Trombone Lightning

The special effects in the performance of the Overture to William Tell (from the Walter Lantz cartoon of the same name) are a little too realistic.

A trombonist is hit by lightning. Here are the drawings. They’re animated on ones. The effects animator (Sid Pillet?) does all the work here.



The one below is my favourite.



La Verne Harding and Casey Onaitis are the credited animators for director Dick Lundy.

Rubber Hose Dwarves

Walt Disney and dwarves met up in the early days of sound cartoons in The Merry Dwarfs (1929). These ones didn’t do much more than have funny dances in time to the music but that was good enough for 1929.

Disney weaned himself away from rubber hose-style animation in the ‘30s, but it’s evident in this cartoon. Here are some frames of a couple of dwarves dancing.



There are a few drawings that remind me of poses in Flip the Frog cartoons, so Ub Iwerks had to have been one of the animators.

Before Allen’s Alley

The Allen’s Alley segment is the best-remembered portion of the Fred Allen radio show, but it existed for only a comparatively short period of time, and not all the cast members who were in place at its height in the late ‘40s were there at the beginning.

The Alley was Allen’s attempt to put a running format behind something he had been doing on his show since the early 1930s—using his stooges to comment in various ways on some item in the news. The difference was while several of the actors used similar voices or dialects often on the earlier broadcasts, there were no distinct characters.

When things settled down, the characters in the Alley were played by Minerva Pious, Peter Donald, Parker Fennelly and Kenny Delmar, who doubled as the show’s announcer. Pious had been with Allen pretty much since the beginning, the others came along as replacements over the years when Alley denizens decided to try Hollywood or moved on to other shows.

A fellow named Jon Stokes profiled Allen’s supporting players, first in a 1938 article in “Screen and Radio Weekly,” a newspaper magazine supplement. He then took the same article and sold it to Radio Varieties magazine for its May 1940 edition. Stokes had to make some modifications. For one thing, Allen was no longer on “Town Hall Tonight,” the show changed names in 1939 (and also changed producers). For another, actress Eileen Douglas died in 1939. And child actor Jackie Grimes was no longer on the show. Stokes had to delete copy and pad out the 1940 version. I’ve combined the two articles.

Besides the news commentary on the 1930s and early ‘40s shows, Allen used his supporting cast in a weekly sketch. At the height of the Alley years, sketches were built around guest stars and the supporting cast didn’t take the main parts.

John Brown ended up, among other things, as Digger O’Dell on The Life of Riley, before getting mired in the blacklist and dying several years later. Charlie Cantor went over to Duffy’s Tavern, playing the same type of brain-dead character (you can hear Sid Raymond using the Cantor voice in cartoons as Baby Huey).

