 Lew Anderson in costume with his stepdaughter Lorie George of Danbury. |
In the 1980s, while waiting in the wings of the Museum of Television and Radio in New York City to dash out as Clarabell – the horn-honking, seltzer-spritzing clown of "The Howdy Doody Show" – Lew Anderson worked on his music.
"That's how I remember him," said Ron Simon, the museum's curator. "Standing there, dressed as Clarabell, writing charts."
Anderson, a South Salem, N.Y., man who died Sunday at 84, lived two unique lives.
His first love was music, specifically big-band jazz.
In a time when almost no one manages to keep an 18-piece band together, Anderson – a saxophonist, composer and arranger – found ways. His All-American Big Band played every Friday night at Birdland in Manhattan for the past nine years. Before that, it had an eight-year gig at The Red Blazer in Manhattan.
"He'd be the first to tell you he was a musician first," said his son, Christopher Anderson of Ridgefield.
But for millions of baby boomers, Lew Anderson was Clarabell – the last and, by consensus, the best incarnation of happy, silent energy on "The Howdy Doody Show."
"Clarabell just fell into his lap," said his stepdaughter, Lorie George of Danbury. "Thank goodness."
People of a certain age remember it well. Buffalo Bob Smith would shout to the Peanut Gallery, "Say, kids, do you know what time it is?" ("It's Howdy Doody time!"), and Howdy, the freckled-faced marionette, would wave hello from the puppet stage.
Chief Thunderthud would say "Kowabunga!" Anderson would be on hand in his red wig, white-painted face and baggy white-and-green striped clown suit to be Clarabell Hornblow Clown, providing pantomime and pratfalls.
The show ran for 13 years, from 1947 to 1960, and Anderson was Clarabell for the last six of those years. It was the first hugely popular children's show in television history, and in its own simple, goofy way, it changed American history.
"It was the first show to reach the generation after World War II," said Simon of the Museum of Television and Radio. "What 'Sesame Street' was to the 1970s, and 'SpongeBob SquarePants' is to today, 'Howdy Doody' was to the 1950s.
"It really showed how television was going to disrupt life as it was known up to then."
"Howdy Doody was one of the first TV superstars to appeal to children," said Walter Podrazik, author of 10 books on American popular culture who is working on the redesign of the Museum of Broadcast Communications in Chicago. "That show was one of the first to assure people that TV was an OK force in everyday life."
Anderson got the job while performing at NBC – Howdy's home network – with the Honey Dreamers, a vocal group. After he apologetically admitted to the show's producers that he couldn't juggle, dance or perform magic, they immediately made him the clown.What he could do was talk in Clarabell's tongue – one horn honk for yes, two for no – as well as spray Buffalo Bob with seltzer, and continually delight his audience.
"He ran with it," stepdaughter Lorie George said.
On the last "Howdy Doody Show" in 1960, Anderson provided TV with one of its great moments. Breaking Clarabell's silence, he simply turned to the cameras, a tear in his eye, and said "Goodbye, kids."
"People come to the museum and still ask to see it," Simon said.
Anderson kept the Clarabell costume. Starting in the 1970s, he toured college campuses with Buffalo Bob and Howdy; in the 1980s and 1990s, they opened malls.
When Smith died in 1998, those jobs mostly went away, although now and then Clarabell returned to accompany Anderson's old friend Soupy Sales on guest appearances.
"You can't be a silent clown without your talking partner," son Christopher Anderson said.
But by the 1970s, Anderson had renewed his ties with his true love, jazz. The band he put together, using freelance musicians from New York City's Broadway orchestras, was expert, polished and deeply swinging.
"He wrote and arranged all his own stuff, and it was the hottest band in town," Christopher Anderson said.
"People used to go into Birdland for a meal, hear the band and become regulars," Lorie George said.
Birdland owner John Valenti admits he had some trepidation about hiring a big band led by the guy who played Clarabell and whose best friend was Soupy Sales.
"But then, I looked at the guys he had playing for him and I knew three-quarters of them," Valenti said. "With those guys, I knew he couldn't be a slouch."
What started as an open-ended job at Birdland in 1997 never ended. Often, Anderson would come to the club early to set up the bandstand and arrange the lighting.
"He was phenomenal," Valenti said. "His charts were great and he played with all these pit band guys. Every Friday night, people would come to hear Lew."
"My God," Christopher Anderson said. "That Friday night band kept him alive."
Rob Zappulla of Hartford, a jazz trumpeter and vocalist of the still-touring Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, said he heard Anderson's band once and immediately hired him to write and arrange the charts for his 2000 CD, "Something Makes Me Want to Dance With You."
"I was blown away," Zappulla said. "I thought, 'There's no one else who can do this the right way.'Ÿ"
Everyone agreed Anderson was a wonderful human being – funny, kind-hearted and big-spirited, without a cross word for anyone.
"I never thought of my father as old," Lorie George said. "He was always young and hip."
"He was a mensch," Valenti said.
Like his last line on "Howdy Doody," Anderson closed his career at Birdland with great class. On April 28 – frail, in pain, dying of cancer – he led the All-American Band one last time.
"It took him five minutes just to cross the street to get here," Valenti said. "He wouldn't use a walker, but got up on the stand and he counted it off. His last number was 'Brazil.'
"When he left, we knew that was the last time we'd see him. But he didn't want to do things any other way."
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