The African-American artform of tap developed as a communal tradition where rhythms and steps are shared—unlike other forms of dance its choreography cannot be copyrighted.1 As such, this country’s long history of exploitation stemming from racism and sexism has obscured key aspects of its history. We have seen this exploitation when white dancers were given more opportunities and roles then Black dancers, when male dancers set the standard, and women’s dancing was judged by whether or not they were deemed to be heterosexually desirable.
When Ayodele Casel taps, she dances through these intersectional realities and pays homage to those who came before. Diary of a Tap Dancer shares stories of the Black women who came before Casel, articulated through her body and her voice. And as we hear the stories of the intersections of racism and sexism in America and Puerto Rico, we also hear the sounds of resistance and life.
Who are the Black women tap dance artists who came before? What challenges did they face from a white concert dance world that caricatured and debased African diasporic culture? How did they navigate sexism, colorism, and the closing off of opportunities only available to men and women with racial privilege? What happened to them after the lights of the stage dimmed? Who sings their songs? How can that song be honored without exploiting their lives or the lives of their future generations?
And why do so many of these realities—realities shaping Ayodele Casel’s own life—still exist today?
If you are a casual tap dance appreciator, you may know the names of some white men like Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly. You may know a handful of Black men such as Sammy Davis Jr. or Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson. Or maybe, just maybe, you know the sounds of white women such as Ann Miller or Eleanor Powell. Many of us have never heard of Cora LaRedd, Alice Whitman, Louise Madison, Lois Bright, Jeni LeGon, or Juanita Pitts. The stories of Black women are shadowed in the racist patriarchy. And yet, we would not be where we are today in American culture without the sounds of Black girls and women.
Though relatively unknown today, during the Harlem renaissance and into the 1930s and ’40s, many Black women singers and dancers were known to be “showstoppers.” The word describes artists who were so good at their craft that the audience wouldn’t stop their applause. Because the audience kept cheering, no one could take the stage after them so they “broke up the show” or “stopped the show.”
Cora LaRedd, who performed for a white-only audience at the Cotton Club in Harlem throughout the 1920s and ’30s, was one such showstopper.2 LaRedd was a triple threat: a dancer, a singer, and a comedian. She was known as the “terpsichorean riot,” drove a distinctive lavender Packard roadster, and wore a raccoon skin coat. (As the photo “Couple, Harlem 1932,” by James Van Der Zee shows, racoon skin coats and state-of-the-art cars signified wealth and success.) She had her own band, the Red Peppers. She claimed to have invented the dance craze that swept across America in the mid-1930s, the “Truckin’ on Down.”
One could focus on only the happy parts of a story or to delight in an oft shared video clip of LaRedd singing and dancing to the song “Jig Time” in the musical short That’s the Spirit. But despite her achievements, LaRedd had to contend with colorism in the industry because was darker skinned.3 She was reportedly fired from the Cotton Club because she gained weight.4 She fell into a depression when her mother passed away,5 and after some time of being unemployed in the entertainment world, she become a taxi driver.6 Without recognizing the racism and sexism that played out for Cora and other Black women throughout their lives because non-Black people wanted to be entertained by “folk dance” and rhythm, we aren’t appreciating the full story.
To be selective about which stories we choose to remember, or to brush off racism and sexism as “in the past,” denies the struggle that persists today—and glosses over the transformative nature of tap. For in tap dance, there is always resistance.
When enslaved peoples were banned from drumming, they turned to their own bodies to create rhythms. While white dancers such as Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly gained fame in Hollywood in roles unavailable to Black people, Black dancers such as Buddy Bradley and Cora LaRedd resisted and went abroad to build careers.7 When Rubberleg Williams claimed that he invented LaRedd’s “truckin” dance, she staged contests in Harlem and on Broadway.8 She won, and became known the “queen of truckin.”9 And despite LaRedd’s setbacks, she returned to the stage in 1950, inspiring Allan McMillan to write: “At Club Sudan on the identical spot where she once danced and sang to the delight of millions, she ‘broke up the show.’ When the terrific rounds of applause had died, there were many Cotton Club luminaries shedding tears. Poignant were the memories of yesteryear. Her name is Cora LaRedd.”10
In Diary of a Tap Dancer, Ayodele Casel gives us the life sounds of Cora LaRedd, of Louise Madison, of Lois Bright, of Jeni LeGon, of Juanita Pitts, as she tells us about Ayodele Casel. She takes us on a journey of her life, unadulterated, and how tap dance and African diasporic art fuels resistance against forms of oppression. She sounds the music of a story that is attempted to be silenced by those wielding power, but never dies. A sound that rises up and reminds us all that we stand on the shoulders of giants.
Sonja Thomas is an Associate Professor of Women’s Gender and Sexuality Studies at Colby College
Footnotes
[1] For more on “corporeal copyright” see Anthea Kraut, Choreographing Copyright: Race, Gender, and Intellectual Property Rights in American Dance, (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 2015.
[2] “Cora Laredd Started With Her Own Band,” The Chicago Defender (National Edition), Feb 6, 1932, pg. 5.
[3] Constance Valis Hill, Tap Dancing America: A Cultural History, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 93.
[4] “Cora LaRedd Returns Coat,” New York Amsterdam News, Mar 11, 1939, pg. 1.
[5] “Too Much Cora for Club,” The Baltimore Afro-American, Apr 30, 1932, pg. 4.
[6] “Photo Standalone 3 — No Title,” New York Amsterdam News, Nov 14, 1942, pg. 3.
[7] Cora LaRedd danced in the Bahamas in the early 1940s.
[8] Ralph Matthews, “Backstage Feuds Are Bitter,” The Baltimore Afro-American, Feb 22, 1936, pg. 10.
[9] “L. U. D. Is Ready,” New York Amsterdam News, Dec 28, 1935, pg. 1.
[10] Allan McMillan, “Exclusive But not Confidential,” New York Amsterdam News, Feb 25, 1950, pg. 17.
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Ayodele Casel, Ki’Leigh Williams, and Quynn L. Johnson in rehearsal for Diary of a Tap Dancer. Photo: Maggie Hall.
Trailblazing tap dancer and choreographer Ayodele Casel returns this holiday season to share the joyful, resilient, and liberating spirit of tap in an electric new play that reveals the power of reclaiming language, culture, and one’s own identity.
