Bluesmen Remembered

A little while ago I was looking through a book on blues, when I began to reflect on the number of blues artists and legends with whom it has been my privilege to have appeared and met over the past thirty years and more. The more I thought about it, the more I realised what an impressive list it is from Son House, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, T-Bone Walker, James Cotton, Albert and B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, Johnny Shines and many more. I realised how lucky I have been, so I decided to jot down a few personal memories in the hope that some of you might be interested, and anyway I believe that any information, however trivial, about these great artists deserves to be recorded.

Eddy "Son" House

In the very early Climax Blues Band days, in 1970 we were offered the chance to tour the UK, opening for the legendary Son House. To my eternal shame the name didn't mean much to me at the time, but I soon realised that we were in the presence of someone very special.

For the benefit of newcomers to the blues, may I explain that Son House was one of the earliest Mississippi Delta Bluesmen, born in 1902, a contemporary of Charlie Patton and a fore-runner of Robert Johnson. He recorded in the thirties, but disappeared from the public until he was re-discovered in the sixties.

The first impression was of a very frail, but extremely dignified and handsome man, but it wasn't until he began to perform that the true man came to life. It would be foolish to pretend that he was anything approaching the force that he must once have been, but it was quite staggering to see the sheer energy that the man generated, not by strength, but almost by willpower.

He suffered badly from arthritis in his hands, and backstage he told me one night how he had been advised to have some fingers amputated, but as a guitar player this would have been the end, so he declined. He would do a couple of numbers on the guitar each night before standing up and doing a whole section acapella, leading the hand-clapping. The audience loved him. I think a 'force of nature' is the phrase that springs to mind. He got a standing ovation every night.

After the gigs, when the people came backstage to pay homage, he was the model pro, listening to people's questions and trying to answer them, when he probably just wanted to get back to his hotel and sleep. Although only in his late sixties, he was clearly not a well man, but he did the business every night, and so impressed us that we recorded his song 'Grinning in Your Face' on our next album.

I have seen Son House in his latter years compared to King Lear, and although I would agree that he was sometimes confused and forgetful, he was certainly not disturbed or troubled. I believe he was a man with a clear sense of both who he was and what he had been, and was at ease with both.

Son House died in 1988, but had been musically inactive since 1974. All of us who got the chance to see him should be eternally thankful.

Little Walter Jacobs

During the mid-Sixties I was in a band called The Hipster Image, which among other things did a residency at a club in Stoke-on-Trent called The Place, where all the visting American bluesmen played. Of all the people I saw there the most amazing was the undisputed boss of blues harp, Little Walter. We were introduced before the show, and it was very apparent that Walter was not really on the same planet as the rest of us. I hate to suggest what he might have been up to, but I figured there was no way he was going to be able to do a show. Stupid white boy would-be blueser!

When Walter hit the stage he went through the whole repertoire that we had come to worship on record, 'Juke', 'Blue Lights', 'Blues with a Feeling' and so on. Playing and singing through the same mike with an in-house PA that was far from ideal, being put in as a disco system, Walter turned in a performance that was faultless both technically and artistically. I have read a lot of stuff since about what a difficult guy he was on that tour, but all I can say is that on that showing Walter proved that he was a true god among bluesmen.

Born in 1930 in Louisiana, he would have only been around thirty-four at the time, but looked as though he had done a lot of living. His face was scarred, and apparently he still had a bullet in his leg as a result of some past altercation. He was playing on Chicago's famous Maxwell Street from the age of sixteen, and did some recording under his own name before joining the Muddy Waters band. The rest, as they say, is history.

Four years after that tour of the UK, Little Walter died as a result of injuries received in a street brawl, a little short of his thirty-eighth birthday, but any time or anywhere you hear someone playing amplified blues harp, you are going to hear his influence to some degree. Little Walter Jacobs wrote the book.

Curtis Jones

Another venue I was involved in years ago was a gig in Stafford at the BRC Club, where I saw among others The Graham Bond Organisation, Jimmy James and the Vagabonds and Chris Farlowe. On Boxing Day 1968 Climax Blues Band was booked to play there, opening for and playing with singer/pianist, and occasional guitarist, Curtis Jones.

Born in Naples, Texas in 1906, Curtis moved to Chicago in the mid-Thirties and began his recording career in September 1937. His first release, 'Lonesome Bedroom Blues', was a big hit, and between then and August 1941 he cut around ninety sides, with backing from the likes of Washboard Sam, Jazz Gillum and trumpeter Punch Miller. With changing trends he left music, but was rediscovered in the Fifties, and moved to Europe in the Sixties.

