Morgan Makes the Big Time

Some people knew the Golden Age of Radio was full of inanity. And a few made fun of it on the air—Fred Allen, Bob and Ray, and Henry Morgan being good examples.

Allen became embittered about a giveaway show which took away his listeners and helped push him off the air. Bob and Ray were shunted from network to network, time-slot to time-slot, trying to find the right fit in a dying industry. And Morgan couldn’t keep a show on the air, despite some great concepts, and finally contenting himself, like Allen, with marking time on a televised panel quiz show.

Morgan had made a bit of a name for himself for being a 15-minute grump, and for ridiculing his sponsor’s sales pitches. One of his complaints was he was capable of fronting a big-time comedy/variety show. So ABC gave him one.

The elements were good. There were put-downs of radio shows and advertising, quirky musical numbers and some social satire. Some of it worked, some of it didn’t. The stuff that didn’t was painful because Morgan got no audience reaction but was forced to finish his routine. ABC finally gave up on Morgan, who was picked up by NBC after a lot of pressure from Fred Allen. But variety shows cost money and with more potential sponsors giving up radio for television, Morgan didn’t have a chance (despite Arnold Stang and two of Jackie Gleason’s future cast-mates, Art Carney and Pert Kelton).

Radio Life profiled Morgan’s career to date in its edition of November 24, 1946. Some of the dialogue described comes from the first two ABC shows. The photos accompanied the article.

Madman Morgan
Madcap Henry Morgan Has Hit the Big Time
Now by Biting the Hand That Feeds Him!
By Joan Buchanan
Wednesday, 9:30 p.m. ABC—KECA, KFMB, KPRO
HE'S A big star now—perhaps destined to be the biggest comedy name in 1947—but the faithful Henry Morgan fans are keeping their fingers crossed. They've followed the incorrigible Morgan's career long enough to know that sometimes the sponsor and the station can't take it. And Morgan just doesn't care!
Here's a glimpse of Morgan's past hilarious history in radio—read it and then join us in crossing fingers. Henry became the youngest announcer in radio at the age of seventeen, became a newscaster and was hired and fired all in the space of five weeks. He just couldn't get to broadcasts on time. He went to a station in Philadelphia and worked for one year, signing off the station at night by announcing the names of everyone who happened to be in the studio including the janitor, elevator operators, window cleaners. He was finally fired for listing station executives whom he seldom met in the missing persons bureau broadcast. Happily Morgan comments, "It was days before they discovered it."

Worked at a station in Boston for two years and was doing fine until he got interested in a law course. He started attending law school at night and was fired for cutting a broadcast to take his examinations. Oh, well, as Morgan says, "Time Marches Sideways!" Our hero finally wound up on station WOR in New York, where he did the remotes from the out-of-town dine and dance spots. Cracks like "Hop in your car and drive to 'Blank's Silver Slipper'. It's only fifteen minutes from New York as the crow flies—that is if the crow happens to be driving a supercharged motorcycle . . ." made officials decide that this wasn't exactly the sort of thing to induce confidence in the remote broadcasts. Instead of firing Morgan, they gave him a weekly spot where he could do his kidding on his own time.
Is "Discovered"
Listeners discovered him and soon he was doing his famous "Here's Morgan" broadcasts three times a week. This was soon expanded to six a week. If the listeners could take it Morgan could! But alas, the poor sponsor! The Adler Elevator Shoe people were perhaps Morgan's most famous and most heckled sponsor. Three times they withdrew sponsorship, but Morgan was in their blood—they always came back. Morgan persisted in referring to his sponsor as "Old Man Adler" and one time after delivering a rhapsody on Adler's Shoes, in an aside, he confided to his listeners, "Frankly, I wouldn't wear them to a dog fight." The sponsor was upset and asked Morgan to retract his statement. Next day on the air, Morgan repeated his set-to with "Old Man Adler". "I said I'd take it back and I will," stated Morgan. "I would wear Adler's Shoes to a dog fight." It was tactics like this that had men of above-average height buying this brand of shoe. Morgan lost the sponsorship of Life Savers when he confided that they were milking the public by putting holes in their candy. He also referred to their six delicious flavors as "cement, asphalt, asbestos . . . "

Radio took a step backward when Morgan went into the army in 1943. Happily, "Here's Morgan" came back to the airways in 1945. And now look! Coast-to-coast on a sponsored show! In deference to the actors and musicians on his present show, Henry is using a script. Formerly he used to work from notes he had made shortly before air time. An expert ad-libber, he could take off from anywhere following his famous opening, "Hello, anybody, here's Morgan." Newspaper items, remarks overheard in an elevator, people talking to themselves on the street, billboard and bus advertisements, signs in store windows, magazine articles and movies are all stored up in Morgan's wonderful memory ready to be used as material for his show. But it's always been the commercial that's the spice of the program. "People don't care about where and how a product is made," says Morgan, "they just want to know if it is good . . . The trouble with the average sponsor is that he's just average. I know more about radio advertising than the guys in the business."
Phone Marathon
Morgan always kept his address and phone number a secret to avoid angry sponsors. If the sponsor was enraged he'd have to call the agency, who called the network, who called the only person who knew Morgan's phone number. She called Morgan, and if the complaint hadn't died down by that time she would recite it to Morgan, who didn't care anyway.
He has never liked studio audiences, and if he tells a joke he thinks isn't funny, he will glare fiercely at anyone in the audience who dares to laugh. He is a versatile dialectician because he worked alone for so long that he had to learn to do his own characters. His Russian, British, French and German dialects are hilarious.
Here are some Morganisms: He invented Broonsday, the eighth day of the week. It's the day that people take old gold and convert it back into sea water—the day we take nylons and make coal out of them. Started a medical school for doctors who don't practice medicine—just pose for ads. "One of my doctors," says Henry, "has invented Gonfalon's Enormous Liver Pills because he discovered that there are various sizes of livers—they're not all little." Morgan is also the discoverer of the town of More. "There are only two housewives in that town," he explains, "so when you see an advertisement that says 'More housewives recommend ... ,' you know it's these two women who live in More, Nebraska." "Do you suffer from acid stomach ?" asks Morgan. "Well, stop drinking acid."

One of Morgan's recent shows started out with the announcer screaming, "And, now, the star of our show, America's number one funny man, Bob Hope!" Morgan came on quietly with, This is Henry Morgan. The reason the announcer said Bob Hope was we figured we'd get twelve million more listeners. If you tune out now, you're a sore loser." And who else would urge you to "try CBS to see if there's anything better on?".
Morgan used to refer to his girl friend as the "ninth most beautiful girl in New York." But said he didn't like women because, "if they're smart, they argue—if they're dumb, you can't stand them!" Unpredictable as always, he recently got married!
A Conformist
On his first half-hour night–time broadcast Morgan told his audience: "The other joke shows aren't on the air yet so I have no one to steal from. Now that I have my own half-hour I'm going to conform. I've shaved my head for a toupee, and I'm going to get a brother-in-law and a mother-in-law and an announcer who giggles and a closet with a lot of stuff in it and start a feud with Toscanini." He also claimed that he'd tried to think of another name for his show—"I was going to call it the 'Jack Benny Show,' but I found out someone else was using it."
"Here's where the commercials would go," he said later, "if I were foolish enough to sell this valuable program." Foolish or not, the program has been sold to the Eversharp Company. Asked how he liked his new sponsor, Morgan replied, "Eversharp has nice, blue eyes." Fans who were fearful that Morgan would be too impressed with his new position to take the same pot shots at the hand that feeds him knew they had nothing to worry about after they heard the first program. Henry was talking about the Schick Injector razor. "I told them the name was too long," he complained. "I told them they ought to call it the 'Morgan' or the 'Snazzy,' but ..."
He ended up his first show in the new series by pleading to the air audience, "Don't hate me. I did the best I could."
Of himself Morgan says, "I'm intelligent but misguided. If I had any real talent I'd go straight."

