Mexican Police Band Performs Concert to Entire U.S. on Radio
The Zenith-Edgewater Beach Hotel broadcasting station in Chicago on the evening of Sunday September 30 gave to its listening audience throughout the United States a rare treat which was fully appreciated, as evidenced by the thousands of letters pouring into the station. The official Mexican police band of 87 pieces, sent to this country by President Álvaro Obregón, appeared in full uniform and rendered a concert of continuous playing, lasting over one and a half hours. Many of this band stood during the entire time, and there was no intermission.
When the director of the band was asked if they did not desire an intermission, his reply was, "Oh, an hour and a half of straight playing is nothing. In Mexico we often play steadily for three hours.
This band came to the United States on the heels of the recent recognition of Mexico as a friendly handclasp from President Obregón. To put it in the words of the Mexican consul, "We can express our appreciation most appropriately through music." The Mexican consul stated this was the first appearance of this band at any radio broadcasting station.
The band was organized 20 years ago by Velino M. Preza, who still is conductor and has seen it grow not only in the affections of the Mexican people, but in the esteem of foreigners, and especially of the highest musical critics.
In 1909, when President Porfirio Diáz met President William Howard Taft in conference on the Mexican border, this band furnished the musical setting, and President Taft personally expressed his appreciation and extended his felicitations to the conductor.
It is a symphony band, and every member is a Mexican and a musical expert. The requirements for admission are extremely rigid. The youngest member is 22 and the oldest 65. There are no string instruments in the band other than two bass viols. There are 22 clarinets, 10 cornets, six saxophones, etc. An extremely difficult combination to put over the radio, and preparations were in progress five days to properly stage and reproduce this band from station WJAZ.
The name of this band is somewhat of a misnomer and would indicate a relation with the police force, but in reality all members are accomplished civilian musicians.
This mark of friendliness on the part of President Obregón in sending to the United States this wonderful band has cost the Mexican government approximately $100,000.
On Sunday evening, directly in front of the band in the Marine dining room of the Edgewater Beach Hotel, were seated as guests of the hotel at dinner the Mexican consul in the seat of honor and the consuls representing the following countries: Great Britain, Argentine, Columbia, Cuba, Czecho Slovakia, Denmark, France, Germany, Japan, Netherlands, Spain, Sweden, and Uruguay. The consuls' table was decorated with the flags of the various nations there represented.
From Radio Guide, November 1923
The Mythical Town of East Tincup, Colorado
Pete Smythe was a local Denver radio personality in the 1950s that many of us still remember fondly. His program originated from a mythical store called Pete Smythe's General Store from the mythical town of East Tincup, Colorado. He had a musical opening that was very familiar at the time, but something that I can't now remember. It was all about opening up the store and "now we're ready for business," etc.
He had an old player piano that we heard occasionally and plenty of folksy chatter. Several years after it gained popularity, a small commercial development sprang up in the foothills with the name Tincup. I don't know if it was connected with the program, but I don't think it survived too long.
Joe Flood was another local radio personality who I enjoyed. He had a program called The Upsy Daisy Show. During the course of the show, he would bang on the pots and pans and make up all sorts of noise so his listeners would get out of bed and get going. He also had an evening program that played some unusual records. I think they were classified as novelty tunes. At any rate, I loved them at the time.
Chuck Collins, the father of singer Judy Collins, used to play the piano and sing on a local radio program. Our school class went to see him perform in the radio studio once and then he visited our school and performed in the auditorium. He was blind and was a great example of how a person can overcome a handicap. His motto was, "Every stumbling block can become a stepping stone."
The last person I remember was Don Roberts. He had a morning show which always started with the Star-Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance.
There are still plenty of local shows, but I miss the down-home quality and folksy charm of the old programs of my youth.
