The Memory of Love's Refrain—Tonight on CBS

They were singers who starred on network radio in the 1940s—Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Al Jolson, Hoagy Carmichael.

Hoagy Carmichael?!?

I’m not old enough to have been around in the ‘40s, so my first exposure to Hoagy was on an episode of The Flintstones. Much later in life, I discovered he actually wrote “Stardust,” and had his name butchered at the Oscars in 1948 by Sam Goldwyn.

Just now, I’ve learned that Carmichael had his own radio show the same year. And much like Sammy Cahn did on Merv Griffin’s TV show years later, the composer sang. And not necessarily his own compositions, as we learn from music lover John Crosby in his syndicated radio column of Feb. 28. Crosby looks at a couple of other things, including more ridiculous radio censorship.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
A Composer Sings
About twice in the Hoagy Carmichael show (CBS 5:30 p. m. EST Sundays), an announcer intervenes to urge listeners to get rid of that "stuffy, congested feeling" and "that scratchy throat” by using Luden's Cough Drops. Then Hoagy, who has a voice like a tired rasp, will sing another song in those scratchy, congested tones which sound as if he hadn't paid attention to the commercial.
Whether or not the Carmichael voice succeeds in selling any cough drops, it provides a pleasant and relaxing fifteen minutes. In his singing, Hoagy sums up the Carmichael philosophy. He doesn't like any one to be in a hurry; in his one book, his many songs, and his few screen appearances, he celebrates the sheer bliss of taking it easy, though how he manages to take it easy with so many activities is his own secret.
Two of his own songs—"Two Sleepy People" and "Lazybones"—sum up fairly well how he sounds on the air. He sings as if he were lying on a hammock, dressed in a worn sweater, scuffed shoes, and his oldest flannels, just on the verge of falling asleep.
* * *
Some songs shouldn't be sung by any one else. "Limehouse Blues" sung in that hoarse, haunting voice, puts the smell of fog in your nostrils. "Among My Souvenirs," the corniest tear-jerker since "Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage," almost sounds like genuine sentiment after he finishes it. Most of the songs on the program are blues numbers or just plain low-down numbers like "Baltimore Oriole" ("Send her back home. Home ain't home without her warbling.") While his voice resembles the croaking of a frog more closely than it does a singing voice, Hoagy's phrasing is meticulous. He is one of the few singers who sing lyrics as if they know what the words mean.
The song writer also composes what little dialogue there is on the show. Most of it is simply amiable chatter with his secretary, Shirley, or his accompanist. Buddy Cole, about his book "On the Stardust Road" or about his old, beloved car. It's as unpretentious and slow-moving as his screen acting. In fact, the Carmichael program comes pretty close to pure radio; that is, it's intimate entertainment designed not to get a studio audience into hysterics, but to entertain a few people in their own parlors.
Incidentally, Carmichael isn't the only song writer who can sing. Harold Arlen, composer of "Stormy Weather," "Blues in the Night" and "Old Black Magic," has been entertaining his friends for years with his throaty singing. Many women claim he possesses the sexiest male voice they ever heard, and he is due to charm a wider feminine audience over CBS in the near future.
• • •
Integrated commercials, according to most radio polls, are the most popular type with listeners. An integrated commercial, in case you didn't know, is one in which the advertising is brought right into the script such as the Johnson's Wax commercials on the Fibber McGee and Molly show. Integrated commercials reached a new high in the recent Jack Benny parodies on operatic themes, which were as funny as anything else in the show and maybe even a little funnier.
However, the millennium did not occur until recently when Jack Carson imitated Al Jolson In a commercial for Campbell Soup. Hordes of letters poured in from listeners requesting a repeat performance. The repetition of a commercial by popular demand is, of course, unheard of. As far as commercial radio goes it is probably the end of the line. We can all turn our attention to space ships now; there is nothing further to achieve in radio.
And while on the subject of ultimates, the final extremity in censorship was attained on a script of "Murder and Mr. Malone." A pause was deleted by an ABC censor. Too suggestive, he said.

As for Crosby’s other columns for the week, he completed his series from Hollywood:

Monday, February 24: Network headquarters in Hollywood.
Tuesday, February 25: Bing and Bob.
Wednesday, February 26: Cars and other freebies.
Thursday, February 27: Abe Burrows and Vine Street.

You can click on them to read them.

Matrons Need Radio, Too

Something for everyone could be heard on the air during radio’s Golden Era. That included matronly women who flocked to radio studios for some fun and attention.

In New York, Johnny Olson and Dennis James (on TV) hosted audience participation shows featuring (and aimed at) women approaching their golden years. In Los Angeles, the duty was taken on by Tom Breneman.

His Breakfast in Hollywood show on ABC had enough of a following that a movie was made around it in 1946. The show was ripe for parody as well.

