Rochester Will Not Be Heard Tonight

Rochester became a key cog in the Jack Benny radio machine, but there was one problem that Jack had with Eddie Anderson. “In real life,” he wrote in his memoirs, “Rochester often worried me because he was rarely on time for line readings, rehearsals and the broadcast itself.”

Jack and Irving Fein both told a story about one broadcast. Their versions are different and neither was altogether accurate in their reminiscences. Here’s Jack’s version:

Rochester came so late to the Saturday rehearsal that he missed it. He started giving me his excuse but I refused to listen. I was so mad that I told Sam Perrin, who was now my head writer, that I must punish Rochester. “I want you to write him out of the show this week,”’ I said.
The four writers set up a hue and cry. It would mean rewriting the entire show. There wasn’t time enough. Rochester was punished enough already. He promised never to do it again. We would never get a show as good as this one if we wrote him out of it. They begged me to change my mind. I consented.
On Sunday, we began our first rehearsal at 12:30. The call was for noon. Rochester was not there at noon and he was not there at 12:30 and he had not telephoned to explain. At his home, Rochester’s butler (he had his own butler) explained that the master had left for the NBC studio long ago. At 12:45 we began rehearsing without Rochester. His character didn’t make his entrance until about ten minutes after the show’s opening. I hoped he would arrive in the nick of time. He did not arrive.
Well, I lost my temper completely. I blew my stack. I stomped over to the control room. I opened the heavy door. I threw a look of withering scorn on my four writers, who were now huddled in a frightened heap. ‘‘Well, I have you four idiots to thank for this!” Then I departed and slammed the door shut violently.
However, the door was so heavy that its closing was controlled by an air-pressure valve which released the air slowly. Not only could I not exit on a vicious door slam—but the door closed so slowly that it let out a long razz noise like a Bronx cheer. Even the door was against me.
But I cracked up just the same. And then the writers felt it was safe to laugh. And we all laughed. And Rochester finally showed up, accompanied by two policemen in uniform.
It seems he had been driving along the Hollywood Freeway and right in front of him a five-car smashup had taken place. He had been trapped for over an hour until the traffic started moving. Knowing that 1 would not believe this obviously trumped-up story, Rochester had persuaded these two Los Angeles policemen to come to the studio and testify that once again Rochester had a legitimate alibi for being so late.

Laura Leibowitz’s 39 Forever Vols. 1 and 2 go into depth about each radio show and would be able to possibly answer which broadcast is being discussed. My copies had to be trashed due to bedbugs deciding to turn them into a litter box. However, I spotted a script for the show of April 27, 1952 where Rochester’s part has been deleted.



There was nothing in any of the entertainment columns the following days about Eddie Anderson being sick or unavailable. The show was recorded two days before broadcast.

Both Jack and Mr. Fein refer to a show with the Colmans appearing, but the guest on this broadcast was Jimmy Stewart. Perhaps Ronnie was busy in the library. Laura has graciously (and rather expensively) sent me replacement books, but as this is the last Benny post for the forseeable future, I won’t be able to follow up other broadcasts where he’s missing.

The American Tobacco scripts on-line show plenty of other cuts, likely for time in many cases as the closing PSA is crossed out.

Here’s an example from the April 20, 1952 show (recorded on March 31). A page of Dennis Day’s routine is deleted, and so is part of Phil Harris’ spot involving drummer Sammy Weiss.



Sammy appeared both on mike and on camera with Jack in the later ‘50s. You can read a bit a bout him here. I like Sammy, but he’s no Rochester. No one was.

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.

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.

What's Funny, Doc?

Mel Blanc made a very good living from network radio. But when it died in the 1950s, what next?

That’s what a number of radio actors were wondering.

In Mel’s case, he was still employed at Warner Bros. but, as you know, the studio would close in the early ‘60s. He found his way onto the Hanna-Barbera payroll. And, occasionally, he showed up on Jack Benny’s TV show, but that ended in 1965.

Much like Alan Reed had a novelty business, Blanc decided to go into business as well. At first, he teamed with former Warners boss John Burton. Blanc admits in his autobiography the partnership didn’t work out, so he set out on his own.

Blanc had been voicing TV commercials. This was pretty lucrative, especially when the cartoon characters he played being endorsers. Reed said when he wasn’t doing much else, he made a comfortable living being Fred Flintstone pushing cereal. Blanc would have being doing the same—plus raking in cash from being Bugs, Sylvester and all his other characters in TV spots.

