An Open Letter From a Blues Fan [
By Robb Baker - Jan 19, 1969
Our recent series on the rock-blues scene brought a most
welcome letter, part plea, part protest, from a Chicagoan with a knowledge of
this city’s blues so extensive that we wish ours was one-tenth as great.
Bob Koester runs one of the town's few record
stores with real character, The Jazz Record Mart at 7 West Grand Ave, and has
his own recording company for local blues artists, Delmark Records, at the same
address.
He writes about blues with the same nonstop excitement
with which he speaks of them. Here, unedited except for one word not for family
newspaper consumption, is what he said:
The blues scene in Chicago is as it has always been,
enormous--far more important (I am truly sorry to say) than the jazz scene
here, and certainly relevant to the rock scene and to the readers of your
column. It is silly that southern city like New Orleans finally recognizes its
culture !To the extent of city-wide support of a jazz club, a jazz museum and
annual jazz festivals, while Daleytown refuses to pay the slightest homage to
the roles of black bluesmen in the current rock-pop-blues revolution.
Face it rock is all-too-often just whitey's imitation of
blues Chicago style. (Maybe I should make that plural—there is quite a range of
styles in the Chicago school). The Grateful Dead’s version of GOOD MORNING LITTLE
SCHOOLGIRL is a blatant imitation of Jr. Wells' recording of several years
earlier (Closer than Jr. would be if he were to re-record it [and not bad for
the in all likelihood inebriated Pigpen]); another two tracks from the same
album ("Hoodoo Man Blues," Delmark DS-9612, which has never seen so
much as one slug of type in the Chicago press) were lifted bodily and spliced
together for THE DIRTY BLUES BAND'S first album track, "Hound Dog."
As no rock band (To my knowledge—I don't follow the
imitation-blues scene that much) has imitated our recent MAGIC SAM release, I
will stop short of giving Leonard Chess’ product free advertising, though I
could go on.
It (blues) would seem to be an important part of the rock
scene if so much…imitation can be passed off as serious art worthy or
"criticism"—so why not lift the bushel and see the light. Paul Butterfield, Mike Bloomfield, and a very
few other young Chicagoans did put in their sit-in time on the band stand of
the generous black artists, picked up a few licks, organized bands that come
fairly close to the original thing and were accepted by the young whiteys (who
were culturally deprived by racism and segregation and thus unable to hear the
originals); a few of the kids even became members of blues bands (Otis Rush has
had a white guitarist—2 different guys—for 3 years now; Memphis Charlie Musselwhite
played regularly with Johnny Young before he got tired of being hassled by fuzz
and split for S.F. where he is a minor folk hero.)—but the sanctioning of this
music by a whole generation of whiteys in imitation (occasionally the sincerest
form of flattery but more often than not just a good way to make a buck, pick
up some ego, make an identity with the folk "Negro" that helps one’s
self-respect perhaps, etc. etc. etc.) has raised the originators from obscurity
to legend to an occasional factor in name-dropping on litter notes to help sell
the pale imitations.
For God's sake, for art's sake, for journalism's sake, Robb,
you know where it's really happening! Tell
the people. I appreciate the many kind
references to my shop, myself and my label. But blues in Chicago depend on the
Big Walters and the Magic Sams and the Carey Bells, not on Mike Bloomfield, who
wonderful guy that he is, is in a blind alley musically. No black man is going
to change his idea of guitar-playing because of a Mike Bloomfield record, and
most of the young Whiteys are too interested in the buck to go thru the changes
Mike, Paul, and damnfew others did to pick up what must be learned.
If black artists must wait as long as Bird (Charley
Parker), (Fletcher) Henderson, Louis (Armstrong)—or Fats Waller) — to achieve
recognition (or maybe some bread), they must die first in too pathetically many
cases. Here at the Jazz Record Mart we sell the hell out of Little Walter,
Sonny Boy Williamson, Elmore James (all discovered by whitey immediately after
their death as if the press releases had been prepared in advance).
The whiteys [and, culturally, I must include Taj Mahal
and quite a few others—haven’t decided about Hendrix because he bores me] make
the loot and the black man creates the music.
That's barely a fourth of Koester's letter. Most of it
takes issue with our article entitled "Urban Blues: No Longer Easy to Find
in Chicago" ("if the blues are hard to find in Chicago it is only
because someone thinks of Chicago as meaning ‘white Chicago ghettoes’ and not
of Chicago as a very large city with many different ghettoes for many different
people of many different cultures"), and for proof gives an extensive list
of clubs on the south and west sides, followed by three lists of local
bluesmen, headed "Usually on the Road," "Legendary Outside
Chicago but Generally Staying at Home," and "Up and Coming."
Last, Koester issued an invitation to visit those clubs
with him some Saturday night. It looks like it will take a lot more Saturdays
than one. Happily.
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