When I Left Home (12 page)
Authors: Buddy Guy
“You don’t gotta worry about that none,” Willie answered. “That’s just paperwork. I take care of all the paperwork for you.”
“Thanks, man,” I said, figuring Willie was doing me a favor.
We needed something for the flip side of the record, and Eli Toscano came up with the idea.
“You know how big Otis’s ‘I Can’t Quit You, Baby’ is?” he asked.
“Real big,” I said.
“Let’s cut an ‘answer record.’ Answer records can be big.”
“What’s an ‘answer record’?” I asked.
“It’s like when they did ‘Annie Had a Baby’ after ‘Work with Me, Annie,’” said Willie. “One records plays off the other.”
“Let’s call your answer to Otis ‘Try to Quit You, Baby,’” said Eli. “That’ll have everyone thinking of Otis.”
“Long as Otis don’t mind,” I said.
“Long as I get paid for this session,” said Otis. “I don’t give a shit.”
Willie used two sax players—Harold Ashby and Bob Neely—to get a fatter sounds. Me, Eli, and Willie made up the words. Playing in front of all those instruments made me feel like B. B. King playing in front of his band. When we listened back, I was all smiles.
“Another good copyright,” said Willie.
“Will they play it on the radio?” I asked. “Will they play it on WXOK so my mama can hear it down in Baton Rouge?”
“Most probably,” said Willie, busy filling out copyright forms.
A couple weeks passed before I got the call to go back to the studio. Toscano wanted to cut two more songs.
When I arrived, walking through the record store to the room behind the curtains, Eli Toscano was playing poker with three guys. I had seen one of the men that day at Chess when Wayne Bennett borrowed my guitar. I recognized him as Leonard Chess, and naturally I wanted to ask him if he ever heard my tape, but I was too shy. Besides, I didn’t need that tape. I was making records of my own.
“Fuck,” Eli was saying, throwing down his cards. “That puts me ten Gs in the hole.”
Willie Dixon had just walked in, so I could ask him, “What does ten Gs mean?”
“That’s ten thousand dollars, son.”
“You mean Eli Toscano lost ten thousand dollars playing cards?”
“That ain’t nothing. He’s lost a lot more than that.”
“Good God,” was all I could say.
“We got us another producer coming in today,” said Willie.
“What’s a producer?” I asked.
“The guy who puts together the session. Last time I was your producer. This time we bringing in Ike Turner.”
“The guy who did Jackie Brenston’s ‘Rocket 88’?”
“So you heard of him.”
“Muddy was talking about him the other day.”
“You’ll like him,” said Willie. “He’s from Mississippi like me. He’s bringing Jackie Brenston with him.”
“Wow,” I said. “Hope I can please him.”
“All you gotta do is listen to what he says.”
A half-hour later Ike Turner, with a mile-high ’do atop his head, was saying, “Willie, listen to what I’m saying. Your bass is out of tune.”
Willie wasn’t having none of that.
“Hold up, Ike,” he said. “I know how to tune a bass.”
“Your bass ain’t going right with the horns. Your bass is off.”
I was hearing what Ike was hearing. I couldn’t put it into words—I hadn’t even learned the word “tuning”—but I knew Willie wasn’t matching the sound of his bass with what me and Ike were playing.
Ike, by the way, had him a Strat. That made me feel like I had really chosen the right instrument.
“I took up guitar,” he said to me, “’cause of Earl Hooker. You know Earl Hooker?”
“I do,” I said.
“He got his shit from Robert Nighthawk. You heard him?”
“Not yet. I wanna.”
“How about Gatemouth? You heard Gatemouth? You gotta love it when Gatemouth does . . .”
And with that Ike broke into “Okie Dokie Stomp,” Gatemouth’s big instrumental hit. He played the thing note for note.
You had to like Ike Turner. He knew his music and didn’t mind showing you a thing or two. He wasn’t stingy about his compliments. He told me I could play good and had me do one of his songs, “This Is the End.” Though he couldn’t read music, he knew how to arrange all the instruments by singing the notes. He also played piano and just about any other instrument you threw at him.
