“I’m that man…Matt Dillon, United States marshal…”

As I continue to fight the Dreaded Pre-Spring Head Cold (which, in new developments, I have successfully passed on to my father, sister and niece—call me contagious!) I fed my Gunsmoke jones at work last night with some more episodes from Radio Spirits’ The Ultimate Gunsmoke Collection. First off the bat: “Westbound,” originally broadcast January 3, 1953. This one was a first-time listen for me, and I was really entertained by it: Matt and Chester arrive in Abilene to take Jack Daggett (Sam Edwards) back to Dodge—but encounter interference from both Daggett’s brothers (Barney Phillips, Larry Dobkin) and the rather uncooperative Abilene populace. My favorite is a timid hotel clerk played by John Dehner, who attempts to be the gracious host while at the same time wishing Dillon would find some other hotel room to keep his prisoner in:

CLERK: Thank heavens, gentlemen, you’re leaving…
MATT (with heavy sarcasm): Yeah, we’re leavin’…and I wanna thank you for your wonderful hospitality…I’ll be glad to recommend your hotel to anybody who plans to stop over in Abilene…
CLERK (meekly): Oh…I…hardly know what to say, Marshal…you simply don’t understand…you don’t know these Daggett brothers (quickly) no…no offense personally, Jack…I have to live in this town, and…
MATT: Come on, Jack…you boys run quite a bluff, you’ve got everybody in town jumpin’ sideways…
DAGGETT: You’d be smart if you did, Dillon…
(SFX: door open)
CLERK (calling after them): Good luck, gentlemen…eh…best of luck to…to all of you…!!!
MATT (chuckling): All of us…well, that’s hedgin’ his bet…

In the booklet that accompanies the CD set, OTR historian Anthony Tollin comments that “Westbound” shares many similarities with the 1952 film classic High Noon (in fact, a famous article in Time magazine once described the show as “the High Noon of broadcasting”). I certainly won’t quibble with this comparison, but in listening to the episode I couldn’t help but notice that it shares more kinship with two other classic Westerns: 3:10 to Yuma (1957) and Last Train From Gun Hill (1959). (The Gun Hill connection is not entirely coincidental; Gunsmoke scribe Les Crutchfield, who wrote “Westbound,” receives story credit on the John Sturges-directed film.)

I followed “Westbound” with “Word of Honor” (1/10/53), which provides a nice showcase for Howard McNear as his Doc Adams character is abducted to treat a dying man. Upon his return to Dodge, he refuses to identify his kidnappers because he gave them his word of honor as a physician. This show was followed by “The Cast” (12/12/53), another Doc-oriented episode, only in this one he doesn’t quite sound like his usual self. There is, of course, an explanation for this: veteran voice actor Paul Frees substitutes for McNear for this one-time-only broadcast. It’s quite jarring to hear Frees imitate McNear, to be sure—but you get used to it after a minute or two. In this show, Doc’s life is threatened by a widowed husband (Tom Tully) after his wife dies during surgery. This plot of simple folk distrusting doctors and modern medicine would get quite a workout on Gunsmoke, showing up again in the episodes “Cow Doctor” (5/28/55) and “The Surgery” (2/23/58), to name a few examples.

(While I’m on the subject of Paul Frees—I got a postcard from Bear Manor Media announcing their soon-to-be-released publication of Welcome, Foolish Mortals…The Life and Voices of Paul Frees, written by none other than the man behind the panda, publisher Ben Ohmart. I’m a little financially strapped right now, but I plan to snag a copy come next payday—as a cartoonist friend of mine used to say, “Paul Frees is everywhere!”)

“The Cast” also allows Gunsmoke fans to hear the program’s first sponsor: Post Toasties (“heap good corn flakes”) backed with Sugar Krinkles (“the sugar rice treat that’s just right sweet”). I’m not certain how long Post’s association with the show lasted, but you can pretty much tell that it was doomed from the get-go; the commercials are completely incongruous with Gunsmoke’s gritty realism, sounding instead more appropriate for sponsorship of something like The Lone Ranger.

I wrapped up my mini-Gunsmoke festival with a broadcast originally heard July 5, 1954: “Hack Prine,” the first episode sponsored by the program’s better-known bread-and-butter, L&M/Chesterfield. “Hack Prine” isn’t necessarily the best show, but I think it’s probably the most representative—I would choose this entry if I wanted to introduce a novice listener to the joys of the program. All of the regulars are in place here, and the plot—an old gunfighter friend of Matt’s has been hired by one of Dillon’s enemies to kill him—encompasses an oft-recurring Gunsmoke theme, that of duty vs. friendship. (Tollin notes in the booklet that “Hack Prine” was also adapted as the pilot for the television version.) Four regular members of the show’s “repertory company”—Dobkin, Dehner, Vic Perrin, and Harry Bartell—are also in the supporting cast of this episode as well.

“Hello, every-b-uh-bbb-uh-b-bbb…hi!”

I’m a little fuzzy on how the whole discussion got underway, but my good friend Jeff and I once had a disagreement over whether or not Mel Blanc could be classified as a “genius.” Jeff took a pro-genius stance, arguing that his long list of legendary credits, including voicing practically every character that came out of the Warner Brothers cartoon studio—Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, etc.—entitled him to the “genius” appellation.

Now, I bow to no one in my admiration for Mel. Lou Costello once praised Blanc as “the finest radio artist I know.” He was certainly among the busiest actors in radio, not only working alongside Lou and partner Bud Abbott, but appearing on shows with George Burns & Gracie Allen, Fibber McGee & Molly, Judy Canova, and (of course) Jack Benny. My argument was that Jeff was slighting equally talented voice artists, and I ticked off the names of Paul Frees, June Foray, and Daws Butler for starters. (If memory serves me correctly, he dismissed Butler entirely, denigrating him as “a cheap-o Hanna-Barbera hack”—this doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person, just wrong.) I even argued that artists like Frees and Foray were much more versatile, capable of doing not only comedic but dramatic parts as well. But Jeff continued to stick to his guns—and I respect him for that, but that’s par for the course; most of our arguments generally conclude with both of us agreeing to disagree.

I thought about this incident last night as I was listening to The Mel Blanc Show, a 1946-47 situation comedy sponsored by the Colgate-Palmolive folks on CBS Radio beginning September 3. It’s a moderately entertaining program, and of course, Blanc gets to demonstrate his patented versatility by playing two characters (and on some episodes, even more)—the first being himself, in his natural voice, as the proprietor of Mel Blanc’s Fix-It Shop. The comedy frequently emerged from the concept that Mel most assuredly did not put the “handy” in “handyman”—items left at his place of business more often than not left in worse condition than when they had arrived. Mel also played his helper, Zookie—who spoke in the same stutter that Blanc used for Warner’s Porky Pig (Mel also used that stutter for a character named August Moon on a short-lived comedy-drama called Point Sublime.). Zookie, sad to say, is a worthy candidate for Most Annoying Old-Time Radio Character—his shtick gets old very quick.

In his autobiography, That’s Not All, Folks!, Blanc relates how he bought a hardware store in Venice, California and used the establishment to promote his series. He tells a story (and you’ll have to bear with me here, I don’t have my copy of the book available) about a customer who came in one day, wanting to purchase a “little bastard.” Mel did a double-take, and the customer explained that it was a type of small file, prompting Mel to crack: “No sir, we don’t have a little bastard—but we do have this great big son of a bitch!” Mel finally turned over the store’s operation to his father-in-law, explaining that “much like my radio character, I didn’t know a jigsaw from a hacksaw.”

