Once the initial dates were booked, the job of logistics became daunting. We had to move some twelve performers, a road manager and various pieces of equipment, from Memphis to the first date and then on to the next.
Flying the dates was out of the question as our budget was tight at best. We were not dealing with 'rock star' money but we had the same problems and requirements as a major rock tour. I decided that the best was to move the group was by chartered bus and struck a deal with Greyhound to provide equipment and drivers. Our first two tours were done in leased commercial coaches. This proved to both unwieldy and expensive. It also did not provide the 'comfort factor' needed for a prolonged stint on the road. By the third tour, we had wised-up and found a company out of Nashville who specialized in tour bus leasing and provided equipment with lounges, bunks, a galley and head. The real deal. They also provided a driver who would be with us for the duration of the tour and who became, usually by the second night, a huge fan AND a member of the family. In the 'destination window' up on the front of the bus, facing oncoming traffic, we put a sign that read "Heaven" - and we hit the road.
In addition to the expense of transportation, we had salaries, Per Diem, lodging, "incidentals" (i.e. beverages) and the like to deal with. Hotel rooms had to be booked, set orders and lengths had to be determined (and in some cases, negotiated), egos assuaged, etc. the job became more complex by the day. And it all had to be done before we played the first date - and that first date was in Chicago. Lucky for me, I had a well connected friend who eased the process considerably.
That friend, David Calvit, (he of the greens story) owned a company in Minneapolis called Corporate Travel. The company specialized in just that, corporate travel. Blues performers were about as far from his usual clientele as you could get.
Our first date was in Cahn Auditorium at Northwestern University. That's Chicagoland. Trying to find reasonable lodging wasn't just a chore, it was an impossibility. Eight rooms at bargain rates were not to be found. I had resigned myself to the probability of a night in Gary, IN and the resultant hour and a half ride to and from the gig. In a causal conversation with my friend, I mentioned our plight. He listened quietly. "Furry is going to on these dates, right?" he asked. "Of course." The conversation ended.
The next day he called and told me we had the rooms we needed at the Lake Shore Holiday Inn on Lake Shore Drive. From trips to Chicago I knew that this was Holiday Inn's premier property in the city.
"Sounds great...but we can afford the wood." I had visions of $130 plus per night per room (in 1973, a lot of money). I was thinking more like a no-tell in Elgin or maybe the same in Gary.
"Your rate is $35.00 per night." Holyshit.
Arriving at the hotel from Memphis, the night before the show, the marquee facing Lake Shore Drive was ablaze with the words "Welcome, Memphis Blues Caravan." We checked in to find real rock-star service. A complimentary fruit basket (with a hand written note to each artist) was in each room. Furry Lewis had his own room. It was the penthouse suite, complete with panoramic views of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Hit the road...but why?
Why should I do this - why get involved in a task that offered a ton of work with little reward? Was ANYBODY going to get rich behind this? Probably not. My fellows at the agency had a finite amount of time to devote to doing what we did. We booked shows - each one of which would occur once in an eternity and then we had to do it all over again. Booking the Caravan would consume resources...of time, of money and involve an 'education' process to boot. It was much easier to book dates on 'popular' acts, (the forgettable and forgotten Mason Proffit, or Crow, or the nascent John Denver), than on a bunch of geriatric Blues musicians. Returning from Memphis, my first sales job was with the principals of Schon Productions, the agency I worked for. And then, with my fellow agents. We, all of us, worked on commission and the twenty minutes spent on 'selling' a date on, say, Crow, versus the hour or three to do the same for the Caravan, could not be ignored. To his great credit, Rand Levy, the agency principal, 'got it' and gave his okay.
Having secured commitments from the agency and the musicians who would eventually comprise the last, and only, touring ensemble of classic American country Blues, it was my job to get on the phone, start spreading the gospel and excite commercial interest in the entourage.
The first and most logical place to start, I thought, were colleges around the country. The reaction was almost uniformly positive and, God bless them, the offers started trickling in. 'Trickle' being the operative word. Again, (and again) the wisdom of this undertaking came under scrutiny. And I (we) had to closely examine the reasons for doing this. On some strange level, unarticulated in my own thoughts, a firm resolve formed. I thought about what I had seen and heard over my week or so in Memphis. I thought about what I felt as a 9-year-old and as a young man, listening. "We gotta do this..." was all I could muster to rejoin the doubts and concerns expressed by my peers. At that stage of my life I didn't have the inner dialogue, or the experience, necessary to give voice to what I truly felt.
The members of the Caravan lived hard, shitty lives full of poverty, alcohol and violence. They had persevered through crushing disappointment, been fucked over countless times. Where were the royalties? Where were the gigs? Where, oh where, was the fucking money? In the mail? Not hardly.
In the early '60's a number of the members had enjoyed a brief moment of recognition, a bit of money, some notoriety. And then it was back to pushing a broom or moving furniture or driving a truck. When Jagger and Richards first met Muddy Waters, he was standing on a ladder, painting a wall at Chess Records. And he'd had HITS. So why did these guys bother? What made them keep doing this thing so full of promise and disappointment? They had no choice. Like Mr. Hooker said, "It's in 'em and its gotta come out."
As mentioned before in this scrivening, the Blues is as self conscious as a newborn. The root of its power lies in the unintended nature of its artistry. Every member of the Caravan played for themselves, first. The audience was second. The art and magic that came out of them and spilled across the stage was almost accidental. I have a tape of a show where Furry Lewis breaks down on stage (it happened more than once, believe me). He can be heard, clearly sobbing and then speaking to me, after I rushed from the wings. "I done broke down...what should I do?" The moment had gotten the best of him, and of the audience. His were not the only tears shed that night.
