Even back then, he was reticent to disclose his age, though the “39” gag hadn’t been invented yet (he was actually 40). There’s nothing about being cheap or the Maxwell or the violin; those aspects of his character came later.
There is some truth in this feature story. He did play “comedy in the Navy,” and was booked in vaudeville on the West Coast, though the Orpheum circuit also took him to places like Denver, Chicago and Winnipeg. He did perform “Grind Hotel” four times, though at the time of this story he had only done it three times (twice in 1932, once in 1934).
It’s interesting that his “response” to the end of his relationship with Chevrolet is that he was going to make movies. His firing by Chevrolet was apparently a sore spot with him for many years; someone at the car company wanted semi-classical music instead of comedy (his next sponsor was General Tire). It’s amusing to read he hadn’t “had an offer from Warner Bros.” Some years in the future, he reaped a bounty of laughs by ridiculing his final feature, The Horn Blows at Midnight, made for Warners.
The “appearance” of writer Harry Conn in the story makes me wonder if he was responsible for the copy. Their “exchange” is more uncomfortable than amusing, especially considering the two parted unamicably in 1936.
JACK BENNY GRILLS HIMSELF
By Jack Benny
HELLO, again! This is Jack Benny, the famous journalist, just returned to his typewriter after an interview with Jack Benny, the famous radio comedian. The interview? Let me set it down in detail:
"Pardon me, sir," I said, "I'm Jack Benny, the famous journalist."
"I never heard of you," he replied, "What do you want? And what do you mean butting into the studio here while I'm broadcasting? Can't you see I'm on the air?"
"I've heard of you," I replied. "You're the guy who tells the jokes on Frank Black's Sunday night program."
"Pardon me," said the great Mr. Benny. "Let me get this straight. Are you the comedian, or am I?"
"Mr. Benny," I said, "Radio Guide has asked me to interview you... First, could I get you to tell me the secret of your success?"
"Oh! It's a secret, eh?" he replied. "My good man, don't you know 1 have five million listeners every Sunday night?"
"But Jack Pearl, the Baron Munchausen of the Air, says you have only three."
"Why, the low—You mean he says I have only three million listeners?"
"No," I informed him. "He meant three listeners — three people."
"Hello, again!" said Benny. "This is Jack Benny Speaking to you from obscurity."
"Now, Mr. Benny," I continued, "let's get down to facts."
"How far down?" he asked, "you mean you must have the low-down?"
"No," I told him, "we must keep this interview clean. Now let me explain— I'll use one syllable words so you can understand. I want facts about your life."
The blank look on Benny's face disappeared.
"I getcha!" he cried.
"Well, how old are you, Mr. Benny?" I asked him.
"Off the records." he said.
"Where were you born?" I asked next.
"Waukegan, Ill."
"Do you ever think of going back there?”
"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I'm going back tomorrow! I just got a wire that my tailor's dead."
"I've heard that one before, Mr. Benny."
"I've heard that one before, too," he replied. "Wait a minute. Are you criticizing me or interviewing me?"
"I'll ask the questions," I told him. "You just answer them."
"All right," he agreed, pulling a cigar from my vest pocket. "Ya gotta match?" he asked then.
"Mr, Benny," I said, handing him my lighter, "I understand you were in show business a long time before you became a radio comedian. Tell me, what was the first role you ever played?"
"I once played the role of a sailor."
"What was your next success?"
"Well, after playing comedy in the Navy, I was booked for a vaudeville circuit on the West Coast. I was terrific. I was sensational! I was marvelous — colossal."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Benny?"
"I mean that my act was fair."
"Well, Mr. Benny," I insisted, "it has been rumored around that you have some talent as a violinist. Did you really play the violin on the stage?"
"Sure," he declared. "Why, that's all I did."
"Why didn't you continue fiddling?"
"Well," he said, "Heifetz, Fritz Kreisler and Spalding were playing too, and the field became overcrowded. So I quit."
"According to the recent poll conducted by a New York newspaper, you are the most popular of all the radio comedians in the United States. How does it feel?"
"It's stupendous! Colossal! Terrific!"
"Oh, you're using that line again, eh? What do you mean now?"
"Just that. I really mean it. Can't I be serious once in a while?"
"How long have you been on the air?"
"Two years."
"What was your funniest and most popular show during that time?"
"The dramatic skit, 'Grind Hotel,' which is a satire on the movie, 'Grand Hotel.' Why, we had to repeat it four times by popular request."
"You mean," I said to the comedian, "that the people demanded that you repeat it four time— FOUR TIMES, Mr. Benny?"
"Must you insist on knowing the truth?" he asked.
"I must have facts," I told him.
"Well, Mr. Benny," he said with a sigh, "I see I'll have to come through and tell all. Actually, one of those Grind Hotel repeats was made because I ran short of material for a broadcast."
"What are you going to do when your broadcasts for the automobile sponsor are through?" I asked him.
"Haven't you heard? Why, Mr. Benny, I thought everyone knew I have had offers from two motion picture producing companies to make talkies. One was from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and the other was from Paramount."
"What!" I exclaimed. "You mean you haven't had an offer from Warner Brothers?"
"No," he said sadly. "I made a picture for them once."
"But radio seems to be the most important thing in your life, Mr. Benny," continued, "and your program is the most important part of your interest in radio. What kind of humor do you think is appreciated most by your audience?"
"New," he replied simply.
"Have you tried that type, Mr. Benny," I asked.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I frequently run out of old jokes. Why, most of the time I have to write new material for my broadcasts."
"Do your studio audiences always applaud your performances?" I continued.
"Oh, yes, as a general rule. But once in a while we have to remind them. You know, audiences are apt to let their minds wander from the comedian they're listening to."
"Oh, another thing about your program, Mr. Benny. I'm sure the readers of Radio Guide will be interested in this one. Is Mary Livingstone really your wife?"
"Yes, but don't you dare print that!" he cried. "It might hurt my woman fan mail."
"All right, Mr. Benny." I said, "I won't. And now, Mr, Benny, excuse me if I become personal. You set yourself up as a comedian, don't you?"
"Well—" he began.
"Don't interrupt," I cut in. "I want to know if you're really the merry fellow the people believe you are... the man with the trigger-action wit?"
"Absolutely," he declared. "Why, I'll bet you'll be surprised to learn that I can tell the funniest jokes without rehearsing more than three times."
"What are your ideas for future programs, Mr. Benny?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "I think maybe I'll do 'Way Down East'."
The interview was interrupted at this point by the appearance of a stranger.
"Better not do that one," said the stranger.
"Why not?" asked Benny. "Saaay, who are you anyway, barging in here like that?"
"Name's Harry W. Conn," said the stranger. "And I think you had better do 'I'm No Angel,' because it would be more appropriate."
"Very poor," said Benny.
"Well, you know Marv Livingstone loves to do impersonations of Mae West."
"So what?" said Benny, "I should ruin my program just to give Mary experience?"
"Well, I don't think the Down East idea is any good, cither," continued Mr. Conn. "In fact, I won't have anything to do with it."
"Now, wait a minute. Conn," Benny said. "Who asked you to have anything to do with it?"
"You did," said Conn, "two years ago. And here's my contract with your signature on it. I cost you money."
"So it is ... so it is," said Benny. "Why, now I recognize you . . . you're . . .
"I am," Mr. Conn said, "the only radio script writer you ever employed."
"PLAY, FRANK!" said Benny.
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