Sweet dreams, kiddies!
We’ll be back next week with Gus Haenschen: The Radio Years — Part 2.
Sweet dreams, kiddies!
We’ll be back next week with Gus Haenschen: The Radio Years — Part 2.
Radio Annual, 1949
Born in Manhattan on April 16, 1897, Milton Cross became one of radio’s first full-time announcers, and remained so until his death on January 3, 1975. His association with the Saturday afternoon radio broadcasts of the Metropolitan Opera’s matinee performances began literally with the first such broadcast: a performance of Hansel and Gretel that aired on Christmas afternoon, December 25, 1931. Although Christmas Day fell on a Friday that year, the National Broadcasting Company decided to continue broadcasting Metropolitan Opera performances over its Blue Network (which later became the American Broadcasting Company, the corporate name of the ABC network) every Saturday afternoon, a holiday from work for most American men and women.
In addition to his 43 consecutive seasons as radio’s Voice of the Metropolitan Opera,” Milton Cross served as an announcer for a variety of other radio programs including “RCA Magic Key” (a music program sponsored by RCA Victor), “Information Please” (an early quiz show), “Coast to Coast on a Bus” (a children’s show featuring child performers), and “The Chamber Music Society of Lower Basin Street” (a highly popular jazz-and-blues program). He also narrated a number of film “shorts” (i.e., five- to fifteen-minute sound films that were shown between feature films in movie theaters), as well as educational and entertainment recordings for children, including “Peter and the Wolf” (Musicraft Records, 1949) and “The Magic of Music” (Cabot Records, 1964).
Were either of your parents, or any of your siblings, involved in music?
Not professionally, no. My father, Robert Cross, and my mother, Margret, who was called “Maggie” within the family, had six children, and I was the fifth of their brood of six. My father was a machinist, a tool-and-die maker. He worked in several factories over the years, usually because he was offered a higher wage from another factory. He earned a good, steady income, and was never out of work.
As was the fashion in those days, our family had an upright piano. My oldest sister turned out to be a pretty good pianist. She and two of my other sisters sang a lot around that upright [piano]. Our family also owned a phonograph, a Victrola, which my parents bought through an installment plan when I was about ten years old. In those days, a Victrola was almost considered a musical instrument.
Do you recall the style of your family’s Victrola? Did it have an external “morning-glory” horn, or an internal horn?
It had an internal horn. It was a fairly standard mahogany upright, with its distinctive lid, and the doors behind which the horn—or “speaker,” as we would say today—was located, and the long double doors behind which were shelves for the special record albums. These were large albums—they were designed to hold twelve-inch records. The albums were essentially binders with individual “sleeves” for each record. [These albums] had alphabetical letters imprinted on their spines, and on the inside cover was an index that was blank, so that the record buyer could fill in whatever the title of the recording in each sleeve was.
In those days, the Victor Company had, if I remember correctly, four colors of labels for their recordings. The black label was for popular music, the music of “Tin Pan Alley,” as it was then called. The black label [Victor] records had two sides, and were available in two diameters, ten-inch and twelve-inch. They were priced, I think, at seventy-five cents, and they were intended for the hoi polloi, to use a slang expression for the general public, the “masses.”
Victor also had a blue label, which was a bit more expensive and which featured recordings that were made by well-known theatrical figures. There was also a purple label, which was used for top-drawing Broadway stars like George M. Cohan. I was fortunate to see several of George M. Cohan’s hit musical comedies—I remember seeing Forty-Five Minutes to Broadway, George Washington, Jr., and Little Nellie Kelly—and in the late-1920s, when I was doing radio-announcing, I got to know the great man.
I was fortunate to have had that same experience with (Sir) Harry Lauder, the comic Scotsman whose Victor recordings were very, very popular. My father had come to the United States from Edinboro, so I had a special liking for Harry Lauder. Looking back, George M. Cohan and Harry Lauder, and Nora Bayes among the women [of vaudeville], were the most significant entertainers that the Victor Company had in its catalogs in the years before World War One. And, of course, Al Jolson too. After George M. Cohan, Jolson became the biggest star on Broadway.
