''Deserves a place on every bookshelf' —The New York Times

ROBERT PALMERS
Cj^(irr\ci<^i^
 PENGUIN BOOKS

DEEP BLUES

Robert Palmer was bom and educated in Little Rock, Ar-

kansas, where he began writing about music and played the
saxophone and clarinet in blues, rock, soul, and jazz bands. A
founder and organizer of the Memphis Blues festivals in the
middle and late 1960s, he moved to New York City in 1970.
He is chief pop-music critic for The New York Times and a
frequent contributor to Rolling Stone and Penthouse. His ar-
ticles have appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Saturday Review,
the Journal of American Folklore, Ethnomusicology, and
many other publications, and he has taught American music
at Yale, Bowdoin, the Smithsonian Institution, Brooklyn Col-
lege, and Memphis State University.
ROBERT PALMER

PENGUIN BOOKS
 PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books USA Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

Harmonds worth, Middlesex, England

First published in the United States of America by

Viking Penguin Inc. 1981
Published in Penguin Books 1982

13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14

Copyright © Robert Palmer, 1981

All rights reserved

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Palmer, Robert.
Deep blues.
Discography: p. i

Bibliography: p.
Includes index.
1. Blues (Songs, etc.)— United States— History and
criticism. 2. Afro- American musicians— Biography.
I. Tide.
ML3521.P34 1982 784.5'3'009 82-382
ISBN 14 00.6223 8 AACR2

Printed in the United States of America

Set in CRT Primer

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint

copyrighted material.
Arc Music: Lyrics from "Feel Like Going Home," words and music by McKin-
ley Morganfield; copyright © Arc Music Corp., 1964, 1977. Lyrics from "I Can't
Be words and music by Muddy Waters; copyright © Arc Music Corp.,
Satisfied,"
1959, 1974. Lyrics from "Louisiana Blues," words and music by Muddy Waters;
copyright © Arc Music Corp., 1959. Lyrics from "Gypsy Woman," words and
music by McKinley Morganfield; copyright © Arc Music Corp., 1966. Lyrics from
"Clouds in My Heart," words and music by McKinley Morganfield; copyright ©
Arc Music Corp., 1959, 1965.
Knox Music, BMI: Portions of lyrics from "Cotton Crop Blues" by James
Cotton.

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or other-
wise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition in-
cluding this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
Harriett Tyson Palmer
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A number of people contributed so much assistance, en-
J^ ergy, and thought to the writing of this book that it
^M wouldn't have been possible without them. Harriett
X ^ Tyson Palmer endured the writing not only of the
present manuscript but of an earlier, unpublished attempt to
grapple with some of the same materials. She was also of ines-
timable help in getting the finished work in shape. Mary
Katherine Aldin compiled the basic discography and offered
encouragement, good advice, blues talk, and more. Maude
Schuyler Clay opened doors in the Delta that would otherwise
have remained closed to me and taught me a great deal about
the land and its people. David Evans, director of regional
music studies at Memphis State University and a veteran of
almost fifteen years of anthropological fieldwork in Missis-
sippi, provided access to some of the unpublished fruits of his
research and was always ready with ideas and advice. William
Ferris, director of the Center for the Study of Southern Cul-
ture at the University of Mississippi, provided inspiration with
his films of the Delta's blues life, his uniquely sympathetic
fieldwork, and his occasional summonses to various academic
conferences and revels. Bruce Iglauer and Mindy Giles of Al-
ligator records provided contacts and assistance above and be-
yond the call of duty in Chicago. Jim and Amy O'Neal of
Living Blues magazine provided me with a basic data bank be-
fore I began my own researches by giving me access to their
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

archive, which includes a complete set of back issues of their mag-

azine and Blues Unlimited, Blues World, and other blues publica-
tions. Dick Shurman and Steve Thomashefsky were also helpful
when I was working in Chicago. Sid and Shirley Selvidge and
Jerry Pillow furnished introductions and orientation in Helena.
Once 1 had written most of the book, it was difficult to find a way
of ending it, and Debra Rae Cohen provided the key that enabled

me to do that.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to the musicians I interviewed
for their time, their encouragement, and of course their music.
Muddy Waters introduced me to the concept of deep blues. Hayes
McMullen entertained me graciously by the light of a Coleman
lantern during a vicious Delta ice storm; when we'd talked
enough he huddled with his wife and some neighbors and sang
spirituals to keep us all warm. Many other musicians went out of
their way to tell their stories —
Sunnyland Slim drove halfway
across Chicago in the middle of a blizzard and talked wdth me for
hours in the basement of Bob Koester's Jazz Record Mart, Robert
Lockwood dropped the guarded manner he's displayed in other
interviews and reminisced about his Delta days in depth. Each of
the dozens of musicians 1 talked to should be thanked individu-
ally, along v^dth the other people, like Joe Rice Dockery and Sonny

Payne, whose lives are such an important part of the Delta blues
story, but there isn't the space.
Vicky Stein, my editor, was enthusiastic and in love with the
music even before I began writing and was a source of encourage-
ment all the way through. And several musician friends contrib-
uted to my understanding of the blues years before 1 thought of
writing this book, including Bill Barth, Ornette Coleman, Leo
Smith, Marion Brown, Jim Dickinson, Joe Callicott, and Furry
Lewis.

Robert Palmer
August 1980
 CONTENTS
PROLOGUE:
It Wasn't No Big Money, but We's Doin' It" 1

PART 1

Chapter 1: Beginnings 23
Chapter 2: Heart Like Raihroad Steel 48

PART II

Chapter 3: Mojo Hand 95

Chapter 4: Chicago Pep 132

PART III .

Chapter 5: King Biscuit Time 173

Chapter 6: I Believe I'll Dust My Broom 199
Chapter 7: Kings of Rhythm 217

EPILOGUE
The World Boogie 255

DISCOGRAPHY 279

BIBLIOGRAPHY 295

INDEX 301
 PROLOGUE
''It Wasn't No Big Money,
butWe'sDoin'It"
or the past six weeks," a high school ^student in the Missis-
sippi Delta town ofClarksdale wrote in her composition book
\n May 1943, "Miss WaddeWs Sixth Grade English classes
A have
hi been having a unit on poetry. To understand it better, we
have answered questions about it and learned meanings of new
and poetic words. Also we have found out how much thought can
be hidden in a few short lines of poetry."

MANY OF THE STUDENTS' FATHERS were off fighting the

war; their mothers soldiered on that warm, bright May with a
combined celebration of National Poetry Week and National
Music Week. "Poetry, music, and flowers joined hands and ren-
dered a most dehghtful program," the Clarksdale Register re-
ported.

Ballads and folksongs were ably discussed by Mrs. Stovall Lowrey,

Chairman of the literary department of the club. Music literally

played its part in the afternoon schedule through the medium of a

phonograph, graciously loaned the club by the Clarksdale Office
Supply Company, and records furnished by the Library of Con-

gl . . . ABOVE IS PAGE 1
 DEEP BLUES

gress, Archives Division. As a beautiful background for the stirring

lyrics, was artistically decorated in Talisman roses,
the clubhouse
purple iris, mock orange, and narcissi. As an opening for the pro-
gram, a new poem by Jan Strothers, "The American Way," was
charmingly read by Mrs. C. E. Mount. In the ballad class, Mrs.
Lowrey discussed "The Lady of Carlisle," a song of ancient origin
now sung in the Kentucky mountains, and played it on the phono-
graph. Similarly treated were sailor ballads, miners' songs and En-
glish folksongs. An ice course was served by the hostess.

Tvi^o folk-song collectors from the Library of Congress, Alan

Lomax and John Work, had been through Clarksdale in the sum-
mer of 1941 They were looking for Robert Johnson, a blues singer
.

and guitarist who'd often performed in the area, mostly on the

huge cotton plantations outside town that employed thousands of
black tenant farmers and day laborers and were the real seat of the
Delta's wealth and power. Lomax and Work were aware that black
musicians who Uved and performed in the Delta tended to drift
from plantation to plantation and town to town, moving in circles
that local whites neither knew nor cared much about, so they
didn't bother to talk to any of the members of the Woman's Club
of Clarksdale or to call at the planters' rambhng, comfortable
manor houses. Instead, they drove out into Coahoma County and
stopped at crossroads, where two thin ribbons of asphalt met on
the flat plane of the Delta land under skies bleached white by the
sun.
Black men
in overalls and floppy straw hats could usually be
found on chairs or crates on the shaded front porches of
sitting
crossroads gas stations and grocery stores, talking and laughing
softly among themselves. Most of the time they responded to
questions about Robert Johnson and other blues singers with
obhque, noncommittal mumbles and, if pressed, drifted away in
sullen twos and threes, but once in a while one would volunteer
some information and Lomax and Work would follow it up. They'd
leave the blacktop behind and follow dusty, rutted roads out into
the country, past mile after mile of perfectly level fields that were
alive with bulging green cotton boUs. In a few weeks the cotton
would burst through the bolls and the fields would turn bUndingly
white, the same color as the sky. Then the store porches would be
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 3

almost deserted except at lunchtime and after dark, and black

men, women, and children would be moving across the fields,
dragging long canvas sacks and stuffing them vvdth cotton. Al-
ready, as Lomax and Work drove along at the head of a great cloud
of reddish dust, they could see a number of blacks at work weed-
ing and hoeing in preparation for the harvest. These people might
know something about Robert Johnson.
The two folk-song collectors didn't know it yet, but somebody
—
had served Robert Johnson an ice course a cool drink of poi-
soned whiskey. Nobody who was willing to discuss the incident
was very clear about the details. It was widely rumored that John-
son had been the victim of powerful, malignant conjury, that he'd
spent his last hours crawling around on his hands and knees and
barking like a dog. Most of the folks who repeated these tales
didn't know whether to beheve them or not, and most of them
really didn't care very much. If they'd known Robert Johnson at
aU, chances are they knew him as another no-good rambler who
never stayed in one place too long, never put in an honest day's
work, and made too many passes at married women. Other musi-
cians in the area played about as well as Johnson had and com-
manded a similarly devoted following among the kind of people
who spent their weekends drinking white lightning, gambling,
dancing the snake hips, and looking for casual sexual haisons. As
a matter of fact, one of them played a lot hke Robert Johnson. He
lived on the Stovall plantation, three or four miles outside Clarks-
dale, in a cabin that doubled as a good-time place, a juke house, on
weekends. He made the best moonshine whiskey in the vicinity.
Sometimes he played guitar in a little country string band, some-
times he played with a partner, and sometimes he played alone.
His name was McKinley Morganfield but everybody knew him as
Muddy Waters.
Muddy was a vigorous twenty-six-year-old with high cheek-
bones and cool,hooded eyes, features that lent him a certain Ori-
ental inscrutability. By the modest economic standards of his
peers, he was a success. His juke house cleared a small but de-
pendable profit that nicely supplemented the 22 V2 cents an hour
he was getting for driving a tractor on the plantation. Some of the
white overseers regularly bought his whiskey, and he picked up
loose change playing at parties in their houses, which were
 DEEP BLUES

usually one-story frame structures, more comfortable than the

black sharecroppers' shacks but not nearly as imposing as the big
frame house that belonged to Colonel William Howard Stovall.
Alan Lomax came driving up the narrow dirt road, stopped,
waited for the dust to settle, got out, and introduced himself.
Muddy greeted him the same way he greeted any business propo-
sition— ^he listened, saying little, sizing up the young white

Southerner and his talk of Washington and folk songs. The pros-
pect of recording was exciting, but Muddy was less than en-
thralled when Lomax told him the discs were for a library and not
for jukebox and store sales. Several of Muddy's friends — Robert
—
Nighthawk, Son House ^had made commercial phonograph
records up north. They hadn't seen any money after being paid for
the initial sessions, but having a record on a neighborhood juke-
box or for sale in town had done wonders for their local reputa-
tions. Lomax was only paying ten dollars a song, but he promised
to send a disc copy if the recording turned out well, and although
Muddy didn't let on, he had wanted to make a record ever since
he'd first heard Leroy Carr and Memphis Minnie and the Delta's
own Charley Patton on a neighbor's windup phonograph, back
when he was in his early teens. So he watched intently while
Lomax set up the bulky portable recording rig, which picked up
sound waves and engraved impressions of them, in the form of
circular grooves, directly onto aluminum discs. By the time
Lomax was ready. Muddy had taken out his steel-bodied guitar
and the bottleneck (actually the neck of a glass bottle, v^dth the
jagged broken end melted smooth in a high flame) that he wore
on one of the fingers of his left hand when he played.
After he'd fooled around enough for Lomax to set a recording
level, Muddy settled down to making some real music. He ran the
bottleneck lightly over the bass strings as he picked them to get a
dark, moaning sound and sang, at a loping pace, a song that con-
sisted of two lines, a repeat, two more lines, a repeat, and so on, his
voice sliding easily from note to note in the crabbed, chantlike
melody. It was his version of a song (actually a loose collection of
verses and a guitar part) that musicians sang and played the
length and breadth of the Mississippi Delta. Son House had re-
corded it as "My 'Black Mama," Robert Johnson as "Walkin'
•

Blues"; Muddy called his ''Country Blues."

 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY

It's gettin' late on in the evenin' child, 1 feel like, like blowin' my horn
I woke up this mornin', found my, my little baby gone
(repeat)

Well now, some folks say the worried, woah, blues ain't bad
That's the meanest old feelin'1 most ever had

(repeat)

Brooks run into the ocean, ocean run into the sea
If I don't find my baby, somebody sure gonna bury me
(repeat)

Minutes seem hours seem like days

like hours,
Seems like my baby would stop her lowdown evil ways
(repeat)

I'm leavin' this mornin' if I have to, to ride the blinds

I'm feelin' mistreated, and 1 don't mind dyin'
(repeat)

He could have gone on and on, making up new lyrics, adding

verses from Son House or Robert Johnson, or filling the song out
wdth some of the countless floating verses that were the common
property ofall blues singers. But the verse about leaving was as

good a place to stop as any, and Lomax had signaled to him that
one side of an aluminum disc was almost filled. He put down the
guitar. It was a hot, quiet Saturday afternoon; most of Stovall's
hundreds of blacks were off in Clarksdale, shopping and mingUng
with blacks from neighboring plantations, and there wasn't any
traffic on the winding dirt road outside the house. Muddy sat Us-

tening to the stillness for a few moments and then he heard those
first glancing guitar notes and his rich, booming voice playing

back, boldly lifeUke, on Lomax's machine. The first thing he

thought was that he sounded as good as anybody's records. "I can
do it," he said to himself. "I can do it." In his heart he'd always
known he could. He'd always hated farming, always thought he
could do better as a musician. Maybe that had something to do
with his choice of a second blues to sing for Lomax.

If I'm feelin' tomorrow

Like I feel today
 DEEP BLUES

I'm gonna pack my suitcase

And make my getaway
'Cause I'm troubled
I'm all worried in mind
And I never been satisfied
And I just can't keep from cryin'

"What do you want to call that?" Lomax asked, and Muddy re-
phed, "I Be's Troubled." In the months that followed he was trou-
bled; somehow, after hearing his confident singing and
razor-sharp guitar playing come bouncing back at him that Satur-
day afternoon, he couldn't settle down. He had to drive his tractor;
had to keep playing his music for people while they danced and
drank and screamed, "Oooh, shit, man, play it!"; had to keep
making his whiskey and running his gambling games. But he
began drinking and gambling more himself, and his temper flared
more often. One day he Impulsively caught a train for St. Louis,
taking a young woman from a neighboring town and leaving his
wife on Stovall.
A few brief visits to Memphis had been Muddy's only contact
with city life; he didn't even know much of the Delta countryside
except for Coahoma and parts of nearby counties. He wanted to
like St. Louis, but he found it disturbing that people didn't stop
and speak on the street and tended to treat him like a country
bumpkin. Soon he was back on Stovall. He told his wife to move
out, moved his new girl friend in, and went back to his tractor, his
moonshine, his cards and dice and poUcy wheel, and his blues.
Lomax eventually sent two discs, each with "Country Blues" on
one side and "I Be's Troubled" on the other, and Muddy proudly
put one of them on the jukebox in his joint. In July and August of
1942 Lomax came back, and this time he recorded quite a few
—
songs Muddy alone. Muddy with second guitar by Charles Berry
or an older musician named Son Sims, Muddy with Sims's little
string band.
By this time. Muddy was profoundly dissatisfied. He would have
left, gone anywhere, but his grandmother, who'd brought him up

to Stovall from the lower Delta when he was a baby, needed help,
and Chicago, where most of the black people who left the Delta
headed, seemed as cold and foreign as the North Pole. StlU, he
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY

began to think, maybe Chicago wouldn't be so bad. Conditions on

the Stovall place seemed to be deteriorating. Colonel Stovall was
away fighting in the war, and although the overseer, Mr. Fulton,
bought Muddy's whiskey and hired him to play from time to time,
there was something about the man, a certain patronizing aloof-
ness, that none of the sharecroppers liked very much.
Gradually Muddy began to smart under what he perceived as
discrimination directed specifically at him. For example, the top
hands on the plantation were getting 27 V2 cents an hour for driv-
ing tractors, and he was only getting 22 V2 cents. So one Monday
morning in May 1943, while the students at Clarksdale's white
high school were studying poetry and their mothers were plan-
ning programs for National Music Week, Muddy Waters walked
and asked, respectfully he thought, for a
into his overseer's office
raise to25 cents. Mr. Fulton stomped around the room in his hip
boots, cussing and fuming. Muddy stood, hat in hand, not saying
anything, but his mind was talking. It told him, "Go to Chicago."
The more he thought about it, the more he felt that first im-
pulse was right. He went to see his grandmother, who still lived in
the cabin where he had grown up, in a remote area of the Stovall
place several miles from most of the other croppers' shacks.
"Well," she said, "If you think you're going to have some problem,
you better go. 1 ain't going to let it whup me." He worked the rest
of Monday afternoon, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.
Thursday night a heavy rain came, turning the rich flatlands into
seas of mud, but the sun began drying things out early the next
morning. Muddy sent word to Mr. Fulton that he was sick, put on
his one suit, packed a few belongings in a suitcase, said good-bye
to his grandmother, told his girl friend he'd send for her, and
caught the Illinois Central train out of Clarksdale at four that af-
ternoon.

A LITTLE MORE THAN A YEAR LATER, in the summer of

1944, Time magazine estimated that since the beginning of the
decade 50,000 black people had left Mississippi for the North. This
exodus had been going on since World War I, with some interrup-
tion during the worst years of the Depression, yet in the Delta the
 DEEP BLUES

population was still overwhelmingly black. In Coahoma County,

where Clarksdale and the Stovall plantation are located, there
were three blacks for every white; in Tunica County, directly to
the north, the ratio was seven to one. The figures for the Delta as a
whole were approximately 293,000 blacks to 98,000 whites.
The "Delta" isn't really the Mississippi's delta, which lies sev-
eral hundred miles farther south at the river's mouth. It's a flat,
fertile, leaf-shaped plain that stretches from just south of Mem-
phis down to Vicksburg, a distance of around two hundred miles,
with the river on the west and the state's central hills some
eighty-five miles to the east at the widest point. The Delta's early
settlers were mostly planters and planters' sons from the south-
eastern United States. Around 1820, when the Treaty of Doak's
Stand opened up some Choctaw Indian lands to settlers, and
especially after 1830, when the Choctaws ceded the rest of their
lands east of the Mississippi to the United States, these relatively
well-to-do pioneers began moving into the area, which was mostly
forest and swamp, with their families and their slaves. They
bought up huge tracts of land and put the slaves to work clear-
ing and draining it, and most of them were ready to plant their
first crop within a year or two. They found the dark alluvial soil,

which lay on the Delta plain in deep, even deposits, perfect for
cotton.
The plantation that was being run by William Howard Stovall
when Muddy was growing up there had been passed down
through the women of the family since the early 1840s. Other
early settlers lost their plantations in the Civil War, and some were
lost soon after; during this period more than a few Delta planta-
tions were won and lost in poker games. But whether the owners
were from old families or from more humble backgrounds, during
war they faced the same predicament. Even if a
the years after the
familyowned an impressive parcel of land, they couldn't farm it by
themselves; they needed labor. The Southern economy was in
such shambles that in many cases they couldn't even aff"ord to buy
seed and farm implements, much less to pay hired hands. At the
same time, most of the blacks who'd been shackled to the land be-
fore the Civil War were still there, living in the old slave quarters
or in shacks they'd built themselves, trying to raise enough food to
keep from starving, getting by from one day to the next.
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 9

A bargain was struck. The white landowners, through mortgag-

ing their property or through credit connections, scraped together
enough cash to provide seed, implements, provisions, and basic
shelter for the blacks who were
willing to stay on and work. In re-
turn, the blacks planted and harvested the crops, under the su-
pervision of a handful of salaried white overseers on the larger
plantations and under the watchful eye of the owner himself if the
farm was smaller. It was up to the plantation owners to sell each
year's cotton harvest, compute each black family's fair share of the
proceeds, deduct the market value of the food, clothing, and other
necessities that had been provided to that family, and pay them
the difference in cash. In theory, the system was fair enough, but
in practice it was heavily weighted against the blacks. The price of
cotton on the open market fluctuated wildly. At the end of a good
year, a large, hardworking black family might expect to see some
cash, perhaps enough to buy new clothes and even an automobile.
At the end of a bad year, and most years seemed bad to some de-
gree, the blacks wound up in debt. Their debts were duly entered
in the record books the planters kept for each black family and
carried over into the following year. Families that stayed on the
same plantation year after year found that they sank deeper into
debt regardless of how hard they worked.
This was the sharecropping system. It was shaped by mutual
dependency in the years immediately following the Civil War, but
it rapidly developed into a kind of modern-day feudalism. The

larger plantations printed their own paper money and minted

their own coins and advanced these to their tenant farmers
against the next year's crop rather than giving them real cash.
Plantation money was as good as the real thing at plantation
stores, which sometimes charged exorbitant prices for necessities.
Usually the stuff" was accepted as legal tender in the closest town,

but it wasn't much good in the next county or in a large city, and it
tended to keep blacks tied to the plantation. Other abuses were
possible. Planters couldshortchange their sharecroppers when to-
taling up the cotton them a price lower than the
harvest, or quote
cotton's actual market value. After a time, an informal system of
checks and balances developed. Blacks who were heavily indebted
or thought they were being treated unfairly simply packed up in
the dead of night and hit the road; planters who were particularly
 DEEP BLUES • 10

exploitative or whose overseers were cruel often found themselves

critically shorthanded at harvest time.
Large tracts of Delta land had remained wooded and undevel-
oped at the time of the Civil War, and it was only after the rough-
est years of Reconstruction that the area began to attract
significant investment capital again. During the early decades of
the twentieth century, Delta land was still being cleared, and the
year-round black population wasn't large enough to handle both
the clearing and the annual cotton harvests. Seasonal migrants
were welcomed, and there was plenty of work for any who decided
to stay. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies, blacks migrated up into the Delta from the hills, plains, and
small farms to the south and east. They were attracted not only by
the promise of work but by the fluidity an expanding labor market
made possible; if conditions on one plantation were too hard, there
was always another one up the road.
There was little room in the sharecropping system for small
landowners or poor white renters. The stronghold of northern
Mississippi's poor whites was the hill country to the east of the
Choctaw ridge, which marks the abrupt end of the Delta for most
of its eastern expanse. In the Delta towns there were a few jobs for
enterprising hill whites —
on the police force, perhaps, or in the
stores, though many businesses were run by Italian, Chinese, or
Jewish settlers. On the big plantations poor whites were decidedly
unwelcome, unless there happened to be an opening for an over-
seer. The landowners found black workers stronger, healthier,
and more tractable, and the blacks learned to consider "white
trash" their natural enemy. If blacks were rambunctious or hot-
tempered, they were hable to run afoul of white-trash lawmen in
the towns. When there were outbreaks of night riding or lynch-
ings, poor whites were the perpetrators; planters often stepped in
to protect "their" blacks.
Sharecropping may have been born out of mutual dependency,
but it endured by playing on mutual distrust. The blacks tended to
assume that plantation owners were duplicitous and exploitative
by nature, but preferred them to the virulently racist poor whites.
The planters tended to consider the blacks a race of chronic liars
and malingerers, but they also distrusted the poor whites, who
were moving into the Delta's towns in increasing numbers during
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 11

the early twentieth century; unlike blacks, who had been effec-
tively disenfranchised by poll tax or literacy requirements or both,
poor whites could vote and were thus a threat to the planters' po-
htical hegemony. But the poor whites, who found that the planters
and blacks were effectively allied against them, didn't trust each
other, either; they were competing among themselves for tenuous
footholds in a hostile environment. The social situation in the
Mississippi Delta was extremely volatile, but there was a balance of
power; the system worked. It could not extend into the hill coun-
try,where there were smaller farms, fewer big landowners, and
fewer blacks; it could and did extend west into the Arkansas
counties that were close enough to the river to have Delta charac-
teristics —^flat, rich land, large plantations, predominantly black
populations.
Even before the turn of the century, the Delta was acting as a
kind of funnel for blacks. On the one hand, they were being drawn
into the area from the south and east. On the other hand, many of
them were already leaving and heading north, a trend that accel-
erated dramatically during and after the First World War. Most of
those who left took the lUinois Central Railroad, which ran all the
way from New Orleans up through the Delta to Chicago in just
twenty-four hours; the fare in 1940 was $16.95 from New Orleans,
$11.10 from Memphis. Chicago was the home of the Defender, the
outspoken and widely read black newspaper that encouraged
Southern sharecroppers to escape economic servitude by moving
north. And in Chicago, especially during World War I and World
War 11 and the periods of prosperity that followed them, jobs were
plentiful, with Southern blacks given preference over northern-
born blacks because, again, they were considered stronger,
healthier, and more tractable.
Of course most of these jobs were of the roughest, dirtiest sort,
work not even Eastern European immigrants wanted, but a man
could make enough money to eat and keep a tenement apartment
in a black neighborhood on the city's South Side. He didn't have to
wait until the cotton harvest every year to find out how much his
crop was worth, how much debt he had accumulated at the plan-
tation store, and whether he'd come out in the red or in the black.
Nor did he have to worry about being arrested, beaten, and fined
in a town like Clarksdale for having a good time on Saturday night.
 DEEP BLUES • 12

Women could find domestic jobs that did not require live-in ar-
rangements, and children could go to school instead of having to
help plant, fertilize, hoe, and pick cotton.

Chicago was cold, expensive, dirty, and dangerous. Some peo-

ple found they didn't like it, turned around and went back home.
But most of the migrants stayed. By 1930 the city had more Mis-
sissippi-born residents than any other municipality outside Mis-
sissippi: 38,356 according to census figures that are probably
much too low. In the decade 1940-1950, the census reports,
154,000 blacks arrived in Chicago from the South, around half of
them coming from Mississippi and many more coming from the
Delta counties in Arkansas. And again the figure is probably too
low.

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER he caught the Illinois Central to

Chicago, Muddy Waters sat in the kitchen of his white, two-story
frame house, an hour from the Loop in a tree-shaded suburb. The
house isn't grand by any means, but it's almost grandiose com-
pared to the dwellings most of Chicago's 1.5 million black people
live in. There are deep carpeting and modern furniture in the liv-
ing room and several pleasant bedrooms upstairs. The kitchen is
big, modern, and all-electric, with a kitchen table near the screen
door that's a favorite conversation spot, as kitchen tables are in the
Delta. In fact, this particular spring afternoon smelled and
sounded and felt like Mississippi. Muddy's grandchildren and a
few neighborhood kids would run in the screen door, circle
around the kitchen floor, and whoop and holler their way back
outdoors. His right-hand man. Bo, who grew up with him on Sto-
vall, was in the corner at the kitchen range, frying up some

shrimp.
Muddy's wife (not the woman he ran off to St. Louis with and
later brought to Chicago; "they get along no kind of way"); had
died a few years before, but there were subtle signs of a woman's
touch all around the house. Muddy was courting; in 1979, at the
age of sixty-four, he would take time off from a tour with rock star
Eric Clapton to marry twenty-five-year-old Marva Jean Brooks.
Signs of Muddy's country roots and city triumphs were scat-
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 13

tered around the house. Outside, in garden plots that skirted the
foundation and ran along a concrete driveway, he kept his own
personal patches of tomatoes, red and green chili peppers, okra,
cabbage, and turnip greens. Inside, in the little anteroom to his
den, were discreet framed portraits of the_J:sKO-xxutstanding har-
monica soloists who played in^hisiiand and helped sh^^jnodern
^•""electrfcj^Iuesjduniigl^^
There weren't many phonograph records, and his guitars, includ-
ing some expensive gifts from well-heeled white admirers, were
locked away; there had been several break-ins in the neighbor-
hood recently.
Muddy poured himself a glass of Piper Heidseck champagne
and shoved the bottle across the kitchen table. His doctor had
taken him off the hard stuff, he explained, and this was what he
drank now. He looked his sixty-three years, but he looked ener-
getic, too, and everything he did, from the way he lifted his cham-
pagne glass to the gesture wdth which he gently but firmly shooed
the children away, radiated an imposing, irrefutable authority.
Looking out through those heavy-lidded eyes, smiling ever so
slightly, and rendering definite opinions in his deep, rolling voice,
he was every inch the Muddy Waters who sang, "I'm the hoochie
coochie man, everybody knows I am."
Blues wasn't particularly popular in 1978, but Muddy's career
was riding high. He'd won so many of the Grammy awards be-
stowed annually by the National Academy of Recording Arts and
Sciences competitors were muttering that the "Best Ethnic or
Traditional Recording" category must have been created espe-
cially for him. He was in the movies, singing a smoldering "Man-
nish Boy" in Martin Scorsese's "The Last Waltz." His albums on
the Blue Sky label, sympathetically produced by rock guitarist
Johnny Winter and distributed by Columbia, were outselling all
his previous records. He was performing as often as he wanted to
(which was almost constantly) and commanding increasingly
substantial fees. Sometimes he played nightclubs, but often he
headlined in theaters or opened shows for rock stars in stadiums
and arenas. Still, he remembered coming to Chicago at the age of
twenty-eight as the single most momentous event of his life.
The Illinois Central cuts through the heart of the South Side,
where most Chicago blacks lived in 1943 and most still do. The
 DEEP BLUES • 14

passenger's first look at the city consists of mile after mile of

weatherbeaten two- and three-story frame and brick buildings
with dilapidated back porches that reach right to the edge of the
tracks. They march sullenly past the train's windows for what
seems an hour, and then the rhythmic clickclack of the pis-
like
tons slows down and the engine pulls into Central Station.
The station was noisy and crowded with disembarking black
Southerners, shouting porters, and anxiously waiting relatives on
the Saturday morning of Muddy's arrival. "Boy, I wish you could
have seen me," he laughed to Bo, who turned away from the stove
momentarily, revealing a broad expanse of chest draped in a fuch-
sia "Save the Whales" T-shirt. "1 got off that train and it looked
like this was the fastest place in the world —
cabs dropping fares,
horns blowing, the peoples walking so fast. And then trying to get
in a taxicab, and he whooshes up and drives fast, and big build-
ings. 1 made him pull up and I wouldn't let him leave till I see do
my sister and her husband Dan live in this house. All the build-
ings on the South Side then looked just alike. So he looked on the
door and he say, 'Yeah, they live here, but they on the fourth floor
and there ain't no bell.' So 1 walked up and knocked and they said,
'What you doing here?' and I walked back and paid the taxicab
and got my suitcase.
"That was during the wartime, and there wasn't no rooms for
rent, wasn't no nothing. People come, lot of people come. But I
changed my luck all the way around when I moved up here. I
should have made that change a long time ago. 1 lived with Dan
and his wife and slept on this steel couch for about a week, and
then down on the second floor, somebody moved out of there and I
got a room just that quick. And there was jobs all over. I got a job
in a container factory just about as soon as I got here, and then
after about two or three weeks 1 found out I had a bunch of cous-

ins here; they come got me and brought me over to the West Side.
I stayed with them about two or three months and then I got my-
self a four-room apartment. Things was clicking for me, man."
Soon after he got to Chicago, Muddy began playing the blues
for his friends in relaxed moments, and that led to work playing at
rent parties, for small tips and all the whiskey he could drink.
"You know," he said, refilling his glass vdth champagne, "I
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 15

wanted to go Chicago in the late thirties, 'cause Robert Night-

to
hawk came me and said he was goin' and get a record. He
to see
says, you go along and you might get on with me. 1 thought, oh,
man, this cat is just jivin', he ain't goin' to Chicago. 1 thought
goin' to Chicago was like goin' out of the world. Finally he spUt,
and the next time I heard he had a record out. So 1 started asking
some of my friends that had went to Chicago, Can I make it with
my guitar? 'Naww, they don't listen to that kind of old blues
you're doin' now, don't nobody listen to that, not in Chicago.' So
when I finally come to Chicago, the same person that told me
that"— —
he flashed his eyes at Bo "Dan's wife, my sister, that's
the same person I started playin' every Saturday night for, at the
rent party in her apartment. Peoples is awful funny." He chuck-
led, savoring the irony. "So I started playing for these rent parties,
and then I run into Blue Smitty and Jimmy Rogers and we got
somethin' goin' on. We started playing Uttle neighborhood bars on
the West Side, five nights a week, five dollars a night. It wasn't no
big money, but we's doin' it." They were doing it, all right; they
were creating modern blues and laying the groundwork for rock
and roll.

THE ELECTRIC GUITAR was introduced on jazz and blues

records in the late 1930s and was still something of a novelty
when Muddy bought his first one, in 1944. He didn't enjoy playing
it as much as he'd enjoyed his old acoustic models, but it helped

him cut through the noise in ghetto taverns, and by 1946 he was
gigging regularly in a httle electric band with Claude Smith, a
guitarist from the Arkansas Delta, and Jimmy Rogers, who'd
learned harmonica and guitar while growing up in the Mississippi
Delta near Greenwood. A little later. Baby Face Leroy, who was
from Mobile, Alabama, but also seems to have learned guitar in
Mississippi, joined the band, doubling guitar and drums, and after
him came Little Waiter Jacobs, who was from Louisiana but ma-
tured musically in the vicinity of the Delta town of Helena, Ar-
kansas. By 1949 Smitty had dropped out and Muddy, with Walter
on harp, Leroy on drums, and Jimmy on second guitar, had grad-
 —

DEEP BLUES • 16

uated from small-time tavern gigs to packing the Du Drop Lounge

and making records for a company called Aristocrat, soon to be re-
named Chess.
.Muddy and his associates^caplt-claini tu have invented-electric
lmpoi:tan^lectric band, tjie first to
h|?tggJTTTr-t+> r, y wr,rfi=t>=f€ TTrKL

us^ amplificationjxuaake theliLfinsemble music rawe r more fero- ,

/ciouip^noiejjhysical^-^ist^ad-^-^impl^LJixal^^ a little louder.

And they spearheaded the transformation of Delta^TOIesfrom a
regional folk music into a truly popular music that developed first

J a large black following, then a European white following, and fi-

nally a worldwide following of immense proportions. Before

Muddy Waters established himself in Chicago, Delta blues was a
music by and for Delta blacks. Chicago in the twenties, thirties,
and forties had its own blues stars, and they came from all over
Tampa Red, Georgia Tom, Big Maceo from Alabama, John Lee
"Sonny Boy" Williamson from Tennessee. By the early fifties,
Chicago blues was amplified Delta blues, with Muddy leading the
way and setting the pace. And even though there still was consid-
erable blues activity in the Delta itself, including live radio pro-
gramming and recording, the music's cutting edge was no longer
to be found there. The most popular Delta blues records were
being made in Chicago, and musicians who lived in the Delta were
beginning to copy these records, especialy the Chess records of
Muddy Waters, Little Walter, and Jimmy Rogers.
The significance of Delta blues is often thought to be synony-
mous with its worldwide impact. According to this fine of reason-
ing, the music is important because some of the world's most
—
popular musicians the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Eric Clap-
ton —learned and play by imitating it and still revere the
to sing
recorded works of the Delta masters. It's important because rock
guitarists everywhere play with a metal or glass slider on their fin-
gers, a homage, acknowledged or not, to Delta musicians like
Muddy Waters and Elmore James. It's important because Delta
guitarists were the first on records to deliberately explore the uses
of feedback and distortion. It's important because almost everyone
who picks up a harmonica, in America or England or France or
Scandinavia, will at some stage in his development emulate either
Little Walter or a Little Walter imitator. It's important because
bass patterns, guitar riffs, and piano boogies invented in the Delta
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 17

course through a broad spectrum of Western popular music, from

hard rock to singer-songwriter pop to disco to jazz to movie sound-
tracks. It's important because Delta bluesmen like Muddy Waters
and Robert Johnson have become icons, larger-than-life figures
who seem to have articulated some of contemporary America's
highest aspirations and darkest secrets with incomparable imme-
diacy in music they made thirty or forty years ago.
These are good reasons for listening to and learning about
all

Delta blues, but they're neither the only reasons nor the best rea-
sons. The music has never needed interpreters or popularizers;
it's always been strong enough to stand on its own. Its story, from

the earliest shadowy beginnings to the Chicago migration to the

present worldwide popularity of Muddy Waters and some younger
Delta-born bluesmen, is an epic as noble and as essentially Ameri-
can as any in our history. It's the story of a small and deprived
group of people who created, against tremendous odds, something
that has enriched us all.
The odds are worth considering. Blues in the Delta, which may
or may not have been the first blues anywhere but is certainly the
first blues we know much about, was created not just by black

people but by the poorest, most marginal black people. Most of the
men and women who sang and played it could neither read nor
write. They owned almost nothing and lived in virtual serfdom.
They were not considered respectable enough to work as house
servants for the whites or to hold responsible positions within their
own communities. Blues was so disreputable that even its
staunchest devotees frequently found it prudent to disown it. If
you asked a black preacher, schoolteacher, small landowner, or
faithful churchgoer what kind of people played and listened to
blues, they would tell you, "cornfield niggers."
On the other hand, blues singers didn't have to respect social
conventions or the church's shopworn homilies; they were free to
live the way they wanted and to tell the truth as they saw it. They
could find a paying audience in the tiniest hamlet, in a rural saw-
mill or cafe, or on any downtown street corner; they didn't have to
devote their lives to backbreaking farm work or stay in one place
too long. They were the hfe of the party, the toast of the back of
town; they got as much to drink and as many women as they could
handle, and sometimes more. They knew the worst of times, but
 DEEP BLUES • 18

during the best of times they sported eye-catching clothes, jew-

ehy, a wad of greenbacks, even a fancy automobile. To the people
who danced and drank and courted and made love to their music,
they were stars.
Despite continuing attacks from the black middle class and as-
pirants thereto, blues endured. Obviously it served a purpose,
filled a need. For one thing, was unbeatable dance music; one or
it

two guitarists or a pianist were enough to get a whole barrelhouse

rocking. Bluesmen gave their audience a music they could relate
to in the most intensely personal manner, a music that was theirs
and theirs alone. Blues lyrics could be light, mocking, risque, or
could deal forthrightly vrith the most highly charged subject mat-
ter— ^intimate details of love, sex, and desire; a fascination with
travel for its own sake that was rooted in the years of black captiv-
ity; the hypocrisies and foibles of preachers and other upstanding

folks; the fantastic and often disturbing imagery of dreams; the

practice and tools of magic and conjury; aggressive impulses that
had to be severely repressed in everyday life; and in some blues,
particularly the Delta blues of Robert Johnson, an unabashed
identification with the leader of the world's dark forces, the ulti-
mate Other.
Most writing on the blues has concentrated on the lyrics, or on
the more colorful eccentricities of the performers. But Delta blues,
the purest and most deeply rooted of all blues strains, is also signif-
icant as music. It seems simple enough —
two identical lines and a
third answering line make up a verse, there are no more than
three chords and sometimes only one, melodies are circum-
scribed, rhythms are propulsively straightforward. Yet countless
white musicians have tried to master it and failed, and Delta
bluesmen often laugh among themselves, remembering black
musicians from Alabama or Texas who just couldn't learn to play
acceptably in the Delta style.
The fact of the matter is. Delta blues is a refined, extremely
subtle, and ingeniously systematic musical language. Playing and
especially singing it right involve some exceptionally fine points
few white guitarists, virtually no white singers, and not
that only a
too many black musicians who learned to play and sing anywhere
other than the Delta have been able to grasp. These fine points
 IT WASN'T NO BIG MONEY • 19

have to do with timing, with subtle variations in vocal timbre, and

with being able to hear and execute, vocally and instrumentally,
very precise gradations in pitch that are neither haphazard waver-
ings nor mere effects. We're talking here about techniques that
are learned and methodically appbed, are meaningful in both an
expressive and a purely musical sense, and are absolutely central
to the art.
Paul Garon, paraphrasing Andre Breton, writes that the blues
"represents a fusion of music and poetry accomplished at a very
high emotional temperature." If one takes poetry to mean some-
thing truer and more genuinely of the spirit than the verse Miss
Waddell's Clarksdale English class was studying, then Garon's
description is a good one. The operative word in it is "fusion";
functionally speaking the poetry and the music are of equal impor-
tance. For the musical language of the blues expresses, in a way
the words cannot, something profoundly important about the
depth, and continuity of African-American culture. In
vitality,

fact, some bluesmen often indulged in word-

of the earliest Delta
less singing, or allowed musical values to take such precedence
that words, lines, and entire verses became virtually indecipher-
able, not just to outsiders but to the core audience and to other
blues musicians as well. Delta blacks often danced and listened
with pleasure to blues singing that had little or no verbal content,
I
but it's difficult to imagine them appreciating crisply enunciated
blues verses set to melodies from Mozart or Tin Pan Alley.
Blues can't be adequately understood if we confine our analysis
to phonograph records or to the music that's sung in nightclub
and concert situations by blues musicians today. We need to un-
derstand what blues came from, where it grew, how it changed,
what sorts of camouflage it had to adopt in order to preserve its
identity. And we need to understand the people who made and lis-
tened to blues, not just as blacks or oppressed Americans or ro-
mantic archetypes or clever technicians or successful entertainers
but as particular people who made particular personal and artistic
choices in a particular place at a particular time. In seeking to ar-
rive at these various understandings we'll concentrate on Delta
blues, which creatively absorbed elements from other locales and
other kinds of music and survived transplantation from an isolated
 DEEP BLUES • 20

rural environment to an urban and eventually an international

milieu without losing either its essential musicaland poetic iden-
tity or its particular inner fire. We'll pay especially close attention
to Muddy Waters because he best illustrates the places Delta
blues has been and the places it's gone.
PART

I
 CHAPTER 1

Beginnings
Peabody of Harvard's Peabody Museum arrived in
Charles
Coahoma County in June 1901 to begin archaeological ex-
cavations at some Indian mounds in the vicinity of the Sto-
and Carson plantations. His first stop was Clarksdale,
vall
then a typical Delta town with a flat, dusty, treeless business dis-
trict and oak- and maple-lined residential streets that ended in

cotton fields. He stocked up on provisions, hired some wagons,

and recruited a gang of black workmen, and one sunny morning
his party set off for the first dig, fifteen miles outside town. To
Peabody's surprise, his workmen immediately burst into rhythmic
song, and they kept it up all the way to the campsite. One strong-
voiced man would take the lead, improvising short lines that
touched on scenes along the road, women everyone seemed to
know or know about. Biblical themes, and the romantic involve-
ments and recreational habits of certain men on the crew. The
others would answer with a refrain
—
"the time ain't long," or
"goin' down the river" —
sung in rough unison.
The mounds Peabody was interested in were imposing struc-
tures up to fifty feet in height. A few were burial mounds, but
most had served the practical purpose of keeping Indian homes
and community buildings dry during the periodic rampages of the
Mississippi, their "father of waters." Many of the planters who
first cleared the land for farming built their homes on the tops of
 DEEP BLUES • 24

Indian mounds, the only high ground around. But Peabody's sites
had remained untouched, and he suspected that once he pene-
trated down to the earliest strata in the mounds, he would find
cast-off bits of pottery, arrowheads, and other artifacts indicative
of how some of the earliest Mound Builders had lived.
Peabody put his crew to work scooping deep trenches out of the
moist soil, and they kept right on singing, timing their call and re-
sponse to the rhythm of the digging. Before long, he found he was
being worked into the songs. On a Saturday that had been de-
clared a half-holiday, he was startled to hear Ike Antoine, the
group's robust song leader, singing "mighty long half-day Cap-
tain" from deep down in the trench. On another occasion, when
quitting time was at hand and Peabody and a white compatriot
were sitting in front of their tent idly flipping a knife into the
ground, he heard the men sing, "I'm so tired I'm most dead / Sit-
tin' up there playin' mumbley-peg."

Peabody wasn't a folklorist, but he'd had some musical training

and he thought enough of what he was hearing to jot down lyrics
and impressions and even attempt musical transcriptions. The
transcriptions weren't very successful —much of the music, he
admitted, was "singularly hard to copy in notes" — but his de-
scriptions, published in the 1903 Journal of American Folk-Lore,
are the first we have of black music in the Delta. He seems to have
been particularly struck by the differences he perceived between
the music of the countryside and the music of his workmen from
Clarksdale. The "autochthonous music," as he called it, puzzled
him. He referred to the unaccompanied hollers of a man working
in a nearby field as "strains of apparently genuine African music";
a lullaby he overheard coming from a cabin near his tent was
"quite impossible to copy, weird in interval and strange in
rhythm; peculiarly beautiful." An elderly ex-slave who lived on the
Stovall plantation and was called in to entertain Peabody one night
displayed a remarkable singing voice, writh "a timbre resembling a
bagpipe played pianissimo or a Jew's-harp played legato, and to
some indistinguishable words he hummed a rhythm of no regu-
larity and notes apparently not more than three or more in num-
ber at intervals within a semi-tone."
The singing of the men from Clarksdale seemed less alien,
especially when they accompanied themselves on guitars. Their
 BEGINNINGS • 25

repertoires included ragtime and minstrel songs they had picked

up from tunes that were popular throughout
visiting tent shows,
the South. In style these songs were close cousins to white coun-
try music. For the most part they were black in origin, but from
the 1840s on they had been picked up by white minstrel entertain-
ers and imitated by professional songwriters. After the Civil War,
black minstrel and medicine show performers sang both the origi-
nals and the Tin Pan Alley facsimiles, and these songs were ab-
sorbed back into the black folk tradition. "Some folks say
preachers won't steal," went one of the ditties Peabody heard,
"But I found two in my cornfield / One with a shovel and t'other
with a hoe / A-diggin' up my taters row by row." The song's origi-
nal culprits had been "niggers," not preachers, and the field had
been full of watermelons.
But along with these songs, which Peabody's men loosely called
"ragtime," there were other songs, closer in character to the
chants of the country blacks. These were sung unaccompanied as
work songs or hollers, or accompanied by guitars for dancing and
partying. To Peabody they tended to blur into "hours-long ulula-
tion of little variety," but he was struck by some of the words. The
most common subjects were hard luck, women, and "favorite oc-
cupations and amusements," and among the lines Peabody wrote
down were "They had me arrested for murder / And I never
harmed a man" and "The reason I loves my baby so / 'Cause
when she gets five dollars she give me fo'." These are, or were in
the process of becoming, blues lines. Peabody visited the Delta
just when blues was beginning to emerge as a distinct musical
genre out of the loose, partially improvised music country blacks
sang to make their work go faster or to entertain themselves in
moments of leisure. The music probably wasn't referred to as "the
blues" yet, although "having the blues," a slang expression de-
scriptive of melancholia thatcan be traced back to the "blue
devils" of Elizabethan England,was a phrase and a state of mind
wath which both blacks and whites were familiar.

THE AFRICAN MUSIC from which the blues ultimately derives

came to what is now the southern United States with the first
 DEEP BLUES • 26

Afiican slaves. These Africans had belonged to a number of differ-

ent and linguistic groups, each of which had its own musical
tribal
traditions. Most of the earliest arrivals were from a stretch of the
West African coast the slave traders called Senegambia. it ex-
tended from present-day Senegal and the Gambia down to the
northern coastline of Guinea, an area which was forested toward
the south but whose northern extremities edged into the Sahara.
For centuries Senegambia had been dominated by powerful em-
pires, but during the sixteenth century the Wolof empire splin-
tered into warring city states and in the decades of turmoil that
followed many prisoners were taken and sold into slavery. Islam
was already making headway in the region, and its coming con-
tributed to the general unrest that made Senegambia particularly
attractive to European slave traders. The slavers were not above
kidnapping, but it was more efficient and less risky to deal with
Senegambian kings and princes who had prospered in war and
owned more slaves than they could profitably use.
As the slave trade gathered momentum, it tended to shift far-
ther south, to the immense stretch of coastline Europeans loosely
referred to as the slave coast — ^present day Sierra Leone, Liberia,
the Ivory Coast, Ghana, Togo, Dahomey, Nigeria, and Cameroon.
A third area south of the Congo River's mouth, along the coast of
what is now Angola, also became an important slaving center. By
1807, when Great Britain and the United States officially outlawed
the trade, slaving in Senegambia had dropped off dramatically and
most of the activity was centered along the slave coast and the An-
golan coastline.
Between 1807 and the outbreak of the American Civil War slav-
ing continued clandestinely.The Congo-Angola region became
more and more important because the many channels and small
islands at the Congo River's broad mouth made it easier for the
slavers to skulk out of sight of patrolling English and American
warships. Other slave traders managed to operate in the vicinity of
what is now Nigeria, especially in the Bight of Benin where there
was considerable pohtical turmoil during the first half of the nine-
teenth century. And some ventured around Cape Horn to trade for
slaves in Mozambique and at the Arab slave markets on the island
of Madagascar.
Senegambia, the slave coast, and Congo-Angola differed mark-
 BEGINNINGS • 27

edly in terms of topography, political organization, and material

culture; musically each area had —and to a considerable extent
still has—a own. There are no great for-
distinct personality of its
ests in the relatively dry Senegambia, so there aren't as many
large wooden drums as in the more southerly areas. But one en-
counters a wealth of stringed instruments, from the humblest
one-stringed gourd fiddles to guitarlike lutes with two, three, or
four strings to elaborate harp-lutes with more than twenty strings.
Because of Senegambia's many centuries of contact with the Ber-
ber and Arab cultures north of the desert, the vocal music tends to
reflect the Middle East's predilection for long, tortuous melodic
lines. And there's a fondness for formal solo singing, which is rela-
tively unusual in most African music.
In many Senegambian societies, singers and musicians belong
to a particular social caste, the griots. They sing the praises of
wealthy and powerful men and memorize long epic genealogies
that constitute a kind of oral history of their people. Some of them
are attached to royal courts, while others sing in the streets, or
play in groups that encourage farmers and other workers by set-
ting rhythms for their tasks. One would expect the griots to be val-
ued members of their societies, but in fact they are both admired,
for they often attain considerable reputationsand amass wealth,
and despised, for they are thought to spirits, and
consort with evil
their praise songs, when not properly rewarded, can become ven-
omous songs of insult. Some of the earliest European visitors to
Senegambia remarked that when griots died they were not buried
vsath the respectable people of their communities; instead, their
bodies were left to rot in hollow trees.
Villagemusic making in Senegambia involves drumming, hand
clapping, and group singing in call and response form; usually an
improvising vocal soloist is answered by a chorus singing a repeat-
ing refrain in unison. This kind of communal music making,
which was much more prevalent in Senegambia in the days of the
slave trade than it is now, is also characteristic of much of the
slave coast, but there the drumming and percussion tend to be
more elaborate. Often villages mount orchestras of drums, rattles,
bells, and other percussion instruments that play polyrhythmic
music of dazzling complexity. In group singing the parts of the
lead vocalist and chorus often overlap, or even blend in a kind of
 DEEP BLUES • 28

—
polyphony music that consists of several different but simulta-
neous melodies. There is harmony in slave-coast vocal music,
too— not the periodic resolving harmony of European music but
the parallel melodies sung a third, fourth, or fifth away from each
other.
The people Bantu stock who are the dominant population
of
group in much of the Congo-Angola region also play drums and
percussion instruments, but for the most part their rhythms
aren't as complex as, say. Ewe or Akan or Yoruba drumming from
Ghana and Nigeria. Bantu choral music, however, is the most
highly developed in Africa. Even in call and response singing the
leader and chorus tend to overlap, and there are local traditions of
exceptionally refined vocal polyphony; sometimes solos, duets,
and trios emerge from a dense choral backdrop that pits two sec-
tions of singers against each other. Some Bantu vocal music in-
cludes whooping, or sudden jumping into the falsetto range,
which seems to derive from the pygmies who were the area's origi-
nal inhabitants.
Despite their differences, the musics of these three areas also
have certain broad, basic features in common^ features that are
charactejisti€-of- African and African-derived music wherever it's
found. For one thing, African musicjg usuaUyiparticipative. Shep-
herds do serenade their flocks with lonely flutes, ^Ti~thejnusi-
cally inclined sometimes play small instruments like the sansa or
hand piano to entertain themselves, but most music making is
group music making, and in group situations the distinction be-
tween performers and audience that is so basic in Western music
tends to blur or disappear entirely. Whole villages take part, with
musical specialists handhng the more demanding roles and every-
one else chiming in with choral responses or simple hand-clapping
patterns. There are plenty of opportunities to practice, for almost
every group activity — ^religious rituals, planting, hoeing, pounding
grain, building dwellings, partying —has its own body
of music.
The structure of the music activelyencourages participation,
whether it's call and response, in which anyone can join the re-
sponse, or a method of organization called hocketing, especially
prevalent among the Bantu and the pygmies, which involves the
building of a multitude of individual one- or two-note parts into a
dense polyphony.
 BEGINNINGS • 29

Both calland response and hocketing are forms of musical con-

versation. Evenprofessional instrumental ensembles that orga-
nize their musicin a more complex manner play conversationally;
the master drummer "talks" to his accompanying drummers, one
xylophone player addresses another, two flutes entwdne in a sput-
tering, partially vocalized dialogue, and so on. Sometimes these
musicaljconversations involve the exchange of actual verbal infor-
mation. The Yoruba, the Akan, and many other African peoples
speak pitch-tone languages in which a single syllable or word has
several meanings, and one indicates the desired meaning by
speaking at an appropriate pitch level, usually high, middle, or
low. Among these people, speech has melodic properties, and the
melodies found in music suggest words and sentences. By using
generally understood correspondences between pitch configura-
tions in speech and in music, musicians can make their instru-
ments tidk--This is the secret of the celebrated West African
talking drums, which literally drum up trade for merchants by an-
nouncing wares and prices and can also send messages, announce
visitors, and flatter or revile public figures. Horns, flutes, xylo-
phones, and other instruments are also capable of talking. When
they are played in groups, the music consists of layers of melodies
and rhythms, some of which may have verbal meaning while
others do not.
Speech and music are closely related even where pitch-tone
languages are not spoken. The use of musical instruments for
signaling is found everywhere, and drummers learn rhythms by
imitating either meaningful verbal phrases or onomatopoeic non-
sense syllables. Instrumentalists, especially flutists, sing or hum
while blowing in order to produce grainy, voicelike textures. One
fascinating group of instruments, singing horns and singing
gourds, can be played as horns, with the bps vibrating, or simply
used as megaphones to amplify the voice. The Luba of Zaire lip
their singing gourds as if they were playing trumpets, and the in-
strumets contribute propulsive bass parts to ensemble music. The
playing technique, and the instrument's musical function, were
preserved by the jug blowers in black American jug bands.
Gunther Schuller has defined the rhythmic quality familiarly
called swing as ^forward-prop^ll'^g Hirprhnnq)|tj " That's a
mouthful, but until a description comes along that is equally accu-
 DEEP BLUES • 30

rateand rolls off the tongue more readily, It will have to do. Afri-
can rhythms don't always swing in a jazz sense; sometimes the
polyrhythm is too dense and complex. But they always have that
quality of forward-propelling directionality — they're driving,
"hot." And it doesn't take a battery of drummers to drive the
music along; a single musician playing a stringed instrument or
even a flute or horn can generate plenty of heat. As one would ex-
pect, the African instruments with the most highly developed solo
traditions tend to be instruments like the widely distributed hand
piano or the harp-lutes of Senegambia that can simultaneously
produce driving ostinatos (repeating patterns) and chording or
melody lines that answer or comment on the player's singing. The
persistence of this principle in America helps explain the alacrity
with which black musicians in the rural South took up the guitar
once white musicians and mail order catalogues introduced it to
them.
European and American visitors to Africa have often been puz-
zled by what they perceived as an African fondness foiunuddying
oerfec^ly^clean sounds. African musicians will attach pieces of tin
sheeting to the heads of drums or the necks of stringed instru-
ments in order to get a noisy, rattling buzz. When confronted with
a wooden flute, which naturally produces a relatively pure tone,
they will sing or hum while they play. And their solo singing
makes use of an extravagant variety of tonal effects, from grainy
and gut-
falsetto shrieks to affected hoarseness, throaty growls,
what western musicology tells
tural grunting. This preference for
us are impure sounds has always been evident in black American
music, from the rasp in so much folk, blues, and popular sing-
ing— think of Mahalia Jackson, or James Brown to the gut-—
bucket sounds of early New Orleans jazz trumpeters, who
sometimes played into brass spitoons or crammed homemade
mutes made out of kazoos into the bells of their horns.

THERE'S A LOT MORE TO AFRICAN MUSIC than these gener-

alities, enough background for us to
of course, but this should be
return to the music's gradual transformation in the American
 BEGINNINGS • 31

South. At first, Africans from different cultures were thrown to-

gether by slave traders and planters without regard for their dis-
parate origins, but as time went on the planters developed definite
preferences for slaves from certain areas. In seventeenth and
eighteenth century Virginia and the Carolinas the favorites were
Senegambians, who were thought to be more civilized and thus
more adaptable than pastoralists and hunter-gatherers from far-
ther south. Some of these Senegambian slaves had been city
dwellers and were converts to Islam —
there are cases of trusted
slaves keeping plantation records in Arabic —
^but most of them
were from backcountry tribal cultures. There were Bambara, Ma-
linke or Mandingo, Hausa, and many others, but the Wolof seem
to have played a particularly important and perhaps a culturally
dominant role in the early slave culture of the southern United
States.
"The Wolof are famous for their good looks," writes the anthro-
pologist David Ames. "They are a tall, slender, black-skinned peo-
ple, who stand straight and are proud and dignified in their
posture." The earliest English slavers to visit Senegambia found
that the Wolof language (which is not a pitch-tone language) was
widely spoken, probably because so many tribes had been vassals
of the medieval Wolof empire. So Wolof speakers were sought out
as interpreters and guides, and it was during this period that
—
Wolof terms for several foodstuffs banana, yam passed into —
English usage. The linguist David Dalby has suggested that sev-
eral American slang terms wdth strong musical association also de-
rive from Wolof. In his article "Americanisms That May Once
Have Been Africanisms," Dalby compares the American slang
verb "dig" to the Wolof de^a, pronounced something like "digger"
and meaning to understand. He relates "jive" to the Wolof jez;, to
talk disparagingly, and "hip cat" to the Wolof verb hipi, "to open
one's eyes," and agentive suffix -kat; in Wolof, a hipi-kat is "a
personwho has opened his eyes."
The Wolof are also a likely source
of the most popular American
musical instrument to have originated among the slaves the —
banjo. The word, which was variously reported in accounts from
the colonial period as banjer, banshaw, banza, and bandore,
seems to be a corruption of bania, a generic name for a similar
type of instrument found in Senegal, but there are particularly
 DEEP BLUES • 32

close connections between black American banjo music and

music played on the Wolof halam. Like the banjo, the halam has
five strings, one of which vibrates openly as a drone string, and it
is played in what American folk musicians call frailing or claw

—
hammer style which the minstrel banjo instruction books of the
nineteenth century referred to as brushless, drop-thumb frailing.
In frailing, the fingernail (or nails) picks various strings in a
rhythmic, fast-moving pattern while the ball of the thumb repeat-
edly strikes down at the drone string, providing an insistent osti-
nato. It's a purely rhythmic-melodic style; the adjective
"brushless" means that the fingers don't brush several strings at
once to produce a chord.
Most Senegambian lutes have fewer strings than the halam,
but the frailing technique is widespread. One hears it today in Mo-
rocco and Tunisia among the descendants of Senegambian blacks
who were brought there centuries ago as slaves. It survives in only
a handful of recordings of black American music; it was passe if
not positively archaic by the 1920s, when black folk music first
found its way onto discs. But it was still popular among white mu-
sicians in Kentucky, Tennessee, and other Southern states, espe-
cially in the mountains. A number of white mountaineers have
reported learning to play the banjo from blacks who lived in or vis-
ited their localities, and the instrument and the frailing style were
also spread by traveling minstrel shows whose performers, whites
in blackface, copied slave musicians they'd heard on Deep South
plantations.
Long after the Senegambian slave trade had declined, blacks
from that area continued to enjoy special status on many planta-
tions. New Senegambian were given relatively light work
arrivals
to do around the house, while blacks from the slave coast and
especially Bantu from the Congo-Angola region were sent to the
fields. Senegambians who had played bowed stringed instruments
would not have had too much trouble adapting to the European
violin, their homemade banjos would not have sounded too harsh
to European ears, and small percussion instruments like bone
clappers and triangles would also have been acceptable. Slave or-
chestras consisting of various combinations of these instruments,
sometimes with flutes or fifes, became a fixture of plantation life

almost from the first. These plantation house musicians, many of

 BEGINNINGS • 33

whom learned some European music and probably combined it

with African playing habits, inspired the blackface minstrel
troupes that dominated the American entertainment scene from
the 1840s until some years after the Civil War.
Musically inclined blacks from the slave coast and Congo-An-
gola, where complex drumming was indispensable to much music
making, found themselves at a distinct disadvantage. Drums were
banned everywhere in North America except French Louisiana by
the middle of the eighteenth century, and so were horns, which
are made from wood or animal horns and played in hocketing en-
sembles in the slave coast and Congo-Angola regions. Plantation
owners had learned, sometimes the hard way, that such loud in-
struments could be used to signal slave insurrections. The range
of musical expression that was left to Africans from south of Sene-
gambia was cruelly circumscribed. Their lives were filled with
backbreaking labor, with little time left for making instruments or
practicing. Since they were forbidden drums and horns, and since
more elaborate instruments such as harps or xylophones required
too many special materials and took too much time to construct,
all these instruments eventually died out after making early ap-

pearances on a few Southern plantations. The music that was left

utilized mankind's most basic musical resources, the voice and
the body.
The slaves who toiled in Southern fields came from every part of
Africa that was touched by the slave trade. Through singing to
themselves, hollering at each other across the fields, and singing
together while working and worshiping, they developed a hybrid-
ized musical language that distilled the very essence of innumer-
able African vocal traditions. In parts of Senegal, Upper Volta,
Ghana, and the Cameroons, and undoubtedly in other areas
where few field recordings have been made, African singing has
many of the characteristics of this American hybrid. Such singing
tends to sound vaguely familiar to the European ear, as if the mel-
odies were based on the major scale but with flattening or waver-
ing in pitch around the third and sometimes the fifth and seventh
notes. On closer examination, it becomes evident that the singers'
intonation — their manner of singing "in tune" — is determined by
natural harmonic resonances and not by the arbitrary tem-more
pered scale of European music. The solo singers indulge in con-
 DEEP BLUES • 34

and quivering between pitches, and in a

siderable sliding, gliding,
group all the singers evidence an acute sense of timing and rhyth-
mic drive. The group answers the lead vocalist's musical and
verbal improvisations vsdth a fixed refrain, sung in unison with
perhaps some relatively simple harmonizing or polyphonic elabo-
ration.
This description may seem detailed, but it's general enough to
apply equally well to field recordings from many parts of West
Africa or to recordings of black work songs made on Southern
prison farms in the 1930s. One feature demands additional com-
ment: the flattened third, which is referred to as a "blue note" in
most jazz literature but is really a melodic tendency and not a note
with a fixed pitch relationship to its neighbors. This is the expres-
sive core of the hollers,work songs, spirituals that have not been
substantially influenced by white church music, and later the
blues, especially Delta blues. You can hear it, or suggestions of it,
in African vocal music from Senegambia to the Congo, and it has
special significance among the Akan-speaking people of Ghana,
who suffered the depredations of English and American slavers
through most of the period of the slave trade. Akan is a pitch- tone
language in which rising emotion is expressed by falling pitch,
and in Akan song rising emotion is often expressed by flattening
the third. There seems to be a direct continuity between this ten-
dency and blues singing, for blues singers habitually use falling
pitches to raise the emotional temperature of a performance.
Usually these falling pitches are thirds, but Muddy Waters and
other vocalists and guitarists from the Delta tradition also employ
falling fifths, often vnth shattering emotional eff'ect.
Whooping, a kind of yodeling that's traditional among the pyg-
mies and their neighbors in the Congo-Angola region, is an exam-
ple of a specific African vocal technique that survived in the rural
South well into the twentieth century, especially in field hollers
and blues. Originally, hollers and blues were almost exclusively
the province of field workers; house servants had no need to
holler. Blues, as almost any Mississippian will tell you, came "from
the cotton patch," and Bantu slaves were almost invariably put to
work in the field and not in the house. Bantu were being brought
into the South in large numbers long after the Senegambian and
slave coast trade had dwindled. All these factors help explain the
 BEGINNINGS • 35

whooping tradition's long Texas Henry Thomas, whose 1874

life.

birthdate makes him one on

of the oldest black singers captured
recordings, played a set of panpipes whooping style, alternately
vocalizing and blowing into his pipes so as to produce a contin-
uous melody line. Panpipes and whooping have also been recorded
in other Southern states, including Alabama and Mississippi, and
the instrument as well as the technique can be traced directly to
African prototypes. But as a purely vocal technique, whooping or
octave-jumping seems to have survived most strongly in the
hollers and blues of Mississippi. One hears it in the work of early
bluesmen like Tommy Johnson and in the later Chicago record-
ings of Delta-bred singers like Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf.
Voice masking is another African vocaL-t££hniQue wi th some
bearing on blues singing. The finest African masks are now valued
as precious art objects, but in village rituals these masks were sim-
ply the visual aspect of a masking procedure that also involved
modifying the voice. The masker was often believed to be pos-
sessed by a god or spirit, so his voice had to change along with his
appearance. Some masks had mirliton membranes mounted in
their mouthpieces and the maskers sang through them, produc^
ing a buzzing timbre not unlike that of a, kazoo. Other masked
singers, especially in the slave coast region, mastered deep chest
growls, false bass tones produced in the bark nf the throat, stran-
gulated shrieks, and other deliberately bizarre effects.
Since such extreme voice modification had primarily religious
West Africa, it's interesting to note that it
or ritual associations in
figured more prominently in black American sacred singing than
in secular music. One encounters it with particular frequency in
the early recording^ of giilfar-playing evangelists such as the
Texan Blind Willie Johnson. The recordings of Charley Patton,
Son House, and Rubin Lacy, three seminal figures in the first dec-
ades of Mississippi Delta blues, also contain frequent examples of
techniques that are possibly related to voice masking, and all
three men were preachers and religious singers at one time or an-
other. Lacy was permanently converted not long after he made his
only blues recording, Son House wavered back and forth between
preaching and the blues life, and Patton made commercial record-
ings of religious material (as Elder J. J. Hadley) and reserved
some of his most spectacular vocal displays for these occasions.
 DEEP BLUES • 36

An African-American continuity can be discerned in the subject

matter of song and iri the South both during
lyrics too. In Africa,
and after slavery, song leaders who were quick-witted improvisers
were highly valued. The improvisations Charles Peabody heard
/from his Clarksdale work crew were typical in their ironic humor,
their overriding concern wdth relations between the sexes, and
t

their unselfconscious mixing of imagery from the church and the

I

/ bedroom. Several European explorers in precolonial Africa docu-

/ mented the trading of insults in song; often such insults consti-
tuted a kind of socially sanctioned censure directed at specific
members of the community. This practice survived in a slave cus-
tom known as putting someone "on the banjo" and its spirit was
often present in pre-blues and blues singing. Charley Patton's
recordings, for example, include frequent jabs at real individuals,
including several wives and girl friends and the "high sheriff"
who often arrested him.
Man-woman relationships, probaby the most persistent concern
of blues lyrics, are also important in traditional African villages,
where social harmony is often considered synonymous with or de-
pendent on harmony in the home. And the mixing of the sacred
and the profane in black American song lyrics is more easily un-
derstood once one realizes that in precolonial Africa these two
fields of human activity were not generally thought of as polar op-
posites. There's a telling photograph from a Nigerian Tiv village in
Charles Keil's book Tiv Song. A man is squatting on the ground
holding a ritual object, a very large clay penis, while a group of
male children looks on. It's tale-telling night, a serious occasion
when stories having to do with important spiritual concepts and
behavioral norms are repeated for the benefit of the young. But
the penis is awfully big and awfully stiff, and the man is smirking.

THE STUDY OF RHYTHM AND PERCUSSION in slave music

and music of the post-Civil War period has been se-
in the black
verely hampered until recently by a lack of documentation and by
some unwarranted assumptions. For many years conventional
viasdom had it that the Black Codes which banned slave drum-
 BEGINNINGS • 37

ming effectively eliminated African polyrhythm from black music

phenomena such as the very rapid develop-
in the United States;
ment of jazz drumming after 1900 could be explained by "natural
rhythm." But such explanations wdll no longer wash. The con-
sensus among anthropologists is that cultural intangibles_su£h .as
a^^eel for complicated ^hythmgTH'M^f<rned, nor Innat*^
During the last decade, scholarly detective work on several
fronts has finally begun to give us a more complete picture of the
fate of African polyrhythms in North America. To begin wdth, the
passage of the Black Codes, which in most states actually predated
the Revolutionary War, did not automatically stamp out all slave
drumming. An exhaustive analysis of diaries, letters, and trav-
elers' journals from colonial times up to the Civil War, undertaken
by Dena J. Epstein and detailed in her book Sinful Tunes and
Spirituals, yielded a surprising number of references to slave
music that was primarily percussive. Usually such music was as-
sociated vidth annual festivals, when the year's crop was harvested
and several days were set aside for celebration. As late as 1861, a
traveler in North CaroHna saw dancers dressed in costumes that
included horned headdresses and cows' tails and heard music
provided by a sheepskin-covered "gumbo box," apparently a frame
drum; triangles and jawbones furnished the auxiUary percussion.
Such late accounts are not plentiful, but there are quite a few
from the southeastern states and Louisiana dating from the period
1820-1850. Most of the Delta was still Indian territory and wilder-
ness at the time, but it was settled by planters and cleared by
slaves who came from these states. Some of the earhest Delta set-
tlers came from the vicinity of New Orleans, where drumming
was never actively discouraged for very long and handmade
drums were used to accompany public dancing until the outbreak
of the Civil War.
Where slaves could not make or play drums they could at least
pat juba. "The patting," an ex-slave reported in 1853, "is per-
formed by striking the right shoulder with one hand, the left with
the other —
all the while keeping time with the feet, and singing."

Undoubtedly there were any number of personal variations on this

formula. And anyone who has heard the work of a master jazz
drummer like Max Roach or Elvin Jones will be well aware that a
 DEEP BLUES • 38

single gifted musician can muster enough coordination to execute

elaborate rhythm patterns in several different meters simulta-
neously.
The ring shout, a black "holy dance" in which worshipers shuf-
fled rhythmically in a circle, clapping and stamping, seems to have
developed with the widespread conversion of slaves to Christianity
during the revival fervors of the eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries. The earliest accounts date from the 1840s; more vivid
descriptions from the twentieth century leave little doubt that the
dancing and stamping constituted a kind of drumming, especially
when the worshipers had a wooden church floor to stamp on. "It
always rouses my imagination," wrote Lydia Parrish of the Geor-
gia Sea Islands in 1942, "to see the way in which the Mcintosh
County 'shouters' tap their heels on the resonant board floor to
imitate the beat of the drum their forebears were not allowed to
have." A recording of a ring shout, made by John Work and Alan
Lomax for the Library of Congress in 1934, sounds like a percus-
sion ensemble, wdth hand clapping furnishing a crisp counter-
rhythm to the thudding beat of feet on the floor. This tradition is
surely older than the earliest white accounts of it.

In 1942, when Alan Lomax was in Coahoma County recording

Muddy Waters and other musicians, he heard about a black band
from the Mississippi hill country that had recently visited Clarks-
dale. This group, led by a multi-instrumentalist named Sid Hemp-
hill, could perform as either a country string band, a brass band,

or a fife and drum band. Lomax went looking for HemphiU and his
musicians and found them near the little hamlet of Sledge, where
the northern Delta country meets the central hiUs. They were
professionals who traveled around Mississippi performing for both
whites and blacks, and they had a repertoire for just about any oc-
casion. With Hemphill blowing a homemade fife and the other
three musicians on two snare drums and a bass drum, they gave
an admirable approximation of a white fife and drum band, play-
ing period pop tunes like "After the Ball Is Over" and "The Side-
walks of New York" in straight march tempo with very little
syncopation. But Hemphill, who was born in 1876 and probably
played most comfortably in styles that were current around 1900,
also played panpipes in the African whooping style, as well as both
 BEGINNINGS • 39

white country music and blueslike music on fiddle, guitar, man-

and harmonica.
dolin, banjo,
After Emancipation, drumming was no longer forbidden, and
many fife and drum bands that included
black brass bands and
store-bought snare and bassdrums were formed. Some of these
bands must have approximated white music, but some clearly did
not. In 1959 Lomax returned
northern Mississippi, and in the
to
hills and recorded some elderly fife and
east of the Delta he found
drum musicians who performed in a much more African or at
least amuch blacker style. Ed Young played repeating, hollerlike
melodies with flattened thirds and sevenths on his fife, fluttering
one of his fingers rapidly back and forth across a finger hole to pro-
duce a voicelike quavering and affecting a hoarse, grainy sound.
He also sang out snatches of hollers, spirituals, and popular blues.
The snare and bass drummers played syncopated cross-rhythms
that rarely fell directly on the downbeats and were designed to
stimulate uninhibited, improvisational group and solo dancing.
This tradition must have dated back to the latter half of the nine-
teenth century, and it could not have developed in the first place if
there hadn't been a reservoir of polyrhy thmic sophistication in the
culture that nurtured it. David Evans, an anthropologist who has
done extensive fieldwork in the hill country of northern Missis-
sippi, recorded black families there who play polyrhythmic music
in their homes on chairs, tin cans, and empty bottles. He reports
that among the area's older black fife and drum musicians, mak-
ing the drums "talk it" —that is, playing rhythm patterns that
conform to proverbial phrases or the words of popular fife and
—
drum tunes "is considered the sign of a good drummer." This
enduring tradition of folk polyrhythm played an important part in
the development of Mississippi blues.

