Phil Moore at piano, circa 1946, with John O. Levy on bass. Photo by William P. Gottlieb. Courtesy Library of Congress (LC-GLB13-0639)
by Lee Price
Phil Moore, Part One: The Jackie Robinson of Hollywood Film Crews
Picture a film as an iceberg. We see the top 10%. If it’s a southern iceberg, there might be some penguins lazing on it; if it’s an Arctic iceberg, it might be colored by some seals. But underneath, that other 90% is pure white all the way down.
So if you’re watching Gone With the Wind, picture those people on the screen as the top of the glacier. There’s some diversity on view within the frame. It’s not just a big chunk of white. Without thinking closely about it, you might even make an assumption that the percentage of diversity at the top would be proportional to the percentage below the surface. But that’s not the way classic Hollywoodland worked. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it was white all the way down, just like an iceberg.
I don’t dismiss the classic Hollywood industry for a bigotry that was lodged in nearly every American institution of the time. Classic Hollywood was a strong factor in molding me into the person I am. For instance, classic Hollywood gave me Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, which I discovered at the age of 11 and permanently convinced me that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. And it’s this same conviction that has fueled a measure of awe and respect in me toward the Black talent who didn’t accept the overwhelming whiteness, the enforced stereotypes, the insults of segregation, and the systemic viciousness of Hollywoodland. The odds were so stacked against those who wanted to enter through the front door that the situation amounted to a classic Hollywood lost cause. Nevertheless, some repeatedly knocked on the door, others attempted infiltration, and a few directly challenged the system. Sooner or later, someone had to get in.
In 1941, Phil Moore (1917-87) became the first African-American to be hired full-time by the music department of a major Hollywood studio, an achievement even more impressive as that studio was the ever-snooty MGM. Moore never received much credit for his contributions to the movies. MGM, as well as the studios (Paramount, Universal, RKO) that received his talent on loan, worked him hard while declining to give him credit for his work. Nevertheless, his full-time starting salary of $1,200 in 1941 was in-line with starting salaries for Hollywood technicians at the time. For a 24-year-old, it wasn’t an insult. Plus, he got to work on some classy material and with some formidable talent.
Phil Moore’s career has a Zelig-like quality to it at times, except he’s not really in the background. He’s on the soundtrack. He’s over there on the piano behind Harpo Marx, Lena Horne, Judy Garland, Bing Crosby, Marilyn Monroe, Dorothy Dandridge, Frank Sinatra… and they’re listening to what he’s telling them, not vice versa.
Moore had a self-described “all-American boy” childhood in Portland, Oregon, adopted by light-skinned parents who were socially placed and fairly well-accepted in both the city’s white and Black circles. Moore received piano lessons from Edgar Eugene Coursen, one of the area’s top classical musicians, who held him to high and exacting standards. His father’s management of the city’s only hotel open to Blacks led to family friendships with celebrities like Duke Ellington and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson. Moore absorbed the sounds around him like a sponge, intuitively understanding and appreciating classical music, pop, jazz, blues, and gospel—which is a pretty ideal recipe for success in Hollywood score composing.
Thanks to some accelerated school placements, Moore whizzed through the public schools. When the 1929 stock market crash devastated his parents, he steadfastly continued his education, studying music at both the University of Washington and the prestigious Cornish School, while receiving a different kind of musical education by earning money playing piano accompaniment for blues, pop, and jazz singers on the Seattle bar circuit. They liked the kid because he knew how to make them shine.
Moore first visited Los Angeles in 1935—instantly feeling at home in the vibrant Black Hollywood nightclub scene—and returned there in 1937 determined to establish himself as a musical power in the town. He quickly found gigs at some nightclubs and used his earnings to form his own working big band orchestra, who can be seen playing “That’s What You Get in Harlem” in Gang Smashers (1938).
Gang Smashers was produced by Million Dollar Productions, a short-lived independent Black studio co-founded by Ralph Cooper, a star emcee of Harlem’s Apollo Club who came west to try his hand at Hollywood. There was a natural fit between Cooper, Moore, and the aspirations of Million Dollar Productions. At the age of 21, Phil Moore was placed in charge of arranging the music for Million Dollar Productions’ ambitious first musical, The Duke Is Tops, starring Ralph Cooper and a newcomer from New York City, Lena Horne.
Around this time, Moore also got his first shot at arranging music for a major Hollywood production. Someone approached him to arrange the jazz- and gospel-based musical extravaganza preceding the climax of A Day at the Races, starring the Marx Brothers. This would have been Moore’s first work for MGM, his future employer. Occasional studio freelance work followed, but Moore was determined to find full-time work within the studio system itself, that all-white underbelly of the Hollywood iceberg. Through sheer persistence, talent, and a polished charming demeanor, he landed a full-time arranger position at MGM’s music department.
