Authors: Gary Giddins
August 31, 1931, was a cool, dry Monday in the twilight of Prohibition, just before the bleakest years of the Depression.
The two frontpage stories could not have been more reflective of the times: a Brooklyn gunfight (residue of a gang war between
Dutch Schultz and Mad Dog Coll) had taken the life of a teenage girl, and President Hoover was pledging to fight the payment
of bonus reparations to World War I veterans. (When some 15,000 veterans encamped in Washington the following summer, he allowed
federal troops to burn them out.) Prosperity was nowhere near the corner, but the New Deal was, and Bing, though a moderate
Republican by disposition, was about to emerge as its crooning oracle. The ascendancy of Everyman Bing began on network radio
with a strange and fitful birth.
Bing’s Monday evening 11:00
P.M
. debut was much publicized. The Sunday
New York Times
“Listening-In” column featured a large photograph of Bing and a capsule rendition of Paley’s shipboard discovery.
9
Yet when listeners tuned it at the appointed time, they heard CBS staff announcer Louis Dean tell the radio audience that
the scheduled program would not be heard. Instead, Fred Rich and the Columbians — a compact edition of the CBS Studio Orchestra
— would perform. Listeners expecting to hear Bing on Tuesday night
heard another announcer declaim a second postponement; Fletcher Henderson’s band filled in.
Finally, on Wednesday evening, September 2, an ebullient third announcer, Harry Von Zell, ended the mystery: “Here is the
moment you have been waiting for, the delayed appearance of that sensational baritone, Bing Crosby, whose singing has made
him the favorite of California through the mediums of the motion picture, the vaudeville stage, and the radio.” Von Zell explained
that the singer had recovered from a severe case of laryngitis and could now “bring you his inimitable song interpretations.”
10
Insiders drew the obvious conclusion: drunk again, another opportunity almost blown. Bing noted in his memoir that he was
variously thought to have suffered a hangover, laryngitis, stage fright, nodes on his vocal cords, and blacklist troubles.
His own explanation was that he had exhausted his voice singing at four or five clubs and parties a night while making the
rounds: “The pipes just gave out, and I couldn’t produce hardly a sound. Just hoarse. Tired.”
11
A Paley biographer claims that the CBS head was at home during Bing’s delayed premiere and was so angered by Bing’s unstable
performance that he phoned the studio and ordered Crosby pulled off the air; feeling “giddy” with power,
12
he then assigned a twenty-four-hour guard to keep Bing sober. According to a biographer of Bing, the singer was on a three-day
binge.
13
Both stories are demonstrably untrue. Paley was in the studio for Bing’s debut, which was transcribed (the first and last
songs Bing sang that night have been released on records), and Crosby showed up for daily rehearsals. There is no reason to
doubt his own account. Bing was a public drinker who never attempted to hide or disavow his conduct; no one saw him drunk
on those evenings, while many saw him at work or at rest during the afternoons, among them agent Cork O’Keefe, who told a
background reporter in 1946 that Bing had lost his voice and “mooned about the hotel for three days, heartbroken.”
14
Moreover, his condition was diagnosed by Simon Ruskin, an ear, nose, and throat specialist whose patients included members
of the Metropolitan Opera, Gertrude Lawrence, Mary Martin, and other entertainers. On Wednesday Everett Crosby summoned Ruskin
to the station twenty minutes before Bing went on the air. In 1949 the doctor told a field reporter for
Time
that that evening Bing had a head
cold and postnasal drip, which infected his vocal cords. He said that Bing griped, “It’s no use, let me go back to California,”
to which Ruskin, referring to his pricey ministrations, retorted, “Don’t be silly, Bing, you’re working for me now.”
15
Ruskin thought the infection caused Bing’s voice to drop, making it huskier and more attractive to the radio audience.
Bing wasn’t incensed at the drinking stories (here is a man who, in the blush of his success in 1931, told journalist Joseph
Mitchell of his “trail of broken bottles”),
16
but he was offended by rumors that he had had an attack of nerves, rumors that undermined his reputation for imperturbable
confidence. “I don’t think I have ever had stage fright or what we in the trade call ‘flop sweat’ in my life.”