BLACK AMERICAN MUSIC as it was sung and played in the

rural South was both a continuation of deep and tenacious African
.^aditions and a creative response to a brutal, desperate situation.
But while some of the earliest slave musicians were making purely
African music, others were learning European dance music in an
 DEEP BLUES • 40

attempt to better their positions in the slave hierarchy, and some

became adept performers of European Dena Ep-
classical music.
stein has unearthed accounts of gatherings at which some slaves
danced to music played on African instruments and sung in Afri-
can languages while others danced approximations of the minuet
to European-style music.
Over the nearly three centuries between the first accounts of
slave music in North America and the earhest recordings of black
folk music in the South, blendings of innumerable kinds and de-
grees took place. By the period of the Civil War, almost every con-
ceivable hue of the musical spectrum must have been present to
some degree in black folk culture, from the almost purely African
to the almost purely white American. And while one would expect
to find field workers whose parents were born in Africa playing
more African music and blacks whose forebears had been house
servants for generations playing in a more acculturated style, this
was not always the case. Black musicians, especially professionals
whose music is also their livelihood, have always been pragmatic.
There must have been a number of musicians who, like Sid
Hemphill, could play anything from African whooping music to
folk ballads to fiddle and banjo breakdowns to the latest Tin Pan
Alley hits, as required.
Long before the Civil War, black professional musicians in the
North were playing white classical and dance music and, proba-
bly, some early forms of syncopated dance music as well. In the
rural South even the musicians who played in plantation orches-
tras were less than fully professional; they had other duties around
the house. Emancipation gave the plantation musician mobility,
making true professionalism possible. At the same time, most of
the plantation orchestras disappeared due to the harsh economic
exigencies of the Reconstruction period. So countless black musi-
cians — fiddlers, banjo players, mandoUnists, fife and panpipe play-
ers —took to the roads. The great majority of Southern blacks
stayed on the land, often on the very plantations where they had
been slaves or on other plantations in the neighborhood, but mu-
sicians found that they could walk or ride horses, mules, wagons,
and trains from plantation to plantation and hamlet to hamlet,
playing on town street corners for tips on Saturday afternoons.
 BEGINNINGS • 41

when the plantation hands crowded in to shop and socialize, and

out in the country later, at all-night frolics.
These traveling musicians of the Reconstruction period were
called songsters, musicianers, or musical physicianers by their
people. (The songsters were wandering baUadeers, while musi-
cianers and physicianers were particularly adept as instrumental-
ists.) Some of them may have played a kind of blues, but the
evidence, incomplete though it is, strongly suggests otherwise. If
they performed blueslike material, it was almost certainly either
narrative ballads with a melodic flavor that approximated what
laterbecame known jump-ups that
as blues, or songs called
strung together more or less unrelated lines, most of them of a
proverbial nature, over a simple chorded accompaniment. "See,
they had these little old jump-up songs," LeDeU Johnson, a Mis-
sissippi bluesman-turned-preacher born in 1892 told David Evans
when he was asked about the music of his parents' generation.
"The little old blues they had to my idea wasn't worth fifteen
cents."
For the most part, the songsters' repertoires consisted of coun-
try dance tunes, songs from the minstrel stage (some black in ori-

gin, some white, some of impossibly tangled pedigree) , spirituals,

and narrative ballads, all of which reflected considerable affinities
wdth the white country music of the period. But one should think
tv^ce about calling this material white-influenced; after all, early
white music had drawn heavily on black fiddle and banjo styles
and on plantation songs composed by blacks. It would be fairer to
say that from the time of the Civil War until the early twentieth
century, the music of the songsters and musicianers shared a
number of traits with white country music, with musicians of
each race borrowing freely from the other.
But even though many white and black songs were similar or
the same, black performing style, with its grainy vocal textures
and emphasis on rhythmic momentum, remained distinctive. And
gradually the songsters developed a body of music that diverged
more and more radically from the inteiTacial common stock. They
made up their own ballads about events in black life, ballads like
"Frankie and Albert," which was probably composed in St. Louis
in the 1890s when so many Southern blacks were pouring in to
 DEEP BLUES • 42

look for work that at night the sidewalks and the levee were lit-

tered with their sleeping forms. There were songs that celebrated
black badmen, like "Looking for the Bully of the Town" and
"Stackolee," who was some versions he died, went
so bad that in
to hell, fought with the Devil and came out on top. There were
songs about black heroes like "John Henry," the steel-driving
man who challenged a steam drill and won a Pyrrhic victory. And
there were more localized ballads, like "The Carrier Line," a song
recorded by Sid Hemphill in 1942 but only recently issued that
dissected the follies of various whites with cool, pitiless accuracy.
Most black ballads were of their time and place and did not outlast
it, but a few proved remarkably resilient. "Stack-a-Lee" was a

rhythm and blues hit in 1950 for the New Orleans pianist Archi-
bald, and as "Stagger Lee" it became a 1958 rock and roU hit for
Lloyd Price.
Jump-ups like the ones Charles Peabody heard his workers
from Clarksdale singing in 1901 were much closer to the blues
than these ballads. They were already popular in the early 1890s.
In 1892, W. C. Handy, who was to achieve fame as a songwriter
and popularizer of blues but was then an out-of-work cornet player
with experience in black minstrel shows and brass bands, heard
"shabby guitarists" in St. Louis playing a tune that began, "I
walked all the way from old East St. Louis / And 1 didn't have but
one po' measly dime." "It had numerous one-line verses," Handy
recalled in his autobiography, "and they would sing it all night."
Was this a jump-up or a true blues? The question is of some aca-
demic interest,but in the context of black folk culture it's mean-
ingless. Handycalled the song he heard in St. Louis "East St.
Louis Blues." He didn't indicate whether the people who sang it
called it that in 1892, but we know that the term "blues" came
into currency as a description of a particular kind of music some-
time around 1900 and that it was applied very loosely from the
very beginning. One can try to be as specific as possible and insist
that only songs with recognizable blues melodies and three-line
verses in an AAA orAAB format are true blues. These songs, at
least the ones with AAB formats, in which
each line or thought is
stated, repeated, and then answered, developed later than "East
St. Louis Blues" and the other early jump-ups, or "one-verse
songs" as they were sometimes called. But the black songsters of
 BEGINNINGS • 43

the early twentieth century weren't particularly discriminating in

their terminology; they called several kinds of songs blues. In
"Hesitation Blues," which was popular as early as the first decade

of the century and was widely recorded beginning in the 1920s,

each verse consists of two lines and a refrain, and the melody is
ragtime or minstrel influenced. Delta bluesman Charley Patton
recorded dozens of blues in an AAB, roughly twelve-bar format,
but he also called ballads v^dth eight-bar verses blues "Elder
—
Green Blues," for example.
One can't even say with certainty that blues was simply a more
evolved version of the earlier jump-ups or one-verse songs. Blues is
a musical idiom that has drawn on numerous sources, including
jump-ups, field hollers (which it most closely resembles melodi-
cally), songster ballads (from which it borrowed some imagery
and some guitar patterns) church music (which influenced the
,

singing of many blues musicians) and African-derived percussive

,

music (which furnished some rhythmic ideas) Each blues per-

.

former draws on a mix of these sources and on the influence of

other blues performers and comes up with something that is dis-
tinctively his or her own; the only way to define blues v^dth any real
precision would be to take the repertoire of every blues performer
into account.

THIS IS WHERE REGIONAL DISTINCTIONS come in handy.

We can't successfully define blues in we have
a very specific way;
to be content about a tendency toward twelve-bar, AAA or
to talk
AAB verse forms, or a tendency toward pentatonic melodies with a
flattened third. But we can define Delta blues, or the blues of the
Carolinas, Virginia, and Georgia, or the blues of East Texas in an
acceptably concrete manner, taking as our raw data the work of all
the blues singers who learned their music from oral tradition in
these regions. And once we take this approach, we can begin to
appreciate what made Delta blues unique. Early southeastern
blues was Ulting and melodic and included more songs of a ballad
or ragtime nature than straight twelve-bar, AAB blues. In East
Texas, where blues probably developed around the same time as
in Mississippi, guitar-accompanied blues tended to be rhythmi-
 DEEP BLUES • 44

cally diffuse, with guitarists like Blind Lemon Jefferson playing

elaborate melodic flourishes to answer their vocal lines. At the
same time, the lumber and turpentine camps of Texas and Louisi-
ana spawned a black piano tradition that emphasized driving
dance rhythms. Boogie-woogie probably developed out of this kind
of playing, which was sometimes called fast western.
The Mississippi Delta's blues musicians sang wdth unmatched
intensity in a gritty, melodically circumscribed, highly orna-
mented style that was it was to other
closer to field hollers than
blues. Guitar and piano accompaniments were percussive and
hypnotic, and many Delta guitarists mastered the art of fretting
the instrument with a slider or bottleneck; they made the instru-
ment "talk" in strikingly speechlike inflections. Eventually Delta
blues became and had a profound
firmly established in Chicago
and direct impact on American popular music. Texas blues mi-
grated to California and became closely associated with the blue-
sier styles of big-band jazz; the influence of Texas on the Delta,
and of the Delta on Texas and California, constitutes a continuing
subplot.
Since blues was so firmly rooted in earlier black folk music that
it's difficult to say with any certainty at what point it became
blues, one would expect the professional black musicians of the
period to have found it somewhat familiar. But two of the earliest
accounts we have come from the professional entertainers Ger-
trude "Ma" Rainey and W. C. Handy, and they did not find the
new music called blues at all familiar; they found it "strange" and
"weird." Rainey was a vaudeville entertainer who sang minstrel
and popular songs with a black tent show, the Rabbit Foot Min-
strels. In a small Missouri town around 1902 she heard a girl who
was hanging around the tent sing a "strange and poignant" song
about how her man had left her. The entertainers in the troupe
had never heard anything quite like it before and Rainey decided
to work it into her act. The response she got from rural black audi-
ences was overwhelming, so she began looking for similar songs
as she traveled. When John Work interviewed her in the early
thirties, she recalled that she frequently heard such songs after
this initial incident but that they were not then called blues.
Handy's reaction to his first encounter with blues in the Delta
seems even more curious. He had grown up near Florence, Ala-
 BEGINNINGS • 45

bama, not far from the Mississippi line, and his experience as a
traveling band musician, playing for tent shows that roamed the
I length and breadth of the Deep South, had been extensive. He
had heard the "East St. Louis Blues" and other jump-ups and
one-verse songs as early as 1892, and by the early 1900s he was
leading the most successful and progressive black dance orchestra
in the Delta; operating out of Clarksdale, his group played rag-
time, cakewalks, and other popular and light-classical music from
written scores. But when he happened on the blues while waiting
for a train in Tutwdler in 1903, it struck him as "the weirdest
music had ever heard."
I

Tutwiler, which is fifteen miles southeast of Clarksdale on

Highway 49, had only a few hundred citizens in the early 1900s,
and in the middle of the night the train depot, with closed-up
stores in forbidding lines on either side of it, must have been a
lonely place. Looking down the tracks, which ran straight off into
the fiat Delta countryside. Handy could probably hear the ghostly
rustle of cypress and wallow trees that were watered by nearby
Hobson Bayou. The darkened stores, the trees bending and sway-
ing over the track, a stray dog or two —
wasn't much to see, and
^it

Handy had seen it all innumerable times. He stretched, contorted

his body to try to make it fit the haid contour of the bench, re-
laxed, and fell asleep.
The train was nine hours late, and sometime during the night a
black man in ragged clothes sat down beside him and began play-
ing a guitar, pressing a knife against the strings to get a slurred,
moaning, voicelike sound that closely foUowed his singing. Handy
woke up to this music, and the first words he heard the man sing
were "Coin' where the Southern cross the Dog." The line was re-
peated three times, answered in each case by the slide guitar. Po-
litely, Handy asked what it meant, and the guitarist rolled his eyes

mirthfully. In Moorehead, farther south near the Sunflower River

in the heart of the Delta, the tracks of the Yazoo & Mississippi Val-
ley Railroad, known to the locals as the Yellow Dog, crossed the
tracks of the Southern at right angles. The man was on his way to
Moorehead, and he was singing about it.
Handy had heard jump-ups with train lyrics in the cotton fields
and around the levee camps, where black day laborers shored up
the earthworks that protected the Delta's rich farmland from the
 DEEP BLUES • 46

Mississippi. But as a schooled musician who could swing a rag-

time tune and foUow it with a crisp "Poet and Peasant Overture,"

Handy had paid "primitive music," as he called it, scant attention.

Now, suddenly, he was intrigued. This music was different. The
singing was freely ornamented and the melodic range was nar-
row — sounded like a field holler. The guitar part wasn't the sort
^it

of strummed accompaniment he'd heard so many black guitarists

using since the 1890s, when Sears Roebuck and other mail order
concerns had first begun offering guitars at prices even poor peo-
ple could afford. Nor was it steady, regular picking, as in the fan-
cier ragtime guitar and banjo styles. Instead, the guitar set up an
intricate pattern of rhythmic accents and talked back to the
singer. It was both a drum orchestra in miniature and another
voice.
The voicelike sound of the slider was particularly novel. The
slide technique was originally associated with an African instru-
ment that has been reported from time to time in the American
South, the single-stringed musical bow. One-stringed instruments
played with sliders seem to have survived principally among black
children, who would nail a length of broom wire to a wall and play
it with a rock or pill bottle slider. The appearance of black slide

guitarists in the early 1900s has often been linked to the popular-
ization of a similar technique by Hawaiian guitarists, but slide
guitar wasn't native to Hawaii; it was introduced there between
1893 and 1895, reputedly by a schoolboy, Joseph Kekuku. It did
not spread from Hawaii to the mainland until 1900, when it was
popularized by Frank Ferera, and by that time black guitarists in
Mississippi were already fretting their instruments with knives or
the broken-off necks of bottles.
Gus Cannon, who was born in northern Mississippi in 1883 and
settled in the Delta near Clarksdale in 1895, first heard slide gui-
tar "around 1900, maybe a little before." The guitarist was Alec or
Alex Lee, who had been born around 1870 and spent most of his
life in the vicinity of Coahoma County. The songs he played with a

knife included "John Henry," probably one of the earliest slide

guitar pieces, and "Poor Boy Long Ways from Home," a melodious
one- verse song in which each line was repeated three times
(AAA) and answered by the slider. In Coahoma County in 1900
this was unusual music. Cannon played country dance tunes, jigs,
 BEGINNINGS • 47

reels, minstrel songs, and a few light-classical pieces on his banjo

and fiddle,and the black music he remembers hearing around
Clarksdale at the time was made by banjo and fiddle groups, or by
guitarists who played ballads, minstrel and medicine show songs,
and an occasional jump-up, or by workers and worshipers who
sang without instrumental accompaniment. Handy's band, which
was all the rage among local blacks who considered themselves
sophisticates, featured a fiddler named Jim Turner who did hilari-
ous imitations of barnyard animals on his violin and knew plenty
of reels in addition to more sedate dance and concert music. Only
Alec or Alex Lee was playing music that could be said to resemble
blues.
Cannon's memories of turn-of-the-century music making in
Coahoma County confirm the reports of Charles Peabody and
W. C. Handy. There was a rich and astonishingly varied music
scene —^hollers, work songs, spirituals, country string bands, fife

and drum and brass bands, homemade percussion, guitar-accom-

panied ballads and jump-up songs, and upwardly mobile dance
bands like Handy's. But with the possible exception of a few songs
like "Poor Boy Long Ways from Home" in the repertoires of a few
singer-guitarists, there wasn't blues, not before the early 1900s.
The earliest Delta blues seems to have originated a little farther
south, in the vicinity of the WiU Dockery plantation — five thou-
sand acres of bottomland on the Sunflower River about halfway
between Tutwiler and the junction where the Southern crosses
the Dog.
 CHAPTER 2

Heart Like Railroad Steel

eople whispered that Charley Patton wasn't his father's
Bnatural child, and it was easy enough to see why. Bill Patton,
a dependable farm worker and stern Bible thumper who some-
F^ times preached in backcountry churches, was a big man with a
dark brown complexion. Charley was small and scrawny be- —
tween five feet five and five eight and around a hundred and forty
—
pounds when full grown and had light, yellov^rish skin, wavy
hair, and almost Caucasian features. "He looked like a Mexican,"
says Hayes McMullen, who often saw Patton play the blues
around the Will Dockery plantation in the 1920s. "He wasn't what
you'd call a real colored fellow."
Bill and Annie Patton and their twelve children farmed in
southern Mississippi, about halfway between Jackson and Vicks-
burg near the small hamlets of Bolton and Edwards, when Char-
ley was growing up. It was an area of pebbled soil, occasional hills,
stretches of flat prairielike grassland, patches of dense woods, and
small farms that were largely devoted to food crops and dairy prod-
ucts. Some of the land was owned by blacks —generally the
poorest, rockiest land. The larger farms were owned by whites and
employed a few black families as field laborers and domestic ser-
vants. For a large black family, living was precarious. In the mid-
1890s, when Charley was probably in his early teens (his most
likely birthdate is around 1881, though 1885 and 1887 have also
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 49

been suggested) Bill Patton began to hear about opportunities In

,

the Delta, a hundred miles to the north, and he listened with inter-
est.
For as long as Bill Patton could remember, that northern coun-
try had been mostly wilderness. Still farther north, up around
Coahoma and Tunica counties, folks had been farming for several
decades before the War. They were close enough to the river
Civil
there to bring in supplies and market their cotton crops vidthout
undue inconvenience and expense. The southernmost part of the
Delta had been under cultivation for a while, too. But up around
the Sunflower River, the land was heavily forested and studded
with cypress swamps and dense canebrakes. Alligators slithered
through the murky bottoms and panthers stalked deer among the
cane.
There were some tentative settlements along the Sunflower, a
sluggish yellow river hned with cypress, oak, holly, and tangled
willows. But there were few roads, and provisions had to come
inching up the Yazoo and Sunflower rivers all the way from Vicks-
burg, a distance of more than a hundred miles. Finally, toward the
end of the nineteenth century, railroads began penetrating the
area, and lumbering interests set to work cutting down some of
the forests. A few men of means saw the land's potential and
bought up huge tracts; one of them was Will Dockery.
Will's ancestors on both his mother's and father's sides had left
the Carolinas with their slaves sometime before the Civil War.
They settled near Hernando, Mississippi, just south of Memphis in
the hill country, and for a while they Uved very well, but the Civil
War left both families practically destitute. Before the war, they
would have sent a particularly bright son to one of the best eastern
colleges, but Will's father and mother had a difficult time paying
for his education at nearby Ole Miss.
Around 1885, fresh out and ready to make his mark in
of college
the world. Will left his With the help of his grand-
parents' farm.
mother ("Will," she told him, "here's a thousand dollars and the
world to make a living in, and that's all we can do for you") and
credit from an uncle who was in the cotton business in Memphis,
he estabhshed himself in Cleveland, Mississippi, a little settlement
that had sprung up not far from the Sunflower River. First he
bought land and a sawmill and went into the burgeoning local
 DEEP BLUES • 50

lumber business. By 1895 he owned a tract of forty square miles

that was bisected by the river. Optimistically, for much of the land
was wooded and wild, he called it Dockery Farms. He built a
—
home a frame structure, not ostentatious but pleasant enough
—
and subject to incessant additions and moved in; soon after that,
he took a young wife.
Malaria-carrying mosquitoes bred without interference in the
swampland on the property, and the Dockerys were sick so much
they couldn't tell half the time whether they had malaria, colds,
influenza, or simple exhaustion from the eff'ort of wresting a plan-
tation out of the wilderness. But they persevered. "My father was
a pioneer, strictly a pioneer, and a very hard worker," says Joe
Rice Dockery, who took over the management of Dockery Farms
in 1926. "He was not a playboy in any sense of the word. He loved
to develop things and would have loved to just go on and on devel-
oping for the rest of his life."

It didn't take long forword to get around that Will Dockery

needed manpower (and womanpower) and was willing to pay for
it. Like the other landowners in the area, he paid very little:

"Many a day has been worked down here for fifty cents a day,"
says Joe Rice Dockery. But to many Mississippi blacks, even the
lowest daily wage was better than trying to eke out a living farm-
ing rocky ground or working on a small white-owned farm for
room and board. And the system that prevailed in the Delta was
flexible enough to off'er a variety of options. You could work by the
day and be ready to move on at any time, you could work your way
up to a more remunerative position, you could enter into one of a
number of possible sharecropping arrangements. As blacks from
southern Mississippi began drifting north, they found that Will
Dockery wasn't interested in tricking them out of their wages or
otherwise mistreating them, unlike some other white men, and
they told their friends. Bill Patton figured he was in a good position
to get a better deal than a common day laborer —
he had a big fam-
ily and could provide plenty of hands at cotton picking time —
so in
1897 he and Annie and the children packed up their few belong-
ings and trekked north to Dockery's.
Bill was worried about his son Charley, who had already been

playing the guitar for around two years. To a man of God, guitar
picking was a sin, and playing reels and other sinful tunes at par-
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 51

ties and picnics where gambling and fornication were rampant

was tantamount to selling one's soul to the Devil. So when Bill
caught his son making music, he considered it his Christian duty
to dehver stern warnings and, as the warnings continued to go
unheeded, increasingly severe corporal punishment. But Charley
kept playing. He would slip away and perform at various social af-
fairs in and around Bolton with members of the Chatmon family,
almost all of whom seemed to play at least one instrument. His
early jobs were probably mostly for black audiences, but the Chat-
mons preferred playing syncopated dance music for whites, who
paid better and didn't make them work as hard. The family reper-
toire included just about every kind of music that was popular in
the rural South at the time —
ballads, ragtime tunes, spirituals,
minstrel show and Tin Pan Alley hits, white country dance music,
and perhaps a few semiclassical pieces. Charley may have learned
some jump-ups during his apprenticeship with the Chatmons, but
in southern Mississippi in the 1890s there was no such thing as
blues.
Charley was seen with the Chatmons so frequently that people
began he was really Henderson Chatmon's son. He cer-
to say
tainly looked more like the light-skinned Chatmons than like his
father; perhaps he encouraged the rumors, stung as he must have
been by Bill Patton's harsh words and beatings. The Chatmons
themselves have claimed Patton as a relative, at least since his
recording successes in the 1920s, but surviving Pattons dispute
the claim, pointing out that Annie Patton looked very much like
Charley. Her mother was an Indian with some black blood and her
father was a white man who made his living trading in the rough
and tumble frontier towns along the Mississippi.
If Bill Patton hoped that getting Charley away from the Chat-

mons would discourage his musical ambitions, and perhaps

squelch the rumors about his parentage, those hopes were quickly
dashed. Several guitarists were living on the Dockery plantation
and at least one of them, Henry Sloan, played a rough, rhythmic
sort of music Bill Patton must have found positively barbaric com-
pared to the hot but polite playing of the southern Mississippi
string bands. Charley loved the new music and began following
Sloan everywhere, watching, hstening, and learning. Bill and
Annie Patton won the admiration of the community, assumed
 —

DEEP BLUES • 52

some running of the plantation, and rejoiced

responsibility for the
when one of their daughters married a man who worked his way
up to a top managerial position, but Charley was soon entirely be-
yond their control.
Bill why a young man who'd
Patton probably never understood
—
had several years of schooling that was several years more than
most of the Delta's sharecroppers and day laborers had had
would want to perform at dances frequented by the most supersti-
tious and illiterate field hands, stay drunk much of the time, live
off women who worked in white kitchens, and avoid farming and
other work unless it was absolutely necessary for survival. Charley
himself wasn't entirely committed to this life-style. Throughout
his life he would periodically repent, renounce loose women and
alcohol, and take to studying his Bible in preparation for a preach-
ing career. Once, when he was still a young man, he volunteered
to preach in a little country church, and although he ran out the
back door in a blind panic after coming face to face with the con-
gregation, he later managed to deliver a number of successful ser-
mons. But his conversions never lasted very long. An old friend
would show up with a guitar and news of a house party or a
big picnic a few miles down the road, and Charley would bottle up
and go.
During the two decades following the Fattens' arrival, cheap
black labor and Will Dockery's business acumen and determina-
tion built the plantation into a large self-contained agricultural
empire, linked by horse and river and later by rail and road to
holdings he acquired elsewhere in Mississippi and in Arkansas.
He left the trees that grew near the banks of the Sunflower River
standing, and other stands of timber remained as havens for wild-
but his laborers systematically cleared and put into cultivation
life,

most of the rest of the land. He sold the logs to nearby sawmills
and had the stumps and undergrowth burned off; practically every
day, year after year, the air was hazy with wood smoke. It hung
over the gray-brown earth, refracting the intense sunlight into
blindingly bright orange rays so that the whole landscape seemed
to be swimming in mud and fire.
Dockery also sent gangs of men out to clear a right-of-way and
lay tracks for a railroad link to the outside world. The train that
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 53

ran on the completed line out to Dockery's was dubbed the Pea
Vine by the locals, probably because of its serendipitous route. It
started its run in Cleveland around four in the morning, traveled
two miles south to Boyle, and then backed out to the plantation's
railroad depot, which employed a full-time ticket agent and pro-
vided living quarters for his family. Passengers and supplies were
unloaded; passengers and, if it was the right season, bales of cot-
ton were taken aboard; and then the train ran west all the way to
Rosedale, the largest town on the Mississippi River between
Memphis and Greenville. By that time it would be evening, and
the Pea Vine would return to Cleveland. At every stage of its jour-
ney, the train was crowded with local blacks, and although the
connection between Cleveland and Dockery's wasn't used after
the late twenties, when improved roads and automobiles rendered
itobsolete, the Pea Vine continued to make the rest of the run. In
1929 Charley Patton recorded a "Pea Vine Blues," and it became
one of his most popular discs.

I think 1 heard the Pea Vine when she blowed

I think I heard the Pea Vine when she blowed
Blowed just like my rider getting on board

If you're livin' single then babe you . . . {phrase finished by

Patton' s guitar)
(Spoken: Babe, you know I can't stay)
You're livin' single, Lord, you know I ain't gonna stay
I'm goin' up the country, mama, in a few more days

Yes, you know it you know it, you know you done me wrong
Yes, you know it you know it, you know you done done me wrong
Yes, you know it you know it, you know you done done me wrong

Yes, I cried last night and 1 gonna cry no more

ain't
Yes, I cried last night and I gonna cry no more
ain't
But the good book tells us you got to reap just what you sow

Stop your way of livin', and you won't (finished by guitar)

. . .

(Spoken: You won't have to cry no more, baby)

Stop your way of hvin', and you won't have to cry no more
Stop your way of livin', and you won't have to cry no more
 DEEP BLUES • 54

I heard the Pea Vine when she blowed

think I

I heard the Pea Vine when she blowed

think I

She blowed just hke she wasn't gonna blow no more

NEAR HIS HOME, which overlooked the Sunflower just upriver

from a ferry landing, Will Dockery supervised the building of a
large cotton gin, a post office, and a two-story brick store that em-
ployed five full-time clerks and sold everything from seed, corn-
meal, and meat to four-wheel carriages and coffins. In order to
simplify his bookkeeping and avoid having to circulate large
amounts of cash, he issued his own paper money and coins. He
also instituted a system of burial insurance. "Daddy never made a
dollar from that," Joe Rice Dockery maintains. "He saw that the
undertakers were robbing the people blind, and he was just trying
to help his people out. Of course in helping them out, he was
helping himself out because he would've had to put the money
out. The boss man was the head doctor, he was the head burier, he
was the head feeder, he was everything as far as they were con-
cerned."
When I visited Joe and his wofe, Keith SommerviUe Dockery, in
1979, they were stiQ Uving in the rambhng white frame house on
the Sunflower River. The gin had long since been shut down, but
the lettering on the side of it that faced the road was being scru-
pulously maintained. It said

DOCKERY FARMS
EST. 1895 BY
WILL DOCKERY 1865-I936

JOE RICE DOCKERY OWNER

The elegantly appointed sitting room included a piano, a stereo

system, and a shelf of records, mostly opera. do love music," "We
said Joe Dockery, a balding, heavyset CorneU graduate with a cor-
dially authoritative manner who was then in his seventies. "Keith
is so enthused about working with the MetropoUtan Opera, and

our daughter Douglass has perfect pitch. She finished in music at

 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 55

Sweetbriar and then studied in Indiana awhile and played the

piano for the Houston Ballet." The Dockerys also had a cassette of
a television special on Mississippi blues that the state's educa-
tional television netw^ork produced, with narration by B.B. King.
Joe Dockery is on the network's board of directors and took a keen
interest in the program. During the early sixties he'd gradually
become aware that the blues may actually have begun on his
plantation, first through detailed and sometimes eccentric letters
from young blues record collectors and later through correspon-
dence with the Jazz Archive at Tulane. "None of us really gave
much thought to this blues thing until a few years ago," Keith
Dockery said, a little wistfully. "In other words, we never heard
these people sing. We were never the type of plantation owners
who invited their help to come in and sing for parties. I wish we
had realized that these people were so important."
"A lot of the blues singers lived in what they called the quar-
ters," Joe Dockery said, "and that's not a name we gave it. They
called it 'quarters' after the term 'slave quarters.' The quarters
was a group of maybe eight, ten, twelve boardinghouses and some
other houses near the barn and the blacksmiths' shops. Now in
—
many cases, a nigger and I don't mean anything by that, it's just
—
what they called themselves had his own eighty acres or a hun-
dred and twenty acres with his garden and his httle duck pond
and his stables for his own stuff. It just depended on . well, on
. .

how much effort he was willing to put into things himself. Most of
the women wanted flowers, so they'd have flowers, a watermelon
patch, whatever they had the energy to do. These were the men
—
who'd taken up with a woman they'd have what we called a
'plantation license,' they rarely were legally married in those
—
days and wanted to move out of the quarters and have their own
setup. The boardinghouses were places where some old woman
boarded half a dozen or so day hands who were bachelors. They
came and went, and that's where the blues was played. I mean,
you could tell what was going on by where the wagons were or the
horses were, or where the automobiles were later on. There were
killings, but really very few, and it was nothing premeditated. Peo-
ple would be drinking, and there'd be a spontaneous argument
between men in the group. Women played a big part in that. You
 DEEP BLUES • 56

know the best thing B.B. King said in that program is that the
blues means when a man
has lost his woman. Which was all he
had. He didn't have anything else.
"Now the blues was a Saturday night deal. The crap games
started about noon Saturday, and then the niggers would start
getting drunk. I've seen niggers stumbling around all over this
place on a Saturday afternoon. And then they'd have frettin' and
fightin' scrapes that night and all the next day. They made their
own moonshine and all that kind of stuff. And of coursesome of
them would end up in jail. There's a story about a psychologist
from the North who comes down here and asks this big buck, this
bachelor, 'Why do you work hard all week long and then get drunk
and throw your money away and have a scrap and get put in jail?
Why do you do that?' And he says, 'Boss, has you ever been a nig-
ger on Saturday night?' " Joe Dockery allowed himself a deep
chuckle. "Now Charley Patton was around playing on Saturday
nights, or going from plantation to plantation, a new woman here
and a new woman there, just having a party. Daddy could have
told you more about that, because he was closer to it. I think they
had to get Charley Patton out of jail about half the time."
Dockery Farms is mechanized now; the quarters and the little
houses and shacks scattered around the property are abandoned.
Instead of the five to eight hundred blacks who used to live and
work there at any given time, a few specialists who live in nearby
towns come in every day to drive and maintain a fleet of tractors
and other agricultural machines. "The plantations used to have
rivalries," said Joe Dockery. "You know, their own baseball teams
and Fourth of July picnics and all. There was a certain amount of
pride in this place, and it was never known for being savage to-
ward its labor. We didn't exploit people, trick them out of their
money because of their ignorance of mathematics and things like
that. Some plantation owners did do that. But ... the system was
wrong. Daddy knew that, and I knew it. Everybody knew it." Per-
haps, but the system endured until it became more profitable to
replace men with machines.
Charley Patton saw a world of changes during the fifty-odd
years of his life, but the system was in effect in the upper Delta
before he was born, and it outlasted him by several decades. He
adapted to it well enough despite his lingering rage, which he
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 57

tended to take out on his women, sometimes by beating them with

a handy guitar. He suffered his dark moods and his occasional re-
pentances and conversions, but he also had fun, or something like
it.He rarely worked for whites except to furnish a night's enter-
tainment, and he was never tied to a menial job or a plot of land for
very long. He went where he pleased, stayed as long as he pleased,
stayed as intoxicated as he pleased, left when he wanted to, and
had his pick of the women wherever he went. And he created an
enduring body of American music, for he personally inspired just
about every Delta bluesman of consequence, and some blueswo-
men as well. Along v^th Louis Armstrong, Elvis Presley, and a few
others who created not just styles but dynasties, he is among the
most important musicians twentieth century America has pro-
duced. Yet we know very little about his formative years, and
practically nothing about how he learned his art.

WE KNOW EVEN LESS

about Henry Sloan then we know about
Charley Patton. We know
that Sloan was already playing blues in
1897, making him one of the first blues musicians anywhere. We
know that Patton dogged his every step, at least for a few years,
and it's probably safe to surmise that Patton reworked Sloan's
style to fit his own Tommy Johnson and
expressive needs, just as
Son House and very different rework-
later devised very personal
ings of Patton. We know that Bill Patton once became so enraged
when Charley slipped out of the house to play with Sloan that he
went after his son with a bullwhip and that he later relented and
actually bought Charley a guitar. We know that even though
Charley had professional experience from his years In southern
Mississippi, he "couldn't really pick a guitar," In the words of his
sister Viola Cannon, until he began his "studies" with Sloan. And
we know that by 1918, when Sloan followed the sweUing tide of
black migration north to Chicago, Patton had his own disciples
and was the most celebrated bluesman in the vicinity of Dock-
ery's. That was saying a lot, because Dockery's and nearby towns
like Cleveland, Drew, and Ruleville already had a reputation. All
over Mississippi, they were known as the place one went to learn
to play blues.
 DEEP BLUES • 58

Elsewhere in Mississippi, the older songster and string band

traditions and a lilting, melodious sort of blues that still sounded a
lot like nineteenth century ballads and jump-ups were popular.
This was the kind of music the lanky, affable Tommy Johnson was
singing and playing when he arrived in the area near Dockery's
between 1912 and 1914. Tommy had been born in 1896 into a
large and musical family that farmed near Crystal Springs, twenty
miles south of Jackson. One of his uncles played guitar and har-
monica, and other uncles were members of a brass band. They
knew sentimental love songs, ballads, and jump-ups, and when
Tommy took up the guitar, in 1910 or 1911, these were the tunes
he learned. A year or two later he met an older woman, "old
enough to be his mother," according to his older brother LeDell,
and the two of them left southern Mississippi. They traveled north
to the vicinity of Rolling Fork and then settled for a time near
Boyle, which was two miles south of Cleveland and directly con-
nected to Dockery's by the Pea Vine. Tommy, still an amateur
musician, soon fell under the spell of Charley Patton and the man
who was already Patton's almost constant companion, Willie
Brown.
Brown, described by Hayes McMullen as "a little brownskin
fellow," was born around 1890-95, probably in or near Robinson-
vQle in the upper Delta. By the time he was in his teens he was
living around Drew, principally on Jim Yeager's plantation, and
learning guitar from Patton. He soon outstripped his mentor in
terms of sheer technique. "Willie was a much better musician
than Charley," says McMullen, and on the few recordings he
made, Brown lived up to his reputation with fast, clean, aggressive
picking, inventive bass patterns, extraordinary polyrhythmic dex-
terity,and such violent string snapping that he must have literally
torn. the strings offmore than one guitar. But even though he
made an invaluable contribution to Patton's music he would —
keep those irresistible basses rumbling and deftly fill in chords
while the older musician threw his guitar up in the air, caught it
between his legs, and ran through his other tricks he never —
really made a name for himself as a creator and singer of blues
songs. His few recordings under his own name are musically ex-
cellent but stylistically derivative, primarily of Patton. For the
most part, he seems to have been content to work as an indispens-
 —

HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 59

able sideman, though he often argued and fought with Charley

and one suspects a bruised ego might have had something to do
with it.

Tommy Johnson spent a year or two absorbing the music of the

Patton-Brown juggernaut and of musicians like Dick Bankston
and Ben Maree who played in a related style. When he returned to
his family's home in southern Mississippi, he was no longer an
amateur. His guitar technique was polished and persuasive, and
although he rarely growled and moaned like Patton, he was sing-
ing strongly. He began teaching his new music, which included a
version of "Pony Blues" and most of the tunes and lyrics he re-
corded between 1928 and 1930, to his older brother LeDell, who
had never heard anything like them.
On the basis of his recordings, Johnson had been decisively in-
—
fluenced by Patton and Brown their guitar patterns, melodies,
and lyrics crop up again and again. But Tommy's style was very
much his own. His guitar playing had a slippery, danceable swing
that derived from his superbly controlled mixing of duple- and tri-
ple-meter picking and strumming patterns, and his voice had a
unique crying quality that was particularly eff'ective when he slid
into his eerie falsetto, echoing the archaic sound of the field holler.
Johnson's music stands next to Patton's as the most perfectly real-
ized and most influential blues to have emerged from the Delta
during this early period.
The new music wasn't all Johnson brought back from the vicin-
ity of Dockery's. When he left Crystal Springs, he was a teenager
who knew something about women but was otherwise fairly inno-
cent in the ways of the world. He returned home a compulsive
womanizer. He wasn't much of a drinker when he left, but after a
couple of years in the Delta, he was already well settled into a pat-
tern of acute alcoholism and would drink almost anything
Sterno, shoe polish, denatured alcohol. And he had acquired a
sinister reputation to go with his new persona, a reputation he as-
siduously cultivated. When his credulous brother LeDell asked
him how he had learned to play so well in such a short time,
Tommy told him, with calculated dramatic flourishes, a story of
having sold his soul to the Devil.
"He said the reason he knowed so much, said he sold hisself to
the Devil," LeDell Johnson told researcher David Evans. "I asked
 DEEP BLUES • 60

him how. He said, 'If you want to learn how to play anything you
want to play and learn how to make songs yourself, you take your
guitar and you go to where a road crosses that way, where a cross-
road is. Get there, be sure to get there just a little 'fore twelve
o'clock that night so you'll know be there. You have your
you'll
guitar and be playing a piece sitting there by yourself. You have to
go by yourself and be sitting there playing a piece. A big black man
will walk up there and take your guitar, and he'll tune it. And then
he'll play a piece and hand it back to you. That's the way I learned
how to play anything I want."
This story is at least as old as the blues. Its roots are in the voo-
doo lore that preserved some African religious beliefs and prac-
tices long after the religions themselves had vanished. (In the
Caribbean, African rehgions have survived strongly, and New Or-
leans, which was part of the French Caribbean until 1803, is the
undisputed center of voodoo in the United States.) The "black
man" is recognizable as Legba, a Yoruba trickster god who "opens
the path" for other supernatural powers and is traditionally asso-
ciated with crossroads. As the only wholly unpredictable deity in
the Yoruba pantheon —
the rituals that are virtually guaranteed to
bring a desired response from all others do not always work in his
case —Legba became identified with the Devil of Christianity early
more
on. Slave lore often depicted the Devil as a trickster figure,
likeLegba with his mordant sense of humor and his delight in
chaos and confusion than like the more somber and threatening
Devil portrayed in hellfire-and-brimstone sermons.
Like many of the Delta blues singers who came after him.
Tommy Johnson affected a trickster's personality. He took to car-
rying a large rabbit's foot around with him and displaying it often,
and performances were spectacularly acrobatic. "He'd kick
his
the guitar, flip it, turn it back of his head and be playin' it," re-
members Houston Stackhouse, a bluesman who played with
Johnson in the late twenties. "Then he get straddled over it hke he
was ridin' a mule, pick it that way. All that kind of rot. Oh, he'd
tear it up, man. People loved to see that."
Tommy married a woman named Maggie in 1916, and the two
of them, along with LeDell Johnson and his wife, headed for the
Delta. They settled on Tommy Sanders's plantation near Drew,
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 61

working as sharecroppers. Patton was living on Dockery's, eight

miles away, and Brown was nearby on Jim Yeager's. All these
men, who were then in their early twenties except for the some-
what older Patton, played together around the area, singly or in
duos or ad hoc string bands. There were other musicians in their
—
circle ^Jake Martin, who was born near Patton 's original home
and followed the migration north to Dockery's around 1916; Jack
Hicks, who was also from the country between Jackson and
Vicksburg; Dick Bankston, Mott Willis, and Cap Holmes, three
particularly adept guitarists; Fiddlin' Joe Martin, who played
mandolin and fiddle as well as guitar and was a good man for
string band jobs; and Jimmy Holloway, who later became a
preacher in Memphis. There were more, too, most of them just
names now, some of them highly regarded. They must have had
individual styles, lyrics, and song ideas that were their own or be-
came associated with them, and their own students and camp fol-
lowers. But whatever their individual contributions were, they all
learned from Patton, the elder statesman of the bunch, most of
them at first hand. And basically they sang and played Patton's
—
brand of music on this much the survivors seem to agree.
By the mid-twenties, a still younger crop of bluesmen had come
along. One of them was Roebuck Staples, who left for Chicago in
1930 and eventually molded his family into a successful gospel
and pop group, the Staple Singers. 'T was raised on the Will
Dockery place from the time I was eight till I got to be twenty
years old," he says. "Charley Patton stayed on what we called the
lower Dockery place, and we stayed on the upper Dockery. And he
was one of my great persons that inspired me to try to play guitar.
He was really a great man. At first, 1 was too small to go hear him
on Saturday night, but on Saturday afternoons everybody would
go into town and those fellows like Charley Patton, Robert John-
son, and Howlin' Wolf would be playin' on the streets, standin' by
the railroad tracks, people pitchin' 'em nickels and dimes, white
and black people both. The train come through town maybe once
that afternoon, and when it was time, everybody would gather
around just to see that train pull up. They'd play around there, be-
fore and after the train came, and announce where they'd be that
night. And that's where the crowd would go.
 DEEP BLUES • 62

"They'd have a plank nailed across the door to the kitchen and
be seUin' fish and chitlins, with dancin' in the front room, gam-
blin' in the side room, and maybe two or three gas or coal-oil lamps
—
on the mantelpiece in front of the mirror ^powerful light. It was
different people's houses, no clubs or nothin'. And I finally grew
up to play." Staples' s music is very different now. His group keeps
up with the latest trends, employing funk and disco rhythms and
full orchestras. But when he picks his guitar by himself, echoes of
Patton's playing are still evident.
Robert Johnson, perhaps the most celebrated and star-crossed
of all the Delta bluesmen, began following Willie Brown from job
to job and picking up pointers from him around 1926, when the
two of them were living near Robinsonvllle, forty miles south of
Memphis. Patton would visit the area frequently to play with
Brown, and although Robert listened avidly to phonograph rec-
ords by sophisticated bluesmen like Leroy Carr and Lonnie John-
son, Patton and Brown were his principal local inspirations until
Son House settled in Robinsonvllle in 1930. House's major influ-
ences were several Coahoma County musicians who have other-
wise remained obscure, but he borrowed at least one of his most
characteristic guitar patterns from Patton, and after his rediscov-
ery in the sixties, he told interviewer Jeff Titon that "I would listen
to Charley's [records] way before I ever started to play or think
about trying Booker T. Washington "Bukka" White,
to play."
whose early recordings had a decisive impact on Bob Dylan and
many other urban folksingers of the sixties, also learned from Pat-
ton's recordings. Inan interview. White recalled visiting Clarks-
new Patton record and being unable
dale just after the release of a
to squeeze into the crowded room where it was being played.
When he was a young man, he would often tell friends and ac-
quaintances, "I wants to come to be a great man like Charley Pat-
ton." It is striking how often similar phrases come up among
Patton's "Charley was heavy, see," says Hayes
successors.
McMullen. "That's what heavy was. He was very famous then, to
my eyes. And he was first."
Howlin' Woff, one of the most popular Chicago bluesmen and
Muddy Waters' chief competitor there during the fifties and six-
ties, moved to Dockery's from Tupelo in 1926, when he was six-
teen. "It was [Patton] who started me off playing," he told Pete
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 63

Welding in a mid-sixties interview. "He took a liking to me, and I

asked him would he learn me, and at night, after I'd get off work,
I'd go and hang around." Wolfs first recording, made at a West
Memphis radio station around 1948, was "Saddle My Pony," a
version of Patton's "Pony Blues." Patton had been performing it
for at least twelve years when Wolf learned it, for it was one of the
pieces Tommy Johnson brought back from his first stay in the vi-
cinity of Dockery's. It seems to have been disseminated more
widely than any of Patton's other blues, and it is still the song most
older Mississippians first think of when his name is mentioned.
The version he performed at his first recording session in 1929
went like this:

Hitch up my pony, saddle up my black mare

Hitch up my pony, saddle up my black mare
I'm gon' find a rider, baby, in the world somewhere

Hello, Central, the matter with your Une?

Hello, Central, matter Lord wi' your line?
Come a storm last night an' tore the wire down

Got a brand new Shetland, man, already trained

Brand new Shetland, baby, already trained
Better get in the saddle, tighten up on your rein

An' a brownskin woman like somethin' fit to eat

Brownshin woman like, sometin' fit to eat

But a jet black woman, don't put you' hand on me

Took my baby, to meet the mornin' train

Took my baby, meet that mornin' train
An' the blues come down, baby, like showers of rain

I've got somethin' to tell you when I gets the chance

Somethin' to tell you, when I get a chance
I don't wanna marry, just wanna be your man

"PONY BLUES" depends for its musical effect on an extraordi-

nary rhythmic tension. The guitar part strongly accents the first
 —

DEEP BLUES • 64

beat of each measure, while the vocal is just as strongly accented

on beat four. Furthermore, Patton carries the note that begins on
each accented fourth beat over into the next measure, producing
the polyrhythmic effect of a three-beat measure followed by a five-
beat measure over the clearly delineated four-beat measures of the
guitar part. The rhythmic picture is further complicated by the
way both the vocal and guitar parts skillfully weave triplet figures
into the piece's duple-meter flow and by Patton's use of off-beat
accents, which he bangs out on the body of the guitar. The song's
verses are each approximately thirteen and a half bars in length
three four-bar phrases, each followed by a two-bar fill, adding up to
a structure that sounds perpetually off-balance and adds yet an-
other dimension of rhythmic complexity.
Most of the rhythmic devices Patton uses have counterparts in
West African drumming, and he uses them in an African manner,
stacking rhythms on top of each other in order to build up a dense,
layered rhythmic complexity. Blind Lemon Jefferson and other
Texas bluesmen who were more or less Patton's contemporaries
employed polyrhythmic effects in a manner that was essentially
linear rather than layered; instead of stacking contrasting rhythm
patterns they tended to join them end to end. In this respect, the
Texans' work was closer to the period's popular dance music and
jazz.
J. H. KwabenaNketia, the Ghanaian musicologist, has written
that "African music emphasizes rapid succession of durational
values or changes in impulses and shows preference for this to
rapid changes of tone. A piece of music with a narrow melodic
range is felt to be dynamic and satisfying if it has a rhythmic
drive." And Patton's blues do have a narrow melodic range. Some,
"High Water Everywhere" and "Moon Going Down" for example,
have three-note melodies. They're built around the tonic, the blue
third, and the fifth, although Patton's use of microtonal waverings
in pitch and of sliding tones comphcates the picture somewhat.
The music's harmonic content is almost nonexistent. In some of
his blues, changes from the I chord to IV and V are sketched in,
but Patton rarely strums a full chord, not even a triad. He picks
propulsive bass runs, interjects hammered percussive effects in
the treble, and hits the sound box with his palm much more often
than he chords.
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 65

Patton's recordings of the songster ballad "Frankie and Albert,"

the hoedown number "Running Wild," and the sentimental bal-
lad "Poor Me" show that he was perfectly capable of performing
material with regular eight- and sixteen-bar verses, sedate rhythm
patterns, and a broader melodic and harmonic range. Yet in his
blues, as the Yazoo Records consortium of blues scholars has
noted, "His rhythms assume such importance in each work that
they ultimately become the work itself." This rhythmic emphasis
was clearly a matter of choice, not of limitation.
The rhythmic density of Patton's music is exceptional, even in
an idiom as rhythmically oriented as blues, and so is his frequent
use of thirteen-and-a-half-bar verses. According to the anthropolo-
gist and blues researcher David Evans, these apparent idiosyncra-
sies are rooted in pre-blues music. Evans noticed that in the hill
country just east of the Delta, where much archaic black music
has been preserved, fife and drum bands, guitarists, and young
musicians playing a homemade, one-stringed children's instru-
ment called the jitterbug generally structure their performances
around repeating one-measure patterns. "In blues with guitar or
'jitterbug' accompaniment," he writes in his article "Afro- Ameri-
can One-Stringed Instruments," "it is necessary to play the fuU
one-measure figure twice after each vocal line. Since vocal lines in
blues are usually two and one-half measures in length three- . . .

line stanzas of thirteen and one-half measures each are pro-

duced."
Evans believes that the use of these one-measure figures as
structural building blocks derives from folk drumming and was
transferred to the guitar via the one-stringed jitterbug, the first

stringed instrument mastered by many early blues guitarists. He

has recorded reminiscences of "African-style drumming" taking
place in southern Mississippi as late as the 1920s, and a black fife
and drum tradition is known to have flourished in Franklin
County, not far from where Patton grew up, in the early 1900s. If
Evans is correct, the thirteen-and-a-half-bar verses and rhythmic
density of Patton's music represent a direct hnk between the poly-
rhythmic folk drumming of the nineteenth century and the blues
that came after him.
Patton's command of vocal nuance is equally noteworthy. He
handled his voice hke an instrument, so much so that even
 DEEP BLUES • 66

though there is no record of his having suffered a speech impedi-

ment, his diction was often almost impenetrable, even to his con-
temporaries. Several of the leading blues collectors of the sixties,
having puzzled over certain passages for years, finally played some
of their scratchy Patton records for Son House, who expressed
complete bafflement and commented that he had always found
Patton's lyrics difficult to understand.
Patton often seemed to alter the stresses of conventional speech
for purely musical ends. In his recording of "Pony Blues," for ex-
ample, he stretches certain syllables and inserts split-second
pauses between words in order to achieve a desired rhythmic ef-
fect. "Come a sto-orm last night and to-o-re the [pause] wire
down,' he sings, stretching the "down" into the next measure and
playing with its timbre by alternately constricting and relaxing his
throat muscles. These vocal techniques, along with the ability to
hear and execute microtonal pitch shadings, are basic attributes
of superior Delta blues singing. And Patton often used a slider to
imitate his vocal timbre, timing, and diction on the guitar. In his
recording of a "A Spoonful Blues," he repeatedly "says" the word
"spoonful" with his guitar instead of singing it. The song can be
Viparrl asi-a-i?n7]VPrgf^Hnn invnlyiy^g fnijr_yoices — PattOn's CUSt omary
singing voice, a wom anishj ajgettQ^-aiowef-spfi^dng^oice, and the
volCg~qfThe shde r/ lhis fs another as pect of Patton 's^wofinKat
seems-- strongly hnkedjo African r QOts====mujlc_.QG- call and re-
sponse, as dialogue.
Patton's virtuosity wasn't necessarily evident to the bluesmen
who knew him primarily as a hve performer. "Everything Charley
played,he played in the same tune," complained Hayes McMul-
len."A musician, if he gonna make music, weU, he need to
change the tune sometime." According to Son House, Patton in-
—
dulged in too much clowning with the guitar throwing it in the
air and catching it, banging on it, playing it behind his back or be-
—
tween his legs and would often string together poorly enun-
ciated l3nics in patterns that made no sense; he would "make a
song out of anything." At least that was House's initial comment
when he was discovered living in Rochester, New York, by a team
of blues researchers more than twenty years after he had left the
Delta. When he heard Patton's recordings again, he was genu-
inely startled by their excellence.
 —

HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 67

It's evident from Patton's recordings that he took himself

seriously as a creative artist, but his original audience thought of
him primarily as an entertainer, and he did most of his entertain-
ing in the quarters on Dockery's, in the homes of enterprising
sharecroppers, and perhaps in a few small town cafes or specially
constructed juke joints in the country. In these situations, the talk
was incessant and boisterous. The sound of the dancers' feet was
loud and percussive on board floors, muffled but still rhythmic if
the floor was packed earth. Potent white lightning flowed freely,
and some drank more noxious concoctions like Canned Heat
Sterno strained through a handkerchief Musical subtleties were
entirely beside the point; Patton's hsteners wanted to hear a
strong-voiced singer shouting out words they could relate to, and
they wanted to dance or at least feel a heady, insistent rush from
the rhythmic momentum of the performance.
"I've seen Charley Patton just bump on his guitar, 'stead of
pickin' it," saysHayes McMuUen. "I bumped on it too. Colored
folks dancin' gonna dance aU night, and I'd get tired. So I'd get
'em good'n started, you know, I'd be hollerin', and then I'd just be
knockin' on the box when the music get going." Musicians who
were also visuaUy appealing, like Patton wdth his acrobatic guitar
stunts, were held in particularly high esteem by their audiences.
Only the other musicians in the house would listen critically,
faulting a bluesman who rapped rather than picked and sang
"junk" instead of thoughtfully organized songs.
Patton was underrated by some of his contemporaries precisely
because he was a consummate Saturday night entertainer. Often
he would keep a single guitar pattern going for thirty minutes or
more, building up a cumulative, almost hypnotic effect and
stringing together verses that might or might not relate to each
other in a literary, linear fashion. Some of his records reflect this
casual method and certain melodies and guitar
of organization,
parts repeat from record to record, indicating that what appear to
be separate songs because of the hmits imposed by recording are
in fact fragmentary examples of a kind of music making that could
go on "in the same tune" as long as it held an audience's interest.
But when Patton went into the recording studio, he also
thought in terms of concise song lyrics. A number of his recorded
blues have a definite thematic unity, or at least a unity of feeling
 DEEP BLUES • 68

or perspective. In the first verse of "Pea Vine Blues," the sound of

the Pea Vine train's whistle blowing triggers a sharp image in Pat-
ton's mind; he seems to see his rider (sexual partner) getting on
board him. In the second verse he counters this disturb-
to leave
ing image with braggadocio, asserting that he's leaving, "goin' up
the country, mama, in a few more days." In the third verse he ex-
plains, and reiterates three times for effect, his side of the problem
that has been gnawing at the back of his mind: his rider has done
him wrong. In the fourth verse he admits he's been crying, says
he's determined not to cry anymore, and warns his rider with the
bibhcal injunction, "you got to reap just what you sow," a warning
that is made more imperative by the fifth verse ("Stop your way of
livin', and you won't have to cry no more") The sixth and final
.

verse returns to the opening image of the Pea Vine whistle blow-
ing, but this time the third line has the ring of finality: "She
blowed just like she wasn't gonna blow no more." "Pea Vine
Blues" is a careful, coherent creation that would have been espe-
cially meaningful to the people for whom Patton performed, since
it not only conjures a complex of emotions that many of his listen-

ers would have shared but makes a vivid mental association be-
tween these emotions and an experience that was, in the vicinity
of Dockery's, virtually universal: hearing the Pea Vine whistle
blow.
"Pea Vine Blues" is also a good example of the way Patton and
other country blues singers personalize their creations. If the song
is broken down into individual phrases it becomes evident that

most and quite possibly all these phrases were unoriginal. They
were floating formulas, some of which came from older ballads
and spirituals while others were folk sayings or everyday figures of
speech. Phrases like "I'm goin' up the country" or "you've got to
reap just what you sow" were repeated by countless wandering
songsters throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century and
probably figured in black music before Emancipation. But while
one singer might say, "I'm goin' up the country, mama, in a few
more days," another would sing, "I'm goin' up the country, baby,
don't you want to go,"^or "I'm goin' up the country where the
water tastes like wine.'/ Certain formulas were flexible enough to
admit local references; Patton sang "I think I heard the Pea Vine
when she blowed," while a singer elsewhere in the South would
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 69

have inserted the name of a train from closer to home. Further-

more, any formulaic or partly formulaic line could be placed at the
beginning or the end of a verse and joined to another line that was
either a formula, a combination of a formula and an original turn
of phrase, or entirely original. Nobody has ventured to guess how
many formulaic phrases, lines, and verses might have been cur-
rent among blues singers at any given time; David Evans has
vmtten that there is "a vast body" of such material and that "a few
dozen to a few hundred of these formulas comprise the repertoires
of many blues singers."
Originality in the blues, then, is not a question of sitting down
and making up songs out of thin air. Yet a blues singer whose
songs consist entirely or almost entirely of borrowed phrases,
lines, and verses woQ claim these songs as his own, and he will be
right. From a lyrical point of view, the art of "writing" blues songs
(consists of combining phrases, lines, and verses with compatible
emotional resonances into associational clusters that reflect the
ginger'sown experiences, feelings, and moods and those of his lis-
teners.And more often than not, the result is truly original. "Pea
Vine Blues," as recorded by Charley Patton in 1929, had its own
tune, rhythmic patterns, and guitar accompaniment and com-
bined these musical materials in a particular way. Patton probably
kept the melody, the rhythm, the guitar pattern, and the "core"
verses that mentioned the Pea Vine train and inserted other verses
each time he performed the song, adding to it as he went along
according to how he felt and how he gauged the audience's re-
sponse. "Pony Blues" and most of Patton's other pieces evolved
from night to night in the same way, with the lyrics changing
while the core verse or verses and the music remained basically
the same. With the coming of recordings, which could be played
over and over and thus tended to fix the content and order of
verses in a song, audiences began to expect to hear roughly the
same song every time.
Despite his extensive use of formulas, Patton sang about the
way he lived, as his hsteners, most of whom knew him at least by
reputation, expected him to do. In "Elder Green Blues," he sat-
irizedwhoring preachers, a popular blues theme that must have
had particular meaning for him, and celebrated some of his favor-
ite pastimes.
 DEEP BLUES • 70

I like to fuss and fight

I like to fuss and fight
Lord, and get sloppy drunk off a bottle and ball
And walk the streets all night

Patton was known for having a "big mouth" and for occasionally
provoking fights his shght build and height made him ill-equipped
to wdn, but he did most of his fussing and fighting with his many
women. As Joe Rice Dockery surmised, Patton was on intimate
terms v^th women throughout the Mississippi Delta, and probably
in north-central Mississippi, Arkansas, and Louisiana as well.
In his blues, Patton frequently criticized women for infidelity
("She's got a man on her man, got a kid on her kid / Baby done
got so bold. Lord, she won't keep it hid," from "It Won't Be
Long") or greed ("Well these evil women sure make me tired /
Gotta handful gimme an' mouthful much obliged," from "Going
to Move to Alabama") or cold indifference ("Baby got a heart like
/ An' if I leave here this mornin' never say.
a piece of railroad steel
Daddy, how you feel?" repeated in "Heart Like Railroad Steel"
and "Rattlesnake Blues"). But his self-portraits were equally
merciless. In "It Won't Be Long," he bragged of an affair with a
married woman.

you something, keep it to yourself, baby

I'll tell

I'm gonna tell you something, keep it to yourself, baby

You don't tell your husband. Lord, and no one else

She's a long tall woman, tall like a cherry tree, baby

Got a long tall woman, tall like a cherry tree, baby
She gets up 'fore day and she put the thing on me

"I say I'm just like a rattlesnake, baby, I sting every mare in this
world," he sang in "Rattlesnake Blues." And the last hne of "Pony
Blues" can be taken as a kind of credo: "I don't wanna marry, just
wanna be your man." Often ended abruptly. "He
his relationships
was kinda high-tempered, flighty," says Hayes McMulIen. "If
those women made him mad, he'd jus' fight, and, you know,
knock 'em out with that old guitar. I knew one of his wives, named
Lizzie, and she said one day he just walked on off with his guitar
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 71

and never came back. She hadn't done nothin' to him. He hadn't
done nothin' to her. Well, after that, she would talk a lot about
how mean he was. But she kept his picture right there on her
mantel. She kept it till the day she died." Lizzie would probably
have said it was Charley Patton who had a heart like railroad steel.

THERE ARE NO INDICATIONS that Patton rambled any farther

beyond the Delta than western Tennessee, eastern Arkansas, and
northeastern Louisiana. But within his world, he was constantly
on the move, so much so that various reports have him living in
several places at once. Around 1924, when he was still ensconced
at Dockery's, he struck up a long-lasting relationship with a
woman who lived in Merigold, ten miles north of Cleveland on
Highway 61. He spent enough time in the town to make the ac-
quaintance of Sheriff Tom Day, Day's successor, Tom Rushen,
and a black bootlegger named HoUoway, all of whom eventually
figured in the witty "Tom Rushen Blues," recorded at Patton's
first session in 1929.
There's trouble in the Merigold jailhouse. Day's ambitious dep-
uty, Tom Rushen, is running against him for sheriff. Into this
tense situation stumbles Papa Charley, who has apparently fallen
into adrunken stupor in some public place and been hauled in by
Rushen. In the past Patton wouldn't have minded very much,
since Sheriff Day was a regular customer of the bootlegger Hol-
loway and would provide his prisoner with moonshine, perhaps in
exchange for a song or two. But now Day is running scared, and
Patton has to endure a stretch in jail without his boozey-booze.
Despite its generally circumspect wording, the recorded version of
"Tom Rushen Blues" is an incisive httle gem. It dissects some
complex social relationships that cut across racial lines. Musically,
it's an unusually effective performance, with plaintive slide guitar

echoing the lyrics, an authentically whiskey-soaked vocal, and the

cheerful, unexpected confession in the last line.

Laid down last night, hopin' would have my peace

I

I down last night, hopin' would have my peace

laid 1

But when woke up, Tom Rushen was shakin' me

I
 DEEP BLUES • 72

When you get in trouble, it's no use to screamin' and cryin'

When you gets in trouble, it's no use to screamin' and cryin'
Tom Rushen will take you back to the prison house flyin'

It was one night, Holloway was gone to bed

late
It was one night, Holloway was gone to bed
late
But Mr. Day brought whiskey taken from under HoUoway's head

Awww it's boozey-booze now, Lord, to cure these blues

It takes boozey-booze Lord to cure these blues
But each day seem like years in the jailhouse where there is no booze

I got up this mornin', Tom Day was standin' 'round

I got up this mornin', Tom Day was standin' 'round
If he lose his office now he's runnin' from town to town

Let me you folkses just how he treated me

tell

I'm gonna you folkses just how he treated me

tell

Aw he caught me yellin', I was drunk as I could be

Residents of Merigold have reported Patton living there be-

tween 1924 and 1930, and several musicians encountered him at
Dockery's during this period; he probably hved in a variety of
places with a variety of women, or no place at all. If the tangled
itinerary of his "High Water Everywhere" is to be believed, he was
aU up and down the Delta during the winter and spring of 1927,
when the region was buffeted by tornadoes, rocked by earth-
quakes, drenched with the heaviest rains anyone could remem-
ber, and finally all but washed away by the rampaging Mississippi,
which overflowed its banks and inundated the lowlands.
Then, as now, the aUuvial plain on either side of the river was
protected from floods by a system of earthworks called levees. The
trouble with levees is that they force a river to stay within its

channel, and when an unusually moving

large mass of water is

down that channel, the pressure on the levees grows more and
more intense. In 1927 the levee system was still relatively new,
and although high water was expected, the U.S. Army Corps of
Engineers assured the people of the lower Mississippi valley that
the levees would hold. As Pete Daniel points out in his book on the
flood, Deep'n As It Come, this overconfidence was to some extent a
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 73

byproduct of the optimism of the times. Nineteen twenty-seven

was the year Lindbergh flew the Atlantic, the year of the first talk-
ing motion picture, the year of Babe Ruth; the coming Depression
was not yet in sight. The Army Engineers continued to issue com-
forting statements as late as mid-April, when hired laborers, pre-
dominantly black, were working day and night in the pouring rain
to shore up the levees with sandbags while the water licked at
their feet. In river towns like Greenville, people stood nervously on
street corners looking up at the groaning levees and watching riv-
erboats sail by high above them on the crest of the flood.
On April 21 the river broke through the levee at Mound Land-
ing, Mississippi, twenty miles north of Greenville. The earth shook
for miles around, and a wall of muddy water twenty feet high
burst out over the cotton fields- with a bloodcurdling roar. But
once the water had dug a crevasse where the section of levee col-
lapsed, it went about its advance in a less spectacular, more chill-
ingly methodical manner, oozing over the land at a clip of
approximately fourteen miles a day. In his book, Daniel quotes the
account of a Delta planter, as recorded by a citizen of Greenville:
"Standing on the veranda of his handsome home, he saw the flood
approach in the form of a tan-colored wall seven feet high, and
with a roar as of a mighty wind." By April 23, Helena, Greenwood,
Holly Ridge, Indianola, Leland, and scores of smaller towns were
under water. At its widest extent, the flood formed a lake almost a
hundred miles across. Trees, telephone poles, Indian mounds, the
upper floors of multistory buildings, and the tops of some of the
levees provided the only immediate refuge.
Disaster followed disaster; it must have seemed that the end of
the world was at hand. On May 6 a tornado demolished part of
Tunica, Mississippi, in the upper Delta. On May 9 another twister
either leveled or heavily damaged every business block in Pine
Bluff", Arkansas. Earth tremors rocked Memphis and the northern

Delta. In partially flooded Little Rock, Arkansas, a mob wrested a

black man accused of attacking two white women away from the
police; they hanged him, shot him repeatedly, dragged his body
through the streets, and finally burned him near the black part of
town, in front of a crowd that included thousands of women and
children. The state called in troops to prevent further violence.
Many blacks in rural areas apparently refused to believe the
 DEEP BLUES • 74

whites' repeated flood warnings until the water actually bore

down on them. They chmbed into trees or up telephone poles or
huddled on top of Indian mounds until they were picked up by res-
cue boats and taken to refugee camps that had been hastily set up
on the flat tops of the levees. At Greenville, an organized commit-
tee of white citizens put up a tent city which soon was providing
shelter and Red Cross food and relief supplies for ten thousand
blacks. But while most of the town's white men had sent their
women and children away to stay v^th relatives or friends, the
— —
blacks men, women, and children ^remained crowded into the
tents for more than two months, and when the water began to re-
cede, they grew restless. The whites who were directing relief ef-
forts ordered them to stay in the camp until the homes that had
been flooded could be cleaned and disinfected, and until it was no
longer necessary to feed them at a central location. But soon large
numbers of refugees began leaving the camp and spending their
days in town, and it became more and more difficult for the whites
to round up volunteers to unload food supplies. Apparently, a
number of the blacks had felt from the beginning that even
though the food was free, those who worked unloading it should
be paid.
William Alexander Percy, a plantation owner who was serving
as county chairman for flood relief, finally asked the National
Guard to recruit a black work team by force. In the course of the
"recruiting" a trigger-happy Guardsman shot and killed a recalci-
trant black, and the town, still partly flooded, was plunged into a
racial crisis. The blacks stood firm, and after a period of extraordi-
nary tension, the Red Cross revised its regulations so that workers
unloading relief supplies could be paid. But there was lingering
bitterness on both sides. The blacks were convinced that the
whites had tried to dupe them in a time of emergency. The whites
were convinced that the blacks had failed to help themselves and
were as lazy and shiftless as they were popularly made out to be.
The blues Charley Patton recorded as "High Water Every-
where" doesn't mention the tent cities or the shooting in Green-
ville, and it fails to capitalize on the apocalyptic overtones of the

flood and its attendant disasters, which surely must have im-
pressed a man who had tried his hand at preaching. But there is a
sense of fear and confusion in "High Water Everywhere," and in
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 75

the second part of the performance, which finds Patton groaning

likean evangelist as he describes the plight of the flood victims,
there is compassion. It's possible that verses critical of the whites'
rehef eff'ort did not get recorded, but it seems more likely that Pat-
ton sang about fear, confusion, and compassion simply because
those were the emotions he felt at the time. Certainly he knew
about the events in Greenville. Everyone in the Delta knew about
them, and they made banner headlines in both black and white
newspapers across the country. But in the recorded version of
"High Water Everywhere," as in "Tom Rushen Blues," Patton
found public events truly meaningful only insofar as they im-
—
pinged on his private world his perceptions, his feelings.
This is one of the fundamental distinctions between blues and
the black music that came before it. Those earlier songs about
possums and train engineers and desperadoes deal in archetypes.
The singer-narrator remains relatively cool and uninvolved. In
blues, there is no narration as such, and while one finds signs and
symbols and proverbial homilies aplenty, there is nothing as ab-
stract as an archetype. The singer is so involved that in many
cases his involvement becomes both the subject and substance of
the work. Such unflinching subjectivity may seem callous and
self-involved, but in the context of its time and place it was posi-
tively heroic. Only a man who understands his worth and believes
in his freedom sings as if nothing else matters.

The backwater done 'round Sumner, drove me down the line

Backwater done rose atSumner, drove poor Charley down the line
Lord, I tell the world, the water done jumped through this town

The . . . the whole round country, Lord, river has overflowed

Lord, the whole round country, man, is overflowed
(Spoken: You know I can't stay here, I'm goin' where it's high, boy)
I would go to the hill country, but they got me barred

Now looka here now Leland, river was risin' high

Looka here boys around Leland tell me, river was raisin' high
(Spoken: Boy, it's risin' over there, hear?)
I'm gonna move over to Greenville 'fore I tell you good-bye
 DEEP BLUES • 76

Look here, the water now lordy, done broke, rose most everywhere
The water at Greenville (Spoken: and Leland) mowln' down rows every-
where
(Spoken: Boy, you can't never stay here)

I would go down to Rosedale, but they tell me it's water there

Now the water now, mama, done took Charley's town
Well, they tell me the water done took Charley's town
(Spoken: Boy, I'm goin' to Vlcksburg)
Well, I'm goin' to Vicksburg for that high of mine

1 am where lands don't never flow

goin' out of that water
Well, I'm going over the where water, oh it don't never flow
hill

(Spoken: Boy, Sharkey County an' everything was down in Stovall)

Bolivar County was inchin' over that Tallahatchie sho'

Lord the water done rushed all, down old Jackson road
Lord the water done raise-ed, over the Jackson road
(Spoken: Boy, it starched my clothes)
I'm goin' back to the hilly country, won't be worried no more

(Part Two)
Backwater at Blytheville, doctor weren't around
Backwater at Blytheville, done took Joiner town
It was fifty families (Spoken: and children) suff"er to sink and drown

The water was risin' up at my friend's door

The water was risin' up in my friend's door
The man said to his womenfolk. Lord, we'd better dro'

The water was risin', got up in my bed

Lord, the water it rollin', got up to my bed
I thought 1 would take a trip. Lord, out on a big ice sled

Oh I hear. Lord Lord, water upon my door

(Spoken: You know what 1 mean?)

1 hear the ice boat, Lord, went sinkin' down

I couldn't get no closer, Marion City gone down

So high the water was risin', I been sinkin' down

Then the water was risin', at places all around
(Spoken: Boy, they's all around)
It was fifty men and children, come to sink and drown
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 77

Oh, Lord, oh lordy, women and grown men down

Ohhh, women an' children sinkin' down
(Spoken: Lord have mercy)
I couldn't see nobody home and wasn't no one to be found

DURING THE SUMMER OF 1929 Patton was in Jackson, Mis-

sissippi,where a white music store owner, Henry C. Spier, ar-
ranged to send him up to Richmond, Indiana, to record. Patton
spent most of Friday, June 14, in Gennett Records' Richmond
studio, a barnlike frame building just a few feet from a railroad
track. The building also housed a pressing plant, and the freshly
pressed records could be conveniently dispatched by rail, but
recording had to stop whenever a train approached. Nevertheless,
Patton recorded fourteen tunes that day, including "Pony Blues,"
"Pea Vine Blues," and "Tom Rushen Blues." He was probably
well lubricated —
most companies gave "race" and hiUbilly artists
—
hquor to loosen them up but his performances were flawless.
Paramount, the company that had underwritten the session, is-
sued a disc coupHng "Pony Blues" and "Banty Rooster Blues" al-
most immediately, and it became, for a "race recording"
distributed almost exclusively among Southern blacks, a substan-
tial hit, probably selling in the tens of thousands.
Patton was back at Dockery's in time for the fall harvest, having
left his Merigold woman as he had left so many others. But he was
spending more and more time in the upper Delta. Sometime dur-
ing this period he met Henry "Son" Sims, a black fiddler who lived
in the vicinity of Clarksdale. When
he was contacted by Para-
mount to make further recordings, he took Sims with him up to
the company's new studio in Grafton, Wisconsin. They were a
good match. Sims sawed roughly at his instrument, which sounds
Uke it may have been homemade, producing incisively rhythmic
lead hnes and an unsentimental, astringent timbre. It was proba-
bly shortly after these late November-early December sessions
with Sims that Patton, rambhng through the northern Delta town
of Lula, met the woman he was to live with, sometimes harmo-
niously and sometimes not, for the rest of his Ufe. Her name was
Bertha Lee, and she cooked for a white family in the vicinity.
 DEEP BLUES • 78

Patton set up housekeeping with Bertha Lee on a plantation

near Lula, a hamlet with a population of around four hundred.
The new residence gave him access to a wider and somewhat
more cosmopolitan world than the one he had known during his
years at Dockery's, for Lula was only a few miles by gravel road
from the ferry landing at Dundee, and just across the Mississippi
from Dundee, commanding a bluff that rises dramatically from
the river's muddy banks, was Helena, Arkansas. By 1930 Helena
was the Delta's hveliest blues center. As the only river port of any
consequence between Memphis and Vicksburg, it boasted a bus-
tling economy. There were always plenty of riverboats tied up by
the Helena levee, and the crewmen and stevedores who worked
there loading and unloading cotton and other goods were mostly
black. With and women and entertain-
their pay in their pockets
ment on their minds, they shouldhave been an ideal audience for
a celebrated blues singer, and Patton was a celebrity. During
1930, the first year he lived with Bertha Lee in Lula, Paramount
issued thirteen of his records and advertised them lavishly in
black newspapers across the country. No other blues singer had as
many sides released that year.
Nevertheless, Patton doesn't seem to have spent a lot of time in
Helena. The blues scene therewas fiercely competitive, and many
of the cafes and joints featured pianists. They tended to be a more
urbane lot than their guitar-playing counterparts; their clothes
and their manner were stylish and flashy, and their music was
loud and percussive. Patton, already well past forty, would have
sounded more than a little old-fashioned by comparison. Many of
the younger blues guitarists were beginning to borrow rhythmic
ideas from the pianists, especially walking basses and the stomp-
ing boogie-woogie beat. Patton's playing was hard-driving, but it
didn't have the pummeling regularity many of the pianists fa-
vored; it was more freely polyrhythmic. His audience was a coun-
try audience, and he seems to have continued to play mostly in the
country and the little towns of the upper Delta.
Often he played with Willie Brown, who by this time was living
a few miles from Lula in Robinsonville. Their favorite hangout was
the Joe Kirby plantation, located near Claxton on Highway 61,
where most of the area's moonshine was manufactured. The
Kirby plantation boasted another attraction, a spunky little pianist
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 79

named Louise Johnson who often performed in a barrelhouse run

by Liny Armstrong. Louise's playing was rocking and muscular.
She'd evidently listened to other pianists on records, but her work
retained some of the flavor of her native Delta. Sometimes she
even duplicated Patton's characteristic bass runs. She also sang,
in a lusty voice that belied her small frame, some very naughty
blues, one of which celebrated in fairly graphic detail the joys of
having sex standing up. "I'm goin' to show all you women," she
bragged, "honey, how to cock it on the wall." Brown met her first
and eventually introduced her to Patton, who was impressed
and began romancing her, presumably while Bertha was busy
cooking.
Eddie "Son" House, a failed preacher, convicted murderer,
solid ifrudimentary guitarist, and extraordinary blues singer,
wandered into the Lula area sometime in late 1929 or early 1930
and made the acquaintance of Patton and Bertha Lee. During the
next few months Son and Charley played together frequently, and
House, a careful observer of human nature, watched the way Pat-
ton operated vdth some amusement. "Man, he was tight vdth
money," House told interviewers Nick Perls and Steve Calt in
1966. "He wouldn't even give Bertha no money much. ... He
wouldn't even buy food half the time 'cause she's the cook, and
he'd wait on her to come from the white folks' kitchen and bring
him his food. That's the way he ate, out the white folks' kitchen.
He didn't spend anything much. Charley sure was choicy about
that."
House was born in 1902 near the Coahoma County village of
Lyon. As a young teenager, he was a hard worker in the cotton
fields and a passionate churchgoer. He preached his first sermon
at the age of fifteen, and by the time he was twenty, he was pastor
of a small Baptist church in the country just south of Lyon. His
downfall was a woman in her early thirties. After a sizzhng affair,
they ran off" to her home territory, northern Louisiana, where they
farmed for a while. But House had had his fill of hard manual
labor before he began preaching, and by 1926 he was back in the
vicinity of Lyon, alone. There he drank, rambled, halfheartedly at-
tempted to resume his preaching career, and took up the guitar
under the tutelage of an otherwise obscure thirty-five-year-old
musician named James McCoy.
 DEEP BLUES • 80

House learned from McCoy two blues that were to become

He recorded them with several different titles and
Delta staples.
sets of lyrics, but his original recordings, made in 1930, were
called Mama" and "Preachin' the Blues." The former,
"My Black
which included the unforgettable lines "My black mama's face
shine like the sun / Lipstick and powder sure won't help her
none," furnished the basis for Robert Johnson's celebrated
"Walkin' Blues" and for Muddy Waters' "Country Blues," the
first song he recorded for the Library of Congress, and "Feel Like

Going Home." "Preachin' the Blues" employed some floating

verses, like almost every other Delta blues, but it was unusually
personal. It vividly described the tussle between the church and
the blue devils for House's soul, a tussle the church kept losing.

Oh, I'm gon' get me religion, I'm gon' join the Baptist church
Oh, I'm gon' get me religion, I'm gon' join the Baptist church
I'm gon' be a Baptist preacher and I sure won't have to work

Oh, I'm gon' preach these blues now, and I want everybody to shout
Mmmmm-hmmmmm, and I want everybody to shout
I'm gon' do like a prisoner, I'm gon' roll my time on out

Oh, in my room, I bowed down to pray

Oh, in my room, I bowed down to pray
Say the blues come 'long and they drove my spirit away

Oh, and I had religion, Lord, this very day

Oh, I had religion, Lord, this very day
But the womens and whiskey, well they would not let me pray

Oh, I wish I had me a heaven of my own {Spoken: Great God Amighty!)

He-e-e-ey, heaven of my own
Then I'd give all my women a long, long happy home

Yeah I love my baby, just like I love myself

O-o-o-oh, just like I love myself
Well if she don't have me, she won't have nobody else

Hey I'm gon' fold my arms, I'm gon' kneel down in prayer
Oh, I fold my arms, gon' kneel down in prayer
When I get up I'm gon' see if my preachin' suit a man's ear
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 81

Now met I the blues this mornin' walkin' just like a man
O-o-o-oh, walkin' just like a man
I said good mornin' blues, now give me your right hand

Now it ain't nothin' now, baby, Lord, that's gon' worry my mind
O-o-o-oh, Lord, that's gon' worry my mind
Oh, I'm satisfied, I got the longest line

Oh, I got to stay on the job, I ain't got no time to lose

He-e-e-ey, I ain't got no time to lose
I swear to God I've got to preach these gospel blues
(Spoken: Great God Amighty!)

