The World of Don Pardo

NBC radio shows featured big-time, part-of-the-programme announcers like Don Wilson, Ken Carpenter or Harry Von Zell, but at the tail end of each show, they also had an anonymous staff announcer whose only duty it was to say “This is the National Broadcasting Company.”

Despite 25-year-old, poor-quality dubs that run off-speed, sometimes you can pick out a familiar voice from those six words. The other day, listening to a Fred Allen show, it was cheering to hear someone who spent part of his career telling us what we were watching was “presented by new Stripe toothpaste with germ-killing hexachlorophine for the double protection of toothpaste plus mouthwash.” It was Don Pardo.

Pardo performed the same duties on Jack Benny’s show in the mid-‘40s, providing the NBC ident before the chimes. He moved his way upward at the network. He was the part-of-the-show announcer in 1949 on The Mindy Carson Show (“Gab with Don Pardo could stand some rewrite,” spake Variety). As a staff announcer, he read radio news and sportscasts.

There were television assignments, too, but the one that brought him his first real fame was The Price is Right. That made him so well known, a racing greyhound was named for him.

On March 30, 1964, Pardo took on a new job—announcing the Art Fleming version of Jeopardy! (and being immortalised in Weird Al Yankovic’s song of tribute to the show).

The two shows couldn’t have been different in tone. Here’s an Atlanta Journal feature story from May 27, 1961:

'Price' Audience Urged to Chatter
"It's no accident the NBC's "The Price Is Right" boasts the liveliest "live" audience in television.
"Right from the first show," explained associate producer Beth Hollinger, "we decided to break the rules by encouraging the audience to get into the act."
Until then it was standard operating procedure in television to give studio onlookers a short lecture, urging them to laugh and applaud "in the right places," but otherwise to exercise self-control.
Visitors to "The Price Is Right" hear a decidedly different pep talk. Warm-up man Don Pardo invites them to shout encouragement to the players, chatter amongst them-selves and generally make their presence in the theater known.
• • •
"The only ones who keep quiet, I've observed, are those who have been to other TV shows. They just don't believe we mean what we say. Most folks, however, get a big boot out of screaming 'freeze' and 'don't freeze,' and commenting on the prizes."
When the producers of "The Price Is Right" first decided to go against TV tradition, they knew they were taking a risk.
"NOT MANY have turned down the invitation," noted Pardo.
"There was always the chance that someone in the audience would shout something . . . er . . . embarrassing," explained Beth Hollinger. That this has never happened is a tribute to the audience. Also helpful is a ruling which keeps the age of visitors above 12.
• • •
AT FIRST, host Bill Cullen was somewhat shaken by the enthusiasm of the crowd. "I was accustomed to game shows where things were as quiet as the public library," he explained. "It took me a while to get used to the happy-go-lucky atmosphere."
Naturally, among the most excited members of the audience, are those who have a vested interest in the proceedings—husbands, wives, friends and relatives of contestants.
"There was a girl whose fiancee was bidding on a new convertible. I doubt if television was necessary for her screams to be heard across the country.
"When he finally won, she fainted dead away."

Contrast this with Pardo’s approach on Jeopardy!, as described in the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle of June 2, 1974.

Jeopardy: A Game Show for Smart People
By BETTY UTTERBACK
D&C Stall Writer
NEW YORK —Game shows come and go. Mostly, they go. There doesn't seem to be a direct relationship between their success and the ingenuity of the gimmick or the lavishness of their super jack-pots.
The game show for smart people, "Jeopardy," recently celebrated its tenth anniversary. NBC has shown enough confidence in the program's following to announce that the program will be moved to a 1:30 p.m. time slot July 1. It will bolster a lead-in slot to the network's afternoon block of drama shows. That helps pave the way for three new morning game shows, including a brand new gimmick — television dice.
Why some game shows last is tough to rationalize. Back in the heyday of radio, Dr I.Q. kept a nationwide audience interested with bright questions directed to "a gentleman in the balcony" or a "lady in the mezzanine" with nothing more at stake than silver dollars and a box of Milky Way candy bars.
But it didn't take television long to run the $64 question up to $64,000, and games shows began to heap on enough dream trips, jewels and fancy cars to stagger a maharaja. In contrast to such bonanzas, "Jeopardy," is low key. The gimmick is simple and nobody gets rich.
At least one reason for the program's success became obvious during a recent backstage visit —Art Fleming and his crew work hard, but they seem to have as much fun as the viewers.
It was mid-morning at the NBC studio and Fleming was relaxing. His face glowed with stage make-up, the rosy look accentuated by a hot pink sport shirt.
"I love it," he said with a beaming smile. "Even after 10 years, every day is different."
He stepped nimbly around the banks of camera cables that formed an obstacle-course on the small stage to conduct the grand tour. From the front, the game board looked about the same as it does on a home set. From the back it looked like something put together in a basement workshop, and supported by bare 2 by 4's.
When the board is cleared and new categories appear, it's all accomplished by three deft stage-hands, Fleming explained. They aren't foolproof, but he has more confidence in the manual operation than any suggestions he's heard for mechanizing the board. Fleming's podium and the contestants' desk were nearby — islands of color on a stark stage.
NBC pages herded the audience into thin places and Fleming headed back to his dressing room to change. A wizened old man in a baggy grey suit slipped out of the audience and trailed down the hall after Fleming. The man pressed a bottle-shaped paper bag into Fleming's hand.
"I found out your favorite kind," the old man chuckled. "Be sure you share it, hear?"
Fleming was gracious but he didn't linger. The program has its regulars and they come often bearing gifts.
In the control room, 12 to 15 production people were going in and out — using the break for mid-morning coffee or a chance to relax. A young woman finished a plate of bacon and eggs from the NBC commissary and announced that this was her favorite assignment. The "Jeopardy" crew work harder than any crew at NBC, she said, but they're rewarded with the most time off. That day they were taping two shows, the next day three. With luck, they were to have a week of programs finished in two days.
Down the hall was a small room with a big sign, "Jeopardy Contestants," where a half-dozen people were relaxing. They weren't the bundle of nerves you might expect them to be. They had watched a program as part of the audience and had been through a warm-up. The "rehearsal" is an actual run-through using questions from previous shows.
The only boredom was in the audience which was being lulled by piped-in country music. A plump lady from Iowa expressed relief that she was, at least, off her feet after standing in line for so long. A class of 9-year-olds from PS 92 in the Bronx filed in, gaping at the high overhead lights, tripping on the stairs.
Don Pardo, the program's announcer, tinkered with the mike and adjusted a script on the small stand near the audience and questioned the pronunciation of a contestant's name He cleared his throat and, with the flare of a circus ringmaster, he said:
“Welcome to Jeopardy — America’s number one game-show!”
It was Pardo's job to turn the bored crowd into a responsive, enthusiastic audience. He appeared to know how to do it. He hit them with the bad jokes, the folksy touch.
"I'm looking for big applause," he said in a confidential tone. "If they get the $50, come right in."
He cautioned them about the game-show no-no, calling out answers and told them that whistles and shouts aren't in keeping with the tune of the game.
It was a no-class approach but it worked. When Fleming entered, dressed in a neat grey suit and white shirt, the audience burst into applause. The contestants filed in.
"Don't applaud everything," Pardo told the audience. "Wait for the biggies."
They came through for him. Every time a contestant answered a question correctly, Pardo was on his feet frantically motioning for the audience to applaud.
Time passed quickly. During the commercial breaks, the contestants sipped water from paper cups or took a few puffs on a cigarette. Fleming came down to chat with the audience. Pardo had told them Fleming would answer their questions, but they didn't ask any. They delivered testimonials.
"A bunch of us are here from Duluth, Art," a man said. "We watch you every day at home."
In the control room, the production people were caught tip in the game—answering the questions, cheering their favorites.
"Come on. Mary," a robust man urged when his contestant hesitated.
After the final commercial break, the contestants filed out to change their clothes and come back for the "next day's" program.
Fleming relaxed and chatted with a group of prospective contestants who were watching from the front now at one side. They might not go away rich, but they were having a good time.
Which is shoot all most people ask of a game-show.

