When I left home: my story (2015)

After I Left Home

Flying High, Flying Low

By 1965 Joan and I had our third girl, Colleen Nanette, and was living in the Chicago-style two-flat house I’d bought at 1218 East 72nd Street on the South Side. I wasn’t making a cent from selling any records. I sure as hell hadn’t turned into a star. I’d get a few dollars backing up other Chess artists in the studio, and I kept working the clubs at night while driving the tow truck during the day. It was a rough routine, so I was happy to break it up the few times I found some gigs in Europe.

I give credit to the bluesmen that played overseas before me. The first ones were Big Bill Broonzy, Josh White, and Lonnie Johnson. Then came Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. But when Muddy showed up with Otis Spann, that really opened up the door to what people were calling Chicago blues.

During these trips I met Roy Orbison and got to hang with T-Bone Walker. Willie Dixon got me a few dates in London clubs. That’s when I heard talk about this group called the Yardbirds. A young kid named Rod Stewart volunteered to be my valet. He started talking about how England was in love with rhythm and blues. When I see Rod these days, we laugh about how he was driving me around London.

After one gig two cats came backstage and started questioning me like I was the teacher and they was the students. This was the first time I’d hear their names—Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck. They said they slept in a van all night just to get to see me. They also said how they never knew a Strat could play blues. They thought the Strat was only for country music. I told them that it wasn’t my idea. I got it from Guitar Slim. All they wanted to hear was stories about Guitar Slim, Lightnin’ Slim, and Lightnin’ Hopkins. They knew every Chess record where I backed up Muddy and Wolf. They also knew my little single recordings, even the ones I’d done for Cobra.

To make ends meet I had played the gig with only drums and bass. That impressed Clapton. He said, “Man, you make a trio sound big as a full band. And the way you keep your feet moving and throw the guitar around—wow!”

“Ain’t nothing,” I said, “compared to what I seen Guitar Slim do.”

I got on TV on a show called Ready Steady Go!, where the announcer called me Chuck Berry. I was also introduced as Chubby Checker.

Germany was another trip altogether. I went over for the American Folk Blues Festival. I understood why Muddy came back from Europe all confused. I got booed because I looked too young, dressed too slick, and my hair was up in a do. Someone said he was also disappointed that I didn’t carry no whiskey bottle with me on stage. They thought bluesmen needed to be raggedy, old, and drunk.

During that performance I was sure I was fucking up because I didn’t hear a sound from the audience. Wasn’t like in America, where folk yell up to you that they’re digging it. In England, when I got through, all I got was mild applause.

Then I was criticized for doing James Brown’s “Out of Sight.” Some writers said a bluesman got no business doing rock and roll or rhythm and blues or whatever they was calling it. Truth is that “Out of Sight” was popular, and I wanted to do something popular. Besides, all this rock and roll and rhythm and blues came out of the blues.

On that same show in Germany when Joe Turner sang “Flip Flop and Fly,” one of his big hits with the rock and roll crowd, it was really a straight-up twelve-blues bar. No one complained. So was “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” When I played behind Big Mama Thornton doing “Hound Dog,” that went over okay. “Hound Dog” was one of the things that got Elvis started—and it was nothin’ but the blues.

Far as I saw, blues fans in Europe was mixed up as a motherfucker. They wanted pure blues, when there ain’t such thing. Blues always been a gumbo where you throw everything in the pot. Blues ain’t no pedigree; it’s a mutt. And far as I’m concerned, mutts are beautiful.

The most beautiful thing about those European trips, though, was spending time with two people—Big Mama and John Lee Hooker.

I was in Baden-Baden Germany, upstairs in my room, when I heard all this commotion from down in the lobby. I went down and saw Big Mama, Roosevelt Sykes, Eddie Boyd, and some other guys. Everyone was drinking hot straight whiskey. I couldn’t handle that, so I took my guitar, went off into the corner, and started playing “Boogie Chillen.”

After a while a skinny man with a deep voice came over and said, “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-where’d you learn that?”

“I been knowing it forever,” I said.

“B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-but who t-t-t-t-t-t-taught it to you?”

“Got it off the record.”

“You ain’t p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-playing it ’xactly like the r-r-r-r-r-record.”

“Who you to say?”

“I can s-s-s-s-s-say it c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cause that’s my s-s-s-s-shit you p-p-p-p-p-playing.”

“No, it ain’t. It’s John Lee’s.”

“Who the f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fuck you think y-y-y-y-y-y-you talkin’ to?”

I looked over at the man.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“I’m J-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-johnny.”

“I didn’t know John Lee stuttered.”

“Like I s-s-s-s-said, you d-d-d-d-d-don’t know s-s-s-s-s-s-s-ss-s-shit.”

