American History Tellers - Roaring Twenties | The Great Crash | 4

Episode Date: October 20, 2021

On a misty morning in May 1927, Charles Lindbergh climbed into the cramped cockpit of his single engine plane, The Spirit of St. Louis. After a bumpy taxi and takeoff at a New York runway, he took to the skies, on a flight that would break records and make him a national hero.At the end of the 1920s, Americans united around a culture of celebrity, and no celebrity was bigger than Lindbergh. It was a time of limitless optimism and a stock market that seemed to know no ceiling.But there were warning signs on the horizon. Every day, banks in rural America were closing. Farmers were mired in debt. And unsold products lined department store shelves. Soon, Americans would learn that the good times couldn’t last forever.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's a misty morning on May 20th, 1927. You're on a muddy airfield on Long Island, just outside New York City. You and the rest of the ground crew have been here since before dawn, fueling and prepping a tiny, single-engine airplane called the Spirit of St. Louis. Charles Lindbergh will be taking off in it later this morning. He's attempting to be the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic.

Nearby, several hundred people have gathered to watch, hoping to see history being made. Hey, give me a hand with this. Another mechanic dips a rag into a bucket of grease, and together you lubricate the plane's wheels. I don't know if this will work. The runway's nothing but mud. Hard to imagine him even getting off the ground.

Well, that's what this grease is for. Maybe it'll help keep the wheels turning. The other mechanic gazes up into the sky. Nah, the rain's barely let up for weeks. This is not a good day. He's not going to have a chance unless this clears up. Lindbergh says the latest forecast calls for better weather once he gets out over the ocean. I think he'll be just fine. Oh, speak of the devil. Lindbergh himself approaches the plane,

giving the crowd a small wave. He straps on his leather aviator's cap, ducking his head under the wing, and crams his tall frame into the cockpit. He gives you and the other members of the ground crew a nod. And at last, it's time for taxi and takeoff. A members of the ground crew a nod. And at last, it's time for taxi and takeoff. A few of the men pull the wooden blocks from under the plane's wheels. You and some others get ready to push up the wing struts and free the wheel from the mud. All right, come on, all together now. One, two, three, push.

Slowly, the plane inches forward, splattering mud. The other mechanic wipes the grease off his hands with a rag and shakes his head. Oh, no, the fuel load's not going to make this easy. The plane weighs a ton. Look, if anyone can do it, Lindbergh can. Have some faith. You and the other mechanic barely breathe as the plane creeps forward and slowly gathers speed. Oh, look,

he's airborne. But it's clear he is struggling with the plane's weight. He dips back down and bumps against the earth. Oh no, he's going to run out of runway. No, he's not. Shut up. Finally, Lindbergh manages to pull the plane's nose up and get airborne again. But he's still only 50 feet off the ground. Your heart sinks as you watch the plane dip perilously close to some telephone wires. Oh God, I don't know who's going to die first. Him from a crash or me from a heart attack. It's a close call, but Lindbergh manages to clear the wires and all other obstacles. Finally, the spirit of St. Louis disappears into the fog, and an uneasy silence sets in over the crowd.

You were sure Lindbergh could do what so many others had attempted and failed, a solo flight from New York to Paris. But your convictions are shaken. Will he be able to get that flimsy plane all the way across the ocean? And in one piece? From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. Now streaming.

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Tony Hawk. Oh, my God. Buy It Now. Stream free on Freebie and Prime Video. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On May 20, 1927, aviator Charles Lindbergh rolled down the muddy runway of New York's Roosevelt Field and took off for Paris in a daring and groundbreaking attempt to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. Lindbergh's flight made him a national sensation and embodied the can-do spirit of the times. At the end of the 1920s, most Americans were optimistic about their country's future. It seemed that nothing could stand in

the way of the country's continuing prosperity and technological achievement. But in the American heartland, rising bank failures and farm foreclosures told a different story. The cracks in the mighty U.S. economy were starting to show, and soon, the boom times would come to a disastrous end. This is Episode 4, The Great Crash. Few events in the 1920s dazzled the nation more than Charles Lindbergh's solo transatlantic flight. When the pilot took off from New York, airplanes were still unreliable and very risky, and the idea of flying nonstop to Paris, a distance of more than 3,500 miles seemed unimaginable. Aviation was invented around the turn of the century, and it got a boost during World War I when it was first used for combat.

