In early 1974, a Chicago book scout named William Ostfeld spotted an early copy of Playboy in the window of a used bookstore — a very early copy.

The magazine, which was about the size of an issue of LIFE, showcased on its cover a woodcut of Hugh Hefner, who had launched Playboy in 1953. Puzzled, Ostfeld opened the brittle cover to look inside. That’s when he saw the publication date: 1919.

What the hell?

In 1914, 26-year-old Egmont Arens (“Eggie” or “E.A.” to friends) returned to New York City with dreams of becoming a poet. He had been sent to New Mexico as a teenager to recover from tuberculosis, attended college there and worked as a cowboy and newspaper sports editor. In New York he married a fellow poet, Josephine Bell, who would be among those indicted for eight anti-war items published in August 1917 issue of The Masses (its last). [1] Arens submitted his poetry for publication (Collier’s printed one in May 1915 called “The Cool of Night”) and became the managing editor of War?, the magazine of the newly formed Collegiate Anti-Militarism League, which opposed U.S. troops doing military drills on campus in preparation for the Great War.

The partnership with War? did not last. In an undated letter to the League’s president, Arens complained that he had been told he could make the publication “as far removed as possible from the ordinary Peace Tract… a bright and snappy journal.” He offered to help finish the next issue but wanted $100 for his interest before he quit.

In 1917 Arens purchased the Washington Square Bookshop at 27 W. 8th St. in Greenwich Village. He also bought a used letterpress, [2] which he set up in the center of the back room. One of his first projects was a map and tongue-in-cheek guide to Bohemia, The Little Book of Greenwich Village, published in 1918 and apparently reprinted many times. He also published brochures, posters, prints, plays and books.

Arens’ disappointment with the stridency of War?— coupled with the conversations among artists and writers who began using the chairs that lined the press room as a salon [3] — likely informed his most ambitious project. [4] By the time the war ended in November 1918, Arens had created letterhead for his venture, and in January 1919, Poetry carried a short announcement: Egmont Arens had launched a new magazine. The title was Playboy, probably after Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World. One critic would later call it the first modern art magazine in America.

In the years immediately after the war, Greenwich Village was teeming with radical optimists. Arens and other young intellects argued that Americans should stop looking to Europe for inspiration and create their own art and identity. America “has heard a great deal of talk about European culture,” he wrote. “She is asking, ‘Is there no American culture?’ ”

While a number of “little magazines” were published in New York in the 1920s, “Joe Klinger’s Pagan and Egmont Arens’ Playboy set the tone for the many Village magazines of the late-war and post-war period: the tone of love talk, estheticism, and faint liberalism all interlarded with mystic symbolism,” wrote Albert Parry in his 1933 history of Bohemianism in America, Garrets and Pretenders. “Playboy was the aristocrat of the Greenwich Village press of the post-war era. It had many of the artists of The Masses, but the spirit of the revolutionary was manifestly absent. The period was first one of disillusionment, and then of prosperity; and the magazine resplendent with dazzling colors and fine paper. But the horseplay and the crazy-cat antics dominated even the beautiful Playboy. The new leader was irresponsibly called ‘Eggplant’ Arens, even in print,” so named because of his perceived passive intellect. [5]

The men and women who agreed to contribute to Playboy were a Who’s Who of Bohemia, including Rockwell Kent, William Gropper, Lola Ridge, Vachel Lindsay, Louise Bryant, Max Weber, Alfred Kreymborg, Djuna Barnes, D.H. Lawrence, Ben Hecht, Horace Brodsky, Mina Loy, Ethel Plummer, John Storrs, Alfred Frueh, William Zorach, Paul Gauguin, Paul Thevenaz, George Bellows, Alexander Brook, Alfred Stieglitz, Hunt Diedrich, Georgia O’Keeffe, Sherwood Anderson, Edmund Wilson Jr., John Dos Passos, James Joyce and E.E. Cummings.

