Radio revue (Dec 1929-Mar 1930)

42 RADIO REVUE A Streak of Sunshine THIS long streak of sunshine is Dariel Jones, of NBC. She is the Daddy Long-Legs of radio and is a real radio beauty. Born in Chicago, Dariel was educated in grammar and high schools there, and finally landed in the University of Minnesota, of which latter institution she is a graduate. She studied music privately and in college, and became an accomplished pianist, but in her present capacity of production representative she can order other artists to play for her. Dariel joined the NBC forces early in 1927, booking day-time programs, and she has made a host of friends. Miss Jones likes the theatre and music, and has advanced about three holes in the science of golfing with the aid of a professional. She is rapidly learning the golfing language, and the necessary oaths. Her most prominent vice is painting apartments and furniture. Dariel can take a lot of nice furniture and a new apartment and make them look like an undigested vegetarian dinner. In this process of painting, a great quantity of the assorted color lands on Dariel. She has often been mistaken for a piece of modern furniture, largely due to her lofty, fireproof construction. (See sketch). As soon as an apartment is painted and the furniture changed beyond recognition, Dariel starts right in repainting for the Fall, or the Winter. If she cannot repaint for the fall or winter, she puts on her smock and repaints for the spring or summer. Seasons mean just so much repainting to Dariel. Her real name, by the way, is Dariel Harriet Jones. People with the middle name of Harriet are always fussing with houses and apartments, as you well know, and nothing will stop them. Although she is a remarkably good-looking girl, Dariel Jones's pet aversions are being photographed or interviewed. The best we could do was this drawing, sneaked in a moment when she wasn't looking, and this interview, which she will promptly deny. She has definite hates of a number of people, but these are more than compensated for by the number of apparently intelligent people who get in her way when she passes, so that the sunshine of her presence, or the shadow of her sunshine, or whatever it is, may fall upon them. Dariel Jones Radio Gives Dan Cupid a Helping Hand {Continued from page 10) goddess Radio, who had helped him line up the pretty pair so that a single arrow might transfix their beating hearts. The advent of the loudspeaker and the vacuum tube changed things a bit, but radio lost none of its effectiveness as a matchmaker. There's probably not so much rubbing of heads nowadays, but, at that, it takes quite a bit of close work to bring in a distant station. I've lost several pals that way. Nothing to Break the Spell As a general thing, there is nothing more conducive to spending an evening in the parlor, where, as everyone knows, Cupid fights and wins most of his battles, than the promise of a few hours of music, good, sweet or hot, as the fancy turneth. Curled up in the big chair, with the electric light fuse in no danger of blowing out, Bill and Beatrice are lulled into romantic mood by the steady outpouring of tuneful melodies. No changing of needles, no turning of records, no disturbing sessions with the crank handle, nothing to break the spell. And somehow those ingenious gentlemen who build programs see to it that the glamorous theme of romance runs unfailingly through each precious Hour. Thus there is a sequence of songs seemingly calculated to put ideas into young folks' heads. They hear, in the rather significant order named, Love Me, Vagabond Lover, Kiss Me Again, You're the Cream in My Coffee, Lover Come Back to Me, All 1 Need is You, Singin' in the Rain, The Pagan Love, Song, I Love You Truly, I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Girl of My Dreams, I May Be Wrong — But I Think You're Wonderful, Woman Disputed, I Love You. By this time the great conspiracy has done its work, and the conversation, which is now hardly more than a purring of coos and gurgles, has turned to such important subjects as platinum settings, engraved invitations, honeymoons, apartments, furniture on installment, and so on. As the Hotel St. Whoozis Orchestra (the ideal place to dance — adv.) winds up its program with a rousing Papa Loves Mama, the contract is sealed with a very appropriate kiss. Bill reaches for his hat, and Beatrice, discerning little huntress, switches off the radio, thinking what a splendid investment it was. Such Conquests Are Easy But such conquests are comparatively easy for Dan Cupid. It's the problem of separation that bothers him. Distance doesn't lend enchantment, he has found, nor does it make the heart grow fonder. When Bill and Beatrice are torn asunder, the great difficulty is to keep their affection as bright and glowing as when there are no miles between them, and to this end Dan Cupid has again enlisted the aid of radio. It's one of his own ideas; he calls it the Radio Date, and it works something like this: Bill is now in Pittsburgh — one of those important business calls that prove so dangerous to the continuity of a romantic theme. Beatrice pines at home. Letters are so infrequent, and 'phone calls so very expensive. If only she knew what Bill were doing at that very moment, where he was and what he was thinking.