Radio-TV mirror (July-Dec 1954)

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V. 902 Broadway, N.Y.10. 84 she might have had about her foreign accents were dispelled the night a Persian prince was discovered in the studio audience. Vicki sang a song in Persian, and was pleased when the prince came to congratulate her after the broadcast. Only he couldn't speak a word of English, and he couldn't understand why Vicki kept pretending she couldn't speak Persian when he had just heard her sing in the language. But, of all the delights of appearing on a network show, the biggest one for Vicki has been getting to know Harry Salter and his wife, Roberta. As creator of the program, he had coached June Valli. When Vicki became vocalist on Name That Tune, he did the same for her. "With all I had to learn," she says, "Harry didn't want me wasting time commuting. But, knowing how strict my family is, and how they feel about my living alone in New York — well, the Salters just took me in. The first six months I was on the show, I lived right in their home." And to Roberta Salter, Vicki is especially grateful — for a personal reason. Even if Roberta did make her go through the worst ordeal of her life. Ask Vicki about "hard work," and she won't talk about the time she toiled in that ball-bearing factory. She'll tell about the time Roberta Salter put her on a protein diet. "I was very good," Vicki recalls. "No sweets. But I starved! Later, I learned that Roberta was giving Ethel, the cook, a dollar for every pound I lost." Apparently, Ethel got a bonus of seventeen dollars, for Vicki went from a "plump 125" to the 108 pounds she has remained ever since. And on July 7, 1953, when Name That Tune switched from radio to TV, Vicki was ready for television. She's five-feet-five and, allowing for the extra five or six pounds which TV adds to a girl's appearance, viewers found that she looked just as good as she sounded. All in all, it was the most exciting time of her life. And to make it even more wonderful, there had been someone to share it with. She was eighteen when she started going with Eddie Steck. He was twenty. Even when she moved to New York and he went to Quinnipiac College in New Haven, they managed to see each other. There were always weekends in Danbury. And, every time she sang, he came to New York to hear her. 1 hey planned to be married next year. He would study t» be a lawyer while she continued her career. And then; without warning — without rhyme or reason — it happened. Eddie was riding in a friend's car. There was an accident. He was killed. . . . As Name That Tune returns to TV this .fall— switching from NBC to CBS— Vicki is still the featured vocalist. And every weekend, she still returns to Danbury to see her family and friends — a word which includes just about everyone in town. (Last year, it was officially acknowledged by making Vicki Queen of the Great Danbury Fair.) These friends not only follow her career, they share it. Every weekend, Cinderella must give a full report of what happened at the ball. She tells them about the stars she has met — like Margaret Truman and Wally Cox, who were guests on the show. She brings back the autographs they have asked her to get. And to all the aspiring singers who come to her, asking for advice, she gives it as honestly as she can: "Don't go to New York or to some big city. Your best bet is to stick around home, and do everything you can to get experience. Start building a reputation right where you are." Although Vicki herself started out by practicing what she preaches, aspiring singers are quick to point out that her big break came when she went to New York. Even so, Vicki sticks to her point. New York success wouldn't have been possible if she hadn't first built up confidence, experience, and a reputation in Danbury. "The important thing," she has found out, "is to get people behind you. They give you the inspiration to go on. "And you'll need inspiration," she insists. "It isn't all cream and sugar." A singer today has to know how to dance and act, too. So, every day, Vicki takes lessons — in dramatics, voice, coaching, ballet— a total of forty-five hours every week. It's the things that can't be taught, however, which make for stardom. The indefinables. How you look, and what kind of person you are. Vicki doesn't explain this — she's too busy exemplifying it. It is no accident, however, that "everyone has been just wonderful" to her. She loves people. It comes across. And .people can't help loving her in return. Amazed to find show people "so real and down-toearth," it never occurs to her that she might bring out the best in people. "I love to sing," she says. "It's in my blood!" And that comes across, too, so that televiewers keep writing in: "Why don't you let Vicki ever finish a song?" On her last birthday, she finally got her chance. And to be especially nice to her, they made it her "favorite song" again. "Summer Time"! And something else comes across — something which all her training and glamorizing and smart gowns can't obscure. TV, the newest of mediums, is making a star of Vicki for the most old-fashioned of reasons. Vicki is a nice, sweet, -wholesome, they-don't-make-them-thatwayany-more home girl. She likes cooking and serving ("They say my pies are very good," she tells you, "especially the lemon meringue and apple"). In New York, she now lives at the Barbizon Plaza for Women — a hotel where gentlemen callers are not permitted. And last summer, when she toured in a series of night-club appearances, her father accompanied her whenever he could. She knows that this is considered "strict," but it's part of her Italian heritage^ and she accepts it as cheerfully as she accepts her parents' love. Vicki doesn't try to be sophisticated; she just wants to be amiable. She can't wait till the weekend comes so she can go home. There, she's sure to find her mother waiting — wanting to fatten her up, wondering why she has to sing "mezzo" when she has such a lovely "lyric" soprano. Her brother "Don is now with the Air Corps Special Services ki Alaska, but sisters Aurora and Marie Antoinette are still at home. And there's Jimmy, only thirteen, but leading his own band already. Vicki tells them she wants to do nothing but rest — the whole weekends — and catch up on her television. But she's up early in the morning, helping her mother with the housework. She takes Tippy, the toy fox terrier, for a walk, starts cooking dishes which she herself scarcely tastes, then dusts her collection of china animals. "Just puttering around the house," she calls it, but the family understands. They know why she can't sit still, why she's "too tired" to ever go out on dates, why she studies so hard. Anything to .keep from thinking about it, anything to keep from always remembering. . . . And maybe it all ends the way it started — with Grandfather! At seventy-four, he is still going strong, still singing while he works. And now here's his granddaughter, working while she sings — and loving her work, loving the people she sings for. Vicki, too, seems to know the value of a song.