Lon McCartt in Return With Us Now, January 1999
The Night Arthur Godfrey Fired a Singer On Live Radio
The last memory I have of Julius La Rosa was seeing him at the Italian Festival on Hertel Avenue about five or six years ago. He was about 70 years old then. He looked good and sounded great as he entertained the friendly crowd. Nowadays his singing engagements are limited mainly to Italian festivals and some nightclub gigs. In between his singing he gave a little monologue, and naturally the Arthur Godfrey thing came up. I was surprised to hear him say that he harbored no grudge or ill feelings towards Godfrey for the ruthless way he fired him live on the show all those many years ago.
La Rosa made his debut on Arthur Godfrey and His Friends November 19, 1951. He shared the limelight with the other "friends" including Frank Parker, Marianne Marlowe, Haelokie, Jeanette Davis, and the McGuire Sisters. Tony Marvin was the announcer, and Archie Bleyer was the orchestra leader. Bleyer would receive the same treatment as La Rosa met only a few years later. Although La Rosa would never reach the fame of a Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin, he was a very popular singing star in the early 1950s.
La Rosa was born in Brooklyn on January 2, 1930. La Rosa recalls those growing up days as wonderful. Even though times were tough and the neighborhood was a bit rough, he says he wouldn't have it any other way. You never had to lock your door or worry about getting mugged or be subjected to the more violent crime that is so prevalent today. He like many others grew up listening to Frank Sinatra. Frank was his idol. He also liked the big band leaders Tommy Dorsey and Glen Miller. "That was music," he would say. I tend to agree with him, considering what is forced down our eardrums these days.
After La Rosa finished high school he joined the Navy in the late 1940s. In his last nine months of service he had the opportunity to become the featured vocalist for the Navy Band in Washington D.C. It was here while performing that Godfrey first heard him sing. After the show Godfrey saw him backstage and said, "Young man, when you get out come and see me. You've got a job."
At this time Godfrey was a virtual superstar on CBS with three hit shows. Even before La Rosa left the Navy, Godfrey started promoting this new singing sensation he had discovered. When La Rosa joined the show he gave the appearance of being shy. La Rosa said, "I wasn't shy, I was scared to death." Considering he went from singing in the Navy to going on one of the most popular shows on the air, it was only natural to have a little stage fright. Anyhow the listeners loved him. After he was on the show for awhile he began moonlighting at clubs on weekends.
In 1952 Archie Bleyer formed Cadence Records and had La Rosa recording for him. La Rosa then hired a manager after his first hit record. This didn't go over too well with Sir Arthur, since none of Arthur's friends were allowed managers. La Rosa also refused (unlike all the other male stars on the show) to take dance lessons ordered by Godfrey. On top of this all, La Rosa had a thing for Dorothy McGuire. Godfrey himself also had a soft spot for McGuire. Finally on Oct. 19, 1953, La Rosa was canned right after singing "Manhattan." Godfrey called it La Rosa's "swan song."
Godfrey's reason for firing La Rosa was his lack of humility. For many years later, La Rosa contemplated what Godfrey meant by saying he lacked humility. Most of the press and all of the audience sided with La Rosa. Godfrey's popularity took a dip and he never regained the admiration he once held.
La Rosa had a few good years after he left Godfrey, including a number two hit record, "Eh Cumpari." Eventually things slowed down. Rock and roll evolved, and this was not in La Rosa's genre. He became a successful disc jockey in New York City and still sang occasionally. As I said before, he's still singing for ethnic groups and doing a little Vegas work. He lives in Westchester County. He is married with an older son and daughter.
One might wonder what sort of career could he have achieved if he would have remained on the Godfrey shows. One can only guess. Back in 1953 however, he was a somebody and he was also a contender.
From Illustrated Press, February 2007
New Diner Named After the Great Gildersleeve
A new concept restaurant is coming to a familiar spot in Pueblo, with a 1940s-theme diner expected to be opened in late June in the former South Fork Restaurant location at 3510 N. Elizabeth.
Gildersleeve's Old-Fashioned Diner will be operated by Sonja and Perry Fields with assistance from Kristine and Michael Fields (their son). The idea for the restaurant sprang from Michael Fields' interest in old time radio shows. Opening such a restaurant, said Michael Fields, "has been a dream of mine for three or four years."
