Jackson is best remembered for his work at the Atlanta Fox. For example, the only photograph of Jackson included in Ben Hall’s The Best Remaining Seats (1961), which is still the authoritative survey of picture palaces, shows him at the console of the Fox’s Möller De Luxe organ.
This is an older Jackson, however. The photo is undated, but this is not the twenty-something phenomenon who wowed black and white audiences at the “81.” While the Atlanta color barriers did come down in Jackson’s lifetime, his early appearances at the Fox could not have been as the theater organist. Instead, he took the console for live performance only under rather unusual circumstances.
I will let Constitution theater columnist and associate editor Ralph T. Jones tell this story in his own words, published on January 3, 1932. They are exceptionally entertaining.Last Wednesday night, after the final performance at the Fox theater, a group of Atlanta’s more serious thinkers were indulging in a fascinating discussion along philosophical and metaphysical lines. There were, perhaps, a hundred in the party, which had been arranged for the advancement of ratiocinative analysis. Together, with the more aesthetic enjoyment, the company enjoyed a modicum of harmonic rhythm supplied by a musical aggregations of Afroamericans.
About 2 a. m., seeking surcease from their melodious labors, the orchestra mentioned in the preceding paragraph laid aside the reed and the brass, the cymbal and the drum. But their leader, whose wizardry at the piano had already attracted about four-fifths of the company present to his corner, scorned idle inactivity. On the invitation of Manager Carter Barron he mounted the console stool of the big Fox organ and, with unspoken acquiescence, prepared to play anything the assembled company might request.
Then, with delighted ears and throbbing pulse, we heard the organ played as no organ has ever been played before—except when Graham Jackson was at the console. This colored genius of tone and rhythm, this rather small, average looking Atlanta negro marvel, made that great organ sound like a divine orchestra of three-score master musicians. He metaphorically took it to tiny pieces and scattered them in drops of musical delight all over the big theater. Then he rolled it all up into one mighty instrument once again and made it dance, roll over, play dead, sit up and say “Mama.”
He played “Poet and Peasant” overture as a pious lover of music might dream of hearing it played by a company of archangels. Even as the final thundering chord of the tremendous overture died in the far reaches of the theater roof, the body of the master swayed on the console seat. It swayed in that inimitable rhythm swing that only the sons and daughters of Africa know, and the moaning, entrancing broken strains of “St. Louis Blues” sobbed all around. Two minutes more and he had native Georgians and visitors from the wilds of New Jersey singing together in delirious delight, “Glory to Old Georgia” and “Rambling Wreck.” Then popular song succeeded Chopin prelude and strains of Beethoven followed hard on dance room jazz.
Later, Jackson sat again at his piano with his orchestra mates around him and performed prodigious on the piano keys as marvelous as he had achieved at the organ. He plays the organ or the piano, or any of a dozen other instruments as no other can. His style, his technique are his own, unique. And he is one of the marvels of the modern age.
Graham Jackson is an Atlanta negro. He refuses to leave this city, his home, despite the riches and fame that would inevitably be his could his genius be properly presented in New York and other great cities of the world. These paragraphs have been written with one purpose, and only one, in view. That is, whenever any of you who read have an opportunity to hear Graham Jackson, seize it as you would an invitation to a concert by the most famous musicians of the age. You will hear something different, to be sure, but something gorgeously entertaining and magic in its rendition. For that is the way Graham Jackson plays.
Whew. I will make a few numbered observations about this extraordinary review.
1. Jones is genuinely enthusiastic about Jackson’s musicianship, both in this review and others. He pays Jackson a great compliment in describing him as “unique,” instead of as a typically gifted black musician, and as “one of the marvels of the modern age,” not one of the marvels of his race. All the same, Jones can’t help stereotyping Jackson as a “son of Africa,” possessed with the rhythmic sense and embodied performance style that is natural to black musicians. Of course, this is typical of every review of Jackson’s work. The most notable thing about Jones’s racial stereotyping is its insignificance compared to his other observations.
2. The setting for this performance is very important. Jackson and his band—the Seminole Syncopators, a popular dance ensemble in Atlanta society—are only welcome at the Fox after dark, in the middle of the night, when the atmosphere changes and social barriers are relaxed. Were there women present? I would guess not, given Jones’s description of “serious thinkers.” Jackson’s uniquely African music is invited into a space of adventure and experimentation, and is appreciated by cultural elites who enjoy total control over the situation.
3. Along with most other reviewers, Jones lays emphasis on Jackson’t extraordinary facility with most every instrument. Others observe that Jackson never received any formal training (not true) and simply picked up instruments from his boyhood with the effortless talent of his race.
4. Another common observation is that Jackson lives only to make music. He never tires, never becomes cross, and gives no thought to anything other than performing—a great relief, I am sure, to white audiences who feared black unrest. Jackson could be counted on never to resent his position and never to ask for anything special in return for his services. It appears that he was genuinely happy, as well as energetic and hard working. I am still trying to uncover his motivations and personal thoughts.
5. Along those lines: how exactly was this performance by the Seminole
Syncopators arranged? Jones makes it all sound spontaneous, but that is
impossible. How much were they paid? What did the contract specify? The band
is portrayed as lazy for knocking off at 2
6. Jackson’s repertoire here is typical. Franz von Suppé’s “Poet and Peasant” overture was his signature piece, and “St. Louis Blues” also featured regularly in his performances.
7. This is the only reference to Jackson leading community singing that I have found!