But even in peacetime, it remained a dangerous enterprise. In 1919, a hotel owner with a passion for planes named Raymond Orteig decided to jumpstart a race to test the utmost limits of airplane travel. He offered a prize of $25,000, nearly $400,000 in today's money, to the first person who could pilot a non-stop transatlantic flight from New York to Paris. A few weeks later, two British pilots managed a non-stop flight from Newfoundland to Ireland. It was a remarkable feat, but it was only half the distance of Orteig's challenge. Few people believed a New York to Paris flight was even possible, and for years, no one took him up on the offer. Orteig renewed the prize five years later in 1924. By then, advances in aircraft technology made the flight path seem feasible, and there were

more experienced aviators up for the challenge. Leading the pack was Charles Lindbergh. Lindbergh was tall and boyishly handsome, with bright blue eyes and a dimpled chin. His parents separated when he was seven, and he grew up shuttling between Minnesota and Washington, D.C., where his father served as a U.S. congressman. Lindbergh took up aviation when he was 20 years old, after dropping out of engineering school. He barnstormed the country working as a stunt performer, entertaining crowds by parachute jumping and walking on airplane wings. After a year in military flight school, he took a job in 1925 as an airmail pilot, carrying mail between St. Louis and Chicago. He soon earned a reputation for flying flimsy planes in all types of dangerous conditions.

By 1927, Lindbergh had set his sights on claiming the $25,000 Orteig price, but he needed financial backers. Building a plane that could make the long journey was an expensive proposition. He managed to convince a group of St. Louis businessmen to sponsor him, persuading them that naming his plane after their city would boost local business. So with a budget of $15,000, only $10,000 less than the prize money, he had a small airline company in San Diego build a plane to his specifications. The finished aircraft included extra fuel tanks and a longer wingspan

to support the added weight. The main fuel tank was placed in front of the cockpit. It was the safest place for it if there was a crash, but it also obscured Lindbergh's forward vision, so a periscope was added. All unnecessary equipment was stripped out to reduce weight, including the radio, gas gauges, navigation lights, and parachute. Even a wicker chair was installed in lieu of a leather pilot seat. The aircraft was christened the Spirit of St. Louis. And on May 12, 1927, Lindbergh quietly flew his plane from San Diego to New York in just under 22 hours, setting the record for a cross-country flight. After he landed in Long Island, the press

quickly realized what he was attempting to do. As the attention increased, the handsome and humble Lindbergh became a media darling. Soon, Hollywood agents were preparing offers for film appearances and product sponsorships. And quickly, everyone knew that Lindbergh was embarking on a daring and dangerous endeavor. Already by the spring of 1927,

six aviators had died and three had been injured attempting and failing to cross the Atlantic alone. And on Long Island, bad weather delayed Lindbergh for a week. But finally, on the morning of May 20th, the weather cleared a bit and he prepared for takeoff from an airstrip

called Roosevelt Field. After doing his final checks, Lindbergh entered the cockpit of his fuel-heavy Spirit of St. Louis. Carrying five chicken and ham sandwiches and a quart of water, he took his seat in the wicker chair and taxied down the runway. After bumping the ground twice, he barely cleared some telephone wires and was on his way. For the next 33 hours, the world held its breath. The New York Times was flooded by 10,000 callers asking for news. At Yankee Stadium that night, 40,000 spectators took off their hats and stood for a moment of silence. All the while, Lindbergh flew over the

