Scrutable Poetry Corner: "It Rolls On" by Morris Bishop

A poem for the uneasy modern, from the November 1, 1930 issue of The New Yorker.

This is the time of wonder, it is written;
Man has undone the ultimate mysteries.
(We turn from the Chrysler Tower to watch a kitten,
Turn to a dead fish from Isocrates;

Drinkers on five-day boats are gladly smitten
Unconscious on the subjugated seas;
Einstein is even more dull than Bulwer-Lytton;
You cannot smoke on the Los Angeles.)

Science no longer knows the verb-form "can't,"
Fresh meat will soon be shipped by radio;
Scholars are harnessing the urgent ant
And making monstrous bastard fruits to grow,
Building machines for things I do not want,
Discovering truths I do not care to know.

You can find out more about Morris Bishop and his elf-loathing here.

"God's Country: A Short History" by Ralph Barton

The New Yorker panned this book, but it sounded so interesting that I couldn't resist finding a copy: "God's Country: A Short History" by Ralph Barton, published in 1929. As you can see by the tag list for this post, it contains elements of pretty much everything I talk about in this blog.

Barton was a popular '20s cartoonist and caricaturist, and he seemed to be trying to establish himself as a writer before his manic-depression prompted his suicide in 1931. I'm not surprised that he killed himself two years after writing this book. "God's Country" is a bitter thing indeed.

It's a satirical, absurd history of the United States, beginning with Christopher Columbus and ending with a bizarre dystopia in which women have taken over the government, radio advertisers have inadvertently caused widespread looting and domestic terror, and poison gas has destroyed everybody except for eight criminals who -- following the intentions of the pilgrims from the beginning of the book -- set out to wreck everything all over again.

Oooo, it's nasty. Barton has equal loathing for Democrats and Republicans (known in the book as "Uniboodlists" and "Multiboodlists" for reasons I didn't understand), Presidents ("Misters"), businessmen ("Interests"), newspapers (who dictate "Public Opinion"), and the everyday citizens who allow the aforementioned to get away with everything they do, over and over again, throughout the entire history of democracy.

Is there anybody Barton doesn't hate? He appears to have sympathy for Native Americans, he finds few unpleasant things to say about Abraham Lincoln, and he goes out of his way to avoid lampooning African Americans, but for the most part "God's Country" is a relentless, snarky skewering of EVERYBODY. And that means you too, reader. And me.

You can imagine how tedious such a book can be. It's especially tedious to somebody (like me) who doesn't know the finer points of every President -- errr, Mister -- in American history. Barton goes through them all, giving them the names of monarchs ("St. Abraham," "Franklin the Debonaire") to highlight one going theme throughout the book: the American obsession with electing "jus' plain folk" who are -- in actual fact -- part of the social elite who have been carefully groomed to appear otherwise.

This obsession is one element of the book that still holds true today (see Palin, Sarah). Another element is the reliance on FEAR to manipulate public opinion, as formented by business requirements and amplified by the newspapers. We sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that the disgusting collusion of politics, business, and media is a relatively new phenomenon. "God's Country" will tell you different.

After 250 pages of spot-on satire, Barton comes to women's suffrage and temperance activism. I can only assume that he really, really didn't like women, as the book tips from "cutting satire" to "cruel stereotype" in the space of a few pages, detailing a world where women with "blacksnake whips" run around emasculating everybody and turning them into "ex-males." They conceive arbitrary rules and devise irrational schemes to enforce them, finally bringing about the downfall of the already-tottering country. It's ludicrous and leaves a bad impression, and is probably one of the reasons The New Yorker reviewer panned it.

But there are great moments, especially near the end when everything goes completely off the rails. The businessmen are discovered to have retreated into a secret society with its own language ("Six huh pcent a fi million dollas is thutty million dollas. Fiscal.") and in a mysterious desert pilgrimage they invent golf. This presentation of Big Business as a totally self-interested, self-contained, and illogical cabal is ominous in light of the subsequent financial collapse.