Oh, I'm gon' preach these blues and choose my seat and sit down
Oh, I'm gon' preach these blues now and choose my seat and sit down
When the spirit comes, sisters, I want you to jump straight up and down

Blues musicians were well aware that their singing was compa-
rable to preaching, both in style and in the effect
it could have on

an audience. "Preachin' the Blues" made the connections explicit

in amanner that must have seemed scandalously outspoken to
many who heard it. Much was made of Ray Charles's mixing of
blues themes and gospel music in the 1950s, but House was
preaching the "gospel blues" in the late twenties. The song as-
sumed its final shape after 1927 when Son fell under the spell of
another Delta bluesman with a preaching background and strong
church leanings, Rubin Lacy, and began emulating his sUde gui-
tar style. By 1930, House had fashioned a remarkably pure and
original style of hisown out of his church roots, the influence of
men McCoy, Lacy, and Charley Patton, and his hmited guitar
like
technique. His instrument became a congregation, responding to
his gravelly exhortation with chpped, percussive bass rhythms and
the ecstatic whine of the sUder in the treble. There was nothing
fancy about House's music, except perhaps for the rich embroi-
deries that occasionally found their way into his singing, but it
was a stark, gripping, kinetic music that demanded to be danced
to and would have left few Usteners unmoved.
Practically every man who hved in the Delta in those days car-
ried a gun, and sometimes there was trouble. In 1928 House shot
and killed a man at a drunken house party near Lyon, and al-
 DEEP BLUES • 82

though he pleaded self-defense, he was sent to the state penal

—
farm at Parchman. He'd always been rebellious he once told an
interviewer how he spent afternoons in a Clarksdale movie theater
when he was a teenager, watching westerns and quietly but fer-
vently hoping the outlaws would win —
and the experience at
Parchman, where he had to work at the sort of manual labor he'd
tried to avoid by preaching and singing the blues, made him even
more restive. But he was obliging and polite when, after around
two years, a judge in Clarksdale reexamined his case and gave him
his freedom. The judge also suggested that House leave the vicin-
ity of Clarksdale as expeditiously as possible, a suggestion that he
was quick to act on.
Judges in the Delta could dispose of cases involving blacks
pretty much as they saw fit. During the twenties, the Clarksdale
Press Register reported on encounters between blacks and the law
in a regular column called "Good Mawnin' Judge." A sample
entry from 1927: "Mary Manning, negress, charged with pos-
session of whiskey, was fined $110.00. The court stated that on
account of bhndness he did not assess her with days in the county
jail as it was Mary's first offense. Judge Franklin and police offi-

cers stated that they had heard of Blind Tigers, but this was the
first time they had ever seen one."

Son fled the area where he'd spent almost all his life, heading
north, and on his way through Lula, he encountered Charley Pat-
ton. Since the older man liked his music and the nearby Kirby
plantation offered plenty of work for a bluesman and plenty of po-
tent moonshine, he decided to stick around. A few months later, in
May 1930, a Paramount representative named Art Laibley stopped
at Lula on his way Texas and arranged with Patton for another
to
recording session in Wisconsin. The company had asked Patton to
direct talent their way when he recorded the previous summer,
and he had brought them the fiddler Henry Sims, who accompa-
nied several of Charley's vocals and recorded four selections of his
own. This time Patton recommended Willie Brown, Louise John-
son, and Son House. Laibley entrusted Charley wath a hundred
dollars to cover expenses on the trip and arranged for a somewhat
reluctant driver, singer Wheeler Ford of the Delta Big Four gospel
quartet, to transport this lively crew to Grafton.
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 83

Just north of Memphis, Ford stopped his Buick by unanimous

request so that his passengers, who were crammed in with the
three Stella guitars belonging to Patton, Brown, and House, could
buy some moonshine. While the teetotal driver sat grimly at the
wheel ("I don't claim to be no chauffeur," goes the appropriate
blues line, "but I holds it in the road") , everyone else proceeded
to whoop it up. Patton and Louise, sitting in the front seat, began
arguing, and Louise demanded that Ford stop the car again so
that she could get in the back. "That's when it went to happen,"
House recalled. "Charley, he's mad. He's sitting in the front.
Right along ... I commence to leaning over talking trash to her. I
say, 'I really kinda like you, gal.' And we take another big swallow.
So when we got to Grafton, Charley didn't know that I had done
made her, see. So they have a little hotel there in Grafton, where
the recorders stay at. And we's all out getting the grips and every-
thing, and so the man come over what attend to the place and giv-
ing everybody their keys to the different rooms. So I come up, and
they's telling me man done been here and give us all the
'bout 'the
keys.' I said, 'Where did he go, 'cause he ain't give me no key,' and
so Louise say, 'Yes he did.' I say, 'No he didn't.' Say, 'I got me and
your key.' I say, 'Oh, oh, that's it then.' And that's the way it hap-
pened. ... Me
and her stayed in our little room."
Everyone went to the recording session together the next day.
Even though Patton, Brown, and House had been playing to-
gether regularly, it was decided that they should each perform
solo, with Brown backing Patton on two of his four selections.
Louise cut four boisterous piano blues, including a cleaned-up but
still lascivious "On the Wall," with Patton, Brown, and House

shouting merrily in the background. In all it was a sparkling ses-

sion, with Patton and Brown sounding particularly forceful on
their two duets, "Moon Going Down" and "Bird Nest Bound," set
to similar guitar accompaniments. In "Moon Going Down," Pat-
ton sang about both the upper Delta (Clarksdale, Helena) and his
old stomping grounds. Sunflower County. There was some of his
image
familiar boasting, especially in the third verse, a vivid visual
of a favorite whorehouse, but the overall mood was wistful and
maybe a httle desperate. The last two verses, with their railroad-
related images of light, darkness, motion, and loneliness, have the
 DEEP BLUES • 84

disquieting immediacy of a dream —

not a bad dream exactly, but
the kind of dream that leaves one with a sharp, unaccountable
sense of loss.

Aw moon is goin' down, baby, Clarksdale sun to shine

that
Aw moon's goin' down, baby, Clarksdale 'bout to shine
that
Rosetta Henry told me, Lord, 1 don't want you hangin' 'round

Oh wellwhere were you now, baby, Clarksdale mill burned down?

Oh wellwhere were you now, babe, Clarksdale mill burned down?
(Spoken: Boy, you know where I was)
I was way down Sunflower with my face all fulla frowns
There's a house over yonder, painted all over green
There's a house over yonder, painted all over green
(Spoken: Boy, you know I know it's there)
Some of the finest young women. Lord, man most ever seen

Lord, I think I heard that Helena whistle, Helena whistle, Helena whistle
blow
Lord, I think 1 heard that Helena whistle blow
(Spoken: Well, I hear it blowin' now)

Lord, I ain't gonna stop walkin' till I get in my rider's door

Lord, the smokestack is black and the bell it shine Uke, bell it shine like,

bell it shine like gold

Ahhh the smokestack is black and the bell it shine like gold
(Spoken: Shuckin' you, boy, you know it looks good to me)
Lord, I ain't gonna walk here, tarry 'round no more
Oh yeah was at midnight when I hear the local blow
evil
I was midnight when I heard the local blow
evil at

(Spoken: Boy, I'm gettin' lonesome Patton —

Same here, buddy —Brown)
I got to see my rider, when she's gettin' on board

It's impossible to tell whether having been spurned by Louise

Johnson, a woman a good twenty years Patton's junior, had af-

fected him, whether he was thinking of Bertha Lee, whether he
was feehng older and unwell (for the signs of the heart ailment
that would kill him four years later must have been apparent by
this time) or whether he was simply mellowing. In any event, his
,

second duet with Brown, "Bird Nest Bound," was the first of Pat-
ton's recorded blues to express longing for a resting place, a re-
treat, a home. It had probably been a long time since Patton felt at
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 85

home anywhere, if he ever did. One senses genuine regret in the

third, fourth,and fifth verses; their images of hopelessness, am-

bivalence, and the end of another relationship seem to negate the
more positive appeal of verses one and two. But then, in a reversal
that is without parallel in Patton's recordings, he offers the
woman he's addressing a firm, almost otherworldly assurance.
Where is the "safe sweet home" he visualizes, and what kind of
car wHl make the trip? Was he thinking of Wheeler Ford's Buick
or of a celestial chariot? However one chooses to interpret this
final image, "Bird Nest Bound" is plaintive and dazzling.

Come mama, out to the edge of town

on,
Come mama, go to the edge of town
on,
I know where there's a bird nest, built down on the ground

If I was a bird, mama. . . . (the two guitars finish the line)

If I was a bird, mama, 1 would find a nest in the heart of town
{Spoken: Lord, you know I'd build it in the heart of town)
So when the town get lonesome, I'd be bird nest bound

Hard luck is at your front door, blues are in your room

Hard luck is at your front door, blues are in your room
Callin' at your back door, what is gonna become of you

Some time I say I need you, then again I don't

Some time I say I need you, then again I don't
(Spoken: You know it's true, baby)
Some time I think I'U quit you, then again I won't

Oh I remember one mornin', standin' in my baby's door

(Spoken: Sure, boy, I was standin' there)
Oh I remember one mornin', standin' in my baby's door
know what she told me?)
(Spoken: Boy, you
Looka here. Papa Charley, I don't want you no more

Safe sweet home, sweet home, baby, through that shinin' star
Safe sweet home now, through, ahhh, that shinin' star
(Spoken: Lord, you know I'm just stayin' there)
You don't need no tellin', mama, take you in my car

After the 1930 recording session, Patton returned to Lula and to

Bertha Lee. Shortly thereafter, he took her back south with him,
 DEEP BLUES • 86

and they settled in Cleveland,which was no longer the rough little

outpost had been when Will Dockery was carving out his em-
it

pire. The population was approaching three thousand, and cotton

money had brought prosperity; many of the whites lived on pleas-
ant tree-shaded streets in white frame cottages of Greek Revival
design. The black section was less appealing, but a little of Cleve-
land's wealth trickled down to the underprivileged, and on week-
ends several thousand blacks would swarm into town from the
nearby plantations to shop, gossip, see and be seen. Saturday was
their day, as surely as Sunday was the Lord's. The whites would
finish their business early that morning and retreat to their
homes, except for the merchants and salespeople, who staunchly
manned their counters while a few white policemen and deputies
attempted to keep order. It was a fruitful situation for a blues
singer as locally renowned as Patton. He would play on the streets,
at the railroad station, or perhaps in a store or cafe on a Saturday
afternoon and work at a country dance later that night.
Sometime during this period someone attempted to slit Patton's
throat. Cleveland gossips blamed Bertha Lee; their many violent
arguments were a matter of public record. But a niece of Charley's
told researcher David Evans that a man (probably a jealous man)
attacked him wdth a long, wicked knife when he was singing one
night in Merigold. It wasn't an uncommon sort of occurrence.
Leadbelly had his throat cut in a Texas juke joint and survived,
but with an ugly scar that ran almost from ear to ear. Patton was
scarred, too, and after this cutting scrape his voice seemed to grow
more gravelly. But that was the least of his problems. He'd been
chain smoking and drinking heavily for years, and he knew his
health was beginning to go. He complained of pain whenever he
slept on his back, and although he ate ravenously, he wasn't able
to put on weight. In drunken fits he would rail against Bertha, or
whoever he was with, complaining that his women were starving
him. By 1933, when he moved with Bertha Lee to the hamlet of
Holly Ridge, he was suffering severe and continual exhaustion
and chronic shortness of breath.
In January 1934, W. R. Calaway of the American Record Com-
pany began looking for Patton. The Depression, which had hit the
recording industry hard during the early thirties, was abating, and
someone, perhaps Calaway himself, remembered Patton's popu-
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 87

larity in 1929-30. After trying Jackson, where Henry Spier re-

fused help him, Calaway eventually located Charley and Bertha
to
in Belzoni, a town on the Yazoo River in the lower Delta. Unfortu-
nately, they were both in jail, having become embroiled in a vio-
lent scrap at ahouse party or juke joint. Calaway bailed them out
and took them writh him to New York City.
If New York impressed Patton, he gave no indication of it in the

songs he recorded. In all Ukelihood, he was so ill that the three

days of recording passed in a haze. For the most part, his guitar
playing was listless, with little of the old spark; his vocals were
heavy and, at times, positively lugubrious. Bertha Lee sang
strongly, like a countrified Bessie Smith, on two blues, one of
which covered the Memphis Minnie hit "Bumble Bee." Her other
selection, "Mind Reader Blues," ostensibly a boast of extrasensory
powers, indicated that after four years of living wdth Charley Pat-
ton she didn't really need clairvoyance to guess what was on his
mind.

Baby I can see just what's on your mind

Baby I can see just what's on your mind
You got a long black woman with her gold teeth in her face

I take a long look right smack down In your mind

I took a long look right smack down in your mind
And I see more women, all up and down the line

Now don't kid your mama, you ain't foolin' nobody but yourself
Now don't kid your mama, you ain't foolin nobody but yourself
'

And what I see on your mind, you will not have no friends

Iremember days when I was living in Lula town

Iremember days when I was living in Lula town
My man did so many wrong things that 1 had to leave the town

Down by the riverside my man is got a transfer boat

Down by the riverside my man is got a transfer boat
And last time I seed him, with a gal way up the road

Well I'm worried now and I won't be worried long

Well I'm worried now and I won't be worried long
Well I'm worried now and I won't be worried long
 DEEP BLUES • 88

Charley accompanied "Mind Reader Blues" with some of the most

unimaginative guitar playing of his recording career. In his own
blues, he seemed to clearly anticipate what was coming. "Poor
Me," a sentimental country ballad, repeated twice the lines
"Don't the moon look pretty shinin' down through the tree / I can
see Bertha Lee, Lord, but she can't see me." In "34 Blues," he
anticipated 1935 with a plea: "And it may bring sorrow, and it may
bring tears / Oh Lord, oh Lord, let me see a brand new year." He
also recorded six religious songs, as many as he had cut at all his
previous sessions combined. They were a morbid lot. "I've Got a
Mother Up in Kingdom," "Oh Lord I'm in Your Hands," and "Oh
Death" were three of the titles.
Patton and Bertha Lee returned from New York early in Febru-
ary, and Charley died on April 28. The death certificate blames a
mitral valve disorder. The trouble probably began years earlier,
with a childhood case of rheumatic fever or, more likely, v^dth the
contraction of syphilis when he was a young man. He had con-
sulted a doctor, probably for the first time in his life, between April
17 and April 20. Delta blacks rarely went to local doctors, all of
whom were white, and Son House once opined that if Patton had
wanted to consult a specialist, he would have sought out a hoodoo
doctor or root man.
Patton 's niece told David Evans that Charley lay on his death-
bed for a week and spent most of it preaching, returning obses-
sively to his favorite sermon. He had recorded a version of this
text, which was drawn from several diff'erent chapters of Revela-
tions, at his second session in 1929:

Well, friends, I want to tell you, they tell me when He come

down, his hair gonna be like lamb's wool and his eyes like flames of
fire, and every man gonna know He's the son of the true living God.

Round his shoulders going to be a rainbow, and his feet like fine
brass. And my friends, 1 wanted you to know again. He said that He
going to have a river water that's flowing through the garden,
'clared the preacher. And he's gonna have a tree before the twelve
manners of food, and the leaves gonna be healing damnation, and
the big rock that you can sit behind, the wind can't blow at you no
more, and you gonna count the four and twenty elders that you can
sit down and talk with and that you can talk about your trouble that

you come . world that you just come from.

. .
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 89

The images of hair like lamb's wool and feet like fine brass are
from Revelation 1:14-15; 1:17-18 states, "And when 1 saw him, I
fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand on me, saying

unto me. Fear not; 1 am the first and the last; 1 am he that liveth,
and was dead; and, behold, 1 am alive for evermore. Amen; and
have the keys of hell and of death."
According to his death certificate, Patton expired in a house at
350 Heathman Street in Indianola, a town some twenty miles
south of Dockery's. The document doesn't mention Bertha Lee;
the only informant gave the name Willie Calvin, a name that
meant nothing to Son House or any of Patton's other surviving co-
horts. Bluesman Honeyboy Edwards says he learned of Patton's
death shortly after it occurred, at a plantation store just south of
Indianola. He was told thatCharley had been living wdth Bertha
Lee in a rented room above the store and playing for Saturday
night parties at an Uncle Sherman's house. Did he leave Bertha
Lee at the very last, rent a room, and die alone or with members of
his family? Or did Bertha Lee (who insisted in an interview she
gave Bernard Klatzko a few years before her own death that Patton
expired in her arms with the words, "Honey, from now on you're
going to have it tough") decline to get involved in the postmor-
tem, perhaps because she and Charley had never been legally
married? The death went unreported in the local and national
press, and we will probably never know.

WHILE CHARLEY PATTON CONTEMPLATED his imminent

departure for a safe, sweet home, where he would finally find shel-
ter from the cruel wind that had blown him so precipitously
through the world, a man named James Coyner was leaving Indi-
ana and returning home to his mother, who was farming a small
plot of land about a mile from Cleveland, Mississippi, and needed
his help. It was unusual for a black to own land in the Delta, let
alone a black woman; Coyner had come from ambitious stock. It
was perhaps even more unusual for a Delta black to read Scho-
penhauer and William James, as Coyner did. He'd had plenty of
time to ponder their concepts of fate and free will since 1926 or
 DEEP BLUES • 90

'27, when he began serving a three-to-ten-year sentence at the In-

diana State Prison near Michigan City for stealing the body of a
white woman from a graveyard.
The area around Cleveland and Dockery's had changed since
Coyner's youth and Charley Patton's heyday. For one thing, the
burning oif and clearing of large tracts of land had largely been
completed, and with the end of the frontier had accom-
spirit that
panied intensive development came a palpable constriction of
horizons, of possibilities. As towns hke Cleveland grew from pre-
carious crossroads settlements into communities wdth a life and
purpose of their own, they attracted more and more poor whites
from the hills who brought to the Delta's paternalistic social
structure an atmosphere of barely repressed violence, a burning
need to acquire money and power, and an outspoken racism that
neatly suited their purposes. They went to work in stores that
some of them eventually bought, they started other businesses
and brought their kinfolk and friends in to help run them, and be-
fore too many years had passed, they controlled most of the newer
Delta towns economically and politically. The balance of power
was shifting, and the planter class, never numerically strong,
could only watch it shift. Meanwhile, blacks could hardly fail to

notice that incidents of harassment, incarceration on trumped-up

charges, and lynching were on the increase. The Delta, already
tense, coiled tighter and tighter.
Somehow the tension that erupted always seemed to carry sex-
ual overtones. A woman in a town or on a small farm would
white
allege that she'd been raped by a black, and a likely suspect ^per- —
haps an actual rapist, perhaps a local troublemaker, perhaps some-
one fated to be in the vvnrong place at the wrong time could —
always be found. When the planters were the Delta's absolute
masters, they usually tried to prevent lynchings, but once a mob
from a town like Cleveland or Clarksdale got its hands on a rape
suspect, there was little a planter or even a group of planters could
do, especially when the town police were the mob's overt or tacit
accomplices.
James Coyner felt the Delta's racial and sexual tensions thun-
dering within himself, and in the essays of Schopenhauer and
James he believed he'd found the justification to act. One night in
late December, while his mother slept, he concealed a pistol, a
 HEART LIKE RAILROAD STEEL • 91

knife, and a blunt instrument under his coat and made his way to
a small house on the outskirts of Cleveland where a white man,
his pregnant wife, and their young son lay sleeping. He shot the
man back of the head, bashed the boy's skull in, battered
in the
the woman's head against the bedroom wall until her brains splat-
tered over the pillowcase, cut slices of flesh from her legs and
thighs, and ripped the unborn child from her womb.
Within a few days, white women in Cleveland began receiving
anonymous obscene letters. At the same time, federal officials in-
vestigating a rash of similar letters that were being received by
women in Indianapolis noticed that all the letters bore a Cleve-
land, Mississippi, postmark. Coyner, who subscribed to an India-
napolis newspaper, was easily apprehended when he visited the
Cleveland post office to collect his mail. Since federal investigators
were involved, there was no chance for a lynch mob to form.
Coyner was spirited away to the state capital in Jackson before
anyone in Cleveland knew of his capture. His prison record in In-
diana quickly came to light and a few days later, he confessed. But
he still had to be returned to Cleveland for his trial.
Both the sheriff of Bolivar County and the district attorney for-
mally asked Governor Conner to send in the National Guard. It
was a suicidal decision politically, since every poor white who
wanted to lynch Coyner was also a potential voter and the blacks
were effectively disenfranchised. But the sheriff was not running
for reelection, and anyway, everyone knew that bringing Coyner
back to Cleveland without the mihtia would guarantee a quick
lynching, and perhaps a full-scale race war. So six hundred Na-
tional Guardsmen, recruited from counties that were a good dis-
tance away, were mobilized and sent in. The Cleveland
courthouse was surrounded by barbed wire, machine-gun nests
were set up behind sandbags, and the nearby streets were cleared.
More troops set up positions on the roofs of adjacent buildings and
on the courthouse lawn, and Coyner was driven from the train
station to the jail and then to the courthouse surrounded by rows
of Guardsmen with fixed bayonets.
During times of high racial tension, rural blacks stayed away
from Cleveland, and town blacks stayed indoors. But the news of
the Guard's arrival spread like wildfire, and on the morning of the
trial, the streets were as thick with blacks as if it had been a Satur-
 DEEP BLUES • 92

day afternoon. Poor whites were there in abundance, too, and the
two groups eyed each other silently while the Guardsmen kept
their weapons at the ready and their eyes open. Inside the court-
house, the sheriff produced near-pandemonium by producing
from a small box squares of the murdered woman's skin; they had
been tanned like leather. Coyner, who had been lecturing his
guards on Schopenhauer and James throughout the trip up from
Jackson and was now sitting quietly and calmly, betraying not a
trace of emotion, was sentenced to be hanged on March 5 in Jack-
son.
David L. Cohn, whose book Where I Was Born and Raised con-
tains the most detailed and vivid description of the trial, inter-
viewed some of the poor whites who were miUing in sullen knots
beyond the barbed wire barricades. "I wish they'd lemme have
him," said a man in an Army overcoat left over from the World
War. "I'd cut out his black balls and throw 'em to the hogs." An-
other man pointed at the Guardsmen and said contemptuously,
"Niggers are a-braggin' on ever' plantation in the county that the
government's protectin' 'em, and we gonna have to kill a lot of the
black bastards to knock some sense into their kinky heads." The
blacks seemed surprisingly lighthearted, almost festive. A few
were selling cold drinks to the crowd and the Guardsmen. Many of
them assumed that President Roosevelt had dispatched the troops
in order to prevent local whites from massacring them wholesale.
Why shouldn't they celebrate? Washington hadn't sent them
such an unmistakable sign that the President was concerned
about their welfare since the day Lincoln set them free. Later,
after the troops left and James Coyner was quietly executed and
life went on as usual, they began to remember that Washington

was very far away.

PART

II
 CHAPTER 3

Mojo Hand
juke house was
Waters' in full swing.The home-
Muddy
made whiskey was selling briskly, fish were frying in the
kitchen, and under the flickering light of coal oil lamps,
knots of men were throwing dice, squinting intently to
make out the numbers that came up. Muddy was playing the
blues, with his childhood friend Scott or the grizzled fiddler and
guitarist Son Sims helping out from time to time. When the hour
grew late, he pulled out a metal kazoo, shoved it in a wire neck
rack, and sang jazzy, trumpetlike phrases into it while bearing
down on the rhythm. "At night," he remembers, "in the country,
you'd be surprised how that music carries. The sound be empty
out there. You could hear my guitar way before you get to the
house, and you could hear the peoples hollerin' and screamin'."
The stranger stopped just inside the door and coolly took in the
action. He was elegantly dressed and carried himself proudly;
even among Muddy's diverse customers, whose clothing ranged
from dusty overalls to Saturday-night finery, he stood out. When
he tried his hand at the dice and the cards, the news of his arrival
rippled through the crowded room. Calmly, imperturbably, he
won game after game. "He been down to New Orleans," Muddy
heard somebody say. "Got himself a mojo, a gamblin' hand."
Muddy had seen plenty of mojo hands. They were httle red flan-
nel bags that smelled of oils and perfumes; some were pierced by a
 DEEP BLUES • 96

needle or two. You bought them from a "doctor," a specialist in

charms and magic. "We all believed in mojo hands," Muddy says.
"You get you a mojo, and if you're gamblin', it'll take care of that;
you win. If you're after the girls, you can work that on the woman
you want and win. Black people really believed in this hoodoo, and
the black people in Louisiana was a little more up into that thing
than the peoples in the Delta part, as far as makin' things that
would work."
Muddy put his guitar away and eased across the room to watch
the stranger roll the dice. Pretty soon he was taking his turn, and
his friend Scott was drawn into the action too. It didn't take the
stranger long to practically clean them were crowding
out. People
around the circle of lamplight there on the board floor, shaking
their heads and muttering darkly. The stranger took time out for a
drink, and Muddy and Scott had a hushed conference in the cor-
ner. They'd always heard that pepper and salt would "kill" a gam-
bling hand; here was their chance to find out.
They disappeared into Muddy's kitchen and came back with
handfuls of ground chili peppers and salt. The stranger was back
in the game. By this time news of his presence had spread around
the plantation, and every man who considered himself a gambler
was waiting to test his luck. Muddy watched, expressionless. The
lamplight hit his high cheekbones and cast Fu Manchu shadows
up over his sHtted eyes. While the stranger kept one eye on Muddy
and the other on the game, Scott circled casually around the ac-
tion, until he was close enough to shp a pinch of chih pepper into
the pocket of the stranger's jacket. After a suitable interval.
Muddy strolledaround the growing crowd and casually dropped
salt on the aU around the stranger, making sure to lightly
floor
dust his shoulders as well. Then he signaled Scott with a quick
glance, and the two of them got back into the game.
Sitting in his kitchen in the suburbs of Chicago more than forty
years later, rolling an inch or so of champagne around in his long-
stemmed goblet, and shooting knowing grins at his man Bo,
Muddy laughed deeply. "We gambled all that night," he said,
"and after we put the pepper on him and salted him down, he got*
unlucky. We won the shoes off" his feet! We thought we'd killed his
mojo. So the next day I goes into Clarksdale and goes to see the
 MOJO HAND • 97

doctor. He was about the age I am now, and he was a long, tall guy
with real light silver-gray hair, no bald on his head. He looked
weird, and he had weird ting-a-lings hanging up there in his place.
He did some real fine writin' on a little piece of paper, rolledit up

reeeeal tight, sealed it in an envelope, put some perfume on the

envelope, and told me I wasn't supposed
to open it. I paid three
dollars for it, I And
was two or three years before I won
believe. it

another quarter!" Bo squealed and wheezed with laughter.

"Imagine," Muddy added, "1 thought we had done killed the
man's mojo, and instead of me goin' and buyin' me some food or
some clothes, I bought me a mojo with my little money! After two
or three years, man, 1 got mad. I got broke once in a crap game,
and I decided I'm gonna open it and see what's in it. And it was
just some little writin'
—
'you wdn, you v^dn, you vmi, I win, you
win, I win.' I had it read to me." He looked down at the table for a
few seconds, thinking to himself. "It's just a con game on people's
heads, you know, gettin' the fools. And these mojo doctors was
drivin' big cars, owned big homes, 'cause the peoples was brain-
washed. My grandmother and father, their mother and father, was
so brainwashed, they thought people could point their finger at
you and make snakes and frogs jump out of you, or make you bark
like a dog. They said if they get some of your hair from a certain
spot right on the top of your head, and bury it or put it in runnin'
water, that could give you a headache. Now that could be possible.
And I think down in Louisiana, they could've had a few things
that would do somethin'. But if such a thing as a mojo had've been
good, you'd've had to go down to Louisiana to find one. Where we
were, in the Delta, they couldn't do nothin', / don't think. And
there is no way 1 can shake my finger at you and make you bark
like a dog, or make fiogs and snakes jump out of you." Muddy
laughed heartily. "Bulls/zit," he added emphatically. "No way."
"But you know, when you're writin' them songs that are com-
ing from down that way, you can't leave out somethin' about that
mojo thing. Because this is what black people really believed in at
that time. We played so many times, 'I'm goin' down to Louisiana
/ Get me a mojo hand,' and I tried to make it a picture so you could
see it, just hke you're lookin' at it. When I was singin' it, I didn't
beheve in itno way. But even today, when you play the old blues
 DEEP BLUES • 98

like me, you can't get from around that. I'd get so many requests,
I could play 'Goin' to Louisiana' every night if I would do it."

"Louisiana Blues" was Muddy's first nationwide hit. He re-

corded it Chess label on October 23, 1950, with Little
for the
Walter's harmonica providing spare, evocative echoes to his pow-
erful singing and slide guitar while bassist Big Crawford and
drummer Elgin Evans laid down a loping double-time. It entered
the Billboard rhythm and blues chart (which had been called the
"Race Records" chart until 1949 and was a weekly tabulation of
the records blacks were buying) during the first week of 1951 and
attained a top position of number ten. In several of his subsequent
rhythm and blues hits. Muddy offered elaborations on the hoodoo
theme. "I got a black cat bone / I got a mojo too / I got the John
the Conqueroo / I'm gonna mess with you," he sang, unforgetta-
bly, in "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man," a song v^ritten for him
by Willie Dixon that reached number eight on the r&b chart in
1954.
But "Louisiana Blues," the first really successful recording of
the new, heavily amplified Delta blues and the song that estab-
hshed the imperial, commanding persona Muddy would project on
virtually all his subsequent hit records, was special. It had the
—
power a force that Muddy's hardcore fans, most of whom were
from or of the Delta, could not ignore. The power was in the tune,
a variation on the venerable Delta standard "Rolling and Tum-
bling." It was in the supercharged whine of Muddy's electric slide
guitar, which introduced "Louisiana Blues" with a quavering,
voicehke phrase built around the tonic and a flattened seventh
and then kicked into the rhythm and the first verse with a chilling,
deeply bluesy falling fifth. It was in the clarity, presence, and in-
tensity of the recorded sound, which seemed to fairly leap out of
the grooves of the blue-labeled 78-rpm disc.

I'm goin' down to Louisiana

Baby behind the sun
down to Louisiana
I'm goin'
Honey behind the sun
WeU y'know 1 just found out
My trouble's just begun
 MOJO HAND • 99

I'm goin' down to New Orleans

Get me a mojo hand
I'm goin' down to New Orleans, umm-hmmm
Get me a mojo hand
(Walter, shouting: Aw, take me wltcha, man, when you go!)
I'm gonna show all you good-lookin' women
Just how to treat your man

Whether Muddy beHeved in the power of the mojo hand or not

(and even today he seems ambivalent), "Louisiana Blues" had a
power all its own — the power of the Delta's deepest music un-
leashed full force by the power of electricity. It was irresistible, but
then Muddy had always been that.

MUDDY WAS BORN MCKINLEY MORGANFIELD on April 4,

1915, in Rolling Fork, Mississippi, which southernmost
is in the
part of the Delta on Highway 61, about halfway between Vicks-
burg and GreenviUe. His father, Ollie Morganfield, farmed and
played some guitar, but Muddy never had a chance to learn from
him because his parents separated and his maternal grandmother
took him to live wdth her in the countryside nearby when he was
six months old. Three years later she carried him north to Coa-
homa County, where she set up housekeeping on the Stovall plan-
tation. Theirs was one more journey in the south-to-north
movement that had brought the Patton family to Dockery's plan-
tation in 1897 and deposited Tommy Johnson in the same area
around 1912-14. But by the time Muddy and his grandmother
settled on StovaU's, the promise of industrial jobs was drawing
more and more blacks from the upper Delta farther north to Chi-
cago. Charley Patton's mentor, Harry Sloan, left Dockery's for
Chicago, never to be heard of again, around 1918, within a year or
so of young Muddy's arrival.
Like the countryside in the vicinity of Dockery's, Coahoma
County was still partly wilderness in those days. Bears and pan-

thers lurked in the remaining uncut forests along with deer, rab-
bits, squirrels, coons, and other game. But the Stovall plantation
was hardly a pioneer outpost. Much of the land had been cleared
 DEEP BLUES • 100

and cultivated by the Choctaws long before they ceded it to the

United States government in 1830, in the Treaty of Dancing Rab-
bit Creek. Colonel William Howard Stovall, who owned and
operated the plantationwhen Muddy lived there, arrived in the
area from Memphis around the end of World War I and took over
—
from his mother the land had been passed down through the
women of the family since the 1840s, and somehow they'd man-
aged to hold onto it through the Civil War and Reconstruction. It
was rich cotton land, close to the Mississippi and, except for a few
patches of woods and the cypress-shaded bottoms that provided
natural drainage, flat as a tabletop.
"The peoples lived scattered way apart," Muddy remembers.
"Our little house was way back in the country. We had one house
close to us, and then the next one would've been a mile. If you got
sick, you could holler and wouldn't nobody hear you. We had our
own horses, mules, cows, goats, and chickens, and I watered 'em
from the time I was a kid. Had to pump the water, and that pump
would put blisters in my hand. Even for one cow, you gotta pump
a lot of water. She'd take two draws out of one of those big tubs,
swallow twice, and that'd be it."
Even before he got to Stovall's plantation, McKinley had been
rechristened Muddy. "When I got big enough to crawl around, I
would play in the mud and try to eat it," he says. "My grandma
started that Muddy thing, and after we were up there near Clarks-
dale, the kids started the Waters." By that time he was a budding
musician. "When I was around three years old, I was already
beatin' on bucket tops and tin cans. Anything with a sound I
would try to play it. I'd take my stick and beat on the ground tryin'
to get a new sound and be hummin' my Htde baby song along with
it. My first instrument, which a lady give me, was an old squeeze

box, old accordion. I must've been five. I never did learn to play
anything on it, and one of the older boys pulled it apart. The next
thing I had in my hand was a Jew's harp. I learned pretty good on
that thing, and then when I was about seven, I started playing
with what they call the French harp at home, the harmonica.
That's when they started in with the Waters, and that was even
what my family started to call me: 'Go on, ol' Muddy Waters.' I
didn't like that. It made me mad, but that's the way it goes on me,
you know.
 MOJO HAND • 101

"Now when I was nine, I was gettin' a sound out of the French
harp. When I was thirteen, I was very, very good. I was playin' it
vsdth my friend Scott at fish fries, picnics, and things. I should
never have given it up! But then when I was seventeen, I put the
harp down and switched to the guitar. The first one I got, I sold
the last horse we had. Made about fifteen dollars for him, gave my
grandmother seven dollars and fifty cents, I kept seven-fifty and
paid about two-fifty for that guitar. It was a Stella. The peoples or-
dered them from Sears and Roebuck in Chicago. I got about three
guitars from Sears and Roebuck before I came up this way."
Now that they were a two-guitar team. Muddy and Scott found
more work. "We could make more sound with the two guitars,"
he explains. "But it was so long before I even made a dollar! Com-
ing up through my childhood life, I tried to stay with the music,
—
but we didn't get no pay for it fifty cents, seventy-five cents. You
couldn't stay there with it if you ain't got it deep down in your
soul."
Though he never tried his hand at preaching Son House,
like
Muddy did go to church. "Can't you hear it in my voice?"
he asks.
"I'd go every Sunday. Plenty of people would stay up all night and
listen to the blues and go home, get all ready, and go to church.
Back then there was just three things I wanted to be a heck of a —
preacher, a heck of a ball player, or a heck of a musician. I always
felt like I could beat plowin' mules, choppin' cotton, and drawin'

water. I did all that, and I never did hke none of it. Sometimes
they'd want us to work Saturday, but they'd look for me, and I'd be
gone, playin' in some Uttle town or in some juke joint."
Between helping out around his grandmother's house along
with a shifting cast of sibhngs and other young people, laboring in
the cotton fields, and playing his harmonica and then his guitar
around the immediate area. Muddy had little time for schoohng.
The subject came up near the beginning of our conversations
when I asked about his friend Scott's last name. Various writers
have transcribed Muddy's pronunciation of it as Bowhanna, Bow-
handle, and Bohannon. asked how it was spelled, and Muddy and
I

Bo tossed it back and forth, trying various finely shaded pronunci-

ations, trying to remember exactly what the name had sounded
hke. Eventually they settled on something close to the fairly com-
mon surname Bohannon. "I had bad schooling," Muddy ex-
 DEEP BLUES • 102

plained. "Went to about the second or third grade, and what I

learned to do,wasI doing that really wrong."
He laughed softly when he said that and glanced down appre-
ciatively at the champagne in his glass. Near-illiteracy had been a
handicap, but he was living better than most of the Delta people
who'd moved north, and there was no compelling reason to regret
circumstances buried deep in the past. Besides, his lack of school-
ing had also been a source of strength. Like almost anyone who
grows up without the benefit of book learning. Muddy discovered
at an early age that he had to use his eyes and ears. He has learned
to read fairly adequately by this time, but he still sizes up whoever
he's talking to in quick takes from behind those lazy-looking eye-
lids, noting the most fleeting changes in facial expression while

hstening carefully for telltale shifts in vocal pitch and emphasis.

This built-in radar saved Muddy's life more than once in the
rough-and-tumble of Deep South and Northern ghetto joints and
taverns, but it's more than survival equipment. Without it. Muddy
probably wouldn't be the great and subtle vocalist he is.
—
Singing the blues and this is particularly true of the Delta's
—
deep blues ^involves very precise manipulations of vocal timbre,
very subtle variations in timing and inflection, very fine gradations
in pitch. When Muddy sings, he screws up the side of his face and
then relaxes opens and contracts his throat, shakes his jowls,
it,

constantly readjusts the shape (and thus the resonating capacity)

of his mouth cavity, all in order to get different, precisely cali-
brated vocal sounds, from the purest falsetto to deep, quivering
moans to a grainy, vibrato-heavy rasp. It's possible to catch more
urbane blues singers like Kansas City's Joe Turner or Memphis's
Bobby "Blue" Bland using some of the same tricks.Xike Muddy,
Turner and Blapd p?rfprtpd th^^ir art_wh^n they were fuiiciional
'^'^
iOitexates.,
Muddy's timing is a kind of standing joke (a joke always tem-
]^ered with respect and, in some cases, with bafflement) among
musicians who have played with him. "I'm a delay singer," he
says. "I don't sing on the beat. I sing behind it, and people have to
delay to play with me. They got to hang around, wait, see what's
going to happen next." But his mastery of the fine points of into-
ation is the true glory of his singing. Those infinitessimally flat-
tened thirds, majestic falling fifths, and glancing slides between
 MOJO HAND • 103

tones all mean something, just as the slightest shift in the pitch
level of a person's speech means something when someone who
hears as acutely as Muddy does is listening. Exactly how flat he
sings a note will depend on where in the melody line that note falls
(a purely musical value) and on the emotional weight of the feel-
ings the line is meant to convey. As in the singing of the Akan of
Ghana, the flatter the pitch, the more intense the feeling. One rec-
ognizes in this artful pitch play an unmistakable reflection of the I

African preoccupation with music as language and, more specifi-/;

cally, of the pitch-tone languages so many Africans spoke whenU
they first arrived in the Americas.
]

Muddy uses his slider to execute comparable subtleties on the

guitar. Listen to his solo on "Honey Bee," which is on several of
the Chess Muddy Waters album compilations. A musician trained
in, say, the classical music of India, which puts a premium on the
ability to hear and execute fine microtonal shadings, would recog-
nize in the astonishing precision and emotional richness of the
variously flattened thirds and fifths sprinkled through the solo
something very close to his own tradition. Literacy, which trains
one to focus on the linear continuity of words and phrases rather
than on their intonational subtleties, tends to obliterate such mi-
nutely detailed and essentially nonlinear modes of expression.
Perhaps this explains why many of the young, city-bred blacks
who have taken up the blues in recent years have had almost as
much trouble playing music as subtle as Muddy's as the legions of
blues-smitten whites.
Muddy doesn't think in terms of microtones, of course, but
when he's asked about "notes that would fall between the cracks
on the piano," he nods his head emphatically. "Yeah, yeah," he
says, "but these days there's just no hope of getting my bands to
play any of that part of it —
no way. When I play on the stage with
my band, 1 have to get in there with my guitar and try to bring the
sound down to me. But no sooner than I quit playing, it goes back
to another, different sound. My blues looks so simple, so easy to
do, but it's not. They say my blues is the hardest blues in the world
to play."
He learned with his ears, then, and by watching mature mas-
ters like Charley Patton and Son House. The basis for his music
came from the Delta's common stock, the legacy of Henry Sloan,
 DEEP BLUES • 104

Tommy Johnson, Patton, House, and dozens of other musicians,

known and unknown. "It just came down from nation to nation,
you know, from the top of the old blues thing that all the black
people were into," he says.
One of the first Delta standards Muddy learned was "Walkin'
Blues." "That was the theme in Mississippi," he says. "Most every
guitar player played that." He
transformed "Walkin' Blues"
later
into the first blues he recorded for the Library of Congress
("Country Blues") and one of the first he recorded for Chess
records in Chicago ("I Feel Like Going Home") Another early fa- .

vorite was "Catfish Blues," a brooding, minor-hued drone piece

that seems to have originated around Bentonia in southern Mis-
sissippi and was first recorded by Tommy McClennan and Robert
Petway, two musicians who were popular around the Delta town
of Greenwood, in 1941. From "Catfish" came Muddy's 1950
Chess recording "Rollin' Stone," which gave "the world's greatest
rock and roll band" and the world's most successful rock newspa-
per their names, and "Still a Fool," probably the most impassioned
and electric performance of his recording career. And he learned
"Rollin' and Tumblin'," which he recorded several times in more
or less traditional versions before he reworked it into "Louisiana
Blues." In addition to mastering these specific tunes, he absorbed
a certain way of doing things, a "sound." "Every country had its
own music," he says, "and I got the Delta sound. There's so many
musicians, they can sing and play the guitar so good, but they
can't get that sound to save their life. They didn't learn that way.
That's the problem. They learned another way, and they just can't
get it."

But Muddy wasn't a rustic, isolated "folk artist" who only

learned from the local tradition in which he was immersed. "The
lady that hved across the field from us had a phonograph when I
was a little bitty boy," he says. "She used to let us go over there all
the time, and I played it night and day. Then we had one at my
grandma's house later on." By the time he began playing guitar,
he'd been hstening to records by popular blues artists like Blind
Lemon Jefferson, Memphis Minnie, Leroy Carr, Lonnie Johnson,
and Tampa Red, not to mention local favorites Charley Patton and
the Mississippi Sheiks, for more than five years. And after he mar-
ried (at the age of eighteen) moved out of his grandmother's
,
 MOJO HAND • 105

house, and opened his own juke house, he put in a new jukebox
that played the latest blues hits.

THE FIRST BLUES heard outside the rural South was performed
and disseminated by black vaudeville entertainers, like Ma
Rainey, who stumbled on the music in the course of their travels.
Subsequently, W. C. Handy and other "legitimate" musicians
began publishing blues compositions, many of which were derived
or stolen outright from folk sources. Handy's tunes, especially
"Memphis Blues" and "St. Louis Blues," were similar to the pop-
ular ragtime pieces of the day. Each had several themes, only a
few of which were recognizably related to authentic blues either
musically or lyrically. Once such compositions became widely pop-
ular through sheet music sales, it wasn't long before they found
their way onto discs.
Phonograph records had existed since 1897, when the National
Gramophone Company introduced them as an alternative to the
recorded cyHnders invented by Thomas Edison in 1877. A few
black artists who hoped to appeal to a white audience were re-
—
corded during the late 1890s and early 1900s ^vocal ensembles
singing formal arrangements of spirituals, or "Negro novelty"
performers like George W. Johnson, whose biggest hit was "The
Whistling Coon." But apparently the idea of making recordings by
and for blacks hadn't occurred to anyone in a position to do any-
thing about it when the so-called blues craze hit around 1914-15,
so Handy's "blues" and the blues of other popular tunesmiths,
black and white, were recorded by whites, many of them special-
ists in Negro dialect material.
Such recordings are rarely heard today, but some of them prob-
ably reflected contemporary black folk styles with at least a modi-
cum of accuracy. One of the few examples available on Ip (on the
album Let's Get Loose: Folk and Popular Blues Styles from the Be-
ginnings to the Early 1940's, issued by New World Records) is
"Nigger Blues," copyrighted by a white minstrel entertainer from
Dallas in 1913 and recorded in 1916 by a Washington lawyer and
businessman, George O'Connor. The dialect is grotesquely trans-
parent, and O'Connor further betrays his racial identity by singing
 —

DEEP BLUES • 106

perfectly articulated major thirds, without a hint of "blue" pitch

treatments. But the verses were already traditional among blacks.
One would later figure in a memorable recording by the Delta
bluesman Robert Johnson.

You can call the blues, you can call the blues any old thing you please
You can call the blues any old thing you please
But the blues ain't nothing but the doggone heart disease

Jazz recording began in 1917 in much the same way ^with a —

white group, the Original Dixieland Jass Band, recording in a style
they'd learned from blacks. Then, in 1920, the New York-based
black vaudeville singer Mamie Smith made several recordings
with jazz band accompaniment, including "Crazy Blues." The
number was more a vaudeville tune than a blues, and the singer's
urbane style was accurately reflected by her label billing
"Mamie Smith, was closer to the
contralto." But "Crazy Blues"
main currents of black popular music than anything that had
been on records before, and it sold tens of thousands of copies,
alerting recording executives to a vast untapped market. More
blues recordings followed. Almost all of them were by women who
sang on stages with accompaniment by schooled pianists or jazz
bands, though a few of these performers, including Ma Rainey
and the exceptionally popular Bessie Smith, sang extravagantly
blue thirds, aff'ected rough, grainy vocal timbres, and won loyal
followings in the rural South. Gradually, authentic down-home
blues singers found theirway onto records, beginning with the
southeastern blues-ragtime guitarist Sylvester Weaver in 1923,
continuing with black minstrel show entertainers hke Daddy
Stovepipe and Papa CharUe Jackson in 1924, and culminating in
1925 with the first Paramount recording sessions by Blind Lemon
Jeff'erson.
Sammy Price, a black pianist who'd studied formally vidth
Booker T. Washington's daughter and was working in a Dallas
music store in the mid-twenties, wrote to Paramount's recording
director to recommend Jeff'erson. Price was still performing widely
in 1979 and had fond memories of the bhnd, guitar-playing blues-
man he'd heard as a child. "Bhnd Lemon was using the term
'booger rooger' and playing in that boogie-woogie rhythm as far
 MOJO HAND • 107

back as, oh, 1917-18, when I heard him in Waco," the pianist re-
called one night, between sets in a Greenwich Village nightclub.
"A little later, in Dallas, he used to spend every day walking from
one end of town to the other, playing and singing on the street and
in various taverns for tips."
On would often start off playing a rocking
his records, Jefferson
rhythm, only end of a vocal line, hammer on
to stop playing at the
the strings in imitation of what he'd just sung, and then plunge
back in with a snappy, syncopated figure. He was a loose, improvi-
sational, sometimes anarchic guitarist, and his jazzy single-string
work bore fruit in the 1940s in the pioneering electric blues of T-
Bone Walker, who grew up in Dallas and used to occasionally ac-
company Jefferson on those walks across town.
Jefferson's singing combined sprightly phrasing with an ever-
present hint of lonesome melancholy, and he seemed to know and
be able to remember an astonishing number of blues verses and
—
themes. Some of his records "That Black Snake Moan," "Match
Box Blues," "See That My Grave's Kept Clean" made such a —
lasting impression on Southern bluesmen that they were copied
more or less exactly for decades; a surprising number of verses
and entire Jefferson pieces were still turning up on down-home
blues discs in the 1950s. But the almost immediate success of Jef-
ferson's records also had to do with Paramount' s innovative mail-
order service, which penetrated into rural communities without
local record dealers. In September 1926 the Paramount company
struck pay dirt again with Arthur Phelps, a personable singer and
phenomenal blues and ragtime guitarist from Florida (or possibly
the Georgia Sea Islands) who was also blind and recorded as Bhnd
Blake.
In June and again in November of that year, the Okeh company
made the first recordings of Mississippi Delta blues. The artist,
Freddie Spruell, who recorded
as Papa Freddie and Mr. Freddie,
was already Chicago and made his records there. Almost
living in
nothing else is known about him, but he may well have been one
of the thousands of Delta blacks who took the Illinois Central
north during World War I. Whatever his exact origins were, the
records he made in the 1920s, especially "Low Down Mississippi
Bottom Man" (1928) and several versions of the same piece with
different words, offer convincing evidence that he either spent
 DEEP BLUES • 108

time on or near Dockery's or learned from someone who had. The

piece is unlike anything recorded by any other blues artist up to

that time and seems to be Spruell's version of a Dockery's favorite

that Patton and Tommy Johnson both recorded, the former as
"Moon Going Down" and under several other titles, the latter as
"Big Fat Mama." Spruell cut "Low Down Mississippi Bottom
Man" in or around July 1928; Tommy Johnson recorded "Big Fat
Mama" in Memphis in August of the same year; Patton made his
very first recordings in June 1929; and the Delta bluesman Kid
Bailey (with Willie Brown on second guitar) recorded "Missis-
sippi Bottom Blues," his own version of the theme, in September
1929. Since Tommy Johnson's relatives have confirmed that
Tommy was already playing "Big Fat Mama" when he returned
from his first visit to the Delta, around 1914-16, it seems likely
that Spruell, whose other recorded pieces have a similar if more
elusive Delta flavor, learned it there himself. His lyrics offer fur-
ther evidence:

In the low lands of Mississippi, that's where

was born
I

In the low lands of Mississippi, that's where was born

I

Way down in the sunny South, amongst the cotton and corn

Honey, down in the Delta, that's where I long to be

Way down in the Delta, that's where I long to be
Where the Delta bottom women are sure goin' crazy over me

I'm lookin' for a woman

who's lookin' for a low-down man
I'm lookin' for a woman
who's lookin' for a low-down man
Ain't nobody in town get more low-down than I can

I low-down music, I likes to barrelhouse and get drunk too

likes
I low-down music, I likes to barrelhouse and get drunk too
likes
I'm just a low-down man, always feelin' low-down, that's true

Spruell never sold impressive quantities of records and made a

total of only ten sides before slipping back into obscurity, but the
success of BHnd Lemon Jefferson and Bhnd Blake led the record
companies of the day to begin a serious search for down-home
blues talent. Since few of the company artist-and-repertoire men
who supervised recording sessions had a very clear idea of what
 MOJO HAND • 109

would sell to rural blacks — a few A&R men were educated North-
—
ern blacks, but most were white a broad spectrum of music was
preserved on discs. For however widely blues had spread at the
turn of the century, when it seems to have been known principally
and perhaps only in Mississippi and Texas, by 1926 it was per-
formed throughout the Southern states as well as in cities like
Chicago and St. Louis that had large black populations with rural
origins.
Following the example of the pioneering A&R man Ralph Peer,
who took remote recording equipment designed by a former asso-
ciate of Thomas Edison's south to Atlanta in June 1923, some of
the larger companies, including Columbia, Vocalion, and Victor,
began sending field units south. First they would find a suitable
location, usually a hotel suite or ballroom or an empty warehouse
or industrial loft, in a city like Atlanta, Dallas, Fort Worth, Mem-
phis, Charlotte, or Jackson, Mississippi. Then they would arrange
tohave their presence announced in local newspapers and, where
and audition all the aspiring musicians
possible, over the radio,
who showed up. Other companies engaged Southern record and
phonograph dealers to audition musicians, who were then sent
north to record. Both methods yielded profitable results, and
quickly.
In 1927 a medicine show entertainer named Jim Jackson who
was born Hernando, in the north-central Mississippi hills, and
in
made his headquarters in Memphis, traveled to Chicago to record
for Vocalion. His first release, "Jim Jackson's Kansas City Blues,"
racked up astonishing sales, leading some latter-day record collec-
tors, who found copies of it everywhere they canvassed for old 78-

rpm discs, to call it the first blues million-seller. Others have

questioned this figure, but the record was immensely popular and
the song became a standard among Mississippi and Memphis
bluesmen. Muddy Waters' friend Robert Nighthawk and a white
hobo and songster from Arkansas, Harmonica Frank Floyd, re-
corded versions of "Kansas City Blues" as late as 1951 (Jackson's .

song should not be confused with the blues that begins "I'm goin'
to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come," which was written by
two white teenagers, Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, in 1952.)
In 1928 pianist Leroy Carr and guitarist Scrapper Blackwell re-
corded "How Long — How Long Blues," another best-seller, at a
 DEEP BLUES • 110

radio station in Indianapolis. Theirs was a more urban, sophisti-

cated sound, with Carr singing softly and plaintively over his roll-

ing piano rhythm while Blackwell punctuated with aggressive,

single-string lead guitar fills and punching bass riffs. That same

year, Tampa Red (bornHudson Whittaker in Lee County, Geor-

gia) and Georgia Tom (born Thomas A. Dorsey in Carroll County,
Georgia) recorded a bantering double-entendre ragtime tune
called "It's Tight Like That" in Chicago and scored another race
hit. Both songs, and the progressive styles of both piano-guitar
duos, survived into the postwar years. "How Long —How Long" is

a blues band staple even today, and the first recorded collaboration
between Muddy Waters and Little Walter, in 1948, produced "I
Want My Baby," one of countless "Tight Like That" derivatives.
Other early blues successes included Lonnie Johnson, an ac-
complished and versatile guitarist from New Orleans whose discs
ranged from self-accompanied blues to impressive jazz solos with
the Duke Ellington orchestra; Blind Willie McTeU, the crying
singer and twelve-string guitar virtuoso, who first cut his endur-
ing "Statesboro Blues" (a rock hit for the Youngbloods and the
Allman Brothers Band) when a Victor recording unit visited At-
lanta in 1927-28; the Mississippi Sheiks, whose "Sitting on Top of
the World," recorded in Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1930 became a
Delta and Chicago blues standard and a 1957 r&b hit for HowHn'
Wolf; the tough, creative guitarist and singer Memphis Minnie,
who was born in Algiers, Louisiana, grew up in Memphis, and re-
corded her celebrated "Bumble Bee" in New York and again in
Memphis in 1929 and 1930; and of course Charley Patton, whose
1929 recording of "Pony Blues" sold well all over the South.
Stylistically, the early blues recording stars were a mixed lot.
There was a world of difference between Jim Jackson, whose style
and repertoire smacked of nineteenth century minstrelsy, and the
very modern Carr and Blackwell, whose recordings prefigured the
city blues that would flower in the late thirties. The good-time
picking of Blind Blake was mush flashier and more melodic than
the harsh, deep Delta blues of Charley Patton. Bessie Smith and
other jazz-accompanied blueswomen retained their popularity as
well.Muddy Waters listened to them all. One might suppose that
because they came into his life through a new and almost magical
medium they would have turned his head completely, leading him
 MOJO HAND • 111

to forget his local roots and emulate styles that were nationally
popular. But that didn't happen, not to Muddy and not to the other
Delta musicians of the period. They studied new blues records
carefully, learned the songs, borrowed guitar riffs and other
touches that appealed to them, but somehow when they repeated
what they'd learned, the music came out Delta blues. The first two
songs Muddy mastered on the guitar came from records, which,
unlike live performances, could be repeated over and over at the
student's discretion. The records were Carr's "How Long How —
Long Blues" and the Sheiks' "Sitting on Top of the World." But
instead of imitating the city slickness of the former and the coun-/
try string-band lilt of the latter. Muddy played both of them v^th
bottleneck, in the stinging, heavily rhythmic Delta style of local ii

fluences like Son House. Similarly, he tampered with Memphis

Minnie's "Bumble Bee" until he'd made it into his own "Hone^
Bee," which later became one of his classic recordings for Chess.

THB;^^1ANJVHQSE-RECGRDS Muddy learned the most from

was Robertjohnson. Robert was only four years older, spent most
of his childhood in or near the upper Delta hamlet of Robinson-
ville, borrowed JJae^^hemes for several of his most gripping blues
from S on^House, and^drrt make his first recordings until 1936,
when Muddy was already an accomplished guitarist. But the virtu-
osity and force of Johnson's music simply overwhelmed Muddy,
who actually saw him only once: "It was in Friar's Point, and this
guy had a lot of people standin' around him. He coulda been Rob-
ert, they said it was Robert. I stopped and peeked over, and then I

left. Because he was a dangerous man. I got to see his picture a

httle while back, and since I've seen it, I think I really heard him."
There's more than a trace of lingering awe in this description,
which Muddy has repeated more or less verbatim to several inter-
viewers. Robert Johnson wasn't physically menacing: he was
slender, small-boned, brown-skinned, and handsome enough,
with his dehcate features and wavy hair, to attract legions of fe-
male admirers, but he started more fights than he finished. He
was considered dangerous because he was in league with the
Devil. "Hello, Satan, 1 believe it's time to go," he sang in his "Me
 DEEP BLUES • 112

and the Devil Blues" with a kind of grim relish that convinced his
listeners he was ready.
Johnson was born in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, down below the
Delta south of Jackson and Crystal Springs, on May 8, 1911. His
mother, JuUa, had been married to Charles Dodds, a relatively
well-to-do black furniture craftsman and landowner, but several
years before Robert was born, Dodds injured a member of a promi-
nent white family in a fight and fled to Memphis with a lynch mob
at his heels. Robert's father was a man named Noah Johnson,
about whom almost nothing is known, and his earliest years were
spent with his mother in Delta labor camps and on various planta-
tions. Julia and Robert tried living with Charles Dodds in Mem-
phis for a few years, but he'd taken a mistress and the experiment
didn't work out. Robert stayed on in the city for another year or
two. Around 1918 Dodds sent him to live in Robinson ville, where
Julia and Robert's new stepfather. Dusty Willis, looked after him
until he was eighteen.
With three different fathers before he was seven, a series of
sudden uprootings, and a succession of name changes, Robert
had a confused and confusing childhood. In Memphis he'd taken
the name Spencer, Charles Dodds's assumed name, but when he
was in his teens, his mother told him about his real father, and he
began referring to himself as Robert Johnson. By that time he was
interested in music, having, like Muddy, progressed from the
Jew's harp to the harmonica to the guitar. One of the first songs
—
he learned to pick was Muddy's early favorite, "How Long How
Long Blues" by Leroy Carr. The tune must have seemed to be the
epitome of world-weary sophistication to a black teenager growing
up in the Delta in 1928: "How long, how long has that evenin'
train been gone? / How long, how long, baby, how long?"
At the same time, Robert began hanging around with Robin-
sonvQle resident Willie Brown, who demonstrated some of the fin-
gering and chording techniques for which he was so widely
respected. Charley Patton would visit Brown from time to time,
and Robert would follow the two of them to picnics, juke houses,
and country stores, carefully studying both their solo work and
their practiced interplay. It was during this period, in February
1929, to be exact, that he met and married sixteen-year-old Vir-
ginia Travis. The couple moved in with Robert's half-sister and
 MOJO HAND • 113

her husband on the Klein plantation near Robinsonville, and ap-

parently the man who would later compose and sing "Me and the
De.vil Blues" and "Hellhound on My Trail" was an attentive hus-
band. But-tn-April 1930, Virginia died in childbirth, along with
Coming on the heels of Robert's unstable early years
/-tbeir^^hild.
and his adolescent crises of identity (to some people, he was still
Robert Dodds or Robert Spencer) , this must have been a crushing
blow.
A few months later Son House arrived in Robinsonville and
began playing with Willie Brown and Charley Patton (who'd be-
come a more frequent visitor since meeting the pretty young pian-
ist Louise Johnson). House became Robert's favorite musician,

both for his simple, clean slide guitar playing and for the almost
frightening intensity of his music, an intensity not even Patton
could match. But_b efore long, J ohnson, who was stiU a novice and
often an otuect-of ridicule when House, Patton, and Brown were
drunk and feeling, mean, abruptly left the area. He returned some
—
time later a few months according to some accounts, but in fact /
—
probably more like a year singing and playing wdth the dazzling
technique and almost supernatural electricity that were so evi- ^

dent on his first recordings in 1936. Years later, several of John- /

son's relatives told blues researcher Mack McCormick that Robert /

had sold his soul to the Devil and claimed they knew the exact/
backcountry crossroads where the deal was made. "The Devil
came there," said one, "and gave Robert his talent and told him
he had eight more years to live on earth." Robert probably enl-
couraged the rumor, as Tommy Johnson had years earlier.
The facts, insofar as they've been pieced together by McCor-
mick and other diligent blues researchers, are that after Johnson
left Robinsonville he returned to the vicinity of Hazelhurst, which

he must have only dimly remembered from his earliest childhood,

and married an older woman. She worked to support him while he
developed his guitar playing under the tutelage of a musician
named Ike Zinneman, who was from Alabama and claimed to have
learned to play by visiting graveyards at midnight. Hazelhurst is

close to Crystal Springs, and Tommy Johnson, who was living

there again after his years in the Delta, may well have crossed
Robert's path. Certainly Robert would have heard of Tommy
Johnson, his huge rabbit's foot charm, and his supposed covenant
 DEEP BLUES • 114

with Satan, for Tommy was the most popular and influential
bluesman in the area and was still enjoying widespread esteem
because of his recordings of 1928 and 1930. According to infor-
mation turned up by researcher David Evans, the two men may
even have been distantly related. Oddly, though, little of Tommy's
music seems to have rubbed off on the younger man; perhaps
Robert considered it old-fashioned. It's difficult to judge how
much impact Ike Zinneman had since he never recorded, but cer-
tain songs Robert later recorded that sound more like melodious
East Coast blues than like the harder, harsher music of the Delta
—
may have come from him "From Four Till Late," for example,
and "Last Fair Deal Gone Down."
When Robert returned to the Delta after his stay in Hazelhurst,
Son House, Willie Brown, and other former associates were
amazed by the progress he'd made, and no wonder. House and
Brown listened to the popular race records like everyone else and
weren't above borrowing from them, but their styles and reper-
toires had been shaped mostly by local influences and weren't par-
ticularly susceptible to innovation. Robert Johnson had absorbed
their tradition and broadened it enormously by incorporating mu-
sical influences from a variety of sources —
Ike Zinneman's flow-
ing East Coast style, Leroy Carr's distinctive melodies and chordal
figures, the aggressive single-string picking of Scrapper Blackwell
and Lonnie Johnson. All these influences except for Zinneman
came from phonograph records,and during the next few years,
while Robert was cementing his reputation as the most formidable
young bluesman in the Delta, he JDOirowed heavily from record-
ings by three more mu sicians-^RokomOsAr/oWb Peetie Whe^A
^^~^
straw, and Skip James. ^^^\^^^^'-\r'^^^'^
Arnold, a slide guitarist from Georgia who settled in Chicago in
1929, enjoyed a nationwide race hit in 1934 v^th his "Old Original
Kokomo Blues," a relative of a 1928 "Kokomo Blues" by guitarist
Scrapper Blackwell. Robert fashioned his celebrated "Sweet
Home Chicago" from Arnold's piece by radically reworking the
guitar accompaniment and revising the lyrics. The Arnold
record's flip side, "Milk Cow Blues," later an early regional hit for
Elvis Presley, must have impressed Robert as well, for he com-
bined it with some lyrics from Son House's "My Black Mama" to
make his "Milkcow's Calf Blues." And hearing Arnold sing "I be-
 MOJO HAND • 115

lieve, I dust my broom" on his next record, "Sagefield

believe I'll

Woman must have inspired Johnson to invent his cele-

Blues,"
brated signature piece, "Dust My Broom." Even Robert's "Dust
My Broom" guitar riff, a dramatic full-octave slide that somehow
has never grown stale despite countless reworkings (Elmore
James in the fifties, Fleetwood Mac in the sixties, George Thoro-
good in the seventies) seems to have been adapted from the more
,

fluid, less aggressive, but still recognizable bottleneck guitar fills

on "Sagefield Woman."
Arnold made his living as a bootlegger and considered recording
blues hits a sideUne, but this fact wasn't advertised, and Robert
much about him other than his music. But
probably never ki^ew
Wilh^im Bunch probably worked harder at projecting an image
tharrarrytJTher blues artist of the period,and it was an image Rob-
ert Johnson took a fancy to. Bjjnch billed himsetf_as Pgetia Wheat-
straw, the Devil's Son-in-LawPthe HIgE Sheriff from Hell. He
recorded rnofe~than 160 blues between 1930 and 1941 and was
one of the mosT^opuIar and widely imitated bluesmen of the pe-
riod, but little is known about him. He was born in 1902 in Ripley,
Tennessee, a farming community north of Memphis, and ap-
parently he grew up in the Arkansas Delta. But his musical career
and biography begin, for all practical purposes, when he arrived in
St. Louis, probably around 1929-1930. The city itself, and violent,

wide-open East St. Louis across the Mississippi River in Illinois,

were well known among traveling bluesmen, especially pianists.

Roosevelt Sykes, Walter Davis, Lee Green, and Sunnyland SUm,
all accomphshed ivory ticklers and all products of the Mississippi-

Arkansas Delta, were either St. Louis residents or frequent visi-

tors in the early thirties, but Bunch, who played both piano and
guitar, quicklxestablished himself as their peer. His rocking, two-
fisted barfelhouse piano work was simple, effective, and instantly
recognizable. His most distinctive calling card, though, was an ut-
terly unique vocal
"
style —frayed timbre, mush-mouthed delivery,
and a falsett o cry^ Qoh^jyell. well," that he tended to insert at the
end of almost every verse.
Wheatstraw's blues were set in a fairly limited musical mold
that grew more and more predictable with each passing year, but
his lyrics were another matter. In his "Peetie Wheatstraw
Stomps," he advertised his sexual prowess and bragged of his
 DEEP BLUES • 116

close association with the Devil. His slower blues dealt graphically
with sex ("Well, the first woman 1 had, she made me get on my
knees / And had the nerve to ask me, ooh, well, well, if I liked hm-
burger cheese") fits of suicidal depression ("I'm going down to
,

the Mississippi, 1 believe I'll take me a long, lonesome dive / Do

you think that if I commit murder, well, God, will I ever get back
alive?"), hints of sudden violence ("I did more for you than you
understand / You can tell by the bullet holes, mama, now here in
my hand"), and suffering that was caused by women, the De-
pression economy, and vivid but unnameable mental maladies.
Robert Johnson may have been inspired by the injunction at the
end of Wheatstraw's "Six Weeks Old Blues" ("When I die, ooh,
well, please bury my body low / So, now, that my old evil spirit,
mama, now, won't hang around your door") to compose the chill-
ing lines that conclude his "Me and the Devil Blues": "You may
bury my body down by the highway side / So my old evil spirit can
catch a Greyhound bus and ride." But the comparison makes a
telling case for Johnson's genius, for while Wheatstraw's image is
a fairly straightforward rendering of a prevalent black folk belief,
Johnson seizes on the Greyhound buses that were beginning to
crisscross the Delta's growing network of two-lane highways for a
contemporary, strikingly specific image. Similarly, Johnson al-
tered Wheatstraw's formulaic "Ooh, well, well," which later fig-
ured in several recordings by Muddy Waters, to suit his own
expressive purposes. Robert's sudden jumps into the falsetto were
usually much more elaborate and recalled Mississippi field hollers,
and, when he did use the stereotyped "Ooh, well, well," it was
strategically placed for maximum effect.
Skip James may have influenced Johnson directly. He was from
Bentonia, Mississippi, on the southern perimeter of the Delta be-
tween Jackson and Yazoo City, and during the thirties he traveled
widely. But it's more likely that James's Paramount recordings,
made in 1931, found their way onto Robert's phonograph. Rob-
ert's"30-20 Blues" was a more or less direct copy of James's "22-
20 Bues"; and James's "Devil Got My Woman," a blues that was
widely known around Bentonia by the early thirties as "It Must
Have Been the Devil," furnished the melody, the guitar part, and
probably the poetic impetus for Robert's "Hellhound on My
Trail." A verse from "Devil Got My Woman" also turned up in
 MOJO HAND • 117

Robert's "Come on in My Kitchen." It isn't surprising that

James's music, which was typical of a very localized "school" of
guitar bluesmen centered around Bentonia, profoundly impressed
Johnson. As David Evans has written, the Bentonia style "is dis-
tinctive for its high melismatic singing and complex melodies, its
minor-keyed, intricately picked guitar parts, and haunting, brood-
ing lyrics dealing with such themes as loneliness, death, and the
supernatural. Altogether it is one of the eeriest, loneliest, and
deepest blues sounds ever recorded."
It's tempting to ascribe Johnson's rapid evolution to his broad
listening tastes, but no list of influences can explain what hap-
pened to his music and his personality during that year or so in
Hazelhurst and the next few years he spent rambling around the
Delta. According to Robert Lockwood, Johnson was already play-
ing guitar in a revolutionary manner when he returned from Ha-
zelhurst. He made the in stminent^sound uncannily like a full
barKL furnishing a heavy beat with his feet, chording innovative j^^
shuffl^rhythms, and picking out a high, treble-string lead with his
slidefT-tdl at the same time. Fellow guitarists would watch him
with unabashed, open-mouthed wonder. They were watching the
Delta's first modern bluesman at work, and the experience must
have induced more than a few cases of future shock. As for his
personality, Robert had been gripped by an extreme, obsessive
wanderlust. Soon after he was back in the Delta, he left his second
wife, who returned to Hazelhurst and died a few years later. He
boomeranged from woman to woman, town to town, trusting no
one and taking on few musical associates, acting for all the world
like there really was a hellhound on his trail.

ONE MUSICIAN WHO DID STICK with Robert Johnson for a

time was Johnny Shines, a spunky, solidly built young contempo-
rary of Muddy's who was born on April 26, 1915, on the outskirts
of Memphis and learned his guitar rudiments in the Arkansas
Delta from Chester Burnett — the Howhn' Wolf. Johnny says he
was introduced Robert in Helena, Arkansas, by a pianist known
to
only as M&O, Mobile and Ohio Railroad that ran from St.
after the
Louis down through the Delta and into southern Mississippi.
 —

DEEP BLUES • llJ

Helena in the mid-thirties was the blues capital of the Delta.

Among the musicians who were in and out of town frequently
were the harmonica virtuoso Rice Miller, guitarists Robert Lee
McCoy (later known as Robert Nighthawk), Howlin' Wolf, El-
more James, and Honeyboy Edwards, and pianists Memphis Slim
and Roosevelt Sykes. But to Shines, Robert Johnson was the one,
"the greatest guitar player I'd ever heard. The things he was doing
was things that I'd never heard nobody else do." Despite Robert's
standoffishness
— "He was kind of long-armed," Shines notes
the two began traveling together, hitching rides, hopping freight
trains, perpetually on the move from somewhere to somewhere
else. "Robert was a guy, you could wake him up any time and he
was ready to go," Shines says. "Say, for instance, you had come
from Memphis to Helena, and we'd play there all night probably
and lay down to sleep the next morning and hear a train. You say,
'Robert, I hear a train. Let's catch it.' He wouldn't exchange no
words with you. He's just ready to go. We'd go right back to Mem-
phis if that's where the train's going. It didn't make him no differ-
ence. Just so he was going."
There were plenty of places to go. The worst effects of the De-
pression were beginning to wear off, and while jukeboxes, or
"vendors" as they were called by Delta blacks, were already popu-
lar in some of the town cafes and highway joints, for the most
part they supplemented live music rather than supplanting it.
It was one of the best periods for guitar-playing bluesmen, who

could carry their instruments with them and perform almost any-
where.
Houston Stackhouse, for example, remembers hearing Robert
Nighthawk and the Mississippi Sheiks playing in two drugstores
in Hollandale around 1930: "The Black Cat Drugstore was down
on the low end, that's kinda colored place, like where they hung
out. They had a little old piano player there at that time. I can't
think of his name, but anyhow, William Warren, he was a good
guitar picker, and Robert was bio win' the harp. Then Bo and Lon-
nie [Chatmon] and them, they'd play at the next drugstore, on
Saturday evenings and things like that. White people owned it,
but they had colored people in there playin'." Floyd Jones, from
the Arkansas Delta, gave his first public performance at a baseball
game in Parkin, Arkansas. "Howlin' Wolf gave me the first guitar
 MOJO HAND • 119

I played," he remembers, "in the spring of 1933. I made my first

professional play at a ball game, fourth day of July, 1933. I was

sixteen years old on the twenty-first of July. Anyway, I played at
this ballgame, and they had a dance that night over in the school
building. At the time, we was working for sixty cents a day,
farmin' and so on, and that particular day and night, I made sev-
enteen dollars."
Honeyboy Edwards, who is a few months younger than Muddy
and Johnny Shines and was born between Cleveland and Leland,
Mississippi, out in the country not far from Highway 61, recalls
some of the other ways musicians made a few dollars. "Here's how
it would go," he says. "On Saturday, somebody like me or Robert

Johnson would go into one of these Little towns, play for nickels
and dimes. Some Little towns, you'd have to go and see the mayor
or the judge and ask him if you could play on the streets. Some of
'em would say, 'No, crowds on the streets, somebody might get
hurt.' And sometimes, you know, you could be playin' and have
such a big crowd it would/block the whole street. Then the police
would come around, and I would go on to another town where I
could play at. But most of the time, they would let you play. Then
sometimes the man who owned a country store would give us
something Like a couple of dollars to play on Saturday afternoon.
We'd sit in the back of the store on some oat sacks or corn sacks
and play while they sold groceries and whiskey and beer up front,
and the people would come in and Listen to us and pitch in. In the
afternoon or maybe in the evenin', we'd go to the movie theater
and play before or between the movies. Then people would start
leavin' town. About eight or nine o'clock at night they'd go out in
the country where they could make all the noise they wanted,
drink that corn, dance all night long. The people that was givin' a
dance, they would put coal oil in a bottle, put a wick in it, and
hang it up in a tree. We'd follow that Light going to the dance.
Maybe the man giving the dance would see you in town that after-
noon and hire you to come out and play there that night. Wasn't
too much money, but we'd play, eat, drink, have a good time. They
would cook fish, sell fish sandwiches and white whiskey. Some
outside gambhng on a old table, bad Hghts, way out in the country,
you know. We'd play inside, sit down in a chair and relax.
"Sometimes they'd give a big picnic out in the country, dig a
 DEEP BLUES • 120

deep hole in the ground, put charcoal down in that hole, put an
iron grate across it, and lay a whole hog on that grate. They'd let

that hog steam, mop it with that hot barbecue sauce, and keep it
turnin' all night long. In the mornin' it would be so tender, you
could take a fork and just cut the meat right off the bone. They'd
have whole barrels of lemonade sitting out there, some guy got
four or five gallons of corn whiskey. Sometimes they'd get a
wagon, two mules, three or four men, and rent a piano in town,
haul it out there, have a platform built with a brush arbor over it,
have piano and guitar playin' under there.
'There wasn't that many blues players, you know. We would
walk through the country with our guitars on our shoulders, stop
at people's houses, play a little music, walk on. We might decide to
go on, say, to Memphis. We could hitchhike, transfer from truck
to truck, or if we couldn't catch one of them, we'd go to the train
yard, 'cause the railroad was all through that part of the country
then. We'd wait till the train was pullin' out and jump in the sec-
—
ond blind, or else get a reefer that's the car they put the ice in,
for fruit and stuff, so it's something like a deep freezer. We'd get
down in an empty reefer, pull the door down over us, and the han-
dle was inside the car, see, so couldn't nobody get to us. Then
when we were ready to come out, we'd just knock the handle up
and come out. I'd walk around the blind side of the train and come
out on the passenger side, just like I got off the passenger car, go
out and catch a cab to where I'm goin'. In Memphis, you could
play in front of the big hotels, sometimes in the lobbies. And in the
evening, you could always go down to Handy Park, there off Beale
Street. People would be getting off from work, and they'd stop off
at the park, get them a drink and listen to the blues, because some
of the fellows would always be there playin'. From there, we might
hop a freight, go to St. Louis or Chicago. Or we might hear about
—
where a job was payin' off a highway crew, a railroad job, a levee
camp there along the river, or some place in the country where a
lot of people were workin' on a farm. You could go there and play,

and everybody would hand you some money. I didn't have a spe-
cial place then. Anywhere was home. Where I do good, I stay.
When it gets bad and dull, I'm gone. I knowed a lot of places and
had enough to go to to make it. Man, we played for a lot of peo-
ples."
 —

MOJO HAND • 121

Honeyboy was a rambler, but he didn't ramble as widely as Rob-

ert Johnson, who probably knew most of the places Honeyboy
went but also found audiences in black working-class taverns and
on street corners in Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, New Jersey, New
York City, Buffalo, and even Ontario, Canada. Like Honeyboy,
Houston Stackhouse, and most other itinerant bluesmen who pre-
ferred living by their wits to staying in one place and farming, he
would play whatever he thought an audience, black or white,
wanted to hear, including "My Blue Heaven," "Yes, Sir, That's
My Baby," hillbilly numbers, cowboy songs from the movies
whatever was popular. When he hit a run of bad luck, he was good
at improvising. "We was staying in West Memphis at a place
called John Hunt's," Johnny Shines told interviewer Pete Weld-
ing, "and this place burnt down and burnt our guitars up. I didn't
know that Robert knew anything about harmonica at all, but he
come up wdth this old harmonica. We were out on Highway 61,
and he started blowing this harmonica and slapping his hands
patting his hands, blowing and singing —and in a few minutes,
the whole highway was almost blocked off with cars, people pitch-
ing us nickels, dimes, quarters. He'd sing, I would sing. And when
we got to Steels, Missouri, we bought ourselves little guitars. We
had enough money to buy guitars with! And truthfully speaking,
we didn't have no money when we started out."
No matter how rough the weather or hard the journey, Robert
always seemed to look sharp — sharp enough to charm a crowd
and attract a woman. "We'd be on the road for days and days,"
Shines told another interviewer, Alan Greenbprg, "no money and
sometimes not much food, let alone a decent place to spend the
night, playing on dusty streets or inside dirty places of the sort you
played in those times, and as I'd catch my breath and see myself
looking like a dog, there'd be Robert, all clean as can be, looking
Uke he's just stepping out of church." Sometimes they'd go to
sleep, and Johnny would wake up to find Robert gone. He'd have
to guess which way he went, and sometimes they'd meet again,
days later, and resume their travels as before. At other times Rob-
ert would have a httle too much to drink and began lavishing his
attentions on somebody's wife or girl friend. Then there would be
trouble and, guitars in hand, the pair would make a quick get-
away.
 DEEP BLUES • 122

Muddy Waters heard about such adventures from the wan-

dering bluesmen he encountered around Coahoma County, but
he never really hved that way himself. "I rambled all the time," he
maintains, "and that's why I made that song 'Rollin' Stone.' I was
just like that, like a rollin' stone. But I didn't ramble that /ar. I re-
member when Robert Nighthawk came through in the late thir-
ties and said he was goin' to Chicago and make a record, I thought

he was just jivin'. He says, 'You come along. You might get on
with me. We'll do a record.' I thought, 'Oh, man, this cat ain't
goin' to Chicago.' I thought goin' to Chicago was like goin' out of
the world. Finally he split, and the next time I heard, he had a
record out. But you know, Iwas in love with my grandmother. She
was gettin' old, and I didn't want to push out and leave her." For
the most part.Muddy stayed put, visiting various haunts close to
Clarksdale when the mood struck him but playing in his country
barrelhouse most weekends. He changed with the times, learning
some of the current blues hits, but mostly he played basic Delta
blues.
Compared JxL Robert Johns^n^^j^vho was four years his senior.
Muddy was a conservative,- almost a throwback. Robert was per-
petually inquisitive about all kinds of music and would probably
have perfected an electric, jazz-influenced brand of modern blues
had he lived into the 1940s. Muddy stayed with the old, richly or-
namented, pentatonic blues melodies that still sounded much like
field hollers and the spine-chilling bottleneck guitar figures and
chopping bass runs he'd synthesized from local sources, primarily
Son House and Charley Patton. The blues records he'd listened to
earlier had influenced his repertoire much more than his style,
and the Robert Johnson records that particularly impressed him
when they began appearing early in 1937 were the ones that were
most firmly rooted in the blues he already knew.

