by Renée Rosen
Leonard had no idea how far this R&B music could go. Vee-Jay Records, another independent label, had sprung up in Chicago. Leonard didn’t think much of the records the new label was putting out, but he and Phil were working harder than ever to make sure they stayed ahead of the competition. The one edge Vee-Jay had over Chess was that it was owned by a colored couple, not two Jewish Poles.
Phil came into Leonard’s office with the latest issue of Billboard. “You’re not gonna believe this shit.” He plunked the magazine down on Leonard’s desk. “Look at that. ‘Earth Angel’—number three on the pop charts. When the Penguins recorded that song no one gave a damn, and now Mercury puts it out with some white boys who call themselves the Crew-Cuts and it’s a hit.”
Leonard looked at the chart and closed the magazine, setting it aside. He’d seen the same thing happening with their own artists. “It’s like when we recorded ‘Sincerely’ with the Moonglows. It did okay for us. But when those white McGuire Sisters came along and did the same song, it goes gold.”
Phil shook his head. “When we got started did you ever think that white singers would want to record Negro music?”
“It’s like what Sam Phillips always said. Whites like race music—always did. But they didn’t think it was something they ought to be listening to. And lucky for us they’re getting over that.”
“You can say that again.”
Chess was going like gangbusters at the start of 1955. Aileen’s latest record, “Who’s A-Foolin’ You,” had just been released and Leonard was counting on it climbing the R&B charts. Leeba was writing another set of songs for her and now that they knew there was a market for female singers after all, Leonard and Phil were on the lookout for another one who had the pipes. They’d auditioned a lot of girls, but not a one had anything special.
Chess’s other artists, like Muddy, Walter and Wolf, were big names and Willie Dixon was a hit-making machine. Thanks to him they were topping the charts with Muddy’s “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man” and Little Walter’s “My Babe.”
Leonard felt bad about Red, especially since he’d been with Leeba just moments before it happened. He’d seen those punks on the corner, but didn’t give it a second thought. How many times had he cursed himself for just dropping Leeba off and pulling away like that? But he’d been on the road, driving for two days straight. They had just let Aileen out and he was beat and anxious to get home. He remembered trying to console Leeba after she told him what had happened, insisting it wasn’t her fault, but aside from picking up Red’s medical bills there was nothing he could do.
Leonard reached again for the Billboard he’d set aside and fanned through the pages until he came to the R&B charts. “Look at Muddy”—he pinged the page with the back of his hand—“that motherfucker is still on top of the charts.”
“Jukebox charts, too.”
Muddy should have been elated, but every time Leonard and Phil brought in a new player, Muddy got bent out of shape, drinking too much, being ornery and swinging his dick around to let the new artists know he was top dog.
Leonard didn’t know how to tell him that he had recently signed another new kid with a different kind of sound. Ellas McDaniel had initially auditioned for Vee-Jay Records and after they turned him down the kid walked into Chess. He just came in off the street and asked Phil if he’d listen to a song. Phil liked what he heard and so did Leonard. He’d been in his office when he first heard the guitar music coming from down the hall. He sprang out of his chair and rushed up front to see where and who it was coming from. When they offered Ellas McDaniel a recording deal later that day, the name he signed on the contract was Bo Diddley.
The first song they recorded with Bo was a catchy-as-hell tune with the same name, “Bo Diddley.” Leonard wasn’t sure what to do with the song so he hadn’t pressed the record yet. He and Phil agreed that they should wait until summer to release it and hope it would make some noise.
They still had a few months before then, and ironically Muddy, in spite of himself, was sending a new guitarist and singer from St. Louis their way for an audition.
Leeba poked her head in the office. “Guys? He’s here. Muddy’s with him, too. You wanna come give a listen?”
Leonard and Phil followed Leeba down the hallway that led to a little audition room. Muddy was standing there next to a tall, skinny, good-looking, almost pretty boy with a full head of wavy hair and skin the color of milk chocolate.
“You Chuck?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Chess.” He extended his hand and smiled. “I’m Chuck Berry. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He was well-spoken and Leonard wasn’t used to a musician coming in so buttoned up and acting so professional.
“Well, Chuck Berry, let’s hear what you got.”
“The sound quality isn’t the best,” said Chuck as he took out a tape. “I made it on a quarter-inch machine at home.”
“That’s okay. Let’s give it a listen.”
“Yes, sir. This is a song I wrote myself. I’m calling it ‘Ida May’ since I got the idea for it after listening to a song called ‘Ida Red.’” He hit play and stood back, his palms pressed together like he was praying.
Leonard was reaching for a cigarette when out came a sound that caught him so off guard he nearly lit the wrong end of his Lucky Strike. His eyes moved from Phil to Muddy to Chuck Berry. “You’re a country singer?”
Phil turned to Muddy. “You didn’t say nothing about him singing country-western music.”
“Just give him a chance,” said Muddy.
