Ephemera

As I pursued my research for my latest book, I accumulated quite a few postcards and other ephemera which might not, at first sight, appear to have had much to do with the subject in hand.  Indeed, when I decided to sort out my box file, I was initially a bit surprised just how much of this stuff I had acquired!  However, much of the work was done during the pandemic, when eBay was actually a very sensible way of getting hold of things … and you could argue (hark at me, justifying myself) that I spent less on those postcards than two or three hot drinks at the RCS café-bar each day I’m on site!

Sifting through my treasure-trove was so enjoyable that I eventually realised I wasn’t in the least bit ashamed of my guilty secret.  I have a contemporary postcard of the very respectable-looking Glasgow street where James S. Kerr first lived.  (The neighbourhood is less upmarket now, and both his first home AND his shop are now gone.)  And there’s a postcard of the shop that Frank Simpson had on the corner of Sauchiehall Street before the shop and adjacent church were knocked down to make room for British Home Stores.  I also have a card of the view Mozart Allan would have seen every time he stepped outside his shop.  (HIS shop building is still standing, just along from the Courts, beside the River Clyde.) 

I have pictures of the docks, as they were then, conveniently close for Kerr and Mozart Allan’s trading activities, and a picture of the boat on which Kerr’s successor sailed to America on one occasion.  I like to be able to imagine what a place was like when the person I’m writing about, actually lived there.

I’ve also got odd bits of commercial ephemera – an advertising brochure; a business postcard; a couple of letters.  The business postcard set me on the track of the individidual who took over Kerr’s business after Mrs Kerr died.  It was only last weekend, long after I’d acquired it, that I realised there was a woman’s name written across the top left corner.  A colloquial diminutive for the new owner’s wife’s first name, in fact.  So – maybe she worked in the shop, too?  It’s not musicological research, but I would like to find out.  I enjoy finding women working in the music publishing/retail business, in eras when fewer women worked outside the home.

Another bunch of postcards trace the tartan-mania which spilled over from cards to coffee-table song-books and miniature souvenir books.  Talking of souvenirs, I have travel guides, maps, an embroidery canvas of a commemorative map of the British Isles – it was unworked, but I’ve since done the stitching and had it framed – and a reproduction of an early PanAm poster.  I’ve written quite a bit about Scottish songs in the memory of expats, both overseas and over here.

And there are a few photos of children having music lessons; of women sitting at the piano; a magic lantern slide; a stereoscope of (apparently) happy workers on a cotton plantation – in my book, I’ve written about the racism in plantation songs.

A whole load of sol-fa booklets of various kinds.  They have a wee box of their own.

There’s also a photo of an Edinburgh railway bridge.  Why?  I was hunting down a particular song-book editor, and a musician with the right name lived just beside that bridge.  I don’t think it was the right man, but it’s a nice photo, so I’ve kept it anyway!