We haven’t found quotes from Fleming about Pardo, but what looks like an NBC news release had some words from Cullen. This appeared in papers starting Nov. 27, 1971.

Warm Up Man Called Best in His Business
"I think he's the best in the business," said Bill Cullen, host of NBC Television Network's "Three on a Match," in referring to the daytime series' announcer, Don Pardo.
In addition to being the on-air announcer for the program, Pardo has another chore—to warm up the audience attending the taping in NBC's Color Studio 6A in New York's RCA Building.
"Don goes out 15 minutes before I do to do the warm-up," Bill revealed. “He knows the regulars and exchanges gags with them. He whips the unruly ones into line. His function is to get the audience up for the show. By the time I come out, Don has them receptive."
Known also as an amiable ad-libber, Cullen was asked what he considered to be the major difference in the way the host and the announcer handle an audience. "We also play to the audience, but not as individuals as a Pardo will do," Bill replied.
The personable host has had the opportunity to observe Pardo doing this thing for many years. Both held NBC staff announcing positions in the 1940's and they began working together in 1956—Bill as host and Don as announcer—with the debut of the game series, "The Price Is Right." It enjoyed a network run of nine years and their association endured through the entire period.
"Three on a Match," which premiered Aug. 2, reunited the three principals of the successful series—Cullen, Pardo and Bob Stewart, who was producer of the long-running program and is producer and packager of "Three on a Match."
Although Pardo also is the announcer of NBC-TV's "Sale of the Century," he was asked to double up and do "Three on a Match." Since there was no taping conflict with the two series, he readily accepted the assignment. "Bob and I consider Don Pardo our luck charm because 'The Price Is Right' lasted so long," Cullen said.

Pardo’s on-air career was varied. He interrupted programming to read a bulletin about the shooting of John F. Kennedy. He announced an anti-Communist radio special that upset the far right anyway. And, as everyone likely knows, he spent years introducing Saturday Night Live.

Another job was the announcer on the radio sitcom The Magnificent Montague. It had all the right ingredients—a cast including Monty Woolley, Art Carney and Pert Kelton, writing by Nat Hiken and, of course, Don Pardo speaking. It never really found an audience and lasted less than a year. On the show of June 23, 1951, Pardo did all the commercials except the opening one. You can listen to most of his work on the broadcast below. We have also included the full programme. The second announcer on the Chesterfields spot should be familiar.


DON PARDO CLIP 1


DON PARDO CLIP 2


DON PARDO CLIP 3


DON PARDO CLIP 4


MAGNIFICENT MONTAGUE, JUNE 23, 1951.

Things Go Swimmingly For Jack Benny

It likely won’t surprise you to learn that Radio Guide, in June 1935, announced that a poll with 1,256,328 votes had picked Jack Benny as their favourite radio performer. What will likely surprise the casual fan is the Jack Benny show wasn’t the Jack Benny show you’ve come to know and love.

In 1935, there was no Rochester, no Phil Harris, no Dennis Day, no Mel Blanc (or a Maxwell or violin teacher or harassed Christmas-time store clerk), no Frank Nelson going “Yehhhhhhs?”, no Sheldon Leonard touting, no Fred Allen feud.

What there was, was Mary Livingstone, in almost a Dumb Dora role spouting poems, Don Wilson cheerily telling the world about six delicious flavors contained in a box with big red letters, and Sam Hearn’s Schlepperman doing Yiddish dialect.

Only two broadcasts from 1935 survive (one is Kenny Baker’s debut late in the year) but, fortunately, Laura Leibowitz crafted two wonderful books containing a summary of each Benny radio show, with complete cast and music lists. The Benny estate still has scripts for each show and Kathy Fuller-Seeley is making her way through them to have them published. These are admirable literary efforts and deserve your full $upport.

The other thing the show had in 1935 was writer Harry Conn, no doubt stewing that he was the real brains behind it and anyone could get laughs with his lines (he soon proved to himself how wrong he was).

Benny had signed a movie contract, which forced him to move the show to Los Angeles.

The San Francisco Examiner looked at the show in its June 9, 1935 edition. NBC hadn’t built the lovely studios at Sunset and Vine at this point. Whether this is mere P.R. hokum, we will let you decide.

BENNY’S HOUR EFFULGENT
Jack Benny's Sunday broadcasts originating at the NBC studios in Hollywood and heard locally over KPO at 7:30 p. m., have taken on all the glamour that used to be attached to film premiers at Graunmann's [sic] Chinese Theater, with famous picture stars, stage favorites, noted composers, visiting royalty, society matrons and other "who's who" in attendance.

The luxurious limousines start arriving half an hour before broadcast time and Melrose avenue is crowded as a steady stream of pedestrians and motorists make their way toward the iron gate of the RKO lot where the broadcasting headquarters are established. This happens twice each Sunday as the Benny troupe makes separate appearances for eastern and western listeners.
Firm executives are always among those on hand. Fashion writers are present to see what the stars are wearing. Autograph collectors hover about the entrance of the studio and candid camera men snap pictures of the notables. Jack and Mary get away from the crowd as soon as they can after the broadcasts are over. After the first show, which is broadcast east of the Rockies, they return to fashionable Beverly Hills and take a dip in their private swimming pool. Following the evening broadcast they go home and catch up on the Sunday papers.
During tonight's broadcast, by the way, Jack Benny will introduce one of the latest screen "finds," 8-year-old Bobbie Breen. The program will mark the first radio appearance of Bobbie, who is under contract to Sol Lesser, noted movie producer. Benny believes he will be a sensation on the air.

Breen would become a regular with Jack’s buddy Eddie Cantor. The “Hollywood pearls” routine was a running story-line. Radio columns of the time noted it climaxed on the June 16 broadcast, which also included “a young girl who recently won the $1,000 award of the Allied Arts Festival of California as that state’s outstanding girl vocalist. Her name is Wynn Davis, she is 22 years old, and will make her radio debut this afternoon.” (unbylined, The Nashville Tennessean).

One of Jack’s running gags some years later involved his stardom in an odd film, The Horn Blows at Midnight. He talks about some film experiences in this 1935 column in the San Francisco News. Again, we leave it to you to decide if the idea of a piano-playing Jack Benny, or anything else, is true.

