Authors: Buddy Guy

When I Left Home (22 page)

BOOK: When I Left Home

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Turned out that the audience was white. Our first gig, where I used my buddy A. C. Reed on sax, was the Canterbury House in Ann Arbor. It was filled with students from the University of Michigan. Feeling nervous, I took a few drinks first, then we went out there and exploded. Kids went nuts. We played so hard that, tripping over each other, we actually fell on our faces. That made the college kids love us even more.

Out in the audience someone yelled out, “Hey man, you play Hendrix? Did Hendrix get his shit from you?”

“Who’s Hendrix?” I asked.

“You haven’t heard of Jimi Hendrix?” he wanted to know.

“No.”

“Sounds to me like he’s been taking your records to bed with him.”

Next up was the Mariposa Folk Festival in Toronto. I was on the bill with Joni Mitchell, Tom Rush, and Richie Havens—names that were new to me. The scene in Toronto was Ann Arbor times a thousand. Must have been thirty thousand people out there, almost all white.

When we arrived, someone said, “This is the real Buddy Guy.”

I asked, “Who’s the fake Buddy Guy?”

“Some guy Junior Wells has been playing with. Everyone’s been talking about that
Hoodoo Man Blues
record. Blues fans know you’re on that with him. So he’s been saying you’re in his band.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, more amused than angry.

Later I found out that the “fake” Buddy Guy who Junior had been using was Lefty Dizz.

Toronto was wild. I was wild. I used my shoe to strike the guitar and my white handkerchief to pick the strings. I jumped off the stage and had the fans carry me around like I had been elected president of the United States. I even climbed up the light tower where the operator had the spotlight and played from up there. Didn’t know what else to do, so I took off my shirt and started unbuckling my pants when the light switched off and the fans screamed like I was the pied piper leading them to glory.

Last gig was in Boston at Club 47, and that turned out good too.

Time I got back to Chicago, the fact was clear: white people was paying good money to hear blues, especially
young
white people. Around this time they started calling kids with long hair hippies. The girls weren’t wearing no bras, and everyone was talkin’ ’bout free love. I liked that concept. Hippies also liked smoking weed. When they got high, they said the blues sounded better. Because the blues was raw and, like them, didn’t give a shit about the establishment, hippies loved them some blues.

With this new feeling of hope, I told my boss at Litsinger Ford that I’d work there only long enough to train my replacement. He understood, and within a month I was gone. Ever since then I’ve made it on music and music alone.

Dick Waterman, who helped Bonnie Raitt get started, was also helping some of the old Delta blues singers. It was Dick who brought back Son House. Son House meant a lot to me because he meant a lot to Muddy. He was one of the cats Muddy learned from. Muddy had nothing but love for the man.

Waterman had been looking for Son for a long while when he found him—not in a corner of the Delta, but in Rochester, New York. Dick became his manager and brought him out on the road.

Me and Son House was booked on the same show in California. I hadn’t met him yet, but when I got back to my motel room, Waterman had left me a note that said, “Don’t go to Son House’s room. Don’t give Son House any drink under any condition.”

I was tired, so I started into napping when I heard the sound of an acoustic guitar from the next room. Sounded mighty pretty. Man was singing too, singing one of them Delta blues that make you think of your mama. Had to be Son House. Ignoring Dick’s instructions, I got up, grabbed my guitar, and went next door. I had to meet Son. He was a beautiful cat who was happy to hear me say how much Muddy loved him. He started playing a deep blues about a death letter until tears rolled down my face. I felt like Son House was my uncle or my daddy.

I saw he’d been drinking—there was an open bottle on the dresser—but I didn’t care. I was so happy to be playing with him. The easy way his fingers picked the strings and the sweet honey pouring out of his voice let you know that he’d been at this his whole life. At this point I’d guess Son was pushing seventy.

When Waterman got back and saw Son had been drinking, he flew into a rage. He figured I gave him the whiskey.

“No, sir,” I said. “Didn’t give him nothing.”

“Well, I packed his bag and checked it twice before we came out here,” said Dick. “I know there were no bottles in there.”

“You should have checked
your
suitcase,” Son said slyly. “I done hid it in there.”

Dick wasn’t happy, but I was laughing. When Son left the room, I had to tell Dick, “Look, these older cats have always played for a drink and maybe the chance to lay down with a lady. You can’t change their ways. Might as well give ’em the pleasure they earned.”

In 1966 Willie Dixon called me to the Chess studio for a session on Koko Taylor, a blues singer from Memphis who’d been around Chicago a number of years. Leonard was eager to cut a hit on the lady. He had me, my drummer Fred Below, bassman Jack Myers, and Lafayette Leake on piano, plus a couple of horns. Willie wanted Koko to sing a song that he’d written and recorded on Howlin’ Wolf, “Wang Dang Doodle.” The story was about a gang of characters—Automatic Slim, Razor Totin’ Jim, Butcher Knife Totin’ Nancy, Fast Talkin’ Fannie—who were about to throw a wang dang doodle of a party. The Wolf didn’t have a hit on it, but Willie figured that if he changed up the groove and guitar lines, Koko could make it work.

He asked me if I had any ideas, and I did. Found a way for the guitar to talk to the bass that added a funky flavor. Willie thought I gave it a new snap and stepped out of the way to let me produce the session. Koko sang the shit out of it. Turned into one of the biggest hits Chess had ever seen. At the time I didn’t know nothing about producer credit or producer money, and no one—not Willie or Leonard—was about to educate me.

