…and remember to hang by your thumbs

[fade in on announcer’s voice] …One Fella’s Family was dramatized for radio by T. Wilson Messy. This is a Messy Production.

[music fades out]

Ray: Always liked that episode. So, whatta we got now, Bob?

Bob: Well, Ray, we have here with us today –

Ray: Where?

Bob: – In the audience, seated near the Bob & Ray picture window, a young lady with a very unusual hobby. Miss, would you come up to the microphone here please? Yes, just sit down right there –


Ray: – Don’t mind the Great Bob & Ray Bird, he’s just moulting, y’see.

Me: Well, I should say so! Now there’s feathers all over my skirt, and –

Bob: Yes, he does seem to be taking it very hard. Now then, miss, it says here that your hobby is…’writing about bizarre and/or obscure pop-culture topics that nobody else on the Internet cares about.’

Me: Yes, that’s right.


Bob: Well, I must say, miss, that’s a rather elaborate description of what seems to be a fairly flimsy …

Me: Oh, well, yes…I really tried to simplify it, but finally I decided it sounds more exciting that way anyway, so –

Bob [interrupting]: …I mean, it’s so long it barely fits on the card here, I had to turn it sideways just to make it out.

Me: Yes, I meant to talk to you about that – those response cards are kinda small, y’know. I mean, it’s a good thing I’m not a sensitive person, or I’d have a good case there for discrimination against people who write about about bizarre and/or obscure pop-culture topics that nobody else on the Internet cares about.

Ray: She could be right, Bob. I read about the rally in the papers just last week.


Bob Elliott and Ray Goulding, the two and only. You either get them or you don’t…and I am so very, very glad I do.

I first heard of them as a formative influence on Bob Newhart, another high and lofty member of my personal comedic Olympus, and thus was well-disposed when I subsequently came across an audiobook of their routines at the library. You know how sometimes you watch or listen or hear something new, and it clicks into place in your psyche almost audibly? Yeah. Never looked back after that. Currently, I’m working my way through a cache of their 15-minute CBS radio shows from 1959-60.

Actually, listening to Newhart’s ‘phone call’ routines is probably the easiest route to accessing Bob & Ray’s own peculiar brand of inside-out edginess; you can also hear echoes of it in Johnny Carson, George Carlin, Keith Olbermann, Al Franken, David Letterman (who featured Bob’s son Chris in the early years of his own show) and a host of other ‘hip’ comics. Even Jerry Seinfeld owes them a debt, and Woody Allen was a fan.
They all built the modern definition of American comedy – challenging, consumed with absurdity, ferociously unsentimental – more or less on the foundation that Bob (the slight one with the prominent blue eyes) & Ray (the burly one with the baritone voice) had patiently been laying for decades.

Albeit their career, typical of must comics of the time, contains a hotchpotch of commercial VOs, TV clips and albums (plus one hit Broadway retrospective, 1970’s The Two and Only) they’re best known and revered for their various series of satiric radio shows. “Our original premise was that radio was too pompous,” Bob explains now.
What that meant in practice was that for forty years they deconstructed American media culture and built it back up with the help of the funhouse mirror that was their collective imagination. They were an entire Monty Python troupe without the troupe.

It all began in 1946 on tiny WHDH-AM Boston with the freewheeling Matinee with Bob & Ray (hence their enduring nickname, they explained; ‘if the word had been Matinob, it would’ve been Ray & Bob’), moved permanently to New York and a national audience in 1951, and ended on the National Public Radio circa about 1987. Ray died three years later, of kidney failure, at age 68; Bob kept on, lecturing on what’s now known as Old-Time Radio and taking the occasional movie or TV role, and is still going yet at 85.

Their classic format was very simple: two guys on the same snarky wavelength, their imaginations and their microphones. ‘Trying to make each other laugh,’ as they would describe it years later. Originally the whole was in fact ad-libbed, growing organically out of the casual on-air banter between a disc jockey (Bob) and his newscaster (Ray); eventually it started organizing itself into characters and skits. Without ever quite meaning to, they discovered they were the natural halves of a performance whole, their offhand comic timing in fact so acute it suggested telepathy.

