British Bandman

Five years ago a blond young Briton ambled down London's Charing Cross Road, turned into Denmark Street (equivalent of Manhattan's Tin-Pan Alley), sought out a publisher who might be sympathetic. The young man had a tune to sell. He played it on the piano; the publisher asked its name. Ray Noble thought quickly. "Why, call it 'Goodnight, Sweetheart,' " he said. Thereupon Ray Noble's own name was made.

Never was a song more cruelly abused. Yet many realized that it was a rare, good tune in its smooth, nostalgic style. And it served to turn attention to quiet Ray Noble, no ordinary, illiterate, catchpenny songwriter but the well-mannered son of a well-to-do London neurologist and a nephew of T. Tertius Noble, the venerated organist of St. Thomas' Episcopal Church in Manhattan. Organist Noble has never been known to hum "Goodnight, Sweetheart." Nor has he ever met his nephew, famed now for having turned out some of the best dance records in England. But only three blocks away from St. Thomas' last week, Ray Noble began a job which any young musician might envy. He undertook a long-time engagement in the window-walled Rainbow Room, Rockefeller Center's smart night club. Significantly, an Englishman was bringing dance music to the country which supplies Europe with most of its jazz.

The Rainbow Room wanted Ray Noble for its opening last autumn (TIME, Oct. 8). His phonograph record vogue was tremendous. He had written more sure tunes: "Love is the Sweetest Thing," "Love Locked Out," "The Very Thought of You." But when he arrived in September he found the Musicians' Union wary of "foreigners." Not until February was he allowed to assemble an orchestra. Two weeks later he was broadcasting for Coty Perfume.

If the Rainbow Room customers expected to see a showman last week they were roundly disappointed when quiet Ray Noble conducted his men. His easy gestures were all from the wrist. Occasionally he tapped his foot, sometimes sat at a piano, pattered a bit. He had gathered first-rate U. S. players and, unlike many a conductor, he freely admits his debt to them. Trombonist Glen Miller is one of the best "hot men" in the U. S. And so is Bud Freeman, Noble's tenor saxophone. Only two of the musicians came from London with Noble: Bill Harty, his manager and drummer, and Crooner Al Bowlly, a swarthy South African who began his career in a Johannesburg cafe.

In three months all the players have acquired the glossy Noble technique. At rehearsals the Briton works patiently and courteously. With a few "hot" exceptions, he has made the arrangements himself. And they are all smoothly polished, all rich in counterpoint, most of them sweet, none sissy. Many of his introductions are almost symphonic. Yet Noble never forgets that he plays for dancing and his rhythm never flags. Even "Goodnight, Sweetheart" is a sturdy swinging tune when Ray Noble plays it.

Jazz fans, many of whom would not call Noble's slick music jazz at all, will haggle endlessly in defense of their favorite orchestras. Among famed dance bands, Paul Whiteman's has the richest tradition but his performances now seem sterile. Leo Reisman, another pioneer, is on the wane. The Lombardo band persists in "flabbing" but the public likes it. Two years ago dancing collegians turned to the stomping Casa Lomas. But with success the Casa Lomas are more & more mechanical. The Vallee band plays just as it always has, but Conductor Rudy has proved an unexpected showman, smart enough in radio to find new talent, provide a skillful frame. Most "hot" jazz fans still regard black Duke Ellington as the greatest of jazz orchestra leaders. Benny Goodman is currently the peer of "hot" white musicians, having supplanted the Dorsey Brothers, who have commercialized their idiom.

A "popular" musician takes his gauge from his phonograph records. At Manhattan's smart Gramophone Shop Ray Noble sells the best. At Macy's his only competitors are Guy Lombardo and the Casa Lomas.

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