Joplin began as a wild, lawless mining camp in the late 19th century, and it still had a reputation as a wide-open town where almost anything went even as late as the Depression era and beyond. A Springfield newspaperman, Franklin Rhoades, ventured to Joplin one evening in January 1934 to visit some of the town's raucous nightspots and report on them. Prohibition had put a bit of a damper on the revelry in Joplin for a few years, but the ban on alcohol had recently been lifted, and Joplin was once again Joplin, according to the reporter.
All seven of the spots Rhoades visited were on the outskirts of town rather than in Joplin proper, and the first place he stopped was the Oriole Terrace between Joplin and Redings Mill. It was "free beer night," which meant that for a 25 cents admission charge, you could have all the beer you could drink throughout the evening. There was a big crowd in attendance, a thick haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and lots of dancing was going on, with a small jazz band playing popular dance music. "The large pavillion was jammed," and "a spirit of maudlin merriment was everywhere." While men of all ages and walks of life were in attendance, most of the women present were under 30 years old, and scantily dressed girls in their teens, wearing heavy makeup, "flitted from lap to lap." A woman from Joplin who accompanied the reporter pointed out a few of the men present and identified them for Rhoades. A man who was trying to drink from the same glass as a tall, red-headed girl managed a department store, and a young man who had his arms around a blonde girl was a holdup man just back from the penitentiary.
At 8:30, the pavilion was cleared for a floor show. "Out tripped a big peroxide blonde in black brassiere and bloomers," said the Springfield reporter. "The crowd went wild, and in answer to their applause, the 'dancer' jerked off the brassiere" and then quickly fled to the dressing room. Even the women joined in the "thunderous applause," and the stripper soon reappeared wearing a yellow evening dress that had the "transparency of cellophane." The blonde's underwear was "an imitation fig leaf" which "remained until the end of her act, but the dress stayed only a few minutes during a ten-minute performance."
The next act was a boy of about 15 who started singing a song, "which lasted about two-thirds of a verse before the guests booed him off the floor." Then "everyone went back to their free beer and wrestling."
The next place the Springfield writer visited was the Korean Club two miles south of the Oriole Terrace, and he found it to be a "poor night" at the Korean, which was decorated in Oriental patterns. The admission was 25 cents, the same as the Oriole Terrace, but there was no floor show and no free beer, only dancing that featured "a 12-piece negro orchestra." Only eight couples were in attendance, all of whom had come out in a group for the chicken dinner served earlier.
Since it was a slow night at the Korean, Rhoades soon moved on to the next place on his list, the Tavern, located in a stucco building on West Seventh Street. While there, he saw several women whom he, being a police reporter, recognized as "Springfield's missing ladies of the evening." If the Springfield police still wanted them, said the reporter, they could find a dozen of them at the Tavern, but in the meantime the women seemed to be "doing right well at entertaining 'lonely bachelors.'"
The Tavern hostess joined Rhoades and his companion at their booth and seemed eager to have him give her place a good write-up. A floor show started shortly after the reporter's arrival: "Two small brunets in evening frocks sang and tap danced the first set. Next was a violin solo by a comely blue-eyed girl."
After the violin solo, the hostess told the reporter to "wait and see what's comin' next." Directly, "a small, shapely young woman skipped out on the floor, wearing high-heeled pumps, and wielding two small fans." Soon she stood erect and dropped the fans, and everyone "clapped, stomped, yelled and whistled." As soon as the fan dancer finished her act, the hostess nudged Rhoades and told him, "Put that in yer paper, Sugarfoot." She added that, when he wrote the place up, he should say that the Tavern had only the best people because she ran an orderly club. "They's men comin' out here what have got nice money to spend--and we see that they has a good time."
The hostess then told the reporter that drinking, dancing, and a floor show weren't the only attractions the Tavern had to offer. Escorting him to an adjoining room, she showed him what he called "the biggest gambling hall I have seen in years." A gaggle of women swarmed around a big roulette wheel, while most of the men were playing faro. Others were playing poker or tossing dice. "Ten grand a week turns over here," the hostess bragged.
Before leaving the Tavern, Rhoades noted that so many drunks were collapsed on tables that a newcomer would have thought all the liquor had already been sold. The clubs Rhoades visited could not legally sell hard liquor, but he said that it was readily available from bootleggers if a person wanted to pay a premium price and that plenty of people seemed eager to pay it.
Farther west on Seventh, the Springfield man stopped at the Cotton Club, Joplin's newest and swankiest nightspot. However, the place was experiencing the same problem as the Korean--very little business. There were about a dozen couples dancing to a 14-piece band, but the manager told Rhoades he was losing up to $250 a week. He said his patrons had spent so much on Christmas that they couldn't afford nightclubs.
Rhoades went to a few other places, like the Sturgeons and the Trading Post, but they mainly featured food instead of entertainment.
Back in Springfield, Rhoades wrote his story up under the headline "Joplin Gives Night-Lifers Plenty to Do." A subhead added, "There's Almost More Excitement Than a Simple Springfield Fellow Can Stand."
The year 1934, of course, did not mark the end of Joplin's lively nightlife. The town was still widely known as a raucous town throughout the World War II era. Toward the end of the war, General Eisenhower, in a radio address announcing that the ban on fraternization between American troops and German women had been lifted, is reported to have said, "Now, Berlin will be like Joplin, Missouri, on a Saturday night."
Indeed, I still occasionally heard older folks remark on Joplin's rowdy reputation ten to fifteen years after the war when I was growing up in the Springfield area.
