How To Deal With Cute Squirrels

“My cartoon would have been cuter,” chirps the coy little squirrel. Beyond a doubt, it certainly would have been. But it wouldn’t have been a Tex Avery cartoon, so Tex, writer Heck Allen, Screwy Squirrel and Meathead take care of that in “Screwball Squirrel.”



Ol’ Tex came to dislike Screwy, even though the cartoons followed the Avery credo of having an opening, a closing and a string of gags in between. This cartoon was Screwy’s first, with animation credited to Preston Blair, Ray Abrams and Ed Love.

Not 12 Empty Ounces

People love happy little songs, even (perhaps especially) when they’re solely designed to sell a product.

When did the first commercial jingle appear? About all anyone knows for sure is it was during the days of radio. But it’s a safe bet the first jingle “hit” was one heard by millions of people, long after it stopped being used as advertising. It starts:

“Pepsi-Cola hits the spot...”

It was penned by a couple of guys who, according to the October 7, 1940 edition of Life Magazine, were responsible for 90% of all musical one-minute ads on the air the previous year. It was around that time they came up with the Pepsi jingle that people still love today.

PM profiled them in its edition of July 5, 1940.



Nickel, Nickel Do-Dee-Da-Da-Da
Pepsi-Cola Hits the Air Spots With a Socko Sales Version of John Peel
Austen Herbert Croom Croom-Johnson is a lean, ginger-haired 31-year-old Englishman who prepped for a radio and song-writing career at at BBC. About nine years ago, John Royal, NBC vice-president, was so impressed, he fetched Croom-Johnson to the United States. Now Croom-Johnson is a Force in American radio. He is the man behind the Pepsi-Cola jingles.
During the past six months, the 15 second Pepsi-Cola ditty has been broadcast about 18,000 times on 200 radio stations. The stations average about 10 Pepsi-Cola broadcasts a week. Johnson and his collaborator, Alan Bradley Kent, have sold jingles to other advertisers: Esso, Flit and NBC (National Biscuit Co.) but the wide spread Pepsi Cola campaign has made them the top team in their league.
Between them, Kent and Croom Croom Johnson, called "Ginger"' to save time, have fewer inhibitions than a fan dancer. Their working hours are joyously spent in unbridled abuse, enthusing over swing records and concocting childish advertising ditties. It was during such a shop-talk three years back that the whole thing started. Kent says all he did was to comment, "Ginger, spot announcements stink." Ginger not only agreed but supported the idea of doing something about it all. The Pepsi-Cola campaign is that "something."
Sing Something Simple
The basic Pepsi Cola song is classicly simple. It is just a swing-out on the old hunting song, John Peel, It opens with a rhythmic “nickel, nickel, nickel” vamp to a four-four count. Then comes the refrain, which, in case you can't read the Tune-Twisters' script above, goes:
Pepsi-Cola hits the spot.
Twelve full ounces, that's a lot,
Twice as much for a nickel, too,
Pepsi Cola is the drink for you.
After several months the jingle was well ground into listeners' ears, so Pepsi-Cola ordered variations on the theme. Some were scored for swing, boogie-woogie and baby-talk. Later the first two lines were rewritten. The last two, which carry the sacred sales message, are never jived up. When still more variations were called for, Kent and Johnson came up with one in the deep-sea basso of Popeye. It shatters a cherished dietary theory:
Pepsi Cola hits the spot
Nuts to spinach, look what I’ve got. . .
Another national hero pressed into the Pepsi-Cola sales army was the Lone Ranger (incognito of course), whose Pepsi-Cola hi-yo goes:
As I ride the range, I sing this song,
When I like my drinks, I like 'em long . . .
In addition to the authorized verses there are any number of unofficial switches. The neatest of these comes from a Brooklyn station, where an announcer sings the jingle in Yiddish-American, like Lou Holst [sic].
Pepsi-Cola's chansonettes were originally sung by "Whispering" Jack Smith. For about five months, now, they've been chanted by the Tune-Twisters trio, who not only sing but make noises like musical instruments. In the picture above. Andrew Jackson Love (left) is emitting the Pepsi-Cola "Pah!" When Love isn't pah-ing or singing, he oomphs like a bull-fiddle. The other contributing "Twisters" are Robert Wacker (center) and the guitar twanger, Gene Lapham.
Kent, Johnson and the Twisters are now at work on a jingle for Wrigley's gum. The theme of that one: "Chew, chew, chew." Meanwhile they want to do one more Pepsi Cola opus, this time in double talk, but Pepsi-Cola has held out firmly against it. Just in case you want to try it on your piano, it goes like this:
Pepsi-Cola minils the spot
Twelve strof brannis, that’s a lot
Twice as gemmer for moolee woo
Pepsi-Cola is the slerm for you.

