The Composer and the Comedian

It’s another Guess Who with Kevin! Inspired by Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story, Kevin has crafted a series of “guess who” articles, which he’s generously sharing with our readers!

Every Sunday night, Sergei wept.

Not from grief. Not from regret.

Sergei Rachmaninoff—renowned composer, conductor, and pianist—was often viewed as austere, his expression as serious as his compositions. But those close to him knew otherwise: behind closed doors, he carried a quiet warmth and a sharp, dry wit.

And yet, on Sunday evenings, emotion overtook him.

His career spanned continents and decades. He dazzled as a soloist, conducted great orchestras, and collaborated with some of the finest musicians of his era. Among his most cherished partnerships were those with master violinists, particularly one with whom he gave unforgettable performances. But his fondness for the violin extended beyond his professional connections.

There was one violinist, however, he never shared a stage with. Never rehearsed a duet. Never traded musical phrases on a concert hall stage.

But Rachmaninoff never missed a broadcast when that violinist played on the radio.

The man he so admired wasn’t born in Russia but came from Russian roots. Their similarities didn’t stop at heritage.

Both had early musical talent but were slow to embrace practice. Both were scolded for skipping lessons. Both had mothers who played piano and grandmothers who offered the gentlest guidance. They preferred humor over harshness, had little taste for confrontation, and were devoted to their wives for life. Neither aged loudly or proudly. They let time move quietly around them.

And both had a sense of humor that was easy to miss—unless you were paying attention.

Even Kreisler, the famous violinist Rachmaninoff did perform with, remembered the composer’s wit. During one performance, Kreisler lost his place and leaned over to whisper, “Where are we?” Rachmaninoff, fingers never faltering, whispered back, “Carnegie Hall.”

But the violinist who brought him to tears wasn’t Kreisler.

It was another man. A man who played a different kind of concert. One filled with pauses, scratches, and awkwardly drawn notes.

And jokes.

Because Rachmaninoff didn’t cry from sorrow on those Sunday nights.

He cried from laughter.

The music was intentionally off-key. The phrasing clumsy. The violinist’s expression painfully serious. And somehow, that combination—played with perfect comedic timing—delighted the maestro.

The musician in question wasn’t destined to be remembered for his technical skill. He took a different path, one paved not with concertos, but comedy. His performances didn’t end in applause from concert halls but in laughter from living rooms.

His name was Benjamin Kubelsky.

But the world would come to know him by another name.

Jack Benny.

And his scratchy, screeching violin? It made one of the world’s greatest composers laugh until he wept.