“I believe you got you a smash hit,” he said when we was through.
The second song we cut, “You Sure Can’t Do,” felt a lot like Guitar Slim’s “The Things You Used to Do.”
“You said you love Slim,” said Ike, “so here’s your chance to tell him how much. I think it’s another hit.”
I laughed and sang the song. My main attitude was just to keep everybody happy and get these records out on the street. If Ike said these were hits, I wasn’t about to argue.
They didn’t play at the session, but Lafayette Leake and Little Brother Montgomery were around, two of the best blues piano players in Chicago. Later Little Brother would write me a hot song, but for now they was happy just to hang out and watch the great Ike Turner. It was a beautiful day.
Got even more beautiful when Eli Toscano said, “I like what you did so well that I’m starting a new label for you.”
“Great,” I said, not exactly sure what that meant but knowing it had to be something good.
“Magic, Otis, Harold, and Betty,” he explained, “they all on Cobra. But I want the radio jocks and the public to take special note of you, Buddy. You’re a real artist, so I’m starting up the Artistic label just for you.”
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
“I think we’re going to make real money together.”
If you ask me today how much I made from Toscano, I’d have to tell you not even my carfare home–not a nickel.
Far as those songs being hits, well, they got played on the radio in Chicago every once in a while—and naturally that was a thrill—but my folks didn’t hear them down in Baton Rouge, and that was a disappointment. In my twenty-two-year-old mind, I saw Eli Toscano turning me into a big recording star, but that dream ended a year later when Eli was found at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Some said it was a boat accident. Some said it was bad debt from his crap shooting and poker playing. Some said he’d been hooked up with the mob ever since he went into the record business. Others said that the body wasn’t Eli at all and that he was hiding out somewhere in Indiana until the heat blew over. Whatever it was, Toscano never showed up again. He was gone, Cobra was gone, Artistic was gone, and I got my first taste of what it meant to be a bluesman in the record business.
Wouldn’t be my last.
Night Shift
Was I discouraged by what happened at Cobra? I’d have to say no. I was just a guitar-playing fool, happy to be making a few dollars singing my blues while building up a reputation in a town of killer gunslingers. I remember asking Muddy why John Lee Hooker didn’t stay in Chicago.
“When Johnny came through,” said the Mud, “he cut something for Chess called ‘Walkin’ the Boogie.’ But then when he looked around and saw all the guitar men ’round here, he boogied on back to Detroit. Johnny didn’t wanna be around all these heavy-hitters.”
That made me say, “Maybe I should go to Detroit.”
“Oh, no, son, you doin’ right here. Matter of fact, the Wolf was asking about you. He done heard you can play.”
“Where’s he playing?”
“Silvio’s. I don’t like waking up early, but if you really wanna hear something, get there when the night shift from the slaughter house gets off. That’s when the Wolf really starts to howl.”
“What time is that?”
“He says the best tips come in around 7 a.m. Everyone’s happy’cause they through working. They ready to start drinking. Friday morning, when they get those paychecks, that’s when it really gets to moving.”
“I’m going.”
“But if Wolf asks you up there to play, be careful. Play, but don’t play too much. He don’t like no one to outshine him. And if you outshine him too much, he don’t mind punching you upside your head. You know that song he sings called ‘Evil’?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Well, that’s the Wolf. Willie Dixon says
he
wrote it. Maybe, but Wolf, he done lived it.”
he
wrote it. Maybe, but Wolf, he done lived it.”
I got to Silvio’s just as all-night workers were coming through the door. They were ready. I was ready. Howlin’ Wolf was already up there, and just as night was turning to day, he was singing a song called “Break of Day.”
He was sitting down while he was singing, but that didn’t keep him from singing strong. After he did “Moaning at Midnight,” he stopped singing and started saying, “I know you been working since midnight, and that means you been moaning since midnight, and that means you tired of hearing me moaning, so I’m gonna shut up and give you something you can smoke. Gonna give you some of this here ‘Smokestack Lightnin’.”
