Paul Harvey: Air Salesman, Entertainer

Many of the tributes to Paul Harvey have referred to his ability to move products and services with his radio commercials. Advertisers were lined up, ready to pay big bucks to have him do their ads. If the specific term, “air salesman” appeared in any of those tributes, I missed it. When I got into radio in 1950, that was a job classification. It appeared in classified ads in the broadcasting industry trade magazine.
You needed to deliver personal, one-on-one commercials that worked for the advertisers. That was a major difference between radio people and those who worked for a newspaper. I envied newspaper journalists, looking down their noses at us radio hucksters. The newspaper people did their creative thing with no direct
involvement with the advertising sales department. We radio types might have liked to think we were creative performers but we were first of all in the advertising business, whether we liked it or not. Paul Harvey understood that. One of the stations I worked for wanted me to hit the streets after I did my air shift and sell enough advertising to justify my pay. Can you imagine your favorite columnist doing that? The newspaper business is in such dire straits that it might yet come to that. If you want to write a column, go out and find a sponsor to pay for it.. I had no ability or inclination to do that kind of selling, but I did visit the advertisers after a salesman closed the sale. I took notes and adlibbed commercials that were pretty effective. I became a doggone good air salesman. I was no Paul Harvey, who had a million dollar contract at the time of his death. But that experience gave me a professional understanding and appreciation for what a polished performer he was.
Radio has changed again and there is no longer much need for good air salespeople who know how to talk to the listeners rather than shouting at them like a maniacal used car dealer. Paul Harvey was one of the last and greatest air salesmen. But he was more than that. Many years ago, I asked a local journalist what she thought of Paul Harvey. She said, “He’s not a news man, he’s an entertainer.” I could only answer, “And a very good one.” I don’t believe Paul Harvey ever claimed to be a serious journalist. He was openly proud of his ability to sell products and entertain listeners. . Even those who did not agree with some of his conservative commentary were fascinated by his unique style. His voice, his inflections, the way he pronounced words, his pacing, it was different. It was arresting. It was Paul Harvey.
Paul’s attempt at doing TV was not successful. Like me, he looked better on radio. Paul Harvey and radio were made for each other. He had two beautiful, long lasting
marriages. One to his beloved Angel, who preceded him in death, the other with the
radio medium. Paul Harvey was one of the great radio air salesmen and entertainers of the last half of the previous century. It is a tribute to his talent that he lasted well into the first decade of the twenty-first.
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Happiness is just a thing called .....

Harry, upon one can always count to answer a question about any pop culture item from the past, says it was Jack Benny's Rochester who started what became one of radio's greatest running gags, delivered as only Mel Blanc could do it.I can feel only sadness at the cultural deprivation of those too young to know about "Anaheim, Azusa and Cucamonga." That reminds me of a movie I love. Not like, I mean love. Cabin the in the Sky stars Ethel Waters as Petunia, long suffering wife of loveable gambler, Little Joe. Joe is Eddie Anderson, so strongly identified with his "Rochester" role as Benny's valet that the film credits call him Eddie "Rochester" Anderson. When Petunia sings "Happiness is Just a thing Called Joe" to him as he lies mortally wounded, I fall apart. That's one of the greatest torch songs ever written. The title song is a rare gem, too. The opening notes climb upward like the mystical stairway to their cabin in the sky that Petunia and Joe climb in the closing scene. My happiness is a thing called being kissed on the cheek by Ethel Waters. She did that after I interviewed her on radio in the '60s. Precious memories.

South America Take it Away

A funny song in response to the Latin American music and dance craze is "South America, take it away!" Here are some of the words, as recorded by Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters. It's laugh-out-loud funny. There were many other recordings, too.

Take back your Samba, ay!, your Rumba, ay!, your Conga, ay-yi-yi!
I can't keep movin', ay!, my chassis, ay!, any longer, ay-yi-yi!
Now maybe Latins, ay!, in their middles, ay!, are built stronger, ay-yi-yi!
But all this takin' to the quakin' and this makin' with the shakin' leaves me achin', olé!

