Eddie Cantor: a brief bio
dr george pollard

Prologue. Eddie Cantor was an important comedian, Jerry Stiller, of the comedy duo, Stiller and Meara, said in a Variety Fair interview. "During the Great Depression,” he said, “when people laughed, their worries disappeared.” Large doses of worry came easily at the time. Cantor evoked much laughter.

His antics were an escape for the audience. Cantor “went to almost maniacal lengths to please,” said Stiller. Depression-era audiences thus loved Cantor.

“I never had an ambition higher than to make people laugh,” said Cantor.” “It is the easiest thing in the world to make them cry.” Thus, he became a comedian known for singing hit songs, such as “Whoopee.”

Literary historian, Morris Dickinstein says diversions during the Great Depression were “super-energised and positive.” Slapstick, the jitterbug, gangster movies, flashy productions and elaborate musicals were most favoured. Thus, the immense popularity of comedy team Olsen and Johnson; James Cagney or Edward G Robinson crime films and Busby Berkley musicals.

Cantor fits the definition of Depression-era diversions, well. His skits built on fleeting ideas, positive and hopeful. He wrote short books that dealt with surviving the Great Depression, successfully, or, jokingly, electing him President of the USA.

Dickinstein says movement was the point of Depression-era diversions. “Dance in films became a metaphor for the need of beleaguered people to link up and hang together.” Thus, the popularity of Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers as well as Rita Hayworth.

Cantor was always in motion. Unconstrained, he bounced around the stage, eyes bulging, as he sang or spoke nonsense. A favoured non sequitur was “I, too, am a mother.” Audiences roared with laughter. No one knew why.

“Radio hookups allowed people in their own homes to hear Duke Ellington playing the Cotton Club in Harlem,” says Dickinstein. Radio entertained. Once bought, brought home and plugged in, a small five-dollar radio set provided endless hours of diversion for the whole family.

Cantor came to radio in 1931. He was the first major star to embrace radio, a truly national and ostensibly free medium. Fred Allen and Jack Benny came to radio a year or so later.

The Cantor attitude was pragmatic.  In one weekly radio show, Cantor reached more than forty million people. He could never reach forty million people in a fifty-year career playing five sold-out shows a day, seven-days-a-week, at the largest Vaudeville theatres.

Cantor recognized his responsibility as a radio star. Although his shows were mostly nonsense comedy and music, there was always a moment of seriousness, usually near the end. Said Cantor,

Slow down and enjoy life. It is not only the scenery you miss by going too fast. You also miss the sense of where you are going and why.

His social and political commentary, dubbed Moments of Candor, got him in serious trouble with advertisers.

Cantor always stood his ground against critics. In the late 1930s, spineless advertisers balked at comments on the evil of Nazi Germany and Hitler. The events of 1 September 1939, the outbreak of World War II, confirmed Cantor was right.

Cantor was among the first celebrities to use fame to help charitable causes. He never forgot his summer, as a child, at Surprise Lake. Cantor raised millions to help the persecuted, especially children, escape the Nazis. The March of Dimes is largely his creation.

Family was important to Cantor. Although he said, “Matrimony is not a word, it’s a sentence,” his stage image focused on wife, Ida, and daughters: Marilyn, Marjorie, Natalie, Edna and Janet. As Judge Cantor, a character on his radio show, he often found that mutual respect and empathy solved marital problems. Said Cantor,

Love is not a reservoir. You will never drain it dry. It is much more like a natural spring. The longer and farther it flows, the stronger and deeper and clearer it becomes.

Vaudeville and Follies are no longer. Radio, today, is on life support. People prefer stay-at-home entertainment. Live alternatives are overly monetised.

Today, Elton John and Taylor Swift, for example, go on years-long stadium tours. Beyoncé recordings stream hundreds of millions of times. Reaching forty-million people is a drop in the ocean for many entertainers today.

Show Business is no longer quaint, as it was in the time of Cantor. It is now multi-mega big business. Still, we can understand modern stardom better by looking at someone at its birth, Eddie Cantor, the first multi-media star.

 

“Cantor was an incredibly talented entertainer,” says JD Lloyd of Bellastaging.ca. “He was a singer, comedian, dancer and actor, making waves in vaudeville, on Broadway and even on radio and in film. What’s fascinating about Cantor is how he used his platform for more than just entertainment.

An appealing blend of humor, music, and heartfelt public service set Cantor apart. “It’s interesting,” says JD Lloyd. “to think about how someone with such diverse talents, as did Cantor, managed to affect so many different areas of entertainment and philanthropy. His legacy is a testament to the power of versatility and using your influence for good.” Yet, he is largely forgotten or overlooked today.

 

Beginnings. During Rosh Hashanah 1892, Eddie Cantor was born Isiode Iskowitz in an Eldridge Street apartment, deep in the densely populated Lower East Side of New York City. As the holiday that year spanned three days, 21, 22 and 23 of September, Cantor may have been born on any of these days. Record keeping was not as precise then as it is now.

“At one point,” says Goldman, “Cantor needed to know his birthday. His grandmother said it was New Year’s. Cantor thought she meant 1 January 1892. She meant Rosh Hashanah. Still, his birthday somehow became 31 January 1892.

His parents, Mechel Iskowitz and Meta Kantrowitz, emigrated from Russia to New York City in 1892. Eddie was their only born. During her second pregnancy, Meta fell ill with lung disease, says Goldman. She passed in July 1894. Cantor never knew his mother.

Unable to deal with the passing of his wife and the strains of immigration to America, Mechel descended deep into dysphoria and neglect. He contracted pneumonia and passed in 1895. No death certificate exists. In 1895, record keeping was not what it is today.

Ester Krantrowitz, the fifty-nine-year-old mother of Meta, emigrated New York City in 1891. Very elderly for the time, she lived in a series of dark, dingy apartments. To survive, Ester was a street peddler and ran a small domestic employment agency.

Ester took Cantor into her two-room Henry Street apartment. They often shared their rooms with up to ten immigrant women awaiting placement as domestics. Grandma Ester earned a dollar for each placement.

Ester was also a matchmaker, a shadchan, said Cantor. She charged twenty-five dollars for an introduction. If the couple married, Esther charged extra. “Every couple,” says Cantor, “looked to me like a potential pair of shoes or a pair of pants.”

Cantor learned to hustle on Henry Street. Grandma Ester was the epitome of hustle. The skills that made a good hustler served Cantor well throughout his career.

At the turn of the twentieth century, the crowded and bustling; garbage and sewage strewn streets of Lower Manhattan were rampant with crime. It was a cauldron of crime says Goldman. Life was nasty, short and brutal, to lift an idea from Thomas Hobbes. While still a single digit, Cantor spent nights with gangs of adolescents roaming the streets singing, causing trouble and fighting.

During one fight, a brick struck Cantor in the head. This left him unconscious in the street. With an infection from an improperly cleaned wound, Cantor was hospitalised for months. He would heal and return to nights on the street, at least for a while.

School imposed a bit of discipline and a new name for Cantor. When Grandma Ester enrolled him in school, Kanter, not, Krantrowitz, was how the principal recorded his name. The spelling stuck until he changed it to Cantor when he changed schools, from P. S. 136 to P. S. 2, says Gregory Koseluk.

Not one for dates or numbers, Cantor found a school room work-a-round: reciting stories. When a teacher asked him a question, says Koseluk, Cantor would talk his way out of an answer. He became so efficient at speaking he passed seven grades on this basis.

His school days ended in grade eight. A by-the-book teacher, with an old-style, spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child attitude, demanded Cantor be a regular student. That is, do his assignments and pass his courses.

An argument ensued. Cantor threw a blackboard eraser. He hit the demanding instructor in the face. He left school. Performing replaced studying.

According to his New York Times obituary, after leaving school, Cantor tried not to sponge off Ester. He would vanish from home for weeks, moving from menial job to menial job. He would sleep on roof tops. He would sing in the streets for pennies.

The summer of 1902, ten-year-old Cantor attended Surprised Lake Camp, in Cold Springs, New York. The Educational Alliance of the Lower East Side ran the camp. For $1.50, indigent boys could spend two weeks forty-five miles north of the sweltering New York City summer; the heat horrendous, with no air conditioning. They also got a look at other aspects of life.

Canter took his performance skills to Surprise Lake. In doing so, he accidentally discovered there was humour in anguish. To develop the mood of his well-received yarns, Cantor exaggerated the facial pathos implicit in the stories, such as “The Soul of the Violin” or “The Traitor’s Deathbed.” The result was laughter, not tears. The scheduled two week stay lasted seven and influenced his life to the end.

Back on the Lower East Side, Cantor returned to a life of crime. According to David Weinstein, a gangster paid him to guard scabs during a labour dispute. Another day, he borrowed a gun to threaten a rival for the attention of Ida Tobias, who would eventually become his wife. Beneath his stage persona, of a weak every man, even a fool, Cantor was tough and determined to be successful.

Vaudeville. Prior to the US Civil War, 1861-1865, most public realm entertainment took place in saloons or honky-tonks catering to men, says Cullen. Side distractions kept patrons drinking a bit longer, says Laurie. Over time, music, dancing girls, violent or racist comedy, bare-knuckle boxing and gambling filled out the incentives to buy another drink or ten.

Men controlled the money. Thus, these venues were not interested in female or family customers. Moreover, these venues did not hold any appeal for women, children or families.

The expansion of industry, in the post-Civil War period, led to the creation of steady factory work and supporting businesses in urban areas. Predictable income led to increased demand and spending on credit buying for a variety of products once produced in the home or foregone. Clothing is an example as is the piano, which replaced the fiddle as a centre point of private realm entertainment.

Central shopping areas popped-up in cities and larger towns to service the new demand. Stores sold a variety of goods and services. These stores settled in and around readily accessible areas. Shopping areas were within walking distance of sprawling residential areas. More important, stores were handy using new forms of public transportation, such as horse-drawn street cars.

