August 24, 2025 • 30 mins
Matt Mattox was everywhere — from partnering Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes to stealing the show in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Choreographers like Jack Cole, Michael Kidd, and Eugene Loring singled him out. Broadway welcomed him. And yet… his biggest legacy wasn’t onstage or onscreen.
Trained in tap, ballet, jazz, and acrobatics, Mattox fused it all into a codified jazz technique that reshaped how dancers train around the world. But his path wasn’t straightforward — from learning a waltz clog as a kid, to surviving brutal rehearsals, touring internationally, and reinventing himself more than once.
So how did this one dancer become one of the most influential figures in jazz training — even if his name isn’t always in the spotlight? All of that (and more!) is what we’re uncovering in this episode!
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
At a time when dance was exploding on Hollywood screens, he became the go-to dancer for Hollywood's
(00:09):
top choreographers, and later helped define health theatrical jazz would be taught for generations
to come. Welcome to the rest of the story, a weekly series on my podcast, Hey, Dancer. I'm
Miller Daurey, and if you're into dance history that's really researched, rigorously sourced,
(00:30):
and focused on the dancers who tend to get overlooked or forgotten, or maybe they just haven't been
given their flowers in a long, long time. You're in the right place. Make sure you're following or
subscribed wherever you're watching or listening. Give a like and share with anyone who appreciates
dance, film history, or good old solid entertainment. When you do anyone or all those things,
(00:55):
it really makes a bigger impact than you realize. Thank you so much in advance, and let's get into it.
He was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1921. His earliest memories weren't of his parents. He rarely
saw them. He rarely saw his older brother, Al, either. The people he remembered most were his
(01:16):
grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. And from the beginning, he performed. In the yard outside
his aunts house, he'd bounce off the center of an old, fold-up bed spring, launching himself into
the air and always landing on his stomach. His two-girl cousins were impressed. There were no mats,
no spotters, but what he did have even then was a need to impress. When he was five, he wandered off
(01:43):
during a train ride back from Tulsa, just vanished from his seat. His mother alerted the conductor.
They searched the cars and finally found him in the baggage compartment, learning a waltz clog
from a black porter. He came back with steps he never forgot. Later, he taught himself whatever he could.
(02:05):
Gymnastics, swimming, basketball. He had a singing voice that people noticed. And long before he
ever set foot in a class, he could dance full phrases of music, not because he'd been taught, but because
he'd watched. His family eventually relocated to Los Angeles. One morning on his way to school,
(02:25):
he passed the foyer of the Fox figure-row-a-theater. A placard outside caught his eye. Auditions.
He kept walking, but curiosity got the better of him, so after school, he went back. Inside a girl
was singing, maybe 13 years old. When she finished, the woman running the audition told her to return
(02:46):
Saturday for a rehearsal. Then she turned to the young boy. "What do you do?" He said, "I sing a
little, I dance a little." She told him to get on stage. He sang school days, and then launched into a
32-count dance break of that same waltz clog he learned years prior. It wasn't trained, it wasn't
(03:08):
taught really, but it worked. She told him to come back Saturday too. So he did, and this time,
the theater was packed. All kids in the audience. The organist played. He sang, he danced, and when he
finished the crowd roared. Wild applause. He had never felt anything like it. He loved the attention.
(03:32):
A woman named Teddy Kerr, whom he would later call "Madam Kerr" was running the show. She was a former
Vodville tap dancer, and she sent a note home to his mother. It explained he had potential,
and that she taught tap. She wanted him in her Saturday classes, held in a church rec room,
(03:53):
and so it began. Every Saturday he started learning tap and basic acrobatics, but Kerr was mostly
interested in his voice. He had a good one. At 11, it stood out. For the next two years, his performing
centered around singing. She kept giving him opportunities to sing in public, and also,
(04:14):
little by little, he began to take note of her explanation of tap and being an adagio dancer.
Eventually, his family moved from LA to San Bernardino. He lost touch with Madame Kerr, but not
with performing. There, he found a more advanced tap school run by a woman named Evelyn Bruns.
She gave him his first real sense of what it might mean to dance professionally. He was in his
(04:40):
early teens when she booked him for nightclub gigs in Canberraze, $5 for dancing what she asked.
That's when things started to shift. He stayed with her until he was 14, because, again,
they moved back to Los Angeles, where his father took a job running a luggage shop. By the time he was
(05:00):
16, school had lost all its appeal. While he did enjoy sports and art, it wasn't enough to keep
his attention, so he made the bold decision to quit high school and take dance even more seriously.
He saw a small ad in the paper. Dancer wanted. He went to the address listed. A woman with children
(05:21):
at her side answered the door. She explained the job. Every night, he'd come back and serve
as a social dance partner for women of all backgrounds, shapes and sizes. He'd earn a dollar
a night. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid. And it gave him the freedom to train again. He reconnected
(05:41):
with Evelyn Bruns, now teaching in Whittier, California, and began studying seriously. Occasionally,
he helped with younger students, but mostly he was training. And around this time, he was told he needed
ballet. He resisted. Tap had already gotten him teased. Ballet felt like too much. Still, he agreed
(06:03):
to try one class. Then another. He didn't love it, not right away, but he picked it up fast. Not
because it was natural, but because he remembered everything he saw. He began classical training with
Lester Lane. For tap, he studied with Willie Covan, but the teacher who had the biggest early influence
(06:24):
on his ballet foundation was Ernest Belcher, a former silent film choreographer trained in London,
who happened to be the father and dance teacher of Marge Champion. Belcher brought structure,
basics, foundation, alignment and clarity to everything this young dancer did. During this time,
(06:44):
he saw the ballet ruse de Monte Carlo perform, and it changed everything. He didn't just admire them.