cold Atlantic waters at a speed of 100 miles per hour, battling fog, rain, turbulence, and worst of all, fatigue. To keep himself awake, he dropped down to the ocean to let the spray splash his face through the windows. Finally, Lindbergh saw the bright lights of Paris and circled the Eiffel Tower. When he touched down, a crowd of 100,000 people surged forward to greet him. Lindbergh's successful solo flight made him a national sensation, and in June, he returned to New York to a ticker-tape parade with an estimated four million people swarming the city streets. All across the country, church bells rang and schools and offices closed. The number and size of the celebrations rivaled those for the end of the First World War. Lindbergh was stunned to find himself the hero of the decade,

hailed as the Lone Eagle and Lucky Lindy. Time magazine made him the first man of the year, and he was awarded a Congressional Medal of Honor. Reporters hounded him constantly. At first, the modest, hardworking Lindbergh was a unifying figure. Americans devoured reports that he was shy, polite, and did not drink or smoke. He appealed both to those who sought a return to traditional values and those who dreamed of a future driven by advances in industry and technology. But later, in the 1930s, Lindbergh's

reputation would be tarnished. His anti-Semitic comments and frequent visits to, in the 1930s, Lindbergh's reputation would be tarnished. His anti-Semitic comments and frequent visits to Germany in the run-up to World War II made many label him a Nazi sympathizer. But in the 1920s, Lindbergh was almost universally revered. He was the leading object of a new culture of celebrity, fueled by radio, motion pictures, advertising, and tabloid journalism. He wasn't alone. Sports stars like Babe Ruth and Hollywood actors such as Charlie Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino captivated the nation and made millions of dollars.

But of all the new forms of mass media vying for Americans' attention, none was more popular than motion pictures. In the 1920s, Americans flocked to movie theaters to see feature-length romances, comedies, and historical epics. Roughly 700 films were produced in Hollywood every year. By 1927, silent films had grown increasingly sophisticated, but box office returns were not keeping pace with costs. For years, studios had contemplated combining picture with sound, but the cost of new sound synchronization technology was prohibitive.

Then, in the summer of 1927, a small studio named Warner Brothers went all in on the future of sound, producing a groundbreaking film that would revolutionize the industry. Imagine it's August 1927. You're in a newly constructed studio on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. You and your brothers run a film studio here, and you're two months into production on a new film called The Jazz Singer. It was your idea to invest in Vitaphone sound technology,

and you finally reached a part of production dedicated to scenes with dialogue. But it seems that something is going wrong with every take. Oh my God, who's hammering right now? The director runs up to you, looking anxious. Your presence on the set has him nervous, and with good reason. You're bankrolling the entire production, and with a word from you,

any one of these people, including the director, could be out of a job. Oh, yeah, sorry about that, boss. The carpenters forgot that they need to be quiet. They're not used to it. Hey, you up there, wait to finish that work until we wrap up this scene, please. Carpenter in the rafters shrugs, then noisily descends a rickety ladder. You sigh in frustration. Oh my god, they need to learn they can't just be making noise all the time. Like I said, they're not used to it. They're accustomed to being able to do whatever they want. And honestly, on this production, they need all the hours in the day they can get.

The director turns to get ready to shoot a new scene in which a young immigrant singer is coming home to his mother. It's this scene for the first time that the actor's words will be recorded by a large microphone above their heads. It's transmitting its sound to a 16-inch wax disc that spins on a machine nearby. Quiet on set, and I mean it. This time, quiet and action. Cut. Oh my God. Who's whistling? Who's whistling? You turn around to see a pair of scene painters on the other side of the set whistling as they work.

Doesn't quiet on set mean anything to you? Do I need to explain again the concept of a sound picture? The scene painters shrug apologetically, and you turn back to the director, who's shaking his head. Let's do this again. Okay, places, everyone. Quiet on set, please. And action. Oh, for Christ's sake, who slammed a door? All right, everyone, take five. While the actors take a break from set, you pull the director aside. You've got to get this crew under control. Time is money, and you know that. I do, boss, but I just don't know about this new sound equipment. It's way too sensitive.

