A tribute to the original Master Communicator
Once upon a time newspaper columnists would often compile jokes and stories told by radio personalities of the day. This one from the Sept. 17, 1950 Chicago Tribune (a joke that reads like the work of Dave’s favorite writer, Charlie Andrews) made me laugh more than usual, so here we go.
(Incidentally, that dog was reincarnated as Dennis “The Beeper King” Duffy.)
The other day I was talking with a colleague about the realities of television production and how being in charge means handling unforeseen circumstances with decisiveness and dispatch…especially on a live show. It reminded me of a story Charlie Andrews (Dave’s favorite writer and best friend) told in an oral history interview. Since nobody could tell it as well as he does, listen to Charlie talk about a live commercial1 that came very close to going off the rails, and learn for yourself what separates the professionals from the rest:
One of the pleasures of a big and protracted research project is that you meet some really good people along the way who are engaging in interesting projects of their own. It’s always fun to compare notes and share leads, and it’s always therapeutic to commiserate about the various obstacles any researcher must overcome (time constraints, writer’s block, footage or recordings that are inaccessible, etc.). Writing and researching can be such a solitary endeavor, and it’s incredibly helpful to be reminded that you’re part of a community.
I was reminded of all this last weekend, when I had a lengthy and very enjoyable phone conversation with a fellow historian. He’s presently engaged in a highly ambitious piece of research about a topic both of us are fascinated with (and there are times I can’t figure out if I’m encouraging his efforts because I enjoy helping other researchers, or if it’s my selfishness wanting him to finish this project because I can’t wait to read it!). He’s likewise been following my work on Dave Garroway, and has frequently sent along some very helpful items his own research has uncovered.
During our conversation we often found ourselves talking in the past tense. Not necessarily because of history, mind you, but because of people important to our stories who are no longer with us. My friend had an advantage in this regard, because starting many years ago he was able to track down and get interviews with a lot of people who have since passed on. This was important, since so many of those people were carving that particular realm of the television realm out of the wilderness. I often found myself thinking, “How I would have loved to sit in on that conversation.” My friend knows how much I love this stuff, and he’s frequently shared portions of those interviews with me, and it’s fascinating to read. But it’s not the same as being there.
And it once again got me thinking about a topic I explored in a guest piece over at It’s About TV last year, or that I briefly touched on in this post some time ago. It’s how much of this history is carried around inside the minds of the participants – and how much of it we lose when those people fall ill or pass away. I think about how much I wish I’d started this project a few years earlier so I could have talked to Beryl Pfizer. Or how much I wish I had a time machine so I could sit down with Jack Lescoulie or Jim Fleming or Pat Weaver – or Dave himself – for some really long conversations. Or so many others.
Fortunately, some stories aren’t lost forever. The Television Academy‘s series of interviews is nothing short of a gift to us all – in my instance, the extended interview they did with Dave’s best friend and favorite writer, Charlie Andrews, is a gift that never stops giving. And there are so many others there, too.1 Jeff Kisseloff’s book The Box is also indispensable, and I understand there’s a ton of material he gathered that just couldn’t fit in the book. There are also archives and repositories out there – broadcast collections like those at the Paley Center, university archives where the papers from notable figures and corporations are now held, and sometimes you’ll find some great surprises there too. But without that human touch, without those interviews, without the ability to see someone’s face light up as they recall a great moment or their eyes glower as they remember some kind of executive meddling, or to hear them laugh as they recall a moment when things went horribly wrong…there’s something missing. It reminds me of a review I once read about a biography: the writer’s extensive use of archival materials meant he had done a great job covering the story of his subject, but the reader came no closer to knowing the man.
Those stories are out there. I’m grateful for the ones that have been preserved, but I genuinely grieve for those that are lost forever. It’s my hope that along the way, I’m able to capture some of those memories in my work on Dave Garroway, and that I’m able to both tell you his life story and, by the time I’m done, make you feel like you know him. It’s a big job, but our Dave is definitely worth the try.
I try to keep the present out of what we do here at Garroway at Large. Most times I succeed. But the events of last week, especially what happened Saturday in Pittsburgh, cannot be disregarded. After such events you’re left struggling to make some sense of it all. To put it mildly, I’m heartsick.
Instead I have done my best to follow the Fred Rogers philosophy: when something horrible happens, look for the helpers. And I’ve also remembered that as a historian, I know this kind of thing isn’t new, not even in our country. And it was while thinking back over the history of hate in our country that I remembered a moment when our own Dave Garroway took a dramatic stand against bigotry.1
In 1948 Garroway was well into his tenure as host of The 11:60 Club on WMAQ in Chicago. He often served as a master of ceremonies at concerts for acts his show featured. One of those acts was a young singer named Sarah Vaughan. Dave had first heard her music in 1946, when his friend Charlie Andrews played “If You Could See Me Now” for him. Garroway claimed he was upstairs when Charlie started playing the record, and was so mesmerized that he missed two steps and tumbled down the staircase. “We both knew that one of the great voices of our generation had come along.” Garroway played the song several times on his show, much to the acclaim of listeners, and he credited her songs with making The 11:60 Club so successful.