Tolstoy said that art is emotion, transferred from one person to another. True art has the added power of accident - or at least lack of premeditation. Furry never intended to be overcome by the emotion fueling his performance. He usually left the stage dry-eyed. But the emotion was always there, it was in him - and it had to come out. Occasionally it got the best of him. Watching a performer who weeps at the same point, in the same song, night after night (Vegas has a couple...) may be affecting. But profoundly moving? NFW.
On some level, back then, I knew I wanted to be in the Profoundly Moving Business. Like our Japanese friend of an earlier post, I wanted audiences to be given the chance to be Very Splendid.
"We gotta do this..."
Powered by a small group of zealous agents at Schon Productions (me, Gary Marx, Sue McLean & Randy Levy), the trickle eventually became a steady stream and the first tour took shape.
Having secured commitments from the agency and the musicians who would eventually comprise the last, and only, touring ensemble of classic American country Blues, it was my job to get on the phone, start spreading the gospel and excite commercial interest in the entourage.
The first and most logical place to start, I thought, were colleges around the country. The reaction was almost uniformly positive and, God bless them, the offers started trickling in. 'Trickle' being the operative word. Again, (and again) the wisdom of this undertaking came under scrutiny. And I (we) had to closely examine the reasons for doing this. On some strange level, unarticulated in my own thoughts, a firm resolve formed. I thought about what I had seen and heard over my week or so in Memphis. I thought about what I felt as a 9-year-old and as a young man, listening. "We gotta do this..." was all I could muster to rejoin the doubts and concerns expressed by my peers. At that stage of my life I didn't have the inner dialogue, or the experience, necessary to give voice to what I truly felt.
The members of the Caravan lived hard, shitty lives full of poverty, alcohol and violence. They had persevered through crushing disappointment, been fucked over countless times. Where were the royalties? Where were the gigs? Where, oh where, was the fucking money? In the mail? Not hardly.
In the early '60's a number of the members had enjoyed a brief moment of recognition, a bit of money, some notoriety. And then it was back to pushing a broom or moving furniture or driving a truck. When Jagger and Richards first met Muddy Waters, he was standing on a ladder, painting a wall at Chess Records. And he'd had HITS. So why did these guys bother? What made them keep doing this thing so full of promise and disappointment? They had no choice. Like Mr. Hooker said, "It's in 'em and its gotta come out."
As mentioned before in this scrivening, the Blues is as self conscious as a newborn. The root of its power lies in the unintended nature of its artistry. Every member of the Caravan played for themselves, first. The audience was second. The art and magic that came out of them and spilled across the stage was almost accidental. I have a tape of a show where Furry Lewis breaks down on stage (it happened more than once, believe me). He can be heard, clearly sobbing and then speaking to me, after I rushed from the wings. "I done broke down...what should I do?" The moment had gotten the best of him, and of the audience. His were not the only tears shed that night.
Tolstoy said that art is emotion, transferred from one person to another. True art has the added power of accident - or at least lack of premeditation. Furry never intended to be overcome by the emotion fueling his performance. He usually left the stage dry-eyed. But the emotion was always there, it was in him - and it had to come out. Occasionally it got the best of him. Watching a performer who weeps at the same point, in the same song, night after night (Vegas has a couple...) may be affecting. But profoundly moving? NFW.
On some level, back then, I knew I wanted to be in the Profoundly Moving Business. Like our Japanese friend of an earlier post, I wanted audiences to be given the chance to be Very Splendid.
"We gotta do this..."
Powered by a small group of zealous agents at Schon Productions (me, Gary Marx, Sue McLean & Randy Levy), the trickle eventually became a steady stream and the first tour took shape.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Bukka White - and the National Steel. The 'last' Samurai
Booker T. Washington "Bukka" White was born in Cleveland, MS in 1905 - or in Aberdeen, MS, or...? No one seems too sure. But it's a minor matter. What's important is what he gave the world after those humble beginnings, where ever they may have been.
Bukka's 'instrument of choice' was the National Steel Resonator Guitar, manufactured in quantity in the '20's, 30's and '40's (and, to a lesser extent, to this day) and could be had from the Sears Roebuck Catalog for about $4.50, back in the day. Favored for its volume in the days before electrical pickups, the National could easily be heard above the din of a juke joint or picnic.
I first met Bukka White in 1972. "Bukka? He's not here, He's at his office..." His wife directed me to Leath St. a few blocks away. There, in the shade, against the brick wall that was one side of the Triune Sundry store, I found Bukka. He was sitting on a plastic chair. Next to him was a wood crate that held a cooling quart of beer. Scattered about sat three or four admirers. Bukka was holding court. I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit, to put together a group of Memphis Blues musicians to tour the country. Bukka was cool to the idea and visibly skeptical of just who the hell I was. Some white boy with a Bright Idea. He'd heard a few of those before. "If the money's right - and I get it in front - maybe so..." That was extent of his commitment to the project.
"Okay, good enough for me. Let's see what we can do." We shook hands.
In the late '30's Bukka had done time at the notorious Parchman Farm Prison, a/k/a The Mississippi State Penitentiary. His daughter, Irene Kertchaval, told me the story. She said he won money in a crap game. The man he won it from refused to pay. Words were exchanged, the man reached down, Bukka pulled out a gun and killed him. Next stop, Parchman farm.
Parchman was less about punishment (and even less about rehabilitation) than it was about business. The ribbon-wire-enclosed 'camps' - as they were called - housed a tightly segregated population and sat amidst some 20,000 acres of cotton fields. These fields were worked by the general population and produced millions in state revenues. Established in the late a 1800's, by 1914, Parchman was single biggest business in the state of Mississippi. It was still big business some 20+ years later when Bukka arrived to serve his time for manslaughter. His crime, being a black-on-black violation, did not draw a heavy sentence and, with the help of his guitar and talent, he was paroled after serving four years.