Nice, Fresh Ham
Fred Allen’s A-1 Quality
By Jon Stokes
Ham, often found between slices of bread, has a traditional way of turning up on theater stages, the screen, in night clubs, and over the air. As a dramatic term it is strictly a mark of opprobium, a label of discredit that rings of artistic ineptitude. A ham, in short is a lousy actor. Yet members of one of the most popular dramatic groups on the air today are self-confessed "hams", and mighty proud of it, too.
There are, of course, hams and hams. To wear that badge of dubious distinction because you don't know any better is one thing, to be a "good" ham is another. For hamdom at its best, take a look at the Mighty Allen Art Players, heard with Fred Allen every Wednesday evening on the "Fred Allen Hour" over the NBC-Red Network.
There is no question but what the Mighty Allen Art Players belong to the group which merits that stamp of porcine perfection. When Allen, himself, introduces their fifteen -minute dramatic sketch he openly refers to them as "the pullets of Pulitzer," the "only group of actors to bring tomato baskets on stage," and "The only thespian troupe ever to play 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' and have the blood hounds walk out on them." One is easily misled into thinking that their ludicrous dramatic farces would make the collective Little Theater groups of the country look like a flock of Duses and Drews in comparison. But such, indeed, is far from the case.
Minerva Pious, John Brown, and Charlie Cantor have reached their present positions of first-rate hams only after years of experience and success on the stage and before the microphone.
Take Charlie Cantor who was introduced to grease paint more than twenty years ago when, during high school vacation, he answered an urgent summons to act as "straight" man for his brother, "Rusty" Cantor, then a famous vaudevillian. Save for a few ill-fated years when he decided to settle down and enter the shoe business, Charlie's been trouping either in vaudeville, musical comedy, dramatic stock, or on the air.
A short, butter-ball of a fellow, consistently jolly despite the ever-increasing bald pate that privately causes him much mental anguish, Charlie is starting his 4th year as a member of the Mighty Allen Art Players. During that time he has taken more than 200 different parts in the Allen sketches, ranging from that of trained seal to a mediaeval bailiff. He personally favors such characterizations as a cloak-and-suiter, or an harrassed delicatessen proprietor. For Allen, Charlie is always the ham. Yet he is in constant demand for straight dramatic programs.
Commencing his career in vaudeville in 1920 as a black -face comedian and dialectician, Charlie next turned to stock, and then for two and one half years, believe it or not, he played the part of Little Eva's mild -tempered plantation owner father in a road company of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Then came the ill-fated shoe venture and Charlie, flat broke, saw desirable coffee and cakes as a radio actor. His first job was at a small Brooklyn station with a banjo -playing partner. They worked sustaining—and gratis—for one week and then went commercial at $15 a pair.
Harry Richman gave Charlie his first real start, and before long he was on constant call by network producers. Currently Cantor may be heard not only with Fred Allen on the "Fred Allen Hour," but on as many as twenty programs throughout the week.
Charlie's voice isn't hard to recognize, once you learn it, but like most character actors his name is rarely mentioned over the air. It's one of the hazards of being a first rate ham.



Minerva Pious, is another Mighty Allen Art Player who arrived at the enviable status of a well-smoked ham only after plenty of seasoning.
"Min" is a veteran of the Mighty Allen Art Players. She has been with Allen since he started his program seven years ago. Only five feet tall she belies her penetrating voice, but she does have that saucy, impertinent appearance you would expect from listening to the parts she plays over the air. Wait for the sharp-tongued shrew; the rasping voice of the chambermaid or spinster of uncertain years and you have Minerva. Pious, incidentally, is her real name.
Born in Moscow on March 5, 1909, Min had her first stage experience as a child walk-on in a production of the Russian Imperial Grand Opera in which her father sang the baritone lead. She was educated in dramatics in Salzburg. Before she arrived in radio she played character bits on the New York stage and did a turn in the editorial department of a nationally known news syndicate.
Minerva broke into radio as an accompanist, and says she wouldn't be the ham she is today if she hadn't been fired early in her career. One night she was playing for a radio singer when she forgot the notes. The singer, Harry Taylor, fired her, but later on, in one of radio's strange twists of fate, he became producer of Fred Allen's show, and remembering the little girl who spoke with a Russian accent, hired her for a Mighty Allen Art Player. [The show is now produced by a triumvirate—Pat Weaver, Jack Van Nostrand and Bill Rousseau. 1938 version]. The show is now produced by Bob Welch.
John Brown, "the Englishman," as the rest of the troupe refer to him, is a third member of Allen's coterie of hams. Tall, dark, mustached John was born in Hull, England, thirty-four years ago; Most likely because he was hired originally six years ago, to do the part of an English duke, John gets the bulk of the more refined masculine roles, but nevertheless is as versatile a dialectician as Charlie Cantor, and plays with him on several straight dramatic shows.
John's first stage experience came in 1916 when he was in public school in England—a short lived experience since in the play, "Master Skylark," he was always killed in the first act. After a theater venture in Australia, he came to this country in the early twenties and started in stock in upper New York State. For six months he played character parts, acted as stage manager, and painted scenery. Then came Broadway and the legitimate stage, where he is still remembered for his work in "Peace On Earth" and "Milky Way." In fact, if it weren't for a serious shortage of good hams in radio, John would have probably continued his stage career. As it was he was the one man Fred Allen wanted to fill an opening in the "Mighty Allen Art Players," and Fred has a way of having his way.
Eileen Douglas, the fourth of this famous group, divides the female parts with Minerva Pious. Their work tends to bear the same relation as does John Brown's to Charlie Cantor's, in that Eileen is apt to be the lady of a haughty English salon, while Min romps around in the part of the scullion in the kitchen.
The only native American of the group, Eileen is a born and bred New Yorker. She, too, worked on the legitimate stage, and is an accomplished writer to boot. Last of all comes the apprentice of the group, little Jackie Grimes, who wears the distinction of being a well seasoned ham at 11 with consummate ease.
Ordinarily a well mannered youngster, Jackie becomes a snarling, spitting urchin of the genus brat at the drop of a hat when he plays opposite Allen in the dramatic skits.
If Jackie can be termed a Mighty Allen Art Player apprentice it is not because of age primarily, nor his brief few months on the show, but rather from the point of view of experience on the Allen air opus. He's been in radio since he was four years old; is heard regularly on the Columbia Workshop, and for some time has taken all boy parts on the March of Time. He's been on the legitimate stage too—with parts in "The Old Maid," the Pulitzer Prize winner which starred Helen Menken and Judith Anderson; "Stark Mad," "Excursion" and "Western Waters," among others.
However, though prospects look bright and he apparently has all it takes to make the right sort of ham, acceptance as a full-fledged Mighty Allen Art Player is no trifling matter and many months more are likely to pass before he is given a permanent set of cap and bells cut down to his size.
So, the next time you tune in "Fred Allen Hour" and hear Charlie, Min, and the rest clowning through script, buffooning this line, and muffing that until your own sides are splitting, at their hammy acting, remember, it takes plenty of time to smoke a ham!

