Tasty yeast is tempting to your appetite (Revised and Updated)

There really was a chocolate-covered yeast candy bar called Tastyeast. 

When I was a kid in the 1970s, I got a cassette tape from the heavily advertised Radio Reruns series of old-time radio programs called "50 Radio Commercials--From the early days of radio to the present (1960)." It was probably the best of the series to introduce a young person of the '70s to the "golden age" of radio as it gave a nice cross section of the programs, personalities and sponsors of that era with catchy old jingles ("Pepsi-Cola hits the spot") and sales pitches by the likes of Arthur Godfrey (Chesterfield, Cremo cigars), Walter Winchell (Jergen's lotion), Jack Armstrong the All-American Boy (Wheaties), Tom Mix (Shredded Ralston), Superman (Kellogg's Pep), Frank Crumit (Roi-Tan cigars), etc. 

But there was one 1930s-era jingle that confused me. It sounded like they were singing about "Easter candy" which didn't really make sense, described as a candy bar that had vitamins "hiding" in it and that it was a "creamy food delight" that children would like.

Tasty yeast is tempting to your appetite

Creamy, wholesome candy, try a luscious bite

Vitamins are hiding in this candy bar

Pep, vim and vigor linger where they are

Children like this lovely creamy food delight

Let them eat it daily every morning, noon and night

You will see them growing stronger every day

Taking yeast this handy dandy candy way.

After years of vaguely wondering what they were advertising, I finally decided to do some research. It was not, as reported on some blogs (including this one originally) an ad for Fleischmann's yeast but for a candy bar called Tastyeast, which was essentially a lump of yeast coated in chocolate to make it more palatable. 

Tastyeast, Inc., based in Trenton, New Jersey, sponsored The Gloom Chasers, a comedy program on CBS Radio going back to 1931, where the jingle was apparently first used, and other advertising touted how eating yeast "this way" (with chocolate fudge) was "delicious."

But from a contemporary perspective, the question is, why in the hell would anyone want to eat yeast, chocolate covered or otherwise?

 "Eat Yeast for Health" was a popular slogan in the first half of the 20th Century that many Americans took to heart. As consumers, particularly in urban areas, were buying baked goods from bakeries rather than making their own, the makers of Fleischmann's Yeast, by far the largest marketers of the product, quite successfully boosted sales with an "Eat Yeast for Health" campaign, claiming it gave one's body much needed vitamins that built muscles and helped cure everything from constipation to bad breath to acne, and a whole lot more.Vitamins were a fairly new discovery then, unknown until around the turn of the century, and by the 1920s vitamins were the latest health craze. 

People were urged to eat two or three cakes of yeast (moist, fresh compressed yeast coming in small foil packets, not active dry yeast) a day, and for those who found the live fungus repulsive in taste, some of the ads suggested mashing a cake into a drinking glass and mixing it with tomato juice or milk, which still seemed disgusting to some. So why not chocolate covered yeast?

"Three bars of Tastyeast daily are sufficient to supply adults with a dependable and adequate amount of Vitamins B and G (later renamed B1) as contained in yeast," claimed an ad. "These are best taken between or after meals, not before them." Two bars a day were recommended for children. 

"Enjoy the benefits of yeast without the taste of yeast," other ads claimed. 

In the 1930s and '40s, the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) started cracking down on the more outlandish health claims being made in advertising for yeast products. As for Tastyeast, by the 1940s the company was sold to the Charms Candy Company and by the 1950s, the brand was phased out.

Make All America Sparkle City! Put Litter In Its Place!

In the early 1970s, environmentalism was becoming a popular cause, particularly with young people, as pollution and an increasing amount of trash from a throwaway consumer society was creating problems. Corporate America was blamed for much of the situation so in the interest of their own public relations and image, they too jumped on the environmental bandwagon.