The slightest noise will spoil a scene. We even had to switch out our old arc lights. The microphones were picking up the constant buzz. Well, you'll just have to adjust, and the crew's got to learn. We don't have a choice. I don't need to tell you that business isn't as good as the old days. So this is a risk, a calculated risk, to keep people coming to theaters. And I'll tell you, it's a risk that's going to pay off. Yes, sir. If you say so, boss. You hoped coming to set today would reassure you, but you're only growing more worried about this gamble. Your studio is spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on a film that very few

theaters can even show. In reality, despite your bluster, you have no idea if this is going to be the making of your studio or the death of it. Warner Brothers Vice President Sam Warner was convinced that talking pictures were the future of the film industry. In 1926, he persuaded his brothers to make the risky move of investing in sound synchronization technology. A year later, he oversaw production of The Jazz Singer, America's first major feature-length film with synchronized dialogue. To finance the expensive venture, Warner stopped taking a salary, moved his family into a smaller apartment, and even pawned his wife's jewelry. The Jazz Singer told the story of a poor Jewish immigrant who wanted to make it as a professional musician. It starred a popular Russian-Jewish vaudeville entertainer named Al Jolson.

In the film, Jolson's character performs in blackface, which was common at the time. But Sam Warner did not live to find out whether his gamble paid off. He died the day before The Jazz Singer premiered in October 1927. Had he lived, he would have been elated to find that his film was an instant sensation. Audiences went wild when Jolson ad-libbed, wait a minute, you ain't heard nothing yet, and then broke into song. It was the start of a new era in movies, the age of sound. The Jazz Singer was the biggest hit of the year, despite the fact that only 500 of America's 17,000 movie theaters were wired for sound. From then on, the talkies would transform Hollywood. Warner Brothers' net worth exploded from $16 million to $200 million. And by

the end of the decade, almost every theater in America was equipped for sound, and film audiences nearly doubled. But even as the booming film industry brought Americans together at the movie theater, the country was on the verge of being wrenched apart again. The looming 1928 presidential election would reopen all divides between urban and rural, northern and southern, Catholic and Protestant. The winner of that contest would inherit an economy that had experienced five straight years of unprecedented growth. But they would also face a crisis unlike any America had seen. For more than two centuries, the White House has been the stage for some of the most dramatic scenes in American history. Inspired by the hit podcast American History Tellers, Wondery and William Morrow present the new book, The Hidden History of the White House.

Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, the world-altering decisions, and shocking scandals that have shaped our nation. You'll be there when the very foundations of the White House are laid in 1792, and you'll watch as the British burn it down in 1814. Then you'll hear the intimate conversations between FDR and Winston Churchill as they make plans to defeat Nazi forces in 1941. And you'll be in the Situation Room when President Barack Obama approves the raid to bring down the most infamous terrorist in American history. Order The Hidden History of the White House now in hardcover or digital edition wherever you get your books.

In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still have heard it. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn

trials, I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely, Pacific island to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn trials exclusively on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app,

Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. On August 2nd, 1927, President Calvin Coolidge gathered 30 bewildered reporters into a remote high school classroom in South Dakota. It had been four years to the day since Coolidge took the oath of office upon the sudden death of his predecessor, Warren G. Harding. The classroom had served as an office during Coolidge's summer vacation, and now it would be the place for an announcement no one expected. Coolidge instructed the reporters to form a single line. As they filed past, he handed each journalist a tiny slip of paper bearing a single, typewritten sentence,

I do not choose to run for president in 1928. The reporters were stunned. When they asked for further comment, the famously tight-lipped president refused to elaborate. Coolidge was well-liked, credited for five years of prosperity and peace, but he had grown tired of the job, and he was still grieving the untimely death of his teenage son three years earlier. With Coolidge refusing to stand again, the Republican Party needed to find a new standard-bearer. For most, the logical choice was Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover. Hoover, a former mining engineer, was extremely popular with the public. Hailed as the great engineer and the great humanitarian,

he was famous for his efforts to conserve the nation's food resources during the war. And after a devastating flood on the Mississippi River in 1927, Hoover managed relief efforts for hundreds of thousands of people left homeless. For many Americans, Hoover embodied dedication and hard work. And Hoover had also built up a powerful political machine during his time as Commerce Secretary. His savvy media team included public relations experts and Madison Avenue admin. Despite his shyness, Hoover constantly appeared in newspapers, radio, and motion pictures, making him one of the most famous faces in America. So when the Republican Party held its convention in June 1928, Hoover won the nomination on the very first ballot.