He was probably the most unlikely-looking bluesman I have ever met. At that time the whole fashion thing was in full swing, but Curtis made no concessions to current trends. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and sober tie, he looked like somebody's favourite uncle; an impression reinforced by the sensible overcoat and rubber overshoes he was wearing when he arrived. The only giveaway was the guitar case he carried.

Everything about the man was understated. He was very cooperative in every way and we arranged that he would do a mainly solo set, and we would join him for the last two or three numbers. His performance was an extension of the man. Understated to the point of introversion, and with a voice that was not particularly striking, he nevertheless turned in a superb and totally absorbing hour or so of blues. We joined him for the end of the set, and I think we were all a bit overwhelmed by what had gone before.

The end of the show produced the only bit of friction of the evening. Curtis wanted to play the Duke Ellington tune 'Caravan' and became quite irate that we didn't know it! In the purist atmosphere that prevailed at the time we found it a strange choice, but it proves the point that a lot of the dyed-in-the-wool attitudes to the blues that were around were more a product of the tastes of European audiences, and less of the those of the artists themselves. I later read in an interview with Johnny Shines, who played with Curtis in Chicago in 1942, that the pianist loved to play tunes like 'Stardust', Trees' and 'Danny Boy'!

Curtis Jones died in Germany in 1971. His uncompromising attitude to showiness and fashion probably condemned him to relative obscurity, because judged purely on his ability, he deserved to be ranked among the greats.

Jimmy Witherspoon

On April 11th 1990, the Climax Blues Band was booked to play the Dead Sea Festival in Israel. This in itself was exciting, but it was a double thrill to find that we were on the same night as Jimmy Witherspoon, one of the more durable and versatile figures in the blues world. Born in 1923 in Gurdon, Arkansas, he served in WW2, and his first big break came in 1945 when he replaced Walter Brown in the Jay McShann band. He was later involved in the jazz end of blues with such as tenor man Ben Webster and trumpeter Buck Clayton. A stint as a disc-jockey was followed by a resurgence in his singing career, with the encouragement of Eric Burden, and in the early 70s he introduced a young Robben Ford as his guitarist.

The trip was everything we could have wished in all respects but one. It is always fun to visit a new country, and none of us had ever been there before so we were all excited, particularly of course drummer Jeff Rich. The drawback to which I refer was the fact that it was the time of a Jewish Festival, which among other things involved a complete abstinence from not only the consumption, but also the sale of any form of alcoholic beverage. Anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the guys in the band will know that a ban on food would have been more bearable. However the boys are nothing if not resourceful in such matters, and we managed to locate secret supplies and suddenly our stay looked tolerable.

The setting for the gig was spectacular, but the backstage area was spartan to say the least. It consisted of a fenced-off compound containing a few stacking chairs and a table. There wasn't even anywhere to hide our booze. But the show must go on as they say and the crowd was very responsive to us.

Jimmy Witherspoon and his band arrived while we were playing, and they really did look all in. Apparently they had just flown in from Japan via Los Angeles, which for anyone would have been a gruelling trip, and these guys were in their sixties. The backstage facilities must have been the final straw, since although they were dressed for the stage, this involved smart suits, white shirts, collars and ties and well-polished shoes. Just the thing for a sweltering night outdoors in a dust-bowl with nowhere to sit down!

I have to say that the average (or below average) rock band would have done a complete Spinal Tap, but Spoon and the boys were made of sterner stuff. I struck up a conversation with Jimmy in much the same way as strangers on a broken-down train. I got the full chapter and verse. I think it was cathartic for him to unload the whole sorry story into sympathetic ears: the story of the horrific journey, the lack of facilities, the fact that some equipment had got lost. Jimmy had just become Mr Angry of Arkansas and I was beginning to wish I has never got him going when a nervous looking stage-manager came up and asked Jimmy if he was ready. Jimmy looked at him, beamed winningly, and said "Spoon?s always ready man!"

Off he went and I watched the set from the side of the stage. Spoon was always on the smoother end of blues, regarded by many as more of a night-club type of performer. All I can say is that on that night, in front of maybe 20,000 people, he did a great show, including a memorable version of 'Going Down Slow', and of course 'Tain't Nobody's Business'. I have often thought since that few of his records really do him justice. Perhaps the troubles of the day had really got him fired up, or maybe his live shows always had another dimension, but I do know that I witnessed a superb blues performance that night.