In the spring of 1971, around Earth Day, two public service announcements (PSAs) produced by the Keep America Beautiful organization and the Advertising Council (now Ad Council) hit the TV airwaves. One was the well-remembered "crying Indian" spot featuring a supposed Native American named Iron Eyes Cody (who claimed to be a Cherokee but was later revealed to be a Sicilian-American actor born Espera Oscar de Corti in 1904, died 1999) who walks around modern-day America seeing all the filth and pollution, finally driven to tears when someone in a passing car throws a bag of trash at his feet. "People start pollution. People can stop it," intones actor William Conrad in the voiceover.

The other, mostly seen during network children's programming on Saturday mornings was an animated spot featuring a character called Captain Cleanup, who looked like a combination of Dick Tracy and Superman, and his young sidekick, Kid Coolit. 

Captain Cleanup and Kid Coolit are seen flying over Sparkle City, the cleanest metropolis in America, when they spot Louie the Litterer and his Sewer Rat Gang about to make a mess of things. The superheroes confront them, Captain Cleanup rolls up his sleeve but never lays a hand on them (apparently to avoid depicting violence). Instead the villains beat themselves up and fall into garbage cans. "That's where you belong. In the waste can!" Captain Cleanup proclaims.

He then breaks the fourth wall and says, "Kids, you too can be a pollution fighter. Never throw trash into the street. Remember--you have to set an example for your parents." Then he says, "Make all America Sparkle City! Put litter in its place!" The spot ends with "Keep America Beautiful" on screen along with the Advertising Council "rotary-a" logo used at the time. 

The cartoon characters also appeared in print ads that ran in newspapers nationwide in the summer of 1971. "Don't throw empty cans, bottles or even apple cores out of car windows. Don't toss used tissues on the street, or cigarette butts in the gutter. Put litter in its place," the ad admonished.

Keep America Beautiful and the Ad Council wanted to make it a real children's crusade. The organizations teamed with shoe retailer Thom McAn and its 1,000 or so stores across the country to distribute Captain Cleanup membership kits to youngsters who were interested in starting their own Captain Cleanup anti-littering clubs in their communities. The kits included a membership card and "a series of instructions on what Captain Cleanup recommends to help keep America beautiful," according to an article in the Desert Sun of Palm Springs, CA from September 23, 1971. The article went on to report that over two million kits had been requested and received by kids nationwide, and that they had also been distributed to civic youth groups. 

The campaign received heaps of praise from seemingly everyone all the way up to President Richard Nixon but some serious environmentalists took issue with the whole Keep America Beautiful organization. The organization was founded in 1953 by American Can Company and Owens-Illinois Glass Company, both manufacturers of non-returnable beverage containers, at a time when states such as Vermont were looking at banning such containers. Soon big breweries and soft drink makers became part of the organization but didn't publicize it, so the corporate interests weren't widely known by the general public. 

The serious environmental activists accused Keep America Beautiful of being a shill for corporate polluters, shifting the blame for pollution and environmental hazards from manufacturers to the general public, making them believe they're the ones making the mess and they're the ones responsible for cleaning it up. Peter Harnik of Environmental Action, Inc. commented to United Press International in an article published in newspapers around the US on May 5, 1971, "Keep America Beautiful is sort of a front for keeping America quiet."

The Captain Cleanup campaign was just a small part of Keep America Beautiful and there was little criticism about it specifically, while the "crying Indian" campaign received much more criticism (as well as praise), but that's a whole other story.

While the Captain Cleanup spot continued to run off and on through the 1970s (NBC continued to play a ten-second edit of it well into the 1980s on Saturday mornings), organized Captain Cleanup clubs soon faded away. A search of newspapers finds few if any mentions beyond 1974.

 

Rondo Thirst

In the summer of 1979, I started seeing commercials for a new soft drink called Rondo that strongly appealed to my adolescent male self. In the commercial, we'd see guys engaging in extreme sports or other vigorous activity as a macho-sounding voiceover said, "This man is working up a Rondo Thirst. And when he gets done, he's doesn't want a soda that he has to sip. He's gonna want a Rondo!"