Henry Morgan, the Lobster

On came several announcers, proclaiming that they were a Schick Eversharp pen. When the commercial ended, on came Henry Morgan, childishly mimicking that he was a Schick Eversharp pen. Morgan’s audience broke into sustained laughter over the ad-lib.

Morgan hated ridiculous radio advertising which sponsors insisted on, and was prepared to go to any length to show how ridiculous it was. Morgan had a whole fan base that agreed.

One of Morgan’s fans was columnist John Crosby. They were kindred spirits. Crosby had little good to say about the banal, inane and predictable nature of a lot of radio programming. This column comes from June 12, 1946.

Man on a Street Corner
Henry Morgan is one of the strangest phenomena in radio. In a quiet way, he has built up a small band of devoted followers who consider him the greatest man in broadcasting. I know a number of people who keep their radios tuned exclusively to WQXR until 6:45 p. m. Then they switch to Morgan for fifteen minutes and immediately thereafter return to WQXR.
That’s what the Federal Communications Commission would call unbalanced programming, but I can’t persuade these people to do otherwise. And, incidentally, I have several acquaintances who read this column every day but, so far as I know, they never listen to the radio. I think it was Katharine Brush who once remarked that New Yorkers read the book reviews but never read the books. Reading a radio review when you never listen is I suppose just a modern twist to that strange habit.
*    *    *
But let’s get back to Morgan. I hesitate to recommend him because Morgan is a special taste like lobsters. You either love lobsters or you can’t stand them. There is no middle ground on Morgan, either. Many, many persons can’t understand Morgan at all and are at a loss to explain why any one wants to listen to him. In case you never heard him, Morgan just pops on the air and starts talking about anything that’s bothering him at the moment.
“I’ve been worrying about words,” he will say. “People are always getting to a pretty pass. Doesn’t any one ever get to an ugly pass? That’s a fine how-do-you-do. What’s the matter with a fair how-do-you-do? Restaurants always feature prime ribs of beef. What do they do with all the secondary ribs—ship ‘em?”
Whenever he runs down for a moment, Morgan yells to the engineer, who turns on a record, and Morgan has the dizziest collection of records anywhere. You’re likely to hear “The Moonlight Sonata” played on bagpipes.
*    *    *
A moment later Morgan is back to tell you the story of Gilda Thermidor. “Gilda is happy today because her husband, Lieutenant Phosphorus, is coming home with a wonderful brand of volcanic soap which sponsored their marriage. But Lieutenant Phosphorus has picked up a severe case of red rash. What will happen now? Tune in again next week.”
I first heard Morgan years ago when he had a sustaining program at 10 a. m. At that time he used to give a daily weather report, which was sheer wishful thinking. “Weather report—tidal wave,” he would declare hopefully. Morgan had no sponsors then, but he has picked up a great many since then. Too many, in fact. Morgan kids his sponsors, but a commercial is still a commercial, and they chew up too much of his time.
In one respect Morgan is unique in radio. Now and then he simply runs out of things to say. For a minute or two the air is full of lovely silence, and all the vice-presidents of the American Broadcasting Company turn purple at the thought of that precious, wasted time.
“Why don’t you people tune in on C. B. S.?” Morgan will mutter savagely. Remarks like that are not calculated to endear Morgan to the executives of A. B. C. either.
At other times, Morgan is likely to say: “Would you mind just sitting there for ten or fifteen seconds? I’d like to light a cigarette.” And for ten or fifteen seconds nothing comes out of your radio but the sound of a flaring match.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, advertising. I think we ought to be grateful for all those advertisers who took ads to tell us how much money they made during the war and are now talking ads attacking the O. P. A. because they can’t make more money.
*    *    *
You have to listen to Morgan for a long time before you discover the sense behind his nonsense. Morgan is a wit with a sharp eye for the ridiculous, but he doesn’t explain his jokes. He expects you to understand them. He recoils from any form of showmanship like a minister from sin. For that very reason Morgan will never be on the top of the Hooper ratings.
The Morgan program, I’m forced to add, is also extremely uneven. Like the little girl in the jingle, when he’s good, he’s very good; when he’s bad, he’s awful. Five times a week is too many times a week to be funny. I wish Morgan would get a full-size show with other entertainers on it which would come on just once a week. I also wish he had one big sponsor instead of a lot of little ones.
If you care to listen, Morgan “will be on the same corner in front of the cigar store at the same time” tonight. The cigar store is WJZ, and the time is 6:45 p. m.

I’ve been trying to post Crosby’s columns beginning at the start of his career reviewing radio shows. Here’s the rest of the week that the Morgan column appeared. June 10, 1946 looks at a D-Day anniversary broadcast on NBC with correspondent John McVane, who later moved over to ABC and was still working for them on radio and TV in the early ‘70s.

The June 11th column reports on both pianist Alec Templeton and the Frank Morgan summer show; yes, the same Frank Morgan who played the title role in The Wizard of Oz.

The June 13th column looks at the husband-wife morning show phenomenon (one that Fred Allen and Tallulah Bankhead ridiculed, prompting Crosby to post chunks of the dialogue in his column). See who Crosby picks as the best of a bad lot on New York radio.

June 14th is about The Incomparable Hildegarde, who was still performing in the 1980s and died at the age of 99. She was once quoted as saying Miss Piggy of the Muppets stole the idea of long gloves from her, though they were part of ladies formal wear long before Hilde tapped a keyboard.

You can click on each column so you can read it better.

Morgan's One-Week Failure

Not too many people can say their TV show was cancelled after one broadcast. Henry Morgan could.

Morgan was a caustic wit who didn’t put up with a lot of stupidity. Unfortunately broadcasting is sometimes loaded with stupidity and Morgan found himself bouncing around a lot before being plunked into the panel of the quiz show I’ve Got a Secret. Morgan had some brief TV ventures but none so brief as his job hosting “So You Think You Know Music.”

The show was the brainchild of Ted Cott, an executive with the Du Mont network before moving over the NBC TV. He created it on radio for CBS in 1939. Early network TV grabbed all kinds of ideas from radio and “So You Think You Know Music” was one of them. In 1951, Morgan had his troubles on the tube. His Great Talent Hunt, a sarcastic send-up of various amateur hours, was taken off the air. He was then given a format similar to his former network radio with satire and sketches. It was cancelled. Then he had to deal with being listed in Red Channels, the book that enumerated Communists in the media based on its author’s whims and guesses.

That being out of the way, Morgan was signed to host “So You Think You Know Music” on New York’s local NBC station. It debuted September 20, 1951. It was cancelled almost instantly and replaced the following week by an old Bruce Cabot movie.

The TV columnist of the Brooklyn Eagle mused amusingly on what must have happened to bring about its demise. And, yes, the Steve Krantz being “quoted” is the same one whose name you see on the 1967 Spider-Man TV cartoons and various features directed by Ralph Bakshi. At the time, he was a producer at WNBT, where he moved up to programme manager in May 1953. This story appeared on September 28, 1951