The Black music union in Hollywood was shocked. The white music union let it pass. Nat Finston, MGM’s powerful head of music at the time, made the decision to hire Moore and allowed him sufficient freedom to gain a reputation for his skill both at MGM and the music departments of the other major studios. In terms of assignments, he steadily moved upward from pianist accompaniment to stars on tour, to arranging specialty songs, to full-fledged arranger, to music director’s assistant. Most MGM staff members who did this type of work received occasional mentions in the credits; Moore rarely got a credit. For four years, he enjoyed the perks and put up with the frustrations. When Finston made it quite clear to Moore that he was not in line for the next natural promotion—to music director on assigned films—Moore quit to pursue equally lucrative work elsewhere. While it didn’t turn out to be the end of his motion picture career, it was the end of his tenure within the Hollywood studio system and the close of a trailblazing chapter in his life.
Moving in for a few close-ups, here are three examples of Moore’s work during this period.
Phil Moore and A Day at the Races (1937)
First, let’s deal with the question of Phil Moore’s veracity. In the material in the Phil Moore archive at Indiana University (which includes his unpublished autobiography), Moore drops lots of very big names and a number of his biggest claims are based on movies for which he received no credit. For instance, there’s his claim to have been instrumental in teaching Marilyn Monroe how to sell a song. In order to determine if that’s true, we need something solid, like maybe something from Marilyn herself.
So I take breath of relief when I find the following quote from Marilyn Monroe in Ebony Magazine, November 1960: “I’ll always be grateful to Phil Moore for his patience… he gave me confidence in my own vocal ability and made me realize that people would be willing to listen to me as well as look at me.” It turns out that Moore worked as Monroe’s singing instructor in 1949 when she was 22, and then she called him back later for rehearsal support for both herself and Jane Russell in preparation for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953). An internet search recovers many pictures of Moore and a very young Monroe working together at places like The Mocambo, the famous West Hollywood nightclub, back when his name was bigger than hers.
Moore’s record for truthfulness is important to consider when looking at his largely unsupported claims of working in a key position on the Marx Brothers’ A Day at the Races (1937) at the age of 19. Aside from Moore’s own claim, the only surviving evidence in favor of his work on the film is a listing in the Library of Congress database of Phil Moore as Music Conductor/Director on the film and Moore’s hand-notated scores of what appears to be an early arrangement of the song “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm” used in the film. While the corroboration here isn’t as strong as it is with the Marilyn Monroe story, the trajectory of Moore’s career and musical abilities aligns neatly with his participation in A Day at the Races. This would be the first—but far from the last—instance of Moore being called in to provide some more “authentic” Black music for a scene. From the late 30s through 1944, Phil Moore was the go-to guy at the studios for jazz or African jungle background music.
The Marx Brothers scene in question is actually two songs strung together, first “Gabriel (Who Dat Man)” then “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm.” From a Marx Bros. perspective, Harpo is the instigator center of attention in both parts. Like the pied piper, Harpo leads a big group of Black children, dancing and singing, from house to house, with the adults inside responding, “Who Dat Man?” One of the houses is really rocking, with a jazz band (probably including some Duke Ellington Orchestra members) jamming on the song. Then there’s a brief transition moment for the movie’s love interest Allan Jones to briefly croon to Maureen O’Sullivan, followed by a return to the crowd (now all ages), with Ivie Anderson stepping forward to sing “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm.” I’m betting that Moore had responsibility for arranging, and maybe even providing vocal direction, on the two songs, but with the movie’s credited music team responsible for that insert of a verse from Allan Jones.
The New Yorker magazine memorably tackled this scene in a short piece by Amy Davidson Sorkin back in 2010. Tracing the pop history of the “Who dat?” phrase, Sorkin implies that the Marx Brothers scene is particularly cringe-worthy. It’s an opinion that’s hard to refute, especially as it concludes with Groucho, Chico and Harpo in full minstrel blackface, but The New Yorker followed up in a subsequent piece with some reasonable pushback. Specifically focused on the singer who steps forward to sing “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm,” one reader astutely pointed out that there’s considerable artistry on view side-by-side with the minstrelsy stereotyping:
Ivie Anderson singing “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm” in A Day at the Races (1937).
“That’s Ivie Anderson, for God’s sake—only one other film clip exists that I know of. Also, a young Dorothy Dandridge is there. Thank God the Marx Bros. knew what’s good and included this brilliant sequence in their movie.”
Ivie Anderson singing on camera IS a film treasure. She was lead vocalist for the Duke Ellington Orchestra from 1931 through 1942, and was, according to jazz critic Nat Hentoff, “the most sensitive and musical female vocalist Ellington ever had.” Another film treasure here is the ecstatic dance work of Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, the famous team from Harlem’s Savoy Ballroom, in their film debut, with founder Herbert “Whitey” White (trademark streak of white in his hair visible) off to the side.
