Radio Broadcast (May 1928-Apr 1929)

224 RADIO BROADCAST AUGUST, 1928 ONCE A WEEK AT WOC The Voss Vagabonds, orchestra and mixed quartet, is one of the most popular features broadcast from the Davenport, Iowa, station at the highbrow. He is simply tolerated, and privileged only to gather what crumbs he may from his numerous brothers' table. There is probably some very good reason which we have stupidly overlooked — but why, oh why, doesn't some program sponsor get up a program that is aimed directly at the individual of mildly sophisticated taste? Evidently a manufacturer of paper picnic plates or overall buttons wouldn't want to sponsor such a program, but there must be somewhere in this country a manufacturer whose product coincides with the needs of a medium-highbrow audience. To arrange a sophisticated program would not be difficult, hardly a bit more difficult than arranging a banal one. It would require only two things, first, that an individual of some sophistication get up the program and, second, that he be allowed to "let himself go." The sponsor of a such-like program would have heavy sledding at first, for the reason that he hasn't a potential audience at the present time. Individuals who make some cerebral demands on their entertainment do not listen to the radio. This is not, as is popularly supposed, because of some silly prejudice against radio itself, but simply because their various attempts at listening have convinced them that radio programs are not, at present at least, intended for the likes of them. We do argue, though, that such an audience could be worked up. If a genuinely witty and sophisticated program made its debut, its appearance would excite all the attention that any rarity does. Mr. Tallbrow would remark to Mr. Highdome on the morning train, " I almost died laughing at the Rolls Royce Hour last night." And Mr. Highdome, knowing Mr. Tallbrow's swell taste, would immediately rush out and buy himself a receiving set. That no such program now exists is apparent to anyone who has tried looking for it. There are highbrow musical programs, and excellent ones, but they are always tempered with popular selections to widen their appeal. That is all right, too. But there ought to be at least one program that would make no concession to popular taste and which would make it snootily apparent that it didn't give a tinker's dam for the man in the street. Pat Barnes Chicago's Gift to the Radio World is just the right sort of a heading to put on a brief paragraph about said person, its wording being quite in character with Mr. Barnes' style of presentation. But, quite seriously, Mr. Barnes is probably the most individual thing Chicago has to offer. If you have never sought out one of his programs through WHTyou should without delay. Mr. Barnes is an announcer-impresarioartist of the " heart-to-heart " type — the type which was so prevalent in the first years of radio, and which has now largely disappeared. Comparisons are odious, and so forth, but we cannot refrain from comparing him to Roxy. Barnes' delivery is of the same general style as Roxy's — personality-plus stuff. But where Roxy generally gives this particular listener somewhat of a pain, Pat Barnes pleases him enormously. This, we grant, is simply a matter of personal reaction, for Pat Barnes seems to us convincing, whereas we always have a feeling that Mr. Rothafel is simply acting a role. Of course, analytically, we realize that Barnes is acting, too. No one with the intelligence he displays in concocting his programs could be as witlessly maudlin as he makes himself sound — but he does it so infernally well. After all, no matter how unmomentous a thing a man picks out to do, if he does it surpassingly well it is worth attending to. The bit of Mr. Barnes' program which we heard to-night included the reading of a perfectly banal poem with a moral. But the reading of it, the enunciation, the phrasing, the nuances of expression were simply perfect, and infinitely better in toto than a selection from Shakespeare poorly delivered. Then he sang "Chloe" — he has a good voice — and interpolated a recitative passage of heart-rending cries of anguish for " Chloe, where art thou?" which was the veriest melodrama and consisted in tearing passion to tatters. But who cares? It was convincing anguish and genuine passion. And then the elegant little choke in his voice when he bids his audience "Good night" . . . but try him out yourself some time. Identification Marks of European Stations IT MUST be a pleasanter, because more varied, existence to be a radio reviewer in England. If things on the Island get too dull he has but to fish around for Continental stations and get a nice assortment of languages and varying ideas about broadcast fare. This from the reviewing department of Jay Coote in WorldRadio: During my nightly trips around the ether I have particularly noticed that many Continental stations have either made some alterations in their interval signals, or adopted new methods to identify themselves to distant listeners. The adoption by numerous studios of the ubiquitous metronome, to say the least of it, was becoming monotonous. Rome, instead of using two bells, has now added a further one, and between items you may now hear the notes A, C, F in pure crystal tones. By this means a very pleasant series of sounds is obtained. Munich appears to have dropped its Morse call, and in its stead opens its transmissions with a long-drawn-out deep note resembling that of an organ, although I feel sure it is produced by some electrical gadget. Again, ptt, Paris, which for a short time had adopted the call of the cuckoo to its young, at the request of its admirers, has withdrawn the signal and is, I understand, seeking some other noise more befitting its broadcasts. Radio Toulouse still possesses its alarm clock; it can be nothing else, and its spasmodic tock-tock preceding each item is at times peculiarly irritating. To the credit of its announcer, however, it must be said that the call Radio Toulouse, clearly enunciated, is never omitted between items in the programme. It is particularly galling to hang on for some minutes in the hope of identifying a station, and to find oneself rewarded by Alio I Alio I followed by an almost incomprehensible mumble accompanied by spark or atmospherics. Why do so many announcers persist in dropping their voice at the moment the name of the city is broadcast?