Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  It was hot inside the studio, the August heat seeping in, penetrating the brick and outer rooms of the station. The clock was ticking down to airtime when an urgent telephone call came through for Benson. He was shaking when he hung up the phone. “I gotta get to the hospital. My wife’s sick. You gotta cover the show for me,” he said to Red.

  “I can’t do—”

  “Oh yes, you can.”

  “Dyer won’t—”

  “I’ll handle Dyer. I’ll tell him you’re covering for me. You gotta do this. Now, there’s the records—you know ’em all. So you just play ’em. You talk about ’em. Read a few announcements from the sponsors. Read the news. That’s all you gotta do.”

  Al was gone and Red was alone in the booth with three minutes till airtime. It was hotter than hell in there even with the fans going. Red’s head was still reeling from the news about James. He was in no position to do this, but he had no choice. After everything Benson had done for him, Red had to at least try. He sat down in Al’s chair and when the On Air sign started blinking he froze. He was sweating, overwhelmed by the mixing board, the different buttons and that flashing sign. All he could think was, Five thousand watts. He was sitting before a microphone that had a reach of 5,000 watts. That was a lot of power that would carry a radio signal to a whole lot of listeners. John Dyer stood outside the booth, pounding on the glass and motioning for Red to start talking and play the record.

  Red leaned forward and his first words over the air were: “Uh. Um . . .”

  Dyer was going crazy on the other side of the glass, making Red more nervous than he already was. He tried to get hold of himself. All he was thinking was he didn’t want to get fired. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. He’d seen and listened to enough Swingmaster broadcasts. Hell, he knew what to do. He could do this. He could. He’d been on stage thousands of times. He told himself this was no different. And so, with Dyer still pounding on the glass, Red pulled the mike closer, opened his mouth and started to talk.

  “This is Red Dupree sitting in today for the Old Swingmaster, who had to step away. But don’t y’all worry, we’ve got some fine listening ahead. Kicking things off we got Bill Doggett, so sit back and enjoy . . .” He dropped the needle, turned off the mike and wiped the sweat off his brow. He was breathing heavy. Dyer had his hands on his hips, watching.

  Red cued up the next record, “Over the Mountain, Across the Sea.” He remembered Leah telling him what a hard time Leonard had had getting the right sound out of the singers. It was right there on his mind, so when it was time for the second record Red pulled up to the mike and said, “This is Red Dupree, sitting in for the Old Swingmaster today. Next up from Chess Records right here in Chicago we got ‘Over the Mountain, Across the Sea.’ And I bet you didn’t know it took Johnnie and Joe over twenty-three takes in the studio to lay this song down right. So you listen and when we come back, I’ll tell y’all some more stories . . .”

  Red adjusted his headset and waited for the red light to start flashing. For the next record, “Long Tall Sally,” Red set it up with a little story about the first time he met Little Richard. “He was touring with his band the Upsetters. Shy as can be back then. Yes, sir, shy as can be . . .” He dropped the needle and let the song play.

  Turned out people liked hearing Red’s behind-the-scenes tales. Some listeners, most of them women, called in asking about the new deejay with the big deep voice; others recognized the name and wanted to know if it was the same Red Dupree who’d made “Cross Road Blues.” There were questions for Red about what Chuck Berry was really like and did he know the Platters. Red was just getting started and the show was over. Four hours just like that. The telephone lines were still ringing.

  Red couldn’t remember the last time he felt so alive. He was actually connecting with people. It was the same feeling he once had being on stage only now he had the power of radio behind him.

  “You sure surprised the hell out of me,” said Dyer, shaking Red’s hand.

  After that day, Dyer let Red sit in for other deejays now and then. It was especially challenging, though, when he filled in for the Irish or Polish deejays. He didn’t know anything about that kind of music so he just played the records, kept his mouth shut.

