Remember The Triangle Fire Coalition

Triangle Fire Open Archive

Cultural Response

Triangle Fire Song

Contributed by : Ross Altman Local 47 (musicians' union)

Object # 1509

For the Los Angeles Labor Fest, I have written a Triangle Fire Song. It begins :
Washington Square, 1911
Saturday, March 25
At the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory
Tillie Kupersmith
Is trapped in a fire in the ten-story Asch Building
When a bundle of cloth tumbles down—
“Harris is saving his best material”—
Thought a witness till she hit the ground.

  • You can download the lyric sheet here.

    • Courtesy of : © 2011 Grey Goose Music (BMI)

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    Commentary

    Triangle Fire Song
    words and music by Ross Altman
    Washington Square, 1911
    Saturday, March 25
    At the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory
    Tillie Kupersmith
    Is trapped in a fire in the ten-story Asch Building
    When a bundle of cloth tumbles down—
    “Harris is saving his best material”—
    Thought a witness till she hit the ground.
    Chorus:  Whoever said, the dead tell no tales
    Was either a fool or a liar
    ‘Cause they’ve been speaking for a hundred years:
    Remember the Triangle Fire.
    From the shtetl to the sweatshop
    She survived with her needle and thread
    She poured her grief into the Bintel Brief
    The union was her butter and bread—
    She kisses her sweetheart—their last act of love
    On the Sabbath they have to work—
    They jump from the window nine stories above
    The sidewalks of New York. (Ch.)
    A makeshift morgue on Charities Pier
    The workers call Misery Lane
    With bitter tears the families appear
    To identify their loved ones remains
    The coffins are open—they can’t be sure–
    Their features are all but erased
    A lock of hair, a shoe from the flames
    Take years for some names to be traced. (Ch.)
    “The Shirtwaist Kings” are tried for manslaughter
    Isaac Harris and Max Blanck
    A jury of their peers finds them Not Guilty
    The Statue of Liberty shrank
    They award the families $75
    Apiece for their children who died
    Give me your tired, your poor huddled masses
    When your building burns lock them inside.
    A hundred and forty six immigrant garment workers
    Martyred in eighteen minutes
    Yet no one’s to blame for this wall of flame
    If there’s a Hall of Shame they’re in it
    Skeletons were bending over sewing machines
    Where Margaret Schwartz drew her last breath
    Fire escape broke—she choked on the smoke–
    In the Triangle factory of death. (Final Ch.)