99% Invisible - 286- A 700-Foot Mountain of Whipped Cream

Episode Date: November 29, 2017

While the 1960s shift in print and TV advertising has been heavily documented and mythologized by Mad Men, Madison Avenue’s radiophonic collision with the counterculture is less well known. A radio advertising producer, writer, and composer, Clive Desmond takes listeners on a highly subjective journey through one narrow, eccentric, corridor of radio advertising. Here, he has rescued beautiful forgotten nuggets of radio history and delicately arranged them into a glittering associative chain—a constellation of jingles and spots that somehow all add up to more. A version of episode was originally featured on The Organist, a bi-weekly experimental arts-and-culture program from McSweeney's and KCRW. A 700-Foot Mountain of Whipped Cream

This is 99% invisible. I'm Roman Mars. This show would not be possible without our advertisers. Seriously, don't worry, I'm not about to read some ads right now. I just want you to consider the way we use advertising. A lot of podcasters and radio hosts, myself included, read out messages from our sponsors, rather than play pre-recorded commercials. Rush Limbaugh does it?

Bowl and Branch, they have re-invited sheets and bedding from our sponsors rather than play pre-recorded commercials. Rush Limbaugh does it? Bowl and Branch, they have re-invited sheets and bedding with the sole purpose of making your nighttime rest more comfortable than ever. Howard Stern does it? It's snore-stop extinguisher. Yes, the fast-acting snore spray. And these ads in some ways actually

harken back to where audio advertising began. But the journey of how we got to now is fascinating. The organist, a podcast from KCRW and McSweeney's, recently featured a two-part documentary about the surprising and strange history of radio advertising as heard to the years of Clive Desmond, a radio producer and podcast host who has worked extensively in the ad industry. His account of the evolution of ad spots, jingles, and voiceovers all add up into a story of his own journey. And it starts when he was a boy.

I grew up in a little bungalow style house in Buffalo, New York. There was a beautiful radio in the kitchen. It was always on. In 1959, when I was two and a half, I began listening. My favorite station was WKBW. WKBW, but the law! It was a top 40 station.

So there were three or four commercials between every song. My advice says Susie. You like this brand new kind of leather, so be Susie. Listening as intensely as I did, I seem discovered that all radio commercials weren't the same. They were like pasta. They came in different shapes. There were monologue commercials, dialogue commercials, interview commercials,

musical commercials. But even to my tiny tender ears, I noticed all commercials had one thing in common, a certain lack of authenticity. The radio voices spoke with a cheery, make-believe tone, one that said, It's going to be wonderful. Everything's great. This was a tone I had never heard real people speak in, except for one of our neighbors, Mrs. Cunningham. She was an optimist. But then one day, when I least expected, I heard a radio commercial that featured a little girl. Marsha, what's your opinion of all the vitamins

and minerals in Bosco? I never saw them. You can't see them, but they're there. It says so right there on the label. I don't know how to read yet. I'm only four. Well, I'm sorry, Marsha. That's okay.

Anyway, I don't care about finding things. I just like basketball, because it makes my mouth taste so good. What does it taste like? Like milk with chocolate in it. I don't think we'll forgot it. Well, Bosco's good for you. I know. But other things I like, Bosco contains vitamins.

But I just like the taste good. Looks like you fooled her. But they're so smart. But they're smarter. This little girl's voice had a powerful effect on me, because she sounded as real as the girl who lived in the bungalow next door to us. A few days later, sitting in the back seat of the family car, we drove past WKBW in downtown Buffalo. I peered out the window at the station and wondered if the Bosco Surrup Girl lived there.

I mean, how else could the girl in the commercial be on the radio like that all the time? I hadn't yet learned about the wonders of the tape recorder. While I sat in the car, pondering the whereabouts of the Bosco Surrup girl, 375 miles to the south in New York City, was the man who made the Bosco Surrup radio commercial. His name was Tony Schwartz. He was a radio producer and audio archivist. Tony Schwartz specialized in recording commercials with real people, instead of recording actors,

trying to portray real people, which meant the Bosco syrup girl was a real child and not a 35 year old actor playing a child. Schwartz's production philosophy was to avoid the use of any music or unnecessary sound effects. And when he did work with actors, Schwarze directed them not to sound like actors. In this way, Tony Schwarze was radio advertising's first modernist. A fire breaks out on the first floor of the two family house. Door. The woman quickly leaves to call the fire department. Door. And two people die upstairs.