Women, as always, assumed responsibility for home and family. Thus, they were more likely to patronise the shopping areas. This, in turn, opened opportunities for promoters of family or polite entertainment, which appealed to women. Tony Pastor is among the most well-known of the promoters of polite entertainment or Vaudeville.

On Monday 24 October 1881, Pastor opened the Fourteen Street Theatre, in the Tammany Hall Building in Midtown Manhattan, says Laurie. It was the first theatre dedicated to Vaudeville, that is, polite entertainment intended for women, children and families. From 1881 to 1906 this was the most important Vaudeville theatre in the USA and Canada.

Pastor tapped into the increasing population of New York City. He also drew an audience from the family-leaning shopping area that surrounded the theatre. The polite entertainment Pastor offered was a refreshing, a welcoming, break from a morning of shopping or a week of in-home toil.

Typically, a Vaudeville theatre would run a continuous bill of up to eight or nine acts. Shows often began at noon and ended around midnight. Afternoon matinees appealed to shoppers. Evening performances cost as much as fifty per cent more than did matinees, usually for the same acts, and appealed more to families.

Opening acts performed as the audience took their seats. The second to last act was the headliner. The last act on the bill went on as the audience left the theatre. Neighbourhood Vaudeville theatres usually featured amateur nights.

As did Fred Allen, Cantor used amateur nights as this conduit to main Vaudeville stages. Most often, the amateurs were adolescents trying to develop an act for main-stage Vaudeville. Most received payment, of some sort, even if they did not win.

At its height, says Cullen, five thousand Vaudeville theatres were open in the USA and Canada. He estimates that tens of thousands full- and part-time workers staffed Vaudeville. His estimates may be low.

 By 1930, Vaudeville was all but gone in a flash. Goldman summarises the demise of Vaudeville,

[It] was … unable to compete with … musical comedy, … films … radio, the Depression and changing styles of popular entertainment. It looked tired and old-fashioned.

Vaudeville theatres, everywhere, converted to some form of cinema, quickly. It was much less expensive to run a film.

Baggy-pants comedy acts might perform between showings of a film. This was most common in smaller or out-of-the-way theatres. Only The Winter Garden and The Place, the most prestigious Vaudeville theatres, both in New York City, continued to offer live acts, often interspersed with films, until the 1940s.

Actors made personal appearances (PA) at film showings of their films, says Goldman. Movie goers like to see the stars they saw on the screen live and in-person. PAs thus replaced five-shows-a-day and extensive travel that were not uncommon in Vaudeville.

It is worth noting that Vaudeville is mostly an American and Canadian phenomenon. Australia had its version. The United Kingdom had Music Halls, which are much more deeply rooted in time and tradition.

In 1906, at age fourteen, Cantor began a Vaudeville career. He performed hundreds of times throughout the US and Canada, in urban and rural venues, entertaining a range of audiences, says Weinstein. During eight years, he developed a distinctive form of nonsense comedy and performance accurately described by Goldman as antics. Thus, Cantor became one of the most successful Vaudeville comedians, ever.

Cantor claimed the stage, being an actor, singer and comedian, saved him from a life of crime or haberdashery. David Tobias, father of Ida, the love of the life for Cantor, seems the impetus for Cantor to succeed. When he had twenty-five hundred dollars, Tobias said, Cantor could buy or start a haberdashery and settle down like a man. Only then would he, as a responsible father, talk or even think of Cantor marrying Ida.

The prominence of Ida Tobias in the life of Eddie Cantor is legendary. His theme song was “Ida.” His comedy revolved around his life with Ida and their five daughters: Marjorie, Natalie, Edna, Marilyn and Janet.

When Cantor met Ida, he was using his birth name, Isiode. She thought the name not right for an actor. She suggested a nickname. Henceforth, he was Eddie, not Isiode, Cantor.

Cantor was in a quandary. He wanted to marry Ida, desperately. He was all but done with the world of gangsters. Yet, he did not want to be a haberdasher. His skills, as storyteller, singer and comedian, made his dream of a life as a performer, an actor, the only alternative.

Skills learned as a street performer opened the door to Vaudeville. Cantor could sing, dance and tell jokes at a level sufficient to get in on the ground floor of Vaudeville. He was serious as needed. Mostly, Cantor had chutzpah.

His early attempts at Vaudeville received mixed responses, but fed his desire to perform. Cantor worked Amateur Nights, which paid one dollar, even if the act got the hook. The prize was five dollars if the act won and did not merely finish. He won, often.

Cantor formed an act with friend Daniel Lipsky. They borrowed, liberally, from top Vaudeville acts of the day. They played social events for free or passed the hat. After one show came an offer to play club for money. The manager of the Clinton Street Music Hall offered them two dollars to play his club, says Koseluk.

Excited to perform in an actual Vaudeville theatre for a week and for money, guaranteed, Cantor and Lipsky polished their act. It met with silence. Not one joke went over. Watching other acts from the wings, says Koseluk, they realised the Clinton Street Music Hall was a Yiddish theatre.

The next day, Cantor and Lipsky translated their act into Yiddish. They convinced the manager of the Hall to let them work for free. The revised act was a hit.

From this booking, Cantor learned he needed to actively consider the peculiarities of the audience. That they were Yiddish speakers, for example. In other words, know your audience, a lesson that would do him well throughout his career.

How Cantor dealt with the Clinton Street Music Hall experience also showed he did not fear hard work. From experience, he learned how hard work paid dividends. This would become one of his lifelong defining traits.

Eventually, Cantor was on his own. Lipsky left Vaudeville for an office job. Snyder quotes Cantor as saying that during this time, he was hopeless, befuddled and sinking fast. Then friends urged him to take part in an amateur night at Minor’s Bowery Theatre.

Cantor, isolated and nearly destitute, eventually and reluctantly succumbed to the cajoling of his friends. He took the stage, solo, for an Amateur Night at Minor’s Bowery. Apparently, his friends literally pushed him onto the stage.

It was not easy. Still, the one dollar, paid to participants that didn’t get the hook or finished their act, would come in handy. Cantor, afraid and uncertain, anxiously took the stage.

On stage at Minor’s, Cantor faced a barrage of rotten fruits and vegetables, boos and cat calls. He persisted. As he would, thorough his career, Cantor resorted to using a non sequitor to get the audience on his side. This one made famous by vaudevillian Sid Sidman, “Oh, dat makes me so mad,” stopped the barrage.

By the end of his act, Cantor won the audience at Miner’s. Silence was a sign of disapproval. They showered him with noise and coins.

Cantor didn’t merely avoid the hook or finish his act, at Minor’s. He won the top prize of five dollars. Of the fifty-five acts in this amateur night line-up, Cantor came first.

No longer a street corner singer and clown, Cantor was a vaudevillian, a paid actor. To celebrate, he treated his friends to a meal of Chinese food. The food did not sit well with Cantor, given he had not eaten for two days.

Despite his digestive issues, he was resolute. His experience at Miner’s opened a new world. He would make his mark as an actor.

The People’s Vaudeville Company (PVC) owned four third-rate theatres in the New York City area. Cantor wangled four weeks at twenty dollars a week from PVC. There was a catch. The offer was good only if PVC approved of his first performance.

Joseph Scheck, a partner in PVC with brother Nicholas, Adolf Zucker and Marcus Lowe, approved the first performance by Cantor. He played the four weeks and another four weeks. PVC offered yet another four weeks, if Cantor could create an entirely new act. He did.

Still, new material was mostly out of the question for Cantor. Time between performances was short. Developing new material took more time than available. A different form of creativity would bail out Cantor.

Her recycled old material. He presented it with different personas, as Koseluk says. In no order, his characters were a Dutch or German comedian, a Hebrew comedian and a Native American comedian. No one seemed to notice, as they laughed or sang along.

Weinstein says each of the personas harnessed the energy of live theatre. Each persona, as well as his Blackface characters, had a streak of rebelliousness, which audiences, to this day, gravitate toward. Still, the different personas adopted by Cantor made it difficult to classify his brand of humour.

Cantor now earned a regular income in show business. He knew to adapt his material to fit the times as well as audience expectations. He would not fail to connect with an audience, again. Cantor always learned from experience.

Lacking enough self-confidence to ask for paid Vaudeville bookings, Cantor applied to all the Amateur Nights he could. Wasting no time building a career, if by the side door, Cantor became a paid amateur, says Koseluk. New material came from rejigging that of successful vaudevillians, such as Harry Thompson and Walter Kelly.

At this point, the substance of the Cantor act was mostly nonsense. He included imitations of celebrities and prominent people, jokes, a song or two and a poem. Koseluk says that after the seeming end of his act Cantor returned to the stage in a sort of encore and proclaimed, “I too am a mother.” This non sequitor always received a ton of laughs. Why was this non sequitor a hit? No one knew.

Eventually, Cantor had the confidence to seek work that paid more than Amateur Nights. He wanted exposure to more and larger audiences. Ambition was taking hold.

Cantor joined a travelling review, Indian Maidens, which he thought would help him reach his goals. For fifteen dollars a week he had to supply costumes for his four characters: rabbi, Native American, waiter and boot black. Cantor now earned a regular income in show business, if only briefly and largely in his hopes and dreams.

After a short tour of mostly one-nighters, Indian Maidens played to an empty house in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania, on a snowy Christmas Eve. The show closed that night. Stranded and penniless, Cantor wired Grandma Ester for train fare home. Flat broke, he nonetheless returned as a working actor.

Despite his absence, Cantor had not given up on Ida Tobias. Back in New York City, he discovered Ida and her sister, Minnie, had taken up with the Rosner brothers, says Koseluk. Ida had come to agree with her father: Cantor would never amount to anything if he focused on acting. He would not make a good husband.

Cantor took a permanent job as a singing waiter at Carey Walsh’s Saloon, in Coney Island. He earned three dollars a night plus tips. Singing up to one hundred songs, on a busy night, gave Cantor the opportunity to expand his musical repertoire and his savings to four hundred dollars.