For their vice presidential candidate, party leaders chose Kansas Senator Charles Curtis. They chose Curtis, hoping he would win back farmers, after Coolidge had alienated them by vetoing farm relief legislation the year before. Born to a white father and a Ka Indian mother, Curtis had grown up on a Ka reservation, speaking Kansa and French before he spoke a word of English. He had overcome prejudice against Native Americans to rise through the Republican Party ranks, eventually becoming Senate Majority Leader.

And as Hoover's running mate, Curtis became the first person of color to be put on the ballot for the White House. But not all Native Americans celebrated his achievement. During his time in Congress, Curtis pursued laws and policies promoting assimilation, including the dissolution of tribal lands and the creation of Native American boarding schools, which often forcibly separated thousands of tribal families. But despite anyone's reservations, it soon became clear that Hoover and Curtis would make a formidable ticket, promising to maintain the Republican Party's hold on the White House.

On the campaign trail, Hoover's hopes rested on the soaring economy. The party slogan in 1928 promised a chicken in every pot and two cars in every garage. Hoover also promised to bring farmers into the fold by creating a federal farm board. In August, he formally accepted the Republican Party nomination, and speaking to 70,000 supporters in Stanford's football stadium and 30 million Americans tuning in on their radios, Hoover predicted good times ahead, declaring, We in America today are nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever before in the history of any land. The poorhouse is vanishing from among us. Meanwhile, the Democratic Party struggled to find a contender to go up against Hoover. When the party gathered in Houston for

their nominating convention in June, they finally coalesced around New York Governor Al Smith. Smith's colorful personality endeared him to voters in his home state. Known as the Happy Warrior, he had ushered in a wide array of reforms in New York State, including the 40-hour workweek for women, a system of public hospitals, and the nation's first public housing program. But Smith's candidacy alienated rural voters. He fervently opposed prohibition, making him a so-called wet politician. But even more controversially, Smith was a Catholic, in a majority Protestant nation, at a time when anti-Catholic prejudice was widespread.

Only 16% of Americans were Catholic, and their presence in politics was often seen as a threat to traditional Protestant values. The Democratic Convention in Houston put together a platform supporting aid to farmers and stricter regulation of large companies. But party leaders knew their chances of victory were slim. The Democrats were still an awkward coalition of rural Southerners and urban Northerners that seldom agreed on candidates or policy. And the nation had just seen eight years of popular Republican leadership in the White House and ten years of Republican control of Congress.

So to balance out the ticket and appeal to the South, Democrats chose a senator from Arkansas as Smith's running mate. But as Smith and his supporters hit the campaign trail, they were shocked by the anti-Catholic vitriol they faced. Imagine it's the fall of 1928. You're in a small town on the eastern shore of Maryland, the latest stop on the campaign trail for Democratic presidential nominee Al Smith. You're a spokesperson for Smith, and today you're standing on a temporary stage in the town square, speaking to a small crowd.

Well, thank you. I'm here in support of our nominee for president, our happy warrior, Governor Al Smith. You note the crowd's lackluster response and realize this campaign stop may be harder than you anticipated. Today I want to talk to you all about the governor's record helping the people of New York. Under his leadership, we've strengthened labor laws and protected women and children in the workplace. Hey, I've got a question. An older man steps out from the crowd, and you steel yourself for a confrontation. It's not the first time in your career in politics that you've dealt with a rude man. Sir, if I could just hold off on questions until the end, I'd be glad to answer them then.

