When I left home: my story (2015)

After I Left Home

Brother, Brother

Junior Wells gets his own chapter in my book. He’s one of the craziest characters to come running through my life. I’m grateful to God that we hooked up like we did—not that it was all smooth sailing. Junior came with a boatload of baggage, but with Junior by my side, I do believe I raised the stakes. Together we made music I could never have made alone. He inspired me.

I met him at the 708 in the late fifties. He was just a little over a year older than me, but he had a lifetime more experience. Naturally, I knew him as the cat that took Little Walter’s place in Muddy’s band. That was the only credential he needed. With all them harp men hustling in Chicago and then to be chosen by the Mud—well, he had to be great.

He was great, and he’d be the first tell you.

“I studied on the greats when I a little bitty boy in West Memphis,” he told me many a time. “First one I heard was the original Sonny Boy Williamson. Never met him, but they’d play him on the radio. When I moved to Chicago in ’46, I was eleven. I had me my harp and was ready to go. Then I learned that the original Sonny Boy was killed right here at the Plantation Club. That was like a warning, but hell, I was gonna be a bluesman, danger or no danger. I went right up to Sonny Boy the second—Rice Miller—in a barroom and asked him to show me some tricks on the harmonica. ‘Motherfucker,’ he said, ‘you too dumb and stupid.’ He’bout cut off my head. He told me to get the fuck outta his face. I was the determined kind, so I asked him again. That’s when he pulled his blade and told me to get. I got in a hurry.

“But Muddy and Tampa Red were nicer. When I was a teenager, they let me sit in with them at the Ebony Club. Then I had me some trouble. At school a big bully hit me for no reason. So I got me a baseball bat and retaliated upside his head. They was gonna throw me outta school and put me in jail. But at juvenile court Tampa Red and Muddy showed up to testify on my behalf. Said I had talent and a future. Judge made Muddy sign something that said he’d care for me. He did. I walked out a free man. I thanked Muddy and then went off to catch the bus. Muddy said, ‘Where you going, Junior? Get in the car with me.’ I said, ‘I got places to go.’ ‘The hell you do. I’m in charge of your black ass.’ Muddy was blocking my way to the bus, so I gave him a shove. Muddy didn’t say nothing. He just pulled out his .25 automatic and pointed it at my head. ‘I got no problem with shooting you—no problem at all.’ I listened to him. That’s when I knew I had a daddy.”

Little Walter and Muddy had a falling out over “Juke,” Walter’s big hit. Walter claimed he never got his share of proper attention and money. Meanwhile, Junior claimed that Walter had stolen the tune from the group he had formed, the Four Aces, with Louis and David Myers and Fred Below. Junior said “Juke” was their theme song.

With Walter gone, Junior became Muddy’s new man. Even moved into the Mud’s house. That caused some problems. Muddy and his wife Geneva was charging Junior a little rent, but when Junior found out some other musician was staying there free of charge, he went crazy and pulled a knife on Muddy. Muddy didn’t blink. He up and smacked Junior’s face before Junior had a chance to do anything. Then he grabbed his neck and declared, “I’ll fuck up your mouth so bad you’ll never play that harp again.” That’s when Junior backed off. Over the years Junior and Muddy had a father-son love-hate thing.

Muddy told me stories about how he liked to tease Junior. Once they was driving from a gig. Junior and the Mud was in the backseat. Wearing his do-rag, Junior was fast asleep with his mouth wide open. Muddy got a bold idea. He had the driver stop at a grocery store where they bought a small tin of oysters. They opened the can and poured some of the oyster juice into the side of Junior’s mouth. Junior kept snoring. The Mud took some of that same juice and poured it over his own dick. Then they shook Junior awake. Junior felt the juice in his mouth and saw the juice on Muddy’s prick. Muddy said, “Okay, I’m through. You can go back to sleep.” Junior started choking—he was sure Muddy had put his dick in his mouth. Junior went for his knife, but the other cats held him back. When Muddy told the story, he was on the floor laughing.

Another time they was all in a motel. Junior had a gal that fancied Muddy, and Muddy also had a yen for her. So Otis Spann went to Junior’s room and said he needed to see Junior in the parking lot.

“Let’s talk here,” said Junior.

“Parking lot’s better,” said Otis. “It’s a pretty day and we need some fresh air.”

They went to the parking lot, where Otis started talking some bullshit. Junior got suspicious, so he headed back to his room. Gal was gone. He started looking around. That’s when he heard noises from Muddy’s room. Through the window he could see the boss banging his girlfriend. By then Otis and the others had caught up with Junior and kept him from breaking into the room. But they did let him watch.

“The fucked-up thing,” said Junior when he told me his version of the story, “was that the bitch was enjoying it even more than Muddy.”