BY THE TIME ROBERT JOHNSON RECORDED his first ses-

sion in a hotel room in San Antonio, Texas, on November 23,
1936, had been almost three years since Charlie Patton made his
it

last records. The heyday of remote recordings by field units had

come to an abrupt end some years earlier, in 1 930, when the full
 MOJO HAND • 123

force of the Depression began to be felt. Memphis, strategically lo-

cated at the top of the Delta, had been visited by nine different
between 1927 and 1930, and several of them had stayed
field units
for weeks, recording prolifically. Their work is responsible for
much of what we know about Delta blues in the 1920s. They re-
corded a number of Delta singer-guitarists, including Tommy
Johnson, Booker T. Washington "Bukka" White, the team of Kid
Bailey and Willie Brown, and Rubin Lacy. Lacy sang slow blues in
a deep, heavy preacher's voice, with groans and hearse, tortured
melodic decorations, and was an important influence on both the
churchy singing and incisive bottleneck playing of Son House.
They captured blues accordionist Walter Rhodes (whose "The
Crowing Rooster" became a Delta favorite and who reportedly
died after being struck by lightning) and his accompanists, the
guitar-playing brothers Pet and Can. Can was Richard Harney, an
exceptional technician whose busy, dense finger-picking style was
far removed from the more heavily rhythmic playing of the
Patton-House school and who was regarded by many musicians as
the best guitarist in the Delta.
Meanwhile, other musicians from the Delta region were
recording as far afield as Atlanta, Georgia (where Hambone Willie
Newbern made the first recording of the Delta standard "Roll and
Tumble Blues," or "Rolling and Tumbling," in 1929), and Rich-
mond, Indiana (where Crying Sam Collins's bottleneck guitar, re-
ferred to as a "git-fiddle" on the record labels, seemed to hterally
weep). But no more field units came to Memphis between 1930
and 1939, and then there was only one relatively brief visit until
after World War II. During most of this period few field units re-
corded anywhere.
Delta pianists, who like blues pianists everywhere were a rela-
tively urbane breed, made their recordings and their reputations
in cities like St. Louis, Chicago, and even New York. But the men
who played guitars and sang deep blues continued to perform
mostly in the country and in httle Delta towns, and, for the most
part, the A&R men from record companies in Chicago and New
York lost interest in them. After all, hard-core Delta blues had
never been overwhelmingly popular. Paramount must have prof-
ited from Charley Patton's recordings, especially "High Water
Everywhere" and "Pony Blues," but even these records sold al-
 DEEP BLUES • 124

most exclusively in the Deep South, and no other blues musician

from Patton's Delta circle recorded a comparable hit.
Later, between 1937 and 1941, Tommy McClennan and Robert
Petway from Greenwood, Bukka White, and Helena's Robert
Nighthawk, who was then known as Robert Lee McCoy, would
have substantial if not spectacular sales on discs. Joe Williams,
who grew up in eastern Mississippi but absorbed much of Patton's
Delta style, recorded successfully in Chicago beginning in the
mid-thirties. But records by Delta or Delta-influenced guitar
bluesmen never sold as well as discs by Blind Lemon Jefferson,
Blind Blake, Jim Jackson, Leroy Carr, Tampa Red, Memphis Min-
nie, Kokomo Arnold, or Peetie Wheatstraw. And by the mid-thir-
ties, most recorded blues had taken a sophisticated turn. Popular

blues performers like Wheatstraw, Arnold, Tampa Red, and Big

Bill Broonzy (a native of Mississippi, but a cosmopolitan musician

influenced primarily by Blind Blake and Lonnie Johnson) were

recording in Chicago with bass, drums, and jazz trumpeters and
clarinetists, in a city style that foreshadowed the rhythm-and-
blues of the post- World War II years. So Robert Johnson's first
recording session was something of an anomaly. The American
Record Company wouldn't have bothered to send him all the
way to San Antonio, where they were recording jazz, that peculiar
hillbilly-jazz hybrid known as western swing, and other modern,
up-to-date music, if ARC field representative Ernie Oertle hadn't
found his talent extraordinary.
Johnson initiated his first session by going to Jackson, Missis-
sippi to see Patton's old mentor, H. C. Speir, who'd been acting as
a talent scout for ARC. Speir recommended him to Oertle, and a
date was arranged. By the time Robert got to San Antonio, he'd
been hard at work polishing his songs for months, perhaps in
some cases for years, discarding and adding verses until he had
tight, compact pieces just long enough to fit onto 78 records. In
this respect, his approaciijo bluescomposition was similar to that
ofmost of the blues recordmg~starsiifth^ThifSes, who worked at
fashioning tight, thematically coherent lyrics. It was distinctly un-
hke the approach of Charley Patton, Sonjiouse, and the Muddy
Waters of the Library of Congress recor^ngs, who still considered
themselves primarily live entertainers and whose songs tended to
 MOJO HAND • 125

be fairly loose assemblages of traditional and original verses that

could be stretched out, often to the detriment of their thematic
contmuity, according to how much people wanted to hear and
how-long they wanted to dance. Robert Johnson could perform
that way too, of course, and often did, but by 1936 he thought of
himself as something more than a juke joint entertainer. He was
self-consciously an artist.
Out of that first day's recording session came "Terraplane
Blues," a sexy automobile blues ("I'm gonna get deep down in
this connection, keep on tangHn' with these wires / And when I
mash down on your little starter, then your spark plug will give me
fire") that became an immediate Delta favorite when it was re-
leased as his first single with the ominous "Kind Hearted Woman
Blues" ("She studies evil all the time") on the flip side. At the
same session, Johnson recorded three tunes that were to become
standards of postwar electric blues: "1 Believe I'll Dust My

Broom," "Sweet Home Chicago," and "Ramblin' on My Mind." A

few days later, on Friday, November 27, he cut another session
which included "Preachin' Blues" (his version of Son House's
"Preachin' the Blues"), "Walkin' Blues" (the Delta anthem), "If
I Had Possession over Judgment Day" (his version of "Rolling
and Tumbling"), and "Cross Road Blues." As the English blues
writer Bob Groom has noted, at these recording sessions Johnson
"was truly standing at a crossroads in blues history, looking back
to the_country blues of men like Son House and WiUie Brown and
for\^ard to the Chicago blues of the forties and fifties."
Each^oTJohnson's blues recordings is packed with detail, both
musical and verbal, and almost all of them crackle with intensity.
"Cross Road Blues," which Eric Clapton and his rock group
Cream revived more than thirty years later, is a good example of
both the density and power of Johnson's musk. The guitar
rhythm is deliberate and driving, but Johnson repeatedly inter-
rupts it to hammer and bend a single string, so forcefully that the
instrument momentarily sounds like an electric guitar. Examined
more closely, the guitar accompaniment is a complex, carefully
constructed, mercurially shifting succession of two-beat and
three-beat figures, and an equally complex, equally mercurial al-
ternation of driving bass riffs and high, bottlenecked lead lines.
 DEEP BLUES • 126

The singing is tense, as if Johnson was forcing wind through a

throat constricted by fear.
The fear in "Cross Road Blues" is actually a complex of fears,
some rational and immediate, some more metaphysical. The most
literal reading of the tune is as a description of an actual experi-
ence. Johnson finds himself alone at a country crossroads, at-

tempting to flag a ride as the sun sets. He has ample reason to be

afraid. He's in a part of the country where he isn't known. If a
white law officer or a passing redneck discovers him there, he
could be jailed, or worse. But that isn't all Johnson's afraid of. In
blues lore, the crossroads is the place where aspiring musicians
strike their deal with the Devil, and Robert claimed to have struck
such a deal. No wonder he sang in the song's first verse that he
"fell down on my knees / Asked the Lord above. Have mercy, save
poor Bob if you please." No wonder he called on his "friend Willie
Brown" for help and cried out, twice in the first of two recorded
takes, that he was "sinkin' down." Anyone who's ever stopped at a
deserted Delta crossroads in the dead of night knows what a
spooky experience it can be. Everything's empty and black black —
bottomland stretching away for miles in every direction, cloudy
black sky above —
and unnervingly quiet. A friend who grew up in
the Delta once told me of running out of gas late at night, walking
several miles until he came to a deserted crossroads, hearing a
far-off splashing, probably some animal crossing a creek or slough,
and suddenly being seized with an unreasonable panic. He ac-
tually believed, before he got a grip on himself, that some sort of
hideous swamp monster was lumbering toward him. Robert John-
son, alone in similar circumstances, might have imagined he was
hearing the approach of Papa Legba, the Black Man. "Don't the
Delta look lonesome when that evenin' sun go down?" sang an
Arkansas bluesman named William Brown on a 1942 Library of
Congress recording, adding in a spoken aside, "just 'bout good an'
dark." It is one of the lonesomest places on earth.
And yet, a crossroads is also a landmark, a haven. In a region as
it's one of the few features of the land-
perfectly flat as the Delta,
scape that really stands out. Driving south toward Clarksdale in
1979, 1 noticed at the junction where Highway 49 crosses High-
way 61 running off west toward Lula and Helena and east toward
,
 MOJO HAND • 127

Sledge and the central hills, a combination gas station /restaurant

called the Crossroader. When
I got to Clarksdale, I bought gas

at theCrossroads Service Station, Highway 61 at DeSoto Street.

Curious, I looked in a local telephone directory and found a Cross-
road Laundry and Cleaners, Crossroad Sporting Goods, Cross-
roads Branch Bank of Clarksdale, and Cross Roads Wrecker
Service. The familiarity and ubiquity of the crossroads in Delta
iconography lends an added immediacy to Johnson's tale of terror.
There's a school of thought that sees voodoo symbolism in al-
most every line Robert Johnson ever sang, and this point of view
has rightly been ridiculed by blues scholars. But it's undeniable
that Johnson was fascinated with and probably obsessed by super-
natural imagery. This fascination seems understandable enough,
since blues was widely believed to be the Devil's music, and some
of Johnson's satanic references were simply macho posturing. But
when other bluesmen, Peetie Wheatstraw for example, claimed fa-
miliarity with the Devil, they did so in boasting songs. Wheatstraw
never recorded anything as chiUing and apparently dead serious
as "Hellhound on My Trail" or "Me and the Devil Blues," which
Johnson cut on Saturday, June 19, 1937, in an otherwise deserted
Dallas warehouse that was serving as a makeshift studio. This was
his last session, and in retrospect it was rife with omens. The first
song he sang that day began "I got stones in my passway and my
road seem dark as night / I have pains in my heart, they have
taken my appetite." In "From Four until Late," he offered the
philosophical observation that "a man is like a prisoner, and he's
never satisfied." "Hellhound on My Trail" is pure, icy cold para-
noia, and "Me and the Devil Blues," which begins with Satan
knocking on Johnson's door, ends with "You may bury my body
down by the highway side / So my old evil spirit can catch a Grey-
hound bus and ride." Johnson also recorded several boasting
pieces, including "Stop Breakin' Down Blues" (revived by the
Rolling Stones on their Exile on Main album) and a tune
Street
fuU of local references, "Travelling Riverside Blues," which talks
about "rockin' " and barrelhousing in Vicksburg, Rosedale, and
Friar's Point, "on the riverside." "Honeymoon Blues" is unique, a
straightforward declaration of love for someone named Betty Mae.
But the session ended with "Love in Vain,"one of the most per-
 DEEP BLUES • 128

feet and troubling lyries in all blues, and the restless, disjointed
"Milkcow's Calf Blues."

ROBERT JOHNSON has been called "the most influential of all

bluesmen," but despite the relative success of "Terraplane
Blues," his subsequent recordings sold disappointingly, and a
number of his. finest performances went unreleased until white
rock and folk musicians began recording his songs in the 1960s.
As we've seen, the Johnson records that influenced Muddy Wa-
ters were the ones in a more or less traditional Delta mold.
"Walkin' Blues" and "Preachin' Blues" were derived directly
from Son House, and "Terraplane Blues," with its implied boogie
feel, sudden falsetto howls, and lightning-fast bottleneck runs, has

a pronounced Delta flavor. These are the songs Muddy mentions

when Johnson's name is brought up. Elmore James, who some-
times played with Johnson in the Delta, was the man who made
"Dust My Broom" into a postwar blues standard and inspired
most later rock versions of the tune. "If I Had Possession over
Judgment Day," Johnson's version of "Rolling and Tumbling,"
wasn't even issued until the sixties. Muddy and his sidekick, Baby
Face Leroy, established "RoUin' and Tumblin' " as a Chicago
blues standard. Kokomo Arnold's "Old Original Kokomo Blues"
far outsold Johnson's later derivation, "Sweet Home Chicago" (al-
though Johnson's lyrics made the song a natural for Chicago
bluesmen, and it's his version that survived in the repertoires of
performers like Magic Sam, Robert Lockwood, and Junior
Parker) The version of Johnson's "Stop Breaking Down" sung by
.

most postwar Chicago blues artists is a version with somewhat dif-

ferent lyrics recorded by John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson in
1945. It's really through disciples like Muddy and Elmore James,
and through the recordings of his songs made by Eric Clapton, the
Rolling Stones, Taj Mahal, and other rock and folk performers in
the sixties and seventies, that Johnson exercised his widest and
most lasting influence.
One wonders how many of these younger performers were ac-
tually attracted by Johnson's music and how many were drawn by
his legend —
the death under mysterious circumstances, the pact
 MOJO HAND • 129

with the Devil. Eric Clapton, whose "Crossroads" with Cream is

the only later version to include the line about Willie Brown and
achieves an intensity and power of its own, must have thought
long and hard about the Johnson legend. After an extended bout
with heroin addiction, he reemerged in the early seventies playing
in a more restrained, less bluesy style. In 1974, Rolling Stone in-
terviewer Steve Turner asked him if the change in his music re-

flected a change in attitude, and instead of answering the

question directly, he told Turner a story. "Once wdth the Dominos
[a post-Cream Clapton group] we dropped some acid in San
,

Francisco," he said, "and apart from the fact that the guitar was
made of rubber, every bad lick I had, every naughty lick, blues Uck
. whatever you want to call it, turned the audience into aU these
. .

devils in sort of red coats and things. And then I'd play a sweet
one, and they all turned into angels. I prefer playing to angels, per-
sonally."
When Robert Johnson was recording in Texas, he wasn't play-
ing for the angels, but he knew he was playing for posterity. Most
blues musicians have taken pride in their recordings, but Johnson
was a special case. In his "Phonograph Blues," which wasn't re-
leased until the sixties, he developed a phonographic /sexual met-
aphor that was without precedent in recorded blues. Researcher
Mack McCormick, who has located and interviewed several of
Johnson's children, says that shortly before he died, Robert visited
all of them, leaving each a copy of one of his records. Honeyboy

Edwards, whose cousin Willie Mae was a girl friend of Robert's in

1937, recalls running into him in the spring of that year, on John-
son Street in Greenwood: "He was standing there playing on the
street, and this lady walked up to him and said, 'Can you play
"Terraplane Blues"?' 'Cause that record had just come out, but
she didn't know who she was talkin' to. He said [and here Ed-
wards assumed a tone of dignified, inviolable cool] 'Miss, that's ,

my number.' Like that. She said, 'I don't believe you.' He said,
'Give me fifteen cents and I'll play it.' And he played that 'Terra-
plane,' man, he wore it out."
In August 1938, Robert was hired to play at a country house
party near Greenwood. According to Edwards and others who
were in the area at the time, he drank too much, flirted with his
employer's wife, and was given poisoned whiskey. A friend took
 DEEP BLUES • 130

him home, where he lay near death for several days before expir-
ing on August 16. The death certificate, unearthed by blues re-
searcher Gayle Dean Wardlow, states that there was "no doctor"
in attendance, and the death was presumed due to natural causes.
Robert's mother was notified and came with one of his brothers-
in-law to claim the body, which was buried in the graveyard of the
Zion Church near Morgan City, Mississippi, just off Highway 7.
From there, it would have been easy enough for Johnson's spirit to
catch a Greyhound bus and ride.
A few months later, Don Law, the man who'd supervised Rob-
ert's last recording session in Dallas, was surprised to get a call
from the NewYork record producer, critic, and impresario John
Hammond, theman who had launched the skyrocketing careers
of Count Basic, Billie Holiday, and Benny Goodman. Hammond
was organizing a Spirituals to Swing concert, the first presenta-
tion of black American music ever to be held in Carnegie Hall, and
he'd been impressed enough with some Robert Johnson records
he'd heard to ask Law whether Johnson could be found. When lo-
cating him proved impossible, Hammond setded for Big Bill
Broonzy, who'd been making jazzy recordings wdth full band ac-
companiment in Chicago but was obligingly folksy for the occa-
sion.
One of the sensations of the concert, which was held on Decem-
ber 23, 1938, was an appearance by three blues pianists, Chica-
goans Meade Lux Lewis and Albert Ammons and Kansas City's
Pete Johnson, who played driving music with a boogie-woogie beat
and also backed the forceful Kansas City blues shouter Joe
Turner. They were booked for an extended engagement at Caf^
Society Downtown following the concert, and their popularity in
New York helped launch a national boogie-woogie craze that
lasted into the early fifties, infecting popular singers (the An-
drews Sisters did "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy"), swing bands
(Tommy Dorsey had a hit with "T. D.'s Boogie Woogie") hillbilly
,

acts (the Delmore Brothers recorded "Hillbilly Boogie"), and of

course blues musicians, who had been playing or implying boogie
rhythms for decades.
(West African words such as the Hausa "buga" and Mandingo
"bug," both of which mean "to beat" as in "to beat a drum," may
represent the linguistic roots of the word "boogie," though the
 MOJO HAND • 131

words "bogy," "booger," and possibly "boogie" have long been

common in English slang, and have in fact been used to refer to
blacks, or to dark apparitions like the bogy man. Blind Lemon Jef-
ferson was using the term "booger rooger," apparently slang re-
ferring to a particularly wild party, at least as early as 1917-18,
and the New Orleans pianist and songvmter Clarence Williams
remembered hearing Texas pianist George W. Thomas play a tune
with a boogie-woogie bass part [later published as "New Orleans
Hop Scop Blues"] in Houston in 1911. The first recording with
the term "boogie-woogie" in the title was "Pine Top's Boogie
Woogie," made by the Alabama-born pianist Clarence "Pinetop"
Smith in 1928. It was a hard-rocking dance record and a race hit
and spawned numerous imitations, including an early fifties
recording by Delta pianist Joe Willie "Pinetop" Perkins, later a
mainstay of the Muddy Waters band.)
Blues researchers have encountered persistent rumors that
Robert Johnson was playing an electric guitar and intermittently
leading a small band that included a drummer in the months just
before his death. If he'd lived to perform at Carnegie Hall, on a
program that included the first concert appearance by the Count
Basic band as well as the boogie-woogie pianists, he almost cer-
tainly would have been inspired to tighten up his implied boogie
rhythms and perform and record with band backing. In the proc-
ess he probably would have created what we now know as Chicago
blues. And what if white American and European jazz fans, for
whom the Spirituals to Swing concert was a truly epochal event,
had begun buying his records? He might have been able to intro-
duce unvarnished deep blues to an international audience before
the onset of World War II. At the very least, he should have be-
come the first Delta bluesman to decisively break out of the
music's regional straitjacket and win a broad following among
American blacks. But of course the man who finally accomplished
all these things was Muddy Waters, and it took him another

twenty years to do it.

 CHAPTER 4

Chicago Pep
W W y hen Muddy Waters left the Delta, in May of 1943, he was

MM# still young man, just turned twenty-eight. But he'd seen
a
WW the Delta change, and change dramatically, in his lifetime.
¥ ¥ He rarely heard or saw an automobile when he was a child
growing up on Stovall's plantation, and when he did run across
one it was often stuck or broken down, for the roads were treach-
erous, rutted dirt tracks that turned to mud in the Delta's sudden
downpours. When the W.P.A. and other federal agencies began
putting men to work during the worst years of the Depression, one
of Mississippi's first priorities was paved roads, and by 1943 high-
ways crisscrossed the state. Electric lights, found only in the
towns when Muddy was growing up, were spreading to the coun-
try. There were still plenty of blues musicians playing in the area,

but jukeboxes were becoming the rage, not just in downtown tav-
erns but in country stores and even in little juke joints like
Muddy's.
Important as these changes were, they were only beginning to
alter the texture of day-to-day life. Most blacks were still share-
croppers and lived in shotgun shacks much hke the ones their par-
ents had been born in. There were more automobiles, but on
Saturdays plenty of black families still rode into town in horse-
drawn wagons. After working all week long in the cotton fields,
folks still packed into house parties and juke joints on Friday and
 CHICAGO PEP • 133

Saturday nights to dance and party to the blues. Amplified guitars

and harmonicas were being introduced, and more and more
bluesmen were working with bands that included drummers; the
music was getting louder. But melodies, lyrics, guitar parts, even
entire songs that had been in vogue when Charley Patton was a
young man, more than thirty years earlier, were still common cur-
rency.
Phonograph records had been bringing the songs and styles of
black and white performers from all over America into Delta

shacks and juke joints for more than twenty years, and the Delta
had produced musicians who liked these new styles and decided
to emulate them^ —as dance band players, jazz musicians, ballad
singers. But the blues that people played and listened to in the
country was as isolated from the American mainstream as it had
been in Patton's time, perhaps more so. After all, Patton had
played deep blues, white hillbilly songs, nineteenth century bal-
lads, and other varieties of black and white country dance music
with equal facility; Son House and Muddy Waters could play blues
and spirituals and not much else. There was no pressing need for
them to learn to play white popular music, as there had been in
Patton's time. Black musicians who preferred entertaining whites
could now be found in many Delta towns and on most of the larger
plantations. They were specialists, unlike the jack-of-all-trades
songster-bluesmen of Patton's generation. Most of the younger
bluesmen now played mostly or only for blacks. This was one more
symptom of the general tendency for whites and blacks in the
Delta to draw further and further apart and regard each other
with increasing mistrust.
With the aid of hindsight, it's possible to discern a gradual, evo-
lutionary process of change operating in Delta blues during its
first few decades. But compared to the rapidity with which jazz

changed during the same period of time, Delta blues was practi-
cally standing stiQ. Jazz was still developing out of a mix of folk,
popular, and European classical influences around the same time
blues started to emerge as a clearly definable genre. In 1900,
when Patton was learning to play blues from Henry Sloan, jazz
was a loose, collective music, still largely unknown outside New
Orleans and other Southern cities, played by groups that typically
included brass, a clarinet, banjo, guitar, string bass or tuba, and
 DEEP BLUES • 134

sometimes a piano and /or a set of drums. By 1925 Louis Arm-

strong, Sidney Bechet, and a few other musicians were radically
altering the music's format to make room for improvised solos and
estabhshing exacting standards of virtuosity. By 1935 the New
Orleans-style jazz group was considered old hat, and big bands,
with sections of brass and saxophones that played written arrange-
ments and a typical rhythm section of piano, string bass, and
drums, were in fashion. By 1943, the music of the "swing bands,"
as Benny Goodman and other white musicians who appropriated
the big-band format called them, was beginning to sound dated to
younger black jazz musicians in Kansas City and New York, and
probably elsewhere. The bebop or modern-jazz movement, spear-
headed by Charhe Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, was transforming
jazz from a danceable, entertainment-oriented idiom into an art
music performed for seated audiences in listening rooms and con-
cert halls.
Jazz bands had been popular with black listeners across the
country since the early 1920s, especially when they featured sing-
ers. In the Delta, black jazz bands often performed for whites, and
for blacks in the larger towns. As the big-band style began to pass
out of fashion in the forties, partly due to the impact of modernism
and partly because World War II made it difficult to keep large
bands together, the black popular audience began picking up on a
new sort of music that would eventually be called rhythm-an d-
blues^Its pioneers included the jazz vibraphonist LioneL-Hamp-
tofi, whose stomping big-band blues "Flying Home," complete

with a choked, screaming tenor saxophone workout, was a big

"race" hit in 1942, and Louis Jordan, a jazz saxophonist who
began recording light blues and novelty songs in the early forties
with his small jump combo the Tympany Five. Hampton and Jor-
dan both combined the popular boogie-woogie rhythm, a grittier
version of svidng-era saxophone styles as exemplified by Coleman
Hawkins and Ben Webster, and playfully humorous lyrics or
verbal asides that were frequently laced with jive talk.
There was stiU an audience for blues records, but during the
thirties and early forties the blues market had become increas-
ingly monopolized by a group of Chicago-based artists. When
Muddy got to Chicago, most of the big names in blues recorded
 —

CHICAGO PEP • 135

either for Columbia or for Victor's celebrated Bluebird label, and

both companies depended upon a white record producer, talent
scout, and publishing magnate named Lester Melrose for their
blues product. Melrose's artists had down-home backgrounds:
Tampa Red, a top-selling blues star since the late twenties, was
from Georgia; John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson, who was largely
responsible for transforming the harmonica from an accompany-
ing instrument into a major solo voice, was from Jackson, Tennes-
see, just north of Memphis; Washboard Sam was from Arkansas;
Big Bill Broonzy was a Mississippian by birth. But in the interests
of holding onto their increasingly urbanized audience and pleas-
ing Melrose, who was interested both in record sales and in lucra-
tive pubhshing royalties, they recorded several kinds of material,
including jazz and novelty numbers, and began to favor band
backing. During the mid-thirties the bands tended to be small
guitar and piano, sometimes a clarinet, a washboard, a string bass.
But by the time Muddy arrived in Chicago, the "Bluebird Beat,"
as it has been called, was frequently carried by bass and drums.
The music was a mixture of older black blues and vaudeville styles
and material with the newer swing rhythms. Some of the records
—
even featured popular black jazzmen Peetie Wheatstraw's Chi-
cago sessions of 1940-41 gave solo space to trumpeter Jonah
Jones and tenor saxophonist Chu Berry and were kicked along by
Big Sid Catlett, swing drummer supreme.
Muddy's own sister had told him, "They don't listen to that kind
of old blues you're doin' now, don't nobody listen to that, not in
Chicago." Some Bluebird releases of the period included harmon-
ica accompaniments by Muddy's old friend Robert Nighthawk,
who also made solo discs, and the Greenwood-based Tommy
McClennan became a Bluebird artist in 1939. But most of the new
blues records Muddy heard on Delta jukeboxes can only have
convinced him that his sister was telling the truth. So even
though he had always considered himself a special person, a mu-
sician, and not just another field hand, when he arrived in Chi-
cago music was practically the last thing on his mind. The first
thing was a job. "Man, it was the war time. There was jobs all
over," he remembers. "My train got in on a Saturday morning. I
took that taxi and went and found my sister and her husband, Dan
 —

DEEP BLUES • 136

Jones, and Saturday evenin' I had that job in the paper container
factory. And on Monday morning the paper from the draft board
came."
As an experienced tractor driver on a plantation owned by a
well-connected man, Muddy had been effectively exempt from the
draft. After all, cotton for uniforms and bandages was a wartime
necessity. "I went by the draft board in Coahoma before I left,"
Muddy says, "and told them that I had to go to Chicago because
my angel died. I put my lie in. 1 told them I'd be gone for a few
days, and if they need me, here's the address to send the papers
—
to 3656 Calumet. I think that guy, the overseer, Mr. Fulton, the
one I had the problem with, might have got on the phone, 'cause
on Monday morning the paper was there. So I go over to the board,
to Thirty-eighth and South Park, where there was one of my
friends, Danny O'Neal, taking the papers there. He said, 'Go on.
We'll handle it from here.' So they drafted me, but I never did
make the grade. 1 had kind of bad eyes, and I had bad schooling.
Some of the other guys down there tried to help me with the
papers, and they laughed at me scratching. So when I got
through, they stopped the Une, and I know what my paper said. It
said, 'Reject.' I said, 'What do I do now?' 'Oh, you go home, man.'
I said, 'Uh-hunnnh!'
" The memory brings a satisfied chuckle, for

while Muddy was no political radical, and certainly no pacifist, he

was well aware that going to war would mean risking life and limb
for a country owiled and operated by and for whites. "They said I
could go on down to the mess hall and eat. Man, I ate lunch there,
and they had good food, but I didn't want nothing to eat there. I
got dressed and hit that door wide open and got on a streetcar and
went home."
Muddy had been a country boy all his life, but he kept his
mouth shut and his eyes open and adjusted to Chicago without
much trouble. The environment wasn't wholly alien. He started
playing his blues at house parties as soon as he arrived, first at the
Joneses' and soon in the apartments of other recendy trans-
planted Mississippians. He'd built up quite a reputation as a blues
singer during his years in Mississippi —
Willie Dixon remembers
people talking about him in Chicago as early as the mid-thirties
so the news of his arrival spread through the community. "After
 CHICAGO PEP • 137

about two or three weeks," he says, "I found out I had a bunch of
cousins here. Well, really, they found out / was here, and they
come and got me and brought me from the South Side over to the
West Side to stay with them. I was there about two or three
months, and then I got myself a four-room apartment." Now he
was set — his own place, with his woman Annie Mae installed, a
regular paycheck, and work playing house parties almost every
night. Practically everywhere he went, people fresh up from Mis-
people who'd been in Chicago for a while but remem-
sissippi, or
bered seeing him play years before, would recognize him and yell
out, "Hey! Muddy Waters!"

THE FIRST BLACK CHICAGOAN was also the first Chica-

goan — ^Jean Baptiste Pointe du from Santo Do-
Saible, a trader
mingo who built a cabin near the mouth of the Chicago River
around 1790. During the 1840s, when Chicago was a town of
around four thousand people, fugitive slaves and Northern free
blacks began settling there; by 1860 they were almost a thousand
strong. Some of the more prominent black citizens were active in
the antislavery movement, and Chicago developed a reputation
throughout the generally conservative Midwest as a "nigger-lov-
ing town." Between 1880 and 1900 around fifty thousand Jews
arrived in Chicago from Eastern Europe, and while the black pop-
ulation grew more slowly, by 1915 there were over fifty thousand
blacks. The older settlers moved to contain these new arrivals, and
by the outbreak of World War I, there were distincdy demarcated
Jewish and black ghettos. The blacks were crowded into a narrow
South Side "black belt" and a smaller but growing enclave on the
West Side, wdth Jewish and other ethnic neighborhoods acting as
buffers between blacks and the white residential and business
districts. Most of the blacks —
more than 80 percent according to
the census of 1900 —
were migrants, and the majority of these had
come from the upper South: Kentucky, Missouri, northern Ten-
nessee. Seventeen percent were identified as natives of the Deep
South, an area that included Virginia, Georgia, and other south-
eastern states as well as Mississippi, Arkansas, and Louisiana.
 DEEP BLUES • 138

These figures help explain the varied regional origins of the ear-
liest Chicago blues stars — ^Tampa Red from Georgia, Papa Charlie
Jackson from Louisiana, Bhnd Blake from Florida, and so on.
When the United States entered World War I, Chicago was the
world's busiest railroad terminal, with more than four hundred
trains arriving every day; an important Great Lakes port; and a
major center for meat packing, printing, steel, and other heavy in-
dustries. Jobs in these industries had been one of the city's princi-
pal attractions for Eastern European immigrants, but they were
integrated into the work force only after considerable labor unrest,
and many of them eked out livings in the ghetto as best they
—
could selling from pushcarts, delivering merchandise with a
horse and wagon. Before World War I, industrial jobs remained
closed to blacks, who could only hope to work as porters, janitors,
or servants, or, in a few cases, as help in up-and-coming Jewish
businesses. But the draft, the rapid expansion of heavy industry to
meet the demands of the war machine, and the sudden cutoff of
European immigration conspired to create an acute labor short-
age, and by 1920, despite opposition from the unions, threats,
taunts, constant tension, and bloody race riots in 1917 and 1919,
blacks were working at steel mills and foundries, in the stockyards
and meat-packing houses, and in plants that manufactured loco-
motives, farm equipment, paper products, and other commodities.
And there were many more blacks; at least fifty thousand had ar-
rived since 1916.
Most of these new migrants were from the Deep South. Two
and the Gulf, Mobile and Ohio
great rail lines, the Illinois Central
(M&O) ran directly into Chicago from Alabama, Louisiana, and
,

Mississippi. Many Northern cities experienced enormous influxes

of Southern blacks, especially Detroit and Cleveland, but in the
Southern countryside, Chicago was much more celebrated. The
Chicago Defender, which was founded in 1 905 and rapidly became
the most popular black newspaper in the country, actively en-
couraged the migration, running headlines such as "More Posi-
tions Open Than Men for Them," editorializing at length on the
contrast between freedom and economic independence in the
North and lynchings and servitude in the South, and even setting
a date— —
May 15, 1917 ^for the Great Northern Drive. The De-
fender found its way into many a Delta cropper's shack, and
 CHICAGO PEP • 139

wasn't the only Chicago publication to do so. Rural blacks de-

pended heavily on Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward, whose
lavishly illustrated catalogues and reasonably priced merchan-
dise —^including many bluesmen's first guitars —
came from Chi-
cago.
At the same time, the Delta and other cotton-producing areas
were reeling from a succession of natural disasters. The boll wee-
vil, an insect parasite that first entered the United States from

Mexico in 1892 and is the subject of some of the earliest blues

lyrics, ravaged cotton crops throughout Mississippi in 1915-16.
During the same period, heavy flooding ruined thousands of acres.
Southern blacks who'd depended on sharecropping for subsist-
ence found themselves facing an uncertain future just when the
Northern labor shortage was reaching its peak.
In 1917-18 some of the larger Chicago firms sent agents south
to attract black workers with free railroad passes and promises of
guaranteed employment. The employment often turned out to be
backbreaking labor, and blacks soon learned that they were last
hired and first fired. The housing available to them was run-down
and overcrowded; Chicago had not yet replaced many of its old
frame houses with brick and stone tenement buildings. The South
Side black belt was a strip of one- and two-story frame dwellings,
many of them unpainted and lacking the most rudimentary sani-
tary and heating facilities, set end to end, row on row, with
wooden sidewalks and rutted streets that were always badly in
need of repair. Several rail lines ran through the South Side, and
in many cases the back porches of ghetto buildings were built
right up to the grading, so that the houses rattled and shook with
every passing train. Garbage collection was spotty, and a number
of buildings lacked electricity. And the ghetto kept decaying and
getting more overcrowded, for Chicago's whites were holding the
line against black expansion into other areas by any means at their
disposal, including bombings. The city's black population in-
creased 148 percent between 1910 and 1920, according to the of-

ficial census figures, but the size of the black belt hardly increased
at all.

The migration waxed and waned between the two world wars,
slowing drastically at the height of the Depression, but it never
stopped. David L. Cohn reported in his book Where I Was Bom
 DEEP BLUES • 140

and Raised that "within a period of ninety days during the twen-
ties, twelve thousand Negroes left the cottonfields of Mississippi,
and an average of two hundred were leaving Memphis every
night." Delta whites began to wonder how they were going to
raise their cotton if all their cheap labor moved north. Planters and
other civic-minded whites began giving picnics for local blacks,
with free cold drinks and food and speeches on "the advantages of
the Delta as a home for Negroes." Labor agents from the North
were forced to apply for licenses at exorbitant rates or were beaten
or run out of town. But the exodus continued. The 1940 census
for Mississippi revealed that whites outnumbered blacks statewide
for the first time in a hundred years. Between 1940 and 1950 the
state lost one fourth of its remaining black population. During the
same period, the black population of Chicago increased by 77 per-
cent. The city now boasted more residents born in Mississippi
than any city outside Mississippi, including Memphis and St.
Louis.
Toward the end of World War II, W. K. Anderson, of the 16,-
000-acre King & Anderson plantation near Clarksdale, decided to
try to find out why so many of his tenants were leaving for the
North. He sent two of his white overseers to Chicago to contact
former King & Anderson sharecroppers and persuade them to
come back, and with the help of a Chicago minister the overseers
were able to arrange a meeting in the apartment of a laundry
worker who had grown up on the plantation. As word of the meet-
ing spread, it took on the air of a festive occasion. People who had
known each other on King & Anderson crowded into the apart-
ment, bringing liquor, chicken, and other comestibles. One of the
overseers, a Mr. Russell, gave an informal talk detailing all that
the plantation management was doing to make King & Anderson a
—
more attractive place to live and work ^installing electricity in
tenant housing, replacing the shacks of former years with row
houses located next to paved roads, rendering itemized debit and
credit statements to each tenant automatically at specific times of
the year.
Then it was the blacks' turn. They asserted that they were
being overcharged for commodities and underpaid for their cotton
crops despite the detailed accounts, and they complained about
being mistreated by overseers and by lawmen in nearby towns. A
 CHICAGO PEP • 141

man stood up and gave an impromptu speech of his own, which

Anderson reported to David Cohn as follows:

Up here we have a little more freedom. If we get off" from work,

buy us a bottle of whiskey, and take a drink, nobody objects. If we
get alittle too much, as all of us do sometimes, the police take us to

Next morning they let us out without having beat us over the
jail.

head or making us pay a fine. We think we get better protection

from the law up here. Going into towns down home, the law would
get us, beat us up, handle us rough. We don't get that treatment
here.

It must have been an eloquent speech. When the overseers

asked if anyone was interested in returning to King & Anderson,

nobody volunteered.
Anderson also sent his two overseers to St. Louis, where they
got a similar response. Then he contacted a number of the elected
officials and business leaders of Clarksdale and told them he
wanted to sit down and have a serious talk. The eventual result
was a request to the town's recognized black leaders for a hst of
grievances or causes for the migration. There was a town meeting
*
at which the hst was presented.

1. Better Economic Conditions.

(a) Low wages in Clarksdale versus high wages elsewhere.
(b) Unsatisfactory crop settlements and abuses by plantation
managers.
(c) Discrimination in employment and inequalities in wages for
the same work.

2. Constant Intimidations.
(a) Wanton killings of Negroes without recourse.
(b) Intimidations on public conveyances.
(c) Law officers forcing women to work who are not vagrants.
(d) Unfavorable newspaper publicity and scurrilous references
to Negro soldiers.
(e) Maltreatment of Negro soldiers while home on furlough.

3. Lack of Educational Opportunities.

(a) Poor school buildings.
(b) Short school terms.
(c) Low salaries paid Negro teachers.
 DEEP BLUES • 142

(d) Lack of high school facilities.

(e) Lack of recreational facilities.

4. Activities of Loan Sharks.

(a) Excessive rates of interest charged.
(b) Refusal to give receipts.
(c) Threatening borrowers with bodily harm.

5. Lack of Sanitary Facilities.

(a) Failure to collect garbage in Negro areas.

(b) Lack of sidewalks and drainage in most Negro residential
sections.
(c) Lack of hospitals for Negroes.

Steps were taken. Promises were made. Pictures were taken

and hands were shaken. But the discontent was much too wade-
spread and deep-seated, and the lure of Chicago and other urban
centers was much too strong. Older Delta blacks might cherish
fond memories of the countryside where they'd spent their child-
hood and youth and, perhaps, of the white paternalism that was
rapidly eroding as pohtical and economic power passed from plant-
ers to townspeople. Younger blacks had fewer memories to hold
them back. As they left, they were replaced by machines tractors —
to do the work of dozens of field hands wdth mules, and more and
more sophisticated planting and harvesting equipment, much of it
manufactured in Chicago.
So on they came, rolling up the Illinois Central and M&O lines,
young men out on their own for the first time, determined women
clutching children, whole families dressed formally in their Sun-
day best. They packed into the "colored" passenger cars so tightly
that many who barely made the train had to endure the journey
(twelve hours from Memphis) standing up. When they first
stepped out into the huge, crowded, impossibly noisy Central Sta-
tion, after hurthng through what seemed to be miles of ram-
shackle, densely packed ghetto, many of them must have at least
thought about turning right around and going back home, espe-
cially if it was wdnter and the freezing wind ("the hawk," as locals
called it) was whipping in off Lake Michigan. Muddy was lucky
enough to arrive in the springtime, after the winter's bhzzards

* From Where 1 Was Born and Raised by David L. Cohn, Boston: Houghton
Mifflin. 1948.
 CHICAGO PEP • 143

and before the onslaught of the sweltering summer. He already

knew by word of mouth that when the weather was nice, a new ar-
rival could be sure of running into old friends and hearing plenty
of down-home blues in one central location. Officially it was
known as the Maxwell Street Market, but to the blacks, it was
Jewtown.

ONCE MUDDY HAD SETTLED into his four-room apartment at

1851 West Thirteenth Street, he was living a relatively short dis-
tance from the mile-long stretch of M
axwell Street that operated
on weekends as a teeming bazaar. Ma5?WEirwas a long, wdde (sixty
feet) straight east-west thoroughfare bounded by brick and frame
,

buildings, none taller than three stories. Jewish peddlers vrith

pushcarts had started to congregate there some time after the
Chicago fire of 1871, and soon a few enterprising souls began put-
ting up wooden stalls at the curbside, paying for the privilege, no
doubt, with a tip to the merchant who owned the storefront be-
hind the stall and another tip to the cop on the beat. In 1912 the
Chicago City Council officially recognized the Maxwell Street
Market, a strip about a mile from Lake Michigan, and before long
there were more or less permanent wooden stands lining the
street.Most of the stores had awnings that stretched out to the
curbs, so the sidewalks were effectively turned into long, shaded
tunnels. The stores, the stands, and the pushcart trade remained
overwhelmingly Jewish-operated even after Jewish immigrants
began moving out of the neighborhood and blacks began moving
in. By the mid-forties the area was mixed residentially, with some

lingering Jewish, Mexican, and gypsy enclaves, but it was mostly

black.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon one could buy just about any
thing on Maxwell Street. There were spice stands, used appli
ances, horse-drawn wagons loaded with country produce, cheap
dresses, used socks with the holes carefully folded inside, gyps>
men with watches up and down
fortune-telling parlors, furtive
theirarms and legs, even more furtive men connecting for heroin
and morphine in the shadows behind the stands, blankets loaded
wdth merchandise of every description spread out on the side-
 DEEP BLUES • 144

walks, and an almost limitless variety of individual scams. Ira Ber-

kow, who worked on the street as a child and years later wrote
Maxwell Street, a fascinating memoir, recalls a legless snake oil
salesman whose horse wrote numerals, from one to four, on a
blackboard according to how many times the man snapped his
whip. He also remembers the frequent violence
that earned the
street the sobriquet "Bloody Maxwell," center of the roughest po-
hce precinct in all Chicago. There were frequent chases, with po-
licemen pursuing thieves and junkies on mad dashes through
back alleys or across rooftops. Nobody wanted to end up in the
precinct house, which was on Maxwell three blocks west of Hal-
stead. It had its own lockup in the basement, a dingy chamber of
horrors where the prisoners urinated and defecated into troughs
that ran past the cells and huge rats slept on the hot water pipes
near the ceiling, their tails hanging down and flicking languidly.
All along Maxwell Street —
on the curbs, on busy corners, in the
—
entrances to alleyways, in the rubble of vacant lots blues musi-
cians wailed away on guitars, harmonicas, and battered drum sets.
Amplification had already made its appearance by 1940. Enter-
prising guitarists would buy long cords for their amplifiers from
one of the cut-rate electrical stores on the street and plug into
sockets in convenient stores or ground-floor apartments. Over the
hubbub of the bartering and hawking that arose from the market,
one could hear the cutting whine of bottleneck guitars, and under
it throbbed the bass patterns of "RoUin' and Tumblin'
" and

"Dust My Broom." The musicians were playing only for tips, but it
was possible to make money. Hound Dog Taylor, who grew up
near Greenwood, Mississippi, and had learned to play Robert
Johnson and Elmore James licks with a bottleneck by the time he
arrived in Chicago in 1940, reported to Berkow, "You used to get
out on Maxwell Street on a Sunday morning and pick you out a
good spot, babe. Dammit, we'd make more money than I ever
looked at. Sometimes a hundred dollars, a hundred twenty dollars.
Put you out a tub, you know, and put a pasteboard in there, like a
newspaper? . When somebody throw a quarter or a nickel in
. .

there, can't nobody hear it. Otherwise, somebody come by, take
the tub and cut out. I'm teUing you, Jewtown was jumpin' like
. . .

a champ, jumpin' like mad on Sunday morning."

Muddy enjoyed visiting Maxwell Street, and he played there on
 CHICAGO PEP • 145

occasion, but he looks back on the experience with evident dis-

dain. "A lot of peoples was down there trying to make a quarter,"
he told Berkow, "but I didn't like to have to play outside in all the
weathers, and I around and all that bull-
didn't like to pass the hat
shit." Nevertheless, in the early forties, right up to the time
Muddy arrived, Maxwell Street and informal house parties were
the principal sources of musical employment for blues musicians
just in from the South. The nightclubs that featured blues artists
were dominated by the clique that had risen to prominence
through Lester Melrose's connections with Bluebird and Colum-
—
bia ^John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson, Big Bill Broonzy, Mem-
phis Minnie, Tampa Red, and their friends. Robert Nighthawk
stayed in Chicago off and on and recorded fairly prolifically for
Melrose after 1937, but he was an inveterate drifter and kept re-
turning south. Tommy McClennan, Robert Petway, and Arthur
"Big Boy" Crudup, the only other Delta musicians on the Melrose
roster, would come to Chicago, rehearse at Tampa Red's house,
which doubled as the Melrose rehearsal studio, make their record-
ings, and return home almost immediately. Apparently not all the
black blues fans in Chicago appreciated these singers' country
ways; in Chicago Breakdown, Mike Rowe tells of McClennan
being bodily ejected from a Chicago house party, with his guitar
broken over his head, for singing emphatically about "niggers."
But as World War II neared its end, more and more of Chicago's
blues fans were Mississippi natives who liked their music rural
and raw. Th^-Lrf^y prticf in this transition, and probably th^ most
admii:ed_£hiicago-based bluesman of the period, was John Lee
WiUiamsorr; who-had arrived in the city in 1937 and made his first
recordings for Bluebird that May accompanied by two Delta gui-
tarists, Robert Nighthawk and Joe Williams. The session, held at

Victor's studio in Aurora, Illinois, was an important one. Night-

hawk, then known as Robert Lee McCoy, cut "Prowlin' Night-
hawk," the blues that gave him his name. Williamson, who sang
in a personably plaintive style that was somewhat reminiscent of
his early western Tennessee cronies Sleepy John Estes and Yank
Rachell, recorded "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl," which was a
hit and almost immediately became a blues standard, destined to
be copied and recopied by rhythm and blues and rock and roll
groups. More importantly, with these first recordings Williamson
 DEEP BLUES • 146

firmly established the .Ja^rnonica^as-a-ve^satile solo instrument.

Bluesmen had been playing the harp for a long time, of course,
but Williamson featured it in sensitively phrased instrumental
choruses and played it right into the recording microphone,
switching between voice and harp so rapidly that the two sounds
seemed to merge into one. His early music was still firmly coun-
try-rooted, especially when Nighthawk and Williams were filling
in behind him with a mesh of thumping bass patterns and
chorded cross-rhythms. But he soon began recording with larger
groups, and in May 1940, at a session that produced "I Been
Dealing with the Devil," "My Little Machine," and other classics,
he first used a drummer. From then on his music developed an in-
creasingly urban rhythmic thrust, while his singing and harmon-
ica playing remained both distinctive and down-home.
As the urbane, rocking, jazz-based music of artists like Louis
Jordan and Lionel Hampton gained in popularity, bluesmen and
the more commercially minded jazz musicians began favoring a
heavy, insistent beat. The new r&b, or jump blues, appealed to
black listeners who no longer wished to identify themselves vvdth
life down home, and the field offered attractive financial opportu-
jazzmen willing to "play for the people," as Louis
nities for skilled
Jordan put it. By 1945, a number of Chicago clubs that had been
booking Melrose-approved blues artists were switching over to city
r&b, and the established blues stars found themselves being
squeezed out of many of the smaller joints by musicians fresh
from the country who were willing to work for much less. If Sonny
Boy's increasingly heavy rhythmic emphasis was in some sense a
reaction to the challenge of r&b, his reaction to the increasing
domination of the local blues market by Delta-style artists was
equally direct: he began hiring some of the best of them.
Eddie Boyd, a pianist who was bom on the Frank Moore planta-
tion in Coahoma County and was a childhood friend of Muddy's,
arrived in Chicago around 1941 and quickly graduated from mar-
ginal tavern work with country bluesmen Hke Johnny Shines (an-
other 1941 arrival) to a series of engagements with Sonny Boy, in
groups that also included guitar, bass and drums. A recording ban
had been imposed by the American Federation of Musicians in
1942, in a futile attempt to prevent the burgeoning jukebox busi-
ness from putting live musicians out of work. It lasted until 1944
 CHICAGO PEP • 147

and probably kept Boyd from recording with Williamson earlier; in

1945 he went into the studio with Sonny Boy for a session that
produced the popular "Elevator Woman" ("Everybody tells me
you must be the elevatingest woman in town") Williamson en-
.

joyed his whiskey and had trouble keeping permanent groups to-
gether, a fact that worked to the advantage of some of the younger
Delta musicians. Muddy worked with him sporadically, and so did
guitarist Johnny Young (who grew up in Muddy's birthplace,
Rolling Fork) and the pianist who was to play a central role in the
transformation of Chicago blues into amplified De lta blues, Sup-
* "
nyl^jidSlim. ^

ONE HUMID NIGHT IN MAY 1978, 1 drove to Morgen's Liquors,

at Sixty-firstand Calumet on the South Side, to hear Sunnyland
play. Morgen's was in the shadow of an El stop, and when one
walked in it seemed to be a perfectly ordinary ghetto liquor store.
But behind a curtain in the back, where you'd expect to find a
stockroom, there was a long, crowded, dimly ht bar, and in back of
that, behind a heavy door, was a plain, square music room, with
cheap plywood wall paneling, bare bulbs, and a few paper stream-
ers. SUm, long, lanky, and weathered, was sitting on the tiny
bandstand behind a battered red Wurlitzer electric piano, flanked
by guitarist Louis Myers, from Byhalia, Mississippi, and a much
younger rhythm section. He flexed his arms, grimaced, and
—
downed a shot of booze he was stabbed in both arms in a 1968
South Side robbery and says he has trouble Umbering up and —
then Myers counted off a crisp shuffle rhythm and stepped to the
microphone. "Woke up this mornin', lookin' 'round for my shoes /
You know I had them mean old walkin' blues." It was "the
theme," as Muddy calls it, the Delta anthem, and the crowd, all
black except for my friend and me, was a middle-aged Mississippi
—
crowd. The beat was different a trace of funk from the bassist,
—
snappy fills from the drummer but Louis and Sunnyland were
playing "Walkin' Blues" pretty much the way they played it in the
thirties.
Shm sounded magnificent, rapping out tone clusters in the tre-

ble and walking the basses with all the authority of someone who's
 DEEP BLUES • 148

been playing the blues for sixty-odd years. "I don't like to play in
these kind of places no more," he said during a break, pushing his
face up close to be heard over the buzz of conversation and the
B. B. King record on the jukebox. "I'll be seventy-two soon. I just
been out to California, playin' in Europe. I'm just down here
. . .

helping Louis out on his gig." Muddy's name came up. "Me and
Muddy started out together at the same time," he said. "I brought
him in to play guitar for me when I got the call to make a record,
1947. We did a couple of my numbers, and then the man asked
me, 'Say, what about your boy there? Can he sing?' Talkin' about
"
Muddy, you know. And I said, 'Like a bird!'
Slim was born Albert Luandrew on September 5, 1907, on a
farm near Vance, Mississippi, twenty or thirty miles southeast of
Clarksdale. "It was my grandfather's farm," he says. "Old master
was his daddy. At that particular time, white man got pretty much
what he wanted. If he seen a woman and want her, he could make
it hard, 'cause the blacks was slaves to people then. Anyway, my

grandfather split rails, made crossties when the railroads come in,
—
and bought that land wasn't but seventy-five cents an acre then.
He bought another place there near Lambert, and a place in
Marks. There where I grew up, we farmed. Plenty of acres of fruit,
plenty of pumpkins, nothin' to buy, really, but black pepper and
salt and sugar and flour, mules and horses. But wasn't much
money, either. It snowed a httle in the v^dntertime, and we didn't
have no boots. We had to put sacks around our feet to go out to
work. When I was about six, my mother, she got her feet in some
water or snow, and she died of double pneumonia.
"Then this new white man, he started puttin' up fences, fenced
all the niggers into their land so they couldn't come out, plowed

up the road comin' into town. So we moved over there near Lam-
bert, and my daddy, who was a preacher, he remarried. My step-
mother, she didn't have no children, and after my daddy married
her, she never did create no children. And she treat me so bad till
when I was ten or eleven years old, she hurt my head whippin' me
with a cane and I ran off". I was big for my age, and I went down to
Crenshaw, made a good day pickin' cotton. They come and got me
the next mornin', carried me on back home with 'em, but when I
was thirteen or fourteen, I left out of there for good."
As the child of landowning, churchgoing folk, Sunnyland had
 CHICAGO PEP • 149

littleearly exposure to the blues. Some of his first memories of

music are memories of church services, and the instrument that
attracted his attention was a pump organ. "Wasn't too much
piano playing there in the country," he says, "but my step-
mother's Uncle Jimmy had a piano, and every time I could get her
to let me, I'd go there. He'd show me a little bit. My cousin in
Marks had a good piano, so I was able to go and play that a little. I
learned Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching,' that was
popular then, and 'If I Could Hear My Mother Pray.' Then when I
got around twelve or thirteen, I'd go over to see this old lady that
went to my daddy's church. I'd cut her kindling, and she'd let me
play her organ. I wrote out on a shoebox where I put my fingers at
so I could take that home and practice with it."
When he ran away for the last time, Sunnyland found work
carrying water for a railroad gang. He worked as a cook, he drove
an automobile for a doctor in Lambert, and soon he landed a job
playing Wednesday and Saturday nights at a juke joint in the
country outside town, a joint that had a piano but hadn't been able
to attract a more experienced player. Actually, Sunnyland says, he
wasn't bad by the time he was fifteen. He'd been hearing blues
here and there, especially after he left home and started working
for the railroad, and "they had a boogie kinda thing, fast music, in
church. So already, I could play the blues in maybe three keys. I
started at fifty cents a night workin' for this fellow, and he would
fry fish and hamburgers, have a crap game. I didn't know too
much about the dice, but I learned to play pretty good cards. I
used to watch them hustlers, and I picked up a few little tricks.
This was in '22, and by the end of the year 1 got hired to play for a
motion picture show. Then a fella came out from one of the big
farms, got a big place out where there's a lot of quarter houses. I
played for him. He gave me two dollars and fifty cents. Then I
heard about these places where they cut logs and had piano play-
ers. And I was gettin' to be exciting good."
In 1923 Sunnyland ran into Little Brother Montgomery, one of
the seminal Deep South blues pianists of the twenties and thirties.
Montgomery was from Kentwood, Louisiana, a sawmill town
where his father ran a barrelhouse. When he was very young (he
was born a year and a half before Sunnyland, on April 18, 1906),
he heard pianists with fanciful professional names like Rip Top
 DEEP BLUES • 150

and Papa Lord Gbd play the blues for his father, and while he soon
began absorbing other piano music, including ragtime and early
jazz styhngs from New Orleans, he concentrated on blues. Like
—
Sunnyland, he ran away from home early he says he was
eleven — and perfected his art by playing long hours for low pay,
mostly in the rough-and-tumble Saturday night joints that always
clustered around sawmills and lumber camps. Around 1919-20,
he found himself in Ferriday, Louisiana, which is just across the
Mississippi River from Natchez and would later attain a certain
notoriety as the birthplace of rock and roll's piano-pumping vdld
man, Jerry Lee Lewis. There he met two pianists who worked the
joints in Louisiana and Mississippi, Dehlco Robert and Long Tall
Friday, and together the three of them worked on more and more
elaborate variations of a blues strain that was already popular in
the Delta and eventually became best known as "Rollin' and
Tumblin'." When they were finished, they had created 'The Forty
Fours," which Montgomery says is "the hardest barrelhouse
blues of any blues in history to play because you have to keep two
different times going in each hand."
Montgomery and his friends were already playing pieces with
boogie-woogie-style bass patterns, which may well have been
created in the logging and turpentine camps and oil boomtowns of
Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi around the turn of the century.
They knew these eight-to-the-bar patterns as "Dudlow Joes."
"They used to call boogie piano Dudlow Joes in Mississippi," the
Vicksburg-born blues bassist Willie Dixon told Karl Gert zur
Heide, author of Deep South Piano. "1 didn't hear it called boogie
till long after. If a guy played boogie piano, they'd say he was a

Dudlow player. Later on guitars played boogie, too." And later

still, there was another change in terminology. "It was in the thir-

ties," says Sunnyland, "that people started talkin' about rockin',

like 'rock this house.'But they been playin' that, vdth the shuffle
in it to make it move, since at least 1923 or '24. All them Missis-
sippi people that you never heard of, they been rockin' all their
fuckin' life."
"The Forty Fours" wasn't a boogie or a rocker. It was a me-
dium-slow blues with an extravagant, ascending bass line that
seemed to operate in an altogether different rhythmic sphere than
the familiar downward-tumbling melody. The piece imoresseH pv-
 CHICAGO PEP • 151

eryone who heard it. It became the ultimate test piece on which
Louisiana and Mississippi pianists would gauge each other's met-
tle. Montgomery has always resented the fact that Lee Green, a pi-

anist from southern Mississippi who learned it from him and from
Long Tall Friday, and Roosevelt Sykes, from Helena, Arkansas,
both recorded their versions of the theme in 1929, a year before
Little Brother cut his own, definitive version, "Vicksburg Blues."
Sunnyland was traveling with a pimp- gambler friend and a car
full of whores the night he met Montgomery. They had been jailed
overnight in some small Mississippi town, the whores had left
under their own power, and then the car broke down on a gravel
road outside Canton, Mississippi. As luck would have it, there was
a large sawmill nearby, v^th an impressive, two-story wooden bar-
relhouse where a hot Saturday night was in progress. Before long,
Sunnyland and his friend were heavily involved in a popular card
game, Georgia Skin, but there was accomplished piano blues, writh
occasional ragtime and jazz thrown in, coming from upstairs, and

eventually Sunnyland left the game and went up to investigate.

Montgomery, who was still, like Sunnyland, a teenager, was
loaded on corn whiskey, but he was playing and shouting lustily
there in the makeshift parlor, where roaring drunk sawmill hands
with ready cash picked out whores to take into the adjoining
rooms.
Sunnyland began talking v^dth Brother, expressing admiration
for his playing, and Montgomery, whose voice was starting to go,
asked him if he could sing. They worked as a team until four or
five in the morning, Sunnyland singing in his high but powerful
voice while Montgomery played just about every blues he knew.
Finally Little Brother stumbled away from the piano stool and col-
lapsed in a corner. The house madam offered Sunnyland some
bread and molasses and a cup of coffee, and after he'd eaten, he
felt emboldened to try out the piano himself. He sat down and

started playing his own version of "Rollin' and Tumbhn'," which

he'd learned in the Delta, and Montgomery sat bolt upright. "He
got up and staggered over," Sunnyland recalls with a chuckle,
"and asked me, 'Why in the hell didn't you tell me you could
play?' 'Cause they'd had him playin' there for hours and hours.
Then we both laughed, and we been buddies ever since." Sunny-
land learned bass patterns and got other ideas from Montgomery,
 DEEP BLUES • 152

but in those days he learned from just about every pianist he met.
It would be eight years before Montgomery's recordings began

spreading his influence and established him as the master of "The

Forty Fours." "Meantime," Sunnyland continues, "my friend was
downstairs all night skinnin' and makin' himself some money. So
we got the car fixed, and our next stop was Memphis."
When Memphis in the twenties,
country guitarists arrived in
they usually found their way to a little park just off Beale Street
(now Handy Park) where they could play and pass the hat. But
the pianists, many of whom, like Sunnyland, came from more up-
wardly mobile family backgrounds, had entree into different cir-

cles. Beale Street was the Midsouth's black main street in those
days, and while the large vaudeville theaters tended to employ
only nationally known stars like Bessie Smith or the comedy team
Butterbeans and Suzy (and maintained pit bands that could
either read from sheet music or play improvised jazz) there were
,

plenty of cafes and gambling dens on and around Beale. Generally

these places were oblivious to the charms of guitar blues. Their
patrons, city slickers and country boys with ambition, would have
considered Charley Patton or Son House primitive and declasse.
But pianists, if they dressed flashily and cultivated a worldly air,
were welcome.
"Memphis used to be a barrelhouse town," Sunnyland remem-
bers exuberantly. "AU the best-dressin' fellows in the world came
from Memphis. All the sportin' pTayersncarhe Trom Memphis. It
was the greatest town in the w orld for pimp g ^^'^ hlJ8t^^^*= That's
where a wh^leJoCof people got killed, you know." During the hey-
day of Bj^e Street, Hemphian s committed rn oremurders per ca-
pita tharrthe citize ns of any, other gjty in the southiriT'thiited
States —
89 .9 ii lTIfgers for every 100,000 citizens according to a
1916 report by the Prudential Insurance Company. Waves of re-
formist sentiment were sweeping the town even before 1911,
when E. H. Crump was elected mayor and began his three-and-a-
half-decade reign as the city's political boss. But the cleanup pro-
ceeded gradually. In the late twenties and early thirties, Beale
Street and the rougher black neighborhoods of south Memphis,
some of which were spreading out toward the Mississippi line, still
offered abundant employment opportunities for a blues pianist
and card shark of Sunnyland's caliber. Sometimes he played on
 CHICAGO PEP • 153

the outskirts of town and in the country with Walter Horton, a

teenage harmonica wizard from northern Mississippi who was to
become one of the premier Chicago blues soloists after World War
II, and Little Buddy Doyle, a blind dwarf who picked guitar and
sang in the streets when he wasn't in a stupor from moonshine,
jimson weed, and other intoxicants. "My mind in such a condition
till I hardly know the days of the week," Doyle sang in "Bad in

Mind Blues," which he recorded, with Horton on harp, in Mem-

phis in 1939.
Sunnyland also West Memphis, Arkansas. "When
worked in
Mr. Crump cut all West
that out, everybody starts to get out to
Memphis, and West Memphis had a barrel of blues all the time,"
he says. "Everywhere you go in West Memphis, there was a gam-
bling joint and honky-tonks. I used to play aU them places. It used
to be so muddy in the streets you had to carry hip boots to get
around." And he rambled up and down the Mississippi, stopping
in the towns that were v^dde open. "Caruthersville [Missouri] was
the jumpingest town in the world. Women could hustle and do
what they want to do and have protection, you know what I mean?
At the sea walls, right 'side the Mississippi River. All them river
towns where the boats come in was good." There were also levee
camps along the river where the men who labored maintaining
the earthworks or sandbagging against the rising current during
flood season were usually ready for some entertainment at night.
Out in the Deep South's uncut forests, there were lumber and
turpentine camps —makeshift towns of unpainted shacks. Sunny-
land didn't just play in these camps. He learned to do electrical
wiring and fit pipe struts, and sometimes, when money was tight,
he would work all week and then play all weekend. But his mind
was on his music, which never strayed very far from the basic
blues themes he learned in the Delta.
During the early years of his career he was still known as Albert
Luandrew. It was in the thirties that he acquired the nickname
Sunnyland Shm. At the time, railroads were both the lifeline of the
nation and an institution with considerable mythic significance.

I Southern blacks tended to ascribe personal characteristics to cer-

tain trains. "The Sunnyland train," Slim explains, "was a fast
train, run right out of Memphis to St. Louis on the Frisco. I started
singing about it because, man, it killed peoples. They would be
 .

DEEP BLUES • 154

coming to town along those gravel roads, farmers in their wagons

gettin' supphes for their families, and people would just get
caught comin' across the tracks. The Sunnyland train killed my
aunt's husband down there, comin' fast through that brush." In
the flat tableland of the Delta, railroad tracks cut right through the
fields. If you don't know the area well, you can be riding or driving

along a back road and come right up to the tracks without realiz-
ing they're there. When trains come through, you can see them
from afar. They look sleek and menacing, like snakes, gliding,
without any visible means of locomotion, "through that brush."
—
So tall, skinny Albert Luandrew became Su iinyland Slim a man
who travetedTar and fast and could be dangerous.
By the early for^ipR Siinny]an<i hgH maHp the acquaintance of
an extraordinary number of blues musicians, including the pian-
ists Roosevelt Sykes and Peter Chatman (Memphis Slim, who
moved to Chicago and began recording for Bluebird in 1940) the ,

guitarists Robert Johnson and Honeyboy Edwards, and the har-

monica players John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson, Rice Miller
(who began calling himself Sonny Boy Williamson some time in
the forties, after John Lee was a popular Bluebird recording art-
ist), and Little Walter Jacobs (who was very little then, a child
runaway hustling for spare change and sleeping on pool tables)
Except for Robert Johnson, all these musicians, and many, many
more, made the move to Chicago sooner or later. Sunnyland made
his move around 1942 or 1943, and wdth his outgoing disposition
and taking-care-of-business attitude, he was soon well known
among both the estabUshed blues stars and the newer arrivals. He
renewed his acquaintance with John Lee WiUiamson, and he
began working with Peter Cleighton, who, as Dr. Clayton, enjoyed
a brief run of popularity as a Bluebird recording artist before his
wife and two children were run over by a train and he drank him-
self to death. Cleighton died in 1946, and by that time Sunnyland
was chummy with the long-established Tampa Red, whose house
he rented when Tampa decided to move to a better neighborhood.
 CHICAGO PEP • 155

SUNNYLAND MET MUDDY WATERS at the Flame Club on

Chicago's South Side sometime In the mid-forties. It was Muddy's
first really decent musical job, fifty-two dollars a week as guitar ac-

companist to his old friend Eddie Boyd. He was still holding down
a day job as well. His musical engagements In Chicago up to that
point had Included house parties with guitarists Jimmy Rogers
and Lee Brown, occasional out-of-town gigs with John Lee Wil-
liamson (who was drinking more and more and seems to have ap-
preciated the fact that Muddy owned a car and was willing to drive
to nearby towns like Gary and back to Chicago overnight) and a ,

few informal tavern engagements, in West Side joints that paid

five dollars a night, if that, v^th Rogers on harmonica and Blue
Smitty (Claude Smith, from Marianna, in the Arkansas Delta) on
second guitar. During the course of these jobs Muddy picked up,
largely from Smitty, a rudimentary but adequate knowledge of
guitar styles that were at the time considered "modern." When he
came to Chicago, he was limited to Delta-style bottleneck playing,
while Smitty's more urban style has been described by Mike Rowe
as "an awkward compendium of such diverse influences as [Big
Boy] Crudup, Yank RacheU, and [the jazz guitarist] Charlie
Christian." It was a single-string lead guitar style, a more basic
version of the kind of melodic runs and fill-ins a jazz guitarist
might play behind a singer.
The sophisticated jump blues of performers like Louis Jordan
and smooth blues ballads, as sung by Charles Brown, Nat "King"
Cole, and other C3llfoi!n.ia-bas6d^tists, wef e the-latest trends in
black popular music, and thesewere the sounds Eddie Boyd was
purveying^ the Flame Club. Despite the coaching he'd had from
Smitty, Muddy just didn't fit in. "Eddie wanted me to play like
Johnny Moore," he says, referring to the fluent, jazzy guitarist
who picked tastefuUy behind Charles Brown. "He wanted it to be
a sweet kind of blues." But then Sonny Boy Williamson offered
Boyd a better-paying job playing for steel mill workers in Gary, and
he left the Blue Flame; Sunnyland Slim replaced him. With Sun-
nyland and Muddy playing strong Delta bass patterns, Blue Smitty
filling in modern-style leads, and all three singing, they had a

jumping httle combo. But Smitty kept sweet-talking various

women and* disappearing into a nearby hotel when he was sup-
 DEEP BLUES • 156

posed to be on the bandstand, and one evening he drank too much

and made the mistake of picking a fight with Sunnyland. As a re-
sult, the band lost their job, and their next gig at the Cotton Club
as well.
By that time Sunnyland had had enough of Smitty, but he liked
Muddy. They were both from the Delta, both old enough to be se-
rious and professional about their music (Muddy was in his early
thirties, Sunnyland almost forty) both proud, dignified men who
,

—
showed up for work well dressed and sober even if they didn't al-
ways stay that way all night. "I got drunk and got in a fight once
on that job with Eddie Boyd," Muddy admits. "I was foolin'
around with one of them little ole girls. She made good money and
was paying the note on a car, and she started it all. I throwed all
the whiskey bottles they had on the table, and when I got through,
I went behind the bar and started throwing them whiskey bottles.

They put me in jail overnight. But mostly, you know, I didn't do

that. 1 wanted to be nationally known, and I worked on it." Sun-
nyland stayed in touch.
In September 1946, Lester Melrose arranged a session for Co-
lumbia Records featuring three unknown blues vocalists. Sunny-
land, who was asked to play piano on the session, made sure one of
them was Muddy. (The other two. Homer Harris and James
"Beale Street" Clark, rapidly dropped from sight.) Muddy and
Harris played guitars, Sunnyland filled in the sound with his roll-
ing upper register tremolos, and an unidentified bassist and
drummer carried the rhythm. Muddy tried his best to sound mod-
ern. He picked simple single-string lead figures and heavy boogie
basses on his three vocal selections, and his bottleneck was no-
where in evidence. His singing was strong but restrained. The re-
sult was a set of recordings that were slick and shallow compared
to what Muddy could do but too down-home, it seems, for Colum-
bia. The company released nothing from the session, and Lester
Melrose, the kingpin of Chicago blues recording for more than a
decade, let the city's next and eventually its biggest blues star slip
through his fingers.
By this time Muddy was working days at "the best job I ever had
in my life," driving a delivery truck for a company that manufac-
tured Venetian blinds. "After I learned all the calls in the city," he
says, "I'd take my load out at eight-thirty, and by one in the after-
 CHICAGO PEP • 157

—
noon I'd be back at my house ^in the bed. Around four-thirty I'd
get up and carry the mail to the post office — —
boom! I'm through.
I had to sleep 'cause I was playing five nights a week."

Sometime in 1947 Sunnyland arranged to record a session for

Aristocrat, a company that had been started earlier that year by
two Pohsh-born Jews, Leonard and Phil Chess, along with a
woman named Evelyn. The Chess brothers, who arrived in the
United States in 1928, had worked hard; by 1947 they owned sev-
eral bars and clubs on the South Side, including the Macomba,
where popular jazz and rhythm and blues artists performed. Their
first Aristocrat releases were strictly jazz and city r&b, but Sammy

Goldstein, the company's talent scout, thought Aristocrat might

do well in the blues field and called Sunnyland to arrange a ses-
sion. It was going to be a duo, with Big Crawford on bass, but late
in the game someone, probably Goldstein, suggested the addition
of a guitarist, and Sunnyland thought of Muddy. "I caught the
streetcar up there to Muddy' s house," the pianist recalls, "and
Annie Mae told me he was out wdth the truck. The session was for
two o'clock." A friend of Muddy's, Antra Bolton, was there visiting
and offered to track Muddy down, and since his delivery routine
rarely varied, it didn't take long. Muddy had been disheartened by
the Columbia experience and wasn't about to let another opportu-
nity to get on records pass him by. He called his boss, explained in
a voice shaking with emotion that his cousin had been murdered
in a ghetto alley, turned the truck over to Bolton, who finished the
run, hurried home to get his guitar, and made it on time to Uni-
versal Studios, on North Wacker Drive in downtown Chicago, for
the session.
First Sunnyland recorded two numbers, including one of his
best, "Johnson Machine Gun," a violent urban fantasy with a
touch of sinister humor. "I'm gonna buy me a Johnson machine
gun," he sang, with a high, shghtly pinched sound that was more
than a little reminiscent of Dr. Clayton, "and a carload of explo-
sion balls / I'm gonna be a walkin' cyclone, from Saginaw to the
Niagara Falls." The song began as a boast and ended as a threat:
"Now, httle girl, the undertaker's been here, girl, and I gave him
your height and size / Now if you don't be makin' whoopee with
the Devil tomorrow this time, baby, God knows you'll be sur-
prised." After he recorded the more conventional "Fly Right, Lit-
 DEEP BLUES • 158

tie Girl," someone, again probably Goldstein, asked him if Muddy

could sing. Characteristically, Muddy was ready, this time with
two tightly composed original blues that were much better than
the mostly traditional material he'd recorded for Columbia. "Little
Anna Mae," the second number he recorded, was a personal ac-
count of trouble with his live-in girl friend; "Gypsy Woman" was
more intriguing.

