Sunday, June 11, 2017

Rochester was Home to Son House in 1973

Rochester is Home to Son House 
But hard times have come to the man from Mississippi who's been called the legendary father of folk blues. 
By John P. Morgan - (NY) Democrat Chronicle - 1973

Son House "rediscovery" on June 23, 1964
Photo taken in front of 61 Greig Street (Corn Hill neighborhood), Rochester, New York, where Son House lived with his wife Evie in a third floor walk-up apartment (#9) The apartment has since been torn down and the section of Greig Street where House lived is occupied by an apartment complex at 596 Clarissa Street
Nick Perls, Dick Waterman, Son House, Phil Spiro

Source: Eric von Schmidt & Jim Rooney: 

Baby, Let Me Follow you Down. The Illustrated 

Story of the Cambridge Folk Years (New York 1979), p. 194. 

Photographer: Mrs. House using Dick Waterman's camera

"The way I figured it out after I started, I got the idea that the blues come from a person having a dissatisfied mind and he wants to do something about it. There's some kind of sorrowness [sic] in his heart about being misused by somebody. That's what I figured the blues is based on."

-----SON HOUSE. 

It's difficult to realize that the blues has existed as a defined American music only since the first decade of this century.

It's more difficult to grasp and to explain that one of the most powerful, revered country blues singers in history still lives at 61 Greig Street in Rochester, Son House's home for the last 20 years.

The first recording of the blues is generally dated to the 1920 performance by a Chicago singer named Mamie Smith. The commercial success of “Crazy Blues,” particularly the sales to black buyers, spawned a whole series of race" records on various labels.

Black musicians had been recorded before this time — generally in minstrel routines and overly orchestrated spirituals. However, the period from 1923 to 1926 saw white record producers furiously recording all the blues singers they could find.

Most of these early recordings featured the "classic" blues singers. They were female professional vaudeville and cabaret singers, often with a popular repertoire as well, who recorded with small orchestras or at the least studio piano players.

Some achieved lasting popularity — empty bed" singers like Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, and even Ethel Waters, who now sings her spirituals as part of the Billy Graham Crusade.

The exhausting of such talent (Mamie Smith recorded for as many as six companies in a single year) led the early equivalent of artist and repertory men into the field to search for other blues singers from 1927 to 1930. They stumbled onto the intense, highly personal, idiosyncratic singers of the Mississippi Delta.

For reasons still unclear, the area in and around Clarksdale, Miss. (Son House was born in nearby Lyons), has produced not only an astonishing number of great blues singers but it is the tradition of Mississippi blues we hear today.

Not only Son House, Charlie Patton and Robert Johnson ( whose -Love in Vain" was recently done lovingly by the Rolling Stones) represent Mississippi country blues, but also Howling Wolf and Muddy Waters, despite early moves to Chicago, are clear descendants of the same rough, intense, ironic styles.

Son House was born in 1902 in the Delta but moved to Louisiana as a child. His father was a musician, -a brass horn man" who separated early from his wife. House, after his mother's death, moved back to the Clarksdale area and began to work picking cotton. 

He came under the influence of various singers and guitarists, including the already successful Charlie Patton. At first he resisted the temptation to play and sing the blues because it was ( and is clearly the devil's music, and House was early on 'very churchy."

His first music was choir singing and he spent some time as a preacher. His choir experience affected his style of guitar playing. He recalls hearing a Clarksdale guitarist, Willie Wilson, in the 20's. Wilson had a strange zinging" sound which he achieved by sliding a small bottle neck on the strings.

House experimented with this sound. He tuned an old beat-up guitar, which cost $1.50, to an open chord similar to the church choir chords and alternated fretting with his fingers and sliding a bottle neck ( later a metal tube) he wore on his ring finger up and down the neck.




