Dinah Shore was in her radiant 
          youth when she broadcast these radio programmes. 
          The majority were for the Birdseye Open 
          House but the last, reflecting her popularity 
          in wartime, was her own Here’s Dinah 
          show. The format for the Birdseye excerpts 
          is much the same; songs and bantering sketches, 
          the latter enlivened by Groucho Marx (a touch 
          downbeat), Orson Welles (taking no prisoners 
          with a rusty script) and Frank Sinatra (cocky 
          and sharp). 
        
 
        
Shore’s break had come at 
          the end of the 1930s when as a twenty-two 
          year old she broke into network shows and 
          enjoyed popularity with her RCA Victor Bluebird 
          discs. She began – I’d forgotten this – as 
          the regular singer with The Chamber Music 
          Society of Lower Basin Street, whose NBC 
          show was so popular; it was certainly popular 
          enough for Sidney Bechet to wave his magnificent 
          soprano saxophone in their direction on air 
          and disc, however novelty orientated their 
          Dixieland may have been. 
        
 
        
Fresh and pure she sings 
          with great warmth. She’s a natural giggler 
          and by the time of these broadcasts an adept 
          radio creature, though not quite quick witted 
          enough to deal with some of the more off the 
          cuff patter from the bigger stars, though 
          her wry laugh is an adept foil. The first 
          sketch with regular sideman Peter Lind Hayes 
          is rather slow to take off though the second, 
          with its Down On The Ranch motif brings us 
          the essence of her pure, lyric voice, a dead 
          centre of the note affair and delicious. 
        
 
        
Naturally there are plugs 
          for Birdseye products, the firm that sponsored 
          most of the shows, but rather more interesting 
          than matters of commercial exploitation are 
          the sly moments that lift these sketches and 
          songs out of the ordinary. Orson Welles, for 
          instance, getting nowhere with a duff script, 
          announces to the audience – "I can’t 
          be funny – but I can be rude" 
          – with the most perfect timing. And Sinatra 
          gives us a sensitive You’ll Never Walk 
          Alone.
        
 
        
Aficionados of such things 
          will want to know that the sound varies from 
          show to show, that there are some acetate 
          thumps and that there are also a few rather 
          abrupt track ends. Otherwise they are more 
          than serviceable transfers and have decent 
          notes as well. 
        
 
        
Jonathan Woolf