> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.peterledonne.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Without Commercial Interruption - URL: https://www.peterledonne.com/without-commercial-interruption/ - Published: 2026-10-10T19:27:42.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-10T19:27:41.000Z - Description: In 1973 nobody had filmed a Broadway show for a television commercial. A question asked in a taxi, a one-day shoot in Princeton and one dubbed word saved Pippin. - Author: Peter LeDonne - Tags: Issue We were in a taxi on our way to look at a “pencil test” for an animated commercial for the Broadway musical, Pippin. The producer, Stuart Ostrow, had success with animation for his earlier musical, 1776\. He was one of the very first producers to see the potential of television advertising for theatre. Stuart intuitively knew that the poster artwork for 1776 was, particularly, suited for animation. The little eagle chick, breaking out of its egg, as designed by the late Faye Gage, became a cartoon figure in the very simple but effective 30 second TV spot for the show. When Pippin began sagging at the box office, Ostrow wanted to try the same approach. This spot would feature a silhouette-like character of the show’s star, Ben Vereen. The little animated figure sang and danced across the screen. It would end with the show’s colorful title logo and an announcer’s voice over telling the viewer how to buy tickets. A pencil test is the animator’s first attempt at capturing the character and action. It is little more than a moving pencil drawing. It’s at this point that it can easily be altered, so we were all on our way with Stuart, who would give the animator a go-or-no-go decision. The conversation in the cab was, however, not about the television spot we were about to see, but rather, about the spot we might see. That’s because I asked, what I thought was a simple question. “Why don’t we shoot something right from the show and give the viewers a hint of exactly what to expect if they come to see Pippin?” I asked. As ridiculous as it may sound now, the prospect of filming any part of a performance for a television commercial for a Broadway show at that time was unheard of. Ostrow’s knee-jerk, and very producer-like, reaction, was, “That would cost a fucking fortune!” However, youthful enthusiasm and fundamental ignorance were my guiding lights. “It shouldn’t cost any more than what you’re spending on the animation,” I said confidently. Actually, I hadn’t a clue what it would cost, but after making the suggestion, I didn’t want to show my ignorance. If by some miracle we ever did the spot, I knew I would have to somehow make sure it wouldn’t cost any more than the animation. I had produced several television spots for some of our non-theatre clients, like Ringling Brothers, the Knicks, Rangers and all the shows at Madison Square Garden and Radio City Music Hall, so I did have some frame of reference. Other than Stuart’s 1776 spot, however, the very few TV commercials other shows made were really just print ads on screen. They featured a static shot of the artwork on screen for thirty seconds with an announcer letting us know how much the critics loved the show and how to buy tickets. I tried to keep talking so as not to give Ostrow, or worse, my boss, Ingram Ash, the chance to tell the cab driver to stop and let me out. “We could film something simple,” I said. “We could get Ben into a studio and let him actually do the number we’re animating, only this time it would be performed for a camera instead of a live audience. My best friend from college, future partner and Ingram’s son, Jeff Ash, picked up on the idea and chimed in. “It could really work, Stuart. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. You said yourself that if this TV spot doesn’t work, you’re going to have to close the show. This kind of spot Peter’s suggesting will really make people take notice.” Neither one of us really knew what we were talking about. But that was okay; we’d gotten through college together in much the same way. What could be so different? Stuart wasn’t saying much. I hoped that was a good sign. From my experience working on 1776, I knew Stuart Ostrow was incredibly smart, daring and best of all willing to listen to ideas and consider them carefully before making his decisions. Ingram wasn’t saying much either. He had a look on his face that could mean he was very pleased with where this was going or he was really pissed off at me. My short life was passing in front of me. It was to be only the first of many such moments in the making of the, now famous, Pippin commercial. Then Ingram spoke. “Think about it, Stuart.” Jeff and I were in shock. Ingram, by saying those four words, was voting yes to what had never been tried in theatre advertising. As it turned out, Ostrow was already a few steps ahead. “Then it should be more than just Ben. What about Ben and John.” John Rubinstein played the title character, Pippin. “What number