Leonard listened with his mouth hanging open; his eyes were glued on this pretty colored boy who sounded like he was from the heart of Nashville. He didn’t know what to make of this kid. Or his music. Willie Dixon and Little Walter happened to be in the office and when they heard the music, they stopped by the audition room.
“Sounds like hillbilly music to me,” said Walter. “What’re you gonna do with that?”
Leonard didn’t answer because he didn’t know. It sure as hell wasn’t the blues. He’d never heard anything like this.
At the end of the tape, Leonard said, “I like it. I do. But I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Don’t you get it?” said Muddy, pulling Leonard aside. “Didn’t you tell me how Sam Phillips is recording that white boy ’cause he sounds colored? Well, take a look at what you got here. Close your eyes and tell me if he sounds colored or white.”
Leonard let that soak in. Several months before, he had tried to buy out Elvis Presley’s contract. He knew Sun Studios was having financial troubles and that Sam needed money. Leonard offered twenty thousand dollars and Sam said he might have considered accepting if only Leonard hadn’t been such a cheap son of a bitch about Ike Turner’s bus fare. Because of that goddamn bus ticket, Sam insisted on the asking price of thirty-five thousand for Elvis’s contract and Leonard told Phillips to go fuck himself.
Muddy was right. Sam had a white boy who sounded colored, but here Leonard had a handsome colored boy who sounded white. And just maybe that would work, too.
• • •
Two weeks later they decided to record Chuck Berry’s “Ida May.” Leonard splurged for studio time at Universal for the session.
“Hey, Willie,” Leonard called over to Dixon. “Grab your bass. You’re coming with us.”
“I don’t do no hillbilly music,” he said.
“Well, you do now,” said Phil.
“C’mon, motherfucker.” Leonard jangled his keys in his pocket. “Grab your bass. Let’s go.”
When they arrived at Studio A at Universal it was a quarter till nine in the morning. Leeba was already there in the control booth and handed Leonard his fifth cup of coffee of the day. Even though she was doing a lot of songwriting these days she still managed the office, kept track of the paperwork and sat in on sessions.
W
hile the engineer was setting microphones and checking levels, Leonard looked out through the control room window. Phil stood off to the side, doing a run-through with Chuck and the band. Willie was plucking his upright like his fingers were in pain, like he was doing Leonard a goddamn favor. Leonard didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t the first time he and Willie hadn’t seen eye to eye. At the end of the day, despite all his moaning and bitching, Willie was a pro. By the time they were ready to roll tape, he’d come alive. Leonard had no doubt.
But when the levels were set, the guys were rehearsed and it was time to lay down the song, Chuck was as stiff as hell. His long, lanky body sat in a chair, the overhead lights beating down on him so that Leonard could see the sweat pooling on his brow, running down the sides of his face. The kid looked scared to death.
Leonard just prayed he’d loosen up after a few takes.
On take thirteen, Leonard got up in Chuck’s face, saying, “What happened to the guy I auditioned? Do you wanna make this motherfucker or not? ’Cause we can call it a day right now. You’re boring me, man.”
After that, something clicked. They rolled tape and Chuck sprang out of his chair and kicked it aside. He started playing all out, jumping around, dancing in front of the mike. The kid was a force and he got Willie going, too, his head moving back and forth to the beat. He may have said he didn’t like the song, but he had a big fat smile on his face now.
Still Leonard wasn’t happy. He had something inside his head that he wasn’t hearing in the studio. There was something about the lyrics. Leonard loved the backbeat, the energy and the words to this song—except for that “Ida May” part.
After a few more takes, Leonard needed a break and so did the musicians. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and patted his empty breast pocket, looking for a pen. “Anybody got something to write with?” The console was littered with papers, tapes, dirty ashtrays and coffee cups but not a single goddamn pen.
“I have one,” said Leeba, pinching open her pocketbook. She was digging around inside and her lipstick fell out, the tube rolling on the floor. Leonard stopped it with his foot, bent down to pick it up, and there it was, on the side of the lipstick tube. He got that feeling in his gut that he always got when he was right. That was it. Maybelline.
“Somebody get Chuck,” he said. “Get the guys back in the booth. Forget ‘Ida May.’ We’re gonna call this ‘Maybelline.’”
Berry and Dixon and the others went back into the studio and laid it down again, replacing the name Ida May with Maybelline.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Leonard, talking into the speaker box. “We’re gonna do it again and this time you’re gonna play this motherfucker like your lives depend on it.”
They started rolling and Leonard lit a cigarette and paced inside the control booth until he shook his head and rushed back to the console. “Stop! Let’s do it again, damn it. Harder.”
They tried again and again. Leonard stopped them on each take, telling them to play it harder. He smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, paced and watched the hands on the clock. Berry was getting hoarse and needed some tea.
At one point Willie put his bass down and came into the control room. “What are you trying to do, kill us in there?”
“I’m trying to make a hit record.”
Willie shook his head and went back into the booth and Leonard saw him place his hand on Berry’s shoulder in a fatherly way. When Leeba told Leonard they were going into overtime, he didn’t care. They were so close and they had to get it right.