Cat Split

Tom gets the fiendish idea of faking he has a cold so he won’t be tossed out into the rainy night in Polka Dot Puss (1949).



His phoney sneeze is so powerful, it splits him apart.



Ray Patterson, Ken Muse, Irv Spence and Ed Barge are the credited animators. Check the comments to see who animated this.

Duck's All, Folks

One of the most famous pieces of animation to end a Warner Bros. cartoon must be in Porky's Duck Hunt, where Daffy Duck twirls, slides, somersaults, bounces, flies through letters, bangs up against the side of the picture frame and finally gives a v-for-victory sign.

The animation is by an uncredited Bob Clampett. Here are some frames.



This short also has the best singing drunken fish in animation, and the great gag of Porky pulling out the cartoon’s script. Top work by director Tex Avery in one of his best at Warners.

Ready For Television in 1933

KTTV signed on in Los Angeles in 1949 and Jack Benny made his TV debut that evening. He didn’t have his own television show on CBS for another year. But he was apparently ready for the small screen before that.

We’re talking about the days when the small screen was part of a set with a spinning wheel in the back to pick up the signal. This is TV in the pre-electronic, mechanical days when Jack’s radio career was not much more than 15 months old.

Here’s an unbylined story from the Sandusky Register of July 30, 1933. Since Jack hadn’t been in radio all that long, the story focuses on his pre-radio accomplishments. Some of the story isn’t altogether accurate—“Jack Benny” was not his real name, the story of meeting Mary Livingstone was a little more involved, his first movie was a short for Warner Bros. (in New York) and Harry Conn would have debated that Jack wrote “most” of his radio show (he was involved in the writing process, though, and remained so during his entire radio career).

It would appear he never got over his parents’ early wish that he would become a violin virtuoso. He did as he predicted in 1933—he came back to the violin, constantly performing charity concerts to help symphony orchestras, their homes and their musicians.

