Phillips Lord Gives Voice to Bums of the Bowery
Criminals, bop-heads, panhandlers and other breeds of down-and-outers of New York's Bowery have combined with one of radio's best-known characters to present a series of programs over National Broadcasting Company networks, hailed as one of the unique broadcasts of the year.
America's radio audience demanded variety, and Phillips H. Lord, 28-year-old creator of Seth Parker and His Jonesport Neighbors, supplied it.
In a dingy, smoke-filled basement room, whiskey tenors blend in harmony with muggled baritones, and the unwashed of New York's rickety district forget their plight when Phil Lord stages a party and a Bowery broadcast.
Lord dropped the role of Seth Parker, the kindly old philosopher, when he went to the Bowery in an effort to aid some of the deserving in the street of lost men. Instead he was the natural athletic young man of 28, dressed in worn clothes and wearing a cap pulled to the side of his head. He acted as tough and rough as the best of the 300 men who crowded into the narrow basement room which once housed the notorious Tunnel saloon.
It is a strange sight, the crew of motley men who crowd into that dingy room under the sidewalks of a Bowery street. It is a spacious room to most of the Bowery visitors -- so much better than many are accustomed to, who sleep under stairs or in the open. Over the rumbling of their voices can be heard the scream of an occasional police car, and the roar of the elevated trains overhead.
Men and women, who sit in the quiet of homes over the United States hear only a bit of the pathos, can sense little of the grime, nor know nothing of the wrecks of humanity which Lord gathers there and aids.
His "studio" is a dirty, smelly place -- reeking with unwashed bodies, the stench of cheap liquor, and canned heat which Bowery sots consume for lack of nothing better to drink, or nothing better to do. The microphone and the smiling face of Polly Robertson, who plays the organ in the Seth Parker and His Jonesport Neighbors programs, usually are the only bright things in the room. Polly, as the hoodlums call her, is the goddess of the old Tunnel crowd.
Even Lord's face betrays a certain grimness as he leads the men in singing. One can scarcely wonder at that, however, after you look from the tiny platform across the 300 faces, betraying as many types, and as many emotions.
These men, who frequent Lord's mission, and who take party in his NBC Bowery broadcasts, are more often than not rough men -- tough men -- desperate for food, liquor, narcotics, and capable of almost any passion. Some of them are known to have served long prison sentences. Many come to the old Tunnel saloon hopelessly under the influence of narcotics.
The sordid atmosphere of the crowd is lessened only as the air in the low, unventilated room becomes filled with smoke from the cigarettes that Lord always gives the men. Then the gray smoke shrouds the harsher aspects.
Lord acts as master of ceremonies only -- the men stage their own party. He sings only when he is leading the singing. Solo numbers, quartets and other features are presented by the men. As the singing gets underway, and such songs as "When Good Fellows Get Together," ring through the room, more often out of than in harmony, the "guests" begin to smile -- toothless smiles, crooked and leering.
Whether Lord is broadcasting his parties or not, he proves himself the natural showman. The men are at ease as soon as they enter the room. It is impossible for him to rehearse for a Bowery broadcast and be certain that the participants will be on hand the following night to take part. It is necessary for him to draft new "artists" at the last moment. The original artists too often do not appear, or when they do, are too intoxicated to participate.
It is, however, a surprisingly orderly aggregation of hoodlums, drunkards, thieves and down-and-outers, when one considers they eat only when they can beg or steal a meal, and spend their nights in Bowery flophouses or on the streets. Perchance it is the novelty, or perhaps husky Don Murphy, self-appointed bouncer for Lord's Bowery parties, that keeps them under control.
Murphy, who has a criminal record, is the life, as well as the terror, of the gatherings. His wit brings laughs from all, and his frown with a curt "cut the gab" brings silence. Murphy thinks Lord's name is typical of the sort of fellow Phil is.
