Entertainment
This silent-film-era instrument is disappearing. Not on Joe’s watch
If you walked past Joe Rinaudo’s house in La Crescenta-Montrose, you probably wouldn’t think anything extraordinary of it. You wouldn’t expect, for example, that it contains a 20-seat silent movie theater with a semi-complete organ, a mini museum dedicated to instruments of the silent cinema era, or an extensive basement workshop whirring with the sounds of power tools. And you certainly wouldn’t expect the 74-year-old Rinaudo seated at a century-old instrument, yanking pull-cords and pushing pedals while the machine in front of him whirs and whistles to a rag-timey tune.
The instrument is Rinaudo’s primary passion in life, an American invention that was key to the viewing experience of silent films in the early 20th century but has been forgotten by most of the country: the photoplayer.
Joe Rinaudo plays a photoplayer in his living room.
A cousin to self-playing player pianos, photoplayers automatically play music read out of perforated piano rolls. During their slim heyday — from their invention around 1910 until about 1930, when the silent film era is thought to have ended — photoplayers delighted audiences (mostly in the U.S.) as accompaniments to silent movies, especially Buster Keaton-esque comedies. But then the talkies came, and photoplayers were rendered obsolete, slipping out of public awareness as quickly as they came on scene. Rinaudo, in love with these instruments and their role in silent cinema, has spent more than half a century tracking down, restoring and sharing the word about old photoplayers and similar instruments. And as he ages, Rinaudo hopes to guarantee the preservation of the photoplayer’s legacy with the creation of a nonprofit organization dedicated to the restoration of and education about these instruments and silent cinema.
Among the small community of people who adore the photoplayer, Rinaudo is something of a patron saint. “When people think of photoplayers, they think of him,” says Nate Otto, a restorer of player pianos and similar instruments including photoplayers in Anoka, Minn. Rinaudo’s notoriety is in no small part thanks to the visibility of the many YouTube videos of his playing, including a clip of his 2006 spotlight on “California’s Gold With Huell Howser” that’s been viewed 2.6 million times. Rinaudo is also a central connective figure for the dozen or so folks who actively restore or play photoplayers. “He knows pretty much all the American photoplayers that are currently being restored,” says Otto, “because all of us have contacted him for one reason or another.”
Preserving this slice of American culture and passing it down to younger generations is “my life’s work,” says Rinaudo. But it’s no easy task given how few exist today and how little access the public has to see them. Of the approximately 4,500 instruments produced between 1911 and 1926 by American Photo Player Co. — one of the earliest and most prominent photoplayer producers, and the brand of photoplayer Rinaudo is specifically passionate about — only about 50 still exist worldwide, and only about a dozen of them are in playable condition. Just one photoplayer, which Rinaudo restored and donated to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, exists in a public space. The rest are tucked away — some owned by people like Rinaudo who play them and put them to use, but most stashed away by private collectors.
Of the known remaining photoplayers, Rinaudo has either owned or helped restore about six of them over the years — and at one point he owned four at once.
Born in Santa Monica in 1951, Rinaudo grew up when silent movies still aired on his family’s black-and-white television. His parents had a player piano in the living room, and at a young age Rinaudo learned how to service it when it needed repairs. As a teenager, he thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if the player piano could play along with a silent movie?” But that wasn’t really doable. Player pianos have space for just one piano roll, so when the track you’re playing runs out, you’re forced into a moment of awkward silence as you wait for the instrument’s spool to rewind so you can swap in the next track. At first he tried jerry-rigging his own setup to accommodate two rolls. But then, Rinaudo recalls, “An old timer said, ‘What are you doing that for? Why don’t you buy one of them photoplayers?’ And I said, ‘What’s a photoplayer?’”
Joe Rinaudo has a museum area in his home dedicated to preserving the history of photoplayers and other bygone film accessories.
Rinaudo spent the next few years searching for one, cold-calling player piano sellers, theater owners and antique shops. When he was 19, he got his first real lead. Word was that the Hoyt Hotel in Portland, Ore., had a photoplayer and a performer who could put on a show. Rinaudo cajoled a buddy to drive them up in his Volkswagen van one weekend. “This hotel was fabulous,” remembers Rinaudo, with a ballroom styled like a turn-of-the-20th-century bar with gas lights. And then there was the photoplayer.