Ever since then we became the best of friends.

Also became good friends with Big Mama, a woman who wore manly clothes and stood big as a house. During one of those concerts when I was playing “Hound Dog” behind her, her teeth fell out. I didn’t know what she’d do. Well, sir, she just bent down, picked up her teeth, and put ’em back in her mouth without missing a lick. She kept on singing, and holy shit, that woman could sing! After that performance I thought maybe I should get me some false teeth, let them fall out while I was playing, and pick’em up like Big Mama picked up hers.

The rest of the musicians on the tour didn’t like hanging out with Big Mama because she was big and bossy. I think her manly ways had them thinking that if they said the wrong thing, she could kick their ass. I believe she could. For some reason she took a liking to me.

One morning I was killing time in the lobby with the other cats, when here comes Big Mama off the elevator. She had on a man’s trousers and a big ol’ Stetson hat. She came right over to me.

“Buddy Guy,” she said, “you and I going souvenir shopping.”

Other cats looked at me like I was crazy to go. But what could I do? I liked the lady. Was her business how she dressed. Besides, she was as good a blues singer as Joe Turner—and that’s saying something. I couldn’t say no. Me and her hit the stores. People looked at us funny. I know we was a strange couple, but I didn’t care.

During that same trip we had to ride in the car from city to city. It was the driver, me, Big Mama, and John Lee Hooker. Mama and Johnny didn’t get on. She was too bossy for him, and he was too contrary for her. I’d sit there for hours, watching them go at it, all the while laughing my ass off.

This was when I came to love John Lee very deeply. Like a lot of these cats, he was a practical man—he got his money before he gave you his music—but he was also a funny man. He had the best stories of anyone. Part of what made them funny was the country way he told them—that and his stutter and lisp. His stutter made you eager to hear how the story would end.

In Germany we were at a restaurant where he wanted to order a steak. None of us knew no German, and the waiter didn’t know English.

“B-b-b-bring me a s-s-s-s-s-steak and sp-sp-sp-sp-spaghetti,” John Lee said.

Waiter looked puzzled.

John Lee started making motions with his hands to look a crawling snake. “N-n-n-n-n-n-noodles,” he said. “Y-y-y-y-you know—spaghetti.”

Waiter ran to the kitchen and came back with some noodles. John Lee smiled. “O-o-o-o-o-okay, now cook me a s-s-s-s-s-s-steak.”

Waiter ran back and forth from the kitchen carrying different stuff—a hot dog, a chicken, a piece of fish—but no steak.

“G-g-g-g-g-g-goddamnit,” said John Lee. “I want m-m-m-m-m-me a steak!”

Waiter just shrugged.

John Lee snapped his fingers like he got an idea.

“Okay, m-m-m-m-m-motherfucker,” he said, “h-h-h-h-h-here’s what I w-w-w-w-w-w-w-want.”

John Lee started motioning his fists like he was milking a cow.

Waiter still didn’t get it. That’s when John Lee took in a deep breath and came out this ear-shattering “M-m-m-m-m-m-m-mooooooooooooooooooo!”

Waiter smiled and John Lee got himself his steak.

After dinner I was hoping he’d start talking about his music. Funny thing, though, how bluesmen don’t talk that much about music. They like talking about women.

“W-w-w-w-w-w-w-when I s-s-s-s-s-still down on the farm in M-m-m-m-m-mississippi,” John Lee said, “I had me all the girls. Had me f-f-f-f-f-five or six different lil’ girls b-b-b-b-b-b-b-because I was the guitar player. Them g-g-g-g-g-girls favor the guitar players. Now one day one of my g-g-g-g-girls, she come running up to me talkin’ ’bout, ‘J-j-j-j-j-j-johnny, a little boy came by and k-k-k-k-k-k-k-kissed Mary.’ M-m-m-m-m-m-mary was one of my girls. Well, I got my switchblade w-w-w-w-with me, and I go d-d-d-d-d-down to the d-d-d-d-ditch where the girls liked to p-p-p-p-p-p-p-play.”

On the plantations where me and John Lee worked, they had a ditch to run off the water if it rained too much for the cotton and corn.

“L-l-l-l-l-little midget standing there,” said John Lee, “and I s-s-s-say, ‘Hey, you kiss m-m-m-m-my girl?’ M-m-m-m-midget nods his head like he d-d-d-d-d-d-did. So I p-p-p-p-p-pop him in the face. Would have s-s-s-s-s-s-stuck him with the knife ’cept that I f-f-f-f-felt sorry for him. After I pop him h-h-h-h-h-he don’t move, so I pop him again. S-s-s-s-s-s-still don’t fall down. Next thing I know he’s j-j-j-j-jumping up on my chest and b-b-b-b-beating on me so hard until m-m-m-m-my girls are yelling at m-m-m-m-m-me ‘Get him, Johnny, g-g-g-get him!’ But this g-g-g-g-g-goddamn midget is whopping me until he whoops all the c-c-c-c-clothes off me. I’m here to tell you, B-b-b-b-buddy, them things are strong. D-d-d-d-don’t you ever jump on no m-m-m-m-m-m-midget.”

