The Story of How Gus Van Met Joe Schenck

Some men who sing direct their song to the girl they love. Some sing to a fancied ideal. Many carol out of sheer romance. A few sing solely for material reward. But different from any of these is the emotion which inspires the songs of Gus Van, interlocutor on the NBC Greater Minstrels.

Van sings to a shadow -- the wraith of his former partner, Joe Schenck, whom he loved with a robust, masculine affection bred by 21 years of association and by an arm-in-arm battle which led them from a sordid beginning to a height where they stood distinguished as the greatest two-man team in the theater.

"I am as uncertain as every mortal about what happens to the soul after death," Van confesses. "But if I didn't know absolutely that Joe Schenck's spirit was listening to my every note -- that he is keeping me in pitch, so to speak -- as he always did when we were partners, I would never make another public appearance. I would go back to railroading. That's the way I made my start in the world, and I could do it again if I had to."

There is an impressive sincerity about Van's loyalty to that ghostly ally. He made his great success with Schenck and truly believes that he couldn't progress a foot if he didn't feel that in some shadow-land Joe is harmonizing with him that amazing voice of his, just as he did in the days when they were making $185 a week, the weeks they could find work -- or when they were making $5,000 a week and couldn't find enough weeks in which to play.

Of course you've heard the old, old press story about how the boys were streetcar employees who used to get together in the car barn nights and practice their vocalizing. The story has been prevalent for years, and the famous team just let it go at that. And it is a good story except for two important details. Joe Schenck wasn't a singer when he met his future partner, and since he was only 16 years old when their paths crossed it is obvious that he couldn't have helped to man a streetcar.

The story of their meeting has a touch of humor in it -- although memories keep Van from smiling when he tells about it.

Gus, a Brooklyn boy, had worked for the traction company but his flair for singing sent him into places where people paid to hear their favorite tunes. He had no knowledge of vaudeville or the stage. Neither did he have the background for an immediate plunge into the theater. In his own words, he was a plain mugg; and like Irving Berlin and many other of our current stars, Gus began his singing career in the back rooms of some of the lowliest saloons on the Brooklyn, New York, waterfront. His pianist was a troublesome man with a greater penchant for getting himself into jams than for distinguishing himself as a musician. But his unorthodox chords furnished sufficient setting for the ballads with which Van mulcted occasional quarters from sentimental dockwallopers.

One night word was brought to Gus that his accompanist had tangled with his wife -- with the result that he was in a hospital ward minus one ear, a piece of his cheek and a couple of fingers. Automatically Van was out of work. Because of his precarious earnings, it was difficult to get another pianist readily. He was standing in the door of a saloon, his dejection written across his face, when a neighborhood friend paused to query him about his dolorous appearance. Gus detailed his predicament.

"Why, I know a kid who will be just the partner you need," the friend replied. "You ought to know him. He only lives a block or two away from you, and you railroaded with his old man. His name is Schenck. I'll send him down here to talk to you."

Van was thunderstruck that night when a boy of 16, slender and with wavy blond hair, walked into the questionable place and introduced himself as the neighborhood youngster who played the piano.

"And he could play," Van muses. "But I was afraid to have him around. He was such a punk -- and such a nice-looking kid -- that I was scared some one of those hard-boiled dames would make a sucker out of him and that would lead to trouble with some of the hoodlums they played around with. But he convinced me that he could take care of himself. And he could -- then. It was only later that trouble threw him off balance -- and just think, I never knew it. If I had just realized, maybe things would have turned out differently."

That was early in 1909 and Gus Van had just cast his first vote. Five years older than the boyish Schenck, he literally mothered him for the brief time they worked together during that first association. Joe functioned solely as pianist. His voice was changing and there was no way of knowing, even if he had wanted to sing, if he would turn out to be a tenor or a deep bass.

That early union was short-lived, as Van got his chance in vaudeville and Schenck went back to odd jobs playing for orchestras, dances and club entertainment. Eventually, more than a year later, the team of Edwards, Van and Tierney was booked into Arnold Rothstein's successful cafe in Coney Island. During the course of the engagement Tierney, the piano player, was dropped from the act and Van sent for Schenck.

Chester Matthews in Radio Guide, January 25, 1936

Old Time Radio · Comedy · Music · Gus Van · Joe Schenck · Vaudeville · Greater Minstrels · NBC ·

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Wings of Destiny Gave Listeners Their Own Planes

Did it ever occur to you to wonder what you'd do if you won one of those midget airplanes the Wings of Destiny program gives away every week? Of course it's nice to get the plane, but it really isn't easy to take care of it. As Mrs. Thomas Frissell of Middletown, Connecticut, one of the winners exclaimed, "You can't just put an airplane under the bed!"

Mrs. Frissell was so excited when she got the telephone call telling her she'd won a plane that she lost her voice. Then she recovered and rushed out to the local airport to rent a hangar and take out insurance. She didn't keep the plane, though. She doesn't drive a car very well, and she'd heard pilots say that unless you were able to drive a car you probably would have trouble learning to pilot a plane.

So she accepted one of her 16 offers and sold her Piper Cub for $1,300. Only two other winners have sold their prizes -- George Blair of Miami and Harold Beck of Lebanon, Indiana. Beck wanted the money for an operation his son needed, and Blair wanted to build a house.

Some of the Wings winners have been inspired to become full-fledged pilots. One is Albert Walker of Pueblo, Colorado; another is Victor Boudin of Houston. V.J. Sweeney of Chicago already knew how to fly, so he arranged for his wife to take the lessons that are included as part of the prize. Henry Miller of Tulsa, Oklahoma, found his prize very appropriate -- he works at the Spartan School of Aeronautics. Lieutenant Wyan Thiessen of Davenport,Iowa, found his far from appropriate -- he's a Reserve Cavalry Officer. But he's a flying enthusiast now.