John Crosby gave his assessment in his syndicated column of February 18, 1947 (drawing to the right from the Los Angeles Daily News.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
The Man Who Tries on Ladies’ Hats
Wolcott Gibbs, a parodist of great skill and no mercy, speaks his mind on the art of parody in the preface of his book, "Season in the Sun." "Successful parody," he says, "demands a great many things from the writer: . . . It should contain a certain amount of real criticism of what the author is saying as well as his manner of saying it . . . Real parodies are not written on grotesque books. For one thing it would be superfluous since they are parodies to begin with, and for another there is no particular entertainment in it for the writer, since intelligent criticism prefers to have something rational to criticize."
That is possibly a sensible criterion of parody for literature but it’s rather too austere for radio. If a program had to be rational before it could be parodied, most of Fred Allen's parodies on radio would be ruled out automatically, In fact, if Allen adhered to any such criterion, his choice of material would be so severely limited he'd have difficulty getting through a thirty-nine-week season.
• • •
Fortunately, Allen has devised his own methods of burlesquing the grotesque, methods which are, at least to me, thoroughly satisfying. Not long ago Allen did a parody on Tom Breneman's "Breakfast in Hollywood" (A. B. C. 11 a. m. E. S. T. Monday through Friday) a program which no one in his right mind could possibly accuse of rationality. It is Mr. Breneman's custom to end this program each day by pinning an orchid on the oldest lady in the audience. In the six years he has been on the air Breneman has dredged up some fairly decrepit specimens of humanity. In parodying this curious monkey business, Mr. Allen went Breneman one better; he produced a lady of such extreme fragility that the weight of the orchid snapped her spine.
I thought it was hilarious, and still do, though it meets none of Mr. Gibbs's standards. As I see it, it’s perfectly possible to parody something that is already inherently ridiculous but only by taking it to outrageous limits. In the case of Breneman's "Breakfast in Hollywood." it requires more imagination than I possess.
This is one radio program which I have carefully side-stepped for months, simply because it defies criticism. It even defies explanation. Over a period of five months I have amassed a great many notes on this program, but they are of little help. They appear to consist almost entirely of the names of ladies of uncertain vintage, many of them from Amarillo, Tex., whose hats Mr. Breneman invariably tried on. I can't conceive of any one being interested in these ladies' names even if I had their telephone numbers, which I haven't.
• • •
There isn't a great deal else to the program. Mr. Breneman simply wanders from table to table at his restaurant in Hollywood, saying 'Hello, who are you?" The lady replies nervously that she is Mrs. Dorothy Z. Brockhurst, of East Orange, N. J. After a little coaxing she may be persuaded to add that this is her first trip to California; she's visiting her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Beulah M. Hodgins, of Santa Barbara, who has two children of indeterminate sex; she wishes it wouldn't rain so much in California—tee hee—and she'd like to say hello to her husband, Richard X. Brockhurst, back in East Orange. Right here Mr. Breneman patches away the microphone. It's against the rules of the Federal Communications Commission to deliver personal messages over the radio. Though the ladies are fully aware they are being naughty, they never stop trying and they frequently succeed.
What entertainment value this has for the listener is one of the dark, inscrutable mysteries of broadcasting. There is no music on the program and the few jokes that are attempted reach a level of idiocy almost beyond mortal comprehension. ("Why is a midget sailor like a short order of mashed potatoes? Because he's just a little gob.")
There's also some nonsense about a wishing ring, but I'm too tired to explain it even if I understood it, and I don't. Mr. Breneman's habit of donning ladies' hats is too well known to require further amplification. However, the screeches of laughter which this spectacle provokes have such an unearthly duality that they deserve some special comment. It is a louder, brassier, more strident, more raucous and infinitely more terrifying noise than the squealing the bobbysoxers used to deliver at Frank Sinatra's broadcasts, An unusually sensitive friend who heard this shrill and terrible din said he detected in it note of horrible panic. The same sort of lunatic laughter, he is convinced will rise to the heavens the day the world comes to an end.

If you are up for it, you can hear the Oct. 2, 1946 show below.

Breneman was 47 when he died in 1948. One of his pall bearers was Jack Benny, whose writers borrowed from Breneman’s show when elderly Martha (played by Gloria Gordon) gave Jack an orchid and told him he had to kiss her.



As for Crosby’s other columns for the week:

Monday, February 17: How radio in that land of Commies, the U.S.S.R., has something in common with radio in that land of freedom, the U.S.
Wednesday, February 19: Radio writing in Hollywood, especially for comedy shows.
Thursday, February 20: Part two on the life of West Coast radio writers.
Friday, February 21: How the radio stars in Hollywood get around.

You can click on them to read them.

I’ve Heard That Joke Before

When comedians on radio got tired of jokes, they made jokes about jokes.

Fred Allen, Henry Morgan, even Boston’s Bob and Ray, pointed out radio was obsessed with making fun of Brooklyn or the La Brea Tar Pits. Morgan and the wonderful Arnold Stang had a routine, where Stang urged Morgan to jump on the overused joke bandwagon, saying Fred Allen had one about a pen that writes under water and, by procrastinating, Morgan didn’t have “one damp joke.” Morgan responded with a lovely pun that he did have a joke about a typewriter that wrote under wood.