The Mel Blanc Show also featured a talented group of supporting actors, beginning with Mary Jane Croft (who would later work alongside Lucille Ball on The Lucy Show and Here’s Lucy), who played the part of Mel’s girlfriend Betty Colby, and Joseph Kearns, who essayed the role of her father. Mel was constantly trying to ingratiate himself with the crusty Mr. Colby in order to ask for Betty’s hand in marriage—with little success. In the February 4, 1947 broadcast that I entertained myself with last night, Mel and Betty are discussing that very subject:

BETTY: Mel! A wedding ring!
MEL: Yours, Betty—ain’t it a beaut? Five diamonds!
BETTY: Oh, Mel, it’s gorgeous…
MEL: Of course, you really can’t tell from this picture…
BETTY: When am I going to get it?
MEL: Betty, you can have the whole catalog, right now…of course, I won’t buy the ring until I get your father’s consent…and that’s what worries me…
BETTY: Oh, Mel—stop worrying…Father will surely give his consent…you think he dislikes you because he always says: “Mel Blanc, I’ll break every bone in your body!”
MEL: Well…he doesn’t say it because he’s a chiropractor…
BETTY: Oh gosh, married…Mel, I get goose pimples every time I think about it…what about you?
MEL (giving out with a Woody Woodpecker laugh, then) Betty…remember how we first met…?
BETTY: Yes…you came over to my house to fix the antenna on the roof…
MEL: Yeah…the birds were singing…but I didn’t hear them…the sun was shining…but I didn’t see it…
BETTY: You didn’t?
MEL: No, don’t you remember? I fell off the roof and was unconscious for two hours…

Later in the show, Mel’s friend Mr. Potchnik—a Russian piano teacher played by Mel’s future Flintstones co-star Alan Reed—comes up with a plan on how to get Mr. Colby to soften: Betty will introduce three “suitors” (all played by Mel) to her father who are asking for her hand in marriage. The suitors will be so dumb they’ll make Mel look good in comparison. Let the wacky complications ensue!

Other regular characters on Blanc’s show included Hartley Benson, the resident Beau Brummel (played by Jim Backus as a riotously funny Cary Grant/Ronald Colman-impression), and Mr. Cushing (Hans Conried), the “Mighty Potentate” of the Loyal Order of Benevolent Zebras, the lodge to which Mel belonged. Cushing always greeted Mel with the lodge password: “Ugga-ugga-boo, ugga-boo-boo-ugga,” which soon became the series’ memorable catchphrase. Blanc was later to adopt this bit of silliness into a song that he and Spike Jones transformed into a hit record.

While The Mel Blanc Show did on occasion produce a classic episode or two—the one that always comes to mind is the one where Mel destroys Mr. Colby’s radio and is forced to impersonate the various programs in an attempt to cover his blunder (Jerry Lewis lifted this bit for a wonderful gag in Rock-a-Bye Baby)—the show wasn’t consistently amusing. (Veteran radio comedy scribe Bob Schiller describes it in The Laugh Crafters as “a terrible show,” and since he was employed there briefly, I will take him at his word.) I think part of the problem is that when you listen to Mel, you’re not laughing because he’s Mel, you’re laughing because he’s Bugs Bunny, or Daffy Duck, or Jack Benny’s violin teacher, etc. The second show (3/18/47) did have one laugh-out-loud moment for me: in this episode, Mel has managed to get himself engaged to both Betty and her man-chasing cousin Dottie (Elvia Allman). He disguises himself as Inspector MacGregor (complete with Botsford Twink burr) of Scotland Yard in an attempt to sour Dottie on the idea of matrimony, portraying “Mel” as a wanted criminal:

MEL (to Betty): My, but you’re a bonnie lassie…you look just like Annie Laurie…
DOTTIE: And who do I look like?
MEL: Peter Lorre…I was just joking, girl…you, too, are a bonnie lassie—and you do look like Lassie…

The Mel Blanc Show closed its fix-it shop doors on June 24, 1947, and its entire run is extant for OTR radio fans to enjoy today. Those familiar with Blanc’s work will no doubt want to tune it in for its novelty value, but you do need to be made aware that it is only sporadically funny; Blanc’s strength clearly lies in supporting roles, like those on The Jack Benny Show. I guess if I think about it, maybe his willingness to play second-banana was genius after all.

“…the logical successor to Sherlock Holmes…”

Cousins Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee created the fictional detective known as Ellery Queen over lunch one day in 1929. Their first collaboration, The Roman Hat Mystery, paved the way for more than forty subsequent novels, a mystery magazine, movies, TV series—and of course, a popular program during the Golden Age of Radio.

Radio’s Ellery Queen was a New York mystery writer with a talent for solving crimes, and because his methods involved the science of deduction he was often compared to an equally famous sleuth who operated out of 221-B Baker Street in London, England. (In the words of old-time radio author Jim Harmon: “The best disguise Sherlock Holmes ever donned is Ellery Queen.”) Since Ellery believed that his sleuthing activities provided essential research for his novels, he generally refused financial compensation for his services. Ellery was assisted in his exploits by his able and capable girl Friday, Nikki Porter—who also moonlighted as his main squeeze.

Traditionally, in many radio detective dramas, private detectives often had a love-hate relationship—with heavy emphasis on the “hate” part—with the police. In The Adventures of Ellery Queen, the titular sleuth sidestepped any potential conflict in a rather ingenuous fashion: his father was the police—Inspector Richard Queen of NYPD. Assisting Queen was his right-hand man was one Sergeant Velie, who often referred to Ellery as “Maestro.” Both men often relied on Ellery’s talents to assist them in cases that were too complicated for the long arm of the law.

Ellery Queen’s foray into radio stemmed from Dannay and Lee’s appearance on a Mutual radio program called Author, Author—a show where literary guests would develop plots from listener-submitted scenarios, matching their story design skills with the resident “plotsmiths.” The show’s producer-director George Zachary approached Dannay and Lee with a proposal to create what became The Adventures of Ellery Queen—the cousins, for the sum of $350 per script, would plot a weekly mystery that would be performed in front of a group of “armchair detectives” consisting of a panel of famous individuals chosen from the entertainment and leisure fields. Before the drama reached its conclusion, the panel would be given the opportunity to guess the solution to the mystery. The series premiered June 18, 1939, and was heard at various times over radio networks CBS, NBC and ABC, ending its nine-year span May 27, 1948.

In the series’ first four months, only one panel member—playwright Lillian Hellman—managed to correctly identify the culprit, so The Adventures of Ellery Queen underwent some fine tuning, and soon the “detectives” were selected from the studio audience. This proved to be an even worse idea—not only were the audience members consistently wrong, they were boring and wrong. Later, the adage of “third time’s a charm” proved correct when the format was revamped yet again to stock the panel with mystery writers, guaranteeing that the audience would not nod off during the conclusion. Though the whole “armchair detective” concept was very unwieldy, it remained a big hit with listeners throughout the series’ run.

The first actor to portray Ellery Queen was Hugh Marlowe, who would later return to the role on television in a 1954-56 syndicated Ellery Queen series (also known as Mystery is My Business). Replacing Marlowe in 1942 was Carleton Young, followed by Sydney Smith, Lawrence Dobkin, and Howard Culver. However, to maintain the illusion that Queen was a real character, none of the actors received on-air credit. Among the various actresses to play Nikki were Marion Shockley, Charlotte Keane, Virginia Gregg, and Kaye Brinker—Brinker, in a small sense, married “Ellery Queen” in real-life; she tied the knot with Manfred Lee in 1942. Radio vets Santos Ortega, Bill Smith, and Herb Butterfield all took turns at the Inspector Queen role, while the various Sergeant Velies on the series included Ted de Corsia, Ed Latimer, and Alan Reed.

I first became familiar with Ellery Queen watching the 1975-76 series on NBC-TV, which featured Jim Hutton as the famous sleuth. The choice of the laid-back actor has been debated back-and-forth by devotees and critics, but he definitely made an indelible impression on me because whenever I’ve listened to the radio version, he’s the person I picture. Last night at work I sampled a pair of episodes, the first being “The Adventures of the World Series Crime,” as originally broadcast over NBC September 30, 1943. Ellery (Sydney Smith) must come to the rescue of a baseball team in the World Series when their star slugger’s “lucky” bat is missing. The guest detectives on this episode were New York Yankees catcher Ken Sears and Art Flynn, business editor of The Sporting News (Flynn ends up fingering the culprit, so a round of applause for him). It’s an okay episode, but I have to admit I had it figured out midway through, and my sleuthing talents are pretty sub-par.

