Movie Classic (Sep 1936-Feb 1937)

Nelson Eddy's Rescue Mission IN THE Boweries, and the Bronx's and the Chinatowns of most large cities, there have sprung u£ \^hat are known as Rescue Missions — places where dejected^ souls can join together, in song mostly, and find a lift for their hearts. Some of these Rescue Missions are broadcast so that millions, rather than hundreds, may be reached. Nelson Eddy, in his own way, runs just such a Rescue Mission, only you won't find it listed in any radio log, or signposted in any way. Nor will you find him even talking about it. But it exists just the same, as a few of those he has helped are eager to testify. The people who come to him are singers mostly, not necessarily looking for financial help, but singing help — the kind of personal help which involves time, interest and work, all of which Nelson Eddy gives generously. There is the story of John Carroll, as he told it to me himself. About a year ago when John was under contract to RKO he was assigned to a singing role in Hi Gaucho and given a song which was a typical Nelson Eddy song — a rousing, robust baritone number. John worked on the song for several days but was terribly discouraged. He could get nowhere with it. Yet it was his big chance. For months he had been begging for a singing role instead of the dramatic "villain" parts which had been handed him, and now that he had his chance he was filled with the fear of flopping. If only Nelson Eddy would show him how the song should be sung. But at that point it never occurred to him that Nelson would do such a thing. Nelson Eddy of sudden Naughty Marietta fame would be too busy, too important, and too inaccessible. But then he met a friend of Nelson's, told him his plight, and the friend said: "You don't know Nelson. He's always doing things like that. Just give him a ring. No ! You don't need to be introduced . . . here's his number." .Unbelieving, but desperate, John did call him. "Surely," said Nelson. "I'd be glad to. What are you doing now? I have abput an hour." They wasted no time in getting down to work. Nelson studied the song silently for a few minutes, pacing up and down, beating out the rhythm with his hand. "It's a good number . . . you can make a hit with this," was his immediate judgment. And then his voice boomed forth, and, as he sang, he penciled the phrasing and the breathing on the score. In five minutes, they were singing it together. In ten, John was singing it alone, and with a confidence he had not felt before. As he said, in telling me about it : "For some strange reason I felt right at home with him, not like a novice at all. He wasn't the least bit patronizing You can't help admiring a fellow like that. A funny thing, though . . . the minute I got home, I slumped right back again. But because he had been so swell and so understanding I didn't hesitate in phoning him a second time, and telling him frankly that I still wasn't right. 'All right,' he said, 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make a home recording of it for you and send it over. You can work from that.' It's hard to tell you how much that meant to me. Thanks to him, they were quite pleased with the way I did the song at RKO. And if it hadn't been 40 T^elson Eddy won't UJ{e this story — for he tries to conceal his generosities. But many a young singer has reason to acknowledge his advice and helping hand for Nelson I don't believe I could ever have gotten away with it. Nelson helped me find a new teacher too, and now, thanks to him, my singing is the paramount interest in my life." More dramatic is the story of a girl who asks to be nameless. More dramatic and more Nelson-revealing too, because in this case it was Nelson who went to her. During his winter concert tour in a middle-western city he found time to stop in at the local opera house to see a performance of Carmen, with one of the town's local girls making her debut in the leading role. Nelson arrived in time to hear her take a flat high note, and to hear the audience groan in appreciation. It was pitiful. The girl was obviously nervous and frightened, and the audience wasn't helping her any. Polite applause which is worse than none at all, at the end of the aria. Nelson was suddenly incensed, for as he listened he recognized that the girl did have a lovely voice, Clear and rich, though nerve-wracked. She didn't know how to use it, that was all. A natural voice, badly and over-trained. Overcome with sympathy, he decided to sit through to the end. Scene by scene, he watched her grow more pale and even less sure of herself. Once he thought she was going to faint. She was young and slender, and the strain of such a dramatic role was too much for her. At the final curtain he left his seat hurriedly and started backstage. But he was recognized and mobbed and, as usual, had to stop for autographs. When finally he did get through the girl had gone. "She beat it outa here like a house afire, in her costume and everything," an electrician told him. "And she was crying." NELSON got her name and address, hailed a taxi, and followed her. He had just forty minutes until train time. He found the house dark except for a light in an upstairs window. Quickly he surmised that the family was still at the opera looking for the daughter. He remembered his own periods of despair and how little he wanted to talk to anyone at those times, so, using a ruse, he rang the bell and called out, "Western Union !" In a few minutes she came down. Quickly he tried to explain, and inveigled her out to the porch. He didn't tell her his name and in the darkness she didn't recognize him, but he did say that he had heard her, and that he knew asi well as she did that she had made a poor showing. "But that doesn't mean anything," he added enthusiastically. "I think you have a beautiful voice, and I've studied a lot myself, and I should know. But I do have a suggestion. Get out this town as soon as you can and start in again somewhere else. For if you're as sensitive as I think you are, you'll have a hard time living down tonight — w i t h i n yourself, I mean." Suddenly the girl was sobbing. Completely unnerved emotionally, she was telling this stranger that she was never going to sing again. That there wasn't any use . . . that there wasn't any use in anything. That she was hopeless, study was hopeless, life was hopeless. Nelson listened for a while and then gently he told her about lots of singers he had known, one particularly— a man — who had once felt just as she felt now. A man who had gone