then?” Ingram asked. “If we’re going to use them both, it’s a big production number.” “Then it’s not simple anymore,” said Stuart. “What about the girls?” Jeff and I were quick to suggest. “We do have great looking girls,” said Stuart, as if we hadn’t noticed. “What about that anti-war number?” I said. “The Manson Trio number!” said Stuart, “It’s very sexy, it’s simple and you don’t have to worry about them singing. Are you sure this won’t cost any more than the animation?” “I’m sure,” I said. I wasn’t. “Don’t you have to pay these people?” “No. You’re already paying them to be in the show.” I had no idea if that was true. I knew it was the case for the ice shows, circus, NY Knicks, Rangers and Radio City Rockettes, but had no idea if that applied to Broadway performers. “Do we film this during a performance?” “No.” I said. That was more of an intuitive guess. I had heard press agents complain about the issues encountered by having television crews shoot in the theatre. By the time we got to the animation studio, we were totally immersed in the idea of shooting the wonderful number that featured Ben Vereen, Pam Sousa and Candy Brown. It was simple, stark, with haunting music and the truly seductive choreography of Bob Fosse, it was as good a ticket-selling tool as one could want. We all looked at the pencil test. The animated Ben Vereen sang, clapped and danced in perfect sync. We agreed that it was fine, but Stuart told the animator to stop until we thought about it a little more. Somewhere in the many cartons and drawers of stuff I’ve never thrown away, I still have a 16 mm print of that pencil test. I had worked a few times with Bill Fucci and his company Fucci/Stone Productions. We had worked together on commercials for a couple of productions that played Madison Square Garden, so I turned to Billy with the idea of filming a commercial for Pippin. Since there were no points of reference upon which to rely, we started from scratch. Happily, in confirmation of my bold statement, Billy felt shooting in the theatre was not a good idea. Not to save money, although we were to learn down the road that filming in the theatre would have cost a fortune, but purely for technical reasons. We knew what to expect in a studio environment and knew that important elements like lighting and sound and backdrop could be completely controlled. We simply didn’t know what problems to expect if we shot on stage at the Imperial Theatre. I had boldly told Stuart and Ingram that a live action commercial would cost the same as the animated spot, so now we had to figure out how to make that happen. Shooting in a New York City studio would also be too expensive. Billy had a friend, Fred Johnston, who owned a photography studio in Princeton, New Jersey. Fred was sort of retired. His real business was...honest...running his cut-your-own Christmas tree farm. It turned out that Fred was a neighbor of mine. His farm was near my own in New Jersey. It seems that Fred was more than a little eccentric. He had left the film business in New York, where he had been very successful, to open his little studio in Princeton, which was about an hour drive from New York. He equipped the studio with a camera mount with a snorkel lens. At that time, it was a fairly uncommon and expensive piece of equipment, that allowed filmmakers to shoot very small fields with great flexibility. The camera could let the viewer move around and between products like cereal boxes, perfume bottles in a most dramatic and fascinating way. Fred could have booked his studio seven days a week for top dollar, but he would only book jobs he found interesting! He also made sure that the studio responsibilities didn’t interfere with his work tending his several acres of Christmas Trees. We told him what we could afford. He said fine. We needed a prerecorded music track. Our three performers would have to dance to music played back to them several times that was tied into our own system synchronized with the camera. This allowed us to film the number again and again from various angles knowing that any moment could be edited together with another with perfect fluidity. Stuart had me call Stan Lebowsky, the musical director of the show, who in turn, brought along Mel Rodnon, the musical contractor. This was to be the first of many projects that brought Stan, Mel and me together. It was Mel’s job to determine which musicians from the theatre orchestra were needed to record the music for our spot and to estimate how long we’d be in the studio and he made it clear that they did get paid! Mel said it wouldn’t be a terribly expensive session, so we were still okay on the money side. It was Stan who had to reduce the two minute forty-five second number in the show to a sixty second music track for our commercial. That wasn’t easy, but Stan worked with Stephen Schwartz, the composer of Pippin, and he got it done. I began then to really appreciate the talent of people like Stan and Stephen. I’ve never lost my admiration for those that