However, Blanc eyed the profits the makers of the commercials took in. Local commercial radio had taken over the airtime formerly contracted to networks, and there was an opening for anyone canny enough to write and produce commercials and brief filler programming. That’s where Blanc put some of his energies.

Here’s how the Associated Press explained it on May 24, 1967.

Commercials Need Humor, Blanc Claims
By GENE SANDSAKER
HOLLYWOOD (AP) — Most listeners likely will agree that radio commercials featuring mindless jingles, strident voices or weird sounds are a nerve-jangling bore.
And that a few, made with taste and a light touch, can be charming.
But best of all, says one expert, are the ones with wit.
"Humorous commercials are stronger than dirt," quips Mel Blanc.
Mel is the man of many voices who did the talking for Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig in movie cartoons. Now he makes commercials—hopefully funny ones.
His competitors in Hollywood include satirist Stan Freberg, who kids his clients' prunes, chow mein, coffee, tea or airline service—and grosses $500,000 a year. A half-dozen other firms grind out plugs for everything from carbonated drinks and potato chips to a stomach remedy to take after overindulging.
Blanc, 58, squat and swarthy, with a glum face but cheerful disposition, is a onetime Portland, Ore., violinist, tuba player and radio-band leader.
In Hollywood 30 years ago he originated the voices of Bugs. Porky, Daffy Duck, Tweetie and other Warner Bros. cartoon characters. On the Jack Benny radio show he played a parrot and a Mexican character and even supplied the sputtering sound of Benny's dying Maxwell.
Six years ago, Blanc's commercial venture—and Mel himself—nearly failed to get off the ground. On the very day that brochures hit ad agency mail-boxes, announcing the formation of Mel Blanc Associates, a head-on collision accordioned his car and broke, he says, "every bone in my body except my left arm."
Hospitalized two months in traction, Blanc went home in a body cast and there continued recording the voice of Barney Rubble in the "Flintstone" TV series. He now uses a cane only on stairs.
Revived 3 1/2 years ago, Mel Blanc Associates has since doubled its business annually. With 22 writers, Mel says, he sells "entertainment, imagination and comic invention."
In one skit, elephants squirt suds from their trunks to prove that linoleum coated with the client's wax resists detergent. In another, insects cry alarm at the hiss of a bug spray. Another product, called "Superfun," consists of more or less hilarious sketches which radio stations can play between commercials or records.
Mel was at work the other afternoon in his studio.
Standing at a microphone, his bald spot shining under the fluorescents, he jiggled merrily in time with the recorded children's chorus he could hear in his earphones. In Bugs Bunny's voice he sang the praises of a kiddies' drink-mix "for fun that never ends."
"A little happier, Mel," said a visiting producer for whom he was providing the sound track.
Mel made it happier.

Mel’s company also put together public service announcements. Here’s one ironic campaign, outlined by a syndicated news service on March 4, 1968. It’s ironic because Blanc was a heavy smoker. (Reports say he eventually quit).

New Commercials Fighting Cigarettes
By LAWRENCE LAURENT
WASHINGTON — Radio stations across the nation are receiving a new collection of commercials. Some are 10 seconds long, some last 30 seconds and some run a full minute. All have the same punch line: stop smoking cigarettes.
The commercials were commissioned by the American Cancer Society. The creative work was done by Mel Blanc Associates of Hollywood. A humorous approach is used in all ten of the commercials.
One tells of a man being tortured to death. He is forced to smoke cigarettes.
Another uses the sound of a gunshot to illustrate "murder"; the sound of a crashing automobile to show "accident" and the sound of a cigarette lighter and a puffing man to demonstrate: "suicide: stop smoking cigarettes."
Here's an example of one of Mel Blanc's 10-second commercials: "the next time you think you're dying for a cigarette . . . you might be right."
One commercial is based on "hate" and offers this advice: "the next time you have to give something to someone you don't like, give 'em a carton of cigarettes. And if you really hate this person, give two cartons. Right?"
COMEDY ROLE
The "humorous,” approach comes naturally to Mel Blanc. For more than 20 years, he provided a variety of voices for Warner Bros. animated cartoons. These included Bugs Bunny and Woody Woodpecker. He still can be heard on tv in cartoons of Secret Squirrel and Sinbad Jr. (in which he furnishes the voice of the parrot). He can also be heard in tv commercials for Kool Aid, Raid and Kellogg Co. cereals.
Blanc's radio commercials are to be broadcast as part of a station's public service programing. No payment is made.
The station may feel obligated to broadcast them, in light of a Federal Communications Commission decision that smoking is 'controversial,' and, therefore, subject to the FCC's "fairness doctrine." In essence, the FCC says that a station carrying cigarette commercials has a "fairness" obligation to carry anti-smoking messages.
Blanc also claims: "We're telling the truth. We believe our campaign will be effective because it will force the listeners to have involvement through humor.”
His work on the commercials even had an effect on Mel Blanc. He switched from cigarettes to cigars, but "that was awful."
Right now, Mel Blanc is concentrating on "cutting down."
The anti-smoking tv commercials have been made chiefly by Tony Schwartz of New York. His main theme is the parental obligation toward children and the work is so subtle that the final pitch has the impact of an unexpected karate chop. Schwartz shows children putting on grown-up clothing. They chat happily. A narrator notes that children imitate grown-ups and asks, "have you thought about quitting smoking."
Another commercial has a child happily copying every action of his father. They sit under a tree and the father lights up. The child picks up the pack and plays with the cigarettes. Again, the narrator notes that the child likes to imitate his father.
Tony Schwartz, by the way, doesn't smoke.

