Gil Crandall in 1936; a gig with other Johnnies helped him buy a new guitar.

It has been 73 years since I enrolled at St. John’s. That previous June I had graduated from Annapolis High School and turned 17 a month later. Like most teenagers, I was filled with confidence. Yet I felt a bit intimidated as I walked up to McDowell Hall knowing that I was just a “Rat,” a holdover term for freshman from the era when St. John’s had a military program.

Being an Annapolis native, I was a day student, but nevertheless subject to the same “Rat rules” as other freshmen. We were required to wear rinky-dink black-peaked caps, with the number 36 in orange on the front, ill-fitting cover that had a tendency to fall off easily. (I still have mine, but it is a bit moth-eaten.) There were other Rat rules enforced by the student council, and transgressions resulted in various punishments, including corporal, but nothing really harmful except to one’s ego.

It had been my intention to participate in some extracurricular activities. However, I had a part-time job at Gilbert’s Pharmacy and Soda Fountain on State Circle, a business owned by my family. I also played the guitar, an instrument slowly gaining popularity in dance bands. The Swing era was just then on the rise.

One day, not long after the semester started, I received a circular advising that the college marching band would welcome new members. I filled in the accompanying application answering the question, “What instrument would you like to play?” with “trombone.” Guitar was not then a marching band instrument, and to my knowledge, it still isn’t. The director of the college musical activities was Professor Adolph Trovosky, a longtime Annapolitan who had emigrated years earlier from Poland or Germany and had never shed a thick accent. He was regarded as a fine musician and a kind man with a cheerful disposition.

On the first day of band practice the good professor must have been somewhat agitated, as he busily distributed instruments and scores. He handed me a nickel-plated trombone and several musical scores. Never before had I ever touched a trombone and I could not read a note of the music. When the time came for the band to play the first selection, “St. John’s Forever,” I simply sat with the trombone on my lap.

Professor Trovosky, observing that I was not participating, stopped the band and asked me why I was not playing. Somewhat embarrassed I responded, “Sir, I can’t play trombone.” With a look of total astonishment, he said, “Vell, Mr. Crandall, vy in de vorld dit you zign up to play der trombone?” I meekly responded, “Sir on the application form I answered the question, ‘What instrument would you like to play?’ I would like to play trombone.’ ”

Visibly confounded, Professor Trovosky glared at me while the band members roared with laughter. Placing the trombone and sheet music on the gym bench, I quickly departed as the band resumed playing.

Fortunately that experience did not adversely affect my college career, nor my inauspicious future as a guitarist. The college did not sponsor a dance band, so I formed a small off-campus combo dubbed “The Collegians.” The roster included myself, two local musicians, and three other Johnnies: highly talented Bill Quimby on sax, clarinet, and flute; robust Bob Murphy on stringbass (both of the class of 1936); and Bill Herson, class of 1935, a mad-man drummer.

The Collegians, sans trombone, gained popularity in the Annapolis area, playing gigs at various venues with slim financial reward. The country was enduring the Great Depression. Our biggest success came when an RKO movie team arrived in Annapolis to shoot a scene for Shipmates Forever, featuring Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler. The storyline centered on the Naval Academy, with Powell as a midshipman and Ruby his sweetheart.

I was lucky to book the Collegians and a few extra musicians to play “sideline music” for a scene replicating the academy’s Graduation Ball, shot in Dahlgren Hall. All the band had to do was to play a few bars of a foxtrot as 50 couples, attired in formal dress, started dancing. The camera rolled, a dialogue between the two stars was recorded, and we stopped playing on the director’s cue. Later in Hollywood, the studio orchestra provided the real music.

That gig was a financial windfall for the Collegians. It paid for my then-costly ($184.50) Epiphone guitar, with enough left over to buy a six-dollar derby hat de rigueur for hip musicians.

Professor Trovosky now plays a heavenly harp, as do all the Collegians, except for me. I strum guitar rather poorly and still yearn to play the trombone.

by Gil Crandall, class of 1936

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