Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  “What’s the matter? You feeling okay?” he asked.

  James shrugged.

  “You gonna come over tomorrow night and help us trim the Christmas tree?”

  Again James shrugged and Red found himself struggling to make conversation. “Leah’s cooking your favorite dinner and I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a Christmas present or two waiting for you.”

  James didn’t say a word. His face was blank.

  “C’mon, boy—what the hell’s wrong with you?” Red set his sandwich down. “Why haven’t you been coming by the apartment?”

  “It don’t make no sense to keep coming to your place.”

  Red stopped himself from correcting James’s grammar. “And why not?”

  “It ain’t real. It ain’t my home.” James pushed his plate away and looked at Red, his young eyes filled with sadness.

  “We don’t care what the courts say. You belong with us.”

  “Tell that to the Walkers. They’re my new foster parents.” His lips started to tremble and tears rimmed his eyes. “I’m sick of being moved around. I don’t wanna be with the Walkers. I wanna be with you and Leah.”

  “That’s what we want, too,” said Red, trying not to choke up himself. “And you know Leah—she’s never gonna stop fighting for you. I won’t, either.” But as he said that, it felt like a lie. Their lawyer had tried everything. They had nothing left to fight with.

  FORTY-NINE

  • • •

  “I’d Rather Go Blind”

  LEEBA

  On a sloppy December morning after Leeba stopped into Blatt’s for coffee she knocked on Little Walter’s car window. Drunk and reeking like the bottom of a bottle, he followed her up to Chess and held the coffees while she fished the keys from her pocketbook and unlocked the door. She stomped the slush off her boots and turned on the lights. Walter trudged upstairs to the studio while she went back to the offices on the first floor.

  Chuck wasn’t staying in the basement anymore. He preferred Phil’s house now when he was in town recording. He enjoyed spending time with Phil’s kids. Plus, knowing Chuck, he loved that he stayed there for free. Even after all his hit records and his big royalty checks, he still didn’t want to shell out the money for a hotel room.

  Later that day, Leeba was in the rehearsal space working on a song that she’d written for Aileen called “See Him with Another One.”

  Leonard walked by and stopped, cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other. He listened to the song one time through. “Sounds good,” he said. “I like it. Let’s give this one to Etta.”

  “Etta?”

  Etta James, the newest addition to the Chess roster. Leonard had wanted a new girl singer to capitalize on the growing jazz market and in the winter of 1959 he found her, buying out her contract from the Bihari brothers at RPM in Los Angeles.

  “This song ain’t right for Aileen,” said Leonard. “It’s perfect for Etta. We’ve got a session with her later today. You can play it for her afterward.”

  “But I told Aileen this song was for her. What’s she going to say when she finds out this is going to Etta?”

  “I guess you’ll find out when you tell her.” He gave her a wink.

  “Thanks a lot. You’re a nudnik sometimes, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.” He laughed as she shook her head, exasperated. “Ah, c’mon, Leeba. You don’t think Willie has the same problem when he tells Muddy he’s giving Wolf a song?”

  Later that day she joined Leonard and Phil in the studio with Etta James. Leeba had never seen another singer like Etta. She didn’t even know a colored girl could have blond hair, and then there was the makeup. Etta looked like a movie star.

  Phil was rehearsing one of her songs before they rolled tape. Etta’s singing was so powerful Leeba felt the vibration inside her chest. Etta was singing, “All I Could Do Was Cry” and that was all Leonard could do, too. Leeba watched him lean against the doorjamb and pull a handkerchief from his back pocket to catch the tears. She’d never seen another singer move him like that.

  When Etta finished recording they went on to rehearse the song Leeba had written for Aileen. Leeba went over to the piano, sat down at the bench and began going through the lyric sheet with Etta, pointing out the chord changes. That was when Aileen barged into the studio, unhinged and raging mad.

  “What the hell is she doing here?” Aileen cut in front of Etta. “That’s my song. Mine!” She pounded her chest.

  Leeba was speechless. She hadn’t said anything to Aileen yet. How had she even found out they were recording with Etta that day?

  Etta surprised them all by shoving Aileen out of the way, sending her stumbling, falling onto a stack of chairs.

  Phil tried to get Aileen on her feet, but she twisted away from him like a wild animal and lunged toward Etta. That was when Leonard stepped in, guarding his new star, glaring at Leeba. “Get her out of here. Now.”

  Leeba tugged at Aileen’s arm, pulling her into the adjacent rehearsal room. Aileen kicked one chair and dropped down into another one. She let out a scream and then broke down in sobs. Through the window looking out onto the studio Leeba saw Leonard and Phil consoling Etta.

  “You need to pull yourself together,” Leeba said, scolding her for perhaps the first time in the course of their friendship. She didn’t care if Aileen didn’t want to hear it and got mad. Leeba was disgusted. “You’re blowing it.” She handed Aileen tissues while she wailed. “You can’t come in here drunk and doped up.”