This style, called bottleneck" or jackknife," has become identified as the Delta-style guitar. The strange, often quavering, tremulous sounds came very close to the mournful, sliding, growling vocal style he and other Mississippi singers used. He began playing the Saturday night country balls in Robinsville, Ruleville, and Clarksdale, and often crossed into Arkansas as his reputation spread. Despite the hazards of bad whisky and fights with "owl-headed" hammerless pistols, he worked the 'jukes" from 1927 on.

`I've never seen him sing without an anguished expression.' 

That was when I stopped playing. After he (Brown) died, I just decided I wouldn't fool with playing anymore. I don't even know what I did with the guitar."

In 1964 Dick Waterman, Phil Spiro, and Nick Perls finally arrived in Rochester after a 4,000 mile trip to Mississippi and back and knocked on the door at 61 Grieg. The urban folk music boom had arrived and Son House was rediscovered. 

Along with Mississippi John Hurt, Skip Jones, Bukka White and others, he returned to the per-forming stage. He had lost some of his repertoire and continued to have trouble with his memory on stage, but in the period from 1965 to 1970 he gave truly memorable performances at the Newport Folk Festival, the Ann Arbor Blues Festival, at numerous college concerts and on two European tours.

In 1965 he recorded a superb album in New York City, produced by John Hammond. This Columbia record, • The Legendary Son House, Father of Folk Blues," can still be found. It brought to current view all the facets of the lost Paramount sides; the driving, often anguished, dark melancholy voice and the percussive shining, sliding guitar. 

. . . he received $40.

largely because of the sale of 'race" and hillbilly" records back to the folk. But the post-1930 down period was not so easily overcome.

Son House returned to Mississippi and continued as a tractor driver and Saturday night singer until Charlie Patton died (1934); then House -up and quit them country balls."

In 1942 Allen Lomax located Son House and recorded a number of songs for the Library of Congress. Some of these have been released on a Folkways record and some on an Austrian label, Roots. Dick Waterman, the rediscoverer and currently House's manager, began his listing of abuses of his artist with the Folkways release.

Library of Congress recordings are not to be issued commercially without permission and arrangement with the artist. No one is sure, or owns up to being sure, how the Lomax tapes got into commercial hands, but it is a familiar and depressing story.

In 1943, Son House came to Rochester to work a series of jobs, as a section man and porter on the New York Central Railroad, as a Howard Johnson's grill cook, and as a veterinary assistant.

His good friend Willie Brown, who played second guitar on some of the Paramount sides, came here also. In 1948, on a trip back to Mississippi, Brown died. Charley Patton had been gone a longtime, Robert Johnson died in 1937, poisoned or stabbed by a lover in San Antonio, Texas. Son House laid down his guitar.

House has walls full of mementos at his Grieg Street apartment. 

The story probably should end _here, but sadly doesn't. The ravages of time have stolen Son House's voice and spirit. He gave a strong performance at a benefit for J. D. Wilson last May (although both he and his wife worried about the political overtones of the benefit), but he could hardly get through a number when he performed for a Rochester School Without Walls class in the blues.


Watching him perform reminds one of the stark and horrible perceptions the great bluesmen must have of the world. I've never seen him sing with-out an anguished, contorted expression. 

One is tempted to believe that these perceptions, if not assimilated and made into personal musical expressions, have to be defused, and alcohol is the usual answer. 

Waterman now finds it difficult to book Son House because of his inability to do a complete set. He has some tapes of live performances that he hopes to sell to a major label, but this hasn't yet worked out.

Meanwhile House, now 70, who supported himself and his wife as a professional musician for the last five or six years, has fallen again upon hard times.

Howling Wolf (Chester Burnette) still credits House as an important influence. Muddy Waters, who recorded country blues for the Library of Congress as McKinley Morganfield, before his ascendance as the king of Chicago electric blues, has been more explicit. 

He told Paul Oliver, Seem like everybody could play some kind of instrument and there were so many fellers playin' in the jukes around Clarksdale I can't remember them all. But the best we had to my ideas was Sonny House. I was really behind Son House all the way."


