For Laughing Out Loud

by Ed McMahon

  When it was announced that I was going to be Johnny Carson's announcer on The Tonight Show, the third phone call I got was from a man named Jack Macheca of the D'Arcy McManus advertising agency. I had dinner with him and D'Arcy chairman Harry Chesley at the great restaurant 21, and they asked me if I was interested in doing commercials for Budweiser beer. I told them that I hadn't gotten the L&M cigarette account because I didn't smoke, then added, "However, gentlemen, I'm pleased to be able to tell you that will not be a problem in this case. I've spent years researching your product."

  The agency and the brewery were both very pleased with the first few commercials we did. We filmed the second set of commercials at the Anheuser-Busch brewery in St. Louis. It was there I met the great Gussie Busch for the first time. Gussie was one of the most unusual men I've ever known. At lunch the day we met, he shouted across the room to me in this deep, gruff voice, "Hey Ed, when are you gonna finish these damn commercials?"

  Bob Johnson, the director, told me we'd be done late that afternoon.

  "All right then," Gussie continued. "I'm gonna take you coaching."

  "Great," I agreed, having absolutely no idea what coaching was.

  When we finished shooting that day, they drove me out to Mr. Busch's home, 280 spectacular acres known as Grant's Farm, because it was once owned and farmed by Ulysses S. Grant. In addition to the cabin that Grant built by hand, Gussie Busch kept every animal indigenous to North America. Deer, raccoons, foxes—they all ran free on the property. One night he had a cocktail party and I turned around and an entire herd of buffalo was standing a few feet away from the house. In an enclosed area he kept very exotic animals. It was quite a place. And he took me coaching to show it to me.

  Coaching means going for a ride in a carriage pulled by eight horses. Each horse is individually controlled by a thin rein attached to one finger. Mr. Busch played them like a harp; he controlled them with a slight tug of his finger. So off we went. We started slowly, but picked up speed rapidly, and just raced over the property. At one point he said casually, "Duck down, Ed," and as I did, a thick branch went right over my head. If I had hesitated or stopped to question him, that branch would have hit me in the head. Maybe that ride was some sort of test for me.

  The house itself was extraordinary. I used to describe it to people by explaining, "The living room has two grand pianos, but you don't notice them right away."

  "Okay, Ed," he said when we settled down in front of one of the fireplaces. "I think we earned a little drink."

  "I think that's right, Mr. Busch," I agreed.

  "Call me Gussie," he told me, and for the next thirty years it was Gussie. "What are you drinking?"

  I had a split second to make a decision. Did I want to suck up to the boss and tell him, I'll have a good, cold Budweiser? I decided I wasn't going to do that. "I'd like some Canadian whiskey," I said.

  "How do you want it?"

  "Just the way it comes out of the bottle."

  He smiled at me and said, "You're gonna be with us for a long time."

  On the drive back to the airport Macheca and Chesley told me I had passed the big test. What I had not known was that a well-known actor had been hired to be the spokesman for Budweiser before me. His image was that of a sophisticated man of the world, perfect for an upscale beer. But before he made his first commercial, Confidential magazine printed an article claiming that this actor and his wife would pick up men in bars and bring them home for sex. Well, that was not exactly the image that the agency wanted for Budweiser. Chesley flew to St. Louis in a panic to meet with Gussie Busch to figure out what to do. He wanted to buy out the actor's contract.

  Gussie disagreed. "There's nothing as dead as yesterday's news," he said. "Let's stick with him. By Thursday they'll be wrapping fish in this." Then he threw the magazine on the floor.

  I loved that, by Thursday they'll be wrapping fish with this. Years later when I started having problems with the tabloids I tried to keep that in mind. But the problem was getting to Thursday.

  But Gussie invited the actor to the farm, just as I had been invited. And, just as he had asked me, Gussie asked him, "What are you drinking?"

  Faced with that difficult decision, just how much do you please the boss, the actor said firmly, "I don't drink."

  Later that day Gussie told Harry Chesley, "Unload the SOB. He doesn't drink and he's proud of it." The next day they bought out his contract.