Next we'd see one of the dudes swigging one down from an aluminum can, with sweat dripping off his face and droplets of soda-pop coming off the side of his mouth, while the voiceover continued, "Rondo is lightly carbonated so you can slam it down fast! Rondo has a clean citrus taste that's never sticky!" Finally, the dude in the commercial would crush the aluminum can he just slammed down in his fist and the voiceover said, "Rondo! The thirst crusher!" The label even looked like a beer can with the word "premium" and the slogan "blended from fine essences."

The commercial inspired lots of young guys like myself to drink Rondo, and even challenge our friends to Rondo-slamming contests, where we'd see who could slam one down the fastest, with the winner being determined by who would crush the emptied can first in his bare hand, just like in the commercial. (Try impressing the girls with THAT. "Hey babe, I'm a champion Rondo slammer!") In my area, Rondo was also available in 16 oz. returnable glass bottles, which would be a lot more difficult (not to mention dangerous) to crush in your bare hand. 

Rondo, marketed by Cadbury-Schweppes, originated in Australia as a soft drink called Solo, with a nearly identical label and commercials (with an Aussie-accented macho voiceover). The name was changed to Rondo in the U.S. because at the time, there was a brand of dog food called Solo. A Cadbury-Schweppes spokesman said in a July 1979 article for the Washington Post-LA Times wire service, "The word Rondo really has no meaning. It's just a computer name...but it sounds familiar and macho, doesn't it?" 

The product was test marketed in 1977 and 1978, rolled out nationally in 1979 and was "aimed at the 14-to-25-year-old active male segment because they are the single biggest consumers of soft drinks. And these heavy users are seeking a thirst-quenching, lower carbonated drink with less sugar," according to an industry spokesman in the Post-Times article. In 1980, sugar-free Rondo was introduced with a softer ad campaign.

By about 1981, the marketers decided those Rondo commercials were a little too macho, that they were actively turning off female consumers (who do most of the grocery buying). New commercials featured people relaxing in various outdoor settings while an adult contemporary-style jingle sang, "Sippin' a Rondo is laid-back and easy." (I can tell you, those commercials actively turned ME off. I didn't want something to sip, I wanted something to slam down fast! Whiskey is for sippin'.) 

Sales plummeted further, and the macho dude commercials made a brief comeback, but by 1984, Rondo was no longer available, at least in my area. 

The Husker Du Subliminal Scandal

In the Holiday Season of 1973, commercials were appearing on local TV stations across the US for a packaged family game called Husker Du (not related to the 1980s band by that name). According to advertising, "In Denmark and around the world, Husker Du means 'Do you remember?'" The game, which involved memorizing symbols on a playing board, was promoted as "a memory exerciser that's fun for children and adults alike" and "a great family game that increases your alertness." Nothing nefarious about that. However, it was discovered soon after the commercials hit the airwaves in late November that a single frame spliced in at four strategic points in the 60 second spot shot on 16 mm film flashed the message "Get It" for a fraction of a second, raising concerns about "subliminal advertising."

Recreation of the "subliminal message."

The idea behind so-called subliminal messaging was that viewers would be influenced by the message without actually noticing it. But viewers did notice and complained to the television stations airing the spot and the Federal Communications Commission (FCC). According to an article published in the New York Times on December 27, 1973 (and in other newspapers), "The commercial was carried by hundreds of stations across the country, most of which edited out the 'subliminal' frames after being alerted by the television code authority of the National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) that the advertisement violated its rules. The product's distributor, Premium Corporation of America, also alerted stations after receiving a number of complaints."

Sam McLeod, general manager of the marketing division of Premium Corporation of America claimed he hadn't noticed the "get it" frames when reviewing the commercial for approval, saying, "Unless you know it's there, you don't catch it," and that the subliminal messages were "an honest mistake, the result of deadline pressures to get the commercial into circulation in time for the Christmas season," according to the Times. He also blamed what he called "an exuberant young man" at the Minneapolis-based commercial production firm Lowe & Associates, saying, "The fellow thought he had invented something no one ever thought of before." 

When he got wind of it, McLeod said he sent telegrams to all the stations running the spot telling them to edit out the frames or simply paint them black. "We made every effort to clean it up, and I'd guess we were 99 percent successful," he told the Times, adding that the commercial was not "pitched at the little ones" and that it aired primarily during "adult" programs in daytime and late night. He said he was sure the problem had been cleared up within the first week.