And no one in the New Yorker pieces even suspected that there was Black talent operating in the film crew behind the camera, too. As in so many scenes that Phil Moore scored in Hollywood, the concept is racist, the visual presentation is racist, but there’s some authoritative balance provided by the sheer talent and integrity of Phil Moore and the performers. They take the opportunity that’s given and they run with it. Their side of the equation is astoundingly good.
Phil Moore and Birth of the Blues (1941)
Phil Moore claimed to have worked on more than 40 movies during his employee years at MGM, with a good chunk of his work coming from being loaned out to other major studios. In records in his archive at Indiana University, he cites work on Ziegfield Girl, The Birth of the Blues, This Gun For Hire, My Favorite Blonde, The Palm Beach Story, Panama Hattie, The Heat’s On, The Sky’s the Limit, Presenting Lily Mars, Cabin in the Sky, Swing Fever, Broadway Rhythm, Three Cheers for the Boys, and Kismet.
When you consider Moore’s role in breaking the color barrier on Hollywood studio film crews, it’s not too surprising that the breakthrough occurred in the music department. The music world tended to be a bit more tolerant than most sectors. Jazz rose out of Black America, and the great majority of early white jazz musicians stood in awe of the Black artists who preceded them. While some of the early white jazz and swing bands were all-white, there were others—like Benny Goodman’s big band—who strongly promoted the work of Black arrangers and delighted in opportunities to informally play with Black jazz musicians. And there were increasingly bands that were racially mixed, although that could lead to touring problems especially in the south.
Bing Crosby, Mary Martin, and Jack Teagarden in Birth of the Blues (1941).
Bing Crosby was one of those early jazz fans, and he always considered his first musical allegiance to be to jazz. He understood where the music came from and had little patience with racial or ethnic discrimination. Crosby’s North Star was Louis Armstrong, whom he worshipped from afar at first and later welcomed as a close friend. “He is the beginning and the end of music in America,” Crosby said. “And long may he reign.”
Phil Moore was loaned to Paramount Pictures to work with Bing Crosby and Jack Teagarden (another terrific white jazz musician who didn’t accept color boundaries) on Birth of the Blues. Based on a popular song from 1926 that was popularized by Paul Whiteman’s all-white big band, the movie’s script offered a fictionalized version of the founding of the Original Dixieland Jass (later Jazz) Band (ODJB), one of the first white jazz bands. Moore entered the scene knowing the claim that ODJB gave birth to the blues and jazz was bogus, and considered the song “The Birth of the Blues” to be “an ersatz Hollywood Tin Pan Alley concoction that had been a big hit, but certainly was not a blues.”
Moore, Crosby, and Teagarden were professionals working for the studio, and they did their best with the material. The movie was well-regarded on release and was successful at the box office. At the least, the final jazz montage honors Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong—along with six white musicians—in a little jazz hall of fame. Historically and artistically, it may be criminally unbalanced but at least it’s somewhat desegregated.
Crosby recommended that Paramount retain Moore to do the arrangements on the Decca cast album to accompany the movie’s release. An executive complained that Moore’s “hep” version of the lead song was unacceptable, and he should write another. Moore complied with a less jazzy version, and Crosby grew livid when he heard the replacement. The executive told Crosby that Moore’s first version wasn’t commercial. “Well, I like it,” said Crosby. “And if you don’t like it, you can get another boy singer!” With Crosby behind him, Moore’s original arrangement made the cut.
It’s a really good arrangement. Moore took an ersatz Tin Pan Alley concoction, and he made it swing just fine.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yf_hL3PJdSQ
Phil Moore and The Duke Is Tops (1938)
Besides being a delightful entertainment, The Duke Is Tops (1938) offers fun parallels to Phil Moore’s developing career. While it was purely coincidental (the parallels hadn’t started emerging yet in 1938), the similarities provide added resonance.
The Duke Is Tops is a race film (as they were called at the time) starring an African-American cast and telling a story that promised to resonate with African-American audiences. It was the brainchild of Ralph Cooper (1908-92), who first achieved success as the founder and emcee of Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, which he started in 1934 and quickly became a weekly centerpiece of the Apollo’s offerings. Over the years, Cooper’s Amateur Night was instrumental in launching the careers of Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, and James Brown. Cooper’s good looks got him tagged as “the Dark Gable” when he arrived in Hollywood in 1936. He was looking for an opportunity to take the next step toward national stardom.
In Hollywood, Cooper was courted by Twentieth Century Fox. He accepted their offer to participate in their in-house training school but resisted immediate acceptance of a five-year contract. He attended their school largely to learn about the behind-the-scenes work involved with making a feature film. Finishing the courses, Cooper turned down the contract and found some partners to launch an all-Black independent studio which became Million Dollar Productions. In Cooper’s first two self-produced and self-starring movies, Dark Manhattan and Gangsters on the Loose (both 1937), he’s fairly effective in basic Cagney gangster mode. Cooper shaped The Duke Is Tops to be his Footlight Parade, a chance to show off his easy-going Apollo charisma with a little comedy and a little dancing.