First shake around and settle there
Then you shake around and settle here
Then you shake around and settle there
That's enough, that's enough
Take it back, my spine's outta-whack
There's a strange click-clack
In the back of my Sacroiliac

Take back your Conga, ay!, your Samba, ay!, your Rumba, ay-yi-yi!
Why can't you send us, ay!, a less strenu-, ay!, -ous number, ay-yi-yi!
I got more bumps now, ay!, than on a, ay!, cucumber, ay-yi-yi!
While all those Latin drums are cloppin', like a Jumpin' Jack I'm hoppin' without stoppin', olé!
South America, take it away

First you shake around and settle there (where?)
Then you shake around and settle here (oh, there)
And then you shake around and settle there (why Bing!)
That's enough, that's enough
Take it back, my spine's outta-whack
There's a strange click-clack
In the back of my Sacroiliac
Oh, my achin' back

Take back your Conga, ay!, your Samba, ay!, your Rumba, ay-yi-yi!
Bring back the old days, ay!, of dancing I remember, ay-yi-yi!
My hips are cracking, I am shrieking "Ay-Carumba!", ay-yi-yi!
I got a wriggle and a diddle and a jiggle like a fiddle in my middle, olé!
This fancy swishin' imposition wears out all of my transmission ammunition, olé!
Though I like neighborly relations all these crazy new gyrations try my patience, olé!
South America, take it away

Methodist Conga Line

Oh Harry, you did it again. Just as was about to quit this blog foolishness, go to the senior center and do whatever my fellow old persons do there, you wrote about Carmen Miranda. That reminded me of my early teen years, when the Latin American Music craze swept this country. I listened to "Conga Rhumba Time" on CKLW, hosted by a guy with some kind of Latin American accent. Lots of Xavier Cugat recordings. Before I knew it, the craze got hold of me and there I was, a hormonally supercharged teen, scared to death of girls, snaking around in a conga line dance with other Methodist kids in the church basement. My hands on a girl's hips. A girl's moving hips. I'm fervently praying, "Oh Lord, don't let me enjoy this too much," Did I, in fact, enjoy it too much? I don't want to think about that.

Dardos For Scott

Harry Heuser of the marvelous Broadcastellan Blog has bestowed uoon me the Dardos Award,given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. These stamps were created with the intention of promoting fraternization between bloggers, a way of showing affection and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.
Lots of research yields no clue about how it got started or who made up the rule that you should display the logo on your blog and pass the award on to five other deserving bloggers. Most of those to whom I would give it already have it, so it will take some time for me to deal with that part of it. The one to whom I do now offer it is Scott Semester and his blog, "All I'm Saying."
Scott is a brilliant young man, one of Indiana's gifts to the
blogosphere. I think I first stumbled upon his blog when he was rehearsing some songs by Cole Porter, another pretty famous Hoosier.It was Scott's 35th birthday that inspired my blog about poor old Helen Trent, perpetually 35 year old radio heroine. Scott is one of the world's finest uncles, lavishing much love and blog space upon Madelynn and Owen. One thing Scott and I have in common is,we are having far too much fun with our blogs.

Radio Wedding ... Marriage Wisdom

It was on this date in 1954 that radio listeners in Flint, Michigan heard a wedding on WMRP. Deejay Clif Martin married a fan, Freda Shumate. We are still married. I am older than dirt and my child bride is 3 years younger than dirt. You say you want wise words about how to grow old together? OK, here it is. You must both love cats. Even if you have nothing else in common you can spend precious time together in mutual babbling about how cute your cats are and crying together when they cross the Rainbows Bridge. Warning! Highly emotional content. If it doesn't make you blubber, you need a tear duct transplant.
So be advised: If one of you loves cats and the other does not, do not get married. If you are already married, get a divorce. Or if you are a religious type you can seek divine intervention for your partner's conversion. My son married a woman who did not like cats. She now likes cats. You know what they say about mysterious ways. If one of you is allergic to cats, take your pills and live with it. Everything has a price. If sneezing a lot is your worst problem about living with another person, you ain't got it so bad.

2 comments:
Scott S. Semester said...
Great post, Clif!

I don't remember what led our paths to cross internettily, but I'm glad they did.

Anniversary blessings,
Scott

4:27 AM
Clifton said...
Thanks, Scott ... WMRP, Methodist Radio Parish, was owned by the Methodist Church. There are some wild stories about things that happened there.

