Guest Blog: Young Colin Linden Meets The Wolf

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.

Blues Mixology

This is a real artifact.

Now ordinarily I don’t believe in artifacts. But I made this mix tape (I don’t know that that’s what we called it then) over twenty-five years ago – Jake says I made it when he got his license, I thought it was when he went off to college (which I like better). I say, Print the legend. But I’m sure Jake’s right.

I don’t want to ascribe any cosmic significance to it. I mean, it’s just a mix tape – and now a very slightly modified Spotify list – compiled on the fly, sort of. But it sums up so many of the things that I was passionate about then – and that I remain passionate about now, mixing in fun and profundity, the well-known and the obscure (at least then), without any more rhyme or reason than to bring together some really great music in the same way that Gregg Geller has always approached the reissue albums that he’s done for Columbia, RCA, and Warner Bros., with all the excitement intact.

I’m sure no one will be surprised by the omnivorous presence of Howlin’ Wolf. (Every time I hear “I’ll Be Around,” I’m reminded of the elderly babysitter, long before the creation of this tape, who peered around nearslghtedly looking for the source of the unearthly sound that was coming from another room and then said a little worriedly  to Alexandra: “I didn’t know your husband sang.”)

Anyway. You’ll note lots of Muddy Waters influence, too. And Sonny Boy Williamson’s “Mister Downchild” was the title source (and the inspiration) for both my second collection of short stories and my fifth novel – unpublished, like the first four, and probably deservedly so. (Sometime in the next few months I’m going to post a blog memoir about “Writing Fiction,” which will serve both to describe the past and, hopefully, to herald the future.)

I guess the thing that surprises me most here is the prevailing influence of Tommy Johnson (“Smokestack Lightnin’,” “I Asked For Water,” “Maggie Campbell,” “Dark Road”), not to mention Robert Johnson, both of whom I was obviously well aware of at the time (I mean, look at the order) but whose ongoing presence, it occurs to me now, gives the lie to the kind of revisionist history which would suggest they were important mainly because they were important to blues collectors. Floyd Jones, Muddy Waters, Johnny Shines, Howlin’ Wolf, Robert Nighthawk, Elmore James – these were not collectors. They were disciples, who are here paying passionate tribute to some of the music that captivated them most when they were growing up and continued to fuel their musical imagination and inspiration all their lives.

Another seminal source – and I’ve got to admit, this kind of embarrasses me – was the original Sonny Boy Williamson (John Lee), of whom I was also very much aware but whom I had probably consigned, according to the prevailing wisdom of the day (and with the kind of snobbery to which none of us is fully immune), to the ranks of commercial mediocrity. Kind of silly in that, as it turns out Sonny Boy was the inspiration not only for the second Sonny Boy but the direct source for Junior Wells’ seminal “Hoodoo Man,” much of the other harmonica playing on this collection, and Baby Face Leroy’s great “Blues Is Killing Me,” which I’m sure I heard completely differently at the time simply because it came from the same singer who can be heard wailing with Muddy Waters and Little Walter on the very African-sounding “Rollin’ and Tumblin’” (man, that is still amazing).

Oh well, I guess it just goes to show how parochial (and proprietary) genre enthusiasts of every stripe can be. So all right, maybe the revisionists have something. And further all right, I’m going state right here: John Lee Williamson was something else (get the great album, Blue Bird Blues, that Colin Escott put out on his “Secret History of Rock ‘n’ Roll” series for RCA).   

Anyway, I don’t think you need to know a thing to enjoy this “crazy music” (Buddy Guy title). I get such a kick still out of “Eisenhower Blues,” or the chaotic ride that Hop Wilson’s “My Woman Has a Black Cat Bone” takes you on, or the doomy mood of Buddy Guy’s “Ten Years Ago,” or the hair-sticking-up-on-your head nightmare phantasmagoria of “First Time I Met the Blues.”

Make up your own blues mix – don’t forget Little Walter next time, or T-Bone Walker, or B.B. King, or any of the hundreds of other blues men and women (right down to Billy Joe Shaver and Aretha Franklin) that you might want to put in your mix.

P.S. Soul tape from the same era coming soon!

Sam Phillips Talking (Lost Highway Video Companion: Part 5)

This is the fifth in our five-part series. I thought it would be really fun – and it was. As promised, we’re going to combine them all in one giant Lost Highway video playlist.
Next: Feel Like Going Home!