The racial element of justice, as dispensed in pre-mid-century America, was illustrated in high relief by an incident related to me by my friend, David Calvit. He grew up in Louisiana during the period. In 1949, as a teenager, David was summoned to court for a traffic violation. Waiting to be called, he sat watching the judge deal with the docket. A case involving the knifing of one black man by another was called and the victim took the stand. "How long was the blade on the knife that the defendant used to stab you?" the judge asked. "Uh, 'bout five inches, Your Honor." The judge continued, "And how far into you did he stab that blade?" The victim looked at the judge, " Uh, 'bout four inches, I reckon."
The judge banged his gavel. "Twenty dollar fine. Five dollars per inch. Next case."
Black or white, in those days the distance between 'justice' and 'equity' grew, it seemed, apace with latitude. Vernon Presley, father of Elvis, also served time at Parchman and may well have been there at the same time as Bukka. Their paths probably never crossed due the 'separate but equal' nature of their surroundings. Vernon got two years for "uttering a false instrument" - he altered the "$2.00" to "$3.00" on a check given him in payment for a pig. The issuer of the check was a local (Tupelo, MS) big shot who sought to make an example of this dishonest 'cracker'.
My relationship with Bukka was slow to develop but eventually grew into a friendship. Early on, he displayed himself to be a man of his word. And he expected the same in return. He never had to be reminded what time the bus was leaving, when he had to be on stage or how long a set we needed. If we had a 5:00 AM departure for the next gig, he was the first man aboard.
Bukka and BB King were first cousins. In 1975 I helped organize a concert at Western Illinois University in Macomb, IL. The show consisted of Bukka White, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters and BB King (whew!!). Either Willie or Muddy (I don't remember which) had played Detroit the night before and had stopped in Chicago at 5:00 AM to pick up master harp player Carry Bell, just to add a little 'weight' to his set. I have never seen musicians so psyched to play a gig as these guys were when they showed up. Bob Margolin, Muddy's guitar player for almost a decade, remembers it to this day - ask him, he's on Facebook, that playground of the middle aged (I'm there, too...) or his website, bobmargolin.com.
Bukka opened the show, followed by Willie, then Muddy and BB closed. The show started at 8:00 and BB finally came down from the stage at 1:00 AM. There were some 3,500 people in the audience, and NO ONE LEFT. At the close of the show, BB called Bukka up to acknowledge him. Bukka grabbed the mic and began to talk. He reminded BB of his first guitar, a Stella, given him by Bukka.
"You remember, B, you was so little, next to that big red Stella." There was absolute silence. BB was looking at the tops of his shoes. His eyes were filling. He looked, for all the world, like a nine- year-old boy, standing on that stage. "Yeah...I sure do remember." he finally said, and threw his arms around Bukka. The audience erupted.
With the addition of Bukka White, the core group that comprised the Memphis Blues Caravan came to be. Others would rotate through, some on a regular basis, some but once. They would include the likes of Memphis Ma Rainey, Mose Vinson, Madame Van Hunt, Sam Chatmon, and others. We'll be dealing with each, at various times, as the story continues.
[Below is Bukka's "Fast Streamline" - background music for a wonderful short by someone named Shukowinz.]
Bukka's 'instrument of choice' was the National Steel Resonator Guitar, manufactured in quantity in the '20's, 30's and '40's (and, to a lesser extent, to this day) and could be had from the Sears Roebuck Catalog for about $4.50, back in the day. Favored for its volume in the days before electrical pickups, the National could easily be heard above the din of a juke joint or picnic.
I first met Bukka White in 1972. "Bukka? He's not here, He's at his office..." His wife directed me to Leath St. a few blocks away. There, in the shade, against the brick wall that was one side of the Triune Sundry store, I found Bukka. He was sitting on a plastic chair. Next to him was a wood crate that held a cooling quart of beer. Scattered about sat three or four admirers. Bukka was holding court. I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit, to put together a group of Memphis Blues musicians to tour the country. Bukka was cool to the idea and visibly skeptical of just who the hell I was. Some white boy with a Bright Idea. He'd heard a few of those before. "If the money's right - and I get it in front - maybe so..." That was extent of his commitment to the project.
"Okay, good enough for me. Let's see what we can do." We shook hands.
In the late '30's Bukka had done time at the notorious Parchman Farm Prison, a/k/a The Mississippi State Penitentiary. His daughter, Irene Kertchaval, told me the story. She said he won money in a crap game. The man he won it from refused to pay. Words were exchanged, the man reached down, Bukka pulled out a gun and killed him. Next stop, Parchman farm.
Parchman was less about punishment (and even less about rehabilitation) than it was about business. The ribbon-wire-enclosed 'camps' - as they were called - housed a tightly segregated population and sat amidst some 20,000 acres of cotton fields. These fields were worked by the general population and produced millions in state revenues. Established in the late a 1800's, by 1914, Parchman was single biggest business in the state of Mississippi. It was still big business some 20+ years later when Bukka arrived to serve his time for manslaughter. His crime, being a black-on-black violation, did not draw a heavy sentence and, with the help of his guitar and talent, he was paroled after serving four years.
The racial element of justice, as dispensed in pre-mid-century America, was illustrated in high relief by an incident related to me by my friend, David Calvit. He grew up in Louisiana during the period. In 1949, as a teenager, David was summoned to court for a traffic violation. Waiting to be called, he sat watching the judge deal with the docket. A case involving the knifing of one black man by another was called and the victim took the stand. "How long was the blade on the knife that the defendant used to stab you?" the judge asked. "Uh, 'bout five inches, Your Honor." The judge continued, "And how far into you did he stab that blade?" The victim looked at the judge, " Uh, 'bout four inches, I reckon."
The judge banged his gavel. "Twenty dollar fine. Five dollars per inch. Next case."
Black or white, in those days the distance between 'justice' and 'equity' grew, it seemed, apace with latitude. Vernon Presley, father of Elvis, also served time at Parchman and may well have been there at the same time as Bukka. Their paths probably never crossed due the 'separate but equal' nature of their surroundings. Vernon got two years for "uttering a false instrument" - he altered the "$2.00" to "$3.00" on a check given him in payment for a pig. The issuer of the check was a local (Tupelo, MS) big shot who sought to make an example of this dishonest 'cracker'.