Overcome by smoke. Door. A man smoking in bed starts a fire. The door. Leaves the bedroom, rushes to a foam. The door. And before the fire department gets there. The door.

The rest of his house burns down. The door. Is there one single act that could have been done? Close the door. The rest of his house burns down. The door. Is there one single act that could have been docked? To help prevent this needless loss of life and property. Close the door. What should these people have done? Close the door. Do you know that a door is one of the best pieces of fire fighting and life saving a quick-low's the door? And if you leave a room that is on fire,

close the door. If you simply close the door, the door. It will help stop the fire and smoke from spreading too quickly. Close the door. This life-saving information is brought to you by this station and the New York City Fire Department. After I turned nine, every summer I was richly shipped to California to spend time with my cousins in San Francisco. Like most children, I was fond of Saturday morning cartoons. The more cartoons I watched, the more familiar I became with the characters, and the more

familiar I became with the characters, bugs the more familiar I became with the characters, Bugs, Bup-I, Bullwinkle. The more I took notice of their specific voices. But there was one voice I liked most, perhaps because he sounded so uncartoon-like. You may know him as Pete Booma, Jr. Bear, or Chimney Lamox. He appeared in Sylvester and Tweety, a bug's bunny road runner-hour, Renan Stimpy, Stuart Little, and I go Pogo, among hundreds of other shows. But when I was a boy, he was in radio commercials too. His name was Stan Freberg. Allowance in 1966, Chongqing.

Sleek, American. A different breed of Chow-Man. You see it instantly in its old new bean sprouts. It's crisp, aggressive, water chestnuts. Talk about extras. You want bucket bamboo shoots. Power onions. You got it, Mr. In the 1966 Chun-King Chao main.

Outside too, you'll notice the revolutionary styling of its round cans right away. Wrap around labels. More pick up in the two cans taped together. That standard equipment on this, baby. Look at the way she handles. In the bottom can, independent vegetable suspension. And in the top can, where the action is, over 27 cubic inches of succulent chunking sauce loaded with high performance chicken.

Step up to the tuned Chao main, the 1966 chunking. Noodles optional. I didn't know who Stan Friedberg was, or how big a role he would play in the evolution of sound for radio commercials. But whenever I heard his voice, it got my attention. One night, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge with my uncle Owen, Stan Freiburg's voice

popped out of the speaker. Stand, I ask my uncle. Could you turn that up? Radio, why should I advertise on radio? There's nothing to look at, no pictures. Listen, you can do things on radio, you couldn't possibly do on TV. That'll be the day. All right, watch this. OK, people, and now when I give it a cue,

I want the 700 foot mountain of whipped cream to roll into Lake Michigan, which has been drained and filled with hot chocolate Then the Royal Canadian Air Force will fly overhead toying a ten ton Marasino cherry Which will be dropped into the whipped cream to the cheering of 25,000 extras. All right. Shoot them out You're the Air Force You the Marish, you don't charry. Okay, 25,000 cheering extra. Now, you want to try that on television?

Well... You see, radio is a very special medium because it stretches the imagination. Doesn't television stretch the imagination? Up to 21 inches, yes. Poo listens to radio, was part of an advocacy campaign sponsored by the radio advertising bureau of America, to encourage clients to buy more radio time. Apparently, radio was going through a sales drought.

Nevertheless, Stan Freberg was the main voice of this epic radio commercial, and that's what caught my attention. Hearing Freiberg command a 700-foot mountain of whipped cream being rolled into Lake Michigan, while the Royal Canadian Air Force towed a giant maraschino through the sky. It flipped a switch in my imagination, as nothing had before. This was bigger than the Bosco chocolate syrup roll, although in hindsight, she was still pretty good. Two and nine-year-old, two weeks, bills like a year. And that was more than enough time for me to untether myself from the familiar sounds of Buffalo, and absorb the subtly different tone and tempo of California.