In promoting his creation, Arens wrote:

“No magazine in America has heretofore succeeded in being both alive and modernly beautiful. The humorous magazines have lacked art. The art magazines have been dull and old-fashioned. Now with weapons of art & satire comes a Playboy to fight the fight of the Moderns, to fight with laughter, not bitterness, for the work of this our generation. Finally, now a periodical free of puritanical suppressions, with somewhat the flavor of the European magazines, yet possessed of wholesome vigor which is essentially American.” [6]

Arens’ marriage to Josephine was faltering, and by late 1919 he was sending issues of Playboy to a paramour in Kentucky, Camille Davied, whom he claimed to have fallen in love with after meeting her twice for a total of 12 hours. [7] He signed his letters “Playboy” and said of the magazines, “Don’t show this to the Kentucky folks!” On 10 Dec. 1919, Camille wrote back:

Your “Playboys” have been the center of a heated discussion. Edie, my Dresden China little sister, with her mouth full of pins and her lap full of pink evening dress, and her retrouseé nose more retrouseé than ever, hates it quite emphatically. Edie generally hates what she hates with emphasis. The drawing, according to her, is out of line and the poetry revolting. Modern art is neither beautiful nor useful, and has no excuse whatsoever for existence. The etchings, which are lovely, only please her. Alma thinks it has a “heady” effect like mixed drinks. And nice Mary Morris of Virginia, who is studying illustrating, says that the wood and linoleum block cuts are masterly studies in design…. I think I must like it very much I find myself defending it so vehemently.

Soon after Arens wrote to Davied:

It just occurs to me to send you copies of two letters I wrote to would-be contributors to Playboy. People seem to think that because I sometimes publish poems which are quite frank that I will also publish poems which are riské [sic]. One man wrote me, “Please don’t use my name, as I am not naturally naughty.” I sent his poems back right away after that, because I didn’t want to publish any poems about which the author had that kind of sentiment.

Playboy lasted for eight issues [8] — the first five in 1919, one in 1921 and two in 1923 after Arens had become the art editor of Vanity Fair.

Funding the magazine was a continuing challenge. In Issue 2, Arens noted to readers that “to function properly as an Art Magazine, Playboy must have color plates. The high cost of process printing puts this out of the reach of a twenty-five cent magazine.” He encouraged readers to donate to what he called the “Playboy Fund” by sending him checks. Issues 4 and 5 were published as a double number to save money on paper, and in 1923 he organized subscriber-only dances to raise funds.

In December 1925, the New Yorker noted that a group of five editors, including Arens, hoped to revive The Masses as New Masses. “From what I hear,” reported the New Yorker wag, “the new paper is very pleasing to the eye, printed throughout in three colors, with forty per cent of its pages reserved for cartoons, decorations and the higher art. To make this possible, Egmont Arens, once with Vanity Fair — note how times change — is to stamp it with his genius and print it on his own press, the press that prints the Playboy Magazine. Certainly Mr. Arens has had great experience in getting out periodicals worth looking at, and will do well with this new thing if anybody can.”

In 1927 Arens became managing editor under Rockwell Kent of a new magazine, Creative Arts. While there, he apparently toyed, perhaps with Kent’s encouragement, with reviving Playboy. Notes preserved in his papers at Syracuse University on the back of Creative Arts letterhead show him playing around with subtitles – “Playboy: A Picture Magazine of People’s Play” and “Playboy: A Magazine of Gaiety.” It would be “devoted to the Recreations,” including theater, dance, Harlem and art galleries but also winter sports in Canada and the North, automobiles, flying, the country home, gardening, women’s fashion and men’s wear.

Egmont Arens’ Playboy

No. 1 – January 1919
No. 2 – March-April 1919
No. 3 – Spring 1919
No. 4-5 – Summer-Fall 1919
No. 6 – Winter 1919
No. 7 – Spring 1921
No. 8 (Vol. 2, No. 1) – March 1923
No. 9 (Vol. 2, No. 2) – July 1923

“This magazine would feature PICTURES of things,” he wrote. “It would be a magazine to be looked at. The reading matter would be secondary in importance. The editorial staff would consist of artists and photographers rather than writers.” Further, he wrote, it would be “a magazine that assumes that there is some fun to be had. Anything but bored.”

