by Renée Rosen
When she couldn’t lie there anymore, when she was cried out for the moment, she called Aileen; and twenty minutes later her friend was at her front door. Leeba padded across the living room in her bare feet and when she let Aileen inside she practically collapsed into her friend’s arms. In between gasping sobs, she told her what had happened. It was one of the only times Leeba had been the one to lean on Aileen for comfort and strength. It felt strange and Aileen’s response was to go into the kitchen and get a bottle of whiskey.
“You gonna have more babies,” she said as she poured a glass and pushed it toward Leeba.
Leeba ignored it. “What if God’s punishing me for marrying outside my religion? Outside my race?” She thought back to what the rabbi had said to her and felt the panic building inside her. He said she had sinned. “What if I’m cursed?” She began to cry harder now, on the verge of hysteria. “What if I’m never able to have children?”
Aileen picked up the glass and put it in Leeba’s hand. “Drink,” she ordered.
And Leeba did this time, letting the whiskey burn the back of her throat, calming her as its heat spread across her chest.
“You’re sounding as superstitious as Leonard.”
“I can’t help it.” She took another sip.
Aileen stayed with Leeba until she’d finished off three whiskeys and had to leave for work. The hotel had recently put her on the night shift and she told Leeba she’d gladly call in sick.
“You can’t call in sick again,” said Leeba, showing her to the door. “You’re going to get fired. And make sure you don’t breathe on anyone,” she added. “You’re drunk.”
“I don’t care. I hate this damn job anyway.” Aileen hugged her and said, “Go write me a hit song so I can quit.” She laughed, turning just as one of Leeba’s neighbors came down the hall. The woman eyed them with suspicion and Aileen snapped at her, “What the hell you looking at? Huh?”
Before Leeba could apologize, her neighbor slipped into her apartment and Leeba heard the dead-bolt lock turn. Aileen laughed some more and disappeared down the hall.
Everything was quiet again and Leeba contemplated crawling back into bed but feared lying there in the dark and thinking too much. Music had always been her salvation so she went over to the Electrohome reel-to-reel recorder that Red had bought for her with some of his advance money from Chess. He knew she was frustrated that Leonard and Phil hadn’t recorded any of her songs and thought the Electrohome machine might help, especially since they had no piano at home.
So she sat down on the floor, held the Electrohome microphone in one hand and started the reel-to-reel while she hummed the opening of something brewing inside her head. Despite what Aileen had said, Leeba wasn’t thinking about writing a hit. No, she only wanted to distract herself. There were no words yet, but it was usually the melody that came first anyway. And in this case it was coming almost faster than she could keep up.
• • •
The next morning, wanting to put the sadness behind her, Leeba got up early and went into the office so she could jump on the piano before anyone else was there. She brought the tape she’d made at home with her and played it back on the office machine while she worked out the chords on the keyboard.
She was in the middle of this when Willie Dixon came in, giving her a start. Her heart was hammering, her face flushed red with embarrassment. Her song wasn’t ready for anyone to hear. Especially not Willie. Leonard and Phil had hired him as a full-time songwriter for Muddy and some of the other artists. He was a big, husky man who played an upright bass. When he spoke you could see only his bottom teeth and Leeba didn’t think he had any top ones until the first time she saw him smile.
“Now, don’t stop,” he said, setting his bass down on its side. “Let me hear what you got there.”
“Oh”—she swiped her hand through the air, shook her head—“it’s nothing.”
“Sounded like somethin’ to me.”
“I’m just fooling around.”
“No, you ain’t just foolin’. Now let me hear it from the top.”
Leeba took a deep breath and started over. “I’m not much of a singer,” she warned.
“That don’t matter. You writin’ the song, you ain’t performin’ it.”
She watched Willie, his arms folded across his big chest. His expression didn’t change as she sang. But when she was done he unfolded his arms and said, “You know what your problem is? You ain’t got no blues in there.”
“What are you talking about? That’s a twelve-bar—”
“Oh, you playin’ the blues, but you ain’t playin’ the blues. You playin’ with your fingers and what you need to be doin’ is playin’ with your heart, see. I ain’t feelin’ no pain. No struggle. Nothin’ real.”
Willie pulled up a chair and sat down. “The blues are the true facts of life. The blues came out of gospel, out of the days when we was slaves. Now, folks’ll say you’re a white girl and you can’t know the blues. But I tell you—you got the blues. Leonard’s got the blues. Phil’s got the blues. The president of the United States has got the blues. All a man’s got to do is have a fight with his woman and he’s got the blues. Now, let me ask you—what’s heavy in your heart? Whatever it is—that’s what you write about.”
What was heavy on her heart? The baby she lost. Being torn between her husband and her family. Willie Dixon inspired Leeba, and that night, after everyone was gone, she stayed at the office and sat at the piano, working on a song about a love affair that no one would accept. She did that for the next two nights while Red was still on the road, and on the third day she had a song. A song that was perfect for Aileen. She called it “Hideaway Man.”