He studied them. He devoured biographies of Pavlova and Nijinsky. But it was Igor Yuskevich,
who struck him like no one else, the physical power, the artistry, the masculine authority.
(07:05):
He began to chase ballet the way some kids chased fame, driven hungry relentless. After class,
he stayed behind two extra hours every day, alone, repeating, refining, pushing. Eventually,
he decided it was time to graduate his classical training, and he joined the studio of Nico Cherisse,
(07:27):
a respected teacher with European training who ran a disciplined, no nonsense program.
And in those classes, most days, was Nico's wife, Sid, a striking young dancer with quiet star power.
When war broke out, he joined the US Air Force. He trained as a pilot, first in gliders,
then in fighter planes. But the pressure of the cockpit exposed a hidden back condition. He was
(07:53):
discharged and sent home. Back in Los Angeles, he returned to training, right back to Nico Cherisse
studio, where his wife was still in class. The same striking dancer he trained alongside before the
war, but now things were different. She was working, gaining traction, starting to become a star.
(08:15):
One day, she pulled him aside in class and asked, "What are you gonna do now? Anything I can do to help?"
She invited him to come with her to MGM early one morning and stay for a shot at auditioning.
So he did. He changed into dance clothes, warmed up, and waited. No one came. Not until after lunch,
(08:37):
when a man finally walked in and said, "Let's see what you can do." He led with a tap routine he
learned from Evelyn Bruns, great for showmanship. Then followed it with a combination he learned from
Ernest Belcher. Precisely controlled and clean. Five minutes later, he was offered a contract.
(08:58):
The offer? A multi-year studio contract. Starting at $250 a week with raises built
in. By year seven, he'd be making $750 a week. He signed on the spot. And within a day of signing, he was
in rehearsal with Eugene Loring, the choreographer known for fusing ballet with modern and theatrical
(09:23):
forms. The project, Yolanda and the Thief, starring Fred Astaire. It wasn't his first time on a film set.
He'd already done other uncredited dance work in earlier pictures, but this was different. His
new contract meant regular pay, steady work, and for the first time a real place in the studio system.
(09:44):
Offset his relationship with Loring deepened. He began teaching at his American School of Dance in
Los Angeles. The man who was choreographing him on a camera was now a colleague in the studio.
He later said Loring gave him balance. The finishing touches he hadn't yet learned. Other films
(10:05):
followed quickly. Easy to wed two sisters from Boston. And until the clouds roll by, he danced
with Judy Garland on a moving escalator no less in the number called Who? That stretch from 1946
through 1948 was packed. Fiesta, Easter Parade, good news, words and music all before he'd even
(10:28):
turn 27. But it wasn't just a string of gigs. It was an education in rhythm, style, professionalism,
and outside of the studio he was expanding his toolbox. He sought out Louis DePron for private
tap lessons drawn to his grounded intricate work. But after two years at MGM he was disillusioned.
(10:51):
The studio dream wasn't what he'd imagined, so in a move few dared to make. He walked away. With a
letter of recommendation from DePron, he headed for New York. And through DePron he booked a Broadway show.
Are you with it? It closed just two weeks after he joined. Still he stayed in New York,
(11:13):
studied ballet at the School of American Ballet under Bill Griffith, William Dollar and Anatol O'Boucac.
He also picked up a role in an original Broadway musical called Park Avenue. It ran for 72
performances. Then came a smaller break. In the summer of 1947 he performed in the ensemble of
(11:34):
the San Francisco Civic Light Opera revival of Louisiana Purchase. This production is notable for
who is on that stage beside him, Mitsy Gainer and Tommy Rall in lead roles. Dancers he'd soon
share the screen with. And it was choreographed by Eugene Loring who had already shaped his ballet
foundation and would soon influence even more. A year later, something new, he'd been watching from
(12:01):
afar. Glimpses of Jack Cole's dancers at Columbia Studios. Gwen Verden was already a standout
in the company, Sharp and Electric. But it was the movement itself that pulled him in.
Masculine grounded aggressively stylized. So when auditions opened for a new musical Cole was
choreographing, Magdalena, he showed up. Cole hired him. First day of rehearsal he was told
(12:29):
to be barefoot. He had never danced without shoes before. By the end of the day his feet were torn
and raw. He started bandaging his toes, wrapping his knees and kept showing up. The work was
unlike anything he'd ever done. Angular, grounded, stylized and brutally demanding.
(12:50):
But he kept getting handed more. He ended up performing all the male solos in the show,
including a stylized Spanish Waltz. The show opened in Los Angeles, moved to San Francisco,
and by December 1948 landed in New York. It flopped. But he came back to California changed.
(13:12):
A different dancer cracked open and reshaped by the experience. And then came the trip abroad.
By 1949 he was performing in the Australian production of Oklahoma, part of a long-running tour
mounted by the JC Williamson company. The following year a rare Australian newspaper
(13:33):
clipping confirmed his return to the stage in Song of Norway at the theater royale in Sydney,
now in a featured role as Tito, that same article referred to him as one of the dancing stars of
Oklahoma. Drawing a clear through line between these two Australian productions.
And this time he wasn't just dancing, he was choreographing. It marked the first time he was
(13:57):
contributing movement and performing in the same show. His next transformative year came in 1953,
seven films released multiple studios and a return to Jack Cole. In the I Don't Care Girl,
he was placed in a trio that included Mitsy Gainer. The choreography was intricate, super precise,
(14:19):
and set against a driving swing rhythm. They rehearsed for days to lock in the coordination.
