The Musical Edgar Rice Burroughs
by Alan Hanson
Part 2
Part
1 of “The Musical Edgar Rice Burroughs” dealt with music in the author’s
private life. Now it’s time to see how ERB wove musical elements into his
fiction.
Music in Tarzan’s World
Was Tarzan musical? He was not when it came to personal
expression. The environment in which he was raised placed no value on music.
Later, however, after coming into contact with civilization, the ape-man
learned to appreciate music that was performed by others.
Tarzan found much happiness in his jungle world and was
often in an exultant state of mind that might bring song to the lips of
a normal human. Tarzan, though, had not been raised like a normal human.
“The morning air, the sounds and smells of his beloved jungle, filled
the ape-man with exhilaration,” Burroughs wrote in Tarzan’s Quest.
“Had he been the creature of another environment, he might have whistled
or sung or whooped aloud like a cowboy in sheer exuberance of spirit; but
the jungle-bred are not thus.”
Raised as he had been among the apes, Tarzan had learned
that survival depended on keeping one’s senses totally alert. Individual
musical expression served no purpose and was even dangerous. Tarzan was
raised by a species of great apes who “were given neither to laughter
nor song,” according to ERB. Their taciturnity was no doubt a selected
survival trait among their species through the ages that was passed on
to the adopted English boy. “Were one to sing and whistle while working
on the ground, concentration would be impossible,” Tarzan noted in
Tarzan
the Untamed. Only by being quiet could the ape-man concentrate
all five of his senses on his work and at the same time be conscious of
any approaching danger.
Tarzan admired those rare human societies he encountered
that avoided musical expression when there was stern work to be done. One
such group were the Ant Men within the Great Thorn Forest.
“In the increasing light of dawn Tarzan watched these
methodical preparations for defense with growing admiration for the tiny
Minunians. There was no shouting and no singing, but on the face of every
warrior who passed close enough for the ape-man to discern his features
was an expression of exalted rapture. No need here for war cries or battle
hymns to bolster the questionable courage of the weak — there were no weak.”
Tarzan was first exposed to civilized music at the age
of 21, after D’Arnot led him out of the jungle to the city of Paris. In
two sojourns in that city, one before his journey to America to find Jane
and the other afterwards, Tarzan learned to appreciate the cultural significance
of music. He had difficulty understanding, however, how the finer things
in life, such as music, art, and literature, had been able to thrive amidst
the “cowardly greed for peace and ease” that he found in civilization.
Still, while in Paris, Tarzan developed an appreciation
for classical music and dance performances. In The Return of Tarzan,
Burroughs showed Tarzan “sitting in a music hall one evening, sipping
his absinth and admiring the art of a certain famous Russian dancer.”
D’Arnot introduced the ape-man to the opera, and “on several occasions
Tarzan accompanied the countess (de Coude) to her home after the opera.”
Knowing his aversion to loud noise, it was to be expected
that Tarzan would be drawn to the soothing melodies of opera. He was not
so fond of raucous types of music. While exploring the Arab neighborhoods
of Sidi Aissa in The Return of Tarzan, the ape-man and his
guide took seats in the center of a café they entered. Tarzan soon
found, however, that the “terrific noise produced by the musicians upon
their Arab drums and pipes would have rendered a seat farther from them
more acceptable to the quiet-loving ape-man.”
Very, very rare are examples of Tarzan expressing himself
musically to be found in ERB’s 28 stories about the ape-man. I could find
no examples of Tarzan either singing or playing a musical instrument. On
one occasion, however, his friend D’Arnot caught Tarzan “humming a music-hall
ditty.” The Frenchman could not enjoy the moment, however, as it happened
on the evening before a duel in which both men believed Tarzan would be
killed. Another Tarzan musical moment occurred in the final chapter of
Tarzan
and the Lion Man, when a tall, tipsy blond approached Tarzan at
a Hollywood party. “How about a little dance?” she asked, and the
two of them “swung into the rhythm of the music.”
In the end, Tarzan was much the same as his creator when
it came to music. Both men appreciated the cultural value of music but
were “unmusical” personally. Fortunately, both married women who
brought music into their homes. Emma played the piano and sang for ERB
and their children. Jane Clayton had a piano hauled to the Greystoke’s
African estate, and there shared her music with her family. In The
Son of Tarzan, guests at the Greystoke bungalow are said to have
“often heard Meriem sing God Save the King, as My Dear (Jane) accompanied
her on the piano.”
Much more musical than Tarzan were his Waziri followers
and other native tribes that inhabited the ape-man’s domain. In the Tarzan
stories there are images of the Waziri singing, dancing, and playing musical
instruments. In The Tarzan Twins, 50 Waziri were camped in
a grassy clearing. “One of them was strumming upon a crude stringed
instrument,” wrote Burroughs, “while two of his fellows were dancing
in the firelight that gleamed back from the glossy velvet of their skin.”