can create music. Stan played the new sixty second track on the piano and it seemed we were hearing the entire number! When we recorded with the musicians, Stan took his place on the podium in front of the orchestra. He was a short, chubby man with the most delightful personality. Everyone who knew him loved him and admired his talent. He was a composer in his own right and wrote music for other artists and the several very lucrative industrial shows that were a big business in New York. His biggest success was as the composer of Gogi Grant’s hit, The Wayward Wind. Seeing Stan conduct in the studio reminded us of how much fun it was to watch him in the theatre, conducting the orchestra and the performers on stage during every performance of Pippin. He would bounce and sway and punch the air with grand gestures. When we heard the sixty-second track played there in the studio with full instrumentation; we were very excited. It didn’t seem incomplete or abridged in any way. Now the only remaining problem to solve would be to have the full number re-choreographed to fit the new, shortened track. That turned out to be an unexpected problem, indeed. The very next day, Ingram told us, that Bob Fosse was totally against our plan. We couldn’t believe it. Ingram suggested we meet with Stuart Ostrow to get the details of Fosse’s objection, but it would likely mean the idea would be scrapped. Stuart seemed as surprised and as disappointed as we were. He explained that Fosse was not in disagreement with the idea of advertising on television, but felt that we were destined to fail because we were going about it all wrong. I’ll never forget Stuart’s exact words, “Bob said you can’t shoot this with less than seven cameras in less than three days.” First, I felt stupid. I was suggesting one camera and one day of shooting. Then I began to feel very insecure. What if I was completely wrong! Who was I to even argue? This was the opinion of Bob Fosse and that carried a lot of weight. Fosse would soon become the first director to win The Oscar (Cabaret), The Emmy (Liza with a Z) and The Tony (Pippin) in one year. I was sure that if Fosse said no, the commercial was dead. He was the director. He was in charge. Well, he wasn’t. I learned an important lesson about what ultimately makes successful theatre. The producer is in charge and Stuart Ostrow was very much in charge of Pippin. Stuart realized that Pippin needed to try television advertising, but he also realized that what Fosse was talking about was ridiculously unaffordable, so he called Kathy Doby, the show’s Dance Captain (basically Fosse’s assistant). Stuart said, “Bob’s spoiled. He just did Cabaret and Liza with a Z. He’s had the luxury of huge budgets. If you guys say we can do this, then we’re going to do it. I’ll talk to Bob. He’ll be all right.” I worked on Fosse shows several times in the years to come and I never saw him treat any other producer with the respect he gave Stuart. In fact, he became ever more legendary as a difficult and temperamental genius. His work with Stuart on Pippin, however, was collaborative and he often acknowledged Stuart’s business and creative skills. It was clear the decision to make the commercial would be Stuart’s alone. It also became clear that Fosse was washing his hands of the project. Not good. I was now terrified about moving ahead without the support and involvement of the show’s director, but our belief that the commercial would work prevailed. We booked the studio and alerted the three performers. Billy Fucci had been troubled by the stark, black, backdrop of the studio set. He felt there should be at least a touch of color in the environment. I suggested we somehow use the wonderful logo for Pippin, which had been designed by the great Tony Walton. The letters, P-I-P-P-I-N, were formed by jesters in the court of King Charlemagne, Pippin’s father. Billy liked the idea and took it a step further. He was very friendly with a wonderful artist, Carman Davino, who had the talent and studio facilities to actually recreate the logo on a scrim. It was a gauze-like material that could be hung behind the dancers and, most importantly, would not block any light source. It turned out to be almost forty feet long and twelve feet high, but when we took it over to the studio on the day before the filming and hung it across the set, it looked spectacular! Bernie Herschensohn was one of the great cameramen in the business and could be the subject of a book himself. Bernie, Billy and I had worked together on the Ice Capades commercials. Even though Bernie desperately wanted to shoot the spot, he was booked on a major shoot for Coca-Cola and was unavailable to us, so we would be using a wonderful Swedish cameraman, Victor Johannes, to shoot the next day. However, Bernie was brilliant at lighting a film set to best complement the look and feel of a theatre number. Bernie came to the studio the night before our shoot and set all the lights for the backdrop, floor and the scrim. It was no