17
On that score, witnesses take issue. Agnes Law, the CBS librarian, brought material to the studio and found him “pacing the
floor too petrified to open his mouth to sing.”
18
The show’s recording engineer, Edgar Sisson, said that during the rehearsals Bing appeared nervous and grumbled about the
microphone, which lay flat on the stand rather than hanging from a boom as was customary at recording sessions. Bing spent
much of his rehearsal time trying to get comfortable with the setup. The engineers respected his concern and admired his understanding
of the technology — especially when a few weeks into the program, he arrived with a copy of his new record, “Sweet and Lovely,”
and declared, “This is what I want to sound like.”
19
Gary Stevens, a precocious fifteen-year-old gofer in the publicity department, idolized Bing and made certain to be present
on the Monday he was originally scheduled to air. The show emanated from the twenty-second floor of Paley’s newly acquired
building at 485 Madison Avenue. “When I finally got a glimpse of him, he was shorter than I envisioned and he had sparse hair,
brownish blond, and was fairly thin. He wore an outlandish outfit, kind of a pink coat and blue-green slacks and an ill-colored
shirt. And he was very, very nervous. Late that afternoon, after a three-hour rehearsal where they did the eight or nine songs
to be used for the week, he left, and sometime after five there was a big huddle and when they came out, the word was he wasn’t
going on.”
20
Among those in the huddle were Ralph Wonders, the head of CBS’s artists bureau; bandleader Fred Rich; and Paley himself,
who left after the decision was announced.
Bing’s apprehensiveness was made evident by his request that Victor Young conduct his first show. He had already made certain
that Eddie Lang and Joe Venuti were on hand. Bing had no complaints about Rich, who resumed his duties the next week and for
the rest of the series. But on that first night he wanted a conductor who understood him, and Young was available as of Wednesday
to supervise rehearsal and broadcast. Premiering on Tuesday was never a consideration. Artie Shaw, a member of the CBS Studio
Orchestra, recalled Bing affecting an attitude of indifference at rehearsal, but believed otherwise: “He wanted it badly.
You don’t get that by accident. Bing was never a matinee idol. He developed a screen personality that worked because it was
based on who he wanted to be — casual, relaxed. But it was a tense sort of relaxing because you knew he was working at it.
Bing wasn’t Bing any more than Bogart was Bogart.”
21
Yet on the third day the tension apparently disappeared. “No nerves,” Gary Stevens insisted. “Very relaxed. He was in the
same outfit I saw him in Monday afternoon, pink jacket and open shirt, greenish or aquamarine slacks, and he was very casual.
He loved being around musicians. When I got there, about ten minutes before he went on, he was in animated conversation with
a few musicians before they took their places and were ready to go on the air.”
22
Paley was in and out of the control room all evening, and Stevens was instructed to alert radio editors at the dailies and
prepare any information they needed.
At eleven Harry Von Zell intoned, “Fifteen minutes with Bing Crosby” while the orchestra — with Tommy Dorsey soloing — played
Victor Young’s “Too Late” in the background. Bing sang “Just One More Chance,” “I Found a Million Dollar Baby,” and “I’m Through
with Love,” resting his voice during an instrumental. He was not at his best. He sounded almost too tense to whistle, though
CBS reportedly asked him not to on behalf of Morton Downey, its resident whistling singer.
23
Instead, he exchanged halting la-di-das with Joe Venuti’s violin and first came alive near the finish of “Just One More Chance,”
ringing forth on the phrase “all the while.” His wobbly mordents were overstated (almost as baldly as in Dixie’s “I Apologize”
parody), but by the closing “I’m Through with Love,” he was warmed up, beaming on the release. Inspired by Venuti’s obbligato,
he attacked the final eight bars with brio.
Stevens thought he was “sensational. It knocked me out — I knew something new had happened. We had a crooning, nasal, tenor
society — Downey, Vallee — and this had a refreshing macho quality. Bing moved with the band. He was the first ballad singer
who had rhythm with him.”
24
Artie Shaw concurred: “There are virtuoso performers who have not found an identity. That thumbprint is missing. With Bing
you knew right away who he was. And you knew that he knew. He really is the first American jazz singer in the white world.
