[78-L] Teddy Grace - interesting piece "pinched" from another group

[Dan Van Landingham]

In that batch of 78s I bought back in 1994 at the Sunset Automatic Music Company in Coos Bay,Oregon,I saw a couple of Teddy Grace recordings issued on American Decca.I didn't know who she was.I was much more familiar with Al Bowlly,Ray Noble and Harry Roy,the latter I had on one British Decca 78 I bought at a Salvation Army thrift store in Coos Bay,Oregon for around $.20 back in 1969("Barrel House Boogie"/"Steppin' Out At Midnight(I think-the center of the record was worn out).It was a great record-for a British band it really swung as opposed to Lew Stone's band.I had "Tiger Rag" which was corny but "Canadian Capers,the reverse was good.The Harry Roy side I wore out.I'd love to find more.
 

________________________________
 From: Ron L'Herault <lherault at bu.edu>
To: '78-L Mail List' <78-l at klickitat.78online.com> 
Sent: Thursday, August 22, 2013 1:54 PM
Subject: Re: [78-L] Teddy Grace - interesting piece "pinched" from another group
  

That is a marvelous read.  Time to revisit Teddy Grace!

Ron L

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Subject: [78-L] Teddy Grace - interesting piece "pinched" from another group

'Teddy Grace Once lost, now found' 

The Oxford American Issue 58 Ninth Annual Southern Music Issue, 2007 

Teddy Grace Once lost, now found. By Derek Jenkins 

Compensating for a lack of natural range with a buoyant yodel, she sang not
quite like a bird-more like a bird in flight and low to the ground, lilting
and dipping and unpredictable, guided by an exhilarating force or chased
along by unseen troubles. Cut loose from any bodily anchor, resonant and
spectral, her agonizing shallows and abrupt swells haunted any listener
fortunate enough to stumble upon a loose 78 for almost half a century.
Something not just in the words but in her phrasing signaled a worried mind,
hinted at a racially specific point of reference. She sounded black. She
might well have been black. 

She went by Teddy Grace, and she became a byword among a certain stripe of
jazz and blues enthusiast for being little more than a name under the title,
and more often than not the name under the name under the title, spelled out
in that small type reserved for vocalists during the reign of the
extravagantly arm-swinging bandleader. Her output was limited to fifty-three
sides and spanned only a few years, but she recorded for Decca and with some
of the premier artists of her era, including Dave Barbour, Bob Crosby, Billy
Kyle, Buster Bailey, and Jack Teagarden. Those relatively sparse,
all-but-anonymous cuts, many your standard swing fare but some imbued with a
genuine feeling for deep blues, kept the tiny gears of the recollection
machine turning. 

For a long time, hers remained one more object lesson in how slippery our
past really is, how different things had been before the advent of fully
integrated media, how easily a singular talent could fall by the wayside,
and to what extent even the most precious of human achievements could be
reduced to mere remnants by cold and bloodless events. The music, so
immediate and lifelike but also disconnected and mysterious, took on all the
significance of an apparition. 

Then somebody in the know, a kind of redemptive angel, laid eyes on her one
and only album, a collection of five 78s featuring ten of her best
recordings, on the sleeve a capsule biography and an actual photograph.
Teddy Grace turned out to be a privileged white woman from Bienville Parish,
Louisiana. 

David W McCain is a born seeker. Raised in New Orleans, his preoccupation
has long been collecting, digging up recordings by various female vocalists
like Mildred Bailey, Lee Wiley, and Ethel Waters. A compulsive excavator, he
has the habit, familiar to obsessive's, of moving heaven and earth to feed
his interests. As a young man, he turned a predilection for female vocalists
into a fondness for the Andrews Sisters into a love affair with the Boswell
Sisters into a full-scale investigation, rediscovering the youngest of the
latter three, Helvetia "Vet" Boswell, and preserving her memories before
they faded away for good. (He's currently writing a book on the Boswells
with her daughter, Chica Minnerly.) 

McCain attended college at Northeast Louisiana University for a while, and
then transferred to Northwestern in Natchitoches (right in Teddy Grace's
backyard), where he received a BA in journalism and the research skills that
continue to serve his life's pursuit. He drifted from job to job for years,
at one time training to be a court reporter. At thirty-six, he moved to New
York. He slept on the couch of a friend until he landed stable office work.
New York has no end of serious jazz and blues collectors, and McCain fell in
with a like-minded community. 