My relationship with Bukka was slow to develop but eventually grew into a friendship. Early on, he displayed himself to be a man of his word. And he expected the same in return. He never had to be reminded what time the bus was leaving, when he had to be on stage or how long a set we needed. If we had a 5:00 AM departure for the next gig, he was the first man aboard.
Bukka and BB King were first cousins. In 1975 I helped organize a concert at Western Illinois University in Macomb, IL. The show consisted of Bukka White, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters and BB King (whew!!). Either Willie or Muddy (I don't remember which) had played Detroit the night before and had stopped in Chicago at 5:00 AM to pick up master harp player Carry Bell, just to add a little 'weight' to his set. I have never seen musicians so psyched to play a gig as these guys were when they showed up. Bob Margolin, Muddy's guitar player for almost a decade, remembers it to this day - ask him, he's on Facebook, that playground of the middle aged (I'm there, too...) or his website, bobmargolin.com.
Bukka opened the show, followed by Willie, then Muddy and BB closed. The show started at 8:00 and BB finally came down from the stage at 1:00 AM. There were some 3,500 people in the audience, and NO ONE LEFT. At the close of the show, BB called Bukka up to acknowledge him. Bukka grabbed the mic and began to talk. He reminded BB of his first guitar, a Stella, given him by Bukka.
"You remember, B, you was so little, next to that big red Stella." There was absolute silence. BB was looking at the tops of his shoes. His eyes were filling. He looked, for all the world, like a nine- year-old boy, standing on that stage. "Yeah...I sure do remember." he finally said, and threw his arms around Bukka. The audience erupted.
With the addition of Bukka White, the core group that comprised the Memphis Blues Caravan came to be. Others would rotate through, some on a regular basis, some but once. They would include the likes of Memphis Ma Rainey, Mose Vinson, Madame Van Hunt, Sam Chatmon, and others. We'll be dealing with each, at various times, as the story continues.
[Below is Bukka's "Fast Streamline" - background music for a wonderful short by someone named Shukowinz.]
Gathering the Samurai...Sleepy John & Hammy
Brownsville, TN lies east of Memphis, just off Interstate 40 - The Music Highway. In 1999, (holyshit...a decade ago??) I took the exit to Brownsville on my way back to Nashville from Memphis. I was looking for a right-hand road.
It had been almost 20 years since I had seen Hammy Nixon, more than two decades since I'd seen Sleepy John Estes. By that time ('99) they were both long gone. I last encountered Hammy on Sept. 17, 1981 when, as a pall bearer, I sat next to him at the funeral of Furry Lewis. Rufus Thomas sat on the other side of me. An Oreo Sandwich, book-ended by musical greatness. Knox Phillips (Sam's son) was in the audience, Jim Dickinson may have been there as well. Sid Selvidge and Lee Baker, torch bearers and Memphis musical luminaries, sat behind us. Hammy spoke, as did Rufus and others. I did not. Cowed by the august company and fearful of uncontrolled sobbing, I sat mute. One of my biggest regrets. But that's a story for later.
John and Hammy lived near each other in Brownsville. Squalor doesn't come close to describing their situation. Steve Tomashefsky of Delmark Records attended John's funeral in 1977 and described to me what he saw. Run-down, falling to bits, disheveled, were just some of the words I heard from him. Children with lineages of questionable origin ran about. It was said that Hammy's wife may have been John daughter, or vice-versa, or not. Who knew. But above all of this poverty and squalor rose the poetry of John's lyrics and the power of Hammy's harmonica.
The two partners had performed all over the world. They were the only members of the Caravan whom I sent to the Molde Jazz Festival who went directly to Norway, without having to stop in Washington, DC to undergo the "passport routine" (a routine I'll describe in detail in a later post). John continued to compose and recorded for Delmark Records until very late in his life. His works, most recorded for various "race" labels from 1929 to the early 40's, were covered by many popular performers. These ranged from various flamboyant American and British rock stars to the careful and poignant Ry Cooder.
John lost his sight in the 50's and depended on Hammy to shepherd him about. His disability further deepened the bond between them and Hammy was always attentive to John's needs. John suffered from a blood pressure disorder which caused him to nod off on occasion. The moniker 'Sleepy' was given him in the 40's and it stuck for life. Hammy never used the nick name and always referred to him simply as John (I can hear him say it as I write this...).
John was fascinating to talk to. His conversation bespoke his poetic bent and made it a joy to listen. I remember sitting with him on the tour bus shortly after he and Hammy had returned from a series of overseas concerts. How was it, John? "I traveled and rambled far from home. Met peoples speaking a language I have never known." John's poetic style of speech was such that, when he spoke, all the other Caravan members listened. He was treated with a reverence and respect unique among members of the group. Hammy, on the other hand, was more "one of the boys." No one ever thought twice about giving him a verbal jab and he endured it all with constant good humor.
Hammy was a large man, ample around the middle. He loved to eat. Anything left on a plate after lunch was fair game to Hammy. Backstage, he hoovered the cold cuts and fried chicken. He also suffered form considerable flatulence (yeah, well I'm terribly sorry - you'll get past it...). He had 'required seating' near the front of the bus and more than once during a tour, a groan would go up from someone followed by a "Jesus, Hammy!" The front door of the the bus was flung open as we sailed down the highway at 65 mph. Never seemed to bother John, though - a fact that further strengthened the bond between them...at least, I'm sure, from Hammy's perspective.
