John Hodiak: From Hamtramck to Hollywood
It was the church plays, the high school dramas and John Hodiak's eagerness to spout speeches that got him hipped on the radio acting idea which finally paid off way out in Hollywood. Hodie had worked up such an oratorical rep around Hamtramck that when a campaigning candidate for Michigan's governorship hit Hamtramck, he stumped the place for him and got votes galore.
"When I'm elected, son," promised the grateful statesman, "let me know what I can do for you."
Hodie wasn't backward. He let him know all right. He was just out of high school. His dad was just out of a job. Both were out of money. He wrote the new governor. "Please (1) get my dad a job. (2) Give me a recommendation as a speaker. I want a radio job."
The gov came through, Pop got on the payroll at a Depression-stalled plant, and Hodie got a glowing build-up as the silver-tongued young orator of the century. But the program director of Detroit's biggest station was not impressed. "Let's hear you read," he sighed.
Hodie gave out with what he considered deathless oratory, but the neighborhood dialects of all the Polettis, Wojiehowiczes, Schmaltzes and Garfinkels ganged up on him. His Hamtramck accents smote the mighty radio man definitely in the wrong acoustical places.
"Take some good advice, kid," he told 18-year-old Hodie. "Go home, get a job in a factory, marry a nice girl and forget this radio acting stuff. You sound like the Melting Pot of the West going East!" His attitude was, "Go away, boy, you bother me!"
Well, it still makes John Hodiak red in the face to talk about that episode. But he's fair enough now to admit that those caustic comments were not only gospel, but exactly what stung him on to success.
But to Hodie, that radio man's bop on the ego could never be soothed until he did something about it. So he ironed out his diction by reading aloud and talking to every college-educated man at Chevrolet (where he'd gotten a $45 a week job in the meantime) until he had his vowel tones rolling right in the groove.
When another Detroit station staged a competitive audition, Hodie won it hands down. Toot de suite he wrote a very snooty letter to the program chief who'd insulted his ambitions. He enclosed the newspaper clipping announcing his audition triumph. Then he felt a lot better. He got just as snooty a note back, telling him he was probably still lousy. But it ended, "Come and see me."
That started Hodie's radio career. They sort of adopted him around the station, shoved him into this and that show in bit lines, mob murmurs and extra parts. But always at night after his regular job. Pretty soon they wanted him days, too, and the Great Decision loomed. The offer: "Put you on the studio acting staff -- salary, $35 a week." Hodie's spot: He was already making $45 at Chevrolet. So what did he do? He quit and took the radio job.
Well, even Hodie's folks couldn't understand that. Pop and Mom Hodiak and his brother and sis thought he was stark and raving. Hodie was about 21 then, and already Pop had said, "Now son, it's time you got yourself married to a nice girl You can move into the attic rooms, have scads of kids and live with us." Hodie was already a catch; he had a cushy office job at the plant with a fabulous salary. Here he was tossing away his future for $10 less! Ten dollars has always been plenty of dough in Hamtramck.
But that was the last peep of protest Hodie ever got from his folks or neighbors. Pretty soon he was on The Green Hornet and The Lone Ranger shows and a celebrity in the neighborhood. Even afterwards Hodie was always a hero to the hometown folks, and many's the time Mom and Pop sent on a $5 bill they'd borrowed down the block to help over the rough spots.
Well, to tuck up a long tale, Detroit radio soon got too small for Hodie, even though he was dragging down $75 a week. He moved on to Chicago, struck it rich the first week, went broke thereafter, lived high, starved low by turns, but made a name for himself in the gang of soap operas and radio action thrillers the Windy City has always scattered out on the groaning air. Ma Perkins, Girl Alone, Mary Marlin, Wings of Destiny. His biggest break was playing Lil' Abner on the air.
When the Hamtramck homefolks heard Hodie spouting Dogpatch talk on that one, by the way, they wrote him real puzzled, "What's happened to you? You don't sound like yourself." Nobody there ever has thought of him as an actor -- just as Hodie Hodiak, the kid down the street.
Eventually, what had happened to Don Ameche and Tyrone Power and a bunch of other radio actors around Chicago happened to Hodie. It's almost routine when a guy makes good in Chicago radio that he gets a Hollywood test if he wants it -- that is, if he doesn't have bow legs and a squint.