JACK BENNY FINDS MOVIES SO DIFFERENT!
BY LEICESTER WAGNER
HOLLYWOOD, June 1 —When is a mouse trap not a mouse trap? asks Jack Benny, who then falls all over himself in his haste to declare a mouse trap is a sound effect in a radio station.
But Hollywood’s realism has Jack baffled. In the broadcasting station you put over the idea of eating by munching a stale cracker in front of the microphone.
"In pictures,” he sighed, you sit down to a steaming meal and do a ‘Jack Spratt and his wife’ the first time the scene is filmed. After six ‘retakes’ you begin to long for the old cracker sound effect where a crunch will put over the idea instead of two dozen helpings of herring and weiner-schnizel [sic].
Shower of Perfume
"I had my first contact with studio realism in ‘Hollywood Revue of 1928’," Benny went on. “I almost lost my wife and friends because of it. We were shooting the ‘orange blossom time’ number. To give the scene realism, gallons of perfume were blown through the ventilators. It took me months to explain to my wife and the boys at the smoker refused to let me in the clubroom.
Too Many Tricks
“Being a musician or note—some claim it’s a sour one, but you know how jealous my competitors are—I sat down at the grand piano to dash off a little selection of my own writing.
“Director Roy Del Ruth—some kidder—pushed a button and presto!—the piano disappeared, which left me playing on thin air.
“He pushed another button and the piano stool vanished, which momentarily left me sitting on thin air.
“Yes, everything's real in Hollywood except the weather. If I decide to settle down in California. I'll have a tombstone made for my grave which bears this inscription:
“ ‘Killed by unusual weather.’
“And I hope my mourners will be able to read it through the fog.”

While it’s true Jack Benny “composed” a song later in life, the music for “When I Say ‘I Beg Your Pardon’ (Then I’ll Come Back to You)” was written by Mahlon Merrick. Jack got credit for the lyrics. It was his show, you know.

If there’s any doubt about the popularity and pull Jack had in 1935, here’s a piece from the Superior, Wisconsin Evening Telegram of June 19:

WEBC's scout heard a new Jack Benny story in Chicago. It seems Benny entered a well-known music publishing house to pick up a professional copy of a recent song-hit, issued free to all in show-business. The bright young fellow at the counter asked curtly who he was. Benny stated mildly that he was with NBC.
"Then," says the bright young fellow, "you must have a copy, since we always send a lot over there for distribution."
When Benny insisted that he wanted a copy, the B. Y. F. says further, “Next, you'll be telling me you're Jack Benny.”
“Why, I am,” says Benny, in surprise.
“Ha! Ha! No, you aren't. I guess I know Benny,” retorts the B. Y. F.
“You do, eh?” Benny asks, and turns, and walks into the office of the head of the music-house, returning almost immediately with a furious man waving his arms and calling upon heaven to witness if ever he had known such a stupid clerk.
Fortunately, for the clerk's job, the clerk was the man's son.
“This is Jack Benny,” he shouted. “Give him anything he wants.”
To a music publisher, Jack Benny is mightier than the prince of Wales. His plug of a song would send the sales shooting skyward.

By the way, if you want the top ten winners in the five categories that involved Jack’s show, here they are. Frank Parker was on the Benny show during the poll. The photo comes from the June 24, 1935 edition of the Evansville Journal.

Performer — 1, Jack Benny; 2, Lanny Ross; 3, Eddie Cantor; 4, Bing Crosby; 5, Joe Penner; 6, Fred Allen; 7, Frank Parker; 8, Will Rogers; 9, Edgar Guest; 10, Don Ameche.

Teams — 1, Amos ‘n’ Andy; 2, Burns and Allen; 3, Jack Benny and Mary; 4, Myrt and Marge; 5, Lum and Abner; 6, Hitz and Dawson; 7. Mary Lou and Lanny Ross; 8, Block and Sully; 9, Marion and Jim Jordan; 10, Easy Aces.

Musical Program — 1, Show Boat; 2, Rudy Vallee’s program; 3, Jack Benny’s program; Himber’s Champions; 5, Fred Waring’s program; 6, WLS Barn Dance; 7, Beauty Box Theater; 8, Town Hall Tonight; 9, Breakfast Club; 10, Pleasure Island (Lombardoland).

Orchestra — 1, Wayne King; 2, Guy Lombardo; 3, Richard Himber; 4, Ben Bernie; 5, Jan Garber; 6, Kay Kyser; 7, Don Bestor; 8, Fred Waring; 9, Rudy Vallee; 10, Walter Blaufuss.

Announcers — 1, Jimmy Wallington; 2, Don Wilson; 3, Harry Von Zell; 4, Ted Husing; 5, David Ross; 6, Milton J. Cross; 7, Phil Stewart; 8, Don McNeills; 9, Tiny Ruffner; 10, Jean Paul King.

Jack Benny's Gift to War Vets

Christmas is a time of giving, the cliché goes, and one person who knew that was Jack Benny.

It seems every time I look up what Jack was doing over the holiday season, he was performing, often for charity.

75 years ago, he was one of a number of entertainers who went to San Francisco in December to perform for wounded veterans. He told columnist Herb Caen “When I saw then, I could have cried—except that I was supposed to make them laugh.”

Caen’s paper, the Examiner, sponsored the shows. This story appeared in the Dec. 22, 1950 edition.

Wounded Vets Cheered By Jack Benny, Troupe
Comedian Joins Examiner Fund Show For Bay Region War Hero Patients
The kid in the wheel chair didn't feel much like smiling.
None of the guys lying on beds, or sitting in wheel chairs, in the ward at Letterman Hospital yesterday felt much like smiling.
They were all just back from Korea. And they were all amputees, some with one, some, like the kid in the wheel chair, with two legs missing.
They were waiting, their expressions solemn, yesterday afternoon, to see the Examiners War Wounded Fund Show. Jack Benny, they had heard, was coming, and Constance Moore, the musical comedy star, and a lot of other top entertainers.
FAMILIES THERE
The wives and children of some of the wounded men were there. A tall blond sergeant who lost his right leg in the battle near Yongdang on September 24, sat quietly on his bed, his arm around his 4 1/2 year old daughter. The pretty blonde little girl sat gingerly on the big hospital bed, looking from time to time to her father for reassurance.
Suddenly, somebody shouted, "here he comes" and the wounded soldier applauded as Jack Benny stepped to the microphone in the center of the ward.
"Hiya, fellas," Benny said and the show was on.
Slowly the atmosphere of tension, of solemnity, began to break. The kid in the wheel chair rolled himself up closer to the entertainers, a small smile on his face.
ALL LAUGHING
Before long Benny had the whole ward shouting with laughter.
And when Constance Moore invited her audience to join in on the chorus of "Harvest Moon," they did, even the kid in the wheel chair.
It was a big show. Besides Benny and Miss Moore there was the impressionist, Arthur Blake; singers Katy Lee, Bob Hamma, Russ Byrd and Harry "Woo Woo" Stevens; dancers Charlie Aaron, Tony Wing, Toy and Wing, and Earl "Happy Feet" Burrows with the Four Naturals. The wounded soldiers cheered for more.
SHOWS TODAY
Benny and The Examiner troupe played the wards at Letterman yesterday afternoon, then gave an evening performance at the Letterman Theater for ambulatory patients last night with Walt Roesner and his band joining the show cast.
Benny will journey this morning to the Travis Air Force Base at Fairfield for a 10 a. m. show. He will entertain at 2 p. m. at Matte Island Hospital and will give a third performance at the Marine Hospital tonight. His final performance with The Examiner troupe will be tomorrow afternoon at the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital at 2 o'clock.
Harold Peary, "The Great Gildersleeve," and Movie Starlet Marylou Gray will join the troupe for an extra noon show tomorrow in the wards and the theater at Travis Air Base.
Benny was met on his arrival here yesterday by Col. John S. Mallory, special service officer of the Sixth Army; Lt. Cmdr. William G. Palmer of division of welfare of the Twelfth Naval District, and George Heinz, producer-director of The Examiner shows. Also with Benny are Charlie Bagby and Frankie Remley of his CBS radio show.

Benny and his troupe whirled through three more performances the next day, cheering audiences at the Travis Air Force Base, Mare Island and Marine Hospitals. The next afternoon, on December 23, he put on his act at the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital.

