Uncle Bud Statue

Getting to Know Uncle Bud

Tribute in The Bison newspaper in October 2010 by Dr. Michael Claxton

If you were able to attend today’s chapel, you heard about the life and legacy of Kenneth Davis Jr. (1922-2005), who was affectionately known as “Uncle Bud,” and who taught music and directed choral groups at Harding for 35 years.

Since he retired before most of today’s students were born, many of you have wondered why a bronze statue of a seated man holding a Bible suddenly appeared on campus during the summer. Without knowing the man, it’s hard to appreciate the deep admiration in which he is held by generations of alumni. They loved him for his faith, they loved him for his dedication, and they loved him for his beautiful voice and high standards as a musician.

I met him only briefly when I moved to Searcy in 2003. I didn’t know anything about his past then, and I wondered why the elder of our care group at church called on this seemingly frail old man to lead the carols at our Christmas party. Now I know. In putting together today’s chapel tribute, I’ve had the belated chance to get to know Uncle Bud. I spent several hours with his wife, Betty, looking through photographs and listening to stories. I mentioned his name at our Round Table luncheon one Sunday and heard more anecdotes. I spoke on the phone with Jimmie Lee Mills (age 95) of Searcy, who remembered the day Kenneth Davis was baptized in Dallas in 1929. And I have trouble remembering what I did this morning.

So much of what I learned simply couldn’t fit into a 35-minute chapel program. In the tribute service we hit the highlights: his childhood love of music, his brave service as a Marine in World War II and his long career training students to serve God with their voices. Seven veteran chorus members shared their insights, though we could have easily rounded up another two or three hundred who would have willingly waxed nostalgic about the man who took them around the world and honed three generations of singers into polished, disciplined choruses. He could be a tough and demanding leader. But there was even more to the life of Uncle Bud.

For instance, he had a great wit. Once he was running out of the door of the music building. His colleague Mona Moore was coming in at the same time. She said, “Ken, are you dashing?” He turned around and grabbed Mona’s chin. “Some people think I am, Mona. What do you think?” he asked.

He also had a mischievous sense of humor on chorus trips. He once squirted toothpaste into the open mouth of a young man who was snoring on the bus. While on tour with the Belles and Beaux in the South, he took the students on a tour of antebellum homes, which he explained were owned by people who didn’t want bells on their houses. He coined pet names for his chorus members; for instance, he called a young, skinny Linda Thompson by the nickname “Zipper.” He once impishly abandoned Mike Wood to the adoring clutches of three Italian women who practically thought the young tenor was Pavarotti.

As much as he liked to tease in private, Uncle Bud was all business when it came to public performances. One of his rules was that chorus members could never touch their faces while singing. He thought it unprofessional. Phil Dixon recalls a time when his face was so sweaty that his glasses slowly inched down his nose during the concert. Phil kept raising his face to keep them on, but finally Uncle Bud turned around to face the audience, and the glasses fell neatly into Phil’s hand. No face-touching required. Another chorus member once had to endure a steady water drip onto his head during an entire performance, but true to his training, he never flinched.

There are so many interesting facts about Uncle Bud. He was an intense Rook player and counted trumps like a hawk. He played tag football. His mother made him wear knickers long after the other kids in school quit wearing them. He ran a bus ministry at a church in Dallas. He was a wedding photographer. Cliff Ganus III recalls the time at Harding when Uncle Bud tried to re-assign chapel seats in hopes that students would sit together in parts — basses, altos and so forth — in order to improve the singing. At one time he sponsored the now-defunct Galaxy social club on campus. His father lived to be 102 and could be seen working on the roof of his house well into his nineties. I just learned this week that Uncle Bud was once kidnapped. It was after the war. He picked up a few men while driving across Dallas, and one of them pulled out a gun. Kenneth tried to talk the man down, but the guy fired a shot past his head and into the windshield. So Uncle Bud kept driving. When they got to the country, the hoodlums took his car and tied Harding’s future choral leader to a fence. After they left, he escaped and walked back to town. It was one of several close calls in his life.

On the one hand, it seems a shame that to future students, Uncle Bud will be just a bronze figure. Just like so many of Harding’s heroes, he risks being forgotten as the generations who knew him eventually fade away. And yet, that’s why we tell stories, and dedicate buildings, and build statues. We do it so others will ask, “Who was that?” I’m grateful to those people who answered that question for me. It’s been a pleasure getting to know Uncle Bud.

A passion for song

Tribute to Dr. Kenneth Davis Jr. by Dr. Arthur Shearin

On Friday afternoon, March 4, as I made final preparations for the Concert Choir tour that was to begin the next day, I learned that Kenneth Davis Jr. had been admitted to hospice home care.

I stopped at his and Betty’s condominium on my way home. Davis was reasonably alert and free from pain. He inquired about choir tour and mentioned that when I returned, he “might not be around.” We embraced and expressed our mutual admiration, sensing that we were seeing each other for the last time. As I left, I took one last glance and saw that he was resting. I was grateful for our visit. The next evening he was gone.

At noon on the day of his death, I left on tour; after all, there was a job to be done. That’s what he would have done.

During each concert, I paid tribute to Davis. Alumni, especially former Chorus members, were shocked and saddened to hear the news. Many, such as Bob Jones (’61) of Durham, North Carolina, Jim Green (’69) of Charlotte, North Carolina, and Ken Tipton (’67) of Southaven, Mississippi, discussed with me the profound influence that he had on their lives. Others who had never met him came to know that a giant had fallen in Israel.

We learned a lot from the man. Be on time. Make your bed. Learn your music. Sing with passion. Be patriotic. Admit your mistakes. Work hard. Never make excuses. Hold fast to principle. Live holy lives. Each of us has a similar list, written or unwritten.

For Christian college choral conductors who learned at his feet — Joe Bentley (’79), Cliff Ganus III (’66), Larry Griffith (’69), John Hall (’64), Harvey Rhodes (’70) and others — Davis was the prototype. Although each of us developed our own professional style, none of us has strayed far from the principles we learned while studying with the master.

At the time of Davis’ memorial service, I was in Oxford, Mississippi, passing time between two Sunday concerts. I strolled over to the baseball game between Sam Houston State and Ole Miss and recalled all of the softball games that he and I had played together at Camp Tahkodah. Later I visited The Lyceum, the six-column building where James Meredith broke down racial segregation barriers in the early ’60s, and reflected on Davis’ refusal to let his chorus sing at a church that manifested racism upon his arrival. For me, that final day of tour — his day of memorial tribute — was one of inescapable reflection about a great man’s impact on my life.

All of us who knew him can tell a similar story. Whatever you called him — Kenneth, Dad, Dr. Davis, “Uncle Bud” — there is no escaping the conclusion that he had a profound and ennobling effect on each of us. And we are greater for it.

Davis (’42), 82, died March 5 from cancer. He earned his doctorate of music from Indiana University in 1965. Founder of Harding’s A Cappella Chorus, he served as its director for 35 years until his retirement. He also founded the Belles and Beaux show group. He served as Music Department chair from 1982-87. He is survived by his wife, Betty McDaniel (’59); three sons, Larry (’74), Steve (’76) and Mike (’90); two sisters, Alice Ann Beasley (’39) and Tommie Jean Sammis (’39); five grandchildren; and two great-grandchildren. (15 River Oaks Trace, Searcy, AR 72143)

As originally published in the Harding magazine, Spring 2005 issue.