You know the gypsy woman told me that you your mother's bad luck
child
WeU you havin' a good time now, but that'll be trouble after while

Well now you know I went to a gypsy woman to have my fortune told
Say you better go back home, son, and peek through your, your keyhole
You know the gypsy woman told me that you your mother's bad luck
child
Well you're bavin' a good time now, but that'll be trouble after while

Well now you know I went home, I took the gypsy woman as she said
I peeked through my keyhole, and there was another man layin' in my

bed
You know the gypsy woman told me that you your mother's bad luck
child
Well you havin' a good time now but that'll be trouble after while

Muddy stiU thought people wanted to hear modern guitar play-

ing, not his Delta bottleneck blues, and once again he played sin-
gle-string lead hnes. But his work was much improved he —
sounded something Hke Joe WiUie Wilkins or perhaps WiUie
Johnson, two Delta guitarists vsdth backgrounds similar to his who
began recording in Memphis a few years later. And he was singing
strongly, letting his Delta pronunciations of words hke "gypsaay"
come out naturally, varying his timbre and playing with pitches to
suggest subtle shadings of emotion and meaning. The lyrics were
probably inspired by the gypsy fortune-teUing salons of the Max-
well Street area and should have been perfect for the black blues
audience of the period. But Leonard Chess didn't think much of
the record. He let it sit on the shelf for several months before he
released it and apparently didn't push it even then.
Then, early in 1948, Aristocrat called Muddy in to do another
session. Leonard Chess may have wanted to stockpile material in
 CHICAGO PEP • 159

anticipation of another recording ban by the American Federation

of Musicians. In any event, he was still unenthusiastic about
Muddy; his partner Evelyn and Sammy Goldstein probably talked
him into arranging the session. At the rehearsal that immediately
preceded it, Muddy ran through his repertoire. This time, having
failed twice in his attempts at contemporary urban blues, he
brought his bottleneck and tried some of his old Delta numbers,
including several he'd recorded for the Library of Congress.
"What's he singing? 1 can't understand what he's singing," Chess
reportedly protested.
"Evelyn was the one that really Uked me," says Muddy. "Leon-
ard didn't know nothing about no blues, but she did." And so, de-
spite Chess's skepticism, Muddy recorded "I Can't Be Satisfied"
and "I Feel Like Going Home." On a Saturday morning in April
1948, copies of the record went out to Aristocrat's South Side out-
lets, which included barber and beauty shops, variety stores, and

other "mom and dad" businesses, as well as a few record shops. A

little more than twelve hours later, the initial pressing was sold

out.
The next morning Muddy got yp early and went right over to
Company. The crowded,
the Maxwell Radio Record chaotic little

shop was run by one-eyed Bernard Abrams, another of Maxwell

Street's Eastern European Jewish immigrants. Abrams had primi-
tive recording equipment in the back and had made acetates for a
number of Maxwell Street blues performers. Muddy had played in
front of the store in 1947 to help advertise the release of one of two
discs Abrams put out in a brief and discouraging attempt to enter
the record business, "I Just Keep Loving Her" and "Ora Nelle
Blues" by harmonica player Little Walter Jacobs and guitarist
Othum Brown. He had been playing with Little Walter off and on
for a few years but says he "kind of bypassed around Walter for a
while 'cause he had a bad, mean temper, always stayed in fights."
He didn't hang around Maxwell Street much, either, but this
Sunday morning he wanted a couple of copies of a certain
record — his record. The crafty Abrams had stockpiled a few and
was selling them for $1.10 each, one to a customer (list price was
79 cents). Muddy complained that it was his name on the label,
but Abrams adamantly refused to sell him more than one copy or
 DEEP BLUES • 160

lower the price. Disgusted, Muddy took the one record, went
home, and sent Annie Mae over for another one.
Leonard Chess was caught off guard by the success of "I Can't
Be Satisfied"/"! Feel Like Going Home," but, like any good busi-
nessman, he knew a good thing when he saw it. More copies were
rapidly pressed, and soon the disc was selling steadily in Chicago
and throughout the South. "I had a hot blues out, man," Muddy
says, still feeling cocky about it after all these years. "I'd be driving
my truck, and whenever I'd see a neon beer sign, I'd stop, go in,
look at the jukebox, and see is my record on there. I might buy me
a beer and play the record and then leave. Don't tell nobody noth-
ing. Before long, every blues joint there was, that record was on
the jukebox. And if you come in and sat there for a little while, if
anybody was in there, they gonna punch it. Pretty soon I'd hear it
walking along the street. I'd hear it driving along the street. About
June or July that record was getting really hot. I would be driving
home from playing, two or three o'clock in the morning, and I had
a convertible, wdth the top back 'cause it was warm. I could hear
people all upstairs playing that record. It would be rolling up
there, man. I heard it all over. One time I heard it coming from
way upstairs somewhere, and it scared me. I thought I had died."
Listening to the record today, it's easy enough to imagine get-
ting a creepy feehng from hearing it echo down some deserted
street in the dead of night. The singing is stronger and more com-
manding than on Muddy's Library of Congress recordings of the
same material, and with Big Crawford contributing a firm bass
part and Muddy playing more simply and vdth a heavier rhythmic
emphasis, the music has a punching, danceable beat, especially
on the up-tempo A side, "I Can't Be Satisfied." But the most strik-
ing difference between the 1941 and 1948 recordings is electric-
ity. Muddy had been playing electric guitar since 1944. An

acoustic was adequate for apartment parties, but if a guitarist

wanted to cut through the noise in a crowded city joint, amplifica-
tion was a necessity. It lent Muddy's sound a certain weight and
density, and it brought out subtleties in his slide playing that had
been lost even on the well-recorded Library of Congress sides, in-
cluding silvery high harmonics that rang out above the notes he
was actually playing, sounding like a ghostly second guitar. On "I
 CHICAGO PEP • 161

Feel Like Going Home," Muddy affected a wide vocal vibrato at

the end of certain lines, an effect he may well have picked up from
listening to the tremololike sound of his amplified bottleneck play-
ing.
This was the old, deep Delta v»iii^c ^^ d^^ibt nhnuLthat, but it
was something n^. ^Lstg nd^rrT^rnid the glut of r&b releases
also
by sax^Ied lump C MTibos and bluesE^^eefs-because of its sim-
phcity, its passion, and it s hyp notic one-^Tiofd~'5rDmngr Blacks
who lived~or 1rad~ttved^down home~snapped the record up, and
women in particular responded to the music's undercurrent of
sexuality. It was no accident that Leonard Chess's partner Evelyn
heard Muddy's potential before Leonard himself did; as Howlin'
Wolf later sang, "The men don't know, but the little girls under-
stand."
Sometime in 1948 Sunnyland Slim arranged to cut a session for
another struggling, and ultimately unsuccessful, Chicago label,
Tempo Tone. Once again, his choice of sidemen shaped and has-
tened the development of the new Chicago blues, for this was the
first recorded collaboration between Muddy and Little Walter. The

rambunctious young harmonica player was becoming a more fre-

quent associate of Muddy and his now almost constant sidekick,
Jimmy Rogers. The one tune issued by Tempo Tone, "I Want My
Baby," doesn't sound much like a harbinger of things to come. It's
a raucous, jumping novelty number with Little Walter singing
lead and Sunnyland and Muddy answering, the kind of light, jazzy
hokum Tampa Red and other Bluebird artists were recording in
the forties. But the session did demonstrate to Muddy that the
wild and frequently contrary Little Walter was ambitious enough
to endure the many small (and sometimes not so small) indigni-
ties of a professional recording session.

AFTER THE TEMPO TONE SESSION, Muddy and Sunnyland

went Sunnyland left Aristocrat after arguing
their separate ways.
with Leonard Chess over money and went on to record for most of
the host of Chicago independent labels that kept springing up, is-
suing a few records, and then folding. He made plenty of fine
 DEEP BLUES • 162

records, but the fledgling companies didn't really know how to sell
them, and none of them were hits. Muddy stuck with Leonard
Chess. "I thought Leonard was the best man in the business," he
says. "He did a lot for me, putting out that first record and every-
thing, and we had a good relationship with one another. I didn't
even sign no contract with him, no nothing. It was just 'I belongs
"
to the Chess family.'
The relationship does seem curious. "Leonard had an extraordi-
narily coarse outer manner," recalls Malcolm Chisholm, an engi-
neer who worked with him frequently at Universal Studios
beginning in 1957. "I always wanted to send him a Mother's Day
—
card because he answered the phone that way 'Hello, Mother.'
That coarse exterior wasn't altogether phony, but he could be an
absolutely charming man, and a master politician. He often was
bone-headed and arrogant when running a session, but it wasn't
that he was nasty or personally difficult. He was just absolutely
sure about what he wanted. In some ways, he was like the blacks
he worked with. The blacks say, 'Well, I'll go into my act for this
, . jL guy,' and they literally change personality, adjusting it to suit.

,y^ Meanwhile they're sizing you up. You say six words, and they
know where you're coming from. Leonard was like that. He
learned to be several dozen people. With some of the blues players,
the whole session would be Leonard and whoever it was calling
each other stacks of motherfuckers. But in the case of Muddy Wa-
ters, who was intelligent, perceptive, and all that good stuff, Leon-
ard dealt with him in a very gentlemanly manner, on the basis of
absolute mutual respect.
"Another thing about Leonard is that he was genuinely super-
stitious. He lived in one of those exclusively Jewish villages in Po-
land until he was about seven, and there was a tremendous
amount of superstition involved in that. I think Leonard picked up
a great many more superstitions from the blacks with whom he
lived and worked, and whom he rather liked, although he didn't
admit it much. You would find him acting irrationally in odd ways.
He didn't like to record on Fridays, and he would never record on
the thirteenth, but the seventh and eleventh were nice. You could
dope those out after a while, but in other situations, you would
never understand why Leonard would or would not do a given
 —

CHICAGO PEP • 163

thing. A lot of it was intense, deep-rooted superstition. Well, he

eventually sold the company for about fourteen million dollars
maybe he was right."
By the end of lOIR^jnddy hnd n ^tr ndv working band, with
Jimmy Rogers ttfrguit^ii.ittle_Walter on harmonica, and Baby
FaceXCTo y Foster doubling on guitar and drums. But Leonard
Chess reEised to record the group until the summer of 1950, and
even then he only used Muddy, Jimmy, and Walter ^it was sev- —
eral more months before he allowed them to bring in Foster and
then Elgin Evans on drums. The generally accepted explanation
is that Chess thought he'd found a v^dnning formula in the combi-

nation of Muddy's amplified slide guitar and Big Crawford's bass

and didn't want to change it, and while a few records were made
in 1949 and early 1950 wdth Leroy on second guitar and, on one
session, Johnny Jones on piano, for the most part Muddy's re-
leases did foUow the formula. "You're Gonna Miss Me" was a re-
make of "1 Can't Be Satisfied," with the same guitar and bass
parts and different words, and Muddy also recorded "Rollin' and
Tumblin' " and other traditional material during this period, even
though his band was a popular club attraction on the South Side
and had already developed the most original and influential en-
semble sound in postwar blues. Malcolm Chisholm offers an alter-
native explanation for Chess's reluctance to record the —
band ^his

superstition. "I've been told that once, and it may have been on
Muddy's first successful session, the bass player wore a red shirt.
The record sold. The next session, Leonard said, 'Get that bass
man. And have him wear a red shirt.' Eventually, I guess his busi-
ness instincts and the empathy he had for people prevailed. I
would argue that Leonard didn't know shit about blues, but he
knew an awful lot about feeling. He could feel music, although he
never learned to read it, and he could feel how people were re-
sponding to it. So he developed a good feeling for blues, as he went
along."
Once the full band began recording, the mastergieces-eame
thick and fast
— "Louisiana Blues," "LongJTHstance C^ "
' '

"HfiJoe^LBee/' and '-SlTOloves^Me, all from 1951, defined the

'

sound of the new Chicago blues and were sodn~being imitated in

Detroit, in Memphis; down in the Delta, even on the East and
 DEEP BLUES • 164

^VVesLcoasts. They also made Muddy 's reputation. "I Can't Be Sat-
isfied"/"! Feel Like Going Home" and the similar singles that fol-

lowed it had sold almost exclusively in Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis,

and the Deep South; it was "Louisiana Blues," his first record to
feature Little Walter, that introduced his name to the national
rhythm and blues charts. The record also helped establish the
—
Chess label Leonard and Phil had bought out their partner in
the Aristocrat venture just in time to change the logo on the
Muddy Waters record that preceded "Louisiana Blues," which
was "RoUin' Stone," Muddy's version of "Catfish Blues."
On July 1 1 Little Walter, who'd been blowing his harmonica
,

through a cheap amplifier since his earliest appearances on Max-

well Street, used an amp in the studio for the first time. The dis-
tortion and sustain the amplification added did for Walter's harp
what electricity had done for Muddy's slide guitar transformed— ^it

a subtle accompanying style into forceful, big-toned lead work. On

the more ordinary of the four songs recorded at the session,
"Country Boy" and "My Fault," Walter's harp was recorded at a
much higher volume than Muddy's slide guitar. It wrapped itself
around the vocals, combining the fluidity of a saxophone with the
chordal richness of an organ. In "She Moves Me," which became
Muddy's third Top Ten r&b hit in early 1952, the group achieved
an almost eerie immediacy. The engineering on the record is bril-
liant —a touch of echo blends the sounds of the amplified guitars
and harp ever so slightly together, and Muddy's vocal is recorded
"hot," or close to the overload range, so that it sounds every bit as
powerful as the electric instruments. The percussion is a booming
bass drumbeat that simply marks each downbeat.
"Leonard Chess played the bass drum," Muddy explains, "be-
cause my drummer couldn't get that beat on 'She Moves Me.' The
verse was too long. You know, it says, 'She moves a crazy man, he
says, Now I'm not so dumb / I took her to a funeral, the dead jump
up and run / She spoke to a deaf and dumb boy, he said, Now I
can speak,' and that's where he couldn't hold it, 'cause it goes on,
'She shook her finger in a blind man's face, he say, I once was
blind,but now I see / She moves me, man. My drummer
. .
.'

wanted to play a turnaround there where I said, and there wasn't

no turnaround there. I had to go another six or eight bars more to
get it turned around. My drummer wasn't doin' nothin', just
 CHICAGO PEP • 165

dum-chik dum-chik dum, but he couldn't hold it there to save his

damn Ufe, and Leonard Chess knew where it was. So Leonard told
"
him, 'Get the fuck out of the way. I'll do that.'
It was the kind of personal touch that made Leonard Chess a

great blues producer. The session concluded with a tune Muddy

was using as an in-person showstopper, "Still a Fool," another re-
working of "Catfish Blues" that began "Well now there's two,
there's two trains runnin' /Well, ain't neither one goin' my way /
Well now one run at midnight an' the other one / Runnin' just
'fore day." Little Walter and Jimmy Rogers played electric guitars
that meshed into a raw, distorted wall of sound. Muddy turned in
one of his greatest vocal performances, but he didn't play on the
record, probably because when he did the number on stage, he
would put down his guitar, jump up and down, stomp on the floor,
and run back and forth like an epileptic suff"ering a seizure,
chanting all the while the concluding litany, "She's all right, she's
all right."
The when Muddy was consistently hitting the
years 1951-53,
national r&b charts with those overwhelming recordings for
Chess, were years of war in Korea and prosperity at home. As Mike
Rowe points out in the definitive study of Chicago blues, Chicago
Breakdown, "The non-white unemployment rate dropped ... to
4.1% in 1953, the lowest ever recorded." But by the end of 1953
the war was over and a particularly grim recession was setting in.
Some of the Delta musicians who were recording in Chicago re-
flected the change by writing blues that were bitterly outspoken.
J. B. Lenoir, who was from Monticello, Mississippi, and had played

with Elmore James and Rice Miller down home, warned on his
Chess release "Everybody Wants to Know": "You rich people lis-
ten, you better listen real deep / If we poor get so hungry, we
gonna take some food to eat." Floyd Jones and the Kentucky-born
John Brim also made records that explicitly protested the hard
times. Muddy sailed through 1954 with the biggest r&b hits of his
career
—"I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man," "Just Make Love to
Me" (which is better known as "I Just Want to Make Love to
You"), and "I'm Ready," all of which were written for him by
bassist Willie Dixon. The last two records were the only ones
Muddy made that cracked the r&b Top Five.
Dixon, a huge, outgoing bear of a man, is an almost exact con-
 DEEP BLUES • 166

temporary of Muddy's. He was born July 1, 1915, and grew up on

a farm near Vicksburg, Mississippi, one of fourteen children. Dur-
ing the late twenties he lived briefly in Chicago, and after return-
ing to Mississippi for several years, he settled in the Windy City for
good in 1936. His checkered background included singing spiri-
tuals and boxing as a heavyweight, but after he got to Chicago he
decided to concentrate on music and took up the string bass. Dur-
ing the forties he worked with two popular, slick club blues
groups, the Five Breezes and the Big Three Trio, but he liked to
keep up with the newer arrivals from his home state, and when
starker, more down-home styles began to dominate the blues
recording field in Chicago in the late forties and early fifties, he
easily adapted. He listened with interest to the development of
Muddy's music, for he'd known Muddy's reputation since the
thirties. "There was quite a few people around sin gin' the blues,"
he says, "but most of *'em was singin' all sad blues. Muddy was
givin' his blues a little pep, and ever since I noticed him givin' his
blues this kinda pep feelin', 1 began tryin' to think of things in a
peppier form."
Early in 1954, Dixon came up with a song he thought might be
right forMuddy. "Through many generations," he says, "there
has been people that felt like other people could tell them some
of the past or the future —even back in Bibhcal days. Just from
thinkin' about all these diff'erent things, I got the idea for this
song." It was "Hoochie Coochie Man."
"Muddy was working and Ash-
in this big joint at Fourteenth
land," Dixon continues, "and went over there to take him the
I

song. We went in the washroom and sang it over and over till he
got it. It didn't take very long. Then he said, 'Man, when I go out
there this time, I'm gonna sing it.' He went out and jumped on it,
and it sounded so good the people kept on applauding and asking
for more, and he kept on singing the same thing over and over
again." There was no need for further market research; the audi-
ence was made up of the sort of people who were buying Muddy's
records, and they weren't at all shy about stating their prefer-
ences.
Dixon had already been in the studio with Muddy on January 7,
1954. They recorded his "Just Make Love to Me" at that session,
but it wasn't released until after the chart success of "I'm Your
 CHICAGO PEP • 167

Hoochie Coochie Man." Leonard Chess had been using Dixon on

many of his blues sessions because of the bassist's solid playing
and reliability, and after Muddy made two of his songs into hits,
they recorded together regularly. The band on "Just Make Love to
Me," "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man," and "I'm Ready" was the
finest of all Muddy's groups. Little Walter, who'd left to front his
own group in 1952 after he scored an r&b hit of his own with
"Juke," was still recording with Muddy, and the rest of the per-
sonnel included Jimmy Rogers, Elgin Evans, Dixon, and Otis
Spann, a spectacular young pianist from Jackson, Mississippi,
who'd learned to play from his father, the Delta bluesman Friday
Ford, and from Little Brother Montgomery.
All three of Muddy's Dixon-penned 1954 hits featured stop-time
riffs, the whole band phrasing them in unison — dah dah dab dat!
Similar riffs had long been a part of jazz, and Ray Charles, who
was scoring early hits in 1954 in his new, heavily gospel-based r&b
style, was fond of stop-time. But the particular riffs that Muddy

and his band came up viith (according to Dixon these riffs did
come from the band and weren't his own inventions) struck a re-
sponsive chord in some unlikely places. Out in Los Angeles, two
Je wish tee nagers, Jerry Leiber and Mike S toller, werew?lTmg-i?&b-
tunes andproducmg- discs bybhtck vocal groups for their own
Spark label. In 1955 they made a record called "Riot in Cell Block
Number Nine" with a group called the Robins, using a Muddy
Waters stop-time riff as their instrumental backdrop. The record
was one of the first r&b hits to feature extensive use of sound ef-
fects and precisely timed comedy hits. The next year, the Robins
disbanded, and Leiber and Stoller forined a new group using some

—
of the original Robins ^he Coaster s, wjio became one of the most
popular black groups oil!Te"rock and roll era under Leiber and
Stoller's direction. A Uttle later Muddy and Willie Dixon were sur-
prised to hear one of Muddy's stop-time patterns pop up in the jazz
soundtrack to the film "Man with the Golden Arm." "We felt like
this was a great achievement, for one of these blues phrases to be
used in a movie," says Dixon, diplomatically. These riffs, particu-
larly the dah-da/i-dah-dat! from "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man,"
were soon absorbed into the hngua franca of blues, r&b, jazz, and
rock and roll.
Stop-time wasn't Muddy's only rhythmic innovation during the
 DEEP BLUES • 168

mid-fifties. "I had to find me a drummer that would drive," he

says. "My drummer [Elgin Evans] was straight right down — ^bop
bop bop bop. I from him 'cause he just couldn't hit the
had to part
backbeat. The blues do have a backbeat to it, you know, today.
Muddy found a solid backbeat drummer in 1954 in Francis Clay,
who stayed with him until the early sixties. Again, putting a back-
beat (heavy emphasis on the second and fourth of every four
beats) behind the blues didn't originate wdth Muddy, but once he
made the move, other musicians followed, and the sound rapidly
filtered into the emerging rock and roll idiom. "You know," Willie
Dixon reflects, "when you go to changin' beats in music, you
change the whole style. The difference in blues or rock and roll or
jazz is the beat. The beat actually changes the whole entire style.
Muddy was able to change these various styles of music because
he was always lookin' for something unique, and I learned very
early that when you're able to create something that's good and
diff'erent also, you don't have very much trouble sellin' it."
Dixon's songs, especially "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie Man," are
the songs people most readily associate with Muddy, and this is
ironic, for their flamboyance, macho posturing, and extra-gener-
ous helping of hoodoo sensationalism are much less subtle than
Muddy's own material. During the same period, for example.
Muddy wrote a song that he recorded twdce with somewhat diff'er-
ent lyrics, once as "Clouds in My Heart" and once as "Flood." It
was never a hit, but he thought enough of it to put it back in his
repertoire and perform it for college audiences during the sixties,
and in its own modest way, it's one of the finest of all his blues.
"Flood," recorded with a watery tremolo on the guitar, goes like
this:

So cloudy, so cloudy, 1 believe it's gonna rain

So cloudy, so cloudy, I believe it's goin' to rain
1 don't believe my woman love me, she's in love with another man
Go look at the weather, I believe it's goin' to be a flood
Go and look out at the weather, I believe it's goin' to be a flood
I believe my baby gon' quit me, because I can feel it all in my blood

Oh, stop and listen, don't you hear how the thunder roar
Oh, stop and listen, don't you hear how the thunder roar
I'm so blue and lonesome, don't you hear how the wind is blowin'
 CHICAGO PEP • 169

Anyone who's lived in the country, and particularly in an area

like the Delta where almost everyone depends on the weather for
his livelihood, is sensitive to atmospheric changes. The first time I
heard Muddy's "Flood," I remembered an afternoon, years before,
when I felt an overcast sky dropping lower and lower, increasing a
peculiarly disturbing pressure I could feel physically, in my blood.
Iwas sure the heavens were going to pour down rain and light-
ning bolts at any moment. But the storm never came was in- — ^it

side me, a perception of a gathering emotional storm that I'd

unconsciously projected into the cloudy skies. "Flood" brought
back that afternoon so vividly I could taste it. The song delineates,
in three felicitous, formally perfect verses, an intimate and immu-
table linkage between the worlds outside and inside our bodies
that city dwellers aren't always attuned to and country people sim-
ply know.
Living in the city. Muddy adapted to survive. He sang Willie
Dixon's songs, which gave him a repertoire loaded with crowd-
pleasers and transformed his personal magnetism (which he'd
projected in a more understated manner in songs like "Gypsy
Woman" and "Louisiana Blues") into a marketable image. For
the public, Muddy became the bedroom root doctor, the seer-stud
wdth down-home power and urban cool. But he never lost sight of
the Delta foundations he mined so deeply in his singing and play-
ing and in lyrics like "Flood," and his audience loved him for that,
too. —
Through all the changes the rhythmic "pep," the flashier
lyrics, and a more and more flamboyant performing style he kept —
playing his unmistakable slide guitar and singing his old Delta fa-

vorites, and was especially appreciated in

this fidelity to tradition
the Delta itself, where many of the younger blues musicians were
breaking away from the styles and songs that had been the com-
mon property of their predecessors for several generations. The
breakaway was prodded along by Robert Johnson's stepson and
chosen musical heir, Robert Jr. Lockwood.
PART

III
 CHAPTER 5

King Biscuit Time

was a Chicago back in the thirties and forties,"
Helena little

says a lifelong resident. "We had nine, maybe close tento

thousand people living here then, and around seventy
percent was black." The blacks came from rural Arkansas
and from the Mississippi Delta just across the river because they
knew they could make money. There were boats full of cotton to
be unloaded, a cotton-processing complex that covered several
blocks just south of the center of town, railroad yards, and other
industries, including, for a time during the forties and early fifties,
a West Helena Chrysler plant. And of course there were other
—
ways to make money bootlegging, gambbng, playing the blues.
The town was wide open. Cherry, the main street, which paral-
lels the levee a block to the west, is reputed to have had forty or

fifty white saloons in operation during the years preceding World

War II, and Elm, which parallels Cherry a block farther west,
probably had a comparable number of black joints. Because of its
unusual, dappled residential pattern, Helena had black joints all
over town. There were joints north of downtown, amid the rows of
one-story shotgun houses and vacant lots planted in peas and corn
that clustered up against the north side of Walker Levee, a steep
ridge of sod designed to keep floodwaters out of the white neigh-
borhoods to the south. Farther north, where the houses start thin-
ning out as the land rises abruptly, forming Crowley Ridge, there
 DEEP BLUES • 174

were joints. At the opposite, southern end of town, where cotton

warehouses, small factories, and rambling railroad yards cluster in
a kind of industrial suburb ringed by ramshackle black housing,
there were more joints. Farther south, almost out in the country,
was Helena Crossing, a black residential enclave whose day la-
borers might work harvesting cotton in the spring and commute
in to town jobs the rest of the year. In West Helena, more black
housing and more joints clustered around a railroad switching
yard. Wherever blacks could find work and wherever they lived,
they didn't have to go far to spend their paychecks on liquor,
women, and music.
"Helena was a pretty nice-sized town then," says bluesman
Johnny Shines. "Had its own bus service, I remember. And lots of
places to play there, too. Juke joints, I guess you'd call them. The
—
guys running them had the protection of the police not state
protection but the local police —
so they kept the places open
through those means. Beer was served in cups. Whiskey you had
to drink out of the bottle. See, they couldn't use mugs in there be-
cause the people would commit mayhem, tear people's head up
with those mugs. Rough places they were. When you were playing
in a place like that, you just sit there on the floor in a cane-
bottomed chair, just rear back and cut loose." Guitarists like
Shines, Robert Johnson, his stepson, Robert Jr. Lockwood, and
Howlin' Wolf played in the rougher places, while many of the
gambling dens along Walnut and the side streets closer to the
river employed pianists like Sunnyland Slim, Memphis Slim, and
the Helena-born Roosevelt Sykes.
The music wasn't confined to the joints. "On a Saturday after-
noon or a Saturday night, all you had to do was go down to the
landing where the boats docked, or down along Walnut Street,
and these guys would be out on the corner singing," says Sonny
Payne, a white radio announcer and former swing band bassist
who's lived in Helena most of his life. "Or you could go down to
the railroad depot south of the main part of town, and there'd be
some guys sitting there playing harmonica and guitar. Play half an
hour, people come by and drop something in the hat. Down at
Cherry and Elm, right by where you drive through the gap in the
levee down to the ferry landing, the kids would get together and
sit on the sidewalk across from the Illinois Central ticket office and
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 175

the main telegraph office. Most of us couldn't afford radios back in

the thirties when I was growing up, so we'd sit there and wait for
the telegraph operator in Louis to telegraph the innings in the
St.

baseball game. Two two strikes. Uh-oh. They got a man on

balls,
base.' This is how we used to listen to baseball, by Morse code.
And there'd be musicians around there. These people played so
beautifully. They would come into town in the evening after pick-
ing cotton all day, sit right on the piers down by the river with
their guitars and their harmonicas and even with Jew's harps, and
they would sing the blues and make it sound hke something out of
Hollywood, like somebody really produced it. It was unrehearsed.
It was the way these people lived. Back in the thirties and forties

we had the best music in the world, right here in this town."
In November 1941, Helena began sharing some of this music
wdth the rest of the northern Delta. Sam Anderson, a white busi-
nessman with homespun features, a receding hairline, and ears
that seemed to stick out almost at right angles from the sides of his
head, had begun putting together a studio, staff, and program
schedule for the town's first radio station around the beginning of
the year. Local residents who owned sets could pick up the more
powerful Memphis stations, but a station right in the center of
town was something else again. The news spread hke wildfire.
One afternoon two black musicians who'd been performing to-
gether on Helena street corners for several years showed up at
Anderson's office and asked to see him. One of them, who was
known variously as Rice Miller, Willie Miller, and Little Boy Blue,
was a tall, lanky harmonica player in his mid-forties. Even for a
man who was six foot one or two. Miller had enormous hands. The
weathered lines in his face and his prominent eyelids droopy —
—
above the eyes, pouched and puffy below made him look older
than he was. His friend and guitar accompanist, twenty-five-year-
old Robert Lockwood, was known among the musicians in town as
Robert Jr. After his father, Robert Lockwood, Sr., and his mother
separated, Robert Johnson began courting his mother and entered
into an intimate, ongoing relationship with her. Robert Jr. the —
Jr. was added to his name in recognition of his stylistic and per-

sonal debt to Robert Johnson —

was quiet, a httle withdrawn in
fact, with close-cropped hair that was already thinning on top and

bright, piercing eyes. He'd recorded for Bluebird in Chicago the

 DEEP BLUES • 176

previous July, and one of his songs, "Take a Little Walk with Me,"
a sexy come-on that was musically and lyrically in the Robert
Johnson tradition, was already well on its way to becoming a Delta
blues standard.
and Lockwood both knew blues musicians who'd broad-
Miller
cast over the radio. As early as 1935, thewashboard player, blues
singer, drummer, and tap dancer James "Peck" Curtis had been
on the air in BlythevQle, Arkansas. The show didn't last long, but
Curtis later bragged about how many people he'd been able to at-
tract to his juke joint performances by announcing them in ad-
vance over the radio. The garrulous Rice Miller, who always
seemed to do most of the talking when he was with Lockwood, had
a proposition for Sam Anderson: the two of them would perform
on his radio station every day if he'd let them announce where
they'd be playing at night.
There are several versions of what happened next. According to
Sonny Payne, an original KFFA staff announcer, "They came in
and talked to my boss one day, asked him could they get on the
radio and play blues. Sam told 'em, 'The first thing you have to do
isget you a sponsor.' He sent 'em over to the Interstate Grocery
Company to see Max Moore, the owner, and Max gave 'em a little
break." Max Moore's account, as published in the English maga-
zine Blues Unlimited, has Miller and Lockwood auditioning live in
Sam Anderson's office and Anderson calling Moore, who had been
considering sponsoring a show in order to advertise his King Bis-
cuit Flour. At any rate, Anderson and Moore were both im-
pressed — Sonny Payne, they'd been listening to the blues on
like
the streets of Helena all their lives—and the two musicians signed
contracts with Interstate, becoming the King Biscuit Entertain-
ers.
In 1979 I stopped in Cleveland, Ohio, to talk to Robert Lock-
wood, who'd been living there since 1960 or '61. He met me at the
front door of his comfortable, two-story frame house in a de-
teriorating but still pleasantly tree-shaded black residential area,
bald head gUstening in the overhead light of his vestibule, biceps
flexing as he rubbed an afternoon nap out of his eyes, the scowl
familiar from photographs darkening his face. His only published
interviews were fragmentary at best, and he had a reputation for
being outspoken and difficult. "People say that I'm arrogant.
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 177

mean, selfish," he noted matter-of-factly a little later. "I learned

not to let it bother me. People accept me like I am or leave me
alone."
Once Lockwood learned I was interested in him rather than in
the Robert Johnson legend he's perennially quizzed about, he be-
came friendlier. He wasn't any less stern or plainspoken, because
that's his way, but as he warmed to the subject of his early years in
the Delta, he began remembering stories, laughing, getting a kick
out of telling them for the first I asked him about the
time in years.
beginnings of King Biscuit Time. "Heft Chicago in 1941," he said,
"after I made those records. When I got back to Helena, I remem-
ber Iwas walkin' on Elm Street when Sonny Boy spotted me. He
grabbed me, had me up off the ground, and said, 'You ain't gonna
leave here.' And I was stuck with him for about two years."
"Sonny Boy" is of course Rice Miller, not the then-popular
blues recording star John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson; how Rice
Miller became Sonny Boy Williamson "the second" is something
of a mystery. Max Moore claimed a few years before he died that it
was his idea for Miller to broadcast as "Sonny Boy WiUiamson,"
and none of the many bluesmen who knew Miller from the late
twenties onward remember him using the name before the early
forties. On the other hand, MiUer insisted until his dying day that
he was "the only Sonny Boy, the Sonny Boy," and that John Lee
Williamson, who was at least fifteen years his junior, had appro-
priated the "Sonny Boy" tag from him before moving to Chicago
in 1937. The musical evidence indicates that Miller had perfected
his uniquely sensitive and speechlike harmonica style long before
he heard John Lee Williamson's more instrumentally conceived
harp solos on records. One searches Miller's recordings in vain for
hints of John Lee Williamson's influence, but in 1947 John Lee
apparently attempted to cash in on Miller's popularity in the
South by recording a version of the King Biscuit Time theme song
as "King Biscuit Stomp," with Mississippi guitarist Big Joe Wil-
liams accompanying him. In the harp solo on that tune, there are
gritty tremolos that suggest WiUiamson was copying Miller's style,
and one can hear even more vivid Miller echoes in Williamson's
"Alcohol Blues," made the same year.
In any event. Rice Miller's personality and remarkable harmon-
ica playing made King Biscuit Time an immediate success. The
 DEEP BLUES • 178

show was broadcast live from 12 noon to 12:15 (changed to

12:15-12:30 a few years later) out of KFFA's studio in the Floyd
Truck Lines building, two or three blocks from the ferry landing.
As soon as it went on the air, sales of King Biscuit Flour skyrock-
eted, and Interstate soon began marketing Sonny Boy Corn Meal,
with a picture of a smiling Rice Miller, cradling his harp in one of
those oversized hands and sitting astride a gigantic ear of corn, on
every bag. The new Sonny Boy and Robert Lockwood became the
Delta!s_firsl media-made blues stars.
Lockwood,! who was already impatient with the Delta's tradi-
i
Ral blues lorms and was spending his nights off tuning into net-
work radio broadcasts by Count Basic and other jazz bands, was
about to play a crucial if largely unsung role in modernizing Delta
blues. He was the first electric guitarist heard over the radio in the
Delta, and the first many younger guitarists in the area heard any-
where. He was the first Delta guitarist to popularize a jazz-
influenced, single-string lead guitar style. His pupils included the
future KingJUscuit Time guitarist Joe Willie Wilkins, a somewhat
reluctant Muddy^ Waters (who learned Lockwood's song "Black
Spider Blues" from hearing him play it over KFFA but resisted
Robert's offer to teach him the jazzier elements of his style) and ,

the most popular and influential blues guitarist of the last three
decades, Riley "B. B." King, ij / ja i>^

LOCKWOOD WAS BORN ON A FARM between Aubrey and

Marvell, Arkansas, around twenty-five miles from Helena, on
March 27, 1915. Like pianistSunnyland Slim, but unlike his gui-
tar-playing contemporaries Muddy
Waters, Johnny Shines, and
Honeyboy Edwards, Robert grew up on a farm his family owned.
And he probably would have become a pianist rather than a gui-
tarist if it hadn't been for Robert Johnson. "My grandfather had
this farm," he explained, settling back onto a couch in a living
room that was crowded with furniture left him by several recently
deceased relatives, amplifiers, a guitar, a portable phonograph,
and a collection of jazz and urban blues records. "A hundred and
sixty acres. And he had an organ, the kind you pump. That's the
first thing 1 learned to play a tune on, when 1 was around twelve.
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 179

My mother and father split up before that. My mother had a high

school education, and she knew shorthand, but you know how it

was down there —she couldn't get jobs that paid more than three
dollars a week. She lived in Helena, and when I got to be school
age, she came and got me so I could go to school nine months out
of the year —out in the country, it was seven months. We lived in
St. Louis for a little while when I was seven, but then we moved

back to Helena. And_around^l928„pr '29, when I was thirteen or

fourtee n, was w heri^ober^iohnson came along." f ^r^-^^^jSS^f^

It seems more likely that this was in 1931 or '32, vvhen Lock-
wood was in fact sixteen or seventeen. Johnson, only four years
his senior, would have been nineteen or twenty and recently re-
turned to the northern Delta from his mysterious stay in Hazel-
hurst. "At the time," Lockwood recalls, "my ambition was to play
a piano or an organ. I had heard a lot of guitar players, but I wasn't
interested in 'em. I didn't want to play an instrument if I had to
have help, and all the guitar players 1 would see were in string
bands or at least they had another guitar player to complement.
But then Robert came along, and he was backin' himself up with-
out anybody helping him, and sounding good. He would go some-
where to play for people and tear up the house. So I got right on
top of that. By him having a crush on my mother, I got a chance to
be around him a little bit. I think I'm about the only one he ever
taught."
^
Numerous musicians learned to play something like Johnson
by watching him or studying his recordings, but Lockwood is the
only musician Johnson is known to have actually given lessons to.
"He would sit down and show me, real simple, the simpler things
that he'd do. One of these things was 'Mr. Down Child,' the way
he done that." The song, a Johnson classic that its composer never
recorded, has been preserved on recordings by Rice Miller, Lock-
wood, and other artists. Its opening verse was one of the most em-
blematic in Johnson's repertoire: "Mr. Down Child, Mr. Down
Child, please take a fool's advice /Don't never let no one woman,
man, misuse you twice."
"Robert was like a father to me," Lockwood continued, "or a
big brother, and he accepted me hke a baby brother or a son. He
was real open with me, and he had me playin' inside of six
months. In fact. I had learned three of his tunes inside of two
 DEEP BLUES • 180

weeks. I was already musically inclined. I'd been messing around

with the old organ. And also, I had an ailment, diarrhea, and 1
couldn't walk or stand too much for goin' to the bathroom. So I
didn't have no other kind of job. My mother had tried and tried to
get me cured. When 1 got on the guitar, she'd let me play all day.
Robert wouldn't show me stuff but once or twice, but when he'd
come back, I'd be playing it.
"Better than a year passed, and then he took me to Mississippi
to play with him. We went down along the Sunflower River, and
he said, 'Junior, you stay on this side. I'm bound for the other side.
Let me show you something about competition.' But then when
we decided to hang it up, we both had made a little better than fif-
teen dollars. That night we played at a place called Davenport,
Mississippi, and I think he was really surprised, 'cause tiU then he
never really knew how well I could play. 1 hadn't let him know
'cause 1 figured that would really bother him, that he taught me
and then I did as well as he did. On a lot of things, you know, Rob-
ert kind of messed the time around, and I played perfect time. And
by that time, I was playin' almost everything he played." This
sounds like boasting, but Lockwood's 1941 recordings, especially
"Take a Little Walk with Me" and the bottleneck piece "Little Boy
Blue," feature dazzlingly intricate guitar accompaniments, artic-
ulated cleanly and with exemplary tonal richness. His^ work was
I
probably never as intense and desperate sounding as Johnson's;
he was a cooler player. But his blues had their own brand of inten-
Islty. They were a slowly burning flame rather than an explosion

that flared, consumed, and then winked out.

During the next few years Lockwood made several more excur-
sions into Mississippi with his stepfather. "In Clarksdale," he re-
members, "Robert pushed me out from under a knife once. We
were playing on the streets, and later on I remembered that every-
where, every street corner we had been on that day, this lady was
there. I didn't notice her, wasn't paying her no attention, and aU of
a sudden, she came at me. Robert shoved me. If he hadn't, she
would have cut me." These adventures ended abruptly with John-
son's death. Lockwood's playing had been patterned wholly in
Johnson's image, and their repertoires were virtually identical;
musically, as weU as personally, the younger man was devastated.
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 181

f "I didn't go near his funeral," Lockwood says. "I guess maybe I
would never have been able to play again if I had. As it was, it took
me a year and a half before I could play in public. Everything I
played would remind me of Robert, and whenever I tried to play, I
would just come down in tears. That's really what inspired me to
start writing my own material."
The songs Lockwood says he wrote over the next few years
they include "Take a Little Walk with Me," "Black Spider Blues"
(or "Mean Red Muddy Waters called it when he re-
Spider," as
corded it in 1948) , Boy Blue," and "That's All Right," all of
"Little
—
which became blues standards used a number of Johnson's me-
lodic ideas and basic guitar patterns, including some musical ma-
terial that originated, on records at least, with Leroy Carr and
Scrapper Blackwell. It's been widely assumed that several of these
songs, and particularly "Take a Little Walk," were in fact unre-
corded Johnson compositions. They're certainly in the Johnson
tradition, and some of them may well have been at least partially
borrowed, in familiar blues fashion. But whether any of them orig-
inated with Johnson or not, Lockwood made them all his own. He
tamed Johnson's polyrhythmic ferocity, substituting a refined, al-
most classical counterpoint and a slower, more deliberate walking
tempo. These innovations later served as a model for countless
Delta and Chicago blues guitarists who would have had trouble
(as more slavish Johnson imitators like Johnny Shines did) inte-
grating the careening Johnson style into band accompaniments.
Lockwood's lyrics carried on Johnson's simultaneous fascina-
tion with and distrust of women, but they evidenced httle of
Johnson's tortured, driven quality. For the most part, the songs
Lockwood sang were disillusioned but assertive dispatches from
the sexual battlefield. At times they were aggressively misogynis-
tic. "Black Spider," for example, compared a manipulative woman

to a spider ("Her web's all over town"), while simultaneously

playing on in-group color prejudice ("black" vs. "red") In "Little .

Boy Blue," Lockwood indulged in a scabrous phallic fantasy that

Johnson probably wouldn't have stated so baldly: "I'm gonna take
my whip and whup her, I'm gonna whup her down to the
ground /I'm gonna take my dirk and stab her, you know I'm gonna
turn it round and round. ." This verse comes in the middle of a
. .
 DEEP BLUES • 182

song based on a familiar children's nursery rhyme! In "That's All

Right," on the other hand, Lockwood affected icy disdain: "Every
now and then 1 wonder who's lovin' you tonight."
During the last year or two of his life, Robert Johnson per-
formed and traveled from time to time with Chester Burnett
(Howlin' Wolf), a hulking, sandpaper-voiced former student of
Charley Patton's who'd been farming in Arkansas since the early
thirties, and Rice Miller. Around 1934 or '35, Miller began show-
ing up at Lockwood's front door, begging his mother to let her son
go out and work as his accompanist. "I started going to places in
Arkansas with him," Robert recalls, "but he worried my mother
for about two years before she let me go to Mississippi with him.
And sure enough, we had some pretty strange experiences there.
One time we left the Delta and went up into the hill country, and
in Sardis they put us in jail for vagrancy for twenty-one days. That
was on a Friday. On Saturday, we went up on the second floor and
raised the jailhouse windows and started playing.
"In a matter of minutes, the jailhouse was surrounded with
people. There was a little fence down there, about as big as the one
on the side of my yard, and the people started throwing nickels
and dimes and quarters and dollars over that fence. The trusty
went out there and picked the money up, and we knew he didn't
bring it all to us. We knew he got fat, but when he turned it in to
us, we had made four hundred dollars. That day. The next night,
the high sheriff and the deputy sheriff came and asked us did we
want to go out and make some money. Sid and Ed was their
names. And for the next twenty-one days, they took us out to sere-
nade for the whites, every night but Sunday. They'd take up the
money for us, pass the hat, make the people not put nothin' less
than a dollar in it. And then they'd take us back and put us in jail.
Now, mind you, they was bustin' places for corn whiskey right
and left, and they gave us a whole gallon of that. We had girls
comin' to the jailhouse and spendin' the night. We was eatin' from
a hotel down the street. So it really wasn't like bein' in no jail-
house. But it was terrible 'cause it was against our will."
Lockwood told me this story with a mixture of amusement and
bitterness. "See," he added, "this particular part of Mississippi
was really starved for music. And the police officers, they liked the
way we sounded and just took advantage of bein' pohce officers.
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 183

They knew the only way they was going to be able to enjoy us was
to lock us up. Sonny Boy was doing quite a few country and west-
ern things
— 'You Are My Sunshine' and stuff hke that but we —
would do the blues for them, too. Them white people down there
always did Uke the blues. They just didn't like the people who
created the blues." Lockwood laughed drily. "Well, by the time
our twenty-one days was up, we had close to a thousand dollars
apiece. So old man Ed asked me and Sonny Boy at the same time,
'Look, if I turn y'all loose, what y'all gonna do?' And I mean I'll tell
you the truth, even if it hurt me. I grew up like that. I said, 'Mr.
Ed, I'm gettin' the hell outta here.' Sonny Boy said, 'Whoahhh,
I'm gonna stay around awhile.' They laughed and let us out. Knew
damn well he was lying. And as soon as we got out, we hit the
highway."
The story is typical of Rice Miller, who often found himself in a
jam and usually was able to talk his way out. He is remembered
with mixed feelings by many people who knew him. "He wasn't
hard to get along with," says Houston Stackhouse, who played
guitar behind him on the radio and throughout the Delta begin-
ning in 1946, "but he'd just work you, get you, talk you sweet and
everything. Then when he'd get that money in his hand, he'd get
away with the money. . Him and Elmo James was workin' to-
. .

gether, and he beat Elmo James out of fifty doUars or somethin'.

Elmo cracked him 'cross the head viith his mike stand. Knocked a
hole in his head. Yeah, Sonny Boy, he'd just get that money from
you if he could." Paul Oliver, in an article written shortly after
Miller's death, quoted an unnamed Delta blues singer as saying
"He was real evil," and added some observations of his own: "It
— —
needed very little a misplaced word ^for him to take offense,
whether from a stranger or from another blues singer. He was in-
volved in more than one fracas when in Europe, and though per-
haps it is still too soon to relate the incident, he 'jumped' another
blues singer with a knife at a London hotel and had to be forcibly
separated from him before the consequences proved serious. He
had been drinking heavily at the time, but he was always a steady
drinker, carrying a hip flask of whiskey and pulling from it contin-
ually. It had severe effects on his temper and loosened the few
controls on his language."
Miller was suspicious of interviewers and rarely told many de-
 DEEP BLUES • 184

tails life. He was born in the very heart of the Delta, out
of his early
in the country between Glendora and Tutwiler, around 1897-99
and raised by his mother, Millie Ford, and stepfather, Jim Miller.
His family began calling him ",gice" when he was a baby. Unlike
most Delta blues singers, who seem almost without exception to
have come from broken homes, Miller apparently enjoyed a stable
family hfe. In fact, he lived with or near his mother and stepfather
until he was around thirty, but there must have been tensions
under the surface, for in the late twenties he had a decisive, vio-
y lent confrontation with his stepfather and abruptly left home.
He was already playing the harmonica, though apparently he
performed only church music and had devoted most of his first
thirty years to working on the various plantations where his family
lived as sharecroppers. After the split, the harmonica became his
livehhood., Throughout the Depression he lived by his wits, riding
the rails, singing and playing the harp on street corners for hand-
outs, teaming up with guitarists like Robert Johnson, Elmore
James, and Robert Nighthawk from time to time but most often
keeping to himself. Sometimes he would piece together a drum set
and play it while wailing away on harmonica and kazoo. He was
basically a loner, trusting no one, and this probably accounts for
the development of his uniquely orchestral harmonica style. He
alternated quavering, vocally inflected melodies and rich chords,
sometimes thickened with his humming, and he alternated them
so skillfully the music took on an almost hypnotic ebb and flow.
Sometimes he would "spread" a chord, articulating the notes in it
one at a time but hitting each one while the one before it was still
ringing. This eff'ect gave his sound the presence and sustaining
quality of an organ.
"His large, callused lips enfolded the cheap harps he played,"
wrote Paul Oliver, "and he seemed to mould the notes through the
long fingers of his hands, which were laid palm in palm as if he
were to take a long drink of water from them. He would utter the
words of his blues from the side of his mouth, slipping the harp
between his lips as he finished a vocal phrase so that the melody
was sustained on the instrument. When he sang, his voice was
husky, sometimes almost guttural, at other times near a whisper.
And through everything he sang and played, his impeccable sense
of timing pervaded." In his band recordings of the fifties and six-
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 185

ties, Miller played with tremendous drive and spirit, though he

dropped a bar of music here and there, throwing his accompanists

into confusion. When he played unaccompanied, he was a power-
house. On "Bye Bye Bird," a solo recording from 1963, he turned
in an astonishing simulation of a guitar shuffle, replete with bass
runs, chopped-off" chording, and wah-wah-inflected melodic punc-
tuations.
'
He was alsoan extraordinary showman. He would play without
his hands, snapping his fingers just in front of the microphone to
provide percussive cross-rhythms, or he would play with the har-
monica in his mouth sideways, like a cigar. Sometimes he played a
harmonica that was entirely hidden inside his mouth, smiling a
sly, enigmatic smile. During the thirties and forties he would play
—
anything anyone requested ^popular Tin Pan Alley numbers,
hillbilly, spirituals, blues hits. But when he didn't have to please

crowds in order to survive, and especially after he finally began

making records, he sang only his own blues. The lyrics tended to
be directly, unselfconsciously autobiographical, at a time when
blues singers were de-emphasizing overtly personal or regional
lyrics in favor of topics of more general interest, particularly the
vagaries of love. Although he was one of the very first musicians to
amplify the harmonica and one of the first bluesmen to realize the
value of radio as a medium for gaining a wider audience, he was
much older than the other blues musicians who began recording
in the fifties. He was over fifty years old when his first 78-rpm

discs were released by the Trumpet label of Jackson, Mississippi,

in 1951; Charley Patton would have been no more than twelve or
thirteen years his senior.

MILLER CLAIMED TO HAVE MADE unissued test recordings

during the but his recording career was still almost
late twenties,
ten years in the future when he began performing regularly with
Lockwood on King Biscuit Time. The routine varied little from
show to show. A few minutes
before noon, Miller and Lockwood
would arrive at the FloydTruck Lines building, a two-story com-
posite of wood and brick with the trucking company's loading
docks on the first floor and the KFFA studios upstairs. They would
 PEEP BLUES • 186

trudge up the rickety wooden steps, which squeaked noisily from

the day KFFA began broadcasting until the building was con-
demned and the station moved twenty years later, and take their
places in the cramped but modern studio along with the show's
announcer (usually Herb Langston after Sonny Payne went into
the service in 1 942) The first words, spoken with great gusto,
.

were the announcer's: "Pass the biscuits, 'cause it's King Biscuit
Time!" Miller and Lockwood would immediately launch into the
show's theme, a jump-tempo blues. The version Lockwood re-
corded in 1975 went like this:

Good evenin' everybody, me how

do you do
tell

Good evenin' everybody, me how

do you do
tell

We're the King Biscuit Boys, and we've come out to play for you

Every mornin' for my breakfast, put King Biscuit on my table

Every mornin' for my breakfast, put King Biscuit on my table
I'm invitin' all my friends, and all my next door neighbors

We're King Biscuit Flour, money back guarantee

sellin'

We're King Biscuit Flour, money back guarantee

sellin'

And if you find you don't like it, send it on back to me

Every mornin' for my breakfast, I eat all the way from nine to ten
Every mornin' for my breakfast, I eat all the way from nine to ten
Every time you look across the table, I'm reachin' over in the pan again

The show consisted of songs by Sonny Boy and Robert, many

requested in cards and letters sent in by listeners, and florid com-
mercials, read by the announcer, that were the work of Inter-
state's Max Moore. "Light as air! White as snow! Yes, friends,
that's King Biscuit Flour, the perfect flour for all your baking,"
one of Moore's scripts began. "Friends, do you like honest to
goodness Southern cornbread, corn sticks, corn muffins, corn
pone, or just skillet cornbread?" asked another. "Well, say no
more, just step out and get yourself a bag of that fine, white, fancy
Sonny Boy Meal, and start baking. Yes, you can bake the best
cornbread you ever tasted with Sonny Boy Meal. When you buy
Sonny Boy Meal from your grocer, you get the finest, whitest, and
cleanest meal packed in bags. And remember, Sonny Boy Meal is
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 187

guaranteed to give you perfect satisfaction." Despite the hyper-

bole,most of the musicians who played on the show seem to have
believed in the product. Guitarist Houston Stackhouse, who in-
tensely disliked Max Moore, told Jim O'Neal of Living Blues,
"King Biscuit Flour was some good flour; Sonny Boy Meal was
some good meal, too." When the show's time was almost up, the
engineer would signal from the control booth, and the musicians
would quickly reprise the theme, with a final verse: "Good-bye,"
everybody, if I never see you no more /Buy King Biscuit Flour, I
don't care where you go."
At first the show went surprisingly smoothly. Rice Miller wasn't
exactly celebrated for his reliability or for staying in onfe place for
very long, but King Biscuit Time was bringing him immense pres-
tige, and no matter how much he'd had to drink the night before,
he rarely failed to make it to the studio by twelve noon. When the
program went on the air, KFFA was broadcasting at only two hun-
dred and fifty watts, which gave it a range of around thirty-five or
forty miles in each direction, sixty on a good day. The broadcast
range was increased to eighty miles in 1944, but Helena was so
ideally situated that, from the very beginning, the show reached
into an enormous number of black homes. And during much of
the forties it was broadcast simultaneously over WROX in Clarks-
dale. Between them, the two stations eff'ectively blanketed the
upper Delta. The musicians' pay was minimal, but since they an-
nounced every day where they would be playing that night, they
drew large crowds and were able to command substantial perform-
ance fees. Lockwood reports that during the early forties, the pair
asked for, and got, seventy-five dollars apiece for a night's work.
"Most of the people who had good jobs was makin' forty-five dol-
lars a week," he adds.
Miller spent money as fast as he made it, usually on gambhng,
whiskey, and women, but the more career-minded Lockwood
saved and was soon the proud owner of a 1939 Pontiac, which he
bought from a white woman in Helena. "The car was a six," he re-
members, "but it had been all psyched up. It was super fast, used
to have it on the polices in Mississippi." The two men needed a
fast car, for their nightly jobs were often in Mississippi, and the
ferry back across the river to Helena stopped running sometime
between one and two a.m. There was no bridge until the mid-fif-
 DEEP BLUES • 188

ties. If a job ran late, they might spend the night near Lula, Mis-
sissippi, with pianist and juke joint proprietor Henry Hill. But
most nights. Sonny Boy and Robert would pile into the Pontiac
and go racing down the highways, often taking short cuts along
dirt roads, trying to make the last ferry back to Arkansas.
"One night," says Lockwood, "we played Tutwiler, and on the
way to the ferry, 1 passed the highway man, you know, the police.
He must've been parked off by the side of the road 'cause I didn't
see nobody. I looked back and seen some lights and said, 'Sonny
Boy, somebody's really coming back there. It's got to be the high-
way man.' He looked and said, 'It's got to be.' Well, that Pontiac
could run, and I got a jump on the law. There was two ferries to
Helena, one that left from the Mississippi side right across from
Helena, one that left further down the river from Friar's Point,
Mississippi. When 1 got to the fork in the road at Lula, instead of
keepin' on to the Helena ferry, 1 cut my lights out and come back
down the riverside to Friar's Point. I ran that car up onto the boat,
and Charlie, the guy that ran the ferry, was messin' around there.
I said,'Man, get this goddamn thing out in that river. The god-
damn highway man is chasing me.' Well, when the police got
there, we was halfway across the river. They started talkin' on this
little electric thing they had, on the horn, tryin' to get the boat to

turn around and go back. I said to Charles, 'You take this god-
damn boat back to the Mississippi side, and I won't be on the
motherfuckin' thing.' Charles laughed, man. He just cracked his
side."
The boat eased into Helena's harbor, a natural inlet around an
eighth of a mile long that was protected from the river's swift cur-
rent by a fingerlike promontory overgrown with willows. Robert
and Sonny Boy drove deck of the boat onto the gravel land-
off the
ing and stopped for a to take a deep breath. The willows,
moment
birches, and sycamores that grew right down to the water were
waving gently in the late night breeze off the river. The two men
laughed, Robert gunned the Pontiac, and they drove up the gravel
embankment, through the gap in the concrete-topped sod levee,
and down the deserted streets of Helena toward their homes. "A
couple of days later," Robert recalls, "1 was back over in Missis-
sippi, and the highway man walked up to the car. He said, 'Wasn't
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 189

you over here the other night?' I said, 'No, sir.' After that, Charles
teased us about it all the time."
Lockwood enjoyed being a regional media celebrity, but he was
already plotting to modernize the sound of the two-man King Bis-
cuit Entertainers. Early one afternoon in 1942 he drove west from
Helena almost as far as Marvell and then north up Route One, in-
tent on convincing percussionist and vocalist James "Peck"
Curtis to join the group. It was a part of Arkansas he knew well,
the part he grew up in. As he left the vicinity of Helena, the dark,
low shape of Crowley's Ridge, which runs from northern Arkansas
down the riverside as far as Helena, began to recede to the east.
The land abruptly grew flatter, like the Mississippi Delta on the
other side of the ridge and the river but with more frequent
patches of uncut woods. Huge plantations stretched for mile after
—
mile along the straight two-lane blacktop one Arkansas Delta
plantation, founded by Robert E. Lee Wilson in 1886, spread over
thirty-six thousand acres and was the home of around ten thou-
sand black tenant farmers and day laborers. Other plantation land
in the vicinity was owned by the Dockery family and visited fre-
quently by Joe Rice Dockery, who made periodic trips back and
forth across the Mississippi to supervise his vast holdings. But all
one could see of these places from the highway were occasional
roadside stores, most of them operated by the plantation owners,
though a few were owned by enterprising Chinese families like
the Fongs, and here and there a gravel road leading off into the
fields. Robert knew most of these back roads by heart, but he was

heading for Marianna, a picture-postcard town with a well-kept

square and, well away from that, a number of black cafes and
honky-tonks.
It "Peck" Curtis, who was tired
didn't take Robert long to locate
of making a precarious juke joints and gladly
living playing in the
accepted the off"er of a regular radio spot in Helena despite the fact
that money was not discussed. Curtis, who was born March 7,
1912, in Benoit, Mississippi, but raised mostly in the Arkansas
Delta, had played drums or washboard with Robert Johnson,
Memphis Shm, and the Memphis Jug Band and was also an ac-
complished singer, dancer, and all-around entertainer. "He was
really a carnival man, vaudeville shows and stuff. He traveled with
 DEEP BLUES • 190

them," says Lockwood. "I was out there as a dancer for a little
while before I got on that guitar, and we had teamed up together.

So I went and got Peck, and he played washboard on the show for
about six months. Then I said, 'Man, can you play drums?' He
said he could, and I went out and paid for a snare, a sock cymbal, a
couple of ride cymbals, a hi-hat, and a bass drum. Paid fifty or sixty
dollars for them. And Peck gave me one five-dollars! At that time,
we was payin' Peck ten dollars a day, seven days a week, which
was a lot of money then, and he would not have money no further
than one day to the next. Sonny Boy hadn't wanted to pay him at
all, and we didn't at first, but I sat down wdth old Sonny Boy one

day and said that the two of us ought to each pay him five dollars,
and that's what we did."
Curtis played drums like a dancer, scattering accents right and
left, executing sudden and unpredictable crescendos, abruptly

dropping out only to come charging back in. "James 'Peck' Curtis
couldn't keep a straight four beat if he had to," Sonny Payne
maintains, "but the beat he kept for these particular tunes, no-
body could top him." The density of his accompaniments would
—
vary radically within a single song one verse would be backed by
volleys of rimshots, the next by a repeatedly smashed cymbal, the
next by an erratic bass drum and cowbell pattern, and so on.
"Peck would near 'bout make a band out of the drums," Houston
Stackhouse has remarked. At its most orchestral, his playing re-
calls the timbral layering within an African drum ensemble, and
it's interesting that another early Delta blues drummer whose

work survives on a few recordings, Joe Martin, also played in a

multi-textured style. Both men were used to drumming with and
against the complex, often polyrhythmic accent patterns of tradi-
tional Delta blues, and though they were utter primitives as far as
technical rudiments were concerned, their freely responsive ac-
centing and instinctively orchestral use of the drum kit made
them sound more like Max Roach or EMn Jones, modern jazz
drummers who have studied African and Afro-Caribbean tradi-
tional drumming in depth, than like the metronomic shuffle
drummers heard on most blues records of the fifties and sixties.
At first Curtis was something of a problem when it came to
broadcasting. "He used to bust more hides," says Stackhouse.
"Done always be drinkin' and feelin' good, and he'd get drunk and
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 191

stomp that drum, boom! Knock a hole." But there were compen-
sations. Having broadcast as early as 1935, Curtis knew how to
adjust his dynamics to the demands of the medium, and when he
was sober, he did so. He was also a capable blues singer, and occa-
sionally he would amuse and amaze King Biscuit Time's listeners
by dancing over the air. Stackhouse says, "He had him a piece of
plywood board. It was five feet, I think, each way. He'd get on that
board, plates on his shoes and things. You could pick it up just as
clear as a bell."
Not long after Curtis joined, the group was further augmented
by the addition of pianist Robert "Dudlow" Taylor, an immense,
introverted man the show's regulars soon began calling "Mr. Five
by Five." Sonny Payne remembers him as "a man that had no per-
sonality, nothing whatsoever but a good mind for the blues, a good
heart, and a good pair of hands. He didn't know an A-minor chord
from a B flat. He knew nothing about phrasing compared to a
master of phrasing like Sonny Boy. I would not classify him as a
piano picker, which is what someone like Memphis Slim is. He
was strictly a piano player." Influenced mostly by the Helena
blues pianist Roosevelt Sykes, though he probably was from Loui-
siana originally, Dudlow is remembered as a competent, depend-
able sideman. Despite his nickname, which was synonymous with
the word "boogie," his forte was slow blues. He seems to have
been hired away from a medicine show by Max Moore; the regular
King Biscuit Entertainers might have preferred working with a
more versatile stylist. In 1943 they brought in Joe Willie "Pine-
top" Perkins, who was to become a mainstay of the Muddy Waters
band beginning in 1969, as the show's second pianist and resident
boogie specialist. Another Delta pianist, Willie Love, was a fre-
quent guest performer, along with a minstrel-style comedian and
a trumpet player whose names nobody seems to remember. But
Dudlow stayed on as a King Biscuit Time regular well into the fif-

ties.

Most of Rice MiUer's sidekicks probably had to run at one time

or another — even the huge, customarily placid Dudlow. One night
in the late forties, guitarist Joe Willie Wilkins was sleeping with a
woman in the servants' quarters behind a white family's house
near Glendora, when he heard a commotion coming from the
front yard. Sonny Boy, Peck, and Dudlow needed him for a job,
 DEEP BLUES • 192

and Sonny Boy had driven a battered Buick with half a muffler up
into the yard. The man of the house yelled out the window de-
manding that the interloper identify himself, and Miller, drunk as
a lord, yelled back, "This is Sonny Boy Williamson from Helena,
Arkansas. Sonny Boy on King Biscuit Time."
"You can be Johnny Boy from hell for all I care," the white man
replied. "If you don't get the hell outta my yard, keepin' up all that
racket, I'm gon' kill you. Hand me my shotgun, wife." Stack-
house, who related this tale to interviewer Jim O'Neal, laughed
uproariously. "God dog! Dudlow and old Peck was in the car. Peck
fell outta one side and Dudlow out' the other one. They took off

and went clear up the road. Peck said he was in good shape then.
He could run, sure enough, but he said Dudlow kept up with him.
Old Dudlow done run till he give out of breath. Peck said. Dudlow
got there, laid up on the bed, 'Hahh! He gon' get somebody
killed!"

BY THE TIME PECK AND DUDLOW became King Biscuit Time

regulars, the show was it had been flattered by several
so popular
imitations. In 1942 Robert Nighthawk returned to Helena and
settled at 308 V2 Franklin Street, where he was to live until 1948.
Within a year of his arrival he was broadcasting over KFFA for
Bright Star Flour, the product of one of the Interstate Grocery
Company's rivals. Bright Star was happy to have him, for unlike
Sonny Boy, who had yet to make a record, Nighthawk had re-
corded a number of sides for Bluebird and Decca, both on his own
and as backup guitarist for John Lee Williamson and other popu-
lar artists. His "Prowling Nighthawk" (1937) was fondly remem-
bered, and it was around this time that Robert, who was born
Robert Lee McCollum and had recorded as Robert Lee McCoy and
Peetie's Boy, decided to start calling himself Robert Nighthawk.
He preferred not to use his real name, apparently for a very good
reason.
Nighthawk was born in Helena on November 30, 1909, and
grew up on nearby plantations. By the time he was fourteen, he
had left home and was supporting himself by playing the harmon-
ica. It wasn't until the early thirties that he took up the guitar, ini-
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 193

tially under the tutelage of Houston Stackhouse. At the time,

young Stackhouse was still mesmerized by the blues of his south

Mississippi neighbor Tommy Johnson, and the songs he taught
—
Nighthawk were mostly Johnson staples "Big Road Blues," "Big
Fat Mama," "Maggie Campbell." "I taught him how to play all
that," says Stackhouse, "and then he could work out from then on
like he wanted to. We was day-workin' on Mr. Toy Woods' farm
out there at Murphy Bayou. Plowin' mules, gettin' a dollar a
day . . . Two weeks' time, boy, we was playin' them two guitars
good. And we'd make them days and then go play at night some-
where."
In 1932 Nighthawk's brother, Percy McCollum, joined the duo
on harmonica, and with Stackhouse playing fiddle and mandolin
as well as guitar, they were probably a fine and fairly typical
southern Mississippi string band. But later that year, a series of
troubling events broke up the team. On the way south to New Or-
leans, the trio got drunk in Brookhaven, Mississippi, and found
themselves in jail. "Well," says Stackhouse, "what it was, they
said three colored boys had ravished some white girls down in
there. And they thought maybe it might have been us." The three
were threatened and intimidated, and even though they were
saved when a patrolman who knew them from Hazelhurst
vouched for them and got them released, the experience ap-
parently terrified them, especially Percy, the youngest. "Just hit
the highway and walk where everybody can see you. Better not
catch nothin'," the Brookhaven pohce told them, and they walked
the thirty-three miles back to Stackhouse's (and Tommy John-
son's) home
town. Crystal Springs. Percy quit playing the har-
monica following this incident; Stackhouse speculates that it
"probably just scared music out of his mind."
Robert left southern Mississippi soon after that, stopping to play
in Friar's Point,meeting and working briefly with the young John
Lee Hooker Memphis, hooking up occa-
in either Clarksdale or
sionally with carnivals and medicine shows. In the mid-thirties, he
left the South. He would only say that he'd been in "deep trou-

ble." Stackhouse claimed "it was something about a pistol, but

they didn't say where he killed nobody." In any event, Robert
adopted his mother's maiden name, McCoy, and settled in St.
Louis for a time. There he met several Mississippi-born bluesmen,
 DEEP BLUES • 194

including Henry Townshend and Big Joe Williams, who had

recording contacts in Chicago, and on May 5, 1937, he took part in
the marathon session ir^ Victor's Aurora, Illinois, studio with Wil-
liams and John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson. Nighthawk sang
and played on six of his own blues, including "Prowling Night-
hawk" and "Tough Luck," songs that reflected two sides of his
complex and customarily veiled personality. Like Rice Miller, he
had grown withdrawn and suspicious during his years on the
road, and like Miller, he would never stay in one place for very
long. "Prowling Nighthawk" celebrated his rambling nature. "I
have been rambhn' and prowlin'," he boasted, "ever since 1 was
twelve years old / And I wouldn't stop ramblin' for all my weight
in gold." "Tough Luck" was no less appropriate to the life he had
lived, but it was more a complaint than a boast: "Now I got in
tough luck, all my people dead and gone / And I haven't got any
money, no place to call my home."
John Lee Williamson's numbers, especially "Good Morning,
School Girl" and "Blue Bird Blues," were the session's biggest
hits, but Nighthawk impressed blues producer Lester Melrose as
an adept guitar and harmonica accompanist and a better than av-
erage singer, and between 1937 and 1940 Robert commuted regu-
larly between St. Louis and Chicago, recording on his own and
behind a number of other artists. When he returned south, he
brought a band with him consisting of a second guitarist, a string
bassist, and a drummer. The group worked mostly around Clarks-
dale, where Nighthawk' s electric guitar, purchased shortly before
he left Chicago, stirred considerable interest, and where Son
Sims, the veteran blues fiddler, played with them. (At some point,
perhaps as early as 1941 and perhaps several years later, Sims
attached a pickup to his fiddle, plugged into an amplifier, and ap-
peared with the Nighthawks as one of the earUest electric violin-
ists.) Robert and his band also spent time working at Jim Seals's

Dipsy Doodle Club in Osceola, Arkansas, where his audience in-

cluded Jim's youngest son, Frank, then less than a year old.
Frank, who was nicknamed "Son," later played drums behind
Nighthawk and Albert King and eventually developed into the fin-
est young blues guitarist to emerge during the 1970s.
Nighthawk returned from Chicago a master of the slide or bot-
tleneck guitar style. Houston Stackhouse had introduced him to
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 195

the technique, but Nighthawk perfected his slide work in Chicago

by watching and listening to Tampa Red. Once he began broad-
casting from Helena over KFFA, his versions of the Tampa Red
hits "Anna Lou Blues" (changed by Nighthavi^k to "Anna Lee")
and "Black Angel Blues" became local favorites, requested again
and again by the Bright Star Show's listeners. According to Stack-
house, Robert could and occasionally did play them in an uncan-
nily exact imitation of Tampa's style, "and then he'd get back to
his style: 'Well, I'm gon' get back in my own style now. I'm just
showin' you I can do it.' " Nighthawk recorded "Anna Lee" and
"Sweet Black Angel" in 1949, his way, and anyone who listens to
these performances back to back with Tampa Red's originals udll
immediately appreciate the qualities that indelibly stamped Night-
hawk as a Delta stylist. In both versions of "Black Angel Blues,"
the fifth note of the scale marks the apex of the melody. But while
Tampa Red sang this melody evenly and lightly, Nighthawk added
pitch shadings, especially the flattening around the fifth so char-
acteristic of Delta blues. When Tampa Red approached the third
note of the scale, he either flattened it slightly or sang an ordinary
major third, but all Nighthawk's thirds were heavily flattened and
"blue." The contrast in their slide guitar work was just as marked,
with Tampa playing loosely and with an almost airy tone and
touch while Nighthawk's notes seemed to drip slowly out of the
amplifier like thick, oozing oil.
While Nighthawk was estabhshing himself on Helena radio and
taking advantage of his local notoriety to work lucrative engage-
ments in the upper Delta with a band that at various times in-
cluded pianist Pinetop Perkins and drummer Kansas City Red,
Rice Miller was feeling the tug of that old wanderlust. Now that
Peck Curtis was a regular on the King Biscuit show, there was an-
other vocalist and front man; Sonny Boy could skip broadcasts oc-
casionally without disrupting the routine or incurring the wrath of
Max Moore.
Actually, Moore and the KFFA staff" seem to have expected er-

ratic or at least contrary behaviorfrom Sonny Boy. "Sometimes,"

says Sonny Payne, "when he felt hke it. Sonny Boy would write
down the songs he was going to do and give them to us. Then we
would say, 'Now here's Sonny Boy and all the gang to do such and
such a tune.' Well, if he wasn't in the right mood, he'd do some-
 DEEP BLUES • 196

thing else, and then I'd have to come back after they played it and
say, 'We-e-ell, that's Sonny Boy for ya. He didn't want to play the
tune he said he was gonna play after all, for the simple reason that
he wasn't in the mood.' Let me put it this way: he had a mind of
his own. He was moody. He was a boozer. He loved his booze,
couldn't get up in the morning without it. But, and you may think
I'm crazy when 1 tell you this, he was not an alcoholic. In the old
days, right at first, Sonny Boy and Robert would get drunk and
thrown in jail, but once he found out that he could play and sing
over the radio, he found himself. He would drink, but after the
earliest days of the show, I never saw him drunk."
Having his picture carried far and wide on trucks full of Sonny
Boy Meal must have done as much to bolster Miller's self-
confidence as the show itself. He was recognized throughout the
Delta now, and not just by the juke joint regulars. On Saturday
mornings the King Biscuit Entertainers would put on the special
shirts Max Moore had had made for them —yellow short-sleeved
shirts with each musician's name knitted on the back, along with
the words King Biscuit Flour or Sonny Boy Meal —
and pile into an
Interstate Grocery truck. They would make a number of stops,
playing in front of country grocery stores, at gas stations, just
about anywhere a crowd could be expected to gather. Their sched-
ule was always announced in advance on King Biscuit Time, and
audiences tended to be large and enthusiastic. Before long. Max
Moore decided to present the King Biscuit Entertainers in regular
Saturday morning stage shows at Helena's Plaza Theater. Admis-
sion was free, and the theater was always packed.
Between these wearing Saturdays, the broadcasts five days a
week, and nights spent performing, drinking, and gambling, it
was an exhausting life, and though the musicians made plenty of
money from their nightly performances, the grueling work for In-
terstate paid only a pittance. According to Stackhouse, who began
playing regularly on King Biscuit Time in 1946, Max Moore was a
tightwad who wouldn't even buy the musicians a bottle of whiskey
for their Saturday promotional tours. Being a Delta radio personal-
itywasn't exactly a bed of roses, then, and in 1944 Sonny Boy hit
the highway. He played as far east as Florida, broadcast for a time
from Monroe, Louisiana, and then tried his luck with a radio show
out of Little Rock, where he also found work at night in various
 KING BISCUIT TIME • 197

joints. King Biscuit Time went on as before, with Peck Curtis

leading the band and singing the theme song. Once in a while,
Sonny Boy would show up, take over the show for a short time,
and vanish again.
In 1945, irked by Sonny Boy's disappearances and anxious to
play a different brand of music, Robert Lockwood quit King Bis-
cuit Time to broadcast over KFFA for yet another brand of flour.
Mother's Best. "1 had myself, piano, bass, drums, trumpet, and
trombone," Lockwood recalls. "We was playing jazz 'One
—
O'clock Jump,' 'The Sheik of Araby,' 'Stardust,' all that kind of
stuff"." King Biscuit Time fans who tuned in to the Mother's Best

show must have been shocked, although Lockwood's pianist,

James Starkey, was a fine blues player, and there was blues as well
as jazz and standards in the group's repertoire.
By this time Robert was taking confident single-string solos on
his electric guitar. Guitarists like jazzman Eddie Lang and the
versatile Lonnie Johnson had been playing improvised solos that
were more or less hornlike in conception since the twenties, and
guitarist-trombonist Eddie Durham recorded some single-string
solos on an amplified instrument with the Kansas City Five and
Six (small groups that featured the Count Basic rhythm section
and tenor saxophonist Lester Young) in 1938. In 1939 a number
of electric guitarists recorded, including the seminal modern jazz
stylist Charlie Christian (with Benny Goodman's popular big

band) and Christian's friend and former musical associate Aaron

"T-Bone" Walker, who was with the band of Les Hite. Lockwood
says he never heard Christian, who made only a few records and
died young, until some fans gave him a Christian reissue Ip in the
mid-seventies. But he heard T-Bone Walker, whose electric lead
style grew out of the early Texas guitar blues as played by Blind
Lemon Jefferson. Walker actually led Jefferson around the streets
of Dallas for a time during the twenties, and he was playing an
electric guitar as early as 1935. His single-string lead style was
fully mature when he first recorded under his own name in 1942.
How early Lockwood heard Walker is unclear. Robert says, "I
heard T-Bone all my life, but I never really hked the way he played.
I just liked the songs he wrote." Several blues guitarists have con-
firmed Robert's contention that in the mid-forties, when he was
working out his own jazz-influenced lead guitar style, he played
 DEEP BLUES • 198

with his fingers and not with a pick. "I never really listened to
guitar players after Robert Johnson," Lockwood claims. "I lis-
tened tune in Count Basic or somebody like that and
to horns. I'd
sit and copy the licks the horns were playing. I've just found
try to
out in the last few years that Charhe Christian was originally a
horn player." 1 mentioned that Eddie Durham doubled as a trom-
bonist. "Well," he said, "see, it had to be a horn player to create
that. That's where all the good electric guitar players get their
ideas, from other types of instruments." The earliest recordings of
Lockwood's electric lead playing, made after he moved to Chicago
at the beginning of the fifties, do sound more horn-influenced, in
their uneven and sometimes erratic phrasing, than Walker-
influenced. T-Bone's work had a decisive impact on the younger
generation of Delta blues guitarists who matured during the late
forties and the fifties, but Lockwood seems to have developed
mostly on his own.
 CHAPTER 6

I Believe I'll Dust

My Broom
WW Vith Lockwood, Nighthawk, ;uid. when he was in town,
MM#Kko MiTlor all biwidcasunc o\oi KFKA, Helena lx^»;an to
WW attract aspinn^: blues musicians fixMn thnnighout the
f w Deep South. Anions the plavers wlio came ni the mid-
forties to listen and le;irn were the future niiiinstavs of Muddv Wa-
ters' first eUxnnc band. Jimmv Hosiers and little Walter Ko^iers
was boni ni Ruleville. ui Sunflower County, Mississippi, on June
3, 1924. During the thirties his f;unily li\*ed in the Delta near
Vance, and it was there that he Ix^iian plavinvi his tii'st instrument,
the h.U"ioonica Ounn^ the mid thirties he sometimes plavtxi in
impn^nnptu gr^^ups with thret^ or four other harmonica plavers. in-
cluding: a future Chicago blues assixiaie. Siux^kv l\vor. And
ai\>und the same time he tix-jk up the guitar. U\u*ning initi.dlv fn^m
Arthur .Johnson, a musician who plavtxl aivund t^rivnwixxl
Johnson never recorde<.i. but his nephew. I uther Johnson. »ilso
known as Guit;U' Junior, plaved with the Muddy Waters b;uid in
the sixties »ind se\enties
Annind 19v^i^ or li^40 Jimmv heard Rice Miller plav ne;^ Minler
City. Mississippi, and was impR^ssixi When Miller and Iax kwixxi
beg;ui hnxulcasting over KFKA. the eighttvn-vearn^ld harmonica
player, now a budding guit;uist as well, knew Helena was where
 DEEP BLUES • 200

he belonged. "The radio station drew quite a few musicians to

Helena," he says. "For blues, that was the spot, the headquar-
ters." A number of young musicians who were still in their teens,
many of them children of broken homes and already living on the
road, were in and out of town during the early and mid-forties.
They would congregate at the radio station, and sometimes they
were allowed in to watch the broadcasts. At night, they would fol-
low Sonny Boy and his band to their gigs, waiting for a chance to
sit in. Jimmy would stay around Helena for a short while and then

return to his family, but when he was at home, he would never

miss Sonny Boy's show. "I would rush home every day around
twelve to hear him," Rogers says. "I'd be diggin' every inch of his
sounds."
Around 1944 Jimmy was back in Helena, hanging out, picking
up pointers from Robert Lockwood, and occasionally playing gui-
tar behind Sonny Boy and Nighthawk when more accomplished
musicians weren't available. The experience with Nighthawk
would prove invaluable in later years when Rogers played second
guitar behind Muddy's slide stylings; Muddy himself picked up a
few pointers from Nighthawk between 1942, when Robert re-
turned to the Delta, and 1943. Muddy would return the favor in
1949 by arranging for the Chess brothers to record Nighthawk
doing "Anna Lee" and "Sweet Black Angel." The two men's styles
—
were different :Muddy stayed much closer to the basics he'd
learned from Son House and the recordings of Robert Johnson,
while Nighthawk's more fluid and pohshed approach fitted readily
into changing band styles. But as Rogers says, "By the time I got
to playin' v^dth Muddy, I could back up a sUde guitar good, even
though 1 didn't play that way myself. That's why it wasn't too
comphcated to stay with Muddy and background him in that
way."
It was in Helena in 1944 that Jimmy first encountered Little
Walter Jacobs, who was born May 1, 1930, near Marksville, Loui-
siana. By the time he arrived in Helena, the fourteen-year-old
Walter had been on his own for two years and had gained experi-
ence playing the harmonica on the streets and in several clubs in
New Orleans and Monroe, Louisiana. (The latter, a town just
across the Mississippi hne, was a hot spot for blues at the time and
is celebrated in Robert Johnson's "Dust My Broom.") The harp
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 201

style that would revolutionize the blues in ten years' time wasn't
yet formed.
Walter had been imitating John Lee Williamson, but after he
arrived in Helena he fell under the spell of Rice Miller. Years later,
traces of Miller's phrasing would continue to show up in Walter's
virtuosic amplified solos. At first, Sonny Boy and the other musi-
cians in his —
charmed circle Lockwood, Nighthawk, Peck, Dud-
low, —
and the rest ^ignored Walter; he was little more than a street
urchin. "He'd go around these musicians," says Rogers, "and
they didn't want to recognize him, but he was learning some-
thing, see." Walter would wait patiently for Sonny Boy to leave the
bandstand for the crap tables, and then, if nobody objected too
violently, he would sit in. Sonny Boy began hearing snatches of
Walter's rich-toned, technically assured playing and began in-
structinghim in some of the fine points of harp technique. Their
friendshipwas cemented one night in a West Helena juke joint
when a woman lunged at Walter with a knife, and Sonny Boy, who
was known to draw a blade himself from time to time, stepped in.
During his first year or so in Helena, Walter usually slept on a
pool table in whatever joint he happened to be in, and he seems to

have depended on the generosity of various gamblers, hustlers,

and musicians for cigarettes and meals. Gradually his situation
improved. He found work with Stackhouse and with pianist Henry
Hill, and before long he had an avid local following. He was quite a

bit younger than any of the musicians he worked with, and he had
a younger style, for while he was still absorbing the influence of
Rice Miller and studying the latest recordings by John Lee Wil-
liamson, he was also listening to jump blues.
The most influential artist then working in the jump blues
idiom was Louis Jordan, a singer and alto saxophonist who was
born in Brinkley, Arkansas, in 1908 and retained a gritty sound
and vocalized inflection in his sax playing despite years of experi-
ence as a section musician and soloist with big bands like Chick
Webb's. Jordan's Tympani Five, actually a seven- or eight-piece
group, featured two or three rifling horns, boogie-woogie-style
piano, and a light, jazzy rhythm section, all subordinated to the
leader's knowing novelty vocals and alto breaks. By 1945 Jordan
had appeared in several Hollywood films and was riding high on
one of his biggest hits, "Caldonia," a rolhng boogie with humor-
 DEEP BLUES • 202

ous ("What make your big head so hard?") that soon found
lyrics
its way numerous Delta singers. Little
into the repertoires of
Walter, who had an exceptionally quick and accurate ear for
music, began imitating Jordan's saxophone solos on his harmon-
ica.
In 1945 Walter landed his own radio show on KFFA, broadcast-
ing for Mother's Best. Lockwood had had the show earlier that
year, but then he found better-paying work outside music, a train
crew job that took him as far west as Nevada and Wyoming.
Walter, with Dudlow as his accompanist, was happy to take over
the show, and with his youthful enthusiasm and unusual style,
which combined deep blues feeling with the Hghter phrasing he'd
absorbed from Louis Jordan's records, he was an immediate hit. In
fact, he was soon drawing more fan mail and requests than Sonny

—
Boy and the King Biscuit regulars ^probably another reason
Sonny Boy was seen around Helena less and less often.
Honeyboy Edwards was an occasional guest on Walter's show,
and sometime around 1946 or 1947 Walter left Helena to join him
in St. Louis. Edwards announced that he was Chicago bound, and
Walter decided that sounded good to him, too. "We caught a
ride," says Honeyboy, "out from East St. Louis, and come into
Decatur, Illinois, about broke. Stopped in a train station and
The man let us
played there in the depot. play in there. So we
made some money and made it on into Chicago. Now Little
Walter, he would never stay still. He'd walk the streets all the
time. We room down there near Maxwell Street, and that
got us a
Sunday morning I was laying up there sleeping. He comes in
there, says, 'Man, come on. Get up. Let's make us some money.
These 1 said, 'I ain't got no shirt to put on.'
streets is full of people.'
He said, 'I'll went down there and got me a second-
get you one,'
hand shirt off the street for fifteen cents. We went downstairs and
hooked up on the street, and 1 guess we made about fifty or sixty
dollars that Sunday. We made a cigar box full of money three
times, went around the corner to a place called Goldberg's three
times to cash in those nickels and quarters for some bills. Then
one lady come out there. She was a preacher, sanctified. She
wrote Walter some cards asking him to come out to her house, and
he said O.K. He didn't come back until that Thursday. She had
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 203

bought him a new suit, new shoes, dressed him up all sharp, cable
stitches on."
Walter began frequenting the Maxwell Street area with a group
of Mississippi musicians that included Othum Brown, Johnny
Williams. Johnny Young, and Moody Jones. They could often be
found in or around Bernard Abrams's Maxwell Radio Record
Company, where Walter sometimes ran into Jimmy Rogers;
Jimmy had left Helena for West Memphis and St. Louis and finally
setded in Chicago in 1945. Abrams thought he heard commercial
potential in these neighborhood musicians, and in 1947 he re-
corded several of them on the acetate disc cutter in the back room
of his store. A duet by Walter and Jimmy Rogers remained unis-
sued, but Abrams did put out two records, one of which featured
Walter and guitarist Othum Brown, with a vocal from each.
Walter's number was the jumping "I Just Keep Loving Her,"
probably a representative example of the Sonny Boy-Louis Jordan
svTithesis he'd been working on since he got to Helena. Brown
sang "Ora Nelle Blues," apparently giving Abrams's Ora Nelle
label its name. The song was actually Robert Lockwood's "That's
All Right," and Brown's guitar accompaniment echoed Lock-
wood's more restrained version of the Robert Johnson style. The
record didn't sell despite live promotions in front of the store
that included one of Muddy Waters' handful of Maxwell Street
performances. Neither did the other Ora Nelle release, which fea-
tured Johnny Young and Johnny Williams. Walter, whose argu-
mentative nature always seemed to get him in trouble, secured
and then lost a job playing at the Purple Cat on West Madison, and
he spent the latter part of 1947, and perhaps early 1948, back in
Helena.