Jingles were sung live on the networks (until 1946 when ABC snagged Bing Crosby with the promise he could record his show) but transcribed copies were sent to radio stations across North America to be played whenever the sponsor bought time. So it was that if you tuned in to Matinee With Bob and Ray airing locally on WHBH in the late ‘40s, you’d hear the show interrupted with recordings of Arthur Godfrey warbling about Chesterfields or a quartet crooning about Mission Bell Wine (another Johnson-Kent ditty, written in 1946). Of course, in Bob and Ray’s case, the jingles became part of the show. Bob Elliott would follow Godfrey with a devastating parody of Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts, or Ray Goulding would take it upon himself to spout non-sequiturs during the announcer portion of the Mission Hill doughnut (that’s when there’s singing at the beginning and end with an instrumental portion in the middle for the announcer to talk over). Occasionally, Bob and Ray would sing and butcher both jingles themselves to a jaunty organ and piano accompaniment.

(Pepsi, by the way, later sponsored Bob and Ray’s CBS show in the late ‘50s with a different jingle sung by someone who was identified only as Kay. It beats me who she was or if that was her actual name.)

The “Nickle” jingle kind of took on a life of its own. It was parodied and joked about on radio shows. Henry Morgan’s orchestra leader Bernie Green put together a wonderful symphonic version; the straighter it was played, the funnier it got. Dave Barry’s title character in the Columbia cartoon “Topsy Turkey” gives it a whirl with revamped lyrics (standing in front of a radio microphone for added effectiveness). It was retired as network radio died in the ‘50s.

Incidentally, Pepsi had an earlier song. “We Must Have Our Pepsi Cola” was a march/fox trot written by Irving Pletrack in 1939. Morris Perlman penned the melody for “Your Pepsi-Cola and Mine” in 1940. Pepsi held a copyright on a 1941 tune called “Get Hep” by Bissell Palmer and Helmy Kresa. They didn’t have the staying power of commercial songs that went “I’m Chiquita Banana” or “Mm-Mm Good” or “See the USA in Your Chevrolet.” Or a song that rhymed “trickle” and “nickel.”

I Chase Meeces To Pieces

You know how Mr. Jinks used to chase Pixie and Dixie along the same baseboard, past the same light socket 16 times. The bicycling background concept wasn’t something Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera invented, nor was it something they only used in TV cartoons.

Here’s an example from “Dog Trouble,” a 1942 Tom and Jerry cartoon. In a few of the early T&Js, Tom had a run cycle of eight drawings with his front paws sweeping down from above his head and back paws flapping in mid-air. Here are the drawings.



We’ve turned it into an endless run cycle. It’s a little bit slower than in the actual cartoon.



There are no animators credited on the copy of the cartoon on DVD but a full draft from the MGM files listing the animators on each scene still exists. Mark Kausler reveals the animator of this scene in the comments.

A Tweety Question

Can someone explain this? Two cats are fighting over Tweety in a nest atop a pole. The force of the fight causes them to fall to the ground below. Director Bob Clampett (or maybe it was done in layout) changes the perspective of the fall from looking down from the top of the pole.



Suddenly, Tweety appears to yell “Bomb’s away!”



So, since this is shot from the top of the pole, where is Tweety standing? How is he standing?