Thomas Gallagher of Norwood, Ohio, makes his plane work for him. He rents it out at the local airport to students who don't own planes of their own.

Dan Senseney in Radio Mirror, May 1941

Old Time Radio · Wings Of Destiny · Aviation · Contests · Piper · NBC ·

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Lanny Grey Conducts the Rhythm School of the Air

Lanny Grey, young NBC singer, pianist and arranger, is going to see his name in big Mazda lights one of these days, if I'm a judge, because he has the certain priceless ingredients that help mold great stars.

He concocted an idea, Rhythm School of the Air -- something just a little different -- and you can hear it any Thursday at 6:30 p.m. Eastern time -- and he's going to sink or swim with it.

It's just a sustainer now and by the time Lanny pays out his small cast, he's got just enough left to buy a copy of Variety and grab a sandwich in the Radio City drugstore. But he's not worrying. You even believe him when he candidly tells you that he never took a piano lesson in his life and even today can't read a note of music!

His little program is all his own idea. The entire show is done in rhyme and there are no spoken words. Lanny plays the piano and arranges all the numbers. He has perfected a system of signs instead of the customary musical notes. Lanny studies the new tunes at the publishers, memorizes them, then coaches Judy, the Sing-Sing Sisters, the Rhythm School Quartet, Mary McHugh, Jimmy Rich, Nursery Crime Detective and Don Richards.

It takes him a week to get the show perfected, but only a half hour to remember a tune.

The cast is not as imposing as it sounds.

"You see the Sing-Sing Sisters are really Judy and Mary. The Rhythm School Quartet is composed of Jimmy, Judy, Mary and myself. Jimmy Rich the organized doubles as the Nursery Crime Detective, and the other 12 characters on the show are divided among the five of us," explained the University of Pennsylvania graduate.

The kids on the show are sticking with Lanny until sponsorship offers come his way. They have turned down several flattering individual contracts. They're placing their bets on Lanny.

:Any guy that can pick up the ukulele, learn the chords, then master the banjo, and finally the piano, without even a metronome in the house, can do anything," is the way partner Judy sums it all up.

At nights they usually get together at Lanny's apartment to concoct the big commercial idea that they think the show still lacks before it can go bigtime.

Ken Alden in Radio Mirror, November 1938

Old Time Radio · Music · Lanny Grey · Rhythm School Of The Air · Mary McHugh · Jimmy Rich · NBC ·

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The DeZurik Sisters, Yodelers on the National Barn Dance

Just a little more than three years ago a couple of blond, blue-eyed sisters up in Royalton, Minnesota, decided they'd learn to sing. neither of them had ever sung a note and they didn't know the first thing about playing any musical instrument -- but that didn't stop them. They got to work on the song, "Will the Angels Play Their Harps for Me?" and discovered to their surprise that their voices sounded pretty good.

After they had practiced a few more songs, they decided to try their hand at playing a guitar. The reason they chose a guitar rather than any other musical instrument was that their brother was the proud possessor of a brand-new guitar. He didn't especially favor the idea of having his sisters experimenting with it, but they managed to do quite a little practicing while he was out of the house. It wasn't any time at all until their playing was the talk of the town.

A lot of girls might have stopped there and rested on their laurels -- but not Caroline and Mary Jane DeZurik. They decided to learn to yodel. The only question was how to go about learning an art that's so little known. Imitating the best yodelers seemed the best solution. The first yodel song was the "Alpine Milk Man." The had heard it many times on the WLS National Barn Dance and they tried to make their yodels sound as much as possible like the radio variety.

The next step in their musical career was their invention of the "double-yodel" with which their radio listeners have since become familiar. Last fall they entered an amateur contest in Little Falls, Minnesota, and won it. Then they went on to another contest in St. Cloud, Minnesota. They won that one, too, and it just happened that a bunch of the WLS folks who were making a personal appearance in Minnesota heard them sing and invited them to guest appear on their program. About a month later they joined the WLS staff, after having broadcast a few times from the station KSTP in St. Paul.

Last month the DeZurik sisters appeared in St. Cloud, which is only about 25 miles from their home town, Royalton. Pat Buttram had just introduced them to the theatre audience and they were standing before the mike, ready to sing, when a band started playing. More than half of Royalton's population of 500 -- complete with the town band -- had driven in to St. Cloud to hear the girls sing and to give them a rousing welcome. In the audience was the entire DeZurik family, Mr. and Mrs. DeZurik and Ethel, Eva, Lorraine, Delphine and Jerome.

Caroline, who is 18, and Mary Jane, 20, live in Chicago with their cousins. They girls are exceedingly modest about their accomplishments and their greatest ambition is to compose music. Neither of the sisters is married. Mary Jane is exactly five feet tall and Caroline is five feet one. Their favorite pastime is hunting or fishing.

From Stand By, September 11, 1937

Old Time Radio · Country · Music · DeZurik Sisters · Caroline DeZurik · Mary Jane DeZurik · Yodeling · National Barn Dance · WLS · Minnesota ·

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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

Old Time Radio · John Hodiak · Lil Abner · Green Hornet · Lone Ranger · Girl Alone · Chicago · Michigan ·

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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

Old Time Radio · Sandy Becker · Young Doctor Malone · The Shadow · Children · Poetry · Charlotte · WBT · WNEW ·

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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

Old West · Westerns · Lone Ranger · Gold · History ·

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