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 In the beginning, the recording industry in America was little more than a laboratory experiment carried out by inventors, technicians and electronic gadgeteers. They always seemed to be on their way to somewhere and something else--a telephone, a dictating machine, a light bulb, wireless long-distance communication. Yet somehow the recording medium was destined to survive and take on a life of its own, a technology of its own, and ultimately a world audience of its own. No sooner had the initial experimentation yielded its first commercial results, when the audience was heard from: "What about us'" they cried. Marching bands and whistling story tellers were fine as they went, but did anybody remember the great melting pot?
The American recording industry in the early years of the 20th century was, thankfully, quick to wake up to the possibilities of marketing certain indigenous music to ethnic groups around the country. There was money to be made (and cultural kudos to be reaped) by the sale of records to groups of every description: Irish, Italian, Negroes and Eastern European Jews to be sure, but also Germans and Poles, Greeks and Danes, Slovaks and Swedes, Albanians, Spaniards, Russians, even Japanese and Chinese immigrants and their families would buy those shiny spinning discs.
As the decades unfolded, the inevitable occurred: Ireland, Italy, Germany, Poland, Greece and all the rest got into the act. Establishing a record business was far less costly (and infinitely more profitable) than setting up a film company. Deals were struck between record companies in different countries with mutual interests, helping artists from one land win followers in another. Manufacturing plants sprouted up in far-flung corners of the globe. In fact, the more exotic the better. World famous singers could now perform in those distant places and know that their records were played on the radio and sold in local stores.
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