Notably, it would need “sex appeal,” which would be found in “pictures of beautiful actresses taken by our own photographers. Each photo used, however, must conform to a high artistic standard.” There also would be “reproduction of works of art” and “drawings of gay scenes of sport and nightlife in which sex is subtly played up as in Jugend [a German art magazine] and La Vie Parisienne [a risqué French weekly], but less broadly, to conform to Am[erican] Taste.” In pencil he had notated the page: “Photo girl blowing smoke rings.”

By the end of the decade, Arens had left publishing for a new career at Calkins and Holden, where in 1929 he became the agency’s first director of industrial styling. In 1935 he founded his own design firm, which by the mid-1940s had grown to include 30 employees. Among other assignments, he would design the iconic KitchenAid mixer, the Eight O’Clock Coffee packaging and the Hobart meat slicer. That, and his pioneering of streamlined design and “consumer engineering,” is what he is remembered for.

After William Ostfeld, the Chicago book scout, discovered Arens’ magazine, he purchased the issue (No. 2) for $5 and proceeded to make the publication far less obscure by alerting the editors at Genesis, a derivative of Hefner’s Playboy. In May 1974 the magazine reprinted pages from the issue and its cover, noting the happenstance of Hefner’s doppelganger but more pointedly suggesting its rival had stolen the name and inspiration for his more famous magazine.

Ostfeld would note with some irritation that the U.S. press largely ignored this revelation. For his part, Hefner has always insisted the name was suggested by a friend during a brainstorming session (rejected titles included Stag Party, [9] Top Hat and Satyrs). Ironically, Hefner’s then-wife didn’t like the title, saying it sounded outdated and made her think of the 1920s. That didn’t bother Hefner, who associated the decade with “high living, parties, wine, women and song – the things we want the magazine to mean.”

There is no record in Egmont Arens’ papers of what he thought of Hefner’s magazine, but he remained proud of his own. Before his daughter Patricia married in 1954, he presented his future son-in-law with a bound set. [10] 

Endnotes

[1] Bell’s contribution was a poem in defense of Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, who had been imprisoned for opposing the draft. One of her co-defendants, Art Young, recalled that the defense attorney had handed the poem to the judge. “His Honor adjusted his glasses, read it slowly, then handed it back to Mr. Hillquit, saying, ‘Do you call that a poem?’ Mr. Hillquit replied, ‘Your Honor, it is so called in the indictment.’ The judge said, ‘Indictment quashed.’ ”
[2] Arens was discreet about the press. Margaret Anderson, who published a magazine called The Little Review that Arens sold in the shop, had been printing excerpts from James Joyce’s suppressed Ulysses. The Society for the Suppression of Vice took notice after the 13th installment. John S. Sumner, the head of the Society, showed up one day at the bookstore, and he and Anderson argued loudly. Soon after, she was indicted. At about the same time, Arens’ press was printing an anonymous translation of Arthur Schnitzler’s La Ronde (Hands Around), a drama of linked episodes each ending in sex, and Arens was hatching a plan with Rex Stout to publish a 12-volume edition of Casanova’s memoirs illustrated by Rockwell Kent.
[3] Stout, a childhood friend of Josephine Bell, would recall sitting in the shop in 1921 listening for hours as Theodore Dreiser and H.L. Mencken argued politics with “crusty vigor.”
[4] In a biography of Paul Johnston, who worked for Arens at Flying Stag Press, he said that “it was because of [Jo Bell’s] interest in poetry that Playboy was published.” (See Mary Clark, Tally: An Intuitive Life.)
[5] The chapter of Parry’s book that mentioned Playboy had first been published in The American Mercury in 1931, after which Arens wrote H.L. Mencken to offer a follow-up article “extolling the spirit that animated its publication.” Mencken politely declined.
[6] This was in many ways similar to the manifesto Hugh Hefner published in the first issue of his Playboy in 1953. “If you like your entertainment served up with humor, sophistication and spice, Playboy will become a very special favorite…. Affairs of state will be out of our province. We don’t expect to solve any world problems or prove any great moral truths. If we are able to give the American male a few extra laughs and a little diversion from the anxieties of the Atomic Age, we feel we’ve justified our existence.”
[7] Arens and Josephine divorced in 1923. That same year he married his second wife. They divorced in 1930 and seven days later he married Camille Davied. They had a daughter, Patricia, and divorced in 1952. Arens’ fourth wife, Matilde Zwilling, survived him.
[8] The Playboy subscriber cards for 1919, 1920 and 1921 are in Arens’ papers at Syracuse University and include more than 250 names. About a third are from New York but there are also requests from Cuba, Japan, France and China. As part of their divorce settlement, Arens sold the bookshop to Josephine for $1. They remained friendly. In an undated letter, she sent him a listing for “an interesting item that came to us in the mail today. Just thought you would like to see it. 1919 & 1923 – when was that time?” It was a dealer listing for seven issues of Playboy, “an important magazine of protest,” for $29.50.
[9] This title was abandoned when Stag magazine threatened legal action. Notably, at the same time he launched Playboy in 1919, Arens’ established an imprint called The Flying Stag Press.
[10] In a letter dated 25 April 1954, W.P. Cumming wrote Arens: “One of the first things that Ted showed me in his rooms in Cambridge were the bound sets of The Playboy which you had generously given him. He told me how you had edited, published and printed it, and showed me the since-famous names whose early writing was there.” In 1935 Arens wrote to a friend that he had found 16 complete sets and 139 loose issues in storage on East 18th Street. Single issues typically sell today for $300 to $500.