Now, I need to know now whether your Smith has set up a home for the Pope in Washington yet. I hear he's going to buy him a grand estate. No, sir, of course not. But speaking of real estate, let's talk housing. The governor established subsidized housing during his time in office, helping many of our neediest New Yorkers find a home. Now, I know for a fact that the Pope is moving to Washington as soon as Smith is elected. And you know it, too.

Sir, that is simply not true. And I'll go ahead and point out that Maryland, the state you call home, was founded as a Catholic haven. Religious freedom is a founding principle of this country. But the governor's religious affiliation is not what this campaign's about. The crowd doesn't listen to your reason and is getting more riled up. It's taking every ounce of composure you possess not to get flustered. We're not going to let any man who kisses the papal ring into the White House, and that's for sure. Please, everyone, if you could just listen. I have worked for the governor

for years, and I can tell you from personal experience, he is going to be the president this country needs. Here's what you need. And out of nowhere, someone in the crowd pelts an egg at you. You stare down at the yolk and broken shell running down your clothes. Soon, more eggs follow, raining down around your podium amid a chorus of boos. You have no choice but to flee the stage. And as you retreat, you wonder if this country will ever be ready for a Catholic president. As the 1928 campaign got underway, Democrats soon discovered that for most Americans, Smith was simply too Catholic, too urban, and too wet. One of his campaigners, Francis Perkins, was shocked to be met with what she described as,

some of the most terrible prejudices and dreadful yarns that I have ever heard. Perkins had worked her way up in New York state government at a time when few women held public office. She was chairwoman from the New York State Industrial Commission, where she championed progressive labor reforms. She would later serve as President Franklin Roosevelt's labor secretary

and become a key architect of his ambitious New Deal. But even a seasoned politician like Perkins was no match for the anti-Catholic bigotry she saw on the campaign trail. Smith and his surrogates tried to make the election about policy matters and Smith's plan to help workers and farmers. But his record mattered little to most voters

who turned the race into a referendum on religion and Smith's urban roots. And it didn't help that for the first time in American history, radio figured prominently in a presidential campaign. Radio listeners were enthralled by media-savvy Iowa-born Hoover, but Smith, who had a strong New York accent, turned off many listeners. So when Americans went to the polls in November, Hoover won in a landslide, 444 electoral votes to Smith's 87. In the battle between old and new America, it seemed that old had won. So in 1929, as Hoover took office, Americans felt optimistic about the country's future

and chose the road they were on. Over the past 12 months, the stock market had climbed to one record high after another. The nation's economy seemed to be roaring full speed ahead. And in his inaugural address, Hoover said that America's future was bright with hope. But within just a few months, those words would come back to haunt him. I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom.

When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined. Ghost Story won Best Documentary Podcast at the 2024 Ambies and is a Best True Crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple Podcast series essential. Each month, Apple Podcasts editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time,

only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula. We'll reveal how author Bram Stoker raided ancient folklore, exploited Victorian fears around sex, science, and religion, and how even today we remain enthralled to his strange creatures of the night. You can binge all episodes of The Real History of Dracula exclusively with Wondery

Plus. Join Wondery Plus and The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. In 1929, the United States had seen six straight years of booming economic growth. Employment was high. Inflation was low. Mass production brought consumer goods to nearly every household. And the nation continued to dominate the global economy, producing almost half of the world's total industrial output. Corporate profits and stock prices reached record highs. But beneath the surface, the U.S. economy was fundamentally weak. Most American families still lived below the poverty line. Nearly two-thirds of households got by on less than $2,000 a year, only about $30,000 in

today's money, well below what was necessary to support a family of four. Economic inequality was at its worst level in decades, too. The income of the top one-tenth of one percent equaled that of the bottom 42 percent. And farmers had long been in trouble, facing plunging incomes and rising debts. But wages also lagged in many of the nation's other industries, including coal, textiles, and railroads. Every day, small banks around the country were failing, which meant that thousands of small businesses struggled to secure loans. The economic boom of the 1920s relied heavily on keeping stores stocked and people buying. But by the end of the decade, working people had hit their limit. Production was