California. Hmm. Two weeks on the west coast that cleared my mind mind and ready me for the next phase in my radio commercial journey. After my vacation ended, I was sent home to Buffalo via the scenic route. I spent most of my time in the observation car with the new transistor radio my uncle Owen had given me as a going away present. The radio, model name Juliet, was about the size of an iPhone 5. It was an inch deep and came with a leather cover as soft as a lambs ear. But of most importance, it had an earplug. The earplug looked like a piece of outmoded technology from the Balkan wars, brown and

round as a walnut attached to the radio by a coiled wire. Listening with the earplug was a new experience for me. It was like being in a radio cocoon. Station after station, commercial after commercial, I slowly began to overdose. Then I made a disturbing discovery. The more I listened, the more I recognized the sameness of all the stations and commercials. After hours in this echo chamber, I grew bored. I wanted to hear something new or something different. Two days later, after passing through the American Heartland, the train had a one hour layover in Chicago.

My plan was to stay on the train, listen to the ballgame, and read the amazing Spider-Man number 38. During the first inning, I fell asleep and had a dream. A weird kind of dream. You can call it a radio dream. And now the dream. I am in Chicago. I leave my train seat and go outside. Next, I am walking through a secret tunnel, but I had to be careful because it was dark.

The tunnel led to a theater. Suddenly, the footlights come on. And a lanky man in a black suit walks up a few steps onto the stage. He unfolds a greasy sheath of papers and starts to read. A small jazz band gets to work behind him. I want you to know that I love my baby and my baby loves me

Short time ago we went out together to a place called far out up in the middle The rhythm was there I reached over and held my baby's hand. She gave me little squeeze. I knew we were in the same key. Everything was beginning to sway in a quiet years later. I would learn that this combination of writing and music was called Word Jazz. And the pioneer who created it was a man called Ken Nordin. Then I heard a train whistle and I woke up and I snapped back into reality. In the beginning Nordin was simply a writer and a performer with a lot to say. To supplement his major income he began making radio commercials in the

word jazz style. As we pulled out of Chicago, an ordained commercial played over my Juliet radio earphone, it was as though the heavens had opened and I heated the voice of all that could be. Think with your tongue about lemon. From the first smack, your tongue can tell that lemon is something else. Something so subtly obvious. By a something so obviously subtle. Yet, there was a feeling among yesterday's tongues

that the something else that is lemon wasn't getting its just desserts. But that was before the Shara Flavor Bud. Nothing secret about Flavor Bud, except it gives you a perfect lemon jelly dessert every time. Best thing that happened to lemons since trees. Best thing that's happened for tongues since trees. Best thing that happened for tongues since please. Flavorbot is what makes this lemon so lemony lemon. Reward your family with the share of jelly dessert marked lemon.

As any honest tongue will tell you, not all jellies are created equal, so ask for share of jelly dessert. Shove. This time, lemon. The lemon dessert radio spot was like nothing I'd ever heard, but it was just what I've been searching for. Nordine had created something fresh and had seemingly came from out of nowhere. I loved it, but I didn't have much hope that anything else like this would be coming down the line. Perhaps I was too young to see that Nordine was a harbinger of things to come.

On the last Friday of the summer of 66, I arrived in Buffalo, but I wouldn't be there long because that night at dinner, my father announced the family was moving to Toronto. As long as I had my comics, my Juliet radio, and uninterrupted access to my favorite Buffalo media, the move to Toronto meant little to me. Heck, I thought, it may even be a good thing. As a child growing up in the 60s, I can't say I love jingles. In the 60s, all the jingles I heard were reiterations of jingles from the past. Sure, they were as cute as a basket of puppies, but for the most part, nothing more than tuneless, mindless, junk. That was until the summer of 1967, when some very strange things began to happen

in the universe of the lowly jingle. In 1967, the Beatles' record, Sargent Pepper had just come out, and popular music suffered a massive disruption. With its guitars, arneard sounds, and allusions to Lewis Carroll and Stockhausen, Sargent Pepper landed with a bang. And so big was the bang, Sargent Pepper sent Jangle producers on a mad scramble to copy the new sound, and he which way they could. One of our neighbors, a Jangle producer named Mort Ross, went berserk. At a barbecue one night, I remember Mort telling my mother, this is the biggest thing ever.