During one of the broadcasts a man, drunk and cursing, insisted upon talking into the microphone which was sending the program over a nationwide NBC network. Lord was forced to knock the man into the aisle. Murphy, who had reached the platform, nodded his head for the man to leave. Soon Murphy and some of his aides disappeared. When he reappeared Murphy confided to Robertson, in a matter-of-fact way, that "the bozo was beat up and wouldn't bother no more."
The Bowery likes Lord -- as the visitor can see in a moment's glance across the crowded room of black and white faces as he enters. He has proven himself a swell guy, to their way of thinking, because he provides a meal ticket, a pass to his show, and small change each time they gather.
Their banter at Bowery parties is good-natured. When one of their number stands before them to sing, or recite some of his poetry, the performer can deduce after a moment whether he will be able to finish. If it pleases they are quiet. If they are not pleased the only reason rotten cabbages are not tossed is because not are available.
Charlie, the toothless Chinese baritone of Doyer street, is one of the Bowery's most popular entertainers. When he sings "Jesus Loves Me," in broken English, tears come to the eyes of his listeners, and if he is broadcasting, one can count on a heavy fan mail. He has proved one of Lord's most popular finds.
The Tadpole, who with his musical saw has toured every civilized country in the world, is another whom Lord can usually depend upon to be on hand for a broadcast. Tadpole has the Driftwood orchestra which consists of three pieces, his saw, a violin and a guitar. It is hard, he admits to Lord, to keep so many men together, especially now that the spring is here.
Chatham Square has its Harry Lauder. He is Sunny Scotty and sings ditties which were popular in his native heath when he was a boy. He still sings well but his Bowery audience often interrupts with comments regarding Scotty's read nose -- which easily betrays his failing.
The talk of the evening usually is delivered by Dan O'Brien, King of the Hoboes. He just closed the New York Hobo College, of which he is dean, for the season -- mostly because, he admits, the students felt the urge of wandering feet.
O'Brien uses the language of the pedagogue in speaking, but at all times appears in the uniform of the hobo.
"The Bowery has talent," O'Brien said. "These men are ambitious, they are proud. We have great singers, great musicians, and great dramatists among us. What we needed was the chance Lord is giving us."
Because of the Depression, O'Brien explained a new course in the art of panhandling has been introduced at the Hobo College.
The theme song of the Bowery broadcast was written by Jack Sellers, a Bowery poet and melody maker, who in better days served his country in the United States Navy.
"What would you like now, boys?" Lord asked as he drew his party to a close.
"Ice cream and onions," was the reply as if but one giant voice had answered; sure sign, according to Lord, that the party "went over."
Barry Holloway in Radio Digest, June 1932
Jim and Marian Jordan Were the O'Henry Twins
The velvet drop concealing the skinny legs of marimba said "Marian and Jim Jordan," and the names sparkled with all the fine, phony brilliance of a dancer's exit smile. The act on stage in this small-town theater was a harmony team -- the girl at the piano, the man leaning debonairly against it and singing a pleasant tenor to the girl's contralto. The keynote was a jaunty good cheer. They sang "When You're Smiling," and a comedy number called "She Knows Her Onions." They followed with a little piece of musical sunshine called "Bridge O'Flynn." And as always, they closed with "Side by Side," which said, toward the end:
Oh, we don't have a barrel of money,
Maybe we're ragged and funny,
But we're rolling along, singing this song,
Side by side
Then, with a big smile for the audience, these two radiant personalities bowed off to make room for the No. 3 act on the bill. There is no oddity in anything they did, but there was great restraint in what they didn't. For at those words, "We don't have a barrel of money," they might very well have broken into wild laughter. And it would have been appropriate to have torn that marimba block from block, grab a handful of bass notes apiece and chase the audience out of the theater with this pretty kindling.
For where Jim and Marian Jordan were going to stroll, side by side, was down the main stem of this Central Illinois town, and their next appearance would be in the Western Union office, and send the forlorn message: "Went broke in Lincoln, Illinois. Please wire carfare home."