Of all the Victor labels, the elite one was the “Red Seal,” which was strictly for classical artists. The Red Seal is still used by RCA for its classical discs and tapes. When I was in my teens, Victor Red Seals were the most expensive of all phonograph records, and they were issued only in single-sided form. The reverse side [of a Red Seal record] was either blank—just a smooth black surface with a hole in the center, in other words. If there was anything at all on the blank side, it would be the word “Victor” pressed into the black surface in large letters. In some instances, there was a printed synopsis on the blank side, a kind of decal with white lettering which described the music that was heard on the playable side of the record.
I would estimate that my family owned maybe 100 Victor recordings when I was growing up, and that about thirty of them were Red Seals, which were quite expensive. I remember that the Lucia Sextet cost $7.00, and it was just a one-sided record.
There were at least three Red Seal recordings of the Lucia Sextet. Which one do you recall owning?
We had two, actually—one with [Marcella] Sembrich, and another with [Luisa] Tetrazzini in the title role. Caruso was the Edgardo in both recordings. We also had two of the Red Seals of the Rigoletto quartet, “Bella figlia dell’amore,” one with Sembrich as Gilda and the other with Tetrazzini.
Do you recall some of the other recordings that you listened to on the family Victrola?
We had several black-label discs such as Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” “Over the Waves” by an accordionist called Pietro [Deiro], and several lovely ballads by Harry Macdonough and also Henry Burr. Every family that owned a Victrola had records by Henry Burr, either solos or duets with another tenor named Albert Campbell. And there was a very popular soprano, Elsie Baker, who made black-label records for Victor. Later, I became acquainted with her through the Victor Company. There was a famous pair of Red Seals that Rosa Ponselle and Giovanni Martinelli recorded of the Tomb Scene from Aida. Elsie Baker sang the contralto part at the close of the “O terra addio!”
Those singers were very popular on the Victor black label. I listened to them, but not with the enthusiasm that I listened to the Red Seals we had of Evan Williams, John McCormack, Emma Calvé, Emma Eames, Geraldine Farrar, Luisa Tetrazzini, Louise Homer, Nellie Melba, Pasquale Amato, Antonio Scotti, Titta Ruffo, Frieda Hempel, Johanna Gadski, and, of course, Enrico Caruso. With the exception of Melba, whom I never met, it was my happy destiny to be able to hear, to meet, and in some cases to work with all of those great Red Seal artists.
You mentioned Evan Williams. Where did you hear him?
I heard him in concert twice at Aeolian Hall, first in 1913 and again in 1916. I can recall some of the selections he sang: Handel’s “Total Eclipse” from Samson, Mendelssohn’s “Be Thou Faithful Until Death,” “Lend Me Your Aid,” and “Ah, Moon of My Delight,” among them. His encores were “For You Alone,” “Open the Gates of the Temple,” and “Face To Face.” In the 1916 concert, he added a group songs by Harry T. Burleigh, which was quite unusual because Burleigh was a Negro composer.
After that  concert, I went backstage and asked Evan Williams to sign my autograph book. He was very genial, and very outgoing. He was also very energetic despite having just sung a very demanding number of classical songs, oratorio selections, and one or two opera arias in English translation.
Did Evan Williams sound like his Victor recordings?
Except for the piano accompaniment [which he used] in the two concerts I attended, he sounded very much like his recordings. In the theater, his voice was a good deal more “round” than it sounded on recordings. His upper voice had the clarion quality of a heldentenor. But what I remember best about Evan Williams was how welcoming, how warm and kind and sincere he was with those of us who wanted his autograph.
You made several Victor recordings yourself, correct?
Well, I made two or three recordings—just as an announcer, however, not as a singer. That was in the late-1920s, when I was reasonably well known in the New York area. But I would love to have been a singer! I studied voice, but I just didn’t have the “goods.” I spent about six months studying under Percy Rector Stevens, who was the teacher of Reinald Werrenrath and some other notable singers. But I never could “free the top.” I could never get through the passaggio and into the upper register.