Bob Lanigan's TV Review
One week ago yesterday, at 10:30 p.m., a show called "So You Think You Know Music" was seen on WNBT for the first time.
I wasn't present when a group of NBC vice presidents filed out of the conference room after having decided that this show was "In." Nor was I lurking about the corridors, eavesdropping, when one of these vice presidents fell out of line and entered a door marked "Steve Krantz, Producer." Nevertheless, I imagine the following conversation ensued between the anonymous vice president and Producer Krantz:
Vice Pres.: Steve, the boys decided that you will produce our new show.
Krantz: (Innocently.) What boys?
Vice Pres.: (Angrily.) You know dam well what boys.
Five vice presidents and me—er, I mean I. That's WHAT boys!
Krantz: I was only clowning.
Vice Pres.: Well, save your comedy for NBC-TV's "Show of Shows" 9:30 p.m. Saturdays. No, that's Max Liebman's baby. Forget it. and try to concentrate on what I'm saying, will you, Steve?
Krantz: Sure, boss; shoot.
Vice Pres.: Steve, this show we want you to produce is different, and we think if you give it some of your deft touches, it will be dynamite.
Krantz: That's what you always say—and look what happens.
Vice Pres.: (Sternly) Watch that, Krantz! Now listen closely, Steve, and I'll give you the format. This is a panel quiz — all about music, and is designed to put music lovers on their mettle. There are a lot of them, you know.
Krantz: Mettles?
Vice Pres.: I'll ignore that. Now to go on. For a moderator we have Henry Morgan.
Krantz: What does Morgan know about music?
Vice Pres.: Nothing — he can't even carry a tune! We'll give him cards with all the answers. Steve, with your deft touches, and Henry Morgan, this show can't miss.
Krantz: What if Morgan misses the cards. He's very absent-minded, you know.
Vice Pres.: Stop worrying, and start thinking about a sponsor. We've got to put this show over with a bang.
(Slaps closed fist into open palm, indicating bang.)
Krantz: What about the panel?
Vice Pres.: So far, we've got Ezio Pinza's daughter, Emily, or some name like that. Then there's some Italian soprano who got off the boat yesterday. She doesn't speak much English but you've got to agree it adds an international flavor. Right?
Krantz: (Enthusiastically.) Sure! And I think we can get Skitch Henderson. He wasn't doing anything a little while ago when I saw him downstairs in the Cromwell Pharmacy ordering a malted milk with an egg. A fried egg.
Vice Pres.: Good boy! Now you're in the spirit of this thing, Steve. For a fourth member, we'll grab some George Spelvin out of the audience.
Krantz: Fine. But what about the questions on music?
Vice Pres.: (Laughing.) Steve, I got to hand it to you. You think of everything. Smart as you are, we beat you to it this time. (He motions Steve closer and whispers behind his hand.) The questions we dreamed up about music are all authentic, but so difficult no one but Toscanini will know the answers—and he'll be in bed.
Krantz: Yeah—but—
Vice Pres: If no one knows the answer?, no one can show their ignorance by criticizing the show. Get it?
Krantz: (Makes circle with thumb and forefinger of right hand, and winks.) Got it.
FINIS
Editor's Note: "So You Think You Know Music," starring Henry Morgan, and produced by Steve Krantz, was not repeated on WNBT at 10:30 p.m. last night.

Santa Comes Down Your Radio

A snowstorm of Christmas shows repeated every year greets TV viewers at this time of year. The practice didn’t start with television; it goes back to the days of network radio.

So it was that Amos told Arbadella about the meaning of Christmas December after December. And other shows did the same kind of thing. Jack Benny didn’t repeat his Christmas shows. Instead, he took the “buying presents” plot and reworked it, although some of the same lines found themselves into the script for several years.

Here’s Herald Tribune syndicate columnist John Crosby from January 5, 1948 looking back at Christmas repeats. The Allen and Morgan Christmas shows of which he speaks should be available on-line. Morgan gave his listeners a tale of greedy kids and a cautionary message of being careful about what one wished for. Allen focused on how people didn’t treat each other according to the Golden Rule; they were paranoid and selfish instead.

RADIO IN REVIEW
Footnote on Christmas
By JOHN CROSBY
Every year at Christmas time I find it interesting to watch the nation's radio comedians approach with a sort of seasonal diffidence the problem of Santa Claus. Here they are confronted with a legend that can't be dismissed with a wisecrack like high prices or Vishinsky. Santa is a serious subject and must be dealt with reverently by a bunch of people who spend the rest of the year being irreverent about everything else.
I think the comedians grapple with the problem rather successfully or else I have been so overwhelmed with the benign spirit of Christmas that I think these Christmas skits are better than they are. Once the comedian has struggled with and mastered the inflexibilities of Santa Claus, he never changes so much as a syllable. Like children we are told the same stories every year. In fact these traditional Christmas programs are the only really sensible programs to review because if you miss them this year, you can catch them next year or the year after that. (Just carry this around in your pocket all year long.)
All of these Santa Clauses, it ought to be noted, differ greatly in personality and even in character. As in the many biographies of Lincoln, the portrayals reveal a good deal more about the authors (or the actors) than they do about the subject. Every year, for example, Fred Allen plays a Santa Claus who goes on strike because he has been treated so badly in the past. This Santa is a rugged, outspoken, acid, and, on the whole, bitter old gentleman who appears to have examined the Christmas tradition critically and found that the people of the world weren't really worth all the fuss. This is easily the most daring and natural of the radio's Santa Clauses and perhaps the children better not be exposed to him until they are about fourteen. The kids, I think, will find the Allen Santa rather charming though unexpected but they may look at the rest of us with some dismay after hearing the Allen grievances.
Henry Morgan has now twice told the same story at Christmas time which, he explained, automatically made the program a tradition. In his story, a couple of kids lobbied through Congress a bill making Christmas a daily rather than a yearly event. The Morgan Santa Claus is a defeated, wistful, rather seedy old gentleman of whom everyone is heartily tired. He reminds me of some of the aging and no longer sought-after actors who hang around The Lambs and tell you about the time they played with Jack Barrymore. Perhaps you'd better keep the children from this one entirely.

The funniest and easily the most charming of the annual Santa Claus stories is told every year by Ozzie and Harriet, or more particularly by Ozzie. (Harriet doesn't really believe in Santa Claus and has only a fond but rather dim faith in her husband.) Ozzie's Santa Claus clings to the established order. He's a hearty, merry old soul of illimitable generosity who, while he lacks the grandeur of the Allen Santa and the clarity of the Morgan Santa, is altogether satisfactory for children of all ages. The only disturbing characteristic of this Santa Claus is the fact that he blew into the Nelson household a couple of days before Christmas to check up on things. If Santa Claus is going to go tramping around the country all year round, it'll be a terrible job getting the kids to bed at any time of the year.
In addition to the regulars, a new entrant has come into the lists — the department store Santa Claus in "Miracle on 34th Street" — which was presented on Lux Theatre. Some instinct tells me he will be back again next year and all the other years like "White Christmas". Frankly, I'd rather reserve judgment on this one till next year or possibly the year after. A man can't be expected to offer a really rounded appraisal on just one performance.

Calliope Man Bernie Green

Henry Morgan’s radio show had an unsung hero. Not an actor. Certainly not a sponsor or an ABC executive. It was musical conductor and arranger Bernie Green.

There couldn’t have been a more perfect musical fit for Morgan than Green. Acidic humourist Morgan gave him a musical spot and then apparently allowed him to do whatever satiric came to his mind. Green’s ideas were brilliant. On one broadcast, he conducted his symphonic arrangement of the “Pepsi Cola Hits the Spot” jingle. Green was an ABC staff musician, so when Morgan moved to NBC, Green stayed behind, though his arrangements were still heard on the Morgan show. He ended up being the musical director on TV for Mr. Peepers, Caesar’s Hour and the Garry Moore Show, plus provided musical cues for Al Brodax’s Cool McCool cartoon series. He also recorded a couple of albums of space-age pop for RCA, including one named for MAD magazine (with Alfred E. Newman on the album cover).

Here’s Herald Tribune syndicate critic John Crosby, a fan of Morgan’s, speaking about Green and the job of supplying snippets of music for network radio shows. It was published September 15, 1949. Green died in 1975 at the age of 66.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
MAN ON A BRIDGE
That blast of music you hear—a bridge as it is known in the trade—just after the District Attorney says: "This is no suicide, Jenkins. This is—mu'dah!" has to be, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, written.
One of the experts in this highly specialized field is Bernie Green, A. B. C. staff conductor. Green, who will be remembered by Henry Morgan devotees for his dizzy arrangements on that program when it was on ABC, has been writing musical bridges for radio programs these eighteen years. Most of them ran from eight seconds to a minute. One day he looked in some despair at the pile of music he had written and asked himself if he were going to spend his life doing four measure cues. The next day he sat down and started work on a symphony. Had a terrible time. The first movement was roughly eight minutes long or about four times the length of even the longest music cue. Once over that hurdle, the symphony came more easily. He hopes to have it performed this year by the ABC symphony.
There are as many cliches in radio music as there are in the rest of radio, Green says. A narrator, as any radio listener knows, always has music in the background while he's telling you that it's the next morning and Stella spent a sleepless night worrying about the mortgage. When the music stops, the next scene begins. Mystery programs, soap opera and more ambitious radio drama, each has its own music cliches, and an experienced radio listener can tell you what sort of program he's listening to by the music alone. A real expert in the field can tell by the music alone not only what has happened, but what is going to happen.