  When he wasn’t on the air, or maintaining the record library, they let him read some advertising messages and deliver the news with his deep voice. The only problem was that Red thought some of the news wasn’t telling the whole story. He remembered being in the booth, reading about the establishment of the Civil Rights Commission coming over the wire. He read the copy as written, but instead of turning the mike back over to the deejay, Red spoke up.

  “Now, this is very interesting. It says right here that President Eisenhower has nominated six men to sit on the board of this commission. One of these six gentlemen is the former governor of Virginia—Mr. John S. Battle. And let me tell y’all something about Mr. Battle. He’s a good ole Southern boy representing the segregationists, so I ask y’all, is this the kind of man we want investigating the violations of the Civil Rights Act? Y’all think a man like that isn’t gonna stand in the way of a Negro’s right to vote . . .”

  Dyer was inside the booth slashing his finger across his throat. Red got the message and turned the mike back over to the deejay. The switchboard lit up—callers who liked what he’d said, callers who were outraged.

  “You ever pull a stunt like that again and you’re out, you hear me?”

  Red heard him all right, but he had 5,000 watts of power behind him and he wasn’t one bit sorry for what he’d said.

  FORTY-FIVE

  • • •

  “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man”

  LEONARD

  Leonard reached over and turned up the radio on his desk. Red was on the air again that day, filling in for one of the regular jocks on WGES. He was good. Had the voice for radio, that was for sure. He was criticizing the authorities in Little Rock, Arkansas, who were fighting to stop the desegregation of a high school there. Leonard found himself agreeing with what Red was saying, but that was nothing new. Leonard usually found himself siding with Negro causes.

  Phil stuck his head in Leonard’s office. “Nu? Today already. I’m starving.”

  Leonard turned off the radio and followed Phil across the street to Blatt’s. They always sat at the same booth, the second to the last one in the way back. All the record companies on Record Row had a booth at Blatt’s. Vee-Jay had theirs, so did King Records and Brunswick. A young colored man came in right after they arrived and was going up and down the booths, dropping off demos. The day before, another kid came in and started singing, like one of the record men would stop eating and offer him a contract on the spot. It got so that Leonard and Phil couldn’t have a goddamn conversation without someone interrupting them, hawking their wares.

  “So I was just on the phone with a distributor,” said Phil, pulling a fresh cigar from his pocket. “He’s telling me the 78 is dead. Now it’s all about LPs—long-playing records.”

  “You know how many songs go onto one LP?” said Leonard.

  “It’s a big change.” He paused and lit his cigar. “So what do you think about this Aileen business? Leeba says she wants to do a jazz record now.”

  “She’s gotta get off the dope before I’ll let her record anything.” Leonard fished a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

  “What did you decide to do about the Moonglows?” asked Phil as he leafed through a folder.

  “I adjusted their royalties.”

  “You take it from Chuck?”

  Leonard nodded. “Did the same thing with Muddy’s and Walter’s, too.”

  Phil nodded, made some notes in the margins of his papers. The waitress came over with their orders: two Blatt’s specials. Phil set his cigar aside, grabbed the pickle off his plate and took a big bite. They were still discussing shuffling royalties aro
und when John Lewis came up to their booth with a white fellow. John was a bluesman and jazzman from way back, played piano as good as the best of them. He had a long, oval face and a stubbly goatee.

  “Say hello to the brothers Chess,” said Lewis, sliding in next to Leonard.

  “Don’t mind us, John,” said Phil, shaking his head, laughing. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Lewis made the introductions. “This is Chris Barber. All the way from London, England.” Barber sat next to Phil. “And you’re not going to believe this,” said John, “but this cat right here plays a trombone that sounds like the Mud’s slide guitar.”

  “You’re right,” said Leonard. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I have a band,” said the Brit. “The Barber Band back in England. We play a good deal of jazz.”

  Lewis laughed. “They call it jazz over there. It sounds more like Dixieland to me. But they’re good. They’re damn good.”