Yeah, that audience, picture window, bird and so on I mentioned above? All in their heads, and given life via their voices. So was everyone else – the most famous of which are probably Bob as crack[ed] roving reporter Wally Ballou (“-ly Ballou here!”), whose nose for news was permanently stuffed up; and Ray as Mary Margaret McGoon, basically Martha Stewart via Mad magazine (her signature recipe was Frozen Ginger Ale Salad – “I love the little bubbles, they make me all tingly!”).
Oh, and there was also Bob’s Tex Blaisdell, who did rope tricks – yes, on radio – and moonlighted as leader of the Smokey Valley Boys, who would probably have been a great country band if they could have ever figured out where the intros ended and the songs began.

Also on hand to provide a little culture was Ray’s mushmouthed book reviewer Webley Webster, whose live dramatizations of “weawwy excitin’ shcenesh” from this week’s book (one week it was the American League Green Book) rarely had anything to do with the actual plot. ‘Web’ eventually accrued the most elaborate backstory of any of the cast – he lived at the Waldorf Astoria, where he seesawed between high style and hiding from creditors, and spent much of the CBS year in a snit because his renditions of Jealousy at the Great Bob & Ray Organ kept getting cut off at the intro.
Most memorably, on April Fool’s 1960 he threw himself a ‘coming-out party’. When Bob tried to explain that those were only for ‘young ladies’, Web protested: “No, no, I c’m out fr’m behin’ the curtin, an’ then I’m offishu’ly out!” Either the 1950’s really were that innocent or Bob & Ray were a lot less innocent than some historians give them credit for.

Besides all the backstage goings-on there were the drop-ins, chief among whom was Bob & Ray celebrity hanger-on Barry Campbell – voice by Ray – who at one point tried to cash in on the ‘live album’ trend by making a recording of big-band music at Jake’s Bar & Grill & Food to Take-Out on Route 51 in upstate Jersey. Bob handled Ward Stuffer, ‘roving [theatre] critic’, who was just as liable to have stayed home that day and show up with a review of the local weather segment on the six-o’clock news.

Bob also ended up as most of their beat reporters, notably Biff Burns, the sportscaster usually described as ‘snappy’. Which is sports-media code for, well: “This is Biff Burns saying, ‘This is Biff Burns saying goodnight!'” Steve Bosco, another sports correspondent, spent most of his broadcasts begging for bail money. Also hot on the can-you-spare-a dime beat was Kent Lyle Birdley, ‘last of the old-time radio announcers’, with whom ‘the boys’ – especially Ray, who had to take his calls – had what I suspect was an extremely, uh, realistic relationship.

Finally, there was the enormous guest cast. Bob’s soft, precisely adjustable adenoids were perfect for the old men, children, and the various hopefully hopeless nebbishes that paraded through the Bob & Ray civic arena. Like for instance, the President of the Society for the Protection of Birds (“Tell me, sir, is there anything the audience at home can be doing to protect birds?” “No, not really.”)
As ‘himself’ he was calm, meticulous, quick to point out logical flaws in the guests’ arguments. In character, by contrast, he was a master at projecting a kind of intellectual…not lack exactly…opaqueness, is the better word – that made his reporters especially vivid media parodies in and of themselves. I always picture Bob’s people in a slightly rusty, well-pressed but ill-fitting brown cloth suit, like a road-show Willy Loman long since resigned to losing his Dream.

Ray’s bluff, hearty blowhards, on the other hand, couldn’t be wearing anything else but loud check suits, or maybe letterman sweaters, depending on their age. Neither of the duo was a classic ‘straight man’, but on-air Ray – of the wide-open Irish face and that Warner Bros.-esque accent that pronounces ‘idea’ as ‘ideer’ – fulfilled what you might call the Costello role, temperamental with the ‘staff’ and impatient with the guests.
Many of whom, of course, were also him, and exhibited the same qualities. He voiced all the women, too; not in a pure falsetto but a flat, respectable twang that suggested, if not your great-Aunt Mabel exactly, then at least her picture in those old albums. Here’s where I admit a bit of a preference: Bob might well have been the more sophisticated of the two, but Ray was the better actor. Reminding yourself mid-routine that that’s him interacting with himself as a woman is a good way to freak yourself right out.

