Shorty - After I Left Home - When I left home: my story (2015)

When I left home: my story (2015)

After I Left Home

Shorty

Shorty turned out to be a great guy except when he got to drinking—and he got to drinking a lot. When he was all out of money, he’d sell a pint of blood at Michael Reese Hospital for $5. A pint of gin was ninety cents, so could have a good time with that blood money. Shorty liked to dance when he drank, which meant he’d ask me to play the guitar. That part was okay, but then he’d up and disappear and leave me back at his place, alone with my guitar. If I hadn’t slept, I’d have a chance to rest in his bed. Rest was good, and I needed some ’cause hanging out at the all-night cafes was wearing me down. On the other hand, no one had taken me to see Muddy Waters or Little Walter or Howlin’ Wolf.

I was keeping all those frustrations to myself. My shyness was still ruling my mind. I also had a fear that Shorty might turn me out, so I stayed on my best behavior. If he had company over, for example, he might say, “Buddy, you go out and buy us some whiskey.” I’d do that, of course, ’cause Shorty was letting me stay at his place. I did that a lot. Didn’t want nobody to get upset with me, especially Shorty.

After some weeks of me walking the streets at night until I could use Shorty’s bed, I met a nice woman named Joyce. She took a liking to me and offered to show me how the busses and subways work. She took her time to explain how the city was laid out.

“You in the South Side now,” she said. “South and west is black and north is white.”

“How ’bout the music?” I asked. “Where do the blues guys play?”

“South Side and West Side. White folk ain’t interested in no blues.”

I already knew that was true in the South, so I wasn’t surprised to hear it was true in Chicago too.

After riding the trains with this lady, I got bolder about going out. I could see how the city worked. The Loop was downtown, where they had all the tall buildings and department stores. Never seen nothing like that before. Never seen so many people hustling and bustling. Looked like everyone had somewhere to go and money to spend. I also saw where you could walk along the river until it emptied into the lake with the wind and the smell of fresh water in your face. I liked walking along the lake and trying to let go of my fears. It wasn’t easy—my fears were deep.

In October the wind turned chilly. At the same time I felt chilly attitudes when I went asking for the kind of job I had at LSU. Took me a while to find the colleges where they might need a utility man, and when I did find the people in charge, they didn’t show no interest. That got me thinking it might be better to find work at a service station. A couple of them needed tow truck drivers, but when they asked me if I knew the city I had to say no.

“Until you learn the streets around here,” said one station owner, “you ain’t doing me no good.”

“Got a fine sense of direction,” I said. “I can learn the streets in just a couple of weeks.”

“Can’t wait no two weeks. Need someone now.”

So it was back to Shorty’s, where I had to bide my time. He called his little apartment a kitchenette. Shorty’s building was like hundreds of other buildings on the South Side that used to house large apartments. Seeing all these people coming up from the South, the landlords cut up those big apartments into tiny kitchenettes. That way they’d collect more rent. Before, you might have four apartments on a floor. Afterwards, on that same floor you might have twenty kitchenettes. In some kitchenettes a family of ten was packed in like sardines. This amazed me. I was used to the country, where there was enough space for everyone.

Bad as kitchenettes were, though, I wanted one of my own. Wandering around all night until Shorty went to work got old fast. Getting turned down for job after job was even more frustrating.

Because I wasn’t getting anywhere looking for a regular job, I started thinking about that reel-to-reel tape I’d brought from Baton Rouge. My plan was to get work—and then go to Chess Records. I figured I’d do what I’d done in Baton Rouge: get me a regular service station-type job and then see about my music. After weeks of not finding no service station-type job, though, my plan changed. I decided to find my way to Chess Records to see if Mr. Leonard Chess would listen to the song I’d made at WXOK.

I put on my little green jacket that I wore on stage in Louisiana, and carrying my Les Paul Gibson in one hand and reel-to-tape in the other, I went to 2120 Michigan Avenue. That’s where Chess had their office and studio. Naturally I was nervous—and also excited. Maybe I’d run into Muddy Waters. Given the fact that my contact at WXOK personally knew Leonard Chess and had given me a letter of introduction, hope was stirring in my heart.

Remembering all the great Muddy, Little Walter, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy, and Jimmy Rogers records that came out of Chess Records, I figured their headquarters would look like a palace. I figured wrong. It was a skinny, plain-looking building that sat between a supply company and rundown rooming house. When I opened the front door, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk. The office was nothing to write home about.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Here to see Mr. Leonard Chess.”

“You have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am, but I do have a tape.”

“You need an appointment to see Mr. Chess.”

“I understand … but … let me introduce myself. I’m Mr. Buddy Guy, and I’m from Baton Rouge. Actually, from Lettsworth, but before I came up here to Chicago I was living in Baton Rouge, where I made this tape at a radio station called WXOK. Diggy Doo, the deejay at WXOK, well, he knows Mr. Leonard Chess very well. They been doing business for years, and he thought this song I did—it’s called “Baby Don’t You Wanna Come Home”—is pretty good. Gotta good snap to it, and so he gave me this letter to give to Mr. Chess.”

“That a Les Paul Gibson you got there?” asked a man who just walked through the door. He was carrying a guitar himself.

“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.

“Ain’t that something! Been looking for a guitar just like that. Lookee here, you wouldn’t mind me using it for a session I’m running into right now?”

“You ain’t gonna steal it, are you?”

Man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Wayne Bennett, and no, motherfucker, I ain’t gonna steal your guitar. Just need to borrow it. But you can come in and listen to the session and when it’s over, take your guitar with you. Won’t ever leave your sight.”

“I guess that’s okay, but I’m trying to get this meeting with Mr. Leonard Chess.”

“Leonard’s gonna be at the session. He gonna run the session. He runs everything around here. He’s top dog. You can talk to him after the session’s over.”

“That’s great,” I said. “In that case, use my guitar all you like.”

I followed him into the studio, where he took my guitar, plugged it into an amp, and played like it was his. The Spaniels were a doo-wop group I knew from their big hit, “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight.” I was fascinated to watch them weave together their harmonies. I saw that Wayne Bennett was reading music set in front of him on a stand. He read it beautifully. I had to admire that because I couldn’t—and still can’t—read a note. The session happened real fast. They recorded three or four songs. Occasionally they’d get some directions from a white man in the control booth who I figured had to be Leonard Chess. Tried to get a good look at him, but I didn’t have a good angle. I heard him say, “Do it again faster,” and then he said, “Too fast. Slow it down.” He had an idea for a guitar introduction. At one point he told Wayne to play a solo in the middle of the song.

Meanwhile, I didn’t say nothing to no one. I was just a bug in the rug. When the session was over, Bennett handed me back my guitar and said, “Thanks, man. It’s a good-feeling guitar.”

“You think you could introduce me to Mr. Chess?” I asked.

“Sure thing.”

When we got to the control room, though, Leonard Chess had walked away. He’d gone to his office. When we got to his office, the door was closed. Bennett knocked. No answer. So he knocked again. “Not now!” a voice shouted through the door.

“No can do,” said Bennett. “Maybe next time. See ya around.”

On the way out I stopped by the receptionist’s desk and said, “Would you mind giving this tape and letter to Mr. Leonard Chess?”

“I’ll try.”

I never heard another word about that tape.

I don’t believe Chess ever bothered listening to it. I was disappointed, but I was happy to have had the chance to hear a great guitarist like Wayne Bennett and watch the Spaniels sing in the studio.

On the way home I asked myself whether I could ever get learn to read music and find work in the studio. The answer was no. I didn’t have a chance. Here in Chicago, I was out of my league. I’d do better learning the streets and finding work driving a tow truck.