When I left home: my story (2015)

After I Left Home

The Mighty Mojo

In the summer of 1960, when Muddy Waters tore up the Newport Jazz Festival singing “Got My Mojo Working,” things slowly started to change for us blues guys. Muddy cracked open a door. It’d take a while for that door to open completely, but when it did, we started playing places we never dreamed of playing before. A few years later another door cracked open over in London. When that door opened completely, everything went topsy-turvy. What it came down to was white people paying money to hear the blues.

“Never seen nothing like it before,” Muddy said a few days after he got back from Newport. I was over at his house, where we was watching a White Sox game on the television. Muddy loved the Sox. His hair was up in curlers and, as he liked to do, he was sitting around in his black silk drawers and undershirt. I think James Cotton was living somewhere in Muddy’s house—he came in and out the room while we was talking—and even though Little Walter hadn’t been in Muddy’s band for years, he was staying there as well. The Mud’s home life was always changing. He had different women stashed in different places. He had different musicians living with him at different times. But no matter what, he gave the orders. He was the daddy. And even though he wouldn’t hesitate roughing up a woman, seems like the more he got known for that, the more women he got.

That day he was all excited about what happened at Newport. “I wasn’t even sure about riding a thousand miles in the car, doing one night, and then riding back the next day. Especially this being called a jazz festival. Them jazz fans can be snobby. Jazz fans ain’t known for loving no blues. I almost didn’t go, but Buddy, I’d been a fool if I hadn’t. Folk went crazy for us. I’m not talking about colored folk. I’m telling you I looked out there and seen nothing but white faces. Day before we got there, there was a riot. You know that?”

“Hadn’t heard.”

“Yes, sir,” said Muddy. “They had Ray Charles—that was on a Saturday night—and folks went out their minds. Now I know Ray Charles had a band that can play some jazz, but it wasn’t jazz that worked up the crowd. It was when he sang ‘What’d I Say’ and all that other stuff to get you to dancing. By the time we got up there—this was Sunday—they was warning us to play slow ’cause they don’t want no more riots. You know me, Buddy, I don’t mind sitting down when I play. But this crowd had me up and dancing until you’d think I was Elvis goddamn Presley. Should’ve been there, Buddy. Should’ve seen this shit for yourself.”

“Wish I had.”

“John Lee was there. He’ll tell you. He said he ain’t seen nothing like it neither.”

Muddy was not a man given to exaggeration. Couple of years before he’d gone to England and come back downhearted. “They was looking for Big Bill Broonzy, not me,” he’d told me when he got back. “They don’t think a bluesman should have no electricity hooked up to his guitar. When they heard the sound coming out my amp, they started booing. Who told them that electricity fucks up the blues? All it do is make it louder. Ain’t they ever heard of T-Bone Walker? He been electrical since way back been. You ain’t gonna tell me T-Bone ain’t blues. I think them English folk got their heads up their ass.”

But then, right around Newport, something else started to happen. Folk music got hot. Kingston Trio records were selling like hotcakes. Lightnin’ came through Chicago talkin’ ’bout different colleges where he was playing. He described the audiences the way Muddy had described Newport. “Baby,” Lightnin’ told me, “I look out there into a sea of white cotton. Only it ain’t cotton—it’s college kids paying to hear the same shit I been playing down in Houston for years. Funny part is that they pay me more if I come up there without no pickup or amp. They want that old wooden guitar sound. They was calling that folk music.”

John Lee was having the same good fortune. His attitude, though, always came back to money. When I got to know him some years later, he liked to say, in his stuttering way, “They c-cc-c-c-c-can call it whatever the f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fuck they want. Long as they p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pay.”

Seeing how white audiences were going for folk music and seeing how Muddy was starting to play folk festivals, Leonard Chess had the idea of turning Muddy into a folk artist. I heard about this from the Mud himself.

“’Cause all this folk music is selling hot and heavy, Leonard thinks I can get in on it,” he said. “He told me last night he wants to get a record right away. Nothing electrical. Said he might not even turn on the lights. He wants it to sound like ol’ time Delta. Says that’s the original folk music. He wants two guitars—me and someone from back home who ain’t been changed up by what they callin’ Chicago blues. I told him to set up the studio tomorrow. I said I got my man.”

