Eddie Condon - Hot Jazz "Chicago Style"

The ever dapper Eddie Condon and his Gibson L-7 plectrum guitar

On a recent trip to the NC mountains, I found a bunch of old jazz albums - mostly from the 1950s and early 60s - in an antiques shop. There were maybe 500 LPs in all, most of them beat to heck and smelling of mildew. I suspect they had been mouldering away in someone's basement or barn for the last 50 years or so. But you never know when you're going to run across a Blue Note first pressing, so I started looking.

My normal routine when digging through used records is to make a pile of anything that looks interesting. After I've finished looking, I sit down somewhere and go through the albums to check their condition. Then I consult the master list on my phone to be sure I'm not buying records I already own. (Happens all the time.)

After going through all the records at the antiques shop, I ended up with a stack of 35-40 albums to check out. However, just as I got started, the owner of the store wandered by. He noticed my large pile of records and told me that since he was trying to clear out the stock, he'd let me have them for $2 apiece. Well, thanks very much. However, even with the generous discount, I still put back about half of the LPs because they were just too scratched up.

I ended up buying about 20 albums. Among the haul were LPs by George Shearing, Louis Prima, Joe Venuti, J.J. Johnson, Eddie Condon, Zoot Sims, Victor Feldman, and Roy Eldridge. None of them are particularly rare or valuable (alas, no Blue Notes), but for $2 a pop, it's hard to go wrong.

My near-mint 1959 $2 score

After I got home and started cleaning and cataloging the discs, one that stood out was the 1959 release That Toddlin' Town by Eddie Condon. The reason it stood out initially was because it was in nearly perfect condition. Who knows why, but it was the only album in the bunch that was in a poly outer sleeve. As a result, the jacket was clean and sharp, the original Warner Bros. company dust sleeve was nice and crisp, and the vinyl looked like it had never been played. As a collector, you have to love a 65-year-old album that looks practically brand new.

I cleaned the record and gave it a spin. Oh, my. The sound is terrific: A big wall of mono that makes it seem like you're sitting in the studio about five feet in front of the band. The album was recorded in New York City on February 26 and 27, 1959, and released the same year on the Warner Brothers label (W 1315). My copy is a deep-groove pressing, produced by RCA Records at their plant in Rockaway, NJ. The vinyl is heavy, flat, and quiet.

As the title suggests, That Toddlin' Town pays tribute to Chicago's rich jazz history, and specifically the music of the 1920s, when the Windy City was the jazz capitol of the world. And who better to perform the music than a bunch of cats who got their start in the 1920s in Chicago. The group is billed as Eddie Condon And His Chicagoans, and features Condon on guitar, Pee Wee Russell on clarinet, George Wettling on drums, Dick Carry on piano, Bud Freeman on saxophone, Cutty Cutshall on trombone, Leonard Gaskin and Al Hall on bass, and Max Kaminsky on trumpet. 

The LP version of the original Decca singles.

The album was produced by the legendary George Avakian, who also wrote the liner notes. In his comments, Avakian explains that the record is largely a recreation of the first sessions he ever produced, a series of 1939 recordings on the Decca label called Wolverine Jazz by an outfit called Bud Freeman and his Summa Cum Laude Orchestra. [The 1939 album was itself a recreation of the singles released by a Chicago band called The Wolverines Orchestra in 1924. More anon.] 

As it turns out, the Summa Cum Laude Orchestra (1939) and Eddie Condon And His Chicagoans (1959) were pretty much the same group. Avakian simply got the band back together 20 years later.

Even though That Toddlin' Town was an eye opener for me musically, it's not like I hadn't heard of Eddie Condon before. In fact, I already had eight of his records in my collection. Although I confess that I can't remember the last time I listened to any of them. In my brain, I had filed Condon under Dixieland - upbeat and fun, but also a little old-fashioned. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Dixieland - but only in small doses. Kind of like I like Bluegrass or the bagpipes - a couple of songs is usually plenty. However, after hearing the sophisticated harmonies and high-wire improvisation on That Toddlin' Town, I started thinking that I may have been a little hasty in pigeon-holing Condon's music.

Coast To Coast, Jammin' At Condon's, Midnight In Moscow

To further my research, I pulled down some other Condon albums that I hadn't heard in a while, including Jam Session Coast-To-Coast (1954), Jammin' At Condon's (1955), and Midnight in Moscow (1962). After more listening, I decided I needed to reassess my thinking on Eddie Condon.

The obvious place to start was with Eddie Condon's autobiography, "We Called It Music," published in 1947 when Condon was one of the most popular jazz musicians in the country. The book is very well-written, and, as you would expect, has a wealth of information about Condon's life and career. But what you might not expect is that Condon's rollicking writing style and wisecracking asides make his memoir one of the laugh-out-loud, funniest books about jazz ever written. Unless otherwise noted, all the quotes below by Condon are from his book.

Condon was born in 1905 in Goodland, Indiana, the youngest of nine children. He grew up in Momence, Illinois and Chicago Heights, the latter a suburb about a half hour south of the city. An indifferent student, Condon and his high school buddies spent most of their time listening to jazz records and trying to put together a band to play the songs they heard. Condon had almost no formal musical instruction, but he had a good ear and learned to play chords on his brother's ukulele. He and his pals managed to learn enough songs to play at some school dances and local parties.

