Music Like Water: The Tale of Mr. Cahill's Magical Telharmonium, Part 1
"Every time I see or hear a new wonder like this, I have to postpone my death right off."
Samuel Clemens, AKA Mark Twain, was sitting in a nicely-appointed music room at 39th and Broadway on a cold December day in 1906, talking to a reporter from the New York Times. Typically clad all in white for public appearances, he was 71 and an American institution. Upon entering that day, he’d passed through a spacious salon space decorated with divans and plush easy chairs. Clemens would’ve smelled cigar and pipe smoke along the way and the potted plants and cut flowers in baskets that filled the space.
Outside, it was almost Christmas. New York City clamored, hoofbeats still arguing with chugging and clanging new automobiles and streetcars. But inside Telharmonic Hall, the “Wedding March” music from Richard Wagner’s Lohengrin still rang in Clemens’s head. “The trouble about these beautiful, novel things,” the author said, “is that they interfere so with one’s arrangements.”
Perhaps Clemens idly twiddled the end of his famed white mustache as he spoke. Not like a cartoon villain—like a thoughtful elder who knew he was expected to entertain when reporters were within earshot. “Every time I see or hear a new wonder like this, I have to postpone my death right off,” he said, “I couldn’t possibly leave the world until I have heard this again and again.”
Clemens had just a few more years to live. By the time he died in 1910, the Telharmonium, the massive electronic musical instrument at the center of Telharmonic Hall, where Clemens was regaling the Times stringer, was old and fading news. Yet the iconic writer knew he was listening to something unique and new. Something different.
He’d just listened to the first glimmering tones of what would one day become an electronic and sonic revolution.
It would be easy to assume that if one man essentially invented electric typewriters, streaming music, and likely had a role in developing the concept of nighttime baseball, he might still be a well-known name today, perhaps even a revered genius and innovator along the lines of Nikola Tesla. Chances are, however, that no one reading this knows the name “Thaddeus Cahill.”
Those who know the name will likely be typewriter collectors or hardcore music geeks who nerd out on niche electronic music history. Those are small groups, and I guess I’m a member of the latter. I first learned about the Telharmonium and its still-mysterious, restless, clearly brilliant inventor years ago and soon found myself frequently using spare time to research Cahill and his invention. It became enough of an obsession that I lost track of some sources I wanted to reference.
I couldn’t shake thinking about the Telharmonium because it hit a sweet spot I’m sure I share with many writers of all stripes: forgotten brilliance and innovation. The good old-fashioned feeling of “Why was this not a bigger story?” I wanted to know more about this massive invention that, in concept, was radically ahead of its time but was bedeviled by the available technology of the day and perhaps also by the fact that the inventor, Thaddeus Cahill, refused to compromise on his vision, even after investors started slamming doors in his and his brothers’ faces.
While re-researching Cahill and his “magical” Telharmonium, I discovered a book published in the 1990s that I’d previously missed. Ken Smith’s Raw Deal: Horrible and Ironic Stories of Forgotten Americans is described as the “perfect tonic for anyone who's sick of inspiring tales of triumph over adversity.”
Raw Deal gives brief accounts of the lives of 22 people “who did nothing wrong but nonetheless suffered horrible fates,” and chapter 2 is the story of Cahill and his invention.
While “horrible fate(s)” is a hyperbolic description of Cahill’s story, it is sad and, to me, a fascinating mystery about genius and innovation. I decided to go forward with writing this account because today, in a time of significant failures like FTX and scams like Theranos, it’s more relevant than ever—though, to be clear, the tale of the Telharmonium is one of ambition and failure, not fraud (though I found evidence some fudging and fibbing may have occurred).
Thaddeus Cahill envisioned music as a utility, flowing like water into homes everywhere. Strauss waltzes lilting from lighting fixtures, Bach partitas from the shadowed corners of restaurants, Wagner marches in hotel foyers. The music would come from a central station daily and depend on subscribers for support. It wouldn’t come over the airwaves, either—radio was in its infancy still—but transmit across phone lines.
If he isn’t the father of streaming music, Cahill certainly played a major role in advancing the idea that it could be done. In the next edition of Obsessions & Digressions, I’ll dig into that pivotal time in history and what we know about Cahill, one of the most enigmatic innovators I’ve ever encountered.