When they finally got it, the director told them out of the blue, they'd now be singing the number
too. They were overwhelmed, but did it anyway. He appeared in another number from the same film
called Beale Street Blues. This time, among a crowd of gangsters chasing Gainer and Gwen Verden,
(14:46):
through a surreal landscape of fireblasts and rising ramps, it was pure Cole, stylized,
cinematic, and physically unforgiving. And in number after number, Cole kept pulling him to the front.
In Gentlemen Prefer Blons, he partnered Marilyn Monroe in one of the most memorable scenes
(15:07):
in film history. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. And later appeared in The Gymnasium as one of
the ensemble athletes in, is there anyone here for love? Shirtless, stone-faced, moving and tightly
synchronized precision, strong, athletic, acrobatic, clean lines, controlled execution. He was also in
(15:30):
Call Me Madam, I love Melvin, the girl next door, and walking my baby back home. Again, all released
in just that one year. The sheer volume wasn't just about work. It was about mastery. Exposure to
choreographers, directors, staging, structure, all of it feeding a mind already starting to question
(15:53):
how movement could be passed on. That fall, Cole returned to New York to choreograph a new
Broadway show, Carnival in Flanders. He was having trouble casting one of the key roles, the Spanish
Courier in the Spanish trio. No one could quite handle what he was asking. After a string of failed
(16:14):
auditions, a stage manager made a suggestion. Bring in the assistant, Cole agreed. The job was his.
He stayed through rehearsals about three months, and when the show opened, he was center stage. Cole
left before opening. Producers had pushed back on the choreography, calling it too suggestive,
(16:37):
but the Spanish trio stayed in. Flamenco lines, tap-rooted rhythms, a wink underneath the polish.
The show closed after just five performances, but word traveled. Dance magazine would later say
that if the production had been a hit, he would have joined the ranks of Verden, Haney, and Buzz Miller.
(16:59):
Michael Kid saw the closing performance of Carnival in Flanders. After the curtain, he came backstage
and said he had a job to offer. He was heading west, relocating to Los Angeles, and had a room in his
station wagon. So they made the drive together, talking, trading stories, covering miles.
(17:21):
Their first film together would be The Bandwagon, featuring him in another small,
uncredited role in a major Hollywood movie. Although he was, the featured male ballet soloist in a number
starring his old classmate, Sid Cherisse. They even did a "pada da" together, his classical training
(17:42):
on display for the world to see. Talk about a full circle moment, but it would be the next project
that made a real impact. Before shooting began on Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,
rehearsals started. Kid laid out wooden planks and asked the dancers to show what they could do.
(18:02):
Who could manage a double tour? Who could turn on a narrow beam?
Who could do both on wooden planks way above the ground? Who could jump land recover?
That is how the choreography was built, role by role. He was cast as Caleb Ponepi, the third oldest
of the brothers. In the barn-reasing scene, his technique is unmistakable, clean, sharp, and exact.
(18:29):
He begins with a rapid alternating sequence of back kicks performed in place, almost like a reverse
pony step, all while balancing on a narrow single wooden beam. Then, without breaking momentum,
he springs into two straddle jumps. All of it captured in long uninterrupted takes.
(18:49):
It became one of the films most talked about moments, a collision of ballet technique and raw
athleticism, a new kind of male dancing for the screen. Michael Kid once said that this dancer
had enormous strength, versatility, precision, and technique, and that he was always the first person
(19:11):
he wanted for the MGM musicals he made. Other roles followed, the girl rushed with Rosalind Russell,
guys and dolls with Sinatra and Brando, where he, as one of the Havana dancers, threw a punch at
Brando in the choreographed bar fight. He went on to sing and dance in the Broadway musical The Vamp
(19:33):
with Carol Channing, appeared in the Ziggfeld Follies of 1956 choreographed by Cole,
and in 1959 he originated the role of the Jester in once upon a mattress, opposite Carol Burnett,
and he again attracted major critical attention with his performance in the film Pepe in 1960.
(19:55):
But the backstage pole was growing stronger. He had been starting to teach more regularly
at Showcase Studios at Ballet Theatre School. He staged nine shows in one summer for the Cape
Cod melody tent. He choreographed for Broadway in Say Darling, his first full Broadway choreography
(20:15):
credit. The show ran 332 performances and starred Vivian Blaine, Robert Morse and David Wayne,
and later for television, a Dynastore special, The Bell Telephone Hour, which was a top-rated
weekly TV variety show. And in the studio he was starting to craft something different,
(20:37):
something methodical, something structured. He was still performing, still choreographing,
but the center of gravity was shifting, and soon the work would no longer be about being seen.
It would be about what he could pass on. But to understand how that shift really began,
we need to backtrack just a little. He started by teaching Jack Cole's vocabulary,
(21:02):
packed classes, high expectations, a steady stream of Broadway dancers, TV dancers,
ice skaters. By the mid-1950s, his classes at June Taylor Studios were generating buzz,
but he didn't stop there. After two years of teaching Cole's material, he felt the need to make
it his own. He went home, sat down, and drew a single line on a blank sheet of paper.
(21:29):
"The body is a straight line," he said, "and you can do everything with it." That was the start.
He built a system, not a syllabus, of exercises he called the bar, intentionally structured like a
ballet class, designed for strength, coordination, isolation, rhythm, clarity, and control.
(21:50):
Each movement related directly to the phrases taught later in class. He called it freestyle,
because it wasn't about genre, it was about freedom. Tap, flamenco, Indian, contemporary, folk,
modern, any of it could be folded in, any of it could be reshaped into something new.
