When I Left Home

by Guy, Buddy

  After dinner we talked about the kind of life she wanted to have once she put enough money away. She wanted to buy a house back down South. She wanted to make sure her kids graduated high school. She talked to me like I was family. I didn’t make a move on her to have sex. I knew she’d had enough sex from enough men. She didn’t invite me over for sex. She didn’t want sex; she wanted a friend.

  Wasn’t that I didn’t want sex. I did. But being careful kept me from chasing anything crazy—or at least that’s what I thought. I’d been living in Chicago many months—maybe even a year—before I got me my first little piece. Happened at the Squeeze, the same club where the man walked in with his wife’s head in a paper bag.

  Cute little gal came over to me. I appreciated that because I was no good at making the first move.

  “Been watching you for some time,” she said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “But I’m just wondering one thing. It’s a personal thing. Mind if I ask?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I wanna know you if you make love as wild as you play that guitar.”

  Naturally, the question excited me. Right then and there my blood started to rise.

  “All I can say is that I do my best,” I said.

  “Well, my style is wild.”

  “I like wild,” I assured her.

  “But I also get a little rough beforehand. You know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly, but I’m willing to find out.”

  “If there’s some fighting first, the fucking gets better.”

  No woman had ever come on to me and used the word “fucking” before. The word got me even more excited.

  “In the name of love,” I said, “I’ll do a little fighting.”

  When we got up to her room, though, turned out she was all talk. She’d been drinking so long that she fell right to sleep. Being a gentleman, I didn’t wanna wake her. Got in bed next to her and fell asleep myself. Was the middle of the night when I felt this whack! across my back. Damned if she wasn’t whipping me with my own belt. She hit me so hard my back was bleeding.

  “You ready to fight?” she asked, all smiles.

  I was hurting, and I wasn’t about to take this shit lying down. I went for her, and she was happy.

  “Now,” she said, “you’ll see what real fucking is all about.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Chess Moves

  The gunslingers had different styles. Some of the cats—like Magic Sam and Otis Rush—were quick at the draw and didn’t mind showing you how they did it. Like the Mud, they were teachers who felt that the lessons should be passed on. Other cats didn’t look at it that way.

  Earl Hooker wasn’t interested in teaching you nothing. He was too busy looking over his shoulder.

  When I first got attention on the bandstand, I noticed Earl Hooker listening hard to my licks. Believe me when I tell you I wasn’t playing half of what he could play, but I could see him studying my guitar and amp.

  Couple nights later I come to discover my amp is sounding different. I’m also missing my long wire that lets me wander all around when I play. Someone said they saw Earl messing with my equipment during one the breaks. So on a Saturday I decided to go over to where he stayed with his mama and pay the man a visit.

  His mother told me, “He’s asleep.”

  Well, this was four in the afternoon. Of course musicians tend to work all night and sleep all day, so I understood. His mama went about her business, and I was set to leave when I heard a loud snore coming from the bedroom where the door was ajar. I tiptoed over, stuck my head in, and sure enough, there was my guitar wire and a couple of tubes that I recognized as belonging to my amp.

  “Hooker,” I said. “Wake up, man. What you doing with my wire and my tubes?”

  He came to life, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Just borrowing’em, man. That’s all.”

  “Don’t you need to ask before you borrow?”

  “I was curious to hear that sound you make. Wanted to see if it was the tubes.”

  “I want my wire back.”

  “Take it.”

  “And my tubes.”

  “I think they work better in my amp than yours,” said Earl.

  “I think they work right well in mine.”

  I took my stuff and left.

  Even though I was pissed on that particular day, I couldn’t harbor no bad feelings for Earl—he was too great for me to stay mad. Earl was the first one to get the hang of the wah-wah pedal. He was one of the first to use a double-neck guitar. He liked to experiment. He also liked telling stories. A couple of his stories killed me.

  One had him and his band traveling way down into the Delta for a gig at a roadhouse. Owner said only way to attract a crowd was to go into the fields and tell the folk picking cotton when and where he’d be playing. Earl and his cats were wearing their old tuxes with the cummerbunds—the only clothes they brought—and they didn’t wanna dirty ’em up.

