had been unable or unwilling to get rid of by reshuffling programs, for the past three years. They had asked John to “fill” the segment. Ordinarily an announcer would simply play a couple of records to get through the space, but John, a really fine radio man, apparently frustrated by mediocrity, found the short segment an outlet for his extraordinary wit.
I am a school equipment salesman, and for three years have driven out of Clarksburg each Monday to call on clients throughout the state. I usually listen to the station as I go, for the Clarksburg signal remains strong for about fifty miles, and John is always pleasant to listen to as he occasionally injects subtle wit into his announcing. I don’t know how he got the idea for “Whistle Stop”, but I think I heard the first broadcast of the unique five-minute show.
Apparently John had become bored with the usual fill in.
That morning he began the segment with some patter, pretending he was the proprietor of a small “whistle stop” railway station.
In the background a sound effect record provided the faint whistling of an approaching train. The whistling grew in volume, as John turned up the gain, until it became evident that the recording featured an old fashioned steam locomotive. The whistling and noise grew still louder. In a frightful puffing, clanging of bells, and rattling of wheels, the train noise welled to a crescendo, then began to diminish.
“Well,” John said, “she went right on by!—like a big fat bird this morning!”
Then he announced, “Let’s turn up the radio and hear a musical selection.” The patter and sound effects had consumed enough time so that he could fill the remaining time with just one record. I took to listening to the short show with a peculiar enjoyment I couldn’t explain. It was something different, I suppose—though repetitious, for the train never stopped at the small and apparently nondescript station of John’s living imagination.
His handling of the short show probably expressed his rebellion at the management which never bothered to remedy the faulty scheduling.
When the station went “all country”, the scheduling still was not remedied, and John still rebelled. While he had previously played pop recordings, now he played a short classical selection in the midst of the wailings of the preachers and the voices of Nashville.
As I steered my Ford wagon toward the Ohio valley to interview the Mothman witnesses, Woodrow Derenberger, and to try to track down the golden ball Mr. Universe had forged, John’s station still came in loud and clear, though now beginning to suffer interference from faulty electrical transformers along the road as the signal weakened.
On that morning I heard the train come in, and I listened for the familiar wheels to clang past the station. But I had a real surprise. John must have found a new sound effects record.
The train, though gaining its usual momentum with its whistle running wild, suddenly decreased in its cacophany. There was a hissing of air brakes and a creaking of slowing wheels. Couplings rumbled as the engineer tried to orient the passengers cars to the platform. Finally all was quiet, except for the “Shine! Shine! Shine!” of the steam locomotive’s air compressor.
“O-hooo! She stopped!” John announced. “Now that IS something. Let’s see who is getting off! O-hooo! We see and are we edified! It’s a group of little green men, and O-hooo, there is a great bird with them, and they’re marching, and marching, with their little drums, around and around the station…”
I gathered he was playing a record backward, probably at an exaggerated speed. It sounded like Oriental music, with bingings of cymbals, and drums sound mixed with a mad piping. I could almost see the little men marching, along with a huge ungainly bird.
After about a minute of this, John hit the mike button to remark that a huge shipment of bird seed was being loaded aboard the express
I am a school equipment salesman, and for three years have driven out of Clarksburg each Monday to call on clients throughout the state. I usually listen to the station as I go, for the Clarksburg signal remains strong for about fifty miles, and John is always pleasant to listen to as he occasionally injects subtle wit into his announcing. I don’t know how he got the idea for “Whistle Stop”, but I think I heard the first broadcast of the unique five-minute show.
Apparently John had become bored with the usual fill in.
That morning he began the segment with some patter, pretending he was the proprietor of a small “whistle stop” railway station.
In the background a sound effect record provided the faint whistling of an approaching train. The whistling grew in volume, as John turned up the gain, until it became evident that the recording featured an old fashioned steam locomotive. The whistling and noise grew still louder. In a frightful puffing, clanging of bells, and rattling of wheels, the train noise welled to a crescendo, then began to diminish.
“Well,” John said, “she went right on by!—like a big fat bird this morning!”
Then he announced, “Let’s turn up the radio and hear a musical selection.” The patter and sound effects had consumed enough time so that he could fill the remaining time with just one record. I took to listening to the short show with a peculiar enjoyment I couldn’t explain. It was something different, I suppose—though repetitious, for the train never stopped at the small and apparently nondescript station of John’s living imagination.
His handling of the short show probably expressed his rebellion at the management which never bothered to remedy the faulty scheduling.
When the station went “all country”, the scheduling still was not remedied, and John still rebelled. While he had previously played pop recordings, now he played a short classical selection in the midst of the wailings of the preachers and the voices of Nashville.
As I steered my Ford wagon toward the Ohio valley to interview the Mothman witnesses, Woodrow Derenberger, and to try to track down the golden ball Mr. Universe had forged, John’s station still came in loud and clear, though now beginning to suffer interference from faulty electrical transformers along the road as the signal weakened.
On that morning I heard the train come in, and I listened for the familiar wheels to clang past the station. But I had a real surprise. John must have found a new sound effects record.
The train, though gaining its usual momentum with its whistle running wild, suddenly decreased in its cacophany. There was a hissing of air brakes and a creaking of slowing wheels. Couplings rumbled as the engineer tried to orient the passengers cars to the platform. Finally all was quiet, except for the “Shine! Shine! Shine!” of the steam locomotive’s air compressor.
“O-hooo! She stopped!” John announced. “Now that IS something. Let’s see who is getting off! O-hooo! We see and are we edified! It’s a group of little green men, and O-hooo, there is a great bird with them, and they’re marching, and marching, with their little drums, around and around the station…”
I gathered he was playing a record backward, probably at an exaggerated speed. It sounded like Oriental music, with bingings of cymbals, and drums sound mixed with a mad piping. I could almost see the little men marching, along with a huge ungainly bird.
After about a minute of this, John hit the mike button to remark that a huge shipment of bird seed was being loaded aboard the express
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