Music was also a part of the happy celebration when Tarzan, Jane, and the
Waziri warriors were reunited at the end of Tarzan and the Jewels
of Opar. “Long into the night the dancing and singing and the
laughter awoke the echoes of the somber wood.” The Waziri also used
music to soothe the monotony of long marches they often undertook in search
of their master. For instance, in Tarzan and the Lost Empire,
the ebon warriors marched, “along the hot and dusty Via Mare … chanting
the war-songs of their people.”
The Waziri were not the only natives who sang on the march
through Tarzan’s Africa. Burroughs often portrayed native porters hired
by whites as singing while they bore their loads. When Dr. Von Harben came
looking for Tarzan in the jungle, the ape-man first knew of his approach
when “his keen ears cataloged the sound of padding, naked feet and the
song of native carriers as they swung along beneath their heavy burdens.”
At times ERB used native porters’ willingness to sing
as a sign of their state of mind. For instance, in Tarzan the Invincible,
when the ape-man overhauled Zveri’s raiding army, he noted that the native
carriers “had eaten and they were happy and many of the men were singing.”
Later on the march, when the same expedition was “passing through a
dense woods, gloomy and depressing … there was neither song nor laughter.”
The connection between song and mood was again used in Tarzan and
the Lion Man. As the Hollywood expedition entered the country of
the fierce Bansutos, the native porters sensed the danger. “It’s in
the air,” said actress Rhonda Terry. “The men don’t laugh and sing
the way they used to.” But later their singing came back. “The ring
of axes against wood ahead was accompanied by song and laughter,” ERB
explained. “Already the primitive minds of the blacks had cast off the
fears that had assailed them earlier in the day.”
Natives in Tarzan’s part of Africa also used music during
certain tribal ceremonies. In Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle,
there was a celebration when Ulala returned to the tribe after years of
enslavement among the Arabs. “A goat was killed and many chickens, and
there were fruit and cassava bread and native beer in plenty for all. There
was music, too, and dancing.” Music was an element in much more sinister
native celebrations. Tarzan watched as Mbonga’s tribe used music to heighten
their passions prior to the gruesome conclusion of their bloody ceremony
of torture. “In a larger circle squatted the women, yelling and beating
upon drums,” noted ERB. “The circle of warriors about the cringing
captive drew closer and closer to their prey as they danced in wild and
savage abandon to the maddening music of the drums.”
In addition to native tribes, the inhabitants of the various
lost cities in Tarzan’s Africa also used music in their ceremonies. Tarzan
first noticed Oparian ceremonial music during his first visit to the city.
As he lay on the altar, the ape-man heard the “people in the galleries
and those in the court below [take] up the refrain of a low, weird chant.
Presently those about Tarzan began to dance to the cadence of their solemn
song. They circled him slowly, resembling in their manner of dancing a
number of clumsy, shuffling bears.” On another occasion, La’s Oparian
warriors “chanted weird hymns in the ancient tongue of the lost continent”
while erecting an altar in a clearing especially for Tarzan. La herself
“chanted strange, weird songs in an unknown tongue” as she prepared
to sacrifice the American Wayne Colt in Tarzan the Invincible.
The peoples of other, more civilized lost cities in the
Tarzan series also used music in their ceremonies. In Cathne, the city
of gold, the “music of drums and trumpets” preceded the barbaric
games in the city’s arena. Later, as the condemned Doria was about to be
cast into the fires of the volcano Xarator, “ … a dozen priests, some
of whom carried musical instruments, chanted in unison, the beating of
their drums rose and fell while the wailing notes of their wind instruments
floated out across the inferno.” Similarly, in The Quest of Tarzan,
the priests of Chichen Itza “intoned a chant to the accompaniment of
flutes, drums, and trumpets” as they prepared to throw Tarzan in the
waters of an extinct volcano. Then, in the Forbidden City of Ashair, the
High Priest Brulor presided over a religious ceremony featuring music and
handmaidens performing a “suggestive, lascivious dance.”
As noted earlier, it was not Tarzan’s nature to have “whooped
aloud like a cowboy in sheer exuberance of spirit.” Some other Burroughs
characters were so inclined, however. They were his …
Singing Cowboys and Dancing
Apaches
Burroughs wrote two cowboy novels, The Bandit of
Hell’s Bend and The Deputy Sheriff of Comanche County.
Both contain images of “singing cowboys.” In Bandit,
two things made Bull sing — liquor and love. In the opening chapter, when
his fellow ranch hands heard Bull singing, they knew why. “Acts like
he was full,” said one cowboy. “Didje hear him hummin’ a tune as
he went out? That’s always a sign with him. The stuff sort o’ addles up
his brains … an’ makes him sing.” Later, when he had a feeling
that his love for Diana Henders was returned, Bull “hummed a gay little
air” as he rode along. In Deputy Sheriff, Bruce Marvel
felt like bursting into song for the same reason. While watching Kay White
sleep, Marvel felt a strange sensation in his breast. “By golly,” he
soliloquized, “it’s just like I wanted to cry; but I don’t want to cry,
I want to sing. There’s something about her that makes a fellow want to
sing when he’s close to her.”