However, according to the article, several stations continued to air the spot unedited, prompting a Washington-based consumer advocate named Robert B. Choate to file a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) and the FCC. Choate claimed to have seen the "get it" version airing as late as December 19 at 11:32 a.m. on WPIX-TV in New York and that it was still airing on stations in Chicago, Detroit and Tucson. It was pointed out that the New York and Tuscon stations were not members of the NAB Code Authority.

The commercial was scheduled to end its run just before Christmas 1973, and after that, Husker Du continued to be sold, and advertised, without any major controversies. Several Husker Du commercials from the 1970s can be found on YouTube, but not the "get it" version (although a subtly awkward edit can be detected near the end of one of them). The above illustration is strictly a recreation. 

Unsolved Mystery--Flashy Trash

When I was about ten years old, I discovered an antique and collectibles store a couple blocks from where my maternal grandmother lived, called Flashy Trash, located at 3336 Hennepin Avenue in South Minneapolis. It was up the block from Von's Superette, where I frequently walked when at Grandma's (and yes, nobody raised an eyebrow over a young kid going to the store by himself in those days). The owner was a 30-ish guy named Harold Norquist, who went by the name John. He had lots of neat vintage advertising stuff in his store and he was super nice to me. 

Collectibles I got from John's Flashy Trash store in Minneapolis.

His prices were very reasonable. He sold me a Planters Peanuts retail display box dated 1937--considered a rarity now--for $1.50 on July 27, 1977 (I still have his handwritten receipt inside the box.) He also sold me for just a buck or two a 1920s H and H soap package, an old pump sprayer with the brand name Spa (probably from the 1940s), and some Standard Oil and Union 76 road maps from the late '30s. One thing he had that I really wanted to get but it was a bit too pricey for me was a 1940s 7-Up diecut cardboard display sign. I loved 7-Up memorabilia, but he had a whole TEN DOLLARS on that one (it would probably go for at least $150 now). 

I made several visits over the next year or so when I was staying at Grandma's, and he knew my name and was always welcoming. I think he thought I was pretty cool to be such a young kid who was genuinely interested in vintage advertising.

Another anecdote: one time in the summer of '78 I came into his store eating Pop Rocks, a candy that was popular at the time that fizzed and popped in your mouth when you ate it. He was curious about it, so I gave him some, and he liked it so much he gave me some change to run over to Von's to get him a packet (plus a little extra for me to get another packet as well).

Then in the early hours of September 4, 1978 he was found stabbed to death by someone he picked up after a party at the Northern Sun bar, who attempted to rob him of a jar full of change he had in his apartment, according to accounts in the Minneapolis Tribune. The case, apparently, was never solved. He was openly gay (something I wasn't really aware of, or cared about, when I knew him) and with the adversarial relationship the gay community had with police in those days, there was very little cooperation from those who might have known something. In looking him up in the Star Tribune archives, I was surprised to find a picture of him included in an article from Nov. 26, 1978.

Sears Folklore from 1915

Sears, Roebuck & Company was founded in Chicago as a mail-order retailer in 1892, offering merchandise at reasonable prices to a mostly rural nation. In the beginning they sold watches and jewelry but soon they were offering through their catalogs sent out across the United States almost everything one could possibly want, including groceries, at a time when much of the population was far from the nearest town let alone big city, and transportation was still mostly by horse. 

The Sears, Roebuck catalog was a big part of American life going into the 20th Century and beyond, and became a big part of the American folklore. The early editions have been reprinted as books, with their whimsical descriptions of the merchandise offered and other interesting tidbits that were included in the pages of the old catalogs.

Here's a quaint short story found in the 1915 Sears, Roebuck grocery catalog, in the coffee section. It conjures up a time when one traveling between towns in rural America on a snowy winter day might actually be able to stop at a farmhouse somewhere along the way and be offered a cup of coffee by the farmer's wife, both having no worries about something going terribly wrong. 

