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| 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.
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My near-mint 1959 $2 score
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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.
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The LP version of the original Decca singles.
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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.
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| 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.
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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.
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Bix Beiderbecks
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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.
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Red McKenzie
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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."
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Condon's first recorded side, 1927
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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.
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Bee Palmer, the "Shimmy Queen"
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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."]
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Nick's in Greenwich Village. Condon is seated above the drums.
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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.
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Milton Gabler (left) at the 47nd St. branch.
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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.
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The first release on the Commodore label.
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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.
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A snowy opening night at Eddie Condon's, December, 1945.
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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.]
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The house band at Eddie Condon's Club ca. 1952
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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!
