Broadcasting Bing

He had a 30-plus-year career on radio, much of the time hosting a variety show, but he wasn’t a top comedian.

He’s Bing Crosby.

Crosby bracketed his career with a 15-minute singing show on CBS, the first one airing in 1931 and the last one co-starring Rosemary Clooney leaving the air in 1962. In between he may be best known as the host of the Kraft Music Hall starting in 1936 before changing network radio in 1946 when he insisted his new show, Philco Radio Time, be broadcast via transcription. Pretty soon, other major stars were recording their programmes for network broadcast.

Bing had a casual, breezy approach on the air which, no doubt, helped maintain his popularity. But it was all calculated; you can’t wing a half-hour variety show. Bing had the good fortune to have Carroll Carroll as his writer for a number of years. Carroll wrote the show to suit Bing’s relaxed style. The old shows are still enjoyable today.

A syndicated columnist named Homer Canfield dropped in on Crosby’s Kraft show fairly early in its run to do a two-part story on how it was put together. It appeared in papers on December 23-24, 1937.

It seems to me this was around the time where there was a gimmick where announcer Ken Carpenter told Crosby on the air he would not ring the NBC chimes. This function, by 1937, would normally be done by a network staff announcer, ie. someone other than Carpenter. In the second story, Carpenter’s intro has been modified by the columnist to delete the sponsor’s name. No free newspaper plugs!

HOLLYWOOD — I GLANCED nervously at the clock over the engineers booth. The hands were straight up and down. Here it was 6 o'clock, and Ralph Bellamy, the guest star, hadn't arrived, hadn’t seen the script nor rehearsed a line. It was Thursday and the Music Hall had to hit the air at 7 o’clock. (KFI). No excuses would be acceptable. Producer Calvin Kuhl and Writer Carroll Carroll weren't particularly worried. A two-year apprenticeship with the Music Hall had hardened them to this sort of thing. They knew Bellamy was tied up on a picture and would get there just as soon as he could. That’s the way producers, writers and stars on big-time shows have to work. All I can say is that it’s a good thing they haven't the Canfield nervous system.
Earlier in the afternoon I had dropped over to Studio B on the NBC lot to pay my respects to the Music Hall gang and watch Ken Carpenter’s masterful performance on the bells. On entering the studio at 4:30 o’clock, I had expected to find a boiling pot of activity. Instead, I found only a few stray musicians swapping stories. Bing Crosby, Bob Burns and John Scott Trotter were no where in sight.

Scouting about a bit I found Calvin Kuhl in John Swallow's office. He was busy dictating wires to be sent to New York.
This young, friendly producer of one of radio's most popular variety hours bid your Uncle Canfield welcome, and I collapsed in one of the easy divans. Executives offices are always filled with easy chairs. Carroll Carroll was stretched horizontally along another divan. Both looked at me inquiringly. I knew they expected to be asked some questions, so I started: “How many weeks ahead do you work on the show? “
Carroll: “Well, I know exactly what’s going to happen next week up to the point where Ken Carpenter says, ‘And here’s Bing Crosby,’.”
Kuhl: “When you came in I was sending some wires east for clearances on next week’s music. You know, of course, that we have to have permission for every song programmed. That’s to prevent repetition of the same numbers on other programs. Then, too, we know that Basil Rathbone, Madge Evans and the Choral Society will be on next Thursday’s show. Otherwise, were as free as the birds.”
“How do you achieve that fine touch of informality which runs throughout the show?”
Kuhl: “By not over rehearsing. We usually run through the script once and then forget it until airtime. Because so many of our stars are busy with other work, we never do a dress rehearsal. In fact, we haven’t even gone over all of tonight's show. When Bellamy gets here at 6 o’clock well run over his lines with Bob and Bing.
“How do you get the stars to do and say some of the unusual things you write for them?”
Carroll, whose small stature and youthful appearance belie the fact that he’s one of the broadcasting bands ace scripters, gave this question a bit of thought. “That seems to be comparatively simple,” he replied. “Probably on Monday I’ll drop around and see Rathbone. We’ll just sit around and talk. Something will bob up in the conversation that will give me a lead. But maybe I won’t find anything. Maybe I’ll have to look up some of his friends and try to get an idea from them. What I search for first is a finish. It’s easy enough to bring the stars to the microphone, but it’s something else to end their act with something of a punch.”
“Do they ever object to the informal treatment they get in the Music Hall?”
“No. Most of them have heard the show at one time or another and are prepared for what’s to happen. Like anyone else, they’re eager for some fun. As long as the script doesn't make them appear ridiculous something we strive never to do they're willing for almost anything.”
Kuhl’s remark that the show never sees a dress rehearsal had just pierced my brain and awakened more questions.
“How do you get an accurate timing on the show? After all, you've got an even hour on the air, no more, and no less.”
“We know the exact number of minutes and seconds each individual orchestral, concert number and song will take. We time the dialogue at the first rehearsal. Then we add to this a few minutes for laughter and ad libbing, and we have approximately the length of the program. If necessary, we cut a musical number or a scene or have another musical number put in the show, depending, of course, whether or not were on the long or short side.”
“Is it as simple as all of that?”
“Well, not exactly. A good many of our cuts are made while the show is on the air. At a certain time in the program I know we're supposed to be at given place in the script. If we're running long then I have to figure out some cut that will make up for the time lost. Each broadcast has its own particular problems and I’ve yet to find two alike.”
“Would you like to come up to rehearsal with us now and watch the broadcast from the control booth?”
Would I? Would you?
“Just lead the way,” I said, “and I’ll try not to get in your hair.”
(More Tomorrow)