“I was blown away by the sound coming out of it,” says Rinaudo. “People were singing and screaming and clapping — it was just unbelievable. And I thought, ‘I’ve got to have one of those.’”
When the Hoyt shut down a year later, that very same photoplayer went up for auction. Rinaudo drove back up, but was outbid at $8,600 (limited as he was by a 20-year-old’s income). A year later, he got wind of a man looking to sell a photoplayer for $5,000. He went to go see it, but once again he “just couldn’t afford it.”
But providence kept giving Rinaudo chances. A year later, the seller of that photoplayer came back to Rinaudo and offered it to him for just $3,500. Rinaudo’s first photoplayer was secured, and he would spend the next two years restoring the instrument in the living room of his parent’s house. “At first they were a little worried,” he says, about how he was spending his time and the mess in their house, “but they came around.” To learn how to restore his instrument, Rinaudo enlisted the help of a mechanic friend who taught him how to fix all the valves, gears, pipes and bellows. (For work, using the skills he learned, Rinaudo entered the automechanic business, but later left to start his own lighting business, which he still operates.)
A collection of photoplayer rolls sits on top of Joe Rinaudo’s photoplayer.
As soon as his photoplayer became playable, Rinaudo sat and practiced every day. Now, “I don’t know of any other players that can perform like I do,” he says. And when a photoplayer is performed live, “the whole room vibrates,” says Bruce Newman, a restorer of pneumatic instruments, including photoplayers, in Oregon who had the pleasure of seeing Rinaudo play in his home about 25 years ago. “You’re feeling it in the core of your body and it’s exhilarating.”
Over the years, Rinaudo continued to hunt for photoplayers, incessantly putting out the word to whoever might hear of a lead. He finally managed to purchase the Hoyt Hotel photoplayer, which wound up in Arizona. Other adventures included traveling to a warehouse in Seattle, but he couldn’t afford the asking price; getting outbid at a Las Vegas auction; driving to an old theater in Fresno that was said to have a photoplayer, only to learn that the building had been torn down; hopping through antique stores in Bakersfield after hearing a rumor; and searching an old 19th century San Diego hotel and coming up empty.
While Joe Rinaudo mostly focuses on photoplayers, he also has other memorabilia in his home, including this old film camera and a phonograph.
“One time, one guy told me, ‘There’s a photoplayer buried in the belly of the Regent Theater in downtown Los Angeles,’” says Rinaudo. He tracked down the owner in 1969, who brought him inside the dark, rat-infested building with a sledgehammer. The owner smashed through the stage, but there was no photoplayer. “That was one of many wild goose chases that I had to go on, because you never know,” Rinaudo says. “It was like I was on a hunt, or an archaeological dig.”
As he searched over the years, Rinaudo found a community of restorers who shared leads, expertise and parts. He built up a reputation. “I do see him as an authority,” says Newman. “If I have trouble identifying something, I call up Joe and he can help me figure it out.” And when YouTube came along, Rinaudo started sharing videos of himself performing, which many photoplayer lovers, including Newman and Otto, credit as their introduction to these instruments. A few thousand loyal followers keep tabs on Rinaudo’s work and performances via Facebook or through his Silent Cinema Society blog posts and newsletter.
Despite these admirers, whether photoplayers will survive the coming decades is in question. Most restorers are about Rinaudo’s age. At 61, Bruce Newman is on the younger side, and at 36, Otto — who Rinaudo calls “the future” — is the youngest by far. As Rinaudo sees it, photoplayers are meant to be played and enjoyed, but while his videos have undoubtedly helped grow an international awareness of and enthusiasm for photoplayers, the pool of restorers is not growing. And the future of the instruments’ playability is at stake.