From The Ephemera Journal, September 2017

Malcolm and I were on the way to see something bigger than any cast iron carnival act. Waiting for us in Lancaster, piled chest-high in an abandoned candy factory, was a mountain of 25,000 infinitely looping, colorfully packaged, plastic-shelled, cheese-o-riffic 8-track tapes.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I would never see music in quite the same way. The pile of 8-tracks would teach me invaluable lessons about my humanity, about the loops we find ourselves stuck in, about how no matter how far we wander, no matter how much we change, no matter how desperately we push and punch the shrink-wrap we call our daily lives, we always return home like a magnetic tape hissing and kerchunking inside the walls of a dead musical format.

Don’t worry. I’m just kidding.

The 8-track mountain is stored in a practice space rented by Gumball, which is Malcolm from Takoma Park, Don from New York, Jay from Harrisburg and Eric from Pittsburgh. They gathered here to prepare their album Super Tasty. They wanted to promo it on 8-track, just as Rage Against the Machine had done, but Gumball’s label gave them the choice between that or vinyl. They chose vinyl.

Malcolm and Don and Jay were longtime members of the Velvet Monkeys, a D.C. band from the ’80s who put out a few records but no 8-tracks. The guys in Gumball are devoted to LPs, with 8-tracks as a sideshow collection that until July 23, 1993, consisted of a few thousand 5.25-by-4-inch titles stacked on metal shelves.

I have to say, I’ve seen a lot of sights: babies born, dead bodies, sunsets, dwarfs, UFOs. But I have never seen anything like the 25,000 8-tracks heaped in the band’s practice space. Malcolm climbed the mountain so I could snap a photo for scale, and he stumbled and sent tapes tumbling like stones to my feet. He examined a case here and there, as if picking wildflowers.

The 8-tracks came from a junk store, Porter’s Furniture, which is a couple of right turns on the way out of town. Porter’s kid did the deal. The band was scouring for tapes one Friday and disappointed by the selection and prices (Porter charges a buck apiece, which is no garage sale). Shorty, the guy who scurries the wobbly tables, gummy typewriters, locked trunks, pink mattresses and thousands of other items between floors, mumbled something about 8-tracks. Shorty mumbled a lot. Then Mr. Porter came by. He eyed the band suspiciously. “You guys lookin’ for 8-tracks?” he said. “I got 8-tracks.”

He led the musicians to a garage and pulled the doors wide. There, stacked on shelves and in wooden cabinets and cardboard boxes and garbage bags, were more 8-tracks than the children had seen in their whole lives!