In 1921, at the age of 16, Condon's older brother Cliff bought Eddie a banjo (louder and more versatile than a ukulele) and helped arrange his first professional job with a dance band called Hollis Peavey's Jazz Bandits, based in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

The Jazz Bandits. Condon is 2nd from left with the banjo.

Condon left school, took the train to Cedar Rapids, and never looked back. For the next several years, he played with a succession of different bands, touring small towns and lake resorts in Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Canada, learning his trade, and experiencing life on the road.

[A brief interruption: There is some discussion about when Condon switched from the banjo to the guitar. A New Yorker profile of Condon from 1945 says that he played guitar on a 1927 recording date. In his memoir, Condon says that sometime in 1933 he found himself without his banjo at a rehearsal, so he borrowed a four-string plectrum guitar from a friend. A separate entry which seems to refer to the same episode adds: "The banjo had gone out of fashion while I was playing with the Blue Blowers. Experimenting with a four-string guitar intrigued me. I decided to get a full-sized guitar, use four strings, and stick to banjo tuning. I had never had a desire to play solos . . . I wanted only to remain where I belonged, in the rhythm section." So, the correct answer is Condon switched from banjo to guitar in 1933.]

During the 1920s, Chicago was mad for jazz. The music poured out of every club, speakeasy, and dance hall in the city. Black and white musicians who had immigrated from New Orleans started the trend, but they were soon joined by local white musicians (like Condon and his pals) who formed "Dixieland" bands, playing a fast, improvised music that soon became known as "hot jazz" or "Chicago style."

Whenever Condon was in the city, he and his musician pals, including Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, Jimmy McPartland, Bud Freeman, and Bix Beiderbecks, spent every spare moment in the music halls listening to bands like King Joe Oliver's Creole Jazz Band and The New Orleans Rhythm Kings. Among their favorite performers were Sidney Bechet, Jimmy Noone, Leon Rappolo, and of course, the great Louis Armstrong.

Bix Beiderbecks

Among Condon's friends and peers, Bix Beiderbecks was the first to make it big. In 1924, Bix and his band, The Wolverines, made a series of well-received recordings on the Gennett label (see above if you missed it). Soon, Beiderbecks and the Wolverines were in demand at clubs and dance halls in the Midwest and New York City. 

Over the next couple of years, Beiderbecks' fame grew when he joined the Jean Goldkette Band, a larger and more professional outfit. Then, in 1927, Beiderbecks signed on with The Paul Whiteman Band, the most famous band in the country at that time. [Condon and Beiderbecks remained good friends until the latter sadly drank himself to death in 1931.]

Back in Chicago, Condon and his pals were still waiting for their big break. It finally came with the help of a band leader from St. Louis named Red McKenzie. McKenzie  fronted a trio called The Mound City Blue Blowers. He sang and played the comb and tissue paper. (Yes, really.) The Blue Blowers had released a string of enormously popular records in 1924-25, including a couple of million sellers. They were one of the first jazz bands to travel abroad, making a triumphant tour of the U.K. in 1926 (their records had preceded them). A year later, McKenzie was working primarily as a talent scout, making frequent trips to Chicago to look for up-and-coming performers.

Red McKenzie

In his book, Condon says that in the fall of 1927, he and his friends were hanging out at their usual haunt, a "no-knock" speakeasy at 222 North State Street. (As an illegal bar, the establishment didn't have a sign or a real name, but Condon says they called it The Three Deuces because of the street address.) The boys were drinking and disparaging a very popular combo called Red Nichols and his Five Pennies. Condon and his friends had little respect for the band because they didn't play "hot," meaning they used sheet music instead of improvising.

When McKenzie walked in and heard the discussion, he immediately challenged Condon to "name a band that was better than Nichols'. Easy, Condon told him. Come by my apartment tomorrow and hear my band."

As it happens, Condon didn't actually have a band at the time. "So, I rounded up Frank Teschmaker, Bud Freeman, Jimmy McPartland, Jim Lannigan, Joe Sullivan, and Gene Krupa. The next afternoon McKenzie heard us drop a rock on (the song) "Nobody's Sweetheart." According to Condon, after they finished playing, McKenzie said, "You win. Your band is as hot as a sidewalk in August. I'm going to get you a record date with Okeh."

Condon's first recorded side, 1927

After McKenzie left, Condon says that the guys weren't sure if he was serious or not. But sure enough, someone from Okeh contacted Condon to set up the session. On December 9, 1927, Condon made his first recording. Since the group was just a pick-up band, they didn't have a name. McKenzie suggested "McKenzie And Condon's Chicagoans," and that's what was printed on the label. The band recorded four songs for the Okeh label: "Sugar," "China Boy," "Nobody's Sweetheart," and "Liza." 

In addition to being Condon's first recordings, they are thought to be the first records ever made with a full drum kit, played by Gene Krupa. The drums were a sensation and helped define Condon's particular style of hard-driving, rhythmic Chicago jazz. The records sold well, and in the spring of 1928, Condon and his band recorded four sides for Brunswick Records under the name "The Chicago Rhythm Kings." Next, they waxed two sides for Paramount Records, this time billed as the "Jungle Kings." Things finally seemed to be looking up.

In late May, McKenzie invited Condon to go with him to New York where he was planning to put together a new version of the Mound City Blue Blowers. They hit town and checked into the Forrest Hotel on 49th St. 

