Photo Essay: A Rare Pipe Organ Hides Inside a Fake Spanish Village in Santa Barbara

I'm less spontaneous than I used to be. My calendar has gotten more filled with scheduled events, rendering me less likely to wake up and ask myself, "What should I do today?"

But when I saw a last minute notice that the Santa Barbara Theatre Organ Society was having an open console event at the Arlington Theatre in Downtown Santa Barbara last weekend, I knew what I had to do.

 

I don't get to Santa Barbara that often, despite it being only 90 miles north of me, and I hadn't been to any of its historic theatres yet. Besides, we'd been having heat advisories in LA for days—so I was grateful for the cloud cover and cooler temperatures up the coast.

The Arlington is located along the old overland stagecoach route that ran from 1861 to 1901—when the Arlington Hotel stood in this very spot. In 1909, an electrical fire burned the wooden structure down; and in 1911, a newly rebuilt hotel rose in its place. The 1925 Santa Barbara earthquake destroyed the second Arlington Hotel, the remains of which were subsequently razed (along with much of the rest of downtown).

 

The (hopefully quake-proof) Arlington Theatre was built in 1931 for Fox West Coast Theatres—and in those early years, the studio used it to preview its movie releases outside of LA with major test screenings shown here.

 

 

Today, the former Fox Arlington (Metropolitan Theatres took over sometime in the 1950s and bought the building in 1975) operates as a performing arts theatre and first-run cinema...

...showing summer blockbusters like Minions & Monsters and screening selections for the Santa Barbara International Film Festival.

 

It no longer has official ties with the Fox studio, but you can still find a few "F" letters around.

 

Like the Egyptian and the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, the Arlington has a large forecourt...

 

...but this Paseo is a covered courtyard lobby, replete with soaring Spanish arches and a prototypically Spanish tiled fountain in the center.

It's sometimes attributed to the Mission Revival style of architecture, but it's really a Spanish atmospheric fantasy—evoking less of the California Missions and more of a village in Andalusia. (Spanish Colonial Revival is sometimes used interchangeably with Mission Revival, but in this case I think it's the more accurate term. A 1932 article in Motion Picture Herald called it "truly Spanish.")

 

 

But the architectural team of Edwards and Plunkett included a bit of that Rancho Period nostalgia so associated with Santa Barbara, too—including a mural at the entrance loggia, with traditional Spanish dancers as depicted by artist Samuel Armstrong.

 

It had taken me two hours to drive there from Beverly Hills, so of course I was running late and showed up with only 30 minutes left to the open house.

 

I scrambled to the front of the auditorium, barely noticing that the side walls were formed by three-dimensional Spanish village buildings—roofs, balconies, windows, and all.

 

Photo: Mike Hume's Historic Theatre Photography (used with permission)

Reportedly the lighting fixtures were painstakingly replicated from measurements of Catalonian street lamps of the 14th, 15th, and 16th centuries. 

 

I made a beeline to the organist, who was playing a circa 1928 "Wonder Morton" theatre organ (not a Wurlitzer) from the organ lift located in the center of the curved orchestra pit. It's one of only five of its kind manufactured by Robert-Morton of Van Nuys, California—that is, before the company went out of business in 1931. Because it's an organ meant to accompany silent films, it has some fun practical sound effects like a police whistle, birds chirping, horse hoofs, and an airplane motor.

Originally built for and installed in Loew's Jersey Theatre in Jersey City, New Jersey, it was moved into storage in Dallas in 1977 and brought to Santa Barbara in 1986, when the Santa Barbara Theatre Organ Society lovingly restored it to as-new condition.

 

 

As it was built nearly 100 years ago, it had four keyboards (4-manual) and 24 ranks (individual sets of wind-blown pipes sharing the same tone, like trumpet or some other horn)—but sometime since, it's been expanded to 27 ranks of about 2000 pipes. 