simple task. However, when it was all finally accomplished late that night, the impact was amazing. We were ready. Ben Vereen was the only one of three stars who had an agent. Dee Anthony, surprisingly, didn’t have a problem with Ben receiving no payment for the spot. He understood that the television exposure would be good for Ben, but he did insist on being at the filming to “take care” of his client. That was fine with me, and I agreed to leave the responsibility for getting Ben to Princeton in the hands of his agent. Jeff and I were delighted to take on the task of personally delivering Pam and Candy to the studio. At about 6 AM, I took the train into the city and met Jeff. He had driven from his home, north of the city, in Mt. Kisco. First, we went to the theatre to pick up the costumes for all three performers. We had arranged to do so with the costume department. Today, that simple task couldn’t be accomplished without involving two different unions and a trucker, costing several thousand dollars. We tossed their wardrobe in the trunk and went off to pick up the ladies at their respective apartments. Pam and Candy were also very excited about the commercial, so our trip was filled with hopeful conversation about what the TV spot would do for the show. At one point on the New Jersey Turnpike, a Jaguar moved into place beside us, and the driver started honking the horn. Jeff looked over and said, “There’s Stuart!” Sure enough, it was Ostrow who rolled down his window and shouted, “Drive faster, every minute is costing me a fortune!” then he sped ahead. We all had a good laugh, but I knew Jeff was feeling the same sense of pressure as was I. This was a gamble and we felt completely responsible. Ben arrived shortly after we did. Dee Anthony seemed cast for the part. He was an enormous man whose fedora and dark sunglasses were not removed the entire day. I wasn’t sure if the sunglasses were protection from the sun or the glint from his less than subtle diamond pinky ring. He treated Ben like precious cargo, but I must say he was clearly enthusiastic and supportive of the effort and turned out to be very pleasant and helpful during the shoot. When Ben, Pam and Candy were in costume, Kathy worked out their choreography to the new short version of the music on the set while Victor and Billy took care of technical matters. Stuart had asked Fosse to be there, but said he really wasn’t sure he would show up. I didn’t think their conversation had gone well and got the impression that we might not see Bob at all. We were shooting with one 16 mm camera, not the seven Bob had felt necessary, and we had the studio for one day, not three. I was more than a little uneasy. Billy, on the other hand, had made plans for all the extra time we would have after filming the Pippin commercial! “Let’s not get carried away,” he said. “There are only so many different angles we can use to cover this number?” I had begun to notice the quiet arrival of several guys I didn’t recognize, all dressed in very serious suits. Jeff, Stuart or Fred Johnston didn’t invite them. When I asked Billy who they were, he just smiled and said, “I have an idea, I’ll tell you about later.” I thought this was a little bizarre. In time, I came to realize Bill Fucci marched to his own drum... an entire orchestra of drums. At about 9 AM we started shooting with a master shot, basic and head on. It was as if the camera were in the theatre watching the performance from a center orchestra seat. The camera was mounted on a tripod and Victor simply panned to follow the action. Next, we moved the camera to the left, then to the right. Each time, of course, Ben, Pam and Candy performed the entire sixty-second dance to the pre-recorded music track. Victor Johannes was efficient and creative. He made some smart lighting changes and suggested some very interesting camera angles. We had been there for about two and a half hours, when the door opened and Bob Fosse walked in. He was dressed in his trademark tight black jeans, black shirt, tan desert boots. He was smoking the shortest butt of a cigarette imaginable. I was sure his beard and mustache would go up in flames at any second. He didn’t look happy. A nervous wreck, I walked over, greeted him and started to explain what we’d accomplished so far. He stopped me cold. “I don’t want to know. This is your disaster.” I will never forget those words. For the second time, my short life passed before my eyes. I wondered if I’d have trouble getting my teaching job back. I turned and walked away, intercepting Billy who was approaching, no doubt to welcome the great director’s input. “Don’t even think about it.” I said and took him aside to plan, quietly, the next shot. Nothing, however, fazed Billy who did go to Fosse with a big, “Hi Bob. Would you like some coffee? A bagel? A joint?” Fosse looked at him as if he had been offered broken glass to gargle. Not a good start. Stuart had watched this happy little exchange and finally went to chat with Fosse. Before long the