McKenzie showed Condon around the city, introducing him to club owners, musicians, and band leaders. They went to Brooklyn to see Bix Beiderbecks play with The Paul Whiteman Band. Then they went to the Mayflower Hotel on Central Park South where Condon's buddies Jimmy McPartland and Bud Freeman were performing with Ben Pollack's band. 

Bee Palmer, the "Shimmy Queen"

As luck would have it, Condon ran into another old friend from Chicago, a former Ziegfeld Follies dancer named Bee Palmer who was staying at the Mayflower. Palmer, known as the "Shimmy Queen," was about to open an act at a new midtown club called Chateau Madrid, and was looking for a band to back her. She told Condon that she would square it with the club's owner, Lou Schwartz. Condon met with McKenzie, McPartland and Freeman, and they all agreed to take the job. McPartland and Freeman had a few out of town gigs they had to finish with Pollack's band, which gave Condon time to jump on a train to Chicago and fetch Teschmaker, Sullivan and Krupa.

The entire band was soon back in New York. Unfortunately, in the meantime Bee Palmer had had a falling out with her dance partner, and the act had broken up. Their engagement at the Chateau Madrid was cancelled. Condon reasoned that the new club was still going to need a band, so he and the boys went to the club and asked Schwartz if they could audition. "Schwartz said 'Why not' and sat at a table and listened. We could see he didn't have the slightest idea what we were doing. He knew what he wanted, and it wasn't us," Condon writes.

They auditioned for several other jobs, but it seems that no one was looking for a hot jazz band from Chicago. Condon says, "We were all staying in one room in the Cumberland Hotel and looking for any sort of work. Three weeks later we were still at the Cumberland Hotel and we had not paid them a cent. We owed them well over a hundred dollars and there was not any place that would let us play even for free." McKenzie used the group to cut a record as the Mound City Blue Blowers, and then Condon convinced Brunswick Records to let them record a couple more sides -- this time billed as Eddie Condon And His Footwarmers. But soon their meager funds ran out, and they agreed to split up so the boys could take individual gigs to earn some money. 

Condon got work playing background music for movie shorts and sat in on a couple of recording sessions. As a sign of his desperation, he even took a job playing a club date with the Red Nichols band(!) Eventually, Red McKenzie put together a new version of the Mound City Blue Blowers and asked Condon to join him. 

Owing to McKenzie's reputation and past success, the Mound City Blue Blowers found steady work, including a nine-month stand at a place called The Bath Club on 53rd St. They spent a winter in Florida playing parties in Palm Beach, and in the fall of 1931, The Blue Blowers were hired as the house band at the famous Stork Club on 58th St. They stayed on until the spring of 1932, when, according to Condon, "McKenzie got restless." Paul Whiteman offered him a job and McKenzie left, breaking up the band.

For the next year, Condon says he played parties and club dates, worked on an occasional recording session, and "kept alive on free steaks at Joe Helbock's Onyx club on 52nd St." In the spring of 1933, McKenzie came back, and the Blue Blowers returned to the Stork Club. Condon was working again, but only until December, when Prohibition was repealed. The speakeasies "took off their locks and showed their lights. Prices (for drinks) went down, and musicians were out of work." Making things even worse, by this time Big Band music had swept the nation, ushering in a craze for orchestral dance music which was heavily rehearsed and played from charts. If no one wanted to hear a hot jazz band before, now it was nearly impossible to find work

For several years, Condon and his buddies lived hand to mouth, often sleeping three or four in a single rented room or crashing on the floor with a friend. Many of his pals bit the bullet and took jobs with the big bands to make ends meet, or quit music altogether and got real jobs. But Condon held out. He played whenever and wherever he could with pickup combos in clubs or at private parties for society swells (including once for the Vanderbilts), sometimes living for weeks at a time on milk and canned tomatoes (and booze inveigled from bartenders at their gigs). 

At one point, Condon took a job playing on a cruise ship. "I sailed to Buenos Aires and back and played piano all the way. I'm a good sailor and a bad piano player. I could only play in one key, so the entire band played four times a day in the key of F for fourteen thousand miles." He adds: "They may still be playing in F for all I know."

Eventually, Condon's luck began to change. In 1937, McKenzie helped him land a regular gig at Nick's, a Greenwich Village club owned by a lawyer and amateur pianist named Nick Rongetti. [Condon says that even though Rongetti was a savvy club owner, he was a terrible musician. "As a pianist, he had hands like anvils."]

Nick's in Greenwich Village. Condon is seated above the drums.

For the next eight years, Condon and his band - billed as the Summa Cum Laude Orchestra - finally had a more or less steady job and a home base. Even better, Rongetti allowed Condon and the band to play whatever they wanted - which meant a nightly "Chicago style" jam session with no sheet music and no set lists.  

[Readers who are paying close attention will recall that the band that cut Avakian's first record in 1939 (described above), were called the Summa Cum Laude Orchestra. Now you know why.]

Despite being the house band at Nick's, Condon says that Rongetti would fire them several times a year for various infractions. "I was in and of there more often than the mailman." Eventually, Rongetti would rehire them, but while they were on the outs, sometimes for weeks or months, the band would play other clubs or take dates out of town.

Condon's next lucky break came about due to his friendship with Milton Gabler. Gabler was the owner of the city's best record store, The Commodore Music Shop, located on East 42nd St. (a second location opened on 47nd St. in 1938). The shop was a popular hang out for jazz fans and musicians who came to listen to and buy the latest records. Condon was a frequent visitor and he and Gabler became good friends. 

