"For anyone with busfare and a harmonica, The Original Amateur Hour was a grab at the brass ring. Some came without busfare, hitching rides across the country. Poor blacks came up from the South; cowboys from the West. Freak acts came from everywhere. Many had sung in choirs back home. Some had played tank towns in the corn belt, with three-piece combos held together by long strings of one-night stands. They were supposed to be "simon pures," strictly amateur, but who was to know? The common denominator was desperation. The Depression hung over the nation like a shroud. If a man with a smooth baritone singing voice was told by enough friends that he sounded better than Bing Crosby, he began to believe it. Major Bowes gave him a chance to prove it."