LOCKWOOD HAD RETURNED to the Delta as well, foUowing an

unexpected interlude as guitarist and vocalist with an otherwise
all-white band. "Iwas out west with the Union Pacific work
train," he explains, "and one night went into a club in Casper,
I

Wyoming. This band was playing there, and came back the next
I

night to listen to them again. Finally the piano player came over
 DEEP BLUES • 204

and said, 'Man, you must be a musician.' I said, 'Oh, I just try to
play the guitar, you know.' Well, the man who owned the place
had a beautiful guitar and amplifier, and they rolled that shit out
on the stage for me to play. I went up on the bandstand, and I sang
and played 'Caldonia' by Louis Jordan, something by Eddie
'Cleanhead' Vinson, and 'Things Ain't What They Used to Be.'
And the house came down. I got ready to leave the stage, and the
man said, 'You comin' down? You better stay on up there. I'm
gonna give you fifteen dollars for the day.' That was a very decent
salary. So I played that man's guitar for almost a year. That was a
nice bunch of dudes. They went out and bought me about five
suits of clothes, brought 'em back, and said, 'You gonna wear
these.' But then we started playin' down in Texas, the shows
started getting held up, thirty minutes in one place, an hour in
—
another because I was black. I assumed I was bad news for the
band, and I slipped off from them. They never would have let me
go"
After a brief stay in St. Louis, Robert spent several months
around Memphis and West Memphis. One afternoon in 1947 he
was playing solo in the little park just off Beale Street. Five or six
of theMemphis Jug Band musicians were wailing away in another
corner of the park, but Robert was playing a more up-to-date mix
of blues and jump tunes, and he pulled most of the Jug Band's
crowd away. After he'd finished and was counting the change he'd
collected, ayoung man walked up and sat down on the park bench
beside him. "You know," the man said, "you raise hell with that
goddamn guitar all by yourself." Lockwood thanked him for the
compliment and there was an awkward pause. "Don't you want a
band?" the man finally asked. Lockwood said no. "Motherfucker,
you got one. We got a lot of jobs, and you gonna help us do 'em."
Lockwood, always ready for a new adventure, said, "Tell me how
much I'm makin' and all that. And by the way, what's your name?
What do you play?" "I'm a piano player. My name is Bill Johnson,
but they call me Destruction."
Destruction turned out to be a formidable blues and boogie pi-
anist, and something more. Like Lockwood, he had grown up
playing country blues and then developed a taste for jazz. He had
a band together, two saxophones, piano, bass, and drums, and
they were playing music in the jump style popularized by Louis
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 205

Jordan. They had been promised work at Jim Lindsay's club in

North Little Rock and offered a radio spot there on KXLR, but
they needed a front man, preferably one with a reputation; Rob-
ert's record of "Take a Little Walk with Me" was still a regional
jukebox favorite.
Lockwood played with Destruction and the band over KXLR for
more than a year, into 1948. "That 'Struction, he could play,"
Robert remembers admiringly. "He could play guitar, too. You
know, I was still playing with my fingers, and he was the first one
to put a straight pick in my hand. I couldn't hold that pick for
nothing at first, but he said, 'Goddamn it, you gonna use it.' "
Lockwood's transformation from a RobertJohnsiJiizdStyle country
bluesman into th e Delta's fir s t_ modern lead guitarist was now
complete.
While Robert was perfecting his lead picking, Sonny Boy was 6n
the air again, but not for the Interstate GroceryCompany. In 1947
he'd settled in Belzoni, Mississippi, and renewed his prewar ac-
quaintance with guitarist Elmore James, a Robert Johnson disci-
ple who didn't share Lockwood's infatuation with jazz. Elmore
was born January 27, 1918, on a farm near Richland, Mississippi.
His mother, who was all of fifteen, probably hadn't expected to
start raising a family so soon, but she gamely set up housekeeping
with Joe WiUie James, the man who was thought to be Elmore's
father, and they supported themselves precariously as sharecrop-
pers, moving from plantation to plantation in Holmes County. El-
more taught himself to play by stringing broom wire on the wall of
one of their cabins, and by the time he was nineteen, he was a
reasonably competent young blues guitarist.
Elmore's family lived near Belzoni for a while, and it was there
I that he met Rice Miller and Robert Johnson. The slippery Johnson
probably didn't give him any actual lessons, and in any case El-
more wasn't a fast learner, but he did manage to pick up some of
the rudiments of Robert's style, including the stinging slide guitar
riff for "Dust My Broom." By 1939 Elmore was already playing

and singing with a full band that included saxophone, trumpet, a

second guitarist, and drummer "Frock" O'Dell. The group played
for dances at various Delta theaters and cafes and was one of a
number of early attempts to fit traditional Delta blues into a band
context —Robert Johnson had worked with backup musicians oc-
 DEEP BLUES • 206

casionally, and Honeyboy Edwards was playing with a saxophonist

and drummer around this time.
Elmore went into the Navy in 1943, and shortly after he re-
turned from the South Pacific (where he took part in the invasion
of Guam) he ran into his old friend Rice Miller. They played to-
,

gether off and on for the next two years, and then, in 1947, Miller
moved into the Belzoni boardinghouse where Elmore was staying.
Before long the celebrated harmonica ace had landed a local radio
show advertising Talaho, a locally manufactured patent medicine
with a high alcohol content. O. J. Turner, Talaho's inventor and
entrepreneur, owned a drugstore in Belzoni, and it was from there
that Miller began broadcasting once more, over a hookup to Yazoo
City's WAZF and Greenville's WGVM. Elmore would occasionally
—
come on the show to play and sing he had made infrequent
—
guest appearances when Miller was on KFFA ^but anything re-
lated to broadcasting or recording seems to have made him ner-
vous, and he much preferred working in the local juke joints. By
this time he was a formidable electric bluesman, crying out tradi-
tional lyrics in a high, forceful, anguished-sounding voice over his
screaming, superamplified shde guitar leads.
Sonny Boy and Elmore began working frequently with another
guitarist who was now living in the area, Arthur "Big Boy" Cru-
dup. Crudup had made a number of successful records for Blue-
bird, including "Rock Me Mama" (1944), the prototype for the
postwar blues standard "Rock Me Baby," and "That's All Right"
(1946), an up-tempo blues with a hillbilly tinge that had little to
do with the Robert Lockwood tune of the same name and was re-
corded in 1954 by a young and previously untried white singer,
Elvis Presley. Crudup was an atmospheric but erratic guitarist
who didn't feel comfortable in any key other than E, but he was a
strong singer and a popular recording artist and could probably
have worked steadily in Chicago if he'd wanted to. He chose to re-
main in the Delta, and with Elmore and Sonny Boy packed into his
car, he would drive as far west as Little Rock to dance jobs.
The biggest surprise of Sonny Boy's Belzoni period — probably
^it

surprised him as well as his friends —

was that he fell in love. The
fifty-year-old bluesman was so smitten with Mattie Gordon, the re-
cently divorced daughter of a Silver City, Mississippi, preacher,
that he took a day job for a while, driving a tractor in the hot Delta
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 207

sun. Late in 1948 he left for West Memphis, found a job broad-
casting over KWEM for Hadacol
tonic, rented a house at Ninth
and and sent for Mattie. On June 4, 1949, they were mar-
Polk,
ried, and though their relationship would prove erratic, his affec-
tion for her was lasting. One of the last songs he recorded, at his
final Chicago session in August 1964, was "Mattie Is My Wife."

WEST MEMPHIS, a wide-open Arkansas town across the Missis-

sippi from Memphis, was beginning to rival Helena as a regional
blues center by the time Sonny Boy moved there. HowUn' Wolf
had finally given up farming for a full-time musical career (at the
age of thirty-nine) and was broadcasting over West Memphis's
KWEM at three p.m. daily. Lockwood was in and out of West
Memphis in 1949, and so were his disciple Joe Willie Wilkins (an
influential guitarist in his own right) Elmore James, pianist Wil-
,

lie Love, harmonica player Forest City Joe, the one-man band Joe

Hill Louis, and the drummer Oliver Sain, later a successful record
prnHurpr^h^pndlpad^r^anH soul saxophonist based in St. Louis.
CTRiiey ("B, B.") King, kn ambitious young singer and guitarist
from IndianolaTNlississippi, who'd worked in various gospel quar-
tets and sung for tips on Delta street corners and occasionally ran
wdth a circle of Memphis musicians that included the stand-up vo-
calist Bobby Bland and pianist Johnny Ace, was working at the
Square Deal Cafe in West Memphis and making occasional guest
appearances on Sonny Boy's Hadacol-sponsored show early in
1949. He was attempting to play in the modern single-string lead
stylebut was having problems adjusting to band accompaniment,
so he began taking informal lessons from Lockwood. "His time,"
Robert notes, "was apeshit. I had a hard time trying to teach
him." Later in 1949, King left town to live and work in Memphis,
where he soon landed his own radio show on WDIA advertising
Pepticon tonic. He became well known for spinning the latest
jump blues —records by southwestern-born, California-based boo-
gie pianists and blues shouters hke Amos Milburn and Litde Wil-
he Littlefield, the mellow Texas blues of T-Bone Walker and
Lowell Fulson, the latest Louis Jordan hits. The Pepticon show
helped him learn to fit his guitar into jump and jazz-oriented band
 DEEP BLUES • 208

backing. He'd plug in at the studio and play along with the records
as they went out over the air.
Toward the middle of 1949, Sonny Boy lost the sponsorship of
Hadacol, and before long he and Mattie were fighting. After a par-
ticularly nasty spat, she left for Memphis, and while Sonny Boy
was there attempting to track her down, their house in West
Memphis was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, an
event later commemorated in his "West Memphis Blues." The
pair tried to patch things up, and eventually they were reunited,
but for the time being, Sonny Boy was perturbed and restless, and
he took to wandering off for months at a time. Meanwhile, Lock-
wood tired of the West Memphis scene. He was really getting tired
of living in the Deep South, but instead of returning north, to St.
Louis or Chicago, he drifted back to Helena.
There, in October 1949, he ran into Jimmy Rogers and Little
Walter again. They'd come to town with Baby Face Leroy and
Muddy Waters on a kind of extended Southern tour promoting
Muddy's early Aristocrat records. The quartet had spent the last
half of 1948 and most of 1949 working at the Do Drop Inn, the
Club Zanzibar, and other Chicago night spots and terrorizing
competing blues bands on their off nights. They would drop into
local taverns, ask to spell the resident band, blow them away, and
gleefully announce the place and time of their next regular gig.
Musicians began calling them tiieHeadhunters
V^ Walter in particular had develope3~a§tonisl:hingly. "We'd do a lot
of rehearsin' durin' that time," says Jimmy Rogers. "The three of
us. And Walter wanted to learn. His ears were open, but he just
didn't have nobody to sit down and really teach him. He was
mostly playing between Rice Miller and that saxophone sound of
Louis Jordan; after he came with us, we developed him mostly into
a harder sound."
"He was a good boy," Muddy adds, "but he had that bad, mean
temper, that kind of thing, like 'You don't mess with me too
much.' Then when we got it together, I found out I was the only
somebody that could do anything with him when he really got out
of hand. He began acting like 1 was his daddy. And when we was
sitting around the house playing together, or on the bandstand,
that's when he worked out all that stuff that he did on our records
later on, all them tricks with harps and so on. He was a man that
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 209

was always thinking of something. His mind just kept going,

learning more and more and more. But we was all into it. We all
wanted to work, and we learned how to play up tight with one an-
other. We would rehearse and rehearse. It was hard work, man.
Hard work. But we had three naturals. Me, Little Walter, and
Jimmy. Natural from our hearts."
When the band took off for the South in 1949, packing their few
changes of clothes, small amplifiers, and drum set into Muddy's
new convertible and Walter's 1941 Buick Special, Helena seemed
the best choice as a kind of base camp. Muddy had listened to
King Biscuit Time regularly before he left Stovall's plantation in
1943, and he knew broadcasting over the radio from such a cen-
tral location would enable the band to draw crowds throughout

the area. As soon as he got to town, he went around to several local

merchants, and Katz's Clothing Store on Cherry Street agreed to
—
sponsor a program on KFFA. There was one hitch the only avail-
able time slot was six a.m., a good time for reaching farm workers
who had to get up with the sun but a daunting hour for musicians
who worked and partied late. Muddy and his band would take the
ferry to Mississippi, play until close to one a.m., and race back, like
Lockwood and Sonny Boy before them, to catch the last ferry from
Dundee or Friar's Point. They'd have to get up before daybreak in
order to make it down to the Floyd Truck Lines building for their
show. On one occasion Jimmy and Walter overslept and shpped
into the studio twenty minutes late while a commercial was being
read, but the band was determined to succeed and such incidents
seem to have been rare. Muddy and his men also worked at the
Owl Cafe in Helena, where Houston Stackhouse and Peck Curtis
often sat in. Lockwood would come around, scowling dourly at the
down-home directness of the music until he'd had a few drinks
and relaxed. Often these sessions would end with Robert, Muddy,
Walter, Jimmy, and Stackhouse roaring around in one of their au-
tomobiles to various late-night jukes, laughing drunkenly and
singing as loudly as they could.
Muddy and his group returned to Chicago in January 1950, and
once they'd left Helena, the place seemed dead. Sonny Boy was
rattling around Florida, Louisiana, and Texas. Robert Nighthawk
had a minor r&b hit with "Black Angel Blues," recorded for Aris-
tocrat in Chicago in 1949, and though he was in and out of Hel-
 DEEP BLUES • 210

ena, most of his work was elsewhere. Lockwood decided it was

time to make a move, and early in
1 950 he left once again for Chi-

cago, this time to stay for a decade. On August 15, just a few
months after Robert's arrival, Jimmy Rogers made his first solo
—
recording for Chess Robert's "That's All Right." Commercially
it followed the pattern of Muddy's more successful records up to

that time, seUing well and steadily in Chicago, St. Louis, a few
other Middle American cities vdth large black populations, and in
the Deep South — this was before Muddy's first band recordings
and his first nationwide hit. Rogers has often claimed "That's All
Right" as his own. "I built the song," he told two interviewers
from Living Blues. "It was in between Robert Lockwood, Willie
Love, ideas comin' in verses, like I put some verses with it and
built it that way." Rogers's "That's All Right" probably did differ
somewhat from the version Lockwood was singing around Hel-
ena; this seems to be another e xample of t he way blues singers
shape_e2cijStiȤSateQal_^to their own individual style and consider
this process to^orisUt«ie-auihOTshi£.OnTheothe hand. Muddy
Waters says flatly, " That's All Right,' that's Robert Jr.'s song."
On the record, Rogers accompanied his vocal with a Lockwood-
hke mix of single-string fills and shuffle-rhythm chording. Little
Walter contributed an intricate counterpoint, complete with
speechlike inflections in the Rice Miller manner. The singing
contrasted tellingly with Muddy's style. It was lighter, with a clean
tone, dehberately clear phrasing and pronunciation, and a more
understated use of blues inflections. "That's All Right," along
with its flip side, "Ludella," can be heard as both a summation of
the modern Delta style that developed in and around Helena in
the forties and a milestone in the formative period of contempo-
rary Chicago blues. In fact, to a considerable extent, the Helena
style and the music that's now universally recognized as Chicago
blues were one and the same.
In May 1952, Little Walter recorded a rocking instrumental at
the end of a Muddy Waters session, with Muddy and Jimmy on
guitars and Elgin Evans on drums. The band had been using the
number as a kind of theme song, and they recorded it as "Your
Cat Will Play." Leonard Chess decided to issue it under Walter's
name and to title it "Juke." Again, "Juke" is both a Helena-style
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 211

record and a Chicago classic. On

Walter reverted to the jump-
it,

oriented style that made and around Helena;

his reputation in
most of the phrases he played were saxophone phrases. His harp
was amplified, and the electricity and his masterful manipulation
of both the instrument and his microphone brought out a richness
of tone and subtlety of inflection that hadn't been evident in his
acoustic playing on earher records. And beginning with the sec-
ond verse of the record, Elgin Evans broke into a light triplet fig-
ure on his ride cymbal that set a pattern for much subsequent
Chicago blues drumming and seems to have prefigured one of the
most characteristic rhythms of early rock and roll. Even more ef-
fectively than "That's All Right," "Juke" synopsized the immedi-
ate past while pointing unerringly toward the future. It also broke
up Chicago's number-one blues band.
"We was down around Monroe and Shreveport, Louisiana,"
Muddy recalls. "Had a httle tour down there with a disc jockey,
called him the Groovy Boy. 'Juke' had just come out, and we went
in this club one night and the people were playing that record.
Every time the jukebox would ring, 'Juke,' 'Juke,' 'Juke.' Little
Walter couldn't stand that jive. The next day he grab a train,
pssssssshhhhh, back to Chicago. When me and Jimmy got back,
—
Walter asked me, 'Wh-wh-where my money?' like for the rest of
the tour. I said, 'I thought you brought it witcha.' " Walter re-
joined Muddy's band for a few weeks, but as "Juke" climbed the
national r&b charts, he grew more and more resdess, and finally
he left. In a switch that's typical of Chicago's inbred blues scene,
Walter took over a band called the Aces that was being fronted by
a young harmonica player from West Memphis, Junior Wells.
Muddy hired Junior. When Walter was in town, he still recorded
with Muddy, but by late 1952 "Juke" was the number-one r&b
record in the country, and it stayed in the Top Ten for sixteen
weeks. Walter had the biggest hit any of the Delta or Chicago
bluesmen had managed to chalk up, and soon he was touring the
country with the Aces.
The band consisted of Louis and David Myers, two guitar-
playing brothers from Byhalia in the northern Mississippi hill
country, and Fred Below, a former jazz drummer who had turned
to blues because blues bands were working more steadily than
 DEEP BLUES • 212

jazz groups in the Chicago of the early fifties. At first Below found

playing the blues difficult,but once Walter began leading the

Aces, everything fell into place. Between them, Walter and Below
laid down a light, jazzy swing, while the Myers brothers held the
groove together with solid shuffle patterns. At a time when Muddy
Waters was just beginning to peak as a nationally known enter-
tainer, Walter and the Aces were bringing electric blues into
towns and cities that had never heard anything fike it. The popu-
lar black bands of the period were mostly jump combos, with
piano, string bass, drums, saxophones and brass, and perhaps a
single, understated electric guitar, and Walter's little four-piece
band was playing louder and harder than any of them. In a 1967
interview, Walter and Louis Myers remembered getting into a
battle of the bands with Ivory Joe Hunter's mostly acoustic group
in Dallas. 'The cat [who] was bookin'. Owl Lewds, was bettin' this
other cat that owned the place that our band was gonna beat this
nine-piece band," Myers laughed. "Below come in, nothin' but
the drum. Dave comin' down. Finally I had an amplifier." Walter
mimicked the club owner: "Where the horns at, the bass?" Myers
continued: "He said, 'Where is the band?' And them cats bet us
six hundred dollars, didn't they? And Below held the money.
These cats, man, was heavy. ." Walter: "We stole the show."
. .

Myers: "And man, when we play, they don't want to hear that
twelve-piece band no more." Because they were loud, jazzy, and
jumping, Walter and the Aces got over even in Harlem's Apollo
Theater, where Muddy's more down-home band, with James Cot-
ton on harp, was practically booed off the stage a few years later.
By the mid-fifties Sonny Boy and Elmore James had joined
Walter, Jimmy Rogers, Lockwood, and most of the other Helena
regulars in the North. They'd made their first recordings in Jack-
son, Mississippi, in 1951, almost in spite of themselves. The first

held on January 5, 1951, was Sonny Boy's. Lillian

session,
McMurry, who owned a furniture store and record shop in Jack-
son and had just launched her Trumpet label, knew him from his
many radio broadcasts and had been scouring the Delta looking
for him when she finally located him, in the back room of a Green-
ville juke joint, in December 1950. Sonny Boy brought Willie

Love, Joe Willie Wilkins, Elmore, and "Frock" O'Dell, the drum-
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 213

mer in Elmore's first band, to Jackson with him, and although the
first session yielded nothing McMurry considered worth issuing,
she persevered.
During the next few months, Rice Miller finally recorded for
posterity some harmonica playing and engagingly
of his brilliant
"
original lyrics. His first single, Fynrijririf tn th.^ BlindJj wRg a solid
regional hit, selling well_m_ areas where he had performed or
broadcast. "You're-4alikin' about your woman," he began. "I wish
to God, man, that you could see mine / Every time the little girl
start to loviri*,s1i^brirrg eyesight to the blind." Sonny~Boy blew
flat out in the instrumental chorus, interrupting himself to shout,
"What a woman! What a woman!" "We gotta get out of here!" he
yelled before lunging into the final harp solo. "Let's go! Let's go
now!"
The other Trumpet recordings Sonny Boy made during 1951
ranged from jumping up-tempo numbers wdth Joe Willie Wilkins
on fleet-fingered lead guitar to the astonishing "Mighty Long
Time," an unaccompanied vocal and harmonica showpiece wdth
overdubbed bass singing by Cliff" Bivens. Sonny Boy's singing is so
deeply intimate on "Mighty Long Time," and it segues into and
out of his chordal harp playing so seamlessly, that the two
"voices" seem to become a single instrument. His control of vocal
—
nuance was fully mature he was around fifty-five years old and —
on this performance, as well as on several others from the same
period, he modified the sound of his voice syllable by syllable,
passing from a gritty moan to a pure falsetto, thickening and then
thinning out his textures, ranging from breathy to heavier phras-
and intonation, all in the
ing, playing with subtleties of inflection
course of a single line. His autobiographical lyrics bristled with
sharp, private images at a time when the lyrics on most commer-
cial blues records either repeated traditional formulas or dealt
with male-female relationships in a less specifically personal man-
ner. Scattered among the Trumpet sides are the first recorded
versions of tunes Sonny Boy would later remake for Chess, tunes
that have
—
become blues standards "West Memphis Blues,"
which describes the burning of his West Memphis home in 1949;
"Pontiac Blues," a sexy automotive jump tune that was probably
inspired in part by Lockwood's '39 Pontiac; the vivid "Nine Below
 DEEP BLUES • 214

Zero"; the tall-tale telling of ''She Brought Life Back to the Dead";
and the Robert Johnson-Inspired "Mr. Down Child."

IREJAMES OFTEN VISITED Scott's Radio Service in

Jackson when Sonny Boy was recording. His version of "Dust My
Broom," which retained some of Robert Johnson's lyrics and that
characteristic slide guitar riff but transformed what had been a
brisk country blues into a rocking, heavily amplified shuffle, was
celebrated throughout the Delta by this time, and Lillian
McMurry asked him to record it. He wouldn't, but in October he
was tricked into rehearsing it in the studio v^dth Sonny Boy and
Frock while McMurry surreptitiously ran a tape. She had already
recorded a dark, atmospheric version of "Catfish Blues" by an
otherwise obscure singer named Bo Bo Thomas, so she put out a
record with Elmore's "Broom" on one side and "Catfish" on the
other. To everyone's surprise, "Dust My Broom" entered the na-
tional r&b charts. By April 1952 it was in the r&b Top Ten. Chess
and other independent labels began trying to sign James to a con-
tract, and apparently Joe Bihari of Los Angeles's Modern label re-
corded him clandestinely several times that spring, backed by Ike
Turner's Kings of Rhythm. Sometime wdthin the next few
months, Bihari lured Elmore north to Chicago, where he joined
the local chapter of the American Federation of Musicians on
June 2.
As soon as he arrived in Chicago, Elmore moved into a rooming
house where his uncle and Howlin' Wolf were staying. He soon
made contact with the Jackson-born pianist Johnny Jones, who
had already played with Tampa Red, Muddy, and other estab-
lished artists. The two of them put together a band and began
working at Sylvio's, where they alternated sets v\dth the headlin-
ing group, usually Muddy's or Wolfs. Before long they were one of
the most popular blues combos in Chicago. The combination of
Elmore's slashing slide playing, Jones's two-fisted, rocking piano,
the curious, nanny-goat saxophone sound of Mississippi-born J. T.
Brown, and Odie Payne, Jr.'s crisply propulsive drumming was ir-
resistible, especially when Elmore was singing with his usual
overpowering intensity. Beginning in late 1952, the group re-
 I BELIEVE I'LL DUST MY BROOM • 215

corded for Modern's subsidiary label, Meteor, and "1 Believe," a

"Dust My Broom" sound and a
variant but with a heavier, wilder
much stronger vocal, equaled the success of the earlier record.
Subsequent releases didn't do as well, but James and his Broom-
dusters recorded prolifically, and the basic quartet stayed togeth-
er, with occasional additions such as Eddie Taylor or Homesick

James on second guitar, until 1960. The music didn't change

much during this time, but it didn't really have to. The Broom-
dusters rocked harder than any other Chicago blues band; their
music still sounded contemporary when copied by white rock
groups twenty-five years after "Dust My Broom" was an r&b hit.
Throughout the fifties Elmore suffered from a heart condition,
exacerbated by his drinking, and he returned south a number of
times, sometimes recording while he was there in a Mississippi
juke joint or another makeshift location under the aegis of Mod-
ern's Delta talent scout, Ike Turner. Then he would return to
Chicago, refreshed by his "vacation" down home, and reassemble
his band. From 1960 until he suffered a fatal heart attack on May
24, 1963, Elmore recorded mostly in New York and New Orleans
using a variety of sidemen. His music remained basically un-
changed, and several of his masterpieces, including "The Sky Is
Crying," "Shake Your Moneymaker," "It Hurts Me Too," and the
supremely powerful "Something Inside of Me," date from this pe-
riod. These and Elmore's earlier sides with Johnny Jones, along
viith the best fifties discs by Muddy, Wolf, Sonny Boy, Litde
Walter, Jimmy Rogers, Robert Nighthawk, and perhaps a few
others, constitute the recorded pinnacle of Chicago blues.
Sonny Boy bought a home in Milwaukee and began recording
for the new Chess subsidiary label. Checker, in 1955. His first sin-
gle, "Don't Start Me to Talking" ("Because," he warned, with

perhaps a hint of irony, "I might tell everything know"), with

I

Muddy and Jimmy Rogers on guitars, Otis Spann on piano, and

the Aces' Fred Below on drums, became a Top Ten r&b hit toward
the end of the year, and Sonny Boy, now approaching sixty, sud-
denly found himself on the verge of stardom. By this time Robert
Lockwood had established himself as a valued lead guitarist at
Chess and other Chicago studios. He played on most of Sonny
Boy's subsequent Chess singles and frequently backed Little
Walter as well. For five years, the three most influential musicians
 —

DEEP BLUES • 216

that emerged from the fertile Helena blues scene of the forties
worked together frequently in Chicago. Each was, in his own in-
imitable way, proud, suspicious, and argumentative. Walter con-
tinued to talk his way into fistfights and cutting scrapes regularly,
Sonny Boy was too fractious to stay with any of the r&b package
tours he was booked on for very long, and Robert's contempt for
—
most other blues musicians the few who had some working
—
knowledge of jazz were excepted ^kept him trapped in a side-
man's role. Times were increasingly tough for all three, as well as
for Jimmy Rogers, who was never able to get a band of his own
going on a permanent basis after he left Muddy in 1958, and soon
dropped out of music. In 1960 Sonny Boy convinced Lockwood to
move with him to Cleveland, Ohio, where they worked together
for thirteen months. Then, as usual. Sonny Boy left, but Robert
had bought a house and moved his wife and children in, and he
stayed on, working mostly outside music until his reemergence on
the blues festival and club circuit in the 1970s.
Rock and roll, which Chess helped introduce and popularize by
recording Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, hit the older Delta blues-
—
men hard. A number of them Nighthawk, Sonny Boy, Elmore
went back south and performed there when times were toughest
up north. Others stuck it out. Even Muddy found the going rough,
but he maintained his loyal ghetto audience in Chicago, and grad-
ually he began to realize that there was another audience for his
—
music, a white audience. A "blues revival" was brewdng actually
the discovery by whites of a music that had been under their
noses, shaping the popular music they listened to, for decades. In
order to understand the roots of that revival, which was an inevita-
ble outgrowth of rock and roll, we'll have to backtrack one more
time, back to the early fifties and Memphis, Tennessee.
 CHAPTER 7

Kings of Rhythm
March afternoon highway patrolman
in 1951, a Delta
One I up High-
spotted a flagrantly ov^ri»aded sedan wallowing
'way 61 toward ntefnphi^ Seven black teenagers were
crammed inside, 4lld^^'salng bass, three saxophones, a gui-
tarand amplifier, and a set of drums were partly crammed in with
them and partly lashed to the vehicle's roof. The patrolman pulled
out onto the highway and turned on his siren, and as the sedan
shuddered to an ungainly halt on the shoulder, several pieces of
equipment, including the guitar amp, tumbled off" the roof and
onto the ground.
Eighteen-year-old Ike_Turner, the ringleader of the group, was
a Clarksdale native and something of a personality around town.
He worked as a disc jockey for Clarksdale's WROX, spinning
records by nationally popular black performers, and he played
piano with Delta bluesmen like Robert Nighthawk. His band, the
Kings of Rhythm, was a popular local attraction. The group played
jumping dance music, including versions of the latest r&b hits,
and were popular with some white teenagers as well as with young-
er blacks. The handsome, pencil-moustached Turner was already
a charmer. He explained to the patrolman that he and his band
were on their way to Memphis to make their first record. This was
their big chance! Only a cop with a heart of stone would have de-
nied them their shot at the big time, and before long they were
 DEEP BLUES • 218

back on the road, having tied their gear to the top of the car more
securely.
Ike knew just which way to go once they'd come up out of the
Delta into the hillier country just south of Memphis. He headed
due west toward downtown Memphis, skirted the center of town,
and finally pulled up at 706 Union Avenue, where a small radiator
shop had been meticulously converted into the Memphis
Recording Service — the city's first permanent, professional
recording studio. The man who'd designed the studio and built it
with his own two hands also held down an engineer's job at
WREC Radio and supervised the public address systems for the
Peabody, the most opulent of the downtown hotels. His name was
SaffiLC. EbiJlips, and he was a striking, energetic man of twenty-
eight, with a shock of bright red hair, a pair of piercing blue eyes,
and a gift for oratory worthy of a country preacher. He was glad to
see Turner and his ragged-looking band; he'd built his studio so
that he could record some of the Memphis area's wealth of black
music.
"I thought was vital music," Phillips says today. "I don't
it

know whether had too many people agree with me immediately

1

on that." This is an understatement. Phillips's co-workers at

WREC, who couldn't understand why a white man with a good
job would get involved in a risky venture recording black musi-
cians, would teU him, "You smell O.K. today. Must not've been
recording those niggers." Phillips, who grew up in the country
near Florence, Alabama, didn't let it bother him. "I thought it was
vital," he reiterates, as he is wont to do, "and although my first
love was radio, my second was the freedom we tried to give the
people, black and white, to express their very complex personali-
ties, personalities these people didn't know existed in the fifties. I

just hope I was a part of giving the influence to the people to be

free in their expression." Phillips's interest in black people and
their music wasn't particularly unusual for a white man of his age
and background. What is unusual is that he did something about
it and, in doing so, revolutionized American popular music.

Sam Phillips was born January 5, 1923, and grew up on a small

Alabama farm near a bend in the Tennessee River. As a child, he
worked in the cotton fields, like most of the black and white artists
he later recorded. "I never did see white people singing a lot when
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 219

they were chopping cotton," he says, "but the odd part about it is,
Inever heard a black man that couldn't sing good. Even off-key,
their singing had a spontaneity about it that would grab my ear."
Later he would linger outside black churches to listen to the sing-
ing and preaching and spend hours with Silas Paine, an elderly
black man with an apparently bottomless repertoire of blues and
folk songs. A leadership role in his high school band led him
directly into local radio, and by 1945 he was working in Memphis.
A year later he began engineering live remote broadcasts for a
CBS network hookup. "It was the big-band era," he says, "and it

was a good era. I loved the big bands, but I found myself feeling
that they were letting me down because there was not enough in-
novation there."
Phillips found innovation in the black music he heard around
Memphis. The black theaters on Beale Street put on regular
shows for whites, or roped off a section of the balcony for them,
and it was at one of these shows that Sam first heard B. B. King.
He liked what he heard and was impressed when King landed a
spot on WDIA Radio advertising Pepticon tonic. WDIA had begun
its black programming on October 25, 1948, with a thirty-minute

show hosted by a high school music teacher, Nat D. Wilhams. The

response from the city's black community, and from the thou-
sands of blacks in western Tennessee and the upper Delta who
could pick up the signal, was overwhelming, and in 1949 WDIA
became the first radio station in the United States to adopt an all-
black format. A number of the shows featured recorded music, but
others were live.
Once Phillips had heard B. B. King, he began to realize that
there were scores of talented black musicians in the vicinity of
Memphis, and that there was no place for them to make records.
He rented the premises at 706 Union late in 1949 and put all his
engineering expertise into designing and building a tiny studio
just behind the receptionist's desk, and in January 1950 he
opened for business. He provided acetate discs of speeches, wed-
dings, funerals, and other notable events for a modest fee, sup-
ported his growing family with the pay from his jobs at WREC and
the Peabody, and talked to several local black musicians, among
them B. B. King, about making records. He knew the independent
record companies that had sprung up since the war, companies
 DEEP BLUES • 220

like Chess in Chicago and Modern in Los Angeles, would be re-

ceptive to the music he was recording.
That summer, Saul and Jules Bihari of Modern came to town
and booked Phillips's studio to record B. B. King and another
locally popular entertainer, the Memphis-born boogie pianist
Roscoe Gordon. Sam had made tentative arrangements with both
musicians to produce their recordings, but he didn't get anything
on paper, and he agreed to engineer for the Biharis on the basis of
a handshake. The King sessions featured backup by some of the
city's most gifted young jazz musicians, including trumpeter Wil-
lie Mitchell (later a successful record producer for, among other
artists, Al Green), saxophonist Hank and pianist
Crawrford,
Phineas Newborn. But young Newborn's phenomenally fluent
playing didn't please the Biharis, who wanted a simpler, more
down-home blues sound. They began looking around for a basic,
dependable blues pianist, and wdthin a year they'd found their
man — Ike Turner.
Ike was bornNovember 5, 1932, in Clarksdale. He was a town
kid, not a country boy, and his first exposure to the blues came
over the radio via King Biscuit Time. Sonny Boy Williamson was
wailing away, but Ike's attention was captured by the clean, pol-
ished boogie-woogie played by the show's featured pianist, Pinetop
Perkins. A few years later Ike found himself at a dance near
Moorehead, where the Southern crosses the Dog. Sonny Boy was
playing, and the pianist was Pinetop, who took a liking to the pre-
cocious Turner and off'ered to give him lessons.
The piano-dominated jump blues of the mid-forties was blasting
out of jukeboxes throughout the black sections of Clarksdale, and
Ike supplemented his lessons with Pinetop by imitating the latest
hits. Before long he felt confident enough to put together a big
band with some of his school chums. The Tophatters included up
to eighteen musicians, but soon most of them left to play jazz, and
a smaller group, with three saxes, guitar, bass, drums, and Ike's
piano, reorganized as the Kings of Rhythm. At the same time,
around 1947 or 1948, the sixteen-year-old Ike began doing his
own disc jockey program over WROX. This gave him access to the
latest jump blues records by Louis Jordan, Amos Milburn, Charles
Brown, Joe Liggins, and other popular r&b artists. Like B. B. King
(whom he befriended when King was passing through Clarksdale
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 221

with only four strings on his guitar, headed for Memphis) Ike lis-
,

tened carefully to the records he played. At the same time, he

worked a few local gigs with musicians like Robert Nighthawk
and Sonny Boy Williamson and visited Helena, where he heard
and probably picked up a few pointers from Robert Lockwood.
Ike's closest friend in the Kings of Rhythm was Jackie Bren-
ston, the baritone saxophonist and occasional vocalist, who lived
across the street from him in Clarksdale. Some of the other musi-
cians were from out in the country. The guitarist Willie Kizart
grew up around Tutwiler and Glendora. His father, Lee Kizart,
was a well-regarded local blues and boogie pianist, and from his
earliest years Willie had been exposed to the Delta's finest blues
guitarists, who would work at his father's cafe in Glendora or
come by the house to pick and drink. In particular, Willie had
learned a great deal from Earl Hooker, a fluent, sophisticated
young slide and single-string lead guitarist whose principal
teacher was Robert Nighthawk. Raymond Hill, the Kings' ebul-
lient tenor saxophone soloist, had learned to negotiate chord
progressions by getting the patient Houston Stackhouse to strum
the chords and then finding the corresponding notes on his horn.
All these musicians could play the natural blues in a manner even
the most scrupulous of the older Delta bluesmen found accept-
able,but when they were among themselves, they would some-
times laugh about the way the older musicians mangled chords
and broke time. Their idols were Louis Jordan and the other na-
tionally known jump combo leaders of the period. InthiSr they
were new generation of young Delta musicians the
typical of a —
firstgeneration to break away from the oral tradition that had sus-
tained Belta blues and left it relatively unchanged for decades, the
first todraw their inspiration primarily from radio and records.
They were cocky and sure of themselves, with their shiny in-
struments and their encyclopedic knowledge of the latest jump
blues sounds from Texas and California and New York. They were
also, thanks to Ike Turner's organizational abilities and somewhat
militaristic tendencies, very well rehearsed. "Ike had the best-pre-
pared band that ever came in and asked me to work with them,"
says Sam Phillips. "They had a hell of a good band sound. And Ike!
What a piano player he was! People don't know that Ike Turner
was the first stand-up piano player. Man, he could tear a piano
 DEEP BLUES • 222

apart and put it back together again on the same song. But I could
not hear Ike as a solo vocalist. Now I dealt with these people hon-
estly. 1 you've got a good band. It's got a feel, but
said, 'Well, Ike,
we've got have a vocalist.' He said, 'Oh, yeah, man, me and
to
Jackie.' Even then he had a lot of confidence in his ability, and
he's one of the great musicians of our time. Anyway, he put Jackie
up there to sing, and I heard this 'Rocket 88.' And man! They had
a little guy that played sax with them, Raymond Hill. He wasn't
over sixteen, but you think he couldn't blow the reed out of the
barrel of that damn horn? He could flat do it."
Everyone was excited and ready to record "Rocket 88," but
there was a problem. Willie Kizart's guitar amp had been damaged
when it fell off the top of the car and was emitting static and fuzz.
"When it fell," Sam explains, "that burst the speaker cone. We
had no way of getting it fixed. I guess we probably could have
hustled around some way, but it would have taken a couple of
days, so we started playing around with the damn thing. I stuff'ed
a little paper in there where the speaker cone was ruptured, and it
sounded good. It sounded like a saxophone. And we decided to go
ahead and record. Because the thing is, I didn't want to get these
people in some stupid-assed studio and lead them astray from
what they had been used to doing. To put it another way, I didn't
try to take them uptown and dress them up. If they had broken-
down equipment or their instruments were ragged, I didn't want
them to feel ashamed. I wanted them to go ahead and play the way
they were used to playing. Because the expression was the thing. I
never hstened to the sound of one instrument. I listened for the
eff'ect, the total eff'ect."

So, with Kizart playing a boogie bass figure and sounding for all
the world hke an electric bass with fuzz-tone (neither the electric
bass nor the fuzz-tone had been invented yet), the Kings of
Rhythm and Sam Phillips recorded "Rocket 88." It was a rocking
automobile blues, squarely in the tradition of Robert John-
little

son's "Terraplane Blues." "Step in my rocket and don't be late,"

Brenston off'ered. "Baby, we're puUin' out about half past eight /
Goin' round the corner and get a fifth, everybody in my car's
gonna take a little nip / Movin' on out. ." Raymond Hill blew a
. .

tough, screaming tenor solo, Ike pumped the piano hard against
the back beat, and the string bass and Kizart's loudly distorted
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 223

guitar doubled the irresistible bass line, a trick Ike may have
learned from Ustening to the rhythm and blues records that were
coming out of New Orleans, if he didn't think it up himself. The
record fairly sizzled, and Sam sent it Chess brothers in Chi-
to the
cago. The Biharis hadn't paid him use of his studio and
for the
had, he felt, snatched B. B. King and Roscoe Gordon from under
his nose.
Leonard Chess had made several field trips looking for South-
ern blues talent, passed through Memphis, and asked Sam to send
masters for possible release. When he received "Rocket 88," he
was ecstatic. Chess rushed the record out, and by the beginning of
May it was on the national rhythm and blues charts. It eventually
hitNumber One, remained on the charts for seventeen weeks,
and emerged as one of the biggest r&b and the
hits of the year,
onlyNumber One recorded Chess was scoring with
in the South.
Muddy Waters' "Louisiana Blues" and "Long Distance Call" in
1951 but neither of these records came close to equaling the sales
,

of "Rocket 88."
A nunihfiP-©f 'people, including Sam Phillips, have called
"Rocket 88" the first rock and roll record. In 1951 there wasn't
any such thing as rock and roU, of course, but "rocking and roll-
ing" was a phrase everyone who listened to r&b records under-
stood. It was a euphemism for having sex. Another of 1951*8
Number One r&b hits was "Sixty Minute Man," recorded by a
New York vocal group, the Dominos. "Looka here, girls, I'm tellin'
you now, they call me lovin' Dan / I rock 'em and roll 'em all night
long, I'm a sixty minute man," sang the lead vocalist, bass man
Bill Brown. But musically the record wasn't rock and roll. It had a

light, bouncy, jazz-related groove, and the only electric instru-

ment was a trebly, discreetly amplified guitar. "Rocket 88," with
its furious drive, heavily amplified guitar, and screaming saxo-

phone solo, rocked out.

Delta bluesmen had been rocking for years —
the term was un-
derstood there musicaUy as well as sexually at least as early as the
thirties. There was nothing particularly startling about the way
"Rocket 88" moved, and in fact several boogieing West Coast r&b
artists, especially Amos Milburn, had made records that rocked
just as hard even if they weren't as electric, ^ut a massive shift
was taking place in the hstening habits of young>hUe-Americans,
 DEEP BLUES • 224

and the shift was felt very early in and around Memphis. Whites in
the area had been hiring black entertainers for their school
dances, country club parties, plantation cookouts, and other festiv-
ities for decades, and by the beginning of the fifties, most of the
jukeboxes in recreation parlors, soda fountains, swimming pool
club rooms, and other spots frequented by white teenagers were
stocked almost exclusively with records by black artists. Country
and western music was for countrified, lower-class kids. The teen-
agers who considered themselves sophisticates danced and drank
and necked to a soundtrack of "nigger music." Sam Phillips re-
imembers that at the time "distributors, jukebox operators, and re-
tailers knew that white teenagers were picking up on the feel of
the black music. These people liked the plays and the sales they
were getting, but they were concerned: 'We're afraid our children
might fall in love with black people.' " Even then, Phillips was
looking for an entertainer who could bridge the gap a white —
singer with a natural "feel" for black rhythms and inflections. In
1954 he would find Elvis Presley.
Even as early as 1951 the change was in the air, and not just in
,

the south. In the spring of 1951, when "Rocket 88" was scaling
the r&b charts, a white disc jockey who also led a jazz- and
cowboy-influenced country band decided to add the number to his
repertoire. His name was Bill Haley, and he was broadcasting over
WPWA in Chester, PennsylvaniaTHis band, the Saddlemen, were
recording for a Philadelphia label. Holiday, and they soon cut their
own disc of "Rocket 88" for the country market. This was Haley's
first "cover" recording of a rhythm and blues hit. In 1954 his
cover of Joe Turner's "Shake, Rattle and Roll" would cUmb to the
top of the nation's pop charts, creating a climate in. which" Elvis
Presley and Qhuck Berry could explode into overnight successes.
But Haley's unsuccessful recording of "Rocket 88" wasn't the
most significant event of 1951 as far as the emergence of rock and
roll was concerned. In Ju«e,-Alan Freed launched a radio show

called "Tiie_Moon Dog House Rock 'n' Roll Party" over Cleveland,
Ohio's WJW. On it, he played r&b records for both white and
black listeners. He wasn't the first disc jockey to do so, but he
would soon become the most successful. And he was the first disc
jockey to. start calling r&b "rock and roll." In mid- 1951, with the
help of Freed and other hke-minded disc jockeys, the Dominos'
 —

KINGS OF RHYTHM • 225

"Sixty Minute Man" became the first r&b hit to cross over to the
national pop charts in a big way Billboard listed it for twenty-
three weeks on the same chart and dance
as the white crooners
bands who then dominated American popular music.
Rock and roll was inevitable, but Sam Phillips understood that
it needed a charismatic white performer to really get it across, and

it's difficult to imagine the music catching on the way it did in

1955 without Phillips and Elvis Presley. By that time, Sam's blues
recordings had largely become a thing of the past, but from 1950
to 1954, Phillips and Ike Turner recorded the most outstanding
blues performers to be found in Memphis and the Delta.

'THE MISSISSIPPI DELTA," David L. Cohn has written,

"begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis." Tommy
Johnson, Willie Brown, and other Delta originals made their early
recordings in the Peabody, while planters from the Delta social-
ized in its spacious salons and dining rooms and the hotel's cele-
brated ducks swam lazily in the fountain that graced its immense
lobby. But Memphis hadn't always been so opulent. It was
founded in 1819, when Helena, Arkansas, was already a busy river
port and New Orleans boasted its own opera company and resi-
dent orchestra. At first, the inhabitants were limited in their mu-
sical tastes. They sang lustily and enjoyed dancing to the banjo
and fiddle. Some of the banjoists and fiddlers were undoubtedly
slave musicians, and Memphis's early music seems to have been
heavily black-influenced no matter who was playing it. In 1838,
when the Norwegian concert violinist Ole Bull became the first
classical musician to perform in Memphis, the locals received him
coolly. "If he had only struck up 'Lucy Neal' or 'Buffalo Gals,' and
played a nigger fiddle," a budding local critic complained, "the
Norwegian would have captured our amateurs."
. . .

By the 1850s, cotton and timber had made Memphis a thriving

commercial center. The most popular entertainments were min-
strel shows, which often arrived by Mississippi River steamer and
featured white imitations of black dialect and plantation music.
But now Memphians seemed to crave music of all sorts. In 1851
Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale, drew a thousand people to
 DEEP BLUES • 226

her first Memphis concert —an eighth of the town's total popula-
tion.Tickets were scalped at up to thirty dollars each. Ballroom
dancing was popular among well-to-do Memphis whites, many of
whom profited from extensive land holdings in rural Mississippi
and Arkansas. The music was provided by local orchestras, some
of them black. In 1858 the luxurious, newly renovated Gayoso
Hotel staged a gala reopening and introduced its black ballroom
orchestra. Since this was the most popular spot in town for mon-
ied whites, one assumes the musicians played waltzes, quadrilles,
and other dance music in something approximating the European
manner. But perhaps they played some hotter music as well.
Apparently white Memphians were willing to spend their
money dancing to black orchestras but not on badly needed civic
improvements. The town's sketchy sewage system was a disgrace
and seems to have been at least partly responsible for the disas-
trous yellow fever epidemic of 1878-79, which sent most of the
population fleeing into the countryside. The dislocation follovvdng
this pestilence was so wrenching that Memphis went bankrupt,
and the state of Tennessee revoked its town charter. But the
Southern economic recovery that came wdth Reconstruction
eventually brought better times. The planters who'd managed to
hold on to their Delta cotton land had to have some place to spend
their money, and by the mid- 1880s Memphis was once again in
full swing. Musical diversions included brass bands, vaudeville
and burlesque entertainments, Mozart and Mendelssohn socie-
ties, Wagner and Beethoven clubs, visiting opera companies, and

a small local orchestra. An opera house was built in 1889 at the

corner of Main and Beale Streets, an area then fashionable and
white. During the 1890s the Lincoln and other early black the-
aters opened on or near Beale, which, in its downtown blocks, was
turning into a regional center of fashionable black night life.

When W. C. Handy and dance band from Clarksdale

his black
settled in Memphis, around 1909, they chose Pee Wee's Saloon on
Beale as their headquarters. Pee Wee's was a twenty-four-hour
musicians' hangout where whites or blacks in a partying mood
could call, strike a bargain, and hire a band on the spot. The tav-
ern's regular patrons were entertained by a succession of versatile
pianists who tended to favor the blues, but Handy and most of the
other players who spent idle hours there were not bluesmen as the
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 227

term would have been understood in the Delta. They were trained
reading musicians who could play anything from the "Poet and
Peasant Overture" to "Turkey in the Straw." Up and down Beale
Street, the nightlife was as ghttering and urbane as the theater
owners and entertainers could make it. The Palace, the street's
most popular vaudeville house in the early twentieth century,
boasted an accomphshed pit band that could sight-read the ar-
rangements brought in by visiting singers and comedy acts or im-
provise hot jazz7-as-r^<^uired^When_Wjaes was heard at the Palace
and neighhori nf^ theate rs^^t was the jazz-accompanied blues of
vaudeville entertainers like M^Tlainey ^d^esge:JSmi!}r, both of
who m w ere Dcale Streetfavgrites. Handy did hear plenty of down-
home blues in Memphis, and strains of it found their way into
many of his compositions. But hr h(^nrd thin rmishrr^J[iinktnr^
muac-JnJjack-stree^ ^agibling dens, pooWial]§,_and^ cafes. On
^al e Stree^itselL-Coiintfy-blues^ was decidedly unwelcomep
During the twenties and thirties Memphis turned out a number
of polished, successful jazz musicians, including the clarinetist
Buster Bailey and the swing band leader Jimmie Lunceford. Local
—
bluesmen with country roots organized various jug bands ^infor-
mal groups that played a mixture of blues, ragtime, minstrel
tunes, and pop music and usually featured several stringed in-
struments and a jug blower instead of a bassist. But Memphis de-
veloped no single, identifiable blues idiom of its own. The city's
—
blues fans mostly hardworking, undereducated blacks with
rural backgrounds — ^listened to blues musicians like Sleepy John
Estes and the members of Gus Cannon's various jug bands, who
came from western Tennessee and played lilting string band
music while singing in a liquid, crying style. Or they danced and
partied to the strong, declamatory singing and thumping rhythms
of two-guitar teams from the north Mississippi hill country, the
most famous of which consisted of Frank Stokes and Dan Sane,
the Beale Street Sheiks. Barrelhouse pianists, many of them
Delta-bred, passed through town as well. But despite occasional
visits by the hkes of Charley Patton and Robert Johnson, deep

Delta blues doesn't seem to have gained much of a foothold in

Memphis until the late thirties and the forties, when improved
highways and the lure of wartime jobs brought Delta blacks into
the city in great numbers.
 DEEP BLUES • 228

WD I A occasionally gave time to Delta performers like Rice

Miller after it switched to its all-black format in 1949. One of the
station's most popular regulars was Joe Hill Louis, "the Be Bop
Boy," who was born near Memphis but learned to play raw, driv-
ing blues in West Memphis and the upper Delta during the thir-
ties and forties. With the coming of amphfication, Louis became a
one-man band, playing rocking boogies on electric guitar, blowing
wild solos on the harmonica he wore in a neck rack, and operating
a small drum set with his feet. Sam Phillips and his friend Dewey
Phillips (no relation) , a white Memphis disc jockey who played
black records on his show, decided to try their hand at launching a
local label in 1950, and the man they chose to record was Louis.
His "Boogie in the Park" featured roaring, distorted electric guitar
and an irresistible boogie beat, but it wasn't much of a success,
not even locally, and was both the first and the last release on the
Phillips label.
The rest of the WDIA regulars more urbane brand of
offered a
music, including B. B. King, who was born between
Itta Bena and
Indianola, Mississippi, on September 16, 1925, and was raised in a
typical Delta environment. King's grandfather was a bottleneck
guitarist, and both his parents sang. But before he had a chance to
learn much about the blues, his precocious singing talent led him
into a succession of young gospel quartets and featured spots with
church choirs. By the time he began teaching himself guitar in
the early forties, he was already a gospel-style singer, and an avid
radio and jukebox listener who was more impressed by the styl-
ings of T-Bone Walker and other modern lead guitarists than he
was by local Delta musicians. Robert Lockwood helped him
straighten out his time and his chording in West Memphis in the
late forties, and of course Robert encouraged his predilection for a
jazzy single-string lead style. In time, ^B. absorbed somejazzjn-
fl uences from the recordin gs of Charlie Christian and the FrenclT

gypsy guitarist Django ReinKard t. He ne-vei'~reaQy_j:e|ected his

Delta roots, which are evident in his singing and playing today,
especially in his fine ear for pitch shadings and subtle vocal and
instrumental inflections. But he was a young man, still in his early
twenties, when he first arrived in Memphis in 1946, and he knew
he didn't want to spend the rest of his life plowing mules, chop-
ping cotton, and singing for whiskey in Delta juke joints. He made
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 229

ita point to learn and perform the latest r&b hits, and when he hit
Memphis, one of the first things he did was to enter the weekly
amateur contest at Beale Street's Palace Theater.
Rufus Thomas, a singer, dancer, comedian, and future WDIA
air personality, was master of ceremonies at the Palace Theater
amateur nights when B. B. first began competing. The audience
—
was ruthless ^inferior or uncertain performers would be pelted
—
with flying objects and booed off" the stage but there was more
involved than getting experience and competing; there were
prizes of up to five dollars for the night's winner. Even second or
third prize would buy a man several square meals. So B. B. en-
tered practically every week, working as a stand-up singer and
doing mostly ballads and novelty numbers. "At that time," Rufus
Thomas recalls, "the bigger and better black clubs in Memphis
had a big band and a floor show. We had people like Duke Elling-
ton and Count Basic coming through with their bands and playing
in some of the theaters. The blues, with harmonica and guitar and
so on, that was in the juke joints. Now I was born in the country,
but I never lived there. 1 was raised in town. A person like me
might want to go out and dig some blues occasionally. People from
the so-called best of families did that from time to time. It was just
a part of hving. But that would be what they call slumming. When
you (iecidied-y(yir'waKtedHe--go-«kt«^^ when you went
out tO'dTg-seme.blues."
Occasionally B. B. would take his guitar down to Handy Park
and play That was where the country bluesmen tended to
for tips.
congregate when they came to town and where members of the
old Memphis Jug Band could still be found on balmy evenings and
weekend afternoons. But mostly B. B. hung out with the sophisti-
cated younger crowd that listened to the big bands and frequented
the larger clubs. There and at the Palace Theater amateur nights
he began to meet other young musicians who were similarly anx-
ious to break into the big time. Among them were Bobby "Blue"
Bland, a gospel-rooted singer from Rosemark, Tennessee, near
Memphis, who was five years B. B.'s junior; John Alexander, who
was born and grew up in Memphis, sang sentimental ballads in a
wistful, crooning style, and achieved fame as Johnny Ace before
ending his life in a game of Russian roulette at the end of 1954;
Herman "Little Junior" Parker, a teenage harmonica player
 DEEP BLUES • 230

who'd learned from Rice Miller in West Memphis and worked

with Howlin' Wolf but had his sights set on a career as a citified
stand-up blues and ballad singer; and the West Memphis-born pi-
anist Roscoe Gordon, whose blues shuffles had a rolling, almost
Caribbean lilt.
People began calling these and associated musicians like drum-
mer Earl Forest and saxophonist Billy Duncan "the Beale
Streeters" because of their taste for the high life of black Mem-
phis 's main thoroughfare. B. B. often played gigs with backing by
Forest, Duncan, and Johnny Ace on piano, but it's typical of his as-
sociations and ambition that when he became the first of the Beale
Streeters to record, for the Nashville-based Bullet label in 1949,
his accompaniment was arranged by Tuff Green, a bassist and
leader of one of the city's finest big bands.
In 1951 B.B. recorded "Three O'clock Blues," which was
Number One on the national r&b charts before the end of the year
and launched the most successful show business career in blues
history. Nothing about the record sounded particularly like the
Delta or Memphis. B. B.'s lead guitar betrayed strong T-bone
Walker influences, though his tone was bigger and rounder and
his phrasing was somewhat heavier. His sin ging made ex tensive
Isma^bending and a stretching a single syllable into a
convol^l£d.^eio3ic;;pto technique. Such singing
was being popularized by the New Orleans-based r&b star Roy
Brown, who'd scored an r&b hit in 1947 with "Good Rocking To-
night," and at this early stage B. B. sounded very much like
Brown. But during the next few years, as he consolidated his na-
tionwide appeal with a string of Memphis-recorded r&b hits,
King's delivery grew more polished and original — the vocals soul-
ful and pleading, the guitar cutting through with a clean, punchy
attack. T-Bone Walker's lead playing began to sound rambling and
discursive by comparison, and B. B. became a black matinee idol.
The younger singers who still competed for prizes at Palace The-
ater amateur nights, among them future blues stars Bobby "Blue"
Bland and Fenton Robinson, now attempted to win over the crowd
with renditions of B. B.'s latest hits. King himself was out on the
road, working a succession of one-night stands. He's been on the
road ever since.
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 231

THE NEXT NATIONAL BLUES STAR to emerge from the Mem-

phis milieu couldn't have been more unlike B. B. King and the hip
young Beale Streeters. He w ag^ChestejuBurn Gt4rihallxjwtar^Wo^
who had been Charley_^attQii!s- student on Dockery's in 1^29,
Robert Johnson '«aiid-^ice Miller's road partner in the mid-thir-
ties, ajeacher to younger musicians like Johnny Shines and Floyd

Jones, andrHH>stly^ a farmer unSTK^xame tQ_ We§t Memphis ln~

1948. Wolf was born in June 1910, five years before Muddy Wa-
ters, Robert Lockwood, Johnny Shines, and Honeyboy Edwards,

so it isn't surprising that he remained a traditionalist. When he ,

settled^ in West Memphis and decided to try a full-time career in

music at the age of thirty-eight, he was still playing Charley Patton
and Tommy Johnson numbers and hypnotic one-chord drone
pieces like "Smokestack Lightnin'." But he'd bought an electric
guitar and hstened with interest to his old friend Rice Miller's
broadcasting band. He decided that what he needed was a group
of his own and a radio show to help spread his reputation.
The band came first. Wolf told interviewer Peter Welding that
the original group included Willie Johnson and M. T. "Matt"
Murphy on guitars, the teenaged Junior Parker on harmonica. De-
struction on piano, and drummer Willie Steel. The personnel
shifted somewhat, but between 1948 and 1950 Wolf molded his
musicians into the most awesome electric blues band the Delta
had seen. Muddy, Jimmy Rogers, and Little Walter were shaping
their definitive ensemble sound during these years, and, as an-
other amplified group playing updated versions of traditional Delta
blues. Wolfs band, one would think, should have been compara-
ble. it was both more primitive and more modern than
In fact,
Muddy's group, for while Wolf was moaning and screaming like
Charley Patton and Son House and blowing unreconstructed
country blues harmonica, his band featured heavily amphfied sin-
gle-string lead guitar by Willie Johnson and Destruction's rip-
pling, jazz-influenced piano. The result was an unhkely but
exceptionally powerful blend, and it perfectly mirrored the dia-
logue between tradition and innOvaRon fhart; was b to
transform the Delta's music. Wolf and his group could sound ex-
ceptionally down-home, especially when they were performing
"Pony Blues" and other Patton numbers, and they could swing.
 DEEP BLUES • 232

jump-blues fashion. But most of the time, Wolf strutted and

howled, Willie Steel bashed relentlessly, and Willie Johnson, his
amp turned up until his tone cracked, distorted, and fed back, hit
violent power chords right on the beat. Wolfs band rocked.
"^ Even before they began broadcasting over KWEM, Wolf and his
cohorts were a popular attraction around Arkansas and Missis-
sippi. The group was incomparable, but the real attraction was
Wolf, a showman of the Patton school who had made up as many
tricks as he'd learned and would do almost anything to drive an
audience into a frenzy. Eddie Shaw, a saxophonist from Greenville
who left the Delta with the Muddy Waters band in 1957 and
joined Wolf the following year, states flatly, "Muddy never had the
energy Wolf had, not even at his peak. Muddy would rock the
house pretty good, but Wolf was the most exciting blues player
I've ever seen." These are the words of a Wolf loyalist; during the
fifties Muddy was a powerful performer indeed. He would dart

around the stage, chanting a key phrase over and over, his face
bathed in sweat, eyes rolling back in his head, while his band
riff'ed one chord and the audience swayed as if in a trance. But no

matter how hard he worked. Muddy simply would not go to the

lengths Wolf habitually went to. Muddy was superstud, the Hoo-
chie Coochie Man; Wolf was a feral beast.
In later years, and especially after he began working mostly for
white audiences. Wolf would take it easy. A little of the old ferocity
was enough to ignite the most jaded college crowd. But I'll never
forget a 1965 performance when Wolf played Memphis on a blues
package show. This was several years before the blues revival
made much headway among local whites, and there were only
three or four of us, huddled right up front in the theater's most
expensive seats. Wolf was halfway down the bill, which also in-
cluded Big Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, and headliners Jimmy
Reed and Little Milton. This sounds like an impossible dream
show now, but younger blacks were deserting blues in favor of
soul, even in the Deep South, and most of the stars on the bill
were probably glad to be doing short theater sets instead of gruel-
ing club dates.
The MC announced Wolf, and the curtains opened to reveal his
band pumping out a decidedly down-home shuffle. The rest of the
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 233

bands on the show were playing jump and soul-influenced blues,

but this was the hard stuff". Where was Wolf? Suddenly he sprang
out onto the stage from the wings. He was a huge hulk of a man,
but he advanced across the stage in sudden bursts of speed, his
head pivoting from side to side, eyes huge and white, eyeballs ro-
tating v^dldly. He seemed to be having an epileptic seizure, but no,
he suddenly lunged for the microphone, blew a chorus of raw,
heavily rhythmic harmonica, and began moaning. He had the hug-
est voice I have ever heard— seemed to fill the hall and get right
^it

inside your ears, and when he hummed and moaned in falsetto,

every hair on your neck crackled with electricity. The thirty-min-
ute set went by like an express train, with Wolf switching from
harp to guitar (which he played while rolling around on his back
and, at one point, doing somersaults) and then leaping up to
prowl the Up of the stage. He was The Mighty Wolf, no doubt
about it. Finally, an impatient signal from the wings let him know
that his portion of the show was over. Defiantly, Wolf counted off a
bone-crushing rocker, began singing rhythmically, feigned an
exit, and suddenly made a flying leap for the curtain at the side of
the stage. Holding the microphone under his beefy right arm and
singing into it all the while, he began climbing up the curtain,
going higher and higher until he was perched far above the stage,
the thick curtain threatening to rip, the audience screaming with
delight. Then he loosened his grip and, in a single easy motion,
slid right back down the curtain, hit the stage, cut off the tune,
and stalked away, to the most ecstatic cheers of the evening. He
was then fifty-five years old.
"A disc jockey from West Memphis told me about Chester Bur-
nett's show on KWEM," says Sam Phillips, "and I tuned him in.
When I heard Howlin' Wolf, I said, 'This is for me. This is where
the soul of man never dies.' Then Wolf came over to the studio,
and he was about six foot six, with the biggest feet I've ever seen
on a human being. Big Foot Chester is one name they used to call
him. He would sit there with those feet planted wide apart, playing
nothing but the French harp, and, I tell you, the greatest show
you could see to this day would be Chester Burnett doing one of
those sessions in my studio. God, what it would be worth on film to
see the fervor in that man's face when he sang. His eyes would
 DEEP BLUES • 234

light up, you'd see the veins come out on his neck, and, buddy,
there was nothing on his mind but that song. He sang with his
damn soul."
Wolf first recorded for Phillips toward the end of 1950, and in

January 1951 Chess released a single, "Moaning at Midnight,"

with "How Many More Years" on the flip. The music was aston-
ishing, and PhiEips never did a better job of capturing a mood.
"Midnight" began with Wolf alone, moaning his unearthly moan.
Willie Johnson's overampUfied guitar and Willie Steel's drums
came crashing in together and then Wolf switched to harp, get-
ting a massive, brutish sound and pushing the rhythm hard.
"How Many More Years" featured Willie Johnson more promin-
ently, and his thunderous power chords were surely the most elec-
tric guitar sound that had been heard on records. Wolfs rasping
voice sounded strong enough to shear steel; this music was heavy
metal, years before the term was coined. The record shot into the
r&b Top Ten.
Chess and the Bihari brothers' Modem label were stiQ compet-
ing for Sam PhiUips's services, with Ike Turner beginning to work
independently as a Modern talent scout and A&R man. During
1951 and most of 1952 Wolf recorded several lengthy sessions.
Some songs were cut at Sam Phillips's studio and sent to Chess,
some were recorded there and ended up wdth Modern, and some
were recorded by Ike Turner under makeshift conditions, proba-
bly at KWEM in West Memphis. Modem's RPM subsidiary com-
peted with Chess's "Moaning at Midnight" by releasing a similar
version, transparently retitled "Morning at Midnight." The two
companies were also wooing Roscoe Gordon, whose jump blues
"Booted" was issued by both companies and went to Number One
on the national r&b charts in the spring of 1952.
Wolf enjoyed the sudden celebrity. He would do a session for
Phillips, pocket the cash, and be ready to do another session for
Ike Turner, if the price was right. Chess and Modern threatened
legal action. But the end result of all this wrangling is that today
we have an extensive recorded portrait of the music of Wolfs
Delta band. No single performance quite matches the raw power
of "Moaning at Midnight" /"How Many More Years," but there
are plenty of highlights. "Riding in the Moonlight," the flip side of
RPM's "Morning at Midnight," is an awesome indication of the
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 235

band's force and drive. "Crying at Daybreak" was Wolfs first and,
in many ways, his best recording of the brooding theme he later
cut for Chess as "Smokestack Lightnin'," and, on "House Rock-
ers," Wolf gabbed and shouted while the band rocked harder than
till it smoke.
ever: "Play that guitar, Willie Johnson, Blow your . . .

top,blow your top, blow your TOP! Good evenin', kids, the
. . .

Wolf is in your town. ... I knQw you want to see me. . . .

ARRRRGHHHHH! [a bloodcurdling roar] . . . That's so

sweet. ..."
Wolfs Memphis recordings, and the equally raw sides he made
for Chess after he moved to Chicago at the end of 1952, seldom
made it onto Billboard's national r&b charts. After "Moaning at
Midnight" /"How Many More Years" in 1951, Wolf had to wait
until 1956 to score another national hit, wdth "Smokestack Light-
nin'." But these records found their way into a surprising number
of white record collections, especially the collections of young rock
and roll guitarists. The first white rocker to reflect the impact of
Wolfs music was a Memphis guitarist named Paul BurUson. Dur-
ing 1952, Paul, the brothers Johnny and Dorsey Bumette, and
Elvis Presley were all working for the Crown Electric Company in
Memphis. Elvis harbored musical ambitions but performed mostly
in his bedroom at home; the Burnettes and Burlison were playing
country music semiprofessionally in a Hank Williams-derived
style. But Burlison, a tireless experimenter, began visiting KWEM
in West Memphis, which broadcast country as well as blues
shows, and on several occasions he performed on the air with
Wolfs band. The edge this experience brought to his playing be-
came evident early in 1956, when Presley was enjoying his first
nationwide smash after switching from Sam Phillips's Sun label to
RCA Victor and Burlison began recording wdth the Burnette
brothers as the Rock and Roll Trio. The most distinctive feature of
the Trio's records, which included the classic "The Train Kept A-
Rollin'," was Burlison's fuzzed-out, distorted lead guitar playing.
There had been nothing like it in white popular music, and al-
though Burhson claims to have discovered the sound when he
accidentally knocked a tube loose in his amphfier, it strikingly re-
sembles the sound Willie Johnson got on Wolfs early records.
In England, a group of young rockers called Johnny Kidd and
the Pirates began picking up discs by the Rock and Roll Trio, who
 DEEP BLUES • 236

never enjoyed a substantial U.S. and were mesmerized. Dur-

hit,

ing the late fifties and early sixties, when EngUsh

rock and roll
was generally a pale imitation of American originals, the Pirates
were rocking for all they were worth. Their guitarist, Mick Green,
developed a style that was modeled almost entirely on Burlison's
and combined lead and rhythm functions. He soon became the
idol of a younger generation of English guitarists, among them
Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page, and Pete Townshend. Some
of these musicians later picked up on Green's idols; the Yardbirds,
"
with Clapton and later Beck, made "The Train Kept A-RoUin'
their concert showstopper.
Meanwhile, young white guitarists all over America were care-
fully studying Wolfs records, and especially Willie Johnson's
work. One was Robbie Robertson, who joined Ronnie Hawkins
and the Hawks in the early sixties and can be heard playing what
amounts to a Willie Johnson homage when he solos on Hawkins's
1963 rave-up "Who Do You Love." Roy Buchanan, who played
lead for Dale Hawkins and other white rock singers beginning in
the late fifties, was heavily influenced both by Wolfs records and
by Elmore James, the other really electric Delta guitarist of the fif-
ties. Robertson and Buchanan went on to become two of the most

influential and respected American rock guitarists of the sixties

and seventies, Robertson with The Band and Buchanan as a leg-
endary bar-band recluse and, later, a solo recording artist.
When Wolf settled in Chicago near the end of 1952, his reputa-
tion had preceded him, and he soon found work in the same South
and West Side clubs that featured Muddy Waters. He continued
to howl the deep blues, and his backing groups continued to com-
bine traditional blues playing with contemporary jump, jazz, and
r&b styles. In 1955 Muddy brought Chuck Berry to the attention
of the Chess brothers, thereby almost cutting his own throat, for
with Berry and Elvis Presley at its forefront, rock and roU arrived
in 1955, bringing with it harder times for bluesmen. Wolf main-
tained his popularity, though, and throughout the late fifties,
when Muddy's records seemed to be settling into formula (with a
few notable exceptions) Wolf made some of the finest sides of his
,

career. "Smokestack Lightnin' " and the Tommy Johnson-

derived "1 Asked for Water" came in 1956, the old Mississippi
Sheiks hit "Sitting on Top of the World" became an r&b hit for
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 237

Wolf in 1957, and then in 1960-61 he really hit his stride with a
succession of tough, pounding classics, many of them written by
—
WiUie Dixon "Wang Dang Doodle," "Back Door Man," "Spoon-
ful," "The Red Rooster," "I Ain't Superstitious," "Goin' Down
Slow." Most of these numbers found their way into the repertoires
of the early English "r&b" groups — the Yardbirds, the Rolling
Stones, the Animals. When the Stones
first toured America, they

were asked appear on a nationally syndicated television pop

to
show called "Shindig." Only, they said, if they could bring Howl-
in' Wolf in to do a guest spot. Howlin' Who? Few American teen-

agers had heard of the man, but there he was one night in prime
time, moving his great bulk around the "Shindig" stage v^rith un-
believable agility and screaming the blues for the millions.