Milton Gabler (left) at the 47nd St. branch.

For some years, Gabler had been paying the big labels to repress popular, out-of-print jazz records to sell in his store. Even though demand was high, Gabler wasn't making much money because of the cost to secure the rights and produce the records. 

Gabler decided to start his own label and produce his own records. He planned to re-record classic jazz songs, using the same musicians, and sell the new versions instead of paying the big labels to repress the original versions. 

He consulted with Condon to see if he thought his plan would work. Condon assured him that the musicians would be happy to do it, and even agreed to pull together a band for the first sessions, which were soon booked for January, 1939. The band was billed as Eddie Condon & His Windy City Seven, and included Condon, Pee Wee Russell, Bud Freeman, George Brunies, Buddy Hackett, George Wettling, Artie Shapiro, and Jess Stacy. 

The first release on the Commodore label.

The first series of re-recordings on the Commodore label were called "Classics In Swing," and were an immediate success. Fans loved them because the sound was often much better than on the original records. Gabler soon began recording new songs as well. Commodore Records flourished and went on to become one of the most important independent jazz labels in history, releasing hundreds of titles, including works by Lester Young, Coleman Hawkins, Teddy Wilson, Art Tatum, Ben Webster, Leon "Chu" Berry, Willie "The Lion" Smith, Jelly Roll Morton, and the immortal classic "Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday.

[A very un-fun fact: The lyrics to "Strange Fruit" were based on a poem which condemned lynching, describing the bodies hanging in trees as "strange fruit." Holiday approached Gabler about releasing "Strange Fruit" after her own label, Columbia, declined to record it due to fears of protests from record stores and radio stations in the south. Mississippi Goddam, indeed.]

Condon played on dozens of sides for Commodore, and the success of the label helped increase Condon's stature. When Life Magazine covered one of the recording sessions and published an article with photographs, Condon became a minor celebrity.

Condon was on a roll. In the fall of 1943, he begin presenting jazz concerts at Town Hall, a venue on West 43rd St. The monthly jam sessions played to enthusiastic, sold-out crowds. Press reviews of the Town Hall shows were equally positive, including an effusive piece by Virgil Thompson, the curmudgeonly music critic at the Herald Tribune. Condon was astonished when he read Thompson's review: "The jazz concert that Eddie Condon directed yesterday afternoon in the Town Hall was to this reviewer one of the most satisfactory musical experiences of the season." In a hilarious aside, Condon adds, "Mr. Thompson was a little irritated by the "affetuoso manner" of the soloists. I'll speak to the boys about that."

The Town Hall concerts were such a hit that the Blue Radio Network (soon to be renamed ABC), approached Condon about hosting a live, weekly radio show. From May, 1944 to April, 1945, the network carried a half hour program every Saturday evening, broadcast live from Town Hall over their network of more than 150 radio stations around the country. The network described the show as "the only unrehearsed, free-wheeling, completely barefoot music on the air." Audiences across the country loved the show, due in no small part to Condon's wisecracking commentary as he introduced the songs and the performers. He soon became one of the most popular jazz figures in the nation.

A snowy opening night at Eddie Condon's, December, 1945.

In December, 1945, Condon opened his own nightclub on West 3rd Street in Greenwich Village. The club was called Eddie Condon's, and it remained in business (at three different locations) for 22 years. Condon quips in his book that he originally had no interest in owning a night club until "One night Nick (Rongetti) told us he was raising the price of musicians' drinks from twenty-five to thirty cents."

Condon's nightclub was a hit from the start, attracting not only scores of musicians, but an elite list of film stars and celebrities, including John Steinbeck, Bing Crosby, Kirk Douglas, Robert Mitchum, Yul Brenner, and Rita Hayworth. Even the Duke and Duchess of Windsor stopped by. Condon says the club's success was due to one very strict policy: "We don't throw anybody in, and we don't throw anybody out." Like Nick's before it, Eddie Condon's became a Mecca for hot jazz in New York City.

In addition to running his club, Condon continued to play, record, and tour up until the early 1960s. Then, in the mid 1960s he was diagnosed with bone cancer. Within a few years he was too sick to travel much, although he toured occasionally and appeared from time to time in clubs and at festivals. His last public appearance was on July 5, 1972, when he played at Carnegie Hall during the Newport Jazz Festival in New York City. He was hospitalized two days later and died on August 4 at the age of 66.

Unusually for a such a popular jazz figure, Condon was not a standout musician and wrote very few songs. He was a solid rhythm guitarist, but he never took solos, and for the most part, he simply blends into the background of the rhythm section. On his records, you often can't tell if he's playing or not. [This video clip of Condon's band is notable because it's one of the few recordings where you can actually hear Condon playing for a brief moment as he is introduced.]

The house band at Eddie Condon's Club ca. 1952

However, Condon was a world-class schmoozer with rare organizational skills. He had a knack for getting a bunch of hard-drinking, free-spirited, jazz musicians to turn up for a recording session or a club date at practically a moment's notice. 

As his buddy Red McKenzie observed in an interview, even if Condon wasn't the best musician in the room, at any session or club date that he played on, it was clear that Eddie was in charge. He called the tunes, he assigned the order of the solos, and counted off the beat. 

