WDAF Nighthawks and the Merry Old Chief
"Station WDAF, the Kansas City Star Nighthawks, just doing a little hawking" is a phrase familiar to radio listeners all over the United States and other parts of the world. For when the Merry Old Chief starts to dispense his happiness and good cheer at 11:45 p.m., fans invariably dial for Kansas City.
The Merry Old Chief is the most popular feature of the Nighthawks program. His original style of announcing, his ready wit, his million-dollar laugh and his unusual singing voice have endeared him to the hearts of many fans. Formerly a feature writer on the Star staff, Leo Fitzpatrick was made radio editor upon the opening of station WDAF. He won fifth place in the Radio Digest announcers' contest despite the fact that he had not been heard over radio during the entire length of the contest.
There is hardly a listener in the country who does not know by heart the catching signing-off words of the Nighthawks as they are repeated by the Chief each night. "WDAF, the Nighthawks, bidding good night to those on the Pacific coast, good morning to those on the Atlantic, goodbye to all until tomorrow night at 11:45 o'clock. Alright, Don, turn off the juice, crank the flivver, and let's go home."
The School of the Air program from 6 to 7 p.m. each night contains many entertaining and educational features for the whole family. It would be hard to say whether the Tell-Me-a-Story Lady or the Trianon Ensemble of the Hotel Muehlebach is the more popular feature of this program.
Mrs. J. Leon Coulter, the Tell-Me-a-Story Lady, has entertained the kiddies nightly with her bedtime stories since March 4, 1924, and has instituted for them a Laugh-in-Your-Dream club. Any kiddie may become a member by doing a kind act. Grownups as well as the youngers enjoy her stories and are included in the membership of the club. Although the club is only two months old, there are already 5,000 members.
Other regular features of the School of the Air programs are the readings of Cecile Burton; weekly talks by representatives of the Meat Council of Greater Kansas City; Health Conservation association; children's bureau; C.H. Cheney, under the auspices of the American Bankers Association; a personal message from Roger W. Babson, statistical expert; and a book review by Louis Mecker of the literary department of the Star.
WDAF's popular musical programs on Monday and Friday nights are unsurpassed for variety. A popular feature of these programs isthe flivver with its motor, horn, rattles, bumps, and everything. The Merry Old Chief is the driver and the listeners in are the passengers. The flivver takes imaginary trips around the town, transporting the radio audience to various theaters and hotels where entertainment is furnished by orchestras, soloists and vaudeville artists.
This remote control broadcasting involves an intricate system of special telephone lines. As many as 11 places may be connected with the Star's operating room in as many seconds.
WDAF is the institutor of one of the most unique and original ideas in the history of radio in the broadcasting of telephone conversations. This system, perfected by the Kansas City Telephone company, enables anyone to talk over the radio by calling the station on the phone. The calls are put directly through without the aid of a microphone other than the telephone transmitter. By this system also the station may transmit entertainment. Recently a full program was broadcast over telephone from various homes in Kansas City.
Since Harry Snodgrass has discontinued broadcasting from WOS, it is doubtful there is a pianist in the country as versatile as Lee, the "mystery man" of WDAF. His full name is Lee Mansfield and he is almost totally blind. He plays only by ear, being unable to see the notes on a sheet of music, and having once heard a piece he is able to reproduce it without mistake. He plays on the Nighthawks program every night, supplying numbers requested.
The radio staff is exceptionally small for the hours the station is on the air and for its popularity. Fitzpatrick is radio editor of the Star, director and announcer of station WDAF and the Merry Old Chief of the Nighthawks. He is assisted by Don D. Johnson, chief operator; V. S. Batton, remote control operator and assistant announcer; Ralph H. Patt, assistant program director; and Martin McKiddy, corresponding secretary.
From Radio Digest, February 28, 1925
Phil Harris: Why Alice Faye Moved from Movies to Radio
Maybe I never should have taken Alice Faye as my bride on that day in May seven years ago. Until then, all this beautiful, big hunk of talent talks about is show business. Then she marries me, gets a house, has babies, and all she wants is to push one of those wire carts around the grocery store.