The following week Aileen and Leeba performed it for Leonard and Phil. Aileen sang powerfully, keeping her fists clenched, her head tilted back, like she did as a child that first time Leeba heard her singing outside the church. She gave Leeba goose bumps and she could see Phil tapping his toe under the desk and Leonard nodding them along.
“God damn it,” said Leonard when they finished. “This one I like.”
“So you’ll record it?” asked Leeba.
“I didn’t say that.” He wiped a hand across his face. “I’m not sure yet. You got something here, though. I just don’t know what the hell it is.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
• • •
“I Ain’t Superstitious”
LEONARD
Leonard sat on the edge of the bed, clipping his toenails, saving all the cuttings. When he finished he counted them up and scanned the floor to make sure he hadn’t missed any. Satisfied that all were accounted for, he put them in an ashtray, pulled out his Zippo and set them on fire, the edges curling up, a ribbon of pungent smoke rising.
Revetta was passing by in the hall and paused in the doorway. “You and your silly superstitions.”
“Don’t poke fun.” Leonard took this seriously. His mother had taught him and Phil to burn their toenails so no one would walk on their graves.
Revetta waved her hand through the smoke. “That stinks.” She stepped inside and opened the bedroom window. “Don’t forget to leave the rent check for me so I can give it to the landlord this afternoon.”
“We’ll get him a check over the weekend.”
“It’s the seventh already,” she said. “Rent was due on the first. We’re going to get thrown out.”
Leonard watched the last of the flames die down. “No one’s gonna throw us out.”
“I just don’t understand how you can have all these hit records and we still can’t pay our rent on time.”
“I’ve explained it to you a hundred times. The business doesn’t work like that.” He went into the bathroom down the hall, emptied the ashes into the toilet and gave it a flush.
“Well, I don’t want to end up on the street with my children,” she said, following
him.
“Nobody’s gonna end up on the street. And by the way, they’re my children, too.”
“Then why don’t you try spending a little time with them once in a while? Your brother spends more time with your children than you do.”
“Oh, that’s right, good old Saint Phil.”
“At least he finds time for his children. For his wife. Your children need you, Len.” Her voice cracked and the sadness seeped out. “I need you, too.”
Leonard dropped the toilet lid with a loud clack. She wasn’t going to make him feel guilty again. “You want me to provide for this family? Do you? Then I have to work.”
She was crying when he stormed down the hall and out of the apartment, got in his Cadillac and drove off toward the office. He knew she was right about the kids, about her, but he didn’t know how to be any other way. He wanted a better life for his family and the only way he knew how to get it was by working harder, faster, longer. If Muddy hit number two on the charts, what could he do to make him number one? And if he hit number one, how many weeks could he keep him there?
When he walked into the office, Leeba handed him a half dozen phone messages. “Don’t forget we’re recording with Aileen today.”
“I know. I know.” He shuffled through the messages: Shelley Stewart, a disc jockey from Birmingham, called. Alan Freed, another deejay, called. Al Benson called. Art Sheridan called.
He looked up. “Nothing from Sam Phillips yet?” Leonard had telephoned him at Sun Records down in Memphis twice already.
“Nope. Sorry.”
He went into his office, reached for a cigarette and stared at the telephone. What the hell was taking Sam so long? Sam had a real feel for talent and his latest find was a singer with a deep, haunting voice who played guitar and harp. His name was Chester Arthur Burnett, but he called himself the Wolf. Howlin’ Wolf. As soon as Leonard heard the two songs Sam had recorded—“How Many More Years” and “Moanin’ at Midnight”—Leonard had begged Sam to sell him the rights. Sam was still thinking it over.
It was the fall of 1952 and Leonard and Phil were busy with a new batch of songs and artists. Muddy continued to be their biggest name, but Leonard needed someone else—someone new who could be just as big. Red was great, but he tended to sound too much like Muddy, and Leonard wanted someone with a completely different sound and that was Howlin’ Wolf.
Leonard broke down and put another call in to Sam. Marion, the girl who ran Sun Records, said he was on another call. “Did you tell him it’s me?” There was a time when Sam would have dropped everything to take his calls. He was holding a grudge, still punishing Leonard over Ike Turner’s bus ticket. When Marion said he couldn’t break free, Leonard slammed the phone down and stormed into Phil’s office.
“That goddamn motherfucker.”
“Which motherfucker are we talking about?” asked Phil.
• • •
An hour later Leonard looked at Aileen and signaled his brother with a finger slice across his neck. Phil went over to the reel-to-reel and stopped the tape while Leonard dragged his hands through his hair and blew out a deep breath. He listened to the playback, paced, stopped tape, gave directions, rolled tape and stopped it again.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “Let’s everybody take five.”
The smart thing would have been to reschedule the session with Aileen. But he was under pressure to get a new sound going. Deep down he knew it wasn’t going to be Aileen, but she was right there in front of him, the song was good and he was going to do his goddamn best to squeeze whatever he could out of her. But still, something wasn’t clicking. Maybe it was him. He was in a foul mood. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and Sam not taking his call was bothering him, not to mention his fight with Revetta that morning.