It's not quite accurate to say that Condon is a forgotten figure, although I suspect that his name would draw a blank even among some serious jazz fans. However, it is fair to say that his contribution to jazz is underappreciated. Condon didn't inspire a generation of young musicians with his guitar playing or compose songs that became standards, but he had an important role in promoting hot jazz at a time when it looked like orchestral Big Band music might stamp it out for good.

Condon released dozens of albums during his lifetime. Many more LP and CD sets have appeared since his death that document his live radio programs and concerts. As a result, there are lots of Condon albums floating around, which can often be found for $5 or less. If you run across any, I'd encourage you to pick them up and give them a listen. Chicago style hot jazz (Condon resisted the term Dixieland) may seem old fashioned, but a close listen will reveal the incredible skill of the performers.

I'll give the last (stilted) word to music critic Virgil Thompson, commenting on a performance by Condon and his band: "The whole was magnificently sustained and varied, everybody playing something worth listening to and everybody uttering phrases that had to do with those the others were uttering. The nine-part tuttis were of a grandeur, a sumptuousness of sound and a spontaneous integration of individual freedom that makes one proud of the country that gave birth to such a high manifestation of sensibility and intelligence and happy to be present at such a full and noble expression of the musical faculties." 

Condon would have laughed his ass off.

Enjoy the music!

Exile On Main Street - Which Vinyl Pressing Is The Best?

The 1972 original -- still the one to beat?

In early 1971, the Rolling Stones found themselves in dire financial straits. Despite being one of the most successful rock bands in the world, they owed millions in back taxes to the Inland Revenue (the British IRS.) Since the tax rate in the UK at that time was as high as 90% for very wealthy earners, the group's financial advisors told them their only hope of remaining solvent and keeping some of their earnings was to leave the UK before the end of the fiscal year (which fell on April 5). If they were living abroad, they wouldn't owe British taxes. [Fun fact: The UK's exorbitant wealth tax during this period was also the inspiration for George Harrison's song, "Taxman," which kicks off The Beatles' Revolver album.] 

 

In addition to their financial problems in the UK, the last couple of years had been difficult for the band in other ways, as they dealt with the death of founding member Brian Jones, a series of acrimonious legal disputes with their manager Alan Klein, and the murder of a fan by members of the Hell's Angels who had been hired by the band to provide security at a free concert in Altamont, California. It's no wonder they were ready to chuck it in and leave England for sunnier climes.

 

In early April, 1971, the Stones all decamped to France. Except for Charlie Watts, who bought a farm some six hours away in Arles, the rest of the group rented properties within an hour of the resort city of Nice. Mick split his time with his new wife Bianca in Paris (they married in May in St. Tropez) and at a rented house in Biot, south of Nice. Mick Taylor rented a house in Grasse, Bill Wyman found a place in Vence, and Keith Richards rented a 16-room mansion called Villa Nellcôte in Villefranche-sur-Mer, a small port town about five miles up the coast from Nice. 

 

The plan was to find a recording studio somewhere nearby where they could work on their next album. After an unsuccessful search, they decided to bring over the Rolling Stones mobile studio truck from the UK and record sessions in make-shift space at Keith's place, the Villa Nellcôte. Here, over the next five months, in chaotic fits and starts, they produced a masterpiece, the 1972 release Exile On Main Street.

Keith Richards and Gram Parsons at Nellcôte

The story of the band's time at Villa Nellcôte is the stuff of legend. The infighting, alcohol, drugs, sex, groupies, celebrity visitors, guest musicians, drug dealers, record execs, hangers on, and all manner of excesses have been detailed exhaustively. There is an entire book devoted to their stay in France: "Seasons In Hell With The Rolling Stones," by Robert Greenfield, as well as a 2010 documentary film called "Stones In Exile." In case you don't want to bother reading the book or watching the film, Texas-born sax man Bobby Keys, who played on many of the sessions, sums it all for you: "Hell, yeah, there was some pot around, there was some whiskey bottles around, there was scantily clad women. Hell, it was rock 'n' roll!"   

Cramped quarters in the basement at Villa Nellcôte

In addition to all the palace intrigue, the band's biggest problem was that Villa Nellcôte was a private residence and was never meant to be a recording studio. 

Jim Price on trumpet and Bobby Keys on sax

An article by writer Colleen 'Cosmo' Murphy on the website Classic Album Sundays gives an excellent overview of the difficulties the band faced:"The basement (where much of the recording took place) was hot and humid so the guitars often went out of tune. Sometimes the electricity went off. As there wasn’t one big room in which they could record, band members were scattered in different rooms across the house, with leads going down hallways and out of windows to the mobile recording studio. Engineer Andy Johns had to run from room to room to communicate with each band member. As all of the musicians weren’t always on hand, sometimes producer Jimmy Miller had to have a go on the drums and percussion. There were moments when only one or two Stones would be present to record on a given song. In short, it was chaotic." Keith Richards put it more directly, "Upstairs, it was fantastic. Like Versailles. But down there . . . it was Dante's Inferno."

 

Mick and Keith at Sunset Sound

After the shambolic sessions at Nellcôte, the session tapes were taken to Los Angeles for overdubs, where the band (apparently mostly Mick) tried to put together a coherent album. According to Wikipedia, all the lead and backing vocals, as well as extensive guitar and bass overdubs were added during sessions (at Sunset Sound Studios in Hollywood) that lasted from December 1971 until March 1972. They brought in Dr. John and some of LA's top backup singers to help with the vocals, while ace session players Billy Preston, Ian Stewart, and Nicky Hopkins were recruited to sweeten the tracks. 