two were smiling and Bob seemed to relax. We continued shooting. Victor had by now taken the camera off the tripod and was working “hand-held” which allowed for great flexibility with the shots. He was moving around and behind the dancers and covering the number completely. Bob Fosse watched it all silently with a completely blank expression. We had been filming for a few hours and, as Billy predicted, we seemed to be nearing an end of all possibilities and we hadn’t even broken for lunch. At one point, Billy and Victor had a short conversation and Victor asked for a stepladder. Then he took the camera and climbed up into the exposed rafters over the studio floor. As this was a small studio with little height, there were no suspended platforms or overhead ramps, so Victor, cat-like, maneuvered himself into a very awkward position above the set. I called the dancers back for one more take and prepared for sound playback. Suddenly, Fosse came to life, walked right under Victor, looked up at him as if he were insane and asked, “What do you think you’re doing up there?” Victor, in his delightful, lilting Swedish accent replied, matter-of-factly, “I want an overhead shot.” “I know everything there is to know about dance. That overhead shot won’t work,” said Fosse, as if he were speaking to a naughty child. This was not a suggestion. This was a declaration. Everyone got very quiet. So did Victor...but unfortunately only for a moment. “Well, I know everything there is to know about camera angles” he replied. “It will work. Now get out of my shot.” Then Victor called for music playback. The music started. Though slightly traumatized, the dancers began again. The camera rolled. Fosse left the building. The rerun of my life story played in my mind. We called “Wrap.” The shoot was over. Stuart thanked everyone and asked a producer question that I never failed to hear at the end of every commercial shoot over the next twenty-five years. “When can I see it?” Ben left with his agent. Poor Jeff Ash had to drive the beautiful Candy Brown and Pam Sousa home all by himself. There was no point in me going back to the city since I was already so much closer to my home, so I stayed to help with the wrap and to help Billy with his “big idea.” The infamous Watergate hearings had been the focus of all news coverage at this time, and it seemed Billy was sure that playing off the news could, as he described it, “land us both a very big account.” In no time at all, the Pippin scrim came down and, on the set, there suddenly appeared a long table and several chairs. On a second, smaller table, Billy placed a microphone. The well-dressed fellows who had been waiting patiently took seats around the table and one of them sat apart from the rest. He took a seat in front of the microphone then removed his shoes and socks! Then a huge metal tub of water was placed under the table! “Billy, what is this?” I asked. “I hear there’s an opportunity to get the Dr. Scholl’s account,” he said. “I’ve got an idea for a commercial and I knew we’d be finished early enough to shoot it. I’m going to send them a finished commercial! They’ll be so impressed I’m sure we’ll at least get to have a meeting with them.” I couldn’t believe my ears, or for that matter, my eyes. Beginning to understand what was going on, I began to watch a parody of the Watergate hearings unfold. The “witness” a John Dean look-alike, was facing the “committee.” As he was being grilled with one tough question after another, I watched the camera, this time with Billy operating not Victor, slowly pan down to the tub, where the witness was soaking his feet. Billy explained to me that he would edit the commercial with a voice over announcer saying something like, “When the stress of the day seems too much for you, nothing is more relaxing than Dr. Scholl’s Foot Soak.” I thought the idea was pretty silly and since we were done with the Pippin shoot, I went home. I was pleased with all we had done, but, of course, had no idea how the finished spot would turn out or whether it would be effective. There was certainly no turning back now. By the time I got to Billy’s editing room the next morning, he had already begun to assemble a rough cut of the spot. These were the days before videotape and instant editing, so strips of 16 mm film hung from a rack over a canvas bin. Little by little the full number took shape, second by second, angle by angle until we had the entire sixty seconds assembled. Over the next two days, we fiddled and changed angles until we had the cut with the most interesting edits. Yes, the overhead shot was used and, in our opinion, it looked great. We showed it first to Jeff, Stuart and Ingram. They were very pleased and we breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then Stan Lebowsky and Mel Rodnon came by to give their opinion of the spot. They loved it. Finally, at Stuart’s insistence, Fosse came to take a look. To our great surprise, he was not critical, but his only comment was a very troublesome