Radio Digest (Oct 1926-Jan 1928)

December, 1927 RADIO DIGES T— Illustrated 17 Shake Hands with WEAF Eskimo Chief Girl Reporter Meets Harry Reser at Broadway Igloo and Marvels at His Busy Fingers, Energy, Pep AT first it seemed that the honor should go to the intrepid individual, who at the moment was engaged in doing something to the top-knot on the Paramount theatre building, — that behemoth of structures which has lately come to squat its huge bulk in Times Square, and which amazes by its size while one wonders at its ugliness, — where, suspended perilously thirty-five stories above the street, he was giving an ambidexterous exhibition of juggling stones and mortar that should have put the proverbial crippled paper By Dorothy Brister Stafford hospitable Kathleen. "You'll like Harry Reser." We had an impression of the large room, very much crowded with musical instruments, a couple of dozen smiling young men, and a nervous, wiry little chap, rushing about with a stack of music in one ence of musicians. And then Harry Reser jingled the sleigh-bells and the Eskimos swung into the march that causes dog ears to prick up all over the length and breadth of the Eskimos in Their White Bear Skin Suits, Ready for Radio Program at WEAF When the last strains of the march died away, what had been a perfectly good collar was a wilted wreck, and the grinning Eskimos mopped dripping brows, while their energetic leader distributed the music for the next selection, and Arnold Morgan told the folks at the other end what was coming. A Singing Drummer Scarcely a breathing space and they were off again, — the drummer popping up like a jack-in-the-box to stand before the microphone and warble a chorus, — Harry hanger to shame. But on a certain Thursday night down at WEAF we happened upon another somebody, whose diversified activities made the uptown contender seem a drone in the hive of Manhattan industry. We were wandering about the studio listening to some close harmony by a new quartette, and talking to various interesting people,— you know the National Broadcasting Company is a sort of a cross-roads of the world, where if you hang around long enough you are likely to meet almost anyone who has done anything of moment, or has anything worth while to do, — when vivacious Kathleen Stewart paused in her busy round of seeing that everyone was being taken care of, and said: "Oh, wouldn't you like to meet a nice Hawaiian?" Meeting the "Hawaiian" Nice people have an appeal, regardless of breed, and we said we'd be delighted, and then the "nice Hawaiian" turned out to be none other than the very American Norman Clark, otherwise the "South Sea Island Tenor," whose voice more than any other has tempered our antagonistic attitude toward those of the masculine sex who sing in the upper register before the microphone. He had his nose flattened firmly against the leaded-glass door of the larger studio, where Harry Reser and the Clicquot Eskimos were removing their coats and rolling up their sleeves preparatory to their hour's broadcast, and he didn't seem at all interested in talking about Norman Clark. We wanted to ask him how he sang so easily when others made such painful work of it, but he chummily beckoned us to a peep-hole beside him. "Come over here where you can watch Harry's fingers," he said. "They move faster than anything you ever saw." And then we remembered that the salient reason for braving the deserted canyons of lower Broadway on this particular night was to see and hear the newly augmented Eskimo orchestra in action. "Come inside and meet him," urged the Harry Reser, "Busiest Man on Broadway." hand and a string of sleigh-bells in the other, which he dropped to shake hands courteously with a winning grin, and a whisper, "Won't you wait until the hour's over? We're just going on the air." Bitching the Mike They invited us to stay inside, but since a live microphone has always had the same effect upon us that golden-rod had for Mrs. Rinehart's famous "Aggie," and we were already stifling a desire to sneeze, we slipped outside and secured a desirable place alongside our South Sea Island friend, and several other going and coming entertainers loaded down with violin cases and music rolls. The old theory that a vaudeville act is supposed to be unusually good when the other performers do it the honor to wait in the wings to "catch it" was recalled by the gathering of professionals, and we surmised that the Eskimo's reputation is not all in the air while observing the interested audi land when the drummer does his stuff. And for the first time, — and we've heard many orchestras, both "sacred and profane," as someone classified them after hearing "My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice" murdered in syncopated arrangement, — we watched a group of men who seemed to play with every ounce of energy they had in them. One supposes that a director is the happiest when conducting an opus of his own composition, and you know the "Clicquot March" is Harry Reser's and evidently his pet, but we have never seen anyone work as earnestly to get all possible out of his organization as this leader does with the opening of his Radio hour. Baton right, sleigh-bells left, he is all over the place, dropping both to come in with a few bars on the famous banjo, which reposes on a rack before the microphone, his wiry little frame a veritable dynamo of bouncing musical energy. Reser here, there and everywhere, playing, directing, laughing, and everyone apparently having such a good time that it was difficult to realize that this was a highly paid organization of very efficient musicians engaged in a strenuous hour's work. And one wonders if the dominating, cheerful personality of the hard-working leader, which makes for harmony in his capable group, isn't the secret of the success of this, — one of the most popular of the commercial features on the air. For though they are very diplomatic at the National Broadcasting Company, and avoid hurting anyone's feelings, it's an open secret that the Eskimos — they are now in their third season of broadcasting, — have drawn more fan mail than any other similar outfit. In the past year the orchestra has doubled in size, tr/o pianos standing where there was but one before, tenor and alto saxophones, marimbas, accordions,— the whole galaxy of instruments that make up the complicated harmony of the modern dance orchestra. For that is all they pretend to be. They play popular feet-tapping music, stirring marches and popular arrangements of classics for that great portion of the Radio public that likes their kind of music. Harry Reser does not call himself a "master," nor his arrangements "Symphonic syncopations." They are out to entertain and the fact that their sponsors have tied them up with a longtime contract is sufficient proof that they are firmly established as one of the most successful features of the N. B. C. chains. Busy Harry Reser And when with a last jingle of sleighbells the hour was over, and youngsters all over the land who are allowed to stay up until the Eskimos finish were trailing reluctantly to bed, Harry Reser emerged, tired, but still with the infectious smile he has for everyone, — not to go home, but to dash back up town where from eleven to two the orchestra was appearing in person at a Broadway cafe. He apologized for the lack of a shave, — "I was up till three this morning arranging, and out at Brunswick all day recording, — but come (Continued on page 18) aaa