“Who?” I asked.

“You,” he said.

Sure, I was pleased, but I wondered how Leonard took it.

“Haven’t told him yet. He’ll know when you show up tomorrow.”

When I showed up the next day, Leonard came out of the control booth and asked, “What are you doing here? I got a Muddy session.”

“I’m here for that session,” I explained.

“No one sent for you.”

“Muddy did.”

“I told Muddy I wanted one of those Delta guitarists. Some guy with white hair and a broken-down guitar. What do you know about country blues, Buddy?”

“That’s all I do know,” I said. “Was raised up on ’em.”

When Muddy showed up, Leonard gave him hell for choosing me. They went back and forth, but Muddy stayed stubborn as a mule.

“You want the old music,” Muddy told Chess. “Well, this young man can play that old music in his sleep. Pull him off this session and I’m going home to sleep.”

Leonard let me stay. This happened in 1963 when Muddy was fifty and I was twenty-seven. Muddy not only let me weave my little solos in between his, but he also let me sing. When we recorded, I put my chair real close to his. I never stopped looking in his eyes. And I never stopped smiling. That’s how happy I was. The songs were tunes Muddy had been doing for a while—“My Home Is in the Delta,” “Long Distance,” “Country Boy,” “Feel Like Going Home.” Willie Dixon plucked the upright bass and Clif James beat the drums. Nothing fancy. In a couple of hours we was through.

“Damn,” Leonard said to me, pleased with everything, “you can sound like an old fart, can’t you?”

Muddy was happy too. All he wanted was someone who spoke his language and could follow his lead. They called the record Muddy Waters: Folk Singer.

About a month later the Mud went back to England, this time all prepared to be the folk singer. No electricity, no amp. He remembered how last time they didn’t think he was authentic. Now he was ready to prove ’em wrong.

A week after he got back I stopped by the house to see him. It was five in the afternoon, but he wasn’t up yet. If there was no White Sox on TV, Muddy liked to sleep the day away. I waited down in the kitchen, talking to Junior Wells, who was staying with him. Seemed like at some point everyone stayed with Muddy. I believe I was the exception. I liked being on my own. Besides, by then our second daughter, Carlise DeEtta, was born. I had a family to tend to.

Muddy came down around six. His hair was hidden under a black silk do-rag.

“How was England?” I asked.

“Shitty,” he said. “They booed me again.”

“How they be booing you when you gave ’em what they was looking for?” I asked.

“This time they was looking for the electricity. You see, when I was there last trip with the plugged-in guitar, a lot of the young kids liked it. So they went and got plugged-in guitars themselves. When I come back with the acoustic, they ain’t happy. They don’t want no quiet-ass folk singer. They want loud.”

“Oh, man,” I said, “That must have hurt.”

“The money didn’t hurt, but I’ll be goddamned if I can figure out what those English motherfuckers want. Didn’t I tell you they got their heads up their ass?”

My recording career still was going nowhere fast. I wrote a song called “Stone Crazy” that I thought might do something. Leonard put it out, along with some more I wrote—“I Found a True Love” “No Lie,” “Watch Yourself.” Someone said “Stone Crazy” popped on the Billboard chart for a minute, but I didn’t see no check.

There was nothing wrong with any of these songs except for Chess telling me, “Keep your style under control.” That meant, “Don’t do your wild thing.” My wild thing was when I let the guitar rip, when I didn’t care if it was a little out of tune, didn’t care if the feedback fucked up the sound. Fact is that I liked that fucked-up sound—it said what I needed to say.

No one loved the older cats more than I did. They were my heroes—Muddy and B. B. and Lightnin’ hung the moon. And I could play in their style. I could play on the moon. But I could also go to Mars. Leonard Chess didn’t want me up in Mars. Strangely, though, his son Marshall, who had fresher ears, was a space traveler like me. He kept telling his daddy to let me rock it my own way. Once they even had a big fight in the studio.

“You don’t get what Buddy can really do,” Marshall said to Leonard. “You’ve never seen him live in the club.”

