- Historic Sites
Americans don’t hesitate to say anything they please about a public performance. But the right to do so wasn’t established until the Cherry Sisters sued a critic who didn’t like their appalling vaudeville act.
October/november 1982 | Volume 33, Issue 6
The year 1896 found Oscar Hammerstein in trouble. He was in debt, and the acts he had brought to Broadway weren’t doing well. He was desperate. “I’ve tried the best,” he is reported to have said. “Now I’ll try the worst.” So he sent for the Cherry Sisters. Effie, Addie, Jessie, Lizzie, and Ella Cherry clearly were the worst act of the day. They couldn’t dance, and they couldn’t sing. In fact, they couldn’t do anything at all. Except draw crowds.
The five sisters and their brother had been born on a farm near Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and lost both their parents while they were still very young. They apparently took care of each other until the girls were old enough for show business. Then, in the early 1890s, they put an act together and hit the road. Their brother, Isa, took off at the same time: “He hopped aboard a load of hogs headed for Chicago and has never been heard from since,” Carl Whyte told a newspaper reporter in 1945. Whyte was in a position to know. He was in love with Effie—the only sister who ever found romance. She was older than Carl—“but I can tell you I was completely hypnotized by her charms,” he said. “And her kisses took me completely out of this world.” Whyte played piano for the sisters as they toured the Midwest.
Their act was terrible, and everybody said so; but it exerted a sort of ghastly fascination over its audiences. By the time Hammerstein sent for the Cherry Sisters, they were on their way to becoming famous.
The great impresario found the women every bit as bad as he had been led to believe, and so did the critics. “Never before did New Yorkers see anything in the least like the Cherry Sisters from Cedar Rapids, Iowa,” wrote the New York Times when the act opened in the New Olympia Theater on November 16, 1896. “It is sincerely to be hoped that nothing like them will ever be seen again. ”
“Did you ever hear the musical ‘kerchunk’ of the half-flooded milk pail as the brindle cow kicked it over with her offhind foot?” asked the critic of the New York Herald . “Well, that is Lizzie’s voice. Did you ever hear the frightened squeak of the rooster when your sister-in-law’s first born jumped on him hard with his little copper-toed boots? If you didn’t, you won’t appreciate Jessie’s song about ‘Fair Columbia.’ ”
Nevertheless, the audiences loved them. Night after night young men crowded the New Olympia Theater at Broadway and Forty-fourth Street. Often they brought vegetables; sidewalk vendors were said to do a brisk business every evening selling onions and rutabagas and melons. “There was scarcely a young blade in the late nineties,” the Des Moines Register recalled in 1929, “but boasted he had heaved a cabbage or two at the Cherry Sisters.” Hammerstein himself may have encouraged such activity by rigging a fishnet across the footlights to protect the sisters.
The Cherry Sisters’ success might have been harrowing, but it was real. They were said to have made one thousand dollars a week in New York City and they continued to pack the houses when, after a month’s run on Broadway, they eventually took their show on the road. Everywhere they went the critics were apoplectic, with each trying to outdo the other. Finally, in 1901, a fellow in Iowa outdid them all.
“Effie is an old jade of 50 summers,” he wrote, “Jessie a frisky filly of 40, and Addie, the flower of the family, a capering monstrosity of 35. Their long skinny arms, equipped with talons at the extremities, swung mechanically, and anon waved frantically at the suffering audience. The mouths of their rancid features opened like caverns, and sounds like the wailings of damned souls issued therefrom. They pranced around the stage with a motion that suggested a cross between the danse du ventre and the fox trot—strange creatures with painted faces and hideous mien. Effie is spavined, Addie is stringhalt, and Jessie, the only one who showed her stockings, has legs with calves as classic in their outlines as the curves of a broom handle.”
Addie Cherry, the capering monstrosity, sued. The case, Cherry v. Des Moines Leader , was won by the newspaper on a directed verdict after the sisters performed in court for the judge. Although the sisters lost the case, the court action gave them something that eluded them in show business: lasting fame.
The ruling of the Iowa Supreme Court, upholding the lower court’s directed verdict, has become one of the strongest and most reliable bastions defending the right of “fair comment” in libel actions. It is the case that “is so often cited in judicial rulings on fair comment and criticism,” say Robert H. Phelps and E. Douglas Hamilton in their text, Libel—Rights, Risks, Responsibilities . “Without this defense, editorials would be anemic, commentary spineless, art criticism tepid and letters to the editor platitudinous. Sports reporters, feature writers and columnists would be straitjacketed.”