Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  Her mother stared her down cold. She turned on the vacuum switch and everything she’d been holding in all night came rushing out. “A schwartze,” her mother screeched, running the sweeper over the same spot. “The boyfriend is schwartze!” She rammed it up against the baseboards, nicking up the walls, driving it hard against the bottom of the davenport.

  “Mama, quit it.” Golda reached for the handle, trying to stop her, but her mother wouldn’t ease up. Aunt Sylvie tried, too. No one could stop her from cleaning and when there was nothing left to vacuum she started in on the kitchen, scrubbing the counter and sink.

  “I know what I’m doing,” her mother said. “Let me just get my house back in order.”

  It was as if she felt Red had contaminated everything. And it wasn’t that she’d never had a Negro in her home. But her mother only regarded Aileen as their Shabbos Goy. No different from her friends who had schwartzes do their housework. Bringing Red home as a suitor was very different. Her mother wasn’t about to sit down and socialize with a Negro, let alone have him date her daughter.

  • • •

  Talking to the rabbi had been her mother’s idea. Leeba agreed to it only to appease her. One week later she found herself sitting across from the man at his oversize desk, the walls lined with thick leather-bound books. The clock in the corner ticked with a maddening tinny sound.

  Hands laced together, the rabbi leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Your parents are concerned about your future. You know this, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Leeba nodded and fidgeted in her chair. The room was hot, smelled like cedar.

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because I’ve fallen in love with a man who’s not Jewish. Worse than that, he’s a Negro.” His eyes flickered when she said that. “It’s not a crime,” she reminded him.

  “But it is a sin to ignore the Torah’s teachings.” He wagged his finger. “He is not a Jew. You are disobeying the mitzvot, the commandments of our people. You come from different worlds, you and this man. You have no common ground.”

  “That’s not true.” Her voice came out strong, purposeful. She and Red had plenty in common. They had music. They had oppression—he a transplant from the South, she a Polish immigrant. He was a Negro—a nigger. She was a Jew—a kike. How many conversations had they had about that very thing? How many times had he played songs for her on his guitar and taught her chords, encouraging her songwriting? How many times had he made her laugh till she cried? How many times had they sat together in silence, both perfectly content?

  “You must end it with the young man.”

  “End it? No. I don’t want to end it.”

  “Leeba”—he leaned forward and pressed his fingers together—“I’m going to be frank with you. You’re not a young girl anymore. Most women your age are already married, raising children. Where can it go with this man? He’s a Negro. You can’t marry him, can’t have a child with him. You need to stick with your own kind, Leeba. You’re breaking your mother’s heart.”

  “And she’s breaking mine.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  • • •

  “Cross Road Blues”

  RED

  Eight o’clock in the morning and already it was near ninety degrees. Red had taken the day off, called in sick, because Muddy had finally convinced the Chess brothers to let him record with his band. And Red knew that had taken some arm-twisting.

  According to Muddy, Leonard didn’t want to pay to bring on a piano player, a harp player, a drummer and a second guitarist when Muddy’s records—backed by just a bass—were selling fine. But Muddy threatened to go to another label and Leonard relented. So that day they were recording in Chess’s makeshift studio. No glass booth or control room like Red heard about. No, all they had was a reel-to-reel and enough electrical power for their guitars and amps and microphones.

  And, man, it was hot inside. The amplifiers alone kicked off enough heat to melt them. Even with the windows and the front door wide open, it was like a steam room. Red’s shirt stuck to his skin. He watched Leeba running around trying to keep up with the demands for cold beer and ice for the scotch.

  “Let’s do this, guys,” said Leonard. “From the top.”

  The drummer, Elgin Evans, together with Big Crawford on bass, was laying down the beat, Otis came in on the piano and Muddy and Red were leaning back in their chairs, wailing on electric guitars. Little Walter was playing his harp, giving it everything he had. Red watched the sweat pouring down the sides of Walter’s face and he could tell something was bothering him. Between takes he’d slap his hands to his sides and shake his head.