one. “You’re out of sync,” he said. He told us where to slightly alter the placement of the music track slightly to synchronize it with the choreography. We did. He watched again and left. He said nothing about the overhead shot! After he had gone, Billy looked as puzzled as me. “Now it’s out of sync.” He said. Subtle though it may have been, every move of the dancers was a bit off with the music. We didn’t know what to do about the sticky situation. Obviously, we didn’t want to get into an argument with Fosse. Completely baffled, we called Stan Lebowsky, who came right over, looked at the spot and said, “Bob’s fucking with you. It’s out of sync. Put it back the way it was.” Relieved, but shocked Fosse would do that, we had only one more element to add, the voice over announcer. One of the great voices at the time was Alexander Scourby, a wonderful gentleman whose voice was as smooth as honey, but somehow commanding and persuasive too. Alex was the voice for many major corporate advertisers and documentary films. His fees were always much higher than the standard fee (scale), but, with a lot of hope, I called his agent, Fifi Oscard. I knew Fifi and had hired some of her other voice over talent for commercials. I explained that we were experimenting with a brand-new kind of spot for a Broadway show and was honest. We could barely afford scale, let alone Alex’s usual rates. She was actually very supportive and liked the whole idea enough to take it to Alex. She got back to us right away and said, as long as the spot only ran locally (just in the New York market) Alex would agree to do it for scale. He liked the idea of being a part of Broadway’s first live action TV spot. In my opinion, that kind of deal is what made Fifi such a great agent. Her good judgment benefited her clients and mine. She understood what fair and reasonable payment for her talent was and which projects were in their best interest as well as ours. The recording session at RCA studios for the voice over track was, for me, the most exciting step. Perhaps it was because the spot suddenly took on a life of its own when the announcer track was added. The commercial was projected on a large screen and Alex read his copy to the picture. I will never forget the experience of working with Alexander Scourby. The impact of his reading was incredible. In the many years since the Pippin spot was made, so many people have taken credit for contributing to it. In truth it was a collaboration of only the people who were in the studio that day: Stuart Ostrow, Ingram Ash, Jeff Ash, Bill Fucci, Alexander Scourby and me. Of that group, by far, the driving force was Stuart Ostrow for taking the financial gamble. Alexander Scourby recorded the copy I had written for him: > \[At the very opening of the spot as Ben, Pam and Candy begin dancing\] > Alex: Here’s a free minute from Pippin, the musical comedy sensation directed by Bob Fosse. > \[No more copy. Just dance for forty seconds, then…\] > Alex: You can see the other one hundred and nineteen minutes of Pippin at The Imperial Theatre without commercial interruption. Ostrow said, “What a voice. If Alexander Scourby and Walter Cronkite got together, they could rule the world with just a microphone.” After Stuart, Jeff, Ingram and Alex left, Billy put the finishing touches on his other pet project, the zany Dr. Scholl’s spot that was somehow going to make us all rich. He had a friend, who also did voiceovers come in and record an announce track for the foot soak spot. It was a very strange commercial, but no one liked it more than Billy himself. Now that we knew when we’d have finished composite prints, the television time was purchased for the Pippin commercial. It was to premier during the 10 o’clock news broadcast on WNEW-TV. It would air on CBS the following night, also in their news program. After that, our schedule called for exposure on the other networks, one station at a time. In only a few days the spot would be on the air and, of course, we were all anxious and, maybe, terrified, about would happen. Just two days before the spot was to be delivered to WNEW, I got a call from Stuart. “We have to make a change!” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I feel certain people will be completely confused by our message. They’ve never seen a live-action commercial for a Broadway show. We’re reaching out to a whole new audience. I can’t risk that they’ll be confused and think it’s a movie.” “Stuart, that’s not possible,” I said. “The spot looks nothing like a movie commercial and we tell them it’s at The Imperial Theatre!” His reply, “Everybody knows Bob Fosse just did Cabaret...a movie! Bob Fosse just did Liza with a Z, a television special! If they think this is a movie or a television show, we’re screwed. I know how to fix it and it’s very simple. Get Scourby back in the studio and simply have him say, ‘live at The Imperial Theatre.’ That’s all we need, the word live.” Neither Jeff nor I could talk Stuart out of making the change and, unfortunately, Ingram agreed with him, so we had no choice. Delaying the airdate was not a possibility. Now, we were suddenly in a terrible time bind. I called Billy and told him about the change and had him stop work on the prints for the stations and I called Fifi Oscard and told her I needed Alex urgently. My life was about to do a quick pass in front of my eyes… again! “Sweetie, Alex is in Israel working on a documentary. He’s completely unavailable for the next several weeks.” “Fifi, I don’t want to hear that. I want you to say I can meet him at RCA in ten minutes! He absolutely cannot be in Israel or anyplace farther than across town!” “I’m sorry, he’s simply not available.” She seemed a bit cautious about what she was about to say, but in that ever-so-gentle voice of hers, I heard, “Peter, please don’t panic. I can solve your problem. I have someone who can do an Alex Scourby for you and have him at the studio today.” “Fifi! Nobody sounds like Alexander Scourby! They call him the voice of God! Are you getting me God?” Fifi calmed me down... a little. Again, with that sweet, melodic voice of hers, she put it to me straight. “You don’t have much choice?” Right, I had no choice. She booked, at scale, an announcer named Richard Waring. I had no faith in this exercise but felt I should go ahead with it and then get fired. Only Jeff Ash, Bill Fucci and I knew about this one. We went to RCA to record Richard Waring. What walked into the studio that day was a sight I’ll never forget. Richard Waring seemed to be about 100 years old. He had a scraggly beard and tufts of grey hair that hung out from under a beret. A beret! He walked unsteadily with a cane that he seemed to need very badly. He gave us all a very frail handshake and greeted us with what was an unmistakable and very genuine British accent! Alexander Scourby didn’t have a fucking English accent! We were as good as dead. Trance-like I led him into the recording booth and showed him the corrected copy for the Pippin commercial. This man knew exactly why he was there and asked to hear a playback of the Scourby track. He listened to it several times. “Okay, let’s go. When I give you the cue, please play Alex’s track in my headset. I’ll give you several readings of the one word you need. You can choose which you think works best.” None of us had any hope this little Englishman would be of any help. We replayed the Scourby track in Richard’s headset. He listened again, very intently. Then, he began, to just deliver the one word. He gave us several choices: “Live...live...live...live...live...live...live” Each time he spoke the word, there was a subtle change in inflection and each time he said the word, our mouths dropped open a little wider. It wasn’t quite Alexander Scourby...but...well, maybe...we couldn’t be sure. Could it be we were just kidding ourselves? We played back what we had just recorded on the large control room speakers. “Why don’t you just pick one and cut it in,” came the suggestion from the recording booth. “That’s the best way to determine if I’ve gotten it.” The English accent was back! We did as he said. We chose a version we thought might work and edited it into the Scourby track. We listened again, and again. “Perhaps you should mix it with the music, before you make your final decision,” Richard suggested. We did. > Alex: Here’s a free minute from Pippin, the musical comedy sensation directed by Bob Fosse. > Alex: You can see the other one hundred and nineteen minutes of Pippin > Richard: live > Alex: at The Imperial Theatre without commercial interruption. If he wanted lunch, we would have fought over who would run out and get it for him. If he wanted a new car, that would be okay too. I was prepared to adopt him. When the Scourby/Waring track was mixed with the music and the video, the only way you could tell the single word had been inserted was if you knew in advance and listened with painful attentiveness. It was unbelievable. Richard Waring came out of the booth, signed a Screen Actors Guild contract as voice over talent on the TV spot and left. Simple as that. “Billy, can we still make the air date?” I asked. His answer would soon echo in my soul, “I don’t like to do it, but I’ll have the lab send the print straight to the station. I think we can still get it there in time.” I’m sure everyone connected with Pippin was glued to television sets that night. Our media buyer had been able to get the exact time when it would run in the news. Jeff, Billy and I stayed in touch by phone. We were a hopeful bunch. Finally, the commercial break for our spot arrived. This was very exciting. This was it! If someone had stepped out of the television into my living room and punched me in the mouth it would have been less surprising than what I was watching. There were some familiar faces on screen, but none belonged to Ben Vereen, Candy Brown or Pam Sousa. Instead, there were several men, a microphone and one very worried man soaking his feet in a tub of steaming water. This wasn’t