Radio revue (Dec 1929-Mar 1930)

28 RADIO REVU E circumstances may the door be opened now. The murmur in the corridor subsides as the disappointed gather at the windows. All they see, however, is row upon row of smiling faces. These are the early ones, now watching intently some scene invisible to those outside. Inside, the scene is colorful and bright, as gay lights concealed within the studio diffuse a warm glow around the crowd of performers and orchestra. Just a few inches beyond the first row of audience seats is the director's stand, with a full symphony orchestra ranged before it. Between the director's desk and the semi-circle of first violins is an open space. Here are two microphones, one to catch the music of the orchestra, the other for vocal solos and novelty instruments. Standing at the announcer's microphone on a platform at the far end is Phillips Carlin, master of ceremonies for the Palmolive Hour. As the second hand of a clock ticks 9:30, he lifts his arm — and Director Gustave Haenschen, his back to the audience, raises his baton. "Good as a play," whispers one woman to her neighbor. A uniformed usher immediately tiptoes over and, with finger on lips, cautions her to silence. The slightest sound is apt to record on the sensitive microphones now connected with millions of American homes from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Fast Pace Must Be Maintained The baton in Haenschen's fingers swoops down, and a surge of melody from the orchestra swings into a marching rhythm. This creates immediately a sensation of speed and movement, setting a pace that must not lag for the next sixty minutes. Out in the corridors, the disappointed ones wonder what causes a general grin on the faces of seatholders inside. The grin is caused by the antics of Director Haenschen, who by this time has dropped his baton and is now leading with elbows, knees and feet, as well as his fingertips. Haenschen cuts a graceful figure on the stand. He is tall and curly-haired, with shoulders that are a joy to his Director Gus Haenschen board his yacht, which is hobby. Apeda. on is tailor. He combines an air of authority with irrepressible boyishness, the latter heightened by his "Charleston" and "Black Bottom" technique in leading the orchestra. Before the orchestra has finished, Paul Oliver and Olive Palmer, two of the highest-salaried singers on the air, take their places before the microphone for their first duet. They stand quietly while the orchestra ends the overture, and wait for Phillips Carlin to introduce their opening contribution. Carlin drops his arm in signal, and the two bring their lips within a few inches of the microphone as Haenschen again lifts his hand over the orchestra in accompaniment. Audience in Studio Amazed The visible audience in the studio is amazed. Why, they can hardly hear the two familiar voices above the music of the orchestra ! How is it that the voices sound so clearly over the air, with the orchestra but a dim accompaniment ? The answer lies on the secret of distances from the microphone, and in a set of black knobs on the mixing panel to be seen in the "monitor board" beyond. Meanwhile, all eyes are glued on the faces of the soloists. Paul Oliver, garbed in neat evening clothes, stands as imperturbably as a Brahmin at the mouthpiece of the mike, his face a perfect mask as he puts all the expression and color into his voice alone — that rich tenor comparable only to McCormack's. He holds one hand cupped over his ear. But look ! Olive Palmer too holds her hand in the same curious way, although her body sways more in time and her features reflect the expressions carried through the ether by her voice. What mean these strange gestures ? It is a professional trick of radio — one that found its origin in the phonograph recording laboratories. It enables the soloist to sing softly close to a microphone, and still hear his own voice above the louder orchestra behind. As the last notes of the duet fade away, Phillips Carlin again switches in from his microphone in the corner. While he tells what beauty experts say about "that schoolgirl complexion," the star singers move away from the central space to make way for four young men in dinner jackets and gleaming, starched shirtfronts. There is a rustle in the audience. It recognizes that quartet, which is none other than the famous Revelers, recently returned from fresh triumphs abroad. Frank Black at the Piano Before the Revelers begin their inimitable close har Frank Black mony, all four glance toward