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[title]When most people think of an organ, they picture pews and hymnals, not popcorn and previews. But when Dennis Scott settles in at the console of the near-century-old organ inside the Music Box Theatre, the sound is anything but solemn. Dressed in a dapper suit, a grin sweeping across his face, Scott coaxes joy out of those ancient pipes like he’s convincing the instrument to laugh again.
Scott first sat down at the organ housed in the Music Box, a vintage cinema in Chicago’s quaint Southport Corridor, in 1992. A few years later, the demands of his day job forced him to step away—a practical choice that felt, even then, like walking offstage mid-song. He returned in 2009, sliding back into the bench as if no time had passed, and by 2011 he’d launched a monthly silent film residency that made century-old reels feel alive again. These days, he’s not just the Music Box’s house organist but the official accompanist for The International Buster Keaton Society, performing everywhere from the University of Chicago’s Rockefeller Chapel to the Orpheum Theater in his hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma—still finding new ways to make silence sing.
And yet, for all his travels, it’s December that brings him home again. Each year, Scott trades in his silent films for something decidedly louder: the annual Music Box Christmas Sing-A-Long & Double Feature. Now in its 42nd year, the event has become something close to a civic ritual. For nearly three weeks, carolers overtake the Music Box’s lobby, the air thick with cocoa and static from Christmas sweaters “adorned with every battery-operated blinking light they can find,” Scott tells me with a chuckle. Moviegoers armed with handfuls of silver bells pack the red velvet seats for a double feature of holiday classics White Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life.
Before each screening, Santa appears on stage, leading the audience in song while Scott’s fingers dance across the keys, filling the room with the kind of cheer that can compel even the most hardened scrooge to hum along. The lyrics flash across the screen, but most folks don’t need them—they already know the words by heart.
“Every year, people come up to me and say, ‘Do you realize you’re part of our family Christmas tradition?’” Scott tells me, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief. “It makes me feel good because Christmas was always my favorite holiday. I never get tired of the decorations. I just love everything about it. I’m cynical about a number of things, but Christmas isn’t one of them.”
In a world where despair often feels like the collective default setting, Scott is a reminder that joy still has a fighting chance—and sometimes it sounds like an organ in a movie theater, refusing to go quiet.
I’m curious what made you gravitate towards the organ in the first place?
My dad—well, I’ll just say it off the bat—he was not supportive of what I did. He bought a one-manual electronic organ for himself. He worked nights, so when he’d leave for work, I would sit and play. The organ came with a record album of 48 lessons and a booklet, and I taught myself to play using that method. He was still on lesson two when one day my mom said, “Dennis, play lesson 48 for your dad.” He was a little upset by that, and he never touched it again.
How old were you then?
I was probably about 13. I’ve always been interested in music for as long as I can remember being aware of it. I was always drawn to keyboards. When I was a baby, we had a piano, and my mom said I would roll my playpen up to it, stand up and play individual notes. She said I never banged on it—I just wanted to hear the different sounds.
It sounds like you had this innate sense of care toward the instrument.
I guess so. When I got to college, I wanted to major in music, but I didn’t have the opportunity. I went to the University of Tulsa, and the woman who was head of the organ department at the time wouldn’t let me audition because I didn’t have two years of training from a state-accredited teacher. So I became a journalism major instead and worked in advertising and public relations. That’s what brought me to Chicago—I worked in PR and later for the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks.
Eventually, I was offered a job with an electronic organ company. Oddly enough, it was the same company that made the little organ we had when I was a kid.
That’s a great full circle moment. How did the Music Box enter the picture?
In 1992, I knew the people running the Music Box at the time—Bob Chaney and Chris Carlo—and they asked me to come play during intermissions on weekends. So I did, Friday through Sunday. Then I started working full-time for a suburban movie theater chain. I did that for about 14 years, but eventually had to step away from the Music Box—it was too much to work Monday through Friday and then every weekend, too.
Around the time I retired from that job, I got a note from Brian Andreotti, the programmer at the Music Box, asking if I could come play for their film noir series—and maybe for a few other events, like The Sound of Music sing-along and the Christmas sing-along. Then he added, “By the way, would you like to come back as our house organist?” I sent him a note back that said, “Yes, yes, yes and definitely yes.” So I was back.
About a year later, I started a monthly silent film series, and I’ve been there ever since.
Being unable to audition to study music in undergrad, what inspired you to continue playing organ? I feel like most people would feel quite crushed by that rejection.
I loved playing. For a number of years, I thought, “Okay, I’ll put this in my back pocket and keep it as a hobby,” which I did for a while—but I kept getting drawn back into it.
I went with some friends once to the National Association of Music Merchants show. They used to hold their annual convention here in Chicago, first at the Hilton and then at McCormick Place when it got too big.
We were in one of the hospitality suites one year, and people were throwing back more than a few drinks. This fellow from the Thomas Organ Company said, “Hey Dennis, why don’t you sit down and play something?” So I did. Later, he came up to me and said, “How would you like to come work for us as a product specialist?”—meaning I’d travel around the country doing dealer training and programs for music stores. I said, “Well, I’ll think about it,” figuring he was just being polite after a few cocktails.