That was in 1924. Just now, Jim and Marian Jordan do have a barrel of money, and while not ragged, they are certainly funny. An estimated 20 million Americans draw up chairs to hear them every Tuesday night; they are Fibber McGee and Molly, two of America's favorite comedy characters. In fact, having out-Hoopered all rival programs last year to establish their show as the country's No. 1 favorite, they are now pretty much the king and queen of radio. They are riding high in the form of entertainment that killed vaudeville -- and if it killed one vaudeville theater in Lincoln, Illinois, they could be pardoned for greeting the news with one short, dirty laugh, side by side. That was the low point in their career.
A lot of radio stars are former vaudeville headliners -- Bob Hope, Jack Benny and Fred Allen were big timers who didn't fiddle with radio until five or six years after Fibber McGee and Molly went to work before a mike. The Jordans can't bandy stories with them about long runs at the Palace. They never got within V-bomb range of that queen of the vaudeville houses. But the two who set out from Peoria so hopefully a quarter of a century ago can match vaudeville bruises with the best of them. "In the big league, you played better football, yes," they can say, "but in that league they wear shoes."
The Jordans play their roles in their natural voices now, and manage to make those characters exceedingly real. In many a small town they sound like neighbors, if the neighbors could provide as many laughs, and in many a big city apartment they sound like the folks back home.
They are like their radio characters, too, in one important respect. They are not the type people, to use one of Fibber's favorite expressions, to whom things happen in those neat little epigrams of fact found in so many biographies. They type people they are, if Ziegfeld had been out front one night, he'd have been lost, to begin with, and the Jordans would have had laryngitis.
Take their advent into radio. That makes a pretty impressive tale, if you don't go into the details. They first sang into a mike on a bet, and the very next day they had a sponsor. The full story is far more plausible, if less flashy.
The Jordans were visiting Jim's brother Byron in that section of North Side Chicago called Rogers Park. The two couples were killing time listening to the radio. They heard some singing and Jim remarked, "We could do better than that."
"Ten bucks says you can't," said his brother, meaning "Let's see you." But Jim is not the type guy who, when he makes a bet, backs down on it if he is pretty sure he can win, and all hands drove downtown to the radio station. "We are singers," Jim explained. Radio was pretty much off the cuff in those days, a good deal of the talent wasn't paid at all, and the manager of station WIBO may have held the general view that one harmony team sounds very much like another harmony team.
"Go ahead and sing," was his unexcited reply. So they did -- "Can You Hear Me Calling, Caroline?" -- and next day they had a sponsor. But as usual in real life, if not biographies, there was a catch in it. The sponsored show ran only once a week; the revenue was $10. Maybe you heard them, but the odds are against it. They were the O'Henry Twins, and lucky, in those days, that they didn't get paid in candy bars.
Robert M. Yoder in the Saturday Evening Post, April 9, 1949
Don Ameche's Lucky Break in 1930
Don Ameche armed himself with some letters of introduction, and set out. He wasn't afraid of New York. "I didn't have enough sense to be afraid," he said, with a wry grin.
He delivered all the letters on his first day in New York, and like most letters of introduction, they didn't do any good. He was turned away politely, instead of brusquely; that was all. On his third day of job hunting, he met another young actor on the street. They struck up an acquaintanceship.
"He told me he was playing with Fiske O'Hara in Jerry for Short, and that they were letting a player go. He suggested I put in a bid for the part. I did, got it, and had my first Broadway job three days after my arrival."
This time a total stranger had proved himself a friend. Ameche thought he was on the way to uninterrupted success. But the fickle gods of fame were snickering up their sleeves.
When Jerry for Short closed, he played in stock in Greenwich, Connecticut, for two weeks. Then he won the juvenile lead in the road company of Illegal Practice -- and wound up broke after nine weeks.
He had to borrow money to get back to New York. Between February and June, he had two weeks of work; namely, a vaudeville engagement with Texas Guinan. Came June, and he couldn't hold out any longer so he wired home for money to get back to Kenosha, Wisconsin.
There, another friend came to his rescue. "Bernadine Flynn, of the radio team of Vic and Sade, knew me in the stock company in Madison. She heard that I was back in Kenosha, and called me from Chicago. She wanted me to make an audition there for a radio program called Empire Builders.