The cartoon is “A Gruesome Twosome,” animated by Manny Gould, Rod Scribner, Bob McKimson and Basil Davidovich.

Honestly, Fans, I'm Not Cheap

You wouldn’t think a big star would need a warm-up act prior to going on the air in front of a live audience, but I gather that’s pretty much the case.

Sometimes, the act included the star himself. There are copies circulating of “The Phil Harris-Alice Faye Show” where Philsey himself is cracking jokes (albeit the same ones before each show). And both Jack Benny and Fred Allen talked to their audiences before their broadcasts, as earlier posts here have shown.

Here’s a story dealing with Jack’s final TV special. If you’ve ever seen it, and wonder if he’s actually in front of an audience, you’ll see the answer is “yes” (though I strongly suspect an augmenting laugh track is employed at certain moments). I’ve mentioned before that Jack seems obsessed that people thought he was actually cheap; he brought it up continually in interviews and he mentions it in this audience warm up.

This unbylined feature appeared in newspapers on January 20, 1974. The photo appeared in one paper along with the story, though I believe it’s from 1968 and was pulled from the paper’s photo archive.

Jack Benny And The Audience Warm Up To Each Other
There will be lots of laughs for viewers of the upcoming Jack Benny special. And there were lots of laughs that will never get on the air.
These are the laughs that occurred when the star faced the audience during the taping of “RCA Presents Jack Benny’s Second Farewell Special,” to be colorcast on the NBC Television Network, airing Thursday, Jan. 24 at 8 p.m.
First, announcer Bill Baldwin introduced Benny to the audience and then informed the star that there was a lady in the audience celebrating her 84th birthday. “I’m breathing right down your neck,” Benny told the woman.
Since he had a few more minutes before taping the first number, Benny discussed his stinginess.
"I’m supposed to be stingy but, honestly, I’m not,” he told the audience. “I really tip very big, especially cab drivers and waiters.”
He proceeded to discuss an incident recently in Las Vegas to make the point.
“I hate to take a cab in Vegas and go just a short distance,” he said. “When I do, I usually tip very big. Well, I took a cab from the Sahara to the Riviera. Now, when I do that, I get embarrassed. The fare was $1.10 so I gave the driver $3 and told him to keep the change.”
The cabbie thanked the star but, as Benny tells it, said, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why?” asked Benny.
“Because,” said the cabbie. “I wanted to go home and tell my wife what a cheapskate you are.”
“You can still do that,” said Benny. “Give me back my tip.”
The audience wanted to know about Jack’s violin playing.
“I get $100 a ticket for concerts because I play lousy,” Benny explained. If I played well, I wouldn’t be able to get $2.”
Benny indicated that he does not collect a dime from these concerts — they are all benefits.
What about his wife Mary?
“On January 14 we will have been married 47 years,” said Benny. “That just shows you it can happen even in Hollywood. If I told you we never had an argument, I would be lying. But we never had an argument where the word ‘divorce’ was used. ‘Murder’ yes!”
“One minute to show time,” the stage manager announced.
“This is the moment that scares the hell out of me,” said Benny.
Benny walks out, throws the audience a kiss.
“May we start once again,” the director interrupts. “The lights weren’t on.”
Benny’s look breaks up the audience.
“Can you imagine a mistake happening that soon?” he asks. “I didn’t even start the show. For goodness sake, when we have to do things over, just remember where you laughed!”

A Bloody Lantz Cartoon

Walter Lantz should have been a happy man in 1952. He announced in August he was doubling his staff and boosting his output from six to 13 cartoons for the coming season. His characters were making appearances in comic books. He had a division that made TV commercials (in March, Variety reported he had hired Homer Brightman, Phil Eastman and Bill Scott; the latter two likely didn’t stay long). A deal for a Woody Woodpecker book series had been signed with Simon and Schuster in March. The next year, he’d add Mike Maltese and Tex Avery to his staff and Bill Garity would develop a 3-D process for him (which was used in one cartoon, the Don Patterson-directed “Hypnotic Hick.”