 Jimmy Durante played piano for the singing waiters at Walsh’s Saloon. He lived around the corner from Cantor. Rather than compete, Cantor, Durante and the other waiters decided to pool tips.

By the end of the first week of this arrangement, says Koseluk, the pool reached one hundred and twenty-five dollars; twenty-five dollars for each. When they went to divvy up the tips, the money was gone. It was years before the culprit would reveal himself.

Years later, Cantor ran into Durante at the Astor Hotel in New York City. ‘Been looking for you,’ Durante, by now a star, said. ‘Here’s your twenty-five dollars from Welch’s.’ Durante stole the tips to pay to bring his brother to America from Italy.

Ida stayed in touch with Cantor. He claimed he was the restaurant manager, not a singing waiter. She hoped he would find enough success that her parents would let her marry him. David Tobias, mildly impressed with the ostensible success of Cantor, all but agreed to the wedding.

Tobias had a business perfect for Cantor, a haberdashery. When Cantor saved the seed money for such a store, twenty-five hundred dollars, he could ask for Ida’s hand in marriage and receive the blessing of the elder Tobias. The choice was clear: a haberdashery and Ida or acting and no Ida.

Cantor made the only choice he could. He would pursue acting, secretly. It was the right decision if a tad underhanded.

First, he needed an agent. Using his savings from Welch’s, he had business cards printed and bought a new suit. If he wasn’t a Vaudeville success, he’d look it.

Cantor approached agent Joe Wood. Turned down flat, Cantor began hanging around the offices of Wood. He hoped for a breakthrough.

Eventually, Wood relented. He asked to see what Cantor had to offer. Eddie did his act.

Unimpressed, Wood nevertheless sent Cantor to Gaine’s Manhattan Theatre. At the theatre, Cantor discovered he was one of twenty acts vying for a seven-act show. Moreover, his audition met with silence, not laughter.

Somehow, Cantor made the cut. The theatre manager thought he was different enough to merit watching. He was.

For the afternoon performance, Cantor flopped. For the night show, he was a success. It was the pattern of his performances at Gaine’s Manhattan Theatre. It was enough for Wood to agree to take Cantor on as a client.

At Gaine’s, Cantor earned twenty dollars a week. Agent Wood took ten per cent and two dollars went for room and board at a local rooming house. At the end of a good week, says Koseluk, Cantor could save a dollar.

Bedini and Arthur. On and off in 1912, Cantor performed for spontaneously amassed crowds on Henry Street. One day he made special effort to impress. Roy Arthur, half of Bedini and Arthur, the top Vaudeville comedy and juggling act, was in the audience.

According to Vaudeville America,

Bedini is a very graceful and skilful juggler and his partner Arthur is one of the finest little [B]lack-face comedians in Vaudeville. … act went with a scream from start to finish and was one of the hits of the bill. 12 [minutes], full stage and about 5 [minutes] in one, making 17 in all. 2 shows.

On Henry Street, Arthur seemed indifferent to the performance by Cantor, says Koseluk. Still, he suggested Cantor visit him at the Hammerstein Theatre, where Bedini and Arthur were performing. Cantor did, early the next week.

As the visit ended, Arthur asked Cantor if he would like to join the Bedini and Arthur. He did. Cantor thought he would be part of the on-stage act. Wrong, he would be a well-paid factotum.

Among his diverse responsibilities, Cantor bought crockery for use in the act. He would crack the crockery, just enough, so that when it slipped from grip during the act, it would shatter all over the stage. The break always appeared spontaneous.

Eventually, Cantor joined Bedini and Arthur on stage. He would wait in the wings during the act. Bedini would signal him to come on stage carrying a piece of crockery and leave. Not what Cantor expected, but it opened a door.

During one performance, Cantor ambled on stage. He stood behind Bedini and Arthur, languidly. Then, with a look of effeminate superiority, disdain and indifference, he surveyed the audience before handing over the crockery, as he left the stage.

The audience loved it. Bedini and Arthur did not know what to make of it. Cantor made his mark, quickly and indelibly.

Jean Bedini saw that Cantor had talent. He was creative. He had the knack for original material. The next week, Cantor expanded his role in the act of Bedini and Arthur.

Working in Blackface, Cantor taunted Roy Arthur, who would chase Cantor around the stage trying to get even. Using an Oxford English accent, Cantor would scream, says Koseluk. ‘He means to do me bodily harm.’ The audience loved it. They never heard a Blackface comedian speak, especially one using a superior pronunciation and tone.

The success of his limited interruption of the Bedini and Arthur act, led to a further expansion of his involvement. He could interrupt at any time, only if what he did was funny. The act thus became increasingly reliant on nonsensical material, which was the forte of Cantor.

A short poem, remarkably well received by the audience, revealed the penchant for nonsense that drove the career of Eddie Cantor. As reproduced in Koseluk, the poem is,

Twinkle, twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high – Oh, what care I! Oh, what care I!

As Koseluk says, this nonsense is not funny, but it always got a huge laugh. The laugh came because of how well Cantor delivered it. That is, with style.

Style, for Cantor, was more important than substance, sometimes. Contemporaries, such as Fred Allen and Jack Benny, varied. Allen emphasised substance, such as news or current affairs. Benny mixed style and substance in a situation comedy context that made him the butt of all humour. Cantor offered nuanced presentation.

Bedini and Arthur became Bedini, Arthur and Cantor. Their most successful parody was of the popular courtroom drama “Madam X,” which they retitled “Madame 10.” It was the hit of the season at the Hammerstein’s Victoria, says Koseluk. Bedini, Arthur and Cantor had a ten-week holdover. Cantor, now firmly confident, saw Vaudeville as his way out of the Lower East Side of New York City, says Weinstein.

Kid Kabaret. In September 1912, Cantor joined Kid Kabaret, produced by Gus Edwards. The story was that a wealthy couple go out for an evening on the town. They leave their young son with the butler. The son invites his friends over for supper, instead they put on a cabaret in the parentless home.

According to Jolo, writing in Variety,

Gus Edwards appears to have lost his “cunning” in the presentment of “kid” acts. His latest can scarcely be [named] as a “hit” [because] he hasn’t a single performer in the cast who may be [named] for individual honours, unless it be Eddie Cantor, as a [B]lack face Butler.

In Kid Kabaret, Cantor is the only adult in the show. This gives him bargaining power. He uses this power.

Never modest or shy about self-promotion, Cantor negotiated the billing. The show quickly became known as Kid Kabaret featuring Eddie Cantor. What he gave up in pay, he made up in publicity. Everyone knew this version of Kid Kabaret starred Cantor.

The structure of Kid Kabaret was ideal for displaying new talent. It cost Edwards much less than would Vaudevillians with more experience. Cantor, in Stein, says the show would have cost fifteen times as much if it had used adult actors, but would not have been fifteen times better.

Audiences loved Kid Kabaret. The show grossed one thousand dollars a week. Payroll was low. Profits were high.

Cantor is and was associated with Blackface in Kid Kabaret. According to his New York Times obituary, “he never actually liked it.” Once he appeared in Blackface, say, to emulate a top vaudevillian of the early twentieth century, he was stuck with it.

Fourteen-year-old Georgie Jessel was one of the kids in the Kid Kabaret. Described as a little bit of Yiddish, his character, Muttky, stole the show. Cantor lobbied Edwards to recognise his friend, Jessel, in the billing. Eventually, the show became Kid Kabaret featuring Eddie Cantor and Georgie Jessel.

A singer and comedian, Jessel had a talent for monologues that fully engaged audiences. Cantor, in Stein, said of Jessel, he was a Dandy at twelve years of age. He wore a high hat, white vest, spats and carried a cane. Jessel was a child at heart, ready to trade his stage get up for an electric train.

Jessel became an important figure in show business during the early-to-mid-twentieth century. He wrote or co-wrote hit songs, including Sweet and Low, which was a best-seller. He also produced successful films. Later in life, Jessel was known as America’s Toastmaster General in recognition of his moving eulogies for celebrities and politicians.

“Did you ever catch George Jessel at a funeral? It's wonderful,” said Cantor of his friend. “All through the years he makes notes on his friends. He wants to be ready.”

Cantor and Jessel remained friends for life, despite differences in lifestyle. Cantor was a social moderate, married once, to Ida. He was always thinking of tomorrow.

Jessel married six times. He spiced his performances with tales of romance. He spent all he earned, if not more. Mostly, he lived for today.

Cantor was economical. He was not stingy. He was always ready to loan or give money to on-the-downs actors.

The Cantor act focused on singing, jokes and non sequiturs. Weinstein says a nut job was how Cantor referred to his act. That it was.

While touring in Kid Kabaret, says Koseluk, Cantor met another influential friend, Al Jolson. He was the most successful singer of the early-to-mid-twentieth century.

The Jolson catchphrase was, “You ain’t heard nothing yet.” It was not an overstatement. His ability to hold an audience is legendary and seldom duplicated.

Bruce Springsteen encores may challenge the audience-holding ability of Jolson. A Springsteen encore, when the lights go up, can last for hours. On 15 July 2012, authorities pulled the plug on a Springsteen-Paul-McCartney encore in Hyde Park, which lasted well into the early morning hours.

Of Cantor and Jolson, Stan Laurel said,

[They] were wonderful entertainers the like of which you don't see anymore. They weren't comedians really, but funny singing entertainers of the kind I used to see and love in the English music hall. It's a shame that young performers these days aren't remotely like them.

Jolson was inclined to perform in Blackface. Today, this largely disqualifies him as an object of serious attention, study or appreciation. Yet, Jolson is worth remembering, warts and all.

Cantor thought Jolson was electric. His infectious charisma impressed and sent a chill up the spine. The performances of Cantor and Jessel, in Kid Kabaret, impressed Jolson. The three remained friends for life, if with an occasional falling out.