So it was one day in 1948 that Garroway and three other deejays were emceeing a concert at the Chicago Theater. Sarah Vaughan came on stage and began to sing. Just then, some bigots in the balcony began throwing tomatoes at her. Sarah fled the stage. As an account the following year2 put it:
Garroway strode to the microphone. His famous “relaxed” manner was gone. “Yes,” he told the audience, “now you know. Now you have seen in capsule form the hate which poisons the heart of America. It started the last war, and even now is starting the next. Today, hate-mongers stopped you from enjoying a great artist. Tomorrow, if you don’t halt them, hate like this, magnified into war, will kill you and your children too.”
Garroway made each person in the audience understand the attack was on them as well as on Sarah, and that it had significance far greater than a few tomatoes thrown at a great Negro artist. With shouts, the people brought Sarah Vaughan back for a great ovation, and carried home in their own consciousness new and personal realization of the consequences of discrimination.
Garroway, still burning with righteous indignation, also told his air audience about it, with the result that Sarah Vaughan was deluged with letters, telegrams and flowers. Garroway’s point of view had penetrated.
In these troubling times, may we have the same courage to speak up when we need to.
As an early star of the national medium, one with a highly distinctive style, a lot of ink was spilled on behalf of Dave Garroway in television journals of the late 1940s and early 1950s. Let’s take a look at some of those pieces the next couple weeks or so, and perhaps that will help us remember just what a big deal Dave Garroway was back then.
The first full-length article on Garroway I could find in TV Guide was in the July 10-16, 1953 issue.1 It’s titled “Garroway Today,” and its subhead divulges, “That Chicago Touch Got Him A Penthouse On Fifth Avenue.”2 As was TV Guide‘s custom of the time, the article bore no byline.
The piece begins with an account of the summer day in 1951 when Garroway and his favorite writer and best friend, Charlie Andrews, were vacationing in a small Swiss town. At four in the morning, Garroway received a call from NBC informing him that the sponsor for Garroway At Large had pulled out. This brought the tour to an abrupt end. “Our sorrows melted 12 feet off the Matterhorn,” Garroway said.
But the loss of Garroway At Large opened the door for Today, which had debuted to great skepticism but was now a great success. “There’s no argument as to the reason: Dave Garroway.” The article noted that certain segments of the program even drew higher ratings than that of the wildly popular Arthur Godfrey, who was on later in the morning. The writer disagreed with those who compared the two, arguing that while Godfrey worked hard at being the “common man,” Garroway “lives in a world of discovery, of finding new things under the sun.”3
At the same time, the writer noted that Garroway’s more intellectual nature might be working against his wider success, that “he’s managed to build up resentment among some people who fiercely resist any idea that entertainment can be fresh and original,” and that his unusual nature may have put off some major agencies looking for more traditional fare for their sponsors.
The article makes Dave’s life sound busy but happy, noting the $2000 he made each week from Today and the additional income from the daily Dial Dave Garroway radio program, and that Dave liked how Today presented new material each day. One staffer noted that public reception was positive, and that people who thought his Garroway At Large persona was phony had changed their minds when they watched Today and saw they had been seeing the real Garroway all along. The article also notes the recent addition of J. Fred Muggs, and that Garroway was pragmatic about it. He liked that Muggs had raised Today‘s ratings two points, and “if he can help us that way, sure I want to keep him.”
Garroway and Andrews discussed each day the prospect of bringing Garroway At Large back to television, but the article noted it would be a challenge. Not only would they have to locate a sponsor, but several of the old castmembers – Jack Haskell, Connie Russell, Bette Chapel – had gone on to other things, and that only Cliff Norton was in New York.4
Of Dave personally, the article notes that the Garroway of television is much like the real Garroway, only that the latter is “a little shyer off camera.” It noted that Dave was divorced but had been seen in the company of Betty Furness, who had knitted “all of Dave’s present collection of loud Argyle socks.” Still, Dave was apparently in no hurry to get married again.5 Rather, he was more interested in getting Garroway At Large back on the air, and as part of the preparation was trying to get on a diet. “It would seem that the only way to get Garroway at Large back will be to have Garroway not-so-large.”
Since it’s Easter Sunday, what better time to explore the beautiful word that was Dave Garroway’s benediction?