The second episode, “Number 31,” was much, much better; this September 7, 1947 NBC broadcast has Ellery (Larry Dobkin) investigating what at first appears to be two unrelated crimes: the murder of a butler and the investigation of a suspected diamond smuggler. I was pretty impressed with this one, particularly the twist ending, and I can’t believe that this version of the series didn’t last longer than it did (it ran briefly during the summer of 1947, switching to ABC for the 1947-48 season); it sure as heck beats Boston Blackie any day of the week. The “armchair detective” for this broadcast is actor Kent Smith (Cat People, The Spiral Staircase) who was as baffled as I was, solution-wise.

Sadly, The Adventures of Ellery Queen is one of the many series from Radio’s Golden Age that wasn’t fortunate to survive the ravages of time; about eighteen episodes from the entire 1939-48 run are extant today, though some 225 “minute mysteries” exist as well. If you’re interested in reading more about the history of this series, check out a great book called The Sound of Detection: Ellery Queen’s Adventures on Radio, co-written by the one-and-only Martin Grams, Jr.

”The only national program that brings you authentic police case histories..."

Long before Dragnet began changing names to protect the innocent, radio’s top cop program was Gangbusters, which debuted over NBC Radio on July 20, 1935, enjoying a twenty-year run on all four major networks. The influence of Gangbusters continues to be felt even today on popular weekly television programs like America’s Most Wanted.

Phillips H. Lord was a successful radio director-producer who was on the hunt for a comeback show. His bread-and-butter, a program called Seth Parker (Parker was a small-town country preacher), had worn out its welcome with audiences as a result of a publicity stunt gone horribly awry; Lord had acquired a schooner and named it after the preacher, which ended up shipwrecked in the South Pacific. Since he had done extremely well with Seth Parker and salvation, Lord decided to try the other side of the coin and do a series on sin—specifically, a hard-hitting crime program focusing on gangsters and the fearless lawmen who bring them to justice, christening the new series G-Men.

G-Men’s stories concentrated on the notorious bad men who were at that time making newspaper headlines: John Dillinger, “Machine Gun” Kelly, Bonnie and Clyde, “Pretty Boy” Floyd, etc. Lord was able to persuade a reluctant J. Edgar Hoover to cooperate in the making of the program—at first. In time, the famed director of the FBI became dissatisfied and the organization slowly withdrew its participation, causing the show to be cancelled in October 1935. But the series returned in revised form to CBS January 15, 1936 under its new title, Gangbusters—which was now devoted weekly to lesser-known (but just as interesting, if not more so) crime cases.

Two particular aspects of Gangbusters were responsible for the show being so well-remembered today; first, the program’s classic opening, which ushered in the weekly proceedings with a combination of police whistle and sirens, shuffling feet, screeching tires, gunshots and the rat-a-tat of machine guns. This loud and brash cacophony introduced the slang phrase “coming on like gangbusters” to the American lexicon. The show is also remembered for its famous “Gangbusters clues,” a gimmick that appeared at the end of each program in which a national alert for actual criminals would be broadcast, giving listeners detailed descriptions of wanted evildoers. It has been estimated that these “clues” helped nab 110 individuals in the show’s first three years—286 criminals by 1943. This advocacy of encouraging the public to act as informers and bounty hunters continues today on programs like Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted.

The show generally kicked off with an interview segment, as Lord (the show’s first host) would chat with a local lawman or federal agent who figured heavily in that week’s episode. These individuals were often interviewed “by proxy,” which is a polite euphemism for “an actor playing the role of that lawman or agent.” Later on in the series’ run, Lord turned over the interviewing duties to Col. H. Norman Schwarzkopf (father of the famed Gulf War Hero), who had achieved national fame as the investigator of Bruno Richard Hauptmann in the Lindbergh baby kidnapping case. Schwarzkopf left Gangbusters in 1945 and was replaced by retired New York police commissioner Lewis J. Valentine (who had served as a behind-the-scenes authority since the show’s debut). Valentine’s stint as interviewer was short-lived; he departed in 1946 after being asked by Gen. Douglas MacArthur to oversee the reorganization of the various police departments in postwar Japan.

In listening to Gangbusters last night, I couldn’t help but notice that what makes the series so entertaining in this modern era is that each show plays like an old Monogram B-picture crime drama. In the first of two episodes that I previewed, “The Case of the Appointment With Death,” Lesley Woods and Chuck Webster star in a story about a moll who helps a mug that’s best pals with her hoodlum boyfriend (who’s in the slammer) obtain a gun, which he uses to kill a police officer. Announcer Don Gardiner interviews Assistant U.S. District Attorney Fredrick H. Block about the case, and though I mean no offense, Block sounds like a man in serious need of a mojo transplant. (I can’t imagine how he ever managed to win a case.) Of course, the D.A. comes off like a graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts compared to the second show’s interviewee—former heavyweight champion Jim Braddock, who in amusing punch-drunk fashion relates “The Case of the Jersey Butcher Bandits,” about a trio who have been pulling off a series of successful robberies involving butchers who keep large sums of money at home. This episode features the talents of Roger DeKoven, Charles Irving, and though he’s not billed, the unmistakable tones of Ted de Corsia. Gangbusters often drew from a rich pool of New York acting talent, including Alice Reinhart, Santos Ortega, Don McLaughlin, Raymond Edward Johnson, and Joan Banks. Several actors, unknown at the time, used the program as a stepping stone to bigger and better things, among them were Frank Lovejoy, Art Carney, and Richard Widmark.

The two programs I heard last night unfortunately didn’t have any dates; one of the reasons for that is that many of the existing episodes of Gangbusters are from its 1970s run, when the show was brought back along with the likes of The Shadow and The Lone Ranger. Gangbusters did not do as well as its cousins, however—many folks thought the program too “pro-police.” But I think the show is perfect non-think entertainment; a nod to a time when the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys fedoras and loud ties. This shouldn’t be considered the last word on Gangbusters, however. The prolific OTR writer Martin Grams, Jr. is currently at work on a book that will cover the entire history of the program, and is set to be published in time to make its debut at the REPS (Radio Enthusiasts of Puget Sound) convention in Seattle, Washington this June of 2004.

”…where the elite meet to eat…”

To the strains of a barroom piano playing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” week after week listeners stopped by for a cold one at their favorite radio bar, Duffy’s Tavern. A beloved Third Avenue dive located in downtown Manhattan where—according to John Dunning—“the food was bad but the service was lousy,” it served as the backdrop for one of the Golden Age of Radio’s classic comedies, beginning a ten-year run March 1, 1941.

The bar was owned by one Patrick J. Duffy, but he was rarely seen or heard from. Duffy left the day-to-day activities up to manager/bartender Archie—no last name, just “Archie”—who kicked off the program every week by answering a ringing telephone: “Hello, Duffy’s Tavern, where the elite meet to eat—Archie the manager speakin’, Duffy ain’t here…” A larcenous soul with a talent for insult and a gift for mangling the English language (“Do unto others and you will find the bluebeard of happiness yourself”), the role was played by a most unlikely actor named Ed Gardner.

Gardner didn’t start out to be an actor. Early in his career, he was a hustler-promoter, employed by theatrical stock companies to do everything from directing to painting the scenery. He broke into radio as an agent for the J. Walter Thompson ad agency, and became a director for several shows, including those of Bing Crosby, Al Jolson, Rudy Vallee, and Burns & Allen. It was while working on a short-lived CBS series, This is New York, that he discovered what was to be the origin of Archie the genial bartender—Gardner was auditioning several actors to play the part of a bartender, with little success. “Can’t nobody talk like a bartender?” he asked those assembled in the sponsor’s booth. When the writers and producers of the show all pointed to him in unison, he realized that he was perfect for the part.

