When I Left Home (21 page)
Authors: Buddy Guy
On the plantations where me and John Lee worked, they had a ditch to run off the water if it rained too much for the cotton and corn.
“L-l-l-l-l-little midget standing there,” said John Lee, “and I s-s-s-say, ‘Hey, you kiss m-m-m-m-my girl?’ M-m-m-m-midget nods his head like he d-d-d-d-d-d-did. So I p-p-p-p-p-pop him in the face. Would have s-s-s-s-s-s-stuck him with the knife ’cept that I f-f-f-f-felt sorry for him. After I pop him h-h-h-h-h-he don’t move, so I pop him again. S-s-s-s-s-s-still don’t fall down. Next thing I know he’s j-j-j-j-jumping up on my chest and b-b-b-b-beating on me so hard until m-m-m-m-my girls are yelling at m-m-m-m-m-me ‘Get him, Johnny, g-g-g-get him!’ But this g-g-g-g-g-goddamn midget is whopping me until he whoops all the c-c-c-c-clothes off me. I’m here to tell you, B-b-b-b-buddy, them things are strong. D-d-d-d-don’t you ever jump on no m-m-m-m-m-m-midget.”
John Lee had stories of his country life along with stories about his city life.
“When I f-f-f-f-first gets to Detroit,” he said, “I was pretty l-l-l-l-loose with my knife. Folk knew I w-w-w-w-wouldn’t take no shit. I was p-p-p-p-playing at the Henry Swing Club with my g-g-g-g-g-girl cousin s-s-s-s-sitting close when I l-l-l-l-l-look up and see her b-b-b-b-b-boyfriend p-p-p-p-p-p-punch her face with his f-f-f-fist. Well, I stop playing and g-g-g-go for my knife, and they h-h-h-h-h-hustle him out the club, and I’m w-w-w-w-wanting to go after him. By the time we g-g-g-g-g-get outside, h-h-h-h-he’s across the street, and my friends, they h-h-h-h-holding me back ’cause my blade is out and they sayin’ to the c-c-c-c-cat across the street, ‘We holding him, we trying to h-h-h-h-hold him back,’ but I was r-r-r-ready to r-r-r-r-run over to that m-m-m-m-m-motherfucker and cut him when, under the streetlight, I s-s-s-s-s-see something shiny, some blue steel shining. I s-s-s-s-s-s-see that the c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cat’s holding a .38 automatic in his h-h-h-h-hand. That’s when I s-s-s-say, ‘Fellas, you don’t w-w-w-w-w-worry ’bout holding me back ’cause I done cooled off, and I’m g-g-g-g-gonna go back inside to p-p-p-p-p-p-play my g-g-g-g-guitar.”
Both me and John Lee knew Willie Dixon real well. Willie didn’t have no high opinion of John Lee’s songwriting. I did. I love the songs he made up, but Willie called them simpleminded. One time Willie told Johnny just how he felt.
“Your songs ain’t no good,” said Willie. “They don’t even rhyme.”
“Makes n-n-n-n-no d-d-d-d-d-difference,” said John Lee.
“Sure it does. They ain’t even real songs.”
“Oh yeah? Then why do p-p-p-p-p-people b-b-b-b-b-b-buy’em?”
John Lee waited for an answer, but Willie just walked away.
Riding around Germany, John Lee couldn’t stop telling stories.
“Shit, Johnny,” said Big Mama, “we done heard enough of your bullshit. Way you be stumbling and stammering, takes forever to get ’em out.”
“W-w-w-w-w-what’s the b-b-b-b-b-big h-h-h-h-hurry?” asks John Lee.
“I’m just tired of you running your mouth.”
“Well, this n-n-n-n-next story has to do with s-s-s-s-s-something that I know you l-l-l-l-l-l-like.”
“What’s that?” asked Big Mama.
“P-p-p-p-p-p-p-pussy.”
Even Big Mama had to laugh. Then, like me, she leaned in to listen.
