Bing Crosby — The Voice with the Love Call Wins (1932) 🇺🇸
It’s the voice with the love call that wins on the air. That’s why Bing Crosby has become the rage of the hour. He has that Certain Something in his voice which electrifies his listeners. He puts intense feeling into his songs as if they were meant for you — or you — or even you. Bing is as popular with men as he is with women — and Rudy Vallée has had to move over to make room for him
by Herbert Cruikshank
“Bing! Bing!! Bing!!!” Twenty years ago that was the battle-cry of Mrs. Crosby’s little boy, Harry, as he swung into action against the Hated Redskins, or played at Cops ‘n’ Robbers in the backyards of Tacoma, Washington. To-day it’s different.
“Bing! Bing!! Bing!!!” Now the call is the nation-wide demand for a new idol. On the air, on the screen, in person, the world wants Harry Lillis Crosby. It calls him “Bing,” it takes him to its heart, it rolls its eyes and echoes back to him, “I Surrender, Dear!” — the song that he made famous.
He’s pretty nearly of an age with Rudy Vallée and Buddy Rogers, and comparisons with them are inevitable. Like Buddy, he creates an impression of seriousness and sincerity. Like Rudy, he’s very sure of himself. He’s a tougher guy than either. And more down to earth. A bit of a swaggerer, too — there’s a challenge in his manner. He dares the world to tread on the tail of his coat.
Literally and figuratively, the world has done so. Bing has been banged in many a battle, physical and otherwise. He has proved that he can take it as well as dish it out. Perhaps these earlier experiences will make him a more universal favorite than the Vagabond Lover or the Darling of the Debs. He’s a man’s man who has a way with women. He sings baritone — if you know what I mean.
He has a mop of blond hair, like Rudy’s, but not so marceled-looking. And his eyes are the same baby-blue. Only in Bing’s there’s a bit more of the steel glint. His face is shaped more like that of young Mr. Rogers. And it will launch as many ships. He doesn’t smile as frequently as either of the other boys. But when he does, it’s an ad for his dentifrice.
Built like a fighter
Wide shoulders and a general squareness of physique make him look shorter than his five feet nine. He’d make a husky ringman in the middleweight division, for which he qualifies with 165 pounds of avoir dupois. He’s the kind of guy who’ll try anything once. He challenged Bobby Jones to a golf tourney, for instance. And he has been known to take in a lot of territory in a Donegal free-for-all.
Bing’s not the type to be called a “boy.” He was a boy once, of course. And after the “bing-bing” days, he went to school like any other kid. He played sand-lot baseball, did his share on the gridiron, took pen in hand for the student paper — and — made the band. Yep, he was the drummer. Bing, bing, bing. Or should it be “boom” for a drum?
Anyway, Bing’s boom days didn’t dawn for a long time. He matriculated at Gonzaga University, in Spokane, Washington, for the law course. But the legal bar is one of those to which Bing never gained admission. A time lapse finds him one of an entertainment trio — Barris, Crosby and Renker. They called themselves the “Three Rhythm Boys,” and did an off-to-Buffalo from many stages.
They muscled into Paul Whiteman’s outfit, and after Bing appeared with the Mastodonic Maestro in the “King of Jazz” spectacular flop-film, he remained in Hollywood. Whiteman was gone, but Bing’s melody lingered on. And charmed the stars that shone from the ringside tables at the Ambassador Hotel’s far-famed “Cocoanut Grove.”
He made a hit on the Sunkist Coast long before his melting melodies stirred the Effete East to nostalgic memories. Whereas Fay Webb’s boy-friend, Rudy, was pridefully acknowledged by the Towered Metropolis before Hollywood had heard his hymnings. Bing has been heard — rather than seen — in a half-dozen feature films, though in a brief sequence in “Confessions of a Co-Ed” he stole the picture. And he has been starred in a sensational series of short subjects for Educational Pictures. Four of these are proving greater drawing-cards than the full-length productions which they accompany. Two remain to be made at some future date.
Enjoys himself in pictures
Bing’s self-assurance is apparent in his pictures. He seems at far greater ease than Rudy, and much less the juvenile than Charles R. “Buddy.” But perhaps his film career thus far has been something of a romp for him. For it seems to have been one of those happy associations where star, cast and director get together, nudge one another in the ribs, chuck a couple of chins, and say: “Okay, pals, whadda we do next? Where do we go next?”