With the diner concept, especially that targeted toward the 1950s theme, becoming popular throughout the country, the sentiment of the owners was that now was the time to act.
The four owners all have a wealth of restaurant experience, some of it at the same location when a Sambo's did business there. Sonja and Perry, who most recently managed Goody's restaurants in Pueblo, will manage Gildersleeve's.
The owners have leased the building through Dan Molello of Jones-Healy Realtors and Kevin Krott of Barry Boals and Associates of Colorado Springs.
Gary Franchi in Pueblo Chieftain, June 1, 1989
What It's Like to Be in One Man's Family
The radio show One Man's Family seems as old as Methuselah, as time-honored as radio, itself, customary as a Sunday night supper. The show has been coming over the ether weekly for 11 years. Eight of those venerable mileposts have had the same sponsor, who still has seven years to go.
The program was first produced by NBC on the west coast as a sustaining in 1932. Two years later it went nationwide, has long since become a radio legend, earned its author half a million dollars -- added steadily to the fortunes of its cast.
In the history of "The Family" there have been four deaths, one divorce, 50 characters introduced -- 12 permanent Sunday night visitors. Out of the half a hundred who have played various parts, most of the original cast still remain through the perpetual saga: Some of them began as script schoolchildren and were written into adulthood, others who started as juveniles are now playing romantic leads. When a member of the cast is drafted, dies, or gets married, so it is written into the script and even though he returns no more, his memory is kept alive through references. Becoming a part of One Man's Family is almost a practical guarantee of a lifetime job, and pleasant security.
The mystery of its appeal is still a mystery. Its theme is nothing more complicated than the daily happenings of an average American home. Its institutional family attempts to intercept certain phases of ordinary happenings, philosophies, weaves in wars, floods and calamities to give it a timeliness, but it always remains the closely knit story of a family of 12. There is little or no conflict. On some shows, nothing actually happens. The characters merely sit around and talk. They aren't witty; they don't tear at your emotions, you are rarely perturbed -- they are certainly never profound. Paul, favorite and beloved character to millions of people, often engages in some quiet talk that is inspiring, but even these choice bits of inspiration are something that you know, already.
The most probable secret of the success of the whole thing is its seeming sincerity. The cast has been playing the parts for so long that they are almost as real to them as their everyday life. When they enter the studio on Sunday night there is a spirit of "going home" quite prevalent, they call each other by their script names and discuss things that happened in last week's show as if it were really part and parcel of their life.
When Page Gilman, who has played Jack, the youngest son, since the show went on the air, was drafted into the Army it affected the whole cast. Quiet, gray, velvet-voiced Mother Barbour called the cast together at rehearsal and said: "The war has come to our household." They were as sad as if Page were son and brother.
Each of them felt a new responsibility toward the war effort. Mother Barbour took up knitting to send him a sweater; Claudia, the script sister, went out and joined the motor corp division of AWVS; radio sister Hazel became a Hollywood canteen hosess. All of which impetus sprang from a radio brother going to the front. At another time the script called for Hazel to have a baby. The event was given a terrific build-up, week after week -- when the script baby finally arrived, it had all seemed so wonderful that Hazel had herself a real baby.
From Tune In, June 1943
Interview with Bobby Benson Radio Cowboy Ivan Cury
Ivan Cury wanted to be an actor from the word "go." He was born and raised on Manhattan's Upper West Side of parents who immigrated to America. "My dad came from Russia, my mother from either Poland or Austria, depending on which army occupied the land."
At the age of 4, he tried to get a box office cashier to let him into a theater. Six more years went by before he had a chance to try out for a show, but during those years he studied music, dancing, acting -- anything he could to prepare himself. In 1948 at the age of 10 1/2, he won his first role on Let's Pretend. It would be six months before he got his next chance.
He then played the young Joseph Jefferson, opposite Walter Hampton's Abraham Lincoln, on Cavalcade of America. At this tender age he had to learn a lot about living. "Nothing you wouldn't have learned in 10 or 15 years," Cury says.