What am I going to do? How can I compete with a god damn beetles? My mother looked solemnly at her freshly manicured fingernails and said nothing. The Beatles, of course, had always been vatred to endorse products, but being the Beatles, it was not to be. However, if the Beatles wouldn't make a jingle, there were plenty of musicians who would. Still giddy from the success of their single White Rabbit, the Jefferson era plane accepted an invitation to make a jingle. The invitation, and by way of

Levi Strauss, the clothing company, who were anxious to draw attention to their line of white jeans. It may take a second or two to grasp what euro back to here, but it's a jingle all right. A summer of love jingle. Listen to the way Grace licks summons the spirit from a pair of white jeans. Now, Jefferson Air White. Right now with your white Levi. White Levi's coming in black, flashing through the blue, I love you. Right now in the ohoidly eyes, right now with some cactus, in blue and white, crashing, floating, and sand

Right now, with some white leaves eyes For calling, whiskey, play at the end of the day Right now, with the old white sea. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, the strangest jingle to come out of the period was a spot for Remington Electric Razors. It was produced by Frank Zappa. Teaming up with an unknown singer Linda Ronstadt. Zappa produced one of the most magnificently odd jingles in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm in the middle of the road, I'm gonna have to go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and go to the bathroom and you may even keep you from getting busted. Of course, senior management at Remington rejected Zappas Jingle.

I don't know why, because Zappas Jingle is a one-of-a-kind creation. To be honest, it's the Dominion of Canada. I went to school, stumbled through the nuances of Canadian English. And because Buffalo was only 35 miles south of Toronto across Lake Ontario, I could still pick up my favorite Buffalo stations while exploring all the radio Toronto had to offer. CHUM, CBC, CFRB, the list went on. By divine intervention, my father, a gadget freak, acquired an enormous Sony 2-track reel-to-reel tape recorder on which I learned to record and edit. When I was 12, other, a gadget freak, acquired an enormous Sony 2-track real-to-real tape recorder

on which I learned to record and edit. When I was 12, my voice began to break, and I saw my future. I was going to become a voice-over actor in radio commercials, and maybe if I was lucky, I'd be on TV commercials too. One step at a time I warned myself. One step at a time. My voice over nom de plume was Chris Christensen. Reading into the Sunday Tape recorder as Chris, I practiced every day. I read copy from a magazine ad to make my first radio commercial. It was an experience in humility. Take one. A lot of cigarettes from a tape, but for me, only one cigarette delivers, and

that's the route. Take two. A lot of cigarettes. In seventh grade, I had a friend who intentionally dressed and wore his hair to look like Andy Warhol. His name was Taylor Reed. Taylor's father, Mr. Reed, was the Count Executive at the ad firm McCann Erickson. McCann Erickson's biggest client was Coca-Cola. On weekends, when Taylor's dad had custody of Taylor, I would often tag along, and the three of us would hang out at Mr. Reed's office at McCann. One Sunday, in February, Mr. Reed took us into the boardroom.

We sat down, and he explained he had a top secret radio project to show us, and he wanted our opinion. Then he pressed the button, the curtains closed, the lights went down, we sat in the dark and waited. And then a voice of such angelic purity peers through the silence, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I'd like to buy the world a home and finish it with love. Grow up on trees and honey bees

So white, turtle does. I'd like to teach the world to sing with me. I'd like to buy the world a home To sing with me A big, common, a big common I like to buy the world of coke I keep it company and the real I like to keep the world of silver I want to marry on a big, big, big, big

And I'd like to buy the world of coke And keep it company's the real thing What the world wants today Oh, never come, it's the real thing What the world wants today It's the real thing After the new Coke jingle played, Mr. Reed said, so what do you boys think?

We gave a thumbs up, and boy, were we right. The simple words and melody of the new Coke jingle suggested that the clearest path to utopia was through the mouth of a Coke bottle. Still, preposterous or not, to this day, I'd like to buy the world of coke remains one of the most popular jingles in the history of radio. When FM radio came on the scene, I put my Julia portable transistor radio in retirement and acquired a new portable Panasonic radio with AMFM reception and stereo

ear plugs. The new radio was smaller than a paperback, yet bigger than the Juliet. Every Saturday and Sunday night, I would lie on my bed in the dark and toggle across the frequency band of my Panasonic in search of new things to hear. At that time, I was very excited that I had discovered the concept of irony. I was always on the outlook for tiny, ironic moments to test my new capacity for irony detection. My solitary weekend listening parties typically went something like this. Saturday night, 10 p.m. WGR radio, Buffalo, tuned into Larry King, topic the Vietnam War

with actor Jane Fonda. He'll always be part of you at all. Always. But so will Tom Hayden and so would Vadim except he died. Memorable moment? An army recruitment ad, produced by Ken Nordein, yes the same word jazz Ken Nordeinite heard in Chicago, played right after Jane delivered a rousing speech about the hypocrisy and evil

of the military industrial complex. Young man, are you haunted by a fear of failure? You're right, Alex. Young man, are you haunted by a fear of failure? Chain to a dull job with no future? When the door to opportunity swings open, and success awaits, do you have a ghost of a chance? Don't despair. You're still young. There's still time. Time to escape from a dreary future. How? Choose your own job training in today's army. And say goodbye to the evil eye. You can choose dumb training before you at list, before you at list, in the modern army.