“S-s-s-s-s-starts out with w-w-w-w-with me and Jimmy Reed playing a show in Detroit. After the g-g-g-g-g-gig we both got sloppy d-d-d-d-d-drunk and picked up two w-w-w-w-w-women who w-w-w-w-wanted us real bad. The four of us g-g-g-go to a motel and g-g-g-g-get us two r-r-r-r-rooms. Me and my g-g-g-g-gal got the upstairs room, J-j-j-j-j-j-jimmy and his bitch got the one downstairs. I had a hundred d-d-d-d-d-d-dollars in my p-pp-p-p-pocket that I wasn’t about to l-l-l-l-l-l-lose. Now I’m gonna f-f-f-f-f-fuck this woman until she ain’t ever gonna wanna s-s-ss-s-see me no more, but I’m also g-g-g-g-gonna keep my money. So when she ain’t l-l-l-l-l-l-l-looking, I put my money between the b-b-b-b-b-box spring and the m-m-m-m-m-m-mattress. Well, we get to f-f-f-f-f-fucking real g-g-g-g-g-good and then naturally afterward I f-f-f-f-f-fall to sleep. When I w-w-w-w-w-wake up, the box spring is on t-t-t-t-t-t-top of me and the b-b-b-b-b-bitch is gone. Ain’t b-b-b-b-b-bad enough that she r-r-r-r-run off with my money, but also she done took all my c-c-c-c-c-clothes. All she l-l-l-l-l-leaves me with is my b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts. So I go r-r-r-rr-running into the hallway in nothing but my b-b-b-b-b-b-boxers, screaming after her. I look at the b-b-b-b-b-b-bottom of the stairs, and there’s Jimmy R-r-r-r-r-reed. He in his b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts too, looking for his b-b-b-b-bitch, who also done run off. I shout d-d-d-d-d-down at him, ‘What h-h-h-h-h-happened to you, m-m-m-m-motherfucker?’ He l-l-l-l-l-l-looks up at me and y-y-y-y-y-yells, ‘Same thing that happened t-t-t-t-t-to you, Johnny. We both got f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fucked.”
Something else happened that same year—1965—that folks still talking about today. I went in the studio for the first time with Junior Wells to record not just a single but a whole album that became known as
Hoodoo Man Blues
.
Hoodoo Man Blues
.
Junior called and said, “You know this cat Bob Koester?”
“No,” I said.
“He’s been coming ’round the clubs. He got his own label, Delmark. You heard of it?”
I hadn’t.
“He says he wanna record me the way I need to be recorded.”
“How’s that?”
“He says I don’t need no Willie Dixon or no one like that. He wants me to pick whoever I want to play with. He wants me to choose whatever tunes I want. He says the songs don’t gotta end after three minutes like a record usually do.”
“Will he give you any money?”
“A little.”
“Sounds okay, Junior.”
“Will you play on it?”
“Will he give me any money?”
“A little.”
“Who else you getting?”
“Jack Myers.”
“He’s a good bass man.”
“And Bill Warren on drums.”
“No piano?” I asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“How come?”
“Less cats, more money. You in?”
“I’m in. You already picked out the songs?”
“I’ll do it when I get there,” said Junior. “Koester wants me to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ Says it’s the best thing I ever done. But I ain’t doing it, so don’t even ask me.”
“Do as you like. It’s your session.”
“Damn right.”
When I showed up, Bob Koester took me aside and said, “We should try to get Junior to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ It’ll help sell the album.”
“Junior gonna do what Junior gonna do,” I said.
“I know that,” Bob said, “but if there’s an opening and you start into the song, Junior might get the spirit and sing along. I’ll have the tape rolling just in case.”
First off, Junior wanted to do “Snatch It Back and Hold It,” a song he wrote in the James Brown bag. His lyrics even talk about how “I ain’t got no brand new bag.” This was Junior trying to compete with James.
When we did “Hound Dog,” I was thinking of Big Mama Thornton—except that Junior did it his own way until I forgot the original. We did Sonny Boy’s “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl” and a Junior song, “In the Wee Wee Hours.” At some point we were pretty loose and Junior was pretty happy, so I started saying how it’s been so long since I heard his “Hoodoo Blues Man.” I even forgot how it went. That got Junior to start singing it.
“Oh no, Buddy,” he said, “I know what y’all are trying to get me to do.”
“Well, if it feel good, Junior,” I said, “go on and do it.”
The spirit came in the room, and we ran it down. Before we started, though, my amp busted, and I had to plug in through the Leslie speaker of a Hammond B3 organ. The sound came out strange, but I’ve always liked strange. It’s a guitar-marries-the-organ sound. Junior heard the sound and smiled. “Hey man,” he said, “why not?”