 

When the album was released in May of 1972, it was a huge commercial success, topping the charts worldwide. The album's first single, "Tumbling Dice," reaching the top ten in the UK and the U.S.

While critical reaction to the album was initially mixed, within a few years, Exile was routinely being hailed as the Stones' finest effort and one of the greatest rock albums ever.  Even though I'm keen on all the band's early records, when Exile came out in 1972, it quickly became my favorite Stones LP (and it still is).

Modern photo of Villa Nellcôte

At the time I wasn't aware of the painful gestation of the album. But in retrospect, it's a good example of beauty born from chaos. The infighting, sweltering heat, technical challenges, and drug and alcohol-fueled all-night recording sessions somehow resulted in a work of genius. The songs reflect the grimy, gin-soaked atmosphere of the recording sessions, and the album is a microcosm of the first two decades of rock music, drawing from a deep well of blues, roots, rockabilly, R&B, honky-tonk, gospel, and country.

The other thing I remember thinking when I first heard the album in 1972, was that the sound wasn't all that great. Not terrible, but even listening on my modest Radio Shack stereo, the top end seemed rolled off, and the overall sound was muddy, like there was a blanket over the speakers. That impression was widely shared by critics and fans, as well as Mick Jagger himself. He is quoted in the 1993 book "According To The Rolling Stones," as saying "When I listen to Exile it has some of the worst mixes I've ever heard. I'd love to remix the record, not just because of the vocals, but because generally I think it sounds lousy. At the time (producer) Jimmy Miller was not functioning properly. I had to finish the whole record myself, because otherwise there were just these drunks and junkies."

 
Ah, but the music. Influential rock critic Robert Christgau's review of the album  captures the discord between the fabulous music and the meh sound quality: "Weary and complicated, barely afloat in its own drudgery, it's a fagged-out masterpiece that explores new depths of record-studio murk, burying Mick's voice under layers of cynicism, angst and ennui." Yet, Christgau gave the record an A+ grade and named it the best album of the year.

 

Mick and Keith in the dining room at Nellcote

Where Am Going With This?

 

I mention all this history mostly because I find it fascinating, but also because not too long ago, I put on my original 1972 LP copy of Exile. The album has served me well for more than 50 years. But, as I listened, I realized that it actually has quite a bit of wear. Exile is such a raucous affair that a little surface noise doesn't detract too much. However, there have been a number of new vinyl remasters in the last 15 years or so, and I thought this might be a good opportunity to pick up a new and possibly better-sounding copy.

 

[Even though this particular treasure hunt is for the best-sounding vinyl remaster, I should mention that in addition to the 1972 original double LP, I have several remastered digital copies: the original 1987 US CD, a CD copy of the 2010 remastered version by Universal Music, and a copy of the 2011 Japanese SACD which was made as a flat transfer from the original master tapes to DSD.]

 

There have been dozens of reissues of the LP over the decades. [I don't think Exile has been out of print since it was released in 1972.] But for the first 15 years, there was no effort to remix or improve the sound that everyone agreed was not so great. Every reissue up until 1987 was made from the original mix. (Although there are certainly differences in the sound quality of the many reissues depending on where the albums were cut and pressed.)

 

1987 CBS remaster

Finally, in 1987, Columbia Records released the first "remastered" version of Exile to celebrate a new distribution deal with Rolling Stone Records. In addition to the new LP version, this was also the initial US release of Exile on CD. Columbia's LP reissue uses the original jacket art with the original production credits. However, the booklet from the CD release says that it was produced from a digital master made by Greg Calbi at Sterling Sound in NYC. Although I don't know for certain, I would guess that Columbia's "remastered" LP was also cut from Calbi's digital files. I have a copy of this CD, but not the LP. Comparing the CD remaster to the original 1972 LP, the CD sounds, well, digital. The top end is brighter, but not in a good way. It is brittle and fatiguing, while the bass remains muddled. I've not seen much talk about this version of the LP online, but it doesn't show up on anybody's list of best-sounding versions.

 

1994 Virgin remaster

The next attempt to tweak the sound of the original album was made in 1994 by the legendary engineer Bob Ludwig, who remastered the album at his Gateway Mastering studio in Portland, Maine. There is a lot of love for the sound of the CD version of Ludwig's remaster. Unfortunately, the consensus is that the LP made from Ludwig's digital files and released as a limited edition on Virgin Records, somehow lost it's mojo in the transfer to vinyl. There is near unanimous agreement among fans and critics that the LP version does not sound good. Even so, the 1994 remastered album will still set you back $100 or more for a near mint copy, which must be more a tribute to Bob Ludwig's street cred than to the resulting sound. I have not heard this version of the album, but don't think it's a contender.

2010 Universal remaster

In 2010, Universal Music (which by then had acquired Rolling Stones Records), released a new version from digital files remastered by Stephen Marcussen. The vinyl was cut from these digital files by (another) legendary engineer, Doug Sax, at the Mastering Lab in Los Angeles. The 2010 remastered version was reissued in a bunch of different packages, including a double LP, a deluxe CD with bonus tracks, a super deluxe package with LPs, CDs, a DVD, and a hard-cover book, and yet another package with CDs and a limited edition tee-shirt. 