Sunday night, 8 p.m. Chama fam Toronto. Show the FireSign Theater. Ladies and gentlemen of the radio public tonight, athletes in action, the heaviest show you'll ever see. A surreal stream of consciousness comedy radio show produced in Los Angeles that often made coded references to recreational drug use. Usually marijuana.

Memorable moment, the Canadian Department of Health was a key sponsor of the FireSign Theatre Show. So during commercial breaks, listeners were bombarded by endless rounds of anti-drug PSAs. Like this weird contribution starring Indian classical musician Ravi Shankar. This is Ravi Shankar. You young ones, you have the elixir of life. You don't need hard cuts to make your life more meaningful. In high school, I was a loner, a real holding coffee old. But I managed to avoid most of the humiliating pitfalls of adolescence

with a rapier wit, all of its stolen from George Carlin, and because I was always wearing earphones. After graduation, I took the radio and television arts course at Ryerson University, where I excelled at reading weather reports on the student radio station CFRM. On sunny days, I would call for rain. On chilly days, I would call for warmth. I was a real barrel of stupid collegiate laughs. After my freshman year at Ryerson, I got lucky and landed a summer job as a boy Friday at a Toronto recording studio called Morgan Earl Sounds. I was the lowest run on the ladder. My daily duties included, backhuming, picking up my boss's dry cleaning, cataloging tapes, an endlessly restocking mid-priced wine for our clientele of attractive ad agency creative department workers.

These were the beautiful people and now I was among them. Morgan Earl sounds specialized in making two things, radio commercials and jingles. On any given day, I'd hear an amazing cortege of radio commercials with the voices of Catherine O'Hara, Eugene Levy, Rick Moranis and John Candy. None of whom were household names yet. Hey, come on, we're paying you to say door vowel circle, huh? Harland autumn. As easy to get to, as they are to talk to.

Easy root number one. Take the Metropolitan to the Coat Delias Exits and follow Coat Delias to the Winter Circle. It's Harland Auto at the Door Valorcer. Excuse me. Or, Easy root number two. Take the Transcandid of the Sources Boulevard. Go south on sources to highways 2 and 20, then west to the Winter Circle. It's Door Valorcer. Can you say that?

Move your mouth. Move your mouth. Door Val, Door Val, we're paying you the money. Once you're there, circle. Can you say that? Move your mouth. Move your mouth. Door valve, door valve. We're paying you the money. Once you're there, you're where you should be for the best in General Motors car sales and service. Harlan Otto has been there for years, and for years they've been the automatic choice.

Thinking GM, think Harlan. Look for them at the winter circle. Are you having problems at home or something? You can't read the script. I mean, it's right there in front of you. Door valve. I've had enough of you. What do you mean? Leave me alone.

Leave your learn. I'll leave you alone. As easy to get to. As they are to talk to. Harland Aura at the Winner's Circle. Door go. It's a door. Hey, the door.

After two days on the job, I was shocked when one of the senior producers invited me into the studio to witness the production of a radio commercial. For listeners, we have never set foot in a recording studio. Here's how it looks. The recording environment is comprised of two rooms, a studio, and a control room. The studio is soundproofed and contains microphones and headphones for the performers. The control room has a variety of speakers, recording devices, and a mixing console, which allows you to edit and assemble the recorded material. There is also a plush seating that includes leather-bound sofas to catch the occasional spilled drink.

In those days, the control room air was rich in the unmistakable aroma of Ampex 456 recording tape. A scented recalls, campfire smoke, and styrofoam packing peanuts. There were asteris everywhere, and strewn around the room like sleepy domestic house cats, where the coterie of writers, producers, and client representatives. Given the often experimental aesthetic of the time, and the success of Second City and Saturday Night Live, many commercial recording sessions relied not on scripts, but on the improvisational talent of the performers. I remember being at Morgan Earl one night and watching Second City Record a commercial for an upcoming federal election.

Here's an outtake from that session. What do you think we have to do to get people involved in politics? I say we get rent buses for them and force them to go to these meetings. I see. Well, what do you think we have to do to get people involved in politics? I think we should send them more letters, I tell them what's happening, and make them read them. Excuse me, what do you think we're gonna have to do

to get people involved in politics and good government? Well, I say if they don't go to the meeting, she attacks them, just attacks them real heavy. Hit them where it hurts in the pocket. I see. Political parties should be parties. I think that's what people are attracted to. They're attracted to fun.

And you make politics fun, and you got a lot of people involved. One of the great things about working at Morgan Earl were the out of town guests. Henry Winkler, William Shattner, and Alice Cooper. All stopped by for one reason or another. A familiar face at the studio was San Francisco-based radio writer, interviewer, and genius, Mal Sharpe. Mal's specialty is the man on the street radio commercial. I spent one day as a tape operator assisting Mal recording some commercials outside. He wore a trench coat and a stylish fedora.

Mal is one of the most fascinating and charismatic men I have ever met. Of the many lessons Mal taught me that day, the most important lesson in fact was how to talk with complete strangers. Mal could talk to almost anyone because he knew the power of kindness. Well, this is Mal's sharp along with Ernie Anderson. And of course, in the background, you hear the people of California chanting for Belbran to defeat the rival chip.

You can hear them as they sing. Belba brand, Belba brand, Belba brand, and the background. It's a man you're out here and you can hear these people If you think this is gonna be good for sales. Well, it's a new thing. It's a new in thing. Do you understand what they're chanting? Doesn't sound like potato chips at all. What is a sound like? It sounds like an Indian chant. Yeah. I mean, it's in Congress. So, in summation, you think it's going to be a good year for bell-brand potato chips, as long as there's chance.

I don't think so. I think it's going to be a good year for bell-brand. Regardless of the chanting, because their product is so good. Fresh crispy and yummy. Oh, very. Now what else do you want from me? Come on! If it's bell, it's swell.

Did you notice the pint-sized musical flourish at the end of the Bell potato chip spot? It's called a tag. Tags belong to a musical genre that began as an experiment for a waning breakfast cereal in 1926. What began as an audio experiment for a waning breakfast cereal in 1926? Would, over the next five decades, become a distinct musical form. It's called a jingle. Although, I was exposed to thousands of jingles in my childhood,

two of which you've already heard, who would have known there was a creative jingle explosion looming just around the corner. Jingles have been around since the beginning of radio, but in the 1970s, we hit peak Jingle. But since they fell out of fashion so long ago, this may be a good time to review, but actually makes a Jingle, a Jingle. Jingles always have a catchy melody that's easy to sing. They must be earworms, burrowing their way in and staying there for days. Lyrically, some jingles try to create a vague atmosphere of desire in a listener's imagination. Other kinds of jingles play to the listener with more specific appeals, underlining the

virtue of a product's price, speed, sexiness, or mouth-watering ingredients. To all be fatty special sauce, lettuce, cheese, trickles, and a set of special sauce, traditional jingles come with a chorus of singers who repeat a catchphrase or tagline near the end. On your own, on your own, we hold it! But what a jingle really does is bind an emotion to a product or service. From sunbaths in the east to the sun setting the west We're America's hands, do it what we do, do it what we do best! By design, Jingles bypass the analytical lobes in the brain and instead stimulate the

nucleus of condoms or pleasure centers. Once you hear it, a jingle creates an itch that you can't stop scratching. Between 1970 and 1980, ad companies produced thousands of jingles, and for a good reason. Change was in the air. In the 1970s, a new generation of very sophisticated young jinglewriters flooded the jingle jungle and couldn't help but write music that appealed to their generation. But none of this came as a big surprise to me, because in many ways, I was one of them. Growing up on a diet of steely-dann and Joni Mitchell, how could I not have been? Take Dr. Pepper The first time I heard it be a pepper in

77, I had to pull over to the side of the road. Randy Newman and Jake Holmes wrote the jingle which begins with a startling statement. I drink Dr. Pepper because I'm proud. I used to be alone in a crowd. What? A Dr. Pepper bottled a cure for alienation? Let's take a sip and see. Pepper 2 I'm a pepper, he's a pepper, she's a pepper If you drink Dr. Pepper, you're a pepper 2 Us peppers are an interesting breed An original taste is what we need Asking if pepper and is safe Only Dr. Pepper tastes that way

I'm a pepper, he's a pepper, she's a pepper Where a pepper, what do you like to be a pepper 2? I'm a pepper, he's a pepper, she's a pepper, where a pepper, what'd you like to be a pepper, too? I'm a pepper, he's a pepper, she's a pepper, where a pepper, what'd you like to be a pepper, too? Be a pepper, treat, doctor, pepper, come on! Be a pepper, treat, doctor, pepper, right? Be a pepper, treat, doctor, pepper, be a pepper, treat Dr. Pepa. For me, B.A. Pepper was an awakening. Listers were calling radio stations requesting to hear B.A. Pepper as though it were a hit song.

The power of this fact wasn't lost on me. At 20 years old, I began producing radio commercials. Then I joined the musician and actors union and began writing, playing and singing on jungles. Ribblubber's festival was on now 1695 only at Boston Beach. Reading the union newsletters, I discovered the Toronto was a hub of jingle innovation, but that the real center of the jingle universe was New York. And so, like thousands of story-eyed kids with a dream, in 1984, I moved to Gotham City, found an apartment, and hit the pavement with my demo tape in hand. apartment and hit the pavement with my demo tape in hand. As luck would have it, I was soon working. During my New York journey, I was a writer and a producer.

I worked for ad agencies and sound production companies. I listened as Radio Ads shortened from 60 seconds to 30 seconds. A gasp as creativity was often crushed by an increasingly powerful beast called Market Research. Yet despite the many obstacles, I was always in the studio doing what I loved most. Making radio. Radio. No matter what place I am, or era, I'm living in. One thing has always been clear to me. Radio commercials are never the main course.

Like the complimentary basket of garlic bread bread you get at an Italian restaurant. Radio commercials are not something you order, but rather something you expect and sometimes take delight in. Of course, unlike today's complimentary basket of garlic bread, the very first radio commercial was written and produced without a known format to follow. No one knew how short or how long it should be, and if it would work at all, and what if anything would happen after it went to air. On August 28, 1922, a W.E.A.F. radio in New York. A man called Mr. Blackwell stood behind a mic and urged unsuspecting listeners to leave Matt Hatton.

For the family friendly, tree-lined streets of Jackson Heights in the borough of Queens, if living in New York was getting on your nerves, Mr. Blackwell had news for you. A magical new place called a heart-th court, apartment homes. Listen to Blackwell's pitch for this exciting new place to live. Your health may depend on it. Friends, you owe it to your self and your family. The music and guest at city. And enjoy what needs to be intended you to enjoy. Visit our new apartment homes in Boston course, Jackson Heights,

where you may enjoy community life in a friendly environment. History doesn't say what happened to Blackwell, but response to the radio commercial was overwhelming because within days, the vacant apartments of hearthorn core Department Homes were felt. All of this because of one simple radio commercial. When word of the Harthorn radio miracle spread, every station in New York understood the potential and rushed into the fray. Finally, seeing a way to make real money, radio embraced commercials and radio commercials became a mainstay of the radio experience. What began as an audio experiment some 90 years ago eventually became a worldwide industry worth billions of dollars.

Brilliant or silly, thought-provoking or moving, the humble radio commercial became the fuel you could say that allows radio to play the news, music, and stories we've been listening to ever since. For the Organist, from KCRW and McSweeney's, Unclive Desmond. This was just an edited version of Part 1 of Clive Desmond's two-part personal history of radio advertising. To hear the rest, check out the organist from K-Shar W. and McSweeney's. There's a link on our website. While we're on the subject of the sound of radio changing our lives,

I wanted to share a clip of me talking about my first favorite radio story, which isn't a radio story at all. It's from a movie. That's right after this. So my friend Chuck Bryant is one half of the charming Josh and Chuck of the original Nerd Out on Tiny Details podcast called Stuff You Should Know. It's probably the first podcast I ever listened to and I still love it, me and them because Josh and Chalka are just so great to spend time with. Well, anyway, Chuck has this new podcast that's really fantastic. It's called Movie Crush, where he invites people he likes to talk about their favorite movie of all time.

And I went on to talk about Jaws. Now, I love Jaws. And so does Chuck actually and my favorite scene is when the shark hunter quint Tells the story of him being left in the water after his ship the USS Indianapolis was sunk in World War 2 So here's a part of that monologue Japanese submarine slam two torpedoes into our side chief It's coming back The island of Tinian the lady just delivered the bomb, the Hiroshima bomb. I'm 100 men when in the water. Vessel went down in 12 minutes. Didn't see the first shark for about half an hour.

Tiger, 13 footer, you know, you know that when you're in the water chief, you tell by looking from the dorsal to the tail. Well, we didn't know. Which our bomb mission had been so secret. No distress signal had been sent. They didn't even list his overdue for a week. Very first leg, chief. Sharks come cruising.

So we formed ourselves into tight groups. You know, it's kind of like old squares in a battle. Like you see in a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo, and the idea was, Sharks comes the nearest man there, and when he's that pounding, hollering, and screaming, sometimes the Shaq go away. Sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that Shaq he looks right into you. Might into your eyes. You know the thing about a Shaq he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes, is that lifeless eyes. Black eyes, like a doll's eyes.

Oh, it's okay. Anyway, here's a clip of me talking to Chuck Bryant about that scene on Movie Crush. I love radio so much, and I love the storytelling in radio. It is still like my ideal form, and I think of Quint's story as the first radio story I ever really loved. It's like, it is told just perfectly. Like you could almost see it. Like the story core music starts and then yeah, like know like on morning edition and then Quentin starts and you can remember some teenager going, oh my god, I can't believe it. On the other side, it is a perfectly told natural. I think I just think it's a radio

story. I would cut it out and put on the radio in a heartbeat. It's like perfect. And it's funny because there's all this stuff, all this great activity you've already had, the adventure music playing, you know, and the barrels and shooting it and everything, but that moment is so riveting. I love it. That's my favorite moment in the movie. I mean, one of mine for sure,

and the backstory there for that scene was that, that was not in the book, and Spielberg brought in the great screenwriter and filmmaker John Millius to write that monologue and then apparently Robert Shaw himself too who's a playwright went in and and did some rewriting on it and kind of worked with Millius on it and You know just ends up being like one of the most iconic monologues in movie history for sure

It is so good and it so naturally moved from one scene to the scar of comparison to the other. And the fact that I've thought about this a lot, it's like, it's called out because there are comparing scars and Brody says, what's that on your arm? And it's the removal of the tattoo of the Indianapolis. Right.

And I think about that all the time. Like, why would he remove it? Yeah. And like, what was going on in his head that he would remove it instead of keep it there? And with every part of his character that you get in other ways, that seems like this extreme moment in his life that you have no knowledge of, but you just have this little tiny peek into. And I love that part of it knowledge of, but you just have this little tiny peek into. And I love that part of it too.

It's just, I didn't really thought about that. That is super interesting that he would, and that's like old sailors don't have tattoos removed, you know? Yeah, exactly. So like the level of trauma or whatever he was trying to get away from or whatever it was, like it was clearly something that haunted him in a way like it was not an adventure story to him.

Yeah. What happened? And, or maybe it was just something else. Like, you don't really know, it's an incomplete narrative, but I've tried to fill that in my head lots of times. And I never come up with like what I think is the answer, but it mainly has to do with him trying to get away from it and his willingness, his

willingness to talk about it that moment. I think it points to how close he's gotten in this short amount of time, but also that he senses the peril that they're in and wants them to be really aware of what's, you know, what's about to happen and what's about to happen, like happens almost immediately after it's like they start, you know, the shark starts knocking into the boat. Yeah. In the next scene. So yeah, it's funny and I never really thought about it,

but it's almost like Quint knows this is the last time I'm going to tell this story. Here the whole episode with me or any of the other great guests talking lovingly about their favorite movie, go to moviecrush.show or search for it wherever you listen to podcasts. 99% Invisible is Katie Mingle, Sharifusef, Sean Riel, Kurt Colstet, Delaney Hall, Avery Trollman, Emmett Fitzgerald, Taren Mazza, and me Roman Mars. We are a project of 91.7KALW in San Francisco and produced on Radio Row, in beautiful, downtown, Oakland, California

We are a part of radio topia from PRX a collective of the best most innovative shows in all of podcasting We are supported by the night foundation and listeners just like you You can find 99% invisible and join discussions about the show on Facebook You can tweet at me at Roman Mars on the show at 99PI Orc. We're on Instagram, Tumblr, and Reddit too. If you want to see the latest video we made with a box about controversial shared spaces, you have to go to our website. It's 99PI.org.

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