John Lee had stories of his country life along with stories about his city life.

“When I f-f-f-f-first gets to Detroit,” he said, “I was pretty l-l-l-l-loose with my knife. Folk knew I w-w-w-w-wouldn’t take no shit. I was p-p-p-p-playing at the Henry Swing Club with my g-g-g-g-g-girl cousin s-s-s-s-sitting close when I l-l-l-l-l-look up and see her b-b-b-b-b-boyfriend p-p-p-p-p-p-punch her face with his f-f-f-fist. Well, I stop playing and g-g-g-go for my knife, and they h-h-h-h-h-hustle him out the club, and I’m w-w-w-w-wanting to go after him. By the time we g-g-g-g-g-get outside, h-h-h-h-he’s across the street, and my friends, they h-h-h-h-holding me back ’cause my blade is out and they sayin’ to the c-c-c-c-cat across the street, ‘We holding him, we trying to h-h-h-h-hold him back,’ but I was r-r-r-ready to r-r-r-r-run over to that m-m-m-m-m-motherfucker and cut him when, under the streetlight, I s-s-s-s-s-see something shiny, some blue steel shining. I s-s-s-s-s-s-see that the c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cat’s holding a .38 automatic in his h-h-h-h-hand. That’s when I s-s-s-say, ‘Fellas, you don’t w-w-w-w-w-worry ’bout holding me back ’cause I done cooled off, and I’m g-g-g-g-gonna go back inside to p-p-p-p-p-p-play my g-g-g-g-guitar.”

Both me and John Lee knew Willie Dixon real well. Willie didn’t have no high opinion of John Lee’s songwriting. I did. I love the songs he made up, but Willie called them simpleminded. One time Willie told Johnny just how he felt.

“Your songs ain’t no good,” said Willie. “They don’t even rhyme.”

“Makes n-n-n-n-no d-d-d-d-d-difference,” said John Lee.

“Sure it does. They ain’t even real songs.”

“Oh yeah? Then why do p-p-p-p-p-people b-b-b-b-b-b-buy’em?”

John Lee waited for an answer, but Willie just walked away.

Riding around Germany, John Lee couldn’t stop telling stories.

“Shit, Johnny,” said Big Mama, “we done heard enough of your bullshit. Way you be stumbling and stammering, takes forever to get ’em out.”

“W-w-w-w-w-what’s the b-b-b-b-b-big h-h-h-h-hurry?” asks John Lee.

“I’m just tired of you running your mouth.”

“Well, this n-n-n-n-next story has to do with s-s-s-s-s-something that I know you l-l-l-l-l-l-like.”

“What’s that?” asked Big Mama.

“P-p-p-p-p-p-p-pussy.”

Even Big Mama had to laugh. Then, like me, she leaned in to listen.

“S-s-s-s-s-starts out with w-w-w-w-with me and Jimmy Reed playing a show in Detroit. After the g-g-g-g-g-gig we both got sloppy d-d-d-d-d-drunk and picked up two w-w-w-w-w-women who w-w-w-w-wanted us real bad. The four of us g-g-g-go to a motel and g-g-g-g-get us two r-r-r-r-rooms. Me and my g-g-g-g-gal got the upstairs room, J-j-j-j-j-j-jimmy and his bitch got the one downstairs. I had a hundred d-d-d-d-d-d-dollars in my p-pp-p-p-pocket that I wasn’t about to l-l-l-l-l-l-lose. Now I’m gonna f-f-f-f-f-fuck this woman until she ain’t ever gonna wanna s-s-ss-s-see me no more, but I’m also g-g-g-g-gonna keep my money. So when she ain’t l-l-l-l-l-l-l-looking, I put my money between the b-b-b-b-b-box spring and the m-m-m-m-m-m-mattress. Well, we get to f-f-f-f-f-fucking real g-g-g-g-g-good and then naturally afterward I f-f-f-f-f-fall to sleep. When I w-w-w-w-w-wake up, the box spring is on t-t-t-t-t-t-top of me and the b-b-b-b-b-bitch is gone. Ain’t b-b-b-b-b-bad enough that she r-r-r-r-run off with my money, but also she done took all my c-c-c-c-c-clothes. All she l-l-l-l-l-leaves me with is my b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts. So I go r-r-r-rr-running into the hallway in nothing but my b-b-b-b-b-b-boxers, screaming after her. I look at the b-b-b-b-b-b-bottom of the stairs, and there’s Jimmy R-r-r-r-r-reed. He in his b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts too, looking for his b-b-b-b-bitch, who also done run off. I shout d-d-d-d-d-down at him, ‘What h-h-h-h-h-happened to you, m-m-m-m-motherfucker?’ He l-l-l-l-l-l-looks up at me and y-y-y-y-y-yells, ‘Same thing that happened t-t-t-t-t-to you, Johnny. We both got f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fucked.”