Epilogue

SAM PHILLIPS TALKING

 I’ve got the same problem here as in the last chapter – only more so. So I’m just going to throw together a serendipitously arbitrary (and, suited to its source, unquestionably oddball) selection to show off a little bit of the range of talent that Sam Phillips discovered and produced, from Howlin’ Wolf to – well, just follow the bouncing ball. But remember: this is the merest sampling. We’ll do a really comprehensive selection when the Sam biography comes out. (And just to anticipate another question, I’m working on the final draft now – hoping to finish by the end of the year.)

Howlin’ Wolf: “Evil”

You knew I couldn’t resist.         

Sam Phillips’ favorite artist, along with Charlie Rich. They were the two, he always said, who had the greatest reservoir of talent (though he would give nobody the edge over Elvis in the way of charisma or Jerry Lee in terms of sheer performing genius). But each of them, he said, possessed a depth – of knowledge and emotion – that couldn’t be measured. The Wolf, Sam said, volunteered scarcely anything when they first met – he would have been very easy to underestimate. And yet, Sam felt, he possessed “a certain element of confidence, he knew he had something to say,”and as they talked, Sam could sense that as much as he might be reading the Wolf, Wolf was reading him, too.“He was highly, highly intelligent,” Sam said, “in many ways the sweetest man you’ll ever know, and the strangest man in many ways, too.”

Harmonica Frank: Untitled (by me), “Ditchin’ Man Blues,” “Shake a Little Shimmy”

Sam recorded Harmonica Frank at almost exactly the same time as Howlin’ Wolf, and Frank’s first single came out on Chess, too – though unlike Wolf, Frank would eventually have his own Sun release, which came out on the same day as Elvis’ first record in July 1954. According to some revisionist thinking, history might have been different had it not been for that confluence of events, but Sam Phillips was under no illusions about Frank’s commercial potential. To him Harmonica Frank was not a great artist but a great original. “Frank Floyd was a beautiful hobo. He was short, fat, very abstract – and you looked at him and you really didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was going to say or sing next. He had the greatest mind of his own – I think hobos by nature have to have that – and that fascinated me from the beginning. And then he had some of these old rhymes and tales and stuff that he had embellished, and some of them were so old, God, I guess they were old when my father was a kid.”

If you weren’t doing something different, according to Sam you weren’t doing anything. And Frank was definitely doing something different. Check out the way he holds the harmonica in his mouth, like a chewed-up old cigar, as he sings. Listen to the eccentric tone and phrasing and the cheerful non-sense of the songs – kind of like a demented Woody Guthrie.

Dr Ross: “Dr. Ross Boogie”

This is a clever video collage (you should recognize the MC from the Big Joe Turner clip) of a Dr. (Isiah) Ross recording derived from “Pinetop’s Boogie Woogie,” once again from 1951 and once again released on Chess. It should be noted that though Dr. Ross was in fact a one-man band, the guitarist on this selection was his friend Wiley Galatin. And it should be further noted that this song pretty much sums up Sam Phillips’ rhythm impulse and the inexorable forces that were leading him from his earliest recordings of Wolf, Ike Turner, and B.B. King to find the path to rock ‘n’ roll. As Dr. Ross proclaimed in a 1954 Sun single, released in the midst of all the excitement about Elvis: “Gonna boogie for the doctor/Gonna boogie for the nurse/Gonna keep on boogiein’/Till they throw me in the hearse.” Or as Jim Dickinson declared in a mantra that has never ceased to have relevance: “World Boogie Is Coming.”

Carl Perkins: “Matchbox”

This is the song that Carl was cutting with an unknown Jerry Lee Lewis on piano, when Elvis walked in and interrupted his December 1956 session – and then joined in for what would become known as the Million Dollar Quartet (if you include Johnny Cash, who was only there for the picture-taking). Here we have Carl a year or two after his departure from Sun, with a performance nowhere near as cleanly chiseled as the Sun sides, and a persona far removed from his latter-day incarnation (see below). But there’s a spark to this that brings to mind some of the desperate drive that Carl depicts in his terrific biography/autobiography, Go, Cat, Go! (written by and with David McGee), and the song itself (a wonderful example of the shared black and white tradition that goes back at least as far as Blind Lemon Jefferson’s 1927 recording) was by his own assessment, and Sam’s too, about as good as rock ‘n’ roll music could get. You should definitely go back to the original with Jerry Lee firing boogie woogie fusillades at Carl and Carl shooting back with triple-string runs of his own, but this has a crazy concatenating logic of its own. And, of course, you wouldn’t want to miss the hop-skip-and-jump move (delighted or demented?) that signals Carl’s enthusiasm (and that might suggest a little bit of the reason that Carl Perkins could have never have been Elvis – though Elvis could never have been Carl Perkins either), or the great Merle Travis’ (“Sixteen Tons,” “Dark as a Dungeon” – he’s on the far right, playing a very controlled rhythm) appreciation for some of the boogie-woogie fever that his own music has spawned.