Comedy radio commercials running on a national basis seem to be few and far between these days. For quite a number of years, a fellow named Dick Orkin created many. About the only criticism you could level is they all sounded the same, with Orkin’s droning voice cold-opening them, so it was a little difficult remembering what he was advertising.

Here's Mel talking in 1966 at a lunch gathering of the Independent Station Representatives Association.

The Friars, Pennies and Benny

Jack Benny died on December 26, 1974 and, for a number of years, around the anniversary of his death, I've posted a newspaper editorial or column from the next day or so where the writer outlines what Jack meant to people and to comedy.

This time, I’m just going to pass along a few clippings of tribute. These are from 20 years earlier.

Eddie Cantor had a syndicated newspaper column. He had been a huge vaudeville star before Jack (growing up in New York helped) and made a mark in the early days of talking pictures. Jack evidently liked Cantor, who appeared a number of times with him on radio and TV. Jack also lobbied for him after Camels cancelled his radio show for speaking out against bigoted broadcast haranguer Father Coughlin. Stingy jokes stuck with Benny until the day he died:

Here’s Eddie’s note about Jack in a column of Dec. 8, 1954.

“I don’t think Jack Benny got his money just from saving pennies. Of course, that helped. I’ll never forget a part at his house a few years ago. Several of us were kidding around with each other’s theme songs. Rudy Vallee sang “Love in Bloom”; I sang “My Time is Your Time”; Jack Benny sang “I Love to Spend—.” That’s as far as he got—he had to be put to bed, hysterical!”
As the MC’s say, “Seriously Folks,” it’s surprising that Jack Benny can remain a millionaire, what with all the contributions he made to worthwhile causes. You can take it from Cantor, the old “chnorrer” (beggar, to you). No one in show business, but no one, gives more than Mary Livingston’s [sic] husband. I know. That’s the “jack” in Benny you never heard about.

Hy Gardner had a show on WPIX in New York and became one of the principals in the disastrous replacement for Steve Allen’s Tonight show in 1957. He went on to To Tell the Truth until Mark Goodson or someone realised Tom Poston was funnier. But he was, by profession, a New York newspaper columnist whose work was syndicated.

One of his columns dealt with that venerable New York institution of the first half of the twentieth century: the celebrity testimonial dinner. Jack Benny (and others of his vintage) referred to them on their radio shows. Here’s a snippet from Gardner’s column of Dec. 8, 1954. I can’t help but wonder if Benny’s writers came up with the first-mentioned joke.

Mary Steals the Spot
All the thunder of a shindig the New York Friars threw for Jack Benny, when Jack moved to Hollywood, was stolen by his wife, Mary Livingstone, even though she wasn't present.
She was home, but her telegram, read aloud, got the biggest laugh of the night. Milton Berle, Harry Hershfield, Doc Rockwell, Jay C. Flippen, Lou Holtz — all the regulars were on the dais; one after another they eulogized Benny until he began growing a third head. At the height of his flight into the clouds, a Western Union messenger arrived with a telegram. The toastmaster read the wire to himself, then stood up, put his hand solemnly on Jack's shoulder and read the message aloud: "Dear Jack," it said, "when you come home tonight, don't forget to put the garbage in the incinerator. Lovingly, Mary.” . . .
On George Washington's birthday this year, Jack Benny flew in from Hollywood to turn the tables on [George] Jessel and act as toastmaster at a testimonial dinner. Introducing Mayor Wagner of New York, Jack said that Bob had the third most important job in the country. "Being President, of course, is first, the second," he explained, "is being head waiter at the Copacabana when Martin and Lewis are appearing there."

