When I Left Home (28 page)
Authors: Buddy Guy
“You’ll be broke.”
“I’m already broke.”
“You’ll be broker.”
No use arguing. The aggravation wasn’t worth whatever extra bookings I’d get with Junior on the bill. By the start of a new decade—the eighties—Junior and I were traveling down different roads. Once in awhile we’d bump into each other. He was always welcome at the Checkerboard, but we was never a team again.
Weeds Keep Growing
I was born into agriculture. Growing things interests me. There’s a sure-enough science to cultivate the earth in a way that gets you what you want. Seeds are amazing. You plant ’em, you water ’em, you watch for the results. You gotta deal with nature in a way that respects nature’s own program. Go against nature, and nature will fuck you.
Sometimes, though, nature will spring a surprise on your ass. Nature will up and say, “Here’s some weeds that are gonna grow no matter what you do. Try to kill ’em and they’ll come back strong. You can trim ’em, but you can’t get rid of ’em. They stronger than whatever chemical and poisons you wanna spray over ’em. They connected to the earth.”
The blues is like one of them weeds. The blues is rooted so deep into the ground, spreading so far and growing so fast, that nothing can stop ’em. For a year or two or three you might think they gone. You might think that other kinds of music have drowned them out. But one day you’ll be looking out your window and you’ll see ’em everywhere—a whole backyard of blues. Not only that, they running over your neighbors’ yard and all over the neighborhood. They everywhere.
I say that because the blues, due to the English rock and rollers, came back in the sixties only to back off in the seventies. But then in the eighties the blues got born again, this time stronger than ever.
They got born again because they too good to stay dead. They too simple, too pretty, too true to real life. When you break down all the guitar music starting up with the rock and roll of the fifties, you see the blues at the root of the whole thing. Can’t ever get away from the blues. Your mama might have passed on, but she’ll always be your mama. Long as you live, you ain’t ever forgetting her. She gave you life. Well, sir, the blues is life.
In the eighties my life was a slow build. Back in ’75, Jennifer became my second wife. She was a fine woman who seemed to understand me. She renewed my hopes for a happy life. We had two wonderful children, Rashawnna and Michael. The marriage wasn’t perfect, but it lasted more than thirty years, and that’s saying something.
In the eighties I also started hearing about younger black bluesmen like Robert Cray. Robert was great. He had a rock audience and he was selling records. Clifford Antone in Austin proved to be one of my angels. He kept bringing me down there to play. I got close to Jimmie Vaughan and then Jimmie’s kid brother, Stevie Ray.
Stevie was the one who really led the kids back to the blues. His Double Trouble started tearing it up all over the world. Was just three guys—Stevie, Tommy Shannon on bass, and Chris Layton on drums—but man, they had a big sound. Stevie talked about me and Albert Collins like I talked about Muddy and the Wolf. He respected his elders. Him and his brother came from Dallas where, as kids, they heard Freddie King. They grew up on the true blues. Jimmie was more traditional than Stevie, who was deep into Jimi Hendrix. To my ears Stevie had a way of combining Jimi and Albert King that created something new.
I say it was new—because he played with young fire and young feeling—but it was also old. Stevie was a student. He knew every last blues guitarist who came before him. But Stevie wasn’t afraid of bringing attention to himself. He reminded me of how I was when I first got to Chicago. I’d do anything to get attention—that was Stevie.
Talkin’ ’bout Albert King, he was something else. Unlike me, he had him some big hits back in the sixties like “Born under a Bad Sign.” Along with Otis Redding, Booker T., and the MGs, Albert was a star on Stax Records, where he got famous for playing that Gibson Flying V. He was also big as a bear and could be twice as mean. Albert stung them strings hard, and ain’t no doubt that he was one of the best. Fixed up a stinging style all his own. I’m just glad I didn’t have to work for him.
We was at the North Sea Jazz Festival, where I was scheduled to go on before him. I wanted to holler at Albert, just to say hello, but when I started to knock on the door to his dressing room, the security guys came running over like I was about to disturb the King of Norway.