WOLF'S DEPARTURE FOR THE NORTH was a blow to Sam

Phillips, who says he "would have loved to have recorded that man
he died." But there was plenty of blues talent in and
until the day
around Memphis. Between 1950 and 1954, Phillips made dozens
of great blues records, some for Chess, some for his own Sun label,
and some, which waited more than twenty-five years to see the
light of day, for his own personal satisfaction. He recorded the
Beale Streeters —Bobby "Blue" Bland and Junior Parker sharing
the vocals, with Johnny Ace on piano — 1952,
early in Blandbefore
went into the Army and Ace signed with the new Duke label. He
recorded Junior Parker with his Blue Flames in 1953, and these
sessions yielded both "Feelin' Good," a rocking boogie that be-
came a national r&b hit, and the original "Mystery Train," a tune
Parker and Phillips hammered out from traditional sources and, to
many, the most metaphysically potent song in all of rock and roll.
Early in 1954 Phillips recorded the young harp man James Cotton,
wdth lead guitar by Auburn "Pat" Hare. Both musicians went on
to play with Muddy Waters during the late fifties and early sixties,
but neither ever quite equaled their Sun record "Cotton Crop
Blues." "Pat Hare had a small Fender amp and a pretty good gui-
"His pickup was pretty powerful, and I think he
tar," says Phillips.
had a mismatch of impedance. It was a httle more than his amp
could stand, but it felt good." Hare's gritty, roaring sustain and
 DEEP BLUES • 238

aggressive lead lines and chording were even rawer and more
electric than Willie Johnson's work with Wolf, and the song's
lyrics explained with admirable directness why blacks were leav-
ing the Delta.

Ain't gonna raise no more cotton, I'll tell you the reason why I said so
Ain't gonna raise no more cotton, I'U tell you the reason why I said so
Well, you don't get nothin' for your cotton, and your seed's so doggone
low

Well, like raisin' a good cotton crop's just hke a lucky man shootin' dice
Well, like raisin' a good cotton crop's just like a lucky man shootin' dice
Work all the summer to make your cotton, the fall come, still ain't no
price

I have plowed so hard, baby, corns have got all in my hands

I have plowed so hard, baby, corns have got all in my hands
I want to teU you people, it ain' nothin' for a poor farmin' man

Hare also recorded, on his own, an even more staggering record,

"I'm Gonna Murder My Baby." Here the guitar was so distorted it
cut hke barbed wire, and the homicidal lyrics caught the mood of
the playing perfectly. Not even Sam PhiUips dared to release this
record,and it only came to hght twenty years on a Dutch
later
album bootlegged from the Sun archives. Years he recorded
after
for Sam PhiUips, after he'd played with Junior Parker's Houston-
based band and contributed lead guitar to Muddy Waters'
ground-breaking At Newport album. Hare was convicted of mur-
dering his girl friend and sent to Stillwater Prison near Minneapo-
hs.
During 1953 and 1954, Philhps recorded Little Milton Camp-
bell,a guitarist from Inverness, Mississippi (near Greenville and
Leland) who went on to a successful career as a soul-tinged blues
,

vocahst for Chess. He made extensive recordings of Ike Turner's

Kings of Rhythm. He recorded Elmore James's cousin, Boyd Gil-
more, who sang in a similarly impassioned style, fronting a combo
that included one of the Delta's most gifted younger guitarists,
later the most virtuosic blues guitarist in Chicago, Earl Hooker.
He recorded Walter Horton, the harmonica player, who is often
called Big Walter and who is one of the three great harmonica so-
loists of modern blues, the other two having been Little Walter
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 239

and Rice Miller. He recorded Joe Hill Louis, the rocking one-man
band, and "Doctor" Isaiah Ross, another one-man band from
Tunica County in the upper Delta, whose records of 1951-54 rock
furiously and document the deleterious effects of "The Boogie
Disease." "I may get better," the Doctor sang jubilantly, "but I'll

never get well." The Palace Theater's MC, Rufus Thomas, re-
—
corded several animal specialties "Bear Cat," an answer to Big
Mama Thornton's r&b hit "Hound Dog," and "Tiger Man (King
of the Jungle) ." Sam Phillips put Thomas together with a down-
home band that included Joe Hill Louis, much to Rufus's disgust.
And he recorded many other Delta musicians, among them Hon-
eyboy Edwards; Robert Lockwood's star pupil, Joe Willie Wilkins;
the popular drummer-vocalist Willie Nix; and barrelhouse pianists
Pinetop Perkins, Henry Hill, and Albert "Joiner" Williams.
Meanwhile Ike Turner was busy working for Modern. He re-
corded several of Elmore James's most impressive sides in a Can-
ton, Mississippi, nightclub and in Clarksdale, with backing by the
Kings of Rhythm. He recorded Boyd Gilmore singing a wild,
careening rendition of a traditional Delta blues that would become
a postwar standard, "Look on Vender's Wall" (released as "Just
an Army Boy") Turner or one of the Bihari brothers performed a
.

neat trick of studio surgery by grafting a bloodcurdling guitar in-

troduction recorded by Gilmore's cousin Elmore James onto the
beginning of another Gilmore classic, "All in My Dreams." The
otherwise obscure Charley Booker recorded under Turner's di-
rection a sinister, smoldering remake of the Delta standard "Spe-
cial Rider Blues" as "No Riding Blues." "Greenville's smokin' and
old Leland's burnin' down," Booker chanted evilly, as if, in his
mind's eye, he could see the entire Delta in flames. Turner also
converted a North Little Rock furniture store into a makeshift
studio so that he could record Elmon Mickle, a friend of Rice
Miller's who was broadcasting locally as Driftin' Slim. The band
included Sonny Blair, a lunging harmonica player and intense vo-
calist who took over the King Biscuit Time show for a short while
later in the fifties and died following an attack of delirium tremens
in 1966, at the age of thirty-four. In Helena, Ike even recorded the
King Biscuit regulars, with Peck and Dudlow taking the vocal
leads and the wily Sonny Boy, still under contract to Trumpet,
contributing unmistakable harmonica obligatos.
 DEEP BLUES • 240

Turner never had a regular studio to work in, but his produc-

tions for the Biharis' various labels maintained a high standard,

and almost every record featured his sturdy barrelhouse piano.
Throughout the early fifties, though, he was learning guitar,, prin-
cipally from Willie Kizart, and as early as 1953 he was making ex-
perimental recordings at Sam Phillips's studio as lead guitarist
and expanding Kings of Rhythm. By 1954 he felt
vocalist with his
that he was ready for bigger and better things, and that summer
he took his entire band, which still featured saxophonist Raymond
Hill, north to St. Louis. They quickly established themselves as
the most popular black dance band in the area. Ike's saxophone
section riffed with deft, swinging precision, his rhythm section
cooked, and he had attracted several powerful, shouting vocalists,
including Billy Gayles, Clayton Love, tenor saxophonist Eugene
Fox, and, following several unsuccessful years milking ever-di-
minishing returns from his one hit with "Rocket 88," Jackie
Brenston, who rejoined the fold in time to make an extensive se-
ries of recordings for the Federal label in August and September of
1956.
These Federal sessions, which produced the national r&b hit
"I'm Tore Up" and have been reissued on an English album of the
same name, were rock and roll milestones. Turner combined pop

and blues song structures, extroverted vocals in the Little Richard

manner, and some of the most shattering, kinetic guitar solos ever
put on wax. Instead of playing a telling phrase, laying back and
waiting for an answer, and then responding, like B. B. King or any
other modern blues guitarist. Turner would keep up a machine-
gun-hke barrage of tortuously twisted high notes, bent and broken
chords, and reiterated treble-string rifling at the very top of the
neck. The 1956 Kings of Rhythm records were influential among
blues guitarists everywhere, but for sheer demented recklessness.
Turner's solos on discs like "I'm Tore Up," "Sad as a Man Can
Be," and "Gonna Wait for My Chance" weren't equaled until
Clapton, Beck, and other English rockers perfected the string-
bending orgasm and the amphetamine stutter in the mid-sixties.
By that time Ike had discovered Tina Turner, and the two of them
were making tough, wholly contemporary soul records, some of
which still included flashes of the dynamic Ike Turner guitar.
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 241

By the time Ike Turner left Memphis, Sam Phillips had grown
discouraged with making blues and r&b discs and was turning in-
creasingly to white country artists —
especially if they had some
blues feeling. This shift wasn't creeping conservatism, as many
have assumed. Phillips simply couldn't hold onto his best black
artists; the Deep South couldn't hold onto its most ambitious
blacks. Memphis was a growing metropolis and there were jobs to
be had, but the wages and opportunities couldn't compare with
reports that continued to filter back from Chicago and other

Northern cities. One by one, Phillips's favorites left him. The Sun
label had always suffered distribution problems, and by 1954 Sam
had realized that he would never be able to market r&b discs as
successfully as Atlantic in New York, Savoy in New Jersey, King-
Federal in Cincinnati, or Specialty, Aladdin, and Modern /RPM in
Los Angeles.
Still, "weeping steel guitars and cornstalk fiddle" (Phillips's

scornful description of conventional country music) held little in-

terest for him. As early as 1951, he'd recorded a white hobo gui-
tarist and harmonica trickster named Frank Floyd — Harmonica
Frank, who performed black blues in an old-time black idiom and
even sang, in his prophetic "Rockin' Chair Daddy," "I never went
to college, and I never went to school /But when it comes to
rockin', I'm a rockin' fool." Then a painfully shy but flamboyantly
dressed young man named Elvis Presley walked into Sun to make
an acetate record for his mother's birthday. That was sometime
early in 1954, and on July 5, during a casual, bantering moment in
the little studio, Presley, guitarist Scotty Moore, and bassist Bill
Black began jamming on a Delta blues hit from 1946, Arthur "Big
Boy" Crudup's "That's All Right." Phillips excitedly told them to
cut it, just that way, and the record they came up with sounded
like nothing that had been heard before. It wasn't a country-swing
version of r&b, like Bill Haley's records, it wasn't country music
(no fiddle, no steel guitar, too much rhythmic emphasis) and it
,

wasn't r&b (too acoustic and lilting and, besides, the musicians
were white) In its own odd way, it was country blues. It resem-
.

bled Muddy's earliest sides in its combination of a strong blues

vocal with stark electric guitar and prodding string bass backing.
It was also the beginning of something very, very big, something
 DEEP BLUES • 242

anybody could have predicted, nobody could have stopped, and

perhaps only one person, Sam Phillips, could have started.

CHICAGO AND MEMPHIS attracted most of the ambitious blues

musicians who wanted to get out of the Delta during the fifties,
but not all of them. Several settled in Detroit, including John Lee
Hooker, who was working as a janitor in a Detroit steel mill in
1948 when he made his first records; Dr. Ross, who found work at
a General Motors plant in nearby Fhnt; Baby Boy Warren and Cal-
vin Frazier, two Delta singer-guitarists who'd been associated
with Howlin' Wolf, Rice Miller, and Robert Johnson during the
thirties and forties; and Alabama-born Bobo Jenkins, who played
guitar and harmonica in the Delta during the thirties and was a
Detroit fiUing station attendantwhen he began recording for small
local labels in 1954.For a while, in 1953-54, Rice Miller lived in
Detroit, where he worked and recorded v^dth Warren and Frazier,
but the familiar wanderlust caught up with him soon enough. Of
the musicians who stayed, only John Lee Hooker achieved sig-
nificant commercial success, and it came with his very first
recording.
Hooker was born in Coahoma County, near Clarksdale, on Au-
gust 22, 1917. His stepfather. Will Moore, was a popular blues
guitarist in the immediate area and occasionally worked wdth
Charley Patton when Patton was up from Dockery's. Hooker re-
members Moore playing Patton tunes like "Pony Blues" around
the house, but Moore had grown up in Shreveport, Louisiana, and
the brand of blues he'd learned there was very different from what
was current in the Delta. It was basically hypnotic, one-chord
drone blues, with darkly insistent vamping, violent treble-string
punctuations, and songs that fitted both traditional and impro-
vised lyrics into a loose, chant-like structure. "My style come from
my stepfather," Hooker says. "The style I'm playing now, that's
what he was playing." Robert Pete Williams and other Louisiana
country bluesmen have recorded in a somewhat comparable style,
but Hooker's guitar playing really doesn't sound like anyone
else's.His heavy, dramatic vocals are more recognizably in the
Delta mold; he sometimes sounds a little like Muddy Waters, who
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 243

considers him one of the deepest of blues singers, and, like

Muddy, he was a regular churchgoer from childhood through his
early teens. Hooker even sang solos with various church choirs,
and he'd performed at church functions with several informal gos-
pel groups before he left home at the age of fourteen.
During the thirties Hooker hved in Memphis, where he worked
as an usher in a Beale Street movie theater and performed at oc-
casional house parties. He was still learning to play the guitar and
wasn't yet thinking of music as a full-time occupation. From
Memphis he went to Cincinnati to stay wdth relatives, and there
he worked for a cesspool-draining firm as well as in another the-
ater. He arrived in Detroit in 1943, and with the city's factories
cranking out tanks and other vehicles at peak wartime capacity,
he had no trouble finding work. Playing the blues was still an avo-
cation; he'd boogie at house parties on weekends and occasionally
sit one of the clubs along Hastings Street, black Detroit's
in at
main went on for five years, and then one night in 1948
drag. This
a black record store owner heard Hooker playing in someone's liv-
ing room and took him to meet Bernie Bessman, a local record dis-
tributor. Like the Chess brothers in Chicago and the Biharis in
Los Angeles, Bessman was interested in breaking into the wide-
open rhythm and blues market, and he had enough sense to real-
ize that Hooker's sound was unique and compelling. John Lee
made a demo tape, Bessman placed it with the Biharis' Modern
label, and the company decided on an up-tempo stomp called
"Boogie Chillen" as the first release. "The thing caught afire,"
Hooker recalled in a Living Blues interview. "It was ringin' all
around the country. When it come out, every jukebox you went to,
every place you went to, every drugstore you went, everywhere
you went, department stores, they were playin' it in there. I felt
good, you know. And 1 was workin' in Detroit in a factory there for
"
a while. Then 1 quit my job. I said, 'No, I ain't workin' no more!'
"Boogie Chillen" wasn't the first guitar boogie on record; there
had been dozens of records by black and even white country gui-
tarists playing boogie-woogie patterns in emulation of the popular
piano But Hooker wasn't copying piano boogie. He was play-
style.

ing something else —

a rocking one-chord ostinato with accents
that fell fractionally ahead of the beat. The closest thing to it on
records is "Cottonfield Blues," recorded by Garfield Akers and Joe
 —

DEEP BLUES • 244

Callicott, two guitarists from the hill country of northern Missis-

sippi, in 1929. Essentially was a backcountry, pre-blues sort of
it

—
music a droning, open-ended stomp without a fixed verse form
that lent itself to building up a cumulative, trancelike effect. On
later records, Hooker would use his boogie form to build moods
that suggested dark, sudden violence, but "Boogie Chillen," de-
spite its undertone of danger, was a Detroit ghetto travelogue.
John Lee described walking down Hastings Street and dropping
into Henry's Swing Club, took time out to shout "Boogie, chillen!"
before executing a simple but effective guitar break, and then de-
livered his coup de grace, a dialogue that has been echoed in
countless blues and rock performances down through the years.
"One night I was layin' down," he began. "I heard Mama and
Papa talkin'. I heard Papa tell Mama to 'let that boy boogie-woogie!
'Cause it's in him and it's got to come out!' " Five years later, Jun-
ior Parker would construct a similar monologue over a similar
one-chord boogie riff for his "Feehn' Good," and fifteen years after
that, the rock group Canned Heat popularized the same guitar
boogie, amplified to thunderous volume, all over again. It's been a
standard rock and roll rhythm pattern ever since.
Bernie Bessman was a smooth operator. He paid Hooker well
the first recording session brought him a thousand doUars ad-
—
vance and leased his masters to numerous small labels under a
variety of pseudonyms, including Texas Shm, Delta John, Bir-
mingham Sam and his Magic Guitar, the Boogie Man, and the
whimsical John Lee Booker. But Modern seemed to get the best
sides, or do the best selling job, and they put Hooker on the na-
tional r&b charts again between 1949 and 1951 with "Hobo
Blues," "Crawling Kingsnake Blues," and the spookily echoed
"I'm in the Mood," which featured Hooker's foot stomping on a
piece of plywood thoughtfully provided by Bessman. During the
years when Muddy was developing his blues band sound in Chi-
cago and Wolf was fusing old-time Delta blues with jump and jazz
in West Memphis, Hooker continued to record with only his own
electric guitar as accompaniment. Gradually the sound filled
—
out a harmonica here, piano or second guitar there, occasional
—
drums until, in the mid-fifties, Hooker switched to the new Chi-
cago label Vee Jay. There he began recording with larger bands
thatjincluded Delta musicians Eddie Taylor and Jimmy Reed and
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 245

a sophisticated lead guitarist, Lefty Bates. He also made more

rhythm and blues most notably the rocking "Boom Boom"
hits,

(1962), a sexy stop-time number that was done to death by En-

glish and American rock groups for the next ten years. Like
Muddy Waters and only a handful of other Delta bluesmen,
Hooker adapted to changing times, becoming a "folk bluesman"
when folk was in fashion, assembhng rock-oriented backing
groups during the sixties, and eventually settling in San Fran-
cisco, where he recruited road bands from his suburban neigh-
borhood. The young white audiences he plays for now demand
"the boogie," but Hooker often dangles his slower, deeper blues as
bait.
Hooker often names Albert King as one of his favorite blues
and singers, and Albert is one of a group of Delta musi-
guitarists
cians who made St. Louis their headquarters during the early fif-
ties.The sound of sax-heavy jump bands with high-voltage guitar
leads was the dominant sound of St. Louis blues in the fifties, and
while Ike Turner and his Kings of Rhythm were probably the pri-
mary local influence at the time, both Albert King and Little Mil-
ton Campbell made exciting, innovative records there from the
mid-fifties through the early sixties, for the Bobbin label. Albert
arrived in St. Louis by a circuitous route. He was born Albert Nel-
son near Indianola, Mississippi, on April 25, 1923. His claim that
he is B. B. King's brother or half-brother is hotly disputed by B. B.
His early life involved hard farm work on various plantations (as
one of thirteen Nelson children) and singing in country churches.
Around 1931, the family moved to the vicinity of Osceola, Ar-
kansas, a popping blues spot not far from Memphis and the Mis-
souri state line, and Albert chopped and picked more cotton,
played guitar and sang the blues in the joints, and continued to
sing gospel music as weU. During the late forties he tried fiving in
St. Louis, but he was a country boy, and soon he was back in

Osceola, gigging with a local jump band called the In the Groove
Boys at clubs like the T-99 and the Dipsy Doodle. He tried the
North again in 1952-53, and in Gary, Indiana, he met and per-
formed with Jimmy Reed, who'd moved there from the Delta in
1948. In 1953 Albert arranged to make his first recordings, for the
Parrot label of Chicago. Johnny Jones, the briUiant pianist from
Elmore James's Broomdusters, was on the session, which revealed
 —

DEEP BLUES • 246

that Albert was still under the sway of Elmore and Robert Night-
hawk. The records didn't sell, and Albert returned to Osceola one
more time, staying a couple of years before he drifted back to St.
Louis in 1956.
During the next ten years Albert refined his own style. He evi-
dently listened hard to B. B. King's hght, skipping lines and in-
creasingly woody tone, but he'd already absorbed too much of the
heavier lead playing of Elmore, Nighthawk, and Willie Johnson to
become a B. B. imitator. Instead, he created a unique synthesis,
playing single-string leads but with a broadly metallic tone and
brawny, heaving phrases that seemed to dig into the beat from
underneath. In 1962 he achieved fleeting national recognition
with "Don't Throw Your Love on Me So Strong," a medium-slow
blues with a strongly implied triplet feel that introduced the "Al-
bert King signature" dah-dah-dah, a three-note lick falling from
a flattened third down to the tonic. The record made it to Number
Fourteen on the national r&b charts, but it wasn't until Albert
hooked up with Memphis's Stax label in 1966 that his career really
took off. Backed by the premier soul rhythm section of the period
(Booker T. and the M.G.'s) and the strutting Memphis horns, he
cut the venerable Delta blues "Crosscut Saw" (performed by Sam
Chatmon, Tommy McClennan, and other Mississippi bluesmen at
least as early as the thirties)updating its rhythmic pulse with a
,

quasi-Latin beat; "Laundromat Blues" ("You better hear my

warning, I'm gettin' madder every day /I don't want you to get so
clean, baby, you just might wash your life away"); and "Born
under a Bad Sign," a fortuitous commercial stroke that combined
a menacing rock riff", a bulldozer rhythm, high-energy guitar
leads, and fashionable lyrics with astrological overtones. All these
songs were national r&b hits, and in 1968 they were collected on a
Stax album. Born under a Bad Sign, perhaps the most influential
blues album of the sixties. When Eric Clapton left the Yardbirds to
form Cream, he turned increasingly to Albert King-style playing;
Cream's "Strange Brew" and "Born under a Bad Sign" were
practically Albert King parodies. Albert began performing at rock
halls like the Fillmore East while maintaining his large down-
home black following, and he has managed to please both audi-
ences ever since without quite attaining B. B. King's show busi-
ness stature.
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 247

Albert is a solid, no-frills blues shouter who doesn't go in for

B. B. King's gospelish important as one of the
melismata, but he is

premier guitar stylists of modern blues. His playing evidences a

sharp ear for the subtle pitch shadings and voicelike inflections
that make blues deep. Often he will "worry" the fifth or another
note, bending and twisting it this way and that while punching at
the rhythm with a finesse none of his legion of imitators has been
quite able to match.
Little Milton Campbell, who was born September 7, 1934, and

raised around Greenville and Leland, Mississippi, was never as

original. His blessing and his curse was that he could sound like
almost any other blues artist, and his early recordings, made for
Sun, the Memphis-based Modern subsidiary Meteor, and later
Bobbin, included faithful reproductions of the styles of B. B. King,
Roy Brown, even Fats Domino. In 1963 he left St. Louis for Chi-
cago, where his records for the Chess subsidiary Checker took on
a pronounced soul-gospel coloration. His "Feel So Bad" and "Grits
Ain't Groceries" were soul-blues hits in 1967 and 1969, and he
has continued to perform for an almost entirely black following
without crossing over to the white audience enjoyed by B. B. and
Albert King.
It seems strange that New Orleans, mouth
the metropolis at the
of the Mississippi River, didn't attract more Delta bluesmen. Rice
Miller and Elmore James performed there frequently during the
forties,playing in the streets before they graduated to club en-
gagements, and other Mississippi bluesmen paid occasional visits.
But New Orleans had its own indigenous brand of blues, a jazz-
oriented style that had more to do with Texas and Kansas City
music than with the Delta and often made use of the Afro-Carib-
bean rhythm patterns that have survived in the city's folklore
since the celebrated slave gatherings that took place in Congo
Square. Only one Delta bluesman left his mark on New Orleans
music. His name was Eddie Jones, and he was born in Greenwood
on December 10, 1926, and raised in southern Mississippi near
Hollandale. Like Hooker and the Kings, Jones sang in church be-
I fore he sang the blues, but in his case the experience seems to
have left a deeper impression. By the time he arrived in New Or-

leans in the late forties and put together a trio with the future rock
and roll star Huey "Piano" Smith, Jones was singing the way
 DEEP BLUES • 248

sanctified preachers preached —groaning, screaming, torturing

almost every syllable, investing even the most shopworn blues
lines with what would later be called "soul power." He was also
an astonishing lead guitarist with his own almost frighteningly in-
tense version of the T-Bone Walker style and an individual way of
wresting screaming high-note sustains from his overworked am-
plifier. Since he was tall, skinny, good-looking, and a flashy
dresser, he soon acquired a nickname —Guitar Slim.
Some were inspired by sacred
of the earliest Delta blues singers
singing —
Patton, Rubin Lacy, Son House, and on down to Muddy
Waters and John Lee Hooker. Beginning in the late forties, the
New Orleans-based singer Roy Brown popularized a crying, occa-
sionally overwrought vocal style with a lot of gospel in it, and by
the early fifties blues singers like B. B. King and Bobby "Blue"
Bland were stretching and pummeling syllables and letting
hoarse, tearing textures creep into their voices, betraying an even
stronger church influence. Guitar Slim took this evolution, which
has been one of the most significant developments in the history
of black popular music, a crucial step further. In Nashville in 1952
he recorded an eight-bar ballad, "Feehn' Sad," for the Bullet label.
It began with wordless moaning, and the wrenching vocal per-

formance that followed wasn't gospel-blues, it was unadulterated

backcountry gospel with secular lyrics. The song's eight-bar verse
form and melody fine, the piano accompaniment, the discreet
horn section, which contributed chords the way an organ might
—
have almost everything about the record was gospel rather than
blues or pop. Yet the lyrics were autobiographical blues lyrics: "I
was in Korea in '51 / 1 had no love, and I was so alone /I was send-
ing you all my money, baby /And all the time, you was doin' me
wrong." This was using the Lord's music to do the Devil's work,
and many musicians and listeners found it shocking. One who
didn't was a blind pianist from Florida named Ray Charles. Begin-
ning in 1949, the musically sophisticated Charles, who was capa-
ble of scoring complex jazz arrangements in braille, had recorded
for several California and New York labels. A few of his sides were
gritty urban blues, but most were smooth blues-ballads in a Nat
"King" Cole-Charles Brown vein. Then Charles ran into Guitar
Slim.
In October 1953, Shm recorded in New Orleans for the new Los
 KINGS OF RHYTHM • 249

Angeles-based Specialty label. He brought Ray Charles to the ses-

sion, along with a group of crack r&b musicians who recorded reg-
ularly with Fats Domino and other local artists. According to Jerry
Wexler, who was co-producing Charles for Atlantic at the time,
Ray "sketched out a head arrangement for Slim's 'The Things I
Used to Do,' playing piano at the date and directing things at the
keyboard. This record was to sell a million copies for the Specialty
label. Nobody knew it then, but this was a big breakthrough for
—
Ray he had, in effect, written his first commercial hit arrange-
ment." Even before "The Things I Used to Do" became one of the
best-selling r&b discs of 1954, Charles had begun to make drastic
changes in his music. Instead of crooning, he began to preach,
and along with the standard twelve-bar blues that made up much
of his repertoire, he began performing original numbers that were
set in the eight-bar and sixteen-bar mold of gospel music.
Charles, a proud man, has denied that Guitar Slim influenced
him to move in this direction, but the evidence contradicts him.
Wexler says that Charles "was very much taken wdth Slim's per-
fervid, impassioned, preach-blues style," and it was only toward
the end of 1954, after "The Things I Used to Do" had become a
huge hit, that Ray recorded his first overtly gospel-based single,
"I've Got a Woman." During the same period he also recorded a
version of "Feelin' Sad" that makes his debt to Guitar Slim even
—
more apparent ^it's a very close imitation of Slim's Bullet original,
yet it's also, unmistakably, Ray Charles. It seems that, like so
much else in American popular music, the enormously influential
—
Ray Charles style a style that effectively broke down the musical
barriers between gospel and pop and is generally considered the
—
prime source of modem soul music was inspired by yet another
Delta bluesman.
Slim never recorded another big hit, but for a time, in the mid-
fifties,he was a popular concert attraction across the country.
He's been described as the most flamboyant of the period's blues
guitarists; he would get his band rocking, climb onto the shoul-
ders of a burly retainer, and allow himself to be carried through
the adoring throngs and into the street, where he soloed for cho-
rus after chorus at the end of an extra-long cord. He inspired nu-
merous imitators, including, for a time, Ike Turner, who recorded
several Slim sound-alike numbers, and New Orleans's Earl King,
 —

DEEP BLUES • 250

who has claimed that Slim's mid-fifties playing sounded a lot like

the Jimi Hendrix of the late sixties. A few of Slim's Specialty

recordings, most notably "The Story of My Life," include enough
whining sustain and biting high-note work to lend King's story
some credence. Slim recorded for Atlantic in New York during the
late fifties, and he died there of pneumonia in 1959, at the age of
thirty- two.
Chicago, Detroit, Memphis, St. Louis, New Orleans — only one
other major city played an important role in the Delta blues dias-
pora of the fifties, and that was Houston, Texas. Don Robey, a
black businessman who owned Houston's principal black club in
the late forties and managed the popular blues guitarist and
singer Gatemouth Brown, grew so disgruntled with Aladdin
Records's handling of Brown that in 1949 he recorded him locally
and put out the disc himself, naming the label Peacock after his
Bronze Peacock Club. Early in Peacock's career Robey recorded a
seminal gospel hit, "Our Father," by the Five Blind Boys of Mis-
sissippi, but it wasn't until 1952 that he made the most fortuitous
business deal of his life by buying the Memphis-based Duke
label— ^recorded masters, artists' contracts, and all. Among the art-
ists who came to Robey with Duke were Johnny Ace, Roscoe Gor-

don, and Bobby "Blue" Bland, and in 1954 Herman "Little

Junior" Parker joined an expanding Duke roster. Ace, the sloe-
voiced balladeer, dominated the national r&b charts from 1952
until his fatal game of Russian roulette, which took place in a
dressing room at Houston's Civic Auditorium while he was wait-
ing to go onstage on Christmas Eve, 1954. It took several more
years for Parker and Bland to hit the national r&b charts, Parker
with "Next Time You See Me" in 1956 and Bland with "Farther
Up the Road" in 1957.
Bland and a Houston jazz trumpeter named Joe Scott developed
a big-band blues-baQad sound that featured massed brass and
reeds and stinging lead guitar behind Bland's distinctive, gospel-
influenced vocals. Bobby had always favored a sophisticated,
stand-up approach to blues singing. He was basically a city stylist
to begin with, and his Duke records capitalized on this tendency.
Parker, who was born March 27, 1932, probably in Coahoma
County, Mississippi, came from a much more down-home back-
ground. He learned the harmonica sitting on Rice Miller's knee
 —

KINGS OF RHYTHM • 251

literally, forhe was still a child. When he was in his teens, he

joined Howlin' Wolfs original band, and although several of his
Sun recordings of 1953 featured a saxophonist and attained a cer-
tain polish, they were still very much in the Delta mainstream. In
Houston, Parker fell in with Memphis saxophonist Bill Harvey,
whose well-rehearsed jump band had already backed B. B. King,
Gatemouth Brown, and other popular front men on records and in
person. Pat Hare drifted down to Houston as well, and with Har-
vey's slick, jazzy horn arrangements and Hare's biting lead guitar
supporting his country-sounding harmonica and expressive
vocals, Parker (and Duke) had a winning combination. From
1954 through the early sixties, Parker and Bland toured together
frequently as Blues Consolidated, building a large audience from
the Southwest across the bottom half of the country to the South-
east. By the were popular with black audi-
early sixties both artists
ences in the North as Between 1958 and 1966 Parker cut a
well.
string of exciting blues hits for Duke, several of which "Five
—
—
Long Years," "Sweet Home Chicago" were either Delta tunes or
city blues first recorded by Delta artists. His last hit, "Drowning
on Dry Land," climbed as high as Number Forty-eight on the r&b
charts in 1971 the year he died of a brain tumor. Bland went on to
,

become the most durable and consistently popular of modem

blues-ballad singers. During the seventies he was often reunited
with his friend from the Beale Streeters days, B. B. King.
One last important Delta stylist remains to be discussed
Jimmy Reed, who settled in Chicago in 1953 and recorded his first
national hit, "You Don't Have to Go," in 1955. Reed was born Sep-

tember 6, 1925, on a plantation near the Delta hamlet of Dunleith,

and he learned guitar from a childhood friend, Eddie Taylor, who
was two and a half years his senior. As a child, Taylor had followed
musicians like Charley Patton and Robert Johnson to house par-
ties. Sometimes he would crawl in under the shacks and drift off

to sleep while feet stomped to the guitarists' rhythms just above

his head. In his youth Taylor was a wholly traditional Delta blues-
man, and he and Reed would frequently play and sing Delta stan-
dards together after a day spent working in the cotton fields.
Reed says he couldn't even spell his own name when he first ar-
rived in Chicago in 1943. After a hitch in the Navy and several
more years sharecropping in the Delta, he moved north, first to
 DEEP BLUES • 252

Gary (where he gigged with Albert King) and then to Chicago,

where he played a kind of primitive one-chord blues with a friend
named Willie Joe Duncan, a virtuoso on a homemade one-stringed
instrument. In 1949 Eddie Taylor arrived in Chicago, and he and
Reed began working together in a succession of tough, low-rent
South Side taverns. In 1953, after flunking an audition for Leon-
ard Chess, they began recording for the new Vee Jay label, and in
1955 Reed's "You Don't Have to Go" made it to Number Nine on
the r&b charts.
Reed played harmonica mounted on a rack while he strummed
his electric guitar. It was Eddie Taylor who provided the music's
crisp shuffle figures, a legacy of his early admiration for Robert
Johnson. Their music was very traditional, very country, but there
was something about it that appealed to a broad spectrum of peo-
ple— ^white country and rock and roU fans as well as blacks who
usually preferred blues with a more uptown flavor. Maybe it was
the insinuatingly lazy way Reed sang, and maybe it was the un-
cluttered Delta guitar shuffles, which provided a relaxed alterna-
tive to the more frenetic rhythms of rock and roU. Maybe it was
Reed's lyrics, which were straightforwardly sexy but too amiably
delivered to be threatening. In any event. Reed became one of the
most popular blues stars of the fifties and early sixties, and proba-
bly Vee Jay's most consistent hit maker. One classic followed an-
other
— "Ain't That Lovin' You Baby" in 1956, "Honest I Do" in
1957, "Baby, What You Want Me to Do" in 1960, and the one-two
knockout punch of "Big Boss Man" and "Bright Lights, Big City"
in 1961. At this point, a relative handful of American whites had
heard of B. B. King or Muddy Waters, but they bought Reed's Vee
Jay discs in quantity, and the records got airplay on stations with
white disc jockeys and rock and pop formats. Vee Jay's promo-
tional muscle helped enormously, but, as the record business tru-
ism has it, you can't promote a stiff". Somehow, Reed reached
people in a way no other Delta bluesman had been able to do, and
only his increasingly debihtating alcoholism and erratic behavior
on- and offstage prevented him from claiming the enormous audi-
ence he would have commanded once the English Invasion of the
early and middle sixties made blues chic.
There are still professional and semiprofessional blues bands in
the Delta. Many of them, including Frank Frost's popular Jelly
 —

KINGS OF RHYTHM • 253

Roll Kings, play music that sounds a lot like Jimmy Reed, while
others, such as the Little Rock-based group led by Larry Davis,
work in the B. B. King idiom. The area is no longer a source of
musical innovation and hasn't been since the plantations auto-
mated and the northward migration that had begun before World
War I finally peaked sometime in the 1950s. But Delta blues, deep
blues, is still alive, especially in Chicago, where, on a jumping Sat-
urday night, you can choose from several dozen live blues shows,
most of which take place in black neighborhood taverns on the
South and West sides. And of course it's alive in California and
New York and London and Paris and Stockholm and Moscow
wherever Delta bluesmen tour and Delta expatriates live, wher-
ever, for that matter, people play or listen to blues-derived rock
and roll.
 EPILOGUE
The World Boogie
U he rock and
Muddy Waters.
kept goin', but
roll,

"We
this hurt the blues pretty bad," says
hustled around and made it and
still

we were only playin' for black people when

T% rock and roU came along, and it got so we couldn't play any
more slow blues. The people just wanted to 'bug. But we survived
out of that." For a year or two, beginning in 1955 when Chuck
Berry, Bo Diddley, Little Richard, and Fats Domino all became im-
mensely popular with both young blacks and young whites,
Muddy put down his guitar. "His band was his instrument and he
sang unhampered," reported the English blues aficionado Paul
Oliver in a 1959 Jazz Monthly article, "stamping, hollering, his
whole body jerking in sheer physical expression of his blues. He
would double up, clench his fists, straighten with a spring like a
flick-knife, leap in the air, arch his back and literally punch out his
words whilst the perspiration poured down his face and soaked
through his clothing."
The younger crowd might be flocking to rock and roll package
shows, but Muddy held on to his audience. Throughout the mid-
dle and late fifties he worked six or seven nights a week around
Chicago, mostly at Smitty's Corner, Thirty-fifth and Indiana, with
regular Wednesday excursions to a large dance hall in Gary, Indi-
ana. The only breaks in this routine were tours, which occasion-
ally took Muddy and his band (featuring Pat Hare, Otis Spann,
 DEEP BLUES • 256

and James Cotton) to the East or West Coast but more often tra-
versed the Deep South. It was there, Muddy told Paul Oliver in
1958, that he drew his most enthusiastic response: ''People there,
they feel the blues and that makes me feel good. They come from
miles around to hear us, and if we get less than six-seven-eight
hundred people, believe me, that's a bad house! And it ain't cheap
to hear Muddy Waters! They pay two, three dollars a time to come
in; mebbe they don't eat the next day, but, man, the place is really

jumpin'i"
Muddy, Wolf, and B. B. King worked regularly throughout the
first years of the rock and roll explosion, while old-timers like
Sonny Boy and Robert Nighthawk drifted back and forth between
Chicago and the Deep South, and a number of important blues-
men, most notably Jimmy Rogers, dropped out of music alto-
gether. One way or another, the strong survived, and it was
Muddy, the strongest of the lot, who first broke through to a white
audience. In the fall of 1958 he unexpectedly received an offer to
tour England along with a popular English traditional jazz group
led by Chris Barber. Big BiU Broonzy, who'd been one of the
friendliest and most helpful of the blues stars from the thirties
when Muddy first arrived in Chicago, had paved the way. During
the late forties, when Muddy' s gritty electric music weaned black
blues fans away from the older Bluebird style, Broonzy discovered
the nascent American folk revival. He'd been introduced to New
York at the 1938 Spirituals to Swdng concert when producer John
Hammond was unable to locate Robert Johnson, and, a decade
later, he was a fixture on the emerging lower Manhattan folk
scene, where a left-wing and generally naive young audience ac-
cepted him, along with Leadbelly, Sonny Terry, and Brownie
McGhee, as true folk artists. Broonzy's dozens of Bluebird records
with bass, drums, and jazz band backing were conveniently for-
gotten, and he played the role of the folk bluesman fresh from the
cotton fields to the hilt.

Broonzy made his first European trip in September 1951, and

he was an immediate hit in both London and Paris. He returned
early in 1952 along with Blind John Davis, the blues and jazz
pianist who'd been one of Bluebird's busiest session musicians in
Chicago during the thirties and forties. From then on, he was an
established European concert draw. Early in 1958 his health
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 257

began he died that August, he recommended to

to fail. Before
some Muddy Waters, and
of his English fans that they bring over
though Muddy was something of an unknown quantity there, a
modest tour was arranged. There wasn't enough money for
Muddy to bring his band, so he decided to travel with Otis Spann,
who was his pianist, straw boss for his band, and his brother-in-
law.
Muddy known very much about the audience he
couldn't have
was going was a young crowd that had been attracted
to play for. It
to the blues not through rock and roll but through trad jazz and
skiffle. Trad jazz was, of course, British dixieland, and out of the

trad jazz movement had come skiffle, a kind of English version of

American "folk blues." The skiffle craze began early in 1956 when
Lonnie Donegan, formerly the banjoist with Chris Barber's trad
band, became an overnight star wdth a hit record called "Rock Is-
land Line." It was a songster ballad Donegan had learned from a
Leadbelly recording, and Donegan had performed it in a kind of
jug band style, with acoustic guitar and bass, washboard percus-
sion, and kazoo leads. These were the basic ingredients of skiffle.
Its appeal was that anybody could afford the instruments and

learn a few old blues off Leadbelly and Josh White records, and
throughout the late fifties, while rockers with leather jackets and
greased pompadours bopped to American rock and roll and its var-
ious British imitators, another large segment of England's youth
packed the concert halls to hear their favorite skiffle artists. Until
Muddy arrived in England, all the black bluesmen who'd per-
formed there —Broonzy, Josh White, Terry and McGhee had —
played acoustic music in a style the skiffle fans could easily relate
to. Muddy, innocent of this audience's expectations, cranked up
his amplifier, hit a crashing bottleneck run, and began hollering
his blues.
SCREAMING GUITAR AND HOWLING PIANO is the way Muddy re-
members the next morning's newspaper headhnes. "1 had opened
that amplifier up, boy, and there was these headlines in all the
papers. Chris Barber, he say, 'You play good, but don't play your
amplifier so loud. Play it lower.' 'Cause, see, I'd been playin' here
in Chicago with these people who turned theirs up." Paul Oliver
noted wryly in Jazz Monthly, "When Muddy Waters came to Eng-
land, his rocking blues and electric guitar was meat that proved
 DEEP BLUES • 258

too strong for many stomachs," but the tour turned out well after
Muddy toned down a bit. He was more than willing to be accom-
modating. "Now I know that the people in England like soft guitar
and the old blues," he told Melody Maker's Max Jones shortly be-
fore he left to return to Chicago. "Next time I come I'll learn some
old songs first."
Muddy's success in England attracted the attention of white
jazz and folk fans in the United States, and at the urging of Atlan-
tic Records jazz producer Nesuhi Ertegun, the Newport Jazz Fes-
tival booked him to headline a special blues program on July 4,
1960. Newport was a real jazz festival with no concessions to rock
and roll, but it attracted a large, young, and sometimes rowdy
crowd. On Saturday, July 3, a mob of approximately ten thousand
teenagers and college-age youths attempted to break into the fes-
tival grounds, police were called in, and a full-scale riot ensued.

The rest of the festival was called off by joint decision of the New-
port City Council and the festival's producer, George Wein — ex-
cept for the Sunday afternoon blues show, which was allowed to
go on. This time the audience was a jazz crowd that wouldn't
cringe at drumming and amplification, and Muddy had brought
his whole band —Hare, Cotton, Spann, bassist Andrew Stephen-
son, and drummer Francis Clay. The set they played mixed
—
Muddy's established crowd-pleasers "I'm Your Hoochie Coochie
—
Man," "Baby Please Don't Go" ^with some of his newer, jump-
oriented material, including his then-current Chess single, "Tiger
in Your Tank," a novelty blues written by Willie Dixon.
The crowd was cheering Mdldly as the set neared its end, and
Muddy told them, "We got one more we're gonna do. ... I got my
mojo workin', woman. D'you hear me?" Spann hit a rollicking
intro and the band was off, rocking hard but wdth a relaxed, sin-
uous grace. Muddy had first recorded "Got My Mojo Working" in
1957, but rock and roll was at its zenith then and the record didn't
even make the r&b charts. Live, the song had been an immediate
sensation. Muddy had climaxed most of his English dates with it,
caUing Chris Barber's jazz band back onstage to help him put it
over, and by 1960 it was his obligatory set closer. It drove the
Newport crowd wild. He had to sing it all over again after the
cheering had subsided. The afternoon closed wdth Otis Spann
singing an impromptu "Goodbye Newport Blues," written out on
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 259

the back of a Western Union telegram blank by the poet Langston

Hughes following the announcement (false, as things turned
out) that, because of the rioting, this would be the last New-
moving as this final slow blues was, the
port Jazz Festival. But
young crowd went away whistling the catchy "Got My Mojo
Working."
Chess was quick to capitalize on Muddy's emerging reputation
outside the black community, and an album of his Newport per-
formances was issued. It sold surprisingly well and was particu-
larly influential in England. There, young blues enthusiasts like
Alexis Koerner and Cyril Davies, who'd hung on Muddy's every
word and guitar lick when he visited in 1958, had begun playing
music that was harder and rougher than the predominant skiffle
and trad jazz. Their various nightclub ventures and groups bred a
still younger crop of English musicians and blues enthusiasts, in-

cluding the future Rolling Stones, Yardbirds, and Animals, who

were ready and waiting when Muddy returned to England in
—
1962 v^dth an acoustic guitar ^d a repertoire of older, "folk"
blues learned especially for the occasion. "The first thing they
wanted know," he remembers, laughing, "was why I didn't
to
bring the amplifier. Those boys were playing louder than we ever
played."
Soon after he returned from his second English trip in 1962,
Muddy was booked into the Jazz Workshop in Boston, and there
he took on a young manager. Bob Messinger, who was convinced
that he could sell Muddy to white folk and jazz crowds. But this as-
pect of his career didn't really pick up steam until around 1964
when English groups, especially the Rolling Stones, began
recording their own versions of his songs and of other Chicago
blues and telling American interviewers that Muddy Waters was
among their favorite musicians, though few reporters or Rolling
Stones fans had heard of him. "Before the Rolling Stones," says
Muddy, "people over here didn't know nothing and didn't want to
know nothing about me. 1 was making race records, and I'm
gonna tell it to you the way the older people told it to the kids. If
they'd buy my records, their parents would say, 'What the hell is
this? Get this nigger record out of my house!' But then the Rolling
Stones and those other groups come over here from England,
playing this music, and now, today, the kids buy a record of mine,
 DEEP BLUES • 260

and they it. Fifteen years ago, after Newport, at some of

listen to
my gigs,might have a few kids from the university, but if it
I

wasn't some school date I was playing, if it was just in a club in

Chicago, it would be maybe one percent, two percent white. I play
in places now don't have no black faces in there but our black
faces."
Muddy and his band frequently share concert billings with
white blues or blues-influenced rock bands. From time to time
they play shows with several other popular black bluesmen B. B. —
King, Albert King, Bobby "Blue" Bland. These shows tend to at-

tractboth black and white fans. Occasionally Muddy gets to work

alongside one of his peers, or with a younger bluesman like Otis
Rush whose music is deeply rooted in the Delta tradition, but that
doesn't happen often. "Ain't too many left that play the real deep
blues," he said the last time I talked with him. "There's John Lee
—
Hooker, Lightnin' Hopkins he have the Texas sound, and Texas
bluesis very, very good blues —
and, let's see, who else? Ain't too
many more They got all these white kids now. Some of them
left.

can play good blues. They play so much, run a ring around you
playin' guitar, but they cannot vocal like the black man. Now B. B.
King plays blues, but his blues is not as deep as my blues. He play
a type of blues that can work in a higher class place, like to a
higher class of peoples —
they call 'em urban blues. Bobby 'Blue'
Bland, the same thing. Albert King play a little deeper blues than
they do, Otis Rush is deeper. ... I don't want to put down nothin'
that'll make anybody mad, but it's the truth. There ain't too many
left sings the type of blues that I sing."
I wondered if this state of aff'airs made Muddy nostalgic for the
old days, for Mississippi or for Chicago in the fifties. He snorted
derisively. "I'm out there workin' as much as I want to, turnin'
down jobs 1 could be doin', and the money's up," he said. "These
records I'm makin' now, that Johnny Winter's producin', they're
sellin' better than any of my old records ever did. We got that

Chess sound, too. I'll tell you the truth: This is the best point of my
life that I'm livin' right now." I asked how he felt about having

taken so long to get to this point, and he looked at me like I was a

plain fool, his eyes glinting ironically. "Feels good," he said. "Are
you kiddin'? I'm glad it came before I died, I can tell you. Feels
great."
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 261

MUDDY'S EARLY VISITS TO ENGLAND opened the way for

other Delta bluesmen, and one of the first to follow him was Rice
Miller, who was invited to take part in a 1963 American Folk Blues
Festival tour that stopped in France, Holland, Germany, Den-
mark, Sweden, and England. Memphis Shm was playing piano on
the tour, and when it was over, Sonny Boy and Shm toured Poland
and returned to England for further engagements. By this time,
there were "beat clubs" —
^places where young electric blues and
r&b bands like the Stones, Yardbirds, and Animals played for
—
dancing ^in various English cities, and Sonny Boy found these
clubs much to his liking. The beat club crowd didn't expect him to
—
be a "folk artist," rustic and reserved he could front an electric
band, holler, and stomp. While he was in England in 1963, and
during a second tour in 1964, he performed and recorded backed
by both the Yardbirds (with Eric Clapton on lead guitar) and the
Animals. He also took to English haberdashery, affecting a bowler
hat, a natty black umbrella, kid gloves, and some suits he had
made by a London tailor that were half charcoal gray and half
black in a kind of harlequin design. He would show up for club en-
gagements wdth his scruffy young accompanists carrying a fancy
leather attache case full of harmonicas and amuse his audiences
by mimicking the airs and accent of an Enghsh gentleman.
After his 1964 European tour, Sonny Boy surprised most of his
old friends by returning to Helena, where he once again took over
King Biscuit Time. KFFA had moved out of the Floyd Truck Lines
building and into a modern, carpeted studio on the top (fifth)
floor of the tallest building in town. During broadcasts thick
drapes were drawn across the windows, but before and after the
live shows, one could open them and look out at the levee, the old
elm and sycamore trees along
lUinois Central tracks, the big, leafy
the edge of the river, and the ferry landing almost directly below.
Announcer Sonny Payne wondered why the irascible old harp
man had come back after aU these years, bowler hat, attache case,
two-tone suits, and all. "Sonny Boy," he said one day after a
broadcast, "I thought you were having a ball over there in Eu-
rope."
"Yes, sir, I was."
"Why'd you come back?"
"I just come home to die. I know I'm sick."
 —

DEEP BLUES • 262

"How do you know you're going to die?"

Sonny Boy looked Payne right in the eye. "We're just like ele-
phants," he said. "We knows."
At least that's the way Sonny Payne tellsit. The story sounds

heavily romanticized, but apparently it isn't.Houston Stackhouse

says Sonny Boy told him, "Well, Stack, I done come home to die
now."
Stackhouse was unconvinced: "I thought he's just talkin'. I
carried him to Greenwood, two or three times. We had some plays
down there, and I'd go down there with him, and we'd play. So he
had me to carry him all around where he used to be, all up and
down them roads and things. One day comin' back ... 1 knowed it
was somethin' funny about him then. ... He just wanted to see
every place that he had used to be down there. Sometimes we'd be
two or three miles out off the highway. We'd go on around. He'd
say, 'Carry me way on up in here. I got to see these people.' Or just
go look at the spots, anyhow. He didn't live long behind that."
Early in 1965, five young white rockers were staying in a Hel-
ena motel and performing at night at the Delta Supper Club, a
large roadhouse run by the local businessman who owned the
ferry. They were well known in the area because they'd been
through dozens of times as the Hawks, rockabilly singer Ronnie
Hawkins' backup group and probably the most widely imitated
white band in the Midsouth. Levon Helm, the drummer, had
grown up around Helena, but the rest of the musicians Robbie —
Robertson, Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, and Garth Hudson
were Canadians. They'd left Hawkins a couple of years before and
were making a living, if not a spectacular one, as Levon and the
Hawks, churning out tough, loud cover versions of the latest rock
and roll and r&b hits at roadhouses and frat parties from Louisi-
ana to Ontario, West Texas to New Jersey.
"Levon had grown up listening to Sonny Boy on King Biscuit
Time," Robbie Robertson recalled years later, after the Hawks had
become The Band, perhaps the most respected of all American
rock groups. "We were in Helena, just hanging out and talking
about the music, and we thought about Sonny Boy. Somebody
said, 'Maybe he's here.' So we went down to the holler —
Levon
—
knew where everything was and we asked some people if Sonny
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 263

Boy was around. They said, *Yeah, he's playing down at the cafe.'
We went down there, —
and there he was a big tall man in a bowler
hat, white hair, and a white goatee, wearing a suit he'd had made
in England that was gray on one side and black on the other, and
the reverse on the back. He looked kind of fine.
. . .

"Levon introduced himself and said, 'Can we go somewhere to

play some music?' So he took us to these friends of his. This
woman had a place where she sold bootleg corn liquor. Well, that
stuff is outrageous. We got drunk, drunk, and we all played. And,
man, he played the harmonica inside out. He'd put the whole
thing inside his mouth and play it. As time went on, I kept notic-
ing him spitting in this can. I thought maybe he was chewing to-
bacco or something. I was wandering around at one point, really
drunk, and 1 happened to look in the can, and it was blood. He was
spitting blood.
"Things got a little weird there. There were all these young
black guys around trying to hustle us. They were afraid of Sonny
Boy. He was the only legend around the neighborhood, and it was
also aknown fact that if you fucked with him, he would cut you.
But eventually there were just too many people. So we all left, and
—
we smuggled him into our motel they wouldn't let any black
—
people in there, you understand and we just played and played,
and he couldn't believe it. He'd been playing in England with the
Yardbirds and some other groups, and he told us, They're awful.
They want to play the blues so bad, and they play it so bad. We . .
.'

really got on with Sonny Boy, made all these plans. We were
gonna tour wdth him, be his backup band. Then we were playing
in New Jersey, and we got this letter from Helena saying Sonny
Boy had passed." It wasn't long after that that the Hawks got a call
from New York asking them to back up a young folksinger named
Bob Dylan.
"Carrie Wilkins said he was fishin' that Monday," Stackhouse
reports, "and Sonny Boy didn't say three words, just sat on the
river fishin' down there. Said he was just sittin' there just lookin'
into the water, just unconcerned, just fishin', and wasn't talkin' or
nothin'. And so the next day [May 25, 1965] he was dead. When
they got ready to broadcast, he hadn't showed up. Peck went back
from the radio station and went upstairs there where he was livin'
 DEEP BLUES • 264

and found him dead. ... He didn't lie about he'd come back home
to die. But he sure had a lot of people at his funeral. He was well
thought of through that country."
Nighthawk was back in Helena after a last attempt to establish
himself in Chicago in the mid-sixties. He took over King Biscuit
Time for a short while, with Peck on drums and James Starkey on
piano, but it wasn't long before he found a more remunerative gig
in Memphis. He was increasingly debilitated by heart trouble, and
two years later, on November 5, 1967, he died in Helena Hospital.
He'd consulted a root doctor first, but she said she couldn't cure
him, that he had "dropsy," and "it done run too long."
King Biscuit Time continued, but v^dth recorded music instead
of live musicians. As of this writing, it's still on the air three days a
week. Sonny Payne handles the announcing and plays Sonny
Boy's recordings between the commercials for King Biscuit Flour
and Sonny Boy Meal. "1 get requests," Payne said when I visited
Helena in 1979, "from all around this area. And at least once or
twice a month, somebody from one of the two white beauty shops
in town will call and say, 'Have you got King Biscuit Time on?'
'Yeah, it's on.' 'Well, wait'U 1 turn it up. Play us a song. Don't say
who it's for. Just play us one.' These are well-to-do white women
listening. / listen, every day when I'm doing the show, for the sim-
ple reason that there's something there. They're trying to tell you
something, and if you think hard enough and listen hard enough,
you will understand what it's all about."

IT WAS A BITTERLY COLD NIGHT on Chicago's North Side en-

tertainment strip. Otis Rush, the best of the city's modern, B. B.
King-inspired bluesmen, was leaving the bandstand after a tepid
first set —
five or six finely crafted but low-keyed instrumentals
and an indifferently sung blues shuffle. The crowd in the Wise
Fools Pub, a noisy little storefront bar v^dth a reputation for pre-
senting some of Chicago's finest blues talent, began to thin out a
httle,and the blues fans I was sitting with were debating whether
to stay or to walk a few blocks up the street to another club, where
Jimmy Rogers and the brilliant but erratic harmonica virtuoso Big
Walter Horton were co-leading a band. "1 caught their first set,"
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 265

someone said, "and it was great right up to the end. But they were
getting real drunk, and Walter started playing in a different key
from everybody else. I don't think the rest of the night's gonna be
too hot."
Dick Shurman, a serious aficionado who's usually able to sniff
out the hottest blues sets on any given night, looked over at the
bar, where Rush was nursing a drink and 'staring moodily at the
floor, his lacquered rooster hairdo glinting in the amber light.
"When Otis gets like this," Shurman said, "there's no telling
what he'll do. But I don't think he's gonna do much tonight. We
oughta give Jimmy and Walter a try." Everybody trooped off into
the snow but me; I don't get to Chicago that often, and at that
point Otis Rush hadn't been to New York since the sixties. Not
long after my friends left, a lovely Japanese girl walked in, and
Rush brightened. He'd toured Japan to great acclaim and re-
corded an inspired live album there in 1975, and blues gossips had
told me a female fan followed him back to Chicago and moved in
with him, vastly improving his outlook on life (which has never
been notably positive or predictable) Otis and the girl exchanged
.

a few pleasantries, and then he returned to the bandstand.

The set that followed was devastating. The first tune rocked,
with Otis snarling the words out of the side of his mouth, and then
he settled down to slow, minor-key blues, an idiom in which no-
body can touch him. "He's so good, man," Muddy Waters had told
me, and Muddy doesn't dispense praise lightly. There are indica-
tions of how good Rush can be on his records, beginning vvdth "All
Your Love (I Miss Loving)," "Double Trouble," and the other
sides he made for the Cobra label between 1956 and 1958, contin-
uing with his sporadic appearances on local labels and his more
recent albums. AH of these records have been flawed by lackluster
backup or uneven performances from Rush himself, but all of
them have contained at least a glimmer of sheer genius. That
night at the Wise Fools, during one forty-minute set, Otis focused
all his extraordinary talents. His grainy, gospelish singing carried
the weight of so much passion and frustration, it sounded like the
words were being torn from his throat, and his guitar playing hit
heights 1 didn't think any musician was capable of notes bent —
and twisted so delicately and immaculately they seemed to form
actual words, phrases that cascaded up the neck, hung suspended
 DEEP BLUES • 266

over the rhythm, and fell suddenly, bunching at the bottom in an-
guished paroxysms.
The performance, if it that, was shattering and
you could call

uplifting all at once, the way blues

supposed to be. I had heard
is

bluesmen play and sing with comparable intensity and technique,

—
but Otis Rush had something else an ear for the finest pitch
shadings and the ability to execute them on the guitar, not as
mere effects but as meaningful components in a personal vocabu-
lary, a musical language. He was playing the deep blues. After the
set I passed him at the bar and told him how overwhelmed I'd
been, but he was being moody again. "Yeah," he mumbled,
"thanks." "By the way," 1 added, "I've been out interviewing
Muddy Waters, and he said if I saw you tonight to be sure and
send you his regards." Rush smiled brightly for the second time
that night. "I tell you," he said, warmly wringing my hand, "I love
that man."
Rush arrived in Chicago in 1948 at the age of fourteen.
Otis
He'd sung in church choirs, and he'd been fooling with the guitar
since he was eight, but the countryside near Philadelphia, Missis-
sippi, where he grew up, didn't offer much inspiration in the way
of hve music; what little Otis learned he picked up from two older
brothers who were amateur guitarists and from records. After he
settled in Chicago, he began listening to Muddy, John Lee
Hooker, and other Delta bluesmen, and by the early fifties he was
working as Little Otis ("Everybody was 'Little' at that time Lit- —
tle Walter, Little Otis, Little Milton") at various ghetto clubs, du-
plicating, as best he could, blues hits by Muddy, Hooker, Walter,
and other popular artists. Gradually, he progressed from playing
and singing mostly in a Muddy / Hooker vein to the idiom of young-
er performers hke B. B. and Albert King —
^high-note string bend-
ing, biting single-note lines. And he began listening carefuUy to
jazz guitarists like Kenny Burrell, George Benson, and Chicago
session man Reggie Boyd, who gave him some lessons.
In 1956 a West Side businessman named Eli Toscano launched
his new Cobra label with Rush's "I Can't Quit You Baby." It was a
medium-slow, steady-rocking shuffle, with Otis shouting the gos-
pel blues and playing rapid-fire bursts of high-note guitar paced by
bass-string riffs that still retained a little of the Muddy Waters feel.
During the next few years, Cobra introduced two more young
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 267

guitarists, Magic Sam and Buddy Guy, who together with Otis be-
came the leading practitioners of what's been called the West Side
blues style. Sam, whose real name was Sam Maghett, had a back-
ground that Born in Grenada, Missis-
strikingly paralleled Otis's.
sippi, in 1937, he learned to play guitar mostly by listening to the
early recordings of Muddy Waters and Little Walter, moved to
Chicago at the age of thirteen, and began working in the West
Side taverns with his uncle, the harmonica player Shakey Jake.
Buddy Guy was born in Lettsworth, Louisiana, in 1936 and also
learned to play from records (Hooker, T-Bone Walker) but he'd ,

had a few years of professional experience before he arrived in

Chicago. Otis and Magic Sam were playing a "Battle of the Blues"
at the Blue Flame Club at Fifty-fifth and State when Buddy
walked in off the street and floored them by playing and singing in
a similar style but with even more intensity and showmanship. It
was Sam who arranged for Guy's first recording contract, with
Cobra's Artistic subsidiary.
The young West Side guitarists introduced a number of innova-
tions into Chicago's stiU heavily Delta-oriented blues community,
including slow, gospel-tinged blues sung in minor keys (an idea
taken up wdth great success by Bobby "Blue" Bland a year or two
after Otis' and Sam's first successes with such material) and
probably the earliest use on blues records of the new electric bass.
Rush actually initiated both trends, the first with "I Can't Quit
You Baby," the second with his working bands of the period. He
had Greenwood-born guitarist Willie D. Warren playing bass lines
on the four bottom strings of his regular guitar before Fender
began marketing the four-stringed bass guitar. But the Cobra
venture that had begun so promisingly soon went downhill. Tos-
cano was an inveterate gambler who began gambling away the
money that was due his artists, and he ended up heavily in debt.
In 1959 his labels folded.
Otis went on to record for Chess and Duke, but they released
only a few singles and kept his career in limbo until the mid-
sixtieswhen he participated in sessions for Vanguard Records'
— —
Chicago The Blues Today!, the first anthology of modern Chi-
cago blues aimed specifically at a white folk and rock audience.
From that point on, Otis became a favorite of numerous white
blues and rock guitarists, including Duane Allman, Mike Bloom-
 DEEP BLUES • 268

field, and Eric Clapton. But his recording career was erratic. He
made an overproduced album for Atlantic in 1968; a set recorded
for Capitol in 1971 went unreleased until the small Bullfrog label
bought the tapes and put them out in 1976; and since then, there
have been two albums on Delmark and a handful of European and
Japanese releases.
Rush remains a suspicious, introverted man. He almost never
—
works in Chicago's black clubs he once commented that he'd
seen too many people knifed or gunned down while he was play-
—
ing and when he travels to the East or West Coast, he usually
goes as a single, picking up local musicians for his various club
dates and rehearsing them on the bandstand. His music, and the
music of contemporaries hke Buddy Guy, has grown closer to rock
in certain ways —
^long instrumental solos are emphasized more
than the songs and the singing, and fast-paced, rocking tempos
are mandatory for opening and closing numbers. But even in his
more involved instrumental workouts, Otis retains the expressive
essence of deep blues.
In 1978 Rush made a triumphant return to New York, bringing
a tight Chicago band with him and packing the Village Gate for
three weeks. Less than a year later, he showed up for an opening
set at New York's Lone Star Cafe missing a front tooth and tanked
to the gills —not a He proceeded to turn in an
state he's often in.
embarrassingly erratic, self-indulgent performance, backed by an
incompetent pickup band that hadn't been able to rehearse with
him and apparently had never heard any of his records. After the
set, he got into a violent argument with his Japanese lady friend,

who ran out of the club in tears and attempted to commit suicide
by prostrating herself in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Onlookers
dragged her out of the path of the oncoming traffic, and Otis got
through the rest of the gig, more or less, but his rejuvenated
career as a New York club attraction seemed to have come to a
premature end.
A year later I went to hear Rush at another New York club.
Tramps. The band was a local pickup group vsdth a decent rhythm
section and little personality, but Otis showed up radiating confi-
dence and played a magnificent two-hour set during which he
managed to keep the audience riveted on his every move while
teaching the band most of the material they'd be doing for the re-
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 269

mainder of the engagement. The next few times I saw him at

Tramps, he'd whipped his backup band into shape and his music
was almost up to the standards he'd set that unforgettable night in
Chicago.
Magic Sam suffered a heart attack in 1969, just as he was about
to attract a substantial white following, which would have meant
breaking out of the grind of low-paying ghetto bar work. Buddy
Guy is still going strong, often in partnership with the West Mem-
phis-born harmonica player and former Muddy Waters sideman
Junior Wells. Like Otis Rush, these musicians are playing Chicago
—
blues a music shaped by the Delta heritage but very much a
music of the city, a music of today. Chicago's black blues clubs

seem be about as active as ever, and new blues performers con-

to
tinue to find their way out of ghetto anonymity and onto record
albums and festival stages. Many of these newcomers are middle-
aged or older, but some are still in their thirties, and a few, like the
sensitive guitarist Lurrie Bell, are still in their early twenties.

IT WAS ANOTHER CHICAGO WINTER, and at five in the after-

noon the Wise Fools Pub was already dark. In-
street outside the
side, the Son Seals blues band was waiting apprehensively for
Seals, who was driving over from his apartment on the South Side
through a rapidly developing snowstorm. The studious-looking
rhythm guitarist was sitting in the middle of the Pub's tiny stage
restringing his instrument, the bassist was running through his
extensive repertoire of funk Hcks, and the drummer was sitting
with veteran blues saxophonist A. C. Reed at a corner table, dis-
cussing some fine points having to do with drinking and the
weather. "It's okay to drink when you're running around in this
kind of cold," Reed was saying, "but the thing is, you got to keep
on drinking."
Seals made his entrance briskly, his black overcoat flapping be-
hind him, his guitar already out of its case and ready for action. As
usual, his round, expressive face was caught halfway between a
cocky grin and a bad-ass glare. Though he was still in his thirties
(he'll turn forty in 1982), he was the hottest blues guitarist in
Chicago, with a string of international club and festival appear-
 DEEP BLUES • 270

ances to his credit and two albums on the independent Alligator

label that had drawn extravagant critical praise ("Chicago's most
exciting newblues voice in a decade"). On this particular night
he was begin recording a new live album, but things weren't
to
—
going right. His amplifier ^he used the bottom of a bass amplifier
to get his fat, sizzling sound —
was acting up, his pianist hadn't
shown up for the rehearsal earlier that afternoon, and the weath-
erman was predicting Chicago's heaviest snowfall in ten years.
The preceding weeks had been plagued by other mishaps. The van
Seals and his band traveled in broke down in the middle of no-
where; his onstage wardrobe was stolen. That's the blues.
Son Seals was born into the blues, and not just in a figurative
sense. His father, Jim Seals, ran the Dipsy Doodle in Osceola, Ar-
kansas, and the family lived in a frame house attached to the club.
Son, whose given name is Frank, was born August 11, 1942, and
he says that "blues is the first thing 1 ever heard. When I was a
kid, it seemed kind of like a dream. Blues was all we had on the
—
jukebox Muddy Waters, Jimmy Rogers, Elmore James. Guys
like Robert Nighthawk, Joe HiQ Louis, and later Albert King
would play in the Dipsy Doodle on the weekends." When Son
showed an early interest in percussion, his father brought him a
drum set; by the time he was in his mid-teens, he was playing at
the Dipsy Doodle and other spots around Osceola behind Night-
hawk and Rice Miller, among others.
There was a larger black club on the outskirts of Osceola, the
T-99, and before long Son was in demand there, too. "Guys fike
B. B. King, Junior Parker, and Rufus Thomas would come into
town on a weekend to play the T-99," he remembers, "and a lot of
times, they would call before they came over and ask would I play
with 'em. But 1 learned guitar along with the drums, learned it
from my father, and for a while there I was playing guitar all
around Arkansas during the week and drums on the weekend. I
wanted to get my own band together, and when my father saw
that 1 was interested, he pitched in, helped us get a couple of
amps, a guitar, stuff like that. So I got some guys together and
started working around town, in Blytheville, up at the Arkansas-
Missouri state line, and in 1959 1 took this band over to Little Rock
to work at the Chez Paris."
The Chez was on Ninth
Paris Street, the main thoroughfare of
 —

THE WORLD BOOGIE • 271

Little Rock's black community. Most of the bluesmen who'd

worked there in the early fifties —
were gone Driftin' Slim was in
California, Rice Miller was spending a lot of time in the North
but local entrepreneur Jim Lindsay was still running clubs in Lit-
tle Rock and in North Little Rock across the Arkansas River, and

Seals, now concentrating on guitar, found plenty of work. Son and

his band would play at the Chez Paris until after midnight, then
pack up and race across the bridge to one of Lindsay's North Little
Rock clubs, where the law was lenient and the joints kept rocking
until four or five in the morning. "I played some rock and roll,"
Son notes; he still plays slashing renditions of "Johnny B. Goode"
and other Chuck Berry songs. "We'd play in schools around there
for a bunch of kids, and they wanted to hear Little Richard or the
Platters. I had a guy singing wdth me who could sing like Sam
Cooke, too. Playing Chuck Berry stuff was fun, 'cause he had that
blues touch all the time, even though he spoke in rock and roll.
But basically, rock and roll wasn't what I was used to. We had to
learn to play some of everything, but when I had the chance, I'd
always fall back into the blues."

During the early sixties Son also took occasional road gigs as a
drummer, most notably with the former Robert Nighthawk stu-
dent Earl Hooker and his Roadmasters. He visited Chicago briefly
in 1962, and there he met Hound Dog Taylor and several other
Delta musicians, but the mid-sixties found him back in Osceola,
taking care of his ailing father. The town had changed, and so had
the Dipsy Doodle. "See, my father's place was right in the middle
of town," says Son. "He was hving right in the community, people
all around. Well, they gets a new chief of police, and he comes

down, says, 'You all can't do this, and you gotta cut that out.' So
my father couldn't have no bands. He had to cut out a lot of enter-
tainment. Now the T-99 was out of the city limits, so the bands
could still play over there. But right across the highway from my
father's place was a bunch of whites living in that area, and they'd
complain, blah blah, this and that all night long. So for a while my
father had just a piano player, and then it was the jukebox."
Albert King grew up around Osceola, and Son had been listen-
ing to him for years. "He always had that sound, man. Back then,
you could walk up outside a joint, and you could say. That's Albert
in there. That's so and so on piano.' You could tell the difference
 DEEP BLUES • 272

even a mile away if they were playing in one of those wood build-
ings. Albertmay have developed a httle more technique, but even
then you could tell him from all the rest." In 1966, King found
himself desperately in need of a solid blues drummer, and he
called Son, who temporarily put his guitar away and spent the
next couple of years on the road. That's Son drumming on King's
Live Wire Blues Power album, recorded at the Fillmore West in
1968. These were the years that found Albert, B. B. King, and
other bluesmen breaking out of the grind of chitlin circuit one-
nighters to play for white rock audiences, a development Son
found interesting. But in 1968 he returned to Osceola, where his
father was now seriously ill. Jim Seals died in January 1971, and
Son, now almost thirty and a veteran of the road, decided the only
place to go was Chicago.
"Not I got to Chicago and got me a day job," he
too long after
says, "1 went down to where Hound Dog Taylor was playing. I
hadn't seen him since I was up visiting in 1962, but he remem-
bered me. He said, 'Hot damn, there go Son Seals.' His other gui-
tar player had quit him, and he said, 'Man, I'm sure glad to see
you. I can use you.' He was playing at the Expressway Lounge
over on Fifty-fifth Street. So we worked together there and some
other places. Three or four places around town we'd make during
the week and then do the Expressway on the weekends. Then
Hound Dog started making records for Alligator and getting more
out-of-town work, and it got to where he couldn't hold down the
job at the Expressway Lounge. So he said, 'Why don't you take
"
it?'

Taylor had been playing basic Delta blues in the Elmore James
style, but once Son took over, the music got more modern. The
main thrust of his playing was derived from Albert King's work,
but there were strong reminders in it of everything he'd done,
from the early days backing Nighthawk and other traditional
bluesmen to the rock and roll gigs in Little Rock. He also had his
own songs, some with strikingly original lyrics "Your Life Is—
Like a Cancer,'/ for example. wasn't long before a dedicated
It

Chicago blues fan named Wesley Race excitedly telephoned Alli-

gator Records' Bruce Iglauer from the Flamingo, Seals's regular
Thursday-night gig, and held the telephone outside the booth so
that Bruce could hear the raw, rocking music. "Who the hell is
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 273

that?" Iglauer asked. He thought he knew the Chicago blues

scene pretty well, but this was somebody he hadn't encountered
before. "That," said Race proudly, "is Son Seals." Iglauer came
down and decided to make an album strictly on the basis of Seals's
playing and singing. Son astonished him by showing up at the first
rehearsal for the album with a stack of his own songs.
During the rest grew from a shaky
of the seventies Alligator
one-man operation most successful modern blues label,
into the
with worldwide distribution and a booking office for all its artists.
Son began working more and more out-of-town gigs, and his sec-
ond Alligator album, Midnight Son, really opened things up for
him —appearances at some of the country's major rock night-
clubs, festivals, European tours. The album was a musical land-
mark as well. There were bright, punching horn arrangements,
the rhythms were contemporary, the music's aggressive energy
was pure rock and roll, but the singing and guitar playing and
Son's songs were unquestionably the blues. "I want to stay on top
of things," Seals says. "I want to always be able to be creative and
change away from the same stuff you been hearing the last twenty
or thirty years. As long as I can come up wiih some good lyrics, I
can create a good new piece of music to go with 'em. That's what I
mean by doing my own thing, and that concerns me quite a bit all
the time."
We dark corner of the Wise Fools, waiting for
sat at a table in a
the place to fill up. The
blizzard was hitting its peak, but people
came stragghng in by twos and threes, and pretty soon the room
was packed, with more listeners crowded into the adjoining bar.
Bruce Iglauer was down dank basement, his four-
in the club's
track recording console set up on a stack of beer cases. When Son
saw the house filling, he excused himself, and before long the
band hit a solid shuffle instrumental, wdth more than a hint of
James Brown funk from bassist Snapper Mitchum. Son, now
dressed in a brown suit, shirt, and hat, with a rakish feather in his
hatband, pushed through the crowd to the bandstand and plugged
in. He's a gravelly, authoritative singer, with a unique way of

chuckhng and laughing in time to the music without undercut-

ting his carefully cultivated aura of menace. You can hear traces
in his vocals of B. B. King and Ray Charles, among others, but
they've been subsumed into a personal approach. And by this
 DEEP BLUES • 274

time, he was more than an adept Albert King imitator on guitar.

The phrases came coursing out of his amp, grainy and distorted in
tone like the fifties Johnson and Pat Hare but exe-
solos of Willie
cuted at a furiouspace and with razor-sharp rhythmic acuity.
With all those years as a drummer behind him. Son could make
you stomp your feet and want to get up and dance even without
his band, and the band was pushing hard.
Despite the blizzard, occasional squawks of static from his tem-
peramental amp, and the frustrations of the past few days, Son
turned in a spectacular night of blues playing. In his slow blues in
particular, the attentive listener could hear fleeting reminders of
the man's rich heritage. When he squeezed out a lagging, Uquid
phrase in his guitar's middle register, the sound was unmistak-
ably Robert Nighthawk. When he played "The Sky Is Crying,"
running his tough, callused fingers up the instrument's neck like
a metal slider, he recalled the intensity of Elmore James. There
were flashes of Albert and B. B. King, of Junior Parker, even of the
Muddy Waters records that were on the Dipsy Doodle's jukebox
when Son was a toddler. Between sets I asked him about all the
ghosts I was hearing. Were they really there? 'The things that I

heard and learned while being around those guys are things you
can't forget," he said. "Even though you're trying to do your own
thing, that basis wdU come out. A lot of times it may come out
without me being conscious of it. You're hearin' somethin' that
sounds like Robert sometimes, and somethin' that sounds like El-
more? Sure, man. It's there."

SON SEALS CAN CALL UP THE SHADES of Robert Nighthawk,

Elmore James, and his other early influences wdth uncanny imme-
diacy simply by attacking a note a certain way or bending a string
just so. But Seals doesn't have the acute sensitivity to pitch shad-
ings that makes Otis Rush's blues so compelling. Rush added
modern jazz influences, including the idea of taking long impro-
vised solos, to his Mississippi blues roots, and in doing so he for-
feited the sort of concise sledgehammer efl'ect Muddy Waters
achieved in three-minute masterpieces like "Still a Fool." Muddy
simphfied Robert Johnson's busier, more difl'use rhythms, and
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 275

Johnson had akeady streamlined Charley Patton's earlier blues,

which were predicated on a rhythmic density later blues musi-
cians never even attempted to duplicate.
Similarly, Son Seals 's most personal blues lyrics have never
quite matched the self-revealing intensity of Son House's
"Preachin' the Blues" or Robert Johnson's "Hellhound on my
Trail." And Johnson, despite his exceptional gifts as a lyricist,
never captured the look, the feel, and the complex social relation-
ships of his time and place as vividly as Charley Patton did in blues
like "Tom Rushen" and "Moon Going Down" and "High Water
Everywhere."
Has deep blues been declining, falling ever so slowly from the
grace of its early years? I don't think so; I think it's been in a con-
stant state of flux. It's true that Charley Patton's blues were richer
rhythmically and perhaps more telling lyrically than the blues that
have come after them, but if Patton were alive today he'd probably
be amazed at how fluidly and eloquently Otis Rush makes his
electric guitar speak. Robert Johnson made some of the most
thrilling records in the history of American music, but he didn't
live to develop an ensemble music with the refined, classical bal-
ance of Muddy Waters' early band recordings, and one can't auto-
matically assume that he'd have been able to if he'd been given a
few more years. Blues has lost a lot; it's lost the sense of in-group
solidarity that once tied it so closely to its core audience, its crucial
context of blackness. But it's gained a new, wider context, and
that isn't necessarily bad. Delta blues never enjoyed a golden age;
the musicians were too busy learning and evolving and speaking
their souls.
The deepest blues asks its listeners to confront their joys, their
sorrows, their lusts, and, above all, their mortality. If the music
has a single Great Subject, it's impermanence. "The sun's gonna
shine in my back door some day," sang Tommy Johnson, hope-
fully. "The wind's gonna rise and blow my blues away." Willie

Brown began his 1930 recording "Future Blues" with these lines:
"Can't tell my future, I can't tell my past /Lord it seems like every
minute sure gon' be my last." Son House sang in "My Black
Mama," "It ain't no heaven, no, ain't no burnin' hell /Where I'm
going when I die, can't nobody tell." Once you start remembering
them, the images of loss, gain, physical movement, and metaphys-
 DEEP BLUES • 276

ical transformation accumulate in hard, diamondlike clusters.