  “We’ve been quite influenced by your artist Muddy Waters,” said Barber. “His music is rather popular, you see, and, well, we’d like to bring Mr. Waters over to England.”

  “For what?” Phil chomped on his sandwich.

  “We’d like to tour with him. In England.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Leonard squared his elbows on the table. “You want to tour in England. With Muddy. And a trombone.” Leonard turned to Phil as if to say, Do you believe this shit? “How’d you even hear Muddy’s music over there?”

  “We have some of his early recordings.”

  “Real early stuff,” said Lewis. “I’m talking the stuff you did with him back at Aristocrat.”

  “His music is unlike anything we’ve heard before,” said Barber. “We think it’s brilliant.”

  All Leonard could think was, Muddy with a trombone player! No way in hell would he go for it.

  He and Phil finished eating, said good-bye to Lewis and the Brit and went back to 2120. Later that afternoon, sitting in his office, Leonard sorted through a stack of royalty statements. He dropped his pen on the pile and rubbed his eyes. His chest felt tight and he refused to think about his weak heart. The pain was because it was killing him to see what was happening to some of his artists. Especially Muddy. His records weren’t selling anymore. He was dying, getting left behind by the whole rock ’n’ roll craze, and he was depressed. Used to be Muddy made his money gigging, but he had stopped playing guitar. Leonard was giving him money to live on, was even paying his mortgage. It was like he had another child to support.

  That conversation with Chris Barber nagged at Leonard throughout the day. He’d never considered Europe before, even though he knew Big Bill Broonzy had some gigs over there, said he did all right by the Brits, too. Leonard glanced again at the balance on Muddy’s royalty statement. At this point what did they have to lose?

  The next day he sat down with Muddy. He wasn’t surprised that his initial reaction was the same as his own and Phil’s. After Muddy stopped laughing, Leonard said, “It’s time to get you playing your guitar again. Think of this as a new market.”

  “I ain’t never been to Europe.” Then Muddy bit down on his lip, trying to hide his smirk, his curiosity. “You think they’d pay me all right money?”

  “One way to find out. Let me set up a meeting with you and this guy Barber. See what you think.”

  The next day the three of them—Leonard, Muddy and Chris Barber—sat at the Chess booth over at Blatt’s and talked business.

  “I’ve been looking high and low for you, Mr. Waters,” said Barber.

  Muddy just wrinkled his brow and said, “What?”

  Leonard wasn’t sure if Muddy was puzzled by this man seeking him out or if it was just that he couldn’t understand Barber’s thick English accent.

  “I’m dead serious, mate,” said Barber. “I want to bring you back to England to tour with my band. We have ten dates set up so far. More are likely to come on board.”

  Again Muddy scrunched up his face. “What?”

  Barber was so excited he didn’t stop to explain. “We’ll cover all your expenses. Your hotel, meals, airfare. And I can guarantee you at least three hundred pounds a night. More if we add on larger venues.”

  “What?”

  A few more “whats” and the meeting was over, and as Leonard and Muddy were heading back across the street Leonard said, “Take the gig. It’s more bread than you’re gonna make back here.”

  Muddy followed Leonard into his office and closed the door. He sat down in the chair and drummed his fingers on the edge of Leonard’s desk. The Champs’ “Tequila” was playing on the radio.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Muddy said.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “’Cuz I can’t understand a word that man’s sayin’. Everything he say come out sounding all funny-like. And you know they all gonna sound that way over there. Besides”—Muddy looked down at his hands—“I ain’t never been on no airplane before.”

  Leonard turned off the radio. When he and his family left Poland he was eleven. He wanted to go back to Europe—Western or Eastern—like he wanted to have another heart attack. But his friend was scared, even if he hadn’t come right out and said it. Muddy needed Leonard with him, so he decided he would pack up and cross the pond.