The boys offered Porter $100 for 1000 of their choosing. The old man shook his head. He had stored these tapes for come near a decade, and he wasn’t about to let some rockers mine for gold. But the kid, Porter Jr., said “You can have ’em all for $450,” and that was that. Malcolm threw in $125, Jay the same, and Don $200.

They put on work gloves and began scooping up 20 tapes at a time, held like an accordion at full bellow, and dumping them into garbage bags. They borrowed a pick-up and drove to the candy factory and hauled the bags up in the freight elevator. They worked four or five hours a day. It took four days.

Eight-tracks, needless to say, are no longer state-of-the-art. If you remember when they were, you also are no longer state-of-the-art. The reason Malcolm and Gumball enjoy 8-tracks isn’t the sound. They like 8-tracks because of the bootlegs, rarities and obscure artists that have never appeared in any other format. (Malcolm calls the collection “a musical Bermuda Triangle.”) They like them because you get a lot of music for a dime or a quarter, and 8-track players, of which they have 30, can be had for $5 to $30. Sometimes people will give them away, if you can believe that.

Gumball tried to tame the 8-track mountain but gave up. Along one of the walls is the skeleton of a filing system, short stacks of tracks, A through Z. Beyond that, in a corner listening pad (a scrap of yard sale carpet flattens the acoustics) sit boxes of bootlegs, “an amazing amount” of jazz, a few homemades. Those are Malcolm’s favorites. “It’s a time capsule,” he says, holding up a tape with a handwritten playlist of Linda Ronstadt songs.

There is no Beatles in the bunch, no Zeppelin or Mozart. This is Grade B material, so far, although they haven’t reached the bottom of the pile. Many of what they have sorted are duplicates. What can you do with 103 copies of a record by the Andrea True Connection? (Andrea True was a porn star who became a disco singer, and that’s interesting, but her music is not.) There’s Captain and Tennile, and Tammy Faye Bakker singing corny gospel, nearly the entire Misty Label catalog with selections such as “Feelin’ Groovy” by the Rock Revival, and albums by Kiss and Journey.

There are tribute albums such as Malcolm’s prized “Excerpts from the Rock Opera Tommy by ‘The Who’, Vol. 2” with the disclaimer that the album is actually “played by the Decibels.” Other 8-track bands would take names like “Rubber Soul” (after the Beatles’ album) or “The King” (Elvis) to prod buyers into thinking they were karmically in possession of the real thing.

There is some Grade A stuff: Miles Davis, Roxy Music, King Crimson, Sun Ra, Charlie Parker, Jethro Tull, Captain Beefheart. Malcolm considers any tape offered in quadraphonic a prize. These tapes might have been mixed, say, with the drums in speaker one, the guitar in speaker two, the bass in speaker three, and the organ in speaker four. Malcolm once found Emerson Lake and Palmer’s first album in Quad while exploring the mountain, but he set it down and hasn’t been able to find it again.

A week after the band bought the trove, the boys were looking through Goldmine (a newspaper for record collectors) when Malcolm spotted an ad. “25,000 8-tracks. All Styles. All Sealed. Asking $450. Lancaster, PA.” When Malcolm called the number in the ad, Porter didn’t answer. Someone named Keith did, and he couldn’t believe the boys also had 25,000 8-tracks.

“50,000 8-tracks in Lancaster, Pennsylvania!” Malcolm exclaimed. They’d located the 8-track center of the universe.

They still produce 8-tracks, country and western mostly, for truckers. The last plant is located in Nashville. Malcolm snapped open an Engelburt Humperdink to show me the guts. There’s a 300-foot loop of magnetic tape which winds infinitely back onto itself and plays up to 80 minutes of analog sound. It feeds from the inside of the roll, passes over a pinch roller and capstan and tape head openings and under two pressure pads, and then wraps itself back around the outside of the roll. Four programs of stereo are recorded on each tape — 4×2=8 — hence the name 8-track. The signature ker-CHUNK! sound the player makes at the end of each program is the noise of the tape head disengaging from a program and engaging the next.