“Okay,” said Leonard, gathering everyone back into the room. “Let’s do this.” He propped his cigarette in his mouth and clapped his hands. “Let’s lay this down.”
The musicians took their places and Leonard paced again while they went back to recording “Hideaway Man.” It was hot in there. His head was throbbing as he walked back and forth, trying to block the noise inside his head. Is Sam gonna give me Howlin’ Wolf or not? Which account should I move money from to pay the rent? He couldn’t shut out the distractions. He couldn’t hear the music.
And the music—hell, the music was all wrong. Aileen’s voice was dripping with honey. She sounded all smooth, polished and perfect. It was wrong.
“Stop—wait.” Leonard walked up to Aileen. “What the hell was that? You call that singing?”
“Yeah.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I do. What do you call it?”
“I call it shit. Who are you, fuckin’ Doris Day now?”
“Hey.” Phil stepped in. “Easy.”
Leonard saw the hurt on Aileen’s face. The shock on Leeba’s. Even the engineer looked put off. Leonard knew Phil was right, he was out of line; but he couldn’t rein himself in. He was ticked off about a million things that had nothing to do with Aileen; and yet, he wasn’t wrong about her singing.
“You wanna make a record? Then you gotta put your whole heart into it,” he said. “You gotta reach down and grab that pain and I don’t give a shit if it hurts.”
“Okay,” said Aileen. “I get it. Let’s try it again.”
The music started up and she got about three bars in and all he heard was fear. He stopped her before she even got to the chorus. “C’mon—quit wasting my time.”
“What do you want from me?” She threw her hands out to her sides. “I’m doing the best I can here.”
“Well, maybe your best ain’t good enough.”
Her eyes turned glassy as soon as he’d said that. She was right on the edge, ready to crack. “Well, maybe you’re right.” She stepped away from the microphone, stormed past him and walked out the door.
“You’re an asshole,” said Phil.
Leonard went after her and found her just outside the door, bawling like a baby. “Hey—hey, come here.” Leonard put his arms around her and held her as she tried to wiggle away from him. “Look, we’ve known each other since we were kids. You know me. I ain’t big on apologizing. I’ve never recorded a girl singer before. I’m treating you the same way I treat the guys and maybe I shouldn’t.”
“You talk to Muddy like that? Walter? Red?”
“If I have to. Yeah. This is a tough business. You gotta get a thicker skin if you wanna do this. You got a big, big voice. But you gotta let it out. You’re in there trying to sound like somebody else. All polished, with no rough edges. And that ain’t you. That ain’t this song. I want you to sound like you. So we’re gonna go back in there and we’re gonna do this again. And this time we’re gonna do it right.”
She dried her eyes and bit down on her lip, nodding.
They went back inside and he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Just be you. Nobody else. Go up there and sound like you.”
She nodded again.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
And this time when she sang even he couldn’t believe what was coming out of her. All that mamsy-pamsy bullshit was replaced with guts and growls. He’d never heard that deep of a sound from her before. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and right then and there he watched a star coming into focus. She had that fire and the passion and he could see it in her eyes—she wanted it bad enough to make it happen.
When she sang her last note, he went up and hugged her so hard, her feet cleared the floor.
TWENTY-EIGHT
• • •
“Call It Stormy Monday”
LEEBA
Leeba would never forget the day their record arrived at the office. She had practically torn the disc out of Leonard’s hand and the first time she held the pressed 78 she felt as though she were holding the future. Each groove in tha
t record represented another opportunity for a colored woman and white immigrant to make their way in this world. “Hideaway Man” was the A-side and for the B-side Aileen did another song Leeba had written, called “Baby, You Tangled Up My Heart.” Leeba played piano on both songs. Less than a month after its release, Phil invited Leeba and Aileen out for lunch. Leeba assumed he wanted to discuss running ads in Cash Box and Billboard to promote their record, but Aileen was sure he had big news for them. And in a way he did.
The two of them were sitting across from Phil in a booth at Deutsch’s on a rainy Monday afternoon and Aileen was excited, rambling on about how she was going to spend her first royalty check. She was going to buy a mink and fancy luggage to take on the road when she toured with Muddy. She was already a star, sparkling and filled with hope for her future. She was giddy, too giddy to notice the expression on Phil’s face. But Leeba caught it.
With his hands splayed on the table, fingers drumming, he said, “This is a tough business, girls. And sometimes a record takes off and sometimes it doesn’t. If we knew what worked, we’d do it every time.”
“But the record’s just getting off to a slow start, right?” Leeba felt the knot forming in her gut. “That’s what you’re saying, right?”
Aileen’s bubble was beginning to burst. Leeba was sitting next to her and could feel Aileen’s leg bobbing up and down, going faster and faster. Leeba placed her hand on Aileen’s thigh, hoping to steady her. “Maybe if we run some ads,” said Leeba. “Then we could—”
“No ads.” Phil dragged a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, but we’re not putting anything more into the record.”
“What do you mean?” Aileen looked at Phil and then Leeba. “What’s he talking about?”
