Education by Radio (1932)

sided muse. An orchestra played, or, more likely, a string trio for cheapness’ sake. This is a typical offering: Twilight Friml The Garden of My Heart Ball In Elizabethan Days . Kramer Serenade . Schubert Scarj Dance Chaminade Kamennoi Ostrow . Rubenstein The final number here, Rubenstein’s bell¬ ringing exercise, shared honors with A La Bien Aimee as the peak of “highbrow stuff.” A tenor sang — usually this sort of cupshotten program: Somewhere in Old Wyoming — Promises — Forgive Me — Until We Meet Again, Sweetheart — So Beats My Heart For You. It is possible, of course, that since the radio has rendered musicianship unneces¬ sary the “artists” were themselves de¬ ceived. They may have thought that they were recreating a profusion of master¬ pieces. Yet I credit most of them with the knowledge that their repertories were depraved and dull. In the dark outside lay some monstrous primitive carnivore, Our Public, slightly confused with the official who signed the checks, ready to crunch the bones of their reputations if they made a single false step. I say they knew better. But had they done better they would have fared worse. With trio and with vocal soloist, gravity was ushered in and out. The city’s merchants would have none of it, and therefore neither would Station XXX. For the rest of the evening there was usually a “drama,” in which the villain and the English language were struck down simultaneously. And there was dance music, some of it good, some bad, all of it jazz. The programs of the contributing or¬ chestras were wonderfully simple in plan: they were practically identical. To assure myself of this fact, I drew up a sort of frequency chart a few months ago. Dur¬ ing one week the following musical num¬ bers were played not less than five times a day, not more than eight, at our station: The King’s Horses — You’re Driving Me Crazy — Three Little Words — Fine and Dandy— Walkin’ My Baby Back Home. And they continued to sound as fre¬ quently for weeks after. It seems like months. This is not quite all of the day’s labor. We at Station XXX make one truly re¬ markable effort that is worthy of special notice. On Sunday “Uncle Tim” holds his Kiddie Karnival. Under the yellow shim¬ mer of uncle’s teeth the usual theatrical minors perform for an hour and a half; the usual piercing and uncertain notes are struck, blown, and wrenched from instru¬ ments. Thru some kind of magic, music which would be atrocious if played by a visible adult becomes charming when played by an invisible child. Verses are recited or audibly forgotten to an accom¬ paniment of toys drawn across the floor of the studio, because confusion and in¬ adequacy are dear to the nursery heart. Uncle Tim reads the comic strips in a suitable treble. He makes kind, avuncular fun of his Kiddies. Merry childish laughter bubbles up continually to the microphone, under the watchful and ex¬ pert baton of the uncle. The next day I saw the resulting let¬ ters from the adults for whom this in¬ fantile circus was operated; not so many letters, of course, as we would have taken in a few years ago, but still baskets of them. They criticize, suggest, condemn. And for all their mistakes and their pencil smudges, we give them consideration, be¬ cause thru them speaks the voice of God — disguised, naturally, as the potential customer. We listen, too, when the divine utterance employs the telephone. Once during my apprenticeship I informed the microphone that to my way of thinking a certain notorious mammy-singer was a foul comedian and small potatoes com¬ pared with Groucho Marx. Within three minutes we had seven telephone calls be¬ ginning thus: “Say! Who does that an¬ nouncer think he is, anyway! Callin’ — no good! Are you goin’ to let him get away with that sort of stuff?” The presiding geniuses — -So much for the events of the day at our temple of the muses. I need only say of it that I found room for thought, those first few weeks at XXX. Undoubtedly we made money here and were a thriving business. But were we also good entertainment, high art, higher education? I could find no justification here for Mr. Cross’s lofty attitude. Indeed, the moments came more frequently when I looked upon the mi¬ crophone as a malefic talisman capable of extreme perversion, capable of trans¬ forming princesses into scullery maids, full of pernicious charms and brazen in the use of them. I examined further into my profession. I went from our programs to our man¬ agers and announcers. Surely, I thought, if radio is an instrument of enlightenment and the humanities, I should be able to reveal very special qualifications in its high priests, altar ministrants, and acolytes. The president is a shrewd business man [46] whose reading list is headed by V . V.’s Eyes, and who once when I was practis¬ ing Bach — for very private reasons — in¬ formed me that he liked Chopin. Our vicepresident is likewise a shrewd man of affairs; and in addition he has a tact which is lacking in his superior, for he is content to deal with the finances of the station. Tho he does not acknowledge his ignorance of simple radio technic, of music, and the art of English speech, he at least does not attempt to interfere with our operations. Not so the production manager. Shortly after I came here he told me that he too was a “college man”! He toils thru the difficulties of our mother tongue like a disabled oyster barge thru a heavy sea, and he once referred to that famous English poet, Coolidge. His ignorance of music is exaggerated in its scope; he fails to distinguish between a Strauss waltz and a military march, between a “major” and “minor,” a duet and a quartette. But he superintends production, because he has “a good business head” and “knows how to handle men.” In Mr. A., the business manager, we have what is generally called a dynamo: that is to say, his voice is sharp, his movements brisk, his personal appeal to merchants potent, his capacity for error theoretically nil. I found that he is the most significant figure in our station, be¬ cause he is its most adept salesman and because he believes in and enforces his personal tastes. It is admitted that his selling ability is an excellent thing. But his preferences in speech and music, while wonderful, are not excellent. When he corrects good orchestration into bad, good balance into bad, good continuity, voice manner, and pronunciation into bad, I occasionally protest. His answer is, “You’re right, but the public don’t know what you mean. Maybe ‘lingerie’ is what you call it, but ‘lawn-ju-ray’ is what the women buy on the counters. So give ’em lawnjuray!” Thru Mr. A., D. & T. Maiers, Clothing Merchants, buy half an hour on the air and thereafter feel privileged to dictate every detail of their entertainment. If they say that the word is “en-sem-bul,” or that such-and-such is too slow or too soft or too dull, then it is all of those things. If they want the six current num¬ bers played — and they always do — then the six are played. If they say that an announcer with a barytone voice must coo in a tenor fashion like the great Joe Blank at Station YYY, then the an¬ nouncer takes a gargle and coos. Unques¬ tionably the brothers Maiers have sound