November - 1975

The Memphis Blues Caravan was about to take the stage.

Seated in the brightly lit dressing room, encircled with vanity mirrors ringed with soft 40 watt bulbs, Bukka White opened the battered case holding his National Steel Guitar and quickly tuned to Spanish. Across the room Furry Lewis leaned back in his chair and announced to whomever would listen that he was READY. Joe Willie Wilkins rolled his eyes. His band perused the cold cuts on the hospitality table - inquiring where the fried chicken had gone. Someone accused Hammy Nixon of getting to it first and Sleepy John Estes allowed as that might well be what happened to the chicken. Hammy, smiling, said nothing. Piano Red, wearing his trademark dark glasses and narrow brimmed hat, sat perched on a chair, his enormous frame extending considerably from either side. Smiling and nodding at the fraternal hilarity, his fingers moved unconsciously as his hands rested on massive legs, perhaps rehearsing the opening tune of his set.

Suddenly, the stage manager's voice came over the intercom. "Five minutes, gentlemen..." Red stood immediately, the smile gone and pre-show tension showing on his usually impassive face. "Guess I better go out there and do it." All conversation stopped as Red received the full attention of everyone in the room. "Go get 'em, cud'n" Furry said as Red walked past him and disappeared out the door.

I walked Red to the stage and watched as he took his place at the piano. The curtain was closed and the area illuminated only by blue 'work lights'. The stage manager, standing next to me and wearing a headset and mic, quietly said the words which would start the process that tonight's audience had paid to witness, "House to half..." The house lights were cheated down to half strength. Once seated, Red adjusted his vocal mic, positioned himself on his seat and then turned to me and nodded. We had done this many times before and there was an unspoken agreement that nothing would happen until I received that nod. Turning to the stage manager, I in turn nodded. Holding the mouthpiece of his headset in his right hand, he whispered, "house to black...and...curtain."

Memphis Piano Red's left hand rolled like thunder as the curtain rose and the lights came up on stage. A spontaneous roar from the audience announced that the show had begun.

This is a story about the men and women who comprised The Memphis Blues Caravan, the last and only touring ensemble of American country Blues artists, the guys who originated the art-form we know as the Blues. My name is Arne Brogger. I was the guy who walked Red to that stage. But that's not important – what's important is the story I'm about to tell you.