JOHN P. MORGAN is an assistant professor of pharmacology and medicine at the University of Rochester College of Medicine, a contributing editor of Rock magazine, and frequent writer on country music.

SON HOUSE PARTIAL DISCOGRAPHY* 

Biograph 12040 "Son House - Blind Lemon Jefferson." Contains 5 songs from the 1930 Paramount Sessions. 

Folkways Flag 31028 Son House - J. D. Short. "Delta Blues." Contains 6 sides from the Library of Congress, including "Country Farm Blues," "My Black Woman" and a non-blues "This War Will Last You for Years," a 3/4 time WWII song. 

Columbia 2417 "The Legendary Son House: Father of Folk Blues." A superior record with "Preachin' the Blues" (new words), "Empire State Express" and "John the Revelator." The late Al Wilson, formerly of Canned Heat, played a little back-up guitar and harmonica. 

Roots 501 "Son House and Robert Pete Williams." Live. House and Williams never met, and this is certainly not a live performance. The canned applause is ludicrous, but these 1965 recordings taped by Nick Perle are of good quality and include House's version of Charlie Patton's "The Pony Blues." 

Roots 504 "The Vocal Intensity of Son House." These tapes were made on Creig Street in September 1969 and are simply terrible. Waterman feels that this release in Europe hurt the second (1970) European tour. 

*These records may be difficult to obtain locally. A good source for all obscure and limited circulation labels is Rounder Records, 65 Park St., Somerville, Mass. 02143.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Statue a tribute to Howlin' Wolf

Statue a tribute to Howlin' Wolf 
By Amy Harris Special  - The Clarion-Ledger - 1997

The Wolf's Obituary
Has anyone ever visited this monument in West Point? One pilgrim from the boisterous and rowdy town of Enid, MS could not locate the statue of the native artist. If you know the directions to marker, please let us know below.  Thank you!



WEST POINT After a life of fame far away and obscurity in his native land, the late bluesman Howlin' Wolf was honored by his hometown Friday with a granite likeness. The life-size statue was unveiled by the widow of Howlin' Wolf, Lillian Burnett, in a ceremony prior to the city's second annual Howlin' Wolf Memorial Blues Festival. 

"This almost feels like the day we buried him," she said, "I'd like to thank everyone for honoring him. You didn't have to, but you did." Known as the founder of the Chicago electric blues, an urban rendition of the Delta blues, Howlin' Wolf was born Chester Arthur Burnett in the White Station community of Clay County near the Monroe County line. He lived there as a child until his family moved to the Mississippi Delta for work. Although relatively unknown for many years in the United States, Howlin' Wolf was hugely popular in England, where such greats as Eric Clapton, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones were devoted fans. 

For many years, few people in Clay County knew that the Blues great was from the area. Howlin' Wolfs roots were called to the attention of West Point May-or Kenny Dill in the early 1990s when a California fan club called City Hall to see what West Point was doing to mark the anniversary of Howlin' Wolf's death. At the time, there were no plans. However, the call prompted the nomination of Howlin' Wolf to the West Point Hall of Fame, an honor that given to Howlin' Wolf in 1995. Barbara Marks, Howlin' Wolfs youngest daughter, was pleased that her father's legacy still lives on. "He was definitely not the average," said Marks. 

"You can tell that by the people who are here to celebrate him 20 years after his death." Candy Shines, the widow of Howlin' Wolf protege Johnny Shines, said the statue shows how alive the blues are in today's culture. "Blues was born in America," she said. We came here with no instru-ments, on a ship in chains. We had to learn to do with the slap-clap and the field holler that developed into the blues. People like Howlin' Wolf and all the other blues greats made it possible for the rest of us." 

A Master Warms Up for Gimmicky Kids

A Master Warms Up for Gimmicky Kids
By Bob Greene -  Chicago Sun-Times - 1972



CHICAGO — I called Howlin' Wolf the other night. He didn't understand why I was calling. I tried to explain, but then gave up. It had to do with some things I saw in California a couple of weeks ago, and somehow I wasn't doing too well trying to put it into words. So I'll try again here. 