Jack Wade in Modern Screen, February 1945
Sandy Becker, Young Announcer with an Old Voice
Radio listeners are getting accustomed to learning that their favorite air personalities don't look like their voices sound. But Carolinians can't quite hide their amazement when they see Sandy Becker, WBT announcer.
Sandy tips Father Time's scales at 22 but to hear his voice you'd expect the years to hang heavy on his shoulders. It is a booming, full voice that sounds as though its owner had spent years training it to perfection. It's a voice filled with expression, emotion and worldliness. Yet Sandy Becker has never traveled farther from his birthplace of New York City than Charlotte, and his face is young and unlined.
Once when he was announcing a children's program, he invited listeners to send their children to the studio for an air appearance. Mothers and children alike were stunned to find that their "Uncle Sandy" had no long gray beard for them to trip over.
Sandy started his dramatic career as the builder and producer of a puppet show at the age of 10. All by himself, he did the voices of his 12 puppet characters. In college, he found radio irresistibly attractive and left school to take a job on a small New York station. He hadn't been there long before his fine voice was brought to the attention of Charles Crutchfield, WBT program director, who invited him to join the WBT announcing staff.
Along with Sandy's regular announcing duties, he presents Poet's Music -- a title he originated -- at 11:30 a.m. every Sunday morning. With recorded classical music as a background, he reads poems that blend best with this type of accompaniment; and sometimes he reads poems of his own composition. His audience on this program is so big that sometimes letters come in from as far away as Ohio and New York. Many of the letters ask him to read certain poems, and he always complies if he can.
When Sandy isn't announcing, he is forever lobbying for his host of hobbies -- the most important of which are cartooning, sculpturing, sketching, tennis and swimming. He's on the verge of giving up the dubious advantage of being WBT's only bachelor announcer. He has announced his intention to marry a young lady who is one of Charlotte's loveliest debutantes.
Dale Banks in Radio Mirror, June 1942
Lone Ranger's Lost Treasures of the West
Geronimo's Lost Mine
After a disastrous fight with the U.S. Army, Geronimo, the great Apache warrior chief, found himself imprisoned in the stockade at Fort Sill. He told one of his guards of a fabulous mine where the Apaches mined the "green bads" that they used for ornaments -- and where they mined their gold.
The guard promised to help the Chief escape if the Indian would guide him to the mines. But the plot was later discovered and the guard was sent to prison. Later, Geronimo himself was exiled to a reservation in Florida, far from his secret mine. Even today, prospectors search for the mines of the Apaches.
The gold mine is said to be located in the bottom of a deep box canyon near an old adobe house. The Apaches regularly traded gold for guns and ammunition, food, and clothing. The mine must have been very rich, but to this date remains undiscovered.
The Lost Cowboy Mine
About 60 years ago, an old corral stood on the banks of the Colorado River north of Yuma, Arizona. It was built of adobe blocks. Cowboys used it to gather wandering steers until they could muster enough cowpunchers to drive a herd back to their home ranches. Near the corral was a low round hill covered with black, rounded pieces of heavy stone or metal. The cowboys often threw the stones at the half-wild steers to frighten them through the corral gate.
Gradually, as permanent settlers came into the territory, the corral was abandoned. One of the cowboys went back East to his childhood home and took a few of the strange, heavy stones with him. Years later, a friend of his who was a mining expert examined them and discovered that they were almost pure lumps of solid gold, although tarnished black due to long exposure to the weather.
Since then, hundreds of people have tried to find the Lost Cowboy Mine and its acres of gold nuggets. None have succeeded. Either the old corral was gradually washed away by stones, or someone secretly destroyed it to conceal the mine's location.
Adams' Buried Treasure
Many years ago a man named Adams and six others discovered a rich mine near the headwaters of the Gila River in Arizona. They built a small cabin and worked the mine hard. Their greatest danger lay in being discovered by the raiding Apaches.
One day, Adams and one of his partners left the camp for town. The first night they camped on a high hill and looked back toward the mine. The cabin was in flames and the blaze of gunfire lit the surrounding sky. The Apaches had killed all their friends. After struggling on for many miles across the desert, the two men were discovered, half-starved and in a delirious state.