  So Gussie Busch and I got along from that very first day. My association with Anheuser-Busch lasted thirty years. Over the years I did more than a thousand commercials for them, I marched in parades, I hosted events, I attended all the wholesaler and distributor meetings. In corporate surveys it turned out that many people thought I was at least equal in importance to the image of the brewery as the Clydesdales!

  I spent many evenings with Gussie at Grant's Farm. One year, I remember, they held the exclusive Hunt Ball in a barn on the property. Before the ball started, we were in the house and Gussie looked at me and said, "Ed, we're going to martinis."

  I said, "I'm with you, Gussie."

  Gussie loved his martinis. In a restaurant he insisted that there be a silver bowl filled with cold Bud on the table for everybody to see, but he was also drinking his martinis.

  Gussie loved his martinis. At his home martinis were served in silver shakers and poured into old-fashioned glasses. So before going to the ball we each had a couple of martinis. Then we got into his car and started driving over to the barn, but about halfway there we stopped at one of the many houses on the property. We went inside and there was a bartender waiting for us with martinis. Gussie loved his martinis.

  I think I realized how closely I had become identified with Budweiser the year I served as grand marshal of the Indianapolis 500. When I rode around the track in the pace car, somebody threw me a Bud. So as we rode past the crowd of five hundred thousand people I held it up, as if to toast them. In response, everyone held up their own beer— and if they weren't drinking Bud, they covered the label with their hand.

  Of all the commercials I did for Budweiser, my favorite one was a spot I did with the Clydesdale horses. These beautiful animals lived in complete luxury, they traveled in air-conditioned vans, they were washed every day, a magnificent crystal chandelier hung in their immaculate quarters at the St. Louis brewery. Gussie Busch believed that if you treated the animals as if they were special, they would act that way. I rode behind them in many parades. Years ago the town of Lowell honored me with a day. In the parade, Massachusetts governor Frank Sargeant and I rode on the Budweiser wagon pulled by eight Clydesdales. And as these horses clomped down the avenue, Governor Sargeant said to me, "You know, Ed, I feel right at home here. I've been in politics all my life, and here I am again, riding behind eight horses' asses."

  The horses responded to their names. If they jumped out of line, the teamster would order, "Patrick!" and Patrick would jump back in place. Because I worked with them so often, I got to know them pretty well and I think they might have recognized me. In one of the commercials I was standing right next to Captain, I mean right next to him. These horses weigh more than a ton; if Captain had moved two inches and stepped on my foot I would have been crippled. In this commercial I was holding a microphone in one hand and a paper cup filled with Bud in my other hand. As I finished the commercial I was supposed to say, "That's why Budweiser is the largest-selling beer in the world. Right, Captain?" and he was trained to look as if he was nodding in agreement. But while we were filming, when I looked at him and said, "Right, Captain?" he not only nodded, he stuck his snout in my cup and took a sip of the beer. The horse drank the beer!

  Well, on camera it was gorgeous. Just perfect. When the director cut the commercial, he finished with a close-up of Captain drinking the beer. Everybody loved it, everybody except the ASPCA. They complained so loudly that we had to stop using it.

  Besides working with the Clydesdales, I also did several commercials with both Frank Sinatra an
d John Wayne. In addition to commercials, Frank Sinatra did five television shows for Budweiser. He didn't have to pass the same test I did to get his deal. He had dinner at Chasen's with Jack Macheca, Harry Chesley, and Gussie Busch. After the terms of the deal had been agreed upon, Frank turned to Gussie and said, "What can I do for you?"

  Gussie told him, "Just sing 'The Girl from Ipanema.' " That clinched the deal.

  Sinatra and I had a terrific time doing the commercials together. A man named Johnny Delgadio would stand in for him during rehearsals and then Frank would arrive and do the actual shooting in one take. He hated doing retakes, and fortunately they weren't usually necessary. But once, I remember, we were doing a spot in which we were dressed as cavalrymen. Supposedly we had been captured by Indians and tied to a wagon wheel. There were arrows stuck in the wagon. My line was, "What do you think made those Indians so upset?" and then Frank was supposed to respond, "Telling all those Indians the gold they found was unredeemable quartz." Then the commercial ended with Frank saying, "Don't worry, we're going to be okay. Yonder lies Custer's last stand." At which point the camera cut to a big wagon with a sign reading CUSTER'S BUDWEISER STAND.