Cantor toured in Kid Kabaret for two years. There was a great deal of downtime. Hanging around with Jessel meant mischief was inevitable.

Cantor, in Stein, said a memorable mischief involved disrupting a boring mise en abyme or play-within-a-play during the main Vaudeville show. As a distressed father shouted, “Where is my daughter,” Jessel and he, in Blackface, brooms slung over their shoulders, walked across the stage behind the main actors. The audience roared. Actors in the me en abyme were confused and, perhaps, offended.

After touring in Kid Kabaret, Cantor returned to New York City. He convinced David Tobias, father of Ida, that he was worthy of her. Finally, they married in a small ceremony in the Tobias apartment.

Married to Ida, and Max Hart his new agent, his personal life and career were looking up. artCantor played the Palace, the storied New York City Vaudeville theatre in Times Square. Hart also booked him in a Chariot’s musical at the Oxford Theatre in London.

The London shows flopped. Audiences where flummoxed. The act involved imitations of American celebrities and politicians. British audiences were at a loss. They didn’t identify with the Americans.

As usual, Cantor learned from experience. He adapted his material. The flopped London shows improved his material and presentation, much as it had at the Clinton Music Hall.

The outbreak of World War One stopped the Oxford Theatre performances cold. Cantor was always one to make lemonade out of lemons. The London bookings doubled as a honeymoon.

Follies. Follies were large-scale revues, elaborate shows featuring an array of top talent. These shows lasted up to three hours. Ticket prices were high, up to five dollars a seat.

Elegant women, flirtatious and dressed in over-the-top costumes, were the centrepiece of follies. Outstanding sets, polished sketches, intricate dance routines and songs with clever lyrics rounded out the content. Follies combined the best of Vaudeville, Broadway musicals and Burlesque without its rough edges.

"Eddie Cantor was a prolific tap dancer," says Sage Suede." His dancing is particularly noteworthy and brought much popular attention to the art form that tap. I only know a handful of tap dancers, today, that are comparable to his level of skill. Max The Drummer is one example of modern Cantor-level tap.”

The Ziegfeld Follies, including its companion Midnight Follies, and George White’s Scandals are the best known, most successful follies. The first Ziegfeld Follies staged in 1907; editions ran through 1943. Scandals ran from 1919 to 1939.

Vaudeville was a grind, usually calling for two, three or more shows a day with considerable travel. A weekly change of venue was usual. Split weeks, Monday to Wednesday in one location and Thursday to Saturday or Sunday in another, were part of the road. One-night stands were rare, but occurred. An act might travel to five or six small towns in one week.

Typically, follies had one show a day, in the evening or late night, after midnight, maybe. There was little or no travel. An edition would spend its first season on Broadway. Select shows might move on to major cities for week-long or multi-week runs over a year or two.

In 1916, Earl Carroll, the Broadway producer, saw Cantor in a touring musical, Canary Cottage. He was impressed with Cantor. Decades later the New York Times would describe what Carroll saw in Cantor: “frenetic, nervous … prancing about, clap­ping his hands, rolling his eyes, his … enthusiasm.” His antics made up for his “poor singing voice.”

At this point the Cantor energy was limitless. According to the New York Times, Cantor would do five forty-minute shows during the day and evening. Then he would entertain at house parties long into early morning hours. Carroll wisely recommended Cantor to Flo Ziegfeld.

From 1916 to 1919, says Weinstein, Ziegfeld featured Cantor in versions of his follies. These shows displayed his expanding versatility. Cantor was now a skilled comedian, dancer and improving singer. This confirmed his place in show business.

Starting 2 October 1917, Midnight Follies featured Cantor. The show staged on the roof of the New Amsterdam Hotel, in New York City. It was, says Koseluk, a blend of theatre and cabaret. A touch of Vaudeville and Burlesque spiced up the show.

Tickets for Midnight Follies topped at five dollars when Cantor headlined. Such a pricey show meant only the cream of New York society could attend. The ticket price, at the time, was a week’s wages or more for a typical working New Yorker.

Before the show, Cantor watched the swells, the elites, arrive in Rolls-Royces. Their jewels gleamed in the moon light. They were ready to pay a hefty price for a ticket to enjoy themselves. Cantor was determined to see they enjoyed themselves.

The elites of New York City were the audience for a kid from Henry Street in Lower Manhattan, a fact Cantor flouted, says Weinstein. The irony was clear. To emphasise the social class difference, Cantor often ended his act, in Midnight Follies, joking how his father, a bank employee, liked to take home samples from work.

Ziegfeld shows featured a flock of beautiful young women, often sparsely dressed. His promotion was clever. He made Anna Held, also the star of follies, the first sex symbol of the twentieth century, says Koseluk.

During his time with Ziegfeld, Cantor continued to polish his act, cementing his place in Midnight Follies through wit and energy, says Weinstein. He learned to appeal to different audiences, Vaudeville or follies. This skill served him well when he starred in films and radio.

The Cantor style drew comparisons. His talent and appeal were reminiscent of Al Jolson, the top entertainer of the day. His easy, natural and carefree banter with the audience, as a whole or as individuals, was reminiscent of Will Rogers, who offered commentary of current social, political and economic events as he expertly twirled a rope in a renown Vaudeville act.

Ziegfeld gave Cantor a first contract for twenty weeks, which turned into twenty-seven weeks, says Koseluk, at two hundred dollars per week. This was remarkable, but posed a problem. Because of repeat business for the Follies, new material was vital.

Leaving the New Amsterdam Theatre early in the morning, Cantor saw fellow performer, Will Rogers, buying all the newspapers he could find, says Koseluk. Current events were the fodder for remarks by Rogers. Keeping up with the news meant he had a fresh act every night.

Cantor took note. He revised his act for each performance. This allowed him to do twenty weeks, without going stale.

Success in the Midnight Follies led to stardom on the Ziegfeld main stage. Cantor appeared in the Ziegfeld Follies from 1916 to 1919. He had a falling out with Ziegfeld and left the company before the 1920 edition started rehearsals.

After parting ways with Ziegfeld, says Koseluk, Cantor appeared in a series of follies. Broadway Brevities, Midnight Rounders and Make it Snappy had limited success. Kid Boots brought Cantor and Ziegfeld together again.

Other stars of the day appeared in a Ziegfeld or White follies between 1916 and 1939: The Marx Brothers, Fanny Brice, W, C. Fields, The Three Stooges, Ethel Merman, Bernard Granville, Fanny Brice, William Powell, Myrna Loy, Ray Bolger, Bing Crosby and the remarkable Bert Williams. Ziegfeld was the address of many, many stars.

Radio. Nathan Stubblefield was the first radio broadcaster. In 1892, says James Johnson, he transmitted four words, "Hello, Rainey … Hello Rainey," across the fence that separated his backyard from that of Rainey T Wells. It took another thirty years or so of development, interrupted by World War One, for radio to become the dominant medium in the USA and Canada for thirty years.

The first regularly scheduled musical programme aired on 20 May 1920. XWA, later CFCF-AM, in Montreal Quebec, was the source of the broadcast to a meeting of the Royal Society of Canada, in Ottawa Ontario. J O Canon hosted, says Stewart. Canon was the first radio announcer.

Full-time commercial radio began on 2 November 1920. Westinghouse realised radio presented a profitable opportunity for the sale of sets. It was also an advertising medium with unheralded potential. KDKA-AM, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was the first licenced commercial radio station.

The NBC radio network began in 1926. In 1927, to enhance the potential for programme variety, NBC split its single network. The Red network aired more popular shows, such as Amos and Andy, Chase and Sanborn Hour, Fred Allen and The Jack Benny Program. The Blue network aired news and advice, such as, Mary Margaret McBride and the Hobby Lobby, hosted by Arlene Francis, as well as a limited number of family dramas and soap operas.

In 1931, when Cantor appeared as a guest on the Fleischmann Hour, hosted by Rudy Vallee, he was a Vaudeville, follies, singing and film star. He was remarkably popular. He was remarkably wealthy.

About this time, a banker told Cantor the Great Depression had not wiped him out, as it had millions of other people. Although Cantor lost a great deal of money, he was wealthy. In fact, in 1931, he had four hundred and fifty thousand dollars on hand. In 2024, an equivalent amount is nearly eight million, six hundred thousand dollars.

Interestingly, Weinstein says, Depression-era audiences did not resent the wealth Cantor accumulated. They considered him family. They identified with his success.

Audience members were hungry for details of his success. They looked to the consumer entertainment media for details. Examples of these media include Radio Mirror, Radio Stars and Tune In.

“Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” says Goldman, was the musical theme of the Great Depression. Cantor may have had the more popular Depression-era song, “Now Is the Time to Fall in Love,”

Potatoes are cheaper,
Tomatoes are cheaper.
Now is the time to fall in love.

Cantor began his solo radio career after one-off appearances in the 1920s, says Dunning. Koseluk says Cantor appeared on a charity show for the Salvation Army aired on WDY-AM New York. That was sometime between December 1921 and February 1922.

He appeared during a broadcast that aired on WDY-AM, in Roselle Park Newark, and KDKA-AM in Pittsburgh. That was on 3 February 1922. Nothnagle reported details of the show to the Bridgeport Telegram. On Sunday 5 February 1931, Cantor appeared on the Fleischmann Hour.

By 1931, Cantor was a national figure, says Dunning. He was widely known as the King of Clowns. Cantor had the common touch, says Nachman. He appealed most to those that saw his films or Vaudeville shows, they could easily visualise his radio antics. He had an energy that audiences widely and readily expected appreciated.

Early radio had difficulty attracting talent of high standing. This is typical of new media. Cantor was the first well-known name to perform on radio, regularly.

The first radio appearances of other well-known entertainers were months after Cantor. Jack Benny, for example, first appeared on radio in a show hosted by Ed Sullivan; that was February 1932. Fred Allen in October 1932.

