We are diving into something truly remarkable
today. Yeah, we really are. If you are joining
us, you likely already have an appreciation for
history, for how, you know, culture evolves,
and you probably enjoy finding the connective
tissue between seemingly unrelated things. Exactly.
The hidden links. Right. Today we are working
with a biographical article focused on a man
named Samuel F. Third. He lived from 1904 to
1982. And our mission for this deep dive is to
trace how this single individual from New Orleans,
quietly, almost invisibly, really engineered
the trajectory of 20th century American entertainment.
It is a totally compelling piece of history to
examine. Because when you look closely at the
timeline provided in the text, you realize you
aren't just reading a biography of one man. You're
really not. No, you're essentially looking at
a functional blueprint for how the modern music
industry was constructed. His career is a perfect
lens through which to view the evolution from
acoustic blues to the birth of rock and roll
and eventually to modern television. And to you
listening right now, I want to set a clear expectation.
The beauty of this deep dive is that you already
know his work. even if you've never heard his
name before today you've definitely heard his
influence oh absolutely whether your playlist
consists of 1920s delta blues the earliest rock
records or you know the sprawling jam sessions
of the gritful dead or even classic tv yes if
you just have fond memories of 1970s television
sitcoms his creative dna is woven into literally
all of it he is arguably one of the most prolific
Hidden figures in the background of American
cultural milestones. So let's ground this in
the beginning. He was born Samuel F. Third in
New Orleans on October 10th, 1904. But his entry
into the entertainment world wasn't through a
traditional avenue. He didn't go to a conservatory
or or even start in a local jazz club. No, he
didn't. In 1923, our source notes that he joined
a circus. A traveling circus. Yeah, circus. And
from there, he eventually transitioned into theaters
and nightclubs. Which requires us to contextualize.
what the entertainment landscape actually looked
like for a young black musician in the American
South in 1923. Right. It wasn't glamorous. Not
at all. There was no established, comfortable
touring circuit. Joining a traveling circus or
a tent show was often the only viable infrastructure
available to get out of your hometown and actually
get paid to perform. Wow. It was a grueling,
demanding environment. You had to capture the
attention of transient, unpredictable crowds.
You didn't just play music, you entertained.
You learned audience psychology in the most unforgiving
venues imaginable. And to survive in that landscape,
you apparently needed to be incredibly adaptable.
Right down to your own identity. Yes. Okay, let's
unpack this. Because the aliases Heard used throughout
his career are a story all on their own. He recorded
and performed under names like Love and Sam from
Down and Bam. A classic stage name. Right. He
also went by Sam Parpley and perhaps most famously,
Spodiod. What's fascinating here is what those
aliases reveal about the underlying business
mechanics of the early recording industry. Well,
in the 1920s and 30s, artists generally did not
have the kind of exclusive multi -year contracts
we see today. They operated in a relentless gig
economy. Just bouncing from job to job. Exactly.
They were often paid flat fees for a recording
session with zero promise of future royalties.
So using different names wasn't just a quirky
artistic choice. It was a deliberate business
strategy. Ah, to get around the labels. Precisely.
It allowed an artist to bypass restrictive agreements
with one label and get paid by a competing studio
in the same week without getting sued. But wait,
if you're constantly changing your name to hustle
different labels, doesn't that actively hurt
your ability to build a lasting, recognizable
legacy? I mean, if no one knows Sam Third is
also Sam Tarkley, how do you become a star? That
is the crucial tradeoff. You are sacrificing
long -term historical legacy for short -term
financial survival. That makes sense. In that
era, putting food on the table next week was
far more pressing than whether music historians
would remember your name a century later. He
was a working -class entertainer optimizing for
the immediate hustle. That makes a lot of sense.
And that hustle immediately pays off. By 1929,
we see his first major breakthrough recording
for Brunswick Records. Under the name Love and
Sam from Down and Bam, he records a track called,
and I love this title, I'll Be Glad When You're
Dead, You Rascal, You. It's an incredible track.
And he's accompanied by some serious heavyweights
on it, Tampa Red and Cal Davenport. Playing with
Tampa Red in 1929 is a significant marker of
status. Camper Red was one of the most influential
blues guitarists of the era. The fact that Third
is holding his own in that room and recording
a track that the article notes became widely
covered by other artists proves he wasn't just
in a novelty act. He was the real deal. He was
a top -tier lyricist and performer. And right
on cue with that business strategy you mentioned,
he doesn't stay loyal to Brunswick. Of course
not. He records for them until 1931, but by 1930,
he's already showing up on the Janet label as
Sam Tarpley. Then a few years later in 1934,
he is cutting tracks for Decca Records, this
time backed by the legendary pianist Albert Ammons.