5:22 AM
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'30s all Over Again

Did anybody else think about Father Coughlin and FDR when President Obama took a public poke at Rush Limbaugh? The nation's most powerful radio talker, on his own network of independent stations, feuding with a popular new President who took office at a time of terrible national problems. I suppose some of Mr. Obama's advisors have told him to ignore Limbaugh and make no further comment. I hope he doesn't listen to them. This could be great fun. The media will love it.
And you thought AM radio was dead!

FAMOUS AMOS AND OTHER RADIOCATS

This is one of the three cats who live here. They are the benevolent king, the beautiful princess and the evil queen. You should not need to guess which one this is. He/She/It began as Famous Amos. We already had Andy, so when this one showed up we thought it appropriate to name it Amos. When it became apparent that Amos is a girl, she became Amy. I know of no old time radio show about Amy 'n' Andy but we do the best we can with what we have to work with.
Way back in the olden days of the '70s, when I was into ham radio, I checked into the 40 meter band every Sunday morning for the ORCATS meeting. That wasn't about felines, it stood for Old Radio Collectors and Traders Society. They traded reel to reel tapes with fellow members all over the country. One of the founders, whose signal got to me loud and clear from a Chicago suburb, is Ken Piletic, W9ZMR. He and the group are still going strong, now using Mp3 technology.
I thought of Ken and that group when I heard from Jon, who sells OTR shows on CD. He calls his firm OTRCat. That apprently stands for Old Time Radio Catalog. He does have a feline in his logo. Anybody who likes cats can't be all bad so I will give him a plug here. He does offer free samples for us to listen to. That appeals to my basically cheap nature. It was from his page that I got the Helen Trent episode I wrote about back in August. He also has some of the sermons of the big noise from the Little Flower if you're curious about what Father Coughlin sounded like. So take a look at what he has to offer.

Hear it or Read it?

A local friend who has heard me do public speaking commented that as he read the previous post, he imagined hearing me say it. Very interesting. How many of us are strongly spoken word oriented? I certainly am. I would rather hear it than read it.

