photograph by vance lauderdale
These carved figures and a clock (for years stopped at 3) still greet visitors to the Columbian Mutual Tower, later known as the Lincoln America Tower. “Security” and “Protection” are left over from when the building housed an insurance agency.
Dear Vance: I’ve always heard rumors that Lloyd T. Binford, the notorious head of our city’s censor board, had the figure of his mistress carved above the entrance to the building he owned on Court Square. Is there any truth to this? — J.F., Memphis.
Dear J.F.: It’s not every day I get such unusual questions as this, and it’s not every day that I get to talk about my favorite building in Memphis, today known as the Lincoln America Tower. So let me chat a bit, in my charming, longwinded way, about the place itself, and then I’ll tackle your question.
Lloyd T. Binford is indeed notorious because of his narrow-minded view of films that he considered offensive. Many of his opinions were downright racist, and I won’t repeat them here, but he also banned movies if he didn’t approve of the actors involved. He considered Charlie Chaplin a “London guttersnipe” and wouldn’t allow his comedies in Memphis theaters. I could give dozens of other examples, but you can find those yourself. Let’s turn our attention to the building.
The Columbian Mutual Tower, as it was originally called, is a one-third smaller version of the famous Woolworth Building in New York City, sharing the Gothic Revival design and gleaming white terra-cotta tilework of the original. When it opened in 1924, at 22 stories it was the tallest building in the city.
Binford himself, however, was never the sole owner of the building. A fraternal organization with the unusual name of the International Order of Odd Fellows had originally built their headquarters at that location — 60 North Main Street, at the corner of Court Square — decades before. In the early 1920s, they teamed up with the Columbian Mutual Life Assurance Society, because both organizations needed larger facilities. But as I understand it, the site itself belonged to the IOOF.
So how was Binford involved? With only a fifth-grade education, it seems he developed a knack for the insurance industry. Beginning as a salesman with the national Woodmen of the World agency, he amassed a fortune in the business, and in 1916 he was hired as president of Columbian Mutual.
postcard courtesy vance lauderdale
This vintage postcard shows the building when it first opened, soaring over its neighbors. Look closely; see that tiny cupola at the very tip-top of the roof? I’ve actually been up there. It’s quite a view.
So the IOOF and Columbian Mutual hired the St. Louis architectural firm of Boyer and Baum to design a new building here. If this sounds familiar to you, it’s because this city has a peculiar fondness for St. Louis architects. I’ve devoted recent columns to the Parkview Hotel (1923) and the Claridge Hotel (1925), and both were designed by experts from St. Louis.
Work began in January 1923, and local newspapers kept readers informed about the steady construction. Working Downtown during this period was an exciting time. New buildings here included the Peabody Hotel, Ellis Auditorium, Shrine Building, Elks Club, Lowenstein’s department store, and the Cotton Exchange, where this magazine is headquartered today. By February 1924, The Commercial Appeal presented a panoramic photo of Downtown, telling readers, “The Memphis skyline of ten years ago does not compare with the view that may be obtained within two weeks.”
Local radio station WMC decided to broadcast the music on a nightly program and set up microphones around the building. These were so sensitive that they also captured the traffic noise from Main Street — and even people talking in Court Square. WMC tried to promote this as a good thing, “being the only station in the country that broadcasts chimes as they really sound to a listener in Court Square, with all the street sounds included.”
Soaring over everything was the Columbian Mutual Tower, one of the earliest steel-framework structures in Memphis. The million-dollar cost reflected the challenges of erecting an 8,000-ton structure “with bedrock practically unattainable in the Memphis locality,” according to the CA. The construction firm of Keeley Bros., also from St. Louis, used “a gigantic steam hammer with a head weighing 5,000 pounds” to drive 422 steel-and-concrete support pillars to a depth of 30 feet.
Some of that expense also went towards the elaborate interior design. The two-story lobby featured “walls, pillars, and floors finished in gold-veined Tennessee marble. The ceiling will be artistically fashioned with ornamental plaster of special design, [and] wrought-iron balustrades and elevator doors will be of a decorative type.”