At 8 pm on Sunday 13 September 1931, Cantor replaced Maurice Chevalier as host of The Chase and Sanborn Hour on NBC. Chevalier left the show as of 1 July 1931. He returned to France for the summer, but never returned. As Goldman says, Chevalier did not appreciate the importance and potential of radio.

The Chase and Sanborn Hour featured a mix of music, comedy and, eventually, guests. Cantor had a four-week trial on the show, says Dunning. After the first show, he received a seven-week extension. Then came an extension for the rest of the season.

Cantor earned a 28.9 rating for the 1931-1932 season, second only to the monster hit programme, Amos ‘n’ Andy. For the 1932-1933 season, his rating was a remarkable 58.2, reportedly the highest ever reported by the Crossley Advertising Bureau (CAB). For the 1933-1934 season, says Laura Leibowitz, his rating was 50.2. The competition for the ears of a nation was heating up.

Often, Cantor led his nearest rival by fifteen rating points, a substantial number, says Dunning. Tempering the veracity of the ratings is the method used by the CAB. The early days of radio audience research was very much a catch as catch can exercise.

The comedy of Cantor, his boundless energy and positive outlook endeared him to the radio audience. It earned him a nickname, the Apostle of Pep. It assured his success.

Berman says Cantor was not without critics, especially among comedians. George Burns, of Burns and Allen, said, in Berman, Cantor would claim he lost a dollar bill and demand George Washington, whose face was on the bill, declared a missing person. Instead of giving someone a piece of his mind, Cantor would give them all his mind.

Milton Berle said, in Berman, that Cantor was not naturally funny. Certain comedians were born funny. Cantor fought for laughs, mostly through constant motion and rolling his eyes.

Satirist Fred Allen, in Berman, noted how Cantor needed costumes and mock violence, usually aimed at his announcer qua straight man. He needed to occasionally kick his guests to get results.

The Cantor style was more highly energetic antics, says Goldman, than skills. Fred Allen, for example, devised subtle satire. Cantor bounced across the stage, eyes bulging, as he spoke a non sequitur such as, “I too am a mother.”

Chico Marx said Cantor worked hard for comedy success. In Berman, Marx says Cantor is a great performer. He is not a truly funny man. He works hard to get a laugh. The Cantor style falls in that out of favour category of ‘show business,’ that now seems pretentious.

Nesteroff quotes comedy writer, Mort Lachman, who was also critical of Cantor. “He begged for laughs. He was a difficult man to work with, a … limited talent, but he got the most out of what he had.” There is nothing wrong with hard work and success based on it.

There is an urban legend focused on the talent of Cantor. There was a complaint that if a cast member got a big laugh during rehearsal, there was a script rewrite to give Cantor the laugh when the show aired. Although there may be a grain of truth in this legend, it also likely applies to any successful radio comedian.

Such criticism haunted Cantor throughout his radio career. Yet, he showed how radio was the key to the imagination. Listeners saw what they heard.

Nachman says much of the strength of Cantor laying in his singing. In this sense, he was akin to Jolson, who was stiff performing comedy skits or bits, but wildly compelling when singing. For Cantor, comedy was mechanical filler, of largely standard material, used to plug the gap between songs and orchestra instrumentals.

For first run of The Chase and Sanborn Hour, Cantor earned twenty-five hundred dollars. He also earned seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars for writing each show. He gave his co-writer two-hundred and fifty dollars.

NBC paid for broadcast technology, including studio time. It also paid for announcer Jimmy Wallingford and orchestra leader David Rubinoff. Any payment to guests came out of what Cantor earned.

In the early years guests were rare. Cantor used dialects to create players for skits. He might perform all roles in a skit.

Gracie Allen, of the Vaudeville super duo, burns and Allen, was the first paid guest on The Chase and Sanborn Hour. She portrayed a reporter sent to interview Cantor about his presidential campaign. The next year, 1932, Burns and Allen had their own radio show.

Guests for a Cantor shows were usually male celebrities, rising, well-established or fading. Either way, they mostly worked gratis. The idea, says Nachman, was to show a guest as a good sport willing to slum in radio. Guests had to do what was necessary to identify with the audience.

The quid pro quo is implicit. The host hobnobs with important people, thus giving his show a veneer of respectability. The guest reaches fifty million potential voters or consumers of his theatrical or literary work, which might lead to a career or a career boost.

Cantor was successful on radio, says Koseluk. This is how he extended his status as a beloved figure in America. In 1932, he ran a mock campaign for the Presidency. He had a campaign song. The lyric, in Goldman, was,

I’m not a politician, so what I say is true.
If you send me to Washington, here’s what I’ll do for you.
Oh, when I’m the president; when I’m the president,
There won’t be any landlords, when I’m the president.

Ignoring Roosevelt and Hoover, says Weinstein, he favoured the slogan, “Elect Cantor because Cantor sings songs.” Another slogan was “Prosperity and Cantor are around the corner. Cantor arrives first.” He received write-in votes.

Cantor took a pragmatic approach to appearing on radio. He could play large, sold-out Vaudeville house, seven nights a week for forty years to reach thirteen million people. Alternatively, says Dunning, he could reach more than that number of people by appearing for one hour a week on radio.

Introducing new talent was a Cantor trademark. Singers Deanna Durbin and Dinah Shore, says Dunning, are notable discoveries. Yet, Parkyarkaskus was the most significant of the time.

Cantor had a strong social conscience, which he flaunted. His skit, “Night-time Court of the Air,” is a prime example of his predisposition in action, says Dunning. As judge, Cantor oversaw three or four humorous and nonsense cases. The last case he would hear was serious, involving divorce or suicide. For example,

After two nonsense cases, the Judge Cantor segment on 26 November 1933 turned to an on-going family squabble. A husband had a long-standing conflict with his live-in mother-in-law. He wanted her out. She was no less happy with the circumstances the son-in-law described.

The mother-in-law had no place to go. She was a widow in the throes of the Great Depression. Making bad even worse was the dependency of women on men, at the time. One man away from welfare was an apt slogan for her circumstances.

Cantor kindly urged reconciliation. He explained the perspective of each. Empathy, he noted, was the solution. Mutual understanding, that is, visualising the role of the other, would lead to a better, happier life for all concerned.

Common sense was a hallmark of comments by Judge Cantor.

In 1931, episodes of The Chase and Sanborn Hour aired from a hermitically sealed studio. Carpeting and thick drapes cloaked the walls to manage the sound. The shows featured dreary periods of silence between jokes, skits, songs and too many orchestra instrumentals, all of which puzzled listeners.

“Actors could not hear audience reactions,” says Mel Simons, the Boston-based trivia mavin. Moreover, “if microphones picked up the audience clapping or laughing,” he says, “a hollow, cavernous sound would go out over the air.”

A sealed studio, engineers said, was the only way to faithfully air content. Cantor balked at the sealed studio, Chevalier had not. Cantor believed laughter was contagious, says Nachman.

Cantor prevailed. Audience involvement was essential. Those at home, listening to radio, would also be more involved if they heard the audience reactions, said Cantor in Berman. Radio is the key to imagination.

“The natural inclination was to set up a glass [partition],” says Shadoe Stevens, “to replace a more conventional studio wall.” “The audience could see and hear Cantor,” says Simons, “Cantor could see and hear the audience.”

A glass partition between actors and audience installed, yet silence prevailed. “The [in studio] silence threw Cantor for a loop,” Mel Simons says. He had to deal with the silence. So did the NBC network.

“Cantor demanded NBC remove the glass partition, regardless of what the technicians said. NBC took away the partition and found a way to ensure a broadcast-quality show. Profit potential is the key to innovation.

The glass studio wall came down. Radio shows became more energetic, less dreary. Audience reaction became an integral part of variety programmes and, later, situation comedies.

“Every radio comedian was indebted to Cantor,” says Mel Simon. “They all had the same problem. They needed to hear the audience response as did their listeners.”

Despite opening the stage, Chase and Sanborn demanded the audience remain silent. Koseluk says an usher would rebuke anyone making the slightest sound. The silent audience policy was in place until halfway through the second season, 1932.

A skit involved Cantor and announcer Jimmy Wallingford. They decided to embellish the skit, for the studio audience, with props. Cantor left the stage. He went to where his wife, Ida, and Mrs. Wallingford were sitting. He took their hats and wraps back on stage.

Cantor and Wallingford donned the hats and wraps. The studio audience roared, laughing uncontrollably. Listeners at home, perhaps a little bewildered, at first, surely caught on, quickly.

Spontaneous audience reaction became another integral part of radio and, later, television comedy. Radio is the key to imagination.

As one episode of The Chase and Sanborn Hour was ending, an engineer noticed the script running five minutes short. Cantor ad-libbed a leisurely talk on the benefits of Chase and Sanborn coffee, says Koseluk. Although a commercial, listeners took the adlib as genuine.

Intimate pep talks became a regular part of Cantor shows. Topics included social issues, especially the Great Depression and how to survive it. Cantor even mounted a mock campaign for the 1932 Presidency, based on these end-of-show chats, now called Moments of Candor. According to IDMB, Cantor received 3200 write-in votes for president.

During one end-of-show chat Cantor mentioned his birthday was coming up. Although the comment was not a plea for presents, he did mention, jokingly, his shirt size and preference for chocolate cake. Fifteen thousand gifts for Cantor arrived at NBC. A committee, says Koseluk, decided how to distribute clothing and food gifts to the needy.

In another promotion, Chase and Sanborn offered a book, by Cantor, free of charge. Koseluk says over two-hundred-and-fifty thousand listeners requested a copy of Eddie Cantor at Home. A similar number of listeners asked for a second book, Cantor Makes Coffee.”

Ironically, Cantor did not drink coffee. Yet, Chase and Sanborn coffee was the choice of his wife and daughters. He urged his advertiser to build a campaign around the drinking of coffee in this home.