“I’ve taken it upon myself to carry that torch,” says Rinaudo. To that end, he and a few friends and collaborators are starting a nonprofit group, Silent Cinema Art and Technology, dedicated to the preservation of and education about silent films and instruments like the photoplayer. The hope is that the organization can be a sustainable vehicle for raising money to fund future restorations. Rinaudo plans to use his home theater and museum space — a temple to his passion — to put on shows and screenings for benefactors and offer limited group tours and educational opportunities for children. He hopes that the nonprofit can preserve and use the theater and museum even after he’s gone.
“It’s a calling,” says Rinaudo, referring to the desire to share the gospel of the photoplayer and keep the history of silent cinema alive. “My dad always used to tell me, ‘You must leave this Earth in better condition than you found it,’” he says. “Everybody has to find their path to do that, and I hope I found mine. I think I have.”
Joe Rinaudo hopes to host tours and educational opportunities at his home theater and museum through a nonprofit group dedicated to preserving photoplayers.
Entertainment
Bob Spitz proves the Rolling Stones are rock’s greatest band in magnificent new biography
By early 1963, the Station Hotel in London had become an epicenter of the burgeoning British blues scene. On a blustery, snowy night that February, the Rolling Stones’ classic early lineup took the stage for one of the first times, dazzling the audience with ferocious renditions of blues standards like Muddy Waters’ “I Want to Be Loved” and Jimmy Reed’s “Bright Lights, Big City.”
Multi-instrumentalist Brian Jones, the band’s founder and leader, synchronized guitars with Keith Richards, who favored a distinctive slashing and stinging style. Drummer Charlie Watts, the group’s newest member, a jazz aficionado and an accomplished percussionist, propelled the music forward with a rock-solid beat.
Anchoring the rhythm section with him was bassist Bill Wyman, who was recruited more for his spare VOX AC30 amp that the guitarists could plug into than for his musical skills. The stoic bassist proved a strong and innovative player. Together, he and Watts would go on to form one of rock’s most decorated rhythm sections.
Ian Stewart’s energetic boogie-woogie piano style rounded out the sound. Months later, manager Andrew Loog Oldham kicked him out of the band for being “ugly,” although Stewart continued to record, tour and serve as the band’s road manager until his death in 1985.
This April 8, 1964, file photo shows the Rolling Stones during a rehearsal. The members, from left, are Brian Jones, guitar; Bill Wyman, bass; Charlie Watts, drums; Mick Jagger, vocals; and Keith Richards, guitar.
(Associated Press)
Fronting the group was Mick Jagger. Channeling the music like a crazed shaman, Jagger shimmied and sashayed, owning the stage like few lead singers have before or since. By the end of the night, the Stones had the crowd in a frenzy. Although only 30 people had made it to the gig because of the treacherous weather conditions, the hotel’s booker had seen enough: He offered the Stones a regular gig.
“The Rolling Stones had caught fire. The music they were playing and the way they played it struck a chord with a young crowd starved for something different, something their own… It was soul-stirring, loud and uncompromising,” writes Bob Spitz in “The Rolling Stones: The Biography,” his magisterial work that charts the 60-year journey of “the greatest rock and roll band in the world.”
Spitz, the author of strong biographies on the Beatles and Led Zeppelin, as well as Ronald Reagan and Julia Child, captures the drama, trauma and betrayals that have kept the Stones in the public’s consciousness for more than six decades. It’s all here: The Stones’ evolution from a blues cover band to artistic rival of the Beatles; the musical peaks — “Aftermath,” “Let It Bleed” and “Exile on Main Street” as well as misfires like “Dirty Work”; Keith’s descent into a debilitating heroin addiction that nearly destroyed him and the band; the death of the ‘60s at the ill-fated Altamont free concert; Marianne Faithfull, Anita Pallenberg, Bianca Jagger, Jerry Hall and other lovers, partners and muses; the breakups, makeups and crackups; and perhaps most important, the unbreakable bond between Jagger and Richards at the center of it all.
Although Spitz unearths little new information, he excels at presenting the Stones in glorious Technicolor. Spitz homes in on the telling details and anecdotes that give the band’s story a deep richness and poignancy.