Blue Mondays at Theresa’s was where the cats came to jam. That’s where me and Junior first started in together. Wasn’t no formal band. We didn’t have no business arrangement or musical arrangements. As a guitar man and harp player, we was just good grits and gravy. After a while you’d hear people say, “Oh, y’all are the new Muddy and Walter.”

I didn’t like that talk, and I discouraged it. I’m believing that there’ll never be a new Muddy and Walter. That’s like saying there’ll be a new Rosa Parks or a new Martin Luther King Jr. These are pioneers. These are folk who led the way. When Sonny Stitt came around after Charlie Parker, he was in Chicago. We heard him and loved him. But you don’t wanna compare Stitt to Parker’cause Parker carved the new wood. Muddy and Walter carved the new wood. They brought something that wasn’t there before. I don’t belong in that company. And for all his mighty talent, neither does Junior.

Junior had him a hellacious sound on harp, and he was a helluva singer too. He could dance all over the stage. I’d call him an all-around entertainer. When we started doing shows together, he liked my way of not even being in the club when the band started playing. He got him a 150-foot cord for his amp like I had for my guitar. We’d come marching in from the men’s room or the kitchen. Alone, I could cause a sensation that way. With Junior the sensation got bigger.

Junior had a beautiful soul. I remember one night when Sonny Boy dropped by Theresa’s—the same Sonny Boy who’d pulled a knife when Junior wanted some advice on how to play. Junior wouldn’t even look at him. Sonny Boy tried to say something, but Junior turned his back.

“Wait a minute, motherfucker,” said Sonny Boy. “I know you pissed about how I did you.”

“Goddamn right I am,” said Junior.

“But look here, I told you that shit to see if you was serious. If you really wanted to be a bluesman, I figured you was the kinda cat who would go off and prove me wrong.”

“That’s just what I did.”

“I know,” said Sonny Boy. “I hear. So all I’m saying is that I did you a solid. Wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t blow good as you blow. I got you off your ass, boy.”

Junior closed his eyes and didn’t say nothing. I could hear the wheels turning inside his head.

“You know something ,” he told Sonny Boy. “You right.”

From then on they was cool.

Like a lot of us, Junior had a tough time with the record companies. He told me how he cut his tune “Hoodoo Man Blues” back in the early fifties with Willie Dixon and Memphis Slim. Junior and the label rep went to a deejay to get it played. The rep slipped the deejay $25, but I guess that wasn’t enough ’cause the deejay took the 78 shellac record, threw it on the floor, and smashed it to bits.

“That hurt me to my soul,” Junior told me, “until I swore I’d never record that song again.”

Another thing about Junior: he had a James Brown complex. He felt that James had stolen his thunder. I think that goes back to “Messin’ with the Kid.”

“Messin’,” came out in 1960 and was Junior’s biggest number. He told me—and anyone else who’d listen—how he came up with the idea. A producer named Mel London was set to pick him up for a session at 8 p.m. When Mel got there, Junior’s baby daughter Regina was sitting in her little chair watching TV.

“Where’s your daddy?” asked Mel.

“Asleep.”

“Well, get him up.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He likes to sleep.”

“It’s time for him to go to work. If you won’t wake him up, I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Careful, kid, or I’ll get you too.”

Regina looked Mel dead in the eye and said, “You ain’t gonna be messin’ with the kid.”

When Junior got up and drove to the studio with Mel, they were laughing about it. Junior said that phrase gave him the idea for the song, and he put some music and rhymes around it. But London got the writer’s credit and handled the copyright. Junior didn’t get anything.

The song became popular, and truth be told, it does have a James Brown feeling to it. But you can’t say that James flat-out copied Junior. The way music goes, we all borrow from each other, especially blues music. But as James Brown grew into a superstar, Junior felt like he deserved that same spot. He never stopped trying to have him a James Brown-sized hit. Yet he missed the mark. Wasn’t that Junior wasn’t a great showman—he was. But aside from Jackie Wilson, there ain’t ever been a showman like James Brown. James created his own category of funk.

Early on, Junior asked me to go on the road with his band as a sideman. Nothing wrong with that. Junior got to Chicago ten years ahead of me. He’d toured with Muddy’s band and I hadn’t. I could see myself joining Junior had it not been for the stories. Last one I heard was about Junior being out of town, where he was drinking at a bar when his drummer told him it was time to leave.

“You’re fired,” said Junior.

“For what?” asked the drummer.

“For disturbing me while I’m drinking.”

For a while Dick Waterman, Junior’s manager, had to play drums even though Dick had never picked up a drumstick before.

My attitude was simple: jamming with Junior was always good. He stopped where I started and he started where I stopped. Whenever Junior showed up the club, I knew we could burn with a blaze. Sometimes the club owners, knowing that customers liked us playing as a team, put both our names on the bill. That was fine. But going out on the road with Junior had to be more trouble than it was worth.

I was right, but I was also wrong. You’ll soon see what I mean.