It was in Berkeley, and it was the first time I had seen Howlin' Wolf. I was traveling with a big money rock and roll band, and as the limousines brought us to the stage door of the Berkeley Community Theater, I heard his voice. The young members of the money band went to their dressing room, but I walked out to the wings. There he was. 

He is a 61-year-old black man, and he was warming up the house for a bunch of 24-year-olds who make more in a weekend than he makes all year. He was wearing an old gray suit and a white shirt, and he roamed the stage, singing his Chicago Blues. It seemed strange; I had come all the way from Chicago to see a man who lives here almost every day of the year. 

The audience was bored with him. The young white kids had liked him at first, but had soon become tired of his lonesome, mournful singing. He sang on anyway, his aging backup men playing along behind him. The years showed on his face, and it was a pleasure to watch him. And a letdown
when, half an hour later, the money band came out and the audience came to life. 

I saw him twice more that week. Once was in an airport. He was waiting with his backup men for a plane, when the money band came into the loading area. They would be playing on the same bill again this night. The young men in the money band did not say hello to Howlin' Wolf. 

Then, at the evening's show, he was still on stage when the money band arrived. They were impatient, and one of their equipment men said "If Howlin' Whatshisname isn't off that stage in five minutes, I'm going to pull the plugs out." 

And that was the last I saw of Howlin' Wolf. It is easy to talk about "legendary bluesmen," and Glamorize the path from Monroe County, Miss. to the big time. But even today, with more music lovers 'among the young than ever before, the big time means opening the show for a bunch of gimmicky kids, in front of a yawning audience, with the threat of being evicted from the stage by a young man who calls you "Howlin' Whatshisname." 

I didn't think about it again until the other night. I was reading some magazine or other. The story mentioned B. B. King, Muddy Waters, and Howlin' Wolf. It was a very light, upbeat story, and I thought back to seeing him in California, and I figured I ought to talk to him about it. 

His number is listed in the phone book under his real name. He came to the phone, and there was opera music in the background. No. he said, he wasn't an opera fan; that was a television show, and the TV just happened to be turned to that channel. 

He said that he may he leaving his home on Chicago's South Side before too long. "The city don't excite me," he said. "Never has. I was raised up in the country. Only reason I came to Chicago was the music. I'm getting tired of the city. You can be more comfortable in the country." 

We started to talk about the feeling of playing warmup sets before audiences of young teen-agers who have come to see someone else. "Sometimes they treat me all right," he said. "Sometimes they are very warm to me." He kept referring to his concert appearances as "school proms." 

He said he still plays most weekends at a lounge on the West Side. Sometimes, when there is work, he leaves town to play dates like the California concerts. But most nights he sits at home. 

Once in a while, the young white rock stars will include him in their conversations. "When they'll talk to me, I talk to them," he said. "Sometimes they treat me very nice." 

He said he couldn't figure out why anyone would be interested in all of this. But we kept talking anyway, about his music and his life. 

"I don't know," Howlin' Wolf said. "I just sing. If they like it, I appreciate it. If they don't like it, then they don't like it. don't be cute to try to make them like me. I just sing my songs."

Skip James: A Most Hard Man

"The people are drifting from door to door. Can't find no heaven, I don't care where they go."


-Skip James


With these lyrics from his song "Hard Time KiIlin' Floor Blues," Skip James summed up the arc of his life's journey. From his birth on a Mississippi plantation; his travels as an itinerant musician, gambler, and levee camp worker; his 1931 Paramount recording session; disillusionment with the music industry; and conversion to preacher to his rediscovery in the 1960s, James's life was marked by hard times and opportunities lost or denied. Even when he had a brief career resurgence in the '60s, he had to deal with severe health problems that made it difficult for him to exploit his newfound notoriety. In spite of this, the singular quality of his music shone through. His unusual guitar tuning and eerie falsetto vocals set him apart from other artists of the blues revival like Mississippi John Hurt and Son House. One musician who was inspired by his approach was the late Piedmont blues guitarist John Cephas. A 34-year-old carpenter and amateur musician when he met James in 1964, Cephas says, "I was so enchanted and fascinated with his sound that I practiced and listened to him for hours on end, just trying to figure out what he was doing."