  That day he just couldn't get his lines right. We did it three times, four times, this wasn't like him at all, five times. He couldn't remember the word "unredeemable." Each time he blew the line he got just a little angrier. Everybody on the set was absolutely still. No one said a word. Talk about tension. So just as we were about to do it a sixth time, I reached my arm around and pretended to look at a watch and said, "You know, Frank, I haven't got all day."

  He laughed so hard he had to leave the set. In another commercial we were in a bar and he was supposed to slide a bottle of Bud the entire length of the bar. I was supposed to stop it, pick it up, and pour a glass of beer with a perfect head. We had to get it just right. Just as we were about to start shooting, I looked over at him and said seriously, "You know, Frank, I'm only going to do this once." The only time Frank Sinatra wanted to do retakes was when there was a problem with the music. On one show he sang the beautiful song "It Was a Very Good Year" with Nelson Riddle's full thirty-five-piece orchestra. After he finished the song, he asked Riddle, "Didn't I hear the violins come in early?" Riddle nodded, explaining he'd brought them in a few bars early. Imagine that, a thirty-five-piece orchestra and he hears the violins coming in early?

  I did help Anheuser-Busch convince John Wayne to do a television special for them. Until that time John Wayne had turned down every offer to do TV. Tony Amendola was meeting him at the Polo Lounge and asked me to join them. We sat down and started drinking scotch. When John Wayne realized he couldn't drink us under that table, he started ordering doubles. That started a long evening and a longer friendship. When we were introduced, I said, "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

  "You call me Duke," he said.

  "Okay, Mr. Wayne," I told him, " . . . uh, Duke."

  At that meeting he agreed to do the show. "Give me a million dollars," he said, "and I'll do the show for you. I won't guarantee who'll be on it. I won't tell you I'm going to have all these people, but you can take my word for it that they'll be there." Anheuser-Busch gave him a million dollars and he produced and starred in a ninety-minute variety show celebrating the history of America titled Swing out Sweet Land. As he promised, stars like Dean Martin, Bob Hope, the cast from Bonanza, and the Smothers Brothers appeared on the show. It was the most expensive TV show ever produced—but it was the highest-rated variety special in history.

  The afternoon before we were to begin taping the special we met with the director in the Polo Lounge. When the meeting was finished, Duke suggested that we have dinner that night. "I'd love to," I said. "The problem is that I'm entertaining a whole bunch of people at Sneaky Pete's tonight."

  "Well, what the hell is a Sneaky Pete's?"

  It was a great restaurant, I explained, good food, good people, good music. After doing The Tonight Show that evening, I met my friends there. Several hours later a hush suddenly came over the entire restaurant. I looked up and there was John Wayne standing in the doorway. He always looked bigger in person than on the movie screen. And on the screen he was about fifty feet tall. I like to tell people he was wearing Sneaky Pete's. And with perfect timing, he roared, "Where is that goddamn McMahon?"

  "Over here, Mr. Wayne . . . Duke," I said. We closed the place that night. The last thing I remembered was putting him in his car about four o'clock in the morning.

  We were filming a commercial for the special the next morning. I was playing a bartender in an old western town. I had to be there at eight to rehearse; Duke didn't have to be there for several hours. But at eight-thirty, once again, I heard that unmistakable voice booming from behind the set. "Where is that goddamn McMahon? He kept me out till five goddamn o'clock in the morning . . ."

  I grabbed two cans of cold Budweiser and popped them open. When he came around the side of the set, I handed one of them to him. He took it and said, "Well, that's the best goddamn idea you've ever had, McMahon."