Green has done his best to get away from the cliches and to compose some really original and descriptive music bridges. When "The Fat Man" went on the air three-and-a-half years ago, Green got together an orchestra which was all woodwinds and percussion instruments to give the program a distinctive tone color. When the Fat Man came on he was preceded by a short tuba solo, suggestive of his girth.
When "The Clock," a real horror number, went on the air, Green contributed possibly the most original part of it. He achieved weird musical effects by using a combination consisting of four percussion instruments, two harps and two pianos. Weird as this was, it didn't work out well because no instrument could hold a note. Green got around this by dropping one percussion instrument and adding four French horns. The effect is still pretty weird.
Green had a real field day on the Henry Morgan show. He had an idea that music could be just as entertaining as comedy and some of his arrangements were little classics of comic music. As a parody on two-piano teams, he wrote a "Concerto for Two Calliopes." One of the calliopes was a moth-eaten old job which had been lying around NBC since the death of "Showboat." ABC bought the other on from a bankrupt carnival. The NBC calliope had fourteen pipes missing, so Green blithely worked around them.
Green's latest project, which may or may not be heard on the network this fall, is a program called "The Laboratory of Dr. Bernie Green." This one, which has been auditioned twice on the air, opens with what Green describes as "the distilled essence of all horror programs" dragging chains, a crowbar opening a wooden crate, a groan, a maniacal laugh. This is meant as a musical description of Bach turning over in his grave. The rest of the program would very likely drive Bach into doing just that.

Henry Morgan and the Start of ABC-TV

Henry Morgan had the distinction of being on ABC-TV before there was an ABC-TV.

In 1946, there were nine television stations in the U.S; some were still experimental. Not one of them was owned by ABC. But the radio network knew it had to get into the TV business, so it took over airtime on the DuMont station in New York, WABD, and ran its few programmes. There was no ABC TV network yet.

Morgan was busy in 1946. He was on WJZ (the ABC radio flagship station) Sunday through Friday and was put on the network on Saturday nights starting in late January. This was a 15-minute grump-fest with “humorous comments, odd recordings” as the New York Herald Tribune put it. Morgan resumed his radio career after World War 2; before his military service, he built a reputation because of the war he had with advertising claims by his sponsors (coincidentally, sponsoring show mogul “Old Man Adler” died in 1946). He was well known enough to be given space by the New York Times that April to expound on what was wrong with radio (he blamed audiences that wanted “junk”). ABC seems to have believed it had a hot commodity in Morgan, one ripe for its experimental TV casts. Thus, Morgan ended up on TV on Thursday nights starting June 6, 1946. Variety reviewed:

"HERE'S MORGAN"
With Henry Morgan,
Producer: Harvey Marlowe
15 Mins.; Thurs., 8:15 p.m.
Adler Shoes
WABD-ABC, N. Y.
Henry Morgan's first video show has probably brought to light more problems that the Television Broadcasters Assn. can handle at the moment. In tele, as in radio, he's one of the most unorthodox performers extant, completely uninhibited to the point that he can cause more gray hairs to producers in a brief 15 minutes than most performers during an entire career.
Privately, performers complain of the terrific heat generated by the overhead light banks, but no one has ever done anything about it. Morgan—he stripped down to the waist, showed the viewers how the lights melted the records, and complained bitterly about the conditions under which video workers perform. TBA will probably promulgate a Hays office code to take care of guys like Morgan. Unorthodoxy of the performance was probably the most surprising thing ever to come over the screen, but lest TBA clamps down on Morgan too hard, it was all inoffensive and didn't exceed good taste, and it was funny.
His gab, strictly ad-lib, poked fun at the product in a manner which would cause immediate cancellation by a less liberal bankroller. His lampoon of Adler shoe products was funnier than anything he's done on the audio medium because of the sight values afforded by video. But withal, he gave a practical demonstration of the efficacy of Adler elevators by having a gent from the audience, accompanied by a femme, try on a pair. The guy afterward was much taller than she was.
Morgan probably didn't mean to be that good to his sponsor. Morgan has provided the first burlesque of television, a certain sign that the medium is on the way to growing up.
Jose.

What happened with the TV show? Did the experiment fail? The show ran only four weeks, but it wasn’t cancelled. Nor was sponsor Adler unhappy. “Exceptionally worthwhile,” was how Arthur Adler (company president and son of “Old Man Adler”) viewed the short series because people could see his slogan was correct and the Adler shoes made men taller. Nor did Morgan throw a fit and walk off (he saved that for the CBC many years) later. Women’s Wear Daily of July 26, 1946 had the answer: “In accordance with the policy of the American Broadcasting Co., with whom the contract was originally for a period of four weeks. This is time enough, says Ken Farnsworth, ABC Television Sales Manager, to enable the sponsor to take advantage of the promotional possibilities inherent in the experiment, and to gain the necessary experience with the new medium.”

ABC finally launched regular TV network programming on Wednesday, April 15, 1948 when Hollywood Screen Test aired unsponsored on WFIL-TV Philadelphia and WMAL-TV Washington. The following Sunday—70 years ago today—its first-ever commercial network programme aired—On the Corner, starring one Henry Morgan, and sponsored by Admiral Television. It aired on a whopping four stations, in Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington and New York on DuMont’s WABD. ABC still didn’t have a New York TV station. Here’s Variety from April 21st:

ON THE CORNER
With Henry Morgan, George Guest, Virginia Austin, Roy Davis, Clark Sisters
Producer: Charles Holden
Director: Ralph Warren
30 Mins.; Sun., 6:30 p.m.
ADMIRAL CORP.
ABC-TV, from Philadelphia
(Enders) [ad agency that booked the show]
One of the first major tele comedy shows to recruit top comedic talent from radio, the new Henry Morgan "On the Corner" variety program "went network" via ABC-TV Sunday (18) after a "sneak preview" the previous Sunday for Philly audiences. Program originates from WFIL-TV in Philly and is carried in New York by the DuMont station, WABD.
It's a half-hour comedy-variety format, with Morgan bringing on the "acts" culled from the vaude section of Variety, which gets its share of camera showcasing as Morgan is shown thumbing through its pages. As variety-slanted video programs go, there was nothing particularly inspiring or distinct live about the talent surrounding Morgan. One act featured a marimba turn (George Guest); another a puppeteer act (Virginia Austin); the third some off-the-record impersonations (Roy Davis), with a femme quartet (Clark Sisters) rounding out the bill. It was the kind of stuff that, even at this early stage, already has old-hat overtones through their multiple showcasing on the flock of amateur, semi-pro and pro shows that have found their way into video.
Chief interest, of course, centered around Morgan and his particular style of delivery and satirical brand of humor. The Morgan technique, with its casualness and suggestion that it's all off-the-cuff, lends itself to the visual medium. Certainly it demonstrates anew that when a comedian's got it, he's got it for stage, screen, radio or tele, of course, depending on his material.
Morgan's got it— but if there were any major regrets about last Saturday's show, it was the lack of funny material. Plus a too casual mannerism of "throwing it away." Obviously it isn't deliberate, but it suggests to the videogler that, even on his preem tele performance Morgan's kinda bored by the whole thing.
Perhaps it was only natural that the show's top laughs came from the Morgan "kidding-the-commercial" routine, a carryover from his radio show, in this instance his TV sponsor's Admiral refrigerator. The prop really got a kicking around both verbally and physically. Here, too, the sponsor sensitivity angle projects itself, only doubly so. For a visual gander at the punishment taken by the product might easily start Admiral Corp. execs to wonder. It's funny, but how practicable it can be in terms of sales impact is questionable. There's an earlier commercial extolling the virtues of the Admiral radio-tele-phonograph combo set, but it's delivered straight.
Rose

The show was scheduled for 13 weeks. It never got that far. The third and fourth weeks saw WFIL-TV technicians on strike; ABC cancelled one show and Morgan refused to cross the picket line for the second. The fifth week originated from WMAL-TV Washington on May 15th. Admiral brought in someone other than Morgan to do the commercials. He considered that a breach of contract. Admiral said that was fine with them. That ended On the Corner after a total of three broadcasts. Even Hayloft Hoedown lasted longer.

