Radio mirror (May-Oct 1934)

RADIO MIRROR The Jazz King Wears a New Crown "Mississippi Suite", his "Metropolis" and "Grand Canyon"; Dana Suesse's "Jazz Concerto"; Johnny Green's "Night Club"; CJeems Taylor's "Circus Days", was born in Denver as the "Gay Nineties" were ushered in. He had a musical heritage from a talented Dad, who supervised the music of the Colorado city's school for a half century. But, Paul, a cuckoo kid, a trifle slugnutty from the touch of genius, took to driving a taxicab. It was more fun than violin practice, and probably more remunerative. But the Muse, disguised as the proprietor of 'Frisco's "Old Faithful Inn", beckoned, and Paul quit monkeying with meters to get that extra, larcenous jit to play viola in the 112-piece band. A feller called Art Hickman told him about a thing called jazz. Then the war came, and Paul joined the Navy. But he didn't see the world. M7RANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT, then Assistant-Secretary of the Navy, couldn't see the logic in offering the pre-Hitler Teutons a target as prominent as Paul was in those days, so they gave him an Admiral's suit, or something like it, and a forty-piece Navy orchestra. It was the Whiteman music that piped our tars over the side with a hey-nonny-nonny and a hot-cha-cha for the Heinies. A lot of Paul's gob musickers wished to Davey Jones that they'd been assigned to nice, easy jobs on submarines in the war-zone, for the way this genial giant kept them plugging at practice left a lot of ladies lonesome. You see, Whiteman saw a chance to experiment with his new theory of symphonic rhythm. It was tough at first, but once they became imbued with the leader's enthusfasm, those forty horn-tooters and what not were transformed into classical jazz maniacs. After the Armistice Paul had a little spell of sickness that tore 150 pounds of robustiousness from his Gargantuan frame. He went West to recuperate, and carrying on the work begun for Uncle Sam, he organized an orchestra in Santa Barbara. Somehow the Coast has always been a stride ahead in recognizing musical talent, and soon Whiteman was down in Los Angeles, as Hollywood is called, playing to the stars that thronged the old Alexandria. Ah, those were the happy days! Poor Charlie Chaplin, poor Roscoe Arbuckle, poor Douglas Fairbanks, poor Wally Reid, who couldn't see clearly into the future, praise be, haunted the hotel where Whiteman's music echoed, and not infrequently "Fatty" would take a turn at the drums, "Wally" would toot a sax, and "Charlie" would relieve Paul as conductor. Then, like as not, they'd all adjourn to Arbuckle's "Sunset Inn" and choose up sides for a football game played with a . watermelon. In those days Paul was a GoodTime-Charlie. If Garbo had been around, it would have been her slipper from which he would have sipped his 58 (Continued from page 23) champagne, for it would have held more than the ones that were pressed into service then. It was here-todaygone-tomorrow with Paul, his wine and his women. So when an offer came from Atlantic City he forsook the Wild West for the Effete East. At the Atlantic City Ambassador, not even the auctioneers had heard of Whiteman, and at his Grand Opening, four couples turned out, and they probably were guests of the management. They stayed until the end, though, Paul remembers, and the next night returned with a score of friends. The old wordof-mouth did the business, and at the end of the week you'd have to call up George for reservations. It was then that the "His Master's Voice" man, attending one of these here conventions, made Paul promise to come-up-and-see-me-sometime at the Victor Talking Machine Company's place in Camden. But, shucks, Paul was too busy getting a load of sun-tan, or something, and teachin' the wimmin the swimmin' by the sad sea waves, to bother much about it. He started four times and got side-tracked en route. But finally he made the grade, and . . . "Whispering," Paul's first recording, sold two million — count 'em — two million platters! New York was the next step. And Paul took it in his stride. These were the days of Thompson, Salvin and Boag, the triumvirate who ruled New York night-life through possession of a chain of clubs and cabarets. It was the day of Gilda Gray — and Paul Whiteman. Paul stepped into the Palais Royale and chipped off three Gs a week for himself swinging his little ebony stick while Gotham danced, and cover charges clinked merrily into the Broadway coffers. Paul has been away since then, but he became a New Yorker at the Palais Royale, and he'll always come back. 'W'HESE were the days, too, when an engagement at the Palace Theatre was akin to a peep at Paradise, and we don't mean NTG's jernt. Naturally, Paul wanted it, and he didn't hesitate to accept the Albee offer of |900 for a week's speculative engagement. He stayed five weeks, and within a month returned for four more — but this time at a |2,000 increase in salary. Whiteman and Jazz were in the bag. But Paul stepped out of the club and vaude class when he shocked the town by giving a concert in the conservative, high-hat hall called after the Scotch bobbin-boy, Carnegie, another guy who knew a good thing when he saw it. It was all white tie and decollette, and all the furs and jewels of the Four Hundred out of hock for the occasion. And it went over like a Babe batted ball. That night Whiteman became international. He went to London and played for crowned heads — and no cracks about that crowned stuff. When that well known American, Edward, Prince of Wales, came over for the grouse, or whatever it was, offered at Mr. Mackay's Long Island estate, every band in the land, offered its music free, gratis and for nothing. To have the Pragger-Wagger, himself, trip a light fantastic to your music was good advertising. But it was Paul who got the job, and |6,000 for the night's fun. Just a few highlights in the Whiteman career. As for radio, his was the first orchestra to broadcast, and when he put "The Rhapsody" over WJZ, the morning mail brought 4700 letters of appreciation. One of his most memorable broadcasts was the three-loop affair in which he and Bebe Daniels collaborated, with Bebe on the Coast and Paul and his bandsmen in Chicago. He and the boys listened with ear-phones for they had to play one-eighth of a second ahead of the beat to make the synchronization with California. Another of his experiences was the loss of pages from his script in the middle of a three looper — New York, Chicago, Hollywood— which was costing |40,000! But he got through ail right. TMO one realizes better than Whiteman that hummable tunes are bigger money-makers than classical compositions. But he knows, too, that if America is to make definite musical progress, young composers of serious music must be encouraged. With this in mind, Paul is intent upon founding a Whiteman Scholarship which will cost him $30,000. It is to be an annual award, something like the Pulitzer Prizes, and it will be for the year's outstanding achievement in music by any American citizen under the age of twenty-five. The award will be made by a committee consisting of such judges as Deems Taylor and Franko Goldman. Stokowski was invited to participate but couldn't. The award will be a year's musical education for the winner. Compositions should be from seven to twelve minutes in duration. It isn't necessary for contestants to orchestrate them. The prize composition will be presented by Paul and his orchestra, which is a pretty good way to launch a youngster on the road to success. Whiteman wants America, and Americans, to have the best. This is his generous way of trying to secure it. With all his activities Paul has found time to write the first book on Jazz, which has gone through edition after edition since its initial publication, and he found time, too, to star in a motion picture, among the first of its sort, which is titled, "The King of Jazz". I say "is" rather than "was", because even at this late date, Universal has seen fit to reissue the film. It's that good. And in addition, he has found time for romance. It isn't easy to get a movie star to quit a career. Especially when she has