  “If you wanna get paid,” the owner said, “then get out in them fields and advertise your show. Else you’ll be playing to an empty house.”

  So Earl and his guys parked alongside a big cotton field where everyone was doing the afternoon picking.

  “Playing down the road tonight,” he told all the workers he met. “Gonna be playing the kinda music you like. My songs go good with drinking and dancing. It heats up the ladies real good.”

  After a while, here comes a white supervisor on a horse. The man was holding a rifle.

  “What are you niggers doing out here in tuxedos?” he asked.

  “We musicians,” said Earl.

  “Right out here you ain’t. Out here you picking cotton.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Earl.

  “Well, I do,” said the man with the rifle.

  For the next hour Earl Hooker and his band became the best-dressed cotton pickers in Mississippi.

  That night at the roadhouse the crowd was small—and so was Earl’s pay. On the ride back to Chicago stomachs were empty and funds were tight. So when the band stopped at a grocery by the side of the road, Earl had a plan: he’d go in and buy some soda pop and crackers. Meanwhile, his piano man, wearing a big overcoat—a mighty strange-looking outfit during the summertime—walked down the aisle where they had the canned meats.

  “When the man isn’t looking,” Earl told his piano player, “slip some of that Vienna sausage in the pockets of your coat. Get all you can.”

  The plan worked. Earl bought the pop and crackers while his man got a whole mess of canned meats. They went down the road twenty or thirty miles before stopping in a little wooded area. They got out and spread back the grass so they could lay out the food and start to eat. Everyone got a soda pop and a few crackers. When it was time to break out the canned meat, the piano man emptied his pocket.

  He had done stolen cans of Alpo dog food.

  “What the fuck!” Earl cried. “Can’t you read?”

  “You know I can’t,” said the piano man.

  “I forgot,” Earl admitted, “but at least you could have picked the food that looked good.”

  “I did. Pictures on these cans make the food look real good.” When Earl told me this story I cracked up.

  “What’d you do?” I asked him.

  “You ever smelt a can of Alpo?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “I got dogs.”

  “Well, that day Alpo didn’t smell so bad. I went behind a tree, spread it over some crackers, and I ate the shit—that’s what I did.”

  I related to Earl because, like me, he didn’t read music. That came home to me some years later when word went out that Bobby Blue Bland was looking for a guitarist to replace Pat Hair. By then Bobby was a big earner. He worked all the time, and guitarists saw this as a great steady gig.

  Pat, by the way, got dealt a bad hand. One night after playing with Bobby, he went back to the motel. He was up in bed when he heard some people at his door. When they brok
e the door down, he grabbed his pistol and started shooting, but it was the cops who broke down the door. They’d come to the wrong room, but that didn’t matter ’cause was one of the cops was dead and Pat was off to jail in Minneapolis. Just to pay my respects to a great guitarist, I went to that prison to visit him.

  His absence left a big gap, and Bobby Blue Bland came to Chicago to audition cats to replace him. I didn’t show up because I knew I couldn’t cut it. In the Chicago blues world, everyone looked at Muddy as the biggest star—he had the most charisma of anyone—but Earl Hooker was the best guitarist. Earl was tired of hustling from gig to gig and was the first to come to the audition. When Bobby showed him the lead sheets, though, Earl didn’t know what to make of them. (Neither, by the way, did Bobby Blue Bland, who also didn’t read.) It came down to two cats that had no problems with notes on the page—Matt Murphy and Wayne Bennett. Wayne was the slicker of the two and got the gig. He and Bobby lived happily ever after.

  When Willie Dixon said he wanted me to come down to Chess for a session, the first thing I worried about was notes on the page. Only other time I was at Chess was when Wayne Bennett borrowed my Gibson. I watched Wayne read the charts with no problem. I figured session players had to read.

  “Can’t read no notes on the page,” I told Willie.

  “Don’t matter. You can feel what to do.”

