Radio mirror (Nov 1934-Apr 1935)

BY DORA ALBERT IN the dizzy firmament of radio, where fame so often strikes unexpectedly and failure stalks the tragic figures of those who were told that success would be theirs for the asking, there is one man who has shown an almost uncanny ability to pick out the future stars of the air. Paul Whiteman. To him belongs the credit for the discovery of Bing Crosby, Morton Downey, Mildred Bailey, Lennie Hay ton and a host of others. It was he who took a composer of popular tunes, George Gershwin, and inspired him to write America's most famous modern symphony, "Rhapsody in Blue". And to bring this story up to dale, he has just discovered Helen Jepson. She sang with Paul Whiteman's band a couple of times, and lo and behold the Metropolitan Opera Company signed her to play leads. To be discovered by Whiteman is almost like having stardom placed in your lap. Sooner or later, most of Paul's discoveries become stars on their own. Even though for years they may have to croon their tunes to an indifferent public. Crosby and Al Rinker were nothing but a vaudeville team playing in cheap theatres when Paul Whiteman discovered them. Al Rinker, by the way, is Mildred Bailey's brother, Rinker being her real name. Paul Whiteman liked Crosby's voice and signed Rinker and Crosby. "I guess thai was just about the biggest thrill I've ever had," Bing said later in telling about it. "The idea that a great band leader like Whiteman should actually send (or a couple ol punks like us seemed too inconceivable to ; lie " lint just because Paul Whiteman liked Crosby's voice was no sign thai the public was uoing to lake lo ii like a duck 10 water Ii didn't When Paul look the two hoys Past on a lour of various theatres they flopped cold. He added a third member to the "•'in Harry Barris, and called them Hie Rhythm Boys, bul Morton Downey they still flopped cold. But Whiteman's faith didn't swerve. When Bing Crosby sang on the Paramount stage, the management of the Paramount Theatre objected. "For heaven's sake, Paul," they told Whiteman, "we know most of your act is good, but what's the idea of sticking a team like that into it? Don't you know that this chap, Bing Crosby, can't sing? Why don't you drop him from your act?" "I had to pay the trio |750 a week not to sing," Paul Whiteman told me, grinning. "The two boys played the piano and Bing slapped a cymbal. Two years later Paramount was paying Bing a few thousand dollars a week just to sing. "Lots of young people all over the country were wild about him; but at first I couldn't convince any of the theatre managements of that. Nor could I convince the people who were at that time sponsoring my radio program. They kept on telling me to drop Bing Crosby from my act. When I kept him on, they sent me letters threatening to fire me unless I fired him. "Finally we got out to California. After a short time there, I was all fed up and ready to go back East, but Bing didn't feel that way about it. He'd spent five or six years trying to make a hit in the East and he had never clicked, so he thought that perhaps his big chance lay in California. He got an offer to sing with Gus Arnheim's Orchestra, and he asked to be released from his contract. I couldn't blame him exactly for wanting to try his luck in the Cocoanut Grove on the Coast. Even then he didn't click immediately. But when he did — zowie! "Bing Crosby is one of my pets. He's a hit in pictures