The road, to John and Hammy, as for many of the Caravan members, must have seemed like a Five Star vacation. Not only was there the adulation and attention, expenses were covered, there was a copious amount of liquor (not something that either John or Hammy particularly indulged in) and clean sheets and plumbing that always worked. Off the road, things were a bit different. John's Delmark Records obituary noted, "However, like many artists, he had distinct public and private selves, and the poverty and frustration in his home life have spelled out a great American tragedy." None of this want, however, marred John's persona or performance. Articulate and witty, when 'the dozens' were played on the bus, and the ball tossed to John, hoots and hollers went up, "...Whatcha gonna say to that, John!!" Everyone hung on his response and whistled and clapped as the line hit home.
[Below are John and Hammy performing Corrina Corrina in Japan in 1976, the year before John's passing. Hammy is playing harmonica and kazoo (!).]
It had been almost 20 years since I had seen Hammy Nixon, more than two decades since I'd seen Sleepy John Estes. By that time ('99) they were both long gone. I last encountered Hammy on Sept. 17, 1981 when, as a pall bearer, I sat next to him at the funeral of Furry Lewis. Rufus Thomas sat on the other side of me. An Oreo Sandwich, book-ended by musical greatness. Knox Phillips (Sam's son) was in the audience, Jim Dickinson may have been there as well. Sid Selvidge and Lee Baker, torch bearers and Memphis musical luminaries, sat behind us. Hammy spoke, as did Rufus and others. I did not. Cowed by the august company and fearful of uncontrolled sobbing, I sat mute. One of my biggest regrets. But that's a story for later.
John and Hammy lived near each other in Brownsville. Squalor doesn't come close to describing their situation. Steve Tomashefsky of Delmark Records attended John's funeral in 1977 and described to me what he saw. Run-down, falling to bits, disheveled, were just some of the words I heard from him. Children with lineages of questionable origin ran about. It was said that Hammy's wife may have been John daughter, or vice-versa, or not. Who knew. But above all of this poverty and squalor rose the poetry of John's lyrics and the power of Hammy's harmonica.
The two partners had performed all over the world. They were the only members of the Caravan whom I sent to the Molde Jazz Festival who went directly to Norway, without having to stop in Washington, DC to undergo the "passport routine" (a routine I'll describe in detail in a later post). John continued to compose and recorded for Delmark Records until very late in his life. His works, most recorded for various "race" labels from 1929 to the early 40's, were covered by many popular performers. These ranged from various flamboyant American and British rock stars to the careful and poignant Ry Cooder.
John lost his sight in the 50's and depended on Hammy to shepherd him about. His disability further deepened the bond between them and Hammy was always attentive to John's needs. John suffered from a blood pressure disorder which caused him to nod off on occasion. The moniker 'Sleepy' was given him in the 40's and it stuck for life. Hammy never used the nick name and always referred to him simply as John (I can hear him say it as I write this...).
John was fascinating to talk to. His conversation bespoke his poetic bent and made it a joy to listen. I remember sitting with him on the tour bus shortly after he and Hammy had returned from a series of overseas concerts. How was it, John? "I traveled and rambled far from home. Met peoples speaking a language I have never known." John's poetic style of speech was such that, when he spoke, all the other Caravan members listened. He was treated with a reverence and respect unique among members of the group. Hammy, on the other hand, was more "one of the boys." No one ever thought twice about giving him a verbal jab and he endured it all with constant good humor.
Hammy was a large man, ample around the middle. He loved to eat. Anything left on a plate after lunch was fair game to Hammy. Backstage, he hoovered the cold cuts and fried chicken. He also suffered form considerable flatulence (yeah, well I'm terribly sorry - you'll get past it...). He had 'required seating' near the front of the bus and more than once during a tour, a groan would go up from someone followed by a "Jesus, Hammy!" The front door of the the bus was flung open as we sailed down the highway at 65 mph. Never seemed to bother John, though - a fact that further strengthened the bond between them...at least, I'm sure, from Hammy's perspective.
The road, to John and Hammy, as for many of the Caravan members, must have seemed like a Five Star vacation. Not only was there the adulation and attention, expenses were covered, there was a copious amount of liquor (not something that either John or Hammy particularly indulged in) and clean sheets and plumbing that always worked. Off the road, things were a bit different. John's Delmark Records obituary noted, "However, like many artists, he had distinct public and private selves, and the poverty and frustration in his home life have spelled out a great American tragedy." None of this want, however, marred John's persona or performance. Articulate and witty, when 'the dozens' were played on the bus, and the ball tossed to John, hoots and hollers went up, "...Whatcha gonna say to that, John!!" Everyone hung on his response and whistled and clapped as the line hit home.
[Below are John and Hammy performing Corrina Corrina in Japan in 1976, the year before John's passing. Hammy is playing harmonica and kazoo (!).]
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
More about Furry's greens - I'm with the band...
Mr. Biggs towered over the trio in front of the stack of greens at the south side Red Owl supermarket. "Can I help you with anything?" Furry Lewis, my friend David Calvit, and I all turned to behold the enormous store manager.
"Yeah - you got any decent greens?" said Furry, bluntly. In replying, Mr. Biggs (I'm sure) thought, for one fleeting moment, that he was addressing his grandfather or perhaps an aged uncle. "Certainly, sir. Let me see what we have in the back." Moments later a large, flat cart appeared, pushed by Mr. Biggs. Piled on top were fresh, crisp greens, perhaps a bushel. Furry smiled. David and I smiled. Mr. Biggs smiled.
Examining the pile with a practiced eye, Furry made his selection and handed Mr. Biggs the three bunches of greens he had chosen. Biggs asked if there was anything else we needed. "Fatback" said Furry, "about yea..." holding up his hands to indicate size. "Of course" said Biggs. He placed the greens in a shopping cart and disappeared. We were about to make our way over to the meat counter when Biggs re-appeared. He held up two pieces of fatback, each freshly wrapped in plastic. "Like this?" he asked. Furry nodded, choosing the large of the two. Again, everybody smiled, especially the white guys and Mr. Biggs. "Corn bread" said Furry. David and I looked at each other. "Over here" said Biggs, taking Furry's arm. We followed the mountain that was Biggs and Furry in his tan fedora to the dry mix shelf. Biggs made a suggestion, "Try this..." he said to Furry, it being obvious who was involved in the decision process.
