Ain't Bad for a Pink

by Sandra Gibson

  Doing a festival is totally different: you’ve got to lure an audience into your particular gig by giving it ten on ten and keeping at it. The scale is too big at festivals – you don’t notice individuals. When I did the Labor Day Festival in Georgia I didn’t notice anyone in particular except for a mass of black people responding to my rendition of “Shine”. This might have been selective attention due to my anxiety about their reaction.

  Many of the big names I’ve met have said they love to do the local pub, if they can. I see their point. If I’m playing in a small bar I can pick out the interesting characters and best-looking girls. You can make eye contact in a small venue but if you can’t see anybody, you can’t connect in this way. You just do your best and hope for the best.

  There are tricky moments on stage: drunks shouting raucous stuff, people wanting to sing out of tune with the band, demands for impossible songs and de-briefed girls climbing on the stage weeping with passion. These were the good nights. It’s a risk you take if the barriers are down. There was no point anyone trying to sing at my microphone, anyway, because my voice is so loud, but you go along with it to a certain extent because it can be funny and it can be incorporated into the action.

  But you always keep control.

  At the right moment you thank the sideburned man with barcoded hair and ask the audience to applaud. His performance has turned him from a mean drunk to a happy, maudlin’ drunk but you don’t want his intoxicated meandering to detract from the band’s pace. I’ve always had enough stage presence to deal with anything and I knew I could throw people off stage if necessary. I’ve never been in any physical danger on stage partly, I think, because I have what it takes to be a good front man: you’ve had good practice if you also do solo work.

  The front man has a complex role. He is the bridge between the audience and the band and its music, but also part of the performance and part of the organization. He has to take control of the space. He’s the one who communicates with the audience – a buffer between the band and the audience, holding things together, giving the band space to get organised or adjust the equipment.

  In terms of the technology of playing music we invariably got the sound system right. After all it was my job! We rarely had any technical problems so I didn’t have to cover for that.

  The front man is also a conductor: the band members will watch his body language in order to know what happens next. It’s professionally important to know when a song is going to end – some old blues songs have many and varied verses. Sometimes I would bring a song to a sudden end if it wasn’t going well with the audience. The easiest way to indicate this is to step back from the microphone. The front man is also a continuity man and compere. He represents the ethos of the band and he carries the band’s information, telling the audience anecdotes about the band members and about the songs, introducing solos, filling in gaps while people organise themselves for the next number, keeping the audience happy. Humour is the best ploy: some stand-up comedians began as musicians. The front man is the public face of the band so he has to do a good job.

  Some front men, like Bruce Springsteen and John Lee Hooker use the power of sex appeal; others like Dylan are enigmatic and keep the audience in awe and guessing. But I keep going back to BB King. He certainly has the supreme power of good timing: the manipulation of sound and silence. He’s the best front man I’ve ever seen: a mountain of a man who plays with economy of effort and sings like a gospel singer. When he did “Put the Hammer Down” he started off talking, like in a cabaret act then went powerfully into the punch line: “PUT THE HAMMER DOWN!” It was dynamite.

  Did you know a male spider can seduce a female spider by playing a tune on her web?

  A front man can only be successful if he has power and as power is the best aphrodisiac all powerful front men are sexy: it comes with the territory. If you don’t have initial confidence you can’t get up there. Confidence is rewarded and this feeds back to increase charisma. “When he plays slide it makes me cream my knickers,” said one new bride at a concert I did.

  In the Skunk Band things were a bit unusual: both Whitty and I were extrovert; the rest of the band just got on with it. Can you have two front men? Definitely. It worked with me and Whitty because we were such good friends. Our harmonies expressed our friendship.

  The rapport between musicians can create a good atmosphere onstage; if there is tension then this can be negative but it can also be positive in the sense that edginess can create exciting music, as Andy Smith of Beam said recently.