Syndicated columnist John Crosby went further, making jokes about comedians making jokes about jokes in his missive of Friday, February 14, 1947.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
The All-American Joke
Peter Lind Hayes, who is developing into a very good comedian indeed, fell to complaining the other day about jokes. There were, he claimed, almost as many jokes about the Governors of Georgia as there are Governors of Georgia. Mr. Hayes, who is one of the brighter luminaries on the Dinah Shore show (C. B. S. 9:30 p. m., E. S. T. Wednesdays), explained that the Georgia Governors had moved to Number Four on the Hit Parade of jokes.
"What's Number One?” inquired Miss Shore.
"The most popular joke of the year was Kilroy was here. Number Two was the fountain pen that writes under water. In the third slot is a new entry which came up very fast."
"Bet I can guess—‘Open the Door, Richard.’ "
"Right," said Mr. Hayes some-what grimly. "Number Four was, of course, the Governors of Georgia. Numbers Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine and Ten were Artie Shaw's marriages. Eleven was President Truman's piano. Number Twelve was the joke about Leo Durocher saving up for a Larainey Day."
"Pete, what about Los Angeles pedestrians?" asked Miss Shore.
"Coming up—got the perfect number for them. Number Thirteen. Yes, Number Thirteen is Los Angeles pedestrians. Number Fourteen is Los Angeles smog, and Number Fifteen is Los Angeles."
Mr. Hayes then offered his version of the All-American Joke, a fool-proof number guaranteed to contain all the guaranteed laugh ingredients. Here it is:
"The other day the Governors of Georgia and the pedestrians of Los Angeles picked up a fountain pen that writes under water and wrote a letter to President Truman asking him to play the piano at Artie Shaw's and Leo Durocher's weddings and signed it Kilroy was here."
• • •
Well, it was a brave try, Mr. Hayes, but I feel vaguely dissatisfied with that All-American Joke. Some of the most brilliant running backs and four or five linesmen of indubitable All-American excellence have been omitted. No All-American team would be complete without a mention of Frank Sinatra. John L. Lewis, the Brooklyn Dodgers, portal-to-portal pay, Jack Benny's stinginess, Esther Williams's bathing suits, James C. Petrillo, Senator Claghorn, Don Wilson's waist line, Bob Hope's yo yo and the housing shortage.
Mr. Hayes's list calls attention to the flagrant favoritism the comedians pay to Los Angeles. President Truman's piano, Kilroy, "Open the Door, Richard," and the fountain pen that writes under water belong to the nation; the Governors of Georgia are the personal property of that state, but all the rest of the jokes have a distinctly local connotation. Hollywood and Vine is virtually the only street intersection in the world that ever gets mentioned on the radio. Hollywood's weather is more widely and unfavorably advertised than the weather any place else and Tommy Manville simply can't compete any longer with the Hollywood marriage and divorce mill. Nobody ever tells any regional jokes about the East, the Mid-West or—apart from the Georgia Governors and Senator Claghorn—the South, Chicago, which in my youth was the most prolific joke factory in the world, is hardly ever mentioned.
Also, it seems to me the joke-smiths have missed a couple of topics entirely. I don't hear all the jokes that are told on the air, Heaven forbid, so maybe I missed a few. Has any one told a joke about Staten Island's threat to secede from New York City, Admiral Byrd's expedition to Antarctica or Toots Shor's expedition to the White House? Any one who can't fashion a joke out of Toots Thor in the White House, to parephrase Mr. Shor, ain't tryin'.

Let’s look at the rest of Crosby’s columns for the week. As a side note, these columns had been banked as Crosby was on his honeymoon in Los Angeles when they were published.

Monday, February 10: Politicians and would-be politicians show up on Information Please. I’ll take Oscar Levant, thank you.
Tuesday, February 11: Jack Benny and Your Hit Parade were sponsored by Lucky Strike, which used a tobacco chant in its opening and closing commercials. Crosby delves into the cigarette spiel. We posted that column several years ago.
Wednesday, February 12: The BBC tries an intellectual programme, drama, poetry, plays and such.
Thursday, February 13: an odds-and-ends column, including Johnny Olson’s audience participation show and newsman Bob Trout on slang.

You can click on the stories to enlarge the copy. Cartoons are by Alan Ferber and Bob Moore of the Daily News in Los Angeles.

A Close Look at Close

Commentators have been with us since before electronic media. Back then, they were found in newspapers and called “editorial writers.”

Radio networks were skittish whenever analysts veered into giving their own opinions. It usually resulted in management deciding it would be better having one less analyst. H.V. Kaltenborn was shown the door at CBS. So was Bill Shirer. Later, Howard K. Smith. Even the sainted Edward R. Murrow ran afoul of the executive suite at CBS.

Another lesser-known commentator was Upton Close, whose real name was Josef Washington Hall. In his newspaper days in 1932, he predicted China would become Communist, and “a mad military clique” was rising in Japan. However, on the day of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Close put forward the idea on radio that the Japanese government and military really weren’t responsible.