Something else happened that same year—1965—that folks still talking about today. I went in the studio for the first time with Junior Wells to record not just a single but a whole album that became known as Hoodoo Man Blues.

Junior called and said, “You know this cat Bob Koester?”

“No,” I said.

“He’s been coming ’round the clubs. He got his own label, Delmark. You heard of it?”

I hadn’t.

“He says he wanna record me the way I need to be recorded.”

“How’s that?”

“He says I don’t need no Willie Dixon or no one like that. He wants me to pick whoever I want to play with. He wants me to choose whatever tunes I want. He says the songs don’t gotta end after three minutes like a record usually do.”

“Will he give you any money?”

“A little.”

“Sounds okay, Junior.”

“Will you play on it?”

“Will he give me any money?”

“A little.”

“Who else you getting?”

“Jack Myers.”

“He’s a good bass man.”

“And Bill Warren on drums.”

“No piano?” I asked.

“Don’t think so.”

“How come?”

“Less cats, more money. You in?”

“I’m in. You already picked out the songs?”

“I’ll do it when I get there,” said Junior. “Koester wants me to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ Says it’s the best thing I ever done. But I ain’t doing it, so don’t even ask me.”

“Do as you like. It’s your session.”

“Damn right.”

When I showed up, Bob Koester took me aside and said, “We should try to get Junior to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ It’ll help sell the album.”

“Junior gonna do what Junior gonna do,” I said.

“I know that,” Bob said, “but if there’s an opening and you start into the song, Junior might get the spirit and sing along. I’ll have the tape rolling just in case.”

First off, Junior wanted to do “Snatch It Back and Hold It,” a song he wrote in the James Brown bag. His lyrics even talk about how “I ain’t got no brand new bag.” This was Junior trying to compete with James.

When we did “Hound Dog,” I was thinking of Big Mama Thornton—except that Junior did it his own way until I forgot the original. We did Sonny Boy’s “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl” and a Junior song, “In the Wee Wee Hours.” At some point we were pretty loose and Junior was pretty happy, so I started saying how it’s been so long since I heard his “Hoodoo Blues Man.” I even forgot how it went. That got Junior to start singing it.

“Oh no, Buddy,” he said, “I know what y’all are trying to get me to do.”

“Well, if it feel good, Junior,” I said, “go on and do it.”

The spirit came in the room, and we ran it down. Before we started, though, my amp busted, and I had to plug in through the Leslie speaker of a Hammond B3 organ. The sound came out strange, but I’ve always liked strange. It’s a guitar-marries-the-organ sound. Junior heard the sound and smiled. “Hey man,” he said, “why not?”

Koester didn’t raise no objections. Fact is that Koester didn’t say much of anything. He let me and Junior run the show. Never told us how to play or when to cut off a song. Was my first experience of doing a full-length album in one shot.

When it was time to release it, Koester said there were some problems between me and Chess. Said I wasn’t allowed to play on another label without their permission.

“Fuck it,” I said. “Just put some other name on it.”

I knew the little up-front money was the only money I’d ever see.

So the album said, “Junior Wells with the Friendly Chap.”

Some forty-seven years later my name is on the cover and the thing is still selling. They call it one of the classic blues records of all time. I can’t vouch for that, but it did cement something between me and Junior. Made us realize that as a musical unit, we was tight. Left to our devices, we could burn.

Even though other labels would put me and Junior in the studio again, and even though we did good stuff, nothing was as good as Hoodoo Man Blues. They say you gotta capture lightning in a bottle, but with music that might happen only once in a lifetime.

As the sixties marched on, my own life ground to a halt. I was turning thirty, still young, still getting beautiful compliments from the folks in the clubs and a few rock and rollers in England, but I still wasn’t able to support my family on music alone.

I was still driving the tow truck, fixing flat tires and changing batteries, working the streets of Chicago every day until I had the map of that sprawling city—south, west, north, and east—planted deep inside my brain. Part of me wanted a change, something to let me be a full-time musician. But another part of me—the cautious part—said that a steady job was better than no job at all.

If something was going to change all that, I sure as hell didn’t see it coming.