard L. Anderson, Rocky Spicer, Martha Tilton, Gordon Salyer, Helen Forrest, Johnny Lucas, Noni Bernardi, Bill Wood, Dorothe Bigard, Steve Bartel, Chuck Cecil, Joseph Dimona, Los Angeles Times Archivist Dan Lewis, and the Gwendean Ferguson Collection.