Lantz happened to be in New York in December 1952, closing a deal with Coca-Cola for a series of commercials to run in theatres. Lantz was pretty publicity conscious and he sat down for a softball interview with a syndicated columnist named Alice Hughes. Not everything in her story is quite correct, but at least it doesn’t mention to bogus “honeymoon” story about Woody Woodpecker’s creation. Lantz comes across as an unassuming guy who likes cartoons, which is the impression he left a few years later as the somewhat stiff co-host of the Woody Woodpecker cartoon series for Kellogg’s.

WOODY WOODPECKER TAPS FOR RED CROSS BLOOD DONORS
New York, Dec. 29—Don’t know what the town of New Rochelle, a few miles off New York city limits, has that nourishes top cartoonists. But I do know that two of the best movie cartoon animators were born and brought up there. One is Paul Terry, widely known for Terry Tunes on film and for a huge circulation of comic books whose characters are always birds and animals, never people. Then there is Walter Lantz with whom I spent an hour while he was in New York en route for a vacation in Mexico. Lantz was apprenticed in 1916 as cartoonist under the late Gregory La Cava, animating others’ characters such as Katzenjammer Kids, Happy Hooligan and Krazy Kat. Soon, however, he created his own Pete the Pup, Dinky Doodle and others. Finally Oswald the Rabbit landed him a fancy contract with Universal Films in 1928.
Seven years later Lantz fell in love with a panda at a Chicago zoo, and thus Andy the Panda was born and is to this day his second most-profitmaking cartoon character. First is Woody Woodpecker, a real-life carpenter bird who annoyed artist Lantz by tapping a $200 hole in the roof of a California house Lantz and his former-actress wife, Grace Stafford, occupied.
The tap-tap peck and the cartoon character it inspired have since parlayed that $200 into $2,000,000 plus much fame and acclaim. Woody the Woodpecker became a song on the Hit Parade. Boys and girls formed clubs called by its name. It became a symbol for saving forestry and today Walter Lantz is enjoying the proudest moment of his life. Woody has gone into a minute-and-a-half film cartoon urging birds of all kinds to donate blood for Red Cross war-time blood-banks. Lantz gifted the Red Cross with this finished film.
The red-tipped woodpecker urges all his feathered friends to give blood. When it comes hit turn, the cartoon shows his crimson crew-cut dim into pale pink as his blood drains into the bloodbank. There are many laughs, yet also a strong encouragement to people to go and do likewise. You’ll be seeing this animated short in all movie theaters and on TV, and shortly afterward Walter Lantz will do another cartoon with his bird and beast characters exhorting the public to give blood for the purpose of obtaining the gamma globulin injection, an accepted preventive for polio.
“Are comic books harmful for children?” I asked. “Not the way we draw them,” said Lantz. “The Association of Animated Cartoon Producers, of which I am president, never has trouble with censorship. As we know our efforts are seen and heard by millions of children all over the world, we observe the strictest rules of taste and decency. We’re not even permitted to draw udders on cows, and Walt Disney, Paul Terry and I—four of the seven members of the Animated Cartoon Producers —often laugh at how school-teacherish we are at our work. But we realize that this profession has at traction for many young artists, and highest standards are necessary.
“It takes a good 10 years of experience before an artist can become a good cartoon animator. Besides a good background in art knowledge and drawing, he has to have a sense of timing like an actor, sensitivity of facial expression like a sculptor and the patience of a saint to make the 7000 drawings necessary for a 6-minute film. Each slightest movement of a bird or animal requires a separate drawing and the animators need two assistants to carry on their work. I employ 60 artists to make 19 films a year, including seven Woody Woodpecker pictures and others such as Andy Panda, Buzz Buzzard, Wally Walrus, also comic books and quite a few commercial films for big industrial firms. We work in our own Walter Lantz Bldg., in 17,000 square feet of space, where we do a full-scale production of animated cartoons and TV films.”
Walter Lantz is 50-ish, gray-haired, blue-eyed, not tall, very friendly homespun in manner and with a refreshing modesty for a movie producer. He earns ten times as much as his brother Michael Lantz, a sculptor, who is conceded by Walter to be ten times better than Walt himself as an artist. Exciting outlook for 1953 is his new series of Foolish Fables, which are animated movie cartoons burlesqued from well-known fairy tales, in modern dress and modern situations. Lantz-film cartoons are dubbed into seven different foreign languages for children all over the world to enjoy.