HOLLYWOOD — Yesterday we left off with Producer Calvin Kuhl inviting us to witness the last of rehearsal, and to catch the Music Hall broadcast from the control booth. And it's not like your Uncle Canfield to pass by an invitation like that.
Kuhl led the way upstairs to studio B with Carroll Carroll, the show's diminutive writer, and myself tagging along. The studio presented a far different sight than I had seen earlier in the afternoon. Much activity was now taking place.
Bing Crosby and John Scott Trotter were on the stage indulging in a bit of horseplay. You couldn't have missed Bing. Not with that red and white contraption he calls a shirt. And it's altogether impossible to overlook John. Why, with the poundage he's carrying, on a clear day you can see him ten miles away.
Paul Taylor, stubby and stout, and his Choristers are straggling into the studio. Anne Shirley, one of the guest stars, is comfortably tucked away on a folding chair, and looks delightfully youthful and deliciously beautiful what with her fur coat, red hair and intelligent eyes. But things are much, too much matter of fact for my money. No one seems in the least disturbed that it's now five minutes to six and Ralph Bellamy, a guest star, hasn't as yet put in an appearance. Of course, he hasn't promised to be there until six, but there's no time like the present to worry, that's the Canfield motto.

Bing runs over a number with the orchestra, nonchalantly crooning into the microphone while he studies the expression of the engineer in the control booth. Bing makes no effort to save his voice for the broadcast. The pipe he's usually puffing on dangles out of his shirt pocket. Did I say shirt? Anyway, if he wasn't rehearsing a song he'd be off in some corner whistling or singing. It's natural for Bing to sing. I firmly believe he was born burping and boop-boop-ba-booing. It's just a very happy accident he gets paid for it. Ask Bing, he'll tell you the same.
Across the stage and back to the dressing rooms I take myself. I'm looking for Bob Burns. The tall Arkansan is an old favorite friend of mine. Bob is in the dressing room with his gagman, Duke Atterbury, concocting one of his fanciful tales to amaze the populace.
Bob's been pretty busy, so he's had to wait until the last minute to fashion this one. Burns is not any too happy about it because he's not patterned for this last-minute stuff. Out of desperation, a long winded yarn about Ralph Bellamy is given a verb and a predicate. It'll have to do. And it does, as I found out later during the broadcast.
Then back to the studio. It's five minutes past six. Bellamy comes breezing in the door. I shot a hasty look at Kuhl and Carroll. Not a change of expression. They're hardened to this last minute thing.
At 20 minutes to seven the audience is ushered into the studio. That means, by the time Bellamy settles down, they've got just 25 minutes to rehearse his lines. Which include two scenes, and to rehearse him in a song with Bob Burns playing a bazooka obligato. Not a great deal of time, you must admit, for a show as important as the Music Hall.
Bob comes bounding out of his dressing room like an old fire horse smelling a flickering ember. Bing is on the job and the three give their lines a try, so a reading veteran troupers, so a reading seems to suffice. Kuhl holds a stop watch on it, notes the result and makes some hasty tabulations on the script. He's worried about time. Are the scenes too long? Apparently not. He looks over at Carroll and gives a nod of satisfaction.
Now comes the Bellamy vocal rendition. "Home on the Range" is the song. Bob blows blast after blast of bazooka obligato as delicate as a hurricane.
With Bellamy's part rehearsed, the show is ready to be sprayed over the nation through the thin wires of the network. And it's just about airtime, too. The audience has filed into the small auditorium, which seats a little over 200.
Bing strolls around the stage like one of the hired help. He looks less like a big time radio and movie star than anyone in the business. Even Charlie McCarthy sports a top hat and white tie. But not Bing: He'll stick to the Hawaiian shirt and he walks around with his two arms hanging to his sides like he was expecting any minute to grab on to the working end of a wheelbarrow. He eyes the audience; makes cracks at Burns; thoroughly enjoys himself.
Producer Kuhl stays on the stage and Writer Carroll takes me into the holy of all holies, the control booth.
The engineer, partly surrounded by a panel of dials and gadgets, is clearing lines and waiting for the network’s signal. Ken Carpenter is at the mike watching the control booth. A red light flashes on. Ken takes the cue and says: “The Music Hall, starring Bing Crosby with John Scott Trotter and his orchestra, the Paul Taylor Choristers, and Bob Burns.”
A nation is listening.