Mr. Biggs escorted us to the cashier, pushing the shopping cart carrying the greens, fatback and corn meal with one hand, the other on Furry's elbow . There was a line five deep at the only checkout lane open. Biggs walked to an empty lane, placed the items on the counter and called over his shoulder. "Jenny, can you come here a minute please?" A woman sitting in an open, elevated "office" in the corner of the store stopped what she was doing and quickly descended to the checkout area. "Can you help his gentleman?" he said, nodding to Furry.
"Of course, Mr. Biggs...."
Furry looked at Biggs, "What's you're name, boy?" I think I physically jumped at those words, as if I heard a gun shot. The idea of calling anyone of color "boy" was so foreign to my Northern ears, especially someone who looked like Mr. Biggs, that it physically startled me. David didn't blink. I quickly realized that, at age 80-something (so he claimed...), EVERYBODY was a boy to Furry, and - he was a black guy from Memphis. Not an uptight Yankee who had lived his whole white life eating white food, going to white church, white school and hanging out with his white friends. If Furry were to have spoken in 21st Century vernacular he would have said, "chill, asshole..." to my reaction.
With his cataracts and coke-bottle glasses, Furry couldn't see the name tag. "I'm Vernon," said Biggs, extending his hand. "Pleased to meet you," Furry allowed. "My pleasure" said Mr. Biggs, "y'all come back any time..."
In the music business there is a line that, when spoken with some authority, facilitates access at a show. It's a simple and declarative statement, "I'm with the band..." Leaving the Red Owl (forever known as 'Furry's Red Owl' by me and David) I felt that I truly was that...but better and more special. I was with Furry Lewis.
At 5:10 the next morning, I awoke to hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen downstairs. My wife, Dianne, gave me an "is this necessary" look. I said nothing. Closing my eyes, I went back to sleep. When I opened them again it was 7:35 and the ambrosial aroma coming from the kitchen was as wonderful as it was unusual.
Walking into the kitchen, I found Furry bustling around, wearing one of my wife's aprons. "You May Kiss The Cook" in large, red letters was the legend on the front. I said not a word. "Ain't gonna be no grits in them greens. I washed 'em in twelve waters. Yes sir, a right-smart a waters..."
Later it would be explained to me that greens had to be thoroughly rinsed (in a 'right-smart' - a lot - of 'waters') to wash away the fine sand endemic to such as leeks, greens and the like. And indeed there were no grits in them greens. They were delicious. Spiced with cayenne, properly greasy from the fatback ("if you don't use nothin' but natural lean - you can't cook no good greasy greens" as the tune goes), they were a hit. The cornbread was perfect. And David Calvit brought a gumbo, made from an old family recipe. A true feast.
[Note to readers - if there is interest in the recipe for the greens and/or the gumbo, hit the Comment button and let me know. I'll append it in the next post...complete with metric conversion for y'all in So. America and Europe. AB]
"Yeah - you got any decent greens?" said Furry, bluntly. In replying, Mr. Biggs (I'm sure) thought, for one fleeting moment, that he was addressing his grandfather or perhaps an aged uncle. "Certainly, sir. Let me see what we have in the back." Moments later a large, flat cart appeared, pushed by Mr. Biggs. Piled on top were fresh, crisp greens, perhaps a bushel. Furry smiled. David and I smiled. Mr. Biggs smiled.
Examining the pile with a practiced eye, Furry made his selection and handed Mr. Biggs the three bunches of greens he had chosen. Biggs asked if there was anything else we needed. "Fatback" said Furry, "about yea..." holding up his hands to indicate size. "Of course" said Biggs. He placed the greens in a shopping cart and disappeared. We were about to make our way over to the meat counter when Biggs re-appeared. He held up two pieces of fatback, each freshly wrapped in plastic. "Like this?" he asked. Furry nodded, choosing the large of the two. Again, everybody smiled, especially the white guys and Mr. Biggs. "Corn bread" said Furry. David and I looked at each other. "Over here" said Biggs, taking Furry's arm. We followed the mountain that was Biggs and Furry in his tan fedora to the dry mix shelf. Biggs made a suggestion, "Try this..." he said to Furry, it being obvious who was involved in the decision process.
Mr. Biggs escorted us to the cashier, pushing the shopping cart carrying the greens, fatback and corn meal with one hand, the other on Furry's elbow . There was a line five deep at the only checkout lane open. Biggs walked to an empty lane, placed the items on the counter and called over his shoulder. "Jenny, can you come here a minute please?" A woman sitting in an open, elevated "office" in the corner of the store stopped what she was doing and quickly descended to the checkout area. "Can you help his gentleman?" he said, nodding to Furry.
"Of course, Mr. Biggs...."
Furry looked at Biggs, "What's you're name, boy?" I think I physically jumped at those words, as if I heard a gun shot. The idea of calling anyone of color "boy" was so foreign to my Northern ears, especially someone who looked like Mr. Biggs, that it physically startled me. David didn't blink. I quickly realized that, at age 80-something (so he claimed...), EVERYBODY was a boy to Furry, and - he was a black guy from Memphis. Not an uptight Yankee who had lived his whole white life eating white food, going to white church, white school and hanging out with his white friends. If Furry were to have spoken in 21st Century vernacular he would have said, "chill, asshole..." to my reaction.
With his cataracts and coke-bottle glasses, Furry couldn't see the name tag. "I'm Vernon," said Biggs, extending his hand. "Pleased to meet you," Furry allowed. "My pleasure" said Mr. Biggs, "y'all come back any time..."
In the music business there is a line that, when spoken with some authority, facilitates access at a show. It's a simple and declarative statement, "I'm with the band..." Leaving the Red Owl (forever known as 'Furry's Red Owl' by me and David) I felt that I truly was that...but better and more special. I was with Furry Lewis.