After NBC decided Close was not suitable for its airwaves, he ended up at the Mutual Broadcasting System. That’s where we find him at the start of 1947. Herald Tribune columnist John Crosby decided to do what we now call “fact checking” into some of things Close declared on his broadcasts. The Daily Worker called him a “fascist.” Crosby was more restrained in his column of Feb. 5th that year.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
The All-American Commentator
Criticism of journalism on the radio is a ticklish subject, particularly in a newspaper which is engaged in the same line of work. But, since news is not only the most popular but certainly the most important commodity radio has to offer, the handling of news and news comment is a difficult topic to avoid. Certainly all sorts of opinions, from extreme right to extreme left, should be on the air, but those who purvey them should have something to offer besides an opinion.
I'm speaking specifically of Upton Close, "defender of American principles and champion of straight thinking" or, as he is sometimes billed, "The All-American Commentator." Close, now heard on the Mutual Broadcasting System on Tuesdays at 10:15 p. m., was twice dropped by the National Broadcasting Company. After a decidedly curious interpretation of Pearl Harbor made in a broadcast on Dec. 7, 1941, he was suspended on the ground that his comments were irresponsible. His later broadcasts convinced NBC that his knowledge of the Far Eastern situation was questionable and they refused to renew his con-tract in 1944. Close's political convictions are about one hundred yards to the right of even the National Association of Manufacturers, which is pretty far right. After a close atudy of five of his scripts, and after hearing many of his broadcasts, I can report with reasonable confidence that he is anti-Communist, anti-British, anti-Russian, anti-United Nations, anti-Roosevelt, anti-Truman and even, curiously enough, anti-Republican or at least anti-Vandenberg. I use the phrase "reasonable confidence" advisedly because is very difficult to pin Mr. Close down in any one statement. His sentences start out bravely toward the Polish elections and may wind up with an oblique reference to Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt's automobile accident. Here is a typical example of his "straight thinking":
"Our Communist allies have as usual clipped us with surprise offensives. We're all wrapped up by their push on Norway to fortify Spitzbergen and the election in Poland which, if we leave it alone, makes us look either like mice or admitting that eastern Europe was outside our province to begin with. Either alternative would leave the Roosevelt war effort still further without meaning and internationalism a yet more discredited illusion." For a sheer jumble of disconnected incidents, the only comparable statement I ever heard emanated from a terribly confused woman at Schraffts, who was attempting to explain the Supreme Court's gold decision.
Close, however, is not confused; he is just cautious. Sensible persons, he says, "can see no possible further use for all those in the Latin-American and Far Eastern Divisions (of the State Depart-ment) who can't forget both the hates of the last war which are no longer useful and the false loves of the last war which make us ridiculous." What are the "false loves of the last war which make us ridiculous?" Britain and Russia, apparently, but it's hard to tell. What are the false hates—Peron and Franco, or the Nazis and Fascists?
"Under a Republican Congress and with no great persuasive voice to sell them on world government, the American people are going to have sober second thoughts about the United Nations, particularly about setting up world government authority over our economy, including tariffs and prices and how much stuff we can make and grow." You will note that Close doesn't say that the "world government," which the United Nations certainly isn't, has any intention of controlling American tariffs, prices and "the stuff we can make and grow." He just says we'll have sober second thoughts about it. Who had the first thoughts, Mr. Close? No one has ever hinted at the extension of United Nations authority to include control of prices, which even the Administration has abandoned; production, which has never been attempted in this country except in war time, and farm products. Such irresponsibility isn't funny and goes dangerously beyond the ordinary concepts of free speech.
• • •
Close is adept at this sort of shadowy mud-slinging. A masterpiece of Close "straight thinking" is this paragraph in which the commentator was discussing General George C. Marshall's fitness to be Secretary of State: "Those who doubt General Marshall base their feelings largely upon his equivocal testimony before the Pearl Harbor Investigating Committee but at that time Marshall was still a soldier, who never brings dishonor upon a superior officer." The implication is that Marshall didn't tell all he knew about President Roosevelt's pre-war diplomacy but Close can't quite bring himself to make bold statements. While the air should be free to all opinion, the broadcasters certainly ought to set up some sort of journalistic standards. Close's talks are unfair, wildly implausible and at their worst are plain gobbledygook. They don't meet any editorial standards at all. No matter what his convictions, any good editor would ask Close to clarify these curious sentences, to substantiate the vague implications, and to explain why his incredible conclusions differ so widely from those of his fellow reporters.
Mr. Close is sponsored by an organization called the National Economic Council, which has dedidicated itself, it says, to "upholding the American way of life."

Close’s career at Mutual didn’t last much longer. He had been fighting with his sponsor, which decided not to renew its contact with him. Close announced on the air Feb. 11 his broadcast would be the final one for Mutual. He was being heard on 67 affiliates.

He had other problems that year. In September, his wife sued for divorce, claiming her 54-year-old husband was openly fooling around with his secretary, who was 30 years younger than him. He was living in Mexico in November 1960 when he died in a car-train crash.

The week’s columns are below. Some are dated.

Monday, February 3: The movie The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) was inspired by a radio show written by Fulton Oursler, who also got a credit on the film. Of course, the radio show was inspired by something that was a little older. Crosby gives the radio version a passing grade.
Tuesday, February 4: Odds and ends, including a rare story about television. Crosby leads off with his take on something got lots of notice—Lee DeForest’s public complaint about commercial radio. My recollection is Crosby appeared in a short film after a clip of DeForest dictating this column.
Thursday, February 6 and Friday, February 7: a two-part piece on the F.C.C. and the new Republican congress.

You can click on the stories to enlarge the copy. Cartoons are by Bob Moore of the Daily News in Los Angeles.

It Ain't Over Until...

There are vast numbers of Americans, it seems, who love sentiment mixed with patriotism. And there are people who are adept at dishing it out to engage in another love in the U.S.—making money.

Such describes Kate Smith.

Well, only partly. She had (at least, in my opinion) a lovely singing voice. Since few of us go back to the early 1930s, when she made a name for herself on network radio, most people who remember her connect her to hockey’s Philadelphia Flyers, for whom she sang “God Bless America” before each game at the Spectrum.

But back to radio.

Smith fronted a number of musical shows in the 1930s and into the war era, sponsored by General Foods. The company forced Jack Benny and her to switch products between Grape Nuts Flakes and Jell-O (one of the reasons Benny got miffed and dumped the company for American Tobacco). After the war, she had settled into a chatty weekday show where she served up buckets-full of warm fuzziness (and, occasionally, recipes), as her manager Ted Collins hitched along for the ride.