Born in Yazoo City, Mississippi, in 1902, Nehemiah Curtis "Skip" James was raised on the Woodbine plantation (owned by the Whitehead family) near the town of Bentonia. An only child, he was tended to mainly by his grandparents and mother, who worked as a cook and house servant for the Whiteheads. His absent father was a minister, guitarist, and bootlegger, occupations that James would eventually take up himself, along with piano player, levee camp worker, and gambler.

James's mother gave him a guitar when he was around eight and he took to it quickly, learning his signature ?-minor tuning (E B E G B E) from a local musician, Henry Stuckey. Stuckey picked up the tuning while in France during World War I, from some soldiers who were said to be from the Bahamas. When he returned from the war he showed it to James and possibly to Jack Owens, another Bentonia musician whose guitar style is similar to James's. James called the tuning "cross note," and he used it on many of the songs he would record at his Paramount recording session in 1931. He also developed a unique piano style that sounded more like his contrapuntal guitar picking than the common left-hand-bass, right-hand-melody technique.

In 1931, James auditioned for furniture store owner and talent scout H.C. Speir, of Jackson, Mississippi. Speir's business included selling phonograph players and records to play on them. He had a disc cutter at his store and was able to make demo recordings and refer musicians to record companies. He eventually became a well-known broker and sent many artists, including Robert Johnson, Son House, Bo Carter, and Charley Patton, off to be recorded by major labels, which kept his store supplied with a steady stream of what were then called "race records" to sell to the African-American community. Speir liked James's music and referred him to one of the prominent race record labels, Paramount. James cut 26 songs at the Paramount Records studio in Grafton, Wisconsin, 18 of which were released.

He accepted a royalty deal rather than a per-song payment for his records, confident that they would sell, but the Great Depression had a bad effect on record sales in general and James's were no exception. Speir wanted him to return to Paramount for another session later that year, but by then James had "gotten religion" and bitterly refused the offer, deciding to follow his father's footsteps into preaching and turn his back on music. He referred to the music business as a "barrel of crabs" and didn't return to the recording studio until the '60s.

James was one of a small group of musicians who were "rediscovered" in the '60s by a handful of blues aficionados, including John Fahey, Bill Barth, Tom Hoskins, and Dick Spottswood. But James's dark, eerie, introspective brand of blues didn't prove as popular as Mississippi John Hurt's sunny, bouncy tunes and, consequently, James had a tougher time getting gigs. He was also ill during these years, and eventually died of cancer in 1969. He did, however, get to make some more recordings and perform at a few high-profile festivals, influencing players like Al Wilson and Henry Vestine, who went on to form Canned Heat, and he had a brief financial windfall with royalties from Cream's version of his song "I'm So Glad," recorded on Fresh Cream.

James's haunting vocals, complex picking style, dark and devil-ridden themes, and unique song forms set him apart as a one-ofa-kind artist who doesn't fit neatly into any of the blues categories that have developed over the years. In this lesson exploring his guitar style, we'll take a look at the tuning that gave most of his guitar songs the singular major/ minor tonality that was his fingerprint, his contrapuntal picking style, and his adventurous harmonic sense.

E-Minor Tuning

The tuning that James learned from Henry Stuckey (E B E G B E) is usually called E minor but James didn't generally use it to play in minor keys. He would usually fret the third string at the first fret to give the song a major tonality and then use the open string (the minor third) in conjunction with slides and pull-offs for bluesy melodic runs.

On his Paramount session, however, he pitched the tuning lower, to D minor. On his 1960s cuts he was closer to F minor.