Somewhere along the way he came across Teddy Grace. He thinks the song was
"Alibi Baby," a track on a mix tape given to him by a fellow collector,
nestled amongst a number of his treasured female vocalists. The music was
good enough, swing dressed up in blues by a riveting vocal performance, but
the story was great. She stayed in the back of his mind. He managed to track
down some of her best performances, including the gravelly and acrobatic
"Downhearted Blues" and its yearning B-side "Monday Morning," each of which
brought his interest to a boil. 

A short time later he was on the phone with the woman who used to be Teddy
Grace. 

That small biography on her record sleeve, woefully incomplete, reserved
most of the space for selling her peculiar ability to "sing like the colored
people." It was the pre-Civil Rights equivalent of saying she'd spent some
time in prison. Her full name and hometown of Arcadia, Louisiana, gave him
enough to start with, though. McCain called the parish historian on the
off-chance of a local record. By some miracle, Teddy's younger brother had
been in town only a week earlier for a high-school reunion. McCain found
himself two phone calls away from the Southern California nursing home where
the former Miss Grace was living out her days. The story she told him filled
in the blanks. 

She was born Stella Gloria Crowson in 1905, the penultimate of ten siblings:
seven boys and three girls. Teddy always hated the name "Stella," and was
only too happy to become Ted or Teddy when her baby brother couldn't manage
her given name. Her father was a parish clerk, old-moneyed and important,
and the inventor of a fraction-adding machine. Her mother was Frances James,
a college graduate and dutiful wife. They lived on a forty-eight-acre pecan
orchard. 

Her older sister received classical training on the piano from a blind
instructor named Elizabeth Garrett (the daughter of Pat Garrett, who shot
Billy the Kid), and Teddy maintained to her dying day that big sis was the
greatest pianist she had ever heard. One of her brothers played the
trombone. While Teddy had no formal musical training, she could pick out
songs by ear at a very young age, and she made good use of a ukulele given
to her by an uncle. For her own instruction, she preferred to sneak out and
climb to the roof of the barn, where she could hear the family of her
father's "fetch and tote man," "Catlick" Johnson, sing black spirituals and
the blues. 

For most of her formative years, she didn't have much to cry about. Then, at
fourteen, the first in a series of misfortunes struck her family. Within
days of each other, her father and her mother died from a bad flu, leaving
Teddy and her younger brother, the only siblings still at home, prematurely
adrift. Teddy was sent to Virginia to live with her namesake, Stella Cox,
but missed Louisiana too much to stay permanently. She returned to attend
Mansfield Female College and graduated at eighteen. 

Though she had lost her parents, Teddy didn't want for much. Now a young
woman, she continued to enjoy the advantages of her class. Her brother John
was an oil man in El Dorado, Arkansas, at a very good time to be an oil man
in El Dorado, Arkansas. She fondly recalled the "sophisticated life"-one
time meeting a handsomely renumerated Babe Ruth at a local event-and
spending her weekends among social darlings on the Saline River. At her
eighteenth-birthday party, she met George Grace, a recently divorced,
extremely successful older man. They courted for a year, then Teddy acquired
her stage name and a big house in Montgomery, Alabama. 

She whiled away almost a decade in country-club comfort, draining cocktails
with high society, prepping with the golfers' wives for a long and
distinguished career by the pool in the beating sun. Happily childless,
often on the road with her traveling businessman of a husband, she might
have spent the rest of her days singing the blues under her breath. Then
somebody caught her quietly singing along at a party where a band was
playing a W.C. Handy number over a radio remote. 

I hate to see that evening sun go down, I hate to see that evening sun go
down, 'Cause, my baby, he's gone left this town. Feelin' tomorrow like I
feel today, If I'm feelin' tomorrow like I feel today, I'll pack my truck,
make my getaway. 

Teddy Grace was already twenty-six years old and well on her way to a life
of comfort and leisure when she accepted a fortuitous dare and sang those
words into a microphone. The odd Bessie Smith fan in the crowd may have
heard them coming from miles off but they took the high and mighty of
Montgomery by surprise. Coming from a white woman, they opened a window had
always been nailed shut. The owner of the local radio station, WSFA, rushed
to her side, followed closely by the owner of French's Piano Company, her
first sponsor: She went on the air the very next day. 