  Adrenalin

  Beam played all over the North West doing a mixed bag of Eighties and Nineties stuff with some T Rex and a couple of originals. It’s just a bit of fun. I can always find a bit of energy for it. There’s always a bit of adrenalin there whether it’s six people or sixty people and feedback from an audience is a great feeling. If the band has a fall-out it can give you a bit of extra edge as well.

  Andy Smith. (39)

  Our most responsive audience was at a bikers’ do at Warmingham Village Hall in the early Eighties. Bikers used to come and watch me and Brammer race so there was a certain amount of respect and common interest. This gig was a send-off for two biker brothers going to Australia. Bikers always dance straight away. Straight away. They soon joined in with the band to be part of the spectacle and soon there was throttle and back wheel spinning and spinning the bike on its own axis: doing a “doughnut” which made a black circular mark. This all took place within the meat and potato pie supper and beetle drive space of the village hall! Whitty was singing “Born To Be Wild” but he sang “born to drink mild”. I think the original words were more appropriate on this occasion.

  But it’s a mistake to be more intimidated by bikers than by musicians. For sheer wild abandon musicians are more anarchic than bikers – in my experience anyway. I’m speaking here of the type of musician just above the semi-pro level who would have thrown caution to the wind even to get there in the first place. Musicians with a day job don’t have the luxury of abandon!

  You always remember your worst audience. For me it has to be a tiny bar in Georgia – the second or third gig on my first visit to America. It was actually due to shut the next day. Imagine the atmosphere: shit wine, shit coffee, a couple of rednecks and a girl pestering us about kinky sex. Tom was tempted to linger over lingerie but I was more streetwise and sensed a scam. I was more concerned about our gear. Our musical gear.

  I rarely feel angry with an audience; it’s my decision if I agree to play in a rowdy bar. At a more formal level I have felt angry with promoters over the years. They’re the ones who make the decision to put you in an unsuitable venue when it’s their job to be discriminating. A recent solo gig I was engaged to do in the Potteries was cancelled because the proprietor felt he could not guarantee the civilized behaviour of the audience for my type of music, though to be fair Andy Boote’s Vavoom! got a very good reception there. I don’t mind that. He was right to intervene.

  I do wish audiences generally would be more respectful, I suppose; I consider what I do as an art form. A conductor doesn’t have to put up with people talking all the way through a symphony. One ringtone and he halts the performance!

  Why I Hate Recording

  Essentially Live

  I’ve played all over the place and halfway across the planet. It hasn’t been the sort of music that’s been popularised by anybody. If a CD sells five hundred copies, why bother with doing CDs? But there are other reasons for my reluctance to record: as a means of communicating recording is an indirect way. There is a technological process between the performer and the audience in which the voice, the instrument and the listener are separated. Modern recording techniques make it possible to interfere with the performance in such a way that the recorded version bears no resemblance to the live event and I feel uneasy about that.

  The country blues was essentially a live performance and that’s how I feel about it still. Yet although I saw some of the m
usicians live, I am grateful that it was recorded, otherwise I wouldn’t have any idea of how the rest sounded. Of course, the early blues singers were recorded in the Twenties and Thirties using the recording technology of the time, giving a mere approximation of the actual sound so this has to be borne in mind. It’s better than nothing and when I think of what has been lost through carelessness or simply not being recorded at all...

  There’s a lot to interest you: things like changes in voices when you compare recordings done in the Twenties and Thirties with those rerecorded, upon re-discovery, in the Sixties and stories about early recording studios which give an insight into the state of the art at the same time that they illustrate social attitudes.

  Corner Loading

  For example, Ry Cooder (40) raised the issue of Robert Johnson recording his songs facing the corner walls. It was alleged by some that this was because he was in awe of what was happening but there is a more likely explanation. The amplification created by the corner and the plaster was conducive to amplifying the mid range. It was called corner loading. It’s not likely that he sat facing the corner because he was shy or overwhelmed. Researchers who came to this conclusion were not necessarily musicians and would therefore not give the behaviour a musical explanation. It’s possible he sat like that because he felt more comfortable, or the recording people might have suggested it. If you sing in an empty house or at the bottom of the stairs or in a bathroom you get reverberation off the walls. That’s what Robert Johnson was doing in the corner; he would have noticed different acoustic effects.