Jerry Lee Lewis: “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On”

I know, I know, this is the most obvious choice, right? But it isn’t, exactly – this is Jerry Lee’s second appearance on Steve Allen after his first, two weeks earlier, broke the record wide open. (If you don’t believe me, note the proliferation of chairs, benches, and piano stools flying back and forth across the stage. In his first appearance, only the piano bench came sailing back, after Jerry Lee, presumably to his host’s surprise, kicked it away as he launched into his ecstatic conclusion.) And, you know, it’s kind of like with the earlier Big Joe Turner selection, it’s not just because it’s an iconic moment, it’s because it’s “the best.” By which I don’t mean that it’s The Best – just that you need to see it for its sheer abandon (to use a Sam word), for its irrepressible exuberance and for its embodiment of the Life Force that Sam was seeking in all of his recordings (and probably found the most perfect expression of in Jerry Lee’s music). And once you’ve watched it four or five times, then you need to spend the next two weeks watching nothing but Jerry Lee Lewis videos – any era – including the first.

Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Eric Clapton: “Matchbox”

I think Sam must have really gotten a kick out of this – I’m sure he did. Here we have another Million Dollar Trio, with Johnny Cash not only singing but taking the lead this time. There are lots of great clips of the original Johnny Cash trio from early in his career (I’m sure we’ll get to those eventually, at least with the video companion to the Sam Phillips biography), but what I think is so cool here – and one of the things that Sam admired most about an artist he found almost as original as Howlin’ Wolf in his sound, with the added originality of his songwriting, too – is the direction, the command, and the graciousness that John displays, as he did on every one of his television shows. Also the freedom. Starting with his duetting with Bob Dylan, his special guest on the very first Johnny Cash Show. It’s hard to imagine something like this happening today (though I don’t know, maybe it does – and don’t forget Tom Jones’ brave musical adventures with all of his guests, from Jackie Wilson to Jerry Lee). Carl is at his gentlemanly best, Eric Clapton (on the show with Derek and the Dominos) is properly deferential but musically unabashed. And Johnny Cash’s hums and shouts of encouragement keep up everybody’s spirits through yet another spontaneous iteration (you’ve got to check out Jerry Lee’s early version on Sun as well) of Carl’s very spirited, very Sister Rosetta Tharpe-influenced classic blues.

 Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The Rolling Stones, 1965

I first saw the Rolling Stones in person in Worcester, Massachusetts, a mid-sized city forty-five miles outside of Boston, on April 30, 1965. It was at the start of their third U.S. tour, and we were excited most of all by their unabashed love of the blues. All the marketing publicity in the world couldn’t hold a candle to their embrace of a music that my friends and I felt no one else could love the way we did.

As it turned out, though, reputation inadvertently took precedence, at least for a moment, when just as the show was getting under way, you could sense the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the aisle, and all of a sudden a teenaged girl in the row in front of ours was being yanked by the hair out of her seat by an angry man who could only be her father. It was, certainly, an unforgettable image, and the Stones presented their music with incandescent belief, but for me the most indelible moment of this American visit would come three weeks later when Brian Jones and Mick Jagger introduced the Howlin’ Wolf to a national television audience on Shindig!, and mainstream America for the first time saw the real face of the blues. That was epic.

The Blues Roll On: Lost Highway-- A Video Companion (Vol.4)

Part Four: The Blues Roll On

THE HOWLIN’ WOLF

“How Many More Years”

What can I say? The single greatest performance of all time on TV. Well, The Wire could probably give it a pretty good run for the money – and you could always argue it’s a different genre. But where else are you going to find such profundity, humor, intensity, showmanship, ferocity, and flair, all in a single package? “How Many More Years” was Wolf’s very first release, recorded by Sam Phillips in the summer of 1951 and put out by Chess Records in the fall, with “Moanin’ at Midnight” as the B-side. I don’t know that there’s ever been a greater single (don’t let me be accused of understatement here). Sam Phillips always said that of all the artists he ever recorded the Wolf and Charlie Rich were the most profound – they were the ones he would have most liked to have worked with until the day he died. Well, here’s why.