First thing you know I'm not allowed to make tours with my band any more, either. "We're through living by an upside down clock," Alice says. I've got my band on the Jack Benny show so I feel all right about it -- the biscuits are rollin' in regularly. But I'm thinking all the time, how can I get Alice back in front of the public again? She's too beautiful, too talented to retire.
Answer's obvious: radio. Doesn't take up so much time as picture making. I can shoulder all the organization, share the performing job, and she'll have time to herself. So now we got our own half-hour air show -- The Fitch Bandwagon -- right after Benny on Sundays.
Today I still run the orchestra for the Benny show and get off a few lines every week. Just before I scoot across the hall and start the Bandwagon going. To me Jack is the real father of radio, master of them all. I've been with him 12 years and I've soaked up everything I've seen the man do. Benny helped me launch the Faye-Harris Bandwagon. Alice and I play ourselves, you know. Not wantin' to copy anyone else, we figured like this -- let's get a nice story with a believable background and real breathin' people.
Our permanent characters are ourselves, our two children (Alice Junior and Phyllis); our business manager who is Alice's brother, Bill Faye (on the air we call him William); my old pal Frank Remley; Julius the grocery boy (he's the only one who doesn't actually exist in real life) and Mr. Fitch, head of the company that sponsors the program.
We were launched in the fall of 1946. We had the advantage that both of us were known; I had my fans from the Benny program and Alice had her big movie following. But ahead was a lot of unbroken ground; we hadn't proved anything on the air yet, as a team. A radio program has to have some age on it, the characters have to become established before the public really latches onto it.
We think we're in the groove now. One mistake we made in the first year was picturing the family life too sweet. The public likes it more normal, with struggles and troubles. Now the children say things that embarrass the devil out of us -- very realistic -- and I get into ruinous trouble. Alice is the understanding wife on whose shoulders everything falls.
Our children are too young (five and three) to play themselves. Two young actresses do their parts. Jeanine Roose, aged 9, who got her start doing child parts on the Benny program, plays Alice. Anne Whitfield, aged 9, who is Penny on One Man's Family, plays Phillis.
Phil Harris in Modern Screen, June 1948
Bing Crosby Wants His Records Banned from Radio
How many times a day do you tune in your radio and hear records being played? Would you feel deprived if the station you listened to no longer played these records of your favorites?
That is the situation you may soon be facing. It's important enough for several of the networks' biggest stars to have joined hands in a concerted action to ban the records they have made from the air.
In January a decision was handed down in a Philadelphia court which forbade a radio station in the city to play two of Fred Waring's most popular recordings. It was the first time in the history of this country that a decision on this point had been made. Waring has been fighting for over a year for such a decision.
His point was this: The last time he made a record, quite a long time ago, he made it for a recording company that agreed to put a "For Home Use Only" label on each record. That is, you could buy it and play it on your phonograph, but radio stations weren't supposed to buy it and play it over the air. The Philadelphia station played it anyway, feeling that since no copyright precedent had ever been established, it had a perfect right to do as it pleased.
Now a court has decided in Waring's favor. The case probably will be appealed to a higher court. It may take a year before a final judgment is handed down, perhaps by the Supreme Court itself.
Stars who have commercial programs feel strongly on this point. They claim that when a sponsor is paying them handsomely each week for a program on a large network of stations, local stations should not have unqualified liberty to play their records.
I asked Guy Lombardo for his viewpoint and he wrote me, in part:
"Imagine my astonishment to learn that during a recent broadcast for our present sponsor, whose network included a certain radio station in a Southern city, a smaller station in that same city, at the same hour, broadcast a 'sponsored' program using old Lombardo phonograph records, putting me in direct competition with myself! It is quite evident that the smaller station had sold its sponsor on the idea of capitalizing on the name and the fact that his program and our live program would be on the air simultaneously!"