“You can’t knock on that door,” one of the cats said. “Mr. King don’t allow it.”
“I’m an old friend,” I said.
“He give you permission?”
“I don’t need no fuckin’ permission,” I said, before yelling, “
Albert! You in there
?”
Albert! You in there
?”
He came out and gave me a big hello. He was smoking his pipe. You never did see Albert King without his pipe.
“Hey, man,” I said, “they acting like I was trying to rob you.”
“I don’t even let my band members back here,” he said.
“How come?”
“I gotta let ’em know who’s boss.”
“You do that when you hand out the check, don’t you?”
“Talkin’ ’bout checks,” said Albert, “they paying us pretty goddamn good at this festival.”
“They is. My sidemen are happy.”
“You pay’em more when you get more?” asked Albert.
“Don’t you?”
“Fuck no, man. Why should I?”
“Seems only fair.”
“What you call fair? It’s fair of me to hire these motherfuckers. If they ain’t playing with me, they playing with themselves at home or driving a taxicab back in Memphis.”
Albert was great, but he was cold.
Muddy was sick. He had the cancer. I knew it and so did a lot of other people. But I also knew Muddy well enough to know that he didn’t wanna talk about it. At the same time, I had to go see him. I couldn’t stay away.
It was March 1983. I knew that his seventieth birthday was coming up in April. (He said he was gonna be sixty-eight, but we later learned that he’d cut a couple of years off his age.)
“Hey, Muddy,” I said, as I walked through the door. “Brought you rice and beans.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Go in the kitchen and heat ’em up.”
He was sitting on the couch. As I passed by I saw how thin he’d become. He looked weak and tired. The television was playing an old shoot-’em-up movie.
I heated up the food and brought it to him on a tray.
“You want a beer?” I asked him.
“Thanks, Buddy. Beer would be good.”
I went to the fridge, pulled out two beers, popped the tops, and carried them to the living room. I sat on the couch next to Muddy.
“Go ahead and eat,” I said. “It’ll do you good.”
“Man, I know. I got to eat more.”
I watched him fool with the food, but he had no appetite. He took one swig of beer and that was it. We just sat there watching the movie.
“I know you’re looking forward to April,” I said. “Opening Day. How the Sox gonna do?”
Muddy always liked to talk baseball.
“Think we’re gonna win it all this year,” he said. “Think Carlton Fisk and Rudy Law gonna be strong. Pitching is strong.”
“LaMarr Hoyt and Richard Dotson,” I said, mentioning two of the White Sox’s aces.
“And don’t forget my boy Jerry Koosman.”
“Well, we’ll go to Comiskey Park and I’ll let you buy me hot dog.”
Muddy nodded his head and gave me a little smile.
Didn’t wanna mention music ’cause I knew he wasn’t performing or recording. Figured the best thing I could do was just sit and be quiet. Sat there for a long spell.
Muddy was the kinda guy who could read my mind. After a long time he turned to me and said, “Look, Buddy, I’m okay. And I only got one thing to say to you.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Motherfucker,” he answered, “don’t let these blues die.”
A month later, on April 30, the Mud was gone. He made seventy, and he made Opening Day, but he didn’t get to see his Sox win their division that year.
The funeral was held ’round the corner from the Checkerboard. We was all torn up until we couldn’t talk. All we could do was play. All the cats were there—James Cotton, Hubert Sumlin, Sunnyland Slim. That night they came to the Checkerboard, and we cried through our guitars, harps, and pianos. We cried when we sang and we sang until we couldn’t sing no more. We sang every Muddy song that Muddy ever taught us. We remembered the man whose spirit gave new blues to an old city. He was the one who warmed up ice-cold Chicago with the sun of the Delta. Man, he was the son of the Delta—the source, the father to a thousand musicians, to cats who knew him and cats who weren’t even born. He’s still giving birth to the children of the blues.
I just love saying his name. I just love telling everyone that Muddy Waters was my friend, that Muddy Waters was the man.