The Other Little Flower...Michigan Meanderings

There is something wrong with my brain. It's ATD, Associative Thinking Disorder. It has not yet appeared in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the big book that my shrink refers to as she decides whether I'm nutty or normal. I heard about the book on NPR's On The Media. My disorder will no doubt show up in their next arbitrary revision of what's crazy and what's not. When you have ATD, everything that happens reminds you of something else, usually something that happened long ago and far away. If you are a blogger, you spend all day writing about things that utterly fascinate you but which nobody else cares about. Harry Heuser, co-founder of our International ATD support group, posted an article about New York City's Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, The Little Flower, in his December 7 Broadcastellan post. It reminded me of something that happened long ago in the Southeast part of Michigan. That's where what's left of Detroit is. I grew up in what was then the rural village of Warren, about fifteen miles Northeast of Detroit.
That's my high school on the middle left and I did go to the little old country schoolhouse on the upper right for one year. The other photos are a blacksmith shop. a general store and the town's crossroads. There's a Lucky Strike Billboard on the building at Chicago and Mound Roads. Get a load of that two story skyscraper. When I lived there, Warren was a lot like Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon. I can relate to his stories on a very personal level. Warren was perhaps even more provincial than Keillor's mythical Minnesota town. The German Catholics in Lake Wobegon can attend Our Lady Of Perpetual Responsibility Parish. In Warren, our two churches were both Protestant. Keillor's insightful treatment of the part the churches played in small town pre-war mid-American family life is mighty funny stuff for those of us who have been there. His Young Lutheran's Guide to the Orchestra is a masterpiece of religious and musical satire. I know satire is a dangerous form of humor. There are those who don't get it, don't like it and don't think it's funny. But that's a subject for another post.
Lake Wobegon has a mayor. Warren had a village president. We were so far from civilization that those fifteen miles from the Motor City might as well have been fifteen hundred. When a friend and I journeyed to the big city in the late '40s to watch Joe Gentile and Ralph Binge do their zany morning radio show on WJBK, they made jokes about us taking the stage coach from Warren. That was some of the funniest stuff ever to come out of Detroit Radio and it continues to puzzle me that apparently none it has been preserved on recordings.
My family made an annual shopping trip to Royal Oak, a few miles West. When we got near 12 Mile Road and Woodward and spotted a magnificent Catholic Church, my father always reminded us that it was the Shrine of the Little Flower, the home of Father Coughlin, the radio priest loved or hated by millions of listeners around the country. Incidentally, it's pronounced "Coglin" with a short "O." We might have choked on what he said, but there is no "cough" in his name.
What an edifice, unlike anything we country bumpkin Methodists had ever experienced. Built of limestone and granite in a radical octagonal shape, its most imposing feature is a magnificent tower with a 28 foot high carved sculpture of Christ on the cross and a carving of St. Therese of Lisieux on the adjoining wall. St. Therese was a young Carmelite nun, known as the Little Flower. She died in her twenties and was canonized twenty-five years later in 1925. It is to her that the church is dedicated.
I don't think my parents listened to Father Coughlin with any regularity and I don't recall any family talk about what he stood for. It was not until many years after those trips to "The Oak," which is what my family and relatives called Royal Oak, that I understood the historical significance of what I had seen.
A year or so ago I did a talk about great radio preachers of the early 20th century, prominently featuring Father Coughlin. I dug out my notes, but decided to use little of that material here. The increasing anti-semitism and politcal diatribes that finally got him taken off the air and forced him to retire from the Shrine under threat of being defrocked have been exhausitvely analyzed and interpreted by historians and researchers far better qualified than I. His support and then attacks on FDR produced some monumental rhetoric. He said of the Democrat platform "It shatters this brittle structure of glass promises into a thousand slivers of worthless political debris." Yet after FDR's big win in 1936, he said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the day, despite all opposition to the contrary, that you remain steadfast behind the one man who can save this civilization of ours. It is either Roosevelt or ruin." By 1940 he was caling FDR the "world's chief war-monger." I doubt that any of the present day commentators who are ideologically compared to Father Coughlin could hold a candle to him when it comes to turning a phrase. There was also his support of Hitler and Mussolini and the alleged but unproven financial support that he received from the Nazis. His association with Henry Ford's blatantly anti-Jewish publication is especially interesting. There is a song about Father Coughlin in a jazz opera, .Murder at the Rouge Plant. It tell the riveting story of the blody unionization of the Ford Plant at River Rouge. It's all there on the internet for anyone who is interested.
There's a standard joke about the wierd uncle in most families. I really had one, the only factory worker in a clan of mostly farm folk. He worked at the Ford Plant. I was very young, but I still remember the otherwise bucolic holiday gatherings that got pretty lively when he got going with his passionate rants about politics, labor unions, strikes and all those things that were such hot issues in the '30s.
I don't recall if he had anything to say about Father Coughlin but he probably did.