That incident is not an ordinary one but it shows what can happen and it is a perfect example of why artists like Abe Lyman and Bing Crosby say it is unfair for their records to be put on the air while they're broadcasting. I wonder if you who tune in during the day to records of those bands and singers you like best, hear enough of their music to discourage you from tuning in to their regular network programs. If you do, isn't it logical for those stars to want their records banned?
Fred R. Sammis in Radio Mirror, April 1936
Ida Bailey Allen Cooks on the Radio
Ida Bailey Allen, known as the Nation's Homemaker, was found in her sunshiny and electrically equipped kitchen testing a recipe for Scotch soda scones, which was sent by a member of her National Homemaker's Club, which she organized last June, and of which she is now president. Each of her members are on their toes submitting their recipes in hopes of winning the monthly prize she offers for the best recipe.
This kitchen, located on the 15th floor of an office building overlooking the Hudson River, is quite thrilling. Oh so compact, and yet it contains the necessities so dear to a woman's heart, such as an electric ice-making machine, electric stove, colored dishes, tan kitchen table and chairs, glistening pots and pans, with dainty curtains completing the picture.
The writer was taken into Allen's office, a place where her personality is reflected. Cretonne drapes, flowers, a soft rug, a few pictures, books, a few comfortable chairs and a purring cat. Allen, who is an attractive looking woman, has created a niche for herself in this busy and hustling world.
When asked what prompted her to become a cooking expert, the mantle of years seemed to drop from her and once again she was a child. Pausing to think of those happy days, she said, "My mother is to blame for my success. When I was small, it was my delight to dress as a grownup and parade around in the kitchen, as mother said that eight years was not too young to learn to cook.
"She was everlastingly patient with me. Always encouraging and never fussy if I made a mess out of the kitchen -- something I could do very easily. Then, the big event of the week was the night I was allowed to prepare the evening meal and could invite a girlfriend for dinner. When I grew older, I preferred to invite the boys, as I was flattered by their praises. I became more absorbed in cooking problems and finally decided to take domestic science courses at college."
"What do you do with your spare time, if you have any?" asked the interviewer.
"I have so little spare time," she laughingly replied, "that I must crowd everything into a few hours. I am a real housekeeper and personally direct the education of my two children, Ruth Elizabeth, six years old, and Tom, 12 years old. The three of us are great pals and always together.
"At the present time we are studying French and have plenty of fun conversing in the French language. As I am very fond of singing, Tom, who plays the piano quite well, accompanies me while I practice. We go to the opera and take long walks together. After the children go to bed, I read and listen to my radio."
We then discussed broadcasting, a subject that she was very much interested in. Allen broadcasts every Tuesday morning at 11 a.m. from station WMCA, and has an invisible audience of over 10,000 people. She has gained so many friends during the last six months, they come to her with their problems! Who should discipline the children, the mother or the father? How to make ends meet on the husband's small salary? A couple are considering getting a divorce. Are they right in doing so? Those are just a few of the many with which she is confronted each week.
J.G. Forrest in Radio Digest, Jan. 30, 1926
Orson Welles is Not a Communist
Almost any week in Hollywood Orson Welles is the main topic of conversation. Personally, your editors don't like Welles. He is the seven-year-old kid next door who has a vocabulary twice his size. He is the good-looking young man who walks off with your best girl. He is the braggart who says impossible things and then does them. Your editors are average people. That's why they personally are not fond of the man who is too good and knows it and shows it!
Yet your editors cannot agree that Welles, as has been hinted in certain newspapers, is a dangerous individual domestically inclined. His playlet called His Honor, the Mayor, broadcast over the CBS network on Sunday April 6, is as communistic as the Bill of Rights of the United States. In fact, most of the mayor's speeches were quotations from the Bill of Rights.
Welles is as dangerous as a naughty boy playing with firecrackers. He has very little chance of hurting anyone else, but he can readily blow himself right through a skylight. We are dubious of his sincerity in defending the case of Harry Bridges, recently on trial in deportation proceedings as an "undesirable alien." Welles' friends will tell you that he believed Bridges not guilty because he was tried once before and it is American not to put a man twice in jeopardy. The wise ones will tell you that Welles was merely being Welles.
