Radio Digest (June 1932-Mar 1933)

44 The uamt Mr. "Rolfe He Prefers "Bum" and "Trouble" to the Glamourous Night Life UNTIL recently I knew but a few studio people and practically no radio artists. But with my assumption of a radio column I came in contact with the artists of the air and was convinced of two things. One is that radio is tremendously interesting; the other that radio people are even more so. In meeting the people who face the "mike" I studied them individually to learn their personalities, eccentricities, likes and dislikes. Some of them appeared to possess no unusual traits, but others gave me food for thought and material for my column. In this latter class was B. A. Rolfe, the well-known orchestra leader. I found Mr. Rolfe most unassuming and seeking none of the glamour that surrounds radio stars. I first met the orchestra leader when he returned from his trip to Hawaii about January 1, last. It was at the Hotel St. Regis and, as I stepped into the Rolfe suite, I was struck with the likeness the noted maestro bore to an old friend of mine, the late Will A. Page, publicity man. Mr. Rolfe greeted me with a hearty handshake and a smile. "Glad to meet you, Dudley," he said. "What do you play— a horn or contract bridge?" On a table nearby was the faithful Rolfe cornet, which serves to keep its owner from being lonely when he is alone. "Only a mouth organ," I replied. "Well, that's something," he said. "Have you got one with you? We might play a duet. The harmonica should blend well with the cornet." We both laughed. Then he invited me to sit down and have a smoke. Before I left I discovered that B. A. Rolfe is a stay-at-home, in fact, probably radio's most prominent homebody. "I guess you're sorry your trip is over," I suggested. "Not at all!" he replied. "Oh, the trip was pleasant, but I'm glad to be back. I like to stay at home. Would you believe it, I have been a guest at a night club only twice in my life— and on both occasions I was dragged there." "What is your aversion to night clubs?" "I wouldn't call it an aversion," said Mr. Rolfe. "I just have no desire to By Bide Dudley VVDE DUDLEY, who writes here D of the quaintness of B. A. Rolfe, is the dean of New York theatrical critics. For seventeen years he was Broadway columnist on the Evening World. He had become interested in radio even before the merging of the World with the Telegram. Twice daily he comments over the WMCA airway concerning the latest amusements now. Mr. Dudley becomes a regular writer for Radio Digest. spend my time sitting around in them. Night club life is more or less superficial. To me it seems unreal in the main. People go to such places to be seen and I have no desire to bask in the public eye." "Well, what do you do for recreation?" "Just two things. I either stay at home and play bridge or go out and shoot golf." "So you're a bridge expert, eh?" "T 1 GUESS I'm the most consistent bridge loser in New York " said Mr. Rolfe, his smile broadening. "But I don't mind losing. It's the game itself I like. What if I do lose if I have a good time? Why, I'm so easy for good bridge players that they seek me out just for the fun of licking me. The line usually forms to the right." He laughed and continued. "And as for my golf, well I'm just as bad at that game. They all want to play me merely because I'm such a dub at it. Why anybody should want to beat me at golf I don't know. It surely is no feather in the victor's cap." Here Mr. Rolfe went further into his likes and dislikes. "I am very fond of real people," he went on. "By real, I mean the genuine. Affectations bore me; they get nobody anywhere. If I want to sit at home playing contract bridge in my old carpet slippers I do it. Life is too short to permit foolish conventionalities to get in your way." The unusual always interests Mr. Rolfe. He once went to Chinatown with Willie Hong, of the Palais D'Or, where his orchestra was playing, at the Chinaman s suggestion. Several other people accompanied them. Suddenly, as the party was traversing a very dark and narrow street, it was found that B A Rolfe had disappeared. His friends immediately became apprehensive. Hong smiled blandly. "You wait. I find him," he said. Then Hong disappeared, too. Finally the Chinaman returned. "You come with me," he ordered. They followed him to a Chinese theatre and there, seated near the stage, was B. A. Rolfe, all by himself, smiling and applauding vigorously, although he didn't know what the play was all about. "Sit down, folks," he said. "It's a great show." "He like good show," said Hong. _ And it took the orchestra man's friends just one hour to drag him away from that weird theatrical performance. Mr. Rolfe owns a couple of wire-haired terriers that are his pals. One he calls Trouble; the other Bum. (See photo on page 18.) Trouble is a vocalist, but Bum, it would seem, knows something about music, too. His master taught Trouble to "sing". Commanded to warble like Singin' Sam, Trouble growls deeply. Asked to croon, he makes a shrill noise. It is then that Bum goes into action. He does not like crooning and, when Trouble "croons", Bum gives one agonizing look of reproach at his canine friend and rolls over on the floor "dead". Mr. Rolfe is a great believer in the value of purely American music. He hopes to see bands, orchestras and choral societies formed in various cities among amateurs some day to give programs of real American music. "The old masters are all right," is the way he puts it, "but I am sure ninety per cent, of us Americans would rather hear a good arrangement of Stephen C. Foster's "Swanee River" well rendered than any sonata that ever came from the old world. Some day America will get over its subserviency to the works of the old masters and make it possible for us to have a standard type of American music, typical of American life." He's a quaint and interesting fellow, this homebody, B. A. Rolfe, of Radioway.