The new building also included a very unusual feature. The Commercial Appeal announced the tower would house “a set of electrically operated tubular chimes in 16 tones” to serve as a tribute to Memphians lost in World War One. “The sound of the old familiar hymns floating out over the noise and bustle of the street every evening will lift the thoughts of those who hear them above the material things of Earth to the throne of the Maker of the Earth.”
The chimes first started “floating out” on February 8, 1924, with the player operating a keyboard, and almost immediately newspapers didn’t like what they heard: “The Memphis chimes are out of tune. They range from one-half to one-and-one-half tones off pitch.” An expert from the Chicago company that sold the equipment traveled here to adjust them.
Then something else came up. Local radio station WMC decided to broadcast the music on a nightly program and set up microphones around the building. These were so sensitive that they also captured the traffic noise from Main Street — and even people talking in Court Square. WMC tried to promote this as a good thing, “being the only station in the country that broadcasts chimes as they really sound to a listener in Court Square, with all the street sounds included.”
Well, nobody really believed that, so more work and money was poured into this venture. Finally, when Downtown office workers and lodgers in nearby hotels complained the evening chimes were a nuisance, they were silenced. The Columbian Mutual Tower management yanked everything out and sold it for scrap. They had “lifted the thoughts of those who hear them” for only a year.
The building filled quickly. Binford’s insurance company occupied most of the upper tower, with his personal office on the top floor. The Odd Fellows moved their offices and library to the second floor. Sterling Shoe Store leased the ground floor, and the St. Louis architects opened a Memphis branch here, in the building they created.
Tenants that first year included physicians, attorneys, and sales reps for Studebaker, Pet Milk, Shredded Wheat, and Real Silk Hosiery. A manager with the leasing agency Marx & Bensdorf told reporters “he had received applications representing almost every enterprise in the city, and out-of-town inquiries had been numerous.”
And so the gleaming white tower has overlooked Court Square for close to a century now. In 1965, the Columbian Mutual Tower became the Lincoln America Tower, when the insurance companies merged. Though the latter firm remains in business today (now Lincoln Financial, based in Pennsylvania), it left Downtown in the 1970s — as did so many other occupants of the building.
Added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1978, for years only the Yellow Rose Café remained at 60 North Main. Finally, after years of neglect, in 2002 a major renovation converted the landmark into apartments, with three floors of commercial space, as part of the Court Square Center complex.
The building escaped tragedy on the night of October 6, 2006, when flaming embers carried by the massive fire that consumed First United Methodist Church three blocks away landed on the roof. Quick work by firefighters prevented major damage, but it was a close call; the blaze destroyed the historic Court Square Annex building next door.
Okay, it’s finally time to address your question, J.F. First of all, it’s very unlikely — if not outright impossible — that Binford, described by The Commercial Appeal as “singlehandedly the guardian of public morality,” would adorn “his” building with a very public image of a mistress — if he even had one.
So who are these people overlooking the entrance? The two women seem to be adults, while the other figures are very young; one is holding a doll. According to Eugene L. Johnson and Robert D. Russell Jr., authors of Memphis: An Architectural Guide, “The models for the bas-relief on the façade were Binford’s three children, and the son of the company secretary, George W. Clayton.”
But wait. In a 1978 newspaper article about the National Register listing, local architect James Williamson claimed the figures carved on the front “are Binford’s sister, wife, and children.”
Look, I have a problem with all these identifications. Consider this: When the building opened in 1924, Binford had a wife, Hattie (age 48); a daughter, Gladys (28); another daughter, Malvina (22); a third daughter, Margaret (13); and a son, Lloyd Jr. (3). That makes four children (five if you include another daughter, Francis, who died in 1905).
And yes, he had a sister (Fannie), but she passed away almost 40 years before the building opened.
So why would the sculptor of this lovely frieze include the child of a business partner, yet leave out so many members of Binford’s own family? That makes no sense at all.
In the subhead at the top of this column, the editors claim that I solve local mysteries, but add, “Well, sometimes.” I’m afraid this is one of those “sometimes.”
Got a question for Vance?
Email: askvance@memphismagazine.com
Mail: Vance Lauderdale, Memphis magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38101
Online: memphismagazine.com/ask-vance