  Leonard stopped the tape and called to him. “What’s the problem, Walter?”

  Walter reached for his scotch, taking a long pull. “Can’t nobody hear me over all them electric guitars.”

  “’Cuz this ain’t about you, motherfucker,” Leonard reminded him. “And go easy on the sauce.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go easy, all right,” said Walter, taking another defiant swig.

  “Okay, let’s do it again.” Leonard motioned for Phil to start the reel-to-reel.

  Muddy hadn’t even gotten the first few lyrics out when Little Walter snapped. He grabbed Muddy’s microphone and cupped it around his harp, blowing in a way that could not and would not be ignored. Red had seen Sonny Boy Williamson do something similar with a harp and a microphone, but he’d never heard anything like what Walter was doing just then. He used that mike to blast out a squeal and a series of wah-wah-waaahs, changing the whole feel of the instrument. Red didn’t even know a harmonica could make that kind of sound. Judging by the looks on everybody’s faces, neither did they. Muddy and Red eased up on their guitars. Elgin, Otis and Big Crawford did the same and gave Little Walter space to see where this was going.

  The boys kept playing and when Little Walter blew his last howling note Leonard said, “Do it again. Just like that. Somebody get another mike for Muddy.” He looked around and called to Leeba, “Where the hell’s that mike? C’mon, c’mon, I don’t wanna lose this energy.”

  They laid that song down and went right into Muddy’s next one, “She Moves Me.”

  “And, hey, Elgin,” said Leonard, “when you come in with the bass drum I want you to hit it and hit it hard. Hard and steady. Okay”—Leonard motioned to him—“count it off.”

  “A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three—”

  The room filled with music. Red watched Leonard pacing, shaking his head until he spun around and shouted, “Stop. Stop!” He called out to Elgin, “I said to play it hard, motherfucker. Straight on. No turnaround. Just give it to me right between the eyes.” He pounded his fist into his open palm. “You got it?”

  “Got it,” said Elgin.

  But evidently he didn’t.

  “Okay,” said Leonard running his hands through his hair, “somebody put a mike on that bass drum. I wanna hear that motherfucker.” Leonard stopped them again on the next take. “No—no. You gotta come in strong. Steady. Hard. Right on the beat. Give it to me straight on.” They tried it again and that was when Leonard charged over to the drum kit. “Fuck it, man, I’ll do it myself. Get out of there.”

  Elgin sprang up and Leonard sat down and hit the pedal on the bass drum with all his might. It sounded like thunder. He was right, though, thought Red. That was exactly what the song needed.

  “Phil, roll tape. Let’s lay this down.”

  And they did. They separated the drum kit and recorded Muddy’s latest song with Leonard Chess on the bass drum and Elgin playing the rest of the percussion. Red was amazed. They had struck on something. Afterward Little Walter was happy again and he and Crawford were clowning around while Muddy wiped the sweat off his guitar and put it away. The only person not pleased was Elgin. Red saw him grab his drumsticks and storm off.

  While the others were goofing around, R
ed picked up his Gibson and eased into a little impromptu jam of his own, fooling around with an old tune called “Cross Road Blues.” He kept his eyes closed, his mouth set, with a cigarette trapped between his lips moving up and down in time with each chord, each bend of a note. He was leaning so far back in that chair, the front legs had come up off the floor.

  He heard Leonard call to Phil, “We rolling tape on this?”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” said Phil. “We’re rolling.”

  Red’s eyes flashed opened and he saw Leah standing with her hands clasped close to her chest, a big grin on her face. Then he looked over at Leonard and Phil, the two of them smiling, standing next to the rolling reel-to-reel. It had been almost a year since they’d rejected him, accused of sounding too much like Muddy. Red figured he had nothing to lose so he cut loose and began singing. He was just messing around, vamping. He wasn’t expecting anything, so he was caught off guard when he finished playing and Leonard turned to Phil and said, “Now, that’s a hit record.”