The Planet Moo

UPA cartoons became pretty much all about design, so let’s look at some designs from “Gerald McBoing! Boing! On Planet Moo.” First some backgrounds.



And character designs.



I still don’t understand why it’s called the planet Moo. The characters there don’t say “moo.” Shouldn’t they? (The King is voiced by Marvin Miller like something out of Amos ‘n’ Andy).

Lew Keller was the designer.

The Journey of a Cocoanut

The Half-Pint Pygmy (from the 1948 cartoon of the same name) tries to bop his hunters with a cocoanut he’s hoisted into a very tall tree. And it works.



But that sets off a string of gags as the cocoanut continues on its merry way after conking George and Junior on the head.



It klumps into a zebra, making the animal’s stripes drop off.



An ostrich shrinks.



In one kangaroo’s pouch and out the others. The kangaroos have Avery-type mouse ears.



The spots fall off a leopard.



A turtle is knocked out of its shell.



The neck on a giraffe contracts while a nearby hippo’s simultaneously grows.



A long-neck crane shrinks to the ground.



My favourite gag. The cocoanut goes over a goal post like a football, to the cheers of a crowd. Tex Avery and Heck Allen have a string of animal gags, so the football one comes out of nowhere.



The plates on a rhino fall off, revealing an emaciated creature (that pays no attention to what’s just happened).



The cocoanut bounces off each hump of a camel, sending them from the top of the animal’s body to the underside.



Finally, the cocoanut returns whence it came and crashes down on the pygmy.

Louie Schmitt, Walt Clinton, Grant Simmons and Bill Shull are the credited animators.

Before the Band With a Thug

“Broadway Open House”? Before my time. “The Doodles Weaver Show”? Same thing. “Breakfast With Burrows” on radio? Definitely before my time. “The Gong Show”? Ah, that’s different. And that’s where I first heard the name Milton DeLugg.

His small orchestra was perhaps the only sane part of the show, a competent and enjoyable aggregation that was only involved musically. There was no hint that DeLugg had ever spoken on camera, let alone he had been a pioneer in the early days of network television.

DeLugg died this week at the age of 94.

The absolute best insight you can get into DeLugg’s career (and personality) is by heading to Kliph Nesteroff’s blog. Part One of his conversation is HERE. Part Two is HERE. It’s a terrific tete-a-tete.

How far did DeLugg go back? Well, the 1940 Census reports his occupation as “Musician, Radio Broadcasting.” He was with Matty Melnick’s band that year, and an Associated Press story that June says DeLugg’s “unruly mop of hair causes him to be known professionally as ‘O’Cedar.’”

Perhaps DeLugg’s everlasting accomplishment was he was the first sidekick bandleader when he was tabbed to provide the music for “Broadway Open House,” NBC’s first stab at late-night programming. Here’s a column that appeared in papers starting July 23, 1951. I believe it’s from the National Enterprise Association.

DE LUGG, NO RIVAL OF DAGMAR, STARS ON OWN ABILITY
By MARK BARRON
NEW YORK — Milton DeLugg, the droll accordion maestro of the "Broadway Open House" video program, may not be as pulchritudinously endowed as Dagmar, another alumnus of Jerry Lester's pre-midnite madness, but his wry wit, black cigar and adept musicianship have made him quite a character and attraction in his own right.