Take “Satisfaction,” the Stones’ 1965 classic and first U.S. chart topper. The oft-told story is that Richards woke up in the middle of the night, grabbed the guitar that was next to his bed, and recorded the iconic riff and the phrase “I can’t get no … satisfaction” on a cassette recorder in his Clearwater, Fla., hotel room before falling back asleep. But as Spitz notes, the song initially went nowhere in the studio. That is until Stewart purchased a fuzz box for Richards a few days later, which gave the tune a raunchier sound that perfectly matched Jagger’s lyrics of frustration and alienation. A classic was born.
Piercing the Stones mythology
Spitz’s deep reporting often pierces the mythology surrounding the band. Contrary to the popular belief of many fans, for instance, Jones bears much of the responsibility for the rift with his bandmates and his tragic demise.
The most musically adventurous member of the group — he plays sitar on “Paint It Black” and dulcimer on “Lady Jane” — Jones wasn’t a songwriter. That stoked his jealousies and insecurities, along with frontman Jagger stealing the spotlight from him. A monster of a man, Jones impregnated multiple teenage girls and physically and emotionally abused several women, including Pallenberg. Perhaps that’s why she left him for Richards. Over time, Jones made fewer contributions in the studio and onstage, becoming a catatonic drug casualty. The Stones fired Jones in June 1969 but would have been justified doing so a couple years earlier. He drowned in his pool less than a month later.
Author Bob Spitz
(Elena Seibert)
Similarly, Stones lore has long romanticized the making of “Exile on Main Street” in the stifling, dingy basement of Richards’ rented Villa Nellcôte in the South of France, where the Stones had decamped to avoid British taxes. In this telling, Richards, deep in the throes of heroin addiction, somehow managed to come up with one indelible riff after another built around his signature open G tuning — taught to him by Ry Cooder — leading the band to create one of the best albums in rock history. That’s not entirely accurate, according to Spitz.
Yes, Richards came up with the licks for “Rocks Off,” “Happy” and “Tumbling Dice.” But it’s equally true that a strung-out Richards missed myriad recording sessions, invited dealers, hangers-on and other distractions to Nellcôte, and repeatedly failed to turn up to write with Jagger. Far from completing the album in the druggy haze of a French basement, the band spent six months on overdubs at Sunset Sound in Los Angeles, where Jagger contributed many of his vocals.
Beatles vs. Stones
One of the more interesting themes Spitz develops is the symbiotic relationship between the Beatles and Stones, with the Fab Four mostly overshadowing them — until they didn’t.
John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote “I Wanna Be Your Man” and gave it to the Stones, whose 1963 rendition, with Jones on slide guitar, became the group’s first UK Top 20 hit. The Lennon-McCartney songwriting partnership inspired Jagger and Richards to begin penning their own songs. In early 1964, the Beatles came to the U.S. for the first time, making television history with their appearance on “The Ed Sullivan Show” and playing Carnegie Hall. A few months later, the Stones kicked off their inaugural American tour at the Swing Auditorium in San Bernardino. In 1967, the Beatles released “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” a psychedelic masterpiece. The Stones responded with “Their Satanic Majesties Request,” a psychedelic mess.
The Rolling Stones: The Biography cover
As the Beatles began to splinter, Spitz writes, the Stones sharpened their focus. The band released “Beggars Banquet” in late 1968 and “Let It Bleed” the following year, albums every bit as innovative and visionary as “The White Album” and “Abbey Road.” For the first time, the two groups stood as equals.
When the Beatles broke up in 1970, the Stones kept rolling. With Jones replaced by virtuoso guitarist Mick Taylor — whose fluid, melodic style served as a tasty foil to Richards — they produced what many consider their finest works, “Sticky Fingers” and “Exile on Main Street.” More impressively, the band, with Taylor’s successor, Ronnie Wood, has continued to dazzle audiences with incendiary live shows, touring as recently as 2024 behind the late-career triumph “Hackney Diamonds.” The Beatles, by contrast, retired from the road in 1966 and devoted their energies to the studio.
Hundreds of books have been written about the Rolling Stones, but few sparkle quite like Spitz’s. For anyone who loves or even likes the Stones, it’s indispensable.