Duffy’s Tavern made its first appearance on CBS’ Forecast on July 29, 1940—Forecast being the same summer audition series that launched Suspense. Seven months later, the show officially went on the air for CBS for Schick Razors, and then moved to the Blue network in 1942. Two years later, it found a home at NBC, where it remained until its cancellation on December 28, 1951. The comedy show quickly became a critical darling and an audience favorite as well—the inmates of San Quentin, for example, voted the show their favorite program.

Though Duffy was pretty much a non-presence at his own place of business, his daughter—Miss Duffy—was usually around to keep an eye on both the bar and Archie. A lovably dizzy gal who was a member of the same man-chasing sorority as her sisters Joan Davis, Cass Daley, and Vera Vague—she didn’t hesitate to mince words with the bartender:

ARCHIE: Oh, good evenin’, Miss Duffy…and how are you this evenin’?

MISS DUFFY: Why don’t you keep your big mouth shut?

ARCHIE: About what?

MISS DUFFY: About that advice that you gave Papa on the telephone…

ARCHIE: All I told him was to be nice to your mother…what was wrong with that?

MISS DUFFY: Plenty…in tryin’ to be nice, he sneaked up behind Mama and put his arms around her…that’s what started the trouble…

ARCHIE: Uh…how come?

MISS DUFFY: She hollered “Papa, come quick! There’s a strange man in the house!” So, one word lead to another and Papa wound up with a cracked skull…

ARCHIE: Well…words can’t crack a guy’s skull…

MISS DUFFY: They can when they’re in a 2,000 page dictionary…

During the early years of Duffy’s Tavern, the part of Miss Duffy was played by Mrs. Ed Gardner—who was better known to theatre and stage fans as Shirley Booth (pre-Hazel). Booth and Gardner had married in 1929, and Gardner later admitted that, being unknown at that time, he didn’t handle his wife’s success too well. Although the role was tailor-made for her, she quit the program in 1943 (they divorced in 1942) and left a void on the program that Gardner desperately tried to fill. Booth was replaced by actress Florence Halop (many years away from St. Elsewhere and Night Court), who played the part from 1943-44 and 1948-49, but Gardner never really was satisfied with any of the Miss Duffys after Booth’s departure. Among the replacements were Sandra Gould (who had the role the longest, from 1944-47), Doris Singleton, Sara Berner, Gloria Erlanger, and Hazel Shermet.

Archie was aided and abetted at the tavern by Eddie the waiter—played to perfection by the wonderful (and woefully underrated) Eddie Green, an African-American comedian who would later find fame as the ethically-challenged "Stonewall the lawyer" on Amos ‘n’ Andy. To some small fashion, Green played “Rochester” to Gardner’s “Jack Benny,” but it was his sly, cunning delivery of his lines that often produced many of the program’s biggest belly-laughs:

ARCHIE: Eddie, uh…get me a pail of hot water and a mop, will ya?

EDDIE: What for, you gonna take a bath?

ARCHIE: No, I’m gonna mop up the place…now, uh…lemme get to work here…

EDDIE: You? Going to work?

ARCHIE: Is it such a surprise?

EDDIE: Well…up to now, it’s been one of your hidden talents…

ARCHIE: Oh yeah? Well, that’s all been changed, Eddie—I’m even gonna help you do your work…now, hand me the mop…

EDDIE: Okay, but don’t get too close to me…

ARCHIE: Why not?

EDDIE: Whatever you got, I don’t wanna catch it…look, how come you suddenly wanna do my work?

ARCHIE: Eddie…just because a guy wants to help people, do you have to be suspicious?

EDDIE: If the guy is you, and the people is me…yes!!!

Upon Green’s passing in 1950, he was replaced on the show by Ed “Fats” Pichon—but for me, Duffy’s Tavern just wasn’t the same after that. Pichon lasted a few episodes, and then was replaced by Bert Gordon (a.k.a. “The Mad Russian”) as a waiter named Sacha—and even Arthur Treacher played Archie’s sidekick on a few occasions.

Of the many denizens who made Duffy’s Tavern their home away from home, by far and away the most popular was the lovable dimwit Clifton Finnegan, played by veteran comic actor Charlie Cantor. Cantor, who created a similar character for Fred Allen’s “Allen’s Alley” named Socrates Mulligan, was also no slouch in dramatic roles, having often appeared on shows like The Shadow and Dick Tracy. Finnegan’s arrival at the tavern was usually announced in this fashion:

ARCHIE: …I never could stand that guy…always thought he was such a big shot, just because his old man owned his own pushcart…always walkin’ around with his nose in the air, like he was smellin’ somethin’ bad…

FINNEGAN: Duhhhhhh…hello, Arch!

This surefire comic device was later appropriated by The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (with Maynard G. Krebs’ “You rang?”) and later still, for the arrival of Lenny & Squiggy on Laverne & Shirley. Finnegan, whose name was a sly parody of Clifton Fadiman, host of Information Please, was an amiable dunce whose SAT scores ranked right alongside those of Clem Kadiddlehopper and Mortimer Snerd’s:

ARCHIE: …the guy the yearbook said was the most likely to succeed…hey, wait a minute…I wonder if I still got that yearbook here in the safe?

FINNEGAN: Uh…good ol’ P.S…uh…P.S…uh…

EDDIE: Four?

FINNEGAN: Yeah…yeah, four…oh, wonderful school, Eddie…what memories it brings back…

EDDIE: Them were the good ol’ days, huh?

FINNEGAN: Yeah…they don’t make days like that no more…

ARCHIE: Well, here we are, Finnegan…our old yearbook…hey, look at this picture here…remember these guys?

FINNEGAN: No…

ARCHIE: You don’t?

FINNEGAN: No, that was the graduatin’ class…

Other characters that appeared on the program included Wilfred—who was Finnegan’s “kid brother,” and was played by Dickie Van Patten (who later shortened his first name and became immortalized on TV as the patriarch of Eight is Enough). Actor Alan Reed also played a gallery of characters, but was usually featured in the role of Officer Clancy, the neighborhood cop on the beat.

Duffy’s Tavern was once referred to by comedy writer Parke Levy as “a helluva show…the best written radio show ever.” Many of the program’s writers, among them Larry Gelbart and Bob Schiller, relate some interesting and fascinating anecdotes about both the show and Gardner in Jordan R. Young’s The Laugh Crafters. For the first four years of the program, the head writer was Abe Burrows—who later went to Broadway with the hit shows Guys and Dolls, Silk Stockings, and How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. (I always found it interesting that Burrows’ son James co-created one of modern-day TV’s comedy classics in Cheers, yet another famous bar.)

There are close to 100 episodes of Duffy’s Tavern still in existence for today’s audiences—but unfortunately, most of them are from the 1949-51 years which for me, is when the series “jumped the shark,” so to speak. Gardner took advantage of a 12-year tax holiday in Puerto Rico and moved the show there in order to save some money, recording the weekly program via transcription. The series took on a “canned quality,” and of course with the loss of Eddie Green, the show lost a great deal of its luster. Last night, however, I listened to a pair of 1949 broadcasts—the first, dated February 9, 1949, is a funny show that contains the can’t fail everyone-is-convinced-Archie-has-only-three-days-to-live plot. The second broadcast is from the following week (February 16), in which an old school pal named Willie Gundig (played by Ken Christy) is planning on stopping by to see Archie:

ARCHIE: You remember him…remember the guy who was always punished for puttin’ the girls’ hair in the inkwells…tyin’ the cans on dogs’ tails…puttin’ tacks on the teacher’s chair…?

FINNEGAN: Yeah…?

ARCHIE: Well, uh…Willie Gundig was the guy who always squealed on me…

If you’re interested in a little more background on Duffy’s Tavern, Martin Grams, Jr. has a nice little article (complete with log) here. (Just click on “OTR Articles,” then “Martin Grams Jr.”)