  • • •

  They had him record it again and an hour later Red found himself at Deutsch’s diner down the street. He knew that was where the brothers liked to do business. Red sat in the booth across from Leonard and Phil, still not sure why he was there.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Leonard as he doused his eggs with hot sauce, “we can either pay you today for your session or you can have the union cut you a check in a couple of weeks. If we pay you today, it’s half of scale, but it’s cash. Up to you. Forty-one fifty in a few weeks or twenty dollars and seventy-five cents right now.”

  Red needed the cash, but he didn’t like the idea of giving up half his pay. “I think I’ll just wait on my check from the union.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Leonard, shoveling in a mouthful of eggs.

  “We’re not here to discuss the session fee,” said Phil, cracking a smile that made Red feel a little better. The other brother, Leonard, didn’t smile much. Not at Red anyway.

  “It’s because we want to release that recording you just did for us,” said Leonard.

  Red didn’t want to let himself get too excited in case he hadn’t heard right.

  “When you play like that—like you just did back there at the office,” said Phil, “you’ve got your own sound. It’s not Muddy’s or Tampa Red’s or anyone else’s.”

  “You think you can give us more songs like that?” asked Leonard.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, I know I can.”

  “Good.”

  Phil opened a folder, pulled out a couple sheets of paper and plunked them down in front of Red, along with a fountain pen. “That’s a recording contract,” said Phil. “We want you to sign it.”

  A recording contract? Red sat up straighter, his blood rushing faster through his veins. He’d spent years chasing a record deal and this one had come to him. Red looked over the contract, but all he saw was a lot of legal mumbo jumbo.

  Phil pointed out the particulars. “We’ll pay you an advance of two thousand dollars against royalties. We’re making Walter the same offer. That’s what we gave Muddy. And Sunnyland Slim, too. Then after that’s earned out, you get a percentage of each record we sell . . .”

  Phil was still talking, but all Red heard was that they were paying him two thousand dollars up front. His eyes raced over the contract looking for the signature line. He saw the way Muddy lived and even before he reached for the fountain pen Red was miles down the road, headed toward the big house, fancy cars, tailored suits. A chance to prove to Leah’s family that he was good enough for her, as good as any white man could be.

  So he signed the contract and the next week Leonard pressed five thousand copies of “Cross Road Blues.”

  Leah had grabbed one of the finished records and had surprised Red later that night, showing up on his doorstep with his own copy, a brand-new portable RCA Victor record player and a bottle of champagne.

  Red stood in his kitchenette holding his 78 like it was a newborn. He and Leah played it over and over again while they drank the champagne straight from the bottle, dancing and kissing. It was a hot August evening and they were sweating, working off their layers of clothing until they were dancing naked, her pale breasts catching the light each time she swayed her hips back and forth.

  That night he made love to his woman to the sounds of his own music playing in the background. That was a powerful moment for him and afterward as they lay side by side, trying to catch their breath, he said, “So what happens now?”

  “Now we cuddle and you tell me how much you love me.”

  “No, I mean what happens now? With the record?”

  She laughed. “I knew what you meant.” She rolled over onto her back. “So now they try and get your record on the radio and in jukeboxes and record stores. It could take a little time, so you just have to be patient.”

  And he was. At least he thought he was. But after two weeks it seemed like nothing was happening so Red stopped by Chess to talk to the brothers and see what was going on. The place seemed all but deserted and he found Leah at the piano, working on a song.

  “Tell me what you think of this,” she said, playing a classic twelve-bar blues intro.

  Red wasn’t really listening. He looked in on the dark, empty space they used as a studio. The folding chairs were put away and even the ashtrays had gone cold. The place was abandoned. “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  Leah got up from the piano and came up behind him, circled her arms about his waist. “They’re on the road.”

  He twisted around to face her. “You mean to tell me Leonard and Phil aren’t even here? Where’d they go?”

  “Leonard went down South with Muddy and Phil’s up North with Walter.”

  “That’s who Muddy went down South with? I thought he was just going to see his kin. Why didn’t they take me with them? And what’s Walter doing with Phil?”