My special interest in Father Coughlin is his masterful use of the new radio medium to achieve great power and influence. His broadcasts on WJR began in 1925 or 1926, depending upon which report you read. At the height of his popularity, about the time of FDR's first term, he was called the second most important politlcal figure in the country, second only to the president. His radio audience was estimated at 30 to 40 million listeners. That's an astounding figure, representing a third of the nation's population. He had a room full of secretaries anwering many thousand of letters, many of them stuffed with contributions that he used to build the church. Wikidpedia, which I don't always believe, says he got up to 80,000 letters each week. Given his popularity and power, it might have been close to that. When he got too hot for the network to handle and they cancelled his program, he formed his own radio network and bounced back, bigger than ever. Paid religious programs were a good source of income for smaller, independent stations. They would take your money and put you on the air with a disclaimer and they didn't care what you said. The networks carried the great liberal preachers like Harry Emerson Fosdick and Ralph W. Sockman, while the independents were glad to accomodate the conservatives who paid for the air time with contributions from little old ladies who put their hands on the radio for healing and cleaned out their life savings to keep their favorite preacher on the air. That, too, is a subject for another post, a most fascinating part of early broadcasting history. If Father Coughlin were around today, he might be on shortwave radio. That is where the real crazies hang out, getting away with things they could never say on regular domestic radio. Shortwave radio is a well kept secret that has lots of loyal listeners. There are at least 20 shortwave stations in this country, blanketing the world with often exteme ideologies. The news agency Reuters has just published a surprising article about the romance of shortwave radio. But that is yet one more thing for me to blog about if I live long enough to get it all done.
Almost every Coughlin biographer has used a glowing tribute to his radio presence, attributed to Wallace Stegner: "Father Coughlin had a voice of such mellow richness, such manly, heart-warming, confidential intimacy, such emotional and ingratiating charm, that anyone tuning past it on the radio dial almost automatically returned to hear it again." Stegner was a Pulitzer Winner, apparently best known for his novels about the American West. I have had no success in trying to learn how he became interested in Father Coughlin, in what context he wrote that, or where it appeared. I'll be most grateful if someone out there can solve that puzzle.
Other writers have suggested that Coughlin might have exaggerated, for dramatic effect, whatever natural Irish brogue he possessed.It is said that he understood what the microphone could do for him. He would back away from it for a reverberant sound as if addressing an audience in a big hall, moving in close when it was time to be intimate.
One of the most interesting books dealing with the Father Coughlin years is Radio Priest: Charles Coughlin, Father of Hate Radio. It was written in 1996 by Donald Warren, a professor at Oakland University, not far from Royal Oak. The transcript of an interview with Warren is here. He interviewed more than one hudred persons who had known Father Coughlin, which makes me inclined to go along with his work where it differs from what others have written. One difference is his take on the story that the wooden building, erected at the Royal Oak site before the present church was built, was destroyed by fire from a burning cross put on the lawn by the Ku Klux Klan. Warren's interviews yielded no substantiation for that one, treated as fact by virtually every other writer. Warren also found that, while Father Coughlin might have done some of his WJR radio talks by telephone line from his tower office, most were done at the WJR studios in the Fisher Building in Downtown Detroit. He says the priest was "always on," "tremendously theatrical," whether at mass, on the air, or at dinner.
Donald Warren tells a great story about being kicked out of the New York City office of CBS Chief Executive Officer William Paley when he asked Paley about Father Coughlin. That was in the mid '80s, making it five or six years after Coughlin's death and half a century after his time on CBS. Even after all that time,the memory of the trouble he had caused the network was still a matter not to be talked about.
According to Warren and other writers whose work appeared ten or fifteen years ago, the Royal Oak Church had fallen into disrepair. That has apparently changed. The website shows the Shrine of the Little Flower in fine shape in every way, restored to its original magnificence. It appears to be a thriving operation with a school building project in the works, descrbed as a "welcoming community respectful of tradition and open to the future." The history link does credit Father Coughlin as the founder of the parish but there is no mention of the controversy that surrounded his years there or how he raised the money that built it. I don't know what the present day parishoners think about him if they think of him at all. I suppose some might refuse to talk about Father Coughlin, as William Paley did.
Father Coughlin still has passionate followers who have their own website, praising him and dedicated to disseminating the truth that they believe he told.
Having written all this about Father Coughlin as one of the most powerful radio preachers of the past century, I must now say he was not the most flamboyant. That position belongs to a Protestant radio evangelist of that era whose ministry was bizarre beyond anything that a fiction writer could dream up. Stay tuned to Canary Feathers for that story.
I have worked on this post for more than a month. I must call it quits and say it's finished, lest my head explode from a massive attack of ATD. Exploring the decade of the '30s will do that to you. A most wonderful and terrible time, some of which we will all be reliving along with our new president.
This all began as a scholarly treatise about Father Coughlin but it soon took on a life of its own, as if to remind me that scholarly treatises are way out of my league. So I just let it meander off to wherever it wanted to go, becoming a disjointed mish-mash that would drive an editor to distraction. But that's the joy of blogging. No editors.
I wonder if I should show this to my shrink. Not a good idea. She might tell me I have not only have ATD, but OCB. Obsessive Compulsive Blogging. Is there a support group for that?

