Songbird of the Ozarks

Fans of Tex Avery’s wonderful cartoon Little Rural Riding Hood (1949) may not realise the title character owes an awful lot to a radio star. She appeared on stage barefoot and in pig-tails, and was probably the most famous backwoods woman character on the air, even more so than Minnie Pearl of the Grand Ol’ Opry.

She was Judy Canova.

Canova, her brother Zeke and sister Annie had a singing act that took them from the far South (she was from Florida) to Broadway. But it seems Judy was the one who was in demand and fairly soon, she was on radio and starring in movies for Republic Pictures. She got her own network radio show, a summer replacement on CBS in 1943. She signed up some of the best supporting radio actors in Hollywood. Mel Blanc did both his Sylvester and Speedy Gonzales voices on her show before either character was in cartoons. Verna Felton and Joe Kearns were regulars, along with Ruby Dandridge playing (are you shocked about this?) a maid. Hans Conried and Sheldon Leonard appeared as well.

The Canova variety show didn’t make the jump to television and it died on radio in 1953 when sponsor money abandoned it for the small screen.

Blanc praised Canova’s talents in his autobiography, but unless you liked yokel humour, her show probably wasn’t for you. Critic John Crosby wasn’t impressed, and he outlined his reasons in his column of September 9, 1946. He didn’t have a lot to say, so he finished off his column with a review of Walter Winchell’s return to the airwaves.

RADIO IN REVIEW
Recipe for Genius Missed
By JOHN CROSBY
NEW YORK, Sept. 9.—Genius, said Thomas Alva Edison in a careless moment, is one per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration. This questionable aphorism has, I'm sure, been studied closely by Miss Judy Canova, whose variety show returned to the air a couple of Saturdays ago. (N.B.C., 10 p.m. Saturdays.) Miss Canova is one of a large group of lady funny-faces whose ideas on comedy are as fixed and changeless as the movement of the stars. She brays, she whinnies, she paws the ground. After every program, I’m sure she’s wringing wet with genius. She just doesn't make me laugh, is all.
The trouble, I think, is that Miss Canova has not scrupulously observed the Edison formula. The inventor's recipe for genius is already too strong for my taste. Too much gin, not enough vermouth. Yet even he conceded you must have some vermouth. Miss Canova's comedy is 100 per cent perspiration, which ruins the flavor. Straight gin, Miss Canova, doesn't stimulate; it paralyzes.
I have the same complaint about Miss Canova's gag writers: Straight perspiration.
“Did I miss you?" says Canova's boy friend at one point. "Why, if you leave me again, I’ll throw my heart at your feet."
"Shucks, wouldn't that leave a big hole in your chest?"
That gag, I should say, came at the end of the afternoon, the end of a strenuous day. Too many cigarettes, too much coffee, went into it. It needs fresh air, a simple diet and complete rest. But then I’m an amateur at the business. Let's call in Dr. Red Skelton, a very great scientist in this line. I have a handful of Miss Canova's jokes, carefully preserved in formaldehyde. I wish you'd make an examination, doctor, and tell me what's wrong. Take this one, for instance.
"Judy, your kisses sure send me."
"Shucks, some people don't care how they travel."
And here's an even more difficult case:
"Pedro, why do you wear a red necktie on the beach?"
"That was no red necktie. I was chasing my girl up the beach and my tongue was hanging out."
Any hope for that one, doctor? Too old, eh? That's what I thought. Overwork and too little exercise. Well, do your best doctor. If you think it'll do any good, call in Eddie Cantor. If anyone can patch up a joke to last out one more season, it's Cantor. Expense is no object.
* * *
Walter Winchell has returned from his vacation and, along with about 20,000,000 other Americans, I hung on every word of his first broadcast (A.B.C., 9 p.m. Sundays) to hear what the oracle had learned on his vacation; what, if anything, I could expect from the world. "Give us the word, O soothsayer", we 20,000,000 were saying. "Is it to be peace or war?" Right in the middle of the broadcast it came—or at least I thought it came. Mr. Winchell talks too fast for me but I thought he said: "The next World War will break out before the end of 1946."
Well, I thought grimly, here it is. Now take it easy, Crosby, Let's be practical. First thing in the morning, call the tailor and cancel that suit; I’ll not need it. The apartment? Well, the GI Bill will take care of the lease, but what about the furniture? It'll work itself out somehow; it did the last time.
Perhaps I'd better call the network and confirm it first; perhaps he even said what DAY it would break out. It would be much easier to make plans if I knew the day, or even the month.
Well, I called the American Broadcasting Company and I feel a little silly. Mr. Winchell's exact words—and I quote—were: "General de Gaulle's off the-record opinion—off-the-record to others, not to Winchell—is that the next world war will break out before the end of 1946." Sit back and relax, everyone. It wasn't Winchell who predicted it; it was—only De Gaulle.

As for the columns for the rest of the week, we’ve already transcribed the one from Sept. 11 where Crosby gives a mixed review to one of his favourite satirists, Henry Morgan. On Sept. 10th, he looked at Mutual programme about war starring The Unknown Soldier. On the 12th, it was Theatre Guild of the Air’s version of the play that later became the movie “Gaslight.” On the 13th, it was a programme on the bombing of Hiroshima and a different way of approaching the story. Click to enlarge.