“Smokestack Lightnin’,” one of Wolf’s famous songs, got wild. You ain’t lived until you come to a club in Chicago fresh in the morning with everyone high on hard whiskey and heavy blues. The men are ready to let off steam. The women are as wild as the men, women who ain’t shy about drinking and showing you that good meat rolling over their bones. Some of them women wanna dance with you and some wanna take you home. Some love the music and some love the musicians. But just about everyone is feeling that life may be hard, but life’s a helluva lot easier when the blues is blasting with Howlin’ Wolf telling you that he’s “Sitting On Top of the World,” ’cause, baby, he sure is.
Seeing I brought my guitar that morning, Wolf asked me up to play. Wolf’s regular guitarist, Hubert Sumlin, is the one of the best, so I wasn’t gonna play too much, especially in light of what Muddy said. I played to highlight Wolf, not draw attention to me, and that made Wolf real happy. He let me stay on stage.
During the break Hubert took me aside. “Hey, man,” he said. “if the Wolf wants to take you on the road, it’s okay with me.”
“I ain’t interested in taking no man’s gig,” I said.
“I’m tired of how he gets drunk and mean. If he don’t think I’m playing right, he’ll try to beat up on me like I’m one of his women.”
I looked over at Wolf. He was a giant of man. Wasn’t no one I wanted to fight.
A week later Wolf came to hear me at Theresa’s.
“You ain’t half bad,” he said after the set, “and I’m fed up with these motherfuckers in my band. You wanna go on the road with me?”
I thought about how much I loved this man’s music. And then I thought about my health.
“No, thank you, sir,” I said. “I got some gigs coming up here in town.”
My first out-of-Illinois gig was down the road in Gary, Indiana. It’s only twenty-five miles away on a tollway where you could drop in a bottle-top and the pay-gate would think it’s a dime. After Pittsburgh, Gary was the second-biggest steel-mill city in America. In the fifties Gary was working twenty-four/seven. Far as gambling, liquor, and women went, it was wide open. You’d see cats shooting craps and playing blackjack everywhere. Cops couldn’t care less. Once they got their payoffs, they’d go nap in their squad cars. Strange to say, but women weren’t allowed to sit at the bar and order a drink. They’d have to be seated at tables. But if you was riding around in your car and stopped at a light, damn if a woman wouldn’t try to jump in and get you to fuck her for a few bucks.
I found a home at a club owned by two brothers, Fred and Jay. They had the F&J Lounge that sat on the corner of 15th and Adams in the heart of Gary’s party district. It was bigger than any blues club in Chicago. I’d say it held 150. I’d mainly work there weekends, when, in two nights, I could make as much as $60, more than a whole week’s work at Theresa’s or the 708.
I’d started with a band that included Harold Burrage on piano, Jack Myers on bass, and Fred Below, the best shuffle drummer since the shuffle began. I also took two horns and a guy who danced with a Cobra to remind everyone to buy our songs on Cobra Records. I did my usual bit of starting out playing on the street and slowly working my way inside.
Gary loved blues as much as Chicago, and if anything, they were wilder with the feeling. I got so popular that the gig became regular. Even B. B. came in one night to hear what all the commotion was about.
I slipped into a routine that the owners really liked: I got the Mud and the Wolf and even Little Walter to come out and play late sets. They’d do three or four songs with my band, I’d slip them a ten, and they’d jump in their car to go back to Silvio’s or Mitch’s Jukebox Lounge for their regular gigs. That way Gary got the best of Chicago.
We got paid at the end of the night. Brother Fred, one of the owners, had this talent for reaching into the front pocket of his shirt and fishing out exactly the amount he owed, whether it was three tens or two twenties. This one time, though, he went to pocket, fished out the bills and, when he handed them to me, said, “I got something extra for you.” He did the same thing with Harold Burrage.
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