At first, the Chase and Sanborn and its agency balked, says Koseluk. It was negative advertising. Again, Cantor prevailed, rightly.

His message was that if his wife and daughters liked Chase and Sanborn, it must offer much. If he did drink coffee, Cantor said it would be Chase and Sanborn. Truth in advertising was a success and, thereafter, an integral part of radio programmes.

 As mentioned earlier, Cantor, and his contemporaries, Fred Allen and Jack Benny, actively sought guests. When guests appeared, Cantor willingly shared the stage of his show, just short of handing over the reins. Often, he served as straight man for a guest comedian. Most guests came for one show, but one guest that stayed for three years was Parkyarkaskus.

Parky was a Boston copywriter by day and a character comedian and put on artist by night. Cantor met Parky when both performed at a luncheon. Although his name is clearly an inside Boston joke, park your carcass, that is, sit down, he worked in a Greek dialect that mangled the English language.

After Cantor finished his shtick, it was time for Parkyarkaskus, whom the locals in attendance knew, but Cantor did not. According to Nesteroff, Parkyarkaskus insulted Cantor this way:

You Americans are such children when it comes to humour. No sophistication. No subtlety. The simplest trivial things amuse you. I can hardly believe my ears when I heard you all laughing so heartly at this man Cantor just now. If you Americans pay the man a million dollars a year, as I have heard you do, all I can say is, you must be crazy.

Parky could not sustain his deadpan face, says Nesteroff. The fear in the eyes of Cantor was too much. He started laughing. The audience roared with laughter. Cantor must have laughed, too. When he returned to New York City, he telegraphed Parkyarkaskus, offering him a guest shot on his next show.

Asking only for his travel expenses of fifty dollars and no guest fee, Parkyarkaskus appeared on the following Sunday show with Cantor. He was a huge hit. His Boston employer loved the free advertising. Cantor invited Parky back, repeatedly. Eventually, Parky took the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar guest fee and quit his day job.

Parkyarkaskus was the stage name of Harry Einstein. Top-notch funny business runs in his family. Parky is the father of comedians qua actors Super Dave Osborne (Bob Einstein) and Albert Brooks (Albert Lawrence Einstein).

At the time he added Parkyarkaskus, Cantor began to develop a fresh style of radio comedy. He told a reporter that audiences were “gaged out.” They did not want a steady stream of often unrelated jokes, says Koseluk. The Cantor persona would more closely resemble his off-stage life, his personality.

Cantor left NBC and The Chase and Sanborn Hour as of 25 November 1934. George Jessell replaced him for the final thirteen weeks of the radio season, according to Variety. The departure of Cantor from radio received little attention in the trade publications of the time.

 

Cantor was a successful singer. Sage Suede (sagesuede.music@gmail.com) compares him to Frank Sinatra, although that is a stretch. Versions of his 1929 hit, “Makin’ Whoopee” persist, today, as a multi-verse torch song.

“Cantor sported a neckerchief in songs, such as “Makin’ Whoopee,” says Suede. This was unique, for the time, and fashion forward. “We just don't see that anymore.”

In 1934, Cantor covered a Harry Reser and his Band recording of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Originally dismissed as childish, silly or merely nonsensical song, which fit the Cantor style to-a-tee, sales of the sheet music were between three hundred and five hundred thousand copies in the first 24 hours after Cantor sang it. The song, by Jay Fred Coots and Haven Gillespie, is now a perennial Christmas favourite.

 

For most recent series of The Chase and Sanborn Hour, Cantor earned four thousand dollars a show, says Koseluk. He was the highest paid radio performer of his time and the most popular. This meant he could return to radio anytime he wished, says Dunning.

Back on radio. At 8 pm on Sunday, 3 February 1935, Cantor was back on the air again, says Dunning. This time on CBS. Seven months earlier, he left a sixty-minute show on NBC, as the highest paid radio performer of the time. Now, he was on CBS, working a more lucrative contract for a thirty-minute show.

The shorter format called for changes. The Cantor theme song changed from, “I’d Love to Spend This Hour with You” to “I’d Love to Spend Each Sunday with You.” Pebecco Toothpaste was the new sponsor. Ted Husing replaced announcer Jimmy Wallingford, who worked for NBC, not Chase and Sandborn or Cantor. Parkyarkaskus and band leader Rubinoff returned to fill out the cast.

The shorter format led to a more polished show. Initially, ratings for the new show, on the new network, were good. Film commitments for Cantor led to a move, from eight pm to seven pm. This series of CBS shows ended on 10 May 1936.

Canter returned to CBS radio on Sunday 20 September 1936. Chase and Sanborn sponsored again. Cantor earned twenty-five hundred dollars, net, per week for twenty-one programme weeks. He left this show as of 3 March 1938.

Multimedia Cantor was on and off radio from 1931 until 1954. Dunning summarizes his radio career,

As of 28 March 1938, Cantor had a new show on CBS. This show ended as of 25 March 1938.

From 28 March 1938, Cantor was on CBS in the Camel Caravan.

On 2 October 1940, he was back at NBC for Bristol-Myers; that show ended as of 19 June 1946.

From 26 June 1946 to 24 June 1949, Cantor hosted Time to Smile, the last two years for Papst Beer.

From 14 October 1951 to one July 1954, Cantor hosted a disc jockey show on NBC.

The 1935 time slot put Cantor in direct competition with Jack Benny, on NBC. The time slot soon changed. Cantor said he would rather compete with Major Bowles Original Amateur Hour then The Jack Benny Program.

For the 1936-1937 season, Cantor beat Benny in the ratings top spot, 29.1 to 28.6, says Lebowitz. Change of time slots and show days did not help ratings for Cantor. Changes in the cast, including adding Deanna Durbin and Bert Gordon, The Mad Russian, did not help, either. As Koseluk says, ratings thinned throughout the 1930s.

Cantor continued his end-of show-homilies, known as Moments of Candor. In 1938, Camel Cigarettes, sponsor of the Camel Caravan that starred Cantor, took serious exception to a homily critical of Hitler and Mussolini. At the end of a Thanksgiving-themed show, Cantor said it was nice to live in a country that carved turkeys, not countries from a map.

Camel cigarettes did not want to offend isolationists or Nazi elements of the audience, says Koseluk. The advertiser grew wary of Cantor years earlier, says Nesteroff. In 1935, he raised eighteen thousand dollars to help five hundred children escape the Nazis. Camel decided to ban comments it thought any listeners might not like.

The ban backfired. Cantor telegraphed his banned comments directly to President Roosevelt. Rosevelt, who, in turn, circulated the comments. This increased the amount of public attention to the comments.

As Koseluk says, these Moments of Candor and the wide-spread attention they received broke the camel’s back. The speech did not endear Cantor to his advertiser, Camel cigarettes, says Weinstein. Still, he continued his end-of-show homilies, his Moments of Candor, for the rest of the season.

Fascist sympathizers, says Nesteroff, often infiltrated the audience for the Camel Caravan broadcast. On at least one occasion, an audience member harassed Cantor. This was after show was over and left the air.

On 13 June 1939, Cantor spoke to the New York chapter of Hadassah at the World’s Fair Temple of Religion. His topic was the dangers of Nazi propaganda. His theme was the danger to American democracy.

What the Nazis were doing threatened the USA. Cantor blamed industrialists, such as Henry Ford, perhaps; politicians, such as Robert Rice Reynolds, and the Canadian-born pro-Nazi Father Coughlin. Although not broadcast, the speech received extensive coverage in the press.

For the 1938-1939 season, Cantor had a 17.3 rating, Radio Guide reported his show averaged 700,000 listeners in June 1938. These numbers were good enough for sixth place, overall, for the season, but not for the sponsor, says Weinstein, given the Moments of Candor. Camel Cigarettes did not renew its contract with Cantor.

Truth won. In the end, he put his salary where his mind and mouth were. Cantor prevailed, but threatened his radio career.

The speech and Moments of Candor kept Cantor off the air for one season. His outspokenness, his sense of social responsibility, says Weinstein, cost Cantor his salary for a season. His annual salary was six-hundred-and-eighty-five thousand dollars.

Cantor willingly sat out the 1939-1940 radio season. On 2 October 1940, he was back on NBC with a thirty-minute show, Time to Smile, sponsored by two products from Bristol Myers: Ipana Toothpaste and Sal Hepatica. He said Jack Benny influenced his return to radio.

Young and Rubicam, the advertising agency that produced the Cantor show, found his homilies too controversial. The Jack Benny Program was the top radio show and Young and Rubicam was its representative. Benny called the agency, advocating for Cantor. He wondered why the agency punished Cantor for saying what most people thought, but were afraid to say.

The influence exerted by Benny worked. By the end of 1940, says Koseluk, Cantor negotiated a new contract with Young and Rubicam. Benny was right. Truth won, again.

Cantor received ten-thousand-dollars a week, including ratings bonuses built into the contract, for thirty-nine weeks. Cantor paid cast, including announcer Harry von Zell, writers, singer Dinah Shore and musicians. By comparison, Benny received a similar contract, but for twenty-five-thousand dollars a week, says Liebowitz.

The USA entered World War Two in 1941. It was clear the Cantor homilies were on the mark. He enjoyed vindication.

 Effective 26 September 1946, Cantor had a new sponsor, Pabst Beer, for the Pabst Blue Ribbon Show. Initially, the show ran thirty minutes on Thursdays at nine pm. For the 1948-1949 season, the last for Cantor using a live comedy format, the show moved to Friday evenings at nine.

Dubbed the Apostle of Pep, the Cantor energy moved, easily, from Vaudeville to the new medium of radio, says Nachman. His skipping, jumping, clapping and eye-popping judgments, his Banjo Eyes, worked as well on radio as on the Vaudeville stage. Radio is the key to the imagination.

Listeners easily learned to visualise his antics. They learned laugh cues from the reaction of the studio audiences, which were as much a part of the show as Cantor, the announcer, regular characters, guests or orchestra. This is the power of radio to invoke the imagination.

