State

Who it Was Was Just Andy lie made that there funny football record. By BETTE ELLIOTT The shaggy young man slouched informally on the improvised stage. "And this Romeo was a spunky kind of a boy." he said, wrinkling his deeply furrowed brow. His audience giggled. "And he was so struck by Juliet, he give a soliloquy right THAR!" The au¬ dience howled. What kind of comedian is this who can cause such uncontrolled merriment without the aid of blue jokes, running gags, snappy patter or insane antics? Andrew Samuel Griffith, Mt. Airy's gift to the circle of funny men is now enjoying a fame he really didn't seek. It sought him. The tall skinny kid who wanted to be a trombone player wound up years later delivering funny monologues be¬ fore hundreds of North Carolina au¬ diences. No self-respecting Tar Heel record collector would be without Andy's "Romeo and Juliet," and "What It Was Was football." Sales of the thing have been sensa¬ tional. Now, Capital Records has the rights to produce the record on a large scale, for all over the country, people- arc asking about "that football rec¬ ord." Andy met Barbara Edwards three years ago at Chapel Hill where both were music students. Andy played third trombone in the University or¬ chestra. and sang Gilbert and Sullivan roles creditably well. After a brief spell at teaching music in Goldsboro, Andy look his bride to New York, but auditions there resulted in nothing. His singing career scented over be¬ fore it began. Back home the discour¬ aged Griffiths happened to run into Ainslic Pryor, «hen director of the Ra¬ leigh Little Theatre. The three had been friends for sev- Barbara and Andy Griffith cral years. Andy had been cast as Sir Walter Raleigh, and Barbara as Elea¬ nor Dare in Paul Green's The Lost Colony for several seasons Prvor played a number of smaller parts. "Andy." said Pryor, "you’re a pretty funny fellow." Pryor was remembering the hilarious monologues Andy used to deliver for the beach crowd at Manico. So Andy decided to do his "Preach¬ er and the Bear" act for the Little Theatre production of "The Drunk¬ ard." The play, appearing in Raleigh in May 1952, was one of those horrible mcllcrdrammcrs everyone loves so much with the evil villain and all, and Deacon Griffith stole the show from the hair-pulling heroine. Thus the youthful Ml. Airy mimic launched upon a new career. Bar¬ bara's lovely voice and her dancing ability, combined with Andy's earthy carryings-on, proved a hit with con¬ ventioneers. civic groups, anyone with an entertainment problem on his hands. It started out small. Typical of the early engagements was before a club in Capon. Va. (pop. 300). Now, the unusual husband and wife team is booked solid for many weeks to come. Veterans of the onc-nighier, Andy and Barbara take a lot in their stride. They have performed on every sort of make-shift stage. Often there is no dressing room — only a screen in full view of the audience, and Barbara has to trust to luck as she makes her quick changes, In one town. Barbara had to change costumes in a room that was a mass of floor-to-ceiling windows, and no shades. She solved this problem by ly¬ ing flat on her back as she flung off one gown and wriggled into another. Andy has a routine on the classic ballet "Swan Lake"— (“and so all them princes went across that lake to shoot them a mess of swans"); his own version of "Hamlet" ("just another high school boy"); a dead-pan take off on that Johnny Ray horror. ’‘Please Mr. Sun." in which he gives popular ditties the works. It’s all a lot more than cracker bar¬ rel humor. Andy is a sharp satirist without being mean; he's handsome without being conceited; and he's in¬ telligent without being a snob. "The future?" Andy is definite. "I want night club work — television would kill me dead in a year." The thought of a radio mike sets him to shaking like a leaf, and most people agree you have to sec Andy in the flesh to really appreciate him. Barbara intends to bow out of the picture. She wants to study voice and drama, and be a performer in her own right. Meanwhile, the Deacon knocks them cold with his furrowed brow, his dead-pan satire, and with lines like "So Romeo give a soliloquy right THAR — not on bein’ or not bein', but on doin' or not doin'." THE STATE. JANUARY 2. 1 954 3