  This was after Eli Toscano had been fished out of Lake Michigan and Dixon was back at Chess.

  “Who’ll I be playing for?”

  “The Wolf.”

  “The Wolf got Hubert Sumlin. He don’t need me.”

  “Him and Hubert got into a fistfight. Hubert say he’s through.”

  “If I don’t play the right notes, I don’t want the Wolf beating on me.”

  “He won’t. You’ll be in and out in an hour. An easy ten bucks.” I agreed.

  When I get to the studio at 2120 South Michigan, first thing I heard was, “Motherfucker, you standing in the wrong place.”

  That was the Wolf talking. I didn’t do nothing, though, ’cause I didn’t know who he was talking to.

  “Motherfucker,” he repeated, “did you hear what I said?”

  “You mean me?” I asked.

  “Yes, motherfucker. Who else would I mean?”

  “Well, my name’s Buddy, not motherfucker.”

  “Up in here,” said the Wolf, “everyone’s a motherfucker. Now get closer to the mic.”

  Can’t remember what song we played that day, but I do remember not saying one single word during the session. I also remember Leonard Chess coming out the recording booth, changing the tempo, and giving Wolf some ideas. I figured Chess was a guy who just turned on the lights and let the musicians do their thing, but I was wrong. Chess had lots of different notions about how the music should go. I saw that Wolf didn’t mind listening to him.

  From that day forward I stuck to my policy for playing a Chess session. Don’t talk. Lay low. Listen. Figure out what the star was doing. Figure out what the star needed. Support the star. Help the star sound better. Don’t worry about bringing no attention to me because the session ain’t about me. Stay the hell outta the spotlight.

  My policy paid off. Because I learned in a hurry to be a good team player, I got more calls. Muddy called me to record with him. Sonny Boy Williamson and Jimmy Rogers and Little Walter called me to record with them. I got a reputation as someone who could make it to a session on time and fill in whatever little gaps needed filling.

  First thing I noticed when I played those sessions was Willie Dixon putting his name on the songs. I started to realize that being a writer meant you got more money. Second thing I saw was a bottle of whiskey on top of the piano. Leonard Chess never failed put it there. I asked Willie why.

  “Leonard ain’t dumb,” said Willie. “He knows what sells records is capturing the same feeling we capture in the club.

  There’s booze in the club and he wants booze on the record. He don’t want us drunk, but he wants us lit. He wants to feel the fire that the folks get to feeling in the club.”

  Still not much of drinker, I didn’t indulge. I was too scared of tripping up the star with a wrong note. I needed all my concentration to stay out the way. In doing that, I saw that I was creating two Buddy Guys.

  The first was the wild guy in the club with the long cord and the crazy style, the guy who never sat down and didn’t care if the amp was too loud and distorted with fuzz tones. That Buddy Guy liked the fuzz tones ’cause they added to the wildness. Wilder I got, happier the customers.

  The second Buddy Guy was the mild-mannered studio cat. Just tell me where to sit and I’ll do the rest—quietly. I’ll provide whatever little touches you need. I’ll take whatever little cash you paying. It’s enough for me to play with the Mud and the Wolf. It ain’t about the money—it’s about soaking up wisdom.

  In the club you got time to heat up the crowd. On a record, you got to come with it right away. The greats knew how to do that. They screamin’ out the gate. They telling you, “You gonna buy this record cause I’ll fuckin’ make you.”

  At the same time, being with the greats also broke my heart. It broke that dream I had back in Baton Rouge that the greats were living in mansions and driving gold Cadillacs. Of all the greats, only Muddy had a house. His was at 4339 South Lake Park, a place I’d get to know real well. The others, living in little rooms, could barely scratch up a living. Don’t know how many records Chess was selling and don’t know the breakdown of the bookkeeping. I do know, though, that Chess wasn’t big in sharing the profits.

  Along those lines, I learned a lot the day that Willie told me Lightnin’ Hopkins was coming over to his house. I ran there to meet him. I felt like one of the disciples running to meet Jesus.