As of 14 October 1951, Cantor returned to NBC radio, sponsored by Philip Morris. This time he hosted a disc jockey format. A heart ailment plagued Cantor. It dampened his energetic, peppy style.

Jimmy Wallingford and Harry Von Zell shared announcer duties on this new show, says Nachman. Rehashed old radio skits, bits and jokes were the content, with recorded musical breaks. Still, the energy faded and it showed.

There were no audience, for this show. The lack of audience reaction, the background silence, was deafening. This show ended as of 1 July 1954.

Philanthropy. The lasting, positive effect of celebrity often extends well beyond careers and lives. St Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital is an example. Comedian and actor Danny Thomas founded it in 1962, with Lemuel Diggs and Anthony Abraham. Its underlying idea is that “no child should die in the dawn of life.”

Another example is The MDA Labour Day Telethon in support of the Muscular Dystrophy Association (MDA). Comedian Jerry Lewis hosted the annual broadcast and is most associated with the telethon. It raised more than five hundred and sixty million dollars over sixty years.

Cantor was vigorously involved with social causes. Moments of Candor were the most meaningful acts of his deep concerns. His support of a summer camp for disadvantaged children, orphanages, hospitals and Jewish causes were not trivial. His loans to indigent actors are legendary. He did not expect repayment.

Actors Equity benefited greatly from the involvement of Cantor. He was a founder and one-time president of the Screen Actors Guild. The American Federation of Radio Artists and the Jewish Theatrical Guild benefited, too, from the largesse of Cantor.

In 1947, The United Jewish Appeal (UJA) bestowed its Humanitarian Award on Cantor. The award recognized the success of a fundraising tour he undertook on behalf of UJA. Previously, according to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, only US Secretary of State Cordell Hall and activist Eleanor Roosevelt, the former first lady of the USA, received this honour.

In 1949, says Weinstein, Cantor headlined a luncheon for the UJA at the Commodore Hotel in New York City. The event raised one-and-a-quarter million dollars. Weinstein quotes Variety as reporting the event was a record for one-off fundraising at the time.

Cantor was a pioneer in charity work, helping to [set up] the March of Dimes to combat polio.” US President Franklin D Roosevelt (FDR) founded the March of Dimes in 1938. As an adult victim of polio, FDR saw the need for a national charity to advocate for polio victims and conduct research.Cantor came up with the idea of asking for the donation of a dime, rather than larger amounts, hence, the March of Dimes. This was a successful strategy. 

Of all his charity work, the March of Dimes, “so that others may walk,” is the most enduring. Over time, its cause and service expanded to include maternal and child health.

In 1938, according to IMDB, other entertainers joined the March of Dimes cause. The White House received 2,680,000 dimes in response to the combined pleas.

In 1950, Cantor hosted the first, ever, telethon, The Eddie Cantor Show. It raised money for and awareness of the March of Dimes. It became the template for telethons to come.

In 1951, Temple University, in Philadelphia, awarded Cantor an honourary doctorate of humane letters. The award is for those that distinguished themselves through humanitarian and philanthropic contributions to society. The award fit the lifelong involvement of Cantor with humane causes.

In January 1952, Cantor celebrated his sixtieth birthday with a lavish dinner at the Commodore Hotel in New York City. One thousand people attended. Typical of Cantor, a charity profited from his good fortune. That dinner raised one million dollars for the March of Dimes.

“I don't believe the rescue work done by Eddie Cantor is well known,” says Aviva Cantor. A retired journalist, she is an admirer, not a relative. “He“ deserves to be honoured for his mitzvah,” she says.

In 1970, Aviva worked for Hadassah Magazine. “We were readying to move to a new building,” she says. Years of built-up clipping files and such needed sorting and packing. “Not everything could make the move.”

One day, she noticed a bulging file carelessly discarded in a waste basket. Curious, she retrieved the file. “Inside,” says Aviva, “were documents about work done by Eddie Cantor to rescue Jewish children from Europe in the late 1930s.

“There were many … documents about his efforts to organize and raise funds to rescue Jewish children,” says Aviva. “I think [this effort] was through the UJA. They were trying to bring [children] to safety. … they hoped to bring them to the US, but [President Roosevelt] didn't agree.”

After his ostensible retirement, in 1953, Cantor remained involved in social causes. He raised money and awareness for his favourite causes. The UJA and the Israeli Bond Fund benefited, especially, from his efforts. Cantor received an honourary Oscar for distinguished service to the film industry in 1956.

His dedication to philanthropy, his use of celebrity to help charitable causes, has lasting effect. The March of Dimes thrives today. A generation of Jewish children rescued from the Holocaust.

Epilogue. At 7:20 pm on 10 October 1964, according to Dailly Variety, Eddie Cantor passed. The cause was coronary occlusion, a heart attack. He was 72 years old.

Those who grew up with Cantor, says Weinstein, recognized his influence on life in North America. According to Daily Variety, Cantor conquered all show business: Vaudeville, legitimate stage, film, radio, music and television. He also raised more money for charity than did any performer of his time.

At his death, Vaudeville and Burlesque were all but gone. The Palace and Winter Garden, in New York City, kept Vaudeville on life support through the Second World War. Television shows, such as The Ed Sullivan Show and The Hollywood Palace, presented Vaudeville and mild Burlesque through the 1970s.

Few contemporaries of Cantor were relevant in the early 1960s. Jack Benny and Bob Hope were notable exceptions. Others, such as Milton Berle or Henny Youngman, funny as they were, continued to work mostly as nostalgia acts.

Comedy was fracturing into styles. The sharp satire of Mort Sahl. The confessions of Lenny Bruce. The socially aware improvisation of Elaine May and Mike Nichols.

The Beatles were changing popular music, radically. Swapping minor and major chords was one innovation. The AABA placement of verse (A) and chorus (B), which Covach discusses, distanced their music from the pop music Eddie Cantor performed. Their lyrics were more socially meaningful than those of earlier generations. Rhyming was less important.

The fan devotion Cantor enjoyed grew with Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley to the singular intensity of Beatlemania. Unlike the first half of the twentieth century, pop music was now an engine driving massive change in all areas of life, including pop culture, attitudes, interests and opinions. Ideologically, there was social liberation for Baby Boomers, says Stanley.

In January 1963 Cantor published As I Remember them. The book profiles people he met, worked with and admired in fifty-plus years in show business. Of Jack Benny, Cantor says, he “would rather enjoy laughs than get them.” Of early radio he said, it was fun …. corny, but fun. His homage to Will Rogers is moving. A Goodreads reviewer says that As I Remember them is “warm, gentle [and] funny.”

Postscript. “When I think of Eddie Cantor,” says Chris Bajda of Groomsday.com, “I can’t help but admire his resilience and adaptability. He was one of those rare talents that could do it all. He could  sing, act and make people laugh and do it with genuine enthusiasm.”

By every measure, Eddie Cantor had an incredible career. Up from dire poverty to extraordinary success and wealth. He conquered Vaudeville, follies, legitimate stage, film, literature, radio, music and television. His method was hard work, good career judgement, talent intelligently used and largesse. Luck comes to those who are prepared.

Cantor left a remarkable legacy. Yet, he is not remembered, much, by the show business he pioneered. Nor does the larger public remember him, well. The public certainly does not remember him as well as it does other performers of his era, such as Fred Allen and Jack Benny.

Jack Benny, for example, is very active and a successful industry more than fifty years after his death. There is a huge fan club, with around five thousand members. There is an annual online convention. There are scholarly and popular books, including a pseudo autobiography, Sunday at Seven, co-written with his daughter, Joan. His films and television shows abound. This is largely due to the efforts of Laura Leibowitz and the International Jack Benny Fan Club.

The Cantor legacy is reasonably active. In the early 1930s, he wrote pamphlets intended to lighten the load of the Great Depression for readers. They were also pamphlets promoting Chason and Sanborn coffee that led to greater truth in advertising. Two autobiographies are essentially vanity books. A Facebook group has 815 members. There is a collection of reminisces, too.

There are three biographies of Cantor. The Eddie Canter Story: a Jewish life in performance and politics, by David Weinstein, is eminently well-researched, written and readable. In Eddie Cantor: a life in show business, Gregory Koseluk, exhaustively researches a well-written and readable story focusing on show business and on the personal.

Herbert G Goldman, in Banjo Eyes, describes how Cantor declined from super star, in the 1920s and 1930s, to all but forgotten in the 1960s. His performance and material did not keep up with changing times, for example, Blackface. There is the natural fading of stardom, too.

A dozen radio shows, including one that did not air, are available. There are CDs of his movies, songs and performances, including an interesting one-man show. The Cantor canon is available due to the Herculean efforts of his grandson, Brian Gari.

Most important for Cantor legacy, is the one-man show at Carnegie Hall on 21 March 1950. According to Gavin, the show reveals the “Nature of stardom, past and present.” In this show, Cantor applauds life-long pal, Georgie Jessel; homages Vaudevillian Bert Williams and beatifies Will Rogers. Sharing the limelight was a Cantor trait.

His career and personal successes are meaningful and richly deserved. His canon confirms his legacy is notable. Still, the unanswered question is why Eddie Cantor is not known, today, never mind well-known.

The important answer might lie in the slogan, “A Sign of The Times.” Tastes change with time. So, too, do notions of acceptability.

An enduring link to Blackface makes Cantor less well known than his canon suggests. The larger public similarly ignores the powerful work of Al Jolson: his penchant to perform in Blackface is not easy to forgive. Also overlooked are Freeman Gosden and Charles Gorrell for portraying, obviously in Blackface, Amos ‘n’ Andy, a massive hit on radio for 30-plus years.

Blackface involves a non-Black performer applying burnt cork or black theatrical make-up to the face. Make up goes on the neck, too. There is also an overemphasis of the lips and eyes, usually with white face paint.