When the new breed of radio announcers start to amuse themselves by shouting demands like "Desire to see a prize fight!" and "Long to see a movie about Arabs!", the book provides an amazing insight into '20s popular culture. It's like reading a Readers Digest Condensed Version of The New Yorker between 1925 and 1929:

[They were] soon being ordered to deodorize, to smear mud on their faces, to hate New York, to play Mah Jong, to do cross-word puzzles, to ask each other questions, to bathe in violet rays, to develop personalities, to practice numerology, to adore the Russians, the negroes and aviators, to eat Eskimo Pie, to throw bits of paper out the window, to have themselves psychoanalyzed, to engage in Marathon contests, to eat liver and to perform a thousand other like obediences.

When "God's Country" is good, it's very, very good, but most of it is the 1920s brand of screwball, sledgehammer burlesque that leaves me exhausted, alternating with some surprisingly dry historical dissection.

More importantly, however, it is a clear expression of the immense disgust that an intelligent, educated, creative, and mentally-tortured man had for all the things he saw in the world around him. If he'd had a more balanced view of human nature then "God's Country" would be an easier book to read, but it never would have been written in the first place.

Spudsanity!

1929 was certainly the year of The Great New Yorker Cigarette War. In terms of advertisements, Chesterfields appear to have knocked off Old Golds and now hold the coveted, full-colour, back page position. And they have all stopped sparring with candy manufacturers, who had introduced a doomed "eat candy instead of having a cigarette" slogan that was easy to attack ("Smoke a cigarette to control your waistline!")

Meanwhile the Spud cigarettes gamely try to keep up. But holy crap, look at this picture.


What the HELL is going on? This is, I confess, the wackiest-looking New Yorker advertisement I've seen so far. It looks like the mad professor has just perfected his mind-control machine, and he's so excited that he can barely control his bizarre crotch.

But no, that's a radio, and they're listening to a football game, and they're so excited that they've started chain-smoking. You see, Spud's angle was that it was a "cooler" cigarette, and therefore its benefits would be noticed only after you had smoked about 36 in a row. Their motto was "Judge Spud...Not by first puff...but by first pack."

Those manipulative, evil bastards.

Portentious Statements About Air Disasters

While expressing his annoyance about the constant radio coverage of the Graf Zeppelin's inaugural flight, an anonymous New Yorker reporter had this to say on September 21, 1929:

The covering of the event was a good technical achievement. Microphones were hidden everywhere except in Lady Drummond Hay's hat, and the announcers spoke from planes, dangled off roofs, and even pursued the Zeppelin down the field, talking into the microphone as they ran. It was a weary business. If the Zeppelin ever mysteriously blows up, I advise the police to hold all radio announcers on suspicion.

Hmmmm.

Fred and Portland

I hear a lot of great comedy duos while listening to old time radio, but one of my favourites is Fred Allen and Portland Hoffa. There's something about his deadpan sarcasm and her earnest stupidity -- and strangely clipped delivery -- that makes me happy. Not to mention they have a decidedly bizarre and almost scary style of humour.

After years of hearing them guest-star on other people's programs, I've finally gotten started on the Fred Allen Show proper. Here I am, listening to the first existent episode (from Christmas day 1932) and I'm already in love.

FRED: Who's first on your list?

PORTLAND: Grandpa. I wanna buy him some liver tonic.

FRED: "Doctor Groan's" is the best.

PORTLAND: Yes, that's very good. The man upstairs used that for twenty years. It cured HIM!

FRED: That's fine.

PORTLAND: He died last week.

FRED: Well, if he died cured, that's something.

PORTLAND: You can't blame the liver tonic.

FRED: No?

PORTLAND: No! After the old man died they had to beat his liver with a stick for three days to kill it.

If I had a daughter, I would seriously consider naming her Portland.

Quaint Humour For a Rainy Day

On a cold, rainy day, a little backwards-looking vaudeville-style humour from the '50s is just what you need:

LEFTY: (Entering a prison cell) Well, I've got company. What's your name, punk?

BLACKY: Blacky.

LEFTY: Yeah?

BLACKY: Yeah.

LEFTY: Why do they call you "Blacky?"

BLACKY: I never take a bath.

(From the May 20th, 1953 episode of the Bob Hope Show, with Richard Widmark)

Vaudeville

Margaret: That scar on your face is very romantic.

Bob: That's my mouth.

(Paraphrased from The Bob Hope Show, March 4, 1953)

Lullaby In An Apartment House

My good fortune can't hold out forever; someday people will move into the unit adjacent to mine, and all my neighbour-troubles will begin again.

When I come here to whine and moan, please sing me this lullaby from the October 6, 1928 issue of The New Yorker.

Sleep, little one, sleep.
The sandman's going his rounds once more,
While red-hot jazz from the Palais d'Or
Steals in from Apartment 24.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Hush-a-bye
Sleep, little one, sleep.

Sleep, little one, sleep.
Drift off to the land of slumber, pet.
The Smiths have a brand new five-tube set.
If you wake at twelve 'twill be going yet.
Sleep, little one, sleep
If you can.
Sleep, precious one, sleep.

Sleep, little one, sleep.
Skim the sky on a fleecy cloud,
As Jenks next door makes drinks for the crowd.
In another round they will get quite loud.
Sleep, little one, sleep
For your own protection.
Sleep, angel one, sleep.

Sleep, little one, sleep.
The silver moon casts a magic spell.
From the Roxy organ comes "William Tell,"
As Dr. Cadman discusses hell.
Sleep, little one, sleep.
In your trundle bedlam
Sleep, harried on, sleep.

(Howard Cushman)

Admittedly my potential neighbours may require a verse for themselves:

Sleep, little one, sleep.
Permit your tired mind to heal
While 'cross the wall shouts Schnapps the Seal,
With "Doctor Who" on endless reel,
Sleep, little one, sleep
Or that freak will getcha,
Sleep, little one, sleep.

The 1920s Technology Update

It's certainly true that we live in a time of fast-moving technology, but those folks in 1928 were no slouches either. They were so busy coming up with new inventions that they barely had time to apply Odorono twice a week!

By September 29, 1928, the "talking pictures" had finally arrived. A lot of technological work still needed to happen -- sound syncing, improvements in sound recording and amplification, mixing techniques, soundproofing of studios -- but by that time people were pretty much ready to accept what the studio scientists were cooking up.

In a short article called "Black Magic," though, The New Yorker describes several other inventions that were establishing themselves.

I can't find any information about the main topic of the article -- "Photograms" --but it seems as though this technology had existed for some time (I recall articles much earlier in the magazine about the low quality of telegraphed photos).

Photograms are pictures, or documents, sent by wire the same as telegrams.

Newspapers use photograms for news pictures, in cases like the Florida hurricane. Lawyers send photograms of legal documents, making error impossible.

Musical scores are often sent--song hits of Tin Pan Alley are released in San Francisco within twelve hours. Fashions are sent from Paris.

The editors then make a keen distinction (keep in mind this is 1928).

Don't confuse all this with television. Television (are we boring you?) is very, very different. At the Radio World's Fair last week, which was terribly dull, we took a look at television. A man with a scrubby mustache let himself be televised. He showed his teeth and winked and leered, which is about as far as television has gone at present. The pictures didn't do justice even to that. His mustache was vague, and his chin finally faded out altogether. What we could see of him looked pretty grim. Nobody is using television yet and we can well understand why.

I can't find any substantial online references to this early television experiment, but it may have been one of John Logie Baird's 1928 transmissions between London and New York. If so, Baird's prototype had only thirty scanlines, a far cry from the 486 we're used to in NTSC-world. You can see one of those early facial images at the link; Picasso would have appreciated it.

Anyway, radio was still to be king for another fifteen years or so, and The New Yorker concludes with the latest advances (which would not have been news to anybody -- like me -- who'd been reading the advertising copy for the previous few months).

The only thing to report about the newest in radio sets is that they now mostly plug into the electric-light circuit--no batteries. They are also disguised artfully in period furniture. Some of them have liquor cabinets.

All true...during Prohibition no less! What has been confusing me is that these sets were advertised as plugging into LIGHT SOCKETS. Like, you twisted them into the socket of a lamp where you'd normally place the bulb. I'm wondering if this was a novelty idea or if electrical outlets were really scarce at the time.

Paying the Angles

The August 11, 1928 issue of The New Yorker had an interesting article about Tin Pan Alley songwriters.

Apparently, songwriters bore the responsibility of paying influential people to "plug" their songs. These people -- called "angles" -- tended to be radio singers who were allowed to choose the songs they wanted to perform; if a songwriter offered them thirty to fifty percent of the song's royalties, the radio singers would sing it.