 

This, like many theater organs, is electro-pneumatic—meaning all the pipes (both metal and wooden) and other instruments (including some actual drums and bells) are all air-operated by air valves that are controlled via electrical wires.

Photo: Mike Hume's Historic Theatre Photography (used with permission)

An impromptu tour took us through the pipe chamber at stage right—but there was so much more to behold. My guide could sense my enthusiasm—and since he could tell that I like history, he walked me through the lobby, under those handmade Catalonian chandeliers hanging from a vaulted ceiling, and headed upstairs yet another way. 

 

Although the upstairs is officially closed (reportedly they don't use it anymore), we climbed the balcony stairs, admiring the ironwork handrails...

...and glazed Tunisian tiles (as were common at the time at such Santa Barbara locales as Casa del Herrero and the Santa Barbara Courthouse)...

 

 

...until we reached the projection room. 

Because the theatre still occasionally screens 35mm film, it's got a Strong International Ultra 80 projector with a platter system in addition to its digital projection equipment. 

 

 

It's also got a couple of antiques tucked away up there, including a Brenkert Master Brenograph projector of special lighting effects, once adding to the atmospheric ambiance of the Andalusian village below. 

 

Those 35mm platters were pretty heavy, so the theater used to employ the help of a dumbwaiter (no longer in use, but the shaft is still there). 

Among the other areas that are now off-limits to the public are a patio that overlooks the city towards the mountains, reportedly once used by celebrities attending their big Hollywood screenings as nightclub or speakeasy. 

 

They could watch their movies (and observe audience reactions) from a private balcony up there...

...but now it's just used for the back-of-house spotlight. 

 

 

There were so many things to see in such little time, but I delighted at every little detail I could soak in, from the red plastic marquee letters...

 

...to the blower that puffs the wind that makes the pipes sing...

...the bottom of the bell tower that never housed any bells (but used to sport a neon sign that spelled F-O-X)...

    

Photo: Mike Hume's Historic Theatre Photography (used with permission)

...and the attic above where the ceiling used to twinkle. 

There's so much more to say about this theatre, and my visit was by no means comprehensive, but I do think I crammed in a lot in less than an hour—and much more than I ever expected.

For a much more exhaustive exploration, check out my friend Mike Hume's Historic Theatre Photography blog. (And thanks to Mike for letting me share some of his photos on this post, which are credited to him above.)

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I'd never seen the Conservatory displays at night—and I thought it might be a little less crowded, since Vegas itself is pretty quiet on Thanksgiving. 

Photo Essay: Silver City, A Ghost Town Made of Pieces of Other Ghost Towns

When I first moved to California, some places just seemed so far away. It was impossible for me to wrap my head around making a day trip to Joshua Tree or Palm Springs—a three-hour drive each way. But over the past 14 years, my home state has continued to feel smaller and smaller, easier and easier to tackle. 

In April 2014, I made a detour from the Eastern Sierra to try to see Silver City Ghost Town in Bodfish, California, located in the Kern River Valley of the Southern Sierra. I'd gotten there too late in the day to catch it before it closed or to even photograph it in daylight. And it just seemed so out-of-the-way that it took me 11 years to try again. 

 

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I was feeling pretty grumpy this past week and doing my best to embrace Thanksgiving. I wasn't ready for Christmas yet. 

 

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I'd actually never been inside the church, the museum, or anywhere else on the grounds except the cemetery—so this seemed like a good occasion to finally take a tour with the Historical Society of Crescenta Valley. 

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To celebrate, a bunch of cultural institutions, landmarks, historic sites, and other local attractions threw open their doors to visitors this past weekend, as part of "Doors Open Peninsula." 

 

My second stop of the day turned out to be one of the best: The Neighborhood Church, located in the former Haggarty House on Paseo del Mar in PVE. 

The Wrigleys' Timeless Gift of Timekeeping on Catalina Island: The Chimes Tower

In my last couple of visits to Catalina Island—the only developed tourist attraction in the Channel Islands archipelago off the coast of California—I've been trying to trace some of the remnants of the Wrigleys' time there.