The aim is to augment a comical sketch by mocking Black people. The result is offensive. The result is disrespectful. The result is depictions promoting negative stereotypes.

Cantor continued to use Blackface into the 1950s, on The Colgate Comedy Hour. In Blackface, says Weinstein, Cantor did not perform the “sentimental paeans to plantation life” that were the domain of Al Jolson; for example, Give Me My Mammy. Cantor parodied Jolson, for example, by changing the lyrics of a song.

Blackface degrades Black people, regardless of song lyrics or the intent of a sketch. It reduces Black lives to demeaning caricatures, such as the mammy, Uncle Tom or Zip Coon. It enables and supports unfair treatment. It denies reasonable life chances. It promotes exclusion from the mainstream.

Blackface is tasteless. Blackface is bullying. Blackface is injurious.

With Blackface, Cantor and Jolson as well as Gosden and Correll were using a long-standing trope of American theatre. In the years before 1830, Thomas Dartmouth Rice was an itinerant entertainer. While touring in the American South, he saw versions of the Jim Crow Blackface caricature.

Rice surely saw Jim Crow in New Orleans. A supplier of food to hotels and restaurants, in the 1820s, would return in the evening to entertain guests at the businesses that used his wares. From an open wagon, he would sing, dance, tell stores and joke around, never forgetting to urge his audience to ask for his food products. This fellow called himself Jim Crow.

Rice was sure a Jim Crow character would attract and satisfy audiences in the American North. As Black people could not attend performances in most theatres in the North, no one would complain. Afterall, is this not the way Black people act?

Around 1830, Jim Crow became the centre piece of a new form of American theatre, the minstrel show. Rice wore Blackface and used an ostensibly Black – read slave – dialect for shows touring the North. As Jim Crow, he sang, danced and pranced around the stage, wildly, rolling his eyes. He played banjo and told jokes, mostly one-liners.

The minstrel shows staged in the North were hugely popular, on a scale matching Taylor Swift, today. Minstrel shows lasted up to three hours, involving a cast of twenty or more musicians, singers and players. These shows exhausted audiences and performers alike.

By mid-nineteenth century, Blackface became a distinctive and, to an extent, expected part of popular entertainment. New minstrel shows popped-up, everywhere. Mostly, new shows copied existing and successful shows. This ensured mindless copying of Blackface tropes and the damage thereby wreaked.

In 1848, Frederick Douglass condemned Blackface. He called Blackface performers Whites that wanted a complexion denied by nature. Other activist accused Whites of stealing costumes from the Black people.

These condemnations fell on deaf ears. Through Blackface minstrel shows, audiences confirmed existing and widely accepted racist ideas. Generations of White employers, business owners, bankers and mortgage brokers, among others, sized up Black people according to images parlayed by minstrel shows.

In the early twentieth century, Blackface became a stand-alone theatrical form. It split from minstrel shows on to the Burlesque or Vaudeville stages. Such progress (sic) increased the worth of Blackface and its messages for White audiences. So, too, did the actors that used it, such as Judy Garland, Shirley Temple, Mickey Rooney and others. They made Blackface, and all that went with it, acceptable family entertainment.

Not only variety performers used Blackface. Actor Ted Danson wore Blackface for an N-word riddled comedy sketch for then-girlfriend, Whoopi Goldberg; it was part of a 1993 homage to her at the Friars Club of New York City. In 2001, current Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, wore Blackface for an Arabian Nights-themed gala at the West Point Grey Academy, where he taught. Tom Hanks, Tyral Banks and even Tracy Morgan appeared in Blackface, only to regret doing so and needing to apologise.

Blackface is more than stealing an innocent, warm or supportive, persona, such as The Mammy. It is serious misuse of the core of an important group. A group led by a rich value emphasis and set of norms, beliefs and symbols.

In the end, Blackface derides the largely painful past of Black people. It presses toward disallowing the spirit and opinions of Black people. Black people are not a joke.

To paraphrase Sylvia Wynter, Blackface presents Black people as unworthy of human dignity. To paraphrase Cheryl Thompson, Blackface creates a real and an imagined line between belonging and not belonging. Whites belong. Others do not.

The interdict against Blackface is thus well and good. Blackface diminishes the core of a large, important group. To quote Spock, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Resentment toward Blackface actors is unlikely to ease. The cuts are too deep. Yet, there are hapless casualties in the drift toward greater insight and empathy.

The legacy of Eddie Cantor is such a victim of progress against Blackface. So, too, are Freeman Gosden and Charles Gorrell. Al Jolson may be more difficult to revive, as talent, alone, is insufficient to overcoming grievous harm.

Still, reconsidering the value emphasis, belief system and norms is necessary. It’s required for survival in an ever more diverse world. When we know better, we do better.

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Sources (draft)

*References to content in Variety according to publication date. 28 October 1964: 2; 18 October 1932: 3; 11 October 1932: 51; 6 September 1912: 25. Daily Variety 10 October 1964: 2, 11.

[1] Brian Gari.

[2] Eddie Cantor, My Is in Your Hands and Take My Life: the autobiographies of Eddie Cantor, published by Cooper Square Press in 2000.

[3] David Weinstein, The Eddie Cantor Story: A Jewish life in performance and politics, published by Brandeis University Press 2018.

[4] Gregory Koseluk, Eddie Cantor: a life in show business, published by McFarland in 1995.

[5] Robert Taylor, Fred Allen: his life and wit. Little Brown 1989.

[6] Edwin Emery, The Press in America. Prentice Hall. 1972.

[7] Mel Simons, personal conversation.

[8] John Dunning, of Old-Time Radio. Oxford.

[9] Laura Leibowitz (Leff), 39 Forever, second edition. IJBFC. Page 18.

[10] Charles Stein, editor (1984), American Vaudeville as Seen by its Contemporaries. Knopf.

[11] Gerry Berman (2020) The funniest decade: celebration of American Comedy in the 1930s.

Bear Manor.

[12] Robert W Snyder (1989), The Voice of The City: Vaudeville and popular culture in New York. Oxford.

[13] Vaudevilleamerica.org/performance/bedini-and-arthur-5/; University of Iowa, Keith-Albee Vaudeville Collection, Manager Reports, 21 September 1903-14 March 1904.

[14] Frank Cullen, Founder and director of the American Vaudeville Museum. Vaudeville.sites.arizona.edu/what-is-Vaudeville-draft/

9[15] James L. Johnson (1961), Address given to the Murray [Kentucky] Chamber of Commerce 18 May 1961. .murrayledger.com/community/the-father-of-radio-broadcast---nathan-b-stubblefield/article_c3a128a2-56e1-11eb-87b9-3b8e10159292.html.

[15] Gerald Nachman (1998) Raised on Radio. University of California Press.

[16] Michele Hilmes (1997) Radio Voices: American Broadcasting 1922-1952. University of Minnesota Press.

[17] Sandy Stewart (1975) A Pictorial History of Rado in Canada. Gauge Publishing.

[18] Joe Laurie (1953) Vaudeville from the Honkey Tonks to the Palace. Henry Holt and Company.

[19] “Radio Operators Hear a Good Concert," in the Bridgeport Telegram, February 4, 1922.

[20] Aviva Cantor e-mail 1 September 2023.

[21] Kilph Nesteroff (2015) The Comedians: drunks, thieves, scoundrels and the history of American Comedy. Grove Press.

[22] John Covach, "From Craft to Art: formal structure in the music of the Beatles. In Kenneth Womack and Todd F. Davis, editors (2006), Reading the Beatles: cultural studies, literary criticism and the Fab Four. State University of New York Press.

[23] Bob Stanley (2022) Let’s Do It: the birth of pop music. Faber.

[24] New York Times (1964), “Eddie Cantor Dead Comedy Star was 72” on 11 October.

[25] Eddie Cantor (1963), As I Remember them published by Duell, Sloan and Pearce.

[26]

[27] slate.com/culture/2019/02/ted-danson-Blackface-whoopi-goldberg-political-correctness.html

[28]cbc.ca/news/politics/canada-votes-2019-trudeau-Blackface-brownface-cbc-explains-1.5290664

[29] en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackface

[30] edition.cnn.com/2019/02/02/us/racist-origins-of-Blackface/index.html

[31] history.com/news/Blackface-history-racism-origins

[32] journals.uchicago.edu/doi/10.1086/723257

[33] nmaahc.si.edu/explore/stories/Blackface-birth-american-stereotype.

[34] pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/foster-Blackface-minstrelsy/

[35] theconversation.com/the-problem-with-Blackface-97987

[36] http://carmenkynard.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/No-Humans-Involved-An-Open-Letter-to-My-Colleagues-by-SYLVIA-WYNTER.pdf

[37] https://hellobeautiful.com/3069434/why-is-blackface-still-happening-in-2020/

[38] https://activehistory.ca/blog/2019/10/07/why-blackface-persists-and-what-historians-can-do-to-change-it/

[39] https://livelearn.ca/article/rights-and-freedoms/what-is-cultural-appropriation-and-why-is-blackface-wrong/

[40] Currently, Shadoe Stevens was the announcer on The Late, Late Show, with Craig Ferguson.” Stevens has one of the most widely recognized voices in the world. As programme director at KROQ-FM, in Los Angeles, he pioneered the Album Oriented Radio (AOR) format. He was the announcer on Hollywood Squares and “Square.” Stevens was a regular on the NBC sitcom, Dave’s World. He also authors a series of books for children, The Big Galoot.

Goldman, H G (1997) Banjo Eyes: Eddie Cantor and the birth of modern stardom. Oxford University Press.

Livia Gershon (2020) https://daily.jstor.org/how-people-in-the-depression-managed-to-laugh/. 9 April.

Morris Dickstein (2009) “Depression: facing the music: what 1930s pop culture can teach us about our own hard times.” The American Scholar: 78, 4, pp. 91-95.

James McCabe (1961) Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy.