Since no one under 40 can remember Fred Allen, I'm revealing my age to suggest that he was one of the more memorable comedians of all time, a radio genius who dominated the air waves for 17 years (1932-1949).
Ironically, his face was peculiarly flexible with the well-known bags under his eyes, once described by his friend, S.J. Perelman, as "pouches rivaling that of a kangaroo." Yet he never succeeded in films or television. It was his voice and his unparalleled nasal delivery that left an indelible impression on listeners.Steve Allen, no relation, once said that Fred Allen "had a poet's regard for the peculiarities of sound and expression and he seemed never so happy as when he could roll off his tongue some glittering allegory, metaphor or simile."
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about Fred Allen was that he wrote his own stuff, with the limited help of only a few assistants (one was future novelist Herman Wouk of Caine Mutiny fame), laboring 12 to 14 hours a day in longhand, six days a week, to produce his wacky scripts.
In writers conferences, Allen alone would do any writing on a single sheet of paper. He would put down one word to represent an entire line of dialogue, writing, according to an observer, in "infuriatingly fine print that looked as if a microbe with ink on its feet had briefly rumbaed on the paper." Following a four-hour brainstorming session, Allen would take the piece of paper home and put together the actual script.
By contrast, Bob Hope once had 13 writers to produce his scripts, and the legendary Johnny Carson employs eight regular people to write his material for the "Tonight Show." Allen once said that he was "probably the only writer in the world who has written more than he could lift."
While growing up, Allen had been an avid reader and by the time he was an adult, he had collected 4,000 humor books and a large file of jokes and witty sayings that proved to be a valuable stockpile for his radio shows.
He was a thinker's comedian, whose fans included professors, publishers, surgeons, bishops, mathematicians and literary types. Toward the end of his life, he expressed cynicism about his possible contribution. "Whether he knows it or not, the comedian is on a treadmill to oblivion. When a radio comedian's program is finally finished, it slinks down Memory Lane into the limbo of yesteryear's happy hours. All that the comedian has to show for his years of work and aggravation is the echo of forgotten laughter."
Yet critics have said today that Fred Allen's news bulletins about his mythical, small town community helped usher in Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon. The Mighty Allen Art Players were used later by Johnny Carson for his own skits in a similar vein. And interviews with "People You Didn't Expect to Meet," including a goldfish doctor or a female blacksmith were similar to the kinds of things now carried on by David Letterman.
Allen, who was born John Florence Sullivan in Cambridge, Mass., in 1894, got some of his biggest audiences as a result of his phony feud with Jack Benny. On Dec. 30, 1936, Allen fired his first shot at Benny, after the performance of a 10-year-old violin prodigy. Allen said, "If Jack Benny had heard this tyke's rendition of `The Bee,' he should hang his head in symphonic shame and pluck the horsehairs out of his bow and return them to the tail of the stallion from which they had been taken."
After that, the two comedians exchanged insults for a good 10 years. When they appeared for the first time face to face on Benny's program in March 1937, the listening audience was so large that it was second only to President Roosevelt's fireside chats.
Allen also got considerable mileage out of his regular "Allen's Alley," consisting of people like Senator Beauregard Claghorn, who would exclaim, "That's a joke, Son!" and "Claghorn's the name - Senator Claghorn, that is."
There was also Titus Moody, a taciturn New Englander played by Parker Fennelly, ("Howdy Bub"), who continued the character in TV commercials: "Pepperidge Farm remembers." Then there was the Yiddish Mrs. Nausbaum and the Irish Ajax Cassidy.
TV sped the end of Fred Allen's radio run, and he was unable to visualize himself on a small screen without a script, telling jokes "while all those technicians wandered back and forth."
He died at 61 in 1956 of a heart attack, his fast, zany life catching up with him. But not before he had set the tone for future American comedy.