War Started Jack Benny Talking
It took a World War to start Jack Benny talking. Before joining the Navy he played a violin in vaudeville and said nothing. After one attempt to raise funds with a musical appeal at a seamen's benefit, Benny dropped the violin and started talking.
Since then he has talked his way through several Schubert musical revues, two editions of Earl Carroll's "Vanities," half a dozen feature motion pictures and into radio over National Broadcasting Company networks as a laugh-getting master of ceremonies.
He is noted as a wit, monologist, comedian. His quips and stories have enlivened stage, screen and air. But habit is a hard master. For years after he deserted music for speech, Benny carried the old violin on and off the stage at each appearance. He never played it, just carried it along and looked at it wistfully now and then. Some day, he says, he's going to use it again— providing he can stop talking long enough.
Born In Chicago
Benny always had ambitions. His family lived in Waukegan, Ill.—but Jack was born in Chicago. Then they carried him back to Waukegan, and he stayed there for seventeen years. He was not idle, by any means, during those years.
“My father gave me a violin and a monkey wrench,” explains Benny. “He told me not to take chances. Plumbing isn't a bad business.”
Young Benny didn't get far with the monkey wrench, but he was practicing on the violin before he was six years old. When his thirteenth birthday arrived he was still at it, and by the time he was fourteen he had determined to make it his profession.
He started with an orchestra playing for dances in and around Waukegan. He was sixteen then, and after one year with the orchestra he decided he had sufficient professional standing to go on the stage. With a partner who played the piano while he played the violin, Benny launched his first vaudeville act.
Toured Six Years

For six years he toured back and forth across the United States playing his violin and saying nothing. Then the United States entered the war, and Benny joined the Navy. As a musician he was soon drafted for sailor shows for the Seamen's Benefit Fund. His violin playing brought applause, but no contributions. After all, reasoned Benny, if you want money, you have to ask for it. He put the instrument down and broke a six-year silence.
He got contributions. But what surprised him more, he got laughs. Gingerly, he tried a few more gags. A wave of laughter swept through the audience. At the next show, Benny played less and wise-cracked more. When the war was over he returned to vaudeville—as a monologist.
In the years that followed, Jack Benny, a glib young man carrying a violin he never played, became a celebrated comedian. He was a headliner in vaudeville, and one of the first and most successful masters of ceremonies in Broadway revues. He was a popular night club entertainer.
Apparently, he was permanently attached to the theater when the end of a transcontinental vaudeville tour brought him to the Orpheum Theater, in Los Angeles, the port of Hollywood. Benny stayed at the Orpheum for eight straight weeks, establishing a new house record for a single artist. Meanwhile talking pictures and the first wave of screen revues came to Hollywood.
To keep the talking Jack Benny out of talking pictures would have been a real problem. Nobody tried to. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer promptly offered him a contract and he made his screen debut as master of ceremonies in the Hollywood Revue. Other feature pictures, and comedy shorts followed in rapid succession.
Benny might have been in Hollywood yet if he hadn't met a Los Angeles girl — and continued to talk. The young lady just nodded her head, and said they would go East for their honeymoon. (Now she is doing some talking for herself, and you frequently hear her on the air with Benny. Her radio name is Mary Livingston.)
In “Vanities” Cast
The Bennys arrived in New York just as Earl Carroll was casting the annual edition of his “Vanities.” At Carroll's request, Benny dropped in to witness a rehearsal. When the curtain went up on the opening night Benny was still there. He was, in fact, the star of the show.
For two years he was the leading comedian and master of ceremonies in the Carroll revue. Then came radio, and now the comedian is waiting for television. The Bennys live in New York where Jack belongs to the Friars' Club and the Lakeville Golf and Country Club. He thinks radio is more fun than either the stage or screen, but he hasn't forsaken the earlier mediums. He frequently dashes from a personal appearance at a moving picture theater to the studio for a broadcast, and back again for another personal appearance.
He writes all of his stage monologues himself, most of his radio programs, and he generally broadcasts with his hat on. He often has difficulty in convincing people that Jack Benny is his real name. It is.

Mel Blanc, Businessman

Mel Blanc had two careers, three if you want to include all the charity work he did.

Mel was an excellent actor, in radio, cartoons and on records. But he also had a career in the 1960s as a businessman. Broadcasting magazine of November 14, 1966 published a fine profile of him, spending a good deal of space talking about his business endeavours.