Like most of the band’s biographers, Spitz gives short shrift to the post-“Exile” period after 1972. He curtly dismisses 2005’s strong “A Bigger Bang” and 2016’s “Blue & Lonesome,” a back-to-basics album of blues covers, as “adequate endeavors that signaled a band living on borrowed time.” That critique is both off target and under-developed. Spitz ignores the band’s legendary live album, “Brussels Affair,” recorded in 1973, or why the band waited decades before officially releasing it.
These are small quibbles. Spitz has written a book worthy of its 704-page length; another 50 or so pages covering the later years would have made it even stronger. To quote the Rolling Stones: “I know it’s only rock ‘n roll, but I like it, like it, yes, I do.”
Marc Ballon, a former Times, Forbes and Inc. Magazine reporter, teaches an advanced writing class at USC. He lives in Fullerton.
‘4’, the opening track on Richard D James’ (Aphex Twin) self titled 1996 album is a piece of music that beautifully balances the chaotic with the serene, the oppressive and the freeing. It’s a trick that James has pulled off multiple times throughout his career and it is a huge part of what makes him such an iconic and influential artist. Many people have laid the “next Aphex Twin” label on musicians who do things slightly different and when you actually hear their music you realise that, once again, the label is flawed and applied with a lazy attitude. Why mention this? Well, it turns out we’ve been looking for James’ heir apparent in the wrong artform. We’ve so zoned in on music that we’ve not noticed that another Celtic son of Cornwall is rewriting an art form with that highwire balancing act between chaos and beauty. That artist is writer, director and composer Mark Jenkin who over his last two feature films has announced himself as an idiosyncratic voice who is creating his very own language within the world of cinema. Jenkin’s films are often centred around coastal towns or islands and whilst they are experimental or even unsettling, there is always a big heart at the centre of the narrative. A heart that cares about family, tradition, culture, and the pull of ‘home’. Even during the horror of 2022’s brilliant Enys Men you were anchored by the vulnerability and determination of its main protagonist.
This month sees the release of Jenkin’s latest feature film, Rose of Nevada, which is set in a fractured and diminished Cornish coastal town. One day the fishing boat of the film’s title arrives back in harbour after being missing for thirty years. The boat is unoccupied. And frankly that is all the information you are going to get because to discuss any more plot would be unfair on you and disrespectful to Jenkin and the team behind the film. You the viewer should be the one who decides what it is about because thematically there are so many wonderful threads to pull on. This writer’s opinions on what it is about have ranged from a theme of sacrifice for the good of a community to the conflict within when part of you wants to run away from your roots whilst the other half longs to stay and be a lifelong part of its tapestry. Is it about Brexit? Could be. Is it about our own relationships with time and our curation of memory? Could be. Is it about both the positives and negatives of nostalgia? Could be. As a side note, anyone in their mid-40s, like me, who came of age in the 1990s will certainly find moments of warm recognition. Is the film about ghosts and how they haunt families? Could be…I think you get the point.
The elements that make the film so well balanced between chaos and calm are many. It is there in the differing performances between the brilliant two lead actors George MacKay and Callum Turner. It is there in the sound design which fluctuates from being unbearably harsh and metallic, to lulling and warm. It is there in the editing where short, sharp close ups on seemingly unimportant factors are counterbalanced with shots that are held for just that little bit too long. For a film set around the sea, it is apt that it can make you feel like you’re rolling on a stomach churning storm one minute, or a calming low tide the next. Dialogue can be front and centre or blurred and buried under static. One shot is bathed in harsh sunlight whilst the next can be drowned in interior shadows.
Rose of Nevada is Mark Jenkin’s most ambitious film to date yet he has not lost a single iota of innovation, singularity of vision or his gift for telling the most human of stories. It is a film that will tell you different things each time you see it and whilst there are moments that can confuse or beguile, there is so much empathy and love that it can leave you crying tears of emotional understanding. It is chaotic. It is beautiful. It is life……
Rose of Nevada is released on the 24th April.
Mark Jenkin Instagram | Threads
Released through the BFI – Instagram | Facebook
Review by Simon Tucker
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