Morgan wasn’t through with radio. We said Morgan was busy in 1946. That year ABC had sunk $100,000 into failed shows starting Bill Thompson and Jimmy Gleason, but decided to put up the same amount of cash to develop half-show radio outings with Morgan and Ray Wencil (Variety, June 26). He cut an audition disc in early July and then fumed live on his 15-minute radio about what happened next when he tried to negotiate with the network—“Little did I know I’d run head-on into a foul den of thieves” (Variety, July 17). However, things got squared away by mid-August when the trades reported he’d get a half hour comedy show, with Aaron Rubin eventually signed to write for him.

Don't Miss It!...Unless You Want To

Henry Morgan hated hyperbole.

Morgan infuriated ad agencies or/and sponsors by making his commercials anything but hyper sales pitches. If he praised a product, it was lukewarm or backhanded praise at best. It was his hit back at the outrageous and eye-rolling claims made in the advertising world, especially in broadcasting.

He took this concept even further. In 1948, Morgan starred with Arnold Stang and Bill Goodwin in a movie called “So This is New York.” Movies have trailers. So Morgan decided to satirise trailers with the one that was supposed to be plugging his own film. A really great concept.

Here’s a wire story about it from April 6, 1948.

Henry Morgan's 'Trailer' Violates All the Rules
By ALINE MOSBY
United Press Correspondent
HOLLYWOOD
Well, sir, Henry Morgan's gone and made a two minute movie.
For you guys who have time just for a quick one, you can see this miniature masterpiece standing in the theater aisle. You won't have to even sit down.
Some people might get technical and call this movie a "trailer." That is, it's actually the thing which will show up in the theaters a couple of days before Morgan's full-length movie, So This Is New York.
But when the rules for making trailers were passed around, Morgan definitely was out having a beer. Any resemblance his two-minute movie has to a trailer certainly wasn't his fault.
Morgan's midget movie does not advertise his big picture as (1) supercolossal (2) the greatest since, etc. etc., and those other superlatives that make you wonder why the "coming attraction" always sounds better than the movie you paid cash to look at.
This "trailer" doesn't even say you have to see So This is New York. Most trailers scream "don't miss it. . . ." Morgan philosophically remarks that if you want to see the movie, okay, and if you don't well, drop around and we'll recommend one you'll like.
Morgan's in New York now. He left a couple of guys behind to finish up the "trailer." They did. Now they're sitting around congratulating themselves. The way they act you'd think they care more about that trailer than the full-length movie it advertises.
The big picture? Sure, that's great, but come on over to see the trailer, they said.
Usually a trailer is patched together from scenes the director didn't use. Then a narration is scribbled out in a couple of days. It promises you're gonna see the hottest love, the gorgiest [sic] murders, the loveliest toenails, etc.
Morgan and Screenplays, Inc., which made the movie for Enterprise Studio, went about their trailer in a slightly different way.

"Morgan pokes fun at movie trailers in a slightly different way.
"Morgan pokes fun at movie trailers on his radio show, so we did the same," explained the producer, Stanley Kramer.
This turned out to be a full-sized project. Kramer & Co. spent almost as much time making the trailer as the full-length picture.
The writers who wrote So This Is New York wrote a script for the trailer, too. Quite unorthodox. It has a sort of plot, which they polished to perfection. From last October until last week the studio slaved on Morgan's two-minute movie.
The studio big-wigs paraded to a projection room where they gravely okayed the shortie. Next week it'll be shown in a suburban theater—the first "sneak" preview of a trailer. If the audience likes it, the mighty two-minuter will be unleashed on the nation.
Mr. Morgan's movie-before-the-movie is narrated by Henry himself. He tells about the big picture and at the end he says:
"So if you're not doing anything when my movie comes around, and you want to see a movie, come on in. . .You might like it.
"And if you don't see what you like, ask for it. We might be able to recommend some other picture."

The trailer isn’t on-line but the movie is HERE (unless this is a dead link by the time you read this). The poster doesn’t want it embedded. One can guess what Morgan might say about that.

Here's Morgan

Henry Morgan loved insulting radio advertising. Especially his sponsor’s advertising. He scoffed at anything that slightly smelled of an outrageous or silly claim. And audiences loved it.

There were actually three Henry Morgans. The first one had a 15-minute radio show that consisted of him grumbling about assorted subjects in an almost stream-of-conscious way; he was guided by his own scribbles about what he noticed that day. Then he graduated into full variety show mode, with stooges, an orchestra and an announcer, where he could aim his displeasure through dialogues and sketches. And then there was the TV panellist Morgan who occasionally looked happy to be there. But the satire was gone, replaced with a kind of lack of interest.

Here’s a profile of Morgan from the New York-based radio magazine, Tune In. It was published in the August 1946 issue, before Morgan was signed for his variety series on ABC that began in September for Eversharp. He was still doing musings and quasi-editorals at the time over the ABC flagship, WJZ, where he landed after leaving Mutual the previous year. If you’ve never heard Morgan’s shows—and you should take a listen to them—this gives you an idea of his jaded sense of humour.

Here’s Morgan
RADIO'S BAD BOY MAKES SPONSOR-SPOOFING COMMERCIALS PAY OFF
By GORDON D. BUSHELL
HISTORY three times has known the name of Morgan—Morgan the pirate, Morgan the financier, Morgan the sponsor-baiter. The pirate and the financier are of yesterday. Today's Morgan is in 100,000 ears, poking 100,000 ribs and sending cash over 100,000 counters.
For Morgan's faithful listening audience, 6:45 p. m. EST, is the most refreshing radio-time of the day. Before Morgan went to war, his program was on at 5:45. Now he has a better spot, when most families are at their evening meal.
Probably the most popular lines Morgan's broadcasts are those in which he ribs his sponsors. He is a pleasant relief from the usual commercial harangue to hear Morgan make light of his products and gibe at his sponsors. People enjoy the unusual in his humor and gasp at his daring.
For example, he played a commercial recording for a wine company. During the playing he kept up an uncomplimentary commentary. At the conclusion he asked, "Now where do they expect to get with that? It might sell one bottle—in forty years, Why don't they let me do it my way? But no, some agency sold them that, so they think it's good."
Morgan's system is very effective. His commercials are never tuned out. They're too funny to be missed. They come in unexpectedly. They are never long. They do their job because they get the product into the consciousness of the listener by tickling his funnybone. There's good will for Morgan's products because of Morgan's wit.

People buy what he sells even if they don't need it. One New Jersey man, after listening to Morgan's program for a week, went out and bought eighteen of Morgan-advertised razor blades, this though he uses an electric razor. His wife, a dignified middle-aged woman, has become a confirmed after meal gum chewer, During last year's basketball season, an average height player asked in a shoe store if Morgan's "Old Man" Adler sold elevator gym shoes.
Though Morgan is tremendously popular with his listeners, he is in constant trouble with his sponsors, naturally. They vacillate between fear of what his gibes may do to sales and knowledge of what they've done in the past. They resent his occasionally almost forgetting to mention a product he's paid to discuss for one minute. Some quit him. Some quit and return. Adler shoes quit twice. Now they are a Morgan steady—and there are no more complaints.
Morgan used to listen to sponsor's complaints, then go right on in his own way—now he doesn't even listen. He has devised a fool-proof system of avoiding angry sponsors. He moved, keeping his new address and phone number a secret. The only way a sponsor can get a message to Morgan is to call their agency, which in turn calls the network, which in turn calls the only person who knows Morgan's number.
She then calls Morgan, if the complaint hasn't died out, and relates the sad story to his unsympathetic ear.
Morgan has his own philosophy about radio commercials. "What do people care about where and how a product is made?" he asks, "They just want to know if its good. My stuff is good, so I tell them that—that's all." Morgan continues, "The trouble with the average sponsor is that he is just average, I know more about radio advertising than the guys in the business." The fact that Morgan's line was taken on, copied by other announcers during his absence in the army proves that there are those who agree that his style is effective.