"If it hadn't been for her, I probably wouldn't be here today. I wouldn't have known about that audition. I wouldn't have taken it. I wouldn't have gone on the air that fall of 1930. Or ever, probably."
And he wouldn't have had the chance to go on the First Nighter program in the spring of 1931 -- the program that made him famous as a radio personality -- and on which he still appears, every Friday.
In the fall of 1932, another friend played a memorable part in his life. "This friend called up one evening and asked what I was doing. If I wasn't doing anything, I could have a date with a pretty girl from Dubuque, visiting in town. I asked who the girl was; I might know her; I had gone to school in Dubuque. Honore Prendergast was the name that came over the phone. 'Let me talk to her,' I practically shouted.
"We went out together that night and ever night after that while she was in Chicago. Then she had to get back to her work. She was a dietitian in Dubuque. That was the first part of September. After that, every weekend, I covered the 170 miles to Dubuque to see her. In the last part of November, we were married. Father Sheehy came back from Washington to marry us."
A fast worker, this Don Ameche.
James Reid in Modern Screen, February 1937
Related Stories:
- The Marriage of Don Ameche and Honore Prendergast
- Four Radio Shows Hired Les Tremayne to Replace Don Ameche
- Jean Hersholt and Don Ameche Star in Sins of Man
Frances Lee Barton's Cooking School of the Air
Thousands of women all over the country know Frances Lee Barton and her broadcasts from the General Foods Cooking School of the Air.
Heretofore, Barton's broadcasts have dealt entirely with baking, cooking demonstrations, menu making, proper use of recipe ingredients, kitchen hints and the related material that has made her Cooking School of the Air programs of invaluable service to housewives everywhere.
From now on, however -- beginning with the broadcast of January 4 -- Barton will present not only her regular cooking service but, in addition, a delightful program of smart, musical entertainment.
The new half-hour programs will be broadcast every Friday afternoon at 3 p.m., Eastern Standard Time, over a coast-to-coast network.
Barton, star of the Cooking School of the Air, is presenting the all-star entertainment program as superlative in quality as the delicious cakes that come from her oven.
This savory musical recipe will be served up piping hot by handsome young Warren Hull, who will be Barton's assistant chef, or in other words, master of ceremonies.
In Hull's musical recipe will be quality ingredients -- Frances Langford, charming southern songstress who has created an outstanding radio success; James Wilkinson, baritone, and Al and Lee Reiser, whose piano duets over the air have placed them in the very front rank of radio performers. Al and Lee are cousins. Al specializes in popular music and Lee in the classics, so that their programs offer varied musical fare to please all tastes.
Remember every Friday afternoon. Listen in and hear this new, unusual combination of practical cooking information and delightful entertainment. It's a well-rounded menu -- spicy, appetizing, substantial and wholesome -- served by Barton and Hull, and topped off by all the sweetness that Langford, Wilkinson and the musical Reisers can bring you in their appealing music and song -- a unique half hour that will bring you the utmost in enjoyment and practical cooking help.
From General Foods Broadcaster, January 1935
Inside Kate Smith's Kitchen
"Hello, everybody. This is Kate Smith."
How often you've heard that cheery greeting! The rich, friendly tones of the speaker's voice bring instant recognition apart from the spoken words and you find yourself responding as you would to the warm handclasp of an old friend.
Well, after all, this is an old friend I am presenting to you here, this Catherine Elizabeth Smith, who for years has been bringing the moon over the mountain and into your living room.
You've learned to love Kate Smith for the songs she sings and the lovely way she sings them, to admire her for the kind things she does for children and soldiers -- the sick and distressed all over the country. But you'd love her for herself if you could meet her, away from studio and mike, as I did, in her own New York apartment.
"I think it has a homey, comfortable look, don't you?" asked Smith when I expressed my admiration for the lovely living room in which she greeted me. It was indeed both homey and comfortable, the type of place you know Smith would like.