The inventor of the 8-track was John Lear of Learjet. He registered his patent in 1945, but his break came 20 years later when he convinced Ford to offer in-dash players as an option for their 1966 models. Until then, the cutting edge had been FM radio. Once RCA Victor and Capitol began releasing their catalogs on 8-track, Chrysler and General Motors joined the fray. The carmakers would usually toss in a corny sampler of rock, classical and jazz to whet appetites.

The 8-track’s heyday ended around 1971, when the first auto-reverse cassette decks appeared. The boxy 8-tracks were a pain, with all the hissing and jamming, and they still are for those who keep the dream alive. If you’re not careful, the rubber roller can melt from the friction, spewing a tarry substance that destroys the 8-track and clogs your player.

Radio Shack hasn’t offered an 8-track player since its 1990 catalog, when item number 14-935 went for $9.95. You may find blank tapes or head cleaners at some Radio Shacks — the ones nobody visits — but officially the company doesn’t stock them. Mail-order record clubs offered the format until as late as 1988. A few devoted trackers cross out “compact discs” on the club’s postage-paid membership cards and mail them back with “8-tracks” scribbled across the top. The clubs reply with form letters.

There are three 8-tracks that get you invited to the ball. The first is Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music, which Lou claimed he made to satisfy the record deal he wanted out of. Malcolm calls it “the Holy Grail of 8-tracks.” Don has a copy and got Lou to sign it. So Don gets an invitation.

The second tape is The Yardbirds Live with Jimmy Page (with its smoking version of “Dazed and Confused” called “I’m Confused”). The third tape is the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bullocks. A copy recently sold for $100 at a Dallas record store, which caused a gnashing of teeth among trackers. The store owner, Mr. Bucks, said he had put the $100 tag on Bullocks because he didn’t want it to sell. One day some kid came in while Bucks was at lunch. He didn’t even try to bargain the clerk down.

This transaction set off a panic among the readers of 8-Track Mind, the quarterly bible of the tracker community edited by Russ Forster. Collectors worried that the high-end sales of Bullocks might drive 8-track tapes beyond the $1 to $5 price for premium titles. When Malcolm wrote to tell Forster about the band’s 25,000 tapes, his response was “My head is spinning.”

Forster, who owns 500 8-tracks, is shooting a film on trackers and life. He hopes the film will “dispel the notion that people into 8-tracks are beer-bellied ex-hippies trying to relive their glory days.” His 100 or so subscribers, he says, are generally white, middle-aged and educated.

Russ notes that the Chicago band Big Black has a compact disc called The Rich Man’s 8-Track Tape. “That hits it on the head,” he says.

On our way out of Lancaster, Malcolm and I stopped at Porter’s. Just inside the door, we admired a liquor cabinet / miniature bar / 8-track system unit, priced not to sell at $375. The cabinet had a serving rack for eight shot glasses, and a fireplace with a plastic log facade and a rotating orange light to stimulate heat. Endless drinks, infinitely looping music, a fire that never goes out — it summed up an entire decade.

Then, abruptly, Malcolm’s eyes widened. Next to the cabinet sat a box of shrink-wrapped 8-tracks.

“They held some back,” he said, picking up a copy of Funkadelics’ One Nation Under a Groove. Malcolm had a flash of fire in his eyes. But he caught himself, and his shoulders fell, and he flipped the tape back into the box. Soon Malcolm — and Gumball — will be the undisputed 8-track kings of the world, and no piddly puddle of tracks in a junk store in the middle of Pennsylvania would be able to topple them.

From Washington City Paper, March 1994

Profiting handsomely from all this action is Jimmy Doogle, founder of the Extraterrestial Sports and Programming Network (ETSPN). “Thank God for the spacetime continuum,” he says with a laugh, during which he earned another trillion dollars. Nautilus recently caught up with Doogle to find out what today’s adrenaline junkies do for a fix.

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With that in mind, I surveyed anatomists and biologists to compile a punch list for the human body, just as you’d do before buying a house. Get out your checkbook. This one’s a fixer-upper.

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