It's not likely that I will return to Warren or Royal Oak in this lifetime. Unlike Keillor's Lake Wobegon, the "Town that time forgot," Warren is now a big city, Michigan's third largest. My grandfather's Chicago Road Farm is long gone. It is now the site of one those modern churches that replaced the hundred year old white frame church that I grew up in.
I would probably have trouble finding the house where I was born. On the other hand, maybe I should take a drive down there, get on 12 Mile Road and head West. As I got near Woodward Avenue and spied that great tower, I might hear my father's voice: "There's Father Coughlin's Church, the Shrine of the Little
Flower."

Shep, Lois Nettleton, George Ade

Jean Shepherd's third wife, Lois Nettleton, was right. She said Shep was a genius. His treatment of FDR's favorite Humorist, George Ade, laced with his own insights into humor writing, is brilliant. It's currently avaialble for listening on Max Schmid's site. Don't miss it. It is something very special.

Ralphie, Annie and Pierre

My post about favorite old time kid radio shows failed to mention that I was a pretty big fan of Little Orphan Annie. How many of the hundreds of thousands who have watched A Christmas Story since it appeared in the '80s know why young Ralphie was thrilled to see Pierre Andre's signature on the letter welcoming him to the Orphan Annie Secret Society, qualifying him to decode the secret message at the end of the program. I am among that elite half dozen or so, either old enough or sufficiently into things that stopped being important long, long ago. (If they ever were.) Any decent, died-in-the-wool old time radio nut knows that network radio announcers were stars in those days. One of the great ones in Chicago was Pierre Andre. He worked at WGN for 30 years. With a name like that, as he read those secret code numbers, how could he help but have a voice and delivery well calculated to make you send your parents out for a can of Ovaltine. A letter with his signature would probably bring a good figure on eBay these days.

No Leg Lamp this Time

I asked Santa to bring me a leg lamp. He did not deliver the goods. Mrs. Santa probably intervened. You would think the old lady would have developed a decent sense of humor after a lifetime of living with old Jelly-belly.
Oh boy, a lamp in the form of a shapely female leg like the one young
Ralphie’s old man won in the “ A Christmas Story” movie is just what I need to complete my nostalgic toy room. I could set it between the 1941 Zenith Radio and the big picture of a 1930 Packard. Or maybe it would look good shining its light on my Hammond Organ from the 60’s. No, the only appropriate place for a leg lamp is near the four pictures of 50’s pin-up girl Bettie Page. She died last week at age 85 and keeping her images illuminated by the leg lamp would be just right. My nostalgia den would be the envy of every old boy who dreams of his own playroom.
It’s probably not fair that guys get away with being little boys with their toys forever while girls are supposed to grow up and become responsible, nurturing citizens. But hey, life is not fair. Never was, never will be. Marriage counselors should warn starry eyed young things about what guys are really like and how it gets worse as we age, so the girls can opt out before it’s too late.
Young Ralphie’s old man and his prized leg lamp are just one of the hilarious and charming scenes from Jean Shepherd’s Christmas tale. It started out as one of his late night radio monologues back in the 40’s, often about growing up in Hammond Indiana. The story eventually found its way into Shepherd’s book, “In God we trust, all others pay cash.” It became a holiday tradition 25 years ago, when he narrated the movie version. I just watched it again and I agree with those who say it's just as funny as before, even if you see it every year.

They made a big thing of the film’s 25th anniversary back in November, but Hammond, Indiana got short changed. It was celebrated in Cleveland, where most of the outdoor scenes were filmed. You could tour the family home where Ralphie lived, take a shot with his BB gun, meet some of the original cast members, and even ride in the fire truck that rescued Ralphie’s nutty friend Flick when he got his tongue stuck on the cold flagpole.
Some of the indoor scenes were shot in Canada. I know about that because of a discussion on the antique radio internet group that I check into. The big console radio that Ralphie listened to so he could decode the secret messages with his decoder ring was a 1940 Canadian Westinghouse model 780. Only an old boy who loves his toys could possibly care about a detail like that. Several of the guys in my online group have that same model in their antique radio collections. Remind me to look for one of those. But let us not tell my wife about it, eh?
The best part of the month long celebration and convention in Cleveland would have made me head South in a hurry if I had known about it in time. I could have come home with my own 45 inch full size Christmas Story leg lamp from the gift shop for a hundred bucks. Some of our local stores advertised a 20 inch, table lamp version for 40 bucks, a pretty poor substitute for the long, luscious one that Ralphie’s old man loved. I guess I should have bought myself one of those anyway, and just told Santa to forget it so he could restore domestic harmony at the North Pole with a “Yes, dear. You’re right, dear. No leg lamps this year, dear,”
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Bugs's Greatest Hits

My best Christmas gift: Bugs Bunny drawn by my 9 year old grandson, Alex Lynn. The kid has talent. The printing on the music says Bugs Bunny's Greatest Hits.

