Benny Goodman

Benny Goodman… Honestly, this man could make a clarinet sound like it was flirting with you in three different languages while tap dancing. But beyond the kingly swing and sweet sweet tone, Benny Goodman lived a life that veered from inspiring to bizarre with pit stops at awkward, obsessive, and occasionally hilarious.

He started poor. Not just “couldn’t afford a new trumpet” poor. We’re talking tenement-in-Chicago, rag-wearing, shoeless-in-winter poor. His dad scraped together the cash to send him to music lessons at the local synagogue. That’s right, Benny got his first clarinet from a synagogue band, which feels like the beginning of a very strange joke but actually launched one of the most pristine careers in jazz history.

By the time he hit 12, Benny was making more money than most adults around him. While his peers were trading marbles and discovering awkward body changes, Goodman was out there wearing oversized tuxedos and playing dances for mobsters. The American dream, just with more reed grease.

There was a reason he climbed so fast: he practised like a man possessed. Ten hours a day, hunched over that licorice stick like it owed him money. After his father died when Benny was just 15, music became more than a passion—it was a ticket out, a shield, an obsession. Not exactly a balanced childhood, but it got results.

He made it to the big time while carrying a truckload of anxiety. Benny suffered from horrendous stage fright. No one tells you that the King of Swing often vomited backstage before shows. That calm, collected look? That was sheer terror wrapped in wool.

He was also the patron saint of perfectionism. Benny didn’t tolerate sloppiness. Ever. He had this glare musicians called “The Ray” that could freeze water or melt brass, depending on the temperature of rehearsal. One misplaced note and you’d feel it drilling through your soul. Great bandleader, terrifying employer.

The peculiar part? He wasn’t out to make history. He was out to make good music. When he hired Teddy Wilson in 1935, he didn’t issue a press release about breaking racial barriers. He just wanted the best pianist. Then he added Lionel Hampton and Charlie Christian. Suddenly, Benny had assembled America’s first widely visible racially integrated band and couldn’t care less about the fallout. Swing first, segregation never.

That audacity landed him in Carnegie Hall in 1938. A jazz band in Carnegie Hall? It was like serving hot dogs at a royal banquet. And yet, the show was electric. People danced in the aisles, screamed in delight, and probably rearranged their musical worldviews. Classical purists likely fainted. Benny just played.

While all this was happening, Benny had a secret affair with Mozart. Not literal, though honestly, you never know with musicians. He adored Mozart and performed classical repertoire with the same fervour he brought to big band swing. He even played the Clarinet Concerto in A Major, arguably better than most trained classical soloists. Yes, the King of Swing had a crush on powdered wigs and minuets.

Rehearsals with Benny were their own genre of horror film. Harry James, one of the greatest trumpet players ever, made a joke during a session. Benny threw him out. The next day, Harry was welcomed back with zero explanation. That was Goodman logic: cruel, consistent, and confusing as hell.

He wasn’t much better off stage. Benny could be wildly awkward. Conversation was not his preferred instrument. Some people described him as aloof; others said he just seemed distracted, like he was constantly doing complex rhythm maths in his head. Probably was.

Despite all his success, he never trusted himself behind the wheel. Benny didn’t drive. He didn’t like it, didn’t want it, didn’t need it. He’d rather take a taxi than risk wrecking his clarinet hand while parallel parking.

And about that “King of Swing” title? He didn’t even like it. He thought it was over the top, a bit cheesy, even embarrassing. But it sold records and sold out concert halls, so he went along with it. Royalty sells.

He did, however, live like a king in other ways. Benny married a literal countess: Alice Hammond Duckworth, from a posh family that probably thought jazz was something their butler listened to. She understood Benny, or at least tolerated him, which in itself is worthy of nobility.

What he didn’t do was fall into the jazz musician stereotype of the era. Benny didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t gamble. He barely even socialised. His one true addiction was practising. Imagine someone that sober turning out music that intoxicating.

In 1962, he toured the USSR at the height of the Cold War. Swing music was his weapon of choice in the jazz diplomacy war. While Khrushchev scowled over potatoes, Soviet audiences clapped until their hands hurt. He may have done more for US-Soviet relations than any politician with a podium.

Somewhere along the way, someone made Benny a solid gold clarinet. Let’s just sit with that for a second. Solid. Gold. Clarinet. It was beautiful. It was heavy. He played it a couple times, decided it was impractical, and quietly returned to his more modest instruments. But still. GOLD.

Benny never slowed down. He played until the very end. His schedule was full of concerts and recordings when he passed in 1986. Ageing gracefully wasn’t his thing. He wanted to keep swinging, even if the world had moved on to synthesisers and shoulder pads.

He even tried bebop. It didn’t really fit him—like a Victorian gentleman trying to skateboard—but he tried. He toyed with modern sounds, fusion, electric instruments. He was baffled by rock but gave it a whirl anyway. Not always successfully, but you’ve got to admire the effort.

So there you have it. Benny Goodman: swing legend, neurotic genius, awkward conversationalist, cold-blooded rehearsal tyrant, Mozart-loving jazz renegade, clarinet wizard. He wore a bowtie like it was a crown and made music that still refuses to go quietly into history. Benny wasn’t just a king. He was a one-man swing monarchy, marching to a tempo only he could hear.