Adams' partner was killed a short time later. For years, Adams could not re-enter the territory which was rampant with hostile Indians. When he finally went back after many years, he was unable to locate the mine. His landmark, the cabin, had been completely destroyed. There must be $600,000 worth of gold buried under the site of the cabin.
From Lone Ranger's Golden West, 1955
When Wendell Niles Moved to Pine Ridge, Arkansas
Radio announcer Wendell Niles worked on several radio series at one time; by the 1939-40 radio season he was featured on not only the Al Pearce Show, in which the rotund comedian Pearce portrayed Elmer Blurt, a reticent door-to-door salesman ("Nobody home, I hope I hope I hope"), but also on Gene Autry's brand-new Melody Ranch program (for "healthful, refreshing Doublemint Gum.").
By 1942, Niles had landed his longest-running stint, with The Pepsodent Show, starring Bob Hope. During those wartime years, Niles, Hope and the rest of the cast (Frances Langford, Barbara Jo Allen as Vera Vague and the zany Jerry Colonna) traveled to military bases worldwide to entertain the troops and help the war effort.
Around this same period of time, Niles and his very good friend Don Prindle gained quite a bit of fame as the comedy team Niles and Prindle, appearing in movies and in their own radio series for several years. After the war, Niles worked on many more programs both with and without Prindle, along the way changing his billing from Wen Niles to Wendell Niles in a further attempt to avoid confusion with his brother, who by now was well-entrenched on the Abbott and Costello program, among many others.
In 1946, Niles announced for Hollywood Startime (a clone of Lux Radio Theatre), which was sponsored by Frigidaire. This led directly to his hooking up with Lum and Abner when Frigidaire began sponsoring the new half-hour Lum and Abner Show in September 1948. In addition to announcing, Niles also appeared as himself in the body of each program, although it was never fully explained just what famed radio announcer Wendell Niles was doing living in Pine Ridge, Arkansas! Most often he appeared to be a local Frigidaire representative, checking on how his products were moving in the Jot 'Em Down Store. Niles remained with Lum and Abner through the end of their second and final half-hour season in 1950.
From Jot 'Em Down Journal, August 1989
Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll Created Amos 'n' Andy
Amos 'n' Andy are two of the best known radio characters in America, and in the last six months -- the time they have been on the National Broadcasting Company networks -- they have made radio history in broadcasting at least 150 times, which is the equivalent of three years on the air for an ordinary program.
Amos 'n' Andy operate the Open Air Taxicab Company in Harlem. Each night a microphone picks up the highlights of their day as revealed in their discussions with their associations. Their business ventures, their amusements, even their affairs of the heart, are told in their conversations. The story goes on and on, and it has been asserted that if you listen in three nights in succession, you'll be an Amos 'n' Andy fan. The program is the first daily comic strip on the air.
Amos 'n' Andy are, in very private life, Freeman F. Gosden and Charles J. Correll. Gosden is Amos and Correll is Andy. Correll was born in Peoria, Illinois, and grew up with the ambition to become an actor. Gosden, a native of Virginia, was an actor when the two met in North Carolina almost eight years ago. They became partners and for a while traveled about staging amateur revues for Junior Leagues and other organizations. Then they teamed together in a theatrical company.
In 1925 they appeared for the first time before the microphone. In 1926 they introduced Sam 'n' Henry to the radio audience. Two years later they created Amos 'n' Andy, popularizing them throughout the midwest. In 1929 NBC, on the lookout for outstanding radio talent, signed them up and subsequently put them on the air under the sponsorship of Pepsodent toothpaste.
Not even the sponsors realized how popular they were until a strange thing happened. When Amos 'n' Andy changed from the Columbia Broadcasting System to the NBC network, their program was scheduled for 11 p.m. EST. Parents and children protested. It was too late for the youngsters and the youngsters who were Amos 'n' Andy fans numbered in hundreds of thousands.
It was then arranged to present the pair at 7 p.m. in the evening, in order that youngsters might listen in. Then the squall broke. Seven p.m. Eastern time means 6 p.m. Central, 5 p.m. Mountain and 4 p.m. Pacific. Fans who had become interested in the adventures of Amos 'n' Andy found that they would either have to give up their jobs or give up Amos 'n' Andy.