”The honeymoon is over…”

The term “Ozzie & Harriet” has become so firmly lodged in the American lexicon that it is generally used to describe a wholesome, too-good-to-be-true married couple. So it only makes sense that the term “Bickersons” is often applied to a constantly quarreling married twosome—not too shabby, when you consider the fact that the famous husband-and-wife pair is still remembered fondly by fans today even though they had a relatively short run during the Golden Age of Radio.

John and Blanche Bickerson were created by comedy writer Phil Rapp (who also had a hand in the evolution of Fanny Brice’s altar ego, Baby Snooks), inspired by his own real-life squabbling with his wife Mary. As Rapp’s son Joel relates in Gerald Nachman’s Raised on Radio: “I’ve hidden under a lot of tables in my day…my father would scurry off to the typewriter while the dialogue was still fresh.” Rapp conceived Mr. and Mrs. B as a remedy for the sweetness and light generated by other spousal happily-ever-afters like the aforementioned Nelsons, and later, Jim and Margaret Anderson of Father Knows Best.

Most OTR reference books trace the origins of "The Bickersons" to The Charlie McCarthy Show, where it was allegedly performed as a series of sketches during the 1945-46 season. Ben Ohmart, who has edited a wonderful collection of Bickersons scripts, disputes this, noting that the earliest evidence of John and Blanche’s first appearance is dated December 15, 1946 on Drene Time, a half-hour NBC comedy-variety series from 1946-47. (John Dunning’s On the Air gives the program a start date of September 8, 1946—but while listening to a February 9, 1947 broadcast last night, I heard announcer Toby Reed state that this particular program was the ninth show in the series, which would make Ohmart’s date much more accurate.) The star of Drene Time, actor-singer-m.c. Don Ameche, essayed the role of John while female vocalist Frances Langford played Blanche.

The "Bickersons" sketches always adhered to a simple formula: John, who suffers from a crippling case of “insomnia,” keeps Blanche awake with his snoring—so Blanche returns the favor by keeping him awake with her incessant nagging and chattering. The writing was sharp and funny (Blanche: “Before you married me, you told me you were well off…” John: “I was, but I didn’t know it…”), and paved the way for later television couples like Ralph and Alice Kramden and Al and Peg Bundy. Though the sketches usually eschewed the happy endings prevalent on The Honeymooners (“Baby…you’re the greatest.”), deep down listeners knew that the couple really did love one another, and their verbal donnybrooks were just a way of letting off steam.

Drene Time also featured the music of Carmen Dragon and the comedy of young Danny Thomas, who frequently participated in the "Bickersons" skits as Blanche’s ne’er-do-well brother Amos. (Amos affectionately referred to John as “Jocko,” and John would often advise his brother-in-law to “drop dead.”) I got the opportunity to listen to two Drene Time broadcasts last night at work, and I was very impressed not only with the comedy, but the music as well; Thomas gets the opportunity to showcase his musical side as well as his comedic talents, qualities that he would bring forth later on television as the star of Make Room For Daddy. Langford is nothing short of sensational, possessing not only a marvelous voice but impeccable comedy timing as well. My friend Maureen has observed similarities between Francis and Judy Garland, and after hearing her sing numbers like “It’s a Good Day” and “The Best Things in Life are Free,” she’s made a convert out of me, too. Langford was for many years the female vocalist on Bob Hope’s program, and often journeyed with Hope on his many WW2 trips, receiving most appreciative applause at every military camp and hospital on their itinerary. (Not to slight Ms. Langford, you understand, but I think with the males in that audience even Cass Daley would have got a few wolf-whistles.)

First, from February 9, 1947: the show continues a “running gag” in which Thomas, suffering from mike fright, spends the first half of the show in an NBC broom closet—while on stage, Ameche and Dragon chat with an interior decorator played by Gale Gordon. The "Bickersons" skit finds Blanche “loaning” John’s new tuxedo to brother Amos—much to John’s dismay, the office money ($100) for his boss’ anniversary gift is in the breast pocket. The second broadcast from March 2, 1947 is equally amusing—especially when announcer Toby Reed prematurely announces the beginning of the "Bickersons" sketch, forgetting that Frances Langford has another number to sing. There’s also this priceless exchange, as Blanche is upset about a business trip on which John is about to embark:

BLANCHE: A lot you care what happens to me…every time Gloria gets a headache, Leo hugs and kisses her and fawns over her…why don’t you do that?

JOHN: I’m never there when she has a headache…

BLANCHE: I mean, why don’t you fuss over me?

JOHN: Now listen, Blanche…you’re not sick and you know it…

BLANCHE: Well, I’m depressed…you’re going out of town tomorrow and I’ll be so lonesome I’ll die…

JOHN: I’m only going overnight, I’ll be back on Tuesday…

BLANCHE: If you cared for me, you wouldn’t leave me…

JOHN: I’m not leaving you! I have to go on business and I won’t be gone over twenty-four hours!

BLANCHE: Suppose a burglar breaks into the house and finds me?

JOHN: It’ll serve him right…now let me sleep, please, Blanche…I have to make an early train…

BLANCHE: We’ve never been separated before…I’m afraid absence will conquer your love…

JOHN: Oh no…the longer I’m away from you, the better I like you…

After the cancellation of Drene Time, Don Ameche and Francis Langford continued on in the fall of 1947 with The Old Gold Show (also known as The Don Ameche Show) on CBS Radio. Carmen Dragon followed the two of them to this new program, and the three of them were joined by announcer Marvin Miller and MGM comic actor Frank Morgan. (Morgan and Phil Rapp were certainly well-acquainted with one another, having both worked on the Good News and Maxwell House Coffee Time programs.) In The Bickersons Scripts, Ben Ohmart has assembled about half-a-dozen scripts from this series, and it’s sad that the show lasted only a brief season—sadder still that to the best of my knowledge, the only excerpts that have survived today are the portions featuring the Bickersons. I think the Morgan/Ameche encounters are riotously funny, very similar to the routines that Ameche performed with W.C. Fields in the early Chase & Sanborn Hour shows. (Ohmart also observes that Rapp never featured Morgan in any of the "Bickersons" skits, and more’s the pity—he would have made a perfect relative for Blanche in the tradition of The Life of Riley’s Uncle Baxter.)

In the fall of 1948, "The Bickersons" became a recurring sketch on Edgar Bergen’s show, with actress Marsha Hunt replacing Francis as Blanche. It was the summer of 1951 that saw The Bickersons become a full-fledged half-hour series (on CBS for Phillip Morris); Langford had returned to the fold but Ameche had been replaced by Lew Parker. I also listened to a June 10, 1951 Bickersons (“The Gooseby Vacation”) last night to see what the Parker-Langford teaming was like, and there’s no doubt about it: the sketches simply do not work without the full participation of both Don and Francis, plus the Drene Time broadcasts are far superior, since the concept of the squabbling couple seems to work better in sketches rather than an entire program. An earlier attempt to do The Bickersons as a full half-hour sitcom failed, although the December 13, 1947 audition is in circulation. The "Bickersons" appeared briefly on television as a sketch on a 1950 series called Star Time, but it wasn't until Ameche and Langford re-teamed in 1962 for a pair of successful million-selling comedy albums (The Bickersons and The Bickersons Fight Back) released by Columbia that it was proved the classic couple had staying power. (Ameche later revived the John Bickerson-character in several 1970s commercials.) Though their stint on radio was short and sweet, the “Battling Bickersons” are still around for us to enjoy today—this website, by Philip Rapp’s son Paul, is as good a place as any to start.