Milt’s father unknowingly started DeLugg on his musical way at the age of seven when he brought the boy home a miniature accordion. Within five years the youngster was being heralded as a boy wonder among musicians and he soon formed his own band in his Los Angeles High school.
Right now, DeLugg is at the stage of his career where he is five things at once. Although his naivete before the cameras draws laughs. Milt is foremost a musician and composer. His “Hoop-Dee-Doo” and “Orange Colored Sky” were number one songs on the Hit Parade for many weeks.
“Frankly, I didn't start out to be a comedian," he said. “At first, I didn't know whether the audiences were laughing with me or at me as I looked the part of a dupe which I had to play in many of the skits on the Lester show.”
Milt's private life seems to run true to the pattern set by his video personality. He met his wife when he was told to report to his draft board and she was behind the desk. His frau snared him first before he enlisted in the Air Force.
“Talk about the man behind the man behind the gun,” he said. “Well, my wife is the man behind the man behind the pun. Invariably people will ask me where I dream up some of my song titles as ‘Orange Colored Sky’ and ‘Hoop-dee-doo’, which seem to be a little off the beaten track.
“If I had had my way the titles would have been different and the royalties probably non-existent. My wife, the supposedly steady member of the family, was the one who stumped for the whacky titles and deserves a pat on the bankbook for their long runs on Hit Parade.”
And it was his young son who badgered him into taking him for a ride on the roller coaster at Steeplechase Park. Out of that ride came his “Roller Coaster,” an impressionistic piece which the symphonies across the country are greeting very favorably.

Steady work in TV followed DeLugg after the demise of “Broadway Open House.” In fact, he spent time with the programme’s successor, “The Tonight Show.” But he was gone in less than a year. Oddly, a United Press International column of July 21, 1967 opined: “Skitch Henderson, is not at ease as a foil for Johnny Carson; he simply is not funny.”

Here’s a piece published in the Binghamton Press, April 8, 1961. It must be an NBC news release; under no other circumstances would a newspaper use the phrase “on another network.” Looking at the names, you realise that DeLugg was a connection to an earlier era of show business.

● ● ●

Musician-composer Milton DeLugg became a well-known television personality as a regular on NBC-TV's first late-evening variety show Broadway Open House, then-spent a year trying to live down his fame.
"The program changed my career completely and created some serious problems for me," explains DeLugg, who is now music director for NBC-TV's The Jan Murray Show daytime color series.
"Before I went on Broadway Open House," DeLugg said, "no one heard of me. Although I had been in movies, on radio and TV, I was always in the background as a musician. But on this new informal show, everyone was involved in the hap-hazard on-camera proceedings.
"Blonde Dagmar, dancer Ray Malone, the Mellowlarks vocal group and myself all shared the spotlight with host Jerry Lester. And the boys in the band kidded around so much the group was nicknamed ‘DeLugg's Phony Philharmonic.’"
It was when the show left the air and DeLugg sought other assignments that his fame began to hinder him. He explains, "No one would believe I was a serious musician. As a result of the show, I had become a character. Everyone had the impression I was just a comical cigar-smoking accordion player. It took me a year to live down this image and once again become accepted as a capable musician. It was an experience I'll never forget."
It was inevitable that DeLugg as a serious musician would not be long hidden. Music has been a part of his life since he was seven, when his father brought home, a pint-sized accordion. Within five years DeLugg was an expert.
In high school he formed his own band and appeared, as an amateur accordionist, on Fred Allen's radio show. (Years later, without accordion, he was music director of Allen's TV series.)
After graduation he joined the Sons of the Pioneers and was staff musician at radio stations in his native Los Anueles, playing on the Rudy Vallee show and other programs.
He has appeared in movies with Al Jolson, Bing Crosby and Jack Benny; in Broadway musicals and at some of the country's top night spots. Since Broadway Open House DeLugg has been music director of almost a dozen television shows, Including NBC's All Star Revue, Fred Allen's show and Jan Murray's Treasure Hunt. He is currently also music director of The Paul Winchell Show on another network.

● ● ●

The Archive of American Television interviewed DeLugg a number of years ago. You can see it by going HERE.

Stan Freberg and the 61st Second

A lot of words have been thrown around about Stan Freberg upon his death yesterday. Let me toss in a couple of my own—insightful and articulate. One has to have both traits in volume to be a good satirist. And, that, Freberg was.