At the same time, English groups like Cream started having hits. The distorted fuzz tones I’d been fucking with for years was all the rage in England. Now that stuff was selling in America. Leonard’s son Marshall was still trying to get his old man to let me loose on records, but the name of the Chess show was still
father knows best
.

Leonard was cordial to me, but it wasn’t like I ever saw the inside of his house or even the inside of his office. I was just a cat he could count on for sessions. Far as my singles went, I didn’t have no big hits. So Leonard wrote me off. That’s why I was surprised when Marshall called me up to say his daddy wanted to see me. I knew it wasn’t to give me no royalties.

“Buddy,” said Leonard Chess as he sat behind his office, “I’m a proud man.”

I didn’t say nothing. I knew that was true.

“I’m particularly proud,” he went on to say, “of my judgment in music. It’s been pretty good over the years. I’m also proud of my work in the studio. I’ve always thought I knew what I was doing.”

I still didn’t know what he was getting at.

“But when it came to you, I was wrong.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“I held you back. I said you were playing too much. I thought you were too wild in your style.”

I had to smile, but I kept quiet.

“But now I’m seeing these records coming over from England, Buddy, with these groups that are selling millions. And their guitars are even louder and wilder than yours!”

Now I had to break out laughing.

“American groups are starting to copy the English who are really just copying you.”

“I’m not the only one they copying,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

He got up and came round his desk, looked me in the eye, and said, “I’m gonna bend over so you can kick my ass.”

Now I was howling. I wished I had a photograph of this shit. Man, Leonard Chess was asking me to kick his ass!

I was laughing too hard to kick anyone. Besides, it was enough to hear the man admit he was wrong. What came next, though, really surprised me.

“Next record you do here,” he said, “you do it your way—not my way. You do it any way you see fit.”

“I’m afraid I’m not going to do another record here,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because whatever little contract we had done run out. And another company called Vanguard just gave me a check for fourteen hundred dollars to record for them.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I’m serious as sin. I deposited the check, and it’s done cleared. Chess was a great school for me, and I’m grateful, but graduation day has come and gone. I’m ready to move on.”

Daddy’s Eyes

When my father came to Chicago, it was the middle of the sixties. I got him to come not because of music but because of baseball. He wanted to see his hero, Don Drysdale, pitch in person. There was a series coming up in Wrigley Field between the Cubs and Dodgers.

“Dodgers gonna pitch Drysdale?” my father asked when I called him down in Baton Rouge.

“Daddy, you know the rotation good as me. It’s a three-game series, so there’s a good chance he will.”

“And if he don’t?”

“You’ll see Sandy Koufax.”

“Koufax ain’t as good as Drysdale. Don’t have the power.”

“Koufax is better,” I argued. “He’s got the finesse. He’s the best since Robin Roberts.”

“You can’t prove that by me.”

“I don’t need to prove nothing, Daddy. I just want you to see Chicago.”

Seeing Chicago through my father’s eyes was great. He saw a good side of the city because I put him in my house, let him play with his grandchildren, and drove him around to all the sights.

Naturally, he wanted to hear me play; he was proud to see people who knew my name and applauded my music. I took him by Chess, introduced him to Muddy and the Wolf, and gave him all the love and attention he deserved. But nothing I did for him could compare to when we walked into Wrigley Field. I could see his eyes soaking it all in.

“It’s a small park,” he said, looking around. “Yes sir, a small park but a mighty pretty park. I’ve been seeing it in black and white on the television. Now here it is in color. And there’s Ernie Banks. My, my, my.”

He surprised me that trip by how he learned the Bible. Knew every part of that book, Old and New. You’d ask him about any character, and Daddy could tell you what part he played in the story. With little education, the man had educated himself deeply when it came to religion.

“Why?” I asked him.

“Think about it, son,” he said. “This book’s been around and read by millions of people in every language you can think of. Can’t say the same about any other book. That means something. Means that the book’s got something to teach us.”

“And what’s that?”

“That there’s more to this life than the flesh on our bones. That flesh is gonna fail, son. But something else is gonna live. Talkin’’bout the spirit. My spirit can’t never die. It keeps coming back on me and on you and on everyone I love. You remember that when I’m gone.”

In 1967, as he turned fifty-seven, Daddy’s heart gave out. A year later, at age sixty-three, my mother, who had lived with her stroke for so many years, followed him to that place where you don’t grow old. If the technology in medicine had been offered them like it’s been offered me, maybe they could have lived longer. I believe they were satisfied to live long enough to see their kids raised right. They taught us decency, they showered us with love, and they had us believing that God is real as rain.

After my folks were gone I brought my brother Phil up to Chicago. Phil lived there, where he had a good career as a guitarist, respected by everyone. Beyond his talent as a player, Phil could sing nearly good as Otis Redding, his idol.

Junior Wells went around saying that James Brown idolized him, and maybe that was true. Junior could put on a show. After
Hoodoo Man Blues
showed the world what we could do together, Dick Waterman kept after me to form a permanent band with Junior.

“
Permanent
is a strong word,” I told Dick.

“Well, how’s
temporarily permanent
?” he asked.

“Better. But only with one condition.”

“What’s that, Buddy?”

“We use my band, not his.”

“I don’t think he’ll object.”

“Don’t matter if he does,” I said, “because that’s the only way I’m doing it. If it’s my band, he can’t fire nobody—not even me. All he can do is quit.”

Dick laughed and said, “I see your point.”

“Let’s hope Junior does too.”

He did—and the Buddy Guy/ Junior Wells show, with too many stops and starts to count, went on for some twenty years.

BOOK: When I Left Home

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