WHAT'S up, doc? Mel Blanc is up.
Some five years ago, the victim of an automobile accident that broke almost every bone in his body except a few in his left arm, he was as down as a human being ever can be. He was a prisoner in plaster, encased in a full-body cast for more than a year. But the "Anaheim, Azusa and Cucamonga" train caller was not stilled.
Bugs Bunny's classic wiseacre voice still spills out from countless movie and TV screens around the world. Porky the Pig is stuttering in the same priceless way. Woody Woodpecker's taunting cackle continues to delight the young, the old and the movie exhibitors. Mel Blanc, the voice heard in more places, more times, for more years probably than any other in history, is back and in rare form. He's eyebrows-deep in the radio-television-advertising entertainment business, a broadcast pioneer of 40 years standing who's reached the promised land and is still pushing into new fields.
The round-faced man with the neat, French-accented mustache has parlayed a fine sense of timing, an ear that has picked up and retained all the sounds of a lifetime—and an uncanny ability to simulate them—into a grab-bag of personal achievement that consistently has been filled to overflowing.

It Pays Off ■ This year, for his work in commercials alone, Mel Blanc personally will earn more than $150,000. He received, for example, $54 at a one-time rate for doing the voice of a pig in a Paper-Mate TV spot saying simply: "With a piggyback refill." So far this spot has brought him some $40,000 in residuals.
A recent somewhat typical day in the life of Mel Blanc tells better than any adjectives how much mileage he gets out of a voice that can be twisted into licorice and made to come out sounding like anything from a lisping pussycat to an English race horse.
At 10 a.m. he was out of his house in Pacific Palisades and off to do four TV commercials for Raid insecticides (S. C. Johnson & Son Inc.) and Foote, Cone & Belding. By 1:30 that afternoon he was back in his own office at Mel Blanc Associates, where he taped a number of comedy turns for "Superfun," a new series of humorous brief radio features and inserts the company is marketing. At 8 that night he was back working the TV side doing five commercials for Royal instant pudding (Standard Brands Inc.). It wasn't until after 10 p.m. that he called it a day and headed west to his seaside home.
He started the company just before that near-fatal accident in 1961 as a way of cashing in on his knowledge of how to make effective commercials. Today Mel Blanc Associates is a solidly established commercials production house, specializing in the creation and making of humorous spots for radio and TV. (Mr. Blanc's son, Noel, is executive vice president.)
The emphasis at MBA decidely is on radio. In the last year, Mel Blanc, who remembers when listeners by the millions gathered to hear the humor broadcast by the medium, has been making speeches at conventions and before industry groups pitching the profit potential of funny radio commercials.
The natural outgrowth of this crusade is "Superfun," a five-part program service aimed at giving radio stations an overall image of humor. Mel Blanc performs regularly on the "Superfun" service, which is produced by his company. Although made available to stations only since September, the new service has been bought in 14 markets. Mr. Blanc believes this operation alone will gross $1 million for his company in the near future. As a comparison, MBA's current overall gross is less than that but somewhat in excess of $500,000.
Other Fields ■ As a second spin-off from his humor shop, Mr. Blanc and associates have created the Mel Blanc Blank Card, a series of greeting cards that are distributed by Buzza Cardozo, Anaheim, Calif.
This ever-creative, never imitative pace is the way it has been for Mel Blanc ever since he was a high-school singer in Portland, Ore., the place where he was raised. A one-time violinist and tuba player ( "I found a radio script was much lighter ") he began doing things with his voice while performing as MC for an hourly, six-days-a-week program called Cobwebs and Nuts on KEX Portland. "They were too cheap to give me talent," he remembers, "so I did all the voices."
That was the proving ground for a career that at its peak included performances on 18 (mostly network) radio shows a week and in 50 Warner Bros. cartoons a year. Maintaining this frenetic kind of schedule, however, was not without its complications. Mr. Blanc used to make rapid transitions from the Robert Benchley Show sponsored by Old Gold cigarettes to Burns and Allen sponsored by Chesterfields to Jack Benny sponsored by Lucky Strikes to Al Pearce sponsored by Camels, changing cigarette packs as he went so that the various advertisers would not be insulted.
That was the professional Mel Blanc of yesterday at work knowing that, even for the most talented, entertaining is a collaborative business. A scene at a commercial taping session the other day gave an indication of how the professional Mel Blanc is regarded today.
All the other performers and technicians stopped dead still, watched with glowing attention as the voice heard in more than 1,000 cartoons delivered its lines. It was like coming out to the ball park and seeing the way the other players watch Willie Mays field a ball.