He resisted being labeled a jazz teacher. He trained dancers to listen, to concentrate,
(22:16):
to isolate, to push against rhythm, not write it. He said, "I understood jazz rhythm through
listening to jazz music. The dancer, like the musician, follows the pulse, moves away,
and returns." And he didn't just train for performance, he trained for presence.
(22:37):
Students had to understand why a gesture was made, what its visual consequence would be,
what it referenced, sculpturally, rhythmically, emotionally. His work was free in vocabulary,
not in intention. Every step had to be earned, placed, understood, because nothing was arbitrary.
(22:58):
He believed dance could be animalistic, violent, romantic, sensual, sexual, that it could lead to
control and to liberation. He opened his own studio in New York in 1956, created his dance company
Jazz Art in 1961, moved to London in 1970, where he taught for five years at the dance center
(23:22):
and trained an entire generation of European dancers. By 1980, he was in France, continuing to teach
perform and direct stages across Europe with his wife. He taught in the US, Europe, and beyond,
including regular classes in Los Angeles and international workshops. He continued teaching
(23:44):
until he was nearly 90 years old, developing and refining a precise movement system grounded
in his lifelong study of jazz, ballet, and tap. And for many, this is the legacy. Not the films,
not the Broadway shows, but the work he built in the studio, the method, the rigor, the framework
(24:08):
that shaped a new generation of theatrical jazz dancers. He was a performer, he was a choreographer,
but what he built went beyond either of those roles. He became one of the first to codify jazz as
a formal technique, grounded in structure, discipline, and deliberate design. Even if his legacy stopped
(24:31):
at the screen, it would still be remarkable, but what he created behind the scenes reshaped
the form entirely, a way of training dancers that demanded musicality, control, and total commitment.
You can't trace the evolution of concert jazz dance, what's been taught in studios around the world
(24:54):
for decades without seeing his imprint. His technique became one of the defining branches on the jazz
dance tree, distinct, structured, and deeply influential. His name, Matt Maddox. And now you know
the rest of the story. Alright, dance fam, thank you so much for listening to this episode
(25:19):
of the rest of the story on Hey Dancer. If you liked it and you want more like it, don't forget,
don't forget you got to follow, you got to subscribe wherever you're watching or listening.
If you are watching on YouTube, by the way, hit that notification bell so you are alerted as soon as
a new episode drops and leave a review on Spotify or Apple and share the podcast with your dance family.
(25:45):
Anyone who would appreciate the history behind the movement. Again, my name is Miller Dure and I
appreciate you being here. Now every episode you hear is researched, written, narrated, edited,
and fact-checked by me. And this episode was never going to be a complete documentary of every credit
(26:05):
and every chapter that is not the goal of this series. I would hate for it to sound like a resume or
some heavy bio-driven thing. I try to make it narrative. I try to make it about the story. The most
important elements to drive the story forward. My aim is to hone in to spotlight the parts of a dancer
story that help us understand who they were, what they stood for. You know, their early life,
(26:30):
their training, their struggles, their youth, and how they shape dance as we know it. Hopefully that
came across clearly here. Also, in case it needs to be said, this wasn't meant to be a comprehensive
history of jazz dance as a form. That is a much bigger, more layered story. This episode is just
about one dancer's influence how mathematics helped shape a style and a structure that would be
(26:56):
passed down in studios around the world over decades and decades. There are always so many things I
wish I could include, but like I said, this can't be a two-hour thing. But one final detail,
I feel like I do want to mention here in the outro that I did not in the main script, mostly because,
you know, I try not to dwell too much on what didn't happen. But this one is worth sharing. So
(27:22):
before Broadway, before film, before Matt's name would be tied to a style that would change jazz
dance forever, he had another dream. He wanted to be a classical dancer, maybe even the best in America.
In 1948, he wrote to Lucía Chase, co-founder of Ballet Theatre, now known as ABT. He asked for help,
(27:45):
financial support, a scholarship, anything that would allow him to keep training while supporting
his wife and kids at the time. It wasn't some hail Mary, he had a personal recommendation from Eugene
Loring to Lucía and in his letter, he made it very clear he was ready to prove himself from the
bottom up. He wasn't asking for shortcut, just a shot. Now Miz Lucía Chase did not respond right
(28:12):
away, she was overseas, but when she finally did, she said she wanted him in the company and for a
moment it looked possible. He was invited to take class, they were follow-up letters that stretched
into the next year, the interest was real on both sides. But the logistics never quite clicked,
the timing, the finances, the family needs, they kept pulling him in a different direction. Although
(28:37):
as my main script mentioned, he did teach there at different times, you know, over the years. He also
choreographed by the way, almost 30 Valets and he did serve as the artistic director of the New Jersey
Valet in the late 1960s. Oh another random factoid, I told you it's impossible to list all the things
(28:58):
especially because I don't want my series to feel like a resume, you know, but he did play the role
of Harry Beton in Brigaduin on Broadway in 1957 and you probably saw a few times in this piece if
you were watching that he wasn't always matte. He was actually born Harold Henry Maddox and his
(29:21):
early work he was credited as Harold. So where did Matt come from? Well the way he tells the story,
it was in the US Air Force where they just began calling him Matt. It became a sort of nickname
they took Matt from Maddox, you know how that's pretty common you will call your fellow soldier by
(29:41):
their last name, at least I think that's true. Anyway, Matt became his sort of nickname in the US Air Force
and then he said eventually in the industry, Matt Maddox was much more memorable than Harold Maddox
and it just stuck. And while he didn't become the next great American ballet dancer which I find
(30:03):
so interesting, you know, dreams that was his dream. He became something else entirely and I guess that's
what this whole episode has been about, wasn't it? Aren't we lucky that his dreams didn't come true? I
mean who knows what would have been if he did become the classical dancer he dreamed to be, but I think
(30:25):
we as an audience, we as dancers are far more blessed as a result of the dance journey he wound up
taking. Okay that's all I got. See you next time.