Likewise, a songwriter could end up paying money to additional "angles" such as "jazz-band leaders, makers of phonograph records, movie-house program directors, and the like."

It's interesting that -- according to the article -- the music publishers used to be responsible for paying the angles, at that time usually vaudeville singers. But after theatre managers complained that the vaudeville shows were suffering from substandard material and constant repetition, the music publishers formed the Music Publishers Protective Association and vowed to stop the practice...which is why, by the 1920s, it was up to the writer to do the dirty work.

Compare this to the more modern practice of payola, in which music publishers get back into the game and pay DJs to play their songs.

Incidentally the article concludes by saying there were few successful female songwriters, and that the often-seen name "Mary Earl" was actually "a copyrighted pseudonym belonging to a firm of music publishers and is used on songs written by men."

I was ALMOST Elected Governor of Massachusetts!

Jon Whitney just told me that people in Massachusetts are driving around with a "Don't blame me, I voted for Muffy" bumper sticker on their cars.

Apparently I got 44% of the vote in last year's gubernatorial race...and I didn't even know the issues! I didn't attend a single debate, I didn't raise funds, and I need to look back-and-forth several times between open web browsers before I can figure out how to spell "Massachusetts."

I'm going to re-ignite my campaign right now, and I'll start by giving the people exactly what they want: a recording of Joan Davis singing -- you guessed it -- "Massachusetts." You'll love it! You'll love me! You'll even build me a Governor's mansion!

PS: I now consider Jon to be my personal campaign advisor, as he's already getting me up to speed with the American political process. He just taught me that it's not a "Governor's race" (as I posted yesterday) but is, in fact, a "gubernatorial race," which sounds like a joke but it isn't!

Next up: Fahrenheit-to-Celsius conversion.

Repeater is No More

For anybody who was enjoying "Repeater," the CKMS old time radio program, I'm sorry to say that no new episodes are being recorded. I understand it had a bit of a following, but the show had started to hang a dark cloud over my Sundays...and I NEED my Sundays.

Also, walking the shows out to CKMS on oppressively hot Mondays was getting old.

For now they're playing re-runs of the show until something else comes along. A resurrection of "She-Devils on Heels," perhaps? I'll keep you posted...

Ye Olde Novelty Songs: "Slow Poke" by Arthur Godfrey

I listen to a lot of old time radio so I'm bound to hear a lot of weird mid-century novelty songs. Occasionally I get a yen to share a particularly strange one.

So here's Arthur Godfrey singing "Slow Poke," which was apparently a big hit for him in the '50s. This was actually recorded sometime during the late '60s or early '70s -- hence the distinctive reverb -- and I think the guy singing with him was named "Cy." He was probably one of the ex-"Little Godfreys."

"Slow Poke" was actually a pretty popular song -- read about it here -- and it was covered by anybody and everybody. But nobody could sing a weird song like Arthur Godfrey, probably because he was such a creepy guy to begin with.

To future visitors: the link to the song will probably break in a month or two.

Thoughts about "The Big Show"

In a last-ditch effort to keep variety radio viable in the face of television, NBC produced "The Big Show," an unprecendented weekly 90-minute extravaganza. It had the biggest movie and radio stars, both old and new. They even snagged television actors who took sly jabs at the media, in between commercials by one of their three big sponsors: RCA Victor. Ironic, that.

"The Big Show" is sort of tedious to listen to. It's so carefully scripted with endless running gags -- and it's so long -- that it tends to sound like a bloated one-joke comedy sketch, which is particularly bad if the joke that week is a bad one.

The hostess is the "glamorous, unpredictable" Talullah Bankhead, and though she can hold her own when the scripts are good, she's totally unable to deal with the stinkers, and she sounds REALLY awful when dealing with sharp-witted improvisers like Fred Allen, Ed Wynn, and Groucho Marx. Being a half-drunk, bitter, middle-aged stage actress probably precludes you from being either glamorous OR truly unpredictable.

As you'd expect from comedy of the time, most of the jokes are about Bankhead's aggressive baritone (Meredith Willson always refers to her as "Well sir, Miss Bankhead"), her inability to get a date, her rivalry with Bette Davis, her Confederate sympathies, and her terrible singing voice (which may have only become a gag when the audience kept laughing at her when she sang).

