Paul Whiteman was born in Denver on March 28, 1890, son of Wilberforce Whiteman, the city's superintendent of school music, who put a violin in his hands before he could remember it and chose every teacher who followed. Trained relentlessly, he was principal violist in the Denver Symphony by seventeen and in the San Francisco Symphony by 1914. A colleague dragged him into a Barbary Coast jazz dive one demoralized night in 1916, and everything after traces back to it: he quit the symphony, got fired from his first jazz job for being unable to swing, and taught himself by ear. By 1920 his orchestra's "Whispering" had sold nearly two million copies; by 1924 he was commissioning Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue." The press crowned him "King of Jazz." His own verdict was blunter: "All I did was to orchestrate jazz."
Wilberforce Whiteman ran Denver's public-school music program for thirty years and treated his own son as his most demanding pupil. "I can't remember the time when I didn't know the feel of a bow in my hand," Whiteman wrote of lessons that began in infancy, "my first lessons were taken from my father when I was such a baby that I actually have no recollection of them." That drilling put him in the Denver Symphony at seventeen, and later gave him the trained ear that let him hear jazz as something worth scoring, not just playing.
listen forNo recording of Wilberforce Whiteman survives — he worked as a teacher and school-orchestra conductor, never as a performer on record. But his training is audible on his son's breakthrough side: on the verse of "Whispering," it's Paul's own violin doubling trumpeter Henry Busse's melody line, the instrument his father put in his hands in infancy carrying an actual hit. Listen for that thin, legitimate violin thread riding just under the horn — a symphony-trained sound smuggled into a dance record.
Whiteman was exhausted and ready for bed one San Francisco night in 1916 when a symphony colleague, bassist and contrabassoonist Walter Bell, showed up and insisted, "Let's make a night of it." Bell hauled him to the rowdiest room on the Barbary Coast, where a trombonist wailing the blues undid every bit of his resistance — Whiteman's own account marks it as the night jazz first got him. Years later he named the debt outright: "It was through him that I really got to know and like jazz and I picked him for my own orchestra."
listen forNo recording of Walter Bell survives; he's documented only as an orchestral bassist and contrabassoonist, never as a credited soloist. But the sound he introduced Whiteman to — a horn moaning like a human voice — resurfaces on "Hot Lips," where trumpeter Henry Busse works a Harmon mute into his trademark wa-wa growl, bending pitch in a way no symphony ever asked of him. It's the closest thing on a Whiteman record to the horn that undid him that night on the Barbary Coast.