  Vinyl Versus CD

  I started my record collection when I was thirteen years old. I would choose vinyl over CDs any time. I play vinyl records on a record deck that floats and I’m able to hear individual instruments and vocals much better than on the CD version. I do have a trained ear. The music simply doesn’t sound as good on CD or using digital amps and modern speakers. When music is mixed down in a studio, the best equipment is always used, as well as some cheaper speakers more akin to what the average person would use. The sounds produced are aimed at those particular frequencies. You get a mathematically contrived sound, according to my way of thinking. Notes can be slid up and down or eliminated altogether.

  On the other hand, if you listen to my old jazz records you can hear the individual instruments. Take, for example, recordings by McKinney’s Cotton Pickers – from the late Twenties, early Thirties. They were often done in only one take. Each musician would have cushions tied to their feet so that when it was their turn to approach the microphone, they wouldn’t make a noise! I do a version of one of the numbers on this album. “Beedle Um Bum” was also done by Blind Willie McTell and I learnt my version mostly from this, though I do it based on several versions so that it’s my own version. The album notes are historically significant because they are in French. That’s because black musicians were more readily accepted in France than in the US. According to the sleeve notes, McKinney’s Cotton Pickers were rated as highly as Fletcher Henderson and Duke Ellington in their day.

  In The Studio

  A recent recording I did in a local studio illustrated perfectly the reasons I am uneasy about recording and the things that can prevent me losing myself in the music. Fortunately I didn’t have to worry about the thousand knobs – that really would sap my artistic integrity. Nor did I have to concern myself with the stridency of urban sounds but there were plenty of other things to go wrong! Although the owner, Jason Woolley (41) is a friend who has always wanted to play with the Skunk Band and whose job takes him all over the world inspecting the work of teachers in rock schools, I still felt I was in an alien space because I associate playing the guitar with being relaxed and at leisure, and usually having an audience and a couple of drinks. I hadn’t brought any. First mistake. There’s a complex relationship between alcohol and adrenalin. Flashback to a lunchtime gig at The Railway during The Nantwich Jazz and Blues Festival: all the guitarists in the area were in the pub. My hands just wouldn’t work; the more I concerned myself with this the worse I got.

  Someone sent me a double Jack Daniels. I was OK.

  The same thing happened at The Hand and Trumpet but I had a hangover. So alcohol can inhibit me from allowing the flow in two ways: not enough or too much! Yet I recorded 4 Hours in Georgia after a heavy night and very little sleep but other factors overrode this. I did have a couple of drinks and they said I was on a roll. Everything was new and exhilarating and I was able to utilize the adrenalin of curiosity and excitement and survival.

  On the other hand, adrenalin arising from failure and tension is inhibiting. I didn’t do the basic preparation at Jason’s so I was physically uncomfortable: on a low chair with the guitar digging into my chest, my little finger on my right hand uncomfortable on the finger plate, causing my hand to be more unstable. The state I was in because my hands wouldn’t work caused me to concentrate too hard on technique. Nothing flowed.

  To be fair to myself, though, I was recovering from my second hand operation and my hands were painful, and tired very quickly partly because of that. I had underestimated the effect of the second operation and I wasn’t match fit. The last time I had played a full song was ten months previously; I thought my daily strumming was enough but it wasn’t.

  Another reason my performance had no edge was because there was no element of urgency. I wasn’t paying for the studio time and I could redo it if I wanted. Complacency is the enemy of spontanaiety.

