George Hall and His Orchestra, Live from the Hotel Taft

George Hall leads the popular dance orchestra in the grill of the Hotel Taft. His band broadcasts 11 times a week -- which means that it is heard more often than any other band on the air. Noon, night and morning its rhythms and harmonies are carried into all the cities and all the towns and the smart country hamlets where the Columbia Broadcasting System bears romance and inspiration to the organdied girlfriends of tuxedoed youths.

It is a very good thing indeed for the egos of the tuxedoed youths that the girlfriends can only hear and cannot see George Hall leading his orchestra -- although George, being the fine fellow that he is and married besides, would never do the girls any harm -- or good, as you will.

George stands over six feet in height. His shoulders are broad, his hips are narrow, his waist is slim. He wears his jet hair sleekly combed and it glistens handsomely above his seashell complexion (he would go wild over that description). He has a little mustache, carefully waxed and pointed, teeth that flash and eyes with both fire and the dreaminess of his Spanish and Italian temperament.

Interviewing Hall was a difficult assignment, for he sat back smoking a long, evil looking cigar as black as a racketeer's income tax record, and inwardly froze.

"What," he demanded, "is there to say about me? My band plays here for luncheon, dinner and supper -- and then I go home. After all, what else is there?"

It was not an encouraging start. If the man would not talk about himself, what in truth was there to say? However, something had to be said. With a graceful gesture of long artist's fingers, Hall flicked an ash off his cigar. Ah, the cigar!

"That," it was suggested, "must be a strong smoke."

"It's a very good smoke," he replied, looking at the formidable contrivance affectionately.

"What brand," it was asked in a floundering way, "do you smoke?"

"Any brand," returned Hall. "Touring the country, I got over being squeamish about brands. Every section has its own favorite brands. I smoke 20 a day."

Twenty a day! He must, it was hinted, have a powerful constitition. He did, he agreed. It required some time and more desultory conversation to find out where he had acquired it. Then it developed he had been a schoolboy football and basketball star at Brooklyn Boys' High.

"It's an interesting thing," he remarked, characteristically avoiding recital of his prowess on courts and gridiron, "every fellow on that basketball team went into music. Felix Bernard composed Dardanella. You remember Dardanella. Ray Sherwood is writing songs. Bert Ruel is a pianist. And Bert's brother Jimmy has been coach for Morton Downey, Belle Baker, Eddie Cantor and lots of others."

He sat back with that outburst, and after a pause, remarked, "I'm not used to being interviewed. What can I say?"

He was very earnestly modest about it, and quite sincerely embarrassed. There was only one thing to do. The Columbia Broadcasting System had his record typed out on mimeographed sheets. Out came the record.

Now what was this about his middle name being Flag? Oh yes. He had been born on Flag Day, and so his parents had named him Flag. It was a good thing it had not been February 14. That line of talk did not seem to be moving in any special direction. Wasn't his name George Hall? No, as a matter of fact it was George Passilia.

"My father," he explained on painful questioning, "is Joseph Passilia. He played the first violin for Victor Herbert for many years. My mother was Vita Ciaccio before she was married. She had a lovely contralto voice. I was the only musical child. I have three brothers: a doctor, a schoolteacher and a bank clerk. And two married sisters."

And that was that.

Little by little, and chiefly through the prompting of the mimeographed record, it came out that George had started playing the piano by ear at the age of six. How had it happened? Oh, just naturally. The home was a musical one. The piano was there. So-o-o, as Ed Wynn would remark. Unlike the young Liszt, George had not had to hide in an attic to practice. And his father, hearing him, had taught him the violin.

So it came to pass that when he was 14, George Hall was sitting in Victor Herbert's orchestra at his father's playing elbow, learning by example and experience how to keep his resined horsehair steadily midway between delicate bridge and long ebony fingerboard and absorbing the spirit and technique of good music. And at sixteen, he was leading the orchestra at the Imperial Hotel in Brooklyn.

"It's a funny thing," mused George Hall, becoming alarmingly loquacious about himself for a few minutes, "but you've heard about so many barbers and butchers and lawyers and even bootleggers making their kids practice the violin or the piano and wanting them to become great artists. Well, my father wanted me to be a doctor."

And being a dutiful Latin son, George went to Cornell Medical School, which is, perhaps, where he acquired that ingratiating bedside manner so evident when he sits at a dinner table dangling pince-nez at the end of a black cord and speaking, when he is not conscious of being interviewed, in his so soothing voice.

Working his way through Cornell, however, George Hall became a Broadway figure summertimes with his orchestra. Then the war came along. George joined the Navy and organized bands at the Great Lakes Training Station for overseas service. After the war, it looked like a long, hard grind ahead to become a medical man. A musical career was at hand. George seized it.

"That," said George Hall, relaxing with evident relief, "is how I became a musician. I have been one ever since."

The interview was at an end, and there was no mistaking the fact that George was very happy about it.

"Will you have a cigar?" he offered gratefully, as mimeographed record and copy-paper notes went into hiding. But it was another of those long, black, startling-looking affairs. The offer was declined with thanks.

Leo Fontaine in Radio Guide, June 4, 1933

Old Time Radio · George Hall · Dolly Dawn · Music · Big Band · Hotel Taft · World War I · CBS ·

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Book Covers All 1,693 Episodes of Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons

In his previous books, author Jim Cox has written about two of radio's most prolific producers (Frank and Anne Hummert's Radio Factory), the last decade of the golden age of radio (Say Goodnight Gracie) and several radio programming genres (Radio Crime Fighters, The Great Radio Audience Participation Shows and The Great Radio Soap Operas).