outpacing Americans' ability to buy goods. There was too much investment in production and not enough in wages, which hurt purchasing power. Unsold cars lined dealer lots, and radios and household appliances piled up on store shelves. At the same time, the prosperity of the 20s had fueled a culture of over-speculation and get-rich-quick schemes. In 1920, a man named Charles Ponzi drew headlines when he swindled millions from gullible Americans. Thousands more lost their life savings in the frenzied speculation of Florida real estate, a bubble which burst in the mid-1920s. That same boundless optimism drove stock prices on Wall Street to dizzying heights.

And it wasn't just wealthy professionals and businessmen trying to get in on the action. Everyone from barbers to bellhops bought stocks, often on margin, meaning they got shares for a small down payment using borrowed money. The risky plan was to sell the stocks at a higher price later before the payments came due. Such reckless investing only worked as long as stock prices kept rising. And for several years, they did. The market value of shares on the New York Stock Exchange had nearly doubled between 1925 and 1929, from $34 billion to $64 billion. Americans could see no end in sight to the bull market's relentless upward climb. But President Hoover had long worried that unrestrained speculation could spell disaster.

Since his time as Commerce Secretary, he had repeatedly urged the Federal Reserve Board to curb speculation. But his efforts failed. Soon after taking office, Hoover instructed his own personal financial advisor to switch his investments to low-risk bonds, fearing hard times ahead. He tried to persuade major newspapers to publish editorials warning against stock speculation. Still, the market kept climbing. But by 1929, it was little more than a house of cards. During its long run, the bull market was juiced by floor traders

who sold shares back and forth to each other, making it seem like the stocks were doing well. Operators of these so-called investment pools encouraged unsuspecting outsiders to buy shares of specific stocks to drive their prices even higher. The most infamous example was the pool that pushed up the stock price of the Radio Corporation of America, or RCA, the hottest technology stock of the era. During 10 days in March 1929, investment pool operators artificially drove up the value of RCA stock by 50%, then pocketed $13.5 million, more than $200 million in today's money.

In the summer of 1929, few people realized that the bubble was near a bursting point. But the economy was showing signs of a looming slowdown. While stock prices soared, new car sales and building construction had declined. And by August, automobile factories began laying off thousands of workers. A sharp drop in the market in early September was a warning sign of the danger on the horizon. And then came Black Thursday. On October 24, 1929, a drop in stock prices caused a frenzy of sales. President Hoover rushed to reassure the nation, declaring, The fundamental business of the country, that is, production and distribution, is on a sound and prosperous basis. Wall Street traders stabilized the market,

temporarily, by buying up shares over the next few days. But five days later, on Black Tuesday, the House of Cards collapsed. Imagine it's October 29th, 1929. You're a bartender working at a speakeasy in New York's Financial District. You've worked here for nine years, ever since you lost your job at the Vanderbilt Hotel Bar at the start of Prohibition. It's lunchtime and business is slow. The Wall Street traders who make up most of your clientele don't typically start their drinking until after five.

So you're busying yourself with cleaning up and wiping tables. You're surprised, then, to see a customer walk down the stairs and into the bar. He's dressed like a stockbroker, but his tailored suit is rumpled and his collar loosened. He looks around the bar, seemingly dazed. Oh, good afternoon. Take a seat, anywhere you like. What can I get for you? Oh, I don't care, as long as it's strong. You pour the man a glass of whiskey. Bad day on the trading floor? The man takes a big gulp of his drink, wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and grimaces.

Bad day. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Well, let me top you off. I've seen a few of the headlines. Sounds like it's been chaos over there. No, that's the least of it. The bottom fell out today, pal. In all my years, I've never seen such anarchy on the floor.