For the REPS meeting, Cury played cuts from this show, and The Electric Theatre, in which he played Helen Hayes' son. Cury's father had come into the studio and was amazed to see the great actress off by herself working on her script. "How lucky I was to be there," Cury told us.
Cury, of course, is most asked about Bobby Benson and the B-Bar-B Riders. In 1949, producer Herb Rice wanted to resurrect this show, which had previously been broadcast from 1932 to 1936, and Cury won the role of Bobby. Rice renamed the ranch "The B-Bar-B."
During the second year of the show, Cury celebrated his bar mitzvah. Cury recalled, "A cast member whispered 'B-Bar-Mitzvah' to me just before we went on the air, and I broke up laughing all through my on-air 'B-Bar-BEEE' lines."
Don Knotts (Windy Wales on the show) was the second youngest cast member to Cury. Knotts was then in his 20s. Cury, who grew up not eating shrimp, had his first one at the urging of Knotts. "I had another one with him recently."
Herb Rice always pushed the personal appearances of his young star, and Cury appeared in parades, rodeos and festivals throughout the East Coast, riding horseback and wearing western garb. "As a New York boy, I learned about the west through Bobby Benson. I'll never forget riding a stallion behind a mare in heat."
He also will not forget visiting a boy in Poughkeepsie, New York, who had been told he was dying. As Bobby Benson, Cury urged the boy to get out and start doing things, "like Bobby Benson does."
Some time later he visited the boy again, and found him sitting in a wheelchair. As Cury approached, the boy stood up and walked towards him. "It was like a miracle, some sign of God's intervention," Cury says.
Cury was appearing in a show with Maria Riva, daughter of Marlene Dietrich, when his father came in and sat in the darkened client's booth. A woman came in and sat next to him, and they got to comparing notes about how they were both immigrants to America and how their children were both radio actors.
Cury says his father nearly fainted when the lights went on and he saw he had been talking with Marlene Dietrich.
Cury had a part in The Greatest Story Ever Told, in which Joseph Wiseman played Christ. On the air, an actor failed to come in with his line because he was so enthralled with Wiseman's powerful performance. So Wiseman, as Christ, picked up the line, prefacing it by saying, "And you will say to Me ..." and then read the actor's line with no gap in the dialogue.
When he is asked, "Don't you feel you missed your childhood?" Cury responds, "No, I knew The Shadow personally!"
When it came to crime dramas, he also worked on The FBI in Peace and War with its well-remembered "L-A-V-A" to the beat of a timpani. Cury recalled, "It was my voice saying, 'Gee, dad, where's the Lava Soap?" I was paid $60 a show.
He also did Gangbusters ("the cast played poker every minute off the mic") and Official Detective ("Hold the phone, it's time for O'Henry, public enemy number one").
With the coming of television, Cury also won juvenile roles there, including Bobby Benson, while continuing in radio, working with such young actors as David Anderson, Butch Cavell, and Sal Mineo.
He worked with director Sidney Lumet in the teleplay Crime in the Streets, and feels that Lumet "changed my life" by showing him the method actor's way of finding the real emotions of the character he is playing.
Cury's professional acting career came to an end when he started college, but he continued behind the television cameras, first as a make-up man and then into producing and directing, which he still does.
Leaving New York, where he had spent his entire acting career, Cury moved to California in the 1970s, where he has taught Communications Studies at UCLA, and now as an associate professor at California State, Los Angeles. He produces the TV commercials for Men's Wearhouse, and has written a textbook on television production used in many colleges.
Bill Parker and Joy Jackson in Air Check, Fall 1999
Dusting Off an Antique Radio from Grandma's Attic
Anyone old enough to recall the days before television remembers that radios, large or small and usually with gleaming wooden cabinets, were the nerve centers of the country's living rooms.
Around them huddled America's families, with only each other to look at, listening intently to Jack Benny's jokes and Benny Goodman's notes, President Franklin Roosevelt's fireside chats and Edward R. Murrow's London reports.