The effectiveness of the shows depends entirely on the chemistry between the guests. Put opera star Ezio Pinza or Lauritz Melchior into a comic situation and you get an embarassing fizzle that never seems to end, punctuated by Bankhead's forced laughter. Put Judy Holliday in there, however, and the show's a riot from start to finish. Jimmy Durante and Fred Allen also keep things going; Durante especially seems to have genuine compassion for wobbly Talullah (always calling her "Taloo.")

The episode I'm listening to right now is from April 1st, 1951. Groucho Marx, as always, does his best to keep up with limping scriptwriters who don't know how to write for him, then degenerates into a steamroller of ad-libbed craziness. Bob Hope does a similar thing, turning his segments into short machine gun gags about Bing Crosby's weight, age, family life, and bank account (in other words, the usual Bob Hope stuff). Van Johnson is totally underwhelming; he does a poor reenactment from a generic movie about patriotic Japanese soldiers ("Go For Broke")...and Meredith Willson keeps presenting us with more of his formulaic, overwrought schlock (which is only slightly better than his sickeningly goofy novelty stuff...his "Jing-a-Ling" from show #8 invoked uncontrollable dry-heaving in me...and then he followed it with "Ting Ting-a-Ling in show #11...boy that guy could write crappy songs quickly!)

But along comes 71-year-old Ethel Barrymore. The scripts always call for rivalry between the actresses, but Barrymore -- with her grace, gravity, and prestige -- is simply SLAUGHTERING Bankhead. And it's not all part of the script, either. Maybe the final 45 minutes will be good afterall (Joan Davis is scheduled for the second half, and I love her to death).

So I'm venting, but I will be the first to say that "The Big Show" can be very good. It's ESPECIALLY good when Talullah does a serious dramatic reading of some sort, followed instantly by a cruel spoof by the comic guests (usually Holliday and Durante).

Vaudeville

From February 5, 1948's episode of "It Pays to Be Ignorant"

Lulu McConnell: Before I left home this morning, I rocked my husband to sleep.

Tom Howard: Awww, that's sweet.

Lulu McConnell: Yeah, you should've seen the rock I used.

Vaudeville

I'm not much of an Abbott & Costello fan but they probably didn't write this joke anyway:

Costello: I've been experimenting with shortwaves!

Abbott: When did you start experimenting with shortwaves?

Costello: Ever since I got slapped by a tall WAC!

It's a joke so clean you could tell your grandparents! And for those people who AREN'T grandparents, here's some context: a WAVE, a WAC, and for additional bonus points, a WREN.

PS: Overheard on the March 7, 1946 edition of the "Abbott and Costello Show."

Synchronicity: Banned in Boston

A day of coincidence with the radio,
and a word that won't go away...

More about Kate Bush soon, but for now: I've been having bizarre moments of synchronicity lately. A subject comes up that I hadn't been aware of before, and suddenly it's popping up in other parts of my life as well.

Previously I was being dogged by the "French Phone." Next it was "Madagascar." And now? "Banned in Boston," that is, a catchphrase from Boston's traditional and archaic crusades against "vice" up until the '60s.

This was a particular issue in the late 1920's, (which is why I keep running into it while reading The New Yorker). Thanks to a shockingly oppressive set of laws in the municipal books, and to the uneasy jostling between merchant's organizations and the Watch and Ward Society, the late '20s saw a spate of high-profile magazines and books get banned in the city (bans which were generally overturned in the courts).

What was one of the most vehemently banned books in Boston? You guessed it: Elmer Gantry.

So tonight I'm listening to an episode of "The Big Show" from March 18, 1951. Despite my intense dislike of Meredith Willson's music -- everything he does is simultaneously overblown and ultra-conservative -- I'm looking forward to Fred Allen, Portland Hoffa, and Ella Fitzgerald later in the program.

Early on, Ethel Waters enacts a scene from "Mamba's Daughter," a play that seems better left forgotten (Waters quit the radio show "Beulah" because of its stereotypical nature, but her character in "Mamba's Daughter" doesn't seem much better). Anyway, Talullah Bankhead (the glamorous, unpredictable) banters with Ethel Waters about autobiographies. Talullah says she's working on an autobiography about her fiery romances...but she's not done it yet, and -- ha! -- she "mostly works on it at night."