Freberg was no fan of rock-and-roll, political correctness, or the inanities of electronic media programming and advertising. He took no prisoners in “Elderly Man River,” a truly marvellous sketch where he butchered the lyrics of a Stephen Foster classic beyond recognition so it couldn’t possibly offend anyone. He saw through the showmanship of Elvis Presley and Johnny Ray by slashing and slicing their hits “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Cry,” technically and lyrically. His Jeno’s Pizza Rolls TV commercial seems to have been sparked by his umbrage that someone other than The Lone Ranger could dare to co-opt The William Tell Overture. “Green Christmas” took aim at commercialism of a religious holiday (Freberg’s father was a minister) before Charles Schulz did the same thing with some kids in a Christmas TV special. Some of his satire is awe-inspiring. You listen to it and can’t help but admire the cleverness and appreciate his intellect.

Parody was in his arsenal, too. His Jack Webb-inspired “St. George and the Dragonet” could be said to have sparked an entire comedy record industry.

And that was only the tip of the... well, I’d say “Fre-berg” but he’s used that one already. He began his entertainment career as a voice actor in cartoons. Warner Bros. fans (he worked for Columbia and UPA as well) can probably pick out a favourite. They’re liable to disagree on his best work; Freberg worked on great cartoons for a couple of directors. He moved on to the puppet show “Time For Beany,” eventually walking away with collaborator Daws Butler. Evidently Freberg didn’t think a lot of Beany’s creator, Bob Clampett; he went on TV with a Cecil-like creature and Clampett promptly sued. Children’s and comedy records followed, then his huge career in advertising. Sponsor magazine profiled him and his ad philosophies in its edition of October 14, 1963. You can read it (in pdf form) HERE.

I don’t have any personal stories about him; he spoke at a seminar locally years ago that was beyond my price range to attend. So allow me to purloin part of a feature story by Bert Prelutsky of the Los Angeles Times from June 25, 1967. Ken Sullet quoted in the story worked with him on the comedy album Stan Freberg Presents the United States of America. The other voice actor mentioned not only did an incredible amount of commercials using a variety of voices, he was the best part of “The Alvin Show” as inventor Clyde Crashcup.