  Jesus might have drunk wine, but not like Lightnin’. It was early afternoon and he was already preaching strong. He was a thin man with a gravel voice, dark glasses, big black hat, and much shit to say. As an agent for Leonard Chess, Willie was trying to talk him into a record deal involving future royalties.

  “Fuck future royalties,” said Lightnin’. “Fuck Leonard Chess and fuck you, Willie Dixon. Royalties don’t mean shit to me.”

  “Royalties bought Muddy Waters a house right here in Chicago,” said Willie.

  “Muddy does it his way,” said Lightnin’. “I do it mine. Mine is simple. Pay me a hundred dollars and I’ll record a song. Don’t wanna see no contract, don’t wanna hear about no legal nothing. You give me a hundred, I give you a song.”

  “That’s the old way of doing it, Lightnin’,” said Willie. “That way you wind up cheating yourself.”

  “Maybe, but my way I wind up with a hundred dollars. Your way, I wind up with nothing.”

  “But the contract is binding.”

  “I don’t know how to read no contract.”

  “A lawyer can help you.”

  “A lawyer will take my money. Feel the same about the lawyer as I do Leonard Chess. Lawyer wants me to sing a song, he gotta give me a hundred dollars.”

  Willie shook his head.

  “Shake your fuckin’ head all you want, Willie Dixon, but I been out here for a minute now. I seen what there is to see. Record companies always got ways to prove there ain’t no profits. And if there ain’t no profits, they say there ain’t no royalties. Up-front only money you ever gonna get.”

  Willie kept arguing, but Lightnin’ didn’t budge. I knew Lightnin’, with his country Texas wisdom, was right. Problem was, though, I couldn’t even command a hundred dollars to record a song. I was lucky to get ten dollars to play on a song. I’d have to go through a lot of changes before I could put Lightnin’s lessons to good use.

  The first little sign of any change happened at the end of the fifties, when I’d look up from my gig at 708 or Theresa’s or the Squeeze and see a few white faces in the crowd. My first thought was that they had to be cops. In those days whites didn’t come around the South Side or the West Side to hear no blues. If they was co
ps, that meant we couldn’t go outside during the break with open bottles ’cause that was against the law. We could bribe the cops, but who wanted to waste money like that? Seeing cops just made us nervous.

  Come to find out, though, they wasn’t cops. They was young fans. One guy called himself Paul Butterfield and said he played harp. Another was Michael Bloomfield. He said he played guitar. They didn’t come up to play at first—they were too scared—but after a while they built up their nerves and they joined in on a jam. I was surprised and happy to hear that the blues wasn’t no hobby for them. They’d been listening hard, and they were learning to play hard. That’s one of the first times I realized that the blues was blue, not white or black.

  I could hear how Butterfield had studying the harp players around town. I’d been doing the same. It wasn’t my instrument, but more than my instrument, the harp made the sound of a man moaning. That’s a sound I love.

  Little Walter turned his harmonica upside down and played it bottoms up. He sucked so much sound outta that thing you’d think it was two men playing it. Walter was small, but like Wolf, he was a fighter. And he wasn’t shy about talking up his talent. He was famous for saying, “I get more outta my harmonica than George Washington Carver got out of a peanut.”

  One night up at Theresa’s I saw there was a whole gang of those harmonica cats hanging around. Thought I’d have me some fun.

  Went up to Junior Wells, another wild man, who had taken Little Walter’s place in Muddy’s band. Said to Junior, “Walter’s here, and he says you shouldn’t even be sitting in the same club as him.”

  Said to Shakey Horton, “James Cotton is here and he says there’s room for only one real harp man in this here bar.”

  Told Sonny Boy Williamson, “All these others think they can blow you off the stage.”

  And finally I leaned over to Walter and whispered, “These cats are gunning for you. What you gonna do?”

  Well, they all got up and came to the stage, looking to wear the crown. I had my band play “Juke.” Of course that gave Walter the advantage ’cause “Juke” was his hit, but the others knew the song good as Walter. Problem is that they couldn’t play it as good. They couldn’t play any song good as Walter.