Radio mirror (May-Oct 1934)

A NEW CROWN 'ET's go to the Biltmore." A I suggested to th< Stranger Within the Gates. It was one of those times when a New Yorker — and this one was bom in Times Square — is elected to show the city to a Visitor considered too sophisticated for the thrills attendant upon a buggy-ride to the Aquarium, a bus-ride to Grant's Tomb, or an elevator ride to the Empire State Tower. It's a labor of love. And, usually, love's labor is lost. "What's there?" queried the Guest. . "Paul Whiteman!" I breathed, a little ecstatically, perhaps. "Whiteman? Oh yeah, that fat fiddler " "He's neither a fiddler — nor is he fat!" I bristled. And right then and there 1 laid down the law to this Auslander. Here is some of what I told him. Paul Whiteman is Big Business. Remember this when next you see him waving his magic baton, smiling benevolently like a bland Buddha, somewhat slenderized by a Depression diet. Remember it when you hear his records, see his screened image, read his books, or tune-in on his broadcasts. Remember it and be a little awed at your contact with a man who is not only a tremendous artistic force, and a vital financial factor, but who is destined by his genius to veritable Immortality. Whiteman is a man of girth, of stature, of substance. And I don't mean physically. For Paul's all-time high of 303 pounds during the Coolidge Prosperity, has dwindled tc an athletic 190 under the Rooseveltian New Deal. It may surprise you to know that the Whiteman purse has disgorged as much as $550,000 — over a half-million dollars, and not 59^ ones, either — merely for a season's transportation of himself and his musicians. His payroll has been over |9,000 weekly, and tops |6,000 right now. Sponsors have paid |35,000 or $40,000 without a perceptible quiver for one Whiteman broadcast. If that isn't Big Business then I've been N. R. A. — Nuts Right Along! As to himself, I asked Paul how he'd like to turn pro Caricature Harlan Crandall ducer, have some big theatres like Roxy, or a radio racket like Aylesworth. And when I did, the Big Feller gazed from the windows of his Central Park South apartment, so lavishly simple under the guidance of Margaret Livingston's decorative ability, as nearly pensive as I've ever seen him. "I can't afford to, Herb," he said. "I'd like it, but there's no money in it!" Maybe that'll give you an idea of just what sort of dough Paul considers worth while. And as Americans continue to measure success and achievement by the gold standard, I'm quoting these facts and figures just to impress you. They don't impress Whiteman. Why? Because wealth is incidental to him, and accidental, too. However, the world being what it is, he's not sucker enough to goose the golden egg, or whatever the phrase may be. ^O much, then, for the financial side of the man whom b y that slug termed a "fat fiddler". 3pJ What is vastly more interest ing is that Paul Whiteman is the acknowledged Dean of Modern American Music. He put this country on the musical map of the world when he presented the land with its first jazz concerto at Carnegie Hall some ten years ago. With Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue", something new was added to the musical wealth of the universe. And Whiteman added it. Not only has'he contributed himself and his genius, but his recognition of talent in others has resulted in the discovery by the public of such sensational entertainers as Bing Crosby, Phil Harris, Al Rinker, the unforgettable original Rhythm Boys, Mildred Bailey, Morton Downey, Jack Fulton, Peggy Healy, and the great Gershwin, himself. Why, the entire National Broadcasting Company staff is composed of Whiteman men. In passing, Paul tried to sell Bing to the movies for |50 a week — they couldn't see him until they paid $5,000! The fellow who has done so much to popularize such classics as Ferde Grofe's {Continued on page 58) by HERB CRUIKSHANK 23