Stop the Bottleneck!

Something will be going on a Bob Clampett cartoon where suddenly there’s a burst of extreme exaggeration animation.

Here’s an example from Baby Bottleneck (released in 1946). Porky’s looking a little dozy when his machine goes nuts. He’s so startled, he even disappears for a frame (though I suspect that wasn’t intentional).



Porky pulls back the lever to stop the conveyer belt. Clampett used close-up perspective animation in some of his later Warners cartoons which, to me, heightens the oddness of the action. It’s too close.



Rod Scribner, Manny Gould, Izzy Ellis and Bill Melendez are the animators on this short.

By a Waterfall

Tex Avery directed several “competition” spot gag cartoons involving Droopy and Spike. Gags tended to be quick (and some were predictable). Avery and his writers didn’t linger on them.

Here’s an example from Droopy’s Good Deed (1951). The premise is funny, as in funny peculiar. Spike is a bum who takes the place of a little Boy Scout in a contest to “meet the president.” Why Spike would want to meet the president is odd, but let’s brush past that.

The gag is set up with a shot of the page of the Scout Manual.



Spike tries to get rid of Droopy by sawing off a log on a stream. Note animator Grant Simmons has Spike’s pinky up.



Anyone who has seen enough cartoons (not necessarily Avery ones) will know what’ll happen, just like it does when a bad guy saws off a branch only to have the branch stay in the air and the tree with the bad guy fall over. I guess in theatres the audience could have seen Spike’s expression better.



The gag is about 14 seconds and then its on to the next one.

Mike Lah and Walt Clinton also animate on this short. Rich Hogan was the story man.

G-E-C (And Another Note)

They were an old friend. They ended every TV show on NBC. The sound of Bong-BONG-Bong as a slithering line formed the network’s initials.

I still smile when I hear the NBC chimes at the end of old radio shows, especially the version that was hand-struck by the announcer holding a little box with three rectangular metal plates.

We’ve written about the chimes in this post and this post. Well, here’s another post.

I’ve been curious when the network started using the sound. I think I’ve finally traced it to 1929. Here are some random and amusing newspaper clippings about the chimes.

Hartford Courant, Sept. 20, 1929
A Pleasing Innovation.
The usual "there will now be a brief pause for station announcements," has been missing from NBC daytime programs this week. In its place is a musical note. The "brief pause" phrase was used to warn stations on the network to make their own station announcements. The musical note, obtained from a specially designed four-note gong, serves the same purpose and is infinitely more pleasing to the ear.
Columbia, of course, has a musical signature for this purpose in both evening and daytime features. It is to be hoped that NBC will extend its use to the gong of the after-dark hours. In these days of long drawn-out commercial talks and program introductions, the fewer the routine statements to be made, the more pleasing the general effect, particularly if the program is a musical one.

Hartford Courant, August 6, 1930.
New Recipe for Chimes.
Inspired by the out-of-tuneness of those NBC chimes, Franklyn Baur, tenor, has submitted a suggestion for a new set to a New York newspaper. With apologies to Rube Goldberg, he submits the following recipe:
“Fill a hot water bag with water (not beer, because that 1 1-4 per cent stuff is too flat and other prohibited beverages are too sharp.) Then take four empty ginger ale bottles. Pour the first one-quarter full of water, the second one-half, the third three-quarters and the fourth entirely full.
“Science tells us that water seeks its own level. This is where I am relieved of the responsibility and science once more proves itself by holding the bag.
“So the musical vibrations given off at the finish of an orchestral number have the water in the water bag vibrating tremendously. Now the water in the four ginger ale bottles feels the common call of the water in the vibrating hot water bag and immediately seeks its own level. The announcer strikes the four bottles gently and you hear the most wonderful tones in tune.”