The walls are in the palest, softest shade of apple green, the curtains of crushed rose damask. Couches and chairs, upholstered in light green silk brocade, boast of down-filled pillows into which you sink in complete and happy relaxation.
A desk, as tall as the nine-foot windows, is of Italian inspiration, the fireplace mantle is American colonial and the three loveliest of the many lamps are Chinese.
"My furnishings do not conform to any period, you will notice," Smith explained, as she saw me making mental notes of my surroundings. "They're what I like, though -- just livable. I'm out of sympathy with all-modern interiors, though I don't mind one or two modern things."
The most conspicuously modern thing in Smith's living room is her radio -- a huge one, taking up almost one entire end of the room. But let's leave this room and go on out to the kitchen, to which my hostess led the way with pride and pleasure.
Here you would find that everything is modern indeed.
"I have every electric cooking device imaginable," said Smith, pointing out these various possessions. "I have an electric waffle iron, toaster and mixer. Then, though the mixer has a reamer for fruit, I also have, for good measure, an electric fruit juice extractor. And I have three electric percolators -- one of which makes 18 cups of coffee! I'm so electric-minded that I even own a nutcracker and an ice cube crusher which also work by electricity."
The colors used in Smith's kitchen are green and cream. The saucepans conform to the general color scheme, too, being of that new enamelware that is green on the outside, with black bottoms for better hearing and with measuring lines inside each saucepan which add to their practicability.
The woodwork in the kitchen is cream, the linoleum and curtains green, while those two colors are combined in the edgings of the well-stocked kitchen shelves.
Once we had reached the culinary department it did not take me long to discover that here indeed is one radio hostess who knows her groceries. That's not meant to be facetious, either, for though Smith happens to broadcast for the A&P stores, her cooking experience dates back far beyond any connection with her present sponsors.
"Even as a child," she told me, "I always was allowed to fuss around in the kitchen. And I loved it!"
She still loves it, does Smith. So much so that, to this day, her idea of joy is to get out into the kitchen and fix up a scrumptious meal for her friends, or for her mother, who comes frequently to visit her.
"Mother is a wonderful all-around cook, Smith declared with proud conviction, "but she says my pies and cakes are better than hers! I'm a pretty good baker, I guess, for I can make breads and rolls and coffee cakes, as well as the more showy sweets. And my doughnuts are great."
Her chuckle as she said this was a delight to hear.
"I use a yeast-raised dough for my doughnuts," she continued; "they're real old-fashioned, you see. I can make up a batch of four dozen and in two days they're all gone."
Smith didn't tell me how many of these she herself consumes, but as she refuses to diet I imagine she cooperates in the inroads on this generous supply.
For Smith likes to eat and insists on having food with her meals. No bird rations or calorie charts for her! No anemic piece of lettuce tastefully (?) dressed in mineral oil, masquerading as lunch! No dinner consisting of a lean lamb chop and a slice of pineapple! No meal, actually, that would even remotely conform to the Hollywood Diet ever appears in Smith's home. That's why a bid to dine at her house is not just another dinner invitation, but a golden opportunity to learn what an honest-to-goodness home-cooked meal should be.
Nancy Wood in Radio Stars, March 1936
Fibber McGee and Molly at Home in Chicago
News of their impending assault on the screen capital had just broken when I called on Jim and Marian Jordan, who are Fibber McGee and Molly as well as sundry other quaint characters on a weekly radio program.
I found them at a modest but quite fetching home in Peterson Woods, an attractive, spic-and-span district of Chicago's North Side, neither exclusive nor ritzy. It is the Wistful Vista of the McGee radio script.
No fashionable showplace, this. If the Jordans abhor anything more than a sustaining program it's a showoff. Just a two-story dwelling of mustard colored brick exterior and severely practical design, set on a 30- by 25-foot lot. Pretty, homelike, inviting. Something any well-paid working man might aspire to own.
With the ink scarcely dry on a lucrative movie contract, it seemed reasonable to expect a jubilee spirit at the Jordan menage. Instead, there was a hangdog look in the keen brown eyes of the short-sleeved little gent who stood in the front yard.