Out of curiosity, I looked up what Jack was doing 100 years ago at Christmas. That week, he was appearing at the Orpheum in Kansas City. Among the other acts was Benny Rubin. The Journal-Post reviewed him on Dec. 20, 1925.

A few minutes with Jack Benny are as many minutes of hearty humor. His comedy is of a lingering kind. There is so much real humor and such a variety of fun in his work that the result is not merely passing laughs but laughs his audiences take home with them.

As for charity work, sure enough, I found this in the Star of December 24, 1925:

Actors from various Kansas City theaters will join tonight in an entertainment for the United States veterans hospital. The entertainment, which will begin at 6:30 o’clock, will be preceded by a dance and the distribution of gifts given by patriotic organizations associated with the veterans’ hospital.
Among the actors who will entertain the veterans are Jack Benny, who is appearing at the Orpheum theatre, and the Marcell Sisters from the Pantages theatre, Ray Stinson’s orchestra will play. The Red Cross at the hospital is in charge of the program.

The next day, the Kansas City Times reported he “jested and played the violin.”

(Did Rubin appear? I dunno).

After K.C., Jack was off to Madison, Wisconsin for another vaudeville stop—and more of a long career that included giving morale to those who needed it.

SIDE NOTE:
Jack was mentioned in Dorothy Kilgallen's Christmas column of 1954. Oddly, fellow What's My Line? panellist Fred Allen was omitted.

Piousness in the Alley

Allen’s Alley is what comes to mind when Fred Allen’s radio show is discussed. But the programme evolved over the years and the Alley was a comparatively late addition.

Allen had many regulars over the years, but through almost all of it was Minerva Pious. She was there at the start of the Alley and was there at the end as John Brown, Alan Reed and Charlie Cantor moved on to other shows.

Pious is known to radio fans as Mrs. Nussbaum (during her brief absence after Allen returned to radio, Cantor played Mr. Nussbaum and Elsie Mae Gordon was the female denizen of the Alley) but she performed an array of characters for Allen, including snooty society ladies and hillbillies.

Just as Allen had problems as he half-heartedly tried to adjust to television, Pious concentrated more on stage work after the death of prime-time network radio. Here’s an unbylined story from the Toledo Blade of April 19, 1959.

What Ever Became of ...
MRS. NUSSBAUM—one of the sidesplitting comic characters on the late Fred Allen's Sunday night radio show? Listeners eagerly anticipated the inevitable point in the program when she opened her door, said "Nu!," then proceeded to outjoke Allen himself. In real life, Mrs. Nussbaum was a skilled dialectician named Minerva Pious, who learned different accents working at a department store in one of New York City's "melting pot" neighborhoods. She was with Allen from 1933 to 1952. Today, Minerva Pious lives in Manhattan, writes photo stories for syndication overseas. She has been out of radio and TV since the end of 1958, when she ended a series of character portrayals on the Robert Q. Lewis show. Minerva thinks comedy on radio and TV "has gone backwards. I don't find any bubbling clowns in comedy. I find it static."



What did Pious think of Allen? She had some remembrances for a syndicated columnist promoting a rare special on NBC radio. This is from October 25, 1965.

NBC Will Salute Late Fred Allen
By PHYLLIS BATTELLE
Distributed By King Features Syndicate
NEW YORK — Fred Allen —the golden-hearted grouch, the writer - comedian with bellhop eyes ("they carry up to four bags") — died on an icy New York street nearly 10 years ago.
Comedy has not been the same since. There is sick comedy now and satirical wit. But no one dares to sneer and growl, cleverly and brilliantly, at the hierarchy as Allen did; a man who was infinitely smarter than most of his confreres, he could sink verbal pins into the stuffed shirts of the men he worked for, businessmen and vice presidents, and make millions of Americans laugh.
"He was the model man," said novelist Herman Wouk reverently. Wouk had worked as a script writer for Allen. "He was the greatest satirical wit in America. All any of as on staff did was to try to imitate him, but he was the best writer in the lot."
How did he "get by" with biting the hands that fed him —with announcing to a nationwide audience, for example, that "within the hierarchy of the little men there is no man who can outlittle the executive in a large corporation who treats his authority as he treats a tight suit; in a tight suit he is afraid to make a move"?
HAD NEAT TRICK
"Well, he had a neat trick," says Miss Minerva Pious, who became famous as "Mrs. Nussbaum" and a variety of other personalities on Allen's long-enduring radio show. "He abhorred censorship and, since he couldn't defeat the censorship department, he simply outwitted it. In every script he, would put in four really wild, outrageous jokes that couldn't possibly get by. He did this so that when the censors would get to the fifth joke the one he really wanted to keep — it would seem so lame they left it in."
Miss Pious, who stands a neat five feet and is still laden with gracious charm, is one of several long-time associates of Fred's who will comment on the late, great comedian next month (Nov. 14) when NBC-Radio presents an hour-long "Salute to Fred Allen."
The show will revolve around tapes from Allen's radio shows which for 17 years were among the highest-rated in the medium. The only disappointment, for his fans, is that such a show could not be presented on television—which could certainly use an hour of intellectual, sardonic wit.
ALLEN HATED TV
"But I guess that wouldn't be a good idea," says Miss Pious. "The chief hated TV, as we all know, and I can't blame him. He went to battle on censorship there, but he couldn't beat it."
He once said of TV — "It's not worth it. People get 10 per cent of everything except my blinding headaches."
Minerva Pious remembers him as an infinitely kind man whose growly exterior frightened the great even more than the small. "There never was such a boss. I never realized how he impressed other people, however, until Charles Laughton came on the show as a guest.
"He arrived at the studio 45 minutes before air time and he was shaking. He asked me, 'Where can I get a drink?' I knew Laughton wasn't that kind of man, so I took him down the street, and he drank down two straight shots fast. Then he said, 'How do you know when you're doing all right with Fred?'”
SHOW A SUCCESS
Miss Pious laughs. "Of course, the show went beautifully, but I don't think Allen congratulated Laughton afterward. That wasn't his way. His way was to give everybody, whether it was a big, star or a little codger, respect.
"He never opened his mouth to direct an actor unless the actor had misread a line for the fourth time. This was a great rarity. I could name you the great comedians — but I’d better not, because many are still alive — who had to tell an actor how to handle every line.
"I didn't care that Fred didn't smile and pat me on the back. He showed his respect and appreciation by leaving everybody alone. Once you knew him, you could never feel insecure with that man."
Fred Allen's generosity is legendary. He was never without a large roll of bills, which he would peel off at the first sight of a panhandler.
REGULAR PANHANDLER
"There was one old codger who used to come to Fred's hotel room at 4 p.m. every Sunday, while the chief was in his writing conferences. He did it for years, always wanting a handout.
"One Sunday Fred got furious. He said, 'You bum—you never even try to get a job ' But he gave him the money anyway. On a later Sunday, during the writers' conference, Fred began pacing the floor, glaring at the writers and at' his watch. Finally he said. 'That SOB—he hasn't shown up yet."
When Allen died, so suddenly of a heart attack, something wonderful went out of the laugh business. He will return, briefly, on Nov. 19. If you listen, don't stifle your laughs. Remember the words of the master: "My friends, a stifled laugh does not die when you push it back in your throat. It lives in your lower colon to laugh at the food as it passes through .."

Pious died March 16, 1979, almost a month before Peter Donald, who was Ajax Cassidy, the man next door in the Alley.

What? Worry About Television?

The beginning of the end of network radio was nigh. And everyone knew it.