At a time when dance was exploding on Hollywood screens, he became the go-to dancer for Hollywood's
(00:09):
top choreographers, and later helped define health theatrical jazz would be taught for generations
to come. Welcome to the rest of the story, a weekly series on my podcast, Hey, Dancer. I'm
Miller Daurey, and if you're into dance history that's really researched, rigorously sourced,
(00:30):
and focused on the dancers who tend to get overlooked or forgotten, or maybe they just haven't been
given their flowers in a long, long time. You're in the right place. Make sure you're following or
subscribed wherever you're watching or listening. Give a like and share with anyone who appreciates
dance, film history, or good old solid entertainment. When you do anyone or all those things,
(00:55):
it really makes a bigger impact than you realize. Thank you so much in advance, and let's get into it.
He was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1921. His earliest memories weren't of his parents. He rarely
saw them. He rarely saw his older brother, Al, either. The people he remembered most were his
(01:16):
grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. And from the beginning, he performed. In the yard outside
his aunts house, he'd bounce off the center of an old, fold-up bed spring, launching himself into
the air and always landing on his stomach. His two-girl cousins were impressed. There were no mats,
no spotters, but what he did have even then was a need to impress. When he was five, he wandered off
(01:43):
during a train ride back from Tulsa, just vanished from his seat. His mother alerted the conductor.
They searched the cars and finally found him in the baggage compartment, learning a waltz clog
from a black porter. He came back with steps he never forgot. Later, he taught himself whatever he could.
(02:05):
Gymnastics, swimming, basketball. He had a singing voice that people noticed. And long before he
ever set foot in a class, he could dance full phrases of music, not because he'd been taught, but because
he'd watched. His family eventually relocated to Los Angeles. One morning on his way to school,
(02:25):
he passed the foyer of the Fox figure-row-a-theater. A placard outside caught his eye. Auditions.
He kept walking, but curiosity got the better of him, so after school, he went back. Inside a girl
was singing, maybe 13 years old. When she finished, the woman running the audition told her to return
(02:46):
Saturday for a rehearsal. Then she turned to the young boy. "What do you do?" He said, "I sing a
little, I dance a little." She told him to get on stage. He sang school days, and then launched into a
32-count dance break of that same waltz clog he learned years prior. It wasn't trained, it wasn't
(03:08):
taught really, but it worked. She told him to come back Saturday too. So he did, and this time,
the theater was packed. All kids in the audience. The organist played. He sang, he danced, and when he
finished the crowd roared. Wild applause. He had never felt anything like it. He loved the attention.
(03:32):
A woman named Teddy Kerr, whom he would later call "Madam Kerr" was running the show. She was a former
Vodville tap dancer, and she sent a note home to his mother. It explained he had potential,
and that she taught tap. She wanted him in her Saturday classes, held in a church rec room,
(03:53):
and so it began. Every Saturday he started learning tap and basic acrobatics, but Kerr was mostly
interested in his voice. He had a good one. At 11, it stood out. For the next two years, his performing
centered around singing. She kept giving him opportunities to sing in public, and also,
(04:14):
little by little, he began to take note of her explanation of tap and being an adagio dancer.
Eventually, his family moved from LA to San Bernardino. He lost touch with Madame Kerr, but not
with performing. There, he found a more advanced tap school run by a woman named Evelyn Bruns.
She gave him his first real sense of what it might mean to dance professionally. He was in his
(04:40):
early teens when she booked him for nightclub gigs in Canberraze, $5 for dancing what she asked.
That's when things started to shift. He stayed with her until he was 14, because, again,
they moved back to Los Angeles, where his father took a job running a luggage shop. By the time he was
(05:00):
16, school had lost all its appeal. While he did enjoy sports and art, it wasn't enough to keep
his attention, so he made the bold decision to quit high school and take dance even more seriously.
He saw a small ad in the paper. Dancer wanted. He went to the address listed. A woman with children
(05:21):
at her side answered the door. She explained the job. Every night, he'd come back and serve
as a social dance partner for women of all backgrounds, shapes and sizes. He'd earn a dollar
a night. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid. And it gave him the freedom to train again. He reconnected
(05:41):
with Evelyn Bruns, now teaching in Whittier, California, and began studying seriously. Occasionally,
he helped with younger students, but mostly he was training. And around this time, he was told he needed
ballet. He resisted. Tap had already gotten him teased. Ballet felt like too much. Still, he agreed
(06:03):
to try one class. Then another. He didn't love it, not right away, but he picked it up fast. Not
because it was natural, but because he remembered everything he saw. He began classical training with
Lester Lane. For tap, he studied with Willie Covan, but the teacher who had the biggest early influence
(06:24):
on his ballet foundation was Ernest Belcher, a former silent film choreographer trained in London,
who happened to be the father and dance teacher of Marge Champion. Belcher brought structure,
basics, foundation, alignment and clarity to everything this young dancer did. During this time,
(06:44):
he saw the ballet ruse de Monte Carlo perform, and it changed everything. He didn't just admire them.
He studied them. He devoured biographies of Pavlova and Nijinsky. But it was Igor Yuskevich,
who struck him like no one else, the physical power, the artistry, the masculine authority.
