“When the blue of the night…meets the gold of the day…”

The year was 1945, and to paraphrase Frank Sinatra, it was a very good year—well, it was for Bing Crosby, anyway. Bing was a successful million-selling recording artist, the movies’ number-one box-office attraction (he had just copped a Best Actor Oscar for the previous year’s Going My Way), and a popular radio star with his top-rated Kraft Music Hall program (which he had been the star of since 1936). But Bing was also at war with both his sponsor and NBC, and it arose from a simple matter of...recording tape.

During the 1930s, German technicians had been successful at developing a method of recording on plastic-backed tape, and by 1945 had upgraded both the tape and recording machines to near professional quality. Crosby spotted an immediate advantage to pre-recording his program on audio tape—scheduling shows in advance would free up more spare time for him to indulge in his outside interests, like golfing and horse racing. He would also have the luxury of being able to prepare programs when his singing voice was at the peak of perfection. (The fact that Bing also owned a financial interest in a small magnetic-tape company called Ampex probably didn’t hurt, either.)

Kraft and NBC were both vehemently opposed to Crosby’s scheme. They argued that audiences simply would not cotton to what they termed “canned radio.” On the surface, they had a valid argument—part of the magic of old-time radio was its live spontaneity; the fact was that sometimes things could go horribly awry, and the hallmark of any radio professional was his or her ability to steer things back on course. (Some of OTR’s classic comedy moments sprang from these types of situations; one of the best known is a Fred Allen broadcast from March 20, 1940 in which a “trained” eagle decides to exercise a little independence, flying above the audience’s heads and registering his criticism with the program via a bowel movement, as his frustrated trainer tries to get him to return.) The truth of the matter, however, is that NBC (and CBS as well) was skittish about stars prerecording programs because they feared that said stars could market their shows directly to individual stations, thus eliminating the network-as-middleman. (NBC claimed to have an “iron-clad” rule against transcribed programs; although the fact that their hit quiz show series Information, Please managed to get around that policy didn’t seem to crop up in their negotiations with Crosby.)

Whatever the reason, there was no denying there was a standoff; Bing refused to budge from his desire to pre-record his shows, and NBC/Kraft were dead set against it. Since his network and sponsor had dug in their heels, Crosby walked off the Kraft Music Hall, setting off a legal battle between him and Kraft that eventually reached a settlement by where Bing would finish out his contract by returning to the Music Hall for the program’s final thirteen weeks. Since these conditions made him a free man, Crosby began to shop around his new concept to the other networks.

He received one taker: the fledgling ABC Radio network, which sprang forth from the sale of NBC’s Blue network to Life Savers tycoon Edward Noble in 1942. The network was responsive to Bing’s idea, but their embrace of the popular crooner was due mostly to the desperation of ABC to have a star of Crosby’s caliber on their network. The Philco Radio Company agreed to pick up the tab for the new program, and on October 16. 1946 Philco Radio Time debuted on Wednesday nights over ABC. The program started off strong at first, dipped a little in November, and finally regained its footing to become a successful hit and to allow Philco to sell a slew of radios and phonographs. Crosby had launched a “transcribed” revolution; his friend Bob Hope soon followed his lead, and was joined later still by the other popular comedians (like Jack Benny) as well.

Philco Radio Time was a good radio series, a splendid mix of comedy and music from Der Bingle—but in my experience, the best Crosby Philco shows are those that feature great comedians for the laid-back Bing to play off of. Crosby is joined on this April 30, 1947 broadcast by the one and only Groucho! (Marx), and after Bing squeezes in a couple of tunes ("The Belle of Albuquerque" and "Guilty"), the laughs get underway:

BING: Anyhow, Groucho, before we go completely daffy here…allow me to extend a warm, firm hand of welcome to Philco Radio Time…

GROUCHO: Please do…but make sure that warm, firm hand contains a large, firm check…

BING: You want a firm check?