Americans had been pretty much promised there would be television after World War Two and it slowly, but surely, happened.

A stream of stations signed on in 1947 and 1948. More transmitter construction permits were approved by the FCC. Coaxial cable was being laid in the East to bring more live programmes to more cities. The broadcast day was being expanded. All of this happened before the huge popularity of the Texaco Star Theatre with Milton Berle on television.

More, importantly, sponsor money was slowly being siphoned toward television. It was leaving network radio.

During 1948, newspaper columnists made a to-do about the top radio comedians and how television would affect them. It wasn’t quite like going back to vaudeville. There were hot lights, cameras getting in the way of the audience and, worse still, dialogue that changed with every programme; a vaudeville act went from city to city with maybe minor tinkering along the way.

Perhaps the most successful comedian to move into television from radio was Jack Benny. His TV show remained on the air from 1950 to 1965, and he followed that with periodic specials until his death in 1974. This was even as the style of comedy evolved.

The Bridgeport Port of August 2, 1948 took up the situation in a column supposed written by Jack himself. Whoever penned it made fun of the trepidation that newspaper columnists seemed to feel was eating away at comedians.

Video No Worry To Benny! Oh, No?
(Editor’s Note: While Rocky Clark is on vacation, his column is being written by guests from the radio and entertainment world. Today’s guest columnist is Jack Benny, comedian).
It seems that every radio comedian I bump into these days is worried sick about television. What will it be like? How will it affect them? What will be the reaction of the public when it can see as well as hear these comedians?
For the actor, it means learning a new medium, mastering a different technique. No more reading from scripts—every line must he memorized. The sudden transition will not be easy.
We few, who won't be affected by television, can't help but notice the fear in the faces of those less fortunate actors. It's like a Frankenstein monster that haunts them until they can't see or think straight.
Recently I had lunch with Eddie Cantor, a case in point. He spoke about Ida, his five daughters, the new picture he's producing, a play he has coming up on Broadway. He told me a few stories (which I had already heard from Jessel) and raved about some song he was doing next week on the air. But not once did he mention what was uppermost in his mind—television.
Cantor is always acting, but he couldn't fool me. I knew that underneath his apparent gaiety—the handclapping, the eye-rolling, the jumping up and down—he was trying to find escape, escape from the morbid fear that was sapping his strength and confidence.
Of course, with me, it's different. But I couldn't help wondering how I would feel if I were in poor Eddie's spot.
As we left the restaurant, I tried to cheer him up. I shook hands with him and said, "Don't worry, Eddie."
He said, "Worry about what?" Pathetically, he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. And as the chauffeur opened the door and little Eddie stepped into his big Cadillac. I knew that during that long drive to his 40-room home in Beverly Hills the one thing in his mind was that terrible dread of television.
Burns And Allen, Too
Then, there are Burns and Allen. I played golf with George Burns and he pulled the same act as Cantor. He made out that he didn't have a worry in the world. He purposely played a better game of golf than I did, just so I wouldn't see how upset he was.
On the way back to the club-house he kept laughing and telling me the same jokes Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel) and all the while I knew his nerves were at the breaking point, that the specter of television gnawed at every fibre of his being. I kept thinking how fortunate I was—that I wasn't in the same position. Poor George, and Eddie, and Bob Hope, too!
I met Hope the other day, and he was carrying on worse than Burns and Cantor. Naturally, Bob is younger. He's just getting his break, and television will hit him harder than the others. There he was, standing in the lobby surrounded by a crowd of GI's signing autographs and cracking the same jokes that George Burns told me, that Cantor told me (which already heard from Jessel).
And when Bob called out, "Hello, Jack, I'll be with you in a second," I knew immediately from the timbre of his voice that television was making a nervous wreck out of him, too.
But I've got to hand it to Hope. In spite of the heartbreak, the fear inside of him, not once did he let down and allow his actions to betray his real feelings. He was brash and breezy, eyes sparkling, fall of pep, but when I inadvertently mentioned what television would do to some radio comedians, that got him.
His reaction was instantaneous. His face sobered. His manner softened. He put his arm around my shoulder, and for a brief moment I thought I saw a tear in his eye. At that instant, I hated myself for having let these words slip out. How it must have hurt the boy!
He said, "Buck up, Jack. It'll work out somehow." Poor Bob! He didn't want me to worry about him.
Poor Mr. Allen!
Then I got to thinking about the others. Fred Allen, for instance. What must be going on in his mind? In spite of what everybody thinks about Allen, we must admit he is intelligent. He realizes what television will mean to him. He shaves every morning. He knows what he looks like.
I tuned in on his program accidentally recently, and it was pitiful. He told the same jokes that Bob Hope told those GIs that George Burns told me after Cantor told me (which I had already heard from Jessel). I never felt so embarrassed for anybody in my life. The only thing that saved Allen's program was the audience. They were so sorry for him, they laughed continuously all through the show. You can't fool the American public. The people know television is just around the corner, and it was just their way of saying, "So long, Fred. You did a great job."
Last night I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw poor little Eddie Cantor, Burns and Allen, Bob Hope, Fred Allen and all those other radio comedians less fortunate than I. It was a never-ending parade, Fibber McGee and Molly, Edgar Bergen, Red Skelton, Jack Carson, the Great Gildersleeve—all potential victims of television.
And as I lay there wide awake in bed, I knew what they were going through—sleepless nights, tossing and turning, wondering what the future held in store for them. The uncertainty—the agony of waiting! The feeling of complete helplessness as, moving ever closer, television crept to engulf them and relegate them to the past.

Some radio comedians weren’t all that interested in television. The most surprising of the lot was Edgar Bergen, who was president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences until mid-1947, and had appeared in a short film on W6XAO in Los Angeles in 1940. I still think Burns and Allen were better on television and radio. And networks tried to find something that fit Fred Allen but never really did.

Jack Benny, however, had created such a strong, laughable persona for himself that, even without Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris and Dennis Day (for the most part) that he was able to move from the microphone to in front of the camera with ease.

Battle of the Comedy Sexes

While scrolling on line, I spotted the caricatures you see below that were sent on the Associated Press wire. So I decided to post the drawing and the article that went along with it.

This appears to be one of those stories where the writer asked a number of celebrities being interviewed some side questions, then banked them for a compilation feature piece for later publication.

This story appeared in papers in 1948. As it was written on the East Coast, it is devoid of opinions of West Coast radio comediennes or comic actresses, such as Gracie Allen, Cass Daley, Eve Arden, Lucille Ball, Marian Jordan and many others (this is not an excuse for you to comment “You forgot {insert name here}.”).

There is validity in the points raised. People will listen to old radio shows or watch aged animated cartoons and won’t laugh because they don’t get the references. I imagine gags on Bob Hope’s shows about ensigns or top sergeants went over big with his military audiences in World War Two, but they do nothing for me.

I chuckle about the columnist’s disdain for Henry Morgan. Morgan expressed disdain for women, especially ex-wives who wanted his money.

Cynthia Lowry spent years in Los Angeles reviewing television shows, but she was no fluff reporter. She was assigned to France by the A.P. during the war and got a first-hand look at the horrors of the Belsen concentration camp in Germany in March 1946. She died in 1991.