Bing was an enormous influence. You couldn’t avoid him. He had a good beat. He was a jazz singer, he knew what jazz was, and
could sing a lyric, say the words, and make you hear the notes. Bing could swing. When he sang, the tune swung, whatever it
was.”
25
After the show wrapped, Stevens found himself in an elevator with Paley and Ralph Wonders. As they descended to the lobby,
Wonders broke the silence and asked Paley what he thought. Looking at his shoes, Paley quietly replied, “I hope he’s got it.”
26
By the end of the week, affiliates were calling to inquire about Bing and to report on the excitement in their communities.
Fans phoned or sent letters and wires. Requests for interviews poured in from the press. Several out-of-town editors asked
to meet Bing and watch the show (there was no studio audience). The country was suddenly mad for singers: Paley immediately
added the Boswell Sisters to his team, which already included the immensely popular Downey and Kate Smith. NBC could not believe
it. With two networks (the Red and the Blue), NBC thought of itself as the invincible ruler of the air. Suddenly Paley was
crooning his baby into position as a real competitor. NBC had fired Russ Columbo on August 21; but after Bing signed with
CBS, NBC’s vice president John Royal rehired him for a nightly show that directly followed Crosby’s. He advised the press,
“Both artists are the same style singers,” instigating a “battle of the baritones” that prefigured the Crosby and Sinatra
duels of the 1940s.
27
Despite the superficial resemblance, Columbo was the obverse of Crosby. He was a crooner merely, a ballad singer who initially
favored a tenor range and could barely handle an up-tempo number, let alone swing. If Bing represented a synthesis of jazz
and pop, Columbo was a limited stylist who held his notes a tad too long. Yet Russ echoes throughout Bing’s developing years
like a night wind, pursuing him in
every medium — the first of many celebrated singers to consciously imitate Bing, affirming and codifying his influence.
28
Staff announcer Ken Roberts was an avid admirer of Bing. Only twenty-one, he had listened to him in the Whiteman years and
was thrilled to be assigned to Bing’s show. He began with the second broadcast and remained until a sponsor took charge and
demanded a more inflated voice. He recalled that Victor Young was brought in “strictly for Bing” because he was a friend and
“knew his style,” which included placing Eddie Lang right behind Bing, “giving him the rhythm,” and Joe Venuti at Bing’s side,
providing obbligato.
29
Sixty years later Roberts, one of radio’s ubiquitous announcers for decades, reminisced about Crosby’s first weeks on network
radio:
It was a wonderful time, but I must say that as much as I loved him, I didn’t know him. He was a very private person, at least
in the studio. He would come in and do his job. He was not temperamental at all, easy to work with, but as soon as he was
finished it was good-bye. At first the only conversation we had was “Good evening, Bing, how are you?” “Hello, Kenneth, how
are you?” That changed after a few weeks on the air. I was walking up Madison Avenue, a few blocks from CBS, and I saw Bing
standing in front of a bookshop, looking in the window. I stopped alongside and said, “Hi, Bing, how are you?” He said, “Oh,
hello, Kenneth, how are you? You read that book yet?” He pointed to some esoteric book — it could have been Schopenhauer.
And I said, “No, I haven’t,” and he said, “Well, you should.” And from then on it was very warm between us, until he got a
sponsor.
He used to wear porkpie hats in some crazy shade of green. He was cute — a nice fella. His style was so marvelous, so effortless
and beautiful and knowledgeable. The show would begin with the theme, “Where the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day,”
and then I would say, “Welcome to another fifteen minutes with Bing Crosby and tonight Bing starts his show with…,” and he’d
sing his song. The show was an immediate success. Tremendous. He was a real star. The song-pluggers were around all the time
— radio was their bread and butter. But with Bing it was no longer the song that sold the records, it was the artist.
30
Roberts’s observation underscores the great paradox about Crosby: he was a man whom the audience thought it knew almost as
well as a member of the family but who was, in fact, known to very few. Cool
and efficient in his private manner, he was, in Roberts’s words, “exceptionally intimate when he sang. He never bellowed.
He never sang out as he did when he was with Whiteman, as on ‘High Water.’ Once he got his show he learned what a microphone
was. We liked his easiness, the intelligence behind his interpretation of the lyrics. Everything he did depended upon intelligence
and he certainly had that.”
31