“I don’t have to,” Leonard shouted at his son. “I’ve seen what he can do in the studio. And what he does is fine.”

“Then why do you keep in a straitjacket?”

“It’s no straitjacket. It’s a decision I make based on what radio wants to hear.”

“You can’t let radio lead you. You got to lead radio.”

“I’ve done pretty good so far,” said father to son. “Didn’t I just get you a new car?”

“That’s not the point, Dad. Music is changing, and Buddy’s one of the artists pushing it in new directions.”

“For now, let’s stick to the directions leading to the bank.”

Willie Dixon wrote a song with me in mind called “The Same Thing.” He said it was a hit, the breakthrough I needed. He played it for me, and I liked it real well. It talked about men seeing women wearing their skirts tight being the same thing that makes a tomcat fight all night. It was a funky thing, and I was ready to run in and record it.

“No, sir,” said Willie. “We gonna work this one right. We gonna rehearse it before we go in the studio. I ain’t taking no chances.”

That’s what we did. For several months I was over at Willie’s, running down this one song. We got it to the point where we was all convinced it was perfect.

I arrived early for the session. This was as good a chance as any for a surefire smash. What “Hideway” had done for Freddie King, “The Same Thing” could do for me.

Before we got started Leonard Chess came out the recording booth and asked me and Willie to run the song down. Leonard hadn’t heard it before. I sang and played it, Leonard all the while nodding with the groove. He had a smile across face. That had to be a good sign.

It wasn’t.

Leonard said, “Man, that’s a goddamn hit song if I’ve ever heard one. Call Muddy.”

“What do you want with Muddy?” asked Willie.

“I want Muddy to do it,” said Leonard. “This tune’s got Muddy written all over it. We’ll find another song for Buddy.”

I started to say something, started to protest how I’d been perfecting the song for months. But it wasn’t my place to say anything—Willie had to speak up. But Willie didn’t. Willie worked for Leonard, and Willie saw no reason to upset the boss.

Far as I was concerned, going against Muddy would be worse than going against my own mama—I loved the man too much. If they wanted to give him the song, he deserved it.

An hour later, when he came to the studio, I even helped Muddy learn it. I stayed to play back-up guitar. Sure, my heart was hurting, but my heart was also happy that Muddy was getting good material. He did it beautifully, and I’d have to count it among his best records.

All this happened in 1964, and it was surely on my mind when I went back in the studio to sing “My Time After a While.” The song said, “It’s your turn, baby, but it’s gonna be mine after a while.” That’s how I felt.

Sonny Boy and Little Walter was in the studio that night along with those boys from London they was calling the Rolling Stones, named after one of Muddy’s lines. Muddy said they knew more about him than he knew about himself. They had a couple hits that I hadn’t heard yet. They were so crazy about Chess Records that they’d come all the way from England to record at 2120. On this night they just came to listen.

First thing they heard was Sonny and Walter arguing.

“I had me this bitch down in Kentucky that was the best pussy of my life,” said Walter.

“Where in Kentucky?” asked Sonny Boy.

“Louisville,” said Walter.

“Her name Brenda?”

“Yeah.”

“I had her too.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Walter. “There be lots of Brendas.”

“Is she a heavy-set woman who keeps this black poodle dog around her, even when you be fucking?”

“Matter of fact, she did have her a poodle dog,” said Walter.

“Well, sir, let me tell about big Brenda. First thing she got from me was one finger. That didn’t make her happy, so I gave her two. When two wouldn’t do, you know what I had to give?”

Walter didn’t want to ask, but I did.

“What?”

“I give her this”—and then Sonny Boy stuck out his tongue, popped his fingers, and walked out the studio, leaving me and the Rolling Stones rolling on the floor.

The Stones hung around while I recorded “My Time After a While” and afterward gave me some kind words.

Them Stones have always been good to me. Later in my career they came in at just the right time. They paid me big respect, and I give back the same respect. Wasn’t for them and other guys like Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck, blues wouldn’t have the worldwide recognition it has today. When everyone was singing the praises of the Stones—and the Beatles too—those cats were honest enough to say that it came from Muddy and B. B. and John Lee.