Erskine Johnson was another columnist, syndicated by the Newspaper Enterprise Association. In December, he had a few brief notes about Jack:

Jack Benny had lunch in a Fairfax Avenue delicatessen and the owner hastily scribbled this sign for his window: “Jack Benny is eating lunch here.”

Jack Benny about movies on TV: “They’re like furniture—either early American or old English.”

And there came this unusual complaint Johnson reported on Dec. 4:

Jack Benny can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned, but TViewers are complaining to me about his smug “isn’t this funny” smiles directed to the camera in the midst of his laugh ploys. They say they don’t mind Jack playing to the camera in his opening monolog, but that his lens-peeking between plot lines is irritating and unnecessary.
“Never look at the camera,” is rule No. 1 in the ABC’s of movie emoting.
Maybe it should apply to TV laugh-getting, too.

Some viewers don’t seem to have understood Jack’s expression was facetious. And it was his expressions that helped build his television career and kept him on the air until he died.

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.

The Departure of Phil Harris

It took the better part of a decade for the Jack Benny radio show to settle down with the main cast we remember best. If you think of Benny’s announcer and bandleader, you don’t think of Howard Claney and Frank Black.

Benny debuted on May 2, 1932. By the start of the 1939-40 season, everything was in place with the addition of Dennis Day as the replacement for tenor Kenny Baker. Mary Livingstone came first (as a new character), followed by Don Wilson as a replacement announcer, Phil Harris as a replacement orchestra leader and Eddie Anderson as Rochester.

They were together for a long time (Harris and Day took time off for war duties) but the demise of network radio in the 1950s included the Benny radio show. The growth of television took away listeners from radio’s prime time. That took away advertisers’ money that paid for the shows. Gradually, Benny dismantled his regular cast.

Mary Livingstone stopped appearing live and her lines, unenthusiastically delivered, were edited into the tapes of the show. By the end of the show in 1955, there were episodes where she didn’t appear at all and Veola Vonn was brought in as a female lead. Dennis Day had other projects and he was not appearing every week. And even Bob Crosby had vanished as band leader and his spot was taken by arranger Mahlon Merrick or musicians Charlie Bagby or Sammy Weiss.

Crosby, himself, was a replacement for Harris, who was hired in 1936 when Johnny Green moved to the Packard broadcast. More than Mary, more than Dennis, Harris’ departure was, to me at least, a real blow.

Just as it took some time for the Benny show to develop, it took time for Harris’ character to develop. Originally, he and Benny were antagonists because of Jack’s jealousy over Phil’s popularity with the big female stars of Hollywood (in real life, Harris was married with a son). That resulted in pettiness and yelling, neither of which is very comedic. But the writers came up with some additions that made Harris funny. He became self-confident and self-loving, despite being practically illiterate, with a gang of reprobates as musicians. Audiences ate it up when Harris, ignoring Benny altogether, came on stage and egged on the audience to give him a noisy reception.

The Harris character talked a lot about alcohol, but was never drunk on the air. Talking about it was funny enough. His character became so popular the F.W. Fitch Co. decided to have him replace Cass Daley as the star of The Fitch Bandwagon in the fall of 1946. Joining him was wife Alice Faye and, later, a cast including Elliott Lewis, Walter Tetley and Robert North, as well as two fine child actresses playing his daughters, Jeanine Roose and Anne Whitfield. His show became, like all others, a casualty of the rise of television and left the air on June 18, 1954 (though Harris told his audience that evening they would be back next fall).

Meanwhile, back on the Benny show, something was happening behind the scenes. The Associated Press made the story national on Apr. 1, 1952.

Benny, Harris Reported Near Parting of Ways
HOLLYWOOD, April 1 (AP)—One of radio’s longest and funniest associations—Jack Benny and Phil Harris—may end at the close of this season.
A spokesman for Benny today confirmed a trade report that such a move is under consideration next autumn. The relationship reportedly became strained when Harris refused to make a guest appearance with Benny on the latter’s television show.
Benny chose Bob Crosby instead. Crosby is reported under consideration to replace Harris. But—
“Crosby has not been signed, nor has Harris been dropped,” the spokesman added.
Both Benny and Harris were unreachable.