Koester didn’t raise no objections. Fact is that Koester didn’t say much of anything. He let me and Junior run the show. Never told us how to play or when to cut off a song. Was my first experience of doing a full-length album in one shot.
When it was time to release it, Koester said there were some problems between me and Chess. Said I wasn’t allowed to play on another label without their permission.
“Fuck it,” I said. “Just put some other name on it.”
I knew the little up-front money was the only money I’d ever see.
So the album said, “Junior Wells with the Friendly Chap.”
Some forty-seven years later my name is on the cover and the thing is still selling. They call it one of the classic blues records of all time. I can’t vouch for that, but it did cement something between me and Junior. Made us realize that as a musical unit, we was tight. Left to our devices, we could burn.
Even though other labels would put me and Junior in the studio again, and even though we did good stuff, nothing was as good as
Hoodoo Man Blues.
They say you gotta capture lightning in a bottle, but with music that might happen only once in a lifetime.
Hoodoo Man Blues.
They say you gotta capture lightning in a bottle, but with music that might happen only once in a lifetime.
As the sixties marched on, my own life ground to a halt. I was turning thirty, still young, still getting beautiful compliments from the folks in the clubs and a few rock and rollers in England, but I still wasn’t able to support my family on music alone.
I was still driving the tow truck, fixing flat tires and changing batteries, working the streets of Chicago every day until I had the map of that sprawling city—south, west, north, and east—planted deep inside my brain. Part of me wanted a change, something to let me be a full-time musician. But another part of me—the cautious part—said that a steady job was better than no job at all.
If something was going to change all that, I sure as hell didn’t see it coming.
The Creeper
“Someone here to see you, Buddy,” said my boss. I was working in the service department of Litsinger, second biggest Ford dealer in Chicago.
“Tell him I’m on the creeper under this here city truck. Tell him to wait.”
“He says it’s important.”
“Well, if he wants to talk to me while I’m on my back, draining the oil out of this truck, fine.”
I kept draining when I saw a pair of feet moving toward me.
“How come you’re using a creeper?” asked the stranger. “Can’t you put the truck on a lift? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Sure would,” I said, “except this truck’s too big for a lift.”
“I see.”
“You come ’round here to discuss trucks?” I asked.
“No, I came here to discuss music. My name’s Dick Waterman, and I manage Junior Wells. I think I can manage you as well. I think I can get you work. I know I can get you work with Junior.”
“I’ve heard Junior mention you, Dick Waterman, but I ain’t interested.”
“Why not?”
“First off, I’ve been getting my own club work at night, and I don’t need to pay an agent. An agent means less money for me. Second, Junior’s always firing his band and stranding them out there on the road. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”
“But wouldn’t you rather make your money playing music than working at this garage?” asked Waterman.
“I work at this garage ’cause it’s honest work. I work’cause I’m not gonna beg or steal to feed my family. I don’t mind working here during the day. I play my music at night.”
“You got to be tired at night.”
“Mister,” I said, “I been working since I was a little boy. When you out there in the field picking cotton under that blistering Louisiana sun, garage work don’t seem so bad. Then at night the music lifts me up.”
“How much are you making here?” asked Waterman.
“Two dollars an hour.”
“That’s low pay and dangerous work. You could have an accident and lose a finger.”
“But if I’m out there starving to death, I could lose my life.”
“I can guarantee you more than two dollars an hour. Matter of fact, I’ll write a postdated check that will cover a whole year of work at twice that amount.”
“What am I going to do if at the end of the year I go to cash your postdated check and it bounces like a rubber ball?”
Waterman had to laugh.
“It won’t bounce. And from what I hear, business in the blues clubs isn’t all that good.”
I couldn’t argue. Black folks were running over to the Regal to hear the Isley Brothers rather than walk down the street to hear some blues. Just a few nights before Waterman showed up I played in front of exactly six people. I played like there was six hundred, but I couldn’t help but be a little down.
“This will bring you up,” said Waterman. “This will take you where you need to be.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll try it for two weeks. I’ll tell my boss that I’m experimenting with you booking me, but to hold my job. That okay?”
“That’s fine. You’ll see for yourself. There’s an audience for you out there.”
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