"Leaving this morning if I have to ride the bhnds." "Gonna get up
in the mornin', I believemy broom." "You may bury my
I'll dust
body down by the highway side / So my old evil spirit can catch a
Greyhound bus and ride." "I'm gonna write me a letter, I'm
gonna mail it in the sky /Mama, I know you will catch it when the
wind goes blowing it by." "I'm goin' down to Louisiana /Baby be-
hind the sun /Well y'know I just found out /My trouble's just
begun."
But even as it's coming to terms with impermanence, the blues
is asserting a permanence of its own, and it's in deep blues that

that permanence is most imposing. During the eight decades that

have passed since Charley Patton learned blues from Henry Sloan,
a beast we call Civilization has utterly transformed our planet.
Nomads and hunter-gatherers whose ancestors hved in the open
and understood the language of the physical world now sit mutely
in urban cubicles, watching "Charlie's Angels" and "Kojak" and
"Hee Haw." Ancient civilizations have crumbled, dynasties have
fallen, rivers and lakes and oceans have been poisoned, men in
funny rubber suits have provided diversion by walking on the sur-
face of the moon. Yet the music of Charley Patton, a functionally
illiterate rounder who sang for common laborers in an isolated
geographical pocket that most of the rest of America had forgotten
or never knew existed, still informs, entertains, and moves listen-
ers all over the world. Son Seals can still add a httle pressure to his
touch on the guitar strings, shde into a note just so, and instantly
communicate something of the personality, the creativity, the ac-
complishment of a man who called himself Robert Nighthawk and
learned from Houston Stackhouse, who learned from Tommy
Johnson, who learned from Charley Patton, who learned from
—
Henry Sloan the tradition is unbroken, the language is still spo-
ken and understood.
Leo Smith, who is a composer and trumpet player and a close
associate of Anthony Braxton and other jazz avant-gardists, was
raised in the Delta by a bluesman, his stepfather Alec Wallace.
"Growing up in that environment made me feel that whatever I
play relates to a gigantic field of feeling," he says. "To me, the
blues is a hterary and musical form and also a basi c philosophy.
When I get ready to study the mystical aspect ot black people, I go
 THE WORLD BOOGIE • 277

to the blues; then I feel that I'm in touch with the root of black
people."
A literary and musical form ... a fusion of music and poetry ac-
complished at a veryhigh emotional temperature these are dif-
. . .

ferent ways of describing the same thing. A gigantic field of

feeling . . . that's a way of describing something enduring, some-
thing that could be limitless. How much thought (to return to
Miss Waddell's Clarksdale English class, May 1943) can be hid-
den in a few short lines of poetry? How much history can be
transmitted by pressure on a guitar string? The thought of gen-
erations, the history of every human being who's ever felt the
blues come down like showers of rain.
 DISCOGRAPHY

I: SELECTED AFRICAN RECORDINGS

SENEGAMBIA
Wolof Music of Senegal and the Gambia. Ethnic Folkways FE 4462.
African Journey: A Search for the Roots of the Blues. Vanguard SRV
73014/5.
Le Mali des Sables: Les Songoy. Barenreiter Musicaphon BM 30 L 2503.
The Criots: Ministers of the Spoken Word. Ethnic Folkways FE 4178.
Niger: La Musique des Criots. Ocora OCR 20.
Africa: Drum, Chant and Instrumental Music. Nonesuch H-72073.

WEST COAST
Musical Atlas: Ivory Coast. EMI Odeon (Italian) 3 C064 - 17842.
Masques Dan, Cote d'lvoire. Ocora OCR 52.
Musique Toma Guinee. Vogue LDM 30107.
Musiques Dahomeennes. Ocora OCR 17.
Africa: Ancient Ceremonies, Dance Music and Songs of Ghana. None-
such H-72082.

CONGO-ANGOLA
Musique Kongo. Ocora OCR 35.
Musique Centrafricaine. Ocora OCR 43.
Anthologie de la Musique des Pygmees Aka: Empire Centrafricain. Ocora
558526/7/8.
 DEEP BLUES • 280

NOTES: The Nonesuch and Folkways recordings are the most easily ob-
tainable. Of the Senegambian recordings, African Journey, Le Mali des
Sables, and especially Niger: La Musique des Griots offer excellent exam-
ples of singing and stringed-instrument styles related to blues. The west
or slave coast recordings Masques Dan and Musique Toma Guinee in-
clude examples of voice masking. The anthology of Aka pygmy music in-
cludes examples of pygmy whooping and yodeling.

II: BLUES ROOTS

Afro- American Spirituals, Work Songs, and Ballads. Library of Congress

AAFS L3.
Afro-American Blues and Game Songs. Library of Congress AAFS L4.
Negro Work Songs and Calls. Library of Congress AAFS L8.
Negro Religious Songs and Services. Library of Congress AAFS LIO.
Negro Blues and Hollers. Library of Congress AFS L59.
Roots of the Blues. New World Records 252. NW
Afro-American Folk Music from Tate and Panola Counties, Mississippi.
Library of Congress AFS L67.
Traveling Through the Jungle: Negro Fife and Drum Band Music from
the Deep South. Testament T-2223.

NOTES: Afro-American Spirituals, Work Songs, and Ballads includes a

ring shout. Afro-American Blues and Game Songs includes two of Muddy
Waters's Library of Congress recordings (collected in full on Muddy Wa-
ters: Down on Stovall's Plantation, Testament T-2210). Roots of the
Blues is a fine collection of 1959 field recordings from northern Missis-
Alan Lomax. The last two albums named are field recordings by
sippi by
David Evans and document extensive African survivals in black folk
music from Mississippi.

III. RECOMMENDED BLUES COLLECTIONS

Really!The Country Blues. Origin Jazz Library OJL-2.
Country Blues Encores. Origin Jazz Library OJL-8.
Goin' Up Rounder 2012.
the Country.
Let's Get Loose: Folkand Popular Blues Styles from the Beginnings to
the Early 1940's. New World Records NW 290.
Black Cat Trail. Mamlish S3800.
Home Again Blues. Mamlish S-3799.
 DISCOGRAPHY • 281

NOTES: The two OJL albums include pre-World War Two recordings
from the Delta and elsewhere in the South and remain the definitive
country blues anthologies. Goin' Up the Country is a coUection of out-
standing field recordings made in Mississippi and Louisiana in the 1960s,
and Let's Get Loose is an exceptionally wide-ranging anthology, including
early white blues, vocal-group blues, and other styles, assembled by
Evans. The two Mamlish albums are excellent coUections of early electric
blues from Mississippi, Chicago, and elsewhere, recorded in the late
1940s and early 1950s.

IV. BLUES FROM THE DELTA, AND RELATED TRADITIONS

Charley Patton: Founder of the Delta Blues. Yazoo L-1020.

Patton, Sims, and Bertha Lee. Herwin 213.
The Famous 1928 Tommy Johnson / 1 shman Bracey Session. Roots RL-
330.
Jackson Blues 1928-1938. Yazoo L-1007.
Jackson Blue Boys 1928-1940. Policy Wheel PW 4593.
The Mississippi Blues 1927-1940. Origin Jazz Library OJL-5.
The Mississippi Blues No. 2: The Delta, 1929-1932. Origin Jazz Library
OJL-11.
The Mississippi Blues No. 3: The Transition, 1926-1937. Origin Jazz Li-
brary OJL-17.
Mississippi Blues, Vol. 1. Roots RL-302.
Mississippi Blues, Vol. 2. Roots RL-303.
Mississippi Blues, Vol. 3. Roots RL-314.
Delta Blues: Skip James /Son House /Charley Patton / Robert Johnson.
Roots RL-339.
Blues Roots / Mississippi. Folkways RBF-14.
Mississippi Blues 1927-1936. Yazoo L-1001.
Mississippi Moaners 1927-1942. Yazoo L-1009.
Lonesome Road Blues: 15 Years in the Mississippi Delta 1926-1941.
Yazoo L-1038.
William Harris, Blind Joe Reynolds, Skip James: Delta Blues Heavy Hit-
ters, 1927-1931. Henvin214.

Mississippi Bottom Blues. Mamlish S-3802.

Bullfrog Blues. Mamlish S-3809.
Mississippi Delta Blues Vol. 1. Arhoolie 1041.
Mississippi Delta Blues Vol. 2. Arhoolie 1042.
The Sound of the Delta. Testament T-2209.
Blind Lemon Jefferson /Son House. Biograph BLP- 12040.
 DEEP BLUES • 282

Son House: The Legendary 1941-1942 Recordings in Chronological Se-

quence. Arhoolie/Folklyric 9002.
Son House, Willie Brown, and others: Walking Blues. Flyright LP 541.
The Legendary Son House, Father of Folk Blues. Columbia CS 9217.
Son House: The Real Delta Blues. Blue Goose 2016.
Robert Johnson: King of the Delta Blues Singers. Columbia CL 1654.
Robert Johnson: King of the Delta Blues Singers, Vol. 2. Columbia C
30034.
Calvin Frazierand Sampson Pittman: I'm in the Highway Man. Flyright
LP 542.
Muddy Waters: Down on StovalVs Plantation. Testament T-2210.
Tommy McClennan. French RCA /Bluebird PM 42040.
Big Joe Williams: Early Recordings 1935-1941. Mamlish S-3810.
David "Honeyboy" Edwards: I've Been Around. Trix 3319.
David "Honeyboy" Edwards: Mississippi Delta Bluesman. Folkways FS
3539.
Blues from the Delta. Matchbox SDM 226.
High Water Blues: Field Recordings of Mississippi and Louisiana Blues,
1965/70. Flyright LP 512.
South Mississippi Blues. Rounder 2009.
Roosevelt Holts and His Friends. Arhoolie 1057.
Fred McDowell and Johnny Woods. Rounder 2007.
Mississippi Fred McDowell: Delta Blues. Arhoolie F 1021.
Sounds of the South. Atlantic 1346.
Roots of the Blues. Atlantic 1348.
The Blues Roll On. Atlantic 1352.
Mississippi River Blues. Flyright-Matchbox SDM 230.
The Mississippi Sheiks: Stop and Listen. Mamlish S 3804.
Walter Vinson: Rats Been On My Cheese. Agram AB 2003.
Sam Chatmon: The Mississippi Sheik. Blue Goose 2006.
Bo Carter: Greatest Hits 1930-1940. Yazoo L-1014.
Bo Carter: Twist It Babe 1931-1940. Yazoo L-1034.
Bo Carter: Banana in Your Fruit Basket, Red Hot Blues 1931-36. Yazoo
L-1064.
It Must Have Been the Devil: Mississippi Country Blues by Jack Owens
and Bud Spires. Testament T-2222.
Skip James: Early Blues Recordings 1931. Biograph BLP 12029.
Skip James: Devil Got My Woman. Vanguard VSD 79273.
Skip James: Today! Vanguard VSD 79219.
Memphis Shakedown. Magpie PY 1810.
Memphis Jug Band. Yazoo 1067.
 DISCOGRAPHY • 283

South Memphis Jug Band. Flyright LP 113.

Memphis Blues, Vol. 1. Roots RL-323.
Memphis Blues, Vol. 2. Roots RL-329.
The Memphis Area 1927-1932. Roots RL-307.
Low Down Memphis Barrelhouse Blues. Mamlish S 3803.
The Blues in Memphis 1927-1939. Origin Jazz Library OJL-21.
Ten Years in Memphis 1927-1937. Yazoo L-1002.
Frank Stokes' Dream: The Memphis Blues 1927-1931. Yazoo L-1008.
Memphis Jamboree 1927-1936. Yazoo L-1021.
// Beale Street Could Talk ... A Selection of Pre-War Memphis Blues Fa-
vorites 1928-1939. Magnolia 501.
Jumping on the Hill: Memphis Blues and Hokum 1928-1941. Policy
Wheel PW 459-1.
Jim Jackson: Kansas City Blues. Agram AB 2004.
Frank Stokes: Creator of the Memphis Blues. Yazoo L-1056.
Blues Classics by Memphis Minnie. Blues Classics 1.
Memphis Minnie Vol. 2. Blues Classics 13.
Memphis Minnie and Kansas Joe McCoy 1929-1936. Paltram PL-101.
Sleepy John Estes, 1929-1940. Folkways/RBF 8.
The Blues in St. Louis 1929-1937. Origin Jazz Library OJL-20.
Good Time Blues! St. Louis 1926-1932. Mamlish S 3805.
Hard Time Blues: St. Louis 1933-1940. Mamlish S 3806.
St. Louis Blues: The Depression 1929-1935. Yazoo L-1030.

St. Louis Town 1927-1932. Yazoo L-1003.

Leroy Carr: Blues Before Sunrise. Columbia CL 1799.
Leroy Carr and Scrapper Blackwell: Naptown Blues 1929-1934. Yazoo
L-1036.
Peetie Wheatstraw 1930-1936. Flyright 111.
Blues Classics by Kokomo Arnold /Peetie Wheatstraw. Blues Classics 4.
Roosevelt Sykes: The Country Blues Piano Ace 1929-1932. Yazoo L-1033.
Roosevelt Sykes and His Original Honey Drippers: Boogie Honky Tonk.
Oldie Blues OL 2818.
Bluebird Blues. RCA Victor LPV-518.
Big Joe Williams and Sonny Boy Williamson. Blues Classics 21.
Blues Classics by Sonny Boy Williamson. Blues Classics 3.

Blues Classics by Sonny Boy Williamson, Volume 2. Blues Classics 20.

Blues Classics by Sonny Boy Williamson, Volume 3. Blues Classics 24.
"Sonny Boy" Williamson, Vol. 1. French RCA FXMl 7203.
''Sonny Boy" Williamson, Vol. 2. French RCA PM 42049.

NOTE: The above albums are by John Lee Williamson, "Sonny Boy I."
 DEEP BLUES • 284

Big Maceo: Chicago Breakdown. RCA /Bluebird AXM2-5506.

Arthut "Big Boy" Crudup: The Father of Rock and Roll RCA LPV-573.
Lake Michigan Blues 1934-1941. Nighthawk 105.
Windy City Blues 1935-1953. Nighthawk 101.
Chicago Slickers 1948-1953. Nighthawk 102.
Chicago Boogie 1947. Barrelhouse bh 04.
Chicago Blues: The Beginning. 12 Previously Unissued 1946 Recordings
in the Newly Developed Modern Blues Styles by Muddy Waters, Johnny
Shines, Homer Harris and James Clark. Testament T-2207.
On the Road Again: An Anthology of Chicago Blues 1947-1954. Muska-
dine No. 100.
Blues is Killing Me. 14 Rare Performances, Many Previously Unissued,

from the Golden Age of Chicago Blues. Juke Joint 1501.

Chicago Blues: The Early 1950's. Blues Classics 8.
Tampa Red: Guitar Wizard. RCA /Bluebird AXM2-5501.
Tampa Red 1932-1953. Oldie Blues OL 2816.
Tampa Red: The Guitar Wizard 1935-1953. Blues Classics 25.
Genesis: The Beginnings of Rock. English Chess 6641047 (4 Ip's).
Genesis Vol. 2: Memphis to Chicago. English Chess 6641125 (4 Ip's).
Genesis Vol. 3: Sweet Home Chicago. English Chess 6641174 (4 Ip's).
Blues from the Windy City: Chicago in Transition 1946-1952. Flyright
4713.
Drop Down Mama. Chess 411.
After Midnight: Chicago Blues 1952-1957. Delta Swing 379.
Goin' To Chicago Blues: 1949-1957. Negro Rhythm 107.
Chicago Blues Anthology. Chess 2CH 60012.
Blues in D Natural. Red Lightnin' RL 005.
Sweet Home Chicago. Delmark DS-618.
Blues Southside Chicago. Flyright LP 521.
Electric Blues Chicago Style. Buddah BDS 7511.
Chicago Jump. JSP 1004.
J.T. Brown and his Boogie Boys: Rockin' with J.T. Flyright LP 4712.
J.T. Brown: Windy City Boogie. Pearl PL-9.
Robert Nighthawk: Bricks in My Pillow. Pearl PL-11.
Masters of Modem Blues Volume 4: Robert Nighthawk / Houston Stack-
house. Testament T-2215.
Robert Nighthawk: Live on Maxwell Street. Rounder 2022.
Sultans of the Slide Guitar. Blues Ball 2003.
Slide Guitar Classics. Chicago Slide CS-005.
Chicago Guitar Killers. Blue Night BN 073-1669.
Johnny Shines and Robert Lockwood: Dust My Broom. Flyright 563.
 ..

DISCOGRAPHY • 285

Johnny Shines /Big Boy Spires with Johnny Williams: Chance Vintage
Blues /R&B Crops Vol. Japanese P-Vine Special PLP 705.
1.

Johnny Shines: Too Wet to Plow. Blue Labor BL 110.

Robert Jr. Lockwood: Steady Rollin' Man. Delmark DS-630.
Robert Jr. Lockwood: Contrasts. Trix 3307.
Robert Jr. Lockwood Does 12. Trix 3317.
Robert Jr. Lockwood and the Aces: Blues Live in Japan. Advent 2807.
Elmore James /Walter Norton: Cotton Patch Hotfoots. English Polydor
Super 2383 200.
Resurrection of Elmore James. United US-7787.
Elmore James: Original Folk Blues. United US-7743.
The Legend of Elmore James. Kent KST 9001
Elmore James /John Brim: Whose Muddy Shoes. Chess 1537.
Elmore James /Eddie Taylor: Street Talkin'. Muse MR 5087.
History of Elmore James. Trip TLP 8007 (2)
History of Elmore James Volume 2. Trip TLX 9511.
Muddy Waters: Sail On. Chess 1539.
McKinley Morganfield a.k.a. Muddy Waters. Chess 2CH-60006.
Muddy Waters: Back in the Early Days, Volumes 1 and 2. Syndicate
Chapter S.C. 001/2.
Muddy Waters: Good News, Volume 3. Syndicate Chapter S.C. 002.
Muddy Waters / Little Walter /Howlin' Wolf: We Three Kings. Syndicate
Chapter S.C. 005.
They Call Me Muddy Waters. Chess CHLS 276.
Muddy Waters at Newport 1960. Chess LP 1449.
Muddy Waters Folk Singer. Chess LP 1483.
Muddy Waters "Live." Chess CH 50012.
Muddy Waters: Hard Again. Blue Sky PZ 34449.
Muddy Waters: I'm Ready. Blue Sky JZ 34928.
Muddy "Mississippi" Waters Live. Blue Sky JZ 35712.
Bo Diddley / Muddy Waters / Little Walter: Super Blues. Checker LPS-
3008.
Howlin' Wolf/ Muddy Waters /Bo Diddley: The Super Super Blues Band.
Checker LPS 3010.
The Legendary Sun Performers: Howlin' Wolf Charly CR 30134.
Howling Wolf Original Folk Blues. United US-7747.
Howlin' Wolf Heart Like Railroad Steel. Blues Ball 2001.
Howlin' Wolf Can't Put Me Out. Blues Ball 2002.
Howlin' Wolf From Early 'Til Late. Blue Night BN 073-1667.
Howlin' Wolf Going Back Home. Syndicate Chapter S.C. 003.
Chester Burnett AKA Howlin' Wolf Chess 2CH 60016.
 DEEP BLUES • 286

Howlin' Wolf: EvilChess 1540.

Howlin' Wolf:The Real Folk Blues. Chess 1502.
Howlin' Wolf Change My Way. Chess CHV 418.
Howlin' Wolf: Live and Cookin' at Alice's Revisited. Chess CH 50015.
Jimmy Rogers: Chicago Bound. Chess 407.
Jimmy Rogers. Chess 2ACMB-207.
Little Walter: Boss Blues Harmonica. Chess 2CH 60014.
Little Walter: Confessin' the Blues. Chess CHV 416.
Little Walter: Hate to See You Go. Chess CH-1535.
Little Walter: Blue and Lonesome. Le Roi du Blues 33.2007.
Little Walter: Southern Feeling. Le Roi du Blues 33.2012.
Little Walter: Blue Midnight. Le Roi du Blues 33.2017.
Sonny Boy Williamson: King Biscuit Time. Arhoolie 2020.
Sonny Boy Williamson: This Is My Story. Chess 2CH 50027.
Sonny Boy Williamson. Chess 2ACMB-206.
Sonny Boy Williamson: Bummer Road. Chess 1536.
Sonny Boy Williamson and Memphis Slim. GNP Crescendo GNP- 10003.
Sonny Boy Williamson: A Portrait in Blues. Storyville SLP 4016.
Sonny Boy Williamson: Final Sessions 1963-4. Blue Night BN 073-1668.
J.B. Lenoir I Sunnyland Slim I Lazy Bill: Chance Vintage Blues /R&B
Crops, Vol. 3. Japanese P-Vine Special PLP-707.
J.B. Lenoir: Mojo Boogie. Flyright FLY 564.
J.B. Lenoir: Natural Man. Chess 410.
J.B. Lenoir. Chess 2ACMB-208.
Homesick James: Chance Vintage Blues /R&B Crops Vol. 2. Japanese
Peavine PLP-706.
Snooky Pryor. Flyright LP 100.
Detroit Blues: The Early 1950's. Blues Classics 12.
Detroit Ghetto Blues 1948-1954. Nighthawk 104.
Blues Guitar Killers! Detroit, the 1950's. Barrelhouse BH 012.
John Lee Hooker: Detroit Special. Atlantic SD 7228.
John Lee Hooker: Folk Blues. Crown CST 295.
The Blues Came Down from Memphis. Charly CR 30125.
—
Memphis and the Delta 1950's. Blues Classics 15.
Memphis Blues. United US-7779.
Blues for Mr. Crump. English Polydor Super 2383 257.
706 Blues. Redita lp-111.
Lowdown Memphis Harmonica Jam 1950-1955. Nighthawk 103.
Sun—The Roots of Rock. Volume 1: Catalyst. Charly CR 30101.
Sun — The Roots of Rock. Volume 2: Sam's Blues. Charly CR 30102.
Sun —The Roots of Rock. Volume 3: Delta Rhythm Kings. Charly CR
30103.
 DISCOGRAPHY • 287

Sun —The Roots of Rock. Volume 6: Sunset Soul. Charly CR 30106.

Sun —The Roots of Rock. Volume 7:Sun Blues. Charly CR 30114.
Sun —The Roots of Rock. Volume 11: Memphis Blues Sounds. Charly CR
30126.
Sun —The Roots of Rock. Volume 12: Union Avenue Breakdown. Charly
ER 30127.
Mississippi Blues. United US 7786.
Down South Blues 1949-1961. African Folk Society #3428.
Packin' Up My Blues: Blues of the Deep South 1950-1961. Muskadine
No. 102.
Blues from the Deep South. United US 7781.
Arkansas Blues. United US 7784.
Dr. Ross: His First Recordings. Arhoolie 1065.
Earl Hooker: His First and Last Recordings. Arhoolie 1066.
Joe Hill Louis: The One Man Band. Muskadine No. 101.
Joe Hill Louis, Big Boy Crudup and Others: Going Down to Louisiana.
White Label LP 9955.
The Legendary Sun Performers: Roscoe Gordon. Charly CR 30133.
The Legendary Sun Performers: Junior Parker and Billy Love. Charly CR
30135.
Billy the Kid Emerson: Little Fine Healthy Thing. Charly CR 30187.
Sun Sound Special: Shoobie Oobie. Charly CR 30148.
Ike Turner Rocks the Blues. Crown CST 367.
Ike Turner's Kings of Rhythm: I'm Tore Up. Red Lightnin' RL 0016.
B.B. King: 1949-1950. Kent KST 9011.
B.B. King: Live at the Regal. ABC ABCS-724.
The Best of B.B. King. ABC ABCX-767.
Albert King I Otis Rush:Door to Door. Chess 1538.
Albert King: Travelin' to California. King KSD 1060.
Albert King: King of the Blues Guitar. French Atlantic 40494U.
Albert King: Live Wire /Blues Power. Stax STX 4128.
Driftin' Slim and his Blues Band: Somebody Hoo-Doo'd the Hoo-Doo
Man. Milestone MSP 93004.
Frank Frost. Jewel LPS 5013.
The Jelly Roll Kings: Rockin' the Juke Joint Down. Earwig LPS 4901.
Joe Willie Wilkins and his King Biscuit Boys. Adamo ADS 9507.
Little Milton: Raise a Little Sand. Red Lightnin' RL 0011.
Billy Boy Arnold: Blow the Back Off It. Red Lightnin' RL 0012.
Memphis Slim and His House Rockers, featuring Matt "Guitar"
Murphy: Memphis Slim— U.S.A. Pearl PL-10.
Memphis Slim: Mother Earth. Buddah BDS 7505.
Johnny Young and Big Walter: Chicago Blues. Arhoolie F 1037.
 DEEP BLUES • 288

Chicago Ain't Nothin' But a Blues Band. Delmark 624.

I'm Jimmy Reed. Vee Jay LP 1004.
Jimmy Reed: Rockin' with Reed. Vee Jay LP- 1008.
The Ultimate Jimmy Reed. ABC Bluesway BLS 6067.
/Feel So Bad: The Blues of Eddie Taylor. Advent 2802.
—
Eddie Taylor: Bad Boy A Long Way From Chicago. Japanese P-Vine
Special PLP 3501.
John Littlejohn's Chicago Blues Stars. Arhoolie 1043.
Otis Rush and Magic Sam: The Other Takes. Flyright LP 562.
Magic Sam: Magic Rocker. Flyright LP 561.
Magic Sam Blues Band: West Side Soul. Delmark DS-615.
Magic Sam Blues Band: Black Magic. Delmark DS-620.
Otis Rush: Groaning the Blues. Flyright LP 560.
Otis Rush: Right Place, Wrong Time. Bullfrog 301.
Otis Rush: Cold Day in Hell. Delmark DS-638.
Otis Rush: Troubles Troubles. Sonet SNTF 756.
Otis Rush: So Many Roads. Delmark DS-643.
Junior Wells: In My Younger Days. Red Lightnin' RL 007.
Junior Wells: Blues Hit Big Town. Delmark DL-640.
Junior Wells' Chicago Blues Band with Buddy Guy: Hoodoo Man Blues.
Delmark DS-612.
Junior Wells: Southside Blues Jam. Delmark DS-628.
Junior Wells: On Tap. Delmark DS-635.
Buddy Guy: In the Beginning. Red Lightnin' RL 001.
Buddy Guy: I Was Walking Through the Woods. Chess 409.
Eddie C. Campbell: King of the Jungle. Mr. Blues MB 7602.
Buster Benton: Spider in My Stew: Japanese P-Vine Special PLP 3502.
Fenton Robinson: The Mellow Blues Genius. P-Vine Special PLP-9001.
Fenton Robinson: Somebody Loan Me a Dime. Alligator 4705.
Fenton Robinson: I Hear Some Blues Downstairs. Alligator AL 4710.
The Son Seals Blues Band. Alligator 4703.
Son Seals: Midnight Son. Alligator AL 4708.
Son Seals: Live and Burning. Alligator AL 4712.
Big Walter Horton with Carey Bell. Alligator 4702.
Walter Horton and Floyd Jones: Do Nothing Til You Hear from Us. Mag-
nolia M LP 301.
Hound Dog Taylor and the House Rockers. Alligator 4701.
Hound Dog Taylor and the House Rockers: Natural Boogie. Alligator
4704.
Hound Dog Taylor and the House Rockers: Beware of the Dogl Alligator
AL 4707.
J.B. Hutto and the Hawks: Hawk Squat! Delmark DS-617.
 DISCOGRAPHY • 289

J.B. Hutto: Slidewinder. Delmark DS-636.

Eddie Shaw and the Wolf Gang: Have Blues, Will Travel Simmons ES-
1815.
Chicago /The Blues /Today! Volumes 1, 2, and 3. Vanguard VSD
79216/7/8.
The Best of the Chicago Blues. Vanguard VSD 1 /2.
Living Chicago Blues, Volumes 1, 2, and 3. Alligator AL 7701/2/3.
Chicago Blues at Home. Advent 2806.
Chicago Breakdown. TakomaTAK 7071.
Rare Blues. Takoma TAK 7081.
Chicago Blues Live at the Fickle Pickle. Flyiight LP 549.
Johnnyjones with Billy Boy Arnold. Alligator 4717.
Meat & Gravy from Cadillac Baby, Volume 1: "Records Was Cheap to
Make Then." Red Lightnin' RL 0019.
Meat & Gravy from Cadillac Baby, Volume 2: Hits That Missed. Red
Lightnin' RL 0020.
Meat & Gravy from Cadillac Baby, Volume 3: Trying to Make a Living.
Red Lightnin' RL0021.

NOTES: The above is a more or less complete list of the albums I used as
recorded source materials for this book, including both Delta blues and
"related materials" — ^blues from areas contiguous to the Delta or areas
with a significant concentration of migrants from the Delta. The records
are listed in an order that reflects the organization of the text, but with
obvious subgroupings — the collections of contemporary Chicago blues
are grouped at the end, for example. While it is long, the list is by no
means exhaustive. EssentiaUy, it's a list of my own collection of relevant
albums, and since much of the material has appeared in diff^erent guises,
and often on different labels, over the years, I've simply given the label
and catalogue number of the version I own. A number of these albums
are rare, out-of-print, or otherwise difficult to acquire, so I've also made
up the foUowing list, a much shorter selection of what 1 consider the es-
sential recordings in the field. At present, all the albums in the following
list are in print (somewhere in the world, at least). The most reliable
source for recordings of this nature is Down Home
Music, 10341 San
Pablo Avenue, El Cerrito, California 94530; 415-525-1494.
 DEEP BLUES • 290

V. DELTA BLUES AND RELATED TRADITIONS:

THE ESSENTIAL RECORDINGS

Charley Patton: Founder of the Delta Blues. Yazoo L-1020. This double
album collects the cream of Patton's recordings. Patton, Sims and Bertha
Lee (Herwin 213) is a worthwhile companion volume and includes sev-
sung sermons.
eral of Patton's
The Mississippi Blues 1927-1940. Origin Jazz Library OJL-5. This
album includes important early recordings by Son House and Willie
Brown, among others. Its companion volumes (OJL-11 and OJL-17) are
worthwhile as well.
Blues Roots / Mississippi. Folkways RBF-14. This superb sampler, still
in the Folkways records catalogue, is the most readily available source for
three of Tommy Johnson's classic recordings; The Famous 1928 Tommy
Johnson /Ishman Bracey Session on Roots is just as highly recom-
mended, if you can find it. The RBF collection also includes great per-
formances by Joe Williams, Robert Johnson, Tommy McClennan and
(oddly, since he was from Tennessee) John Lee "Sonny Boy" William-
son.
Lonesome Road Blues: 15 Years in the Mississippi Delta 1926-1941.
Yazoo L-1038. Early Delta blues enigmas like Freddie Spruell and Sam
Collins, Robert Petway's "Catfish Blues," and Skip James's "I'm So
Glad" are the highlights of this collection.
Blind Lemon Jefferson /Son House. Biograph BLP-12040. Miserable
sound quality, but it boasts Son House's 1930 classics on one side and
some first-rate Texas blues by Blind Lemon Jefferson on the other. The
collection of 1941-1942 Son House recordings on Arhoolie/Folk Lyric is
also highly recommended.
Soji^^iailse^WUlie^Brown arid others: Walking Blues. Flyright LP 541.
The 1941 recordings of Son House and his band collected here, including
the devastating six and a half minutes of "Walking Blues," are not to be
missed, and the album also includes a rare Willie Brown solo appearance
and by a young Honeyboy Edwards.
five fine selections
Robert Johnson: King of the Delta Blues Singers, Volumes 1 and 2. Co-
lumbia CL 1654 and C 30034. These are the essential Robert Johnson
collections. For those who want more. Delta Blues (Roots RL-339) in-
cludes an entire side of Robert Johnson alternate takes that are as good
as (and sometimes better than) the versions on the Columbia albums.
MudduJiMalersiDown onStovaWs Plantation. Testament T-2210. If
you can't find this riveting and well-rounded portrait of young Muddy
two of the best performances on it are on Afro-American Blues and Game
Songs, Library of Congress AFS L4.
 .

DISCOGRAPHY • 291

Lake__Mi£higar\ Ehies 1934-1941. Nighthawk 105. This collection

sketches in the Chicago blues scene on the eve of Muddy's arrival, with
classic performances by John Lee "Sonny Boy" Williamson, Robert
Nighthawk, and Robert Jr. Lockwood.
C^^cn^iSlickers 1948-1953. Nighthawk 102. A fine album of early
Delta-style Chicago blues by Johnny Shines, Floyd Jones, and the early
Little Walter. On the Road Again (Muskadine No. 100) and Chicago
Blues: The Early 1950's (Blues Classics 8) cover the same ground, per-
haps equally well, and there is no duplication. Just as essential, but out of
print and very hard to find, are Chicago Boogie (Barrelhouse bh 04),
which includes the early Maxwell Street sessions by Little Walter and
Jimmy Rogers, and Chicago Blues (Testament T-2207), with Muddy's
earliest Chicago recordings.
Robert Nighthawk^ Bricks in My Pillow. Pearl PL-11. This album col-
Nighthawk recordings, with the best sound quality
lects the early fifties
and detailed liner notes. A rawer but, at its best, wonderful additional
choice would be Robert Nighthawk Live on Maxwell Street (Rounder
2022)
Jobji2iy.^ines_and Rober-t-Lockmood: Dust My Broojrn. Flyright 563.
Early-fiftiesrecordings by Robert Johnson's outstanding disciples.
Shines in country-style performances (with the best Big Walter Horton
blues harmonica on records) and Lockwood, typically, with a small jump
band.
The Legend of Elmore James. Kent KST 9001. This album was also
available as a budget Ip on United. It's probably the best early Elmore
collection, though the first History of Elmore James (Trip TLP 8007) is
also very fine, and any of the James albums listed offers a representative
sampling of his work.
M^iddy Waters: Sail On. Chess 1539. As of this writing, the immense
Chess catalogue is moribund in the U.S., but this album, also issued as
The Best of Muddy Waters, is available in several European countries and
through Down Home Music. It's the essential collection of Muddy's
Chess masterpieces and is nicely supplemented by McKinley Morgan-
field A.K.A. Muddy Waters (Chess, out of print) and the three reissues
on the English Syndicate Chapter label, Back in the Early Days being
particularly fine.
Mi^dy^^Mississippi" Waters Live. Blue Sky JZ 35712. This recent live
album on Columbia proves Muddy is still a commanding blues per-

former.
Howlin' Wolf: Going Back Home. Syndicate Chapter S.C. 003. This
bootleg ^Toiti England was originally intended to supplement the readily

available Chess collections of Wolfs music, but as of this writing it's the
 DEEP BLUES • 292

best anthology of his Chess recordings (including sides made for Sam
Phillips in Memphis) that's readily available. The best single collection, if

you can find it, is Chester Burnett A.K.A. Howlin' Wolf (Chess 2CH
60016) with Evil (Chess 1540), Original Folk Blues (United US-7747),
and The Legendary Sun Performers: Howlin' Wolf (Charly CR 30134)
also highly recommended. The last two consist wholly of pre-Chicago per-
formances by Wolf's West Memphis band.
Jimmy Rogers: Chicago Bound. Chess 407. Definitive, if you can
find it.

Little Walter: Boss Blues Harmonica. Chess 2CH 60014. Ditto.

Snnny Rny WjJMarnson: King Biscuit Time. Arhoolie 2020. Ditto, ex-
cept you can find it. These are early Mississippi recordings by Rice
Miller, the "second" Sonny Boy Williamson, made with musicians from
the King Biscuit Time radio show. The two Chess double albums by this
Sonny Boy (2CH 50027 and 2ACMB-206) are also excellent.
JohnJ,££jiDQkenJ>etroit Special. Atlantic SD 7228. This is a fine col-
lection of vintage Hooker.It doesn't contain his original hit "Boogie

Chillen," which is available on several anthologies on the Kent and

United labels.
The Blues Came Down from Memphis. Charly CR 30125. Here are the
classic Sun blues recordings from the early fifties, including James Cot-
ton's "CottonCrop Blues" (with super-distorted electric guitar by Pat
Hare) and Dr. Ross's "The Boogie Disease." Memphis and the Delta —
The 1950's (Blues Classics 15) is equaUy fine and more wide-ranging,
with selections by Arkansas' Drifting Slim and Junior Brooks plus vin-
tage Elmore James, Joe Hill Louis, Boyd Gilmore ("Rambling On My
Mind"), Sunnyland Slim, and others.
Ike Turner's Kings of Rhythm: I'm Tore Up. Red Lightnin' RL 0016.
These are the rocking mid-fifties Federal recordings of the Kings of
Rhythm in their prime, with Ike Turner's explosive, jangling guitar solos
and gritty vocals by Billy Gayles and Jackie Brenston, whose "Rocket 88,"
along with some of the best early Muddy Waters and Sunnyland Slim and
other essential recordings, was last available on the English Chess Gen-
esis boxed sets, now impossible to find.
.M^BJUjig: Live at the Regal. ABC ABCS-724. This is the standard B.B.
King album, and one of the classic live Ip's along with James Brown's
Live at the Apollo. B.B. King 1949-1950, on Kent and United, is also
highly recommended King at a more formative stage.
for its picture of
Alheil'Kmg: King of the Blues Guitar. French Atlantic 40494U. You
can trace Albert's earlier work, heavily influenced by Elmore James and
other Delta stylists, on Door to Door (Chess 1538, good luck) and Travel-
in' to California (King KSD 1060) but this finds Albert in his prime, on
,
 DISCOGRAPHY • 293

Stax in the mid-sixties. His Live Wire/Blues Power (Stax STX 4128,
available through Fantasy records) is another fine live recording, bearing
comparison with B.B. King's Live at the Regal.
The Ultimate Jimmy Reed. ABC Bluesway BLS 6067. Reed's Vee Jay
recordings have been packaged by several labels under numerous guises.
This is the best single coUection and can still be found in some stores.
Otis Rush and Magic Sam: The Other Takes. Flyright LP 562. The B.B.
King-influenced blues style that developed on Chicago's West Side is

well represented by these seminal Cobra recordings.

Otis Rush: Cold Day in Hell: Delmark DS-638. This is an excruciat-
ingly uneven album, but its best selections (the slow blues) demonstrate
Rush's depth better than any other items in his discography.
Junior Wells: Blues Hit Big Town. Delmark DL-640. These are early-
fifties performances by Wells, then a teenage harmonica virtuoso, with

stellar support by Elmore James and Muddy Waters, among others.

Son Seals: Midnight Son. Alligator Al 4708. With nasty, snarling gui-
tar, popping horns, and funk rhythms, this is the definitive contemporary

blues album, and Seals's best so far.

Chicago /The Blues /Today! (Vanguard VSD 79216/7/8) and Living
Chicago Blues (Alligator Al 7701/2/3) are sets of three albums (each
album being available separately) chronicling what were, at the time of
recording, relatively little known Chicago blues talents. The Vanguard
set included performances by Junior Wells and J.B. Hutto (Volume 1),
Otis Rush and James Cotton (Volume 2) and Johnny Shines and Walter
,

Horton (Volume 3) and was a revelation when it was originally released

back in the sixties, though virtually all these artists have recorded better
performances since. All three of the Alligator albums include fine per-
formances, but Volume 1 is the best.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY

I: BOOKS
Ashmore, Harry S. Arkansas: A History. New York: Norton, 1978.
Bascom, William R., and Herskovits, MelviUe J., eds. Continuity and
Change in African Cultures. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1959.
Bebey, Francis. African Music: A People's Art. New York: Lawrence Hill,
1975.
Berkow, Ira. Maxwell Street: Survival in a Bazaar. Garden City, N.Y.:
Doubleday, 1977.
Botkin, B. A. Lay My Burden Down: A Folk History of Slavery. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1945.
Charters, Samuel. The Legacy of the Blues. New York: Da Capo Press,
1977.
. Sweet as the Showers of Rain. New York: Oak Publications,
1977.
Chernoff, John Miller. African Rhythms and African Sensibility. Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1979.
Cohn, David L. Where I Was Bom and Raised. Boston: Houghton Mifflin,
1948.
Courlander, Harold. Negro Folk Music U.S.A. New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press, 1963.
Curtin, Philip D. The Atlantic Slave Trade: A Census. Madison: Univer-
sity ofWisconsin Press, 1969.
Daniel, Pete. Deep'n As It Come: The 1927 Mississippi River Flood. New
York: Oxford University Press, 1977.
 DEEP BLUES • 296

d'Azevedo, Warren L., ed. The Traditional Artist in African Societies.

Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1973.
Dundes, Alan, ed. Mother Wit from the Laughing Barrel. Englewood
Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1973.
Epstein, Dena J. Sinful Tunes and Spirituals: Black Folk Music to the
Civil War. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1977.
Escott, Colin, and Hawkins, Martin. Sun Records: The Brief History of
the Legendary Record Label. New York: Quick Fox, 1980.
Evans, David. Tommy Johnson. London: Studio Vista, 1971.
Fahey, John. Charley Patton. London: Studio Vista, 1970.
Ferris, William. Blues from the Delta. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday,
1978.
Garon, Paul. Blues and the Poetic Spirit. New York: Da Capo Press, 1978.
. The Devil's Son-in-Law: The Story ofPeetie Wheatstraw and His
Songs. London: Studio Vista, 1978.
Genovese, Eugene D. Roll, Jordan, Roll: The World The Slaves Made.
New York: Pantheon Books, 1974.
Georgia Writers' Project. Drums and Shadows. Garden City, N.Y.: Doub-
leday /Anchor, 1972.
Gert zur Heide, Karl. Deep South Piano: The Story of Little Brother Mont-
gomery. London: Studio Vista, 1970.
Gleason, Judith. A Recitation of Ifa, Oracle of the Yoruba. New York:
Grossman, 1973.
Godrich, John, and Dixon, Robert. Blues and Gospel Records 1902-1942.
London: Storyville Publications, 1969.
Recording the Blues. London: Studio Vista, 1970.
.

Groom, Bob. The Blues Revival. London: Studio Vista, 1971.

Handy, W. C. Father of the Blues. New York: MacmiUan, 1941.
Harris, Sheldon. Blues Who's Who. New RocheUe, N.Y.: Arlington
House, 1979.
Herskovits, Melville J. The Myth of the Negro Past. Boston: Beacon Press,
1958.
. The New World Negro. Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1966.
Hurston, Zora Neale. Mules and Men. Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1978.
Keil, Charles. Tiv Song. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979.
. Urban Blues. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966.
Leadbitter, Mike. Delta Country Blues. Sussex: Blues Unlimited Publica-
tions, 1968.
, ed. Nothing But the Blues. London: Hanover Books, 1971.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY • 297

and Slaven, Neil. Blues Records 1943-1966. New York: Oak

Publications, 1968.
Levine, Lawrence W. Black Culture and Black Consciousness. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1977.
Miller, Jim, ed. The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll.
New York: Random House, 1980.
Mitchell, George. Blow My Blues Away. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State
University Press, 1971.
Napier, Simon A., ed. Back Woods Blues. Sussex: Blues Unlimited Publi-
cations, 1968.
Nketia, J. H. Kwabena. The Music of Africa. New York: Norton, 1974.
Oakley, Giles. The Devil's Music: A History of the Blues. New York: Tap-
linger, 1977.
Oliver, Paul. The Blues Tradition. New York: Oak Publications, 1970.
. The Meaning of the Blues. New York: Collier Books, 1963.
. Savannah Syncopators: African Retentions in the Blues. Lon-
don: Studio Vista, 1970.
The Story of the Blues. Philadelphia: Chilton, 1973.
.

Olsson, Bengt. Memphis Blues. London: Studio Vista, 1970.

Palmer, Robert. A Tale of Two Cities: Memphis Rock and New Orleans
Roll. Brooklyn, N.Y.: Institute for Studies in American Music, Brooklyn
College, 1979.
Percy, William Alexander. Lanterns on the Levee: Recollections of a
Planter's Son. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1973.
Ramsey, Frederic, Jr. Been Here and Gone. New Brunswick, N.J.:
Rutgers University Press, 1960.
Roberts, John Storm. Black Music of Two Worlds. New York: Praeger,
1972.
Rooney, James. Bossmen: Bill Monroe and Muddy Waters. New York:
Hayden, 1971.
Rosenberg, Bruce A. The Art of the American Folk Preacher. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1970.
Rowe, Mike. Chicago Breakdown. New York: Drake Publishers. 1975.
Russell, Tony. Blacks, Whites and Blues. London: Studio Vista, 1970.
Sackheim, Eric, ed. The Blues Line: A Collection of Blues Lyrics. New
York: Schirmer Books, 1975.
Shaw, Arnold. Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years of Rhythm and
Blues. New York: Collier Books, 1978.
Skates, John Ray. Mississippi: A History. New York: Norton, 1979.
Southern, Eileen. The Music of Black Americans: A History. New York:
Norton, 1971.
 DEEP BLUES • 298

Spear, Allan H. Black Chicago: The Making of a Negro Ghetto

1890-1920. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967.
Thompson, Robert Farris. African Art in Motion. Los Angeles: University
of California Press, 1974.
Titon, Jeff Todd. Early Downhome Blues: A Musical and Cultural Anal-
ysis. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1977.
Toll, Robert C. Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth-Century
America. New York: Oxford University Press, 1974.
Tryon, Warren S., ed. My Native Land: Life in America, 1790-1870. Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1952.
Various Authors. African Music. Paris: UNESCO /La Revue Musicale,
1972.
Wachsmann, Klaus P., ed. Essays on Music and History in Africa. Evan-

ston, lU.: Northwestern University Press, 1971.

II: ARTICLES

NOTE: Although my own interviews furnished the basic materials for Deep
Blues, I back issues of Blues Unlimited, Living Blues, and
also referred to
the more short Almost every issue of these periodicals
lived Blues World.
has included something pertinent to the present study, and it would have
been impractical to list articles individually. Instead, I have listed a few
articles from other periodicals that were of particular relevance. For more
information on the blues, subscriptions are recommended to Blues Un-
limited (36 Belmont Park, Levdsham, London SE13 5DB, England) and
Living Blues (2615 N. Wilton Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60614).

Evans, David. "Afro-American One-Stringed Instruments." Western

Folklore 23 (1970).
. "Black Fife and Drum Music in Mississippi." Mississippi Folk-
lore Register6 (1972).
"Folk, Commercial, and Folkloristic Aesthetics in the Blues."
.

Jazz Forschung 5 (1973).

"Techniques of Blues Composition among Black Folksingers."
.

Journal of American Folklore 87 (July-September 1974).

Murray, Charles Shaar. "The Blues Had a Baby and they called it
. . .

Rock 'N' Roll." New Musical Express, April 30, 1977.

Odum, Howard W. "Folk-Song and Folk-Poetry as Found in the Secular
Songs of the Southern Negroes." Journal of American Folk-Lore 24
(July-September 1911 and October-December 1911).
 BIBLIOGRAPHY • 299

Oliver, Paul. "Muddy Waters, Hoochie Coochie Man." Jazz Monthly,

January 1959.
Peabody, Charles. "Notes on Negro Music." Journal of American Folk-
lore 16, no. 62 (1903).
—
Perls, Nick. "Son House Interview Part One." 78 Quarterly, 1967.
Standish, Tony. "Muddy Waters in London." Jazz Journal, January
1959.
I Wardlow, Gayle Dean, and Roche, Jacques. "Patton's Murder —White-
wash? Or Hogwash?" 78 Quarterly, 1967.
 NDEX
Abrams, Bernard, 159-60, 203 "Baby Please Don't Go," 258
Ace, Johnny (John Alexander) 229, , "Baby, What You Want Me to Do,
230 252
Aces, 211,212 "Back Door Man," 237
Africa (African music) , 25-39, 64, "Bad in Mind Blues," 153
65, 103 Bailey, Kid,108
"Ain't That Lovin' You Baby," 252 Band, The, 262
Akan, 34 Banjo, 31-32
Akers, Garfield, 243 Bankston, Dick, 59, 61
272-73
Alligator Records, Bantu, 28, 32, 34
"AU in My
Dreams," 239 "Banty Rooster Blues," 77
Allman Brothers Band, 110 Barber, Chris, 257, 258
"AD Your Love (I Miss Loving)," Bates, Lefty,245
265 "Bear Cat," 239
American Federation of Musicians, Bell, Lurrie, 269
146-47 Below, Fred, 211-12, 215
American Record Company, 86-87, Berkow, Ira, 144, 145
124 Berry, Charles, 6
Ames, David, 31 Berry,Chu, 135
Ammons, Albert, 130 Berry,Chuck, 236, 271
Anderson, Sam, 175, 176 Bessman, Bernie, 243, 244
Anderson, W. K., 140, 141 Betonia style, 117
Andrews Sisters, 130 "Big Boss Man," 252
Animals, 261 "Big Fat Mama," 108, 193
"Anna Lee," 195, 200 "Big Road Blues," 193
"Anna Lou Blues," 195 Bihari. Joe, 214
Archibald, 42 Bihari, Jules, 220
Aristocrat records, 157, 158-59, 161 Bihari, Saul, 220
Arnold, Kokoma, 114-15, 128 Bihari brothers, 223, 234, 240
 , , ,

INDEX 302

"Bird Nest Bound," 83-85 35, 61-63, 110, 117-19, 161, 174,
Bivens, Cliff, 213 182, 207, 231-37, 256
Black, BiU, 241 Bumette, Dorsey, 235
"Black Angel Blues," 195, 209 Bumette, Johnny, 235
"Black Spider Blues," 178, 181 "Bye Bye Bird," 185
BlackweU, Scrapper, 109-10, 114,
181 Calaway, W. R., 86-87
Blair, Sonny, 239 "Caldonia," 201-202
Bland, Bobby "Blue," 102, 229, 230, Call and response, 28-29
237,250,251, 260, 267 Callicott, Joe, 243-44
Blind Blake (Arthur Phelps), 107, 79
Calt, Steve,
108, 110 Campbell, Litde Milton, 238, 245,
Bluebird label, 135, 145 247
Bolton, Antra, 157 Canned Heat, 244
"Boogie Chillen," 243-44 Cannon, Gus, 46-47
"Boogie Disease, The," 239 Cannon, Viola, 57
"Boogie in the Park," 228 "Carrier Line, The," 42
Boogie-woogie, 106-107, 130-31, Carr, Leroy, 109-10, 111-12, 114,
150 181
Booker, Charley, 239 "Catfish Blues," 104, 165, 214
"Boom Boom," 245 Cadett, Big Sid, 135
"Booted," 234 Charles, Ray, 81, 167, 248-49
"Bom under a Bad Sign," 246 Chatmon family, 51
Boyd, Eddie, 146-47, 155, 156 Chess, Leonard, 157-60, 161-65,
Brenston, Jackie, 221, 222, 240 167, 210, 223
"Bright Lights, Big City," 252 Chess, Phil, 157
Brim, John, 165 Chess brothers, 223
Broonzy, Big Bill, 124, 130, 135, 145, Chess label, 98, 214-16, 223,
256-57 234-37, 259
Brown, Bill, 223 Chicago, Illinois, 11-14, 137-47
Brown, Charles, 155 Chicago blues, 16, 125, 134-35, 163,
Brown, Gatesmouth, 250 210,211,267,269
Brown, 214
J. T., Chicago Defender (newspaper)
Brown, Lee, 155 138-39
Brown, Othum, 159, 203 Chishohn, Malcohn, 162, 163
Brown, Robert (Washboard Sam) Christian, Charlie, 197, 198, 228
135 Clapton, Eric, 125, 128, 129, 246
Brown, Roy, 230, 248 Clay, Francis, 168, 258
Brown, William, 126 Cleighton, Peter (Dr. Clayton), 154
Brown, Willie, 58, 59, 61, 62, 78, 79, "Clouds in My Heart," 168
82-84, 108, 112-14, 126, 129, 275 Cobra label, 166-67
Buchanan, Roy, 236 Cohn, David L., 92, 139-41, 225
"Bumble Bee," 87, 110, 111 Cole, Nat "King," 155
Bunch, William (Peetie Wheat- Collins, Crying Sam, 123
straw), 114-16, 127, 135 Columbia Records, 109, 135, 156
Burlison, Paul, 235, 236 "Come on in My Kitchen," 117
Burnett, Chester (Howlin' Wolf) Cotton, James, 237, 256, 258
 , , ,

INDEX 303

"Cotton Crop Blues," 237-38 Drums (drumming) , 33, 36-39, 64,

"Cottonfield Blues," 243-44 65
"Country Blues," 4-6, 80, 104 Duke label, 250, 251
"Country Boy," 164 Duncan, Bill, 230
Coyner, James, 89-92 Duncan, Willie Joe, 252
Crawford, Big, 98, 157, 160, 163 Durham, Eddie, 197, 198
Crawford, Hank, 220 "Dust My Broom," 115, 128, 200,
"Crawling Klngsnake Blues," 244 205, 214, 215
"Crazy Blues," 106
"Crosscut Saw," 246 "East St. Louis Blues," 42
"Cross Road Blues," 125-27 East Texas blues, 43-44
"Crowing Rooster, The," 123 Edwards, Honeyboy, 89, 118-21,
Crudup, Arthur "Big Boy," 145, 206, 129, 154, 202, 206, 239
241 "Elder Green Blues," 43, 69-70
"Crying at Daybreak," 235 "Elevator Woman," 147
Curtis, James "Peck," 176, 189-92, Epstein, Dena J., 37, 40
195, 197, 209, 239, 263-64 Ertegun, Nesuhi, 258
Evans, David, 39, 41, 59, 65, 69, 86,
Dalby, David, 31 88, 114, 117
Daniel, Pete, 72-73 Evans, Elgin, 98, 163, 167, 168, 210,
Davies, Cyril,259 211
Davis, Blind John, 256 "Everybody Wants to Know," 165
Davis, Walter, 115 "Eyesight to the Blind," 213
Deep blues, 275-77
Delmore brothers, 130 "Farther Up the Road," 250
Delta blues, 16-20, 25, 43-47, 123, Federal label, 240
133, 178 "Feelin' Good," 237, 244
Destruction (Bill Johnson) "Feelin' Sad," 248, 249
204-205, 231 "Feel Like Going Home," 80
Detroit, Michigan, 242 "Feel So Bad," 247
"Devil Got My Woman," 116-17 Ferera, Frank, 46
Dixon, Willie, 98, 136, 150, 165-69, "Five Long Years," 251
237, 258 Fleetwood Mac, 115
Dockery, Joe Rice, 50, 54-56, 70, "Flood," 168-69
189 Floyd, Frank (Harmonica Frank)
Dockery, Keith Sommerville, 54, 55 109, 241
Dockery, WiU, 49-50, 52-54 "Flying Home," 134
Dominos, 223-25 Ford, Friday, 167
Donegan, Lonnie, 257 Ford, Wheeler, 82-83
"Don't Start Me Talking," 215 Forest, Earl, 230
"Don't Throw Your Love on Me So Forest City Joe, 207
Strong," 246 "Forty Fours, The," 150-52
Dorsey, Thomas A. (Georgia Tom) Foster, Baby Face Leroy, 15, 128,
110, 130 163, 208
"Double Talk," 265 Fox, Eugene, 240
Doyle, Little Buddy, 153 "Frankie and Albert," 41, 65
"Drowning on Dry Land," 251 Frazier. Calvin. 242
 INDEX 304

Freed, Alan, 224 "Hellhound on My Trail," 113, 116,

Friday,Long Tall, 150 127
"From FourTiU Late," 114, 127 Hehn, Levon, 262-63
"Future Blues," 275 Hemphill, Sid, 38-39, 42
"Hesitation Blues," 43
Garon, Paul, 19 Hicks, Jack, 61
Gayles, Billy, 240 "High Water Everywhere," 64, 72,
Georgia Tom (Thomas
A. Dorsey) 74-77, 123
110, 130 Hill,Henry, 239
Gilmore, Boyd, 238-40
Hill,Raymond, 221, 222, 240
"Goin' Down Slow," 237
"Hobo Blues," 244
"Going to Move to Alabama," 70
Hocketing, 28-29
Goldstein, Sammy, 157-59
HoUoway, Jimmy, 61
"Gonna Wait for My Chance," 240
Holmes, Cap, 61
"Goodbye Newport Blues," 258-59
"Honest I Do," 252
"Good Morning Little Schoolgirl,"
145
"Honey Bee," 103, 111, 163
"Good Rocking Tonight," 230 "Honeymoon Blues," 127
Gordon, Mattie, 206-208 "Hoochie Coochie Man," see "I'm
Gordon, Roscoe, 220, 223, 230, 234 Your Hoochie Coochie Man"
Gospel,248-50 Hooker, Earl, 221, 271
"Got My Mojo Working," 258 Hooker, John Lee, 193, 242-45
Green, Lee, 115 Horton, Walter, 153, 238, 264-65
Green, Mick, 236 "Hound Dog," 239
Green, Tuff, 230 House, Eddie "Son," 4, 5, 35, 62, 66,
Griots, 27 79-82, 83, 88, 111, 113, 114, 122,
"Grits Ain't Groceries," 247 133, 275
Groom, Bob, 125 "House Rockers," 235
Guitar Slim, see Jones, Eddie Houston, Texas, 250-51
Guy, Buddy, 267, 269 Howlin' Wolf, 35, 61-63, 110,
"Gypsy Woman," 158 117-19, 161, 174, 182,207,
231-37, 256
Hadley, Elder J. J., 35 "How Long —How Long Blues,"
Halam, 32 109-10, 111, 112
Haley, Bill, 224 "How Many More Years," 234
Hammond, John, 130 Hughes, Langston, 259
Hampton, Lionel, 134
Handy, W. C, 42, 44-47, 105, 226 T Ain't Superstitious," 237
Hare, Auburn "Pat," 237-38, 255, 'I Ask for Water," 236
258 'I Been Dealing with the Devil," 146
Harney, Richard, 123 'I Believe," 215
Harvey, Bill, 251 'I Believe I'll Dust My Broom," 125
Hawkins, Ronnie, 236, 262 'I Be's Troubled," 6
Hawks, 262 •I Can't Be Satisfied," 159, 160, 163,
"Heart Like Railroad Steel," 70 164
Heide, Karl Gert zur, 150 'I Can't Quit You Baby," 266, 267

Helena, Arkansas, 78, 173-75, 187, 'I Feel Like Going Home," 104,

199-200 159-61. 164

 INDEX 305

"If I Had Possession over Judgment Johnson, Robert, 2-5, 17, 18, 61, 62,
Day," 125, 128 80, 106, 111-19, 121, 122, 124-31,
Iglauer, Bruce, 272-73 154, 174, 175, 178-82, 184,
"I Just Keep Loving Her," 159, 203 205-206, 214, 222, 242, 274-75
"I Just Want to Make Love to You," Johnson, Texas Blind Willie, 35
see "Just Make Love to Me" Johnson, Tommy, 35, 58-60, 63,
"I'm Gonna Murder My Baby," 238 108, 113-14, 193,231,275
"I'm in the Mood," 244 Johnson, Willie, 158, 231, 232, 234,
"I'm Ready," 165, 167 235
"I'm Your Hoochie Coochle Man," "Johnson Machine Gun," 157-58
98, 165, 167, 258 Jones, Eddie (Guitar SHm) 247-50
,

"I'm Tore Up," 240 Jones, Floyd, 118-19, 165

"It Hurts Me Too," 215 Jones, Johnny, 163, 214, 245
"It Must Have Been the Devil," 116 Jones, Jonah, 135
"It'sTight Like That," 110 Jones, Max, 258
"It Won't Be Long," 70 Jordan, Louis, 134, 146, 155,
"I've Got a Mother Up in Kingdom," 201-205, 208, 221
88 "Juke," 167,210-11
"I've Got a Woman," 249 Jukeboxes, 118, 132, 146-47
"I Want My Baby," 110, 161 Jump-up songs, 41-43, 45-46
"Just an Army Boy," 239
Jacobs, Little Walter, 15, 16, 98, 110, "Just Make Love to Me," 165-67
154, 159, 161, 163-65, 167,
199-203, 208-12, 215-16 "Kansas City Blues," 109
Jackson, Jim, 109, 110 Kansas City Red, 195
Jackson, Papa Charlie, 106 Keil, Charles, 36
James, Elmore, 115, 118, 128, 183, Kekuku, Joseph, 46
184, 205-207, 212, 214-16, 236, KFFA, 178, 185-87, 192, 195, 197,
239, 247, 274 199-200, 202, 209, 261
James, Homesick, 215 "Kind Hearted Woman Blues," 125
James, Skip, 114, 116-17 King, Albert, 245-47, 260, 271-72
Jazz, 133-34 King, Earl, 249-50
Jefferson, Bhnd Lemon, 44, 64, King, Riley "B. B," 55, 56, 178,
106-108, 131, 197 207-208, 219-21, 228-30, 245,
Jenkins, Bobo, 242 247, 248, 251, 256, 260
"Jim Jackson's Kansas City Blues," King Biscuit Entertainers, 176, 189,
109 191, 196
"John Henry," 42, 46 "King Biscuit Stomp," 177
Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, 235-36 King Biscuit Time, 177-78, 185-87,
Johnson, Arthur, 199 191, 192, 196, 197, 239, 261, 264
Johnson, Bill (Destruction), Kings of Rhythm, 217, 220-22, 238,
204-205, 231 239
Johnson, George W., 105 Kizart, Willie, 221-23, 240
Johnson, LeDell, 41, 58-60 Koemer, Alexis, 259
Johnson, Lonnie, 110, 114, 197 "Kokomo Blues," 114
Johnson, Louise, 79, 82-84
Johnson, Luther (Guitar Junior), Lacy, Rubin, 35, 81, 123
199 Laibley, Art, 82
 , ,

INDEX 306

Lang, Eddie, 197 145, 146, 184, 192-95, 200,

Langston, Herb, 186 209-10, 221, 264, 273
"Last Fair Deal Gone Down," 114 McMullen, Hayes, 48, 58, 62, 66, 67,
"Laundromat Blues," 246 70-71
Law, Don, 130 McMurry, Lillian, 212-14
Leadbelly (Huddle Ledbetter) 86, , McTeU, Blind Willie, 110
257 "Maggie Campbell," 193
Lee, Alec (or Alex) 46, 47
, Maghett, Sam (Magic Sam) 267, ,

Lee, Bertha, 77-79, 84-89 269

Leiber, Jerry, 109, 167 "Mannish Boy," 13
Lenoir, J. B., 165 "Man v^dth the Golden Arm," 167
Leroy, Baby Face, 15, 128, 163, 208 Maree, Ben, 59
Let's Get Loose: Folk and Popular Martin, Fiddlin' Joe, 61, 190
Blues Styles from the Beginnings Martin, Jake, 61
to the Early 1940's, 105 Masking technique, 35
Lewis, Meade Lux, 130 "Match Box Blues," 107
Lind, Jenny, 225-26 "Mattie Is My Wife," 207
Lindsay, Jim, 271 "Mean Red Spider," 181
"Little Anna Mae," 158 "Me and the Devil Blues," 111-13,
"Little Boy Blue," 180-82 116, 127
Little Walter, see Jacobs, Little Walter Mebrose, Lester, 135, 145, 156, 194
Lockwood, Robert, Jr., 117, 169, Memphis, Tennessee, 120, 123,
174-83, 185-89, 197-98, 199-205, 152-53, 225-27
207, 208, 210, 215, 221, 228 "Memphis Blues," 105
Lomax, Alan, 2-6, 38, 39 Memphis Minnie, 110, 111, 145
"Long Distance Call," 163, 223 Memphis Slim, 118, 154, 174, 261
"Looking for the BuUy of the Town," Messinger, Bob, 259
42 Mickle, Elmon (Driftin' Slim) 239 ,

"Look on Yonder's Wall," 239 "Mighty Long Time," 213

"Louisiana Blues," 98-99, 163, 164, Milbum, Amos, 223
223 "Milkcow's Calf Blues," 114, 128
Louis, Joe Hill, 207, 228, 239 "Milk Cow Blues," 114
Love, Clayton, 240 Miller, Rice (Little Boy Blue; Sonny
Love, Willie, 191, 207, 212 Boy Williamson; Willie Miller)
"Love in Vain," 127-28 118, 154, 155, 175-79, 182-87,
"Low Down Mississippi Bottom 195-97, 199, 200, 201, 203,
Man," 107-108 205-10, 212-16, 239, 242, 250,
Luandrew, Albert (Sunnyland Slim) 261-64
115, 147-58, 161-62, 174 "Mind Reader Blues," 87-88
"Ludella," 210 "Mississippi Bottom Blues," 108
Mississippi Delta, 7-11
McClennan, Tommy, 104, 124, 135, Mississippi Sheiks, 110, 111, 118,
145 236
McCoUum, Percy, 193 "Mr. Down Child," 179, 214
McCormick, Mack, 113, 129 220
Mitchell, Willie,
McCoy, James, 79 Mitchum, Snapper, 273
McCoy, Robert Lee (Robert Night- "Moaning at Midnight," 234
hawk), 15, 109, 118, 124, 135, Modern label, 234, 243, 244
 INDEX 307

Montgomery, Little Brother, 149-52, Parker, Herman "Little Junior,"

167 229-30, 231, 237, 244, 250-51
"Moon Going Down," 64, 83-84, 108 Parrish, Lydia, 38
Moore, Johnny, 155 Patton, Annie, 48, 50-52
Moore, Max, 176, 177, 186, 187, 191, Patton, Bill, 48-52, 57
196 Patton, Charley, 35, 36, 43, 48-54,
Moore, Scotty, 241 56-79, 82-89, 108, 110, 112, 113,
Moore, Will, 242 122, 123, 133, 231, 275, 276
"Morning at Midnight," 234 Payne, Odie, Jr., 214
Murphy, M. T. "Mat," 231 Payne, Sonny, 174, 190, 195,
"My Black Mama," 4, 80, 114, 275 261-62, 264
Myers, David, 211, 212 Peabody, Charles, 23-25
Myers, Louis, 147, 211, 212 "Pea Vine Blues," 53-54, 68-69, 77
"My Fault," 164 Peer, Ralph, 109
"My Little Machine," 146 "Peetie Wheatstraw Stomps,"
"Mystery Train," 237 115-16
Percy, William Alexander, 74
Newbem, Hambone Willie, 123 Perkins, Joe Willie "Pinetop," 191,
Newborn, Phineas, 220 195, 220, 239
New Orleans, Louisiana, 247-48 Perls, Nick, 79
"Next Time You See Me," 250 Pet and Can brothers, 123
"Nigger Blues," 105 Petway, Robert, 104, 124, 145
Nighthawk, Robert (Robert Lee Phelps, Arthur (Blind Blake), 107,
McCoy), 15, 109, 118, 124, 135, 108, 110
145, 146, 184, 192-95, 200, Phillips,Dewey, 228
209-10, 221, 264, 273 Phillips,Sam C, 218-19, 221-25,
"Nine Below Zero," 213-14 228, 233-34, 237-39, 241-42
Nix, WilUe, 239 "Phonograph Blues," 129
Nketia, J. H. Kwabena, 64 "Pine Top's Boogie Woogie," 131
"No Riding Blues," 239 Pitch-tone languages, 29, 34, 103
"Pontiac Blues," 213
O'Connor, George, 105-106 "Pony Blues," 59, 63-64, 66, 69, 70,
O'DeU, "Frock," 205, 212-13 77, 110, 123,231
Oertle, Ernie, 124 "Poor Boy Long Ways from Home,"
"Oh Death," 88 46,47
"Oh Lord I'm in Your Hands," 88 "Poor Me," 65, 88
Okeh company, 107 "Preachin' Blues," 125, 128
"Old Original Kokomo Blues," 114, "Preachin' the Blues," 80-81
128 Presley, Elvis, 114, 206, 224, 235,
Oliver, Paul, 183, 184, 255-57 241
"On the Wall," 83 Price, Lloyd, 42
"Ora Nelle Blues," 159, 203 Price, Sammy, 106
"Our Father," 250 "Prowlin' Nighthawk," 145, 192, 194
Pryor, Snooky, 199
Paine, Silas, 219
Panpipes, 35, 38-39 Rainey, Gertrude "Ma," 44
Paramount records, 77, 106, 107, "Ramblin' on My Mind," 125
123 "Rattlesnake Blues," 70
 INDEX 308

Recordings, 105-109, 122-23, 133 Seals,Frank "Son," 194, 269-76

"Red Rooster, The," 237 "See That My Grave's Kept Clean,"
Reed, A. C, 269 107
Reed, Jimmy, 244, 245, 251-53 Senegambia, 26-28, 30, 31-34
Reinhardt, Django, 228 "Shake, Rattle and Roll," 224
Rhodes, Walter, 123 "Shake Your Moneymaker," 215
Rhythm and blues (r&b; jump Sharecropping system, 9-11
blues), 146 Shaw, Eddie, 232
"Riding in the Moonlight," 234-35 "She Brought Life Back to the
Ring shout, 38 Dead," 214
"Riot in CeU Block Number Nine," "She Moves Me," 163, 164
167
Shines, Johnny, 117-18, 121, 174,
Robert, Dehlco, 150
181
Robertson, Robbie, 236, 262
Shurman, Dick, 265
Robey, Don, 250
Sims, Henry "Son," 6, 77, 82, 95,
Robinson, Fenton, 230
"Rocket 88," 222 194
"Rockin' Chair Daddy," 241 "Sitting on Top of the World," 110,
"Rock Island Line," 257 111, 236-37
"Rock Me Mama," 206 "Sixty Minute Man," 223, 225
Rock and roU, 216, 223-25, 236, "Six Weeks Old Blues," 116
255, 256 Skiffle, 257
Rock and RoU Trio, 235 "Sky Is Crying, The," 274
Robins, The, 167 Slide guitar, 46
Rogers, Jimmy, 15, 16, 155, 161, Sloan, Henry, 51, 57, 99
163, 165, 167, 199-203, 208-10, Smith, Bessie, 110
215, 216, 264-65 Smith, Clarence "Pinetop," 131
"Roll and Tumble Blues," 123 Smith, Claude (Blue Smitty), 15,
"Rollin' and Tumblin'," 104, 150, 155, 156
151, 163 Smith, Huey "Piano," 247
"Rolling and Tumbling," 98, 123, Smith, Leo, 276
125, 128 Smith, Mamie, 106
Rolling Stones, 127, 128, 259 Smitty, Blue (Claude Smith), 15,
"Rollin' Stone," 104, 122 155, 156
Ross, "Doctor" Isaiah, 239, 242 "Smokestack Lightnin'," 231, 235,
Rowe, Mike, 145, 155, 165 236
"Running Wild," 65 "Something Inside of Me," 215
Rush, Otis, 260, 254-69, 274, 275 Sonny Boy, see Williamson, John Lee
Spann, Otis, 167, 215, 255-59
"Sad as a Man Can Be," 240 "Special Rider Blues," 239
"Saddle My Pony," 63 Spier, Henry C, 77, 124
"Sagefield Woman Blues," 115 "Spoonful," 237
Sain, Oliver, 207 "Spoonful Blues, A," 66
"St. Louis Blues," 105 SprueU, Freddie (Papa Freddie or
Sam, Magic (Sam Maghett) 267, , Mr. Freddie), 107
269 "Stack-a-Lee," 42
Sane, Dan, 227 Stackhouse, Houston, 60, 118, 183,
Schuller, Gunther, 29 187, 190-91, 193-95, 196, 209,
Scott, Joe, 250 221, 262, 263
 , , ,

INDEX 309

"Stackolee," 42 Thomas, Rufus, 229, 239

"Stagger Lee," 42 Thomas, Texas Henry, 35
Staples, Roebuck, 61 Thorogood, George, 115
Staple Singers, 61 "Three O'Clock Blues," 230
Starkey, James, 197 "Tiger Man (King of the Jungle),"
"Statesboro Blues," 110 239
234
Steel, Willie, 231, 232, "Tiger in Your Tank," 258
Stephenson, Andrew, 258 Titon, Jeff, 62

"StiUaFool," 104, 165 "Tom Rushen Blues," 71-72, 77

Toscano, Eli, 266
Stokes, Frank, 227
"Tough Luck," 194
Stoller, Mike, 109, 167
Townshend, Henry, 194
"Stop Breakin' Down Blues," 127,
"Train Kept A-Rollin', The," 235
128
"Travelling Riverside Blues," 127
Stop-time, 167
Turner, Ike, 214, 215, 217-18,
"Story of My Life, The," 250 220-21, 225, 234, 238-40, 249
Stovall, Colonel William Howard, 100 Turner, Jim, 47
Stovall plantation, 4-8, 99-100 Turner, Joe, 102, 130, 224
Stovepipe, Daddy, 106 Turner, Steve, 129
"Strange Brew," 246 Turner, Tina, 240
Sun label, 237, 241 "22-20 Blues," 116
Sunnyland Slim (Albert Luandrew)
115,^147-58, 161-62, 174 Vee Jay label, 252
"Sweet Black Angel," 195, 200 Victor, 109-35
"Sweet Home Chicago," 114, 125, "Vicksburg Blues," 151
128, 251 Vocalion, 109
Sykes, Roosevelt, 115, 118, 154, 174, Voice masking, 35
191
Walker. Aaron "T-Bone," 107, 197,
Taj Mahal, 128 198, 230, 248
"Take a Little Walk with Me," 180, "Walkin' Blues," 4, 80, 104, 125,
181, 205 128, 147
Tampa Red (Hudson Whittaker) "Wang Dang Doodle," 237
110, 135, 145, 154, 195 Wardlow, Gayle Dean, 130
252
Taylor, Eddie, 215, 244, 251, Warren, Baby Boy, 242
Taylor, Hound Dog, 272
144, 271, Warren, William, 118
Taylor, Robert "Dudlow," 191, 239 Warren,Willie, D., 267
Tempo tone, 161 Washboard Sam (Robert Brown)
"Terraplane Blues," 125, 128, 129, 135
222 Waters, Muddy, 3-7, 12-17, 35, 80,
Texas blues, 43-44 95-105, 116, 122, 128, 131-37,
"That Black Snake Moan," 107 148, 159-69, 200, 203, 232, 233,
"That's AU Right," 181, 182, 203, 236, 241-43, 255-61, 265, 266,
206. 210. 241 274-75
"Things I Used to Do. The." 249 in Chicago, 12-15, 134-37,
"34 Blues," 88 143-45
'30-20 Blues," 116 early life of. 99-102
Thomas, Bo Bo. 214 in England, 256-59
rhomas, George W., 131 Sunnyland Slim and, 155-58
 ,

INDEX 310

WDIA, 219, 228 Williams, Johnny, 203

Weaver, Sylvester, 106 Williams, Robert Pete, 242
Welding, Peter, 62-63, 231 Williamson, John Lee "Sonny Boy,'
Wells, Junior, 211,269 128, 135, 145-46, 154, 155, 177,
"West Memphis Blues," 208, 213 192, 194, 201
Wexler, Jerry, 249 WiUis, Mott, 61
Wheatstraw, Peetie (William Winter, Johnny, 13
Bunch), 114-16, 127, 135 Wolof, 31-32
White, Booker T. Washington Work, John, 2-3, 38, 44
"Bukka," 62, 124 WROX, 187
Whittaker, Hudson (Tampa Red)
110, 135, 145, 154, 195 "You Don't Have to Go," 251, 252
"Who Do You Love." 236 Young, Ed, 39
Whooping, 34-35 Young, Johnny, 147, 203
Wilkins, Joe Willie, 158, 178, 191, Young, Lester, 197
207, 212, 213, 239 Youngbloods, 110
Williams, Albert "Joiner," 239 "Your Cat Will Play," 210
Williams, Big Joe, 177, 194 "You're Gonna Miss Me," 163
Williams, Clarence, 131
Williams, Joe, 124, 145, 146 Zinneman, Ike, 113, 114
"A lucid . . . entrancing: study" — Greii Marcu

Blues is the cornerstone of American popular music, the

bedrock of rock and roll. In this extraordinary musical and
social history, Robert Palmer traces the odyssey of the blues

from its rural beginnings, to the steamy bars of Chicago's

South Side, to international popularity, recognition
imitation. Palmer tells the story of the blues through the
of its greatest practitioners: Robert Johnson, who sa Ui
being pursued by the hounds of hell; Muddy Waters, who
electrified Delta blues and gave the music its rock beat;
Robert Lockwood and Sonny Boy Williamson, who launched the
Kinjg Biscuit Time radio show and brought blues to the airwaves;
and John Lee Hooker, Ike Turner, B. B. King, and many others.

"Palmer has a powerful understanding-

of the music and an intense involvement
in the culture." — TAe Nation

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