Culture
Barbara Holdridge, Whose Record Label Foretold Audiobooks, Dies at 95
Barbara Holdridge, who co-founded the first commercially successful spoken-word record label, one that began with the poet Dylan Thomas reciting his story “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” and that led to today’s multibillion-dollar audiobook industry, died on Monday at home in Baltimore, Md. She was 95.
Her daughter, Eleanor Holdridge, confirmed the death.
Ms. Holdridge, along with her best friend, Marianne Mantell, built the label, Caedmon Records, into a recording industry dynamo by releasing LPs of such notable authors and poets as W.H. Auden, T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, Gertrude Stein, Robert Frost, Eudora Welty, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway reading their own words.
As the recordings’ popularity grew — sales reached $14 million by 1966 (about $141 million in today’s currency) — Caedmon began recording plays and other works of literature performed by famous actors, including Vanessa Redgrave, John Gielgud, Maggie Smith, Richard Burton and Basil Rathbone. The label also produced children’s stories like “Babar” and “Winnie the Pooh,” employing Boris Karloff, Carol Channing and other performers to read them.
But it was the Dylan Thomas album, featuring the poet’s resonant delivery, that put the infant company on the road to success. Thomas, an eccentric, hard-drinking Welsh poet, was at the height of his fame when the record was released in 1952, and it went on to sell more than 400,000 copies in the 1950s, an unheard amount for such literary fare. Just over a year later, he died of pneumonia at 39.
“If we had started with some of the wonderful poets we recorded later, such as Katherine Anne Porter, Archibald MacLeish, Ezra Pound and Faulkner, I don’t think anybody would have cared that much,” Ms. Holdridge said in 2014 in an interview with WNYC radio in New York. “Students would have. Literature professors would have. But the spark was the Dylan Thomas recordings, and with the money that came from the sales of those recordings, we were able to go forward and record the authors whom we admired.”
The label aimed to present literature as it originated — in the spoken word, Ms. Holdridge explained. She and Ms. Mantell named the company Caedmon in honor of the seventh-century cowherd considered the earliest known English poet.
Though there had been attempts at spoken-word recordings before Caedmon, the two women, who had scraped together $1,500 to start the venture, foresaw a broad audience for authors reading their own words.
“They were enormously prescient,” Matthew Barton, the recorded sound curator for the Library of Congress, said in an interview last year for this obituary. “If you walked into a record store in 1952 and heard Dylan Thomas reading ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,’ you would say, ‘I want that,’ and your wallet comes out. It showed how well they understood the potential of the medium in this way.”
The Library of Congress added the album to its National Recording Registry in 2008, noting that “it has been credited with launching the audiobook industry in the United States.” By 2023, the audiobook market had achieved almost $7 billion in global sales, reaching an estimated 140 million listeners.
Under Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell, Caedmon earned dozens of Grammy nominations and became the gold standard for spoken-word recordings.
The Caedmon story is made more remarkable by the fact that Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell — Barbara Cohen and Marianne Roney at the time — were 22-year-old recent graduates of Hunter College in Manhattan when they began their label. Both had degrees in the humanities, and neither had any business experience. In an era when women were expected to be housewives or schoolteachers, Ms. Holdridge, who worked as an assistant editor at a New York publisher, and Ms. Mantell, who wrote label copy for a record company, were ambitious, determined and bored.
Over lunch one day, they lamented that they were working for bosses “who were much more stupid than we,” Ms. Holdridge recalled in the WNYC interview. She suggested that they go to a reading that Thomas was giving that night at the 92nd Street Y. Ms. Mantell then made a further suggestion: “Let’s record him.” They had already been discussing the idea of recording authors reading their own works.
After the reading, they sent a note to Thomas asking if he would consider participating in a recording project with them. They signed the note “B. Cohen and M. Roney,” so that he wouldn’t know that they were women. His manager intercepted the note and sent them a reply, suggesting that they call Thomas at the Chelsea Hotel, where he was living at the time.
After several unsuccessful attempts to reach him, Ms. Holdridge tried calling at 5 o’clock one morning, on the chance that he might just be stumbling home after a night of hard drinking. He picked up the phone. Yes, he said, he would meet the women to discuss their idea.
To their surprise, he actually showed up at the appointed hour, bringing along his wife, the writer Caitlin Thomas. Over a boisterous lunch, he agreed to do the recording for a $500 advance, plus royalties.