It demonstrates incredible agility. He is fluidly
moving between the premier acoustic bluesmen
like Tampa Red and the pioneers of boogie -woogie
piano like Albert Ammons. He is absorbing these
different styles, which naturally expands his
own songwriting vocabulary. Which perfectly explains
a detail from the source material that is just
wild to think about. The Grateful Dead connection.
Yes. In 1936, while at DECA, Third records a
song with a very distinctive title. It was called
New Rubbing on that darn old thing. Quite a mouthful.
Right. Fast forward several decades, and the
Grateful Dead decide to record this exact same
song, though they shorten the title to just The
Rub. It is a brilliant example of musical archaeology.
The Grateful Dead, particularly Jerry Garcia,
were obsessive musicologists. Yeah, really were.
They actively mined the 1920s and 30s acoustic
blues and jug band repertoires to find authentic,
roots -level American music to build their sprawling
rock arrangements around. The fact that they
selected a Sam Third B -side from 1936 shows
that his songwriting possessed a structural integrity
and a timeless quality that resonated perfectly
with the 1960s counterculture. So his music is
traveling through time, but in his own timeline,
he's evolving yet again. We enter the late 1930s,
and he leans heavily into the Spode -O -D persona.
That's where things really shift. Yeah. He records
a track actually called Spodey O .D. for Vocalion
in 1937. He drops a slightly watered down version
of it for Decca in 1940. And he completely retires
the Love and Sam moniker after a final recording
for Bleabird in 1938. And that transition is
vital because Spodey O .D. wasn't just a name
on a record sleeve. It became a fully fleshed
out stage persona. It allowed him to transition
out of pure music and into a different kind of
performance altogether. Exactly. And this is
where the Apollo theater comes in. A legendary
Apollo. Yes. The text notes that during the 1930s
and 40s, under the name Spodey O .D., he was
performing as a comedian at the Apollo in Harlem.
We all know the reputation of the Apollo. It
is historically one of the most demanding, ruthless
rooms in American entertainment. Without a doubt.
If you weren't good, you were booed off the stage
immediately. Precisely. To survive. let alone
thrive, as a comedian at the Apollo requires
an absolute mastery of audience connection, pacing,
and above all, timing. And if you think about
it, comedy is fundamentally about rhythm. Oh,
that's a great point. The setup, the pause, the
punchline, it relies on the exact same syncopation
and phrasing as a great blues lyric. His ability
to command that stage proves he understood the
architecture of entertainment on a very deep
level. Here's where it gets really interesting.
Because that deep understanding of timing and
rhythm puts him in the room with the biggest
hitmakers of the era. The year is 1942. Sam Third
co -writes a song with the immensely popular
band leader, Louis Jordan. A massive star at
the time. The song is an absolute cultural touchstone
with the good times roll. But when the record
comes out, the official songwriting credits don't
list Sam Third and Louis Jordan. They list Sam
Third and a woman named Fleecy Moore. And who
was Fleecy Moore? Fleecy Moore was Lou Jordan's
wife. This raises an important question for anyone
studying the history of the music business. Who
actually owned the rights to the culture being
produced? Clearly not always the people writing
it. No. The reality of music publishing in the
1940s was incredibly opaque and often predatory.
Band leaders like Louis Jordan wielded immense
power. Putting a spouse's name on a copyright
was a notorious industry loophole. Why would
they do that? It allowed a prominent artist to
bypass union limits. dodge contractual obligations
with their own publishers, and ensure the lucrative
songwriting royalties stayed in their own household,
rather than splitting them fairly with the actual
creators in the room. Wow. So Perd co -writes
a massive anthem, but the structural mechanics
of the industry ensure he doesn't get the full
financial or historical credit he deserves. Did
this ruin their working relationship? Interestingly,
no. They continued to collaborate. Louis Jordan
and his Tempany Five formally recorded Let the
Good Times Roll in 1946, turning it into a defining
hit of the era. And Furr didn't just write for
Jordan. He actually appeared as an actor in Jordan's
musical film, Caldonia. He acted in it. He did.
It suggests that while the publishing deals were
cutthroat, the creative ecosystem was deeply
intertwined. Third understood the game and chose
to stay in the room where the hits were being
made. And staying in that room allowed him to
help build the bridge to the next major cultural
shift. Rock and roll. Exactly. We hit 1950. Third
co -writes and records a song with Hal Singer
from Mercury Records. The title of this track,
Rock Around the Clock. We must navigate this
carefully to be historically accurate. Right.
It's not the Bill Haley song. Correct. This 1950
recording is not the exact same song as the world
famous Bill Haley and his Comets track that exploded
a few years later. However, the source material
explicitly notes the third song partly inspired
Haley's definitive rock anthem. And that is the
crucial takeaway. He planted the seed. Yes. Third
was taking the lyrical themes, the aggressive
rhythm, and the attitude of the blues and R &B
clubs and packaging it into a structure that
directly paved the way for rock and roll. He
was laying the foundation stones that others
would eventually stand on to achieve global fame.
