The Nicholas Brothers: still kicking after 62 years; often called the ultimate in show business survivors, the entertainers continue to showcase their talents

Ebony, May, 1991 by Aldore Collier

A standing-room-only crowd of about 500, comprised mainly of skiers, sit excitedly at the Limelight Room in Sun Valley, Idaho, awaiting the beginning of a tribute to tap. The audience is all White.

In the crowd are youngsters who have absolutely no idea what the excitement is all about. Their parents, sporting smiles of certainty, calmly assure them that they are in for an education and a treat. The dubious youngsters have expressions of dread.

When the lights are dimmed, scenes from the all-Black 1940s musical Stormy Weather illuminate the room. In the movie, Cab Calloway turns the stage over to two eager, tuxedoed youngsters, Fayard Nicholas and his younger brother Harold.

The two go through a dizzying and furiously paced display of tap and splits. The previously impatient youngsters are awe-struck as the two soar over each other doing splits as they descend a long flight of stairs.

When the lights are turned back on, the crowd is on its feet, cheering, as the Nicholas Brothers - tuxedoed as in the film - are introduced and take the stage to perform and emcee the evening's program.

For 62 years, ever since they made their debut at Philadelphia's Pearl Theater in 1929, the brothers have been overwhelming movie and theater audiences - and they're still kicking and doing splits in their 60s and 70s.

Often referred to as the ultimate show business survivors, the Nicholas Brothers believe their longevity is a reflection of their heritage. For they are offspring of entertainers. Their father was a drummer and their mother played piano, and both toured with a small orchestra.

"My father had a great influence on me," says Fayard, who is now in his early 70s. "One day, I was just dancing around when I was 11. And my father said, |I like what you're doing. That's great.' He said |Don't do what the other dancers do. Do your own thing. When you perform for audiences, don't look at your feet because you're not entertaining yourself, you're entertaining the audience.' He said he liked the way I moved my hands.

"I taught my brother and little sister Dorothy to dance. My sister worked with us some, but she couldn't keep up with us. She didn't like the long hours and hard work."

But the brothers' hard work paid off instantly. After packing them in in Phildelphia, they were booked in New York clubs. There they were spotted by the Cotton Club owner who quickly put them on his stage. In the following years, they traveled the country performing with such legendary artists as Duke Ellington, Bob Hope, Josephine Baker and Benny Goodman.

In the 1930s, the high-flying brothers found themselves in Hollywood. They were among the first Blacks signed to perform in movies for Fox Studios. In seven years, they performed in nine Hollywood musicals. Their scene-stealing routines were featured in such movies as Kid Millions with Eddie Cantor, The Big Broadcast of 1936 with George Burns, Bye Bye Blackbird with Eubie Blake and 1941's Sun Valley Serenade, in which they performed "Chattanooga Choo Choo" with Dorothy Dandridge, the sexy starlet who later became Mrs. Harold Nicholas.

Harold, now in in his late 60s, says the two never had racial problems as young performers "because we were so young, just kids. But later on, when he got older and became men, we had a little difficulty, but not real trouble. In 1945, we went down South with Dizzy Gillespie's orchestra. We played before segregated audiences and couldn't stay in the hotels and stuff like that. There was one incident with the police stopping the bus. It was a little hairy, but didn't last long. The audiences all responded a because they had seen our movies. Even from people who were so hard on Blacks, there was a certain respect for show people."

Reflecting on discrimination during their incredibly lengthy career, Harold says their involvement in show business could have fared better had the racial climate in the early days been more hospitable. "We never got a chance to do Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire routines and have songs written for us and be in the movies throughout," he says. "We would do one number and steal the show. The [White] actors could not come on and do a whole script, all the talking and singing. And then the Nicholas Brothers would come on and do one number and the picture was ours. Caesar Romero and all of the stars used to say that. They weren't writing dialogue for Blacks then unless they were chauffeurs, maids . . . or something like that."

Echoing his brother's comments, Fayard says that one of his few regrets about their movie career was never getting a chance to end up with the girl. "Tallulah Bankhead, the famous actress, told me, |Fayard, if you and your brother were White, you'd be dancing with Ginger Rogers.' That's how she thought of us, the greatest dancers in the world," he says.

After 25 years of roaring success, the brothers found in the 1950s that tap was losing its appeal with American audiences. "Over here, television was coming in and so was rock and roll," Harold recalls. "We went to Europe when it got too quiet over here, as far as work was concerned."