Jimmy died in California in 1997, and the latter end of his career saw him in collaboration with the likes of Eric Burden, Van Morrison and Bonnie Raitt, but sadly he never regained the bigger audience he so richly deserved, and which he had commanded in earlier years. Spoon?s long career encompassed most forms and aspects of the blues, and his talent was huge enough to transcend all of them.

Larry Williams and Johnny "Guitar" Watson

I have put these two under one heading because they made an album together for Decca in 1965, and toured the UK to promote it, so that is how I remember them. I was playing at the time with the previously mentioned Hipster Image, who were also with Decca, and we had a gig at the legendary Twisted Wheel in Manchester, opening for these two guys who were backed by a band from Wales called the Stormsville Shakers.

We played our respective sets and were gearing up for our second spots, when we realised that the club was being emptied, and a whole new crowd was queuing up outside! There was some heated discussion, since we were only being paid for one show, and the outcome was that the Stormsville Shakers went home and we negotiated an additional fee, agreed to play our own set and back the two star guests, without any rehearsal!

At that time Johnny Watson, who was born in Houston in 1935, was something of an unknown quantity in England, although he had a couple of hits in the US, one of which was 'Gangster Of Love' in 1957, adopted as a theme tune years later by Steve Miller. Larry Williams was better known, largely for his hit record 'Bony Moronie', which was in the style of Little Richard, for whom he had written several songs including 'Dizzy Miss Lizzy' and 'Lawdy Miss Claudy?. Larry was born in New Orleans in 1935 and he recorded for Speciality there, the same label as Lloyd Price?s band for whom Larry played piano and Little Richard.

My enduring memory of the night was that between the shows, after all the wrangling about money and the other band had gone home, Johnny Watson sat down at an upright piano in a corner of the club before anyone came in, and played a superb version of Thelonius Monk's 'Round Midnight' for anyone who happened to be listening. At that time of course, rockers were not supposed to be at all musically sophisticated, and Johnny's stage act was from the Chuck Berry school, as can be gleaned from his early promo shots. I was totally blown away, being at the time something of a closet jazz buff.

As far as the show was concerned, all that I really remember is that we played our bit, Johnny Watson came on and did a few songs, and although he showed himself to be much more than just a rocker, none of it moved me anywhere near his previous impromptu piano performance. I had the job of summoning Larry Williams from the dressing-room when the time came. Both of the guys were dressed in the height of black fashion for the time, complete with pomaded hair a la Little Richard and frilly shirts. When I went to call Larry, he was looking in the mirror with an expression which indicated that there were about a million places he would rather have been, but on cue he turned around, gave me a flashing smile, yelled "Here we go again!" and hit the stage running.

His performance was electric, in spite of having to direct us at the same time, and he brought the house down. Subsequently little was heard of Larry Williams, who was very much the senior partner at the time, and he died in Los Angeles in 1980, apparently committing suicide. Considering the contribution he made to black American music, particularly in terms of song-writing, this is utterly tragic.

Of course Johnny 'Guitar' Watson deservedly went on to great things in the R'n'B world, achieving success not only in his own right with such tracks as 'Real Mutha For Ya' and a string of albums, but appearing on several Frank Zappa albums, the best known being 'One Size Fits All' in 1976. However I can never hear 'Round Midnight' without thinking about him and that night. He was a truly gifted musician, and he was firmly re-established on the touring circuit when he sadly died of a heart attack on stage in Japan in 1996.

Howlin' Wolf

The words 'great' and 'legend' are somewhat overused, but in this particular case I don't think anyone could argue about their application to Chester Burnett, a.k.a. Howlin' Wolf. Born in 1910, near Tupelo, Mississippi, his style could be traced from back to early Delta bluesmen like Charlie Patton, right up to the fiery electric blues of Chicago in the 50's and 60's. His recordings of such songs as 'Smokestack Lightening', 'Evil' and 'Little Red Rooster' had been an inspiration to an entire generation of British musicians.

In the early 70's, in the middle of yet another U.S. tour, we found ourselves in Toronto with a night off, and Wolf and his band were playing at a place downtown called the Macumbo, so naturally we arranged to go. I do remember that there was some talk of Climax jamming, but my personal feelings were that too many European musicians had jumped on that particular bandwagon with results that were seldom satisfactory, and frequently disastrous. I was there to worship, not to preach.