Among the many things in this man’s favor is his total inability to play a saxophone, piccolo or oompah. He can do that rat-a-tat business on a drum like the heroes of that Kipling story. And he swings a right mean cymbal. A combination of talents which fits him perfectly for a Salvation Army band — if and when. But that crack’s only kidding. Bing will never need any benefits. He’s too tough mentally to be a mug with his money. Of the plenty he makes, a goodly portion is being parked in a place where it will do the most good.
His nonsense days seem pretty definitely behind him. If ever he looks upon the wine when it is red, it’s with a wink at his wife and a razz for dat ol’ demon Rum. So with the Prohibition Question thus disposed, we may take up the matrimonial, gustatorial, and sartorial aspects of his existence, not to mention his somniloquence. No, the somniloquence is out. Bing doesn’t talk in his sleep. A gentle snore, perhaps. But no conversation. That comes from someone who should know. Dixie Lee.
Dixie is Mrs. Crosby. And she’s working at it. He met her when she was a movie player, and he became her Christian slave. Or however it is that poem goes. It was one of those rapid-fire courtships. Hot and cold. Maybe it was Dixie that put that something in his voice. For after a row, she’d sit with friends at the “Cocoanut Grove” and Bing would sing I Apologize. Perhaps you, and you, and you thought those radio rhapsodies were just shot on the air like Hiawatha’s arrow. But, baby, they had a destination. And the destination was the heart of Dixie Lee. Yes, sir, each one of those notes went Bing — ‘way down South in Dixie.
Those were the days, you remember, when Sue Carol and Nick Stuart tried to fool folks into thinking they weren’t married. Sue would run around places with Bing, while Nick escorted Dixie. It was a frame-up. The kids had fun. And they’re all pals still. When in New York Sue stopped with the Crosbys, visiting Dixie in Bing’s dressing-room. And a good time was had by all. They’d listen to Kate Smith!
Right now it’s early to bed and early to rise in the Crosby cottage. Bing is doing so many shows every day that he keeps his make-up on from noon to midnight. Between shows he removes his clothes, wraps himself in a robe, and tunes in on an air program. He eats lightly and rapidly. Doesn’t take any great pleasure in food.
He’s a bit collegiate in dress. Or perhaps it’s what the well-dressed man wears when he’s a song-singing wow on Broadway. Considered in detail, the articles of his attire might be considered — say — colorful. But the ensemble is pleasant to behold. Blue is his best color, and most of his suits are blue. But shirts, scarves, sweaters and the rest may be any shade of the spectrum rainbow.
In addition to the terrific strain of his stage engagement, he does two broadcasts daily — one of them in that coveted after-dinner period. Look what I’m telling you! Just as though you don’t all tune in! And because he can’t croon it’s pretty wearing on his voice. Bing, you see, has to sound each note round and full — he’s no whisperer. No less a personage than Helen Morgan, who sounds a mean A herself, is a Crosby fan, and says she “just loves” the way he slides one note into another. Helen says he sings, Theth Rillis Gone, instead of The Thrill is Gone.
While he’s not exactly kicking, Bing has other ambitions in life. He wants to write. He got a whiff of printers’ ink back in the school days. And he plans to take a whack at O. Henrying. He’s pretty proud of having done the dialogue in his pictures. But literature will have to wait until his great vogue has passed. The tip-off on Bing is that he knows it will pass some day.
Bing has a couple of brothers. Everett sings a lot like Bing, but he’s content to act as manager to the family star, and confine his warblings to drawing-rooms. Bob is breaking into the game with the band at the Hotel Roosevelt’s “Blossom Room.” While our hero is the sole member of the clan to tread the boards, his mother sang very nicely, and Dad played a mean guitar.
One of Bing’s broadcasts is for a cigar company. He smokes ciggies. His speaking voice is the same in which he sings. Among his varied experiences he includes a stretch in a California hoosegow. They’ll probably hang a sign on that jail stating that the famous Mr. Crosby was once the county’s guest for some twenty days. Bing’s bit was done when he pleaded guilty to a traffic infraction and drew a jail sentence from the nice, kindly judge for being on the level.
Perhaps you don’t care much, then again maybe you’ll be interested in knowing about the other two of the “Three Rhythm Boys.” Well, Master Barris may be heard at the “Cocoanut Grove” still, and Master Renker accompanies Blanche Sweet on the piano in vaudeville.
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Collection: Motion Picture Magazine, February 1932