It's incredible to realize how much groundwork
he was doing behind the scenes. And Rock Around
the Clock wasn't an isolated incident. The 1940s
and 50s see him acting as a relentless collaborator.
Let's look at some of these partnerships, because
it shows how widely his influence spread across
different genres. In 1947, he writes Hard Riding
Mama with Rudy Tunes. Which was recorded by Wynonie
Harris. Right. Which is a perfect example of
his impact. Wynonie Harris was a pioneer of jump
blues, that loud up -tempo, brass -heavy sound
that was the direct predecessor to rhythm and
blues. By writing for Harris, Third is actively
shaping the transition from the big band jazz
era into the harder, faster R &B sound. He's
also singing with Tiny Parham and the brilliant
trumpeter Hot Lips Page. He even possibly co
-wrote Page's 1949 track The Egg or The Hen.
He collaborates with Henry Glover, who was a
massive producer at King Records, to write I've
Been Around. Then he forms a writing partnership
with pianist Teddy Brannan. And that partnership
with Brannan yields incredibly high -profile
placements. Exactly. 1950, they write If You
See My Baby, and it gets picked up and recorded
by Count Basie. Count Basie. Yes. That same year,
Wynonie Harris records their track Stormy Night
Blues, which they co -wrote with Henry Glover.
The following year, the legendary Eddie Cleanhead
Vinson records their composition Homeboy. And
Roy Eldridge, one of the most important trumpet
players in jazz history, records another of their
tunes, Baby, What's the Matter With You? When
you look at that roster, Count Basie. Roy Eldridge,
Winoni Harris, Hot Lips Pager. You are looking
at the true architects of mid -century American
music. But notice who was standing in the center
of all those different rooms. Sam Heard. Sam
Heard. He possessed a rare chameleon -like ability
to understand exactly what a jump -blue shouter
needed, what a big band leader needed, and what
a jazz trumpeter needed. He was the ultimate
room enhancer. So what does this all mean? We
have a man who has survived the 1920s circus
circuit, navigated the cutthroat publishing world
of the Apollo era, written for jazz royalty,
and seeded the concepts for early rock and roll.
Most people would take a bow and retire. Most
people would, yes. But Third executes one final
unbelievable pivot. The last decade of his life,
stretching into the 1970s, sees him reinventing
himself entirely as a television actor. It is
the ultimate testament to his adaptability. The
man who learned how to hold a crowd in a dusty
tent in 1923 took those exact same vaudevillian
instincts, refined them as a comedian at the
Apollo, and finally translated them to the screen.
And not just small local broadcasts. We are talking
about prime time, culturally dominant 1970s television.
He secures acting roles on massive hit sitcoms
like Sanford and Son and Little House on the
Prairie. He's just wild. He successfully bridged
the gap between the Chitlin Circuit and network
television. The sheer longevity required to pull
that off is staggering. Unfortunately, every
story has its final act. The article concludes
by noting his passing on December 7, 1982. He
died at St. Vincent Medical Center in Los Angeles
at the age of 78 due to complications from a
stroke. It is a quiet end to a remarkably loud
and vibrant life. If we connect this to the bigger
picture, Sam Third's 50 -year career forces us
to rethink how we view the history of entertainment.
We tend to focus on the solo genius, the star
with her name in the largest font on the marquee.
Right, the frontman. But Third proves that culture
is actually driven by the adaptable, relentless
workers in the background. The ones changing
their names to secure a recording session, the
ones ghostwriting the hits, the ones using comedy
to survive the toughest stages in America. He
didn't always own the spotlight, but his fingerprints
are all over the machinery that built it. As
we wrap up this deep dive, I want to leave you
with a thought to explore on your own. We spent
this entire time looking back at how a creator
like Sam Third operated in the shadows of the
20th century music industry, hiding behind aliases
and lost writing credits. But look at how music
is consumed today. The landscape has changed
again. It has. With the rise of algorithmic playlists,
modern ghost producers and the increasing presence
of AI generated tracks, the true identity of
who or what is actually creating our music is
becoming blurrier than ever before. Are we entering
an era where everyone is essentially a modern
Spode OD hiding behind a digital avatar while
the mechanics of the industry remain just as
opaque as they were in 1942? It is a profound
parallel. The technology has changed entirely,
but the strategy of the hustle might be exactly
the same. It really makes you question what you're
actually listening to. Thank you for joining
you on this deep dive into the extraordinary
life of Sam Third. We hope this exploration has
given you a new perspective on the hidden figures
who build our culture. Keep questioning the history
you think you know, and we will see you next
time.