Complaints about Morgan, who is known as radio's bad boy, also comes from another quarter—the network officials. Morgan takes them collectively and individually over the coals on the air—next day reports their protests to the public. His remarks about public characters or American institutions bring floods of boiling letters to harassed officials, often threatening suit. Angry listeners, never able to locate Morgan, barge in and berate officials.
Morgan does not bring on these complaints intentionally or out of sheer perversity—he's just himself, unpredictable. His humor is not restricted to the commercials. From the moment he comes on the air, the zany is in order. He may introduce his program by blowing into the mike, or by announcing a campaign which he is backing—"Equality Week—a week when men must be considered equal to women." He urges women during this week to remove their hats in elevators, to offer cigarettes to men, to give up their seats to men in subways, to blame all auto accidents on men drivers.
Inane records have an important place on "Here's Morgan." They are played at any point in the program for no reason at all. He has the most unique collection of records in the world, and he conducts a never ending search for new ones. But, he never plays a record through because whole records bore him.
It is not unusual for fans to send him crazy records. Recently he received an Arabic record from a G.I. who heard he was back on the air. Morgan, himself, doesn't know what this one is all about. "It might be a couple of foreigners swearing at each other for all I know," he says.
Morgan has originated a hundred different days, weeks, towns, products and schools. On one program he introduced "Unknown Mother of Her Country Day"—the day they take nylons and make coal out of them. He is the discoverer of the town of More. "There are only two housewives in that town so when you see an advertisement that says 'More housewives recommend—,' you know it's these two women who live in More, Nebraska."

Morgan started a school for doctors who don't practice medicine—they just pose for ads. "Incidentally," says Morgan, "one of my doctors has invented Gonfalon's Enormous Liver Pills, because he discovered that there are some large livers—they're not all little."
Occasionally Morgan entitles his program "Time Marches Sideways." That night is devoted to reading and "analyzing" newspaper clippings which completely contradict each other. He also has "political night" and "Children's Advisory Service" night. Once Morgan told all frustrated children to bang their heads against the wall.
One night as Morgan read fan mail, a P.S. on a fan letter said "Please excuse pencil, but they don't allow any sharp instruments around here." A few months later (Morgan's always late with mail) he wrote back "Please excuse typewriter, I just ran out of blood."
Another time a listener sent in a petition to Morgan asking him to have it signed by all the people he knew in order to have Avenue of the Americas changed back to 6th Avenue. Over the air Morgan explained, "I dragged your petition to various saloons around town and everybody I talked to said "Oh, for Pete's sake! Then we'd have another beer. Well, you know how it is."
Henry Morgan is not strictly a gag man; a fact which causes his employers to have graying hair. It is not unusual for him to discuss some very ticklish subject. Officials tell him to layoff, but Morgan is seriously concerned about current happenings, so occasionally he sneaks a little philosophy into his humor.
He attacks the army for commissioning incompetent men, he urges that Brotherhood Week be a year-around enterprise, he suggests that people try to understand Russia and work toward international cooperation. This last has lost him some listeners—people immediately accused him of being a communist. "Today you're either a communist or a fascist," sighs Morgan. But he shrugs it off and goes on advocating what he believes is right. While he discusses the 10-cent subway fare and labor problems, his mail proves that his audience listens to his humorous philosophy.
Henry Morgan was born in New York City in 1915 of mixed parentage—man and woman. His radio career started at 17 when he was hired as a pageboy by WMCA at $8 a week. In a few months he applied for a job as announcer. "Much to my surprise they hired me." At seventeen and a half he became the youngest announcer in radio. He received $18 a week.
Shortly, he was engaged as a network newscaster, but was fired within five weeks because he could never reach a broadcast on time. From then on Morgan covered many radio jobs in many cities. His innate humor, his free lancing at the mike drew the attention of New York officials who decided to try his line out at nothing a week on part of Superman's time. Morgan had three nights and Superman had three nights a week. "Imagine me with that big lug" he groans. When Superman moved to an earlier hour Morgan took over the full six nights, acquired sponsors, and began to draw money—$100 a week. At this point, war and the army broke in.
"Here's Morgan" returned to the air less than a year ago, after over two years' absence. Currently on the air five nights a week at 6:45 with two shots on Thursday (the second at 10:30 p.m.), he makes considerably more money than he used to—"not yet a $1000 a week."
Morgan's script, if it can be called that, is written by Morgan about four hours before he goes on the air. It is always two pages in length. Sometimes he finds himself a few minutes short, or a few minutes over his allotted 15 minutes. This always confuses him. "Getting off the air is the toughest thing I have to do. When people ask me how I do it, I answer, I don't know—they think I'm kidding."
Most of Morgan's scripts are merely a series of notes and reminders, but his interviews are carefully written out. Interviews require a good deal of precision and I haven't time to pause to think of questions and answers." So when Morgan interviews Negative Sam, the Realty Man, or the housewife who is worried because her husband does come home early, it's thoroughly rehearsed.

Morgan is often asked where be gets his interviewees and how large a staff of actors he employs. His stock answer is "I have a staff of 20, each of whom gets $100 a week."' Actually he has no staff; does all the voices himself.
Morgan claims that no one except kids will admit to listening to his program. Adults when asked usually pass the buck, "My little boy listens and of course I heard some of what you say." But an examination of Morgan's mail reveals dentists, doctors, lawyers, engineers and business executives as well as kids among his listeners.
When not criticizing or praising, fans ask Morgan what be looks like and "do you act like that off the air?" Some express a desire to see Morgan in television. To this Morgan grimly shakes his head. "I want television the other way 'round. I'd like to see my listeners in action; batting their kids around, chewing gum, or shining their boots with a polish I plug."
Morgan is good looking, of average height and weight, and is abounding in restless energy. He doesn't sit still two minutes consecutively. An intense person, Morgan works hard on his program. He never permits a studio audience. The few times he did allow this, he felt that it hurt his show—he just couldn't let go and be himself.
A meticulous dresser, Morgan goes daily to the Astor barber shop. There he has corralled the only silent barber in the business, John Hindenberger. "He talks German and I don't," says Morgan explaining the blissful barber shop silence. "Furthermore, I like the er on his name. If he ever drops it, I'll quit him."
Morgan has a girl friend, "the ninth most beautiful girl in New York," but she's smart so they argue too much. "That's the trouble with getting married. If they're smart you argue; if they're dumb you can't stand them. I guess I'll I stay a bachelor," he explains.
But this Morgan, Henry Morgan, sponsor baiter, is entrenched in the ears of his listeners—he makes them laugh and he makes them buy. He is a hair raising, nerve wracking, indispensible boon to his sponsors, who have found that there's good will for Morgan's products because of Morgan's wit. So everybody's happy over Henry Morgan—even the sponsors.

Unpredictable Morgan

Henry Morgan was one of radio’s great satirists. Sometimes, you got the impression he was enjoying making fun of certain ridiculous aspects of his industry, such as his take on the Dr. I.Q. programme. Other times, you were left with the distinct feeling he didn’t have any respect or a lot of time for something—like the way he treated his sponsor’s advertising claims.

Fred Allen always seemed to me to be bitter and unhappy much of the time, but Morgan apparently topped that. His admiring co-workers, like the wonderful Arnold Stang, talked of how he always managed to implode and sabotage his own career. It’s too bad. But Morgan left us with an enjoyable, though brief, take on what he thought a half hour comedy-variety show should contain.

Here’s a piece from the August 1948 edition of Radio Best magazine, a fine publication with oodles of network publicity photos; it’s a shame they’re so low-resolution in the scanned version you see below. It may contain the best analysis of Morgan.