Together – with the help of their supporting writers, of whom Mad alum Tom Koch was probably the most prolific – they explored what turned out to be the limitless vista of human self-satisfaction. Nowadays, of course, with Internet forums available 24/7 and American Idol the biggest hit on TV, that vista has been so thoroughly charted that commenting on it has achieved a kind of meta-pointlessness of its own (vide Seinfeld, again).
When Bob & Ray started out, in Eisenhower’s America, it was difficult even to realise it was there, let alone that there was room outside. Listeners accustomed to offhand satire on the order of That’s My Bush! can barely grasp the concept of a time when Bob Newhart was being dubbed a ‘sick comic’ because one of his routines “made Abe [Lincoln] out to be kind of a dolt.”

In that wilderness Bob & Ray were the ideal pioneers – very subtle and gentle, nitpicky almost, deflating the monolith one tiny failure of the spirit at a time. There was no shock value to their act, no language or sexual suggestion; they were not angry men, not even when taking direct shots at Senator Joseph McCarthy. They were simply bemused…by accusations of genius as much as anything else. From their POV, they were professional performers, not artists. Guys who got paid for making each other laugh.

Which may well have been why they ended up as legends anyway. While they never did become angry, even when faced with the social tumult of the 60’s and 70’s, they never lost their relevance – in 1972 they were handed a showcase Saturday Night Live special, and the 18-25 demographic was still attending their NPR shows a decade past that. Another ten years, and they’d’ve become the darlings of the Internet. Bob & Ray had made themselves representatives of a very different but equally powerful archetype of cool; the ‘wise fool’ of the fairy tale (or, in a more contemporary example, Dr. Seuss) whose reaction in the face of the sturm und drang is “Uh…why are we yelling?”

Their characters are completely inept, total nerds, the kind of people who not only believe their own cliches but glory in them;  but they cannot be dismissed without understanding. As Kurt Vonnegut pointed out, they turn out to illumine one of the central dilemmas of the average human life: how to maintain your own importance in a world where not much of importance ever happens to you.

It’s a remarkably surefire formula, human nature being what it is; the more furiously you insist into the vacuum, the funnier you become. There’s a sequence in a later 1959 show that illustrates this beautifully: Wally Ballou launches into a heartfelt tribute to his hosts – he was nothing before Bob & Ray took him up, and now he’s being invited to ‘five supermarket openings just this week!’ Substitute any of dozens of modern reality-show contestants and the transition is seamless.

Listening to their shows as a continuous reel, the whole shtick resembles a surrealist tightrope act – sometimes too normal, sometimes too outre, and sometimes just so very right that they could (and often did) achieve a sort of lunatic ballet of irrelevance mid-walk. Entire eps of a Bob & Ray show go by without anything even resembling a joke being presented…and those are usually the funniest ones of all. It was ‘comedy as conversation’, as Newhart puts it, and as obvious the concept sounds now, it revolutionised the comedic landscape then. Before, funny men told jokes; afterwards, they told stories.

How carefully planned those conversations were, and by whom, varied noticeably throughout the years. The earliest Boston shows are in one way an excellent argument for their later reliance on scripts; they have all the chaotic quality of twentysomething friends batting it around (except the funnie comes before the six-pack). An entire career spent at that manic pace would be nearly unlistenable, assuming it would’ve existed at all.
Then again…it was what had gotten them the career in the first place. Regardless of what Bob & Ray became, Elliott and Goulding never lost that uncanny gift for what one reviewer dubbed ‘comedy jazz’. The odd moments – very odd – at which they stop reciting and start improvising is one big reason I love listening to those segments as a whole, rather than as packaged skits.

The scripted bits are hysterical, don’t get me wrong, but within set bounds. They’re about something, and when written by others, often rather consciously so. By contrast the ad-lib bits just spiral up and out, into the great creative unknown where genius lives. Until eventually we find Bob interviewing ‘the guy who voices Ray’, or Ray auditioning Bob as his own replacement for when he goes out with a bad haircut, or Bob welcoming Ray as a surprise contestant on their house game show: ‘Name…ah, right, sorry…What’re you doing in New – oh yeah, never mind. You don’t have any hobbies, do you?”

In the end it’s as difficult to capture the nature of their humour in words and quotes as it is to define anarchy any other way; it’s too visceral a concept. But love has a way of spilling out all over the place regardless.