The only person not disturbed by the young producer of Citizen Kane is the young producer himself. Your editors don't like him because everything he does is perfect, from movies to radio plays. But he's good, drat it, he is!
From Movie-Radio Guide, May 24-30, 1941
Mandel Kramer Commits Crimes on TV, Solves Them on Radio
Ordinarily, on other programs in which he appears, Mandel Kramer is a two-faced, ornery killer, as likely to be erased on a show as not. It is seldom Kramer lasts to the end of any show -- except on CounterSpy, where he is Harry Peters, the hard-working associate of David Harding. At a time when TV has made tremendous inroads into the entertainment world, the 35-year-old Harrison, New York, gentleman is one of the handful of actors who has not been affected by the new medium. "I'm a product of radio," Kramer confesses.
Kramer is the sort of determined person who makes his own breaks when need be. He was brought up in Cleveland, where he attended Cleveland Heights High School and Western Reserve University. For no reason that Mandel can explain, he decided to become an actor. While he worked in his father's shoe store for the "fabulous" sum of $15 a week, Mandel studied in his spare time at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He then had a year in the Cleveland Playhouse, before getting a smattering of radio experience on station WTAM in Cleveland.
With $150 he had saved, Mandel set out for New York one day. He was sure that that great amount would see him through, and believe it or not, it did. Mandel won his first job by crashing an audition. He heard that a producer was auditioning for a role, and popped in at the studio declaring that he had already qualified for the tryout. She believed him, and the next thing you knew he was in front of the mike. They liked him, and Mandel launched his New York radio career.
In 1943, he tried out for Harry Peters, got the part, and has been successfully solving cases with David Harding week after week. When he's not doing Harry, he spends the rest of his working hours getting bumped off on other programs.
After work, Kramer commutes to Harrison, where he shares a lovely home with his family -- wife and two little girls. Once in his own backyard, no one would ever suspect Mandel of being an actor. He's a modest, likable guy, who wonders why anybody would ever want to write a story in a magazine about him.
From Radio-TV Mirror, March 1953
Bob Sylvester and his Orchestra Featuring Olga Vernon
Five feet, five inches of scintillating personality, a voice with soft, mellow depths and a soothing quality, red hair (though she insists it's auburn), a creamy complexion. In short, an eyeful. That's Olga Vernon, the Sophisticated Lady of Song, who appears with Bob Sylvester and his Orchestra on a hand-picked network of Southern stations.
You can hear her every Tuesday night at 10 p.m. EST over WJSV, Washington; WRAV, Richmond; WBT, Charlotte; WGST, Atlanta; and WAPI, Birmingham, in a program sponsored by the Lance Company and originating in the WBT studios in Charlotte.
Vernon studied voice at the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago, and got her professional start singing with Charlie Agnew's orchestra. Then came a number of appearances on various Chicago radio programs, in which she built up a reputation that reached the ears of Jan Garber. Garber lost no time in signing her up as his radio songstress.
Now Vernon's present boss, Bob Sylvester, enters the story. He'd heard her singing with Agnew and liked her voice, but he never met her until one day they were introduced by a music publisher. At that time Vernon was Hal Kemp's arranger, and it was through his influence that Kemp heard her and hired her away from Garber.
Five years ago, Sylvester became ambitious for a band of his own, and when he left Kemp and organized his own group Vernon went with him. The ups and downs of the band business left them stranded, at last; the band broke up and Vernon went on the musical comedy stage on Broadway while Sylvester returned to arranging.
He didn't give up his dream of having a band of his own, though, and eventually tried it again -- this time profiting by the mistakes he'd made before. Once more Vernon gave up her job -- which was then singing on a network sustaining program in New York -- to go with him.
The Cavalier Beach Club at Virginia Beach was the new band's first stop, and since then it has climbed steadily.
Vernon has a soft, deep alto voice that blends aptly with the original and distinctive style of the Sylvester arrangements. It's a combination that should prove a best bet on anybody's dial.
Don Senseney in Radio and Television Mirror, February 1940
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