OTIS SPANN: Blues Is a Man’s Best Friend

“Ain’t Nobody’s Business”

Spann was the blues pianist’s blues pianist – not to mention his “brother” Muddy Waters’ stalwart accompanist from early on. No one outside of Big Maceo comes close to offering the same combination of wistfulness, delicacy, and rhythmic drive. The Canadian compere speaks of his “hazy” sound, but I think haunting would be more like it, as Spann gives his dramatic all to an old standard, conveying the leave-me-alone message with sweetness, sincerity, and a kind of indomitable joy (the paradoxical pull of the blues), even at its most dismayingly bloodthirsty moments.

BIG JOE TURNER: Big Joe Rides On

“Shake, Rattle and Roll”

Speaking of joy, I think everything about this video suggests it, from MC Willie Bryant’s hepcat intro to Big Joe’s suave-walking entrance (speaking of which watch Bryant’s more than equally suave exit), to the song itself (which could in many ways be considered the first rock anthem) to its performance, complete with cool finger-snapping, circular hand motions, chanted encouragement to the soloists, improvised lyrics – above all THAT VOICE, which never needed a microphone to get across. Whew, that’s a long sentence. You can have your Django Unchained (not that there’s anything wrong with that) – this is all-out, unchained exuberance. When I spoke with Joe, his pianist was the great Lloyd Glenn, who, you may remember, shows up in the earlier T-Bone-B.B. duet, and he took a lively and informed part in our conversation. In fact, I was almost as knocked out by Lloyd as I was by Joe. “Do you understand this man?” Lloyd challenged me. “He’s telling you, in song, his life. That’s the subject. He’s just not going into detail about what’s going on in his life. That’s it.” And it was.

Two footnotes. When I met Ray Charles a couple of years later – well, I should start by saying that Lloyd was the headliner the first time Ray went out on the road, while he was still living in Seattle. Anyway, when I mentioned Lloyd to Ray, he was so excited to hear about him (and to get Lloyd’s phone number) that for a while I thought it might totally derail our conversation. It didn’t – but in the process I got to learn a lot more about Lloyd!

Second footnote. I took Sleepy LaBeef to see Big Joe at Sandy’s in Beverly, I’m not sure if it was at this time or a little later. I don’t think I have to point out that it was Joe’s big-voiced (huge-voiced) stentorian style that provided Sleepy with a model, but Sleepy had never seen him in person before. It was pretty cool.

JUKE JOINT BLUES: Chicago, 1977

You know, I think this collage chapter is best served by a video collage of great performances that will simply induce you to go looking for more.

Jimmy Johnson: “As The Years Go Passing By”

How soulful is this? By one of the most underrated, incisive, and to-the-point blues singers of his generation. Jimmy is Syl Johnson’s (“Take Me to the River,” “Is It Because I’m Black?”) brother (also bass player Mac Thompson’s). Here he is performing a classic number by Fenton Robinson, another underrated, and woefully neglected, great.

Hound Dog Taylor: “Wild About You Baby”

Two versions of the same song, the earlier one showing Hound Dog in his more formal, polite, Elmore-emulating style – but elevated by the presence of Little Walter (in a rare video appearance, just a year or so before his death) on harp. The second is truer – it’s very true – to the completely untrammeled, freeform Hound Dog I encountered at his regular Sunday-afternoon gig at Florence’s in the company of Bruce Iglauer, who was just about to sign Hound Dog to his soon-to-be-born Alligator label.

Magic Sam: “All Of Your Love,” plus “Lookin’ Good” (well, Instrumental Boogie anyway)

I don’t think any of his contemporaries got so close to the bone. I can’t imagine any greater intensity than you get out of the combination of Magic Sam’s wailing, vibrato-laden voice, a borrowed guitar, and the beat! the beat! the beat! – which none of his West Side confreres, including Buddy Guy, could ever quite match. Check out West Side Soul (Delmark DD-615) if you haven’t already. It’s one of the cornerstones of modern Chicago Blues and a tantalizing reminder of just how much more Sam Maghett might have had to contribute if he hadn’t died at the tragically early age of 32.    

Junior Wells and Buddy Guy: “Just to Be With You”

http://youtu.be/cbYFn5RkX0U

(this video can’t be embedded, but you can link to youtube above)

Here we are back at Theresa’s on a night like many nights – you never knew exactly what was going to happen or where the improvisational music and lyrics might take you. Here we encounter an improbably but not atypically coutured Junior singing the Muddy Waters hit with all of his usual extravagance and braggadocio – but for all of the affectations, I go back to my original question: how soulful is this? Dig Buddy’s sparely interjected guitar (not to mention Junior’s supremely unaffected harp) – it’s so surprising, it’s the kind of thing that just doesn’t exist any more for – of all things (and, of course, all grimaces aside, facial, vocal, and cinematic)  – its paradoxical sense of musical restraint.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5