Wolf was, as usual, quite magnificent, sitting down to sing and play, but showing no sign of losing any of the intensity that was his trademark. Not only that, but his band was really cooking, with Hubert Sumlin on guitar and Eddie Shaw on tenor sax standing out. I have witnessed only a few shows that really make time stand still, so somehow or other I managed to make myself known to the great man, who was very approachable and amiable. To my surprise I found myself invited by him to go to a diner a couple of doors away, along with Eddy Shaw. I can only guess that they were intrigued by what I like to think was my more than superficial knowledge of the music, but who knows?

He was one of the most imposing figures I have ever met, and it was easy to see why one of his early pseudonyms had been Big-Foot Chester. There can be little doubt that the stories of his earlier years in Chicago, where they say few dared to cross him, were true.

The conversation was actually quiet strange, since all that Wolf really wanted to talk about was his hog farm in Arkansas, and no matter how many times I steered the topic back to his music, we kept ending up back with the hogs. I guess you can take a bluesman away from the far, but you can't take the farm away from the bluesman! I also seem to remember having a fairly heated discussion with Eddie Shaw about the relative merits of Selmer and, I think, King saxophones, but no matter. The fact is that I had heard, and got to meet, one of my heroes and one of the all-time greats, and been disappointed by neither the music, nor the man himself.

"Champion" Jack Dupree

Born in New Orleans in 1910, and one of the many bluesmen who eventually settled in Europe, Champion Jack Dupree should probably have been the first subject of this series, since he was one of the first black American bluesmen that I saw, and certainly the first that I played with and got to meet. To put things in perspective, the vast majority of British musicians at that time had learned everything from records and books. Our idols were faces on record sleeves, and in the pages of music magazines. A Musicians Union ban on American musicians visiting the U.K. meant that we were starved of the opportunity of seeing jazz and blues artists at first hand during the fifties, and even when the ban was lifted it was replaced by a complicated exchange system, so what we did see was fairly limited.

The first time I saw Jack was at the Place in Hanley. At the time he was living in Yorkshire, and was I believe, married to a girl from Halifax. He was accompanied by a group from Sheffield called, aptly enough, The Sheffields. This would have been around 1964, and I was mightily impressed. Jack was a powerful performer, and a natural entertainer.

Not long after, on a very cold Sunday afternoon in the depths of British winter, I got a call from one of the guys in the band I was currently in, the Hipster Image, to see if we could accompany Jack that evening at the Place, because although he had got to the gig alright, the Sheffields were still stuck in Sheffield! Naturally we jumped at the chance. The whole evening was a pleasure, Jack being utterly charming, and appreciative of the fact that we had helped him out of a hole. We knew his records fairly well, and coming largely from a jazz background, we had a reasonable background in blues compared to most British groups of that era, many of whom had emerged from the U.K. rock'n'roll boom. Despite the absence of any rehearsal the show was fine, and that evening remains one of my most treasured memories.

I met an played with him on several occasions subsequently, latterly after I had formed Climax Blues Band, and we actually played with him a couple of times, as we had with Curtis Jones, at the B.R.C. club in Stafford. Again I have to say that he was a joy to work with, which I think was largely due to the fact that he really enjoyed what he did, and I never saw any sign of cynicism about his work. Like a lot of former boxers, which he was, he seemed to have left his aggression in the ring, and preferred to achieve him aims with charm and diplomacy. He was also enormously encouraging to the musicians around him, and I never heard as much as a hint of a put-down aimed at anyone on the stand with him. He loved to give little impromptu lessons before gigs, about various aspects of the blues, tempos, timing and so on, which, naturally, I devoured avidly.

He was not a big man physically, somewhat reminiscent of Little Walter in appearance, but on another occasion he saw about six of us struggling to move an upright piano off a stage on to the floor. He immediately ordered us to stop, gave us a short lecture on his piano-moving abilities, and proceeded to supervise the operation, doing most of the hard work himself!

Perhaps the best tribute I can pay the man is to recall something that happened after one of the gigs we did with him. I had been given the job of finding him somewhere to stay after the gig, and I had put him in a BandB at my local pub, which was near the venue, and catered for commercial travellers and such. It was, however a typical estate, or neighbourhood pub, with a typically blue-collar clientele. When I called in the evening after his stay, the place was still buzzing.

Apparently Jack had got up, had a late breakfast, then found the piano in the bar. He had given an impromptu performance in the bar which had brought the house down, which had sent people back to work late, and was talked about for weeks, and this to a typical English local pub crowd with little or no knowledge of the blues. They just knew a star when they heard one. Everyone wanted to know who he was, so I told them. They had just had the privilege of listening to the one and only, Champion Jack Dupree.

Colin Cooper, 2002.