Radio satirist Henry Morgan took a jab at Smith’s “Hello, everybody” greeting to fans. Radio columnist John Crosby wasn’t quite as cynical, but he gave his assessment of Smith’s show in his syndicated column of January 29, 1947. Smith never married, let alone had children, which Crosby notes in her continued gushing about motherhood.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
Big Ray of Sunshine
There was a time not so many years ago when Kate Smith was as important to the gag-writing profession as John L. Lewis is today. (“I once made a non-stop flight around Kate Smith.”) Today a joke about the golden-throated contralto with the impressive architecture would be almost profane.
Some idea of Miss Kate’s standing in the community can be gained from the titles of her two radio programs, “Kate Smith Speaks” (C. B. S., noon, Mondays through Fridays), and “Kate Smith Sings” (C. B. S., 6:30 p. m., Sundays). Like the phrase “Garbo Laughs,” the titles of these programs are the simplest possible statements of what goes into them and nothing else is required. You have to be a national institution before a simple subject and predicate explain your activities so completely as to be understandable to every one.
Miss Kate is now rated as radio’s top feminine entertainer, which is a misnomer. The gentle, folksy, harmless and overwhelmingly sentimental banalities which she voices in her soft, homespun voice on her daytime program are not so much entertainment as heart balm and solace to millions of housewives. She and Ted Collins, her manager—or Svengali, as he is referred to by the more cynical Broadway characters—simply chatter for fifteen minutes about any folksy news item that gives Miss Kate an opportunity to say at some point, though not in these words, that God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.
. . .
A news item from Columbus, Ohio, announcing that a survey revealed 51 per cent of American women prefer the kiddies and the dishes to careers will send her into paroxysms of sentimental delight, which sound a little odd, coming from a woman whose career is one of the wonders or broadcasting.
“No career on earth could give any woman the warm satisfaction of watching her little child at play. Nothing gave me more pleasure than this survey in Ohio. The American home is safe” she will cry. Any one who can say “The American home is safe” without making a parody of all home life is unquestionably a genius of some sort.
The sanctity of the home, mother and America are Miss Kate’s constant themes. Any criticism of America, no matter how slight, will bring down her wrath and also that of Mr. Collins. Recently, for instance, a French expert had the temerity to suggest that American women used too many rich fats in their cooking, fried too many meats, overcooked their vegetables.
“I hope he survives his visit,” said Mr. Collins with withering sarcasm.” “It would be awful if he starved to death over here.”
“I feel sorry for this visitor,” said Miss Kate. “I wonder if he’s ever tasted a hot apple pie made with cinnamon or Maryland fried chicken or sugar cured hams or apple pan dowdy.”
. . .
Food, housekeeping, children and clothes are probably closest to the American housewives’ hearts and Mr. Collins, who does the thinking on this program, sees to it that they make up the bulk of the chit-chat. However, Miss Kate, an excellent cook and a hearty eater, can summon up more enthusiasm for food than anything else, which is just as well since she’s sponsored by General Foods.
The news that English war brides in Chicago were taking cooking courses to learn how to bake doughnuts brightened her whole day. She gave the project unqualified blessing, which is as close to knighthood as you can come in this country. “Cooking,” she will say, as if she’d just thought it up herself, “is the way to a man’s heart.”
When she isn’t exulting over new recipes, Miss Kate likes to tell cheerful little stories about the lame, the halt, the blind and the orphaned. Speaking of an orphanage run by the Loyal Order of Moose, she said: “It’s pleasant with all our unhappy headlines to contemplate this school built on love.” Right there is not only the root of her philosophy but the secret of her success. Her fans have had enough of the unpleasant headlines: they want a little sunshine and Miss Kate is bursting with sunshine. They will even forgive her for saying “sumpin’” for something and for her frequent redundancies (“and et cetera”) because her heart is pure.
. . .
Even her evening program is pervaded with optimism. When “Kate Smith Sings” her sentimental contralto sounds best in ballads, particularly the ones that shout to the world that it’s great to be alive, especially in America.



The rest of the Crosby columns for the week:

Monday, January 27: A comparison between shows aimed at rural listeners to CBS and NBC.
Tuesday, January 28: One of Canada’s radio exports to the U.S., besides Alan Young and Gisele MacKenzie, was an obscure programme of music and stories called Once Upon a Tune (above, top). Crosby’s description makes it sound like a children’s show, but he doesn’t call it that. DuMont briefly broadcast a television version in 1951 with different writers.
Thursday, January 30: Odds and sods, partly dealing with a doctor’s conclusion about high blood pressure and radio (above, bottom). Apparently, Gabriel Heatter was bad for your health. Ah, there’s no good news tonight!
Friday, January 31: One of daytime radio’s evergreens that wasn’t a soap opera was Galen Drake (right), whose gimmick was a club called “The Housewives Protective League.” Drake began in the late ‘30s and carried on until the dying days of network radio in the early ‘60s, with his show finishing its run on the Mutual Broadcasting System.

You can click on the stories to enlarge the copy. Cartoons are from the Daily News in Los Angeles.

Miscast Cronkite

Careers on television take detours, even for someone as venerable as Walter Cronkite.

Uncle Walter wasn’t quite as venerable in 1954 as he was when he took over the CBS Evening News eight years later, and is today considered to be a yardstick of integrity in news broadcasting. But he was in the top echelon, having anchored the 1952 political conventions and election night coverage on television.

At the start of the year, he was narrating the historical re-creation show You Are There when the network brain trust decided he was the perfect person to put up against America’s number-one chimp, J. Fred Muggs.

Thus was born The Morning Show.

CBS’ answer to Dave Garroway’s Today show went on the air March 15, 1954 (it was not broadcast on the West Coast). A syndication service talked to Cronkite about his expectations for it.

