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RADIO MIRROR
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edge he gained through fourteen years of teaching the saxophone and twenty years of playing it.
His ability is one of the fundamental reasons for the Lombardo style. With Liebert's trumpet, his voice and saxophone have paced the music since the band was organized. In Cleveland, where the Royal Canadians played their first American engagement (a two-year one), he taught classes of thirty and more young men his art.
That school was a good thing. It gave the girl he married in Cleveland something to do. Kept her busy, so that the fact that she no longer moved in her own circle after their marriage wasn't of great importance to her.
Level eyed, beautiful Florence Lombardo moved in one of Cleveland's better circles until she fell in love with, and married the gay, charming Carm.
"Except for the possibility of our becoming the most popular orchestra in town, we weren't expected to amount to much," he says, "and Florence's friends were — say, unfavorably impressed with her choice. We all tried to hit it off, but it didn't work out."
She may have worried about it, but she didn't worry long. First, she took over Carm's duties as paymaster, then she took over the business details of his school. Finally, she took over the duty of being big sister to all the Lombardos. She became one of them.
The Lombardos are men cast in the same mould, unspoiled and unassuming. Liebert is like that, but he is like that more intensely than the others. As the vibrato of his instrument can lift the Royal Canadians to the heights of melodic sweetness, so can his moods influence the moods of his brothers. For that reason, Lieb's tragedy has been their tragedy.
HE is a complex man. He lives, does everything he does, with a tremendous burst of nervous energy. His hockey game was always the most fearless, his baseball the most daring. But one fear he had which he could not conquer: he could not drive himself into entering a darkened room. When he and his wife, Cora, went home, he stayed outside the door until she had gone ahead to turn on the lights.
When his lovely wife died last year, Lieb lost more than the person he loved best. He lost a protector. Her going left him more horribly alone than he had ever been. Life became a succession of dark rooms that had to be entered.
The first one was a terrifying experience. His vivid imagination, so capable of conjuring whole bars of music, was equally capable of tricking him with a dreadful picture of something waiting for him. But he knew he had to lick it. The second time was easier, the third easier than that — until now he can control it.
So they have their solid front again. They have brought their mother and father to a Connecticut farm within commuting distance of New York, and they spend three days a week with them.
They are clannish, and therefore their music will never really change. Because things can always grow better, it will do that. But the flair that has made their imitators so obvious and second-rate will always be there. It comes from the heart.
Have you followed the fascinating series — Hidden Moments in Their Lives, In the June issue Robert Ripley tells of the one time he came face to face with death!
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