  We became great friends. When The Tonight Show was still in New York, I hosted the NBC weekly radio program Monitor. It was a general-interest show and I loved doing it. When we moved to California I wanted to continue doing it, but NBC wanted it based in New York. So instead of hosting it, I became a contributor. I finally convinced Duke to do an interview with me for that show. We did it at his house in Newport. He opened the door and said, "The beer is waiting for you, pilgrim." He wasn't wearing his hairpiece and he asked me if they were going to take any pictures.

  "They'd like to take some stills for publicity," I said.

  He sighed deeply—and no one sighed more deeply than Duke Wayne. "All right," he said. "I'll go put on my goddamn hair." It wasn't that he was vain, he didn't care, but he knew what people expected from him. So when he appeared in public he always wore his toupee. He used to make fun of it, he used to say, "Goddamn right, this is real hair. It's just that it belongs to somebody else!"

  When we finished recording the interview and posing for photographs, his face lit up and he said happily, "Now, shall we hit that tap?" And he began pouring cold Budweisers for everyone.

  For thirty years I traveled across the nation for Budweiser. We filmed commercials in the snows of New Hampshire and in the swamps of Louisiana. We did them in the air, in cars, in hot-air balloons, and in carriages. My association with the Busch family and the people at the brewery and at D'Arcy Advertising was one of the nicest things that has happened to me in my life. But as much as I liked these people, that didn't mean I wanted to die for Budweiser.

  Who knew doing commercials could be so dangerous? Once, I remember, we were on a plane going to a meeting and the pilot wasn't sure the wheels were down and locked. We circled for an hour—while all of us in the back were reassuring each other the wheels were down—until he was convinced they were down and landed without incident.

  Somehow I let them convince me to fly in Budweiser's hot-air balloon. Going up was fine, it was coming down that was the problem. Until that day I never knew hot-air balloons could bounce so high.

  The most dangerous commercial I ever did for Budweiser was shot in Crowley, Louisiana. One of the many things that made Budweiser taste so good—and remember, I'm not on the payroll anymore, I don't have to say this—was that it was beechwood-aged. The bottom of the copper tanks in which the beer ferments are filled with beechwood chips. I flew to Louisiana on a private plane to serve as king of the Rice Festival parade as well as shoot a commercial. During the trip I started talking flying with the pilot and we hit it off, so I invited him to come watch the commercial being filmed.

  We had to go pretty deep into the woods to find beechwood trees. It was a terrible day, about 120 degrees, 100 percent humidity, and no chance of rain. The sweat was just pouring off our bodies. In the commercial I was supposed to walk through the forest to a beechwood tree and explain that this was where Anheuser-Busch got the beechwood chips that gave Bu
dweiser the unique taste that made it the biggest-selling beer in the world. But just as we were ready to start filming, I spotted a black snake about six feet away—and maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to be staring at me.

  In addition to all the people from the agency, we had two forest rangers with us. I said, "I don't want to alarm anybody, but there's a big snake right over there and he looks hungry."

  One of the rangers laughed. "Oh, don't worry about him," he said confidently. "That's just a tree snake. It won't hurt you."

  I wasn't so sure about that. "Does the snake know that?" I asked. "I mean, he's a snake, right? I don't want to take any chances, I'm sorry."

  The pilot, who had tagged along because he had nothing else to do, whispered in my ear, "Don't go near that snake, Ed. That's no tree snake." With that, he broke a branch off a tree and got the snake's attention. The snake snapped at the branch. That was the first time I had ever smelled snake venom. It smells like death. Only worse. That "tree snake" turned out to be a cottonmouth, one of the most deadly of all snakes. If it had bitten me, I would not have survived long enough to get to the hospital. The ranger killed it.

  By now the temperature had gone up a few more degrees, we had two very embarrassed rangers, we had the pilot who just might have saved my life, and we had got one other thing—somewhere in the area there was another cottonmouth snake. As the ranger informed me, they live in pairs, and apparently we had killed the female. That meant the male, the big snake, was still around. And he wasn't happy. There is such a thing as dying for your art, but I'd never heard of anybody dying for their sponsor. Being the first was not something that appealed to me.