Radio Mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

A UNIQUE NEW CHARACTER, BILLY SUN DAY'S FORMER LIEUTENANT, COMES TO RADIO WITH A CURE FOR OUR TROUBLES By FRANK LOVETTE I T was raining the proverbial cats and dogSs one of those freakish rainy nights of late autumn which cause a near panic in New York. Transportation was already glutted, and more thousands were stampeding homeward; for it seemed a downpour without end. "Surely," I told myself, hurrying across the gusty area of Times Square in cold water, which was ankle deep, "few people will feel like singing tonight — not if they have to be drowned and attend a broadcast to sing." Even as I sloshed along the sidewalks, a newspaper over my head to keep from being completely drenched, I was feeling half sorry for Homer Rodeheaver; wondering how he could present his Community Sing on a night like this. How could his show go on? What would his sponsors do about it, if there was no appreciable audience? Then I found myself at Forty-fourth Street, and putting purpose above caution, swung eastward toward the CBS Playhouse. Just as suddenly I looked ahead and had the silly inclination to pinch myself, to demand physical proof my eyes were sane. But once in many years had I seen such a throng in a New York side street. That was when a murder had just occurred; but even then it had not been raining. Tonight, it was a different sort of crowd. People stood in the downpour, laughing and talking, none evidencing discomfort. It was amazing, like the lines at Madison Square Garden, the Polo Grounds, or Soldiers Field in Chicago, just before a great athletic event. They pushed forward, pressing against the jammed lobby of the CBS Playhouse, as eagerly as if their tickets had cost a premium. And why? To see Homer Rodeheaver — to sing with him! A night which would have stayed Napoleon's army had not fazed them. Soon, I, too, had fallen in line. And although it was nearly an hour before the Community Sing went on the air, the doors were presently opened. Within less than five minutes every seat in the theater was filled. I sat in the first row of the balcony, ever more impressed with the buoyancy of the audience. I could sense it. Although of all ages, they were gay, laughing and talking with a rising hum, so different from the blase, bored and downright morbid audiences of the legitimate theater upon rainy nights. These people had something, and I asked myself what it was. Were they musical cranks, or had Rodeheaver imbued them with the magic which, for twenty years, made him Billy Sunday's magnet and the foremost song leader of the times? 1 was soon to find out. Rodeheaver rehearsed his audience for about twenty-five minutes before the broadcast; and 1 think, at the end of that time, fully ninety per cent of those present would have been willing to vote for him for President. Coming out from the wings of the stage, dressed in white to discount the weather, he with a broad smile and greeted the "community singers'; contagious laugh. "I'm glad you're here," he told them. "Even if it is a little bit rainy. . . . And after all, just how rainy it seems, depends entirely upon where you come from and where you were brought up." He illustrated with an example. "Down in the East Tennessee mountains, where I grew up, two of the old timers from the hills once got into an argument as to whether it was raining hard or not. One told a story of a rain so hard it washed the cattle and other animals away. 'That ain't nothin' at all,' the other one said when he was through. 'Up in the cove, where I live, it rained so hard last fall, it busted the bottom out o' the rain barrel. We turned th' barrel up on its side, then, but that didn't help none. It rained in the bung hole faster than th' water could run out both ends.' " There was a roar from the audience. And while they were still laughing, he said, "So you see, it depends entirely upon where you grew up, how hard it's raining. For some of you — it may be rainingdaffodils." He had picked up his audience in a manner reminiscent of Will Rogers. Quickly, he introduced his instrumental ensemble. Then, with the flashing of the words of "Pack Up Your Troubles," upon the screen behind him, he exhorted all to sing. "Anybody with tonsilitis or a bad cold," he told them, "can whistle." I had no idea of singing, so I reneged on the first go-round. I held out on the crowd through part of the second song, which was "Smiles," but the leader was too contagious longer to resist. He got me, too. I found myself singing and, what is more, liking it. I began to feel changed, and I began to feel better. Now I can say WE. We rehearsed with him his entire program, by which time I was a veteran "community singer." He let us sing bass, tenor, or anything we pleased. He told us to harmonize, to get it up and out as we saw fit. I was surprised to discover that it sounded beautiful, that some of the emotions within me, which I had long thought were atrophied, had come (Continued on page 71)