Comedians Differ on Why Women Laugh, or Don't
By CYNTHIA LOWRY
(Associated Press Newsfeatures)
New York, June 26.—Women laugh at jokes because they have sense of humor.
Just a minute, now, let me finish. This isn't my opinion. I'm just reporting it. It's what some of America's top comedians think. Except Henry Morgan: He thinks women just laugh at things men don't think are funny. I don't think Henry Morgan is funny.
A couple of lady comics think women laugh quicker, sooner and harder. Maybe you think they are prejudiced, so we'll amplify that later.
Jack Benny does not think questions about women's sense of humor calls for gag answers.
"Men and women respond to about the same things in the way of humor," he said. "I'd go a little heavier in the sex angle with an audience of women. But not too rough. That would embarrass them."
Fred Allen, another veteran of vaudeville, puts it somewhat differently. He thinks the world is quite simply divided into people with a sense of humor and people without a sense of humor.
"If they have one, they laugh," said, "If they don't, they don't. But it isn't question of whether it's woman or a man.
"Women will laugh at gags about styles or stocking shortages," he continued thoughtfully. "Men will laugh at golf jokes, gags about horse racing. But they're just laughing at things they know about. Women don't play the horses much.
"A college professor will snicker it someone trips over some ivy by a university building. A garbage man will laugh if someone slips in the swill. They're both laughing at basic thing—only in settings they are familiar with. But they laugh because they think it's funny—not because they are men.”
Jack Haley, one of the stars of "Inside U. S. A.,” agrees that it is familiar things that make people laugh. But he thinks women are more likely to laugh at "light things" than men.
"Men like heavy humor you can put your teeth in," he says. "Women go for more frivolous stuff. There's no better, more responsive audience in the world than bunch of women—all women."
He thinks there are many men more comedians than women because "humor is an aggressive thing." He didn't explain that.
Paul Hartman, a master of humor in dancing and now starring in "Angel in the Wings," said women laugh as hard as men, but are likely to laugh at different jokes.
"For instance, women in an audience will always go for the classic burlesque: A man pantomiming a woman adjusting her girdle or trying to find an unfastened garter. We've got a sketch in our show built around some military slang, but it never goes over to a matinee audience. Women just don't understand military slang."
Then there's this Henry Morgan.
"I've often noticed women laughing," said Morgan, "but usually only at the minor calamities that befall men. If women had sense of humor why should they on being women?"
Gracie Fields thinks men and women laugh equally hard at the same jokes—it they're familiar with the subject matter.
"But," she adds, "women catch on to a gag faster every time."
Nancy Walker, star of the musical comedy hit "Look Ma, I'm Dancin'," is the summer-upper.
"Dames," she said, "are the quickest, smartest people in the world, but they spend most of their lives trying to keep men from knowing it. Just about the only time they don't have to cover up and let their hair down is when they're all together at matinee.
"Then they'll laugh and whoop louder than anything you ever heard at anything that strikes them funny. They get the gags quicker. But just at matinees. They don't act that way when they go to the theater with their men in the evening."

The English Loved His Drawling Legs

Jack Benny and his writers never wasted a lot of potential material. They managed to wring laughs out of all kinds of things.

One was Jack’s sojourns to the Palladium in London. Afterwards, listeners to his radio show would hear gags about how Jack ridiculously puffed up opinions about his performances. The fact was the English enjoyed Jack as much as American audiences.

He set sail for England after the end of the 1947-48 season, the first time he had appeared there since 1931. The United Press reported he got a ten-minute ovation from a capacity audience on opening night. Beverly Baxter reviewed it for the Evening Standard of July 23, 1948 and took a nationalistic slight at something rather innocuous.

MISSING FROM HOME --the star turns of ENGLAND
On Monday of this week Mr. Jack Benny, of the U.S.A., arrived at the Palladium with his radio colleagues, Mr. Phil Harris, Miss Mary Livingstone and Miss Marilyn Maxwell.
A great crowd assembled to give them welcome, and Mr. Val Parnell was able to congratulate himself again on the great success of his star-spangled season.
Mr. Benny, with his drawling legs, his wistful imperturbability expression, and his pleasant voice, is a considerable artist. Anyone who can reduce the vast spaces of the Palladium to the intimacy of a morning room must be taken seriously. Nor was he content merely to reproduce the personal badinage which a corps of script writers supply for his weekly radio programmes.
It is true we heard about his meanness, and his age, as well as his low opinion of Mr. Fred Allen—all pleasant reminders of his war-time programmes—but he did try to brings us into the picture. I liked particularly his explanation of why he had left Claridges and gone to the Savoy: ”They're so stuffy at Claridges that you've got to be shaved before you can go into the barber shop.”
BRAVO, BENNY
WHEN he asked Miss Livingstone, who, as all Western Civilisation knows, is Mrs. Benny, to sing a kissing duet with Mr. Harris we had a glimpse of his powers as a mime. Utterly effortless, and with the very minimum of movement and expression, he conveyed what might be described as the commercial torment of a producer who has placed his wife in another man's arms. Let there be no mistake about it. The Big Shot in the Benny Show is Jack Benny.
Nevertheless Mr. Harris is a notable American import. He is one of those big, nimble-footed men with enough vitality for a battalion, and possessed of a contagious sense of fun. In fact, a perfect foil to his senior partner.
But now I must mention something creditable yet disturbing in connection with Mr. Harris. He had just completed a number when he leaned over the microphone and said words something like these: "Ladies and gentlemen, last week Jack and I discovered a dancing team of two English boys. We think they're fine and I hope you will think so too. So let's give a big hand to these English boys."
IN OUR TEMPLE
THERE was nothing but generosity in the Harris gesture, but it sounded in my ears like a colonial governor introducing a pair of dancing coolies at his garden party. Here in the Palladium, the shrine and temple of British variety, we are asked to give a hand to two of our own countrymen. Not for them our discrimination or criticism, but just—kindness. After all, Mr. Parnell, who is a most able producer, cannot escape his share of the responsibility. Week after week the headliners arrive from New York or Hollywood, thus proclaiming to the listening world that there are no stars in the English skies. Yet it was in this very theatre that the late George Black put British variety on a pinnacle again after it seemed to have gone into a hopeless decline.
It may be that our music hall artists need a New Look. Certainly the Americans have proved that they do not have to descend to “blue jokes” and embarrassing gestures to draw the crowd. The excuse is made that in the provinces a comic cannot survive unless he gives the people vulgarity, and that possible it is not to have one version for the provinces and another for London.
Let the case of Sid Field be the answer. He was a favourite for years in the provinces before Mr. Black discovered him, and he never trafficked in dirt.
I am sorry that, the pleasantries of Benny and company should have me into this serious vein, but periodically, in politics and the arts, there has to be a campaign to revive a pro-British feeling in Britain. Clearly this such a moment. Perhaps Mr. Phil Harris lit a beacon in Oxford-circus.

The Observer of July 25 had these words:

Jack Benny
ON Monday, to the delight of a packed house, the Palladium became a temple for the worship of visiting film stars. Jack Benny, the presiding deity on the stage, disarmed us immediately by remarking that he knew he looked much younger on the screen! Mr Benny is not a red-nosed comedian; he is a charming, polished, comic actor with a deceptively easy style and cumulative effect. He jokes gravely in a deliberate, lazy voice, and—rare feat among funny-men—he listens beautifully. He gives an air of spontaneity to a cunningly-arranged act; this includes Phil Harris, who is so full of himself he quite fills the theatre, and is great fun. But though his associates stand in the limelight, it is Mr. Benny, with deprecating shrug and resigned expression, who always manages to be at the centre of things. He and his company are here for two weeks only; Nota Benny. P.F.

As for the rest of the cast, Dennis Day appears to have taken most of the summer 1948 off; he was heard in the Disney film Melody Time. Don Wilson stayed in Hollywood as his wife headed for Hawaii; she divorced him next year. Eddie Anderson went on the road, including a trip to Canada. We’ll have more on that next weekend.