When the Stones came to Chess in ’64, they started telling everyone—and even wrote it up in books—that they saw Muddy Waters standing on a ladder where he was whitewashing the walls. They said the Mud had whitewash all over his face. For years Keith Richards repeated this story. His point was that Leonard Chess was using poor Muddy as a handyman.

Leonard and Muddy are long gone, but I was there—and so was Marshall Chess—and we both know this ain’t true. If anyone had been used as a handyman, it would have been me. At Chess I was low man in the pecking order, but no one ever asked me to paint walls or mop floors. And if they didn’t ask me, they sure as hell wouldn’t ask the Mud. Muddy was a proud man. He knew he’d put Chess on the map. He realized his importance. No doubt Leonard cooked the books so that Muddy never got his fair share, but Muddy got something. He had a house. And when he went into that studio, he didn’t wear no painter’s overalls—he was clean as the board of health. Suit all pressed. Shoes spit-shined polished. Hair processed high and slick. Muddy Waters knew that in Chicago, Illinois, he was boss of the blues. If he wanted to, he could probably have gotten Leonard Chess over to his house to whitewash his walls. Leonard worked to keep Muddy happy.

As I approached thirty I was happy, but hardly rich. Many a week I’d come up short. That’s because the clubs and the record company wasn’t paying shit. My father-in-law was yelling for me to get a regular job, and at some point I did. I started driving a tow truck. I wanted to get where I could buy a two-flat house for my family. That couldn’t happen if I didn’t supplement my low-paying guitar gigs. I had to change my routine: I played my blues till four in the morning and then went to the garage, where I curled up in a corner and slept till 8 a.m. before working till 6 p.m. I stayed on that schedule for years. It was rough, but it did teach me every street and back alley in Chicago.

In the truck and in my house I listened to the radio. I heard the Beatles and the Stones. In their songs I heard echoes of our music. I thought that was good. I felt like we was being appreciated. I also loved Ray Charles singing “Hit the Road, Jack,” a song written by the bluesman Percy Mayfield, a great artist himself. When Ray sang country and hit with “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” I had to smile. Things were expanding. I liked what was happening at Motown. I liked Stevie Wonder blowing his harmonica on “Fingertips.” Little Eva’s “Locomotion” got me going. So did James Brown’s “Night Train.” In Chicago a label called Veejay had Jerry Butler doing “He Will Break Your Heart” and Gene Chandler’s “Duke of Earl.” The Impressions were from Chicago. I loved their “Gypsy Woman” and “It’s All Right.” When Curtis Mayfield came to see me in Gary, he said how much the loved the blues. We was all connected.

But we was also disconnected. Even the greatest bluesmen—take Muddy or Lightnin’, B. B. or John Lee—stand alone. They got their own story to tell, a story no one can tell but them. For a very long time only black people wanted to hear that story. That was fine. There was enough black fans that you could make a dollar or two playing your blues. But here in the sixties black folk was changing their taste. Motown was bringing them a smoother sound. Black folk like smooth. James Brown was bringing it with more dance flavor. Black folk like to dance. Curtis Mayfield had a little message in his music. Black folk like messages. All this meant that, more and more, blacks was listening to blues less and less. And as the sixties moved on, blacks with money started turning their back on the blues altogether.

B. B. tells a story about playing a show with the early Motown acts. The artists gave him respect, but when he was introduced to the all-black crowd, he heard big boos. That got B. B. to crying. He said that his own people looked on him like he was a farmer wearing overalls and smoking a corncob pipe. Meanwhile, he was dressed slick. His band was dressed slick. They was sharp as they could be. But the young blacks saw B. B. as old hat. They saw him as a grandfather playing their grandfather’s music. At the time B. B. was thirty-six.

The sixties were confusing. The world was shifting in ways that didn’t make a lot to sense to a country boy from Lettsworth, Louisiana. I wanted to keep playing, and I wanted to keep exciting people with what I played. I felt like I was keeping up with the music, and at times I knew I was even ahead of the music.

That made me feel good inside. But it didn’t stop me from doing the one thing I could count on—driving that goddamn tow truck all over the city of Chicago.