In his current book, Jim focuses his considerable research and writing talents on a single series that was one of his favorites when he was growing up: Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons. As readers have come to expect from any Jim Cox effort, he has intensively and thoroughly researched his chosen subject, uncovered more new information and written a highly entertaining and enlightening volume on radio's longest-running detective series.

The book starts with Chronology: A Mr. Keen Almanac, which is a convenient timeline for the series providing information in an outline format, including dates, days and times of broadcasts; primary cast and crew; networks; and sponsors.

In the chapter The Aural Sleuth: Murder and Mayhem on the Air, Jim discusses the popularity and significance of the private investigator during the golden age of radio.

The origins and evolution of the Mr. Keen character are examined in the next three sections. The Origins of a Supersleuth covers the literary lineage of Keen in the writings of Robert W. Chambers and how Mr. Keen was adapted for radio by Frank and Anne Hummert. In Chambers' writings the kindly old investigator was a matchmaker for the wealthy. The next two chapters describe how Mr. Keen evolved over time on the radio: starting as the Tracer of Lost Persons in 1937 and by the mid-1940s transforming into a more intense, relentless chaser of murderers.

The dictates of the Hummerts often led to unintentionally humorous situations and dialogue on the series and are mentioned in the chapter Funny Business. These gaffes lead to satires on the series by the comedy of Bob and Ray: Mr. Trace Keener Than Most Persons and Mr. Treat, Chaser of Lost Persons. These Bob and Ray sketches of the series are also addressed.

Many entertaining anecdotes about cast and crew members are included in the chapter Hired Guns. There are also numerous biographical sketches of the writers, lead actors, directors, announcers, sound effect artists and musicians. The advertisers of Mr. Keen are discussed in Sold on Radio.

Collectors will be intrigued by the radio episode guide for the 1,693 installments of Mr. Keen. There is plenty of factual information: the broadcast dates and times, episode numbers and titles, episode plot summaries and so forth, but there is so much more! Jim mentioned at the beginning of this section that he attempted "to craft an expansive, engaging and useful episode guide." I can tell you that he has definitely succeeded. As I read Jim's episode summaries from the years of the thrice-weekly serial format, I found myself following Mr. Keen and Mike Clancy. Not only could I see them in my mind's eye as they conducted their investigations, I could also hear them.

Jim Cox has provided radio program enthusiasts with several of the finest works on various aspects of our hobby. With the publication Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons: A Complete History and Episode Log of Radio's Most Durable Detective, he has added another superlative volume to the body of old-time radio literature.

Stewart Wright in Return With Us Now, August 2004

Old Time Radio · Drama · Books · Mr Keen Tracer Of Lost Persons · Bennett Kilpack · Frank Hummert · Ann Hummert · Jim Cox · CBS ·

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Bill Meredith, the Playwright of the Prairie

When Bill Meredith and his best girl, Virginia Bauer, walked back and forth to Wheaton High School, they used to look longingly at a tiny house -- their dream house, they called it. Bill was planning to be an architect then and he saw the possibilities the little house had.

Not many folks have their dreams come true when they are only 25 years old, but last fall shortly after Bill's 25th birthday, October 9, he and Virginia moved into their dream house, which had just been remodeled.

That was just a little more than a year after Ralph Waldo Emerson had played the wedding march in the Wheaton church for the marriage of Virginia Bauer and William Meredith.

Born in Chicago, Bill moved to Wheaton when he was seven and attended grammar and high school there. A high school teacher encouraged him to write one-act plays, and during his first two years he wrote several that were presented by the dramatic club. His first play was bought by a Chicago publishing house for $25.

At the end of his sophomore year in high school, Bill's English teacher suggested that he write a longer play to be used as the Junior class play. Bill wrote a three-act play which he titled The Ladybird Tries His Wings. Bill doesn't think he'll ever forget that moment between the second and third act, when the author was called in front of the curtain to accept a bouquet of flowers.

In spite of his literary activities in high school, Bill was determined to become an architect and studied architectural engineering for two years at Iowa State College in Ames. In 1932 and '32 no jobs seemed to be available for an inexperienced young architect, so Bill spent many hours listening to the radio, particularly the dramatic shows.

The World's Fair of 1933 was preparing to open its gates, and using it for a setting, Bill wrote a thrilling serial called Murder on the Midway that ran for 20 weeks on WHFC in Cicero. At the same time Bill was writing, producing and acting in another serial, Broadway Bound, on the same station.

In Wheaton he happened to see George Biggar, who suggested that Bill write a show with a midwestern flavor. Prairie Home was auditioned on April 13, 1933, and ran for more than a year. Cliff Soubier, Marie Nelson and other well-known radio players took part in its once-a-week productions. Bill was writing the show at home when it first went on the air. In October of that year Bill joined the WLS staff and his first job was to be Eddie Allan's understudy as Little Theatre host. He started writing more and more continuity and moved into the writers office with Martha Crane, Wyn Orr, Julian Bentley and Fleming Allen.

Bill has written many Homemakers' plays. One of his first ones, Something for Easter, was produced for the third time this year.

In addition to his duties as continuity editor, Bill writes the Morning Minstrels script, produces the Pa and Ma Smithers program and helps Pat on the Radio Skule for New Beginners Jes Startin'.

From Stand By, April 18, 1936

Old Time Radio · Bill Meredith · Pa And Ma Smithers · Julian Bentley · WLS · WHFC · Chicago ·

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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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