But you sang at least three times, based on air-checks I’ve listened to, on “Coast to Coast on a Bus.” Do you remember your vocal performances on that show?
Yes, I did them somewhat reluctantly but I assumed that relatively few adults were listening in, so they wouldn’t mind my less than perfect voice.
On the Easter Sunday program in 1938, you sang “The Message of the Violet.” Do you remember singing that?
Yes, I remember saying that I had learned it from hearing my older sister sing it so many times around our piano. I have an air-check of it. My singing of it confirms that I couldn’t get through the passaggio, [that I] couldn’t free up the top.
Did you have any role in auditioning the children who were chosen to perform on the broadcasts?
No. The show had two writers, Tom DeHuff and Madge Tucker, and Madge was in charge of all the auditions.
Did they write all the dialogue with the children, including your own words—or did you write those?
They wrote every word, although occasionally I changed some of the phrases in my script to fit my voice and style. But that was a really fast-pace show, and I had to accelerate my normal speaking rate in order to keep up with the kids in the cast. By airtime, they were so well rehearsed that they rarely missed a cue.
There were several children who emerged from “Coast to Coast” as major performers, either on radio, Broadway, or the Met. Of those child stars, which ones do you remember in particular?
Well, Ann Blyth was one, and I saw her as an adult when I was in Hollywood and was invited by Mario Lanza to one of his recording sessions for “The Great Caruso.” The one who had the most successful career in opera was Risё Stevens, who of course had a role in the movie “Going My Way” with Bing. And the boy I remember so well was Bobby White, who has a very successful career as a lyric tenor. He has become a very, very fine artist.
He is also, as far as I can remember, the first child of another great singer I worked with in my younger days. His father, Joe White, who was billed as the “Silver-Masked Tenor” for part of his radio career, was a friend of mine, and I had worked with him as early as 1923 at WJZ. Bobby White was a boy alto, and has become well known for his bel canto work as well as his Irish songs, which he sings in the vein of McCormack.
Returning to the commercial recordings you made for Victor, what do you recall of the studios, the microphones, and the recording process?
The first recording I did for Victor was a reconstruction of Lindbergh’s reception in Paris, in which my voice was mixed with a recording of the shouts and cries of the crowd. I was also asked to narrate a “tone demonstration” on the Orthophonic label, which was new at the time. This was just a demonstration disc that Victor gave away with the new Orthophonic Victrolas.  It was really a sales pitch hidden slightly under the tone of some “expert.” Nat [Nathaniel] Shilkret conducted the orchestra for the musical portions.
The U.S. and Canadian pressings of Cross’ radio demonstration disc, recorded November 2, 1929.
Although you became an announcer, as you have pointed out, you had managed to land a job as a singer on radio at the start of your long and distinguished career.
Yes and no. Yes, I got a job as a singer and an announcer on [station] WJZ, which was then located in Newark, New Jersey. The Westinghouse Company owned the station. I was enrolled in the Damrosch Institute at the time, intending to become what was called a “music supervisor” in the New York City school system. In fact, one of my classmates was Peter Wilhousky, who just retired a year or so ago as the supervisor of music instruction for the New York school system. Peter was one of the friends who talked me into auditioning there. “You sing a little, Milt, and you have a good speaking voice,” they said, “so why not give it a try?” Those were the days of the crystal set, which all of us built from kits, and my friends said that they wanted to hear a familiar voice coming through their earphones.
Another friend who encouraged me was Keith McLeod, a pianist, who had gotten a job playing several hours a week after school and on weekends at WJZ. Keith McLeod urged me to write to the station manager, a fellow named Popano, and ask him if I could sing on the air. The station was still new—it had just come on the air a few months earlier—and Mr. Popano answered my letter and invited me to sing at the studio. There was no audition or anything—and it didn’t pay anything, either—but with Keith accompanying me, I sang several ballads and an oratorio aria.