Astute at recognizing talent, Cooper snagged two promising 21-year-old youngsters to assist: Phil Moore to arrange the music and Lena Horne to co-star in her film debut. In her teenage years, Horne had attracted some attention at the Cotton Club, where Cooper first saw her. Her natural beauty was already evident. But then she met and married a preacher’s son, had a baby, and settled into an expectation of long-term domesticity. Instead, she got the call from Hollywood.
Lena Horne in The Duke Is Tops (1938).
The Duke Is Tops presents Cooper and Horne as both professional and romantically-linked partners. He leads the big band, she’s his lead singer, and they’re hopelessly smitten with each other. Horne gets the big career break offering her Broadway stardom (sans Cooper), and he gallantly backs off, looking for another avenue to re-ignite his career. Naturally, it eventually turns out that they need each other to achieve real success (the standard “reunion-embrace-the end” finale).
Moore enjoyed working with Horne on the movie on a very fast two-week filming schedule, but the encounter was brief as she quickly departed for home. Three years later, Horne’s marriage had collapsed and she received a tempting nightclub invitation from Hollywood. “It’s kinda hard,” wrote Moore much later, “to imagine the Lena Horne we’ve now known and admired for so many years, once being out of a job, vulnerable, anxious for approval, and scared of what was going to happen, or not happen, next.” Moore agreed to help Horne prepare for her upcoming nightclub engagement, selecting and arranging appropriate songs for her strengths, acting as vocal coach, and bringing in his accomplished jazz trio to back her.
Short story: Moore fell in love with her, she was a smash hit at the Little Troc, and MGM signed her. Basically it’s the story of The Duke Is Tops, but without the final embrace. They remained close friends and he continued to regularly advise on her musical career.
Flash forward ten years: Dorothy Dandridge’s film career is stalled and she needs money. Thinking she might succeed with a nightclub act, she struggles to put one together. Phil Moore gallantly offers assistance, selects songs and writes the arrangements, acts as her vocal coach, and Dandridge makes her nightclub debut only accompanied by Moore on piano. Variety reported: “A new showbiz career looms brightly for Dorothy Dandridge. She’s been around before, but never with the window-dressing and guidance Moore has dished out.” Naturally, Moore fell in love again, and even enjoyed a brief period of reciprocation this time. But it didn’t last. Dandridge received offers and moved on, reviving her film career with Carmen Jones (1954), and Phil Moore experienced another repeat of the story of The Duke Is Tops, taking a loved one to the top and then releasing them to freedom. Moore and Dandridge remained friends.
In the end, Moore’s work as mentor to up-and-coming stars turned out to be a rare special and talent, a calling that kept him busy for decades, extending into the early 70s. He coached newcomers as well as former stars looking for a comeback. In addition to Horne, Dandridge and Monroe (it was Dandridge who recommended that Monroe work with Moore), Moore’s roster of clients included Hazel Scott, Mae West, Jane Russell, Joyce Bryant, Pearl Bailey, Ava Gardner, Bobby Short, Pam Grier, Tina Louise, Diahann Carroll, and Marnie Nixon. Most nights, he performed with the Phil Moore Four, who were in demand for backup behind stars like Frank Sinatra.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyvRabVbbFg
Self-effacing, a trailblazer only rarely recognized for his own achievements, Phil Moore enjoyed making others shine.
REFERENCES
Bright Boulevards, Bold Dreams: The Story of Black Hollywood by Donald Bogle: One of the great books on Hollywood and the inspiration for this piece.
Phil Moore Collection, approximately 1918-1987, bulk 1953-1987. Indiana University Black Film Center/Archive. Finding Aid by Ronda L. Sewald. Sewald’s Biographical History is rich in detail. Oh, to dip into that archive!
“Things I Forgot to Tell You: The Forgotten Legacy of Phil Moore” by Ronda L. Sewald. Black Camera, Volume 9, Number 1, Fall 2017, pp. 329-349. Indiana University Press. Another essential piece by Ronda L. Sewald.
Bing Crosby, a Pocketful of Dreams, The Early Years, 1903-1940 by Gary Giddins.
Living With Jazz: A Reader by Dan Morgenstern, edited by Sheldon Meyer.
“The Strange Case of Who Dat?” by Amy Davidson Sorkin, The New Yorker online, February 9, 2010, and “Who Dat Singing?” by Amy Davidson Sorkin, The New Yorker online, February 10, 2010.
Ebony, November 1960, page 122.
Library of Congress citation, http://www.loc.gov/item/jots.200014815.