They ran serials called One Fella’s Family (sample episode: “Looking for the Christmas Ornaments”) and Grand Motel (I still wonder off-and-on if they ever figured out the right hour to serve the continental breakfast) and Jack Headstrong, All-American American and Matt Neffer, Boy Spot Welder – oh, and my personal favourite, Mr. Trace, Keener Than Most Persons.
Soap operas were an obvious target. Mary Backstayge, Noble Wife – tracing the careers of a completely inept theatrical family, including the time they left showbiz altogether to open a toast-themed restaurant – is widely conceded to have left more of a mark than its original, Mary Noble, Backstage Wife (in part because it contained that McCarthy parody sequence mentioned above). Garish Summit, a later NPR addition, was Dallas with lead mines (“Lead is in my blood!”).

I’m also fairly sure Gene Roddenberry listened to Lawrence Fechtenberger, Interstellar Officer Candidate (‘brought to you by Chocolate Cookies With White Stuff In-Between”) and was just too embarrassed to admit the inspiration in public. He especially must’ve been paying attention the week Fechtenberger went to Venus and fell in love – no, not with Ray, this was the voice of a do-it-yourself hypnosis record (“I want you to lean back, close your eyes…”) that Webley had also dated awhile back.

The adventures of avuncular Mr. Science and, uh, impressionable young Jimmy (“Gee whiz, the pencil fell right off the table! Wait’ll I tell the guys at school I saw gravity in action!”) were brought to you by the Philanthropic Council to Make Things Nicer. Tippy the Wonder Dog, who if ever sent to rescue Timmy from the well would probably toss him a towel, was sponsored by “Mushies, that great new cereal that stays soggy even without milk or cream!”
They even ventured into multiculturalism with The Adventures of Charlie Chew, fearlessly exploding the myth of Oriental politeness (“No.1 son like all-night gas station: Never shut up.”) The civil rights movement, like most political comment, fell outside their scope…but it’s noticeable that the ‘comic Negro’ of the era never once made an appearance in their act.

Next to the serial parodies, the biggest part of their legend involves whacky interviews, spoofing the kind of ‘here’s a random person we hope you’ll think is interesting’ bits that were a staple of most entertainment media until very recently (think Charles Kuralt, Real People, or for that matter any talk show host you’ve ever heard).

In possibly their most famous skit, Ray interviews Bob as Harlow P. Whitcomb, the president of the Slow………………………………. Talkers……………………………… of………………………………….. America – for about the twenty seconds that his sanity will allow. In their second-most famous skit, Ray interviews Bob as a world-renowned Komodo Dragon ‘spert “from Upper Montclair, New Jersey,” while apparently thinking about the baseball game. (“The Komodo Dragon, the world’s largest living lizard…” “So…they’re of the lizard family, then?”)

They sent Wally Ballou out to Times Square, gunshots echoing, screams flying…and he came back with a live report featuring a cranberry grower who was amazed to discover you could make sauce, jelly and even juice out of them (“If I may ask, sir, what’ve you been doing with your crops up to now?” “Well, we put ’em in a basket and sell ’em for shortcake.”).

They sent him out to Green River, Wyoming, for the dedication of the $33mil Pfeffernick Memorial Stadium, capacity 368,000…only to have him discover from the builder (a Mr. Pfeffernick) that there weren’t actually any team sports played in Green River, and even if there were those ‘sturdy concrete pillars’ all over the field would prevent it. (“I suppose you could get a rousing game of hide-n-seek going down there, but I can’t imagine getting 368,000 people in there to watch it…Funny, how I never thought of that before…”)

Then there was the time Wally visited a paperclip company as part of his campaign to find and honour businessmen leading the fight against inflation. The owner proudly claimed that every clip was made by hand – maybe ten, twelve dollars worth of boxes on a good week, the foreman noted. When Ballou asked how they could possibly sell them for ten cents per box, he was told that it was easy; they only paid the workers 14 cents a week, under a 100-year sweetheart contract that made it illegal for anyone to quit. (“How in the world could they live on that?” “Well, we don’t pry into the personal lives of our employees, Wally…”)

They sent him…well, hey, do I really have to go into what happens when Butterfingers Ballou shows up at the glass fruit factory? Actually, a lot of his segments ended with Ray cutting off his expense allowance. I think the visit to the invisible screen factory alone ran him about $3K.