Charlie Andrews, who was Dave’s favorite writer and best friend, told the Archive in his lengthy interview that “peace” came from a preacher out of Philadelphia that Garroway took to listening to. This preacher would give these energetic sermons and would use the benediction, “Peace! It’s wonderful.” Garroway took a liking to “peace!” and adopted it as his own.1
But who was that preacher? The second clue comes from Richard Gehman’s 1961 TV Guide profile of Garroway2, which cites the benediction’s origin as borrowed from “Father Divine.” A little search engine magic does the rest, and you soon learn of the Reverend Major Jealous Divine, who indeed ran his ministry from Philadelphia starting in 1942 and employed the exhortation “Peace! It’s wonderful.” His story is much too interesting and wide-ranging for me to try to encapsulate here, so maybe it’s better if you consult this rundown of Father Divine’s life and times. Don’t miss his many interesting connections to other cultural phenomena, including a famous Johnny Mercer composition inspired by one of Father Divine’s sermons.
There are several treatments of the early days of Today. Some of them are oral histories, some of them reminiscences, some of them as parts of books. Nothing, though, quite matches a contemporary account of Today during the Garroway era. And one of the most interesting, and inadvertently insightful, was printed in the June 1954 Esquire, and it’s a story that has a story of its own.
“The Man Who Came To Breakfast,” written by Richard Gehman1, is a bird’s-eye view of Today in its second year. There’s some good material about Garroway himself, but he’s not the main focus. Gehman spends a good bit of time on what goes into making an early-morning program work five days a week, the people behind the scenes who made it happen, and the unusual pressures they face.
One issue they faced was how the early morning hours messed up normal daily routine. Staffers complained that their kids didn’t know who they were any longer, that wives had to go to parties alone, that they had difficulty ordering in restaurants because the weird hours meant only breakfast menus were available when the staffers were free.
Another challenge? In the parlance of the day, “nervous tension.” Gehman surveyed a group of Today staffers at Toots Shor’s tavern2, saying they were conspicuous by how they kept checking their watches or a nearby clock. Some had developed nervous tics. Gehman described their routines as a “vicious circle” in which “they get keyed up on the show to such a degree that when they return home even a few drinks won’t help them sleep. Finally, after hours of tossing, they manage to fall into restless comas. The alarm goes off. The moment they get to the studio, the tension begins again. In mid-morning, real fatigue sets in.”
And here’s where the piece gets really interesting, for it touches on a famous part of Garroway lore, and shows it wasn’t exclusively his province: “To offset [the fatigue],” Gehman writes, “they take doses of a compound they call The Doctor, a Dexedrine-and-vitamin stimulant obtained by prescription, widely used by combat crews during the war to forestall fatigue.” The Doctor, Gehman noted, kept them so alert that they couldn’t get to sleep, and it fed a cycle.3
While Gehman noted that staff members seemed to face “a killing grind,” he saw no signs of the strain in Garroway. “He is happy about Today because he feels that it is educational and amusing at once,” but is always looking for ways to make the show better, Gehman wrote. And, apparently, the odd hours agreed with Garroway. Writer Charlie Andrews told Gehman that Garroway didn’t care much for parties but didn’t like to refuse invitations. “Now that he’s got this show, he can always go to a party, have one drink and escape, pleading that he has to go to bed around nine, which is true. It’s perfect for him,” Andrews said.
Gehman describes what happened in the RCA Exhibition Hall as a typical program happened, and for that alone the article is worth seeking out: the four cameras (including one on a platform), the nearby turntables, the array of desks and telephones and teletypes, everything you see in the few preserved kinescopes. But we also meet the writers (including Andrews and Paul Cunningham), directors Jac Hein and Mike Zeamer4 and their several assistants, and go inside the downstairs control room to learn about the particular kind of stress they faced making the program happen.5 We appreciate why, just after each day’s broadcast ended but before the daily post-mortem meeting in the program offices in the RKO Building, the working crew stopped off for a quick decompression at the Hurley and Daly tavern across 49th Street.6 Then it was off to the meeting, which typically lasted to around one in the afternoon.
Then after that, a group of Today staffers, calling itself the “Telop One Club,”7 adjourned to Toots Shor’s for what Mike Zeamer called “the daycap” – as Gehman explained, the daycap “differs from a nightcap in that it is not the last, but the first of several.” The club’s members unwound by telling jokes and airing gripes, and sometimes those sessions turned into impromptu conferences about new ideas for the program. And thus the cycle continued.
There’s one more item of interest in Gehman’s article: he describes the work of “a lovely, scrubbed-faced girl who also takes care of the weather board,” who also “writes the book and magazine reviews as well as serving as decoration on the show, and often gets as much fan mail as Garroway.” That lovely, scrubbed-faced girl was Estelle Parsons. While gathering the material for this article, Gehman struck up a connection with her that eventually culminated in their marriage.8