Traders were literally fighting each other for selling orders. Fistfights, ripped collars, black eyes. Ah, better luck tomorrow? The trader laughs bitterly, motions for you to fill his glass again. No, there's not going to be a tomorrow. Not for me. My firm lost everything today. I just moved my family into a bigger place. But the market will bounce back, won't it? I mean, isn't that the way it works? It goes up, it goes down, and then it goes back up. No, not this time. I think this is different. How? The man shakes his head, stony-faced. Look, this is more than just the stock market.

This is going to ripple through the entire economy. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but it will. You're going to start seeing bank failures here in New York, and I won't be surprised if there are huge layoffs by Christmas. Like where? My brother works at a GE factory in Connecticut. GE dropped 48 points yesterday and another 28 today. Yeah, so layoffs.

Oh man, he's got kids. The customer shrugs and stares down into his drink. You know, I'd say you're lucky to be a bartender. If there's one thing people are going to need, it's booze. Of course, that's only if they can afford to buy a drink. You look up to see a half dozen more traders walk in, looking just as stunned and disheveled as your first customer. On any other day, you'd be happy to have the business. Instead, you're worried about your brother's future, and your own.

On October 29, 1929, a catastrophic stock market crash unleashed hysteria on Wall Street. Panicky investors ordered their brokers to sell some 16 million shares of stocks. Pandemonium spread from Wall Street throughout the country. And by December, stocks had lost more than $30 billion in value, more than the entire amount the country spent fighting World War I. As bad as it was, though, the crash did not spark an immediate disaster, and President Hoover believed the stock market would rebound. During the fall of 1929, he issued a series of optimistic statements, hoping to bolster Americans' confidence. But the economy continued to slide downward, despite Hoover's assurances.

Though only a small number of Americans were investors, most banks had put their depositors' money in the stock market. So over the next three years, more than 5,000 banks would fail. And as they closed their doors, individuals and businesses lost their savings. And these business failures sparked widespread unemployment. Hoover had made a name for himself for his leadership in humanitarian efforts. But as this economic crisis deepened, he stubbornly refused to give the American people direct relief many thought they needed. He declared that doing so would cause the country to be plunged into

socialism. Efforts in the private sector, Hoover felt, could reverse the downturn. But meanwhile, the unemployment rate kept climbing, from 9% in 1930 to 23% two years later, when 12 million Americans were without jobs. Hoover went from being one of the most beloved figures in American politics to one of the most reviled. His name was soon attached to symbols of the disaster, from tent cities called Hoovervilles to broken-down cars nicknamed Hoover Wagons. The stock market crash had triggered a chain of events that eventually resulted in the Great Depression. The nation was plunged into economic misery marked by shuttered factories, farm foreclosures, and bread lines. Over the next several years, millions of desperate

Americans faced agonizing poverty, struggling to find work and to feed their families. But not even the Great Depression could undo all the changes that had transformed the country in the Roaring Twenties. America was now a predominantly urban nation. New forms of mass media like radio and motion pictures unified the nation culturally, even as it grew more divided in its politics and religious beliefs. Women won the right to vote and joined the workforce in record numbers. And through jazz and the Harlem Renaissance, Black American culture entered the mainstream. And perhaps the greatest symbol of American prosperity, the automobile, now dominated

the roadways. The 1920s were over, but in that turbulent decade, America broke from its agrarian past and entered a bold new future. From Wondery, this is Episode 4 of The Roaring Twenties for American History Tellers. On the next episode, our guest will be Professor Michael E. Parrish, author of Anxious Decades, America in Prosperity and Depression, 1921-1941. We'll talk more about how the Roaring Twenties shaped modern America and what lessons we can learn from the economic crisis that brought it to an end. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.

Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at Wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, edited by Dorian Marina. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the

depths of the internet is The Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses, and specific instructions for people's murders. this podcast is the true story of how i ended up in a race against time to warn those whose lives were in danger and it turns out convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy follow kill list on the wandry app or wherever you get your podcasts you can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C True Crime shows like Morbid early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.

Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your True Crime listening.