”…that most famous of all manhunters…”

I know what you’re thinking, but no, it’s not Jack French. It’s Nick Carter—master detective—who was the most popular fictional detective during the dime novel era (1860-1915). He made his debut—more than a year before the celebrated Sherlock Holmes—in John Russell Coryell’s “The Old Detective’s Pupil,” published by Street & Smith in their New York Weekly pulp. He would go on to appear in more than 1,000 dime novels, followed by a pulp magazine in the 1930s and comic books in the 1940s. He even made it to the silver screen in a trio of films produced by MGM starring Walter Pidgeon—Nick Carter – Master Detective (1939), Phantom Raiders, and Sky Murder (both in 1940).

In March of 1940, Carter reappeared in the inaugural issue of Shadow Comics, a compendium of the some of Street & Smith’s popular pulp heroes—and both the success of this and the movies prompted Nick Carter, Master Detective to premiere April 11, 1943 over the Mutual Broadcasting System. Though it was difficult for the program to build an audience at first (the program was bounced around 11 different times between 1943-46, and even underwent a brief name change to The Return of Nick Carter before switching back) it eventually became one of the network’s longest-running shows, ending a twelve-year run on September 25, 1955.

The series began with one of radio’s most memorable openings: an unknown individual knocking on the door to Carter’s brownstone office (bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!). No response. A second series of knocks, but still no answer. Finally—BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!!! Then Nick’s girl Friday Patsy Bowen would yank open the door with a started “What’s the matter? What is it?” A male voice would reply in rapid-fire fashion: “Another case for Nick Carter, Master Detective!”

The role of the skilled sleuth was played for the series’ entire run by Lon Clark, a veteran actor who had once worked alongside Red Skelton (Clark did the Clem Kadiddlehopper character before Skelton, in fact) and also appeared on such programs as Bright Horizon, Lights Out, and The Mysterious Traveler. Helen Choate originated the role of secretary Patsy, and Charlotte Mason inherited the part in mid-1946. Other characters on the program included “demon reporter” Scrubby Wilson (John Kane)—who must have been an unnerving presence at press conferences (I’m kidding, Jim Cox in Radio Crime Fighters assures us that he “really wasn’t a demon after all”)—and Sergeant “Matty” Mathison (Ed Latimer), Nick’s friendly nemesis on the police force, who was reluctant to admit that the detective was chiefly responsible for his success in the department. Fortunately, Patsy took the extra time to remind him and his superior, Lt. Riley (Humphrey Davis).

Nick also had an adopted son named Chick (Bill Lipton) who was still wet behind the ears when he jumped ship to his own radio spin-off—Chick Carter, Boy Detective—beginning on the same network July 5, 1943. Chick’s show was a little different from that of his old man’s in that it was a 15-minute, five-days-a-week serialized program. (Nick himself briefly flirted with the same format in 1944, and occasionally there would be an attempt to join the storylines of the two shows.) But the boy detective only lasted a couple of seasons, leaving the airwaves July 6, 1945. (I don’t know if he ever went back to his father’s program, however. If I were his dad, I wouldn’t even let him in the house—the little ingrate.)

Earlier on this evening, I sampled a couple of episodes from Nick Carter, Master Detective—it’s not a great show, but it does have its entertaining moments. The first broadcast, “The Witch of Donderburg Mountain” (April 29, 1945), is a better-than-average outing; I thought the script was unusually sophisticated (I don’t hear “Walpurgis Night” mentioned in too many OTR crime dramas) and it wasn’t until the closing credits that I discovered the script had been penned by Edith Meiser, who also worked on The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Author-lecturer Roger Winthrop—who’s researching a book on superstitions and folklore in the Catskills—wants Nick to probe into the death of his servant Jacob, who was apparently “hexed” by a local witch in the area. The solution to the servant’s murder is actually kind of nifty, plus there’s this choice exchange of dialogue (Nick, Patsy, Winthrop and servant Peter are investigating a well on Winthrop’s property that is rumored to be a “gateway to Hell.”):

WINTHROP: This is the cistern, Mr. Carter—or whatever it is…

NICK: I thought you said it was padlocked, Winthrop…

WINTHROP: It always has been…

NICK: Not now…the lock’s lying on the ground…and the staple’s all bent and twisted…it looks as if someone has broken it…

PATSY: The cover’s been removed recently, too…look here, Nick…these scratches on the stone…

NICK: Patsy, I do believe you’re finally beginning to notice things…

PATSY: You know where you can go, don’t you?

PETER: Yah…dat’s chust vere you vill go…if you get too interested in dat vell…

Granted, it comes across as incredibly tame today, but I’m still curious as to how the bluenoses at Standards and Practices allowed that one to slip by. (Perhaps they did read it and, shrugging their shoulders, cracked: “Aw, hell—it’s Mutual…who’s gonna hear it?”)

The second episode, “The Case of the Phantom Shoplifter” (broadcast December 25, 1949), lacks the sophistication of the first’s script but is still good fun—Nick and “Matty” pay a visit to a shoplifting suspect and find her strangled with one her own nylons in her apartment. “Phantom Shoplifters” has one of those megalomaniacal villains who always expounds at great length on the fiendish plans they have to dispose of our hero, only to be caught before they can carry out the plan.

For some unknown reason, neither of these two programs have the famous opening—the first episode has an announcer who intones: “This is the story of a man known the world over as one of the most daring and resourceful characters in the history of detective fiction…” (That put a picture in my head of a certain “masked rider of the Plains” getting in touch with his lawyer and asking if he has grounds for a lawsuit.) But as dated as the show is, it’s still downright entertaining—so I’m certain that there’ll be “another case for Nick Carter, Master Detective” in my future.

A few odds and ends

Jack French reports on The Old-Time Radio Digest that the hunt for the Missing Massachusetts Man is still going on. I have this feeling that Jack will end up confronting this guy on top of a water tower at an abandoned amusement park, but sometimes those are the lengths one must go to in order to keep OTR alive. He commented that actress Shirley Eggleston described the individual she gave the airchecks to as "a heavy set guy," prompting him to crack "that description would fit 40% of the attendees to any FOTR (Friends of Old-Time Radio) convention."

Barbara J. Watkins also mentioned that Sidney Miller (who has appeared in a few of these Suspense programs I've been reviewing) passed away and that the obituary was in the January 13 edition of the Los Angeles Times. R.I.P, Sidney. (Apparently the L.A. Times does not have a link online.)

BearManor Media will be publishing a sequel to its entertaining It's That Time Again! The New Stories of Old Time Radio, titled (what else?) It's That Time Again, Volume 2. I guess the best way to describe these two books is that they consist of fan fiction (or fanfics) written about various shows from Radio's Golden Age. Volume 2 is edited by the one-and-only Jim Harmon, who's contributed two stories based on Sherlock Holmes and The Avenger, but there are also new stories about Vic and Sade, The Whistler, Nightbeat, My Friend Irma and many, many more. I bought the first book last year and enjoyed it tremendously, so when I found out about the sequel I rushed right over to the website and pre-ordered a copy.

Another book I pre-ordered is from "Missing Massachusetts Man" chaser Jack French, whose book on female detectives of OTR, Private Eyelashes, will be due out February 14--you can order this as well at BearManor Media. From the advance publicity, it sounds like a must-have for any OTR fan's library, detailing the history of many shows that have not been fortunate to survive the ravages of time for us to enjoy today. 

”Pleasant dreeeeeaaaaammmmmsssss…hmmmmm…?”

Of all the many celebrated sound effects from the Golden Age of Radio, several remain in the memory even after that wonderful medium’s demise: the wicked laugh of The Shadow, the haunting warbling of The Whistler, the legendary overstuffed closet at 79 Wistful Vista. But perhaps the granddaddy of them all is the haunting sound of the celebrated creaking door from…Inner Sanctum.