How a Good Cup of Coffee Won Us a Customer

     A SALESMAN who was traveling through the country between two small towns stopped at a farmhouse and asked the good housewife to make him a cup of coffee. A few moments later he was entering the house where the pleasant cheer of the warm and comfortable dining room was indeed a delightful contrast to the cold, blustering snowstorm of that December day. To the salesman the room was made even more inviting by the pervading aroma of coffee, a beverage which he loved. A look of delight and surprise played over his face as he drank the steaming hot coffee, between raids on a large sugary cinnamon roll, and accepted the housewife's invitation for another cup.

   

 "Pardon me, madam, but that's the finest cup of coffee I've tasted since I came West. It has that particular coffee flavor I like. Would you tell me, please, what brand of coffee you use? Or maybe it's the way you make it," he added.

     "Oh, it must be the coffee," the woman responded, "for I don't go to any 'extras' in making it, except that I'm particular about not letting it boil, and I never use over old grounds. It's the kind of coffee, I'm sure, that makes you like it so much. This is Montclair Brand, which we get from Sears, Roebuck and Co., of Chicago, where we order all our groceries. Just write a card, asking them for their Grocery Catalog, and they'll send it very promptly."

     "Oh, that's fine," the salesman replied; "then I, too, can get it very easily. But tell me, will your second order have the same flavor as your first? So many brands of coffee on the market do not remain uniform from month to month or year to year. That's been my greatest trouble after I found a coffee I liked."

     "Oh, yes, indeed, a brand of coffee remains uniform when you get it of Sears, Roebuck and Co.," the housewife said quickly. "They make pretty strong claims on that point, and we've been able to prove them out. We've used Montclair Brand for about a year now, and have never noticed any change all the while."

     "Well, you've won a customer for that firm, and I shall count this a good day's work. Thank you so much," the salesman finished.

The Story of Hamm's Waldech Beer

Hamm’s beer collectibles are some of the most popular pieces of breweriana, but there’s one aspect of Hamm’s that doesn’t get much attention, a largely forgotten brand called Waldech. The brand always kind of interested me, with the black and gold labels on green bottles and the gothic images of castles in the advertising, not to mention it sounded like it would have been a good beer.

Waldech was a super-premium, all-malt and naturally-carbonated beer, much different from the flagship Hamm’s brand, although the name “Hamm’s” was prominent on the label. Introduced in 1963, it came out at a time when bland, yellow, fizzy beers dominated US beer sales. The name was said to be taken from the ancestral home of then-Hamm's president William C. Figge in North Germany. Early advertising claimed it was “The new third taste in beer,” not like a domestic and not like an import, but with its own unique character. It was slow brewed in fairly small batches, so the availability was limited compared to something more mass-produced such as Hamm’s.

It was especially popular among a certain crowd in California, where Hamm’s operated two breweries at the time. San Francisco Chronicle columnist Charlie McCabe said of Waldech, “The best American beer I have tasted since before World War II.”  Bob Balzer of the Los Angeles Times said it had “long-lasting flavor. Our choice among many for its real beer taste, fine head and substantial body.” The Auburn (CA) Journal commented, “”A few glasses of Waldech will make you forget about taking tranquilizers.”

This full-bodied beer had lots of critical acclaim but was never a big seller, and was discontinued in 1975 (along with Hamm's Preferred Stock and a few other brands from the former Heublein ownership) when Olympia Brewing Company took over Hamm's. Perhaps it was ahead of its time.

Hamm’s Waldech was promoted in national magazines in the 1960s with full-color, full-page advertisements. Examples here are from 1964 and 1969. As the brand competed with Anheuser-Busch’s Michelob, they switched to a bottle that was more similar to Michelob, complete with a wrap-around gold label.

Hamm's Waldech napkins.

"Waldech on draught" neon sign.

Waldech was never sold in cans, however several prototype Waldech cans were made for the Theo. Hamm Brewing Company and were pictured in color on the cover of North Star Chapter Breweriana Club’s 1982 book, “Beer Cans of Minnesota.”