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.

A Date With a Date

Jack Benny’s radio show made stops outside of Los Angeles after moving there from New York in the mid-1930s. It even returned to New York, especially if Fred Allen could be booked for mutual visits on the air.

One of Jack’s fairly regular destinations was Palm Springs, starting in 1941 and ending at Christmas time in 1954 during the final radio season. Jack’s writers seemed to find inspiration there, even using it for one of his Christmas shows where he harasses clerk Mel Blanc through indecision. There were jokes about dates, the quickly-changing climate and high prices. And there were several variations on the “Murder at the Racquet Club” story, no doubt pleasing Charlie Farrell, whose club got plenty of free publicity. (One wonders if Farrell’s appearances revived his career, as he filmed My Little Margie on TV in the mid-‘50s).

The Desert Sun published stories about Jack and the show in its Feb. 21 and 28, 1941 issues, and took advantage of the situation by selling “Welcome Jack” ad space to various businesses. Here’s what the paper of the 28th said about the broadcast; this was the final season Jack did a second live broadcast for the West Coast.

Benny Broadcasts Give Palm Springs Fine Publicity and Entertainment; Will Repeat Programs Next Sunday
Jack Benny and his crowd of inimitable entertainers had Palm Springs literally sitting in the aisles last Sunday. What's more he's repeating the process next Sunday. And while stores, newspapers, Chamber of Commerce, hotels and others are fully appreciative of the wonderful publicity and entertainment he is giving the town, they will breathe a collective sigh of relief when it's all over. This ticket demand, all concede, has been too, too tough.
Next Sunday’s national broadcasts will take place, as did last Sunday’s, at the Plaza Theatre at 4 p. m. and 8:30 p. m. It is anticipated that Ed Beloin and Bill Morrow, Benny’s writers, again will devote a good part of the script to Palm Springs. Certainly Palm Springs got its full share of notice last Sunday. Jello may have been paying for the program, but Palm Springs got most of the attention.
Nothing Like It Before
This village has never witnessed anything like the Benny broadcasts. Accustomed to celebrities of every kind and supposedly blase, it went into a dither about Benny. And the comedian did well by the town. So great was the demand to see the broadcasts that the theatre was jammed half an hour before each broadcast. People were even sitting in the aisles.
For the half hour before actual broadcast, Benny wise-cracked, smoked his cigar, strolled up the aisles. Phil Harris and his orchestra helped out in the impromptu entertainment. The actual broadcasts were perfect half hours of comedy and music. Denny Day’s singing entitles him to his top ranking as a singer of popular songs. Don Wilson, Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris, Rochester and the rest all provided superb entertainment.

Columnist Roy Medby of The Desert Sun pronounced the following in the same issue:

JUST TO AVOID being accused of taking advantage of defenseless readers we are announcing here and now that we are going to say a little something about Benny. You know, Jack Benny. So, if you’ve heard enough about the guy, better check out right here.
* * *
WE WISH we would follow our impulse to write about things, such as the broadcast, right after they happen. We are all stirred up then and bubbling over with pretty words. But, as usual, we’ve waited a few days. The warm enthusiasm is still there, but we’ve lost the fancy words. They were only two-bitters anyhow, so you haven’t missed anything. But to get back to Benny. What a show-man that guy is!
* * *
PERHAPS WE ARE a little naive in our pleasures and enthusiasms. But we will say forthrightly and without equivocation that we enjoyed that Benny show about as much as anything in the way of entertainment that we have ever come across. And we cannot ever remember any instances in which Palm Springs got even remotely so much good publicity, whether it paid for it or not.
* * *
WE FIGURE THAT any guy who likes this village well enough to hand it publicity worth twenty thousand bucks, at a conservative estimate, can come around and play in our yard any time. We figure too, that when he does the thing twice in order not to disappoint a lot of people who couldn’t get into the first broadcasts, he ought to have at least a vote of thanks.
* * *
AND AS A LAST little word, just to you personally, Mr. Benny, when you get around to passing out permanent ducats or something, to all of your broadcasts, don’t forget to put our name down good and heavy. You have long had our vote for the best and cleanest entertainment in radio.

There were some pretty enjoyable shows from Palm Springs. And a couple that were disjointed. The broadcast of Apr. 11, 1948 not only suffered a drop out that was filled with studio music, but ran so long that a scene with Paul Lukas was cut short because of time. The following week, Sam Goldwyn and Jack broke each other up, and then Goldwyn unexpectedly changed a line, getting laughs from the audience as Jack explained what had happened.

After Mary Livingstone twisted a line from “grease rack” into “grass reek,” Jack berated her the following week on the Dec. 10, 1950 show from Palm Springs, saying there was no such thing. The police chief of the city showed up to prove otherwise to the delight of listeners.

The gang spent part of Dec. 1951, 1953 and 1954 in Palm Springs.

Writer Milt Josefsberg goes into a number of Palm Springs stories in his book, including one about something that happened off the air.

Jack's favorite night spot was Charles Farrell's Racquet Club. One night he drove there alone to have some coffee and talk with a few friends. After a couple of hours he left and started to drive back to his hotel at a leisurely pace. Jack was an extremely careful driver, so as he drove down Indian Avenue and heard a police car's siren and saw the flashing red lights behind him, he was sure that the law was after someone else, not him.
He was wrong. The police car pulled alongside and Jack realized that he was their quarry, so he drove his car into an open parking space, wondering what law he had violated. His wonder turned to fear as one of the two policemen in the black-and-white car jumped out, drew his gun, and sharply ordered him out of his car with his hands up.
When Jack opened his door to exit, the cop got his first clear look at Jack and he gasped in recognition and amazement, "Mr. Benny!"
Jack said, "Y-y-yes. What did I do?"
The policeman carefully put his gun away and said, half-amazed and half-apologetic, "You stole this car." Jack smiled at this and thought it might be some sort of practical joke. He told the policeman, "Look, it's mine. I drive a black Cadillac Coupe De Ville." Then he told him the license number. The policeman motioned Jack to the front of the car and pointed to the license plate. It was an entirely different number.
What had happened could only have happened to Jack. Another man driving a car that was identical in make, year, model, and color had parked alongside of Jack at The Racquet Club. Jack came out, walked to where his car was parked, got in, put the key in the ignition, and it fit perfectly. However, when the other man came out, he got into Jack's car, which was an exact duplicate of his, but for some reason his key didn't fit Jack's ignition. He phoned the police, and they spotted Jack a few seconds later.
Jack then drove back to The Racquet Club with the police, and they told the worried victim that they had apprehended the car thief. Then Jack came in and the man's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He kept saying, "They'll never believe this, they'll never believe this."
Jack laughed and said, "They will because I'll give you an autographed picture which says 'To the man whose car I stole.' You won't even have to pay me for the picture if you'll drop the charges."

Not only did Jack broadcast from Palm Springs, he and his writers came up with set-up shows on both radio and TV with the plot revolving around him on his way to the city.

Carnegie Hall in Bloom

Jack Benny’s radio show began in New York, but when the film capital beckoned, he packed up and moved to Los Angeles. He and his cast made periodic returns to city—for personal appearances, war-time morale-boosting shows for the military, and in the early days of TV when network shows came out of Big Town (there was also the jewellery smuggling trial, but we’ll skip that).

In January 1943, Jack was in the east for several reasons. Wherever he went, reporters would follow.

Billboard assigned someone to a rather large news conference to push a charity event. Jack never failed to give reporters some kind of amusing angle to put in their stories. This one appeared on January 16th.