“He even wrote down a number of poems he wanted to record,” Ms. Holdridge recalled. “Getting him to the recording studio, though, was something else.”
After one no-show, Thomas eventually arrived at Steinway Hall, a studio on West 57th Street, and recorded a series of poems, including his masterpiece “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” When they still didn’t have enough material to fill both sides of a 33⅓ LP, the women asked if he had anything else to record, and he remembered a story he had published in Harper’s Bazaar called “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” a nostalgic reminiscence from a young boy’s viewpoint. He recorded it as the B-side of the album, and it was that tale that catapulted the record to best-sellerdom.
The women began contacting other famous writers, both male and female, asking them to come to the studio to record their words. And many did.
Barbara Ann Cohen was born in New York City on July 26, 1929, to Herbert Lawrence Cohen, a textile sales representative, and Bertha (Gold) Cohen, who oversaw the household.
Barbara was an avid reader as a child and studied Greek. She also developed a lifelong love of gardening, starting out by making little gardens of twigs and acorns on her apartment windowsill.
She married Lawrence Holdridge, a hydraulic engineer, in 1959. He died in 1998. In addition to her daughter Eleanor, she is survived by another daughter, Diana Holdridge, and two grandchildren. Ms. Mantell died in 2023 at 93.
Ms. Holdridge and Ms. Mantell sold Caedmon to Raytheon in 1970, and it was later acquired by Harper Collins, where the Caedmon imprint of HarperAudio still exists.
In 2001, Ms. Holdridge was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame, which lauded her for creating a broad audience for “diverse, high-quality literature” and demonstrating the significance of spoken-word recordings. “The Caedmon catalog is extraordinary for the dramatic gender equality and cultural inclusiveness it achieved,” the Hall of Fame website states. “It expanded the audience for American women’s writing, and women’s writing in general.”
After selling Caedmon, Ms. Holdridge and her husband bought the 18th-century Stemmer House in Owings Mills, Md., and she created Stemmer House Publishers, which put out children’s books and sourcebooks for designers and artists. There, she leaned into another of her passions, developing a 40-acre garden on the property. She also taught book publishing and writing at Loyola University Maryland.
Explaining her aspirations for Caedmon, Ms. Holdridge told NPR in 2002: “We did not want to do a collection of great voices or important literary voices. We wanted them to read as though they were recreating the moment of inspiration. They did exactly that. They read with a feeling, an inspiration that came through.”
Ash Wu contributed reporting.
Culture
Finding Wisdom in a Poem by Wendy Cope
Where do you turn when you need advice? A chatbot? A life coach? A wise and trusted friend?
How about a poet? Poets may not be famous for making the best life choices, but because they subject the mess of human existence to the discipline of language, they can be as helpful as any therapist or mentor.
Good poets know the rules and when to break them, which is something they can teach the rest of us.
To wit:
Giving advice is a peculiar literary undertaking. It flourishes in certain popular genres — graduation speeches, newspaper columns, country and western songs and poems like this one — but what, in these contexts, is it really for?
I’m thinking of situations when you don’t urgently need help but nonetheless enjoy reading answers to questions you may not have thought to ask. What interests you isn’t the content of the advice — you could get all the life hacks you want from A.I. — so much as the voice of the person dispensing it.
Wendy Cope is an English poet, born in 1945, who has been a fixture of her country’s literary scene since the 1980s. More recently, her short, buoyant poem “The Orange” has been widely memed online, bringing her to the attention of new readers beyond Britain.
Cope favors rhyme, meter, brisk jokes and tart aperçus. She addresses romance, friendship and the petty absurdities of modern life with disarming good humor. The last line of “The Orange” is “I love you. I’m glad I exist.” Somehow she makes it the opposite of cringe.
This isn’t the kind of poetry you would describe as “confessional.” And yet …
Question 1/7
Stop, if the car is going “clunk”
Or if the sun has made you blind.
Don’t answer e–mails when you’re drunk.
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.Want to learn this poem by heart? We’ll help.
Fill in the missing words below. You can always refer to the reading by A.O. Scott and full
text above.Let’s start with the first stanza.
Culture
Can You Match the Places These Authors Lived With Settings in Their Books?