McCain was able to piece together the story of her tumultuous career using
Grace's recollections and the dusty work of pre-Internet research. Grace
remained on WSFA for a couple of years before moving on to the larger WBRC
in Birmingham, where she played sometimes with an orchestra, but often
accompanying herself on a piano or on a guitar strung with four strings like
her beloved ukulele. Her signature tune was "Stormy Weather," a song she
would never get around to recording. From there, she hooked up with Al
Stanley and His Arcadians (pure coincidence) on a tour of the Gulf Coast
before landing in Pensacola, Florida, for a month-long summer engagement. 

Meanwhile, her relationship with her husband was deteriorating.
Well-traveled though he was, Mr. Grace expected his wife around on his days
off and grew to resent her success. "He thought it [her musical career] was
cute at first, but it soon became a nuisance," she later explained. When Al
Katz and His Kittens breezed through Pensacola looking for a vocalist along
the same lines of Connee Boswell and found instead an eager Teddy, the
Graces' tenuous partnership couldn't withstand the blow. 

Grace joined Katz for an eight-week stint up the Atlantic Coast, stopping
off in North Carolina, where she first tasted fame: She was named
"Wilmington's Sweetheart" and was hounded by some overly familiar fans.(One
such admirer was the appropriately christened Hap Hazard. When Teddy later
played New York City, Hazard sailed his boat up the coast to see her. He
thought they'd just married.) By the time she arrived in New York with Katz,
her career was beginning to run full-tilt. She accrued "about seven thousand
managers" and played essential teeth-cutting gigs to bigger audiences with
Tommy Christian's orchestra. Meanwhile, another amorous fan showed up at
enough shows to catch her eye. She married Harry Maple,an actuary with Sun
indemnity and friend of Tommy Christian's, in 1933. 

After Teddy signed on with the Mal Hallett Orchestra in 1934, her headlong
ascent plateaued for a few years. Hallett's was a flamboyant territory band,
led by gangly Mal in raucous dance numbers before drunken weekend revelers,
limited in popularity but touring almost nonstop, hopelessly on the cusp of
breaking out. Though successful enough to merit the cover of Orchestra World
in June of 1934 (almost unheard of for a vocalist), Teddy found the life
nerve-wracking and resented the advances of the kind of men she ran into on
the road. Rattled by a horrible accident somewhere in Ohio, in which all of
the band members save Teddy were injured, she gave up the business for a
couple of years rest at home in New York. 

When she returned in 1937, conditions had changed. Hallett had a much higher
profile, landing bigger gigs and snagging a little radio time, and Teddy's
return only took things up a notch. Her first recording was "Rockin' Chair
Swing," a fine introduction to the way her blues insinuated themselves into
Hallett's white-boy swing, highlighting her sleepy drawl, pierced by bright,
pinched high notes. She went on to record ten sides with Hallett. That same
year, Warner Bros. released a one-reeler called Mal Hallett & His Orchestra,
a hammy revue in the form of a music class, featuring, along with a crash
course in "Swinglish," two restrained but revealing performances by Teddy.
Such success managed to coax her back onto the road, and she played a string
of engagements all over the Northeast. 

Her Hallett sessions sold Decca on a deal, and Grace left the band to record
on her own. Five of the best musicians around gave her one day for scale,
and together they laid down four of her best tracks, including the
characteristically defiant "Love Me or Leave Me" and her first
traditional-blues number, "Crazy Blues." Teddy, Frank Froeba, Billy Kyle,
Bobby Hackett, Buster Bailey, and Jack Teagarden started drinking early in
the day, but you can't hear it in the music, unless that easy shuffle is the
whiskey talking. Teagarden, an infamous lightweight, would bandy about
Teddy's abilities with a bottle for years. 

The music business is like one of those infuriating glass cubes at the
county fair, swirling with money but little more than a rube's game to all
but a sticky-fingered few. Decca founder Jack Kapp had a knack for snatching
bills out of the air. And he thought they might be onto something with
Teddy. Organizing a similar session the next year, he put together a
slightly larger band but drew material from the same bluesy tradition. Kapp
had already discovered a number of huge acts, including such vanilla icons
as Bing Crosby and Guy Lombardo, but he did little to tweak the sound of the
initial recordings. The music remained a stripped-down vehicle for the
lived-in loneliness of Teddy's voice. 