But for all the looking I've done, there's been another clue to the Wrigley history on the island—and that can be found simply by listening. 

Every 15 minutes, you can hear the Westminster chimes of the Catalina Chimes Tower—a set of "cathedral chimes" (like those found at Westminster Abbey) ringing out from atop a hill. (They originally sounded four times an hour from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. — but now they're only between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m.)

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Founded in 1786 by the "forgotten friar" Friar Fermín de Lasuén—successor to Junípero Serra—as the 10th of 21 Franciscan missions, it's the only continuously operating mission in the California system. Even after secularization in 1833, the Franciscan friars were allowed to stay—helping this mission avoid the neglect and vandalism that plagued the others that were abandoned. 

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Photo Essay: Exploring A Little-Known Inland Stretch of the Second Transcontinental Railroad (In a Locomotive Cab)

In the 1880s, Southern Pacific Railroad led the charge in creating the nation's Second Transcontinental Railroad line—the first having been completed between the San Francisco Bay and Omaha, Nebraska in 1869, with the ceremonial "Golden Spike" (or "Last Spike") being driven at Promontory Summit, Utah Territory.

The second one was considered the "southern" one. 

By 1881, it had connected Atchison, Kansas to Los Angeles, California. And by 1883, it had connected Los Angeles to New Orleans. 

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A Last Chance Stay at a Hollywood Producer's Former Fantasy Island Getaway, Paradise Point Resort (For Now)

For my birthday last week, I was at a bit of a loss as to how to celebrate—or whether to even try to celebrate at all. 

After all, it doesn't feel like there's much to celebrate in 2020. 

But I'd already put in for three days off from my dayjob (having planned to attend the now-canceled Central Coast Railroad Festival). And I've only taken one other day off all year (and that was an emergency mental health day during the protests that had police tear-gassing illegal assemblies in my neighborhood). 

It felt like I deserved some vacation days. Even if vacations aren't really a thing right now, with pandemic travel still restricted. 

But over the last six months or so, I have had a couple of good hotel getaways—whether just for the day or for a single overnight a short distance away. 

And because all my trips have been canceled this year, I feel OK about splurging a little on a place I would not normally treat myself to. 

That's how I ended up at Paradise Point Resort in San Diego's Mission Bay. 

I knew it would be a tropical paradise, with outdoor dining and no less than five pools. And I knew that Tiki Oasis had recently held the pandemic version of its convention there—so it might provide some approximation of a tiki-cation. 

But upon turning down Vacation Road, circling around the entryway fountain and parking within spitting distance of the shake shingle kiosks that line the main lagoon, I had no idea how much history I was about to encounter. 

Oh, I'd been to Mission Bay before—to ride The Giant Dipper at the nearby Belmont Park. But I hadn't realized what an influence that wooden rollercoaster (once known as the Earthquake) would have on the local architecture—inspiring the undulating roofline and interior ironwork of the main lobby building of Paradise Point. And that's just for starters. 

The 1920s rollercoaster and the amusement park that contains it actually pre-dated what we know today as the Mission Bay Aquatic Park by decades. It wasn't until 1958 that the San Diego city council approved a master plan to dredge the tidal marsh and create 30 miles of shoreline beaches, grassy knolls, water recreation areas, Sea World, and resorts like Paradise Point—making it the largest man-made aquatic park in the country. 

While that was happening, Hollywood producer Jack Skirball—a Pennsylvania-born former rabbi who left the rabbinate in 1933—had gotten into family entertainment and recreation by delving into bowling alleys. But the bigger fish for him turned out to be transforming a treeless, manmade island called Tierra del Fuego into "Vacation Isle"—home of his South Seas-inspired Vacation Village resort, which opened in 1962.

Of course, Skirball made sure Vacation Village had a dash of Hollywood magic here and there—including California's largest collection of original mission bells and screen-used artifacts like the porpoise fountain from the Elizabeth Taylor version of Cleopatra (1963).

