Down South (1928), their first Warner Bros. sound-on-disc shorts, still awaits restoration. Manhattan Serenade (1929) and others of their Vitaphone, MGM, and Universal shorts have largely disappeared. But Brox Sisters recordings that do survive sound car horn beeps from the crack up of the prewar world occuring all over America.  
  In the image below, Bobbe, Lorayne, and Patricia Brox seem three stages in waking from an erotic dream. In a comic novel, a 20s novelist like Henry Miller or F. Scott Fitzgerald might have nicknamed the three of them Sex, Booze, and Sweetness. So they seem in some ways the sleep masks of their moment.  
  An ocean liner photo from the 1920s depicts the sisters, then stars on Broadway, as the harem of a squinting man named Darby sporting a pearl tie pin and a diamond pinky ring. Another shows Patricia fiddling with the knob of a radio;, another, all three clowning in a miniscule prop vehicle. In one from 1925, they pause in cloche hats, necklaces, and animal fur collars at the rail of the stairway leading down into the Metro stop at Trinité d'Estienne d'Orves in Paris.  
  Putting the sisters together in a double bed may once have served to advertize their 1923 recording, "Down Among the Sleepy Hills of Ten-Ten-Tennessee." In 1923, the sisters would have been, respectively, 21, 22, and 19. The image is undated. You hear them chirping out a portion the version they performed with Cliff Edwards—the first recorded version—of "Singin' In the Rain" from Hollywood Review of 1929, MGM's all talkie and part two color Technicolor 1929 extravaganza.  
  The bottle of whiskey—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk southward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.  
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1925), Chapter 2