The resulting album succeeded, but not enough to warrant a follow-up. Kapp
may have been savvy enough to give her a shot, but he was hardly set to make
decisions based on any value outside of a dollar. Teddy only had a handful
of sessions with a couple of different orchestras left in her She put down
some vibrant sides with Bing's brother Bob Crosby and His Orchestra-and also
played with them at the 1939 World's Fair in Flushing. But her best
remaining recordings were four numbers with Bud Freeman's Summa Cum Laude
Orchestra, including a sorrowful version of Marlene Dietrich's "See What the
Boys in the Backroom Will Have." 

Then, nothing. 

However easy her life had been, Teddy Grace seemed to be gathering soul in
reverse. By 1940, she grew weary of the business. Touring took too much out
of her and her recording career gained too little traction with audiences.
She felt under-promoted, but Decca found her anomalously authentic blues
unmarketable. A white lady who sounded black might've been a striking find,
but the world proved unready for her brand of cross-fertilization. She
stopped touring. Recording sessions thinned out. Her second marriage failed.
She retreated to the wings for three years. 

Another tragedy broke her silence. When her nephew was killed in the war in
1943, she joined the Women's Army Corps, or WACs (immortalized on celluloid
in the Cary Grant vehicle I Was a Male War Bride). She completed basic
training in Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia, and set to touring, singing, and
organizing war-bond drives- all over the Southeast as Sgt. Stella Maple.
Enlisting the help of red-blooded stars like Ozzie and Harriet, Bob Hope,
and Red Skelton, she raised over three hundred million dollars and
consistently broke records for recruitment. 

If her previous tours had been strenuous, this schedule was grueling. One
need only recall the inexhaustible tempo of contemporary newsreel footage,
the ceaseless procession toward some hopeful but unimaginable end, to
recognize the simultaneous elation and strain of such work. She moved from
town to town, taking on ever more responsibility, singing at every stop.
Dallas, Sherman, Texarkana, Little Rock, and back again. She shredded her
voice. 

Teddy felt it going, but pushed forward-one more bond rally, one more
recruitment drive. She ended up in a Little Rock hospital, speechless.
Doctors weren't sure if she'd ever regain her speaking voice, much less sing
as she once had. Six months later she was talking in whispers, but her
progress had a low ceiling. Having stripped her of that glorious asset, the
Army shipped her down to Camp Plauche in New Orleans to learn a trade, as
any kind of pension commensurate with her loss was out of the question.
Having never done much menial work, Teddy was on her way to becoming the
world's most tragic secretary. 

She met her third husband in New Orleans. an instructor at the receptionist
school. After following him to California, she took on a fourth and final
name, as horribly fitting as any before. She got a job at Rockwell
International, a contractor with the space program. Now meek and earthbound,
she was known as Stella Hurt. 

Almost fifty years later, all David McCain knew of Teddy -Grace was that
voice-a voice long dead. The win, shaky drawl at the other end of the line
belonged to someone else. Their conversations were lovingly digressive and
thick with endearments. He called on her birthday, sent tapes of her
recordings and all the pictures he could scrounge up from that long-ago
yesteryear, even the film clip. One night, her fellow residents got to see
Teddy Grace onscreen, dancing lightly at Swing School with Professor Mal and
the gang. 

But however affectionate the relationship, the two never met. Teddy was in
bad shape. She felt abandoned and alone, and cancer was slowly eating her
away. She felt that she'd lost what she once was. "They used to tell me that
I projected happiness, and now I know I project irritability 'cause I have
it so much now. I'm just not the same person," she told him. She would die
only a few weeks later on January 4, 1992. He'd known her for nine months.
Around the time he first contacted her, he sent copies of some pictures to
commemorate those ten or so years out of her long life. She autographed a
couple to send back. On the second, she accidentally signed the name by
which she now knew herself: "Stella Hurt.' The staff at her nursing home
helped her fix the mistake. He still has that picture hanging on his wall,
with cosmic white-out correcting fifty years of wrong. 
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