But much of the fantasy comes from the landscape design—whose palm trees, macadamia nut trees, bromeliads, and hundreds of birds-of-paradise transport you to the Canary Islands, or perhaps the South Pacific, or even Madagascar. 

The symbol for the hotel—and still its beacon—is a 70-foot-tall observation tower, designed by the resort's architect, Eldridge "Ted" Spencer of the Palo Alto-based firm Spencer and Lee (perhaps known best for the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite National Park). 

It was built by Robert "Bob" Golden—the son of construction magnate Morley H. Golden and, as of 1956, president of M.H. Golden Construction Company It must've been an engineering feat to make it as sturdy as it still feels. 

After climbing up an undetermined number of stairs, the view of the main lagoon from up there is breathtaking, fantastical, and transportive. 

And at the very top, you can be delighted by the whimsical rebar sculpture by Val Agnoli...

...whose uppermost portion is meant to evoke the red-eared slider turtles that populate the waters below. 

After all, this bayside resort offers more watery wonders than just its swimming pools. 

And all that wet stuff is great for attracting shorebirds, like snowy egrets and yellow-crowned night herons, with their yellow feet and eyes...

 

...great blue herons, who sun their wings in a "flasher" pose...

 

...black-crowned night herons, with their red eyes...

    

...and of course great egrets. 

The ducks are particularly friendly—but maybe that's because they know the resort gift shop sells small bags of duck food for just $2. 

They'll either follow you, while nipping at your shoes and toes, or they'll lead you to Amelio's Dock, where all their friends will be waiting for a snack. 

                        

They compete with the koi for the little tasty pellets—and even though the shop also sells $2 bags of fish food, the koi don't seem to discriminate. 

    

I could easily spend days just wandering the grounds, feeding the birds, and photographing the scenery. 

But I'd only booked one night—fortunately getting upgraded from a standard room to a bungalow with a Giant Dipper-inspired entryway. 

 

Staying in any of the 400+ rooms at Paradise Point was a major treat for me—but when Vacation Village first opened in 1962, its original 150 rooms went for just $8 per night.

That gave guests access to one restaurant, a golf course, and two tennis courts.

            

 

The resort's Barefoot Bar—initially called "The Grotto"—went down in infamy as a kind of Cold War-era beach bunker where you could get "bombed" at the bar but would survive a "bombing" under all that sand. Although the Barefoot Bar operated for a time as a location of Don the Beachcomber (1980-1983), its current iteration has returned to the original theme. 

 

A friend and I enjoyed my birthday dinner at Paradise Point's onsite sit-down restaurant Tidal (formerly Baleen), where we sat by the marina enjoying Paradise Mai Tais in tiki glassware with a dry ice-induced "fog" effect. 

 

As the sun went down behind us, I thought, "This was a really good idea." I felt no birthday despair. No existential dread. No desperation for something epic to happen on the night I turned yet another year older. 

And as it turns out, that might've been my last chance to experience Paradise Point as it is right now—and as it has been since LaSalle Hotel Properties bought it and rebranded it as such in 1998. 

Its owner since late 2018, Pebblebrook Hotel Trust, has entered into a license agreement to turn Paradise Point into one of the first West Coast outposts of Margaritaville hotels and resorts. (Palm Springs hasn't opened yet, but it's already taking reservations.) 

I can only assume that means it will soon be taken over by the Parrotheads who support the "Margaritaville" singer and songwriter Jimmy Buffett. 

And although that may be "tropical"—and some might consider that "paradise"—it is not the same tiki-adjacent experience as Vacation Village or Paradise Point. 

Unfortunately, something like this was probably bound to happen after Skirball cashed out and sold the property in 1983, two years before his death. 

I hope they keep the tower and the rollercoaster architectural references and the birds and the turtles. 

For lots of vintage photos and information, visit ClassicSanDiego.com. 

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