Inner Sanctum (or to use the official title, Inner Sanctum Mysteries) was a popular radio horror melodrama much in the same mold as Lights Out, though Sanctum definitely lasted much longer than the Wyllis Cooper/Arch Oboler fright fest. It was created by savvy producer-director Himan Brown, whose radio resume included The Adventures of The Thin Man and Grand Central Station, and was put together after consulting with publishers Street & Smith, whose popular Inner Sanctum Mystery novels (first published in 1930) provided the inspiration for the program. Brown was able to secure a sponsor in Carter’s Little Liver Pills and Sanctum debuted over the Blue Network January 7, 1941. The program would open to ominous organ music—three bars in a low register, then a sharp sting—and then the announcement: Inner Sanctum Mysteries! A doorknob would then turn, and a rusted door-hinge would swing slooowly, creating a vivid atmosphere of terror and doom. Brown once remarked, “I’m gonna make that door a star,” and he was as good as his word.

The first host of Inner Sanctum introduced himself only as Raymond (in real life, actor Raymond Edward Johnson), and though he apparently had no last name, I’ve always speculated that it might be “O’Dell.” (Raymond was given to same sort of gallows humor possessed by “Digger” O’Dell, the friendly undertaker of Life of Riley fame.) Raymond spoke in a sepulchral voice and rattled off the most atrocious, gruesome puns—and yet, somehow it all seemed to work; an intriguing combination of horror and humor, with the stories always played straight, no matter how farfetched they might be. Raymond left the program in May 1945 and was replaced by Paul McGrath, who was a bit more light-hearted than his predecessor.

In its early years, Inner Sanctum was able to attract a goodly number of big-name stars—Peter Lorre, Claude Rains, Raymond Massey, Paul Lukas, etc. Horror icon Boris Karloff appeared on the show so often (nearly twenty times from 1941-42) that he could very well have been considered a regular. Of course, many of the shows from those early days featured not only originals but many classics from the horror genre, among them The Fall of the House of Usher and The Tell Tale Heart. By 1943, the guest appearances had tapered off, but the program still had a respectable repertory company of professional New York radio actors: Everett Sloane, Lesley Woods, Larry Haines, Santos Ortega—even a young Richard Widmark.

The stories on Inner Sanctum were frequently over-the-top, with plots hinging often on the wildest of happenstance and improbability. It didn’t seem to matter much then, and fifty years later, it still doesn’t. Sanctum was essentially the equivalent of a spook house amusement park ride, or a ghost story told around the campfire—never to be taken too seriously. Today, even if the show’s power to thrill and chill seems greatly diminished, it has a refreshing camp quality that never fails to entertain.

Last night, I took along a CD of Inner Sanctum broadcasts from its last season, a summer run on CBS Radio from June-October 1952. The first of the two broadcasts, “Death For Sale,” is an AFRS rebroadcast from July 13 that features Boris Karloff as Mark Deavers, a man who has conspired with his lover Cora to institute an insurance scam that will net the two of them $50,000. They arrange for a man named Elliott Stans (Everett Sloane) to marry Cora, and then disappear for seven years in order for him to be declared legally dead. The wacky complications ensue when Stans returns before the seven years are up, demanding a bigger slice of the pie. The story is pretty standard, but as a Karloff fan, Boris makes even the weakest material fun.

After that, “No Rest For the Dead,” originally broadcast August 24, 1952 and sponsored by Pearson Pharmaceuticals—an interesting tale about a man named George Denning who makes a bargain with a doctor to sell his brain for the doctor’s experiments, much to the horror of his daughter Grace. She calls the doc’s office to speak with him, and finds out from his nurse that he’s been murdered. It’s fun to listen to, though the ending will make you groan. Both of these scripts had been performed on Inner Sanctum in the 1940s; the CBS summer run consisted mostly of new performances from these old scripts.

To be honest, I never really cared all that much for Inner Sanctum at first; I have a problem with any kind of entertainment that “explains” away anything supernatural with the old “there’s-a-perfectly-rational-explanation” excuse. To illustrate, how many episodes of Scooby Doo, Where Are You? have you watched where the “ghost” turns out to be an image from a movie projector? As a proud member of the seventh-grade Audio/Visual club (better known as the Fraternal Order of Geeks), I can assure you that setting up a projector to do that sort of thing would not even be remotely as easy as it looks. I changed my mind about Inner Sanctum though, sometime last year—and what turned me around was the outstanding history of the program as told by Martin Grams, Jr. in The Official Guide to Inner Sanctum Mysteries: Behind the Creaking Door. It is a book no OTR fan should be without.

”A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty Hi-Yo Silver!”

When I first discovered old-time radio as a kid, I marveled at the thought of how people were once entertained by just sitting in front of and listening to a radio. To a child of the boob tube generation, it fascinated me to no end and I was anxious to hear what it felt like to while away the hours being entertained by a purely audio medium.

So, I decided to question my folks about their old-time radio experiences. The results from my father were not encouraging. “We didn’t have time to listen to the radio,” he said sternly. “We were always working.” (An image immediately flashed into my mind of a conveyor belt stretching to infinity, with my father and his siblings as children toiling endlessly 24-7-365.) My Dad grew up poor in a coal miner’s family in Appalachia during the Depression, and there’s a reason why they call it that—because there are never any happy stories. Never. Any anecdote that my father starts, you can bet the rent that something unpleasant or unfortunate will happen to its protagonist. My father used to fly into a rage whenever The Waltons came on; he would yell at the television set: “You’re not poor! You own a big piece of land! You have your own business, ferchrissake!” Since the pastime of radio was looked down as a frivolity by my Dad, I decided that it would be wise not to press the subject any further. (In his defense, however—he is a walking encyclopedia on the history of newspaper comic strips; his brothers and he used to tear apart the Sunday pages and imitate the artwork.) Ditto with my grandparents.

My mother was a different story—although she grew up in an era where radio was gradually losing its audience to that newfangled television, she vividly recalls staying at her grandmother’s house and snuggling together in bed, listening to the radio; Great-Grams did not own a TV set. I asked her if she could remember any specific programs and she responded: “We never missed The Lone Ranger.”

To address the lengthy and fascinating history of the best-known Western hero ever created would take me more “cloud status” that I’m allotted here at RadioUserLand/Salon; suffice it to say that there have been scores of well-written books covering that subject, from Dick Osgood’s Wxyie Wonderland: An Unauthorized 50-Year Diary of WXYZ, Detroit (which is, alas, sadly out-of-print) to David Rothel’s Who Was That Masked Man?: The Story of the Lone Ranger (also out-of-print, but easier—and cheaper—to locate than the Osgood book). Perhaps the greatest living authority on “the daring and resourceful Masked Rider of the Plains” is Terry Salomonson, who began researching the program in 1978, along with the Ranger’s companion programs, The Green Hornet and Challenge of the Yukon (a.k.a. Sergeant Preston of the Yukon). He has composed a log of the radio broadcasts that is a must-have for the true blue LR fan, and an article on the exhaustive history of “tracking down the Ranger” can be found here.

You all know the story—John Reid, a young Texas Ranger rides into Bryant’s Gap with five of his fellow Rangers (including his older brother Dan) and the group is ambushed by outlaw Butch Cavendish and his gang. Reid is found and nursed back to health by an Indian named Tonto (whom Reid also knew from his childhood) and as the lone survivor, he decides to dedicate the rest of his career to fighting justice. He wears a mask to keep secret his real identity—for he is…The Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger premiered over Detroit’s WXYZ radio on January 31, 1933, and the program can take a lion’s share of the credit for creating what eventually became known as the Mutual Radio Network. The show remained a Mutual staple until May 4, 1942, when it switched to the Blue Network (later ABC), ending its long run on September 3, 1954 (although reruns of the show continued to be broadcast until May 25, 1956).

I listened to a Christmas-themed program from December 24, 1954 (a repeat broadcast; the original aired December 25, 1953) entitled “The Three Wise Men” last night. John Sinclaire and his family find themselves seeking refuge from a sudden winter storm in a barn; both he and his wife Anne are concerned about their son Davy, who is ill with what apparently is appendicitis. No sooner are they settled inside the stable when they hear a voice outside:

VOICE (from outside door): Hellooooo…!!!

