TV Radio Mirror (Jul - Dec 1956)

The Merry Modernaires (Continued from page 46) respects, The Mods share comparable problems. Among them, they have ten children — seven girls and three boys. Paula and Hal Dickinson, who have been bride and groom since New Year's Day, 1939, have three daughters: Martha, fifteen, Paula, Jr., thirteen, and Juliann, nine. John and Marion Drake have two daughters: Elizabeth, six, and Carole, two. Fran and Elsie Mary Scott have a son and a daughter: Johnny, eleven, and Deborah, almost four. Allan and Dolores Copeland have three youngsters: Christine, almost seven, Michael, who will be five in November, and Richard, who was a year old in April of this year. The fact of -their multiple parenthood has always provided The Mods with a stupendous area to be discussed, conferred upon, and shared in commiseration. There is no comfort to equal that of one parent upon being reassured by another with the famous phrase, "Don't worry — it's only a phase. Putting the pearls through the garbage disposal is nothing. Wait until he puts a carton of cigarettes in the automatic washing machine with a pair of riding boots and your wife's heirloom lace tablecloth." As everyone knows, Bob Crosby is parent of five, which further extends the area of understanding — and a lucky thing, too, because an occasional Modernaire performance has produced frantic homeside repercussions. On a show several months ago, The Mods did a dramatization of "Skokian," a narrative ditty telling the sad plight of a pith-helmeted hunting type (played by the youngest, blondest member o f the group, Allan Copeland) who encountered a band of savages and wound up in a giant kettle while the camera recorded his plight. The rest of The Mods were hay-skirted, frizz-headed, painted and beaded enough to strike terror to the stout heart of a Marine sergeant ... so it is not remarkable that Michael Copeland, aged four and one -half, concluded that his father had just wound up as No. 1 on the Tidbit Parade. He went into hysterics. Mrs. Copeland telephoned CBS-TV and explained her problem. Word was slipped to Bob Crosby, who hastened to announce that he had a special message for Michael Copeland: His daddy was fine. It had been a game, and any resemblance of Allan Copeland to a New England boiled dinner was all in fun. No water in the kettle — no fire, really, under it. . . . Michael relaxed but, for several weeks, he refused to watch the program, explaining simply, "They play too rough." Ihe ten children of the singing group have presented another fascinating problem. As everyone knows, children never come down with chicken pox until the eve of the most inconvenient day in any calendar year. Just when The Mods have been scheduled into Cocoanut Grove for three weeks, or are flying daily to Las Vegas to fulfill a highly $ati$factory commitment, some second-generation Modernaire is sure to come down with something— usually a disorder featuring large, red polka dots. Another bugaboo of singing groups is the unfilterable virus of the common cold. Paula Kelly, the soprano and unofficial mother, style authority, and coffeemaker of the group, is instantly alerted by a dull eye or a tired tone, and she is positively galvanized by a sneeze, no matter how gesundheit. She produces tall bottles of anti -histamine, and the sneezee is sent home as quickly as possible, performances and rehearsals considered. As a result, The Mods have never failed to keep a date becauv f illness. Transportation is their nemesis, and even that has put the hex on them only twice. The first near cataclysm took place, of all unlikely locations, in the spanking new CBSTV building itself. Usually, The Mods drift in by ones or twos during the thirty minutes preceding the nine A.M. rehearsal. However, one morning the news filtered up to the third-floor studio that a violent motor accident had taken place on Beverly Boulevard, the artery passing to the north of the station, so all five Mods popped down to the street to check the situation then returned to the elevator. The elevator, an automatic, took the vocalists up two and one-half stories and hung poised as happily as a mountain goat resting on an Alp. . . . Five synchronized watches announced that airtime was approaching and The Mods were not. Beating the panic button produced no response; the doors opening on the second floor were just beyond reach below, those opening on the third floor were just beyond reach above. No one even suggested uttering sounds of distress because setting up a howl in a telecasting studio elevator is roughly equivalent to whispering for attention in a steel mill. Chances are that they might have camped there for some time if Tommy Sheils, The Mods' business manager, hadn't rescued them forty-two seconds before the "On the Air" light turned red to match The Mods' complexions. 1 he second incident took place in March of this year, when The Mods were establishing some sort of an endurance record by doubling their output of notes. Their schedule went like this: Each Monday through Friday, they reported to CBS-TV at 9:00 A.M. to start rehearsals for the Crosby show. The show aired at 12: SO until 1 P.M. (PST), at which time the four guys and a gal had a fast coffee break and returned to work on the show for the following day. They broke at 3:00, drove to the airport . . . and took off at 4: 00 for Las Vegas. Usually, they reached Vegas around 6:15 to 6: 30— -depending upon the cooperation of tailwinds — rushed to the hotel at which they were appearing . (The Sahara), changed clothes and applied makeup, had another cup of coffee, and gave their first show at 8:00 P.M. The second show went on at midnight, after which the quintet with the quivering vocal chords removed costumes, showered, redressed, and had dinner. Having slowed down to a gallop, they fell into an exhausted sleep disturbed only by a call permitting them to catch their chartered plane which took off for Los Angeles at 6: 00 A.M. . . . Shaken but still game, they then reported at CBS-TV at 9:00 A.M. As there is in any group, there was one rebel against this regular invasion of the skies: Allan Copeland. As far as he is concerned, the Wright Brothers goofed. He never boards a plane if he can avoid it, and he leaves as quickly as a stairway is rolled into place. During The Modernaires' three-week Las Vegas marathon, Allan had no choice except to fly up to Las Vegas with his fellow troupers . . . but, just after the midnight show, he was able to catch a Limited train having a berth made up for an admirer of surface transportation, for the trip back down. And so it happened that when The Day of the Big Wind descended upon Las Vegas, grounding everything but tumbleweeds, four of The Mods were stranded in "I now have peace of mind in my married life!" says Mrs. E. Rosen who now uses ZONITE to douche! SAFE! Most women— both married and about-to-be-married — wonder about douching for feminine hygiene. Mrs. Rosen did, and she only found peace of mind when she heard about the importance of following the proper method of douching with a fountain syringe, using an effective yet safe solution — like zonite. EFFECTIVE! 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