Where do public monikers come from and what do they say about culture?

One of the more eclectic titles to enter the public domain in 2026 was Universal’s King of Jazz, a two-strip Technicolor musical revue featuring Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra, Bing Crosby, and even Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. The work features stunning visuals, comical moments, and grand musical numbers. At the center of it all is the titular “King of Jazz,” Paul Whiteman.

While the film does not accurately explain how Whiteman came to receive the name—instead presenting a fictional animated sequence from in-house director Walter Lantz—it presents the moniker as his. But how did Whiteman actually come to be known as the “King of Jazz,” and what does that say about cultural production? Let’s break down the origins of this moniker.

Jazz as a recorded venture originated with the 1917 recording of “Livery Stable Blues” and “Dixieland Jass Band One-Step” by the Original Dixieland Jass Band. The earliest origin of the word was traced to “jass” for playing something “with pep” before the spelling changed to jazz. Following this, the earliest known references to a “King of Jazz/Jass” date to 1919. On January 12, 1919, the New York based paper, The Sun, referenced Ted Lewis as “the King of Jazz.” That same year, the Ted Lewis Jazz Band recorded “Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gave Me” for Columbia.

On April 9, 1919, the East St. Louis Daily Journal gave clarinetist Horace George the moniker “the King of Jass.” Notably, Horace George was also referred to as the “Clarinet King.” Horace George’s history in music has been largely overlooked, but he was present throughout the earliest years of jazz’s development. George’s recording career—as best as we can understand today—was sparse, with only a handful of records being cut under his own name. One crucial pairing was with Shelton Brooks, composer of the jazz standard, “Darktown Strutters’ Ball.” The pairing’s partnership dissolved in June 1920. 

Paul Whiteman began recording music in 1920 with his “Ambassador Orchestra” while performing at Atlantic City’s Ambassador Hotel, before dropping the Ambassador title altogether later. Their first release came under Victor Records with “Best Ever Medley,” which included Ponchielli’s “Dance of the Hours.” Throughout the 1920s, the group—commonly known as the Paul Whiteman Orchestra—would record many popular hits. In 1924, the Orchestra teamed up with George Gershwin to make the first ever recording of “Rhapsody in Blue.” By 1930, Whiteman was the star personality called the “King of Jazz,” meant to carry the Universal Picture film of the same name. Whiteman received this name as early as August 15, 1923 at an event with New York’s Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

That Paul Whiteman is the one to end up as the “King of Jazz” in a major Hollywood motion picture of the day is not surprising, given the social benefits that he enjoyed as a white male in the early twentieth century. Jazz was created and shaped by Black musicians, many of whom were marginalized by the recording, touring, and publicity systems that elevated white bandleaders like Whiteman. Artists like Horace George, Bessie Smith, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and countless others innovated and shaped the sound and musical language of jazz.

Recognizing this does not diminish Whiteman’s popularity or influence in his own time. Rather, it highlights the whitewashing and flattening of history and culture that arises over time. This kingly title exists within the broader social and commercial structures that shaped the musical landscape of the early twentieth century. The persistence of the moniker tells us as much about race, access, and media power as it does about musical achievement, and invites us to revisit the era with a wider lens.

Now in the public domain, King of Jazz and other recordings by Whiteman are accessible and tangible to many more of us by a simple click. The celebration of these past works further emphasizes his social benefits, but also allow for closer examination of this historical moment. There is the potential for us to discover more of Horace George’s work and other overlooked jazz artists of the time—to disentangle the moniker from one man, and to understand the broader moment without barrier.

To dive in more check out our curated list of media referenced in this post.