Billy, Rick and Barack

The media pundits have already named Pastor Rick Warren the next Billy Graham. There's a funny story going around that when someone asked Billy Graham about Rick Warren he said, "Who?" I like that. I hope it's true.
Billy got burned by his involvement in presidential politics and he vowed never to do it again. Rick Warren is up to his armpits in presidential politics. The Reverend Mr. Graham is older and a whole lot wiser.

Changing times, racing chimes

NBC Television has started using the old NBC chimes, but those three notes that were so much a part of American life in radio's better days are now speeded up to keep up with our breakneck pace of living. I don't have an accurate stopwatch, but I'd say the original chimes took almost four seconds to play, while the current, souped-up TV version races by in just over one second. I spent far too much time trying to find a recording of Three Chimes of Silver, the song that Meredith Willson wrote for the NBC Network's 25th anniversary in 1951. I recall hearing it at that time. It appears that ASCAP or the Willson estate has the song locked up tight, making it unavailable. I hoped I might find a bootleg You Tube of it, but no luck. Surely there must be recordings of the NBC anniversary program that featured the song. Can you help me with this one, Harry? The chimes used in 1932 and thereafter were produced by an electro-mechanical device that was something like a glorified music box. It had rotating drums with little projections that plucked tuned reeds. You can hear those chimes along with earlier ones and the history of one of radio's most memorable sounds here.

Henry and Fanny

Harry Heuser has asked me to talk more about favorite radio listening when I was growing up in the '30s and '40s. I wonder if it will be a surprise when I reveal that the most important program for my family, including me at a pretty young age, might well have been One Man's Family. It was a family drama, too good to be called a soap opera. Maybe we loved it because the Barbour clan of Seacliff San Francisco, with their conservative stock broker patriarch, liberal philosopher son Paul and his troublesome siblings were so vastly different from our life in rural Michigan. Whatever it was, it captivated us and a good part of the nation's listeners for 27 years.
The program was written by the very prolific Carlton E. Morse, who also turned out an adventure series, I Love a Mystery. That one seems to get more press from collectors and historians than the family drama. But all I remember about it is the theme song, Valse Triste, and the characters' names, Jack, Doc and Reggie. On the other hand, I can still become transported to California and find myself thinking about the Barbours as if they were real. That could indicate that I'm weird or that Morse was a great radio writer. Take your choice.
Some years ago I acquired a tape of Chicago radio historian Chuck Schaden's interview with Carlton E. Morse. He said that when he sat down at the typewriter to write the program he went into trance-like state and when he came out of it, an entire episode had virtually written itself.
Morse was so good at little things like names for his characters, maybe not so little after all. Even though it was radio and we could not hear the "U" in "Barbour," we saw it when we read about the program. We knew they were no ordinary Barbers. I became quite enchanted with Paul. If I could change my name, my persona and become a different person I would be about 45, handsome and wise. I would be Paul Barbour with a "U" in my last name. Paul's elusive love interest, his wife of a very short time having died, was Beth Holly. She was referred to but seldom appeared on the program by the time I started listening. There was something mysterious there. I thought "Beth Holly" was the prettiest name any woman could ever be given. Was she a girl-next-door, Doris Day type? No, Paul would choose a more exotic, Rita Hayworth look alike. One of the Barbour daughters, I don't remember if it was Hazel or Claudia, married a Brit, Nicholas Lacey. Another perfect name. Paul had a daughter, or maybe she was adopted, called Teddy. Oh, the teen age traces that she kicked over. I could look up all these details but it's more fun to speculate about it.
The program was introduced with, "One Man's Family is dedicated to the Mothers and Fathers of the Younger Generation and to their Bewildering Offspring." I don't know how staid old Father Barbour managed to avoid a heart attack over the things his bewildering offspring threw at him.
Morse had a gift for hiring the right actors, too. I never quite recovered when Michael Rafetto had to give up his role of Paul when his voice became too hoarse.
Russell Thorsen was alright in the role. But he was not Paul Barbour.
Let us assume that this is being read by persons much younger than I, as just slightly less than one hundred percent of bloggers are. They are now thinking, has this guy gone senile? Did my grandparents get that caught up in radio shows? First of all, we didn't call them shows. They were programs. There was "The Jack Benny Program." and "The Johnson's Wax Program with Fibber McGee and Molly." That's the way they were introduced on the air. If your doddering old grandparents speak of a favorite TV program, you can be pretty sure it comes from their radio listening days. There was a TV version of One Man's Family. If I ever saw it, it must have been forgettable.
I must get away from all this nostalgic wallowing and rejoin the real world. But I still like the Barbour's world better. California, here I come.