Henry Morgan: He’s So Unpredictable
By JOHN S. GARRISON
THE ONLY excuse I can give for having liked Henry Morgan through about a dozen years of acquaintance is that the guy is funny, even if a bit difficult. Besides, there's something appealing in a fellow who has declared war upon the entire adult human race. You can't help feeling he's a mite heroic — even if he occasionally fires a few barbs of wit at you too. Henry included me in his personal vendetta from the first time we met — but he'd done the same with just about every one of our mutual friends and acquaintances.
On a summer day, back around 1935 or so, I dropped in at the 'Artist's Lounge' of the CBS Philadelphia outlet, WCAU, having just concluded a pleasant conference with the program director. In those days, the WCAU 'Artist's Lounge' was virtual clubroom for many later-famous radio people. Now the comfortable, modern room lies dark and deserted-looking back, so to speak, upon its past glories to some of the brightest names in show business, including a short period of serving as an office for conductor Leopold Stokowski. But in the thirties, it was the favored rendezvous for such (then) hopefuls as Lynn Murray, Charles Stark, Jan Savitt and quite a few others, including the inimitable Morgan.
On that particular day, I found the room relatively quiet and uncrowded. Announcer Mort Lawrence was playing the role of a Gypsy fortune-teller (with a hilarious accent) to Jan Savitt's vocalist. Charlie Stark was discussing the relative merits of his newly grown (and short-lived) mustache with Hugh Walton — an old hand at the hair-on-the-upperlip game. And several young actresses, whose principle activity seemed to be looking red and lovely, were occupied in looking nonchalant.

I said hello to the gang and gravitated to a spot next in line to have my future mapped out in dialect, when I became aware of a youthful, leering face off in a corner. He was about my own age, which is why his cynical expression interested me all the more. I moved around beside Mort Lawrence and nudged him to attract his attention.
"What is it, Infant? asked Mort.
"Who's the sulky-looking character?" I whispered.
"He's a new junior announcer the network sent us," replied Lawrence. "Name is Henry Morgan."
With mixed feelings, I studied the newcomer. Finally deciding I was pleased at finding a fellow juvenile in that hot-bed of sophistication, I gradually worked my way and the room until I found myself seated in the chair adjoining Henry's. After some minutes, he turned heavy-lidded eyes upon me-looking like a dissipated child-prodigy. Suddenly, he snapped, "What do you do?"
Being young, I was easily flustered.
"Why . . I . . well . . write script" Then, by way of reconciliation — "I'm probably not very good at it, though."
"If you can't write," sneered Morgan. "why do you?"
"Became I'm not stupid enough to he an 'announcer'," I replied with growing warmth. Henry's eyes lit up with the joy of a battle.
"Do much reading?" he asked, paternally. "Have you studied the classics? Do you read contemporary plays and stories?"

Although I was beginning to simmer, I tried not to show it. "I never read," I parried. "I write!"
Henry started to smile, caught himself, then launched into a long dissertation on the craft of writing, meanwhile outlining an impressive course of supplementary reading. At least it impressed me (it still impresses me). After a while, I realized that Henry wasn't only addressing his remarks to me. From time to time, he looked around to one if anyone else were listening — but apparently they weren't. Like a Tropical dawn, a great light broke upon me. Henry was just another kid like myself, and it was his way of trying to win acceptance. After about twenty minutes of addressing an audience of one (the room had slowly emptied) he gave up. We talked a while longer, slowly becoming friendly, and I ended by inviting him to go sailing with me my new boat. Henry smiled graciously and accepted.
"I'm so crazy about boats," he confided, "that I go riding back and forth on the Philadelphia-Camden Ferry boats."
Unfortunately, we never did keep that date. Henry was assigned to the night-time schedule, while I was busy days. I saw him occasionally, usually for only a few minutes at time, then came in one day to find Henry gone. He had gotten weary of the night-work and inserted the station manager's name in the regular, nightly missing persons broadcast! As he'd expected — it got quick action in relieving his late hours.
Henry had gone to New York, and from time to time, I heard about his escapades from mutual friends, or read about them in the trade press.
There was the time he worked for WOR and John Hays, the assistant program director, needed a fifteen-minute program for Saturday morning, but found he had no money in the budget for that purpose. Mitchell Benson, then the stations commercial program manager, was already a Morgan fan and urged him upon Hays. So Here's Morgan was born.
Like other radio people, I listened to the program every chance I got. As a matter of fact, from the first day it was heard, Here's Morgan was so popular with insiders; gag writers, engineers, executives and their secretaries, that Henry's program became one of the most talked about in the trade. He became a favorite of many radio listeners also, and the process began which has snowballed Henry Morgan into one of present-day radio's top comedians. It was on this program, that Henry pulled his classic gag. After a row with the execs of WOR (which he gleefully related in detail to his radio audience) he 'auctioned' off the entire network on the air, station by station, vice-president — president by vice-president, for $83 — including good will.

There were other evidences of the bad-little-boy technique — of straining like anything to be un-predictable. Lunching one day with several old acquaintances, Henry suddenly noticed that his watch had stopped running. "Well, what do ya know," he said, "the doggone thing's stopped." Ripping it off his wrist, he slang it across the restaurant floor and left it there!
When he left WOR for the Army, the first inkling the station had was his announcement over the air on his last broadcast before reporting for induction.
. . . And before the Army got him, there were his famous weather reports which almost made him a marked man with Uncle Sam. Samples: "High winds followed by high skirts, followed by me. Hail — followed by fellows well met. Squalls — followed by quickly changing mothers." When weather reports were restricted by the War Department, Henry still tried to sneak them in and didn't stop until he found himself threatened by serious trouble.
So you see, anything can happen with the guy — which is why I wondered if it would be wise to interview Henry in order to do a feature story.
Ordinarily, an interview is just a pleasant way of getting up-to-the-minute information for story, but the prospect of a formal interview with Henry gave me a pause. Henry can be quite difficult with reporters. If you pry, he bristles with wit and enjoys making up a story. One of his accounts once started off: "I was born of mixed parentage — man and woman — on the day before April Fool's day, 1915. That's Taurus — under the sign of the Bull. I had breakfast immediately ... "
No! I definitely wasn't going to expose myself to that sort of thing. I went into my editor's office. "Look, boss," I began. "About that Henry Morgan story ... "
"Now that's what I call good work," my editor beamed. "I only assigned the story a half hour ago, and you have it done."
"Uh ... not quite," I mumbled. "I was wondering whether I ought to interview him."
I was treated to a fishy stare. "You act as if you're afraid of Morgan."
"Well, frankly," I said, "I am. If I see him around and ask him one or two questions, he sometimes gives me straight answers. But a formal interview would be asking for trouble."
"Make it informal, then," growled the boss. "Make a date with him for lunch."

I went back to my desk and sat staring at my telephone for a long time, unable to decide whether to call Morgan. I didn't need to interview him, I argued with myself. I knew plenty about him. I knew he was born the son of a New York banker named Von Ost, got his early schooling in Manhattan, then two lonely, bitter years at Harrisburg Academy — where he made no friends. I knew Henry was mighty unhappy guy and had been all his life. Why interview him and call up tattered ghosts, old, wanted memories of how his parents had separated - or the recent hurt of seeing his own marriage follow a similar pattern? One of the reasons I'd always felt soft toward him was because I knew he was one of the loneliest persons I'd over encountered.
What could be added to the remembrance of him at the age of eighteen. making $19 a week as the youngest announcer in town? Wasn't it partly those days as young, underpaid staff member, virtually ignored by older radio folks, living in a strange city, that so greatly flavored his present defensive attitude? Now thirty-three, earning over a thousand a week, much sought-after and flattered, Henry still couldn't shake off an attitude of suspicion. That sharp, satirical wit is just a brave front to cover his immature sensitivity — a subject I had discussed with many mutual friends, including such perceptive artists as Norman Corwin and Fred Allen. How get anything more from a interview? Morgan would either off a few dozen jokes or, if he felt self-conscious, start his 'dutch uncle' routine.
Finally, I sighed and reached for the telephone.
When I met him at the restaurant, Henry was reading a borrowed copy of the trade-paper "Variety." Morgan explained that he read it in self-defense, because there was sure to be something in it that people would ask him about later in the day. We went in to eat and talk, and Henry got a fast start and spent almost the entire hour advising me on how to behave and write my features. I clearly remember only nice thing he said (I should remember, he repeated it about five times!) "Don't make enemies of the right people." The rest of the time he devoted to 'bon mots' such as — "Jack Eigen is the greatest no-talent in radio."