I tried hard to keep it in my noggin that these genial, bluff, commonplace folk were famous funmakers, beloved of millions, bound for Hollywood and new glory. Yet something was wrong. Some intangible shadow. The bluebird must be around somewhere, but I didn't hear him warbling.
"About that movie contract now," I ventured at last as we sat in the streaming sunlight of the Jordan solarium. "I suspect that's an answer to an oft-spoken prayer. Jim and Marian, you're riding high!"
Jim didn't hear it at all.
But Marian had heard. She sighed.
"Yes," she said dully, "that movie contract. It's thrilling, of course. It's fine to be appreciated. Pretty soon now," and she seemed on the verge of tears, "we'll be off for the coast."
"Say, what is this?" I blurted suddenly. "Is it a victory celebration or a wake? You'd think a movie contract was a mortgage foreclosure, the way you both take on."
"Might as well take our home on a foreclosure as take us away from the home," Jim broke in darkly. For the first time I got an inkling of where the trouble lay. Marian nodded. She turned to me.
"It's this way," she explained. "Ever since we were married down by the Schnapps factory in Peoria, Jim and I have longed for a home, pictured and planned it in our minds. This is it."
"But your success has brought you the home. And aren't you happy about a new chance in a new field? Don't you get a kick out of the figures on that contract? Why, you'll be able to build an even better home."
Jim answered quickly: "It isn't that we aren't appreciative. Marian doesn't mean that. Sure, success built this home. Incidentally, we don't want a better one. We're happy in this home -- when we're here, which isn't often enough or long enough. Certainly we're glad to enter the movies. But it means going away from Wistful Vista. If we could just take time out, now, to enjoy our dream home! But we can't. Gotta keep going. It's part of the game."
This was a new Jim, this philosopher. I wanted him to continue. But Marian interjected another doleful note.
"There are the children, too. Don't forget the children, Jim. They were part of our dreams."
It developed that the Jordans, during the several weeks' work in the studio (they talked like it would be years, eons) were leaving behind 16-year-old Kathryn, comely high school junior, and 13-year-old Jimmy, eighth grader, who sings like Bing Crosby (says Jim).
"Let me show you the house," Marian cried impulsively. "Then maybe you'll understand what we're talking about."
She did, and I did.
The Vanastorbilts wouldn't go for this home, but any middle-class family would dote on it. There are three large rooms downstairs, besides the solarium. Three inviting bedrooms upstairs. In the basement, a huge playroom for the younger generation.
Appointments are beyond reproach, though Marian, a self-disparaging sort of person, sometimes referred to her "interior decorator's nightmare."
"No frills or freaks," the First Lady of the House of Jordan cheerfully admitted. "But every inch is utilized. We built this hose to live in -- if they'll let us.
"Jim inspected and gave his personal blessing to every timber and brick and nail. He slunk around the place day and night, til the neighbors began to think that the joint was haunted."
Jim probably knew what he was doing, at that. He's been not only a carpenter and a student of architecture, but also a timekeeper, machinist, day laborer, soldier, insurance agent and problem child around Peoria.
Jim and Marian adroitly parried questions about the money involved in radio and movie contracts. Jim observed:
"We're getting a lot of dough, but we're in no position to do any plunging. We're going slowly, paying on annuities, looking to the future. In the movies, we're untried. In radio, nobody can say what's going to happen tomorrow."
About their home, they both are garrulous old gossips, pulling no punches.
"In the original contract it was supposed to cost $10,000," Jim recalled. "As it stands now, including furnishings, carpets, drapes and everything, I figure it's worth a good $15,000."
Here in their own home, at least, you couldn't doubt that the Jordans knew happiness.
Like millions of others, you see, home life and comfort and security are all that Jim and Marian Jordan care deeply about. Luxury formed no part of the earlier career of either, and now their success has caught them up, neither feels the need for extravagant things.
Nothing ever came easily for the Jordans, and what they have now they cherish. Even their romance was stormy. Jim was 17, Marian, 16, when they decided to marry.