CBS Brass Has High Hopes For New ‘Morning Show’
By TV KEY
Snooping around at rehearsal for CBS’ upcoming “Morning Show”—which bows in tomorrow at 7:00 am—in search of anchor man Walter Cronkite, we couldn’t help noticing the small platoon of brass-encrusted network bigwig who had come to take a look. We sidled over to CBS head Hubbell Robinson to get his reactions they were favorable. We tried the same tactics with News and Special Events’ Chief Sig Mickelson. He was ecstatic. Then we talked to newsman Charles Collingwood, who will be handling the reporting on the show. “People want to know what’s happening in the world when they get up in the morning,” he said, “And we’ll tell them. How can that miss?”
When we finally pried Walter Cronkite away from the run-through he radiated the same general enthusiasm. “This will be basically a news show,” he told us. “We’ll have features, too, but we’ll try to give all of them a news peg. We’ll do interviews with as many interesting people as we can get—authors, actors, prominent figures. We have the Bairds (Bill, Cora, and puppet retinue) for a lighter angle. No, we don’t have anything specifically designated as women’s features—for that matter there’s nothing specifically for men, either. If we have film or interviews about, say, sports or fashions, all well and good, as long as they tie in with the news. That way they will interest everybody.
“Of course,” said Mr. Cronkite slowly, “there will inevitably be people who say we’re imitating ‘Today.’ We are—but in the most complimentary way possible. We did independent studies for a year to find the best formula for a morning show and we came up with this format. (During the last few months a virtually unprecedented six kinescopes of the “Morning Show” were made employing different people, and the best elements of each were retained for the present format.) It’s inevitable for a show like this.
Of course, the day may come when people will sit down and stare at TV for long periods in the morning, but until then, this is pretty much the way it will have to be. Our main attraction, we feel, is content, And personality. And the warmth and friendliness of a smallish group that knows and likes and respects each other.”
Mr. Cronkite lit a cigarette and looked around at the jumble of cameras and sets and stagehands and machines that was gradually shaping up into a television show.
“Being an anchor man involves more than people think,” he said. “It’s not like being an old vaudeville m.c. with no time problems and everything worked out so you just have to announce it. Here there’ll be practically no rehearsal, practically no forewarning. I’ve got to be able to come in at 4:30 a.m., pick up the items for that day, and take off from there, working out the sequence, padding between items to make the time come out right, moving from area to area without losing the cameras. Most of that work is done behind the scenes; if it’s done well nobody notices it, but if it isn’t, the whole show falls apart. You’ve got to be able to think on your feet—and at 4:30 in the morning.
Mr. Cronkite grinned. “I thought I was through with those kind of hour. 10 year ago when I gave up the early shift at UP, but here I am again, jumping into the shower before dawn—and waking up all the neighbors. You get used to it, though. In a few weeks maybe I could even be singing in the shower. If I could sing. . .”

If you’re wondering how Cronkite’s show went, we can do no better than reproduce Herald Tribune syndicate John Crosby’s column of March 18.

Radio in Review
By JOHN CROSBY
SINCERE FLATTERY
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then CBS-TV’s new program, “The Morning Show” (7 to 9 a. m. Mondays through Fridays) is the nicest compliment that has ever been paid to its two-year-old opposite number on NBC called “Today.”
The chief difference between “Today” and “The Morning Show” is that Walter Cronkite has a moustache and Dave Garroway hasn’t, and Garroway wears glasses and Cronkite doesn’t. Of course, it’s just possible this is the only kind of show that is possible so early in the morning and that imitation is inevitable. But it does seem to me they went a little far, that there might have been some points of departure that might have been explored.
* * *
As it is, the morning audience now has to choose between Garroway who is urbane, relaxed, witty and intelligent and Cronkite who is urbane, relaxed, witty and intelligent. (If there are any bopsters around, Garroway is slightly the cooler of the two but they’re both pretty cool, man.)
* * *

Like “Today,” “The Morning Show” goes in heavily for news and though CBS is renowned for its news coverage and its commentators, it has not managed to grapple with news any more successfully than the NBC program. On both shows you get headlines endlessly repeated.
There is not even an attempt to dig under the headlines with comment and interpretation which news so desperately needs today. I realize the boys are dealing with what they consider successive platoons of husbands dashing off to work who are supposedly only half listening. Still, it would be nice if CBS every morning supplied one very serious and thorough breakdown of the most important news story of the day from one of its stable of topflight correspondents scattered all over the world. Maybe they will.
For features, Cronkite first interviewed a toy-maker named John Peter who informed us that cardboard was the biggest news in toys this year. He displayed some huge cardboard toys which were apparently as indestructible as if made from cement.
“Did you know that America spent $450,000,000 on toys last year,” asked Mr. Peter.
“I believe it,” said Cronkite. “I spent most of that myself.”
* * *
There ensued five minutes of news from the local communities which happens to be an exact replica of the way they do things on “Today.” Then Cronkite showed us a live shot of commuters scurrying to work at Grand Central. It just so happens that Garroway on “Today’s” opening show also showed us shots of commuters wandering around Grand Central. These boys just can’t seem to get out of Grand Central. If ABC decides to have a morning show I respectfully suggest they take us to Penn Station just for a novelty.
Where “Today” has a chimpanzee, J. Fred Muggs, “The Morning Show” has Charlemagne, the lion, a puppet operated by Bil and Cora Baird who sounds a little like Finnegan in “Duffy’s Tavern.” Charlemagne plays records and trades badinage with Cronkite. While the records are playing, the Bairds’ inexhaustible supply of puppets make like they’re singing or dancing or playing instruments. This bit is done with great charm and ingenuity and grace. It’s a lot of fun to watch.
“The Morning Show” is not quite as gadget-happy as “Today” but they do have an electronic weather map, product of nearly a year’s research by the network’s new effects department, which is supposed to show rain where it rains, snow where it snows, and so forth. To me it just looked like a lot of lights flashing on and off but if the new effects department is happy with it, I am too. Frankly, though, I think Garroway’s little informal chat with the weatherman in Washington is more entertaining than all those lights.
* * *
Other features included a very nice interview with Stephen A. Mitchell, chairman of the Democratic National Committee, and with Ivy Baker Priest, Treasurer of the United States. Best of all was a telegram from another network to the effect: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.’’ It was signed Dave Garroway, Jack Lescoulie and Frank Blair who have been in this exhausting business a couple years now.

Cronkite became unhappy rather quickly. Whether chatting about the stories of the day with a puppet was a factor wasn’t revealed, but the New York Times reported on July 20 that Cronkite “has notified the network that he does not want to continue in the role if the show stresses amusement and entertainment features” and that Cronkite “prefers to be known as a newsman and commentator and not a clown.” This was despite the fact he became the host of a Goodson-Todman quiz show called It’s News To Me that month.