Harris couldn’t do anything but refuse. He had signed an exclusive television deal with NBC. Benny was on CBS. On April 27, the AP wire quoted Benny as saying Harris was being replaced with Crosby.

The Trenton Sunday Times-Advertiser published this story on May 4, 1952. It is likely a product of the CBS PR department.

Benny Signs New Radio Pact; Bob Crosby Replaces Harris
Jack Benny announced that he will continue on CBS Radio next season at the request of his sponsor. This is the earliest date this decision has been reached in recent years.
"I am very gratified," said Benny, "that my sponsor wanted us to stay on next season. After all, it would have been very difficult to say farewell to an audience that they estimate as 18,575,000 people a week. And I am sure that with Mary, Dennis, Rochester, Don, the Sportsmen Quartet and my regular radio writers with us again, we will broadcast as funny a show as we possibly can for the listeners to this country's 105,000,000 radio sets who tune us in."
The only change in the program will be the substitution of Bob Crosby for Phil Harris. The reason for the switch was because Phil Harris was not available for the Benny television program. Bob Crosby will appear on the Benny television show, as well as the radio program.
"To continue with CBS Radio," Benny went on, "it was necessary to limit my television appearances to a one-every-four-weeks basis. This, I think, is a good balance."
The "Jack Benny Program" is a veritable Sunday evening institution in American radio homes and one of radio's all-time top-rated shows. The comedy series switched to CBS Radio on January 2, 1949. Benny himself made his radio debut in 1932 on CBS' New York radio station, then WABC, and shortly after launched his own program on the network. He has been the recipient of some of the greatest honors in show business, including the coveted Peabody Award.

Harris spent the summer touring and not talking about Benny. Crosby was a little more chatty. Columnist Hal Humphrey reported on June 13:

Bob’s inclined to be somewhat sensitive about the fact that he replaces Phil Harris on the radio show.
“It was just a combination of circumstances,” he explains. “Phil’s own radio show on another network conflicted with Benny’s TV time, making it impossible to use him.

Crosby also wanted the exposure. Humphrey added:

Despite the fact that he’s also set to begin his sixth year on CBS Radio’s “Club 15” series, Bob is hep enough to know that TV is going to make him a bigger name, and that it’s a tough medium for band leaders to crack.

Another factor in the change may have been revealed by Variety, which revealed Benny had “been forced to make salary concessions” and then mentioned the Crosby hiring.

All this took place before the end of the Benny radio show for the season on June 1. One columnist noted there was not so much as a goodbye or thank-you by Jack on Phil’s final broadcast.

There was something else that became a source of discomfort. Hollywood columnist Harrison Carroll wrote on June 12 that Harris’ guitarist and long-time friend Frank Remley would be staying with the Benny show. Remley and Benny had become personal friends and travelling buddies. Benny’s letters to Remley survive and the language wasn’t exactly suitable for a radio broadcast.

Mentions of Remley had been made for years on the Benny show so when Harris got his own show, Elliott Lewis was hired to play him. That changed after the real Remley remained with Jack. When Harris’ show returned to the air on October 5, the Remley character got a name change. In fact, what had been Harris’ band remained with Jack, on radio and television.

Financially, Phil and Alice did well. Toronto Star columnist Gordon Sinclair wrote on June 5 that when the pair’s contract expired, NBC couldn’t sell their show. But they played what Sinclair called “an ‘on-again off-again’ routine” and wound up with more money and a five-year contract.

On the air, Harris was larger than life. Crosby was not. The Spokane Chronicle’s Bob Emahiser interviewed him and reported on June 25 “no attempt would be made to made to imitate Harris and that a new role is being created for him.” Crosby was hamstrung somewhat by being known to audiences through Club 15 and it would have been awkward to deviate from his casual nature. There wasn’t much else to do outside “Bing is my brother” and “I’m not Phil” jokes (some of which were repurposed from earlier shows with Harris). The writers then seized on his mispronunciation of a kosher brand and squeezed what they could out of that. When Club 15 ended, Crosby’s appearances with Benny became fewer and fewer.

As it turned out, Harris (and Faye) had little interest in a television series. He was assigned to NBC’s All-Star Revue at the start of the 1952-53 season and his contract called for eight appearances on the network that year. The contract ran out and he reunited with Benny on the small screen on October 5, 1958. But he preferred to go golfing, fishing and spending time with his family in Rancho Mirage. He and Faye were married for 54 years until his death in 1995.

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."