About two weeks later, I got a letter from Mr. Popano invited me to sing on the air again. It was after that second broadcast that he asked me if I’d like to work there after school, from 4:00 till 10:00 five nights a week. I told him I would like it very much but that I didn’t know anything about radio. He laughed and said that a few months ago, he didn’t know anything either. He was educated as a mechanical engineer, and was working for Westinghouse when they decided to start WJZ. He was put in charge of setting up the studio.
When I say “studio,” I need to clarify that the first WJZ studio was cobbled together in the ladies’ room of a first-floor store. The workmen partitioned off part of the powder room with large sheets of canvas that were suspended from the floor to ceiling. About a year later, when the station got very popular, Westinghouse built what used to be called a “living-room studio,” which was spacious and was acoustically designed for radio broadcasting. By that time, I was doing more announcing than singing.
WJZ’s studio — Newark, New Jersey, 1922. Not shown is the entrance and reception area, behind the curtain at the right. (Scientific American)
Do you recall what year that would have been?
My first time on the air at WJZ was in 1921, in June or July, during the summer vacation from school. I remember singing “In the Gloaming,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” and Barlett’s “A Dream,” and I also recall reciting William Jennings Bryan’s “Cross of Gold” in those first two broadcasts.
You mentioned that radio sets in those days were hand-built. Describe what building a crystal set involved.
A typical “set” was just a crystal, plus a piece of wire called a “cat’s whisker” which had to be positioned very precisely on the surface of the crystal, plus a coil of wire that was wrapped around a tube of cardboard—generally, an empty Quaker Oats container. That coil of wire served as the tuner. To listen to one of those early sets, you had to use headphones. This was before vacuum tubes and loudspeakers. Radio was considered an eccentric hobby in 1921.
Your speaking voice, which doesn’t seem to have changed during your long career, is that of a tenor. Perhaps stereotypically, most of us tend to think that announcers should have deep baritone voices. Were most of the announcers baritones when network radio became well established in the 1930s?
No, that trend came somewhat later. In the early days [of radio], the few of us who were full-time announcers had tenor voices. If you listen to fragments of my earliest Met broadcasts, and also the broadcasts which my friend and competitor, Graham McNamee, announced, you’ll hear that our speaking voices are in the tenor range.
Most of the great orators of the early 1900s, ones like William Jennings Bryan, had tenor-like speaking voices. Even Franklin D. Roosevelt had a tenor’s speaking voice. The reason is that before there was any such thing as electrical amplification, a speaking voice had to carry on its own to several hundred people in a crowd. A tenor voice will carry much farther than a baritone or a bass voice, all other things being equal.
The baritone speaking voice didn’t become the norm in the public arena until Thomas E. Dewey became a national political figure, and Lowell Thomas became popular on radio and in newsreels. By then, microphones and amplifiers and loudspeakers were the “stock in trade.”
All of those electrical components, especially the microphone, evolved during your long career. Do you recall the first microphone that you used at WJZ?
Yes, it was a carbon-type microphone that looked more like a telephone than what we would think of as a microphone today. In the early years of the Met broadcasts, we used two condenser microphones that were mounted next to each other. That way, if one of the two developed problems during a broadcast, the microphone next to it would pick up and carry the signal to the amplifiers. Sometime later, we had what were called “ribbon microphones.” They had much broader frequency-range capabilities than the earlier microphones had.
In a famous photograph of you in Box 44 at the “Old Met,” you appear to be only a few inches, perhaps a foot at most, from the two condenser microphones. Were you actually that close to the microphone? Or was that merely for the sake of the photo?
With the old carbon microphones, I had to speak directly into them, and had to be as close as possible to the center part, which housed the diaphragm. As announcers, we spoke into carbon and also condenser microphones in the same way we speak directly into a telephone—in other words, just a few inches away from the mouthpiece. But we couldn’t speak directly into them without causing a popping sound on certain syllables. For instance, when I would use the phrase, “This afternoon’s performance …,” the “p” in “performance” would cause a popping sound if I were speaking squarely into the microphone. So we spoke at about a 45-degree angle to the microphone.