Peoria frowned on youthful marriages. "Puppy love," sniffed the citizens, and asked, "How can that stripling Jordan support a wife?"
Jim wondered about that himself, but Marian didn't hesitate. Neither has ever been sorry; but the going, in spots, was painfully rough.
When the war came along, Jim volunteered In St. Nazaire he fell ill. Thereafter he fought the battle of pink pulls and pale liquids in a base hospital.
Meanwhile Marian taught violin, voice and piano to Young America, or to that part of Young Peoria she could interest. Reunited after the firing had ceased, they picked up four musicians who played 15 instruments and began hitting the tank towns.
The Jordans then saw vaudeville, but vaudeville didn't see them very clearly. In 1924 the doughty duo turned to radio, never suspecting they had grasped the magic key to success and the things they most wanted -- home life, comfort, security.
For 10 long years it looked like a sour idea, with the hard-working Jordans slotted for mediocrity. Marian and Jim toiled diligently and quite steadily around Chicago studios, never quite producing that extra spark that would mean stardom. They became the O'Henry Twins, the Smith Family, the Smackouts. They frolicked at the Saturday Jamboree, whooped it up with the Kaltenmeyer Kindergarten.
They were still in the dime-a-dozen class less than three years ago when, overnight, the Fibber McGee and Molly program was born. Smash hit -- meteoric rise -- fat contract -- permanent stardom.
For a while now, you're hearing the McGee radio broadcast as it originates in a Hollywood studio. Between times the beloved comics are toiling industriously to score a four-star knockout in their first cinemadventure. With the calm confidence and optimism of battle-scarred troupers, they are not losing sleep over the outcome of this epic in celluloid.
They will give their best and leave the verdict in the lap of the gods, hoping for a favorable payoff. And that'll be that.
Of deeper concern to Jim and Marian Jordan, if you could peep into their hearts, is the matter of their personal happiness. Call it a bluebird if you will. For the Jordans he's not in Hollywood at all, but in the solarium of the dream home that is Wistful Vista.
Elgar Brown in Radio Guide, June 12, 1937
Radio Jingle Moves 1 Million Barrels of Burgermeister Beer
Burgermeister, Burgermeister
It's so light and golden clear,
Burgermeister, Burgermeister
It's a truly fine pale beer
This jingle has proved to be worth about $4 million a word so far. Sung to the tune of "Clementine" on a host of California radio stations, it has impelled thousands of Californians to switch to Burgermeister. Sales for 1951 are up 33% over 1950 with annual sales of close to one million barrels.
That wasn't the situation in 1944 when 55-year-old German-born Henry E. Picard took over as general manager. Then, Burgermeister was but one of San Francisco Brewing's 14 private label beers, and all were lagging in sales.
Picard, a merchandising expert, dropped the private label and draught beers and selected Burgermeister as the one beer to advertise and promote. As evidence of his sales-building confidence he burned up $10,000 worth of private labels in one afternoon. A limited budget, about $50,000, was put behind Burgermeister and, as there were four million Northern Californians to reach, radio chain breaks were an almost automatic selection.
Picard explains, "Chain breaks would allow us to deliver the maximum number of sales messages for the money expended. Chain break time could be bought on good stations adjacent to programs with high ratings, while, at the same time, announcements were available next to programs with low ratings."
Californians have been hearing the "Burgie jingle" ever since its 1944 introduction but not always in the same way. Sometimes the jingle is speeded up; sometimes it's sung in a different key.
Despite the Burgermeister success in the last seven years, Picard modestly considers himself "an ordinary, straight-forward businessman." Now, with 50% of the ad budget going into radio, Picard still insists on a strict and simple advertising policy. No comparisons. No fancy claims. Nothing except "Burgermeister -- a truly fine pale beer. Picard's extra sales touch: San Franciscans within hearing distance can listen to to chimes atop the brewery building play "Clementine" at 10 a.m., 3, 5 and 8 p.m.
From Sponsor, December 31, 1951
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