George Wright

Reflections by Lew Williams
Excerpted from Theatre Organ, July/August 1998

In reflecting on the life and career of George Wright, it is fascinating to draw a parallel with the work of Frank Sinatra, who followed him in death by only four days.


George Wright, State Theatre, Kilburn
Both were stylists in their own fields who drew upon previous influences and added new ones. Sinatra, a vocalist, adopted an instrumentalist's approach to his singing by emulating the long phrasing and breath control of Tommy Dorsey's trombone playing. George Wright, an instrumentalist, adopted the approach of a vocalist in his organ playing as had his predecessor, Jesse Crawford.

They were fortunate enough to be musicians during the Golden Age of American popular music, and both made tremendous impressions on the public while performing at New York's Paramount Theatre during the 1940s -- once even appearing on the same bill. They had mercurial temperaments and did not suffer fools gladly, but could be very supportive and generous to others. And after them, nothing would ever be the same in the way that singers and organists thought about their crafts.

But it is George Wright that we are concerned with here. What was it in his playing that reached out and gripped his listeners as no other organist's ever had? The usual requisites come to mind: technique, musicianship, and experience gained over many years of working in every conceivable setting, but it was his ability to adapt musical traits from other mediums and turn them into something uniquely his own. One only had to hear a few notes to be able to identify George Wright. Like Glenn Miller's style, it was recognizable and accessible. There was never more going on than the ear could easily follow and appreciate, and he never resorted to sheer technical "athleticism" at the expense of the music.

Another hallmark of a Wright performance was his rhythmic vitality and sparkle. How many people know that George would sometimes spontaneously break into a dance step -- usually the Charleston? Having once seen him do this in a Portland crosswalk and during a performance of the Widor Toccata (!), it's easy to see how the free-for-all swing of a tune like Nagasaki would come so naturally to him.

George probably worked with every major figure in popular music during his lifetime, and seemed to take it as a matter of course. A major figure himself, he was not overly impressed by the performers around him, particularly those with overblown egos. His musical education was gained in the public eye, real time, in the orchestra pits, and radio studios of the period -- an education no longer available to most performing artists.


George Wright, Auditorium Theatre,
Rochester, New York, c. 1971
It is primarily through his recording that we know him now. In the 1950s and 1960s he had the preeminent name among theatre organists, notwithstanding the scores of others recording at the time. He once said that the greatest compliment he ever received was from a recording engineer working for the HiFi label. During a break, the engineer came up to him and said, "You know, I don't like the organ and I don't like organ music ... But I like it when you play it."

As the years passed, a new generation of organists began to appear -- organists who had been George's musical children, so to speak, who had all of his recordings and were steeped in his style and approach. He was mildly annoyed at this; not that he was being copied, but that they had not innovated and assimilated into their own styles as he had done. In previous times, Liszt and Horowitz had their own followers in much the same circumstance, and England's Reginald Dixon, of Tower Ballroom fame, had a slew of admirers. What was the reason this was happening? Perhaps it was because that when George played a tune, it was just so effective and (here's that word) right, it would be hard to conceive of it any other way. He always seemed to find just the right sound for any given passage of music.

When I remember George Wright the man, I have to be thankful to him for his kindness and encouragement through the years. As a star- struck 15-year-old, I was able to play for him, and he asked me to "do him a favor" by taking piano lessons. No sounder advice was ever more gratefully accepted. When, some years later, I had decided to look outside of music for steady employment and made the decision to stop playing, George heard of this and was concerned enough to phone me, assuring me that he would approve of my decision no matter what. (I'm still at it, by the way). More recently, I would sometimes receive a nice note from him after I'd played a concert somewhere, saying that he'd heard "good things" about it. I will always cherish these kindnesses.

At the conclusion of his 1984 workshop at Colorado State University, he bid everyone a fond farewell with the words, "Play better!" Well, now we'll have to.