At 5:10 the next morning, I awoke to hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen downstairs. My wife, Dianne, gave me an "is this necessary" look. I said nothing. Closing my eyes, I went back to sleep. When I opened them again it was 7:35 and the ambrosial aroma coming from the kitchen was as wonderful as it was unusual.
Walking into the kitchen, I found Furry bustling around, wearing one of my wife's aprons. "You May Kiss The Cook" in large, red letters was the legend on the front. I said not a word. "Ain't gonna be no grits in them greens. I washed 'em in twelve waters. Yes sir, a right-smart a waters..."
Later it would be explained to me that greens had to be thoroughly rinsed (in a 'right-smart' - a lot - of 'waters') to wash away the fine sand endemic to such as leeks, greens and the like. And indeed there were no grits in them greens. They were delicious. Spiced with cayenne, properly greasy from the fatback ("if you don't use nothin' but natural lean - you can't cook no good greasy greens" as the tune goes), they were a hit. The cornbread was perfect. And David Calvit brought a gumbo, made from an old family recipe. A true feast.
[Note to readers - if there is interest in the recipe for the greens and/or the gumbo, hit the Comment button and let me know. I'll append it in the next post...complete with metric conversion for y'all in So. America and Europe. AB]
Monday, September 21, 2009
Cookin'...Furry's greens...
We'll get back to the 'Samurai search' but first, a few thoughts on food.
From Stackhouse's catfish to Red's barbecue, the members of the Caravan were, in their own way, gastronomes. Way before The Food Channel, Top Chief and all the other nitwit foodie propaganda, Southern cooking had long reined as a unique American cuisine. On the road, as often as not, conversation would turn to food and reminiscences of great meals. Tasty barbecue, catfish, chicken, and arcane treats like opossum, squirrel and rabbit. Each member it seemed, had a double, secret life as a chef/cook and would regale his fellows with tidbits and secrets which, when applied to a particular dish, would result in absolute perfection. Stack's catfish sauce not withstanding, Furry Lewis was also accomplished in the kitchen and on one early fall day shared two of his specialties, greens and corn bread, with me and some friends.
In 1977, during one of his many stays at my house, Furry offered to cook. The offer was prompted by a discussion of Southern recipes he had with my friend (and his) David Calvit. David was from Alexandria, LA and brought to his marriage to a Minnesota native an array of old family recipes. His wife, Gretchen, in turn brought her own considerable culinary skills to bear on the information with the result that a small, select group of us Yankees were able to sample authentic Louisiana Creole and Cajun dishes (pre-Paul Prudhomm and all that "blackened" crap) and other Southern specialities as few could at that time and place.
The discussion David and Furry shared centered around greens and their proper preparation. It was more than a discussion. I recall some disagreement between the parties concerning some rather (to my ears) arcane and subtle variations in preparation. The exchange culminated in Furry volunteering to "show us" what properly prepared greens should look and taste like. David and I were dispatched to find ingredients.
Finding greens in Minneapolis was no easy chore for a couple of white guys. Our search eventually led us to a south side Red Owl supermarket. Entering, we were greeted with an array of goods not found at Lund's, the Minneapolis middle-class food emporium we were used to. After making our way to the vegetable counter, David sorted through Collard greens and, after close examination, selected three bundles. Next, we moved to meat section and found a piece of fat-back (salt pork), as instructed. We made our purchases and returned to my house.
Furry examined the goods. The fat-back was judged too small. The greens were another story. "This is the best they had?" - the irritation showing in his voice. An artist about to create a masterpiece as important as proper greens did not want to be hampered (or sabotaged) by inferior ingredients. "That's the best they had..." David said, a bit defensively. Furry was far from pleased. "Where'd you get these?" he asked. David and I looked at each other. "A store - about three miles from here." Furry eyed us both. "Where's my hat?"
The three of us drove to the Red Owl.
We entered the store, led by Furry wearing his tan fedora and dark pinstripe suit. He had a cane in his right hand and walked with a slow, measured step. Conversation at the cash register stopped as we made our way past it, heading for the vegetables. Surveying the greens, Furry shook his head. Suddenly, a voice behind us said, "May I help you, sir?" Turning, we regarded Vernon Biggs, Store Manager (as his name tag stated). Vernon was about the size of a black Buick with a voice that commanded awed attention. He spoke directly to Furry, well aware of who in the trio was in charge. What followed was an experience I never forgot.
From Stackhouse's catfish to Red's barbecue, the members of the Caravan were, in their own way, gastronomes. Way before The Food Channel, Top Chief and all the other nitwit foodie propaganda, Southern cooking had long reined as a unique American cuisine. On the road, as often as not, conversation would turn to food and reminiscences of great meals. Tasty barbecue, catfish, chicken, and arcane treats like opossum, squirrel and rabbit. Each member it seemed, had a double, secret life as a chef/cook and would regale his fellows with tidbits and secrets which, when applied to a particular dish, would result in absolute perfection. Stack's catfish sauce not withstanding, Furry Lewis was also accomplished in the kitchen and on one early fall day shared two of his specialties, greens and corn bread, with me and some friends.
In 1977, during one of his many stays at my house, Furry offered to cook. The offer was prompted by a discussion of Southern recipes he had with my friend (and his) David Calvit. David was from Alexandria, LA and brought to his marriage to a Minnesota native an array of old family recipes. His wife, Gretchen, in turn brought her own considerable culinary skills to bear on the information with the result that a small, select group of us Yankees were able to sample authentic Louisiana Creole and Cajun dishes (pre-Paul Prudhomm and all that "blackened" crap) and other Southern specialities as few could at that time and place.
The discussion David and Furry shared centered around greens and their proper preparation. It was more than a discussion. I recall some disagreement between the parties concerning some rather (to my ears) arcane and subtle variations in preparation. The exchange culminated in Furry volunteering to "show us" what properly prepared greens should look and taste like. David and I were dispatched to find ingredients.