  Also, because I don’t like digital recording – you don’t get the interaction of voice and guitar – and studios are places where they fabricate things, I can’t get rid of the thought that this isn’t right: music should be a live experience – authentic and honest. Perhaps I should do one of these perfected recordings but I don’t like the concept. I think all recordings should be live – the nearest thing to the experience of being there.

  I’d broken my own rules.

  But the day wasn’t wasted. To calm myself down I played “Reckless Disposition” at a ridiculously high volume. Jason thought it was terrific. You do need adrenalin – you shouldn’t perform if you don’t feel nervous but this time the adrenalin was a nuisance. I just couldn’t settle down. I was much better after lunch and a couple of bottles of beer. But I wasn’t happy with the CD and did it again a few months later.

  I just don’t like recording.

  Musical opportunities often come out of the blue – or should I say blues? In 1998 I had the opportunity to fulfil a wish. I went to the homeland of Blind Willie McTell, Tampa Red, Kokomo Arnold and Curley Weaver.

  I went to Georgia to sing the blues.

  Notes: Section Three

  (1) Leadbelly: “I’m Sorry Mama”.

  (2) Nina Simone’s 1960s live performance of “Mississippi Goddam”.

  (3) Fred McDowell: from an undated recording made in the late 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi, and released on Capitol Records SM-409 some time in the 1970s.

  (4) Quoted from Hand Me My Travelin’ Shoes by Michael Gray, published by Bloomsbury.

  (5) Big Band Life and Segregation in the 1940s: hubpages.com.

  (6) New York Times, Friday 2nd December 1988.

  (7) www.earlyblues.com/chronology

  (8) Library of Congress Recordings.

  (9) Bo Carter: “Banana In Your Fruit Basket”.

  (10) Carl Rafferty: “Dressed With The Drawers”.

  (11) www.Zirconbleu.com

  (12) Leadbelly: “Gwine Dig A Hole”.

  (13) Blind Blake: “Notoriety Woman Blues”.

  (14) Leadbelly: “Whiff on Me”.

  (15) Blind Blake: “Rope Stretchin’ Blues Part II”.

  (16) Leola B. Wilson: “Black Biting Bee Blues”.

  (17) “Sweet Home Chicago”: done by several performers, notably Robert Johnson.

  (18) John Henry Barbee.

  (19) Michael Gray: Hand Me My Travelin’ Shoes, Bloomsbury Publishing.

  (20) Mississippi Fred McDowell – taken from
a transcript of an undated recording made in the late 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi, and released on Capitol Records SM-409 some time in the 1970s.

  (21) Georges Adins, who went to meet John Estes in 1962, wrote about him in Jazz Journal August 1963.

  (22) Part of the Alan Lomax Collection.

  (23) For more detail see Michael Gray’s Hand Me My Travelin’ Shoes, Bloomsbury Publishing.

  (24) Prestige records USA, Transatlantic Records Limited.

  (25) Living Blues Jan/Feb 1998.

  (26) Santa Cruz Sentinel quoted at www.arhoolie.com

  (27) Bob Groom, Blues World Magazine 1967.

  (28) www.oafb.net

  (29) The All Music Guide.

  (30) Quoted from the sleeve notes of Blind Blake’s Blues in Chicago in the Classic Jazz Masters series.

  (31) Recording engineer: Can you do a dozen in an hour? Blind Blake: I can do as many as you want, boss!

  I’ve read this somewhere but I don’t remember where and if it isn’t true I still believe it.

  (32) Jas Obrecht: Talking Country Blues with Ry Cooder, in Guitar Player July 1990.

  (33) Hand Me My Travelin’ Shoes: Michael Gray. Bloomsbury Publishing.

  (34) MTV: Unplugged 1993.

  (35) Quoted by his daughter Cora Mae Bryant in Living Blues Jan/Feb 1998.

  (36) Bob Groom, Blues World Magazine, 1967.

  (37) From an undated recording made in the late 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi, and released on Capitol Records SM-409 sometime in the 1970s. The question marks denote a high-rising inflection.