Occasionally Wally was paired with Artie Schemelhorn, who was in patented Goulding fashion just as clueless, only better at bluffing. Their big Go Team! moment came when they covered the local Fourth of July parade…which turns out to be kind of tricky when you’re facing the wrong way. Artie sure covered the heck out of that warehouse wall, though.

They – as defined by ‘whomever wasn’t doing the guest’s voice’ – awarded the ‘Bob & Ray Good Neighbor Award’ to people like the man who played a piano (“for a full fifteen minutes!”) for the accident victim…trapped under it. Who may have been related to the lady who, after busting some little trick-or-treaters for trespassing, went right down to the police station and begged they be given a light sentence.

They hauled people with unusual talents out of the ‘audience’, like the guy who had discovered how to change a tap washer without turning off the water and was now touring all the big plumbing conventions, or the lady who wanted the boys’ help in getting her bird imitation act into a big nightclub. We were also introduced to “one of the very few people in America with a name that is completely unpronounceable”, spelled W-W-Q-L-C-W. “I’d like to say hello to my brother on your program, but I don’t know how to pronounce his name, either.”

They orchestrated touching Oprah-esque moments, reuniting a brother and sister after seventy years…OK, that the two were actually completely fine with the breach in the first place was a bit of an oops. In one classic Christmas interlude, an audience member claims to want nothing more than his ‘beautiful wife and four great kids’. Who are currently in Minnesota. While he works in in New York. Over the last four years they might have tried to visit him once or twice, but ‘nobody left any messages at my apartment’, so…

Often they would bring in human interest, blandly explaining that ‘We’ve found you listeners enjoy hearing these pathetic people tell their tragic stories.’ The tragedies, as you may have guessed by now, involved the likes of a middle-aged woman trying to raise money to walk across the USA on her hands, on account of Tubby Wurtsma dee-double-dared her to in grade school (“It’s getting so I hate to go into his pinball arcade back home because I know he’s going to make some smart remark…”) At least she was a bit more ambitious than the guy who went broke trying to get to Africa…to buy a giraffe…in order to one-up the Joneses for good and all.

In a less morose vein there were also the hobbyists and entrepreneurs, like the truffle hunter who was undeterred by claims that they’re only found in Europe – after all, nobody had ‘gone so far as to have a wild boar sniff around [American] trees, have they?”.

Generally, these guests’ stories get a bit less whacky – and more alarming – the deeper we slide into the Internet age. Like for instance the guy whose hobby is ‘collecting numbers from places that ask you to take a number’, or the Longest Letter recordholder – 11,000+ pages, and the judges strictly checked for rambling…not mentions of the weather, unfortunately for listeners who had to sit through a sample.
The man who spent years lovingly crafting toothpick replicas of Columbus’ fleet, though, that was kind of touching. At least, it was until first Webley, then Bob sent a little ship smashing to the ground (“Well, Web, looks like we’re in the same boat here…” “No, you’re in the Pinta and I’m in the Santa Maria!”).

They also interviewed prominent local artisans, like the mapmaker who just figured it was more convenient to stick Hawai’i in the Great Lakes, and the author who admitted his authoritative History of the USA had a few errors – like the passage where Lincoln rode to his inauguration in a limousine – but pointed out in his defense that the book was ‘leather-bound’ and had ‘very high-quality glossy paper’. Then there was the four-leaf clover wholesaler who detailed an incredible string of disasters that had befallen his crops…

They ran the Bob & Ray Overstocked Warehouse, featuring such amazing bargains as barbells accidentally made of aluminum (have all the prestige of working out, with none of the effort!), monogrammed sweaters with unpopular initials (if your name didn’t start with ‘O’, they’d gladly change it for you for no extra charge) and door chimes that happened to have been manufactured before it was discovered the factory foreman was tone-deaf. Also on the shelves were a thousand ‘Chocolate Wobblies’, ie. chocolate Easter bunnies that had been stored too close to the hot-water pipes. “Each one guaranteed to have a purple ribbon in it somewhere!”