Finding greens in Minneapolis was no easy chore for a couple of white guys. Our search eventually led us to a south side Red Owl supermarket. Entering, we were greeted with an array of goods not found at Lund's, the Minneapolis middle-class food emporium we were used to. After making our way to the vegetable counter, David sorted through Collard greens and, after close examination, selected three bundles. Next, we moved to meat section and found a piece of fat-back (salt pork), as instructed. We made our purchases and returned to my house.
Furry examined the goods. The fat-back was judged too small. The greens were another story. "This is the best they had?" - the irritation showing in his voice. An artist about to create a masterpiece as important as proper greens did not want to be hampered (or sabotaged) by inferior ingredients. "That's the best they had..." David said, a bit defensively. Furry was far from pleased. "Where'd you get these?" he asked. David and I looked at each other. "A store - about three miles from here." Furry eyed us both. "Where's my hat?"
The three of us drove to the Red Owl.
We entered the store, led by Furry wearing his tan fedora and dark pinstripe suit. He had a cane in his right hand and walked with a slow, measured step. Conversation at the cash register stopped as we made our way past it, heading for the vegetables. Surveying the greens, Furry shook his head. Suddenly, a voice behind us said, "May I help you, sir?" Turning, we regarded Vernon Biggs, Store Manager (as his name tag stated). Vernon was about the size of a black Buick with a voice that commanded awed attention. He spoke directly to Furry, well aware of who in the trio was in charge. What followed was an experience I never forgot.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Gathering the Samurai - Joe Willie Wikins & Houston Stackhouse
Joe Willie and Stack were lifelong friends and had deservedly substantial reputations gained as the guitar players and vocalists in (Rice Miller) Sonny Boy Williamson's King Biscuit Band. As such, they were featured performers on the seminal King Biscuit Flour radio program broadcast on station KFFA from Helena, AR in the forties. The first electric guitar Muddy Waters ever heard was played by Joe Willie and/or Stack.
When I met them they were living in a house on Carpenter Street along with Joe Willie's wife, Carrie. The house was small and cluttered, but tidy. A record player stood next to the front wall and as I entered, "Smokestack Lightning" was coming from the small speaker in the front of the machine. "Howlin' Woof", as Carrie Wilkins pronounced it, provided background music that afternoon. Aside from the sparse furnishing, boxes of unknown contents and the old record player, on one wall hung the three pictures I had come to expect seeing in any home I visited in Black Memphis - FDR, JFK and MLK.
The day I arrived, Stack was in the backyard tending to a barbecue. He was cooking catfish. He had made a batter (the recipe for which he would not divulge, even to Carrie), dipping each fillet before placing it on the grill. Once the batter was browned, the fish was basted with a sauce (equally secret) and cooked a bit longer. I have eaten catfish at Gallitoirs in New Orleans, at the First-And-Last-Chance Cafe in Donaldsonville, LA and at Positanno in New York City. Nothing comes close to the magic wrought by Houston Stackhouse.
I had seen a picture of Joe Willie and Stack, taken in the 40's at KFFA. The picture, a famous shot in Blues circles, shows Sonny Boy Williamson blowing harp, down center sits the drummer (the late Sam Carr) with "King Biscuit Boys" hand painted on the kick drum head and a very young Joe Willie Wilkins and Houston Stackhouse, standing center right, holding their guitars. As one can see from the picture, the young Joe Willie was a strikingly handsome man.
Years later, on the road with Joe Willie and the Caravan, the subject of the picture came up. Teasing Joe Willie, I remarked that he used to be a good looking guy - and asked him what happened. Joe smiled. Carrie, sitting across the room, shouted, "Good looking!? Shit, let me tell ya - I had'a pull women two-at-a-time off that motherfucker!"
Joe Willie continued to smile.
[Below is a video of Joe Willie Wilkins and Houston Stackhouse, with Stack doing the vocals.]
When I met them they were living in a house on Carpenter Street along with Joe Willie's wife, Carrie. The house was small and cluttered, but tidy. A record player stood next to the front wall and as I entered, "Smokestack Lightning" was coming from the small speaker in the front of the machine. "Howlin' Woof", as Carrie Wilkins pronounced it, provided background music that afternoon. Aside from the sparse furnishing, boxes of unknown contents and the old record player, on one wall hung the three pictures I had come to expect seeing in any home I visited in Black Memphis - FDR, JFK and MLK.
The day I arrived, Stack was in the backyard tending to a barbecue. He was cooking catfish. He had made a batter (the recipe for which he would not divulge, even to Carrie), dipping each fillet before placing it on the grill. Once the batter was browned, the fish was basted with a sauce (equally secret) and cooked a bit longer. I have eaten catfish at Gallitoirs in New Orleans, at the First-And-Last-Chance Cafe in Donaldsonville, LA and at Positanno in New York City. Nothing comes close to the magic wrought by Houston Stackhouse.
I had seen a picture of Joe Willie and Stack, taken in the 40's at KFFA. The picture, a famous shot in Blues circles, shows Sonny Boy Williamson blowing harp, down center sits the drummer (the late Sam Carr) with "King Biscuit Boys" hand painted on the kick drum head and a very young Joe Willie Wilkins and Houston Stackhouse, standing center right, holding their guitars. As one can see from the picture, the young Joe Willie was a strikingly handsome man.
Years later, on the road with Joe Willie and the Caravan, the subject of the picture came up. Teasing Joe Willie, I remarked that he used to be a good looking guy - and asked him what happened. Joe smiled. Carrie, sitting across the room, shouted, "Good looking!? Shit, let me tell ya - I had'a pull women two-at-a-time off that motherfucker!"
Joe Willie continued to smile.
[Below is a video of Joe Willie Wilkins and Houston Stackhouse, with Stack doing the vocals.]
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