The following day, the Times revealed Cronkite was out as of August 16, Jack Paar was in, and the show was being moved from the news division to the programme department. Paar told a story for years and years—one that first appeared in Earl Wilson’s column of September 9, 1954—that his mother wrote CBS saying she hated to see Cronkite leave.

Paar was gone soon, too, but both he and Cronkite went on to bigger things. Television was better for it.

Here's Our Next Contestant

Game shows appeal to people for various reasons. One is viewers like to see ordinary people get something for nothing. It’s something they can identify with.

Another is the viewers like to see if they can guess the answer to a question by the host (this applies to the more intelligent of the shows).

Still another is, if TV or movie stars are involved, they enjoy seeing and laughing with the celebrities.

And another is, sometimes, there’s a quirky contestant that the viewers can’t help but like. Some are a little clueless. Others say things that come out of nowhere.

All this goes back before television, into the Golden Days of Radio. That’s where today’s story takes place.

Herald Tribune syndicate columnist John Crosby was bemused by one particular episode of a Monday through Saturday daytime game show called Give and Take. These kinds of programmes give and the contestant takes, if they’re not too much of a dullard. One contestant seems to have got things backward, among other unexpected oddities and non sequiturs that the poor emcee, who had radio and TV experience in 1947, had to roll with.

This column appeared on January 23, 1947.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
Mrs. Caniff Goes to Town
To the student of human nature, audience participation shows generally reveal only that a great many citizens are hopelessly greedy and totally misinformed. However, on rare occasions, the master of ceremonies will unearth a gold mine of personality and character. I'm speaking specifically of Mrs. Caniff, who appeared recently on a program called "Give And Take" (CBS network 2 p. m. Saturdays and 10 a. m. Mon.-Friday outside of New York.)
Before we get into Mrs. Caniff's unique personality, it might be well to describe "Give And Take." It’s a quiz program presided over by a good-natured gentleman named John Reed King, an ornate handle that would look better on a supreme court justice than on a master of ceremonies. As I understand it. Mr. King invites members of the audience to come up and help themselves to tablesful of loot. The only requirement is that they answer a few questions, most of which would insult the intelligence of your ten-year-old son. Was Washington’s birthplace in Massachusetts or Virginia?)
* * *
You can’t miss on this program. Mr. King, for instance, asked one contestant whether the title page of a book was on the left or right hand side of the book. The man guessed the left side. After informing him that this was the wrong answer, Mr. King asked the second contestant whether the title page of a hook was on the left or right hand side of the book. The second guy got it right. Process of elimination, you see.
Well, that’s just background. The real heroism of this story is Mrs. Caniff, whose accent suggests she lives in New York City. Mr. King asked her a question which comes up on all these giveaway programs. “Where are you from?” inquired Mr. King.
“De Far East,” said Mrs. Caniff happily.
“The Far East!” exclaimed Mr. King.
“Foist Avenoo,” explained Mrs. Caniff.
Right there, Mr. King appeared to take stock. You run into a lot of problems as emcee of an audience participation show and the worst problem of all is a participant who has more personality than you have. Mrs. Caniff was one of those problems. “Now, Mrs. Caniff, just look over those tables and tell me what you’d like to have. How about that toaster over there — chromium plated, automatic.” . . .
“I got three toasters at home,” said Mrs. Caniff benignly. “I give you one.”
Mr. King explained hopelessly that he gave away on this program; he didn’t get them. "Let’s look over some of the other things. Forget the toaster. There’s a wonderful assortrnent of.” . . .
“I’m expecting a baby,” said Mrs. Caniff.
“You’re . . . uh . . . when?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Not tomorrow,” said Mrs. Caniff briskly. “I have company coming in tomorrow.”
“Look, Mrs. Caniff, time is running short. We have come to the point in this program when” . . .
“Don’t you ask me questions?” inquired Mrs. Caniff anxiously.
“I’m trying to . . .”
“I like the bedspread.”
“Good!” shouted Mr. King. “The bedspread! Now listen carefully, Mrs. Caniff. Tell me” . . .
“And the layette. Right there—the layette.”
“You said the bedspread. No, you can’t have them both. Now listen carefully, Mrs. Caniff. Tell me what is wrong with this sentence. ‘A horse divided against itself cannot stand.’ What is wrong with that sentence?”
* * *
Silence fell on the program, as Mrs. Caniff wrestled with the problem. ‘A horse divided against itself cannot stand,” repeated Mr. King. “What is wrong with that sentence?”
“I need my glasses,” said Mrs. Caniff.
“She needs her glasses,” muttered Mr. King. “Now why on earth . . . . Well, she’s GETTING her glasses.” Again silence enveloped the program while Mrs. Caniff got her glasses and put them on. “A horse divided against” . . .
started Mr. King.
“House,” said Mrs. Caniff promptly. “House is de woid. Not horse.”
“That’s correct,” shouted Mr. King. “And here is the bedspread. No, we haven’t got a coffee-maker, Mrs. Caniff” . . .

The rest of the Crosby columns for the week:

Monday, January 20: A special series of programmes by Norman Corwin about world unity. Evidently Crosby was impressed with Corwin, as this was the second column in two weeks which mentioned the series.
Tuesday, January 21: The early days of radio advertising. Crosby plugs a book.
Wednesday, January 22: The Count of Monte Cristo is on Mutual. Crosby mentions television for a second time, though he focuses on baseball, which isn't played in January. New York had three stations at the time (plus one experimental outlet no one counted), Los Angeles had a pair, Chicago was getting by with one, as were Schenectady, Washington and Philadelphia.
Friday, January 24: Another dramatization of the news, this one on Mutual.