(07:05):
He began to chase ballet the way some kids chased fame, driven hungry relentless. After class,
he stayed behind two extra hours every day, alone, repeating, refining, pushing. Eventually,
he decided it was time to graduate his classical training, and he joined the studio of Nico Cherisse,
(07:27):
a respected teacher with European training who ran a disciplined, no nonsense program.
And in those classes, most days, was Nico's wife, Sid, a striking young dancer with quiet star power.
When war broke out, he joined the US Air Force. He trained as a pilot, first in gliders,
then in fighter planes. But the pressure of the cockpit exposed a hidden back condition. He was
(07:53):
discharged and sent home. Back in Los Angeles, he returned to training, right back to Nico Cherisse
studio, where his wife was still in class. The same striking dancer he trained alongside before the
war, but now things were different. She was working, gaining traction, starting to become a star.
(08:15):
One day, she pulled him aside in class and asked, "What are you gonna do now? Anything I can do to help?"
She invited him to come with her to MGM early one morning and stay for a shot at auditioning.
So he did. He changed into dance clothes, warmed up, and waited. No one came. Not until after lunch,
(08:37):
when a man finally walked in and said, "Let's see what you can do." He led with a tap routine he
learned from Evelyn Bruns, great for showmanship. Then followed it with a combination he learned from
Ernest Belcher. Precisely controlled and clean. Five minutes later, he was offered a contract.
(08:58):
The offer? A multi-year studio contract. Starting at $250 a week with raises built
in. By year seven, he'd be making $750 a week. He signed on the spot. And within a day of signing, he was
in rehearsal with Eugene Loring, the choreographer known for fusing ballet with modern and theatrical
(09:23):
forms. The project, Yolanda and the Thief, starring Fred Astaire. It wasn't his first time on a film set.
He'd already done other uncredited dance work in earlier pictures, but this was different. His
new contract meant regular pay, steady work, and for the first time a real place in the studio system.
(09:44):
Offset his relationship with Loring deepened. He began teaching at his American School of Dance in
Los Angeles. The man who was choreographing him on a camera was now a colleague in the studio.
He later said Loring gave him balance. The finishing touches he hadn't yet learned. Other films
(10:05):
followed quickly. Easy to wed two sisters from Boston. And until the clouds roll by, he danced
with Judy Garland on a moving escalator no less in the number called Who? That stretch from 1946
through 1948 was packed. Fiesta, Easter Parade, good news, words and music all before he'd even
(10:28):
turn 27. But it wasn't just a string of gigs. It was an education in rhythm, style, professionalism,
and outside of the studio he was expanding his toolbox. He sought out Louis DePron for private
tap lessons drawn to his grounded intricate work. But after two years at MGM he was disillusioned.
(10:51):
The studio dream wasn't what he'd imagined, so in a move few dared to make. He walked away. With a
letter of recommendation from DePron, he headed for New York. And through DePron he booked a Broadway show.
Are you with it? It closed just two weeks after he joined. Still he stayed in New York,
(11:13):
studied ballet at the School of American Ballet under Bill Griffith, William Dollar and Anatol O'Boucac.
He also picked up a role in an original Broadway musical called Park Avenue. It ran for 72
performances. Then came a smaller break. In the summer of 1947 he performed in the ensemble of
(11:34):
the San Francisco Civic Light Opera revival of Louisiana Purchase. This production is notable for
who is on that stage beside him, Mitsy Gainer and Tommy Rall in lead roles. Dancers he'd soon
share the screen with. And it was choreographed by Eugene Loring who had already shaped his ballet
foundation and would soon influence even more. A year later, something new, he'd been watching from
(12:01):
afar. Glimpses of Jack Cole's dancers at Columbia Studios. Gwen Verden was already a standout
in the company, Sharp and Electric. But it was the movement itself that pulled him in.
Masculine grounded aggressively stylized. So when auditions opened for a new musical Cole was
choreographing, Magdalena, he showed up. Cole hired him. First day of rehearsal he was told
(12:29):
to be barefoot. He had never danced without shoes before. By the end of the day his feet were torn
and raw. He started bandaging his toes, wrapping his knees and kept showing up. The work was
unlike anything he'd ever done. Angular, grounded, stylized and brutally demanding.
(12:50):
But he kept getting handed more. He ended up performing all the male solos in the show,
including a stylized Spanish Waltz. The show opened in Los Angeles, moved to San Francisco,
and by December 1948 landed in New York. It flopped. But he came back to California changed.
(13:12):
A different dancer cracked open and reshaped by the experience. And then came the trip abroad.
By 1949 he was performing in the Australian production of Oklahoma, part of a long-running tour
mounted by the JC Williamson company. The following year a rare Australian newspaper
(13:33):
clipping confirmed his return to the stage in Song of Norway at the theater royale in Sydney,
now in a featured role as Tito, that same article referred to him as one of the dancing stars of
Oklahoma. Drawing a clear through line between these two Australian productions.
And this time he wasn't just dancing, he was choreographing. It marked the first time he was
(13:57):
contributing movement and performing in the same show. His next transformative year came in 1953,
seven films released multiple studios and a return to Jack Cole. In the I Don't Care Girl,
he was placed in a trio that included Mitsy Gainer. The choreography was intricate, super precise,
(14:19):
and set against a driving swing rhythm. They rehearsed for days to lock in the coordination.
When they finally got it, the director told them out of the blue, they'd now be singing the number
too. They were overwhelmed, but did it anyway. He appeared in another number from the same film
called Beale Street Blues. This time, among a crowd of gangsters chasing Gainer and Gwen Verden,
(14:46):
through a surreal landscape of fireblasts and rising ramps, it was pure Cole, stylized,
cinematic, and physically unforgiving. And in number after number, Cole kept pulling him to the front.
