The adventures and various works of a photographer, road tripper, former patron of the local arts, aspiring app developer, and late night coffee drinker and conversationalist.
Some time ago I acquired this original copy of a map of early Dallas. The map was advertised as being from 1902, but the streets as laid out are more indicative of Dallas in the late 1880s. The map shows not only the layout of Dallas's road system as it existed in the late 19th century, but also shows the original names of a great number of streets before subsequent changes were made over succeeding decades. Sycamore north of Commerce Street hasn't yet been renamed to Akard, and Carondelet north of Pacific Avenue, by the Trinity River, hasn't yet been renamed as an extension of Ross Avenue. Present-day Record Street still shows as Jefferson, Ervay Street is still Oleander north of Pacific Avenue, and the route of present-day Saint Paul Street still exists as Masten and Evergreen Streets. Streets that are long gone, such as Calhoun and Walnut Streets north of Carondelet, are depicted. And there are also some slight inaccuracies: for example, Harwood is amusingly misspelled as "Hardwood" south of Commerce Street. Lastly, you can see the original alignment of the Trinity River before its relocation and straightening in 1928. Oak Cliff, Dallas's then-sister city and not yet annexed, is not represented.
The map page, which has a map of San Francisco on the other side, was one page of what was clearly a larger volume. It's likely that the same map was reproduced year after year in whatever volume this was (assuming it was a recurring collection). Thus, it's possible that my particular copy does indeed date to 1902. Without seeing the entire collection, I can't be sure.
You can download this scan in a larger size here. I've also uploaded it to the Internet Archive in an extra large size.
I believe this type of historical information should be made easily available and accessible to the public, not barricaded behind paywalls or hoarded behind closed doors by museums, archives, and collectors.
This is part of a continuing series of posts exploring locations of former DFW musical landmarks and the stories behind them.
Tombstone Factory show flyer, 1986
During the mid to late 1980s, the Fort Worth metal scene was on fire. While Dallas had its coffee shops, punk clubs, and new wave hot spots, a burgeoning rock music scene with its own distinctive identity was gaining currency on the west side. Of course, these two cultural movements did not exist in a vacuum, and as geography would suggest, there was indeed crossover between them which was evidenced by the existence of certain venues and a sharing of some of the principal players, fans, and musicians. But, broadly speaking, the west side of town was the more metal, a more welcoming place for headbangers and longhairs and for those interested in a more hardcore style of music. On the far westernmost edge of town there was Joe's Garage, but for those who were perhaps unenthusiastic about the long drive, there was the Tombstone Factory.
The story of the Tombstone Factory's origin has become legendary, repeated vigorously and vociferously in person, online, and via the printed page. It has been shared via anecdotes and reminiscences and secondhand accounts, circulated year after year both by word of mouth and electronically, echoed again and again in blogs and social media posts and print articles to an ever widening audience. It has found increasing legitimacy not only among those who were actually there, but among those who have since come afterward. Yet the full story of the Tombstone Factory – and its surprising antecedent – has never heretofore been told. Where the building came from, the reasons behind its construction and unique design, how it actually came to get its name, and what it actually was in its previous life – these are questions whose answers have until now been obscured by local mythology, conjecture, or even outright misinformation, for decades. The actual history is as surprising as it is unexpected, involving creatives and participants from very different communities with barely any connection between them save the one which resulted, indirectly, in the Factory's well-known name. That is the story that will be told here, and it begins in a most unlikely place.
The first fifty years or so of the twentieth century were the heyday of Dallas's "Theater Row." If you're not familiar with that term, it refers to the now long gone entertainment district that once comprised approximately four blocks of Elm Street, just to the west of pre-Central Expressway Deep Ellum. For several decades, this stretch of Elm between Akard and Harwood was lined with theaters showcasing the latest in modern entertainment. Before the ascent of Hollywood, a theatergoer might find a vaudeville show or Nickelodeon-style film to his or her liking. By mid-century, it might instead be a big budget Cinerama feature showing inside one of multiple big picture palaces. The brightness of the marquees and street lamps illuminating the night sky gave Theater Row the nickname of Dallas's "Great White Way."
Looking down Theater Row in 1942
Continue reading "A night at the Majestic, March 1913"
Corner of Elm Street and Hawkins in Dallas, Texas, courtesy DeGolyer Library, Southern Methodist University
Collecting vintage and antique photos is a pastime of mine, and I have an interest in local (mostly Dallas) history. Combining these two interests together into an exploration of early Dallas photography and photography studios thus came naturally to me. This series will cover the history of Dallas-based photography through the beginning of the 20th century, telling the story through both historically-minded blog posts and authentic historical images.