 

Audiophile and vinyl guru Michael Fremer panned the vinyl reissue, saying that it is "Compacted, spatially flattened, deliberately dynamically compressed and shockingly bass-shy. The horns that are supposed to cut through with a mean edge on “Rocks Off” were limp, Charlie’s signature snare sound was soft. I mean it really sucks. . ." I've not heard the vinyl release, but after listening to my digital copy, I would have to say that Fremer's not wrong.

2016 Universal remaster

Since hope springs eternal, in 2016, Universal tried again, using the same digital files cut by Marcussen, but this time the vinyl was cut at 1/2 speed by Miles Showell at London's Abbey Road Studios. Cutting the lacquers at 1/2 speed can result in a smoother and more detailed sound. And while this version was not as harshly criticized as the 2010 release, most fans and music writers agreed that it offered only a slight improvement. The sound is still too compressed and flat. I have heard this version. In the end, it is disappointing. Although I have to say that if you hadn't heard a better copy, you wouldn't immediately say it was a bad sounding record. But I hoped we could do better.

 

Universal is nothing if not persistent. Their next try was in 2018 as part of a remastered box set of the Stones' entire 1971-2016 catalog, including, of course, Exile. This time, Universal provided high resolution, flat, digital files transferred from the original master analog tapes to engineer Miles Showell at Abbey Road. Showell says, "I was given free range to just ‘do my thing’ which was remarkable freedom. I had no instructions from the band’s management or from Universal other than to do it as well as I could. At no point was any digital peak limiting applied to these albums. My goal was to make these new cuts at least as good as the originals and hopefully better. This is not easy. . . for the original cuts, the tapes were obviously in mint condition. . .but I have a far cleaner signal path than was available to the original cutting engineers. I am happy that I achieved my goal." 

2018 Universal remaster

Guess what? Most critics and fans love it. Even Fremer agrees. He says that "If you've suffered with the last limp, squashed remastering of Exile, you'll be in drunken/drugged out heaven with the Stones when they recorded this sloppy, debauched masterpiece as tax exiles in a France Chateau." One online reviewer hit the nail on the head with his comment that, "All the sweat, dirt, and heat from Nellcôte is still there, it's just clearer." Which is to say, the music hasn't been sterilized, and doesn't sound at all manipulated; it's still gritty and grimy, but the haze has been lifted. [NB: This 2018 remaster was originally only available as part of the box set. Since 2020, it has been available as a separate release.]

 

So, the search is over, right? Not so fast. Fremer says that while this new version is very good, he still thinks that the sound of the original 1972 U.S. pressing is better. (NB: Specifically, U.S. copies mastered at Artisan Sound.) 

 

Maybe so. But original U.S. copies in top condition are going for anywhere from $100-300 online. And since I already have an original copy (albeit not in top condition), I plumped for the 2018 remaster. About 30 seconds after cuing up side A, I knew I had a copy that would serve me for the next 50 years. Don't tell Fremer, but I think I like it even better than the original. 

 

Enjoy the music!

What I've Been Listening To Lately

As a continuing service to readers, I'm starting off the new year with another episode of "What I've Been Listening To Lately," which gives me a chance to highlight excellent music by formerly unknown (to me) artists that I've stumbled across in recent months.

I generally learn about new artists either because they are playing as sidemen on albums by musicians that I already know and like, or because they are leading a session on a label that I trust and collect.

Case in point, Muse Records, which in the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s released hundreds of excellent jazz albums by a stream of talented, mostly B-list players. Which is to say, extremely talented musicians who never became headliners, but who nevertheless had successful careers and made wonderful music. When I come across clean copies of Muse titles in the used bins or online, I almost always pick them up, even if I've never heard of the artist.

Jerome Harris

Jerome Harris (right) is an excellent example of a Muse Records artist. A double threat on bass and guitar, Harris attended Harvard and the New England Conservatory of Music, and was discovered in 1977 when Sonny Rollins found himself without a bassist for a gig in Boston. Harris got the call to sit in, and the rest is history. Harris was a regular in Rollins' band for many years, appearing on five albums by the legendary tenorman. 

To date, Harris has played bass and/or guitar on more than 150 albums, including sessions with Jack DeJohnette, Paul Motian, Brian Eno, Bill Frisell, Jaki Bayard, and Henry Threadgill.

Harris's first album as a leader came in 1986 with the release of Algorithms on the German label, Minor Music. Then, in 1990, he cut his first and only recording for the Muse Label, an album called In Passing (left). It's a mostly straight-ahead jazz outing, with some R&B and fusion seasoning. Harris wrote four of the seven songs and plays electric bass, backed by Marty Ehrlich on reeds, Jay Hoggard on vibes, Jeff Herschfield on drums, and a scene-stealing Clifton Anderson on trombone.

Reed man Ehrlich also produced the album, which was cut direct to digital. Even though I'm a dedicated analog guy, I'm not opposed to a well-recorded digital session. And In Passing sounds terrific, with punchy bass, a great sense of space, and a burnished quality to the horns and reeds. Near mint and sealed copies of the album are available for reasonable prices, so, no excuses.

So far, Harris has only one other album as a leader, 1995's Hidden In Plain Sight, a tribute to the late, great Eric Dolphy. Hidden In Plain Sight is a fun and funky session with an-all star septet, including Marty Ehlich and Clifton Anderson from In Passing. [Unfortunately, the album is only available on CD.]