  “I ain’t drunk. I ain’t doped up.” She looked up and Leeba realized she was telling the truth. Her eyes were clear but filled with a bottomless sorrow. “Muddy left me. This time for good. It’s really over.” Aileen sobbed. “He told me he loves that new girl, Lucille—she’s not even a woman. She’s a damn child. It’s been going on behind my back forever.” Aileen slumped forward, her shoulders shaking, and gasped for air as more tears streamed down her face. “I don’t wanna be here no more. I can’t live without Muddy. I’m going crazy—losing my mind. I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  Leeba sat down and rubbed her hand along Aileen’s back. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be all right. I’m here.” A soft tender spot opened up in her heart. All the hurt between them, the disappointments, the conversations that had left Leeba cold no longer mattered. This was the Aileen she knew, the one who needed her, the friend she would forgive a million sins.

  “I know what I gotta do,” said Aileen, sniveling, rapidly cycling her way to the next level. “And I know how to do it, too.” She nodded, talking more to herself than to Leeba. “I can’t keep on like this. I can’t.”

  “No,” said Leeba, still rubbing her hand along Aileen’s back, “you can’t.”

  “I’m gonna change my ways. I’m quitting the booze. I am. And I’m done with J.J. Done with the dope, too.”

  Leeba’s hand stopped, resting on Aileen’s shoulder. This was the first time her friend had ever admitted to using dope. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “I’m scared, you know?”

  “I know. But it’s gonna be okay.” Leeba went back to rubbing circles along Aileen’s shoulders.

  Aileen sat up a little straighter; her eyes sparkled from a mixture of tears and hope. It was as if some new inspiration had just come to her. “I’m done with all that junk,” she said. “I’m gonna beat it. I tried to quit before, but I’m ready this time. Drugs was the problem, you know. Muddy don’t go for drugs. He’s always on me about that. So I’m gonna get myself clean. Get myself clean.” She nodded with conviction. “And then I’m gonna get him back.”

  FIFTY

  • • •

  “Sweet Little Sixteen”

  LEONARD

  “Happy New Year to us.” Phil walked into Leonard’s office and shoved his cigar in the cor
ner of his mouth as he handed Leonard a certified letter from the Federal Trade Commission.

  Leonard read the letter and slammed an opened hand on his desk. “Motherfuckers. Cease and desist.” The FTC was ordering Chess to stop paying off deejays.

  “Oh, and get this,” said Phil. “The Old Swingmaster gave the American an interview.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He told ’em everything, which of course is nothing.”

  Leonard folded up the FTC letter and shoved it back in the envelope. “Did he name us?”

  Phil nodded. “Said we gave him a hundred a month and a new Lincoln. But he swore it wasn’t payola. Said no one was paying him to play records.”

  “Damn straight. And that car was a birthday present.”

  “Exactly.”

  Carri popped her head inside Leonard’s office. “There’s a reporter from the Daily News on the phone. He wants to speak with you, Leonard.”

  Leonard shook his head. “Tell him I’m not here.” He looked up at Phil. “This is turning into a goddamn nightmare. What are we supposed to tell all the other deejays?”

  “We tell them they ain’t getting paid this month—not until we get this cleared up.”

  Leonard opened the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune. “Did you see this?” He turned the paper around to show Phil. “Now they’re after Atlantic, too. That’s thirty-some labels that the feds are looking into.”

  “I know that the D.A. is doing an audit on Atlantic. I spoke to Jerry Wexler. He’s sweating. Waiting to see if they’re gonna slap him with a fine or haul him off to jail. He says he’s going to sign a consent decree just to get them off his ass.”

  “I talked to Joe Bihari yesterday,” said Leonard. “Modern had their books looked at, too.”

  “You think we’ll have to go to D.C. and testify?”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” said Leonard.

  “Did you see in that letter from the feds? They want us to sign a consent decree, too. I guess RCA already signed.”

  “Well, the feds can kiss my motherfucking ass before we’ll do that. Let me ask you something, Phil. Do you think we did anything wrong?”

  “We conducted business.”

  “Better fuckin’ believe it.” Leonard pushed himself back from his desk and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. “Don’t we have a session now with Mimi?”

  “Change of plans. She called in and canceled.”

  “What the—”

  “Says she’s got female problems. I know better than to argue with that. But we got a backup.”

  “I don’t want Etta on this.” Leonard lit a cigarette. He was getting ready to do a big production with Etta—full orchestra, strings, the whole bit—for an old Glenn Miller song she found. “I don’t want Etta thinking about anything other than recording ‘At Last.’”

  “I’m not talking about Etta. I’m talking about Aileen.”

  “Oh no. No way.”

  “Hold on, wait. I saw her this morning. She’s in good shape. Leeba says she been clean. And I say we give the song to her and see what she can do with it. We got nothing to lose. The musicians are already here in the studio.”

  Leonard was skeptical. Not about the song. “Lovah, Lovah, Lover” was great. Leeba had written it—a snappy number with a strong backbeat and catchy lyrics.

  “I’m telling you,” Phil insisted, “Aileen can do this song. I just talked to her—she’s clean.”

  Leonard finally gave in and followed Phil into the studio. He was surprised to find Aileen clear-eyed and sober. It was the first time since she and Muddy split up that she didn’t appear to be on something. Still he wasn’t convinced. Aileen was a handful even on a good day. She was unstable, always had been, and the booze and dope just made her that much worse.