At last, on the thirty-fifth take, at ten o’clock that night, Berry pounded it out and they finally had it. They nailed it.
Leonard loosened his necktie, unbuttoned his collar and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. He was so exhausted he almost drank from a cup of coffee with a dead cigarette butt floating in it. But they weren’t done yet.
“Now we gotta go through your contract,” Leonard said to Chuck.
“Now?” Chuck’s hair was matted down with sweat, his shirttails out, eyes heavy lidded.
“Now,” said Leonard. He went over to Dixon, who was sacked out in a chair, fingers laced together, propped up on his belly. Leonard gave his shoulder a shake. “We’re good here. Go on home. Get some rest. You, too,” he said to the other musicians. “Go on. Get the hell out of here.”
They headed back to the office and while Leeba ran across the street to get sandwiches from Deutsch’s, Leonard and Phil sat down with Chuck and two contracts.
“This one’s your contract with us.” Phil pointed to the first sheet of paper and scratched his five o’clock shadow. “And this one’s your contract with Arc.”
“And what’s Arc?” asked Chuck.
“That’s our publishing company. It’s standard. Boilerplate stuff,” said Phil, handing him a pen.
“Well, you don’t mind if I read it all before I sign, do you?”
“Go ahead. Be my guest.” Leonard took out a cigarette, expecting Berry to skim through it like the other musicians did. But Chuck Berry sat there and carefully read it, line by line, using his finger as a cursor, looking up every now and again with questions. “What’s ‘mechanical rights’?”
“That’s in case someone else wants to record the song.”
“I see.” He nodded, but Leonard got the sense he didn’t fully understand. “And what’s a ‘publisher’s fee’? What’s that for?”
“Just standard. Like Phil said, boilerplate stuff. All the labels have the same thing.”
Leeba had come back with the sandwiches and Chuck was still on the first page of the contract. It was going on midnight and Chuck Berry was still asking questions. Finally, at a quarter till one, he reached for the pen.
“I’m not even sure exactly what I’m signing,” he said, scratching his name across the line. “But I promised my father I’d read every word before I signed anything.”
Phil yawned. “We can assure him you didn’t miss a single one.”
THIRTY-FOUR
• • •
“Mannish Boy”
LEEBA
Leeba was exhausted from the recording session with Chuck Berry the night before. Plus she had just gotten her monthlies and felt the cramps starting up. They’d been trying for a baby for so long, but here it was, another month, another disappointment.
On her way home she stopped at the bank and cashed a bonus check for twenty dollars from Leonard and Phil for working overtime on the Berry session. She was surprised by Leonard’s sudden burst of generosity. Just when she thought he was being cheap and trying to take advantage of her, he’d turn around and do something like this. As the teller counted out the money, Leeba thought about having to tell Red that parenthood had passed them over again. The teller gave her the money and Leeba tucked it in her wallet and headed for home.
As she was coming up the sidewalk, nearing the apartment building, she had visions of soaking in a hot bath and curling up with a hot water bottle. That was her plan, anyway, until she spotted the boy. Actually, she spotted Red’s Stella first and then the boy. He was sitting on the front stoop in a pair of torn jeans that let his bony kneecaps show through. The guitar that she’d seen Red play so many times looked enormous in that child’s lap.
Red had been giving this boy guitar lessons off and on for the past two years, starting around the time Red took that job at the shoe factory. Their lessons were always at the musicians’ union hall, but Red was working late that day and Leeba knew he had asked James to meet him at the apartment instead. She felt guilty about Red occasionally taking on a second shift, knowing how much he hated it at the shoe factory, but they needed the extra money. These days the only things Red looked forward to were getting off work and giving James his guitar lessons.
Having never met the boy before, Leeba went over to introduce herself. “You must be James,” she said.
He no
dded but didn’t say anything. Then, much to her astonishment, he pulled out a crumpled package of Pall Malls from his pocket and a box of matches.
“Aren’t you a little young to be smoking?” She figured he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.
“I can smoke if I wanna,” he said, striking a match against the pavement.
“Not in my house, you can’t.”
“I ain’t in your house,” he said, taking a defiant puff.
“But you will be if you want a guitar lesson today.”
The boy looked at her, cocked his head to the side.
“I’m Leah. Red’s wife.”
Now he really looked puzzled and Leeba realized that Red probably hadn’t mentioned that she was white. She imagined James had never known a mixed couple before.
“I mean it,” she said, pointing to the cigarette. “Put it out.”
He gave her his best version of a snarl and she covered her mouth to hide her smile while he took one final drag and threw it to the ground.
Leeba went over to grind it out beneath her heel. “Now that you’ve kicked the habit,” she said, “you’re welcome to come upstairs and wait for Red. He should be home any minute.”
James didn’t say a thing as he followed her inside the apartment building. Leeba stopped at the mailbox, thinking she wasn’t too sure about this kid, and hoped Red would be home soon. As she and the boy approached their apartment door, Sophie started barking and James jumped back, frightened, clutching his Stella like a shield.