They renamed the street next to his house on the South Side Muddy Waters Drive. But then, years later, there was talking of selling or destroying that same home at 4339 South Lake Park. Thank God I had me enough money so I could buy and preserve it. Now no one’s ever gonna tear it down, just like no one’s ever gonna forget Muddy.
Alpine Valley
I didn’t have no real record deal in the eighties, but thanks to the younger cats like Robert Cray and the Vaughan Brothers, and thanks to Clifford Antone turning Austin into a capital of the blues, I got more gigs. Asia and Europe were calling on a regular basis. The venues were bigger, and the fans demanded repeat performances. It was great, but I can’t say it was all good.
One time I was paid good money to open for AC/DC. Their fans, though, weren’t my fans. When I got out there, I was smacked with a chorus of loud boos. I felt bad—not for myself but for the people who’d paid to hear heavy metal hard rock, not electric blues. I wanted to tell them that I understood their disappointment, but I kept quiet and played my set, acting like the boos were really cheers.
In 1985, no matter how much I loved my club, the Checkerboard was a drain. It drank up money like a drunk drinking up whiskey. The area was crumbling, and I was tired of using my road money to pay for the losses. Even with all those headaches, I would have stayed except for the landlord pulling some underhanded moves to get rid of me. Because I was the one who kept the blues in the hood, the landlord’s attitude got me mad. But rather than fight, I up and left. I promised myself that as soon as I could find a good property, I’d invest in another club.
That happened in 1989, when I was finally making good money gigging over the world. One of the reasons the Checkerboard never turned a profit was ’cause people from the outside got tired of their cars getting stolen when they came to the South Side. I started looking around an up-and-coming neighborhood they was calling the South Loop, just beyond the big stores on Michigan and State but close to the lake. I found me a spot at 754 South Wabash. I liked it because it was near the huge Hilton Hotel where conventioneers stayed year round. Conventioneers like to party on blues. They could walk from the Hilton to my place in just a few minutes. It was bigger and cleaner than the Checkerboard, and I was all set to name it the Dew Drop Inn, after the famous Dew Drop Inn in New Orleans where Guitar Slim played. My lawyer, though, said there were legal problems with that name, so I’d better come up with another. I settled on Legends because I was dedicating the club to all the legends—Muddy, Walter, Wolf, Sonny Boy, John Lee, B. B., and all the others—who had schooled me.
The location proved good, and business was much improved from what I’d been experiencing. It’s hard to be too unhappy when you’re making money. I was feeling good.
I was feeling even better when Eric invited me over to London for his Prince Albert Hall concerts. That’s when I got to be good friends with the great piano man Johnny Johnson.
Johnny was famous for playing with Chuck Berry. He’s the Johnny of “Johnny B. Goode.” I never met him before, so when I got to my hotel and saw a note from him saying he wanted to have breakfast the next morning, I was excited.
At 8 a.m. I heard a tap on my door. I opened it and saw Johnny.
“You get my note?” he asked.
“I was just fixing to meet you at the breakfast restaurant,” I said.
He pointed to an attaché case he was carrying and said, “I got our breakfast right here.”
He opened up the case and brought out a bottle of Crown Royal.
“Any objections?” he asked.
“Johnny,” I said, “I’m so happy to meet you that I’ll go along with any kind of breakfast you want.”
As we drank, he started telling me how “Johnny B. Goode” was something he wrote with Chuck. He said he was a writer on almost all of Chuck’s hits.
“I came up with the rhythms and the music,” he said, “and Chuck wrote the words. Back then I thought whoever wrote the words wrote the song but later came to learn that the music is worth half. Tried to make some kind of deal with Chuck, but Chuck wouldn’t talk. ‘I wrote, “Roll Over Beethoven,” Chuck said to me. ‘That was my idea.’ ‘Yes,’ I said to him, ‘but that was the only lyrics.’ ‘The lyrics,’ said Chuck, ‘sold the song.’”
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