know what was on them?”
“Well, if you had the original packaging, it was on a slip inside the case. Otherwise, you had to listen to it.”
“They didn’t use labels?”
“Nowhere to put them without interfering with the recording surface. As the production of cylinders became more sophisticated, the manufacturers began engraving information along the edge.”
“If nothing is written on the early ones, how do you know what’s on the cylinder and the date it was recorded?”
“You can approximate the age of a cylinder by listening to it. The oldest ones announce the song and the performer at the beginning of the recording. Later on, the announcement included where the recording was made, and sometimes a particular record number, or a description of the performer. Those are the clues to age.”
“Are wax cylinders very rare?”
“Not really. But they are brittle, and break easily. And the wax is soft so if they’ve been played a lot, the quality can be poor. Down here in Louisiana, it’s hard to find ones in good shape.”
“Why is that?”
“Mainly because of the mold.” He waved a hand around. “Feel this humidity?”
I nodded.
“Humidity means mold, and mold eats wax.” He dropped his hand. “Once the cylinder is eaten by mold, it’s virtually impossible to repair.”
“How valuable are wax cylinders?” I asked. “Does it depend on the date?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Like all antiques, it depends on the rarity. Standard two-minute black cylinders can go for as little as five or ten dollars. Three-minute cylinders are not as plentiful and their price is higher, maybe sixty or seventy dollars if they’re in good shape. But for a rare recording of an artist with historical importance—”
“Like Little Red,” I interjected.
“Yes. For that, the value is incalculable.”
I sat silently, contemplating the difficult road that lay before Wayne. Even if he found a cylinder Little Red had recorded, it might be cracked or worn or moldy. So many negative possibilities argued against his being able to achieve his dream of bringing the music of Little Red LeCoeur to the public.
Simon West interrupted my reverie. “Jessica?”
“Yes?” I replied. “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought.”
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the painted chair. “If you happen to find a cylinder of Little Red LeCoeur ...” He hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“Yes?”
“I know a collector who would pay us handsomely for it,” he stated smugly.
“I could never do that.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Do you know what that cylinder would be worth?”
“I believe I just asked you that question,” I replied. I realized that although I’d received some interesting information from Simon West, it was well past time to take my leave of him. My friendship with Wayne was far more important than any monetary gain West could offer, and I was offended that he thought my ethics could be so easily compromised.
I picked up my hat. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. West. However, I really must leave now. I have another appointment.”
West realized he might have made a blunder. “It was just a possibility,” he said. “Something to think about.” He walked me to the door. “We could bring in Wayne as well,” he added weakly. Changing tacks, he said, “I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to my neighbor.”
“Perhaps another time,” I said. “Thank you for the information, and the tea.” I turned down Royal Street toward my hotel, and took a deep breath. The humid hot air felt strangely refreshing.
Chapter Five
“Would you like another beignet, ma’am?”
“Thank you, no. If I’m not careful, New Orleans is going to be the ruination of my figure.”
“Then how about more coffee?”
“Yes, please, it’s very good.”
“I’ll bring some right away.”
I was sitting in the quiet courtyard at my hotel Friday morning, waiting for Wayne. I’d been up
“Well, if you had the original packaging, it was on a slip inside the case. Otherwise, you had to listen to it.”
“They didn’t use labels?”
“Nowhere to put them without interfering with the recording surface. As the production of cylinders became more sophisticated, the manufacturers began engraving information along the edge.”
“If nothing is written on the early ones, how do you know what’s on the cylinder and the date it was recorded?”
“You can approximate the age of a cylinder by listening to it. The oldest ones announce the song and the performer at the beginning of the recording. Later on, the announcement included where the recording was made, and sometimes a particular record number, or a description of the performer. Those are the clues to age.”
“Are wax cylinders very rare?”
“Not really. But they are brittle, and break easily. And the wax is soft so if they’ve been played a lot, the quality can be poor. Down here in Louisiana, it’s hard to find ones in good shape.”
“Why is that?”
“Mainly because of the mold.” He waved a hand around. “Feel this humidity?”
I nodded.
“Humidity means mold, and mold eats wax.” He dropped his hand. “Once the cylinder is eaten by mold, it’s virtually impossible to repair.”
“How valuable are wax cylinders?” I asked. “Does it depend on the date?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Like all antiques, it depends on the rarity. Standard two-minute black cylinders can go for as little as five or ten dollars. Three-minute cylinders are not as plentiful and their price is higher, maybe sixty or seventy dollars if they’re in good shape. But for a rare recording of an artist with historical importance—”
“Like Little Red,” I interjected.
“Yes. For that, the value is incalculable.”
I sat silently, contemplating the difficult road that lay before Wayne. Even if he found a cylinder Little Red had recorded, it might be cracked or worn or moldy. So many negative possibilities argued against his being able to achieve his dream of bringing the music of Little Red LeCoeur to the public.
Simon West interrupted my reverie. “Jessica?”
“Yes?” I replied. “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought.”
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the painted chair. “If you happen to find a cylinder of Little Red LeCoeur ...” He hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“Yes?”
“I know a collector who would pay us handsomely for it,” he stated smugly.
“I could never do that.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Do you know what that cylinder would be worth?”
“I believe I just asked you that question,” I replied. I realized that although I’d received some interesting information from Simon West, it was well past time to take my leave of him. My friendship with Wayne was far more important than any monetary gain West could offer, and I was offended that he thought my ethics could be so easily compromised.
I picked up my hat. “This has been very pleasant, Mr. West. However, I really must leave now. I have another appointment.”
West realized he might have made a blunder. “It was just a possibility,” he said. “Something to think about.” He walked me to the door. “We could bring in Wayne as well,” he added weakly. Changing tacks, he said, “I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to my neighbor.”
“Perhaps another time,” I said. “Thank you for the information, and the tea.” I turned down Royal Street toward my hotel, and took a deep breath. The humid hot air felt strangely refreshing.
Chapter Five
“Would you like another beignet, ma’am?”
“Thank you, no. If I’m not careful, New Orleans is going to be the ruination of my figure.”
“Then how about more coffee?”
“Yes, please, it’s very good.”
“I’ll bring some right away.”
I was sitting in the quiet courtyard at my hotel Friday morning, waiting for Wayne. I’d been up
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