Another label that I tend to pick up whenever I find them is Concord Jazz. Concord was founded in 1974 by northern California car dealer Carl Jefferson because he said he could no longer find the kind of mainstream jazz albums that he liked to listen to in the record shops. Yes, it is good to be rich. Concord Jazz went on to release hundreds of titles by a roster of fine players, including pianist Joanne Brackeen. 

The list of well-known female pianists from the golden age of jazz (let's say the 50s to the 70s) is fairly limited. I can only come up with of Marian McPartland, Jutta Hipp, and Mary Lou Williams without searching online. Joanne Brackeen is probably less well-known than any of these, but shouldn't be.

Brackeen was born in Ventura, about an hour north of Los Angeles, and taught herself to play the piano at age 11. Within a year, she was already playing professionally. She accepted a music scholarship to the Los Angeles Conservatory as a teen, but quit after a week, deciding that she could learn better and faster by simply playing gigs with other jazz musicians.  

Over the decades, she has played with just about everybody, including Art Blakey, Dexter Gordon, Joe Henderson, Sonny Stitt, Woody Shaw, Chick Corea, Stan and Getz. [Fun Fact: Brackeen was the only female musician ever to be a member of Blakey's Jazz Messengers, performing with the group from 1969-72.]

She made her first album as a leader in 1975 with an album called Snooze on the Choice label. [The album was reissued in 2023, with a stellar remaster by Bernie Grundman.] Brackeen recorded steadily from 1975 until her last release (to date) in 2000. Her debut on the Concord label was the 1985 release Havin' Fun (above). She is joined on the session by the rock-solid rhythm section of Cecil McBee on bass and Al Foster on drums. 

Joanne Brackeen

Brackeen's earlier disks focus on original compositions, often played in a post-bop or free form style. The combination can make her music a bit challenging. Havin' Fun is the first album of standards that Brackeen released, and as a result, it's one of her most accessible outings. In the liner notes, Brackeen is upfront about why she wanted to make a more mainstream album: "There are people who think I only play very far out. Certain club owners act like I'm a UFO." 

No doubt Brackeen hoped that an album of standards on the mainstream Concord label would expand her audience and help convince club owners that her music wouldn't have customers running for the door. Even still, jazz critic Nat Hentoff notes that: "Being Brackeen, she does, of course, transform these standards into continually intriguing, surprising and unmistakably personal forms within forms within one of the most spontaneous imaginations in all of jazz." 

Brackeen went on to record four more albums for Concord, including a couple of Brazil inspired titles, Breath Of Brazil in 1991, and Take A Chance in 1994. If you are new to Brackeen's music, dip your toe in the water with Havin' Fun or one of the other Concord titles before seeking out her other more "far out" disks.

At age 85, Brackeen remains active, teaching at the Berklee College of Music in Boston and still performing. In 2018, she was named a "Jazz Master" by the National Endowment for the Arts.  

Bennie Wallace

Finally, let's discuss the criminally underappreciated tenorman Bennie Wallace. A native of Chattanooga, Wallace studied clarinet at the University of Tennessee before switching to tenor sax and moving to New York in 1971. In the Big Apple, Wallace came to the attention of pianist Monty Alexander, who hired Wallace and helped launch his career. 

From 1978 to 1984, Wallace recorded a string of seven albums as leader on the German label Enya, using an array of fine sidemen such as Tommy Flanagan, Eddie Gomez, Dannie Richmond, and Jimmy Knepper. The style of these albums is mostly avant garde, and like Brackeen's early works, are somewhat of an acquired taste. (Unless, of course, you are fan of the avant garde.)

In 1985, Wallace signed with Blue Note Records and released his first album as a leader on a U.S. label, the fabulous Twilight Time (left). AllMusic critic Scott Yanow writes that "Bennie Wallace has long had his own unique style, combining the raspy tone of Ben Webster with the frequent wide interval jumps of Eric Dolphy. He has an explorative style that sound-wise looks back toward the swing era . . . Twilight Time is a classic . . . (an) inspired project." 

On Twilight Time, Wallace is backed by trombonist Ray Anderson, guitarist John Scofield, and either Bob Cranshaw or Eddie Gomez on bass, and either Jack DeJohnette, Chris Parker, or Bernard Purdie on drums. To add to the fun, the core group(s) are joined on several selections by guest artists Dr. John on piano and blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughan on guitar. In a clean break from his earlier avant garde sessions, Twilight Time successfully melds jazz, New Orleans boogie, blues, and funk to create a rollicking, fun album. 

Wallace made one other recording for Blue Note, 1988's excellent Bordertown (right), (which is a honking, swampy follow-up in the style of Twilight Time), and then a couple of highly-recommended albums for the audiophile label Audioquest: The Old Songs in 1993, and the self-titled Bennie Wallace in 1998. Since 1993, Wallace has returned to Enya Records for another series of releases. 

Even though Wallace has flown under the radar for much of his career, his U.S. releases are almost all readily available and well worth seeking out. However, the Audioquest albums had fairly limited release and may be harder to find and/or a little pricey.

One of the most rewarding things about collecting jazz music is that there are so many little-known but talented musicians and an almost endless supply of great albums still to discover.

Enjoy the music!