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself. This week’s literary geography quiz highlights places where authors were born (or lived) that later became locations in their books. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the works if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
Book Review: ‘America, U.S.A.,’ by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
For those of us in the national memory-keeping business, anniversaries hold near-totemic power. Satisfyingly round units of time, ideally bearing fancy, Latin-derived names, serve as the overburdened pegs on which to hang think pieces and museum exhibits, revisionist documentaries and maudlin public ceremonies. The arbitrary nature of such occasions is precisely what gives them their charge, inviting us to set aside complacency and submit to a comprehensive check-in.
In his new book, “America, U.S.A.,” Eddie S. Glaude Jr. presents an intriguing variation on the genre, seeing the country’s 250th birthday as an anniversary of anniversaries: 50 years since the malaise-ridden, schlock-heavy Bicentennial. A century since the subdued Prohibition-era Sesquicentennial. A century and a half since telegraphed reports of George Armstrong Custer’s defeat by the Lakota and Cheyenne at Little Bighorn rudely interrupted the Gilded Age Republic’s 100th birthday party.
If an anniversary offers a snapshot of a moment, the core of Glaude’s book is an old-timey photo album, a collection of notable episodes from earlier national reckonings, long-ago glances in the mirror. An estimable scholar of Black history, politics and religion at Princeton — best known for “Begin Again,” his 2020 meditation on James Baldwin’s relevance for our times — Glaude focuses, as his subtitle puts it, on “how race shadows the nation’s anniversaries.”
Such celebrations, he contends, have never really been the moments for honest self-reflection they are often advertised to be. Instead, the nation usually shatters the mirror, refusing to accept what it prefers not to see. “American anniversaries are often moments to turn a blind eye to the evils of the past and the present,” Glaude writes, “to suppress the fact of America’s divided soul.”
It’s a clever concept, and, needless to say, perfectly timed. Last year, Glaude notes, the Trump administration executed a hostile takeover of the government’s studiously bipartisan 250th anniversary planning. It is now preparing a program that is certain to conceal more than it reveals about the country ostensibly being celebrated.
Glaude, in no mood for celebration, argues that such omissions and evasions also defined commemorations in the past. In 1875, Frederick Douglass predicted “one grand Centennial hosannah of peace and good will to all the white race of this country.” He was right: The nation reached 100 years old at a crucial moment in the post-Civil War fight over racial equality, with white Northerners ready to give up on Southern Reconstruction. The occasion would help the once-warring sections to reunite around a shared commitment to white supremacy. On May 10, 1876, at the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, the police tried to bar Douglass from the grandstand, until a white politician vouched for him.
The 150th anniversary came soon after a resurgent Ku Klux Klan successfully pushed for a restrictive immigration law aimed at keeping America a “Nordic” nation. At the lavishly funded, lightly attended celebrations in Philadelphia, Black veterans of World War I were excluded from marching in the opening parade. A writer with The Associated Negro Press wondered “what was in the breast of those black men who fought to make America safe for Democracy and on Monday stood on the sidelines, forgotten, as the Nordic strode by in all his vain pride.”
By 1976, when the nation marked its Bicentennial, the violence of the ’60s had destroyed any semblance of consensus. Vietnam and Watergate had eroded trust in the government. The commission initially tasked with organizing the anniversary was disbanded amid reports of corruption. Corporations filled the vacuum, Glaude explains, with “star-spangled whoopee cushions; patriotic toilet seats; Liberty hamburgers; red, white and blue beer cans.” The author, around 8 years old at the time, dimly remembers donning a pair of tricolor trousers.
A half-century later, Glaude is refreshingly honest about the depths of his despair. “I do not love America, and never have, especially now,” he writes in one of the more startling opening sentences I’ve read in some time. He dismisses this year’s Semiquincentennial as reaching back “to a storybook America that requires either the banishment of Black people from view or the reduction of our role in the country’s history, so as to affirm America’s ongoing quest to be a more perfect union.”
Undoubtedly true. But Trump doesn’t own the country, at least not yet, nor the 250th anniversary of one of the most radically liberatory and confusingly contradictory events in world history — an inspiration, as Glaude shows, even to critical observers of the American experiment, like Douglass. Far from the revanchist MAGA-palooza in Washington, I suspect this summer’s unasked-for invitation to national soul-searching may surprise us yet.
Despite his despair, Glaude concludes that “the past still offers resources for us to freedom-dream.” So, too, does this book.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries | By Eddie S. Glaude Jr. | Crown | 270 pp. | $31
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