The storm broke in Denver, where there was virtually a mass meeting of irate listeners. Thousands upon thousands of letters and telegrams of protest were received by NBC and the sponsors. Something had to be done. The result was that a precedent was established in radio. Amos 'n' Andy continued to go on the air at 7 p.m. Eastern time, but only in the Eastern time zone. The same evening they went on the air over a Central and Western network at 11:30 p.m. This proved to be the solution to the problem, and while it cost more money there seemed to be no other way out.
Only the president is considered to have right-of-way over Amos 'n' Andy. When it became necessary to eliminate the program for an evening in order to rebroadcast Big Ben in London on New Year's, there were protests. Any rumor that Amos 'n' Andy are going off the air is followed by a flood of letters. Once when the program failed to go on, it was necessary to have the continuity for that night printed in newspapers.
What is the fascination of the program? Smart showmen declare it is the continuity of interest. They point to newspaper comic strips as an example of the same technique.
Correll and Gosden have ideas of their own. "It isn't a wise-cracking program," Correll said in discussing their success. Incidentally both men are somewhat amazed by it all. "People don't listen because of the jokes that are told. In fact, the program at times has a decided touch of pathos. Amos 'n' Andy are very human. They have more than their share of faults and they have many likeable characteristics. They are always blundering into scrapes and getting out of them. In other words, they are doing what anyone is likely to do under the same circumstances. The comedy is human."
From Radio News, April 1930
With Canada's Mounted Dramatized on Radio by T. Morris Longstreth
The real story of the Canadian Royal Mounted Police, written by the official historian of the group that always gets its man, will be dramatized in a new series of programs to begin over an NBC network this Monday at 9 p.m.
T. Morris Longstreth, who claims the distinction of being the only person outside the organization ever to have been granted access to complete records, will write the continuity for the program, to be known as With Canada's Mounted. Official permission for use of the facts contained in each manuscript was necessary for the series could be started, according to the program sponsor, the Canada Dry Ginger Ale Company.
Each broadcast will be a complete story in itself, dealing with the inside history of some famous Canadian crime or criminal. The initial show tells how a famous forger was run to earth. The title is "The Case of Ernest Cashell."
Longstreth, author of Sons of the Mounted Police and The Silent Force, has spent years delving into the files of the organization about which he writes.
From Radio Guide, Jan. 10-16, 1932
Morris Littmann Brought the World Mountainville True Life Sketches
Out "thar" in the hills lies Mountainville. It is an ordinary village, nothing unusual about it -- it is just Mountainville! So typical was this quiet little hamlet nestled way up in the hills that Morris Littmann, owner of the Littmann Stores in New York City, sought to give the public in general a chance to see into this homey clump of houses and little businesses.
Littman spent his last summer's vacation in Mountainville to get the trend of life there. Upon his return to the metropolis early in the fall he conferred with Yolande Langworthy, the noted radio playwright, and she began the writing of a series of sketches built around the actual people of Mountainville. So it was that the Mountainville True Life Sketches were born.
For her players Langworthy called upon four members of the dramatic department of the Columbia System. Ten juvenile actors and actresses were selected from theatrical ranks after an exhaustive research for the proper types of the various parts.
The cast set, the company went into rehearsal and shortly announced the premiere of Mountainville. Mountainville did not "click" the first night, as the theatrical critics would have put it. It went on for four weeks with little or no attention. Then all of a sudden -- the way that these miracles in radio happen, the way that genius is discovered -- Mountainville hit the innermost recesses of hard-boiled New York's heart. Mountainville was widely acclaimed by mothers, fathers and their children from five to fifty years of age.
Littman, amid flowers in his private office, sat back and smiled.
Not satisfied with the mere success of his drama, Littman had another plan which, when worked out, would bring even more entertainment to his radio public. His idea was a Tiny Tots Theater of the Air. A miniature theater -- stage, orchestra pit, seats for the audience and all, even to the spotlights -- was erected in the world studio at CBS headquarters especially for Mountainville.
So large is the audience every week seeking admittance to the Tiny Tots Theater of the Air that Littman says he will build a large radio theater atop his new building on Broadway, now under construction. This, he asserts, will be opened to the public to witness the actual broadcasting of the Mountainville plays each week.
Bill Schudt Jr. in What's On the Air, February 1930
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