After decades of dusty silence in grandma's attic, nearly three-quarters of a century of radios are sputtering to life again in thousands of American homes. This time the people crowded around them are a swiftly growing family of collectors.
"Our objective is to preserve this equipment, to let people know about it. It's a heritage," says Bruce Kelly, 77, a longtime collector. Forty years ago he and two other men founded what is now America's largest and oldest radio collectors club, the 4,000-member Antique Wireless Association.
"Collecting got off to a slow start in the '50s and '60s, picked up some in the '70s, and really took off in the '80s," says Brian Belanger, 51, a collector and newsletter editor of the Mid-Atlantic Antique Radio Club (MAARC). Founded in 1984 with 15 members, it now has about 850 and is America's largest regional radio club.
During the same time the number of regional radio clubs has grown with similar speed. Today there are two national clubs and about 40 regional ones, Belanger says, and more regional clubs are forming.
Collectors have various motives: nostalgia, the beauty of the venerable radios or the fun of being able to repair them.
Belanger, an electrical engineer from Rockville, Maryland, himself heard the siren song of radio collecting in the late 1970s. One day he was killing time in a shopping center while his wife bought fabric and wandered into an antique store. He came out with his first antique radio, an aptly named "American Beauty," made in 1926 in Missouri. He was hooked; he now has "about 80 radios, the last time I counted."
Days he works with the most modern technology as deputy director of advanced technology program of the National Institute of Standards and Technology. Evenings he works with the technology of the '20s and '30s, repairing venerable radios at home.
They include wonderful old names, now long gone, in the history of American radio. There's an unusual Federal 61, a hard-to-find black-fronted box with 14 dials, made in 1924. A 1922 Aeriola, Sr., by Westinghouse: You had to listen through headphones. A battery-powered Radiola 18, with its long-and-low shape.
And the classic "antique radio" to most Americans -- a graceful, arch-shaped set known as cathedral-style. Many makers built cathedrals: Belanger has several, including a restored 1931 Philco model 70. A dominant '30s brand, Philco epitomizes antique radios to many Americans.
Collecting antique radios is practically an addiction, Belanger says.
Joe Koester knows what he means. A 50-year-old Defense Department manager from Laurel, Maryland, he says dryly: "I never met an antique radio I didn't like," paraphrasing Will Rogers' view of people.
Koester, a founder and president of the Mid-Atlantic Antique Radio Club, has certainly met a lot of radios: He admits to having "about 250" in his collection.
Kelley has been collecting since before Belanger and Koester were born: He and a friend started in 1936. When they saw a radio they thought should be preserved "we repaired it and set it aside," says Kelley, fittingly now the curator of the Antique Wireless Association's museum.
The kinds of radios they set aside then are much desired now. Particularly in demand by collectors are cathedrals; Atwater Kent "breadboards" from the early '20s made without cabinet and with innards fastened atop a breadboard-shaped piece of wood; splended-toned Scott radios; and colorful, Catalin-plastic sets of the late '30s and '40s.
Prices of these and other antique radios depend on condition, manufacturer and model, and location (the East Coast is more expensive). Most range from $50 to several hundred; some, like particularly desirable Catalins, run into the thousands.
As with anything else, high prices reflect scarcity. But most collectors think some old time radios will always be available. One reason, Koester says: "Younger collectors are also interested in the radios of their youth, and are beginning to collect the much-later transistor radios and TVs."
Many radios aren't working when collectors purchase them. Their new owners restore a lot of them, both for the pleasure of seeing them gleam and the joy of hearing them crackle.
And when they crackle they bring back another era. Once in a while Belanger rigs up a '30s set so that he can listen to a recording of an old radio show through its speaker. With 1930s fidelity the raspy voice of Jack Benny fills the room, deadpanning a punchline and convulsing an audience.
"It's fun," Belanger says. "At night you can draw the drapes and turn the lights down low and by the glow of your radio listen to Jack Benny. It's a time warp."
From AARP Bulletin, 1992
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