Graham McNamee Speaking column, October 26, 1930.
Chimes a Jinx.
Those chimes you hear between station announcements in network programs contracted a sort of a jinx of their own a few days ago. Every time an announcer had to sound them he would nearly have heart failure wondering what would happen next.
The chimes, which indicate to local stations that there will be a break in the program so they may announce their call letters, are struck with a small mallet. Ted Jewett seemed to start all the trouble one day when the head came off the mallet after the first crack, and be had to finish with just the handle. It was pretty sad. All you could hear was a tinkle.
The next day Neel Enslen was the goat. It was at the end of a program, and he had already sounded the chimes, just fifteen minutes previously. The mallet had been there, and he had put it carefully back in its place when he had finished. But he realized suddenly it was nowhere in sight.
Thru the window of the control booth he noticed the control engineer had an unlighted pipe between his teeth. In a trice Enslen had dashed into the booth, jerked the pipe from the engineer's mouth and was back at his place, using the pipe right merrily as a mallet. The disappearance of the original is still a mystery.
Jeff Sparks rounded it all off a evening at home for Charles Tramont, one of NBC's announcers.
Tramont was dozing peacefully on a couch in his apartment while Mrs. Tramont listened to the radio. The music stopped, and the identifying chimes of an NBC program vibrated the speaker. Tramont started to his feet and rushed toward a corner of the room, with his wife tugging at his arm. "Let me go," he protested sleepily, "I have to make a local announcement."

Wisconsin State Journal, December 28, 1930
Could Play 28,000 Tunes on NBC Chimes
Following a recent argument in the, Chicago NBC studios, Walter Lanterman, studio engineer, made a rather interesting discovery about the four-note chimes now being used between programs in national broadcasts. By mathematical computation, he has found that 87,296 different combinations are possible with the chimes now in use. It is improbable that NBC will experiment with all the possible combinations, for it would take a man more than a week to try them all out allowing five seconds for each combination. If NBC ever did desire to use sufficient chimes every day, however, the possible combinations would be sufficient to last for more than 200 years without repetition.

John Skinner column, Brooklyn Eagle, January 14, 1931
"WELL," boomed the hearty voice of The Man With the Big Ear way down the corridor, "I suppose you've noticed they've changed the N. B. C. chimes again. What d'ye know?"
"That you made an appointment with me to come and talk music," we replied, turning our cigarettes over resignedly as he entered, "not N. B. C. chimes." "Well," said our jovial snooper, "I was going to say something about the Symphonic Rhythm Makers. It's only that when I was up at N. B. C. watching them the other night. I had a chance to see that this frequent change of chime strokes can confuse even the best of announcers. Our friend John S. Young started the fifteen minute announcement gong with last week's strokes and ended with the latter part of the theme song of this week's strokes.
"However," he continued, tilting back his topper, "little matter. Asked him the cause for the changes in the manner of hitting the dinner gongs they use. Said it was to relieve the monotony. Seems the monotony could be relieved better by a special and complete dispensation. Ha!"

Birmingham News, March 22, 1931
Robert Stuart, Great Neck. Long Island, waits for NBCs morning chimes before dashing off for the train, while Mrs. Stuart sets the clocks. Recently the chime was omitted. Calmly, then aggressively, the Stuarts argued the matter. Finally Mrs. Stuart drove her husband by automobile to the depot, only to find the train gone. More words. Then neither spoke for two days. Later Mrs. Stuart asked NBC to verify absence of chimes, won her point, spent 15 cents telephone toll in telling her husband. Stuart called her back, spent 15 cents saying how sorry he was.

Syndicated story, October 11, 1931

“Dinner is served in the dining room,” Eddie Cantor roared out to startled visitors during a pause in the Chase and Sanborn Hour. The Broadway comedian learned that a “dead spot” of about 10 seconds follows the ringing of the NBC chimes signaling network stations to make local station announcements. During that period the studio is off the air and Cantor takes advantage of it to make unexpected remarks as “Vive La France,” “Ah ! Lunch is served” and “Mama, I want some candy.”