  “Relax. Sometimes they take the artists with them to introduce them to deejays. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve got ‘Cross Road Blues’ with them and they’re going to try and get you distributed. You just have to be patient.”

  Time crept along and Red grew antsy. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus on anything but that record. Everything was riding on that song becoming a hit and he couldn’t do a thing to help it along. A week passed. Nothing. Another week and another. The Chess brothers were still gone. Red turned the radio knobs up and down the dial, hoping he’d hear his song. He went into every music store he could find, flipping through the rows of 78s, looking for his record. He stopped into diners to search the jukeboxes. There wasn’t a trace of “Cross Road Blues” anywhere.

  Two more weeks passed. It was a blistering hot September day and Red was working down at the brickyard, shoveling clay into a Dumpster. Sweat dripped off of him, soaking his shirt. When they went on break, Red and the guys headed into the lunchroom, grateful to get out of the hot sun.

  Red was getting some water when he first heard it. He stopped, turned around. He couldn’t believe it. But there it was—the opening chords of “Cross Road Blues” coming over the radio. He rushed over and turned up the volume. He called to the others, turning it up even higher. They all gathered around, listening, until the boss man came by and snapped the radio off.

  “Get back to work.”

  “But that’s my song,” Red said, pointing to the radio.

  “Don’t you go getting uppity with me, nigger. Get your ass back out there and get to work.”

  Red felt the assault. Everything inside him bristled and a voice inside his head—the same voice he’d heard as a child that day he went into that store for chocolates—screamed, You don’t have to take this. He stepped forward, towering a good four inches over his boss. “What did you just say?”

  Judging by the shocked look on the man’s face, Red knew he wasn’t used to a Negro, or maybe any
of his workers, talking to him like that. “Let me tell you something.” Red leaned over and turned the radio back on. “You hear that? That’s me on the radio. Red Dupree. That’s my song, and you know what that means? That means you don’t get to tell me what to do ever again.”

  Red walked off his job that day. He was a different man. He was on his way.

  • • •

  “Five times.” Leah smiled and held up her hand, fingers splayed apart. “I heard ‘Cross Road Blues’ five times on the radio today. And Phil and Leonard want to get you back in the studio.”

  “Did they say anything about recording more with Mud, too?” He pulled his suitcase from the closet. He was going on the road, heading to a gig in East St. Louis. He was playing at the Manhattan Club, opening for Ike Turner.

  “Don’t worry about Muddy,” she said. “Just forget about him.”

  But Red couldn’t. Critics, deejays, Billboard and Cash Box magazine all made the comparison, calling him a Muddy Waters wannabe. Leonard and Phil had been worried about that from the get-go, but with “Cross Road Blues” they thought he had his own sound. And Red did have his own sound. He’d been playing electric guitar, even slide guitar, before he’d met Muddy. Still Red measured himself against his friend. He was in a race with Muddy Waters and he couldn’t catch him no matter how he tried. The man was too far out in front with a two-year lead.

  “Cross Road Blues” was out there and it was selling okay. It was enough to get people to pay Red some respect. Besides, Red knew he wasn’t going to get rich off his record sales anyway, not when he was only making two cents a copy. The brothers said Red’s contract was the same as the one Muddy signed, so he felt okay about it. He didn’t understand all the fine print, but that didn’t matter because he was making good money playing the clubs.

  When Red first left Muddy’s band and struck out on his own he was playing small, run-down joints, lucky if he could pull in thirty or forty dollars a night. Now he was packing the house, making up to two hundred a gig. He even had some white folks coming into the clubs to hear him and afterward they slapped him on the back, bought him drinks, told him how much they loved his music. Some invited him to play at their private parties in their big houses up on the North Shore. He’d never had so many people admiring him, treating him like he was something special. His guitar was his ticket. He wasn’t just some dumb nigger to them, because he could do something they couldn’t. He’d come away from those house parties with three hundred dollars in his pocket and a picture in his mind of what his future could be like in Leah’s world. If a house full of rich white folks could accept him, her family could, too.