Radio Digest (June 1932-Mar 1933)

Take an Irishman named SHEEHAN 39 THE Midwest, unfortunate in its modesty, doesn't speak any too often. When it does speak, it speaks well. When Al Sheehan, vocabulary specialist at WCCO in Minneapolis, was sixteen, he filled half the pages of a high school annual with poetry. He wrote it easily, naturally, and no one objected. That was, well — say, fifteen years ago. Today, the music of words still lingers in this genial, fun-loving young Irishman. The only difference is that he has a different medium for expression. He walked into WCCO five years ago and asked for an audition. They gave him one, and the next day he was on the payroll. Words, you must admit, come easier to some people than to others. They have always had an important place in the life of Al Sheehan. Someone, somewhere, taught the Irish how to talk. Al has been, in succession, newspaperman, actor, salesman, radio announcer. The words have always been there. In the last analysis, the public, the radio public, will vote for a voice that can interpret words ; a voice that has life and laughter in it. There are voices that are smooth, like thin syrup. There are voices that are perfect in their inflection: too good to be true. But the public, at heart, is human, and wants a voice to be natural. Welcome, Mr. Sheehan. V ORTUNATELY, they take their radio programs seriously in Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin and the Dakotas. There isn't diversion at every turn of the road, especially during the winter months. And the Scandinavian population is by no means the least, in numbers or importance. Drop in at the corner store in the small towns and they will tell you that Al Sheehan has learned to talk Swedish. Don't ask if it is good Swedish. Be satisfied that it is uproariously funny. Mix an Irish lilt and a Swedish nasal and you've got something. It started when Oscar Danielson, who used to be a sausage maker, and before that a street singer in Stockholm, Sweden, assembled an orchestra and let the public discover that he was a born showman. Al Sheehan, They Say, Surely Kissed the Blarney Stone. By Elmer W. Peterson Al Sheehan announcing. The first night there was a slip. The announcer signed off as "Al Sheehan— son." The second night Al Sheehan announced the musical numbers — in Swedish. The third night the public wanted to know: "Is Al Sheehanson a Swede?" Since then the public has learned a lot about Al Sheehan (son). Not long ago a remarkable trio went on the air, singing a Swedish song. Shoulder to shoulder stood El Brendel, movie comedian, Al Sheehan (son), and Oscar Danielson. Oscar did the singing. Brendel and Sheehan contributed the volume. Sheehan is a personable young man, who, when the stock market was booming, sold securities by virtue of Irish blarney. He had almost quit writing poetry when he joined WCCO. Now he's at it again. He is an amateur astronomer, can tell you a lot about the heavens. He is single, has light, curly hair and blue eyes, and looks well on a stage. H, .E is prodigiously happy when talking. When the Knights Templar held their international convention in Minneapolis last summer, he talked into a microphone for three hours without stopping, describing a parade that lasted that long. He reminds you of a pianist, lazily improvising. They give him personal appearances in Minneapolis theatres now and then, to hear an Irishman talk, and he's perfectly at home announcing.