Old Time Kid Radio

Reviewing my youthful radio listening preferences forces me to admit that I was a weird kid. The Lone Ranger, touted by historians as the greatest of all the kid shows, didn't do much for me. Of the WXYZ shows, I liked the Ranger's great nephew, Britt Reid of the Daily Sentinel lots better. As The Green Hornet, he beat the cops at catching the bad guys with his Black Beauty vehicle that sounded like an overgrown bumble bee. I found crime fighting through investigative journalism far more appealing than catching bad guys with guns and horses in the Old West. Mike Axford's phony Irish accent when he spoke of "The Green Hairnut" was pretty funny. And there was Miss Case. Did she and Reid have a thing going? There was Kato, the Hornet's Japanese valet. Like some other radio characters, he had to change his ethnicity or disappear from the show, so he became a Filipino. Those were strange times. I'm glad I was there to experience it.

Clifton Mercer's Daughter

I just found this comment from Cliff Mercer's daughter on my post about his work at WGN radio.

Sarah Mercer said...
This is Clifton Mercer's Daughter.My Father passed away peacefully he was a great man and loved his music and his carrer. Thank you for remembering


Sarah left no way for me to contact her personally so I do it here with the hope that she will see it. Thank you, Sarah. Your dad and I were both named Clifton, going through life with those two "F's" in the abbreviation, everyone assuming we are Cliffords. When I was a deejay and we got actual fan mail, I made a big thing on the air about spelling it with one "F." Which resulted in tons of mail addressed to Cliffffff Martin. I guess the post office wondered what that was all about.

R. I. P. Bettie Page

The greatest of all the pin-up girls has gone to that great, under the counter mens magazine in the sky. It's the end of an era. A sad day for us old guys and for Bettie's huge cult following of youthful fans, including lots of young women who want to look like her. Here is the Nurse Bettie get-well card drawn for me by Grand Rapids, Michigan artist Jack Snider when I was in the hospital. It was the start of what became my antique room/Bettie Page Shrine. I was saying so long to my troubled esophagus. Yes, it's possible to live without one. But I don't recommend it.
And here's a post imported from one of my other blogs, the "religious" one. More accurately, the one about religion.

Patsy and Bettie
Patsy and Bettie?? Now there's as unlikely a combination as you will find. Let me explain.I think I'm in love with Patsy Cline and I have the notorious Bettie Page, legendary pin-up girl to thank for it. I always liked Patsy's "I fall to pieces, " "Crazy" and some other songs but never paid a whole lot of attention her music. Then her most unusual treatment of the old gospel song, "Life's Railway to Heaven" showed up on the soundtrack of the Bettie Page film. I didn't recognize the voice but I had to know who that was. So I ran through the credits at the end again, and there it was. Patsy Cline. That song took me back to my Methodist Sunday School days. Usually sung quite fast in country gospel style, Patsy did it slow, plaintive, almost ballad-like with a backup vocal group making chugging train sounds.Gives me major goosebumps. Turns out that the Grand Canyon Railroad used her recording on their commercial. Thanks for the memory and the music, Patsy. And thanks to Bodacious Bettie.
Perhaps even more unlikely than a pairing of Ms. Page and Ms. Cline is the fact (I swear it's true) that I came home from church with several pages of Bettie Page tattoes that are available, given to me by our resident tatooed lady. Her name is not Lydia. I said to my poor old wife, "I think I will go under the needle." She said "I think you will sleep on the couch."