GROUCHO: Yes…from the Philco firm, if you don’t mind…

BING: Don’t tell me you’re broke?

GROUCHO: Of course I won’t tell you…I’m no blabbermouth…a few years ago, I had enough money to choke a horse…

BING: What happened?

GROUCHO: I made a mistake…I bet on the horse instead of choking him.

Bing agrees to join Groucho in a song that became one of the comedian’s signature tunes: “Lydia, the Tattooed Lady.” Written by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg, the song was first featured in the 1939 Marx Brothers MGM romp At the Circus. Because this program was taped at USVA Hospital in Hines, Illinois, Groucho explains to Bing why he’s in Chicago:

GROUCHO: Anyhow, Bing, right after the program I’m going to take you on a guided tour throughout the city in my glass bottom bus. I’ll show you Chicago from every angle…

BING: You really know this town?

GROUCHO: Do I know this town? Why, I can remember way back when they had a Republican mayor…

BING (laughing) Really? You do go back…

GROUCHO: Yes, I do—I may as soon as this is over…now, Crosby, I have two tours…there’s the three-dollar tour and the five-dollar tour…

BING: What’s the difference between the three-dollar tour and the five-dollar tour?

GROUCHO: Well, on the five-dollar tour we close the windows when we pass the stockyards…

BING: For two dollars extra, you should burn incense…

GROUCHO: Make it three dollars extra and I’ll burn the bus…

Bing’s other guest on this broadcast is Dorothy Shay, nicknamed “The Park Avenue Hillbilly.” Shay was branded with this amusing moniker after an encore she once gave during a concert, in which she performed the novelty tune “Uncle Fud” while striking a comical mountain girl pose (although she was bedecked in a gown at the time). Dorothy soon carved out a successful singing and movie career, most notably an appearance with Abbott & Costello in Comin’ Round the Mountain (1951):

BING: Well, it’s certainly nice to see you, Dorothy…

DOROTHY: Gee, Bing…ever since I’ve been in show business I’ve wanted to be on your program and now that I’m on it, I’m so scared I can hardly hold still…

BING: Well, just grab ahold of me, Dorothy, and we’ll do a little rhumba…no use wasting all that motion…

GROUCHO: Listen, Crosby…you gonna introduce me to this girl or do I have to go outside and run over myself with my bus?

BING: Pardon me, Groucho, pardon me…Dorothy Shay, may I present Groucho Marx…?

DOROTHY: I’m mighty thrilled to meet you, Mr. Marx…

GROUCHO: Well, I should think you would be…(to audience) I seem to be making progress…there will be a slight pause while I get rid of Crosby…Dorothy, I’m running a special moonlight tour for two, shall we go?

DOROTHY: Gee, I couldn’t think of going without my mother…

GROUCHO: I’m glad you mentioned her…we’ll need someone to drive the bus…

BING: What about me?

GROUCHO: You can take tickets…

Dorothy then performs her hit “Feudin’, Fussin’, and a-Fightin’,” and she also persuades Bing and Groucho to join her in a few choruses. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that both men don’t need to have their arms twisted too badly, particularly in Groucho's case.

Later that fall, Groucho would adopt Bing’s method of transcribed shows (ABC’s openness to showcasing pre-recorded programs not only netted them Marx but Abbott and Costello as well) for his comedy quiz show, You Bet Your Life, which went on the air October 27, 1947. But the decision to transcribe Groucho’s program was one born out of necessity—producer John Guedel observed that the show would work much better if they were able to tape a 60-minute broadcast and edit it down to a half-hour. This would insure that the funny banter between Groucho and the contestants would be retained and the misfired jokes could be excised from the finished product. The ploy resurrected the show’s ratings, which were dismal at the start, vaulting it into radio’s Top Ten and winning the program a Peabody Award in 1949. You Bet Your Life later made the successful transition to television, finishing up its long run on NBC in 1961.