● ● ●

During the first week of February he [Freberg] was to record eight radio commercials for a Chrysler campaign. The dual points of the campaign were that Plymouth had a tremendous selection of new models and colors, and that Plymouth dealers would go to any lengths to make you a deal on the one car just right for you. The eight spots were about one such dealer’s going mad trying to sell a Plymouth to a customer who couldn’t even decide what he wanted for breakfast.
One such recording session began at 5 in the afternoon at Radio Recorders Stage B, on Melrose, one of the only two studios in town with acoustics good enough for Freberg. (The other is at Capitol). By 1 o’clock in the morning, Shep Menkin, one of the best men in the business, who’s play the Plymouth dealer in the campaign, still hasn’t said line one into the mike. The reason: Freberg has been on Orange Drive all evening with a block-long extension cord, recording a passing cavalcade of Plymouth Furies. Up and down the street he’s had them for hours. At one point, though, a metallic gray Jag drove by with a For Sale sign in the window. Freberg jumped into one of the passing Furies. “Follow that Jag!” he tells the driver. Twenty minutes later he returns. It turns out he’d driven a metallic gray Jag on his honeymoon and he’s decided to buy this one.
In 1959 he married his secretary, Donna Andresen. Today she’s irreplaceable, not merely as a wife, but as one of the few people in the business he feels he can count on. She works in the studio, helping to edit the spots, sees to it that he meets deadlines, acts as a buffer between her husband and a sometimes belligerent world of clients, and serves as Freberg’s first reactor to new material.
A bright, attractive blonde in her 30s, she answers the question why Freberg works himself so hard: “He feels he has to do it the right way every time. I guess he thinks someone won’t get it. He even gets worked up reading his stuff to me. I tell him, you don’t have to sell it to me. But you can’t change him.” But she tries, anyway.
Freberg admits, “My wife is waging a campaign—less procrastination, less deliberation, less vacillation. I’m the guy in the Plymouth spots who can’t make up his mind.”
The Great Vacillator, in fact, is the nickname Sullet has given Freberg. “Never,” he advises, “go out for dinner with Freberg. You’re in a restaurant, sitting with him and four other people, and it begins.” Sullet suddenly gets a nasal twang in his voice, a pretty fair approximation of the Freberg delivery: “ ‘What are you having? The prime rib?. . .You think I’d like it?. . .You’d recommend it?. . .You really think I ought to have the prime rib?’’ He goes around the entire table that way. Finally the waiter comes and Freberg asks him what he should order. ‘The lobster, huh?. . . You’d recommend it highly?. . .I’ll be happy with it?’ So he orders the lobster. Suddenly he’s stretching his neck and staring over our heads at a table halfway across the room. ‘What’s that woman having over there? A London broil?. . .It looks kind of good. . .Waiter! Waiter!’”
Back at Radio Recorders, it’s 1:15 a.m. Freberg has gotten the Furies recorded and has made an offer on the Jag. He and Menkin are sitting at a card table, discussing the spot. In the sound booth, Donna and a couple of engineers are chatting and growing old.
Menkin and Freberg are trying out different readings. Finally they’re ready for the mike. After a few false starts, they go through the entire spot. Because of a nine-second Plymouth tag, they have only 51 seconds to work with. They finish the spot. It sounds good. They look at the booth, where Donna is shaking her head. It’s 10 seconds long.
Freberg throws his pencil at the music stand. “Who says a commercial has to be 60 seconds? Who’s the FCC anyway?”
They make a few cuts in the copy and try another take. This one is longer than the first; they’ve delivered their lines slower.
At 2:15, Freberg takes a vitamin B12.
By 2:30, they’re on take 21. It’s a good one, but the time is still two seconds too long. Freberg wants “One more take, just one more. . .” They do another take. Still two seconds too long.
At 2:35, the Frebergs argue about the wisdom of trying to fix the spot at this time. She wants him to go home. He wants to record. He wins.
At 2:37 he’s down on the floor doing push-ups.
Menkin stands watching. “Sun flower seeds, wheat germ, vitamins; he swims in his pool every day. He’s a nut about that stuff.”
Freberg disagrees. “I’m not a health food nut. I just eat more healthily than most people.”
It’s 2:53. They have managed to cut one of the two troublesome seconds out. Freberg is in the booth now, with his stop watch. “It’s a 61-second spot no matter how you slice it. Well, I’ll just tell the Plymouth dealers there’s something wrong with their watches.” He’s kidding.
He and Menkin go back to the mikes and wage war against a second of time. By 3:05 they’re still losing.
“Tell me what to do,” Freberg says to Donna. “If you want me to stay and try again, I’ll do it.” Everybody laughs.
Finally at 3:45, somehow they’ve done it. A poor battered and bleeding second, its tail between its legs, has crawled off to recuperate. It will be back, though. A battle’s a battle; a war is something else. And in Freberg’s experience, the 61st second has never failed to come out swinging when the next bell rings.
In the next two days and nights, Freberg’s supposed to record seven more spots. He won’t. He’ll have six spots completed when he sends the campaign to Detroit on Thursday morning.
During his recording sessions, he will suck on Pine Brothers honey cough drops and special vocal lozenges. After eight or nine hours in the studio, he will break out his Lif-O-Gen oxygen unit and take a few deep breaths, and then keep going into “The Golden Hours,” his apt name for overtime.
In the end, Menkin will say “That Freberg can really fuss away time. He comes up with a sensational product—but he wastes too much time. It’s not necessary.” Of course, it is necessary. It’s necessary because that’s the only way Freberg can function.

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Want more Freberg? Seek out his 1957 radio show on CBS on-line. We’ve got some old newspaper articles quoting him HERE and HERE. But the best way I can end this post is to direct you to Mark Evanier’s remembrance of him HERE. Mark’s pretty insightful and articulate, too.