David Bratton, Brooklyn Daily Times, December 16, 1931
There appears to be a woeful lack of technic in regard to chime ringing is apparent. During the NBC-WEAF “Old Hunch” program we listened attentively and as the chimes rang at the close we moved over to WABC to catch Morton Downey. Imagine our surprise to have the CBS chimes almost exactly coincide with the NBC chimes.

Broadcast Weekly, June 5, 1932
Modern composers' habit of appropriating every-day noises and incorporating them into a musical composition, is making life more difficult for announcers. Sid Goodwin, of the NBC announcing staff in San Francisco, was standing in the studio the other morning, awaiting the moment when he should give the stand-by announcement—"KGO, San Francisco." The familiar sound of the NBC chimes told him the program coming from Chicago was ended, so he pressed buttons on the announcers' box, released all the stations on the KGO network, gave the stand-by—and then glanced at the clock. Then he hastily reached for the buttons again—for the chimes he had heard were part of the jazz composition still pouring out into the ether from Chicago.

Syndicated story, Sept. 18, 1932
Chimes on NBC To Alter Tone
The NBC chimes, which for years have had the important task of keeping the far-flung networks in synchronous step, are going to change their tone. An automatic electrical device, sending out a modulated, even tone at a constant level, will replace the familiar hand-struck chimes on all programs emanating from the NBC New York studios beginning Sunday, September 18.
The contrivance, invented by Captain Richard H. Ranger, designer of the pipeless organ and the bell-less carillon, has been installed in the main control room of the NBC building in New York. If the trial period proves its operation practical and its precise notes pleasing to the public, it will, be adopted as permanent equipment at the studios and also installed in the main control rooms of NBC studios in all other cities.
The purpose of the chimes, which previously have been run by the announcer striking one of the small hand sets with which each studio is equipped, is to synchronize local station identification announcements and to serve as a cue to engineers at relay points all over the country to switch various branches of the networks on or off as the programs change each fifteen minutes.
For some time NBC technicians have been seeking some automatic instruments which would insure a more constant level than could be obtained when different announcers were required to produce the three notes on different instruments.
Recently while working on the pipeless organ, Captain Ranger and O. B. Hanson, NBC manager of technical operation and engineering, were struck with the thought that the principle used to produce the organ tones might be applied in the creation of chimes.
After extensive experimentation, Captain Ranger perfected the idea, a centrally located contrivance, available for use on all programs originating from New York and capable of being operated by pressing a button in any New York studio.

Daily American, Nov. 20, 1933
Allen Schulman got an inspiration from listening to the NBC chimes—the ones that sound just before the station call letters are to be announced to the anxious listeners—so he sat down and wrote a musical composition which he calls "NBC Fantasies." It is in five movements, the last of which is "Announcers' Nightmare."

Redbook, February 1934
IF you have wondered why your three-tone NBC chimes occasionally come through your speaker with a fourth note, you may be interested to know that this is the emergency chime—the signal for any one of a list of some twenty executives and staff members to telephone NBC headquarters.
When the idea was inaugurated last spring, there was only one extra note sounded, and the entire list had to phone to find out what the trouble was and who was wanted at the studio. The signal was repeated until the desired party had communicated with headquarters. Nine times out of ten, however, the signal was for William Burke Miller, director of special events, so Mr. Miller not long ago instituted a change. Now, when the fourth note sounded is the highest, he telephones. When it is the lowest of the four, he calmly ignores it and lets the other nineteen worry.
As it is, Miller averages about four calls a week.When Jimmy Mattern was completing his epochal flight, the fourth high note went out on the air almost every fifteen minutes all day long. The regular three-note chime of the National Broadcasting Company is now rung automatically by an electrical device. However, when the emergency chime is needed, the fourth note is sounded manually by the announcer on duty.

Hartford Courant, Dec. 16, 1934
If you happen to hear what sounds like the NBC chimes around 6.45 megacycles, don't pass hastily on to some other station thinking you have an American short-wave station. You'll find it to be HJ1ABB at Barranquilla which has adopted an exact replica of the three chimes of the National Broadcasting Company for its identification signal.

This video shows a restored Rangertone chime machine. NBC sped up the pace of the chimes in the early 1950s so perhaps this box only dates back that far.