Colin and I would certainly have been friends even if we hadn’t had Howlin’ Wolf to bring us together. From the time we first met, we had so much to share. But as Sam Phillips always pointed out, there’s something uniquely spiritual about music – and there’s something uniquely spiritual about Colin. Listen to his solo albums. Listen to the records he’s produced. Listen to all those wonderful Blackie and the Rodeo Kings albums. Go out and hear him in person, whether he’s playing the Bourbon Street Blues and Boogie Bar in Nashville or on the road with Bob Dylan. Or check him out on the television show, Nashville, both for his cameo appearances and the music that he consistently contributes to the show. Colin always has something soulful to say. Howlin’ Wolf charged him with bringing everything he had to offer, all of his feeling and all of his humanity, to the music, and he has. So much of that feeling comes through in what he has written here about the Wolf – and about himself. Not to mention the picture that his mom took, which has traveled around with him in his wallet all these years.– PG

Meeting Howlin’ Wolf

By Colin Linden

Howlin’ Wolf was already 61 years old and an undeniable legend in the world of music when I first met him. I was an 11-year-old fat, white kid living in Toronto. But I felt, and still feel, that we forged a genuine bond that day. Though he was a hugely influential blues artist, he was, first and foremost, a hard-working, committed, devoted 6-nights-a-week-plus-a matinee-on-Saturday musician. And it was my fate and great fortune to have first met him at one of those Saturday matinees.

I was passionately connected to music–even as a young child, it was the thing for me. Records took me into a world of mystery. They captured my imagination, and overtook my thoughts. They made me feel connected to another universe, one where I felt I absolutely belonged. I started dreaming about playing and singing and making records. I was always drawn to the blue side of music. When I first heard the Wolf, on Labor Day of 1971, it was a life-changing experience. His voice jumped though the speakers–“ I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I ain’t got no diamonds, I-I-I-I-I-I-I ain’t go no gold, but I do have love to satisfy your soul….cause I’m built for comfort, I ain’t built for speed!” I had already heard many of his songs–the ones performed by rock artists like Cream, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, The Yardbirds. But when I heard the Wolf, it was much more intense and raw and serious. He didn’t sound like a pop star. Even at age 11, I recognized that he was in a different league than his youthful devotees. I could tell that he was the original item.

And as I began to learn how to play guitar, I knew that it was blues music that I needed to learn.

When I heard that he was coming to play in Toronto, November 22-27 at the Colonial Tavern on Yonge Street, and that he was in fact playing a matinee on the Saturday, I knew I somehow had to go.

I got the number for the Colonial and called them up to find out if minors could get in. They told me that they had a balcony that was licensed as a restaurant, and yes, minors were welcome if they didn’t drink and didn’t venture downstairs. They assured me that I would be able to see and hear everything, that the show started at 3:30, but that the bar and restaurant opened at noon.

Then, I had to convince my Mother to take me down to a bar frequented by some of the most low-down characters of the Yonge Street scene. It didn’t take much convincing. My Mom always looked for the best in others, and she thought it would be a fun show to go to. When she realized that the Wolf was an elder statesman in music, she believed it would be good for me to see somebody who had spent their whole life in music.

As the date of the Wolf’s show approached, I must have called the Colonial a dozen times to make sure the show was happening. Finally, it was Saturday, I got my Mom to leave early enough to make sure there would be no problem getting in.

We got there at 12:30 for the 3:30 show. We walked up the stairs to the balcony and I immediately noticed that, across the room, there was another set of stairs that led down to the stage. In the corner, at the bottom of the stairs, I saw him. The Mighty Wolf! Just finishing up his lunch, he was planning on hanging around the club until show time. I made a beeline for the stairs, rushed down to the bottom, walked right up to him and said, “Mr. Wolf, you are my hero. I would love to talk with you, but I am only 11 years old, and they won’t let me downstairs. Would you come upstairs and talk with me?”

"Of course" he answered in the most gentle, rough-hewn voice. And with that, this massive man with the largest feet I had ever seen on a human being, followed me as I ran up the stairs.

For the next 3 hours, he sat with me, a cup of coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other, as I asked him questions about his past, where and how he learned and from whom. He was very happy to talk and seemed to sense how much it meant for me to know the answers. He told me that you have to play the same if you are playing for 3 people as you do if you’re playing for 3000. And treat everyone the same–all audiences– black, white, Puerto Rican, whomever. He told me about Charley Patton, and how good he had been to him when he was young. He said that to learn his music, I needed to listen to the people he had listened to. He was mindful of the fact that I was a kid–warning me to stay away from drugs and trouble–but he talked to me with respect and purpose as if I were already an adult. And already a musician.

After we had been sitting for a couple of hours, I went and got my mom, who was patiently sitting at a table across the room, and she took a picture of me and the Wolf. He said to her, “I’m very fond of your son.” That photograph has been traveling with me for the past 42 years.

When it was time for the Wolf to play, he took the stage and sat down in a chair. He had been in ill health for awhile, and had to make sure not to overdo it. Still, at a Saturday matinee in Toronto, he wound up and gave it everything. He sang “Sitting on Top of the World,”’ “44 Blues,” a great version of the Chuck Willis song, “Don’t Deceive Me,” and a handful of other classics. He took his time, he let the songs evolve on their own. He was jovial, joked with the waitresses, sang Happy Birthday to a fan. But the music was dead serious. He brought with him a gravitas and attention to detail that was evident in the way he led the songs and the band. They had a hushed reverence for him. He wasn’t fooling.

Afterwards, we spoke for a while longer. I got to meet Hubert Sumlin, Eddie Shaw, Sunnyland Slim, Andrew “Blueblood” McMahon, and S.P. Leary. I recognized their names from records made a couple of decades earlier.

I could tell that these men, like the Wolf, were in it for life. They weren’t kids. Meeting them planted the seed in me that playing music wasn’t something that you had to give up when you grew up. It could be a life-long calling.

Before I left, the Wolf told me, “ I’m an old man now and I won’t be around much longer. It’s up to you to carry it on.” I took that to mean me personally, and committed to him that day that I would. He may have been talking about my whole generation, I still take it personally. It is still my mission, my honor, and my lifetime goal.