You can click on the stories to enlarge the copy. Cartoons are from the Daily News in Los Angeles.

Tarnish in the Golden Age

For every successful radio sitcom like Burns and Allen or Blondie or Our Miss Brooks, there’s an equally unsuccessful one, perhaps no one but extreme radio die-hards have heard of.

That’s Finnegan would qualify.

The series has the distinction of a name change, a cast change and a network change. About the only thing that stayed the same was the sponsor.

Household Finance announced, through agency Shaw-Lavally in Chicago, it was paying the bills for Phone Again Finnegan, which debuted on NBC on Saturday afternoons from 5 to 5:30 Eastern time starting March 30, 1946, replacing the equally-memorable Square With the World. Only 57 stations cleared time for it.

The Hollywood Reporter said the debut episode “bears too great a similarity to many other shows, living and dead.”

On June 27, Household Finance moved the show to CBS because NBC said it wasn’t good enough to put in a nighttime slow. Columbia gave it Thursdays at 10:30 Eastern. It appears the star agreed. The Hollywood Reporter announced Stu Erwin felt “the role he portrays is not suited to his talents” and he quit Sept. 19.

Herald Tribune syndicate critic John Crosby finally got around to reviewing the show, and his eye-rolling was published on January 15, 1947.

RADIO IN REVIEW
By JOHN CROSBY
Somewhere in "That's Finnegan," which, if you're not careful around 10:30 p. m. Thursdays, you're likely to hear on CBS, a Swedish Janitor name Larsen is almost certain to say "Yumpin Yiminy," a mild form of Swedish profanity. Besides substituting Y's for J's, Larsen also garbles metaphors and words in general.
"Did you ever pull a tendon?" he was asked.
"No, but I pulled a boner once."
Larsen is the Janitor of the Welcome Arms apartment, which is operated by Frank McHugh, or Finnegan as he is known on this program. The part was once played by Stuart Erwin, who, I think, was wise in getting into another line of work. Erwin and McHugh, no doubt everyone knows; are movie actors of almost identical personality — that is, addlepated, good-natured, butter-fingered and easily frightened by mice.
“Bills! Bills! Bills!” said Finnegan on this program. "I don't know where they all come from. When I go into a store, the salesmen are all billing and cooing. Now they're just billing me." (Don't blame me for these jokes. I’m just quoting them.) According to my notes, Finnegan said once; "I took her to a taffy pull and got stuck with her," a gag I wouldn't pull at a church social.
Originally titled "Phone Again, Finnegan," this inane little comedy series has been on the air for some time and was once on NBC at 5 p.m. Saturdays. Anyhow, Finnegan’s current problems don’t have much to do with the Welcome Arms apartment house but with his 14-year-old nephew Jiggs. Jiggs' conversation is dominated fairly heavily by exclamations such as "Gee," "Golly" and sometimes, when he's heated up to an extraordinary degree, "Gosh," and he has a girl named Helen.
"Gee, uncle, did you ever have a girl look at you and you got butterflies in your stomach?" he asks, referring to Helen.
“Not for quite awhile."
“Who was she?"
“Clara Bow."
"Gee, uncle, I've known this girl for a week now and I haven't even had a date yet — and I’m not getting any younger."
Helen is a breathless young thing who behaves like Judy Foster though in a more restrained way. The only scrap of her dialogue I seem to have on record is: "Gee, imagine making such a remark about a poor defenseless baby." I can't think what would provoke this statement, but it's fairly typical of Helen's conversation.
There isn't much else to be said about “That’s Finnegan." On the test program I heard, Jiggs tried to touch Uncle Finnie for five bucks and got a fine lecture about how well people could get along without money. One minute later, the Household Finance Company, a small loan outfit which sponsors the program, jumped in with a rather convincing argument about how difficult it was to get along without money. It's none of my business but it seems to me they're defeating one another's purposes on this program.
At any rate, Jiggs was reduced to earning his own five fish, which he did by tending Clancy’s baby for him. Clancy is a cop, naturally. (All people named Clancy are cops and conversely all cops are named Clancy. This is known as Crosby’s Law). Well, to get on with this, there's some pretty confusion about where Jiggs' money is coming from and when Finnegan finds Clancy is after him, he assumes the worst. "They won't railroad my boy Jiggs to jail,” he shouts.
“They don’t railroad them any more,” says the faithful Larsen. "It’s cheaper to send them by bus.
It all came out happily.

By the time this review was in print, the show had already been cancelled. Broadcasting magazine of January 6 said Household Finance was replacing it on March 27 with a show far better remembered by radio fans—The Whistler (Signal Oil continued to sponsor The Whistler on the CBS Pacific Coast network on Monday nights).

As for Crosby’s other columns for the week:

Monday, January 13: The former Edward VIII spoke on American radio for the first time since abdicating the British throne in 1936. This speech was only picked up on ABC, and the network admitted he may not have attracted a large audience. He attracted a very unflattering drawing by Alan Ferber next to Crosby’s column in the Los Angeles Daily News.
Tuesday, January 14: Better late than never, I suppose, but Crosby relayed predictions for radio for the coming year from a number of sources, including a note about television. There were still fewer than a dozen stations in the U.S. at the time and limited networks in the east. He also promoted a new Norman Corwin series.
Thursday, January 16: WMCA, a local station in New York, imitated Orson Welles’ most famous radio broadcast except, in this case, atom bombs attacked New York City. Crosby’s drily dismissed the drama.
Friday, January 17: ABC mounted a new version of stories based on Sherlock Holmes, pointing out there wasn’t much new about Conan Doyle’s character, though he thought the English-isms in the script were jolly good fun.

You can click on the columns to read them better.