Benny Ad Lib Session Launches Drive
NEW YORK, Jan. 9.—If there were any doubts left in the trade as to whether or not Jack Benny could show his face in public without a script, they were dispelled Wednesday (6) when Benny treated upwards of 500 cohorts, hangers-on and lunch time expendables to an ad lib session which marked the opening gun of the drive of the amusement division of the Federation of Jewish Charities.
Benny, guests of honor at the two-buck-a-head feed at the Hotel Astor, threw plenty of good-natured but well-aimed needles at Paramount (Barney Balaban is chairman of the drive), and there were enough Para big shots on the dias [sic] to cringe with laughter.
Louis Nizer, Paramount attorney and banquet orator, in introducing Benny with the eloquence these affairs always seem to bring out, cited the comedian's contribution to the morale of the armed forces and even quoted Sigmund Freud on humor and the will to carry on.
Benny, however, said that even Freud couldn't ask him to be funny after signing a donation pledge. There isn't a worthier cause, said Benny, but he suspected that Balaban, in his letter asking him to appear, addressed him as "Dear Jake," so that "If I didn't appear it would make me feel as tho I were turning down a relative."
One of the reasons for Benny's coming to New York, in addition to appearing at eastern army camps, is to arrange a deal for him to produce his own pictures. Said he's working on a deal with United Artists now to "write, produce, direct, finance and blow my brains out." Paramount came in for a bit of heckling in his reasons for switching to Warners. Not only, he related, did he get tired of trying to steal his pictures from Rochester, but the straw that broke his back was that his next picture was to be The Life of Booker T. Washington. Said that under his first independent schedule he hoped to star Bob Hope and Fred Allen in The Road to Grossingers.
Only other speakers were Judge Samuel Proskauer and Davis Bernstein, Loew executive. Advice from the judge was to give plenty this year and deduct it from income taxes. Bernstein said that naval officers at Lakehurst Air Station, where Benny made an appearance, told him that nothing done so far has built up the morale and efficiency of the men stationed there as much as Benny's visit.
Benny, in a more serious vein, told the gathering that he was really honored to have this clambake tossed for him, because it's the first testimonial dinner in New York where he was the guest of honor. Back in the old days, he related, he was always toastmaster at the Friars, but couldn't get the top spot because the two people who had the guest of honor racket tied up were J. C. Flippen and Doc Michel.

There was a bit of inconvenience for the Benny gang during one military stop. The Hollywood Reporter told readers on Jan. 12th:

Jack Benny Certain Sherman Was Right
Rigors of war-time traveling for theatrical troupes were impressed upon Jack Benny and his troupe on their present tour of eastern Army camps. Arriving in Bangor, Me., recently in sub-zero weather, Benny's gang could find no red caps or taxicabs at the depot, so the company of 39 carried their luggage for six blocks to a hotel.
They ran the gauntlet of autograph seekers, who clamored for the frozen-fingered Benny to sign his name, but none offered to carry his bags. Next day they rehearsed in a cold theatre because of the fuel oil shortage, and that night did three shows to accommodate all the men at Dow Air Field.
Returning to Boston the following day, the blue-nosed performers rode all day in an unheated coach, with no dining car attached. They missed lunch and didn't have dinner until after 11, when their show at the Boston Navy Yard was over. They left Boston at 1 a. m. that night, arriving in New York in the cold dawn.
The Benny troupe has scheduled future shows at the Maritime Service Training Station at Sheepshead Bay, New York; Camp Lee, Virginia; Fort Mead, Maryland; Quantico, Virginia; Norfolk Navy Yard, and then around Toronto, Chicago, Great Lakes and St. Joseph, Mo. Transportation expenses of the troupe are being paid personally by Benny.

There was another reason for Benny to surface in New York City in January 1943. It found its way into the plot of one of his radio shows. The New York Times of January 14th had this story:

JACK BENNY SET FOR VIOLIN DEBUT
Comedian Will Invade Carnegie Hall at Concert on Sunday to Help Paralysis Fund
TO PLAY 'LOVE IN BLOOM'
Oscar Levant Will Be the Piano Accompanist in Super-Special Arrangement of Favorite
Jack Benny's prowess as a violinist will undergo its most severe public test on Sunday evening, when he invades New York's shrine of classical music, Carnegie Hall. This was announced yesterday by Basil O'Connor, president of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, under whose sponsorship Mr. Benny's performance will be held.
The occasion for his appearance is a concert for the benefit of victims of infantile paralysis, in which Metropolitan Opera and concert stars will participate. The other artists will be Marjorie Lawrence, who recently recovered from paralysis; Gladys Swarthout, Jarmila Novotna, Jan Peerce, Ezio Pinza and John Charles Thomas of the Metropolitan Opera; Josef and Rozina Lhevinne and Oscar Levant, pianists, and Isaac Stern, violinist. Deems Taylor will be master of ceremonies.
The first announcement that Mr. Benny would "do his stuff" came several days ago. But when the foundation's publicity department sent out a release giving the news there was an unexpected reaction from some of the recipients. Three of them telephoned excitedly demanding explanations and accusing the organization of pulling their legs.
E. A. Powers, campaign director for Greater New York, realized the seriousness of the situation. He told all and sundry to come to his office yesterday afternoon and they would see for themselves that it was no joke.
Skeptical, reporters turned up. So did Jack Benny. And Oscar Levant, too. There was no kidding. And each bought—and paid for—five tickets. Photographers took pictures to prove that to the world, too.
But, you may ask, why was Oscar Levant there ? The answer is Simple. He will be Mr. Benny's accompanist.
The press was told that the performance will be the comedian's "much discussed, long awaited debut as a concert violinist." But no one need take that too seriously. Jack says it will be both serious and funny.
What is he going to play? "Love in Bloom," of course. Persons close to Fred Allen say he does not dare try anything else. Anyway, this time it will be a super-special arrangement for piano and violin.

Ben Gross of the Daily News Ben Gross didn’t review the concert, but he waxed about the Benny radio broadcast in his column of Jan. 18th:

The Jack Benny broadcast last evening (WEAF-7) abounded in laughter again. Oscar Levant proved an amusing guest star, even if the burlesque on "Information Please" was not so funny as it might have been. A new comic to radio, a funster named Besser, made his bow in a wacky stooge role. His rather effeminate spoof was a veritable riot with the studio audience. Being present at the broadcast, I naturally wondered how he sounded over the loudspeaker. On returning to the office, my assistant, Bill Levinson, remarked: "That fellow Besser was very funny, but not quite the howl over on the air that he seemed to the visible audience." Benny's easy going, casual technique improves with the years, and, as for Dennis Day, the singer, he, too, is becoming more and more of an outstanding comedy attraction. P.S.— All of the aforegoing was but the prelude to the real wow of the evening, Jack's appearance as a violin soloist at a benefit show in Carnegie Hall.

Three thousand packed Carnegie Hall. The Times story on the 18th about the concert mentioned “sporadic clashings of a cymbal” during the Benny/Levant performance. But we’ll leave the final word to Jack’s “foe” as reported by Ed Sullivan in the Daily News on Jan. 20th:

After Jack Benny tied up the Carnegie Hall show in a knot, with Oscar Levant at the piano, Fred Allen sneered to Alfred Hitchcock: “First time a violinist combined his debut with his farewell performance.”

Allen, of course, was joshing. And years after his death in 1956, Jack was still on stage with his violin, raising millions of dollars for various causes. They were stopped only by Benny’s passing in late 1974.