Just as in the first time we met, Henry seemed to he addressing a larger audience than his companion looking about from time to time. I didn't get a single thing worth quoting, but I didn't mind that so much. After all, it was not entirely unexpected. Morgan has dedicated himself to the task of contradicting people — if he can't surprise them, That's why he has fostered a reputation for 'being unpredictable.'
But he doesn't fool people who know him well. The interview turned out pretty much as expected. What really got my goat, was that the restaurant features buffet-style luncheons and Henry only went up for one helping! Not wanting to appear rude, I didn't go back for a 'second' and was hungry all afternoon.... So not only do I get an expected earbeating, but I suffer the pangs of hunger — all to interview a personality about whom I could write a book. And just because he wants to be known as 'unpredictable.'
As friend Arnold Stang would say (in his role as Gerard) — "Huh! What's not to predict?"

The Joke's Over

How many times have you said “Enough already!” when you’re on-line and see that’s someone’s still joking about something that’s been milked to death? Perhaps you’ve used a stronger phrase.

Like the aforementioned milk, pop culture has a time limit before it starts to go sour and is replaced by something else. It happens in music, it happens on television and it happens with humour. If it didn’t, we’d still be listening to Alma Gluck records, watching The Des O’Connor Show and laughing at Earl Butz jokes.

But some people just don’t recognise when something is past its best-before date. And that was the complaint of eye-rolling radio critic John Crosby in a column of May 5, 1948.

Crosby’s column was kind a two-parter. The first dealt with the latest comeback by Phil Baker. Baker had been a top vaudeville comedian in the 1920s, whose routine involved getting heckled by a stooge he planted in the audience. He was among the top comics who jumped into radio within about 18 months of each other. Baker beat Doc Rockwell, Harry Richman, Walter O’Keefe, Julius Tannen and Phil Cook in an audition for a variety show for Armour that began in March 1933 and, at $3,700 per broadcast, was the most expensive programme originating from Chicago at the time. The ‘30s rolled on, but Baker fell out of the top echelon of radio stars. He reinvigorated his career at the end of 1941 when he took over from Bob Hawk as the host of a game show on CBS.

The second part of the column involved a Crosby favourite, the jaded Henry Morgan, who vocalised his distaste for a lot of the things Crosby didn’t like about network radio. Comedians, beginning with Jack Benny, made fun of their sponsors. Morgan went further. He was on the scale between utter disdain and contempt. Benny was joking. Morgan seemed deadly serious. Not coincidentally, Morgan didn’t keep sponsors very long. One of them was Standard Laboratories, for a brief period between January 29 and June 24, 1948 (the contract was for 52 weeks). Variety gave the debut a “here’s the problem with it” review, believing Morgan’s satire was not always polished and he only had enough good material to last 15 minutes instead of a full half hour. Crosby found some different problems.

Here’s the review.

Radio in Review
By JOHN CROSBY
New Quiz, Old Morgan
There’s a new quiz show on the air, if any one is interested, called “Everybody Wins.” There is nothing else new about it except the candor of its title. Everybody has always won on these things but this show brings the matter out in the open. The chief distinction of “Everybody Wins” is that it restores Phil Baker to the microphone and, on the basis of his opening performance, that isn’t much of a distinction.
Baker seemed hostile not only to “Everybody Wins” but also to quiz shows in general and quiz contestants in particular. This feeling is by no means confined to Mr. Baker, but it’s a little surprising to find him sharing it since he’s been mixed up in this form of activity for quite a spell. For years he asked people to take it or leave it on the show of that name and finally left it himself, presumably because he could no longer stomach handing out $64 to the curious people who infested the place. Yet here he is back again passing out cash to people he gave every evidence of loathing. Some macabre compulsion, probably.
Because of his long layoff, he was also a little out of touch with the current fashions in jokes. There was one about Easter bonnets and an even more belated gag about Howard Hughes, two topics which have been laid aside temporarily by the more hep comedians.
About all else you need to know about this show is that listeners send in five questions. If a contestant gets them all right, the listener who sent in the questions gets $100. If the contestant gets them all wrong, the listener gets $100. Everybody wins all right. That’s enough on the subject.

Whenever you consider people with an apparent loathing for their profession you run squarely into Henry Morgan. One of Morgan devoted fans once told me he had bought an Eversharp Schick razor in spite of the scorn with which Henry treated it. He begged me not to tell Morgan about it, fearing he would lose the comedian’s respect. I believe he bought it at an obscure little drugstore in Harlem where he wasn’t known. Probably asked for it in whispers. I’m not altogether sure it’s the function of a comedian to put the product that pays the bill into this position. I don’t say he has to sell the product exactly but I don’t think he should try to prevent people from buying it.
On his new program, which is new only in that it’s at a different time and under different sponsorship, Mr. Morgan has to some degree curbed his dislike of consumer products. He still delivers commercials but he remains extraordinarily aloof from them. His detachment from the marvels of Rayve Cream Shampoo—even while he’s talking about them—is as marvelous and complete as that of Edgar Bergen from Charlie McCarthy.
Mr. Morgan, one of the most talented and least manageable comics on the air, has been a little spotty this year. I bring it up only because I’m fond of the boy and this hurts me worse than it does him. Morgan has gained ease and polish as a performer but the scripts are partly bright, partly terrible and partly just tired.
For quite a while now, for reasons not apparent to me, Mr. Morgan has been carrying on something called the “John J. Morgan Trouble Clinic,” a satire and quite a vicious little one on John J. Anthony. This would be a noble project if Mr. Anthony were still on the air. But he isn’t. (Or if he is, he’s out of my range.) There must be fresher idiocies to parody than that one.
Also, Mr. Morgan has developed quite a crush on Phil Silvers, who’s been present four times this season. Seems to me a man who’s been around that long should lose his status as guest star and take his turn at the bathroom like every one else. I have nothing in particular against Mr. Silvers, but his appearance four times indicates a lack of imagination somewhere.
To pass on to pleasanter aspects, Morgan’s weekly tilts with that tired, perennially distrustful Gerard (Arnold Stang) are a joy; Bernie Green’s orchestra, which behaves like a drunken player-piano, massacres popular music even more convincingly than Spike Jones. And, of course, there’s Morgan himself who, after two years, still manages to avoid the comedy cliches of all the other radio comedians. But he’d better be careful not to develop his own cliches.

1948 wasn’t the best year for Morgan. Besides Rayve dropping his show, his movie So This is New York didn’t do well at the box office and his TV show, being broadcast from Philadelphia because ABC had no facilities in New York yet, was abruptly cancelled because of television’s first technicians strike.

And Morgan also lost his announcer during this period. Charlie Irving sounds a lot like actor John Brown to me, but Morgan’s sponsor thought he sounded like someone else. From Weekly Variety of March 24, 1948:

Too Much Morgan
After two years with the Henry Morgan show, Charles Irving has been dropped as announcer because "he sounds too much like Henry Morgan."
Two replacements were hired. Bob Sheppard to read the commercials and (after exhaustive auditions) Doug Browning to do the opening and closing announcements and play stooge bits. Doug Browning was dropped after one broadcast, and Glen Riggs now has the assignment.
Decision to replace Irving was made by the client, Rayve shampoo, and the agency, Roche, Williams & Cleary, after an analysis by comedy consultant Ernest Walker indicated that Morgan "lacks identification" and that his and Irving's voices sound similar at times.

Incidentally, Morgan didn’t take Crosby’s advice. He dragged out another parody of Mr. Anthony on his broadcast of Oct. 1, 1948. You can hear it below. Cartoon fans should recognise the woman who plays Big Sister-in-Law in the soap opera sketch and the distressed woman in the John J. Anthony parody.