JOHN: Listen…someone’s calling…

ANNE: Oh, see who it is, John…here’s the lantern…

JOHN: All right (SFX: walking to door, door opens, wind) A man!

ANNE: Anyone we know?

JOHN: No…he’s a rough-looking customer…

SMITH: Howdy, pardner…mind if I come in?

JOHN: No, no…not at all…there’s a stove, we have a fire going (SFX: grunting, door closes) you’re lucky you have snowshoes…

SMITH: I’d never made it through the pass without ‘em…

JOHN: So, you’ve come from Mountain City…?

SMITH: Never mind where I’m from…I…hey, there’s a woman in here!

JOHN: Oh…my wife…and that’s my little boy…I’m John Sinclaire—I’m working a claim on Rocky Creek….

SMITH: I’m interested in mining myself…the name is…uh, Smith…

ANNE: How do you do, Mr. Smith…

SMITH: Howdy, ma’am…

ANNE: It’s a terrible night, isn’t it?

SMITH: We’re always sure of having a white Christmas in the mountains…white, even if it isn’t very merry…

JOHN: Well…at least we have shelter...

(He is interrupted by someone banging on the door outside.)

SMITH: Who’s that?

JOHN: I have no idea…another traveler, perhaps…

(SFX: walking toward door)

SMITH: Stand aside from the door!

JOHN: Why are you drawing your gun?

SMITH: No telling who it might be (SFX: continued door banging) The door isn’t locked! Come in!

VOICE (from outside): I can’t! I have a man with me who’s really done for! I’m holdin’ him up!

SMITH: All right! Open the door, Sinclaire…

(SFX: door opens, wind)

NARRATOR: As John opened the door, two men staggered into the barn…John pulled the door shut behind them…one of the men was completely exhausted…and would have dropped to the floor if the other hadn’t lifted him bodily and carried him to the stove…

GREEN (with a slight brogue): Do you mind if I put him down here, ma’am?

ANNE: Oh no…is he hurt?

GREEN: Not that I know of (grunting) but we’ll have a look…I found him out in front of the station, lyin’ face down in the trail…

JONES (groaning): What is this place?

GREEN: What’s it look like to you? It’s a stable…here, I’ll get these snowshoes off of you…

JONES: No…no, I must keep going…

GREEN: Oh, now there’s a brave idea…you take two steps outside and fall on your face again…

JONES: Did I do that?

GREEN: You did (grunting) there…now I’ll take my own off…

JONES: Who are these people?

GREEN: Since we’ve just arrived (grunts) I’m in no position to make introductions…

JOHN: I…I’m John Sinclaire…a miner…this is my wife and the little boy is my son…

SMITH: My name is Smith…

GREEN: Is it now? And yours, my bucko? You, who’d like to fight the storm again?

JONES: My name is…Jones…

SMITH: What’s yours, Irish?

GREEN: We’ll say it’s Green…since I’m only competin’ with a Smith and a Jones, there’s no reason why I should tax my imagination…

JOHN: What do you mean by that?

GREEN: Just that my name isn’t Green…his name isn’t Jones…and his name isn’t Smith…and now that Mr. Smith realizes he’s among friends, he can put up his gun…

ANNE: I don’t understand…

JOHN: I’m afraid I do…these men are not what they…

GREEN (cutting him off) We’re three wise men who’ve come to pay you a visit on Christmas Eve…

ANNE: Wise men?

GREEN: Three wise men, ma’am…who are a little too wise for their own good…

SMITH: How do you figure you’re so wise, Green?

GREEN: A man was murdered in Mountain City tonight…and the Sheriff’s roundin’ up everyone who might have committed the crime…or anyone who might be suspected…it was a wise thing to get out of town…and from your faces, I can see that what’s true for me is true for you…and so I say again, we’re three wise men met together (sudden realization sets in) in a stable…on Christmas Eve…ah, there’s irony in that, men…

Well, you know—irony can be pretty ironic sometimes. Anyway, all three of the “wise men” have a motive for killing the man—Luke Devlin, “a crook, a cheat or a scoundrel.” (I guess they can’t quite make up their minds.) Devlin killed Green’s best friend Tim Moriarty and Green has sworn revenge. He was once partnered with Smith in a business deal and Smith was wiped out financially as a result. Devlin cheated Jones’ father out of a fortune and the elder Jones committed suicide not long after.

Meanwhile, Davy’s condition isn’t getting any better, and after examining the child, Jones suggests to Anne that a cold compress might provide some relief, as there’s no chance of getting him to the doctor in Mountain City with the storm as bad as it is. Green goes outside to soak his bandana in the snow:

GREEN: Hey…I see a couple of lanterns near the rest cabin…two men…will you look now…a masked man and an Indian…

JONES: They must be outlaws…

SMITH: Their guns are slung low…they must be killers…I’d better shoot first and ask questions afterward…

JONES: If you shoot at all, you’d better shoot straight…

SMITH: I mean to…I have a bead on the masked man…

Will these people never learn? Of course, they’re not outlaws—and the amusing thing is, little fever-riddled Davy with the hot appendix has to point that out to them—it’s the Lone Ranger and Tonto, who have been trailing Devlin’s killer and know that one of the three “wise men” are responsible for his murder:

SMITH: You, uh…you have business with us, Mister?

LONE RANGER: With one of you…how did the Sheriff describe the man we’re after, Tonto…?

TONTO: Him six feet tall…weigh 180…him not shave, have dark beard…

LONE RANGER: What was he wearing?

TONTO: Heavy boots…mackinaw…

GREEN: The description fits all three of us…now may I ask what this man you’re looking for has done that he should be wanted by the law?

LONE RANGER: The man I’m looking for knows what he’s done…and I expect him to identify himself…

GREEN: Oh, do you now…? You seem very confident…

LONE RANGER: I am…because the man I’m looking for can save that boy’s life…

Their concern for the boy’s condition prompts the three men to tell their stories—and the masked man learns that Smith is really Nick Blaine, Devlin’s former partner, who got into a fist fight with Devlin earlier. But Blaine didn’t kill Devlin, and neither did Green—whose real name is Mike Tulawney. Devlin told the Sheriff who shot him, and the Sheriff told Tonto—it’s Henry Warren, a.k.a. Jones, or to be more precise Doctor Henry Warren. He pointed a gun at Devlin but couldn’t go through with it, and in the ensuing struggle Devlin was shot. The Lone Ranger then reveals to Warren that Devlin isn’t dead, just wounded, and Tonto produces Warren’s medical bag, which the Doc had dropped on the trail during his flight from town. Warren operates on young Davy, and saves the boy’s life—and the youngster is presented with a new puppy for Christmas, courtesy of the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Yeah, I know—it’s sentimental and it’s corny. (But I’m the guy who breaks down watching Miracle on 34th Street, remember?) The Lone Ranger does pale in comparison to other classic OTR Western shows (Gunsmoke, Fort Laramie), and every LR episode is essentially a carbon copy of all the others. Still, it remains harmless fun—and I can’t think of any other old-time radio series that projects that sense of innocence that John Dunning describes as “where good always triumphed and evil was justly punished.”

There used to be an old joke that defined an intellectual as someone who can listen to the “William Tell Overture” and not think of the Lone Ranger. Sadly, as the years progress, the gag becomes a little too real—I’m sure there are more than a few members of today’s generation who have no familiarity with the legacy of the masked man. Fortunately, many of the old broadcasts are still with us today (Terry Salomonson has a large number of the 1938-44 run at the Audio Classics Archive) and cable stations like The Hallmark Channel feature the TV version of the show. In fact, my Mom went on a rant last week when the cable company announced that they were raising the rates (again) but when I told her that they would be adding the only cable channel currently carrying The Lone Ranger she calmed down somewhat. I just wish the man “who led the fight for law and order in the early western United States” were around to administer some justice to those cable weasels, because, well, Jesse used a gun and they called him an outlaw. Hi-Yo Silver…away!