Ethel says she hopes the book has a fireproof cover, and Talullah replies that she can't wait to travel around America, just to see the book being sold in every city. (Pause for effect). "But I never go to Boston anyway."

The audience loves it.

Radio Curiosities: "Dinah"

I'm going to start an informal tradition of posting notable or odd songs that I come across while listening to old radio programs. I already have seven CDs chock full of discoveries -- so I'll never run short of material -- but I'm always finding new stuff that makes me say "wow!"

Today's offering is "Dinah," broadcast on November 29, 1942, during the "Command Performance" show. Notable in its ability to draw the biggest names, "Command Performance" is a great place to dig up musical gems from the past.

"Dinah" is an old standby, but take a look at the performers on this version:

• Tommy Dorsey: Trombone
• Count Basie: Piano
• Lionel Hampton: Vibraphone
• Spike Jones: Drums
• Dinah Shore: Vocals

How often do you think THOSE people got together to jam? Throw in Bob Burns playing his "bazooka" and you have a performance simultaneously sublime and ridiculous.

The "French Phone" again (AKA "Synchronicity")

Harry McNaughton: You know, somebody called me on the phone the other night, I couldn't understand a word they said.
George Shelton: Why was that?
Harry McNaughton: It was a French phone.

"It Pays To Be Ignorant," December 7, 1945.

So the "French Phone" term was still in use in the '40s. But since McNaughton and Shelton were old Vaudeville performers, the joke just might have been incredibly old, though the audience still laughed.

Old Time Radio: Buck Rogers

I'm making my way through the handful of surviving "Buck Rogers" radio programs from the 1930s, and though I found them annoying at first -- they're written for pre-teens, and they were the very essence of disposable radio -- I find myself starting to actually LIKE the characters. Not Buck so much -- who's just a dull schlump hero -- but everybody else.

Black Barney for instance, the bumbling ex-villain who has a strange ongoing relationship with a young boy named Willy. "Oh no!" cries Barney when his little friend is captured. "Oh NO! MY WILLY'S GONE!"

You've also got Ardala Valmar, played by 100% forgotten radio nobody Elaine Melchior. She has the thankless role of being the main villain's sidekick...and as if that weren't bad enough, she's female, so most of her characterization is her saying "What'll we do now, Kane?"

But NOTHING beats evil female villains in children's shows. I think most kids grow up falling in love with the villainesses, because they're always sort of trashy and sexy and perhaps stereotypically pre-menstrual. Ardala has this down pat, playing it with a "tough cookie" swagger and a real vicious hate-on for little Willy.

These shows were intended to be throw-away programs whose real purpose was to sell Fudgesicles to children (though they keep calling them "Fudge-icles," which may have been their 1930s name). But there's lots here for the jaded 21st century listener. They bring in Popsicle Pete -- winner of the "Typical American Boy Contest," implying that typical American boys are highly educated but obsessed with snack food -- and the commercials are aimed at "mother," as in "tell mother to buy you some frozen treats." I love the way these old radio shows always sell stuff to "mother" like that.

You've also got an almost fetishy obsession with technology -- the episodes I'm listening to now are about the "Gyro Cosmic Relativator," a line that Killer Kane keeps tripping over -- and, at the beginning and end of each show, some guy taps a thunder sheet for 30 seconds. When I close my eyes I can picture him, shirt sleeves rolled up around his sweater cuffs, brown pleated pants, Clark Gable haircut, dress shoes, underpaid, endlessly tapping that damn thunder sheet and staring longingly at Elaine Melchior's butt. Later, at the cafeteria, he tries to sit down next to her. "Who are you?" she asks, and he's too ashamed to say.

Update -- Some choice lines from April 16, 1939:

ARDALA: Kane, are you still set on putting our headquarters here, so close to where Willy left us?

KANE: If you'd use that pretty head of yours for something other than a perch for a flying helmet, you'd realize there's no better place for our headquarters.

ARDALA: You haven't answered my question.

KANE: Ardala...for once. THINK. Just try it.

ARDALA: Oh alright, rave on.