In Gentlemen Prefer Blons, he partnered Marilyn Monroe in one of the most memorable scenes
(15:07):
in film history. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. And later appeared in The Gymnasium as one of
the ensemble athletes in, is there anyone here for love? Shirtless, stone-faced, moving and tightly
synchronized precision, strong, athletic, acrobatic, clean lines, controlled execution. He was also in
(15:30):
Call Me Madam, I love Melvin, the girl next door, and walking my baby back home. Again, all released
in just that one year. The sheer volume wasn't just about work. It was about mastery. Exposure to
choreographers, directors, staging, structure, all of it feeding a mind already starting to question
(15:53):
how movement could be passed on. That fall, Cole returned to New York to choreograph a new
Broadway show, Carnival in Flanders. He was having trouble casting one of the key roles, the Spanish
Courier in the Spanish trio. No one could quite handle what he was asking. After a string of failed
(16:14):
auditions, a stage manager made a suggestion. Bring in the assistant, Cole agreed. The job was his.
He stayed through rehearsals about three months, and when the show opened, he was center stage. Cole
left before opening. Producers had pushed back on the choreography, calling it too suggestive,
(16:37):
but the Spanish trio stayed in. Flamenco lines, tap-rooted rhythms, a wink underneath the polish.
The show closed after just five performances, but word traveled. Dance magazine would later say
that if the production had been a hit, he would have joined the ranks of Verden, Haney, and Buzz Miller.
(16:59):
Michael Kid saw the closing performance of Carnival in Flanders. After the curtain, he came backstage
and said he had a job to offer. He was heading west, relocating to Los Angeles, and had a room in his
station wagon. So they made the drive together, talking, trading stories, covering miles.
(17:21):
Their first film together would be The Bandwagon, featuring him in another small,
uncredited role in a major Hollywood movie. Although he was, the featured male ballet soloist in a number
starring his old classmate, Sid Cherisse. They even did a "pada da" together, his classical training
(17:42):
on display for the world to see. Talk about a full circle moment, but it would be the next project
that made a real impact. Before shooting began on Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,
rehearsals started. Kid laid out wooden planks and asked the dancers to show what they could do.
(18:02):
Who could manage a double tour? Who could turn on a narrow beam?
Who could do both on wooden planks way above the ground? Who could jump land recover?
That is how the choreography was built, role by role. He was cast as Caleb Ponepi, the third oldest
of the brothers. In the barn-reasing scene, his technique is unmistakable, clean, sharp, and exact.
(18:29):
He begins with a rapid alternating sequence of back kicks performed in place, almost like a reverse
pony step, all while balancing on a narrow single wooden beam. Then, without breaking momentum,
he springs into two straddle jumps. All of it captured in long uninterrupted takes.
(18:49):
It became one of the films most talked about moments, a collision of ballet technique and raw
athleticism, a new kind of male dancing for the screen. Michael Kid once said that this dancer
had enormous strength, versatility, precision, and technique, and that he was always the first person
(19:11):
he wanted for the MGM musicals he made. Other roles followed, the girl rushed with Rosalind Russell,
guys and dolls with Sinatra and Brando, where he, as one of the Havana dancers, threw a punch at
Brando in the choreographed bar fight. He went on to sing and dance in the Broadway musical The Vamp
(19:33):
with Carol Channing, appeared in the Ziggfeld Follies of 1956 choreographed by Cole,
and in 1959 he originated the role of the Jester in once upon a mattress, opposite Carol Burnett,
and he again attracted major critical attention with his performance in the film Pepe in 1960.
(19:55):
But the backstage pole was growing stronger. He had been starting to teach more regularly
at Showcase Studios at Ballet Theatre School. He staged nine shows in one summer for the Cape
Cod melody tent. He choreographed for Broadway in Say Darling, his first full Broadway choreography
(20:15):
credit. The show ran 332 performances and starred Vivian Blaine, Robert Morse and David Wayne,
and later for television, a Dynastore special, The Bell Telephone Hour, which was a top-rated
weekly TV variety show. And in the studio he was starting to craft something different,
(20:37):
something methodical, something structured. He was still performing, still choreographing,
but the center of gravity was shifting, and soon the work would no longer be about being seen.
It would be about what he could pass on. But to understand how that shift really began,
we need to backtrack just a little. He started by teaching Jack Cole's vocabulary,
(21:02):
packed classes, high expectations, a steady stream of Broadway dancers, TV dancers,
ice skaters. By the mid-1950s, his classes at June Taylor Studios were generating buzz,
but he didn't stop there. After two years of teaching Cole's material, he felt the need to make
it his own. He went home, sat down, and drew a single line on a blank sheet of paper.
(21:29):
"The body is a straight line," he said, "and you can do everything with it." That was the start.
He built a system, not a syllabus, of exercises he called the bar, intentionally structured like a
ballet class, designed for strength, coordination, isolation, rhythm, clarity, and control.
(21:50):
Each movement related directly to the phrases taught later in class. He called it freestyle,
because it wasn't about genre, it was about freedom. Tap, flamenco, Indian, contemporary, folk,
modern, any of it could be folded in, any of it could be reshaped into something new.
He resisted being labeled a jazz teacher. He trained dancers to listen, to concentrate,
(22:16):
to isolate, to push against rhythm, not write it. He said, "I understood jazz rhythm through
listening to jazz music. The dancer, like the musician, follows the pulse, moves away,
and returns." And he didn't just train for performance, he trained for presence.