They played endlessly with the technical conventions of their own medium, holding pre-show audience ‘warmdowns’ on the weirdly logical grounds that once everybody was good and depressed (“I was happy before I got here, but now I’m quite sullen, thank you”) there’d be nowhere to go, humour-wise, but up. The ‘augmented audience’ – ie, the laugh track – was a constant companion for their satire, prone to busting out in all the wrong places. Even if they’d done nothing else worth remembering, their naiively ferocious contempt for the idea of ‘assisted’ comedy is a joy to behold.

The equipment backfired in lively and unusual ways; Wally Ballou’s cranky mic was the staple, but there were several cameos by other, newer media. They got entire brilliantly surreal routines out of a Monitor accident in which a guest’s pre-recorded answers couldn’t be synchronised to the live questions. Not to be outdone, Bob’s demo of a ‘tape recording device’ came unravelled when it played back something different from what the audience volunteer actually said (owing to the volunteer and playback both being Ray, of course. I can never decide if this bit is intentional or not).

Not even they themselves were exempt from the deflation process. At the height of their fame, they capitalised by ‘sending’ a dead whale called Smelly Dave round the country as a promotional gimmick – then, midway into the tour, had Dave kidnaped and sent Kato (late of the Green Hornet) off in a black limousine to find him.
Later, they replaced Dave with the Bob & Ray Trophy Train, enhanced by Wallace, the Bob & Ray Midget, who was fired from his in-studio gig (seating guests by size before the show) due to surliness, but as he was leaving it was discovered that he actually had a lovely singing voice, so they stuck him on the train to sing goodby at every stop…

…you can see where it’s easy to get carried away with this stuff. The key to Bob & Ray, though, is that they never, ever did. At no time did they even so much as hint that they thought they were running anything but a nice, upright, thank-you-Mr-and-Mrs-America-and-all-the-ships-at-sea radio program, albeit one that perhaps ran into a few more difficulties than your average nice, upright young radio hosts should have to put up with.

Away from the mic, ironically enough, Elliott and Goulding were average, nice, rather shy men, husbands each of one wife and fathers of five and six children respectively. “[They] have three distinct personalities,” Andy Rooney explained in a foreword to one of their script collections. “There’s Bob’s, there’s Ray’s, and then there’s Bob & Ray’s.”
They lived quietly in New York, Bob on the East Side of the city, Ray in Long Island. In public appearances – some of which are available on YouTube, along with their classic routines – they tended to duck behind their characters as soon as decently possible. “By the time we figured out we were introverts,” Bob once claimed, “it was too late to do anything about it.”

Trying to make each other laugh. It was an impulse that apparently never struck with anyone else, not even their families; Rooney said that “[they were] interesting to meet separately because two duller people you never met,” and Chris Elliott claims he was twelve before he realised what his father did for a living. “I thought he was in some kind of business.”
(One YouTube clip is of Carson asking the duo – circa about 1978 – if any of their offspring ‘showed signs of wanting to be funny?’ Bob replies a little dubiously that ‘my son Chris wants to be an actor, he’s working on that…’ and Ray, looking exactly like a baffled sitcom dad, adds that “None of my kids ever had an interest…I don’t think.”)

It must’ve been a little unnerving for most, trying to look in at the partnership from the outside. “I’ve been married to my wife for thirty-seven years,” Ray said in a late interview, “and to Bob for thirty-five”….but they would never really became close friends. What’s especially disarming is that they apparently never saw any reason why they should. In interviews they talk of ‘mutual respect’, and ‘[getting] along well,’ without a hint that they realise they’re summarising all the advantages of literally sharing the same sense of humour, endlessly refining the same worldview for nearly their entire adult lives.

The only certainty is that Bob Elliott and Ray Goulding were the rarest and most enviable of celebrities, let alone comedians: able to use their gift to fully understand their success, be proud and honoured by the tributes that flowed in near the end (including a sold-out show at Carnegie Hall)…and ultimately to escape behind it, unscathed.

What it did to two generations of listeners is another matter. Shocking middle-American complacency is easy; exposing it is difficult; exposing it on the basic, everyday human level that Bob & Ray did is a rare and special feat worthy not only of treasuring but of hoarding, carefully, against the times of intellectual drought.
They never hurt anyone (well, excepting the people who got whacked with ‘two dozen country-fresh eggs’ fired from the Bob & Ray cannon for being irritating); they simply gave the heartland exactly what they wished for. The lucky ones got it.


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