Then he called me at my office at the Elks a few days later and said, “Well, Dennis, what do you think?” And I said, “About what?” He said, “About coming to work for us!” I honestly thought he’d been kidding. But after thinking about it for a week, I decided this was my chance. I’d always wanted to be a musician and work in music, so I took the leap.
I ended up traveling around the country for nearly a year before that job ended. The funny thing is, a lot of the programs were held in Elks lodges. It was during the [U.S.] Bicentennial, and I had designed the flag for the Elks’ bicentennial celebration. Before I got into computer graphics, I’d been doing layouts for posters and programs for them. So I’d walk into these lodges and see my flag and posters hanging on the walls and think, Well, this is bizarre. What kind of life am I leading here?
Everything seemed to be connected, one way or another—and it just sort of went from there.
“This is a show for everybody, and we don’t want to exclude anyone. The real spirit of Christmas is people being together.”
What’s it like for you to play during the Christmas sing-alongs? I’ve gone every year for about seven years now, and it’s always a highlight of my holiday season.
I feel the same way. In fact, it’s my favorite event of the year. Some people who are more cynical will ask me, “Don’t you get tired of all that Christmas music? Don’t you get tired of those two movies?” The answer is, “No, I don’t.”
I happen to love It’s a Wonderful Life. As many times as I’ve seen that movie, I still choke up when Harry Bailey says, “A toast to my big brother George, the richest man in town.” It gets to me every time. I’m the same way about White Christmas. Of course, I’m of an age where I love Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney anyway—Rosemary was one of my all-time favorite singers.
People come in [to the sing-alongs] wearing their ugly Christmas sweaters, their antlers and every battery-operated blinking light they can find. They bring their sleigh-bell sticks to ring when it snows in White Christmas and silver bells to ring when Clarence [Oddbody, the guardian angel character in It's A Wonderful Life] gets his wings.
Everybody’s there to have a good time. With all the craziness going on in this country now, it’s just a total escape from all of that. It’s something that unites people, no matter their religion, politics or lack of religion. We don’t divide by Christianity, Buddhism, Hindu, Jewish or anything else. This is a show for everybody, and we don’t want to exclude anyone. The real spirit of Christmas is people being together.
When you talk about playing the pipe organ, you just light up. I’d love to hear how joy fits into your work—or how you bring that sense of joy to the instrument.
The whole idea of playing music, especially for silent films, is that it’s not about me. It’s about the person on the screen. I’m just trying to elevate whatever emotion is up there. With something like that, the attention shouldn’t be on me.
After I’ve played a silent film, people will come up to me and say, “Gee, I forgot to listen to what you were playing.” To me, that’s perfect. My whole thing with silent films is to convey the emotion and whatever’s happening on screen. The attention should be on the movie.
I think some concert organists don’t like to do silent films because it takes the attention off of them. (Laughs) That’s not my point of view. Even playing the Christmas sing-alongs—it’s not like concert work. I don’t like doing concert work. I like when the audience is fully invested in the music and they’re not paying close attention to every note I’m playing. They’re in a moment of celebration.
It’s not about me. It’s about Santa and singing and everything else. I’m just sort of the ringleader to help them have a good time. And it’s the same thing with The Sound of Music, which was my mother’s favorite—that’s another full circle moment.
Tell me more about that moment.
I worked at the Orpheum Theatre, an old downtown movie palace, in Tulsa when I was in college, which had a Wurlitzer pipe organ. If we had a good audience, my boss would tell me to play the organ while he tore tickets. The Sound of Music had played in a small neighborhood theater in Tulsa for a year and a half. Then they announced it was going to come downtown and play the Orpheum for 10 weeks; some of the employees said, “How can we do that? It’s played out.” We thought we’d be twiddling our thumbs.
We ran the film for 10 weeks and filled up every show. My mother, who rarely went to the movies—and never saw anything more than once—came down to the Orpheum every Wednesday when we started our film week. From the day we opened it, she came to the matinee, and I took her up and seated her in the front row of the balcony, right in the center. She watched the movie 10 times—once every week it was at the Orpheum.
When she died, I had been instructed by her and the rest of the family that I was to play for her funeral—and play a medley of The Sound of Music. Which I did.
That must have been devastating. How did you feel?
I didn’t really want to do it. And my sister said, “You know, if you don’t do it, Mom’s gonna come back and haunt you.” (Laughs)
I had taken lessons in the back room of a music store for about two and a half years, and my organ teacher came to my mom’s funeral. She was there, and I saw her afterward, and she came up and hugged me and said, “I knew that was you playing,” even though she couldn’t see me because I was playing behind a curtain.
It sounds like music, for you, is often tied to memory. Have you seen that same kind of connection reflected in the audiences at the Music Box?
One Saturday during the Christmas sing-along in the Covid years, three different women came up to me and told me almost the exact same story—as if they were reading from a script.
Each of them had been out in the lobby during one of the movies with their baby daughters—one four months old, one six, one eight. It was their first Christmas. And each mother said she was starting a tradition with her daughter because her own mother had brought her to the Christmas sing-along every year since she was a baby. Now here they were, the third generation, passing it on.
We’ll have three generations of one family in the theater sometimes. It’s really something to see.