(22:37):
Students had to understand why a gesture was made, what its visual consequence would be,
what it referenced, sculpturally, rhythmically, emotionally. His work was free in vocabulary,
not in intention. Every step had to be earned, placed, understood, because nothing was arbitrary.
(22:58):
He believed dance could be animalistic, violent, romantic, sensual, sexual, that it could lead to
control and to liberation. He opened his own studio in New York in 1956, created his dance company
Jazz Art in 1961, moved to London in 1970, where he taught for five years at the dance center
(23:22):
and trained an entire generation of European dancers. By 1980, he was in France, continuing to teach
perform and direct stages across Europe with his wife. He taught in the US, Europe, and beyond,
including regular classes in Los Angeles and international workshops. He continued teaching
(23:44):
until he was nearly 90 years old, developing and refining a precise movement system grounded
in his lifelong study of jazz, ballet, and tap. And for many, this is the legacy. Not the films,
not the Broadway shows, but the work he built in the studio, the method, the rigor, the framework
(24:08):
that shaped a new generation of theatrical jazz dancers. He was a performer, he was a choreographer,
but what he built went beyond either of those roles. He became one of the first to codify jazz as
a formal technique, grounded in structure, discipline, and deliberate design. Even if his legacy stopped
(24:31):
at the screen, it would still be remarkable, but what he created behind the scenes reshaped
the form entirely, a way of training dancers that demanded musicality, control, and total commitment.
You can't trace the evolution of concert jazz dance, what's been taught in studios around the world
(24:54):
for decades without seeing his imprint. His technique became one of the defining branches on the jazz
dance tree, distinct, structured, and deeply influential. His name, Matt Maddox. And now you know
the rest of the story. Alright, dance fam, thank you so much for listening to this episode
(25:19):
of the rest of the story on Hey Dancer. If you liked it and you want more like it, don't forget,
don't forget you got to follow, you got to subscribe wherever you're watching or listening.
If you are watching on YouTube, by the way, hit that notification bell so you are alerted as soon as
a new episode drops and leave a review on Spotify or Apple and share the podcast with your dance family.
(25:45):
Anyone who would appreciate the history behind the movement. Again, my name is Miller Dure and I
appreciate you being here. Now every episode you hear is researched, written, narrated, edited,
and fact-checked by me. And this episode was never going to be a complete documentary of every credit
(26:05):
and every chapter that is not the goal of this series. I would hate for it to sound like a resume or
some heavy bio-driven thing. I try to make it narrative. I try to make it about the story. The most
important elements to drive the story forward. My aim is to hone in to spotlight the parts of a dancer
story that help us understand who they were, what they stood for. You know, their early life,
(26:30):
their training, their struggles, their youth, and how they shape dance as we know it. Hopefully that
came across clearly here. Also, in case it needs to be said, this wasn't meant to be a comprehensive
history of jazz dance as a form. That is a much bigger, more layered story. This episode is just
about one dancer's influence how mathematics helped shape a style and a structure that would be
(26:56):
passed down in studios around the world over decades and decades. There are always so many things I
wish I could include, but like I said, this can't be a two-hour thing. But one final detail,
I feel like I do want to mention here in the outro that I did not in the main script, mostly because,
you know, I try not to dwell too much on what didn't happen. But this one is worth sharing. So
(27:22):
before Broadway, before film, before Matt's name would be tied to a style that would change jazz
dance forever, he had another dream. He wanted to be a classical dancer, maybe even the best in America.
In 1948, he wrote to Lucía Chase, co-founder of Ballet Theatre, now known as ABT. He asked for help,
(27:45):
financial support, a scholarship, anything that would allow him to keep training while supporting
his wife and kids at the time. It wasn't some hail Mary, he had a personal recommendation from Eugene
Loring to Lucía and in his letter, he made it very clear he was ready to prove himself from the
bottom up. He wasn't asking for shortcut, just a shot. Now Miz Lucía Chase did not respond right
(28:12):
away, she was overseas, but when she finally did, she said she wanted him in the company and for a
moment it looked possible. He was invited to take class, they were follow-up letters that stretched
into the next year, the interest was real on both sides. But the logistics never quite clicked,
the timing, the finances, the family needs, they kept pulling him in a different direction. Although
(28:37):
as my main script mentioned, he did teach there at different times, you know, over the years. He also
choreographed by the way, almost 30 Valets and he did serve as the artistic director of the New Jersey
Valet in the late 1960s. Oh another random factoid, I told you it's impossible to list all the things
(28:58):
especially because I don't want my series to feel like a resume, you know, but he did play the role
of Harry Beton in Brigaduin on Broadway in 1957 and you probably saw a few times in this piece if
you were watching that he wasn't always matte. He was actually born Harold Henry Maddox and his
(29:21):
early work he was credited as Harold. So where did Matt come from? Well the way he tells the story,
it was in the US Air Force where they just began calling him Matt. It became a sort of nickname
they took Matt from Maddox, you know how that's pretty common you will call your fellow soldier by
(29:41):
their last name, at least I think that's true. Anyway, Matt became his sort of nickname in the US Air Force
and then he said eventually in the industry, Matt Maddox was much more memorable than Harold Maddox
and it just stuck. And while he didn't become the next great American ballet dancer which I find
(30:03):
so interesting, you know, dreams that was his dream. He became something else entirely and I guess that's
what this whole episode has been about, wasn't it? Aren't we lucky that his dreams didn't come true? I
mean who knows what would have been if he did become the classical dancer he dreamed to be, but I think
(30:25):
we as an audience, we as dancers are far more blessed as a result of the dance journey he wound up
taking. Okay that's all I got. See you next time.
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