Of course, Burroughs’ most prolific singing cowboy was
Texas Pete in Bandit. He sings the first verse of his Western
ballad on the book’s opening page, and intermittently adds further stanzas,
without the help of a musical instrument, until he remembers the final
verses nearly 200 pages later. The reader gets treated to Pete’s song just
one time through, but apparently he had performed the same tune many times
before. “I ain’t only heered this three hundred an’ sixty-five times
in the las’ year,” complained one of his fellow ranch hands.
Burroughs explained the stops and starts in Texas Pete’s
“perennial rhapsody” this way:
“The song of Texas Pete suffered many interruptions
due to various arguments in which he felt compelled to take sides, but
whenever there was a lull in the conversation he resumed his efforts to
which no one paid any attention further than as they elicited an occasional
word of banter. The sweet singer never stopped except at the end of a stanza,
and no matter how long the interruption, even though days might elapse,
he always began again with the succeeding stanza, without the slightest
hesitation or repetition.”
Pete recalled and sang verses in the saddle and in the
bunkhouse; first thing in the morning and just before bedtime. Added up,
Pete’s ballad contained 29 stanzas of four lines each. They tell the story
of fast shooting and fast talking gunfighters who gather in a saloon. The
whole thing reads like a poem, of course, and the reader is welcome to
put the lyrics to any tune he likes. It’s useless to read or sing the stanzas
as they appear intermittently in the novel. As they have no relation to
the plot of the story, they can, and probably should be, skipped over while
the book is being read. Then it is easy to go back to page one and read
all the verses, one after the other, while skipping through the story.
Burroughs penned two other Western novels, but they examined
the story of the frontier through the eyes of Indians, not cowboys. The
War Chief and Apache Devil include musical scenes,
as well, but like Tarzan, the Apaches found it unwise to express their
moments of exuberance by bursting into song. Instead, their music was confined
to various tribal rites that were conducted in their desert fastness far
away from their white enemies.
In his Apache novels, Burroughs described in detail several
different Indian ceremonies, all of which included music and dancing. One
was the “spirit dance of the dead,” performed the night before the
Apaches went on the war trail against the “white-eyes.” In it, the
warriors and women arranged themselves in files, like the spokes of a wheel,
facing the hub. There stood the medicine man who started the dancing while
two old “sub-chiefs” beat on drums. As the Apaches danced, the medicine
man “chanted weird gibberish and scattered the sacred hoddentin upon
the dancers in prodigal profusion and the drummers beat with increasing
rapidity. Occasionally a weird cry would break from the lips of some dancer
and be taken up by others until the forest and the mountains rang with
the savage sounds. Until morning came and many had dropped with exhaustion
the dance continued.”
Another Apache musical ceremony described by ERB was the
“scalp dance,” a celebration of victory on the war trail. Burroughs
detailed Shoz-Dijiji’s participation in such a dance as follows: “A
young brave, gay in the panoply of war, stepped into the firelight dancing
to the music of the drum … Shoz-Dijiji bore aloft a trophy in the scalp
dance of his people … Weaving in and out among the fires the warriors danced,
yelling, until they were upon the verge of exhaustion; but at last it was
over — the last scalp had been discarded, a vile thing that no Apache would
retain.”
A third dance described in The War Chief
occurred when the father of Ish-kay-nay invited the nearby Apache tribes
to a feast in honor of his daughter’s coming into the state of womanhood
at age 14. The celebrants gathered in an open area from which the grass
had been cut to allow for dancing. Burroughs lengthy description of the
dance is summarized below:
“Several old warriors armed with long, tough sticks
gently began beating upon the surface of the bull hide. Ish-kay-nay’s father
began to sing in time to the beating of the crude drums, his voice rising
and falling monotonously as he chanted of the beauty of Ish-kay-nay. Suddenly
there burst from the tepees around the dance ground a series of bloodcurdling
whoops and yells. The beating of the drums increased in tempo and volume
until the sound rolled forth in thunderous waves. From the tepees young
men rushed forward and threatened other dancers with their weapons.
“At this signal the young women of the tribes joined
in the dance. The drums boomed, the dancers bent double, whirled about
first upon one foot and then upon the other. The men advanced, the girls
retreated to the outer edge of the dance ground. Now the men retreated,
backing toward the fire, and the girls advanced, and thus, forward and
back they danced for hours, chanting the sacred songs of their people,
doing honor to Ish-kay-nay.”
As his Apache epic draws to a close in the final pages
Apache
Devil, Burroughs foresees the coming disappearance of these Indian
ceremonies with their musical elements. When Wichita Billings tells Shoz-Dijiji
that the white man is trying to help the Apaches, his response is cynical.
“What has he done for us?” he asks. “He is trying to take away
from us the ways of our fathers — our dances, our medicine men, everything
that we hold sacred.” The exuberant image of the singing cowboy would
survive long in Western lore, while the savage musical rites of the Apache
would be distorted and portrayed with a sinister quality to future generations
of Americans.
Part 3 of “The Musical Edgar Rice Burroughs” will
feature the music of Barsoom, Amtor, and Pellucidar.
— to be continued —
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