Archive for March, 2009
By the time I was about 14, my friend Chebon, son of Blues-rock singer/songwriter Jerry Lynn Williams had told me enough about Robert Johnson, Howling Wolf, Muddy Waters, and B.B. King to make me think I had the blues myself. After spending long weekends in his dad’s gold and platinum record clad studio, I bought the whole blues section at the record store at the mall before I insisted my mother take me to Tulsa’s only stoner head shop where I could get better stuff.
It was one summer night while standing out in the driveway, when I unmistakably heard something of Ma Rainey or maybe Bessie Smith coming from what sounded like a garage just few blocks away. I hoped on my bicycle and roamed the neighborhood hypnotized, looking for the sound, coming closer and then further. I finally stumbled upon a little club on the other side of the highway, with a small stage set up on a makeshift patio outside, where a giant black woman was sweating, rousing, and belting out the blues to a modest sized, but adequately drunk crowd.
When I tried to take a spot on an empty bench, a bouncer came and remined me how old I was. I quitely walked off the patio and stood on the side and just watched and listened, until the woman at the helm said something to the effect of, “thats my nephew, you let him on in fella, this one is for him…”