  “Okay, everybody,” he called out. “Let’s do this.”

  He went into the booth and joined Phil and the engineer. They did a run-through. Leonard was stunned. He smiled and turned to Phil.

  “I told you so. She sounds great, doesn’t she?”

  Leonard pushed the talk button. “Okay, let’s lay one down.”

  Aileen was nailing it. Line for line she had it. They were getting into a groove when Leonard stopped them.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Phil. “That sounded great.”

  “It needs something.”

  “Like what? The piano’s—”

  “No, Leeba’s fine on the piano. It’s the bass drum or something—I don’t know. Give me a minute here. Let me think.” Leonard stood up and leaned into the console, cigarette propped in his mouth. “It needs a doosh, doosh, doosh.”

  “A doosh, doosh, doosh?” asked Phil.

  “Yeah, you know . . .” He stomped on the telephone book lying on the floor at his feet. “Doosh, doosh, doosh.” He did it again. Stomped on the phone book. That was it. That was the sound. “Phil, round up every telephone book you can get.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I need every goddamn telephone book we got.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were all in the studio stomping on telephone books, creating a thunder of doosh, doosh, doosh while the musicians played and Aileen sang. Leonard loved it even if everyone else thought he was nuts.

  Six weeks after they released “Lovah, Lovah, Lover” that song started making noise, doing better than expected. Leonard’s little doosh, doosh, doosh phone book trick had people talking, asking, speculating about “that sound.” They didn’t know what it was, but they liked it, and now “Lovah, Lovah, Lover” was climbing the pop charts. Aileen Booker was making a comeback.

  • • •

  In the spring of 1960 everyone was going to jail. Or so Leonard thought.

  First Alan Freed cracked and pled guilty to payola charges. Other deejays, including Dick Clark, followed suit. Leonard knew this was going to change the way they did business with Benson and all the other deejays across the country. Chess had a slew of new records ready to release but no way to ensure a hit.

  Leonard was tired. Exhausted really. The business was changing and lately he wondered if it was time to get out. Revetta was always saying the record business was killing him, but still he couldn’t let go. He was a record man. That was all he knew.

  Alan Freed was supposed to sit in the can for six months, but the judge suspended the sentence and gave him a five-hundred-dollar fine. Lucky motherfucker, thought Leonard. Too bad Chuck Berry wasn’t getting off that easily. Chuck’s case was getting ready to go to trial and it was all over the news. That morning Leonard opened the New York Times and saw the headline: “Sweet Little Sixteen Turns Out to Be Fourteen.”

  “Did you see this?” He went into Phil’s office to show him.

  “Saw it.” Phil folded the newspaper.

  “We gotta get Chuck back in the studio.”

  “Now?”

  “We gotta make sure we got records to put out if he goes to jail.”

  “You’re crazy. He’s getting ready for the fight of his life. You can’t drag him into the studio now.”

  “You wanna bet?” said Leonard.

  “You’re not doing it.”

  “What do you mean I’m not doing it?”

  “I’m telling you it ain’t gonna happen.” Phil got up and came around from behind his desk.

  “Since when do you call the shots around here?”

  “I own half of this company, remember? And for once, God damn it, you’re gonna put business aside and do the right thing.”

  “I’m paying his goddamn legal fees. I bailed his ass out of jail. I think I’m entitled to have a few new songs in the can before he’s in the can.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? When did you get so greedy? How much more money do you need? Why don’t you worry a little less about making money and start
worrying more about your wife and your children?”

  “Don’t you start with me on my family.”

  “Your kids don’t even know you. They come to me.” Phil thumped his chest. “Who took Susie to her dance recital? Me. Who used to go to Marshall’s Little League games? Me. Do you even know what’s going on with Elaine at school? Your little girl is growing up. She’s becoming a woman— You know what the kids at school call her? Elaine Chest. She came crying about it to me, not you. Your own wife needs something and she comes to me, too, ’cause you’re too damn busy. All you care about, all you ever care about, is making money so you can prove you’re a big man. Frankly I’d respect you more if you went ahead and fucked Shirley and got it out of your system.”

  Leonard didn’t think twice; he took a swing. But Phil blocked it, gripping Leonard’s arm and twisting it behind his back. Leonard was struggling, cussing, still trying to get a punch in.

  “We both know I could put you through a wall,” said Phil. “So don’t tempt me.”

  Leonard pulled his arm away and stormed out of Phil’s office. The two of them didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

  Leonard called Chuck the next day. “I need you to get your ass back to Chicago,” Leonard said. He was sitting at his desk, crumpling up an empty pack of cigarettes. “You gotta write me a dozen or so songs and we’re gonna go into the studio and record them.”

  “You think they’re gonna find me guilty, don’t you?” Chuck said over the phone. “You think I’m going to jail.”

  “I think you’re the hottest thing on the charts right now. I don’t know what’s gonna happen in court. But I know that I’m gonna do whatever I can to save your career and keep your name out there in case you do go off to prison.”

  The line went silent.

  “Chuck? You there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.” It sounded like he was crying. “Thank you, Leonard. Thank you.”