  • • •

  They landed at the London Airport and after clearing customs they found a funny-looking cab, all black and boxy. From the backseat Leonard watched Muddy looking out the window, taking it all in. Bridges and double-decker buses everywhere, remnants of bombed-out buildings left from the Blitz and cranes sweeping the sky where new construction was going up. He could only imagine what was running through Muddy’s mind. Did McKinley Morganfield ever think in his wildest dreams that he could have gone from being a sharecropper in Mississippi to a performer in London?

  As soon as they got to their hotel at King’s Cross they found an entourage of photographers and reporters waiting for Muddy in the lobby. Flashbulbs went off and questions came at them. Leonard hadn’t been expecting this and neither had Muddy. But even if Muddy couldn’t understand their accents, he got that this was all about him and he stood proud, smiling.

  The next day, even before Muddy started his official tour with the Barber Band, someone from the royal palace came calling. The queen’s people were hosting the Leeds Music Festival and they’d gotten ahold of Leonard saying they wanted Muddy to perform there.

  “I thought we was going on tour with Chris Barber,” said Muddy, standing in the doorway in an undershirt and boxers. “I thought that’s the whole reason why we here.”

  “We are. But this just came up.” Leonard stepped inside Muddy’s room and closed the door. “It’ll be good exposure for you. Get your sea legs with these people before you head out on tour.”

  Muddy agreed but he was nervous. The next day, after a four-hour drive, they arrived in Leeds. The driver told them it was a major city in the north of England and a textile hub.

  When they got to the hall and Leonard looked at the audience, he became alarmed. People dressed in all their proper finery, musicians backstage walking around in coat and tails. The guys on stage were playing Beethoven and Bach. What the hell? I can’t put Muddy on stage with a motherfucking string quartet.

  But it was too late to cancel so Muddy went on stage with his white Fender electric and cut loose with “Got My Mojo Working.” Halfway through the song, Leonard saw people getting up and leaving. They hated the music. Leonard was watching Muddy. He saw what was happening, too. He was dying out there and cut his set short.

  When Muddy got off stage he wanted to back out of the tour.

  “You need the money, man,” said Leonard, who frankly was getting tired of supporting Muddy. “Just do the tour and when we get back home, we’ll go into the studio and record some new songs. We’ll put all this behind us.”

 
Muddy agreed, but he wasn’t happy about it.

  The next day they were on the road at dawn and made a six-hour drive up to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where they were performing the first night. It was a working-class, industrial town, occupied mostly by shipbuilders.

  Leonard was backstage with Muddy, sitting in the wings on some wooden chairs, smoking cigarettes and waiting for Chris Barber to call Muddy on stage.

  “You’re looking sharp, motherfucker,” said Leonard, trying to lighten the tension backstage.

  “Yeah,” said Muddy. “They better not throw no tomatoes at my new suit here.”

  Chris Barber and his band were still playing. Leonard didn’t think they sounded bad, but they sure as hell didn’t sound anything like blues or jazz. Lewis was right—this is fuckin’ Dixieland music.

  After three more cigarettes they finally invited Muddy on stage and Leonard braced himself. He got up and inched closer to the curtains, watching like a nervous father at the school play. Muddy looked small and stiff on that big stage. He and Leonard had agreed earlier that he was gonna at least give those English motherfuckers a real authentic blues song before they booed him off.

  He got through the opening riff of “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man” and Leonard wasn’t sure, but he sensed that something shifted in the theater. Muddy played the next riff. He was right—something was different. This wasn’t the queen’s audience. Leonard saw the change in their faces—people were smiling; the girls were leaning forward in their seats; everyone was swaying to the music. And when Muddy got to the line about having seven hundred dollars they went wild, cheering, calling out, clapping.

  “Baby, Please Don’t Go” was the next song, followed by “Got My Mojo Working,” and Muddy was pouring it on. With each move of his head, Leonard saw the sweat coming off his hair like a dog shaking off the rain. But, man, that crowd was eating it up. Leonard had a father’s pride like when Marshall learned to ride his bike, Leonard running alongside him until he let go and let his son soar. Muddy was soaring.