happening. I closed my eyes and then opened them again. Actually, it was happening. A completely bogus, unauthorized commercial for a client we didn’t have was running in place of the Pippin commercial! I literally jumped when the phone rang. I don’t know why I should have been surprised, the only question was, who got to me first? Was it Jeff? Billy? Ingram? Fosse? The unemployment office? The strange commercial with a ridiculous man soaking his feet in an absurd tub of hot water finally ended, the phone still rang...and rang...and rang... When my heart finally started again, I called Jeff. “That was Billy’s spot, wasn’t it?” he said. “Yep.” “How did that happen?” “Because we were so late after the Richard Waring fix, Billy had the lab send the spot directly to the station. I didn’t know both spots were at the lab, but obviously they sent the wrong spot. Have you talked to your dad?” “Several times. Stuart too. They’re pissed, but not at us. They think the station fucked up!” Whew. A relief, but who knew for how long. Jeff said, “My father, of course, told Stuart there would be no charge for the spot and that it would run tomorrow on NBC. We’ll get it back on WNEW as soon as we can make the buy.” “Jeff, I have to talk to someone at WNEW and get that crazy spot out of their hands.” He agreed and got me the main number of the station. I wasn’t surprised that someone answered the phone at that hour of the night. Their switchboard was probably open twenty-four hours a day. It did take a while to get to the control room, where all the technical stuff took place. Somebody then passed me on to the nighttime supervisor, Ed Petroski. I introduced myself and pretended I had a much more important role at the agency than I really had. When I told him there was a mix up and the wrong spot ran instead of the scheduled Pippin spot, he replied, “No it didn’t.” “Ed, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. A lot of other people were watching. We knew exactly when our spot was supposed to run and someone else’s spot was aired instead.” Perhaps he thought I was accusing him of making a mistake. “It’s not the station’s fault it’s our fault. We sent the wrong spot.” “Peter, I’m looking at the commercial log right now. It reads, 60 second commercial for Broadway show, Pippin. I’m holding the box the print came in. Its label says, Pippin :60\. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Ed, did you actually watch the spot when it aired?” “No, I don’t do that. Someone in continuity watched it and apparently didn’t find anything objectionable, so it comes to me approved for broadcast. I can’t watch all our commercials!” This was getting me nowhere. “Ed, may I come see you tomorrow?” “Sure. I get in at 4 and I’m here until midnight.” “Would it be possible to pick up our commercial tomorrow too?” “Unless it’s running again tomorrow night, it’s yours.” The next day I was already waiting for Ed Petroski when he arrived. He turned out to be a very nice guy and I simply told him the truth and explained it was completely my screw-up and I was just desperate to make it all go away. I must admit, I laid it on pretty thick and told him I could lose my job for making the mistake. He handed me the little white box that contained the print. Sure enough, it was labeled Pippin :60\. There was really no way to express my thanks enough, so I said, “Do you like to go to Broadway shows, Ed?” “My wife loves to go!” “Here’s my number. Call me whenever she wants to see a show. I’ll get you great seats. The tickets are on me.” For years after that, without ever abusing the offer, Ed Petroski would call me with a request for a show his wife wanted to see and as promised, Jeff or I got him a pair and he never paid a dime. We missed that first night for running the commercial, but it ran the next and the next and the next. The sales at the box office soared and the show that was about to close, became a smash hit, selling out for almost another three years. The commercial became the talk of, not only Broadway, but it seemed all of New York. Articles were written about it and theatre commentators covered it on air. The commercial won me advertising’s most coveted award, The Clio, as well as The Andy, The International Broadcasting Award and many more. Because I was a Clio Award winner, I was invited to be a Clio judge and that allowed me to meet some of the most talented people at all the big “Madison Avenue” agencies. One of those relationships would soon become incredibly valuable. As expected, the press gave Fosse credit for the commercial. It was just assumed he directed it. To his credit he never said he did. He never said he didn’t. Fortunately, enough people associated directly with Pippin knew the story and it circulated through the theatre community. Although we had no idea at the time, Jeff and I had also just taken a giant, first step in launching our own advertising agency, Ash/LeDonne. In a few years we would have thriving offices in New York, Los Angeles, London and Boston.