We called that “speaking across the microphone”—meaning, speaking at an angle to the [condenser] microphone. With the later ribbon-type microphones, we could speak right into them because they were designed for it. Beneath their metallic cover, ribbon microphones had a layer of fabric that served as a wind screen.
Milton Cross broadcasting from the Metropolitan Opera House
In approximately what year did nationwide radio programming seem to become indispensable in the daily life of the American people?
I would say in 1927. I’m not sure why, but that seemed to be the year. I think a major factor in it, frankly, was William S. Paley’s entrance into radio, which happened around that time. Paley put together a coast-to-coast radio network. He bought a company in California that owned a dozen or so stations, and he also bought a New England chain of stations around that same time. So in very short order, he made CBS into a formidable rival to NBC.
Was the daily schedule of radio programming a twelve-hour schedule?
No, not until the later 1920s, or maybe even the early 1930s. That’s when the “soap operas” began to take off. Before then, it wasn’t unusual just to broadcast piano or organ music in the afternoons. That started to change when CBS went on the air at 8:00 a.m. every day, starting with a fifteen-minute newscast. Until then, there was very little on the air in the early morning hours. In the afternoons, before the “soaps” became staples, I would read poetry on the air, with the organ in the background, just to fill the time.
 The Victor recording ledgers, or “logs,” which are now available online from the University of California at Santa Barbara under the title “Discography of American Historical Recordings,” identify the recording as follows: “Matrix Number BVE 56985, Victor Radio Tone Demonstration, ‘No Compromise with Purity of Tone,’ Milton J. Cross, Narrator, and the Victor Symphony Orchestra, Nathaniel Shilkret, Director.” The ledgers indicate that the recording was made on Saturday, November 2, 1929, at the Victor studios in Camden, New Jersey.
© 2018 by James A. Drake. All rights are reserved. Short excerpts may be quoted without permission, provided the source and a link to this posting are cited. All other use requires prior written consent of the copyright holder. Please e-mail Mainspring Press with questions, comments, or reproduction requests for the author.
Our Paramount – Kirkeby – Bobolink posting got so many hits that we decided to delve a little deeper into Ed Kirkeby’s logs, and had some luck. More about that below, but first — Some of you asked for more information on the records, which are fairly scarce and are popular with kiddie-record and vintage-toy collectors alike (if in their original packaging, that is), so here’s a brief summary:
First advertised in the autumn of 1921, Bobolink records and phonographs were an attempt by toymaker A. C. Gilbert to compete with Columbia’s popular Bubble Book sets. The phonographs were perfectly scaled versions of the “grown-up” machines. The 7″ Bobolink discs originally were sold in sets of two, specially packaged along with Bobolink books that were illustrated by Willy Pogany and Maud and Miska Petersham. Initially they retailed for $1 per set.
In early 1922 A. C. Gilbert sold the Bobolink business to brother F. W.’s newly incorporated La Velle Manufacturing Company (New Haven), and the label credits were changed accordingly. La Velle specialized in girls’ toys, so the company introduced new phonograph designs that were more decorative than the earlier A. C. Gilbert products. The La Velle discs could be purchased individually, in paper sleeves.
F. W. later had new 6″ Bobolink masters made, which appear to have pressed by the Bridgeport Die & Machine Company. At least one 6″ disc is known that was pressed from one of the original 7″ masters and thus is missing its outer rim and first few grooves!
Here’s another Bobolink session we found in Kirkeby’s logs, again with the New York Recording Laboratories (Paramount). This entry is not marked for Gilbert, suggesting it might have taken place shortly after the business passed to La Velle. These recordings are # 562 and # 563 on the sleeve listing (so far we haven’t found an entry for the “John Brown” title on # 563). As with most of his other early vocal bookings, Kirkeby supplied only the singer, not the accompanists.
New York Recording Laboratories — February 27, 1922
“Farmer in the Dell”